callmeithaca:

Clarke turned the corner and promptly dropped the book he’d picked up. (Fucking John Donne – who cared about fleas, anyway?)

“Sorry, didn’t see you there!”

She, cool as a cucumber, reached down and picked up the book he was about to check out. “Metaphysical poets, then?”

It was at about that moment that he noticed the woman he’d nearly plowed into was really beautiful. She had dark hair and eyes, and she must have used lipstick to get her lips that cherry red.

“Uh. Yeah. Class assignment.” He could feel himself going red. It was all he was going to think about now.

“They weren’t so bad,” she said. Her voice was low and lilting. “Not too concerned with propriety for a church man, Donne. You’re reading “The Flea,” right? Don’t answer that; I know you are.” Her lips turned up. Clarke’s mind fixated on the movement. After a moment, it occurred to him to wonder.

“How do you know that?”

“It was an educated guess. It’s a popular poem for professors to pick.” She finally handed the book back to him, but instead of leaving, she just kept looking at him.

“He’s not wrong in ‘The Flea,’ you know.”

“What do you mean?”

“What is a good fuck but a little exchange, anyway? No more than the prick of a flea from you to me. Losing your virginity isn’t bad at all for your type,” she said bluntly.

“How’d you know I was a virg…” and then he realized what he said, and he turned even more red. Red like her mouth, like the sparks in her eyes.

“An educated guess,” she said with a curl of laughter in her throat. “But you don’t have to be one, you know. If you want.”

“If I want?”

She backed him into the bookshelf. The world had seemed to narrow down a bit. His fingers clutched the book desperately. What did he want? It was an easy choice, wasn’t it? His body seemed to think so.

“If you want.” With a quick glance down, she said, “and I think you’d like it, wouldn’t you?”

“I’d… I’d like… what?” Clarke felt confused. His head was full of her cherryred lips and the words she was saying seemed secondary, somehow.

“You’d like me to fuck you. Or are you hard for someone else?”

He was hard, he realized. He’d known it before, but it only really seemed to pop through the haze of his mind now.

“I’m hard for you,” he said, barely recognizing his voice.

“That’s right,” she said, her smoky voice wrapping around him like a tongue around his cock. “You’re hard for me. And it’d be so easy for me to make you cum. I could do it, you know. A few quick strokes or hours of bliss.”

Clarke’s mind was cherryred. He barely said, “Please.”

“I’d hardly think you need to beg for it. I just need one thing from you. Like the flea.” Her cherry mouth to his neck.

“Just one thing, darling boy. Do you want to be mine?”

“Yes, please, yes,” he groaned out. It felt so pretty, suddenly, that thought. To be hers. For how long? The thought came from nowhere, but quickly became overwhelmed by how good it felt not to think too much about what was happening.

“Then ‘our two bloods mingled be,’” she said, with a dry little cackle, and bit.

The book fell to the floor.

Clarke resurfaced a full day later. His new girlfriend, bright-eyed and laughing, introduced herself to his friends.

“Hasn’t he told you about me yet? He adores me.”

And he did.

Sure, it was vampiric glamor, but hey. A thrall is a thrall, and this one? Oh, she liked him.

————

Plot bug bit me and I had to follow! Hope you don’t mind the corner it turned. (Also happy Halloween!!)

Also, yes, that one line is a direct quote from Donne’s “The Flea.”

Congrats @callmeithaca!