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Vampire lust, p.1

Vampire Lust, page 1


Vampire Lust

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Vampire Lust

  Title Page


  By Damien Starkey

  Kinks Books is an imprint

  of W&H Publishing LLP.

  Publisher Information

  This ebook edition published by Kink Books is an imprint of W&H Publishing LLP, Foresters Hall, 25-27 Westow Street, London, SE19 3RY.

  Digital edition converted and published by

  Andrews UK Limited 2011

  Previously published by The Olympia Press PO Box 148, Ryde, Isle of Wight, PO33 9BE.

  Copyright © Damien Starkey

  The right of Damien Starkey to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead and is purely coincidental.

  This ebook is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by the way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, electronically copied, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent.

  Chapter 1

  A young woman – a teenager in conservative but expensively stylish clothes – enters a house from a rear garden, into what appears to be a dark kitchen.

  “Drew?” she calls out speculatively – a voice edged with a hint of foreboding.

  The kitchen is unlit but there is sufficient natural moonlight for her to sidle slowly to the light switch. The fluorescent strip comes on, though it takes a few flickers. She makes her way to the unlit corridor, her head swivelling from side to side. She calls out her friend’s name again a few times; switches on the hall light. As she passes the cellar door a creak is discernible, somewhere down below. The young woman mouths the same name one more time, now with a hint of anxiety. A harsh noise explodes out of the complete silence: a sudden burst of screeching violins. The frantic movie soundtrack bursts through a real living room in full Dolby 3-D Surround.

  Sprawled on the living room sofa in front of the TV, an attractive blonde. She bawls at the young actress drifting through a poorly lit house on the widescreen. “Nah-ah, you’re not, you’re not, are you? Of course you fucking are!” She digs her toes into a seat cushion.

  The actress – the young woman - opens the cellar door. Flicks on the light switch at the top of the stairs, and starts walking down.

  “Naah! Totally clueless. What an idiot!” the blond hollers at the TV, eyes rolling. Her hams shift in her seat. She can’t help herself; buttocks tightening she sits up attentively, adrenaline coursing through her body. “Naah! Unbelievable! How can you be so stupid?”

  On screen, the young woman continues to tread the creaky boards, a bicycle hung on the wall to her left, head cocked to one side while staccato violins scrape jarringly. The whites of her eyes are luminous and impeccably white, although the light on the stairs is dull and even.

  “You there, Drew? If you’re dicking me, I’ll kill you. I mean it,” the young woman insists edgily.

  A massive freezer box is at the far end of the cellar. The lid is open; an icy greenish mist lit up by freezer bulbs floats upwards from the white cold box. The young woman heads that way, head ducked a little. Midway a large cobweb strikes her face; she shudders, shrugs it off.

  An extreme close-up of the woman’s face. Her eyelids stretched wide open, she gapes, shock and horror in her bug-eyed expression. She takes one step back from the freezer box. Quick cut to an overhead view: inside the freezer a body fully clothed and frozen solid. Ice coalesced on his mane, Drew’s features are set hard in a rictus of horror.

  The young woman screams and wheels around; starts for the stairs. She stops dead, eyelids again pulled wide. A figure at the foot of the staircase seen from the rear; a massive, glinting knife at the end of an outstretched arm, which slowly rises in an arc. The woman cowers, stumbles back a few paces. A scream catches in her throat. She gargles; a tear streaks down her face.

  “No, please, please,” she begs piteously, garbling, raising her arms diagonally across her torso, the broad darkly clothed figure closing in. The saw blade edge goes across her neck end to end, lining it red; a jet of crimson liquid shoots out.

  The blonde pumps the pause button on the VCR remote. Reality it isn’t, she thinks, grinning. If this was really happening, the on-screen prom queen would be pleading desperately with her eyes, using all of her face as she screams for the attacker to stop. The blonde gives a half-eaten, limp pizza slice on the coffee table a disgruntled stare, gets up and scoots out of the room.

  In the kitchen she finds a girl on her bare knees, waxing the floor. The girl’s baggy T-shirt – Marilyn Manson tour merchandise, going by the printed front – is the only item she’s got on.

  Self-conscious that the blonde is watching her, the girl pulls the hemline of her extra-large T-shirt, so she totally covers up her ass.

  “Where’s Jason?” Anri asks, tugging aside a thick layer of dangly blonde hair obscuring her right eye.

  The girl looks up, eyes half-lidded. Her shoulders slump miserably. “Jason’s out,” she mumbles, her voice weak and low like a whisper. “Gone to Torture Haven, apparently.” Her dopey stare is exactly like a nodding weed head’s.

  Anri kisses her teeth sourly, turns and walks out without acknowledging the girl with a final glance.

  Upstairs in her bedroom, Anri gives her club/fetish gear a brisk speculative sweep. Then, her mind made up, eases out of a tightly packed wardrobe a gun metal grey rubber top, red leather jeans and a biker’s leather jacket. It’s her punk-look, which might seem incongruous with her long hair: a healthy mane styled like a centre-fold, sun-kissed blonde.

  With her jeans and shirt off and on the floor she faces herself in a full-view mirror. Delicately she works talc onto her Lara Croft-size breasts, working slowly down to her wide hips and flat stomach – hard, like she’s on a strict regime of squat-thrusts. Her nipples are taut already and stick up in a way that makes them look really not that dissimilar to the type of knobs you get to control volume and treble on an amp speaker stand. Her knobs are large, but obviously not as large. All it takes is a few fingertip strokes and they look like they might poke someone’s eye out. And every time she’s done it since she’s reached the age, such minimal contact is enough to bring out a little moan.

  She’s standing naked in a bedroom with lube in her hand. With a dirty look tugging on her cushiony lips she watches herself reaching down, hand cupped. Past the Brazilian stripe – blonde, which darkens at the edges – her curled round little finger swipes at the bud of flesh she feels bulging out of her clitoris hood. The shriek that comes as she makes contact is quickly overridden by relentless groans as Anri’s fingertip strokes her clit. She closes her eyes and mouth, managing to maintain silence for only a few seconds. It hasn’t always been like this, before she met Jason she had to work to get aroused. Then along he came and her life changed. Like day to night.

  She appreciates what she sees, a glimpse between her legs, the thumb at work on her clitoris like it’s strumming, fingers slowly entering, brushing against her relaxed inner lips. Loosened up so quickly her hand goes in up to the wrist. She keeps her hand moving, back and forth. Her toes brace; gasping, she slows it down. Otherwise she’ll touch the sky in seconds, come hitting the carpet like piss, her discharge always such an excessive amount that it’s close to being supernatural.

  Aside from her plump – but firm - breasts there’s no visible sign of fat anywhere, taut but rounded thighs, trim ankles, tight butt. The type of body that’s too perfect – only super-confident men think they’ve got a chance, the sort of co
nfidence that’s helped by having the gross annual product of Microsoft in a bank balance. One thing she could say about Jason, he sure has one big ego. But the first time they met, he didn’t have to say a word. One look exchanged said it all. They were of the same kind, a match on that part of the gene pool that distinguishes them from the average girl or boy.

  Moulded to talc powder-coated, ultra-thin rubber, her boobs hang far out front. Carefully she adjusts the top at the left shoulder, enjoying its touch, barely a breeze against her skin. At the back she tucks and teases her hair, taming it into a ponytail with a dollop of mousse. Then looks at herself in the mirror and winks. Men – and a lot of women – will go weak at the knees. And she knows it. They can’t help it, weak as they are in her presence.

  On her way out she passes the open door of the living room. Framed by the doorway the frozen TV picture flickers up and down repetitively – horizontal, fractured white lines bordering the bottom of the screen – stuck on the girl sprawling toward the floor, blood trailing in the air from her neck. Crossed bug-eyes, mouth twisted.

  The doormen at the club let Anri through without her having to cut her strides. Inside, she heads for the back. From the bar, the dance floor and the sides, men and women flock in her direction. Goths, white-faced, red-lipped teens, youths and thirty-something men and women in BDSM gear; a glint of sharp incisors; shimmering leather and PVC; a glimpse of black Gothic lace: all of it flashes across her face. Gathering within shouting range they holler over each other. Some scuffle to get that little bit closer. They all want the same thing: to be her donor. Some other night, maybe. Anri smiles to herself, looks straight ahead and keeps on walking. She’s nodded through to the VIP room. There, on the surface, more of the same type of people.

  Jason and party take up two tables. Jason sat in the centre, like Leonardo da Vinci’s Jesus at the last supper, the disciples mostly black-garbed women in their late teens and early twenties.

  Close to his left side, Evilyn. Eighteen, nineteen, twenty? Or maybe in her mid-twenties. Who really knows, due to her unnaturally pale chalk white face and neck. She’s wearing what looks like a patent leather bathing suit, but with a zipper that, theoretically, can go way down to her crotch. She’s brought the zip down only so far to display her upper curves and a cleavage. The tight leather lifts and squashes up her small boobs so they look substantial. Fishnet tights and fishnet long gauntlet type mittens. The long, centre-parted hair and big knee-high PVC boots, as the limbless bodysuit, are all black. Leaning in from the right, Electra: black-purplish lips, thick black eyeliner, again with the anaemic face, a thick coating that obliterates the hue of her Chinese origin. In a black bra and panties her slight boyish body can be seen through her transparent plastic dress, looking completely flat-chested.

  With the same disinterest she shows Jason’s cult, Anri’s gaze skims the rest of the cramped, poorly lit room. A dungeon of a place. Cliques and fraternities much smaller than Jason’s take up whatever corner, perch, booth or bit of wall that’s left over. Then there’s the unattached without permanent allegiance, those who flit from clique to clique and some who’ve gotten in by way of who they know or who they are, or just got lucky. No one can just walk in uninvited.

  Three of Anri’s regular donors are together, leaning against a wall; they wait to be acknowledged. Two of the women are in Vampira™ and Demonica™ themed rubber outfits; the Vampira basque predominately in purple, the bosom cups topped with bat wings and the Demonica’s cups with demon horns, both wearing matching skin-tight split skirts, the hems cut in the same pattern as the respective bosom cups.

  Females and men Anri hardly knows look at her hopefully, longing, but they aren’t given time to catch her eye. She goes back to looking over Jason’s crowd. Still giving the impression she’s unaffected, cool, she checks things out from the corners of her narrowed eyes.

  Jason: even in the dim lit backroom he’s luminously pale-skinned. He’s wearing a black velvet three-piece suit and open-necked purple shirt; the shirt looks antique. A classic dated Gothic style, expiry date at least twenty years gone; New Goths prefer latex, rubber, leather, PVC. Fetish club-wear. A thick black mane, swept back and glistening from whatever hair product he’d worked in. His long hair rests upon his shoulders. Distinctive red lips, like he’s got lipstick on. A gaunt, sharp-boned face. When he leers red lips pull up and his cheekbones jut.

  Evilyn and Electra, grinning lasciviously, paw him from two sides, hands on his upper thighs and crotch. Each peers rather too obviously, unashamedly, in the trouser area between his legs. Anri follows the trajectory of Jason’s piercing hard stare to the young female, bare limbs spread out decorously, on all fours up on their table. Jason grins inanely, eyes shifting momentarily to the man, upright in front of the woman’s naked buttocks, the riding crop in his hand cutting the smoky air. A rifle-crack of a sound as the loop end of the crop makes contact with the woman’s meaty behind. She grunts; her shoulders buck. Behind her, the man, his features obscured by kabuki-Goth face paint and red contact lenses, exposes his enhanced pointed incisors. Another lunge of the crop for her muscle-clenched buttocks and the woman yelps more loudly, her head jolting. The man’s black lips stretch till most of his top row of teeth come on show, a manic grin fixed all the time he sends the lethal instrument toward the woman’s ruddy-cheeked ass.

  The assault becomes more ferocious by stages. The young woman bites her lower lip, tightly screws her eyes shut and digs her nails into her palms. Still grinning, the man carries on, constant, pounding, settled on a steady rhythm. Then hits harder when he wants to hear the woman cry out. Which is often.

  Members of Jason’s cult look on appreciatively. A cut on the upper swell of the woman’s right cheek. The first line of blood. Playing to the expectations of his party, Jason licks his lips.

  Anri manages a half smile. Her eyes appear miffed and hungry at the same time. Then pivots away a little. Because, entertaining as the performance is, every few seconds Anri can’t stop her eyes darting from the half-naked girl and the in-swing of the riding crop, to the restless hands eagerly rubbing Jason up and down. Instead, she checks a likely victim nodding her head to the music: glass-shattering beats, snare and cymbal-crash driven; speeded-up guitar riffs; screeches; doom-laden droning vocals when the pace slows, high-pitched hollering as it inevitably picks up; a lot of screaming; Satan gets name-checked close on every two minutes. She allows eye contact. Beckons, with her finger flicking in her own direction.

  The victim peels herself off the wall and charges forward. Her flimsy black cloak swells up, its PVC tails flapping behind.

  Hardly looking at the victim, Anri says flatly, “Get a house cane, why don’tcha.”

  Her gaze switches to the victim’s tight butt-cheeks, globular within rubber. A reasonably substantial seat that Anri estimates will be ideal for caning. Much better than a shallow bottom that’s all bone. And the sound of fleshy slaps, penetrating through loud music, always totally exquisite.

  The victim smiles, the cane offered in her hand. A rush travels fast, down to the supersensitive lining of Anri’s vagina, deliciously moist ,confined as it is in rubber. A glimpse, unavoidably, of the young victim’s half-exposed boobs, in a strict corset-type rubber basque that squashes them up, back and together, into the shape of two balls, high against her breastbone. Both seeming all the more cartoon-like, white, raised and rigid above her impossibly narrow waist. Just the type Anri’s attracted by: white skin, glossy crimson-painted lips, black hair with a very short even fringe, long at the sides and way down her back. A Fifties B-movie version of a female vamp. With a few modern twists, of course.

  “Love your red streaks,” Anri says, her smile giving the impression she’s being ironic – though she genuinely does like the look - same time her gaze glides over the three or so red trails each side, from by the victim’s temples going down to the ends. She notices her whip hand is already shaking. The
white balls of flesh draw her back in. “You see a free chair? ‘Cause, right now, apart from these,” Anri’s eyes sharply directed at the victim’s mammaries, “there’s very little else I can see at the moment.”

  The victim giggles, a little squeak of a laugh she delivers with her chin lowered and an impish peep. “Rrrr-right. I’ll find that chair.”

  Breasts so severely constricted there’s barely a spring.

  There’s a spare place by a corner, with space to swing. The sheen of Anri’s rubber top captures the white orbs, framing them in many blinking lights, the multicolours disseminating, like strobes. When her eyes hold the victim’s, for an instant, they stab right down to the psyche. Little tremors rush through the victim’s whole body; she licks her lips suggestively, her eyes lit-up and expressing all the sleazy things she wants done to her. Exhaling, she starts to roll down her rubber thong; Anri doesn’t object.

  Before the victim turns to the chair, her rubber thong removed, gingerly Anri reaches out and touches. Warm and slightly damp, pliant. Looks in wonder, like she’s surprised the skin at the breast actually did depress. She feels the victim’s light pulsing throb. Which reverberates through her body; tingling sensations she can’t control lick at the responsive tissue deep in her sex slit. A mental flicker entering her mind: the victim’s erect nipple, eagerly taken in her mouth, Anri disregards. She purses her lips primly; time to get in character, she spins the victim around and shoves her in the direction of the chair.

  “Bend over and get on it,” Anri snaps – unnecessarily, the other woman knows what is expected.

  The victim bends forward so low Anri can see the labia enfolding a delicate line of salmon-coloured sex. She reaches for the plentiful ass. The meat Anri takes between fingers and thumb folds nicely. A succulent piece of right cheek, exactly how she judged it. She steps back and swings.

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