Mr. Wolfe

by Llewellyn, A. J.

  Or maybe a bustya.

  He called Wolfie and felt the sensation of pure pleasure wash over his whole body. Nothing and nobody mattered more than his sensational, loving, sexy, passionate Mr. Wolfe.

  Chapter 5

  Ambrosio hated spending time away from Wolfie. It took longer than he anticipated to get the trunks into the warehouse on Sunset. Even Vez seemed daunted at the prospect of juggling dual archival projects. Once they'd squeezed in the last trunk, the two men measured the space for storage, then moved into the showroom where Ambrosio took tons of photos as Vez measured the display area.

  They switched off after an hour, Ambrosio soon becoming aware at one point of Vez taking photos of him.

  "Cut it out," he said, snatching the digital camera from him.

  Ambrosio was distracted, thinking about the showroom and how dazzling it would look with all the Bobby Beckett costumes on display. His intention was to let Vez work the space with Mireille, once Wolfie had had a chance to go through everything and decide what they'd do first.

  As big and daunting as the job was, the Zara Finkey project was worse. So many gowns, so many years of abuse. Most of the Beckett memorabilia just seemed to have been stuffed into cases without much thought. There was little physical wear and tear on most of the costumes. Time had worn its effects on some things, which Ambrosio photographed and separated, covering the urgent items in white sheets and placing them in another trunk.

  At a little after six, Vez said, "I'm tired and hungry. I want to go home. Don't s'pose you want to have dinner with me tonight."

  "I can't. Sorry." Ambrosio checked the time on his cell phone. He glanced at his co-worker. "I didn't realize how late it was. Let's call it a night."

  He shut down the space, turning off lights, making a mental note of more things they'd need. Mr. Wolfe Inc. would need a lot more money to accommodate this collection.

  Ambrosio felt weary driving Vez back to the airport warehouse. Humans always weighed him down with their thoughts and worries. He wanted badly to call Wolfie, but wouldn't do so in front of Vez. He shifted in his seat.

  "How is the temperature?" he asked Vez, but the man was fast asleep. Ambrosio was grateful for the solitude. He glanced over at him. Vez had been silent and petulant all day. He'd taken a break for lunch and paced the sidewalk, as he talked rapidly into his cell phone.

  Ambrosio hadn't been able to hear through the thick glass, but had Wolfie been here he would have been able to detect every word. Even in repose, Vez oozed reproach and bitterness.

  He raised the volume on the radio and his heart gave a lurch when he heard Billie Holiday's wrenching voice singing Strange Fruit.

  Why this song? Why now?

  He glanced across at Vez, as if it were all his fault. He knew it wasn't, but Ambrosio knew it was a sign.

  "Southern trees bear strange fruit. Blood on the leaves and blood at the root..."

  Ambrosio felt the sadness of his lengthy years on earth. Until he'd met Wolfie he hadn't thought it possible to fall in love so hard, or so deeply.

  Wolfie.

  Nothing could happen to him. Or to Mireille.

  Should he stop her from coming here? No. She was too excited now. Why hadn't they thought of bringing her here sooner?

  But he knew the answer.

  There was blood all over their family tree.

  He dropped a sleepy Vez off at the LAX warehouse and waited for his co-worker to drive off. Ambrosio listened to the rest of the song. Yes, it was a shout of protest torn from the heart about all the lynchings.

  So much pain, so much...innocent blood.

  He thought of the centuries his family had eluded law enforcement, who sought to punish them for crimes they hadn't committed. Wherever they went, no matter how quietly they lived, trouble followed. Humans would fall in love with Mireille, honestly the most beautiful woman Ambrosio knew.

  One spurned lover tried to shoot her, then reported her to the authorities when she got up and ran from the field in the dead of night.

  Ambrosio and his late father had attacked and killed the man when he tried to kill her a second time. The family of vampires, born into a cursed and troubled race rarely killed their victims, but when they did, it was for a good cause.

  Mireille had chosen to bury herself in her work after her last lover died. He'd fallen off a mountain on a ski trip to Australia's Mount Kosciuszko. Nobody had understood how Kellan had died, but she had survived and even brought his body back to civilization.

  She'd endured huge publicity, relentless questions and a possible murder charge until an autopsy proved that he had died of hypothermia. And yet, she could not explain how she hadn't suffered the same fate.

  It had been grueling, watching her endure the inquest into Kellan's death. He and Wolfie had flown to Australia to support her but it took a long time for her to recover not only from his loss, but the knowledge that had she caved into her husband's demands to "turn" him, he'd still be alive today.

  Yes, we're strange fruit. We've been tortured, persecuted, misunderstood. But I'll be damned if I let her wallow in despair anymore. We'll help her find a life mate. She should be loved. She should be allowed to be happy, to smile again.

  He called Wolfie, who was pleased to hear from him. "I'm home waiting for you, with a nice surprise," he said.

  Ambrosio smiled in the fading light. He loved this time of night. The only thing missing was the man he loved.

  He'd soon remedy that.

  * * * *

  Mr. Wolfe ate alone at the dining table. Supper on his own wasn't his favorite thing but it happened so rarely he actually enjoyed the few times he got to eat whatever he liked without his husband's flickering gaze of concern. He'd charbroiled some lean, ground beef, fashioning it into a burger using two wedges of iceberg lettuce for the bun. He'd stuffed it with the meat, chili Mireilles and tomatoes from their garden, washing it all down with a glass of Malbec.

  He loved the wine and sipped it out of one of the Bavarian crystal goblets he'd shipped out from his many years in Italy. Though full, he kept eating knowing that Ambrosio would come home starving and needing to feed.

  Mr. Wolfe needed his strength if he was going to let Ambrosio have his way with him. He sat back in his seat, his gaze flittering across the room. He knew what was going to happen with Zev now. Was he sorry? He was always sorry to lose a worker to whom he'd passed his valuable secrets.

  He glanced at a rare, original Titian he had carried with him for four hundred years from Venice. The portrait of a long-lost Italian cardinal and his transvestite lover was one of his most prized possessions. That and the piece of Venetian mirror he'd kept hidden after the burning of the city during the time of the plague.

  Mr. Wolfe tried not to think of the hideous times those had been for his kind. Not the weres, but homosexual men. He had loved his sexy cardinal who had posed for the great Titian, who even then carried the deadly plague, but didn't know it. Mr. Wolfe took another sip of wine. He didn't usually enjoy Argentine wines, but this was a smooth, delicious blend.

  Its smoky hue reminded him briefly of those lost days in Venice. He had dressed as a woman to please his cardinal, but it was the cardinal who had turned him into a werewolf. It had shocked and saddened him that a religious man would deliberately curse the one he loved.

  For Mr. Wolfe, the monthly metamorphosis went from being his albatross to being his salvation. With each change he went through and subsequent recovery, he grew stronger, his supernatural instincts even sharper. He knew that the Catholic Church, which had turned a blind eye to its priests and cardinals' sexual predilections, would change. He'd tried to warn his lover, who grew tired of Mr. Wolfe's growing...spirituality, his need to be something more than a sex toy.

  They had parted, bitterly, Mr. Wolfe taking up a trade as a pattern maker for a seamstress in St. Mark's Square. He was busy working when the local magistrates rounded up the known homosexuals and flogged them, finally tying them to stakes and setting
them on fire.

  The smell.

  That was what roused Mr. Wolfe's attention in the first place. The smell of burning flesh. It had taken him years to allow himself to eat cooked mat again. He had seen his former lover perish in a cloud of screams and flaming hair. It wasn't right.

  Mr. Wolfe was forced to move on. He had a double curse now. He was not only a finocchio, but he was a werewolf. It was only a matter of time before the authorities caught and killed him, roasting him alive.

  He lost his taste for his meal. He dabbed his lips with a napkin. He'd detected the flavor of fennel in the bottled seasoning he'd bought at the market. He would never, ever eat fennel. He couldn't stand the smell. When the men had been burned at the stake in St. Mark's Square, the authorities had sprinkled their agonized bodies with fennel seeds in an effort to hide the smell.

  Mr. Wolfe hurried from the room with his plate and glass, tossing the remnants of his meal into the garbage disposal. He threw water over his now sweaty face.

  He breathed heavily.

  Yes. He knew now what would happen to Vez, and felt powerless to stop it.

  The kitchen felt warm, too warm and he stepped outside, gulping the cool air into his lungs.

  He felt sorry for Vez, who suffered the same unrequited love so many humans went in for. He knew how long these lopsided passions could last. It wasn't a harmless love. Far from it. The old poets had given it a name.

  Limerence.

  It was, they said, an involuntary state where a person found themselves obsessed and determined to have their feelings reciprocated.

  In the past, Mr. Wolfe had found his attraction toward other men, but after the shock of his association with the cardinal, focused on his craft.

  When he met Ambrosio, all his old beliefs, his carefully guarded emotions fell away like winter coats. Their love was mutual. Their intense need to continue the work started and taught by so many who had passed on centuries ago was as important as their nightly hugs and kisses.

  Mr. Wolfe would not let Vez or anybody else destroy their clandestine network of artisans; the hat makers, the shoe makers, sewers, pattern makers, designers, the dressers, wardrobe managers; the unseen, unsung talents whose work brought to life magic each night on stages all over the world.

  The world could be a beautiful place and in each of these creative hands, it was. The arts were vital to allow humans to dream and thrive. Without the possibility of hope, there was no point to it all.

  Many of those he worked with were his contemporaries from centuries ago, living in secret but not out of shame. It was out of necessity to keep the dream of fantasy and flight alive. Each had a purpose, to teach, to sew and to help their students let their lights shine. The old ways would never die as long as people like Mr. Wolfe could still hold a needle and thread in his hand.

  He let out a ragged breath when he heard Ambrosio's SUV pulling into the driveway. He felt whole again as his husband switched off the engine, doused the lights and ran to him. They fell into each other's arms, Mr. Wolfe delighting in the rub of Ambrosio's nipple shields against his chest.

  "Man, they hurt," Ambrosio said, jumping back. "They have been keeping me on fire all day."

  "Perfect," Mr. Wolfe said, taking him by the hand. "Shall I make it all better for you?"

  "Yeah," Ambrosio grumped. "As soon as I've had my supper."

  * * * *

  Mr. Wolfe lay across the sofa, his heartbeat thundering in his head. Feeding Ambrosio was somehow intoxicating, especially when his husband needed an urgent feed. He made Mr. Wolfe almost come, but extracted his teeth from Mr. Wolfe's throat at the last possible moment.

  "Are you okay?" Ambrosio asked, licking the last drop of blood from his lips. Suddenly, he licked his finger and sniffed it. "Fennel. You never eat fennel."

  "It was a mistake."

  Ambrosio frowned. "Not a mistake. Another sign."

  "Another one?"

  "I heard Strange Fruit on the radio this evening. How often do you hear that song these days?"

  "Not often," Mr. Wolfe agreed.

  Ambrosio put his hand on Mr. Wolfe's thigh, leaned in and slicked the bite wound on his neck closed with his warm tongue. Mr. Wolfe's cock leapt in his pants.

  "Somebody's eager." Ambrosio put his hand over Mr. Wolfe's bulge. "I think we need to finish this in bed."

  "Why? Don't you like our sofa?"

  "I love our sofa, but I think Vez followed me here."

  That was a surprise. "Really? And still you fed from me?" Mr. Wolfe sat up now, peering out of the window through the filmy white sheers.

  "He's not outside now, but he might turn up. Besides, I was hungry."

  He grinned at Mr. Wolfe, who cupped Ambrosio's beautiful face in his hands.

  "I live to care for you. Any word from our girl?"

  "She's coming next week. Wolfie, are you as excited as I am?"

  Mr. Wolfe had no chance to respond. Ambrosio had unbuttoned Mr. Wolfe's fly and whipped out his cock.

  "My treasure," he breathed, beginning to suck it.

  Mr. Wolfe's ass came off the sofa. Ambrosio's canine teeth hadn't quite retreated and he loved the way they gently grazed his shaft.

  Ambrosio lifted his head. "Come, baby." He led Mr. Wolfe by the cock upstairs to their room, switching off lights as they went.

  In the sanctity of their bedroom, Ambrosio pushed his husband to the bed and continued sucking him. Mr. Wolfe writhed and bucked, not wanting to come yet, but not able to stop himself either.

  He came hard and deep in Ambrosio's throat, his hands threaded into his man's silken hair. He fell back against the bed, images of colors moving like lava lamps dancing in his mind. He couldn't move.

  Ambrosio took off all of Mr. Wolfe's clothing, then his own. He moved across the room, cock bouncing, and returned with a wooden case. He opened it.

  Mr. Wolfe sat up, his heart beating just a little bit faster.

  "My man's pleasure?" Ambrosio gazed deeply into Mr. Wolfe's eyes.

  What a choice! Mr. Wolfe rarely got to pick the cock ring his husband was going to wear, but he knew all of them and loved each and every one Ambrosio had carefully collected over the last three hundred years.

  He'd been fascinated to learn that the first cock rings had been fashioned in ancient China out of goats' eyelids. Their lashes were left intact to pleasure the recipient of the grand fucking.

  Thankfully, there were no eyelids in this collection, but there were some real beauties. He couldn't choose. He loved the whimsical nuts and bolts cock ring they had bought together in Chicago. He wanted something different.

  Ah, yes.

  He pondered his two hot picks. It was between the leather sling that had been custom made by Ambrosio and the simple silicone C-sling. The leather one came with rounded studs and gemstones positioned to massage Mr. Wolfe's perineum. The C-sling did the same thing but Mr. Wolfe always felt he was being taken by a Roman gladiator when Ambrosio wore the stone-encrusted leather bindings.

  "That one." His long fingers fell on the cool opals and moonstones set into the strap.

  Ambrosio stood at the edge of the bed, whisked out the leather cock-sling and grinned as Mr. Wolfe scrambled forward, capturing Ambrosio's cock with eager lips.

  Mr. Wolfe sucked on him, tasting the sweet juices a fresh feeding always gave Ambrosio. He released him with a loud pop, then bent down to suckle his husband's balls. They were big and tasty. He loved sucking one, then the other, then both into his mouth.

  "I swear one day you'll bite them both off," Ambrosio ground out. He bit his lip. "Oh, God that feels good." He ran his hands over Mr. Wolfe's head, putting his fingers to the hair band that kept his long tresses at bay. "Love your hair loose." He gasped when Mr. Wolfe released his ball sac and went back to sucking his cock.

  Mr. Wolfe ran his tongue along the thick vein in Ambrosio's huge shaft. The vein became more pronounced when Ambrosio had fed and was always extra sensitive.

  He felt his lover twitchin
g away from him. Pleasure and pain.

  Mr. Wolfe reached up and gently removed the nipple shields. He tenderly touched the red, protruding nubs.

  "Nooo--" Ambrosio began but Mr. Wolfe's mouth tightened around his shaft and Ambrosio came with a roar. Mr. Wolfe prided himself on giving him these monster orgasms. He tugged Ambrosio to the bed the moment it was all over and began kissing and licking his face.

  Ambrosio's eyes remained closed in ecstasy, Mr. Wolfe's favorite expression on his husband's face. Ambrosio's cock remained hard, but Mr. Wolfe knew it was sensitive to the touch. He left it alone a few minutes, and the sensitive nipples, and focused on the rest of Ambrosio's perfect body. Tongue and lips sought their favorite, hallowed places, and he warmed to his task as Ambrosio's eyes opened.

  Ah, he was ready for round two.

  Ambrosio climbed atop him, their cocks colliding. He grabbed them in one hand, stroking them gently against one another.

  "I've always wanted to fuck you when you've turned," Ambrosio suddenly announced. "I bet you're a real tiger with your fangs and fur."

  "Something like that."

  Mr. Wolfe couldn't think straight. They both knew it was impossible. Mr. Wolfe became a deranged lunatic with an urge to kill when he turned. He'd learned to run and hide, Ambrosio helping him by keeping him locked away.

  "One day, we'll try." Ambrosio lowered his body onto Mr. Wolfe's and kissed him deeply. Their tongues danced over one another, Ambrosio's hand moving between Mr. Wolfe's legs now.

  Their gazes held as Ambrosio began running his fingers along Mr. Wolfe's perineum. They both knew the hard stones on the leather cock-strap would soon be invigorating this sensitive spot.

  Ambrosio flipped Mr. Wolfe over onto his belly, slapping his ass.

  "On your knees."

  Mr. Wolfe obeyed, rising as Ambrosio's mouth moved right in on him. Mr. Wolfe backed up against his husband's deliciously invasive mouth and loved the feel of his teeth and tongue working on him. He let out a groan.

  Ambrosio leaned back, Mr. Wolfe already missing his man's mouth. He could hear Ambrosio fastening the strap to his cock and almost screamed with pleasure when he felt Ambrosio running his beautiful shaft across his ass cheeks. He could feel the moist pearls leaking from it and begged, "Fuck me, please, Ambrosio."