The Power of Blood - Sex Stories

The Power of Blood

Beginning in ancient history, layers of myths have been wrapped around the truth about my kind; darkest mysteries and unspeakable horrors have been whispered in the darkness of the night until nobody living was able to discern truth from lie, and now only the mention of our name brings fear and nightmares. It is that fear that cloaks the nature of our existence and keeps us safe, keeps me safe. The Principis, they used to call us, the first, the founders. But today, they call us vampires, blood suckers, the undead. I throw back my head and laugh, tears leaking into my eyes, and put down the cheap vampire novel I had ordered through the internet. I can only take so many hypnotized humans, stakes through the heart and cross-wiggling, garlic-hung heroes before my tummy aches too much. “You’re not reading another one, Janice?” Griselda inquires from high above me. “They’re better than ten TV comedies together,” I state, a little defensive, even though I should know that she’s only teasing. “Are you going to spend all evening up there?” “Don’t know yet. That depends.” The old wrought iron chandelier sways gently back and forth, and she giggles. I can’t see her face. It’s covered by her pink skirt, which, in her upside-down position, exposes all of her neatly shave slit, but it’s - and I chuckle when I notice how fitting the image is - beneath Griselda to care for such trivia. “Depends on what?” I ask, pouring myself another glass of Merlot and wondering if someone turned up the ...

... heating. Then I take a sip; the disappointment that the red liquid isn’t blood hits my taste buds like a storm wave, and I know that it isn’t the heating. “Whether you’re hungry enough.” One of her pointy ears wiggles. My jaw clenches. “I’ve got quite some time until I need to feed,” I lie through my teeth. I can already feel the heat rise between my legs. Griselda is not an idiot, and she has the same accurate sense of smell as I. I don’t even know why I bother. “Well, five minutes can be quite some time,” she tells me with obviously fake conviction and jumps down onto the low mahogany table, the fabric of her pink summer dress rushing through the air and settling immaculately around her lithe, pale body. She’s been practicing that for decades. “I want to watch you.” Her cherry-red lips pout sweetly. I turn my face away from her, feeling another kind of heat spread there. “Feeding is intimate for me,” I protest. “It’s not something that needs witnesses.” Even while I speak, I fumble with my cellphone. Now that I’ve acknowledged the hunger, it roars to life like a wild beast and makes my fingers shake. “Where are you going to meet?” “I won’t tell you!” I snap back, ignoring the hasted typos that are staring at me, and press ‘send’. “Oh, the clinic. How kinky!” Sometimes, she annoys me greatly. But she’s the only one I have, and I can already feel the other hunger rise, the by-product, the secret, the part of me that, if it ever became common knowledge, would be my undoing. ...