Rebirth
written by:
HedbangerSA

Rebirth

HedbangerSA

The strobes flashed, and the fans churned up a make-believe ocean breeze. It even smelled like the beach in the studio, from the ton and a half of sand they hauled in for the shoot. The center of attention was a lithe, fair-skinned model with long hair that flowed like black water in the wind. As the cameras clicked and hummed, she posed expertly, every move perfect, every look to die for.

Two lighting technicians enjoyed the show. Their equipment was in place and required no adjustments.

"Man, is she a piece of ass or what?" Brad said, eyeing the way the sarong clung to the model like a colorful coating of gossamer. He was the younger of the two men, tall and blonde, with the physique of a bodybuilder.

"No shit. And she's old enough to be your mom," Ron replied, getting a look of stunned disbelief. "I kid you not. She's at least forty."

"You're full of it. She looks twenty."

Ron nodded in agreement. "But get this. Jenny in makeup says she worked with her in the early nineties—fifteen years ago."

They stopped talking as the model took off the sarong for the next segment of the shoot. She was wearing the tiniest string bikini either of them had ever seen. The triangles of yellow cloth barely covered her nipples and pussy. Her firm breasts bounced gently—and naturally—as she practiced her upcoming moves. From the back, the thong consisted of a yellow string low across slim hips, and a pencil-thin strap that disappeared into the crack of an amazing, heart-shaped ass.

"I don't care how old she is. I want to fuck her," Brad said.

Ron laughed. "Good luck. Jenny says she's the original Ice Princess. She could have been a supermodel, but instead she works little gigs like this—one shot deals. Here, Europe, Asia, everywhere."

"Maybe that's why I've never heard of her," Brad said, looking at the name on his clipboard. "Nelah Alejandro." He pronounced it slowly, letting the syllables roll off his tongue.

*****

Greg Bryant pulled his cab to the curb and jumped out to help two elderly women disembark. He waited until they buzzed one of the apartments, got a response, and waved to him happily.

Back in the cab, he counted the bills one of the women had given him. Twelve dollars, all singles, for a fare of $11.50. A four-percent tip. Greg sighed and smiled, knowing the old broads meant well.

Besides, he couldn't complain. The night before he ferried two Japanese businessmen from LaGuardia Airport to their hotel in Midtown, then waited with his meter running while they checked in. He waited for them again outside a fancy titty bar, where they got liquored up and found a couple of young hookers. When he dropped the happy group back at the hotel, one of the men handed Greg a wad of fifties that added up to more than double the fare.

That made up for the fifty-cent tip from the old ladies. And they'd been nice, telling him about their holiday plans and calling him a ‘nice young man', like his grandma used to. With his short, sandy hair and pale blue eyes, Greg did look younger than his forty-five years. Working two jobs and skipping a lot of meals helped keep him trim.

He taught English Lit at a junior college by day, and drove the cab at night because it paid better. In his spare time, he was writing the great American novel. The current attempt was a love story, fraught with irony and suspense. Greg was stuck at chapter six, trying to figure out why anyone would fall in love with the losers he had for main characters.

He checked his watch and yawned. It was only six-thirty. He decided to cruise toward Midtown and look for more Japanese businessmen.

*****

The photo shoot was finished, and the director and client were ecstatic. The problem was going to be choosing which perfect shots to use. As they fawned over the model, Brad continued to stare, his dick hard and his mouth watering. God, did he want that bitch.

He took his time breaking down the equipment, waiting while she changed clothes. Ron was long gone, headed home to his family. When she emerged, the model was stunning in a silk blouse and suede skirt. Her long legs were bare and sleek, and needed no stockings. She paused at the control center to thank the departing crew, and to pick up her purse.

Brad walked over, drying his palms on his jeans. He blocked her path to the exit, and waited for her to turn. When she did, the look she gave him took his breath away. Poised, quizzical, as though she expected him.

"Hey," he said.

"Hay?"

"I mean, Hi." Brad managed, swallowing hard. "I'm Brad, in lighting." He motioned toward the equipment stacked against the wall of the studio.

"How nice," she said, amused.

"You did great," Brad said. "Really hot. I mean, that suit was made for you."

"I do my best," she said, then looked him up and down slowly. She licked her lips.

"Your name is Nelah?" he said, shoving his hands in the front pockets of his jeans to cover a rapidly engorging dick.

"Close," she said, studying his crotch. "It's a short ‘e'. Nayluh." She looked up, and caught him staring at her tits. The silk blouse was open nearly to her waist, and she wore no bra. Her nipples showed through the sheer cloth, dark and slightly puffy.

"Oh, okay," he said.

"And you're Brad. In lighting." The tip of her tongue caressed her upper lip. "You're a big boy, Brad. Do you work out?"

He nodded proudly and flexed his arms, glad he'd worn the tight black T-shirt.

"Is there something you want to ask me, Brad?"

"I don't know, I just thought you were hot and I wondered..."

"If I wanted to fuck you?"

He stared at her, stunned. Light-headed. He could smell her hair and skin, and the effect was overpowering.

"Sure, Brad. I'll fuck you. Are you sure you're up to it?" she asked. "I play rough. Is that okay?"

He glanced around, relieved that the set was deserted. "The rougher the better! Let me get my coat." He couldn't believe his good fortune—positive he was in for the ride of his life.

*****

A misting rain began to fall, and that was good for business. Greg had four decent fares in succession, with the new passengers getting in as the old ones were departing. He turned his light off, intending to find a place to park so he could eat his dinner. He cruised up Fifty-Eighth Street looking for an opening.

He pulled to the curb and reached for the brown paper sack next to his feet. He heard a quick rap on his window, looked up and saw the most beautiful woman in the world.

Her long, raven hair cascaded off her shoulders as she leaned forward. Her pale silk blouse gaped open, revealing a set of naked tits that took Greg's breath away.

"Are you off duty?" she asked, smiling enticingly and placing an elbow against the window frame. Greg tried not to stare at her breasts.

"Uh, yeah. But I guess I can eat later," he said, looking up into her dark eyes. They were huge, deep, and exotic. She stood and turned. Her suede skirt hugged her slim thighs, six inches from Greg's nose.

"Let's go Brad," she said, opening the rear door of the cab. Greg watched as a guy who looked like a bouncer dropped a cigarette and walked over. He was wearing a fake leather jacket over a black T-shirt and faded jeans.

"The Stratford. On Fifty-Sixth just off Park," the woman said.

Greg nodded. If it was her place, she was gorgeous and rich. The apartments on that block went for well over a million bucks.

On the way, Greg pretended not to listen as the bouncer made stupid jokes about his dick size and sexual prowess. Greg glanced into the rearview mirror and saw the woman stifling a smile. Then she intercepted the big guy's wrist as he tried to slip a hand inside her blouse.

"Behave yourself," she said, like she was with a five-year-old.

"Here we are," Greg said, as they pulled up to the Stratford. The building was first class, complete with a liveried doorman and covered walkway that extended to the curb.

"That'll be... seven eighty-five," Greg told the woman, who poked a twenty-dollar bill through the slot in the glass divider.

"I don't need change."

Greg thanked her and gave her the receipt and one of his cards, telling her to call if she ever needed a cab to the airport. As he spoke, the woman smiled as though she was enjoying a private joke.

*****

Brad tried to grope Nelah in the elevator, despite her warnings. Finally, she gave him a shove against the wall to get his attention. He was surprised by her strength.

"Hey! I told you to behave yourself," she said.

"Yeah, but you're so goddamn hot. And you said we were going to fuck," Brad protested.

"I didn't say we'd do it in the elevator," she said. The doors opened and she stalked out, down the short hallway to her apartment door. She looked back to make sure Brad was following. She unlocked her door and waited, letting him enter first.

"Nice place!" he said, taking in the white and black leather furnishings, accented by bright contemporary artwork. He walked into the large main room, impressed by the huge plasma television and home theatre setup. Brad decided it would be sweet to move in with the model for a while. He adjusted his package in his tight blue jeans, wondering if they were going to fuck on the big leather couch or in the bedroom.

He took out his cigarettes and tapped the pack against his palm as he searched for his lighter.

"Don't," she said. He shrugged.

"You must make the bucks modeling," he said, as he took off his jacket and tossed it on a chair.

"I do well enough," Nelah replied from the kitchen. She walked into the room carrying a glass of white wine and a big tumbler full of scotch. She handed the tumbler to Brad and sat on one end of the couch, kicking off her shoes and drawing her legs under herself. Brad looked at the Scotch.

"Don't you have any beer?" he asked.

She pointed toward the other side of the couch. "Sit. You need to drink that—it'll relax you and give you more stamina later."

Confused, he perched on the couch and sipped the whisky.

"I heard you travel a lot."

"I'm not here that much. I like to keep moving," she said.

Perfect, he thought. "If you need someone to watch your place for you..."

She ignored him, interrupting. "So, Brad. You have a lot of family here?"

"No, they're all back in Minnesota," he said, grimacing. "Bunch of assholes. Especially my old man."

Nelah smiled. "You don't talk to them much?"

He laughed. "Never. Like I said, they're assholes."

"And your job? Are you a regular at that studio?"

"Nah, I mainly freelance," he said, taking a big gulp of the Scotch. "This stuff is okay, I'm getting a good buzz."

"I'm glad," she said. She placed her wineglass on the end table and picked up a small black case. She opened it, revealing a syringe and several vials.

"What the fuck is that?" Brad asked.

"Can't be too careful these days. Just a blood test—give me your arm."

"Hey!" he said, as she held his wrist.

"You said you wanted to fuck. I hate condoms, don't you?" she said, smiling seductively.

"Yeah... I guess," he replied, holding out the arm and gulping more Scotch, trying to look brave. Brad hated needles.

She worked quickly and expertly, drawing a small amount of his blood. She mixed it with a series of reagents and set the vials on the end table. He watched her breasts move as she shook the vials, and wondered if she was wearing panties. Maybe a thong—that would be nice. He drank more Scotch, enjoying the glow it gave him. Jesus, she was a hot bitch, even if she was a little weird.

"Did I pass?"

"With flying colors. Drink up, so we can get started," she said, smiling. She watched him drain the tumbler, then stood and helped him to his feet.

"Whoa, I'm a little dizzy," he said, steadying himself on her shoulder. "I guess it was that needle. They freak me out."

"You'll be fine," she said, taking his hand. "Let's go."

She led him into her bedroom and to the edge of a king-sized bed. Unlike the rest of the apartment, the bedroom was dark—the window was covered with heavy draperies, and the walls were painted a deep red. The furniture was old, made of dark wood, roughly fashioned. Nelah walked around the room slowly, lighting candles.

"Get undressed, Brad."

He fumbled with his shirt, then his jeans and briefs. His cock was hard, already aching.

"How about you? I want to see those titties," he said.

"Soon. Go ahead and lie down. Get comfortable."

He eased onto the big bed on his back, then stroked his dick a little.

"Jesus, I'm pretty fucking horny."

She walked to the bed and took off her blouse, then unzipped the skirt and let it fall to the floor. She wasn't wearing panties.

"I can tell," she said, looking at his cock.

Nelah climbed onto the bed and knelt next to Brad. He grabbed her right breast and squeezed, stroking her nipple with his thumb. She ran her fingers over his balls, then started jacking his dick slowly.

"How come it's so dark in here, and weird?" he asked, still kneading her tit. "You some kind of witch?"

"Don't be silly. I'm a vampire."

He laughed. "So you're going to bite my neck?"

She smiled. "You watch too much television, Brad."

*****

Greg finished loading the luggage in the trunk, then eased the cab into the dense traffic near Penn Station. The young couple he was taking to their hotel snuggled in the back seat, and pointed excitedly at landmarks they recognized. Greg decided against his usual shortcuts, instead taking them through Times Square and the theatre district along Broadway.

As he drove, he thought about the woman. The way she leaned against his cab, showing him her breasts. The confident way she spoke to the blond bouncer, and her amusement at his stupid comments. But mostly he thought about her eyes. The way she looked at him as they talked, and that little smile at the end.

Something about her seemed familiar, but stayed just beyond his ability to make the connection. She looked like an actress, so maybe he'd seen her on television, or in a movie. That was probably it, he decided.

The chatter from the backseat had stopped. Greg checked the rearview mirror, and watched for a moment as the young couple kissed. Mouths open wide, their lips and tongues working hard. His hand was cupping a breast through her blouse as her fingers stroked the crotch of his jeans. You could practically smell the raging hormones.

Greg was a big fan of young love, and didn't object to them getting in a quick grope. Hell, he'd had people fuck in his back seat. But watching the couple depressed him, and made him feel incredibly alone. He couldn't remember the last time he felt the way they did, connected and alive. Perhaps that was why he was struggling with his novel—he'd forgotten what it felt like to be in love.

*****

"Just relax, Brad."

Nelah straddled him and pulled his cock into position beneath her. She sucked in a quick breath as the head penetrated her, then rotated her hips as she eased down on the thick shaft. She paused, working the muscles in her pussy. Brad was a jerk but he hadn't lied about one thing—he had a nice, big cock and she loved the way it filled her.

"Wow! How do you do that? Like you have fingers in your fucking cunt!" Brad said, grinning.

"Lots of practice," she said, arching her back and grinding her ass against him. He was playing with her tits, pinching and flicking the nipples.

"And you got a great set of hooters," he said. "Not real big, but these babies will never fucking sag."

She moved his hands away and leaned forward, pressing a hard nipple against his lips. He licked it, then began to suck. She moaned and held his face in place as she started to fuck him, her hips rising and falling in little popping motions—quick and steady. Her long, black hair coiled on her shoulders and back, moving like it was alive.

She closed her eyes and got into a nice rhythm, letting the lips of her pussy slide about halfway up his plump cock before ramming herself back down. Brad was suckling one breast, then the other, trying to get the whole thing in his mouth.

"I usually fuck doggy style, but this is great!" he said, panting. He began thrusting up into her, holding her hips with both hands.

Nelah wished he would shut up—he was ruining her mood. She reached back and started massaging his nuts as he fucked her.

"You gonna come?" he asked.

"Oh, yeah," she said, then faked it to keep him happy. His lower body was on autopilot, pumping wildly, his breathing increasingly ragged. With her free hand, Nelah stroked his neck for a moment, then felt his pulse. Brad's heart was hammering dangerously fast.

She waited until he was about to come, his rhythm faltering, then squeezed his dick low around the shaft, circling it most of the way with a thumb and finger.

"Hey!" he protested, hips jerking. She pulled up, letting his cock pop free, keeping a firm grip on his shaft. She knelt between his outstretched thighs.

"That hurts! What're you doing?"

"I want you to come in my mouth," she said, easing closer. "That'll be better, right?"

"I... guess so," he said, wondering why she did the fucking blood test.

She licked the head, then the shaft, cleaning him and enjoying her own taste. His balls stopped twitching, so she released his shaft. A little come oozed out and she lapped it up, then started sucking him.

As she took him deeper, and deeper, into her throat, she cupped his balls and squeezed. Brad moaned, the muscles in his thighs trembling.

"I'm so fucking hard. I've never been so fucking hard."

He tried to raise his head, and pull his elbows under him but couldn't. He felt dizzy.

"It hurts! I need to fucking come!"

Nelah wet her fingers in her own juices, then slid one into Brad's asshole. He jerked, surprised, and tried to pull his knees together but they wouldn't cooperate. She pushed another finger into him and worked both around, loosening his sphincter as she sucked his cock faster.

"What the fuck?" he gasped, fear in his voice. Why couldn't he move?

She found his prostate with her fingertips and pushed, forcing them into it. She pulled her head up, spit on his dick, and began to jack him quickly with the hand that wasn't in his butt.

"Come on, Brad honey. I want all of it." She smiled at him as she sucked the head of his cock into her mouth and lashed the tip with her tongue.

"Oh, Jesus! Oh, Fuck!" His body jerked on the bed as he came, his upraised knees flopping weakly. Nelah swallowed hungrily, continuing to work him with both hands until she was sure he was finished.

She wiped her face and hands on his thighs and sat up.

"Oh, that was good." She felt better already, a feeling of vitality spreading through her body. She rested, catching her breath.

"Something's wrong," Brad said. "I can't move."

"There were drugs in the booze, Brad," she said, shrugging. "That's why your cock is still hard, and your heart is beating so fast."

Nelah crawled to the side of the bed, opened a drawer and removed an old wooden case. She returned, holding it up for him. When she pressed the catch and the case opened, Brad began to cry. She picked up the ornate dagger, its three-inch, razor-sharp blade glistening wickedly.

"I'm sorry, but you've got something else that I need. That neck-biting thing is bullshit, but we do drink blood."

"You're a... vampire?"

"I told you I was."

"When you do me, it'll make me one too?"

"You really do watch too much television," she said. "No, Brad. It'll just make you food."

She stroked his cock a few times, then squeezed it tightly two inches below the head. She placed the edge the knife against the shaft just below the glans, then paused.

"I really am sorry. Maybe if you hadn't been such a jerk," she said softly. "It won't hurt much, I promise."

"You fucking bitch," he sobbed, eyes showing raw terror. "Fucking bitch!"

She drew the blade across quickly, cutting just deep enough to nick an artery. Blood trickled out, despite the pressure she was applying below the wound. Nelah leaned in and took his cock into her mouth once last time, released the makeshift tourniquet, and drank.

When Brad finally stopped bleeding, she collapsed onto the bed next to his body. Nelah was incredibly tired, but her needs were satisfied. She slept.

*****

When Greg got home, he was still depressed. His apartment was too quiet, and seemed dreary. He opened a beer and drank it, then got another. He usually tried to work on the novel for a couple of hours at night, but knew that would be pointless in his present mood. He turned the television on, not really paying attention.

The movie Serendipity was showing on cable. Greg had seen it twice, and all the romance only made him feel worse. The Sara character struck him, though. The woman he saw in his cab, the one with the amazing eyes, looked a little like Kate Beckinsale. But more like in Van Helsing, with the long dark hair.

The woman in the cab was even more beautiful. She was hypnotic, enchanting, bewitching. Her face stayed with Greg, he couldn't shake it, and he knew she was the real reason for his depression. Something about her reminded him of everything missing in his life.

He went to bed and masturbated, thinking about the woman. And, when he slept, he dreamt of her.

*****

When Nelah awakened, it was mid-day. She felt groggy, the way she always did after a feeding session. She needed them more often now, because her time was approaching.

She showered, letting the hot water steam away the stains and soothe tired muscles. Feeling better, she dressed then picked up the phone.

"Hello, Barry?"

"Nelah."

"I need you for a clean-up."

"Another, so soon?"

"Yes. He's in the bedroom. I'm getting ready to go out."

"I'll dispose of him. Will there be complications?"

"No. He was a loner. No one will miss him."

There was a long pause.

"You have to do it soon, Nelah."

"I know. I've got four days."

"Still thinking about the blonde from the coffee shop?"

"Yes, but..."

"Just do it, Nelah. It's our way—you have no choice."

"I swear, this is the last one."

"You said that before you became Nelah, remember?"

"I mean it this time. No more."

"What's her name?"

"Alizan Morneau. It's French."

"It's lovely, I'm sure she is too. I can't wait to meet her," he said softly. "You go out. I'll clean up the mess."

Barry was an old friend. He was her mentor, the one who taught her the ancient rituals when it began for her as a Moldavian peasant girl of fifteen. They'd been lovers once, many years before, but now he just looked after her. Nelah was finished with Brad, but his body was still useful to others.

*****

Nelah left her building, squinting because of the bright sunshine. The doorman hailed a cab, and she tipped him as it pulled up.

"The Roasted Bean, on West Forty-Seventh. Do you know it?" she asked.

"Sure. Nice place," Greg said, then smiled and looked at her. God, she was gorgeous. She was wearing jeans and a pink sweater that hugged her figure.

"You again."

"Yeah, small world," he replied. Actually, it wasn't. He waited at the curb outside her building all morning, watching for her.

Traffic was heavier than usual. At a light, he turned to face her.

"It's been bothering me. I think I know you from somewhere."

"You really don't remember?"

"No. Do you?"

"Of course. Nineteenth Century Literature. The Victorian Age?" she said, smiling.

"My first class," he said. "But that's impossible—that was seventeen years ago."

"Closer to eighteen," she said.

"You can't possibly be that old."

"First row, middle seat?" she said, drawing her thick hair into a ponytail, tilting her head down and looking up at him.

His breath caught. "Jesus. I remember you. It's... Naomi?"

"Nelah." She smiled and pointed. The light had changed. Cars were honking.

"That was a good class," he said, driving again. "You were my best student."

"I had a huge crush on you."

"No way."

"Oh, yeah. Why do you think I hung around after class asking questions?"

"I don't know. My breathtaking insights?"

"That too, but you were really cute. And you had a nice butt."

"Thanks. I guess."

They traveled in silence for a minute. Traffic had thinned, and they were nearing the coffee shop. There was so much he wanted to ask her, but there wasn't time. And a fleeting relationship so many years ago didn't give him the right to intrude on her life. She was just a passenger in his cab.

"It's Greg, right?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"You're probably too busy, but I'm not meeting anyone," she said. "I'd love to have coffee with you."

"Really?" He glanced at her. "I mean, sure. I'm not even supposed to be working today."

*****

They settled into a booth. Greg was a little nervous, so the elaborate menu of desserts and exotic coffees offered a convenient distraction. As he read, Nelah searched the room then smiled and waved.

"Alizan! Hi!"

A beautiful young woman with long, strawberry blonde hair waived back.

"Hi! Be there in a sec, okay?"

Greg studied the waitress. Wow. She oozed confidence, like she knew she was beautiful and didn't spend much time thinking about it. Even the ugly brown uniform looked great on her. Long legs, tiny waist, big tits.

"Is she a friend?" he asked.

"No, not really," Nelah said, watching the girl. "I met her here. Isn't she pretty?"

"Not as pretty as you are."

"Thanks. Wait till you meet her, she's a great kid."

They looked at each other for a moment.

"How is it that you're almost as old as I am, but you look the same as before?" Greg asked. "You're more confident, and, I don't know... polished, I guess. But you don't look any older."

She looked away for a second, indecision in her eyes. Then she was back in control.

"I'm a professional fashion model, Greg. I have to take care of myself."

"Oh, okay," he said. He smiled, pretending that he bought it. She smiled back, pretending that she believed it.

"Sorry to keep you guys waiting," Alizan said, grinning. She leaned and hugged Nelah. "You look great! Love your hair." She looked at Greg.

"This is Greg Bryant. He's an old friend," Nelah said. Greg wished she hadn't said ‘old.'

"Cool! Hey Nelah, are we still on for Friday?" Alizan looked excited, her green eyes sparkling.

"Of course," Nelah said, glancing at Greg. "I'll pick you up, then we'll go to my place."

Alizan hugged her again. "This is so awesome! I can't wait, I've, like, told all my friends about it!"

She took their orders and left, still grinning.

"Alizan wants to get into modeling," Nelah said. "I'm going to show her my portfolio, and take some shots of her. Make some introductions."

"That's nice of you," he said. "Do you still write?"

"No. I don't have the time."

"That's a shame, you were really good. Remember that story about the girl during the Crimean War, when the Russians attacked her village? It was really graphic, but the detail was amazing. I felt like I was there."

"So did I," she said quietly. "Are you still teaching?"

"Sure. Same place, but the students seem younger now."

"Weren't you writing a novel?" she asked.

"I keep trying. Nothing published yet, but I'm working on one now."

"Really? What's it about?"

So he told her, about that one and the ones before it. About their strengths and weaknesses, and about his doubts and hopes. She asked questions and made suggestions, and she seemed like that young woman in his class again.

She told him about how she got into modeling, and about the travel, and how demanding and competitive it could be. Finally, she checked her watch, and they'd been talking for over an hour. She said she had to get home, that she was meeting someone.

"At least you don't have to worry about finding a cab," he said.

He drove her home, and then walked her to the door of her building.

"I want to see you again, Nelah."

Her face clouded. "I'm going to be busy this weekend. And then I'll be going away for a while."

"Tomorrow then. We could get dinner," he said, placing a hand on her arm. "Please."

"Okay, that would be great. Say seven-thirty?"

*****

Brad's body and all the bedding were gone. Nelah put fresh sheets and blankets on the bed and then sat on the edge. What the fuck was she doing? She couldn't get into a real relationship, especially now. And it was dangerous for Greg to see her with Alizan. But he reminded her of when being Nelah was still new and exciting.

Nelah had already enrolled in the class, so she kept going. She loved it, loved the writing and Greg's excitement for it, and she loved how he looked at her. How he still looked at her. She thought she could love him, and that he could love her back.

Why now, when there was no time? The potions and her feeding sessions could only keep her young for so long. Every eighteen years she needed a new body, and with it came a new identity. If she didn't make the change in time, she would start to age rapidly. She would die. She had three days left.

*****

When Greg got to Nelah's building, the doorman buzzed her apartment. She said she'd be right down.

"You're going out with the Alejandro woman?" the doorman asked.

"Yeah," Greg said, surprised at the question.

"You're lucky, she's a babe," he said, winking. "I keep waiting for my shot. Let me know how it is, okay?"

Greg nodded, thinking Maybe in another lifetime, asshole, but then he remembered the blonde bouncer with Nelah in his cab.

They went to his favorite seafood place, and it was perfect. Nelah was stunning, the food was fantastic, the wine expensive and plentiful. She seemed uneasy at first, but as they talked they settled into the same comfortable familiarity they shared at the coffee shop. Afterward they walked down Fifth Avenue, holding hands and taking in the excitement of the unabashed materialism.

On the way back to her apartment, Nelah began to act uneasy again. But she asked him up for a nightcap, so Greg wasn't troubled.

"Nelah, this is really nice," he said, as they walked into her place.

"Thanks. Do you want a beer?"

"Not a good idea, after all that wine," he replied. "Some Scotch would be nice, if you have it."

"Sure. I have Scotch."

He admired the artwork—bold, colorful oils and acrylics. There was a painting he recognized from a show he attended, and he let out a low whistle remembering the price. Enough for a fleet of cabs. She returned from the kitchen carrying a glass of white wine and a tumbler full of whiskey. He tasted his drink.

"That's good. Is it single malt?"

She nodded, and gestured toward the big leather couch.

"Why don't we sit here?"

They sat close and he put his arm around her shoulder. She was wearing a simple black dress that showed plenty of cleavage.

"I can't get over how young your skin looks, Nelah." He pulled her closer.

"Thanks. Miracles of modern science."

"And I'm really glad we met again." He kissed her gently on the cheek.

She watched him sip the Scotch.

"Is that okay? I could get you something else."

"I love it." He took a big swallow to prove it, then sat the tumbler on the end table next to her wineglass.

He kissed her. His lips brushed hers softly, caressing. She held back briefly, then leaned into him hungrily. They kissed deeper, tongues dancing, as their hands explored. The straps of her dress came down, exposing her breasts. He cupped one, stroking. Jesus, she's got the tits of a teenager, he thought.

She rubbed his cock through his slacks, then unfastened his belt and fly. Her hand was in his boxers, squeezing and stroking. She pulled back.

"Why don't we go to my bedroom?"

He followed her, surprised by the unusual decor. She began to light candles scattered around the dark room—more than a dozen of them.

"Why don't you get undressed, Greg?"

He watched her move gracefully about the room with a lighted taper, naked to the waist. He undressed, feeling tipsy. When she finally came to him, he sat on the bed and finished removing her dress. It was all she was wearing.

"You're amazing," he whispered, then licked her breast. The tip of his tongue traced the border of her areola then flicked the nipple until it was hard. She shuddered.

"Let's get on the bed," she said.

He rolled next to her and kissed her as he stroked her breast, her firm tummy, and her smooth, shaven pussy. She was wet, and his fingers slid over the hot flesh of her labia. His lips followed the path his hand took, licking and kissing. She smelled and tasted fresh, and young. He felt light-headed as he pressed his mouth against her pussy, sucking on a soft fold of pink flesh.

He pushed her legs back and held them as he explored, his tongue probing the center of her. He licked the firm cleft of her ass, then circled the tight, pink pucker of her anus as the rich, musky scent of her drove him wild.

He returned to her clit, coaxing it out of its little hood of flesh, then sucking it and working it with his tongue. He slid a finger deep inside her, and stroked the sensitive flesh along the top of her vagina as her juices wet his hand. She was tight. The pussy of a teenager, he thought.

Nelah's body shuddered, and she stifled a scream of pleasure. She held his face against her pussy with both hands and rolled her hips as the orgasm peaked, and was followed by another.

"Oh, fuck! Oh, yeah!" she moaned, trying to remember the last time she came.

She pulled his head up. "We need to fuck."

He crawled next to her, looking dazed. She rolled him onto his back.

"I want to ride you," she said, as she straddled him. Her pussy was trembling, the muscles inside twitching, as she impaled herself on his dick. She started pumping him, her ass pounding against his thighs. His hands slid up her abdomen and cupped her breasts, massaging gently.

"Fuck!" she wailed, as she came again. She ground her ass against him, loving the way he felt inside of her.

He watched as she writhed with pleasure. Her tits were amazing, but he released them and let his arms drop. His hands felt heavy. She started to ride him again, her firm breasts bouncing wildly, nipples tracing little circles in the air. Her long, thick hair framed her face, cascaded over her shoulders, and danced around her arms and back as she moved.

"Oh, Nelah, Nelah," he said, as he felt himself building toward climax. She stopped fucking, then squeezed his dick at the base, restraining him.

"I want it in my mouth. I want to taste you," she said, panting. She pushed his legs apart, bent at the knees, then leaned in and began to lick him. His cock, his balls, and lower, where her juices had run between his legs and into the crack of his ass. Her tongue stroked his anus and then pressed into it. He moaned.

Greg tried to bring a hand up to hold her head, but didn't have the energy. His limbs felt thick and unresponsive. Her tongue withdrew, replaced by a finger, and then another. Wet, slippery—deep inside him. She sure didn't fuck like a teenager, he thought.

He felt her mouth on his dick, hot and wild. His cock was painfully hard—it felt like the skin was going to split. The head was pressing against her tonsils. He felt the tight opening of her throat, and then he was in it. Oh, Jesus! Her lips were wrapped around the base of his cock as she rolled her head from side to side.

She gasped for air as she pulled up, bobbed a couple of times, then swallowed him again. Her fingers in his ass felt great, thrusting and pressing.

His back arched as he came. Thick, hot blasts of come surged into her throat. A long, low groan escaped from him as she sucked, and started jacking his cock. Her tongue lashed at him, her hands coaxing, milking him, fingers pressed hard up his asshole. His vision blurred, and he felt like he was going to pass out.

She pulled away, gasping for air. God, he was good. She wiped her face then sat up. His head was lolling from side to side, his hands clenching weakly. She glanced, hesitating, at the drawer that held the wooden case, and the dagger.

He was different. He was tender and caring. She could love him. She blinked, and felt hot tears on her cheeks. It surprised her—she wasn't supposed to cry.

What the fuck was she doing? There wasn't time for complications. She had two days left and she needed to feed again or she wouldn't have the strength to make the change. If she didn't, she would grow old. Her skin would wrinkle and become translucent. Her hair would turn brittle, lifeless. Her breasts would sag, and her body would become grotesque. And it would happen in hours, not years. Was that what she wanted?

She had been young for so long, hundreds of years, gloriously young. She sighed, and wiped away the tears. Barry was right—it was their way. She either had to embrace what she was, and accept all that went with it, or welcome death as deliverance. There was no middle ground.

She looked at Greg again, and she knew what she would do. She ran her fingertips across his neck until she found his pulse. His heart was racing—pumping hot, rich blood into his engorged cock. She pressed her fingertips into his neck, restricting the flow to his brain until his eyes rolled back and he lost consciousness.

*****

The sun dropped below the Manhattan skyline, and the wind picked up. Bits of trash blew along the gutter. A candy wrapper, cigarette butts, the lid of a fast-food cup. The breeze brought the smell of rotting food from a pile of garbage by a restaurant three buildings away.

The brick façade of the Stratford shimmered in the fading light. The scalloped canvas along the edge of the covered walkway caught the wind and made slapping noises. The doorman was absent again—he hadn't been there all week.

Greg sat across the street, watching the building. Waiting for Nelah.

It had been ten days since he woke up with a splitting headache, surprised to be in his own apartment. He had no recollection of getting there, but his cab was parked outside, and the keys were on the hook inside his front door.

He remembered dinner with Nelah, and going to her apartment. He remembered kissing her, and had fleeting memories of the sex. Her breast in his mouth, her naked body astride him, her beautiful hair glistening in the dim light.

He knew he'd been drugged. No hangover could be as bad as that, and he'd never blacked out before. He tried to call the next day, and the day after, to get an explanation but there was no answer. The third day, the phone was disconnected.

So now he waited, hoping she'd come.

*****

He watched as another cab made its way down the block, then sat up when it stopped in front of the Stratford. He saw the figure of a woman through the tinted window of the back seat—she was tall, with long hair.

Greg got out of his cab, and started across the street. The woman was on the curb, standing, and his heart fell. The hair was blonde, long and straight. He recognized her. It was the girl from the coffee shop, the waitress.

But she knew Nelah, and might know where he could find her. He ran to catch her before she entered the building.

"Hey! Wait a minute!"

She turned, holding a ring of keys. She frowned, and then smiled.

"You're Greg, right? Nelah's friend?"

"Do you know where she is?"

"She went away. Didn't she tell you?"

"I was just with her," he said, shaking his head.

She shrugged. "It was weird, that's for sure."

When Greg didn't say anything, she continued.

"Nelah came and got me that Friday, like she said she would? We talked about the modeling thing, and she said she would help me get started. Then out of the blue she said she was leaving and didn't know when she would be back."

"Did she say where she was going?"

"No, and she didn't leave a number or anything. But here's the really weird part. She asked if I wanted to rent her place, and she had a contract all ready to sign. The next day when I came to talk to her about it, she was gone."

"How did you get in?"

"This friend of hers was here. He said he came to clean up, but he sure didn't pack anything. She left her clothes and everything. Weird."

Greg sat on the steps, feeling hollow and defeated.

"I knew she was gone, even before they disconnected the phone," he said quietly. "But I wish I could have said goodbye." And find out what happened, that night.

She sat next to him. "I'm Alizan, by the way. Alizan Morneau."

"I remember."

"You really liked her, huh?"

He nodded.

"Me too. She was awesome."

They sat quietly for a minute, Alizan drumming her fingers on her leg.

"Anyway, I was thinking," she began. "Maybe we could go out sometime."

"What?"

"I'm sort of into older guys, and I heard some of the stuff you were saying to Nelah. In the coffee shop? You're pretty cool."

"Thanks," he said, then nodded. "I think I'd like that."

"You want to come up now? See what I've done to the place?"

She stood, and held out a hand to help him up.

"What happened to the doorman?" Greg asked, as she unlocked the building entrance.

"Nobody knows. He, like, disappeared," she said, shrugging. "Hey, maybe he went with Nelah."

"Maybe."

They got into the elevator.

"This thing is really slow," she said, then her face brightened. "Since you're a writer, maybe you can help me. I was thinking of writing a story."

"About what?"

"About this girl who's a vampire, but she falls in love with one of her victims. I would put in lots of detail, you know, so the reader would feel like they really lived it."

He stared at her.

"What?" she asked.

"For a second there, you reminded me of someone."

*****

Greg was surprised by the changes. The leather couch and the dining room set remained, and the big plasma television was still on the wall. But the contemporary art was gone. In its place were sunny, light watercolors and pastels—all originals. Soft Aubusson rugs covered the floor, and the new furniture was mostly blonde wood with embroidered upholstery.

"Wow, you work fast," he said.

"Do you like it?" she asked. He nodded.

"You're the first to see it. I think it's great!" she said, kicking off her shoes. "I mean, it was pretty before, but that was Nelah. This is Alizan."

She walked to him, looked into his eyes for a moment, then kissed him.

"I'm glad you're here. I'll get our drinks," she said. She started to turn, then stopped. "Nelah left a bottle of Scotch. Is that okay?"

"Perfect," he said.

She brought the tumbler and her glass of white wine to the couch and joined him. Being with her felt comfortable, and familiar.

"She's really gone," he said. "It's sad."

"I know. But you remember her, and so do I, so part of her is still here," Alizan said, moving closer. She unbuttoned her cotton blouse and took it off. Her bra was lacy and sheer, cupping her large, young breasts. She unhooked the center clasp and let it fall open.

"You really do work fast," he said.

She kissed him, her full, soft lips pressing his.

"I feel like I've known you for a long time," she said. "Maybe it's that part of Nelah that's still here."

He stroked her tits, admiring the pale, pink areolas and firm nipples. Her skin was soft and smooth, flawless like Nelah's.

"Maybe you're right," he said, then kissed her more deeply. He slipped the bra off her shoulders.

"It's kind of like immortality. You touch someone, and a part of you stays with them forever," she said, her eyes close to his. Deep green, with flecks of blue. "Have you ever wanted to live forever, Greg?"

"Sure. Everyone thinks about it," he said, smiling. "But it might get old after a while."

"Maybe not, if you had someone to share it with," she said. She watched as he sipped the whiskey. It was laced with the special potion she'd been working on all week.

Author's note: With thanks to Pammela, for inspiring this story with her beauty and her love of bizarre fiction. Thank you for reading it - I hope you enjoyed the story, and I'd love to hear your comments - both good and bad. And please remember to vote!

Edited by Nat and Kieryn