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Tell Me A Story, Desdmona
illustration by garv

A Samhain Reward

By Desdmona

This story contains sexually explicit scenes.

His name was Paul Wheeler. Paul was probably the kid who cried when his mother left him at kindergarten, the one picked last for every team, the loner who had spent the last few holidays alone with Jack Daniels, the type that had lived his life becoming easy prey. My type. My prey. I’d been stalking him for three weeks. Waiting. I could be patient when I needed to be. Patience was going to pay off.

He wasn’t uneasy to look at—medium height, sparse hair, light eyes, only a slight middle-age paunch. In the past, I might have preferred someone a little more doughy, not too much muscle, but my strength was increasing and my tastes were evolving, becoming more refined. The shell of the man wasn’t what interested me anyway. Neither was the meat, for that matter. Paul Wheeler had what I wanted: melancholy blood.

I first smelled Paul Wheeler’s blood while he sat in the back of a Chinese movie theater—one of my favorite places. For a dollar a man could sit for hours in the dark, nursing his whiskey and thumping his cock, while the screen flashed one Asian pussy after another. The theater offered a smorgasbord of pathetic loners, all crying out for the likes of me.

It’s possible Paul had been a regular, and I’d simply missed him. He seemed to know the routine: hide your bottle in your coat, slip into a vacant row, hunch down in the seat, and wait until the lights go off before unzipping your pants or opening your bottle. Could be he’d just been fired or demoted. Maybe he’d just gambled away the last of his meager earnings, or his wife of ten years had left him. For whatever reason, he’d chosen to ignore the brilliant sun of a breezy October day, and he’d slipped into the gloom of a dank theater. Lucky me.

Midway through the second movie, Paul had his cock out, his short stubby fingers working furiously up and down, laboring to overcome his whiskey-dulled blood. That’s when I noticed him. His desperate heart pounding like an oil rig overheating. Just a little harder. Just a little deeper. Just a little harder. Just a little deeper. Blood whirling and whooshing, racing to his penis.

He didn’t see me, couldn’t see me. Not yet. His mind was as tightly clamped as his eyes. I moved in closer. Little beads of sweat formed along his balding hairline. I could have connected the dots with my tongue. I was eager to get a taste of him, but for now my taste buds were useless. I’d have to wait.

His eyes popped open. I thought he’d sensed my presence, but he only stared at the screen. The sexual organs there were enormous, filling the big screen. A long look at the giant hairless mound being humped by an enormous red cock was all Paul needed. He aimed at the back of the seat in front of him. While the last of his seed soaked into thread-bare velvet, he quietly tucked himself away and stood to leave. I hesitated long enough to press my fingers against the wet spot. It was warm and sticky. I wished I could taste it or smell it. But it had been too long since I’d feasted. The only thing I could smell or taste now was blood. Thanks to Paul, that would soon change.

Out on the street, Paul kept his head down, walking alone in an emotional desert, never making eye contact. It wouldn’t be long before his apathy would send out warning signals to others like me—we who hunted the forlorn, the doomed, the desolate—and they’d come swarming, thirsty for Paul’s life force. But for now it was just Paul and me. Huntress and prey.

The next three weeks, I followed him everywhere—his trailer park, a coffee shop on Main Street, a liquor store next door, numerous dives, and a couple more trips to the Chinese Theater. Paul was like clockwork, tick-tocking around from place to place, rarely speaking, ignoring and being ignored by everyone in his path. No one knew he was alive. No one would miss him after he died.

I began to grow anxious. Last Thursday, Paul veered from his regular routine to trudge the Mayfield Bridge. He stopped midway and peered over the rail at the surf below. An aura of death rippled about him. His blood bubbled with indecision. Melancholy mixed with fear. He was probably the type to be afraid of heights.

Suddenly others like me hovered in the air over his head like the vultures they were. I hadn’t been sticking with Paul all this time just to lose him at this late date. I could make him see me now, but I might not have enough energy for the future when I really needed it. That was a risk I didn’t want to take. But I could make him feel my presence. So, like a gnat, I swirled around his ear. Buzzing. He batted at his neck, again and again, forgetting his purpose. His aura changed from death to annoyance and one by one, the others swooped off to hunt elsewhere. Sometimes it’s easy to steer a man’s mind away from suicide, if only for a little while. Paul thrust his hands in his pockets and slogged back home.

I couldn’t wait much longer; now that the others had discovered Paul, it was time for him to know me. In his waking hours, Paul couldn’t see me or hear me, but at night, while he slept, I could become anything Paul’s mind willed—a slippery blonde, a shy brunette, or a sassy redhead. That night, in Paul’s dream, I took the form of one of the Asian girls from the movie.

“You like a bald cunt, don’t you, Paul?”

He grunted.

I placed my fingers on my outer lips and gently plied them apart, revealing pale, pale pussy. In his dream, Paul’s fingers didn’t shake when he reached to touch. They were steady and clean as he delved between my folds. He didn’t notice that I was dry, or perhaps it didn’t matter to him. He dug deep, dry-thrusting several times before deciding he wanted a taste. His warm lips slid over my opening. Spittle leaked from his hungry mouth and added lubrication. His blood was heating. I could feel life pulsing through his lips and in his tongue as he bathed my chalice.

His penis bobbed under the sheet, and tiny pools of wet dispersed into the cotton. In his dream, he tongued me furiously, occasionally nipping with his teeth. His penis reacted with each dreamt nip, stretching and pushing until the outline of his engorged cock ridged up like slabs of rock along an earthquake fault. Beneath the sheet, throbbing veins would be visible. I’d sink my teeth in and suck. Soon. A little taste now was tempting, but if I waited, I’d be tasting for months to come.

Instead, I aided Paul by mashing my Asian pussy against his face, grinding until he gasped for breath. When he reached for his cock, I clasped my hand around his, and separated by the sheet, squeezed.

“It feels so good, Paul.” I shimmied as I spoke. “You’re so big, so thick, so full of cum. Give it to me!”

A couple of brutally tight yanks and his breath caught, his mouth opened, and he climaxed. A reverberating grunt teased at my cunt. His semen painted the sheet.

I left him then to the rest of his dreams.

The following Saturday, Paul went to the coffee shop as usual, ordered his black coffee and sat in his regular seat—third stool from the end. There was a new waitress. She was petite, almost pixie-like. Soft-dotted freckles peppered her cheeks. When she had come to take his order, he hunched down, as if to hide his face under the lapels of his jacket. He never even looked at her, never gave her an opening for friendliness. But she clearly made an impression on him. Whenever she reached for the plates that were under the food warmer, he watched her pink uniform rise up to expose a little more thigh. That night, while he slept, I became her, in his mind and in his bed. The little waitress would have been happy. He fucked me with a gentleness that only a novice would enjoy.

From then on, I made a habit of visiting Paul every night. I used the freckled waitress each time, spreading my legs to expose my bald little beaver for Paul to dream sex.

He began staying longer at the coffee shop, each day lingering a few extra minutes, but Paul never spoke, except to order coffee. Her name was Eva. She had fast become a shop favorite, and many other customers engaged her in conversation.

“Hey, Eva, when you going to marry me?”

“When you divorce your wife and take me away from all this, Ned.”

Ned did what Paul wanted to do—teased Eva, chatted up the little sprite, and got closer looks into her sable eyes. Paul only kept an eye on the backside of her uniform and dreamed of her at night.

A glance at the calendar hanging by the cash register showed the next day was Samhain. This meant I had one more day to protect Paul from himself. But I also worried he would change his mind. While I delighted in using Eva to arouse him, I worried that in the little waitress Paul was finding a reason to live. It wouldn’t be the first time my patience went unrewarded. Yes, I was a scavenger, but I prided myself in choosing only those who had already chosen to cross over. I hadn’t feasted in several weeks, saving up for the one day a year that allowed my lover to see me as my true self and not as some mannequin in a dream. My abstinence was weakening me. My senses were still keen enough to hear mumbled conversations or smell that the woman in the second booth was menstruating, but I was hungry to smell bacon or coffee, to taste pancake syrup, or to taste a man’s syrup. Anything but blood.

It was the whispered voice of dear Eva that alarmed me.

“Why doesn’t he ever say anything?”

“Don’t know,” Ned whispered back. “He’s been coming here for months, same thing every day, black coffee, nothing else.” Ned sneaked a peek down Eva’s buttoned bodice as she leaned closer to hear.

“Do you know his name?”

“Never asked.”

“I feel sorry for him.” There was tenderness in her voice. She followed up her words by heading straight to Paul.

“Can I get you more coffee?” she asked.

Paul shrunk lower and shook his head. Eva shrugged her shoulders and walked away. But as she left, Paul lifted his head and his eyes locked on the sway of her hips and the two trim legs that jutted below her hemline. We stayed another five minutes.

Later, Paul walked past the Chinese Theater without slowing down. I lingered a little longer, savoring the aroma of melancholy blood as if it were a pie cooling in a window. It would be so easy to feast like most of my kind did, never worrying about the source as long as it was sustenance. Though I did what I needed to do to survive, it wasn’t in me to make a glutton of myself at the expense of someone’s life. Following a potential donor was a quirk I’d begun long ago. Some might think that anonymity was better, but I liked knowing my lover.

Paul bypassed all his usual haunts and went straight to his trailer home. This was more like it. Gloom hung in the air like deodorizer. He plopped down in his La-Z-Boy without switching on the lights or the TV. He sat for hours just staring into space. The air was stagnant with despair, and I sighed in relief. The depression still ran deep in Paul. I hadn’t been wasting my time.

Sometime well past dark, Paul switched on a light and began ransacking his desk, screaming.

“Where the fuck are they?”

He pulled out drawers, upturned books, and tossed everything to the floor, piece by piece. Finally, from a King James Bible, two pictures floated to the desk. He stood motionless, staring at the small face that looked back at him from the first picture. She had light, brown hair with streaks of gold, a button nose, and two front teeth missing; a girl of five or six with a pixie face and soft dotted freckles.

“Evie ... ” he sobbed.

My stomach lurched. Evie? Was Evie his daughter? Had he been dreaming of fucking his own daughter? I was filled with a sudden revulsion, and the desire to punish him—or punish myself—filled my soul. I should have let him kill himself that night on the bridge, let the others tear him to pieces! Venom coagulated in my throat. I concentrated on the artery that was just below the surface in his neck, his smooth, unlined skin taut across the vessel. I moved in.

Paul jumped. “Who’s there?”

The second picture fluttered to the floor. Two faces cheek-to-cheek stared back, both about fourteen.

“Is anybody there?” Paul glanced around and then picked up the photograph. He stared at the two teens—a boy with sandy blond hair, blue eyes, and blemished complexion, and a girl with sable eyes outlined in black and freckles lightened by powder. I eased back, relieved. Apparently, Eva was older than she appeared, and Paul was a lot younger. Their lives had obviously taken polar turns. The gentle lovemaking in his dreams began to make sense. He’d been making love to his first all over again.

“I am such an idiot,” Paul sobbed. With tears running down his cheeks, he took the photographs and tore them in two. The pieces fluttered impotently to the floor.

The morning of Samhain was clear and cold. A brilliant sun shone bright, boding well for a clear night. Paul had stayed up long into the night the evening before, nursing a whiskey and sobbing. He groaned at the morning light that filtered through the dirty window.

Eventually he forced himself out of bed, showered, shaved, and dressed in his nicest clothes. I’d seen this happen many times before, the doomed sprucing themselves up for the biggest day of their lives. This was their way of saying good-bye. Some would write notes, or call loved ones for one final chat, or go out to eat at the nicest restaurant in town.

Paul didn’t do that. He just walked. He walked and walked and walked until he stood in front of the coffee shop. It was late afternoon. Soon, the others would be out in force, reveling in an orgy of Samhainian abundance. Paul walked into the shop and took his regular seat.

Eva was there. “Well hello! I thought maybe you were sick today. I was about to close up.”

“Oh. Sorry. I’ll go on then.”

“No, no, it’s OK. Have a seat. Black coffee, right?”

Paul inched closer to Eva, and yet he kept his body angled away from her, ready to make a quick retreat. “I really should be going home.”

Eva put a cup and saucer on the counter and filled from the glass carafe. “It’s on me,” she said.

Paul took a sip. The air grew quiet.

“Do you have plans for tonight?” Eva asked.


“Well, I noticed you’re all dolled up. I thought maybe you had plans.”

“Yeah, I got plans.”

Eva tried to make eye contact, but Paul refused. “Do I know you, mister? You look a little familiar.”

“No, you don’t know me,” he replied. “I need to go.”

Paul drank his last drop of coffee and stood to leave. Eva scanned him from head to toe, a puzzled look on her face.

“Are you sure I don’t know you?”

Paul headed to the door. “No, I guess you don’t.” A quick glance back and Paul saw Eva pick up his dirty cup. “Goodbye Eva,” he whispered.


Scavengers hovered all around as Paul made his way back home. But they didn’t dare interfere with my claim. Paul was to be my Samhain Reward, a reward I had earned for this special night when the dead could roam among the living. The others, less selective, could easily find other prey.

Sunset approached and my excitement built. Paul was ready. He sat despondent in his La-Z-Boy with a gun in one hand, and his other hand clenched at his side. His finger rested on the trigger. He raised the point of the gun to his temple.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that.” My voice rang clear in the dusk-filled room.

“Who are you? What do you want?” Paul’s melancholy tinted his words. “Are you some kind of angel?” he asked.

I threw my head back and laughed. “Hardly, Paul.”

“How do you know my name?”

“I know a lot about you, Paul.”

“Go away.”

“For instance, I know you’ve been having sexual dreams every night for a week. Dreams filled with licking and sucking and fucking.”

He looked at me then, at my décolletage, my curves, and I opened my legs a little so he could see my untamed bush peeking beneath the hem of my chemise.

“Oh, I know you like a bald cunt, Paul, but think of it as a furry blanket, hiding a wonderful treasure.”

His hand went lax and the gun clattered to the floor. “How do you know what I like?”

“Let’s just say I’ve been keeping close.”

“It was you here last night, wasn’t it?”

“And on the bridge, and in the coffee shop, and at the Chinese Theater, and most importantly, it was me in your bed each night.”

“That was ... ” he stopped. The pain of Eva etched in his eyes.

“I was who you wanted me to be.”

“What do you want from me?”

I licked my lips. “I want what you were about to take.”

“I don’t understand,” he said.

“You want to die. I want to help you.”

“You going to pull the trigger for me?”

“I’d rather pull your trigger.” I raised my chemise up over my head and let it fall to the floor. I didn’t need Paul to tell me I was beautiful. I knew I was. I could smell his blood warming. I liked it. “Are you getting hard yet, Paul? Can you feel your cock thickening?”

“I don’t know who you are, lady, but you’re crazy.”

“Am I? Tell me your skin isn’t tingling, or that you’re not beginning to perspire.” I pulled at my nipples, causing them to elongate. “Tell me you’re not thinking about how nice it would be to suck these,” I hissed.

“I-I... ”

I slowly worked my way across the room until I hovered over him in his chair. His cock was full, pushing up against the fabric of his pants.

“Tell me you don’t want me to loosen the zipper.” I reached for the metal pull and inched it down slowly over his bulge. He wore no underwear. His cock sprung free and lovely, blood-filled veins proved its engorgement. I was getting hungrier. I leaned in close to his ear. His head fell back, exposing the length of his neck. Lub-dub lub-dub, his heart beat faster. His pulse was palpable in the expanse of neck. “Tell me you don’t want me to fuck you to death,” I whispered.


He was mine. I straddled his lap, teasing his glans with my pubic hair. “See, fur isn’t so bad when it’s as soft as mine, almost like cashmere, isn’t it, Paul?”

“Y-Yes.” His chest rose and fell in rapid succession.

“Tell me you want you want.”

“I wanna fuck!”

“SO DO I!” I grabbed his cock, and rammed my dry cold cunt down over it.

“JESUS! It’s like ice!” he yelled.

“Not for long.” I dry humped him once and then again, squeezing with all my strength. I could feel his pulse thumping through his engorged cock. Life. My need overpowered my patience and with the third drive downward, I sunk my teeth into his neck. Glorious, hot blood spurted, nearly burning my mouth. I sucked ravenously like a starved babe at a teat.

“Ow! God, what are you, some kind of vampire?”

I ignored his words and concentrated on my feast. Hot liquid rushed down my throat. He didn’t fight me. Resignation followed by lethargy prevented it. I was famished and nearly went too far too soon. He’d be useless. My appetite extended past the drink. I wanted an orgasm. His blood warmed me, seeping slowly through my body. I was getting stronger. I could smell his perspiration and his generic shampoo. The smells were wonderful! Glorious! My pussy was slick and prickled with the presence of his penis.

I pulled my mouth away. Blood oozed from the puncture wounds. I licked his blood instead of sucking, savoring every drop. I began a rhythm: lick and hump, lick and hump. My orgasm would build and then slowly dissipate, ever just out of reach.

“I need more!” I said and again I clamped my mouth over his neck. The more I drank the more my pussy swelled, and the juicier it became.

“Y-You really are going to fuck me to death.” He was pale. His words were labored. His penis was barely erect. His arms went slack, drooping over the sides of the chair. His clenched fist relaxed and a crumpled photograph, taped haphazardly, fell to the floor. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you, Evie. I love you. I love you so much.”

I could have finished him then. I desperately wanted to. I’d been hungry for so long. He’d given up. Never fought against me, actually. He was happy, the little worm. And I was so close to climax. One last healthy draw at his neck and I’d have success.

From the photograph on the floor, two pair of eyes twinkled at me. A boy and a girl. Long ago sweethearts. And there it was—the best reason of all to live. Love.

“I’m not Evie,” I said. “Don’t you see what you could have had with her?” But he didn’t.

I pulled away, giving up my rights. Paul’s penis shriveled like an unsupported tent. He was unconscious, but his heart was still beating. My cunt shivered and the faint smell of pussy wafted to my nostrils. I’d drunk enough to have a chance. I touched myself with warm fingers. First, a quick jab inside to moisten my fingertips, and then I rubbed furious circles over my clitoris. I was so close.

Busting glass and splintered wood came flying through the room. The others had arrived, eager for their Samhain feast. Like carrion birds, they swooped inside and landed on him. In a flash, they were pushing and shoving and feeding on his every limb. Still more jumped on each morsel of tissue and blood and bone that scattered to the floor. In moments, nothing was left of him.

I told myself it wasn’t my fault. I had let him live. They were the ones that took his life. They had no conscience. And now he was dead. But his blood was in me, warm and hot. I just needed to make use of it.

It began in the center of my womb, a rumbling wave of sexual intensity, crashing through my live synapses, ebbing and flowing, until every corpuscle had felt its strength. It was as powerful an orgasm as any I’d felt.

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