Inflictions Read online

  Oh! You’re a nipple man! Can’t refuse, can you? Oh, and you like to bite, you devil! I love the teeth. Oh yeah, a little harder, that makes me want to … I want to grind … in.

  Can you feel my heat? I feel yours … even through leather. Undo the snaps. Can you feel them, right where I’m hottest? That’s right, open them. Oh, huh, oh, that’s good. Use your fingers in … me. Ohhh … do you feel that?

  Wet.

  Wet helps when … it’s time to … slide you in … slooooowwwly.

  So hot.

  Hmmm, I think you like it, you certainly like something. Is it the heat, the intense fiery sensation … or is it when I squeeze you like this …

  Wait. Slow down, not so fast, baby. It isn’t time yet. Just settle down and feel me on you, around you.

  Mmmm, you like it when I bite your ear; when I whisper?

  Let me tell you a secret. I’m going to fuck you like you’ve never been fucked before. Wow, the way you just grew inside me … throbbing. You want that, don’t you?

  All right, here’s another secret. I’m going to fuck you … to death.

  Yeah, that’s right, and you won’t even try to stop me. I’m going to rip you inside-out, and you’re going to beg for more.

  Awww, you’re dwindling. Not a problem, I’ll give you a special little clench from inside me … and I can grip you tighter than any human hand.

  See? You’re back with me … completely. Aren’t you, preacher man?

  Oh, you’re surprised that I know who you are, Mister Holy? At least that’s what you tell them, your followers.

  No, you can’t pull away.

  Try.

  See? Not once I have a hold on you. Not when I can make you feel this good. I own you. Feel me milking you, massaging you from inside me, like little tongues licking you all over.

  If your herd only knew you, your mindless minions. If they knew your sins and your weaknesses, all the ones you have always blamed on me. All the lonely wives you used, the clueless little boys, the whores, the needy runaways, all of them your toys.

  Now you’re my toy … my toy to ride.

  You called me the seductress. You even told them you met me face-to-face and defeated me. You had no clue. You took me for granted. You saw me as a joke and you didn’t believe. I thought you were a man of faith.

  Well, here I am, and it seems … I’m winning. I’m sucking the life from you, and you can’t resist.

  Hold me to you. Hold on to me while I kill you. That’s good. Good little preacher. Hold me tighter and wrap your arms around me.

  Can you feel them? Feel the wings?

  What? You’re disgusted? But you can’t let go, can you?

  Do you feel your soul being torn from you? Isn’t it amazing how giving up your life feels so much like pleasure, how giving up your soul seems like ecstasy?

  You’re dying, holy man. I grind into you faster and faster, but what if I … were … to … stop?

  Stopping will save your life. But you can’t stop, can you? Even when I stop, you keep going.

  Even when I reveal myself, when I lose the flesh, you can’t resist. Oh, the terror in your eyes, it’s delicious … and that, my dear, that’s what turns me on.

  Beg. Let me hear you beg and I’ll finish you, you dog.

  Good, very good. Keep begging.

  But, I’m going to play a while. I’m going to bring you to the edge, and then ease off, again and again. I’m going to dangle you over the cliff until the need to release guts you and nearly drives you mad.

  And again …

  Again …

  Now let it go. Feel it leave you. Feel it being torn from you, like a thousand rusty blades slashing inside of you, yet you still buck and thrust deeper into me, so willing to die.

  So willing to be possessed.

  So willing to succumb.

  And now …

  I have you.

  Roll over, preacher.

  Roll over and hold your wife. She’ll be pleased to know you reached out to her in your final moments, even though she knows you’ve never loved her. She’ll be pleased to know that you had nothing else to reach for.

  And all that is left is for me to kiss you …

  A soul kiss …

  And a breath …

  Goodbye.

  Portraits

  Sketcher Arias offered the man a glass of burgundy, which he accepted with a pleasant smile, showing just a glimpse of needle-sharp teeth. To most people this would have passed unnoticed, but Sketcher was not most people. She knew what these teeth promised, yet she couldn’t help finding the sight somewhat erotic. A quick piercing and penetration—how sexual an act … yet.

  She watched Don Biello as he studied her home, taking in the splendor of the furnishings and the grandeur of the magnificent old mansion with eloquent approval. His every movement seemed a study in refinement and grace. He was typical to the common perception of vampires—black hair and dark subtle eyes set in the classic angular face. He was handsome beyond the norm.

  The room was nearly twelve feet in height from floor to ceiling and nearly a thousand square feet in area. A magnificent fireplace, hooded with a mantel of flawless white marble possibly weighing two tons, centered one wall. Three cherry logs crackled warmly from within, but didn’t alleviate the mild chill that exuded from rooms of this measure.

  To the right of the fireplace, a magnificent winged griffin desk made of intricately carved mahogany complemented the room perfectly. At an angle near the desk stood an artist’s easel on which a palette flowered with dry paint hung from a hook. On the floor, pushed against the wall, a large wooden case brimmed with tubes of oil paint. Five more tubes were sparsely scattered across the top of a small accessory table. It was the only clutter in the otherwise impeccable room.

  Opposite the fireplace a multi-paned double door, luxuriously framed by crimson satin drapes, led to a terrace, where one could look over the estate and see oncoming visitors a mile away from behind a black granite balustrade.

  Evenly spaced on whatever walls the doors and fireplace didn’t occupy, hung large portraits of handsome men and women. The paintings spanned probably two centuries, distinguishable by the subjects’ clothing. In every painting one detail remained unchanging—a backdrop of royal red drapery, possibly the ones now shrouding the doorway.

  Biello raised an eyebrow in admiration and looked at Sketcher.

  “Your drapes look as if one could probably be absorbed into them,” he said, his resonant voice echoing throughout the vast study. “Beautiful is all I can offer, for lack of appropriate words.”

  “I understand. Thank you,” Sketcher replied.

  This room—this home—affected many people the same way. It overwhelmed the senses, and to some it intimidated with its virile luxury. Sketcher’s friends did not experience this feeling, since Sketcher radiated charmed warmth larger than the room.

  She sat on a crimson and gold divan, facing the fireplace. She motioned Biello to sit beside her.

  “It’s been in the family since the eighteenth century, when my ancestor’s first moved here from Spain,” she explained. “It’s mine through inheritance.”

  “You live here alone?” His voice was dubious, as if it were hard to envision her—or anyone—wanting to live alone in a manor this large, even though he had spent the majority of his existence the same way.

  Sketcher saw a glimmer of hope in his expression and it belied his cool demeanor. She knew what he was thinking; if she were alone it could work to his advantage … if the hunger overtook him. Even though she had allowed him to follow her through the front door, she had known the risks. She knew vampires, and she knew the truth would ignite an unassailable ache in his stomach, demanding a rush of blood to quell his addiction.

  “My housekeepers, Mr. and Mrs. Landis, live in the guest house,” Sketcher said. “I’ve offered to room them here, but they insist.” She shrugged, forcing Biello’s mesmerized gaze from her enticing neck.

  B
iello studied her eyes. His were powerful and magnetic, and Sketcher felt herself being lured into their ebony depths, diving into his midnight. Even though she knew of his desire, she would offer no sign. Biello breathed deeply and his nose gave the smallest twitch. His senses were fine-tuned to fear, and detected Sketcher’s, though she covered it well. She knew it lured him, and he—like all of his type—learned to smell it for what it was … an advantage.

  Sketcher tried to appear unruffled. “As for my parents, they died nearly ten years ago in an accident. They died together. It was best that way. They were very much in love.”

  “I’m so sorry,” said Biello, his words immersed in empathy. He sounded sincere.

  Sketcher smiled sadly. “So, since I was an only child, and to conclude a lengthy answer to your question … yes, I live here alone.”

  Biello’s eyes grew more intense. “Don’t you find yourself lonely?” he asked. “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in a condo or smaller home? Why do you choose to stay here? The upkeep must be phenomenal in cost and labor.”

  Sketcher looked around the study as if she was contemplating such an idea for the first time.

  “I stay for nostalgic reasons, mainly,” she said and shrugged coquettishly. “I’m a hopeless romantic, but I do love the place. My ancestors were wealthy, and they brought the wealth with them when they came to America from Spain. Their descendants, few that they are, have never wanted for anything within reason, and with smart investing and money management by my parents, and their parents before them, it has only increased. Money has never been a concern for me, and it’s a good thing. The mere pittance I make wouldn’t support an anorexic cat.”

  Biello chuckled and drank from his snifter and looked at Sketcher. “I’m sure you’re being modest.”

  She could see the hunger in him, and it was more than bloodlust. Sketcher was tall and beautiful, but not in a classic sense. She was not delicate, yet she was curvaceous, wholesome, and undeniably woman—it emanated from her. She had her hair tied back in a bun, disguising a lustrous mane of raven black. When unrestrained, it was a perfect complement to her fair complexion; wide, brown eyes; and full, promising lips. Sketcher was a captivating woman.

  “Pardon me if I sound tactless, but why do you remain single? Certainly a woman of your looks and stature must have a calling list a mile long.”

  She rose and crossed the room to a marble-topped wet bar, refilled Biello’s drink, returned and handed him the glass.

  “I’m twenty-two, far too young to burden myself with commitments,” she said. “I don’t have time for the complications of relationships. I’m too intent on pursuing my little desires. This is not saying I haven’t had interested suitors, just none I found … suitable.”

  Biello rose, drink in hand, and stood before the easel. The canvas was bare except for a green half-crescent from a partial thumbprint at the lower left corner. He picked up a tube of paint and returned it.

  “You are an artist.” It was not a question.

  “Hence, the nickname Sketcher.” She smiled. “I try my best. It is—or was—a common diversion for the family. Many believed it was hereditary. There have been artists in my family for generations, even centuries.”

  “Family painted by family?” Don Biello asked, referring to the portraits.

  “Mostly, but not all.”

  She cast him a sidelong glance. Don Biello moved toward a portrait and looked closely at a woman’s face.

  “Good work, I must say.”

  “My family has always been fascinated with the arts.” She had moved, and now stood beside him.

  “I’ve gotten the impression you have no family left.”

  “Correct. I’m the last of the Arias line.”

  “If not family, then whom do you paint?”

  “Vampires,” Sketcher answered with a barely detectable smirk. “It’s the reason I brought you here. I need a model.”

  Biello ran his finger along the edge of a frame. “I see,” he said. “Finding me, or any of us, is not an easy task. You’re a persistent woman, which is not a bad quality, but it does have its dangers. You are a brave woman.”

  He raised his glass to her in respect, regarding her with what Sketcher could only read as admiration. She returned the gesture.

  “They say a good man is hard to find. I am a persistent woman who knows what she wants and where to look for it. Let’s say, I have a certain knack.”

  She could feel Don Biello’s heated gaze centered on her throat and she felt a tightening in her lower abdomen. Was it fear or arousal? For her, the two emotions seemed to run close to each other.

  “All of these are too old to be your work,” he said. “We are mortal, are we not?” He turned to her, his face aglow with sardonic humor.

  “I am, at least,” replied Sketcher.

  “Would I be, if you’ll forgive the implication, your first?”

  “You, if you consent, will be number seven,” Sketcher admitted.

  Biello’s surprise was visible even above his reserved nature.

  Sketcher chuckled. “You seem dismayed.”

  Don Biello regained his composure. “I confess that I am surprised. We usually try to keep a low profile,” he explained. “Of the small portion of society who knows of us, we are not exactly … accepted.”

  “Of course, my collection combines over five years of searching,” Sketcher explained. “Painting portraits of your family has been a compulsion of mine for a few years.”

  Biello rubbed his chin in contemplation. “How?” he asked.

  “The most difficult part is persuading them, or you, to come here; it’s much easier dealing with the opposite sex.” Her eyes bore into his, displaying her advantage. “The rest is easy. You and your type are always open to the notion. Yours is a remarkably proud race.”

  “Yes, this is true,” he acknowledged. “May I see the portraits you’ve painted? I’m sure I must know them.”

  “Absolutely, they’re in the basement, in storage with many others my ancestors have painted.”

  “Why in storage?” asked Biello.

  “I would hang some of my work, but taking down one of these is too much of a task for the housekeepers or me,” Sketcher said and pointed to a heavily framed painting. “It would take a gorilla to take some of these monstrosities down. Look at the frames on them.”

  She sipped from her glass, which was still mostly full. After a small silence, Sketcher looked at Biello and released a small chuckle.

  “Okay, I have a bit of stage fright about displaying my work.”

  “As I expected,” Biello said. “Seeing the talent of your relatives, I’d challenge your fear is not justified.” He moved to view the next portrait. “Why are you so intent on painting us?”

  “To be honest, I find you a mysterious and exotically beautiful species.”

  “Species?” Biello laughed lightly. “I feel I’ve been branded.”

  “Sorry, is there a better word?”

  “Possibly not,” he agreed.

  “Besides, nobody fucks like a vampire,” Sketcher said, invoking a loud laugh from Biello. She moved in front of him, held his gaze, and kissed him quickly on the lips. “So, Don Biello, would you be my model?”

  He took hold of Sketcher’s hands and gently squeezed. “In the custom of that old vampire pride, I would be honored to adorn one of your canvases. Considering my commission, I would be a fool not to. Do you believe in payment up front?” he asked smoothly.

  She moved into Biello’s embrace and kissed him ardently. Biello’s questing lips searched her neck, but Sketcher pulled away from him.

  “It would be in your best interest if you didn’t bite me,” she said.

  Biello tensed and Sketcher knew he was fighting the urge to take her life. “Is that so,” he said. Biello’s stark eyes bore into her and Sketcher locked eyes in an acute stare.

  “Yes,” Sketcher purred. “And you can expect payment in full and with interest … after the f
irst sitting.”

  Biello harnessed his hunger and Sketcher saw his passion ebb from his eyes. It was clear she intrigued and entertained him. As long as that remained true, Sketcher knew she was safe.

  She took Biello’s arm and led him down a hallway and into a room no less baroque than the rest of her home, but pleasantly comfortable sheathed in the warm, soft glow cast by smoldering logs in a fireplace that was a smaller copy of the one in the study; it was the only light in the room. Sketcher collapsed onto the divan and stretched feline and confident.

  “You confound me,” Biello murmured. He sat in a rosewood armchair, leaned back, and released a breath toward the ceiling.

  Sketcher rolled onto her stomach on the divan, her knees bent and her feet in the air, an endorsement to her youthfulness. “Then wait until you hear what I have to offer you.”

  “Oh?”

  “We both have something the other wants, or even needs,” Sketcher said. “I need a study figure, a model I can focus on for more than one painting. It’s tiresome to change subjects repeatedly. I want to paint the same model while he’s sitting, lying, nude, running. Do you understand?”

  “It’s very clear. And for me?”

  Sketcher was expecting the question. Aside from pride, vampires also tended to be narcissistic and greedy, the exact quality she was counting on for what she needed.

  “For your patience and time—which shouldn’t be a problem for immortals—you will have free passage in my home including accommodations, if you wish.” She offered him a libidinous grin. “You will be a roommate to a woman with a virtually inexhaustible sex drive.”

  “Definitely an incentive,” Biello mused, smirking.

  “And,” Sketcher continued, as if not hearing him, “I can feed you … to a degree.”

  This clearly roused his interest.

  “How is that?”

  “I will offer my blood regularly, with an understanding that I must be allowed to replenish before subsequent feedings,” Sketcher said with conviction.

  She could sense his disbelief or astonishment. He winced with what Sketcher knew was a flaring hunger that was instant and bordered on animalistic. He was like a dog salivating over a steak, yearning for what she presented. Biello waited a few moments for the pangs to subside and composed himself.