Comte Du Berrier

England. He had not considered ever returning to this country, but he had been young and rash then. Passions had ruled his sensibilities, and he hot bot been thinking logically. Now he was older, controlled his passions with a firmer hand, and yearned to remember the past so he could meet the future. He knew that as his unholy life continued he would get these reminiscent yearnings again. For now he was here to remember, and see how things had changed since last he stood on English soil.

The hustle and bustle of the docks had not changed much. Sailors called out to scantily clad ladies of the night who shouted back promises of untold delights. Dockworkers had stripped off shirts and their sun-baked leathery skin bunched with bulging muscles from years of hard manual labour. The Comte watched a few of these men unload his possessions from the ship and place them on a wagon. Turning to a coach hitched to a set of two matching blacks he nodded to the man who stood waiting for him.

“My Lord, welcome back to England.” The man was well dressed, but his clothes were not expensive. He gave a short bow, and opened the carriage door. “Your house has been re-opened and staffed for your arrival, as per your requests.”

The Comte settled himself onto one of the plush crimson velvet seats. “Very good, Mr. Withers. Your assistance has been appreciated. The staff understands the special regulations I have passed onto you?”

“Aye, My Lord. They all come from families of servants, and know their positions well. None have ever been reprimanded for stealing, laziness, or any other infractions. They are good workers who will respect your need for privacy.”

The carriage lurched to a roll, the clopping gait of the matched blacks on the cobblestone streets getting louder as they made their way through the poorer section of London and entered the upper crust section. It was quieter here; the houses not so crowded together, and well tended lawns with flowerbeds behind wrought iron gates. Most of the houses were three stories high: some red brick, and some grey stone. And now that the sun was down windows had the warm glow of light from within.

The carriage came to a halt in front of a three-storied aged grey stone house. As the Comte alighted from the vehicle footmen swung open the gate and bowed before reaching for the luggage. The butler stood at the door, waiting patiently for his new master to enter. With a bow the older man greeted his new lord, and did his duty by taking the gentleman’s overcoat, hat, and gloves.

The house was one of the larger ones that bordered the Thames. The foyer was white marble with pink veins, a sweeping staircase, and pink and white striped silk on the walls. High above them was a sparkling chandelier with all the candles lit. Doorways to a front sitting room, library, dining room, and ballroom were all shut. Behind the stairs were the kitchens and the servants’ quarters. The second floor housed the main chambers for family members, and the floor above the guest rooms and the old school room where children had once been tutored.

At the moment the staff was gathered in the foyer, standing in a silent line, and waiting to be presented to their new master. The Comte let his dark eyes pass over each one. The cook’s rotund face and form, the housekeeper’s proud bearing and grey hair pulled back in a severe chignon, and the handful of younger female servants who did the manual work of cleaning and aiding the cook. His gaze swung back to twin girls who had curtsied and yet coquettishly batted lashes at him. They would be trouble, he knew.

He waited until he knew every servant was asleep, and quietly crept out of the house. Standing by the water he listened. The far off sounds of raucous laughter and raunchy playing from the poor section, the creaking of wooden hulls at the docks as the ships rocked gently on the waters, and the lilting music of balls and parties from the wealthy. No, England had not changed much.

The sudden sound of bare feet behind him made him tense. Muslin rubbed against bare skin, and soft breathing grew rapid in excitement. Battling the scents of the Thames and the lawns about him were those of a floral soap and female arousal. It seemed one of the twins had grown bold, and hoped to play. She had no clue as to how dangerous it was to play with him. He could teach her, but it would threaten his existence.

“Why do you follow me?” he demanded, still keeping his back to her. Her appearance was a nuisance. She had nearly caught him leaving for his nightly hunt.

She paused, uncertain now. He sounded angry. Most wealthy men enjoyed having young, sultry servants to service their every need. Why did this one not want her to service him? “You do not hunger for fe fle flesh, My Lord?”

The Comte gave a humourless chuckle. No better choice of words to express his nightly hunts. “And what can you offer me that no other could?”

Emboldened once more she pressed her body to his back, slid a hand around to his stomach and down to between his legs. “I can do whatever you want, be whoever you want.”

Her little hand gave his crotch a gentle squeeze, and he shut his eyes to y ity it. It had been a while since he’d indulged in the pleasures of the flesh. His last relationship had ended badly. He’d had to kill the woman when he found out she’d been cuckolding him with a man he’d learned was a vampire hunter. The bitch had deserved to be drained and crucified on the big stone cross in the cemetery for the public and her lover to find her.

Letting her continue to manipulate him he smiled coldly. “Perhaps my tastes are beyond your talents.”

“Then perhaps we would need another to join us.”

He felt a second pair of hands on his body, and he cursed himself for not having heard the sister near. His senses were usually so much sharper. He could get killed making mistakes like that. Turning he eyed them both dispassionately. “Perhaps another night. I cannot spare the time tonight.” Extricating himself from their hands he slipped into the darker shadows and was gone.


The best hunting grounds were the poor sections where people did not miss a drunk who was found dead in an alley, or a criminal who would only waste away in prison. Boldly he walked down the streets, bombarded by the moaning of the sick, the wild laughter of drunken whores and sailors, and the stench of vomit and urine coming from alleys.

The Comte searched for that one miserable and pathetic human that no one would miss, and who society would be better off without. His intense hearing heard the softtingting tune of a female voice singing, and he curiously followed it. Down a few alleys to a ramshackle building’s rear entrance. A very feminine shaped shadow fell over a thin window covering. The singing came from that room. Sweet and soft like the touch of a mother holding her babe. It reminded him of his childhood, that time an eternity ago when there was still light in his life.

Leaning against the wall beside the window he shut his eyes and swallowed convulsively. There hadn’t been light in his life for over 500 years. The sound of the voice singing was like rays of sunshine washing over him. For a while he almost felt warm again. An illusion, but one he embraced willingly and thrillingly. An illusion, but one that was no less powerful than if the sun was truly kissing his skin. In a moment of panic ~~ and remembrance ~~ his eyes flew open and he threw an arm up to shield himself as though daylight had come and he would burst into flames.

The singing had stopped. Glancing at the window again he gasped to find the woman was looking out at him with an amused grin on her lips. She was young, but looked well used and worn. A whore perhaps forced to give service to men to feed herself. The poor had little choice in their livelihood. “Milord,” she let her eyes pass over him. “Come for an ‘our, ‘ave ye?”

If he could blush he would. Which was a strange feeling for him. “Yes.” He hadn’t meant to say it, but the word had erupted from his lips before he could stop it.

“The door’s open, Milord.” She disappeared inside.

He considered leaving, but his feet carried him to the door and inside her small home. It was a room, no more. By the window was a small table with two chairs, and by the hearth a small vanity table with half a cracked mirror left. Her bed was directly opposite a small hearth where a meagre fire burned. On a bedside table was a bottle of wine, and he could tell it was not the best quality. On the floor a braided rag rug was placed. The covering over the window was an old sheet.

“What exactly do you want done, Milord?” she enquired, untying her robe. Small yet firm little apple sized breasts were bared. Her mound was unshaved, and the bush there was as gloriously dark as the hair on her head.

“I am unsure,” he managed to admit, eyes locked on her pale skin. Not pale as in sickly or white, but like a rich cream tinted slightly with the blush of peaches. His body reacted quickly, his cock swelling and hardening, the obviousness of it tenting his trousers.

Necessity had taught her to not be shy. Once a timid little nanny she had been thrown out of the manor when the Lord had shown improper interest in his children’s watcher and his wife had learned of it. Unable to find new work thanks to that bitter wife she had been forced to sell herself to live. At first simply wanting lodging and a few coins for her favours until she had saved enough to rent a room.

Going to the tall gentleman she made him sit at one of the chairs, and smiled to feel one of his hands lift to her breast. His touch was cold, but gentle. After a few moments of tender stroking he drew her tight to him, his face between the small mounds of her breasts. His hands began to explore her body, squeezing the moons of her ass, parting her thighs and teasing the curls that hid her pussy. A few fingers finding her clit and playing with it before dipping inside her slit to probe as deep as they could reach inside her.

The more he toyed with her the more alive she became. Her heart pounded against her chest, and he could hear the racing rhythm of it as he took nearly a whole breast in his mouth to suck upon. She tasted swewarmwarm, and vibrant. It was not nearly enough. He needed more from her, much more. Lifting her he set her on the table, drawing her ass to the edge, and spreading her legs wide with his broad shoulders. Her juices were like hot creamy honey on his tongue, which lapped at the slit where they dripped from and thrust inside for more. Small cries of pleasure trembled forth from her lips.

Rising he ripped open his trousers, reached inside, and drew free a steely cock that had a purple head and veins bulging in the stem. She held her legs open wide as he placed the head of his cock at her slit, and rubbed it over the part until the swollen lips seemed to greedily gulp it in.

“Aye, Milord! Put it in me!” she gasped, watching him hold back a moment.

He plunged inside her, feeling her walls grip him tight. Her heartbeat became his, pulsing through them both and giving him new life. Leaning forward he grasped the table edges in both hands and worked his hips to slide his cock out and in of her slick hole. For a vampire the sensations were a dozen times more intense than for a human. It took all his self-control not to spurt cum already. The more he thrust into her the more that familiar hunger inside him grew. When vampires mated with each other they ravaged with teeth as well as with bodies. When they mated with humans they nearly always killed the one they mated with during orgasm. An orgasm could not be reached unless they also drank from the one they were fucking. The dual sensations set them off.

He did not want to kill this woman. Already his fingernails had grown and were firmly embedded into the bottom-side of the table’s wood in his effort to continue to plunder her with his cock. He wanted to hear and feel her cum before he did.

She was encouraging him with shouts of, “aye, Milord, aye!” until her pussy walls contracted and spasmed, greedily holding onto his cock which was lodged deep inside her. Her nails had raked the skin of his back, and he roared with pleasure, sinking his sharp teeth into one little tit until he felt the rush of blood on his tongue. The table shifted across the floor a few inches as he pounded into her so hard he saw stars behind his eyes. They were one, his dead heart pulsing with the beat of hers, and his veins singing with her crimson nectar as it infused him. Her vibrancy washed over him, and he was loath to end it. But he did, removing his fangs from her body, and holding his tongue on the tiny twin punctures to stem the flow of blood. Their mingled juices leaked from her as his now flaccid cock slid out of her hole.

She had fainted, which was for the best. Rearranging his clothes he laid her on her bed, and covered her with the thin blankets. Reaching in a pocket he pulled out a small bag of coins and placed it on the bedside table. One hand touched her brow, and he made a psychic connection. “Take the money and get new blankets, clothes, and food. I will return to you in two nights. Wait for me then, here.”

For two weeks he returned every second night, always leaving her a small purse of coins, and afterwards he then told her how to use it to make her life easier. She was pretty, but not beautiful in the classical sense. Her vibrancy and her warmth were what attracted him. Vampires did not love as mortals did. Love was ruled neither by gender nor by appearance for them. It was a matter of that person’s life essence that caught and held their attentions. And his new lover had all his attention.

Her siren song did not welcome him tonight. Perhaps she was sleeping, and he could surprise her by waking her with his mouth on her pussy, something she enjoyed very much from him. Outside her room he paused. A metallic scent he recognised all too well was heavy on the air. Pulling a corner of the sheet at her window back to peer inside he stumbled away with a gasp. Now the unmistakable stench of old blood reeked from her room. Rushing up the stairs he flung open her door and took in the horrifying scene before him.

Blood soaked nearly every inch of the room. Her body was empty of the life-giving embrosia. Her torso was ripped open and her entrails spilled out. Stumbling forward the Comte’s nostrils flared at the coppery stench of blood mixed with decomposing flesh. Flies were a black swarm on her body, and with a growl he commanded them to leave her and fly away. They did, waiting outside until he had gone before returning to the body.

“Who did this?” he demanded with a voice hoarse with pain and rage. “I will hunt down this monster. I will make them pay for taking you from me.” Placing his hands on her head he stared deeply into her eyes. Not only were the eyes a window to the soul, they were capable of recording a mortal’s last moments of life. Vampires could see deeply into them, and access these moments.

A man, richly dressed, was in her room. She was not interested in giving him services. Her lover would come that night and she wanted to rest and be at her best for him. The stranger ~~ he could not see the face! ~~ would not be dismissed. Grabbing her he threw her to the bed, and straddled her. He had a black bag that he now opened, and pulled out a sharp object. A medical tool to cut through flesh and organs. As she still breathed he sliced into her, muffling her screams with a gloved hand on her mouth. Her mind screamed in terror and agony as her life force slowly ebbed from her. His name, Antoine, echoed in her mind. A litany until death mercifully took her. But before it did she gazed up at the face of the man who was murdering her.

Pulling away from the body and rushing outside the Comte leaned against a building’s wall, away from her room. The man’s face would be eternally etched on his memory along with the thought that his lover had thought only of him for strength through the ordeal. “I will hunt for you,” he swore in a whisper, pale eyes glowing in the shadows. A growl tore from his lips as they curled back to reveal long and sharp fangs. “You will not escape me, monster. I have all eternity to find you.”