My Vampire Free Dating, Singles and Personals

My Vampire Posted: 9/4/2009 7:00:05 PM
Preamble: I toy with the idea that, from time to time, I am visited by a succubus. She is never wears the same appearance twice, but she always has the same effect on me. I am sure that once I awoke suddenly and actually saw her, a bright, glowing, diaphanous female with flowing white hair and white flowing gown, hasten from the foot of my bed and vanish in the far corner of my room. No, trust me, she was not an angel. But perhaps it was only a waking dream and it certainly is[i/] another story…. Her latest visitation was as I dozed upon the couch this early September mid-afternoon having been put to sleep by a Dostoevsky novella called “The Gambler”. My Vampire She came to me, as she always does, in a dream. I was lying on my side upon a larger-than-king-sized bed with my legs bent at the knees and drawn up slightly towards my chest leaving an empty vee-shaped space behind them. There was a handful of people, all strangers, milling about near the door, a kind of very subdued and very dull***ail party and just as unconcerned with me as I was with them. I saw her enter the room paying her only passing attention until she glided towards me and alit upon the bed. She made herself comfortable placing her body in that space created by the positioning of my knees. She stretched her legs across and over mine, laid one arm on my hip, and leaned back with the expectation that I would brace her with my hand. Which I did. She was pretty, breath-takingly so; barefoot, her toes painted a shimmering silver, dressed in tight worn jeans with a spaghetti-strap cream-coloured top that reached tantalizingly just below her navel. My hand rested on the exposed flesh above the small of her back between the top of her jeans and bottom of her blouse. Her skin was the colour of honey, deliciously warm and soft beyond imagining. Her hair was very fine and the colour of ripe pumpkin. It was parted in the middle and flowed down to her shoulders gently curling inward at the ends. She had eyes like chocolate brown pools of liquid shadow, and when she spoke in response to my questions her murmurs were like torn scraps of cloud drifting across the face of the moon. Looking about the room I was surprised to find we were alone. Thinking perhaps her escort had left with the others, I asked her, “Who are you with?” She replied so softly I could not make out what she said so I asked her again. “Who are you with?” “No one,” she sighed in a forlorn whisper. I found that difficult to believe. She couldn’t possibly be alone. She was incredibly desirable and must surely command the affections of some one. I briefly caressed her bare shoulder with my free hand and emboldened I then leaned forward, pressed my lips to her hair and kissed the nape of her neck. Her perfume thrilled me, a scent that brought to mind a crystalline, blood-chillingly cool mountain stream beneath a sultry twilit sky. She turned to look at me mere inches from my face, a sly smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. I was struck by her smooth immaculate complexion, delicate young girl’s nose, and her eyes which seemed ablaze with secretive design. I watched her peach tinted lips move as she spoke to me, but I could not make what she was saying. I lay there transfixed, hyper-aware of her softness, her awe-inspiring femininity, and the arousing heat of her body where it rested against me. I was at a loss as to why she should be so forward, so unabashedly familiar with me. It was plainly apparent she knew who I was, but I hadn’t a clue as to her identity. I was sure I had never seen her before that moment. She looked away to peer out the open window in the wall above the headboard of the bed as if the opaque darkness of the starless night beyond had suddenly called to her. Her skin then seemed to glow; her hair and eyes sparkle as if she somehow drew glamour’s light from those invisible stars. I desperately wanted her, to enfold her in my arms, our bodies pressed together in the deep embrace of passionate lovers. I ached to be possessed by her, to be consumed by her. “Why are you here?” I asked utterly mystified as to why this beautiful creature would cozy up to me, a common fifty-two year old man, unremarkable in appearance and obviously her senior. Again she answered in a voice so low I could not understand her reply. “How long are you staying?” I further inquired; anything to get to her to speak so that I could hear her voice, drink of her words, taste her fragrant breathe. “Two years,” I thought I heard her answer as she crossed her feet one over the other and settled her bottom snug against the back of my thighs. I placed my mouth against that same bare shoulder in an effort to stifle my questions, remain silent, and contemplate her reply. Perhaps I had heard something different. Two tears? Too near? Few fears? You, Dear?* She then began to explain what she’d said as if aware of my confusion. But as she spoke I was lulled into a trance-like state where my confusion evaporated and explanation was unimportant. Her words were completely lost, stolen by the sibilant melody of her voice and the taste of her skin on my lips. She laughed quietly breaking the spell she’d had me under and I drew back as she turned to look full upon me. My breath caught, and my heart hammered hard in my chest as she locked her gaze upon me. It was as if time stopped, held fast as we devoured each other with our eyes. She lifted her arm from my hip and held my chin in her hand as she were about to kiss me. “How old are you?” I asked, recklessly violating the exquisite silence. She slowly, gently closed her eyes, her long upturned lashes falling to rest upon her cheeks. She did not answer. I languished there several moments, enthralled by her innocent angel face and her powerful sexual presence, before I could speak again. “How…old… are you?” I asked urgently once more while at the same time chastising myself, “What does it matter? What does it matter? Why are you pursuing this?” Her eyes opened. They were filled with overwhelming regret, an abysmal melancholy that shattered me. “Thirty-four?” she ventured as if guessing as she started to rise, her words forced from her, choked with emotion. “I can’t do this,” she added swinging her legs over mine and sliding her body to the edge of the bed. I watched her stand, toss her head first to one side and then the other, her hair swinging back and forth as if waving goodbye. My soul was wrenched from me as she walked slowly to the door, her form a perfect hourglass shape, her jeans hugging her swaying hips in a dance of sensuous curves. I leapt from the bed to follow her, chiding myself viciously for having asked that fatal futile question. I followed her as she floated out of the room and down a couple flights only to find myself standing there frozen at the bottom of the stairs as she entered the door to another room to the left of the landing. Helplessly, hopelessly, I watched her glance apologetically over her shoulder at me before she disappeared into the featureless interior of that crowded smoke-filled room, a room I could not enter. Her parting words echoed in my mind, “I can’t do this”. But she had, indeed, done it. She had come to me, as she always does, in a dream, filling me to the depths of my being with a slavish, unquenchable desire, only to leave me drained and despairing upon awakening, an empty vessel of appalling loneliness.