Chapter One
The Girl in the Library
I wouldn’t have met her if it hadn't rained. A spring thundershower swept over the campus. It was the kind that appeared from nowhere, to come and go in a noisy, drenching rush. I arrived at the main library of the southern university where I teach right as the storm hit. Inside, I killed time by wandering aimlessly among the various departments. I remember hearing a deep and lingering roll of thunder while I idled in the children's books section and thought of the bowlers from Rip Van Winkle. In the periodicals, I watched rain roll down the skylight in a solid sheet. The burning odor of disinfectant from the bathrooms in back made my eyes water. Presently I found myself in the lowest level, a space reserved for the oldest and most arcane books.
And there she stood.
Red hair, bright against the rows of dusty and densely packed volumes, caught my eye. The diminutive female under it occupied the top platform of a steel ladder, the heavy-duty kind with wheels for rolling up and down the stacks to reach books on the high shelves. She stood on tip toes, stretched as far as a five-foot, two-inch frame allowed, where a yellowed leather bound volume stubbornly remained a couple of inches out of reach. I took in a whiff. I filtered out the artificial scent she wore and concentrated on those nature gave her. She exuded the aroma of a healthy female near mid-cycle with a trace of cinnamon in her personal scent.
She was also not a vampire.
* * * *
I had almost finished my last prey—a prostitute I found on the coast eleven months ago, a tall woman with a young face. I first caught sight of her leaning against a street lamp on a breezy summer night, adjusting something on the heel of her shoe. I weighed the option of having her for sex only (as I never end a young life unless absolutely necessary), but when we arrived at her place, in full indoor light, the makeup smeared thickly on her face to cover the wrinkles and rough skin texture told me she was pushing fifty. Without an exchange of civilities, she unfolded a Murphy bed, flopped across it on her back, and unceremoniously spread her legs.
“Come on,” she snarled, sounding oh-so-much different from the sweet girl I met outside, “I ain't got all night.” By destroying the anticipatory fantasy I built around her, instead of a profitable and possibly enjoyable sexual encounter, she ensured herself a quick end.
I coldly surveyed the prostitute’s open legs with black stockings up to mid-thigh. They hooked up to a matching garter belt, sheathing the twin columns of custard white flesh, which came together at a black triangle of hair. From within the hair, glistened a yawning pink cavity of flesh. She had already grown moist, a fact I knew because vampires can smell a female’s arousal salivations almost before she knows she is making them. They give good indication of desire, as well as overall health. For Diedra, arrayed before me, the news wouldn’t be good. Besides untreated gonorrhea, she had an emerging case of hepatitis. Neither condition affected me. I presented a wide grin in no way meant for her heart. My eyes projected sensuousness—suggestive of another, darker, motive. Ignoring the warning signs, she pressed ahead. She could not have avoided what I planned to do anyway. The musky smell of her exposed sex filled the room as she rubbed the heel of her palm across the length of my shaft.
Her eyes widened in surprise. “You are a big boy,” she said with apparent admiration, although there was no telling for sure. Hookers pay a lot of phony compliments in the daily plying of their trade. I’m used to it.
“It goes with those lovely large hands,” she added.
I put my hands under her hips to position her for penetration, the dimpled flesh of her ass warm and pliable. She raised wide hips and a well-defined pelvic cradle toward me, offering it as if it were a valuable gift I should appreciate. I entered her unceremoniously, in return for the way she spread her legs a few minutes earlier, sinking into her hot passage as far as anatomy allowed. I felt the burn of a wet internal fire. With each thrust I reached deep inside, exploring the nuances of her female cavity, and felt the muscles weakly massage my cock. She uttered faint gasps, building toward the obligatory, most likely false, orgasm designed to expedite my climax and complete our transaction.
As our bodies slapped together, my groin tightened with building tension. Wave after wave of, as yet, ungratified pleasure gathered throughout my body. My muscles strained with urgency, like a locomotive pulling its train of cars to the top of a summit.
“Do it,” she gasped between snatches of breath. “Do it!” I reached into her as deeply as I could and found release. She appeared to drink in the savagery of my orgasm. If she faked it, she did a darned good job. As she threw her head back, exposing the full length of her neck, I went for the jugular throbbing faintly beneath the tight skin of her throat.
The scent of her arousal racing at supersonic speed through her bloodstream inspired my morph. Her eyes widened when I grew a few inches taller, accompanied by a crunching sound in my joints as bones expanded to accommodate the new growth. They sounded like cracking knuckles. Red pigment filled my eyes. The change of skin color, to something like old parchment, contributed to the effect. Fangs shot down from my upper jaw, appearing out of nowhere they always got the prey’s attention and inspired the most fear. It never ceased to amaze me how much strength a human mustered when they realized all the tales were true and incautious disbelief would be their doom. But I was stronger, and when the sedative from my saliva hit the bloodstream they quieted down in a hurry.
For the most part, kills were no longer the bloody scenes the movies portrayed. We naturally produce trace amounts of a chemical in our saliva. A powerful sedative called Kutzu, named after its discoverer, a vampire, Anton Kutzu. In 1909, he invented the compounds we take to stimulate its production in practical quantities. He also perfected its use in preserving prey and shared the knowledge with as many of us as he could find. His accomplishment revolutionized the hunt for prey and saved our kind.
* * * *
As I said, I had almost consumed my last prey. I continued to check out the young woman on the ladder and debated my options. My last three kills came from various locations on the coast. Going back a fourth time might garner unwanted attention. Laura Teague, a former exotic dancer and recent widow of a prominent attorney, topped my list for local prey. I previously screened her, an ideal candidate without family or complicated social ties, but she left town on an extended cruise to spend part of her new inheritance. My choices narrowed to a hunt on the coast or exploring possibilities with the girl on the ladder.
Normally I checked out a female from the top down, pausing at the usual places, but given our relative positions I started from the feet. She showed perfect symmetry from the ankles to the shoulders. Her legs and arms were a uniform creamy golden texture, the color of tea lightened and thickened by a lot of milk. Two small feet in tan loafers stood together on tip toes. They came out of the shoes, showing a smooth curve of arch, like a diver poised on the edge of the high board right before she flips into the air. Above them, legs the people who mold the mannequin legs for Victoria’s Secret might have shaped. Two inches below her butt cheeks the hem of a white denim miniskirt made an abrupt horizontal cut, precluding further visual exploration. The denim skirt stretched tightly across slim hips and a firm behind. The girl worked out.
Letting my gaze drift farther up, I observed a small waist that I found myself wanting to span with my two hands. Her reaching caused the white chiffon blouse to come unpinned from the waistband of the skirt, revealing glimpses of midriff and the underside of small firm breasts standing erect without the assistance of a bra. I contemplated adjusting my position to get a better perspective for visually exploring the wonders hidden above the hem but thought better of it. I had made up my mind to know her better in the vampire, if not the biblical or social, sense and did not want to blow it by getting caught peeking up her skirt.
This turned out to be a smart move because suddenly she whipped around and overlarge almond-shaped green eyes glittered with aggravation from beneath fiery hair twisted in a coil above her head. They suggested the aloof self-assurance of an animal. Something feline, I thought. Her clean features included a straight nose, except for where it turned up at the end, a wide mouth with thin red-painted lips in a small, oblong face.
She stood, small tan fingers clutching the rail of the ladder platform, and leaned toward me. I caught a glimpse of cleavage before she abruptly straightened, realizing what she put on display. “Are you going to just stand there or help me?” she demanded.
_
© 2010 - 2014. All rights reserved and no exceptions. All personal works on this site are the exclusive property of Mike Arsuaga. Work may not be transmitted via the internet, nor reproduced in any other way, without prior written consent.
© 2010 - 2014. All rights reserved and no exceptions. All personal works on this site are the exclusive property of Mike Arsuaga. Work may not be transmitted via the internet, nor reproduced in any other way, without prior written consent.