Carpe Victim

Carpe Victim-3

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"No, please, Daddy, he don'wanna. Don' make 'em." He moans softly in his sleep, mutterings that draw me back to the present and his dingy room, smelling of him. I'd noticed this before, this odd referencing of himself in the third person, the many times I'd lingered outside his door. Given the nature of his past—and the source of his nightmares—I might yearn for distance too. Had given me pause when I first realized what they signified, but my rage always overcame my compassion.

Burns it to ashes even now.

I glide closer, moving like a nightmare. Spread myself down on his bed. Fit myself to him like dusk pouring across the land. Mold myself to him closer than his own skin. Closer because my mind can direct his dream as well as his body. I brace one arm above his head, the other across his chest—my sounds no louder than a spider's falling gossamer threads. This close, he radiates heat like a furnace, and I luxuriate in it, warm my deadened flesh in his mortality.

Raising my hand, I command his chin to lift, his face to turn, to expose his throat. He responds slowly, as though I've dreamed his movements. So perfect a victim, perhaps I have. Chest heaving with the force of his nightmares, he kicks away sheets. Pallid moonlight spills through his discolored apartment window. Exposes him for me. Now he lies clothed merely in light and shadow and well-worn boxers, frayed cloth that barely conceals his hardening sex.

He stretches before me, a defenseless province, all hillocks and valleys and tender thickets— mine for the plundering. A mortal creature flush with mortal beauty: his skin only faintly dark from the sun though his hair, from his widow's peak to the shadowy pattern circling each nipple and dusting his chest, is darker. My teeth ache, longing to bury themselves in that tender mound. To nurse. To savage him in my need.

But, no—wait. Let the anticipation build until it becomes its own need.

His body now lies mostly healed, though I detect still a faint tinge of grey-greenness about his features, strong and long and hard despite the abuse and neglect his dreams betray. Above his groin, my hand forms a fist and, though I do not touch him, he moans and cants his hips up, his heat seeking relief in my icy grip.

His arousal inundates me. Washes me in his scent.

I close my eyes. Inhale sharply. Pass the air into the roof of my mouth as She taught me, so like the jungle felid She named Herself for. Savor his wealth of remembered humiliation. I settle on his chest. No fear of injuring or waking him. Through the power of our minds, we can make ourselves as light as the ether or as heavy as granite, another of Her lessons.

Beneath me, my mortal thrashes.

"No, please, it'll hurt."

I lean forward. Whisper in his ear. In his dream state, my words will blend, resonate, with the voice of his past. "Naw, Sonny Boy, we'll take it slow. Just get me good an' wet, so I slide in nice n' snug."

After a moment, his face contorts. "Ugh, tastes funny. Is it supposed to be salty?"

"You're doin' just fine. See, 'm only gonna ease the tip in." If only. Erections for my kind, while not impossible, are as rare as hens' teeth or were, until recently. It's a condition of our existence, possibly because the end product is a debilitating loss of blood—not semen. The bite as penetration, however, more than compensates for my lack. I slip down beside him, to study him closer. To piston my hand slowly. Build in tempo. Delight in watching his hips thrust in time with me. Sigh into his ear, "Relax 'n take a deep breath. C'mon, be good fer me, such a good little man."

"Hurts." His face spasms. Mirrors exactly a child's face in pain.

Remorse and repugnance stab me: remorse for him; disgust with myself. Poor child, to have borne a father's unnatural lust, to know no safety, no refuge, in what should have been his safest haven. I would feed on this boy? And what of Her? She who tried to live Her undead life with honor, who wanted me to follow Her example? She'd turn away from me, disheartened, repulsed. Have I forgotten so much in the centuries since She left me?

I pull away. Move to leave when his features smooth out. His mouth purses in a small "o" of desire. He moans again—in pleasure. Spreads his thighs. Offers himself to me, the scent of his intensifying arousal a second wave breaking over me—and almost more than I can bear. Murmurs, "Mmm, please, don't stop, Da, doesn't hurt now—or...or only a little."

His words draw me back, torn still between desire and revulsion when his features change, reflecting the tenor of his dreams. Become scornful, derisive. "Unless you can't keep it up long enough. That the problem, old man? The drink finally render you useless? 'At's what Mom says. Says 'at's why you ken only get yer rocks off inna family."

Wrong. His words. Somehow wrong, but they strike whip-sharp against my sore, buried failures. I thought I'd come to terms with my impotence centuries ago. More feelings I thought I'd put aside. Damn him. My hand fastens on him through his worn boxers. Grips him skin to skin. He fills my hand—and then some. Healthy boy—and hot, almost feverish. Twist my wrist on the upstroke. Bring it straight back on the down. He thrashes beneath me, but he won't escape, not while his dreams conspire with me. In my rage, I forget myself. Drop any pretense of hiding behind his father's voice. "Is that what you believe, boy? That I can't satisfy you? Can't bring you off? Don't know what you're talking about. Haven't the faintest clue."

"Oh, yes, he likes that."

"Do you?" Pump him harder.

"Uh-huh."

I lean across him. Raise myself up, braced on one hand, mouth a single breath away from his rapidly pulsing vein. Close now, so very close—for both of us. Curl back my upper lip as my eye teeth lengthen. Feel him surge in my hand that last bit. Puncture his throat. Draw in a single inebriating mouthful. Roll it around my mouth. Savor.

The first gush of seed dampens his shorts, my hand. Head pressing the pillow, he moans, the sound keening higher, thinner, as he spends himself.

That heated gush obliterates—for one transcendent moment—all need and want. I swallow: elation, pure, unmitigated bliss.

The warmth courses down my throat, and my arms convulse. Shake. Lose their strength as I feel mental tendrils twine themselves into my brain, a strange, alien invasion. Penetrate my psyche more deeply, as I collapse on my prey's chest.

A chest now rumbling with silent laughter. 

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