up.
“William,” my niece says nearly monthly now, “you need a woman.”
What I need, Bree, is a good spanking and I can’t find anyone to give it to me.
Their latest attempt at matchmaking failed miserably. Steve called down his friends from Philly with the intent that I pair off with one of them—Sarah or Melissa. Both sisters were vapid and utterly soulless, even for our kind. Their temperaments were pleasant enough, but they both exhibited personalities that simply were not strong enough for me.
I’m beginning to worry that my friends just want to be rid of me. Their constant efforts and attempts to cheer me up have taken a new turn after my rejection of both women. Now Steve wants me to maybe get younger and go back to school, so I may pour my attention into my work. Find something to live for.
As if I live at all.
I’m tired of changing my age just to find people that are suitable for me. I’ve vacillated between my thirties and teens so many times I can’t count. A vampire’s body can change its age in seconds—it’s part of our ability to adapt as predators. Sometimes the little old man on the bench is a greater threat than the hulking thug on the corner. This talent ought to make life’s journey more fresh, but instead it is always a disappointment. Each time I grow young, I think more opportunities will open themselves to me, but instead it’s just the same trite experiences with different background music and technology. Plus, I’m enjoying my job, and I don’t want to leave the administration to someone else. My life is good right now, just not the loneliness.
So I paint, I sculpt, I dally in museums, and waste my time in a million ways.
Frustrated and tortured . . . as usual,
William
Okay, I thought to myself as I closed the book, definitely insane .
I mean, if the whole purpose of writing these journals was to set a scene where he seduces me, why include all this unnecessary (albeit fascinating) information? Did he think it would turn me on to hear about his nephew-in-law’s aspirations for him? So strange.
Then, I thought about it more. All of these entries were so consistent. They all exhibited the same personality—the desperate yearning of a lonely soul. Maybe he didn’t work because he was a writer. Maybe he was a really fucking good writer who made enough from his first book to be able to afford not to work and to spend all his money on buying me pianos and gowns.
Fuck me.
I realized I was doing it again: self-sabotage. When it comes to S&M, I was both sides of the coin. I loved the feeling of slapping the ever-loving bejeezus out of someone with a leather whip, but I did the same shit to myself mentally. I was a sadistic masochist. What the hell was it about me that tried to undo any potential happiness that came my way?
I flipped through my recipe box. I didn’t really know why. Was it to remind myself why I had this fetish? To show myself all the fun I’d had over the years? Or was it to prove what a bitch I was—reminding myself of all the men whom I threw away?
I held on to one card a bit too long. The title simply read CHOCOLATE DECADENCE.
I fanned myself, remembering that day.
“Ms. Norrel,” Brent crooned, “I hope you’re hungry.”
I walked into my home, and the scent of chocolate and other indulgent sweets filled the air. I smirked, wondering what Brent had concocted for today’s scene. I didn’t eat all day in anticipation of this buffet.
Hot damn, I thought to myself as I walked into the kitchen. Brent was there, shirtless and collared as usual, licking cake batter off his fingers. He reached into the bowl for more and gave the remaining batter a good stir. I watched his tongue curl around the long length of the spoon and nearly fainted.
“Your usual pastry chef cancelled today, sadly, so the chef asked me to fill in,” he explained in a low voice, seemingly not noticing the chocolate dripping onto his abs.
I could barely control
“William,” my niece says nearly monthly now, “you need a woman.”
What I need, Bree, is a good spanking and I can’t find anyone to give it to me.
Their latest attempt at matchmaking failed miserably. Steve called down his friends from Philly with the intent that I pair off with one of them—Sarah or Melissa. Both sisters were vapid and utterly soulless, even for our kind. Their temperaments were pleasant enough, but they both exhibited personalities that simply were not strong enough for me.
I’m beginning to worry that my friends just want to be rid of me. Their constant efforts and attempts to cheer me up have taken a new turn after my rejection of both women. Now Steve wants me to maybe get younger and go back to school, so I may pour my attention into my work. Find something to live for.
As if I live at all.
I’m tired of changing my age just to find people that are suitable for me. I’ve vacillated between my thirties and teens so many times I can’t count. A vampire’s body can change its age in seconds—it’s part of our ability to adapt as predators. Sometimes the little old man on the bench is a greater threat than the hulking thug on the corner. This talent ought to make life’s journey more fresh, but instead it is always a disappointment. Each time I grow young, I think more opportunities will open themselves to me, but instead it’s just the same trite experiences with different background music and technology. Plus, I’m enjoying my job, and I don’t want to leave the administration to someone else. My life is good right now, just not the loneliness.
So I paint, I sculpt, I dally in museums, and waste my time in a million ways.
Frustrated and tortured . . . as usual,
William
Okay, I thought to myself as I closed the book, definitely insane .
I mean, if the whole purpose of writing these journals was to set a scene where he seduces me, why include all this unnecessary (albeit fascinating) information? Did he think it would turn me on to hear about his nephew-in-law’s aspirations for him? So strange.
Then, I thought about it more. All of these entries were so consistent. They all exhibited the same personality—the desperate yearning of a lonely soul. Maybe he didn’t work because he was a writer. Maybe he was a really fucking good writer who made enough from his first book to be able to afford not to work and to spend all his money on buying me pianos and gowns.
Fuck me.
I realized I was doing it again: self-sabotage. When it comes to S&M, I was both sides of the coin. I loved the feeling of slapping the ever-loving bejeezus out of someone with a leather whip, but I did the same shit to myself mentally. I was a sadistic masochist. What the hell was it about me that tried to undo any potential happiness that came my way?
I flipped through my recipe box. I didn’t really know why. Was it to remind myself why I had this fetish? To show myself all the fun I’d had over the years? Or was it to prove what a bitch I was—reminding myself of all the men whom I threw away?
I held on to one card a bit too long. The title simply read CHOCOLATE DECADENCE.
I fanned myself, remembering that day.
“Ms. Norrel,” Brent crooned, “I hope you’re hungry.”
I walked into my home, and the scent of chocolate and other indulgent sweets filled the air. I smirked, wondering what Brent had concocted for today’s scene. I didn’t eat all day in anticipation of this buffet.
Hot damn, I thought to myself as I walked into the kitchen. Brent was there, shirtless and collared as usual, licking cake batter off his fingers. He reached into the bowl for more and gave the remaining batter a good stir. I watched his tongue curl around the long length of the spoon and nearly fainted.
“Your usual pastry chef cancelled today, sadly, so the chef asked me to fill in,” he explained in a low voice, seemingly not noticing the chocolate dripping onto his abs.
I could barely control
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