Electro beats pulse through the private lounge of this Marais gay club. Halloween decorations everywhere: glowing jack-o’-lanterns with electric candles, fake spiderwebs draping corners, two skeletons clinking glasses. I sip a bourbon pumpkin cocktail, eyes scanning. Jemina’s been hunting our dinner for twenty minutes on the dance floor.
“What are you doing?” I telepath her, impatient.
The Layover
“Dancing, beautiful. With our meal. You’ll love her. Delicious, just your type.”
“Hurry back.”
“Miss me?”
I smile, sever the link. Jealousy? Four centuries strong. She loves it.
Eyes close, mind drifts to 1665 London. Plague stench choked the alleys. Family gone in months. I lay dying at seventeen, fever burning. Jemina appeared like death’s angel. “I’m Jemina. Accept, live forever with me.” I nodded. Fangs sank in. Reborn.
Beads rattle. Jemina returns with Kate—no, Manon. Angel costume: short white tunic to mid-thigh, glowing wings, opaque stockings. Soft brunette face, innocent eyes.
“Manon, meet Kate, my partner.”
She sits. Cocktails arrive, steaming mysteriously. Chat flows. She’s finishing high school, dreams of law school. We share sanitized travel tales, flirt hard. She compliments my Victorian gown. Jemina’s Jack the Ripper. I’m his next victim. She laughs, pretends fear.
Soon, “Our Airbnb?” She nods eagerly. Texts friends outside. Taxi zips through moonless Paris streets. Our suitcases wait packed in the luxe apartment—Oslo-bound bulk already shipped.
Dim lights, champagne pops, snacks vanish amid laughs.
I pull Manon to dance. My 1880s dress swirls against her tunic. Air crackles. Jemina watches from the couch, smirking. My hypnotic gaze locks hers. Defenses crumble.
Hand slides up her tunic, into panties. She grinds closer. I finger her wet. Jemina behind, strips wings, tunic. Panties drop.
Scoop her up, legs around me. Into prepped bedroom. Dump on bed, legs dangling. Spread thighs, devour her pussy. She mewls.
Jemina grabs strap-on from nightstand, straps it. “Ready?” Telepath.
The Transit
“Yes.” I pull back.
She teases, then thrusts deep. Manon squeals. Full hilt now. “Yes! So good! Oh God!”
I strip gown, corset, lube my strap-on over period lingerie. They’re kissing sloppy, Manon legs hooked, bucking wild.
“Interrupting?” I pout telepath.
“She’ll take double better post-orgasm.”
Jemina flips, Manon rides reverse cowgirl, slamming down. Perfect ass presented. Spread cheeks, pink anus winks. Press tip, push. “Aieeee!” Muffled by Jemina’s mouth. Deeper now, claiming her virgin hole.
She impales both ends, babbling ecstasy. Orgasms rip through her. Finally, screams, passes out blissed on Jemina.
We smile. Sponges, warm water clean her. Heart slows steady. Skin fever-hot, soft.
“Tasty pick?”
“Always.”
Grab wrists, fangs pierce ulnar arteries. Sip 350ml each—hive limit, no kill. Her blood thrums with pleasure highs. Time stretches, we merge as one.
Done. Lick blood from Jemina’s lips. Shower kiss under steaming water.
Check Manon—pulse good. Tuck sheet. Saliva heals bites. Vague dreams only.
Grab keycard—Airbnb mag-locked door beeps shut. Hallway echoes empty. Taxi northbound to boat for Norway. Six-month nights await, hopping towns to hide eternal youth.
Haussmann buildings blur past window. Snuggle Jemina. Her hand in mine. Eternity’s ours. Secrets? She’ll share when ready.