Damien strolled through the streets of New York like he owned the whole bloody night. And, in a way, he did. On the hierarchy of who’s who when it comes to being feared—right up there with the most notorious gangsters, the ones who rob without a second thought and have nothing to lose, the thugs and serial killers—Damien sat firmly at the top, the ultimate predator.
For centuries, spring had always been his top season. The gory asphalt wasn’t sizzling like a branding iron, and even the rank stench of rubbish in places like Queens wasn’t too much to handle. Winter, though, was a right pain—people wrapped up in layers, hiding everything. And in a time where everyone’s obsessed with plastic surgery, you couldn’t just trust a face to know if the blood was fresh or not.
He didn’t need to feed every night. He’d learned how to manage his energy efficiently and had become a master of rest and recovery. It was pure lust that dragged him out every night, a craving he never even tried to tame. He gave in to it, loved the thrill of temptation and the pleasure of delaying it, followed by that ultimate satisfaction.
Damien promenaded down Fifth Avenue, that famous Manhattan street where the glitterati strut their stuff and the designer shops practically beg you to part with your cash. He flashed a grin at a stunning redhead gliding towards him, her waist encircled by a much older, wealthier bloke. Their eyes met—hers were big, brown, and full of mischief, framed by fiery locks cascading over her long, green dress, which was styled with a posh fur collar and killer stilettos that could pierce the heavens. Just as he was about to pass her, a wobbly drunkard crashed into him, barely managing to stay upright. To anyone watching, Damien disdainfully shoved the stinking man aside, his nose wrinkling at the alcohol fumes wafting from him. But come the next morning, that poor sod would find “I am a wretched soul” scratched into his skin with a sharp claw, kicking off his lovely new journey into sobriety with AA.
Damien sauntered into a café with a name featuring so many Xs that it was practically a tongue twister for anyone not well-versed in the art of pretentious branding. He settled at a table for two because, unlike today’s youth, he firmly believed that a gentleman should always be gallant and wait for his date like the fine chap he was. He ordered a glass of water, the only thing besides blood that his immortal body could stomach without feeling a bit queasy.
She arrived shortly after, and naturally, he’d chosen his literary agent based on her looks—one must have their priorities, after all. To his pleasant surprise, she was not just a pretty face; she was dedicated to her craft, more than capable, and had enough respect for the authors she worked with to always show up on time.
Linda ordered a pea latte—whatever that was—and then started discussing his latest book. He wished he could muster even half of her enthusiasm for his own writing. For the past two decades, he’d taken on the role of a vampire saga author, a gig that surprisingly sold quite well. For some mysterious reason, vampires were all the rage, especially among the younger crowd, so this cover job was lining his pockets nicely, even though he hardly needed the cash.
Her décolletage was an invitation he intended to decline gracefully. They’d already shared a bed once, though, naturally, she had no recollection of it. Rarely did any girl catch his interest enough for him to go back for seconds.
Damien didn’t need to glance at the clock; he had his own precise timekeeping system that was primarily designed to wake him at dusk and ensure he slipped back into his dark lair before the first rays of deadly sunlight crept across the city. The fact that he could pinpoint the time to the minute was merely a delightful bonus. So, he knew it was time to make his excuses, offer one last charming bow, and make his exit.
In a short while, he had a proper date lined up. He felt a stirring desire, and his stomach let out a soft growl, reminding him that even immortals could be a tad peckish.
Damien hopped into a taxi and had himself whisked off to Queens. Though he usually preferred the thrill of hunting his prey under the cover of night, sniffing them out and gently wearing down their defenses, he occasionally enjoyed letting his quarry slip away for a bit. He’d let them experience a moment of relief, convincing them they’d found a way to escape, only to reappear and finish what he’d started.
As a young vampire, he savoured the taste of those final drops of blood, relishing the moment before the lifeless body crumpled to the ground. However, that often led to the tedious task of hiding the body, so apart from the odd indulgence he allowed himself now and then, Damien was generally not one for taking lives.
Tonight was different; tonight he was in a hurry. He’d thrown caution to the wind and even gone so far as to set up a date online with one of his fans. Her name was Leona, and in her gothic garb and dark makeup, she was adorably naïve, even though—or perhaps because—she tried so hard to play it tough and aloof. They met in a dimly lit bar that wasn’t half bad for Queens, but in Damien’s day, raised as a noble in the fifteenth century, he would never have set foot in such a dive.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” she gushed. “The one and only Damian Von Bite!”
She leaned in closer, giving him an enticing view of her ample cleavage. He could hardly wait to sink his fangs into that. When he had chosen his pen name, he could never have guessed how successful he would become. He couldn’t resist his penchant for irony and sarcasm; the name Von Bite was as shallow and straightforward as they come, so unlike the enigmatic creature he truly was. It was a mask behind a mask. Perfect.
She devoured him with her eyes, as he was accustomed to. He didn’t possess the conventionally handsome features of male models or poster boys; instead, it was his inner charm, charisma, and innate dominance that played a crucial role—qualities that women and girls found hard to resist. This allowed him to conserve his talents for manipulation or even hypnosis for those moments when he wasn’t thoroughly enjoying the thrill of the chase and hunting.
“On your blog, you say you love blood,” Damien remarked. “Have you really ever tasted it?”
She defiantly lifted her chin, but then hesitated. In the way he looked at her, she realised she couldn’t lie. So, she lowered her gaze and shook her head. There was a hint of embarrassment, and the rosy flush on her cheeks suited her rather well.
“Blood is sweet with a hint of bitterness, it has a metallic taste.”
She stared at him wide-eyed.
“You’ve actually drunk blood?”
He grinned confidently.
Her pupils dilated with excitement. The large, full breasts he watched with intrigue seemed to swell with every breath she took. Her nipples stiffened under the silky red fabric.
“Each part of the body has a slightly different taste,” he explained. “Naturally, it’s easiest to drink straight from the artery. The tastiest blood comes from the wrist; it’s refreshing and light. I’d say it has almost a fruity flavour. Blood from the neck is earthy, and I think, the most intoxicating. You can drink from the thigh, of course, if you prefer heavier scents and flavours. Do you know where I like to drink the most?”
She sensuously licked her lips. Yes, he enjoyed biting into lips too, but there was hardly enough blood there; when Damien sank his teeth into lips, it was because he’d lost control in the heat of the moment.
He lowered his voice. It was hoarse now, dark. Mesmerising. For a moment, he let the facade of a boring New Yorker slip away, and ravenous cruelty flickered in his eyes—an insatiable ferocity of the night monster that kills to live.
“Warm, bubbling blood straight from the crotch is the best,” he said, enjoying the look in his eyes, which widened in horror. “I bite off both nipples first and let the blood run down my face, I don’t lick it, I don’t drink it. I let the blood mark me. Then I taste the clit. That little peak of pleasure…”
“What the fuck…” she said, disgust on her face.
“But one doesn’t get satiated from the clitoris, does one. When the vagina is well blooded…”
“You’re an asshole, really,” she said, rattling her chair violently until it clattered to the floor and walked away.
Damien watched the looks of amusement from the other guests, who watched this act of his companion with curiosity. He didn’t have to look to know that the crazy girl, all in black and with dramatic makeup, had run out the door, angry, scared and disgusted. Pretty much definitely herself, too.
He slowly stood up, adjusting his lightweight black cloak with a flick of his wrist, pulling the silk sleeve of his shirt just enough to peek stylishly from under the coat. He perched his hat atop his head, one he only donned when he fancied reminding himself just how long he’d been strutting about this world. With a swift motion, he pulled out some cash from his pocket and, along with a generous tip, tossed the notes onto the table. He gave a slight nod to the patrons, who rightly took it as a sardonic reminder to mind their own business, before striding off with a leisurely gait in pursuit of his prey.
She sprinted through the night, dodging trash and junkies sprawled across the filthy pavement in their drug-induced stupor. Damien stood there, a hedonistic grin spreading across his face as he watched her desperately flee. A few times, she glanced back, and he could tell she’d caught sight of him, for she let out a frantic scream—one that any ordinary mortal wouldn’t have heard at that distance. He allowed her to run; she clearly wasn’t one of those fools ambling about the streets, headphones in, jamming to that dreadful music that made Damien’s eardrums ache. Only then did he make his move, his speed so swift that the human eye could scarcely register his motion.
Out of breath and on the verge of collapse, she found herself face-to-face with him. He shed the civilised mask of the charming, sophisticated gentleman and revealed the beast within, showcasing the bloodthirsty monster she had so foolishly idolised in his shallow novels.
His face was truly that of a devil; his eyes took on a crimson hue, and his cheekbones and jaw became more pronounced. He looked far more like the handsome chap from magazine covers now, and even more like a predator, with that murderous gaze and lascivious hunger twisting his lips into a contemptuous sneer. Then, he parted them to reveal two long, white fangs, poised and ready to devour the life-giving blood.
It was hard to tell whether it was exhaustion or sheer terror that made her collapse into his arms. With a swift motion, he tore away her dress, grasped her by the wrists, and began to dance with her on the filthy streets of the New York suburb. It was a dance he had once performed in his former life; he led with practiced grace, and she, eyes glazed and locked onto his, followed his every step.
He watched with delight as her big, firm breasts swayed, her hardened nipples rudely jutting out towards him. He took in the curves of her bare body, the gentle rise of her belly, and her neatly shaven mound. He never had a preference for whether a woman’s crotch was trimmed, shaven or natural. What fascinated him far more was the fact that, as he well knew, she had freshly shaved her legs just for him, and he could still catch the faint scent of shaving cream lingering in the air.
“First, I’ll taste an apple pie,” he said as he sank his fangs into her left wrist. She flinched in pain, but he held her firmly.
“Please,” she moaned.
He took both her breasts in his hands and squeezed gently, the nipples growing even darker as they engorged. He wasn’t going to hurt her, he wasn’t going to injure her. He enjoyed her boobs, they were firm, yet very soft and smooth. It would be a shame to destroy them. He sucked her nipple into his mouth and she moaned again, this time there was definitely pleasure in it besides panic. He knew exactly how much sensation and how much pain to apply to the nipples to make women go wild with pleasure.
He noted the way she gently moved her pelvis, subconsciously offering herself to him. Her eyes were still bulging with terror, but his sensitive nostrils caught the arousing scent of her desire-dampened pussy well. He let that cute little hole of feminine pleasure fool around for a while longer. He played with her nipples, sucking and pinching them in his hands and she squirmed in his arms, exposing her throat to him and he couldn’t resist tasting it gently.
He gently extended his claws, scratching her teasingly as he traced his hand lower down her belly, watching her eyes shift as the realisation of his intentions dawned on her. There was desire within her, but she was smart enough to know well; the terror in her gaze intensified.
“Tell me,” Damien growled sensuously, “do I have the consent to kill you to feed myself? Do I have your approval to fuck you good and hard first, to enjoy your slutty cunt for my own pleasure before I feast upon your blood?”
She shivered. There was longing in her eyes. Those eyes, boldly framed in black pencil in adoration of the pop cult of death, were bulging with terror, and that terror mingled with the lure of desire.
Finally, his manicured fingers wandered up to her wet, eager pussy. He gently ran his forefinger over the pussy lips, gently parting them, but he didn’t listen to her desire and slide inside.
He continued the game he had chosen for that evening, for this occasion. Just for her.
“I need to hear it, babe,” he said. “I want you to tell me that the blood in your veins is only pulsing so I can get my fill. Tell me you’re alive just so I can feast on your cunt. I want to hear that your life is nothing compared to my shameless desire to savour you and I have the right to take, violate and kill you as I feel like it.”
“Yes,” she sighed. Tears welled up in her eyes. She thought of her parents, whom she would never see again. She thought of her younger brother, whom she would never accompany to his soccer game. She’d always liked sex, but the inner fire, the desire that was growing in her womb right now was unlike anything she’d ever experienced. It was stronger than any trivial desire for survival. It was more powerful than the will to live. “Take me. Taste me. Desecrate me. My blood is yours. My life belongs to you.”
Finally, he spread her legs, then unzipped his pants, pulled out his big, fat dick and rammed it into her. First he gently teased her with the top of his cock on her swollen clit. She moaned in pleasure, accepted him into her, grabbed his butt cheeks, and lustfully pushed him closer to her to get his penis as deep as she could.
“Your worthless life finally has meaning,” he whispered to her as he fucked into her. “Tell me you want nothing more than for me to drink deeply from your throat. Whisper one last prayer and speak the last words of life.”
Tears flowing, she sobbed, all the while clutching him closer to her.
“Oh, God,” she cried. “I am nothing if I am not your food. I don’t want to live if you should be hungry. Feed yourself. Fuck me and stuff yourself inside me. And please, I beg you, start drinking my blood at last.”
With those words, Damien burrowed into her warm, throbbing jugular. He did it gently, yet she shuddered with pain and pleasure. Her fragile girlish body was hurtling toward climax, and if her maker heard her pleas, it was to be the last and most powerful orgasm before she would be at the mercy of darkness and death.
Her body shook mightily with the climax and Damien, sated, could not resist and indulged in his own ejaculation. He squirted the immortal monster’s cum into her, fine, thick splashes of lust that came from the hell that had unquestionably created Damien.
Gently, as one ought to with a lady, he laid her on the ground and dressed her in whatever remained of her torn clothes. Then, leaning over, he caressed her flushed cheek and waited for her to open her eyes.
“When I snap my fingers, you’ll forget everything that happened tonight. You’ve never met me, you don’t know who I am, and you’ll stop reading that dreadful trash, understood?” She nodded, exhausted. “Instead, you saw a cute kitten tonight, but it ran off after scratching your neck.”
Tears welled up in her eyes again, but this time she smiled.
He left her there. Damien’s internal clock told him it was getting late. There was no time to play the part of an ordinary New Yorker stuck in traffic. Instead, he took off at his supernatural speed.
By the time he reached his duplex penthouse, there were only minutes until dawn. He quickly sat at his computer and re-read the email from the woman who had promised to find out what had happened to his mother. The price was steep, but that didn’t concern him. He’d had six centuries to come to terms with the fact that his mother had abandoned him without a word, and he never heard from her again. Was it wise to dig into such old wounds?
But he already knew the answer to that question. He clicked “Reply” and requested the payment details to transfer the deposit, proposing a meeting for the following week.
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