The Nightlife: Paris (The Nightlife Series)

by Travis Luedke

She pulled him onto the dance floor, guiding him towards their usual target-rich environment, groups of women dancing together. Like pagan witches of old, the ladies moved in a circle celebrating the sacred feminine, no phalluses allowed. These groups made for an intimate setting and some quick, easy nips.

  He snickered. Michelle slipped right past the shield wall of female flesh and dragged him with her. The girls always let him in. Other men tried to no avail, but the ladies never turned him away with Michelle on his arm. Michelle picked out her target immediately, a voluptuous black woman with golden-dyed afro curls. The two women rubbed together in time to the music.

  His attention floated across the group as he stood swaying to the beat, feeling the flow of the techno-house blend. He floated there for a time. He knew he should feed, but he was too unfocused to pick a target. Luckily, one had chosen him.

  A girl slid up and boldly took his hand. “Voulez-vous danser avec moi?”

  No point in asking, she was already dancing with him. She had a sweet girlish smile, slight dimples. He smiled back and tried to focus on feeding. She made it easy, sliding up close. He embraced her, and she bit her lip in anticipation, adorable. Why do they all have to be so damn adorable?

  When his hand roved over her ass, she began taking similar liberties. Without trying he seduced her. The scent of her arousal flooded his senses, the pheromones signaling her readiness. He could feel her excitement and increased heart rate. Her pulse seemed to vibrate through her skin, a beating drum in his arms.

  The girl was bold. She reached down between his legs to measure his worth. Another dimpled smile blossomed at her discovery. These French girls are pretty forward.

  “Venez-vous ici souvent?” Do you come here often? She was hitting him with pickup lines.

  “Uh … I don’t speak much French …”

  He felt like an idiot. And what the hell was he doing trying to start a conversation? Just bite the girl and move on. But then he made the mistake of checking her out more closely.

  Chestnut-brown hair and beautiful hazel eyes looked up at him expectantly. Her perky little breasts spiked visibly through her tight white top. Her barely-there jean skirt rode up her hips to expose shapely legs. He found her thong strap protruding just above the low cut of her skirt. She crowded in tight up against his body, gliding her hips to the beat. He watched her eyes dilate in arousal.

  On the edge of his consciousness he sensed Michelle watching them. She fed from her second donor. Her concern for him bled through their connection. Michelle provided the kick he needed. He bit down on the kitten in his arms. She latched onto him tightly, trying to meld her flesh with his. She declared her enjoyment with sexy little gasps as she passionately played with him, biting his neck and collar bone in return.

  “Aye! A la vache! Je t’ aime bien!”

  The French could be confusing. Michelle said the same thing when she declared her love. But in her mind the girl meant she liked him very much. A passionate girl indeed. The problem was he liked her too.

  She went off with her orgasm, climbing atop him to wrap her arms and legs into a tight squeeze about his torso. She coiled around him intimately, her hands exploring everywhere as he brought her moaning and crying out.

  “Oui! Oui! Oui!”

  Almost loud enough to be heard over the music. As she started to hit her second orgasm, he remembered himself, and let go his bite. He almost fed too long. She collapsed in his arms, slumped into his body, breathing erratically with sweet groaning noises. Such a passionate little thing. He was really starting to like this girl.

  He dug into her mind to learn more. Cécile Dubois, twenty four years old and recently hired as an accountant at a manufacturing plant in Paris. She shared an apartment with two other girls who all attended university together. Single, Cécile considered Aaron a prime candidate for her next boyfriend. She was already heavily fixated on him.

  A fresh college graduate, her life had just begun. And if he acted on his desires he might end this vibrant life he held in his arms. Those possessive urges were there again. He wanted her blood, her body, her devotion. This was how it started with Anastasia. She had been special, gifted, but the urge was there just the same to take Cécile, to own her body and soul.

  He snapped out of the spell. It wasn’t right to do this, but he wanted to. The damn Predator again. It had manifested during the New York massacre. Something animalistic and wicked birthed in his psyche when Michelle used her compulsion in a desperate cry for help. A predatory personality had taken over. His memories of the event were fuzzy, but the aftereffects remained. The Predator held a place in his mind. Occasionally it surfaced with its base instincts to feed, hunt, kill, defend, and this new aspect, taking on ‘pets’, bloodslaves.

  Realizing the source of these urges, he tried to dismiss them. But ignoring the Predator was dangerous. The Predator’s instincts for survival and defense were the main reason he stood there alive and well, with this wonderful woman in his arms.

  The Predator clouded his mind with desires to take Cécile to the bathroom and give her what she wanted. He envisioned her svelte little body impaled up against the wall as she screamed her pleasure while he bit her over and over. She would make a delightful bloodslave, serving him in every way, with every part of her body and soul. The Predator recognized her personality type, a match for its urges.

  Cécile regained her wits and brought him out of his internal struggle with his alter ego. “Tu es magnifique!”

  “Well, I think you’re pretty amazing too.” He smiled at her, and her affectionate nature put her in further danger.

  She started kissing him passionately, tongue, lips, teeth, a little wildcat. He had her up in his arms, hands cupped around her ass, her legs spread wide and wrapped around him. He could take her right there, she wouldn’t care. She wanted it. Too adorable as her kinky chestnut curls bounced with every move, her puffy cheeks rouge in a post-orgasm flush. He was fast becoming attached to his new toy.

  She dropped the line of lines with a sly smile on her lips, “Voulez-vous couchez avec moi, ce soir?” Do you want to sleep with me tonight?

  It didn’t get much more direct than that. “I wish I spoke French, ah ... No parlez Français.”

  “Tu es américain, oui?”

  He nodded. “Yes, unfortunately.”

  Her massive smile retracted to a curious grin. He followed her mind as she realized he was a tourist. She wanted a real relationship, someone that would be there for her. He wanted the same. But his version would have her as a bloodslave, at his nightly beck and call, giving all her love, devotion, heart and body to him. He would rule her every waking moment.

  “Excusez-moi, my English is not good.” She gave him the Gallic shrug. He’d seen it so often from Michelle, that flippant whatever thing she did with her shoulders.

  “There’s plenty of things we can do that don’t require speaking …” He smirked, wishing she understood him more clearly.

  “Entre deux cœurs qui s’aiment, nul besoin de paroles.” She quoted from some famous French poet, Desbordes-Valmore. Two hearts in love need no words.

  From her thoughts he caught the double entendre, there was much they could enjoy together without words. She understood him quite well.

  Michelle cut into the middle of his romantic-enslavement moment. “There you are! I have been looking everywhere!” She stepped up and kissed him on the lips, an unmistakable claim to property.

  It wasn’t really a jealousy thing. Theirs was not a monogamous relationship. Even when he married Anastasia, Michelle had never been jealous, not that he detected. She intended to extract him from this woman tied to his torso.

  He didn’t want to be extracted. “Michelle, this is my new friend.” He almost slipped up by saying her name aloud, forgetting he’d plucked it from her mind.

  Cécile looked deeply disturbed by this fabulous blonde who obviously had her fingers into the American who she’d just invited to her bed. “Je m’appelle Cécile.�
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  She relinquished her leg lock around him as he released his grip on her ass. She straightened her jean skirt, and the girls exchanged cheek peck greetings.

  “Enchante de faire votre connaissance.” Michelle greeted her formally, and then she got right down to it. “Tu l'adorez?” You like him?

  Cécile looked embarrassed for a moment, then nodded and smiled with those cute little dimples. “Oui. Je crois qu'il m'adore aussi.” Yes, I think he likes me too.

  She winked at him. She was so damn cute. He wanted to take her in his arms and bite her until the sun came up, until she was truly his. For life.

  Michelle dropped the bomb on her mercilessly. “Voulez-vous avoir un ménage à trois?”

  Cécile visibly jolted with the suggestion that she would like to have a threesome. She stepped away from him with her lip curled up in snarl as if she’d just learned he was diseased.

  She looked back and forth between him and Michelle with incredulity. “Fiche moi le paix fils de salop!” He may not have understood her word for word, but he caught the gist. He’d been told off in no uncertain terms. “Stupide américain!” She spit it out in his face with venom.

  She looked so adorable in her anger, pouty lips spewing all that musical filth. He wanted to snatch her up and kiss her. She tried to push him away, but she encountered his rock solid chest, pushed herself back, and stomped off. He wanted to chase her down, but what would he say? I want to make you my next bloodslave, no worries. It was a lost cause, thanks to Michelle. He felt cheated, robbed of an opportunity. He’d lost his cute little Cécile, courtesy of his master.

  He scowled at Michelle and growled. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” He advanced on her, his sharp claws at the ready.

  Michelle shied back in fear, a look of apology in her eyes. He realized what he was doing just before he reached out to snatch up her scrawny little blonde ass with all his strength and fury. He’d never come at her in anger before. He recognized the Predator skating the surface of his mind, its primal urges coloring his thoughts. He turned on his heel and walked away before he did something foolish, like striking his master for the first time ever.

  “What the hell was I thinking?” he murmured as he surveyed the dance floor from afar, cooling off. He had no reason to turn on Michelle. She’d been doing the right thing. He had no business taking on a new bloodslave. “I need to get my head straight.”

  Scanning the masses for another target to feed, he briefly encountered something unusual. A mind nearby was impervious to his probe. Man or woman, he couldn’t tell, but whoever it was had been observing him. There a couple seconds, and then gone. He scanned over and over, looking every which way, but the blank one had disappeared. It had seemed like a dream, a fleeting brush of contact and then nothing. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched.

  * * * *

  Chapter 4

  Michelle stood with Aaron at her side in the plaza looking up at the sweeping majesty of the Eiffel Tower. It looked so much more ethereal since they installed the new lighting, especially with the fog floating across the lights. She loved the tower. It seemed an affirmation of French culture. A glorious three hundred and twenty-four meter celebration of the phallus. Nous avons le plus grand pénis. We have the largest penis. It was once the tallest structure in the world until the Chrysler building came along to trump its height by seven meters.

  Americans, always it is the Americans.

  She glanced at Aaron, feeling his turmoil, his embarrassment, his grief, his unspoken apology. He still brooded about the woman, his boiling emotions locked behind a wall of privacy, but his angst was obvious to her. She read him all too easily. Sometimes it seemed she knew him better than she knew herself.

  Instead of chastising him for his mistakes, his arrogance and callous disregard for human life, she kept quiet. It must have been a mistake. He had spent too long with the girl and she became fixated on him. She knew all too well how quickly they became obsessed. She collected admirers constantly. She wore the rose-colored shades to avoid snatching men accidentally. Now she stood next to the man she loved, and he wouldn’t look at her.

  She broke the awkward silence. “It’s okay. I forgive you. Do not worry over these things. We will always have each other.” He hugged her tight, his love and apology washing over her. He needed her absolution badly.

  “I love you so much. But it’s difficult. I keep thinking we could have done more for Anastasia. And why can’t we have …” Another one.

  He didn’t say it, but it flitted across his mind. He wanted another pet.

  “Je t’aime Aaron. But our life is not for them. It cannot be.”

  She lived by carefully constructed rules of comportment. No bites in excess of one-two minutes, move on immediately after feeding, and no relationships with the food. Attorneys, bankers, business people, She handled these matters with discretion, professional distance. She lived to plug in and out of the masses, anonymous, slipping between the cracks in the overcrowded metropolitan areas. She rarely returned to the same place more than once every few months.

  A chill crept down her spine as a disquieting thought occurred to her. What if Aaron began to blame her for this forced disconnect from humanity?

  She recalled how she felt about her former master. A maliciously repulsive character, although not ugly on the outside, she hated him for the things he did. She had blamed him for so much, placed responsibility for her actions on his head. Long after he was gone she continued to blame him for the things she did, for her condition. It took years of soul searching to come to terms with herself, to accept accountability.

  Would Aaron face the same cycle of denial? Would he grow to resent her for this life?

  So young, and he had changed so much in the two months since she took him in. Would he outgrow his love for her?

  They walked through the plaza towards the brightly lit Eiffel Tower, and she watched him, searching his features for answers to her worries. His dark brown eyes reflected the knowledge and experience of a man twice his age. He had loved and lost. He had experienced the harsh realities of enslavement, yet loved his captor. He was one of the most formidable examples of masculinity and strength, near angelic in his abilities, yet he would never be a free man. He was a massive complexity in her life, her first real relationship since those terrible nights so many decades ago.

  She bottled her dark thoughts tightly within her mental vault. She vowed to be there for him, to treat him with all the love and respect he deserved. She hoped he would feel as safe as she did, knowing that they always had each other. She hoped she alone would be enough for him.

  * * * *

  Gazing at the massive structure of the tower arcing up into the night sky, Aaron sensed it again. They were definitely being watched. He encountered that same non-descript presence as he reached out to identify the watcher. It touched him, and then it was gone. The instinctive awareness of the Predator recognized the elusive apparition. Since the club, someone or something followed and spied on them. Aaron shifted his focus from the tower to a scan of the area, reaching as far and wide as he could. He had a bad feeling – someone knew of their true nature, their supernatural existence.

  “Do you feel that? That feeling like someone’s looking over your shoulder?”

  She shook her head, but that meant little. Michelle didn’t have his sensitivity. Her psychic connections ended with Aaron. Michelle’s particular gift was of sight – she perceived a certain spectrum of light, the aura each person emanates. She discerned moods and character traits from an aura, but she did not read minds.

  He turned around in a complete circle twice over, trying to catch something, anything. Whoever it was had moved far beyond his range. He dropped the subject with one last glance over his shoulder.

  “Come, you’re too tense. Let me help you relax.” She took his arm and guided him away.

  They returned to the Hilton around three in the morning, still early, but he kn
ew his sex goddess had plans. Michelle intended a short marathon before sunrise, and he probably needed it. A healthy, non-violent release of frustrations.

  “Tomorrow I will show you my home. I think you will like it.” She had a strange faraway look in her eyes. A woman with secrets.

  She smiled seductively and slipped her hands over his chest, undoing his shirt. He could never deny her. He loved her too much to push her away.

  She kissed away his melancholy. Her loving hands, soft lips, and perfumed scents were an addiction for which he had no cure. He could lose himself in her for eons without knowing the passage of time. Who could complain of spending their life with Michelle? Men would give fortunes to be with this woman. Why couldn’t he just be happy with her? Who could expect more?

  Her touch felt so right, yet there remained something unsettled under the surface. Anastasia. He couldn’t think the name without seeing his black-haired Snow White in one of her new cocktail dresses, twirling as she modeled for him. He had it all in Las Vegas. Two of the world’s most beautiful and loving women a man could ask for. He still had it better than most.

  “I want all of you. I don’t care if it hurts. Burn it out, Aaron. We have all the time in the world to burn it out.” She had removed all his clothes as he stood there quietly, basking in her intoxicating attentions. “Give it all to me.” She growled in his ear as she gripped his length in hand.

  “As you wish.”

  He snatched her up with all his immense strength and flung her down on the bed to tear through her designer gown, tossing aside the shreds. They bit down on each other in perfect sync as their minds combined together in the most intimate form of love. Bodies and souls meshed, intertwined, pleasure overlapping until neither could tell whose ecstasy was whose.

  He found her warm, and wet, and he stretched her open wide as he buried his cock.

  “Mon dieu!” She squirmed as he worked in deep.

  He pinned her beneath him and gave her every last ounce of his love, frustration, anger, and grief, burying it in her over and over and over. She clawed the bed, his back, his ass, he kept on going. He dug into her limit and beyond, pushing so hard she gave him sweet little grunts of pain.