Author: Michael Thomas Ford
Category: LGBT
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/michael-thomas-ford/page,10,56266-masters_of_midnight_erotic_tales_of_the_vampire.html
He closed his eyes, then opened them quickly as the soothing voice of sleep whispered in his ear. He had to stay awake. He feared that if he slept, the dreams would begin. The dream about Titus Durham and the bees. He’d had it first the night after following Titus to his home. In it he’d been once again hiding in the grass, watching as Titus approached the hives and removed the top from one. Only this time when he reached inside, Titus pulled out not an arm covered with honey but an arm covered with blood. It ran thickly through his fingers, dripping from them in heavy threads. And in the blood the bees squirmed. Ben could hear their buzzing, the frantic beating of their wings as they tried to escape. Some fell, exhausted, to the ground, where they died. Others, stronger or perhaps angrier, pierced the bloody flesh of Titus’s arm with their stingers.
Ben had woken from the dream unable to breathe. He’d lain in his bed, staring up at the ceiling and trying to force air into his chest. His body had been unwilling to comply, and he’d felt the weight of the hot air in the room pressing down on him until finally, with an enormous effort, he’d willed his throat open and taken a breath. He’d spent the remainder of the night with the lamp on, not stirring from his bed until the first light of morning had slipped over his windowsill and created a pool of safety for him to stand in.
The dream had returned the next night, playing out in exactly the same way. Ben had forced himself to wake more quickly, pushing through the thick blanket of his dreams to consciousness before he saw too much. Still, he had been frightened, and again he’d lain in the protective light of the bedside table lamp, half afraid that the bulb would somehow go out before the sun came to replace it.
It was stupid, he knew. It was only a dream, a dream birthed in his own feelings of embarrassment at having followed Titus home and spied on him. But coupled with the dream he’d had about Trey, it was enough to make him fearful of putting his head on the pillow again. He knew the two were connected, had become entangled in his thoughts. There had been no blood in the hives behind Titus’s house. But there had been blood—lots of blood—in that other room, on that other night.
He had to get out of the house. He felt the picture of himself and Trey behind him, Trey’s eyes looking out, begging for him to turn around. Standing up, he slipped in the wrapping paper that scattered like leaves beneath his feet. Catching himself, he ran from the room, from the picture and the memories. He needed air. That would keep him awake.
He left the house, not knowing where he would go. He just needed to be walking, moving, thinking about something else. He made his way down the driveway and onto the sidewalk, forcing his feet to carry him forward. He walked without purpose or direction, simply following the ribbon of cement.
He’d left without thinking to bring a flashlight, but the moon, only a few days from fullness, cast its silver glow on the world. Ben moved through the summer night as if through water, passing the houses and shops that slept deeply. Only occasionally was there a lighted window or the brief electric flicker of a television screen to crack the darkness. The town had gone to sleep, the air rustling gently as if it were no less than the collective breath of bodies at rest.
Ben himself entered a kind of waking sleep, a dreamy state in which he walked without thinking. His mind, clouded by the competing forces of the coffee and the need of his body to lose itself in several blissful hours of slumber, had responded by summoning forth a series of completely unrelated thoughts. They flashed across the screen of his mind like colored scarves pulled one after another from a magician’s sleeve, each one hanging in the air for a moment before being replaced by the next. And like the magician’s scarves, he sensed vaguely that they were nothing but distraction, something meant to draw his attention from the sleight-of-hand that was going on elsewhere, unobserved.
Trey, his skin already brown after only two days in the sun. Bees circling a hive. Boys splashing in a pond. A hand covered in something wet. A door swinging open. Blood. Oh, so much blood. Where had it come from? He saw it spreading over the surface of the water in a filmy cloud. The boys, not seeing it, continued to splash one another, their laughing faces streaked now with red. But still they laughed, their voices filling the air even as the water around them darkened.
Ben stopped, shaking his head to clear it of the thoughts. Where was he? He looked around. He was standing on a dirt road. Turning, he saw that it stretched behind him into blackness. How far had he walked? He had no idea. But he knew that home was behind him. He saw his own footprints leading back, into the open mouth of the night. All he had to do was follow them.
He was turning to go when he heard the sound of water. It was faint, coming to him on the air. He paused, listening, and heard it again. It was behind him, further down the road. It was then that he knew where he was. He was on the road that led to Titus Durham’s house. Beyond him, waiting in the darkness, was Drowned Girl Pond. It was the pond’s voice he heard.
He turned and walked toward it, not sure why but doing it nonetheless. Now that he knew where he was, he moved more quickly, as if he’d reached his destination. The moon’s light revealed the next several yards of road before him, even as the night swallowed up that which he’d already traveled. And soon he saw, glinting in the field to his left, the surface of the pond. The moon played lightly on it, gilding the water with silver and admiring its own reflection.
Ben stopped at the edge of the road. He could see the pond before him, but he feared leaving the path. It was his way back. But he stood and watched, waiting for something to happen.
It was then that he saw that there was someone standing at the edge of the water. At first it was only a shadow, something slightly darker than the night around it. Then a figure stepped out into the circle of light cast by the moon. It was a man. He was naked, his skin shining white.
Titus, Ben thought. Even in the darkness he recognized the man’s features. Titus stood silently, looking out at the surface of the pond. The contours of his body, the lines and planes of his chest and torso, were limned in moon-glow. His arms hung at his sides.
As Ben watched, Titus lifted his hands and looked at them. The fingers appeared darker, stained. Titus brought them to his face, pressing his mouth against them. After a moment, he pulled away again. The darkness was smeared on his lips.
Honey, Ben thought suddenly. It’s only honey.
Titus held his hands to the sky, gazing up at the moon. Stepping forward, he entered the water. Ben saw a ripple streak the surface, breaking the moon into pieces as it moved across the pond. Titus continued to walk, his body disappearing into the water as if he were melting into it. Slowly he was consumed, the water rising past his calves, then his knees. Ben watched as it reached for Titus’s cock, then slid over the mounds of his ass and up his back. A few more steps and all that remained visible was the bare chest of the man, his hands and face still raised to the heavens. He looked like someone entering into baptism, pausing before God and asking for forgiveness.
Titus sank beneath the surface then, his stained hands lingering all alone for a moment, reaching up from the depths of the water. Then they too were gone, and the pond was still once more. Ben waited for Titus to come up for air, to emerge from the water. When a long minute had passed and there was no sign of him, he began to worry. Hesitating only a moment, he stepped into the grass.
As he did, the pond broke open and Titus came up, his head pushing through. Ben stopped. Swimming to the edge, his arms arcing gracefully in the light, Titus emerged from the water. His hands and face had been washed clean, and his body shone. Without pause, he walked forward into the night, disappearing into the trees and leaving Ben looking at the place where he had been and wondering if this was yet another dream.
Chapter Seven
Ben spread the paper open on the desk and looked at the photograph on the front page. A young man in a football uniform looked out at him from beneath the headline LOCAL YOUTH FOUND DEAD AFTER SEARCH. The article accompanying the photograph provided details.
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CREAVERTON, AR. Paul Mickerley, 17, was reported missing two days ago when he failed to come home after a party at a friend’s house. His body was found yesterday when dogs provided by the state police drew searchers’ attention to an unused cemetery holding the bodies of the town’s original settlers. Mickerley, a starting quarterback for the Creaverton Bandits football team, was described by his family as a “carefree boy with everything to live for.”
“I don’t know why this happened to him,” Mickerley’s mother, Justine Fuller, said as she emerged from the county morgue, where she’d just identified her son. “I don’t understand.” Her feelings were echoed by her ex-husband, Randall Mickerley, who appeared dazed as he answered reporters’ questions. “Paul never did nothing to anybody,” he said. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”
The elder Mickerley’s statement caused some to speculate that his son’s death involved foul play. Creaverton Police Chief Harris Finch, however, deflected the suggestion. “From all appearances, Paul Mickerley died of natural causes. What those causes were, exactly, has not yet been determined.”
According to sources, Mickerley’s body was discovered propped up against a tombstone. There was no sign of struggle, and no apparent wounds to his body. “It could have been drugs,” suggested one officer involved with the search. “Or maybe a heart attack or something like that.”
Whatever the cause of Paul Mickerley’s death, he is being mourned by those who knew him. A memorial has already been scheduled for Thursday at Holy Oak Gospel Church, and the family asks that any donations be sent directly to the church.
Ben folded the paper and turned it over so that Paul Mickerley’s face wasn’t staring up at him. He didn’t need any more ghosts in his life. He felt sorry for the kid’s parents, almost more sorry than he did for the boy himself. At least he wouldn’t have to live with the pain. But his mother and father would. They would live with it for the rest of their lives, wondering how they might have prevented their son’s death. That, Ben knew, was worse than dying itself.
“Sad, isn’t it?”
Titus Durham had come into the library without Ben even hearing him. Now he stood in front of the desk, his eyes cast in the direction of the newspaper.
“Yes,” said Ben. “It is sad.”
Titus looked up, his eyes meeting Ben’s. Ben attempted to avert his gaze, but found himself looking into Titus’s eyes. They were brown, deep brown, the color of earth, and they held infinite sadness. How had he never noticed before? he wondered. Trey had had eyes like that.
“Why do you think he did it?” Titus asked.
“Who?” said Ben, not understanding.
“The boy,” Titus replied. “Why do you think he did it?”
“I don’t know that he did,” answered Ben. “Someone else might have killed him.”
Titus surprised Ben by laughing softly. “Not around here,” he said simply.
“Why would he kill himself?” said Ben. “From all accounts, he was perfectly happy.”
Titus nodded. “From all accounts,” he repeated thoughtfully. “Then again, who ever really knows what someone else is thinking, what’s happening inside. Who really knows what eats people alive when they’re all by themselves.”
Ben didn’t say anything. Titus had never spoken so much at once, and he didn’t know what to think of this sudden turn of events. Titus, however, didn’t seem to notice. He continued to talk.
“My grandmother used to talk about the ghosts that roamed the woods in these parts,” he said. “Scared me half to death with her stories. But she was wrong. It’s not the ghosts in the woods you have to fear; it’s the ghosts in your head. They’re the ones that keep you up at night, the ones whose voices wake you from your dreams. Those are the voices that boy heard, the ones that made him do what he did.”
He looked at Ben. “What is it you’re afraid of?” he asked.
Ben shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said.
“Dying?” said Titus.
“No,” Ben answered. “I’m not afraid of dying.”
“Being alone?” Titus suggested. “Being alone with yourself?”
He had come closer while he was talking, leaning across the counter so that his face was separated from Ben’s by only a short distance. Ben could feel his breath, warm from his mouth, against his skin.
“Sometimes,” he said quietly. “Sometimes that’s what I’m afraid of.”
Titus nodded. “That’s the most frightening, isn’t it?” he said. “I know.”
Ben didn’t reply. His heart had begun to beat more quickly, and he could feel a fluttering in his stomach. It took him a moment to recognize it for what it was—desire. He wanted to reach out to Titus, to pull him close. He wanted to taste the lips that were so close to his.
“I saw you,” he said. “At the pond. I saw you.”
Something in Titus’s eyes wavered. He looked into Ben’s face.
“You were beautiful,” said Ben. “In the moonlight. In the water.”
Titus pulled away. “I should go,” he said.
“No,” said Ben, reaching out and grabbing his arm. “No. Please.”
Titus looked at Ben’s hand where it held onto the sleeve of his shirt, his fingers gripping the material tightly. Ben relaxed his hold, but didn’t let go entirely. Then he let his hand drift down to Titus’s wrist, trailing his fingers through the hair that covered his forearm and coming to rest lightly on top of Titus’s hand.
“I want you to stay,” Ben said.
Titus closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, he leaned in and kissed Ben. He was gentle at first, his mouth soft. Then his tongue entered Ben’s mouth, more insistently. His hand went to Ben’s neck, pulling him closer. Ben felt the counter pressing against his stomach.
“Back here,” he said breathlessly, nodding at the door of his office.
Titus came around the desk, and Ben led him into the small room, shutting the door behind them. Immediately, Titus pushed him against the closed door, pressing his body close against Ben’s and kissing him again. Ben felt himself growing hard as Titus ran his mouth over his neck, biting gently. He placed his hand between Titus’s legs, squeezing softly. Titus groaned, pushing himself into Ben’s hand.
Fumbling with the buckle of Titus’s belt, Ben sank to his knees. Titus leaned against the door as Ben, his fingers shaking, unzipped him and freed his cock. Taking the head of Titus’s dick into his mouth, Ben pulled his own pants open and began stroking himself slowly. He slid as much of Titus as he could into his throat, taking in the taste and smell of him. He encircled Titus’s balls with his fingers, squeezing gently.
Titus was moving in and out of his throat, thrusting deeply. His cock, slick with Ben’s spit, slid easily over Ben’s lips. Ben let his tongue trace the length of it as it retreated, sucking on the full head for a moment before Titus reversed direction and entered him once more. He lost himself in the rhythm, the emptying and filling of his mouth.
His own cock was wet with the sticky precursor of his approaching climax, and his fingers worked the length of his dick. It had been a long time since he’d come, even by himself. He felt the tightening in his balls that signaled his closeness. He felt, too, Titus growing thicker in his mouth. Then there was a sudden throb, followed by an explosion of heat over his tongue. Titus pushed forward, driving himself deep, and came again, the bittersweet taste of cum filling Ben’s throat.
With his nose buried in the soft hair of Titus’s belly, Ben allowed himself the release he desperately needed. His cock twitched fiercely as he came, his load spattering the floor between Titus’s feet with milky wetness. Three times Ben’s body convulsed, and three times he felt the pulse of his dick in his hand, until finally the blissful shaking subsided.
Reluctantly, he let Titus’s cock slip from his lips and looked up. Titus was looking down at him, his eyes dark.
“I should have gone,” he said, his hands caressing Ben’s face. “I should have gone while
I still had a chance.”
Chapter Eight
He couldn’t get the taste of Titus out of his mouth.
Ben took another drink of whiskey. He’d had three glasses already, and still his tongue burned with the memory of what had happened in the library that morning. He closed his eyes, and immediately his mouth filled with the musky taste of Titus’s cock, the warm sweetness of his cum rising up and breaking through the oakiness of the whiskey. He breathed in, the scent of sweat and need and desire surrounding him as if he weren’t in his own bedroom but once again kneeling on the floor of his office. He could feel the insistent prodding of Titus’s dickhead at the back of his throat, forcing its way farther in. He could smell his balls as they nudged his lips.
He opened his eyes. He had to think about something else. He’d been replaying his encounter with Titus over and over in his head all day. He’d gotten nothing done at the library, the hours there passing in a dreamy haze as he’d sat in his office chair, remembering how he’d felt looking up into Titus’s face, how he’d swallowed his load eagerly and immediately wanted more.
Now, seated in the chair in his room, the whiskey bottle on the floor beside him, his need was almost unbearable. His cock, hard in his pants, ached for attention. Yet he knew somehow that getting himself off wouldn’t satisfy his craving. He needed the touch of flesh on flesh. He needed the release he could only get when Titus once more used him for his pleasure.
He stood up, the room swimming slightly. He was, he knew, very close to being drunk. But something was forbidding the alcohol to have its way with him. Something more powerful kept it at bay, the same thing that caused him to see Titus’s face whenever he closed his eyes, that made him remember the pleasure he’d experienced in their brief encounter. Ben wanted, for the first time in a week, to sleep. He saw his bed, only a few feet from him, and he yearned for its comfort. Instead, he found himself leaving the room and walking unsteadily down the stairs to his door.