D.O.A. Extreme Horror Anthology (15 page)

John hadn’t groomed in quite some time and his thick thatch of pubic hair tickled my nose as my head bobbed up and down the length of his turgid cock. He leaned back against the Dumpster and took my head in his hands. Soon his hips began moving back and forth, his crotch meeting my face in a steadily increasing rhythm, his heavy nuts bouncing against my chin.

I glanced up. John had closed his eyes and was rapidly approaching
la petite mort
—the little death.

Marcel had taught me about
la petite mort
and about
la grande mort
and about
les sperme vampires
—and that blood alone is never enough. He had made me what I am, and for several years I had clung to him like a remora, surviving on his scraps until I learned how to fend for myself. How to hunt, how to feed, and how not to create competition. We’d been—or I thought we’d been—orphaned by the events of the Great Depression, forced to survive on our own when our families could no longer care for us, but I’d later learned of his emigration from France years before the Declaration of Independence was signed and how he’d survived through the years. He had taught me about love, had awakened my sexuality, and had given me an eternal appetite to which I would forever be enslaved.

I’d been wrong about Marcel’s love for me, though, and I soon realized he was using me to satiate his own sexual desire and as bait to satiate his blood lust. Once I could survive on my own I turned on him, driving a stake through his heart three days after the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor as he slept in the basement of an abandoned building in Chicago, love and hatred driving me equally.

Since then I had survived on my own, finding lovers and meals with equal aplomb, rarely distinguishing between the two. There were always men interested in sex without commitment, men who found my youthful appearance enticing and were willing to pay for my companionship, men who came and went without ever comprehending what I really was. There were other men who wanted me exclusively and thought they could save me from life on the streets by taking me into their homes, a situation that only lasted until I felt the hunger and simply left my host or worse, left my host dead.

For many years I had remained in the shadows, unable to pass for an adult, despite my age, and thus unable to avail myself of the simple pleasures of a home address, a motor vehicle, or a bank account. Occasionally I stumbled across others like me who could pass. A few had driven me from their territory; a few others had encouraged me to move along by offering contacts to the underground world of forgers, petty thieves, and information brokers. By the time William Jefferson Clinton took the oath of office, I had established legitimate bank accounts and had a small, but steady, income from my investments. Even so, I still had no easy way to satiate my sexual desire or slake my thirst. My physical appearance prevented my admission to the nightspots, the bathhouses, and the private clubs that men of a certain sexual proclivity were known to frequent. I was forced by circumstance to troll the streets, taking risks that might otherwise have been unnecessary, in my search for food and fulfillment.

John wrapped his thick fingers in my hair, holding the back of my head as his cock slid in and out of my oral cavity. As his nutsack slapped against my chin, I stroked the sensitive bit of skin between his scrotum and his anus, causing him to moan with pleasure. When my temporary lover’s rhythm suddenly increased and I knew he wouldn’t last much longer, I pressed the tip of my middle finger against the tight pucker of his sphincter and pushed, driving it deep into him.

As John’s cock throbbed with orgasm and he came in my mouth, the scent of his testosterone overpowered my senses and I sank my canines into his dorsal arteries. I sucked hard. His cum and his blood mixed in the back of my throat and I swallowed again and again and again.

The orgasm clouded his mind, and the unexpected rush of blood to his groin further weakened John. He didn’t realize what was happening until it was too late. When he did, he tried to pull away. My razor-sharp teeth tore at his cock, ripping open the arteries and veins, allowing his blood to flow freely, so fast that I couldn’t swallow it all and it leaked from the corners of my mouth onto John’s jeans and the pavement below.

He began to struggle and tried to kick his legs, so I wrapped my arms around his thighs, holding him tight. He punched the top of my head so hard he might have broken a knuckle or two, but I had been hit before, many times and by men far stronger than John. He hit me a second time and then a third and a fourth, but his ineffectual blows grew progressively weaker as he rapidly lost blood and slowly collapsed to the filthy pavement of the dark alley.

I could have stopped sucking at any time and left John just enough life to become like me, but I didn’t. I was hungry—malnourished because I had not eaten in weeks—and I sucked him until he stopped struggling. By then he was completely drained and my belly was so distended from all his blood that I had to unbutton my tight pants.

But I wasn’t finished. I needed something from John that I could never get from a woman.

I took his nutsack into my mouth and clamped my front teeth together, sawing them back and forth until I snipped his sack free. Then I reached in my mouth, pulling out the hairy scrotum as I sucked the nuts free from the flesh sack. I tossed his flaccid scrotum aside and pushed one testicle into each cheek, making me look like a bloody gothic chipmunk.

As I chewed, I emptied John’s wallet, removing $137 and a pre-paid long distance telephone card. Then I stood, swallowed, and picked a long, curly hair from between my teeth.

For
les sperme vampire
, blood is never enough.

The Bogeyman’s Key

Calie Voorhis

The key throbbed in Clark’s hand as he stood over Melissa, fast asleep in her bed. A poster of Mia Hamm glared at him from over the oak bed like she knew what he was getting ready to do. A row of old teddy bears stared back from their wall shelf, each black-beaded eye fixed on him. The room smelled of dirty gym clothes, strawberry lotion, and a faint hint of stale smoke. Melissa had been sneaking his cigarettes again.

Melissa snored once, then rolled onto her back.

Clark started and a vein began to beat in his temple. He waited a tense moment to see if she’d wake up and wondered what Melissa would think if she saw him standing over her. The old-fashioned skeleton key vibrated in his palm, the copper in the metal staining his skin green.

Only a dream, what he was about to do, Clark told himself. Not like he would ever do it in real life. He wasn’t like
that
.

No, he was like his father. Shame flushed his cheeks, but he battered the feeling down into the pit of his stomach. Dreams weren’t real. His memories of running endlessly away from the beast that had chased him had never
really
happened.

Dreams were just like the Internet, like the pictures of the girls who were legally eighteen but looked younger in their tight pink dresses. True, Melissa was only sixteen, but her body told him she wanted it as much as he did. Those breasts pointed at him when she came down to breakfast in the morning. Her nipples taunted him over his coffee.

At least she wasn’t his daughter, not really. A foster-child was completely different.

It wouldn’t hurt her. She’d be dreaming. It would be his fantasy.

With a gasp of anticipation, Clark took the key his father had left him and pressed it against Melissa’s forehead with a shaking hand. At first, her skin resisted, then with a pop the key sank deep as it melded with the dreamworld. He turned the key and opened the lock of her mind. A tunnel opened up before him, swirling gray into a void, like smoke sucked in through a straw. Clark reached out a finger. A sensation like grease coated first his finger, then his hand. The cold crept over his arms, covering his body. Clark fell whirling into Melissa’s dream.

The soccer field glowed green under a hot afternoon sun. The roar of the crowd beat at Clark as the blue team barreled down the field towards the goal. Melissa had the ball, streaking ahead of the rest of the pack of girls. Her scowl of exertion couldn’t hide the pure joy on her face. Melissa faked to the inside then cut past the last defender. Her auburn hair bobbed, catching the rays of the sun to gleam red, then brown again as she passed into the shade of a cloud.

The faces of the cheering parents were blurry in the dream mist, except for two Clark recognized from the creased picture Melissa carried everywhere with her. Her real father pumped a fist in the air as Melissa swerved to keep the ball, while her mother stood with her arms crossed, face tight, as if she could will her strength to her daughter.

Melissa scored. It was her dream, after all.

Clark’s cock pressed against his jeans. His chest tightened. It had become hard for him to breathe, now that he was here. Melissa’s face looked so young, so innocent. His cock softened.

He concentrated, tightening his eyes as he took control. The crowd vanished. The teams wavered out of existence. Melissa’s father turned towards her and her mom reached out a hand, but Clark forced their memory away until only Melissa and the soccer ball remained, along with the scent of fresh-mown grass, and girl sweat.

“Hello, Melissa.” He walked towards her, at first each step a hesitation. As he gained confidence, he took the time to tighten his paunch, rippling the muscles to the structured cut of a weight-lifter, so that his t-shirt clung to his chest. His feet sank into the soft grass and the sun rested hot on his shoulders. The sense of power had him throbbing with need.

She stopped the soccer ball under a grimy sneaker and looked up at him, curiosity tightening the corners of her eyes.

“Hi.” She picked up the soccer ball and bounced it off her knee. “Want to play with me?” Her stained soccer jersey fell past her waist, and her blue shorts sagged down her thighs.

That wouldn’t do, Clark thought, even as his heart clenched at her trust. He made a small adjustment, replacing the worn-out shoes with a set of bright red pumps, changing the knee-high socks and shorts to a mini-skirt and thigh-high stockings. With the adult garments, she looked younger, he thought. His cock bounced free as he let his worn clothes vanish. After a moment’s consideration, he adjusted the size.

Her eyebrows tightened, forming a small set of wrinkles over her nose. Clark could see the future, how those small shifts of skin would one day form crags in her face. He smoothed them away with a thrust of thought.

Her body was all he could have asked for, all he’d hoped for through long nights lying sleepless next to his cold wife. Puzzlement opened her eyes wide. Her hand flew to her mouth. She hesitated when their eyes met and Clark knew she could see what was coming. He held out his arms.

Melissa ran, clumsy in the tight skirt. The heels of her pumps foundered in the grass. The combination made her awkward and banged her hips from side to side as she struggled to keep her balance. The faster she ran, the slower Clark let her move, until she was right before him again.

A rip of her blouse bared her breasts to him, the pink aureoles exposed. Clark took her there, on the soccer field of her dreams.

She screamed, beating at him with useless fists. He turned her scream into a moan of passion, and her fists into a clutching hug.

When she tried to draw away, he made her respond. Her hands caressed his smooth face, the acne pits banished in the dream.

She struggled to keep her legs tight together. Clark felt a rush of power as he made her arch her back in welcome, spread her legs wide for his convenience.

His concentration slipped as he plunged into her.

Melissa raked his shoulders with short fingernails as she tried to scrabble away, her face twisted.

Clark forced her to wrap her legs around him. She cooed into his ear, a soft, “yes.”

He drove into her, until his need was satiated in a rush of exultation, making sure she quivered around him in her own release. In that respect, he wasn’t like his father.

The day chilled around him. Clark looked down at Melissa. Shards of horror peered out from behind her eyes, even as she rubbed his back and hummed with pleasure. Clark raised himself off her and staggered back. He needed to go.

Clark visualized the key, then fell into the grass and seeped through the cold earth, back into the reality of Melissa’s bedroom.

Clark twisted the key. It slid out from Melissa’s forehead with a soft pop. As he turned to leave the room—his pajama bottoms sticking to his crotch from his dream ejaculation—he heard her whimper. He glanced back as he shut the door. Melissa had curled in on herself, clutching her spare pillow like a teddy bear. Her eyes were clamped shut. Her feet kicked at an unseen foe, small waves rippled under the blankets, and her thin hands gripped the worn fur.

Clark blundered down the hallway and back to his own bed with a hot flush in his face and a pit in his stomach. It was just a dream, he tried telling himself. She wouldn’t remember it in the morning.

At breakfast, Melissa wouldn’t meet his gaze, already dressed in her school uniform, no bra-less sleep shirt for her this morning. Across the battered breakfast table, she hid from him by concentrating on her bowl of cereal.

A pity, Clark thought. A memory of last night, of how tight she’d been, made him shift in his seat. How much did she remember?

“Sleep all right?” 

Melissa’s ponytail bounced, but she gave no other reaction that she’d heard him for a few seconds. “I slept fine.” She began to shovel cereal into her mouth.

Clark watched her mouth close over the spoon. Tiny, kitten lips, he thought and an image of the night ahead flew through his head, sending his thoughts spinning away, even as he promised himself it wouldn’t happen again.

The day passed in the usual routine, sitting in his assigned gray cubicle with the gray cloth-covered walls, eating his peanut-butter and strawberry jelly sandwich, scribbling the same words he’d scribbled a thousand times on the same forms, just like every other day. But all he thought about was the key, weighing down his polyester-blend pants. The key and his father.