by Todd Gregory
I breathe in possibility, watching the pulse in his throat. My senses heighten further as I focus my hunger on him, noticing the minute changes in breath, scenting him.
I want to see him tremble. I want to smell his fear. I want to devour his pain, without holding back. Forget this public arena. If there is even a possibility that I might truly let go and move with the beast inside my skin, his growl on my lips and his claws grasping prey, I know exactly where I need to take this boy.
I put the knife away, pull the black handkerchief from his back pocket, and wrap it around his head, covering his eyes. He cannot see the way to where we are going. He has not earned that much trust. I grip him by the back of the neck and lead him to my bike. When I start the engine, its growl answers me, echoing off the walls of the alley. I take the long way, through twists and turns of the back streets, enjoying the wind on my face and the purr of the bike.
We are here. I ease him off the bike and lead him by the neck down the stairs into the lower level of the brownstone. It is a large soundproof room. There are no windows. It is one big tomb. Every detail is designed for my pleasure, down to the exposed brick wall installed for the simple gratification of slamming meat against it. This room is where I sleep, and where I take my prey when I want privacy. Private play means I let my hair down and roam free, claws unsheathed. I leave him in the doorway and ready myself, breathing deep and freeing my hair. I strip off my shirt so I can feel it brush my lower back. It is my vanity, and I have worn it long for centuries, no matter the current fashion.
I keep him blindfolded and throw him against the wall. There is a ritual about it, beginning with a wall and a knife. It communicates the road we are on. He is trapped, nowhere to run. He is pressed against the wall and going to take any impact into his body, through it to the wall, and back again, driven in a second time. He is facing danger, sharp edges. He could be torn open. He is pressed against something rough and hard. He is still. I am moving. He cannot see what’s coming. My knife breaks the unspoken rules of knife play and goes to places that feel forbidden and fraught with more danger than expected. And my knife shows my need. You can hear it in my breathing, feel it surge through my body. It travels the air in electric bursts of energy.
I play with it, toying with him, ramping my need up through his fear. I slap his face with the large blade. I run it along the top of his eye, just under the blindfold, teasing it against his eyelid, so he knows just how easy it would be to burst the eyeball. I fuck him with it, thrusting the tip under his jaw, not breaking skin, just teasing my cock to hardness at the thought of thrusting it deep. His breath is catching as I draw his lower lip down and slide the blade along it. My mouth swoops in out of nowhere and bites down on that lip, just barely breaking skin. This is a test of my control, as I slowly lick the fruit I have exposed and growl deep in my throat. He is hypnotically delicious, his blood electric in a way that is familiar and yet surprising. I grip his throat in my hand, constricting his breath, watching his face, his mouth. It is true. He has surprised me again. I tuck my new knowledge and my surprise away, knowing that I can do my worst. Folks always said that his kind make good boys for us. Perhaps I will be able to test that tonight. I release his throat and watch him breath deeply. I grip his hair and tilt his head back.
“Keep your mouth open and still.”
I start to tease it in, watching the large black blade slide into his throat. I exhale loudly.
He is motionless for me, breath held, taking my knife. My cock jumps at the sight as I start to fuck his throat. Mine. This incredible wave of possessiveness roars through me as I thrust into him. And I want to see his eyes. I tear through the blindfold with my teeth, the blade still lodged in his throat, and meet his gaze. His eyes are shimmering, large, and full…full of what? I thrust in deeper, watching his pupils dilate with…is that joy? I can feel his heart race, see him struggle as he realizes he needs to breathe. He must exercise perfect control, and not move his mouth or throat as he exhales and takes his first breath. Fear fills him. Not because he is afraid of the knife. Because he knows that it would displease me to draw blood when I don’t intend to, and his whole being is focused on pleasing me. He works to do it perfectly, and contentment washes over his face as he succeeds. I thrust deeper in appreciation, picturing his throat muscles working to avoid contact with the blade. Oh, this will be fun. I slide out of his throat.
I want my claws on his chest, now. I want to rip him open, expose him to my gaze, my teeth, my hunger. I want his blood on every tool in my possession. Now. I want to feast on him. I can feel the beast roll through my body.
Not yet. I want more pain to draw it out. I want to see if it’s true. I want to know he can take my worst and still want more. I want to see his strength. That is worth delaying my feed. And postponing it will only make it sweeter.
I breathe deeply, focusing my senses as I walk slowly in front of him, inspecting him from every angle. He straightens his posture, easing into a position he can hold. I move close and grip his shirt, tearing it swiftly from his chest and tossing it onto the floor. That’s what I want first. I throw my shoulder into the body slam, and feel the electricity of our skins’ contact. I trace my fingertips along the horizontal scars on his chest, and then grip his nipples, twisting. I am so close, I cannot resist sinking my teeth in and teasing myself. I bite deeply, barely avoiding breaking skin. Building connection. Making my cock throb. Drawing out my beast. I lift up and bite down, feeling his body shift with the pain, laying my mark on him. I claim him like this, first. Begin how you wish to proceed. With fear and pain and teeth and sex all rolled together. I can feel the blood pulsing just at the surface, calling me. I bite down hard and thrust my cock against him. My low growl mixes with the slow soft moan that escapes his lips. I lift my head to meet his eyes, and see that he has begun to fly.
I step back and begin my dance around him. Heaving my fist into his chest. My boot into his thigh. My open hand slamming down onto his pecs. I move rapidly, layering and shifting, gliding around him. Thrusting pain into him in unpredictable gusts of movement. Upping the ante. Ramming my boot into his cock, grinding the heel in and watching his eyes. He is twirling high in the air, lips parted, offering himself to me. His eyes entreat me to use him. And I do, exercising minute control, I coil into him, watching as he floats. This is just the beginning. I constrict his breath, cover his mouth and nose and thrust my teeth into his shoulder, feeling his heart against my tongue.
I lead him to the table and tell him to remove what he must to give me access to his ass. He takes off his pants and socks, folding them neatly and stacking them on top of his boots in the corner. He is wearing a simple leather jock. I order him face-down onto the table. He is quivering. Mine, I think. And catch myself. I watch him, building on his fear, and remove my touch. There is only the knife sliding along him, forcing him to remain still. There is only the knife, as silence lays on him like a blanket. I step away, moving quietly, and leave him alone. We will see how much he needs connection, how much fear I can build. We will see, I think slowly to myself, how much distance I can tolerate.
My play is usually about connection. About driving myself inside. About opening someone up to my gaze. My tools are up close and personal. Play is my source of connection, and I usually hurl into it, deep and hard. I don’t want to show myself yet. This must be done slowly. I want to see what he can do. I want to wait, before I commit myself to what I have already thought. I will come to that on my terms, in my time.
I collect my favorite canes, needing air between us. Needing that sound that whips through the air and blasts into flesh. Needing controlled, careful cruelty. Canes are a special love of mine. It takes a lot for me to risk thin sticks of wood, easily broken to form deadly weapons. Canes are about my risk, too. Their simple existence menaces. Their joy is unmatchable.
I line up my weapons on a nearby table, carefully. Thinking ahead, I select another item and place it on the table softly. I am ready.
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sp; I step back, allowing the necessary distance, and begin from stillness. I place my stripes precisely, just slow enough for him to get the full ripping effect of the bite. I lay lines of piercing sting, not holding back my strokes, saturating him with an invasive assault. There is nothing like the sound of a cane mutilating air, and he shivers at it. I can feel the fear rising off him like steam and breathe it in as my due. I am unforgiving. It will never end. I can loom over him, layering slashes on skin, for eternity. I am breathing deeply. This is meditative. And I realize though there is air and space between us, I am attuned to his breathing. My cock swells at the almost imperceptible sounds he makes. We are connected. There is no breaking that. I know that he could be halfway across the country and I would feel the pulse of his blood. I smile at the thought, accepting it. I am ready. Ready to rend his skin with my teeth and tools. To break him open and take a good long taste. To unleash the beast roaming in my skin.
I feel an incredible calm at the roaring in my blood. A new calm. I can fully be who I am in this room, with this man. He is strong enough. And I trust him enough to risk. I pick up my belt and begin.
There are few tools I have a deeper connection with. I have had this belt since the nineteenth century, and cared for it well. It is a part of me. An extension of my cock and my will. Nothing brings out my beast like my belt. Which is why I keep it at home and only use it on prey I am going to devour. Until now.
I explain this to him, watching him tremble.
“Please use me, Sir,” is all he says.
Mine. Possessiveness washes over me. I double the belt and start slamming him with it, the welts rising rapidly. Vision begins to blur. This is all about sound and movement. My body senses where to strike. My blows hammer him into the table. I can feel a growl building in my throat as his scent shifts. My cock swells as I hurl the belt into his back in rapid crashing surges.
“Mine,” I growl. “Mine to hurt. Mine to use. Mine to feed on. Mine.”
The possessiveness rises in me, a tsunami cresting and breaking over him as I blast the belt into his back, rending his skin. Welts form on top of welts, and break the surface. He is moaning as I howl, the beast fully in my skin and oh so hungry. I lay the belt across the back of his neck and crouch on the table above him, eyes focused on the gashes opening his back to me. I drop on top of him, rubbing my chest into the blood on his back.
I breathe the scent of him in and growl happily, “Mine.”
I free my cock, swollen to bursting, and shed my pants. I will savor the first real taste. Right now, it’s enough to smell it and feel it against my skin, and know there is more for the taking. I rub it onto my cock, stroking it in as I close my eyes. I want inside, now. Want to rend him open. Thrust myself into him, bloody and hard. I want to tear his back open with claws and teeth, and feast.
I describe this to him, and he moans his consent.
“Please, Sir,” he says softly. “Please.”
He is all want and need and craving, and where his hunger meets mine we will crest. Mine. The word fills me, taking me over.
I thrust into him, my cock smeared in his blood, ramming into his ass for my pleasure. He is so open for me, so willing. His groans are loud and true as I fuck him, rubbing my face in the blood on his back. I grip his hips, and stop, embedded in him. I can feel my claws extend right before I slash into his back, ripping him open. The blood flows freely and I bathe my chest in it, bellowing as I hurl my cock into him. I wrap the belt around his neck, constricting his breath, my cock pounding him into the table, and I bite. Mulled wine. Spicy. Sweet. Tangy. I drink him down, savoring each gulp, thrusting steadily. I release his neck, hear his gasping breaths, and bite harder, feeding.
“Please, Sir,” he manages in a throaty whisper.
I lift my head. “Please what, boy?”
This is the first time I have called him boy, and he whimpers at the sound of it.
“Please, Sir. Please may I come, Sir?”
I thrust into him hard and feel his ass grab me.
“Mine. You are my boy. Mine to fuck. Mine to slash open. Mine to devour. Mine to mark. Mine to command. You may come when I sink my teeth into you again, boy. I want to hear it. Tell me you are mine, and then you may come.”
I drive my cock into him, reaming him deeply, and rub my chest against his bloody back. I reach around to grab his cock, gripping it tightly and stroking it in quick bursts. I plunge my teeth into his shoulder. Gnawing him open. Snarling as I drink. My dick pumping into him.
“I am yours, Sir. I offer myself freely for your use. I am so glad to be yours, Sir.”
I explode into him, storms crashing in huge tidal waves. Drinking and coming. Releasing myself and drawing him in. His ass clenches around me in spasms as he bursts, his body bucking and shuddering. I continue to feed. When his body calms, I am sated, and I ease myself out of him slowly. I take my time licking his wounds closed, savoring the taste of him. I pull him up into my arms, smiling.
“Now let’s see that cock of yours, boy.”
His eyes go wide, he looks down and he starts trembling again. I lift his chin to meet his eyes, and then trace the scars on his chest lightly with my tongue. I lift my head to stare into his eyes again, and slowly unzip the jock, revealing a large black silicone cock. I pump it hard, stroking it against him, where I know he is enlarged by testosterone.
“Did you think I didn’t know, boy? After all the centuries I’ve lived, did you think I did not learn how to read people?”
I grin into his eyes.
“You are my boy. And I am proud to claim you as mine.”
I gather him to me, holding him tight, and start imagining possibilities.
Beauty, Blood-Deep
Shephard Summers
Tourist season: a banquet of choices. Hiroshi looked forward to the influx of Americans in particular because they reminded him of the United States, where he’d grown up. But mostly he was tired of the same old blood coursing sluggishly through Kyoto’s ample arteries, and welcomed any change.
He exited the train and walked up the hill through quaint old streets lined with restaurants and shops that, not unlike him, waited to take advantage of visitors. And which, like Kyoto overall, seemed too familiar to Hiroshi’s tired eyes. He jumped out of the way of a young cyclist just in time, glared at the boy, then passed under the massive Bengal-orange torii gate that spanned the narrow street, hurrying to reach the mystical Fushimi Inari Shrine of Ten Thousand Gates before the start of sunset. The smell of incense grew stronger as he got closer.
Darting down a side path through a gray neighborhood no tourist ever noticed, he found his secret entrance into the mountain sanctuary. Sullen clouds covered the sky. He smiled; the overcast would also keep the tourists from crowding the trail. He jumped a rickety fence and climbed between two of the ubiquitous large fox statues, the Kitsune guardians seeming to grin at him as if they understood his intentions.
Emerging from the back of an alcove crowded with prayer flags and statuettes, Hiroshi stepped carefully around stacks of miniature orange torii gates and followed a worn cement pathway up the long hill arching to the right, walking quickly but casually. He passed several altars and alcoves, all decked with guardians, flowery tributes, lions, foxes, and stone markers. Multitudes of vertical red and white prayer banners waved him along his path as the wind picked up. He would soon be under the quiet cover of the mountain forest.
His bones ached with anticipation. Tonight would be a good night. It was Tuesday, and the tourist guidebooks recommended this early-evening stroll; it rarely let him down.
The trees became more numerous, his climb more arduous. Two young girls and a businessman carrying a briefcase passed him on the path and he avoided eye contact, walking briskly toward the top and his favorite little side path surrounded by stone guardians.
Descending the uneven carved steps, Hiroshi positioned himself out of the sight-line of those on the main path above. He leaned against a stone wall that flanked th
e steps near a small ramshackle building, breathing deeply to calm his anxiety.
Movement caught his eye, and he turned to see a small cat perched above him on the flat slab of the wall. She came forward, recognizing him. “Miyu,” he said, recognizing her markings. The brindled cat stretched and came closer. The mountain was populated by feral cats, any of whom were exceptional ice-breakers and conversation-starters. He petted her twice and touched noses with her, then reached into his pocket to pull out the dried fish she was waiting for, and smiled as she ate it gratefully.
Noise on the pathway above shattered his moment with Miyu. He leaned nonchalantly against the stone wall, one knee propped up, striking his best seductive pose. A young couple passed by, holding hands, paying no attention to him. And soon after, a group of young boys. The boys regarded him with snickering and exaggerated eyebrows, as if they understood some joke of which he was a part. He looked to Miyu, who sat patiently on the stone slab, cleaning her face with one paw. He petted her again. “You understand me,” he said, mostly for his own comfort.
“Hello? I’m sorry, do you speak English?”
Caught off guard, Hiroshi jumped, but his eyes landed on exactly what he’d been waiting for: a tall blond man, most likely American. Hiroshi composed himself. “Yes, I speak English. I grew up in San Francisco.”
“Oh, thank God, because my Japanese is a bit rusty.”
Hiroshi looked the man up and down, not caring if he noticed the scrutiny. Straight nose, large eyes, small ears and square jaw, and a generally relaxed demeanor. He wore tight jeans and boots; his shirt had not weathered the humidity very well. Judging by the way the clothes hung, this man was in great shape. Hiroshi felt his hunger stirring. A man in great shape sent all the right signals, like two magnets that attract and repel at the same time.