The following story is a work of fiction and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental. It is important to note that all characters in this story are over the age of 18 and the content of the story is intended for adult readers only. Additionally, please note that this story is written with help of artificial intelligence.
The Vampire Interview ~ by DarkTalons
Lena Grayson slumped in the driver’s seat of her beat-up hatchback, the engine ticking as it cooled outside the wrought-iron gates of a sprawling gothic mansion. A journalist for The City Pulse, she’d clawed her way through gritty crime beats and dull city council meetings, only for her editor to dump this fluff piece on her lap: “Interview with a Self-Proclaimed Vampire.” She snorted, rubbing her temples—either her publisher was scraping the barrel, or this was payback for last week’s snarky email. “Fucking vampires,” she muttered, grabbing her notepad and recorder. “Let’s just get this circus over with.”
The house loomed ahead—three stories of dark stone, ivy choking the walls, stained-glass windows glinting like eyes in the dusk. She stepped out, gravel crunching under her Chelsea boots—black, scuffed, practical—her grey jeans and loose button-up shirt screaming I don’t care, though they hugged her slim frame just enough to hint at curves she rarely flaunted. Shy by nature, Lena hid behind her work, her brown hair pulled into a messy bun, glasses slipping down her nose. She reached for the gate buzzer, but before her finger hit it, the iron creaked open, slow and deliberate, like the place was waiting for her.
“Creepy,” she mumbled, trudging up the short path, her skepticism a shield against the unease prickling her spine. The massive oak door swung inward as she approached, and out stepped a vision that made Lena’s breath catch—despite herself. The woman was stunning, late 40s but ageless, with porcelain skin, jet-black hair cascading in waves, and crimson lips curled into a knowing smirk. Her dress was vampiric perfection—black velvet, floor-length, clinging to a lush hourglass figure, slit high to reveal fishnet-clad ankles flowing into elegant stiletto heels, glossy black, five inches of wicked grace. She extended a hand, and Lena’s eyes snagged on her nails—long, dark red stilettos, an inch past her fingertips, sharp and gleaming like bloodied daggers.
“Welcome, Miss Grayson,” the woman purred, voice smooth as silk, a faint accent curling the edges. “I’m Seraphina. Do come in.” Lena shook her hand—firm, cool—those nails brushing her skin, sending an involuntary shiver up her arm. She yanked her hand back, muttering, “Thanks,” and followed, skepticism warring with a grudging admiration for the commitment. She’s hot, I’ll give her that, Lena thought, trailing Seraphina through a foyer of polished marble and flickering candelabras.
The house was a hive of oddity—young men, all chiseled and silent, darted about in tight latex maid outfits, black and shiny, dusting shelves, polishing silver. Their muscles flexed under the material, eyes downcast, and Lena’s brow furrowed. “Quite the staff,” she said dryly, but Seraphina just smiled, leading her to a parlor where two red velvet armchairs faced each other, plush and inviting. They sat, and instantly, one of the latex lads appeared, balancing a tray with two flutes of champagne. Seraphina plucked one with a graceful nod, her nails clicking against the glass, while Lena waved it off. “Water, please. I’m working.”
Seraphina’s smirk twitched, and with a lazy snap of her fingers—those red claws flashing—the man scurried off, returning moments later with a glass of water, ice clinking. Lena took it, sipping as she flipped open her notepad, recorder on. “So, Seraphina,” she began, voice flat, “let’s start simple. When did you decide you’re a vampire?”
The interview rolled out—standard questions met with vague, theatrical answers. “Centuries blur, darling,” Seraphina mused, swirling her champagne, nails catching the light. “Blood is life, power is eternal.” Lena scribbled, unimpressed, her skepticism leaking through—eye rolls, a snorted “Right,” under her breath. Seraphina’s crimson eyes narrowed, catching every jab, and a spark flared behind them. This journalist—cute in her frumpy way, all repressed edges and defiance—was a challenge, and Seraphina didn’t back down from those.
“You don’t believe me,” Seraphina said, voice dropping, a velvet blade. Lena smirked, mid-scribble. “No offense, but vampires? C’mon. It’s a good act, though.” Seraphina’s lips curled, and she lifted one hand off the armrest—just her index finger, that long, dark red nail pointing like a conductor’s baton, the rest of her claws splayed lazily. A jolt hit Lena—her pencil clattered to the floor, and her right hand shot to her left tit, squeezing through her shirt, fingers kneading against her will.
“What the—fuck—” Lena gasped, eyes wide, but her body betrayed her, left hand diving between her thighs, rubbing her pussy through her jeans, rough denim grinding against her clit. Pleasure spiked, sharp and unwanted, clashing with fury and disbelief. “Stop—whatever this is—” she choked, but Seraphina’s nail twitched, and the rubbing intensified, her own hands puppets to an unseen force.
“Vampire powers, darling,” Seraphina schooled, voice calm, cruelly amused. “Telekinesis, mind control—a taste of what you mock.” She snapped her fingers—crack—and Lena’s clothes vanished, shirt and jeans dissolving into black mist, leaving her naked, Chelsea boots thudding to the floor. She yelped, hands flying to cover her tits and pussy, but Seraphina waved her claws, and Lena’s body lifted—floating, rigid, yanked through the air to hover before the vampire, arms and legs snapping wide like a starfish, exposing every inch.
“Fuck you—” Lena spat, trembling, but Seraphina stood, heels clicking, fishnets rasping as she closed the gap. “Oh, I will,” she purred, nails tracing Lena’s jaw—not cutting, just teasing—then down her throat, circling a nipple, watching it harden. Lena’s breath hitched, anger melting into heat despite herself, and Seraphina grinned, fangs glinting. “Let’s play.”
She pointed a nail, and an invisible force plunged into Lena’s cunt—thick, warm, pumping hard, stretching her as she moaned, helpless. Seraphina’s free hand clawed her own dress aside, revealing a shaved pussy under the fishnets, and she rubbed herself, nails glinting as she matched the rhythm. “Feel that?” she taunted, snapping her fingers—Lena’s legs bent, knees to chest, pussy gaping as the magic fucked her deeper, wet sounds filling the room.
Seraphina stepped closer, nails raking Lena’s thighs—red welts blooming—then grabbed her hair, yanking her head down for a bruising kiss, fangs nipping Lena’s lip, drawing a bead of blood she licked away. “Taste good,” she growled, waving a claw—Lena’s body flipped, ass up, floating, and Seraphina spanked her with telekinetic slaps, each smack timed with a thrust, nails scratching her cheeks. Lena screamed, pleasure and pain blurring, her cunt clenching around the invisible cock.
“More,” Seraphina hissed, pointing both hands and twin forces hit: one stroking Lena’s clit, fast and relentless, the other fucking into her ass, tight and brutal. She writhed, floating, fishnets brushing her skin as Seraphina knelt, licking her own claws, then dragging them over Lena’s tits—scraping, pinching nipples, leaving marks. “Cum, skeptic,” she ordered, and Lena did—shuddering, squirting, soaking the air as her body shook, rage drowned in ecstasy.
Seraphina laughed, lowering Lena back to the chair, snapping her fingers—clothes reappearing, pencil in hand, mind fogging. Lena blinked, dazed, picking up mid-sentence: “—and that’s why vampires aren’t real, right? Just stories.” Seraphina smirked, sipping champagne, nails tapping the glass. “Of course, darling. Just stories...”