Bloody Shore Leave

It was a long twilight walk to the parking lot off Alameda Boulevard at the San Diego Naval Air Station North from where the USS Carl Vinson aircraft carrier had docked, but it had been an even longer cruise to Yokohama, Japan, and back. I was randy as hell and needing it. I had been told where to go for my two-night shore leave off the ship—where I'd find a guy—a hunk of a dominant top—to give me a good time and to pay for it so that I wouldn't have to worry about what to do on my shore leave and wouldn't have to shell out my own money for it. San Diego was expensive, I was told. It was not someplace a young sailor like me could have a good time on my own wallet.

But why would I even need to do that, I was asked by the more experienced sailors on board, when I was as young and fit and as randy for cock as I was? Just stay on board during my shore leave and my buddies would take care of me just like they did with the Carl Vinson was at sea. During shore leave, those who weren't being given shore leave would even pay me for it. No one pays for it while they're at sea, though.

Variety and adventure, I answered, and not having to work hard to hold steady for someone covering me when the deck under me was rolling with the waves.

There they were, the hopeful men, some old, some not so old, standing by their rides in the Alameda Boulevard parking lot, ogling the young sailors coming off the Carl Vinson—the young sailors who knew where to come to hook up with what they wanted and to give these men a good time for their money. I was told that the guys coming to this lot for a hookup were prime material in one or more ways—lookers, rich, and/or hung—or they wouldn't bother to compete. The same with the sailors. Don't both to come here if you aren't prime male pussy, we were told. I was assured by my mates that this was the place for me, though.

It was no contest for me on what male pussy shopper to go with here. There was one guy, maybe in his mid-thirties, handsome and as trim but muscular as an action movie star, leaning against a 2002 cherry red Cadillac Eldorado, still wearing dark sunglasses in the gathering twilight. The ride was in pristine condition, and so, as far as I could determine, decked out in expensive casual clothes, was the man. I was a pushover for both.

This was a pairing made in either hell or heaven. The day was young. Whichever it was, it was different from the boredom of life at sea and the same group of aggressive sailor tops.

There were seven of us arriving on foot, in our naval whites, from the Carl Vinson at the same time. They weren't the modern naval whites—we'd all been clued into what these guys wanted. These were the naval whites of yore, the tight, sexy uniform of history and the movies.

The eyes of four of us went to this dude leaning on the vintage Eldorado at the same time. The other three knew they were no competition against the rest for a guy like him and were pairing off with other men parked on the lot. That left four of us, but the guy's attention went to me and stayed there—as well they should. I knew I was the best-looking, sexiest of the sailors on display and to be had, and the other three quickly melted away to secondary johns.

I walked up to the guy, who stood up straight, looked me in the eye, and placed a hand on my hip, just like he already owned me. He was a cocky bastard. That's probably what attracted me to him. That's how it went on the Carl Vinson—the cockiest bastard had me. And once the choice was made, I was easy and compliant.

"I'm Stefan, he said, in a deep baritone voice with some foreign, sexy accent to it. You are looking for a shore leave hook up," he said. It wasn't a question. He'd taken off his sunglasses to capture my eyes already, and captured was the word for it. His pupils were cat-eye shaped and a green hazel color. He kept them in shadows. I immediately was mesmerized and felt the control of him.

"Yes," I answered. "I'm Chip." It wasn't my real name and he knew it wasn't—he probably wasn't really named Stefan either—but it was the name I was choosing to have on this shore leave. It was a name I had fake ID in.

"At least eighteen?" he asked, putting his sunglasses back on.

"I'm nineteen," I answered, knowing why he asked and knowing my fake ID would bear that out.

"Perfect. A thousand dollars for two days. I cover all expenses. You give me anything I want as often as I want it." Again, it wasn't a question. And he was being very direct. I liked that. I only had a two-day leave. I wanted to spend as much time of it on my back with a big cock inside me as I could. I still liked how this was shaping up. His attention slid away from me to what I knew to be the next-best prospect among the sailors who had walked here from the Carl Vinson. He was telling me that it didn't have to be me and he didn't want to hear coy or negotiating.

"Yes, whatever you want," I answered, coming in closer to him to let him know that having his hand on my hip was OK with me—a signal that having his dick in me would be OK too. I had come out the ship on shore leave to have the best of times.

Once more the sunglasses came off and his eyes returned to capturing mine. His hand moved around to cupping one of my buttocks through the tight, white vintage naval trousers, with the buttoned fly and with the butt tailored to follow the curve of the buns. I and the others who knew to come to this lot off the long sail knew the men here wanted us in the tight, vintage sailor costumes, and that's what most of us wore—a white sailor's jumper and tight, white, low-rise trousers, tight in the pelvis and thighs and tailored in the buns, but flaring at the calves to the ankles, with the buttoned fly that men seemed to like to fiddle with in the undoing of them.

"You have an accent and what sort of name is Stefan?" I asked. It was an involuntary slipup, probably because I was a bit nervous selling myself this way. He zeroed in on the mistake.

"It's an ancient name and there will be no questions if . . ." and his eyes went to a sailor just arriving at the lot, to emphasize what a mistake I had made. His hand dropped from my butt.

"I understand," I said quickly. "Sorry. No more questions." That must have assuaged him, as the hand went back to my butt, he squeezed the orb, and his index finger moved into the crack, touching me where my hole was, pressing and releasing, pressing and releasing, already fucking me. He was being very direct and moving fast. I melted to that, going over and over in my mind the fact that after all this time at sea I only had a two-day shore leave. I was as much on a fast track as he was. I brushed his basket with the fingers of one of my hands, letting him know I totally surrendered.

"My, you're a big boy, aren't you?" I said. I knew the line was corny, but it also had always worked for me . . . every . . . damn time.

"Get in the car," he said, and I did so, wanting to comment on liking the vintage Cadillac, but not daring to saying anything about anything but sex when he wanted to hear me tell him what a master he was at that. I had an inkling that he, in fact, was a master at that. What I had so briefly felt when I brushed his basket was, in fact, thick and hard. His hardness controlled. He wanted me.

I had him; he had me.

He was in the driver's seat and had his wallet out before I'd made it around the long hood of the Cadillac, tossed my small weekend duffel bag over into the backseat, and slid into the passenger seat. He had a wad of hundred-dollar bills out and slapped them down on top of the dashboard in front of me. The hand went immediately to cupping my head from there, with his thumb pressed into my carotid artery, causing me to moan.

"I can feel the beat of your young blood in your veins," he whispered. "You are ripe for me." I shuddered at this exotic experience after so many bored weeks at sea. He was twisted toward me and moved his face to mine, taking my mouth with his, pressing his tongue between my lips, and making me open to him. I almost gagged on the tongue, which penetrated deep, moving in and out, reminding me that one could be fucked in more ways than one. His hand slid down to my lap and he unworked the buttons of the flap of the vintage sailor's trousers, freeing me and stroking my already half-engorged cock.

Is he going to fuck me right here in the parking lot off Alameda Boulevard with all of the other men watching—the wanting men and the arriving sailors, coming to meet the needs of those men and of themselves, I wondered. Men were noticing us and staring into the car. We had become part of the thrill of meeting the fleet when it came in.

His tongue slithered out of my throat. "No," he said in a low, seductive voice with that hint of an accent, something Eastern European, I thought, "Not here. I just want to know how compliant you are going to be for me."

As compliant as you want, I thought. It's your money.

"Good," he said, and he released me, returned to sitting in the driver's position, and started up the manly rumble of the V-8 engine.

It was only then that I realized he had answered my unspoken thoughts twice and I worried that perhaps he could, through some magic, discern everything I thought.

"Yes, I can," he said, as he pulled the car out onto Alameda Boulevard. "And that's the way I want it. I want to know everything you're thinking—your honest thoughts—and everything you're feeling. I want you to be thinking how you feel when I enter you and while I'm working you. I can also hear the beating of your heart and the blood coursing through your veins. It's exciting. I want to merge with you in every way possible—and every way seemingly impossible. We are going to be lovely together."

Shit, I thought, and he laughed. Once on the street, I heard the locks of the car doors engage. I realized I was a captive now.

He laughed again. "Yes, you are mine now. Stroke yourself as we drive."

I was still hanging out, fully erect now. I grasped my cock as he directed and slow stroked it. I reached over and unzipped and released him with my free hand. He was as hung as I had thought he might be. He was in full erection, and he just hummed and drove as I stroked us both.

* * * *

"Băiatul tău este unul drăguţ, Vlad. Vrei să te împărtăşeşti?" The hulking, but attracting dark-haired man, with the same cat eyes as Stefan had undressed me with his eyes as Stefan and I opened the door at the back of Café Romania and brushed aside the beaded curtain to enter what proved to be a small, dimly lighted, smoke-filled club room, with a lit stage at the far end.

Stefan answered him with "Poate mâine, Ionuț. Încă îl pregătesc pe băiat" as we moved past the man and another man within the room gestured us toward a favored table, indicating that Stefan was honored here.

A bit hazy and weak, with Stefan holding me up as we were directed to a banquette table facing the stage, I made the mistake of asking, "What did you two say?" Not only didn't I understand what they'd said to each other, but I also had no idea what language they had spoken in.

In response, Stefan thumped me on the back of my head with his knuckle and said, "I said no questions. You agreed. You are just here to serve my needs."

Yes, yes, I had, but it had all gotten so strange and draining.

A young man was on the stage, moving in a desultory, slow striptease to soft bump and grind music piped in from somewhere that had somewhat foreign tones to it, and a few couples were on the dance floor in front of him—men dancing in the clutch with men. No women were in sight.

It had all been strange getting here. Stefan hadn't driven us more than three blocks from where he'd picked me up to a three-story garage on 3rd Street—and, in fact, I never got off Coronado Island or far from in sight of the USS Carl Vinson my entire shore leave. He drove into the back corner of the garage's second level, where it was quite dark. He parked in a remote space in the midst of company vans that appeared to be stored there for the night. He knew the code to lift the gate into the garage, so I figured he had regular access to the building.

"Don't think about it. You are not to try to remember any of this," he admonished me, reminding me that somehow he could read my thoughts. I tried to blank out my thoughts. "You are just here to serve my needs."

When parked, he turned, cupped the back of my head, and pulled my face down into his crotch. Understanding what he wanted, I slid my lips over his exposed cock and gave him head. I purposely set my thoughts to how big he was built and how much pleasure it was to pleasure him in this way. With a sigh, he lay back in his seat, evidently pleased with both my actions and my thoughts. I sucked on the bulb and flicked the tip of my tongue into his urethra slit. He moaned with pleasure, closed his hands over my head, and pulled me into him, his erection reaching the back of my throat. Up and down, up and down, his hands controlling my bobbing head, until, with a jerk and a sigh, he came, prodigiously, causing me to gag on his cum. For many men this would be the end of the night, but Stefan was able to quickly reload repeatedly.

Not much later, my white trousers and jock were off my legs and, just in my naval white sailor's jumper I was sitting on his lap, his cock inside me, in the passenger seat, facing the windshield, and rising and falling on his shaft with the leverage of my bare feet pressed into the top edge of the dashboard. He had one hand under my jumper, at first palming my flat belly and later moving up to tweak my nipples as he jacked me off with his other hand. He hadn't fully gone flaccid after I'd blown him, and we had easily and naturally moved into the fuck, me yielding to his guidance of what he wanted and how he wanted it. There was no preliminary games or coy jockeying. We were both there for sex, him dominating and me submissive, and we went right to it.

When I had come from his stroking, that hand moved up to cup my jaw and turn my head to the side, exposing my throat, and it started to become quite weird. A glance was enough to reveal that he had fanged incisors I hadn't notice before—or that hadn't been projected before.

"Oh, shit. Fuck," I exclaimed as he sank his fangs into my carotid. It surprised me more than hurt. I begin to squirm, but he was too strong and I was fully under his control, his arms still around me, his thick cock impaling my channel deep.

No, no, not this, my mind was screaming.

Calm yourself. Don't fight me, flowed into my brain. I will fully possess you. Just a taste now. We will become one. Your pleasure will be such as you've never felt before. He hadn't actually said this; it had conveyed somehow through the ether. I was fully aware of the sucking sound and of blood flowing from me into him as this was being conveyed. I whimpered but that had no effect on what he was doing. Relax, relax, became the mantra in my mind, and I did so.

Strangely, increasingly, as he sucked and fucked, taking over my rise and fall on his cock, I found he was right—the combination of his feeding and fucking brought more pleasure than pain, and as he said would happen, I felt totally one with him, the two of us working together to reach the heights of pleasure and release.

Oh, fuck, this is so incredible, I thought, calming down, becoming a bit hazy, but folding into a cloud of contentment and pleasure.

Yes, it is, for both of us, came back at me.

Fuck me, suck me, ran through my mind over and over.

Humming, Stefan conveyed, I told you so.

You are so beautiful and masterful. Your cock is so big. I've never been fucked this well, ran through my mind.

"And you are a sweet lay. We are having such a great weekend. I must ration myself," Stefan answered out loud, pulling his mouth away from my throat. The concentration now was on the rise and fall of my channel on his cock.

We came together in a rolling release that was more a time of peace and incredible pleasure than an explosion.

We held for several moments afterward. He had a can of handy wipes under the passenger seat, which we used to clean ourselves up and get redressed. He licked the blood off my throat before wiping the area with the tissue. Leaving the Eldorado, we walked down the garage ramp to the first floor and then over to a side wall, where a door led into the side of a restaurant, the Café Romania, where Stefan took me for dinner. He had to help me stay upright as we walked, but I liked the intimacy of his embrace. I couldn't explain why I didn't register horror at discovering he was a vampire and I his prey of the moment, but I didn't. It was all so exotica and erotic. Of course he was a vampire. There was no rational explanation for that, but it was obviously so, and it seemed natural in the circumstances. I inexplicably looked forward to the next such encounter with him. I presume that already at this point, I was his slave.

I had no idea what that meant for me, but, in the moment, I didn't care. I just wanted to be in that lovely fuck and suck experience again.

They knew him here at the restaurant, and he chattered with them in some foreign language, while I kept my head up in some form of consciousness and a bit of difficulty to focus in looking over the menu. I was confused and living in a haze. It was a pleasant haze, though. I felt contentment and satiation. I also felt that Stefan owned me and that this was the best thing that had ever happened to me. I had been bled, which had my ears buzzing a bit and I was slow to react, but it had only served to keep me calm and hanging onto Stefan as my master.

It was after the late-night dinner that I found, when he took me through the doorway covered by the beaded curtain at the rear of the restaurant, that the next couple of hours would be spent in an intimate men's club.

We sat there, in the banquette, watching men, most—at least the dominant men—with cat eyes and as beautiful, dark, and hirsute as Stefan was, swirling around. Many of them stopped at our table to talk with Stefan in some foreign language and to ogle and smile at me. Some of them touched me, a few opened their mouths to show fangs and hiss, only to be called off by Stefan. Inexplicably I didn't register their barring of their fangs at me as hostile. I took it as a compliment. They wanted me. And after the fuck and suck session with Stefan, I wanted each of them too.

There were a few other young men, like me, in the club, all of them being fondled and kissed by the older men. A few were collapsed into chairs, their head lolling to the side at what looked like must be a painful angle, as if they had already been bled into unconsciousness.

And there was the young man on the stage, who finally had stripped down to just a sock jock. Then one of the men came up onto the stage, covered him from behind, and stripped even that off. The man then obviously had unzipped himself, taken an erection out, and had mounted the young stripper from behind. With one hand he was stroking off the young man and, with the other hand, he cupped the young man's chin, turning the young man's head and exposing his throat. Opening his mouth to show everyone that he had fangs, the man sank his teeth into the young man's throat and drank his blood, driblets of it dripping down his throat.

This should have shocked and frightened me. But it was just what Stefan had done to me in the car and that had brought me contentment and pleasure. As we watched the young stripper being fucked and bled on the stage—not just by one man, but by a succession of men climbing up on the stage and replacing the one before them, Stefan held me in his arms, the two of us sitting close beside each other in the banquette, and ran his hands over me, under the material of my jumper and white trousers, and kissed me, occasionally sinking his teeth into my throat or the inner surfaces of my elbows, and taking short drinks of me.