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    A Cold Night in London – an Interracial Sex Story

    15 November, 2016 (15:08) | Interracial Sex Stories | By: Webcams and Sexstories

    by Otto Erotic (address withheld)

    ***

    A young woman thinks she’s being followed by a
    stranger. (MF, rp, intr, v, drugs, sn)

    ***

    Indira Fawkes had had a hard life. The only thing she
    knew about her parents was that one had been white and
    the other had been of Indian decent. She had been found
    in a dustbin a few hours after she was born on November
    5, Guy Fawkes Day. Through someone’s idea of sick
    irony, she was given the surname Fawkes. When she
    arrived at an orphanage in Manchester, she was given a
    traditional Indian name, Indira.

    At the orphanage in Manchester, Indira grew into an
    attractive young woman, but after several years, she
    couldn’t deal with the strict rules of the orphanage
    any longer. Shortly after her fifteenth birthday,
    Indira ran away to London. In a matter of days, the
    pretty young girl found herself homeless and starving
    on the streets of London

    Soon, Indira started giving handjobs. One of her
    clients soon convinced her to please him orally. For
    several months, Indira scraped out an existence by
    swallowing the semen of strangers in London alleys.
    Then, on one fateful night, one of her clients
    overpowered her, forced her to his squalid loft and
    raped her. Before she came to London, Indira had been a
    virgin, but her trick’s violation was just the
    beginning.

    After he had pulled out and sprayed his hot seed across
    her stomach, he injected her with heroin. From that
    moment on, Indira was enslaved. Like so many women
    walking city streets around the world, Indira sold her
    body to men so she could buy more heroin. For the
    better part of four years, Indira’s life was nothing
    but sex and drugs. Then, one night everything changed.

    Indira had been riding on the Underground for three
    days. She was still thinking about last Friday night.
    She had gone to see her dealer and arrived just in time
    to see him stabbed to death by a group of irate
    Welshmen. While her dealer was dying, Indira gathered
    up the money and supplies he had dropped and fled to
    his apartment. She spent the night shooting up over and
    over again. After that night, she had sworn never to do
    heroine again.

    Indira looked in the window of the train and saw her
    own reflection. She had been beautiful when she left
    Manchester, but now after four years of drugs and
    whoring herself to strangers, she looked like a shell
    of what she once was… and she knew, deep down, that
    this would never change. She hadn’t done heroin in
    several days, but there had been very little
    withdrawal. Part of her wondered why, another part
    knew.

    As she was riding on the Victoria Line, she looked
    around the train car. It was well after midnight and
    the car only had one other passenger. At the other end
    of the car, Indira saw a pale man in a long brown coat.
    He had long stringy hair, which hung down over his
    eyes. Despite this, Indira could see that the man was
    staring directly at her. His icy gaze never wavered.
    Indira got up and changed her seat just to see if his
    eyes stayed on her. They did.

    When they reached Brixton, Indira got off the train and
    headed for the stairs. She looked back, expecting the
    see the man following her, but he wasn’t. As she headed
    for the street, she wondered why he hadn’t gotten off.
    Brixton was the last stop on the line, after all.

    She reached the street and headed east toward the
    apartment of her dead dealer. She knew it would be at
    least a week before the landlord or any of his old
    customers came looking for him. She had holed up in the
    apartment, searching for money or anything she could
    sell. She had found £50,000 in cash and drugs which she
    intended to fund her escape from London. She was hoping
    to try to get to France or Germany by the end of the
    week.

    As she walked, a creeping sensation fell over Indira…
    as though she was being followed. She looked back and
    saw a shadowy figure standing across the street and
    about two blocks back. For a moment, she thought it was
    the man from the train, but she soon realized that it
    couldn’t have been. She walked another block and then
    looked again. The figure was gone.

    Indira quickened her pace slightly and finally reached
    the apartment building she was squatting in. She
    hurried up the stairs and toward the last apartment on
    the right. Just as she started to turn the knob, two
    ice-cold hands wrapped themselves around her. One
    clamped across her mouth and the other reached across
    her torso, pinning her arms to her body.

    In a series of movements that happened faster than
    thought, the door was opened and Indira was thrown
    inside onto the blood and semen-stained mattress which
    lay in the center of the main room. She turned and saw
    the pale man from the train looming over her. “Hello,
    pretty.” he hissed, a faint Irish accent in his voice.

    “Who are you?” Indira managed to ask.

    He moved quickly toward her and grasped her around the
    neck, silencing her. “Don’t worry about that… you’ll
    know everything soon enough.” He pushed her down onto
    the mattress and flipped her over. Indira knew what was
    coming… it had happened to her hundreds of times. The
    man gripped the waist of Indira’s torn jeans and ripped
    them from her body in one powerful movement. In a
    matter of moments, he had torn every stitch of clothing
    from Indira’s smooth brown flesh.

    “Very nice.” the man hissed. He spread Indira’s thighs
    apart and opened the front of his pants. Indira gripped
    the corner of the mattress, bracing herself. While she
    had had hundreds of men inside her, the rapists were
    always the most brutal and this man was no exception.
    He thrust his rod into her without further warning. For
    Indira, the was no pain, but also no pleasure. She
    stayed as still as she could as the man pumped his
    powerful member inside her.

    After several minutes of rough humping, Indira could
    tell that the man was getting close. Like hundreds
    before him, the man emptied his loins into Indira’s
    womb. She was surprised when his seed felt cold inside
    her. While he was still inside her, the man pulled
    Indira up off the mattress and licked her neck. Before
    she could respond, he drove two gleaming fangs into her
    jugular vein and began sucking forcefully on her neck.

    The man swallowed her blood and immediately knew that
    something was wrong. He pulled away from her neck and
    jumped away from her, his cold, vampiric member sliding
    out of Indira’s pussy. Pain was shooting through his
    body, unlike anything he had experienced since he’d
    been turned. He grabbed his chest. “What’s happening to
    me?”

    Indira turned toward him, covering the puncture wounds
    on her neck. “You haven’t been a vampire for long, have
    you?” The vampire’s vision was staring to blur as the
    pain grew worse. Indira slowly rose to her feet, the
    vampire’s cold seed oozing out of her brown vagina.
    “Didn’t anyone ever tell you never to drink from the
    undead?”

    “What?!” he shrieked, panic filling his voice.

    “Zombie blood is fatal to vampires.” The vampire fell
    back onto the floor and died a very quick and
    excruciatingly painful death. Indira looked at the dead
    vampire lying on the floor near a pile of used syringes
    and ampoules. “Amazing…” Indira mused, “he died in
    the same place I did.” She knelt down and took the long
    brown coat from the vampire. After a quick search of
    the pockets, she found nearly £1,000 and most
    importantly, a ticket for the Chunnel for the next
    morning. The time had finally come, Indira had a chance
    to get out of England.

    THE END

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