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Message-ID: <30786asstr$992304602@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "alancmcd" <alancmcd@lineone.net>
Subject: {ASSM} Cradle Snatcher (1/1) (MF, semi-consensual, horror, shock ending).
Date: Mon, 11 Jun 2001 20:10:03 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

ADULTS ONLY

Hello again.

This is an updated version of an earlier story. Hope it finds favour.

Please don't publish elsewhere without clearing it with me. Comments
very welcome at alancmcd@lineone.net.

Have a nice day. And watch "Deterrence". It's superb. Read some Sven,
too. I did, and I grew this thing. Er....

"Put me on a highway.

Show me a sign.

And take it to the limit one more time."

       THE EAGLES

CRADLE SNATCHER
By Alan C. McDonald

"You could take me home and fuck me", she said.

And Dominic wanted to. There was no doubting that. The girl was an
absolute doll. Five four, long and straight black hair, big green eyes.
Lips with gloss so pink and luminous that they seemed liquid. Pert,
elfin nose. Slim, equine neck. A babe.

The words had been delivered directly into his ear on a wisp of warm
breath. She was on tiptoe, her fingers touching the back of his hand as
though to provide herself with an illusion of support. At the points of
contact, his flesh tingled. He remembered Linda, and leaned back, half
hoping that he'd discourage interest with his body language. Half hoping
that he wouldn't.

And he didn't. Despite the increased distance, the girl's fingers stayed
in place.

"Wish I could", he told her, his voice catching a little. "Really wish I
could." He let his eyes wander down her body for perhaps the fiftieth
time, noting again her slender waist and broad hips, the way that the
crotch of her tight black cotton pants undulated over her pubic bone,
dipping into a tantalising hint of a vee between her legs. The trousers
matched black, low heeled, patent leather shoes and contrasted with a
bright pink blouse, open to two buttons, revealing a broad expanse of
creamy flesh. He didn't get the impression that her breasts were large,
but they were high and proud. Which, unfortunately, was the way he
preferred them. Unfortunately, because she was arousing him, and he
couldn't afford to be aroused. He'd only just got back with Linda after
a difficult period, and he believed that he needed to work at the
relationship rather than undermine it.

The girl raised an eyebrow, a wonderfully teasing gesture. "And you
can't because?", she wondered, sing song.

"Because, miss, I'm a married man", he told her sternly.

"Martine", she corrected, raising her shoulders a little, subconsciously
presenting herself to him. "Although I do like miss. You're very polite.
And I like married men. More experience."

"Added to which", he strove on bravely, "you're a little too young for
me."

That wasn't necessarily true. She looked about nineteen, and he was only
eight years older than that. But it served to place a barrier between
them, and he felt that he needed all the barriers he could get.

He tried to remember how he'd got into this position. It was difficult.

Linda had come back only two weeks ago after a long affair. Well, a
series of affairs actually, but he'd only found out about the others
because of the last one. He'd confronted her with it after being told by
a friend. She'd responded by shrugging her shoulders, admitting that
she'd been shagging around for years and announcing her intention to
leave on the spot. To go and live with the wonderful Bill. But the
wonderful Bill had not been quite as wonderful as she'd expected. He
was, she soon discovered, a morbid drunk. And he was only a few short
steps from bankruptcy. Nonetheless she'd stuck it out, obstinately, for
six months. Dominic had continued to plead and beg, to abase himself.
Eventually, he'd won. She'd returned to him.

But there were to be ground rules. She'd continue to go out, on her own,
with the girls, on Friday nights, and he would neither complain nor
follow her. In return, she'd promise to behave herself. She'd learned
her lesson, and he'd simply have to trust her. She had friends, he must
understand. She wouldn't be shamed in front of them. He, for his part,
would be freed on Saturday nights. It would be good for their
relationship that he should meet new people. It might stop him being so
stuck in a rut. So unimaginative. So, although she didn't use the word,
boring.

Today was the first of those Saturdays, and Linda had told him quite
firmly that she didn't expect him back until two AM. Which, at least
after the pubs had closed, had limited his options to nightclubs,
because none of his few friends could invite him back. All of them had
loving partners.

The club he'd chosen, the Sundial, was the nearest to home, but it was
still a twenty minute taxi ride from it. He'd entered unhappily, had
bought a high priced pint, and had made his way to the edge of the dance
floor. Only then had he taken his bearings.

The other men here varied widely in age. Some were younger than he was,
some older, fifty per cent around the same age. But the girls were all
in their late teens or early twenties, showing more flesh in most cases
than a red blooded man could be expected to have to look at for too long
without taking a cold shower. Dominic had given the observation about
five minutes, watching the dance floor, then, sensing his blood pressure
rising, had turned to cast an eye over the darker part of the club.

Martine was standing two feet away, leaning against a post. She seemed
to be staring directly at him. He looked away, embarrassed, but was soon
conscious that her own gaze continued remorselessly. So he'd turned back
to her.

"Hi", he'd said, unsure of how to approach a very unusual situation.
"I'm Dominic." She'd grinned, making him think of her momentarily as a
pixie.

"Hi, Dominic", she'd replied, her voice clear and light over the
pounding disco rhythm. Just that. Nothing else. After which, she'd
simply carried on staring at him. Frankly. He wasn't good at reading
invitations from girls to show a little interest, but this was pretty
direct. It really seemed that she was attracted to him.

He waited a little longer, disorientated. Then, after a few seconds,
he'd become a little irritated at the discomfort she was causing him.

"Can I do something for you?", he had asked.

And that was when she'd made her brazen offer. Now, she was pressing it.
"Why am I too young?", she wanted to know. "I'm quite some years over
the age of consent, that much I can assure you about."

Again, he was amazed at the clarity of her voice over the loud
background of music and talk. "I haven't got a place to take you to,
Martine", he argued weakly. "Married men have those sorts of problems."

Again, she demolished the obstruction easily. "That's alright", she
said. "I've got somewhere I can take you."

He knew that he was beginning to weaken. The heat of her sweet breath on
his cheek was an aphrodisiac. Already, he was uncomfortable below
stairs. And her limpid eyes were intoxicating, holding him, and
imprisoning him.

He started to rationalise, to clear a way through his morals. Linda had
indulged herself, hadn't she? That was what the whole crisis had been
about. So. Didn't she owe him this? Didn't he need, in some way, to
balance out her sin? Wouldn't this make things better, give them a
greater chance? Because he would have been there. He would be able to
share her guilt. Rather than resenting the things she had done.

Perhaps Martine read his change of mood, and was giving him a final
push. Or perhaps she really was getting impatient with him. Whatever her
reason, she was suddenly clear. "Last chance. Train's leaving."

He grinned. "Where's it leaving to, Martine?", he asked cagily.

She studied him. Cocked her head to one side, again reminding him of a
pixie or an elf. Then she said, "Come and make me happy." And she turned
and walked away. No handbag, he noted incongruously. And found that odd.

He followed her of course. He tried to tell himself that he did so
because he was curious, not for sex. But he knew that he hadn't decided
yet how far he would allow that curiosity to take him. He realised that
for the first time in a number of years, his immediate future was
intriguing and unpredictable.

Martine moved quickly, but prettily, her shapely rear sashaying a path
between the bar and the dance floor, then through the foyer. She didn't
pause to collect a coat, but unlike the absence of the handbag, this
omission didn't surprise him, because it was a very warm night. She
looked back briefly to make sure that he too had nothing to collect,
then breezed through the main doorway.

When he arrived on the pavement, breathless, she was waiting for him,
cool, serene and smiling. Instantly, she slipped her fingers into his
and steered him left, in the opposite direction to his home. Her grip
was dry, but warm and strong.

They had only walked for a couple of hundred yards when she attracted
the attention of a cab driver. He held the car door for her, and she
slid in gracefully, but didn't move over, forcing him to walk around the
vehicle and get in the other side. He had an illogical suspicion that
the cab would drive away, that the last thing he would see of her would
be her laughing face in the rear window.

But that didn't happen. In fact, by the time he joined her in the car,
matters had progressed. She'd apparently already given the man a
destination, because he pulled away from the kerb without a word.

Sliding across the seat, she snuggled close, her breath raising the
hairs on his neck. He wondered if she wanted him to kiss her, and
decided to find out.

She most certainly did want that. As soon as he turned and lifted her
chin, she responded eagerly, her lips gluing to his. Her tongue snaked
into his mouth, sweet and thick like some exotic fruit. He embraced her
gently, lost in her musky, intoxicating scent.

The kiss, and the journey, seemed to last forever. At some point, he
brought a hand up from her waist to cup her left breast, loosening one
button of her blouse and snaking his fingers past it. She wore no bra,
and he felt the heat and weight and firmness with joy. It was a young
girl's breast, haughty and full; the nipple was big and already
stiffening and throbbing against his palm.

Martine broke the kiss, let her head loll back, her breathing deepening.
Her hair spread across his shoulder, settling sensuously and softly
against his neck. But soon she turned her head slightly, lips parted,
wanting to kiss again. He  turned a little too, and this time the
contact was tender. Her tongue traced a line along his lips, and he met
it with his own. He trailed his fingers in her hair whilst she caressed
the back of his head. Warm breath mingled.

After about a minute, she started to open his shirt. He made to object
in case the taxi driver saw what was going on, but the kiss kept him
spellbound and helpless. In any event, she stopped after three buttons,
and slid her hand inside to torment his nipple between the tips of her
fingers, quickly and efficiently making it stiffen. Then she played in
his chest hair for a time before moving the hand down, out of his shirt,
over his stomach. Without apparent concern over what might be visible in
the rear view mirror, she closed her fingers gently around his balls,
stroked them with the pads of her fingers.

Instantly, he was stiff. In fact, he couldn't recall being stiffer. His
erection pulsated, raged against the confines of his zip. As her small
hand squeezed and tormented him through the fabric of his jeans, he
lifted slightly, unable to help himself. Occasionally she traced a
finger down the entrapped length of his cock, and that made him shiver.
There were times when he thought he might just come there and then, in
the back of a slowly moving taxi, squirting his juice into the waistband
of his boxer shorts. Her touch was insistent and wise, and dominated
him; so much so that he couldn't concentrate on anything else, couldn't
give her anything back.

Eventually, but without warning, she pulled away, her lips leaving his
again, her hand drifting from his groin. "Stop here, driver", she said.
"Here's fine."

The car pulled in. Dominic struggled into his pocket for money, but
there was no need. Martine was already sorting that side of things out.

He was embarrassed. "What do I owe you?", he asked, while she waited for
her change.

She looked at him for a moment. Her eyelids were heavy, and so was her
breathing. It was clear that she was almost as aroused as he was.
"Payment in kind", she breathed. "That'll do fine."

He stepped out on to the street. He couldn't have hoped to hide the
stalk bulging from his groin, but fortunately there was no one about.
Martine summoned him to the pavement, grasped his hand.

He hadn't followed the journey in either direction or time, and didn't
know exactly where he was. So he took a look around. Martine, he
realised, did not live in one of the most sought after residential parts
of town. He'd passed through this area in his car; a square mile of
tatty high-rise blocks of flats, all daubed with graffiti. Suddenly, he
didn't feel very safe.

He was glad, therefore, that they were not out in the open for too long.
Martine pulled him towards a short path, which cut through a grass
verge. At the end of the path was a doorway, which led into one of the
monolithic buildings. She opened the door with an enormous bunch of
keys, which she produced from somewhere inside her skirt, and then she
led him into a hallway.

It was not a pleasant hallway. It smelled musty, with hints of old food
and stale urine. The walls were plaster and painted a vile shade of
green. The door at the far end, which presumably led to ground floor
flats, was halfway off its hinges.

Progress up was by way of stairs or either of two lifts. Martine
summoned one of them with the press of an illuminated, arrowed button.
Machinery ground, but the carriage took a while to arrive.

Martine didn't speak while they waited, and Dominic couldn't think of
anything useful or chatty to say, so he contented himself with watching
the numbers slowly fall on the lighted panel above him. The building, he
saw, had eighteen floors.

The lift arrived, admitted them. It was a dull metal box with a strip
light, and like the hallway, it held an unpleasant odour. Dominic had
little doubt that it was used on a regular basis as a toilet.

Martine pressed the button which would take them to floor thirteen then,
once the doors slid shut, she attacked him again, one hand cupping his
balls with just a little too much force, the other hauling him down by
the back of the neck into another kiss, this one of the passionate kind.

Her urgency restored his full swollen glory. His tool felt like an iron
bar. His tongue delved into the well of hers, tasting her sweetness and
youth. Relishing her youth. Because he was no longer concerned about how
young she was. And he was no longer concerned about Linda. He just
wanted to fuck. He just wanted to feel the warm, cloying flesh of
Martine's cunt slither along his aching erection, ultimately to spurt
his seed into this eager girl's womb.

The lift jerked to a halt with such force that it knocked him off
balance, broke the kiss, and made her accidentally squeeze his testicles
a little harder, though thankfully not hard enough to hurt. She led him
into a musty corridor, where the odours he associated with a damp
building assaulted his already abused nostrils. If there was intended to
be any illumination here, he decided, then clearly it wasn't
functioning, but in the half light cast by a small window to his left,
he could see two doors, one on each side of the corridor. Glancing to
his right, he made out another two.

And right was the direction she chose, guiding him up to one of those
doors. It looked insecure within its frame, and of very light
construction. Dark paint was peeling around the lock, revealing a white
surface beneath. She released him for a moment so that she could
magically produce her keys again. Having done so, she assaulted the
lock. Clearly she experienced some difficulties, because it took a lot
of pulling and pushing and maneouvring before he heard a click and they
were able to enter the flat.

Inside, he was relieved to discover, things were nowhere near so bad as
outside. Martine had flicked a light switch, revealing a short hall
furnished only with a dark wood stand topped by a substantial
aspidistra. The wallpaper was only anaglypta, but it had been painted a
welcoming pink, and there was a pleasant floral border about two feet up
from the skirting board.

Two doors led off to the left. He was ushered past the first, which was
open, and through which he noted briefly a compact but tidy kitchen. The
second was closed, but he guessed it would lead into the bathroom.

She took him through the only door on the right, into a lounge. A second
door exited this room on the other side, and was slightly ajar. Through
that, he could see the back end of a bed. Martine followed his eyes.
Then she squeezed his arm.

The sexual tension between them now overwhelmed all else. Consumed by
it, he reached for her, but she discouraged him momentarily with a
gesture, directing him to sit down on a maroon two-seater sofa lodged
beneath the accommodation's main window. Obediently, he took a seat,
making sure that she registered his disappointment. She did, and smiled
at him, surprisingly shyly for her.

"I'll only be a minute", she said. "I promise." And then she disappeared
into the bedroom.

He waited. In an effort to diminish the discomfort of his desire, he
assessed his surroundings.

As with the entry hall, the lounge showed evidence of both good taste
and a meagre budget. On the walls, anaglypta again, this time painted
yellow. Another floral border. Two easy chairs, matching the sofa. A
small TV set, with video attached. A dining table, old but polished,
with three non-matching dining chairs. Tiny ornaments, cats and dragons
mainly, distributed on just about every flat surface. A gas fire, with a
soft white rug laid in front of it. A bookcase, full of well-used
paperbacks, amongst which Stephen King was well represented, as was
Patricia Cornwell.

He heard Martine singing softly to herself and tried to identify the
tune, but couldn't. It was, he supposed, something way too modern for
him to have heard on Radio Two.

She took her time, and despite his efforts to calm down, the combination
of memory and anticipation kept him uncomfortably hard. He needed to
adjust the angle of his erection on three occasions.

After about five minutes, he hit on another scheme, which he hoped might
moderate his libido. There was a mirror over the fire. He stood, and
reviewed himself in it. Because Martine was no doubt "getting ready",
the least he could do in return was to ensure that his hair was tidy.

The idea was a good one, because his ardour started to dissipate as soon
as he saw himself. Instead of lust, his head was suddenly full of
questions. Questions like, why on earth had this girl fastened on to him
in this way? Dominic analysed the reflection carefully, guessed that
even his own mother would not have viewed him as a person capable of
attracting someone like Martine. His hair was receding, and there were
enough lines around his eyes and mouth to advertise his age. His
shoulders were slumped from months of worry, and his blue eyes were a
little duller than he remembered. He wasn't running to fat yet, which
was a good thing, and there was no grey in his moustache, which was
always a dead giveaway. But Martine could not possibly have looked at
him, even in the gloom of a nightclub, and mistaken him for any younger
than he was.

He shrugged the weak shoulders. Perhaps she was mildly perverted. But in
truth, there was no value in speculation. His lack of understanding was
unlikely to be remedied, either tonight or in the future. Excitement was
there to be enjoyed, not challenged.

She called him, and he went to her obediently. His mood of low
self-esteem compelled him to that obedience, as did resurging lust.

The first thing he noted was that the bedroom, like the other rooms, was
pleasantly maintained. It included inbuilt wardrobes, subdued lighting
and a double bed with a luxurious top cover, predominantly pink but
carrying a light, intricate floral design.

The most interesting thing about the cover, though, was that Martine was
lying on top of it. Clearly she didn't plan any slow build up. Which
suited Dominic just fine.

She had indeed, as the saying goes, changed into something more
comfortable. The something was a short black satin negligee which toured
her strong, nut-brown thighs at least an inch above the knee. It was
fastened by a sash at the waist, and the position which she had adopted,
propped up on her left elbow, meant that the swell of her right breast
almost as far as the nipple was on show. Her eyes were bright. Her smile
was relaxed, and heavy with invitation. It seemed that, finally, she
expected him to take some control.

But he was confused. Sex with Linda followed a routine. How did he
approach a girl with whom he had never been intimate? His youth was too
far behind him for him to extract any guidance from it.

She gave him a moment or two, then seemed to understand his predicament.
"Get undressed", she instructed gently.

Well, that was a start, he supposed. An embarrassing one, potentially.
But a start, and he was grateful to her for it.

He opened his shirt to three buttons, hauling it over his head. Then he
removed his shirt, socks and pants. Only then did he look at her again,
standing for her inspection.

"Those too", she said, indicating his maroon briefs.

He slid them down, noting as he did so that his body, like him, was
responding to Martine a little nervously. There was heaviness in his
cock, but it wasn't erect. The maroon glans peered out warily, nudging
only a quarter of the way past the protection of the pink foreskin.

Martine, he realised, was studying the same part of him. He waited, let
her do so, and in being observed he found that the problem started to
cure itself. She nodded, as though deciding favourably on a potential
purchase, then she let her eyes wander, taking in the rest of him.

"Is madame satisfied?", he asked, momentarily brave enough to tease her.

She held out her arms. "Very nice", she complimented him. "Bring it
here."

He moved to join her on the bed, and she skipped under his arm, her lips
meeting his in a soft, luxurious kiss. From the start of it, her tongue
flirted with his teeth and squirmed along his gums. He let his body burn
against her soft skin, trailed rolls of her hair between his fingers,
and breathed in her clean, floral scent. It wasn't very long at all
before his erection was thick and strong, straining to the pulse in her
pubic bone. He played his fingers in her hair a little longer, and then
grew more adventurous, trailing them down her ribs, over her lower back,
across her ample rear. She shivered with delight, and his travels
consequently became more reckless.

He danced his hand into the surge of her belly, then out of it into a
wispy forest of pubic hair. He broke the kiss to look at her face,
wanting to study her when he delved into the warmth between her thighs.
But Martine had an agenda of her own, which involved swifter progress.
Her big eyes bore into him, intense and hopeful.

"Go down there", she whispered. "Please."

Her meaning was clear, but it was something he rarely did. Linda wasn't
a particular fan of it, at least not with him, and neither was he, at
least with her, because the taste of her was never predictable. He did,
though, harbour good memories of old girlfriends, and Martine was about
the same age as they had been, then. So why not? She had, after all,
asked so nicely.

He slid down her body, tacking his tongue between the bunched muscles of
her neck and shoulders, inhaling that perfume again, a fragrance so
breathtakingly, intoxicatingly sexy that it made his head spin. Down and
down, her body lifting and undulating beneath his quest. He missed her
breasts, a joy for later, but tormented her navel, tasting the salt from
the sheen of sweat that was beginning to appear on her skin. Past the
sharpness of her hipbones, detouring to the smooth meat of her right
buttock, returning over the tautness of her raised thigh.

Her legs were long and brown and smooth. Desperate now to find out what
lay between them, he pushed sensitively at her knees, and she parted
them, revealing herself to him.

Her cunt was beautiful. Tiny, it was the most finely sculpted thing he
had ever seen. Cherry pink outer lips flowed smoothly, mirroring one
another precisely. The already moist flesh between them surrounded a
thin, short, glistening slit. Her dark pubic hair, whilst curly and
luxurious atop her plump mound, spread only sparsely beneath it,
allowing him unrestricted access.

The sharp aroma of her excitement was as clear a request as her words
had been. He started with her clitoris, touching the tip of his tongue
to the little grey button. Responding to the contact, her back arched,
and she moaned, an almost masculine growl that seemed to originate from
her throat. Encouraged, he gripped her unsteady thighs and burrowed deep
inside her, enjoying the ribbed, slick texture of her vaginal walls,
relishing, as he'd hoped that he would, the taste of her, or rather the
lack of any distinctive tang. Determinedly and vigorously, he worked on
her, his hands massaging her calves and buttocks as his mouth moved
wherever it could, over her slick surface, sucking and biting, up and
down her tight slit, around her stiff little bud, into her moist
mystery.

Martine was whimpering, and after a time which might have been moments
or minutes, her legs started to shake, her hips to grind. Recognising
that climax was imminent for her, he plunged his tongue deep again,
rotated it, trailed it along the roof of her passage. She was sodden by
then, juicy enough that his caresses were no longer silent. He was
congratulating himself about that when her body jackknifed.

Suddenly, she was wild. Her thighs gripped his neck and her hips drove
up at him, with such force that he had to grasp them, try to hold her
still. Huge shudders coursed through her, and she heaved up, so that
only her head, feet and shoulders were in contact with the bed. "Oh,
baby", she panted over and over again. "Oh baby, oh baby, oh baby...."

It seemed an age before her body relaxed. By then his neck and his back
ached, and his face was slick and hot. He came up for air, not even
trying to hide his grin.

Looking up at her across the luscious landscape of her body, he
evaluated his achievement. Martine's eyes were heavy, and she seemed
exhausted. In truth, he felt a little weak himself, but it wasn't a
weakness which affected his virility. He was painfully hard.

He grinned at her. "Was that satisfactory too, milady?", he teased
again.

She smiled back. "One of the best", she assured him. "You can give up
the day job."

He made a grimace of mock disappointment. "I was aiming for best", he
told her, but his mind was only half on the conversation. He was equally
interested in watching her high breasts rise and fall with her
breathing, the nipples rigid and haughty.

She reached down to stroke his hair. "I'll need to give it some
thought", she said. "You do have a lot of competition."

Dominic wasn't sure whether she was joking or not. "A lot is what?", he
hunted half-seriously, knowing that he was being unforgivably ungallant
but too curious to resist. He hoped for a clue to the conundrum of why
she had brought him here. "Twenty? Fifty? A hundred? The entire male
population of London and the Home Counties?"

Martine sighed. A sadness seemed to come over her, descending instantly
and unexpectedly, stealing her light. A cloud blocking the sun. For a
long time, she didn't answer.

He was about to apologise when she spoke, morosely. "Too many to
remember, Dominic", she said.

He studied her. Too many to remember? It didn't seem very likely.
"You're too young", he challenged mildly, "for that to be true."

Her smile returned then. The gesture changed her entire face, but its
reappearance wrong footed him. He couldn't work out what he'd said to
attract it.

"I've been around a while", she pronounced.

"Well, if you have", Dominic responded dubiously, "then you must have
started way too young."

"I must have, mustn't I?", she agreed, the smile still radiant.

She was playing with him. He knew that. But he was intrigued, and
decided to be direct.

"Let's cut to the chase", he said. "How old are you, Martine?"

Now she giggled, a narcotic, light sound. "Does it matter?", she asked
lightly. "Do you want to know my shoe size too? Or shall we really cut
to the chase? Meaning, can't all this relationship building stuff wait
until later? Meaning, do you want to fuck me or not?"

That was an easy question. So he didn't answer it. Or at least he didn't
answer it with words. Instead, he gave up on the questions and slid back
up her body, kissing the taut skin of her belly, lingering to nibble her
swollen nipples. His cock was pulsing, aching. Nobody, not even Linda in
the early days, had ever made him feel quite so aroused. He was going to
plunder her. He was going to fuck her until she screamed with pleasure.
He was going to pump enough semen inside her to float a battleship.

And the wonderful thing was that she wanted him too. Wanted him
desperately. She was clawing at his shoulders, hurrying him up, her body
writhing in anticipation of penetration.

He obliged her. Abandoning her breasts, he locked his lips to hers,
tongue squirming into her sweet mouth, and maneouvred his hips until the
head of his prick found wetness and warmth, registered depth.

Then he pushed forward.

The ring of muscle surrendered with only a token struggle, separating to
skate over his glans, over the top third of his erection.

Nerves singing, erection already pulsing, he withdrew a little and
pushed again. She was tight, marvelously tight. He squeezed into her
slowly and carefully, luxuriating in the sensation of temporary
ownership. Her warm, slippery flesh opened grudgingly to allow him
progress, and for a moment he thought that he would impale her fully
without further need for pause. But soon her passage became less
helpful, closing like a noose as her muscles bunched from the
excitement.

He was more than five inches into her, but he nonetheless had to retreat
a second time, sliding out on her lubricant, and drive forward again.

On the new attempt, he was at last able to penetrate her fully.
Martine's nails dug into his back. She drew in her breath, a sigh of
satisfaction, and raised her knees, locking them into his hips.

He took time to luxuriate. His manhood pulsated in the slick, warm,
tight embrace of her magnificent vagina. His groin pumped a beat against
her pubic bone, received a beat back. He smiled down at her, and his
hands moved to her buttocks, roaming them, stroking the full, firm
flesh.

Martine didn't smile back. She was very serious now. Passion centred in
her eyes, a blatant, commanding heat. "Fuck me", she whispered tautly.
"Fuck me now."

He nodded, and started to move slowly within her, withdrawing a couple
of inches, plunging back home. The supple channel flexed and grasped at
his intruding organ, delighting him. He picked up the pace a little,
rocking in and out of her welcoming body. Every time he penetrated her,
she gasped with pleasure. Her knees drew up even further, with the
result that she spread herself wider.

He glided past her defences, and yes, at last he was truly doing what
she had asked of him. He was fucking her.

She was getting very wet indeed, and occasionally an inward stroke made
her pussy gurgle slightly. Dominic thought the sound was the sexiest
thing possible, and he tried to encourage it as often as he could,
adjusting his angle of entry to drive in low, coming up beneath her
pubic bone. His room for maneouvre was, however, quite limited, because
he felt huge down there, felt long and swollen. It seemed that he was
filling up all of the space that Martine could provide, that she
laboured to accommodate him. He imagined that her vaginal walls would be
stretched so thinly that any carelessness might tear her, and the groans
which issued from her whenever his tip rocked against her cervix only
strengthened that vision, a vision he was fond of.

For some time now, his eyes had been closed as he lived in pure
sensation. Now he opened them, watched Martine for a moment as she
rocked her body up to meet his, as her head tossed from side to side.
This brought him closer to the edge, because he could actually see her
pleasure when she fully accommodated him, could link the amazing
feelings in his groin to the person who provided those feelings. He was
close now, and every thrust brought him closer, but he was also getting
tired.

He relaxed into the coition, laying his head upon her shoulder, slowing
himself down. Martine sighed deeply, didn't seem to mind that he was
taking things more easily. She wrapped her legs around his back, began
to push more firmly against him. Her increased involvement helped, and
he was confident that together they would make a less exacting climb
towards orgasm.

The new rhythm established, he returned attention to her bum and her
thighs, running his fingers lightly over the skin. The hot mouth of her
passageway was opening without a sign of protest by now, and she clung
to him as he pushed through it, the assault steady, the rhythm a
metronome. He'd read Martine correctly, because the pressure was clearly
building in her too. Occasionally but unpredictably, the muscles of her
tube would twitch, squeezing the bulb of his weapon, whirling him each
time a little closer to the point where he would spend his seed. He
hoped that she would come too. For the second time. But he didn't think
he would wait for her, wasn't even sure that he could if he wanted to.
This was for him, mainly. Afterwards, he would address her needs again.
It was selfish, and she might not understand, but his body had to be
calmed.

She pulled at him, perhaps sensing how close he was. "I want to look at
you", she said.

He raised his head.

She looked lovely. Her hair was spread across the pillow in a fan, and
the miasma of coitus had settled upon her, making her pupils big and
moist and limpid. Her lips were parted, inviting a kiss. He obliged her,
pushing his tongue without force between her teeth. Hers, sweet tasting,
slim and strong, met it, and they fenced in the heat of her mouth while
his organ continued to skim slowly, firmly, fully, in and out of her
gurgling hole.

He had never before experienced such bliss. It seemed that his body was
merging into hers. Every time he pushed forward, his rod seemed to
become part of her, as though it was returning home. Her flesh seized
him, squeezed him, caressed him, worked sloppily up and down his shaft.

Orgasm screamed from hiding, begging to be set free. He kissed her
urgently now, as though she was the only woman he had ever loved, and
perhaps she was. His hands wandered her body, tracing her ribs, her
arms, her strong, smooth thighs.

Then, without warning, she pulled out of the kiss, and for a second or
two he felt dizzy and sick. He was empty, as though she had stolen
something from him, some essential energy. Loss assailed him, and his
head fell again to her shoulder, but he fought the malaise,
concentrating on his thrusting in, on her thrusting up, on the cloying,
tight cavern into which he would soon deposit his semen.

Soon...

Despite his tiredness.

Very soon...

He lifted up again, looked at her again. It was such an effort to do so.
But he was rewarded by her smile. Sympathetic, gentle and benign.

Then she spoke.

"Thank you for my life", she said.

It was the strangest comment, too strange for him to even try to get
into it. So he let it fall, let it spin away from his grasp, and instead
he continued to breach her, unhurriedly, lavishly, sliding his full
length into her, stretching the gateway to her womb with the spongy head
of his pole. Stars, he thought, she was still so tight.... so...
tight...

He became aware that his brain was pounding, and that he felt even
weaker than he had moments before. For the third time, his head returned
to her shoulder. And he had other problems now. He seemed to be
struggling for breath, and his chest was tight.

But none of it really mattered, at least not yet, because he still had
the strength to move his rigid shaft into the constricted embrace of her
sodden, clutching honey pot, in and out, a little more powerfully now
despite his hazy comprehension, a little more decisively as he
approached release.

An unusually philosophical thought came to him. It was that Martine
owned him. More completely than Linda ever had. And it would be the
release of his ejaculation inside her which sealed the deal.

The deal.

What deal?

A deal which had consequences which Martine understood, and he did not.
That much at least was apparent.

Then he let that thought escape, just as he'd let Martine's words
escape, because the time for ownership had come.

It seemed that his skin was vibrating. It seemed that his spine was
being detached from his body. Climax swelled in him like an emotion,
like the urge to cry, with purity and strength. It warmed him and hurt
him, suffused and overwhelmed him. He stretched his legs, hunched his
shoulders, clenched his teeth in order to bear it. Joy surged through
his blood, through his sinews, through his bones. He ground his teeth
and dug his nails into Marine's hips, riding her with subdued violence,
uncaring, plunging.

For a time, he thought that it would never end. His bloated member
sliced into her, sinking to its full length, slicing back, throbbing and
jumping inside the velvet prison. Then his balls jerked, and semen
squirted through his urethra, thrilling him, making him scream, sluicing
into Martine with decisive force. Again and again he spurted, his
buttocks lifting and falling, each release a huge offering, until it
seemed that there could be no more cunt to fill. He felt come trailing
down the sides of his prick, felt it running down his testicles. Martine
was stroking his hair again by now, shoring him, helping him through.
"Yes, baby", she hissed. "Yes, baby. Yes." Her hips were raised to make
it easier for his lower body to remain still as he fed her his juice,
while the rest of him merely shuddered. She lay like a sacrifice,
skewered on the instrument of his passion.

The ejaculations moderated, eventually ceased, but when they were done,
Dominic stayed where he was, lying comfortably across her, his pump
locked within her. She seemed content to let him do so, and after a
minute or two, during which no words were exchanged, he drifted off into
sleep. When he awoke, an indeterminable time later, his prick was soft,
and had withdrawn itself from his lover. But she was still holding him.

He quickly became aware that sleep had not helped him in the least. He
seemed without energy, and breathing was still a labour. In those first
moments of wakefulness he understood something which, entirely alert, he
would have believed impossible. He gave voice to that understanding, but
he didn't rouse himself to look at her.

"You've taken my energy", he stated flatly.

A moment passed before she replied. "More than energy, Dominic", she
said. "I've taken some of your life. Most of it, actually. I've taken
your future."

He thought about that, as best he could. And while he couldn't
comprehend either the how or the why, he knew that she spoke the truth.
He wondered whether her theft was visible in his skin, and found that he
didn't care. What concerned him most was not that he was going to die,
but rather that she had pretended to be attracted to him.

"You didn't ask", he observed calmly, tiredly. It was, he knew, a
piddling complaint, but it was the only one, in his debilitated state,
that he could find.

"I never ask", she responded. "I do what I need to do. I am what I am."

Gloria Gaynor, he thought. I'm in bed with Gloria Gaynor. He tried to
chuckle, but his mouth seemed cracked, too cracked to move without pain.

Sleep pulled at him again. He tried to resist it. And he succeeded,
although he still couldn't open his eyes.

"What are you?", he asked, then instantly he answered his own question.
"You're some sort of vampire."

"A vampire." He sensed her weighing his words, considering his
description. Then he felt her nod slowly. "In a way, yes, I suppose I
am. But I don't steal blood. I steal spirit. Essence. Vitality."

He searched again for moral anger, knew that he should rant at her, rave
at her, perhaps try to kill her, in the hope of saving another, or
others, somewhere down the line. But he was too weak to even consider
such things. His next words came out brittle, like straws in the wind.
"What gives you the right to do what you need to do, Martine?", he
wondered. "What in all creation gives you the right?"

He forced his eyes open, found himself looking directly into hers. Hers
were twinkling. She shrugged. And her light expression told him all that
he needed to know.

At best, she found his predicament humorous. At worst, she didn't care
at all.

"I'm a predator", she responded easily. "I survive. I've lived for over
two hundred years, Dominic. But only by doing this. And I intend to live
for two hundred more. A thousand more. You're not the first, and you
won't be the last."

"You survive, yes", he said, the bitterness sweetened by exhaustion.
"But what about me?"

Martine merely shrugged. "Bad things happen", she advised softly, as
though comforting a child. Or an old man.

An old man...

Yes, perhaps..

It hadn't mattered before, but illogically and suddenly the thought
horrified him. "I want to see myself", he told her.

She shook her head. "Not a good idea", she judged. "Truly. Take my word
for it."

Dominic recalled that he had seen a mirror on the dressing table, before
all this began. With enormous effort, he sat up a little, tried to reach
for it.

Martine watched him for a time then, with a sad and resigned sigh,
rolled from the bed, retrieved the glass and held it in front of his
face.

He looked like a peach that had been left too long in the sun. His skin
was thin and stretched, taut against his flesh. Not so much old and
withered as dried, drained of life.

All right then, he thought. All right then. If that's how it will be.

At least he wouldn't have to deal with Linda now.

Martine came to stand beside him. He glanced at her and noted that she
seemed sexier than ever, more curvaceous, her hair of stronger lustre,
her eyes more vivid. She smiled at him, a smile that came from those
eyes as well as from the luscious mouth.

"So how long does tonight buy you?", he croaked at her.

She shrugged again. "Six months", she estimated, and he realised that
even her voice had changed, becoming lighter, more assured. "Eight,
tops. But I usually fill up after three. Before I get to the point where
it's difficult for me to interest anyone in the way that I need to if
I'm going to get them back here."

"And me?", he wondered, studying in the mirror the milky pinkness of his
pupils. "How long do I have?"

She moved closer, knelt behind him, placed her arms around his waist,
her breasts firm yet soft against his back. Her grip was gentle, but he
had no sense that it was also concerned.

He understood so many things now. Particularly the thing which had most
confused him. Martine had chosen him not because he interested her, but
because he was an easy target.

She answered his question. "A few days", she said. "But I can finish it
more quickly, if you want. By a kiss. The end, in a kiss." Her wheedling
tone indicated that the kiss was her favoured route, and her next words
confirmed that. "It's an easier way, Dominic. A nicer way. But I won't
force it on you. If you decide that you want time to think, to review
your life, all that sort of stuff, well, fine. I can live with that. But
you'll have to do it here. I can't let you leave. I'll bring you the odd
cup of tea. Some soup, maybe. But you'll have to be spoon fed. Until the
end. You'll only feel worse, from here on in. There won't be better
days."

Dizziness assaulted him again, and he rocked forward, supporting himself
with the heels of both hands against the dressing table.

"What's a kiss worth to you?", he enquired mournfully. "Another couple
of days?"

"Hours", she replied. "Mere hours. You have to understand, there really
isn't very much left for me to take. The kiss is just a service I
provide. When my gentlemen callers request it. It makes me feel better
about what I do if I permit that final choice."

Dominic barked a disbelieving cough, which almost spiraled out of
control. When he recovered himself, he took a few moments before he
spoke again. During those moments, he stared at her reflection, behind
him, in the mirror. She, in turn, watched his. She was patient enough,
but her left eyebrow was raised in continuing enquiry.

In truth, it wasn't a hard choice for him to make.

He turned his head, and in his last labour, he raised his heavy arms to
embrace her. It was a sexless contact. They hugged, skin to skin. But
his cock, the thing that had steered him here, didn't stir. It hung
guilty, limp and useless.

He allowed a few more seconds to pass, relishing Martine's softness and
warmth. And he decided then that he wouldn't hate her.

She was, after all a predator.

And he was legitimate prey.

"Kiss me", he requested finally, raising her chin with his hand.

And she did.

-- 
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reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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