The Dark Dance, by Wrestlr

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The Dark Dance

by Wrestlr

[M/M]

Synopsis: A vampire walks into a metal music club in search of a snack.

Disclaimer: The naked hypnotist strides confidently into your room. His lips curl in what might be a

smile as he dangles his shiny crystal pendulum before your eyes and announces, "Listen and obey. If

you are not of legal age, or if you offended by sexual situations, you will leave this place immediately.

From here on, no matter how realistic it may appear, everything will seem like fiction to you, a pleasant

dream where scientific possibilities and laws may change according to my suggestion. Now, if you are

willing, sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride."

Copyright - 2014 by Wrestlr. Permission granted to archive if and only if no fee (including any form of

"Adult Verification") is charged to read the file. If anyone pays a cent to anyone to read your site, you

can't use this without the express permission of (and payment to) the author. This paragraph must be

included as part of any archive.

Comments to wrestlr@iname.com

Wrestlr's fiction is archived at the following URLs:

http://www.asstr.org/~wrestlr (MC and general M/M stories, mirror site)

http://www.asstr.org/~mcstories/Authors/Wrestlr.html (MC stories)

The Dark Dance

by Wrestlr

Club Inferno reeks of tension tonight. Half of the human crowd is here for the band, which is already an

hour late and still hasn't arrived. The other half: the usual regulars, seekers, here in hopes of being

noticed by one of my kind. But few of us are here tonight so the competition among the seekers is fierce.

The band fans ignore the regulars and my kind, and vice versa. The humans have been drinking steadily;

the drinks here are strong and cheap and laced with a mild euphoric, since few of those like me like the

taste of fear in our food, but the euphoric does little to quell the crowd's restlessness. Their tension

makes them dangerous, ready to explode into sex or violence or both.

From the speakers, music blares: loud and metallic, angry and fast. Masculine. Primal. Music by bands

with Death or Apocalypse in their names seems tailor-made for this dim environment. The crowd stamps

its collective feet and howls along with the lyrics, like a cornered beast. Someone throws a bottle at the

empty stage. The music and singing drown out the shattering, but I see glass fragments sparkle in the

dim light and scatter across the stage.

The nearer portion of the crowd reacts to me as I enter. Some humans, the ones who have only come

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here to hear the band, pull away uneasily, like an antelope herd when a predator approaches the watering

hole. Others watch me with fascination, hoping I will look upon them, wanting to be preyed upon. The

few others like me acknowledge my presence with a deferential glance and nod before going back to

what they were doing. I stake out a position by the wall, near the stage. I have, from here, a good view

of the crowd. The air is thick with the stink of beer, smoke, and sweat, and it burns my senses. I lean

against the wall and pretend supreme indifference to the antics of these animals. The emotions of the

crowd assail me like a hot wind, and their energies stoke my hunger. In spite of their tension, the

situation is familiar to me, and I begin to relax.

After a few moments, I am no longer novel and the crowd begins to ignore me. The recorded music

changes to another song, much like the previous, angry and raw--and the dancing reflects the sound. In

the last hundred years or so, I've stopped paying much attention to human fads, finding them to be

mostly new names imposed on the same old things by hipsters who want to seem oh-so-much-more

current than everyone else. Time and age have given me a different perspective on what matters. Right

now, all I care about is my hunger.

Like mating animals, these humans thrash. As the guitars grind and the singer yowls predictable lyrics,

the crowd flails, limbs turning them into a writhing knot of bodies. Heads bob, synchronized to the

driving bass line. Just in front of the stage, the dancing is the most dangerous and frenzied, like some

primitive ritual whose original purpose has been forgotten but must be enacted anyway. The humans

have turned the space into a makeshift mosh pit, and there the diehard metal-lovers throw themselves

against one other in a violent celebration of their anger, their lives, of nothing at all. The pit forms the

core of the firestorm of emotions, and the crowd radiates outward from it. The dancers in the pit are

mostly young men whose rage had found an outlet in the battering of bodies: their own and those of

others. The pit has become an arena where bodies are bruised by the near-sadistic force of shoulders and

flung hands and heavy boots, as moshers collide with each other and ricochet away into someone else.

I am not here to watch the antics of these animals, though. I am here to feed. As always, I look for

something unusual, something that will relieve the night-after-night sameness. But whether I find that

tonight or not, I must feed.

Tonight the pit is filled with men, mostly shirtless, slamming against one another. I watch the half-naked

bodies of those who have ventured into its madness as they flail, their motions and emotions reflecting

one another. I feel in myself a strong desire to join them in their pure animal release. I normally avoid

such displays of abandon, preferring to stay to the sidelines, to watch and hunt, sometimes wading into

the fringes of the fray to claim my prey, but never going into its heart.

Tonight I am on edge; I need to feed, and I need release. I have neither fucked nor fed in two days, and

my craving to claim a human for both purposes is strong. In particular, one young man draws my

attention. He is shirtless like most of the rest; he wears jeans worn thin in many places from hours of

collisions and scrapes during nights like this one. Most of the vamp-seekers have ragged and dim auras

from being fed upon multiple times, often recently enough that their life force has not yet fully

regenerated. This one, though, stands out because his aura shines so brightly. He has never been fed

upon. That in itself is not unusual—half the crowd is here to hear the band, not to become a meal. But

something about this one handsome young man calls to me. His head is framed by dark hair, short but

not shaved to stubble like many of the other moshers. He is tall but a few inches shorter than I, blue-

eyed and slim, his torso and arms roped with lean muscle. His chest is broad, hard, with a small patch of

dark hair in its center, a few more hairs around his nipples. His skin in this dim light seems pale as a

cloud, but his face and body speak of games in the springtime afternoon, bursting with newly discovered

life, so full of energy that I can only stare for a moment. I can imagine him as an athlete in a grassy field,

the proud toss of his head, a rascal's smile, a ball in his right hand; the endless sky above him is the same

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blue as his eyes. How did you come to be dancing sweaty and shirtless in this dark place, little angel, I

wonder.

Tonight, in this dimly lit club, he dances hard and fast, passionate as a beast ready to fuck or fight. Feral.

An angel masquerading as an animal. His body thrashes left then right as he rides the music furiously,

losing himself in the rhythm, in his dance. His fists beat at the empty space around him, echoing the

thunder of the drums, as though he himself is conjuring the song's underpinnings out of thin air. His eyes

are closed, and his smile is one of complete rapture; he has found what he thinks is heaven. He is

beautiful, and I feel the energy, the life, in him calling to my hunger. I ache for him. I want to tame him,

touch him, fuck him, devour him. Without thinking, I wade into the crowd, which parts for me, so that I

can be nearer to him. As I approach the heart of the dance, heedless moshers slam into me, and I shove

them aside until I am separated from him by only two or three other bodies. I can clearly see the sweat

on his skin as he moves, claiming his space with sudden elbow-jabs when someone gets too close.

I fold myself into the music, calling upon that long-ago time when I was a human too, and I tangle

myself along the heartbeat of bass and drum. My arms and feet move, taking on the dance as

camouflage, and soon I might almost be one of the many faceless revelers in the pit. At first the other

dancers seem instinctively to avoid me, but soon bodies swarm around and past me. I keep one eye on

the dancing youth nearby, restraining my desire to grab him, hold him as he struggles against my

strength, until he yields so that I can claim him as my own. My prick stiffens as I imagine the way his

skin will taste when I run my tongue over his back or into his armpit or beneath his balls. I like the way

the dance makes my jeans rub against my stiffness as other moshers pummel me from all sides.

The music blares. I weave closer. Less than an arm's length separates us. I watch him. At first he

remains lost in his dance, unaware of me. He glances up. For a moment, I'm just a man looking at him.

Then he realizes what he is seeing and his eyes widen, his movements falter. But just for a moment. He

whips his eyes away, whips his body ninety degrees to the right, relieved that the quick meeting of our

eyes was not enough to paralyze him. No doubt he has heard stories of what looking into a vampire's

eyes can do.

I watch him. He dances but doesn't move away, appears to ignore me. But I can sense the flux in him.

He sneaks a glance, his eyes safely down-turned so that he sees only my body, my muscular bare chest,

my jeans, the promising bulge in the crotch of them. His eyes pull away.

I dance. Moving, but not flailing like the humans. Sharing the music with him. He glances again, bolder.

I know his story, have heard it a thousand times before from previous prey: He and his friends came here

for the band; they are not vamp-seekers; they planned to ignore anyone who approached them, to leave

immediately after the band's performance. Many others have ventured into this club to hear bands and

emerged unscathed. It would be easy, they told themselves, just avoid eye contact and stay together and

nothing will happen to them. However, the story they told themselves has unfolded in an unforeseen

way. His friends have vanished somewhere, in search of sex or drugs or more drinks, whatever, leaving

him alone, leaving him where I have found him. If I have my way, something will indeed happen to him.

I dance, easing closer, and my hunger stirs.

His body is facing me again, though his face remains declined. He is fascinated. He has probably never

met a vampire before. Now one stands before him, seems interested in him. His ego is not immune to the

flattery. I can sense his emotions. He likes the way I move, the way my movements harmonize with his

own, our dances organic, each of us reacting to the music in his own way but in a way that complements

the other. This amuses him.

I move still closer. Not enough to spook him, but enough to advance this courtship. He startles, and his

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eyes involuntarily jerk up to my face, seeking in the human way to read my intent. He finds me smiling,

looking calmly at him. In spite of the euphoric in his bloodstream from whatever he drank earlier, his

fear spikes and he jerks his head away, panicking that I am about to entrance him. He knows what my

eyes can do, has heard stories in the human media. Likely too, he has heard other stories about my kind,

about what the experience of being fed on is like, though he also has heard of the risks. Masculine ego

versus animal fear. Predictable. He is both fascinated and afraid, afraid and fascinated.

He does not try to escape from me. His pride will not let him; running is not how a man would act. A

man has courage, confident that he can handle any situation. The setting is too public, he decides, and he

thinks I will not risk taking him by force with so many human witnesses around. He has not realized that

I seldom need to use force.

I see every line of his body as he moves. Beads of his sweat spray across my cheek as he shakes his

head, and I lick a salty drop from my lip. The crowd shifts, and bodies ricochet into our space. His torso

is pushed toward me, and the hairs on his chest brush my arm. My hunger and my nuts both stir when

the crowd presses him against me. He pulls away, turns away. All I see is his back. I stare at the muscles

flexing beneath his skin and reach out to touch him. I run a fingertip lightly across his shoulder, just to

feel the heat of him, wondering whether in the fury of bodies he will even notice.

He notices. He backs closer to me, which surprises me. The rear of his shoulder brushes my chest.

Seconds pass, enough time that I know this contact is not simply an accident or the result of other bodies

pushing him against me. He thinks to tempt me, toy with me, before scampering away to the safety of

his friends, to tell them the story of how he escaped from a hungry vampire who wanted so badly to eat

him all up. Well, little angel, others have tried to play that game with me before.

I put my hand on his waist, to see what he will do. He leans back until both of his shoulders touch my

chest. My growing hard-on presses against his ass though our jeans. His movements are more restrained

now, less flailing, still bucking to the music but not breaking contact. Perhaps he is telling himself that

he is teasing me, as he prepares to dance away, leaving me, my hunger, and my hard-on frustrated. Or

perhaps he is signaling some growing curiosity about me. The motion of his skin against mine is

electric, and my hunger sings louder than the voice from the speakers. I move back and my hand on his

waist guides him. He steps back too, to maintain contact. Soon, after just a few steps, we have moved

out of the heart of the mosh pit, to the less active, less crowded area to the side of the stage. In the dim

light, no one notices that I am holding him.

I wonder where his friends are. Fans who come to this club to hear the bands it books know its

reputation and seldom come alone. Safety in numbers, they tell themselves. Herd mentality. Are his

friends nearby? Have they seen him with me, me with him? Are they watching us even now? Will they

try to intervene?

His back remains against my chest. His skin, still against mine, prickles. Does he fear I will overpower

him, drag him into some dark corner, and feed on him here, now? The thought is amusing but

impractical, for several reasons. Instead, I run my hands around his torso to the front. He tenses but does

not push away. One of my hands explores the hair on his stomach and the firm ridges of his abdomen,

then glides up his chest, stroking the soft hair in the center before fingering one of his nipples. He

quivers. He is enjoying this more than he intended, even though he is afraid. My other hand slips down

across the waistband of his jeans, where I find that his cock is hard and pressed, trapped, down along his

left thigh. I pull that hand up, and then dip it inside the waist of his jeans. He gasps at my forwardness.

My hand glides farther, meets his cock, skin to skin, and my fingers coil around it. His hard-on feels

substantial, thick, and its bullet head fills my palm easily. The quietened motions of his dance in my

arms move his body in a way that forces his shaft to slide against my hand, and I stroke him as much as I

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can within the confines of his pants.

He is scandalized by what we are doing, of what we are doing here sexually in such a public place where

anyone could see. But more than that, he is shocked by the way his body responds to me, the way his

flesh reacts to the danger of what I am with flushing arousal. I can tempt and taunt too, little angel, I

think to myself, and I have far more experience. I jerk him off surrounded by dozens of unknowing

witnesses while the music shifts to another band, another song, the same hammering beat. Several

humans jostle into us, but none seem to notice what we are doing. His cock becomes harder as I toy with

it. My fingers slide along its smooth sides, pumping him to the edge. He gasps and trembles, ready to

orgasm, but I stop. He whimpers his frustration so quietly I barely hear him. He tries to use his dance to

pump his dick in my grip, but I slide my hand out of his jeans. I bring my fingers to my lips and lick the

taste of his meat from them. The taste of him makes me want more. I run my fingers over his face and

slip one into his gasping mouth. I feel his surprise in the way his body tenses; he wasn't expecting the

intimacy of my finger in his mouth; he does not expect himself to allow it, but somehow he does. He

sucks gently at my digit, and I slide it in and out just enough to tease him, a sweet torment.

He turns and looks at me, my finger still in his mouth. I look back, smiling. He searches my eyes, seems

surprised again that he remains able to look away.

I lean closer. "Follow me," I whisper in his ear.

He could turn away, but instead he trails behind me without protest. The crowd parts for me; he follows

in my wake, until we come to a doorway that leads into the club's bowels. Through the walls, the music

is reduced to a dull thudding, like the heart of a giant beast pushing life through its veins. Down the

short corridor, I push open the first door. I pull on a string hanging by the door, and a single bare light

bulb burns weakly. I usher him inside. He takes in his new surroundings. The room is small, empty

except for an old mattress on the floor and a waste basket. The room does not look like much, but here is

where he will find what passes for heaven in this place. This room is used for privacy, for feeding. I

push the door shut behind me and make sure it locks.

I turn to look at him. "What is your name?" I ask him, drawing my finger across his chest, from shoulder

to shoulder. I do not need to know, but I am curious.

"Rich," he answers. His voice is low and husky, hard to hear over the thump-thump of the music and his

heart and my hunger. He is lying, most likely giving me a variation of his name; is he a Richard, or a

Ricky, or—-gods forbid--a Dick? No matter. For now he will be Rich, which fits his rich aura. I nod in

acknowledgement. He feels emboldened by the small talk, so the next question is his: "What's yours?"

Probably he expects me to answer that my name is Dracul or Vlad or some other nonsense favored by

the younger of my kind. But I tell him, "Dane." The word is less who I am and more a reminder of the

distant place where I was once a human. Still, it serves now as well as any other name.

He looks me in the eye as if evaluating me, then quickly looks away. He seems surprised that, again, he

has managed to look me in the eye without becoming enthralled. Perhaps, he is telling himself, the

stories are not true. Or perhaps, he wonders, he might be immune to the effect? Others in his position

have asked themselves these same questions, always finding some way to ignore the simple possibility

that I like toying with them. Young humans like him always think themselves invincible. Whatever he

decides seems to bolster his confidence because he stands straighter, still nervous, but manufacturing

courage by telling himself he can walk away from this—this room, me, this danger--any time he wants.

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My next question catches him off-guard: "How old are you?"

He looks down. "Twenty-four."

Again he has lied. I know from the way his fear spikes. Probably he has added two or three years to his

age to seem more mature. I do not care, so again I pretend to believe him. He has to be at least eighteen

to have gotten past the unforgiving security guard at the door, but he cannot be more than twenty or

twenty-one. Away from the crowd, in this dim light that is still brighter than the dark club, he is even

more attractive than I first thought, and his lips full and soft. Handsome almost to the point of prettiness.

I am a sucker for a pretty face, so to speak, but this close the beautiful glow of his life force is nearly too

much for me to bear.

His bare chest trembles, betraying the lingering fear he feels at being here alone with me, knowing what

I am, what I can do, what is surely about to happen to him. His dick, though, has not gone soft. He may

be afraid, but some part of him is eager too, wants this, wants to learn first-hand if the stories are true--or

perhaps, in the silly way of young humans, he just wants to test how far he will go before he loses his

nerve. I look at the bulge in his jeans and remember how he felt in my hand, the way his body shook

when he nearly climaxed. Thinking about his erection and jerking him off provokes my hunger for him.

I am anxious to begin.

"I'm going to fuck you," I tell him, "and I am going to feed on you."

He shakes his head, wide-eyed. "No fucking. I'm straight. I don't want to--"

He is lying again. "Shhh," I breathe quietly as I hold his jaw and tilt his eyes to meet mine. "If you were

that straight, you would not have allowed me to put my hand in your pants."

He begins a protest: "I--"

I interrupt: "Hush, boy. You have no need to lie, not to me. I will not harm you. You can still walk away

from this, if you are afraid."

His jaw tenses, angrily. His gaze flickers downward at the lower half of my face, away from my eyes,

just in case, as he tries to decide how he will respond. By acknowledging his youth and his fear, I have

challenged his manhood, so now he must prove his courage to me, to himself. His torso trembles from

arousal as much as fear. He is probably thinking the usual thoughts. Does he find me attractive enough

to justify allowing this?--Yes. Am I masculine enough?--Yes. Is he horny enough?--Yes. He makes his

decision. He pushes his eyes back to meet mine defiantly and does not pull away. I take this as consent

and bore my gaze into his, let my eyes take him. The touch of my thoughts against his is irresistible but

subtle, so subtle he does not feel it at first. In less than a second, the enthrallment he feared earlier is

upon him. He hardly realizes what is happening, knows only a sudden laser-intense way that I have

filled his awareness, an overwhelming need to do as I say, to please me. The blaze in his eyes softens as

his fear fades. He succumbs. His jaw relaxes in my grip.

With the thumpa-thumpa heartbeat of the music as a background, the time has come for us to begin a

new dance. I command him, "Show me your ass."

He begins to comply, which surprises him. He seems amazed when he realizes the enthrallment has

already happened--surprised, perhaps, that he is still aware of what is happening to him and what he is

doing. He feels like himself, only now he finds himself unable to even contemplate resisting the

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compulsion to do as I've told him.

He moves slowly--typical of the thralled. He drops his jeans and turns his ass toward me. No underwear.

His butt is perfect, almost breathtaking. His round globes are smooth and clean, contrasting to his

slightly hairy legs below. The bare moons of flesh look virginal as freshly fallen snow, like they have

never been touched. I lick my lips, knowing I will enjoy this.

I command him, "Strip."

He bends at the waist, reaches for the laces of his heavy black combat boots that these young moshers

seem to favor. Immediate obedience, rather than forethought, is the hallmark of enthrallment, and his

body begins to topple. I am quick, and I grab him by the waist and lower him ass-first to sit on the

mattress.

He barely seems to notice because he is intent on obeying my order. He continues to work at the laces,

manages to work off his shit-kicker boots, socks, jeans. He has trimmed his pubes to stubble and shaven

his balls, which makes his cock, still stiff, look even larger against his naked pale skin. His erection

stands out from his groin heavily, the tip of it fat and red. I slip off my own clothing, moving quickly but

not rushing. I display my nakedness and my physical need, my hard prick, to him for a moment before I

move toward him. Enthralled or not, he is more than willing to accept what I offer. This is what I have

waited for, what I need, and my body tingles with anticipation of what is to happen.

I walk around behind him, stand on the thin mattress, and study his ass. I want to smack a cheek and feel

the firmness of his skin and muscle beneath my hand. I am going to enjoy fucking his ass, but other

things come first. I walk around to stand in front of him.

"On your knees," I direct, and he kneels on the floor in front of me. His knees are spread, and his hands

rest on his thighs as he waits. "Look at my cock. You want this in your ass, do you not. It will feel good

inside you." I stroke my nine inches to full hardness. I see the change in his eyes as he gazes at my thick

shaft and realizes he will be taking it up his butt. He licks his lips as he anticipates the way it will spread

his hole and slip into his chute, but some part of him flickers, probably worried about the pain of being

penetrated. I will deal with that flicker when the time comes.

My hand under his jaw turns his head up, and our eyes meet again, and I tighten my hold on his

thoughts. My other hand is around the base of my hard dick. I slap his face with my cock-head several

times. I love the feeling when my dick hits the heavy bones of his jaw, the scrape of his faint beard

stubble against my sensitive skin. "Open your mouth," I purr, pure seduction. "Suck it." He opens, and I

let him lick just the head of my big tool. When he starts to close his lips around it, I pull away.

"Lick my foot," I tell him, pushing his head downward. "Kiss it. Lick it." He bends forward. His ass

cheeks lift and part as he supplicates himself before me, on his hands and knees. He slides his lips and

tongue obediently across the top of my bare foot. "Keep going," I tell him.

He kisses his way up my ankle, and then his tongue tickles the hairs on my calf as he works up my leg.

His progress is slow but steady, over my knee, up my thigh, as his mouth migrates toward my crotch.

When his forehead nudges my jutting cock, I tilt his face up to meet my eyes again. He looks up

expectantly, now welcoming the effect my eyes have on his mind. My dick bobs in the air before him,

only inches from his lips. With my other hand, I stroke my cock until a drop of pre-cum glistens at the

tip. "Lick it," I whisper. He sticks his tongue out, and I move my cock closer to his mouth. The droplet

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hangs at the end of my dick for a moment, waiting for his tongue to swipe it. He slurps the pre-cum as if

it were the sweetest honey. He is not resisting at all; he wants this as badly as I do, and that makes me

hunger for him still more strongly.

"Suck my dick." I poke the head of my cock against his mouth, which widens, and he takes the head in

greedily. I force my entire length into his throat quickly, using my hand on his neck to push him forward

onto it. I am surprised when he takes it without much trouble, not even gagging, and soon my balls slap

against his chin as my cock-head stretches his throat. Perhaps, I consider, he is not as straight as he

claimed, or as virginal as he seemed.

No matter. I let him suck me at his own pace for a while. I savor the way his lips slide over my shaft and

pull hungrily at my knob-head. He knows what he is doing. He brings me close to the edge several

times, and I pull back each time, wanting to prolong the sweet animal agony of the experience. His

hands pull roughly on my balls while he blows me. I do not mind letting him lead this part of our new

dance; I enjoy watching him milk me until I am slick with his spit and the pre-cum that steadily oozes

from my dick.

I hear footsteps outside in the corridor, voices, passing by. The band he came to see is finally arriving.

He will miss their show, but I think what he is about to experience will more than compensate.

I feel myself nearing climax again, so I reclaim control of our dance and start to fuck his face harder.

Holding his head still, I slam my cock again and again into his warm, wet mouth, making his face press

harder into my belly with each thrust until I wonder how he can breathe. My balls pound as my pent-up

load begins to boil. I pull out of his mouth, give my cock a final few strokes with his spit as lube, and I

cum all over him. Fat cords of my sperm splatter across his shoulder, covering his neck and part of his

chest as I shoot repeatedly. Long strings of my cum trail down his chest. His mouth still hangs open, and

I release another blast toward his mouth but miss; it drips from his cheek.

When I finish shooting, his neck and half of his shoulder are covered in my juice. His fat dick stands

out, rock-hard, between his legs. I push my slimy cock back into his mouth, and he sucks on me until I

am stiff again, which does not take long. I pull out and tell him to sit on the mattress. I push him onto his

back on the mattress and direct him to pull his legs up. This spreads his ass cheeks wide, and I can see

the center of his pucker. The skin is pink and tender, darker and rosier as it nears his hole. As he

breathes, the tiny portal flutters.

I kneel, which puts my face in front of his hole. As he holds his legs back, I lean forward and run my

tongue, lightly, along the lines of his cheeks and up to his balls. His skin is satin-smooth beneath my

tongue as I lap at the ridge from his asshole to his scrotum and pull one of his plump nuts into my

mouth. His body trembles as I suck forcefully, my tongue pressing one sensitive egg against the roof of

my mouth and then the other.

I move back down, licking his asshole with long strokes of my tongue, letting the tip tickle his ass-

pucker until he begins to groan. I tease him and tongue-torture him, taking my time. When his crevice is

suitably wet, I slide into it, my lips pressing against his skin as I burrow deep into his chute. His thighs

clamp around my face as I push in, stretching him wider and wider. The harder I fuck his ass with my

tongue and one finger, the more he groans, until he is whimpering. The part of him that is still aware is

ready for me to stick my cock in him, wants it, craves it, craves the sensation.

Instead, I push two fingers into his sphincter. He squirms as I spread them and loosen his hole, fisting

his prick with my other hand as I work my fingers farther inside him. His face contorts with pain and

ecstasy. By the time I have four fingers slipping in and out, he is almost crying. I slap his ass sharply as I

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finger-fuck him to the rhythm pounding through the walls, the sound mixing with his heavy moans as he

writhes. He will climax soon.

"Look at me," I say. Our eyes meet and lock. "Let go."

His body relaxes completely. Pushing his legs back, I ram my tool straight into his asshole until I slap

forcefully against him and my balls smack against his cheeks. His head rolls slightly to one side without

breaking our gaze, and his cock stands up away from his belly. I grip his dick tightly at the base to

prevent him from shooting and feel it swell in my fingers as he almost cums. I twitch my prick inside

him and watch him gasp, his lips parting slightly. His ass-ring tightens around my shaft, part of the

involuntary spasms that rack his body.

I start to pump my dick in his ass, grinding in and out of his hole in long thrusts. Soon I am slamming

into him, again, again, my hips bucking furiously as I satisfy his need and mine too. He wants to jerk his

big crank, wants it badly, but the way I have relaxed his body has him too deliciously limp to move. The

way his prick bounces and slaps against his belly as I thrust in and out of his ass feels nearly as good as

beating off anyway. I smell the rich leather scent from his boots lingering on his ankles as they rub

against my shoulders, and I turn my head to lick the pale skin. The hairs on his lower leg scrape my

tongue as I lap along the length of his calf, his muscular ankle gripped tightly in my fingers.

My hunger is an exquisite fire within me. His ass is an exquisite heat around my cock. As I increase my

speed, sliding in and out of his ass, I drop a hand to play with his nipple. Then I rub his balls before I

give him what he craves: the grip of my hand around his cock. The sensation is nearly too much, and he

is about to cum, and I pull my hand away.

Outside, the recorded music cuts off, and the crowd cheers. Without introduction, the band starts

playing. The crowd cheers louder. The singer's wail slices through the wall.

I yank my prick out of him. I pull him to his feet and turn him around, push him face-first against the

wall. I shove my dick back up his ass. My arms go around him; I twist his tits roughly, stretching out his

throbbing buds. His body is buffeted between my seismic thrusts in his ass and the wall that vibrates

with the thunder of the band he came to hear. Will he tell his friends about being pinned between me and

the music, this special experience that is his alone? I do not care either way.

My mouth moves to his neck, and I lick the vein at his throat—sensing the eagerness in him, hungering

for the throb of his life. Not yet, I think, and instead my tongue follows his neck muscle upward to a

sensitive spot beneath his ear, where I nip his skin as I fuck him from behind. I nip again, teasing him

with the barest shadow of what is to come. My groin and stomach rub against his ass cheeks and back as

I nail him mercilessly, and I feel his hard-on swing and jump with each slap from my body.

I turn him around and drop to my knees before him. I clamp one hand around my cock and the other

around his, and I use my strokes to hold his rod out of the way. After only a few jacks, he starts to suck

his breath in long gasps. I kiss the inside of his thigh, close to his nuts, and bite into his life force there.

Cum explodes from his dick-head and covers my hand in a smear. The sensation of his life exploding

into me, feeding my insatiable hunger, and the taste of his orgasm burning through his body sends me

over the edge, and I give one final wicked tug on my cock before climaxing myself, emptying my nuts

on the floor between his legs. I fall against him and press him to the wall as the cum gushes out of me

and his life gushes in.

I do not take much, just enough to sate my hunger for now. He is semiconscious when I finish, his

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nervous system overloaded, drunk on the dual pleasure from orgasming and being fed upon. I nip into

his life force again and leave my mark on it, branding him as my own. No other of my kind will dare

feed on him until his life force is regenerated and the mark fades in a few weeks.

I stay there until the rush fades, my body pressed to his, feeling his heart beating against my skin.

When I pull away, this angelic youth smells wonderfully of sweat and sex.

His skin is sticky in my hands as I pull his pants and boots back on. I have to do all the work because he

is still too dazed, too limp, to obey my orders. The sound of music flows through the walls and, when I

feel his life throbbing between us, I want to take it all, to drain him dry, but I do not.

Instead, I unlock the door and carry his still-limp body farther down the hall. The cool-down room is

staffed with humans who watch over those who need to recover, whether from being fed upon and or

from chemical over-indulgence. I lower this youth gently to one of the mats. The caretakers are polite

but cautious around me, keep their distance; they know my kind are seldom more dangerous than when

we’ve just fed—our hungers have been unleashed but have not been fully satisfied—we could lose

control and grab for the nearest available meal and drain them dry. Fortunately for these caretakers, I

have excellent control over my appetites.

"He said his name is Rich," I tell them. "He is here with friends who will be looking for him." Will his

friends tease him when they learn what has happened to him? I do not care.

The caretakers nod. They will take care of the details. I nod in return and disappear back into the club.

Tomorrow night, or perhaps the night after, I will call through the energy from Rich that lingers inside

me, and my mark upon his life force will respond like a beacon, guiding me to him, wherever he is. I

will go to him, and he will give himself willingly to me—how could he not after he has sampled the

ecstasy I can give him? I will take him again, my little angel; I will take what I need from him and give

him this heaven again.

Our dance is not yet finished, Rich's and mine, and we shall dance it again soon, perhaps for a few days,

perhaps for a week, until I grow bored and move on to fresher meals. My boredom will be your

salvation, little angel, at least temporarily. You are but the latest in a string of beautiful meals, and I am

a realist—my kind has to be, because we are long-lived and dreams fade too quickly. Soon I will move

on to other, fuller meals before your aura resembles those tired, tattered regulars' in this club.

But a few days after my mark upon you fades, Rich, others of my kind will be only too happy to step in

and they might not be as considerate as I. They will gladly feast on everything you have left. What

attracted me to you most was your untouched quality, but the novelty of that can never be fully

reclaimed. Your dance with me may taint you for some time to come, my little angel, and I do not know

whether you will continue to seek out the heaven of danger and physical bliss that I have shown you,

like all the other vampire-seekers, heedless of the cost. But my long existence has taught me this: where

the music takes you is less important than the vigor with which you dance.

Like all falls, my little angel, yours is just beginning. But now that you have sampled what my kind can

offer, will you welcome it? Will you seek it out regardless of the danger and the cost? Knowing the

minutes of heaven they can make you feel, will you yield to the temptation to seek them out?--Or will

you be strong enough to save yourself?

The Dark Dance, by Wrestlr

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