Her lips were red, decadently stained, and her neck was bleeding, just as Richard’s had been, and just as the neck of the man beneath her was doing.
Only her blood, and her companion’s, was almost black.
Confusion surged like bile in Richard’s throat. What did it mean, the biting? The blood? Absurd concepts tried to present themselves to him, but his mind was so blank with shock he could not get a grip on them. Even though she was fucking another man before his very eyes, Richard wanted to go to her, but when he took a step forwards, she growled out a warning, low and ferocious.
As if turned to stone, Richard could only watch.
Mel lifted herself, and slammed down, lifted herself, and slammed down. The blond man made sounds just as unearthly as she had, his long narrow hands coming up and roving all over her body, sliding beneath the remnants of lace and silk and squeezing and fondling possessively. Richard cringed and ached as he saw those alien fingertips slide into his wife’s bottom cleft and toy with her there, inducing fierce groans and shimmies of lewd ecstasy from Mel. Tears filled his eyes and streamed down his face when the lean and hungry lover reared up from the bed and latched his stained mouth onto Mel’s nipple and began to suck and bite.
The unholy communion went on and on. How long could they last? How long could they torment him with their writhing and mutual pawing?
Sick with humiliation, Richard unzipped himself and took his cock in his hand. He wanted to die, but he wanted to come too. As Mel and her lover fucked and writhed and humped, he wanked himself furiously, barely even feeling any pleasure in it, just driven by a gnawing, raw compulsion.
As they roared in triumph, he sobbed and spurted on the carpet. Staggering and falling, he curled up into a ball, unable to face the loss, the shame, the sadness.
Richard lay there for an indeterminate period, frozen, paralysed by the weight of his own shortcomings, the faults that had brought him to this misery. Who could blame Mel for taking a lover? He’d done it, and he had much less reason to than her. His anguish was so intense, he wanted to drown in it. He wanted to die.
Then, before he really realised what was happening, he was lifted up. Bodily. Like a feather’s weight, like a child.
Stark terror and a strange sense of being nurtured made him keep his eyes closed. It had to be the strong-looking blond man who carried him to the bed, surely? Only a man had the muscle to lift another man.
So why did he imagine, in his fever, that it was Mel? Why did he feel scraps of lace and her sumptuous breasts pressed against him.
‘Richard, open your eyes.’
It was a command, all wrapped around in the perfume of dead roses. Fearfully, he obeyed, looking upwards at two faces looking down at him. Unable to help himself, he scowled and twisted away from the blond man.
‘Now, now, now, darling, don’t be like that.’ Mel pressed a long crimson-tipped fingernail to his brow, then his mouth, smoothing out the displeasure. ‘This is Sylvester, and he’s our friend … You’ll grow to love him.’
What?
Richard shook his head, trying to clear it. Him, love a man? That was bullshit.
And yet a moment later, he succumbed, when the handsome blond touched him and began to kiss his heated skin.
Sylvester smelled of roses, and also of blood, sharp and metallic. His long tongue was pointed like a lizard’s, as it flicked his throat and his jaw, and slid momentarily into his ear. In Richard’s mind it seemed to coil around his cock. Helplessly lost, he closed his eyes and slumped back against the pillows, all the while aware that Mel was working on his clothing.
Her hand slid beneath the panels of his shirt, peeling them back like wings and baring his chest. As Sylvester tongued his neck and shoulder, she pressed a fingertip to his left nipple and delicately swivelled it around, then went in hard, with an excruciating little pinch. The pain was sharp and sweet and he groaned and wriggled, breathing in the man’s fragrance, which smelled identical to Mel’s.
Then it was his trousers that were torn off him, and his boxers with them. His sticky cock came bounding up, aroused anew. Struggling to find his thoughts, his will, he tried to fight them, but it was hopeless. He was overwhelmed, he was their toy, just eager flesh to play with.
Eyes tightly closed, he tried to ignore the second presence on the bed, but it was impossible. He sobbed, acknowledging that they’d now changed places and it was Sylvester attending to his cock, while Mel kissed his naked chest and bit at his nipples.
Tears streamed down his face as a cold mouth took him in, and he screamed like a child as he smelled blood, dark and coppery. His consciousness wavered, then he realised it was from his chest, not down below.
Pleasure flooded through him, dark and tainted. Hands and mouths roved over his body, touching fondly, kissing, licking and biting. Tongues and teeth grazed and tasted his naked skin.
Finally, he was enveloped again. Cool, lush liquidity around his cock, which made him whine and squirm.
Mel? Sylvester? He could no longer tell, they seemed one being, one lover, all devouring.
When sharp teeth plunged into his neck, his cock jerked and jerked again, disgorging semen. His world went white, the pleasure unbearable, his soul extinguished.
He felt odd, strange, not himself.
As Richard struggled to wake, it seemed as if his body wasn’t his, but someone else’s. It felt weak, empty and feverish, yet still aroused.
He couldn’t seem to move, but the smell of roses made his dick leap.
‘Open your eyes, Richard. Open your eyes.’
He raised his heavy lids and saw his wife, naked and entwined with her lover. Sylvester’s hand was between her thighs, slowly moving. Her smile was silky, her body gleamed.
Her eyes were red.
A curtain of misdirection fell away.
‘Wh – What are you?’ Richard gasped, trembling in fear and sweating with horror, yet still cruelly turned on.
‘Oh, I think you know, Richard, don’t you? Surely it’s obvious?’
‘But they’re not real … V –’
‘Hush!’ Her soft hand stopped his mouth, even as she writhed in obvious pleasure.
‘But how?’
For several moments, she rocked and swayed, then groaned with pleasure.
A second later, she looked straight at him, cool and level.
‘I had an intruder, remember?’ Leaning over, watching him from the corner of her eye, she slowly licked her lover’s neck, scooping up his unnatural blood with her questing tongue. ‘But he came back too, and made an offer that I simply couldn’t resist.’
Richard felt like weeping again. He loved Mel. He wanted her. And now this …
‘But I love you,’ he said in a small voice, his body aching.
‘And I love you too, Richard. Really, I do. And so does Sylvester.’
As if to prove it, the handsome blond reached across and casually and with fingers of ice, stroked Richard’s cock.
Intense pleasure speared through him and, at the same time, familiar visions from a dozen movies filled his mind.
He saw the legendary sinister European aristocrat, a familiar archetype with pointed teeth, crimson eyes and a billowing black cloak.
And beside him, his voluptuous bride, voracious, cold and beautiful.
Mel smiled, as if delighted that he finally comprehended. Her sharp white teeth appeared to sparkle and the wound in Richard’s neck began to throb.
‘Am I like you?’
A great peal of laughter rang out, like a tumbling bell, filling the room.
‘Oh no, my sweet. You left me, remember? You don’t deserve the big prize.’
Shivers, both cold and febrile, racked his body. He knew he was different, but if not like them, how had they changed him?
‘You’re our servant, Richard. Our toy, our food, our plaything …’ She paused, not looking at Richard’s face, but watching Sylvester’s slender fingers ply his pulsing, aching flesh. Despite everything, Richard w
as rigid, stiff, responsive. Despite everything, he was enthralled by the touch of another man.
‘Don’t you know the Dracula story, husband? Don’t you realise?’ Mel purred in Richard’s ear while her lover pumped his cock. ‘You’re our Renfield, my love. Our creature. For all eternity.’
As Richard sobbed and jerked and climaxed, he felt quite happy.
Watching the Detective
UH-OH, HERE WE go! How many times have I heard this theme tune tonight? How many times have I pressed my hand to my heart as if I could stop it pounding fifteen to the dozen? I always get a little tingle when I hear this heavy plinkety-plunking intro. A fluttery tingle in my mid-section and a big fat horny twinge way down low, because I know I’m going to see him any second!
Or at least I’ll see him if we don’t get struck by lightning in the meantime. There’s a classic Hammer Horror thunderstorm raging outside and the power’s been fluctuating and even gone out momentarily once or twice. It’s not all that long since we moved into this old house that my uncle Edgar left me and, frankly, it’s a bit of a death-trap. The electric wiring is rudimentary in places – and the plumbing and the heating aren’t much better either.
We’re warm and cosy at the moment, though, in spite of the crashing thunder, the pouring rain and temperatures outside that feel more like midwinter than 23 June. Our big old bed is like the warren of some animal tonight, a sweaty sexy burrow of tangled sheets and a moth-eaten duvet, all garnished with a liberal smattering of crumbs and crisp bits from our usual television snacking.
Normally, at midnight, I’d be fast asleep, snuggled up against my honey, breathing in his familiar raunchy man-smell and probably smiling in my slumbers.
But tonight isn’t a normal night. It’s the Midsummer’s Eve twelve-hour marathon of my all-time favourite cop show, and my boyfriend Sam and I have decided to watch the whole thing here in bed.
Well, I’m watching.
Sam’s not the rabid fan of the show that I am, but he’s an easy-going soul – bless his heart – so he indulges me in my televisual obsession. He’s been passing most of his time catching up on his newspaper reading, and poring over back issues of his beloved car magazines while I worship at the shrine of The Detective.
Oh, The Detective! He’s a bit like the chocolate biscuits I’ve been scoffing far too many of – irresistibly delicious, but detrimental in unrestrained excess. I ought to feel guilty but I couldn’t give a monkey’s!
It’s terrible of me really.
Here I lie, ogling my god while my real sweet long-suffering bloke lies ignored beside me, making his own amusement. Not many other men would stand for such offhand treatment so amiably, so, in a spirit of fairness, and because I’m very turned on, I start feeling Sam up during the adverts. There’s a less than brilliant episode on just now, so I decide that I can spare some of my attention in order to rub my pelvis provocatively against the man who’s actually in my bed. He deserves a treat for putting up with my foibles, and pretty soon he takes notice. I’ve surreptitiously slipped off my panties and kicked them away down amongst the mangled covers. And when The Detective makes his big entrance, scoping out the scene of the crime, I notice that Sam starts touching me and naughtily flicking my clit. I’ve got a sneaking feeling this is something of a sly competitive tactic on his part, to see if he can completely wrest my attention from the screen, but who cares what it is when it feels so wicked and so good. Pretty soon, I’m wriggling and pulling at him, Detective or no Detective, and Sam complies obligingly by climbing on top, slotting himself into me and starting to pump.
Mmm … that feels so good … so familiar, yet also new … because I’m still following the course of the investigation … oh, bad me!
From time to time, I grapple with my concentration, and attempt to focus on Sam, who I think the world of, and who is undeniably very cute and lovable. But, as my cunt ripples, he drifts inevitably from my consciousness. All of a sudden it’s The Mighty Detective between my legs, shagging me senseless.
My Detective, oh my Detective, how can I describe thee? You’re so tall and broad and handsome, with your angelic face, your naughty mouth and your bitter-chocolate eyes full of mischief and wisdom. It might actually be Sam putting his back into it between my legs, but it’s your passionate lips that I’m kissing and your huge delicious dick that’s surging inside me. And your name I moan deliriously as I come.
Oh my God, what a selfish bitch I am! The instant I’ve stopped fluttering and glowing and I’m back in my body again, a great weight of lip-gnawing guilt descends upon me. It’s one thing to have a crush on a television character and fantasise about him during sex – but it’s well out of order to let your partner know you’re actually doing it at the time!
How could I do that? Isn’t it bad enough that I’m subjecting Sam to twelve hours of the big guy on the television?
But my Sam is a saint and, now that’s he’s huffed and puffed and shot his load, he’s feeling more than mellow. He just chuckles and gives me a sloppy affectionate kiss.
‘I knew you were pretending I was him,’ he growls, mock fierce, and beneath the covers he slaps me playfully on the thigh ‘But don’t worry, it was me you were fucking, and not Sherlock, so I’m still the winner.’ Rolling over, he squeezes my bottom, and gives that a little play tap too. Well, slightly more than a tap … It’s a second slap that stings in a mild but interesting way. ‘And you can always make it up to me by giving me a nice blow job when the next lot of news comes on!’
‘Um … OK.’ I feel strangely shaken by those slaps, especially because all of a sudden they make me want to fuck again. We’ve never actually played spanking games but it’s something I’ve always thought of suggesting.
A few pretty half-baked scenarios flit through my mind during the next adverts, but, after a few minutes of car insurance, teeth whiteners and Andie MacDowell’s hair, it’s time to commune with my glorious hero again. There’s one of my very favourite episodes coming up next but a part of me still can’t help thinking about those slaps. Sam was only fooling about, but to me they suddenly seem quite deadly serious. God knows, I deserve to be punished after my faux pas over The Great Detective’s name!
As the channel ident flashes, I steal a split-second glance at Sam, but he’s fast asleep already, mouth open, mad black curly hair sticking up at all angles and a tea stain down the front of his muscle vest. What a contrast to the sartorial GQ treat that lies ahead of me.
The story preamble begins. Some nasty perp up to no good as usual, but I’m not yet paying full attention due to The Detective not appearing until after the credits. Then the credits begin … thunder rolls … and the room goes black!
‘Fucking, fuckety fuck!’ I shout, regardless of Sam’s slumbers, and, like an idiot, I start stabbing buttons on the remote still in my hand. As if that’ll restore the electricity.
And yet, against the odds, it does do something. Thunder cracks again and the lights flicker faintly but only for a second. They go out again, but, astonishingly, the television springs back to life. The screen looks slightly blue tinted, but not too badly. It’s still perfectly watchable.
And the credits of my beloved cop show are still rolling.
At least it seems to be my cop show. My heart leaps again with bubbling excitement. It must be a special episode or something – maybe recorded just for this marathon – because the sequence of images isn’t one I’ve ever seen before. The frames are sharp, ultra clear, almost 3D, and, as they fade from one to the other, each one of the hairs on the back of my neck seem to prickle and rise individually. And, even though it’s the same familiar music, and the same graphic styling, there’s only the one character featured in the montage.
It’s just The Detective with no sign whatsoever of the rest of the team.
And at the end, he seems to walk towards the camera, my guy, tall and intent, dressed in an immaculate thousand-dollar suit of bluish grey. His long stride eats up the ground and, as he approaches, he ju
st keeps on coming … and coming … and coming …
‘Vicky Sheridan?’ he enquires imperiously when he reaches me, flipping out his handcuffs from the clip at his belt.
But, before I can answer, he grabs me by the shoulder, hauls me from the bed and snaps the cuffs on me while I’m still wondering what’s happening and trying to catch my breath.
What?
‘You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.’ He grips my shoulder again, and propels me forwards, parroting out the Miranda as if I’m the lowest of low-life scuzz-buckets he’s just apprehended. ‘You have the right to speak to an attorney, and to have an attorney present during any questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you at government expense. Do you understand the rights I have just read to you? With these rights in mind, do you wish to speak to me?’
By now, he’s manhandling me through a familiar door into a familiar room, and I’m so gob-smacked I don’t have a breath of resistance in me.
It’s the interrogation room. We’re in a familiar chilly grey box with the mirror and the metal table and chairs that I’ve seen in scores of episodes. And it’s just as soulless and intimidating in real life as it is on the television.
Real life? What the hell am I talking about ‘real life’ for? My heart’s bouncing around as if it’s on a bungee and my skin is a pointillist fresco of painful goose-bumps. This isn’t real. How can I be here? This place is just a film set, really.
It’s all got to be a dream but, despite that, I can touch and I can feel.
Especially The Detective.
He still has me by the arm and his fingers are like points of fire against my bare arm while I just stand like a lemon in the middle of this cold claustrophobic room, letting him loom over me like a dark imposing nemesis. All these months – years even – of adoring him, and now I’m too afraid to even lift my eyes and look up into his face. I just stare in awe at the shiny polished toes of his great size-thirteen shoes.
The Red Collection Page 11
