Make the Streets Run Vampire Red - Vampire Erotica Stories

by Alex Severin

  The trio began to undress him, slowly, removing each garment almost in slow motion. They kissed each spot liberated from fabric, tenderly, softly.

  “Enough of this teasing shit. I'm not into that. Just suck my dick, alright? Or sit on it. Or something. Somebody?”

  He smiled his winning smile at them again and they all turned their attentions to his world-renowned cock. They licked at it with hot, wet tongues, scratched at his flesh with sharp black nails, nipped at the tender skin on his inner thighs with their teeth.

  “Woah! Steady, ladies. Don't eat me....it's my job to eat you.”

  They all squealed at the thought of Eddie Crowe going down on them.

  I can't believe Eddie Crowe's gonna eat me Liberty spikes thought.

  Her eyes glazed over and she fell too far into groupie mode. Severe bob stuck her in the ribs with her elbow to remind her of why they were here in the first place. The sex was secondary. Liberty seemed to have forgotten that.

  They'd practiced the maneuver on several willing victims over the last few weeks in preparation for this moment. They had it down. They moved so fluidly around him, over him, that he didn't notice each of them reaching down into their bags. In their hands were lengths of leather thong and before Eddie could even react, he was spread-eagled, naked, bound hand and foot to the four corners of the black silk-covered four poster bed he lay on.

  Stupid eddie really fucking stupid

  He was helpless.

  He was at their mercy.

  They could do whatever they wanted to do to him and he was utterly powerless to prevent it.

  A sudden rush of fear made his proud cock instantly flaccid. He despised being at the mercy of another, hated not being in control of a situation. The only mistress he ever gave his control over to was his drug of choice. Women weren't allowed to dominate him. He was the one who was always in charge. The great Eddie Crowe used women as his playthings, his toys. Bitches were not permitted to do what these three were doing to him.

  Eddie was scared.

  “Don't worry; we're not gonna hurt you, OK? Don't be scared. We just want one teensy-weensy little thing from you. That's all,” Curly said.

  Liberty reached into her backpack and pulled out a little black wooden box shaped like a coffin.

  Eddie watched, wide-eyed with fear as the grinning punky-goth opened the box.

  A lump of dry terror stuck in his throat as he saw the flashing silver of a scalpel blade as it caught the last rays of the setting sun through the hastily closed curtains.

  “Oh, fuck! Shit! What are you gonna do to me?” Eddie struggled violently against his restraints, sure he was about to die, or worse, be scarred for life.

  “It's OK! Just relax. All we want is some of your gothic blood.” Bob said, her tongue toying with the hoop piercing on the left side of her lower lip.

  “Don't fucking cut me!” Eddie screamed. “At least leave my face!”

  Each of them glanced at the other, a slight curl in their upper lip at the level of his vanity. But they'd always known that he was a vain, arrogant asshole.

  Liberty hated men like Crowe – he was cool and sexy and irresistible and he knew it, luxuriated in it. And she'd enjoy cutting the bastard and drinking his blood.

  “We're the ones who put you where you are, Eddie. Without us, you're nothing. Who buys the DVD box sets and the t-shirts and the rest of the useless fucking merch? Who hands over fifteen bucks a time to watch you on the silver screen? Who pays for all that quality smack you fill hypodermics with and jack into your veins? Who pays for the magnums of Champagne you suck on like a greedy infant? We do. Without the clothes and the hair and the practiced pout, who are you?

  Who would you be without them? Without us? You don't even want me to answer.”

  Eddie looked at the spike-headed one in disbelief. Somebody – a woman - actually had the cheek to condescend to him.

  She could see the shock on his face, but she could also see the indignation his disbelief was giving way to. He'd be huffing and puffing how dare you shortly, so, to keep him from voicing his distaste she reached out and slashed him across the chest with the scalpel blade.

  Eddie screamed as he watched his own blood well up and burst from the open wound. Curly slowly lowered her mouth to it, her eyes locking with his on her way down. His eyelids fluttered as she tongued the edge of his broken skin. The pain was excruciating for him, but there were other sensations to be had as she began to suck his blood from the surgical slash.

  Ecstasy.

  He was in ecstasy as as she drew his blood into her mouth. She was euphoric, intoxicated. His blood – the blood of the Goth Star – was a potent cocktail and her body began to shudder as she drank from him. So intense was the sensation she felt all over her body, inside her body, she gave no more than a

  passing thought to the death that could reside in his junkie blood.

  This was what she had lived for and if it meant she had to die to experience it then she would gladly die. She would welcome death. Something inside her changed at that moment, the moment that Edward Alex Crowe's blood began to slide down her throat. And she knew that nothing would ever be the same. She would never be the same.

  The other two watched as her face became smeared in his blood, her teeth turned pink and her eyes glazed over with enthrallment.

  All of them knew that they would need proof. No one would believe their story without photographic evidence. They knew some would say they were Photoshop jobs – that was why Liberty decided not only to record the event on a digital camera, but also take pictures on an old Polaroid. That way, no one would be in any doubt.

  They touched their fingers to Eddie Crowe's red gush and smeared his blood over their lips. They leaned toward one another, breath coming in short gasps. Their dripping red mouths collided; the taste and the texture of his blood did something to them. It was wet and dry and sticky at the same time and the flavor on their tongues, the feeling on their skins, made them want to cut him open and dive inside.

  Liberty stopped every now and then to snap a picture, making sure their faces and his face were in the shots and that no one could say to her that it could be anybody in the photo, it could be a look-a-like, it could be some goth boi off the street. She got behind the digital and made sure they got plenty corroborative video too. Liberty got up and searched Eddie's pants for a wallet. She found it and took out his drivers license. She laid it on his chest, snuggled up to him. She took several shots with both cameras and made sure all of them and Eddie's drivers license were firmly in the frames.

  They all writhed together on top of him, hot hands searched for rigid nipples to caress, eager fingers explored wet silky heat as their own musky scents aroused them. Eddie was helpless and desperately tried to free himself from his bondage.

  Drenched in excited sweat he was on the brink of insanity as he bucked frantically trying to make his cock connect with something.

  Although the gathering of his blood was the objective, none of them could possibly leave the room without feeling Eddie Crowe inside them. They would be legends on the scene. Fucking Eddie Crowe would mean major kudos.

  Curly reached down into her bag and took out a black zippered pouch. Inside were glass vials and a hypodermic needle.

  Eddie's eyes widened and his struggle became desperate.

  “Oh, fuck! What's in there? What are you gonna shoot me up with?”

  “Nothing. Relax. Like I said before – we just want some of your blood,” said Curly.

  Curly tied a length of rubber tubing around Eddie's arm, just above the elbow.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Come now, Eddie; you know these intimately.”

  They all laughed. They knew about his drug use. Everybody did. The world knew.

  “I hope you know what you're doing. Don't hurt me! Please!”

  “Chill out. I'm not gonna hurt you. I do this every day for a living. I'm a fucking phlebotomist.”

  “A what?”<
br />
  Curly tutted.

  “A phle-bot-o-mist;” she spoke the syllables slowly. “I'm a nurse who specializes in the drawing of blood.”

  “Oh.”

  She slapped his forearm. She frowned; most of the veins in his arm had already collapsed from overuse. It took her a few minutes to find a good one to tap.

  She stuck the needle in his arm and drew out his blood, filled some small glass vials with it. But that wouldn't be enough. She'd need more. She wanted a few left over to sell off on secret auctions on PhleBay – a secret website for the procurement of blood dolls and various items of a sanguinary nature. Clean blood donors were at a premium.

  And these tiny vials of blood would net them a fortune, she thought. She'd have a full screening done on it, of course, and the analysis would be part of the package. People loved that shit. She'd sold similar items before. This wasn't the first celebrity she'd stolen blood from – amongst other things. She'd bled members of various goth bands, some writers and a few other actors too. She made a fantastic supplement to her income with her side-line in bodily fluids. She was known for this in the fetish underground and even took custom orders on occasion.

  She never told how she was able to procure these things but always provided satisfactory proof that the fluid – whatever it was – came from whom she said it came from. Her friends joked that she must have a huge blackmail dossier on half of Hollywood.

  ~

  As the three women dressed again, satisfied, sated, they whispered and giggled that being found strapped naked to a bed in an hotel penthouse suite would be fabulous tabloid fodder Eddie Crowe. It would do nothing but add to his growing legend for sexual excess. The bloggers and the rags would be kept busy for weeks.

  Eddie Crowe did not feel triumphant about this encounter, no matter how much kudos he would receive from men around the world for it. It bothered him. He'd gone to his rooms with three strangers, three women who had weapons on their person, tied him up and stole his blood.

  They could have killed me. Worse – they could have slashed my face or cut my dick off!

  Even as the moral of the story dawned on him, it was lost and slipped from his grasp; it slid under the weight and girth of his own vanity and was suffocated to death.

  Unfortunately, Eddie Crowe would never learn. He thought he was invincible. He thought he was more powerful than the characters he played in the movies. But Eddie had forgotten that the movies weren't real. He had forgotten that here in the real world – that place he seldom visited - there were no blue screens to keep you safe from the monsters, there were no safety nets and crash mats and harnesses. No endless takes and rehearsals to reach the perfection his fans handed over the hard-earned fifteen bucks to witness.

  But he was Eddie Crowe – the man, the star, the legend - and that was the only thing in the world that meant anything to him.

  He was Eddie Crowe.

  He was indestructible.

  He was immortal, just like the vampires he'd played on screen.

  Or so he thought.

  SUCKER CLUB, SOHO, LONDON W1

  The incessant rain hammered the gray streets of Soho and ran down the dirty facades of the buildings like bitter tears.

  Valentine muttered to himself as he walked the familiar streets from Totenham Court Road underground with his eyes closed. Obscenities filled the chill air around him; he despised the cold stab of the London rain, and the way it was only ever half-dark here. He cursed the sulphurous pollution of the street lights and the pulsating neon signs of the strip clubs, sex shops and porn theaters. He was still aware of their infection through his closed lids and hated that there was garish flashing where there should have been impenetrable darkness.

  Valentine stepped over the threshold of his club and flipped the lights on. He sighed heavily...

  ...Another night ahead watching all these fop fucks prancing around in their purple velvet and black lace, their clown white melting off and running down their faces in the heat of lights and bodies. And they way they smell. They smell like pigs to me. Like cattle. Animals. Even the clean ones smell like piss and shit, sour milk and sweat. I fucking hate them...

  Although the lights were soft, dim, he squinted as if they hurt his eyes. He glowered back over his shoulder at the innocent light switch as if it had done him wrong.

  He shuffled over to the bar, dragging his feet like a dead man walking and tossed his keys down on to the liquid-black granite counter.

  “Long time, no see.”

  Valentine spun around to the direction of the voice. It wasn't just hearing a voice that startled him, but the fact that he had not immediately sensed the presence of another being in the club with him. Only a year or two ago, Valentine would have known somebody else was inside the club before he even opened the door. He would have known he was there before he'd made it halfway down the street.

  Valentine had been around his clientele and no one else - no one like himself - for far too long. Being around them had dulled his senses, made him soft, made him inattentive and docile, just like they are. He was no longer the formidable predator he once was, the raging beast the other man in the bar had first encountered so long ago.

  Living in their world had turned him into a fraction of his former self.

  The voice was unmistakable. By the time he had turned around and the realization hit him fully, his blood had frozen in his veins. The palms of his hands and the soles of his feet felt like they were freezer burned; he was unsure if the sensation was hot or cold. He swallowed hard and fought to put forth an air of nonchalance. He tried desperately, but there was no way to fool the man who stood before him – he knew Vivant could read him like a book. They had not seen each other in decades, but Valentine knew that this day would come.

  Over the years he'd almost learned the art of forgetting the abject fear that a mere mention of his name instilled in everybody, including himself. But those years between them withered and died, dissolved in a heartbeat, and left behind them an overwhelming nausea in his gut.

  “Vivant.”

  The word almost choked Valentine.

  Why did you come back? Why are you here? What do you want? I don't want you here. Why don't you crawl back under your rock, you sick fuck?

  “Questions, questions, Valentine. At least let me get my coat off first. Aren't you going to offer me a drink? Some maitre'd you are,” Vivant said.

  Although the only word Valentine had uttered was his name, Vivant read his mind. Valentine hated it when he did that. He broke out in a corpse-cold sweat and he could feel his body quivering as he stood looking at Vivant. But already, even through the fear and the dread, he was in grave danger of falling under Vivant's spell once more. Everybody did.

  “Vivant,” he said again, “I thought...” The name tasted like a bitter flavor on his tongue.

  “Thought what? That I was dead? No, I'm not dead. Well, I am, but, you know what I mean,” Vivant said with a broad and wicked smile that could turn stone into lava.

  Valentine was even paler than usual and tiny beads of sweat glistened on his brow and upper lip in the dim and dusty light of the club. His discomfort pleased Vivant; he was happy that he could still illicit such such a strong reaction after all these years.

  “I won't be alone very long, so, if you're gonna kill me, just do it and clean up the mess before somebody arrives. We're opening soon.”

  Vivant's laughter broke through the silence. He slapped the bar with his open palm to punctuate his hysterics.

  He stopped laughing abruptly.

  “If I wanted you dead, Valentine, you wouldn't be standing there almost pissing yourself with fear.”

  He stared at Valentine with dead eyes. When Vivant's eyes looked black and lifeless, you knew that he was very, very unhappy.

  Valentine knew what he meant. He knew that he was only still standing here in the middle of his club by Vivant's grace. But what bothered him more than perhaps being killed by him – which obviously wasn't
his motive or he'd already be dead – was his reason for being here in the first place. What bothered him most, was what he wanted from him. They stood looking at each other for what seemed like an eternity.

  “You're wondering what I'm doing here, no?”

  “Of course I'm wondering what you're doing here. We haven't see each other for ninety-one years. What do you want, Vivant?”

  “I want you, Valentine. I want you back.”

  Valentine's body stiffened at his words, hands at his sides contracted into fists, shoulders drawing upward as his muscles became taut.

  “I'm not sure what you mean,” Valentine said, trying his damnedest not to stumble over his words or show his fear. But there was nowhere to hide.

  “Yes, you do. Don't be coy – it doesn't suit you. You know exactly what I mean. Tell me, have you ever felt the way it felt when we were together? Have you ever felt that jolt of electricity that shoots up your spine and into your head with so much pleasure it feels like your brain is being fucked ragged, with anybody other than me? Don't you miss that? I know you do. Because I know how it feels.”

  Valentine tried hard to swallow but his mouth was dry, nervous tension obstructing his throat. The nerves in his lower abdomen stirred as Vivant's words triggered memories.

  And he remembered in glorious hues of red. As he thought back to those times he could not hold on to the sigh that escaped his lips. A low growl made its way up his throat and his primal nature began returning, triggered by the reminiscence of he and Vivant on their legendary hunts. He remembered both of them lying on their backs, chests heaving with their exertions, soaked from head to foot in fresh blood. He remembered watching Vivant picking shreds of flesh and clumps of hair from his teeth.

  He remembered having a human heart in his hands, gazing at it with fascination and squeezing the remaining contents of the organ into his mouth. He remembered the two of them with fangs locked into each others' veins and feverishly drinking in that incomparable elixir of potent vampire blood. No sensation on earth could ever compare to that of one vampire feeding from another. It was beyond bliss. It was beyond ecstasy. It was beyond the rapture of the stigmatic feeling Christ's pain and suffering.