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The Most Delicious Part

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You're right. The world DOES need another novel about an aging English professor's affair with a nubile young co-ed.


It wasn't like she'd done any of those old, tired porn star cliches. She hadn't asked him for extra credit. She hadn't worn a particularly short skirt. She hadn't even toyed with her stationery, putting just the tip of a pen in her mouth, suggestively.

Yet somehow, still, she was standing in his doorway.

It was distinctly not office hours. He hadn't quite believed that she would do it. He'd answered her advert on Craigslist, thinking that she would run a mile when he gave her his address, the college room in which he held his tutorials.

"Are we going to do this, or not?" she demanded.

He looked her up and down, as she leaned boredly against the wooden threshold. He thought briefly of all the trouble that she could get him into. Of all the trouble he could get her into. It would be a night of mutually assured destruction.

"Unless you're having second thoughts," he offered.

"If it wasn't transgressive, I wouldn't be doing it," she reassured him, stepping through the doorway into his territory - confidently, like she owned the place already. She went to sit on his bed, started to unlace her walking boots.

"Do you… want anything?" he asked. "A cup of tea?"

She looked up at him with tolerant amusement. "Get your kit off, grandpa," she advised him. "I'm not planning on spending the night. The sooner we get started, the sooner I'm sure you'll go through with it."

She kicked off a boot, letting it skitter across the wooden floor.

Feeling rather foolish, he reached up to undo his top button. He was wearing the first set of clothes he'd come across after leaving the shower - he was a considerate client, after all - a faded blue button-down shirt and brown slacks, standard academic camouflage.

The second boot followed the first, making it all the way onto the indifferent rug.

His shirt hanging open, he started on his belt; he did not quite feel capable of taking it all the way off right now, and he noticed that the room temperature was slightly cool on his exposed skin. She looked up at him, appraisingly, like he had at the door.

"Nice rug," she said. She was clearly not referring to the carpet.

With belt and button and zip unfastened, he realised suddenly that he hadn't dealt with his own shoes, which he had naturally replaced after the shower even though he had no intention of leaving his room.

He sat down on a chair, feeling somewhat foolish, to rectify this oversight.

"Any year now, grandpa," she taunted him affectionately. It looked like her own clothing would be much easier to remove; a long-sleeved t-shirt, unbelted blue jeans, and unmatched fluorescent socks.

Successfully removing his shoes, he let his trousers fall and stepped out.

She appeared to be looking with great appreciation at his knees. He felt rather self-conscious about that. His knees had never been a feature he had been particularly proud of. He shrugged off his shirt and nervously reached down to the waistband of his boxers.

"My turn," she said, and suddenly she was very close to him indeed.

Tucking her thumbs into the waistband, she pulled downwards suddenly, unlimbering everything that had been hidden within. Without letting him disentangle himself, she lifted her arms in an obvious demand.

Warily, he took hold of the hem of her t-shirt, and began to lift it over her head.

Something in him was still expecting, in this moment, for something to happen; for his wife to phone, for police sirens to be heard in the distance, for someone to knock on the door. But instead he had soon divested the girl of her top, and no cosmic power had scolded him for his presumption.

So emboldened, he unbuttoned her jeans and drew them down - and her underwear with them.

"I knew you had some passion left in you," she said, with a laugh in her voice. "Come on, shuffle out of your pants; don't even try with the bra, you've no idea how many of them get broken and the good ones are really expensive."

He took the opportunity to get out of underpants and socks, now standing naked but for his watch.

She stepped out of her jeans and underwear, unhooked her bra with an air of long practice, and cast it upon the pile of the rest of her clothes. She was also wearing a watch; she left it on while she unburdened herself of the (long, stripey) socks.

"Looks like you'll take a bit of work," she said, eyeing his flaccid state.

"I'm sorry," he said. "It's rather out of practice."

"Usually that makes it more eager," she replied, doubtfully. "Well, let's see."


It's still not too late to add a vampire.


As she placed a hand on his balls, he was surprised to realise that his first impression of the sensation was how cold her hands were. He supposed it must be quite cold outside; it was getting on for autumn, and rather late in the evening.

Still, his following impressions were much more favourable.

At some point they did end up on the bed; he thought that he must be an unreliable witness, because he could have sworn that she had picked him up bodily and deposited him, but there was no indication from her fairly average frame that she possessed such strength.

In fact, he was not convinced that serious weightlifters would do it with such ease.

Nevertheless, they were now on the bed, and she was above him, licking her lips in anticipation - was that something people did now, or is it some kind of porn star move coming in at last? At least now he was responding, if not like a young man, reasonably adequately for this point in the proceedings.

"The most delicious part is," she said, "that you can never tell anyone."

He began to feel slightly apprehensive at this point, but her hands were still working up and down his body, and he was too distracted to really credit the distinct elongation and sharpening of her canines.

She trailed a line of kisses up from his chest to his neck, and then they sunk in.

This was such a foreign and unexpected experience that he quite forgot to do anything that a fully aware person might attempt in such circumstances, such as scream or attempt to shove her off; not that this would have mattered, as her unexpected strength had thoroughly locked him down.


Plucky orphans solving mysteries.


And that was when the knock on the door finally came.

He considered shouting something, but was too afraid to move; presumably she knew what she was doing, if she was worried about him telling someone afterwards, but unexpected movement could ruin her ability not to kill him outright.

Or maybe that was what she had meant about never telling anyone.

While he was considering this, she was reluctantly disengaging. The wounds did not immediately begin to paint the room with the contents of his carotid artery as he had somewhat expected; nor did the coagulant stop the blood flowing to his brain.

The blood flowing to his, uh, other brain, was as strong as it had ever been.

She was looking at him now, obviously expecting him to do something. "I'm a little busy right now," he called, the fear putting a distinctly unconvincing croak in his voice. "Uh, and not decent," he added.

"If you're in trouble," piped a little voice from the other side of the door, "just scream now!"

The last thing he wanted to do was to give any kind of signal that would let a random wandering minor into his room at this juncture; but the horror of that image combined with the terror that was just catching up with him left him with no choice.

He only screamed for a second before she stuffed an arm in his mouth.

But it was enough for whoever was on the other side of the door. The sound of industrious lockpicking rang quiet and clear from the old Yale lock, and the vampire on top of him started to go from disappointment to panic.


Are you sure it's clear what happened last chapter? Maybe you should stage a conversation where your protagonist can recap it in detail.


"And then, of course," he said, over the three-quarters empty pint, "she wouldn't believe the truth, either."

"Well, I wouldn't believe a word you said about it, either, if I was her," his best friend in all the world glibly un-reassured him. "But fortunately, I'm not in her position, so you can try to convince me instead."

"You won't believe it," he mournfully asserted. "I'm not sure I believe it myself, apart from the puncture wounds."

"They kind of look like you were doing breathplay with something that had unfortunate studs in," his friend failed to comfort him, "but do go on."

"I had them checked out in the minor injury clinic," he insisted. "The nurse on duty was so confused she referred me to the actual doctor. I've never had that happen before. He was so fascinated that I took the next opportunity to discharge myself, before I was wheeled into the back of an ambulance and never seen again."

"Now you are really starting to sound delusional," his friend warned him. "And you're almost dry, too. Another of the same?"

"Pick something different," he requested.

Another pint having arrived, he continued his tale.

"You see, I was pretty much doing exactly what she suspects me of," he admitted, after taking an appreciative sip and dutifully passing judgement on the flavour. "Except it turned out that the kid was a vampire."

"A vampire, huh?" replied his friend, disbelievingly. "You mean, she had some kind of creepy bloodplay thing going on?"

"Nothing like that," he asserted strongly. "It was all pretty normal and going quite well until - well, I guess I had a bit of warning. I didn't think a human could pick someone up quite that effortlessly."

"You seem to have done it alright," his friend quipped.

"I blame Craigslist," he said. "Bloody American inventions, coming here and making it easy to screw your co-eds. Anyway, where was I?"

"In the air, apparently," his friend replied unhelpfully.

"Only very briefly," he insisted. "Then we were on the bed, like you do, and then all of a sudden she had fangs and they were in my neck!"

"So how did you escape?" his friend asked, at least feigning interest very well.

"That's the worst part," he admitted. "Some kid came to the door, asked if I was in trouble, and when she heard the screaming she picked it easy as you please; the vampire pegged it out of the window, and then I was naked in bed with this adorable nine-year-old asking if I was okay."


It's about time for a thinly veiled metaphor for that really unfair fight you had with your girlfriend last week.


"You could really get into trouble for that one," his friend warned him.

"I know, right?" he sighed. "It's not like it's my fault! Anyway, I snatched up a sheet double-quick, which kind of didn't help, but at least it covered my arse - literally, you understand…"

"It's all about the balance of harms," his friend began to lecture him. "Sure, your reputation and life could be ruined, especially as you work in education, but that's nothing against the slightest risk that a small child could be a little bit upset and confused about what's happening."

"Anyway, I don't think she's exactly the reporting sort," he replied, quickly. "She gave me her business card. Apparently nine-year-olds have business cards now. Stephanie, of Plucky Orphan Rescue Services."

"You're going to have to show me it," his friend cautioned him.

"You'd just accuse me of having printed it myself," he countered. "Anyway, she apologises that she can't stop and chat, as apparently she's been tailing the vampire for some time. Before I can ask her how she's going to deal with a super-strong adult student, she hands me one end of some rope and tells me to throw it down after her - then leaps straight out the window."




"It could have been worse," he said, "she could have caught us in the throes of passion."

"Sounds like you didn't even do anything," his friend reassured him.

"Well, we did get undressed," he replied. "I'm not convinced that's exactly professional or faithful behaviour."

"And you've got a class with her in the morning?" his friend reminded him.

"If she hasn't been staked by an enthusiastic nine-year-old, anyway."


Is that character's name overtly symbolic? No? Might as well scrap the whole book.


He needn't have worried. The class was cancelled the next day on account of the brutal murder of one Bamprioa Jones, whose face he was very grateful to not see in his class but could do without seeing on endless news bulletins.


If you make that kid the Chosen Hero, you can totally bypass any other character development!


He was, however, suitably glad to not be mentioned in the eventual biopic: Crowned in Victory, the Real Life Story of a Vampire Hunter.