Followed Home (Erotic Tale of a Vampire) Read online

  Followed Home

  By

  Audrey Grace

  * * *

  Table of Contents:

  Followed Home

  About the Author

  Bonus Material 1 - Mated to the Vampire Clan

  Bonus Material 2 - Shadow's Spoil

  Bonus Material 3 - Virgin Mate to Aliens

  Bibliography: Erotica

  Bibliography: Gay Erotica

  Bibliography: Lesbian Erotica

  Bibliography: Erotic Romance

  License

  Followed Home

  The night is hot and humid. The air clings to her, presses its thick and voluminous presence up against her body. Her skin glistens as tiny beads of sweat catch the light. She passes in and out of darkness, in and out of light. From island of light to island of light, across the seas of shadows. She walks along the street. The streetlights loom over her.

  He notices her at once. A mysterious stranger. A lurker in the shadows. He’s instantly intrigued. His interest is piqued. Her hair cascades downward delicately. It is a light shade of brown, something uncommon around these parts. He smells her perfume, fragrant, subtle. He decides that this is the one. He slips out of the shadows. He begins to follow her. His hands are in his pockets and his long, dark hair shrouds his features. But he is big, strong. His presence cannot be denied.

  She looks behind her and notices him following her. He’s three islands down, three lamp posts behind her. Even from this distance she knows he’s stunning. It’s nothing she can put her finger on, nothing specific. Just a feeling. She thinks she should be frightened, but she realizes she is not. It’s an opposite emotion budding inside her: Excitement.

  She raises her eyebrow as she notices that he is wearing a cape. And that he is carrying a cane, silver pommeled. She thinks it’s odd, perhaps eccentric, but somehow that is exciting. Her cognitions are surprising to herself, but not as unexpected as when she feels her panties growing damp. She realizes that she is aroused by the fact that she is being followed, and she increases the pace of her saunter just a tad, as if to play ‘hard to get.’

  She averts her gaze from him, acting indignant. She pushes her breasts out, straightens her back. She lifts up her chin and imbues her strides with confidence, with self-assurance. She smiles to herself, wondering if he, too, has sped up. She turns her head, to see him once more, to grant herself that ego-stroke, so addicting like a drug. But he’s gone. And she stops dead.

  Where did he go? She asks herself. She’s disappointed that he’s not still following her. She knows that it is only vanity rearing its ugly, stinging barb, but she feels it just the same. She starts to walk backward along the street, away from her home. She wonders which turn he took, at which street he decided it was no longer worth his time to follow her. The thought is a pang in her chest. She wants to find him again. She has no intention of satisfying the adolescent arousal she feels. But she wouldn’t mind a little more.

  Three islands of light down. Three puddles of illumination down. The streetlights cast their energy unwaveringly. They do not dim like her hope dims. They do not slouch like her back slouches. She is defeated. He is gone. She turns and begins to walk home again.

  She passes by the Cathedral. It is not yet too late, and she still has some time. She sits down on one of the benches. It overlooks a small slope, one that grants her a view at the roads that come into the city on the southern side. It looks like rivers of light flowing inward. The rivers glisten like the sweat on her neck glistens.

  She feels a small breeze. It chills her. The hair on the back of her neck springs to attention. Goose bumps erupt on her skin. She looks around, holding her arms, and sees the stranger again. He’s standing under a lamp post, bathing in the pool of light. He’s looking straight at her, but his face is expressionless, and his eyes are covered by his hair.

  She feels herself slipping. She knows something is happening. She’s falling under his spell.

  She gets up and goes to him, feeling compelled, feeling controlled. But as she approaches him, she begins to feel frightened, and fear shrouds her arousal. She changes direction, walking straight past him, brushing his elbow with hers. Their touch is electric.

  She resumes walking home, a little frightened, but somehow relieved to be followed again. His presence is undeniable. She knows he’s in her mind, somehow. His hunger, it’s palpable. She can feel it like the hot humid air. It surrounds her, envelopes her, clings to her like clothing.

  She knows he’s getting closer and closer. His footsteps out-pace hers. The excitement she feels is unexplainable. She knows it’s silly. She knows it’s dangerous. She thinks its vanity.

  But she is beginning to doubt.

  She walks past a small park, and turns into it. She doesn’t know why, but she suddenly feels she wants to sit down somewhere. Somewhere secluded. Somewhere private. He follows her in. His feet crush leaves beneath them. She can sense his hunger, it’s more than just lust. Her doubts are confirmed, it’s more than just vanity. He’s hungry, and she’s affected.

  She walks through some trees and comes to a clearing. She stops. Her chest is heaving in anticipation. She waits. Her mouth is dry and sticky. She sees him. Her sweat is beading more profusely.

  He approaches. She looks at him as he walks to her. Large arms, tanned skin, wide shoulders. He’s gorgeous, he’s sexy. She wonders if he’ll take her there. Only, she doesn’t know what that means. He comes up to her, smiling, but his expression does not quell the storm of turbulence in her mind. It is as if she is waging a war with herself. Run! She yells internally. Stay! She yells internally.

  He pushes his nose up against her neck, smelling her scent. She knows she’s sweating, but she’s not self-conscious. Her body tenses when she smells his scent. It’s powerful, heady, more than just musk. He strokes her hair softly, looking into her eyes. She can see his. They are dark, somehow old, as if he has seen more time than any human would care to.

  Softly, he touches her neck with a finger. It is a delicate, gentle touch. She’s aroused by that, by his deft digits. He licks her skin softly. She feels his hunger. It’s almost as if he wants to eat her.

  He withdraws, and she sees two white fangs. They glisten, seem to glow, and she’s instantly arrested, partly by fear, partly by excitement. She knows now what he really is. She thinks she shouldn’t believe it, that she should be doubtful, that this is a ruse. But she knows it is not. His presence is undeniable. It surrounds her, envelopes her. It clings to her like clothing.

  A vampire! She thinks to herself, grinning slightly at the thought. The creature moves in again, continues to lick her with his tongue, soft and warm and wet. He licks her neck, and down her jawline. He touches her parted lips with his finger. She’s drunk with excitement, and he is with hunger. He takes a bundle of hair into his hand and pulls her head to the side. Her neck is bared. The skin is smooth. It glistens with his saliva.

  He lowers his mouth to her neck and pauses. To her, it seems like he is savoring the moment, taking his time, not rushing things. He once again licks her neck, and then lets his fangs lightly graze her soft skin. She shivers beneath the feel of the sharpened, elongated, inhuman teeth. Her heart beats faster. Her stomach births butterflies. Her mind becomes woozy.

  The vampire wants to drink her blood! She knows it, and somehow she doesn’t mind. She wants the vampire to drink her blood. She rolls the thought around her mind like a candy in her mouth: What would it be like to be a vampire? To live for all eternity?

  She not only wants the vampire to bite her. She wants the vampire to satisfy her lust, her arousal, the heady concoction of emotions that has sent her mind swirling in
a mix of myriad shades of red.

  He seems to sense it. He slides his hand along her body, feeling it. It’s tight and hard. She exercises regularly. His hand finds the end of her summer dress, and roams back up her body to find the straps. He slips them off, one shoulder at a time, and lets her dress fall lower, inch by inch, until the swell of her breasts are revealed, barely contained within her small and purple bra.

  Her heart is beating furiously, as if both their lives depended on it.

  He withdraws a little, and their eyes meet again. She feels a comfort wash over her. Her muscles relax a little. Her breathing slows a little. She’s not losing any of the pressure of arousal, but the interference of fear and anxiety are fading. Their fingers no longer poke into her consciousness.

  She knows, somehow, that he will not hurt her. She tilts her head to one side, showing her neck to him, encouraging him. He reads her eyes carefully, more words spoken through a look than a mouth could ever hope to churn out. His eyes twinkle and he lowers his mouth once again to her neck. He bites slowly, his fangs sliding into her skin with ease, as if they were lubricated, as if there were already holes there. He groans as her blood gushes into his mouth. He heaves and pants as if he is drinking the very elixir of life itself.

  He slowly draws back, and two trickles of blood stream down her neck. They stop shortly, the coagulates in his saliva performing their function. He takes off his cape and lays it down on the grassy ground, and gestures at her to lie down, to get comfortable. She obliges. She lies on it, and touches it with her fingers, marveling at the soft and velvety feel against her skin. But it is not enough. She wants his fingers on her skin again. She wants to feel close to him again. She wants to feel that sting on her neck again.

  Her world is colored by him. Every sense seems to gravitate toward him. She cannot feel the temperature but that of his body. She cannot smell a scent but that of his body. She cannot see but for when he is in her sight.

  He kneels down beside her, and she launches forward to run her hands down his silk shirt, feeling the hard bumps of muscle underneath. She pants, wanting, and brings her face up to nuzzle beneath his chin, kissing his neck lightly, tenderly. He seems surprised by it, but embraces her anyway. His body seems to be filled with a relief, as if she is his first accepting victim, his first real conquer.

  She feels his hands at her back, fiddling with the clasp to her bra. Even the immortal vampire still had trouble, and she grinned at the thought. She took her hands from his chest and unhooked her bra herself, and as it fell off her, her breasts bounced free, glorious and generous, round and clinging tightly to her chest. Her nipples are hard, and in her cleavage is beaded sweat. It glistens wonderfully, like speckled stone.

  He runs his hands over her breasts softly, not yet squeezing, not yet kneading. She gasps at the coldness of his hands, and wonders briefly if this creature is dead or alive. But it is quickly obvious that he is alive when she sees his trousers tented, and bites her lip, thinking of what his freed, uncurled phallus would look like.

  His hands once again fiddle with her dress, and she helps him remove it slowly off her smooth legs. She slips them over her heels, and all she is wearing are her panties. He seems to devour her with his eyes, take in the sight as if it is something to die for. Something to turn for. His eyes once again meet hers, and in them is awe. She gestures downward at her panties, and he nods hungrily. She smiles again, removing them slowly, baring herself to him, her complete nudity, her most private self.

  He gazes at her as if she is the most beautiful thing in the world. She thinks she feels the touch of vanity again, but she does not care. She wants him, and when she opens her legs to him, the scent of her arousal drifts slowly upward between them. The sheen of her arousal shines vertically in the darkness.

  The vampire runs his hands up and down her body, feeling her soft skin, feeling the hard muscle beneath. He seems mildly amused by her fitness, and looks at her quizzically for a moment, as if she is something new.

  She marvels at his fluid movement, as if he has had eons of practice. She watches as his hands work their way beneath the curve of her breasts, up her cleavage, brushing against her nipples. He takes one in between two fingers and pinches it hard, and she squeals quietly, playfully. An overwhelming urge to kiss him takes her, and she presses her warm lips against his cold ones with such force that they mash together. She forces her tongue into his mouth to feel the point of his fangs.

  She senses that he is becoming hotter himself, only its a heat in his mind, rather than his body. Or is it? His hands feel less cold. His skin feels less icy. She knows that her own lust, her own form of hunger, is starting to catch in him, like one candle being pressed against another. His wick ignites, and he opens his mouth more, kisses her back more urgently, and sends his hands to the buttons of his shirt to undo them with practiced ease. He lets his shirt slide off his arms and puddle onto the cape beneath him. He takes her into his arms and holds her heated body, a sheen of sweat coating it, making it moist, to his cold body, dry and unaffected by the hot and humid air. His hands roam over her, exploring her, feeling the curve of her back, the thickness of her thighs, the rhombuses of her calves. He pushes her back and takes her breasts into each hand, and kneads them softly, expertly. Her breathing turns to heaving as the culmination of all this sensation is sent to one location on her body.

  She lightly presses her hands against his bared chest, and his eyes twitch slightly, and he groans softly. It seems to her as if he has not felt the touch of a woman in a long time. His hands stop above her left breast, and she realizes he is feeling her heartbeat. He seems entranced by it. His eyes stay closed. His breathing remains shallow. She puts her hand to his chest but feels no beat there. But her heart is beating hard enough for both of them.

  “Lie down,” he says, and she looks at him intrigued. It is the first time either one of them has spoken. His words are accented, but she does not know from where. His voice is deep and smooth, and it harbors no menace.

  “Okay,” she whispers back at him, lying back against his cape, her naked body on display against the maroon behind her. He kisses his way down her chest, takes a nipple into his mouth. He rolls it in between his tongue and teeth and she can feel the press of his fangs on her areola, that ring of speckled skin. He works his way further down her body, kissing, licking, grazing his fangs, and tingles are sent shooting downward. She shivers and shudders uncontrollably. She can feel herself leaking liquid desire. There is no coagulant that can stem that flow.

  He moves past her heat, and opens her legs. She is bared to him, a slit of scarlet, glistening, hungry. He seems to ignore it, and instead licks down her thighs, before sliding his fangs once again into her skin and taking from her a mouthful of blood.

  She moans as he sucks crimson from her. She has never felt a sensation quite like this. Her body trembles in something approaching pleasure. It is the ultimate tease. It leaves her wanting, yearning with extraordinary fervor.

  He moves to her other thigh and sinks his fangs inside again. His bite is beautiful, soft and loving. There is no menace there. There is no evil there. She reaches for his head and feels his dark hair in her hands. It is soft and delicate, and she feels compelled to handle it carefully, as if it is some kind of antique or ornament.

  But she cannot control herself. She pushes his head harder against her thigh, and from her he drinks a second mouthful. But that seems to be enough, and he pushes upward against her hand, to stand up before her.

  She watches as he undresses, smiling inwardly at the sight of his body. It is hard, defined. It is not bulging, and it is not excessive. It is perfectly proportioned. She feels her internal heat grow at the sight of him. His trousers fall down his legs. His thighs are muscular, his calves angular. A large lump is curled beneath his underwear. He removes that, and his manhood is revealed, and she grins outwardly this time. It’s large, and thick, and barely even erect yet. Veins bulge and coil around the shaft. His dome is wide and al
ready nearing purple.

  She holds out her arms. “Come to me,” she whispers, and he lowers himself to her. She holds him tightly, his cold body pressing against her hot body. They are both nude, both naked, both revealed to each other. Their most private selves.

  He is becoming excited. His body is reacting to his cognitions. He wants her too, more than just her blood. He wants her body, her closeness. He wants her essence.

  She lies down on top of him, massaging his chest. His skin seems less cold than before. It is as if her warmth is infiltrating him. It is as if she is breathing life back into his body. But with her lust or blood? She feels his excitement press against her stomach, and looks down between them. His manhood is staring at her, ready, erect.

  She rolls over onto her back, loving the feel of the velvety cape beneath her. She spreads herself and looks at him, offering herself to him, desperately hoping he’ll take her. He pauses for a moment, and in that moment it feels to her that she is waiting for an eternity. But then he rolls onto his side, kissing her shoulder lightly, rubbing her sweetness tenderly.

  He slides down her body, pulling his nose over her scented sex, sending out a quivering tongue to swab at her swollen sex. He licks up and down her slit, plays with the bundle of nerves with his tongue, sending her moaning and shuddering in pleasure.

  She looks down the length of her body to see that he is still ready. To see that he is throbbing. “Take me,” she whispers, and he nods, placing the wide dome of his thick gristle at her entrance. He pushes inside, and his manhood glides in as smoothly as his fangs did into her skin.

  He throws his head back. She can see the pleasure playing out on his face. He thrusts into her like he hasn’t had the pleasure of doing so for a long, long time. She can feel his warmth throbbing within her, and she realizes that he is not cold everywhere. And, perhaps, even if he does not have a heart, one still beats with all the might of emotion.