The Ultimate Vampire Resource and Directory

The Vanilla Extraction Chapter Four
00:46 Jun 28 2010
Times Read: 928

*Contains Adult themes













Chapter Four





“Would you like some water Mister Shawcross? We don’t do alcohol here.” Alice said to me.



“This is a club and you don’t…” That seemed strange to me.



“As I said Mister Shawcross, this is a private club; and part of the membership is our no-drinking policy…” Jared explained slowly.



“So Mister Shawcross, before you fall over, would you like that water and, a seat while you explain why you’re looking for that painslut?” he continued.



Again I was stunned by something I’d heard. ‘This wasn’t my world, for sure.’



“Yes, a seat and water would be good,” I told the young woman.



Alice pressed a button on the side of the desk and, the door to the office opened and someone entered, “This is Chevy. He’ll get what you need…”



Still holding the desk in place, I turned my head to look at who had entered and grinned sardonically, “We’ve met.” It was the bruiser I’d encountered earlier.



“Water and a seat please Chevy?” Alice requested.



“Sure Miss,” The bald-headed fellow with muscles beneath a tight tee-shirt answered, smiling as he looked at Alice; scowling as he turned to look at me.



“I’ll see to that, for you now,” he added, as he turned to leave the office.



Turning back to look at Jared I asked, “So you know her?”



“Oh yeah, she’s into some real heavy stuff…” the young man explained.



“But that’s the nature of this place, isn’t it?” I asked curiously.



“Friend,” Jared explained slowly, “this is our Life. She seeks something else…”



“Oh Jeez,” I explained, realizing that this case had suddenly become one of the strangest I’d encountered in a while; a dozen or so possible scenario flitting through my mind; a myriad possibilities that were worse than I could conjure happening here, in this den of inequity.



I looked up from my hand, holding the desk in place, as I stood erect, quickly realizing how unsteady I still felt and, looking at the young woman, Alice, asked of her somewhat plaintively, “Where is that chair?”



My hand on the desk was the only steady thing in the room … snd, I saw concern on the cute one’s face, I think.



“Chevy!” She called out, “chair, now!”



And, ‘who’d have thought that such a small frame could hold such a large voice?’ I mused, as I felt my knees begin to give way; just before a chair slid beneath them and, I ease backwards, glad of the support.



“Now Chevy, get that water, for my guest,” she ordered; and for a fleeting second I notice a furrow appear and disappear on Jared’s forehead; then he smiles.



And, I’m sure there’s a whole back-story to what I’d seen. But, this was not the time nor place for such thought.



“Yes Ma’am, I’ll see to that for you now…” And, he sounds real sullen as he speaks, giving me sidelong glances that might’ve killed a lesser man.



And, looking up from my fingertips I look to Jared and I smile, with what I hope is my most endearing smile.



“You called Misha a painslut,” I asked Jared, “Does that mean what it sounds like?” I quizzed.



Clasping his hands together, the fellow seemed to hesitate before answering.



“Well yes and no,” again he paused: “But before I go any further, what … er, relationship, do you have with Misha?”



Now I could lay my cards on the table; but that’d detract from the game of it all.



Leaning forward, my hands on my knees, I say to him; “I asked a reasonable question, whilst making enquires about a minor, in an establishment where one has to be over twenty-one to be a member.”



I drew a breath, and then looking the fellow squarely in the eyes, asked him, “So are you going to help me, or hinder me in my efforts?” It was a simple question, yet a testing one. Yet, I couldn’t gauge his reaction to it, as he turned to Alice, who smiled toward him, then benignly at me: and she nodded.



“Painslut… you wanted to know what it might mean to her?” He quizzed, with one eyebrow raised.



“Yes,” I muttered, wholly unaware of where this was going; and going fast, it seemed….”





“Well then,” he began with a smile, “let me show you…”



I watched him pressing keys on his laptop, then he turned it round, so I could see the screen, as Windows Media Player opened up, with a film seemingly filmed in this establishment…

The Vanilla Extraction Part 3
19:08 Jun 18 2010
Times Read: 948

I’d closed my eyes as I slid down slowly into a kind of crouch, unaware of the trail of blood left behind me, as I’d slid downward.



Cold filled, from the inside out, as I struggled to open my eyes: I saw a woman’s black boots walking toward me, shiney black boots, with a very high heel.



And with my vision getting cloudy, my world turned black before unconsciousness took me…







Chapter Three





The dull throbbing spread from the back of his head to the fore, causing Shawcross to groan.



‘Pain.’ He didn’t like it, none whatsoever: he thought rubbing the back of his head, with his right hand and, he brought it before his eyes, pleased to see little blood on his the palm.



“Just call it a perk of the job…” He muttered as he opened his eyes cautiously, afraid to see what he would see.



‘Black boots? Shiney black boots, with heel.’ Shawcross would’ve smiled, normally. But, as he continued to look up, slowly, from the bottom of the tip of the boots upward, to the top of the calf-high, he found himself looking at blue jeans. And then, he can look up no further as the ache in his head increased.



He groaned again, long and loud.



“Sleeping beauty is awake…” said the owner of the voice, in a gentle voice, that spoke with authority.



“Thank you Rachel,” said another voice, a man’s, to Timon’s right. He was not outside any longer, he realised and, the room he was in seemed small.



“You can leave us now,” the voice added.



Timon Shawcross watched the boots turn and, heard the woman speak: “Chevy stay outside the door, will you just in case we need your muscle again…”



She left the room and as she closed the door Shawcross eased himself into a crouch, turning his whole body, to stare in the direction that the man’s voice had come from.



He looked round the small office, his eyes drawn to the two people sitting behind the plain desk, devoid of clutter bar the laptop, a folder and two bottles of water.



‘They’re a mixed pair,’ he thought momentarily.



The fellow on the left was a powerfully built man in his late twenties to thirties, his shoulder-length blonde hair tied back in a pony-tail. His clothes were casual, but with a style that suggested the owner had enough money to buy them.



Yet, it was the girl to his right that puzzled Shawcross: ‘Girl?’ She was a young woman, short of stature and slight of build. And, beneath her elfin face and long neck, the bleach-blonde with a page-boy cut wore little, just an over-sized white mans shirt.



Shawcross waited to hear what was said next, his sore head a reminder of the bruiser he’d encountered, who even now waited outside the door, as Rachel had requested.



Finally the fellow behind the desk spoke, “This is a private club mister…”



“Timon Shawcross,” Timon interjected.



“This is a private club Mister Shawcross, “an we don’t take to strangers noseying around like you were…” Jared spoke slowly, his interlaced fingers forming a steeple, as he rested his elbows on the desk.



And, although the atmosphere in the room was serious, Alice wanted to smile. She wanted to smile a lot nowadays: just the idea of being a partner in Marley’s with her Master was enticing, a delight; and due cause for her to smile for a lifetime, hers and someone else’s.



She rested her right hand on Jared’s inner-thigh and, smiling toward Timon she asked curiously, “Why are you here then?”



Timon looked round the room briefly before answering, “I’m looking for a woman.”



“And you came here, to find one?” Jared asked smiling: “Not the sort of place I’d come to find a woman…”



“That’s not what I mean…” Shawcross responded.



“ So what do you mean?” Alice asked of him softly.



“I’m looking for someone underage, who…” he began to respond, then realizing how it sounded he added, “I’m a private investigator, who was hired to…”



“Do you have a photograph of her?” Jared asked; his curiosity piqued.



Timon stood, albeit he was unsteady on his feet and, took a few paces forward toward the desk. And, with his right hand palm down, fingers splayed, he supported himself, as he reached into an inside jacket pocket, to retrieve the professionally taken five by seven of Misha.



He handed the photograph to Jared, who took and looked at it, with a smile that quickly turned to loud laughter. As his laughter became more raucous he handed the photograph to Alice next to him: “Here, look at this…” he said to her.



“I’m sorry for laughing,” Jared expressed, his cheeks ruddy from his outburst, as Alice passed the photograph back which he handed the photograph back to Timon, tears in his eyes, “But…”



Jared waved a hand in the air.



“I’m Jared and, this…” he indicated the young woman to his left, “this is Alice, my slave and partner.”



Timon’s jaw would’ve normally opened wide with surprise at what he’d just heard.

It didn’t.



The way he saw it, ‘It was just an ordinary day.’







Chapter Four





“Would you like some water Mister Shawcross? We don’t do alcohol here.” Alice said to Timon.



“This is a club and you don’t…”



“As I said Mister Shawcross, this is a private club; and part of the membership is our no-drinking policy…” Jared explained slowly.



“So Mister Shawcross, before you fall over, would you like that water and, a seat while you explain why you’re looking for that painslut?” he continued.



Again Timon was stunned. ‘This wasn’t his world, fore sure.’



“Yes, a seat and water would be good.”



Alice pressed a button on the side of the desk and, the door to the office opened.

Chevy entered, “This is Chevy. He’ll get what you need…”



Still holding the desk in place, Timon turned his head to look at who had entered and he grinned sardonically, “We’ve met.”



“Water and a seat please Chevy?” Alice requested.



“Sure Miss,” The bald-headed fellow with muscles beneath a tight tee-shirt answered, smiling as he looked at Alice; scowling as he turned to look at Timon Shawcross.



“I’ll see to that, for you now,” he added, as he turned to leave the office.



tbc ...

Station Watch
01:31 Jun 15 2010
Times Read: 961

Wearing a black and trench-coat, he sheltered against the light summer-rain, leaning with his back one of the two pasts supporting the sloping roof attached to the old red brick waiting-room and, his eyes caught the young woman exit the staircase on the platform opposite.



Like him she sought refuge; for her it was the shelter, with flowerbeds either side, the stations name on a sign embedded there. It was a bus-stop style Perspex shelter, with folding seating, just a few feet away.



On her feet were Roman-style sandals, with strapping that went an inch or so over her ankles. Her legs were bare and shapely. She also wore a short, fayed worn blue denim skirt and short to the waist, worn blue denim jacket. Beneath the jacket she wore a slightly stretchy round neck tee-shirt, with a printed purple tie-dye image on the chest.



Her face was oval, with prominent cheek-bones and her dark hair was pulled back tightly to form a severe looking bun; and she wore large-frame glasses, over brown eyes. The lips he noticed were thin, but shapely and enhanced by a suitably dark read lipstick and, over her left shoulder she carried a white leather holder-style back with a tie-up top to it.



He watched her enter the shelter, fold down a green plastic seat, then sit down and crossed her right leg over the left, at the thigh.



Then lighting a cigarette he lifted his gaze from the burning end, to watch her take a packet of tissues from her bag, which she had placed on the seat to her right.



And with a handful of tissues in her cupped right hand, she began to methodically wipe away any trace of water from her calf, working upward to her thigh, in small circular motion. As her movements took her hand to her inner thigh, he held his breath, inhaling smoke and, held his breath. Then she ever-so slowly uncrossed her legs and placed both feet on the floor a moment. He slowly let out his breath.



She re-crossed her legs, left over right and repeated her earlier actions. Then she uncrossed her legs once again equally slowly: and briefly he wondered whether she knew where he was looking behind the darkened lens of his photochromatic glasses.



And, just for the briefest of seconds, her thighs seemed to part just a little more. It was then that his train arrived, just as he was musing at the two long apricot ribbons that he’d noticed dangling down from between her crotch.



That puzzle caused him to pick up pen and pad as soon as he was able to, to write of all he had seen.

Nighttimes reverie
15:38 Jun 10 2010
Times Read: 975

*Adults only







I so want her: doggy, face to face cowgirl.. heck, I want that ass; to hold her buttocks over my face.. to lick you out.. rim her asshole.. flicking her clit.. teasing her nipples, as I revel in her ass. And shifting her ass a little, I'd lick upward through her moist folds, as I ease two fingers, from either hand, deep inside her parted lips, I'd slide you forward further still, to cover my face, nose ‘gainst her clit, tongue deep inside you, as I ease fingers inside her welcoming back passage.

And that's when I'd turn you over, to lie and her back and.. I'd lie over her, my arms holding me up, as I lean forward and, we'd kiss.

Late-Night Lessons
01:40 Jun 07 2010
Times Read: 989

*Contains Adult themes.









Harold shut the laptops lid and removed his black-frame glasses and, shut the power off at the wall. Of average height and build, Harold was in his late forties and still learning: “After all,” he’d said to Becca one evening, “if you stop learning, you may as well be dead.”



Becca was his wife, younger than him, with life experience that he envied.



Leaving the front room, Harold turned off the light and closed the door.



Becca had gone upstairs an hour earlier, leaving him to do research, which he did willingly: “Such an attractive teacher,” he muttered, carrying his mug into the kitchen.



Becca was ten years his junior and attracted admiring glances from men, wherever they went.



Washing his mug, he mused on his good fortune in meeting, totally unaware that she felt the same as him.



“Such a kind man,” she mused, as she readied herself and the room, for him; “Always there to listen and, so unlike those jerks I’ve known in the past.”



With that thought in the fore of her brain, Becca finished her preparations; while downstairs Harold dried his mug and placing it in it’s place on the red mug-stand he, then folded the tea-towel, which he placed on the counter top near the sink



Picking up the carrier-bag with his new purchases inside, Harold walked upstairs with a nervous grin glued to his face.



He had spent hours on research over the last week, or so; and, with the weekend free, Becca had decided to see how much he had learnt this Friday night.



And, as he opened the bedroom door, he began to utilise the stuff he’d been researching of late, by first dropping his robe.



There on the bed lay Becca, arms and legs akimbo, wrist and ankles tied to the beds legs with silk scarves; she was naked, bar the ball-gag in her mouth, her long dark hair splayed out on the pillow below her head.



Harold smiled, beneath the leather mask he wore and flicking the crop hard against his thigh, he snarled out, “Honey, its play-time!”

The Vanilla Extraction
16:29 Jun 02 2010
Times Read: 1,011






Chapter 2







I had followed Misha for two days, keeping well out of sight, before anything unusual happened.



She lived with the Contessa, in a large house behind large wrought-iron gates, at the end of a long-drive-way.



Like her sister, she was a brunette, yet wore hair shoulder length, with a fringe.

And, just like her sister, she always’ seemed to be wearing sunglasses, which I had laughingly put down to their incessant drug use.



Unlike her sister though, she down-dressed, wearing ripped light blue, figure-hugging jeans and thigh length high heel boots with everything I saw her in; and I quickly leant that she was a veritable whirlwind of energy.



My lessons into her character had begun when at eight, when I’d be parked outside the house on the main road; ready to follow her wherever she led me.



And that somewhere was nowhere particular, for a whole week just clubs and other hang-outs for the young, then on the Saturday the bright young thing led me to somewhere I’d not of expected.



Around 8:00 pm, a black corvette pulled up in front of the Contessa’s house. This was new, as all the other young men or women that had picked her up drove inexpensive cars. I jotted down the license plate and pulled in two car lengths behind them. I couldn’t make out the driver, as the windows were tinted a dark smoky black. I followed the corvette down to the main drag of town. Mostly shops and bars. The weekend traffic had already started and I tried to do my best to keep them in my sights. We drove up main street and turned on to south d street, going up the hill past stately property that was hold outs to progress. These homes were old money, gained back during the 1800’s. A few of them were mansions, with a renovated carriage houses. I didn’t get the chance often to go on this side of town. Wasn’t far from the main drag but close enough to walk to it. I watched as they pulled into a gravel parking lot and saw Misha get out of the passenger side, her companion was one I hadn’t see before. She was dressed in black leather, the same as her companion. Her outfit outlined her young figure nicely. He carried himself with purpose and casually looked around.



The building next to the parking lot was a black/gray warehouse. The sign above it said “Marley’s” in black and gold lettering with chains hanging about the sign. I stared dumbly at it for a moment. I knew this place, Not well, but I had heard rumors. I watched as they both approached the front entrance and a bald, very well muscled man spoke to them and stamped their hands. He didn’t ask for an id for her. Big trouble, im sure the owner wouldn’t be pleased that a minor had slipped in. I waited until they slipped in side and I got out of the car, careful as not to draw attention to myself. I walked around to the back of the building, bordering the building was an alley with several other buildings close by. I saw a window high up and climbed on top of a waste dumpster that had its lid shut. P I work isn’t the most cleanest job in the world. But I have stepped in worse. I climbed up and peered through the dirty window. I couldn’t make out where Misha was. The lights in the club were dim, So seeing anything clear was out the of the question. I had two choices. Either go in and try not to draw attention to myself. Or sit in the car until she came out.



If half of what I heard was true about Marley’s, no way I could “blend” in. Jumping down, I hit solid ground and what felt like a punch to the gut, threw me against the wall, with so much force that any air left in my lungs was expelled, all in a rush.



I’d closed my eyes as I slid down slowly into a kind of crouch, unaware of he trail of blood left behind me, as I’d slid downward.



Cold filled, from the inside out, as I struggled to open my eyes: I saw a woman’s black boots walking toward me, shiney black boots, with a very high heel.



And with my vision getting cloudy, my world turned black before unconsciousness took me…









*









Written by LDR & Angelus

The Vanilla Extraction
14:47 Jun 01 2010
Times Read: 1,019

The Vanilla Extraction





Chapter One





What felt like a punch to the gut, threw me against the wall, with so much force that any air left in my lungs was expelled, all in a rush.



I’d closed my eyes as I slid down slowly into a kind of crouch, unaware of he trail of blood left behind me, as I’d slid downward.



Cold filled, from the inside out, as I struggled to open my eyes: I saw a woman’s black boots walking toward me, shiney black boots, with a very high heel.



And with my vision getting cloudy, my world turned black before unconsciousness took me…



*



It had started, as many stories do, with a woman. The part-timer was gone, finishing early to pick up her little-un. I’d been sitting behind my desk, working onscreen, tidying up files, prior to giving the machine a defrag.



The Friday had brought an end to a quiet week, that ended an even quieter month; and I seem to recall the radio was playing ‘Tom Jones’ by Catatonia.



Times were hard: the economy was biting ay everyone’s wallet and hiring a P.I. wasn’t the priority for some, it might have been otherwise.



Yet, that day the door had opened: and, a brunette breezed into the office, with the manner of someone at home with themselves, no matter where they are.



Sweeping loose strands of hair from out of her eyes, she had perched her black frame, dark lens sunglasses, to the bridge of her short, straight nose.



Then, staring across the room and to my curious gaze, she’d asked me, “You are Timon Shawcross aren’t you?”



“Uh-huh, this is my office and that’s me,” I opined theatrically. It had been seven thirty in the evening; and, as far as I was concerned, I was missing out on a glass of single malt.



She had crossed the room and sat in the battered old brown leather armchair, all dead springs and comfort; then she’s crossed her legs, left leg over the right, in such a fashion I’d found myself wondering how warm the flesh was at the top of he self-support hose.



Her hair had been drawn tight to the scalp, then clamped off with a grip, so that as she moved the long tail swung, just like a horse swatting at flies.



“Are you free?” She had asked.



There was a hint of an accent to her voice: ‘Romanian perhaps?’



“Hardly,” I’d retorted, “I have an hourly rate and, charge for expenses.”



It’d been a poor joke, but it been the end of the day.



She had grinned in response; but it had been merely a movement of her lips and had appeared mirthless.



She had been wearing a little black dress, which clung well to his androgynous frame, that’s colour acted to emphasise how pale she was, ankle length black cowl boots with a heel of an inch, or so on her feet.



“American men are so flippant,” she’d opined.



“By birth I’m Canadian,” I’d informed her blithely.



She’d given a snort of derision at this, so I changed tack.



“Can you tell me why you’re here?” I asked with my notepad out, pen in hand.



“I need someone following Mister Shawcross…”



I’ve got a thing about boots; I liked the boots and, as she was speaking I stared at them, wondering idly how many pairs she had in the back of her wardrobe.



“And, your name is?” I’d asked, the pen hovering over the pad.



“I’m the Contessa di Cartinelli,” she had told me, looking at me quite intensely, in the short space between us and, there was almost a tangible air of expectation between us.



It was obvious I was supposed to be impressed, or perhaps intimidated by what she’s said. I’d felt neither.



I’d looked around the small office, then back to her, as I asked, “Any other name for me, as the Contessa di Cartinelli sounds a bit of a mouthful…”



She’d removed her glasses, swept a bang from her face again, and then crossed her legs: “You can call me Dianna.”



With vivid green eyes, Dianna had looked at me as I tried hard, not to stare, at her shapely legs.



“So Dianna, who do you want me to follow?”



“My younger sister,” she had said slowly, “she has been most evasive of late and, been staying out at all hours. And…”



“Uh huh,” I’d responded, putting my pad aside, figuring I knew where it was going, as I’d done that sort of case many, many times.

Often there’s a reason for the problem of the wayward teenager, or family member; and sometimes it’s as simple as a relationship the family can’t deal with, or that they have issues with drink, or drugs.



“So Mister Shawcross, will you take the case?” She asked flatly.



The Friday had brought an end to a quiet week, that ended an even quieter month and my bank balance was veering to near the overdraft for comfort.



Of course I’d said ‘Yes.’

The perfect script
13:52 Jun 01 2010
Times Read: 1,022

*Contains Adult themes





The sky was blue. It was the middle of summer and the bright sun beat down on a long beach of golden sand, upon which day-trippers had encamped for the day, or afternoon and evening, to judge by the six pack, with some of the teenagers.



It was the perfect day for lazing in the sun, or bathing in the invigorating cold seawater. And, Flynn Edwards was at work there, with his video camera. It was the sort professional use, after all it was expected of him.



He had dressed smartly, in a white shirt that his gut filled well; and tight, too tight slacks. His thinning hair slicked back.



He had the script prepared, of course. It was rolled up in his back pocket, a monument to his creativity. They almost all fell for it.



And, those who didn’t? That was the ‘time to walk away-time.’



“Hi, I’m Gerry,” He’d begin. (Never use your real name, ‘just in case.’)



“… and wow,” he’d pronounce, staring at the one he’d chosen, “You look good enough, to be in the next film I’m going to make.”



Flynn would have the camera on his shoulder; and, occasionally stare off into the distance, to suggest through intensity, he was looking for his location, there.



It’d sounded like a line and he knew it – yet, didn’t mind.



After all, he was telling the truth, in a way.



What he hadn’t been saying each time that the line was used was that the video would invariably stay in his own personal collection; although, it might get shown to one or two of his very close friends.



Briefly, just briefly, Flynn frowned as he thought back to the moppets he’s encountered earlier, bright red windcheaters, blue baseball cap, and matching shorts.

The girl had been oh-so cute, but the lad: there’s been something about him.



He checked his watch again: he had the day he needed, the perfect script in his pocket and those twins he’d met earlier were due to meet him soon.



..



Hours later, as the sun set low behind the two small islands in at the entrance to the bay, Peter took Jane’s right hand in his and turned to her with a broad grin on his face.



His voice no longer sounded child-like, as he spoke.

“Honey,” he began, “how long have we been coming here now?”



There was a broad grin, on his face, as he stopped and turned toward her.



“Five, six years, I suppose,” Jane answered after a moment, or two.



“Well in all that time, have we ever made as much money as we did from that Sleazebag Finn?” He asked, drawing her to him.



“We make enough from the tourists, who need to help lost twins, while me liberate their belongings. Did we have to kill him? Wasn’t there another way?” Jane whined.



He kissed her fully, long and hard, his tongue parting her lips.



Then as their tongues meshed, Peter slid his left hand onto his under her grey pleated skirt, to hold her right buttock firmly, while he thought back to the back and the ‘bastard with the camera.’



He thought of how the fellow had pawed his wife: and, smiled with pleasure, as he thought of the man’s face, eyes bulging, as he had tightened that silk cravat round his neck, before he had finished the kill.



He had straddled the barrel-chested man, scratching a his eyes, as anger turned to vivid red savagery



“He touched my little red riding hood honey. So, I just showed him my teeth,” and Peter grinned widely, recalling how hard difficult it had been to rip open his throat.

‘Definitely not like they show it on the films,’ the blonde-dwarf thought.