The Creature of the Night Who Chose to Possess Me

Sebastián had a habit of shutting himself away in the library when the rest of the mansion was asleep. It wasn’t exactly insomnia that brought him there every night, but something harder to name: a need for stillness that well-lit rooms couldn’t give him. He liked the old leather smell of the armchairs, the occasional crackle of embers dying in the fireplace, the feeling of being completely alone with his thoughts and with the thousands of books no one had touched in decades.

The Aldervane mansion had stood for three centuries, and he had been living in it for three weeks, hired to catalog the collection. No one had told him the house had a history. No one had warned him about anything.

What he didn’t know was that he wasn’t alone.

***

Isolde had inhabited those walls long before they were built. She was the only immortal thing left of a bloodline that had slowly died out, through neglect and weariness. Her presence made no sound at all, but the air changed when she was near: it grew thicker, colder, laden with an ancient hunger the living mistook for an omen.

That night she watched him from the doorway, leaning against the frame with an indifference she had perfected over the centuries. From there she could see him perfectly: Sebastián was sitting in the leather armchair, his shirt open over his chest, the book he had been reading closed on the little table beside him. His eyes were shut and his head tilted back, with an expression that in an ordinary human would have been called peace, but in him had a more concentrated, more inward quality.

Then he slid his hand downward. He unbuttoned his trousers without hurrying, pulled his underwear halfway down his thighs, and took out his cock, already half-hard, resting it against his belly. He spat into his palm, wrapped his fingers around it, and began to masturbate at a lazy, almost studied pace, squeezing harder when he reached the tip and loosening his grip at the base.

Isolde did not move. She had watched hundreds of men die and a few live with genuine intensity. But this was different. There was something about the way Sebastián did it—without haste, without shame, his eyes still closed and his jaw slightly tense—that fascinated her in a way that wasn’t strictly hunger.

She watched him with an attentiveness she herself had not recognized in centuries: the way his lips parted, how his chest rose and fell faster and faster, how his fist quickened over his swollen cock without a single muscle in his face losing that expression of absolute surrender. She saw him caress his balls with his other hand, saw his thumb gather the thick drop that seeped from the tip and spread it over the entire glans, saw his hips begin to thrust upward on their own, seeking his hand. And when he let out a low, intimate, almost defenseless sound, Isolde felt something move in her belly.

It had been centuries since she had felt that. Centuries in which her body had been nothing but cold and a need for blood.

This was different. It was a need of another kind. Her nipples had stiffened beneath the fabric, and she felt a slow pulse between her legs, as if a muscle that had slept for three hundred years had suddenly remembered what it was for.

She had grown accustomed to making quick decisions with her prey: sink in her fangs, feed, forget. But this man, with his careless, utterly personal abandon, had stolen her resolve. She no longer wanted his neck. She wanted to know what sound he would make if she were the one touching his cock. She wanted to see whether he moaned the same way or did it more intensely when it was her mouth sucking the tip. She had spent centuries asking herself nothing about anyone. The very curiosity bewildered her.

Sebastián came with a short growl, clenching his teeth, and she watched the first spurts of semen leap onto his belly, white against his skin, while the last dripped between his fingers.

***

Sebastián opened his eyes slowly, still in that intermediate state between pleasure and the calm that comes afterward. He didn’t clean himself right away. He stared at the dark ceiling, letting his breathing return to normal, his fingers still wet with his own come against his thigh.

That was when he felt the cold.

Not the nighttime chill slipping through the cracks around the window. This was different, more precise. It slid down the back of his neck like an invisible, deliberate finger.

He went suddenly tense.

—Who’s there?

No one answered. But the air moved.

Isolde emerged from the shadows without a sound, barefoot on the cold parquet, wearing a black dress clinging to her figure and falling to her ankles. Her eyes gleamed with a particular light that came from no source he could identify.

Sebastián did not run. He did not scream. He simply stared at her with his cock still out, wet and half-softening against his thigh, and with a mixture of disbelief and something that, to his own surprise, wasn’t exactly fear.

—You shouldn’t be here—she said.

—Neither should you—he replied, without looking away or making any effort to cover himself.

She tilted her head, studying him. She expected panic. She expected pleading. That was what she always got. But this man looked at her as if he were calculating something, as if the equation before him wasn’t exactly threatening but simply new.

—I could kill you—she said. Not as a threat. As a statement of fact.

—You could—he conceded—. But you won’t.

—Why not?

—Because you’ve been standing there since before I finished. And you’re still here.

Isolde clenched her jaw. It was true, and it irritated her in a way she didn’t recognize as irritation but as something closer to vulnerability.

—You’re arrogant for a mere mortal.

—I’m observant—he corrected her—. There’s a difference.

—Curiosity kills.

—Boredom does too.

***

She approached slowly, measuring every step, until she was close enough to smell him. Sweat, old paper, fresh semen, something more intimate she didn’t want to name. Her fangs throbbed. But what pulsed more fiercely was not in her jaw, but lower down, between her thighs, a damp, treacherous beat reminding her that she still had a cunt and that cunt remembered how to be hungry.

—Your blood smells different—she said.

—Better?

—More dangerous.

Sebastián smiled. Not mockingly, but with something too much like confidence.

—How long have you been in this house?—he asked.

—Too long for you to care.

—I care.—He paused briefly.—Touch me.

Isolde stared at him.

—No.

—You want to. I can see it in the way you approached. You’re not hungry for blood right now. You’re hungry for something else. You want to touch my cock. Put it in your mouth. See if it tastes as alive as it smells.

—You don’t know what you’re saying.

—I know you’ve been alone for centuries.—He took a slow step toward her, without any abruptness.—I know you watched me with an attention that wasn’t only predatory. I know your nipples hardened while I was jerking off in front of you. And I know that if you hadn’t wanted me to see you, you wouldn’t have come out of the shadows.

Isolde reached out and wrapped her hand around his neck. Not with enough force to hurt him, but enough for him to feel the cold of her fingers and know exactly what she was capable of.

—One more move and I’ll slit your throat.

—Then don’t touch my throat—he said calmly—. Touch me here.

He took her free hand and guided it, closing her fingers around the cock that was quickly swelling again beneath her icy touch.

Isolde went still.

No one had ever used her like this. She had never been the one occupying that place of uncertainty, of not knowing exactly what to do with her own impulses. The sensation of that hot flesh throbbing against her cold palm, swelling because of her, was utterly disorienting and, precisely for that reason, irresistible.

A slow heat rose from her belly. Her nipples hardened beneath the fabric of her dress until they stood out like two stones. Between her legs she felt her cunt grow wet, a warm gush soaking the inside of her thigh. Something she had believed definitively extinct within her pulsed with an insistence she could not ignore.

Then she touched him.

At first with her fingers, cautiously, as if feeling out something that might burn her. She traced the shaft from base to tip, feeling the thick vein running beneath it, then closed her fist and slowly pulled the skin down, uncovering the glistening glans that was already leaking pre-cum again. Out of curiosity, she brought the wet finger to her mouth without stopping her gaze from him, and he shuddered when he saw her taste it.

Then with more determination. She spat into her own palm as she had seen him do, wrapped her hand around his cock again, and began jerking him off in earnest, her fist tight, twisting her wrist slightly when she reached the top. He made a low sound, and she felt it like a current running all the way up her arm and straight down to her cunt. She began moving her hand in imitation of what she had seen from the shadows, then found her own rhythm, slower, more deliberate, squeezing his balls with her other hand and rolling them between her fingers.

—Harder—he said between gasps.

She obeyed.

—That’s it. Don’t stop.

Sebastián’s cock throbbed between her fingers, hot and completely alive, growing thicker with every stroke. Isolde thought it was the most alive thing she had touched in a very long time, and the thought shook her more than she expected. In that instant she made a decision that was not rational. It was instinct, but different from the instinct for blood.

—You’re mine tonight—she said through clenched teeth—. This whole cock is mine. Every drop you release tonight is mine.

—Tonight and every night you want—he replied, panting—. Suck me. Suck my cock, Isolde. Do it now.

She knelt between his legs without making him ask again.

***

Her fangs came out on their own, by reflex, when she took Sebastián’s cock into her mouth. Not from hunger, but from arousal. She had to concentrate to retract them so she wouldn’t cut him, but the mere nearness of those teeth against the most delicate skin on his body made him shudder from head to toe. He held his breath for a moment at the contrast between the cold of her lips and the heat of her tongue, then let out a sound that filled the library in a way the books never had.

She swallowed him whole on the second attempt. She felt him strike the back of her throat and stayed there, her nose pressed into his pubic hair, holding herself there without needing to breathe. When she finally withdrew, a strand of saliva connected her mouth to the tip of his cock, and she looked up at him with gleaming lips and fangs barely visible.

He gently tangled his fingers in her hair, without pushing, without directing her. Just holding her.

—That’s it—he said—. Like that, don’t stop.

Isolde did it without learned technique but with an urgency that made up for everything. She sucked him hungrily, without artifice, moving her head up and down in an obstinate rhythm, sometimes pulling him out only to lick his balls one by one, to run her tongue very slowly from the base to the tip before taking him all the way in again. She let a thread of saliva fall over his glans and then spread it with her hand, jerking him while she sucked only the head, tightening her lips around the rim. He trembled, his knees buckled, and when she noticed him beginning to pull her hair involuntarily, she sped up even more, determined to draw out everything he had inside him.

—I’m coming—he gasped—. Isolde, I’m going to come in your mouth.

She didn’t pull away. On the contrary, she sank him to the back of her throat just as the first wave reached him and felt the hot spurts strike her throat, one after another, dense and thick. She swallowed everything. She didn’t lose a drop. She remained still for a moment with his cock still inside her mouth, processing the heat in her throat, the density of something completely alive moving down through her. For an instant she felt full of something that wasn’t blood. It was another kind of connection, warmer and far more dangerous.

She released him slowly, ran her thumb over the corner of her lips to gather what little had escaped, and sucked her finger while looking at him. Then she stood without looking at him.

—Get dressed—she said.

—Isolde.

She turned around.

Sebastián had risen to his feet. He looked at her with eyes still darkened by desire, his shirt open, his cock once again hard against his belly, utterly shameless.

—My turn—he said.

***

What happened next did not follow any order she could have anticipated. He gently pushed her toward the bookcase, and she let him, because she could have thrown him across the room and chose not to.

He lowered the strap of her dress with deliberate slowness, as if he knew exactly what he was doing, then the other, until the fabric fell from her shoulders and left her breasts bare. They were pale, smaller than the dress had suggested, with dark, erect nipples so hard they hurt. He ran his thumb over one of them, and she felt the touch like a shock traveling all the way to her clitoris. A gasp escaped her.

His hands were so warm against her skin they were almost painful. Isolde closed her eyes and clenched her teeth to keep from making any sound that might encourage him too much, but she lost the battle halfway through, when he caught one nipple between his lips and began sucking it while pinching the other between his fingers, tugging just enough.

He traced her neck with his lips, then moved down over her breastbone, between her breasts, down her belly, until he knelt. He lifted her dress to her waist. She wore nothing underneath. Her cunt gleamed, soaked, dark curls stuck together with moisture. He spread her thighs, breathed hotly over her vulva, and she had to brace both hands against the bookcase to keep from falling. When he ran his whole tongue over her, from bottom to top, finishing with a suck on her clitoris, Isolde let out a hoarse moan she had not made in three hundred years.

He ate her cunt as if he had all the time in the world, unhurried, alternating his tongue with two fingers that slowly entered her and searched for an exact spot inside. He sucked her clitoris with his lips closed around it, moving his tongue in circles, and she grabbed his hair and pulled him upward before she came, because she didn’t want to finish like that, not yet. He looked up at her with his mouth shining and a smile that was anything but innocent.

—Do you still want to kill me?—he asked.

—More than ever—she replied—. Fuck me now.

He stood, grabbed her beneath one thigh, and lifted it to his hip. He guided himself with his hand and rubbed the tip of his cock up and down between the lips of her cunt, sliding through her wetness without entering yet. Isolde dug her nails into his shoulder.

—Put it in me—she repeated, and this time it sounded like an order.

When he penetrated her, he was slow at first, gauging her reaction, watching her with that attention that had bewildered her from the beginning. He pushed in inch by inch, allowing her to adjust to the width of a cock after centuries of nothing, and only when he was fully inside her did he begin to move. Then he found a steady rhythm, going deeper and deeper, pelvis striking pelvis with a wet sound that bounced off the books. She arched her back against the bookcase, breasts bare and moving in time with every thrust, while the old volumes around them remained oblivious, silent witnesses to something that should not have been happening in a mansion supposedly left empty.

—How long has it been since you felt this?—he asked between gasps, without slowing, burying himself to the hilt with every thrust.

She did not answer. Not because she didn’t know the answer, but because saying it aloud would have made what was happening too real. Instead she wrapped both legs around his hips, hung from his shoulders, and forced him to fuck her harder. He understood. He slammed her against the shelves until the books shook and some fell to the floor. He pulled out, turned her around, put her facedown with her hands braced against the wood, and entered her from behind with a single thrust.

Isolde moaned without restraint. She felt his cock driving into a place she hadn’t known she had, felt his balls striking her clitoris with every thrust, felt his hand travel down her spine, grab one breast from behind, then move up to the nape of her neck and press her cheek against the bookcase. She was bent over, offered up, her dress bunched at her waist and her ass raised, and the mere sight of it would have cost any of her former prey their lives. Not him. This one she begged for more.

—Harder—she gasped—. Break me, don’t be a coward.

He seized her hips with both hands and began to thrust into her in earnest, hard strokes that lifted her onto her toes. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the library. She felt the orgasm building in her belly like a storm, tightening every muscle in her body, closing around the cock that continued to hammer her without mercy.

When she climaxed, it all happened at once. Her cunt clamped down in violent spasms around him, her legs trembled and she nearly fell, and her fangs, this time beyond all control, came out fully and found the curve between his neck and shoulder inevitably, instinctively. He had turned her toward him at the last second and pressed her against his chest, and she bit him just as he thrust in one final time and emptied himself inside her. His blood reached her tongue at exactly the moment he released the first hot jet against her cervix, and she felt him ejaculate deeply, again and again, while she drank in short swallows. The taste was unlike anything she had ever tried. It wasn’t only the blood. It was the heat surrounding her, the hands holding her by the ass, the cock throbbing inside her, the voice saying her name with a gasp that sounded like surrender.

Sebastián made a sound of pain mixed with something that wasn’t exactly pleasure but came very close. And then, incredibly, he laughed, his head thrown back, his semen still running from her cunt down the inside of her thigh.

Isolde pulled away from him, her mouth stained with blood and her thighs shining with come. She straightened her dress with hands that did not quite obey her and looked at him one last time.

—Sleep—she said.

—Tomorrow night...

—Sleep.

And she dissolved into the shadows before he could finish the sentence.

***

And that was exactly where I came.

My fingers still wet, soaked to the knuckles with my own juices, my phone screen glowing in the darkness of my room, my clitoris still throbbing against the tip of my middle finger, my breathing still ragged and my chest racing, my nipples hard and showing beneath my T-shirt.

Fuck. What an overactive imagination I have.