This story is a work of fiction, any resemblance to any person or organization is purely coincidental.

Part one:

I had no idea that the game I pitched against the Phillies would be the last game of my career. The Phillies game was my second start of the season. I had done okay in my first start, gave up seven hits scattered over seven innings and three runs while striking out four and only walking two. I lost, but I managed to keep us in the game. It wasn't my fault that nobody was hitting that day. I had the stuff. I had spent the whole off season working on my control, and it had paid off.

My second start against the Phillies, the game went a lot better. I struck out seven and pitched a complete game. My first and last complete game shutout. I was confident in my abilities and was sure that I'd have a long career as a pitcher for the Doves. Hell, I struck out Sherry Magee twice and he hit .331 that year. The fans gave me a standing ovation when I left the field, and the papers said that I was destined for greatness.

It was my fourth season in the bigs, my second with the Doves. I'd been with the Cubs the two years before, until Frank Chase said they could win the Series without me. I had hopes that it would be my first full season as a big league starting pitcher.

One of the papers said that I was the heir apparent to Cy Young. It was heady stuff for a farm boy who had spent the first part of his life in a corn field and the next going back and forth between the bigs and one scrub bush town after another. Of course, I took all that with a grain of sand. It was all said in my obituary. People tend to talk well of the dead.

Oh well, the best laid schemes, as Robbie Burns said. The Doves finished in the cellar that year, proving that they could finish last without my help. A year or so later they changed their name to the Braves. My promising career ended, but looking back, I probably wouldn't have been much more than a footnote that year at best. Walter Johnson struck out 313 that season, turned out he was Young's heir. Of course I might have done better if I'd had a chance.

I haven't played the game in a hundred years. For a long time I couldn't even go to games. I was happy when they put the lights up and I could get out to the park again. Of course I always have to miss part of the game. I am a season ticket holder who never makes it to the day games, and is always late to the night games. I can't make it before the sun has gone down. In the middle of summer I miss a lot of innings.

I live in Philly now, home of the Phillies and the cheese steak. I've lived other places since my untimely death, but I keep being drawn back. It has something to do with her, of course. The woman who made me what I am today.

I met her at a bar. A couple of the guys took me out after the game to celebrate my first win in the bigs. I think maybe there were five of us, but my memory is spotty. I have definite memories of Buster Brown and George Graham, the catcher who caught me that day being there. I had too much to drink, of course. I wasn't used to drinking, and I was falling asleep at the table when she came over.

She looked about six feet tall, and probably was in the heels she was wearing that day. Barefoot she's about five eight or so, a good six inches shorter than me. She laid her hands palm down on the table and leaned forward enough for us to catch a glimpse down her dress at her beautiful breasts. She was an alabaster beauty. That term used to get thrown around a lot to describe women in my day, but she was looked like she'd been carved out of the stuff.

She had perfect titties. I told her so.

The guys at the table with me laughed. One of them told her that she'd have to overlook me because I'd just fallen off the turnip truck earlier that day. She smiled and said I was cute. We bantered back and forth a bit, and she asked if I'd walk her home.

I wasn't even sure I could walk, but I told her I was game if she was. The guys laughed at that too, and one of them, I think it was Brown, elbowed me in the ribs and told me that if I wasn't up to it, he was more than willing to take my place.

My experience with women had been limited. There had been a couple of farm girls who lived down the road from my family, and a few willing ladies in the towns I'd played ball, but I'd never gotten to do it enough to actually develop any talent at it. I'd spent too much of my time practicing my pitches. If I'd devoted as much time to learning sex as I'd spent learning to throw a baseball I'd have been heir apparent to Casanova. The thing was that I liked pussy just as much as I liked baseball. Maybe more. Baseball was just easier for me.

I have no idea what bar we were in. I have memories of several places, all alike and all completely different, pretty much like people. Peaches had to get up and steady me on my feet, and he asked if maybe I wouldn't rather just go get some sleep. I told him I was fine, and managed to get my arm around one of the beautiful women. She helped me out into the street and guided me along with her. She may have been actually holding me up, although it didn't seem like it at the time.

We got back to her place and I collapsed on her sofa. She stood in front of me and slowly started taking off her clothes. I felt myself stiffen as she undressed.

“I don't know your name,” I said.

“Call me Celine,” she said.

“I'm, uh...John Smith.”

I was thinking clearly enough to give her a false name. I have no idea why I felt I needed to give her a name that wasn't the one I pitched under. The papers were as trashy and vile as they are today, but I wasn't important enough for any of them to care how I'd spent my evening.

She had hair that shined like gold when the gas light hit it just right. It fell to just past her shoulders, and matched the beautiful patch between her legs. I leaned forward and kissed her on the belly. She felt cool to my lips. I gave her another kiss, and then she put her hands on top of my head, gently and asked if I wanted to get naked too. It took me only a minute to get my clothes off, and only another second to get her in my arms. Her lips were sweet as honey, her nipples hard and stiff against my chest.

“Take me to bed,” she said.

I lifted her in my arms. She told me where her bedroom was and I carried her there. She sat on the edge of the bed and took my cock in her mouth. An electric thrill ran through my entire body. I had never had a woman do that before. I'd heard about it, but never quite believed that there were actual girls who would do that for me. None of the girls I'd been with had ever sucked my dick, or even kissed it.

She lay back on the bed and told me to get on my knees. I did, and it brought my face right next to her pussy. I could smell her. It was an inviting aroma, luring me to put out my tongue and taste her. I touched her pussy lips with my tongue, finding her clitoris. I may have found her clit in the complete ignorance of it's existence. I'm not sure that I even knew what a clitoris was, or that it was a woman's most sensitive spot, but I found it with my tongue as if I had been guided there by some force outside myself. I wanted to please her.

She was wet with her own juices and growing wetter by the second. I opened the soft pink lips of her pussy and slid a finger inside her, then another.

My cock ached for her, but I didn't try to hurry her along. She moaned with pleasure at what I was doing to her, and I lived only to please her.

I felt as if she was my entire world, my reason for being. She shuddered in ecstasy and I felt her wet pussy clinch against my fingers. I wanted to have my dick in her, to feel that sweet pussy all over it. I kept licking though, licking and fingering. When she was right on the verge of coming again, I took my fingers out of her pussy, replacing them with my tongue, which seemed longer than it ever had before. I put one finger in her ass to the first knuckle, rotating it slowly as she thrashed and moaned.

She sank her fingernails into my neck, holding me where she wanted me to be as she quaked with her orgasm. She lay back silent and as still as death for a moment after I'd stopped. Then she opened her icy blue eyes and looked at me.

“That was very nice Charlie,” she said. It startled me a bit that she knew my name. I regretted giving her a false one, but there was nothing to be done about it now. She touched my neck where she had clawed me, and looked at the drops of blood on her fingertips. She tasted each of her fingers, as if my blood was some fine wine. The look of rapture on her face made me happier than I'd ever been in my life.

She got up onto the bed on her knees, turning her backside to me so that I could see the wet slit between her legs. “Fuck me, Charlie,” she said.

I guided myself into her. She was remarkably tight. My cock felt like it had doubled in size once I was inside her. I slid in and out of her, first shallow then deep, going slowly at first, then faster, hearing her soft voice commanding me, not in my ears, but in my mind. “Fuck me, Charlie. Fuck me.”

I gave her pretty butt a smack and drove myself inside her as deeply as I could. Then I grasped her by the hips, thrusting in and out of her, faster and faster, harder and harder, as she whispered in my mind, “Faster Charlie. Harder Charlie. Fuck me. Fuck me.”

I drove away at her, enveloped in her wet pussy. She took me deeply inside of her, and when I drew myself out, pulled me back in. Moving back to meet my thrusts, she took me deeper and deeper. Finally she began to come, and I felt myself able to release myself into her. I held her against me, my dick as deep inside her as I could reach, feeling her spasms as I filled her with what felt like a gallon of my come.

She was dripping with my sperm when I pulled out of her. She rolled over onto her back and grabbed my cock in her hand, pulling me back inside of her. I felt as if I'd never be able to make my dick grow soft again. I was in a state of perpetual erection, and there was nothing I could do except use it on her golden sheath. I entered her again, still standing at the bedside, lifting and holding her beautiful ass in my hands as I slammed away at her. Every stroke took me as deeply into her delicious love muffin as I could go, and every thrust was met by her counter push. She screamed for me to fuck her harder and harder, faster and faster, deeper and deeper.

I had never known a woman who came so hard. She convulsed in orgasm, coming over and over again as I fucked her as hard, deep and fast as was humanly possible. I use the words humanly possible for a reason. I would eventually be able to fuck in ways that human beings cannot even conceive as possibilities. At that moment, however, I was still human, still limited by my humanity.

She pulled me onto the bed, onto my back and mounted me, sliding herself down onto my stiff pecker. She rode me with gay abandon. Gay had a different meaning then, a different context. I watched her as she bounced madly up and down on my dick, feeling the sensation of her body on mine. She clenched and unclenched her pussy as she slid up and down, giving me sensations that I had only dreamed of before.

I was indescribably tired when she lay on top of me. I felt sucked dry. I would know the true meaning of sucked dry soon, but my vocabulary was still limited by my human brain. I was weakened by her lust, by the amount of come I'd emptied into her, and the sheer exhaustion of the sex act.

The bite felt like a kiss. Her fangs opened the vein in my neck and she drank my blood, and it felt like nothing more than the continuation of sex. It was like after play, a concept I hadn't even heard of then.I was happier than I'd ever been in my life, except when I'd struck Cobb out in the World Series, nothing was better than that.

The slab was cold when I woke up. I wondered if I had just dreamed the night before, and ended up sleeping in the street. She was on the slab next to me, resting her head on one hand and smiling at me.

“Where am I?” I asked.

“Just the morgue, darling,” she said. “It could be worse.”

“Worse than waking up in the morgue?” I asked. “What did we do after...”

I was confused. I had gone to sleep with Celine in her bed and awakened somewhere else. I had no idea what had happened.

“I was greedy,” she said. “I drank too much.”

“Couldn't have drunk more than me,” I said. I had a vague memory of beer glasses and shots of whiskey.

“I drank it all, I'm afraid,” she said.

“All what?”

“All of your blood. I usually just drink enough to get me through the day, and I feel it's a fair exchange. I get what I need to survive, the donor gets what he wants, or she wants. On rare occasions though, like last night, I take too much and this happens.”

“What happens?” I asked.

“We fell asleep,” she said. “I only use that room for, well, you know what I use it for. I usually go to my safe place before sunup, but I got carried away, had too much sex, too much of your sweet blood. I suppose the maid found us when she went in to clean. We weren't breathing of course, so she thought we were dead.”

“The maid found us?” I still couldn't understand what had happened.

“Ever read a book called Dracula by Bram Stoker?” She asked.

“I don't read much,” I said. The truth is I didn't do anything well except throw a baseball. I only got as far as third grade, and wouldn't have got that far if they hadn't got tired of me in second.

“It's about vampires,” she said.

It took her awhile to make me understand exactly what a vampire was, but when I understood I was really pissed at her. That's when I realized that she was naked, and I was naked, and my pecker was as limp and useless as a piece of soggy toast.

“It's one of the things about being a vampire,” she said.

“I can't get a hard on? That's one of the things about being a vampire?” I didn't like that at all. Next thing she'd be telling me I couldn't hit the strike zone anymore.

“No.” she said. “You won't believe how horny you get when you're around a mortal woman. It's the blood. Once you get a whiff of the blood you'll be randy as a goat. When you're full of blood, even other vampires will look good to you, but now, without having eaten, you're impotent. Get up and grab a sheet, we've got to find some clothes and get out of here. We need to be in a safe place before the sun rises.”

“Why?”

“Because the sun is very hard on us,” she said. “We'll try to get you a little snack on the way to my lair.”

There was a lot more to be explained, she told me, and promised to teach me how to survive. I didn't like the term lair much either. I hadn't heard it before but the sound of the word grated on my nerves, like my brain was trying to warn me of something. The question that kept popping into my mind was, “Why me?”

The answer I kept getting back was, “Why not?'