Cake

Cake

By Derekica Snake

SL Publishing Group

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

SL PUBLISHING GROUP

P.O. Box 863312

Plano, TX 75086-3312

Cake: A Blood Nation Novel

Copyright © 2010 by Derekica Snake
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Published 2010 by SL Publishing Group

IBSN: 0984422900

www.slpublishinggroup.com

First SL Publishing Group paperback printing: April 2010

Printed in the U.S.A.

Text © 2010 by
Derekica Snake

Cover art © 2010 by Feimo

For my Mother.

I have told you that you couldn’t read my stories until they were published. Here’s another one.

To the Loyal and True

My Internet fan base that has supported and encouraged me when I was low; raked me over the coals of rabid fandomness when I was overly mean to an icon in my Vampire universe; and who has coined me “Dark Goddess” because I can twang on your heart strings and I kill minor and major characters if it advances the storyline.

It’s been a long journey for all of us. I believe things happened the way they were supposed to and the book is better for it. So as always, read, review and enjoy.

O
ne
Sex and the Single Vampire

I was a slut.

Not a realization I really wanted to face, especially while running on a treadmill. Pounding my feet on an endless path gave me too much time to think of my current situation, and just simply thinking about my situation was enough of a distraction to make me lose my concentration.

And once that was gone, so was I.

One foot hit the hard side of machine, while the other foot stayed planted on the tread as it was still rotating backward. I ended up flipping off the back in an act of involuntary acrobatics, which resulted in a painful attempt at the splits. My ankle twisted, but that sharp jolt of pain was nothing compared to the agony I received when my kneecap rammed down hard onto the concrete floor, followed by my elbow, then the back of my head as I rolled in an attempt to fall with some semblance of safety.

Damn it!

A history of sexual contortions seemed to be my salvation. Maybe it was a good thing I was a slut after all, as I was limber enough to move my body in any way required to avoid really serious injury to muscles and tendons, though when my head had collided with the concrete floor, I’d seen stars,

I thought, as I lay on my back stunned but not out, that it was better to get a concussion than end up pulling a groin muscle because current activities that I was required to do would have made that incredibly painful. All a concussion did was to give me a temporary headache, which was easily taken care of with pain meds and a nice nap.

So I lay there and just breathed to the sound of the still-whirling treadmill…it was kind of soothing, until the intercom crackled into life.

“
Sex?”

Having to answer to the moniker of “Sex” wasn’t conducive to shaking off my slut status.

“
Sex? Can you hear me?” The proper British accent at the other end of the intercom was obviously concerned about my latest injury. I lifted my uninjured arm and gave the multitude of security cameras the universal symbol for “everything’s okay”—a thumbs-up.

“
Do you require medical assistance?”

Slowly, I pushed myself up into a sitting position. The back of my head was tender, but it didn’t feel like a concussion had set in. I’d had enough of those, courtesy of my captor these past months, to know when I had one. I quickly checked the rest of my body. My fingers moved. My toes wiggled. I was alright.

I used the bars on the treadmill to pull myself to my feet. Oh crap…my injured knee was aching. It took my weight though, which was good, and I was able to hobble around the machine and hit the emergency stop button on the control panel. I sighed as blessed silence filled the room.

“
Sex?”

“
I’m going to take a shower, then a bath. But I could use an icepack afterwards,” I answered.

“
Understood.”

The intercom crackled once more as the Brit signed off, and I limped my way over to the bathroom.

While the rest of my prison was pretty basic, the bathroom was a spa worthy of a hedonist. Not that I was used to hanging out in spa settings, but it was a damned nice place to retreat to for some soothing alone time, when the jerk that had captured me wasn’t around. The shower itself was large enough to hold a small party in. Enclosed with thick clear glass on three sides, the final wall was decorated with a brown tile, though it was more than just a boring brown, for it had gold flecks embedded in it that glistened in the light through the water that hit it. I’d had my cheek pressed up hard against it enough times to really see it up close.

One would think that I would hate that place, since
he
liked making out in the shower, but there was a perk that I loved…the shower head had different settings.

I preferred the long, wide head that mimicked a water fall. I would stand there with the water cascading over my body and imagine that I was in a tropical paradise, rather than being a prisoner in a series of connected, sparse, concrete bunkers. A cement room is a cement room, no matter how large it was.

Stepping gingerly over to the tub, I started running the water. It would take a while to fill, so I knew I might as well get that started first. Then I stepped into the shower and let the warm water wash over me.

There was going to be a lovely bruise on my elbow. My hip was starting to turn black and blue as well. I lifted my good arm and perched it on the back tile wall, resting my forehead on my forearm and allowing the water to ease my aches and to sooth me enough to think some more. I did a lot of that…thinking, that is.

I didn’t start out as a slut. My captor had
turned me into one by honing my body and my mind into that of a sex machine.

My free arm swept up across my muscular body, my fingers gently touching responsive skin as my hand glided and slowly lowered itself all the way down past my navel in silent acknowledgement of what I was.
He
was also responsible for getting me to the point where I could see my feet when I looked down. And looking downwards now, I could also see something stirring when it shouldn’t be…just because I was thinking of him touching me down there.

I pulled my wandering hand away from my lower abdomen and studiously began washing the sweat and grime from my body, ignoring the standing witness to my fitness and sexuality. I worked out every day to attain and keep the fitness of my body. At first, it was because of
his
orders, but then it was because I liked what I saw and intended to maintain it. Keeping trim and muscular was now a part of my daily routine; after all, it wasn’t as if I had anything else to do in my free time. Being a creature of sex was
his
idea, and I hated it…most of the time, anyway.

Routine. There is nothing wrong with routine. It provides a semblance of order to an otherwise either chaotic or tediously boring day. What am I saying…day? It’s been nothing but a series of unending chaotic events since I met that man.

Man? I have known that he isn’t a man since the day I stabbed him. I just couldn’t process it right away, I mean, that he was a vampire. These were creatures that my family believed in, while me, I was a man of reason and science. Really, bloodsuckers walking among us? But I can’t deny it now, not when one of these mythical creatures has been sexing me and drinking from me.

I wasn’t a virgin when he kidnapped me. Well, yes, technically, I was. I hadn’t done anything with a man before him, and my one experience with a girl had ended quite disastrously in my sophomore year of college. I mean, I had no idea what to do that time, so long ago. Just like so many other things in my life that I had been looking forward to when I was younger, I had put sex on the shelf called “Not-going-to-happen” once I’d started going blind.

So yeah, we’d done it once, me and that girl, and then I never saw her again. My first sexual experience, other than going solo, had been a one-night stand. Even I knew that my performance had been bad. It couldn’t be classified as premature ejaculation, but it sure as hell wasn’t anything she could have enjoyed.

So I wasn’t a virgin, with a woman. But with a man, yes. If I had been given a choice, I still wouldn’t be doing anything with a man…which, technically, I wasn’t, because he wasn’t a man, he was…a vampire.

My brain ached. I had to stop thinking about this, because it was an almost daily routine also, this thinking of him, and my body reacted even harder. Damn it.

I shut off the shower and limped over to the bath, which was the size of a six-person hot tub. Sinking into the warm water, I dunked my growing erection, thinking that maybe I should have made sure the water was cold, to discourage this involuntary, unwanted reaction to my thoughts of him.

I wasn’t a slut. I was a victim of Stockholm Syndrome. Yeah, that’s it. My body was identifying with my kidnapper. The faint scent of apples I could smell was
his
personal scent. Apple-scented body wash, apple-scented shampoo, and even apple-scented air freshener. It was a conspiracy by the Brit and his staff to make sure that I never had a moment in my captivity to ignore
his
existence.

I sank down until my shoulders were submerged, then leaned my head back against the edge of the tub, closing my eyes, wondering how long I’d been under his thumb…Marcus, the Vampire.

It had to be months, because he’d had the time to not only re-shape my body but to also fix my eyes as well. Marcus was beginning to take me over, by changing my name to my initials, S.E.X., and by resetting my sexual preference. Well, what I
thought
was my sexual preference, before I ended up in that bar on my birthday.

Nobody had ever looked at me twice before then, or even once, so I really didn’t have a chance to find out if I preferred women, or if I only thought I liked women, or whether I was simply refusing to admit that though I could get it up looking at a woman, I only really got hard when I looked at a sexy, beautiful man.

Anyway, at the time of my forced conversion to being intimate with men whether I wanted it or not, I had weighed two hundred and eighty-nine pounds, was about as round as I was tall, and was legally blind. I could see, but I had to be up really close with my stereotypical Coke-bottle lenses to peer at whatever it was I was looking at.