Dympna of the Sí, is hungry. Her lover has gone west to meet the setting sun and to mourn her, she has taken no nourishment for seven full moons, one for every three years they were together.
Even the fae of the otherworld must feed, and for her to feed she must take a special lover. She casts her net far and wide, and soon she smiles. She has found a poet, and this one has a penis. When did she last taste a fine, fat, meaty cock?
***
Dermot Fitzgibbon looks around the room and sighs. Surgical instruments and yards of bloody gauze are randomly strewn about. Pools of blood are congealing on the floor. It's a sickening sight, but far from the worst he's seen
He is just past hour nine of an eight-hour shift, and he's bone tired. But it's Friday, and the moon is full. Soon there could well be another battle to save another victim, and it is his job to make ready the emergency department's trauma room. It must be cleaned and thoroughly disinfected and quickly. Even so, he takes a moment to wonder if the poor man survived.
'How do you know it's a man?' The room is silent, and the woman's voice is an echo in his mind. Later he will wonder why her voiceless question did not surprise him, but at this moment, it seems natural.
'It's usually a safe bet. Did he make it?'
'He's in intensive care.'
'How's he doing?'
'He'll live.' Dermot stops working and closes his eyes. 'Are you praying?' Her words carry a mix of amusement and contempt.
He says nothing until he finishes the short prayer, and then, 'Forgiveness matters.'
'You interest me, cleaner. What's your name?'
'Dermot. What's yours?'
'Do you really want to know? I want to be your Leannán Sí.'
This surprises him. 'A Celtic vampire?'
He feels her amusement. 'Shall we put that thrice-damned lie to the test? Write a poem for me.'
'I do some writing, but I'm no poet.'
Gentle warmth flows through him. 'I would like you to write a poem for me.'
'I don't think I can.' The rising heat is now more seductive. She is exploring all of him at once. Her invisible tongue duels with his, flicks his ear, and licks his nipples. At the same time, her warm cushiony breasts are on both his face and his cock. As it swells and hardens, she takes it all the way into her mouth while still stroking it with a firm hand. A slender finger probes his ass. It's a first for him, and the sudden pulsing, intense pleasure shocks him. His throbbing, oozing cock is swollen beyond its full girth and length. 'You are a vampire,' he gasps.
'Not at all, darling, a vampire would compel you. I'm asking nicely.' Before he can say another word, she turns up the heat, and his whole body is burning. Breathing is tight, but he doesn't care. There is no way he can hold back his orgasm, but she keeps him teetering on the edge of the little death. 'Please write a poem for me.'
'All right! I'll try it.'
Sudden release—his whole body erupts like a volcano, and little electric shocks zap every fibre of his being. It goes on and on until his pleasure becomes almost unbearable pain. His vision blurs and then darkens, and his knees turn to water. He collapses and falls face-first onto a large puddle of blood. He passes out when he tries to get up. He has no idea how long he's been unconscious when he recovers, but he's alert and energetic.
'Thank you, darling. I'll be in touch.' He calls after her, but she is gone. There is a poem to be written, but it must wait until the job at hand is done and done well. He clambers to his feet, but there is nothing left to do. The room is spotless, and there is no blood on his face or stain on his shirt.
***
Dympna stands by the ER's nursing station. She's of average height, but that's the only ordinary thing about her. She has a complexion as pure and pale as snow, her eyes are piercing blue, and her full lips are blood-red. Her black hair falls to her waist, the snug fit of her pure white linen robe is perfect for her well-proportioned figure, and a belt of pure gold cinches it at her waist. By rights, her stunning beauty and voluptuous breasts should be the centre of attention, but she has imposed a geis on the whole room that allows no one to see her.
Even as Dermot approaches, she casts a lustful eye at the nurse womaning the desk. Alas, as lovely as the slim blonde is, there is no poetry in her.
'All done, Elaine, and ready for inspection.'
'That was fast!' He shrugs. 'I'm busy, so I'll take your word for it.' She turns away without wishing him a good night, and Dermot leaves for home.
Dympna also slips into the dying light, but she does not follow him. It's enough that her poet is ready to take pen in hand.
***
Dermot last ate twelve hours ago, but he ignores his hunger. He opens his laptop and sits staring at the screen. All the way home, dozens of brilliant poetic fragments ran through his head, but now that he's ready to write, they have crumbled to dust. He sits for several hours and makes more false starts than he can count. Well into the wee hours he gives up, has a light snack, and goes to bed.
His is not a dreamless sleep. He dreams that he is a woman waiting on her lover on an enormous bed in a large, opulent room. The door opens, and his beautiful and wondrously breasted fairy lover enters. Her skin is ghostly pale, her hair is long and black, and her eyes are a piercing blue. She wears nothing but a black bra and matching panties, but she might as well be nude. The little bits covering small parts of her are translucent.
She crosses the room with slow, seductive steps. The calm assurance of her sinuous strides matches the confidence of her smile. As she approaches the bed, his breasts swell, his nipples stiffen, and the juice of his pussy moistens his thighs.
The Sí pulls the sheet off him and kneels on the bed. Her eyes drink in his nudity for long seconds before she lowers herself into his arms. Lips brush lips ever so lightly, and her bra-clad breasts caress his. His encircling arms pull her closer and hold her tighter, and now breasts crush breasts. They pause just long enough for his slender, delicate fingers to unhook her bra, and now nipples kiss nipples. Lips swell and meet in heightened urgency, and probing tongues tease. Now hands and fingers caress swollen breasts and pinch nipples sharply, and then they massage pussies and slap buttocks. He rolls her onto her back and kneels between her thighs. He leans down to take her breast in his mouth and circle her areola with his tongue before flicking her nipple with it. She moans and pushes him toward her crotch. He takes his time and plants long, slow kisses on her torso until his mouth is on her panties. He blows gently through the flimsy material and flicks his tongue hard on her clit. He goes lower and makes slow, sensual love to her inner thighs with his lips and tongue while gently massaging her vulva through her silk panties.
Her need is urgent, and her temperature is rising. She traps his head and neck between her thighs and pulls him back onto her crotch. He kisses her through her silk and tongues her vulva from bottom to top, where his pursed lips and tongue tease and thrill her swollen clit.
Her hips grind her vulva and clit against his face until she shudders into orgasm. Her thighs relax, and he strips her of her panties. Again he goes down on his visitor to smear her ejaculate on his lips, chin, and cheeks. Strong hands grip him and pull him into her arms, then roll him onto his back and pin him to the bed. Laughing, she licks his face clean of her cum. Their cunts grind hard and fast on their interlocking thighs, and soon their writhing leads to pussy and clit kissing pussy and clit. Fingers again pinch nipples and tongues probe lips for a playful mouth to mouth duel. Nipples are licked and kissed again and again until breaths mingle with moans and come ever louder and faster. Their lovemaking soars to new heights as their interlocked thighs once more grind urgently against wet and swollen pussies. Bodies writhe and shift, and now they lie face to pussy, kissing and teasing each other's inner and outer lips and massaging their way up to their lover's clits. Puckered lips and flicking tongues soon bring both to another climax.
The power of this final orgasm jerks him awake. It's not just his cock. Every fibre of his being is in the throes of violent pleasure. It's hard to breathe, and it seems there will be no end to the creamy fluid spurting from the tip of his penis. When it stops, he's too weak to move, so he relaxes into a state of euphoria. It's a good few minutes before he can get out of bed.
He needs a shower but skips it. He needs breakfast but goes back to his laptop. Again all his efforts are futile. Shortly after noon, his hunger finally wins out, and he moves to the pub. He sits in a quiet corner staring at his laptop. He orders bangers and beans, a pint of stout, a double whiskey, and then another pint. Nothing helps. Every start is more futile than the last.
He doesn't see her until she drops a notebook and pencil on the table. 'Try those,' she says, 'instead of that thing without a soul.'
He looks up with wide, startled eyes, and then his jaw drops. It the Sí, the woman of his dream. 'Are you ...?'
'My name is Dympna, and I want to be your Leannán Sí, and, my darling Dermot, I am delighted to meet you in person.' She places her pint of ale on the table and sits. 'Show me your poem.'
'It's not done yet. I've barely started.'
'Show me.' He shrugs and hands her his laptop. 'Did you enjoy your dream?' she asks as she glances through his work. 'Did you enjoy being a woman making love with a woman?'
His heart pounds, and his face burns. 'I've you to thank for that?'
She laughs. 'Yes, it was my little gift. Well? How was it?'
He shrugs. 'Nice, I guess.' She cocks her head and raises an eyebrow. 'Sorry. It was fucking amazing. Thank you.'
She nods. 'If I like your work, there will be more to come, much more. I will be your muse and your lover. I will inspire you and pleasure you, and, in return, you will write poems for me. Doesn't that sound delightful?'
Panic seizes him, and fear freezes him in his seat. He can neither breathe nor speak, but his mind is racing. A poem for a fuck is one thing, but a lifetime of poems? That sounds too much like slavery.
She glances at him and frowns. 'Are you all right?'
'You are a fucking vampire!'
She snorts in derision. 'You're afraid I'm going to offer poetic inspiration in return for your love and devotion. You will live a life of intense creativity but burn out at a very young age. I will abandon you, and you will wither in obscurity and die a sad and lonely death. "Unwept, unhonoured, and unsung" as the saying goes. Is that it?' He nods. 'Utter rubbish. It's what you'd expect from a succubus, and I find that most offensive.'
'All the same, I'd rather not.'
'Listen. I feed on poetry. It keeps me alive. Why would I stand by and watch a brilliant food source die? What sense does that make?'
'None, I guess. But it doesn't matter anyway. I'm hopeless as a poet.'
She closes his laptop and looks at him, still frowning. 'You're putting trivia ahead of substance. Your focus is on rhythm and rhyme instead of myth, magic, and metaphor. Get over that, and you'll be brilliant.' He is surprised but says nothing. 'I'm not giving up on you. I love you for more than your poetry. You prayed for someone you never met. For that alone, I will cherish you for as long as I live. Think it over.'