ALIVE By D.J. MANLY

© 2006

She was a brilliant writer. At least that's what all the latest reviews proclaimed. If she had become a tad full of herself, it wasn't entirely her fault now, was it? One tends to believe what people tell you. It was funny about writing. She had been a failure at most things in her life, especially when it came to relationships. She had never been pretty, and of course everyone reminded her of that, and she had always been a little shy; but inside her raged a vivid imagination. Writing was just something she could do, not that she liked it much. In fact, whenever she attended functions where writers gathered, it amazed her to hear them talking with such passion about their craft. She had never shared that passion. Writing was routine and boring. She got up at eight in the morning, had her coffee outside on the porch and then went straight to her computer. She wrote until ten then took her "mind clearing" walk. She ate lunch at eleven, cleaned up the dishes, and went back to the computer. When she was in the heat of a novel, she would write until well after dark. It was a very unhealthy activity, writing for a living. Characters, plots and details occupied your mind, sometimes day and night, and glued you to your computer for hours at a time. Sore back, strained eyes, tired brain, and an out of shape body was your reward for such a solitary activity. In the end all you had were words on a page. So, why did she do it? Because she had to. She wouldn’t have survived without her Marcus.

She had literally stumbled upon becoming an author somewhere in her mid thirties. By that time, Sam, her husband, had dumped her. She was too shy to try and find another lover, and fifty pounds overweight. She had tried real estate after Sam left. What a disaster. You had to have a personality for that. And waiting for a sale would have been fine if the creditors waited along with you. Unfortunately, they weren't keen on it. She got desperate, really desperate. She started buying lottery tickets and entering contests. One night, after seeing an advertisement for a short story contest, she sat down and wrote one. She wrote about the wildest thing she could imagine, the farthest thing from her crappy life and her crappy marriage. She won. And for some reason, people wanted her to write more. So she wrote longer stories, not about disappointed women with their ungrateful husbands, but about beautiful women, and Him.

He was a dream, eternal and rather fiendish, and beautiful to a fault. She'd named him Marcus, a name meaning emotional defender of the weak. He was a vampire, but he was good in his soul. Six foot four, broad shoulders, long black hair, silky and fragrant, the body of a god with a king sized cock. He was a wonderful lover, and his greatest pleasure was to please. Marcus was her hero. And the readers loved him, so that one book turned into two, then three.

It was eight-twenty in the morning now. The tulips budded all around her, blanketing her view in a sea of purple and red. But there was still a chill in the air. Last year, she hadn't had to wear a sweater out here on the porch. Today, even with a sweater on, she was shivering. She stood up, drained her coffee cup, then glanced over at the lawn that looked rumbled and matted as if it hadn't yet woken up from its long winter sleep. She had wasted a lot of time this morning--thinking. Usually she was sitting in front of the computer now. But it didn't matter, not today. She had just finished the outline of the new book. She knew her characters, she knew her plot. It would write itself. Marcus would write it for her. She was always a bit on edge whenever she sat down to begin a new book. It wasn't the empty page. She already knew the first sentence of this one. It would begin, "He was detested and feared by some, but adored by many..."

Breathing out a sigh, she walked into the kitchen, letting the screen door slam behind her. She placed the empty cup in the sink and moved her neck around to loosen the tension. She made sure that the answering machine was on and the ringer was off. She hated to be interrupted when she worked. She walked into the small room off the kitchen and sat in her huge leather chair, looked at the screen and then switched on the computer.

She waited for the familiar beeps and clicks, then chose a brand new file. She named it, "Alive." It wasn't what she was going to call the book but it just seemed fitting. She always had little pet names for each book. This one was special. It was for her.

She began to type…

Marcus smiled softly at her from where he stood at the head of her bed. He slowly undid the buttons on his silk shirt. It slid off his shoulders and down his back to the floor, revealing his smooth, hairless chest and taunt brown nipples. She suddenly had an urge to tug on those nipples with her teeth. Her gaze rested on the obvious bulge in his pants. She knew just what that bulge was capable of. “I dreamt of you last night, Marcus. I dreamt you tore off my clothes and raped me.”

He looked up at her and smiled. “That’s funny,” he whispered, pushing his hair back from his face. “I dreamt you did the same to me, Francis.”

Francis? Damn. She deleted that. That wasn’t the character's name. It was Jennifer. Yes, Jennifer was a beautiful name, a beautiful name for a beautiful woman.

Francis stopped. She wiped the sweat off her forehead. So hot in this room. She didn't like the last two lines. In fact, she hated the entire paragraph. She erased several lines, then stood up. She checked her watch. It wasn't time for her walk yet, but she didn't care. She was going to take one anyway. It was just too stifling in this room.

She walked outside the door, sweater in her hand. She wished she had a dog. But then… Sam had taken the dog when he left.

Jennifer, Jennifer, she thought. You are going to be a naughty girl. You have a chance to devour Marcus. Take advantage of it. She smiled, increasing her pace. Her running shoes sunk into the ground as she headed across the park, and back to the house.

She closed all the blinds in the room, and then removed her clothing. Sometimes when she wrote, she wrote naked, more comfortable like that. Marcus. Beautiful Marcus. This time he was caught up in a murder, one committed by another vampire. Marcus never killed for sport. He was too much of a gentleman for that. Jennifer was a vampire hunter. Marcus knew it, but he didn’t let on. Marcus knew everything.

You may be a vampire hunter, Jennifer, but you won’t be able to resist that bulge in his pants. Francis sat back and imagined the scene. As she did, her hands slid over her breasts. She pinched and tugged on her nipples for a minute before letting one hand slide down between her thighs.

Um…Marcus…a walking, eternal hunk with all that beautiful hair and blue eyes. Can you imagine, black hair and blue eyes with a face which would make the angels cry in heaven?

Marcus reached for the zipper on his white pants. Tight, very tight, showing up the muscles in his thighs and his flat, washboard stomach. He had a great ass, small and tight. She could see it in the mirror. It was enough to send a little shiver of delight down her spine. She watched with baited breath as the zipper slid down over his swollen cock. How could she kill him…how could she resist not having a little taste first? When he stood there, pants in his hand, arms out to the side, she sucked in her breath. “It’s unfair,” she said, “what you are doing to me? It’s you who has put these images in my mind.”

His voice, deep and smooth replied, “You’re right. I’ve been bad.” He walked over and knelt at her feet. “Please, let me make it up to you.”

Francis moaned deeply, her hands trembling. She closed her eyes, her finger frantically circling her engorged clit. Yes…I want you Marcus, naked and humble, the great strong beast at my feet, ready to please.

“Then your wish is my command, Francis.”

She gasped. Her eyes snapped open. “Marcus.”

He smiled, the silk shirt in his hands. “Your intentions, are they the same as Jennifer’s, Francis, or are they dishonourable in another way?” He waited, lifting a dark eyebrow.

“How…can…it be? You’re not real.”

“But I am, Francis. You created me. You want me to be real?”

She nodded, not being able to breathe.

He motioned with his hand. “Come to me, Francis.”

Francis stood up, stumbling towards him.

He folded her to him. She placed her hands on his granite like chest, just to make sure he was real.

“Undo my pants,” he breathed against her hair, kissing her cheek, then slowly moving to her mouth.

She moaned softly against him, enfolding him in her arms as she fumbled with his pants.

When they were at his feet, he kicked them away. He lowered her on the floor and spread her thighs. He smiled up at her once before lowering his head. “You are so beautiful, Francis,” he whispered.

Francis gasped as she felt him doing wonderful things with his tongue. “Take me,” she begged. “Fuck me.”

He lifted her effortlessly, then lay back on the floor, and lowered her onto his cock which was thick and rock hard. His cock filled her totally. He moved this way and that, giving her orgasm after orgasm as he played with her erect nipples.

Francis rode him hard, using his body and wringing out every last bit of pleasure she could. His beauty was breathtaking.

“I live only to please you, Francis,” he said, pulling her down to him and kissing her passionately as she erupted into her final moaning orgasm.

She ran her hands over his hard, rippling body with wild abandon. He lay there, his eyes closed, holding her body next to his. “I don’t understand how this can be,” she whispered against his ear, nibbling on it slightly then pressing her lips to his.

He opened his eyes. “It is because you willed it, Francis. You wanted me so badly, and you created me, after all.”

“And are you here to stay?” She looked at him with wonder.

“I am, at least until I eat, you see Francis,” he sat up, his eyes glowing red in the darkened room, “if you want me, you have to feed me.” As his razor sharp fangs sliced into the tender skin of Francis’ throat, she withered against his hard body. His hand came down and stroked her between the legs. “This won’t take long,” he whispered, “and then you can have me again.”

“Can I tie you up?” She whispered as he sucked and licked at the wound in her throat, then moved his mouth down to her breast and captured one of her nipples between his teeth.

“Anything you want.”

Francis stroked his dark hair. Pushing him back on the floor, she readied herself to mount his cock again. She didn’t really mind that he drank her blood.

After all, a boy’s got to eat.