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“Open up.” The hard slap across my cheek stung, made the blood I just had taken from him—directly from his cock—rise into my face. “Wider.”
I obeyed, the mixture of pleasure and humiliation slowly trickling down my spine, coming to pool around my spread cheeks and stretched hole. The metallic dildo he had impaled me with was deep inside me, painfully keeping me in place. I didn’t need the iron chains around my ankles and wrists, but their weight was grounding.
The squelching gore of his wound brushed my lips as Armand’s hand cupped my chin and pushed it further up, stretching my neck to its limit.
“Put your tongue into it,” he was panting, heavy and desperate. “Impale the wound with your tongue before it closes.”
The satin blindfold against my eyes was tightly wound, and I felt it glide over my skin as I moved my head slightly, tongue darting out, looking for the open wound on Armand’s hand pressed over my mouth. His blood was trickling down my chin now, passing the hand he now pressed on my neck pulse. I darted my tongue around, not finding the opening to the quickly closing wound.
“You’re too slow.” His fist closed on my hair, nails dragging on my scalp. “You’ll have to use your fangs to reopen the stigmata, you heathen."
My hard cock jumped at the words, the smell of Armand’s blood blinding me as my mind conjured the image of him on the cross. His hands and feet nailed to it, bleeding, oozing down to feed the dry earth underneath.
My tongue found a little ridge, the edge of the muscle already fixing itself.
The scream I tore out of him went straight up to my stomach, a primal reaction beyond lust, closer to animal hunger. My fangs were on him now, reopening the barely closed wound, my tongue darting into it, pushing aside the bone so I could impale his hand.
Armand was past coherence. I couldn’t see him, but I could hear him. His panting had turned to moans, escalating in desperation as I moved my tongue in circles, widening the stigmata on his palm, pushing back my head so I could fuck my tongue in and out of the wound, tasting muscle, bone, and sinew.
I was grateful he had chosen the basement for this—the special dungeons lined with iron walls, floor, and ceiling—for I knew the vampires upstairs wouldn’t understand. Not even Louis.
Armand’s naked foot caressed the side of my hard cock, before pressing the sole to my leaking head.
“Keep…” a sigh, a low grunt, “Keep that tongue in motion and move your hands. You’re gonna use your claws now, Lestat. Open the wound on my foot. I want you to fuck the stigmata with your cock.”
My eyes rolled to the back of my head, lids tickling against the satin over my eyes.
No one else could understand this.
Only we, the two monsters in love with this sick game, ever could.