The icy shaft of the vampyr's cock penetrated him.  It seared his insides with a fiery chill and he lost all sensation in anus and bowels at once.  Frigid cold spread outward and upward, freezing his legs, his chest, his arms and stealing toward his heart.

He welcomed the sensations, shivering in anticipation, waiting for the vampyr's ejacula.  He'd read about the Red Lion, antimony and the Pearl Beyond Price generated by the Grain of a Mustard Seed, that so many had misunderstood in the writings of the great alchemist, Paracelsus. Now he was risking everything, life and more than life, that he had penetrated farther than anyone before him into the meaning of what he'd read.

He'd teased and tormented this particular vampyr with his flesh.  He'd guessed this one's orientation from the accounts he'd pieced together on the web.  He had flaunted his body before the vampyr's eyes for several nights in the kind of crowded discos the man was known to haunt.

He'd hoped to inflame the creature's passions, a rare thing because vampyr's shunned the result— but not impossible.  To make the vampyr want his body as well as his blood.  To make the vampyr do what it had done, drain his blood almost to the point of death and then take him while the warmth of life still suffused his flesh.

The blood had drained from his body as a vast, numbing darkness rushed in to fill the void.  His consciousness had begun to flee with it, flickering in and out, but further out each time.  Until he had been a minute guttering candle, flame about to be extinguished by a gathering night wind.

Just when he was certain he had gambled wrong, as darkness had obliterated his brain for the last time, as the dim ash of life had seemed to expire never to return, his body was being turned in the vampyr's grip.  He was already nude, had stripped when they entered the motel room, maintaining the pretense that he believed they were here for a sexual assignation.  The
unzipping of the vampyr's trousers was as loud and final as death itself.

For a half-second he had experienced a surge of elation, the sudden relaxation that victory, and what meant to the two of them, was about to be his.  But the concept was torn to tatters with his consciousness as the vampyr's glacier-hard, searingly cold cock tore up into him, splitting
sphincter and bowels, and driving all its astonishing length into his rectum in an instant.  He knew that he had been damaged as terribly as he had ever been, even enough to kill him, but living no longer mattered, and he surrendered himself, limply and content, to whatever came next, as long as the vampyr's ejacula was part of it.

The agony was followed by a shockwave of cold, numbing his body.  Far from his darkly-clouded mind though it was, down endless icy corridors of being, the scalding spewing of his blood between his legs was as intimate as a touch against his cheek.  Dim despair chased it, again death pressed down over him, smothering life away, and fear swept him—he didn't know how much longer he could hang on.  If the vampyr didn't ejaculate soon. . .

Three tearing, titanic upheavals each as devastating as an earthquake erupted upward from his bowels.  His heart detonated with each, and as it gave a last, shuddering spasm, the iron muscles of vampyr's phallus blew out his insides, exploding in orgasm.  He felt the scorching nova of its ejacula being driven into his ruptured and shattered bowels, where its furnace heat set fire to
his bloodstream and was carried throughout the body in the final quivering beat of his heart.

The vampyr's brodobnagian explosions went on and on, ripping his body further apart.  But his heart was beating again, this time with the volcanic heat of the massively reconcentrated blood of the creature's ejacula—the fabled Red Lion of the alchemists (just as the White Lion was the rarer ejacula of the female vampyr), the true method by which the undead passed on their gift
and the reason only a handful of all those whose blood slaked their thirst became vampyrs too.  He knew the already increasing activity of his now vampyric metabolism would repair the damage, no matter how devastating, almost instantly when the destructive orgasms of the undead were completed.

The distant charring of a live coal against his aureole was the agony of vampyr's nails sinking into his nipples and tearing them apart.  The pain of the ax smashing his spine in half was the sledgehammer impact of the creature's thrust snapping his pelvis.  The nightmare explosion in his lungs was the shattering of his ribs beneath irresistible might impact of the vampyr's embrace.

Yet he felt no fear, even the unthinkable suffering was endurable—for behind was the sense of a smothering force that bunted the pain, beginning to heal ruptured flesh and splintered bone even as it was torn and violated.  This was what he had been waiting for, the moments of transformation, Paracelsus' Grain of a Mustard Seed that could catalyze life immortal, an
eternity among the undead—and a great deal more.

With a lunge that would have split him open at the crotch if his body hadn't already begun to heal the damage from its earlier thrusts, the vampire spasmed into his rectum one final time and pulled away.  The creature seemed to fade backward into nothingness just like its cock seemed to simply shrivel away to into smoke inside his rectum—instead of being physically withdrawn.

Agony, the sense of tertiary damage, the awful awareness of just horrifically his body had been violated, threatened/tempted him with a sucking, nigh irresistible whirlpool of darkness.  Writhing in the corrosive magma of the pain, wanting to sink away and surrender himself to unconsciousness until his body had done repairing itself and he was whole again—he held on tattered consciousness with his fingertips.  For desperately as his soul and psyche cried for deliverance from the hades of his suffering, there was something he wanted more.

This was the opportunity, while the Pearl was still growing, while his body was still reconstituting itself, when the alchemist who had mustered sufficient discipline of will could influence the growth of the Pearl.  And now with the entire total force of his mind, with all the determination of heart, soul and deeper being, he began force his body to reshape itself the
way he waned it to be—and not the way it had been.  He beat the message down into the deepest cells of his body, beating endlessly, incontrovertibly into the vampyric fluids reforming his shattered tissues one message, one signal, one single, compelling instruction.

And with that thought she shed the last vestiges of the male persona she had so laboriously, degradingly and painfully reconstructed to send a creature with the psychic discernment of a vampyr the signal of a strong, unambiguous masculinity.  Like the currents carried in by a riptide, the woman she was, no matter what the anatomy of her birth, reasserted itself.  The inconceivable potency of true self upon her reconstituting body supplied the final necessary force to reconfigure the transformation.

As she felt the flow of the flesh between her thighs, she let go of consciousness at last, falling into a dreamless sleep, content with the certainty that she had paid a high price—but it was worth all that she had paid and more.  For now she could look forward to an eternity as a woman in the body she had hungered so desperately to have.
 
 

About the Authoress:

Jean Marie Stine has written fiction and poetry for Pat Califia and CTan anthologies, as well as Amazing Stories, Transformation, Galaxy, Transgender Tapestry, Suspect Thoughts, and other print and electronic publications.  Her classic transgender sci-fi novel, Season of the Witch, which was filmed as Synapse starring Karen Duffy, has recently been reprinted by Renaissance E Books.

About the Artist:

Sean Simmans is the Cover Illustrator of DEAD END STREET PUBLICATIONS LLC and the Creator of THE BELIEVABLE TRUTH @ Scowlzine and VIBE Nation (UK). In addition he illustrates for UMM Magazine (Canada) and is staff illustrator for Blood Moon zine.