Blood Slave

I loved my mother, but she died when I was seven. I remember her kind face and gentle hands, and the smell of her coffee as my father made such a big production of it. “Eso es el mejor cafecito en todo el mundo.” The best little cup of coffee in all the world.

I’ve never been in love with a man. I certainly never loved Rubin or Faustino. I gave them my attentions, affection, and cooperation. In exchange they provided me with money, housing, clothing, food, a decent standard of living. But I didn’t love them or any other man I slept with. It was business, survival. We were congenial, friendly, affectionate, but that’s not love.

At some point I had begun to think of Enrique as different. I’m not sure exactly why. Maybe it was the class difference. He seemed so regal, like royalty. Maybe it was just this connection, the whole bloodslave thing.

The funny part, I seemed to have the better half of the deal. Here I lived in a fabulous Manhattan penthouse. I wore designer clothes. I ate steak and lobster with a handsome filthy rich gentleman who appeared to genuinely care about me.

Apart from the small issue of being hunted by Colombian cartel and enslaved for life, I had it pretty damn good. With Lia gone I enjoyed myself, my alone time with Enrique. A fairytale existence. I thoroughly enjoyed sipping two hundred dollar a bottle Sangiovese in my nine hundred dollar cocktail dress, batting my eyes adoringly at my master.

I don’t think he loved me, but I had fallen in love with him. Probably since the first night. It’s the only explanation I can come up with for the jealous reaction he inspired. I’ve never been jealous before, you have to give a shit about someone to be jealous. I don’t know what I was thinking. There’s no way Enrique could feed solely from me, not if I wanted to live for very long. I knew this, understood it, but it really bothered me to watch.

He was so damn slick about it. No one else noticed when he took the cute little waitresses’ hand and bit down on her. It looked like one of those courtesy hand-kissing gestures. He had that old world grace, like an aristocrat of Europe, born to rule over the peasantry. I had to sit and watch as the woman had her orgasm right there at our dining table. Admittedly, she handled it well, a slight flush of color and a small sighing noise. I usually clawed and screamed at him like a madwoman. The waitress had a considerably more subdued reaction.

After dinner we took a taxi to Jamaica Avenue in Queens, some of the best nightclubs in New York.

“I thought I was supposed to be staying under the radar?” I chided him.

“Si, querida, this is the reason for the change to your hair.”

I guess I look different enough for Enrique to feel safe about hitting the nightclubs with me on his arm, lounging in the VIP section. He went out like this often, hunting. He had to feed from several donors on a regular basis. I can’t meet all his needs.

We partied like rock stars, dancing with a whole group of girls. I had to put up with Enrique biting two other women in the VIP section. It drove me nuts to watch him give an orgasm to these women who had their paws all over him, groping his crotch and kissing him – they were shameless. I was so jealous I grabbed onto the cute brunette grinding on me, and made out with her, just to prove I could have anyone I wanted.

I hadn’t proven anything to anyone. My non-existent willpower broke a few minutes later and I attacked Enrique. I really don’t enjoy being jealous. It’s petty and childish, and it makes me feel like someone else is in control of my emotions, pulling my strings.

“It’s my turn!” I grabbed him, slipping my arms around his neck, an open invitation for the bite which had come to be the defining moments of my nightly life.

My first bite of the night. Enrique had been true to his word, providing syringes loaded with venom for my early evening needs. Consequently, he could refrain from biting me till later, around ten or eleven. The injection was actually a lot stronger punch than the slow absorption of venom from his bite, very intense. It did the job, but didn’t feel the same as being in his arms.

I came hard and fast in Enrique’s embrace, moaning loudly and grabbing his cock while the fast-paced club music pounded in my ears, keeping time with my racing heartbeat. If I wasn’t in love with him, I most certainly loved his bite, so what’s the difference?

As I spasmed in his embrace, wetting my thirty dollar Victoria’s Secret thong underwear, someone nearby had recognized Enrique and wasn’t very happy to see him. The man’s thoughts grabbed my attention because of the uncommonly concentrated hatred. Though a little buzzed from a few beers, the man clearly recalled watching his girlfriend get frisky with Enrique a month ago in this very same club. He and his girlfriend argued over it, and she broke up with him. He had been planning to propose to her. He blamed Enrique for the loss of his fiancée. From my perspective the guy was an asshole and had created his own problem. But I doubt he’d listen to me.

I looked in the direction of his thoughts, he stood right behind Enrique. The man’s bulk easily weighed over three hundred pounds, several inches taller than Enrique. He looked like a professional wrestler, the kind of client I’d charge double simply on principle. Big, black, and mean. My instinct was to run. There was no talking sense to him. He’d been waiting for this too long, too inebriated.

He had an empty beer bottle cocked back to smash over Enrique’s head. No time for warnings. I pulled down hard, dropping my weight, pulling Enrique on top of me. I twisted to bring him down beside me, trying to get him out of the path of that beer bottle.

As we hit the plush red bench seat in our VIP booth, Enrique reacted with a freaky, whip-fast move. Up in a flash, he evaded the beer bottle. The big bad man had committed to his attack. The beer bottle hit home where Enrique had been a second earlier, which also happened to be my right shoulder.

Pain exploded through my shoulder, collarbone, and upper arm. The bottle shattered, lacerating my flesh and cheek with shards of glass. Enrique’s smooth ass was untouched. The big, black wrestler damn near laid on top of me with the momentum of his attack. And then he was gone in the blink of an eye.

He went flying back off the raised platform of the VIP section to land on the stairs descending to the dance floor, on his back. Enrique snatched me up into his protective embrace. No longer the suave sophisticate who smiled, chuckled, called me querida. He had transformed into a ferocious thing with a snarl and fangs fully exposed. A coiled tension of deadly force rippled through his powerful body. He had tossed a three hundred pound man ten feet through the air like nothing.

He whisked us down the stairs to face the wrestler who had barely gotten to his feet. The people at the edge of the dance floor gawked at the three of us, anxiously waiting for the action and drama. The man came up into a crouch, preparing to tackle. Enrique lashed out with his left hand, nailing him in the nose with a fleshy crunch.

The wrestler collapsed in a heap, out cold. I knew his nose was busted, and I suspected worse, like his right cheek bone. The impression I caught was of something rock hard hitting something spongy, breakable. The wrestler’s face would need reconstructive surgery.

Club security swarmed all over us, but it became clear within minutes what had happened. I was bleeding all over the damn place, and witnesses attested to the wrestler’s unprovoked attack. Enrique did what Latinos around the world have done for centuries. He bribed the head of security with a roll of hundreds. We left quickly, escorted to the limo waiting outside. I’ve seen bribes paid out almost daily back in Colombia, but never in the US. I thought things were different here. Apparently not.

Enrique dabbed at the blood on my arm and face with an expensive silk handkerchief. “Aye, querida, I’m so sorry. That was meant for me.”

“I know. He wanted to kill you for causing him and his fiancée to split up.”

“Que malo. So much pain over something so trivial. I had no idea.”

“He blamed you, but it was really his own fault. You bit his girlfriend a month ago. He saw the two of you together. A convenient target to blame when she broke up with him.”

“You can read all that in a matter of seconds?”

“Yes, and there’s more. He had cheated on her. He assumed the same when he saw her kissing you. They always suspect people of doing the same things they are capable of.”

“I’m so sorry you were caught in the middle of this. These little dramas happen at times. It’s unfortunate, but unavoidable. For that reason I try not to frequent the same locations too regularly.”

“Yeah, he’s been looking for you for several weeks.”

I began shaking, not from the cold, but from nerves and the aftermath of the adrenaline rush. Enrique glanced quickly at the taxi driver to see if he was watching. The driver’s attention was on the road.

“This will help.” He snaked his sexy tongue out and licked the blood off my shoulder. He had to pick out pieces of glass as he went, but I hardly noticed. His venom soothed my aching shoulder and stole the pain from my lacerated flesh.

By the time we made it home I was high as a kite, feeling zero pain. The bleeding had stopped on both my cheek and arm. Who needs first aid kits when you have your very own vampire handy to treat cuts and bruises? He had me so high I could barely walk to the elevator. He damn near carried me. It was so wonderful. I’d almost be willing to get hit by a beer bottle every night just to have Enrique licking on me with his magical tongue. I’m pretty sure I climaxed for about twenty minutes straight while he cleaned me up in the cab. That’s gotta be a record for the world’s longest orgasm. I’m sure the cab driver heard me moaning, saw what was going on, but I didn’t care.

Back in my bedroom Enrique undressed me and tucked me into bed while applying bandages to my arm.

“I think there’s an opportunity for your advancement. I’d like to have an assistant who can give me the inside information on a potential investment. I have need for your unique talents.”

“What … you don’t like my translations?” I slurred in my uber-high voice.

“We’ll talk tomorrow. Don’t worry about it right now.” ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">