Message-ID: <11665eli$9805271535@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: john_dark@anon.nymserver.com Subject: {PoisonIvan}JDR"The Fearless Vampire 1a"( FF part )[1/3] Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: <6kg4bt$1lq$1@sparky.wolfe.net> JOHN DARK REPOST The following story is posted for the entertainment of adults. If you are below the age of eighteen or are otherwise forbidden to read electronic erotic fiction in your locality, please delete this message now. The story codes in the subject line are intended to inform readers of possible areas that some might find distasteful, but neither the poster nor the author make any guarantee. You should be aware that the story might raise other matters that you find distasteful. You read at your own risk. The enjoyment of these reposts can be increased by reading the "Coming Attractions," which includes the titles to be reposted in the next week. These stories have not been written by the person posting them. Many of those e-mail addresses below the author's byline still work. If you liked the story, either drop the author a line at that e-mail address or post a comment to alt.sex.stories.d. Please don't post it to alt.sex.stories itself. Posting the comment with a Cc: to the author would be the best way to encourage them to continue entertaining you. The copyright of this story belongs to the author, and the fact of this posting should not be construed as limiting or releasing these rights in any way. In most cases, the author will have further notices of copyright below. If you keep the story, *PLEASE* keep the copyright disclaimer as well. ===================== [Note: This story has two further segments which may be seen at the author's website, mentioned at the end of part 2. But I felt that these three segments formed a complete story.] Copyright (c) 1997 by Poison Ivan. Copies may be made and posted for personal enjoyment, but all commercial rights are reserved. ==================== The Fearless Vampire by Poison Ivan poisoniv1@hotmail.com Part 1a. I check the clock. 4:54. Only six minutes to go. I check my email again, and there's still nothing important to deal with. I rifle through the huge pile of papers in my inbox again. I check the clock. 4:55. Only five minutes to go. I want to get out of this place something fierce. Today is payday, which means I had to deliver paychecks to everyone in the office. It's actually the only part of the job I like, but I should have worn more comfortable shoes. My feet are killing me, my calves are killing me, my back is killing me, my neck is killing me. Even my ears hurt, thanks to these goddamn earrings my boyfriend gave me. I don't know what possessed me to wear the fucking earrings, it's not like I see the fucking idiot any more. I'm sore sore sore. If I still had money, it would be a great day to get a massage. I could _really_ use a massage. The thing is, until a year ago, I actually had the money. I could've just called someone and I'd be on my way to get a nice massage. You see, Mom and Dad have money, and I used to be on an allowance. I was rich, and I was the real party girl. But then one of my friends threw a big bash and her wet blanket neighbor got pissed at the loud music and called the cops. The police came and charged me with indecent exposure and resisting arrest. It was a ridiculous situation, and the police were totally unreasonable. I got a good lawyer and the charges were dropped, but Mom and Dad were furious. And they just cut me off--snap!--Just like that. My lifeline gone. And now I have this shitty job. So I don't like wet blanket neighbors, and I don't like cops. And, right now, I'm not too happy with Mom and Dad, either. I hear footsteps coming my way and I check the clock and I hope whoever it is will just walk on by. But no such luck. "Virginia, honey, how are you doing?" Oh, shit, it's Larry. Larry the asshole. Don't honey me, asshole. Doesn't he realize it is 4:57, only three minutes to go? He's standing at the entrance to my cubicle, staring. I pretend to read my email. Maybe if I look busy he'll go away. "How are you doing on those expense reports?" Larry asks. Oh Christ. Now I'm annoyed. Really annoyed. I spin in my chair and face him. Larry is a short man with a tendency to sweat and a belly that hangs out over his belt. About six months ago his wife divorced him. He probably deserved it. Larry is a loser. Expense reports? He must be kidding. "I'll get them to you tomorrow," I say. Larry sighs. Larry sighs a lot. He runs his fat fingers through his hair. "Virginia, I wanted to finish them tonight," he whines. "I have an appointment at 5:30," I lie. If I can just make him feel a little guilty. "I could cancel it. But I've already canceled twice. I may have a problem rescheduling." I give him my best hangdog eyes. Larry sighs again. He stands there quiet for a minute, thinking. "No, no, don't cancel your appointment," he says. "But can you have them done by noon tomorrow? I need to turn them in tomorrow." I have no idea if I can get them done by noon tomorrow, how the hell should I know? "Sure," I say, "no problem." Larry turns his pudgy body around and walks away. Thank God. And it's 5:02, I'm two minutes late getting out of this shit hole. I grab my purse and I'm out of here like a truck with bad brakes, moving fast in my too-high-for-payday heels. My car, my car is the only real joy I have left in my life. It's a beautiful Porsche, which I got when I was still on my allowance. It's very fast, and it's very red. It looks beautiful there in its parking spot, all red and shiny and ready for anything. Unfortunately, I'll have to give it up soon, since I can't afford the insurance any more. But for now, I love every second I spend in my little red rocket. I am a real terror behind the wheel! I open the door and settle down into the leather seat and for a moment or two I just sit. I love sitting in my Porsche, the odor of the black leather, the smooth leather steering wheel. I kick off my shoes, close the door, turn the key, fire her up. The engine growls appreciatively. My Porsche loves to have her motor running. While the engine warms up, I run my hand over the gearshift. The manual transmission always gets comments from my friends. A woman driving a stick? I hear way too many phallus jokes. My boyfriend said my Porsche represents my subliminal desire to be a dominatrix--all wrapped up in black leather and leading a powerful machine around by its dick. My boyfriend was a fucking moron. Which is why he's now my ex-boyfriend. In fact, I don't think of my car as a man at all. To me, my Porsche is female. I like to think of her as a temperamental woman, one who carries me to the store or to see my friends and waits patiently for me to finish my errands. She's my little errand girl. And then I have her drive me home, purring like a kitten as I rev her motor. I don't tell a soul about this female car thing, though. Given the choice between dick jokes and dyke jokes, I'll take the dick jokes, thank you. I take off the emergency brake and back my Porsche out and take her into first. I'm the only one driving in the garage, and I'm out in a flash. Traffic is light, everyone must be working late to finish their expense reports. Ha! I'm even hitting the lights. I only need to run one yellow and one red on the trip home. As I turn into the parking garage at home, I almost hit some old lady on the sidewalk, and I honk at her, beep-beep-beep! And the old lady gives me the finger! Ha! I can't help but shake my head and laugh. An old lady giving me the finger! Christ, she must be fifty years old! I like that kind of spirit in an old bag! The close parking spots are all full, so I park my Porsche in the handicapped spot and leave her there and go to the elevator lobby. The lobby from the parking garage is a chintzy little room. The building owners do a good job keeping the building up, but they don't get down into the garage much. There are always old newspapers on the table and the ashtray is always full of old cigarette butts. And the elevator in this building is slow slow slow slow slow. And hanging around in this stupid little lobby is boring boring boring boring boring. Sometimes I take the stairs up to my apartment, but not today--my feet hurt, and I don't want to tackle seven flights of stairs in heels. At least there is a lock on the outside door, and I don't need to worry about creeps getting in and hassling me. My friend Alice lives in an apartment building with an open lobby, and she was beat up and robbed while she waited for the elevator. She was lucky. She could've been raped and murdered. Ugh, I shouldn't think about rape and murder, but what else is there to think about waiting for the elevator? It's the one thing I envy of men--they don't need to worry about being raped and murdered. And it pisses me off. Why should _I_ have to worry about it, and not, say, my idiot boss Larry? Or my idiot ex-boyfriend? Finally, the elevator bell rings, the door opens, I hurry in and punch the sixth floor button. The door slowly closes and the elevator goes slowly into motion. I swear, it takes ten seconds to get from one floor to the next. Parking. Lobby. One. Two. Three. A girl could grow old waiting. At least the elevator doesn't stop to let anyone else get aboard. I finally get to my floor, and thankfully the hallway is empty, no neighbors to deal with. I'm home, I'm alone, I can finally relax. I let my purse dangle from my hand, and I sashay down the hall, and, since I know no one is watching, I giving my hips a sexy little swing. Although I wouldn't mind if anyone was watching. Someone peeping through a crack in the door. I've always had a soft spot in my heart for little peeper perverts. I need to unlock two locks to get in my apartment, the second one for an impressively heavy deadbolt. The owners installed deadbolts when some old biddy in the building demanded them. At the time, I thought the biddy was a demented old fool, but now that I have the big lock, I like it. There's something very secure about being inside a room knowing a deadbolt is set. Even so, that's another thing that pisses me off. Why should I need a heavy lock to feel secure? Why should I need to protect myself? Why are there so many sickos in this world? I'm inside, I close the door behind me, I put away my coat and purse, I turn the deadbolt--clunk. There's a note on the table from Jessica. Jessica is my roommate. After my parents cut me off, I had to rent out the spare room to help pay the rent. And my roomie turned out to be Jessica, a timid, plain girl who shops at Penney's and almost never says a word. She spends most of her time alone in her room, frigging herself off or something. She never even gets phone calls, never says anything. Even when I see her face to face, she doesn't talk to me. As a roommate, she's a total disaster. The only good thing about her is she pays her rent on time. The note says Jessica might be late and that she has a friend coming over. She might be late? Hell, I don't even know when she usually gets in. "I gave Darlene a key, so you don't need to stay if you don't want to." Jessica knows I like to go out at night, but the way my feet hurt, I could use a night off. And a girl's night in doesn't sound like a bad idea. Besides, it would be nice to finally meet one of Jessica's friends. But first I want to take a shower and get in my bathrobe. I kick off my shoes and stretch up high, blow the air out of my lungs, and take in a deep breath. Ah! I give my scalp a vigorous scratch, tousle my hair. It'll be great to take a shower, wash my hair, curl up on a warm couch with a magazine. All clean and warm and quiet. And meet this girl Darlene. What would a friend of Jessica's be like? Well, after all, she _is_ a friend of Jessica's. She's probably a geek. Since it's my apartment, I get the master bedroom, which has the adjacent bathroom. Jessica's bathroom is bigger and has a tub, but I prefer showers, anyway. I go into the room and look at myself in the big mirror over the sink. My hair is a mess, and my makeup is a little worse for wear. I need to wash my face. I take off my necklace and earrings, and that feels good. Now that I'm unattached, I have no rings to take off, and that feels good too! I pinch my earlobes to get the feeling back. I strip all my clothes off. I usually wash my face naked, to avoid getting water on my clothes. My ex- boyfriend thought washing my face naked was funny, but not as funny as the fact that I wash my face before I take a shower. "Why do you wash your face at the sink when you're just going to wash it again in the shower?" he would ask. The fucking moron. I used to cheat on the bastard a lot. Thinking about it, I'm surprised I spent so much time with him. He was stupid, he had an ugly, nasal laugh, and as often as not, he was a premature ejaculator. I can't tell you how many times he dropped his load all over my belly before he even got it in. If I hadn't been cheating on him all the time, I would have been one frustrated girl. I gently wash my face, rinse the soap off, and pat my face dry. I look at myself in the mirror. I like to look at myself naked, and sometimes I like other people to look at me naked too. I can be a real exhibitionist, if I'm in the right mood. I am one of those girls who can eat anything she wants and not gain weight. And I absolutely love my tits. I hold the palms of my hands under them to press them up. They don't sag much, so I can go bra-less on occasion. But they are big enough to wobble, so I don't do it much. I lean in and study my face. I've always had a good complexion--I can't remember the last time I had a zit. But there are some things about my face I don't like, like my practically non-existent eyelashes. And I wish my eyes were a deeper blue--in this light they are almost colorless gray. What I would give for Claudia Schiffer's eyes! And my hair sucks. And my lips are a little on the thin side. So I'll never be a fashion model. _C'est la vie_. I love hot showers, and turn the water up as hot as I can stand it. The bathroom steams up and I step into the stall, close the glass door behind me. The hot water feels good on my thighs, and I slowly move under the hot spray. My skin flushes pink everywhere the water touches. I lather up my hair, using too much shampoo, but that's O.K., I like the feel of lots of suds in my hair. I massage my scalp with my fingertips, working it hard, and I gently work the lather into my hair, from root to tip. My hair is all sudsy, and I massage my scalp again, and then rinse off. The hot water runs over my face and down my front. A pink flush from the hot water runs between my tits. With a washcloth, I quickly wash the rest of my body, paying particular attention to my neck, my ears, my shoulders, between my legs, under my arms. I already shaved my legs in the morning, and they still feel smooth--I won't need to shave again for another day or two. I rinse off, and I'm clean. But I don't want to get out of the shower right away. Instead, I just stand here, letting the hot water run over me, over my shoulders, on my tits, I turn and it's against my back, I turn and it's on my belly. It's hot and steamy and pleasant and nice. I stand under the hot water and I think about old lovers. The good ones. Well, not necessarily the good ones, but the memorable ones. The best ones were the kissers. Jackson, who was one hell of a kisser. He wasn't much to look at, but he sure knew how to kiss. When I'm bored I sometimes think about what the perfect man should be, and he should always kiss like Jackson. Slow, soft, teasing. He had this way of kissing my upper lip--Christ, it makes my knees weak just thinking about it! And then there was Brad--never caught his last name--who I fucked in a closet. _That_ was memorable! And Bertrand, the Swiss boy I fucked twice in his filthy apartment. And Linus, my girlfriend Alice's husband. Well, my ex- girlfriend's ex-husband. Alice divorced Linus after she found out, and she hasn't spoken to me since. And Thomas, with the amazing dick. Very long, very thick, and not very coordinated. He fucked me sore, and when the pain didn't go away, I thought he'd injured me. My gynecologist said my cervix was bruised. Jesus Christ, he bruised my goddamned cervix! Thinking about men is not a good idea. I should think about something else, or I'm going to get mad all over again. So I think about nothing. I just stand under the hot water and feel it on me. But I'm bored, so fuck it, I'm out of here. I cut off the water with a twist of the wrist. The bathroom is steamed up and I can't see a thing in the mirror. I turn on the fan and dry myself in fresh towels. I rub a circle of steam off the mirror with a towel. I look at my face centered in the circle. Damn, I look good! I pat my skin with the towel. I put lotion on my face and neck, and on my legs. I pinch my nipples and make them stand up. Whee! That feels _too_ good! Maybe after Darlene leaves tonight I'll frig myself off. I didn't do it this morning like I usually do. Twenty-four hours without a cum is too long! A long, leisurely late night masturbation session would probably do me good. I comb the tangles out of my hair, and the strands hang blonde and straight around my head. Seeing my hair straight like this reminds me how flat my hair is. I should get it done. If only I had enough money for the hairdresser. And I'd rather have bad hair than go to Supercuts. Sigh. I dry off one last time, rubbing my skin pink with fluffy towels, invigorating my skin, making it prickle. I'm cooling off, and my nipples get all goosey. I head back into the bedroom and put on a pair of men's boxers (my sleeping attire of choice). I pull on my thick, warm bathrobe, tie the belt around my waist. And now I feel warm and comfortable. I hug myself, feel the warmth. I go back out into the living room barefoot, pad-pad-pad, adjust the thermostat to 76. That should be nice. I settle down into the sofa cushions, get comfortable, and pick up a three-week-old _Glamour_. I'm looking for a good article, I remember one article a few years ago that explained how to give a good blowjob, something like that, or maybe something funny, but there's just all this shit about job interviews and I'm flipping through the pages-- Wait! I thought I saw something move out of the corner of my eye! I look around but I don't see anything. The dining room is empty. The kitchen looks empty. Someone could've ducked back into the bedrooms, they could be lurking there, waiting. But I'm probably just seeing things. I glance around one last time. I look back at my magazine but I'm thinking about what I saw out of the corner of my eye. I look around again. Still nothing. And I can't concentrate now. What if someone _is_ in the room? Hiding. Could someone be here? It's a security building, and there's a deadbolt. How could he get in? But I swear I saw something, I swear I _feel_ something. I shiver. Is someone there? I look around and strain my ears. I don't hear a thing, and I don't see a thing. Am I being paranoid? Why do I have this feeling? My skin goes to goose bumps. ==================== The Fearless Vampire by Poison Ivan Part 1a -30- -- +----------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `--------------+ | | | | Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | ----