Confessions of a Vampire

vamp10

CONFESSIONS OF A VAMPIRE - Chapter 10

Hmmm ... It's not really time for another installment of this novel. Yet, I've just looked at the calendar - there are only about 10-11 weeks until election day in the US. I don't normally put my politics upfront but I'll remind you that I did say this story had a political thriller aspect to it - well, election day 2000 can decide things a lot.

We have brother Pat Robertson at the Christian Coalition convention last year in Atlanta telling everyone that THEY were going to win in 2000. He has his pet mongrel, Ralph Reed, well-situated in Bush's inter-political circle. And earlier this year, Brother Pat and Jerry Falwell had their Christian fascists on the telephones in SC to turn the tide there after McCain had beat Georgie Porgie soundly in NH.

Let me put it this way, not voting in Nov is a vote for George W. Bush WHICH is a vote for Pat Robertson. That's as simple as I can make it. That's what this story is all about. An autocratic 19th century Prince saves democratic America. That's sweet in fiction. It's even something of a lark and pretty heavily erotic in Confessions Of A Vampire. But it ain't gonna happen in reality.

Reality is that you vote for diversity and equal rights for all of us by voting for Al Gore OR you vote to give America to the fascists even after they lost Germany in 1945.

So, I'm speeding up the release of this tale - so it's all there for you to read several weeks before election day 2000. Sure, it's absurd. Sure, it's only erotica. Sure, you won't find some Gestapo freak in polyester at your door 22 January 2001. Sure, no one's going to pull you out of your house and shoot you for being queer in 2001. But Pat and Jerry, their lapdogs too, they'll be trying to make sure you don't have a chance to vote them out in 2004. Anyway, following are the next three chapters of Confessions. Enjoy. And think about the underlying sense of the tale.

Dave

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"You were supposed to stop, Karl!" he yelled at me even as his eyes opened. "You weren't supposed to do it yet," he continued, his voice dropping into a whimper. "I trusted you-" Blood red tears welled in Emil's eyes which did not stop accusing me from the moment he opened them.

I continued to meet his gaze, saying nothing. There was nothing I could say. The fang marks on his neck were gone, healed without a mark to show they were ever there. His skin was palely effervescent, smooth as it had never been before. Emil Paulik was Ganymede personified with his brown curls the colour of wet sand framing his face. He made a beautiful vampire as he once had a handsome human.

He was right. I should have controlled my impulses. I should have pulled back from him even as we rocked together toward his second ejaculation. I should have . . .

But I hadn't.

His eyes broke from mine and moved to stare up at the ceiling. "It's not your fault," he mumbled. "I kept asking for it. I followed around after you like a damned puppy! Wanting you. Wanting to be like you."

He groaned and both fists slammed into the mattress on either side of him. "Now, I am."

I remained silent, not knowing what I could say. When Sergei gave me his blood, I faced imminent death - or the immortality he offered me. Emil was a healthy, attractive twenty-two year old mortal with years of youth still ahead of him. I had been happy to accept life, no matter what kind of life it was. He had had mortal life stretching out before him. Now, that was gone.

"I'm going to have to get used to it, aren't I?" he asked, his voice that of defeat.

I nodded.

"I'm going to have to kill people now, aren't I?"

"Nothing says you have to drink as deeply as I did. No, you don't have to kill people to feed."

I chuckled wryly. "For the longest time, when I still ruled my province before Hitler came, I drank only bovine blood."

"You did?" He looked at me curiously. "I thought you had to have human blood?"

"I did suggest you not read those silly romances," I reminded him and smiled shyly. "There's so much you need to learn - and too much to forget."

"No coffins." He smiled back at me tentatively. "No colds and fevers." He chuckled, but I could sense it was forced. "Not even a bout of nausea when I eat something I shouldn't."

"You'll have that if you eat dead food, Emil - and worst."

"Dead food?" His face immediately became a question.

"What you've always eaten. You need blood from a living animal to live yourself." I sniffed indignantly. "I get deathly nauseated at just the smell of cooked meat if I'm close to it."

"At least, I'm not going to develop arthritis, get old, and have my hair falling out so I'm bald and ugly."

"There are some advantages," I allowed.

"I can read minds and dance all night every night." He smiled again and this time it wasn't forced. "Yeah, I guess I can get used to it."

He might be willing to get used to it, but he didn't invite me over to the bed and offer his body for our mutual pleasure. Instead, he rose with newly acquired speed and moved to the dresser to claim y-fronts and socks. Even with my own heightened senses, he was more blur than beautiful vampire as he covered himself.

He cavorted about the house, testing his new abilities. I left him alone to explore himself and accepted the call from the embassy that set an appointment for me the next day at 1600 hours. The first secretary's fine Viennese-accented German still caressed my ears even after I returned the receiver to its cradle.

"Who was that?" Emil asked. I hadn't heard his approach to the room I had made into an office.

"The Austrian embassy. I have an appointment tomorrow afternoon."

His eyes narrowed as he studied me. "Why?"

"To set up a soiree that introduces me to Washington. To introduce us both, if you like," I added and smiled. "But you'll soon tire of that sort of night life. There are only so many whispered nothings and assignations a man can accept-"

"Assignations?" I nodded. "You aren't going to start sleeping around on me, are you?" His countenance darkened immediately toward anger. "Tom I can accept. I guess I'm even looking forward to him joining us. But he's Sergei; he belongs with you - with us. I'm not going to share you with anybody else - especially every little gadfly and rent boy in Washington."

I smiled. This was the Emil I knew before, in love with me, but with a newly acquired possessiveness. "Too often, these soirees can lead to an unused bedroom. But we don't have to accept."

"You had better believe we don't."

"If it's politically useful the other man - or woman - thinks we bedded them, we can leave them with passionate images of it being so."

He stared at me for a moment and then laughed. "You mean you'd make them remember a bed scene that didn't happen?"

I nodded.

"Why?"

"It's useful to be nice to a person with even a little power - it opens doors and makes things happen."

"Just what kind of soiree are you planning, Karl?" he demanded, willing himself to stand beside me in the chair. I watched as he seemed to grow larger and then stood at my elbow. The lad was certainly learning his new abilities rapidly.

"I am an intelligent and curious man, one with money and an old, established title."

He shrugged. He already knew that. He had even learnt I was a Prince, though I hadn't mentioned it.

"I would know why there are skinheads patrolling the gay district of this city, intimidating people. I would know why even insane people blow up buildings and burn churches. I would know why this political violence is increasing. I would know the extent of the fascist trappings I see all about us in this city. I would know if we are in danger."

"You're on that kick again?"

I nodded. "Read my thoughts and see what I've seen," I told him, putting the incident at `P' Street Beach there for him to easily reach.

"How?" he asked as he screwed up his face and seemed to be trying to force his brain out of his head.

"Relax," I answered and extended myself to the edge of his mind, drawing him back to me, inside my thoughts.

"Mein Gott!" he growled as he saw the knife slicing through the night air toward the Negro I saved. I made sure he saw the skinhead's thoughts I had seen before I tore his throat from him and drank his life.

"Do you understand now?" I asked.

He shivered at the force of my memories. He knew what I was planning as well. "I'll help you any way I can. I'll even put up with you fucking some of these fascist pigs if that'll help."

I laughed. "And fuck some yourself?"

He blushed as only a vampire can, effervescent skin blotching with ugly red.

I laughed again. "You must be hungry?" I offered.

"Yeah!" He grinned. "A pizza with lots of cheese-" His eyes clouded and his face became a frown. "I guess I won't be having that again, will I?"

I shook my head slowly - and smiled.

Emil had most intelligently found research he could do at the Georgetown University library while I attended the soiree at the embassy in my honour. By nine o'clock I wished I had been as intelligent. It had been eighty or more years since I last attended such a gathering, and my memory of the things had become much rosier than their reality.

My lips were numb. My face ached from the smiles I had to force the past hour. The dye on the insides of my patent leather shoes was gone, leaving spots of the cow skin as bare as they were when the bovine met its fate. Only my memory kept the names of Congressmen, their wives, and other notables aligned with their faces.

I had met the First Secretary of the embassy last week, the ambassador being unfortunately indisposed. We had agreed my title and position warranted a small gathering in which I could meet men and women of substance in the American capital. He frowned when I specifically requested the American members of the party be Republicans and pointed out to me that wouldn't be diplomatic and that Democrats were as prone to meeting Austrian Princes as were Republicans.

I prevailed. The First Secretary thought my insistence the leadership of the Christian Circle be included would fare worse in the American media than Austria's election of a former SS Lieutenant as President had several years earlier. I understood from what he left unsaid I was not the only European who viewed the American fascist movement with alarm.

I prevailed. The soiree was set for the following Friday night, tonight. I quickly became viewed by every Austrian in Washington as the worst kind of aristocrat - a reactionary, bigoted arse.

I had stood in the receiving queue until only moments before, meeting Luke Renfroe, the Speaker of the House of Representatives of the United States and other party stalwarts who were going to continue revolutionising America by taking it back to before the Great Depression. The Speaker was a man who immediately reminded me of Marcus Eichmann - a medium-sized man with a shock of black hair that highlighted coarse, pockmarked skin. A plump human sausage.

A short, leering, bald, old man with a horrid accent who was some important Senator from the South had forced himself into the queue ahead of others as the First Secretary ignored the man's indecency. He chaired some committee of the Senate that concerned itself with foreign relations. I doubted the Senate's influence with intelligent men under this creature's influence. I forgot his name before I could retrieve my hand from his grip.

"You come by my office next week, you hear," he told me, holding up the queue and being oblivious to his impertinence even today in this age of equality. "We got lots of things we gonna talk about."

I smiled, clicked my heels, and bowed.

Others went by: the Majority Leader of the Senate and the undersecretary to the Undersecretary of State for Central European Affairs, other Senators and Congressmen. After the elected officials of the American government, some woman who was a former Ambassador to the United Nations but was now a columnist staggered up to me and peered blearily at me - she was quickly helped along by an innocuous but embarrassed two-legged male poodle who seemed well-trained at handling his mistress in her moments of distress.

My eyes were glazing over, but I knew the end of the queue was near. I persevered.

A man with light brown hair and glittering blue eyes stood before me, smiling as he stretched his hand out to take mine - his face that of an impish and pubescent boy. I had seen him recently on the television and placed him now.

"Joe McCarthy," he offered, "Executive Director of the Christian Circle, Prince von Muribor-"

I touched his thoughts as he belatedly released my hand and began to move along the line. He was wondering if he dared invite me out later on. I had the distinct impression of the two of us naked doing what naked men can do with and for each other. I gave him an impetus to ask me before I turned my mind back to the next person to welcome me to Washington, D. C.

I circulated among the embassy's guests and studied Joe McCarthy while keeping half the room away from him. Slim, short, youthful. I was surprised when I learnt he was past thirty. He looked so much the impish, fun-loving child, well in control of himself in his first outing among adults. The perfect gentleman a hausfrau of the old school would wish of her son. A clean-faced, bright-eyed, and seemingly pubescent gruppenführer of the Hitlerjugend.

Joe McCarthy - a flaming faggot.

I hated what he stood for - for the evil that should have been seared from the soul of man in those last days of the world war. And I wanted him. That he would know who possessed whom when whatever happened with my research into American fascism reached its climax.

Invite me, I told him across the room.

I sensed his suspicion of me but felt the heat of his desire as he began to make his way toward me. I watched him politely greet each of his elders, slap equals on the back and laugh. This was one Hitlerjugend Gruppenführer who would go far - if allowed that possibility.

"I'd like a chance to get to know more about you after this little party is over, my Prince," he offered in a near-whisper as he closed with me in the centre of the embassy's ballroom.

I smiled and lifted my brow slightly in question. I wished I had a monocle so I could have done it as well as I had in the days I was young and mortal. "Would you like that I join you somewhere?" I asked, emphasising his role in my decision.

Joe McCarthy chuckled. "You're going to be an interesting man to know, Prince von Muribor. Meet me on the portico at eleven."

I smiled at him and said: "If we're going to know each other as well as I hope, perhaps you'll call me Karl-?"

He grinned. "My Prince is a bit formal, isn't it?" I nodded, again struck by how boyish and innocent-looking this man was. "Then, you've just got to call me Joe."

"Eleven it is then, Joe."

Of course, I knew who Joe McCarthy was the moment I found myself facing him in the queue. Television news had made his face almost as familiar to me as mine was.

I had made the connection between this sweetly reasonable and attractive man and the foot soldiers who stole newspapers from racks at public libraries. Between him and the screaming haters at the abortion clinics around the country targeted for `picketing'.

He led an organisation which, with its allies, was unwilling to allow discussion of different ideas. Democracy was alien to him. There was no other way to define his vision for America other than fascist.

And he was nearly incoherent with his desire to have sex with me.

Unglaublich. Unbelievable, but also most flattering - and interesting.

I raised my brow in question at the boyish, well-scrubbed Hitlerjugend gruppenführer as I stepped into chilled night that was the Embassy's portico. He answered my look with a smile which became immediately a scowl as he asked: "You do like fun with your - uh - sex, don't you, Karl?"

He had visions of naked Ganymedes dancing in his head. Boys and men pairing indiscriminately. Central to his thoughts, however, was me naked above him as he spread his legs in invitation. Of course, I understood the kind of fun he meant. "I've been known to participate from time to time," I allowed to reassure him.

"We'll find us a motel room," he told me, again grinning and taking my arm to lead me out onto the street toward a black Mercedes.

"That could prove interesting," I allowed.

"Come on," he called as he left the office window of a dilapidated motel on the Virginia side of the Potomac, the macadam breaking at the edges of its car park. He moved along the walk in front of the car with an urgency lent him by anticipation. "We've got just the place for me to get to know you real well."

I stepped out of the car and followed, wondering if I really wanted to become physically involved as he led me to a battered door and quickly opened it with the key he had picked up at the office.

Emil had been unwilling to permit sexual adventures other than those between us - and Tom (if Sergei ever brought the American about). He had seen the attack on the Negro youth in the small park on `P' Street in my mind and closed in on understanding what was happening in America. And relented.

The Swiss youth's appetite, however, was more than enough for one man's - or one vampire's - libido. He was a youth with all the stamina of that age group. One who was a man. Who was now a vampire. And he was better looking than the American fascist leader.

I did not believe for a moment Joe McCarthy was virginal. He had been a bitch in heat since the moment he saw me. Our coupling had been in the forefront of his thoughts every time I touched them. Like a dog, his tongue was figuratively lolling in anticipation of what I would do for him.

I could give Joe the memories and images of the hottest sex he had ever had. I could even make those memories physical enough he ejaculated. I did not have to deny Emil his rightful control over my couplings.

But I was curious. How did one preach homosexuality as the fast road to hell while dropping his trousers and demanding to be spiked? I reminded myself Emil had relented as he shared my memories of the skinheads and joined them to the news that screamed at America everyday.

I also had never had an American.

"No one's going to bother us here," Joe said breathlessly as he sat on the bed and faced me, his hands moving to loosen his tie.

I smiled at him and he started to unbutton his shirt without preamble. "Jesus!" he hissed, "I haven't wanted anybody so much since my cousin got me into that barn back in Georgia the first time."

He was to his y-fronts when he stood to move toward me. I shoved off my shoes and trousers that I could take him into my arms nearly as prepared for our meeting as he was. "I've got rubbers in my pocket," he whispered just before his lips touched mine.

His tongue was a dæmon, wrestling with mine for dominion between us, its fevered effort growing quantumly as my fingers slipped beneath the band of his undergarment and began to knead the firm, soft slopes of his cheeks.

"God Almighty!" he whispered as his tongue retreated that he might breathe. "I need it, Karl. I need it so damned bad." His tongue was back then with greater determination to subdue mine than before as he directed our entwined bodies toward the bed.

He sat down on the mattress and, gasping, reached to his trousers, groping with one hand for a condom as the other brusquely pulled my own undergarment to my knees. He found a packet and looked up at me, lust longing in his eyes. His fingers trailed up my thigh to find my cool but erect manhood and grip it.

"Sweet Jesus! Big and thick-" His face became a beatific smile. "Joey's going to have a good time tonight," he mumbled as he tore the packet open.

His fingers again gripped me as he began to push latex over my glans. "Uncut!" he croaked. "Lord, you're really looking out for me tonight."

The thin latex was unfurled along the length of my shaft in a moment and he lay on the bed, pushing his y-fronts down his legs and lifting them to pull the cloth over his feet.

"Come on, Karl, let's fuck," he called and fell back across the bed, spreading his elevated legs to see me through them.

I touched the insides of each of his thighs with fingers from a separate hand, gently descending along them toward his body and knelt on the bed beneath him.

"Fuck me now, baby!" he growled up at me.

My hands neared his groin, prolonging his anticipation.

"Fuck me. We can play later - please?" His voice was both a demand and a whine in equal measure.

I positioned myself and leant into him, listening to his gasp of pleasure as my latex-covered manhood made its way past his sphincter, hearing the rhythmic thud of his heart pumping his warm, excited blood. I bent closer to him, nuzzling his nipples with my lips as my tongue moved toward his clavicle and the soft, tender flesh of his neck.

I caught myself in time. A dead and bloodless Executive Director of the Christian Circle was not what I needed at this moment. I straightened and, holding his splayed ankles, began to move against his warm, pliant buttocks as he grabbed himself and mindlessly began to pull hard on his small manhood.

"Sweet Jesus!" he groaned over and over again beneath me, interspersed with: "Come and take me home, Lord!" He ground against me, grinding his cheeks against my pubis. "I'm almost there, Lord!" he cried out moments later, now flailing himself hard. "Jesus, you gotta make me come!"

I continued in the mindless rhythm I gave myself and wondered at the religious ecstasy that had taken this man as I ploughed him.

In my experience, devoutly religious Christians rarely saw copulation as more than a repulsive act they submitted to out of the necessity of their being limited to a physical body. This Joe McCarthy seemed to have his Jesus right here in the bed with us, involved most completely in our coupling.

His body tensed against me, his sphincter tightening, and his face reddened in sweet agony. "Oh, sweet Lord, I'm coming!" he bellowed.

I continued to plough but forced myself to remain within him for the additional moments he took to ejaculate.

He relaxed then, a puzzled look covering his face as he realised I still moved inside him. A grin replaced it and he said softly: "Keep fucking me, Karl. Just bang my ass so I can't sit down for a week. I want to shoot again."

We lay beside each other in the dim halogen light touching us through the window. In more than a hundred and thirty years of being sexually active, I had never gone to bed with someone I actively disliked, regardless of his looks. Tonight, I had. Because of curiosity.

Our coupling had somehow sullied me. At least, I felt sullied. And I had yet to learn anything of Joe McCarthy and his organisation that would help me understand their appeal. Much less their intent.

"I'm surprised," I told him as I traced his lip with a fingertip. "I thought your organisation considered homosexuality a dæmonic evil needing immediate salvation."

He chuckled as his fingers moved languidly across my chest. "You mean the great unwashed? What you'd call peasants?" He snorted. "They're there to be led, Karl. Either we do it or somebody else does it.

"I prefer we do it. We've got the best plan for this country, even the world. The strong, virile white race leading this world into prosperity."

"I thought your President was offering that?"

"That slut?" he grunted derisively. "He and the Democrats don't understand what strength is - or how strong the hand tempering it must be."

He sat up and looked down at me. "Look how scared people are in this city. Look how little they care for anybody around them. They're lost in their own little worlds - and don't even know how to connect to the bigger world."

"The President says he's trying to do that."

"Look, Karl - any time something gets done, it's done by a strong man. Pat Koughlin is that man. He'll lead America back to the values that made this country great - and help other countries to learn them. And he'll lead us into the future with a sure, real firm hand."

He reached between his legs and took his shrivelled manhood between his thumb and forefinger. "This is how the average American is today - weak and basically useless." He pulled on himself.

"You fill this thing up with blood and it's hard, strong and powerful. It's going to shoot seed everywhere - like those Vandals conquering Rome. Like the Christians conquering all of Europe. This country needs something like the blood that goes into my dick to get strong again.

"We cater to the people's fears of a harsh God, their fear of His punishment, and we give them strength just like a porn flick gets my dick hard."

"This is why your people steal The Blade from those libraries?"

He chuckled. "That's so little of what we do. But - yeah - if you get a society facing one crisis after another - little crises building up all around the people - it makes more and more of them afraid. They're like a henhouse that senses a fox outside. In the beginning, it divides them; but it makes each group want strong leadership to tell them what to do. Not maybes but real solutions-"

He pointed around the room. "You do this. You, over there, do the same. It goes on and on. People eat it up. The masses want to be told what to do. They've never been able to think on their own. They want an example made of a person here and another one there. They want order. It brings them back to Jesus. It brings them to Reverend Koughlin and the plan God has given him for America."

"You frighten them with homosexuality?" I asked suspiciously.

"Sure. That, as well as abortion, gangs, and drugs." He laughed. "That and the horrible state of public education. We sure can't use kikes and niggers any more. We'd be branded racists by the lilly-livered press, and nobody would listen to us. Today, they don't dare call us anything worse than conservative."

He reached for me. "We take the Old Testament God and re-define him in the white race's reality. We ally ourselves with one or another church until we control it. We've done the same thing with the Republican party-"

I was growing toward an erection under his manipulation.

"We use those two groups, Karl - and we don't have to have a strong enforcement arm like Hitler's Gestapo. We'll come to power before the next millennium can start good - and we won't have secret police around to keep us in power. We'll have the church, the good brothers and sisters of the local churches, to keep people in line - that way Pat Koughlin can concentrate on bringing the world under God's plan."

He leant over me, his lips finding my shaft.