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Red Wings - FREE Fiction

The girl knocked back a shot of tequila, burped loudly and slammed the shot glass down on the scarred oak bar top. She was a standard-issue biker chick—dirty blonde hair, scuffed leather boots, tight jeans, cropped tank top with no bra, hard eyes. What my college roommate would have described as rode hard and put away wet.

She hopped up on the bar, legs parted and feet dangling, facing the crowd. She slid the straps of her top off her shoulders and pushed it down to her waist, exposing her breasts. Both nipples were encircled by spiked silver rings. A thin chain connected the rings. The girl stroked her breasts lightly with her fingertips as the crowd around her fell silent. With a long sigh she cupped her flesh and rolled the nipples between thumb and forefinger. Her eyes were closed and a sly smile played at the corners of her mouth.

As the audience watched, her nipples began to grow and harden. The spiked rings bit into flesh. Droplets of blood welled up around the spike tips. The girl moved to the rings themselves, squeezing and rotating, and her fingers were soon slick with blood. Finally, I thought, things are getting interesting.

I slouched down in my seat and tried to hide behind my fishbowl of draft beer. I'm a columnist for a local alternative rag called City Streets. Alternative in this case means they don't pay their writers much, but I can write about whatever I want. The word on the street was, "There's some weird shit going down at The Red Door Tavern." I was here to check it out.

I had taken an out-of-the-way corner table with a good view of the interior of The Red Door: Low plaster ceiling with a of pattern that decades of smoke had eaten away; sticky linoleum floor with no discernible pattern, laid down directly on a cement slab; mismatched tables and chairs; and an ornate but decaying oak bar that looked like it had begun life in a V.F.W. Hall. Not one of your trendier spots. Set into the back wall was a red door with the words PRIVATE—STAY THE FUCK OUT scrawled in Sharpie.

The Red Door was home turf for a ragtag group of Hell's Angels wannabes called the Lone Wolves. They seemed to number a couple dozen, depending on who was in or out of jail, with maybe a third of them women. An assortment of dealers, junkies, hookers and thieves also called The Red Door home, but the Wolves controlled all the action, and dealt harshly with anyone who pissed them off.

This was my third time here in as many nights, and I had seen enough to know that crossing the Wolves was not a good idea. The night before a bunch of frat boys, boisterously drunk and thinking themselves cool for even knowing The Red Door existed, had come to call. The Lone Wolves in attendance that night seemed to find them amusing at first, like a litter of puppies rolling around on the floor. Things turned ugly, however, when one of the boys spilled an entire beer in the lap of a particularly ornery Wolf that went by the charming name of Dogfucker. While fellow club members restrained the misbehaving boy's friends, two other Wolves held him down on his back on the floor, with his feet up on a chair. Dogfucker climbed shakily on top of a table, leaped up into the air and came down with his heavy boots on the kid's knees. There was a snapping sound and both legs bent the wrong way. Even after they tossed the frat boys out, I could still hear the kid screaming. Myself, I just tried to stay invisible.

Still, aside from several assaults, a lot of casual dope dealings and one very public blowjob, I had not seen anything that even remotely qualified as "weird shit." Until now, that is.

The biker chick opened her eyes and giggled. Her torso and forearms were now splashed with blood. It puddled on the bar between her legs. Taking hold of one of the rings with both hands, she released some sort of catch and removed it. She did the same with the other, then handed them, and the chain that joined them, to the bartender, who gingerly licked them clean before dropping them into a shot glass. This was getting better by the minute. I was already composing my lead graph in my head.

The fact that she had removed the rings seemed to be some sort of signal to the Lone Wolves in attendance. They got themselves into a sloppy approximation of a single file line in front of her. The girl reached for the first Wolf in line, grabbed him playfully by the hair and pulled him to her breast. He was quickly joined by the second, and they both began to suckle noisily. She laughed and stroked their heads as they greedily drank blood from her swollen nipples. After a minute or so she gently pulled their heads away. The two men seemed lightheaded, and actually staggered as they made their way to the nearest table and collapsed into chairs. Even from where I sat I could see that their pupils were dilated. What the hell was going on?

The Lone Wolves, male and female alike, took their turns. Each stumbled away and sat down with a dreamy smile and unfocused eyes, their lips stained red. The girl, if I am any judge at all, was experiencing one orgasm after another, like waves crashing on a beach.

At this point I had a serious lapse in judgment. Not wanting to miss anything I quietly inched my way closer, riveted by the ceremony I was witnessing. I wanted to get this down on paper while it was fresh. I pulled a notepad from my back pocket and wrote furiously. Big mistake. Sitting in my corner seat, I was easy to ignore. Crouched near the scene scribbling away, I was a sitting duck for the Lone Wolf who had slipped out of the back room without my noticing.

A big hand gripped my shoulder and spun me around, face to face with Sonny—the de facto leader of the Lone Wolves. Sonny was huge, thickly muscled, his face chiseled and improbably handsome, his long hair tied back in a careless ponytail. He was wearing a black leather jacket with the Lone Wolves’ colors and a lot of road miles on it, and a t-shirt that read "Liquor In The Front, Poker In The Rear." He was smiling, which I knew from the past few days was not a good thing. Sonny only smiled when he was about to kick some serious ass. He grabbed me by two fistfuls of shirt and pulled me close. With his face inches from mine, still smiling broadly, he said, "Whatcha writing, dickhead?"

Various scenarios tumbled through my mind, none of them very believable, but what came out of my mouth, much to my surprise, was the truth. Sonny didn't say a word. His face took on an almost thoughtful look, which I decided to interpret as a good thing. At least he wasn't smiling anymore. He draped one massive arm around my shoulders and escorted me through the crowd.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he announced to the bar at large. "Our young friend here is a reporter, and he wants to write a story about us." I heard a slurred "fuck him" from somewhere, but that was the only reaction from the blissed out Lone Wolves.

We stopped moving when we were directly in front of the girl, Sonny still holding me tightly. He was smiling again. He reached down and gently lifted one blood-covered breast to his mouth and sucked deeply. Then Sonny kissed her on the forehead and said, "Sherry, what do you say we give reporter-boy here something to write about." She nodded and licked her lips, and all of a sudden I was scared shitless.

The girl reached out and took my head in both hands. As she guided my mouth to one waiting nipple she said, "Drink deep, hon. We need to get your head in a different place." This roused the Lone Wolves within earshot to subdued laughter, which should have worried me, but when the first gush of warm, metallic blood hit my tongue, nothing else mattered. I'm no stranger to illicit substances. I've smoked, snorted and swallowed my share. This was a rush like no other. A feeling of well-being and contentment flooded my body, an electric kind of happiness. I immediately got a raging hard-on, and realized I was shaking with pleasure. I wrapped my arms around her waist and pulled myself tightly against her body. I never wanted this to end.

Rough hands pulled me away. Sonny was once again leading me, this time toward the back of the room. The girl, breasts still bare, dark with blood from neck to knees, had hopped down from the bar and was following us. My legs were wobbly, and bolts of pleasure were periodically ripping through my body. I was having trouble focusing. I realized Sonny was speaking to me and tried to concentrate. "...make you an honorary member of the Lone Wolves. And all you gotta do is earn your Red Wings, with a little help from Sherry here." As we walked the other Lone Wolves started to drift along with us. They began to chant, "Red Wings, Red Wings, Red Wings," clapping and stomping their feet. Someone opened the red door, and we stepped into darkness.

"Get the fuckin' lights," Sonny yelled, and a row of fluorescents stuttered on overhead. We were in a clubhouse of sorts; lots of decrepit sofas and chairs, a big flat screen hooked up to a high-end video array. In the middle of the room was a king size mattress on the floor, covered with a clean white sheet that looked shockingly out of place. There was an expensive looking digital video camera on a stand next to the mattress.

The Lone Wolves had gathered in a circle, still laughing and joking, occasionally yelling out "Red Wings" to haphazard applause. Sonny finally let go of me. I was way too wrecked to attempt an escape, and way too happy to even consider it. Sherry hooked a finger in my belt and pulled me forward, until we were standing next to the mattress.

I watched with what I'm positive was a big, stupid grin as she swiftly stripped off her clothes. They made a sucking sound as the wetness pulled away from her skin. She stood naked and smiling in front of me, then reached down between her legs and removed a dark red tampon. She tossed it into the crowd. The bikers went for it like they were at a wedding and it was the bouquet. Several scuffles broke out before a tough looking older woman, dressed head to toe in black leather, came up with it. She tilted her head back, dangled the tampon above her mouth by the string, and dropped it in. As I watched her sucking out every last drop, I knew I should be repulsed. But I wasn't.

Sherry kissed me lightly on the lips and whispered, "Just go with it, baby." She quickly and efficiently removed my clothes. I realized I still had a serious boner, and briefly considered being embarrassed. Then she was on her knees with my cock buried in her mouth, and it didn't seem important.

Just as I was beginning to think that earning your Red Wings was a pretty fucking spectacular thing to do, she pulled back and crawled onto the mattress. She laid on her back with knees raised and legs spread wide. Reaching down, Sherry opened herself with both hands. Blood trickled out of her pussy, the drops falling and spreading into crimson flowers on the sheet. Her eyes locked onto mine. "Come and get it, lover."

I was moving forward on hands and knees before I even realized it. I settled in between her legs, put a hand on each thigh, and lowered my head. The tip of my tongue touched her clit, then trailed down and dipped deeply into hot, wet heaven. As I tasted blood, my nerves sang like high tension wires. I felt myself slipping into an ecstatic fugue state, my body melting away until I was nothing but mouth and cock.

I dug in, like a wild pig hunting blindly for truffles. I had to have more. I wanted her blood coursing down my throat in a raging red torrent. I could dimly sense her fingers tangled in my hair as I pushed roughly against her open vagina, straining for her sweet nectar.

And then it happened. My head slipped in.

Whatever spell I was under, chemical or otherwise, whatever magic this was, I remember it like this: my head slipped in. I could feel her vaginal muscles contracting, pulsing, squeezing my face. I was taking her blood in great gulps, breathing it into my nose. Still, I wanted more.

I pushed further into the wet darkness, the blood flowing around me like a dark river. I hitched one shoulder up and made myself as narrow as possible, then dug into the mattress with my toes and moved forward, rotating, feeling my way. I felt a slight give and my shoulders popped through; the rest of my body tumbled in after.

My entire body was inside her cunt, gripped tightly. The part of me that knew this was impossible, a drug-induced dementia, had been subsumed by blood lust. I drank until my stomach swelled with fluid. I drowned myself in her. The last thing I remember is going rigid in the throes of a shuddering orgasm, but even that was a minor rush compared to the rest. Cradled in her heat, I passed out.


"Come on, Sweetie, wake up. You gotta get out of here." Sherry's voice.

Cold water sprinkled my face, and I opened my eyes. I was laying on one of the couches in the clubhouse, naked and cold, muscles stiff. My face and chest were crusty with dried blood. The place was deserted except for the two of us. I said the first words that came to mind: "I love you." Sherry smiled, but I could see sadness behind it. "You don't love me, baby. You love the blood. Everyone loves the blood."

I was already shaking my head as she said it. "No, you're wrong. We experienced an incredible connection. I was inside you, a part of you. I know how crazy that sounds, but you were there, you know what happened. I love you. I need you. I want to stay with you forever."

“I have to show you something.” Sherry was no longer smiling. She got up and hit PLAY on a laptop cabled to the flatscreen. "Just watch, okay?"

There I was, in all my naked glory on the big screen. Sherry was sucking my cock while I stood there, swaying back and forth with a big, stupid smile on my face. She stopped and crawled onto the mattress, and I started going down on her, just as I remembered. I was grunting and snorting, splashing blood everywhere. And then, Sherry stood up and walked away. I didn't even notice. I just kept slobbering away like she was still there. I watched in horror as my body on the screen contorted, miming the motions of crawling inside her. Eventually I arched my back and shot my wad. Then I passed out. The screen went black.

I looked at Sherry and didn't know whether I should laugh or cry. "I am so sorry. I'm an idiot. I have never been so embarrassed in my life." I could feel my face flushing.

Sherry had the grace not to laugh at my discomfort. "It's okay. Really. I told you—it's the blood. My family has been cursed, or blessed—depending on your perspective—with it for as far back as anyone remembers."

"But maybe a doctor could—"

"We don't go to doctors. None of us. We have healers in the family if need be. To tell you the truth, we don't get sick much. The blood's pretty powerful stuff. Now come on, you really have to leave. Sonny will be back soon, and he's the protective type."

"Is he your boyfriend?" I felt weirdly jealous.

Sherry laughed again, hard. "My boyfriend? No, no, Sonny's my brother. We're, um, a close family, as you can imagine. Man, you think my blood packs a punch, you should try Sonny’s. One sip of that and you think you're Jesus fucking Christ." She ejected a thumb drive from the laptop and handed it to me, along with my clothes. "Here, take this. A little souvenir, courtesy of the Lone Wolves."

She gave me a tender kiss on the cheek at the door. "Listen," she said, looking very serious. "You're gonna want to come back here. They always do. Do yourself a favor and resist the urge. Sonny may not be so friendly next time."

She closed the door softly, left me standing alone in the dirt parking lot. I got in my car and drove home.

The End

David M. Simon is the author of Trapped in Lunch Lady Land. Find more of his writing and illustrations on his website .

"Red Wings" is brought to you in part by The Gates of Chaos available now!

Author interviews for the anthology can be found here

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