tagErotic HorrorJack Be Nimble: 1997 Appetizer

Jack Be Nimble: 1997 Appetizer

byTyler_H©

DISCLAIMER:

This is a work of FICTION. The characters, alive, dead or undead are NOT REAL. This kind of behavior CANNOT be done in the "real world" without at the very least some serious jail time. The character here is a psychotic monster and morally repugnant to even the most base of creatures.

This story is meant to arouse interest and jar the senses, it is not meant to be a "how to" guide to rape and mayhem. If this story makes you think, good. If parts of you are aroused by it, so be it. As Jack points out, we all have our inner darkness, if this story helps you cope with yours as opposed to engaging in the activity listed below, then it has served its purpose.

If you are in danger of reading this story and wishing to imitate it LEAVE NOW!

For the 99% of the rest of you who don't need such a ridiculous disclaimer, enjoy this blood-tinged stroll down the dark side.

The Author


* * * * * *

"I see a red door and I want it painted black."
- Rolling Stones

Hello, gentle reader. My name is Jack. That's not my real name, rather I was inspired to take it in honor of a particular artist, circa 1899 in London. I was there, and even I was impressed with "The Ripper of Whitechapels" work. The splatter of blood was nice, don't get me wrong. The rotting ambience of the so-called murder scenes was impressive, but what I liked most was how each of his works was laid out. Legs spread and splattered with blood and filth. Arms bent back, still holding that pose as they were restrained. But most of all, I liked the fear in their face. That deer in the headlights look your species is so prone to pasting over your gob when the moment of death arrives.

Now granted, to the connoisseur of death, there are several elements to consider when creating a masterpiece of death. (And for the sake of not seeming TOO morbid, yes I do enjoy other forms of art such as painting and music). Ol' Jack didn't shoot people; after all I was in the civil war and aside from the wide eyes and the occasional trembling of the lip before the mouth forms that perfect "O" of surprise, death by gunshot really doesn't add anything to the piece.

But a blade, ahhhh, now that's the implement of an artist. Much like a well-made painters brush, it dances across the surface of the canvas. You can be as light and ethereal as you want with it should you wish to create an impressionistic style work (Rest assured, a woman's face decorated by 365 shallow cuts, each one representing a day of sexual torture, all forming an overall picture can leave quite an impression) or you can be bold and hard, like Picasso. (Again if one is bold and hard with say a letter opener the result is not completely unlike said Picasso)

Are you still with me, gentle reader? Did I lose you? Are you shocked? Appalled? I swear you humans are so fragile. You'll read story after story about every depraved act of sexual theatre known to man, things that even I haven't considered, but someone mentions an appetite for murder and all of a sudden, everyone's a Sunday school teacher.

Ah, I see the 'you humans' comment may have raised some eyebrows, allow me to elaborate; I have lived since the 19th century, I drink human blood, I cannot die, and the sun is no friend of mine. I am "Nosferatu", "Vrykolakas" to the Greeks, and simply "Vampire" to us western folk.

Now, let me dispel a few things right off the bat (no pun intended) yes, I am a murderous blood drinking beast. I love women, more than that I love to HURT them. For all women reading this I must say your gender has perfected suffering to an art and I applaud you for it. I suppose if I was human I would be defined as "straight". Let it be known here and now that being a vampire does NOT make one a eunuch. On the contrary, the appetite for blood dovetails into one's libido rather nicely. And you have never really dated until you've gained the ability to twist emotions like a pretzel or have a woman drop to her knees begging for you with a single look.

But this memoir will not be an elegant treatise of vampiric prose. No "Children of the Damned," there will be no lamenting of my cruel fate, no Bauhaus lyrics, no taffeta lined coffins, no Anne Rice-style whining and moaning (and certainly no limp-wristed homoerotic trysts). I am a monster pure and simple and I enjoy it thoroughly. This memoir is a roller coaster ride through Hell filled with rape, sexual depravity and bloodlust. The kind of thing that would have made the Marquis De Sade proud.

Consider yourself warned. And bear this in mind: I have an excuse for my behavior; I am a vampire, a predator. It is the natural order of things for my species to prey on yours. But 99% of all this world's woes cannot be blamed on my kind, but yours. Your kind created this website, created such wonderful categories here such as "Incest/Taboo" "BDSM" and of course my favorite "Non-Consent". You humans were created with darkness inside you, the only difference is I don't repress it. I did not plant the hunger for this depravity in your breast; you may blame God or whomever you wish for that. I am merely a drop in the bucket of lust-tinged sweat and blood you have created for yourself.

Like a holy communion, I present you to a cup filled from the bucket.

Drink up.

-J

Chapter One

We will start things off a while back. The year is 1997: Hong Kong was going back to the British, Princess Diana (such a deliciously chaste creature) died in a car accident and NASA had put a robot on Mars. (News Flash: if you're looking for dead, blasted landscapes, I can heartily recommend parts of Arizona)

The city (because the first rule of any predator: stay near the food supply, applies here and no place is quite as well suited to this task as these giant filing cabinets you laughingly call cities) was Boston, Charming little place by the way, you really haven't lived until you've heightened your senses and gotten a good whiff of Haymarket in the thick hot nights of summer after the fishmongers come.

I like Boston. The city has the feel of a spoiled child pitching a fit because his big brother is more popular than himself. The big brother is New York of course, and Los Angeles is his slutty younger sister. And so the entire city teems with resentment. Take a ride on your underground transportation sometime and tell me honestly if those ear-shatteringly loud cattle cars don't just bubble with brimming hostility. It's a vicious angry self-important little city. I adore it.

Now this night in summer, I'm feeling a touch peckish and so I think I'll go indulge myself in a little mayhem. Now there are certain do's and don'ts when dressing for the hunt: First off, consider what you are hungry for. Just as you, come dinner time, sit back and think "What am I craving? Chinese? Italian? Fast-Food?" so too do I like to take a moment to reflect about what my particular appetite is tonight and then dress accordingly. One does not, after all, wear Armani when one will be dining at Burger King.

A lot of it also has to do with my particular mood. If I've had a bad day at work (yes, I do work, more on that later) I may need to go out and find myself some young thing and then spend a few hours helping her explore the outer reaches of pain and sexual depravity before I take my meal.

If, on the other hand, its more one of those "curl up with a good bottle of wine and a good book" night, I may find an older, or even old woman who has something of that faded beauty look about her (you've seen them) and then slowly drink them until their pulse flutters like a baby bird and just flies away.

So clearly, this is a matter of some consideration.

At any rate, I'm feeling just a touch resentful to you young'uns tonight. (I have to deal with college students and some of you can be quite snotty.) So I think I'll prowl the campuses tonight.

Anyhow, a shower, shave, do something with my hair (going for an ultra clean, smooth look tonight, something akin to a shark, I am told). And now for clothes; since tonight is going to be messy, I dress for it. A pair of black jeans (black absorbs blood stains nicely) which I put on top of a pair of bike shorts. When the fun for the night is done, I plan on ditching the jeans in a convenient dumpster. Being a vampire does not make one immune to the science of forensics (Which may be handily reviewed at the FBI's rather dull public website. Thank you Freedom of Information Act).

Next, a pair of rubber-soled shoes with the tread worn off. A power sander and some patience can wreak marvelous results. The shoes are also disposable. When one is dead, the concerns about walking the city streets barefoot lessen somewhat.

Finally we come to the shirt. Since I don't wish to appear "Goth" (Thank you all by the way for the little fashion subculture, it makes feeding ludicrously easy. I swear if half these kids knew anything about REAL vampires, they'd shit their pretty lace frocks) I go with something in a softer color, a lilac purple. This I pull over a black-sleeveless shirt (I believe you call it the "wife beater" t-shirt. Such a colorful idiom.) Of course the shirt will be going into the trash afterwards but not before it is set aflame. (Can't leave any little hairs lying about for a particularly sharp eyed ME to find, can we?).

I smile at myself in the mirror, looking at this wholly utilitarian yet not unstylish ensemble and I take a moment to appreciate the hard working men and women of law enforcement. You serve as kind of a cull, if you will. The weak and stupid predators are apprehended and carted off, and the rest of us simply are forced to become stronger, cagier hunters. Darwin would be proud and it cuts down on the number of morons I have to kill for trying to hunt some prey I've selected. Everyone wins.

At any rate, after I leave my apartment. (A nice crowded neighborhood with easy T Access and neighbors so filled with apathy I could chainsaw a cheerleader right outside their window and the only reason the cops would be called would be for the noise) I head downstairs making sure I have everything. I like to fish in my spare time and the only difference between fishing and hunting human beings is the bait and the settings.

For this particular outing I'm bringing money (My God, the things I've seen a woman do at the sight of a nice crisp hundred dollar bill), cigarettes and lighter (I don't smoke but it makes a wonderful ice breaker) breath mints (because no one wants to kiss a mouth that reeks of blood) a cellular phone (it doesn't actually work but again it gives the appearance of being well off), lighter fluid (A thousand and one uses) and finally a police-issue Tazer (a wonderful device I picked up on E-Bay that is quite useful when one does not have the mental tranquility on hand to simply crush the mind of one's prey and when you don't want to have to kill her just yet).

I head out the door of my secure apartment building (A laughable concept at best, you'd be amazed how easy it is to have yourself buzzed in or to simply wait for someone who lives there to open the door and then thank them for holding the door for you) and head down the street. It is of course hot, it being august and all, and there is a faint glow from the west as the sun departs. Far from being intimidated, I am invigorated. Tonight will be a good night I think. The humans are out wearing just enough to avoid being arrested and I can feel blood stirring and stiffening my cock. (Yes, even when one is dead, a hard-on is a possibility). I chuckle at myself, knowing that at any moment I could coerce any one of these women into a dark alley but patience is something I've learned in my 150+ years on this earth. Besides "Don't shit where you eat" is a good working theory; to this night I have yet to leave a body anywhere within a 25 block radius of my apartment.

Anyhow like I said, a quick jaunt to the T Station (God, some of the people working for the MBTA look deader than I am) and down the stairs to wait for the train. Looking around, I can see all colors, shapes and sizes of food, all grumbling about the train, wanting to go home to their boyfriends, their husbands, their girlfriends (and this is just the women). I inhale deeply enjoying the scent of sweat, antiseptic and tobacco (and I thought there was no smoking on these platforms. Oh well.). I am invigorated and tonight will go well.

There are some attractive morsels on the train, make no mistake, a Latina girl with her "homeboys" (Sigh. Ebonics.) Who are all firmly convinced they are the predators of the night. I have to bite back a laugh. Still she has a tight little wiry body; little brown breasts that one could sink their fangs into a drink from like tiny apples. Long brown hair than would make a nice handle twisted around in my hands as she sucked my cock or perhaps as leverage while I fucked her. She had a nice waist that slopped down into her low riding pants and I was willing to bet she didn't shave.

Whether or not she'd have a tight pussy was up for debate (It depends on how many cholos she was banging at once I suppose) but I'd be willing to bet her cute little ass was still virgin territory. Every Latina girl I have ever been with yowled and spat like a wildcat the first time they had my cock burrowed between their beige ass cheeks and engulfed by their anus. It's exhilarating.

I must have been staring because one of her male escorts was sending me a very threatening look. I just grinned at him, showing him some fang. It's cute how quickly someone who works so hard to seem so tough goes white at the sight of something they can't explain. He says something in Spanish crosses himself and goes back to minding his own fucking business.

I look around the train for other amusing diversion spying an older woman, white, mid forties I'd guess, wearing a professional looking blouse that's all the rage with the middle management crowd down at the Prudential. She looks worn out and tired. I like that, less struggling usually. Her makeup is on a little heavier than is considered stylish. Trying to cover up years of a lackluster career, passionless marriage, disappointing kids, night after night of watching "Sex and the City" and just wishing, PRAYING for one moment in her life that didn't reek of stultifying boredom.

She's pretty in that worn way: auburn hair with a few streaks of gray, watery blue eyes hidden behind oversized glasses, a cute nose, thin lips smeared with red lipstick. Her white blouse is intentionally baggy I imagine but the way she's sitting is causing it to be pulled tight across her chest revealing shapely breasts that are larger than what I expect. I toy with the idea of following her to her stop and then dragging her into a utility closet tearing her shirt off so her buttons fly off like bullets to roll across the cement and then groping and squeezing her breasts hard until she cries and hiking her skirt up, pulling aside her panties and burying my cock up into her pussy with more force than I think she'd be used to.

Well, as tempting as this is, I have bigger fish to fry. I stand to get up then stop, looking back at the Latina girl and the businesswoman, a thought occurs. An appetizer wouldn't be bad. Now the question is, who? On one hand, the Latina girl is in better shape honestly and would put up one HELL of a fight. Problem is she's traveling with about four other men and while littering the platform with their broken bodies might be FUN it's not supposed to be that kind of night.

So, with a leer I turn back to regard the businesswoman who is just now standing up, her left hand gripping the bar (hmmm, no ring?) as she stands wearily upon her high-heeled feet (I love high heels, that added elevation makes fucking that much easier PLUS no one can run in them). She trudges her way out of the car and I count to ten before I follow, making sure to keep other people behind her and I. It's good hunting but not really necessary, most humans are painfully oblivious and once I've marked prey it never escapes me. Ever.

She makes her away across the street and I follow, it's easy to blend in with the crowd. She heads down a side street that is irritatingly well lit. Fortunately, I move quietly and keep my distance, keeping one eye on her the other for a likely place for our little encounter. It doesn't take long, a loose gravel parking lot with a few cars, probably the communal parking lot for this neighborhood; Lots of nice big cars with roomy little spaces in between them. Fun for all.

Now comes the interesting part. I begin my approach moving swiftly but no so quickly as to set off the "predator alert" most prey animals come equipped with. There was no real reason to bother, she's so drained from whatever she does to justify herself to society she barely notices.

And without further ado, I reach forward, get a good solid grip on the back of her shirt and with little effort THROW her across the street into the parking lot. She doesn't even have time to scream, she collides with the ground sending pebbles skidding painfully across them. I am in close pursuit.

"Whu-?" she manages to get out as I pounce on top of her. She is bleeding and it looks delicious. One heel snapped off her shoe as her bruised legs writhe in the pebbles. I clamp one hand over her mouth, grab her face and smash her head backwards into the pavement. Her pretty little head makes a very satisfying thumping sound and her body goes slack. No, she's not dead, but she'll soon wish she was. She's merely stunned.

Uncontested now I thread my hands through her shirt and tear it open, buttons flying like little bullets. Her breasts are clad in a thin silk bra, very plain. The kind of thing women wear when they no longer care enough to be attractive or naughty. It comes apart like tissue in my hands, her breasts fall out of the ruins, her little pink nipples become taunt with their first touch of warm air.

Apparently it's enough to jar her out of her stupor because her eyes get really wide. Her glasses have been knocked askew and she looks at me.

"Oh Jesus, no!" She cries out. Not very loudly which frankly disappoints me since it means she's not going to be much of a screamer. I just laugh and bend down, taking one of her puffy nipples into my mouth, sucking it, running it across my fangs. She whimpers and shivers, she's hitting me now, beating me across the shoulders, pulling my hair. Its entertaining for a while but I'm ready to move on. With a hiss I plunge my fangs into her breast.

The woman gasps hard and for a second she's gripping my head and pressing it closer to her breast. Well well, it seems little miss well-to-do has a thing for pain, who knew? I swallow a few shreds of pink skin and then the rest is warm and wet down my throat. She tastes delicious, her struggling just makes it that much more appealing. The fear and adrenaline have given her normally stagnant blood a charge that is downright addictive.

At this point, her head is lolling around in a stupor. Her mouth is opening and closing like a beached fish and I think she's gasping, it's hard to tell. I continue to drain from her breast, my other hand reaching down to force her legs open. She's wearing garters, which is something I enjoy. I give each of them a good snap, causing red marks to appear on her pale inner thighs. She jumps a little and whimpers (God I love the sounds you women make when you're not certain if you should be feeling pleasure or pain).

I suddenly feel through my teeth and hear her heart skip a beat, which means that unless I plan on killing her, its time to stop. I sigh, swallowing another greedy mouthful of her blood from her wounded breast and pulling back, stopping to kiss her nipple. The breast in my hand is oozing blood now as opposed to spurting, which is good for her. She's lost enough blood to gain a pale look that I happen to like. Her head is lolling back and forth, her eyes are half closed and I'm willing to bet she's lost in some kind of shock/blood loss stupor that makes her exceedingly pliable.

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