Roland took his wallet from his pants, found a condom and put it on. He joined Teresa and pushed her shoulders back until she was lying full-length on the bed, on her back. He placed his toes towards the bottom end of the bed and took her hands, pushing them back to the mattress, above her head.

She sighed contentedly and lay back, raising her thighs to offer a comfortable place to ride, between pale, plump thighs. “I said fuck me, you.” She frowned. “What was your name again?”

He bit her right nipple. Not for her pleasure, though it felt good. “Roland. And at least I have the decency to know your name’s Teresa.”

She poked her tongue out at him again.

So, his hands holding hers down on the bed, he lowered himself onto her, his body straight like a man doing press-ups, until their faces were centimetres apart. He touched her forehead with his, while they stared into each other’s eyes. She tilted her face up and kissed him. He let his body sink onto hers.

But Teresa felt a perverse urge to make his life more complicated. She’d been too easy, and he seemed to be relying on scripts that had suited him with other women in these moments. She wanted to test him again. Suddenly she put her legs together and rolled out of his way.

She saw the shock in his eyes. Up to that moment she’d been sweetly inviting. He didn’t know what he’d done wrong, but he released her hands, and was ready to back away and get off the bed. She grinned at him, the fierce kind of grin, and said, “Vampires don’t fuck mundanes. Not… without a fight, anyway.”

So, Roland learned, the word for people who don’t really care about vampires except for desiring one girl who dressed as a vampire, is mundane. He was a mundane. She hoped he’d also learn that when sex was going well Teresa liked to fight and then lose. He probably wasn’t comfortable with games like that, because his life was easier when consent was clear.

He’d be uncomfortable with clouding it. But he had to deal with the woman he was with: Teresa wasn’t going to be generic.

But the struggle was what she wanted, so long as she lost it, and it seemed to her that what her cunt wanted is more important than what the political purist  might think and say.

She beat at his chest with her fists, like the heroine in some old black-and-white movie. But she was careful not to hit his face or bollocks or anywhere else that mattered. She didn’t want to discourage him.