The Night Does Not Belong

The Night Does Not Belong

WARNING: Sex with dubious consent

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He’s waiting for you in a small clearing, shaft of moonlight brightening his deathly skin. Dressed all in black like he is, he’d be almost invisible if not for that almost-glowing, moon-lit skin. You’ve heard some vampire groupies call their pale skin beautiful, but you know what is really is. Disgusting. Monstrous. For one second you can imagine how satisfying it would be slam a blade into his heart and twist, but just then he turns around.

“Ah, there you are.” His long coat billows about him as he turns to face you, his expression as smirking as ever.

“Here,” you growl, thrusting the folder in your hands towards him.

He takes it, flipping it open and pawing through it. Closing it, he casts you a sardonic nod. “My thanks.”

Fists clenching, you turn to leave. You should have known it wouldn’t be that easy.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he says, voice serpent-sly. “Is that all you came here for?”

“I don’t want anything from you,” you hiss, not looking at him.

“Yes,” he drawls. “You’ve said that before. Repeatedly.”

Furious, you swirl back around, but the glint of a blade brings you up short. He’s pushed up his sleeve, and a small dagger is pressed against his arm, a line of blood visible beneath it. The blood is black in the dark lighting.

“You’ve already done the dirty work.” His voice sounds almost sympathetic as he extends his arm. “No sense in not claiming your reward, hmm?”

A single drop escapes the wound, slipping down his arm to pool in the hollow of his palm. You swallow, unable to take your eyes off it.

“It will close up soon,” he says, low and coaxing.

A single step would take you close enough to raise his arm to your mouth. You wish you had the energy left to hate yourself. But instead you reach for him. A bolt of panic freezes your insides when he steps back.

“On your knees,” he says, and your anger starts to come back. “Do we really have time to argue? Vampiric healing, and all that. The wound’s not that deep, you see.”

He’s right. You can already see where the edges of the cut are getting blunter. It can’t be for nothing, that folder in his hand. Gritting your teeth, you slowly lower yourself to your knees.

“There now, not so hard was it?” He lets you take his arm this time.

A shiver wracks you as you lap across the cut. His skin is vile to touch, as smooth and soft and unalive as porcelain, or velvet-wrapped stone. But the blood—the blood is ecstasy. Everything falls away as it fills your mouth. The nerves, the guilt and shame, the anger, none of it matters any more.

All too soon the wound is gone, but it’s not enough. It’s not nearly enough, so you lick down towards his hand, following the path of that little droplet, and mouth furiously at the spot on his palm until it, too, is gone.

“More.” You break away from his flesh, barely breathing. “I need more.”

“And what about what I need, hmm?”

“Bite me, you can bite me.” The words are out of your mouth before your brain can catch up, but it’s too late.

He chuckles, the hand not caught between both of yours—you have no idea where the folder went—reaching for his belt. “That’s not quite what I had in mind.”

You recoil, or try to, but a lightning-fast grip on your hair stops you. He gives his wrist a flick, shaking you like a wayward dog, or a disobedient child. One of your hand tugs ineffectually on his wrist, the other snakes to your boot, but his foot stomps it to the ground. Squeezing your eyes shut, you deny him the satisfaction of crying out.

“Now, let’s be adult about this,” he says. “I gave you what you need, and it’s only fair you return the favor. Isn’t that what this little indiscretion of ours is based on? It’s time for some reciprocity.”

Slitting your eyes open, you stare defiantly into his face. You don’t know how you can see his black eyes in the darkness, how you can feel the cruelty of his gaze. Maybe it’s just imprinted on your memory.

His hand moves again to his fly, the sound of a zipper obscene and overly loud in the silence of the night. Full and hard, his cock flops out into the open. Your stomach churns at the sight of it, and you try to push away from it. Laughing at your struggles, he pushes his hips forward, bumping his cock against your face. Mouth sealed closed you try and turn your face in whichever direction is least likely to touch him, but it doesn’t matter. He’s all around you, his grip on your hair, his foot on your hand, and now his cock brushing against your cheek.

“Is it really so bad a prospect?” He voice slithers out into the night, and you wish you could clamp your hand over you ears. “You’ve done anything else in the world for a quick fix, surely this is a better option than some? Surely your lips around my cock is less severe than betraying your people.”

His voice turns soft and laughing. “I’ve got a file folder in my pocket that says you’re already willing to do that.”

“No,” you grind out from clenched teeth.

“You’re splitting hairs,” he laughs. “You’re already a whore, you know it, your people know it. What’s this one last thing? And then I’ll bite you, and you’ll feel so good, won’t you? I’ll bite you, and none of this will matter.”

“No,” you croak again, but it’s less defiant this time. It’s almost a sob.

“Such a fuss over nothing.” His voice is admonishing. “How long has it been since someone took a nibble? It’s been days, hasn’t it? So long. You need it, don’t you? Just this one thing, and then you won’t feel anything but my teeth sinking into your flesh.”

“No…” you whisper, but the fight has gone out of you.

“Yes,” he says firmly, and then his cock is pushing past your lips.

It’s as awful as you knew it would be, the thick column of unnatural flesh filling up your mouth, making you feel like you’re choking, suffocating. When he tries to go deeper it’s worse. Bile rises in your throat and you want to cough and gag, but you can’t. He just keeps right on plowing away. You’re not sure when the tears starting leaking from the corners of your eyes. And you thought your humiliation was complete.

The sounds he’s making are bad enough, grunting and groaning and half-mumbled dirty talk. You’re not sure why he’s bothering with the noises, it’s not like he has to breathe, but you wouldn’t be surprised if it was for the express purpose of getting to you. You’re ashamed to admit it’s working.

He starts speeding up, and you hope his increased fervor doesn’t make him forgetful. You’d like to come out of this with your hand intact, if not your dignity.

His moans get harsher, less time in between, and then, with one extra deep thrust that makes you fight vomit, he’s coming down your throat. Because that’s not enough for him he pulls back, and your mouth fills with it. The cock retreats from your mouth, and finally you can breathe, coughing up come all over yourself. But there’s no time to enjoy your oxygen. He’s yanking you to your feet and driving his fangs into your neck.

You wish it didn’t feel good, wish it didn’t send a flood of endorphins awash through your system, but it does. With every gulp, every mouthful he takes, the world gets a little further away, and it’s so much better than feeling.

When he’s done he drops you unceremoniously to the ground, and if you weren’t dizzy from blood-loss you’d kill him where he stands. The best you can manage is propping yourself up on your hands and glaring at him, his come all over your face.

“I’d have a tall glass of orange juice in my future, if I were you.” He laughs, like this is all some splendid game.

His hands smooth over his dark clothes, putting himself back in order, patting down his hair. He swipes one more time over the silver at his temples.

“Someday,” you rasp, throat sore, “I’ll kill you.”

“I doubt it,” he says. “I very much doubt it.”

His voice taunts you long after he’s gone.