I nuzzled my head against hers, knowing soon the contact would be unwelcome, she would go back to her life, and I would go back to mine. “Do you think you made him happy?”
And I watched her face light up in the radiant way of one participating in true love. “Definitely,” with a beaming smile, then kissed me.
* * *
After that, I lay down naked on the bed, and watched her put her clothes on, humming cheerfully to herself. She didn’t appear to feel used or degraded, not that I’d wanted those things, but I’d fully been expecting that – for her to have a freak out the second things were done. Instead, she was as cool as a mint green cucumber. Did she and her husband travel from town to town, accruing cuckold experiences? Maybe I was the degraded one.
“Thank you,” she addressed me, once she was clothed, as primly as a mother at a PTA meeting. “That was fantastic.”
“You’re welcome, and I’m glad,” I said, bemusedly.
She gave me an awkward low wave and then walked for the door, fishing her ring out of her pocket to put back on. I rocked back in the bed, awash in blood and sex. If only I could stay here tonight – but I couldn’t, plus Sugar needed feeding.
I rocked out of bed and reached for borrowed jeans as Fran came in, crystal decanter in one hand and two matching glasses in the other.
“So?” I asked, as I tugged my jeans up.
“Quite impressive.” She held the bottle up. “Whiskey?”
“Please.” I pulled the t-shirt on and sat on the edge of the bed. “Did, uh, everyone go home happy?”
“Oh yes. The wall thing was inspired.”
“I can’t take credit for it – she asked.”
“Dirty girl,” Fran clucked with a grin. She poured me a glass, handed it over, then sat down in the chair to pour herself one. “I was a little unsure at first, him being a para and all –“
“What?”
“He’s a C5 para. We talked about it some beforehand. They’ve had all their children via IVF. Stop looking so horrified – I’m nothing if not accommodating, as you well know.”
“I just –“ I stammered.
“Don’t worry, you didn’t wreck anything. I have a sixth sense for these sorts of arrangements. Plus, they tipped you. People who don’t leave happy don’t tip.”
There was no place on Fran’s current outfit for her to hold cash or make change. She inspected a glamorous fingernail to ignore the look I was giving her and clucked. “I’m keeping it, because I’m charging you freezer rent. Also, if this happens again, I suspect they’re going to want you to wear some sort of suit, and God knows you don’t own one.”
I gave up and laughed. “Whatever you say, Fran.”
Her eyes flicked over and appraised me under fake lashes. “If only you meant that, Jack. But – a promise is a promise. You wanna tell me why you showed up half-dead on my doorstep?” She reached up into her hair, where I heard the faint sound of clips giving away, then she took off her wig and set it on the decanter. “Because I’m all ears now.”
I polished off the rest of the whiskey in my glass and started talking.
* * *
Fran listened attentively. Good dommes were all about communication, and as Fran was one of the best, I felt truly listened to, a rarity in this town or any other.
“I just don’t know what happened. I should’ve been able to slaughter him. No contest at all.” My hand went for my ribs again. Danger was omnipresent, but pain? Only one other person had been able to hurt me since I’d become a vampire – my Mistress -- and I didn’t like the reminder.“It’s pretty obvious to me,” Fran said, leaning back and recrossing her legs. “You already know you’re not the only thing that goes bump in the night.”
“Shit,” I cursed. Fran was right. It
was
the obvious answer. I was just in denial.
“Sorry, Jack. I know how you feel about her.” Fran said, and stood up with only a slight groan to give away how much her heels hurt – but when she looked down she was wincing on my behalf.
Because she knew the only other vampire I could ask for information was the one I hated and feared most -- my Mistress, Rosalie.
“I’ll keep the freezer running for you.”
“Thanks,” I said. I polished off the whiskey in my glass, setting it down. “And I’m keeping this jacket.”
* * *
Thanks for reading the third episode of Dark Ink!
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Here’s links to her other work:
Sleeping with Monsters Series (Paranormal Erotica)
Stand Alone (Chose Your Own Adventure Erotica)
The House: Come Find Your Fantasy
The Edie Spence Series (Urban Fantasy)
Teaser from Dark Ink Tattoo Episode Four
Jack’s Past
While your teenaged fantasies oftentimes involve bumping into teachers, former babysitters, and/or high school head cheerleaders at the strip club, none of them -- no matter how detailed -- can prepare you for when it happens in real life. Which is why I was staring slack-jawed at Dorothy – Thea – as Bruce punched me in the arm.
“Jesus, when’s the last time you saw a naked girl, Jack?”
I waved him away and kept staring. The runway was a long thing, phallically shaped, and we were at the tip of it while she was stage center near the pole, far enough away that it both could-and-couldn’t be her simultaneously, like some Schrodingerian dream.
Bruce grabbed my head and yanked it near so he wouldn’t have to shout over the music the club pumped in. “You’re embarrassing yourself – and me.”
She walked around the pole, looking out into likely darkness since all the lights were aimed at her, making all the sequins on her white bikini glint – it was like she was blindingly beautiful, too pretty to even see properly. Then she lunged forward and in, lifting herself up, long legs pointed in a dramatically suggestive V, ending in two glittering red platform heels, all the better to walk down a pornographic yellow brick road.
I turned toward him without taking my eyes off her. “I know her.”
“The fuck you do.”
But I did. I had a sudden flash of smoke and damage, a crinkle of red metal peeled up like wrapping paper on both sides of a tree and me running down to rescue her from the passenger side, as quarterback Duncan Beamm staggered out on the driver side to puke, from a likely BAL of .3 and a head contusion.
Everything afterward…. “We’re in Vegas. Bet me,” I told Bruce, as she began a slow turn.
“A hundred.”
“Done,” I said. “Go hit the ATM.”
He snorted and didn’t move. Thea spun, the muscles of her arms, her stomach, the swing of her legs, making her swirl like a slow carousel. What was it like being up there with everyone watching? Rowdier groups of men waved fistfuls of cash, shouting lewd suggestions, and she ignored them, intent on her own internal metronome, letting the music move her. When it came time for her to take off her top it seemed natural and she swung down dramatically, one leg curving up to brace against the pole, the pink perfection of her nipples on display, swaying with the music like twin poppies.
How many times in high school had I desperately wanted to see those breasts – to touch them? The closest I’d come was that day holding her to my chest in the rain, blood streaming out of a small cut on her cheek.
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