Sometimes dead isn’t really dead!
Vituperatis Blod has rounded up all the feral vampires sent to Australia as prisoners in the early years of the colony and sent them packing. Except one. Gadigal has taken on an Antipodean name and has no desire to return to a ‘homeland’ he no longer remembers. Besides, Blod’s paperwork is all wrong, Gadigal is not a vampire. Blod’s job would be easy if Gadigal wasn’t so bloody attractive.
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-60054-556-6
lyd Category: His and His Kisses
Length: 42 pdf Pages / 5862 words
Formats Available: pdf, prc, lit, zipped html, lrf, epub, RB
Ebook Cover Price: $2.00
Vituperatis Blod moved slowly through the crowd, unnoticed by most of the partying throng of frenzied young men and a few young women. It was a little like attempting to push your way through dense bushland or walk through wet sand. Through the heads of the dancers, bobbing about like corks washed by the ocean tides, he watched the DJ and his breath caught in his throat.
If ever Blod could have chosen a lover it would be he. His heart did a somersault every time he saw the youth standing behind his turntables choosing the music that hypnotised the crowds into releasing their inhibitions below his elevated platform. Blod was hard. However, he couldn’t allow that to interfere with the task he had to do that night and he spied that task, an equally beautiful young man, blond to Gadigal’s dark, brooding good looks, talking to the DJ, clasping his hand in a display of affection that almost made Blod jealous. He couldn’t allow his feelings to enter the equation or he would bungle it badly.
He moved forward, elbowing his way through the hyperactive crowd, one of them, either drug or alcohol fucked, blocked his way demanding a kiss. Blod shrugged, he was on duty but it would be quicker to pander to the young man, attractive even in inebriation, than to battle to get past. He slipped his tongue into the lad’s eager mouth, tasting beer and the bitter residue of some recreational substance he couldn’t quite place. Perhaps one of the new generics doing the party rounds.
It made a nice change from the times when people would shrink from his approach or else hurl epithets such as ‘freak’ and ‘faggot’ at him. The words had changed over the decades but, until recently, attitudes hadn’t. He gave quiet thanks to all those books, television programs, and films that eroticised vampires, werewolves and a wad of fictional paranormals. And an especial thanks for Goth culture into which he slotted without having to change his clothes. He chuckled to himself then stopped abruptly, wishing he had someone with whom to share the joke. It was doubtful the young man who was currently vacuuming his tonsils would understand, let alone appreciate the humour.
As he swirled his tongue around the youth’s mouth, he watched over his shoulder at the shock of blond hair he had been following as it disappeared down the stairs to the venue’s lower level. He knew what was down there. He might find sport before he had to perform his invidious duty. People in authority thought Blod enjoyed his job too little and, in part, they were right.
He was patient, not like the new men and women who were out to replace him with their modern techniques and their showy technology, meant to draw attention to themselves rather than discretely tie up loose ends. He tidied up the mess left by others. Right now, one of the little messes he had to clean up had just disappeared down the stairs to the darkened basement in front of him. He would not be going anywhere in a hurry.
Blod allowed himself to relax with the strange young man who was attempting to excite him with his kiss. He was excited. His cock was hard as it always was when the chase was on. Normally, he would not allow himself such a distraction but there was no way out of the basement except via the door that he was watching closely, even as he closed his eyes to welcome the foreign tongue into his own mouth now. Of course, there really was another way out of the basement and Blod was there to make sure the young blond took it. But that could wait a little longer.
Barry Lowe’s dreams of winning the Nobel Prize for Literature faded about thirty years ago when he realised what he wrote best was about the wild, wacky, wonderful world of sex and that his vocabulary would never rival Patrick White’s or even Evelyn Waugh’s. Since then he’s been happily churning out the odd gay sex comedy for stage as well as a mountain of newspaper columns and an avalanche of erotica for print and eBooks. He is also the author of Atomic Blonde, a biography of 1950s sex goddess, Mamie Van Doren. He lives in Sydney, Australia, with his long-term partner, Wally.
Check out his website at www.barrylowe.net.