Rogue Vampires - Vampires Aren't Real Part 1

Rogue Vampires.

Vampires Aren't Real.

Willa Okati.

Gilly. Big, beautiful, smart-mouthed, one h.e.l.l of a lady and oh, yeah -- a werewolf who works on a faux-reality show. It's a living. Warren. Die-hard cynic with the att.i.tude and build of a Navy SEAL. Does not believe in the supernatural. He's in for the surprise of his life. Dusty. A toned, muscled, devastatingly handsome teddy-bear of a guy. Loves to play games. Loves Gilly and Warren. He's not prepared for what's going to happen.

Together, the three of them are an unstoppable force. s.e.x, love and friendship rule the day and rock their world. That's the way it's always been. But they're about to be put to the test. One night at a dance club plus one stranger in a ridiculous vampire costume equals a whole lot of trouble. Especially when the stranger turns out to be a real vampire. One who has some really nasty plans for Gilly, Warren and Dusty.

The problem with his plan? Gilly doesn't take anything lying down, and she's ready to kick some a.s.s...

Chapter One.

Vampires aren't real, you say? I know better. I live with two of them. They weren't vampires when we first started shacking up but as they say, anything can happen and usually does.

They also say "may you live in interesting times." Hoo, boy, do I ever.

Okay, so here's how my two harem boys became vampires. Or two-thirds of our menage a trois, as Warren would put it. Or most of our f.u.c.kpile, as Dusty would say.

You're starting to get an idea about opposite ends of the spectrum, aren't you? Warren is butch. Dusty is a ripped teddy bear. Yin and yang.

Things would be a lot simpler if I weren't a werewolf and the Council of Weres and the High Sanguine Order weren't at each other's throats. Mostly literally.

I'll explain later. Right now, buy me another drink. Nothing froofy or girly. How about a Rusty Nail? And let's go back to the night when our lives took a spin on a merry-go-round doing Mach 60 and whip-cracked us off again.

It's a pretty sweet life when you come home from a thanklessly hard eight hours in the gulags to find a free s.e.x show going on in your living room. The sight of Warren and Dusty, my lovers, my f.u.c.kbuddies, my friends, going at it like rabid weasels, was enough to wash my cares away. You know what I mean. Mmm-mmm.

I took a good long moment to appreciate the view. Might just be me, but there's nothing s.e.xier than watching two men make the double-backed beast. Beaded sweat running down toned muscles, broad hands grabbing anything that could be grabbed and not being gentle at all, not to mention two c.o.c.ks waving h.e.l.lo to each other.

Bet it makes the strongest of women, especially the ones with a taste for kink, go weak in the knees and/or damp at the p.u.s.s.y. Watching Dusty and Warren maul each other, bringing s.e.xy back in a big, big way, presses my personal hot b.u.t.tons. Being a werewolf, which you'd better remember because it's going to be important later, the bouquet of male musk and sweat blasting my nose made this even better.

Simple, really: one man good. Two men better. Add me into the equation and it's enough to make me start reconsidering my darksome views on the suspiciously evil concept of mathematics.

Watching them together makes me want to zap some popcorn in the microwave and settle in for the show. Either that or cowabunga smack in the middle of all those flailing limbs.

At the moment, I felt more like perving. They don't mind. Besides, hey, the scene before me was definitely p.o.r.n-worthy. Completely wrapped up in each other, neither one seemed to have heard the door open. Don't you love the way guys get completely zeroed in on s.e.x when they're h.o.r.n.y? You can read their thoughts: Must f.u.c.k now. f.u.c.k good. f.u.c.k now. More f.u.c.k. Uh-oh, coming!

When Warren groaned his extra-special unngh warning of imminent o.r.g.a.s.m, my fingers slipped on the strap of my lumpy, frayed canvas duffle-bag-sized purse. Army-Navy Surplus special. That purse, covered in quirky, snarky and obscene b.u.t.tons, is crammed with everything plus a toy model of a kitchen sink. When it drops, you hear the kaboom for blocks.

They didn't so much as flinch when my bag hit the linoleum. Dusty did, however, let Warren flip him onto his stomach and, ooh, hey, were they using a b.u.t.t plug? Oy! They'd raided my toy box, the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, always swearing up and down kink wasn't their thing.

I decided to kick their a.s.ses later and enjoy watching Warren work Dusty's a.s.s over first. The temptation to dive-bomb them got stronger and my p.u.s.s.y started creaming at the noises Dusty made. Some men, gay or straight, doesn't matter, do squeal like a piggy if you play them right. I didn't have a great view, but the key of prostate pegging in Dusty's wail clued me in to what Warren was doing with the plug.

Dusty struggled to his hands and knees, Warren not missing a beat. He looked halfway between stoned and o.r.g.a.s.mic. His c.o.c.k rose up to tickle the lower end of his six-pack. He half-turned to look over his shoulder, lips parted and eyes hooded. "Gilly. Hey."

I had to grin. "Yo, dollface. How long did you know I was here?"

Warren glanced around to give me his own evil I-Am-The-s.e.x-King leer. I let him get away with the smug because hey, he is more or less a potentate in the sack. "Since you walked in the door."

"Evil. You're both wicked, rotten p.r.i.c.ks and I should hose you down."

"We don't have a hose."

"I know, Dusty."

Dusty isn't too bright, but you'll never find a sweeter heart simultaneously encased in a cover-model body. Golden-skinned by nature with a mix of Greek, Italian and Cherokee in his blood. Also, weirdly, Icelandic. Ripped fit to make Charles Atlas proud, and his face... Judas Priest, the man's face. Razor cheekbones, full lips, beautiful without being effeminate. Naturally sky-blue eyes.

Warren? Dusty's polar opposite. Hair so darkly brown you might as well call it black, just shy of a military buzz and cut to stand up in spikes. Good-looking in a Marine sort of way, which is to say he's seriously hot s.h.i.t. Built like a SEAL and carries himself like a five-star general.

Never has spent a single day in the armed forces. Go figure.

His gla.s.ses are the only clue to the quirkiness that lies within. Chunky black frames, a geek-chic sort of look. Ladies do make pa.s.ses at men who wear gla.s.ses, thank you very much, or at least I do. Rawrrr.

"Dusty's camera is on the shelf."

"This would be your clever suggestion that I should take a picture, since it'll last longer?" I eyed their c.o.c.ks, gorgeously dark and wet. Mmm, yummy. "How much longer do you think you've got before you pop?"

"You can't exactly time these things, Gilly."

"I can," Dusty put in. Scary thing is, he probably does have the ability. He's uncanny about body language. He's also sweetly vicious on occasion. He grasped Warren's c.o.c.k at the base, right above the man's b.a.l.l.s, and squeezed.

Tough men also sometimes squeal like a piggy. "Hey! I was going to f.u.c.k you with that. Unless you want my d.i.c.k to come off instead of come, how about letting go?"

"Dusty, keep him on lockdown."

"Gilly," Warren warned in a growl. He was in the kind of mood where if he didn't get to sink his c.o.c.k into something hot, wet and slick in the next few seconds, he was going to explode. "Either tell your doggie to let go of my bone or give me something better to play with."

Now how can a girl resist such sweet-talking? "And here I was going to wash my hair," I told them, peeling off my favorite blouse -- I love plunging V-neck collars. They do show off these bazooms.

What? I never said I had any shame.

Moving nice and slow, driving them nuts being the goal, I inched the shirt off, gave it a few lazy spins above my head, and tossed it into a corner.

Ooh. Glazed eyes, slack jaws, and still contorted as if frozen in the middle of a game of naked Twister. Very nice. I started shimmying my hips nice and nasty as I reached for the front fastening on my demi-cup lace bra. The bra popped open and my b.o.o.bs emerged, Playboy b.u.t.terflies out of their coc.o.o.ns.

"Unh." Warren licked his lips.

Don't you love having a guy wrapped around your pinky? Not as hard as it seems, really. Figure out what they like and use the knowledge for all it's worth. When to hold 'em, when to fold 'em, when to walk away and know when to play.

I cupped the b.r.e.a.s.t.s in question and lifted them up in offering, rolling the cherry-colored nipples between fingers and thumbs until my nipples stood up sweeter than gumdrops.

"Ahhh." Dusty let go of Warren's c.o.c.k, reaching out to touch b.o.o.bies instead of b.a.l.l.s. Warren didn't blink. You get a guy to forget about the state of his d.i.c.k and you know you're good. Breast hypnotism. Works every time.

Poor sweet Dusty didn't have the reach to get me where I stood. He did try.

I minced a step backwards, avoiding the coffee table, and toyed with the zipper on my jean shorts. They're cut obscenely short -- Daisy Duke would be proud -- and tighter than a second skin. Plump or not, I can smell the pheromones pouring off men and some women like waves when I walk down the street, a whole heap of honey that's oh, so sweet.

Yeah, smell. Werewolf, remember?

I like the scent of Warren and Dusty's Eau de Desperation best of all. They looked so a-dork-able tangled around each other, gawping at me. I like to tease, but the secret to successful torture is to come through with what you promise. Wiggling out of the shorts, I was left with only a G-string chosen to match my discarded bra.

The cool thing about G-strings? They don't really get in the way of s.e.x. Just move 'em to the side and get the party started. This is me being kinky again, but I seriously get off on being f.u.c.ked while I've still got some kind of clothes on. It's fun to see men get creative and it makes me feel extra-special naughty.

"s.e.x, party of three?" I suggested after letting them drool for a minute. "Room for one more in there?"

Dusty nodded. Warren lunged for me. He missed, but hey, it's the thought... blah, blah, blah. "Get down here before I get up and toss you on the floor."

"What are you going to do then?"

"I'm thinking I'll rip whatever it is you're calling panties off and f.u.c.k you until you don't know your own d.a.m.n name."

"Threat or promise?"

"Both."

Sweeet. "Banzai!"

It would have been an impressive swan-dive into the manpile if they hadn't caught me in mid-air and wrestled me down. No biggie. I liked the improv.

I liked what they did next even better.

"Heads or tails?" Dusty asked, already on his way down to my p.u.s.s.y, which approved and demonstrated by releasing another gush of cream. He tore the G-string off like the paper on the best birthday present ever. Sweet as honey, strong as an ox.

Gilly like.

I licked my lips and spread my legs. s.l.u.tty, maybe, but I'm not into playing the blushing virgin. I like s.e.x; I like getting s.e.xed by my boys, so why pretend to be coy? Dusty moaned as the aroma of my soaking p.u.s.s.y wafted up to meet him.

Oh, yeah. Woman power.

"Heads," Warren decided, knee-walking up for a good angle to get at my b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "Except after you're done making her see stars, I'm the one who gets to f.u.c.k her."

"Aww."

I patted the nearest convenient patch of Dusty's bare skin. "Don't worry, big boy. I'll suck you off while he f.u.c.ks me."

"Ooh!" He and Warren shared one of those evil male looks, the kind promising a girl the time of her life. They always make good on their vows too.

They don't waste time, either. Dusty was between my thighs, the fringes of his hair tickling the extra-soft skin there, and Warren fondling my casabas before I could say "boo." With their weird but really cool sense of synchronicity, they both dove in and put their mouths to much better use than talking at the same time.

I went a little ape-s.h.i.t. Can you blame me? One stud licking juice off my c.u.n.t and his partner in hunkalicious crime doing amazing things with his hands on my mammaries and his tongue around one nipple. It's kind of embarra.s.sing after the fact to remember yourself wailing and screaming, not to mention thrashing, but at the time it feels so fan-f.u.c.king-tastic you don't care.

Dusty should sell "how-to" videos instructing the clueless men of the world how to eat p.u.s.s.y. (He could have a side-line explaining the fine arts of sucking c.o.c.k, according to Warren.) The man's tongue went absolutely everywhere and worked its magic, thrusting into my entrance and trailing up to flick over my c.l.i.t. He never does the same stuff in the same order. Trying to figure out where he's headed next when you don't have many brain cells working... oh, h.e.l.l, yeah. Best of all, he loves this. The man's obsessed with tastes and textures. Hearing someone gush about the hot slickness and sweet flavor of your cream while their lips are still on your p.u.s.s.y, making the words buzz, is an experience not to be missed.

Warren held his own just fine with my t.i.ts. He's got more focus than Dusty but no less skill. He played each breast like a two-bell choir, making me want to sing Holy Hallelujah. I could smell the traces of his cologne, the lingering traces of his shampoo, and the salty sweat of his skin. His tongue, which he must have sold his soul to the devil for, twisted and teased and flicked. He used his teeth to nibble ever so gently and then, when I least expected him to, give me a sharp nip.

Caught between the two, I didn't know if I was coming or... no, definitely coming. I have no idea what I said, but I think it was along the lines of "oh G.o.d oh G.o.d oh G.o.d more, more, more, aieeeeee." Either way, they were both excited and I was off in Happy o.r.g.a.s.m La-La Land, floating free of my body but still feeling the rush of blood and those indescribable spasms no one can ever really explain. Who wants to, though? All you want is more.

When I floated back down to ground zero, Warren and Dusty leered at me, Dusty's face covered in my p.u.s.s.y juices. I was having a little trouble breathing, not really able to form words yet, but they knew their cues. Another round of scrambling into new positions and there we were again. Warren lifted my legs, all the better for me to lock my ankles around his back, and nailed me but good, his c.o.c.k stuffing me almost past my limit. Impressive.

Dusty guided his c.o.c.k along my lips until I opened up and sucked him in.

I don't care what you see in p.o.r.no flicks. b.l.o.w. .j.o.bs are not easy when you're being f.u.c.ked. Your body kind of wants to concentrate on what's happening down under, you know? Still, I managed to use my tongue, not drool, and let Dusty plunder my mouth, thrusting deep enough to make me glad I'd trained myself out of a gag reflex. From the sounds of his moans and the way he shook where he gripped my skull, I'd venture to say he enjoyed himself just fine.

Warren, on the other hand, I had no doubts about being happy. He makes these amazing animal noises, growls and grunts and slightly wolf-like howls (verrry nice, especially for a dame like me) when he pounds my p.u.s.s.y and hey, bonus points for him, doesn't forget about the b.o.o.bs either. He sucked me while he f.u.c.ked me, and as I sucked Dusty, who f.u.c.ked my mouth.

Trust me. It gets no better. And the weres wanted to know why I stuck with two mundanes? I should've sent the misogynist alphas a videotape. They might have gotten my point then.

o.r.g.a.s.m time! I came first -- again -- what lady wouldn't if she could? -- and you've got to groove about being a woman when you can keep on climaxing like the freakin' Energizer Bunny. They keep going... and going... and going... Meanwhile, Warren lost his cool in the spasming of my c.u.n.t muscles and let out a groan that came from the bottom of his gut while I felt him pulse hot, sticky c.u.m inside me.

Dusty, probably because he's a good sport and a team player, moaned and shot his load over my tongue. He tasted great, absolutely great. No idea why. Some men are salty, some sour, some bitter, but not my Dust-Buster. I swallowed every drop and cleaned him off.

Because I'm willing to take one, or in this case two, for the team, I let them collapse on me like particularly floppy Raggedy Andys. Makes for some difficulty breathing, but it's a small price to pay for spectacular s.e.x. Besides, they're considerate. As soon as they could move they did, worming their ways down and up until they lay on either side of me. I opened my arms so they could snuggle against my chest. Warren refuses to call this "cuddling," but I let him get away with his own definitions and they love this no matter what.

I hummed and sighed as I caught my breath. Warren and Dusty felt like twin furnaces puffing out hot air and scalding my sides with overheated flesh. We were all slicky-sticky with sweat. I do not "glow." I sweat. Nothing wrong with it. Shows you've been working hard and reaped your reward.

And as I lay there, stroking the wisps of hair from Dusty's face and rubbing my knuckles through Warren's short cut, still tasting sweet c.u.m on my tongue and bathing in the smell of s.e.x, I thought to myself: so what if they don't believe me when I tell them I'm a werewolf? (Which I had. Asking for trouble if any of the Alphas ever found out, but at the time I more or less figured the old weres could go screw themselves. Even so, I wasn't dumb enough to do a full transformation in front of people who didn't believe me. Mundanes.) So what if they thought I was playing games when I took a trip out to the forest every full moon? It wasn't a big deal. I was spending the rest of my life with those two hot-blooded hotties and woe betide any man or woman stupid enough to stand in my way.

This was my life, and I figured it was a seriously great one. I didn't think I could get any happier. I remember thinking to myself: this is the good stuff that lasts forever.

Yeah, yeah, famous last words, I know...

Chapter Two.

For most people, the insane monkey s.e.x comes after drinking way too much. Dusty, Warren and me, we're just as happy to get plastered after the fact. Don't get me wrong. The s.e.x is worth at least a bottle of champagne. Plus some Roman candles exploding overhead, a backup orchestra, maybe an admiring audience... you get the idea.

And yeah, I am that kinky.

After we peeled ourselves off the floor, Dusty took clean-up duty and went to get some soft, fluffy washcloths dampened with warm water. I watched him go. Great a.s.s. You could pop Sacagawea dollars off those glutes. Or dimes. I never did get why quarters are the coin of choice. Anyone know?

Warren circled me from behind with what he'd call a panther attack -- as if. I know from panthers, or at least the weres. They don't hug you. If they wrap their paws around you, they're mentally sizing up the tenderest bits for dinner. He growled into my shoulder and gave me a playful shake.