~My first submission to Literotica is a short story I wrote for a friend. It is a vampire's search for his eternal companion, the one with whom he will spend eternity--and her initiation into his erotic world. I hope you enjoy this as much as my friend did. Feedback is always welcome so I can improve my writing skills for your pleasure.~
Being a vampire is even more than it’s cracked up to be. I must laugh, but it is the truth. Forget moldy coffins, stinking crypts and slinking in the shadows in clothes more suited to a production of the Three Musketeers than the modern age. Real vampires do none of those things. We adapt. We must. Vampires have evolved into chameleon like creatures able to acclimatize quickly and seamlessly into whatever age they live in. I own Jaguar, a Porche, and two Harley’s. My computer equipment wouldn’t make Bill Gates envious, but it was top of the line and updated on a regular basis. I am a wealthy man, and live a life most only dream of.
Nor do we have to feed every night, or drain our victims to the death to sate our hunger. The human body contains approximately two gallons of blood. Two gallons, my dear readers, is a great deal of blood, far too much for any one creature to consume in one sitting.
There are, however, several truths about vampires humans did not mistake. We are nearly immortal, and we are lonely. Our kind is rare. The making of a vampire by another is a rite considered so extraordinary, so great a gift, no vampire would ever share that gift without a great deal of forethought, planning and careful consideration. From the first vampire—whoever they were—to the modern age, all vampires were chosen for their beauty, intellect, strength of will and mind. It takes a rare, rare human to become Vampire. Insanity is not an option. The fledgling must be able to sustain centuries of loneliness and solitude without going mad. They must understand, above all things, the great and wondrous gift they have been given, and the consequences of sharing that gift with one who is unworthy.
The woman standing over my bed was young, only nineteen, and a runaway. Tara’s father had molested her and rather than wait for him to complete the final act of incestuous rape of her virgin flesh, she had chosen to run away. She’d not remained a virgin long on the streets of L.A., where I’d found her six months later. By then, she’d been a crack addict, and a whore. I’d picked her up, taken her home, and made her Mine. Her will was mine.
But lest you think I am a cruel bastard for stealing away her choice, believe me when I say her life was far more pleasant under my care. She is clean and sober. She had the pool house as her personal domain, as well as use of the pools (three of them) Jacuzzi, my cars, and personal gym. She slept on silk sheets every night, ate the finest of foods, and dressed in clothes from the best boutiques and shops on Rodeo Drive.
All I ask of her in return is that she kept my house running smoothly, and saw to my personal “needs”. She is a whore, yes, but she is a well paid whore and serves only one master now. When I was done with her, I would put into her account a generous sum of money, memories of having been a wealthy man’s personal secretary, a burning desire to make a decent life for herself. By the time she was thirty she’d be a college graduate, perhaps with a fiancé or husband, and children. But for the moment, she is Mine.
She is everything I preferred in a woman. Her body, though slender and honed from hours in the gym, has firm, round breasts, a slender waist, and a tight, well rounded ass. Her legs were long and well formed. I have always preferred red heads and her long hair is a beautiful auburn to set off her blue eyes and pale skin. She is no raving beauty, but trips to the hair dresser, salon, and gym have made her a woman men turned to stare at on the street.
“Unbutton your blouse.” I lay on the bed staring up at her, unmoving.
Her tongue snaked out to lick her berry hued lips. Her hands were unhesitant as she reached up to unbutton the white silk blouse she’d chosen this evening, something modest. I preferred modesty in a woman. That did not change. Today’s fashions were nothing less than sleazy and too revealing. They cheapened the female form rather than enhancing it.
Already I could see her firm nipples pressing against the material, a lovely rose hue. The scent of her sexual excitement is heady in the quiet room. The sound of her breath is soft, eager, and ragged. Hunger rose up inside of me, pressed against me. It felt as if my stomach were trying to crawl out of my backbone.
I tamped down the hunger. Victims were always so much more engaging when aroused. Whether it is from terror, or the heart pumping excitement of sexual need, the blood was always sweeter when the body had reached a peak of excitement. At over five hundred I was no fledging to rush the moment.
When her blouse had been unbuttoned nearly to her waist, she dropped her hands as if commanded. Slowly I reached up and pushed aside the material baring her left breast. The material caught her nipple, scraped it, and her slight gasp made a half smile touch my lips. Carefully I brushed my fingers over her hardened peak, and her eyes glazed even more. Her auburn head fell back and a soft moan erupted from her throat. The scent of her arousal grew stronger and I knew moisture flooded her cunt at my touch.
For several agonizing moments I toyed with the distended nipple, caressing it slightly, then with more pressure, until her breath grew sharper. Slowly, I brushed aside the other side of the blouse, took the already rigid tip in my fingers, and pinched it so gently it might have been a dream. Tara cried out. I saw her knees tremble. Her eyes were closed, body taunt and aching with need. I increased the pressure slightly and pulled the nipple between my thumb and forefinger.
Her knees started to buckle and little whimpering cries came from her. “Stand!” My voice was barely above a whisper, but that was all it took. She braced her feet and stood.
The scent of her pussy was growing stronger, a musky sweet scent I knew well. I removed my hands and shifted my body on the bed allowing the red silk sheet to slide down my well-muscled, naked chest to my waist. Her eager eyes went to my still limp groin. I was not yet hard. Though desire thickened my tongue I could not achieve an erection until I had taken blood.
“Lift your skirts. Higher.” Her hands moved down and lifted the straight, navy silk skirt, baring the hose with their black lace tops, and the black satin of her garter, then higher to the black satin and silver embroidered garter belt. She wore no underwear. She never did in my presence. Her beautiful pubic hair was a soft, brown-red, waxed close and neat. I preferred some hair, but not in excess, or no hair at all. Already the pinked clit peeked out from the folds of her, hard and aching, glistening. Her thighs were damp with her arousal.
I reached out with my hand and touched the engorged tip with the end of my forefinger. She moaned and her hips gave an involuntary twitch, trying to get closer. Her eyes were heavy lidded; her lips were glistening from her constant licking, full, lush, and partially open. Her thighs started to part for me, barely a movement.
