James moves across the dance floor and toward the bar. The angular features of his face are marked with a firm resolve. Those blue-grey eyes locked in a hardline gaze; tiny, hypnotic moonstones whose colors glint and shift in the flashing strobe overhead. He slips in and out of young, sweaty bodies with the enigmatic power of a Greek god, his muscular physique hidden beneath a black hooded sweatshirt and dark stonewashed blue jeans.
The crowd happily flirts with death, unaware of the beast hunting in their midst. They press against him on all sides, warm flesh against warm flesh, a massive throng of party people doing what party people do best, dancing and drinking and fucking.
The music is loud. Rhythmic vibrations swallow him whole. A hard drum-line keeps pace with gyring green glow sticks that eagerly twirl at the end of thick, leather lanyards. It's a dizzying orchestra of sharp staccato tangled in whistling streaks of neon light. James invites the noise. The throbbing tempo is therapeutic, a kind of quiet chaos amidst the storm of thoughts that pound against the walls of his preternatural mind. On nights like tonight, when the hunger is strongest, he must keep his ability in check. One misstep could mean disaster.
The smell of liquor and lust and women's perfume hang heavy in the air, growing more and more deliciously pungent the deeper he drives into the pulsing mosh. He continues toward the bar, the beating heart of crowd, hedged in by an orgy of limbs and lips and lovers.
This is the busiest nightclub in Medellin, a brothel furnishing the finest stock. He had chosen this place specifically. Of all the places in all the world he had hunted" cities built by sex and drugs and music; infamously depraved and infamously revered; cities where good people go to do bad things" this is his very favorite. The scent of lust is so deliciously thick he can smell it for miles. A score of pretty young women wait to satisfy his hunger. All he must do now is choose.
James is not the only lonely soul here tonight. That's what makes this place and places like it so dangerous, the expectation of it all. They had all come with expectations. They had all come with neediness and desire and passions and emptiness. They had all come looking to be filled.
Johns came to be with girls who, otherwise, wouldn't touch them. Fresh-faced woo girls, their fresh tan lines and fresher hands, came to find love. They grind their scantly clad bodies against overzealous party boys who came to get laid. They each have their own expectations. They each have their own baggage.
"Jack and Coke... make it a double," James instructs the bartender, hoping against hope to numb his conscience.
He takes a stiff swig of the carbonated whisky, expanding his consciousness into the space around him. As the fizzy heat spills down the back of his throat the invisible tendrils of his mind spill into the crowd. They tease past glitter laden asses and arms, brilliantly fleeting pins of light plastered to naked flesh. The silver flecks blaze beneath the flashing strobe, resembling tiny galaxies as they swirl amidst nimbus splashes of neon paint. It's an aptly colored smear of cotton candy veneer that accents a sweet sea of pink, bulbous lollipops.
Never looking away from the drink in his hand, James searches the crowd. He slips from one mind to the next, fighting past the emotional baggage of the masses" guilt, fear, excitement, drunkenness. He finds the perfect specimen.
"She'll do. She's strong," he whispers, the liquor still hot on his breath. He peers into the mind of a young, local call girl. He notes strength hidden beneath her delicate features.
Like him, she's also hunting, chatting up a frisky John at the end of the bar. She hides disgust behind eager eyes as the frisky John slips his hand under her miniskirt and pulls her panties to one side, groping and pinching and fingering with complete disregard. She's a thing to be used and not loved. But she does what she must.
James looks into her thoughts, sifting through the brokenness of her mind, willing her to stand and walk away. She does. An intuitive pull washes over her, an irresistible urge to approach him. There's nothing intuitive about it, however. He's luring her in, manipulating her mind in the most excitingly nefarious way imaginable, forcing himself upon her as so many men before him had.
That sexy saunter, the way her hips sway as she moves through the crowd, fills him with an unruly lust. It had been so long. He was so hungry. The space around them falls silent as she approaches. The music, the lights, the woo girls, the strobe, fade into the background. He struggles to maintain control. His humanity, fighting tooth and nail, pleads for the girl's life. It's too late. He's no longer in control. The beast is awoken.
"You wanna go somewhere quiet, papi?" she asks, her broken English sounding forced and trancelike.
She takes his hand and leads him across the dance floor and up the stairs, anticipation swelling between them as they slip past the red velvet rope and V.I.P sign. Her pulse flutters as serotonin races through her bloodstream at an unnatural rate. He can sense it, the heavy thudding of her heart, each beat ticking away time, bringing them closer and closer to that final moment of connectedness. He's keenly aware of the inferno of passion now raging inside her. The sweet smell of her lust consumes him. It subdues all reason. He feeds on her lust. He feeds on her passion. Her orgasms will give him strength.
She locks the door and pushes him to the bed. The low drone of the music vibrates the walls. There's an inexplicable yearning between them, the need for intimacy, the need for his skin against hers and hers against his. They both sense it, a shared consciousness. The desire is so painfully palpable she feels as though she may cum that very moment.
She hurriedly slips out of her miniskirt, wiggling that perfect ass, forcing the tiny tube-shaped denim down and over her hips. She pauses, dropping her tank top to the floor and kicking out of her high stilettos. She allows him to study her body, blushing as a wide-eyed look of approval forms across his face. He feels completely aroused. She feels completely safe.
Clothed in nothing but knee high socks, she climbs on top of him, the inside of her naked thighs pressing tightly against his waist and stomach, soft and warm and inviting through his white t-shirt. Running her fingers over the growing bulge in his faded blue jeans, she bites his neck and whispers in his ear:
"You wanna fuck me, papi?" she says, her words sounding too adult to have come from such tender lips, the innocence of her visage a carefully crafted façade" a siren's call to broken men and their broken hearts.
Eagerly unbuttoning his jeans, she works her way down his body, kissing and bitting and sucking until she's on her knees in front of him. With his jeans unzipped, his erection pulls the fabric of his briefs into a tight, tent-like shape. She leisurely kneels at his feet, settling in and tossing her wavy dark hair to one side, working those petite, perfectly manicured hands up the inside of his thighs. His blood boils. Her heart pounds. The beast lies in wait longing for the blood of the beauty.
Pulling his jeans down and around his waist she firmly grasps his entire length in her hand, her dainty fingers barely closing around his sizable girth. She strokes him, kissing the tender areas of his stomach and thighs, teasing him with her lips. He must focus now more than ever. He must keep the beast at bay.
Curling her lips around him she takes his entire length into her mouth, lightly swirling her tongue around the engorged head of his cock. It reminders her of those pink, bulbous lollipops she sometimes sneaks between Johns. She's surprised at how much it turns her on. The taste, the texture, the unmistakeable sound of satisfaction in his breathing. It makes her wet. Wetter than she's ever been, in fact.
She doesn't usually enjoy this part of the job, it's strictly business, but something about him is utterly disarming, an inexplicable closeness, a comfort neither of them had felt in a very long time. She lets go, falling into the warmth of his companionship, completely surrendered, his cock in the back of her throat. She feels a primal, visceral connection, a pleasure deeper and infinitely more satisfying than any sex could ever be.
She sucks harder and harder, a carnal, subservient act of devotion, worshiping a graven image made of veiny flesh and blood and cartilage, prostrate she gives penance for her sins against love. Squeezing and rolling his balls with one hand and stroking him with the other, looking into his eyes through tousled bangs, her head now vigorously bobbing up and down as she takes him to the back of her throat and out again. Like a doe in the headlights her dark eyes widen. Her legs tremble, weak under the weight of her tiny frame. Her body quakes as the heat of a thousand suns rises from the pit of her belly up through the top of her head, warm and bubbly as it surges past her cheekbones and down her spine. In that moment she experiences the most intense pleasure she had ever known.
"How did you do that?" she pants, visibly distressed, sensing an unnatural force at work. The pink hue of her cheekbones flush a paled white, leaving only the faintest purple tarnish of matte blush as the soft features of her face elongate and stiffen. Her already large eyes widen, a curiously seductive fear in their circumference.
"Hmm... you are strong," James says, impressed at her ability to resist the absurd reality of what just occurred.
