Charcuterie

A man and his vampire husband spend an intimate, indulgent evening together.

Content warnings: sexual content, blood, biting, wounds, blood play, knife play, references to cannibalism

Note: This is an excerpt from a longer work.

As always, the house is silent when I arrive home from work.

I drop my messenger bag in the foyer, toeing off soft loafers into the bottom shelf of the shoe rack. Then it’s straight to the kitchen, rolling up my sleeves as I open the freezer. Vacuum-sealed portions of meat line the icy belly, dates sharpied in my husband Caleb’s neat, boxy script. I select the oldest and move it to the fridge to thaw in time for tomorrow’s dinner.

Concealed by a corner cabinet is another fridge, this one locked. I turn the combination dial and pull the latch free, a wisp of vapor spilling out. Stacked inside are vials of dark, glossy liquid, dated with the same meticulousness as the frozen meat. I retrieve two vials between my knuckles, pouring both into a clean mug to carry upstairs.

The lights in our bedroom are off, blackout curtains drawn, the silence heavy like a sensory deprivation chamber. Muscle memory leads me across thick carpet, until my knees nudge the side of our bed. I set the mug on the nightstand, fingers skirting the duvet until I find the lump of his body.

“Darling,” I murmur, squeezing what I think is his shoulder. “You’ll be late for work.”

Caleb stirs, mumbling something about not needing a job anyway, even though that’s entirely untrue. We’re comfortable, sure, but his night shift at the hospital provides more than just a second income.

“I brought your breakfast,” I say, reaching for the bedside lamp to pull the cord.

He catches my wrist, a blur in the dark, his luminant eyes settling on my face.

“I put some meat in the fridge to thaw,” I say gently, like his nails aren’t digging into my pulse; the promise of pain makes my head swim and my cunt clench. “Flank, I think.”

Caleb says nothing, dragging my hand to his parted lips. The scrape of his sharpest teeth sends a flutter through my lower belly, betrayed by my stern tone when I add, “That isn’t what I meant by breakfast.”

“But you’re warm,” he rasps, followed by his hot tongue snaking along my palm. “I like it warm.”

I wriggle my hand free to cup his cheek, then peck his mouth. “You’ll be late,” I say again.

Though Caleb is much smaller than me, his strength easily overpowers mine. He tugs me forward by my wrist, pinning me against him. He squeezes the back of my neck like a scruffed puppy, manhandling my body to lie on top of his. “They’re not going to fire me,” he says, his voice thick with sleep. “You worry too much.”

As much as I want to argue, he’s not wrong. My anxiety has no shortage of fuel. “You shouldn’t let your breakfast go to waste,” I say, and it’s generous that he allows me to finish my chiding before his teeth sink into my throat. “Fuck,” I hiss, instinctively bucking even though the stinging pain pours into me like a drug. “Caleb — ”

His only response is to dig his nails into my neck, lapping at the wound created by his bite. I relax despite wanting him to get up and shower, groaning as he licks the wound closed.

“Much better,” he whispers, tipping his head back as he pulls my mouth to his, copper dancing between our tongues. I’ve asked him if blood tastes different from a human biting their lip or sucking on a papercut, and his comparisons are interesting, to say the least — from syrup to wine to honey, he says it varies based on whoever he’s feeding from. He won’t tell me what I taste like, only that I’m his favorite.

I rub at the sore, puckered puncture marks as he stretches, his arms circling my shoulders. “You want to play this weekend?”

I inhale, let it out. It’s been almost a month. “I’m feeling alright, yeah.”

“No more dizziness?”

“No.”

“Nausea?”

I hum. “I’m fine, doctor.”

Caleb reaches up to stroke my cheek, looking pensive. “I took a lot from you last time.”

I want to tease him — now who’s worrying too much? — but he’s right. I’d called out sick for three days and hadn’t left the bed except to piss and bathe. But Caleb had more than made up for it, and admittedly I like it when he fusses — bringing me meals in bed, switching out cool rags across my forehead; turning off all the lights, setting up the sound machine, and curling around me beneath the sheets; drawing a steaming bath and damn near carrying me to the bathroom to scrub the bed grime and sweat from my body; eating me out, slow and unhurried, warming my cock until I unravel, too tired for my moans to catch sound.

“This weekend sounds perfect,” I say, sidestepping the urge to further placate his concerns.

Nonetheless, my answer satisfies him. “Do you have any requests?” he asks, thumbing the curve of my jaw.

“I trust your judgment.” I dip my head, kiss him again, and regretfully pull away. “Come on. You’ll be late.”

Maybe he’s right that they won’t fire him, but he doesn’t need any unwanted attention, either. Caleb sighs, hums in acquiescence, and makes a show of stretching before he clambers from bed. He takes the mug, sniffs it, and casts an appreciative glance over his shoulder. “I do appreciate this, you know.”

I return downstairs while Caleb showers. He gives me one last kiss before he leaves, and afterwards, I putter around the house like a widow in mourning. It’s difficult sometimes, having opposing schedules, barely seeing one another during the week. I’d never considered myself an especially affectionate person, but I miss our downtime, the domestic physical intimacy that comes with being around another person almost constantly. Granted, Caleb would still be asleep most of the day if he wasn’t working, but it’s different knowing he’s here and not elsewhere.

I run a load of clothes through the washer. I flip through the mail on the kitchen table, plucking out the bills and tossing the junk. I empty the dishwasher, then load the handful of bowls and mugs from the sink, hissing as something sharp nicks me on the side of my palm. Eyeing the knife I hadn’t noticed before, I lift my hand to inspect the shallow cut, a single bead of blood welling up before the wound zips shut.

I had long accepted there were unexplainable things in the universe before crossing paths with a vampire. I’d been incredibly drunk at the time, and so blown away by Caleb’s kindness of helping me into a rideshare and ensuring I got home safe, that I’d invited him up to my apartment.

His kindness hadn’t been entirely selfless; he’d of course been looking for someone to feed on. But what surprised me more than being shoved against the wall as soon as I locked my front door, and the fangs sinking into my neck two seconds later, was how much I’d loved it.

The pain, the loss of control, the strength he was no doubt holding back. How much I wanted him to hurt me; to make me bleed from more places than just my throat.

I found my own shock mirrored in his face, the mark he’d left closing up as soon as he pulled his fangs out. Suppose he was probably used to his victims collapsing, or being so out of their minds off his venom they barely noticed him leave.

But I’d grabbed him around the waist, kissed my blood from his mouth, and told him to do it again.

***

That weekend, Caleb cooks.

I watch as he slices flank steak to be marinated in garlic and lime, carves onions into delicate strings, and juliennes carrots for salad. An open bottle of red wine sits next to the stovetop, my glass near empty. It’s nice to have a little buzz by the time we get around to playing. Caleb says it makes my blood taste sweeter, like I’m treating him to an indulgent dessert.

He teases me throughout meal preparation — a quick brush of his fingers along the small of my back; a light scratch of fingernails across my nape; a chaste kiss that I try to chase before he slinks to the other side of the kitchen. By the time he asks me to set the table, I’m worked up, barely thinking about food despite the ravenous grinding in my stomach.

He keeps our dinner conversation light, but his eyes don’t leave me, watching me lift each bite to my lips. I can tell we’re equally excited, and it almost makes me want to eat faster, or forgo the rest of my dinner altogether.

But I need the sustenance. The wine is good, light intoxication soaking my veins. Once I’m finished, Caleb rises to clear our plates, but I follow him into the kitchen with my protests ready.

He lays the dishes in the sink before turning to me, circling his arms around my waist. “Go clean yourself up for me,” he says, fingers skirting my ass. “I’ll tidy the kitchen.”

“But you cooked.”

“And I don’t want to waste any more time bickering over dish duty.” He squeezes my ass before spanking me, hard and quick. “Go.”

I leave the kitchen with a lazy smile on my face. In the shower, I take my time soaping up, diligently cleaning cracks and crevices like I’m preparing for a ritual. By the time I’ve finished and walk into the bedroom, I find our bed and the surrounding floor covered in a clear tarp.

Caleb still wears his clothes from earlier — slick black button up, black trousers — but he’s taken his socks off, bare feet nearly swallowed by our bedroom’s thick pile carpet. His footsteps crackle as he crosses a corner of the tarp, meeting me halfway to the bed.

“All clean?” he asks, mouth dipping close to mine as he kisses me and hums. “You even brushed your teeth.”

I blush at his teasing, reveling in the way the anticipation softens him up. “I never know what you’re going to do,” I say, breathless after he kisses me again. “I like to be prepared.”

“And I love you for it,” Caleb murmurs, kissing down my neck as he gently untucks the towel around my waist. “Do you want to come before we get started?”

I shiver as his fingers brush my cock, but I shake my head. Tempting as it is, I want to earn it.

“Later, then?” Caleb asks, his words hot against my throat. “After I’ve had my fun with you?”

“Please,” I whisper, knowing it’s what he wants, too. Knowing what I’m willing to give him.

But he doesn’t draw his hand back, stroking his knuckles over my cock as he inhales my scent. “I can’t seem to keep my hands off you, though. Not when you smell so good.” I don’t know if he means that fresh, post-shower scent, or if he can already taste the blood thundering through my veins, but eventually he pulls away, patting my hip. “On the bed, sweetheart. Give me your back.”

Each rustled movement across the tarp is deafening; a bit dehumanizing, too, but necessary. I get comfortable on my stomach, shifting into place with my arms folded under my cheek. I watch Caleb flit around the room, removing a medical bag from the floor of our closet, gently nudging aside the empty mug from that morning’s breakfast before placing the bag on the nightstand.

“I decided I won’t take anything from you tonight,” he says, unzipping the bag. He slips his slender hands into black latex gloves, flexing his fingers as he shoots me a glance. “I think I just want to see you squirm a bit.”

He pulls out a wooden case and drops the bag to the floor. Inside are five scalpels with engraved handles, which Caleb has taken meticulous care of over the years. Sharpening, sanitizing, replacing the blades. He doesn’t always use them, sometimes preferring the disposables he steals from the hospital. If he’s using the good ones, he wants precision. Even if he’s not removing anything, he wants me to feel it for days.

Shuddering, I face forward as he climbs onto the bed, straddling his thighs on either side of my bare ass. He dips a finger down the crease of my spine, notching his thumbs into my back muscles like he intends to work the knots out.

The first cut traces my right shoulder blade. A hiss seeps out of me as blood foams to the surface. I hear Caleb’s shudder in his exhale; then I gasp, breath punched from my lungs as his thumb presses into the incision.

“Fuck.”

“Oh, has it been too long?” he asks, and I can imagine the way his lips purse into a mock pout. “I’m going easy on you, sweetheart.”

I breathe through the initial sizzle of pain, my skin already trying to thread itself back together. The next slow slice hits lower, right over a rib. I suck in my breath until the metal leaves my skin, then push it out.

“Mm, there we go.”

He continues down the same side of my back. Sometimes the gash is shallow and quick; other times it feels like he’s dragging the blade along the curve of rib bone. I grow dizzy as my body hurries to heal behind him, but it’s not fast enough to seal each wound before his next strike.

He suddenly shifts his balance before a warm tongue slithers over one incision. He moans softly against my skin, savoring the seeping wound with soft kisses and slow laps of his tongue. Then he sits up, and carves into my left side without hesitation.

I buck against the mattress, digging my fingernails into my arms, grunting as a slippery ache pillows my hardening cock.

“Needy boy,” Caleb says, after another strike of his thin blade. “I can smell it on you.”

He mirrors the right side of my back on the left, like he’s giving me gills. Rewriting intelligent design; playing God. Some of the incisions have already begun to close up, but Caleb just wants to see me bleed. Drain me close to dry. Watch how easily I become a desperate, writhing creature under his knife.

Would it still hurt as much without my gift, I wonder — would I still crave it? Is it the pain I want, or is it the fact that Caleb is the reason behind it? Taking more from me than anyone else could give, only for it to grow back, renewed and ripened. An endless, bloody assembly line of pain and pleasure.

The scalpel clatters on the nightstand. I hear his starched shirt rustle, buttons being undone, the bed trembling as he shrugs out of his shirt. He lurches forward, covering the wounds down my back with his smooth chest. A groan pours into my ear, as if my fresh, sticky blood against his skin translates to pure ecstasy.

“Fuck, I need you,” he hisses, wrenching my head back by my hair. His fangs needle against my throat, his cock straining against his zipper. With desperation permeating our bedroom, he doesn’t wait for verbalized permission; he knows I want it as much as he does.

I hear the rasp of his zipper before he spreads my legs, making room for himself in the empty space between. He tugs the gloves off before throwing them aside. Then he pinches the freshest wound between thumb and index, sending hot lightning up my back, drawing a scream that I try to muffle.

I picture blood spilling over his naked fingers before he wraps them around his cock. When he spreads me apart, I imagine his red fingerprints etched into my skin.

“I’m going to take your cunt tonight,” Caleb says, kneading my ass before he slaps one side. “Fuck you until you’re screaming.”

I nod mindlessly, my breath puffing across my folded arms. This is what he wants from me, too — still, silent obedience, aside from the sounds he delights in pulling from me.

“Good boy,” he says, teasing along my wet slit with the tip of his cock. “You wouldn’t deny me a thing, would you?”

God, he’s right. He knows how to use me. Knows how to make me ache and strain and beg for more, making it look absolutely effortless.

He hooks his fingers beneath my hips and drags me up to my knees, startling the healing process and splitting newly formed skin. He plunges inside until his hips rock against my ass, splitting me open in another way.

I arch as if I mean to escape him, though I wouldn’t. I howl as if I’m calling for help, but I don’t want it. Caleb doesn’t falter, viciously slamming into me and trapping me against the mattress, tearing his inflicted wounds open again, to the point I hardly register him bending over me and sinking his fangs into my shoulder.

“So good,” he croons, lapping at the puncture wounds left by his teeth. “You always feel so fucking good.”

His nails thicken into claws before plunging into the meat of my hips, more blood pooling on the tarp beneath. Without it, we’d ruin the sheets, the mattress, the carpet — everything desecrated by our hedonism.

“Yanis,” he says, my name warbled like a hymn. “Fuck, oh fuck, Yanis.”

He buries his cum inside me, cock pulsing against my tight insides. I spasm around him, not quite an orgasm, but the ache of longing. I want to come, but only if he wills it.

And he will. Eventually. When he’s ready.

He pulls out of me, hot breath ghosting the bite on my shoulder. He kisses down my spine — sweet, almost saccharine — until his lips drift over the knob of bone above my cleft. Teeth graze over supple flesh; a promise, a warning.

All I can do is shiver, and wait.

“Look at you,” he breathes, teasing his thumb around my swollen, fucked out hole. “Ripe and open.” The tarp crackles as he lifts up on his knees, and without looking I know he’s reaching for the scalpel again. I try to relax. I like the pain, but it hurts worse when I tense.

But all that comes is a light pat against my flank and a quiet command: “Turn over.”

Stiff plastic rubbing against my flayed back isn’t the sort of pain I want — too itchy — so I roll over carefully, locking my shoulders and bracing my upper half against my bent elbows. My knees part askew around Caleb’s, one leg swaying to the side, the other upright.

Caleb looms over me like a disheveled god — cheeks and forehead and bare chest sticky with sweat and blood, his slacks clinging to his hips, cock already tucked away. He guards the scalpel’s edge inside his palm, eyes flitting up and down my spread body. “My darling,” he says, licking his lips as his gaze lands on my presented cunt. “What a feast you’ve brought me.”

I’ve never quite figured out how his words cut deeper than a freshly sharpened blade. What little blood I still possess rises to my skin, sending a red shadow down my stomach to meet the edge of his scalpel. Caleb’s only warning is the coy curve of his blood-stained lips before he slashes the blade across my lower belly.

I gasp. Plastic crackles as my toes curl. My skin splits around a thick, crimson gush. He covers my navel with his palm, splaying his fingers. Pressure blooms into a sharp ache, the skin around the gash pulling taut. More blood spills down, down, down between my legs, desecration and anointment all at once.

“Caleb,” I whine, every searing sliver of pain channeling straight to my throbbing cock, as if one deft stroke will have me coming instantly on his fingers. I roll my tongue over my dry lips. “Please.”

He hums softly, his eyes raking up and down the fresh, untouched canvas of my torso. He must be near drunk from how much he’s consumed; his deep, rumbling laugh confirms it. “You want something, sweetheart?”

“Touch me,” I rasp.

Caleb raises his hand from my belly, swiping his thumb through the mess he’s released. Red stains his lips as he sucks, laps. His eyes lock with mine. “I’m going to do much more than that, my dear.”

He lowers that same hand to my blood-drenched cunt, raking the tips of his fingers along slickened labia. My upturned leg falls flat, and even though I know better than to stake any control, my hips tilt into his touch. He hums again, two fingers delving deeper between my folds, mixing thick blood with slick.

He sucks his fingers into his mouth. “Oh,” he murmurs, the sound rumbling in his throat like a purr. “You want it bad, don’t you?”

I groan as he continues tracing my cunt, marking and claiming me with my own blood and turning me into more of a mess. His hand drifts lower, slick fingers rubbing my asshole. Then he stops. Draws his hand away. Leaves me there to suffer while he plans his next move.

“Please,” I pray, watching him unsheath the scalpel from his palm, licking it clean. “Caleb — ” Then, I panic, but not out of fear; I realize I don’t want the knife anymore. Instead I want him to sink his teeth into me, because those fangs tearing into the inside of my thigh hurts like a bitch as much as it makes my cunt weep.

“I want — ” I gasp out, furiously shaking my head. “Bite me. Please.”

He hisses what sounds like yes. After the ornate handle clatters to the nightstand, Caleb slams both palms against my legs, holding me down as he lowers himself, bared fangs sinking into my left thigh.

My torso bucks as I cry out, muffling a scream against clenched lips, sounding far more wounded than I feel. Surely he’s drained me near empty; surely I have nothing left to give him.

He doesn’t suck, doesn’t feed, and no sooner than his fangs retract, his tongue slides between the crevice of thigh and labia, one side, then the other. Dutifully cleaning up his mess at the expense of my pleasure. He moans into my cunt, hungry and wet, suckling flesh as if stripping meat from a bone.

I succumb easily when he’s like this, especially after an evening of prolonged teasing. I come in his mouth with shaky, heaving moans, softly uttering, “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” under my breath.

He kisses my legs as I come down. Drags his tongue over the bite mark on my thigh, nuzzling into the one he sliced across my belly. That was an interesting choice, one I imagine he’ll try again.

He shifts on the bed, pushing his slacks off and over the side of the bed. Then he rises to his knees, loom over me with blood smeared down his chin and throat, his cock hard and twitching between his thighs.

“Come here, darling.”

I shudder, immediately crawling to him, the pounding in my ears almost drowning out the tarp’s crackle. The wound across my stomach stretches, just the right side of uncomfortable — enough to remind me, but not to re-open and bleed. Braced on my hands and knees, I swallow the tip of his cock, cleaning the heady mixture of cum and dried blood from his skin. I keep my eyes locked with his, knowing he likes me to watch him as he defiles me.

For a moment I think he’ll just let me suck him off at my own pace, but soon he sinks his fingers into my hair, his sharpened nails raking across my scalp as he tugs me down his cock. I swallow a breath, making room in my throat as he fills my mouth.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmurs, lazily rolling his hips. “You always make such a pretty mess for me.”

I sputter around him as he uses my throat, my cunt clenching each time he cuts off my air. Now that he’s made me bleed, he wants to see me cry, and I’m so lost in the haze of euphoria it’s the least I would do for him. The tears come easily, blurring my vision, stinging the inner corners of my eyes.

“My god, look at you,” Caleb breathes, his eyes trailing over my shoulder to admire the angry red marks down my back. They’ll turn pink over the weekend, but my healing will keep them from scarring. I don’t mind Caleb marking me over and over, but sometimes I wish they’d stay a little longer so I can carry our secret with me.

He fucks my face until his composure slips. He spills a bit into my mouth, then pulls out to jerk himself and paint my lips and chin, his breath coming in short, rattling gasps. “Fuck, I love seeing you like this,” he mutters, swiping his thumb through the mess and shoving it in my mouth. “Filthy thing.”

I nod, sucking his thumb with the same attention I’d shown his cock. Filthy, yeah. Depraved, absolutely. So hopelessly enamored I’m a love-sick fool.

“Terrible that you have to wash up again,” he muses, tugging his thumb free to pet my hair. “But at least you’ll have company.”

I shiver at both the contact and the implication. He’ll no doubt run the water hot. Maybe force me to stand beneath it while the spray scalds my back. Maybe he’ll fuck me again, have me moaning and writhing helplessly against the tile.

Because after, he’ll tuck me into bed. Bring me hot tea, rub my shoulders, and kiss me breathless. And I’ll whisper that I love him until I fall asleep.

Magnus Thorne writes dark queer erotica. He currently skulks around twitter, instantgramps, and has a carrd full of his works.