The Fair Vampire, Part 2

“The Fair Vampire, Part 2”

         “One only hears the clock tick when one is doing nothing.”

         Renate snapped around from the long, cobweb-laden grandfather clock she had been staring at for five days. Her long golden hair swung in her face. The master stood smirking in the threshold of the banquet room, arms crossed, leaning casually against the door frame.

         “One only watches one listen to a clock tick when one is an asshole.”

         He uncrossed his arms. “Come here.”

         “No,” she replied, glaring at him, not feeling the need to say more. He knew why she was angry. They had been lovers for nearly one hundred years. If he could not understand her mood by one word and one glance, he could go to hell.

         The lovely young man named Jonathan was gone; he let him escape. Let him escape! Let him scale the castle wall! Unbelievable. The master could have kept him at the castle for their amusement, for all to share, but he did not.

         The argument occurred immediately following her discovery of the young man’s absence. Her two beautiful dark-haired sisters-in-blood were on their daily hunt. They were good, docile girls who rarely fought with the master. Renate loved them desperately. Renate’s fights with the master were often over some young thing. But the master had long-term purposes for this one, this guest he had kept in a corner room of the castle for all of May and June. What his purposes were, Renate had no idea. She was not concerned with the long-term. She rarely gave a damn about anything more than her next drink. She thought in the here-and-now. Immediate gratification.

         And so when the master allowed the young man she had nearly drained whole to escape the castle, she was not pleased.

         “You stupid son of a bitch!” she shouted. “I left some of him for you. If I had known you planned to set him free, I would have devoured him entirely. I was trying to be nice.”

         “You? You were trying to be … nice?” he said with heavy sarcasm. It pissed Renate off. She slapped him hard, and wondered fleetingly if it would have hurt him, stung him even a little, if he were alive. She supposed it would not have. The master was incredibly strong. He would not be here now, as the world approached another centennial, if he had not been a mortal of unusual intensity.

         Rather than anger him, she saw by the look of desire on his face that the slap had instead aroused him. She should have known it would. He had seemed to be in a constant state of arousal from the moment he first appeared those many years ago and stole her dead body from her newly dug grave.

         “What should I do with you,” he said, rubbing his slapped cheek thoughtfully. Renate could not tell if he was asking himself or her. She stared at him, at his short, wavy black hair tinged with gray; his exotic, inexplicably boyish features and regal, almost too pretty cheekbones; his quiet green eyes that glittered despite the utter lack of conscience they reflected; his lithe body. He was at the age he most preferred, somewhere in the late thirties to early forties. Feeding enough to regress his age to his twenties would wipe out a small village, and he had told her on many occasions that, regardless, he did not like to gorge himself in that way. He told her it made him feel like an animal. She had countered by asking him what exactly he thought he was anyway, a monk? That was the beginning of yet another fruitless fight.

         He grabbed her arm and yanked her to him, her fair hair close to his dark hair, her mouth close to his mouth, her bared fangs close to his bared fangs. He then surprised Renate by abruptly releasing her and walking over to the elaborate head chair at the end of their long dining table. He sat in it heavily and patted his knee. “Come here,” he told her, tilting his head mischievously.

         Of course, she did go to him. She was rarely able to say “no” to the master and mean it. Sitting on his lap, she slid her hand between his thighs and began to gently caress his cock. She leaned up and kissed his neck. “Why did you do it,” she whispered into his ear, softly licking it as she spoke. “Why did you let him return to England?”

         He turned away from her and toward the dining table. “I am very thirsty just now, meu soţie,” he said, and reached for the bottle of fresh peasant blood that sparkled on the table underneath the ancient chandelier, dense with the hot, dripping wax of chunky white candles. He leisurely poured the blood into a large gold goblet. Renate watched intently, instantly excited, as it fell, drop by precious drop, into the ornate cup. He lifted it to his lips and took a slow, deep drink.

         Renate reached for the goblet as soon as he sat it back down on the table. He pushed her arm away. “No,” he said. “You have been naughty.”

         “I am always naughty,” Renate spat back.

         He half-smiled--as much of a smile as he ever allowed--and dipped two of his fingers into the blood. They glistened dark red as he lifted them to Renate’s lips. She leaned in to suck them. As she moved closer he lowered his fingers steadily downward, teasing her, until she was forced to kneel on the floor between his legs to reach them. Finally his hand stopped. She quickly filled her mouth with his wet fingers, sucking them eagerly as he thrust them down her throat.

         “Este dulciuri?” he asked. Renate could hear the need in his voice despite his obvious attempt to hide it. Bent over and sucking more and more fiercely, she nodded that yes, it was very sweet, indeed. The taste of even so meager an amount of blood--and blood lapped from his fingers--caused her body to ache with pleasure.

         She stood and straddled him on his chair. The look in his eyes was primal. He hastily tore away her gown, and, taking the goblet, he poured the thick blood over her firm breasts. Her nipples became taut immediately. She arched her back as he ravenously sucked them. Renate spread her legs wider and wider, as wide as they could go, and unfastened his trousers. His thick cock filled her pussy, and she pumped first slowly, then faster and faster as he chewed at her nipples with the tips of his fangs.

         His mouth was filled with her wet breasts when she grabbed his hair and pulled at it hard. Her pussy constricted around his cock, pulsating intensely. She was pleased to feel his mouth convulse in pleasure around her nipples. Her pussy tightened and expanded in relentless swells of orgasm around him as he feverishly bit at her stomach, her nipples, her neck, her mouth. Her mouth and pussy felt so good and sore that she could not do anything, not even think, not anything but sway back and forth in his firm grip and whimper. She felt him come hard. She shoved her fingernails into his back angrily as if to own him.

         Renate blinked, trying to push the memory out of her mind. “Come here,” the master was ordering her again, as he had also ordered her on that last day of June, that day Jonathan escaped. But this time she looked away from the grandfather clock, directly at him, and said “no.” He had gotten away with explaining nothing by fucking her too well. She was not going to let it happen again. Today she would make him talk first.