The Vampire Sextette

by Edited by Marvin Kaye

  He was breathing fast and his mouth was open as Phaedra approached him. She stood facing him, close enough that he could feel the heat from her body. She looked into his eyes, then down at his penis, jutting forward from underneath the swell of his middle-management paunch.

  As Phaedra's hand wrapped around his erection, his wife's face shimmered across the back of his eyes like a summer haze, then was gone. Phaedra began to rub his cock up and down with sure, practiced strokes. He gave a choked little cry and placed his hand atop her own, staying the movements.

  "That feels too good," he whispered hoarsely.

  "But I want you to feel good," she purred. "I want you to feel better than you ever have… or ever will again." She pressed herself tightly against his body, rubbing her breasts against the naked expanse of his chest. "That's why you're here, isn't it? To make yourself feel good?"

  With a sly smile, she gracefully dropped to her knees before him. He gave a groan of approval and tilted his head back, staring up at his reflection in the mirrored ceiling.

  As his cock slid into her ready mouth, his vision grew blurry around the edges and a groan of intense pleasure escaped him. Phaedra's lips glided over the shaft, her tongue exploring every inch of him. He'd never felt anything so incredible in his life, not with his wife or any of the coworkers or call girls he had used over the years. At first her movements were slow, but quickly picked up speed and intensity. He could feel her fingernails dig into his ass cheeks, urging him onward.

  That was all the encouragement he needed to surrender to the urge that had been gnawing at his loins all night long. He dug his fingers tight into the hair at the back of Phaedra's head and began fiercely pumping in and out of her mouth. Even if she had wanted to stop, there was no way he was going to let her. He wanted—no, needed—to cum in her mouth more than anything in his life. He needed it more than a promotion, more than food and shelter. Somehow, everything that was wrong and dull and empty in his life would be set right, if only he could reach orgasm with this woman. And at that moment he was willing to sacrifice everything he had ever held dear—his wife, his children, his career—if it meant he could empty himself between her bloodred lips.

  A sweat broke out all over his body as his balls jerked up to the sides of his cock, flooding her mouth with their warm, bitter cream. His head dropped back, his mouth open, as his hips continued to thrust blindly forward. A deep groan escaped him, and then his hands let go of her head as he stepped back on numbed legs, his wilted penis sliding free of her lips. He was light-headed and rubber-kneed, as weak and vulnerable as a freshly foaled colt.

  Phaedra was still kneeling before him, wiping spittle and semen from her lower lip with the back of her hand. There was a distance in her eyes he had not seen before, or at least had not allowed himself to notice. Although less than five seconds before they had been as intimate as two humans could possibly be, it was as if she were miles away.

  "I-I need to pee," he stammered.

  Phaedra pointed silently in the direction of the bathroom door. He staggered away from her, glad to be free of her thousand-yard stare. She was probably thinking he was a jerk for coming so soon. He meant to apologize, say something about her being so sexy he couldn't hold back, but he couldn't work up the energy to bother with it. Besides, she didn't seem so much disappointed as kind of dazed. Maybe those Bloody Marys were finally catching up with her, after all.

  The bathroom, in keeping with the rest of the house, was much larger and far grander than anything he'd ever seen in a private residence. The walls were mirrored, casting myriad images of his nakedness into infinity. The floor was ceramic tile, embossed with starfish and crustaceans painted in Mediterranean blue. The oceanic theme was continued by a wash basin fashioned from a gigantic conch shell and solid gold fixtures shaped like medieval dolphins. As impressive as those features were, the piece de résistance was the huge, oval-shaped marble tub that sat atop its own dais in the middle of the room. The bathroom looked like something you might expect to see in an old-fashioned movie star's home… or a high-class knocking shop.

  He climbed up the steps that led to the tub and gazed down at it. It was easily the width of a child's swimming pool, and twice as deep. The sides were worn smooth from use and sloped steeply towards the drain, which looked somewhat rusty, set squarely in the bottom of the tub. Still, he couldn't help but feel that there was something not quite right. Then he realized there was no faucet anywhere in sight. Perplexed, he looked upward, thinking there might be a showerhead in the ceiling.

  There was something affixed to the ceiling, but it wasn't plumbing. As he stood gaping up at the ceiling, he was dimly aware of Phaedra having joined him in the bathroom.

  "What the fuck is that doing up there?" he asked, pointing at the old-fashioned block and tackle suspended over the tub.

  Phaedra's answer came in the form of a baseball bat connecting with the side of his head.

  The first thing he felt upon regaining consciousness was the congestive pressure of his own blood in his ears. The second thing he felt was pain from his broken jaw. He tried to open his eyes, but his right one was swollen shut. Still, he didn't need both eyes to know that he was hanging upside down by his heels over the marble tub.

  "That didn't take long."

  He recognized the voice as the Contessa's. He caught a glimpse of her in one of the mirrors, her wheelchair parked in the open door of the bathroom.

  "Thank God for small favors. And I do mean small," Phaedra sneered. She was seated on the toilet, smoking a cigarette. "I prefer it when they cum in my mouth. I hate it when they stick it in me." She shivered with revulsion at the very thought.

  "Yes, my dear. I understand all too well," the Contessa said sympathetically. "The penis is such a transgressive organ."

  He tried to open his mouth to demand that they let him go, but the pain from his shattered jaw turned his shout into an agonized moan. The two women glanced up at him as if he were nothing more than a chiming clock.

  "He's awake," Phaedra said, flicking the cigarette into the conch-shaped wash basin.

  "Good," the Contessa said, tossing aside her lap blanket and levering herself out of the wheelchair. "Let's get this over with."

  Compared to the rest of her body, the tubular metal and carbon filaments of her prosthetic limbs were frighteningly sturdy. She wavered like a young tree in a stiff wind, then took a step forward, the hydraulic knees and tendons hissing and popping like steam-driven pogo sticks.

  Phaedra moved to meet the Contessa, helping the older woman to remove her garment. Her body was so wrinkled it was almost impossible to tell what sex she was, her dried-up dugs hanging flat against her chest like deflated wineskins. With trembling, gnarled fingers, the Contessa loosened her hair, allowing it to spill down upon her shoulders like a fall of snow.

  The old woman nodded to the younger one, and Phaedra began methodically to unfasten the elaborate suspension gear—half corset, half truss—that held the Contessa's artificial legs in place. When the last strap was finished with, the Contessa linked her arms around Phaedra's neck as her companion lifted her free of the legs. The prostheses, empty of their operator, dropped to the tiled floor with a loud clatter.

  Phaedra carried her mistress easily up the steps of the dais and carefully balanced her on its worn lip. Using her arms to propel her, the Contessa scuttled down the side of the tub like a pallid crab.

  The man who said his name was John was finally beginning to figure out that whatever plans Phaedra and the Contessa had for him, they were not sexual. At least not as he understood the term. His initial indignation and anger turned to fear, then panic. He tried to call out Phaedra's name, but the best he could manage was a cry of animal-like pain. Phaedra was standing at the edge of the tub. Even though he was disoriented from the blow and able to see out of only one eye, he was still able to glimpse the knife she held in her hand. His mind was racing so fast it was standing still, unable to gain the traction necessary to escape
as Phaedra grabbed his hair and yanked backwards, exposing his Adam's apple. He didn't have enough spirituality to find comfort in faith; but he had watched enough TV to delude himself into thinking that someone—Kojak, maybe, or Rockford—would kick open the door, right in the nick of time.

  He was still waiting on the cops when Phaedra slit his throat from ear to ear.

  The last thing he saw before escaping, mercifully, into unconsciousness, then death, was the sight of his life's blood jetting forth shot from his severed jugular vein and carotid arteries, like wine from a newly tapped keg. His body involuntarily jerked with the release, much as it had during his orgasm.

  The rich red splashed against the smooth marble surface with a thick, wet sound, like rain gushing from a choked gutter. The Contessa thrust herself under the grisly downpour, eagerly massaging it into her thirsty flesh with obscene abandon. The stolen blood did not smear or clot upon her skin, but was absorbed, like rain falling on a sun-baked riverbed. The Contessa's withered flesh grew firm and taut, smoothing out the creases and wrinkles that crosshatched her face from within. Like ink dropped into a glass of milk, darkness reclaimed her hair. Her eyes shed their clouds to burn as brightly as twin goblets of fine claret held before a fire. She smiled up at her companion, who knelt on the lip of the tub, watching her with the keen attention of a surgeon overseeing an operation.

  "You shouldn't frown so, my dear," the Contessa said, clucking her tongue. "It leaves wrinkles. Don't just stand there—help me out."

  Phaedra leaned forward and gathered her mistress into her arms, lifting her free of the gore-streaked tub. The Contessa's head lolled against her shoulder like that of a newborn child. Rejuvenation always left her torpid. The languor would pass after a few minutes, but until then she needed to be guarded and protected.

  Phaedra carried the Contessa out of the bathroom and placed her on the circular bed, carefully arranging the red velvet bolster and satin pillows against the headboard.

  "The night," the Contessa said with a breathy sigh. "I want to see the night."

  Phaedra nodded and picked up a remote-control device from atop the bedside table and pointed it at the heavy velvet drapes. She pressed a button and the curtains parted, revealing a picture window that filled the wall. Phaedra assumed that during the day the view was spectacular, but now it was dark as only night on the water can be. The sky was clear, undimmed by the glare from city lights and suburban development, and the millions of stars that filled the night sky were twinned in the inky surface of the lake. The Contessa loved to stare out at the lake for hours on end, although nothing moved except the twinkling of the stars and the gentle motion of the lake's surface. At least nothing Phaedra's mortal eyes could see.

  "So beautiful," the Contessa said, slurring the words slightly. She patted the coverlet beside her with her hand. "Come. Sit by me, child."

  Phaedra sat beside her, her naked body pressed close to the Contessa's own. The older woman looked at her for a long moment, then motioned to Phaedra's hair.

  "Take that dreadful thing off."

  Phaedra nodded and tossed the blonde wig to the foot of the bed.

  The Contessa stroked Phaedra's close-cropped, mousy hair as she would the fur of a cat. "That's better," she said. "You must be tired after all that. Come, child, rest your head."

  With a grateful sigh, Phaedra pillowed her cheek against the smooth curve of her mistress's right stump. The Contessa's hands, no longer twisted by arthritis, continued to play with her hair.

  "Contessa—?" Phaedra's voice was high and sweet, like that of a little girl.

  "Yes, my precious?"

  "Tell me a story."

  "Very well, my dear. Which story would you like to hear? How about the one about the Secret Princess?"

  "No. The other one."

  The Contessa smiled and nodded her understanding. "Ah, yes. That one. Very well. As you wish, my pet. Now, how does that one begin… ?"

  " 'Once upon a time, long, long ago, there was a beautiful young girl named Elizabeth'…" Phaedra prompted.

  "Of course!" The Contessa chuckled. "Now I remember! Once upon a time, long, long ago, there was a beautiful young girl named Elizabeth, who lived in a land far, far away. This faraway land was very beautiful, and because it was so beautiful, everyone wanted to own it. So there was constant war for control of the land. Life was very hard for the peasants and commoners who lived in the battle-torn land, as there was little money and rarely enough food.

  "But since Elizabeth's family was very rich and very powerful, none of this concerned her. As she grew to womanhood, she quickly learned that because one cousin was the Prime Minister, another the ruler of an allied kingdom, and her great-uncle a cardinal in the Church, there was nothing she could do that would not be overlooked or forgiven.

  "When Elizabeth was but fifteen, her family married her to the Black Count, eleven years her senior. He was not as politically important, but he had a great deal of money and possessed considerable property, and the marriage was deemed a good one in the eyes of her family. So Elizabeth was sent away against her wishes to live in her new husband's castle in the farthest reaches of the land.

  "Things did not go well from the very start. Although the Black Count was not unhandsome, he was always going off to some battle or another, leaving his young bride alone with only his mother and castle retainers for company. The wicked mother-in-law was a horrible woman with a shrewish tongue and a narrow mind. All she did day in and day out was pray to God and berate poor Elizabeth for not being perfect. There was nothing Elizabeth could do that the wicked mother-in-law approved of. If Elizabeth had the servants put more logs on the fire, the wicked mother-in-law accused her of being a spendthrift; if Elizabeth did not order the servants to light a fire, the wicked mother-in-law accused her of stinginess. But what the wicked mother-in-law complained the most about was how Elizabeth had failed to provide an heir. She was most eager to have the marriage annulled, so that the Black Count might take a more 'suitable' wife, one who could give him children—and plenty of them. It did not matter that her son was rarely home long enough to change his clothes, much less impregnate his wife. The fault, it was clear, lay with Elizabeth.

  "As much as she resented being married, Elizabeth knew that to be sent back to her family as a failed wife would be her undoing. Determined to secure her place as lady of the castle, she began to scheme how to bear a child. When folk remedies and old wives' tales proved useless, she took as lovers men similar in build and appearance to the Black Count, but nothing came of those liaisons.

  "Despairing, she begged her old nurse to help her. The loyal servant introduced her mistress to a witch, who claimed she could use her dark arts to place a child within Elizabeth's womb. So, during the dark of the moon, the witch smuggled Elizabeth out of the castle and into the surrounding forest, to a magic grove used by her kind since the days of Rome. The witch had Elizabeth strip naked and anoint her body with an unguent made from the fat of unbaptized babies. Then she poured the blood of a black goat upon the ground and called upon her master—

  " 'With this blood I summon thee, He Who Makes Shadows. With my will I bring thee forth, He Who Makes War. With these words I beseech thee, He Who Makes Dreams. Come forth from your world into this!' "

  "A cold wind blew down from the mountaintops, and the shadows in the darkness shaped themselves into the semblance of a tall, dark man with the legs of a goat, eyes of flame, and six fingers on each hand.

  " 'Who calls me forth upon this plane?' asked the dark man, his voice echoing like thunder through the mountains. 'Who would summon He Who Makes?' "

  "The very sound of the demon lord's voice was enough to make Elizabeth's breath freeze in her mouth. But although she was frightened, she was even more fearful of being sent back to her people in disgrace.

  " 'I would make a child, lord.' "

  "He Who Makes looked at Elizabeth's naked belly as if it was glass and shook his head. 'Daughter of Eve, no seed sown by a h
uman husband can ever take root in such rocky soil as yours."

  " 'Then I have no choice but to take an inhuman husband, lord,' she replied.

  "The flames within the demon lord's eyes leapt like burning bonfires as Elizabeth knelt before him. With a fearsome roar, he took her under the moonless sky like a beast of the field, hard as horn and cold as ice. Elizabeth cried out as her demon lover loosed his seed, which burned like that of oil of peppermint poured upon an open wound. Once he was finished with her, the dark man returned to the shadows, leaving Elizabeth collapsed on the ground, clutching her belly as if she had been stabbed in the vitals. The witch quickly dressed her mistress and hurried her back to the castle before any of the courtiers noticed she was gone. For several days Elizabeth lay abed, wracked by fever; when she awoke from her delirium, she could feel the seed He Who Makes had planted within her womb.

  "That night she crept into her husband's bedchamber and made herself available to him, but as the Black Count placed his member inside her, he cried out in alarm, for she was cold as ice. He Who Makes had placed his mark upon her. In her own way, Elizabeth realized she was bound to her demon lover in unholy chastity as surely as the Brides of Christ are wed to their resurrected lord.

  "If the Black Count suspected the child she claimed he had placed within her belonged to any but himself, he showed no sign. The impending arrival of an heir appeased, somewhat, the wicked mother-in-law, and her scoldings grew less frequent.

  "Elizabeth's belly grew, and she took to lying in, attended by her loyal nurse, the witch, and her majordomo. Then, seven months into her maternity, she fell into heavy labor, her body struggling to bring forth the thing within her. What emerged from Elizabeth's womb resembled something dragged from the bowels of the sea, for it was without bones or limbs, its skin the color and consistency of fresh pitch broken only by patches of hair, a lipless mouth ringed with tiny, razorlike teeth, and a single red eye. The witch screeched and wailed and called it a name unspoken in a thousand years. Then as the nurse and the majordomo whispered whether or not to slay the wretched thing as it lay shivering on the counterpane, it gave a solitary cry and surrendered its breath.