A note about writing and a welcome to #30days2019 #30days

Couldn’t decide whether to land on love, lust, magic, or on Saturn for that first story.

Results?

I did a hybrid with a healthy dose of THC. Won’t blow your back out, but it will make you wonder if this is part of a longer tale. Could be.  Go read it and tell me if it turned you on or if it turned you off.

Or if it turned you out.

Meanwhile, we will return to the Girlfriend Experience AI, vampires, werewolves, and witches. We might even see a few aliens show up in a sex dungeon looking for love. I really do want to write about a woman who sees everyone on the planet completely nude.

If you stay still long enough, you can see everything.

 

Look for new stories and poetry to show up tomorrow.  Meanwhile, go support my brand here –> $drcat

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There are no spells for love or evolution

Does not feel right in this moment to go back to the routine.

…not quite Phorzhicoan anymore, am I?  Something else… 

Just feeling a bit faint, a bit warm in a hot flash sense.  So different in my youth when it really was more of a singularity in my approach, feed, and departure. I like drifting among groups of happy people and casually drawing out the essence of human fun–dancing, laughing, chatting, sweetness of joyful living.  Phorzhicoa feeding need not be in dark, lonely spaces, but can be in the midst of the action, as long as some semblance of an exchange is met to dampen suspicions of most, save for those few humans gifted with discernment.

As I slowly matured the hunt ceased to be a hunt for many and emerged as a search for one.

Doesn’t seem to feel right tonight to just jump in and feast. Phorzhicoan spells work like anesthesia on the conscious mind, and from what I can see through my Phorzhicoan eyes, our spells tend to bend towards imposing a coma-like state on the targeted object of focus.  Communion remains elusive and distant, and upon awakening, the object departs.  The feeding process itself ends and we move on.  My search for one turned me from this path.

There are no spells or works for this feeling here, and as such, this must be a true exchange that begins with the meeting of eyes.

Given what I’ve sensed, it seems more satisfying to engage in an exchange.  In other words, connect.  Something that could feel mutually consensual and aware as the energy and fluids pass back and forth in those moments before the room melts in hallucinogenic glory of all the Gods passing through you like a flock of birds.  At the departure of the initial wave of pleasure comes the recognition and welcoming of two spirits in communion.  Humans who have not crossed into Phorzhicoan space call this love.  Phorzhicoans like me who progress beyond the feeding dance call this evolution.

There are no spells for love or evolution.

Starve (Phorzhicoa Story) #30days #30days2018 by Cherie Ann Turpin

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Last time I saw him he stared at me without blinking for 20 minutes straight.  I sat in a low leather chair sipping on an extra dirty martini pretending to not notice him as I read my phone messages.

Starved.

I’ve seen that before.  The last stage before converting to us, the Phorzhicoa.  He’s so far gone he wouldn’t have known the difference between the food and the feeders.  To most humans he is, in urban vernacular terms, “thirsty,” in need of something other than the usual attention given to men and women who are moderately attractive.

You’ve encountered the type before, the kind who were surrounded by sycophants and fans in their younger days, the popular set of folk who were sharply dressed, well-spoken, and of course never missing out on receiving some really delicious sexual heat from lovers and bedwarmers.  But eventually that sort of heat gets cold, and the thirst grows sharper with age.  The young, nubile, strong bodies of hopeful fans are replaced by earnest, desperate, and somewhat shrill voices of men and women who hope to taste a bit of an aging star who begins to realize with more than a bit of panic that she or he is no longer being fed and maintained but in fact is being sucked dry.

Starved.

The makeup is flawless, the haircut is perfect, but the soul is in great need.  The hollowed out eyes of one who is ravenous enough to not know that he is staring at a version of himself is unmistakable and indeed, quite irresistible.  Truth is I’ve kept myself off the radar of the Queen by refusing to feed for some years now, and it has kept me safe from some of the more aggressive types who look to compel us solitaries into joining families to hunt. And yes, he is desirable, but I do not give chase.  I prefer to be chased because the taste of his astonishment is so much more satisfying.  It’s a moment of mutual recognition, that we are more alike than different, that I am not prey but a sister hunter like him.  But he is still in pre-conversion, not quite Phorzhicoa yet.  He may give chase, but I saw him long before he even realized he saw me as a meal to consume.

This fledgling sitting across from me has been semi-stalking me for some months without speaking or even admitting to himself that he hungers, that his body and soul feels the crush and call of the Phorzhicoan way.  The sex itself is beyond words, but the energy that floods you is like a tidal wave of ecstasy that floods every cell of your body for what seems to be an eternity.  Time ceases as you are filled once again.  To be mutually fed by your own is to die and live again in a state of utter joy and relief.

But I don’t chase fledglings, especially not in my own starved state. I feel no motivation to move, much less speak.

Instead, I watch and wait for him to turn.

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