3 comments/ 23169 views/ 2 favorites Perigee By: TheHotJD Nick shouldn't have been on the pedestrian mall at all that night; October was sliding down off the mountains, blowing away the last of the fallen leaves and making way for an inhospitable winter. He had a spot waiting for him underneath the church at the other end of the mall. He didn't really like sleeping there, among so many others, arranged in rows like crates in a warehouse. All night long, Nick would lie awake, listening to the soft murmur of everyone else's breathing, wishing for the night sky over his head instead of the ceiling. He figured he would make his way back to the church if he had to, but he would rather explore his options, such as they were. Thing about the church was that they wouldn't hold the door open all night. The people who ran the program did have homes, after all, and families who cared where they were after dark. They had spouses who might actually worry if it took them a little too long to get home. His ex-wife had probably thrown a party once she had finally gotten rid of him. An elegant soiree with expensive finger foods and a harpist. She'd probably told everyone there about how he wouldn't ever be back, and now everyone's life would be easier. And his son had probably heard, but she wouldn't care. She would lead the assembled guests in a rousing chorus of "Ding-dong, your daddy's gone," and his little eyes would swim with tears and -- He squeezed his eyes shut. If he kept thinking like that, he'd want a drink. Other thing about the church was that drunk people weren't so welcome. Which was another reason he was still outside. Nick was just a little buzzed from a couple of mini-bottles he had gotten someone to buy him after work. It wasn't that Nick had ever been a really big drinker, but every few weeks, he got restless and started wanting to move around or run or pick a fight. The alcohol helped a lot. First it was just a drink or two when he started to feel agitated. But soon, he found that if he didn't have the drink, he would sometimes forget what he had spent the night doing. When he was drunk, he might not be fully in control, but at least he knew what was. At the very end of the mall, where it opened into the toney neighborhood across the street, there was an art-house theater and a boutique filled with extremely expensive furniture. At night, the store was closed, but the theater ran movies until late at night, and the heat was already humming away. As an extra bonus, the back alley led to a high-rise hotel, another place the heat was always running full-tilt this time of year. This was one of Wayne's favorite flops. It was quiet and warm, and the irony of his homeless ass sleeping next to a store full of needlessly pricey furniture really appealed to him. Wayne was a generous sort, quick to offer a stranger a place near the bonfire, or a pull from a bottle, or uniquely unscrambled and level-headed advice. Nick hadn't seen Wayne in a little while now, but maybe he had reappeared since the last time Nick had tried to avoid the church. Nick slipped through the shadows, away from the parking lot, and around the dumpsters to the theater's fire exit. The smell of popcorn embraced him as he settled down in the doorway. The thick warmth from the mini-bottles settled in his belly, and he drifted off to sleep. The dream started up right away, the only one Nick ever had any more. He was running across the well-manicured grass of a large backyard, the cool air of evening on his skin. The long strides carried him to the edge of the property, to a narrow creek, which he vaulted before he ran into a thick forest. A canopy of branches sheltered him as he went, sailing over the interlocking network of roots that plunged deep into the earth. All around him, he could hear things moving away, the rustle of quick feet in the carpet of pine needles on the forest floor. He knew that many eyes watched his every movement, hoping to escape his notice, and they were fortunate. In the dream, he chased something else -- something that wouldn't try to hide or run from him. Something that craved the confrontation as much as he did. A strange curtain of gauzy half-light began to descend over him. Nick was waking up. Conscious again on the steam vent, he felt a sudden chill and turned over with a jolt, almost leaping off the metal grating. Someone was standing over him, staring down at him. The long coat covered her lean frame, but it hid little. It draped over her slim hips, around her perfect bust, falling around her glorious hourglass figure. Beneath the brim of her fur-lined hat, her eyes seemed to glow amber in the dark. Nick could see the plume of her breath flowing out over her upturned fur collar. The very faint fragrance of her reached him, something he couldn't quite place. Backlit in this deserted corner of the mall, she was like a statue, tall and beautifully formed, but so still and pale that she wasn't quite human. He didn't like the strange, inhuman color of her eyes as she stared at him, but he couldn't look away from her. And so when she extended a slender hand toward him and beckoned with her long fingers, part of him was honestly compelled to follow her. The movement of her fingers was almost hypnotic as they curled back, one by one, toward her palm. Nick had heard about things like this happening. Some wealthy society matron picked up a reasonably healthy male from the street to satisfy long-denied hungers. He didn't think it was real, or that such a thing would happen to him, even with her standing right there. Deep inside, he felt a surge of heat. He had been around women since he had come to live on the street, but like the rest of the civilized world, they tended to keep their distance. Their eyes danced away from him as they edged past him on the street. This one was staring right at him. As good as it felt to be desired -- for her gaze was clearly predatory -- it felt just as good, if not better, to be acknowledged as a human being, to be judged useful for something, even if it was just for sex. Her eyes flashed again from the shadows that concealed her face. Her fingers curled back toward her palm. When Nick made no move to get up, she slowly turned her hand over, palm down, and held up her index and middle finger. Then she curled those two fingers into hooks. It felt like fingertips digging behind his eyes, pulling at them hard, as if to force them from the sockets. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the pain surged deeper into his skull, and he had to cry out, turning away from her. "Please!" he shouted. The pain ceased. Gasping, he opened his eyes, rubbing them and then checking out his hands to make sure that he could still see and that the hot wetness on his hands was colorless and not bright, arterial blood. He looked up to find her still standing there, still perfectly composed. Her breath issued from her in slow, regular intervals. Slowly, she raised her hand again and curled back her fingers, four, three, two, one, toward her palm. Nick got up and went with her. He followed her away from the mall, her pace slow and languid like a sleepwalker's. They drifted past the policemen posted around the mall as if she had somehow made herself and Nick invisible. Her house was at the very end of the street, far from her neighbors. They walked around it on a gravel driveway. Nick was reassured to see a very sensible Volvo station wagon parked in the garage as they climbed up the rear stairs to the back door. Only real people drove Volvos. This was just some lonely society woman, a former trophy wife, in search of a little action. He had almost forgotten about whatever it was she had done to his eyes. He had been drinking a lot lately anyway. In the dark, he could see that her place was sparsely furnished. The refrigerator in the kitchen looked ancient, right down to its rounded corners, the handle shaped like a car door's. Across from the kitchen was a closed door. Nick saw the hunched shadows of two couches in the living room, but no television. She didn't turn the lights on before leading him up the stairs, their steps echoing on the hardwood floors. In the upstairs hallway, he saw two doorways on one side, a single door at the end of the hall, and the doorway to which he was now being led. She opened the door and then stood back to allow him inside. Uneasily, he slid by her, noticing that exotic scent again as he moved. As soon as he crossed the threshold, she turned on her heel, still draped in that long coat, and left the room. He heard her footsteps receding down the hall and down the stairs, one by one, in that same hypnotic pace. He froze, his senses on high alert, as she moved about downstairs. A door opened and then quietly closed with a click. And then silence. It looked like a dorm room, with a metal-framed bed against the far wall, beneath the window. The air was still and smelled ever so faintly of bleach. The worn mattress had begun to dip in the middle; it hadn't been turned in this lifetime. The blankets were thin and the pair of pillows was fairly flat, but it looked like paradise to him. He crept over to the bathroom and yanked the shower curtain open with a jerk, half-expecting to see an attacker, a yuppie assailant waiting for him with a hammer or something like that. The rings made a loud metallic scrape on the rod. Finding the tiled enclosure empty, he leaned in and turned the water on full blast, as hot as he could get it. The pipes began to rattle, then whine as the room filled with steam. Nick began to giggle in spite of himself. He stripped eagerly and all but leapt into the shower. The force and heat of the water stung him and he sucked in a breath. Water sluiced over him. He raked his hands through his hair, not wanting to think about what the water carried off him and into the drain. Showers were not impossible to come by in Nick's world; there were places a man could go to wash his hair and rinse off the day's hard labor or the night's excesses. This was not a thing like any of those showers. Hot water, fresh soap, privacy -- all in seemingly limitless amounts -- all these things were foreign to his world. He rubbed himself raw with the brand new bar of soap and his hands, scrubbing his hands like a surgeon, digging his fingertips into his scalp, the back of his thick neck. He sat on the edge of the tub and put one ankle on the opposite knee so that he could scrub his feet. The hot water showed no sign of stopping. He gleefully rose and rubbed the soap between his palms, stirring up a thick lather. With a low groan, he closed one slick hand around his cock. It sprang to life at once, rising from an unkempt thatch of coarse hair. As he stroked his thickening meat with one hand, he reached for his balls with the other, squeezing them tight as he massaged lather into his sack. He shuddered in the shower's sultry heat and pumped his cock harder. An image of the strange woman arose in his mind. He imagined her slim and pale like porcelain under her coat. She would have red, red lips, lush and perfect for wrapping around his cock. The rich scent of her, spicy and musky and warm, would intoxicate him. He was sure she would have hair the color of flame to grab in his hand as he fucked her mouth. Maybe it would feel cool around his dick. She seemed like that sort. With a strangled cry, he came hard in his hand, the milky jet of his cum striking the tiles in front of him. A smile curled his lips. How long had it been? Spent, and now a little lightheaded from the heat, he rinsed the thick lather from his tall frame and shut off the water. A thick towel hung from the rack, and he dried himself with a vigor that might have been purgative. Beneath the tan garnered through day labor, his skin was suffused with pink. He stepped out of the shower and propped himself up on the sink. He wiped the mirror with his fingertips, clearing a stripe across it with a squeak. Bright green eyes seemed to leap out of the washed-out background of his face, coated in stubble that ranged in color from gold to white. He spread his lips, firm and maybe a little too pink, over his teeth. In startling contrast to the hard, leathery darkness of his skin, his teeth were still strong, even and brilliant in their whiteness. He brushed them twice, just because he could. Finally, he filled his palm with a dollop of real, drugstore shaving cream. A little moan broke from him as he spread it onto his face. It felt so cool and soothing -- so fucking good -- before the scrape of the razor. His face tingled afterward, and he studied himself in the mirror. The face that regarded him belonged to a harsh cousin of the man who used to take a shower like this every morning before work. The cheekbones stood out a little more. The eyes were a little colder. A little gray showed in the wet, sun-bleached hair. He was hard now, all over, hard with day-labor muscle from working like an animal, hard with hunger for all the things he had lost. He wanted a drink. He left the bathroom with the towel around his hips and every intention of going downstairs for something to eat -- and if he found a beer, then so much the better. But then he saw the bed, an ugly thing that was mostly springs but still light-years beyond anything he had slept on in far too long. He sat on it, eliciting a chorus of squeaks before he swung his legs up onto the thin mattress. He turned over, amid more squeaking, until he was flat on his back. He turned to look through the window and out onto the night sky. The streetlight cast a sallow glow over the room's meager contents. He wondered if there was anything to wear in the closet, which suddenly seemed to be miles away from the bed, or if his imagined yuppie assailant might have been crouched there instead of in the shower. Nick didn't remember falling asleep. It was a blessed unconsciousness, deep and black and dreamless, but the soft sound of the bedroom door closing brought him instantly awake. He was disoriented for a moment in the strange new environment. For the first time in years, he expected to see his little boy tiptoeing toward the bed, his plush lion clutched by the tail in one little fist. Instead he saw her. He rose up on his elbows to look at her, spreading his legs just a little to relieve the throbbing ache of his hard-on beneath the thick towel. Her bare feet made no sound on the hardwood floor, and the black robe she wore seemed to ripple around her like a fathomless pool, sliding over the curve of her hip, the peerless white of her long legs. She was exactly what he had imagined in the shower. Red hair that glowed with gold as it flowed over her shoulders. Skin like a doll's, fragile and inhuman. Those strange eyes, green and gold in the dark. She slid her hands up to her shoulders, skimming them over her sides, and then she pushed the robe open. The belt slid open as it fell from her body with a whisper. His eyes fell on ripe, round breasts; he knew they would fill his hands, the coral pink areolas a perfect fit for his mouth. His nostrils flared as he caught her fragrance in full for the first time, mysterious and foreign like crushed flowers and burning incense. She put her knee on the bed, which dipped beneath her weight with a squeak. She swung her other leg over him, and he lay back, drinking in the sight of her as his cock bobbed up toward her. She reached for his thick hard-on and squeezed it with a smile. He closed his eyes when he touched her. Her hands were cold, and pleasure swelled up in him, making him moan, making his hips rise up toward her. His hands clawed at the coarse blanket, and he opened his eyes to watch her. She lifted her face to the cracked ceiling, and a sound issued from her, a rich, throaty squeal, as if she were an animal about to feast on her prey. His dick twitched in her tight grip, and she rubbed the head with her thumb, her cold flesh on his heat as he smeared pre-cum over the tip. He reached for her tits, filling his hands with the soft flesh, He rubbed her nipples with the rough pads of his fingers, then with a groan, he squeezed hard, his palms making those nipples rock hard, and she let out a loud cry, her white teeth flashing in the darkness. He pulled himself up then until he was sitting up with her on his lap. She pulled his cock, stroking it until it ached. He put one arm around her waist, pulling her closer until he could take her hard, pink nipple into his mouth. He licked the swollen bud, flicking and swirling his tongue over and around it before sucking on it, hard. She growled, spreading her ivory thighs and rocking her hips toward him. Then she impaled herself on him, and his whole body went stiff as she took him. Her cunt felt like white-hot steel right from the forge, ablaze with heat and tight beyond his most rapacious fantasies. She was so tight he could hardly move. She regarded him with those piercing eyes, her breath coming in tight little hisses between teeth clenched in a chilling grin. He was certain he would erupt in her at once, blasting wave after wave of cum into her implacable cunt before he even got the chance to really fuck her. But it was as if her pussy's viselike grip kept his spunk from escaping, creating a pleasure so intense that pain began to creep down into him. She released a long sigh, rolling her head back on her shoulders, the fiery hair sweeping back over her shoulders. Her nails dug into the hard flesh of his shoulders like cut glass, and a low throaty laugh gurgled up from her. Her cunt released its tenacious hold on him, and he spat out a gasp of relief. His cock seemed to swell within her, and she began to move, her hips swaying and rocking in an ancient dance as she rose and fell on his pole. The pink tip of her tongue swept over perfect white teeth. He grabbed her ass with both hands, pulling her down onto his shaft. He had never been this hard, this ready to burst with every stroke. Icy sweat sprang out onto him in beads. She began to smooth her palms over his body, over his shoulders, down his cheeks. She flattened them against his chest as if trying to hold him in place, stroked him as if he were something wild that might suddenly turn and strike. She quickened her pace, panting eagerly as she rode him, and her touch began to burn on his skin. A squeal broke from her, so high and piercing he had to force his eyes shut. Her razor-sharp nails cut across his back, up to his shoulder. Pain lanced over him, making him grunt before the sensation dissipated into smoldering heat. His fingers raced swiftly up her arms and nested in her hair. He pulled it hard, dealing her pain for pain. The sight of her skin, stark in the moonlight, kindled another blaze low in his belly. His cock pulsed within her and she began to stroke him again, that laughter bubbling up from her throat. He grabbed her hips and slammed her onto him, his cock buried in her up to the root, and then he exploded inside her, his own roar of delight drowned out by her screams of pleasure. His balls ached as he filled her with his cum, each pulse ripped from him until he could give no more. His body shuddered once inside her before his insides melted into warm jelly, and he collapsed backward onto the bed. The scratchy blanket ignited the scratches on his back, making him hiss with pain. His eyes drifted closed and he panted hard. Her hands, suddenly cool against his overheated flesh, stroked him, gently pulling the golden hair on his heaving chest. As the ringing in his ears subsided, he thought he heard a quiet sound from above him -- a sound almost like purring. A moment later, she shifted on his lap, easing off his still hard cock. He remembered the feeling of the air, cool on the moist skin of his dick, and then sleep overtook him, almost before he knew it. He awoke in the same position, his body aching, his legs tingling. A rosy glow lit his room. He tried to get his mind to work. Was it sunrise or sunset? He shivered a little from the late October cold and slowly hauled his protesting body up onto the bed, rolling it into a fetal position. Ordinarily, he would be out there, probably in the rolling hills outside town, building a fence of split rails or a wall of stones and daydreaming about a hot bath, a hotter woman and a warm bed. Perigee Hunger twisted inside him, shoving sharp corners into his gut and reminding him of how much he also wanted a hot meal. He yearned to lose himself in another few hours of sleep, but before long his bladder joined his stomach's complaints, and he pulled himself out of bed. His legs ached and burned as he rose. Afterwards, he stood on the cold tile of the bathroom, still half-expecting someone to leap from the shadows and attack him. He splashed icy water onto his face and regarded himself in the mirror. He still wore the hard look he had seen yesterday just after a long shower and a shave. His fingers rasped over the coarse hair on his face, drawing his gaze down to the tip of his chin and lower to his shoulders -- where he now observed what looked like a burn. The broad red rectangle stretched over his shoulder toward the center of his chest and responded with a deep ache, like a bruise, when he stroked it with his fingertips. He leaned over the sink, closer to the mirror, and discovered that the rectangle was actually three distinct stripes, so close together that they appeared to be a single mark. He stroked them and found that they corresponded almost perfectly to his own fingertips. Then his heart skipped a beat and he began to search for the other marks. He found six in all, down his arms, across his chest, over his flat stomach, everywhere she had slid her hands over him. A deep furrow appeared between his brows. Apparently, the bracing shower from yesterday had scraped off that top layer of skin and left him vulnerable. He shook his head. It didn't make sense, but he had heard of weirder things. His stomach twisted, and he turned out the bathroom light. In the doorway, he paused, listening for her. There was only silence for several seconds. He thought he heard something then, a wheeze, or something scraping. He did not think it was his strange benefactor. Thoughts of her wild shrieks and cries made his mouth curl in a smile. A moment later, he descended the stairs, clad in a pair of jeans that draped from his angular hips. The stairs creaked beneath his bare feet as he made his way to the kitchen. The scratches on his back burned like a brand, and he reached for them awkwardly. They stung beneath his fingertips. He opened the refrigerator, letting cold air wash over his bare torso. He was surprised to find it all but empty. His stomach grumbled in outrage. A half-full package of ground beef, already opened, rested in the corner, next to a green bottle with a cork protruding from it. A carton of eggs was tucked away in the door, where his ex-wife had always told him never to put eggs. The remembered sound of her hectoring voice intruded on his thoughts. He reached for the ground beef and the wine and let the refrigerator door snap shut. He tucked his fingers under the plastic and sniffed the air experimentally. The scent of last night's good hard fucking still clung to him, mingled with the subtle smell of soap, shampoo. The unused smell of the house persisted, dust mixed with just a hint of moisture. The coppery smell of blood rose from the Styrofoam tray, where his hand warmed the meat. He looked around the kitchen, which looked as if it had never been used -- a bone-dry sink, a stovetop so shiny he could see himself in it. He popped the cork off the bottle with two fingers and raised the bottle to his lips. The wine slid down at a crawl, pooling in his stomach for a slow burn. He wondered if she even had pots and pans. Absently, he tucked two fingers into the beef and shoved a lump into his mouth. He rolled it around there, letting it melt just a bit, the taste of blood and fat filling him before he let it slip down his throat. He had stabbed the lump with his fingers again when he heard that sound. A wheeze. Then a few more. They made a soft, metallic sound in the stillness of the kitchen. He padded over toward it, sucking another ball of meat off his fingers as he did. The door across from the kitchen wasn't quite closed. He stood with his ear pressed to the doorframe, careful to stand out of the doorway. The occasional wheeze he had heard earlier coalesced into a steady metallic squeaking. Well. That, he recognized. He backed up into the kitchen, where he made a little more noise than necessary in the effort to find a pan to fry the beef. Before long, there was nothing else in his world but the sound and smell of frying meat and eggs, the soft burn of red wine on an empty stomach. When he woke up the next time, it was very dark again. The sound of the slamming door awakened him. He hoped it was her going to the grocery store. Most of the beef and three eggs had taken the edge off, but his stomach still twisted with hunger. Needing to move, he swung his legs down from the bed. At the foot of the stairs again, he stopped. Long, wheezing breaths. Nick peered through the partially open doorway at a welter of blankets on the bed in the corner. Something glittered along one of the legs of the bed. He nudged the door open with his foot, emitting a loud creak. The blankets in the corner shifted and leapt, and he heard a jingling rattle at the foot of the bed. A man's head jerked out of the pile of blankets, a shock of white, sleep-mussed hair standing out in the darkness. As the man scuttled to the head of the bed, Nick could see that the shiny thing at the foot of the bed was a chain. The room was chilly, despite the hollow hum of a battered electric heater in the corner. He could smell sex here, too, but underneath it, the street's unwashed smell -- sweat, urine, alcohol -- and something more. Something familiar. "Who's that?" asked a reedy voice. Nick entered the room, his hulking shadow falling over the bed. White hands, spindly and skeletal, flew up from the darkness. "Who is it? P-please!" "I'm not going to hurt you," said Nick. The man in the bed cowered further into the corner, the whole bed shivering with him. Moving as slowly as he could, holding his hands in front of him, as if trying to steady an animal, Nick continued to approach. "She send you? She send you to finish it?" Nick straightened. "No, man. I'm not going to kill you." The old man made a derisive snort that degenerated into a hacking cough. Nick crouched down near the bed. The face that looked back at him was transfigured by fear. The sunken eyes were bright blue, wide with fear. Hollow cheeks stood out beneath white bristles. Pallor leached the life from tough, leathery skin. But something about those drawn features was familiar. "Nicky?" asked the wheezing voice. "Holy Christ. Wayne, I've been looking for you." "She got you, too?" "What the fuck happened to you?" "I don't know." He began to cry, huge sobs racking his body. Nick looked at the floor. Wayne began to catch his breath, his face glistening with tears. "She's doing it somehow. She fuck you yet?" Nick looked away at the open door. "Sleep through the day afterwards?" "I don't know." Wayne began to cough again. "That's what she does. Tomorrow or the next day, she'll put the chain on you, but she doesn't need it. You'll get more and more tired...but you won't be able to stop." He lifted the blanket away from his ankle, skin and bones surrounded by a bright silver cuff. In the dark, Nick could make out a slender stripe of purple where the metal had bruised him and a criss-crossed mass of little red stripes, some bright and angry and others fading to pink, running up and down the drawn skin. "How long have you been here?" "Fuck, I don't know! How long have you been looking?" Nick's heart sank. In the two weeks Nick had been looking for his friend, Wayne seemed to have aged thirty years. "I'm getting you out of here," he said. A mirthless laugh burst from him. "And go where? You gonna take me to a fuckin' hospital?" He shook his head as the laughter decayed into hacking coughs. "We can't go now anyway; she'll be back in a minute." "I am getting you out of here," Nick said. "Not tonight. Tomorrow she'll probably go out again. Then we'll be ready." Nick nodded. "First thing tomorrow." He rose and turned for the door. "Thanks for coming for me, Nicky," Wayne said, his voice almost inaudible. Nick turned back toward his friend and managed a smile for the emaciated man chained to the bed. "First thing tomorrow." Later that night, Nick sat in bed, his back against the hard metal frame. The spartan room filled with shifting shadows as the wind stroked the trees outside. He had heard her come back in and waited for the sound of her footsteps coming up the stairs but heard only soft movement from below. More notable was what he did not hear. He did not hear his friend, or the heavier step of another man. His skin prickled as the hair on the back of his neck rose. He strained his senses to the max, until his ears rang with the absence of sound. And then he heard it, an eerie wail drifting toward him from far away. Not quite like the raw sound of delight that came from her when she was stuffed full of his dick, but similar to it. He turned over again, trying to force himself back to sleep. With all its faults, the nest of rusted springs he lay on still felt pretty good. And he had to admit, he didn't really want to think of that unearthly siren riding the worn-out form that was Wayne. Nick knew he could walk out right now. If what Wayne was saying was true, and it made a lot of sense in a very twisted and paranoid way, he probably should leave. But it meant leaving a bed. And food. And the best sex he had had in his life. And if he walked out right now, he'd have to abandon Wayne. Yes. That was why he had to stay here for now. That wailing rose up to him again, a long wave of sound that made the blood pool low in his belly, making his cock pulse and swell. His hips shifted as he tried to shut out the sound. The whisper of linen against his groin brought him slowly erect, with exquisite pain. The need to fuck rose up in him, crowding out reason and instinct until only mindless appetite remained. In the dark, he made his way down the stairs, all but silent on the balls of broad feet. The air was cool on his skin as he went down the stairs. As the darkness there seemed to swallow him whole, the sounds he heard grew louder, swelling in his ears. The wailing was unmistakably female, making his hard-on pulse with each step he took. Something about this almost animal moaning and grunting compelled him, as powerful as a mating call. The door to the room was ajar, and Nick stood boldly in the doorway, his shadow sweeping across the room. The spectacle before him was obscene. Nick saw her long legs cradling the bony husk of Wayne's body as he heaved and jolted into her. His breathing was a deep, labored wheeze, dragged from the base of his lungs. Her arms wound around him, shapely and white in the light from the street lamp. Her voice spiraled up and up beneath the frail sound of Wayne's wheezing gasps. Her hands stroked Wayne's sunken, skeletal back as she laughed, making a throaty, utterly sexual sound. She began to speak then, almost to herself. It was a chant, a prayer, a magic spell. She repeated it over and over, that husky laugh separating each repetition. The muscles of Nick's jaw leapt beneath taut skin as he watched. The shattered remnants of his conscience, his decent mind, knew he should rush to defend his friend. He knew he should try to protect Wayne, perhaps protect the both of them by killing this strange woman. But those thoughts were far, far away, and his only thoughts now involved the satisfaction of his wild sexual craving. The only thing Nick saw from the doorway was that a rival was mounting his woman. He could make out her form, rounded and lush and enticing beneath this wasted wreck of a man. Heat suffused Nick, and his big cock twitched, aching. She let up a long moan, and her hands reached down, grabbing Wayne's ass and shoving him into her. She brought her hips up to meet his then, grunting and squealing in concert with his gasping wheezes. "More!" she shrieked. "More!" Wayne went on fucking her, his frame bucking spasmodically on top of her, as Nick watched. Wayne began to shudder and lurch on top of her. His breath was a choked rattle, lost in his throat. "More!" she screamed. The sound made Nick's balls stir, ready for her. Without tearing his eyes away, he reached down to stroke his cock. He squeezed the thick shaft until it wept with need. Finally, Wayne went rigid. A feeble cry erupted from him. A shudder ran through that shell of a body as he made a gagging sound. His head jerked backward suddenly, and a long moan trailed out of his mouth. He jerked forward one last time and then collapsed on her. Her lush limbs wound around Wayne's body, but he was still. He never moved again, even as her hands stroked the bony ridge of his spine, the ribs that stood out in the light. He was dead. She was caressing his corpse and moaning with unearthly pleasure. All at once, she lifted her head from the pillow, looking over Wayne's shoulder at Nick. Her eyes were aglow with that inhuman amber light, and he was transfixed again, just as he had been on the mall. Her tongue slowly slid over her lips, and another throaty laugh issued from deep within her. She opened her legs, releasing her prey, and she slid her hands onto Wayne's shoulders and chest. With a lustful grunt, she pushed the corpse off her. It struck the wooden floor with a loud thud. She sat up in the bed then, her legs still spread, and beckoned to Nick again, just as she had on the mall. He was still powerless to resist. He began to cross the room, heat building within him with every step. With every curl of her fingers, Nick's cock swelled and pulsed. He stood at the bedside next to her, looking into those amber eyes. Still staring at him, she reached for his balls, taking them into her hand as if appraising their size and weight. Her touch was like fire, making his cock leap as he stepped over Wayne, entering the embrace of her soft, warm thighs. He shoved his huge dick into her slippery cunt, so hard he drove the breath from her with the force of it. Her hands grabbed his ass with a smack and held on as he rode her, wanting to fuck her so hard she would taste his cum in the back of her throat. Her pussy was still as tight and hot as before, scorching hot against his dick, driving him to fuck her harder, plowing into her. She began to stroke him again, her palms and fingers leaving traces of heat on his skin. The scratches on his back sang, and she began to chuckle, moaning hungrily. "Yes," she moaned. With a growl, he seized her hands, snatching one and then the other before slamming them down onto the thin blanket. He pounded into her, once, twice, filling her, driving deep into the tight heat of her sex. She spread her thighs a little wider, making herself even tighter, and the glorious pressure on his shaft made him suck breath through his teeth on a fierce hiss. He exploded inside her, his climax so sublime it made circles of darkness dance before his eyes. His body shuddered and jolted inside her, but he felt dizzy and lightheaded. His head swam, and he felt himself falling toward the bed, which suddenly felt very far away. He came to in the dark, alone in the bed. The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was Wayne's corpse, staring up sightlessly at the ceiling, his face frozen in a horrible grimace. Nick looked down at his own hand, willing it to move so that he could push himself off the bed. It reminded him of the winter he caught the flu. He could feel deep, achy pain settle in his bones, weighing down his limbs. He closed his burning eyes again, unable to hold them open. The next time he woke up, his dry mouth tasted foul as he blinked into afternoon sunlight. He turned to look along the side of the bed, where the body still lay, and he tried to turn quickly away, creating a chorus of popping, cracking noises from his neck. He should move. Or do something. Soon. Soon. His eyes watered with the strain of keeping them open. He thought his eyes were only closed for a moment, but all at once, he found himself blinking in the darkness again. Faint light came in through the still-open door, and he could see Wayne's limbs locked in place. Nick forced himself up to his elbows again, struggling to a sitting position in the bed. Memories of what he had seen and done that night before began to rise to the surface of his mind like dead things floating to the top of murky water. He had stepped over his friend's dead body to fuck that stranger. Worse, he would have done anything she had told him to. His conscious mind had simply been switched off in favor of sheer, single-minded lust. He wasn't so different from most men; in other circumstances, he would admit, or even brag, that he wouldn't let anything get between him and some spectacular pussy. But he was shamed by this. And a little afraid. His body stung, and he knew it was criss-crossed with those little red stripes, and instead of revulsion, he felt a tingling shudder of arousal. As if on cue, a shadow slid across the bed, and he knew it was her without having to look. His cock stirred between his legs, even as his stomach churned with revulsion. Against his will, Nick remembered that voice, the crushing heat of her cunt, and his erection swelled. She seemed to float across the floor to the bed, neatly sidestepping the corpse. She reached for Nick's hard-on and stroked it, the feather-light touch sending pulses of heat through him. He lifted his hips, wanting more in spite of himself. She took her hand away. His flesh went cold in its absence. "What are you doing to me?" he asked. "I need you." She put her hands on his chest, making his dick leap to attention. "Your strength." "What happened to him?" She chuckled, reaching for Nick's shaft. "It will not happen like that to you. For you, it will be good -- as long as you obey." He moved eagerly toward her, the rich smell of crushed flowers enveloping him, chasing away the faint memory of brilliant pain behind his eyes. "You'll kill me, just like him." "No." She deftly avoided the touch of his lips. "It will be good for you. Soon you will see." She slipped off the bed and pointed a long, elegant finger at the corpse on the floor. "But you must do as I tell you." Slick, unwholesome sweat coated Nick's body by the time he got the corpse into the Volvo. It felt like a million years ago that he thought that normal people drove Volvos. He wanted to laugh, but a sad little ripple of breath was all he could manage. He knew now that it was late at night; the streets were empty and they had the interstate to themselves. He could feel her eyes on him as he drove, probably wondering if he would fall asleep at the wheel. Or maybe she was making her plans for him, too. Figuring out how much longer he would last before she had to find a replacement for him. She gave him directions as they drove, her long finger pointing at each turn she wanted. Before long, they were in the mountains, and Nick had to navigate with care, mindful of icy patches that were almost invisible in the dark. The road shrank down to a narrow gravel path, pitch black but for the sliver of light made by the Volvo's headlights. As he rounded a curve, a pair of deer bounded from the blackness on the right of the car, just in front of them. Their strides were sure and strong on the icy terrain, and he turned his head to watch them. His stomach turned over again, lurching before settling into a long growl. His eye fell on her, those eyes glowing in the darkness of the car like a cat's, and he had to force himself to pay attention to the road as the rear of the car slewed on the ice. She pointed out the window at a lone tree, white and bare of leaves in the moonlight. The snow that surrounded it was pristine. Perigee "Here," she said. He parked the Volvo on the edge of the gravel road and got out. By the time she opened the door, he had the rear liftgate open and was hauling the body out, pulling the corners of the blanket she had made him wrap it in. There had been so little left of Wayne that he was easy to carry, like a bundle of kindling. Nick dipped his head and sighed. Her footsteps were sure on the gravel slope that led to the clearing. He could see her slender ankles below the hem of her long coat, reminding him of the deer. She was just ahead of him, moving swiftly toward the tree. Nick felt his mouth twisting in a mirthless smile, and his stomach growled again. As he made his way down from the road, shifting his weight beneath Wayne as he lowered himself onto the snow, he kept his eye on her. They were far from any streetlights, but the moon had risen, bright as daylight, huge in the sky above them. It felt close enough to touch. The crust of ice broke beneath Nick's feet, making a crunch like the splintering of bones. His mouth watered, and his fist tightened on the shovel. The cold air filled his lungs, restoring him. She stopped, pointing at the ground next to her. He closed the distance between them, looking down at the glistening coat of ice beneath her. No footprints there but his. He thrust the shovel into the ground like a spear, staring at her as he did, and then he eased the bundle onto the ground, carefully, as if it were filled with something precious, something that would break. He put his hands into the small of his back and stretched, chasing away the remnants of dull pain. Turning his back to her, he stabbed the brutal ground with the shovel and turned snow and ice over. He could make it give, he knew. The shovel would break before he did. But she didn't know that. She knew he was strong for a derelict, stronger than his slim build made him look. She knew what would arouse him and how to draw him and the depth of his hunger and rage. But she didn't know everything. He bit back another smile and attacked the ground again, the shovel making a ringing sound on the frozen earth. The hair on the back of his neck slowly rose, and his breathing went shallow. He felt as if he were about to jump out of his skin, his muscles twitching, his bones wanting to shift. Oh, it felt good. Why had he tried for so long to drown this with alcohol? He watched his shadow on the ice. Hers was next to it, but shorter. He placed her at maybe four or five feet away. He turned his face up to the sky, closing his eyes, letting the moonlight bathe him. He took a deep breath, letting it expand his chest. It came out on a moan. He shouldered out of his coat and placed it over the body with reverence. Then he pulled the shirt over his head and tossed it onto the ground, too. He went back to the shovel, glancing at her over his bare shoulder. She hadn't moved, those eyes still glowing from inside the coat. He stabbed the ground again with the shovel, turning over flakes of dark earth, glistening with ice. Nick wondered how many more of these graves surrounded the withered tree. It thrust up from the snowy ground like a skeletal hand, its bony fingers reaching for the distant stars. He thought of Wayne's hand, reaching up from the floor, for salvation. He had broken a sweat beneath the moon. Ankle deep in snow, he felt warm and comfortable, and he felt those scratches closing, itching just a little as the skin sealed up. He flung the shovel to the ground with a clang and turned slowly to face her. What was she? He walked slowly toward her. What kind of thing was she? She didn't flinch, met his gaze easily as he came. He rolled his shoulders, listening to them pop. His mouth watered. She was different, certainly. The look on his face would have most women at least ready to back away, even if they didn't know why. He released a long breath and relaxed his shoulders and his back, letting his bones slide and shift, coming apart and coming together. He curled his fingers, feeling them grow long, ran his tongue over the mouthful of strong teeth in his elongating jaw. The hair on his arms grew to warm him, sliding down over his shoulders and back. Everything in him begged to change and to run, his senses screaming that he needed it. But as the woman before him backed away, her slender feet breaking the snow's icy crust, he knew he needed something else a little more. She raised her hand toward him, jabbing her fingers down into hooks as she had so long ago on the mall. He bared his teeth in a vicious mockery of a grin. That sort of thing wouldn't work on him now. Not much could hurt him out here now. His arm lashed out, and he caught her by the throat. He lifted her easily and let her look down into the eyes which were now sort of like hers, green and glowing in the moonlight. Her breath stirred the coat of dense hair on his arm, and he tightened his fingers, letting her feel his claws, just a little. Just enough. "Why don't I kill you?" he asked, his voice little more than an inhuman growl. She whimpered and struggled in his grasp, both hands wrapped around his thick wrist. The absolute need to close his jaws on her throat surged in his chest, about to explode. Her pulse beat frantically against the coarse flesh of his palm. "Why don't I kill you? Why don't I kill you and put what's left in a hole out here?" "I can -- I can give you --" "Give me what?" he roared. The world around them grew still, and nothing moved or breathed anywhere around them. "Please!" she gasped. "Please let me --" He shook her hard. Her body swayed like grass in a gentle breeze. "You think that pussy can save you?" "I can give you -- give you what you want," she stammered. "Right now, what I want is to kill you." "No." Her voice gathered strength, regaining some of its former resonance. "No. I know what you want. Release me. I'll tell you." He flung her into the deep carpet of snow. She lay there, coughing and gazing up at him. Her white hands crossed over her throat, and the hat had tumbled from her head, freeing her red hair. Nick's massive form towered over her. He ached to finish the change, to stand on all fours in the icy clearing. "We are alike," she said. Her voice was hoarse. "You are like me. You need to hunt. I feel it in you." He said nothing. "Stay with me. I will give you freedom. A place to run. Prey to hunt." "I'm listening." "You spend so much of life hiding. You hide your true nature. You need not hide from me." "What's to stop me from killing you?" She shook her head. "Only you." "Then you'll kill me." She chuckled. "No. You are strong. Not like your friend. Strong enough to feed me." He stepped back from her, and as she watched, he seemed to shrink back into himself, receding until he had taken his earlier form. His whole body ached, not just from the change, but with the need to run, to feel the air rush over his body as his legs stretched and flexed. He could almost feel the frosty air in his lungs now. Nick crossed his arms across his bare chest and regarded her as she struggled up from the ground, looking disheveled for the first time since he had seen her. He longed to finish rumpling her hair, press his mouth to those parted lips and pull open her coat until her body was against his, the intoxicating fragrance of her all around him. The snow would sizzle against that body of hers. Then he'd have a choice. He frowned at her, considering his options. "Why do you change?" she asked. "You need this." "I know," he said. "But first I want to bury my friend." He could turn on her now, he knew. He could run her to ground and tear her to pieces, devouring her beneath the moonlight until there was nothing left but broken bones, at which point he would have to return to his subsistence on the mall. Or he could trade his burning need to hunt tonight for food, shelter, breathtaking sex -- a sensual feast that would last for as long as he could stand it. All that, and the freedom to change and hunt and run. They left a mound of stones beneath the tree before returning to the Volvo. She hung back, letting him precede her, and he smiled to himself, feeling her wary gaze on him. She was right; they were alike. She must be at least a little afraid of him and what he could do to her. But she couldn't turn away from the promise of those endless nights any more than he could. Of course, eventually, he would become useless to her. But that would take time, especially now that he was returning to regular meals. When the time finally came, perhaps they would find themselves back here, on this desolate clearing. She thought he was strong now, after the endless months of scratching to survive. Now that he had a home, he would become a virtual colossus. Then he could reconsider his decision.