THE LOVE THAT NEVER DIES: Erotic Encounters with the Undead

by Christian, M

  I left.

  Summer's warm sooty grime baptized me into my new world. Thick gray dawn oozed over the city. The air was raw in my reborn throat. I walked slowly down the street, early morning activity rising around me, not thinking, slipping easily back into my passive mindset, waiting for something to happen.

  I reached the corner newsstand.

  He was there, cutting plastic cords from bundles of newspapers. He wore a sort of ring made of dull gray metal with a short curved blade attached to it: he'd hook the blade under the cord and jerk his hand up, snapping the cord. I watched him for a few moments, listening to the sharp pop each plastic band made as it broke.

  He straightened up. Random motion, the turn of his head, brought his eyes directly in line with mine.

  He turned away.

  I stepped closer. My throat felt tight and dry. I opened my mouth to speak and had a sudden coughing spasm.

  I choked and wheezed, wondering what I'd been about to say. I had no idea. The coughing subsided and I looked at him. His face was aimed in my general direction, his expression guarded.

  "I'm closed," he said. "Don't open 'til six."

  "Don't you recognize me?"

  I felt like an idiot. He pulled back slightly and a shadow crossed his face. "Maybe you didn't notice. I don't see much of anything, and I don't place your voice." He had a slight nervous tic. It made his left eye twitch.

  What was I supposed to say? "You, uh – do you remember a guy, buys the paper here every morning – there was something unusual about him."

  "Lotta strange people come around here." He laughed. "Yeah, a lot of strange ones. Look, I didn't notice people much when I had my sight, and I notice 'em even less now, except the ones that don't wash. Come to think of it, that's an awful lot." He laughed again, then kicked the stack of newspapers. "I've got work to do, your highness."

  "Please, just listen to me. This man. You saw – or noticed, or sensed someone with him." I paused, then went on: "A woman. She, well, she wasn't really there, but you could feel her presence. Even though no one else could. You looked right at me when he bought the paper..."

  His face turned away, then back, until it seemed he was staring straight at me. "You sound upset," he said quietly. Almost gently. "Maybe you should go home, relax a little. Take a pill. Calm yourself down."

  "No!" I grabbed at his arm, started babbling. "You saw me, you knew I was there, you saw–" This is too much, I thought. At least give me something. Someone.

  He pulled back, knocked over a magazine display, almost fell. He reached into his hip pocket, fumbling, and pulled out a knife. "Leave me alone," he said hoarsely. "God damn you, I'm blind, but I can protect myself!" He shook the knife at me. His whole body was shaking. The twitch in his face became pronounced.

  His nervous tic. It got so bad that his left eye spasmed briefly shut. It looked just like, almost exactly like, a wink.

  It looked as if he'd winked at me.

  It hit me all at once. I sank down to the pavement and began to cry.

  * * * *

  My mother reached out and slapped me.

  "Stop crying, you little bitch! Don't you ever say anything like that about your father again." Her face showed disbelief, incomprehension. "Are you crazy? What would make you invent such a disgusting lie? Get out of here, it makes me sick to look at you."

  I ran upstairs, sobbing. I told my sister what had happened.

  "You really are crazy," she said. She was seventeen, three years older than me. "She knows what's going on, she just won't admit it. Even to herself. She'd rather kill you than face something like this. When are you going to learn to stop feeling sorry for yourself and use your hold over the old bastard? I got a car out of him. – Besides, he'll probably stop soon."

  * * * *

  I wasn't sure where I was, or what I was doing. My eyes wouldn't focus. A red and white blur stared up at me. I shook my head, my mind slowly crawling back up from some dark place.

  It was night. I was crouched in an alley beneath a neon sign, its flickering red glow promising warmth and beer just around the corner. Beneath me lay the body of a man. A knife hilt protruded from the man's eye.

  I stood stiffly and leaned against the wall under the sign. It was hard to see the blood in the wash of red light, but I could tell there was a lot of it.

  Memory seeped into me. Confused flight, nights in the street. The terror of being absolutely alone. Other bodies like this one.

  A numbing fire burned within me.

  I pushed myself away from the wall and stepped over the body. I felt sluggish, as if some invisible dead weight were dragging behind me.

  There was the barest flicker in my peripheral vision.

  I grinned, cold and feral and happy. I was strong. I knew what was happening. He'd come to me when he had strength enough; and I would take him again.

  Leaving the body in its neon puddle, I walked out of the light.

  LES BON TEMPSC. C. WILLIAMS

  The rain continued to fall, cascading over the Honda and challenging the windshield wipers; torrents of water fell from the gray sky, hiding the full moon. The seemingly unending downpour made it even more difficult to find the turn-off from Louisiana 61. I'd left I-10 and Baton Rouge behind as I made my way through the wilds of St. James parish.

  It was nearly 10 o'clock at night when I finally found the driveway that led to Uncle Jean-Luc's farm. I'd not been to the farm in years, not since I was fifteen. I got lost twice before finding the right road. To tell the truth, I wasn't in such a hurry to get there.

  My great-uncle Jean-Luc had passed two weeks before. My father was the executor of the estate, but we lived in Texas, so it took some time before someone was designated to go close up the old house and figure out what to do with Jean-Luc's effects. Being unemployed, I was elected. I wasn't thrilled with the commission – Uncle Luc's house was haunted. Now there's nothing unusual about old plantation homes in the South being haunted: everyone is familiar with the stories surrounding Oak Alley near New Orleans. Normally the ghost in question is some lovely, wispy "white lady" or a small child who giggles or cries through the night.

  Not the ghost at Bois Blanc.

  Uncle Luc's farm was the remnant of a much larger plantation, the house having been built about 1790. In the early years of the 19th century, a group of slaves revolted in what became known as the German Coast Uprising. A Cajun by the name of Henri Laffite, claiming kinship with the pirates of Barataria Bay, was rumored to have fomented the mutiny. While the Uprising was short-lived, Laffite, known as Le Taureau Noir, 'Black Bull', had continued to terrorize the region below Baton Rouge. Not a settlement or plantation existed that Taureau hadn't visited to rape and pillage. Local landowners formed a vigilante force, pursuing the Bull through St. James parish. Eventually Taureau was cornered, captured, and following a brief 'trial,' hung from a cypress tree – right there at Bois Blanc.

  With such a violent history, it's no wonder that Taureau's ghost was anything but a playful poltergeist. For years afterward, any mysterious fire, death, or 'unexplained' pregnancy was blamed on Taureau. During summer vacations my cousins would scare me half to death with tales of his exploits. They would chase me around chanting, "Pillage, fuck! Plunder and kill! Le Taureau's out for a thrill." Even Grand-mère Renault would threaten us when we were bad by saying Le Taureau would get us if we didn't shape up. Grand-mère Renault didn't give two hoots about psychologically scarring the young; so long as they were quiet.

  History and legends caromed through my head as I jarred and splashed down the unpaved, rutted driveway to the house at Bois Blanc. God, I hated arriving in the dark! The Honda's high beams did little to pierce the sodden, mossy darkness. The second time I had stopped for directions, the man had told me that Mr. Poirier, Uncle Luc's nearest neighbor, had seen a fire the night before. Driving over to the empty farm, he had found the tool shed burned to the ground.

  Suddenly I was even more nervous. If vandals had started to hit th
e place, they probably weren't expecting to be surprised. The very real possibility of very real thieves scared me more than the old ghost stories. I calmed myself with the thought that the weather was too bad for anyone to be out for recreational theft.

  Rounding the end of the drive, I beheld the large house, sitting dark and lonely among moss-draped cypresses. There was certainly no sign of anyone around as the old wooden stairs leading up to the long front porch appeared in my struggling headlights. I parked at the base of the steps and dashed up, praying they'd hold under the assault of my weight and the nonstop rain. My key fit the latch and soon I was walking slowly across the creaky cypress floorboards in the perfectly empty house, hitting every light switch I could find. Thrifty Uncle Luc had left very few light bulbs.

  However, he had laid in a decent supply of bourbon; I found a case of Wild Turkey in the kitchen. Liberating a bottle, I continued to check out the old house as I warded off any chill from the rain. Satisfied that there was no one physically here other than me, I headed to bed. Cradling the bottle of Turkey, I sat down on the old tester bed that had been Grand-mère Renault's pride and joy. I had driven straight in from Houston, so after a shot or two of whiskey, I was out cold. Ghost, be damned.

  * * * *

  Later I woke; I didn't know how long I'd been asleep. The rain had stopped; moonlight streamed through the windows where shutters had been left open. I wasn't sure what had awakened me. A raging hard-on pressed against my stomach, trapped between me and the bed. Jeez, I thought, I haven't had a wet dream since I was fourteen. I tried to roll over but I had trouble moving; it was like I was numb and disconnected from my body. I figured my muscles had gotten pretty stiff from the long drive.

  Managing to get onto my side, I swore. Something passed against my chest. I nearly jumped out of my skin. I had no idea of what might have found its way into the empty house; a whole catalog of insects and varmints came to mind. I tried to bolt out of bed and the sleeve of my T-shirt ripped. Fumbling for the bedside light, I struggled to sit up. But as I did another tear ripped across the front of my shirt from the rent under the arm. I jerked away, knocking over the lamp. Panicked, I screamed. Something gripped my running shorts and was tugging down the waistband. Cool, humid air caressed my ass. Light shone from the study next door, so I scrambled in that direction, pulling free of whatever held my shorts. If my assailant was a wild dog or raccoon or something, I wanted at least to get a look at it before passing out in terror.

  Reaching the library, I slammed the door shut and waited to hear something scratch or bang at it. Silence held the house. No growl or bark or any muffled movement passed through the closed door. I caught my breath and found a tidbit of courage somewhere in my roiling guts.

  I cracked the door, hoping the light streaming out would let me glimpse my attacker. I stood in the doorway and looked right, then left. Nothing looked out of place. I decided to get a flashlight and have a better look. Quietly I reclosed the door and turned to tiptoe across the house. A huge hand shoved into the base of my throat, smashing me up against the door. I faced an enormous, hairy, half-naked man. Le Taureau Noir.

  He was about 6 foot 5, massively built, with a barrel chest covered with coarse black hair. Had I run into him at Oz or Rawhide in New Orleans, I would have thought him an extremely hot rough-trade daddy. An uneven growth of beard and a thick mustache framed generous lips. If he were a hot rough-trade daddy, he would have had dark brown eyes. But he wasn't; he was a demon, the spirit of a man dead since 1813. His eyes glowed, changing from red to pale yellow. I was not horny, I was petrified.

  He stared right into my eyes. Hot, heavy breath blasted me, even from an arm's length of three feet away. He rumbled a sort of laugh. That is the only human noise that comes close to describing the sound. I pictured my broken, lifeless body strewn in pieces all over Grand-mère Renault's precious rosewood Empire furniture.

  My voice tight, I squeaked out a pleading "No, please."

  Uncaring or at least unhearing, he flung me up over his shoulder, the hand from my throat now firmly clutching my butt. Another muscular arm pressed my legs against his furred chest. Taureau passed out through the study window onto the rear gallery, cracking my head against the jamb. For a few seconds I blacked out.

  * * * *

  I came to as we were halfway across the yard, heading toward the hay barn. My face was about level with the small of his back; I really couldn't see much in front of us, only by craning my neck to the left could I glimpse our direction.

  Entering the barn, Taureau carried me across to an empty crib, stooped and pulled open a trapdoor. Years I had played in and around that barn and I had never seen that secret panel. Down into total blackness he carried me. Moving along a tunnel, we strode through the pitch black. What I hoped were roots drug against my back.

  Suddenly the blackness was bigger, and we emerged into a good-size room; Taureau flung me down onto the ground with a thud. Dim light suffused the room, but I couldn't make out a source. At first I thought we were in some sort of root cellar or storage area, but Louisiana is not exactly famous for its underground basements. I realized that no human had constructed this room.

  As soon as I hit the floor, Taureau knelt over me, straddling my thighs. Again that laugh rumbled, followed by a guttural voice, "Beau frère."

  He grabbed my running shorts at the waist and with a brutal jerk ripped them in half. I suddenly got the idea that murder was not at the top of his list.

  His hands ran roughly up and down my body. He groped my chest, my dick, and my ass, all the while murmuring what I took to be appreciative grunts. His cock began to pulse and jerk beneath the tattered remnants of his breeches. Suddenly I drew up my legs, throwing him off balance and toppling him to the side. I scrabbled at the dirt floor, scrambling to get up. No sooner had I gotten to my feet than a hairy arm gripped my waist. Pulling at his sausage like fingers, I tried to pry his hand loose, but to no avail; he had me in an iron grip. Taureau threw me back to the floor. Despite my thrashing and struggling, I was right back where I had started: flat on my back with 250 pounds of incubus hovering over me.

  He spread my legs apart and buried his face in my crotch. The roughness of his beard scratched at my skin, the friction warming my groin with heat like a fire. I cried out and tried to buck away from him, but his viselike grip held me in place. His tongue seared my flesh, but the burning sensation was not quite as painful after the first shock wore off. Not at all. His mouth worked around my dick, spreading the fire. The heat became pleasurable, like sitting in a hot tub that had the temperature set just a little too high.

  His hands slid beneath me to cup my ass and lift me up, as though he gorged himself at a feast and couldn't get the food into his face fast enough. My libido began to win out over my fear. My flaccid cock responded; a chuckle vibrated in the back of his throat. He intensified his oral assault.

  Drawn by the fire of his attention, blood flooded my cock. Fully erect I had begun to dribble pre-come. Taureau stopped and sat upright. His chest was magnificent – his nipples, the valley between his pecs, his abs all were erotically shadowed in that eerie light. He rose up on his knees. Gripping one of the holes in his breeches, he tore them from his body, allowing me plenty of time to admire the ripple of muscle as he flexed. His pecs were not the only enormous muscle the man – that is, the demon – possessed. Not even on the most esoteric porn site had I seen a dick the size of Taureau's. It swung out in front of him, well on its way to slapping against his stomach, but bobbed about as if it were an independent entity. He stroked it a bit, his other hand playing with a large nipple.

  Taureau reached down, grabbing me under my right armpit and jerked me up against him. My face landed in the hollow of his neck. He pushed me lower, so that I was nearly suffocating in the tangled hair of his chest. The hand forced my mouth to a nipple, now erect and about the size of a 50-cent piece. No longer resisting either Taureau or my own urges, I opened my mouth and began an oral assault of my ow
n.

  For a 197-year-old guy, he tasted anything but awful. A robust, musky man taste filled my mouth as salty sweat trickled into my mouth. I worked my tongue around, while biting and nipping at the hard nub of flesh, and traced along the lower ridge of his pectoral. His breath roared loud and husky, and rumbles of pleasure rolled through his chest.

  Taureau forced me even lower toward his supernatural organ; I couldn't begin to imagine pleasuring him. I gave it the old mortal try and began by covering the head with my tongue, licking the tight fleshy dome as if it were a fast-melting ice cream cone. I gave it long, sucking kisses, my lips completely covering the head, and tickled under the ridge with my tongue.

  His heaving abdomen brushed my forehead, the muscles rising and falling like a buoy on a gentle swell. I ran my mouth down the entire length of the shaft and I began to take my job seriously. I grabbed the base with one hand and steadied myself with the other on his waist. Dead or not, the feel of all that solid muscle clothed in sweaty flesh fueled my desire.

  I massaged his cock with my mouth, my hand roaming across his back, along his ass cheeks and his thighs. My hand reached to his balls, hanging like heavy fruit in their silky pouch. My mouth worked south to his sac, and with that he leaned back, pulling me with him until he was lying down, his huge legs framing me like arches. The change in position helped the crick in my neck and allowed me to reach up to his chest.

  My mouth began its journey back up his torso, my face gliding through silky, sweat-drenched hair. As I moved upward, his rigid shaft slid against my chest and stomach, a string of spectral pre-come stretching between us. I couldn't help but rock back and forth, pressing my body tightly against his flexing cock. My dick bumped between his balls and his ass and soon ground against the ridge of his engorged prick.