Message-ID: <18746eli$9901212313@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: Andrew Roller Subject: Till Death Do Us Part 2 of 2 g2 Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Reply-To: roller666@earthlink.net 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: <368A9655.F40@earthlink.net> _/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/ Andrew Roller Presents Till Death Do Us Part _/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/ Chapter Two I am standing in my bathroom, gargling. The Sound of Music is playing on my tape player. I’m not overly fond of it but it was quite popular in its day. As an accountant I have to interact with clients and so I’m working my way, as best I am able, through all the popular books, popular musicals, and popular movies. Hopefully this will enable me to have an “edge” when dealing with clients, and allow me to become a “rainmaker”. Not because I’m a better accountant (I’m already quite good), but because I have a superior “bedside manner”. I read about this strategy in a popular accountant’s newsletter, “Add to Your Success!” As I am listening to Julie Andrews, adding my own somewhat less musical voice to hers, courtesy of Listerine, I perceive a movement behind me. I stop in mid-gargle. I gaze into the bathroom mirror. There, in the glass, I can see the window at the back of my bathroom, above the toilet. There it is again. Something black against the glass, outside. My grip tightens on my cup of Listerine. Foam drips from the corners of my mouth. I see tree branches beyond my window. It’s an old tree, in my back yard. The branches are moving. The wind must be blowing. Slowly I move to the tape player. I click the “stop” button. I act nonchalant but I keep my eyes fixed onto my mirror, pretending to look at myself but really looking at the reflection of the window behind me. Is there something between the tree branches and my window, or not? Is there a cat in the branches? Damn cat. That must be what it is. That cat that lives with the woman next door is always coming into my yard and-- I see two eyes. They’re like cat’s eyes but they’re up close against the glass, not back in the tree branches. I stare at them, looking into my mirror and the window’s reflection. They stare back at me. I feel foam run down my chin. The eyes are upside down! I whirl about. And I see nothing. Just the branches, moving in the wind. There is nothing there. I race to the window. I hurl it open and stick out my head. The wind is blowing hard. I peer into the branches of the tree. “Damn cat,” I mutter. I see nothing but living wood and leaves. I gaze down at my yard. Empty. Just grass, and fallen leaves, brown and rotting. I’ll have to rake those up tomorrow morning or they’ll kill the grass. A strand of hair touches the back of my neck. Whisper-soft. Do I need a haircut? That damn barber-- I tipped him $2.00 and he didn’t even do a decent job. I do my accounting, why can’t other people do their jobs? What’s the world coming to anyway? “I really should get a gardener for those leaves,” I tell myself. “I just don’t have time to--” I feel a prick on the side of my neck. Another. Two small pins puncturing my flesh. “Yeoow!” I hollar. I yank my head inside my window. I clap my hand to my neck. “I thought I got rid of all those wasps last summer!” I am shouting, when suddenly, I realize I am not alone in my bathroom. Something soft and warm and sleek has come in through the window with me. I stare at her. She has pale skin and long dark hair. She is gazing up at me and there is blood on her lips. She smiles and I nearly faint. In her mouth, within her succulent ruby lips, I see two sharp little fangs. “Hold still,” she says. “Good God!” I cry. Somehow, despite my fright, I find it within myself to turn from her. Mixed with my fear I feel a strange attraction. It is those eyes of hers, always lovely to look upon but now positively luminous. “Hold still!” she shrieks, her voice childlike and high. I race from my bathroom. I hear footsteps behind me. I run for my bedroom. I have a pistol at the bottom of my underwear drawer. I’ve never fired it. Shit-- it’s not loaded either. I’d read that many handguns wind up shooting their owner and wanted to make sure I didn’t become a statistic like that. Yet now, in my panic, I can’t remember where I’ve put those damn bullets! Underwear is flying out of my dresser as I stand in my bedroom, frantically groping for my gun. It’s dark. No time to reach for the light switch-- I’m being pursued by a vampire! I can feel the blood dripping down my neck where she tried to sink her fangs into me. It is the same girl I saw in the hospital, in the elevator, and at the bus stop. I find the gun. I yank it out of my underwear drawer. I turn around and, with trembling hands, I take aim at the small figure slipping into my bedroom from the hall. Her eyes stare at me. Her long dark hair whispers as she moves, tumbling over her shoulders, down her back, over her dress in front where two pert lumps indicate the presence of her budding breasts. Her teeth flash. “Don’t move!” I cry. I follow her with the gun as she darts into my bedroom. “You wouldn’t, by any chance, have that loaded with silver bullets, would you?” she purrs. She is confident. I stare at her. She stares at me. There is moonlight spilling into my bedroom, through the gauze of the curtains. It is a wavery light, obscured by the curtains and by trees in my back yard. “It- it isn’t loaded at all,” I confess in the half-illuminated darkness. The adumbrated moonlight is the only silver in the room. “Didn’t think so,” she says. She slips out from behind the foot of my bed. She approaches me. My hands shake and I drop my gun. It clatters on my all-natural hardwood floor. I had the carpets ripped out a year ago because I feared dust mites. Now I’m safe from those but I’ve got a small, 10-year-old girl in my room with fangs. “Hold still,” she says. “I must drink or I will die.” “You-- I--” My mouth goes dry. What do you say to a vampire? She lifts her dress. “Don’t do that!” I yell. I see her upper thighs, her panties. Her belly. Her underwear is white against her white skin. “If you let me pierce you, I’ll let you pierce me,” she says in a soft, silvery voice in the moonlight. “N- No,” I croak. “Yes!” she snarls. She is upon me. I feel fingers on my neck, small and cold. Her luminous eyes take on an animal quality. They redden as she presses her nose to mine and I smell her bubblegum breath. “Ouch!” I gasp. Twin teeth sink into my neck. I push at her small body. She is strong-- much stronger than I imagined. I feel her paps under my fingers and a rush of lust runs through me. “Aughggh!” I cry. Somehow I get the creature off me. Her hair swirls. She falls to the floor, lands on my all-natural hardwood floor and cries out. I leap over my bed. She comes after me. I nearly throw myself through my bedroom window but instead I hit my wall, only my elbow hits the glass and it shatters, cutting my arm. There is blood and I am screaming. The creature, long hair and white panties and all, flies through my broken window and is gone. The police are at the door. I have my arm bandaged and I mumble something about interior decorating. “I fell against the glass, that’s all,” I tell them. “Mr. Mortimer, do you live alone?” the officer asks. I murmur that I do. I try to make a lame joke: “I had the carpeting ripped out a year ago, so now even the dust mites are gone!” I laugh. He does not. They leave. I thank them for checking up on me. As soon as the police are gone I shut my bedroom door and bar it with a chair from the dining room downstairs. I lock my bedroom door from the outside, as I stand in the hall. The window in my bedroom is broken and She might come back. I don’t want to spend the night lying in there, asleep, with the window open to the night air. I go downstairs. I turn on the T.V. Then I turn it off. I need to be able to hear her if she returns. She knows I’m in here. I consider going to a motel for the night but I sense she has the ability to watch me and to follow me. I sit in the dining room, thinking. I am sitting there half-frightened out of my wits, still on an adrenalin rush but getting tired. I’ve been up since 5 a.m., when I go for my morning workout to the gym. The hour is growing late and I wonder how on earth I’ll get up tomorrow morning. “I’ve got to get the Johnson account done tomorrow,” I tell myself. My eyelids droop. I begin to nod off. Then I awaken, abruptly. “This is ridiculous,” I tell myself. Then I feel a pain in my arm and I realize it can’t be a dream, the blood is real. I feel my arm, my neck. I feel the pulse in my neck. The hours pass. I talk to myself and, unwillingly, I begin to nod off. I am asleep when something inside me senses the pitter pat of small feet. My eyes fly open. She is there, in my dining room. She has taken off her shoes and she is barefoot. “Hello,” she says in a small, silky voice. “You’re back,” I gasp. “Of course I’m back. I need to feed,” she tells me in an ethereal voice that has a creepy quality underlying it, intertwined with it. “And I need to be fed,” she adds. She lifts her skirt. “No!” I cry. “Do you like my panties?” she asks as she lifts her skirt to her waist. “Do you think they’re pretty?” Her panties are frilly and small. Little girl panties. I feel saliva in my mouth. I swallow. “Yes,” I say. “Feed me,” she begs, her eyes luminous. There is just a hint of the blood-red gaze that I’d seen in my bedroom creeping back into them. I am running down the street. It is dark. I have bandages around the elbow of my right arm. I am running in my pajama shirt and my pajama pants, slippers on my feet. It is cold. I am scared. I can feel her behind me, somewhere. My front door is standing wide open, I recall to myself, left open by me as I fled from my house. But I don’t care. It’s not my house she wants, or any of my possessions. It’s me she wants. Specifically, my blood. And my penis. I run up a side street. The homes stare at me. They are dark, seemingly empty, but I know there are people sleeping in there. I want to run up to a home, any home, and pound on the door. But what can I say, standing there in my pajamas? That a 10-year-old girl is after me and she wants to fuck me? To drink my blood? I’m an accountant. I have my reputation to protect. People don’t want a child molester doing their books, especially one who’s crazy. Out of the corner of my eye I see a playground. The clouds overhead are thick but I can make out the swings, standing empty in the middle of a grassy field. I run for the playground. I don’t know why. Perhaps she will be afraid to come here. I get among the swings. I grip their chains. I tell myself that if she appears I’ll manage somehow to twist the chains of the swings around her. I’ll strangle her or bind her, or both. “Such pleasant thoughts,” I hear a small voice say. It’s behind me. I feel a chill run down my spine. I lurch about. I tangle myself in the chains that the swings hang from. She laughs. I get myself free of the chains and gaze upon her. The clouds above break and the moon illuminates her and I am struck by her beauty. “I must feed,” she tells me. “Hold still.” “No,” I gasp. She leaps. I fall backward into the dirt under the swings. She pounces on me. “Let me feed,” she urges. Her breath is hot against my face and I guess my own breath is hot against hers but her face feels cold when it presses to mine. Twin needles puncture my neck. My voice tries to cry out but her palm clasps itself to my rictus-like mouth. Her fingers are cold. My scream dies in my throat as I feel a sudden, unexpected rush of pleasure. I feel like I’m drinking but instead it is she who is drinking. She drinks from my neck. I can hear her swallowing. It is an animal-like sound, like a cat lapping water from a lake. The night is still. I lay in the dirt. I want to get up but I am all swoony and pleasure-laden, the joy in my limbs slowly draining as the minutes pass. “Now you must feed me,” she says. There is a weight upon my groin. And then I am naked there, my pajama pants opened, my penis exposed to the chilly night air. “Yessss,” she hisses. Her voice is like that of the snake in Eden, I think. “Don’t bite it,” I gasp. But she does not. I feel an incredible tightness envelop the knob of my dick. Slowly, lying prone in the dirt but listening to her moan with a mingling of pain and pleasure, I feel myself penetrate her. She rides me. In the dirt, amidst the swings that I had hoped to bind her with. Instead she binds me, with her flesh, and I pierce her and feed her. “Do not allow yourself to be exposed to the light,” she tells me afterward, pulling up her panties, standing by my face as I lie in the dirt. “What?” I croak. I am spent, drained. “Do not allow yourself to be exposed,” she says. I fumble for my penis. It is no longer hard and extended. I tuck it into my pajamas. I sit in my dining room. I’m feverish but I’m afraid to go upstairs to my bedroom. The door there is still locked. The dining room chair still leans against the door. Outside, it is now daylight. I keep the curtains drawn and I stay within the dining room all day because it is one of the few rooms in my house that has no windows. At night she comes. I do not know how she gets into my house. Perhaps she simply comes through the front door. I tell myself to check to see if it is properly locked but I am too feverish to get out of the chair I am slumped in. She mounts me and feeds upon me. Then she has me feed her. We rejoice in our oneness even as my fever persists. “Do not expose yourself to the light,” she tells me again, before leaving. “I do not even know your name,” I mumble. “Vicky,” she replies. I feel stronger. I get up out of my chair. It is night. I go to my kitchen. I open the refrigerator. Phew. The milk has somehow gone sour. I toss it into the wastebasket in my kitchen. I go to the cupboard. I take down a can of ravioli. I open it and heat it on the stove. I try to eat it but I vomit. She is standing in the doorway to my kitchen. She looks beautiful. Her shoes are on her feet. They are glossy. They clack lightly as she crosses the tiled floor of my kitchen. I am sitting at the kitchen table. There is vomit on the table. She looks at it and wrinkles her nose. “Are you hungry?” she asks me. “Yes,” I say. “You need blood,” she says simply. Her long eyelashes bat at me. I admire the silken cascade of her long, dark hair. Her clothes are new, beautiful. As if they had never been worn. Yet they are the same clothes I saw her wearing at the hospital! I search for her name in my mind. “Vicky,” I finally manage to say. “Yes?” she asks. “Don’t drink my blood anymore.” “I cannot,” she tells me. “You are like me now. I let you transform. I could have kept you as a cow, feeding off of you, but it would have killed you. I didn’t want you to die.” “Thanks,” I say. She sits down at the kitchen table. It is odd to see her sitting there, a small girl, not the lustful creature of the night who has visited me so many, too many times. “Do you-- want something to eat?” I ask her. She smiles at me. “I told you. I cannot drink your blood anymore. It is vampire blood now. Like mine. Your fever has passed, has it not?” “I guess so,” I say. “You look sorta silly in your pajamas,” she tells me. “A pajama vampire.” “I’ll-- I’ll change them,” I answer. “They will always be part of you, I’m afraid,” she says. “I should have told you. You were my first so I wasn’t thinking. I should have had you put on a tux or something before I transformed you. But at first you were not cooperative, so I--” she pauses. “I took what I could get,” she says at last. “A pajama vampire,” I mutter. “You may take them off, of course,” she says. “Burn them, if you like. But they are imbued into your aura. All living things have an aura and undead things like us have one too. Whenever you return to your true self, you will have the pajamas again. See? Just like my clothes. Always crisp and new, however much I might roll in the dirt in them, making love to you.” Her eyes flash at me. “We can still do that,” she adds. “Not-- not tonight,” I tell her. “I have a headache.” “Quibbler,” she answers. “Let me clean up this vomit,” I tell her. “I sorta like it,” she giggles. “Girls aren’t supposed to like vomit,” I scold her. “I’m not a girl. I’m a vampire,” she says. She looks at me with her large, luminous eyes. Finally she asks, “Have you ever heard of the littlest angel?” “Yes,” I tell her. “You got me instead,” she replies. 30 ----------------------- To be continued ----------------------- -----Back issues (and stories): http://www.dejanews.com/ Click on “Power Search” in the middle of the screen. Change “standard” archive to “complete” archive. Type: roller666@earthlink.net into the “Power Search” box. Click on “Find” (the button to the right of the box). -----Other providers: Usenet Newsgroup: alt.sex.stories.moderated Or via the Web: http://www.eroticstories.com http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/ -----Great books by David Hamilton: The Age of Innocence, A Place in the Sun, Twenty Five Years of an Artist. By Jock Sturges: Radiant Identities Need a book? http://www.amazon.com -----Great sites: http://www.nambla.org http://www.AlessandraSmile.com -Naughty Naked Dreamgirls (Library of Congress ISSN: 1070-1427) is copyright 1998 and a trademark of Andrew Roller. All rights reserved. -Visit me: http://home.earthlink.net/files/Authors/Roller/www666/index.html -END OF story EMISSION -- +----------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `--------------+ | | | | Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | ----