by Angela Allen
Before I could speak a word to her about my complaints, she uttered, “The complications that you lead yourself into with humans will cost you a pretty price. I am only trying to save you from your self-inflicted agony.”
Her quick words had preempted my anger. She was admitting her evil deeds before I could rightfully accuse her. That was rather tactful of her. I immediately realized that I was not dealing with childish humans in my anger, but with a seasoned vampire who remained my master.
I responded civilly, “Did not you involve yourself with the complications of humans when you protected me, only to poison me with your wicked blood and force me to become your mate?”
Abigail ignored my disrespectful question and searched my eyes for the truth.
“Is that your intention, to make this girl your mate?” she asked of me.
I answered, “And what if it is?”
I was ready for the challenge, to leave Abigail. We both realized that our full moons left together were numbered.
“I would first warn you that her love of you may not be as it seems.”
“My love of you was not at all solidified before you defiled me,” I reminded her.
Abigail looked at me with desperation and pity. She then grabbed my face in her hands and said, “Martelli, I care enough about your future to guide you away from the path that you seek, even when I know that it is your fate. Human emotions cannot be trusted.”
“So why did you trust mine?” I pushed her hands away from me.
“Because you were alone,” she answered. “No matter how many women you loved, you were still alone. So I trusted that you could accept solitude as a vampire, solitude with me as your only companion for life.”
“Well, I will have that solitude now with her,” I stated boldly.
Abigail breathed deeply, my words a great wound to her heart. She then backed away from me and looked defeated. I had never seen her look that way.
“I will weep for you, Martelli. I have loved you for a long time, and she does not.”
“Nonsense. You speak this only out of jealousy,” I told her.
Abigail shook her head in all sincerity and said, “No, I speak this out of truth. She is virgin blood, Martelli. And virgin blood cannot be mastered. It is too volatile, too sweet, and far too deadly.”
“What do you mean?” I asked her. “We have never tasted virgin blood before?”
“Never,” Abigail answered. “There are certain rules that are not to be broken.”
I knew that Ira was a virgin. I was attracted to her purity. I would be the first, and I would be the last. So I planned to ignore Abigail’s warning.
I said, “You have possessed me more than you have loved me. And now it is time for me to find my own true love.”
Abigail viewed me in silence before she spoke her last words to me.
She said, “You will now find that true love is the strongest possession there is, or has ever been.” And she turned to leave me.
As Abigail had stated, it was my fate to chase Ira. After all, Abigail could not hope to kill every maiden that I lusted for to join me in hell. My cravings for my own mate were inevitable. We both knew it. So I went out to seduce her that very night, and immediately I regretted my continued ignorance.
I could smell the heat of Ira’s blood before I had even reached the city. It was boiling and passionately reactive. The blood of a human could only react in such a way in its lust. So I transferred my attentions to the object of Ira’s desire, recognizing the familiar scent of Joseph, the guitar player. He had beaten me to the seduction, and I had been far too preoccupied with questioning Abigail to sense Ira’s betrayal of me.
I unleashed my fangs in the darkness of the night and flew up to the window of a cheap, downtown motel. And there, inside of the bedroom, Joseph tried his best to rob Ira of her precious virginity, and the powerful innocence that radiated in her virgin blood.
“Joseph. Oh, no. Oooh,” Ira moaned as she fought him.
His pink lips and hungry tongue devoured her ready breasts. Her perfect brown nipples slid in and out of his mouth.
“Oh, Joseph. I am not ready,” she whispered in confession.
Joseph complained, “Then why do you continue to tease me?”
It was confirmed. Ira had made the boy her love slave.
He then spat, “Are you ready for him? Martelli? The photographer?”
I awaited the answer myself and listened to the truth of Ira’s heartbeat.
“I don’t know,” she told him. She was still undecided.
I felt a touch of despair in her lack of connection to me. It was my own fault. I had not spent enough time with her. And I had allowed her to slip out of my sight while my enemy for her affections continued to live and prey upon her.
I vowed to myself that I would never make that mistake again.
Joseph said, “But you do know that you love this,” and he began to suck her breasts with more recklessness.
“Oooh, yesss,” Ira moaned to him.
I allowed myself to smile. The boy was quite ravenous himself. I had a new respect for Joseph now, even though I would soon kill him.
He told her, “I love you so much, my dear Ira. I just can’t stand to see you with anyone but me. And I would give you anything to love me.”
The heat the two of them produced was the strongest I have ever witnessed. Human blood had no limitations; it was alive and self-replenishing. And virgin blood was the most radiant type. Abigail was right. The smell of it alone drove me to near insanity. So what would its taste drive me to do?
“Pleeease, Ira. Pleeease,” Joseph begged her.
His lips and tongue licked farther down her belly toward her moist cave of treasure.
“Joseph. Joseph,” Ira continued to moan.
However, she no longer possessed the strength to fight him. He had won her over, and was near her point of penetration.
“Ooooh, yessss,” Ira moaned again, while desperately grabbing the sheets with both hands.
Her defenses were depleted. And I could take no more.
I broke through the window and took Joseph into the air by his neck, sucking the heated blood from his vein as lustfully as he had sucked the blood-boiling skin of Ira. Joseph cried and whimpered in vain, like the helpless boy that I imagined him.
Ira watched me in my vile attack of Joseph and let out a scream of horror with all of the power in her singer’s voice.
Time was of the essence. I discarded Joseph’s drained body and immediately jammed my blood-stained tongue down Ira’s throat to stop her from screaming. It was an act of desperation. I sucked the loose blood from her mouth and consumed it to stop her from drowning. I then filled her sweet insides with my masculinity to show her the full capabilities of a lust-filled stroke.
And as I began to stroke her in her panicked silence, I could feel the warm looseness of her virgin blood running rapidly from inside her legs. Without full control of my senses, and in the blissful heat of desire, I sank my teeth into her soft neck and tasted her addictive virgin blood for the first time, sucking it from her more violently than I had intended.
And, oh, it was so sweet, so sweet, so sweet, that I forgot my own demonic strength and sucked out all of her life before I could share my vampiric blood with her to make her my mate.
I looked down at her and panicked.
“Ira? Ira?”
Immediately, I opened up my veins to feed her my blood and reawaken her to the dark side, but it was too late. She was no longer alive to feed from me.
“Nooooooo!” I screamed, only to invite her band members into the room. They had used the shabby hotel as a brothel for the many women whom they would entice.
“Oh, shit! That’s Martelli. What the hell is he doing?”
“Hell, look at his teeth. He’s a vampire!”
I was so distraught over Ira’s death that I had not bothered to hide myself from the human witnesses. I would now have to kill them all or flee for my l
ife. But I chose to flee with Ira in my arms, believing that I could bring her back to life with more effort and patience.
So away I flew to my house with her to try in vain to bring her back from the dead. But I was no Frankenstein. And I wept on my knees at my new loneliness. For I had lost Ira without the reality of her love, and I had lost Abigail, who really did love me.
The Addiction
Abigail had been selective enough with her prey to dwell amongst humans without much of an uproar from them. But I had undone in one insane night what she had been able to maintain for decades. And our house, hideaways and all of our belongings in New Orleans were sought out and destroyed in a mad search for us.
It seemed that I was indeed still the young fool in need of prolonged training. However, Abigail was no longer there to provide me with it. And as she had foreseen, after tasting the sweetness of virgin blood, there was no going back for me. I could no longer stomach the taste of idiots, or whores or mistresses and their masters. So I left New Orleans in haste and settled down in the warm, tropical paradise of southern Florida, a haven for Catholic schoolgirls who were taught to give themselves only to their husbands.
It was a virgin oasis, particularly rich with Spanish girls whose parents were fresh off the boats from Puerto Rico, the Dominican Republic and Cuba. I altered my look by cutting off my dark curls—a tedious affair, because my hair would grow back quickly as a vampire—and I began to wear stylish glasses and the flashy clothes of a gigolo. I got a new gig as a producer of pop music.
Everyone wanted to be a pop star in the new America, and as I had learned from my experience with Ira, the sexiest of young maidens were forever being pushed in the direction of adored invincibility, an invincibility that often included abstinence. Young boys, with their possessive control, were dangerous walls of jealousy to any girl’s quest for stardom. Even deadlier was the powerful seed in them that forced untimely pregnancies. So I allowed myself to become the trusted interloper, hinting of homosexuality to dull the senses of overprotective managers and family members who might serve to block my goals of seduction.
Oh, yes, in times of increased human technology and advancements, it was a means of mere survival that a vampire adapt to more serviceable lifestyles. So I learned all that I could about the creation and engineering of popular music in an effort to continue producing songs of seduction for the sweet, heated blood of virgins. But by the time I had settled into my new life and routine in Florida, fate once again caused me to flee for my life. For I had unknowingly chosen the wrong family to prey upon.
“Oh, I just love that song so much, Poppi,” Samia Vargas crooned into my ear at my recording studio.
Poppi Groove was what they all called me in the music industry. It was a catchy name, particularly for the Spanish population that was so plentiful in the various counties of south Florida.
I looked up into Samia’s beautifully tanned face, and I could already envision her strong, young nails digging into my back and shoulders as I stroked her and sucked her sweet blood. Even the smell of her breath was sweet, a mixture of rice and beans with pineapple soda.
“I made this one specifically for you,” I told her.
Samia playfully smacked my right shoulder.
“Stop playing me out, man. You didn’t make that for me.”
“No, seriously, I did. I know what you like now,” I told her.
“Well, it sounds like a perfect heartbeat or something,” she commented.
I smiled with all the innocent charm of a gay man.
“Don’t you find heartbeats to be sexy? I know I do. Heartbeats speak the truth,” I stated. “And we all want that, don’t we?”
“I know that’s right,” Samia responded. “There are way too many liars out there. And they’re all out to try and get your funky goods.”
The girl stood close to me in blue jeans that were so tight they restricted some of the circulation in her blood flow. As a homosexual man, I could tell her so without much alarm from Domino, her career-managing older brother.
“Speaking of funky goods, I think you could stand to wear some looser jeans to move around in a little more naturally,” I advised the young pop singer. “And hasn’t anyone ever told you that tight panties can lead to yeast infections? That’s why I try to wear nothing but loose-fitting, quality briefs, if anything.”
Samia laughed, right as her brother Domino reentered the room. He would take frequent breaks away from us to smoke cigarettes or talk business on his constantly ringing cell phone. He was a well-crafted young man, who had covered much of his muscular body in colorful tattoos of gang affiliation.
He stopped to listen in on the organic party beat that I had created for his little sister.
Boomp-boomp—boomp/Boomp-boomp—boomp/Boomp-boomp—boomp/Boomp—boomp.
With the added guitars, horns, cabasa and thunderous hand claps, the full song production was certain to impress an excited crowd.
Domino looked at me and nodded his approval.
“Yo, that shit is hot, man. You keep it coming and I’ll keep the cheese on you.”
“The cheese is well accepted,” I responded to him from my producer’s chair.
Samia gave me a touch of breathing room away from her well-curved and virtuous body. As I continued to age, it seemed that more young women were gaining delicious curves.
Domino looked toward his sister a spell. “And stop talking that gay shit to my sister, you hear me? You might start giving her freaky ideas and shit,” he warned me.
“Whatever,” Samia snapped back at him. However, he was serious. I could read it from the stillness of his heart and the evenness of his scent. He was a killer. Yet, he could never kill as many as I had. So I had no fear of him.
He looked at me again and said, “Yeah, that was fucked up what happened to that singer Rochelle in that airplane crash, man. That’s why we’re taking nothing but tour buses to travel. I’ll have that motherfucker fixed up, man, and spray-painted with a bunch of hos on there. But no airplane rides for my little sis’. Fuck that. She’s too valuable.”
I smiled and nodded to flatter him. I had not much to say about Rochelle. She was another virgin prospect that I had produced hit songs for. And her shocking plane crash was not by chance. That is all that I am willing to say about it. I was relieved when Domino’s cell phone rang, breaking his attention from my recent tragedy.
“Hold on,” he told us. “Yeah,” he answered. “Who? Naw, man, I told his ass not to do that.”
He walked out of the studio, leaving us alone again.
Samia rolled her eyes in his absence.
“He’s such a fuckin’ hypocrite,” she hissed to me. “I mean, he can have girls over at all times of the night, but I can’t even have a boyfriend.”
I smiled at her. These were the conversations I longed to have with young maidens.
I said, “It’s the old double standard at work. And it’s been the same for thousands of years. The promiscuous woman is a whore, and the promiscuous man is a stallion.”
“Well, what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” Samia informed me. She quickly looked back toward the door to make sure that he hadn’t heard her.
I knew that she had not been able to explore much on her own. Nevertheless, I was curious to know how wide her imagination could wander.
“Oh, well, do tell,” I told her. “The more juice I have on you, the easier it is for me to custom-make songs that will fit you to a tee.”
Samia grinned, her heart racing with passionate secrecy.
“You mean you would write a song about my secret boyfriend?” she asked me.
I faked surprise. “Secret boyfriend? I thought that I was your boyfriend,” I told her.
My flirtation shocked Samia more than I expected it to. She gasped for air. I guess I gave young maidens more credit than they had earned. The ease with which I was able to seduce them had always surprised me. Then again, youth was indeed wasted on the ignorance of the innocen
t.
She said, “Oh my God, that’s so embarrassing.”
“What’s so embarrassing?” I asked her.
“I mean, if you weren’t…you know.”
“Gay?” I asked her.
She was too bashful to even speak it.
“Well, yeah. I mean, some of my girlfriends were even like, ‘Girl, if he wasn’t…’ you know.”
“Gay,” I stated again.
I found a certain pleasure in her queasiness about the assumptions of my sexual orientation. For although I preferred the blood of women that I found to be attractive, I had devoured the blood of just as many men, if only to keep a balanced flow of energy that held masculine edge. Even her brother, Domino, was attractive to me in that way. His macho blood was quite strong.
Samia remained giddy in her revelation to me. Even as a gay man, I had managed to slither into her sexual daydreams. I could even smell her funky goods, as she called it, beginning to moisten during our conversation. But it was not funky at all. It smelled rather tasteful and sumptuous. And it had gone untouched by others.
“So, you find me to be attractive as a man?” I asked Samia bluntly.
She could no longer bear to even look at me.
“Well, that’s…I mean, that’s pretty obvious,” she answered.
I said, “Well, I’m flattered. And if I were straight, your brother would definitely not leave me alone with you to make our music. Because I would surely jump your bones and suck them dry like a greedy fat man at a barbecue grill. You are just that sexy.”
Samia laughed as hard and as loud as she possibly could. She had no idea how literal my comment was to be taken.
“You are crazy, man. Loco! I could hang out with you anytime,” she told me.
And when she touched me, she also told me that I would be allowed to kiss, lick and softly explore her if I chose to do so.
Domino reentered the studio once again and stared at us. He was completely sold on my homosexuality. He deemed me utterly harmless to his sister. And my genuine attraction to his vibrant fervor only helped to sell my role to him. For I did like the lad, almost as much as I liked his sister. However, Domino was far from virtuous.