— Posted in Always into Darkness, The Master Race, Vampire Noir

The Master Race, Chapter 12

Your Villain is Our Hero

… Sic semper tyrannis – “Thus always to tyrants”…

Hearing … It’s the last of the senses to go, and it’s always the first to come back. He’s prone, lying on his back, unable to move. He can hear two voices, nearby. Both are female.

“I thought that you two had an acrimonious split 20 years earlier?”

She smiles broadly, before answering. She has that face, a face that belies her character’s unsavory proclivities.

“It’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind. Besides … It’s your Order’s prime directive, not mine, and he did ask for help.”

The Order in question, of course, is the Order of the Bene Gesserits.

“You idiot, he’s conscious!”

One of the voices moves closer. Something must have given him away, although for the life of him he can’t gather what.

“I guess you’ll be leaving, then?”

A telltale is removed from his forehead. It’s as if he was numb and couldn’t feel it. The person who removes it doesn’t bother to answer the question, she just leaves. By now, he has regained some command of his body. Instinctually, he knows that it’s okay to open his eyes.

For a fleeting moment, there is panic—stark raving terror—naked and terrible. The dead thing, the Nosferatu who once enthralled him, looms behind The Other. All the while, she, the “living” Nosferatu—call her Samantha Gayle Phillips, for want of a better name—smiles at him, knowing what’s what. That wide, toothy grin of hers. Those ravaging pearly whites. Then she just blunts her teeth. Her tongue ceases to be killer.

Of note. She prefers to be called “Sam”.

Demon or not, Nosferatu notwithstanding, she’s one of his closest friends, a monster far worse than that which momentarily unnerves him. And, that’s what ultimately calms him. She’s on his side.

He waves off her offered assistance and, still weak and shaken, he stands up by himself. He makes an arcane gesture which allows him to “see” what’s what. The dead thing cannot see them, nor can it touch them. It walks right through them, enraged that it cannot find its lost possession. Enraged that it cannot find him.

She’ll test me. Something hard. Hard and clever. A conundrum of sorts. One of those things known only to her and the “real” me.

“I’m better than the past, outshining the present, and the greatest thing for the future,” she pauses. “Who said that?” She’s testing his wits. Dispassionately assessing the damage, lingering and otherwise.

The dead thing doesn’t react to her voice. Obviously, it can’t hear them either.

“Kiddson,” he answers, as if uncertain. Then there’s the pause, as if he’s racking his scrambled brains. It’s the expected inside joke between them. “Or … or was it Melina [Latina Nosferatu]?”

“Finally … A proper answer.”

“How long?”

“Six months. Any longer and it would have peeled away the last vestige of your alias. And …”

“I would have been its, forever.”

He is once more himself. The rest of the lie is gone. Stripped away. The sociopath is gone. He is once more the good man, the hero driven by justice not revenge. And, as such, he must live with the lives lost in the pursuit of his noble quest [his just cause]. Filthy and parasite-infested. Head lice, fleas, and crabs. Clad in filthy tatters, rags that are so filth-engrained, they are starched stiff. The darkness of the abyss is no longer within him; gone, completely. And, he can guess who took it, but he knows her and her kind too well to ask the obvious.

As his arcane senses begin to return to normal, Jack realizes that they are within her ROOM. Another “gesture”. His vision shifts. The ROOM is no longer immaterial. He also realizes that if she didn’t allow it [implicitly or explicitly], none of his magic would work here.

“You owe me a fin. I told you that you couldn’t bind it. But you had to learn the hard way. There was no talking you out of it,” she teases, understandably insensitive to his feelings.

“It was, after all, my wife that it killed.” It’s a measured response. To react humanly to her dig would be a grave mistake. Because, dearest friend or not, staunchest ally notwithstanding, lover no less, he’s still food [to her], and she will not hesitate to eat and drink him if he should ever fall short of her expectations of him.

“Yes, indeed. That’s my old Jack. Back in the saddle again.”

Chance favors the prepared mind.

He sees his reflection in a full-length mirror. He’s once more as he was when they last met. Six foot even. Two hundred, very lean, well-muscled pounds. An athletic build. Broad shouldered. Square, lantern jaw. Jet black hair. Huge hands. Tall, dark, and handsome. He looks more like a gladiator than a magician. A man’s man straight out of an Ernest Hemingway novel of daring do.

Six months of being enthralled to that abomination, and I’ll bet you enjoyed every minute of my degradation; masturbating day after day to it. Leaving me with the graphic memories of my humiliations seared indelibly into my brain. And, yet you magnanimously return me appearance -wise to what I was before my premeditated fall. Truly your [demon] kind is the undoing of us all. I bet that dark things such as you would look into the abyss and yawn, seeing only their fiendish reflection in kind and deed.

Just when you thought you had reached the deepest depths of horror, it suddenly got worse. How do I turn off that small voice inside your head that’s started to whisper: You should be glad that now, if not before, your revenge was justifiable on any conceivable moral scale? That small voice proved, beyond any doubt, that I was damned. Despair. They’re here. The Lost Ones are among us.

Kaz warned me as much, but I had no choice. No matter. If I had it to do all over again, I would do nothing different. I prefer her with me as opposed to against me.

“You know your way around. Get cleaned up, lover. We have places to go and things to do.”

Jack steps through a door into the master bath. He strips off his clothes and steps through the shower curtains into the shower. Water, at the perfect temperature for him, sprays from the shower head and gently peels off layers of filth and parasites. He reaches for a bar of soap and feels her naked body against his. Her front to his back. He lathers up with the soap as she nibbles on his shoulder.

Her teeth are too sharp. He doesn’t need to see them to know that they are no longer “blunt”. He doesn’t need to see her tongue either to know that it’s now “killer”.

Whenever they are alone, like this, she always sports a razorblade smile and the requisite killer tongue. Knobb. And klaw. And, those empty, deep blue, hungry eyes. And … A voice that is deep, husky, smoky, raspy, and wanton. Cold. Ice cold. Those mechanical, automaton ways, mannerisms, etc, etc, etc. Overtones, but not overpowering, that’s comes off as stern, shrew, schoolmarm, spinster. Sam is a total degenerate.

We’ve digressed. Time to get back on track.

The ultimate perk of being a demon’s lover is not the sex; it’s the sex. In other words, it’s not the pheromone-fueled carnality [oral, anal, vaginal, S&M, B&D, D&H, and/or however else you define fucking]. It’s being feed upon. Like the dead things [i.e., The Master], a something like her feeding on you is the best sex that you will ever have. No mere human lover can ever hope to compete.

Bottomline … She is something that is both repulsive and attractive. You know what she is, and yet you still want her in the worst way.

The still-grieving widow holds back nothing, to do else would be highly unwise, not to mention unhealthy. He loved his wife. His misses his wife. But … he loves the living Nosferatu, also. Their relationship is totally carnal, unlike the one that he had with his wife. So … in spite of what he should do, morally speaking, that is. Totally inappropriate behavior, and all that. He’s still gonna fuck her. He’s still gonna feed her. He throws caution to the wind.

And so the dance begins. She slides down to her knees and buries her face in his crack. Tongue plumbing said crack as well as his anal nethers [i.e., his anus]. No wasted motion, whatsoever. Her arms encircle him. The fingertips of one hand gently manipulate his balls. The fingers of the other curl around his erect, meaty shaft and begin to go up and down. Fingering and hand job would put a porno starlet to shame. Her pheromones both excite and control him. Insurance that he won’t cum too soon. Guarantee that once he does cum, he will stay hard until she decides otherwise.

The soap drops from his hand. He shudders. His pulse races. Jack can hear the countless voices in her head. For what seems like forever … The Collective calls to him. The “faint” seduction. Then … as always … the [moment] passes. Silence. Once more, it’s just the two of them. The voices are gone, for the both of them.

Her arms no longer embrace him. He turns around. And, she goes down on him. Deep throat. Linda Lovelace would be proud. Her fingernails lengthen. She reaches around him and digs her daggerous fingernails into his buttocks. He ejaculates into her mouth. She swallows. Gush after gush. He’s a proverbial geyser. Ecstasy for him. Merely a nibble for her. Minutes pass like months.

Jack is still has an erection; his penis refusing to go flaccid in spite of the human biology involved. It’s her inhuman doing, of course. Sam stands up. As she does so, she rakes his back from [ass] cheeks to shoulders. Blood from his wounds mixes with the water washing over them and swirls down the drain.

They kiss. Their tongues dance. He can taste himself in her mouth. He can taste everybody that she has ever fucked. Tit for tat. He rakes her back with his fingernails. Blood from her wounds mixes with the water washing over them and swirls down the drain.

She pushes back, making some space between them. Their lips disconnect. She sighs as she throws her head back, flaxen tresses cascading down her back, a paint brush smearing her pale skin with blood like some gruesome Impressionistic painting.

No more klaw or knobb. Her teeth blunt and her tongue is no longer killer. The leechgirl ways and means all go bye-bye. So goes that ghastly voice of hers, and in its place is the sexy one that he likes so very much.

He pulls her toward him. Their mouths conjoin, again. Their bodies interlock, once more. He can no longer taste who she has fucked in her mouth. Her mouth is fresh and clean.

In spite of her being a whore, and a psychopathic one at that, it’s like he’s with a virgin. A virgin straight out of the convent whose been taught by the nuns to be a proper wife and lady. A proper wife and lady who paradoxically possesses the sexual skills and prowess of a porn slut. Ergo … Sexual skills and prowess which are quite considerable.

But, make no mistake about it. This is only foreplay. The [second] “kiss” has yet to come. Things must be built up to that epic crescendo. And all the while, in the back of their head, the knowing human partner of a demon in heat knows for sure that they [the demon] can lose it and eat them [the human] alive and whole. Food is food, after all.

Beauty and the beast. Too perfect to be real. She, the undoer, is all those things and so much more. This is she, The Nosferatu, The Other, Sam. This is all of them, the demonkind.

He can feel that dull pain in his head and that maniacal throbbing of his temples as his pineal gland expands exponentially.

Displaying inhuman flexibility, that belies her dexterity, she places the palms of her hands against his chest and shoves him violently into a wall of the shower stall. As his savaged back slams into the ornate Grecian tiles, she is upon him like a whirlwind. This is not about lovemaking, anymore. This is about rape, pure and simple. His.

She digresses and goes feral, again. Razorblade smile. Killer tongue. Knobb. Klaw. Daggerous fingernails. The leechgirl with the shrew’s voice. They all return with a vengeance. Now, dis here be da dope!!!

Welcome back to my world, beloved. Where violence is a virtue and depravity is a way of life.

Jack doesn’t have to hear her thoughts in his head, to know what she has in store for him. They’re back together again, and that can only mean one thing leading to the next. Duplicity? Who’s playing whom? No way. They’ve got each other’s back. And, right now, they’ve got each other’s front, so to speak.

Then … That pregnant pause. The very awkward moment. Whoosh. She manhandles him onto the marble floor of the shower as if she were a grown woman dominating a small boy, and mounts him, violently. Schoolyard bully style. Driving him like a raped ape.

The seesaw regression. Flat hair, that stern hairdo, the “shrew” ‘do: in other words, in beautician’s vernacular, the so called worx. Plain, straight, and simple. A hairdo that is the perfect affectation for her effectuation. Teeth blunt. Razorblade smile, killer tongue, knobb, klaw, daggerous ‘nails, and leechgirl shtick, all gone.

In the midst of all of this normality of appearance on her part … She unsheathes her blood-drinking fangs: Her upper canines elongating into a pair of nasty-looking, drinking-live pikers. That next kiss!

The final and expected transformation. She digresses and goes feral, again. Her fangs are rejoined by long, straight, “needle” teeth and a killer tongue. Klaw. Knobb. Shrew voice. Long, pointed fingernails. And, those leechgirl affectations.

Displaying that aforementioned, inhuman flexibility of hers and advertising his own pliability, she shoves his head to the side upon his right shoulder and bites down hard. Her teeth and tongue puncture [the leftside of his neck] while he’s still inside of her [as in, his dick is ramming deep into her pussy with alotta assist from her]. Multiple puncture wounds.

As she violates his neck, he experiences agony and ecstasy, simultaneously. At no time does she cease to “grind” on top of him. She’s, quite literally, fucking the shit outta him. And, he’s a more than willing participant.

He experiences what it is to be like her. A quasi-faerie experience, so to speak. One of the many [temporary] byproducts of this exchange of body fluids. As such. Tit for tat. They shift—i.e., he becomes overdriven and she is no longer underdriven.

Overdrive. Something quite beyond the human tech of his world.

Overdrive. Where the fastest movement of [mundane] undriven is excruciatingly slow motion to the driven [mundane].

Overdrive. We’re discussing the bleeding edge of the Theory of Relativity here, and, needless to say, if Albert Einstein were eavesdropping, he’d be getting a woody at this very moment.

You see, in point of fact. What’s overdrive for mundanes, is undriven for supernaturals. What’s underdriven for supernaturals, is undriven for mundanes. In other words, their default [the default of supernaturals] is a mortal’s overdrive. A default which totem worlds suppress.

What mortals call universes, supers call worlds. Supers call the totality of worlds: Creation. Mundanes call that same totality: the multi-verse. What do supers call a planet? They call it a planet.

Haven is on a planet in a totem world. And. They are still on Haven in that universe, so to speak. But. In a ROOM you’re outside of the normal space-time continuum. This is why Sam can shift back to her default [state], and Jack can become overdriven.

She buries her fingernails deep in his back. Multiple puncture wounds. The more, the bloodier. It’s to her kind’s taste. Eat live. Drink live. But …When all is said and done, it’s always about blood for Nosferatu [i.e., Sanguinus immortalus]. Blood is sex. Sex is blood. Sex, as in, orgasm.

Situational awareness. The best predators all have it. As distracted as she is at this very moment, she’s never too distracted to notice. She feels the telltale [its ever so subtle vibrations] long before she hears it. By the time they materialize in the bathroom, she’s upon them before they know what hit ‘em.

Her attackers become the prey, in short order. And, it’s not just her. The pseudo-Nosferatu, her familiar, Jack, joins in on the fray. And … the ROOM. After all, the ROOM is SOAP. Her SOAP. Her very hungry, always ravenous SOAP.

It is a trap. They never breached her ROOM, she duped them into thinking they had. She let them in her ROOM, so that she could ambush them, butchering them for sport.