Post by Deleted on Apr 15, 2010 16:41:41 GMT -8
There was a metallic -SNICK- as the butterfly knife latched itself back into place. Michael's dexterity with the instrument was commonplace among those of his unit. They had received them as a graduation present from a higher up who's name he could not quite remember. Fumes swept passed him, the noxious smell of burning petrol product dulled his senses some against the cold.
'Liber de Opresso' it was etched into the grip of the knife 'to liberate the opressed.' On the other end it read, 'Rangers lead the way.'
The van was idling, but it needed to stay warm inside for the little guys and the bird. He'd fixed the heater for them. She didn't really need it.
So many old roads out that way. So little traffic.
She should be waking up soon.
Darkness had crept across the landscape hours ago.
Sometimes...though not all the time, Vivian would not wake until midnight
Fresh air. He'd stolen three good hours of sleep, and was now reveling in the cold night.
Waiting for her. Wondering to himself how she'd greet him.
He'd begun to suspect that their phantom pursuer was a trick, a bit of her psychic shit to keep him sharp. But then, he was very paranoid.
She loved to play... and so did he.
Their games could range from the innocent to the depraved.
A car would pass by every now and again, and he'd think to himself, this was the moment, and he'd steel himself for her approach, though he knew she held the silence of death at her whim.
Oh the games. Games indeed.
One she was especially fond of was 'How close can I get?'
How.
Close.
Vivian was a slight woman. Not especially tall. A former slaughterhouse worker, she had been well muscled when she died....when her Sire, lost in the grip of his emotional hallucinations, had sucked her soul from her body.
She'd just severed the carotid and jugular of a pale horse, its hide stained with mud, tongue lolling as it dangled senseless by its shackled legs, and as the animal bled out, so too did she.
Pale horse.
Pale light behind the door.
Michael never seemed to notice. For all of his training, for all of his intuition, whatever masked her was beyond his sense. Her Sire had used this very power upon her, to walk in unseen among the hanging bodies of animals, living, dying, and dead, that comprised the moving slaughterhouse line. Her first meal was that of horse blood.
But her meal tonight...
His chest heaved with slow breaths, his heart steady as always.
She reached round with one unseen arm, forearm across his trachea, hand on the side of his head, yanking him backwards with unGODly strength, jerking the mortal soldier off his booted feet as she sank her fangs into the side of his suddenly bared carotid. He'd barely gotten a sound out. Now trapped, he'd ejaculated immediately, and his heart raced.
Her fangs sat in his flesh, blood running across them and pooling into her mouth without effort. Three swallows.
That'd be all he'd get. All she'd take. But the Kiss...the Kiss was in the fangs, and those swallows could take a long time in coming.
Reflexively perhaps, the soldier's leg rocketed up. He had always gone through great pains to ensure his flexibility, but he had no blood. No strength. No Will.
Only pleasure. His kick had no power to it, no more than the horse.
The horse.
Horse... Pages and pages of unsteady handwriting, written in red brown ink.
He'd once placed his foot on the back of a mans neck and ended his life with the force of a stomp. He could not at that moment remember the odd sound it made as it broke. Right now he could only hear the sound of his heart, beating as he was drained...
A boot, crushing a human face. Forever. That is the Future, Winston.
Where was GOD? Did you find Him in the rubble of the wars fought in his name?
Was He there, somewhere under the piles of human bodies?
A Horse Not Made of Sand A Horse Not Made of Sand A Horse Not Made of Sand A Horse Not Made of Sand A Horse Not Made of Sand A Horse Not Made of Sand A Horse Not Made of Sand A Horse Not Made of Sand A Horse Not Made of Sand A Horse Not Made of Sand A Horse Not Made of Sand A Horse Not Made of Sand
Drained by.
One.
Swallow.
It wasn't just his heartbeat he heard.
He heard the cold rush of traffic from the interstate, even though he knew it was miles away.
Such an odd sensation to feel it all slipping away, all with perfect clarity. With that same clarity, Michael could think of little else...
Two swallows.
How many pomegranate seeds did Persephone eat?
His blood was rushing away...
Pushed into the current of Her
The mortal soldier's hips bucked absently, his semen all but spent and yet, the orgasm continued...
Annie, are you ok? Are you ok, Annie?
Three swallows.
That would be all she'd take.
Three swallows.
Annie, are you ok? Are you ok, Annie? Won't you tell us that you're ok?
Three swallows would be all he'd get.
Who could ask for more?
Certainly not the young man.
His erection pressed against the loose pants, eyes rolled backward. The beat of the van stereo hammered like horse's hooves as another man named Michael sang...
There's a sign in the window... Then he struck you, a crescendo
He came into you apartment...He left The bloodstains on the carpet...
The bloodstains...
She was on her butt now, leaned against the rear tire of the van, the ghoul prostrate atop her....
...then you ran into the bedroom...
You were struck down...
It was your doom...
You've been hit by...you've been struck by...
Third swallow.
A Smooth Criminal.
Ladies and gentlemen, we have lost cabin pressure.
She reached down across his chest, nails raking... distraction from her disengagement, hastily licking the wound as she retrieved her fangs.
Trembling, his broad shoulders shook against her...
Her warm mouth stole up his neck with kisses, pressing her lips to the skin behind his ear, drawing her cold tongue up his bare shaved scalp.
Slowly coming back, slowly indeed. Michael's eyes were no longer quite so glassy, and he was reaching for her, to put his hand against her cheek.
She brought her free hand up to cup his, and drew it into her face, kissing its palm...
What a surprise.
He thought to himself before he leaned up, his muscles returning to somewhat functional, enough to lock his lips to hers.
He was sweating, and radiated heat. His erection had never abated, his jean jacket had slipped off somewhere, he was bare chested.
How she wanted to kill him.
How she wanted to drink and drink and drink...
To feel his lungs heave with agonal gasps...
To feel the futile pumping of his strong, young heart as it was emptied of blood...
To hear him intone her name with his dying breath
Would it ever really stop?
In a way... he wanted her to drain him.
The ultimate way to go...
The only way to fly.
Killed by a super predator.
And having the best orgasm of your life in the process.
Kill me.
But she did not kill him.
She kissed him back.
Hungrily, concealing her desire to drain him to his last heartbeat in the ferocity of this expression.
Begging, pleading...
Stopping at only so far
The book of love is long and boring
no one can lift the damn thing its full of charts, facts, and figures
And instructions for dancing
But I I love it when you read to me
And you you could read me anything
He kissed her as deeply as his heart felt.
He tasted his blood...
and she stroked his bare chest with her cold hands...
She was not wearing gloves tonight...
His tongue sought its taste greedily, she could feel his heart still pounding beneath the skin. Gooseflesh wherever her hands went.
and her long, sharp nails scored his ribs
They shifted beneath the skin, ever so slightly to her scoring.
Each breath tempered
Every move to match her own
He had to come up for air from time to time...she did not...and underneath it all, the rush of her feeding was giving way to something else...something he'd come to recognise in the months he'd been with her...
a deepseated burn in his veins...
The taste of his blood sparked it
An eye opener in the crudest of ways.
He'd thought he'd had a deathwish once.
Until death had one day found him.
And asked him what his wish was.
Let me be yours. Forever.
She pressed her palm to his lips...entreating him to kiss it...
He kissed her palm, holding it to his lips as though if it were to retreat, it would never return.
Treat every kiss as though it were the last one. Even as he caught the flash of rainbow metal...her pocketknife, its blade snapping open, held in her free hand even as she turned her other over, palm up, as his lips brushed her fingertips again and again...
He worshiped each finger with the tenacity of an evangelist
as his veins...burned....
Liquid fire.
She brought up the knife...
Each fingertip a goddess he paid tribute, he heard the snick of the metal, and his eyes followed it.
laying it edge down on the upturned palm of her bare hand.
Only once a month did she do this.
Only the first day of each month.
"Is this what you want?"
The blade sank into the flesh of her palm...
He watched with with the interest of a falcon observing a rodent.
The first drops that traced down her arm were caught by his moist, hot tongue. Running up to the wound, tracing the knife.
Lips brushing her palm.
"Tell me you want it..." She breathed.
And in the moonlight...as it the trick of that inconstant mirror of the sun?
Was it a property of its phantom illumination that Vivian's blood was...was...?
"I want it, Lady... I want, GOD..."
Shiney like a new dime...how could Red be such a mirror?
"Please Lady..."
He could see his fucking reflection in the pool forming in the palm of her hand. His eyes searched for hers, waiting...waiting...
"Please?" She asked him rhetorically. It was perhaps the only time the Lady showed sadism towards him.
This time.
This first night of the month.
"Please..." He was feverish.
"Say it."
"Please Lady...I love you..."
"Say it." She pressed. Her eyes were on his face, on his chest, heaving...His throat, tight and straining...burning, scorching with an unnatural thirst
"Feed me, please..."
Her nostrils twitched at the scent of his sweat and finally, she tipped her palm, brimming with mirror, to his lips. Slowly...and hungrily, he sipped at the blood, so reflective...
And his pupils dilated
And his dick felt as though it would explode
His heart raced.
His muscles tightened, strengthened.
and she crooned...tipping her head back as she watched him
He fell silent, and wrapped his arms about her waist and rested his head in her lap.
Wordlessly, the cut on her palm closing, she stroked his head with genuine affection.
'Liber de Opresso' it was etched into the grip of the knife 'to liberate the opressed.' On the other end it read, 'Rangers lead the way.'
The van was idling, but it needed to stay warm inside for the little guys and the bird. He'd fixed the heater for them. She didn't really need it.
So many old roads out that way. So little traffic.
She should be waking up soon.
Darkness had crept across the landscape hours ago.
Sometimes...though not all the time, Vivian would not wake until midnight
Fresh air. He'd stolen three good hours of sleep, and was now reveling in the cold night.
Waiting for her. Wondering to himself how she'd greet him.
He'd begun to suspect that their phantom pursuer was a trick, a bit of her psychic shit to keep him sharp. But then, he was very paranoid.
She loved to play... and so did he.
Their games could range from the innocent to the depraved.
A car would pass by every now and again, and he'd think to himself, this was the moment, and he'd steel himself for her approach, though he knew she held the silence of death at her whim.
Oh the games. Games indeed.
One she was especially fond of was 'How close can I get?'
How.
Close.
Vivian was a slight woman. Not especially tall. A former slaughterhouse worker, she had been well muscled when she died....when her Sire, lost in the grip of his emotional hallucinations, had sucked her soul from her body.
She'd just severed the carotid and jugular of a pale horse, its hide stained with mud, tongue lolling as it dangled senseless by its shackled legs, and as the animal bled out, so too did she.
Pale horse.
Pale light behind the door.
Michael never seemed to notice. For all of his training, for all of his intuition, whatever masked her was beyond his sense. Her Sire had used this very power upon her, to walk in unseen among the hanging bodies of animals, living, dying, and dead, that comprised the moving slaughterhouse line. Her first meal was that of horse blood.
But her meal tonight...
His chest heaved with slow breaths, his heart steady as always.
She reached round with one unseen arm, forearm across his trachea, hand on the side of his head, yanking him backwards with unGODly strength, jerking the mortal soldier off his booted feet as she sank her fangs into the side of his suddenly bared carotid. He'd barely gotten a sound out. Now trapped, he'd ejaculated immediately, and his heart raced.
Her fangs sat in his flesh, blood running across them and pooling into her mouth without effort. Three swallows.
That'd be all he'd get. All she'd take. But the Kiss...the Kiss was in the fangs, and those swallows could take a long time in coming.
Reflexively perhaps, the soldier's leg rocketed up. He had always gone through great pains to ensure his flexibility, but he had no blood. No strength. No Will.
Only pleasure. His kick had no power to it, no more than the horse.
The horse.
Horse... Pages and pages of unsteady handwriting, written in red brown ink.
He'd once placed his foot on the back of a mans neck and ended his life with the force of a stomp. He could not at that moment remember the odd sound it made as it broke. Right now he could only hear the sound of his heart, beating as he was drained...
A boot, crushing a human face. Forever. That is the Future, Winston.
Where was GOD? Did you find Him in the rubble of the wars fought in his name?
Was He there, somewhere under the piles of human bodies?
A Horse Not Made of Sand A Horse Not Made of Sand A Horse Not Made of Sand A Horse Not Made of Sand A Horse Not Made of Sand A Horse Not Made of Sand A Horse Not Made of Sand A Horse Not Made of Sand A Horse Not Made of Sand A Horse Not Made of Sand A Horse Not Made of Sand A Horse Not Made of Sand
Drained by.
One.
Swallow.
It wasn't just his heartbeat he heard.
He heard the cold rush of traffic from the interstate, even though he knew it was miles away.
Such an odd sensation to feel it all slipping away, all with perfect clarity. With that same clarity, Michael could think of little else...
Two swallows.
How many pomegranate seeds did Persephone eat?
His blood was rushing away...
Pushed into the current of Her
The mortal soldier's hips bucked absently, his semen all but spent and yet, the orgasm continued...
Annie, are you ok? Are you ok, Annie?
Three swallows.
That would be all she'd take.
Three swallows.
Annie, are you ok? Are you ok, Annie? Won't you tell us that you're ok?
Three swallows would be all he'd get.
Who could ask for more?
Certainly not the young man.
His erection pressed against the loose pants, eyes rolled backward. The beat of the van stereo hammered like horse's hooves as another man named Michael sang...
There's a sign in the window... Then he struck you, a crescendo
He came into you apartment...He left The bloodstains on the carpet...
The bloodstains...
She was on her butt now, leaned against the rear tire of the van, the ghoul prostrate atop her....
...then you ran into the bedroom...
You were struck down...
It was your doom...
You've been hit by...you've been struck by...
Third swallow.
A Smooth Criminal.
Ladies and gentlemen, we have lost cabin pressure.
She reached down across his chest, nails raking... distraction from her disengagement, hastily licking the wound as she retrieved her fangs.
Trembling, his broad shoulders shook against her...
Smooth Criminal.
Her warm mouth stole up his neck with kisses, pressing her lips to the skin behind his ear, drawing her cold tongue up his bare shaved scalp.
Slowly coming back, slowly indeed. Michael's eyes were no longer quite so glassy, and he was reaching for her, to put his hand against her cheek.
She brought her free hand up to cup his, and drew it into her face, kissing its palm...
What a surprise.
He thought to himself before he leaned up, his muscles returning to somewhat functional, enough to lock his lips to hers.
He was sweating, and radiated heat. His erection had never abated, his jean jacket had slipped off somewhere, he was bare chested.
How she wanted to kill him.
How she wanted to drink and drink and drink...
To feel his lungs heave with agonal gasps...
To feel the futile pumping of his strong, young heart as it was emptied of blood...
To hear him intone her name with his dying breath
Would it ever really stop?
In a way... he wanted her to drain him.
The ultimate way to go...
The only way to fly.
Killed by a super predator.
And having the best orgasm of your life in the process.
Kill me.
But she did not kill him.
She kissed him back.
Hungrily, concealing her desire to drain him to his last heartbeat in the ferocity of this expression.
Begging, pleading...
Stopping at only so far
The book of love is long and boring
no one can lift the damn thing its full of charts, facts, and figures
And instructions for dancing
But I I love it when you read to me
And you you could read me anything
He kissed her as deeply as his heart felt.
He tasted his blood...
and she stroked his bare chest with her cold hands...
She was not wearing gloves tonight...
His tongue sought its taste greedily, she could feel his heart still pounding beneath the skin. Gooseflesh wherever her hands went.
and her long, sharp nails scored his ribs
They shifted beneath the skin, ever so slightly to her scoring.
Each breath tempered
Every move to match her own
He had to come up for air from time to time...she did not...and underneath it all, the rush of her feeding was giving way to something else...something he'd come to recognise in the months he'd been with her...
a deepseated burn in his veins...
The taste of his blood sparked it
An eye opener in the crudest of ways.
He'd thought he'd had a deathwish once.
Until death had one day found him.
And asked him what his wish was.
Let me be yours. Forever.
She pressed her palm to his lips...entreating him to kiss it...
He kissed her palm, holding it to his lips as though if it were to retreat, it would never return.
Treat every kiss as though it were the last one. Even as he caught the flash of rainbow metal...her pocketknife, its blade snapping open, held in her free hand even as she turned her other over, palm up, as his lips brushed her fingertips again and again...
He worshiped each finger with the tenacity of an evangelist
as his veins...burned....
Liquid fire.
She brought up the knife...
Each fingertip a goddess he paid tribute, he heard the snick of the metal, and his eyes followed it.
laying it edge down on the upturned palm of her bare hand.
Only once a month did she do this.
Only the first day of each month.
"Is this what you want?"
The blade sank into the flesh of her palm...
He watched with with the interest of a falcon observing a rodent.
The first drops that traced down her arm were caught by his moist, hot tongue. Running up to the wound, tracing the knife.
Lips brushing her palm.
"Tell me you want it..." She breathed.
And in the moonlight...as it the trick of that inconstant mirror of the sun?
Was it a property of its phantom illumination that Vivian's blood was...was...?
"I want it, Lady... I want, GOD..."
Shiney like a new dime...how could Red be such a mirror?
"Please Lady..."
He could see his fucking reflection in the pool forming in the palm of her hand. His eyes searched for hers, waiting...waiting...
"Please?" She asked him rhetorically. It was perhaps the only time the Lady showed sadism towards him.
This time.
This first night of the month.
"Please..." He was feverish.
"Say it."
"Please Lady...I love you..."
"Say it." She pressed. Her eyes were on his face, on his chest, heaving...His throat, tight and straining...burning, scorching with an unnatural thirst
"Feed me, please..."
Her nostrils twitched at the scent of his sweat and finally, she tipped her palm, brimming with mirror, to his lips. Slowly...and hungrily, he sipped at the blood, so reflective...
And his pupils dilated
And his dick felt as though it would explode
His heart raced.
His muscles tightened, strengthened.
and she crooned...tipping her head back as she watched him
He fell silent, and wrapped his arms about her waist and rested his head in her lap.
Wordlessly, the cut on her palm closing, she stroked his head with genuine affection.
* Lyrics by Micheal Jackson'Smooth Criminal'
** quote from 1984 by George Orwell
*** Lyrics by Peter Gabriel The Book of Love
