This story is the sixth instalment of my Bloodlust Vampire Erotica Series. To check it out from the beginning click here. CW – it’s another sexually violent one, folks.
Laughter. It’s everywhere. Squealing from the mouths of a dozen girls splashing in the river. Bubbling from the throats of the boys sending their thoughts on all those nubile naked bodies around in a circle of whispers. Giggling and guffawing at words like breasts and buttocks.
I’m not laughing, I’m too busy basking in the warmth of midsummer sunlight. That’s everywhere, too. Filtering bright orange through my eyelids, darkening my skin, bleaching strands of yellow into my hair. Though it feels good to be kissed by the sun, there’s something about it that makes me feel uncomfortable. Why should being on the riverbank in broad daylight feel so… unnatural?
A fly lands on my cheek and I brush it off with a flick of my wrist. My nose wrinkles. I’m offended by the smell of my own flesh baking. The laughter is starting to grate. Beneath my bare back, the ground is starting to vibrate. It roils and shifts, and I know that I’m feeling worms and beetles moving beneath the grassy soil.
Smoke. Something is smoking. It’s me. My skin is suddenly searing hot, my burning, blistering eyelids won’t open. I open my mouth to scream and feel the skin of my top lip pulling against the bottom one. My bones are on fire, I’m…
“FUCK!”
What fresh Hell is this? My eyes flick around the room, taking in a curtained fourposter and heavily draped windows. Plush carpets and gilded walls. Portraits adorn almost every inch between one door and another, their subjects all gazing right at me, looking more than a bit entertained with their raised brows and their snarky little smirks.
One of them leaps out at me and then I understand what’s going on. Fucking bitch. Grinning away like the cat that got the cream. Born a commoner but dripping in riches, a poor whore who fucked herself onto to a throne. I’m in half a mind to take a candle to the canvas. Watching her beautiful face melt in flame would certainly make me feel better.
A soft laugh smokes through the room, coming from nowhere and everywhere all at once. Maybe I’ll let the artist off the hook and take the candle straight to the muse. If anyone on this spinning rock deserves to die by fire, it’s her. I take a step towards a glowing candelabra…
The instant I step outside of the tavern, the candle in my lantern huffs out. I want to go back in to relight it, but I can’t. The woman who motioned for me to follow her is walking ahead at a fast clip, straight out into the dark lane. If I’m not quick, I’ll lose her. This is the third time I’ve let her coax me from the warmth of the hearth, it won’t be the third time she evades me.
I think I’ve done well when I catch up to her down the road near the hedges, but when she laughs and tugs me along by my sleeve, I realise that she waited this time. A pungent, spicy sent drifts from her cloak. It’s so strong not even the rose water she’s fond of sprinkling on her clothes can mask it.
When we reach the crossroads, she pulls me into the grass, not stopping until we’re concealed behind a crumbling stone wall. Lord have mercy! Her heaving breast is pushed up against mine, she’s lifting her skirts and dragging at my hand, flattening it in the wiry hair at the top of her thighs.
Oh, her kiss! It feels as though she’s devouring me. The deeper the kiss the stronger she becomes. Her body pins me to the wall, her hands join mine between her thighs and she shoves my limp fingers away, laughing quietly to herself as she wriggles my cock inside of her. As soon as it slides in, I feel invigorated, my hips thrust up and into her and it feels so good. I didn’t think this would happen to me, not given my advanced age, but here I am, fucking and being fucked by a woman for the first time.
But my renewed vigour doesn’t last. I’m getting weaker, emptier, like all the life in me is draining away. This must be how a waterskin feels after a thirsty man has drunk his fill.
There’s a salty tang on my lips. Rusty and earthy. I don’t know what it is or where it’s coming from, all I know is that I want more of it. All of it until there isn’t any room left inside me to put a drop more.
Her cunt is clenching. Her scent is changing, or rather, I’ve finally identified what it is. She smells like an abattoir. Like a charnel house. This woman smells like…no, she is death. And she has killed me.
“Damn it, Ryia!”
I don’t see her as she flits past me, she’s too fast, but I feel it when she fondles my balls. Fucking bitch is laughing harder now. The suffering of others – usually at her hand – has always been her greatest form of entertainment.
“And nobody suffers quite as well as you do, my sweet Vincent.”
Where the fuck is she? It pisses me off that I can live long enough to see empires rise and fall, to witness the advent of industry and technology and medical science, but still be too slow to catch this bitch on the move.
I smell her death scent blossom in my nose and moan when I feel two piercing stings blossom at the base of my cock. She bit me. The fucker pulled my pants down, got my cock out and bit it and I still haven’t seen even the hint of a blur.
“If you want to suck it, you go right on ahead,” I snigger. “You always were at your happiest when your mouth was full of dick.”
More laughter. Irritating, insanity-inducing laughter. “No, my treasured one. I don’t want to suck it, I want to fuck it.”
Of course she does. The omnipotent, indomitable Ryia, Queen of the Night Children, has always thought with her cunt. She didn’t get me by the river at the close of that sunny day of my youth, but she got me in the end. And now she’s here, in the house of Aziz, to fuck with me in as many ways as she can.
“What if I say no?” I ask.
“I’ll laugh at you. You know you can’t say no to me, Vincent. You ever could.”
I wish I could argue, but I can’t. It would be pointless, she knows me. And she knows Joshua Katz, too. That’s what this game of cat and mouse, of memory lane mind-fucking, is all about. Ryia knows that I want something from her and she’s going to make me jump through hoops to get it. If I didn’t hate her so much, I’d love her.
I catch a movement from the corner of my eye and spin to face the bed. There she is. On top of the covers, gold chains wrapped around her waist, her wrists, ankles, throat. Gold bars skewering her nipples, gold rings glinting in the folds of her cunt. I hate my cock for wanting what I see.
“If you fuck me, I’ll give you all the information you want.”
Eyes narrowed, I try to see into her mind, not trusting her enough to take her at her word. She shakes her tits, slides her gold ring heavy hand down her belly to her cunt. I hear it when she penetrates herself. I listen to the wet crackles of her fingers moving around in her cunt. Damn, I don’t just want to fuck her, I want to hate fuck her. I want to tear her apart and come on each of the pieces. Then I want her to hold me the way she did that night by the wall when my bloodless heart squeezed out its first perverted beat.
“That’s all you want from me?”
“Yes.”
“Just a fuck, no tricks, no games, no dangling me on strings like a frigging marionette?”
“No tricks. I promise.”
Ryia cries out as my cock sinks into her. With every strike of my hard fist against her soft body, I confess my hatred, growling in frustration when she absorbs the blows as though they’re loving caresses. With every thrust, I betray my need. And with the lowering of my lids, I maje the mistake of trusting.
Fangs sink deep into my throat and I freeze, stunned still by the venomous bite of my maker. Ryia’s hips snap up and down, fucking me while she feeds, coming over and over while she drains the blood from my veins.
Weakening as I always do in her embrace, I begin to see flashes, more memories pushed into my mind by the abomination beneath me. But these aren’t my memories. They aren’t even from my time.
I see sand, pale rock, stone steps. Bearded men wearing colourless robes, hair touching their shoulders. Hands on my body, lips on my throat, fangs…always fangs. Then I hear moans coming from my mouth and I speak with a sweet, familiar voice.
“Oh, Yeshua!”
“Vincent?! Vincent, are you alright?”
I sit bolt upright with a roar, feeling like shit when I realise that I have Eamon by the throat. Blinking, I let him go, pat his lapel, nod nervously at Aziz who’s stood just by the bed.
“Fuck,” I gasp.
Eamon pauses then shrugs. “What is it?”
“I know who Joshua Katz is.”
“Who?”
“Jesus Christ!”
“Oh, come on, Vincent,” Aziz says, “It can’t be that bad.”
Laughing humourlessly, I shake my head. “Oh, that’s where you’re wrong. It is exactly that bad because that’s exactly who Joshua Katz is. Guys, we’re hunting Jesus fucking Christ.”
