Page 5 of The Night Belongs To Lovers

Thinking about controlling these men, directing their emotions caused blood to rush to his cock. The sudden, prodigious rigidity showed through the tight PVC material of Corey’s pants quite noticeably, sending the audience into a hushed frenzy; there were notacky hollers or degrading cat-calls. Instead, the men projected their desire outward like a wave of energy, a tsunami of lust that hit the god hard.

As their passion increased exponentially, Corey’s preternatural senses went into overdrive, allowing him to experience the sensation of orgasm without needing physical contact. It was delicious, a subtle magic a mortal could never tap into, never experience.

As numerous eyes raked over his body, the god sensed every man in the bar whimpering for some release from the sexual torment he so easily aroused in them. They wanted him, his touch to liberate them, but the sensations were too much, too soon. So, like a master to a disobedient sub, Corey refused. Their deserved punishment would endure; there was always pleasure in pain.

And it was much too early in his performance; there would be no premature—release.

Corey’s strong, manly hands slowly traced down his stomach, each movement a symphony on his washboard abs. The room had fallen into a hushed reverence, all eyes drawn to the magnetic figure on the stage. The audience’s anticipation was almost tangible, their excitement building with each second. Corey’s power, like a force of nature, washed over the crowd, leaving them utterly mesmerized.

That he could dance his ass off did not hurt his efforts to stimulate his audience either. Corey moved with the grace of a panther and the ferocity to match. He gyrated and thrust to the loud techno music, touching himself, caressing lasciviously.

Advancing further toward the edge of the stage, he reached for each man and then pulled away. Licking his lips, he hungrily searched the crowd for the one who most desperately wanted to put himself inside him—the one who would do anything for his attention, approval, and body.

Moving his eyes over the room, Corey hunted.

Finally, their eyes met; he had found the prey.

Corey felt an inexplicable connection with him that went beyond mere chance. The young man’s striking, coal-black eyes penetrated the god’s very being as if beckoning him with a magnetic force, calling to him like a lost lover.

The sable blackness of the youth’s hair was intense, with short wisps falling around his head in various places. It was a subtle thing, but Corey noticed his skin caught the light oddly, making its subtle pink occasionally appear almost alabaster. His initial thought that the guy needed more time in the sun made him instantly smirk; he got the absurdity of a god of darkness promoting the sun’s touch.

Corey eagerly wanted the young man’s innocence in his mouth, pouring over his tongue, the sweet taste of mortal blood invigorating his ageless flesh.

The prey was seated with a group of yuccies, a term Corey recently learned meant “young urban creatives.” Apparently, the hipster fad was dead, and he had failed to notice their demise entirely.

None of the men looked particularly older than nineteen, perhaps twenty, which was old enough. But what were human years toan immortal? Age had not meant anything to Corey in millennia, though sex and feeding were too entwined for him ever to consider hunting the young. He had a code of ethics, a personal morality. He was a god, an inheritor of Titan blood through his Maker, not the offspring of Echidna, a depraved monster.

Looking deep into the mortal’s face, Corey suddenly felt overwhelmingly flushed and oddly uncomfortable by their magnetic connection. When he realized why, it was like Jove’s lightning had struck him. This obvious thing had been staring him in the face since first setting eyes on the young man, and he completely missed it. Corey wanted to slap himself for his willful blindness.

As Corey gazed upon the mortal, he could not help but feel a twinge of pain in his heart. The resemblance between this man and his Maker was uncanny. It brought back a flood of memories—memories of their complicated relationship and the centuries of heartache. However, these issues would not affect his feeding tonight; this mortal was not Olympius.

Refocusing his attention away from disagreeable thoughts, Corey returned to his gyrations, pinching his erect nipples and loudly moaning while rubbing his package, a considerable bulge barely contained by the tied drawstrings of the PVC pants. Corey could tell his prey—who looked so much like Olympius—wanted to put his hand there.

That could not be allowed. At least, not before moving in nice and close.

Corey strutted to the edge of the stage, down left, close to where the young man sat and jumped onto the secured stripper pole. The pulsating music increased the god’s dancing frenzy as he straddled the metal object and simulated fucking it, moving his head back and forth in an orgasmic rhythm.

Gripping the metal pole tightly, the veins in his muscled arms bulging, Corey moved into some sensual, off-the-ground spinning, performing moves like a Cirque du Soleil acrobat. His thickly thighed legs with tight calf muscles extended when appropriate and bent when desirable, and never once did he show any signs of exertion or tiredness. His godlike endurance and virility were excellently masking, if not justifying, his complete lack of perspiration; godhood rendered most bodily secretions inactive.

Corey knew none of the other dancers at the club could hope to outperform him or look as good as him while doing the many things he could do.

When it was time to refocus on his prey, the god leapt off the pole with intention, landing directly in front of his target, practically on top of his table. He positioned his body so it would loom over the mortal, the intensity of his presence enticing yet intimidating.

Lifting his right leg, Corey stretched his limb out, placing his foot on the shoulder of a middle-aged gentleman sitting at the table directly behind the group, and winked at him. Then he turned his full attention to his prey and grabbed his hand. He carefully controlled the level of godly strength used; he did not want to crush any soft, fragile appendages.

The young man was startled by Corey’s aggressive behaviour and unsure how to respond to the hot dancer’s sudden interest and attention. He appeared flattered but flustered, too.

Corey wondered if the guy supposed that other men around the stage, especially those in thousand-dollar business suits, would make better targets for cash tips.

But this was about something other than money for the god.

Reading the mortal’s surface thoughts, as most gods possessed telepathy, what he used to callmind-walking, Corey learned that during the performance so far, not for a second had the young man believed any dancer would notice him, an awkward university kid in jeans—even if they were designer ones.

The god made sure not to probe deeply, as he did not wish to know too much about the prey, including his name. The mystery was what made the hunt even hotter.

Behind the flustered young man, the older guy used as furniture was crowing with glee,yee-hawingas sweat dripped down his ruddy face. He adjusted himself quite noticeably, having become painfully erect in his leather pants, aroused by the bold, some might consider demeaning, act. But Corey had read the minds of several individuals during his pole dancing and discovered this particular man’s penchant for consensual erotic humiliation. So it was all good.

The fucker was so hot and bothered hestarted licking Corey’s boot.

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