Flash Fiction – Devour Him

I wrote this randomly after seeing a sketch on Facebook where a woman teaches a man a lesson for being a sexist idiot. Anyway, I chose the more brutal path! Hope you enjoy.

Devour Him

He whistles, stops me in my tracks. I feel nauseous so I look back and see a man in a high-vis jacket, an overgrown beard and a pencil tucked behind his waxy ear. He’s not my first choice, but maybe I should lower my standards.

He smiles and winks, looking me up and down as I walk back to him. I can tell he’s surprised. It’s his lucky night.

‘Alright love!’ He grins and I see some teeth. I suppose I could do worse.

I smile and tilt my head, waiting for something more impressive.

‘Nice legs,’ he says.

I bite my tongue, quite literally. My mouth tastes of hot copper.

His colleagues have noticed the interaction. They creep closer. Edging in to see what the fuss is all about.

‘Hello boys.’ My voice purrs and that’s when they really notice me. I know I’m attractive, to men at least. I have curves in all the right places, long blonde hair they lust after and long legs to match. I have the coveted thigh gap and double F cup boobs. My face is symmetrical, I can choose to keep or lose my cupids bow at a mere blink. I’m irresistible to the trained male gaze.

I made myself this way.

‘Drink, tonight?’

The man stares at me. His mouth slightly open. ‘Sure…’ He doesn’t take his eyes off me. He’s going to be easy, maybe even a little boring.

We arrange a time and place. He doesn’t know the pub we’re meeting at is my usual.

It’s 7pm and he arrives on time. He’s made minimal effort and smells like he showered in aftershave. I try not to breathe him in. We order drinks at the bar and he pays. I buy the next round, fair’s fair.

Alcohol doesn’t affect me. It’s one of my many hidden talents. I can drink anyone under the table, as they like to say.

He bores me with talk of work and hot summer days versus winter. He tells me he still lives with his mother, can’t stand to do his own washing. He likes to go to the pub on Friday nights with the boys and holidays to Ibiza. He shows me his tattoos, tells me about his favourite movie. They always say Star Wars so I’m suprised when he says Wild Things.

At least I didn’t find this one on Tinder, I think. I saved myself from images of him and a slippery fish.

He doesn’t ask me questions. He talks. And talks. And when he stops he leans in for a kiss. I let him. I need to know what he tastes like.

Salt and beer, but underneath there’s something else. Desperation, longing, sadness and fear. He’s perfect.

We head outside and he stumbles down the curb. I catch him and guide him along the cobbles until we reach a stop. The dark alleyway calls and I wait to see. He guides me forward and I resist. I pull a face, shake my head, but he pulls me further. He presses me against the stone wall and kisses me. I let him.

He tries to unbutton my dress. I push him away. He tries again. I let him. He kisses my neck and pushes me hard against the wall. I feel a jagged stone nip my skin. I push back but he holds me there, helpless and alone.

But not really.

My favourite part is coming, but first I let him think he’s won.

When he reaches my stomach, I take hold of his jacket and lift him up. It’s effortless. He looks confused as his feet slowly leave the ground. I spin him around with excitement and slam his back against the wall. He groans but he’s too drunk and focused on my chest to truly care. I press my lips to his and rip the top of his shirt open. He fumbles with the lower part of my dress but I push him away.

I kiss his chest, working my way down and then back up again to his neck; my favourite part.

He’s enjoying it, his eyes are closed and he’s groaning and reaching out for more. I listen for the sign of anyone approaching but the dark night air is cold and still. I arch my head back and feel the overwhelming need to feast. My teeth glow in the moonlight and I pounce on him, lunging my fangs into his neck, drawing blood in an instant.

He gasps at first, tightens his grip on me, but I leech his life away and within no time he is limp and lifeless, hanging in my arms.

I take all I can, his hopes and dreams, his sexual fantasies, his anger, his fear, but most importantly I drain him of his misogyny. Every last drop.

I feel it ripple through me like electricity surging through my bones. I let go, my mouth wet with red. I lick my lips and wipe away any residue as his body slumps to the floor, a hollowed out shell of regret.

I shake my head. Men have such misspent power. The atrocities are beyond anything comprehensible to most people, most women.

And we forget, we ignore and we submit to them. And in forgetting the truth above all, we never learn.

For the power of one man can create awful things.

Just look at me…