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K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
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WARNING!
This text file contains sexually explicit
material. If you do not wish to read this
type of literature, or you are under age,
PLEASE DELETE THIS FILE NOW!!!!
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This work is copyrighted to the author © 2005. Please
don't remove the author information or make any changes
to this story. You may post freely to non-commercial
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A Cold Night in London
by Otto Erotic (address withheld)
***
A young woman thinks she's being followed by a
stranger. (MF, rp, intr, v, drugs, sn)
***
Indira Fawkes had had a hard life. The only thing she
knew about her parents was that one had been white and
the other had been of Indian decent. She had been found
in a dustbin a few hours after she was born on November
5, Guy Fawkes Day. Through someone's idea of sick
irony, she was given the surname Fawkes. When she
arrived at an orphanage in Manchester, she was given a
traditional Indian name, Indira.
At the orphanage in Manchester, Indira grew into an
attractive young woman, but after several years, she
couldn't deal with the strict rules of the orphanage
any longer. Shortly after her fifteenth birthday,
Indira ran away to London. In a matter of days, the
pretty young girl found herself homeless and starving
on the streets of London
Soon, Indira started giving handjobs. One of her
clients soon convinced her to please him orally. For
several months, Indira scraped out an existence by
swallowing the semen of strangers in London alleys.
Then, on one fateful night, one of her clients
overpowered her, forced her to his squalid loft and
raped her. Before she came to London, Indira had been a
virgin, but her trick's violation was just the
beginning.
After he had pulled out and sprayed his hot seed across
her stomach, he injected her with heroin. From that
moment on, Indira was enslaved. Like so many women
walking city streets around the world, Indira sold her
body to men so she could buy more heroin. For the
better part of four years, Indira's life was nothing
but sex and drugs. Then, one night everything changed.
Indira had been riding on the Underground for three
days. She was still thinking about last Friday night.
She had gone to see her dealer and arrived just in time
to see him stabbed to death by a group of irate
Welshmen. While her dealer was dying, Indira gathered
up the money and supplies he had dropped and fled to
his apartment. She spent the night shooting up over and
over again. After that night, she had sworn never to do
heroine again.
Indira looked in the window of the train and saw her
own reflection. She had been beautiful when she left
Manchester, but now after four years of drugs and
whoring herself to strangers, she looked like a shell
of what she once was... and she knew, deep down, that
this would never change. She hadn't done heroin in
several days, but there had been very little
withdrawal. Part of her wondered why, another part
knew.
As she was riding on the Victoria Line, she looked
around the train car. It was well after midnight and
the car only had one other passenger. At the other end
of the car, Indira saw a pale man in a long brown coat.
He had long stringy hair, which hung down over his
eyes. Despite this, Indira could see that the man was
staring directly at her. His icy gaze never wavered.
Indira got up and changed her seat just to see if his
eyes stayed on her. They did.
When they reached Brixton, Indira got off the train and
headed for the stairs. She looked back, expecting the
see the man following her, but he wasn't. As she headed
for the street, she wondered why he hadn't gotten off.
Brixton was the last stop on the line, after all.
She reached the street and headed east toward the
apartment of her dead dealer. She knew it would be at
least a week before the landlord or any of his old
customers came looking for him. She had holed up in the
apartment, searching for money or anything she could
sell. She had found £50,000 in cash and drugs which she
intended to fund her escape from London. She was hoping
to try to get to France or Germany by the end of the
week.
As she walked, a creeping sensation fell over Indira...
as though she was being followed. She looked back and
saw a shadowy figure standing across the street and
about two blocks back. For a moment, she thought it was
the man from the train, but she soon realized that it
couldn't have been. She walked another block and then
looked again. The figure was gone.
Indira quickened her pace slightly and finally reached
the apartment building she was squatting in. She
hurried up the stairs and toward the last apartment on
the right. Just as she started to turn the knob, two
ice-cold hands wrapped themselves around her. One
clamped across her mouth and the other reached across
her torso, pinning her arms to her body.
In a series of movements that happened faster than
thought, the door was opened and Indira was thrown
inside onto the blood and semen-stained mattress which
lay in the center of the main room. She turned and saw
the pale man from the train looming over her. "Hello,
pretty." he hissed, a faint Irish accent in his voice.
"Who are you?" Indira managed to ask.
He moved quickly toward her and grasped her around the
neck, silencing her. "Don't worry about that... you'll
know everything soon enough." He pushed her down onto
the mattress and flipped her over. Indira knew what was
coming... it had happened to her hundreds of times. The
man gripped the waist of Indira's torn jeans and ripped
them from her body in one powerful movement. In a
matter of moments, he had torn every stitch of clothing
from Indira's smooth brown flesh.
"Very nice." the man hissed. He spread Indira's thighs
apart and opened the front of his pants. Indira gripped
the corner of the mattress, bracing herself. While she
had had hundreds of men inside her, the rapists were
always the most brutal and this man was no exception.
He thrust his rod into her without further warning. For
Indira, the was no pain, but also no pleasure. She
stayed as still as she could as the man pumped his
powerful member inside her.
After several minutes of rough humping, Indira could
tell that the man was getting close. Like hundreds
before him, the man emptied his loins into Indira's
womb. She was surprised when his seed felt cold inside
her. While he was still inside her, the man pulled
Indira up off the mattress and licked her neck. Before
she could respond, he drove two gleaming fangs into her
jugular vein and began sucking forcefully on her neck.
The man swallowed her blood and immediately knew that
something was wrong. He pulled away from her neck and
jumped away from her, his cold, vampiric member sliding
out of Indira's pussy. Pain was shooting through his
body, unlike anything he had experienced since he'd
been turned. He grabbed his chest. "What's happening to
me?"
Indira turned toward him, covering the puncture wounds
on her neck. "You haven't been a vampire for long, have
you?" The vampire's vision was staring to blur as the
pain grew worse. Indira slowly rose to her feet, the
vampire's cold seed oozing out of her brown vagina.
"Didn't anyone ever tell you never to drink from the
undead?"
"What?!" he shrieked, panic filling his voice.
"Zombie blood is fatal to vampires." The vampire fell
back onto the floor and died a very quick and
excruciatingly painful death. Indira looked at the dead
vampire lying on the floor near a pile of used syringes
and ampoules. "Amazing..." Indira mused, "he died in
the same place I did." She knelt down and took the long
brown coat from the vampire. After a quick search of
the pockets, she found nearly £1,000 and most
importantly, a ticket for the Chunnel for the next
morning. The time had finally come, Indira had a chance
to get out of England.
THE END
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This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author
does not condone the described behavior in real life.
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Kristen's collection - Directory 35