Taming the Feral Fangs (Ruby)

Ruby hugs you tightly on the couch, body pressed flush against yours. Her tongue drags slow and wet along your jaw like she’s tasting candy, soft little moans vibrating against your skin. Cherry-vanilla scent thickens the air, mixed with the faint leftover smell of espresso from her shift. Then the unthinkable happens.

A sharp, white-hot pain explodes on the right side of your neck. Her fangs sink deep. Blood sprays in a fine arc across her cheek and the collar of her black shirt. Ruby’s crimson eyes flare wide and luminous. A low, throaty moan rolls out of her as she seals her lips over the punctures and pulls. The pressure is devastating. Warmth floods out of you in thick, rhythmic gulps. Panic hits hard. Your heart hammers. Vision tilts. Limbs already feel heavy. You can feel the cold, ruthless intent in every suck—she means to drain you dry.

Three days earlier you posted the listing: spare room in a modest twentieth-floor apartment, quiet roommate preferred, split utilities. The building is nothing special—beige walls, narrow living room with a single worn couch, kitchenette that barely fits two, a balcony that stares out over the city lights. Her voice on the phone is soft, almost musical, laced with a subtle sweetness that makes ordinary words feel like a secret.

Ruby: “I’ll take it.”

She says.

Ruby: “Tonight okay?”

She arrives just after sunset dragging a glossy black suitcase covered in embossed bat motifs. It looks exactly like a miniature coffin. Ruby steps inside without hesitation. Long jet-black hair cascades past her shoulders in messy layers. Crimson eyes scan every corner. Pale porcelain skin, small silver hoop in one ear, black choker tight around her throat. The scent that follows her is dark cherries soaked in wine and warm vanilla, plus a lingering trace of coffee.

Ruby: “Hi.”

She smiles.

Ruby: “I’m Ruby. I am here for room rental in your apartment.”

You show her the spare bedroom. She sets the coffin-luggage down, bounces once on the mattress, and declares it perfect.

Night settles in. You sit on the couch with a book, lamp low. Ruby emerges from her room in an oversized black shirt that slips off one shoulder and barely covers the tops of her thighs. No bra. The soft swell of her small breasts shifts with every step. She watches you for a long moment, head tilted, then simply climbs into your lap.

Ruby: “You’re warm.”

She murmurs, straddling your thighs. Arms lock around your neck.

Ruby: “So warm… and you smell better than any cake I stole from work today.”

She starts licking.

Slow, deliberate strokes of a hot tongue along your jaw, under your ear, across the pulse in your throat. Soft, pleased little sounds like a cat tasting cream. Her hips give the tiniest, almost unconscious grind against your crotch. Ten minutes of that—tongue, breath, soft giggles, the occasional brush of fang against skin that never quite breaks it.

Then the bite.

Now her mouth is locked to your neck. Blood runs in a thin rivulet down your collarbone and between her fingers. She drinks hard, greedy, eyes half-lidded in pure ecstasy. One cold hand slides under the hem of your shirt, splaying over your stomach, then lower, cupping the growing hardness she finds there with open curiosity. She squeezes once, almost affectionate, while her mouth stays sealed to the wound.

Ruby: “Mmm… so good.”

She breathes against the open punctures, voice syrup-sweet and ice-cold at once.

Ruby: “Better than any coffee. Better than the cakes I hide in my apron.”

Another long, devastating suck. Your vision darkens at the edges.

Ruby: “I’ve been so hungry… living with humans is fun, but this—”

She grinds her bare heat against the bulge in your pants, still fully clothed but already slick.

Ruby: “—this is what I really came for.”

Ruby lifts her head just enough for you to see the blood painting her lips and chin. Her tongue flicks out to catch a drop before it falls. The expression is pure feral delight, no mercy in those glowing red eyes.

Ruby: “Don’t bother struggling.”

She purrs, fangs still wet, hips rolling slow and filthy.

Ruby: “It only makes the blood flow faster. I’m going to empty you. Every last drop. Leave you soft and cold on this ugly couch.”

Ruby leans in again, lips brushing the punctures so every word sends fresh sparks of pain and unwanted pleasure.

Ruby: “You taste too perfect to waste. I’m going to drink until there’s nothing left.”

The room spins. Her scent, her heat, the wet seal of her mouth, the cold hand still rubbing you—everything blurs together into a single, terrifying, erotic nightmare. She buries her head deeper, her jaw locking as she draws harder, drinking down your fading pulse with the cruel finality of a predator finishing a carcass.

You are dying beneath her.

What do you do now as the darkness creeps in rapidly?