redravin40

(All rights to this story are mine and it is to be shared with TFP only. If I find it anyplace else, I will call a lawyer and some biker friends of mine, just prey the lawyer gets to you first.)

Home From Work

Joe pushed open the door to his trailer. The ground had shifted again (to be expected when you put a trailer park in a swamp) and the corner tore at the faded green linoleum. Great something else to fix.

Throwing his duster and duffel on the coach, the big man dropped into his chair. Running his thick fingers through his hair and beard, Joe sighed. From the kitchen, he could smell the rich flavors of braised beef and blood pudding. The pounding beat of Motorhead came from the ragged speakers that sat on an aging entertainment center.

"How was work?" his wife called from the kitchen.

"It sucked." Joe leaned forward and unhooked the ankle holster, dropping it and the 38. snub nose on the dented coffee table. "The little prick shot me." Then with a wide grin, "I had to tear him a new asshole."

"Emilio will be glad that his competition is gone." Sara walked into the living room with a cold can of Molsen and handed it to Joe. She was topless, wearing only a patched pair of leather pants. The pants were cut so the celtic braid tattoo circling her waist ran just above the top.

"Fuck Emilio, he's gonna welsh out on the second half of the payment. I just know it."

"Then we'll have to rip him a new asshole."

Strong, small hands clamped on his shoulders and began to knead his tense muscles. Looking over his shoulder, he could see her smooth white breasts topped with dark nipples. Sara's yellow Mohawk hung over one eye, the other a dusky red. She had on her usual black eyeliner and her nails were painted black.

Joe snaked an arm around Sara's waist, pulling her over his shoulder into his lap. Sara's lips were cold but soft. The kiss lasted, tongues writhing together, breath on breath. When they finally separated, it was with regret. "How bad was it?' Sara asked.

In answer Joe held up his hand. Long grey hairs covered the fingers and his nails matched hers. "I lost control, nearly got caught."

"It's OK baby. You're home now." Sara wrapped her arms around her husband and Joe pressed her close. Her skin was gelid but he could feel the searing heat inside. When he was fifteen, Joe had decided that Sara was the perfect woman. She had been a redhead then. A crazy hippie girl who hung out with hard core criminals.

Joe's first real family was a gang called the Stompers. Gang chic in those days ran to DA haircuts, white teeshirts, steel-toed engineer boots, and black leather jackets. The Stomper's main source of income was hubcaps and car radios, with the occasional foray into drug dealing and fag bashing. One of the gangs father was an apartment super and in exchange for not trashing the building, they got the basement as a clubhouse. Just another idyllic childhood in the mid-sixties.

There had been a quiet celebration when Garry Wanovitch decided to leave the Stompers and move on to better things. Quiet because Garry had a reputation for uncompromising cruelty. Before he was sixteen, Gary had beaten an old wino to death for bumping into him and raped a women with a coke bottle. Even by Stomper standards, Garry was a bit much.

When Joe ran crossway's of the current head of the Stompers, the payback assignment was to handle some business with Garry Wanovitch. Lugging a stolen Hi-Fi that he was supposed to trade for a jar of reds, Joe slipped into the garage that Garry used as a home and office. Gary was not alone.

A fey girl, with waist length red hair topped by a black beret, was sitting alone on one of the broken down couches. Her gauzy blouse was marked by two dark points that Joe realized were nipples. He had never seen a women going bra-less before. At the bottom of her brightly colored peasant dress were sandaled feet with no stockings. It was three years until the Summer of LOve and hippies were something you called names or, if you were in the Stompers, beat up. Despite that, she was the sexiest girl Joe had ever seen.

Joe had never met a beatnik before and could not imagine why there would be one in Garry's garage. There was something free and erotic about the pale-skinned teenager. And her eyes, he had never seen amber eyes before. Joe was so enthralled he forgot the danger of the situation.

"Conrack didn't make you part of his operation so you could fuck him over. You pay your full share or you're toast...you groove?" The girls voice was husky and low.

"Yes ma'am." Joe could not believe the timid voice was coming from Garry.

"Now take care of business." The girl waved to Joe and he realized she had known he was there all along. Garry hadn't and his face split into a ictus of anger.

"What the fuck do you want?" Garry was moving in on Joe fast.

"I'm supposed to ..." Joe didn't get the words out before a scarred fist knocked the stereo out of his hands and the other fist slammed into his face. The big class ring Garry wore for no other reason, tore open Joe's face. Knowing there was no escape, Joe attacked. He caught Gary once in the face with a hard right but the effort was futile. Everything went to pinpoints when Garry's knee drove into Joe's crotch.

Face down on the oil stained concrete, Joe tried to cover his stomach. Garry followed a very steady pattern of kicks, working his way toward the boys head. Joe heard rather then felt his ribs crack. He knew when the steel-toed boot hit his head, he would be dead but he didn't care. At least the pain would be over.

The last kick never came. Somewhere above him there was a strangling sound and when his vision cleared, Joe could see the bottoms of Garry's boots. Turning his head as much as the pain would allow, Joe saw something that would burn in his brain forever. The girl was standing in front of Garry and with one arm held him aloft. She had driven her hand into Garry's chest just below the rib cage and was using the sternum to hold him. Blood ran down her arm, staining the puffed sleeves of her blouse. More then anything Joe remembered her half smile.

When Garry stopped gurgling, she dropped him next to Joe. With his eyes swelling shut, Joe watched as she stripped off the ruined blouse and licked her body clean. After rummaging around in Garry's clothes, she found a teeshirt which she tied off just below her bared breasts. Garry's leather jacket completed her look and she started for the door. Joe locked his eyes shut when he realized she was walking back to him.

A pair of very cold lips kissed his cheek. "You had better scoot before the cops show up. Make sure your gang can alibi you."

Everything Joe felt about sex and death were tied into that evening. No women turned him on like the redheaded girl in the garage and death, even after three tours in Vietnam, never felt so personal. It was twenty five years later before Joe could recapture the feelings she had left him with. Now that he had found her again, he would die before letting her go.

"Fuck dinner, lets go to bed." Sara enforced her suggestion by running her tongue down his jawline.

Standing with his wife in arms, Joe carried her to the bedroom.
“Hang on honey,” Sara arched her back to reach the burner on the stove and turned off the heat. A trailer fire usually meant the damned things burnt to the water line.

Hopping out of her husband’s arms, Sara threw herself on the bed and started wiggling out of the tight leather pants. The huge wood bed frame took up much of the room but it was the only one they could find where Sara's cairn fit underneath.

“I’ll be right back.” Joe said after he had appreciated Sara’s writhing and stretching as much as he could stand.

“No. Come here.” Sara’s eyes brightened with fire.

“But how….” For Sara to have normal tactile sensations she needed to feed. It was dangerous to stay blooded all the time. Too long at the hyper state caused perception overload and madness. The crazed were usually killed by other vampires to protect themselves.

“Just tell me what you are doing.” Sara sat up and, taking his hand, drew Joe to her. Slowly he started to massage her neck and shoulders.

Words did not come easy for Joe. As a kid he found it safer to keep his mouth shut. In Vietnam he had followed orders he knew were wrong rather then speaking out. Sara knew this and took every opportunity to break Joe of his childhood training. Sometimes her efforts annoyed him but not this time.

Tentatively he started, “I have a thick callus on my trigger finger. It’s rubbing the point just below your jaw. The heels of my hands are resting on your shoulders and the little fingers are on your throat, making light circles.” He leaned forward. “I’m going to kiss the back of your neck.”

Sara whispered, “What is touching my back?”

“My shirt. Wait.” He pulled away long enough to take his shirt off. Returning to her, Joe locked his arms around her.

“The hair on my chest is crinkling against your skin.” Did crinkling sound stupid?

“Hairy guys turn me on.” Apparently not.

“I’m going to run my tongue up your neck to your ear. The tip is hot and wet.” He did and she shivered.

“Tell me what your hands are doing?”

“Holding you. My left arm is pressed against your stomach. There is hair on it as well, brushing softly, softly. Now I’m holding your left hand.” He almost asked what she was feeling but stopped afraid it would spoil the moment.

“I’m squeezing your hand, now I’m stroking your arm, up to your face.”

He tilted her head and they shared a long kiss. Soft sounds,circling, holding, lips pressed with magic pressure.
In the living room, Lemmy was extolling the virtues of the road crew. The neighbors knew better then to complain about the volume or musical tastes of the strange couple in space # 999. For a while they just held each other rocking to the throbbing beat of the music and their bodies.

Joe nearly fell on his face trying to take his jeans off but once that was done he sat at the end of the bed.

“The sheets are silky and smooth. I’m rubbing the souls of your feet, now the heel.” His big hands wrapped around her ankles gently drawing her legs apart.

“I’m running my tongue from your ankle to your knee.” He could’t talk while he kissed his way up to her thighs.

“The stubble from my face is brushing your thighs, my hands are sliding up under your ass.”

Joe did’t know if his wife’s ragged breathing was from what he was doing or the images he had placed in her mind. With his tongue deep inside, he didn’t really care.

He looked up. “I’m moving my hands up your back and around to your breasts. I’m rolling your nipples between my fingers.”

“The special way?” she moaned.

“The special way. Your legs are over my shoulders, your feet on my back.” He went back to what he was doing.

“Are you teasing my clitty?”

'How was he supposed to answer that question and keep doing it', Joe thought.

Suddenly Sara moved away from him with the speed that only her kind possessed. Her hand wrapped around Joe’s cock and drew him into her mouth. The combination of frost and burning pleasure was almost more then he could bare. She kissed and sucked, drawing him deep into her mouth.

Bones popped and creaked as hands turned to claws. Where the snake tattoo ran up his arms black fur twisted with the white.

“Babe, are you sure?” Sara looked up with concern.

“Drink my love, share my soul.” Joe couldn't quite believe he'd said that.

Razor sharp claws peeled back the hair and skin from his chest to reveal the muscles below. Sara gasped and her lips sealed over the wounds.

The shaved portion of Sara’s scalp turned pink as she drank. Freckles appeared on her arms and back. Blood trickled from the corners of her mouth and splashed over her hard nipples.
The claws turned to nails, the snakes reappeared, as she drew out the anger and pain, leaving a sense of pure joy. That joy went beyond the most addictive drug, which was why Sara rarely fed from her husband.

Sara flicked her tongue over the healing wound. Leaning over the edge of the bed, Sara spit on the frayed green carpeting. Joe watched the 38 slug skitter across the floor.

“What, you don’t swallow?”

Sara giggled and shifted her hips over him. She slid down onto him. Joe could not think of words to describe the feeling but the look of pleasure on Sara’s face told him it wasn't necessary. She leaned forward and put a dark nipple to his mouth.
"Bite, baby...bite hard."

With a still sharp canine, Joe pierced the nipple. A single dark drop of blood rolled down his tongue. Wrapping his arms tightly around his wife, his lover, his dream, Joe rolled them over. He thrust deep inside her. Their moans and cries shook the walls.

Afterwards, laying in each other arms Joe noticed she had the same smile as the night in the garage.