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Message-ID: <33194asstr$1004587802@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "The Scribbler" <scribbler62@hotmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Blood Play (Halloween)
Date: Wed, 31 Oct 2001 23:10:02 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
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(c) 2001 by The Scribbler, all rights reserved;
__________________________________________________________
"Blood Play"

A howl in the night, a coyote looking for garbage in the streets. Perhaps.

"There are worse things about than the likes of them out tonight, my child.
. ."

Heather shivered: "Like what?"

"Like me".

Michael's face was ashen, and a silver chain held his cloak in place. The
cloak was beautiful, glittering with the sheen of ice and metal; it flowed
around him as they made their way through the Goth girls and boys at Club
Draku. . .past the acid etched stainless steel panels embedded with red
pigments that distinguished the club.

Out into the cold night, wrapped in fog that rushed over the Golden Gate,
slid along the Bay and into the City's streeets and alley, finding the
interstices of leather jackets and Halloween costumes, giving revelers a
clammy chill of the sea.

The moon was up, and the cool blue light played on the fog as Michael
propelled the beautiful little girl up the stairs to his home. Her hair, her
breasts, her hips all rolled with happy innocence.

His passion was upon her. They tore off clothes, and fell to the floor, his
hands finding purchase on her breasts, his mouth raping hers. He was biting
her now, sucking out little shrieks of submission. She was gasping, her
little fingers pulling at his hair, as he roamed her body. His mouth on her
nipples, filed canines raking her nipples.

"Ow, Michael, you're hurting me. . ."

Heather's mouth was quivering, somewhere between a pout and tears. She was
so pretty this way. . .from where? Michael didn't know, exactly. A club kid,
maybe?

"I'll make it better."

"You'd better".

His mouth on her stomach, now back to her breasts, soft tender kisses,
wakening the glow of arousal. Her hips, moving now in time to a drum beating
long ago, the swelling of her cunt, her nipples erecting with blood, blood
everywhere. . .her lips slick and puffy with desire, a blush on her cheeks.
. .

Michael was sliding down her belly now, feeling a little guilty for the
mauling he'd given her breasts. . .

"I'm sorry about. . ."

"Don't stop. . ."

His head nuzzled the fine down below her navel, and he slid his hands inside
her panties, cupping the creamy bottomcheeks, and slipping his fingers
inside her waistband. Her panties came down, and he kissed the blonde curls
of her mound, smelling the sweet heat of arousal.

"Michael. . ." her voice had some urgency. . .

He continued, his tongue moistening her.

""Michael, don't"

He looked up .. ."is something wrong?"

"I'm sorry, I should have told you . . . its just that its, its my. . .you
know. . .

"No, what? What do I know?"

His hands stroking the insides of her thighs.

"My time of the month. . ."

A throaty laugh. "Your period, really?"

The blonde head nodded. "I'm sorry."

Michael pulled himself up her body, till his arms embraced her his mouth
devoured her lips, his tongue playing inside and outside her mouth.

"You are too cute, do you know that? The most precious ever. . ." A small
kiss on her cheek, he reclines, propped up on an elbow, as his hands play on
her belly. "You think a little blood is going to stop me?"

"But its yucky. . .I don't want you to have to do that. . ." Her face
scrunched up to illustrate her displeasure.

"Its not to me. . ." and he started to lick the swelling mound.

"Really, Michael. . .do you really like that"-- something new in her voice,
a glitter of forbidden pleasure.

He drew himself up, his eyes catching the moon, and his voice rumbling with
confidence. He was sure of himself, sure of the race of the blood, sure that
what he'd read was true, sure that the hunger that he'd felt forever was his
destiny.

"Yes, my child, my kind does care for our meat very rare. . .we're not
afraid of the taste of blood"

Heather heard him in a dream: "Your kind? Your kind likes blood?"

Michael was deep between her thighs, or he might have seen. His face was
pressed against the staining heat of her cunt, or he might have stepped
back.

But he didn't. Didn't see her change, didn't feel the flash of heat from her
eyes as she saw through the bag of skin to the rich heated arterial blood
throbbing in belly; the slash and the immersion in the plummy juices of his
aorta.

She crouched over his body, drenched with claret, her hair a mass of gold
and clots. And howled. And looked down, at the face, now ashen from more
than powder, the pallor of exhanguination upon Michael.

"Your kind likes blood?" A low voice from a small girl.

"That's funny. Mine does too.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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