My Vampire Wife

This is my entry for the Halloween Story Contest 2023, the first I've ever entered. It's just over a half-hour read.

There's an apparent rape scene but it's not what it seems. Still, avoid if you might be triggered.

Everyone is older than 18—One is even a hundred times older.

I'm in the process of illustrating it, and those of you who read my last illustrated story "The Experiment" will know why this takes ages. If I waited to post the illustrated version I'd be even later to the competition so here's the standalone version for now.

Enjoy!

BC

x

My Vampire Wife

It's true the sky is darkest just before dawn. I've learned to wake to this darkness instead of sunrise because that's when my wife, the Abhartach, the vampire, comes home. Siobhan works nights while I work the day shift and she's gone by the time I'm back, so there's a dreamlike period between my waking and her dead slumber where we get to live our married life. Two or three times if we can.

Not this morning though. It's 31st October, Halloween, and the days before always get tetchy, so we argued before she left last night. I've not slept. I wonder if she'll try to avoid me today and sure enough when she's home she tiptoes about the bedroom. I watch her dim silhouette slip through the dark with the silent confidence of one born to it, shedding her clothes and padding into the shower before sliding under the sheets. That's when she surprises me.

"Wakey wakey sleepyhead." She spoons my back while squeezing my front scratchily, like a cat with a cushion. Her hips stir at my bottom. Her cheery horn muddles my sleepless self-righteousness. "Max..." she huffs hotly into my ear, her sibilance drawing my name out like a hiss. "Max..."

She's radiantly warm, and her heart's a rat-a-tat drum. She's been hunting. She smells of baked earth and Chanel soap-not like sex and death at all.

I yawn and stretch and pretend she's woken me from an untroubled sleep. "Successful night?"

Her sigh is husky-a delicate growl. I feel like I'm in bed with a happy panther. "Glorious," she purrs.

We've been married for fifteen years and her post-hunt bliss still stings. I can't help it, I'm only human. And a human cop, too. I want to hear all the gory details. Did she kill? Or, worse, did she orgasm?

"Eat me." She kisses my neck and bites it playfully. "Darlink."

The corny Dracula voice always makes me laugh, even when I'm angry. I guess she knows it too. I snake round in her arms to face her. Her needy hug is so tight my ribs crick. I wince and she relaxes her grip. I'm six-foot-six and built like a truck and my wife's a kittenish five-four. Yet she could snap me in two. She coils a leg around me, squeezes my balls and whispers, "I'm going to suck you dry."

I wonder how many would scream if a creature like Siobhan told them that.

I don't scream. I marvel at how a grizzly fuck like me got to marry an actual angel: Sleek black bob, wraparound eyes and a mouth that could eat me whole. When I first set eyes on her, smirking from her doorstep, I staggered like I was shot. We met because a load of scumbag suspects-pimps, rapists, groomers-had dropped dead while we were still building cases against them, and she seemed to be the only connection. I called round to her billionaire's apartment to interview her. And never left.

She writhes her naked front on mine, caressing me with her whole body, and my sudden erection undoes a brooding night of carefully constructed, fight-winning strategies. I kiss her, teasing her mouth with what she wants between her legs. She recognises my game and chuckles as we kiss. Her breath is autumn rain, not metallic blood, and her teeth are human and small. She kicks off our sheet because she's too hot. By the next full moon she'll be much, much colder. Then she'll feed again.

I keep the blackout shutters open at night and Siobhan's glassy penthouse is set on top of the city's tallest tower. Only the fat moon can see us, and it silvers our bodies. Her stiff nipples graze my pecs while her vulva kisses my leg wetly. She swings her knees apart and gently pushes my shoulders downward.

I plant my cock between her thighs like an anchor.

"Fuck me later." She slithers along my body. "Eat me."

Siobhan's clitoris is always ravenous but doubly so on a full moon. This is what opened a can of worms last night, how she always wants oral while I need to fuck. It's not about licking versus shagging though. That's a proxy argument for a scarier fight we started years ago: Ever since I said I wanted children, and she said she couldn't conceive, she rarely fucks. Then there's this business about the Turning.

She tries to get her hips to my face again and I grip her in place. "I want to come with you. I want to make love."

She easily breaks free. "This is love. Kiss my cunt." A wicked grin. "With tongues." She climbs on top of me and starts rutting her way up my torso.

This is an old dance that was exciting when we were both in our twenties and I had an eight-pack hard enough to grind on. Now I'm forty and down to a soft six-pack while she's not aged a day. She's never complained-or commented-but I can't help but compare her eternal youth to my increasing bagginess.

Still, I can't resist her. I flip her onto her back. She squeals. She might be ten times stronger than me but she's still half my weight and physics is physics.

I kiss her breasts in my own sweet time, even though it drives her nuts with horn, then spiral slowly down her belly. She bum-shuffles up to speed me to my target. By the time I'm in place between my angelic, demonic, wife's thighs she's gripped her legs behind the knee and splayed like a porn star.

Her black eyes glitter owlish in the half-dark, watching me admire her puffy folds. I open her cunt lips and juices trickle out. I kiss her inner thighs, lick wetness off my lips and make sure she can see that.

I'm salivating, but she's ignoring the ultimatum I made last night. I need to put my foot down. Halloween only comes once a year.

"It's Halloween tonight," I venture. "And a full moon."

"Hmm?" Like she can't hear. Like she can't read my fucking mind.

"What was our conversation before you left?" I cat lap her slippy thigh top.

"Can't remember." She nudges her sex toward my mouth. "Oh yes. You woke me halfway through an awesome threeway dream, and I told you about it and got you super hard, then-"

"Then I told you no more sex until... when?"

"Eat me." She kicks her feet.

"I said I won't lick you until you make me one of your kind. And it's Halloween, the only time you can Turn me."

"You don't want to be like me."

"What? You know I want to be immortal too. I'm forty, and look at you, still twenty-five. Fifteen Halloweens and you haven't Turned me. If you do it this year we can still stay young forever." Damn, listen to me, who'd want to spend eternity with this whiny sod? "You were the one who had Till death do us part removed from our fucking marriage vows."

"Max." She squeezes her mound then slaps it. Her plumped flesh wobbles mouthwateringly. "If I have to make myself come, then what use are you at all?" She says this through a laugh. Fucking avoidance. How can someone who lives so violently be so shit at confrontation?

She rubs her clit in front of my face, pushing out her jaw, as if to teach me a lesson. I swipe her hand away, and press a kiss to her cunt lips. She grunts. Her appetite is insane on hunt nights. Fucked-up insane. I kiss her again, slower. "I can make you come so hard you'll squirt for me. Is that what you want?"

She groans.

"Let me taste you." My lips brush her clit. "Turn me."

She shivers. "P-please. I'm too horny. I saved myself for you all night. Eat me. Then we'll talk."

"So you don't need to suck me after?"

"You know I do. A-after that. We'll talk after that."

"You need my cum."

She jerks a nod, biting her lip. She does need it too. Me eating her is only an overture to her draining me—like slapping up a vein. On the streets, to my shame, I've used the same fix-denial tactic to get intel from junkies. I can make my wife do anything if I withhold my semen right now. Like I said, hunt nights are fucked-up.

I watch her slot drool, and give her a long moment to feel her withdrawal closing in, then shrug. "I'm off then." I peck a kiss to her clit. "Bye."

"OK!" Her hips push for more as I pull away, licking a string of juices off my lips. Her eyes slit. "OK, I'll do it. You. I'll Turn you."

"Really?" I wait for the teasing laugh. It doesn't come. "Cross your heart?"

She snorts at my bad vampire joke. "Mm-hmm."

"When will you do it? Midnight?"

She spreads her lips. "Eat me!"

I lean close to her cunt, so she can feel my breath. "And what's the magic word? Eat me...?"

"...Motherfucker."

I scoff and flick a lick at her flushed bud. She whimpers. I run my tongue along her slimy slot, slick it all the way up, under her hood. She shudders, spreads wider. "Don't stop."

I can't stop now. I live for my wife's animal, oceanic taste. I take her entire vulva into me and feast and in moments she cries out, jerking at my mouth like she's my prey. My cunt-drunk heart leaps for joy, not just from my wife's arousal but from imagining I'm Turned and feeding.

Siobhan arches and blathers ancient, guttural, curses. She presses my head tight to her, squirming against my flickering tongue.

Siobhan doesn't come like a preternatural apex predator. She doesn't roar or thrash and I'm not left clawed and bitten. Siobhan comes like a young woman, squeaking and laughing and writhing. She comes vulnerably and gratefully, and when she's twitched her last, and pumped the last of her little gushes, she's smoochy and loving. She drags my head to her mouth to snog me, even as I swallow the last pulses of her orgasm. She tastes my tongue and plucks "thank you" kisses over my chin and cheeks, then my neck and my chest and belly...

And when her lips finally find my veiny club, she breathes, "Oh at fucking last." And slides her mouth over my end.

You don't know trust until you've let a vampire suck your cock. Especially if you've witnessed exactly how she kills.

The day I asked Siobhan to marry me, I thought I was pledging undying love to a diminutive, wicked-tongued, Irish girl. She said yes and she took the diamond ring I offered, but she didn't put it on. She stared at it sadly, and said I needed to know the truth about her first. She sat me down and played me a video recorded in our bedroom the week before, when I was away. Apparently when it comes to explaining the impossible, it's best to show, not tell.

The video showed her bringing a man home. A tall, wiry, glam-goth type. He dragged Siobhan into our bedroom by her dress. They were both laughing.

"It's not always men," she said to my bemusement, like that was the problem here, the gender of the person cuckolding me. "Sometimes I do girls, but I only feed on misogynists, abusers and rapists. So, y'know, that's blokes most of the time."

She winced as she watched me watch the video.

The guy kissed my wife like a head butt, grinding his designer-stubbled chin on her mouth. He tore her dress down and bit her nipples, then jammed her against a wall while he dropped his trousers. He scraped her panties aside and shoved his skinny dick inside her. "Baby you're wet." A weedy Essex accent. "You like it rough, eh?" He thrust a dozen times, called her a lucky cunt, then yanked her to her knees by her hair. She was still smiling-a rictus grin more defiant than joyful.

My hands clasped my mouth. To stop me turning inside out, I think. "Why are you making me watch this?"

"Shh." She tapped the screen.

Her screen-self tucked her hair behind her ears and regarded the fucker's glistening dick. So she really was wet... how? Her sweet little breasts had livid scratches across them. Or I thought they did, the welts seemed to dissolve as I watched. Her face was blank. Shark-eyed.

"This is what you want from me, is that it?" I bleated.

"Watch."

In hell, I forced myself to watch Siobhan wrap her lips around this wet prick. The bloke grimaced and shoved, holding her head, fucking it. All the while, her hands lay flat in her lap. My cheeks blazed, my fists clenched. I swung at the screen to smash it, like that might smash the toxic fucker to pieces too but Siobhan easily dodged and I swiped only air.

"Wait for it," she said.

"I'm gonna spunk all over your pretty cunting face." The glam-goth tried to pull out, but Siobhan reached one arm under, between his legs, and gripped his buttocks to hold him in place. She took him deeper into her, balls deep, and glared up at him.

He struggled, but even one-handed she had him clamped tight. He sneered. "You want my jizz, slut?" He tried to thrust at her again but she was already frantically ramming him into her throat. He wasn't giving. She was taking. She shoved her middle finger knuckle-deep into his anus. He jolted and roared.

Then, still fixed to the shuddering fucker, and easily bearing his weight, my petite girlfriend stood. She hoisted him above her, tipped her head back and glugged from him like a bottle.

My world lurched, twisted, and set at a new, crazed angle.

As she stared at the engagement ring in her fidgeting fingers, Siobhan explained how real vampires, the ancient celtic Abhartach like her, didn't drink blood. They had more refined tastes, tastes that were hard for our materialistic society to accept. "I drink souls," she said. "And orgasms are your purest expression of lifeforce. Coming is when your soul rises briefly to the surface of your being, like the tip of an iceberg." On screen, the fucker's legs jerked as she drained not just his orgasm, but his entire ghost, right to the dregs. His life passed invisibly from his lazily twitching form into this small, powerful creature, his peculiar cries of ecstatic horror drowned by her cock-muffled cackling.

She cast him aside like an empty wrapper, then dropped to her haunches and fingered herself frantically over his spent, lifeless body.

"Still want to marry me?" Siobhan thumbed off her screen. "The monster?"

What could I say? What I'd thought were my girl's quirks now added up to something dark. Yes she was nocturnal, and feline, and yes, she could bedazzle with a flick of her eye, and read intentions just as quick. And yes she never worried about anything, not even money, which she had in apparently limitless supply despite not having a job. All fine, endearing even. But now this? My girlfriend hunts down assholes, and blisses them to death?

Fuck it. Whatever. I'm a London cop-I'd seen worse.

"You're no monster." I kissed her as gently as I could, to be the opposite of that fucker, but also out of awe. I took my ring from her. "You're an avenging angel."

I slid the diamond ring onto her finger.

Fifteen years later that diamond twinkles bright as ever while Siobhan holds my cock to her mouth and happily nods, slipping her tender mouth up and down my shaft. Her tongue swirls out with each stroke and she hums like I'm delicious. I recall the goth's ghastly, enraptured spasms as she devoured him.

I stroke her cheek. "I love you."

She rolls her eyes, as if to say, "Of course you love me, I've got your cock in my mouth." But then she curls over my hips, sighs and sucks me more insistently, rubbing me into her. I can't help it, every time she does this I wonder, is this it? Is this the time she judges me not worthy and sucks me to death? Because that's her role after all, to remove the shits from the gene pool one shit at a time. Have I been good this week? Or have behaved badly, given way to unconscious bias, talked over a woman, or down to her, or walked past someone needing my help?

Siobhan works me hard and fast. My orgasm, my soul, rises, unstoppably drawn out by my beautiful, impossible, Abhartach wife.

"I'm coming," I blurt, but she knows this better than I.

"Mm-hmm!" she cheers anyway.

I come as if struck by lightning. It whiplashes me off the bed. Eyes aflame, Sioban holds her mouth open and rubs me into her, so I can watch my thick white ropes splatter her lips and curled-out tongue. She smiles benevolently while making this unholy mess, to prove she won't drain me like her prey. Only after I've coated her tongue does she close her lips over me. With a slicked mouth, she sucks loosely, semen rolling down her chin, dripping from her thumb. She laps up my drips so they can dribble out again, over and over, proving and re-proving that she's not killing me, she's eking out my orgasm as long as she can. I twitch and curse and she takes a heart-stopping age until I'm spent and finally, by degrees, sucked and licked clean.

She withdraws to grin messily at me, suddenly almost shy. She kisses my softening cockhead and smacks her lips. But then, as ever, there's a moment where it seems she needs to suck one last time. Her eyes flash feral. She takes me back into her and holds me in her warm, deadly mouth for a stuttering heartbeat.

Then she sighs, and lets me go.

She inspects her wrist, laps a splash from it. "More."

"Nope." I pull away. "Not until-"

"Alright, alright." She blasts a yawn and flops onto her back. "Tonight," she croaks. Then snores.

#

My wife was born a thousand years ago to a long line of milkmaids in Slaghtaverty, Ireland. When she was 25, one freakishly sticky Halloween night, she lay naked on the cool peat roof of her hut. In her words, "I made the mistake of pleasing myself three times under a full moon, and this attracted a beast who Turned me into an immortal Abhartach. The beast was my first love."

And that's all she'll say about that. She won't tell me anything about her lover or the Turning or what happened after. All she'll tell me is that she's had only two true loves in her thousand years, and I'm the second. She said she avoided relationships because human partners always died. "Grief is the price we pay for love," she told me. "And the immortal pay over and over." Either that or her lovers let her down. "People change so much over a human lifetime, why give them eternity to disappoint me?"

I consider this all day at work, as I record the details of another pimp found dead from unexplained heart failure. I investigate this with all the vigour the mystery deserves. He was a handsome, muscular chap so I guess his death was Siobhan's handiwork. She's drawn to the pretty ones. I wonder who punishes the ugly abusers. Then I remember that's my job.

At sunset I head home to find, with a surge of irritation, that our penthouse is empty.

Typical. Siobhan lied. Again. And again I console myself with a bottle of Jamesons in the bath.

The black marble pool is large enough for a party and set before a glass wall offering a panoramic cityscape. In other words, custom-made to make you lonely. I've spent more of our marriage sunk in this hot gloom than in my hot wife.

I've got the bath's temperature set on auto so it won't go cold and opened the windows to puff steam into the night like the environment's not fucked and we can all do what the fuck we like. Sirens pass below and pigeons flock above and the full moon doesn't care if I live or die either. Likewise my phone, sat by the bathside, its screen black.

Siobhan and I would have so much time together if she Turned me. Not just because we'd be immortal, but because we'd finally be in sync, sleeping through the days and playing all night. I don't know why she avoids it.

I wallow and swill and dwell on what it must be like having Siobhan's power and grace and her animal senses and her speed. And how transparent people must be if you've lived so many lifetimes. She answers all my questions before I've even asked them, for example. Also, while barely moving her lips, she can make a whisper plant itself right between my eyes-a kind of line-of-sight telepathy. When I asked her if that was a trick she learned, or some lesser-known vampiric power she laughed. "No sweetie, that's just your devotion, hanging on my every word."