I started small. The idea of actually selling my house and moving to the Caribbean was still too scary. But I talked to co-workers about planning a dive vacation in a very off-the-beaten-path location. Not surprisingly, given where I worked, I got some good advice.
We enjoyed our idyll until leaves covered the trees, and the water off the Cape, while still frigid, was warm enough for Dylan to tolerate. We dreaded the idea, but he couldn’t stay in the hot tub forever.
We made love one last time, frenzied by the prospect of our coming separation. Then, under the cover of darkness, I helped him out of the tub and spotted him down the steps. Now that he was healthy, he could move for a short distance on land, hunching along like a seal. Like a seal, he looked rather foolish that way, but could move surprisingly fast. Too fast. We reached the water’s edge before I was ready.
Don’t worry. We will meet again. I saw what he was dreaming: us, together, in the clear waters of the Caribbean, among coral and brilliantly coloured fish.
I tried to echo his hope back to him, but I found it hard to picture. I was still frightened.
We will meet again, he repeated. I will be waiting for you, near the island you know. You’ll love it. I can show you so much, so much your people don’t know. Besides, he added, after a brief blankness, I love you. Only he didn’t say it. Because he was Dylan, he showed me what he felt, opened up to me completely, and I could not doubt that he meant it now and forever.
I couldn’t say anything because I was crying too hard to talk or even think clearly. But I kissed him, and I think he knew.
I watched out to sea for a long time after he was out of sight. The biting spring air, which I’d always loved, seemed too cold.
Now I wait on the beach, feeling the rich tropical night cloaking me. This is my third visit to the island. The first two were vacations. By the time I dragged myself back from that and asked my boss if she had any connections to people doing research in that area, she grinned and accused me of being in love with some island boy. I didn’t deny it. She was close enough.
Luck was with me. She knew someone who needed help with fieldwork. I was back for six months this time, possibly longer if we got the grants worked out. Dylan didn’t know that part yet, but he knew I was here. As soon as I went into the water off the island, I felt him, unseen, but present. So I waited in our favourite cove.
I didn’t have to wait long. I heard splashing, saw a form rise out of the water to greet me. I ran into the warm water and dove into his arms.
Simply seeing him, his eyes, made my chest constrict, the joy so intense it threatened to burst forth. I hadn’t realised how much emotion had pent up inside me: fear that he wouldn’t come, nervousness about seeing him again, the ache of missing him. Now all the feelings crashed together inside of me. I felt exultant.
When he touched my hand with his, so cool and sleek – I’d almost forgotten how he felt! – I whimpered. I felt the answering overwhelming emotion in him. I saw him smile, and suddenly I couldn’t wipe the grin off my own face. I held out my arms and he pulled me to him, crushing his lips against mine. We kissed to make up for all the time we’d been apart. When we finally pulled apart, we were both gasping for breath. With a sound that was his own unique laugh, he took me by the hand and pulled me into the deeper water.
The full moon gave a surprising amount of light in the clear depths. The water felt like silk being drawn across my skin, enveloping yet not hindering me. Startled fish darted out of our way, into the safety of coral shadows, as we swam by. I pulled my hand away, tapped him sharply on the head, and began swimming in the opposite direction, daring him to chase me. Which, of course, he did. He caught me easily, webbed fingers wrapping around my ankle. I surfaced, desperate to breathe. Dylan rose up in front of me, his entire body sliding against mine as he did so. The sensation of his wet-velvet flesh almost made me cry out – and then I did, as he ran his hands over my breasts, found my puckered nipples and caressed them.
Then, with a cheeky grin, he tapped me on the head and dove beneath the water.
Oh, that was the game, was it? I followed, less successful at catching him, both because he was far better suited to underwater chase and I was trying not to laugh or moan. I suspect he let me catch him, which was fine. I gulped a mouthful of air, slithered back down, and took his cock in my mouth.
Oh, yes, I felt him say. So special …
I don’t know how long we teased each other, arousing one another before indicating ‘Tag, you’re It!’ and diving away, only to be caught and teased again. I only knew that suddenly we were on the surface, and the teasing had turned serious.
Dylan lay on his back, and I straddled him, facing away. The need to have his thick cock inside me was overpowering. I slid down on his hard length, sobbing, ‘Yes, yes!’ He grasped my forearms and pulled me down on to him, so I lay with my back on his strong chest. His lips nipped at my earlobe, his hands kneaded and tweaked my breasts, my sensitive nipples. He began undulating beneath me, driving his cock in and out of me; all I could do was hold on, feeling my climax build and build. Then his tail arced up between my legs and flicked at my exposed clit, and I screamed as my body exploded into a million bright floating pieces.
When I came back to myself, we were still lying, floating gently in the warm soft water. Dylan’s arms were wrapped around me and I could feel his heartbeat against my back.
And there, in a sea reflecting tropical stars, I knew that I was home.
Lust for Blood Madelynne Ellis
That night … The night my world screwed up, started with the same ghastly routine as every Friday night: work, pub, restaurant, club, trying to blot out the numbing emptiness of my life. The invasive greyness of Messers Cox, Cooks & Evans, accountants and soul-suckers, is what pushes me to these shallow pools of warmth and comfort. I knock back alcohol, gyrate with strangers on the dance floor, anything to rub away the feel of old paper and tweed.
Blondie by the bar has been flashing his eyes at me all evening. He’s cute in a seedy pimpy sort of way, dressed in a Lycra T-shirt that’s torn at the neck and offers just a tantalising glimpse of what’s below. My palms itch at the prospect of sliding them up his snakeskin-covered thighs to his tight behind.
Snow-blond hair shrouds most of his face and falls in a ragged line along his jaw, but through that veil his eyes are piercing and intense. Sex with him I anticipate as an edgy place, full of surprises and riddles. It will absolutely not be straight and vanilla, which I guess makes us a match, because, while I’m not exactly far out, I am here for escapism, and I like to take risks.
So, when I catch him staring again, I return his gaze and lick my lips.
Instead of sauntering straight over, he just breaks eye contact and looks away, leaving me in a predicament over whether to be just a bit more pushy.
I can do it, but it’s not something I like doing, because I want them to make the first move. Mostly they do, so tanked up that a brush-off will barely dent their soporific shells. Maybe that’s how I know he really is different. He’s not drinking.
I mull him over, stealing glances while he lounges against the bar, his tight arse barely on the stool, one booted foot hooked around the metal rungs. Just the way he poses makes me want him, but it’s obvious that he’s worlds away from me. I’m a dull little secretary with Tippex on my fingertips, and he looks as if he’s fallen from a stage, or maybe a constellation.
Then, just when I’m finally drunk enough to go over and introduce myself, somebody smashes a glass on someone else, spilling first one liquid, then another. There is screaming and shoving, and I lose him in the ensuing panic.
To avoid getting dragged into the fight, I run for the loos. Which is where bad goes from bad to fucking diabolical.
In I dive, and I’m thinking pee, phone, powder nose, by which time the drama outside will be all over and security will have done their thing. I did mention I’m stupid when I’m drunk, didn’t I? OK, so I’m not exactly a genius sober, he
nce my dead-end job at Boredom Inc. This is my idea of a safe place while people outside are scheduled for plastic surgery.
Anyway, I pee … I hear moans … seems that, despite the commotion, some lucky girl has managed to pull and is not far off her very own crisis just a few doors down. My head automatically turns that way as I exit from my own cubicle.
The door to the end stall is open, enough for the reflection in the mirror to tell me that I have things seriously wrong. For starters, she’s alone.
I watch her writhe, both appalled and aroused by her lascivious display. Her ‘Hello Kitty’ T-shirt is pulled up above her bare breasts and her sparkly hipsters are undone, showing flashes of pussy hair. What’s she playing at? I wonder. Putting on a show? Trying to attract an offer? Or, worst of all, is she having a bleeding fit?
One of my classmates once had one during a really heavy physics practical. She flopped on the floor like a drowning fish, her eyes rolled up in terror, the same terror that freezes Hello Kitty and holds her fast against the chipboard, gasping for air. Her mouth goes slack. She starts to gurgle, like there’s something sticky in her throat.
Abandoning my lipstick, I scoot along the line of basins, my phone already in hand, ready to dial whatever number presents itself. If I’m lucky, she’ll have one of those medical bracelets that say diabetic, epileptic or celiac. If I’m even luckier, I’ll just end up watching her puke the remains of some euphoric or a recent blow job, while I reassuringly pat her on the back.
Except …
I’m wrong on all scores, because, contrary to what the mirror is telling me, she’s not alone.
‘Shit!’
I back away with my hands raised.
His eyes are feral, wild green and slit like a cat’s – my Mr Blond. He’s done something to the girl.
I realise that this could’ve been me. If it hadn’t been for the fight outside and my weak bladder, it would have been. Might still be.
Blood soaks him. It splashes his face, giving the illusion of tears while it bubbles from her throat. He releases her and she stands for maybe a second before her legs crumple and she falls like a rag doll.
Shocked, I just stand there.
What are you? What have you done? The questions echo inside my skull. I know what I am seeing, but my mind doesn’t want to comprehend it. It refuses to accept it. I have to break the image into pieces. His arctic fringe. Cat’s eyes. Hello Kitty disappearing into a red stain.
And he advances.
Perversely, he’s prettier now than he was on the edge of the dance floor. It’s an ethereal otherworldly sort of beauty, frighteningly cold and horribly arousing. A montage of images enters my mind from somewhere outside: licking the blood from his face, smearing it across his chest, him going down on me while I bleed. I can see his tongue delving between my pussy lips, and somehow that seems horribly wrong.
There’s a girl dying, right now, because of him.
My sensible self fights its way through the fog in my brain, yelling, ‘Run! Run! You stupid bitch.’ But I don’t run. I’m numbed. I just shuffle backwards until I hit the sinks, which dig into my back, cold and impossibly real.
‘What are you doing to me? Don’t come any closer!’
My fist tightens around my phone and I wish for the nineties and something a bit heavier. This slender silver shell won’t cause more than a slight bruise before it snaps.
‘What am I doing to you?’ His voice is in my head. His eyebrow asks the question. ‘I’m not the one with these fantasies.’
He slips into my personal space and entwines himself around my body like some exotic snake. He sways as if he’s scenting me, and closes his hypnotic eyes. His breath is wet and cloyingly iron scented. He rubs his nose and his cheek against my neck. Then licks the sweat from my skin.
That touch sends a shiver right through me. I burn, anticipating darkness, but the sharp-sweet pain doesn’t come.
‘Oh, no,’ he whispers into my ear. ‘I’m saving you. Are you frightened? I can smell it on you. You reek of it.’
His hand slithers up my arm and takes the phone from my fingers. It falls, skittering off under the sink.
‘I’m already sated. Lucky for you.’ He cups my cheek with his other hand, and paints my lips with his thumb. ‘But I’ve a mind to take you home …’
A midnight snack, the ever irreverent part of me thinks, though this is no joke. I’m in serious danger. ‘I can’t. You just … to that girl,’ I say.
‘To satisfy a different kind of hunger.’
He pushes my hand down between our bodies to where his cock lies hard, trapped beneath his snakeskin. It’s my dance-floor fantasy come true, with a horrid twist. I guess it’s true that you should be careful what you wish for.
‘You want me,’ he says. ‘I can feel it in the rhythm of your pulse.’
‘No!’ I shake my head and try to pull my hand away but he holds me firm.
‘You can’t resist. It didn’t save her, it won’t save you.’ His gaze flicks towards the girl.
Kick him and run. Put as much distance between you as you can.
‘Try. You won’t get further than four paces.’
And I know he’s right, so I don’t even try. Instead, I let his erection bruise my palm, and I try to ignore the fantasy that plays out in my head, of me taking this velvet-dressed rod and slipping it inside me, of riding it hard and making it weep. My fingers curl around him. Oblivion looms, as I see us coupled at the point of orgasm with his lips pressed to my throat.
My lips part, ready for a kiss, but, though he’s close, he doesn’t press into me, and he doesn’t share the blood smeared across his lips.
‘Let’s go,’ he says instead. ‘I hate fucking in toilets, it’s so crude.’
We walk out across the dance floor, shoes crunching on broken glass and the disco lights still flashing. Everyone’s still in shock and one more bloodstain goes unnoticed. We continue out through the foyer and into a waiting taxi. Nobody questions us, and he has stolen my voice.
‘Help me,’ I mouth to a tramp on a bench, before the car door closes.
I stare at the rain-streaked windows and the shimmering lights reflected endlessly in the windscreen. The multi-tones of traffic lights blur into a kaleidoscopic haze, but all I see are blue, blue eyes so full of terror. Was it really too late to save her? Is it too late to save myself?
Up front the driver’s radio crackles and cuts between static and late-night radio. It’s easy to drift between the music and white noise, to remain entranced and still, and not to think too deeply, but slowly the fog rolls back from my mind.
The taxi driver is slumped over the wheel, although the car is still moving. I wonder if he was alive when we got in. The rear-view mirror is cracked and there’s a crimson smear across the dashboard. I wonder how long it will be before I’m broken too.
I stare at my captor’s hand where it lies beside me on the scuffed upholstery. His fingernails are black, not with nail polish or grime, but because he is something born out of a nightmare. Still, it’s significant, for it means he’s no longer touching me.
I realise this little freedom is probably my one chance to escape. I need only open the door, jump out and it’ll all be over, or would be if I had the courage. But I’ve seen the films. If I run, I’ll die. It’s a given.
I feel his gaze on me, then, but when I look his head is turned away. Another image floats between us: I’m laid out across the road. Sirens scream. All around us blue lights brighten the sky. He’s cradling me like a child. The onlookers think he is mourning a lover and give him space though they stare, while really he’s supping from my injuries.
I find I am staring at him, and without movement, he is staring back.
The angles of his face are sharp, and his eyes glow an unearthly green. He has wiped away most of the blood splatter, but a smear still stains his lips. Hesitantly, I touch a finger to it.
He clasps my hand and sucks my finger into the heat of his mouth.
>
‘Where are you taking me?’
‘Home,’ he says cryptically.
I feel a stab like a needle, then his tongue massages the pad of my finger, and he starts to suckle.
His eyes glaze, and he seems lost in the moment. Gradually, his sucking deepens and slows. I feel the caress of his tongue not on my finger but between my thighs.
‘Mmm … It’s so good. You taste sweet.’ His voice is a low mellifluous burr inside my head. ‘I want you, Kristy.’ He sighs, looks me deep in the eyes, and the effect is magnetic. ‘I want all of you.’
And I want nothing more than to clamp myself around him and merge our bodies into one. It already feels like he’s supping down my soul.
‘Kristy … Kristy,’ he murmurs. How does he know my name?
Panic paints a chill sheen down my back. I pull away, though he still holds my hand tight.
‘How do you know me?’
‘It’s written in your blood,’ he says. ‘Every tiny detail of you runs through your veins, all your memories and all your thoughts.’
‘No.’
There are too many things I don’t want anyone to know about me to take this admission calmly. There are things I’ve been thinking while he’s sucked my finger that I don’t want him to know.
‘Too late,’ he says, and he keeps on licking. ‘I know all your dirty secrets now.’
‘No.’
Light from a streetlamp streams in the window and lights up his eyes like reflectors.
‘Like how you want your handsome but dull boss to lean you over his desk and chastise your pert little arse.’
‘Stop it! I don’t.’
‘No use denying it, the longing is written across every bead.’
I shake my head. ‘You’re wrong.’
It’s just his hands. Mr Cox has the most beautiful hands, with long tapering fingers and baby-soft palms. I want to see them flushed with the pain of punishing me.
‘No more,’ I beg. ‘Don’t tell me anything else.’
He scratches his nail down my cheek where the skin is now burning. ‘But, Kristy, that spoils all the fun.’ He licks at the stinging red line he’s made. ‘Besides, I think you’ll stomach a little indulgence. It’s what we all do for … our lovers.’
Love on the Dark Side Page 8