The Enforcer
Waiting outside in the inky shadows of the bushes, Mikhail crept forward into the faint moonlight. As he expected, the window was again open to the unseasonably balmy night air.
It was an easy matter to brush aside the curtains and slip silently over the sill. Once in the room he stood, admiring the feast spread out before him: Shane stretched full length on the bed, lying on his back, his head turned slightly away from the open window, his gentle snores disturbing the stillness. He’d kicked off the covering sheet so that it lay tangled around his feet, exposing the finely sculptured and muscled body to the night air.
Mikhail approached, unable to resist the allure of such perfection. His imagination had not misled him; the almost naked boy was truly beautiful. Blond hair trailed the pillow and he pictured the deep blue eyes behind his closed eyelids.
He lay beside the boy and moving his lips close to his ear whispered quietly. Shane stirred but didn’t wake, merely turned his head, exposing more of his neck to the gentle touch of Mikhail’s lips. Satisfied, Mikhail took what he had come for. As he gradually moved downwards over the exposed areas of the lithe body, Mikhail’s moans of appreciation and the sounds of gentle sucking echoed in the otherwise silent room.
Hours later, sated on the orgasmic pleasures he had taken from his victim, Mikhail rested. He felt the dawn hour approaching, but a quick glance at the bedside clock radio reassured him that sunrise was still at least an hour away. He turned his head to nuzzle again at the boy’s neck. He was quite delicious, this strong healthy male. Mikhail felt the sluggish beat of the pulse beneath his lips. He knew he had feasted enough, but the allure of that pulse and the pleasures of the boy were too much. There was time for more.
Val
He was fortunate to have the money to indulge his obsession with pale young men, though he could never find any quite pale enough. He required skin a ghostly white from head to toe. Still, there was powder. A paid escort will cooperate with any of your fantasies for a price as long as they don’t put him at risk.
Finding men the right height and slenderness was easy; so many of them had been stamped in Val’s mold, and nearly all of them dressed in the same tight jeans. He kept a supply of contact lenses on hand so they would have Val’s unnaturally dark blue eyes.
Then the hairstyles began to change he had to buy a wig for them to wear, and now he only had them use the easy-to-rinse-out black hair dye on their pubes. No one had hair as black as Val.
On some things he had to compromise, like the scar above Val’s upper lip he had so loved to kiss. Nor would he have dared ask any of them to alter their dicks even if it were possible.
His masquerades were sufficiently close to the original to allow him to resurrect the dead for a night. He even managed to get a surprising number of them to approximate Val’s walk, though very few mastered it. Getting the smile right would have posed a problem if he hadn’t wanted his Val to look grim.
But the pallor was most important, and their blue veins would not show through a heavy layer of powder as they had through his translucent skin. Not that Val had been particularly pale during the several months their affair had lasted, nor had he been obsessed with him at the time.
Could it have been that obsession is a weakness peculiar to the old, or perhaps their privilege? When they split, they split, and both went on to other men, no hard feelings on either side. They still ran into each other now and then at the bars or the baths, and when they did they’d have a little chat. They talked mostly about mutual friends or the latest gay gossip. They never reminisced about their past together, and neither of them felt any inclination to go to bed with his former lover. They remained on friendly terms, but the personal connection had evaporated and the sexual chemistry had too.
He was less handsome now, though on the whole he had held up rather well. If he weren’t so particular about the look he wanted, he could certainly have found reasonably good-looking young men who’d go with him for free. Thinning hair, droopy skin on his face, a bit of a paunch, nothing worse than that. What could one expect of a man who’d recently turned fifty, after all? Not that he had ever thought about it when he was young. It no longer surprised him when he looked in the mirror, or wouldn’t have if he didn’t have Val’s photograph right there on the dresser to compare it with. The photo had sat there for close to fifteen years, almost as long as he’d been paying for sex.
Talent Scout
You might call me a talent scout. At least that's the role I've been given. But then I'm the younger one, whereas Silas was made centuries ago. Me? I'm still wet behind the ears, so to speak--somewhere around sixty years, give or take, in the making, and I still have a voracious appetite that I find difficult to control at times. Both for blood and for sex. At the same time. It’s pure...hell.
I hadn't started out wanting to be a vampire—not by a long shot. But then I'd never met anyone like Silas. When I first saw him I didn't think I'd ever seen anyone as hot, nor wanted to fuck anyone more. He reeled me in slow and easy; I never knew what hit me. By the time I woke up to what was happening, I was already pretty well drained and already sucking up his blood.
He likes the humans, enjoys sampling their warm skin. You might say it’s a fetish of his...if vampires actually have fetishes.
You'd think having changed, I'd be free to go about my business of sucking and fucking. But being made by Silas entailed more than that. At least for me. There was no one else for me and he had my vampire heart, situated rather a bit lower than a human’s, right by the balls and he knew it.
There was a time when I was human, it actually took some thought on occasion to get hard enough to fuck. Now, it's no effort at all. In fact, I'm hard all the time. Unless I'm short on blood, then my prick sort of shrivels, a good indication it’s time to feed. I’m getting pretty close to having issues now, as a matter of fact. It’s just about time to invite my new "talent" home for an interview with my main man.
I remember that first time with Silas, how good it felt. We met on a train and we got to talking. I'm sure it didn’t take much for him to realize I was already infatuated with him. When we pulled into the station, he invited me back to his place. You'd have thought I'd realize there was a problem when the big black limousine pulled up and the door opened by itself. At the time I thought it was a gimmick. Thinking back, I should have looked to make sure there was even a driver at the wheel.
I've since learned there isn't.
It's amazing to me how gullible I was then. But I was totally bowled over by the man. He was striking with his long black hair and just one lock that was pure white. I remember thinking at the time he must be a famous musician or actor. His presence was just so overwhelming.
A cautionary note here. Never talk to strangers on a train when you're traveling at midnight.
Yeah, I know, easy to say.
On the other hand, I realize now I'd never change what happened. I worship the ground the damned vampire walks on. Even just thinking about him right now makes my cock hard and needy. He's the man of my dreams. How many guys get to live eternity with their lover? What's a little blood between creatures of the night?
I want to say I was shocked by what I discovered, but I can't. I want to say I was horrified by what he made me. But that would be lying.
He invigorates me. There's not a night that goes by that he doesn't come up with some new little game to play. You'd think after a few years it would get old, but it hasn't yet.
Redhead
“No!” It was the redhead from the restaurant.
Jack cradled his head, his gaze meeting the redhead’s dark blue eyes.
“No,” the man said again. “I’m not hurt. Just a little. Perhaps you could take me home. I’ll be all right then.”
Jack shook his head. “It’s unwise. Someone should look at you, see if there’s any hidden damage. Whiplash—or something.” He didn’t know what, but was sure it would be dangerous not to be checked out.
“Please,” begged the man. “Just take me home.”
The desperation in his voice startled Jack. Was he some kind of outlaw?
“All right, then.” He gripped the man’s arm, and helped him up. The concerned bystanders decided the drama was over, and scurried off. The rain had kept away all but the most curious. Both men were soaked through. The arms and lapels of Jack’s jacket were stained with the redhead’s blood.
“Turn right, here,” said the man. Then, after a minute or two, “It’s that house over there.”
It was an Edwardian terrace, small and pleasing, wisteria and jasmine thickly twined around the veranda posts. They were only a block or two away from Jack’s home. They climbed the three steps up to the tiny veranda with the redhead leaning heavily on Jack’s arm. Jack felt distinctly uneasy. The man was clearly much more hurt than he was pretending to be.
“I really feel I ought to call a doctor.” Jack was worried. Young men could be so needlessly macho. He’d been, once.
The man was panting a little. “No, I heal quickly.” And he gave Jack a sudden smile that set Jack’s pulse racing.