The Visitor: Vampire Erotica

Drunk with arousal, Rose could hardly focus on what she saw before her: Amanda in her austere grey dress, her delicate face a mask of hunger; Amanda kneeling before the two of them and nuzzling up to her breasts, sucking and lapping at the runnels of blood. But Rose surely felt it – the same thrill that raced from the puncture wounds like liquid lightning, all the way to her clit and her burning core. Her arousal gathered like a thunderhead as he impaled her to the hilt.

Then Reynauld caught her head and drew it back against his shoulder. She hung between orgasm and terror. She’d seen the movies; she knew he was going to bite out her exposed throat. His cold breath swept her neck and cheek and ear.

‘Give it up to me, Rose. Give it all up. Let my beloved taste your pleasure as you surrender to me – ah, yes.’

Disobedience was never a possibility. Rose broke like a storm, and tears ran down her face as she howled.

But he didn’t bite. To her indescribable relief and disappointment, he did not touch her throat. Instead, as Amanda lifted her face to show a scarlet lip-stain that looked garish against her porcelain pallor, he took Rose’s whole limp weight in his hands and began to slide her up and down on the cock impaling her.

‘Wait,’ said Amanda. ‘I know what you want.’ Taking Rose’s hands, she drew the girl to her feet, right off Reynauld, and turned her to face him again. A push on Rose’s shoulders dropped her to her knees. ‘Suck his cock,’ Amanda ordered.

Reynauld’s expression filled with consternation, almost dismay – which Rose might have found baffling if her attention had not been fixed on other parts. His stiffly erect cock made Kyle’s look like a toy. She would hardly have believed that it had all been inside her, if it hadn’t been for the glistening evidence painted the length of its shaft.

‘Amanda, this isn’t –’ he said, his teeth bared like an attack-dog’s.

‘You want it,’ Amanda answered. She caught Rose’s hair and pushed her head to his cock. ‘Take it in your mouth.’

Overbalancing, Rose grabbed his thighs. Hair ran rough beneath her palms. Oh fuck, he’s so … she cried inside her head. There was hair on his legs, his chest and his belly, as black and glistening as lines drawn in fresh ink. He was all muscle beneath it too, his thighs hard like stone and just as cold. She’d never touched a body like it. It made her feel ignorant and tiny. She opened her lips to the bell of his cock as Amanda forced her head down upon it, and tasted her own pussy on him.

Reynauld made no more protestations.

‘Take it all in,’ Amanda commanded.

Oh, God, there was no way on earth she could get that thing in all the way to the root. She laved him with her tongue, trying to make it more slippery and manageable, but Amanda pushed her right down until he butted the back of her throat. For a long moment she couldn’t draw breath. Then with a tug Amanda brought her back up for air, just before she started to panic.

That was all that was required of her: to make her mouth welcoming. Amanda controlled the speed and rhythm. Reynauld’s hips jerked to urge his cock a little deeper every time. Her jaw began to ache from his girth, but she couldn’t stop. Her breasts burned. She longed for him to bite them again. She hurt with the need for it.

As if he heard her wish, he reached down and pinched her nipples between his fingers and thumbs. Those buds of flesh were still as hot as if they’d been stung by wasps, and his touch was icy. It was torture, and it was what she needed. She felt herself open up, every part of her: cunt and throat all at once. She felt his thigh muscles jump beneath his skin as his length surged right into her throat, and then he let loose a cold flood of semen.

Gasping for breath, she jerked herself free, his come running out of the corners of her mouth. Reynauld stared down at her, his bulk filling her vision. Then he snatched her right up off the floor and threw her on the bed. All teeth and cock, he wrenched her thighs apart and fell upon her pussy. Wrapping his mouth over her pubis, he bit down hard.

Rose screamed. There was no distinction between terror and pain and pleasure in that cry; they were simultaneous and overwhelming. Then they too were overborne by the great supernova of her orgasm. She kept on coming as he fed, glutting himself on her ecstasy. She clutched the coverlet and bucked her hips and kicked against him – with utter lack of effect – until Amanda crawled up on to the bed to face him.

Reynauld lifted his head then, his mouth leaking crimson. Amanda went to him, licking his lips – like a puppy to a big dog, thought Rose through the fog that blurred her mind. At that instant her whole picture of them flipped inside out. He is old, she thought, not with contempt but with a kind of vertigo. He’s so much older than her. And he fed her, letting her suck from his mouth, until the two of them moved into a full kiss whose unselfconscious absorption made Rose ache with jealousy.

In her need she moaned out loud.

Reynauld remembered her then. ‘Drink,’ he told Amanda, drawing her down to the open pussy he had abandoned. Amanda shifted to straddle Rose’s supine torso, head to tail, her knees either side of the younger woman’s shoulders, her wicked three-inch heels slicing the air, her tight skirt and neat ass filling Rose’s field of view. But Rose didn’t care; she had what she wanted – a mouth on her clit once more, sucking.

She didn’t even care when Reynauld tugged that skirt right up – revealing dove-grey stockings, slim thighs and a lack of panties equivalent to her own – even though she’d never confronted another woman’s pussy before. Amanda’s sex was perfectly shaven, its lips plump and glistening. In the welter of her own ecstatic turmoil, Rose forgot to be disgusted. And the sight of Reynauld’s thighs eclipsing the light as he moved up behind his protégée and spread her cunt with his fingers made Rose come again.

There, inches above her face, he put his cock to Amanda’s slit and speared her, ramming home with a determination nearly brutal. Amanda moaned into Rose’s pussy and pushed back on to the shaft impaling her, begging for more.

‘Oh!’ Rose gasped, arching her neck and licking at Reynauld’s swinging balls. He laughed out loud then, a sound so deep and harsh that it sounded like a snarl.

She saw it all. Every slap of his dark and hairy thighs up against Amanda’s pale smooth ones. Every inch of his thick cock as it slid in and out of her split pussy, wet with her juices. Every jiggle of his ball-sac as it bounced back and forth – though soon enough it stopped swinging and tightened up to a hard knot of intent. For Rose the sight was all one with the awful, racking joy of being fed upon.

And when Reynauld came once more, his fingers biting into Amanda’s ass, his thighs a shuddering tattoo that ended in slamming blows and straining stillness, she saw that too. When Reynauld pulled out, she saw his cream spilling from Amanda’s sex in a slow wash. Then Amanda sat back on Rose’s face and the girl saw no more, not until she’d swallowed every mouthful of Reynauld’s seed and Amanda had ground out her own orgasm on Rose’s face.

She thought it would be over, after that. Her body was a trembling slick of exhaustion and pleasure. But she had to wake up when Amanda tugged her back into a sitting position.

‘Come on, Rose. On your feet.’

‘What are we doing?’ she mumbled, unable to focus her eyes.

‘Going down to dinner, like we planned,’ said Reynauld’s deep, warm voice. ‘They should have cleared the dining room of other guests by now. The food here is supposed to be excellent. Amanda still eats solids. And you will need to keep your strength up. You’ve a long night ahead of you.’

‘What?’ She blinked herself properly awake in time to see the shadows crawl out of the corners of the room and from under the furniture and creep up his limbs, arranging themselves into a reasonable facsimile of sombre clothing. Hiding his still rock-hard erection.

‘Did you think we’d finished?’ Amanda smiled as, ignoring all that, she tugged Rose’s silk slip back up into place for her, covering up her breasts though not the jut of her engorged nipples. ‘That was only an appetiser. We’re still very hungry.’

Rose had a sudden intense vision of herself laid out on a hotel table under the horrified, avid eyes of the waiters, as Reynauld and Amanda fucked her and sucked her, turn and turn about, until she died of it. At the thought her pussy tingled, moistening anew.

It would be wonderful.

She didn’t resist when Amanda took her hand and led her to the door like a child, though her legs were so shaky she had to lean on the older woman. Her breasts and pussy were heavy and aching. The touch of Reynauld’s palm on her ass only made her tremble with anticipation. But just before leaving the chamber she stopped abruptly. They were facing one of the big gilt-framed mirrors. She could see herself in it, slender and waiflike and debauched in her stockings and slip, with the bloodstains leaking into the silk over her breasts. She could see Amanda clearly too: improbably neat and pristine after their tussle. But where Reynauld should be behind her there was only a shadowy distortion in the glass.

Oh, God. It’s all real. Everything they say about them.

‘You don’t show up in the mirror,’ she blurted.

She recognised the flash of Amanda’s eyes: a swift, protective anger. She turned, expecting to see a similar rage in Reynauld and already flinching.

But he didn’t look angry. She couldn’t begin to identify his expression, only knowing that in that moment he somehow looked more human than at any point previously.

‘Only light is reflected, Rose,’ he told her, his voice low. ‘Only light.’

* * *

Rose woke alone to breakfast in bed and a taxi waiting downstairs to take her to the Sorbonne. She had no memory of how she came to be in a beautiful Michelin-starred French hotel. Or how she’d lost three days. None whatsoever.

It was just like a fairy tale.

* * *

Author’s note: Amanda and Reynauld appear in Red Grow the Roses, by Janine Ashbless

A Girl’s Got to Eat

Aishling Morgan

‘But I don’t want to feed Aunt Isabella!’ Cicely stormed.

‘Don’t pout,’ the Baroness told her. ‘It’s not ladylike.’

‘Somebody has to,’ Florence added, ‘and it is your turn, Cicely.’

‘It always seems to be my turn,’ Cicely answered, folding her arms across her chest. ‘When do I get to feed, that’s what I’d like to know?’