TRICK, TREAT

by Apache

Content:
Het
Vachon
Implied or Graphic Sexual Situations
Some Violence

Every now and then, he had to-- not often, but when he hungered like this, he couldn't endure the night without-- 

 Perfectly still in his favorite chair, feet flush to the floor, arms stretched out as if enthroned, eyes closed, barely breathing, Javier Vachon tried to control the desire that was screaming in his vampire's heart and knowing he would fail.

I need... I need...  I want oh God oh black Satanas I want--

His eyes snapped opened, yellow; he frowned hard, closing them.  All his nerves were on fire;  he felt the weight of his flesh on his bones, the dryness of air sliding over his tongue.  The rustle of a breeze through a broken window upstairs sounded like a hurricane; the very weight of the cool autumn air on his skin seemed intolerable.

And those pains were nothing to the hunger.  His mouth opened, fanged, it stretched and pulled closed and opened again in a slow, uncontrollable pantomime of his only thought.  His head tipped back, lips curling back from the fangs; the expression on his face was a mix of despair and ecstatic surrender.  He began to breath rapidly, deep fast gulps of the night air.  The yellow eyes opened again, looking at the open window, and in the next second he was out in the air over Toronto.

Hungry.  Hunting.  So mad with this lust he was snarling in the air. 

Stupid.  Use the motorcycle.  Go back.  The satisfaction of revving 1200 cc's to the max, the pleasure of the physical feel of the sounds in his ears, the vibrations against his legs, his balls half crushed against the seat, starting to get hard there next to the church just thinking about what he was going to do, his mouth opening in that yearning pantomime again.... get her.  Go get her.

No, not Tracy.  Last shred of control.  Not Tracy.

He popped the Triumph's clutch and sped downtown, snapping sunglasses on over his eyes; tonight, he couldn't force them into the dark glaze of fake humanity.  Downtown.  The hookers, the really poor ones, the ones who dressed in the shortest dresses, halters, hot pants, the legs that were the gates to a certain paradise swinging wide, narrow, wide under those skirts... the blouses that began the opening he craved, the opening he was going to have now, now.  Now.

God, the women.  Always, over the years, the women; in a tavern joking; leaning out the windows of a bawdyhouse, their breasts plumped against the sills, their eyes laughing; or sad parades on city streets, even in rain, cold nights, women who needed men almost as desperately as he now needed one of them, women who took the pain, who craved the pain, who offered the pain like a dark ritual, who spread themselves under him or wrapped themselves around him.  Sometimes he would still feel their desire when the bite came, when the fangs broke through and they knew, sometimes even then crying for more pain... how to find one of them?  How to see it...

He gulped air again, the desperation in his body growing, his cock hard inside his jeans, eyes bright-- sunglasses, wondering even then if the fire in him would shine through, show the girl he picked what her fate would look like--

A long body, a very long body so he could have what he wanted...  The redhead in blue vinyl, appealing; the nose ring, he didn't like snagging his hair in them; the Asian/black one, what eyes, what a drape of almost liquid midnight hair, but too short, not right for this; there, a blonde one, a cornfed long-boned girl with a long back, long waist, almost six feet tall but the proportions wrong, her legs too short for her to be a model, too short to be this year's pretty, her torso pliable, what will her belly look like, the long shadows of the muscles around the cavern of the gut, a tiny puff of fat below the navel but before the hair, maybe?  To lie on a long body, pillow himself on her warmth...  

"Looking for a party?"  Dead blue eyes.  Seen too much.  Don't talk, don't show the fangs.  He nodded and pulled his lips wide in what should be a smile.  And then he caught her scent and the smile turned real and he dipped his head, sliding the hair forward as his mouth opened with its yearning yet again, lips thinning back from the fangs, beyond his control.  "All night," he said from behind his veil.  His throat was so drawn it came out as a hoarse whisper.

"Three hundred, straight or around.  No kinks, no sharps."

He nodded, digging into jeans pocket with one hand, using the excuse to keep his head angled down and away from her.  His hand came out with a fistful of hundreds, bonus from a drugdealer kill a few days back.  The prostitute would like that.  She might think of robbing him.

"Well, o-*kay,* sweetheart," she said, friendlier now.

The woman slid onto the bike behind him, giving him a small, impudent thrust with her pelvis by way of saying hello.  The vampire's mouth opened wider and his head fell back, but there was nothing she could see, no way she could know it was not a return greeting. The long body made her much taller than him on the motorcycle seat, so her chin was resting lightly against his ear.  And just under it, audible to his senses even through the motorcycle's idling, was the place where the jugular vein comes very, very close to the skin.  He listened, and began to almost pant.  The hooker liked this, liked her power to destroy his ease, and wrapped her arms snugly around him.  He peeled the rear tire, dropping the clutch hard and loud.

~ ~ ~

"You live here?"

He still hadn't said anything, nodded.

"You ever take off those shades?"  She reached for them, but he pushed her hand away.  They were off the bike, at the side of the church, about to go in the door he didn't often use.  The door for Tracy.

Tracy.  The need surged up again, but calmer now.  The woman's presence slid into his senses like a drug, the scent of her, the sight of her skin, her windblown hair, the sound of her heart now thrumming in his ears like a drum keeping time, the rhythm of his desire -- and his knowledge that it would be satisfied.  The trap was sprung, although it didn't show;  the predator in him knew it was getting what it wanted most and was cooler, more deliberate.  And yet, the thought of Tracy -- he touched the woman for the first time, touching the skin of her upper arm, pushing her back against the wall of the church, and took a kiss.  He breathed against her face, first, felt her lips with his, licked his tongue wide and hard across them, pressed them open. 

The beginning of her flavor, saliva... Lots of tastes.  Chewing gum and come, smoke from cigarettes and crack, whiskey... it had been a regular night on the street for her.

Her last.

She let him kiss, didn't make him take, though he would have now, was going to have everything he wanted now, never mind a whore's scruples, a woman's desire to live-- that was over.  She didn't know it, but *she* was over, whatever had made her her was all lost now, and the remnant was only what was his, what he wanted of her, what he would take--

Flavors of smoke, a meaty savor, a dark tinge in this woman's mouth, in her blood, something wicked and poisonous and beautiful, passion-flower maybe in the scent of her:  which comes first, the drug or the need?  Was this melange of darkblooded craving for drugs and pain her nature at birth or something she had made herself into?  Who cared... deeper, deeper into her, into the kiss and breaking away.

Now she was curious about him, maybe caught a sidelong glimpse of the yellow eyes behind the glasses, but he steered her in front of him and up the stairs, through the doors and in.

He'd lit candles in the sanctuary and nave, there was enough light for her to see by, and he saw her glancing around curiously at the tiny signs of his habitation, the chairs, the guitar sitting by, the bottle she would misunderstand sitting uncorked on an upturned crate.  Again he steered her, a little to the left, toward the door that led down to his daytime safety, the pitch black of the basement.

Again there were candles to light her way.  Six steps, a turn, six more steps, no railing, old stone, but she could see.  "God, it's cold in here," she said.  "What are you, some kind of caretaker?  Couldn't they at least do you some electricity?  Or is this a squat?"

He nodded, and swallowed.  "A squat."  It was a fair enough word.

"Let's see the looneytunes again," she said sharply.

He smiled, and pulled the bills out of his pocket, handing her three of them.  He didn't want to start with her suspicious.  Not that it mattered.

Bona fide hundreds, she was satisfying herself.  And when she threw a dubious glance around his basement digs, he peeled off another one and handed it to her for incentive.  She stuffed the bills away in her tiny purse, and looked at him, and said, "Okay, sweetheart, it's your party.  Whaddaya want?"

Her tone brought a fraction of a smile out of him.  She must have seen so much, to be taking this place in stride.  Must have done so much, walked away from so much -- felt so much, at least once in her life, and then walked away from feeling, too.

"Lie down," Vachon said, indicating the small bed.  He didn't know or care if she'd noticed the civilized bed upstairs, the one where he'd once thought he would die, the one where Tracy had brought him blood.  That bed wasn't for this.  He wanted to keep that mattress.

This was a single bed with a rutted mattress covered by a clammy sheet that was not tucked in.  There was a thin Army blanket crumpled at its foot, and one pillow.  Not much, but more than enough. 

She sat down on the edge of the bed.  The bedsprings creaked. A picture of what would come flashed through his mind, memories of stables and black basement rooms across the centuries; he got harder than iron in his pants and his fangs ached against his tightly compressed lips.  And yet the predator knew... the animal is caught.  Take your time, you like it better that way-- She lay back, her legs slightly apart, and looked at him.  He knew he was a figure in black:  black hair, black clothes, black sunglasses maybe reflecting a candle -- but he had paid.

He sat down on the edge of the bed.

"Close your eyes and don't open them," he ordered softly.  "And don't talk."  She obeyed, though he kept the sunglasses on until he could see if she was going to be good at it.  Not that it really mattered.

It was time to touch her.  His fingertips reached the fabric of her halter, and his nerves sang with their knowledge that this was the beginning.  Pull a lace, pull a thread through an eyelet, so much like other centuries, pull the lacings wide -- his hands swept through the lacing to her breasts, and he gasped and his mouth fell open.  She jumped at the coldness of his hands and made a small startled sound, but she kept her eyes closed and said no word.  His hands kept moving, the meat of his thumbs sweeping over her nipples, then his palms cupping them, nice breasts, weighing enough to shift around as his long fingers closed, opened and closed, kneading, pushing, possessing... More.

He pushed the lacing apart and opened the halter completely, and bent over to nuzzle the breasts slightly, touching with his lips, his nose.  He moved to lie down atop his own hands on her, feeling her body taking his weight, her breasts being crushed against her ribcage as they took the extra pressure.  Her legs opened so his would slide between them, nothing romantic or flirtatious, just getting on with her business, but he settled slowly against her crotch, feeling the warmth of it through his jeans. 

She still hadn't opened her eyes, so he slid the glasses off now, yet closed his own eyes and went forward by feel.  He lowered his mouth to her breastbone and nibbled, hearing the unexcited thumping of her heart so close, unafraid, knowing what this was, so familiar to her, a man coming to her body with a need....  Vachon began exploring, loverlike-- She was his lover in ways she could never know, could never live to understand because of what he needed to do to her-- mouth on her breast, licking, covering, slurping, sucking hard, drawing some slight fluid through the porous skin at the tips of the nipples, a bit of the body's serum, more flavor of smoke and poison, more need, need--

He laid his head down on her breast and used both hands to begin to take off his jeans; she helped him peel off until he was lying on her naked, every inch of his skin feeling her warmth, feeling the tiny quivers of her skin as the heartbeats raced through her body, carrying blood everywhere, carrying blood to the tiny veins that served the skin and made it his warm field, his resting place.  Reaching to undress her more, he found that under the tiny skirt, her panties were the open kind, satin around lace around wiry hair around the hot center of her cunt.  He decided he liked that and left them on, teasing the tip of his cock against each of these sensations, then pushing the whole shaft long against the satin, pulling away, touching the heat with his tip again, his breath coming raggedly.

Her hand came down to grasp him and she made a move as if to sit up, not resistance but an offer, her lips parting and her back beginning to curl, but still obedient, saying nothing, keeping her eyes closed, blind white half circles under sandy brown eye brows, a sleepwalking child reaching... he pushed her back down gently, whispered, "I couldn't take it."  She must be able to feel the truth of it, her truth of it, the cock like steel, needing only the smallest thing to explode for, and what the sensation of her hot mouth swallowing would do to him... he wanted something else.  So he pushed her down, saw with his yellow eyes her little smile of pleasure at her own power over him, and gave her his mouth and his cock all at once, sliding himself once more across that series of textures but now knifing into the heart of the best one, sliding into the heat of her cunt, a little bit wet, even the whore's cunt a little wet from kisses to her breasts or maybe just lubricant from the last trick -- nothing mattered, he was there, so close, so close to the source, so close to the furnace of her mortal heat, pushing slowly but with vampire strength as deep into her as he could go, and then rocking slowly, slowly, in the heat, balls pressing against that lace and hair, cock sliding back and forth and in -- take take take

He held her shoulders, lifting her head so he could reach her mouth, for her body was exactly what he had wanted, so long that with his cock buried in her, her head was almost beyond his reach.  In the kiss, her tongue found his fangs and played with them, and now it happened, the tiny scrape, the first bloodletting, his mouth suddenly sucking at her tongue with inhuman strength to get the blood, his whole body so full of the thrill of blood that without thinking he was fucking as hard as he could, so fast, so dazzled with sensation in every nerve, filling and withdrawing, pushing her open and letting her close, having the sweet constriction of mortal sex and the first great tang of her blood sliding into him-- blood-- blood--

It happened in a second, her startlement at the sudden strangeness of the sex, and then the smallest instant of terror: she pulled away, a little string of blood and saliva trailing out across her lip and her chin as she fell back to the mattress, her eyes snapping open and seeing his for the first time, the feral burning that could only be death, sulfur yellow, demon yellow, his knowledge seeing her knowledge, his gasp of killer's joy--

He followed her down, followed the curve of their fit, which brought his mouth to her lower neck and his fangs flashed into her throat--

The feeding so great a rush that he could do no more than clench against her, his cock pressed into her furthest reach, his hands cracking her shoulders with their ecstatic clenching; feeling the joint crumple and the ball of some bone crush to powder inside his grip--

...but stop now, whispered the beast.  This isn't it, not yet, not yet... let go now...

Vachon pulled his head away, looking down at the woman he was still fucking.  No, she was not dead, not even entirely comatose, but glazed, not able to feel much or respond--  but make sure, said the whisper in him, make sure.

There had been a time when he had played with pain, felt through the blood what it was like when a mortal struggled to use a broken arm, a ruined joint, felt their will to live through the suffering, knowing that he as the vampire would take it in the end, even the will, that he could swallow all they ever were or had been; he had tasted their excruciations as his pleasures.  Those were his early days, though, and they didn't last because he still had a heart and could not stand the memory of pleasures bought by too much pain.  No matter what he needed, what he loved was women, not their pain...  so he had learned how to be sure:  he had not known elegant words like vertebrae, anoxia, quadriplegia, in the sixteenth century, but found that the cord inside the back, if pressed carefully, could stop the pain.  It took motion from the limbs, true, but he didn't need that as much -- and so, now, in his late twentieth century bed, his thumbs slipped under this woman's back, felt their way up the spine, found a place they knew well, and crushed the bone out of its circle shape, dented the cord with it-- gently, or she'll stop breathing, gently, or she could convulse...

Now he would learn if it had worked.  Now he would have what he could not live without... 

Urs had come running once, feeling the turmoil of this experience in her own blood and not knowing what was happening to her master.  She'd stood shocked and staring at the sight of him after the feeding, the sight of him sated and drowsy and cradling his head on the breast of his lover and kill, still languidly licking a little -- she'd interrupted that, and he'd almost killed her in his rage at being disturbed in his joy. 

Yes now, now, now the greatest joy would come -- he was still inside the long-bodied woman, her blue eyes vacant and uncomprehending but alive and dimly conscious, her cunt still hot; he shifted, and fucked her a little more, just the joy of a hot slick mortal cunt, and now-- he bent his head to her left clavicle, angling his mouth so the tooth touched its ridge, and pressed down.

A rip, and blood to lick.  Not much, not many veins here, but sweet and running free like a dammed creek loosed to its bed....  Tear down the bone to the breastbone, a neat line, a bleeding into the furrow, something to lap up with tongue tip, sweet with her fear now, and the bone standing out white where the tooth had ripped through, visible in small streaks.

Now the fingers followed to the place where the bones met, the cartilage -- bloodless, unappealing -- that hinged them.  Strong vampire fingertips feeling their way into that place and -- one crush, and the clavicle snapped next to the join -- gently, gently, the fingers pressing inward into the heat, the wetness, his mouth, greedy mouth, not able to wait, following to the opening, lapping at the blood that welled out as the fingers explored, enlarging the opening carefully, just a couple inches, just enough to slip delicate long fingers through .... Ribs.  Top rib.  Slender stave, so flexible, and yet -- with two fingers pushing in opposite directions, he bent it against itself and it snapped.  One more rib.  Another snap.  Sharp edges, and the limits of his reach.  Push.  Harder.

It brought a welling of blood to the surface and his head darted down to suck it up; most of the blood was falling inside the body, he knew; pooling in the cavities, the surprising open spaces the body harbored.... blood in his mouth, a gulp, a bit running out the side of his mouth, tongue darting to catch it but some getting away and trickling down to his chin -- he usually hated that, but now the pleasure went over him in a wave, and again his cock answered with a hunger of its own and he indulged in a flurry of pushes in and out of her, though there could be no more of her diligent whore's response of faked pleasure. Her breathing was shallow but slow, and the heart steady and slow -- she was still in a state where she could survive, still lots of natural endurance in reserve...  just what he wanted.  Bring the ribs through.  Press.

He made a pucker in the woman's skin with his left hand, the backs of his fingers resting against her slack breast, so warm and lovely, and used the inside hand to jerk.  This kind of accident happened to mortals.... the sharp, broken ribs came through the skin with a splash of blood his mouth was on immediately, blood from the clavicle still running down the breastbone, blood beginning to get on the skin of his face.  He rubbed his cheek against the blood and arced his cock into the hot sliding below, waves of hot smell releasing, and the heart-pulse was almost next to his fingers.

And now he couldn't wait.  He tore the flesh open over the remaining ribs hastily, his face and chest rubbing in the gore that flooded out, and broke a few more ribs between his teeth -- he had to curl a little to do this but not pull himself out of her cunt, but she was the one, the one with the body long enough for him, the one who could give herself to him this completely, his hips moving him in and out of her slowly, deeply now, his senses aflame, feeling everything, all of her, every warm inch enfolding him, the rubbing of the sheath, the small scratch of her wiry hairs against the base and his mouth finding her innermost fire, the secret she would yield only to him-- 

She was there, his beloved was right there, the blood ebbing and flowing with the heart, the little sac around it exposed, pale and red at once, pulsing, starting to flutter, starting to be in shock from the cold and exposure and at last too many wounds to repair-- and now he began his final kiss, nosing delicately as a cat into the opening he'd made, drawing close, closer, the bridegroom bringing himself to rend the veil -- and her body yawned open to let him slip through, tiny white ovals of rib end showing, and inside, the ribbony thin muscles that held the ribs ranked like the planking of a well-made ship, a ship sailing with treasure, red treasure, ruby of the new world -- reach out, rip the pericardium carefully with tooth-tips, let the sour serum spill away -- and she lies naked to me at last, oh love oh greatest love--

His hands slid under the woman and held her tight as he rolled onto his back, hissing with the pleasure of her weight falling onto him, slack arms and legs seeming to embrace him as they shifted and moved, the ecstasy of enclosure and inundation burning away all other thoughts as he pushed his face completely into the opening he had made, vampire mouth going to the pure wellspring of its immortal joy and his cock still buried deep in her, the weight of her motion a new fucking he answered ecstatically, holding her ass tight to him as his tongue licked at the edges of her heart --

He touched his lips to it, most delicate of kisses, feeling the flutter as the heart began to pulse in rapid, hummingbird beats --the tiny last efforts, tachycardia, its kisses like teases, like begging, do you love me? -- Vachon's consciousness shrank to a single redness, her blood all around him, the severed ribs cradling his cheeks and ears as he brought this sacred kiss to his lover -- yes there is only you only you -- a pulse against the lips against the open mouth against the tongue, the cunt contracting in its death, its tremors the last ecstasy of coming, the heart now hot and fast against his face querida mine mine his eyes opening swimming with blood his mouth opening to kiss --

heart in his mouth, pierced, the ultimate gush, and his cock exploding in her body, pelvis breaking as he came, arms crushing her down on him, convulsing into her as fast as the dying heart shattered itself into him, her blood running out onto him, bathing his body, flooding all his senses with red madness -- sterile seed into dead womb and yet the burning pleasure -- all the men, all her fucks ever, all the cocks in her mouth and cunt, between her breasts between her legs up the ass, can you take us two at a time? one in each that's it baby oh eat me eat me out -- she gave them all to him then and he gave her all that he was or could be, saturating himself with her and screaming with his kill, screaming inside her body half drowned in her blood--

Her name was Cheryl.  Had been Cheryl.  Had been a heart, a cunt, a woman whose mind it had crossed to take all those hundreds of dollars if she could, who didn't mind the weird john with the funky church if there was decent money in it, at least it wasn't a fuck against a grimy alley wall, a cock in her mouth behind a dumpster, plus she kinda liked his hair.  His mouth released her heart now with a last tongued caress, and he lifted his face up toward hers, rolling again to be on top of her, still holding her close.  Her hair fell back to the single pillow and his, as he brought his mouth to hers for a kiss, slid down his shoulders and onto hers, with a greasy red trail marking its passage.

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