011211-pink converse

Thanks to sessahhh for chapter 1 prompt: vamp gal. Human guy. Random word prompts: zipper, stripes, pink converse, exchange, behemoth


I get to the door ten minutes before closing. Summer in Alaska confines my schedule.
Two more nights.
His black nailed fingers grip a book.


I circle, eyes on him. Hair unwashed. Sweater torn. Cords frayed. Converse-pink?
He shuffles; bites his lip.
I bite mine, too.


He says, “Can I help you?”
I say, “Yes.” (smelling, staring)
I hold his eyes and the slip of paper for 15 seconds.
I raise a brow.
He takes it.


He reads. Hands shaking. Toe tapping. Lower lip trapped.
He says, “Vampires? Isn’t that kinda high school?”
I smirk and say, “Not this kind.”


He stammers, “Hhere is ththe rROmance section.”
“Is it?” I ask. “What if I want horror?”
Face flush, eyes caught, cock stirring.
I take his hand.


Human? Yes.
Pulse? Check.
Nerd? 2X.
Attractive? Fuck me, yes.
Will he be missed? Not a chance.
Healthy? Hard muscles say yes.
Cock size? TBD


“Drop trou,” I say.
Hands shake over button. Eyes stare, dropping, hovering over tits.
Hetero? Hope not.
I ask, “Let me fuck you in the ass?”


Trembling fingers working button say, yes.
Icy fingers move hot ones.
Catching eyes, guide them to my hands, pull forward with the zipper.


Flush against me he shivers.
Ziiiiiiiiip echoes off stark porcelain & drywall.
No breath.
Hands bravely brush arms, back, ass. Squeezing.


Pants puddle round ankles.
Cock pushes through boxers with BEHEMOTH & COLOSSAL written all over, speaking truth.
I squeeze.
He whimpers.


Lips meet scrape. (Not here) Lick instead. Lick and suck and flick and hum. Tease between his cheeks.
Knees shake.
He comes.


He sits on the hard plastic.
I straddle his thighs.
“Fuck,” he cries when skin meets skin.
I slide until he’s ready again.
We kiss.
He moans.


Buzzing interrupts coitus.
I text, *yes*
“Who’s that?” He asks.
“Number 2. Let’s go. He’s waiting,” I say.
“That a problem?” I ask.


Exit the back, wrist in hand.
Black Mini with racing stripes idles.
I squeeze, he looks up.
(Trust me)
We slip in the back.
“Hello, there.”

“You like cock?” 2 asks.
“I don’t know.” (blush) “Maybe.”
I nod.
I pull up his sweater: Dec 12, 1986.
“Fuck me.”

He sleeps. Breath against my neck, then my thighs.
His hair between my fingers.
The mirror reflects 2’s eyes.
Teeth glisten as he smiles.

I taste his skin: salt and copper, sharp with pulse.
This is it. I savor the life in him before it moves in me.
Number 2 watches, jealous.

He steps outside, something new.
Dried blood mars Morrissey’s face.
New eyes reflect moonlight.
Number 2, holds my hand.
“He’s ours.”
Number 3.


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