There would be no eloquent enough array of language in Armand’s history that would ever come close to his ability to articulate the transcendent ecstasy that came over him in those spine-melting moments.
Overcome and shattered at the peak of orgasmic bliss, his body broken apart in wave after shaking, nerve-snapping wave of elation. His lover’s delicate fist tangled in the silk of his curls, securing him tighter into the feed. There was no semblance of the man he once was before they entered these rooms left. What existed now was a raw pulsing bundle of nerves and sensation firing explosively. His body splattering in thick, garnet pearls of seed against the base of their bellies. His manhood pleasured for every grind and drag of their hips together. His own rhythm faltered as he spasmed bodily. His every limb entirely outside of his control.
Alafair’s words like a iron knife wrapped in velvet, slicing through the forefront of his thoughts. That he might drink hard and deep of this youngling. That he might continue to ride this peak, drop, break, crash out entirely.
The blood struck his mouth… Alafair drove into his own artery and the cycle, the perfect circle was complete.
The ritual struck it’s most profound climax. The wild, frenetic beating of the other’s heart. Pounding, explosive drum beats that boomed in tandem. Like a war call on an open battlefield in the rain before the charge. And he could see it now… The line of the caravan. Alafair, a child boy, nestled in the seat between mother and father. The pain in him as the numbers dwindled and their family broke away. All he ever knew now reduced to his maker. Peitro features, taut and handsome, dark olive skin and piecing eyes just like the young man at his side.
Lucia… oh what a sumptuous beauty. Her sadness, her triumph. She had won her companion back and the fledgling would be taught enough to survive and then dispatched to the wilds so as again she might bury herself in Peitro’s veins.
Alafair went where he might – for now he wandered. The world was his. He knew how to gamble and steal, how to bewitch and seduce. The sights and smells and sounds of the world embraced him. He had his own carriage now with a fine stallion and enough coin on his person that his clothes were clean and kept. He had adornments and jewels and rich coffin. Between travel, if he knew no lodging by sun-up, he’d hitch the horse and sleep the hours in his coffin.
He was free… Free… Oh God, how Armand was envious of him. Savagely perversely, selfishly jealous. He wanted to feel what he felt.
That freedom. To run from it all. To throw his crown to the floor and stand down his unwanted throne. Paris and her coven could burn. Perhaps Lestat was right all along. They were stagnating in the confines of this antiquated ruling when the new world moved with new ideas around them.
Their traditions were a sham.
He felt the stab of destruction. And it overjoyed him… The end was coming.
The end was coming but his orgasm was not.
The blood…. The blood. Alafair’s blood, thick and sweetened blood. Rich with the fires of Spain and the gypsy fever. He tasted of gold and fire. Silk liquors of spices and roses. He was young as the first storm of spring, but he would withstand eternity in his sweetness if only Armand encircled him as he would a diamond. And he the massive and jealous black dragon to protect his preciousness.
His lover pulled from him in the beating rhythm of the grind they both shared. Inside his body, the heat of his passion branded him again and again, signing his claim, taking his soul.
He held almost nothing back. His mind a dizzy scramble of memory that he gave unto his lover.
Images of his mother and father. The streets of Delhi, the lights of Diwali, the teachings of Hinduism and their strange and elegant multi-armed Gods. The incense and fire. The mysticism and ritual.
And then the ship.. The slavers. He was being taken to a foreign land. He could not understand them but he was not the only one.
They thought he was a girl at first, his beauty even as a child, so profound. And they raped him. Repeatedly and in groups. One after the other, holding him down, forcing organs into his tiny mouth where he could not breathe only splutter and choke. He could not scream even as the pain of a full grown man speared open his tiny, innocent rear. How he lost consciousness entirely, giving himself to blackness and praying to his Gods.
‘Let me die… Let me die.’
Then the whips, the starvation, the torment of it.
The brothel. The brothel where other boys like him were made to serve. Some could speak his tongue and encouraged him to play their petty games. That the men that came and the women too were not cruel if he was favoured.
Seven years of this hell. Seven years a whore to feed.
And then Marius. Marius came and Marius bought his freedom. Marius fed and clothed and loved him. Marius educated him and gave him the warmth of others.
Marius let him grow into a man and heal his wounds. Marius beat him savagely when he disgraced himself and the house.
Marius and Bianca saving him as his English Lord lover became drunk and obsessed and slew his brothers. The poison. The fevers. The dying. The turning.
And now the fires. Again his capture, his rape. The Children of Satan. He the most powerful for having ancient blood in his veins. The starvation. He cannibalized his own brothers because he had lost his mind.
Now he laughed at them all.
‘No more, my love… It hurts me so… Just love me, love me, love me. Don’t stop it. Don’t stop. More… Fuck me, own me, keep me. Let me drink from you forever. I could die here. I want to die here. Let me die…. Let me die Alafair… No… No… Harder… Harder God, yes, there… there…’
Again and again and again, he peaked, shattered, convulsed now wildly. His nails cut his skin, his did the same to his lover in turn.. Silk tore, they both bled. His body cast in a rose coloured sheen of sweat as it condensed over his skin. He didn’t care how his lover handled him so long as he didn’t stop.
He was blind in his passion. His frenzy so fever-pitched and ranvenous.
Oh, the blood was glorious. Thick, rich and impossibly complex. Human blood was thin and watery by comparison. Nothing could compare to this. Nothing. He was so young, so fresh. Crystaline snow, sparkling jewels in the morning sunlight. He was flowers and colours and open sky. Armand was weeping again.
His tears fell upon his lover’s shoulder and dripped down his blade, soaking into the ebony silk of the corset that held him.
‘Fuck… fuck….Again… Again… harder, harder…’ His thoughts screamed. He was cutting at the boy now with his fangs, all but tearing flesh, he held him with such impassioned pleading savagery.
And his lover seemed to thrill from the abuse. Again and again he felt his body release and strike him from within until at last he became overfull and dripped. The flood of blooded seed spilling from his intimacy to stain his lover’s groin and thighs and the silk cushions they rutted atop beneath them. As they loved each other, bracketed by the bodies of sleeping, blood-drained boy whores.
Their moans and cries of passion loud.
Armand’s powers flared. His passion so intense, his gifts exploded out of him. The fire gift sent the braizers exploding outwards in a burst of yellow flames that almost licked the high silk slung ceiling and burned the drapery there. The fireplace roared unnaturally as if fuel had been poured into it and the flames themselves would break free and eat the room.
Objects shuddered around them, glasses and champagne bottles smashed without human hands upsetting them. The incensed swirled, time shimmered and fought to move. So sluggish, like dripping honey.
Until at last, the beating of his lover’s heart stammered and he was full… Full…Everywhere deliciously full. He could not take any more.
His body dripped like a fountain. His appearance so flushed and vital he appeared once more entirely human. A young man. Twenty-seven years of age and flush rosy in the bloom of life, enjoying the passions of his lover that overturned his mind and soul toward God’s glory.
He released his fangs and slackened, bonelessly in Alafair’s arms. Three mind-altering orgasms had ripped through him in such potent succession he no longer knew his own name.
Only the boy in his arms. Nothing else mattered. Nothing else.
“Alafair… Alafair… I’m burning from within… It aches, it aches so sweetly. I love you. I love you.”
