Laying over this man, I wonder how I got here. How did I come to be this thing? I am flesh and blood, but my needs are ravenous. I see this man. He lays cold and dead, I have yet to learn not to kill these men, but a part of me feels the rush and the energy and death it seems, is the best release.
I kiss him gingerly upon his collarbone. A kiss of death so to speak. I open his eyes, and they are beautifully glazed icy blue. His skin still so warm to the touch, but my being can feel the cold deep inside him.
I feel no pity for this man. I feel not that his family will mourn him, or that his wife will bemoan his fate. Yes, she will know he copulated. Though she will never imagine that to him it just seemed a life like dream. Pure exstacy before he wasted away and died. No, I have no sympathy, no feelings to speak of at all. It is how I have survived for these many centuries. Not feeding on blood, but on passion, on carnal desires, on this emense lust that drives me day in and day out constantly looking for the next man to supress my incessant appitite.
I close his eyes as I get up to leave him releasing his wife from the coma like state I bequeathed to her upon my arrival. As silently as I had entered, I was gone. Something inside me wondered about the life I used to have.
I was on the nigh of my 16th winter on this planet. The year was 1533 and I had witnessed the execution of the King's second wife. Therre had been a malady coming and going for some time. It had been referred as the "sweating sickness". My very own mother had said I had taken ill when I was but a newly born infant. The physicians who attended me said that I would not last the night, which brough my mother to tears and hysterics. My very own father, the King, saw to my small army of physicians and nurses. Though, secretly, for he did not want it to be known I was the daughter of a beggar woman. The king, I later found out had mistresses a plenty from court, but never took prostitutes or beggars. I realized differntly. I was a secret, born of sin and lies. I was sick from birth, but, according to mother healthy and active in her womb, though I brought sever fatique and sickness to her.
Oh yes, that malady I was referring to. I do so have a tendancy to get off track. My mother blamed the "sweat" for my constant lethargy and immobilization. I had to be carried to the carriage and carried to the Tower Green to see the execution. My father was nowhere in sight. Queen Anne looked directly at me the moment her head was struck from her body. I remembered that day. She seemed so regal and smiled at me in that moment as though she were at peace with her fate so it seemed. It was a clean cut from an expert swordsman that traveled to London from Calais, France. He was regal, this frenchman. He was tall and of a muscular structure, but lean none the less. I remember he had the flowing blonde hair of an angel, but a wicked smile that seemed devilish. He too stared at Anne as he struck her neck with his sword. The look on his face seemed to take a great deal amount of pleasure in this. One who enjoyed his occupation to the fullest. He then looked at me, with that iniquitous smile of his.
I had risen to meet his gaze, but had to sit just as quickly as exaustion took me over once again. His brows furrowed with concern, and quickly made his way down the scaffold and inquired as to my condition. Though, with him there beside me I could seemingly feel my energy level raise ever so slightely and my frenchman yawned. I stood again from my seat and spoke with him for a moment as he told me that he was staying at court during his visit to England. At such time he invited me to dine at Hampton court that night. My mother, seeing me stand and a bit energetic did not desuade the invitation.
This man whom I had learned his name was Jean Phillip, offered to purchase for me according attire for court at seeing the hand made dress, smock, and bonnet my mother had sewed together out of scrap fabric from a neighbor of ours.
There I was at court that night, seated beside my Jean Phillip. Everyone at the table talked and gossiped and laughed. So many wondered who I was and where I had come from. My lips remained sealed and the topic of discussion quickly changed by my new beau, my first.
His gaze found mine on several occasion and I met it with building wild ferocity. The more the fire seemed to burn within me the more energy I felt, the more alive I became. Though, I did not understand why the men and women at the table seemed to grow tired in the early evening.
I heard a voice call from the front of the great hall. "Who is the girl who has so seemed to enchant the masses at her table?" I turned and realized the the voice was none other than the King himself, Henry VIII, my illegitamate father.
I turned to him with a face he seemed to recognize and I could see him wince from unseen pain. Did he know with whom he inquired? Did he see himself in this angelic face? I smiled. "I am but nothing except a humble servant to his majesty." I proclaimed. "One whose great wisdom and power refects in my words and actions alike." I stated.
"Your parents are surely proud of you, then. That you should hold your king so highly." he commented me for the entire court to hear.
I nodded. "Yes your majesty! My mother is proud indeed, but it is my father to whom I hold the unmost respect and love. My father I adore with all my being." I sang of praises envied of the court to speak of love so high, though inside I felt no such thing for anyone. Contrition is what longed to see in this man's face. It was so, as he appeared to tear and hastily retreated from the ensuing merriment. I smiled wickedly.
Jean Phillip looked at me and stood holding out his hand. He kissed it and bade me good night that the previous events had taxed his researve of energy. I smiled and curtsied as I watched him walk off. I sat and enjoyed the merriment as one by one the guests at the table bade me good night and left.
So I was. All alone at the table and my energy level had plumeted once again. I felt a heat between my thighs that grew ever so strongly and a desire that burned through my body and coursed in my veins. I imagined Jean Phillip asleep in his bed and envisioned me beside him touching. When I came to reality, I was in his bed. I was straddled ontop of him my clothing curiously gone. I could feel the length of him harden and press against my inner thigh and the fire burned hotter.
My hands curled in his hair and I pulled it jerkingly making him moan with urgency. His hips seemed to take a life of their own as they slowly bucked against me. His hardness tried so diligently to find the heat that eminated from within me and rolled torrent against his belly and thighs.
I bent down and pressed my lips against his softly at first and then with more passion as my hands pulled his hair roughly. His eyes snapped open and he grinned as he bit me hard on my shoulder. I gasped as wet warmth flowed from my neck and steamed over his mouth and on the bed itself. His hands found my hips and roughly shoved the entire length of him inside me. I gasped yet again as the heat seemed to just over power me. Energy coursed throughout my being as the wound from my shoulder continued to bleed. He continued to drink as our hips bucked in fluid motion. After a while he stated to yawn and then just as suddenly as he yawned he shoved me off of him throwing me off of the bed altogether.
"Succubus." he smiled. He stood up weakly quickly gaining his stregnth back the further I was away from him.
"What?" I asked
He shook his head. "J'ai attendu pour toujours pour trouver un de votre sorte. C'est étonnant !." he said in French.
I just stared at him the heat which had momentarily gone was coming back again. I really thought as though I would attack him. Apparantly, understanding the confused yet determined look on my face he made his way to me and we both finished what had been started.
He looked over at me, as I sat beside him completely fulfilled. "You need to leave." he said
I looked over at him hastily, mockingly offended by his words. "You'll kill me if you don't leave now." He grabbed my hand and kissed it. "We'll meet again. Perhaps in a few days. Amazing!" he finished and I retreated.
As I walk down this street looking at the different men and watching them stare at me I can't help but wonder why Jean Phillip has lived? Why had he lived when everyone else has died? Not one lover has ever matched the passion or diligence since him. I take what I need (which seems too much) and I leave them dead.
I have come to learn in my five centuries of life that I can sustain myself on feeding off the energy of people by just being around them and focusing my will, but it takes the passion and energy of raw carnal sex to keep my satiated, to saturate my being with pure life.
I am glaring at this man who has fixated on me and can't let up his gaze. I think I will follow him home and pay him a visit in a week or so... when my energy starts to wane.