Followed Home (Erotic Tale of a Vampire) by Audrey Grace

Followed Home

    T he 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