The world does twist and turn in mysterious ways, my KitKats.
And one day the Kougar may tell the tale of her strange mystical experience before she closed her little eyes to go to sleep...
Just for the Big Cool Cats ~ with two more flashes added ~
Cruelty... Flash of the Caribbean Vampire
Cruelty can take many forms. I sit in the dark. In the back. In the corner farthest away from the gorgeous young women strutting their stuff beneath the pink-shimmering illumination inside the intimate private ballroom of a Caribbean mansion, belonging to a mysterious man everyone called the Vampire.
The lingerie designs they model not only excite the libido to a painful level, but each one is exquisitely unique and incomparably beautiful. I lust over most of them, my breath hitching ridiculously. God, I wanted to wear them. As I could have once. But, I’m too old. Too ugly. Too fat.
“May I offer you a drink, madam?” The man’s voice behind me was deep, impossibly deep, and definitely amused. I had no idea why he would find me amusing. Unless he found old and fat some sort of sick private joke? Yeah, mess with the fat woman and tempt the oldie into believing a man found her ‘interesting’. That’s a good one. Haha. Only I’m not laughing, creep.
“I believe you will find the mango sangria particularly refreshing.”
“Mango sangria?” Stupid, stupid! Why take the bait? I should just ignore him. Damn.
“A sip. I wish you to try it.”
“Wish all you want. No thanks.” Go away. Go find another victim. Irritated, my cheeks flushing...thank god, it’s dark...I return my attention to the filmy glamor negligees. I wish I could feel the silk and lace, the sheer whirl of color as it swishes and slinks over my hourglass curves, as they once were. Not so many years ago. I want to look in the mirror again, admire my own beauty. Maybe be admired. If it’s the right man. Passion untamed...god, yes.
“Please, I need your opinion.”
Suddenly, he’s sitting beside me. I blink like an owl.
“My opinion,” I nearly stutter. No man can soundlessly move that fast, can he? His voice had come from my left. Now he sat on my right, his gaze focused on me as if he intended to feast on my face. Maybe he was, in a way. Maybe it was my blood he was after. I stifled a shiver, and chastised myself. The Vampire. I only recognized him because the magazine I freelanced for on the island, often featured him on the society pages. “Oh, I get it. For the magazine’s drink recommendations.”
“If that pleases you, then, yes, Sapphira.”
“What else?” Damn, why had I said that? I’d just opened the door...
“I wish to know your palate.” Leaning back, he suavely crooked one finger.
I swallowed as if my life depended on it. I’d never heard of the Vampire interacting with anyone at his fantasy fashion shows. Yes, he attended the island’s elite social events, a stunning woman attached to his side, cleavage down to her navel. But not...
With debonair precision, a waiter from out of nowhere, it seemed, deposited two tall shapely glasses. The Vampire lifted his while I stared.
“To your health, Sapphira. Please taste.”
Okay, Cici, the mag’s owner would kill me if she found out I hadn’t ‘tasted’. Besides, it would be a coup of a society story, even though I’d only agreed to write up the fashion show because her usual reporter retched with morning sickness.
I pick up the cool curvy glass, then convince my hand not to shake as I slightly raise it. “To your health, Mr. Vorragozi.”
“Tell me what you think,” he encourages.
Are his eyes sparkling strangely? It’s not real blood, is it? Sangria...doesn’t that mean blood? God help me, if I’m remembering right, it does.
I sip. It’s so perfectly yummy-mango, I sip again. And again. Four sips. Five. I force myself to set the glass down. “Amazing. Very amazing, Mr. Vorragozi.”
“I prepared it just for you.”
“Why?” My head begins a pleasant swim. I smile.
“Tell me, what’s your favorite lingerie?”
“Baby dolls,” I blurt out as if I can’t contain myself. “Truth serum?” I ask, and hold up the glass.
“What would be your favorite color to wear?” His eyes glisten like black pearls.
“Red.” My tongue is utterly disobedient.
“Yes, I must have you in red.”
“Blood-red! What kind of cruelty...”
“Cruelty?” He inquires a moment after I’d firmed my lips, despite the maddening urge to blab like a chic lit heroine. I think his eyebrow is raised, but the darkness makes me wonder. Still, his tone is cool as his restaurant’s giant freezer. I know I’ve been in it, writing an article for Cici.
He waits with a patience I admire, or perhaps, he simply enjoys my mouse-like torture as I scurry in my mind to think of a way to escape.
“My age. I think it’s cruel.” So there, Vampire. Maybe that will turn you ice cold with revulsion.
“How old are you, Sapphira?”
Do I hear the faint drumming of his fingertips? God, I’d love to take another drink. The glass taunted me like a singing Siren.
“Please tell me,” he coaxed. Very persuasively.
It was either grab the glass and sip...or...”Fifty-eight.” I harden my jaw, then avert my face. “Satisfied? Happy?” I slice my tone quite effectively, I believe.
“Would you care to guess my age?”
Neutral, his voice, yet tempting, a caress of black velvet. Oh yes, there’s that underlying amusement.
I gage my chances at shutting him down. Not damn likely, I realize.
Still...I’m a sucker for the right challenge.
“Forty something,” I fling at him, tightly gripping my hands together. The Mango Sangria beckons and my mouth begs to taste ambrosia again.
He laughs...melodic and deep. Frissons of ecstatic pleasure seize my nerve endings. I sit paralyzed. Wishing I could move. But I couldn’t. I truly couldn’t.
I couldn’t even blink.
“I’ve been told thirty-five. Often.” He made no attempt to hide his amusement. The hypnotic glitter of his eyes danced in the dimness, and felt like a gentle stroke on my face. Odd.
“Actually, I’m one thousand and forty-one.”
What the hell kind of drug had he put in that drink?
Maybe, it was blood. His blood? Vampire addictive blood. Hadn’t I read that somewhere? Some romance novel from years ago...however my brain is too fuzzy to remember, as if I’d indulged in drinking a Fuzzy Navel. Damn.
I finally blink. “Forty-one?”
“You’ll enjoy the dark side, my pretty Sapphira,” he promises.
“The dark side,” I mumble. Straightening my spine, I announce, “I don’t do the dark side.”
“Do?” He leans forward slightly. “I believe you’ll enjoy ‘doing’ me. As much as I will passionately enjoy ‘doing’ you.”
Shocked to my core...wherever that was, I scoot my chair back, then attempt to stand. It wasn’t happening. My legs have transformed to rubber. “I am leaving.” My chin high, I press down on the table to shove myself upwards.
Instantly...before I can even think about blinking, he is beside me, his hand on my arm as if he intends to escort me somewhere.
“Go away,” I snap, only able to raise myself part way. My temper emerging, I confront the devil vampire, “What drug did you put in my drink?”
“No drug. Merely a special flower essence.”
“What? The flower of Bloodroot?” I emphasize ‘blood’ while trying to pull my arm out of his gentlemanly grip. And why the hell does he smell like patchouli and expensive cigar smoke, some exotic mixture of the two which intrigues me more than it should.
“Several blooms from our local flora,” he calmly purrs. Again amusement hides in his voice, highly irritating me.
“Let go.” I stiffen.
“My Sapphira.” His tone humors me. “I will not have you harmed.”
“And spiking my drink with ‘special’ essences won’t harm me?” My tone goes for his jugular.
“It will only enhance our risque’ pleasures.”
“I’m not risque’ pleasuring with you,” I storm.
I would have tried jerking my arm away. But damn, I knew he wasn’t letting go. The horrid, overly sexy man.
“Yes, you will.” He’s leaned down to my ear, his tone intimate dark bait I yearn to leap for like a silly fish.
“No, I won’t.” Righteous temper is not confined to youth. “I don’t care what ‘special essence’ you put in my drink.”
“My Sapphira,” he vampire purrs. “Yes, you will.”
In a fit of temper I stomp on his foot. Though, really, I’m not wearing tramp chic spiked heels.
Yeah, my marshmallow-sole sandals are going to skewer his foot. He laughs, a low chuckle, just for my ear.
Damnit, I like the virile sound. My insides turn all buttery fluttery.
“I’ll scream,” I warn.
“I’ll kiss you,” he warns.
Kiss...it skitters through me like a thousand landing butterflies, their wings flapping.
I wiggle my arm in his grip, a useless exercise. Useless like me trying to run on the beach every morning. The only thing it got me was severely sore knees.
“Do you drink blood?”
The words dare their freedom before sanity claims them back.
Oh God...my heart thumped to beat any band. Ricky Ricardo thwacking the bongos in a fast Latin rhythm during an episode of I Love Lucy, seizes my mind. Does the Vampire hear?
How superior are his senses? Oh god, he has to be a Vampire. What else?
“You’re trembling, Sapphira.” He picks up the Mango Sangria. “Another sip?”
“You didn’t answer my question,” I counter. Damn it to hell, my voice quavers like a helpless gothic heroine. And I ache to grab hold of the glass. Sip, then keep on sipping.
“Would you like me to taste your blood?”
Seduction. Temptation. The ultimate sexual purr. His voice, a sound barely above a whisper, possesses my ear. Not just the sound. The rim of my ear tingles, pleading for the feel of his lips. The grazing of this teeth.
Omygod. The touch of his fangs?
“Does my rapid neck pulse of absolute fear thrill you?” I dare. With the truth. Why not? He must know. I feel the quick heavy throb below my ear and hate it.
“You thrill me, Sapphira.” He hovers the glass before my lips. “One sip.”
“Tell me the truth,” I desperately bargain. “Then I’ll sip.”
“Which truth, my beloved?”
Beloved...what the freaking hell? This climbed the ladder of creepy exponentially, the way he’d spoken it. As if it were a true endearment. Omygawd.
“Whatever ‘truth’ is most convenient, of course,” I snipe at him. Ripping my gaze away from the sweating glass of Mango Sangria, I try to swallow away my awful thirst. Useless.
“In some respects you haven’t changed, my Sapphira.”
“You act as if you know me,” I snap back like a hoyden. And know, once again, I’d pulled a bonehead move...day-ummm, was that a boner in his black linen pants?
“I do know you,” he asserts in a dark purr.
I blink several times, lifting my gaze.
“How? We’ve never met before.”
I look down again, expecting not to see what I’d seen. Suddenly, I can’t feel my breath. It’s still there, standing proudly. All too proudly.
“On the island. No, we’ve never met, my Sapphira.”
I stare at his hard-on for what feels like an eternity. Aware that he’s amused like some idle harem prince.
“Where?” I mumble, and jerk my gaze away.
The glass or his overly large cock. I’m trapped between the two.
“Sip. I’ll tell you.”
“Let go. I don’t want to know you.” Yes, a deep vein of stubbornness runs in my family. Hellfire, I wonder which vein he wants to suck on most. And why? He could be Mr. Suave Vampire and suck on any of the four young beauties now eyeing us. They blink their bright-lantern, doe-big eyes as if the magnetic poles are about to shift, tilting the known world upside down. Okay, it could happen. But if it were, there’d be mass panic. I could escape into the abyss of catastrophe.
“Yes, you do,” he assures.
“They want to know you.”
“They?” he asks as if I’ve actually caught him off guard. Yeah, right, Mr. Huge Boner vampire. It’s still amazingly upright and HUGE. I stare, rather than gaze at what I can never be again. Never was, actually. Beautiful, yes. Not that kind of thinner-than-thin glamor, chic always my constant companion.
“Go, suck their blood,” I prompt, closing my eyes. Could I just fall forward, dead weight, and crawl beneath the table...damn, desperation does breed it’s own insanity.
“I find their blood unappetizing,” he elegantly intones, right out of the movies. “You used to enjoyably suck on my cock.”
Shocked, no, shocked was not the word. My blood iced. Another ice age? The next instant my blood flamed. Global warming? There was no one word. I’m shocked in the extreme...but, my pique won out, stronger, fiercer, faster...
“Which one would you prefer me to suck on first, Mr. Vorragozi? Your abnormally large dick? Or, should I suck up the rest of the Mango Sangria? How about if I just suck your blood?”
“Dhalyon.” His voice rasped. I suppose because he was actually ‘turned on’ by my offer.
“Dhalyon,” I repeated, not understanding him.
“My first name is Dhalyon.”
I scowl and consider if I should bite his dick. Viciously.
“I wish you to know my first name before you ‘suck’ on any part of my very willing anatomy, Sapphira.”
“How very gentlemanly of you,” I snarl. “But you haven’t chosen what you want me to suck on first. I gave you three choices.” I emphasize ‘suck’ loudly. And almost feel as though I could stare the Vampire down. Almost. Instead the four beauties openly stare at us. I smile at them. Then give a little wave.
“Cruelty.” His growl was suave. “That I have not possessed your spirit.”
“Cruelty?” I ask, stunned in no small measure by fate’s circular pattern.
“That I have not possessed your spirit in my bed. In my life.”
Something twists inside my middle, large as an anaconda. I want an explanation, so fierce I can taste it. Yet...from him. The Vampire.
”Which one?” I utter. And, I have no idea why, except my mind has been left behind in this latest beyond-weird development.
“I had hoped to make this easier on you, my special one.”
“By what? Drugging me with Mango Sangria?” I stab the blade of my voice into him. Sarcastically.
Again, my heart thumps like bongo drums. “Okay, not the Mango. Or the Sangria. But whatever drugging ‘substances’ you used.”
Why I feel compelled to correct anything, I don’t have a brain cell left with any clue. Maybe, I merely fill the silence. A vortex of silence. Suddenly.
“I could disappear with you,” he says so softly I’m not certain I actually hear him. Except, inside, I know.
I blink. I sweat. I blurt. “Like a bat? A bat out of hell.”
“No. Like smoke. Poof.”
“Poof,” he darkly whispers. “We would appear wherever I choose to take you.”
Okay, my insides have never felt so gooey-spooked. My eyes blink as if they’ve just snapped toothpicks in two. And I swallow, way past *I’m seeing-a-ghost fright*. The closest I recall is Rosemary’s Baby. Now, that was creepsville scary. Yep, and I’ve never gotten over that movie, either. Hell, I don’t like Halloween Haunted houses. Or slasher movies. Or...hell’s bells, as a kid, I didn’t watch the Twilight Zone after one episode, my nightmares were so gargoyle-flying hideous.
“Wouldn’t that look suspicious?” I give another wave to the four beauties, their interest still captured, as much as I’m still captured.
Oddly, I feel him vibrate with laughter. At odds with his statue-like phallus. Yeah, keep the Vamp amused. Maybe, he won’t poof me ‘somewhere’.
“Vampire Viagra?” I ask, staring pointedly at his well-defined, mushroom-shaped point. Damn, what a mouthful...if? If I ever had sucked his dick like he said...had I?
He shakes with more laughter. Until, his finger claims the flesh beneath my chin. I’m surprised by the heat, not by the length of his lone finger. He compels, more than lifts my face. His eyes, dark as midnight, flash like summer lightning.
“You were always my inspiration.”
I almost wish he would bite. Swoop down, and bite. Or do something. His gaze, darker than black, penetrates me, reminding me of a sword swallower. Yep, the force of his gaze is a sword I swallow. Yet, there is a plea, like the flicker of candle, in the depths of his eyes...for what I cannot give him. My few memories of other lifetimes don’t include him. Or any remembrance of vampires. Hell, it’s not like I ever actually knew one.
Time escapes with every breath. His finger doesn’t release my chin. Nor does his gaze unlock from mine.
The tension kills me, hacking up my insides like a Japanese restaurant chef on meth. Maybe, I should turn my head, the surrendering heroine in this scene...offer my neck, then point to my anxiety-throbbing pulse, and say, Do it, Vampire. Bite me. Bite me right here. Right now. Just do it. Just do it now. Except his gaze entrances me. And I remain obedient. Silly, foolish, stupid, beyond-being-an-idiot me.
“Not here,” he murmurs.
“Too much blood.” The words stumble from between my lips. I sway toward him, feeling impossibly fragile. I whisper, “Why be arrested for assault or murder?”
“I prefer the taste of your lips first.”
The pad of his finger travels over my sensitive flesh, finally grazing my chin, then leaving. It feels barren without his touch. Yet, panic has it’s claws in me. Torn between sensual perfection and my raging fear, I had begged fate to step in, have it’s way.
“My Sapphira.” His palms stroke up my arms. With passion he takes hold of my shoulders, an invitation to come nearer. To become his. I’m not fooled. I know he intends to claim me, regardless of whether I accept him now.
“Kiss me,” he entices.
The timbre of his voice is gorgeously dark. I sway, and come dangerously close to swooning.
“Kiss me here. Kiss me now,” he croons deeply, like the night he must prefer inhabiting. I swear he must be magnetized, or a true sorcerer. Every particle of my body and being is being pulled toward him. Yes, as much as he urges me forward, I move to him. He’s so tall, my head falls back. Rather than his devastating lips, I half expect to feel the prick of his deadly fangs. God...
“No,” I plead. “I’m too old, too ugly...too fat.”
An image of me, as I saw myself in the mirror...how I must look in front of anyone who now watches...and who wouldn’t watch? Unless pure disgust overcomes them, their bile threatening, and about to choke them. The debonair handsome most-desired man on the island about to kiss a woman who looks like me.
“Stop,” he whispers. It’s a command, a plea...and passion. “Stop, Sapphira.”
“Not here,” I murmur. Embarrassment climbs up my body like a thousand monkeys after bananas.
His mouth lowers to mine. “Here. Here now.” There’s no point in thinking about moving.
“Sapphira.” He breathes my name as if it’s the first breath of his soul. Does he have a soul? Or is he cursed like Buffy’s Angel?
Fear and desire, my own breath escapes against his lips. I want the feel of his lips taking mine. I’m captivated by the shape, the masculine color....not that most men know how to kiss...they don’t, in my experience.
Pressed against the exceptionally hard length of his body, against the spearing tower that is his cock, I wait like I’m in a dream-slow scene, and smell his smoke-luxurious scent.
His lips seize mine.
November 24, 2008
Everything stops. Except his kiss...claiming my lips...then claiming the kiss I cannot help but surrender to him. Our mouths have melded, moving to a violent and sultry rhythm. He takes what he wants. Because my mouth belongs to him. My kiss belongs to him. Yet he gives me what I desire most. I think he knows. He must. Helpless to stop myself, I lean into him. A thrill rips through me as his hands sweep over my back, then trap me completely against him.
He deepens his kiss, ravishing my mouth, his fang slipping over my bottom lip.
Stunned, my belly trembles and begs to break free of him. Still, I yield, wildly aware of my breasts flattened against the elegant sculpture of his chest. Despite my panic, my breasts tingle sweetly, and plead to remain. I should be used to the betrayal of my body, by now. I should.
The grazing slide of his fang continues, and becomes a sensual tease on the corner of my mouth, as our lips seek new kisses, and dance to an invisible music. To say his masterful kisses are mind-blowing and fantastic, is to poorly describe what I feel...completely possessed.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Strange mystical smooch from the Kougar...