Blood Geek

[pjthompson]

BLOOD GEEK

CHAPTER 1


Spotlights pinned him like a butterfly to a board. He stood in the middle of the tent, watching without expression as the audience shuffled in and took their seats on the hard wooden bleachers. The summer heat lay on them all like God’s sweaty palm, paper fans click-clacked back and forth, perspiration glistened on faces and chests. The sweat, the heightened interest of the women, the bitter sting of jealousy from the men, the smell of sawdust and wet canvas in humid air combined in a heady aroma: show time!

When he took the two-inch nail in his hand, their stomachs tightened. When he took the hammer in his other hand, those who had seen the show before closed their eyes and gripped the edge of the bleachers. Lightheaded, they anticipated with both thrill and revulsion, swearing this time they would not peek, not even a little. But they always did. And when he placed the nail against his cheek and pounded it in with one strong blow, some fainted dead away, or moaned and cried out, or retched into the buckets conveniently placed at the end of every row.

Through it all he remained calm as a tomb, never acknowledging the foreign object piercing his body or the blood running down his neck and over his white shirt.

Then he picked up another nail.

After the last show when he had time to socialize, a group of local women waited outside the tent for him. They wanted to touch his face and forearms where the nails had gone in, wondering why, and what trick he used. Because even though they saw and touched the marks of the nails, when they came back for the next performance, his skin had miraculously healed. Only the old scars remained: a pale line along his jaw like a knife wound, and the skewed angle of his nose which suggested it had once been broken.

Most nights, at least one or two of the ladies-in-waiting wanted more than to examine his scars. He’d make small talk until all but one gave up and left. Then he’d invite her back to his wagon for a drink . . . which quickly turned to kisses.

He excited them with tongue and hands, they excited him with gasps and moans. He moved on them and in them until they cried out and shook with pleasure. In control of himself, always in control, and when they had their pleasure, he moved inside them again, into their minds to send dreams of his own climax—human, if somehow strange.

Then he sank his fangs into their lovely necks or heaving bosoms to take a little blood.

The pleasure of his bite set their bodies shaking again, though their waking minds were unaware of what happened. More important, it eased his body away from losing himself to blind, instinctual pleasure where he lashed out and drank until their bodies lay lifeless beneath him. The blood was all the orgasm he needed.

Afterwards, he nicked his finger to smear his own blood over the fang marks on their necks so they closed and healed. Few of the ladies wanted to lie beside him for the night. They dressed in a hurry, rushed back to their fathers and boyfriends and husbands, and although they didn't exactly want to forget him, for some reason they couldn’t quite fathom, they didn’t want to think too much about him, either.

Nothing personal. They used him to ease their boredom, he used them for the blood. No permanent harm done. Everybody just taking what they needed to make it through the night.

Cover design by F-Bod Studios.

Mirrored from Better Than Dead.