Fur and Fang Read online

  Title Page

  FUR AND FANG

  By

  Carla Blake

  Publisher Information

  Fur and Fang published in 2013

  by Andrews UK Limited

  www.andrewsuk.com

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Copyright © Carla Blake 2013

  The right of Carla Blake to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Chapter 1

  So, tell me, what springs to mind when I say the word ‘Vampire’ to you?

  Dracula perhaps? That tall, handsome devil with a widow’s peak, long cloak and disarming manner, tap-tapping on his poor unsuspecting victim’s window, begging to be let in before sinking his teeth into creamy, innocent flesh?

  Or how about some pasty faced youth? Dressed in enough black to resemble a hole and skulking in some dank corner of a disputable pub, wanting desperately for you to believe that anywhere else, his pint of bitter would be replaced with a pint of human claret.

  You might think of either of those and to be frank, I wouldn’t blame you.

  But I bet, for all your wild imaginings, you wouldn’t think of me.

  A 26 year old lesbian nurse.

  Well, you might, if you’ve seen certain movies, but I bet I wouldn’t be top of the list.

  I am, however, not lying. I am a Vampire.

  Or, at least, I was. But that’s not the half of it, cos it gets better. I was, in fact, a Vampire in love with a Werewolf.

  How that’s for grabbing your attention!

  But maybe I should start at the beginning, and whether you choose to believe me or not is entirely up to you, I can only tell you what I know. I may entertain you for a while, if nothing else, and I’ll definitely put money on the fact that no matter how skeptical you are, my story will have you pausing long enough to amble, casual as you like, to the nearest mirror and check out those old canine teeth of yours.

  But again, that will be up to you.

  Ok, so you already know a bit about me. I’m 26, I’m a nurse, I’m gay and I live about fifteen minutes from the GP surgery where I work, which is convenient for getting in on time but bloody frustrating when I’m in the local supermarket and constantly being bombarded by patients who want me to examine rashes, bumps, state of stitches etc. Then it’s just annoying.

  The idea of on line shopping is growing ever more attractive.

  Anyway, I live alone since Alice left. Alice was my girlfriend and Alice is a cow. I kid you not. Just up and went she did, leaving a sad little note on the kitchen table stating how she still loved me, still cared etc, etc, but how she needed her freedom and was going to find it hitchhiking around Asia or maybe Europe. Bully for her.

  She actually made it as far as the Isle of Wight, or so I heard, but the lack of distance she achieved didn’t compensate much for the hurt she caused, cos I stupidly thought we were fine and would stay together forever. How wrong can a person be?

  This, however, all happened about seven months ago and needless to say, I’ve cried loads and eaten way too much crap for my own good, all in an effort to get over her and life, as they say, goes on. It’s just a shame mine has too.

  For in the long reaches of the night, I’ve often wondered if ‘ curling up and dying’ is actually a viable option, and whether I would actually have the guts to go through with it, because it’s at night that the loneliness bites deep and the thought of living without her turns my heart to dust.

  And I have dreamt. Dreams you wouldn’t believe! Vivid dreams. Sweat inducing, duvet clenching, fucking hell dreams! Dreams that are now starting to infringe on my waking life and see me scurrying for the mirror.

  Chapter 2

  The first time it happened, I put it down to indigestion after some work mates had invited me out. ‘ We’ll grab a curry,’ they said, ‘and then go clubbing. It’ll cheer you up. Take your mind off things. We’ll have a laugh.’

  The curry was nice but I didn’t have a laugh, I had wind and by the time I left the nightclub with my ears ringing and a smudge of something mustard yellow down my top, my stomach was rolling and I felt totally sick.

  Once home I dashed for the loo and stuck my fingers down my throat, figuring if I could be sick, then at least I might feel better. The face of a bulimia patient instantly popped up in my head the moment I did it, but I shoved her rudely away and told myself I wasn’t adopting an eating problem just trying to get rid of problem eating.

  Unfortunately, I threw up precisely nothing. The curry I’d eaten clearly wasn’t about to shift so I gave up and headed for the next best thing, the kettle. In my family it has long been believed that if a cup of tea doesn’t sort you out, then nothing will. Sadly, this unshakeable faith doesn’t always work as my cousin found out when he had appendicitis and although in total agony, in honour of family tradition, he still gamely tried to drink a mug whilst writhing around on the floor of the lounge.

  Unsurprisingly, it didn’t stay down and the paramedics were not pleased at being sprayed with regurgitated Tetley in the back of the ambulance. Neither was my Aunt, who, despite her son’s great discomfort, pronounced it the waste of a good cuppa.

  I, however, was still willing to give it a try, so the kettle went on and the action of stretching up to reach the teabags managed to produce a burp loud enough to rattle the saucepans in my kitchen. The vulgarity of it made me laugh and I briefly contemplated calling my Aunt to restore her faith in the family cure all. Instead I simply abandoned the tea and went to bed.

  ***

  At first I couldn’t sleep. I was still burping for one thing and thoughts of bloody Alice kept popping into my head. Our first date for instance, buying this place together, her leaving me with the mortgage to pay on my own. Our first kiss. Trips to the coast. Her leaving me without so much as a proper goodbye.

  I was never going to get to sleep.

  I resorted to plan B. The same plan B that everyone probably thinks of. Sex.

  I keep a dildo in my bedside cabinet. It’s a pale cream in colour and I’ve had it for years. It used to have three settings but only two work now, not due to ample amounts of vigorous sex I hasten to add, but because I used it to throw at an annoying fly that was buzzing around my head and hit the wall instead. Hence the two setting and the lovely dent I have in the plaster opposite the bed.

  The bedroom was dark. Why that should matter when I was on my own, I have no idea, but it just seemed nicer pleasuring myself in darkness.

  I started with my breasts. Just fondling them really, enjoying their weight, my thumbs lightly running over my nipples.

  I like my breasts. They’re not too big and still point in the right direction when I’m lying down. I think my right nipple is slightly larger than the left but no one’s ever commented.

  I squeezed my nipples and felt that delicious rush of pleasure that shudders straight down to your pussy and has your legs falling open of their own accord. The air felt nice on my pussy and I knew I was beginning to swell. I could picture myself down there, all wet and glistening and my hand strayed down to check. Sure enough my lips were gorged with desire and as I rubbed a finger along my slit, spreading the juices, I teased myself by staying away from the one place that was longing to be touched. Instead I grabbed my f
aithful dildo and carefully inserted it into my cunt. It slid in easily, the tide of juices sucking it in and holding it fast, and turning it on, I fed it in and out of myself and relished how cool it felt against the heat of my insides.

  I screwed myself for some time, wanting the pleasure to last and hoping that if I gave myself a big enough orgasm I would fall asleep straight after and know nothing more till morning. I caressed my nipples and squeezed them until they were tender. My pussy throbbed. My clit ached to be touched. Yet still I resisted and fucked myself harder, knowing I was running with juices, knowing that the moment I let my other hand stray to my clit I would go off like a rocket. It was amazing and I fed the dildo in and out with increasing speed, hearing the moisture as I thrust and thrust until I could bear it no longer. I had to touch myself and my fingers fled towards my clit, finding my pussy lips massively swollen as I wound my finger around the throbbing nub and began to rub.

  It didn’t take long. Shoving the dildo in as far as I could without loosing my grip, I fingered my clit and came long and hard.

  And I didn’t say Alice’s name once of which I was very proud of myself. But I think I might have got God’s attention.

  Chapter 3

  I fell asleep.

  And ‘woke’ to find myself standing in the grounds of a manor house. It was still night time and I could see, if not feel, a stiff breeze stirring the leaves of a huge Yew tree. The house itself was impressive. Built from a light brick, visible from the light of a single wrought iron lamppost illuminating the entrance, it boasted wide stone steps, shallow in tread, that led up to an imposing double front door with a brass lion’s head knocker. The windows, all lead lined, were numerous and dark with curtains pulled tightly across all those on the ground floor level. At the front, stood flowers in pots, and a gravel driveway which wrapped itself around a circular sweep of lawn like a like a protective lover. It looked as though there should be a bird bath standing in the middle, if not a full blown fountain, but there was nothing but neatly trimmed grass. A fact I found slightly disappointing.

  Taking a step forward, I looked up at the upstairs windows. Divided into six by lead frames, they appeared as dark as the pupils of my eyes and that’s how they felt to me, like eyes, watching me, waiting to see what I would do.

  I knew I was dreaming, that was the weird thing about all this, although the concept isn’t totally alien to me. I’ve had lucid dreams before, mainly involving the ability to fly and I like those. My favourite had me swooping low over a shopping mall, the shoppers all gaping up at me in wonder as I breezed over their heads, fully aware that what I was doing was actually impossible! I couldn’t fly, yet here I was, flying! It was brilliant, it was fun, but I knew it couldn’t last, and it didn’t. I crashed to earth in a well known chemist after spotting the price of my favourite mascara. And then I woke up.

  But this dream wasn’t like that in the slightest. I knew I was dreaming, I knew that, but at the same time, it felt so real! I felt like I was actually standing in front of this house and there were little things that were starting to back the idea up. The breeze for one thing. I couldn’t feel it, but I could still see the effect it was having on the leaves of the Yew tree and on the fallen petals of flowers being pushed across the drive. I could smell smoke too, wood smoke from a fire and when I moved, the gravel crunched underfoot.

  I could hear other things as well. The haunting cry of an owl. The rustle of the leaves. My heart, beating rather too loudly for my liking.

  I wasn’t sure whether to be delighted or scared.

  Still unsure, I walked towards the stone steps and up to the front door. It was black, shiny and new. Not a fingerprint anywhere and in the dream I questioned why I should care about that this, if this was only a dream, but I didn’t waste time pondering. Instead I reached out with my hand, turned it into a fist and made the connection with the cold, hard surface.

  ***

  I woke up in a clammy sweat and swore into the gloom. I was never eating curry again. Ever.

  Two nights later, I was back.

  Same time, same place. Well, I assumed it was the same time in as much as it was again night time. The house certainly looked the same. Imposing. Impassive. The lamppost still shining its strong yellow light on the front door, the windows still regarding me darkly. The gravel still crunching underfoot as I made my way forward.

  But this time when I knocked, the door swung silently open.

  I remember faltering then and wondering why I had the capacity to do that in a dream? Usually everything is fast forward no matter what you do or what risks you are about to take. Good or bad, this is the way events are going to play out and we have no other choice other than to go with it until we wake up either smiling or screaming. But here, I faltered, nervous and fearfully and staring at the slice of darkness the open door revealed to my worried eyes.

  I wanted to wake up then because in truth, I was too scared to go any further and I willed myself to snap out of it. Bathed in yellow light, I stood there, my fists clenched at my sides, my eyes squeezed tight, silently commanding my body to stop buggering about and return me to the sanctuary of my bed.

  Fat chance.

  When I opened my eyes, I was still there. Only I felt colder, as in really cold. As in perishing cold as my mum likes to say, and that’s when I looked down and saw I was wearing only my bath robe and nothing else. Bizarrely, I also remember feeling grateful I was wearing this brand new one, and not the tatty, threadbare garment I’d reluctantly thrown out three days earlier, because I was going to have to go in now. It was either that or freeze to death.

  No one stopped me. No one came running out of the gloom demanding to know what I thought I was doing or threatening to blast me full of lead as I stepped through the door onto the threshold. It was something of a relief really.

  I looked around.

  The hall, like everything else, was not exactly tiny.

  The floor, tiled in black and white squares spread out before me and to my left and right, huge staircases swept up to an upper landing lost to the darkness. A brass container holding three black umbrellas and a walking stick with the head of a duck for its handle stood at the foot of one staircase, a Grandfather clock, sternly ticking off the hours, at the other. I tried looking at the time, but my eyes wouldn’t have it and I gave up, puzzled as to why I could see so much other detail but not that.

  In front of me a row of three doors, all made from heavy wood and all closed denied my enquiring gaze and between two of them, a solid oak sideboard holding a brass goblet and candlesticks sulked moodily, a rickety looking chair upholstered in dark red filled the other space.

  Light, what there was of it, came from a single lamp positioned just inside the front door on a three legged table. It was a foreboding place with an unfriendly atmosphere and I so didn’t want to be caught there. I wanted to go home, because that’s how it felt. Like I had traveled to be here rather than just fallen asleep and I suppose that was down to the realness of it all, because although I hadn’t done so, so far, I felt that if I reached out and touched the staircase, I would feel the smoothness of the banister, hear the creak of the wood. Witness the sound of my footsteps as I crossed the cold, tiled floor on my way to one of the doors.

  Chapter 4

  After that little episode, I tried staying awake. Although I wasn’t exactly afraid of the house I was dreaming about, I wasn’t in any particular hurry to revisit it either and for the next few days, I was super careful about what I ate and what I drank, avoiding anything that would lie heavily on my stomach and eating nothing at all after six in the evening. I did sleep of course, after a heavy day in the surgery, I was too exhausted to do anything else, but I dreamt only stupid stuff. Walking to work across green ice. Playing tennis with friends I’d last seen when I was twelve. Getting cross because I couldn’t dial out on my mobile. Crap stuff like that. Safe
stuff. Stuff we all dream.

  By the fourth night of dreaming rubbish, I thought I’d cracked it. The house was gone, I thought. The effects of a dubious curry finally relegated to the toilet. It was safe to crack open the wine. It was safe to look forward to sleeping again.

  Famous last words.

  ***

  In the dream I run for the house, although not by choice I’ll have you know.

  It’s freezing! The breeze I hadn’t felt on the last two occasions has clearly decided not to keep itself under wraps any longer and is finally pulling and tugging me with fingers it must have been keeping in the chiller cabinet, because I am bloody frozen!

  So I run, past the lawn and the flowerpots, past the lamppost and up the stone steps to the door. I don’t knock, I’m too bloody cold for niceties. Instead I just barge my way in and stand shivering and gasping in the deserted hall.

  No one comes so I stand there a while, rubbing my arms and my chest and trying to get warm. Eventually, I try a tentative ‘hello’, unsure if I truly want an answer or not, but nobody replies so I walk to the staircase on my left and look up, half expecting to see a shadowy figure gazing down at me, but there’s no one there. There are paintings on the walls however, paintings I hadn’t noticed before. Huge things in elaborate frames and mostly of men, dressed in dark suits with pale faces. None of them look happy. None of them look like the sort you’d want to meet in a dark alleyway. The only portrait of a woman among them looks scared and that’s odd in itself. The way her hands are clenched tight in front of her, the way her eyes are round globes of alarm as though she is looking beyond the painter to something in the far distance. I can’t help but wonder what it is? Then I wonder why I want to know?

  I don’t try the other staircase. I don’t want to see any more of the paintings, so on bare feet and still wrapped in my bath robe I walk towards one of the doors. I chose the one on the right. I have no idea why. It just seems the least threatening which is ludicrous seeing as they all look the same.