Jack is Back

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

"The heart's filthy lesson
With her hundred miles to hell" --
David Bowie "The Hearts Filthy Lesson".

Blood.

I can smell it in the air, I can taste it on the tip of my tongue; like the last kiss from a dying, lying, lover.

I sigh, unnecessarily. I was alive for twenty-something years before becoming dead for a hundred and sixty and change, still some of the old habits stay with me.

I reach over to the nightstand, remove a pack of Silk Cut cigarettes (going to have to order more of these from London soon) and a flat black Zippo lighter with a simple date stamped on it, June 6, 1944 aka D-Day. Storming the beaches of Normandy was a hoot and a half, even with the bullet wounds; it was a fun time to be a vampire. I was so cranked up on having drunken soldier's blood, thick with adrenaline, that I didn't even notice the burning sensation of the sun's rays on my skin where it wasn't covered by the uniform. I may be a blood-sucking murderous rapist from beyond the grave, but I was also a patriot and I fought for my adoptive country. And that, I believe, entitles me to the occasional bout of mayhem and manslaughter,

But, back to the drama at hand, I flick the lighter up and strike up a flame in the same gesture. I wince slightly at the tiny flame: fire is still no friend of my kind, inhale and exhale through my nostrils and slowly let it drift out. I'm told this is the "dragon's breath" trick. Whatever, the guys in my platoon thought it looked cool. I push my way off the bed and, naked, pad over to the bathroom, where the smell is coming from.

Opening the door, I see Rebecca. Once again, she has slashed her wrists and is currently languishing in a combination of dingy bathwater and her blood inside the porcelain tub.

This is getting really fucking tedious.

I lean over and casually press the lit end of the cigarette into the pale skin of her inner thigh: she moans slightly in pain. Ah! A sign of life!

With another unnecessary sigh, I grab a hold of her foot and casually drag her bodily out of the tub. It's a good two feet off the ground so when her torso clears the rim, it causes her head to plummet down and crack against the tile floor, leaving another smear of blood.

Whatever, the dumb bitch can clean this all up after I get her upwardly mobile.

For about, oh, the last five years or so, ever since my last trip to Boston, Becky has been my....slave? Minion? Fuck toy? Occasional punching bag and juice box? She and I have an agreement: I get to defile her anyway I see fit, but I make sure to protect from all the other nasty things that are out there in the night. For those of you who are seeking more back story, consult the previous stories posted on this internet website. They got rave reviews, for the most part (hey, what can I say; my exploits are not for everyone).

I check, she still has a pulse, she's still breathing; reeks to me of a "cry for attention" suicide attempt. Otherwise she wouldn't have waited until just before I get up to pull this shit.

I take a moment to appreciate her beauty. She IS beautiful, in that 'Lolita, lost little waif' kind of way. It's the kind of beauty that gets pedophiles salivating openly (I've actually used her as bait to snag exactly those kinds of people. You have no idea how morally gratifying it can be to kill people who actually kind of DESERVE it, every now and then).

Her breasts are small, pale, and firm. Her nipples stand out look two tiny pink diamonds. I've spent many a contended evening suckling, nibbling and occasionally biting them off. (Fortunately there are ways to put back together one's favorite toy after being a little rough with it). Sloping downwards is a flat little stomach; she rarely eats enough to gain any kind of weight. Her pussy is shaved clean and perfectly tucked together and pretty as a pink little rose bud, the way it should look (I think at least) before age and childbirth loosens it into something a lot less aesthetically pleasing to look at. Her ass is a pair of ivory white globes; her tiny puckered anus is nestled like a violet between them. All in all, she's very pretty and fun to abuse.

Unfortunately, all this nostalgia and aesthetic indulgence is costing me time. Let's get this dealt with.

I reach down and get her head oriented correctly: facing up, mouth open, then I reach up and press my thumbnail into my wrist. That nail instantly transforms from something round and human to a talon, it pierces my flesh (that takes some doing, vampire skin can be as thick as hardened leather at times) but soon enough efforts are rewarded as a single blob of thick dark vampire blood wells up from the surface. You have to really work at it when you no longer have a heartbeat to help pump blood up to the surface, so I dig and scratch and claw until I think I've got a good reservoir worked up. Then I casually rotate my arm. The blood dribbles long and languidly down, stretching out like thick syrup before finally detaching and going down her throat.

I begin counting drops: one....two....three....

...and with a cough and a lurch, Becky sits up.

"You are seriously beginning to irritate me with this nonsense," I inform her casually.

She coughs up equal parts water and blood and glares up at me.

"Why didn't you just let me die?" she demands.

I shrug, "Not done with you yet. You've made yourself moderately useful over the last five years and I'm not really looking to let you retire yet."

"Fuck you."

I laugh, "You can barely hold on during our fun and games when you're in top form; hovering at death's door as you are now, it would probably give you that release you seem to so deeply crave, so no, I think not."

She glares at me and looks down at her wrists; already mutilated skin is beginning to heal over. By morning they'll be merely yet another set of scars.

"At least you slashed them the right way this time," I comment with a snort. It's true: these wounds were vertical, the last time she slashed her wrists she had done so horizontally. She couldn't for the life of her figure out why I was laughing at her before I bound her wounds and summarily beat the living hell out of her.

"I didn't think your blood would be enough to fix this," she replies in a sullen tone.

I shake my head: "I've seen humans nearly cut in half by high-caliber machine gun fire get up and walk with enough vampire blood poured down their gullet. So long as it's the right vampire's blood and the right amount: the sky's the limit."

"Nice to know."

I get up. She starts to do the same then staggers, slips and falls to the ground hard, hitting her head again.

"One of the side effects of near death by exsanguination chased by a draught of vampire blood? You are going to feel seriously fucking hung over."

"It hurts," I can hear her mumble.

"Good. It'll hurt more. Now get on your feet and clean this place up..."

I throw a towel at her

"...and take a shower, you reek of blood and self-pity. It's like living with a teenager on her first period."

SLAM! goes the bathroom door.

I chuckle.

Insipid little bitch, I think to myself with a grin.

Ah, a new night in a new city: New York, New York; the city so nice, they named it twice.

Man, I am really looking forward to killing someone.

Once Wednesday Adams is done cleaning the bathroom, I take a look at myself in the mirror. I'm really not sure what I'm expecting to see at this point, it's been the same face staring back at me for over a hundred plus years: pale skin, longish dark hair, stubble, pale blue eyes. 'Nondescript' would be a kind way of describing my features. 'Fucking boring' might be better. But guess what? 'Boring' works perfectly as a vampire. You do NOT want to stand out when the prey out numbers you one to six billion.

So, my vanity endures my ho-hum appearance and I set about making myself presentable for the evening. Jeans, a t-shirt, jacket, some sneakers: perfectly non-descript, perfectly disposable; in other words, the perfect camouflage.

"Are you going to be bringing anyone back with you?" Rebecca asks sullenly. I sigh internally; her bitchiness is really starting to bring me down.

"Rebecca, give me your hand," I say quietly. Hesitantly, she proceeds to do so; she has learned in the past exactly how dearly hesitation will cost her.

Without warning, I insert her slender hand into the garbage disposal located at the bottom of the sink: it's an industrial strength appliance I specifically bought to take care of those little 'bits and pieces' that sometimes find themselves astray after a particularly energetic meal.

"Now, if you don't shut your bloody gob and start behaving yourself, I will puree your hand, are we completely clear?"

There are tears in her eyes but she nods hurriedly.

I give her my most charming grin and roughly kiss her head.

"Good girl," I release her hand and she yanks it back as if she's been scalded, "You've got the night off. Enjoy yourself," I tell her magnanimously.

She nods her head fractionally. I bite back another sigh.

"What's wrong?" I ask patiently.

She looks up at me with reddened eyes, "I live with a blood-drinking monster that tortures me for fun," she says.

Fair enough. "And you get off on it," I reply, "As soon as I close this door, you'll be massaging your tiny, pink clit for all it's worth. So, which one of us really has the problem?"

I can see tears of shame leak down her cheeks as my words hit home. The truth hurts.

"Don't wait up!" I call out jauntily as I leave the apartment. I perk my ears a little, already I can hear gasping coming from the other side of the door. Whether it's agony or ecstasy I can't tell...and I really don't give a damn.

Taking the stairs down two at a time, I see my neighbor, Ms Hatcher struggling with her groceries and keys at the same time. An old woman, she is having a hard time of it. With ease, I take her bags from her. She blinks in surprise and then smiles at me.

"Such a nice, young, gentleman you are," she comments.

Oh-for-three, I think to myself, but instead I just smile, "Just being neighborly."

She smiles again as she opens her door and takes her groceries.

"Nice, young, man," she replied, "Bye bye," she gives me a little wave. I give her a little wave back and nearly burst out laughing.

Don't worry mama-san, not in the mood for vintage fare tonight, I muse, I'm after something in its prime.

I'm on the train now. It's crowded, naturally. The press of bodies, the smell of it is both intoxicating and nauseating. Humans have a scent, deeper than perfumes and deodorants that permeates their skin, makes it easy to tell them apart.

For instance, the single mother (a baby, but no wedding ring) standing next to me, cradling an infant in one arm and a cell phone in the other has a distinctly stressed out tang to her scent. Not surprising really. As for the infant, well, anyone who's gotten a close whiff of an infant doesn't really need me to describe the scent.

I'm having a little fun, jangling my keys in front of the baby, "I'm a psychopathic monster! Oh yes I am! Oh yes I am! I like to kill and eat people! Yes I do!" The baby simply burbles happily and reaches up with pudgy hands to grasp at the tiny pieces of metal.

The woman hangs up her phone and sends me a quick alarmed glace. I flash her a grin that probably does more to intimidate than sooth. She shifts her baby to her other arm, away from me.

Now, a note here for the casual reader: I don't eat children. No, not for any moralistic reasons; how do I put this? When one wants, say, bread, they combine wheat, flour, eggs, and water to create something that is more than the sum of its parts: bread.

Children are like raw ingredients: they really haven't had the time to develop any kind of flavor. Now, if we're talking stranded on a desert island with only a preschool and a palm tree for shade, that's different; but for the choosy hunter, like me, I choose to wait until they have a few years in them to tap the veins so to speak.

So baby John or baby Jane or whoever the fuck is safe for the night as I get off at my stop and climb up some stairs and emerge onto the street. Once again I take a deep inhalation of night air. I love the scent: fumes from cars, wet pavement, ozone from neon signs, and the scent of millions and millions of human beings all crammed together. To me, it's like the dinner bell and dinner is served.

I turn a corner and hop up with a jaunt into a club owned by a....well 'friend' would be too strong a word so let's go with 'acquaintance'.

For a moment, the lights and the smoke and the sheer volume of the music overwhelm me. I let it wash over me like a glorious wave. I happen to be a music lover and despite what most of my kind thinks, I happen to LIKE modern music, it has an energy that I found lacking in Victorian England. I have no heartbeat; all within me is still as I let each note permeate every cell in my body, vibrating like a tuning fork in my teeth. I don't know if humans can get lost in the ecstasy of the music, but it is surely their loss if they cannot.

"Why Spring-Heeled Jack, what brings you to my door?" I hear a voice call out.

I smile, even as I brace myself. There is an old adage: whatever you are, there is something in the night, out there, that is worse.

My hostess happens to be one of them.

"Alice, how are you?" I say with a grin as I turn to face her. She looks to be a girl in her mid to late teens dressed as a Catholic schoolgirl, a tight white blouse accentuating ripe, firm breasts, plaid skirt folded down demurely over pale thighs and long slender legs, knee high socks and black shoes complete the outfit along with a pair of pigtails held with a pair of butterfly barrettes. Now I know that the "vampire-schoolgirl" thing has been done to death, but NO ONE does it as well as Alice and I can feel as surge of blood rushing to my loins even as I feel red flags going up in my brain.

"I'm doing better than YOU Jack, you seem...nervous," she leans in close letting me see as far down her blouse as I care too; her pale breasts tip in a slightly darker areola and a tiny pink nipple, darker against the rest of her skin.

"Sweetie, anyone who isn't nervous around you is either stupid or lunch and one tends to follow the other," I reply evenly.

She grins like a naughty little girl. However, I will take this moment to point out that this 'naughty little girl' has been around since America was being referred to as 'The Western Colonies'.

"I'm not really THAT bad, am I?" she asks petulantly.

"You, my dear, are worse," I tell her, refusing to be baited, "But that's all right; so am I."

She laughs, "I always knew I liked you for a reason, Jack. Come into the back with me, we'll talk and spend some...quality time together."

Oh joy. With a gritting of my fangs, I follow her into the back room.

I don't think Alice owns this club; she's never been one for balance books and ledgers and the kind of things necessary to run a business, but she has free run of the place it seems.

"May I interest you in a canapé?" she asks demurely.

"Fuck, yes," I reply with a grin as I let myself be led down a metal staircase, fervently hoping that I'm going to be walking back up it again.

Downstairs is Alice's playground and it's pretty much what you'd expect from a four-hundred plus year old nymphomaniac vampire who's into BDSM: there were men and women in various states of dress and undress hanging from the walls and ceilings or strapped to the floor. Everything seemed to be made of vinyl, leather, rubber, or steel and the air was laced in a thick smoke comprised of the heady smoke of hookah, hashish, and what smells like scorched flesh. I look over to see a man in a gimp mask decorating a young girl's stomach with what looks like a soldering iron.

"Hope she has a good HMO," I murmur to myself.

Alice looks over and shrugs, "I imagine she's enjoying it as much as he is. For some, it's like that."

"Yeah, I remember," I turn to face my hostess, "About that canapé?"

She grins and beckons, "Come, come, come, come," she leads me to what can nicely be described as a suspended see-saw in the shape of a triangle. Two naked young women are strapped to it, the jagged, wooden, wedge pressed right up between their legs, firm against their pussies. They're gagged, but the whimpering sounds they're making around the gags are audible.

"Oh this is cute," I comment as I reach over and pluck at one of the ropes suspending the apparatus. The lines are taut and it sends shockwaves through the entire structure and, I imagine, through them both.

"A little something I dreamed up back in the nineteenth century," she replies, casually wrapping her arms around the shoulders of one and squeezing large, firm, breasts.

I give them the quick once over: Alice has somewhat...unusual feeding habits that don't exactly mesh with mine so I want to make sure that these two morsels won't disagree with me. A quick inspection reveals that they are indeed as toothsome as they appear.

"Shall we dig in then?" I ask as I take up a position behind one of the girls.

"Need you ask?" she replies and with a satisfied growl, she buries her fangs deep into the long slender throat of the girl in her arms.

The girl lurches down hard, trying to escape Alice's savage bite, which propels the other end up and her friend right into my waiting maw. I clamp down on her flesh with my lips and shred her skin with my incisors before plunging my fangs deep into her carotid artery. The immense pressure sprays the blood all the way into the back of my throat and I have to work to keep a perfect seal around the wound with my mouth. Glorious pump after pump dances across my tongue like liquid fire even as I molest her breasts, twisting and pulling at them. The wooden seesaw is rocking back and forth frantically as they thrash at their bonds, their frenzied movement causing nothing more than further pain which only adds to the flavor. It soon devolves into an orgy of blood, pain, and ecstasy as I wrap my arms around my meal like a constricting snake.

All too soon, I feel her heart begin to skip. I know what this means; death is coming for her. I allow myself to come out of the blood frenzy enough to gauge what my hostess is doing; it's considered rude after all to leave a corpse on someone else's doorstep, especially when prey in question isn't yours to begin with.

Sensing my slackening of pace, Alice opens her eyes and looks at me: they've taken the distinct crimson tinge all vampire eyes take when we feed. I can see her grin around the throat of her prey and rather than slow down I see her bite down hard and then physically tear a huge chunk of muscle and connective tissue out of the woman's throat like a shark. The woman screams long and loud through her gag before it becomes a choked gurgle.