Author’s note:
Hello! I haven’t written in a while and certainly haven’t written erotica before. However, this story popped into my head one day and I figured I’d try my hand. Constructive criticism welcome, and please let me know if you’d like to read more! I am considering writing a part 2, and maybe more beyond that :)
Light CW for blood and stalking, I guess? But this part doesn’t get too spicy. If I continue there will be content warnings for non-con/dub-con, blood play, mind control, and probably more.
— S
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The train lurches through yet another turn. I watch the car ahead of mine, through the window of the connecting door, as it tumbles along. Its frame moves chaotically, and I am surprised that it remains attached to my car, and mine to the one behind, and so on.
Peering over my book, I stare at the man sitting across from me. We are each sitting on one of the smaller benches, toward the back of the train. The car is quiet, and the blue plastic of my seat is uncomfortable. I shift a bit, pulling a leg under me as I observe my fellow passenger. He is tall, gangly, lanky. His dark hair is shaved close at the sides and sweeps over his forehead at the top, and an ankh earring dangles from one lobe. He nods his head to whatever music is playing in his wired earbuds, his eyes on the floor, obviously lost in thought. I let my eyes wander, taking in the way his long legs seem incapable of rest, constantly in movement: a foot twitches, he uncrosses and re-crosses them, rubs the shin of one leg with the calf of the other. He’s dressed like any other city goth. Dark jeans, a nondescript black and white striped shirt stretched over a torso that is noticeably wider than it is deep, a black trench coat that seems a size or two too large for him. His nails are painted black, and smudged black liner rings his eyes. His face is short, yet angular.
He leans his head against the rail between his seat and the door, and I watch the muscles in his neck move under his skin, gliding smoothly, straining, stretching. I can see the skin of his throat pulse, ever so lightly, with the beat of his heart. I wet my lips.
Our train slows as it approaches the next stop, and he raises his head. I watch him gather himself, deftly patting pockets and assessing his surroundings with newfound alertness, making sure he doesn’t forget anything, leave anything of importance. I check my page before closing my book, mirroring his movements. Though my heart rate quickens, I force myself to move with the nonchalant grace of a late-night subway passenger finally arriving at her stop. My man stands, pulling himself up with the pole by his seat, and turns to face the car doors, his back to me. As the train stops, I stand as well. I pull my headphones from around my neck and slide them over my ears. As the train doors open, I tap at my phone, and Mozart’s Concerto No. 23 begins to play.
My man—no, my prey—steps out of the car and onto the platform. I pretend to still be absorbed in my phone, leaving a generous space between us as I follow him to the staircase in the middle of the platform. He begins to climb and I slide my phone into my pocket, readjust my grip on my book, and follow. He moves gracefully, in his way. Though his limbs seem a bit too long and his bones a bit too visible, he doesn’t stumble, doesn’t hesitate. There is no break in his stride as he reaches the top step and makes his way to the exit. He turns to his left just a moment before the turnstile, using the emergency door instead. I slip through as well, a few paces behind him, just brushing past the door on its way back to its frame.
He takes the second staircase two steps at a time. He doesn’t seem hurried; it simply looks more natural for his stature. I allow him to pull ahead of me a bit, keeping my pace casual, grazing my hand over the cold steel of the stair railing. I feel myself smile a bit when I emerge from the subway into the crisp city air. The autumn chill invigorates me, and my stomach churns with anticipation, a heat building between my legs. The tail of my prey’s trench coat catches my eye as it disappears around the next corner, and I keep myself from running to catch him. Instead, I stroll along, looking for all the world like just another girl walking home from the bar late on a weekday night.
As I trail my prey, the buildings around us seem to lean in with anticipation. Their frames curve and I find myself wondering if one might topple onto one of us, ending the chase before I can claim my prize. My vision darkens at the corners, and all I see is the back of his head, the way his hair bounces with each step. The atmosphere is almost claustrophobic, but it is also thrilling. I follow from about half a block back, unable to keep myself from speeding up just the tiniest bit every time he rounds a corner.
My prey seems oblivious to me. He does not look behind himself once. He walks with long, confident strides. I find myself wondering how men don’t die more often. They are taught to be so at ease with their surroundings, no matter what. They are not trained to be vigilant; they do not assume every passing pedestrian is a threat, and they think nothing of the stranger stealing glances at them from behind her book on the train. *Oh well*, I think, readjusting my glasses. *Their mistake*.
My train of thought is broken by the realization that my prey is gone. I stop for a moment, slide my headphones off and around my neck, curse myself for getting distracted by such a silly, cocky train of thought, and then there is a hand over my mouth and an arm snaking its way around my waist from behind and I am being pulled back into an alley before I can gather my thoughts enough to open my mouth and bite down, hard, on the hand that covers it.
“Shit.”
The voice is male, middle-range, quiet, intense, and right next to my ear. His breath tickles the small hairs on the side of my neck, and a shiver runs down my spine, settling low in my stomach. I am spun around, my face buried into a chest, and my back is slammed against a brick wall, pushing the air from my lungs. The hand finds its way back over my mouth.
“Try that again, see what happens.”
My body is compressed between a wall and another body, a head or more taller than me, one of his legs between mine, pushing roughly against my…
I whimper, just slightly.
“Cute sound, for a killer,” He says, and I can hear the smirk in his voice. He rubs his knee more intentionally against my groin, and a small moan escapes me before I can stop myself. He chuckles, then pulls away slightly so I can see his face, leaving his hand over my mouth and his legs intertwined with mine, his pelvis pressing against me in a way that both limits my movement and makes it very clear that he wasn’t lying about thinking my “sounds” were cute—I can tell he’s a bit hard.
My prey holds my gaze, seemingly unperturbed by what I am sure is a glare sharp enough to pierce bone. *Fuck*, I think, *Who the hell is this guy?*
He searches my eyes for a moment, clearly amused, although I think I catch a glint of apprehension, maybe even fear. *Good*, I think, and smile to myself beneath his palm.
“Why don’t we get a drink,” he asks, “and talk about why, exactly, you were following me?”
I consider this for a moment, my smile fading. *Is it possible he already knows why? And if so, why not kill me, be done with it?*
His actions are intriguing, and I’m a sucker for mystery and excitement. I’m nothing if not a thrill-seeker, and the way his leg is pressed against me is certainly giving me a rush of adrenaline, along with any number of other endorphins. I haven’t been this excited in a while. I take a deep breath, trying to clear my head, and his scent overwhelms me for a moment: musk, something floral, a hint of whisky, stale smoke, and the metallic scent of blood. I guess I broke the skin earlier. I resist the urge to lick his palm, lap at the blood welling against my lips, and I am sure my eyes go glassy for a moment until he lifts his palm slightly.
I lick my lips and practically purr at the taste of his blood.
“Sure,” I reply, and am caught off-guard by how breathless I sound. “Why not?”
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/v0v2si/predatorprey_part_1_blood_switch_primal_vampires