The far corner of the country cemetery was heavily over grown. Fruit trees, almost barren in their neglect, arched their twisted branches over what might once have been hedgerows. The air was heavy with the scent of jasmine, which knotted its way into the uplifted boughs. Late summer grasses, golden and grown to hip height, waved their flag like seed heads in the gentle breeze, and the sound of crickets was so loud it almost drowned out the chattering birds. The old gold rush town to which this bone-yard belonged had long since dwindled to a handful of households. Most were farmers, too busy with the daily grind to pay much attention to the civic upkeep memorials to forgotten forefathers. A few of the headstones and family mausoleums had been vandalised but most had simply suffered from the ravages of weather, weeds and burrowing rabbits.
It was the cool shade offered by those neglected fruit trees that attracted her to this seemingly deserted corner. She'd ventured into the disused and all but forgotten graveyard in order to research the history of her ancestors, the Everett family. Initially the sorry state of the place had been depressing, but it's worn and wild charm was growing on her and she was had become engrossed in her task of cataloguing the graves one by one, noting the names and dates wherever these were visible. The project was likely to take several hours, especially given the summer heat, and she'd bought with her a simple picnic lunch and a flask of ice tea. When it came time to take a break this shaded spot seemed like the perfect place to take refuge from the hot afternoon sun.
Apparently she wasn't the only one who thought so for, as she approached, a hare darted from the towering grass and disappears into the thorny undergrowth. It was then that she noticed that the mound of earth from which the abundant jasmine sprang was in fact a mausoleum, almost buried by the untamed vine. Scraping away the tangled mass, she found stonework, worn but intact, and a low iron door still in place. Frustratingly there were no markings or inscription to indicate the family to which it belonged, so, with her curiosity peeked she had returned the following day she bringing a few candles and a crow bar, with the intention of searching the crypt. She doubted there would be any trace of coffin or corpses after so many years, but there might be some evidence of who had been laid to rest here. None-the-less her heart beat a little quicker as she prised open the ancient, rusted door.
Inside the vault was cool and dry, surprisingly spacious for a memorial of this type, and smelled inoffensively of earthworms and musty soil. She lit a candle and waited for her eyes to adjust but as they did she was astonished by a most unexpected sight. Before her was what appeared to be a gothic style tomb; a large marble sarcophagus was surmounted by a reclining statue carved in full relief. This was the sort of thing you'd find in a cathedral, or a large parish church, but not some out of the way country grave yard. Stepping closer she brushed the dust and cobwebs from it's face and her astonishment changed to utter incredulity. This was no statue, but a corpse, unlike any corpse she had ever seen. He, for it was a man, was as perfectly preserved as if he'd died that very morning. The flesh, though deathly white and almost translucent, was flawless and unbroken, and his long flowing hair , was dark and silken. She gently blew the dust from his eyelids, almost expecting them to flutter open, and noted that every eyelash was perfect and intact.
Her first instinct was to run, but her feet refused to cooperate. She stood, rooted to the spot, not sure whether to feel horror or fascination. Having not expected to find so much as a bone, a fresh corpse was simply over whelming. Eventually fascination won out and she tentatively touched a hand to his pale and apparently lifeless cheek. It was cold, as cold as the stone on which he lay, but surprisingly supple. The cheek of even a fresh cadaver should be flaccid, the eye sockets sunken and the skin turning leathery over stiffening muscle, but every thing about him was as pump and perfect as if he'd simply fallen asleep. The accumulation of dust and cobwebs indicate he had lain here for quite some time, and yet.... how was that possible?
She stared, dumbstruck, for several minutes before moving to examine him more carefully. He must have been about thirty-five when he died. His clothing was old-fashioned; a studded shirt, a black waistcoat and black wool dress pants. His shoulder length hair was dark and straight, and lay around his head like a sprawling lions mane. He had been, and still was for that matter, a prince of a man to look at. His brow was broad, his nose straight and hawkish. His upper lip formed a perfect cupids bow, whilst the lower was full and pouty. His eyes turned down a slightly at the corners, making him seem a little sad, but his cheeks showed a hint of crows feet creases; he'd clearly known a lot of laughter. His short beard and moustache were neatly trimmed and the nails on his large and manly hands carefully manicured. Curious, she reached for his wrist, searching for a pulse, but there was none. Feeling suddenly dizzy, she realised she'd been holding her breath, and stepped outside to get some fresh air.
Evening was coming quickly. It would soon be dark and she had some distance to walk to the small country pub which she'd made her temporary home. Retreating from the crypt she secured the door and covered it with some fallen branches, then made her way back to the hotel in somewhat of a daze. Thoughts of her discovery haunted her and as a result got very little sleep. The run down little hotel offered few facilities, even the TV was broken, so she sat at the open window, letting the warm night breeze drift over her and puzzling over her find. When she did managed to doze the most bizarre thought crossed her mind, one she thought herself mad to entertain. Nevertheless she returned to the crypt the following day with a hypothesis to test.
Creeping though the low door she half expected to find him gone; a mere figment of her imagination, or some demented dream resulting from too much sun. But there he lay, as perfect and uncorrupted as before, beautiful, fantastic and utterly still. She approached, with her heart in her mouth, looking for any change, any hint that he had might have moved during the night, but nothing, no signs of life what-so-ever. She laughed at herself for coming up with such a ridiculous theory, however just to discount the possibility entirely she leaned over, brushed his pale mouth with a delicate finger and lifted back his upper lip. What she found was what she'd half dreaded finding, a fang.
Her mind reeled, a thousand questions racing in so fast they crowded each other out. She didn't believe in vampires any more than she believed in fairies, did she? And if this was a vampire why had he just lain here for so very long? Long enough for dust and jasmine to cover him over? She sat back against the wall of the tomb for over an hour, unable to think clearly, hoping the storm in her mind would calm and she'd be able to make sense of this conundrum. She did little more on the following day, having abandoned all thoughts of cataloguing headstones, and simply sat staring at him for hours on end. On the fifth day her mind was still in a fog, but she'd managed one clear thought and that was to make him a little more presentable. She began by dusted away the cobwebs, and then used her own hairbrush to tidy his dark, silken mane. Combing out his short beard she gazed again at those pale lips. No breath escaped them, no moisture touched there, but as cold and still as they were they seemed, strangely inviting.
She shook her head, to dislodge that perverse thought and went on cleaning, trying to think of him as an important scientific discovery she was making ready for presentation to the appropriate scientific community. Not that she knew who they were or how to contact them, but she was endeavouring to tackle this problem one step at a time, and for now she occupied herself with dust removal. Much of that she'd blown from his face had fallen down his shirt collar. She tried to undo the waistcoat but the antique buttons simply torn away and the treads holding them crumbled into dust. The mother of pearl shirt studs proved less troublesome and she opened the linen shirt with a studious care that would have made a museum curator proud. Only then did she find herself gapping in awe at the smooth contours of his magnificent muscular chest. The translucent effect of the pale flesh made him look like a Greek athlete carved in white marble, except that a soft down of chest hair showed black against his pale skin.
It must have been an hour later she was shaken from her trance when the lone candle lighting the vault hissed it's last and sputtered out. The sudden darkness temporarily blinded her and she was forced to grope in search of the spare candle and lighter. She'd left these laid beside him about where the waistcoat now lay open and reaching out she found her quarry about half way along, just there underneath the fabric. But, no? The thing she found was certainly long and hard, but far too large to be the candle. The sudden realisation of what it must be sent her flying from the crypt without further investigation.
For two days she didn't leave her room. Her mind was almost paralysed, save for one appalling thought, which she'd tried to banish the moment it crept in. She failed miserably and two nights running with almost no sleep drove her to the brink of madness. That one dark and terrible thought grew until it seemed to possess her and so it was that she returned to the cemetery, as if driven by dark intent. The graveyard was several miles from the hotel, and in the heat of the afternoon she had begin to raise a good sweat by the time she reached it. The warm breeze brushed her loose sundress and the sensation of tiny droplets running down her skin only heightened the prickling of her flesh. She paused, leaning on a headstone for support and swallowed hard. The lump that had been in rising in her throat was now threatening to choke her, and the knot I her belly seemed to be strangling her internal organs. With trepidation she stepped slowly into the gloom of the crypt and proceeded to light the lantern she had brought.
He lay there, in all his pale glory, exactly as she had left him. One valiant spider had woven a web between his foot and the wall, but otherwise nothing was changed. She brushed away the web and lit a few candles, almost reverently placing them about the vault, and finally went in search of the one she had misplaced. Sure enough it lay under the shirt, but had rolled in close to his side where she was unable to find it. Her gaze went to his face, down over his magnificent chest and drifted to his trousers. She reached out a tentative hand, placing it palm down on his fly. Yes, that was what she had felt, full, hard and of a size any man would be proud of.
She withdrew the hand and stepping closer to his face pulled her self up to sit on the edge of the tomb. She looked down at him, thinking that he seemed to grow more beautiful every time she saw him. A slight breeze from the door lifted a lock of his hair and she jumped. Had he moved? No, it was just the wind; he was as motionless as ever. She leaned her cheek close to his mouth, searching again for any hint of breath, but there was none. Turning her head she rested her brow on the tip of his cold nose and took in a deep breath of his scent. He smelt like the vault; the same fresh earthy smell perhaps with some lingering hint of patchouli, or musk. "Forgive Me," she whispered closing her eyes as she tilted her face upward and kissed his oh-so-inviting lips. A thrill ran though her whole body. Though cold and unmoving, they were soft and silky, like the petals of a flower. Their touch, combined with the smell of him, made her pulse quicken and her heart began to hammer in her ears. She looked at him again, whispering softly. "I don't know what you are, or who you are. I don't know if you can even hear me, but.... I want you." She bit her lip, wondering if speaking her terrible desire would make him wake, but he lay as still and perfect as before.
Placing one hand at the base of his throat, she let it drift slowly down the curves of his well-formed chest, whispering again. "You don't mind do you?" She kisses his mouth. "It's just that I don't seem to be able to get you out of my head. You are all I can think about, day in and day out." She moved her kisses down his jaw and along his throat, feeling her nipples react as they brushed over his cool, naked chest. "Oh how I wish you would open your eyes and tell me you want me too". She rested her cheek against his sternum, listening for any sighs of heart beat, but the utter silence was almost deafening. For a moment she thought she might cry; that something so beautiful was so empty and lifeless seemed a crime against nature, but then nothing about this was natural. Him, this thing, this vampire or whatever he was, was a contradiction, an impossibility, wasn't he?
She lay there for a short while wishing his hand would caress her hair, wishing his chest would rise and fall, but they did not. For a brief moment decided against her plan, but as she stood and looked him over once more, those fevered thoughts flooded back with such force she felt her knees go weak. Standing beside him once more she ran a lone hand over his cool chest, across the ripples of his toned stomach and brought it to rest just over his perfectly formed belly button. From there a line of fine dark hair made its way south, disappearing under the waist band of his trousers.
She drew a deep breath and followed the trail, unbuttoning his fly and that of the old fashion boxer shorts underneath. She tugged back the fabric and what rose to meet her from the confines was undoubtedly the most perfect prick she had ever seen. Pale and almost glowing in the candlelight, it soared full and erect from a forest of dark curls, like some magic staff craved out of pure ivory, bewitching and utterly flawless. She bit her lower lip and those further south quivered, the mere sight of this thing making her instantly wet. Barely able to breath she reached out and curled a hand around it; mover eight inches long, it was too wide around for her thumb and forefinger to meet. The skin was soft and, like the rest of him, cool yet supple whilst the shaft itself was as cold and as hard as steel. A shudder ran though her and the space between her thighs suddenly felt implausibly hollow and empty.
Withdrawing her hand and stepping back, she unbuttoned the sleeveless sundress she had worn in anticipation. It fell loose from her shoulders, exposing the firm, ripe curves of her breast and belly to the cool air of the crypt. Her already hardening nipples sprang to attention and damping a finger in her mouth, she toyed with one of them causing goose bumps break out all over her honey coloured flesh.
She looked him over again, from head to toe and back. Throughout the walk here she had been repeating to herself a running joke her university friends had shared. "It's not necrophilia if the body's still warm". Well this body wasn't the least bit warm, but it wasn't properly dead either, so perhaps this wasn't really perversion. Of course part of her mind kept telling her that she was just fooling herself, and that what she intended was, twisted, sick and utterly shameful. Yet here she stood, half naked in the candle light, wanting this cold, lifeless and impossible thing more than she had wanted anyone.
Stepping out of her sandals, she wriggled off her now soggy panties and moved once more to the stone plinth. Leaning close, she reached an arm across his waist, slipping her hand under his butt and bent, softly kissing the head of the magnificent beast that stood before her. As with his lips, it was soft and silky like the petals of a rose, and had coolness reminiscent of a freshly plucked strawberry with the morning dew still clinging to it. It smelled, like the rest of him, of fresh earth or pavement after a summer shower. Closing her eyes she extended her eager tongue and let it explore the curves and the crevices, lavishing his prick with her saliva. At the same time she used her free hand to massage her own breast, while the ache in her belly and the fiery emptiness between her legs grew with every moment.
It occurred to her that even if there was a consciousness inside his cold shell, he probably couldn't feel what she was doing, probably didn't know she was there. But touching him like this was incredibly erotic, and it was making her hot as hell. She cupped and squeezed her breast once more then ran the hand, now damp with sweat, down her flank and over her belly. Spreading her fingers she combed them though her curls, and brought her other hand up to toy with his dark locks. She paused; putting her fingers to her mouth then returned the hand to her pubic hair, massaging her hot, twitching clit. The cool saliva sent a thrill though her whole body, and a sudden intense thought of that cold cock inside her that made her pussy drool.
She found herself going weak at the knees, and stopped steadying herself for a moment before slipping off the sundress and crawling onto the sarcophagus. She knelt over him on all fours; his blanched body was cool against her thighs, a total contrast to her perspiring golden curves. Positioning herself carefully, she closed her eyes and quaked as the blushing petals of her hot and hungry blossom kissed his stony head. Her lower lip quivered as she rolled her hips, and licked her slit across his tip, then drew in a long deep breath and sank onto him, moaning as she felt his penetration. Taking just a small nibble to start with, she pulled back up coating the first inch of him in her fervid juices, then sank down for a second, larger bite. She paused as her insides reacted to the sudden chill, clenching hard around him. Panting for breath, she slowly rose up again; God that felt good. On the third pass she took nearly half of him in, moaning as her head lolled back and her eyes rolled in their sockets. Grinding her teeth, she forced herself up once more and then, with a cry, dropped taking his whole length into her.
She sat there for a while, shivering, as her fire and his ice did battle deep within her. Looking to his placid, almost innocent face she couldn't decide what excited her more; his unearthly and intoxicating beauty, the chill of his steely member deep within her or the shear audacity of stealing her pleasure on him this way. She lay forward, momentarily quenching the fire of her blushing breasts on his cool chest, and kissed his chin and throat. Then she began to rock gently, side to side, back and forth, round and round working her curls into his. She moaned and she bathed his neck and chest in kisses, like a supplicant begging for some unholy blessing. He felt indescribably good inside her and she struggled between the urge to climax at once and desire to prolong these delights indefinitely.
Sitting back again, she bit her lip and pleasured her self with several long stokes of his shaft, arching her back to take him in as far as she possibly could. Her moans grew to groans as she imagined his hands clutching at her, using her body to sate his own feverish lust. An evening breeze swept though the vault and brushed across her naked flesh; she envisaged his tongue dancing there instead. Fuel by fantasy and gripped by desire she rocked and rocked, climbing higher and higher towards her summit, now only a stoke or two away. She wanted to scream his name, though she had no idea what it was. A tremor ran though her, and a tingling in her toes signalled the imminent onset of a climax to rival any she'd ever experienced when, at that moment, his eyes flashed open.