by F. G. Adams
But again, it’s not my reality. Personally, not my forte. I prefer to dominate with no strings attached. I’m not looking for something that will never happen. If Marcus hasn’t found his mate and he’s centuries old, what are the chances of me finding mine? I will never again wish for things that are not within my reach.
Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate the kindness Marcus showed me the last two hundred years. Although the simple fact is, I’m an Enchanted Immortal Vampire, a night dweller with no chance of having a real family like the Necromancers and Shifters.
At times, I have pondered why we were created. Yes, we are keepers of Earth and help with the balance for humans. Enhanced Immortal Vampires watch over the night. During my time, I’ve had to kill supernaturals and humans. I’ve always been able to escape and conquer my foe, except on one occasion. I’ll never forget it. I was attacked by four rogue vampires shortly after being created while I was still considered a fledgling. The prospect of my immortality coming to an end when it had only just began … that was something I couldn’t fathom. Out of nowhere, Marcus appeared and rescued me, our innate connection bonding us. I realize that our relationship is more than master and servant; we share a bond intertwined by blood. And, for the next century, I never left his side.
Yet, thinking of where I was before and where I am now, I will not complain. I’m grateful, even though I missed my mother and Ana terribly. That was the hardest part of my turning. They had to believe I was dead. Again, my reality. I watched over them from the shadows. Ana married a wealthy shipmaker and had six children, three boys and three girls. Mother lived many happy years watching each grandchild grow. At their deaths, I took on the responsibility of caring for our lineage. It grew harder and harder as the children-turned-adults died—no one left to remember me.
Dipping into the curve of the road as low as my bike will allow without crashing, I speed through the night. Pushing the boundaries, always living on the edge, is my constitution. I can’t be killed in the normal human fashion, so I ride hard, live harder, and play the hardest. Always at the extreme.
Getting back to the city, I find my home, Dalca Towers, and roar into the parking garage. I psych myself up for a night of debauchery. Parking my bike, I proceed to the elevators as I peel off the layers of body armor.
I nod to the doorman as he opens the elevator for me. “Thanks, Mike. How are you this evening?”
“Good sir. An excellent night for a ride,” Mike confirms.
“Yes, it is.” I nod with a smile and wait silently beside him as we ride to the top floor.
Mike’s been with us now for about fifty years and doesn’t look a day over twenty-five. I study him as we ride the elevator up to the penthouse. Like the rest of us, Mike is built like a linebacker or a tree trunk, some might say. Ripped muscles hard as stone with keen senses: smell, sight, hearing, strength, and speed. Our bodies change once created not just on the inside, but the outside.
We’re virtually indestructible. The only way an Enchanted Immortal can be killed is a stake to the heart in order to stop the blood flow, followed by decapitation, then burning the body to ashes.
When I first looked at myself in the mirror after I woke up, the man staring back at me had similarities, but vast differences. I gained almost six inches in height, which put me close to the seven-foot range. The already-defined muscles I had from working at the shipyard became even more prominent, more powerful. My body was huge all over—not exactly in the bodybuilder way, but close enough. It was amazing how different I was everywhere. No longer a boy, now a man … no, not a man: an Enchanted Immortal Vampire.
Thanks to urban mythology and new age literature out in the world, people today perceive Enchanted Immortals as horrible, menacing beings, glamorizing only bits and pieces. So far from the truth. Then again, the glittery, sparkling vampires which started as a book series and became a box office hit are somewhat correct.
As an Enchanted Immortal Vampire, we can go out during the day, but we don’t sparkle. However, most choose not to because of the caustic burns that plague us if we do. Not a pretty thing to see or get rid of. Our bodies will heal; it just hurts like hell, and I’m not a fan of that kind of pain. Still, it’s not unheard of for a vampire to walk through Central Park during the daylight hours—under the cover of the canopy of trees, of course. One of the many companies we own developed a way for vampires to be in the sunlight without burning. Another invention Marcus’ reign has benefited Enchanted Immortals. The protective gear that’s been created for us helps us to acclimate and life is a little easier when going outside. I never leave home without it.
All Enchanted Immortals require blood to survive. We do not kill our human donors. Again, that’s an urban myth that, maybe at one time many centuries ago, was practiced. The drinking of another’s essence is a very sensual act. The donors that we do find out in the human world draw great pleasure, heightened orgasms over and over during the feeding, and in the end are none the wiser. The saliva in our mouth has a healing property, so we leave no holes behind.
Another sensory embellishment is the power of suggestion over a human's mind. When we feed, we leave a positive memory of the whole encounter. The knowledge of what transpired is never remembered. Just one more way of ensuring we stay a secret.
At the same time, all Enchanted Immortals can share blood, however it’s not the life-sustaining blood we need to exist; only human blood has that property. If an Enchanted Immortal decides to share his or her blood with a human, the recipient is given extended lifespan, is healed of diseases, and experiences more attuned senses. That’s one more reason I share my blood when necessary with my kin.
In regards to the Vampire legend that we can’t eat human food, we actually can and do, upon occasions that require it. Food, however, is tasteless to us, like the plastic fruit sold in stores. They look original and as tasty as the real thing, but pop it in your mouth and it’s rubbery, chewy, and unsatisfying. I enjoy a good shot of whiskey from time to time. Again, it doesn’t affect my taste buds, but the burn in my throat reminds me of being human.
We have blood banks we pay to provide blood when we can’t get it fresh, which helps us survive in the shadows and not call any attention to our species. We also have a “spokesperson” to be the face of our corporation, someone in the ranks that can interact with humans for a little while because humans are so curious about everything. Then a few years later, another takes their place to make sure that no one suspects that we never age. Although we have had human partners, a select few have the knowledge of our existence—very few.
There are a handful of renegade supernaturals that were created and should never have been because their body rejected the gift. They plague the world by devouring their donors. They feel it is their right for being at the top of the food chain. And those are the ones that we take down. One of the first things I learned to do was hunt the others when one goes rogue.
Under Marcus’ leadership, we practice the Enchanted Immortal lifestyle safely. It is a tight-knit community that thrives even though we do not partake in many of the human aspects of daily life. The Necromancers and Shifters have the ability to create life similar to humans, so they blend into the human world easily. Necromancers are gifted with magical powers, and Shifters can fluidly take the shape of anything breathing.
As the glass elevator doors slide open, the music blares loudly throughout the open penthouse. My eyes roam to the bodies grinding together to and fro on the dance floor. The scents of blood and sex assault my senses. I’m wound up tight and in need of a release. Not the normal kind. It’s been a long day, a long week, a long century, and my desire is to get lost in a warm, sexy body for the night.
Seeking out my prospect, I walk slowly towards my bounty. Sitting on the lap of another is the woman I want for tonight: Nubia. I reach down and grasp Nubia’s dark hair at the base of her neck while picking her up off of the man she is currently fucking with her lips.
Leaning down cl
ose to her ear, I whisper, “Be in my room in fifteen minutes.” I release her and head for the bar to score my first of many whiskey shots of the night. No need to worry about Nubia. I know she’ll comply; they always do.
Chapter Five
Aldin
I sense her presence in my room before opening the door. Good pet.
Nubia originates from Egypt. Her body is long and lively with full supple breasts and an olive-toned skin that drives any man crazy. Her hair falls long down her back like sheets of black silk. She has oval, dark eyes and lush, red lips that can suck a cock like no tomorrow. She is a Mediterranean beauty, an Enchanted Immortal Shifter.
Enchanted Immortal Shifters have the ability to take the form of any breathing, organic life form—their gift from the gods. They still require blood and, unlike vampires, they can breed.
Instead of coming through my chamber doors, I go to the secret doorway which leads through my closet. My closet reminds me of my flat from long ago. It’s the same size, anyway. I change quickly into just a pair of sweats and grab the implements I’ll use for the night and walk into my room.
Nubia is kneeling naked by the bed, eyes down, palms on her thighs—exactly how I instructed her when we began so many years ago. We have been roleplaying the last seven decades and my sexual hunger beats alongside survival feeding that I require to live. Feeding is an erotic experience between a donor and host. A symbiotic relationship is formed and sexual gratification is induced by the piercing of the skin when thousands of endorphins are released into the bloodstream of the donor, instantly causing orgasmic pleasure.
Over the years, the stimulation I required for sexual release has escalated to dominating a willing submissive, pushing my partner beyond the normal boundaries set by the mind and allowing the senses to direct the flow of pleasure. Control is key. Self-discipline is tested. The act of restraining someone at their will and having total power while the hunger and desire builds never changes. I thrive in these moments because I feel human once again.
Tonight we will travel back to the 1800s. “Your master requires blood, wench. Are you willing to feed his hunger?”
“Yes, master,” she responds immediately.
I circle her and decide what device I want to use. Lacing my fingers through a black leash, I approach her. She remains still and doesn’t move. I bend down and clasp the collar around her neck and lead her to the horse in the corner of the room.
“Straddle,” I order as she complies, bending her knees and laying forward with her arms spread wide. I fasten the cuffs over her wrists, binding her knowing that she could break free if she wanted, but she chooses to submit to my will. My cock twitches, relishing in the small victory. It’s all about control.
I return to the table and place the leash back in its place and grab the next item of choice: my riding crop. I thumb the end as I contemplate how long I will torture her with pleasure.
“You will not release until I grant permission.”
“Yes, master.”
“Only I allow you pleasure while you are in this room.”
I weave the crop softly over her back, drawing figure eights in the air, knowing her sense of hearing can determine exactly where it is. Time slowly passes as I continue, waiting for the right moment to strike. I’m allowing the unknown time to build her anticipation.
Using my quick reflex, I pop the inside of her thigh close to her already weeping pussy. A slight moan escapes her lips. She’s enjoying this foreplay. I’ve learned over our encounters that Nubia’s sexual pleasure borders the line of pain. The more intense sensual torture inflicted, the more pleasure she receives. We both are searching for the human fix.
The crop softly follows the long lines of her arms inward towards her breast. Her breathing has grown shallow and quick. She’s fighting the urge to move and she knows I will end everything if she does. After years of engaging in our sexual acts, I recognize her weaknesses and enjoy the rush of triumph as the crop meets her fleshy breast and we begin the tit-for-tat again.
This time, the crop is tracing the inside of her heel, softly touching. I retract the crop and a loud echo is heard when it connects with the wood floor below. My hands move towards her tanned ass and I massage the smooth flesh. She reacts by arching into my palms. I lightly squeeze and release, then trace the crease of her ass with my thumb to her forbidden entrance.
A hard knock on the door disturbs my exploration. I walk casually to the door, even as rage burns into my body for being interrupted.
“What?” I harshly call through the door. No need to open it; the Enchanted Immortal on the other side can hear me clearly.
Nick, my right-hand man, responds, “You’re needed at the hospital, sir.”
Instantly, my mood morphs into happiness; helping my family is ultimately what I exist for now. My nightly playtime is of no consequence anymore, and time is cut short with Nubia in order for me to get to the hospital for the arrival of the next baby in the family. Just in case, I tell myself. At this point, the baby is coming early. My blood may be needed and I’m willing to give it.
As I leave Nubia bound in my room, I reflect on all the women in my life. Nubia indulges my sexual deviance, plays games, and takes whatever I desire because it suits her, even though she’s part of our dominant species. Not that Nubia isn’t satisfied, because I give all my women satisfaction, but all they will ever be to me is a great fuck, my playthings, one of many that appease my hefty appetite. There are no feelings or emotions tied to any of these women. I don’t cuddle, do the “lovey dovey” thing. Just not my style. I’ve accepted my role in this world. I’m a dominant species with a wicked appetite. Such is my life, and for now, it is all I crave or desire.
Chapter Six
Wren
Waking up to the sun shining brightly in my face is not my idea of a good wake-up call. I throw my hands across my eyes, blocking the penetrating sun coming in through the floor-length windows in my bedroom. My head is a foggy mess from yesterday's long hours at the hospital. My brain is trying to tell me it’s time to wake up again, but my body is totally and completely exhausted by the clusterfuck that was the day before. There were four new babies born and my time was spent running around taking care of the new lives.
As the fog lifts from my brain, one newborn in particular has shipwrecked in my head. A preemie. There were a few complications at first, but I was able to stabilize the baby and before I left last night, she was breathing on her own—still in an incubator, but stable. Also, I’m unsure of what I saw. I think my overworked brain played tricks on my eyes. There was a man lurking in the corner of the room with me in the prenatal intensive care unit. I felt his presence … and then it was gone. That’s crazy, right?
I’m a spiritual person. I believe in the supernatural and want to believe we aren’t the only beings lucky enough to be alive in the universe. Having a sixth sense of my own—a warning bell—it helps me believe. But that was just plain weird. Whatever it was, I felt a sense of peace from it, yet I could also feel its power. Apparently I was the only one to feel the strange presence, so I let it go.
It was a cray-cray kind of day. Being a pediatric doctor, it’s not uncommon. That’s what makes me, Dr. Wren Bishop, tick.
Gracelessly removing my limbs one by one from the comfort of my sheets, I roll up and out of bed. Time to get ready for another day at the hospital. I stumble through the apartment to the kitchen.
“I need coffee,” I mumble.
I shuffle blindly over to the coffee pot and pour myself a piping hot cup of the life-giving brew. After I’ve added my cream and sugar, I walk carefully to the bar and sit down on one of the stools.
Standing in the kitchen making breakfast is my roommate, Candie. “Good morning, sleepyhead.” Her voice bellows throughout our coveted classic six apartment and I squint my eyes at her.
“Who says it’s good?” I ask her, but I know what’s coming next.
“Oh, Wren. The sun is shining and we’ve been give
n another day,” she answers. “What more could you ask for?”
Give her lemons and she'll just make lemonade.
Candie prepares two plates and carries them over to the bar for us to eat. That’s how she rolls. Every morning without fail, she makes breakfast. And let me tell you, it’s a welcome treat because I do not like to cook. It’s not that I can’t; I just don’t like to.
As I dig into the delicious vegetable omelet Candie created this morning, I keep my thoughts to myself. I love my life, really. I have a thriving practice and I’m constantly being consulted on high profile cases for children. I’m totally busy day and night, but sometimes my life is lonely. On the outside, it appears I have everything because I have my work with its challenges and my best friend Candie. Still, every so often when I see parents like the ones of the preemie baby girl last night, I long for … well, something that I know I’ll never have. Not just an all-consuming love like my parents shared, but children. It’s just not in the cards for me. My work is my life. I clamp down on Pandora’s box quickly and turn to face Candie.
“This is so yummy, Candie. You really outdid yourself today.”
She beams brightly back at me and I feel that I’m okay for a little while. I can forge ahead.
“Thanks. Hey what time do you get off work today? There’s this really cool band playing at the club tonight and I’d love for you to come down and we could spend some quality BFF time.” Candie unloads her prospects for tonight.
“I think I may be able to cut out a little bit early, since yesterday was so fucking crazy. But it all depends on whether or not any of my new patients arrive today or not. You never know.” I add the last part because we’ve tried a night out before and I had two new babies arrive instead.
