Deadlocked
Title: DEADLOCKED
8/37
Author: BmblBee
Paring: Spander, baby. All the way
Rating: NC17 for strong language and M/M sexual content
Warnings: See above. All that and a bag of chips
Disclaimer: The Bee claims no profit off the characters or products used in this story.
However, the Bee does own the story itself. Please do not take without asking.
Summary: During a night of celebrating his newly purchased property, a rundown farm
house, Xander has one too many and is stopped for DUI. With the jails already overcrowded,
he finds himself on house arrest in that very same delapidated, isolated house. With one
surprise. His house is not as empty as he thought. There are vampire squatters living in the basement.
Special thanks to Naughty_Fae for the encouragement and to Silk_ Labyrinth for the
spelling and puncuation beta. Any other errors are on the Bee.
Link to previous chapters HERE
Spike licked the last drops of blood from his lips and grinned. It had taken five hard, powerful
orgasms and a belly full of blood to satisfy and calm him, but now he felt much better.
He had known where to go. It was an area he had visited often. It was the wrong side of the tracks
on the western edge of the nearby small village corporation signs. It was the pits. It was as close to
the projects as a community came.
Its residents were low income. Multicultural. Limited in educational and employment opportunities,
yet reveling in abundance of misfortune. For the most part, Spike did not prey on these dregs of
society. Not because he had suddenly gained a moral compass, but rather because he found them
under-nourished, alcoholic and generally short on an ample supply of usable blood.
This neighborhood, however, did have one category of resident that Spike found very attractive. It
was the independent businessman. The young gentlemen who cruised up and down the streets
hawking their wares. Their products. What did they deal in? A wide variety of items.
Generally anything with which they could see a profit.
Used stereo systems, some with part of a car dashboard still attached, brand new flat-screen
TVs resembling the ones that had come up missing in last week's burglaries, and heirloom jewelry
from intrusive home invasions. Spike had even noticed one boy who had set up a collection of
stolen bicycles in a vacant lot. A real entrepreneur.
And, of course, pharmaceuticals. Drug dealers. Smack sellers. Pot peddlers. These were the ones
who had all the cash. They ate well. They were healthy and strong. They gave Spike a real run for
his money. When he took what he wanted from them, they put up a fight and sometimes the fight
was what Spike needed the most.
After leaving the old farmhouse, Spike had run with the speed of a swooping hawk. He whisked
through the neglected corn fields, down the gravel roads and rushed towards the areas of
dense population. He had hoped that running full-out would help to burn off some of the fire that
flared inside him, but he found that the time spent rushing at high speed in the cool night air only
made his hunger and urge more intense.
When he reached the first long row of identical brick apartments, Spike grinned and slipped into
the concealment of the nearest walkway that separated it from the next building. There he stopped.
He flung his arms wide at his sides as a deep shudder of exhilaration rushed through him. He threw
his head back and sucked in a heady lungful of damp, polluted air. It took all his restraint not to howl
at the small sliver of moon in the sky.
When he felt he had himself in check, Spike eased out toward the mouth of the pathway where he had
a clear view of the street and sidewalk beyond. There, he paused. He took in all the sights, sounds,
and smells, and he reveled in the great misery of people who lived here.
Babies crying, men and women shouting, rap music booming and distant police sirens wailing.
He smelled garbage rotting in the same proximity as food cooking. Cheap foods. Hot dogs, mac
and cheese, peanut butter. Ethnic foods. Rice and beans, spicy, fatty meats, and the overpowering
stench of cabbage. Decay and despair. Glorious. Simply glorious.
Spike felt the excitement of a big game hunter on safari who had stumbled across the nest and scat
of his elusive prey. All he needed now was...and there he was! Strolling casually down the
street, watching the passing traffic for potential customers, was a lion emerging from the reeds of
the asphalt jungle.
Spike grinned from the shadows. The young man was tall and muscular, with a saunter intended
to intimidate. If the attitude didn't work, he carried a gun, the outline of which was clearly present
in the boy's hoody pocket. He was Caucasian. Maybe. Possibly Hispanic. It didn't matter. He
had what Spike wanted.
He had crack.
Spike freely admitted he was addicted to crack. He snorted it, he liked it hot and he liked it cold.
He wanted it when he didn't have it and when he got some, he needed even more. It was his
obsession. His compulsion. His passion. And clearly, the boy had it in spades.
The boy also had drugs which didn't interest Spike in the least.
No, Spike wanted that ass crack!
That plump, round arse that bounced slightly with each step that the salesman took. It was
framed sweetly by the back hem of the hoody that rode up and rested on it and it was just enough
to keep the over-sized jeans from slipping too far down over his hips.
It was proud and pronounced.
Spike licked his lips as he began to salivate. A full body shudder ran through him. He tipped his
head first to the left until his neck cracked, then he did the same on the right, and finally he was ready
to make his move. He slipped off his duster and, in an attempt to look a bit more vulnerable, he
ducked his head and slumped his shoulders.
"Psst. Psst. Hey. Boy."
The enterprising young man stopped and looked in all directions to locate the source of the sound.
When he gazed to the side, he noticed the small white man lurking in the shadows. Lil' Blip grinned.
An easy mark. No doubt a visitor from the nicer part of town come slummin'. Blip decided to
charge him double and he slithered over.
"Hey man. Whatcha need? I gots weed, smack, and a couple of rocks. Ain't cheap on accounta I
gots the good stuff. Real high quality. You know what I'm sayin'?"
Spike wrung his hands nervously and looked all around in fear of discovery.
"Oh, well, gosh. I've never done this before and I would hate to run afoul of the authorities. I wished
to purchase a small quantity of the marijuana but I don't wish to be observed doing so. Could we possibly...."
Spike indicated that he wanted to move back into the shadowy area of the narrow walkway where
he light did not reach. Blip just rolled his eyes and lamented the decline of masculinity in today's
society. Seemed the majority of men were becoming suburban bitches with no nuts. Oh well, what
the fuck. The lack of balls just left more room in their trousers for cash.
"Yeah. Sure, but let's make this quick. I got other customers who...HEY! What the fuck are...?"
The instant they were out of view of the prying eyes of neighbors, Spike's features shifted to vamp.
He snatched a used Pamper from the dumpster and he shoved it into Blip's mouth to stifle the
screams that tried to summon help. And Spike went to work.
He spun the boy around and jerked the baggy jeans down, letting them pool at his ankles. As soon
as that glorious, plump, pimple-covered arse was exposed to the night air, Spike dove on it.
The boy was bent over and the bum was sharply spanked to achieve that rosy red color that Spike was
so enamored of. When the perfect shade had been achieved, Spike got down to business.
With his fingers dancing in Blip's crack, the arse was poked, prodded, praised, positioned and
plundered. Blip himself was twisted, turned, tilted, threatened and suddenly thrust into. He was
jerked and jostled. Spike looped him like a pretzel and slammed him like a crash-test dummy,
bouncing his head off the trash cans until he realized what Blip was waving his arms about, at
which point Spike flopped him over and fucked him from the front.
He reamed and rammed him.
Spike plunged his thick, seven-plus inches of hard, hooded man-meat repeatedly into the drug
dealer's previously unmarketed asset until it was red and raw. He dove so deeply that the fine
hairs on Spike's nuts left a rug-burn rash on Blip's butt cheeks.
And Spike came. Repeatedly. He shot wads of cool cum on the human's face, another on his back,
two deep in his bowels and one last, squeaked-out dollop on the boy's left foot.
Then, with one more need unmet, Spike bit. In another move of uninvited penetration, Spike sank
his razor-sharp fangs into the boy's throat and he drank. Thick, tangy swallows of hot, glorious
blood gushed down Spike's throat almost faster than he could swallow. After a few minutes,
feeling magnanimous and generous, Spike stopped. He licked the wound to encourage it to clot
and he dropped the limp, living body from his arms.
Spike was spent. Sated. Relaxed.
He winced as he tucked his sore, sensitive dick back in his pants and zipped up. He then grabbed up
his duster. He shrugged it on his shoulders and he turned to walk away. At the last minute, he
tossed two dollars on the crumpled form that lay in a heap by the dumpster. Never let it be said
that Spike didn't pay his own way.
As he disappeared into the darkness, Blip spit out the dirty diaper and with his last ounce of strength,
he waved his hand and hoarsely whispered, "Call me." Then he passed out.
The taste of blood lingered in his mouth as Spike strolled home. He knew Drusilla wouldn't return
till nearly daylight since she preferred to take her time and dawdle over her dinner. That was good
with Spike. It meant that he had plenty of alone time in the house with his new boy-toy. His pet
was probably sleeping. Snoring. Hopefully not drooling.
At any rate, tonight was just for looking. Watching. Observing.
The more Spike thought about him, the quicker he walked till finally he broke into a full-speed
run back to the secluded farmhouse and his newest flatmate. When he arrived, the place
was pitch-dark except for the faint yellow glow from a meager oil lamp in the living room.
Happily, Spike slipped around to the rear of the house and the wooden bulkhead doors that led
to the basement. It was his favorite entranceway. He jerked up the door and let it drop open. He
then leapt into the air, intending to float past the stairway and land silently into the cellar with grace
and elegance.
Unfortunately, he bounced off the invisible barrier like off a trampoline and flopped onto the damp
grass in a startled, undignified heap.
"WHAT THE FUCK?"
The cruel, taunting rules of the universe had apparently decided that an ocupado house required
an invitation. It would seem that Spike had just been served with an eviction.
Spike was fucked.
8/37
Author: BmblBee
Paring: Spander, baby. All the way
Rating: NC17 for strong language and M/M sexual content
Warnings: See above. All that and a bag of chips
Disclaimer: The Bee claims no profit off the characters or products used in this story.
However, the Bee does own the story itself. Please do not take without asking.
Summary: During a night of celebrating his newly purchased property, a rundown farm
house, Xander has one too many and is stopped for DUI. With the jails already overcrowded,
he finds himself on house arrest in that very same delapidated, isolated house. With one
surprise. His house is not as empty as he thought. There are vampire squatters living in the basement.
Special thanks to Naughty_Fae for the encouragement and to Silk_ Labyrinth for the
spelling and puncuation beta. Any other errors are on the Bee.
Link to previous chapters HERE
Spike licked the last drops of blood from his lips and grinned. It had taken five hard, powerful
orgasms and a belly full of blood to satisfy and calm him, but now he felt much better.
He had known where to go. It was an area he had visited often. It was the wrong side of the tracks
on the western edge of the nearby small village corporation signs. It was the pits. It was as close to
the projects as a community came.
Its residents were low income. Multicultural. Limited in educational and employment opportunities,
yet reveling in abundance of misfortune. For the most part, Spike did not prey on these dregs of
society. Not because he had suddenly gained a moral compass, but rather because he found them
under-nourished, alcoholic and generally short on an ample supply of usable blood.
This neighborhood, however, did have one category of resident that Spike found very attractive. It
was the independent businessman. The young gentlemen who cruised up and down the streets
hawking their wares. Their products. What did they deal in? A wide variety of items.
Generally anything with which they could see a profit.
Used stereo systems, some with part of a car dashboard still attached, brand new flat-screen
TVs resembling the ones that had come up missing in last week's burglaries, and heirloom jewelry
from intrusive home invasions. Spike had even noticed one boy who had set up a collection of
stolen bicycles in a vacant lot. A real entrepreneur.
And, of course, pharmaceuticals. Drug dealers. Smack sellers. Pot peddlers. These were the ones
who had all the cash. They ate well. They were healthy and strong. They gave Spike a real run for
his money. When he took what he wanted from them, they put up a fight and sometimes the fight
was what Spike needed the most.
After leaving the old farmhouse, Spike had run with the speed of a swooping hawk. He whisked
through the neglected corn fields, down the gravel roads and rushed towards the areas of
dense population. He had hoped that running full-out would help to burn off some of the fire that
flared inside him, but he found that the time spent rushing at high speed in the cool night air only
made his hunger and urge more intense.
When he reached the first long row of identical brick apartments, Spike grinned and slipped into
the concealment of the nearest walkway that separated it from the next building. There he stopped.
He flung his arms wide at his sides as a deep shudder of exhilaration rushed through him. He threw
his head back and sucked in a heady lungful of damp, polluted air. It took all his restraint not to howl
at the small sliver of moon in the sky.
When he felt he had himself in check, Spike eased out toward the mouth of the pathway where he had
a clear view of the street and sidewalk beyond. There, he paused. He took in all the sights, sounds,
and smells, and he reveled in the great misery of people who lived here.
Babies crying, men and women shouting, rap music booming and distant police sirens wailing.
He smelled garbage rotting in the same proximity as food cooking. Cheap foods. Hot dogs, mac
and cheese, peanut butter. Ethnic foods. Rice and beans, spicy, fatty meats, and the overpowering
stench of cabbage. Decay and despair. Glorious. Simply glorious.
Spike felt the excitement of a big game hunter on safari who had stumbled across the nest and scat
of his elusive prey. All he needed now was...and there he was! Strolling casually down the
street, watching the passing traffic for potential customers, was a lion emerging from the reeds of
the asphalt jungle.
Spike grinned from the shadows. The young man was tall and muscular, with a saunter intended
to intimidate. If the attitude didn't work, he carried a gun, the outline of which was clearly present
in the boy's hoody pocket. He was Caucasian. Maybe. Possibly Hispanic. It didn't matter. He
had what Spike wanted.
He had crack.
Spike freely admitted he was addicted to crack. He snorted it, he liked it hot and he liked it cold.
He wanted it when he didn't have it and when he got some, he needed even more. It was his
obsession. His compulsion. His passion. And clearly, the boy had it in spades.
The boy also had drugs which didn't interest Spike in the least.
No, Spike wanted that ass crack!
That plump, round arse that bounced slightly with each step that the salesman took. It was
framed sweetly by the back hem of the hoody that rode up and rested on it and it was just enough
to keep the over-sized jeans from slipping too far down over his hips.
It was proud and pronounced.
Spike licked his lips as he began to salivate. A full body shudder ran through him. He tipped his
head first to the left until his neck cracked, then he did the same on the right, and finally he was ready
to make his move. He slipped off his duster and, in an attempt to look a bit more vulnerable, he
ducked his head and slumped his shoulders.
"Psst. Psst. Hey. Boy."
The enterprising young man stopped and looked in all directions to locate the source of the sound.
When he gazed to the side, he noticed the small white man lurking in the shadows. Lil' Blip grinned.
An easy mark. No doubt a visitor from the nicer part of town come slummin'. Blip decided to
charge him double and he slithered over.
"Hey man. Whatcha need? I gots weed, smack, and a couple of rocks. Ain't cheap on accounta I
gots the good stuff. Real high quality. You know what I'm sayin'?"
Spike wrung his hands nervously and looked all around in fear of discovery.
"Oh, well, gosh. I've never done this before and I would hate to run afoul of the authorities. I wished
to purchase a small quantity of the marijuana but I don't wish to be observed doing so. Could we possibly...."
Spike indicated that he wanted to move back into the shadowy area of the narrow walkway where
he light did not reach. Blip just rolled his eyes and lamented the decline of masculinity in today's
society. Seemed the majority of men were becoming suburban bitches with no nuts. Oh well, what
the fuck. The lack of balls just left more room in their trousers for cash.
"Yeah. Sure, but let's make this quick. I got other customers who...HEY! What the fuck are...?"
The instant they were out of view of the prying eyes of neighbors, Spike's features shifted to vamp.
He snatched a used Pamper from the dumpster and he shoved it into Blip's mouth to stifle the
screams that tried to summon help. And Spike went to work.
He spun the boy around and jerked the baggy jeans down, letting them pool at his ankles. As soon
as that glorious, plump, pimple-covered arse was exposed to the night air, Spike dove on it.
The boy was bent over and the bum was sharply spanked to achieve that rosy red color that Spike was
so enamored of. When the perfect shade had been achieved, Spike got down to business.
With his fingers dancing in Blip's crack, the arse was poked, prodded, praised, positioned and
plundered. Blip himself was twisted, turned, tilted, threatened and suddenly thrust into. He was
jerked and jostled. Spike looped him like a pretzel and slammed him like a crash-test dummy,
bouncing his head off the trash cans until he realized what Blip was waving his arms about, at
which point Spike flopped him over and fucked him from the front.
He reamed and rammed him.
Spike plunged his thick, seven-plus inches of hard, hooded man-meat repeatedly into the drug
dealer's previously unmarketed asset until it was red and raw. He dove so deeply that the fine
hairs on Spike's nuts left a rug-burn rash on Blip's butt cheeks.
And Spike came. Repeatedly. He shot wads of cool cum on the human's face, another on his back,
two deep in his bowels and one last, squeaked-out dollop on the boy's left foot.
Then, with one more need unmet, Spike bit. In another move of uninvited penetration, Spike sank
his razor-sharp fangs into the boy's throat and he drank. Thick, tangy swallows of hot, glorious
blood gushed down Spike's throat almost faster than he could swallow. After a few minutes,
feeling magnanimous and generous, Spike stopped. He licked the wound to encourage it to clot
and he dropped the limp, living body from his arms.
Spike was spent. Sated. Relaxed.
He winced as he tucked his sore, sensitive dick back in his pants and zipped up. He then grabbed up
his duster. He shrugged it on his shoulders and he turned to walk away. At the last minute, he
tossed two dollars on the crumpled form that lay in a heap by the dumpster. Never let it be said
that Spike didn't pay his own way.
As he disappeared into the darkness, Blip spit out the dirty diaper and with his last ounce of strength,
he waved his hand and hoarsely whispered, "Call me." Then he passed out.
The taste of blood lingered in his mouth as Spike strolled home. He knew Drusilla wouldn't return
till nearly daylight since she preferred to take her time and dawdle over her dinner. That was good
with Spike. It meant that he had plenty of alone time in the house with his new boy-toy. His pet
was probably sleeping. Snoring. Hopefully not drooling.
At any rate, tonight was just for looking. Watching. Observing.
The more Spike thought about him, the quicker he walked till finally he broke into a full-speed
run back to the secluded farmhouse and his newest flatmate. When he arrived, the place
was pitch-dark except for the faint yellow glow from a meager oil lamp in the living room.
Happily, Spike slipped around to the rear of the house and the wooden bulkhead doors that led
to the basement. It was his favorite entranceway. He jerked up the door and let it drop open. He
then leapt into the air, intending to float past the stairway and land silently into the cellar with grace
and elegance.
Unfortunately, he bounced off the invisible barrier like off a trampoline and flopped onto the damp
grass in a startled, undignified heap.
"WHAT THE FUCK?"
The cruel, taunting rules of the universe had apparently decided that an ocupado house required
an invitation. It would seem that Spike had just been served with an eviction.
Spike was fucked.