Crackula the Bumpire

Crackula the Bumpire (Gets it in the End)

By Robert Readman

The Halloween party was in full swing at the frat house of Thi-Thi-Thi. From the outside of the large red-brick apartment, hoots, hollers and drunk karaoke singing could be heard - a group of tone-deaf girls were murdering the Monster Mash. Thi-Thi-Thi was known for throwing wild parties, but this year's Halloween jam was breakin' bad, as far as frat parties went. Tiki torches with multicoloured flame lit the path leading into the home. Cadaver dummies nicked from the medical study labs hung from nooses in the trees. Chilling screams echoed from strategically placed speakers. And most horrifying of all, college kids crowded the lawn drinking drinks, smoking, and vaping. They yapped about this and that, looked listlessly at their phones, then got up their courage and went inside.

There was so much distraction to look at on the street that no one thought to look up in the sky, so no one saw the oversized bat descending from a dark, cloudless night. The bat kee-kee'd to itself as it looked for a good place to land, where the kids would not spot it. It opted for a toolshed in a nearby back yard, flapped around back, and then assumed human form. A few rats hiding in the shrubs went wild with fear and scrambled for safety, because they could sense the evil which had just arrived.

Crackula the Bumpire stood up, brushing bat hair off his shoulders and straightening the ruffles on his tuxedo shirt, made sure his tie and cummerbund were still correctly laced up. It was a point of pride for him to wear the best attire he had whenever he went out butt-hunting. Tonight, he had to dress the part of a cheesy 70's vampire, hence his velour tux jacket with the dangling tails.

He briefly became smoke as he passed from the backyard through the gate, and then resumed human form again as he approached the front door to Thi-Thi-Thi.

"Hey, man, nice costume," some mortal in a ridiculous squirrel outfit brayed at him. It was best that he responded in kind.

"Yes, fellow man, your foppish attire hides your grotesque visage. So it is nice too."

The kid nodded thanks, realized he had been dealt a backhanded insult by someone with a superior vocabulary, and decided to shut up.

Crackula looked around the milling crowd, saw no torches, no puritans, and relaxed. He gazed up at the red brick structure with warm nostalgia. He made it a point of coming to this house every thirty years. The very first Bumpires were born in this part of the world, back when it was known as Pantsylvania. Over the centuries, his kind had since been forgotten, and that was for the best; Bumpires thrived in the shadows of legend.

The mortals he had victimized three decades previous would no longer have him in their memory, so he was free to victimize the current inhabitants of this house, suck their precious butt essence - they would never expect a thing. Afterwards when he was satiated, he would attend his mother's shrine in the basement and commune with her spirit - she, Bumperella, the queen of his coven. With her unholy blessing, he would then return to his place of rest in the cemetery for another thirty-year-nap.

A fat young brunette dressed as a cake came to the door.

"Hi," she called, "don't be shy, Nosferatu. Come on in."

Crackula looked up at the front lintel, saw no garlic, no crosses, and followed the girl into the home.

The party inside raged without restraint. The boisterous youths who celebrated this ridiculous pagan holiday capered from room to room, some in costumes, others half-dressed. All were imbibing alcohol, some sort of acrid mead. No holy water here.

The guests were a mix of males and females, most of the early adult age range, all of the breeding range. The races were equally mixed here too, Crackula noted, which was a big difference from the last Halloween party he had attended at this address thirty years prior, when the white humans and the black humans stood on opposite sides of the room and talked shyly, if at all.

The fat cake girl offered him a red cup of alcohol. The cup fascinated him as it was forged from a strange non-organic material, and he had to search his memory from previous years to recall that it was something mortals manufactured called "plastic". How it had evolved!

"It's Witches Brew," she told him with a wink.

"I shall decline," he replied. "I am... a clergyman."

"Oh?" She grinned widely, perhaps not knowing what he meant. She exchanged the drink with another. "Well, here's one without alcohol. We call it Virgin's blood."

There are no virgins here, Crackula thought, ogling how scantily dressed all the females were, how bountifully their bosoms bounced. He drained the drink in a blink, tossed the cup, and asked Miss Cake, "Where is the lavatory, beautiful baked item? I need to... unburden myself." He couldn't remember what word mortals used to describe their filthy habits., nor did he care. She understood him regardless.

"Sure, it's down this hall, and there's another one upstairs."

"Show me," he commanded, using the trance.

An odd white light shone through her eyes, her pupils instantly dilated.

"Yes, master," she replied, as they all do.

Together, they walked a few yards down the hallway past men covered in bed sheets, past women who barely had clothing on, past all versions of devils, angels, and things of which he had no idea. He really had to come out of the cemetery more often than in thirty-year cycles; He was falling out of touch with trends.

She led him to a partly ajar door, and opened it for him, a gracious host. Inside the room sat a commode. He looked left and right to see who was watching, then pushed her in, then followed and closed the door behind them.

She was in the trance of the bumpire. He easily unbuttoned her cake outfit, let the lower half of it fall to the dirty, soiled wood flooring. She had undergarments under the outfit, pink and frilly, and so skimpy! The little scarf could barely cover her buttocks - so what was the utility in that? He shredded the stupid little thing off her butt cheeks, and stood back to admire.

Cakey was well filled in the bum department. Each of her ass cheeks were large fleshy tropical fruits, and as she stood slightly shivering under the bumpire trance, her hammy buttocks dimpled and quaked. Her front region held a small strip of brown pubic hair, and her legs were hairless down to her thick ankles.

He licked his lips.

Bumpires feed by extending a proboscis from their penile regions. He would insert this straw-extension of his phallus into her and draw her ass essence, or as his great grandmother the scientist called it, the gluteus primus. His victim would feel no pain, but over the next few days and weeks, she would fall into a fever, and when she finally recovered from a period of infirmity, her ass would be significantly reduced, having wasted away. It was a shame that bumpires through their feedings destroyed that which they loved so much.

Crackula bent the cake girl over until her long curls of brown touched the bathroom floor. Then he thrust his penile straw into her darkened star-hole. She was thick, and the pressure required to penetrate into her bowel was considerable. He willed his proboscis to slick up, and thus slid it into her with more ease. Discomfort registered over her face briefly, but the trance of the bumpire kept her subservient and quiet. Standing behind her, Crackula held her waist in his hands and pumped his penile straw in and out, in and out, harvesting her ass essence.

Over the centuries, he had learned to become a "minute man" because of the necessity to escape lynch mobs with torches, and so he only needed one turn of the minute glass to satisfy his needs. The young woman's fat side handles jiggled as he reamed her and rammed her through her rectum. Then, feeling he had taken the best she had to offer, he withdrew his long thin proboscis. It self-cleaned, and retracted back into his pelvis.

Rather than dress her up and pretend everything was normal, he merely sat her down on the commode. She sat obediently, her costume pants around her ankles. With her in that position, he began to fizzle into smoke and in an insubstantial state, he flowed out under the cracks of the door. His vapour roved across the floor and somewhere outside of the bathroom, he reconstituted into human form again. When Cakey awoke from the trance, she would be sitting on a toilet, and she would think that she blacked out there. None the wiser.

Standing in the kitchen of the old home, Crackula infiltrated a circle of youths gathering around the water spout, around a strange silver version of the ice cooling box. Awful sounds were emanating from a small plastic dome that read "JBL", but the youths seemed to like it. They think it is music, Crackula mused.

"Rad costume, who are you supposed to be?" A tall lanky blonde woman wrapped in bandages asked him. He regarded her up and down. She was aping the styles of the Boris Karloff mummy. Cute, he smiled. The people of this era certainly had a sense of humour. Mummy-girl had separated from her clique of peers and was filling up her red cup with water from the underground source. This is how she noticed him standing alone, as he admired the decorations in the kitchen.

"I am a bumpire," he answered her with a gracious smile, "from the ancient country of Pantsylvania."

The blonde mummy laughed. "Pantsylvania?"

"Yes," Crackula responded, and for a moment, a sad whisp of longing for the old country filled him. He continued, though his voice choked a bit. "Yes, Pantsyvania was a luscious land, where every mortal who walked the streets wore constricting pantaloons over bulging gluteus maximus." He translated his high speech so she could follow his meaning. "Everyone had tight pants over fat asses."

She laughed again. "Sounds great!" She joked, alcohol overcoming her shyness.

He leaned back to study her physiology.

"You would fit in well there, my blonde beauty," he complimented as he took in a generous eye of her posterior region. He could spy the treasure concealed under all that wrapping. Despite her slim torso, she filled her pants with generous amounts of ass cheeks.

This compliment made her blush and frown, and she looked like she was considering leaving him all alone in the kitchen. Clearly, she was not used to such directness.

How the world has diminished, Crackula reflected. In the wise culture of Pantsylvania, to be complimented on one's ass size was to be praised highly. No greater words could be spoken. But in this era, receiving compliments on one's physical attributes had become something of a stigma. He had noticed it spreading and festering over the decades, the silly belief that to be complimented on your ass size by random people was a negative thing.

This place was becoming unpleasingly puritanical, Crackula decided.

His own rumbling stomach woke him back to reality. He was hungry again for ass essence.

Seeing no one else in the kitchen at the moment (her clique had abandoned her, those fickle sheep) Crackula weaved his charm over the slim blonde, and enraptured her with the trance. She followed him lamb-like through the kitchen and into a walk-in pantry. Among the shelves of unknown food stuffs, he made her remove her wrappings from her lower region. She stripped in a daze, partially pulling down her slim, body-hugging black leggings. If the wrappings didn't allow her to strip, Crackula cut them in twain with his sharp index nail. Soon, she was unwrapped like the present she was, and her bandages, black tights and accompanying white cotton undergarments were resting on her ankles.

Blonde Mummy had beautiful buttocks that swayed as she shifted the weight of her stance. They weren't wide and blocky like her cakey friend's, but rather tear-drop-shaped. Her waist was slim, and so her hips tapered beautifully into her swollen rear end. He slapped it experimentally, and a wave of soft fat bumped briefly around her back. Mummy was tall too, about the height of a young willow before it became a tree, and so Crackula would have to find something to stand on to reach his proboscis into her anal zone. He spotted a crate of apples and pulled it to the floor, hopped up on it, and poised himself in the thrust position behind her. Her posterior was so slim and flexible, he couldn't help but be in awe of her. What grace. Too bad he had to suck it dry, but oh well, "there will always be beautiful asses, because there will always be young women." That was the creed of the Bumpire.

Thinking evil lusty thoughts, he pushed his flesh straw inside of her puckered asshole, and felt around with it. Warm inside but not such a strong spincteral grip, this one. He studied her brown eye carefully. No injuries. Maybe this one preferred her coitus to be anal, and so she was already sufficiently loosened up to foreign objects. He had heard of maidens opting to take a lover's phallus in the anus, rather than lose their maidenhood.

Stop getting distracted, Crackula had to chide himself. His time with this maiden would be limited, because kitchens were always a place of constant activity. He pushed himself up into her depths, feeling her inner heat, sensing the magic gathered within her. Feed me, he mentally commanded her, and she pumped her hips backwards to increase the in-out. Her hair swung in long yellow lengths, back and forth, back and forth. For novelty, he reached around her and cupped her breasts in his palms. They were small but firm, like cloth-wrapped apples.

She began to breath in hitches, and he recognized it as the human response called "panting". Strange, they don't usually pant when under the trance. Intrigued, he reached for her vagina and placed one long finger (the one without the sharp nail) inside her. The source of her panting became evident: She was consumed with lust! Somehow, despite the bumpire trance, this young woman had become sexually aroused, confirming his suspicion that she was - as is known in bumpire circles - a butt-slut. Having him intrude in her anus turned her on, and the liquid oozing from her womb was clear proof.

He grinned toothily. Well, well! Everyone was having a nice time tonight!

Blonde Mummy continued to pant and moan as she pressed her rump against his groin again and again. She reached up with an unsteady hand and held a pantry shelf for balance. He decided to really harvest this one, and pressed his straw in her deeper and deeper, reaching the resistance limit of her physical bowel. She groaned in pain, but also pleasure, and for a moment, just a moment, she looked over her shoulder at him, and he could see through the white shroud drawn across her pupils, see the real soul of her staring back at him, unashamed of her sex, overjoyed to be experiencing this physical domination.

At last, Crackula couldn't handle her fire anymore, and he had to withdraw his well-used proboscis, which smelled of her ass essence. She had fed him well, this young one. Would that every woman in this world have the longings that she did. He noticed as he retracted himself that he had left an abundance of fluid behind, the fluid that cleanses his member, and her little brown hole leaked with his traces of ectoplasm.

Satisfied, he decided to leave her where she was, exactly where she was, so the next person to come into the pantry would find her stripped down and ass up. That should make for an interesting evening.

With one last look at the fat cheeks he had just depleted, he evaporated himself, and let his smoke flow through the floorboards, into the basement.

The cellar of the frat house looked the same way it had for a hundred years. No war, no reconstruction, not even a man's workbench. The stuffy air moved little in the decades, and the bumpire could spot the earthen area where his mother's tomb lay undisturbed. Nobody came down here, possibly because the college students who lived here were too timid to venture into its eerie stillness.

"Hello?

That wasn't his voice.

"Hello?"

It was the voice of a woman. Footsteps. Heavy footsteps.

He self-vaporized, waited to see who was entering the lair.

A lone fat-assed woman dressed in a nun's robe came down the stairs, heavy step by heavy step. When she finally struggled down to the bottom step, she wandered his way, not seeing him in his smoke form, but sensing him somehow.

His appetite resurfaced again.

She was big, bountiful. He could see the contours of her lower buttocks clearly defined through the black cloth robe of a religious zealot. Could such buttocks be real? He wondered. She had two large lumps under her sackcloth, and they battled for supremacy with every step she took, wiggling left, then right, then left. Her top half had large protruding breasts to match, barely contained in the folds of the habit. Perhaps she wore a push-up, Crackula wondered, like the women of the 50's did, packing their breasts into uncomfortable wire cones.

The woman walked in circles in the basement, as if unable to decide what to do. Was she lost? Was she upset? He didn't care. Her butt was undeniably the treasure of the evening, if he had appetite (and room) enough to swallow her essence.

The ass was huge. He had to have it.

Crackula materialized with a poof of carbon-laced air and swept upon her, disturbing her lonely pacing. He reached out with the trance, seeking to silence her before she screamed... and felt not one, not two, but three minds!

"Get him!" The woman yelled at persons unseen, pointing in Crackula's direction. On her prompt, her lower gowns exploded outwards, and two little figures hopped onto the ground, clutching crosses and garlic in their clenched fists.

Impossible! A trap!

The two figures who ran at him were little dwarf men, also known as "midgets". The halflings surrounded Crackula on both sides. He couldn't escape or become smoke - the crosses they held bound him in place, the garlic they brandished disturbed his thoughts with its sickly reek, so much so that he couldn't transform himself into anything less substantial. All he could do was stand rigid in one spot and wait to be attacked.

The nun shrugged off her great black gown and threw it to the earthen floor of the cellar. There was her tactic made clear - she wore harnesses around her legs. The little half men must have been clinging to these harnesses, bunching their limbs up until they resembled little balls - or grandly large ass cheeks.

What a sucker he was, Crackula cursed. Taken in by the old "midgets under the skirt" routine.

As the dwarfs wound garlic-laced ropes around him and trussed him up, the nun continued to strip off her habit, throwing her head shawl and white neck piece down. Under it all, she was slim, lightly wrinkled, and black-eyed with fury. Her ass was flat, pancake flat. Her hair was white with age. She was wearing something tight, a black bustier made of leather. She had a cruel leather loincloth to match. Fastening straps dangled from it, particularly, in the groin region.

"Remember me, Crackula?" She approached him, wearing a wolf's smile. "You violated me thirty years ago on Halloween, in this very house, in this very basement."

He cast his memory back. 1996. Oh, yes.

"You were the one dressed like the dead crooner, the cheesy one you mortals call 'Elvis'."

He recalled how she looked that night - luxurious black curls of hair with motley false sideburns, her suede shoes, her purple velvet pants. Oh, and her vast ass cheeks. Now look at her.

"You've aged." Crackula noted simply. Aging was something he still didn't grasp.

She took the unintended insult in stride.

"Oh yes, I got older. And do you know what I was missing as I lived my life? MY ASS."

She strode closer to him until they were face to face, and the midgets restrained him in case he decided to snap fangs at her.

"I had a beautiful ass. It could have made me famous. Instead, it made me a freak."

She spun around and thrust her aged buttocks in his face.

"LOOK AT ME!" she cried.

He had drained her ass essence so completely, she was left with nothing but two hanging folds of skin where her buttocks should be. Her lower half resembled a towel rack with two limp flesh-coloured washcloths on it. Crackula flinched from the sight.

She turned around and faced him again, eyes flashing.

"Well, I did some research about what happened to me that night. I researched the life of other people who attended Halloween parties at this house, and recognized a pattern of how they suffered from 'gluteal wasting', as the medical notes put it. I did some historical dives, too. Facts about the Bumpires of Pantsylvania were hard to uncover - but I did."

As she spoke, she opened a leather case that had assumably been waiting for her in the basement. From the case, she pulled out a long length of wood shaped like a phallus.

Crackula didn't like where this was going. He tugged at his halfling-held restraints.

"The legends for vampires say that you need to put a stake of oak through their hearts to end their cursed lives," she confided to him as she held the wooden phallus down in front of her leather skirt and began tying it into place with the dangling straps. "It's a little-known, but similar, fact that to defeat a Bumpire, you need wood too."

She took her hands away from in front of her, and stood confidently. The long wooden penis dangled in its place, swinging from side to side. She made a motion to the midgets and they responded, turning Crackula around and making him face a large blue barrel (made out of that miraculous plastic substance!) which had been left strategically in the middle of the floor. In one long slow motion, the midgets bent him over the barrel.

She continued. "And slightly different from vampires, you don't pound your wood into their heart. You pound it into their..."

She paused for effect.

"... fart."

The bound bumpire frowned, and then got the gist of her meaning: she meant to put that thing in the place where he farted - his asshole! Furiously and vigorously, he tried to thrash himself free, but the little devils holding him thrust their garlic and crosses into his face and he was instantly tranquilized again. He lay there over the barrel, waiting, no longer able to see what was happening behind him.

He felt the dangling tails of his tuxedo jacket being unceremoniously tossed out of the way. Finally, he felt the thick wooden head nestling up against his petrified asshole. The vengeful old nun spoke to him from behind.

"Any last words?"

He considered this, and then summed it all up with the wit of a true Bumpire.

"I underestimated you mortals. It seems you got me in the end."