From: portia1@mindspring.com 
 Date: Sun, 14 Nov 1999 22:53:04 -0500 
To: FKarchiver@fkfanfic.com 
Subject: Reflections -- In the Blood (1 of 1) 

 
I do not believe the following story rates an ADULT heading, but it is "R"
with referenced, though not explicit, sexual encounters.  These encounters
include m/f and m/m.
 
Thanks so much for all of the support for my first story!  I was surprised
by how many of you liked it.  I hope the following lives up to your
expectations.  Please feel free to archive this anywhere you like, as well
as the earlier piece: Reflections -- In the Window. Comments still much
needed!

portia1@mindspring.com

Reflections -- In the Blood

He was a man, not a boy.  In his early thirties, with a common enough
carnality as he reveled in his cups.  His beauty was masculine, the kind
that drew women to him -- nothing effeminate about him.  But he was beautiful.
 
I was a well-practiced hedonist long before I ever made the rank of
General.  And nothing I have seen in this life has taught me to seek any
other manner of existence.  Pleasure and Control - the paramount lessons my
mother and father taught me, respectively. I curse their memories...but I
savor their legacy.
 
Janette was just past her 'terrible twos' and I was quite pleased with what
I'd made of her. No one, not even she herself, was allowed to treat her or
look upon her with anything less than total respect  - I made sure of that.
Her self-reliance and independence were growing absolute...save in that
proper deference I demanded toward myself.  I'd never kept any of my
progeny so close for so long, but she was becoming all that I had seen
promised in her blood and in the regality of her carriage.  I'd felt drawn
to complete what I had started and had begun to wonder what more I might
accomplish...perhaps with a son next time.
 
For reasons I won't go into, though Janette surely blamed it on what she
would term my "foul temper" at the time, a degree of distance had grown
between us. So to show my magnanimity, I entrusted her with the task of
choosing the one who would next join us in the night.  She was quite
honored and excited by the challenge and even more exacting in her choice
than I might have been.  Oh yes, I admit I've never been one to shy from
sharing this gift, but never truly randomly - I always look for some
special mark, some special quality to make the gift worth giving.  But when
she chose him, I thought at first, "Ah, my Princess has been swayed by
nothing more than a pretty face."  And I was disappointed.  For the sake of
her confidence, I would most likely turn him - if he had the courage to
accept the challenge - but nothing more could he be for me but a brief
pastime.
 
I observed him for a few days, and found myself amused by his casual
arrogance - the pride of a man of position, confident in his own strength.
And I was amused as I watched him secretly struggle with his faith, his vow
to honor and his oath to his church.  He wanted so desperately to believe,
but all he'd seen and done and experienced weighed heavily upon him.  When
I saw him tup the miller's wife and then beat the man for daring to
complain, I made my decision and had Janette bring him to me.
 
Already drunk on wine and the passion Janette had inspired and yet left
unfulfilled, reeling from the vampire glamour she'd woven around him, he
barely sensed me enter the room.  I wove my own sensual spell, though were
he not already ensorcelled by my sweet Janette, I doubt he would have
allowed me to come so close.  He'd never given himself over to the caress
of another man - and no farther than caresses did it go that night.  We
drowned his senses in a tactile assault, and more than a little mad with
pleasure, and hardly aware of what was happening, he acquiesced to my
offer.  His blood was among the sweetest, most full-bodied I'd ever tasted.
 
A pretty face and handsome form, the challenge of toppling those
high-ideals he still clung to - no more than this might he have been to me.
I knew that, for all the power I held over him, I must work cautiously to
have him freely join my bed.  Obviously, with the power of the blood and
the bond, and with Janette's most pleasant assistance, it was not too long
before the three of us shared in sensual explorations.  And with the
influence I held over him, it was not long before he admitted the pleasure
he found at my touch.  But always Janette must be present, must be the
mediator - some token, some semblance of the morality that once was such a
foundation of his life.
 
I would have him come to me, seek fulfillment from me alone, and then I
would be through with him.

Youth and vitality, some savor still of his mortal life made us insatiable
for him.  He doted on - no, worshipped Janette and his eyes had a tendency
to follow her.  Me he treated with awed respect and an eager willingness to
learn almost all I had to teach him.  Many nights found him sprawled,
almost unconscious between us, covered with the myriad bites that revealed
our greed for him.  He'd awaken, his blood lust nearly unquenchable from
the state we'd left him, until we silently agreed to take more care.  The
mental state of fledglings is so fragile; it would have been a shame if we
had pushed him into that blood madness that destroys so many of the young.
 
My estimate of him expanded to a degree, and I truly enjoyed the power I
had over him, but he was still nothing more than a pleasant diversion, a
charger to be tamed to my hand and bent to my will.  But one secluded
day,several months into our association, my perception of him changed
forever and so did the place he held in my existence.
 
We'd traveled far and met our bed in rigorous play.  I was exhausted by the
care for my two young ones and of constantly keeping watch over my new
fledgling's impulsive actions - like any newborn of our kind, he'd lost
much of his inhibitions.  Watching their entangled forms give in to slumber
on the far side of the bed, I finally allowed sleep to steal upon me.
 
What awakened me were his gentle kisses as they made their way down my
temple to my mouth.  He'd left Janette sleeping and had come to kneel by my
side of the bed.  His hands were tentative, yet tender on my body and he
came willingly as I pulled him down beside me.  Always before, our joinings
had been aggressive, vigorous - as much a contest as a means for sensual
delight.  This time, he gave himself to me freely and completely. And what
most amazed me was the look his eyes held as he gazed at me - gratitude and
trust and true affection. This time, for the first time, we made love.
 
When once again he'd fallen asleep, snuggling back up against his beloved
Janette - fledglings require so much rest the first few decades - I rose
and left the room.  I was shaken by what had happened, by the memories
awakened by that gentle encounter.  Over the course of my lifetime, I've
taken thousands of lovers and had more than any man's share of sexual
encounters, but only one other has touched me with such tenderness or
looked at me with such eyes.
 
In the storm of the new life that crested within me at Divia's first sharp
kiss, I had almost forgotten her.
 
Olivia. The wife of my youth.  Chosen sight unseen, more for the influence
of her family name than for any other reason, I well anticipated despising
her.  Her father and brothers were oafish brutes, known more for their
animal cunning than for any glimmers of true wit.  I expected no less from
her, and remembering my mother's sluttish ways, expected that I would have
to keep her on a short leash, locked up in some country estate.
 
But coming late and half drunk into our bridal chamber that night, I found
Olivia to prove more intelligent and more refined than her family
connections had given me cause to hope.  She was clearly wary of me - I'm
sure someone had kindly regaled her with my more notorious exploits - but
she kept her wits and spoke to me forthrightly.  Now that we are alone, she
said to me, let us exchange our true vows.  Treat me with the respect due
the wife of a Roman Centurion, and I vow to never bring shame upon you and
to give you all of the deference, obedience and care that a wife can give
her husband.  Her voice shook as she spoke, but her gaze remained level.
 
I almost laughed at her and I know my smile revealed my amusement.  How
somber and earnest was this almost plain little woman!  Finally, I did
laugh, and felt a great deal of the dislike and tension drain from my body.
As I reached out a hand to trace the side of her face, the tension seemed
to leave her as well.  Well, I said jovially, I am certain you will not
fail to show me the deference I demand - let us see how I might go about
showing you the respect due a Centurion's wife.
 
In all of the few short years we had together, she never failed to live up
to her vow.  And though, of course, when away from her, I did not refrain
from sampling the local delicacies, I more often than not found myself
anxious to return to Rome.  And once there in her presence, my attention
was not likely to wander.  No one else in the solitary and hard campaign
that was my life had ever so selflessly given of themselves to me as she
did.  And when she gave up her life to bring our stillborn child into the
world, the last look in her eye was still one of love and trust.
 
That same look I'd found in Nicholas' eyes that night.  A look that I would
catch now and again throughout the many decades and centuries we spent
together-no matter what wedge, what unpleasantness might momentarily come
between us.
 
Is it any wonder I would not let him go?  That I held him so tightly?
 
Is it any wonder that when that bright, burning spirit finally burst into
painful conflagration, and sickness and desolation finally left wounds too
grievous to bear, that it was my hand that eased his suffering?  What
trueborn son of Rome could refuse a friend's request for assistance in that
sacred rite?  As Strato did for Brutus, so I could not fail to do for my
Nicholas, when his pain and degradation ultimately vanquished him.

Yet even now, I can not let him go

The end.

Portia
Please send any type of comments to: portia1@mindspring.com