blood/lust [pt. two]

Read part one here…

It wasn’t that he couldn’t derive pleasure from the heated wetness between her thighs – he most certainly could, and he fully intended to. Sex just wasn’t the be all and end all. Not for him. Sex was the seduction, the gaining of trust, the feel of her melding into his body. It was the most direct way in which he could persuade her that he was human. Which, of course, he was not. But in that alleyway, as he crushed her deceptively incapable frame against the wall she was not human either. Her mouth kissed and bit and sucked and in her mild drunkenness she emitted low growls, panting and hissing her desire. She had become carnal, animalistic. Her fingers dragged like claws across his unmarking flesh, and the glassy appearance of her eyes had given way to an intense and deeply piercing gaze, matching his, stare for stare. Although the pain did not hurt him, he felt every stinging moment of her fierce embraces. It amused him. It had been a long time since anyone had dared to play with him like this.

In response he grasped at her tights, hearing the stretching tear as they ripped, panties pulled roughly aside, allowing him access. His hands returned to the sharp edges of her hip bones and as he lifted her against the wall she seemed to weigh nothing. Similar to his experience with pain, he had incredible strength, able to lift most anything with little exertion, but still know the weight of it. And she was like a bird; hollow bones to match her slender frame and her exposed face.
Her body was so pliable, so easily persuaded to his will, by his hands. Yet at the same time, she clung to him, clasped his skin, dug her nails in, giving herself to abandon. She was fierce, passionate, lips fervent and parted. His tongue slipped into the cherry redness of her mouth, whilst his fingertips played between the softly opening lips of her sodden cunt. These two mouths urgently sucked him, taking him deeper and clenching him between teeth and muscle.

Every inch of her flesh seemed to grip him and hold tight, immersing her in the smell of him, the taste of him, his indefinable touch. Only there was no smell, not taste, barely a touch. No matter how she clung and clasped to him, her senses remained buried. She wondered if perhaps it was her. Had she taken something that was likely to numb her to somatic pleasures? She didn’t remember taking anything. But as she searched the recesses of her head, she found darkness and emptiness in every corner and felt her mind, like her body, desperately clutching for experiences that weren’t there. She smelled nothing, she tasted nothing, she touched nothing, she thought nothing because there was nothing. It was overwhelmingly complex. The intertwined confusion of silence made her reel. And though she knew she should be placing two feet on the ground, searching for water, sitting down, eating something, although she felt the necessity for sensibility, all she could do, all she thought to do was carry on devouring the man that had dragged her, like prey, into this dark, cold side street.

For himself, he enjoyed, beyond measure, the conflict upon her face, reflective of her spirit. The clear torment going through her was a source of immense pleasure for him. The thrill of catching and taking what he wanted had long since lost it’s shine. Now it was the deep, sadistic torture that made his unbeating heart flutter. The more conflict, the more pain, the more confusion written on their pretty faces – and they were always pretty in their different ways – the more discomfort he saw, the harder he became, the more he licked his lips, the less able he was to wait. And this one, she was an extremity of all the victims who had ever been unfortunate enough to cross his path. More insecurity, less strength, more awkwardness, less self-value.

The anticipation of tasting her was driving his invasive fingers. Every kiss he returned was twice as rough as hers, each touch gripped with more power, each look pierced deeper. And still she writhed against him, gasping and moaning in pleasure, her cunt moving inches above his cock. Grasping hold of her firmly, he pulled her down, plunging his pulsing erection into her tight, heated wetness.

The whimper that escaped her lips, and the deep pressure of her fingertips in the back of his neck told him it was deeper, more intense than she was used to. He pushed forwards, rocking into her, and back again.

As always he began to ponder carefully whether this body in his arms had given up hope. Did all his victims secretly wish for the calm, deep satisfaction of death? He stalked them on cold nights, on bridges above dark, swirling waters and in alleys occupied by junkies and gangs. The people he caught, the bodies he hunted did not value their lives enough to seek safety. He wasn’t trying to justify his nature – he didn’t need to since he felt no guilt whatsoever – he simply amused himself with the possibilities of his situation. She clasped him and he thrust deep and hard inside her, shaking her frail body and crushing her again and again against the unforgiving brickwork. She shuddered and her face contorted into a thousand pained expressions, but not one word of protest escaped her lips.

But, of course, she was unable to protest. Any idea she had of knowing and controlling herself in that moment was a mirage, created by her poor human mind in self defence. It was far easier for a victim to believe they had gone willingly than to fight the confusion of a controlled, overpowered mind. He was inside her, moving between her thighs, but deeper, more invasively, more unfathomably. He was not waiting for her pleasure; he had other plans. More seductive, more difficult to accomplish. To achieve his goal he would have to break this contact, this maximum skin on skin. He had to disengage and allow a chance of doubt to enter her mind. But, holding her tight against the wall he exerted his strength and kept her entirely still as his cock throbbed and exploded inside the deep, heated, soaking of her cunt. She clung to him, letting him empty his unsatisfied lust inside her.

He pulled back, letting his still hard cock slip from the gentle folds of her pouting sex. As he backed away he could feel the disconnect and a smile appeared on her face, a clear indication of her returning sanity. The gaze she cast across him was one of farewell. She clearly had no expectations for her own pleasure, thinking that now he had taken what he wanted, she was disposable. But with one long, ghostly finger he beckoned her to him and she stepped forward, her head cocked to one side. She still lacked the wherewithal to recognise her own immodest state of undress. Neckline low, tights ripped, the edge of her panties caught in the crease of her pussy, skirt rucked up around her waist, she approached him, walking with blushing timidity. He pulled her to him in one last imitation of tenderness and passion, kissing her lips as softly as he could, whilst hiding the want hissing through clenched teeth.

His hands played across her hips once more and he lifted her easily, smoothly, perching her on the curved plastic lid of the large, industrial bin standing against the opposite wall. She giggled, tipsy having lost her sense of self again. His hands moved between her legs, lissome fingers pressing her thighs apart, reaching to pull the crotch of her panties away. She looked down and saw the thin material of her knickers disintegrate in his suddenly claw-like fingers. She shook her head, certain her eyes were blurring. She was seeing things. When she looked down again all she saw was the glint of his eyes, dark – she dismissed it as seductive – and gleaming mischief as he ran his pointed tongue across the lips of her cunt. She shivered at the contact and it was mere moments before he was sinking his kiss into her sex. She was so soft, so supple against his firm mouth. Her clit tingled, his tongue tantalising.

It took every moment, every inch of his willpower to keep his teeth behind his lips, to focus his attention on her cunt and ignore the pulse of her great saphenous vein, which seemed to throb against his cheek, through the translucent skin of her thin thigh. For all this desire, for the pull, stronger than the tug of a needle to an intravenous junkie, he held back, rolling the pebble of her clit between his lips and reveled in her purrs of pleasure. He reminded himself again and again that this was her last chance, her final moments of living delight, and he gave all his energy to granting her this final ecstasy.
Hands flat on the lid of the bin, stretched behind her, she leant back, her face tipped towards the purple, light polluted sky, his mouth moving fast and fierce against the dips and contours of her cunt. He slid his long fingers into her, curling up as his eager mouth worked faster, faster, pushing her towards orgasm. None of her previous lovers had possessed the skill to make her come or the inclination to learn how, and thus the only orgasms that had ravaged her slender body had been beckoned by her own touch. His attentive tongue, his knowing fingers working her body into a frenzy, forcing her to delight much quicker than her own deft touch ever could. She arched her back, the movements of her body no longer dramatic or overplayed. Every curl of her toe, every tremble of her lip, every flutter of her eyelashes was ardently honest.

Moments later her body went rigid, tense, every muscle cramped for one ecstatic second, hanging in the balance before she fell into her orgasm, the waves of pleasure cascading and crashing through and into her trembling flesh.

In that moment, hanging before orgasm, the vein in her groin pulsed and he let his lips snarl back, revealing his pointed incisors, just before, as she began to come, numb with pleasure, he sank into her inner thigh and punctured her flawless white skin, finding the vein immediately and drinking.

She was sweet, warm, thick. Life coursed through him and his eyes opened wide as he drank and drank and drank, taking all he could. It was never enough and yet one drop in a month would have restored him to his healthy, human glow. He sucked between her legs, more, more, deeper. In the flow of her blood he could feel the pulse of her ever slowing heart as he stole her life force, whilst bestowing upon her supernal ecstasies she had never known. The thoughtful thief.

He knew precisely how long he had before she would scream, he knew how long she would mistake the light headedness for the afterglow of her orgasm, the seconds it would take for her ever defensive body to register the throbbing pain of such deep, aching wounds. And as he drank, sucking ever harder, his hand moved up, reaching for her neck, leaving her alive for as long as possible – blood was best drunk fresh and living.

And then, just then the shadows in the alley changed, cast against the opposite wall as she lowered her chin, looking down to see the blood pooling between her legs.

Her breath caught, her lungs filling, ready to scream

And in that split second his hand clamped across her mouth and in one swift, smooth movement he jerked her head sideways with a sickening crack, breaking her neck. She fell against the wall, rag doll limp. Lifeless to her core.

The chase was done, his pleasure was over. He drained her body until she was lighter than she had ever been – dead weight didn’t seem to apply to the ethereal – and slipping her folding paleness into the bin, he straightened his clothes, licked his lips and strode confidently, self-satisfied onto the shining wet street.

Are you hungry?
Are you sick?
Are you begging for a break?
Are you sweet?
Are you fresh?
Are you strung up by the wrists?
We want the young blood.
Are you fracturing?
Are you torn at the seams?
Would you do anything?
We suck young blood.
- from ‘We Suck Young Blood’ by Radiohead

This entry was posted in blood/lust, Dark, Fiction, Series. Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to blood/lust [pt. two]

  1. Mrs Discontented says:

    WOW! That is an amazing story, great words. Loved it.

  2. Pingback: blood/lust [pt. one] | Lady Grinning Soul

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