Reality Bitesbysteve w©
There is no dark and stormy night. No forks of lightning ripping through a bruised and sullen sky. No garlic swaying in the rising wind. There is no mute hunchback scurrying across a muddy track. No strangers meeting at an inn, cut off for the night from the rest of "civilization".
And yet, there's a vampire on the loose.
She's chosen the form carefully. Her victim – the lender of an identity – had felt someone watching her for weeks. She'd felt eyes peering into her soul each night. She thought she'd detected the shadow of a shadow at the window. Felt a breath on her throat, though no-one was there. Felt a growing sense of unease mutate into foreboding, a dread she couldn't name and couldn't place. And now, in the pallid morning light, she'd turned from hunted to hunter.
Ohhh, fuck, the exhilaration. She keeps gazing at herself. Yes, even in mirrors. As we know, this no camp, feeble representation of a vampire. This is vampire as superbeing.
Her skin has a super-sheen to it. Ironically, she looks radiantly healthy, even though she's dead. It shines from within, deep down inside her, like the light inside a glacier. A light that speaks of infinite depth. Her muscles are taut and smooth, they ripple and shimmer as she moves. Every action, from walking, to picking up a pen, gives a subtle insight into the body performing it. A little glimpse of the smooth operation of muscle, of sinew, of - whisper it – of blood.
She's never felt like this. Not for a thousand years. Literally. She's chosen well. This one had such a promising future, and now she'll live a different one. A very different one. A future that stretches away into infinite nights. An unstoppable future.
Her strength has added to that of the form's, enhancing it. She's living the form's potential. Her fingers feel like sparks could fly from them at any moment. Her blood feels like it's fizzing and crackling inside her. She can feel her long brown hair caress her back. She runs her tongue across her teeth, relishing the brilliance of her inner glow. She sparkles. She shines. She's irresistible.
What else could she wear, but black? It's always been her favourite. A tight dress that slides across her body as she moves. Tonight, she's rippling through the crowd of the nightclub. The waves of people seem to part for her, as if getting too close is simply too dangerous to contemplate. Which, of course, it is. If they did but know it.
She looks around for some prey. Oh, so much flesh, so little time. She's quite capable of killing and devouring everyone in the room. Her hunger is rising, in the flashing lights and strobes. She draws strength from the heat of the bodies around her. Everyone is hers. Everyone is potential prey. Men or women. She doesn't care.
This form came to her, found her. Languid looks in the café, at her twenty year-old previous self. Girls make passes, at girls who wear glasses. She knows this. The form was drawn to her by the prospect of turning a sweet, bookish girl into a licking, thrashing, slut. The form gave herself up to a wicked, fast-moving tongue, that lashed her pussy into a shivering, quivering, juiced-up centre of unimaginable pleasure. The form saw it's end moments before it came, but was so impaled on absolute desire, on the rush towards ecstasy, that it surrendered willingly. It saw the price, and the prize, and accepted it. The form died on the greatest orgasm it could ever endure.
It's Halloween night. Clubbers are dressed in garish misrepresentations. Cartoons of a deadly, serious half-world. She smiles at the naivety of their costumes, the simplicity of their understanding. One of them, she didn't know who, would reach a new level of understanding tonight. In this very club. Striving to reach inside her body, they'd pay the ultimate price for their curiosity. And love every fucking second.
Even the last second.
Especially the last second.
Her eyes light up on her next victim. Dressed up as a vampire himself. Or at least, a cutesy pastiche of one. Something of a challenge for her. He looks cute, but nervous and out of place. He's not sure enough of himself. He lacks the certainty that others possess. He doesn't feel special, or stunning. But she senses an inner calm, a self-assuredness about who he is, and what he ultimately wants. A latent passion. She senses this with her vampire senses, not her form's senses. Her form would have passed this one by, looking for something prettier, sassier. Which is the challenge. This one will think she's out of reach, unattainable.
She oozes across the floor towards him, floating across the surface. She flows nearer, her eyes locked on his. She can see him trying to turn away, but he can't. He's locked in. Her eyes, green flashes amid the neon mayhem, draw him closer. And closer. Now he can see the delicate curve of her neck, the rise and fall of her breathing, the shine of her lips. Now he can see heaven. Hell is concealed. Barely.
He stammers, amazed that she would choose him, staggered that she would speak to him. She likes it. No smooth lines. No rehearsed ad-libs. Some raw emotion for her to chew on.
"Er….you too…..you look amazing."
She flaws him totally. He's too confused by what's going on to notice the dull ache in his limbs. She's starting to draw the life from him already. She's so impatient when she gets into a new form. She has to start feeding herself immediately. He's the one. He's the one who will see Halloween. And then die.
She takes his hand. Hers seems so delicate beside it. His world stops when she takes his fingers in hers, and draws them towards her mouth. He sees nothing, hears nothing, senses nothing, but her. She's expanding into every sense, for every second she's before him. Her tongue flicks out, like a snake's, and caresses his fingertip. Just once. Life force shoots through him. Around every nerve ending and back again. He shudders involuntarily. It's so delicious, so intoxicating.
She turns and leads him by the hand through the throng. Again, they part for her with supernatural ease. As if her energy swats them away. He follows, stumbling, mouth open in disbelief. He follows the swish of her ass, swaying easily in front of him, her whole perfect body moving like liquid. Mesmerising.
Behind a curtain, and surrounded by boxes, she moves in for the kill. She plants his hands on her thighs, inviting him to drink of her, taste her, make her his, if he can. Her kiss is toxic, but he drinks more and more. Her tongue flashes past his, and she draws blood on the way through. He can taste it in his mouth, but he's unaware. He's gone, he's sold. He's history. He's two minutes from death.
She grinds her pussy against him. Impossible movements, pressing against his erection and seeming to grab it, push it, pull it. As if her cunt was a living thing. She pulls him against her as she reclines into the boxes, spreading her legs. Her dress reluctantly lets go from her legs, and bare flesh slides up his flanks, and locks around his back. Still he dives into her kisses, never giving up, never wanting to let go. Deep inside, some primeval instinct tells him he's trading his life, his heart, his soul, for this one moment. For one fuck. But he wants to. He so wants to. It's so worth it.
He doesn't know how his cock works free. Both her hands are locked behind his neck, as her tongue whips across the inside of his mouth, making him chase it. And yet something works him free, slides him into her. It's like no sensation on earth. Impossibly tight, yet soft and yielding. Cool on his delicate skin, yet hot to the touch. Burning ice. Her cunt takes control. He has no say. It sucks him in and out. It ripples and moves like a snake in motion, coiling and uncoiling as he slides along her insides. Her whole body is in motion beneath him, like an angry sea. He's consumed by lust, pain and pleasure. He can feel himself falling even as he stands there fucking her. That's the overwhelming feeling – that of falling. As if he can experience his soul toppling over the ledge into oblivion. But still he can't resist her.
He's lost any idea of time. Everything is subservient to this fantastic fuck. Everything. She pulls away from his mouth and stares into his eyes. As if her eyes can reach into his mind and grab it, bring it screaming out to face the world, and die in the open air. All he can do is look into her emerald chips of ice, and fuck until he dies. As he reaches the point of no return, the apex of pleasure, his cum seems to swirl around inside her, crashing back and forth across his cock, as if sprayed back at him. Her cunt milks him, draining him. It seems to go on forever. His whole being is pouring out of him, through his cock, and into her. He can feel himself being turned inside out. At first it's pleasure, but then the pain begins. Ohhhh shit, the pain. It's excruciating. Someone is clutching his insides and dragging them out. His blood is draining away. His head becomes heavy. He can't breathe. He's dying. Dying.
Just a ghost of a smile around her lips. Her eyes holding him as his body gives way. As it gives up.
Just before he turns to black dust, he hears her say it.
"Trick or fucking treat, baby."