Hello again, this is my second story for Lit. I've tried to greatly increase my literary complexity (to my fill-in editor's chagrin ) and try for more eros and less down and dirty sex. I'm submitting this to the 2010 Halloween story contest so please vote, vote, vote.
I hope you enjoy,
-Edgar
*
It was an overwhelmingly sultry night in Louisiana. The kind were you couldn't quite tell the end of the sweat that made your clothes cling like a lover to your body and the beginning of the damnably hot, moist air.
On a little rise a scant dozen yards for a madly verdant swamp sat a ancient manor house. The kudzu wrapped tightly around the grayish brown skeletally dilapidated structure, fondling and strangling it.
Somewhere in the near inky blackness within, she sat. A high back antique chair, shiny black and throne like, stood on a stone slab allowing her unnaturally keen eyes a view of the cobweb strewn vaulted chamber. A single, massive crimson waxed candle stood sentry at her left elbow.
She was deathly pale, paler than the gibbous moon that waxed outside. Her raven hair nearly reached the floor as she reclined, ruling over her Queendom of one. Her eyes were oak brown with flecks of sea glass green. Her plump, full lips were naturally blood red, she needed no makeup. Behind those lips, hiding waiting, were two surgically sharp fangs. She wore a death black, lacy gown that trailed low, kissing at her ankles which were clad in similarly colored stiletto boots. Her massive breasts strained against her corset with an alarmingly low décolletage. Down the center of her corset from her cleavage to her sex was a row of tiny blood drop shaped ruby jewels.
She gave a feline stretch, feeling the soft fabric of her red garter embracing the mid portion of her right thigh, thighs that gently squeezed her bare sex.
It had been so long since she had a servant that she snapped her sharp, black nailed fingers forgetting that they were long gone. Her preternaturally sharp mind washed over the problem. Humans were such weak little insects. A few scant decades and they lost their usefulness. She pressed her thighs together once more, administering to a slight tingly ache. Their bodies grew weak, their beauty faded, and it hardly took many turns of the seasons before they no longer served... other functions.
Shaking her head imperceptibly she turned to the task at hand. She brandished a small curved dagger from the plinth the candle stood upon and swayed to the center of her chamber. Languidly pulling on the sleeve of her gown she bared her porcelain white wrist. She licked a fang and purred as she drug the blade across her wrist, the pain momentarily renewing the sensation between her thighs.
As the blood trickled from her sliced vain she drew symbols of power with exquisite precision on the marble floor. The letters were in her native script, which anthropologists of prehistoric Greece called "Linear A". She licked her wound clean of the excess blood and by doing so closed the wound. Her dark heart sank at the thought of the flow stopping, of the lovely sting subsiding.
