Thread: Creature of the Night (PatientOne & MetalMelissa)

A pale gibbous moon hung resplendent in the night sky over the city of Firenze, silently watching over the busy streets illuminated by glass-plated street lamps that were fixed to the close-knit fronts of old, picturesque buildings. In a newsagents on a narrow side street perpendicular to Via Pratese, a balding middle-aged man purchased a packet of Marlboro cigarettes and a five euro scratch card. Thanking the vendor with little more than an upwards nod, he turned away from the till, tucked the cigarettes into his back pocket, and pocketed his change, save for a twenty cent piece with which he proceeded to rub away the latex covering on the front of the card. The vendor, tired from an eight hour shift and unimpressed at the customer's frigid manners, rolled his eyes as the man left his shop, muttered a quiet, sarcastic arrivederci , and turned back to his newspaper. The date on the front of it readin ItalianThursday, 20th October. The headlinealso in Italianread Ripper Strikes Again. Outside the night was cool but dry, and the narrow streets were neither busy nor deserted. The balding man, who wore creased slacks, a grey zip jacket, and a pinstripe shirt with the top two buttons open, ditched his losing scratch card in a the bin by the storefront and reproduced his Marlboros. Two attractive young women in short skirts and high heels passed him en route to a local bar, and the man paused to watch them go by before lighting up a cigarette. They think it's a copycat killer, one of the women was saying to the other, though the man barely heard her. He was more interested in their legs. Cappella Bianca , Whitechapel they mean the same thing. Turning onto Via Pratese, the balding man ran a chubby fingered hand over what hair he had left, felt how greasy it was, and wiped his palm on the leg of his trousers. The sight of those two young women had stirred something in his loins, and he had to adjust his crotch as he ambled down the footpath. Need a hand with that? Turning towards the voice, his eyes came upon the figure of another young woman in the doorway of an old apartment building. She was about five foot eight in height, pale-skinned and raven-haired, and wore nothing but a black chiffon robe that hung half-open at her chest, and barely came down to her knees. She was barefoot, leaning against the doorframe with a lazy smile and black rings around her grey-green eyes. The man had little doubt what she was, what she wanted, or indeed what she was offering. I might, he scoffed, taking one last drag of his cigarette before tossing it to the pavement and sidling up to her. Or I might need more than a hand. How much? He grinned, she chuckled, and coyly shrugged her shoulders. What do you want? The man considered that a moment, considered her as well, slowly and sleazily dragging his gaze down and up her body, admiring her bare feet and legs, and the promise of everything that lay beneath her robe. Leaning close to her, he slid one hand across her hip and squeezed one cheek of her ass in his meaty palm, his breath hot on her ear where leaned closer still to whisper I want to fuck you in the mouth and ass. She smirked and hummed at that, pressed her ass back into his palm, and trailed a hand of her own over the front of his trousers. Normally? Two hundred, she replied, but for you... I can make an exception. The balding man could have no idea why she would make any exceptions for him, but neither was he about to ruin his chances of a good deal. I'll give you a hundred, he told her, grasping her behind again and pulling her hips close to his. A hundred, and the best fuck of your life. Clients had always been easy for her, at least once she became accustomed to the lifestyle. When she first took the streets it had been uncomfortable, unfamiliar, and not without a healthy degree of shame. Selling her body felt so demeaning back then, but after a time it became little more than a way to make money, and soon after that an easy way to make money. She didn't have to do much besides show a little flesh, proffer a little indulgence of earthly desires, and do what was needed to put line her pockets. She'd picked up something of a drug habit along the way, but snorting a line of coke off a man's stomach made it easier to let him put his cock where he wanted, and even made the whole exchange a little bit more enjoyable for her. Since the change, however, it seemed that clients were all the more eager to partake of her womanly gifts. Drumming the box of Marlboro cigarettes with one set of cracked, blood-stained fingernails, she exhaled a plume of grey-blue smoke into the air and turned her head to look at the balding man. His pot belly was covered in a thin layer of coarse, matted hair, with a thicker line running down to his limp cock. It had tasted like he hadn't showered for a week when she pursed her lips around him and drew his erection into her mouth, and she'd gasped and whimpered when he pressed it into her from behind. His considerable girth stretched her to an uncomfortable degree, but she cried for more when he began to grind his hips against her buttocks, cried for still more until his thrusts drove her into the mattress. She allowed him to climax before she killed him. It wasn't a favour, or the permitting of one last hurrah before taking his life from him, but rather a selfish decision on her part. She got off on letting him have his way with her, even allowed him to spill his load inside her before she turned on him. He cried out in surprise and pain when she first bit his neck, and when she didn't stop his cries quickly turned to terror. She slammed the butt of one hand against the underside of his chin and the end of his tongue almost came off clean between his teeth. For now, though, she was calm. She took another drag from the cigarette and turned away from his corpse, directing her exhale towards the mottled ceiling. Was this to be her life from now on? How long would it last, and what would happen to her if it ended? Sadness tinged her mood, but she told herself that it was no different to prostitution she'd gotten used to that, and she'd get used to this... She had to get used to this. The first few days of her new life were spent in constant fear and constant tears, but then the hunger had grown too strong. She felt a veritable lust to kill, and after four days she could take it no longer. The rage came on her then, and she'd savaged her client so horrifically that two police officers had thrown up when they discovered the scene three days later. That had been two weeks hence and the balding man was her fifth meal. The police had yet to discover the fourth. Recalling those memories now, she felt a rush of blood to her loins and felt a smirk come across her face. That made it easier, the rush. It was like a cocaine high, only the taste was sweeter. She closed her eyes, lay back against the pillows, and tossed the still-lit cigarette to the floor. Then she parted her supple thighs and slipped a hand between them, felt the heat emanating from her sex, and gave herself up to arousal.