The Naughty Collection

by Ruby City Books

  “What do you mean?” she whined.

  “We can do anything you wish us to,” said Forrest’s deep rumble, muffled by the thicket of her hair.

  Anything? A series of desires, deep and dark and never thought of when she could help it, rose to the surface of her mind: biting her body, choking her while she came, bruises flecking her dark skin, her holes completely filled.

  “Ah,” said Forrest. “Yes, my darling. Dare yourself to beg for the things you want.”

  Only barely did she realize he had, indeed, read her mind. All she could do was nod and whisper, “I want you to ravage me. Please, please ravage me.”

  And then, it was as if chaos devoured the room.

  In long, powerful, singular strokes, Forrest buried himself in her again and again, her walls stretching to accommodate his girth, the pounding vibrating into her clit and down her legs. Anca gripped and pinched and scratched her way up Isabella’s body to her chest, and then she encircled the girl’s neck with her hands, pressing only lightly at first and gently increasing the pressure. Isabella heard her own gasps grow higher and needier. As Forrest pounded at her cunt, Anca pressed her full breasts against Isabella’s own perkier, smaller ones, and the friction and pressure from the contact made the girl squirm and twist wildly; and now hands were pulling her hair, and her throat was being choked, and a finger found its way into the tight, pink knot of her asshole, and Anca’s tongue slipped into her mouth, and oh how delicious it felt to be full and brutalized and wanted…

  “Do you want us to bite you?” said Forrest into her wet, sweating skin.

  “Yes!” Isabella gasped.

  “Our bites mean you are ours,” Anca said into her mouth. “You are ours for good.”

  Isabella could not think of a single reason why she wouldn’t want to be fucked and toyed with by these two people for the rest of her life. Rubbing her ass into Forrest’s finger until he was buried up to the knuckle inside of her, Isabella screamed out, “Yes! Yes yes yes!”

  Anca pulled her mouth away from Isabella’s and bent it to her crotch, where Forrest’s cock was reddening and sliding back and forth. Her eyes met her husband’s. On some silent count, she nuzzled her face against Isabella’s pubic hair, tongue seeking out her clit and pulling back the hood. Isabella felt the edge of her teeth find the moist, pink button.

  “Now we will ravage you, darling, until you come all over our sheets,” she said, and grinned. Two pointed teeth gleamed back at Isabella.

  “What…” she tried to say, but then Anca’s teeth bit down on her clit, and a pleasure and pain more intense than anything Isabella had ever experienced in her twenty-six years of life consumed her completely. It was like ice and fire, like waves and desert, like storms and peace. The beautiful Romanian woman gripped the girl’s breast and suckled at the blood pearling up on her clit, and Isabella could not help but buck into her mouth. Then Forrest’s hands encircled her throat once more, and she was choking, in the way she’d always wanted to be choked. She was nearing an orgasm – how could she not be, with this woman drinking her blood from her clit and his cock stuffing itself inside of her again and again, and oh, now it was curving, it found her hidden spot, her finger slamming into her wall from the other end – and now, at this moment, just before she was ready to come, she felt his teeth sink into the flesh of her shoulder, sucking immediately at the blood that dribbled down over her collarbone and over the curves of her breasts. Neither tongue wasted a drop of her, and his bite, in contrast to his wife’s, was hot and throbbing, almost as if he’d created another clit on her shoulder and was rubbing at it again and again, and she was seeing stars, oh she was seeing stars, this was too much, she was going to explode, no one in the universe had ever felt this much pleasure at once…

  “Yes! Yes yes yes yes yes oh God oh yes never stop yes yes YES!”

  Every muscle in Isabella’s body was wracked with waves of orgasm. The two artists sucked and sucked and fucked her and bit her again and again and she rolled against their bodies, she screamed until she was hoarse, she had no idea if she came for ten minutes or two hours and it didn’t matter because she kept coming again and again and again and again…

  Beep, beep, beep.

  Isabella raised her head and blearily swiped at whatever was waking her from her deep, deep slumber. She heard a distant crash. She’d sent the thing to the floor. Good. Now she could get back to sleep.

  Beep, beep, beep.

  “Oh for fuck’s sake,” she muttered, and opened her eyes. Then she sat up completely and realized something. She was still in the Anghelescus’ apartment. It was morning, so that meant she’d slept here all night. Vanator was curled below the couch, where presumably she’d spent the night. And, looking down at her naked, bruised, and aching body, it was clear that last night had not been a dream at all. Isabella closed her eyes and passed a hand over her face. So she’d really done it then. She’d fucked her clients. She’d fucked the people responsible for her art career. She’d fucked people who would later in the day, pay her for walking their dog and disposing properly of its shit. Oh God. Isabella wrapped around her naked body the blanket that had been covering her. Then she saw a piece of paper with something written in an elegant hand, laid out carefully beside a glass of water. Isabella picked up the letter and the water, and drank while she read:

  Our Darling Isabella.

  Last night was truly a magical night, for both of us and, we hope, for you as well. We have not connected with another person in this way in a long, long time. An unbelievably long time, in fact. Let us explain:

  My dear, we are vampires.

  You may find this funny, or perhaps even unbelievable, and we would not fault you for wishing to choose disbelief as a barrier against what seems to be impossible or fantastic. But we need you to understand this: last night, we marked you when we bit your flesh and drank of your blood. If we bite you and drink from you one more time, you will be ours for the rest of your life: our Isabella, our blood source, our caretaker, our companion, and perhaps even our mate, if you decide that to be a vampire is the way in which you would like to pass your time in this world.

  We are truly, truly sorry for not making our selves fully known and understandable to you. Right now, you are not bound to us permanently in any way. Only with the second bite are you bound to us. Please understand: we have grown to love you and admire you, and we wish only never to be separated from you.

  If, however, you do not feel the same way, please do not be afraid to leave and never return. We are not monsters, and we are not vicious. We want you to be happy. We will respect your wishes and leave your life forever. We will not press the issue further.

  Please consider your response to this letter carefully. We want you, if you’ll have us, oh darling, oh brave, oh clever Isabella Cole.

  Love,

  Forrest and Anca Anghelescu

  P.S. If you doubt the truth of our statements, you have only to open the door to our studio and see us as we are when we slumber.

  Isabella sat on the couch, stunned. She read the letter again. And again. And again. This couldn’t be for real. Could it? She remembered them drinking her blood last night, but she’d thought nothing of it. She knew they’d felt cold to her touch, but she hadn’t been bothered. She’d even thought they were reading her mind at several points last night, but that wasn’t possible, was it? Did vampires read minds? Why did she know nothing about vampires? Oh, God. Isabella buried her head in her hands. Vanator, sensing her distress, sat up and put his head on her knee. He whimpered. She looked into his yellow canine eyes.

  “Are you a vampire, too?” she said to him as she scratched him in his favorite place behind his ears. He groaned and licked her bare knee. “I guess that would explain why you’re always so energetic,” she muttered.

  Then she looked towards the door to the Anghelescus’ studio.

  Isabella took a deep breath.

  “It’s now or never,” she said out loud, trying to muster
some courage. Wrapping herself more fully in the blanket, she padded softly to the door. She turned the handle. She creaked it open.

  The studio was pitch black, and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. After her eyes adjusted, she made out two large, rectangular objects in the room that was otherwise cluttered with what looked like canvases and paintbrushes and the detritus of painters. She took a step closer. Suddenly, she knew. The objects were coffins. After her mother had died, she could recognize a coffin shape anywhere. Isabella tiptoed out of the room and gently closed the door. Then she slid to the ground.

  “What,” she said, “the, fuck. What the fuck.”

  All afternoon, Isabella thought about the letter. After slipping back into her dirty running clothes from yesterday, she took Vanator out on a run across all five boroughs: from Manhattan, to the Bronx, to Queens, to Brooklyn, to Staten Island, and back through until she returned to Manhattan again. She ran aimlessly, ducking down side streets and pulling Vanator along with her down alleys, past dumpsters, behind noodle houses where exhausted employees stood in soiled aprons smoking much-needed cigarettes. She ran with the dog across bridges and through Brooklyn parks and past old Italian homes with statues of St. Joseph fixed firmly in cement shrines beside crumbling stoops. She traipsed through Central Park, down beside the river, down streets she could sometimes name and sometimes couldn’t. She ran until she couldn’t anymore, and then she walked, Vanator – for once – sensing his walker’s discombobulated state and matching her pace. And still, after all of that, Isabella had no idea what to do.

  Do I want to belong to a couple? she asked herself again and again. Do I want to be bled occasionally? Do I want to know them for the rest of my life, and even eternity if I choose that? What the hell do I do here, Mom?

  Mom? Isabella came to a halt beside a flower stall. She hadn’t realized she’d been talking to her mother. She closed her eyes, drowning out the honking and churning of the eternal city, and pictured her mother standing at the kitchen table, kneading bread, as she used to do every Sunday. In her mind, her mother hummed, the heel of her brown hand pressing repetitively into the puffed white dough.

  What do you think, Mom?

  Isabella saw her mother turn to her, eyes kind and smile wide. What makes you happy, baby?

  Being with the Anghelescus made her happy, that was certain. They actually saw her, as she was, and they loved her for it.

  Her mother shrugged a shoulder. It may be unconventional, she said in her soothing voice, and it may be kinda scary, but you’ve never been one to back down from scary, right? Not even when I was dying. My brave, brave girl.

  A tear prickled at Isabella’s eye. She wiped it away with the back of her hand. Her mother shook her rolling pin in Isabella’s direction.

  Don’t you cry about me, she said firmly. I’m doing just fine. I make bread every Sunday, and I think about you every day. Now go make yourself happy, baby. Go on.

  “Thank you, Mom,” Isabella whispered. “Thank you.”

  Vanator cocked his head inquisitively. She felt a smile, real and brave and beautiful, spread across her face.

  “Come on, boy,” she said, breaking into a jog once more. “Let’s go home.”

  THE END

  Cowboy Seed

  Chapter 1

  I stood in the corner of the barn, the appropriate smells you might expect to experience in the corner of a barn wafting up into my nostrils, and my inability to join emotionally in the festivities with the rest of these fine folks around me causing me to take more offense at such strong odors than I might generally feel. I put my arm to my nose in an effort to block it out just a bit, but then the music, too, started bothering me, the loud humming of the fiddles in my ear giving me quite the splitting headache, and virtually every aspect of sensory stimulation taking place in the room before me serving only to upset me in some way or another. I struggled to buck up just a bit, to snap myself out of this dismal mindset that simply would not quit, to put on a brave face and smile like an idiot as I watched the finely arrayed men and women from town all looping around and dosey-doeing and having a gay old time, and by gay I mean it in the traditional, old fashioned sense, because I can guarantee you that out here in the wild wild west a more modern understanding of the phrase “a gay old time” might not be smiled upon so readily in public...

  No, this was an innocent undertaking, a townwide square dance, and by all means, at least as far as most of these fine folks were concerned, an occasion to be enjoyed and celebrated, not frowned upon like some gloomy Gus as I was currently doing over here in my sheltered little corner of the barn. I did, at least, make an effort to show some enthusiasm. I tried to have sympathy on behalf of all those happily pirouetting cowboys and cowgirls, moving with synchronized actions that somehow, nonetheless, gave the impression of completely carefree whimsy, skipping to the lou and whatnot, as it were, as happy, I reckoned, as they would ever be.

  But it was just so damn hard, you know? I felt so far beyond the possibility of feeling what it was they were feeling, of experiencing the life in that joyous, blissful manner with which everyone seemed to approach it, their eyes glistening and their cheeks rosy and the smell of animal shit surrounding them seeming not to phase them in the least, caught up as they were in their own sweet illusion, their happiness in one another's company, their ability to socialize and feel accepted and all that feel-good community shit...

  I'd always been this way, to a large degree. That is, I mean I'd never really gelled so well in these manners of gatherings, always feeling just the least bit out of place here and unable to let my guard down in the company of what basically amounted to strangers, these fine folks and folkettes whom I saw just about every living day of creation, and yet who felt like such distant entities that I might as well have been living in some far-off and alien land. And I mean, it wasn't like they were ever cruel to me, or intentionally closed me out, nothing like that. It was just me, being the way that I tended to be, sticking out like a sore thumb and endeavoring to keep to the shadows, wallflower that I was, in order to best conceal myself from their company.

  But at the very least, at some point in time, I'd been able to think that things could improve over the course of the evening. Sometimes, I could have some hope in hell that maybe a stranger might just see fit to ask me to dance, unaware of my anxiety at the prospect, not to mention my burning desire to be asked, which was just as damn powerful of my equal and opposing fear of such an event befalling me. And sometimes, in the past, such a blue moon event as that did chance to occur. Strangers would often sweep me off my feet and pull me dizzily onto the dance floor, unaware all along how nervous I was as we spun across the floor laughing and carrying on, and gradually, when such a unique event did occur, I would manage to shed a little bit of that damned self-consciousness, that inability to let go, and I would allow myself to have a good time for a few minutes, to feel like I was part of the excitement and swept up in the whirlwind of activity until the dance ended- and then, inevitably, I would end up scampering away with my tail between my legs, terrified at the prospect of any more in-depth interaction with whatever poor bastard had thought to invite me onto the dance floor, and going home in solitude to hope that, yes, maybe some day, I would work up the nerve to be more social, there was always next time, always next time, always next time...

  But now- now I didn't really have that, even. Now, I was married, yet still here by myself in order to keep up appearances while my husband was out of town, stuck in a sort of no man's land where I could neither enjoy myself or overtly display the very fact that I was failing to have a good time.

  And I knew that I didn't have a hope in hell of being approached by some smooth talker at this point in my life, not now that I was married to the Sheriff of this dusty little town and any perceived flirtations on the part of other men would result in either jail time or a big fat noose around the neck.

  Christ, what had my life become?

 
I loved my husband, I really did, but I felt as though there was some crucial lack of connection between the two of us, some fundamental rift that kept us from being what a couple should be, me forever aware of the disparity, and him seeming blissfully ignorant of the fact, which, in turn, led to myself becoming even further alienated from him internally, no matter how well he'd provided for me and did his damnedest to love me.

  Hell... Maybe it was this same rift that had led us to getting together in the first place.

  Don't get me wrong, I've always been quite the looker as far as attracting male attention was concerned, and if relationships were forged on that alone things might have turned out far different for me than the way in which they eventually unfolded. I had beautiful blonde hair, lustrous and silky, which, mind you, was quite an achievement in the skanky old days before the crucial introduction of shampoo and conditioner to the world. My face, I had it on good authority, was rather angelic in nature, with penetrating blue eyes, tight pink lips, and a smile that was reportedly dazzling on the rare occasions I deigned to show it to those around me. And then there was my body... Christ, what a figure... Even though, you know, I was generally pretty covered up by quite the form-concealing cotton outfit, any real indications of a sexual nature blocked from view by the general sensibilities of social propriety of the day, I think men could secretly tell what I had going on under there, and I could tell when they were around me that they wanted it, pretty damn badly. I had soft, flowing curves, a tight little body that was enough to knock a fellow's spurs off in passing, and such hypnotic proportions that I could often detect men's heads beginning to spin like tops on their necks any time I happened to walk past them.

  Without getting too perverse here- or hell, maybe I want to get perverse, and that's why I'm bringing it up- I had a set of tits on me that were, quite frankly, immaculate, and though I had generally, up to that point, been the only real party who got to sneak a peek at them, I knew that they were quite the asset for eventually sneaking my way into a man's good graces. They were plump and lush and firm and bursting with the radiance of youth, the sharp pink nipples so tantalizing as I stared at them in the mirror that I began to wish that I myself could somehow suckle on them, get drunk off my own nectar as it were... I had no earthly idea whether that sort of behavior was prohibited by the Bible or other moral codes or whether that somehow made me a lesbian in a sense, but often the need for self-exploration was so great when admiring myself like this that I would find any number of excuses to sneak off and go touch myself, to compensate with my own frisky fingers for that which I inevitably failed to procure from the loins of any interested males.