Plump bellies on the bitches: feverish feed tonight and more drained victims found tomorrow. Mopsy gurgled a question, and Flopsy topped her unintelligible words with a higher-pitched repetition: “Why no feed?”
Cottontail emerged between the two, her wanton brown hair greasy and clumped with gore. Her neck appeared—an illusion of her single-minded desire—to telescope toward him. Her lips touched his and she disgorged an upchucked gout of blood, fear-tainted but sustaining. She left off her kiss, chin-dribble, and said, “The cream-skinned one. The black-haired one. We smelled her, we heard the pulse in her wrists, we felt her breath on the air.”
He thumbed the outer nipples of the bookended beasts and felt them prick and draw from razor tips. “Esme will not be drained. Mild pulls only, and her feeding must be shallow as well.”
“She’s joining us?” The bloodsmear was so thick, it cracked when she smiled, night parch of desert sands. An eagerness obscene and enveloping filled her question.
“Twilight state,” he replied, thumbs tingling at the drainage. Their areolae pulsed like cockheads. “Forever on edge, not to be turned.”
Cottontail felt herself, bloodcunt gleam, with a red hand. She fingered a wet aromatic smear across his upper lip, stiffening him below. “We want to indulge. Refined platelets. Not the alley druggy stuff out there.”
“Must fuck,” Mopsy gurgled, tugging at his belt.
“Must fuck,” Topsy echoed, zippering down, shredding his briefs so fiercely she furrowed taut hipskin.
He unstuck his thumbs, licked them, pointed. “She’s mine. You won’t touch her unless I’m here.” He uptugged his shirt and tossed it aside. Tight toned torso—sipped varietals at many bedsides, carefully chosen, keeping him young and fit. That, and the simple fact of his by-birth origins, never human, never blindly fed upon to turn him, had, he believed, kept him from devolving.
The blood was up in him. Bitches looked sweet, felt like wet bestial insistence, writhing upon him, reddening him, drawing him onto the moonlit lawn. Surf pounding in the near distance, they leaned right-ward—a mutual baring of necks—into a fourway suck. Esme would never do this. No, she would join him on his nightly ventures, sip where he sipped, lightly, savoringly. But he’d keep this breed of creature around for heavy rutting, for the red wet hot fuck of it. His back hit chill grass, and he had a quick image of bloat-belly above, Flopsy, before her blood-quim gaped to his feasting and his hard-on pulsed to the pierce of six fangs, drawing blood at its tip from the palate of whichever one mouthed down over his cockhead. His hands, fumbling, found the greasy gapes of wet yoni, felt labial cuts plantlash across his fingers and begin to draw there as he fondled Flopsy and Mopsy, left and right.
Esme, ever Esme, on his mind. She’d watch him, glad at his rough pleasures; and maybe, at times in a measured way, he’d draw her in, restraining the creatures circling her refinement, commanding, holding off, savoring in turn her pleasure in the sweet excesses of multifuck; then, at last, turning the trio out and knowing again the delicate wonders of his and Esme’s private intimacies.
Flopsy’s clit cut into his tongue, and then she came sprays of bloodfuck across his face. The hot wash of it, fevered and chaotic, drove him murderous with lust and he sucked and sucked at her vulva, whitening it (could it be seen) faster than her replenishing at his cock rereddened it. But control returned, and he unpussied his mouth for new breaths of ocean air. And the foursome writhed anew, seeking another apt position for bloodlust a quatre.
Later, he ordered Mopsy to fetch the toys.
Esme’s father, the belly of a bear engreened beneath his polo shirt, stopped her the next morning. He squired on one arm a big-bosomed blonde, looking lost and wincing at the sunlight.
“You okay?” he asked, unsure what had halted him.
“I’m fine.” Esme’s words were cotton-soft.
“You’re not… Esme, are you in love?” He gave a mock frown, enfolded in a grin.
“Me, Dad?” she said. “Practical me?”
“‘At’s my girl.” Dad slow-rounded a fist-tap on her shoulder. “Put that Frank bastard out of your mind”—her three-year disaster of a marriage—“take your pleasure as it comes, and let the world go hang.” Bimboing along, he bellowed back: “Make yourself at home, blow off frigging Denver for eternity—and bring the boyfriend by sometime, okay?”
Denver. Her flight left in three hours. She didn’t care. Let her tickets expire; let them wonder at work, a world off, what had become of her; let the utilities shut down, her neighbors fret, her landlord key open and clean out and rerent the place. She couldn’t recall them, not their names and only faintly their faces. What was real, what kept form and focus, was the soft warm shiver he had blessed so many places on and inside her body with. What was real were his face and hands, his lips and his sharp-tipped arousal. And the alluring aircloy of his dripping wives, those sucklovely eyes, those kissable faces pasted like pink round petals on the wet bark of night.
All day, she idled. The timelessness of a cloudless day became her timelessness. From south along the coast, she felt desire, his, her own, a desire which deepened as day waned. She wandered the estate, alone, feeling for a frightening time such loneliness as she hadn’t felt since just past college; and as she wandered, the tingle inside her vagina, walled a long finger’s length within, grew so intense that she came just thinking about his penis there piercing her, drawing sustenance from her. Her southward longing picked up sharply as the sun set, and, before she realized it, she stood outside the garage, thumbed it up, backed out the sleek Maserati, and somehow managed in her state—half-cloudy, half-aroused—to negotiate sufficient freeway to find the coast road, his private drive, a gate yielding obediently open for her, and his seacoast home.
He stood there, waiting, naked, erect. Esme started a grasp toward the door, but he held up his hand, rounded the bumper, bent to her window. “Undress,” he said.
“Inhere?”
Eyes hot with love, he nodded.
“Where are your wives?”
As if in answer, they loomed up out of the darkness, before the windshield and wrapped to her right. His look seemed to darken, but then his eyes returned to her and a smile once more grazed his lips. “I’ll watch.”
She complied, easy at first with blouse buttons, but then struggling in the small space, her shoulders hurting as the blouse resisted removal and her breasts arched out and up. Unbelted the skirt, shimmied out of it, his eyes a comfort, theirs both a menace and a turn-on, whose glare steamed into her and made her mind blaze. When blue lace was all she wore, she slowed down, angled toward him, put a finger inside herself, licked it as he watched, then in idle ease drew her panties down and off.
The door clicked. Before her? Behind her? No cold air rushed in, but she felt nails singe down her back and she saw his face surge forward and felt the flaypain ease away in instant heal. And then the night came around her like black wool and the house unmouthed to scoop them in, the walls dimly fired with candlelight, tiny torch goby, go-by. She was coming beautiful comes in his arms, doing nothing, touching nothing nor being touched, just feeling his voluptuous enwrapment and the close earthy breaths of his women wraithing nearby. Their rhythm shifted, stairs pumping, the creatures’ feet slapping like thongs of whip on stone steps.
A warm room, no windows. Iron bolts in the ceiling, which seemed so low one might have to stoop to pass. The soft bedding met her, a slight backburn at how swiftly he set her down. Who was she? She couldn’t remember and it didn’t matter. They grabbed her wrists, one each, hot as collie paws, the ones he called Flopsy and Mopsy, and had her pinned in (first contact) their grip. He plunged his face into her heat so ferociously it seemed he would bury his head, jaw first, inside her right up to the neck. At her temples, the third wife’s hands clamped and caressed. Could wrists and temples be sex organs? She couldn’t see their restraints, but she could sense as solidly as brick that they wanted desperately to feast upon her and that a muzzle had been p
laced upon their slavering jaws. At her yoni, open freely for him, he kissed and licked and stung and sucked, sharp pangs again but then quickly numbed and covered with kisses. She loved the contrast of iced pain and warm gentle loving. Then he had her clit between his lips and (he wasn’t going to) yes, he was, he needled her there, fast and gone and puffed taut with need, building, building, until she released her climax upon his swirling tongue, head back and thrashing, looking into the hot wet eyes of the three and coming more feverishly for what she saw there.
Her complexity and her boobs, that’s what Brad liked about Janice. He couldn’t believe how quickly things had progressed. A week ago, the yogurt shop; then that sweet evening above-the-waisting in his car (a throwback to the ineptitudes of high school days but sure and skilled this time); and now, watching her reach for coffee and measure it into her coffeemaker, they were very close to fucking. Her complexity and her tits and her pussy—soon that more complete appreciation of her would be his.
Wanting to touch her, he rose from the kitchen table and came up behind her. They were smalltalking, her fire of hair filamenting down against her gray jogging outfit. He hugged her close, turned her, kissed her. That lovely lip aroma again. She’d made monogamy noises over yogurt. But Janice was complex, persuadable surely once she’d had a taste of his prowess. Tired of being alone and longing to find a soulmate, that’s what she’d said; he thought it might become a stumbling block, but that was a discussion best kept until his bedroom skills made him indispensable and her definition of relationship malleated accordingly. She could be primary. She was certainly delicious enough for that. They’d catch at Dad’s dregs, snag and shack up with one or two at a time, console them, lick them, share their perfect bodies in sensual writhe, then send them on their way. Janice with him at the core, drawing luscious bi-babes into their bed, maybe eventually latching onto a permanent third. It could happen, it really could.
He felt her perfect back under the jogging top, drew about and thumbed her nipples. Nice subtle inbreath from her. “Don’t you want your coffee?” she teased.
On the edge of her soft full lips, he gave his reply in kisses: “I want… honey… cream… lots of cream… lots of honey.” He eased his left hand under the elastic at her waist, no underwear, just taut expanse of skin, and a thrill of hair, and moisture grooving down at his fingertip. She seized up, grinding her mouth hard upon his, her hips in slow rotation slick on his finger.
Her hand brushed him, pressed him, the lizard scales of his jeans preventing direct touch.
Kiss broken. “Let’s go to bed,” he said, thick with lust at her ear. He retrieved his finger, licked it, and went with her out of the kitchen, tugged along like a mom leading her child. Zesty package, this Janice—a fitting start to his harem, and her body tasted of sunshine.
Janice felt snugly smothered in warm assertive flesh atop her bedspread. Undressing her, he showed gratifying awe in word, in kiss, in caress. They felt good together no matter what he did—and eventually what she did. Brad proved a fanatical oralist. She’d never known there were so many orgasms to be licked from her in so short a time.
Curiously, after a while, for all the waves of sheer pleasure that washed over her, he began to seem not quite human, too consumed with technique. But then their being together was still so new, there was still so much yet to be learned. And in between comings, the snuggling was so sweet and the words shared so soft and loving.
Yet one theme, even as his chin rhythmed up and down upon her yoni hair and his nose tipped into her vulva, in recurrent whisper played in her head: He’s nowhere close to being exclusive, nowhere close to monogamy, as distant from commitment as Pluto is from the sun. But was that a truth absolute, or an illusion born of her insecurities? She felt—or did she—the beginning of something precious between them, something that perhaps would be blessed and nurtured by the very intimacies she now allowed.
She liked his ideas and his wit and his warmth. The riches he’d revealed tonight were a nice surprise. But a rich man was no substitute for a devoted one, and Janice, fingers on the warm tiller of his rod, felt that Brad was poised to declare his devotion—if not tonight then soon. When he did, she’d be ready.
She arched back upon her pillows, feeling his tongue in quivery swirl drive her heavenward again. “Oh, Brad,” she said, “I want you inside me.” And he was off her, in floorward dive, digging excitedly in his pants pockets, a square finally in his hand, that cellophane crinkle she’d heard subliminally whenever he moved or sat, a rib-tipped Trojan torn free at last and hastily rolled on. The glow radiated from her, the need, the need, and then he warmed her again, filling her rushingly beautifully full.
A week had passed. He’d allowed them a taste of her under stringent restrictions. And he’d let her lick wide redness, careful to hold open the razored labia and avoid the needling clit—until her face came away like a baby’s covered in beet juice, cuts savory on her face where Esme had accidentally brushed past a labial edge.
But now, during their fiveway, he noted with alarm a change in her: Her clit tongued no longer soft and sweet but bore the beginnings of a crust; and her labial splay, once as yielding as the meat of a clam, now sprawled upon his face with all the hardness of wooden spoon edges. In his fingers, her nipples felt more like thimbles than the erasers she’d previously hardened up into.
At once he insisted her off his face and ordered his three wives, their hunger terrible even in restraint, out of the playroom.
“But why?” she asked him, and in answer he only drew her close to a flame and held her head tight in his hands and gazed fiercely into her eyes, as deep as he could go. No turn, not yet, but teetering precariously close. From that moment, he kept the wives away, forbade her to drink his bloody seed no matter how much she demanded it, moved into the stimulus of pain to match the upped ante of need she showed. He chained her up, hanging stretched and hot in her animal gorgeousness from the bolt. And he whipped open welts, across her buttocks and elsewhere, which then he plowed with the thin-strawed suck of his fangs, a tiny draw of blood only. But no longer—no, not until crusted nips and clit softened again and her labia lay like moist warm babyhands against his mouth—would he allow her lips to touch bitchmeat nor to suck at a vein he opened nor to take in orally the pink surge of his love.
And she did soften in her holy parts somewhat; but a hostile glaze covered her lovedeep eyes. Unnoticeable if unsought—and he didn’t confront her for fear of sparking it into flame—but there or not, the passion, once whole, now had a rent in it. And it tore at him, as later, bent to drink from dozing forms, he could not escape the image of Esme in her new guise.
The following night, a need seized her. She went to a health bar, ordered Green Drink—a shit-vile concoction of celery and spinach leaves—and sipping it lightly, she seduced, first with her eyes then with her words, a needy dork who looked shy and wounded but took the bait. Up in his room, he ouched away from chest-to-chest embrace. To her steamy entreaties, though, he allowed her to suck him passably hard and then, above his need-a-condom protests, to pussy down upon her work and clamp tight when the need welled up in her.
“Hey, wait,” he said. “That hurts.”
Esme smiled and relaxed, then dug into his shaft more deeply than before, trying for blood. A scratch, a strain of suck—and a tingle thrilled her pussy at its first lip-taste of indrawn life. She could feel the pull, a sunlamp radiating groin-deep as her labia capillaried blood.
But the dork pushed her off him as best he could, and his cock scraped against her edges pulling out, more cunt-shudder overwhelming her into the most delicious orgasm of her young life. When she dwindled down to his reedy pleas for her to go, pathetic whine as he held out her clothing, he no longer mattered. Esme dressed and left, feeling the look of triumph on her face.
She’d show him.
There was no summoning this time. But she drove down the coast anyway, feeling a tantalizing something fill the air; and when she pulled up, h
ardly able to wooze out from the bloodlust pulsing in her loins, his trio of wives were standing there, bent like hothouse plants, waiting.
It had been a lovely dinner, sitting close to her as the waiter brought one choice Italian dish after another, finishing things off with cannoli that seemed to come from heaven. Brad had needed to touch her thigh and her hand, easing down to hold his there. She spoke of her friends, her family, her colleagues; and he in turn told her about his kid sister Esme and his lascivious dad, hoping Janice would get the hint, from his tone, that multiple partners was foremost on his own want list. Didn’t dwell on it, a tad too early for that; he passed on to other things, but he saw no blip of disapproval on her face, if anything an unreadable sparkle in her eye that might signal interest. Soon (fondling her between fucks, he thought) he’d broach the subject, talk of his past experiences, hope she’d had some of her own—and off they’d go.
But on the drive back to her place, God knows how it came to happen, she smoothly segued into a statement that after years of dating she wanted monogamy, and that, with her, it was all or nothing. Beat. Beat. He let silence fill the car, humming, pretending needful interest in the traffic patterns; and then the conversation turned in new directions, ones more blithely handled. Near her home, a warm hand fondled above his nape. “Your hair’s so soft,” she said, and Brad knew things were all right again.
He held her close as they walked toward her door, an insistent crave in his voice when he murmured how much he wanted to have her, what sweet undressing there would be. By God, if he were a one-woman man, this would be the one for him. She opened the door, her hand went to the light switch, he stopped her hand. “Not just yet,” he said and he turned her and kissed her and reached under her dress, the apartment door still open onto the night, to ardently fondle her buttocks and strip her raw naked and lickable, down upon his knees and rustling the fabric upward to get at her moist treasure.
Love in Vein Page 36
