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Andrew Roller Presents
Till Death Do Us Part
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Chapter Two
I am standing in my bathroom, gargling. The Sound of Music is
playing on my tape player. IÕm not overly fond of it but it was quite
popular in its day. As an accountant I have to interact with clients and so
IÕm working my way, as best I am able, through all the popular books,
popular musicals, and popular movies. Hopefully this will enable me to
have an ÒedgeÓ when dealing with clients, and allow me to become a
ÒrainmakerÓ. Not because IÕm a better accountant (IÕm already quite good),
but because I have a superior Òbedside mannerÓ. I read about this strategy
in a popular accountantÕs newsletter, ÒAdd to Your Success!Ó
As I am listening to Julie Andrews, adding my own somewhat less
musical voice to hers, courtesy of Listerine, I perceive a movement behind
me. I stop in mid-gargle. I gaze into the bathroom mirror. There, in the
glass, I can see the window at the back of my bathroom, above the toilet.
There it is again. Something black against the glass, outside. My
grip tightens on my cup of Listerine. Foam drips from the corners of my
mouth. I see tree branches beyond my window. ItÕs an old tree, in my back
yard. The branches are moving. The wind must be blowing.
Slowly I move to the tape player. I click the ÒstopÓ button. I act
nonchalant but I keep my eyes fixed onto my mirror, pretending to look at
myself but really looking at the reflection of the window behind me.
Is there something between the tree branches and my window, or
not? Is there a cat in the branches? Damn cat. That must be what it is.
That cat that lives with the woman next door is always coming into my
yard and--
I see two eyes. TheyÕre like catÕs eyes but theyÕre up close against
the glass, not back in the tree branches. I stare at them, looking into my
mirror and the windowÕs reflection. They stare back at me. I feel foam
run down my chin. The eyes are upside down!
I whirl about. And I see nothing. Just the branches, moving in the
wind. There is nothing there. I race to the window. I hurl it open and
stick out my head. The wind is blowing hard. I peer into the branches of
the tree.
ÒDamn cat,Ó I mutter. I see nothing but living wood and leaves. I
gaze down at my yard. Empty. Just grass, and fallen leaves, brown and
rotting. IÕll have to rake those up tomorrow morning or theyÕll kill the
grass.
A strand of hair touches the back of my neck. Whisper-soft. Do I
need a haircut? That damn barber-- I tipped him $2.00 and he didnÕt even
do a decent job. I do my accounting, why canÕt other people do their jobs?
WhatÕs the world coming to anyway?
ÒI really should get a gardener for those leaves,Ó I tell myself. ÒI
just donÕt have time to--Ó
I feel a prick on the side of my neck. Another. Two small pins
puncturing my flesh.
ÒYeoow!Ó I hollar. I yank my head inside my window. I clap my hand
to my neck. ÒI thought I got rid of all those wasps last summer!Ó I am
shouting, when suddenly, I realize I am not alone in my bathroom.
Something soft and warm and sleek has come in through the window with
me.
I stare at her. She has pale skin and long dark hair. She is gazing up
at me and there is blood on her lips. She smiles and I nearly faint. In her
mouth, within her succulent ruby lips, I see two sharp little fangs.
ÒHold still,Ó she says.
ÒGood God!Ó I cry. Somehow, despite my fright, I find it within
myself to turn from her. Mixed with my fear I feel a strange attraction.
It is those eyes of hers, always lovely to look upon but now positively
luminous.
ÒHold still!Ó she shrieks, her voice childlike and high. I race from
my bathroom. I hear footsteps behind me. I run for my bedroom. I have a
pistol at the bottom of my underwear drawer. IÕve never fired it. Shit--
itÕs not loaded either. IÕd read that many handguns wind up shooting their
owner and wanted to make sure I didnÕt become a statistic like that. Yet
now, in my panic, I canÕt remember where IÕve put those damn bullets!
Underwear is flying out of my dresser as I stand in my bedroom,
frantically groping for my gun. ItÕs dark. No time to reach for the light
switch-- IÕm being pursued by a vampire! I can feel the blood dripping
down my neck where she tried to sink her fangs into me. It is the same
girl I saw in the hospital, in the elevator, and at the bus stop.
I find the gun. I yank it out of my underwear drawer. I turn around
and, with trembling hands, I take aim at the small figure slipping into my
bedroom from the hall.
Her eyes stare at me. Her long dark hair whispers as she moves,
tumbling over her shoulders, down her back, over her blouse in front where
two pert lumps indicate the presence of her budding breasts.
Her teeth flash.
ÒDonÕt move!Ó I cry. I follow her with the gun as she darts deeper
into my bedroom.
ÒYou wouldnÕt, by any chance, have that loaded with silver bullets,
would you?Ó she purrs. She is confident. I stare at her. She stares at me.
There is moonlight spilling into my bedroom, through the gauze of the
curtains. It is a wavery light, obscured by the curtains and by trees in my
back yard.
ÒIt- it isnÕt loaded at all,Ó I confess in the half-illuminated
darkness. The adumbrated moonlight is the only silver in the room.
ÒDidnÕt think so,Ó she says. She slips out from behind the foot of my
bed. She approaches me. My hands shake and I drop my gun. It clatters on
my all-natural hardwood floor. I had the carpets ripped out a year ago
because I feared dust mites. Now IÕm safe from those but IÕve got a small,
10-year-old girl in my room with fangs.
ÒHold still,Ó she says. ÒI must drink or I will die.Ó
ÒYou-- I--Ó My mouth goes dry. What do you say to a vampire?
She lifts her dress.
ÒDonÕt do that!Ó I yell. I see her upper thighs, her panties. Her belly.
Her underwear is white against her white skin.
ÒIf you let me pierce you, IÕll let you pierce me,Ó she says in a soft,
silvery voice in the moonlight.
ÒNo, no,Ó I croak.
ÒYes!Ó she snarls. She is upon me. I feel fingers on my neck, small
and cold. Her luminous eyes take on an animal quality. They redden as she
presses her nose to mine and I smell her bubblegum breath.
ÒOuch!Ó I gasp. Twin teeth sink into my neck.
I push at her small body. She is strong-- much stronger than I
imagined. I feel her paps under my fingers and a rush of lust runs through
me.
ÒAughggh!Ó I cry. Somehow I get the creature off me. Her hair
swirls. She falls to the floor, lands on my all-natural hardwood floor and
cries out.
I leap over my bed. She comes after me. I nearly throw myself
through my bedroom window but instead I hit my wall, only my elbow hits
the glass and it shatters, cutting my arm. There is blood and I am
screaming. The creature, long hair and white panties and all, flies through
my broken window and is gone.
The police are at the door. I have my arm bandaged and I mumble
something about interior decorating.
ÒI fell against the glass, thatÕs all,Ó I tell them.
ÒMr. Mortimer, do you live alone?Ó the officer asks. I murmur that I
do. I try to make a lame joke:
ÒI had the carpeting ripped out a year ago, so now even the dust
mites are gone!Ó I laugh. He does not.
They leave. I thank them for checking up on me.
As soon as the police are gone I shut my bedroom door and bar it
with a chair from the dining room downstairs. I lock my bedroom door
from the outside, as I stand in the hall. The window in my bedroom is
broken and She might come back. I donÕt want to spend the night lying in
there, asleep, with the window open to the night air.
I go downstairs. I turn on the T.V. Then I turn it off. I need to be
able to hear her if she returns. She knows IÕm in here. I consider going to
a motel for the night but I sense she has the ability to watch me and to
follow me.
I sit in the dining room, thinking. I am sitting there half-frightened
out of my wits, still on an adrenalin rush but getting tired. IÕve been up
since 5 a.m., when I go for my morning workout to the gym. The hour is
growing late and I wonder how on earth IÕll get up tomorrow morning.
ÒIÕve got to get the Johnson account done tomorrow,Ó I tell myself.
My eyelids droop. I begin to nod off. Then I awaken, abruptly.
ÒThis is ridiculous,Ó I tell myself. Then I feel a pain in my arm and I
realize it canÕt be a dream, the blood is real. I feel my arm, my neck. I
feel the pulse in my neck.
The hours pass. I talk to myself and, unwillingly, I begin to nod off.
I am asleep when something inside me senses the pitter pat of small feet.
My eyes fly open. She is there, in my dining room. She has taken off her
shoes and she is barefoot.
ÒHello,Ó she says in a small, silky voice.
ÒYouÕre back,Ó I gasp.
ÒOf course IÕm back. I need to feed,Ó she tells me in an ethereal
voice that has a creepy quality underlying it, intertwined with it. ÒAnd I
need to be fed,Ó she adds. She lifts her skirt.
ÒNo!Ó I cry.
ÒDo you like my panties?Ó she asks as she lifts her skirt to her
waist. ÒDo you think theyÕre pretty?Ó
Her panties are frilly and small. Little girl panties. I feel saliva in
my mouth. I swallow.
ÒYes,Ó I say.
ÒFeed me,Ó she begs, her eyes luminous. There is just a hint of the
blood-red gaze that IÕd seen in my bedroom creeping back into them.
I am running down the street. It is dark. I have bandages around the
elbow of my right arm. I am running in my pajama shirt and my pajama
pants, slippers on my feet. It is cold. I am scared. I can feel her behind
me, somewhere. My front door is standing wide open, I recall to myself,
left open by me as I fled from my house. But I donÕt care. ItÕs not my
house she wants, or any of my possessions. ItÕs me she wants.
Specifically, my blood. And my penis.
I run up a side street. The homes stare at me. They are dark,
seemingly empty, but I know there are people sleeping in there. I want to
run up to a home, any home, and pound on the door. But what can I say,
standing there in my pajamas? That a 10-year-old girl is after me and
she wants to fuck me? To drink my blood? IÕm an accountant. I have my
reputation to protect. People donÕt want a child molester doing their
books, especially one whoÕs crazy.
Out of the corner of my eye I see a playground. The clouds overhead
are thick but I can make out the swings, standing empty in the middle of a
grassy field. I run for the playground. I donÕt know why. Perhaps she will
be afraid to come here.
I get among the swings. I grip their chains. I tell myself that if she
appears IÕll manage somehow to twist the chains of the swings around her.
IÕll strangle her or bind her, or both.
ÒSuch pleasant thoughts,Ó I hear a small voice say. ItÕs behind me. I
feel a chill run down my spine. I lurch about. I tangle myself in the chains
that the swings hang from. She laughs. I get myself free of the chains and
gaze upon her. The clouds above break and the moon illuminates her and I
am struck by her beauty.
ÒI must feed,Ó she tells me. ÒHold still.Ó
ÒNo,Ó I gasp.
She leaps. She pounces on me. I fall backward into the dirt under
the swings.
ÒLet me feed,Ó she urges. Her breath is hot against my face and I
guess my own breath is hot against hers but her face feels cold when it
presses to mine.
Twin needles puncture my neck. My voice tries to cry out but her
palm clasps itself to my rictus-like mouth. Her fingers are cold. My
scream dies in my throat as I feel a sudden, unexpected rush of pleasure. I
feel like IÕm drinking but instead it is she who is drinking. She drinks
from my neck. I can hear her swallowing. It is an animal-like sound, like
a cat lapping water from a lake.
The night is still. I lay in the dirt. I want to get up but I am all
swoony and pleasure-laden, the joy in my limbs slowly draining as the
minutes pass.
ÒNow you must feed me,Ó she says.
There is a weight upon my groin. And then I am naked there, my
pajama pants opened, my penis exposed to the chilly night air.
ÒYessss,Ó she hisses. Her voice is like that of the snake in Eden, I
think.
ÒDonÕt bite it,Ó I gasp. But she does not. I feel an incredible
tightness envelop the knob of my dick. Slowly, lying prone in the dirt but
listening to her moan with a mingling of pain and pleasure, I feel myself
penetrate her.
She rides me. In the dirt, amidst the swings that I had hoped to bind
her with. Instead she binds me, with her flesh, and I pierce her and feed
her.
ÒDonÕt let yourself be exposed to the light,Ó she tells me afterward,
pulling up her panties, standing by my face as I lie in the dirt.
ÒWhat?Ó I croak. I am spent, drained.
ÒDonÕt let yourself be exposed,Ó she says. I fumble for my penis. It
is no longer hard and extended. I tuck it into my pajamas.
I sit in my dining room. IÕm feverish but IÕm afraid to go upstairs to
my bedroom. The door there is still locked. The dining room chair still
leans against the door.
Outside, it is now daylight. I keep the curtains drawn and I stay
within the dining room all day because it is one of the few rooms in my
house that has no windows.
At night she comes. I do not know how she gets into my house.
Perhaps she simply comes through the front door. I tell myself to check to
see if it is properly locked but I am too feverish to get out of the chair I
am slumped in. She mounts me and feeds upon me. Then she has me feed
her. We rejoice in our oneness even as my fever persists.
ÒDonÕt let yourself be exposed to the light,Ó she tells me again,
before leaving.
ÒI donÕt even know your name,Ó I mumble.
ÒVicky,Ó she replies.
I feel stronger. I get up out of my chair. It is night. I go to my
kitchen. I open the refrigerator. Phew. The milk has somehow gone sour.
I toss it into the wastebasket in my kitchen.
I go to the cupboard. I take down a can of ravioli. I open it and heat
it on the stove. I try to eat it but I vomit.
She is standing in the doorway to my kitchen. She looks beautiful.
Her shoes are on her feet. They are glossy. They clack lightly as she
crosses the tiled floor of my kitchen. I am sitting at the kitchen table.
There is vomit on the table. She looks at it and wrinkles her nose.
ÒAre you hungry?Ó she asks me.
ÒYes,Ó I say.
ÒYou need blood,Ó she says simply. Her long eyelashes bat at me. I
admire the silken cascade of her long, dark hair. Her clothes are new,
beautiful. As if they had never been worn. Yet they are the same clothes I
saw her wearing at the hospital!
I search for her name in my mind. ÒVicky,Ó I finally manage to say.
ÒYes?Ó she asks.
ÒDonÕt drink my blood anymore.Ó
ÒI canÕt,Ó she tells me. ÒYouÕre like me now. I let you transform. I
could have kept you as a cow, feeding off you, but it would have killed you.
I didnÕt want you to die.Ó
ÒThanks,Ó I say.
She sits down at the kitchen table. It is odd to see her sitting there,
a small girl, not the lustful creature of the night who has visited me so
many, too many times.
ÒDo you-- want something to eat?Ó I ask her. She smiles at me.
ÒI told you. I canÕt drink your blood anymore. ItÕs vampire blood
now. Like mine. Your fever has passed, hasnÕt it?Ó
ÒI guess so,Ó I say.
ÒYou look sorta silly in your pajamas,Ó she tells me. ÒA pajama
vampire.Ó
ÒIÕll-- IÕll change them,Ó I answer.
ÒTheyÕll always be part of you, IÕm afraid,Ó she says. ÒI shouldÕve
told you. You were my first so I wasnÕt thinking. I should have had you put
on a nice suit before I transformed you. But at first you werenÕt too
cooperative, so I--Ó she pauses. ÒI took what I could get,Ó she says at
last.
ÒA pajama vampire,Ó I mutter.
ÒYou can take them off, of course,Ó she says. ÒBurn them if you like.
But they are imbued into your aura. All living things have an aura and
undead things like us have one too. Whenever you return to your true self,
you will have the pajamas again. See? Just like my clothes. Always
crisp and new, however much I might roll in the dirt in them, making love
to you.Ó Her eyes flash at me. ÒWe can still do that,Ó she adds.
ÒNot-- not tonight,Ó I tell her. ÒI have a headache.Ó
ÒQuibbler,Ó she answers.
ÒLet me clean up this vomit,Ó I tell her.
ÒI sorta like it,Ó she giggles.
ÒGirls arenÕt supposed to like vomit,Ó I scold her.
ÒIÕm not a girl. IÕm a vampire,Ó she says. She looks at me with her
large, luminous eyes. Finally she asks, ÒHave you ever heard of the
littlest angel?Ó
ÒYes,Ó I tell her.
ÒYou got me instead,Ó she replies.
30
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