Sometimes my blood begins to boil. I have a need that pulls at me. It pulls and pulls until I can't concentrate, and instead of dancing I can only pull at the patrons and Rose makes me take the day off before people notice anything strange.
So I find myself a bar or a club or a party, and I put on a low-cut shirt and a short, tight skirt and sharp, tall heels. They're always there. Everywhere. Pawing and grabbing and maneuvering themselves where they aren't wanted.
Disgusting.
Then I dive into the crowd. With my blood singing the predators gravitate to me like moths to a flame. They think I'm easy prey, the way I dance and twist and play coy, but they fail to see the bright red warning mark painted and across my clothes. I draw them in with hooded eyes and hips and flashes of skin and they flock like carrion scavengers.
There's always a particularly handsy one. A man who thinks he's irresistible or the woman who thinks she deserves whatever she wants. It's the best thing in the world, watching the confidence drain from their eyes when I take them outside. They get to feel what they've done. I overwhelm them and suck away their power until they're shells of their former selves, whimpering and pleading. Sometimes they think they can overpower me, and it's cute, to be honest, their naivety. It's nothing to push them down and take them over, every one of their movements gives me strength until I've taken every last bit of them away, and then, finally, I rip them open in sacrifice to Mother Mary.
That feeling of control, mixed with Mary's blessing, is better than any orgasm.
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