by R. C. Graham
That shout fades in a panting groan as Cynthia’s climax recedes. Her tits bobble as her chest works like a bellows. Mrs. Moran’s eyes are slit to shield them against the lurid afterglow filling her. Sweat drips along her pale skin.
Christy keeps at her work. Even over distance and through glass, the faint sound of her mouth at play reaches me. The soft slurping informs me of her greedy appetite for the morsel stuffed in her mouth.
I can see Mrs. Moran’s stomach start to quiver once more. She locks her legs and grasps the blonde head, her knuckles white. Her shoulders heave as she pants. In a very short time, another shriek bursts out. This one is ragged, less forceful. Her lungs are too weak from delight to push hard. Cynthia’s mouth falls open and her eyes glaze as ecstasy fills her.
“Enough,” orders Mandy. Christy immediately pulls her mouth away.
“It’s time for mommy’s little girl’s treat,” announces the domme as she stands. She undoes her jeans and they fall to the floor. Mandy is wearing a harness around her hips and a piece of latex, flesh colored and in the shape of a man’s member, springs out. It’s very large.
Cynthia shudders as she looks at it. I can tell she is no stranger to the dildo and looks forward to having it pushed inside her.
Mandy taunts the older woman. “How does mommy’s little girl want it?”
Emotions cross Mrs. Moran’s face in quick waves. First, shame crimsons her features. Her face hardens next as she tries to gather the strength to deny her dominant. Cynthia’s expression then relaxes in acceptance as she finds she wants what Mandy offers. Finally, lust shows as her eyes sparkle and her body tremors. She pushes away from the counter and on quivering legs crosses to the table. On reaching it, she climbs up and rolls on her back, hips at the edge. Grabbing a stockinged thigh in each hand Mrs. Moran spreads herself wide to her Mistress’s smirking eyes.
“Right here, right now?” mocks Mandy. “What a kinky slut mommy’s little girl is.” The butch places herself between the older woman’s legs and shoves her rubber penis in with a single, quick motion. She reaches up to take her victim’s breasts in her hands, uses them as handles to pull her gasping trull towards her. Mandy’s hips pump vigorously, driving in and out with a hard, steady rhythm.
Cynthia croons a hymn to the wild emotions filling her. Her voice trills, moans and gasps. “Oh God, God!” she sputters. “Fuck me harder! Fuck me good!”
The staccato song ends with another shriek. Mrs. Moran’s fingernails tear her stockings and her hips stutter under the force of her orgasm. Mandy’s motions never cease and neither does her slave’s climax.
“Bitch,” gasps the now sweaty dominant, “get over here and shut this horny slut up.”
Christy has remained kneeling on the floor throughout this tableau. At her Mistress’s orders she stands, mounts the table and straddles Cynthia’s face. The prone woman instantly grabs the yellow tressed girl’s soft buttocks and pulls the lightly thatched vulva to her mouth. She works as hard to please Christy as the blonde girl had pleased her.
It seems Ms. Coburn has been at the edge all along for her eyes roll in their sockets and her lungs sound a guttering growl. Her spending shines on Mrs. Moran’s cheeks.
That’s enough, I decide. I slip away from the minor orgy I’ve been watching and return to the street.
As I head back the way I came I drop my veil and ruminate. It seems my conjecture is correct. Ms. Richardson is a dominant with a fine instinctive skill at seduction. She apparently can spot lesbian submissives, plus bisexuals so minded, and take great advantage of that.
I find that Mandy could do such a thing to the Dean odd. Dr. Metaxas certainly didn’t strike me as that sort, but in spite of all my experience I could have overlooked something.
An unconscious shrug moves my shoulders. I told Helen I would see what I could do and have decided that is nothing. I don’t care a jot for how badly she wants to keep her young lover, I only want my students to learn.
With that decision out of the way I notice I have become a bit peckish. I haven’t fed for two nights. It’s wise for me to keep a nearly full belly. What I am breaks out of my control more easily the hungrier I am.
I turn in a particular direction and head for the part of town outside the university grounds. I’m sure Diane’s free tonight.
* * * *
It’s three in the morning and I am in Diane’s bed.
My hands stroke her auburn hair and my lips caress the fair satin skin of her forehead. She shivers in response.
I need to use little of my power with her these days. She’s become accustomed to and desirous for my touch. But for her pleasure, I push some fire into her, make the shimmering heat she feels rise.
I pause to make sure my mask is in place. Diane can never know what I am. The consequences would be too grievous for me to bear. For a moment my body stiffens at the vision my imagination creates of that moment, of Diane in terror of what I am.
“Georges?” my love asks, puzzled at my sudden hesitation.
“Nothing, cher. Once again I’m awed by how I feel.” Which is both true and very frightening.
My mouth moves down, covers hers, works at her hungrily. She answers with the same passion. Her hands rove, teasing my skin. As always, to my amazement, I react. Shimmering emotion fills me. This isn’t my usual hunt. I’ve come to care for her.
My arms go around her back and I hug her close. Breaking my face away from hers I look into her eyes. “Sweet Diane,” I exhale.
Her eyes glitter at me, lust providing the sharp sparkles and warmth a deep glow. “Georges,” she whispers back.
My face lowers to her neck. For a moment, my hunger screams at me to feed, drain her dry, leave a cold corpse lying here to spread fear in the world. I easily ignore it. Monster I may be but not all the time, and especially not now.
Instead my tongue teases with soft, quick licks. I use my power to push Diane’s passion a little higher. She sucks in a sharp breath and a tremor runs through her. Her fingernails dig softly into my arm and back.
I chuckle against her throat and move on. Playing, I lave her shoulders and chest, sweep up her breast and take a nipple in my mouth. It pops into stiffness and I feel her aureola crinkle under my tongue. With my canines I lightly nip the tender nub. A slight hint of the ecstasy feeding creates washes into her. Diane gurgles, grabs my dark hair and pulls me close. I suck hard at her. The sound of her legs running over the sheets as she spreads herself comes to me.
I play over to her other breast and gambol there for long moments. Her body begins a steady tremble as I do.
With mischievous kisses I move down to her tummy. My power propels her emotions, raising her joy higher still. As I come to her hips I run the edges of my teeth over the skin above her joints. Her muscles jerk, then jerk again. “Georges” she whimpers, “no more teasing, please.”
“D’accord,” I tell her. I drape her left leg over my shoulder so that her labia sit in front of me, quivering and lustrous. The sweet, rich aroma of her arousal stuffs my nose.
My tongue runs out and licks up her soaking outer lips. Diane hisses and her body lurches as I do. I run around and around her, sopping up her taste. The hiss becomes a moan and her movements rhythmic. More lusciously flavored fluids dribble from her to be swallowed by me.
With gentle care, I work a finger inside, pushing slowly. I run in and out with a steady beat. Her hips match my cadence and her inner muscles squeeze my digit. Her moan becomes syncopated with sharp gasps. Diane’s heated odor grows more intense.
I add a second finger and my pumps increase in speed. Diane’s moan rises in volume, nears a wail. “Ah!” she huffs, “God! Please!” Her skin heats, I can feel its glow on my own.
My fingers rotate in her, press hard against the spongy spot on the ceiling of her channel. Her body stiffens and she gurgles, moments away from ecstasy.
I cover her stiff clit with my mouth. A little suction and I pull the little bud in, lap at it softly and rapidly.
Diane falls away from the world as I do.
A loud stutter rushes from her lungs. Her hips blur back and forth, driving my fingers in and out. She clamps on them, her joy demanding I stay inside her. Her skin colors and sweat runs over her.
Diane’s climax fades but doesn’t draw back far. My thumb replaces my tongue and tickles softly. She sounds an “Oh!”, pauses to gasp, another “Oh!” and she’s gone again. She keens her pleasure and shivers with an ague of ecstasy.
While she’s distracted, I place my mouth on her right thigh, drop my fangs and puncture her femoral artery.
This is my climax. The rich taste of her blood runs into my mouth and my awareness is almost lost under it. The rush of life fills me with an abandoned glee. Nothing tasted as delicious when I was alive.
Adding even more to it is the fact that I care deeply for this woman, and she cares for me. It adds an exponent of elation I’ve not tasted in far too long.
That joy radiates out from me and into Diane. It slams into her orgasm, pumps it up into a bright flame that blanks out her mind. She grows stiff as a board. Every few seconds she twitches and a tiny click sounds from her throat. I’ve taken her far from the physical world.
I pull my mouth from her with a quiet hiss. I’ve had enough. What I am wants it all but I’m full. I don’t feed until death. I’m forced to drink, not to kill. Pain shimmers through me as I recall the times I did kill. I don’t like being a monster
Diane relaxes, her bliss releasing her. Before she can notice, I lick my punctures and they vanish as if they never existed.
I move myself next to her then lean in to kiss her cheek, swipe at the salt liquid slicked there. Pulling back, I watch her, one hand gently petting her stomach, calling her back to reality. Her face is blank and her chest heaves.
Again I feel astonishment that I’m here with her close, in more ways than one. I don’t want to but I wallow in the sensation. Once more, I almost feel like a man again.
My attention reverts to the here and now. Slowly, so slowly, awareness returns to my lady and her breathing becomes normal. I lie on my back and Diane rolls to her side. She lays her left leg and arm across me then cuddles close. “God,” she sighs, “I never thought a man could make me feel this way.”
I’m not a man is the response I don’t voice. She can’t see it but my mouth forms a grim line. I know the moment when I must bid her goodbye is close.
Diane’s grip on me tightens. “Georges?” she asks. “Stay with me.” The tone of her voice is a touch strained. That is always a hard question to ask, when the answer is important.
“Tonight?” I question back. I try, without much success, to make the words light.
“Always,” is her reply.
How I wish we could have had longer. It’s my turn to tighten my hold as a memory that I’ve kept away from bobs to the surface.
This happened once before, a century and a half ago. A woman I knew grew close and asked to stay. She had to know the truth before I could make that decision, so I told her what I am, and I told her we could only stay together if we were the same. She accepted and I made her into one of my kind.
In a month, she waited for the sun to come up.
She hadn’t realized, nor had I, that she would lose too much. Lose the day, lose the warmth, lose the joy. Furthermore the gains didn’t balance the losses. She couldn’t live with the hunger, with the monster always waiting to break out, with being a monster. She destroyed herself rather than carry on the endless battle.
I nearly joined her I was so devastated. My grief, my guilt was such that I hid in the earth for a decade.
Diane raises her head to look at me. “I’d never hurt you, Georges. Not the way she did. Whoever she was.” She’s drawn the wrong conclusion from my actions.
“She didn’t hurt me,” is my correction. “I hurt her. Badly. She never recovered. I’m toxic, Diane. A dangerous drug. An occasional taste is enjoyable. Constant exposure will be fatal.”
Her face falls to my chest and I feel tears bead on it. “I don’t believe you,” she sobs, “and I’m willing to take that chance.”
The moment has come. I place my thumb on her forehead and guide her head back gently. When her eyes meat mine I exert my power. Once again I have to struggle for a moment before her face goes slack and she opens to my will.
“I can’t stay, Diane,” I tell her. “I wouldn’t be good for you. We have it hot, heavy and sweet. But it can’t last. I’ll go. You’ll remember our time with fondness and move on.”
I release her mind. The sweet woman’s eyes refocus, and glisten with moisture. She replaces her head on my shoulder and clasps me very hard. She believes she’s made a decision, is unhappy with it but is going to enjoy what time have left.
How I hate having to manipulate her like that, but all the other choices would have far, far worse consequences.
The two of us cuddle for a while, saying nothing, both of us hurting and happy. Soon though, it’s time for me to leave. I roll from the rumpled sheets and begin to dress. She sits at the edge of the bed and watches, still silent, still sad.
When done, I sit next to her and wrap my arms around her.
Diane clings and sniffles. “I wish that I could feel you inside me,” she states.
“I can’t. You know that,” I tell her.
Diane sighs and hugs me hard. “I know, that medical condition. But it doesn’t keep me from wanting.” She pulls away suddenly and smiles, a weak gesture underlined with pain. “I’ll see you again?”
“Yes. You warm me, beautiful woman.” Leaning over I kiss her cheek, rise and leave the apartment. The sound of her crying reaches me before I open the front door. It wrenches at my unbeating heart.
I walk back to my haven with my mind whirling. I’m caught in a dilemma I’d thought never to have happen again. I am so uncertain what my actions should be.
You know what to do, I inform myself. End it. Soon. My head nods in agreement. If I stay too much longer, I’ll destroy her one way or another. Next time is goodbye.
Dawn is tinting the horizon as I enter my haven. I shed my clothes, go to the cellar and sink into the ground. The nothingness of the dark is something I badly need now.
* * * *
I enter my sophomore class two nights later. There’s a surprise waiting for me. Ms. Richardson has arrived on time for once.
But her face holds an expression of triumph. She’s only here to revel in a victory. As I place my briefcase on my desk, she stands and stalks towards me with that imperious stride of hers. The failing paper I had given her is in her right hand. She thrusts it at me.
“I think you’ve got something to do, prof,” she gloats.
I turn to face her and put a bright smile on my face. “You’re quite right, Mademoiselle Richardson.” Opening my briefcase I pull my marking pen from it, turn and retrieve Mandy’s paper from her hand. With a deft stroke I mark a minus after the F and return the essay to her.
Mandy’s jaw drops and her eyes stare in astonishment. She was so certain she had won. Her face hardens then. An almost vampiric fury flames in her eyes. Like many people with power, she can’t stand when that power doesn’t work. She snarls, turns and storms from the classroom. The Court follows her with Christy giving me yet another look of horror and pity. She thinks she knows what’s coming and wishes I’d just knuckle under.
Not likely! is my thought. I’ve faced far worse people, and things, than Ms. Richardson.
* * * *
The next night I’m sitting on a stone bench in a quiet area of the university known as ‘Poet’s Walk’. It’s a very nicely landscaped piece of property, peaceful and silent. I need it.
But I’m not getting the tranquility I seek. The situation with Diane was clawing at me. I have made my decision however that has bought me no ease. I want her, know I can’t, know I shouldn’t. So strange to be torn by warm emotions for once.
As well my conflict with Mandy Richardson is troubling. Something about he
r keeps scratching at my psyche, irritating me. Looked at logically, our conflict should be over. An internal shiver of my spine says that isn’t the case.
So here I sit, trying to soak up the peaceful ambiance of the area.
A light set of footfalls turns my head to the left. Three people are walking towards me. Big men, of an age to be students here. Their gait is purposeful and they’re heading straight towards me. Automatic reactions tighten my muscles, fire up my body. Something about them makes me prepare for combat.
They stop and face me, one right in front and the other two a step behind him on each side.
Mistake, I think. One should be behind me and two in front. Amateurs.
The one in front looks me over. “This is gonna to be too easy,” he remarks as he turns his head a little to his companions. “We gotta message for you,” is his statement then and reaches with his right hand to grab me.
I intercept it with my left, twist his arm with a lock so he goes to his knees and blocks the man on that side.
The assailant on my right hand shows fair reflexes. He steps forward and thrusts a meaty fist at me. I bat the blow aside and smash my own knuckles into his sternum using a good bit of the strength my nature grants me. Bones crack and he falls to his knees, gasping in agony.
The man on the left moves around the barrier of his companion and closes in, hands grasping for my throat. The foot nearest him comes up and places itself in his crotch, hard. He flies back several feet to collapse to the ground. His hands cover his ruptured testicles and he whimpers piteously.
To finish I twist the arm of the person I’m holding until it breaks. He curls into a ball and begins vomiting.
I shake my head with disappointment, stand and walk away. Nothing will be said to the police by them or me. Me, because I don’t want to draw attention to myself. Them, because they don’t want anyone to know how easily they were beaten by what appeared to be a skinny, middle aged man.