Peau D'espagne (from the Vampire Liaisons)
She raised her arm to her face, dipping her head slightly, inhaling the scent of fresh leather. It always stirred something inside her, something primal and ancient. Something with inherent and subtle power.
Her movements were an elusive current of air as she passed through the crowd, oblivious to their side glances of desire and envy. She traveled a different pattern, an elite and wild stratum of existence few knew of and fewer could survive, defined by the hunger.
It was rising now, an archaic condition that brought both strength and weakness, the subject of many rumors, many mythologies, no one really understood. All of the "can't do's" and "will protect you from's" were basically nonsense and superstition.
She inhaled again the rich fragrance of processed skin. It reminded her of Paris, an older, more decadent Paris from centuries before. A Paris where an impetuous and uninhibited weekend with a scandalous marquis would, years later, inspire one of his greatest works. A Paris where a stop at a perfumer's to buy gloves of the finest peau d'Espagne turned a simple flirtation from amusement through dalliance to a journey down the dark corridor to hunger.
It had surprised her that a man with an air of sweetness and frivolity behaved so barbarous and dissolute with her naked body, as if the floral top notes that filled the atmosphere resolved into harsh spices and musk.
There was the formality of consent - knowing she couldn't deny a man of such beauty - before their bloods mixed, before the power and disease entered her body like a narcotic of pure carnal existence. There in the bed smeared red, where his semen and the cognac of her love mingled and stained, her eyes opened on a new world, a world dominated by a need so lascivious, so defined by the terminal point of life and death it would remain, by necessity, an enigma.
She had been living as the mistress of the Comte de Nice. Imagine his astonishment when his plaything turned him into her premier meal, an awkward affair marked more for its rapacity than its finesse. Her taste had leaned towards the gourmet ever since.
She traveled the cities of Europe, cautiously migratory and transient, finally returning to London, her city of origin, where the waves of invasions failed to wash ashore but the lusts and movement of war periodically stirred the pot. Two hundred years of varying degrees of feast and famine.
As the previous century declined her hunting reached a new ascendancy, the bars and private clubs where any and all transpired, her main domain. And the new millennium was proving to be even more profitable as she achieved a certain underground cache, a non-notoriety spoken only in whispers. Which brought her back to the leather, and the crowd she currently ignored.
There was no sign, no doorman, no velvet cord, and no lines. You knew or you didn't. She knew and the doors opened. Like all clubs renowned for their discretion the lights were muted and designed for shadows. A haven with no witnesses, where no crime would be reported. Leather predominated, in the furniture, the clothing, and the tastes of its customers.
She could smell him before she saw him, the scent of healthy manhood that promised so much and was so easy to track. It was in many ways elemental and predictable, placement so the prey thinks it's the hunter, the moves to attract - that she didn't possess certain anatomical qualities native to the gender he preferred made it a bit more difficult, but few could resist her blond beauty. Or the depth of her blue-gray eyes.
He was conspicuously attentive to his appearance and physique. Hard but not bulky, lean but not thin, his pants bragging his attributes. His dark eyes contrasted so sharply with his blond hair she wondered whether the color was an affectation. No matter, his beauty was enough to catch her eye.
They danced the dance. A drink, a laugh, a look.
He lived close by in a rather pleasant apartment paid for by a friend. Would she like to see it? He had a bottle of fine wine they could share. If only they would spare her the pretensions.
She passed quickly over the pedestrian wine, moving with efficiency towards satisfying her true intentions, catching his breath when dispensing with the long leather revealed little more than boots.
He rose from his chair, pressing her to his chest, letting his hands flow from her shoulders down to where the small of her back became her high ripe ass.
"You seem chilled. Let me warm you." Parts of her anatomy already radiated with passion. When one need was filled she would focus on the other.
One flick and the buttons on his shirt scattered. A show of strength perhaps a bit indiscreet. His desire forgave her. She was more cautious with his pants, slowly unzipping the fly, fondling the cheeks of his ass as the material dropped towards the floor.
Her hand on his chest left little doubt she wanted him on the couch. She went to her knees, admiring what was about to become her toy, looked into his glazed eyes as her tongue tasted the musk of his erect penis, heard a slight moan as the shaft disappeared into her mouth.
After all this time the feel of hard flesh in her mouth still produced the appropriate arousal in her, the first step to ecstasy. Her experienced tongue and lips were a talent he never thought possible, but this was not to end here. She had a distance she wanted to travel.
She rose from her knees, mounting him like a fine strong stallion, like the carefully bred horses she once rode through the country-side. Rode him hard, her hands on his shoulders, calling out wordless encouragement, driving to her orgasm.
She lost the rhythm briefly as her body shuddered, eyes shut, breath gasping in her throat.
Through the aftershocks she focused on total satiety, pumping hard until she felt him closing in on his own orgasm. And as he peaked she fell on his neck, blood coursing wild through his veins, filling her with warmth at both ends.
She soon found herself in a sweat-soaked silence, crimson stain spreading rapidly across the couch fabric. She felt his vitality infusing her body with a sense of liberation that complimented her orgasm perfectly, the hungers subsiding.
She slipped back into the leather coat, scent of processed skin, touched his cheek briefly, "My dear, you seem chilled." She smiled, flushed, as the door closed behind her.
She raised her arm to her face, dipping her head slightly, inhaling the scent of fresh leather. It always stirred something inside her, something primal and ancient. Something with inherent and subtle power.
Her movements were an elusive current of air as she passed through the crowd, oblivious to their side glances of desire and envy. She traveled a different pattern, an elite and wild stratum of existence few knew of and fewer could survive, defined by the hunger.
It was rising now, an archaic condition that brought both strength and weakness, the subject of many rumors, many mythologies, no one really understood. All of the "can't do's" and "will protect you from's" were basically nonsense and superstition.
She inhaled again the rich fragrance of processed skin. It reminded her of Paris, an older, more decadent Paris from centuries before. A Paris where an impetuous and uninhibited weekend with a scandalous marquis would, years later, inspire one of his greatest works. A Paris where a stop at a perfumer's to buy gloves of the finest peau d'Espagne turned a simple flirtation from amusement through dalliance to a journey down the dark corridor to hunger.
It had surprised her that a man with an air of sweetness and frivolity behaved so barbarous and dissolute with her naked body, as if the floral top notes that filled the atmosphere resolved into harsh spices and musk.
There was the formality of consent - knowing she couldn't deny a man of such beauty - before their bloods mixed, before the power and disease entered her body like a narcotic of pure carnal existence. There in the bed smeared red, where his semen and the cognac of her love mingled and stained, her eyes opened on a new world, a world dominated by a need so lascivious, so defined by the terminal point of life and death it would remain, by necessity, an enigma.
She had been living as the mistress of the Comte de Nice. Imagine his astonishment when his plaything turned him into her premier meal, an awkward affair marked more for its rapacity than its finesse. Her taste had leaned towards the gourmet ever since.
She traveled the cities of Europe, cautiously migratory and transient, finally returning to London, her city of origin, where the waves of invasions failed to wash ashore but the lusts and movement of war periodically stirred the pot. Two hundred years of varying degrees of feast and famine.
As the previous century declined her hunting reached a new ascendancy, the bars and private clubs where any and all transpired, her main domain. And the new millennium was proving to be even more profitable as she achieved a certain underground cache, a non-notoriety spoken only in whispers. Which brought her back to the leather, and the crowd she currently ignored.
There was no sign, no doorman, no velvet cord, and no lines. You knew or you didn't. She knew and the doors opened. Like all clubs renowned for their discretion the lights were muted and designed for shadows. A haven with no witnesses, where no crime would be reported. Leather predominated, in the furniture, the clothing, and the tastes of its customers.
She could smell him before she saw him, the scent of healthy manhood that promised so much and was so easy to track. It was in many ways elemental and predictable, placement so the prey thinks it's the hunter, the moves to attract - that she didn't possess certain anatomical qualities native to the gender he preferred made it a bit more difficult, but few could resist her blond beauty. Or the depth of her blue-gray eyes.
He was conspicuously attentive to his appearance and physique. Hard but not bulky, lean but not thin, his pants bragging his attributes. His dark eyes contrasted so sharply with his blond hair she wondered whether the color was an affectation. No matter, his beauty was enough to catch her eye.
They danced the dance. A drink, a laugh, a look.
He lived close by in a rather pleasant apartment paid for by a friend. Would she like to see it? He had a bottle of fine wine they could share. If only they would spare her the pretensions.
She passed quickly over the pedestrian wine, moving with efficiency towards satisfying her true intentions, catching his breath when dispensing with the long leather revealed little more than boots.
He rose from his chair, pressing her to his chest, letting his hands flow from her shoulders down to where the small of her back became her high ripe ass.
"You seem chilled. Let me warm you." Parts of her anatomy already radiated with passion. When one need was filled she would focus on the other.
One flick and the buttons on his shirt scattered. A show of strength perhaps a bit indiscreet. His desire forgave her. She was more cautious with his pants, slowly unzipping the fly, fondling the cheeks of his ass as the material dropped towards the floor.
Her hand on his chest left little doubt she wanted him on the couch. She went to her knees, admiring what was about to become her toy, looked into his glazed eyes as her tongue tasted the musk of his erect penis, heard a slight moan as the shaft disappeared into her mouth.
After all this time the feel of hard flesh in her mouth still produced the appropriate arousal in her, the first step to ecstasy. Her experienced tongue and lips were a talent he never thought possible, but this was not to end here. She had a distance she wanted to travel.
She rose from her knees, mounting him like a fine strong stallion, like the carefully bred horses she once rode through the country-side. Rode him hard, her hands on his shoulders, calling out wordless encouragement, driving to her orgasm.
She lost the rhythm briefly as her body shuddered, eyes shut, breath gasping in her throat.
Through the aftershocks she focused on total satiety, pumping hard until she felt him closing in on his own orgasm. And as he peaked she fell on his neck, blood coursing wild through his veins, filling her with warmth at both ends.
She soon found herself in a sweat-soaked silence, crimson stain spreading rapidly across the couch fabric. She felt his vitality infusing her body with a sense of liberation that complimented her orgasm perfectly, the hungers subsiding.
She slipped back into the leather coat, scent of processed skin, touched his cheek briefly, "My dear, you seem chilled." She smiled, flushed, as the door closed behind her.