tagNonHumanHis Voice

His Voice


The Banshee, the Siren, the Succubus, the Incubus, the magician, deities of night, stars, moon, and shadow. These legends were born from the ones humans called vampires. Their voices can control, demand, and arouse those they chose, want, and desire. They manipulate, feed, and copulate as they see fit for their own ends, be they instinctual or thoughtful. They dominate and own what they claim, and though vampires are called vampires by popular vote of humans, they themselves prefer their other, much older name: Nosferatu.

It was into a certain summery night that one sang a song beyond any human measure of comprehensive beauty. Using their godly voices, the Nosferatu summon forth those they would feed upon, those they would manipulate, and those they wish to commune with. However, it was not for any of those reasons that this one sang. He sang not to summon a human to her death, as many others had before he chose her. He was calling forth with his song for a daughter, a Chyld, a newborn of the night kind that would no longer age, never die, and live off of those that were still trapped in the embrace of life and death cycle.

His melody was lonely and longing, sensual and requisite in its demand. (Come to me,) he sang in words that were of a language not known by man, the words rhyming while their meaning did not. (Come and be with me in our corner of eternity. I shall give you what you can only imagine for a fleeting moment as you are now for days on end. Let me birth you, Sire you, and teach you. I will love you, treasure you, pleasure you, and adore you, if only you come to me, my Chyld, my love. Just come to me.)

She had no choice but to obey. Her soul was weak, pure, and unprotected, and her body sought to sate the feelings of heat, longing, and desire his lyrics stirred as they caressed her spirit in obscene ways. She followed the haunting notes carried on the wind. The voice and the music that were meant only for her froze her core yet fired her yearnings, making her both longing and fearful, but unable to resist. She had to go to him. Had to. So she walked down the steps of the back porch and out across the yard on silent, dew dampened bare feet, and into the woods beyond. The wolves howled in welcome to her as she went by, knowing that one of their masters was summoning forth a Chyld to make his own.

(Yes, my Chyld,) the voice continued to sing as he felt her leave the safety that her home gave her. (Feel me now, desire me now, and I will make you my own. Come and call my Sire. Come and love me, and I shall love you. Come to me into the darkness warm and sweet.)

The night was thick and blinding to her weak mortal eyes, yet somehow she knew the way, never tripping, never faltering. The words of the song guided her to place one foot here, and the other foot there, and to angle her slim leg this way while shifting her weight that way for the next odd step.

She longed to be with the one who sang so deeply into her soul. She wanted him like he had never desired any other. She wanted to feel his voice vibrating against her throat as he leaned over her, his body locked in union with hers. Just the thought alone sent fits of aroused urges through her, tightening places and wetting others.

(Yes. Come...!) the voice sang inside of her. (Past the trees. Come to me. Here I am. I wait for you. Come and let me love you, drink of you, and make you my own.)

And then he was there. The singer, the one that had called out to her so intimately, stood in glorious splendor in the shadowed glen where only enough moonlight shown to reveal that he was there, his lips were parted and musical notes flowing forth in eager seductive passion. He wore nothing but the many layered cloak created from a fine filmy material that drifted upwards upon the barest touch of the breeze.

When she had discarded her night gown and panties she couldn't remember, nor did she care. She was finally with the one that had called to her, aroused her, and made her long for him. That, for her, was all that mattered.

(Yes. You've come. I knew that you would, my precious Chyld, my first Chyld,) he sang as he took her night chilled hands into his warm ones, pausing to kiss the petite knuckles of her fingers where they bent into his. He drew her to him both with a gentle tug of his hands and the draw of his voice, which soon became muffled as he brought his lips down to hers. Even without the soundless voice, the soul searching words, the music still hung between them, binding them in a place deep inside her heart. Or his. She couldn't tell which. She was a part of something greater, and as she felt their bare bodies press tight against one another under the shelter of his soft silky cloak the kiss deepened. His song hung like an unspoken promise vibrating up his throat and into her mouth like the sustenance from God. He was all she would ever need, ever want, and ever desire for all eternity. No one had done for her what he did to her body, mind, and soul. No one.

Those vibrations of song died away, the notes moving to a place where even her soul could no longer hear, but the feelings passing between them did not. They kissed deep and hungry, but while she was desperate he was not, and showed her thus. There was no need to rush something so wonderful, so addictive. They had all the time in the world now that she had come to him.

She could feel the moisture that had gathered below flow freer and warmer at the feel of him so close to her yet not close enough. Her singer's arousal pressed against her and she leaned gently to it, lifting her hips to brush the mound of her pelvis decorated with pale hair against it. He gasped, pleased she sought to please him as he had her. It did please him, and he leaned to her, their bodies gently grinding, skin against skin, body to body as they kissed and gasped into one another's mouths, the only thing shielding them from the eyes of the world being the singer's feathery black cloak.

Before she realized it they were on the ground, his body leaning over her own as he still kissed her, the grass cushioning her back, that same cloak still hiding them. His skin was warm and wonderful, as silky as the cloak that brushed against her sides and legs. He broke the kiss, looking down at her with bright crimson eyes the color of fresh blood, their breath brushing each other's lips as they panted, their lower bodies still moving steadily against each other in imitation of what they would so do. He bent down, his expression not changing, eyes falling half shut as he ran his moist tongue along her throat, tracing the pulse that fluttered there, his lips occasionally brushing her sensitive skin. She sighed, her hands running through her singer's thick shoulder length silver hair, leaning up to him, wanting him, longing for him.

"Will you accept me, my Chyld," he said for the first time in her language, making his self more real than the dream she had felt he was until that moment. His voice was musical and soothing and caressed her spirit with the same perversity as his song had her soul. "Will you not accept me completely? Open your body, open your soul, and let me inside all parts of you. I long for you to be my own, to be mine, to obey and love me as I use and love you."

Her body clenched, feeling empty and longing, burning with need for something she had only imagined. Feeling his voice within and without her body made her groan and press hard to him, hungry and hurting and so wet it trailed down her legs and over the curve of her rear.

"Please," she whispered, fingers becoming tangled in beautiful ashen hair. "Please... consume me." Why she said consume me and not 'take me' or 'make love to me' she did not know. Perhaps it was the song. It had swallowed her, drowned her, and became more a part of her than anything else, even love.

"Yes," the voice hissed forth, eager and hungry and filled with moonlit desires that matched her own and more. "Yes, I shall."

He brought his hand up, opening his mouth to show fine pointed fangs in place of his canines, of smaller pointed teeth framing them on the inside of where they rested. He pressed each fingertip on those fangs, sinking them into the soft flesh deep enough that the pads were level with the smooth, human looking teeth. Blood dripped from them, and she found her eyes fascinated by the sight of his blood, so dark and rich, like chocolate in the color draining light of the moon and shadows. She leaned up, her eyes following his fingers as he allowed her to move from beneath him.

"What do you desire?" he asked as the blood dripped freely and wound a black path across milky white skin and down the arm that held the fingers just out of her reach. "What do you long for?"

"I want...," she muttered, leaning forward. "... it.... Please... I...."

He didn't force her to wait. He pushed the fingers to her partially parted lips and slid them into her mouth. Her hands flew up, gripping his wrist, holding his hand with the same desperate hunger a babe would a new bottle. She suckled on them, eyes closing, feeling the blood run across her tongue and down her throat. He moved his fingers back and forth in deep sensual motions, but he never drew the tips out, letting her hold onto the two digits. He tasted of life, of beyond life, of something wonderful, magical, and precious. It was impossible to stop drinking the blood same way it was near impossible to stop a building climax.

Holding his other hand against the small of her back he helped her lean back down into the grass, his body covering hers with his flesh and cloak, resting between her legs as she spread them wide in a high bow, exposing herself to him. Moving his other hand from under her he held her hip with it, turning her head to the side by shifting his fingers to expose her neck. She watched with uncaring eyes as his eyes glowed bright and his mouth opened wider, the small fangs she had noticed a short time ago growing long before he bit into her exposed neck.

She cried out, arching to him in ecstasy and he used the shift to guide his length into her moist passage. There was pain as her singer entered her body, stretching her and hurting her despite her deep mind numbing arousal. It was enough to make her struggle briefly to get away from him, crying out around the fingers, but she didn't let go of them, her teeth clamped tight around them, and nor did he let go of where he had driven his fangs into her flesh her neck, his fangs piercing her flesh and his throat convulsing around his labored gasps as he drank the blood that sprang forth from the wound. He ignored her faint struggle, his hand gripping her hip hard enough to bruise to hold her steady as he continued his motions, moaning with pleasure at the feel of her body and the taste of her blood and passion.

He drew back for a moment, each word he spoke tasting of blood. "You are mine. You will be mine," he said, each short sentence punctuated by the forward motion of his hips.

The singer bit down again, his fangs sliding into the marks already made on the young woman's neck and she cried out from it, almost climaxing but not. Things began to change as her body accepted the pleasures he vested upon it. The darkness of the glen brightened, the sounds of the trees were as loud as drums. Sight sound and feeling began to change, and she reveled in it, groaning loud and perverse around the fingers she held tight in her mouth.

The wet sounds of their union mixed with the sound of her suckling his bleeding fingers and he her neck, both drinking each others blood as their bodies drank of their pleasures. The venom his fangs pushed into her slowed her bloods ability to clot and increased her sensations, acting as an aphrodisiac to heighten everything he did to her as their bodies continue writhing. All of her thoughts were filled with nothing but the passionate sensations of their pairing, making her throb and ach. Her neck burned from the bite, from the venom, but the burning of the pleasure that flowed both from it, from her loins, from the hot blood that still trickled down her throat made it more than bearable. This was what she had been missing ever since she had been born, even before she was mature and knew of sex, of pleasure, of passion, and now the delicacy and intricacy of blood.

She arched and moaned against the one rocking her, fucking her, pleasuring her, and she never wanted to leave the embrace of her singer ever again. Not for as long as she lived and longer. She wanted it more than anything and she held tight to the form of the one above her, another handhold to reality and her barely existing sanity.

The teeth closed tighter, her teeth closed tighter, and her body froze and trembled as that sanity left her and her body reached the pinnacle that came at the peak of such passions. Her mind and her body had both had enough, and she let go, giving a passionate muffled cry as she tensed and tightened around her lover as she came. Her loving singer gasped with an animalistic bubbly hiss made wet by her blood as he felt her tense and undulate around his thick length. He grew larger before he began to pulse and tremble inside her body's embrace, his seed, his mark, shooting into her body's depths.

She closed her eyes for the first time since she had come to him, savoring the sensation of him filling her with the heat of his essence. But when it ended, when she felt her sanity start to return she was hit by a wave of cold air. As her eyes flew open she saw her lover was gone as though he had never existed in the first place.

"Was it... a dream?" she asked out loud, licking her lips and tasting his sweet blood still on them. A breeze stirred the trees high above her, cooling her sweat covered body. Her core felt cold now, covered in her own moisture, but none of what she knew he had left inside of her body leaking out. Not yet. Her body cradled the heat he had left inside her, the mark of their passionate embrace, and she could feel it in her depths like she had never felt anything within herself before. He had come deep within her, and within her it would stay for a time.

"Not a dream..." she realized, touching her neck where the two raised marks were from her singer's fangs. She looked at her fingers, her night vision vastly improved and saw no blood. He had sealed the wound, but the mark still remained.

"He's gone," she said brokenly, feeling alone and empty without his song, his touch, his body inside of her, and his blood. She felt abandoned, and she found herself crying even as she struggled to her feet and stumbled her way back home in the silent night that was deathly quiet, still respecting the union of power that had occurred in the wild place under the moonlight.

She didn't understand that the separation wouldn't last forever. He had marked her, both outside and in with his blood, his venom, and his essence. He would be back, and he would fulfill her request.

He would consume her, and she would belong to him forever.

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byLaurielle© 2 comments/ 14121 views/ 6 favorites

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