Minklin

Disclaimer:

Adult content warning.

It's been a long time since I have written fiction.

As I wrote this, I was going for a fast paced, clipped prologue. I intentionally kept the characters shallow and impersonal as they won't be revisited in the story.

Criticism is extremely welcome.




It was cold. No, it was more than cold. It was still, and damp, and then it was cold. The air felt heavy. Her breathing was labored. It was dark. Inky dark. No stars. No lights. No soft glow on any horizon, anywhere. As she wrung her hands for warmth, she looked down at them. But they were gone. Stolen from sight by the damp, inky air.
Slowly, she lowered herself to the ground. It was hard and covered with sand and small stones. Cold. She sat down and crossed her legs. She didn’t know where to go.
A trickle of wetness crossed her eye. She brushed it away and was startled to touch her bruised and open brow. Sticky. A pebble was lodged in the wound. Absently, she removed it. The discomfort was fading. Shock was setting in.
What had happened? Was she in the desert? A basement? Had she been struck on the head by a predator and thrown down a dry well? There were plenty of dry wells in this part of Arizona. There plenty of predators, too.
What would happen if she cried out? Was he there, waiting? Images of torture, pain and imminent death flooded her thoughts.
Where had she been last? A breeze touched her neck. She shuddered and tugged at her clothes. They were hard and scratchy. She realized that her shoes were gone.
The new night club. Santangelo’s. Brady told her to stand outside and to make casual eye contact. No dates. No hard sell. Just be seen. A slow smile followed by a demure lowering of the eyelids should generate interest. Then they’d walk in together, perhaps an hour later, and watch those who were watching her. He’d leave her at the bar to chat up the bartender, and then he’d schedule her night. Let’s fill your dance card, he’d smirk, flashing his bleached smile.
She needed a weapon. She reached beneath her skirt and hooked the band of her right stocking with her thumb. Her nail punctured the nylon. Damn. The acrylics were splintered. With her fingertips, she rolled the band instead and slipped it off her foot.
She grazed the dirt with her hand and plucked the stones as she touched them. Quickly, she had a handful. She poured them into the stocking, allowing them to travel halfway down before tying both ends of the stocking tightly around the small pile. Tighter. One more knot. Now she could swing it and it would hurt when it landed.
She was nothing if not resourceful.
Another breeze. This one was warm. Then it was still. And it was silent. No bugs. No owls.
The first name on her dance card was John. Come to think of it, they were always named John. It made the bookkeeping easier., she joked. And this one, ironically enough, wanted a dance first. She liked to dance. Alone. She could close her eyes and lose herself in rhythmic movement. But not when someone was touching her. Then she was chained down. A prisoner on the dance floor. Okay, so that was a bit melodramatic. Not a prisoner. More like a puppet.
Want to see her to smile? Hold her with space between you. Yeah, that’s the smile lever right there. Want that smile to freeze? Close the gap. Want her eyes to glaze over? Press your straining crotch against her and choke her with your metro cologne. Anyone can be a puppeteer.
John the First wasn’t a bad dancer. He fumbled with her levers, and that was almost refreshing. With Brady working the room, there was no pretense of a real drink and a fake name. He loomed in the doorway as they hurried to a parked car for a few moments of banging or tugging or gagging, whatever was paid for. Never took more than ten minutes. Not a bad living, she had concluded.
There was a stirring. She couldn’t tell from which direction. The warm air slid across her thin frame. Wind through the trees? Wouldn’t there be the rustling of leaves? She gripped the ends of the hose tightly.
There were six Johns this night. She started getting hungry after number four and was tempted to service number five underneath the table of a Denny’s if it got her a burger and fries. But Brady wouldn’t have approved and who wanted to deal with that? He wasn’t an abuser, her pimp, her business manager, he whined.
Number six was pasty and hairless. Even down below. She didn’t see that very often and was glad of it. Some things should be covered. Afterward, she rinsed her mouth with Listerine and used a handful of baby wipes because that made it just like it didn't happen..
As she left the bathroom, and walked down the short hallway to the bar, she lost her appetite. In fact, she lost her ability to think clearly. At the end of the hall, was who she wanted to have as John the Seventh.
It was rare for her to feel any desire for men in this context. The compassionate doctor who treated her for migraines; the grocer at the farmer’s market who gave her free nectarines; the single dad who lived in the apartment below and who could be heard telling stories at night through the heat register – these were attractive men. Not the heavy lidded, earring wearing, vanity plate buying peacocks and their sycophants who filled her orifices for forty bucks a hole.
But this man, he was different. She couldn’t remember his face but she thought it was probably handsome. Chiseled. Classic. He may have been darker skinned. Latin? Italian? What she remembered most was his eyes. Not the color or shape, but the way they bore through her. Like they were choosing her. They were seeing the real person beneath the illusion woven together by stockings and whisper of a skirt. This man wasn’t fooled by her fake lashes, push up bra, and the way she outlined her lips on the outside to make them look plumper. He wanted to know her.
You need to talk to Brady, she had told him, her words stumbling.
I have, he responded. Follow me.
The club faded from view but she was still inside it. All she could focus on was the back of John7’s head. His hair curled around the collar of his starched, white shirt. He led her across the dance floor, through the gyrating, musky bodies, to the door. For once, she wasn’t in charge. She liked that. She strained to see Brady. He was at the bar, talking to another woman. Why wasn’t he in the doorway? Perhaps this was a friend of his. John7 seemed very friendly.
Where’s your car? She hoped it wasn’t small. There was something to be said for SUVs. Hard on gas, easy on the ass.
He smiled at her, beatifically. Wow. He is amazing, she thought. Maybe he’d let her kiss his mouth.
They passed through the threshold to Santangelo’s and walked not into the parking lot., but to the left, around the back of the building. It was August in Phoenix and one left air conditioning only with a good reason. Cars could be air conditioned, alleys could not.
Shit, she thought. Against the brick has gotta be quick, she recalled this rule of thumb from her first years on Van Buren Street. She didn’t want quick with John7. She wanted to feel something.
The ground was clear of garbage but there was still the sound of mice. When they had turned the corner twice to get away from the curious eyes of people still waiting to get into the club, John7 gently put his hands on her shoulders. He pressed her against the stucco wall outside the club’s service entrance. She tried to focus on his face, his mouth, his stare, but it seemed blurred. All she really knew was what she felt in his presence. Desire.
She raised her arms to place them around his neck. But they were frozen. His gentle grasp was like granite. John7 leaned forward as if to look more closely at her. She was feeling examined. She breathed deeply and noticed that he smelled like earth. It was at once exciting and alarming.
She asked his name. He said nothing. She offered hers. Her real name. He didn’t acknowledge it. Her heart was beating faster. She pressed her thighs together. She wanted him to touch her..
As though hearing her plea, he released her and pressed his body against hers. He leaned on one arm, as if to protect their privacy. She lifted her face to meet his mouth but he had turned away. Smoothly, he had lifted her skirt and released himself from his pants. He slid into her. She cried out.
He was cold. His erection was cold. Still, the tension that had manifested when she first saw him continued to hold her in its grip. She grabbed fistfuls of his white shirt to hold him to her. Relentlessly, he pistoned into her softness. He still refused her his kiss. She began to feel dirty again. She realized that she wasn’t chosen for anything but to be a receptacle. But that wasn’t going to prevent her enjoyment of this moment.
She came hard, with a shout. She ripped a button from his shirt. Breathlessly, she offered to sew it back on.
In the distance, Brady was calling for her. John7 pulled away from her and adjusted his clothing . She wasn’t sure that he had finished. She reached out to him, to touch his arm, as he had turned as if to walk away.
Before she could offer him her company for the evening, he was again staring in her face. But he had changed. His features were now twisted, hateful. His hands forced her against the biting stucco wall. She tried to fight against him but he was very strong. His mouth opened to reveal a jagged smile and he muttered words in a language that she never knew existed. The wall behind her opened up and she fell into the darkness, screaming for the now frantic Brady. She landed hard, struck her forehead on the ground and slipped into nothingness.

nineteen

Quote:

It was cold. No, it was more than cold. It was still, and damp, and then it was cold

that's awsome by the way. really loved it. but i think you have a classic problem; you ramble. i know your trying to get an impression of your charachter, and you do it very well, but you lost me for a bit in the middle. but maybe my sister's music is too loud.

but i liked it. i loved the start, very good scene-setting. i mean REALLY good. you have a good tone too. but the end...

i know it said vampires... and i love fantasy. but you really just kinda stuck that last paragraph in. a spell? you really didn't give me enough warning. but maybe that's just me.

as for it being explicit... well it is. but not to an insane degree. i'ts not going to get deleted i don't think.

__________________
(Please don't take my advice too seriously)

Oh Vanity, thy number is 19.

I Idiom

shianna

hmm.. This entire thing was like it was leading me towards the end, and l wasnt exactly an unwilling participant. Nicely done - like the backtracking style here, although it has been done before. Description was good, although certain parts - as already said - could possibly be toned down. Personally, though, l actually found the way you didn't describe the spell, just the end result, to be quite interesting, because it left a bit to be described later on. And honestly, it made it seem like it was so quick there was no way to stop it (him attacking her, l mean). Nice job overall.
laurie.

surreal_girl

Honestly I have always been a fan of erotic works and yet I can not stand the pornography industry so I feel what you are trying to do. I don't think it is overly descriptive. Its perfect, you describe it well with out making the reader feel like they should take a shower. I liked the style too, well written I can't wait to read more.

__________________
"I miss the comfort in being sad."- Nirvana
____So at least Im addicted to something good____

Charlie_Eleanor

Well done! Shoot, I wanted him. Haha.

Could be cleaned up a little. I'm not sure what the trend is of lumping everything into one paragraph, but it immediately gives me the impression of "unprofessional."

I have to disagree with nineteen in that the ending was too quick. I liked it. I felt like I was her, being surprised. Lust is quickly turned into hate, and I think you played with that. I would perhaps dwell on his changed features a bit more since you made such a point of pointing them out when she thought he was attractive. And, I would just leave the title that includes vampire out (just an opinion) but I like to draw my own conclusions.

Very Well Done.

Bravo.

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Minklin

I am so very thankful for your input and am taking it all in. I write the way that I speak and I am painfully aware that my grammar can be inconsistent.

I don't know if the fact that I don't read vampire tales is a benefit or a hindrance. I wanted very much to give him a supernatural essence without having to go into too much detail. That is why I made his features difficult to recollect. I intend for him to exist between worlds.

I'll continue to work on it and hope to return with an improved product.

I Idiom

No, don't worry about if you read those kind of books or not. There is no reason to think you should follow another person(s) idea or that there is a set formula to follow.

Its your story.
Your ideas.
Flesh them the way you like it or what you think is a good idea.

Who is to say you couldn't make a whole new mythology about vampires? Again, don't worry yourself to the point where even the idea comes to mind you can't do it because you haven't read that much stuff.

Now, don't get me wrong -- it is a good idea to read in any particular genre for sake of getting a feel of what works or what might be popular. Yet don't feel you have to juxtaposition yourself along with what other people have done down to the letter. Many a person has been inspired by another and then simple said: "Hm, thats a fantastic idea... but if I took it this way..."