Midnight Thirsts: Erotic Tales Of The Vampire. Michael Thomas Ford
off.
He pulled a ten and a five out of his wallet and handed them over the seat to her. “Keep it,” he said.
“Thanks, man.” She flashed her gold teeth at him. “You be careful, okay?”
“I’m always careful.”
Her smile faded as he opened the door. “There’s some weird energy in the city tonight,” she warned, “so be on your guard.”
He looked at her for a moment, trying to decide if she was serious, and then climbed out of the cab. “You don’t have to wait till I’m inside.”
She shrugged. “Suit yourself, man.” He shut the door, and she pulled away from the curb. He stood there, watching the red taillights disappear into the mist.
The street was deserted. He looked around and exhaled in relief.
Did you think you’d see him again? he asked himself as he went up the walk to the front door. You’re getting as crazy as Rachel. He climbed the steps to the verandah. A porch swing swayed gently, as if someone had just gotten out of it. Wrought-iron chairs beaded with condensation were scattered around, empty and forlorn. Green-painted shutters stood sentry beside darkened windows. A fountain in the side yard bubbled, water flowing through a marble urn held aloft by a bare-breasted woman. The front door was oak, half of it stained glass in the pattern of a Madonna and child, the Madonna smiling down at her giggling infant. The house, a huge old Victorian, seemed cold and uninviting. He pushed the buzzer, hearing the bell clang inside. Footsteps approached the door. He looked back to the street. It was still empty. The door swung open.
Arthur was in his early seventies, a retired professor of English from Tulane University. His head was completely bald, white, crisscrossed with bluish veins. Long gray hairs hung from his nostrils. He was wearing a long red velvet robe that brushed the floor. His bare feet protruded from beneath its hem. His toenails were long and yellowed. His watery blue eyes were bloodshot. He smelled of sour Scotch. He always drank several Scotches before Philip arrived.
“Philip.” His voice was slightly slurred from the liquor. “Do come in, my dear boy.” He smiled, yellowed teeth over bluish gums. He didn’t look well, not that he ever did.
Philip stepped past him into the house. It was always spotlessly clean, everything in its appointed place, yet it always smelled musty, the air stale. Philip removed his coat and hung it on the coat tree just inside the front door. He walked down the hallway to the living room. The curtains were closed, as they always were. It was as though light and fresh air had abandoned the house many years before.
If ever a house was meant to be haunted, he thought as he untied his shoes and removed them, it was this one.
Arthur stood in the doorway. His glass of Scotch sat on an end table, next to the reclining chair where Arthur always sat. The ice was melted. The half-empty bottle stood, uncapped, next to it. Philip knew Arthur would not come into the room until he was undressed. He never did. Arthur didn’t want to touch him, as though somehow he were unclean. Philip placed his shoes on the hearth, then removed his socks. He stood back up and pulled his sweatshirt over his head. It was cold in the house, and goose bumps rose on his bare skin. He folded the sweatshirt and placed it next to his shoes. Arthur liked everything to be neat. Philip undid his belt, unbuttoned the fly of his jeans, and slid them down. He stepped out of them and folded them, placing them on top of the sweatshirt.
With only the black jockstrap on, he turned and faced Arthur, his legs apart, his pelvis thrust forward a little.
Arthur smiled, pale lips parting to show his almost predatory teeth. “Beautiful, yes, simply beautiful.” He stepped into the room and removed his robe. His skin was pale white, pale enough to see the blue veins, and hung in folds from his arms. A patch of gray hair stood in the center of his flabby, sagging chest. His belly was round and hung over the gray pubic hair, the small pink cock, the even smaller balls beneath. He sat down in the chair and reached for his Scotch, taking a drink and smacking his lips. Philip turned so his back was to him, then bent over forward, bending his knees slightly, so the muscled orbs of his ass were rounded and uplifted, framed by the straps of the black jock. He glanced up at the antique clock on the mantel.
Arthur was breathing heavier. Philip knew without looking that the little red cock was now hard, being stroked. Arthur never wanted to touch him, which was fine with Philip. He didn’t want to be close to Arthur, to feel that old, papery skin, to smell the stale Scotch on his breath or the slightly sour odor of his body. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, flexing each cheek in order. This was so much easier than the others, the closeted overweight married guys from out of town, who wanted to fuck him or be fucked, to have their moist, sour-smelling cocks sucked, their balls touched.
“So pretty,” Arthur breathed.
Philip straightened back up, bringing his arms up over his head, making the muscles of his back stand out, standing like that for a few minutes, watching the second hand on the clock moving ever so slowly around the Roman numbers on its face. He turned sideways, posing, his right arm dropping and flexing so the muscles of his pecs and shoulders jumped out, while looking at a point slightly above Arthur’s head. His own cock was still soft. That was fine as long as the jock was still on, but when it was time for the jock to come off, his cock had to be erect, ready to be stroked.
He climbed up on the coffee table, flexing his arms again. He avoided looking at Arthur, and started thinking about something erotic, something to get his cock to start stirring.
The man in the mist.
That handsome face.
The blond hair, the blue eyes.
The blue eyes with the hint of unforeseen pleasures in them.
He smelled lilac and rose again, felt the silk sheets against his skin.
His dick began to stiffen.
He saw the blond man unbuttoning his own shirt, revealing marble-like skin, muscles finely etched in relief like a sculpture, the round, pink nipples on his large chest erect and hard. The tufts of blond hair running from the navel downward, hinting of what was below.
He imagined what the man smelled like, how his lips would taste, how his skin would feel against his own.
He was hard now, the head of his cock sticking out above the waistband of the jock.
He slid the jock down, spitting into his other hand, which he used to start stroking his dick.
“So pretty,” Arthur said again.
And Philip lost himself in the reverie of the fantasy from the cab, the blond man’s mouth and tongue working on his neck, his chest, then his stomach. Philip closed his eyes, imagining himself back in the room that smelled of lilac and rose, his skin lying on sheets of silk as candles flickered in a warm, soft breeze. “I love you so,” the blond man whispered, his fingers probing the cleft between Philip’s cheeks, looking for the entryway into his body.
Philip brought up his free hand to pinch his own nipple.
Arthur was breathing faster; he could hear him. “So pretty, so pretty,” he repeated over and over again, like always, and Philip began rubbing his thumb over the head of his own cock, the precum starting to leak out a bit, using the sticky drops of fluid to further lubricate his cock as he rubbed; and in his mind he was far away, far from this spooky, stale old house with an old man sitting on the couch in front of him, in a bed with the blond man, who was sucking Philip’s cock while probing Philip’s asshole with his fingers. Philip imagined looking down on that white-blond head as it moved up and down, worshipping Philip’s cock as though it were a totem.
Philip heard the gasps as Arthur’s little cock ejected its few drops of semen.
His own was ready, the cum rising in him, his balls tightening, and even though Arthur liked him to be silent, he cried out as he reached the point, his juices spilling out of him.
He opened his eyes.
“So pretty,” Arthur said again, his own eyes closed.