Blood and Sex

CHAPTER 1

The man was shabby but determined. He looked like a punter: a man ready to pay for sex. The way he hurried past the younger prettier whores suggested he did not have much money. The older ones came away from the wall enticingly.

He spoke with one and the conversation ended in a slap. Another shook her head. Looking around desperately, he saw one in the shadows. She had a short red skirt and a red wig, but her face was not clear. As he got closer, he looked and hesitated. She must be in her sixties at least.

He asked her, and she replied. He shook his head. She asked him. His reply was obviously not to her liking, but she shrugged and took his hand. His shoulders slumped, but they went into the alley.

About ten minutes later another woman came out of the alley. Maybe forty, but well preserved. Blonde and in a short blue skirt. She went off briskly.

Both women were me.

The punter was lying dead with his throat cut, and I felt much better. In a few hours I would be myself again.

It had been a long time since I had drunk blood, so it had been wonderful to drink my fill. I had aged more than ever before, and had grown weak, so it was hard to restrain him. It has to be a living human -- we don't know why. Don't think we haven't tried animal blood, or tried to store it. Nothing else works but the blood of the still living.

So I couldn't kill him outright.

A knee to the balls, to get him down, then the first cut to the throat. After the first gulp I felt a little stronger, but he nearly threw me off before I got enough power to master him. When he was unconscious but still alive, I was able to take all I could before finishing the job with my little knife, to make it look like a frenzied attack rather than the careful bleeding it was. I took his wallet and phone to make it look like robbery, of course, but threw them both in the river after taking the few notes. I have had plenty of practice, so got almost no blood on my clothes. I used the red wig as a part shield and left it in the alley.

I may be a vampire, but I don't bite.

Too likely to get mentioned in the press, and the last thing I want is to draw attention. And if you bite you risk converting them. The Count taught me that. Having new vampires running around would also draw attention. He was very careful to enslave or convert only when he wanted. We acolytes just needed to drink blood.

I had been standing on that street for ten nights, feeling weaker every time and getting more and more scared. Times were hard, and more desperate women were out. A few more nights and no-one would have wanted to fuck me, and I would have been unable to take blood by force.

I had already made a couple of friends amongst the oldest ones, lying (like them) about my past. If I had not had my punter, I would have had to take one of them in the alley and hope I could manage a sudden slash with my knife to get enough to rescue me. Not fair, but my survival was above all.

According to Dr Van Helsing, when someone becomes a vampire, they lose their soul, and thus all morals. We have no regard for anyone but ourselves, going through our undead existence only in search of our own satisfaction. What today they would call a psychopath. We are simply incapable of feelings like love or affection. He said we are not even evil, just not caring about the death and pain we cause. I am not so sure. I think I have a little feeling. I am sorry sometimes. Not much, but a little, though it does not stop me. I don't know if the Count survives, but I think he was or is evil.

Thinking about it now, I had been quite selective about my victims, maybe not consciously. Few women and never a mother with children. The greatest number had been robbers and rapists, attacking a defenceless looking girl. At least three were murderers. One was a man who married for money then murdered his wife. It was assumed her family had cut his throat.

There were also old men living alone, wife and children dead. They often knew what I was and were grateful. Not wishing to live, but believing that suicide was a sin, they had time with a pleasant young woman, reminiscing, before giving up their life gratefully. It was always a cut, not a bite, and I promised I would not convert them.

Now, with luck I could manage for up to six months, though I would be trying for blood after three months when I could still behave normally. After that the aging would begin, and the blood lust start to rise. By morning I looked like the nineteen-year-old I was when the Count converted me.

I moved to another city and found a job serving in a bar. I've had a lot of practice in those sorts of jobs. I use my sexual attractiveness, but I never have sex. I cannot get pregnant and I can't catch disease, but I don't want it. Perhaps it would remind me that I am undead. Sex is for life, so is not for me.

But I feel alive in a different way. I relish the sexual power I have over men, knowing that their hopes will never be fulfilled. I act like a weak woman, but I am physically stronger than any of them. I like women but am sorry for their short burdensome lives. They are pleasant to me but there is always something holding them back from me, possibly an unconscious fear. They can perhaps sense something that men do not, or perhaps they are less distracted by my apparent youth and sexuality to see the darkness inside. I still drink from them, sometimes, but only from those who want death or deserve it. Mostly.

Or from the less deserving when my need is desperate, as it might have been that night. I was sorry for the man. I would have been more sorry for the whore. But I would still have done it.

And drinking the blood -- I need it to live, but it is also what I live for, that wonderful feeling when the life force comes into me, as it leaves my victim.

CHAPTER 2

It had been different in the old days with the Count. We had willing blood donors then. That is how he had converted me, coming each night for a little sip. He had such power, and the feeling was better than sex, so much better! A thousand times better. I had not had sex since that time.

I grew weaker and paler, and my parents were worried. Then I suddenly looked and felt better. That is when the vampirism had taken hold. I helped him take my sister, and we shared her blood each night. Later we travelled with him, inveigling young men hoping for sex with us. Mostly we feasted and the men died that day or in a few days. Occasionally he converted one.

A bite is not necessary, but I think it is how the disease (if that is what it is) is transferred. We can drink from an open wound made with a sharp knife, and someone who is bled does not become a vampire. The count knew when he wanted to make another one, and would make sure his saliva went into the wound. I think the saliva also had something to do with the ecstatic feeling that I and my sister had had. Once we had been converted, it was much less and our blood was no use to him, but he sucked us occasionally to keep us satisfied. I had not had that feeling for fifty years, unfortunately.

When things were going well, we had a big house with an estate and many loyal servants, each of whom was bled regularly, but not enough to make them too weak. (Plus the occasional lone traveller we killed, of course.) He was a real Count, though when we first met him, he was pretending to be his own great-great-grandson.

We do not live on blood; it is just a sort of regular medication we need. We eat and drink and breathe. It is true we do not like bright sunshine. Our eyes are much more sensitive and we can see in dim light much better than mortals, which gives us an advantage of course when hunting at night. Our hearing is also much more sensitive.

Crosses mean nothing to us.

But garlic. That is a problem. It is not poison: it is just repulsive to our sensitive noses, like the stuff they put in meths to stop people drinking it. How many men have unknowingly saved their lives by what they ate before a date with me!

The Count had decided to travel with my sister to England as husband and wife. He did not love us, but despite what Van Helsing said, I think there was some feeling, so he did not entirely abandon me. We were just his devoted slaves, of course. We had to obey him; which in my case meant staying behind because he told me.

He left me in the Crimea where a war had just begun, and I discovered my profession. I was introduced to a strange young woman called Florence Nightingale, who had started a hospital with volunteer nurses from England. As the Count had realised, every day there were bleeding men, and it was not hard for me to take a sip while dealing with them, staunching the flow. Some were hopeless, so at least got a kiss from a pretty nurse before they went unconscious. I drew the screens around and took a good drink. But at the same time, I became a good nurse. I was fortunate in having no fear of infection which killed many of the men, but we tried our best to maintain hygiene. Apparently Miss Nightingale's obsession with cleanliness was quite unusual in medicine.

She reminded me of Van Helsing in the power of her intellect, though I was afraid she might discover my secret. Fortunately, she was busy and convinced of the power of science. I wore a cross, which might have helped.

My English was limited, but there were also injured Russians, as Miss Nightingale took both equally, and I was useful to help with them. One of them, a chaplain, recognised what I was and begged me to kill him rather than make him a vampire. As he was unlikely to survive, I gave him his wish.

The Count was clever, and had done his best for me. When I later heard about Jack the Ripper in London, I guessed he was covering up the blood-letting by mutilation. I met him again about eighty years later, and he told me that their feeding had led to stories of a vampire, so I he thought of mutilation as a distraction. However, they mainly fed near the river, where they could dispose of the bodies of people who would not be missed. He had two new female slaves and a manservant. I never found out what happened to my sister. Then he was off again.

It was an exciting life. Working as a nurse or in a bar, posing as a prostitute, sometimes just tricking a vulnerable man (or taking advantage of a woman), and in emergency just overpowering someone while I still had the strength, I got the blood I needed. I tried not to kill, if possible, only because of the trouble it caused. Stunning or tying up a man before taking blood from his arm or leg, and bandaging it afterwards. Ideally a married man, or someone with a position, who would hesitate to tell such a ridiculous story. And not biting, of course.

CHAPTER 3

The twentieth century was wonderful. There was decadence, giving opportunities for sexual perversion. Declaring myself a vampire and wanting to drink blood caused amusement, and offers to prove it from foolish young people. I actually got some voluntarily by so-called 'bright young things' showing off to their friends. I just had to restrain myself not to take too much from an individual. They were disappointed that I did not bite, and so did not suspect the truth.

But best of all were the wars! I travelled around from conflict to conflict, changing my nationality as necessary. I could do many languages well enough. Often there was a dead nurse I could impersonate. However, I knew what I was doing and there were few questions asked when a new nurse turned up at a busy field hospital and set to work immediately. I saved many lives and gave comfort to many more. The hardworking pretty young nurse in her blood-stained apron.

Despite my lack of a soul, I somehow felt good about this.

It was during the Great War that I met the man who was the nearest thing to the love of my life (for a pair of unfeeling psychopaths). He was an Englishman named Steven, a surgeon, and a vampire. We recognised each other at once, and became partners. It was convenient for the handsome surgeon and pretty young nurse to sleep together, as this kept others away. At least, they tried to seduce each of us, which was nice, but we had a reason to refuse as known lovers. Sometimes we pretended to have sex. Being undead, he was as incapable as I was.

Yet it was enjoyable in a way. Just pretence, but how it might have been. Did we have a little of our souls left?

We went to other areas of conflict and sometimes natural disasters. There were plenty of those in the twentieth century.

We both received bullet and shrapnel wounds, and treated each other, which saved us from close examination by medical professionals. A wound which should have been fatal we could describe as a lucky near miss. Sometimes we had to move on, and change identities. Otherwise the rapid healing and lack of scars would invite inspection. Our eternal youth was another.

Again, in some confused area of conflict, the arrival of a surgeon and a nurse was welcomed with very few questions. Speaking a language with a foreign accent meant we had less risk of being caught out.

Eventually I lost him near the end of the Second World War. We can recover from some major injuries, but a shell can be too much. He was blown into many pieces.

CHAPTER 4

In England in peace time I eventually found myself as that ancient whore on the street. I do not know what would have happened if I had not managed to drink blood at that time. Would I have crumbled to dust? Would I have been picked up and taken unresisting to a hospital, where I would progress to my true age, but not die? I don't know and did not want to find out.

Garlic! That was the problem.

For most of the twentieth century, England was largely garlic free. They had an aversion to foreign food. The sexual revolution in the sixties allowed more bondage, and men were attracted to the idea of a vampire mistress. But usually only once or twice, when they realised it was more than a game to me, and they began to wonder. Of course, they were rational, and didn't believe in such things, but they did not come back.

Yet with cheap foreign holidays, the English got used to foreign food. And with immigration, there were many more ethnic restaurants. By the beginning of the twenty-first century, the English lost their hatred of garlic. I did not.

Cheap low-quality food was rendered 'tasty' by the addition of spices, including that vile vegetable. Almost every packaged food, even traditional English ones, might be tainted. I could tolerate some, but a strong smell was too much.

It was getting harder to find a victim whose breath did not make me sick.

After that incident I managed well for many years, but then had a run of bad luck.

Once again, I was getting old and desperate. A whore past her prime.

The police kept moving us prostitutes on. They were friendly, but firm. One even offered to buy me a meal in a nearby garlic-ridden eatery.

I found a corner where there were no other girls, and adopted the pose.

Eventually a car stopped, and the man wound his window down.

"Good evening," was all he said. There was a bit of bad breath, but no garlic.

There was always the chance that one or other of us was undercover police. He didn't ask, and I didn't offer, at least immediately.

"You ain't no cop," he said, seeing my apparent age. "And you ain't no spring chicken. But there's no-one else about. Thirty quid my final offer."

I got in, and he drove a short distance to a cul-de-sac by a derelict industrial estate.

"Thirty quid," I whined, as someone like me would do. "Forty without protection."

He got his wallet and hid it from me, pulling out the notes.

"Thirty bareback. Take it or leave it."

I took it, and got out.

I swiftly pulled off my panties and leant against a wall with my skirt up, smiling invitingly. He stood in front of me, and dropped his trousers and pants. As he came forward, he must have seen my aging face better and recoiled.

It was just at the moment my knee should have hit his balls, so it missed.

"Fucking bitch!" he yelled, and punched me in the gut, which affected me more than it should in my weakened state. As I sagged, he threw me onto the ground.

"I don't want to see your face; you ugly bitch!" he shouted, slapping me hard.

I was too weak to resist as he rolled me onto my front, and pinned my arms. Then his cock was in me.

"Struggle all you like!" he said as he began to thrust. "It's better! And you're going to get such a beating afterwards!"

I was truly frightened. With no blood and a beating, would I survive? And if I was taken to hospital, what would they make of me?

I struggled, but it was no good, apart from exciting him.

He groaned as he came in me, and let out a torrent of abuse, as I lay helpless.

He just lay on me for a while.

When he pulled out, I instinctively clenched my cunt, and had feelings there I did not recognise. A feeling of power and maybe satisfaction. No man had been inside me since before the Count.

I pressed down with my hands and jerked my back up, easily throwing him off.

It was only moments before I sank my teeth into his thigh. He struggled for a bit, then relaxed as my saliva must have taken effect.

The first mouthful of his blood was bliss! With each gulp I felt my strength returning. I drank quickly, before grabbing his hand and placing it on the wound.

"Press hard!" I told him, and he obeyed in the little trance I had seen so often with the Count.

I got his belt and made a tourniquet. I don't know why I didn't let him bleed out. Perhaps it was all those years as a nurse, or maybe I did have a few moral qualms. I thought I had not converted him, just temporarily enslaved him.

I got his phone and called 999.

"Ambulance. Man with severe bleeding to femoral artery. Tourniquet in place. Seward Road by the disused industrial estate."

I hurriedly left, and went back to my flat.

By morning I was young again.

Next day and the day after, I looked in the local newspaper in the library, but there was no mention of the injured man.

CHAPTER 5

It was the blood which had given me the strength, of course, but how had I managed to bite him? It was probably just desperation.

I had an idea which was too good to be true. Somehow the blood of a living person had some kind of life force. Sperms were by definition a life force. Had that little drop actually given me some strength? Could it be medication for me? It would certainly be easier to get for an attractive young woman.

I was mad between hope of an impossible dream, and fear that it would be dashed.

But I had to try it.

I went to a bar I had worked in for a while. I had moved on when I started to look older.

"Hello, Rita," said the permanent barman. (It was one of many names I had used.)

"You're looking well," he added.

"You too, George," I responded. "How's Sally?"

"She's moved on," he said, polishing the bar unnecessarily. "No girlfriend at the moment."

He looked hopeful.

There was no-one nearby, so I leant forward and spoke quietly.

"How would you like me to suck you off? I think I owe it to you."

He was surprised, but didn't argue.

After getting the other member of staff to mind the bar, we went into the back room, where he gave me a good mouthful. Even in the mouth, I could feel the tingle of the life-force coming into me, and slowly moved it around before swallowing. The effect was just like blood! And I wanted more.

"Can I be your girlfriend?" I said and he agreed.

Fucking worked as well, and I made sure that I got every sperm he could supply. I covered my vagina as he left me and kept my hips up until it had all been absorbed. I also licked his cock afterwards.

It was great! I could survive without blood! If only we had known this before, maybe vampires could have lived without this terrible need and would not have killed so much.