by Todd Gregory
Synopsis
They walk in the darkness, seeking their prey, driven by needs and desires they cannot control.
Their lust for human blood struggles with their desire for the body of a beautiful man—and if they are truly lucky, they can satisfy both lusts at the same time. In these tales of the gay vampire, some of today’s top erotic writers explore the duality of blood lust coupled with passion and sensuality, and the need of the vampire to take blood and give erotic delight in return.
Blood Sacraments
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Edited by Todd Gregory
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Blood Sacraments
Blood Sacraments
© 2010 Bold Strokes Books. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13: 978-1-60282-489-8E
This Electronic Book is published by
Bold Strokes Books, Inc.,
P.O. Box 249
Valley Falls, New York 12185
First Edition: November 2010
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Credits
Editor: Todd Gregory
Production Design: Stacia Seaman
Cover Design By Sheri([email protected])
Black Sambuca
Jeff Mann
I.
I sense him before I see him. He radiates power the way a glacier exudes cold or a woodstove heat. There, that broad-shouldered silhouette, that gleam of pale hair and skin beneath a leafy canopy of vines, on the edge of Piazza Viminale. Ristorante Strega, says the sign. He’s sitting back in the quiet shadow of a remote corner—as my kind tend to—watching happy humans as they feast al fresco on aromatic Roman food and wine in the warm summer night. When a shapely waitress bustles over to seat me, all I have to do is murmur his name and she escorts me to his table. A man well known in Rome, it appears.
He rises, smiling down at me, and shakes my hand. Though, like me, he appears to be in his mid-thirties, I know he’s much, much older than I. He’s several inches taller too, easily six and a half feet, and more mightily built. “Buona sera, Derek Maclaine,” he says. His grip is strong, very strong. It makes me want to wince. Already he’s reminding me of my position. He is the lord here, and I the supplicant. Not only is he older and stronger, but this is his territory. I am a mere tourist.
My centuries in the American South have made my manners immaculate, despite the displeasure I’m feeling at being the less powerful in our exchange. I meet his blue-fire gaze, then drop my eyes. “I much appreciate this audience, Mr. Colonna,” I say.
“Call me Marcus,” he says, still gripping my hand, then turns to the hovering waitress and orders for us both. “My guest will have Romana Black, and I my usual.” Off she goes to the bright lights of the bar, leaving a hint of jasmine in her wake.
“She wears that scent for me.” Marcus turns to me, face shifting from an expression both stern and impassive into a barely perceptible smile and then back again. “Welcome to Rome, Derek Maclaine,” he murmurs, giving my hand another painful squeeze before releasing me and taking his seat. “Sit,” he says, and I do. The man was once a Roman senator. He’s accustomed to swift obedience. And in order for me to get what I want, I suppose I too must obey him.
As handsome as he is, my obedience might be more pleasure than pain. “Thank you, Marcus,” I say, studying the high forehead, sharp cheekbones, and shoulder-length ash-blond hair. His lips are red and full, his chin cleft, with the shadow of a goatee about his mouth. “It’s mighty fine to be in your great city at last.”
“Isn’t she luscious?” Marcus says, voice smooth as rose petal yet embroidered with a growl. “ Roma, yes. But our waitress too. Bella, bella. Her breasts and hips…She is, as you Americans say, my type. Her name is Nigella. One night I will have her. But why rush?”
I smile. “I hadn’t noticed, sir, but yes, she is beautiful.” I can’t recall when I last called another man “sir.” Before I was changed, back in 1730? No, there was that Russian lord in St. Petersburg…and that Greek in Santorini, and, of course, the Scottish warrior who turned me.
“Ah, yes. You are a sodomite. Which will make your payment easier on us both, I suppose. I myself enjoy both the sexes, as lovers, slaves, and prey. What is your type, Derek Maclaine? And do you have a lover?”
“Yes, sir, I do. A human one, back in West Virginia. His name is Matt. He’s my type. One of my types. Shorter than I, burly, hairy, with a bushy beard. A country boy. From the mountains, like me. What we in America call a butch bottom. We’ve been together for almost a decade.”
“What is his age?” Marcus says. The waitress arrives, placing a slender glass of yellow liquid before Marcus, a similar glass filled with black liquid before me. “Grazie, Nigella,” Marcus says, voice soft. She smiles and departs.
“Matt is forty-one, sir.”
“He is your boy, yes?” A lock of yellow hair falls over Marcus’s brow; he brushes it back, takes a sip, rests his elbow on the table, takes his stubbly chin in his hand and rubs it.
“Yes, sir, though not my slave. He’s too—as we say in the mountains—too hard-headed and ornery for that.” I want to say, You are almost as beautiful as he, but I suspect, powerful as Marcus is, he can read my thoughts and can already feel my desire and the way that submitting to him both shames and arouses me.
“And is he graying yet?” Marcus takes another sip. I can smell the heavy scents of sugar and lemon.
“Yes, sir. His temples are streaked with silver. His beard is as well, and the hair on his breast. He is so handsome, so ripe, a man in the fullness of his years, but…”
Marcus shakes his head. “Yes,” he sighs. “Trista. I did that for centuries. Loved mortals. Now…not so often. Will you turn him?”
“No, sir. I don’t think so. I don’t know.”
“Well, your other types?”
“Ah, Jesus lookalikes!” I laugh. “I like to ravish Christs. Slender boys with shaggy dark hair and beards. They make fine sacrifices. Occasionally, as understanding as Matt is of my feeding needs, they make him jealous. I do tend to dote on men such as they. Sometimes, when Matt’s away on business, I kidnap one for my amusement and keep him for a few days.”
“And have you had one of our Roman Christs yet?” His blue eyes flicker over me. Hunger is there in his glance, deep and fierce.
“No, sir, not yet. As you recall from our correspondence, this is my first visit to Rome. I only arrived last night, and I was told not to feed until…”
Marcus’s foot nudges my boot beneath the table. “Very good. Yes. It is well that you obey. I can tell from the gray in your hair that you need to feed. Soon, I promise. Meanwhile, please sample your liqueur. That is black liquore di Sambuca, which, according to the bottle, ‘captures the spirit and allure of the Roman night,’ a sweet, dark night such as this one in which we meet, Scotsman.” Another faint smile flickers around his lips. With the ball of his thumb, he rubs the tip of his right incisor: quick flash, sharp, white, anticipatory. “And tell me if tall blond dominant Roman aristocrats meet your fancy.”
Undead for centuries, yet I can still blush. No reason to lie. Old and experienced as he is, he could tell if I did. “Not normally, sir. I tend toward dark-ha
ired men. But there are exceptions. You are indeed not what I expected of a Roman.” I take a sip—more sugar, the odor of anise.
“Yes, most of us are much darker than I. During my human days, my friends teased me for my fairness. They said that a warrior from Germania had infiltrated my mother’s bed. During my days with the army, my men called me Aquila Aurea, the golden eagle. Many of them loved me. My lovers called me Splendidus. From what I can sense, you might agree with them.” The faint smile goes broad only for a second before returning to that intense gaze, that impassive expression. “You will be my lover tonight, Derek? My boy? You will pay the price we agreed upon? In return I will share my city with you whenever you please.”
My face is on fire. I can only drop my eyes, sip my liqueur, and nod. The Sambuca is as rich, sweet, and thick as old blood, strong blood.
“Do you like it? The liqueur?”
“Yes, sir, I do. In future, when I drink it, I will certainly think of you. And you, sir? What is your type?” I lift my glass, stare into its blackness, then put it down. Stop fiddling, Derek. Stop being such a bashful flirt.
“Ah, in men? Many, many kinds. Men both sleek like me and rough like you. Both young men and mature men. Both humans and vampires. Tonight, I want a man who is wild and proud and in need of discipline. I want a man accustomed to being in control to submit to me, to feed my strength. Have you ever known a man like that?” Marcus chuckles. “One whose manhood might be tempered and refined by submission?”
“Yes, sir.” It’s all I can do not to stammer. “I love those men too. It’s just that it’s been so long since I myself—”
“Relax, boy. We shall have a fine night on the Palatine Hill, there among the ruins of the Caesars. I will care for you well. I will not harm you…much. And you will be the stronger for it. I must admit, you are surprisingly handsome and well-mannered for a mountain barbarian.”
I look up and laugh. His blue eyes probe me. I can feel his thoughts rummaging through my head, turning over the mental stones of memory and motivation.
“Oh yes, a barbarian,” says Marcus. “You Scotsman were certainly trouble. Hadrian had to build that long wall against Caledonia.”
“Yes, sir. And you all never conquered us.” As subdued as my customary pride must be this night, I can’t help but remind him. “We Scots were about the only folks whose asses you couldn’t whip.”
Anger flashes in his eyes for a split second. Then he nods, another smile flickering over his stony features. “Not worth the trouble. Those thistle-sharp mountains? Those scruffy clans in their dirty tartans? Though you do present yourself well tonight.” He leans forward, his glance roaming over my black jeans, black T-shirt, black cowboy boots, and the thorny tattoos on my left forearm. “You are a fine specimen of a…redneck? That is the expression?”
“My boots give it away, I guess. And my ink?” I can’t help but grin. I must indeed look like a well-dressed hillbilly compared to him. An observer would find us an odd combination. On top of the tattoos and the informal attire, my hair is long and black, pulled back in a ponytail, and my goatee’s like a biker’s, long and bushy enough to braid. I most likely resemble a Hell’s Angel trying to look nice but not quite pulling it off. Marcus, on the other hand, is the picture of a wealthy, pampered European, with his white silk shirt, beige linen pants, expensive watch, golden neck chain, and designer leather dress shoes. Scottish highlander in my human years, Appalachian for most of my vampire existence, I can’t hide my rough edges even when I try. Especially from a gaze as steady and searching as his.
“And your beard betrays you, paganus, rusticus. You look like a Confederate general. You remind me of Enkidu. In need of taming, I think.”
“Enkidu? In the Sumerian Epic of Gilgamesh, right? The hairy wild man who came down from the mountains to be the comrade and lover of the great hero Gilgamesh.”
“You are better educated than I expected. That is correct. Let me see your bare chest, please, my mountain redneck, my Appalachian Enkidu.”
My cock hardens beneath the table. I’d forgotten how exciting it is to be told what to do by a man much stronger than I.
“Here?” I say, half turning toward the tables of diners.
“I own Rome. I do what I please. Tonight you will do what I please. Just a glimpse.”
Blushing, I pull my T-shirt up to my neck, baring my belly and chest.
Marcus takes a long, low breath, staring at my exposed torso. “Just as I imagined. Hairy as a savage. As an animal in need of a rider. Finish your drink, boy, and I will give you a tour of the Palatine. I will break you. I will make your chill skin sweat.”
II.
The ruins are fluted gray in the moonlight. Under flat-topped cypresses, upon the crest of the Palatine Hill, we explore the remains of imperial palaces long abandoned, strong with the scent of pines and, this late at night, closed to tourists. Rubble now, once the homes of Augustus, Tiberius, Septimus Severus, Domitian. The fragments of columns, arcades, fountains, even a small stadium. Below us, modern Rome steams in the night, the lights of traffic pouring along its streets like phosphorescent lemmings.
“Did you know any of them? The Caesars?” I stroke a clump of oleander bloom. It is silent here, save for the distant noises of traffic and the cheeping of summer insects in the bushes and trees about us. Moonbeams slant over Marcus’s white face as he moves closer to me.
“A few. Caligula raped me. He was assassinated long before I could take my revenge. I was turned in the reign of Claudius.” Marcus looks down at the ruined rocks of the Forum, illuminated by searchlights for the benefit of tourists, and toward the monumental buildings atop the Capitoline Hill. “Take off your shirt.”
I pull the garment over my head. Marcus takes it, laying it carefully on a jagged chunk of marble he first brushes off with the side of his hand. He turns to me now, resting his hands on my shoulders. “So you have come to Rome to pay your respects?”
I gaze up at him, trying not to tremble. “Yes, sir.”
“To the Caesars or to me?”
“Both.” It is hard to meet his gaze, yet impossible to look away. My victims must feel the same when I entrance them. “In all my centuries, I have never come to Rome. It is more beautiful than I ever imagined. I would like your permission to linger here, and to return when I please.”
“And you are ready to pay the price? For a nest in my realm? For the freedom to feed here? This is, I sense, a price you are unaccustomed to.”
“I am unaccustomed, but I am ready,” I say. “Sir.”
Marcus nods. Moonlight gleams off his teeth, a true smile, wide with triumph. His fingers find my chest, stroking the thick fur there. I wrap my arms around his waist, bow my head, and lean against him. He tugs at my nipples, then the rims of hair around them, then the tangled bush of my beard.
“Strip,” murmurs Marcus. He gives me a gentle shove backward. “And unbind your hair.”
Boots first, then jeans, then the leather cord in my ponytail, discarded one by one in dry grass. Entirely naked, vulnerable, I stand before him, in warm Roman breezes, in the scent of wildflowers, in moonlight. I stare down at my exposed body, at my inked and muscled arms, at my hairy belly and chest, my hairy legs, trying to see myself as he sees me. It has been many, many years since I have submitted to another vampire, or felt undead lust raking me with such sharp zeal. Marcus’s eyes are gleaming, the blue gone a fiery red. “Shaggy brute,” he whispers, tousling the long hair framing my face, rifling my belly fur, patting the face of the Horned God inked into my left arm, the barbed-wire band inked into my right. “Tattooed like your feral ancestors, those mad Celts. The antlered god of the Gauls, I see. God of beasts and mountains, yes? A hirsute, hard-cocked Dionysus. Apropos. My deity is Mithras. You will show him homage later.”
From his back pocket, Marcus fetches something gleaming. “A surprise,” he says, holding it before me. I can feel it already, the shining power that can make my head swim and my muscles grow feeble. Silver. H
e’s brandishing a pair of leather-lined silver handcuffs. Open and ready to use.
I step back, unsure. “Sir? You never mentioned this. I never agreed—”
Marcus outflanks me in a split second, faster than I can further react. Again the difference in our powers gives me some sense of how outmatched my human victims must feel. He pulls my wrists behind me before I know he’s there. But rather than subdue me further, rather than locking the cuffs, he simply stops. I stand there, trembling. A blunt hardness that must be his erection bumps my back. It seems that subduing me is exciting him as much as being subdued is exciting me.
“Trust me, barbarian. I will make this sweet. I will make you enjoy this.” Marcus sniffs me and noisily licks his lips. “Ah, you are sweating now. You stink. You smell like mud and grass and woodland. You smell like the Gallic prisoners I used to take in Mamertine Prison, only yards from here. Your hair”—he takes a strand in his teeth and pulls—“and your unruly beard remind me of them.” He nips the skin over my spine. I can feel his chin’s scratchy stubble. “Dirty and wild…forest scum, so proud at first before they were chained and raped and broken. Warriors become slaves…they sobbed and shook beneath me. They lay in the prison’s straw and dung and wrapped their mighty arms about my feet and begged me for release. Will you sob for me?”
“No,” I say, teeth gritted. “I’m no slave.”
“But you will submit?”
“Yes.”
“You might sob yet. We shall see.” The cuff snaps over my right wrist, painfully tight. The leather saves me from that terrible burn, but the poisonous silver’s near enough to cause my knees to buckle. I would drop to the ground, but Marcus wraps an arm around my neck and heaves me upright. His knuckles graze my ass cheeks before the cuffs lock just as tightly about my other wrist. He releases me; groaning despite myself, hands firmly secured behind me, I sink to my knees and fall on my side in the grass. The silver weakness shudders through me, nauseating.
