Music of the night.

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womble/leprechaun hybrid!
Nov 22, 2007
(bbw, ssbbw, Stuffing, vampire, magic)

Authors note: Yeah, it's been a long time since my last stories, and whilst I have a few planned, I hope this one shows that I'm not dead.

Think of this as world of darkness game gone horrible, gloriously wrong.

I arrive at her window in the dead of night, the tower block in Birmingham riddled with human vermin. Hooligans outside, playing loud “music”, whilst their young mothers and mates sit inside, nursing mewling infants, whilst geriatrics bemoan the state of the country, blaming those of foreign lands. Sometimes I wonder about how she could exist here, why she would want to. No matter, it is not for me to ponder.

I flitter to the window, left open a jar, and enter the dark room. Despite the open window, I smell the exotic muskiness of her, her sweat, her scent. The scented candles were new, jasmine, lavender, orchids. It was... nice, I suppose. Sentimentally was slightly beneath me, now, but just for this, this one girl, I suppose I could indulge.

“I am here, my love,” I said, a smile on my lips. I had said this to so many women before, but this one... this one was interesting.

“come on in, dear,” came the reply. A voice husky, low, with a thick brummy accent, but sent my body into over drive. I wanted to abandon all pretenses, and leap into the room and... no, calm, saunter, let the dress do the talking. Let the seductive powers of the night work it’s magic.

I enter through the window, the pungent smell coming over me. The room is dark, save for the candles on the floor, providing a warm orange glow, lighting up her desk, her wardrobe, and the double bed. Even with the dark room, I could still see her piles of dirty clothes, stacks of books and dvds and empty sweets wrappers, bottles of sweet and alcoholic drinks. She keeps herself better than most people here, and most hunters I know would be more careless with their keep. Around the bed, I see candles lit, kept out of the way to avoid fire, illuminating her, sat on her side, waiting for me, Naked except for a pair of fingerless gloves and a coy, silk scarf.

Look at her. Look at her. A mountain of a feast, her chocolate skin covered in dimples and cellulite, her round face with chubby cheeks, elegant eyebrows, full smiling lips and three chins, her black hair draping down over her fat, round shoulders. Arms jiggle with the slightest movement, and her pudgy hand lazily traces a place on the bed, seducing me further. Her bountiful breasts, huge and sagging lay, inviting and warm, making me want to suckle them like a babe. Her glorious belly, round, vast, dominated my view of her, sprawling on the bed, the belly button sinking deep.

Her hips were next. She was naturally pear shaped, now almost as wide as she was tall, her huge thighs and wide hips making her look like a fertility goddess. My little goddess. Her behind was soft, huge and cushiony too, globes of celestial beauty, wobbling at the slightest movement. Her calves, fat covered and irresistible, connected to cankles and her chubby feet, with dainty toes.

“miss me?” she said, grinning cheekily. My insides clinched, I must have this woman and...

“My love,” I said, calmly, “You look divine tonight.”

“don’t look half bad, yourself” she replied, “put on a bit, though.”

I looked down. my red satin dress, that had served me for over 60 years, was most definitely tighter around me than before. Sometimes, feeds that were large would often cause kindred to put on weight, though only in the most tasteful of ways. I feed regularly, usually once a night. Never on the same people, I made sure of that, experience had taught me that if I wanted to keep those I loved safe, I needed to find other, more disposable feeds.

Loved? Loved to taste, I should say.

“well, I suppose it’s because of your rich beauty,” I coo, slowly taking the dress off, revealing alabaster white skin, naked except for a garterbelt. She looked at me, Lust in her eyes, though she still beckoned towards the bed. Maybe she was just too big to move any more, but my form usually sent people into a lust frenzy, doing whatever they could for me. Oh well, no matter, she was still clearly turned on, I’ll play her game.

I sat on the bed, and leaned over to kiss her. Lips locked, fire ignited, something burst inside me again. I loved her. Her size, her laughter, her breasts and belly and bottom and blood. She began kissing my neck, and I let out a gasp, fire dancing within me. I was deathly cold outside of this, and this yearning inside made me feel alive again. Many kindred fall to the madness of love, but I didn't care. I never cared about it. not then, not with her.

My hands began to wander around her vast form, exploring fold and flesh, caressing curves. Slowly, I began to make my way down her body, crawling over her breasts and belly. Blood always tasted better after the point of orgasm. And I began to open her heavy, fleshy legs, she stopped moaning.

“before you go anywhere near my clit, and I want you to do something.”

“Anything, my beloved.”

She smiled at me.

“say my name.”

I paused. This was... strange. No feed, no person that I had fed on had ever stopped our passion to ask of me such a frivolous task.

“You are Mary Wisehammer,” I said, confused. “You trained as a nurse and...”

She laughed, a sweet mercurial laughter, that somehow sent shivers down my spine.

“I pulled that name out of a play I went to see a few years ago,” she laughed, “the nursing, pure fiction. The family in Rochester who wanted me to lose weight, utter bunk. Everything you know me as is a great big damn hoax.”

I lent back, looking at her. Had she gone mad? I... I had read somewhere that prolonged exposure to kindred could send a mortal mad and...
No... no this wasn't madness.

“very well,” I said, desperate to regain control and composure, “I’ll bite, what’s your real name, miss not-Mary-Wisehammer?”

She smiled, rising up to look me in the eye. I could see fire, passion and... power in her.

“I’ve gone by many names, Isabella. Mary wisehammer, Jessica Grace Harting, Utuba Mauroa, She who walks in secrets, Lady of whispers and warp, the high sun goddess, K’ur’thi-ra, among many others. I tend to change names, depending on what fits at the time.”

She sways hypnotically, her body rippling, pooching, forming rolls and then causing them to disappear under soft skin. I look up at her, enraptured by this display of confidence... of sexiness. Around me, the air feels heavy with energy, my senses screaming at me to flee and never look at this woman again.

“I have walked with the dawn of this earth, saw parallel earths where the roman empire never fell, drank wine with gods and elementals and djinn and Yokai and loa, and survived the destruction of my entire being. I fought against the abyss, the anti-essense of everything, and continue to fight it’s agents, in another time, in another place, in another plane. On every plane.”

With a mere flick of her wrist, she pushes me down onto the bed.

“What you see is a mere fraction of what I really am. This, merely a vessel, a reflection, born into this world when’er I want, where’er I want, however many I want. I am like a temple of flesh on a distant world, worshiped by lesser beings, creating new life simply by breathing. My blood is watered down to the point of nothing, and yet you still are addicted, little kindred, to it’s rich, exotic flow.”

She slammed on top of me, pinning my arms to the bed, her hair falling down, her belly and breasts and thighs smothering me in their warm, fleshy embrace. Her eyes mad with glee, a wide grin on her face. I was... terrified, and... Lilith forgive me, enraptured.

“I am force and matter and time and life. I am many, many thousand of years old. Like you play with mortals, I play with all creation itself. You know my kind by many names, Shaman, warlock, theurgist, but my beloved Isabella von grantz...”

She leaned in close, whispering in my ear. Her cheek pressing against my cheek, I spell the smell of roses, wildflowers and sulphur, and hear the sounds of lutes, roaring and waves.

“I’m a mage.”

It hit me like a ton of bricks. Oh no. Oh No! Please No! This... This was too much. I had been feeding on a mage and... she had let me. The stories I’d heard of vampires drinking from a mage, and then never being seen again, to become play things of these entities. But she said she diluted her blood. Maybe I am in control here? Maybe...

She pressed herself against me, and under her weight, I feel myself grow weak. I’m old enough and powerful enough to simply punch through brick walls if I have to, but seeing her, something inside me wants to sink into her flesh, and just be there. I was an addict to her.

“How... many?” I ask

“You are not the first I have done this with,” she says, smiling. “but you hold a special place in my heart, little Isabella. It’s been... nice, and you've made me feel something I don’t feel as much as I’d like to.”

She rises up, towering over me.

“but you must me hungry, dear. You've been waiting for a quick sup all night, and I've delayed you talking about how awesome I am.”

“my... my love, don’t concern yourself with that, I...”

That was as far as I got before my stomach betrayed me. A mewling gurgle of hunger echoed through the room. She grins at me, sharkishly.

“you. Must. Be. Famished, my dear,” she says, calmly, her hand reaching out and stroking my belly, my hunger growing, more and more with each caress. I groan, my stomach rumbling louder. Was this the power of the magi, to simply will something and for it to happen? “And I that only blood will suffice. Delicious mortal food will simply not do for someone like you, just add to your figure...” there was no attempt to hide the glee in her voice. “I have instead enlisted a small group of people to help.”

My stomach dive bombed. She must have found my other feeds and she’s somehow roped them in. What kind of mess was she planning? The knock on the bedroom door came through like a death knell, slow, low and ominous.

“come in,” She said as I see her turn around, welcoming in the 6 others. They look at me, with fear, with pity, with anger and with open lust.

“You’re hungry,” She said. “So I have brought you a feast.”

A man stepped forward. Big, hairy, his arms covered with tattooes.

“Hello, Isabella” he said, his voice cold and measured. “I... I didn’t know you were seein’ someone else, love.”

“Is this some kind of revenge?” I hissed. “did I not love you enough?”

“No,” she said, smiling, “no, It was everything I could have wanted, no malice on my part. I just think that you’re a little out of your depth.”

I turn back to the man. I can’t remember his name, John or Josh or something. I remember his blood though. Almost as if on cue, he arched his neck to me, showing me my favoured spot.

“Come on,” he muttered “This is the last for me.”

I looked at him, stony face, trying to detect weakness, or signs of falsehood. I tried to rationalise it with that he was just a feed, that humans come and go, but this public... shaming really made me feel sick.

“How many others?” I snarl, “How many others of you have come to cut our ties.”

A pregnant woman steps forward, young, used to be thin, but the curve of her belly breaks the illusion.

“Like Jake says,” she said, “This will be the last night. I don’t know how you drinking from me will affect my baby.”

An older indian gentleman steps forward, a local business owner, and a older woman, a wife of a police officer, also raised their hands, no doubt too scared to step forward. The other two were young and unafraid, whilst these two were old enough to know when to stay hidden. The other two, one a Smack-head with nothing to live for, and a ditzy struggling musician, kept their hands down.

“And I” I whispered, “I am to drink from... all of them?”

The idea of this... debauchery sent a shiver down my spine. My head screamed that this was wrong, that I could over feed, kill one of them or fall victim to bloodlust. But every other part of me wanted this, wanted this with a burning passion wanting to debase myself in rampant sanguine consumption.

She nodded. I turned to Jake and felt what’s left of my heart break. He looked so cold, so aloof, not the scared, lonely man who had no-one to turn to. If my tear ducts were working...

“I... I am so sorry,” I said.

“Do it.” he said, monotonously. If he had yelled, spat or done something, it would have been better. I was a fool.

I was released, and slowly, I made my way over to him. no sauntering, no seductive swing of my hips. If this was to be the last one, not just to him, but to all of them, I wanted it to be honest. His neck arched, I reached a hand up to cradle his head. He didn’t flinch, and he rested his head in my hands. I slowly open my mouth and bite down.

His blood fills my mouth and I taste it. It tastes of cigarettes, engine oil and onions, the wonderfully bizarre concoction fills my palette and trickles down my throat. I hear him moan in the pleasure-pain vice that the feeding, as the rapture takes hold of his body. I feel him slowly drift away and I let go. I look around, ignoring him collapse to the floor. The mother, Heather, next, her face cold, her neck bared, an almost noble way of holding herself. Her blood sweet with estrogen, a milky creamy quality to it. I drain her less than normal, as Jake had filled me up, before letting her drop, the last of her moans squeaking out.

“I... am sated” I replied, Turning to Mary. I was slightly more than sated. My stomach was actually full, and I felt the slight twinge of pain coming from it.

“Don’t think so, my dear.” Mary stood up, “I believe there is a little bit of space down there somewhere.”

“Are you insane. If I have any more, I’ll...”

“Let me make something clear, Isabella.” Mary walked next to me, Towering over me, blocking out all light, her eyes piercing me to my core, “You will feed, and feed, and feed, until I am satisfied."

Hunger took over. Seething, roiling hunger, like that of a beast, thrashing against my mind. I run for the shopkeeper, Ali, and bury my fangs into his neck, the taste of a thousand indian spices mixed with the bitter tang of hops coiling around my mouth. I drink and drink and let him fall, biting the wife, Joan on the thighs, wine, whiskey, and the stale taste of tears falling onto my tongue and down my gullet. No sweetness, no reminiscing, Just feeding.

The Junkie is next, his eyes wide in adoration and... dare I say love? Doesn’t matter. His blood takes of little, but the contact high from whatever he was doing throws me, everything becomes warped in my eyes, I begin to slowly loose my place of where I am. Finally, the singer, I think her name is... Jessica or something, a sappy look of adulation. Her blood...I could no longer taste. I... I felt like I wanted to be sick...

I teeter in place, before I land on the floor with a thud. Everything was blurry, my stomach ached and groaned, and I felt sick. I looked down to see the dome of my belly, like I was pregnant, so perfect and found, I wanted to cradle myself, breasts and belly free for all the world to see.

“Tired out?” Mary’s chirpy voice came in. “Oh you poor dear” Her hand reached down and touched my belly. I felt pain and the slightest twinge of pleasure go through my body as she slowly massaged my roundness. “you must have push yourself a bit too much.”

“is...?” I can barely get the words out, so much effort, so much strain. All I wanted to do was just sit and digest, quietly letting my stomach gurgle

“it enough? Well, my poor little vampire,” She cooed, Kneeling down in front of me, her eyes the picture of sweet, glorious madness “you’ve travelled all this way and suffered so much, it doesn’t seem fair to not give you what you came for.”

“oh no,” I whimper, She wanted me to drink from her. Me, a vampire of 300 years to be sure, but still a vampire, to drink from one of the god-beings that commands the forces of creation, I would surely die. “Please.” I pathetically mewl as I paw at her. My power gone, my reverence and stature reduced to nothing, begging her for respite. “No more.”

“Yes,” she smiles, bearing her neck, the soft, warm neck, holding my shoulder with a firm hand, and putting her other hand on my bottom. “I want you to see me for who I am really.”

And with one quick motion, she brought me to her neck, her soft flesh around my mouth and nose. I could do nothing but bite down, and let the glorious blood flow.

And what blood. Rich beyond richness, flavour beyond anything I can describe, it swirled and danced on my palette, new flavours and aspects revealing themselves, before disappearing to be replaced by stranger, more beautiful, more terrifying flavours. I pass out.

I see myself, no longer in the little apartment in a Birmingham suburb, but on a great plane of strange, earthy flesh, fertile rolls and hills formed and faded away against the strange sky. Around me, strange people pilgrimage up the mountains towards her face. her glorious face, beauty beyond compare, her eyes like glorious suns, and her hair weaved into the cosmos. I was standing on a planet of my love, tiny against the vastness of her.

But as for myself? I could barely walk. My belly touched the ground, great flabby legs which take such effort to lift, hips wider than I am tall, buttocks rocking with every motion, my arms soft as pillows and my breast spilling over. I am sweaty and sticky, I am wet and I am naked, and I am glorious in the light of her divinity. Praise her, the light of my life and the darkness of my depravity!

I come back. I barely hear her wincing about how much it stings. I barely hear them as she raises everyone up. I barely notice the ache of my over stuffed belly and the blood dribbling down my dress. I barely think about the food cart they bring in, or what eating it will do to more. I was in euphoria. I was with her, my love, and I will never leave her side again. Praise her, K’ur’thi-ra, my goddess.

Praise her.