Thursday, June 1, 2017

There’s This Knothole…

I keep wondering if my little stories trigger any fond recollections in you. Feel free to let me know.
Courtesy of Pixabay

          It all started when Lenny Woodson whispered that there was a tiny knothole in the wall between the boys’ and girls’ locker rooms. All you had to do was remove the wad of tissue someone had stuffed in the hole, and you had a view into the other side. There wasn’t really much I wanted to see in there, but the next time I found myself alone after school in the boys’ room, I looked around until I found the spot exactly where he told me it would be… at the end of the line of sinks. Why hadn’t I noticed it before?
          I pulled out the little wad of paper and bent over like a half-opened jackknife to put my eye to the opening. Not much to see. A not very clear view of basins and mirrors.
          “Getting an eyeful, Wolf?” a deep voice demanded.
          Startled, I straightened up and found my backside pressing into Tommy Marsh’s groin. I stepped forward quickly. Tommy was the school’s quarterback and my wet dream. But I’d get beat up and run outa town if I made my feelings known.
          He put his hands on my shoulders and applied some force. “Go on, take another look. Tell me what you see.”
          As soon as I bent over again, I felt his fly against my butt. I tried to move forward, but it didn’t do any good. He followed me, and I about fainted when I felt him getting an erection.
          “T-Tommy,” I stammered. “I don’t—”
          “Cool it, Wolf. You can either give me what I want, or I’ll tell the principal I caught you peeking into the girl’s toilet.”
          “What… what do you want?” My mouth went dry, but I went wet somewhere else.
          “Stand up.”
          I did... and enjoyed the feel of his muscled body against my back.
          “Go in the shower room, back stall, and strip.”
          “Do it!”
          Without another word, I stumbled to the showers, keeping my back to him as I removed my clothing. When I turned around, he was naked and rampant. Man, was he rampant!
          He stepped into the showers and turned a spigot. I followed like iron filings drawn to a magnet. Man, he was beautiful. Athlete’s build, movie star’s features. I went weak in the knees. After luxuriating in the warmth of the water for a moment, he turned to me.
          “On your knees.”
          As if on order, they gave way and dumped me on the tiles in front of him.
          “Okay, it’s your move,” he said.
          It would likely be the ruination of me in this little town, but so help me, if that’s what Tommy wanted, that’s what I’d give him. I clasped his trim hips and for the next few minutes, I was lost in giving my idol the pleasure he desired.
          Once he pulled away and turned to wash in the cascading water, I figured the recriminations would come. The sneering rejection. The nasty jibes.
          “Hey, man,” he said in his sexy baritone. “That was pretty good.”
          “T-thanks.” I got to my feet and let the water warm me.
          “This is just between us, right? It’ll be our secret, okay?”
          “Yeah. Sure,” I agreed.
          He took the soap from the dish attached to the wall and started showering. I did the same, feeling a faint glow of confidence usually missing in my makeup. As I snatched glances at my hero, I realized he was lathering up a certain part of his anatomy.
          And I knew this party wasn’t over. Not yet.

What about it? Can you identify with either Wolf or Tommy? Which one more aptly describes your persona? Let me know what you think of the story at

Thanks for being a reader.


The next blog on the first day of the succeeding month at 6:00 a.m.

Monday, May 1, 2017


Another story from back in the Land of Nostalgia. Does this remind you of something from your days of yore?

          No one can remember why it’s called Falconer’s Ridge, but it’s been there forever, a bluff right at the edge of the city park. The climb isn’t too steep or dangerous, although over the years there have been a few broken arms and dislocated elbows.
          It’s a great place to watch the activity on the baseball field below. I grew up thinking I couldn’t play sports because of a childhood illness I eventually overcame, but I like to watch. Not the games so much, but the budding athletes cavorting on the field. PeeWee sports don’t do anything for me, but the high school games rev up my interest.
          There’s a clear spot about ten feet below the ridge’s crest that’s a good place to sit and watch. And I do a lot of it. But my secret place is about ten yards to the west where some bushes screen a comfortable niche perfect for watching what goes on below without anyone knowing. Sometimes I use one spot, and sometimes I use the other, depending upon my mood.
          Whenever Das Brumfield pitches or Kerry Jones catches, I use the hidden spot. They are both so… so… sexy I guess you’d say that I hide out there where no one can see my hard-on. And I always get one when I watch them play with such manly grace. I wish I could move like that, look like that. But I look exactly like what I am. A library freak.

          A week after I graduated, I hunkered down in my open spot and took in an impromptu game. For some reason, I was sorta down. Probably because in a few weeks, most of those players and I would be heading off in all different directions to college. It wasn’t an exciting prospect. I had trouble enough getting along with guys I’d known all my life. What would happen when I got shipped off to a placed where I didn’t know anyone?
          As I concentrated on the game, I noticed Das wasn’t pitching. He had been a few minutes ago. Where had he gone? To the head maybe? I shivered just thinking about him standing exposed before the urinal. I was taken so much by that mental image that I almost didn’t spot him climbing the ridge.
          Entranced, I watched the muscles play in his long back as he slowly scaled the bluff. Handsome, deeply tanned, he was as close to an Adonis as anyone I’d ever known. I liked and admired him unreasonably even though he’d never said a word to me except in passing. Not that he was stuck up or anything. I just didn’t register.
          As he neared the top, he took me by surprise by edging along the ledge toward my spot. A moment later when it was clear he was heading straight for me, my underarms broke out in a sweat. My right foot jerked involuntarily.
          “Hi, Rafe,” he called. My name was Rafferty, but the kids made Rafe out of it.
          “Das.” The word came out weak because my throat had gone dry.
          “You like to perch up here, huh? See you a lot.” He turned his handsome visage on me and blinded my eyes with a smile. “I watched you once through the glasses. You know, binoculars. Curious about what you were doing.”
          “Just watching. Good place for it.”
          “Yeah, it is. But there’s something odd about it, too. If you wanted, you could come sit beside the field and see everything up close. Hell, you could even come and play.”
          I felt my ears go red.
          “When I saw you get up and go over there—“ he nodded west. “—I got it. That’s your jerk off hideout, isn’t it?
          My cheeks joined my ears. In fact, I felt the flush start in my neck and move upward.
          “I was real curious, so I watched through the glasses. Couldn’t see too clearly, but I saw enough movement through those bushes to figure out what you were doing. You want to show to me?”
          I swallowed hard. “S-show you what?”
          “Your private jack off place. What else did you think I meant?”
          He stood and scooted around me on the ledge, his fly brushing my nose as he did so. Then he made his way to my private spot. After a moment, I followed along behind him.
          “Ah, a nice comfortable place,” he said, nodding his approval. He plopped down where I usually sat and peered through the protective bushes. “Tell me, who do you watch when you do the dirty deed? Kerry?” He grinned. “Or me?”
          I struggled just to get a word out. “Y-you.”
          He spread his denim-clad legs. “Well, here I am. You’ll never get a better chance to get a closer look.”
          It took me all of a second to accept his invitation.

Ah, what happened next? But Rafe and Das want a little privacy, so we can only put our imaginations to work. Let me know what you think happened at

Thanks for being a reader.


The next blog on the first day of the succeeding month at 6:00 a.m.

Saturday, April 1, 2017


Today we go back to our regular monthly schedule with the short story that follows. Let me know if this reminds you of something in your background.
     I couldn’t believe what my unknown caller had just said.
     “You want what?”
     “I want what you’re advertising,” someone said in a pleasant baritone.
     “What advertising?”
     “Basement men’s room in the Student Union Building. Third stall.”
     “You’re crazy,” I muttered before slamming down the receiver.
     Grabbing a windbreaker, I barreled out of my dorm room and tripped down the stairs on my way to the SUB. I had to restrain myself from running, but I didn’t want to excite attention. That shows how much the phone call had shook me. Guys ran on campus all the time.
     As usual on a Saturday morning, the SUB was busy, but I passed no one on the stairway to the basement. As I started down the long hallway, I thought I heard someone coming downstairs, but I didn’t want to look back. I just whipped into the bathroom. Good. It was deserted.
     I entered the third stall and sat down. And there it was. Right at eye level. Right above the glory hole carved into the wall… at a convenient height. The message was written with the letters all run together to form a rough rectangle, but anyone with half a brain could make out the message: Johnny B gives good head with a phone number scribbled inside the rectangle. My phone number.
     Son of a bitch! Had to be Josh, my pissed-off ex-roommate, who wrote this. The knowledge it revealed was something only the two of us shared. Or so I’d thought.

     It had started three months ago when I spotted his erection beneath the sheet he’d used to cover himself. He slept in his shorts, and I’d always found his tapered torso exciting. When he caught me eyeing his condition, I blurted out the first thing that popped into my head.
     “I can take care of that for you, if you want.”
     A crooked—very sexy—smile twisted his lips. “Sure. Have at it.”
     I started out like a friend—you know, with my hand—but before long he somehow had my head in his lap. A week later, the same thing happened. Then it got to be two times a week. Heck, it could be every night so far as I was concerned. I was perfectly happy helping out this handsome, sexy guy… until he blindsided me.
     “I want you to do that for my buddy,” he said as I finished with him one evening.
     “Charlie. He’d like to get a helping of that. All I gotta do is call him, and he’ll be right over.”
     “No way! This is just something we do. Nobody else’s business.”
     Not sure why I reacted that way. Charlie was damned near as good looking as my roommate. But somehow it didn’t seem right.
     Well, that was the end of that. If I wouldn’t accommodate his buddy, I couldn’t have any more of Josh. Things got tense between us until he moved to an apartment off campus.

     The sound of the men’s room door opening brought me out of my reverie. The guy—whoever he was—walked straight into the booth next door and snapped the lock. I heard a swish as his trousers dropped to the floor. A quick peek through the glory hole showed the guy busy massaging himself. Whoever it was had a good bod, but I saw enough to know it wasn’t Josh.
     Crap! I’d been sandbagged. This was probably the guy who called me. He’d set the bait, and I fell for it. Ran right straight to the SUB and into the third stall.
     Without bothering to play hide-and-seek. he walked straight over and thrust himself through the hole between the two stalls. I stared at the thing for a minute.
     Oh, what the hell!
     I grasped him in my fist… and gave him what he wanted.

A little different from the dark four-parter that preceded it, wouldn’t you say? Most of us haven’t met a sex-starved vampire, but lots of us have known or been a Josh in our salad days. Let me know what you think at

Now let me give a plug for a buddy. New Mexico author Don Travis’s The Bisti Business was released by DSP Publications on March 21. It’s a good mystery with a gay protagonist. Give it a read. His contact links are posted below:

Facebook: dontravis
Twitter: @dontravis3

Thanks for being a reader.


The next blog no the first day of the succeeding month at 6:00 a.m.

Wednesday, March 15, 2017


Today, we go to the fourth and final part of “The Prescient,” a short story originally published in a Bold Strokes anthology called Erotica/Exotica, Tales of Sex, Magic, and the Supernatural, edited by Richard Labonte. In our last post, Tancready and Boris made a couple of trips to photograph points of interest, but Tancready became so inflamed, his aura alarmed Boris and drove him away. What happens now?

NOTE: Because this is a 7,700-word short story, I have been posting every two weeks. Now I will resume my regular blogging on the first of each month.
Courtesy of Wikipedia Commons

     Boris showed up Friday evening. Expecting such an event, I had not closed my gate against the world for the past few nights. I opened the door and expressed false surprise.
     “Tancready,” he said, nervously shifting from one foot to the other. “I came to apologize for the other night.”
     “That is kind of you, Boris. Won’t you put the incident from your mind and come in?”
     His internal struggle was obvious as he stepped over the sill. I snapped on a small, weak lamp for his convenience. “That’s the problem. I can’tforget about it.”
     “Because you are curious?” I suggested gently, releasing the tight rein I held on my energy. He nodded uncertainly as an orange tendril caressed his handsome face. “Have you had any experience with a man?” He shook his head, his torso now engulfed. “But you wonder what it would be like.” I made it a statement.
     “I don’t know. Maybe.” He licked his lips nervously. I recognized his urge to flee … and his inability. “How did the prints come out?”
     “Boris,” I said, releasing my sexual energy to go where it would. “Forget the prints, at least for the moment. This needs to be dealt with.”
     “H…how?” he stammered, even as he reluctantly submitted to my will and slowly approached. “Damn, Tancready! What am I doing? What are we doing? Why can’t I stop myself? Why—”
     I cut off his words with a kiss. He resisted momentarily, and then surrendered those rosy lips. His reluctant tongue entwined with mine. With that kiss, I fed my pranic energy, indulging my long-suppressed desire for this young Leandro.
     I took a moment to drink in his masculinity. The boy’s curly hair had a fetching, careless look, flowing down into sideburns that ended in a point, like a child’s that had never felt the bite of a razor. Huge, magnetic eyes; wide, expressive mouth; skin without blemish and glowing with health and the vitality of youth dominated his features.
     He stood rooted to the spot as I slowly removed his shirt. With wry amusement, I noted a thin chain around his neck, a tiny gold cross he had instinctively worn as protection. I concluded that perhaps he was consciously or unconsciously edging toward an understanding of the situation. When I touched the small Christian symbol without alarm, his defenses shattered.
     I stroked the broad shoulders and ran my hands across his smooth hairless chest. Gently drawing him into my arms, I smoothed his horripilated flesh with my palms. His belly fluttered from excitement or fear; probably a bit of both. I traced the vee of his back to his belt line. Holding him helpless in my aura, I freed him of his clothing. The sight of his naked loins deprived me of the last of my control. He was as perfect as I had imagined, masculine, physically powerful, yet totally vulnerable; frightened of a carnal encounter with a man, yet anticipating it. His psychic energy flared with every color in the spectrum. Fear, loathing, desire, anticipation, disgust, lust. Wild with my need, I lifted his long, uncircumcised cock, which was already filling with blood. I skinned back his foreskin and tasted his throbbing flesh.
     Boris writhed at my hot touch on his cool flesh, doing battle with his carnal desire and his panic. Each was an aphrodisiac to me. When his time neared, he lost the will to resist and moved his hips, slowly at first and then with all the power of those sturdy thighs. He placed a hand behind my head and threw his erection into me. Then, abruptly, he came and gifted me with great gouts of his essence. It was as potent as I knew it would be. My energy level soared! My strength surged! My awareness became so hyper it was almost unendurable. I shared the ecstasy of his ejaculation, knowing he had experienced what few ever achieve…the love of a Vampire.
     He lay exhausted on the thick carpet while I rested my head on his breast, glorying in his soft breath against my cheek. Rising to his side, I explored his features to fully understand the beauty of this extraordinary young man. I covered him with the cloak of my love, the aura of my friendship, the whole of my devotion!
     A mistake! Too much, too soon. He scrambled to his feet and, without pausing to dress, clutched his clothes to his breast and ran naked to his Jeep. Sated and overloaded with energy, I turned sullen and morose.
     As before, the boy kept his distance for a few days before appearing unannounced on my doorstep. Neither of us spoke when I opened the door. Faint bruises beneath his eyes bespoke of hours of worry and lost sleep. His aura was wild, fretful, fearful. Yet, he was here. He moved into my living room and turned on me accusingly.
     “What have you done to me? What is this hold you have over me? It…it’s ungodly! Why don’t you leave me alone?”
     “Is that what you wish?” I asked quietly.
     He fought and lost his battle standing in the middle of a darkened room in my home. “No!” he moaned, clutching me to his breast and kissing me with a passion that took me by surprise.
     Ripping off his clothing, Boris took my head in his strong hands to guide me down his smooth torso. I followed his lead, and soon he was feeding my energy with magnificent, hungry cock.
     “God! It’s as good as the first time!” he gasped in dismay as his flesh bruised the depths of my throat. Young Boris’s manly flesh filled me to capacity. “Who…are you? How do you make me do these things?
     I paused to answer. “I make you do nothing you do not already crave.”
     “No. Yes. No! Please … don’t stop.” A moment later, his hard tool swelled in my mouth as his cum shot through it. He staggered backwards, and I saw his eyes widen with the shock of understanding. “You’re going to make me do it to you, aren’t you? You’re going to make me fuck you?” He gave me no time to reply. “Are you going to do it to me, too?”
     I flinched at the anguish in that question. “Only when you want me to, Boris. And you will … eventually.”
     “Who are you?” he cried. Are you who I think you are?”
     “And who is that?”
     “One of those creatures Grandpa Balint used to talk about.” His moved away from me, his dilated eyes full of doubt. “That can’t be! Those are nothing but old wives’ tales. Folklore. Oh, Lord,” he exclaimed, pacing restlessly around the darkened room, oblivious to his naked beauty. “What am I saying? This is the twenty-first century. This is the good old US of A. I … I’m a modern guy.” He halted and indulged in a sour grimace, which turned him absolutely fetching. “I’m just all messed up over getting it on with a guy. That’s all; that’s all it is.”
     “Do your sexual regrets usually span days?” I asked quietly.
     “No, but this was with a man!”
     “Boris, at a guess, I’d say that half the male student body at the university has had an experience with another male, and they do not appear so agitated.”
     “Yeah, but…but I came back for seconds.” He resumed pacing again. “Something’s not right. I gotta figure this out. Gimme my prints, Tancready. I’m not coming back. Not ever!”
     I gave him a doleful smile and handed over an envelope from the coffee table. “Yes, you will. Here are your film and the prints. But be warned. Every time you view them, you will remember this magnificent experience.”
     “Never!” he breathed, and once again headed out the door naked.
     “You are welcome in my home any time, Boris Balint.” I sent a tentacle toward him and viciously drew on his energy. He reeled against the doorframe and stumbled outside.
     He was back within a fortnight, wild, disheveled, and at the edge of his sanity. As I opened the door, shading my sight against the sudden light, he pushed his way inside. Immediately, he turned fretful.
     “Why am I here? I’ve got no control anymore, Tancready. My life’s gone to hell in a hand basket. I broke up with my girl. My grades have taken a nosedive. I can’t sleep. Eat. Do anything. And it’s all your fault!”
     He stopped directly in front of me, his eyes flickering as his suspicions fell into place. “You’re one of them. A Vampire! God, I can’t believe I’m saying it out loud! But nothing else makes sense! How you make me do what I don’t want to do! How you got me to talk to you in the first place even though I knew I shouldn’t.” That sent a look of surprise across his handsome face. “How did I even know it was wrong to talk to you?”
     “You are a Prescient,” I replied. “A human who is sensitive to Eternals.”
     “Eternals,” he laughed harshly. “Vampires, you mean. That explains so much. You can’t stand the light; you wear those damned shades all the time. You live in the dark! But…” he hesitated. “I thought you burned to a crisp in sunlight.”
     “False folklore,” I scoffed. “I have difficulty, but I can function by day.”
     “That’s why you cover up with clothing,” he seized on the point. “And another thing … I drove like a madman the other night, but you beat me back to the campus. I sensed you. How did you get there so fast?”
     “I have other means of travel,” I answered vaguely. I saw his look. “No, I do not fly around like a bat.” I stroked his smooth cheek; he looked panicked but suffered my touch.
     “Maybe not, but you can see in the dark like one, pick a flying insect out of the air with your radar. And you feed off people, Tancready. I’ve seen it! You draw from them…drain them. You’ve done it to me.”
     “Yes,” I admitted. “I feed my energy by drawing from others. But I always sought to spare you, Boris. Your power is your cum, your seed.” I rubbed my thumb across his mouth.
     His eyes became saucers, and his aura flared. He feebly batted my hand away. “I’m a fucking meal to you?”
     “What I take from you, I am willing to give to you.” I parted his lips with my finger, raked a nail over his teeth.
     He struggled a moment, and then his broad shoulders slumped. He licked the end of my finger. “You want me to blow you, don’t you?” The spirit was gone from his voice.
     “Yes, I want you to taste me, as I have tasted you. I want to imbue you with my power.”
     Tremulously, he opened the robe I wore and ran his hands down my chest. “I didn’t know Vampires were handsome, like men,” he mumbled, moving to lick my sternum. His moist lips were electrifying; his touch set off sparks. I was so swollen I thought it might burst. He was awkward and inexperienced, but ultimately quite successful. Afterward, I knelt to embrace him, cooing in his ear as he fought his emotions.
     “Giving pleasure, begets pleasure,” I philosophized inanely.
     The boy rose to his full height, every inch a man. “I can’t believe it! You made me do it!” Alarm flooded his halo. “Will I be all right?”
     “You will be fine. As much as I would like you to stay the night, my beautiful Boris, I think you should return to your dorm. Try not to fret. Get some rest, and return to me this weekend. There is much for me to teach you.”
     He dropped his head into his hands for a moment and then looked at me again. “You want us to do it, don’t you? I mean really do it! You’re going to make me fuck you! And you’re going to do it to me!” His hand suddenly went to his neck. “You want my blood, too, don’t you?”
     I responded quietly. “You must trust me not to harm you.”
     “Trust you?” he demanded. “Yeah, Tancready. First, you take away my power to resist. Then we do this. Now you want my fucking blood! Will it turn me into…a creature like you?”
     I shook my head slowly. “No, that is another lie told over the generations.” I brushed his hand away and fingered the pulsing vein in his throat. He shuddered. “Go now, Boris, with the certain knowledge that I love you beyond all things. And when you return, you will understand my meaning.”
     I was sated when he left me and had no need to prowl for partners, willing or unwilling. Nonetheless, I went to the campus to see that he arrived safely. As he entered the dormitory, I could tell my handsome young Prescient was aware that I hovered near.
     When he arrived Saturday night, Boris seemed resigned, albeit nervous and agitated, even though the marks of distress had disappeared from his handsome features. The big, soulful eyes were clear again. He had accepted his fate, perhaps even worked up some enthusiasm over the experience I promised.
     “Do we have to do this?” he asked quietly.
     “We must, Boris, in order to fully express our mutual love.”
     He walked into the room and stripped, taking the unconscious stance of an ancient Greek marble, hip sprung, a jacket clutched in his right hand. This night, I led him into my bedroom and observed his curious examination of the dreaded Vampire’s den. Feigning unconcern, he tossed his jacket on the bed and fell on his back across the mattress, waiting expectantly as I shrugged out of my clothing. I draped myself over his long frame, my groin kissing his. His body was warm beneath mine. His chest heaved against my breast in excitement and nervousness.
     He opened his mouth to accept my kiss and entwined his tongue with mine. It had been five hundred years since I felt a kiss like this one…with a husky young Bulgur cavalryman, as I recall. I expected Boris to be timid, inexperienced, but twisted his body so that he was atop me. I fingered his cock, and it rose expectantly. He got between my legs, and I opened to him. Once mounted, he grew in confidence, thrusting boldly, rutting so vigorously that I feared he would injure himself. Then I let go of my worry and wholly engaged myself in this magnificent act of love.
     Cataclysmic I had promised, and cataclysmic it was. His orgasm sent his aura soaring, creating new colors, brighter hues! He shuddered above me as if in the grip of a cerebral stroke. When it was finally over, he loomed above me, ecstasy slowly fading from his countenance. He opened his tortured eyes.
     “You will find it difficult to match the power of what you just experienced,” I boasted. “And it was more awesome because of our love.”
     He was silent while absorbing this. “Do you really love me? If you do, you won’t do this to me. Don’t fuck me, Tancready,” he begged.
     “It is the only way to consummate our love. You are the object of my intellectual desire, my spiritual desire, my carnal desire. You are as close to perfect as I shall ever find, and I must experience you every way possible,” I babbled, my vortex rising, my aura probing him with increasingly red tentacles. My energy level peaked and absorbed his vibrations.
     His handsome countenance took on a look of quiet desperation. “If we can leave it this way, I’ll come back to you. As many times as you want. But don’t fuck me, all right? Please!”
     “I will not enter your body unless you agree to it,” I said quietly.
     “That doesn’t mean anything,” he reasoned aloud. “I won’t be able to help myself, will I?” Abruptly, he leaned forward so that our noses almost touched. “Why, Tancready? Why me?”
     “Boris, I have loved you from the moment I laid eyes on you in Zimmerman Library the semester you first arrived.”
     He closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, they were filled with tears. They ran down his face. A look of utter anguish crossed his handsome face. “And you’re going to take my blood afterward. I won’t be able to deny you anything, will I?”
     “You will suffer no harm, I promise. But only then will we truly be one,” I answered carelessly, reaching to caress a cheek still damp with his tears.
     “Then so be it,” he whispered. Sighing deeply, he fumbled with his jacket at my shoulder and then straightened his torso above me. My aura flaring in sudden alarm, I was aware of several things at once. He grew rampant inside me. His strong, corded arms rose, revealing clumps of dark, damp hair deep in his armpits. The muscles in his upper chest rolled. I glimpsed the sharpened tent peg in his hands. Fear and total devastation twisted his features.
     “I’m so sorry, Tancready,” he moaned from the depths of his soul. The dark magenta of loss and despair swept his halo as he brought down those powerful arms in a mighty blow.

Wow! A wooden stake to the heart. Has Boris Balint put an end to a vampire who has lived a thousand years? Well, at least Tancready learned Boris was a prescient… the hunter kind.

I’m interested in your reaction to this story. Please feel free to contact me at

Thanks for being a reader.

The next blog to be back on our usual schedule of the first day of the month at 6:00 a.m.

Wednesday, March 1, 2017


Today, we go to the third part of “The Prescient,” a short story originally published in a Bold Strokes anthology called Erotica/Exotica, Tales of Sex, Magic, and the Supernatural, edited by Richard Labonte. In our last post, Tancready made contact through the boy’s interest in chess. They’ve agreed to a phto-trip during daylight hours—a difficult time for Tancready. Here we go.

NOTE: Because this is a 7,700-word short story, I will post every two weeks until it is finished. After that, I will resume my regular blogging on the first of each month.
Courtesy of

     I roused myself the following morning with difficulty. Despite the excitement of my coming time with Boris, I was reluctant to expose myself to the dreadful sunburn and excruciating headaches an all-day excursion necessarily entailed. Nonetheless, it was necessary. The prospect depressed me so deeply that I was only able to function by concentrating on my approaching proximity to the delectable Boris. Briefly, I wondered why I did not simply overwhelm the boy and take what I wanted, as with the Hispanic and the towhead and countless others, but something within me cautioned against rashness. This prize was unique in both physical sensuality and an innate sensitivity to the unusual.
     And that brought me face-to-face with a potential problem I had sought unsuccessfully to ignore. As I gathered the equipment and awaited the boy’s arrival, I considered the unease that was twin to my pleasure in his exciting presence. The youth was extraordinarily aware of me. For all the studied casualness of one of his age, his halo betrayed his true, perhaps unconscious feelings. There were, of course, individuals who were quite perceptive when it came to Eternals, although they would be rare in this part of the Western Hemisphere, given its lack of such lore. Dhampires, sons of Vampires, existed, of course, and were attuned to our rhythms. That would present no particular problem, but there was a sensitive of another sort, presenting another problem.
     Was it possible Boris was a Prescient? Mortals with an uncanny sensitivity to Eternals, Prescients are sometimes dangerous since many are Betrayers, or worse, Slayers. Over the ages, I have known many Prescients, some of whom, the ignorant, fled in terror. Others, more enlightened, provided many hours of pleasant company. One, a delightful woman of lush body and bright mind was a constant companion in a long-ago lifetime. She occupied my mind and body as few have done over the centuries…a role I envisioned for Boris in this one. Those were my blood days, and Sara willingly presented her veins to me when my hunger became truly demanding … without ill effect, I might add. Even today, I speculate on her given name, Sara, the Gypsy version of the black goddess Kali.
     A few Prescients have betrayed me into the hands of enraged, terrified mortals, who are the deadliest and most bloodthirsty of all creatures, and a small number have sought my doom. These I dealt with as brutally as Vlad dispatched his enemies.
     Boris’s bloodlines allowed for this possibility, but his family had been in the New World for generations with no exposure to my kind. Yet, his aura clearly showed he was unusually receptive to my mere presence. That did not necessarily mean he knew the why or the what of his apprehension. Shrugging away my usual caution, I completed preparations for our outing, thereby laying bare the depth of my need. My hunger for the boy was both natural and unnatural; natural in craving his pranic energy, his semen, and unnatural in a lust that was overwhelmingly sensual, a different thing altogether.
     At the appointed hour, his white Jeep appeared before my closed gate, and I threw the lever to admit him. Carefully placing our equipment atop an old tent he carried in the back, I was pleased to note he drove an enclosed vehicle, which would ease my exposure to the sun. I had agreed to allow him to provide the conveyance, suspecting this would satisfy his masculine code of etiquette.
     We elected to explore the Bosque, a unique hundred-mile swath of cottonwoods lining both sides of the Rio Grande, an ecological treasure sentenced to a slow death once a system of dams put an end to the annual flooding of the river that was required to nurture seedlings. The once mighty Rio Grande now trickled through a narrow channel that wandered willy-nilly in its wide, sandy bed.
     Boris took to the Leica Minilux like a born photographer. It fit his hand and eye perfectly. He shot images of driftwood on white sand, river birds in flight, an ancient turtle sunning on a semi-submerged log, and even a reclusive red fox. He rolled up his pant legs to reveal strong calves lightly brushed with fine brown hair and waded the river, cavorting like a boy. His aura ran wild with joy and budding friendship. He grew so comfortable that he dared tease me about the abundance of clothing covering me from head to foot on this warm, autumn day. I explained it for what it was, the protection of sensitive skin against the brutal sun. He had no such constraints. He tore off his shirt, baring his broad, muscled chest to my famished gaze. I briefly lost control and sopped up his radiations, but recovered before any damage occurred. 
     My desirable young companion had a commitment that night, so we made arrangements to meet the following morning for a quick trip to the mountains before developing our film in my darkroom. Once he was gone, I applied ointments and unguents to my poor flesh and retired.
     In the dark of night, I rose and prowled the alleyways behind the bars on East Central, locating a man whose aura showed no trace of disease. I took his cum while he swore and sang drunkenly until the shock of his extraordinary climax silenced him.
     The lush conifer forest on the east side of Sandia Mountain, a ten-thousand foot peak directly east of Albuquerque that the local Indians called Sleeping Turtle, was less harsh on my system, and the boy’s growing amity made the effort worthwhile. He was an odd combination of venturesome youth, childish juvenile, and mature man. His company delighted me even as it aggravated my lust. It was not merely his physical presence that kindled me, but his mind and spirit, as well. We discussed the great photographers. He was much taken with Ansel Adams and Ernest Haas, but agreed that Dmitri Kessel’s powerful plates of the ornate Benedictine church at Zwiefalten, Germany placed him among the elite. With difficulty, I stopped short of boasting that I had served as a seminarian at that magnificent structure in another lifetime.
     We stood for long intervals and listened to the forest speak while I fought a raging battle to control my impatience for him. Boris blundered upon a black bear rooting for acorns, disturbed grazing mule deer, and photographed a magnificent golden eagle. We ascended Sandia Crest, named for the watermelon pink hhue the autumn sun gave its western face at sunset, to cast our eyes west over the broad Rio Grande Valley to Mt. Taylor, one of the Navajo’s four sacred peaks. At a turnout lower on the mountainside we gazed north to Santa Fe hidden in the foothills of the towering Sangre de Cristos…a beautiful name, Blood of Christ! With that thought, I hungrily observed the vein pulsing in the boy’s neck as he snapped a picture. I wanted him so badly that I achieved an erection, something I rarely do until it is required. Sexual energy escaped my control, lapping against him in mauve waves of desire.
     He dropped the camera from his eye and faced me. From the sudden flare of warning red, I saw he was alarmed. His mood changed dramatically; Boris was more thoughtful and less gregarious on our return trip despite my attempt to keep a conversation going.
     The boy was quite skilled in the darkroom. Devoting our attention to this task, we labored into the night. Prolonged proximity to his sculpted body taxed my control to the limit. Waiting for our prints to dry, I hovered near him and carelessly sent a wave of desire up his back, retreating when his aura flared. But the damage was done. Boris turned to me, his color heightened by the crimson of the developing lamp. He licked his lips nervously.
     “Y…you’re a homosexual, aren’t you?” The tone was wary.
     “I have lain with men,” I answered rather pompously.
     “That’s what you want with me, isn’t it?” he rasped; his energy flaring alarmingly. “You want in my pants!”
     “That is crude, Boris.”
     “Oh, hell! You do! You want to…do things to me. No way, Tancready! I don’t go for that stuff. I like my girl. We make love. Oh, man, I knew something wasn’t right about this. Shit!” he cursed, tearing off the protective apron I had given him for working with the darkroom chemicals. Without another word, he slammed out of the room. I caught up with him in the hallway.
     “I gotta go now. Early class tomorrow,” he babbled.
     “Your prints, Boris! Your photographs?”
     “I don’t know,” he waved a hand in the air. “Maybe I’ll come get them later.”
     The boy fled into the night. I sadly opened the gate by remote control as his vehicle raced down the long drive. The house was lonely and oppressive once he was gone. My black mood turned into rage. They made love, did they? He and that…that girl! A bottomless jealousy tinted the room an iridescent green, overpowering even my anger. Straightening things in the darkroom and pulling prints from the dryer, I considered removing my competition. It would be easy enough. I could sate my newly awakened blood lust, turning it into a deadly feast. By a narrow margin, reason prevailed over impetuosity. The female creature’s demise, especially in such a manner, would excite unwelcome attention, not only from Boris, but also from the authorities. Such a disastrous end to a magnificent, albeit a taxing day! Abruptly, I abandoned the house.
     Using that other dimension, I easily reached the campus ahead of Boris. From a place of concealment, I observed him pull into a parking spot and crawl out of the Jeep. Slowly, as if totally exhausted, he trudged toward the buildings, passing his dormitory and making for the Duck Pond to claim the bench where we had played chess. He sat down heavily.
     Cautiously, I drew near, but his psychic energy flared. He glanced around warily as I eased back into the shadows. Even from afar, I observed the erection trapped between his leg and the denim of his trousers. He sat with his chin on his chest while his blood subsided and the goose bumps that puckered his flesh faded away. He was as frightened as he had ever been in his short lifetime, but he had not yet divined his true fear. He perceived his present agitation as merely a challenge to his manhood by a pervert. I wondered when he would truly understand. Finally, he rose and walked directly to his dorm.
     Craving Boris more desperately than ever, I found a rowdy bar and fed my ravenous appetite by absorbing the frantic energy flooding the place. When the tavern closed, I roamed the night until I chanced upon a youth hurrying through an alley. My dark psychic energy brought him to a halt. He was an Indian in his late teens, good-looking, innocent. I sucked the seed from his long, pulsing cock while he stood frozen against an adobe wall in the darkness. Then, ignoring his terrified, soulful eyes, I threw him to the ground and shoved my swollen prick between his buns, penetrating him the way I so ardently desired to ravish Boris. Still not sated, I licked the smooth, pulsing neck and drew blood for the first time in a century. I left him lying half-naked and weakened, but alive in that silent alleyway. His body would heal; I closed my mind to any other damage that may have been inflicted.

Tancready has had a successful trip or two, but has he exposed himself and frightened Boris away? We’ll learn a little more in the post scheduled for March 15.

I’m interested in your reaction to this story. Please feel free to contact me at

Thanks for being a reader.

Next blog to be posted at 6:00 a.m. on March 1.

Wednesday, February 15, 2017


In response to readers’ requests, here is the second part of “The Prescient,” a short story originally published in a Bold Strokes anthology called Erotica/Exotica, Tales of Sex, Magic, and the Supernatural, edited by Richard Labonte. Last post, we were introduced to a pranic vampire named Tancready, who is in pursuit of a young man named Boris Balint on the campus of the University of New Mexico.

NOTE: Because this is a 7,700-word short story, I will be posting every two weeks until it is finished. After that, I will resume my regular blogging on the first of each month.
Courtesy of Public Domain-Pictures

     Born the seventh son of an Upir, a Russian Vampire Prince to a mother who was also an Eternal, I came squalling into this world with my head hidden by a caul. Thus was my fate sealed; I was given the kinetic challenge of all Vampires, inverted circadian rhythms and odd body cycles that bring temperature peaks and sleep hormones at unusual times, thus dictating that I was a night creature on a biochemical level. Even so, I can function in daylight, although with difficulty. Sunlight is painful, whether or not it reaches my skin. My eyes are ultra photosensitive, which gives me marvelous night vision, yet renders me myopic in normal light. Although shaded eyewear lessens that condition, I am most comfortable during sunlit hours in repose, not in some draconian coffin, but comfortably abed in a well-shrouded room.
     Amassing huge amounts of wealth during an endless series of lives presented no difficult challenge; however, reclaiming it upon each new emergence was trickier. I was careful that adequate assets remained available to me regardless of where they were concealed at the time. Most of my many lifetimes were spent ranging from Russia to Europe, with long periods in the Hungarian Carpathians and Transylvania. The persistent, amorous pursuit of a Romanian strigoivii, a live witch who became a Vampire upon her death, hounded me out of the Old World and into the New. I had been in the Western Hemisphere for the past century and in this unassuming place called New Mexico for a fifth of that time. Why this place? Why not? Except for some of the more remote northern mountains where Penitentes held sway, Vampires, even pranics, were merely the stuff of novels and films.
     Now, as I prepared for the ordeal of a daytime pursuit of the fair Boris, I examined one of my more exotic treasures, an ornate Arabic chess set, observing its intricate carvings with renewed pleasure. Then, moving through a secret dimension denied to ordinary mortals, I arrived instantly on the university campus in a sheltered spot near what is quaintly called the Duck Pond. Recovering my equilibrium, one of the effects of my unorthodox mode of transportation, I scanned the area near the near the path Boris Balint would shortly tread if the past was any true measure of the future.
     Troubled by our near encounter last night, I puzzled over the possible reasons for my disquiet as I placed the inlaid board on a backless concrete bench shaded by an evergreen bower. Carefully arranging pawns and pieces, all fashioned of ivory, ebony, silver, gold, and Persian turquoise, I grew irritable over the unwelcome attention of passing students drawn by the marvelous old set. I discouraged most with subtle tendrils of hostility and put off the boldest with a display of cold curtness. Anticipation always brought out the unpleasant side of my nature...unless, of course, it is narrowly focused on a particular target. At last, a long, manly stride bore the beautiful Boris into view.
     As he came within eyesight, his calm aura flickered. At fifty feet, I washed the boy in the aura of friendship and congeniality, seeking to smother the orange of his alarm. Gradually, his emanations subsided, and he slowed as he spotted my irresistible bait—the ancient set. Appearing reluctant, he nevertheless approached across the horribly bright green grass.
     “That’s a gorgeous set. Unusual,” he observed in a voice that came up out of his belly like a mature man’s. His slate gray eyes examined my present persona, a slender, aristocratic man of approximately thirty, possessed of dark good looks.
     “I acquired it years ago at a New York auction,” I lied smoothly. In truth, I took it as booty from a slain Moorish emir when Ferdinand and Isabella’s troops, of which I was one, sacked a castle in Leon. “You may examine it, if you wish,” I added graciously.
     Instantly, he laid the camera he carried on the bench and slid his long legs astride the concrete slab. Rather than touching the board, he examined the positioning of the pieces and looked up at me with a question in his eyes. Regretting my need for the dark glasses that prevented me from directly engaging his beautiful orbs, I satisfied his curiosity.
     “Capablanca versus Corzo, 1901, Havana. End game. Ninth match game.”
     “Capablanca was just a kid, wasn’t he? A prodigy.”
     “Twelve at the time. He won.”
     Only then did Boris carefully cradle an exquisite ebony Knight trimmed in gold and silver in his strong, brown hand. Gypsy blood likely coursed with the Hungarian in those pulsing veins.
     “Beautiful. How old is it?”
     “It is likely Arabic, but possibly Persian, dating from circa 1100.”
     “Geez, almost a thousand years old!” His husky voice was rich with awe.
     “Do you play?”
     “Love it!” he enthused. “But I’m not very good.”
     “Black or white?” I asked by way of invitation. He hesitated only a moment before claiming the white.
     The boy was an instinctive player, and with tutoring could become quite good. I beat him readily the first game, and then critiqued his handling of the pieces. His enthusiasm fired, we undertook another game while I nearly swooned from the effort of refraining from draining his energy. Eventually, onlookers gathered, and I sent my thirsting quests toward them, sopping up their energy while refracted sunlight bled away my own.
     By the end of the third game, I was sweating and weakened, but by the effort of pure will, I held onto the self-possession needed to advance to the second phase of my plan. “You carry a camera, I see.” I pointed to the instrument between his exciting legs. “Canon Z155 thirty-five millimeter. Nice.”
     “I’m sort of a shutterbug,” he said with a depreciating grin that sent blood rushing to my head.
     “I have some equipment that might be of interest. I own some Leicas. A M7 Rangefinder, for example.”
     “Wow! That’s worth a couple of grand.”
     “And a Hasselblad 205. Also some Japanese equipment, but I prefer the German lenses.”
     “Man, I’d give my eyeteeth for a Leica. I found a Minilux Point and Shoot for five hundred the other day, but my budget doesn’t stretch that far.”
     “Perhaps you would like to go shooting some afternoon. I will be happy to allow you the use of some of my cameras.”
     Uncertainty scrolled across his fine features. His aura flared in warning. He ran an agitated hand through his shaggy brown locks. He was fighting a furious battle without knowing or understanding it.
     I quickly extended my arm. “My name is Tancready,” I announced, exuding all the magnetic charm I possessed, which was considerable. His hand closed around mine firmly. Washed in the yellows and golds of my will, he relented.
     “Sure. I’d like that. My name’s Boris. Boris Balint.”
     “Ah, Hungarian,” I noted.
     “Way back, maybe,” he grinned engagingly. “Well, my great-grandfather, I guess. I probably know more about my mother’s people.”
     “Spanish?” I ventured. “No, let me guess. Pyrenees Gypsies.”
     He laughed. “Right. Mountain people all the way.” He began to look uncomfortable, so I reluctantly released his manly grip.
     “Tomorrow is Saturday, and I am free,” I ventured.
     “I guess I could,” he said hesitantly. “No classes. Can I try the Leica?”
     “Of course. I have a Minilux such as you described that I will bring along.”
     “Great!” he allowed his enthusiasm to surface, costing me my control. I drew energy from him before I could stop myself. He wilted visibly, but quickly drew on reserves. After we made arrangements, he walked away with vivid, warning blues among the more pacific hues of his halo. I watched him hungrily.
     In years past, I was a bloody Vampire, although my donors were voluntary and survived my feeding without lasting harm. None, for example succumbed to that ridiculous old wives’ tale that the bite of a Vampire created a Vampire. Preposterous! Were it so, the preponderance of the global population would be Eternal after all this time, undoubtedly overwhelming the world’s resources and dooming us all … Eternal or not.
     It took half a millennium, but I discovered another powerful source of pranic energy and rarely opened human veins thereafter. That source was semen, the distillation of the essence of a man…his cum. Since then, I prefer the company of men, young men, mature men, seniors. But the most powerful and intoxicating elixir is the seed of a youth in his sexual prime. And this I needed from Boris Balint. But there was also a strange, long dormant stirring deep within me that I recognized as a yearning for the taste of his rich, ruby blood. Only a Vampire can directly absorb the life energy of blood. After all, as the Bible correctly states, the blood is the life!
     Harvesting a man’s semen for the maintenance of my life force exposed me to yet another danger. The human’s irrational terror of Vampires is matched only by his homophobic fear of deviants. The pursuit of a man’s seed resulted more than once in the hasty use of my other dimension to escape the wrath of closed minds.
     Returning to my home, I ate voracious amounts of fresh fruits and vegetables, another source of energy, and then retired to my bedchamber. I slept soundly, but awoke after sundown, hungry and restless again.
     I returned to the university and prowled the night until I found young Boris beneath the blinding lights of the campus tennis courts doing battle with the young woman who had accompanied him last night. They played at playing, obviously enjoying one another’s company, which sent me into a sudden fit of unbridled jealousy. My halo flared dangerously. Worse, his aura blazed in unconscious response. He sensed a presence…my presence.
     In the grip of a deep melancholy, I withdrew and chanced upon a blond student retiring from the courts. Embroiling this hapless substitute in reds and yellows, I overpowered the youth quickly and pulled him into a darkened recess. After licking the sweat of recent exercise from his exposed belly, I quickly coaxed the seed from him. Barely in control of my senses because of hunger and lust and jaundiced envy, I entered the towhead and fucked him brutally while watching the distant, manly grace of Boris Balint. When I came, I bent to the whimpering boy again and replaced my spent seed with fresh cum.
Tancready has made his opening gambit. Will it pay off in a way satisfactory to him, or will he learn that young Boris’s aural reaction to him heralds a Prescient? And if so will the student’s affinity for a vampire be as a willing victim or as a hunter?

I’m interested in your reaction to this story. Please feel free to contact me at

Thanks for being a reader.

Next blog to be posted at 6:00 a.m. on February 15.

Wednesday, February 1, 2017


For this post, I excerpted the beginning of a short story that was originally published in a Bold Strokes anthology called Erotica/Exotica, Tales of Sex, Magic, and the Supernatural, edited by Richard Labonte. If you like the story, perhaps I will give you some more of it. But you have to let me know your wishes.

     From a park bench cloaked in the deep shadow of night, I observed the progress of the quasi-organized brawl these people called baseball, a neighborhood game of frequent bawdy disputes, usually resolved just short of mayhem. Despite the throbbing pain occasioned by bright, glaring lights mounted atop poles, only marginally eased by heavily smoked glasses, the raucous vigor and raw emotions of the participants were ambrosia, feeding my vortex, easing the gnawing of a voracious hunger and restoring my pranic energy sufficiently to dull the edge of my depression, a condition I often suffer.
     Yet, even the massed force of those straining, sweating, cursing young men on the field did not sate my appetite—not completely. For that, I required an intimate confrontation with the tall, wiry young man with the broad Magyar brow generations of New World blood had not significantly altered. This youth, whose towering aura occasionally flickered in my direction, surpassed the collective beauty of all who cavorted on the field.
     My name is Tancready, although that is not the appellation bestowed at my birth in 1047 Anno Domini. While not my first alias, Tancready is the one that has served for the last two hundred years. I am an Eternal, or if you prefer, a Vampire; not the idiotic caricature of fiction or the loathsome, bloody fiend of legend who stalks the unwary with deadly intent, but one of a miniscule elite who escape the usual constraints of humanity. I exercise an eccentric lifestyle and develop unorthodox relationships, such as that I seek from the most uncommonly beautiful human I have encountered since the Italian Renaissance, the youth I patiently stalk.
     Over virtually a millennium, I have endured many lifetimes, embracing death often over the centuries, but true to my ilk, I endlessly return from the earth to assume another name, another persona. I endured Vlad the Impaler’s tortured reign. I died at Hastings with the Conqueror’s army and attended Henry’s knights as they slew Thomas à Becket at Canterbury, fought with the Mongols on the Steppes when Temujin became Genghis Khan. I battled the Emperor in Russia and again at Waterloo. I died at the hands of German Nazis at Stalingrad. I have seen … lived … momentous history!
     The game on the sports grounds ended in a pungent burst of sweaty enthusiasm as redolent as a potent Russian brew. The field cleared and the terrible lights slowly died, allowing my photosensitive eyesight to regain its sharpness. Body vibrating, nimbus soaring, the boy approached on the paved walkway, his corded arm riding the shoulders of a young lady. The easy, comfortable companionship between the two elicited an instant burst of energy. His rich luminescence, yellow with affection and friendship for the creature under his arm, suddenly flashed red as he crossed the path in front of my sheltered bench. Tentacles reached toward me uncertainly. I quickly reined in my raging jealousy and sent a more benign form of kinetic energy toward him, seeking to block his unconscious curiosity. I overdid it, as was frequently the case; he visibly staggered, but recovered and continued across the park, his aura drawn close against his body. His flesh, I knew, would be puckered in a case of ‘heebie-jeebies,’ in today’s pedestrian vernacular.
    The boy was aware of me now, too much so at this point, although he had no real understanding of that fact. Nonetheless, I would need to proceed carefully. His name was Boris Balint, a good Hungarian patronymic miraculously not yet Anglicized into Valentine. Born in the northern New Mexico mountains twenty years past, he now attended classes at the university in Albuquerque. His passions were chess and photography. All this and more, I knew from clandestine midnight visits to the university records room. Chess, I decided, would be my gateway into his life.
     As my quarry passed from sight, my energy level dropped precipitously. Edginess and irritability, frequent companions, returned until I focused on a distant figure on the field. My need honed to a keen edge, I moved toward the sleek young Hispanic putting away the game equipment. Anticipating the touch of his smooth, dark flesh, I literally salivated. He was at that brief age when adolescent mestizos were as pretty as girls, yet exuded the budding machismo of their elders. Delicious!
     Although he had not yet seen me, the youth demonstrated a sharp alertness as he slowly turned from the equipment shed to nervously scan the darkened pathway. I flooded his slender form in tentacles of friendship yellow and purple desire, overpowering the fearful red of his suspicion. His resolve faltered, and enveloped in my powerful sexuality, the boy obediently trailed me into the deep shadows behind the equipment shed. Without physically touching him, I pulled him to a halt before me. He swallowed hard.
     “What is your name, my beautiful young friend?”
     “Ah, Carlos. You bear a noble name.”
     He flinched at my hand on his cheek; no sign of a beard. Beautiful. The boy stood hypnotized while I stripped him naked in the cool, high-desert air. My sensitive fingers traced the broad, bony shoulders, the curve of the chest. His heart raced at my touch. I inhaled the push of air from his diaphragm as I slid down the gently bowed belly. He awakened at my touch. Well-endowed for one so young and slight, the boy responded readily.
     Young Carlos moaned, torn between fright and desire. I wrapped my physical arms around his buttocks and pulled him to me, allowing the salt of recent sweat, the aroma of strenuous exercise and sexual arousal to tease my nostrils pleasantly. His hands closed on my head; his hips twitched. He was lost, and I was greedy for his fresh young semen.
     The youth’s thin frame jerked in the throes of an orgasm he would fruitlessly strive to match for the remainder of his days. Shuddering, this fledgling Carlos, this namesake of powerful kings and emperors, would have fallen had I not eased his weight to the ground. I contemplated arousing him again, but he was drained beyond quick recovery. Satisfied for the moment, I disappeared into the night, leaving the boy naked and spent. I smiled to myself. The boy’s seed, while sweet, had yet to reach the peak of potency. The lad was an immature eighteen; in a year or two, his sperm would ripen.
Well, well, well. Will Tancready find a way to connect with young Boris Balint? Has the hungry Eternal realized at this point his target is a Prescient, one who has an awareness of and affinity for vampires? Sometimes they are companions and willing victims, but sometimes they are dreaded hunters of the Eternals. Let me know if you want to hear more of this story by contacting me at

Thanks for being a reader.

New blogs posted at 6:00 a.m. on the first of each month.