[M/M, vampire, MC, hypno]
Disclaimer: There's sexual vampirism, sodomy, and maybe a few other minor perversions in this. If you don't like that sort of thing, read something else. Everybody in the story is legal age. Parts of this story may be autobiographical, or it might be all fiction--who can say?
Copyright - 2000 by Wrestlr. Permission granted to archive if and only if no fee (including any form of "Adult Verification") is charged to read the file. If anyone pays a cent to anyone to read your site, you can't use this without the express permission of (and payment to) the author. This paragraph must be included as part of any archive.
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There's no light. The room is nearly soundproof, and there's no sound from outside except the occasional shuffling of someone standing guard. I hear muffled talk when one comes to relieve another, but I have no idea how many shifts have passed or how long I've been here.
My mind wanders. If I were as strong as a bloodsucker, I'd be free by now. If I could turn into a bat or a mist, I'd be free. But those are not the gifts of my kind. We're a little stronger than normal men, but our mental trick is our main gift. Ms. Christian knows exactly what she's doing.
She used to hunt bloodsuckers. She's Van Helsing's descendant. Yes, that Van Helsing--the legendary vampire-hunter. Ms. Christian carried on his work. "Christian" is her married surname. When she married, her husband joined her crusade. For a while, at least.
The Christians and their men were a fierce team; and when they hooked up with the Reverend Senator Stonewall's Baptist Militia, they got access to resources that made them even more formidable. They went after the bloodsuckers. My kind are fewer; being less powerful and more vulnerable than bloodsuckers also makes us less flamboyant. We're experts in stealth.
Still, one day the Christians ran across one of my kind. They ran across the one who turned me. This was before the Christians developed their "sunglasses," which filter out our hypnotic mental influence. Back then, the Christians believed religious icons would terrorize any vampire. They were cocky. Then Mr. Christian and two of his men hunted down and confronted the one who made me. I can only imagine their surprise seconds before his mental gift took their wills.
My kind--we can suck men and be fucked by them. We can let them suck us and we can fuck them, but we cannot casually cum in their bodies. That's what turns them, makes them into beings like us. The one who made me--he must have thought it was ironic to make the Mr. Christian into a cum-eater like us. He fucked Christian, and he turned him. Then he sent Christian back to his loving wife. Who quickly found out about her husband's new hungers.
Ms. Christian, née Van Helsing, killed her own husband.
That's when she put her crusade against the bloodsuckers on hiatus for a while, so that she could hunt down the one who made me and others like him, like me. She learned quite a bit about us very quickly. Developed a whole new set of tools and strategies in her quest.
When her team developed the filtering "sunglasses"--that's when the battle turned against us. My kind is used to running, using our mental trick to evade capture and slip away. Suddenly, that trick was useless. Ms. Christian's team found we weren't as tough in a fight. And they found that we can starve.
The one who made me--he suffered a fate like this too, and not more than a year ago, and for the first time in four hundred years I was alone.
Back then, my family were farmers. We worked a small parcel of land, part of larger estate belonging to a landlord whom we never saw. His father had left the estate many years before and made the long journey to the New World, and our landlord had been born there. His father had died there. I had been to the estate house once on an errand with my own father, and I had seen the painted portrait of the old lord, a striking image of a man who looked ten years younger than my own father. One of the maids told me the young lord was himself the old lord's mirror image.
When I was sixteen, a man and expected to marry soon, the news came that the young landlord was coming to the estate for a visit, his first. He, like his father before him, was said to be a good man; his father had been well-liked. The servants, my family and the other tenants--everyone busied themselves preparing for his arrival.
I didn't want to marry. Even then, I knew what I really wanted. I had my friend in the small township neighboring the estate, though we both knew we would have to put aside our furtive puppy squirmings soon and marry women, begin our own families. I and the other boys like me bumbled into the awareness of our bodies without a name for what we were. Our words were different then--we had only "sodomite" and "sinner." It never occurred to us that what went on between us had any possible bearing on the ultimate likelihood of our marrying women and procreating. But those duties had seemed far away until now. At the banquet for the lord's arrival, which was to be attended by people from across the countryside, the surrounding villages, even the imperial court itself, I was expected to find a suitable lass, and our parents would negotiate the marriage.
The day before our landlord's expected arrival, I took a pack and a knife and went into the forest to walk the line of traps. We supplemented our meager farm's output by selling furs. As I walked the ridge overlooking the road leading into the estate, I saw a small group of men on horseback. Messengers, no doubt, or guests from the court arriving early? Horses for riding were a luxury few in our region could afford, so I crept to the edge of the embankment to see them better.
One of them, seeing me, raised his hand, and I waved back. The mossy precipice edge crumbled and I tumbled forward down the embankment, landing in a heap beside the road. The men laughed. My fall had been short--only my pride was injured.
One of them, more elegantly arraigned than his fellows, reined his horse up in front of me. "Are you hurt?" he asked.
The cloak that enveloped his head and shoulders alone cost more than my family saw in a year, and I stared, stunned by its opulence. I disentangled my limbs and stood up, shook my head, speechless.
He nodded at the knife in my belt. "Are you a highwayman, then? Come to rob an innocent traveler?" His tone said he found humor here.
"No, sir," I said, finding my tongue. "I'm but a farmer here, on this estate."
The horse bobbed its head and snorted, impatient and wanting its stable for the night.
"A farmer here?" The man surveyed me for a moment. He lifted his hands and pulled back the hood of his cloak. The face from the portrait regarded me, more handsome and strong and majestic in real life than I had imagined. I blinked, fearing him a vision. His eyes were luminescent silver, as were the long nails of the hand he offered me. Those eyes spoke of power, of control, lessons my eyes would come to learn well. Even then, I think I knew he was more than human. He said, "Then, you know my name."
In the sagas, the gods have every power except one: they could not say their own names. For this reason, they invented men.
I took the silver-nailed hand in my own and knew I was not dreaming. "M'lord," I said, bowing.
"Leave us," he said to his fellows, dismissing them. "We shall catch up to you shortly."
"M'lord?" one of them asked.
"Leave us," he said firmly, and they did.
To me, he said, "Do you ride?"
I nodded. He helped me onto his horse. He turned the stallion into the woods. I held on carefully because, though I knew how to ride, it wasn't something I had the opportunity to do often, and I was more than a little awed.
He took us to a hunter's shelter deep in the woods, almost an hour's ride. How did a lord, just visiting this estate for the first time, know of a place that I, who had been there my whole life, had only seen once long ago?
"You are very beautiful," he said to me as he led me into the single-room hut. I knew nothing of seduction. I knew little of love-making. I knew plenty about rutting, though, and I knew this was to be different. All I knew was that his eyes kept swallowing me, every time I looked into them, and I would have done anything he asked.
All he asked was that I remove my clothes--hardly more than rags--and let him touch me, taste me. And immediately he surpassed everything I knew from my juvenile fumblings with my friend from the township. My body responded to him with need, urgency like I had never known before. It responded to the hunger in him with intense arousal.
What I knew of sodomy was that sex between men is like no other sex. Strength and aggression lead men to violently attack each other's bodies as they struggle to become closer. They fight against the fundamental erotic dilemma--the desire of two singular beings to become one. This was different. There was no fighting, only me sliding deep into the pits of his eyes, and me yielding up my strength as he touched me in undiscovered ways, drew my body deep into unmapped territories of desire. I could not refuse anything he asked of me.
When he presented me with his own sex, I became absorbed in the miracle of him, of his cock. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, and also the most frightening. In it, I saw wars fought, kings murdered, and spears thrown. But to be honest, the symbolism may have come later--right then, the real thing was there in front of me, and it stunned me. When soon he slaked his thirst on me, all I knew was euphoria.
Later, after I had awakened and he smiled at me, in that first flush of emotion that would grow between us, he mounted and helped me onto the horse behind him. He rode us into the estate. The other vassals and the townspeople were gathering for the welcoming feast, about to begin. They lined the road into the estate when news of our approach spread.
The stallion trotted us along the noisy crowd lining the road, undeterred by their cheers and shouted greetings. Children, caught up in the spectacle of one so highborn and respected among them, ran after us. I could barely see the blond heads of the children in a blur as they raced along. It would make a nice painting, I thought. This was before the invention of the photograph, so capturing memories was an art as inexact as memories themselves. To be most effective, the faces of the children would need to be painted in a blur, the way all children's faces truly are. That is something I only came to understand later, a little later in our time together, after he turned me into something like himself. The faces of mortals, these children--they blur as they run; they blur as they grow and change so quickly; and they blur to keep those like myself from loving them too deeply, for their protection, and also for ours.
Noise shakes at me. I'm only dimly aware of it, dwarfed by the hunger raging through me. I hear voices. I try to raise my head but can't quite manage it. Open my eyes. The lights are still out--I have no clue how much time has passed since I was put here.
In the hallway, one man is saying he doesn't know if he should do this, that Ms. Christian wouldn't approve. Another voice, younger, says he doesn't care, that he knows what he's doing. I curl myself. If I'm to be getting another beating, I want to give as well as I get; with my hands cuffed around the pipe, I coil for leverage.
The door opens. Light spills in. I squint against it. Outside, a dark-haired guard, hanging back. Blondy in the doorway. The room explodes when he flicks on the overhead lights, and my eyes cramp. I won't let myself turn away--I'm not giving them the satisfaction.
Blondy closes the door behind himself, leaving the guard in the hallway. Just Blondy and me. Behind his sunglasses, his eyes are unreadable, and unreachable.
Some part of me expects the cavalry to come charging in to save the day. You, reading this, must be expecting the climax soon too. You must be expecting a happy ending.
This is the point where the Greek poets would offer up the handy intervention of the gods to get things moving forward. Deus ex machina--"god from the machine." The gods appear, tell the mortals how to solve their problems, and the story advances to its happy conclusion.
This is the point in my little drama where Apollo would be lowered from the rafters on pulleys. From the wings, an earthly voice--mine--is supposed to utter the great promises, as if they came from the mouth of the understudy who dangles uncomfortably a few feet off the floor. Greater singers than I, having to get the essential story moving past minor obstacles such as being shackled to a six-inch pipe in an abandoned warehouse, have resorted to Apollo. No other way out of these manacles. Apollo must order them to open. And promise an escape.
Here is what is missing: no one has mentioned an escape, other than death. I would be supposed to obey, unthinkingly, the command from the deity. My manacles would mysteriously snap open, and I would leap out of this storeroom and disappear into the night, to safety. I would disappear into the embrace of those like myself, who would see that I was fed, and clean my wounds, and nurse me back to health.
But I've never promised a happy ending. Especially not after what Ms. Christian did to the one who turned me and the others like me. She's a killer. I never promised an escape. I said I would get us to where we are. Even if I believed in Apollo, or gods--even if I thought this blond youth standing before me would believe him--I cannot do it. This blond young man, standing uncertainly before me in those dark sunglasses, is not my cavalry. Though beautiful, he is not Apollo. Apollo does not appear; we are what we are. If I owe nothing else to the dead, I can at least refrain from wheeling out Apollo.
"So, Mr. ..." I say. My voice, unused to being used lately, is raspy.
"Christian," he says. "Taylor Christian."
I keep my expression carefully blank.
"Her son," he says helpfully.
Yeah, I can see the family resemblance now--that's why Blondy looked so familiar when I first saw him. Aware of what I'm confronting, I say nothing, reveal nothing.
"I wanted to see you for myself, one last time," Blondy--er, Taylor--says. "Hunting you down ... It's become--I dunno--I've never seen my mother so obsessed."
He pauses as if he expects me to say something. I don't. Maybe I'm finally learning to keep my mouth shut.
"Did you know she and Reverend Stonewall got into an argument over you? He wanted her to keep going after the real vampires, the ones that suck blood."
Okay, that hurt.
"He was televising her kills," he says. "All those good people watching the Baptist News Network love a good spectacle. A weekly segment on hunting down and killing one of Satan's undead was doing wonders for his fundraising. Reenactments, mostly, but sometimes they'd send a camera crew along and get it live. He got mad when she started hunting your kind. He didn't want to hear about your kind and your unholy lusts."
I think to myself, "Unholy lusts"? Hell, kid, who writes your dialog?
"His audiences wanted blood and gore--"
"Real entertainment," I insert helpfully, though he doesn't seem to notice my sarcasm. I'm wondering why he's telling me all of this, wondering what he's trying to tell me and what he wants from me.
"Yeah. They had a fight and he cut off her funding." Well, at least that explains the low-rent digs where I'm currently ensconced. "But she kept right on anyway. She's been obsessed with getting revenge ever since you turned my father--"
"No, that was someone else. She killed him a year ago."
"But you were his--what's the word? `Lover'? Can something like you even love?"
My expression betrays nothing. "Yes," I say carefully, "on both counts. We can and do love." I can't help looking around me at the empty room. "Pity I can't say the same for you--seems to me, my kind are a lot more human than you are right now."
Taylor's face hardens. He hasn't been vampire-hunting long, certainly not long enough to be able to conceal his emotions. But then, anger is a hard emotion to hide. Like hatred, anger is too pure.
"You're going to die," he says flatly.
No shit, I think, allowing myself to sneer a bit.
"It's been four days, and you're going to die soon. She's amazed you've held out this long."
"Just stubborn, I guess."
I can't see his eyes though the dark glasses, but the rest of his face looks uncomfortable. "Listen," he says.
"That mental trick, that thing you did to me in the bar ..."
I stare hard at the dark lenses.
"I want you to do it to me again." When I don't react, he says, "But don't get any ideas. I don't have the key to your chains, and neither does the guard outside the door. Besides ..." Taylor turns in profile and eases the glasses up an inch, holding them there with his index finger on the nosepiece. Blue eyes, I notice. He pulls his finger away, and the glasses drop back into place on his nose. I get the idea. "So," he says, turning my way again, "no funny stuff."
He eases the glasses up again. I meet his baby-blues, and ignore the hunger that twists my guts, and ride the contact into his head, probing at the pleasure centers in his mind, hitting them hard, sending a pulse of pure pleasure ricocheting through his entire body as I whisper the word [horny] into his thoughts.
Taylor gasps, so startled by the intensity of what's racking throughout his nerves that he nearly chokes. He stumbles back several steps, almost falling, and during that production his glasses drop back into place. Damn. That breaks our contact, and moments before I would have had him, too.
He leans, panting, against the wall. "Oh, hell," he gasps. "Oh--fucking--hell!" Then he stands, walks back over to me, stopping just a few feet out of reach, and says, "Again."
I say, "Huh?"
He's got an erection in his pants, a nice one from the lump it's making, and the smell of his energy and his arousal this close makes my mouth water.
"Again," he orders helpfully, pushing the glasses back up with one finger. I meet his eyes, slide into his thoughts; but this time, I don't do anything. He waits. "Well? C'mon!"
Taylor waits a second more, too long, and then his face starts to go slack as the hypnotic effect spreads through his mind. I send the command [freeze] into him, and his finger stays put. The glasses stay put. I have him. I direct him [remove] and he pulls the glasses away from his face, drops them.
That's perfect. As long as I can keep eye contact with him, even as weak as I am, I can keep control of him. I can do this.
I can feel him trying to fight me, but he can't. His cock is hard, body flushed with his arousal, and my hunger fills the small room like the sound of a jackhammer. The smell of him makes me salivate.
Taylor obeys the commands I send into his head. He can't help himself. The command [closer] makes him walk up to me. The command [unzip] makes him free his hard-on from his pants. With my wrists still manacled around the pipe, I can't use my hands, but I manage. I make him extract his rigid rod from the folds of his boxers. The smell of his arousal has my hunger singing in my head, just as the need for release is singing harmony through his. He's got a nice dick--circumcised, slight upward curve. I push my head toward the head of it. I lick it, kiss it. I'd love to run my gaze along his sleek torso--I put him at about age 20, 5"10", 155 pounds--but I have to stay locked onto his eyes, onto his mind, while I slide my mouth over his meat and suck him. Tomorrow, he will remember nothing more than the sensation.
I suck him, teasing at the meal inside him until my hunger demands satisfaction. I don't have time to enjoy this. I hit his pleasure centers again, and I push deep into his mind with the word [release]. Taylor groans and his whole body spasms, and his dick throbs and spits his load into my throat. At the moment of his orgasm, I tap into the liquid strength within him and suck it out along with his cum, to sate the hunger inside me. His dick is a straw, and I drink deeply.
Taylor's force floods into me. Guys his age are at their sexual peak, and he has nearly enough to slack my desire. His is sweet, rich, vibrant. Filling. I break the connection reluctantly. His body has gone limp. Draining his life force has left him unconscious, in a tractable state resembling a deep sleep or a trance, and it will last several hours, until his body has time to recharge and replace what I've taken.
With his mind in this receptive state, I don't need eye contact. I can send my instructions directly into his quiescent mind, and he will follow them. Easy enough to have him stuff his limp cock back into his pants and zip them. Easy enough to have him retrieve his sunglasses and put them on. What comes next, though, will be trickier, and I'll need additional energy to pull it off.
Taylor acts on my instructions. "Guard!" he yells--or rather, his body yells. "Hey, guard!"
After a moment, the door opens. A head eases around the edge. "Yeah?"
"I think he's dead," I make Taylor announce. I for my part am curled on the floor, motionless.
The guard isn't the brightest bulb in the scoreboard, and I'm counting on that. If he detects anything amiss here, anything unusual about Taylor's behavior or that slight flatness to his voice as he mouths the words I send into his head, the game is lost. The guard is bright enough to be skeptical, though. He says, "How do you know?"
"He hasn't moved since I came in, and he's not breathing."
The guard says, "We should call Ms. Christian."
Taylor says, "We need to make sure first. You know how pissed she'll get if this is a false alarm. Come see if you think he's dead too."
I hear the guard sigh. I can smell his life energy, stronger as he walks over to me. I can hear the fabric of his pants crinkle as he kneels down. How close?
"I can't see a damn thing in these glasses," the guard grouses. His voice sounds very close to my face.
"Do you think he's breathing?" Taylor says. "Try holding your glasses in front of his nose. If he's breathing, it'll steam up the lenses."
"I dunno about this," the guard mumbles. Still, I hear the click of an ear-piece as he takes his sunglasses off.
The guard isn't particularly graceful either; he pokes my nose in the septum with his glasses almost hard enough to make me jump.
I can sense his face directly in front of me, inches away. I officially "wake up" and open my eyes. The guard gasps and yanks himself back from me, but my eyes have already locked onto his. Pale green, I note, with a little ring of gold around the pupils.
He crab-scrambles backward until his shoulder hits Taylor's leg, but he can't break our eye contact. I give his pleasure centers a good, swift jolt, and he gasps again. The mental orgasm engulfing him throws off his coordination, and he falters to the floor. I keep up the contact, and a few seconds later his expression turns vacuous as the hypnotic effect overtakes his mind.
Guard's name is Billy; it's no problem to pull that out of his surface thoughts. He's very handsome--Ms. Christian certainly knows how to pick them--and his clothes bulge with muscles in all the best places. I'd love to get him naked, get a look at his body, but I don't have time for that kind of luxury. I send the order [approach] into his head. His eyes stay fixed on mine as he crawls over to me. I have him unzip and pull out his erection. It's a beauty.
I don't have time for niceties--we could be discovered at any moment. Still, when I take his cock in my mouth, I suck on it gently, savoring the feel of his silky foreskin against my tongue, the sweet pre-cum that slides out of the hole.
The smell and taste of him--the promise of the meal inside him--intoxicate me. I suck more eagerly, opening the back of my throat to swallow as much of his sizeable cock as I can. Billy's swollen meat rubs my tonsils and I nearly choke. I can't pull away to breathe. The moment is now, and I send the command [release] into Billy's head. The first spurt of his load hits the back of my throat, and I start to drain his life energy to sate my hunger. I swallow hungrily.
Time to get things moving. I'm still chained to the pipe, but that don't mean I helpless. First things first--I order Billy to put his clothes back in order and resume his post outside the door. I have other plans for Taylor, though.
I lock my eyes on Taylor's. His mind is still quiet, receptive. What it's receiving from me now is a stronger kind of connection. I can send not only my orders but also part of myself into his head. If you have a religious bent, you could consider it a kind of possession; I prefer to consider it more like what it seems to me: hitching a ride.
Now I'm looking out through Taylor's eyes at the husk on the floor, my body, temporarily empty. Hm--looks like four days shackled to that pipe have not been kind to me. I control Taylor's body like a marionette. It--he--turns and walks to the door. Past Billy. Out into the hallway beyond.
Oh, sure, I could probably walk right out of the building now. But I can't hold on to Taylor's mind for very long. Sooner or later, I'd snap back into my body, and then I'd be right back where I started. If my body is still alive, that is. So I've got to get the keys to those damned manacles and get my body out of there. And I'm on a deadline.
Taylor's memories tell me I should head this way. At the end of the hall is a locked door with a keypad. Fishing through Taylor's memories doesn't turn up anything useful--I don't do this often enough, so my access is pretty hit-and-miss--so I try the same number that Ms. Christian used to unlock the storage room door: 1776. The red light on the lock turns green, and the lock clacks open.
I'm heading through the part of the building where Ms. Christian and her thugs have set up shop. I pass by some kind of break room. There's a TV blaring. Red and the Greek sit at a table with two other men, playing cards and drinking beer. I guess waiting for me to die has gotten a little tedious for them too.
I don't have much more time to waste. Another door into another hallway. Who designed this labyrinth, and where is its minotaur? Never mind--I'm walking past Ms. Christian's war room. She has her back to the door, intent on the blinking red lights and accompanying notes on a wall-mounted map. I don't recognize the city, but it's not this one. Probably planning her next hunt.
Without turning away from the map she says, "Taylor? That you?"
"Yeah," I say, fishing desperately through Taylor's memories. Does he call her "Mom" or "Mother"? Is he polite to her?
I could rush in there. I could try to kill her with my--Taylor's--bare hands before her goons can come storming in. I might even manage it. I could end her campaign right now. But I don't have that good a grip on Taylor's mind, and I have things I need to do instead before my time runs out.
Ms. Christian doesn't say anything else, and she doesn't turn away from the map. Whatever relationship she has with her son, clearly the hunt comes first.
I move on. Taylor's memories tell me that's the door. It's unlocked. Another storeroom. Cabinets. I open a drawer. A throat mike, palm display, and fiber optic snake: Sherman's peripherals. I pocket them quickly. From another drawer, I haul out a small ring of keys. The spare set. One of them fits the manacles.
I hear an explosion. Down the block or right next door--who can tell through these thick walls? I hear Ms. Christian snapping orders. That's when something jolts me. Not Taylor--nothing here. Something's happening back at my body. That breaks my concentration, and I lose my grip on Taylor.
I snap back into my own body. Someone is shaking my shoulder. "Night? Night, wake up--we've got to go."
I turn my head. Eric hovers over me, looking anxious.
"Huh?" I say. Okay, so I'm too disoriented for eloquence.
Eric glanced worriedly at the door. "Your partner Jen, she set off an explosion on the other side of the complex as a distraction. Won't keep them busy for long. They'll be here any minute," he whispers urgently. He disappears around the pipe. I hear something snap, and the chain no longer holds me. "We have to get out of here. Can you get up?"
I nod. My legs are stiff for disuse, shaky, but somehow they work. Eric drops the bolt cutters and helps me to my feet; he wraps my arm across his shoulder, and we stagger out into the hallway. Billy lies crumpled on the floor. Apparently Eric thought he was just napping and decided not to take chances.
I'm hearing people running in other parts of the building. They know something's up and they're heading our way.
Eric and I hit the door, and we're out in the night air. It cuts through my grogginess; I take a deep breath and sigh happily. Eric dumps me into the passenger seat of the car parked outside.
"How did you find me?" I ask as he starts the engine.
He gives me a big grin as the car jumps forward past deserted buildings. "Your partner. Remember Jen? `Jennifer Gray, licensed psychic detective.' Actually, it was Sherman. When they tried to access your files, Sherman notified Jen about someone trying to hack in and tracked the connection back here."
Jen. Yeah, I knew there was a reason I took her on as a partner when I started the agency. She's a resourceful woman; she'll be fine.
"So, where are we going?"
Eric glances at me. "How does the Gulf coast sound?"
"Fine by me," I say. "But what about Ms. Christian? Eventually, she'll catch up with me again."
"Maybe, but not for a long time. We'll deal with that when it happens."
I settle back into the seat and stare out the window. "Okay," I say. I'm still weak and a little dazed, and I'm quite willing to let Eric make the decisions for the time being.
"Look in the glove compartment," Eric says.
I open the compartment and pull out a sheath of papers. It's a list of rest stops, parks, and public toilets. Places men go for sex when they don't want anyone to know. I look at Eric, and he grins.
"I downloaded that this afternoon. It's a list of all the gay cruising spots between here and the Gulf. Don't worry, Night. We'll make lots of stops. You'll feed like a king."
I shake my head and laugh. "You're fucking amazing, Eric."
"And don't you forget it," he says. He's grinning, and his eyes have that spark I've seen many times before. He sets the auto-pilot and sits back to let the car drive itself. "There's just one catch," he says.
"What's that?" I ask.
"Me first. Okay?"
He spreads his knees. He's got a hard-on already, and I have days of feeding to catch up on. Even by Eric's standards, this is a pretty blatant invitation to party. Me--well, this is one party I'm definitely going to attend. I reach over and squeeze the back of his neck. "You talked me into it," I say, boring my gaze into his head. He gives a little gasp as I run a ripple of joy through him.
Eric swallows hard, trying to grin seductively through his eagerness. The way he bites his lower lip, anticipating, charms me. He unsnaps his pants. Works them down a little off his hips. Boxer shorts, emblazoned with cartoon-pictures of Marvin the Martian. I've opened more than my share of boxer flies, so I manage his easily, and I haul out his sizeable erection. His cock stands up and salutes me, an old friend. I give it a few strokes, and Eric shudders from how good I'm making him feel.
He's the guest of honor. My face bends toward his and we kiss briefly. I detour downward and tag his nipple through his shirt with my tongue, tweaking its partner between my finger and thumb. He moans, an encouragement. So I tug up his shirt and lick my way down his tight belly, pausing to swab around his navel. "Tickles," he giggles, which reminds me how young this man is.
I push his cock out of the way (for now) and nuzzle his balls, lapping at them. Massage his thighs. My tongue slides up his balls, up his shaft, then down. I can feel him tensing in anticipation. It's time for the main event. I look up at him and smile, and he grins back for a few seconds before sustained eye contact dulls his thoughts and eases him into that sweet mental fugue state. Everything is lost in an impenetrable haze of sex. From there, it's short work to finish him off and feast on what he feeds me.
I sit back, sated for the moment. "Thanks," I whisper and kiss his passive face on the cheek.
I turn on the radio, and the car tears down the highway into the night.
Eric has gone out for the evening. Here in this new city on the Gulf coast, where we've been holed up for nearly three weeks, he makes his living the same way he always has. We had to have a way to make ends meet. Tonight, he's out working his trade in some bar, and I'm hanging around his apartment.
At first, we stayed in a lot, in his new apartment, where I fed on him every night. Over there is the bed, where I fed on him that first night. Over there is the couch where I fed on him last night. But I need more than just Eric can provide, so I still hunt.
Earlier tonight, I went down to the beach. It's quiet here--not a lot of tourists this far away from the hotels--so most of the men are locals. The moon was up, turning to low waves to quicksilver. About a half-mile down the beach, there's the remains of a hurricane-ravaged pier, and close by are several abandoned fishing shacks. Abandoned except for the kids who sneak down there sometimes to drink and brag and make out. And except for the occasional person out for a walk on the beach.
He stood with his back to me, looking out over the water. He was lost in thought, unaware I watched from less than ten yards away. His back was broad, muscular. His legs and arms and the V-shape of his torso told me he led an athletic life. He wore a pair of baggy shorts, nothing else, and his ass filled them nicely. A gentle breeze rustled his hair, which looked blond in the moonlight. At first, I thought of Taylor, and my gut knotted in fear. But no, this man just resembled him--same blond hair, similar height and weight.
I hungered, and there was no one else around to see. This man would be an easy mark.
The sand hid the sound of my footsteps as I came up behind him. "Hi," I said, to get his attention.
When he turned around, I nearly gasped out loud. He looked amazingly like Taylor. Taller, more muscular of build, not as blond, probably more what I'd call "handsome" than "cute," but quite a bit like Ms. Christian's fair-haired son. For a moment, I almost panicked. But no, he was just a handsome stranger named Luke.
There are wrecks of shacks around the remains of the pier, abandoned now except for the occasional groups of teenagers who come down here to get drunk or fuck. When my gaze entranced Luke a few seconds later, I took him into one of those. When I got him out of his shorts, his cock had already risen to meet me like an old friend. After that, I drained him, and he came, and his mind slipped into that fugue state. I left him there to sleep off his trance.
So for now, my hunger is at bay. Now, while Eric is out at some bar, I'm hanging around his apartment. The TV is turned to a movie channel: some action-horror movie. I've seen it before. The hero is blond and for a second I mistake him for Taylor too, before I shake my head and notice his really bad bleach job and tell myself, Get a grip.
The hero onscreen runs into a pitch-black subway tunnel after the trenchcoated vampire. I'm thinking, What self-respecting bloodsucker would wear something as cumbersome as a trenchcoat into a subway?
Don't worry. The cowardly vampire sneaks off under cover of darkness, trenchcoat and all. The hero emerges empty-handed but unhurt. Sheesh!--is a little realism too much to ask? Anyway, the hero is upset about the bloodsucker's escape, knowing the vampire is going to keep killing until he's stopped. The leading lady consoles him. Which for some reason involves taking off her clothes and seducing him. Not that the hero puts up much resistance. I guess saving lives can wait until after he gets laid.
I stroll into the kitchen, grab a coke out of Eric's refrigerator, then walk back to the big main room of his apartment. He's over on the bed, giggling underneath some dark-haired, nearly naked Italian kid who's chewing Eric's neck. How did he get back in here without me hearing him? I watch them for a little while, sipping my coke, until Eric finally realizes I'm there.
"Oh--hey, Night!" he says, trying to sit up. That doesn't work, so he switches tactics and rolls over on top of the Italian kid. He gives him a kiss, and then turns to me. "This is Vincent, my new boyfriend. Vince, this is Night."
I look Vincent over. Dark hair and the same unnatural green eyes that all the disco clones have. There's a tattoo, some kind of retro-Celtic pattern, on his left shoulder. He's wearing a saint medallion and boxers. Marvin the Martian boxers. Probably a gift from Eric. I nod my head, by way of a hello.
Vince looks me over in return. "Hey, old man."
They go back to kissing. I feel my gut tighten, but I remind myself that I am not the jealous type, and that it's a good thing that Eric has stopped mooning over me and found someone his own age. But that doesn't make it any easier.
I turn away from them. I don't know why this should bother me. I have always known it will end this way.
And that seems strange, so I stop and think about it. Because somehow, I know that all of this hasn't happened yet. If I still believed in the future, maybe this might be some kind of precognitive flash; but when you're immortal, belief in the future is the first thing to die. Still, somehow I know that, right now, Eric is at a bar, meeting a well-built Italian boy named Vincent; right now, Eric is in the process of falling in love, really falling in love, for the first time. What I'm seeing here hasn't quite happened yet. But it all will. Right down to the details: a boy named Vincent, green eyes, and a gift of Marvin the Martian boxers.
I finish my coke in a long swallow. When I look back at them, Eric and Vincent have moved to the couch, where they're eating pizza and watching TV. And giggling.
Vincent looks up at me with his strange green eyes. "You're still here? Why?"
He's right of course. I have no business here. It will end this way, and there is nothing I can do to change it.
I'm literally saved by the bell. The doorbell, which someone is ringing now. Okay, now this distraction I can handle.
I open the door. It's a blonde man, and I'm ready for the inevitable hallucination that it's Taylor. In fact, I've been standing there for a couple of seconds waiting for my mind to shake off the illusion when I realize: this really is Taylor. Standing on our front steps. No sunglasses, but definitely Ms. Christian's boy.
"Hi," he says, then stops, as if uncertain what to say next.
My pulse goes through the roof. I'm tensed for a fight, waiting for Ms. Christian and her goon squad to come crashing through the door, or the back door, or the window. But--nothing happens.
"Uhm," he says, "I realize you have no reason to trust me and we didn't part on the best of terms, but ... can I come in?"
"No," I say, firmly. "What do you want?"
"I'm ... not sure." He looks uncomfortable, nervous. He's looking down. "I guess I wanted to apologize. And to give you this."
I recoil from his outstretched hand as if from a grenade. But kamikaze runs are not Ms. Christian's style, especially since her falling-out with the Baptist Militia. After a moment, I recognize what he's holding out. A palm display. A throat microphone. A fiber optic snake.
"You, uh, left these," he says, helpfully.
I say, "Thanks," curtly, and scoop the items from his hand.
"Don't worry. Mom doesn't know I'm here."
I ignore him as I plug in the cables. "Sherman?" I say into the mike.
A moment of static, and Sherman's voice comes back with, "Yeah, boss?" Jesus, he's been offline for three weeks and he already sounds bored to hell with me. I make a mental note to look into the equivalent of Bliss for electronic assistants.
"She threw me out," says Taylor, and I suddenly have a burning desire to figure out why he's here. "She found out about me and guys, and she thinks I'm tainted now."
I don't say a word.
"She's gone back to hunting the blood-drinking kind--better ratings and more funding. And she doesn't know I'm here, either. I went to St. Louis and took some random trains to throw her off the track, just in case she was having me followed."
Much as I'd love to hear more about the country's fascinating mass transit system, I decide to cut to the bottom line. "Why are you here?"
"Uhm, would you believe me if I said I can't get you out of my head?" Pouty puppy-dog eyes. Oh, sweet Jesus, not the pouty eyes.
I said, "No," firmly.
"Every since you did that--well, whatever it was you did--it's like there's a piece of you still inside me. That's how I found you; it's like we're connected."
Which might explain why I've been seeing him in other people for days now. Still, I can tell from his expression: he's telling the truth.
"You can end this right now," he says. For a second, I think he's proposing something that involves disposing of the body afterward, but he continues helpfully. "You could turn me into a vampire like you, and then the whole Van Helsing line comes to an end. My mother will be the last vampire hunter."
I've been around long enough to know that's probably a pleasant fantasy, especially as long as the Reverend Senator Stonewall can milk the hunt for ratings and donations. The original Van Helsing wasn't the first of his kind either.
Most people make this proposition in terms of, "Oh, Night, please make me immortal," or, "Please, Night, initiate me into the dark, secret mysteries of your kind," or some other romantic fantasy that tells me they have no clue what is really involved. I have to admit, this is the first time I've heard it pitched quite like this. Still, my expression must tell Taylor I'm not buying it. He looks hurt, as if he's taking my lack of trust personally. Imagine that.
"Besides," Taylor says, plowing gamely forward, "these past couple of weeks, I've been thinking about you a lot. I think we could be good for each other."
Which surprises me, especially when my gut reaction says he might be right. "I beg your pardon?" I say. He's giving me those same lovesick-puppy eyes he gave me at the Inquisition the first time I saw him. I glance over at the couch, where Eric is stretched out face down, hands happily stacked under his chin. Vincent straddles Eric's hips and massages his shoulders with confident, strong strokes. Taylor doesn't seem to notice them, probably because they're not really there, and I'm still seeing things that haven't happened quite yet. This seems like it can't be happening either.
"Dammit, Night, what I'm trying to say is, I'm in love with you."
Well, that's a show-stopper, as far as I'm concerned, but Taylor seems to think the festivities are just beginning. He moves in close and kisses me, slipping his tongue into my mouth like a wedge of ripe melon. At first, I'm too surprised to kiss back, but I get over that. This kid is a good kisser: his tongue twists in my mouth like a Congo eel. His hands roam over my body, which I have to admit feels mighty fine. I can smell the desire in him, and that lump he's pressing into my thigh can only be an erection. My cock is rising too, eager to join this little hoe-down. Taylor's hand finds it through my pants and gives it a gentle squeeze.
Part of me is yelling, What are you doing? The rest of me is yelling back, Shut up and do it some more. I have to admit Taylor may be right about our connected-ness; this has a very right feel to it.
Don't ask me why I'm going along with it. Pretty soon, we're in the bedroom. Naked. Taylor on his back, looking up at me with love in those happy-puppy eyes. Me kneeling between his spread knees, leaning over to claim a condom from the nightstand. He grabs my wrist, whispers, "No."
"But--" It's not my snappiest comeback, but right now a conversation deeper than moans and the occasional "oh, baby" is the last thing on my mind.
"I know," he says, and, "It's okay. It's what I want."
"I'm a little rusty at this `making vampires' stuff," I say. "It's been a while."
"You'll do fine," he says, and pulls himself up to kiss me.
I nuzzle against his neck, gently nipping it, aping my blood-drinking cousins. My mouth slides down his chest. I flick my tongue lightly over his nipples and then suck on them. Taylor combs his fingers through my hair.
I push his knees further apart and hoist his legs up around my torso. After I squirt some lubricant over my fingers, I run them down the crack of his ass, probing for the pucker of his asshole. When I find it, I push in, first one finger, then two.
He pulls my head to his and kisses me again. Slowly, inch by inch, I push my cock inside him. When I'm fully in, I stay there, motionless, staring into his eyes. Taylor looks back at me, lips parted, his eyes bright with excitement. I tickle at his pleasure centers, then bend down to kiss him again. I start pumping my hips, and Taylor moves in response, matching me thrust for thrust. His hands slide down my back and squeeze my ass cheeks, pushing me deeper inside him.
We're fucking face-to-face. Taylor squeezes his ass each time I pull out, and ripples of pleasure wash over me. "You're good," I laugh. My dick feels like it's encased in tight velvet. "Really good." Taylor laughs and kisses me, pushing his tongue deep inside my mouth. I increase the tempo of my thrusts, pumping into his ass with deep, hard strokes. He reaches down and tugs on my balls. In response, I bend down and suck hard on his lips, growling, and Taylor wraps his arms around me in a tight bear hug. I feel the wildness surge through me. Taylor's dick is hard, pressing up against his belly.
I'm getting close. I give another thrust and feel myself taken to the edge. I gasp, "I'm ready to shoot. We can still stop before--"
"No," he growls. "Give it to me." He pulls at my nipples, staring me right in the eye. I shove myself into his head, and I shove my dick hard up his ass, as deep as I can penetrate. My body spasms and my orgasm rushes over me. I cry out as my load shoots deeply into the velvety darkness inside Taylor. He holds on to me tightly, legs clamped securely around my hips. I thrash around until the wave drops me crashing on the shore. I collapse on top of him, panting, my dick still full up his ass.
We lay like that without talking, or even moving, except for the rise and fall of Taylor's chest against mine. His body is already beginning to turn. His stomach knots, and his body cramps. Taylor has his eyes clamped shut. "Something is happening to me," he says. "I can feel it."
If I remember from my own experience, he's feeling something that could be extreme pain or extreme pleasure, and he's having trouble telling them apart. I hold him close, feeling him tremble in my arms. "Shh," I whisper, though he's not saying anything, "I'm here. You'll be all right in a little while." I hold him for the next couple of hours as his body works through the transformation.
It's time to get moving, and moving on. I get up, get my clothes on. I help Taylor get dressed too. Already his tremors are quieter.
I reach for the phone and call a cab, trying not to stare at Eric and Vincent kissing on the couch. Looks like Eric is about to start getting on with his life. Good to know I'm so easy to get over.
It's been a while since I had someone to look after. Maybe this will be good for me. And anyway, it's time I moved on. The cab arrives in minutes, and I put my arm around Taylor to help him stagger out to it. I dump him in the back seat. "He's a little drunk," I say to the cabbie, who watches us in the rearview mirror.
I head back to close Eric's front door. Inside, Eric and Vincent are slipping off their boxers. They're kissing, and Eric is stretching himself back on the couch, drawing Vincent down on top of him. They're both hard, and I note that Vincent is generously endowed.
I could stay and watch, but instead I side with discretion, for once. I back out, closing Eric's door behind me. The memory of their erections stays with me like a painting, even though this technically hasn't happened yet. My past is a huge museum filled with images of the men I've known, and I bury the portrait of Eric and Vincent together inside it, among images of Taylor, Luke, Eric, the guard from Ms. Christian's base, the men from the Inquisition, and others going way back. I decide, glancing over my stash of memories, that I've had a pretty full life so far--but not so full that this door can't be shut tight.