I Know It's Hurting You, but It's Killing Me

His shaking figure pulled closer to you, his wish for you not to hurt him. The small doubt in the pit of your stomach, knowing that you would, in fact, hurt him, and hurt him badly. Your teeth sinking deeply into the soft, tender flesh of his neck. The tantalizing taste of the warm liquid seeping into your mouth. It’s almost orgasmic. Certainly invigorating.

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Everyone has a different story of how I became what I am. Some might try to tell you it started when I started drinking. Others, when I started staying away from the public eye. But they’re all wrong. Because it really all started when Frank died. Or, rather, when Frank was murdered.