This is a fan fiction story based on characters from the Lonesome Dove television show, which belong to Rysher Entertainment and Hallmark. No infringement on copyrights is intended. All other characters and storylines belong to me.

Rated X, coerced/consensual m/m, some bloodletting in the interests of a good time :)

While this story does not belong to the Darkly Bound series, it does draw on events that occur in DB. You might say it's a DB alternate universe fantasy. So, like the jurors that are admonished to disregard the testimony they just heard, I must warn you to disregard the story you are about to read when you return to the official DB universe once again or you will become mightily confused.

Now, just to confuse matters even further, a little background info:

I originally intended this to be a Lonesome Dove/Vampire Chronicles crossover and the vampire started out as Anne Rice's character, Lestat. At the time, my friend and beta-reader, Brenda McFarland, jokingly referred to Sade & Gomorrah, Part 2, which I was working on, as Interview With the Dominatrix. That led me to wonder what Lestat would do with my Clay if he got hold of him in New Orleans after the war. A few lines of dialogue came to me, I shared them with another friend, Sianna Fayle, and next thing I knew, we'd become obsessed with writing the thing, round robin style.

Then I discovered that Anne Rice has "forbidden" anyone to write fanfiction based on her characters and books, and she has staff who scour the internet for it in order to eradicate all traces of such errant, unauthorized creativity. Anne's watchdogs also threaten lawsuits and generally make life very difficult for the fanfic's authors. As a result, much fanfic based on The Vampire Chronicles has disappeared from the net or gone underground. In light of those factors, it seemed best to change my vampire's name. And as it turned out, doing so served my purposes because my vampire was then free to be a more sexual creature than Lestat, with a backstory of his own. The new name, however, retained the sound quality of the original to fit with the existing rhythm of the prose.

The story alternates between the two characters' points of view. In this section, I wrote for the vampire and Sianna wrote for Clay, although we both revised each other's sections as needed for continuity.

BTW, I've illustrated the action with two stills taken from the LD episode FEAR. They don't correspond exactly, but they do suggest the flavor of a vampire tale if you use your imagination just a little.

Oh, and one more note: I thought at first that "Possessed" was simply a fun sex fantasy, but it occurred to me during some spiritual contemplation that it's actually rather symbolic. Life, like my vampire, often eats at us and drains our energies bit by bit with various difficulties. But even so, like Clay here, we must learn to embrace it and find its joys in order to survive, no less thrive. That's the challenge of being human and inhabiting vulnerable physical form. In case you needed a high-minded literary excuse for reading slash.... :) 

As always, comments are welcome.

Colleen J. MacLennan
cjmac444@earthlink.net
9/3/01

Letourne watched the man as he teetered at the levee’s edge. His thoughts had been so loud, Letourne had imagined at first he was shouting them out, a banshee scream of pain, calling every inhabitant of the Old Quarter to his aid. But no, it was a silent scream, calling the attention of only one – a creature whose interest was purely selfish, who thrived on human pain, who thirsted for it every night and drank of it deeply like the elixir of life it was.

In short, himself.

He almost swooped in to drink quickly from this one just in case the man jumped as he was planning. Letourne had hunted already across the river, outside Gallatin Street’s dives, where one more murder would hardly be noticed. But there was no point in losing perfectly good blood to the Mississippi’s muddy currents. Despite his extravagant habits, he was not a wastrel, at least not where his appetite was concerned.

But something stopped him, held him back to observe a little longer. Perhaps it was the ineffectual suicidal despair, or the dark hair and tailored clothes, or the setting so near to the ships, but this young man reminded him of that first meeting with his beloved, infuriating Etienne. It wasn’t like him to be sentimental, but he did miss Etienne. Improbable as it was, he even missed Etienne’s tiresome morality and his endless questions regarding their nature.

This one, this very human male, had something of Etienne’s essence in him. He suffered just as exquisitely. He demanded answers to questions that had no answers, from a God who couldn’t be bothered with such trifling matters in the grand scheme of the universe. He believed he had a right to know the whys and wherefores of all his great, insignificant tragedies. And he threatened to kill himself if divine help was not forthcoming at once.

Letourne smiled, letting his teeth show in the moonlight. "Help is here, my lovely one. Your prayers have been answered at last," he whispered, and he moved toward his prey with the generosity of an angel on a mission of mercy.

Though he took care to elude direct confrontation, the young man sensed his presence and whirled about, searching the darkness.

"Who’s there?" he demanded with a slur to his words.

He tipped backward, unsteady on his feet, and Letourne caught him up in his arms to prevent him from toppling into the river. The man struggled to free himself, but could barely stay conscious in the exertion.

Laudanum. He positively reeked of it. Letourne suppressed his disappointment and nearly let him drop beneath the swirling water, regardless of his nostalgia for Etienne. But one clear thought emerged from the human’s brain and hooked his waning interest.

Letourne smiled again, rolling the hated name around in his mind, sending it out and observing its effects on his victim even in the man’s drugged fog. Now there was a toy to play with, an amusement to wile away the night’s remaining hours. He hadn’t tried such games in a very long time, but if he couldn’t have more than a taste of his first desire, this pathetic American might feed another hunger before the sunrise came.

"Ah, he took you, did he? And roughly, too," Letourne tsked, releasing him temporarily. "No fun in that, I daresay." He circled the man, knowing all the American saw was a blur out the corner of his thickly lashed eyes. Letourne teased him with quick caresses, smelling his fear, his sweat, his musky male aroma as the man tried to fend off his invisible molester. The fight went out of him fast, however – the opiate sedated him too well – and Letourne caught him once again as he blacked out.

Letourne examined him closely then, this Saint Sebastian limp in his embrace, pierced by the cruel arrows of fate. He was an incredible beauty, with dark curls and neatly trimmed beard framing a mouth that begged to be kissed. Letourne ran a finger over it lightly, and stroked the face now in repose. Later. Not quite yet. He tilted the young man’s head to the side and nuzzled the neck, tender below the beard line. His tongue snaked out, unable to resist a little taste of skin, and he savored the saltiness, the same salt that would flavor the man’s blood later. Letourne could not consume much of the tainted crimson liqueur, but he would make the best of it when he did, as a spicy seasoning for the main dish.

The wind kicked up, fetid and heavy with incipient rain. Time to seek a more comfortable location to accommodate his plans. Letourne hefted the slender figure off the ground and held him tightly, hoping the laudanum would cooperate until their brief journey was done.

* * * * * * *

At first came fear: fear of where he was, what he’d gotten himself into this time. Of who owned the voice ... that strangely disembodied voice that spoke to him of things no one could possibly know....

Jensen. Instantly, his stomach churned, his skin became clammy, his fingers curled into fists.

Struggling against his drugged state, Clay sought to confront the voice. Twisting, he could only get abstract glimpses of his tormentor, his vision as hazy as his mind. A delicate, almost scrawny frame. Flowing blond hair. Intense, knowing green eyes. A gentle, yet mocking smile....

What devil was this?

Anxiety clawed through his stomach, and he scrambled to collect his thoughts. He had to get hold of his senses, had to escape.

Without warning, and with seemingly little effort, the man forced him back onto his stomach. He could scarcely believe that one so fragile could possess such unearthly strength. Or maybe it was just that Clay himself was so damn weak?

The kernel of fear spread quickly through Clay’s entire body, exploding into terror, rendering him cold and rigid.

But then suddenly, as if sensing his panicked confusion, the voice returned, soothing. Seductive.

"Have no fear, my beautiful. When I prick you, you will swoon from the pleasure."

Clay let the sound roll over him, let it drown his senses. The memory of panic fading, Clay felt his body begin to relax, muscles loosening, becoming heavier. His mind sank back into pleasant, laudanum-induced numbness. Back to where he so desperately needed to be.

"That’s right," the voice crooned. "Let it all go...."

A sweep of hands across his back, the whisper of breath against the nape of his neck. Unconsciously, he shivered in response, arching his back.

A rush of delighted, triumphant laughter behind him.

Once again, the kernel of sensation curled itself inside his stomach. But not fear. Not exactly.

So tempting, to surrender to the promise of the voice and the owner of those hands.

* * * * * * *

Letourne caressed his toy once more – a light brush over the rounded curve of the buttocks – and the man roused for a moment. "Ah, you don’t like me to touch you there, do you?" Letourne said, leaning over him. "We must do something about that, because you know, I intend to have all of you. I drank well before our tryst and now I have the rest of the night to kill."

He laughed loudly at the ironic turn of phrase and thought how he surprised even himself sometimes with his biting humour. Etienne never appreciated that about him, poor sad Etienne. "You are so like him," he murmured, "so full of self-pity and anger and longing for God to come rescue you with death." He stroked the man’s soft curls of hair in a comforting gesture. "Death has come for you, mon cher, but only to play awhile. It’s the laudanum, you see. You’re a trifle too fond of it. I must say I enjoy its effects on you, but its effects on me would be, shall we say, undesirable."

The man shivered again and breathed deeply, slowly, succumbing as to a poppy-scented dream and nothing more. Letourne frowned. A little sedation was useful, but he wanted his victim more awake than that, more alive, or where was the fun?

He turned the lethargic man to lie on his back. The eyes were closed, making him look sweet and innocent. Having been in his mind, Letourne knew better. Still, he was innocent in some ways….

What delicious enjoyment there would be in corrupting him further.

"Wake up, Sleeping Beauty," Letourne whispered. He cupped the bearded face and bent toward it. "Your Prince wants to come."

He saw the eyes open then, saw them for the first time in the light, and dim as the lamps were, they illuminated the golden shine and dilated pupils like topaz jewels to his own preternatural gaze. Letourne smiled at the man, who was yet unable to focus or comprehend, and closed the distance between them, pressing their lips together, dipping his tongue into the mouth so sweetly relaxed and receptive.

Then awareness dawned and the struggle began anew.

Letourne held the man’s face immobile, but withdrew his mouth long enough to coo more reassuring sounds until his unwilling lover ceased his struggle. Not too much, however, not so calming that there would be no response at all. He wanted this mortal to understand his dilemma, and desire it as fervently as he lusted after death. Letourne was death, after all – Death incarnate, with a carnal hunger for human emotion, the more intense, the better.

He kissed the man again, making him open his mouth, sucking his warm and richly blooded tongue into his own mouth. It was all he could do to keep from nipping it for a chance to suck the wound, but he delayed that pleasure and conformed for now to the human concept of sex play. His victim tasted of cigar smoke and whiskey and the aftermath of opium in a piquant blend. Letourne encouraged him to feel the teeth that would puncture him soon, in other places. The sharp points startled the man and he pulled his tongue back quickly.

Letourne rose up and laughed at the glimmer of recognition in the man’s eyes. "Come now, my lovely," he said, reaching for the buttons on the broadcloth coat. "Let’s get these clothes off you and see what other passions we can incite you to feel."

* * * * * * *

Clay’s mind refused to accept the kiss, shrinking away from it as if this were all happening to someone else. Some other poor wretch.

In spite of himself, in spite of the fear that threatened to overwhelm him, Clay began to laugh helplessly. It was so amusing, the irony of his final fall from grace. How often had he sought death, daring it to reach out and embrace him? God, he was still the same contrary bastard he’d always been, to suddenly want so much to live, now that death was so close.

And it was close.

The creature toying with him tonight – and Clay was not so drugged that he couldn’t tell it wasn’t human – could only be the devil himself. Come to play a game or two before the end, he supposed. It made some manner of sense. He’d been the devil’s plaything for over two years already, so why shouldn’t he have to suffer before going to hell – one more torture was hardly going to make a difference to his rotten soul. God had well and truly forsaken him; he deserved no less.

Curious how these thoughts calmed him, made it possible for him to distance his mind from his body, for what was to come. Now, all he had to do was–

"Oh no, beautiful boy," came the voice above him, so substantial, Clay could almost feel it stroking him. "There’ll be none of that. No escaping reality. You’ll know exactly what you’re doing. And you’ll want it so much, that final ‘little death’."

Another trickle of laughter, as if the creature was doubly delighted by his double entendre.

An instinctive attempt at self-preservation flickered in Clay. The opium haze remained, still hampering his thought process, but it was dissipating in the glare of mortal danger. He knew he must get away at once, before it was too late and he let the devil have his way.

With every sliver of determination he could muster, Clay ordered his limbs to move.

Nothing – they remained strangely immobile. Or had they? His will and his body seemed disconnected. He thought he had gotten up and was standing, but in an instant he was sprawled across the large brass bed again. Had he been thrown down by some invisible force, or had he only imagined rising?

Desperate now, Clay tried once more to urge his body up from the bed, but still he lay held in some spell. And not the soothing cloud of laudanum, not that numbed state he was so used to. Instead, it was a spell that heightened his senses, forcing him into an almost supernatural awareness.

Colors were brilliant, sharp as knives, even in the gaslight. Clay closed his eyes against the inundation, but found that noise rushed to take its place. The tiniest sounds vibrated not just in his ears, but along the web of nerves throughout his body. And smells … he could smell the devil’s scent. Funny, he’d always thought the devil would emit an odor foul as a cesspool, but this creature smelled so very … alluring. Musk, frankincense, a compote of seductive fragrance. Tastes, too – he could taste the last traces of whiskey and opium, and something else. The creature’s mouth?

The thought confused and horrified him, yet somehow transfixed him as well – how could he be so affected? Was he so depraved, so perverse that now the devil was something to be desired?

"Open your eyes, Francis."

Clay’s eyes flew open. No one ever used his first name to address him, not even when he was a child. It was a Southern habit to call children by their middle names, and besides, he hated "Francis." But he wasn’t surprised the creature spoke his Christian name at this moment of reckoning. You can’t hide from God or the devil when final judgment is at hand.

"So, another name you don’t like." The creature smiled sympathetically. "Well, a rose by any other name and all that…." He waved his porcelain hand in dismissal. "We’ll call you Clay if you prefer. And I’m so very flattered you think my name is Lucifer. It means ‘light,’ you know – angel of light."

Clay stared up at the creature, gripped by the terrible finality of his doom. He swallowed and tried to speak, to plead his case, but found the power to do so beyond him.

Another indulgent smile beamed down upon him. "You wish to say something? Out loud? There's no need. I know all your simple little thoughts, and rest assured, my dearest Clay, you have no choice in this – you will surrender completely to me in everything I desire. But enough of that. Time to get you more appropriately unattired for this evening’s entertainment. Let me…."

Clay’s coat and vest had long since been removed; he had no recollection of it. He lay there clad only in breeches, sheer white shirt and his boots. The creature climbed elegantly, catlike, onto the bed, and hovered over him. For an instant, he did nothing, just smiled down at Clay beatifically. Waiting.

Clay must have made a sound, a note of distress, for the creature reached one long-fingered hand down to his face, instantly silencing him. "Shhh," he crooned, and gently traced over Clay’s moustache and then his lips, forcing them slightly open.

Touch … oh God, the sense of touch, now so exquisitely magnified it rendered all his other senses obsolete.

He parted his teeth unintentionally, and without warning, the finger entered his mouth.

Clay jumped, his stomach suddenly tight and swimming with nerves. Bite! his brain screamed.

But once again, his disobedient, disconnected body betrayed him. He flushed and breathed faster and closed his eyes, and the heat spreading through his muscles melted all resistance. His body wanted something else. Something his mind struggled to comprehend.

He closed his mouth around the finger and began to suck.

He looked up then, into those green eyes, which darkened and misted, the lids slowly coming down while the creature murmured approval. "Oh, my boy, there is hope for you yet. I do so love being surprised!"

* * * * * * *

Letourne reclaimed his forefinger and breathed a little faster himself as he fixed his gaze on the man beneath him. His fragile mortal skin radiated the heat of the blood come so close to the surface, flowing like an intertwining series of underground rivers. Letourne felt his thirst rise at the provocation. He couldn’t wait any longer – he had to have a sip.

He unbuttoned the shirt’s yoke and took hold of Clay’s shoulders, pulling him up. Clay put his hands out as if to push him away, but Letourne ignored the weak gesture of protest and dragged the shirt off him quickly, in a hurry now to move things along. He looked into Clay’s face and when Clay looked away, Letourne firmly turned it back to himself, licking his lips, wondering where to start, what to taste first. This first bite would be crucial for both of them, a kind of virginity taken and lost.

Letourne smiled gently, his hands caressing Clay’s hair, over his naked shoulders and arms. "It’s your turn to kiss me, my beautiful boy. Come to me now. You want to … you know you want to…."

Clay stared at him, wary, but Letourne could see his hesitation fading at the tug of his voice.

"That’s right. You can feel how much you want to come to me … how it pulls at you … don’t fight it…."

Clay responded to the command, unable not to. He leaned forward, his mouth opening as his eyes closed.

Letourne slid a hand behind Clay’s head and guided it almost until their lips touched. Almost.

In a flash of movement, he gripped Clay’s upper arms and gave him a little shake to snap him out of the trance. "Listen, my darling Clay," he said. "I am not a girl. No tricks like that from you anymore. I told you, you’ll know everything you’re doing, and you will." He took Clay’s hand and pressed it against his own crotch, where the blood from his previous victim engorged his sex.

Clay tried to jerk it back, but Letourne forced the hand to massage the hardness. "You see?" he said, an edge to his voice now. "I am as male as you are, and when you kiss me, you are going to know that."

Clay shook his head slowly, his stare angry now.

Letourne let go of the hand and sighed when Clay yanked it away as from fire. Tiresome boy. "You’re not really going to start that again, are you?" He thought a moment and then smiled at his own deviousness. "How can you dare to refuse me? Am I not the devil here to punish you? Well, what did you think hell would be like? Silly boy, hell for you is being used by a man and liking it. Wanting it more than anything. More than death."

Clay shook his head again, his confusion obvious.

"Oh, yes. I’ve created this hell especially for you, darling Clay, and you will have to cooperate. Let us be clear on this. You have no choice." Letourne reached for him. "Now come to me and all will be forgiven. You do want forgiveness, don’t you?" he coaxed, drawing Clay back into his arms, enjoying his defeat. "Kiss me with all your soul and I’ll forgive everything … everything…."

Letourne gave him some help then, soothed his mind and eased his tension and made him feel the pleasure in their touch, and Clay turned his face up at last to begin the kiss once more.

Letourne kissed back with more intensity as he neared his true goal, resting his palm against the heartbeat that would feed him and running his tongue along Clay’s full bottom lip. Gently, very gently, he caught the lip in his teeth, and after a moment’s pause to prolong the anticipation, he bit through the paper-thin membrane with one of his fangs.

Clay gasped and his whole body tensed. He pressed in harder, offering himself truly now, and though the gush of blood that stained both their mouths was small, it satisfied Letourne nevertheless.

Letourne liked this part almost as much as the blood itself, the way his victims participated in their own undoing, even demanded it. He tightened his embrace and moaned as he sucked the punctured lip into his mouth, swallowing the hot liquid that tasted of poppies, feeling even this tiny amount enliven and intoxicate him. Clay moaned too, and swam in the overflow of Letourne’s ecstasy. If only these mortals realized how euphoric such moments were for them, Letourne thought vaguely, they would never again fear the monsters they called vampires.

Regretfully, the trickle halted and Letourne broke off the kiss with one last lick of the dregs smeared over Clay’s mouth.

Clay felt his lip with his tongue and then his fingers. He looked disoriented, somehow forlorn, and Letourne had to hold him away as he sought to continue. "No more just yet, darling boy," he said, pleased to see how well Clay had taken to it, how smoothly the first deflowering had gone. "We’ll share many such kisses before the night is through, I promise you. But we must both finish undressing now. Your punishment has only just begun."

* * * * * * *

What just happened? Something … something had been taken away … something he needed more than the breath in his lungs or the blood in his veins. The blood….

His tongue played over a cut in his lip. How did it get there? The wound throbbed with every heartbeat, painful and arousing at the same time. Touching it was like touching….

His mind refused to finish the thought. Instead, his addled brain clung to the one thing it could remember and comprehend.

Punishment.

Yes, that he could understand. That he could think about. Had he not spent these past months willfully sinking further into the mire for that reason alone? But thus far, no punishment he’d found had been enough. Nothing came close to giving him the absolution he so desperately craved.

...come to me and all will be forgiven.

They say the devil tempts you with that which you most desire.

No! Surely he would never welcome such debasement, never willingly embrace the very act that dehumanized him, no matter what reward was at the end of it. Or was that simply his fate – to sink helplessly into the darkness he most feared?

A sudden self-destructive urge washed over him. What did it matter, after all? Why was he so determined to cling to his dignity? Would the few shreds of self-respect he had left make any difference when his body finally did die?

But maybe … maybe if he gave in to the devil now, before physical death … if he surrendered wholly to his punishment…. Could he believe those sweet promises? Would he be granted absolution then? It was an unexpectedly liberating thought: to be free, he had only to submit. And after all, this thing that held him in thrall wasn’t really a man. It wasn’t even human.

...I'll forgive everything....

The sweetest words Clay had ever heard. His empty soul yearned for salvation. If this is what it took….

The remnants of laudanum fogged his mind – if it was the laudanum. The fog seemed to come and go. Clay sank back down to the bed. He couldn’t choose. Let the choice be made for him. He wouldn’t fight it.

The devil was not impressed. "Oh no, my sweet. You will not lie there like a passive martyr. Redemption must be earned, and you will have to work for it. Get up," he commanded.

At that, a stubborn streak threatened to kick in. Never one to take imperious orders, he who was so accustomed to giving them, Clay thought of refusing … until he saw the suddenly cold edge in those piercing eyes. The devil to be feared….

He sat up.

"Now touch me where your hand touched before. You remember."

Clay did remember – he remembered too well. He couldn’t do that again, not unless forced.

The creature unbuttoned his own shirt and slipped out of it, revealing his pale, smoothly muscled chest. Hairless. A hand trailed slowly from a nipple downward, disappearing under the waistband of his pants. Enticing.

Clay tightened his mouth in disgust, but the wound on his lip reminded him of another feeling he’d had just minutes before. His tongue stroked over it again, releasing a strange warmth in his groin.

"Come now, beautiful…."

Clay’s mind began to empty, all thought replaced with the single urge to follow the order. But a resurgent instinct compelled him to fight back. He might end his days as this devil’s plaything, but the devil wouldn’t have it all his own way. Clay wasn’t going to dance obediently to Satan’s tune. The flicker of dignity he’d disregarded just moments ago once again flared.

He grasped the creature’s shoulders, and with surprising strength forced him down to the bed, swiftly reversing their positions. Clay thought he caught a glimpse of surprise – or was it amused delight? – in those green eyes before he turned his attention to complying with the creature’s demands.

He started to stroke the strangely cool limbs, their coolness in stark relief to his own suddenly fevered skin. The contrast was … interesting … oddly compelling.

Distracted, Clay’s eyes locked with the creature’s. He sensed the devil wanted him to move lower, unfasten the trousers. Clay’s eyes drifted once more to the bare chest, considering. He dipped his head slowly, deliberately, as if to put his mouth against the creature’s skin.

A humming sound of anticipated pleasure.

Clay halted for a moment. Oh no, you monster, not that easy, my friend.

Another hum, and then a low, suggestive voice. "Why don’t you tie my hands?" the creature asked him, writhing in apparent excitement at the idea.

Clay hesitated, unsure he had heard correctly.

"Wouldn’t you like to do that? You could tie them to the bars with our cravats," the devil coaxed, glancing up to the brass headboard. "Then you could really have your way with me."

Suspicion flooded him. Something was wrong. Clay leaned back and in an instant, found himself shoved to the floor.

"You foolish boy!" The creature glared down at him. "Do you really think you can outwit the devil himself? I am far older and wiser than you, darling Clay, and a hundred times stronger. I could snap your neck with a turn of my wrist, and I will if you don’t show me proper obedience at once. Is that what you want? To die and lose your final chance at salvation?"

Clay blinked and looked around the room, flooded with a sense of unreality. Maybe this was all just another nightmare, another demonic invention with no substance. Maybe if he tried hard to wake up, he could escape his punishment just this one time….

"Stop searching for escape. There is no escape for you. There is only me, and pleasing me, to occupy you now."

The devil swung his legs over the side of the bed and Clay scrambled backward, trying to stay out of his reach.

"I am nearing the end of my patience with you," the creature said, but then sighed. "However, in my infinite mercy, I will give you one last opportunity to prove yourself worthy of my forgiveness. Take heed, my sweet, if you fail this time, the consequences will be swift and far worse than any horror you have known in your sad little life. Do you understand me?"

Clay looked down and tried to recover his sanctuary, his laudanum haze, to no avail.

"I see that you do. Let us continue where we left off then. I believe you were about to help me undress."

Dream or not, a realization built in Clay’s head and impressed itself upon him: there really was no escape. After seconds that passed like an eternity, he rose and approached the devil sitting on the bedside. There he sank to his knees, as if in supplication, trying not to think about the inherent vulnerability in the action. As if to reward him, the creature stroked his hair and leaned down to kiss in it. Tipping Clay’s head up, he smoothed his fingers over the beard, across Clay’s lips, and lightly caressed the wound there. Clay shivered and closed his eyes. Where was his shame? How could he find this so arousing? For aroused he was, painfully hard.

It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except this.

The creature released him and he knew what was expected of him then, what was imperative. Trailing his hands slowly down the creature’s legs, not daring to stop, he reached the boots, and began to tug one, then the other, off. He kept his face down. Such a good, submissive boy. The thought arrived from an outside source: praise from the devil. A rush of blood reddened his cheeks, thankfully obscured by the fall of his dark hair. Shame, now? Or excitement?

His breathing a little harsher, Clay ran his tongue along suddenly parched lips. He tasted the faint traces of blood and saliva and God knows what else.

It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter – the litany ran through his head. What he wanted, no – needed – was more of that intoxicating brew. Surpassing any other drug, even opium….

The creature noticed, not bothering to conceal a satisfied smirk. "You’re coming along very well, darling boy. But I grow impatient to see all your beauty. Strip for me."

Clay jerked at the order, immediately, shockingly transported back to the war, to the Union prison camp, to that barn.

As if sensing Clay’s sudden terror, the creature swooped down and knelt beside him, forcing Clay’s face within inches of his own, restraining his combative limbs. "Come back, darling. There’s nothing for you there. Let me make it all better…," he murmured, and once again he sucked at Clay’s bottom lip, an exquisite, gliding motion.

Instantly, Clay’s mind emptied of anything but that sensation, the taste of that mouth. He moaned helplessly, wanting to deepen the kiss, wanting … what?

But the creature lifted his mouth slightly, tormenting, a scant inch away. Clay’s hands slid awkwardly through the blond hair, trying to force the head back to his. "Uh-uh." Refusing to move. The inch remained between them. And silence, but for the ragged breathing. That, at least, was mutual. The devil smiled. His tongue snaked out to lick along the edge of Clay’s bloodied lip, and with eyes closed, he took a deep breath.

When he opened them again, Clay was transfixed by their green depths, and anchored to them in his ocean of uncertainty.

* * * * * * *

Letourne longed to pierce Clay’s lip again. There was nothing quite so heavenly, if he dared use that term, as drinking the blood of a beautiful man while also kissing him on the mouth. But he tore himself away from the temptation. One such bite mark was sensual – the lip would swell a little and the rouge of blood would invite more kissing. More than that and it would simply create a mutilated mess.

Letourne found it curious that he could wax so enthusiastic about his current victim. Only minutes earlier, he’d resisted the equally strong impulse to carry out his threat, snap Clay’s neck and throw his lifeless body in the river from whence they’d begun their little courtship. He had underestimated how strong-willed this man could be, hidden as it was beneath the suicidal melodrama. He’d only planned for a quick game of mind-bending, followed by refreshments, horizontal and otherwise, but subduing him was taking more time and skill than he’d bargained for.

What persuaded him to amend rather than discard his plan was the potential he recognized in Clay’s soulful gold-brown eyes: the potential for passionate sex with an exceptionally attractive man who’d been badly used before, to be the one who showed him how good it could feel if done properly, and to feed his own primary appetite in the process. It was a challenge with a bit of narcissism in it, he would admit, because it recalled the memory of Etienne, whom he never did wholly possess. With this mortal, Letourne had only to keep the leash taut on that defiant will and anything was possible.

To that end, he laid Clay back on the thick, Persian carpet. No time could be spared just yet to move to the bed. "You need another special kiss, my sweet," he whispered. "We both need it, and then all will be better."

He caressed over the slender chest and arms as Clay watched with half-closed eyes. Letourne kept a steady tap on his thoughts and had to smile at their twists and turns. As Letourne had promised, Clay knew exactly what he was doing. He was well aware he was coupling with a thing that looked like a man, and it appalled him – appalled him because, precisely as promised, he wanted it more than anything. Of course, he wanted it because Letourne had suppressed his opposing reason, but then, the little matter of conscious choice had never been mentioned.

Soon, however, Letourne wouldn’t have to exert so much mental influence to control his human lover. With each bite, Clay would grow more cooperative on his own – the effect of Letourne’s pleasantly venomous saliva.

Letourne massaged the pectoral muscles and stroked and pinched the brown nipples lightly to raise the flesh. Clay shuddered and spread his arms out in surrender. Closing his eyes, he turned his head to the side, subtly offering his carotid artery. The gesture made Letourne laugh with the pleasure of conquest – it was almost instinct in mortals to bare this vulnerable spot to a vampire in their last embrace. And Clay made a lovely human sacrifice, resembling at this moment no one less than Christ Himself on the cross.

Letourne straddled Clay’s hips and circled his back in his arms, drawing him up so that Clay’s head bent backward and his neck was even more exposed. Clay breathed faster, some part of him knowing what was about to happen, and was anxious for it even if he didn’t know why. Letourne leaned down, but merely kissed the neck. He would reserve that taste for the final moments of their passion. Instead, he licked the succulent nipples he’d been playing with and drew them into his mouth one after the other, scraping the sensitive skin with the tips of his canines, teasing.

Clay moaned and squirmed and his skin heated further, driving Letourne onward to the point.

Letourne settled on the left nipple to be closest to the heart and carefully placed his teeth just above it. Clay put his hands up against Letourne’s shoulders, half resisting even as he arched his back to bring himself closer to Letourne’s mouth. Letourne felt the heart pounding rhythmically inside the cage of ribs and breastbone. Its music called to him like a siren’s song. As much as he was Clay’s master here, he was also his slave – a slave to the living heart Clay possessed and the blood it pumped.

In the throes of his own surrender, Letourne sank his teeth through the skin and was rewarded twofold with Clay’s blood and involuntary bliss. The penetration mimicked another kind and Letourne prolonged the moment of union, continuing to suck the nipple while lapping the blood that flowed over it.

He and Clay groaned together then as they shared the urgency built upon the foundation laid earlier. Clay gripped Letourne’s head and pressed it to him, and Letourne had to restrain his crushing hold around Clay’s back or break it. The amount of blood this time was greater than from Clay’s lip, though a fair bit got smeared on Clay’s chest and Letourne’s chin. Letourne enjoyed the hedonistic nature of this bloodbath – the smell and taste and slick feel of it made him hard and hungry for more of Clay’s body.

The opium flavor, however, curtailed Letourne’s drink, so taking additional pains not to tear the muscle, he withdrew his teeth and lifted his head to admire the two deep puncture wounds. In his eyes, they enhanced Clay’s beauty as much as did the mole on Clay’s right cheek. Spent and relaxed for the moment, Clay stopped thinking altogether and Letourne felt appreciation for that as well. Gently, he laid the young man on the rug again and after licking up a tongueful of the blood, brought his mouth up to Clay’s and kissed him forcefully, thrusting his tongue into Clay’s mouth and making him suck his own blood from it.

Clay was eager to comply, and swallowed the mixture of blood and saliva as if it were sustenance for his own body. Like the laudanum, it weakened his muscles, but unlike that other drug, it continued to heighten his senses, so that now he pursued contact with Letourne. In an unexpected switch, he even licked the blood from Letourne’s face, unconsciously seeking more of the intoxicant, and ran his hands over Letourne’s shoulders and down his chest and back, exploring those marble-smooth contours.

Letourne laughed again at the change in his victim, the desire he exuded. It was the opportune time to finish stripping him, but not on the floor. He pulled Clay to sit up and then stand for the few steps to the bed, where Clay dropped himself without complaint. The boots and socks came off easily and still no opposition, but when Letourne went to open the trouser buttons, Clay’s fear breached the barrier of vampiric control with guttural sounds and wild gestures of protest.

The sudden, palpable feel of the terror surprised Letourne. Jensen had accomplished his purpose too well. An unforgivable crime, that, to ruin a man such as Clay for the pleasures of sex. "Shh, I won’t hurt you, darling boy," he soothed. "It doesn’t have to be like that. Let me take the fear away and you’ll never be afraid like that again."

In an effortless motion, Letourne elevated Clay’s buttocks and dragged the trousers and drawers down together even as Clay attempted to fight him off.

When it was done, Clay collapsed and stared at one of the gaslights, panting from his exertion. His resources exhausted, his fear paralyzing, he tried his other escape despite Letourne’s previous warning, but Letourne intervened and kept him aware, kept his physical senses awake to the touch.

And Letourne did touch him.

Quickly discarding his own trousers and underclothes, he climbed onto the bed and lay next to his mortal lover. Their mutual nudity drove Clay to rally strength and try to push him away as Letourne cuddled closer to nuzzle Clay's neck. Letourne just smiled and pinned him to the bed with a leg across Clay’s hips as he rose up to brush his lips over Clay's mouth, teasing, making Clay struggle with himself between the conflicting needs to chase the kiss and escape it.

Clay chose to escape it this time, but Letourne found his victim's quandary quite delightful. Despite Clay's natural disgust, the slightest movement of skin upon skin fed back into his arousal, building it toward a frantic pitch. Letourne meant to seize that advantage with both hands and all his unnatural skill. He slid the rest of the way to straddle Clay just below groin level and sat up, examining the delicious beauty spread before him like a feast, binding Clay, body and soul, with an unspoken thought so as to peruse at his leisure.

Clay closed his eyes against his helplessness, but that only added to his allure. For amusement, Letourne noted his emotions, so rich and active beneath the surface of that beautiful body – anger, frustration, fear, hope, desire, guilt. Letourne smirked. Ah, humanity. What a tangled web it was, and how glad he was to have shed his own so long ago. Much better to be the spider than the fly.

He moved on to the more tangible human attributes at his command.

Clay was not yet in the full bloom of manhood; that edge wouldn’t develop for another decade of life, if he avoided rivers and razors and all the other impediments he toyed with. He was still youthful and slight, conveying a hint of androgyny, even with his beard and the hair on his chest. Letourne ran his hands down from the waist to the flat abdomen and diaphragm that marked Clay’s shallow, rapid breath; then over the hips defined with muscle; and finally lingered at the sex, erect and pulsing with blood.

Irresistable. Letourne licked his lips. Too soon. Clay might moan and writhe and acquiesce to superficial fondling. He might even hunger for Letourne's bite. But he wasn’t ready for that particular kiss. He must be brought along awhile more to the moment when his pleasure would surpass the pain involved.

With an impatient sigh, Letourne restrained his thirst and instead stroked carefully over the wrinkled pouch between Clay's legs containing the source of his human potency. Curious, he thought, what extremes of strength and weakness those two delicate little organs could inspire. He pressed his own crotch against Clay’s, rubbing their cocks together. Though he’d drunk deeply from the Gallatin Street cutthroat earlier, his vampire flesh had already cooled. Such a luxury, to absorb the live heat of a male in this different sort of intimacy.

How long had it been since he’d touched a man in this way? Immediately, he thought of Etienne, who, though he had not been Letourne’s last lover, was the only one who mattered. But that was before Letourne had cursed him with immortality, back when the city was still a cultured French port.

Etienne. Letourne ached for him still – for the mortal who liked to tempt fate and the rough deck hands gambling at the riverfront … for the ambivalent human spirit Letourne had fallen in love with so foolishly that St. John’s Eve at the bayou … for their nights of hard passion matched to savage Vodun drumbeats on the plantation … for those tantalizing little drinks Etienne would sometimes allow if Letourne pleaded long enough….

Letourne halted his despicably human reminiscence. What a hypocritical spider he was. But Clay had started to think again. Musn’t let that go too far.

Hovering above Clay on his hands and knees, Letourne bent to lick the wounds over Clay’s nipple, drawing his blood and his rapture to the surface once more. Clay groaned and let go of that annoyingly persistent urge to fight, and Letourne brought his head up to kiss him on the mouth, doing his best to dissuade further resistance.

Clay’s will was tiring and would give up soon, Letourne could feel it. He licked and sucked and nibbled at the punctured lip to prevent it from sealing completely. Such a kiss could not fail to elicit cooperation, and when their tongues met again, Clay explored the pointed teeth of his own accord, hesitant but fascinated, seducing with his intuitive fixation.

The more Clay played with those teeth, the more Letourne hungered to use them, until the desire overtook him and he broke away to slip downward, positioning his head over Clay’s groin. As if he knew Letourne's intent, Clay bent his knee up and across in a protective gesture, but that was all it was – a gesture. Letourne turned the knee aside easily, spreading Clay open to reveal the vulnerable inner thigh as well as the parts Clay wished to cover.

So little fight left. Another few minutes, another bite, and Clay would be his to possess, to take in any manner he chose. Letourne lowered himself to trail kisses up the soft flesh of the thigh, smiling at the effect on Clay’s full cock. He pressed his lips against the femoral artery to feel the blood's pounding beat. A foolish temptation, that, if he didn’t want to drain Clay past survival.

To placate his killer instinct, Letourne sucked the skin hard, marking the ivory flesh with a reddish-purple bruise. Clay grunted in ambiguous protest and curled to bury his hands in Letourne's hair. Whether he meant to impede Letourne’s progress or accelerate it, however, was unknown even to himself. His mind questioned, searched, made one last panicked grasp at separate identity, which Letourne deflected to his own purpose.

"You need know only one name now, darling boy, only one existence," he murmered. He punctuated his words with wet kisses as he slid his mouth to a place on the thigh where he would incur less damage. "I am Letourne … Letourne, your savior … Letourne, your world … Letourne, your very own personal devil here to pierce your darkness and drink your sins away."

* * * * * * *

[Continued in Possessed by the Devil, Part 2 ]

Colleen J. MacLennan
cjmac444@earthlink.net

Sianna Fayle
sharna21@hotmail.com

9/3/01

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