Royal Street: The Extraction

Lock the shop on Royal.
The air conditioning struggles against the New Orleans rot,
but Zoe is shivering,
her skirt hiked high over the mahogany counter,
offering the heat of her blood to a woman
who hasn't drawn a breath in two hundred years.

Clarice is a glitch in the atmosphere,
a blur of static and graveyard silk.
When she moves, the humidity crystallizes.
There is no "softness" in the way she grips Zoe’s thighs—
her fingers are the weight of a marble headstone,
anchoring the living girl to the wood.

Then the descent.
It’s not a kiss; it’s an extraction.
Zoe’s back arches, a violent lightning bolt of spine,
as Clarice’s mouth—a cold, hungry vacuum—
begins to pull the frequency of Zoe’s life
directly through her skin.
It’s the sensation of a thousand ice-needles,
a psychic drain that turns pleasure into a high-voltage ache.

Zoe’s pulse is the only clock left in the room,
pounding against the silence of the shop.
Clarice doesn't lick; she inhales.

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