Miss America - a BDSM Vampire Tale

by Chrissie Bentley

  He repeated the question. "You are the senorita for the hotel?". He rummaged in his jacket and retrieved a ball of paper, carefully smoothed it out and read from it. "Chrissie Bentley. Four Seasons. You her, si?"

  "You were meant to be here more than two hours ago," I hissed. Then repeated, slowly, "Two.... Hours...."

  He shrugged and again that smile. "No worries, I’m here now.” He introduced himself - “call me Pedro... Pedro, Pedro.” Then he gestured to the back seat of the bike. "Traveling light. That's good.". And I looked down at the suitcase and the carry-on that I'd been clinging onto since I got here and 140 minutes of pent up frustration finally erupted.

  I was not going to ride on the back of his bike.

  I was not going to trust my life to a - what was he, nineteen years old? Twenty at a push? - To a kid who had kept me waiting for two fucking hours in a steaming hellhole of an airport.

  And I was not.... Which is when he smiled again, grabbed my case and secured it (secured? That's a laugh) to the back of the bike, looped my carry-on around his neck and gestured again for me to jump on. "nice hotel. You'll like it."

  My rage was spent. If I was go into die, I was going to die. I didn't have the energy left to argue. I straddled the bike, reached back behind me to find something to hang onto, then almost toppled off again as he revved the engine, mounted the sidewalk and headed straight through the crowds that mingled around before a gap appeared between stationery cars and we were suddenly onto the highway, that thin strip of road that races out over the water into the city, and looks like a decent wind could send it crashing. By which time, both my arms were wrapped tight around his body, and I was leaning into him as far as I could, more terrified than I had ever been in my entire life.

  He drove like a maniac, weaving and jerking, in and around the cars that themselves were scarcely keeping to anything that even looked like their own lane. Once... More than once... I was convinced we were done for, as he swerved into the path of one oncoming vehicle or another, or darted so close the guard rails that I was sure we were about to fly over them. And alongside us, Madrid started growing, up and around and all about, a tangle of buildings that seemed undecided whether they were the outskirts of a thriving, modern city, or bit-players in a documentary about third world slums.

  We swerved violently off the Calle de Ariadne, and onto a series of side streets winding through an industrial estate. I wanted to ask how far to the hotel, but we were going so fast that I could barely catch my breath, and I doubted he would hear me anyway. Or that I would understand his reply. His accent was strong and though the simple sentences made sense (or seemed to, at any rate), the slang was another matter entirely. So when we suddenly pulled up outside what I could only call a burned out brownstone with half a dozen more Arabs congregated on the stoop, I didn't even utter a word of protest. If I was going to die....

  Pedro spoke to one of the guys and pointed to the bike; spun a coin into the air for the other one to catch, and then pointed me towards the door. I looked at him in utter confusion and he laughed. He said something, and I caught the word “hotel” somewhere in the midst of it.

  I sighed and made to follow, then spun back to retrieve my suitcase. He could make whatever arrangements he wanted for the safety of his bike, but no way was I leaving my stuff on the street. I reached for my other bag too, and shrugging his shoulders, he untangled it from his arm and handed it to me. Then watched as I struggled to lift both pieces of luggage up the stairs, and into the building. Ahead of us, a flight of stairs wound its way into darkness and for a moment I thought I was going to be negotiating my things up there as well. Instead, he steered me through a side door that I hadn’t even noticed, then left me standing in the center of the room while he disappeared into another.

  A burned out brownstone. Scorch marks traveled the walls around the windows, and there was a patch of floor that was

  blackened and charred. But the furniture, such as it was, was undamaged and a television in one corner quietly babbled what may have been the news, but could as easily have been a commercial for hair product.

  I looked around. A bookshelf stood naked around the half a dozen paperbacks that lay on their sides on one shelf, thrillers that were clearly as popular here as they were back home. A stack of LP records and a handful of CDs lay in a heap on a chair, half concealed by discarded clothing, and a few tattered posters snarled the belligerent faces of musicians I'd never heard of out into the room.

  There was an ashtray on every surface, overflowing and filthy, and unwashed glasses and dishes too. The smell that clung to my escort seemed to permeate the very walls... And there was one other thing I noticed as well. My escort himself, out of sight in the other room but caught in the mirror that faced to where I stood, changing his clothes... Shirt off and then another on, pants down and then glancing up, and catching me staring as he stood there half naked, his body ebony against the whitewash behind him, and his cock caught in profile, halfway to his knee.

  I froze, he glared. I looked away, his eyes dragged mine back again. How much time passed in that ridiculous tableau. Ten seconds? Ten minutes? Then he turned to face me full-on, one hand reaching down to cradle his cock, and his face cracked again into that impudent smile.

  Pedro spoke and his words were a jumble that could have been another language, and probably were, I reminded myself. But I stepped forward anyway as he moved to stand in front of the mirror, his face serious as his hand stayed on his cock, holding it towards me, drawing me closer. It was hardening. From ten feet away, I could see it filling, growing fatter, thicker, longer. How long? How fat? I am not even going to get into that old, old debate about how black guys have cocks that whites can only dream of, but at that moment it looked like he had more meat in one hand than I'd had inside my body my entire life.

  I was moving slowly. Too slowly. He stepped out of the room, shedding his t-shirt as he walked towards me, and tossing it back behind me. His body was as muscled as it was lean, hairless from the pubes up, glistening with the thin sheen of sweat that he probably wasn't even aware of, but which I suddenly wanted to lick... To taste.

  I edged forward and his arms enfolded me, pulling me close but... it was strange. There was no tenderness in his embrace, no sense that two strangers had connected across a room and were about to embark upon some great exploration. Words like lust and desire, and all the other terms that writers use to convey that moment when you know you're going to fuck somebody... they didn't even come close. It wasn't even animal. It was pure instinct. Instinct that had me scrambling from my own clothes and kicking them across the floor as I bared myself to his deep brown eyes; instinct that allowed him to turn me unprotestingly around, so my face was pressed against a poster on the wall as my ass stuck out into the room.

  A thick finger parted my cunt lips and pushed inside, jamming me as my wet folds spread, but there was no tenderness there, either. The finger was simply checking that I was slick enough for the prick, which rammed inside without a word of ceremony. Without any words at all. It struck me that neither of us had spoken since he first saw me looking, and I wondered if we ever would. If we would ever need to.

  He was fucking me now, his palms pressing on the wall above my head, his

  sledgehammer cock and the rhythmic slap of his balls the only bodily contact we had. Or even wanted. I could feel myself stretched around him, a twinge of pain dancing in the back of my mind somewhere as I was spread wider than I had ever been before, then filled even more than that. No matter how wet I was, no matter how I spread my legs wide before him, I felt as tight as a virgin the first time she is fingered, a narrow crack that he was tearing apart with a rod that felt like burnished steel, still scalding from the furnace where it was cast.

  My cervix was burning, bruised by the battering. Any other man, any other time, I would have pulled away long ago,

  complaining of the pain and maybe laughing later that he was just that little bit too large and we should maybe
be more careful next time. This time, I relished the pain, wore my endurance as a badge of honor; found myself pushing back at him so his next thrust would hit me even harder.

  And when I came, and came again, there was no grunt of satisfaction, or tender words in my ear, just the relentless thunder of his cock in my pussy, as though the wave upon wave of orgasms that now shook me were occurring in another lifetime, and had nothing to do with whatever he was doing. Just once, as yet another wall of sensation beat down on me, and I felt as though my legs would buckle, did he even seem to acknowledge that I was in the room with him, his mouth suddenly on my neck, punishing and painful, and two fingers driving unerringly to my clitoris, to pinch and twist till I cried out again, while he kept my body upright with the strength of grip alone.

  Music started up in the other room, startling me with the proximity of a world outside of my soaking cunt. Bass slammed through my stomach, deep and heavy, merging with the monster that pounded me, and part of me hoped that we'd closed the door behind us... and part of me prayed that we hadn't. I'd already seen us in the mirror on the

  wardrobe, six feet something of powerful brown pummeling five foot nothing of pasty, puny white. I was meat, my body pushed so hard against the wall that even my breasts were invisible, and yet another orgasm wrecked me as I watched us in the glass, a wild bull goring a broken doll, a blazing arrow driving unerringly into its target, again and again and again.

  Voices in the other room, laughter and the sound of beer bottles. My mind lurched into a nightmare world where I was held prisoner here forever, to be fucked like this every day by a gang of uncaring, unfeeling Moors. And compared to the life I lived in America, or at least the love life that I'd lived with the men I'd known before, I wondered would that be such a bad thing after all? I turned my head, scraping my face against the poster to look at the door and a figure stood in the opening, one of the guys who had been out on the stoop. He was entering the room and I wondered... Is this where it begins?

  But then Pedro turned and left again, and the sound of a drawing breath in my ear and the thick pungent smoke of freshly burning marijuana... Oh my god. He is fucking me and smoking a joint at the same time. A joint that his buddy just walked in and handed him.

  The thought made me come even harder than before. Fingers in my face, hot paper on my lips. For a moment my mind could not even make sense of it, but then instinct, another instinct, took over and I parted my mouth around the joint and inhaled, holding the smoke in my mouth for a moment as the most powerful weed I have ever tasted reached out to every fiber of my being and sent me flying through the heavens even as I remained pinned to the wall. Then a rough hand in my hair, tugging it brutally, pulling me back and pushing me down. The pounding had stopped, though my cunt could still feel it, and I was on my knees now, his cock just an inch or two from my face, fatter than ever and soaked in my juices... I could smell them, mingled with the smoke of the joint that I suddenly realized I was now holding, and as my one hand reached for a cock I knew I could never fit into my mouth... but would... my other raised the joint to my lips and took another deep drag.

  I exhaled and watched as the smoke coiled around his cock, wreathing it in tendrils that my tongue hungrily lapped at, and above me, he spoke unknown words once again, but there was an edge of approval on their fringes, and I sucked down another lungful of thick, pungent weed, then chased it down with the tip of his cock.

  My jaw locked for a moment of madness, protesting, "you'll never fit that thing in here." But of course I could and I pushed through the sudden discomfort until the muscles relaxed with an almost audible sigh. He was too big to suck on, in any

  conventional sense, but my bobbing head knew that that didn't matter. Slick with saliva and fast pooling pre-cum, his cock and my jaw were locked to one another and, with the pounding of the music the

  soundtrack to his thrusting, I matched my rhythm to the thump of the bass and his hips began grinding a back beat of their own.

  I released him and inhaled again, smoke escaping from my nose and lips and he became the joint I was drowning in. Drowning because, even as I breathed out and the smoke hung and clung to his flesh and his pubes, he noiselessly jammed himself back into my mouth and he came.

  I have often thought about that moment since then, how my jaw hung so wide that it might have dislocated, how my mouth filled to full that I ought to have choked, how my throat could have closed and my body shut down, and he would have left me naked and writhing on that hard Madrid floor, coughing up cum as his buddies rifled my belongings, stole my money and my credit cards, then left me for whoever else might stumble by and want to fuck a half dead American.

  But that's not what happened. My mouth opened painlessly to accept the gift he gave me, my throat opened wide for his cum to wash down. And I kept on sucking as he softened in my mouth, and it was as though every secret that his body held was suddenly revealed to me, the way his cum tasted sweeter than any other I have ever

  encountered, alive with fresh herbs and freshly picked ganja; the way his flesh melted onto my greedy, swirling tongue, and his foreskin rolled back with a flavor of its own, and the gentle moan... yes, gentle!... as my hands reached around to his ass and drew him even closer, till my nose was pressed against his belly and the hair of his tight balls caressed my chin. Then he stepped back and knelt, his hand on my chin, and he looked me in the eye.

  "What I started to say was, if you don't mind waiting a moment while I get changed, would you like to go for a meal after I drop you at your hotel?"

  Or at least, that's what it sounded like he said. CHAPTER TWO

  “Do you have anyone to stay with you tonight?”

  It was one of the lousiest come ons I’d ever heard, all the more so since it took him so long to deliver it. I checked into the hotel four days ago; and, for most of that time, I’d seen him everywhere I went, just hanging back and watching me.

  At first, I thought he was simply an oversolicitous bellhop. The moment I walked in from a meeting, he was at my heel. The second my door opened in the morning, he was in the hallway. And, if I should as much as show my face in the restaurant , as I’d just done, he’d be lurking around the kitchens, watching me with the same intent, furtive manner that one normally associated with spies. Or stalkers. Now he was speaking to me, and I was in two minds… give him a mouthful? Or just a gentle brush off ?

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m flying back to New York tomorrow. Tonight, I’m just going to shut my door and go to sleep.”

  “Make sure you do shut it then,” he replied, sitting down beside me and leaning

  conspiratorially close, “and do not open it for anyone unless you are certain you know who it is. I have to take my wife to the hospital so I cannot be here to watch over you.”

  Watch over me? His English was extremely good – most of the other hotel staff

  reminded me of Manuel from Fawlty Towers. But here, I think, he’d got lost in translation. I reached for my purse, and the Spanish phrase book that had accompanied me throughout my trip, and then thought better of it. It hadn’t helped me out of a single linguistic jam yet, and those were the simple ones. I couldn’t imagine it knowing what to do in this predicament.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand you.” His face was just inches from mine now. “At the bar. You see those three men? The one in the white suit and the two who

  accompany him?”

  I nodded. “What of them?” “They are…” again he paused, searching for the correct words, and again I doubted that 5000 Everyday Phrases in Spain would be of any assistance.

  “They’re what?” I asked. “Kidnappers? Rapists? White slave traders?” “Yes. All of those. And more besides. They are very bad men. Very cruel. And they want you. They pursue you. They came here three nights ago and since then, I have watched you like a hawk. But tonight…” “Tonight you have to take your wife to the hospital. Okay, you do that, I’ll shut my door and if I don’t see you before I che
ck out tomorrow you’ll know I’m safe.” I knew that remark made absolutely no sense but he seemed to understand what I meant and rose, smiling.

  “Shut the door. Do not open for anyone. But now I must go. Goodbye Senorita…and good luck.”

  I smiled back. What was that all about? Back in my room, I’d put the entire

  conversation out of my mind; was slowly packing for my departure and mulling over the weekend I wound up spending with Pedro. Christ, he was unstoppable once he got going, and I’d spent at least one long hot soak in the tub simply counting the bruises on my arms and legs. And admiring the hickey he left on my neck. Two days old and it wasn’t even beginning to fade. I was glad I’d packed some scarves.

  A line from a Bryan Ferry oldie ran through my mind, “The Price of Love” it was called… “You see her face in every crowd.” Make that his face. I thought I’d seen Pedro a couple of nights ago; I was in the bar, fighting off the attentions of an amorous Basque boy, when I caught a glimpse of someone who might have been him at the door. Only a glimpse, though, and then he was gone. I put it down to wishful thinking. I doubted I’d ever see him again.

  A sudden banging on the door brought me back to earth.

  “Who is it?”

  “Fax, Senorita.” At last. I’d been waiting for it all evening. It’s amazing how you can spend three days in meetings, and the most important details of the entire project are the ones that nobody actually remembers to bring along.

  “I’ll be right there.” I grabbed a handful of banknotes from the bed for a tip, and opened the door; then was barreled back into the room as the three men from the bar pushed their way in, sending me sprawling.

  “You are packing. Good,” one snapped in my direction and then, turning to the others. “Help her. Leave no trace.”