Vince Vilsack sat at the round bar table with his “main,” Madge. She met his frosty blue eyes and sipped her Bloody Mary – sans blood, because she wasn’t a vampire, like her lover – and said, “Let’s do it in the break room, like we did the first time.”
Vince, who resembled actor Rutger Hauer in his prime – a lean, Aryan blonde – smiled at her. His smile had a warmth that few smiles had; it still made Madge’s heart skip a beat and her cooch gooshy.
He laughed. “C’mon.”
Madge, grinning, hopped off the leatherette bar stool and, in a playful, anticipatory tittup, followed Vince back toward the employee break room.
Vince glanced over at Brett, his friend and fellow barkeep. “I know, I know,” he said. “ ‘Use the damn plastic.’ “
Brett, behind the bar, half-smiled at Vince and returned his attention to Jerilyn, a dark-haired slip of a young woman who sat on the other side of the bar, facing him.
Brett and Jerilyn weren’t officially an item, but Vince suspected they soon would be. They were into each other, had been since Brett had avenged her honor by dusting two bloodsuckers who had used and robbed her, more than a year ago.
Vince ignored the hick at the bar who eyeballed – emphasis on the “balled” – Madge’s lavender-perfumed, easy-shake curves.
Look all you want, he thought. But if you say a word, you’re dust.
He’d do it, too – he cared about, maybe even loved, Madge more than his other Donors, who were trifles at best.
The break room, in the back of the black, square building, doubled as the supply area. One side of the wide room was dedicated to storing refrigerated blood and soda, as well as metal-shelved booze bottles, assorted pint glasses and other implements – none of them silver. Silver, when ingested by vampires in sufficient amounts, fatally poisoned them.
Vince didn’t turn on the light when he entered the wide room. His hand in hers, he tugged his sonsie, alcohol- and lust-buzzed girl into it, the room’s temperature drop causing her to gasp quietly.
He shut and locked the door behind them. He headed into the far left corner, where Vladagascar’s staff kept large, clear plastic sheets: one never knew when a sick or crazed vamp or Donor might get out of line, and, in doing so, necessitate dusting or killing – plastic made that clean-up, and transportation of the death mess, easier.
Killing humans was verboten, except if the vamp-victim in question was outnumbered, or the situation was extreme. Vampires? Different story, when one’s honor or safety was at stake.
“Help me with this, please,” he told Madge, who’d already taken off her high heels and slinky black dress, the one with the deep-V cleavage cut.
Madge, in her matching black-lace bra and panties, took one end of a giant plastic sheet and, tipsily, walked it to the other end of the side-by-side shelves and glass-front, brightly-illuminated refrigerator.
Vince placed the one clear edge atop the refrigerator, weighing it down with a few Kahlúa bottles. He went to Madge’s side, and, taking the plastic from her, bottle-weighed that side, as well.
As he did that, she leaned against him, rubbing her curves against his chilly flesh. Her nipples were already erect, unlike his dick – vamps couldn’t get hard, as erections required a heartbeat.
“Hold on,” he laughed, placing his hands on her hips and steering her toward the sturdy wooden table, which faced the fridge and shelves from the opposite wall.
“Hurry,” she countered, kissing his neck and hairless chest while she unbuttoned his white shirt. “I wanted to do you out there. You’re lucky I respect you and your place of work.”
“Brett wouldn’t have noticed, because of Jerilyn,” Vince half-joked, unbuttoning the back of Madge’s bra. “That hick. . .” He shook his head.
“Enough talk,” she said, dropping her bra on the cement floor and lifting her ass slightly so he could slide her panties off her, along her short, firm legs.
He responded by brushing his fingers along the inside of her leg, while she unbuttoned his jeans and tugged them down.
Denim pooled around his ankles. He began rubbing the tip of his cold member against the outer lips of her cooch, while she finger-rocked her clit with three fingers: two to expose it, one box it, to carry her towards her hoped-for, spectacular orgasm.
Feeling her soft curves bounce and push against him, her mouth oh-ing into his neck and shoulders, he heard her say, “Bite me, now!”
Extending his incisors, he did just that. She stiffened, arched agitatedly against him, her boobs beating a nippular tattoo into his slender chest. He pressed the soft head of his member into her, touching her clit-working fingers, but not enough to impede their pleasure-making.
Her blood made him heady for a second – the cut-off point. She must have been dizzy with it, as well, because she loosed a moan, thick with impending, algolagnic explosion, death-edge pain and sweet hedonism in one wild shot.
She pushed him away from her, thrusting her cooch forward, just as she began to spurt from between her crisp-pubed sex, her joy juice ghostly lit as it arced across the room, lightly tinkling, with plastic tapping sounds, the refrigerator’s clear covering.
“Oh, fuck,” she said, panting, as she leaned against him. He embraced her, also reeling with pleasure.
“Yeah,” he agreed, swaying slightly, drinking in her lavender-scented sweat, coppery blood and come.
This story is a loosely-linked sequel to Night Burn, published here on September 12, 2011.
And even more of Steve Isaak’s sexy stories can be found here.
Steve Isaak, also published under the name Nikki Isaak, lives in California. He is the author of the anthologies “Charge of the scarlet b-sides: microsex stories & poems” and “Behind the wheel: selected poems”. (available at Lulu.com). He is also the author/editor of www.readingbypublight.blogspot.com and the multi-author www.microstoryaweek.blogspot.com.