The Lust of the Sire

This is very much a horror story. Be forewarned.

This is a quickie, a very short story intentionally kept under two thousand words to keep it a quick read. As such, it can't possibly be arousing. There is sex in the story, and the sex is somehow integral in how events play out, but it's not arousing. That's not the goal. It is a story, first and foremost. Measure it's value on the punch the story packs, and the entertainment it provides, not on how much it excites you, because it probably won't.

This particular story belongs to three genres, Incest, Non-human, and Erotic Horror. Please don't let the incest aspect either frighten you away, or be the reason you read on. Read because you want to experience the unexpected.

This version of this story is the original, involving a father and daughter, and is how the story was was intended. There is an alternate version, The Lust of the Second Sire, that involves, instead, a brother and sister. The stories are virtually identical, and you can read either, depending on your preference, although I feel that this one, the original, is the more powerful of the two.

— The Author

Angela looked down her straight, pale nose at her father's stiff form. He wasn't asleep, but was unable to move, held in place by her power. She never in her wildest dreams imagined that her twentieth birthday would end like this.

The change was dramatic and exhilarating. Just days ago she'd been a shy, timid young woman, barely able to think of allowing a man to molest her firm, tender breasts, let alone actively seduce him. Now, seduction and sensuality coursed naturally through her bloodless veins. She radiated sexuality and lust. No man could resist her. No man ever would again.

Her sire had ordered her to use her power to live out her heart's most wicked desire. He next revealed it to her, her shameful secret, the desire she thought no one knew, a desire she'd never truly admitted to herself.

She wore a loose, white shift, as sheer as a thin, night fog. The warm night wind, blowing intrusively in through the open window, ruffled it smoothly over her slim, supple, feminine form. Her unearthly white skin, the smooth, pale knobs of her slight breasts, the white shift, the white sheets beneath them, all seemed to glow in the moonlight.

Angela let her hands slide forward, up her father's legs, delighting in the tickle of his masculine leg hairs running over her fingers. Her dainty hands crept up and up, up his broad inner thighs, up the sensitive area of his groin, to stop on either side of his inviting cock.

It grew for her. She gazed lustily at it, and him. He trembled beneath her, frozen, as she projected her own lust into his mind. Her sire had taught her that. He'd commanded her to come here to demonstrate her new found powers in the most wicked way imaginable.

She was a monster, now, he'd told her. He'd made her into a monster with one long, agonizingly euphoric bite on her neck. It wasn't only a bite, she thought, smiling. She supposed the bite was what mattered, but in that same moment he'd filled her wondrously with his hard, stinging-cold prick. He had spread her legs, speared her and filled her, the first man she'd ever had, as wave after wave of pleasure coursed through her crotch and her punctured neck, even as her life seeped away, to be replaced with this dreamlike non-life.

Angela lowered her open mouth to her father's now stiff cock, as he stared at her in rigid fear, trembling. Trembling with a mixture of fear and forbidden lust. When his living cock touched her cold, dead lips, it burned them like fire. She pulled back to see a wonderfully wicked blood red lipstick stain, an imprint of a daughter's lips on her loving father's cock head, a sinful brand marking him as hers, and a sign of only the start of what was to come.

She was a monster now. Her sire had told her what she had become, what she would do, and what he demanded of her. She would service him at his pleasure. She would feed on the living. In time, she would learn to kill, and to enjoy the exquisite pleasure that killing and feeding brought. And, when she wished, she could take other lovers, at will, whomever she chose, whomever she had ever desired in her greatest fantasies.

That was a vampire's one greatest power. A vampire could instill an overpowering lust, a lust so strong that the victim, no matter what his fears and intellect and inhibitions, would willingly succumb. They might know they were going to die. They might know the act they were about to commit was a heinous evil. But they would willingly, ardently submit, enjoying it none the less as their own life slipped away in a wave of rapture.

Angela slipped forward across her father's reclined form. Her hands slipped up his strong, hairy chest. Her erect nipples brushed over the tops of his hairy thighs. Her smooth, delicate white knees brushed his calves, and then the sides of his hips, as she shuffled forward to straddle him and settle into position.

Her sire commanded this one seduction. He said she was a monster. She had to prove it to him, to herself, and to her father.

She had to feel her father's cock inside her cold, unliving cunt, and draw his living, burning, sinfully incestuous seed into her.

Angela lowered herself onto her father's stiff shaft. The Sire hadn't really needed to order her to do this. She'd longed for it, shamefully, and secretly, for so very long. Her heart had cried in joy when she'd been ordered to pursue this dark, demonic dream.

"That's it, Daddy. Stay perfectly still while little Angela makes you feel so good," she purred.

His cock burned her cunt as it impaled her. The heat of it was inhuman. She giggled at the thought. It was she that was inhuman, and in her deathly state, it was the warmth of a living man that so burned her tender, nearly virginal insides.

Her living, breathing daddy's cock burned her tight, wicked, devil-daughter cunt.

The thought sent a chill up her spine. Her body tingled with pleasure as she lowered herself further onto him, feeling inch after inch of his awesome cock filling her, dragging across and spreading her narrow cunt lips. She watched his eyes intently the whole time. He somehow found the strength and courage to speak.

"No, baby, no. Don't do this."

"Yes, Daddy. Angela wants Daddy's cock. Don't you want your little girl to be happy?"

She smiled down at him.

She lowered herself all the way onto him as she spoke, taking all of him, and ending with a glorious, pleasured wail. He trembled, then, as his eyes rolled up into his head. He tried to stifle his own involuntary, victorious moan.

"Yes, Daddy. Yes. I know you like it. I like it, too, Daddy. I like it a lot," she said, as she rode him, writhing, eagerly lifting her from up and down, rhythmically moving her father's shaft in and out of her forbidden, incestuous, tight little cunt.

He shuddered for her. She giggled and smiled, relishing the power she had over him. He couldn't move. He was frozen beneath her, as if he were dead himself with his cock upright and stiff, not with rigor mortis but with his own excitement at being with his own beautiful daughter. His living cock stabbed into her un-living cunt, pleasuring both him and her as much or more than any girl or woman he'd ever had. Up and down she moved, letting her cunt slip over that marvelous cock, sliding easily, coating it with her slick, plentiful juices. Her sinfully eager cunt clenched and grabbed, massaging her father's prick mercilessly.

"Ooh, Daddy, you fuck so good. Do you fuck Mommy this good, Daddy? Are you fucking me like you fuck Mommy? Is this how you fucked Mommy to make me? Huh, Daddy? Daddy?"

Her father growled in response. His hips bucked now, overcome with the lust that she relentlessly and continuously poured into him. He was overflowing, bursting with lust now. He bucked violently, fucking her now of his own volition, overcome with the pleasure of it and lifting her up in the moonlight, while she squealed and begged and pleaded for more.

"Yes, Daddy, yes, let me ride you like a slut, Daddy. I want to be Daddy's little slut."

He bucked and growled, as his cock stiffened and jerked. She felt his cum inside of her, like no other man's. It was hot and thick, filling and coating her womb. The feel of it, a living man's warm cum in a dead girl's cold cunt, heated and burned and seared her pleasurably, in a way she'd never imagined. 
Her own body shuddered as first one orgasm took her, then another, and another. She grabbed her nubile breasts, squeezing them together, pinching her nipples pleasurably as her body was wracked with incomparable jolts of pleasure.

"Yes, Daddy, fuck me good. Fill me with cum and fuck me good. Oh, Daddy. Oh, Daddy. Oh, Daddy..."

She felt a hunger growing within as her body exploded with rapture. She no longer cared at all about his gratification. She didn't care if he felt pain. She hungered. She lusted, and she hungered in a way she'd never imagined. As her body was sated, as the waves of pleasure roamed through her, burst through her, her need for something more, something new, grew without bound.

She hungered.

She sensed his heart beating before and below her. She could smell her father's blood coursing through his veins. His neck throbbed, pulsing visibly where the artery neared the skin, where a single bite would pleasure him beyond his own imagining as she fed on his hot, tangy, steaming, blood. They could be doubly joined in the ultimate, orgasmic, physical pleasure, just as the sire had done for her.

Her body convulsed again with an orgasm intensified ten-fold by the mere thought of that new pleasure. She craved it. She craved making it a reality. She fell forward to his delicious, beckoning neck.

"No."

The deep command exploded in her mind.

"No. Do not feed. Do not hurt him. Calm yourself, child. Calm your body and your lust and your hunger. Let him be."

* * *

Without him nearby to stop her, she would have killed him. That was inevitable. That was, in part, why he was here, watching over her. Artûr, over five hundred years old, looked on with relish as the lovers subsided.

His unending revenge on his brother was once again repeated.

Five hundred years ago his own brother had raped Artûr's daughter. Five hundred year ago he had killed the dirty scoundrel, but he hid his brother's villainy to protect his daughter's reputation, chastity and future. The town's people ignorantly hanged him for his own crime. He'd accepted his fate silently, until he reawakened as the monster he was now, and had been for all these long centuries.

His people believed a truly immoral man was resurrected as a vampire. He became a vampire because of the cruel, unforgivable nature of his crime of fratricide. He himself believed it was not a punishment, but an act of justice, a chance at unending revenge on his brother and his family and his descendants.

His brother's family threw his wounded family onto the street for his crime against them. His own wife and children died there, alone, in the cold, without him to care for them. His brother's family appropriated his wealth, prospering from its foundation, then living in luxury through the centuries at his expense.

But every few decades a daughter was born to his brother's line, one that intrigued him. Every so often the father was of a type that reminded him of his brother. The father and daughter loved each other. He cared for her. She trusted him, but lusted after him. He lusted after her. They wouldn't act on it, not as nice, God fearing, church going people. They were good. They were civilized. They would never commit an act so vile as incest.

But their ancestor had. It was in them.

They weren't so good as they seemed. It took so little, really, to nudge them into action. They weren't ever so good and kind and virtuous as they pretended. It was a gift, really, from him to them, the ability to exist as they truly were, as monsters, without hiding their true nature or feelings or desires. It was his gift to them.

Every half century or so he enacted his revenge once more, as he guided them into an act of familial betrayal. He enjoyed the scene as it played out, time and again, as the father brutally took the daughter, or the daughter sinfully took the father, and the father, the monster that he truly was, shamefully but willingly enjoyed it.

And now Angela would be his. He'd send her back to her father from time to time, until he tired of the game and ended the wretched father's life by making her be the one to take it. She'd learn then what a monster she was, as the lust and the hunger overwhelmed her, and she fed on her father's blood.

The father would watch in horror as his daughter took his life, even as she fucked him, and yet he'd enjoy it all, the sex and his own murder, as his spirit slipped away into nothing. She would lie beside his drained, white corpse, on white sheets stained with red blood, yet unable to weep as the lust still thrummed inside of her. Then she would live on, always tortured with the memory of what she'd done to her own father, and what she'd become — what she truly was in her heart.

Then Artûr would wait again, for as long as it took, for another lusting couple to arrive to replay his own immortal passion, his unquenchable, immortal lust for revenge on his incestuous family.

@ @ @

— From the author —

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