Cold Flesh, Hot Sheets 

 

by Portia 

 

"Oh, LaCroix," Nicholas Knight moaned, as the tears weld in his eyes, "Although I'm well on my 
way to becoming 800 years old, and although I'm considered capable enough to be entrusted 
with a job as a homicide detective, that shrewish harridan Natalie's infernal instance that I drink 
protein shakes has driven me to impetuously through aside all my hard won convictions and 
realize that nothing will make me happy in this life but to once again be held in your warm, not 
quite paternal embrace. Stick it to me hard Father!" 
"Oh, my Golden one, my blonde beauty, my prized possession! I new the day would come when 
you would finally realize that your place could be no were else but at my side! Let me thrust 
myself into your warm, wet hole! Let me prove to you that your rebellious nature can find no true 
happiness but in submission to my iron will and hard rod. Let me beguile your mind with imspired 
bits of poetry: 
Hast thou slain the Jabberwock? 
Oh, come to my arms my beamish boy! 
Oh frabjuous day! Caloo, callay! 
He chortled in his joy." 
As the dark, honeyed voice caressed the ancient words of the learned scholar and gifted 
mathematicion, Nicholas felt a thirll of rampant desire shiver down his spine and up his rampant 
shaft. Without delay, he quickly began to shed his clothes, undulating his pelvis to some silent 
music only he could here. LaCroix, in the meantime felt the wrods choke off in his throat as a pale 
golden moon was revealed to him, although it was the middle of the day. 
Without another word spoken between them they came together, growls filling the air as warm 
flesh filled their throats. There teeth classed together as they gently carressed one anothers 
burgeoning, turgid organs. Limbs tangled together, welcoming the heavy weight on his back, 
Nichlas demurely pressed his face into his father's shoulder, breathing in that unique scent of old 
Leather and must that was indicative of his sire, the ancient and implacable Lacrois. 
As he pounded away in the molten, magma heat of Nicholas's snow white body, Lacrois could 
only wonder how long this reconsiliation could last. How could Nicholas have turned away from 
the bond between them, the call of blood to blood, the ancient lust of sire for progeny, protegee 
for master? How could Nicholas find any joy in life better than this sharing of body and mind? All 
the while his thoughts were caught in this treadmill, LaCroix continued to pump his hand up and 
down Nicholas weeping penis and twist and turn his own pelvis, seeking for that spot that would 
send Nicholas soaring over the moon. 
As they hurtled toward their climax like a runaway train, huffing and puffing, breathless and 
drinched with sweet, Nicholas felt compelled to cry out, "I'll return to you Fahter, but I won't hunt! 
I'll drink human blood because cow blood tastes so awful, and I'll quite my human job because 
I'm fed up with all the tedium of having something steady to fill the inexorable long hours of 
eternity, and I'll fill my time with traveling with you and reveling in the nights of our love! Can you 
accept me this way? Can we make it work??" 
"My dear," Lacroix returned, "haven't you figured out by now that all I've ever really wanted from 
you was to be able to f*** your brains out whenever I wanted and to have you simper and melt at 
my every glance and the low, seductive timber of my voice? Committ your attention to me solely, 
no Jeanette, no coroner, no dogs or ballerinas or revolving door colleagues, and we will revel in 
nights of unrelieved bliss!" And with their hearts finally layed bear, LacRoix thrust one final time, 
and they sank their teath into each others neck as the hot cum rushed from their cold, hard 
bodies, and they lay replete in each others arms. 
The end. 
Author's note: Even after several months, I still haven't gotten over the psychic shock of reading 
"his eyes weld with tears." If the phrase hadn't been prefaced by so many other grammatical and 
word choice errors, maybe the blow wouldn't have hit me so hard. As for the reference to the 
lover's "warm, wet hole," I've decided not to try to determine what the author was thinking...it just 
doesn't bear investigation.