Vampire "Untitled" (Vampire "Untitled" Trilogy Book 1) (11 page)

Nealla had sauntered across the road to intercept. Big
Man let go of Boy and ambled across the road with Nealla. They did it real cool
and casual, like bad actors making a theatrical gesture of casually walking
that was overly suspicious.

There was no way to avoid them. Push past and get
inside, or turn, run, and go somewhere else? It was early, not even 9:00am.
Turn around perhaps, and get on the bus to Brasov, spend the day there wearing
soaking wet clothes.

“Pizda Englezeasca!” Nealla called. There was a
mischievous joviality in his voice and he was wearing that same grinning smirk
as when he’d held him down and threatened with the razor.

Paul blanked him and headed towards the door. The
decision was made invisibly, the commitment to go forward was made either by
accident or momentum. He would try to ignore them and get inside the block. His
heart was banging in his chest and he could feel his face flushing. Nealla was
already giving the victory strut; he seemed pleased with himself, happy to have
won the face-off before it began. Paul made a sudden dart forward heading for
the doorway. Nealla jumped to the side to block his way, throwing his arms wide
as a barrier. He jokingly said something in Romanian that Paul non-verbally
translated as ‘not so fast, Englishman’.

Be ready to run.

Make plans, quick, have a contingency.

If he makes the slightest move, get back up the street
to the bus stand, there are people there, witnesses, protection.

Paul stood still and allowed Nealla to come to him.

“Tot aici esti, englezoiule?” Nealla asked. He pointed
a finger in Paul’s face and said a few sentences of threats that contained the
name Ildico. There was something in his eyes; cold grey eyes that contained a
fierceness that seemed like a volcano ready to erupt. Nealla really was angry
about something and he was barely keeping it under control. One look at his
face, twisted in anger told you everything. Something was eating away at him.

Stay calm, Paul thought. Let him have his moment, let
him feel he’s had a victory.

Paul dipped his head to try and show submission and
noticed Nealla sliding his hand into his pocket.

Not the razor, Paul thought, please not the razor.

“Eh, English Man?” Nealla snapped with harshness,
expecting an answer.

“I’m sorry,” Paul said. He raised his palms in
surrender. “I don’t understand.”

“E un retardat. Nu intelege nimic,” the Big Man said.
His voice was low and gravelly, the sort of voice that sells horror movies.

“Nu? Nu inteleg?” Nealla asked. It sounded like he was
saying ‘do you not understand?’

Paul shook his head, hoping that was what he’d asked.

Then Nealla said something about Ildico which made
both he and Big Man burst out laughing. Ildico, Paul thought, he mentioned
Ildico again. Everything came back to her.

As Nealla and Big Man laughed they looked to one
another and Nealla shifted his weight onto the back foot, easing off the
pressure for a split second.

Paul dashed to the side and sprung up the steps to the
entrance without even thinking. Fox like reflexes. It was the slimmest
opportunity and he had taken it instinctively. He threw open the door with far
too much power and sprinted up the stairs. Halfway up the first flight he heard
the metal squeal of the lobby door and Nealla’s voice yelling Romanian words.
He wasn’t following any further than the lobby, but the threats and insults
were loud; they echoed and reverberated throughout the staircase as Paul dashed
to his apartment. He didn’t understand what was said, but the intention, the
hostility and the threats were clear and those threats hung in the air like
poison gas. It felt as though he had to hold his breath whilst struggling with
the key, trying to unlock the door. He didn’t dare breathe in any of Nealla’s
words, but in his haste he was working the keys and lock too fast, slowing
himself down through haste.

The door opened and he slipped inside before slamming
the door behind him to lock Nealla’s booming voice outside. He stood with his
back to the door and released a long pathetic groan. This place was god-awful.
His shoes, socks and jeans were soaking wet and ice cold. He’d been stalked by
some dressed up lunatic in the forest, threatened in the street and chased into
his own building. He also realised this was his second full day in Romania. When he checked his watch he saw it was only 8:45am.

----- X -----

His
jeans hung on a clothes-hanger in the kitchen drying out from the warmth of the
oven; there was no food in there, it was just burning gas to heat the room. His
shoes were close by, the insoles pulled out to speed the drying. Although the
rooms of the apartment had radiators, there didn’t seem to be any controls and
he assumed it was like the hot water, turned on and controlled communally. To
the touch they held the tiniest amount of warmth and he figured they were never
turned off completely otherwise the building would freeze.

The drying clothes made the kitchen cosy and mildly
humid and Paul used the time to finish reading Shadowbeast. It was enjoyably
stupid and he could see why kids liked it. It was fast paced, high-concept
action that was very sexy and raunchy but written in a vocabulary that teens
and young adults would enjoy. There were many memorable scenes that he knew
teenagers would love because they weren’t supposed to read it. One of the most
memorable featured the male hero being stripped naked, tied to a rack and
stretched by witches, whom all had huge heaving breasts. It was the sort of
stuff that made schoolchildren excited. There was nudity, sadomasochism,
bondage, domination and the only person who could save him was a young nun who
was having all manner of immoral thoughts as she looked at the naked hero
stretched on a rack before her. Fantastic stuff for school kids.

It set Paul reminiscing to a schoolyard experience of
his own where a girl had read out a passage from a novel featuring a man with a
black, inflatable penis sleeve. The storyline saw an evil man fucking a bound
woman into submission. Wow, what a story. But who was that girl? The one with
big glasses who was always reading. Nicola! That was her name... “I remember
you, Nicola,” he said aloud. “You had some dirty books, girl.” They’d all
laughed and giggled as this schoolgirl had read the filthiest passages from her
library... What was that book? I’d love to read it now. God, I’d love to do
that to Ildico. I’d love to hold her down and play with her pussy and...

Where the hell did that thought come from?

It was completely out of the blue...

He pictured Ildico in his mind. She was kneeling, her
wrists were bound above her head from a rope hung from the ceiling. The image
lasted only a second but in that time he ripped her blouse open like a maniac
to expose her breasts.

Simultaneously, Paul felt a sting of embarrassment and
a swelling in his pants. The thought persisted. He wasn’t in the usual habit of
fantasising about girls he knew; somehow that had always felt off limits,
something to be ashamed of. Better to stick with fantasising about porn stars,
or movie stars, women beyond reach.

But the thought wasn’t going away. He really did want
to touch Ildico. He wanted to tweak her nipples and make her cry. What the
hell? He’d never hurt any woman or wanted to. Not ever. Why on earth should he
think that?

In his mind’s eye he saw her crotch in the thinnest,
most transparent panties and saw his own fingers slipping under the waistband.

“Stop this,” he said to himself.

But it wasn’t stopping.

He saw his fingers move deeper, following the contours
of her pubis, imagining her bald and shaved, sensing the warmth and moisture.
He saw her face, wet lips parting, eyes closed, head tilting back as he slipped
a finger inside, feeling her hot wet cunt.

Paul coughed roughly, forcibly, and stood up to make
coffee. In the space of a few seconds his cock was hard and squashed in his
pants. He filled a small pan with water and set it on the gas stove. The image
came back briefly to which he hit his fist against his breastbone. “Stop, Paul.
Stop that... Just stop.”

His lips were pressed tightly and his face wore a
serious expression. Something about that little fantasy had felt so very, very
wrong. As though he’d just caught himself fantasising about having sex with a
ten year old girl. Perhaps that was the reason why it felt wrong. Ildico was
lovely and sweet, but despite being nineteen years old she had the gawky
innocence of a child.

He had a theory that the longer one goes without any
form of sexual outlet, the weirder and more extreme one’s fantasies and
ideation become. Hence the reason you should never trust priests or listen to
the clergy’s opinion on sexual morality.

Perhaps that was his problem. Too long without sex.
Too long without quality, meaningful sex. His last encounter had been haunting
him for months; a drunken unsatisfying mess at a Halloween house-party.

Nisha.

She just wouldn’t stop haunting him.

Nisha was dark skinned, dusky, with a touch of Indian
blood and the sex appeal of a Bollywood hottie. He’d admired her for months
before he found the courage to talk to her. It was Halloween and he finally
approached her on the staircase as people pushed past in a queue for the
toilet. She was dressed as one of the chopped up little girls from The Shining.
He was dressed in a simple Hockey Mask with a plastic machete. She was
completely drunk and feeling horny. He’d barely said hello before she’d wrapped
her arms around him, pulled off his mask and sloppy kissed him in public. God,
he could remember it all, the coldness of her mouth as she kissed him after
sipping a chilled drink, the taste of strong spirits on her tongue, the
strawberry scent from her brown hair. He’d wanted to talk to her for such a
long time, to pluck up the courage and make the first advances toward a relationship.
She had other ideas, she was horny, gagging for it, like a cat in heat that was
mewling for a mate. She’d pulled him to a bed covered in coats for sticky
fumbling in the dark. There was minimal foreplay before she was on her back
with her blood-stained dress hitched up. He could see it all in his head; legs
up to her chest, white knee high socks, her lace knickers hanging from one
ankle. He was on top of her, trying to penetrate but so far off the side of the
bed he couldn’t get any purchase with his feet. Trying to fuck whilst hanging
from the side of a bed. People came into the room and saw them, grabbed their
coats and left. He could relive it all in high-definition memories, the muffled
music from downstairs, the awkwardness of his trousers about his ankles.

Nisha broke it off because she’d needed to vomit. He
didn’t finish. It was a hopeless and lousy experience.

The next day he’d telephoned to try and arrange a more
sober date and this was where it had all gone desperately, horribly wrong.

“You fucking raped me!” She’d screamed. “Don’t you
know not to have sex with a girl who’s drunk? I couldn’t defend myself. I
couldn’t say no. I should call the police you fucking pig rapist scum!”

That wasn’t the way Paul remembered it. She’d been the
instigator, she’d been the one wanting sex, but in her sobriety all things were
reversed and for Paul things were terrifyingly worse. This wasn’t just a
rejection of his affections, these were life changing allegations, false
allegations, that he couldn’t figure how to defend against.

He’d fancied her for six months. He wanted to be with
her and make her feel special. Her actions left him paralysed with terror. It
was three months since, it was still painful, he still thought about it every
day and he still stayed awake worried he may get a visit from the police.

Nisha.

Fucking Nisha.

Ildico wasn’t like that. Ildico was nice, she was
sweet. Ildico wouldn’t have drunken sex then cry date-rape. Ildico needed to be
treated properly, like a princess, with care and respect.

Respect...

His logical inner monologue said the word respect. His
imagination had her on all fours like a dog, licking and sucking his balls like
a whore.

“It’s just human nature,” Paul said as he rubbed his
eyes firmly, trying to clean the picture from his imagination, but it was one
of those things that once seen could never be unseen.

The truth was, he wanted it. He wanted to treat Ildico
the way Nisha had falsely claimed he treated her. He’d never had that thought
before in his life. He’d never fantasised it, wanted it, desired it.

Until now.

“Just enjoy it,” he said sheepishly. “It’s just a
fantasy, it can’t hurt.”

Within seconds his imagination had Ildico stripped
naked, crying like when he’d first met her, blackened tears of smudged makeup
on her cheeks. She was kneeling on the floor with her knees apart, her wrists
tied together from a rope slung from a ceiling beam. She was helpless. Sexually
open. Submissive. He called her a bitch and slapped her face and she played
along, accepting it whilst crying. She was unable to defend against him and the
power play charged his imagination with fierce eroticism. He had her for
whatever whim took him. He had her completely, he owned her sexually, and she
knew that she was owned.