Ménage

ménage (n): Household. From the French ménager, “to manage.”

*

Tell you what... William. If you want her... come and take her.

*

Black. Hazy. Your head feels as if it’s under six feet of earth. Like when you crawled out of your grave. Only then, your limbs were strong enough to splinter wood and dig your way up into the night. Now, every finger is a paperweight, the kind that used to sit on your writing desk at home. Round and clumsy as the words that slouched off your pen.

There’s a faint sound of singing, coming from far away. Mother?

No, mother’s dead. Deader than you. You have a new mummy now, or so she tells you. But mummy never ran her fingers up underneath your shirt. Never made your stomach tingle, even through the buzz in your brain. Never unbuttoned your pants, never touched you there. Never tried to, until the last. And you wonder: is this what’s been wrong with you all this time? Is this what families are meant to do?

Wet, now. Slippery and sucking and it makes you gasp. Makes you wriggle and moan. One paperweight hand grapples with the sheet, while the other searches for her hair. Rests there, in her silky curls, and her name tumbles gratefully off your tongue, thick and muddled.

“Dru…”

Then you hear the laughter. Not her insane giggle, full of birds and merry-go-rounds. This is hard and familiar, like the older boys at school. Like the party-goers. Like your mother, right before you staked her.

“Look like your boy’s coming ’round, Dru.”

You recognize the voice. Remember how he had stood there, holding her, taunting you. Challenging you to come and take her. So you’d charged. There was a blur, then an intense pain in your head. An hour ago? A day? You can’t remember.

Opening your eyes takes all your concentration. When you finally pry the lids apart, you see Angelus on the bed with you, kneeling behind her, slamming into her.

You try to push yourself up but your head is still full of earth and her mouth feels so. fucking. good. Her hands are on your balls, fingers like butterfly wings. Her hair tumbles over the muscles in your stomach, and you never knew how sensitive you were there. Because you died a virgin and now you’ve come back to life in a bordello, where the woman you love is a whore and the man behind her is her master and you only get to use her at his pleasure.

The thought makes your cock impossibly hard.

Angelus’s eyes are on you. He has that look, the one he had when he grabbed your hand and held it in the sunlight. Part invitation, part dare. And something dark and primal shoots through you.

You cry out and grip her head and arch up into her mouth without warning. Your eyes remain locked on his.

*

William, don't play such a sad tune. Give us a kiss, then.

*

My boy tastes like mulberries.

Daddy is very pleased. I can tell by the way he hurts me. Faster and faster, harder and deeper and pop! goes the weasel.

“Dru. Stop that giggling.”

“I can’t help it. Nursery rhymes are always so funny.”

Now Daddy’s cross, and he’s hurting me differently. Like he hurt the lady in the white dress, all crumpled up in the corner. I don’t like the way she stares at us.

Angelus grabs my hair and pulls my arm ’round my back, all squiggly and snaky. William sits up. He doesn’t like this game.

“Stop it! You brute. Come here, Drusilla.” William pulls me away from Angelus, ever so gentle-like, and nestles me against his shoulder. Daddy smiles and lets go of me. He wants to watch how William plays.

My boy’s lips are soft, like a baby’s neck. His hands feel the way my mummy’s did, when she brushed my hair.

She used to sing to me while she brushed.

Then my Angel came and took mummy away. And all my sisters. No one left to sing to.

Angelus used to play with me. But I can tell he’s got bored. I used to fight and scream, the way he liked. But then I forgot. I’m all broken, see. Like the lady in the corner.

Pssst.

My William won’t break. Daddy will have ever so much fun trying.

“My sweet Willie.”

“It’s all right, darling. I’ve got you.”

Daddy’s laughing.

The monkey chased the weasel.

Such a funny song.

*

Don't mistake me, I do love the ladies. It's just lately... I've been wondering...

*

Angelus pulls away from Drusilla and falls back against the pillows, watching her and William kiss and caress each other. So foolish, the two of them. Still, the boy is… intriguing. He’d put up a good fight, for one so new. Perhaps “good” isn’t the right word for it – William hadn’t the vaguest notion of how to throw a punch. But impassioned. Stubborn. Angelus had to hit him in the head three times before he’d stayed down.

His eyes drift over to the bride he dragged home from the wedding. William was impressive there, too. When it came to the bite, he was a natural. Sank his teeth in and sucked like he was born to it. And eager to learn.

He watches as Drusilla gently pushes William onto his back. She peels away the last of his clothing, kissing and stroking his body as she goes. William eyes close, and for a moment he looks as if he’s lost consciousness again. Perhaps the fuck was too much for him, so soon after the fight. Angelus doubts the boy had much experience with either when he was alive. Or perhaps William’s trying to blot out the knowledge that Angelus is still there, watching him with his lady love.

Angelus takes one of Dru’s hands and places it on his own cock, then leans into to William’s ear.

“So, William. How did it feel, having to share your destiny?”

Drusilla giggles. William turns his face and opens his eyes. Angelus notes, fleetingly, that they’re even bluer than Darla’s.

William’s jaw tightens and he tries to raise his fist, but Drusilla catches one wrist and Angelus the other.

“Now, now, my sweet,” she croons. “You must be a good boy for mummy.”

“Dru…”

“Shhhh.” She licks the side of his face. “You must learn to play nicely. My boys will share all their toys one day.” She frowns. “But not with me.”

“I’ll share everything with you, darling. Everything I have is yours.”

The earnestness in his voice makes Angelus laugh out loud. Drusilla just coos, that hypnotic sound she makes to children before she eats them. Her mouth moves along William’s neck and his eyes close again. She slides down his body, nestling between his legs.

The boy is a bit thin, but well proportioned. A bit more fighting, a bit more training, and he might even be worth sketching. Angelus watches his stomach muscles quiver as Drusilla caresses them. He imagines how they might jump under a knife, and feels his cock getting harder.

Dru lifts William’s legs, probing him with tongue and fingers. William’s eyes fly open and he gasps. Angelus has never seen such complete abandon in a Victorian. The boy is all skin and nerve endings and ragged breath. He watches William’s cock leap against his belly and wonders: what did Drusilla taste there?

He’s never had the urge to suck anyone’s dick before. He’ll have to beat the boy for it later.

He'd been telling the truth, when he grabbed William's hand and held it in the sun. A hundred and thirty years, and he’s done everything. Every crime. Every perversion. Every abomination in the sight of God and man.

Except one.

He’s thought about it, of course. Had plenty of chances. With victims. With Penn. But Penn had idolized him and it would have been too easy. Too much like affection. And humans would never survive the full power of his imagination. Couldn’t fight, couldn’t stay conscious, could never be so… responsive.

Drusilla raises her head, her lips wet and grinning. She runs a sharp fingernail between William’s balls. Angelus delights in the way his back arches. The way his lips form a wide, round “O” as he cries out in pain. The boy is a marvel.

Dru holds the bloody finger to her daddy’s mouth. “Here, my Angel. Have a taste, then.”

When the blood hits the back of his tongue, he knows.

This will be a challenge.

*

Touch me again –

*

It’s too much. You’ve never been this exposed. Not even when they laughed at your poems. You’re on your back. With your legs splayed. With this woman licking you and this man’s eyes on you and it’s too much pleasure, too much humiliation, too much… you.

You watch Angelus as he licks the blood… your blood… from her finger. His tongue flicks out of his mouth for an instant. Then he lowers his head to yours and it’s in your mouth. His tongue is in your mouth.

“No!” And you twist your head away, panting and pushing and your cock should not be this hard. Because you’re not his, you’re hers and she’s yours and it’s not supposed to be this way.

Angelus laughs and moves down the bed. Drusilla, your sweet Drusilla, is lying across your chest with her voice in your ear.

“Do you love me, William?”

“Yes,” you pant. Of course you do. But not him. And certainly not like this.

You can feel Angelus’s hands on your legs, spreading you again. You wince and keep your eyes fixed on her face.

“We’re going to be a family,” she smiles. And you want to believe it, that she loves you and wants to keep you – know you would do anything for her to keep you – but this isn’t like any family you’ve ever known.

And then there’s something, huge and hurting and it’s stretching you open, the way her fingers did but bigger and tighter and you’re *howling* with the pain.

“Shhhshhhsh.” She lifts off your chest and moves away. You can see him now, thrusting between your legs as if you’re a woman. Can’t avoid seeing him because his face is right in front of you. The expression on it makes you gasp.

His eyes are black as a chimney sweep’s fingers. His lips are parted. His hair is a long, tangled mass around his face. The muscles in his jaw are tight. He’s moving too slowly, almost still, and you know it’s not because he’s worried about hurting you. He’s panting. It’s the first time you’ve noticed him breathing since you met him.

He looks as if he’s fighting for control. It makes you hard all over again.

Dru’s hands caress your arms, play over your chest. Dance down between you and him until her fingertips rest lightly on your prick. Then Angelus starts to move and –

“Oh. God!”

What was that? That – thing that made your whole body contract like heartbeat?

Angelus grins and thrusts again. “No god in here, William.” His face moves closer until he’s all you can see. “Only me.”

And you want to smack the git, crack his head open and scoop out his brains. But your own brain seems to have left your body and you’re suddenly nothing but cock.

“Bloody bastard,” is all you can manage. He just laughs again.

Dru’s fingers are still working over the head of your prick, but it’s too light, too soft.

“Do you want Angelus to touch you, William?” she sing-songs.

No, no, no, you can’t do this. You’ve already sunk too low. You can’t be expected to beg.

You thrash and growl and try to throw him off. You feel the cock inside you get harder.

Angelus pins you with his body and his eyes. “Answer the question, William.” His voice is dark and thick. It sends a thrill through your belly.

“Do you want me to touch you?”

And you lay there, panting and hard and still.

“Yes,” you moan as your pride slinks away. “God, yes.”

Angelus grins like a prisoner who’s just killed the warden and escaped with his purse. He wraps one huge hand around your dick and strokes, and so help you if it isn’t the best fucking thing you’ve ever felt. His thumb slides up and down and over the head and you can feel it building, you’ll fucking kill the bastard if he stops now, it’s so good, his hand on your cock and his cock up your arse and that pulsing throbbing feeling inside and out so good his hand his cock oh god “Oh fuck!” and the world goes white.

You hear Drusilla’s smile. “I knew you’d like him.” You’re not sure which one of you she’s talking to.

But you don’t like him. You fucking hate the bastard for making you enjoy this, for making you want this. But then the world fades back into view and you see.

You see the moment when he gasps and curses, when his breath hitches and his shoulders pitch forward. You feel his body shudder above you. And you know.

You’re not the only one who wants.

And you understand what kind of family you’ve blundered into. You can whore yourself so she’ll love you, and you can play whatever sick games his deviant mind can devise, but you won’t do it quietly because they don’t want you to. They want you to fight and kick and scream and hate and you do hate, hate this, hate yourself for wanting it, and now they’ve made you crazy too because you’re talking to yourself like you’re somebody else and maybe you are, maybe you should be.

“There, now,” she sighs against your lips. Her hands are running through his hair. “My sweet boys.”

And you’ll stay, because you need a family, need to belong. Somewhere. But you’re not theirs. No more mothers, no more daddy. No more God. From now on, you’re your own maker.

“You know, you really should find a new name for yourself. It just doesn't strike the right note of terror.”

After all, it’s your destiny.

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