Abyss Pt. 01

"So, Georges," Dr. Metaxas asks as she turns back to us, "do you have plans for any more..." Her sentence is cut off with a gasp. For a second her eyes light up and a shiver goes through her. Then some color leaves her face. Her mouth tightens into grim fear.

"Hey, Dean." A familiar voice just behind me tells me what caused this reaction. I turn my head as Mandy and her chief follower step up next to me. Ms. Richardson's sexuality couldn't be more on display. Everything she wears from her leather jacket to her motorcycle boots is black. With her sandy blonde hair cut short it's obvious who is the dominant in their relationship.

Christy as always is the opposite. Garbed in a clinging, high hemmed pink dress quite inappropriate for the weather she's clearly the submissive. The way Mandy's arm is draped over her shoulder makes it obvious the gold tressed woman is property.

"What are you do..." the Dean starts to blurt.

"I crashed," Mandy cuts her off. "There's so many people here that no one notices."

"Bon soir, Ms. Richardson, Coburn." My voice is frosty. I'm finding Mandy is beginning to raise my ire.

"Hey Prof," Mandy replies in a mocking tone. Her gaze slides past me. "Who's this tasty piece?" she inquires. A lecherous smirk leers across her face.

"Not one you'll ever taste," snaps the beautiful woman on my arm.

"Feisty too." The anger in Mandy's eyes tells me she doesn't like that character trait at all.

Without thought I place myself between Diane and my student.

Ms. Richardson looks startled for a second. Then her face hardens and she grits her teeth in anger. There is a long moment of aggressive tension.

Christy breaks that tableaux by whispering in her dominant's ear.

"Oh, that's right," Mandy remarks. She looks at the Dean and cocks her head in my direction.

"Um, Georges?" I hardly recognize Dr. Metaxas's voice. It's so tremulous and soft. I've heard similar things in the past. She's doing something she doesn't want to do but has no choice in the matter.

After a moment of throat clearing Helen goes on. "The, the university has a policy about classes." Her face is downcast and her eyes stare at the floor. "There's no rule limit, limiting just students to classes. We encourage people to attend any class they want to."

Her speech done her eyes come back up to Ms. Richardson. Her expression is both fearful and inquiring. It seems to me she's checking if my student approves of her actions. Her relief when Mandy nods is palpable.

The sandy haired dyke looks at me and her face holds both triumph and contempt. She knew she would win our little conflict and loathes me for having the temerity to get in her way.

It doesn't end here, Ms Richardson, and I would be extremely wary of pushing this too far. You don't know what you are dealing with.

I nod at the Dean. "D'accord, Dr. Metaxas. It shall be as you say." I find that my liking for the Dean has vanished and my tone is colored by that new lack.

Helen nods back. "If you'll excuse me, I've other people I must talk to." The shine of tears in her eyes tells me that's a lie. She turns and hurries away from us.

"I've got to go too," Mandy smirks. "Nice dealing with you again, Prof." She drags her paramour away. Christy looks back for a moment with a silent apology, and fear. That fear is for what may happen to me if I continue to oppose her dominant.

I stare after them and rage boils inside me, pushing at the restraints I keep it under. My right fist is clenched and I can feel the tips of my claws dig into palm as my fingernails start to transform.

"Georges..." a voice cuts into my dark emotions "...you're doing that scary thing again."

Just like that, my mood evaporates. I turn my head and smile down at Diane. "Je suis désolé, chér. I'm afraid Mandy Richardson is starting to get under my skin."

"De rien," she replies with an answering smile. "I'm hoping that's never directed at me." Her smile weakens as a touch of unease wafts across her features.

"I'll tear my own face off first," I tell her without thought. For it's true. I'll hurt myself before I hurt my darling Diane.

In response her smile changes from amused to warm, and she reaches up to caress my cheek. I take her hand, holding it against me, marvelling in the tenderness of her gesture.

"I think I've had enough of hobnobbing," I tell her. "Let's, as the saying goes, 'Blow this pop stand.'"

Diane snorts. "Sometimes you speak so archaically, Georges." "It comes from learning English as a third language, and from books at that," I tell her. The first part is true, although the second is not. Vampires can learn languages and dialects at ridiculous speeds. A week, two at most, of exposure to a new language and we can't be distinguished from a native speaker. We are predators and predators need to be camouflaged.

"I see you've learned a little of my language," I note as I lead us through the crowd.

"It seems fair," Diane returns. "You use those charming French phrases so often, and they add such flavor to your speech, that I had to learn a little myself."

"I'm flattered."

"So am I, Georges. I'm just an obscure archivist. That some one like you would be interested in me is a little bewildering. You're well known in your field and so well read." "S'il vous plaît, cher. Do not sell yourself short. You are more interesting and beautiful than any woman I have met in a very long time." Since the middle of the 19th Century is what I don't tell her.

We smile at each other. There's so much emotion communicated in our expressions. There's no more to be said.

Then we bump into the back of a man talking with several other people, since we hadn't been watching where we were going. We apologize profusely. Diane laughs and I chuckle the rest of the way to the car.

Ten minutes later Diane stops the car in front of her building. We look at each other and I can see her fingers tighten on the wheel while uncertainty wafts over her sweet face. "Would you like to come in for a few minutes, Georges?"

I don't hesitate. "I'd love to, cher."

So she finds a spot in the lot and we go inside. A quick climb to the second floor and we're at her door. Diane unlocks the door and asks me, "Won't you please come in?" I do while thinking I'm glad that piece of mythology about vampires is untrue. We can go where we please.

Diane's apartment is much like I expected. Indeed much like places I've lived. It's just a touch above Spartan yet comfortable. There's no ostentation but also no lack of beauty. As all I've discovered about this lovely lady it warms me.

She looks at me, and I can see she worries a little about my opinion of her residence. She needn't be concerned. "It's lovely," I tell her and she turns away, pretending to be pleased. The slight lift in her shoulders tells me she's relieved.

The lovely redhead walks towards a small liquor cabinet. "Would you like..." she starts. Then she turns to me. "Sorry, Georges." There's a touch of chagrin on her features.

"De rien. I'm not offended."

"Music?" is her inquiry then.

"Something classical." I like some modern music, but I prefer that when I was still alive.

To my surprise, Diane walks to the desk on which her computer sits. A click of the mouse wakes it up. A double click starts a program. She clicks her mouse once more, then again, and Bach wafts from the speakers set on the bookcase in the opposite wall.

"How fascinating," I remark. "I hadn't realized you could do such things with a computer."

"I've got some streaming radio stations that I listen to. I never much cared for the speakers on my machine so I found out how to hook up good ones." She frowns in puzzlement at me. "Surely you must use a computer, Georges, and the internet."

"Not for anything like this, writing and e-mailing works to my publisher." Truth be told, I had to struggle a little with these things. The concepts behind them seemed nearly magical to me.

A particular piece starts playing, one I loved the final year I spent in Versailles. It has been decades, literally, since I heard it last. It takes me back and without thought I bow as I did in the ballrooms of Paris centuries ago, deeply and with a care not let my wig fall off.

Diane, without hesitation, dips a curtsey. Like my bow, it suggests clothes long out of fashion; a gown with wide panniers and a neckline so low her back must be kept straight to keep from shocking the other attendees of the ball. She extends a hand and I lead her through the mincing steps of a minuet.

There's really not enough space in her living room to do it properly, but we make due. Diane enchants me with her smooth grace, her sweet smile and her twinkling eyes. As I always feel around her, it seems like I am human again. I can almost see the parquet floors and high ceilings of the tanzsaal, the ballrooms I frequented as a man.

The music comes to an end and we finish our dance with another bow and curtsey. The speakers sound out the announcer speaking in a low voice, telling her listeners what piece she had just played and what will be next.

The lovely redhead whose hand I still hold trills a laugh. "You really are an historian. I'm not surprised you'd know how to do a minuet."

I bow my head to acknowledge her praise. "It's my family's fault. They insisted I receive what they regarded as a proper education." Proper for two and a half centuries ago.

"And you, chér? Where did you learn the minuet?"

"In university. For fun I joined a Georgian recreation society. You can't pretend to be a late 18th Century lady without knowing the dances."

My heart lifts as Strauss's Vienna Waltz starts to play. Diane and I move into each other without hesitation. At once we're stepping through the music, tripping through our small space as if we were in a tanzsaal in the city our dance is named after. Our eyes never lose the other's gaze and our smiles are happy beyond words.

The orchestra finishes with the usual Strauss flourish and we come to a halt. But we don't step apart. Instead the arms where we held hands join the other around our waists. Diane and I pause then.

I can see it in her eyes and the irresolute twist of her mouth. My expression reflects hers. We're uncertain. Uncertain of what will happen if we follow the impulse we share. I know she wants me as I want her. There's a blush on her cheeks, too light for a human to notice, but obvious to something like me. There's a change in her odor and her arms tremble ever so little. The way I've gone stock still shows my ambivalence.

That lasts for only a few seconds. Then I lean down, Diane rises to the balls of her feet and our mouths meet in the kiss we so desperately want.

I've kissed many women over the years, but always when I was hunting. It's been a century and a half since I kissed a woman for any reason other that pursuing a meal. So it's a shock at the warm emotion that fills me with the touch of Diane's lips.

Fill me is the only description. All the darkness, the cold, the undeath of my existence is pushed out of my awareness by the sweet, sweet joy that suffuses through my body as the woman I love kisses me.

Diane moans, shivers in my embrace and clutches me tight to her. She wraps her legs around me, then uses them to lift herself so we're face to face. Her mouth pulls at me with lustful greed, so desperate for the taste of me. Her breath starts to pant in and out of her nose. A smell I'm quite familiar with, that of a woman's lubrication, begins to fill the air around us.

My lovely lady pulls away from me and looks down to where we are joined at the pelvis. Then her head comes up with a look of puzzled concern on her face.

I know what is troubling her. "To use the cliche; it's not you, it's me, chér." There's a moment where hurt crosses her features. But that clears with realization. "Your...condition."

"Oui. Impotency is another of the effects."

She sighs and disappointment sounds in it.

I give her a roguish smile. "That doesn't mean I can't make love to you. There are so many ways to express how I feel about you."

I place my right hand on her buttocks to hold her up while the other goes to the back of her head and I pull her into another kiss. While my tongue toys with hers, I carry my lover across the room and into the hall.

Diane once again answers that kiss with sublime passion. She growls and wiggles her womanhood into me. For a second she pulls away to gasp, "Door on the left!" Then her fingernails dig into my back and she kisses me hard once again.

Once we're in the bedroom I lay her gently on the bed. My hands go to her neck so that I can stroke her warm, becoming damp skin.

That makes Diane groan. A shiver runs through her body. For a moment she stop our kiss to let out a gasp, then she grabs my head and pulls me tight once more.

My right hand runs over her shoulder then flirts over her breast. I can feel her nipple through the fabric, hard with desire. I pinch it, just a touch. Then I wrap my fingers around it, she's just large enough that I can do so, and squeeze ever so gently.

Diane pulls away to gasp again. She wraps her arms around my neck to bury her face in my shoulder. "Georges!" she moans, "don't tease me!"

I chuckle. "But that's half the fun. This is too sublime a moment to rush."

In response she sighs. "It is wonderful, isn't it? I've never felt, felt this way before. So close. So needy."

"Nor I," I tell her. I pull back to kiss her once more. My hand goes to the button at the top of her blouse and I undo it. One by one I work downwards.

I don't need to undo them all. The beautiful redhead beneath me pulls her upper garment from her slacks and starts releasing the buttons from the bottom. Our hands meet in middle. Then our lips smile into each other at the symmetry of our actions.

Diane shimmies out of her blouse, enfolds me in her arms to pull me to her again.

The feel of her, of so much of her skin so warm against me stokes the fire in me. I growl and the fervor with which I kiss my love intensifies. My palm runs over her heated flesh to warm my soul, chase away the cold of undeath that is always at the center of my being.

Diane shivers, and it's not entirely from passion. She pulls away from me. "You have cold hands, Georges," she says with both a giggle and a touch of a chatter.

"That won't last long," I tell her with a grin. Then I pet her womanhood through her slacks. As I do I take a second to concentrate and a tiny amount of the blood in my stomach warms my body. Hiding the fact that I'm usually room temperature is something I've not needed to do for a long time.

Diane's eyes flutter as I play with her most intimate part. "Georges," she moans, "what is it about your touch that is so exciting?"

"It's what we are, lovers," I reply.

For an instant shock runs across our features. A moment after that we both smile warmly. What I said is the truth and it's a fact that fills the two of us with joy.

My red headed lady gives me a wicked grin and the next moment I'm on my back with Diane straddling my hips. "Who says you have to be on top all the time, buddy?" Her hands go behind her, then she throws her bra across the room.

I'm awestruck at the beauty revealed. My lover isn't large across the chest but there's no doubt she's a woman. Her erect, pink nipples and small aureola make the perfect contrast to her fair skin. Diane would be a wonderful model for an artist of skill.

I reach up to cup her breasts. The feel of them in my hands heats my soul. I'd be hard as steel if I were capable of it.

The impulse to taste her can't be ignored. I sit up and take one firm nub in my mouth. My tongues laves over her soft flesh, then I pull back a little and nip her ever so carefully.

"Oh! Fuck!" my sensual lady gasps. The touch of my fangs, even when used for play, drive an intense eroticism into her. Diane wraps her arms around my head and yanks me close. The most wonderful shiver of lust passes through her body.

Her delicate digits go to the buttons of my shirt, shaking with impatience as she loosens the buttons. "Can't wait anymore. No more teasing."

In seconds we have my shirt off. It's only moments more before we're naked and back on the bed, skin to skin, pulling each other close and kissing one another hard.

I have just enough awareness left to marvel at my situation. I've often been in bed with a woman, and there is passion, but it's that of the hunt. A pure, rather vicious passion. This time the emotion is different; an odd mixture of great gentleness and intense lust. It fills me as well. My love for Diane seems to press against my skin and what I am is pushed to a small point I can barely perceive.

But she can't wait, nor can I. So I leave her mouth and start my lips playing over her skin, working slowly downwards. My hands add soft touches and adoring pets. The salty sweat forming on Diane's skin makes a perfect condiment to the taste of her.

Long before I'm finished though, my lover pushes hard on my shoulders. "Please, Georges," she groans. "Finish me off. I have to come."

I don't quite answer her request. My head moves to her saturated womanhood, but I first take a deep breath. The smell of her lust permeates me. I adore the rich scent of an aroused woman, and this woman adds even more to my pleasure.

My tongue reaches out to swipe across her labia. The taste of her excitement is wonderful. A treat for my tastebuds. I start to work hard at her, licking and sucking, poking inside her. I want her overwhelmed with joy.

Diane arches her back to push herself into my play. Her rich moan vibrates in the air. "Georges! Georges! So good!"

I'm just getting started. My right hand comes up. I straighten two fingers and then push them inside her. A slow pumping motion starts them running in and out. My love's hip begin to match that motion. They jerk upwards to meet my digits. My Diane squeaks and trills sweet sounds with each movement. She can no longer speak, she's so aroused.

I cover her clit with my mouth, suck it in and lave it with rapid movements of my tongue.

With that final action Diane falls over the edge. A gurgling moan sluices from her mouth while her muscles grow taut. A vibration shudders through them telling me how strong her joy is. Her inner muscle squeeze me hard and thrum with the pounding of her climax.

I have to taste that joy. With that thought I turn my head, extend my fangs and insert them in the artery in Diane's right leg. Then I start to imbibe her blood.

The taste of her causes my eyes to roll back. It's so intoxicating. I'm used to passion when I feed but this, this, is beyond passion. The emotions carried in her blood warm me like the sun I have not seen in centuries. She tastes bright, shining like fields of grass on a bright summer's day. I suck harder wanting to pull every last bit of this intoxicating substance into me.

No!

My eyes go wide in shock. Diane, more than any person, is not one I wish to endanger. If I keep feeding I will lose her. The pang in my chest tells me that is a loss I couldn't bear.

So I pull my fangs free of her thigh. A quick lick closes the holes, and gives me a last taste of Diane's blood. I have to clamp down on my impulse to continue feeding.

My lovely redhead goes limp, gasps for air. She twitches a touch, draws a huge breath, twitches again, and gives a satisfied moan.

I draw myself up alongside her and draw my lover into my embrace. Diane rolls into me and places her arm across my chest. A pleased purr quivers against my neck.

We cuddle for a while, basking in the happy feeling our lovemaking has engendered. We each sigh at moments, a sound of contentment.