Two Short Stories and Three Very Short Stories (3 page)

That was easily indulged in. I ran two fingers over the line of his jaw, tracing under his full lower lip and taking care not to pierce his skin with my nail. I wanted his blood. Just not yet.

Knowing how much chill air diminished ardor and deflated erections, I turned to add more wood to the stove. “The bed awaits you,” I said.

He ignored my suggestion and crossed the room, taking the bundle of wood from my hands and adding to the stove. “You need a servant to do this.”

“I have a servant.” A girl I found in the streets and hired for more than a pimp would give her to prostitute herself. “She is abed. Should we not be?” I turned my back to him. “I would rather not wake her to undo my stays.”

He did the honors, loosening the laces until I could ease my corset over my head. Even with that he assisted. Had I found a romantic? Or was he hesitant to disrobe and reveal his deformed legs?

All he had removed was his hat and gloves, placing then on a side table when he entered. Time to see to the rest. I took his coat and hung that over the back of an upright chair.

“Sir,” I said, “I think we both know why you accompanied me here.”

He inclined his head with, “But of course,” as he removed his jacket and unbuttoned his waistcoat.

I chose to assist, running my hands over the woolen fabric and the fine linen of his shirt. Inhaling the scents of laundry starch and male flesh disguised by cologne. His skin was mortal warm through the crisp fabric. Mortal, warm and awaiting me, as I unbuttoned his shirt and removed his silk cravat.

I let him cope with the stiff collar, contenting myself with watching as he discarded that and the shirt.

Then it was my turn. Mortal flesh never ceased to attract me and this man was no exception. His chest was warm and firm, the nipples dark and his hair soft and springy under my fingertips. I eased my hand down to the waist of his trousers, imagining the tighter curls clustered around his cock; assuming he wasn’t as small there as his legs might imply.

I should have thought of that, but too late. If he was, I’d take his blood and leave him with fair memories. Why dally? I lowered my head and kissed him as I reached for the buttons at his waist.

His response distracted me. Wild passion and need burst from his lips like a tide of burning heat. Was it his desire or mine that flared between us as I pressed my lips to his and I pulled his head upwards to anchor his mouth on mine.

He whimpered, moaned, as a sweet shudder rippled down his body and I reached my hand to cup his erection.

No lack of manliness there. He was hard and ready but I wanted far more from him than a fumbled fuck. I stepped back, aware of his racing heartbeat and heightened breathing and the glorious flush on his face that promised richness beneath his skin.

I said nothing in reply to his gasp but walked over to my bed, shedding chemise and petticoats on my way, and letting my pantaloons fall to the carpet. I stepped out of them, knowing full well he was watching. (What man with blood in his veins wouldn’t?) To encourage him further I placed my foot on a nearby stool as I rolled down my stockings. Slowly. Without looking back, I climbed onto the bed and sat cross-legged, waiting.

I’ve seldom seen a man shed socks, shoes and trousers at such speed. He kept on his drawers. Modesty? I thought not. Would be pointless anyway.

I beckoned.

He didn’t hesitate. Few mortals could.

We embraced again. A pleasant enough sensation by all measures but it was his body, his blood, his jism that I hungered for and to take all I desired, I needed him secure. I broke the kiss. He lay in my arms, limp and pliant. Faster than a mortal could move I tied his hands to the bed head with silken cords.

His eyes widened with shock. He opened his mouth to protest so I brought mine down again. He did not, could not resist. Ignoring the restraints, he gave himself over to my lips and welcomed my tongue as I opened his mouth with mine.

That stifled any protests.

“There’s nothing to fear,” I told him as I stroked his chest and bent to lick his nipple. “I will not harm you,” I went on, smiling at his hardening nipples.

“Then why restrain me, madame?”

Ever polite, this one was. “To keep you in my bed,” I replied, and kissed his other nipple, nipping it gently to wring a groan from him. Much as the rhythm of his heartbeat tempted, I was not ready to draw blood. First pleasure, then feed.

Seemed he accepted my word, or realized the futility of resistance. Perhaps he was one of those who enjoyed submission? No matter. I kissed his neck, stroked his chest, teased those proud nipples with my tongue and let him feel the caress of my fangs against his skin, all the while hiding them from his view.

Some of my kindred enjoy instilling fear and horror. I refrain, unless it is merited, like the creature who abused my little servant. I enjoyed his cringing terror.

Seeing my man eager, his agitation having increased rather than diminished the bulge behind his drawers, I stroked his thighs, sensing the weakness beneath. What tragic accident had caused crippled legs on such a fine torso? I eased down his drawers and stared. In three hundred years I’ve seen many men, but never one this well-endowed.

Seemed nature, having cheated him on his legs, compensated him with this cock: stupendous in size, form and girth. Indeed, for a few moments, I wondered if I’d encountered a new form of mortal creature. It was as if his cock leeched strength and power from his legs and I was losing my concentration. I’d searched for a man to milk and found a colossus. Now I had to watch against gorging myself.

“You are indeed endowed by the gods.”

“In one way only,” he replied, his voice taut and harsh.

“The way that matters most to a woman,” I replied and wondered about the spiteful mortal women who’d rejected him for his short stature when he possessed a prize beyond most lover’s dreams.

“You are fine indeed,” I said, stroking my finger up the side of his cock until it twitched at me.

I licked my lips in anticipation and he laughed. “Madame, one would think you planned to make a meal of me.”

“One would indeed,” I replied, licking my lower lip as my fangs itched and pressed my gums. “I cannot but wonder how a man as endowed as you does not have a sweetheart or lover awaiting him. Why spend your evenings in the company of a bottle?”

Mistake. He growled at me. “A bottle makes an uncomplaining mistress.”

More likely, a bottle offered oblivion but his demons were not mine.

“I will not complain,” I told him as I stroked his atrophied thighs. “I will devour you instead.” And I closed my mouth over the head of his cock.

He gasped, but not from pain or shock. His hips jerked and I took him deeper. He groaned a few times as his spine arched and his frail legs flexed but he didn’t object. Couldn’t. I took him deeper and sensation engulfed him. I swirled my tongue over the soft head of his cock and eased my lips up and down his shaft. Between times, I stroked his balls.

Strange little things mortals are, and the men, so vulnerable, so helpless as the passion takes them. This one was no different.

His hips rocked, his shoulders rose off the bed and his legs stiffened as he neared his climax. He cried out, sweet guttural sounds as the jism rose in his cock and I tasted the sweetness of human life.

I waited to bite until he was lost in the throes of ecstasy. Did he notice? Who can tell with humans? He gasped and called out as his body jerked under my fangs and I milked him of blood and jism, drawing on his strength and the abundance of human essence.

When he was spent, I lifted my mouth, wiping it on the sheets before I looked up at him. He was breathing heavily, eyes closed and a smile on his face. He seemed more than content to sleep in my bed, but that I could not permit.

I arose and, donning a satin wrapper, brought him a glass of wine.

“For you,” I said, “to restore your strength.”

“I have none left,” he replied.

Putting my arm behind his shoulders, I eased him to sitting. “Drink deep,
mon brave
,” I told him, “the night awaits us both.”

He drained the glass and I dressed him. Moving fast so he barely noticed what I was doing. No doubt he sensed a breeze or a draught in the room. “Don’t you have a home to go to?” I asked, when he was clothed.

“Paris is my home,” he replied, “the theaters, the
boites
, the clubs.”

Maybe, but he did not inhabit the streets. “I’ll walk you back to the club where I found you.”

He made some mild protest but since I was already tying on my bonnet, he agreed and I walked him back to the smoky club, knowing full well he would not remember the way to my rooms. If indeed he even remembered me. We can take liberties with mortal minds that way.

“What do you do,” I asked, as we neared a corner near the nightclub. “when you are not downing bottles of wine?”

“I paint Paris, her life and her lovers,” he replied.

Another painter, Paris seemed full of them these days but this one had more depth more passion than most of the would-be artists. A better tailor too. “Farewell, lover of Paris,” I told him and disappeared into the arms of the night.

I never saw him again; it does not do to frequent the same mortals, and shortly after I took my little servant with me and we left Paris.

But from time to time over the intervening years, I have thought of that man, his air of despondency, his crippled legs and a most unforgettable cock.

Next I have a trio of very short shorts. The first one I sold to a magazine that wanted sensual, rather than explicit stories. Unfortunately (as happens too often in this business), the magazine went out of business before the story appeared. However, I liked my character Annie, and later, just for fun, wrote the other two. Eventually, Annie morphed into the heroine of
Power Exchange
. After I changed her lover’s name to Mark, and bolstered the rather vague setting. I think in these three stories, I pictured her in an old, rather dilapidated house in the Loire Valley or the Auvergne. Yes, I admit, the
Story of O
had to have been simmering at the back of my mind, but things changed as I wrote
Power Exchange
. And, if I’ve piqued your curiosity there’s an excerpt from
Power Exchange
at the end of this collection.

©2014 Madeleine Oh

His alarm woke her. Not the shrill jangle of the rising bell she remembered from school, or the pipping bleep of her own digital alarm clock. Jean Luc apparently woke to a carillon, the bells fading, after the initial peal, to a perfectly pitched coda. The last notes hanging like an echo on the edge of her drowsiness. What a way to wake. Why be surprised? So far, nothing about Jean Luc had been ordinary or commonplace. Wasn’t that what attracted her to him and brought her here at his invitation? The certain assurance of excitement, pleasure, and a stretching of her limits and horizons.

Jean Luc had been more than right. The nap cleared the last traces of jet lag, leaving her refreshed and more than ready for whatever he had planned. Annie raised her head off the linen pillows and looked around Jean Luc’s bedroom. The afternoon sun cast slashes of light on the bedclothes, the floor, and the dress spread on the gilt chair. She swung her legs out of bed and stood up, the terra cotta tiles cold under her feet.

Time to get ready.

A red dress and a pair of lace-topped stockings were all he had left out for her to wear. Getting dressed wouldn’t take long, once she got up the nerve. The prospect of meeting a bunch of new people wearing nothing but a few yards of silk and half an ounce of super sheer nylon, made her nervous as hell, but she had no doubt she'd do it.

Soon.

First she'd take a shower.

The perfumed soap was heady with a rose scent that grew stronger, not fainter, under the hot water. In the steamy heat of the shower, Annie imagined herself in an old rose garden in high summer, perhaps cutting dark, scented blooms to arrange in the silver bowl on the hall table, or gathering petals from full-blown roses to dry for potpourri. Annie rubbed herself gently with the loofah, spreading the perfumed bubbles all over her body. She even shampooed with them, letting the foam sit on her hair a minute before standing under the stream of water to send rose-scented suds running off her shoulders and legs, until she stood clean and refreshed, and shivering a little as she stepped onto the deep-pile mat.

Jean Luc’s towels were sized to wrap around like a blanket and thick and heavy enough to dry in moments. Annie towelled her hair and then ruffled it with her fingers. Short as she kept it, it would dry quickly in the air. She couldn’t miss the jar of body lotion of the same heady perfume. She slathered herself with it, rubbing the lotion into her legs, smoothing it over her breasts, and spreading it gently on her hips and belly, avoiding her naked pussy that still tingled a little from shaving last night.

Annie’s face shone from the heat and the steam. Pity she couldn’t use a little powder, but Jean Luc’s directions had been clear enough. “Just what I put out for you, no jewellery, no makeup, no extras of your own.” She really would feel naked without lipstick.

Putting stockings on legs damp from the shower and slick with lotion was a pain and if she wasn’t careful, she’d shove a finger though the sheer nylon. Annie didn’t fancy going out to dinner with a whacking great ladder up her leg. Gingerly she eased one over her ankle and calf, smoothing the fine mesh over her knee and up her thigh so the band of lace elastic circled her leg leaving a couple of inches of pale skin. The second one rolled up more easily or maybe she was getting the knack.

Fingering the heavy silk of her dress she wondered if he’d chosen it knowing red was her favorite color, or perhaps to deck her out as a “scarlet woman”. No, she doubted his English was good enough to understand the idiom. She pulled the dress over her head and smoothed it over her body. Jean Luc’s choice of attire left nothing to the imagination, the bias cut silk clung to her breasts, showing clearly her peaked nipples and every curve she owned. Thank heavens the skirt was full, swirling to her calves and rustling as she moved. But… Annie turned, watching her reflection in the gilt pier glass. Where had he bought this dress? The skirt had two separate gathered panels, overlapping at the waist front and back so nothing gaped as she walked, but if she bent over, they fell apart exposing her nakedness. He hadn’t found this in Laura Ashley. Last were the shoes, matching red leather with four-inch stiletto heels. Annie stood up tall, getting her balance and just hoped she wouldn’t stumble and spoil the effect.