The Touch of A Fang

* This story is for a mature audience! 

        He was wondering just why he had let himself be talked into attending this conference when she walked into the room.
       Hair, a deep, rich, astonishing red that gleamed with highlights of pure gold in the light of the hotel’s ballroom chandeliers, attracted his attention. Skin, as pale as his own, served as a canvas for a startling array of freckles that proclaimed the brilliant red of her hair as natural. She wore a classic wrap dress tied to one side of her slender waist, with a décolletage low enough to display the full breasts and a full soft skirt that seductively caressed generous hips as she walked toward him. The silky green knit shone with its own highlights, the green the perfect complimentary color to the red.       
        Donovan found himself staring–along with most of the males and a few of the females in the room.
        "Dr. Reed?" she asked. "Dr. D. Reed?"
       "Yes." He peered at her conference name tag. Clarissa White, Dr. Clarissa White.
       "You’re much younger than I expected," she said.
       Alarm bells rang deep within his soul, a finely honed instinct for self preservation. He made his face a mask of polite enquiry, a look that said he didn’t understand.
       "My aunt interviewed you once, in 1980, but she remembers you vividly. When I showed her your picture in the conference bulletin, she said it must be an old picture, twenty years old. But here you are–looking just the same as you did in 1980." Her voice grated, a tad sharp, spoiling the illusion of absolute perfection. "You haven’t written much, but I’ve read everything you’ve written including your article, ‘A Study in the Psychosis of Vampires’, which you wrote in 1965."
       Donovan remained silent. She really did have the most remarkable green eyes, not emerald green, but a dark golden green with flecks of brown as though even her eyes were freckled.
       She continued, "Dr. Donovan Reed established the Edmund Horn Clinic in 1932."
       "Obviously not me."
       "I did some research and found a picture in the historical museum from the opening of the clinic in 1932. A picture of you."
       "And what do you think it all means?" he asked.
       "That you are a vampire."
       He laughed then. He had practiced that laugh so it sounded natural, dismissive. "You can’t imagine how many times we’ve been accused of being vampires."
       "We?"
       "Yes, we. I am Donovan Reed. Actually, the third Dr. D. Reed. The man the reporter met is my uncle. People continually remark how much I look like him. The first Dr. Donovan Reed was my grandfather. There’s some resemblance–hair color, build, but facially, I don’t think I look much like him." He knew precisely the picture she referred to, an old faded picture of small figures in front of a building, suggestive, but not positive proof. He smiled. "Of course, keeping the illusion alive is sometimes useful in dealing with my patients, but it does lead to the occasional embarrassing situation. You don’t really believe I’m a vampire, do you?" He applied a little mental pressure.
       "Of course not," she laughed, but there was a brittle quality to the laughter. She had believed and was disappointed at his ready answer. "You must admit it’s a great pick-up line."
       "Are you trying to pick me up, Dr. White?"
       "Clarissa, please."
       "Clarissa." He held out his hand, and she grasped it, enveloping it in her own burning heat, holding it longer than was politically correct. Her green eyes sent messages that tingled the length of his being. His ever-present hunger flared in response to the woman’s sexuality. For a vampire, lust and blood were closely linked. "May I offer you a drink, Clarissa?"
       "Most definitely."
       "What would you like?"
       "Red wine, please." They made their way to the complimentary bar in the corner, then found seats at one of the tables scattered about the large room.
       She took a sip of wine, then held the glass so the light reflected through the red liquid. "So like blood and yet not."
       "No, blood can never be mistaken for wine."
       She looked at him, her green eyes questioning.
       Why had he said that? Where was his famed caution? He thought of making an excuse and walking away, but to leave abruptly would make her suspicious. Better to stay. Besides he wanted to know why she had gone to so much effort to track down all that information about him. "What’s your specialty, Doctor?"
       "I’m a sex therapist." Her answer was frank, without a hint of embarrassment.
       "Now I’m truly curious. Why is a sex therapist so interested in a doctor who treats psychosis?"
       "You treat vampires."
       "I treat people with the delusion that they are vampires. There is no such thing as a vampire." He projected a bit of power behind that statement and felt the rebound as the idea was rejected.
       She smiled at him, scarlet lips curling invitingly. "Real or not, vampires are a powerful fantasy. Do you remember what you told that reporter?"
       She was trying to trap him. "It wasn’t me, remember," he said.
       "That’s right–it wasn’t you." Her smile was indulgent and conspiratorial. Obviously she hadn’t believed his explanation. "Dr. D. Reed said when asked about why we are so fascinated with vampires, and I quote, ‘There is something very seductive about the darkness and vampires. It’s a combination of the ultimate power and absolute submission. Dracula has the power to bend anyone to his will, to make them his, to control them. We all hunger for that power. To be the one who is in control. And yet there is a side of ourselves that wants to be the helpless victim. To give in to all our fantasies, in to pleasure, to do the unspeakable, to be dominated. So we have created this creature of ultimate power who will live forever and yet he is forced into absolute submission. At sunrise, he becomes the helpless victim.’"
       She spoke with a peculiar reverence that made him uncomfortable. He didn’t remember saying it, but then it was a long time ago.
       "Pop psychology, if you ask me. Glib and clichéd," he said.
       "No, it’s true. The vampire is such a strong image. I’ve found that using it has helped many of my clients."
       "You have them pretend to be vampires?"
       She nodded. "Sometimes."
       He laughed. "I try to cure them of their delusions and you encourage them."
       "No, I don’t deal with those with delusions, only with fantasies. Our sex lives are filled with fantasies, and vampires are strongly sexual. They allow us to explore aspects of dominance and submission. Don’t you find it so in your work?" She reached out, fingertips brushing lightly the hairs on the back of his hand, leaning forward so the fullness of her breasts strained against the green cloth. He felt stirring of desire. She was an astonishingly beautiful woman, a woman making her interest clear and unmistakable with half-hooded green eyes and slightly parted red lips. "It’s crowded in here, let’s find some place quieter to talk."
       That some place was her hotel room.
       "Let me show you what I mean about fantasy," she said. He noticed that her voice no longer bothered him, although it was still too high pitched. "I don’t suppose as a male you have ever given in and allowed the female to totally dominate you."
       "I’m rather old fashioned."
       "But a part of you wonders what it would be like to be dominated, to submit, even if you won’t admit it. In my practice, helping men give expression to that long denied side of their being is very freeing."
       "I didn’t come here as a client."
       "Don’t deny that you’re curious. I find you very attractive, Dr. Donovan Reed, and I’m not shy when I see someone I want. Does that shock you?"
       "A little. I told you, I’m rather old fashioned."
       She laughed, her breath warm against his face, her body touching his, her fragrance a heady combination of a heavy musky perfume, her own living flesh, and the sweet tantalizing blood-smell. She leaned close, lips claiming his. He tasted her lipstick, surprised to find it flavored, strawberry perhaps, then her tongue was inside his mouth. Her hands entangled his hair, pulling his head close; her body pressed hard and hot against his.
       Damn, she’s good, he thought, an expert. Why not? This is her business. He let himself relax.
       She stepped back, grabbing his tie and pulling him deeper into the room. "I have something to make the fantasy more real." She took a small box from her briefcase and open it. Inside was a set of porcelain fangs, which she slipped on. The white tips rested against her lower lip, white against red–not blood red–the illusion spoiled by lipstick a shade too orange.
       She untied the green dress and slipped it from her shoulders. Underneath she wore green lace panties and bra. She reached behind her and unclasped the bra, letting it fall away, but she left her panties and shoes on, and her fangs. Those fangs! Donovan couldn’t keep his eyes off them as she moved close. Her hand grabbed his tie and slid upward until she reached the knot.
       "Vampires," she whispered, "have the power to hypnotize their victims–to make them helpless." She gazed deep into his eyes. "You are mine now, you cannot escape. You don’t want to escape, do you?"
       He shook his head. He was like a rabbit trapped in the predator’s gaze, waiting, hoping to remain unseen and yet knowing it was already too late. The knot on his tie loosened.
       She unbuttoned his shirt buttons, one by one.
       His hands reached for her, but she forced them down.
       "You are helpless, completely within my control, without will. You will stand without moving, waiting and wanting whatever I will do to you. This is the power of the vampire. This is my power."
       His shirt was now unbuttoned and pushed off his shoulders along with the jacket.
       What am I doing? The thought flashed through his mind, alarm sending adrenalin surging, yet he stood perfectly still and pretended he was her helpless victim. He became immersed in observing his reactions. She was right, he never let himself be the one out of control. It was an interesting feeling.
       His tee shirt was gone. Her fingers caressed his bare flesh, light and fluttery.
       God, he was aroused. He fantasized about throwing her down on the bed, plunging his fangs deep into her throat, but he reminded himself in this game, he was the helpless victim.
       Her hands went to his belt buckle, unfastening it and then slowly unzipping the zipper. It sounded loud in the silence of the room. The slacks and underpants were pushed down his hips. He levered himself out of his shoes without untying them so he could step clear of the pants. Now all he wore were his socks. Feeling ridiculous, he bent and pulled them off.
       She stepped back, her eyes appraising him. He felt a moment of abject fear that she would find him wanting. Then she smiled.
       "My, what white skin you have," she said. "You would think you were the vampire instead of me."
       "Does it displease you?"
       "Quite the opposite. You please me very much, Doctor. I think I’ve finally found what I've spent a long time looking for." She divested herself of her shoes and panties, and moved to the bed. Motioning him to join her. When he would have crawled on top of her, she pushed him on to his back. "You are my helpless victim. I have you in my thrall. I am your master. You are my slave. It is your sweet blood I want." She leaned forward to nibble his neck. He stiffened beneath her, tense, expectant, afraid.
       Her lips moved down the column of his throat to his chest, flicking his nipples with her tongue, leaving a wet trail that turned cold as she moved lower. He shivered at the feel of the sharp fangs against his stomach, a sharpness echoed by her nails that lightly scratched his bare flesh. He lay still, absorbing the rush of sensations, waiting with hungry eagerness for her to move still lower.
       He found himself relaxing, sinking back into the firmness of the hotel mattress, letting her work, his whole attention on the myriad of sensations flowing through him. Her lips reached his and took possession of them. Her tongue pushed demandingly into his mouth. The fangs brushed his lips. He ran his tongue over the sharp tips. They were sharp, as sharp as his own.
       Her attention moved back to his neck where it had all started. A tautness of her body signaled a change, and he knew she was going to bite him. He put out his hand to stop her.
       "No." His tone allowed for no disobedience.
       Her eyes gleamed, darkened with desire. "Don’t you find blood a turn on?"
       "No," he lied.
       She laughed and reached for something on the night stand; the next moment, he smelled blood and realized she had cut her breast. It was a small cut. The blood oozed red against her white skin, no more than a large drop, but it overwhelmed his senses. She wiped her finger across the wound and then smeared the precious fluid across his lips. He licked his lips without thought, the taste electrified him. He was lost. His lips found the wound and he sucked, tasting the sweetly metallic blood. His own fangs erupted.
       There was only one thing he could do. He pulled her to him, fangs sinking into the white flesh of her throat, his body overpowering hers.
       She flinched, then relaxed beneath him. Pulsing blood flowed into his mouth. Hungrily, he sucked down her life, making it his own, warming his coldness.
       Her legs parted, inviting him. He impaled the heart of her womanhood, driving the long stake of his desire deep within her. They became two mindless animals seeking only to satisfy the burning needs that drove them, on and on until the final crescendo followed by the boneless collapse of both body and mind.
       Self preservation took over and he whispered softly into her ear while she was still in his thrall. He let most of the evening remain in her memory, but now instead they lay, replete and satisfied, talking shop about the feelings he had experienced.
       She fell into a deep sleep. Donovan rose, dressed and left her, the door locking behind him.
       Later he realized his post-feeding-euphoria had blinded him to the opportunity to get past the barriers of Clarissa’s belief in vampires. He regretted the missed opportunity. As the euphoria wore away, came guilt. He had used her. He tried to convince himself that this was no different from the whores he had infrequently used for blood, but his guilt remained. This was different. She was not a prostitute.

       Donovan was scheduled to speak the next afternoon, one of six different sessions being offered. The room wasn’t large, nor were there many people to hear him talk about blood fetishes and the growth of vampire cults and cult murders.
       He wasn’t surprised to see Clarissa sitting in the front row. Nor was he surprised when she waited until he finished answering all the questions and the room was finally empty.
       "It was very informative, Dr. Reed," she said, with a scarlet smile that made him tingle warmly. She wore rich gold today, a plain dress, with a wide paisley silk shawl in vibrant purples, greens, reds, and golds. Donovan found himself wanting to feel the soft touch of that silk. No, more than that, he wanted to become that shawl and wrap himself around her.
       When he woke that afternoon, he had sworn this time there would be no blood–still, he hungered for her, lusted after her, and knew he was too weak to resist her attractions.
       It was almost eleven when they entered her room. Their need for each other, by that time, was an exquisite agony. Without really talking about it, they had attended the meetings, talked to other convention goers, stood side by side, occasionally touching briefly, letting their hunger grow until at last that evening’s speaker was done, the nightcap shared in the bar, and they were finally released to their own private fantasy world.
       "No vampires tonight," he whispered, as he pulled the silk shawl from her shoulders and wrapped his arms about her. "No helpless victims."
       She laughed against his neck. They undressed quickly. She proceeded to give him such pleasure, until he was one throbbing need, and yet she made him wait, made him work on her as well, until she was writhing with her own need, until they could no longer keep apart.
       She screamed with her coming, fingers clenched; he felt pain, a pain that was lost in the spasm of their joint pleasure.
       He felt her tongue moving across his chest, sucking and licking. Then he felt the wounds her nails had made, scoring his flesh in her passion. He had to get out of there. The wounds would heal, heal too fast, and she would know. She looked up and he knew it was already too late.
       His fangs sank into her throat without conscious thought.
       He felt himself grow hard again, even as she began to moan and pull at him; her legs moved apart, her body rose to meet him. He took her again as he drank her blood. She came beneath him shuddering and moaning; his need still burned in him, and she came again and again, until finally he let out his own scream of release and licked the bloody skin, licking the two small wounds closed.
       Her eyes were open and staring. He rested on his elbows above her. He removed the scratches and what happened afterward from her mind. They had just another night of fantastic sex.

       He woke with the taste of Clarissa’s blood on his tongue. Outside the hotel’s blackout curtains, the afternoon sun shone brilliantly, revealed by a small shaft of light that hit high on the opposite wall from a crack where the curtains didn’t quite meet. He lay, sun deadened, unwilling to move his body, letting his mind rove. Damn him! He hadn’t meant for it to happen, not again. He tried to condone it as necessary protection, but his honesty forced him to recognize it for what it was, blood lust. He had wanted to taste her sweet blood last night. He wondered if she hadn’t scratched him, whether he would’ve created another excuse? It was a good thing the conference had ended at noon. Still, since their planes didn’t leave until later this evening, she had made him promise to meet her for dinner before going to the airport. He knew he should just leave, but he wanted to see her, see her one last time.
       He thought of Clarissa licking his blood. He would have to report her to the registry. While taking blood caused no problems, sharing blood did. Not that sharing blood once would make her a vampire. That required at least three separate blood exchanges. Even then only a small percentage of the population had the ability to change, to become vampires upon their death. Still, the rules demanded he report every blood exchange. Well, it couldn’t be helped. There was no use crying over spilt milk–or blood.
       He would enjoy the evening.
       He dressed and went to find Clarissa and knocked at her door. As he waited, he thought he smelled the rich scent of blood, lots of blood.
       He knocked again. No answer.
       Puzzled, he went down to the lobby and asked at the front desk for any messages. There were none. "I’m looking for Dr. White, you haven’t seen her by any chance?"
       The clerk’s face blanched, and he swallowed hard.
       "Dr. White . . . You’d better talk to the police," he stammered.
       "The police? Why?"
       The clerk said nothing, only motioned frantically to someone behind Donovan. Donovan turned and saw a man approaching, dark suit, gold badge hanging over his pocket.
       "Dr. Reed was asking about Dr. White," the clerk said, before retreating to the far end of the counter.
       "What happened?" Donovan asked.
       "Dr. White was found dead this afternoon. Did you know her?"
       "Dead? How?" Donovan demanded.
       "She committed suicide."
       Donovan shook his head in disbelief.
       "Did you know her?"
       "I met her at the conference, but we spent a lot of time together. We were supposed to meet for dinner before flying out. Are you sure it was suicide?"
       "Why don’t we go somewhere we can talk privately?"
       Donovan nodded and followed the officer to one of the small conference rooms.
       "What happened? - uh?" he paused deliberately, waiting for the man’s name.
       "Detective Taft."
       The detective motioned Donovan to take a seat and then sat opposite.
       "I’d like to know what happened," Donovan said.
       "She cut her wrists. There were no signs of force, and she left a pretty clear suicide note in her own handwriting, verified by other writing in her possession."
       "Could I see the note?"
       "Was she depressed when you saw her last?"
       Donovan shook his head. "I really would like to see the note." He added a mental command along with the words.
       The detective hesitated, then agreed. "I suppose there’s no harm. The original has been taken into evidence, but I have a copy."
       Donovan read the note.
       "I’ve waited a long time for it to be complete. To take what was needed. Now it is done. I’ve taken the last from him. I can wait no longer. I know what I’m doing. I go to embrace the eternal darkness."
       A sudden suspicion coursed through Donovan.
       "There was also a diary. It’s full of references to vampires," Detective Taft said.
       "She was a sex therapist, and she used the image of the vampire as a fantasy in her work," Donovan answered.
       "I think it went deeper than that. She talked about tracking the last one down."
       Donovan hesitated. No doubt others at the conference had seen them together. Despite the apparent suicide, the police would check out all possibilities, and from Taft’s intense expression, Donovan realized that he had become, as they say, a person of interest.
       "She had this crazy thought that I was a vampire."
       "Why?"
       "My specialty is treating people with vampire delusions. It is an interest I inherited from my grandfather and my uncle. All of us have professionally used the name D. Reed. Sometimes people get confused. They believe that I am the same Dr. D. Reed. I’ve kept the fiction alive because sometimes it’s helpful in gaining the trust of my patients. Other times, it can be embarrassing, as it was with Clarissa. I explained and we laughed."
       Taft took out a pocket notebook. "Maybe you can explain this last entry in her diary. It was dated yesterday. ‘I’m sure he’s the one. Tonight I will drink his blood. He will make me forget, I know, but that will only be my proof.’"
       "My goodness, I have no idea what she’s talking about. We made love, but there was no blood involved, just incredible sex. As you can imagine, she was a wonderful lover, very inventive. Maybe she planned to create a vampire fantasy. She did that with clients as I said. But we didn’t do anything like that." Donovan smiled, projecting innocence and truth, while beneath, his mind reeled from shock. She had deliberately seduced him to get what she wanted–his blood. He had been so sure it was just passion, an accident, but it was deliberate. He is the last. Could she know the truth? Was it possible that he was not her first?
       He captured Taft’s eyes. "I need to see her body," he commanded.
       Taft’s eyes glazed over. He nodded slowly. "All right. We’ve tentatively identified her from her driver’s license, but a personal identification would be helpful."
       Taft drove Donovan to the morgue and showed him to a viewing room, a small room with a large curtained window. The curtain was closed. "Has the autopsy been performed yet?" Donovan asked, knowing if it had, there was no hope.
       "It’s scheduled for tomorrow morning."
       A man in green scrubs came in. "Look, I’m sorry. There must have been some kind of screw up, paper work, something. I can’t find the body. Are you sure that it was sent here?"
       "Yes. It was sent here," Taft said.
       "Well, we don’t have any female bodies by that name."
       "Red hair? Good looking?" Taft asked.
       "Nope. If it was here, it’s gone now."

-The End-