Meeting her wasn't just a life changing experience, it was the end of one life and the beginning of another. At the time I was a postgraduate student at the University of Washington in Seattle, writing my thesis on ancient myths, hypothesizing the actual existence of certain supernatural creatures such as werewolves and vampires. Perhaps that's why she chose me. I don't know; she's never said; but I'm certain she knew all about me before that night.

Taking a break from my studies, I was sitting in a coffeehouse in the University District. I looked up from the book I was reading the moment she walked through the door; everyone did. She attracted even the stares of women. She could've had anyone, but she chose me. I wanted her-- more than I'd ever wanted a woman. I would've killed anyone who came between us. I would have killed for her then; I have killed for her since.

Without saying a word she beckoned to me. Without saying a word I followed. She took me to her home, a three-story Victorian similar to many such houses in Seattle. She had still said nothing to me, nor had I said anything to her. It was as if I were in a trance. I was only aware of her. She filled my senses, leaving no room for other sensations. I don't remember the drive to her house or the walk from the car to her bedroom. I remember seeing her when she walked into the coffeehouse; I remember wanting her more than I'd ever wanted anything in my life; the next thing I remembered I was standing naked beside her bed. To this day I don't know whether she undressed me or whether I undressed myself. She bade me lie down on the bed. Her will was mine; I had none of my own.

Lying on the bed, unable to move, I watched her undress. Her body was perfect, its beauty equaled only by that of her face. Now, of course-- having seen her change her appearance countless times -- I know it was an illusion.

Even now-- two years later--I don't know what she really looks like, but -- occasionally -- when I glance at her out of the corner of my eyes -- when she she doesn't know I'm looking -- I'll get a glimpse -- just a hint -- of something monstrous, something truly evil. When I turn to look, however, it's gone, leaving only what she wants me to see. To a limited extent, I can change my appearance, but beneath my facade, I'm still much the same that I once was, although my features are sharper, and a hint of cruelty is present in my eyes. How could it not be so? I've killed so many -- both men and women -- and I've only been the creature I am now for two short years. I've no idea how long she's existed. Perhaps she is as old as any life on Earth; perhaps she came from another planet. She's forbidden me to ask such questions. I don't know what she is. I don't know what I am. I just know I'm no longer human. Her bite that night, when she drank my blood, changed me. I don't know how; perhaps some virus in her saliva circulated through my bloodstream, invading my cells, mutating them -- and me -- into something totally alien to humanity-- into something that feeds on humanity.

At first -- with the memory of being human so fresh -- I pitied our victims. Now, they're just food. No -- more than just food -- they're also a source of pleasure, orgasmic release more profound than any I'd ever experienced as a human -- except for that night, the night she made me.

She didn't bite me at first. Straddling me, she lowered herself onto my cock, which, engorged with blood, was harder than it had ever been. She is the world's most powerful aphrodisiac. Although I ejaculated countless times, my cock never became flaccid. I pumped my seed into her until there was nothing left, until my prostate would produce no more fluid. Still the orgasmic spasms continued, until she had drained me of my vitality as well as my fluids. She had -- literally -- almost fucked me to death, and -- had she continued -- would have.

Withdrawing from my still erect cock, she lowered her face toward mine, brushing my lips with a kiss before sliding her mouth down to my neck where she bit into the artery which pulsed beneath the skin. She drank my hot blood. I knew that she was also drinking my life, but I didn't care. If taking my life gave her pleasure, I wanted her to have it. Besides, the pleasure I experienced as she drank my blood was more intense than all the orgasms I'd just had. I have since experienced that pleasure when drinking a victim's blood. It's a pleasure shared by both predator and prey, one so intense that -- to this day -- I don't understand how she was able to stop herself from killing me, for the pleasure peaks when the victim dies, leaving the predator spent. To one of us, human blood is more potent than heroin. We crave it; we cannot live without it; it is our only subsidence. We are unable to subsist on animal blood. Just the thought of drinking it nauseates me.

When she withdrew her mouth, the wound sealed. Only the slightest of margins separated me from death. No human could have survived the loss of so much blood, but I was already beginning to change -- painfully change. Each cell of my body was mutating, its DNA altering. My humanity was dying; from its ashes a new creature was being born. I was experiencing the pain of death and of birth at the same time. I might have still died, but she opened a vein in her arm and pressed it to my mouth. Her blood was strangely cold, but I greedily drank it, for her blood was also life. My newly mutated cells craved it, needed it to flourish. I suckled at her wrist as a newborn babe might suckle at his mother's breast. She was my mother. I was her child -- not of her loins, but of her blood.

She withdrew her arm from my mouth all too soon. I wanted more. Never had I wanted anything so much. Almost too weak to move, I held out my arms toward her, opening and closing my hands as if attempting to grasp her arm, which she had withdrawn beyond my reach, a motion similar to one a small child might make when he wanted something. "More," I said, speaking for the first time since I'd met her.

"No, my greedy child," she said, "You would drink me dry. Lie back. Be patient. I will bring you more." She left, leaving me hungry, craving more of her blood, craving it more than any starving person had ever wanted food, needing at more than any heroin addict had ever needed heroin. I wanted to follow her, but I couldn't rise from the bed.

Sometime later -- it could have been minutes, or it could have been a lifetime -- she returned leading another boy, no older than I was. He could have been my best friend; he could've been my brother; it wouldn't have mattered. That he was a sentient being, that his life had just begun, that he had hopes and dreams, didn't matter. To me, he was only food, a container for the blood coursing beneath his skin. I wanted it. It didn't matter to me that taking it would cost him his life. Like a child, my wants were all that mattered.

As if in a trance, he stood at the bed beside me. Taller than he, she had to bend her head to place her mouth at his throat. I smelled his blood as it gushed into her mouth. I begrudged her every drop she drank. Had I the strength, I would've fought her for it. Had I been able, I would've killed her for it -- would have killed her for her own blood. As weak I was, however, all I could do was hold up my hands and plead.

After drinking from his throat for a moment, she withdrew her mouth. With each beat of his heart, blood spurted from the artery in his neck. "No!" I shouted. It was being wasted. Blood spurted onto the bed and ran down his body. I wanted it. I wanted every drop of it.

Then she laid him across the bed so that his pulsing artery spurted its contents into my gaping mouth. I drank hungrily, placing my mouth tightly against his throat so I wouldn't waste a drop. Unlike hers, his blood was hot -- hot with the heat of humanity, hot with the fires of youth, hot with his life, which rapidly ran down my throat. I was aware of the moment of his death, experiencing an orgasm, not unlike, but more intense, than that of sex. I felt his blood course through my veins, nourishing my newly mutated cells. Individually, they cried out for it. Collectively, they required it to live. His life -- his blood -- restored my vitality, my strength, giving me life, not bringing me back to life, but giving me a new life, a different kind of life. I'd never felt so alive, so powerful. Through enhanced senses, the world appeared different. I could see infrared. I could hear the slightest sound. No living being could hide from me in the dark. Even if I wasn't able to see or hear him, I would smell his blood.

His body -- drained of blood -- seemed shrunken, little more than a dried out husk, certainly no more use to me than one. I shoved it off of me onto the floor beside the bed. That he'd been a boy, much like the one I'd been a short time before, meant nothing to me. I had no pity for him. My only concern was for my hunger. I wanted more. Newly born, it would take more than one life to satisfy me. At that moment, I didn't think there was enough blood in the world. Such was my hunger. I looked at her, remembering the exquisite taste of her cold blood, thirsting for it as I remembered, but even in the midst of my bloodlust, I knew I was no match for her. I would have to satisfy my hunger elsewhere.

She pulled me to my feet and left me standing naked next to the dead boy while she walked over to a closet from which she took some clothes, men's clothes, a black silk shirt and black pants. Without saying a word, she handed them to me. I put them on, feeling no need for underwear. The pants were also made of silk. Because of my heightened sense of touch, I was glad they weren't made of a coarser material. While I was dressing she handed me a pair of soft leather boots. Everything fit perfectly. It was as if she had chosen me to fit the clothes. Perhaps she had.

We went hunting, finding another such boy. Although we would occasionally choose women, we preferred boys, fully grown, but young-- boys because they contain more blood, young, but fully grown, for their vitality, choosing only those in excellent health. We could pick out a sick one from across the room, diagnosing his ailment with a glance. We chose only the strong, the healthy, the intelligent, those with a reason to live, those with a desire to live. We would've never chosen a suicidal or depressed person. The chemical imbalance would have tainted his blood. Choosing was easy. We could smell the difference in the blood.

We took him back to her house. He didn't resist us; they never do. Later, I would learn to take my time, to enjoy them, to toy with them, as does a cat with its prey, before drinking their blood. Not that night though. Throwing him to the floor as soon as we entered the front door, I've ripped out his throat, gulping down his blood as it gushed from the wound. It was sloppily done. He died from the trauma of having his throat ripped out before I could drain all his blood. So much was wasted. She was angry, striking me with a blow which would've killed any ordinary man. "You will learn to take your time," she said, "or it will be your blood I drink." I believed her, never again acting with such haste.

She wasn't finished with me though. After leading me back into the bedroom, she ripped my new clothes off with one swipe of her hand --a motion so quick I scarcely saw it -- leaving me standing naked beside the bed. The clothes were covered with the blood of my second victim, the second person I'd killed in less than an hour. Before that night I had been reluctant to even kill insects, but I had now murdered two human beings, boys no older than I. My first victim still lay beside the bed.

With a light brush of her hand, she pushed me onto the bed. I lay there, my feet dangling over the edge. My cock was hard. Replenished by the first boy's blood, I had ejaculated when I had drunk the second one's blood. Blood arousal is not unlike sexual arousal, just more intense. That's why she often makes love to her victims in the human, conventional, manner before drinking their blood, extracting as much pleasure as possible from their lives as well as from their deaths. My blood lust had aroused me sexually as well. I thought she meant to mount me as she had before, but she remained clothed.

Kneeling over me, she took one of my balls into her mouth. I ejaculated, spurting my come high onto my chest. No longer white, it was blood red. It wasn't lovemaking she intended, however. Using her suddenly sharp teeth, she slit my scrotum from top to bottom. The flaps of it hung to the side, revealing my testicles. They were red-- as red as my come had been. I screamed and tried to rise, but she easily held me down with one hand. Next, taking one of my balls into her mouth, she bit it off, severing its cords with her teeth, spitting it out onto my stomach, then similarly bit off the other. The wound quickly closed; the cords -- no longer bleeding -- retreated into my body; my shredded scrotum closed and shrank, leaving no evidence that I'd ever had balls. She wasn't through, however.

She took my still hard cock in her mouth, allowing it to slide down her throat. Despite my horror at what she had just done and my fear of what she might be about to do, I ejaculated again, purging myself of whatever seed my balls had produced. I was unable to resist her. As I said, she is the world's most powerful aphrodisiac. She drained me, drinking my bloody come until I could produce no more. Then she bit off my cock at its base, spitting it out onto my stomach. Shrunken, it lay next to my balls. Again, the wound healed, leaving no indication I'd ever had a cock, not even an opening for my urethra, but as I was to learn my body would produce no waste. It would utilize all the blood I ingested.

"Why?" I asked.

"So you'll know your place," she answered. As in ancient times, she had made a eunuch of me so I would realize she was the master, and I was the slave. No longer whole, I can never become as powerful as she is. I'd lost count of the orgasms I'd had that day, but I would never have another -- at least not one originating in my groin. I would still have one when I drank a person's life -- one more intense than any I'd ever had while human, but still I was incomplete without my cock and balls. With them I could have made love to our victims as she does, experiencing multiple orgasms instead of the one when my victim dies -- when deprived of blood, his heart stops.

With my cock and balls, I could have fathered a race of creatures such as I. Anyone I fucked, man or woman, would have become my child. My semen would have changed him. Now, even my bite won't. Without my gonads, my blood lacks the necessary ingredient. I'm as sterile as any man would be without his balls.