She felt guilt. If he came home now he would find her a total wreck, completely incapable of explaining herself. Never had she been so possessed by that need. Never had a fantasy felt so real. What shocked her most was how focused she had been on Hunter’s private parts. Usually whenever she fantasised about a man it was always as much about him, his character, as it was about his physical attraction. It was usually about the build up and the seduction. She never really had an image of the sexual organs at all. With Hunter it had been so clear. As interesting and engaging as she found him to be that afternoon, she had put that aside to concentrate on his base sexuality. That was like something her husband would do - forgetting character and emotion in favour of how physically attractive you found someone. It felt shamefully shallow.
Her desperate action left her mortified. To have to do it in these circumstances, not even being able to wait until you were alone. To create a fantasy about an act that was thrilling but yet essentially dispassionate. To be turned on by a character who wanted you for his lusts, who wanted to make you come for your physical pleasure, but not to bring you closer emotionally to him. She couldn’t understand how Hunter had put these thoughts in her head but it must have been him. No one had ever made her feel like that before but then again she had never before met someone like him. It had to be him forcing the images and the rudeness upon her. She didn’t know how he did it but he must have. How else could she have turned into such a hussy so quickly?
Because that was the worst bit about it, the thing that still made her tremble: all these images he was forcing into her mind, of beautiful erect penises and dispassionate fucking, they were rapidly threatening to make a dirty bitch out of her, one who was quite willing to cast aside her morals and loyalties and do with others all those rude things that her husband wouldn’t do with her, and to care nothing of the consequences. Seriously, she had to get a grip of herself before it was too late.
Drizzle
The thin rain was only light but there was a slight breeze behind it to keep it in your face and make it ever noticeable. At least it had stayed away for the welcoming party the day before. Bethan couldn’t remember the last dry weekday. Strange, looking at the jubilant Facebook updates and uploads it seemed everyone else was bathed in sunshine and having a fabulous time. That’s why she hardly ever looked at it now. Those people were from a time she barely remembered; years and happy memories that had evaporated like a dream. They were just reminders of a life that had slipped away.
Her youngest was in her shiny red wellington boots and her pink quilted coat, her face lost in the depths of the hood. She was splashing around happily enough, ignoring the swings in favour of puddles. Frankly they could have done this in the street outside the house rather than trailing up to the village recreation ground. It was more than just a play area. There was a large, marked-out sports field bounded by woods - a haven for the local kids, overlooked only by a couple of cottages. It was the type of place that drew her, one that would have magnetised her in her youth. It was a place of promise and opportunity and wish fulfilment. However, all this had been suspended by the weather and there was no one else here today. She knew before she got there that the playground apparatus would be too wet to go on. Still, this is what she did every single weekday, come rain or shine - not that there ever seemed to be much shine these days.
Her body felt extra heavy today. Perhaps it was just the thicker coat, or the drag of tiredness from her broken nights. She’d harboured a sense of foreboding for a whole week now, since that day he moved in. It was a mix of nervousness and excitement. Not fear as such, although she had been so on edge at times she had felt sickness closing in. The party the day before had been very testing. He had been like a magnet to the other girls but she couldn’t stay close. The first time he had looked at her, when one of the girls had pointed her out by way of introduction, it felt like her insides were being pulled out, even though Hunter had a welcoming smile on his face. She was glad she had the excuse to watch over the kids at the other end of the street.
That same feeling had gone through her - the one she had whenever she saw ghosts - worse perhaps, because she knew he was on to her. She made great efforts not to compound her spying ways, trying to do everything to keep her eyes off him as if completely disinterested. Still he had caught her looking. In these instances she had glimpsed his brief smile before she turned away but still the intense jitters swept her insides. The other girls couldn’t feel it. They couldn’t see what he was, even though the one snippet of conversation she had overheard had him telling them of his certain drive that was unquenchable. What did they think he meant if not a desire to gorge upon the lifeblood of innocents? This thinly-veiled confession had spooked her so much the rise in blood pressure had fuzzed her ears and sent her scuttling back to the safety of the far end of the street. The other girls hadn’t even batted an eyelid. She thought it so strange that most humans are devoid of the power to detect possibly one of their greatest threats. Then again, how many revenants or ghouls does one bump into on a daily basis?
He was the first she had seen like this, a solid form that could walk amongst others without causing suspicion. They had been gathered all around him and she had wanted to shout out, can’t you feel it? It wasn’t something you could warn people of, however strong the urge. That kind of misjudgement led to gossip, ostracism, and funny farms. However, not telling meant no protection for her. There was always safety in numbers, and she was on her own with this one.
The other girls clearly hadn’t witnessed his evening flits, or hadn’t grasped the significance. Twice she had spotted him leaving on his motorbike, streaking off to find the darkness of the country lanes, travelling fast enough, no doubt, to petrify most mortals. But you cannot scare one who cannot be killed. Living in this place meant he was after countryside, maybe to feed off livestock or to track individuals in isolated homes. He would park up where no one goes and find woodland for cover. There he would transform into his real being. She had seen it in her dreams, which wouldn’t leave her alone. It was like he was transmitting the images to her in fine detail. His skin would be paler, sallow even, and thinner, almost translucent, so the veins beneath would show through clear blue in places. The cheeks would look a little hollow and would be devoid of stubble. He would seem taller, wider, the frame stretching the sinew and joints to the limit, so his whole body was taut enough to be on the point of snapping.
Under the motorcycle gloves the fingernails would be long and yellow and pointed because they did not cease to grow over the centuries, springing forth as required. He could keep these concealed but he couldn’t hide the eyes. When the hunt started the sclera would colour red from the blood sent there to increase efficiency. The iris would be like ice, paling from its normal deeper blue to aid night vision, and would be ringed by a thin corona of black. The pupil would not be the cat’s eye narrow ellipse beloved of so many vampire movies, but a small intense black dot. Those same movies sometimes had the teeth as hideous yellow curling appendages, like mini horns. His would be the same white as the others, pushing out and forward from where they were hidden in the upper jaw, the points only really noticeable when they were fully extended.
One look from him would stop you dead in your tracks, but if by some miracle you gained any distance on him he could close it in an instant, able as he was to flit from place to place in the blink of an eye. His strength was unsurpassable. If he wanted you, there was no way to resist. Theories abound about what happens to victims. Some think a simple bite creates another vampire. Sure, the coagulant that was released to keep you bleeding had an effect like venom and would take your life even if blood loss did not. However, to take your soul required him to be inside you while he drank. A combination of the venom and the bliss was what turned you.
He had the power to make his prick any size he wanted, perhaps swelling it to fill you fabulously. Or he might extend it while he had you bent
over naked and prone. He could stretch it out over a foot long, making a thin, iron-stiff rod that he would use to beat your behind. Then he might use your ruder passage - especially if you were a virgin there - making you ready with only his tongue and his especially slick saliva, before driving it right to your core like a stake.
It was the joy of having him that made you one of his kind, the combination of his poisonous coagulant and his beautiful prick. As your life drained away the joy inside became ever more intense, building to a climax so massive it arrested your earthly heart. But the energy and bliss was too powerful to stop and became like a quickening, preventing your soul from passing over, keeping it in this world to crave carnal pleasure for all time. On the dark nights the urge for beautiful flesh to gorge upon could prove irresistible. However, contrary to popular belief, human victims were not commonplace, although their blood was the one true nectar. Usually it was cows and deer, as these were not missed and didn’t lead to investigations and the threat of discovery. However, sometimes it just had to be a human, if the chosen victim was simply too luscious to let be. Or sometimes certain humans had to be stalked and taken, because they had come to discover the secret. They had to be dealt with, so they could tell no tales. And that, of course, meant her.
Bingo!
Eva heard the now familiar engine starting up and got to the window just in time to see Hunter departing on his Kawasaki. Where the hell was he off to on a Wednesday evening? It seemed every time she began to get the stirrings of an idea to go down there and see him, he somehow picked these up telepathically and headed for the hills. Ten whole days he had been her neighbour and still she hadn’t got him where she wanted him. Worse, it was three days since she learned from the horse’s mouth that he had trouble controlling the certain drive as he called it, which she took to mean that he was essentially a sex maniac. It seemed inconceivable that someone so like-minded could have escaped her clutches thus far.
Well, the calling had already begun down below so she would have to do something about it. Wednesday night was bingo night, which meant Mr Policeman at Number One would be left home alone. It wasn’t the ideal substitute for missing out on Hunter but it was the most convenient and sure alternative. She texted ahead to check the coast would be clear and got a reply that perfectly conveyed the shaky-handed bubbling excitement of her neighbour. Men who sent filthy texts when they were the wrong side of 45 needed to be ashamed of themselves.
The kids were grown up and never around at Number One so she had a two hour window between eight and ten, although there was a film on at nine which she would happily have missed had Hunter been the target. The problem of living in this close was that everyone faced each other, so prying eyes could see any movements out in the street. One had to be subtle or the shit-storm it created would outweigh the fun she gained. The whole applecart would be upset. Darkness had fully set in and most of the blinds were closed but still she used her summertime trick of making as if to walk out of the close towards the village, then sliding down the skinny path that led to Number One’s back gate. As ever it was left open for her.
He met her in the kitchen with the set of handcuffs dangling from his outstretched forefinger. He was wearing that cocky grin of his that suggested some kind of shared longing for one another. He was wrong. She wasn’t overly attracted to him or the way he played the Big I Am. However, she loved rudeness, power games, and making mischief. These were the things that drove her. No words were required. The baby oil was already on the kitchen table. He wanted his balls emptied and her out of there as quickly as possible, and she was in no mind to stay a moment longer than was necessary.
She took the offered handcuffs and he was already unbuttoning his shirt, not in the least self-conscious about the grey hairs and sagging flesh upon his barrel chest. Mr Policeman: always demanding respect; six foot three and with a large frame weighing over 200 pounds; huge hands that grappled wrongdoers and put them behind bars; an air of invincibility and self-righteousness. Yet here she was securing one of those thick wrists behind his back, feeding the metal through the looped handle on the kitchen drawer, and then snapping the open cuff shut around his other wrist. He didn’t show a trace of panic. His knowing smile was even wider than before.
His breathing changed to audible snorts from his nose as she knelt before him and unfastened his trousers. Down they came with his boxer shorts following unceremoniously after. His semi-hard prick bobbed and jerked with the glee of its freedom and began to rise before she had laid a single finger upon it. She blew gently on the rearing tip to increase the swell, smiling at how effective her methods proved. She could smell the soap of hasty cleaning. Just as well. The day he assumed she wasn’t worth this courtesy was the day she left him there still fastened, for his bimbo wife in her low-cut tops to come home and discover.
She grinned wickedly at that thought and he probably believed it was a reaction to his now fully erect prick. One day he would know better. She took a hold of it at its thicker base and ran just her tongue-tip up along the underside, seeing his chest stick out further as he sucked in air through closed teeth. She gave the swollen balls a light squeeze and gently blew once more upon the tip, just prolonging his agony before giving him his Golden Moment. That was the bit where she engulfed him with her mouth. That first time each time was the best, a trick she had long known. It was the bit every man longed for and remembered - more than all the subsequent wanking and lapping and sucking, more so even than the climax.
She knew to make it slow and glorious. Women who rushed this were missing a trick. Always make sure your mouth was warm and wet - drink tea or coffee just before if necessary. Never suck too hard and never tease too much with the tongue at first. All one needs to do is to bathe their sensitive head with warmth and wetness and give it just a light gentle suck. Do that and they will be eating out of your palm. She took a firm grip on his shaft and looked up at him as she slowly bent forward and opened her mouth. As her lips closed over him he gave a whimper that could have had her laughing out loud. However, once her eyes were closed she forgot all but the joy of rudeness.
It gave her such satisfaction and energy. She loved to be lusted after. Her spirit fed off the attraction others showed for her. These were days of lapsed morals and greed, where others would crush you if you didn’t find and use your power. She could make others want her and she needed to be wanted above all. It wasn’t about crushing weaker souls. It was about feeding her own. Sure, it might all blow up one day but the widespread destruction would just be proof of everything she had become. She almost welcomed that time of turmoil and broken hearts. She could walk away scot free with little more than their jealousy and yearning trailing in her wake. If you weren’t leaving a whirlwind behind you whenever you left, then you weren’t really living at all.
She used her mouth and hand upon him for a good five minutes before rising off her knees. He would have implored her to continue if he hadn’t known what was coming next. She peeled off her tight white T-shirt to expose the tattoo running from her wrist all the way up to her shoulder, plus the little one of an angel just above her left hip - a more inappropriate one for a girl like her was hard to imagine. Her belly was smooth and soft, with a deep button. She was proud of not being skinny, of having just enough coverage to make her inviting, without bitches being able to level charges of chubbiness.
Her breasts were currently contained within a lacy black bra, selected to make him drool. They were large and firm, a random gift of nature just like her prettiness that nonetheless shaped her attitude and allowed her to be everything that she was. He tugged at his fastenings as she reached back to undo her clasp, as if he couldn’t wait to get his hands on her. He liked the restraint though. It was his little secret foible: the big, all-powerful man who liked to be at the mercy of the sexy girl. He would never tell his wife about it. It would emasculate him if she thought he was a sissy in any way, and he couldn’t have that. He h
ad an image to preserve, even if it drove him to sate his desires outside of the marital bed.
Her breasts jiggled as they were freed. She held them and squeezed them, just to watch him squirm and thrust his throbbing cock towards her so pleadingly. She took the bottle of baby oil and squirted some of the clear contents high upon her chest to have it ooze down. She caught the rivulets with both hands and smoothed the slick liquid slowly and provocatively over her breasts. Such a benign act when you think of it - applying lubricant to bags of fatty tissue. But his face was flushed with lust, and she could probably have had him do anything for her right now.
She went back on her knees and gave him what he wanted. She squashed her breasts either side of his erection and used them to masturbate him. Every now and then she would reach down with her mouth to give him a delightful sucking, although she could have done without the taste of the oil now upon his skin. He gasped and jerked and strained at his cuffs. She teased him and took him inexorably towards his climax. It would be explosive because he just loved her doing this to him. It was the best treat he could receive.
Eva couldn’t understand his adoration for this kind of stimulation. It seemed like small change to her. Why have this fashioned cleft to fuck when you could be inside a lovely, slippery, warm, female body? Not that she would have given him her puss. Well, probably not. She could see how the restraint could be a turn-on, and the blowjob to go with it, but it was this breast thing that really blew his mind. It didn’t even have an exotic-sounding Latin name to give it credibility like the accompanying fellatio. It was merely a tit-wank, a Bombay roll. Yet it drove him senseless. So senseless you’d think he would be forced to make his wife give him the same bliss. And yet he never did.
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