When he pulled off the shirt, you gasped. John wore the scars of a man experienced in battle- but so many more, as if he’d been tortured. And most cruel was the metal arm, sleek and black glinting where his real arm should be.
“My unit was captured in the Great War,” he said casually, answering the question as if you’d spoken out loud. “The Usurper strike team tortured us for information. For a month or more. Out of the hundred men under my command, only three survived. But no one ever broke. We never said a word. The Allies bombed the facility, buried us all under rubble. I was the only one to survive. I was pinned under a pile of concrete, and I cut my arm off to free myself. To live.”
He removed his boots and socks and strolled closer; his feet pale. “I found out that the Allies had known we were there. They’d known for weeks. I had made my men hang on, telling them there would be a rescue team soon. They would come for us. They tore the countryside to pieces, and my unit with it. Laid down a line of carpet bombs that took out every living soul. But for me.”
You’d been staring at his arm, watching the plates slide and coil, the candlelight gleaming along it. Without thinking, you put out a finger and very carefully traced a line from his shoulder to wrist. “That must have been so painful. Your men lying there with you, having to cut off your own arm to live. I’m sorry.”
He leaned closer, bare skin glowing. “Oh, fledgling, I didn’t live. The Night Brethren found me. Turned me and gifted me with this arm. So much better, even than my own undead strength. And now that I have shown you my secrets…” he pulled you closer, spinning you to face away. “It is time to show me yours.”
Even if you’d made the decision to try to escape him, you wouldn’t. Not from Black Heart, and he knew it, with his fanged grin and rough hands. He was all you had in this ruined world. At least until you found Mama again.
He was careful in removing your dress, letting it slide over your hips and puddle on the floor. His calloused fingers stroked through your hair, over your shoulders, and down to your wrists, holding them as he spread your arms wide.
“Beautiful Little Bird,” he said, almost reverently.
You just … stood there. Black Heart had almost never touched you, other than to administer punishment or steer your direction. And here he was, so close he blocked the candlelight and cast you into his shadow, which wrapped around you like a living thing. You could feel his hot breath, the rasp of his fingers on your skin. When his hands went to your ribcage, easily spanning the bare space between your brassiere and underwear, you tried to pull away then, but his fingers tightened.
“Shh, hush, don’t try to fly away, Little Bird. Be still.”
The sound of your rapid breath rose over his soothing hushes, but you were still. The fabric covering your breasts fell away and he was on his knees, his plump lips suckling one nipple, then the other. Your fingers tightened on his shoulders as you gasped. It felt electrical somehow, like lightning rushing through you and connecting the stiff little peaks he was holding to your nethers. A good girl did not think about her nethers, but the warmth there was so overwhelming, it made you rub your thighs together, hips circling restlessly.
Rising, he spun the two of you, making you yelp. Black Heart guided your chin to look at the antique mirror across the room.
“There’s an old wives’ tale,” he mused, “that claims the Night Brethren cannot be seen in a mirror.”
This was a lie because you were both reflected back so clearly. One of his arms was across your breasts, the other making a trail down to the last thing protecting your modesty.
“John?” Your tongue felt stuck to the roof of your mouth. You should say something. You should ask something.
Something.
But you couldn’t. You watched him step out of his pants and he did not wear anything else. You’d seen a man’s phallus before, in books. In pictures of sculptures. But this looked much larger by comparison. Thick and full, hard against his sculpted stomach. He took your hand and put it against him. Unlike the rest of his cool skin, this part of Black Heart was hot. Hot and pulsing with an energy of its own.
“This is for you, Little Bird,” he said, voice grown raspy and dark. “But not tonight. We shall take this slowly.” One hand held yours to his crotch and the other reached out and tugged on the little ribbons of the fragile underwear, pulling it away from you. “Lay back, my good girl. Let me worship at the altar of your sacred little cunny. It’s perfect, just like you.”
You didn’t understand what he meant, what he would-
“Oh. Oh! John, you- this-”
His shoulders were wedged securely between your thighs, spreading them wide as one finger circled against the top of your womanhood. Lightly, his rough skin catching just slightly on the tender, painfully sensitive skin. He looked up at you, his handsome face alight, a gleeful, fanged smile spread as wide as your legs.
“You will like this gift, I promise you.”
His mouth was as hot as that part of him below, and he put it over you in an open-mouthed kiss. You could feel his lips scorching your nether ones, sucking one, then the other, then his heated tongue blazing a path along your furrow and circling around the tender, sensitive part his finger had touched. Your legs stiffened and you cried out to the white painted ceiling, hands flying into his thick hair and pulling it. His shoulders were shaking against the thin skin of your inner thighs and you knew he was laughing.
His stubbled jaw rubbed against you and there was slick from you then, making his chin and fingers and lips and tongue move quicker, easier and you stifled a scream when he pulled that delicate bit of you between his lips and pursed them, his ocean eyes looking up mischievously to see you gasp and moan. “The taste of you...” he groaned hoarsely and then went back to his work.
This was all having an effect on this cold, terrifying man, too. Black Heart’s large phallus rubbed against your leg, leaving a cool trail of wet on your shin. His big hands cradled you, sliding under you to cup your bottom to lift you to his mouth like a chalice. He supped of you, licked and nibbled and pulled, and then in one heart-stopping moment, you watched his head tilt back in ecstasy and his fangs gleamed.
He put his mouth on you again, eyes gazing up at yours as he once again drew that tender part of your nethers between his red, red lips and you felt it: the delicate scratch of a fang and you screamed. Like a banshee and you were on fire, all of you and your skin could barely contain it and your chest heaved as he did it again. Everything wound tight inside you like a fist expanded outwards and even though you couldn’t see nor hear nor speak, you heard Black Heart’s rapturous groan and a flood of slick from your body and his.
It was perfectly silent then, save heavy breathing from you. After a moment he rose and you found your hands following him, realizing you were clinging, you hastily let go and curled into a ball. But he was back with a bowl of warm water and he gently cleaned your good end and his from your skin. You couldn’t take your eyes off what was between his legs, softer now but still large and dangling shamelessly. He caught your glance and winked. “That will be for another night, Little Bird.”
Patting the mattress, he ordered, “Sit up.” Nervously you obeyed, pulling the sheet up to cover your breasts. There were other things on that tray aside from your odd birthday cake- things that looked like pincers or pliers and a small velvet pouch. He quickly braided the length of your hair and fastened it with a ribbon.
“You must hold very still, Little Bird.” He pulled something from the velvet pouch. “This is a metal called platinum,” he said, opening his palm to show you. It was a small circular thing on a post.
Hesitantly touching it with one fingertip, you asked, “What do I do with it?”
