Black Mini





He likes me to stand, waiting for him.  In a dark room, usually.

Wearing something not too expensive, but definitely sexy... whatever was a

bargain at Frederick's of Hollywood.  Sometimes I wear  street

clothes I wouldn't be caught dead wearing on the streets, sometimes it's

lingerie, something lacy.  Yesterday was typical.

I decided to be a little daring.  I wore a black mini-dress, cotton,

with an oh-so-low cut that showed off my best features.  And I didn't wear

any underwear; the dress would've made that pretty obvious up front if I didn't

wear my old friendly leather jacket over it.  I've had it for three years, now,

and I guess, really, it's my best friend.  My armor against the world,

especially if otherwise I'm dressed like a two-bit whore.  In my gym bag I had

sensible clothes: bra and panties, boots and jeans and a t-shirt.

I took the bus down, ignoring the occasional looks I got from people.

My legs were showing, but they aren't that attractive... not bad, just okay.

The jacket stopped people from noticing me too much.  When I got of the C-4

and walked the three blocks to his house, it  was a different story.  He lives

in a very nice neighborhood, and I looked a little cheap, I guess.  Maybe more

than a little.  Still, he's never told me to take the back entrance or

anything.

I strolled up to the gate, and let myself in with the key, the largest

one on my ring.  It's one of those old fashioned kind, like way old-fashioned,

a big iron .  It always gives me a little quake when I close the gate

behind me, 'cause it shrieks something awful, and it's no secret why.  Lots of

rust.  I should offer to do something about that, I guess, but when I arrive I

can't wait, and when I'm on my way out I don't feel like doing any work.  I

could sneak by some day that we don't have an 'appointment', I guess.

The walkway to his house has one of those trellis like things, that

means the whole thing is kind of shadowed over with ivy.  This is where I get

my most nervous, but the gate is shut behind me; there's no sense in me having

come this far if I wasn't going to go the whole way.  I walked up to the door

of the house itself and it wasn't locked.  It never is when I come, I think

he does that because he can't let me in himself.  Or maybe it's just that he

won't.  I slipped inside.

The foyer was dark but that's not where he likes to take me, it's

always the special room.  I walked down the long hall, opened the second door

on the right, into a black black room.  No windows at all.  There was a little

light shed in from the hallway, and I shrugged out of my jacket, letting it

lie on the floor outside, the keys that I stored in the right pocket making a

clunking sound as the jacket hit the floor..  It wasn't lack of value that

stopped me from hanging it up properly, it was trust.  That jacket would always

be around for me, it could take a little lying on the floor.  And I wanted it

with me 'till the last possible moment.  The gym bag joined it on the floor.  I

walked into the room and shut the door behind me.  I knew, from past

experience, that the room had no furniture, nothing for me to bump into while

my eyes adjusted to the the lack of light.

He likes me to stand, so I stood there in the middle, balancing on

three inch high spikes.  I don't usually wear them, but he asked.  It's

something I can do for him, so I do it.  Still, it's hard.  I didn't know how

long I was going to wait, sometimes it's been two minutes, sometimes an hour.

An hour can be a long time to stand and wait on heels.  I wasn't wearing a

watch, and time doesn't mean a lot in a room in which nothing happens except

slowly feeling your joints start to stiffen and your ankles getting sore from

abuse.

There was a side door to the room, that I never looked towards.  The

first few times, I glanced over, but now, I just made a point of looking

towards one of the other three walls.  Not that I could see much, anyway.

The door opened.  I heard it, just a few instants before I felt him on

me, his claws on my shoulders, his weight pushing me down to the floor

instantly.  His strength was overwhelming, the suddenness intoxicating.

I stumbled, hitting the floor hard, rolling a little to take the fall

on the flesh of my thigh rather than my knee or my hip.  His claws bit into me,

just a little prick here and there, as he ripped my thirty dollar dress to

shreds.  The air on my naked body was cool, but that wasn't all that was

making my nipples harden.  It certainly had little to do with the wetness that

was growing between my legs.  I tried to crawl away on my hands and knees, but

my moves were so very slow compared to his.

I felt his cock, hard, touching the lips of my sex and poised to enter

me.  I knew I was supposed to be prey, let him chase me, but at that touch I

no longer felt the strength to pretend I could get away.  Those instincts

failed me, and others took over, as I tried to settle on to him.  But he was

having no settling, and came in hard and fast.  A gasp was forced from my lips.

This was how he always took me, how I always dreamed about it

afterwards, satisfying his own passion first, using me.  He fucked me hard,

forcing be down the the floor, and all the sensations flooded me, the ache in

my knees on the hard floor, my breasts squashed and cold, his claws on my back,

the hot wet feel of blood flowing from where they bit into me, and most of all

the cock inside me, rubbing against my walls.  It wasn't that it was huge, or

long, or thick.  It was that he was so god awful strong, his thrusting so

violent, that I felt I was going to be ripped in two.  In a good way.

That was just the beginning, as his movements became faster, more

animal.  I almost never came this way, but all the problems, all my thoughts

went away.  My head was spinning and there was only the immediate present, all

of life was physical, all of it centered on my cunt and the inhumanly fast

thrusting and the balls bouncing against my clit.  Each time he took me I was

provided with a memory that combined with my fingers later to provide enough

orgasms to satisfy anyone.

His sharp fingers held my ass cheeks apart, exposing my asshole to him.

The first time he did that, I was horrified, afraid that his claw would be

inside me and I would be torn apart from the inside... and later, that was the

stuff of fantasies.  But he just held me open, exposing me at my most

vulnerable, and his cock started to shake like a high-powered vibrator.  Soon,

hot seed was pouring into me, filling my pussy and dripping wetly down my leg

as he gave me a gentle push so that I came off him.  A moan escaped my lips,

of frustration and need.

"Take what you need," came his voice, very low.  It was all he said

anymore, all I needed to hear from him.  I slowly gathered myself off the

floor, wet with my sweat and other juices too, and turned towards him, kneeling

even as he was kneeling.  My cunt ached, claiming it's need to come, but I knew

better.  That wasn't what I really needed.

I held myself from him for just a moment, waiting for him to do what

needed to be done, and then leaned forward, on my hands and knees again, moving

to kiss his neck.  There, his claws had punctured his own skin, and hot dark

liquid was starting to flow from the fresh wound.  There was no color in the

darkness, only shading, dark blood on pale skin, and my lips bent to taste of

him.

My tongue touched the hot salty dampness, licking along the trail until

I reached the source.  He tasted of steel and salt and fire, and this was all I

needed.  I clamped my mouth around the wound and let it flow into me, let it

drip at its own pace onto my gum and tongue, swallowed as it welled up inside

my mouth.  I nursed the hot blood from him, making it run down my throat, and

felt alive.  He would not push me away from  this  pleasure.  I gave him the

illusion of the hunt, and he gave me the life, the blood.

I drank until I had my fill, and he was weak on the floor, spent and

tired.  The next month I would come back, drawn by the blood that meant that I

would never grow old.  Drawn by the drug, and the memories. I kissed him,

gently, on the lips, with my bloody mouth, and he responded slightly.

I didn't like to see him this way, so weak.  I always wanted to imagine

him strong and vital.  I got to my feet, my body sore from the pounding it had

taken.  "Love you," I said, and walked towards the door, the heels clicking on

the floor.  There was no response.  I didn't look back, it would cost me too

much when I was alone and remembering later.  I opened the door as little as I

needed to, and slipped out naked and messy into the hall.  It seemed almost

bright in the pale light there.

The bathroom was across the hall, and I washed up as quickly as I

could, splashing cold water on my face to get rid of the blood.  I got dressed

in the hall.  It felt good to be in sensible clothes again, it felt damn good

to toss those ridiculous spiked heels into the gym bag  and slip my feet into

my nice well worn boots.  Still, small price to pay for immortality.  My jacket

on, I ran out into the light to catch the C-4 home.  Next time... oh.  There

was an aching between my thighs that still wanted to be satisfied.  But I sure

didn't want to be around when he started moving again.

I hoped that I could find a secluded seat on the bus.

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