His name was Paul Wheeler. Paul was probably the kid who cried when his mother left him at kindergarten, the one picked last for every team, the loner who had spent the last few holidays alone with Jack Daniels, the type that had lived his life becoming easy prey. My type. My prey. I'd been stalking him for three weeks. Waiting. I could be patient when I needed to be. Patience was going to pay off.
He wasn't uneasy to look at - medium height, sparse hair, light eyes, only a slight middle-age paunch. In the past, I might have preferred someone a little more doughy, not too much muscle, but my strength was increasing and my tastes were evolving, becoming more refined. The shell of the man wasn't what interested me anyway. Neither was the meat, for that matter. Paul Wheeler had what I wanted: melancholy blood.
I first smelled Paul Wheeler's blood while he sat in the back of a Chinese movie theater - one of my favorite places. For a dollar a man could sit for hours in the dark, nursing his whiskey and thumping his cock, while the screen flashed one Asian pussy after another. The theater offered a smorgasbord of pathetic loners, all crying out for the likes of me.
It's possible Paul had been a regular, and I'd simply missed him. He seemed to know the routine: hide your bottle in your coat, slip into a vacant row, hunch down in the seat, and wait until the lights go off before unzipping your pants or opening your bottle. Could be he'd just been fired or demoted. Maybe he'd just gambled away the last of his meager earnings, or his wife of ten years had left him. For whatever reason, he'd chosen to ignore the brilliant sun of a breezy October day, and he'd slipped into the gloom of a dank theater. Lucky me.
Midway through the second movie, Paul had his cock out, his short stubby fingers working furiously up and down, laboring to overcome his whiskey-dulled blood. That's when I noticed him. His desperate heart pounding like an oil rig overheating. Just a little harder. Just a little deeper. Just a little harder. Just a little deeper. Blood whirling and whooshing, racing to his penis.
He didn't see me, couldn't see me. Not yet. His mind was as tightly clamped as his eyes. I moved in closer. Little beads of sweat formed along his balding hairline. I could have connected the dots with my tongue. I was eager to get a taste of him, but for now my taste buds were useless. I'd have to wait.
His eyes popped open. I thought he'd sensed my presence, but he only stared at the screen. The sexual organs there were enormous, filling the big screen. A long look at the giant hairless mound being humped by an enormous red cock was all Paul needed. He aimed at the back of the seat in front of him. While the last of his seed soaked into thread-bare velvet, he quietly tucked himself away and stood to leave. I hesitated long enough to press my fingers against the wet spot. It was warm and sticky. I wished I could taste it or smell it. But it had been too long since I'd feasted. The only thing I could smell or taste now was blood. Thanks to Paul, that would soon change.
Out on the street, Paul kept his head down, walking alone in an emotional desert, never making eye contact. It wouldn't be long before his apathy would send out warning signals to others like me - we who hunted the forlorn, the doomed, the desolate - and they'd come swarming, thirsty for Paul's life force. But for now it was just Paul and me. Huntress and prey.
The next three weeks, I followed him everywhere - his trailer park, a coffee shop on Main Street, a liquor store next door, numerous dives, and a couple more trips to the Chinese Theater. Paul was like clockwork, tick-tocking around from place to place, rarely speaking, ignoring and being ignored by everyone in his path. No one knew he was alive. No one would miss him after he died.
I began to grow anxious. Last Thursday, Paul veered from his regular routine to trudge the Mayfield Bridge. He stopped midway and peered over the rail at the surf below. An aura of death rippled about him. His blood bubbled with indecision. Melancholy mixed with fear. He was probably the type to be afraid of heights.
Suddenly others like me hovered in the air over his head like the vultures they were. I hadn't been sticking with Paul all this time just to lose him at this late date. I could make him see me now, but I might not have enough energy for the future when I really needed it. That was a risk I didn't want to take. But I could make him feel my presence. So, like a gnat, I swirled around his ear. Buzzing. He batted at his neck, again and again, forgetting his purpose. His aura changed from death to annoyance and one by one, the others swooped off to hunt elsewhere. Sometimes it's easy to steer a man's mind away from suicide, if only for a little while. Paul thrust his hands in his pockets and slogged back home.
I couldn't wait much longer; now that the others had discovered Paul, it was time for him to know me. In his waking hours, Paul couldn't see me or hear me, but at night, while he slept, I could become anything Paul's mind willed - a slippery blonde, a shy brunette, or a sassy redhead. That night, in Paul's dream, I took the form of one of the Asian girls from the movie.
"You like a bald cunt, don't you, Paul?"
He grunted.
I placed my fingers on my outer lips and gently plied them apart, revealing pale, pale pussy. In his dream, Paul's fingers didn't shake when he reached to touch. They were steady and clean as he delved between my folds. He didn't notice that I was dry, or perhaps it didn't matter to him. He dug deep, dry-thrusting several times before deciding he wanted a taste. His warm lips slid over my opening. Spittle leaked from his hungry mouth and added lubrication. His blood was heating. I could feel life pulsing through his lips and in his tongue as he bathed my chalice.
His penis bobbed under the sheet, and tiny pools of wet dispersed into the cotton. In his dream, he tongued me furiously, occasionally nipping with his teeth. His penis reacted with each dreamt nip, stretching and pushing until the outline of his engorged cock ridged up like slabs of rock along an earthquake fault. Beneath the sheet, throbbing veins would be visible. I'd sink my teeth in and suck. Soon. A little taste now was tempting, but if I waited, I'd be tasting for months to come.
Instead, I aided Paul by mashing my Asian pussy against his face, grinding until he gasped for breath. When he reached for his cock, I clasped my hand around his, and separated by the sheet, squeezed.
"It feels so good, Paul." I shimmied as I spoke. "You're so big, so thick, so full of cum. Give it to me!"
A couple of brutally tight yanks and his breath caught, his mouth opened, and he climaxed. A reverberating grunt teased at my cunt. His semen painted the sheet.
I left him then to the rest of his dreams.
The following Saturday, Paul went to the coffee shop as usual, ordered his black coffee and sat in his regular seat-third stool from the end. There was a new waitress. She was petite, almost pixie-like. Soft-dotted freckles peppered her cheeks. When she had come to take his order, he hunched down, as if to hide his face under the lapels of his jacket. He never even looked at her, never gave her an opening for friendliness. But she clearly made an impression on him. Whenever she reached for the plates that were under the food warmer, he watched her pink uniform rise up to expose a little more thigh. That night, while he slept, I became her, in his mind and in his bed. The little waitress would have been happy. He fucked me with a gentleness that only a novice would enjoy.
From then on, I made a habit of visiting Paul every night. I used the freckled waitress each time, spreading my legs to expose my bald little beaver for Paul to dream sex.
He began staying longer at the coffee shop, each day lingering a few extra minutes, but Paul never spoke, except to order coffee. Her name was Eva. She had fast become a shop favorite, and many other customers engaged her in conversation.
"Hey, Eva, when you going to marry me?"
"When you divorce your wife and take me away from all this, Ned."
Ned did what Paul wanted to do - teased Eva, chatted up the little sprite, and got closer looks into her sable eyes. Paul only kept an eye on the backside of her uniform and dreamed of her at night.
A glance at the calendar hanging by the cash register showed the next day was Samhain. This meant I had one more day to protect Paul from himself. But I also worried he would change his mind. While I delighted in using Eva to arouse him, I worried that in the little waitress Paul was finding a reason to live. It wouldn't be the first time my patience went unrewarded. Yes, I was a scavenger, but I prided myself in choosing only those who had already chosen to cross over. I hadn't feasted in several weeks, saving up for the one day a year that allowed my lover to see me as my true self and not as some mannequin in a dream. My abstinence was weakening me. My senses were still keen enough to hear mumbled conversations or smell that the woman in the second booth was menstruating, but I was hungry to smell bacon or coffee, to taste pancake syrup, or to taste a man's syrup. Anything but blood.
It was the whispered voice of dear Eva that alarmed me.
"Why doesn't he ever say anything?"
"Don't know," Ned whispered back. "He's been coming here for months, same thing every day, black coffee, nothing else." Ned sneaked a peek down Eva's buttoned bodice as she leaned closer to hear.
"Do you know his name?"
"Never asked."
"I feel sorry for him." There was tenderness in her voice. She followed up her words by heading straight to Paul.
"Can I get you more coffee?" she asked.
Paul shrunk lower and shook his head. Eva shrugged her shoulders and walked away. But as she left, Paul lifted his head and his eyes locked on the sway of her hips and the two trim legs that jutted below her hemline. We stayed another five minutes.
