Chapter 1 Blood Curse
Viktoria knew her only neighbors in the surrounding forest were those dwelling in the house of the woodcutter. Long before Viktoria was transformed into the beautiful monstrosity that she was now, she had the ability to collect images of others’ lives. A psychic ability, if you will.
Her images of the woodcutter, his wife, their children, Hansel and Gretel, were definitely ones of sadness and discord.
The inky black heavy cloak of night clung tenaciously to the surrounds. Viktoria was standing solemnly and in full concentration. This was when her uncontrolled blood lust commanded her. She was its slave.
Being a slave to anything offended her sensibilities, vampire in the flesh or no. Before her transformation, independence grounded her being as nothing else ever had! To submit to a stronger force than her was nothing more than complete capitulation. She loathed being submissive ever, anywhere, anytime.
Once she had had a heart that shrank from isolation, expanded with love of others. She had loved being social, being charming, being genuine, empathetic and supportive.
Now she had fallen to the other side, the side of darkness, of impulse. Yet her heart beat still as it had in her past. It beat for the sake of beauty and goodness. The conflict now within that organ of hers was excruciating, painful and often devastating.
The hunger, the bloodlust both crept upon her in the most peculiar manner. Before she realized her hunger, her thirst, her pulse would quicken.
But the peculiarity was that it would only quicken thrice each time in a separate location: first, an insinuation of pulse in midnight nipples, clit in immediate thrall to the feeling then and finally, a hard pulse at her core.
There was never an alteration to this pattern of her hot nipples, her welling and reddened clit, then wetting sex. The urge to relieve the growing pulses there were utterly huge, entirely unstoppable.
So she lusted as humans’ lust, experienced passion as she had pastime, desired a sweet and good connection with humans because, yes, she actually was sweet and good. But then she would drink as only a vampire can drink.
Standing there, still, senses on edge, her nipples full, her sex drenched, she was thinking of relief, of course.
She felt her heat as if she were a furnace. To delay satisfying that gorgeous throb was all that consciously gripped her mind. Because she knew that collapsing into that heady and overwhelming sensation was to explode in orgasm, lose any of her remaining humanity, and find droughts of rich red blood to drink, to drain and to transform her victim. This was to subdue her lust for a blissful moment until she hungered again.
She could reach for herself to provide orgasm.
By her eyes, her wondrous looks, her infinite strength, she could make others reach for her to provide her orgasm. Whether her victim kneeled before her and tasted her or entered her with their shaft flaring and thick in monumental heat, they were her victim. They would yield and submit. They would surrender their blood to her.
In the moment of plunging her teeth into an artery so abundant in ripe sustenance for her, she would hate herself. Hate her loss of control. Hate that her memory of herself before her metamorphosis was her heart’s desire...that is to be a woman of kindness and compassion, a woman who desired to do no harm.
Or actually even enhance someone else’s life.
Yes, she could transform others into what she was. This endless perdition, endless torment that stalked her without relenting. Some would say that would be a gift, the gift of life eternal. Ah though, that was to be deluded. Infinite torment was no gift!
Chapter 2 Reflection
The woodcutter’s wife, his second, was gently looking into the mirror at herself. Making light assessment of what the subtleties of her loveliness consisted of. She was not vain. Simply bewildered and saddened at her present plight. She wanted to observe if this sticky weight of sadness could be seen by her here and now. Did it change her appearance? Was the bluish sense so ethereal in substance that it had no noticeable effect on the glow that she had been born with?
Ordinarily, she was vibrant, confident, assured...a mindset toward her life of positive outcome. Any other flow was strongly disconcerting to her. Yet here it was that rare, but enlarging sense of feeling amiss, something amiss. Was it herself? Her passionate but possibly flawed union with her husband? Could it be the children? No, never that, never the children. On that she was adamant!
Within herself, she felt the unraveling of good intentions upon her part. She had compromised with Juria. Was that unwise?
She had felt a very dynamic flaring desire upon first encountering him. She had been strolling on the forest verge in a moment of escape and solitude. He was there suddenly, yet far from her view but near enough for her to feel the flaring desire, that lightning strike to the heart, as she froze in place, only glancing at his form to begin. He was slashing rhythmically at an angle cut near base of massive fir tree. Over and over, his ax arched identically, chips flew freely. His shirtless shoulders tensed and relaxed. She was in pause only briefly. She could be exquisitely impulsive and was now. Forward she moved.
As a man of the woods, therefore of acutely tuned senses, Juria stopped and turned. He glanced down shyly. He was not accustomed to being approached shirtless and sweat soaked. She could tell that. And, as would be expected, they passed glances and then talked.
Claire remembered how drawn she was to Juria. His sensual shyness and robust physique compelled her. Put succinctly, his ass and hard plated muscles caused her sex to dampen. And this intensity of response had never riveted her being before Juria.
Even now, as she ruminated on that first encounter, her vault swelled and pulsed and became moist. She never doubted their desire for one another. It was almost a yearning, a constant thread of ache throughout the day long.
In their case, this passion created an enormous mutual emotional bond. She sensed always his total effort to please her, to make her happy. Because she knew this so completely, she wanted to give back to him. And give back she did!
And that was the rub, one of the prime aspects of disquiet for her now. As she faced the mirror, she faced herself. She had compromised for him. She moved from large community to country, into a cottage house after having lived on an expansive, beautiful, well-tended estate. She went from wealth and activity to much reduced luxury, as she also went from activity to isolation and solitude. Willingly, she made these sacrifices for him. She loved him. But she asked herself, in spite of that love for Juria, if she could forever hold to this compromise, this altered and reduced style for her.
Claire closed her eyes as if blind. She brought her fingertips to her broad and high set lovely cheekbones, to her full and warm lips, to her sweetly rounded chin, over the crested tip of nose, fingertips rustling her long and lush eyelashes, thence to long expanse of forehead. She pushed fingers through a field of fine, lengthy, auburn-blond tangles. Claire bent her neck back then. She opened her eyes as if startled by a loud sound. Yet it was not a sound of any kind. It was nothing, though, except the burst of sensuality she felt as she massed her hair backwards with her hands.
Claire closed her eyes as if blind. She brought her fingertips to her broad and high set lovely cheekbones, to her full and warm lips. to her sweetly rounded chin, over the crested tip of nose, fingertips rustling her long and lush eyelashes, thence to long expanse of forehead. She pushed fingers through a field of fine lengthy, auburn-blond tangles. Claire bent her neck back then.