When a drop of crimson brine touched his lips, Axton recoiled at last, utterly repulsed.
Scandalized by the taboo!
And if his heart could beat, his ribs would have clattered with a percussion worthy of the Adelphi Theater packed to maximum capacity.
Because Myron wasn’t done, oh no. Far from it! His Grandsire seized on a fledge’s weakness, pulled Axton from the mud by his scalp and the seat of his pants, then tossed him facedown between Selma’s thighs.
“This, boy. See it? Take a nice, long look,” Myron rumbled, forcing Axton’s cheeks against his Dam’s honeyed, cold mound. “This is nature’s sweetest treasury, and it’s mine.” Hauling him up, setting Axton’s hips to cradle hers, Myron tore at the fledge’s lacings, and forced his breeches down. Exposing his thighs and bottom to the chill, Myron reached around and took a handful of Axton’s member. Set his limp prick against Selma’s delicate petals. Squishing and crushing. And, ignoring every desperate attempt the fledge made to avoid getting a proper buggering, Myron pinned him there between Selma’s thighs.
No matter Axton’s undead strength, or the confidence he’d earned in learning to hunt the children of man, a fledge was no match for a master in his own line.
Gasping, the fledge buried his nose in Selma’s sodden, gore-spattered hair. Hiding his face against her scalp as his Grandsire captured his wrists and wrenched his arms behind his back, pulling them from the sockets, before he stripped the remaining clothing away from chilled flesh. Left his bottom naked and exposed and critically vulnerable to the sick and rot infecting their line.
“Everything my sweet Selma has to offer, including her pathetic, simpering whelp of a fledge, is mine,” Myron hissed, and then, grip in one hand stronger than every straining ounce of muscle in Axton’s entire bloody frame, his Grandsire fumbled between them. Letting a swollen knob of flesh pass over the fledge’s tender spots. Pressing and threatening, he pinned Chyld to Dam with one hand between Axton’s shoulders. Crushing her modest bosom against Axton’s chest.
Knowing a fight would only buy him the harshest of punishments, Axton willed himself still. To supplement his flagging spirit with his Dam’s comforting scent, if only to depart his immortal coil before he discovered what true suffering might be.
Teeth tore into his shoulder, keeping a firm tether between mind and body, both. “If I told her to leave you here so I could play,” Myron breathed, peeling Axton’s cheeks apart to threaten that last, forbidden gate, “she would.” He pressed forward, making Axton clench and burn. “She’d go to the streets to play her games, filling herself on the sweetest painted dollies she could find, even though she hates the taste of feminine flesh. But she’d do it for me, boy,” Myron continued, and withdrew. Guided himself lower, and set that bloated, nightmare girth to the dainty lips of Selma’s sex. “She’d do it because the stupid cunt loves her Sire, doesn’t she, pet?”
At this, Axton lifted his head just enough to see the truth reflected in his Dam’s eyes. Watched as she was stuffed full of that monstrous length. Felt her anguish through their bond, as if the sick git had gone ahead and plumbed another man’s depths. Knew what it was to rip in a secret place, to feel molten steel impaled so deep, he could feel the burn all the way to the back of his throat.
And it was then, pinned between the generations of his line, Myron’s hips slapping at his backside, cock splitting his Dam in two, that Axton first understood the truth of their brutal unlife.
Selma, though still and cold as death, was positively overflowing with wickedness.
Drunken and bawdy, though she hadn’t the strength to so much as gasp with oncoming orgasm.
Each stab of agony bound Sire and Chyld closer together. Their mad rut painted her insides black with every stroke into that tattered, precious sheath Axton had loved so well. Spilling defunct seed wasn’t Myron’s goal—it was to drink deep of his Chyld’s pain. To reaffirm their twisted bond and soak in the ghastly and sadistic.
With a lusty grunt, the big brute buried his fingers in Axton’s hair. Tore his scalp and snarled at his nape. Hips slapping, fingers bruising, Myron growled low and set his teeth once more. Ripping into the soft fledge trying not to feel, trying to prevent his Grandsire from deepening their bond any further.
It was no use, of course.
Not when Myron’s teeth reopened that gash where claws had broken him. Just above the spot where his Grandsire’s teeth had split the meat of the fledge’s shoulder. Slamming into Selma’s still form with grotesque slaps and grunts, abdomen wet with sweat against Axton’s backside as his muscles bunched and flexed, Myron worked for his pleasure and his alone. Gulping great swallows against Axton’s shoulder.
Only when he began to spill did Myron release his toothy hold. With pummeling hips, his grunts grew feral and he turned Axton’s head. Offered up the fledge’s throat even as he sprayed Selma’s guts white with a mighty roar.
Forcing his dark princess to drink from her Chyld, and drink deep.
Axton wasn’t hurt by her feed at his expense, for she’d done just so many, many times before.
Wasn’t concerned that she offered only pain, and made no effort to shield him from her Sire or her own sharp teeth.
But when he heard her soft coo, the one that spoke of fluttering quim and spilling nectar, Axton sobbed at long last. For to know that she’d come apart for that brute with the same breathy sigh she’d promised to save only for him?
He willed her to take too much and leave him to crisp up in the morning sun.
Sighing, balls empty and deplete, Myron rolled. Splayed out in the mud, arms propped up behind his head, he smiled at the moon. Cock still pulsing and dribbling in the gentle breeze, still bloated on all that he’d stolen. His cock shone crimson with the evidence of what he’d wrought.
And with an equally satisfied sound, Selma licked at Axton’s wounds. Cooing and humming. Nipping with sharp little teeth that had yet to recede, for even after glutting herself at her Chyld’s throat, she was still famished.
“Come, my sweet,” Myron drawled, hips jutting. Making his floppy shaft gleam and bounce. “Climb on up and show your maker how grateful you are that I left the boy alive.”
Something wicked flicked in Selma’s black gaze when she growled low in her throat, and there came a sound Axton had never heard before. A sound straight from the fiery pits that spoke of her fiendish nature. “Have you got more for your sweet?” she asked, and shoved Axton away before she rolled. And, crawling, she waggled that pert behind and left her spoiled nethers on lewd display.
And in spite of himself, Axton’s cock stood at attention. Drawn taut and long by the call of his maker, even though it was left to spear uselessly into the mud. Denied the perfect grip of her perfect, sloppy treasure, she didn’t spare him so much as a coy glance.
No, his sweet night mistress spread her thighs and puffy lips in one unnatural motion. Knelt above that stiffening club, and stuffed herself full of Myron once more. Squealing when clumps of spoiled cream squished between their bodies, left to cool and drip down Myron’s heavy purse.
Axton was made to watch. One eye filled with mud where his face had settled in it, the other fixed to the spoiling of that sweet meat he knew he wouldn’t be permitted to taste again. Not until Myron had tired of tormenting his Grandchyld.
Took him until sunrise to realize this was just another of her games.
Chapter 4
Their play didn’t end with the rising of the sun, for it had been some years since Myron had had Selma to himself. Took her all through the following day, he did. In every lewd position Axton had never thought to imagine.
Bent over the remains of his last meal, he’d had her squealing with inhuman glee.
In the mouth of a cave where they intended to wait out the sunlight, he’d had her on her knees. And with a well-aimed strike, the master had dislocated her jaw and plumbed the depths of Selma’s throat. Going at her face with thrice the vigor he’d taken her secret treasure, he ha
dn’t stopped until foamy cream had come spurting from her nostrils.
And then, sequestered away from the deadly eye of the sun, Axton had been made to watch his beloved Dam buggered on that thick and turgid staff. Buggered! She took it deep and hard and fast, making terrible animal sounds from the deepest spot in her belly. For one macabre moment, when Myron had wrapped a fist in her obsidian hair and wrenched her head back to its limit, Axton was sure he’d seen all the way through her. Right into the bowels of hell.
But no matter the torment, his Dam had cooed for more.
Begged and pleaded, as a kitten for milk. In a tone Axton hadn’t been able to force from her deadly lips, she’d screamed as she came. Even wet Myron’s thighs with something that wasn’t piss, just before her eyes had rolled back and she’d gone limp. A dolly made for Myron’s pleasure, still flopping and dancing with his every brutal thrust.
Axton had been made to watch all of it.
Commanded by the elders in his line not to move without permission, not to blink or turn away from the horror rutting before him. Pants still loose around his ankles, cockstand shamefully stiff and red, he’d been horrified and fascinated all at once. The only thing that had stopped him begging for relief, was a niggling human sense of pride.
Cooing, Selma had regained her senses and crawled to meet him with Myron still buried deep in her buttocks. Jaw sagging on torn tendons, dripping in fluids and reeking of something far more primal than mere copulation, she’d taken her Chyld in hand and throat. Tried to work him to spurting release as she had so many times during their secret winter.
Axton had refused to spill. Refused his maker for the first time in his short unlife, and clung to his principals and closed his purse to the woman he’d pledged to serve.
Petulant, Selma had scored his length with sharp fangs. Taking a crimson offering instead of salted—and then she’d taken a bit of twine from the scraps of her ruined skirts. Wrapping it about his bollocks, she’d bound those heavy orbs to his shaft and forbade him from participating. If he wouldn’t give what she was owed, then he’d be made to suffer hours of torment without release.
And suffer, he had.
By the end of it, Axton’s prick was the vicious purple of deep bruising. His balls so swollen with seed they’d tripled in size and needed naught but a slight breeze to send him spraying the floor of their hidey hole white, no matter his refusal to join in Selma’s degradation. But with the cord drawn tight, no such release would come.
Myron had been the one to refuse him then. Taking Axton’s bound length in hand, Myron had squeezed, crushing. Utterly unrepentant that he held another man in his palm, the elder went so far as to gather the tortured pearly drop that shone at Axton’s slit, and stroked himself from base to tip. Grinning. The fires of hell gleaming in a gaze that was more demon than man.
“You care for you Dam, boy?” he said, letting the fledge know the sharp bite of claws on his most tender flesh.
Trembling, Axton said nothing, but his scowl screamed and raged.
“Why, Selma,” Myron said, working himself stiff once more. “I think your lad here wants to make a feast of my entrails.”
“Baaad, bad boy,” Selma purred, half incoherent, stretching and writhing in a sordid pool. “Must punish him, Daddy.”
Punish him? For loving his candied princess and hating the beast who’d made her so… so… vile and wretched?
No.
Emitting a peculiar, multi-toned growl, Axton rumbled low in his chest. Heedless of the risk to being unmanned by a swipe of deadly claws, for already, the injuries Selma had sustained during her ravishing were healing. The edges of clawed lacerations knitting without even a hint of pink scar.
And so, with a reasonable level of certainty, Axton knew if his Grandsire made him a eunuch, it wasn’t to last.
Myron’s claws buried deeper into his sack, threatening to pop the tender globes—but Axton had been pushed too far. Utterly beyond the limit of his restraint. Lips parting, his snarl grew ferocious. Inhuman. The man’s mask falling away to reveal the fledgling hellion beneath.
For a moment, as Myron cupped him, the elder’s gaze narrowed. His grip tightening further still. And then, “Ah. Mayhaps your pet has a chance after all.”
Selma cooed, playing with swollen, seeded folds.
“Come,” Myron said, and sliced through the leather cord binding Axton’s balls with one careless flick of his wrist. “We’re goin’ on a proper hunt, m’boy.”
What little blood remained in Axton’s body rushed from his cock, and he nearly splashed his seed down the backs of Myron’s retreating thighs. A whimper left his lips before the demon had begun to quiet, drawing his Grandsire’s wicked eye once more.
“Haven’t had enough, eh?” Working two fingers beneath his tongue, Myron whistled. Shrill. Shattering the ominous quiet of their sordid den. “Girls! See to the boy. Work ‘im over right proper. Don’t spill a drop now... not a single drop…”
At this, two females oozed from the shadows. Creeping over boulders. Slithering through the pitch on limbs that seemed to twitch and lurch. Their eyes reflecting an ebon glow far darker than anything Axton had ever had the displeasure of seeing before. No hint of white rimmed their eyes. Not a scrap of humanity or lingering nibblet of their souls.
“Thralls,” Myron supplied, lifting one by her slender neck. “Fed a diet of nothing but my blood. Makes ‘em mindless servants, doesn’t it, pet? No longer human.” He took a handful of her matted brown hair. “On your knees, luv. Take ‘im nice an’ deep.”
Axton’s eyes flew to his Dam. To the only woman who’d ever touched his privates without the cold weight of coin to ease her trouble. Selma’s eyes gleamed with naught but heated approval. And for just a moment—while the thrall swallowed the first half of his engorged length—Axton watched as Selma scooped up a palm full of Myron’s seed, and lapped it clean, before plunging both hands between her thighs. Searching for more.
Agony heated his ribs, searing dead organs to the point of smoking.
Unholy misery! Was this what it was to meet the sun? To be left in denial of the only thing he truly wanted? Was this to be his existence? Would he never again bury his—
Cold hands landed on his buttocks, spreading pale cheeks.
Axton yelped. Jerked away from the invasion, only to thrust deeper down the throat of the thrall on her knees before him.
A tongue wormed where none had dared to go.
The second thrall, then, and this one ordered to do something truly heinous.
But Axton’s hips had picked up an unintentional rhythm, one that threatened the tight ring at the back of a willing throat.
“That’s it, boy. Take her just the way you like,” Myron said, pushing the thrall deeper over Axton’s shaft, until his tormented knob popped through that band of cartilage.
Gasping, Axton pulled back. Impaling himself on soft heat that dared—dared!—to plumb his depths. Wriggling and worming through his sphincter.
“Unholy—yes,” Axton hissed, head falling back. Seduced by the wicked. The corrupt and foul.
It wasn’t his fault. He’d been left dangling on the edge for nigh on two days and nights without relief. Forced to watch his Dam bred by a gutless cad, a true monster of the night.
And some part of him that was no longer a man enjoyed watching her soiled.
With a tongue between his cheeks, and a nose buried in the coarse hair around his base, Axton’s balls gave a mighty lurch and unleashed a torrent of suffering. Gushed and spewed, spraying long-held ropes of inert seed straight into his Grandsire’s thrall.
Shrill laughter and the echo of clapping sharpened Axton’s gaze, for his Dam was applauding so vile a performance.
His lips split over a toothy grin, and it was the demon within who let the thrall suck him dry, even as he continued to work her throat. The demon who said, “Not just a diet of blood then, eh?”
Chapter 5
Fledge and Grandsire strolled through th
e humid evening breeze, assuming the superior airs of fine gentlemen, in spite of the state of their clothing. The rips and the tears.
The stains.
Myron snatched up a gnarled branch. “Ye don’t look like much,” he began, pretending to limp when a figure appeared on the road ahead. “But your veins are thick with the noble ichor of the Anuris line.”
Axton’s stomach rumbled, and it was all the fledge could do not to rush the foolish mortal who’d dare the moonlit hours. But the glitter in Myron’s eyes, the tightly coiled posture, whispered of retribution Axton was unprepared to deal with. With gnashing teeth, the fledge leashed his demon and submitted to his elder.
A sound that might have been a rumbling purr shook the air between them, Myron’s eyes gleaming with the demon’s lust. “Clever boy,” he cooed, and chucked Axton beneath the chin hard enough to make his teeth snap shut on the tip of his tongue. And then, squinting at the figure on the road ahead, Myron continued his lesson, shuffling gait the perfect mimic of wounded prey. “There hasn’t been a male Chyld in the Anuris line in well over two hundred years. And as such,” the elder said, dragging his foot in the dry dirt road, cane scraping up a cloud of dust, “I’ve decided to teach you to be a proper demon.” Myron cinched his frock and straightened his hair, still stained in cum and fluids from his ravishing of sweet Selma in the mire and muck. Eyes fixed to the approaching mortal man. “I’ll take you under my wing—how does that sound, hmm?”
Offering a fleeting nod, Axton licked his lips. Hunger gnawing on his entrails. Fangs descending to nip at his lower lip. And when the wind changed—carrying with it the heady scent of a man only slightly past his prime—his demon rushed to the fore.
Deadly, reeking of scarcely repressed tension, Myron’s eyes gleamed golden orange, and the fledge went still without a hint of protest. Not daring even the slightest breath, for fear of losing his unlife.
Bite Me: A Vampire Anthology Page 13
