This edition of M Christian’s Running Dry – The Complete Series contains for the first time ever the original story, the sequel novel, and a new never before published concluding novella. This classic masterful queer thriller/horror novel is back in print with 20,000 additional words.
He’s immortal. He drinks blood. But he's not a vampire. Doud’s totally unique – a being no one’s ever seen before – and he’s desperately lonely for a lover: a special someone who will not just join him in his bed but his strange life as well. But every time he thinks he's found someone it all goes horrifically wrong.
Then one day a monster from his past returns: a thing of bitterness and fury he believed was long dead. Doud, with his friend Shelly in tow, begins a terrifying chase that begins in
Doud will get what he’s always wanted out of his long, strange life–but it will be nothing that Doud, or you, could ever have imagined!
Running Dry – The Complete Series
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"You want some?" came a voice from the next-door stall: deep and mature, but not old; faintly lyrical but not threateningly exotic; alluring and tempting, but not shallow or jaded.
"S-sure," he stammered as he leaned forward to undo the latch, gently push the door open.
The similar sound of a cheap bolt being drawn back made his heartbeat race, a stroboscopic cascade of imagination making his eyes blur.
When he did appear, Vince saw that his voice was ... and could not be anything but, his: a face with lines of experience, but not aged; unique features, but without the fear of being too foreign; a sensually wry smile on delicate lips, but not mockingly lecherous.
Not old, but he immediately put his nearly-elegant and almost-refined face between thirty and forty; not local, but he dreamed of Cinzano umbrellas and waiters with thick mustaches ... a land within sight of an-always-turquoise Mediterranean; and a truly happy grin and an honestly playful dance of gray eyes. He wore simple but too-clean clothes, to be working simply: dark jeans, a pair of new-ish tennis shoes, and a black, well-washed, turtle-neck.
Standing, framed by the battered metal of the narrow bathroom stall, he looked down at Vince for a moment, as if doing the same cascade of imagination – and, as he did, Vince felt himself faintly blush: wondering how this handsome-but-not pretty man, who maybe (maybe-not) came from a warm land on a side of that southern sea, and who had asked to come over and suck his cock, saw him.
The floor of the bathroom was tiled, smudged and streaked here and there with whatever the owner of the Crooked Crow couldn't, or wouldn't be bothered, to clean, but it didn't stop him from kneeling down in front of Vince. The blush, at which Vince's face further warmed, didn't go away as the stranger put one hand, and then the other, on either side of Vince's thighs and gently – almost lovingly – parted them.
"You're new at this, aren't you?" the man said, with humor – but not laughter – in his voice. It matched the calmness in his touch; his playful, but not catty, tone. "There's nothing to be afraid of."
"O-Okay," Vince said, his own voice coming out too many stepped-up octaves high.
From his right thigh, the man's hand deftly slipped further up, between Vince's legs to wrap firmly, but still kindly, around his hard cock. Vince's blush remained – but then faded quickly: he'd half-expected (and half-not) that his cock would fail him, that his naïveté would leave him at half-mast, and less-than-full-steam.
This time the other man did laugh – but with and not at – and squeezed Vince's cock ever-so tighter. "I think we'll have a good time," he said.
All Vince could do was nod – and that came as a basic, deep-down reflex.
Then the other man, the stranger, dipped his head down and – with a neat, smooth, and Vince suspected well-practiced gesture, put his lips around the head of his cock. The contact was almost an electric shock: a bolt of sensuality that made – another basic, deep-down reflex – Vince hiss, and then softly moan.
Even though he couldn't see it, Vince was somehow aware that there was a smile there, wrapped around the head of his cock: a reflecting joy that Vince's pleasure was giving the other man pleasure as well.
But that was just the tease, the taste, the beginning movement, the first brush stroke: at first Vince wasn't even aware of it, but then the knowledge came and with it a new form of shock, a new level of sensuality: that the other man, this total and complete stranger kneeling down between his legs was slowly ... so very, very slowly ... inching his mouth down the shaft of Vince's cock.
He thought it would stop, Vince thought that at any moment the action would cease ... but it didn't: instead his cock went further and further down into the man's mouth, and then his throat.
Vince's soft hiss, and almost-inaudible moan, changed tune and timbre, and there was nothing he could do – or would do – to stop it. Vince's body tensed, stiffened in body-mirror to the firmness of his cock. Again, despite his will, he found his hips shoving, and pulling in and out of the other man's mouth and, again, he felt a smile in those lips and a second echoing pleasure from giving pleasure.
But it didn't stop there. Vince knew that he was new, naïve: he knew that – in his mental scorecard – that there were more empty boxes than ticked-off, completed ones when it came to ... when it came to having strange men in bathrooms sucking his dick, but what he did know was that this was different, this was unique, this was beyond anything he'd ever experienced ... and also suspected he'd feel again.
It was a man's lips, a man's tickle of teeth, roof of his mouth, the wet and firm tunnel of his throat: there was passion, there was enthusiasm, but there was also ... more.
A hint, a suggestion, a spine-tickling goose bump parade of almost-fear: a part of Vince's mind – far removed from that stall in that bathroom – knew that was he was experiencing was more that simply the best on his limited scorecard, more than he ever could expect. But he didn't say or do anything. He didn't want to say or do anything to stop it.
It felt ... it felt like his life and everything about it – every once of essence, every drop of days, every trickle of existence, was being pulled through the pool of his balls, into the heat of his deep belly, through the almost-cramping firmness of his erect shaft, past the screaming-sensitivity of his head, and out and down the wet and bottomless throat of the man kneeling in front of him.
He came, and then he came, and he came again – the first arriving and departing with the knowledge that his come shot down the other man's throat, but the others that followed were ... not dry, just not salty and sticky. That part of Vince's consciousness that wasn't there in the bathroom, might even have suspected that what was coming out of his body was even more than his essence, drops of days, trickles of existence – that what was being sucked out of him could have been everything of him, even the stuff that smelled of hot pennies, that was both slick and sticky at the same time ... as well as deep, rich, red.
But he didn't say or do anything. He didn't want to say or do anything to stop it. There was sex, there was pleasure, there was orgasm – and then there what was happening to him in the stall of that bathroom, and Vince didn't want it ever to end.
But then it did – and, at least, the conclusion wasn't sudden, a shock of being on the edge of sexual, sensual, joyful bliss, and then nothing. As with the coming, the going was slow, steady, but when he was aware of it clear and distinct. The room, his mind, everything that was then and there contracted down from where it had ballooned ... until Vince was sitting on the toilet, his legs spread, his pants around his ankles, and the man – the stranger – was slowing his rhythmic lifting and descending of his head, easing the sucking of his mouth, loosening the contractions of his throat, until it simply came to the soft, almost sweet, end of the other man kissing the overly-sensitive tip of Vince's still-hard cock.
"Good?" the other man said, a wide – a very, very wide smile – on his face.
Vince couldn't speak: he'd forgotten how and hadn't returned to earth long enough to even begin to relearn how: all he could do was nod.
The stranger playfully patted Vince's thigh, the grin never leaving his lips. "I'm glad."
Standing – another concept that Vince knew was far beyond his own body at that point – the man ran two fingers across his lips, as if savoring the lingering sensation of having Vince's cock between them.
Turning to leave, he then looked back over his shoulder and – his smile still wide but also somehow cooler, reserved, staid – said, "I'll see you later."
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