Summer blinked, willing her thoughts back to the here and now.
“More? Absolutely…lead on, please.”
Lucien toured her around the expansive house. Among the oil paintings, antiques and the heavy brocade draperies, she noticed retractable steel hurricane shutters affixed to windows.
He became aware they had attracted her attention.
“Oh, those,” he pointed to the shutters. “The sun cannot kill me any longer, but it does scar. Like other creatures, we vampires are by nature nocturnal. I don’t have to sleep through the daylight hours, but it is my nature to.” He ran his hand over the grey metal covering the windows.
“These allow me to keep what hours I choose.”
“Do you sleep in a…,” she tentatively began.
“A bed,” he interrupted. “When I sleep, I sleep in a bed.”
She had envisioned him sleeping in a dark, underground chamber hidden in the depths of the house, smelling of moist earth and mildew. The knowledge that he slept in a bed comforted her.
“Would you like to see it?”
“If you’d like to show it to me.”
She trailed him up the narrow staircase to the second floor landing, and followed the switchback of the railing to a doorway at the end of the hall. Lucien lifted a floorboard along the wall, extracting an old skeleton key. A shudder ran through Summer as her imagination conjured reasons for the secreted key. With a rusty grind, he turned it in the lock and swung the door wide.
She wasn’t certain what she would discover on the other side of the old oak door. She peered into the room, feeling uncomfortable at crossing the threshold. It seemed like a violation of his privacy for her to do so.
An ancient Chinese Marriage bed was the centerpiece of the small room. Carved of camphor wood, the bed was roofed, and enclosed on three sides. A set of four stairs led to a keyhole-shaped opening, through which she spied the thickness of a downy feather bed inside. It was the most erotic bed she had ever seen.
“There you go,” he said, patting her on the back. “See…no spiders or dripping candelabra…all perfectly normal.”
Reality and myth intermingled in her brain, and she wasn’t sure what to believe about vampires anymore.
“There’s one last place I’d like show you.”
He led her to a room on the third floor.
“This is my studio,” he announced.
Summer stepped through the small wooden door into a sparsely furnished room with sharply angled ceilings and open rafters. Aged and peeling plaster freckled the brick walls.
A kaleidoscope of oil paint splattered the wide planks of the wooden floor, and a tall blank canvas sat atop an artist’s easel. Staged in front of the easel was a Louis XVI fainting couch, thickly tufted in burgundy velvet. A sliver of moonlight illuminated dust motes skittering across the wood of a primitive farm table.
Of all Lucien’s finely appointed rooms, Summer loved this one the best. It was comforting in its simplicity. Its rustic, earthy quality recalled a starving artist retreat. She felt she had entered a cozy garret, high above the fields of Provence. There was a sense of safety here…a haven from all that had been happening around her.
“This is my favorite room of the house,” informed Lucien.
“Mine too!” she concurred. “You paint, then? What have you done, can I see your works?” Summer implored.
“In my time, everyone with means studied painting.” He picked a cloth from the floor, covering the empty canvas with it.
“I haven’t painted in a very long time.”
Lucien’s arms encircled her waist. Summer melted into his embrace, their bodies fitting together like two halves of a whole. In the stillness of the moment, the weight of the day’s events descended on her with an avalanche of emotion. She clung tightly to him, wanting to sob her troubles into his chest.
“Stay with me tonight,” he urged. “Forget about everything but here and now.” He placed a kiss on the crown of her head. “Trust me on this. Our past is no more or less than a memory, and the future is only a figment of our imagination,” he said with a grave and dreadful wisdom. “Mortal or immortal, all we ever have is the present moment.” He stepped back, grasping her forearms. Pursing his lips, his brow furrowed with disapproval. “Now turn that frown upside down, and say you’ll stay.”
Any misgivings she had about Lucien fell away like leaves on a winter tree. He held her spellbound, and she adored every minute of it. The affair that had sprung from curiosity was rapidly becoming her obsession.
“Do you even have to ask?” she said. “I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else tonight.”
“Brilliant!” He exclaimed. “You stay put, and I will go to the kitchen to see what the housekeeper has left in the way of food.”
”You have a housekeeper?”
“She thinks that I work nights, and does not dare disturb me while I sleep right under her little pug nose. Poor thing slaves in the kitchen, and she would be so disappointed to know that her hard work goes down the disposal every night.” He turned on his heels and exited the room.
Summer listened to the sound of his footfalls on the wooden staircase grow faint. She sat on the velvet couch, running her hands across the plush fabric. The couch was very old. Everything he had in the house was old. In fact, other than the kitchen, she couldn’t recall a single modern object. Why would he torture himself with constant reminders of what once was? Summer wondered if she would ever understand this mercurial man.
She reclined on the fainting couch, her ears listening for his return. God, he’d only been gone a few a minutes, and she missed him already. Her eyes roamed the room, wondering what to do in his absence. Then she had an idea.
Guess Who’s Coming for Dinner
Returning laden with food and drink, Lucien stopped dead in his tracks. “Mon Dieu!” he exclaimed.
Summer’s nude body lay stretched out on its side on the fainting couch. She propped herself on one elbow, using her hand to support her head. Silken waves of hair cascaded to her shoulders, and his mouth watered at the sight of the ripe, golden apples of her breasts. Her skin was the color of amber grain and her mouth red as a sunset. His gaze followed the swell of her hips to the narrow row of blonde curls which beckoned to him from between her legs. Like a compass to North, his cock pointed towards her plump, pink opening.
“You like?” she purred.
“Definitely, most definitely,” he said nodding. “I like very much.”
“Then wine me, dine me and sixty-nine me,” she growled. “Feel free to reverse the order.”
This was his kind of woman! His heart drummed in his ears as he hastily placed the platters of food on the table, never once taking his eye off of her.
Lucien unbuckled his belt, snapping it free from his jeans. He intended on giving her everything she wanted tonight and more. He’d give her a fucking she wouldn’t soon forget!
Her hand slipped between her legs as he tossed his shirt to the floor.
“You’d better hurry,” she moaned. “I’m starting without you.”
His hardened cock nudged through the fly of his underwear, straining painfully against the sharp metal teeth of his zipper. Kicking off his boots, he envisioned spreading her legs and burying his face in her pussy… tonguing every inch, every fold, every opening. Desire surged through his cold flesh like a flash flood through a canyon.
He strode to the couch and, standing over her, stepped out of his pants, his cock springing free, swollen and erect. Summer sat upright. She drank in the sight of him as she might a Michelangelo sculpture. His chest was hairless with hard, flat pectoral muscles tapering into a slim abdomen, rippling with muscular hills and valleys. Between his strong legs, his cock rose like a spire, rigid and robust, flanked by the fruit of his manhood, as round and firm as two figs.
She craved him, craved his touch, craved the weight of his body pressing heavily on hers. Her sex craved the pummeling of his punishing prick.
Lucie
n gave her a sinister grin.
“So you want to be wined and dined and sixty-nined, do you?”
Before she could answer, he scooped her up into his arms and carried her across the room. “Care to join me for dinner?” he said, dropping her onto the long wooden table.
The drop wasn’t more than a few inches and didn’t hurt at all, but the abruptness and force of Lucien’s actions sent thrills of anticipation through her body.
“What’s on the menu?” she asked.
“You are,” he replied, grabbing a mound of soft sweet cream butter from a platter with his fingers. It plopped with a gooey splat on her abdomen. It slowly melted into viscous oil as it contacted her sizzling flesh.
Lucien basted the round hills of her breasts, polishing her globes with the velvety grease. His touch was as cool as satin as it slid over her skin. Snake-eye and Slick had nothing on the wonders of this creamy butter. As he fanned his fingers and greased her abdomen with the flat of his hand, she felt as slippery as an eel. Her whole body squirmed in anticipation, her juices trickling from her and soaking the wooden table below.
“What are you doing to me?” she moaned, bending her legs and opening them to his touch. She longed to experience the oily goodness sliding over her tender folds, mingling there with her wetness. She raised her hips in supplication, but Lucien did not comply.
He licked his lips and smiled, revealing the exquisite points of his canines. “I am preparing to eat you,” he said. “And a Frenchman always prepares his dish with butter.”
Summer startled for a moment, rising up on her elbows at his remark, which seemed to please Lucien immensely. With a hearty laugh, he pressed her shoulders back to the table.
“Relax,” he said. “Culinary cunnilingus is what I have in mind. Now just lie back while I show you the two things the French are most skilled in - food and fucking.”
Under this circumstance, she didn’t mind being the main course. Stretching out on the table, she plucked an apple from the tray. “Only if you promise to make me squeal,” she said before popping it whole into her mouth.
Lucien laughed, shaking his head. “No, no,” he said, removing the apple. “I have something else in mind to put in there.”
“I can see that you do,” she replied, hungrily eyeing his erection. Her mouth watered for the taste of it.
She watched Lucien dip his hand into the honey pot withdrawing a sticky glob. Every nerve of her body stood in anticipation as she wondered where he would place those honeyed fingers. He held his fingers a few inches above her lips. She looked up at him, unsure what to do. He opened his mouth, raising his eyebrows in encouragement. She followed suit, opening her mouth like a baby bird, to catch the drops of golden sweetness on the tip of her tongue as they slid from Lucien’s fingertips.
With honey still pooled on her tongue, Lucien lowered his mouth onto hers. Summer shared the taste of wild honey with him, swirling her tongue over his and coating his teeth with the sublime nectar, paying special attention to the sharp points of his fangs.
Her whole body suddenly felt light and insubstantial, as if she had no weight at all. She had a strange urge to purposely slice her tongue along the razor sharp tip of his fangs and allow her blood to mingle with the honey. This urge was as compelling as the one that caused her hips to rise and writhe in the direction of his cock.
Any thoughts of danger and death fell away. The want to surrender her blood to him was all consuming, as instinctual and primitive as a mother’s need to offer her breast to her hungry baby.
Lucien pulled his mouth from hers, his eyes like a cheetah, startling in their ferocity. Summer shrank with alarm at the feral look of them. Shuddering, he closed his eyelids for a moment, and she heard his voice in her head saying, “Do not test my limits.” When his eyes reopened, she was eased to find the golden glow diminished, but it left her with the sense of having made a narrow escape from some terrible danger.
Lucien seemed to have righted himself, because he snatched another dollop from the pot, this time filling her navel with a golden pool of honey. Although it was no more than a teaspoon, she felt the weight of it pressing on her skin. Her abdomen muscles clenched and quivered as his tongue dipped into her navel, lapping at the honey. She rolled her eyes in ecstasy, a moaning laugh rumbling from her throat as she reveled in the sublime joy of the sensation.
“Oh, fuck me now,” she pleaded, arching her back against the smoothness of the worn, wooden surface. She had her fill of appetizers and hungered for the main course - a big skewer of hot man-meat.
“You Americans,” he chided, walking around the edge of the table until he came to a spot near her head. “Always with your obsession for fast food.” “Oooh,” she whimpered with the realization that he would be prolonging her head-swimming bliss, as he dipped the head of his cock into the honey pot. Golden nectar flowed in thick rivulets down his granite shaft.
His glistening prick head looked like a piece of hard candy, and she wanted to lap it like a lollipop.
Lucien straddled her, the most delectable hors d’oeuvre she had ever seen inches from her mouth. She rolled his cock in her hands, smearing it with the sticky honey. With long, languorous strokes, she licked his shaft, from the bristly edges of his pubic hair all the way to the tip of the head, where the honeyed goodness lay hidden inside of the small slit.
Lucien groaned in approval, placing his hands behind her head and raising her mouth to his prick. She sucked it in whole, feeling the head glide against the back of her throat. She sucked with joy, working the head between her lips, while her hand rhythmically pumped his thick shaft. Her other hand, wet with honey and saliva, grasped his buttock, feeling the taut contraction of the muscles there, as he gently stroked in and out of her mouth.
Ignoring her own needs, she focused only on giving him pleasure. But the feel of his trembling, the sound of his breath as it caught in his throat, excited her. She pressed her thighs together to quell the throbbing there, and found she was quite literally dripping with desire.
Holding his cock with her hand, she brushed the head over her lips, her tongue snaking out to swirl its circumference teasingly. He looked down at her, the muscles of his jaw strung taut with ecstasy, his hair falling around his face and framing it with a savage luxuriance.
He thrust into her mouth more forcefully now, grinding his quivering cock in slow, circular motions after he sank its full length into her. It quivered and jumped in her mouth, ready to spew forth his passion onto the back of her throat. Summer tipped her head back, her hand on his buttock forcing him deeper. His mouth drew back into a grimace, and she knew he was close, but trying with all of his might not to come.
She loved being the cause of his rapture, and the power she had over him at this moment thrilled her to the bone. Torn between bringing him to orgasm and wanting to save him for herself, she used one hand to pump his engorged shaft with a rapid, staccato rhythm as her other hand slipped between the split of his buttocks, a finger easing into the dark, tight opening there.
He threw his head back, his shoulders trembling. Summer felt his prick swell even larger, and she knew he was going to come. But she wanted his cock for her own and she would not let him orgasm. She drew her mouth from his prick, placing pressure with her thumb on a spot just beneath the swollen head, halting his imminent ejaculation.
“Ahhhhh!” he bellowed, long and tortured, with a timbre that rattled the window panes.
Maintaining the pressure of her thumb on his cock, she smiled inwardly with the knowledge that she planned to torture him to the brink and back, again and again.
Summer dished out her tormenting tease until Lucien was panting and pulling his cock from her lips in protest.
Although he was capable of recovering with remarkable rapidity, he did not want this moment to end. He had her for the whole of the night, and he meant to use the time well. He had fed earlier on a pitiful soul, and blood thirst did not gnaw at his bones. His hunger now was of a different sor
t.
Summer grinned at his throbbing prick with the satisfaction of the cat that ate the canary, and he returned the grin, with a mind to dish out a little sexual agony of his own.
Pulling the plain wooden chair to the end of the table, he took a seat between her legs. Summer propped up on her elbows watching his movements.
“Come closer,” he said, motioning with his fingers.
She wriggled her bottom closer to him.
“A little more.”
She pushed nearer.
“Don’t be shy,” he coaxed. “Bring that pretty little pussy over here.” Before she could comply, he grabbed her by the ankles, pulling her bottom to the edge of the table causing her to gasp in surprise.
She was so near now he could smell the heady scent of her musk and see the moisture glisten on the golden strands of her mound like morning dew on a wheat field.
He ran his hands up her silky thighs, from her throat sang a sweet sigh.
“Open your legs for me,” he entreated. “Open them and let me see the petals of your flower.”
Her knees dropped wide, exposing the luscious blush of her pussy, its delicate form reminding him of the calla lilies in the garden. He longed to be like the hummingbirds and dip his tongue into its cup.
With his fingers, he opened her folds, revealing the budding gem of her clitoris. She gasped, rolling her head from side to side, as he blew a thin stream of air lightly over the tiny button.
Dipping a strawberry into the honey, he tickled her swelling clit with the berry’s prickly tip. She squirmed, her hips writhing in retreat and then rising to beg for more. With the deftness of a surgeon, he teased her tiny, throbbing knob, flicking the berry lightly over the very tip, then turning it in tight, slippery circles on the organ, ever careful to apply the right dose of pressure on the sensitive nerves lying just below the skin.
Honey slid into her fleshy folds, coating them with glistening juiciness. Watching the juices run down the edges of her labia, Lucien recalled the long-forgotten taste of strawberries and honey. He sometimes placed food in his mouth just to stir his memory. Often the aroma or the texture of it would cause his mind to conjure the flavors that his condition had dulled over the numberless years.
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