He wanted to touch. He wanted to drop to his knees and feel the stiff length with his cheek, feel the springy curls go soft and flat as they soaked through. Instead he knelt, running the very tip of the knife along the delicate skin behind Lars' knee. The long legs trembled, toes curling, Lars' head falling back, sacrificed to his hunger.
The fingers of his free hand reached irresistibly for the cock just before his face, wrapping around it, spreading the slippery liquid along its length. His other hand moved low, to the bony knob of one ankle, making his final cut there before leaning to lick the flesh he held.
Bliss.
"Adriano..." The whisper seemed to echo, reverberate through the room, aching, wanton, rich as the finest port. "Yes." A final touch of lips to Lars' cock, bitter with a hint of seed, salty with blood and his own sweat, and Adriano rose, placing the scalpel aside carefully before returning. One arm rose to wrap around Lars' neck, the other dropped so he could touch chest and belly and cock, tracing patterns, designs ancient and sacred, modern and profane.
He rubbed against that long body as if he could soak up the deep, red blood with his own skin and brought Lars to him for a kiss. "Love." "My heart." Lars opened to him, lips sweeter than any wine, the wet slide becoming sticky, dragging their skin together. The friction heated them, made them gasp. His hands were back to shaking; while he cut they remained calm, but now he was at a loss to control them. Crimson and gold, his Lars, smooth and rough, making his own skin seem plain until it was fully against his lover's, painted with Lars' very life.
Lars moaned, eyes closed, panting into his lips, lean muscles straining against the bonds. "Yes." He wanted more, wanted to hear and feel and see Lars react to his touch, wanted to finish their ritual. He wrapped his hand tight around Lars' cock, pulling tight, his own hardness prodding Lars' hip, sliding and moving, bringing more liquid life sliding against his shaft. The scent of them stunned him, every time, metal earth animal jumbling together.
He could feel the tremors, the vibration sliding up Lars body, the shaft in his hand burning and heavy.
"Soon, love. Soon." It had to be soon. The cuffs were hard under his hand, his fingers, sticky-slick, fumbled with the clasps, trying to free Lars while they rocked together.
"I need..." The words were raw, scraping against his nerves like broken glass.
They both needed and Adriano bruised his fingers ripping the cuffs away, letting Lars down, his other hand catching the weight of Lars' cock, steady and sure. "Whatever you need, love. Now." "Now. Beloved." A hard hand gripped his head, tilting him back, mouth branding against his skin. Sharp, deep pain, brighter than any silver scalpel, ripped through him, rising in him with the undeniable need, the exquisite throbbing draw of Lars' lips and teeth pulling at him. Adriano's cock ached, twitched, battered against Lars' body.
He drowned beneath the waves of Lars’ need, the draw of that mouth, the undeniable hunger that he fed. On and on, his hand moved in time with each deep pull, stroking Lars as everything in him was pulled out, exposed, opened, just as he'd opened Lars' skin, pouring out of him. When he came it made his eyes roll back in his head, sounded white noise in his ears, his legs going out from under him.
Lars' hands were warm on his, lean muscles supporting his with the strength of pure will -- a will that defied time, age, God himself.
His beautiful Lars. Adriano ached. "Please."
"All I am is yours." The whisper filled him, soaked into him. As much as he belonged to Lars. He offered everything, his hands, his throat, his entire self. How could he give less than Lars gave him? Soft laps cleaned the stains from his skin, the seed, Lars lowering him to the ground. He rested on the floor, feeling the cool slate under his back, hands at his side, watching. Whatever Lars needed, wanted. Adriano let his legs fall open, let his hips rise, inviting.
Those eyes shone, glowing, face animalistic and fierce, mouth red, wet, open as a wound. Lars' cock slid against his thigh, slick and hot, a promise. Opening, Adriano pulled his thighs apart, holding his legs wide, head falling back to rest against the floor, baring the wound that still bled lightly. "Yes, love. Now."
A pressure filled him, spread him, the heat of Lars' lips against his throat balancing the stone against his back. Yes. He needed this as much as he needed the other games they played, as much as the cutting and the bleeding and the feeding. Lars' thighs were strong between his, long muscles hard, balls soft against his own. Soft words slid against his skin, Lars' lips moving, singing in a language as old as memory -- promises, hymns, invocations. Answering with his hands and legs and body, Adriano gave Lars his promises, his darkest needs and deepest desires. His body pulled Lars in, begged for more, asked for everything. The skin on his backside felt raw, his shoulder blades ached, and he dug his nails into Lars' shoulders, feeling the sting go from him, to Lars, and back again.
In this, they were connected, Lars' focus complete, the very blood flowing through the beating heart shared between them. Lars took, he gave. Lars gave and he took. His cock was hard again, pressed between them, making him gasp with pain as the sensitive skin rubbed the blood from Lars' belly, making him moan with pleasure as Lars filled him over and over.
"I would defy God for this, for you." The words were moaned into his ear, almost a sob.
"You already have. I am yours." It was true. He faith was gone. He belonged with Lars.
"Yes. My soul, my life." Lars arched, moaning, eyes burning into him, making promises that lasted eons. "Lars!" He was going to come again. He had to. Everything. Lars asked him for everything with that look, demanded it and his body answered instinctively. Moaning, wailing, Adriano shot between their bodies, the fluid wetting the dried blood, smearing hot and vital on their skin. His body clamped tight around Lars, holding him in.
Life poured into him, undeniable, the look on his lover's face feral, lost in a sea of sensation. Everything else grayed out around the edges, the only real, solid thing Lars' face, Lars' body as he gasped for breath. Weak, yet energized, that was how he felt, and he let his arms flop to the floor, toes sliding down Lars' calves. The room was dark except for the flickering candles, Lars' fingers trailing over his throat, teasing, taunting him with the question whether this night would be the one Lars would choose to bind them, entwine them.
The breath caught in his chest, everything in him stilling, waiting as he always did for Lars' next move. Lars indulged him, but Adriano knew it was an illusion. He was Lars', heart and soul. Owned.
"You would give the sun up for me." It was not a question.
"I would give up anything but you." His reply was just as firm, definite.
"I will indulge you until time stops." They shared one last long look, and Adriano nodded, tilting his head back, offering. He could only imagine what indulgences they might find together in the future.
He couldn't wait.
A Shaft of Moonlight
By Angela E. Weaver The scent of innocence. There is nothing else like it. It perfumes the blood, flavors the meat, enlivens the hunt. So rare these days: true innocence. Even the ones who are physically intact, inexperienced, have been tainted by society's vulgarity. Soft skin disguises coarse thoughts, base desires. A pretty face is often a mask for a shallow mind.
Ian roams the streets in search of the elusive. Wandering back alleys and backrooms, the baths, bars and dance floors, all on a fruitless quest. Children hold no attraction for him and he suspects that even if he were to haunt the schoolyards and video arcades, the prey would be just as rancid.
He contemplates sleep. Perhaps a century's hibernation would allow enough time to pass to wash the stink from humankind. To sleep, to rest. When he was young, he abhorred the thought, now he sees it as a necessary respite, a period of cleansing to rid his system of accumulated poisons, to flush the toxins he has imbibed along with the blood. And the flesh.
Delicious flesh. There is a spot between the jaw and the collarbone, just over the jugular where the flesh is the sweetest and the blood floods your
mouth, hot, fine, red wine to accompany a gourmet meal. All the better if it is the flesh of an innocent. His canines lengthen just thinking of such repasts. His pulse begins to throb.
Innocence. It tastes of freedom. Running at top speed, your prey fleeing before you, pack brothers to either side, wind in your fur, the scent of blood driving you on. Faster, faster. Muscles aching, but still you run. Silent. Swift. Deadly. Relentless. Until the prey falters and you leap for it and tear out its throat; fear pumps hot blood into your mouth and you swallow the last feeble heartbeats. A howl bursts from your chest and for that moment you feel alive, invincible. Free.
So long ago. So long since he last ran free. The wilderness has disappeared. He hunts the cityscape now. And grows lethargic. Once they feared him, now they seek him. Having lost the will to live, they offer themselves to him even if they are ignorant of his true nature, ignorant of their own suicidal intentions. They offer their bodies as if they have no value. Their souls they cannot give him for they are soulless. He longs for the true hunt. How long has it been since he's had to seduce his prey, mesmerize them with his forest-laden eyes? When was the last time one struggled before realizing he was going to die? They never pause, never hesitate, never think. Nothing is verboten, taboo, and so they have no sense of their own limitations, no concept of shame.
He despairs and dreams of verdant forests. In each life he finds friends, a pack to run with, but not of his own kind. As a result, they never really know him, his comrades. There is always something that sets him apart. He provides without seeming to care, leads without standing in front, but there is no mistaking what he is: the alpha male. And in each life, he searches, without hope, without success, for a mate.
He is the last of his littermates. Alone, burdened with memories he cannot share. Sometimes the madness descends and he finds himself in a fugue state, unable to distinguish between the past and present, pleading with phantoms, snapping at shadows. It is then that he sleeps, going into seclusion to emerge decades later, refreshed, revitalized, but never completely healed.
He is always alone, the ache unending, the thirst unquenchable, slaked only for a moment by blood. It is never enough. A thousand, thousand deaths would not be enough. He waits. And on moonlit nights he drives to the country and sheds his human skin and runs. And remembers the joy he felt when he was young. And alive. And free.
He has never been touched. No matter the number of men he's been with, none of them have ever touched him. He is no cynic. Each time he believes that they will be the one and each time they disappoint him and leave him hungry for more. Wondering what he saw in them. One yelled, "Stop acting like a silly virgin!" before leaving.
Is it silly to wish for love? For something more than ten minutes of pleasure? For a deeper connection than cock and ass? Maybe so. Apparently so. Still, he waits and hopes and does not give in to despair. He is helped in that he has a sunny disposition and his work keeps him busy. And if his nature and his art sometimes fail to keep the sadness at bay, still he continues on, despite his disappointments.
He tells himself that he is still young, only twenty-two, just making his way in the world. There is time yet to find love, to fill the void that his art cannot. He leans on countertops in bars and clubs hoping to find the one, sometimes berating himself for holding on to a foolish dream, but it's his dream and it's part of who he is. If he did not hope, did not dream, he would not be himself. And to be false to himself would be tantamount to death. So he dreams.
Lately his dreams have been filled with visions of a forest. He wanders through it, raindrops falling from the canopy above, birds scattering in Escher patterns at his approach. Although he does not know where he is going, he feels there is some urgency to his journey. He has a purpose. He feels he is on a quest. For what, he does not know. But he hopes.
Awake, he chides himself for being an incurable romantic. A knight on a quest to find his true love. How archetypal. And yet each time he goes to sleep, he hopes to dream that dream, hopes that this night's dream will find him at the end of his journey. He would battle dragons, riddle with trolls, thwart witches, evade giants, anything if only his true love awaited him in some castle tower.
Awake he begins a series of drawings that he shows to no one. He records his dreams, faithfully committing them to paper. And he waits.
*** The evening began with little promise. He went with them because they asked, surrendering to his friends' pleas, hoping to dispense with the formalities and make his excuses and go. They dance with each other, with random men who vie for their attention, like drunken dragonflies hyperaware of their abbreviated life spans. He even half-heartedly goes into the backroom to be serviced by some trick with death in his irises. It's the big joke, the final finger to God: men, giving their essence to each other, engendering no new life, the sin of Onan. Coming and going. Down into oblivion.
In the middle of having his dick sucked, he pulls away, unable to continue the farce. He looks around and sees a ghost dance: wraiths writhing about in ecstasy, in pain. A charnel house. Desperate for air, he stumbles outside, senses stunned by depravity and discontentment. Has it truly come to this? Is this all there is?
Pushing aside a couple of momentary lovers blocking his path, he heads for his car, his one last joy, intending to roar through the countryside before sloughing his mortal coil and racing the wind. As he digs in his jacket for his keys, Ian looks up and sees him.
Standing in a shaft of moonlight, so fair that his skin seems translucent, hair a pale shade of gold. A wisp of something more, something that sets him apart from the madding throng. Inhaling, Ian's nostrils quiver and his eyelids flutter, pupils dilate. It is unmistakable: the scent of innocence. A tongue, longer than normal, slithers from between his teeth, tasting the air.
The man, so youthful he still appears a boy, is unaware of Ian's intense scrutiny. He glances about the street and dismisses all, seems on the verge of leaving. Ian steps out of the shadows and the man pauses even though their eyes never meet. He looks around, but Ian has already retreated into hiding, hazel eyes smoldering. He watches as the man walks away.
Gone, but not lost. Ian has his scent. Staying back many blocks, the man never actually in sight, he follows his prey to a nondescript building, much like his own apartment building. Even though his quarry has already vanished behind a set of elevator doors, Ian can still smell him. His scent lingers. Ian knows this is the place.
He returns to his car and drives home, replaying the moment he first saw the man, bathed in moonlight. So beautiful. So... pure.
*** Something strange happened on Esprit Street although he doesn't know what. He felt as if someone was watching him, but he didn't see the person. Not hard to imagine as the street was crowded as usual at the end of the week. Friday arrives and all the freaks pour out of their holes. In the beginning, when he first started going there, the place seemed magical, now each bit of magic is revealed as a charlatan's legerdemain. But something was different tonight. Something, someone unseen, made his heart race. It was exciting, thinking someone was watching him, maybe even wanting him.
He climbs into bed. A trace of a smile remains.
*** His quarry is leaving a bar late at night. Ian left his friends at Jack's the moment he smelled his quarry, tracking him to the establishment, frequented by twinks, and waited. Now he's leaving. But before Ian can follow, he sees another shadow detach itself from the darkness to trail behind him as well. Ian joins the hunting party, unheard, his footfalls silent even on pavement.
The young man passes through a deserted alley and his stalker strikes, moving with lightning speed to grab him, throw him against a wall. Ian can't see if the stalker has a weapon, but his blood is up and he doesn't care. Just as he feels the first incipient stirrings of the change, he hears a yell. Sees the young man running away and his attacker bent over. Must have gotten a knee to the groin. In a heartbeat, Ian is upon the man, the change has taken him. The ends of his fingers are tipped with claws that
pierce the flesh to hold the man in place. Muscles like corded iron lift him from the ground so that his feet hang inches above the pavement. Yellow-orange eyes blaze, sharp teeth flash in the night. The man screams, but his cry is cut short with a twist of Ian's head.
He does not bother feeding on the man's putrid flesh, but drops him, leaving his body to the city's scavengers. Wiping his mouth, Ian towers over his kill, dizzy from the change, from the adrenaline coursing through his veins. He longs to howl, but suppresses the urge. He wants the young man whose life he may have saved. Smooth skin, blond hair... But the blood... The bloodlust is upon him and he can't, can't touch, not like this. Don't touch...
Shaking, he falls against a wall, his claws raking the brick, gouging it. He's so hard, so hot, so hungry... His cock throbs. Wants the boy. Mustn't. Mustn't hurt him. His claws retract and his canines shorten to a more appropriate length. Eyes darken. But his cock still presses against his fly.
Feeling ungentle, he vacates the kill site, lopes to the club and grabs a man from the dance floor. It doesn't matter which one, they all want him. Dragging him to the backroom, Ian fucks him senseless, leaves him dazed upon a platform, and returns home, hunger but partially sated.
Naked in the moonlight, he jacks off, marking his territory with silvery traces of come. That man really shook him, coming out of nowhere and grabbing him. Daniel falls to his knees over the toilet and retches. He might have been bashed or raped. He can still smell the man's fetid breath, still feel hard hands on his arms. Sometimes he hates this city. Hates what it does to people. Turning them into monsters. Into fuckin' zombies and not the slow-moving ones, these zombies are fast. One moment you're walking alone and the next you're being pushed up against a building.
Hands shaking, he washes his face in the sink, then decides that he needs more. Turning on the shower, water as hot as he can stand it, he steps under it to wash away the stink of the streets. As the water roars around him, the urge to shout grips him and he does. He shouts out his anger, his frustration, and his fear.
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