The Master Race, Chapter 11
How to make a Barbie doll
“Foolish girl, I take what I do not get willingly given to me.”
The Nosferatu wears the girl like a suit of clothes.
The sword drops from Fisher’s hand. It clatters as it hits the floor. Transformation. Unclean. Her hands klaw; they will klaw, when idle. A knobb sprouts from the rightside of her creamy-white neck. Her mouth opens slackly drooling. She sports an empty gaze. There are voices in her head. Her mind is empty. A blank slate, so to speak. Not the paradox that you might think. She is part of a Collective, a collective of two. No longer a person, she is a thing like her dishy Nosferatu master and husband.
Grey and white liberally streaks the golden platinum blonde tresses that drape her shoulders and generous breasts. The rug matches the drapes. Grey and white, with specks of blonde, her muff goes geriatric also. Comely in spite of her tainted looks. Although some would differ with that observation. Different strokes for different folks.
Fisher removes her clothing. Now, she is naked like the Nosferatu. The newlyweds walk slowly over to the coffin. There’s no rush. They have forever. The grinning Nosferatu makes low, feral sounds. Fisher is the unclean and the Nosferatu is the undead.
Here, there is no need for pretense. As such, the Nosferatu sports a geriatric mane and bush, a killer tongue, and a razorblade smile. Knobb. Klaw. Etc. Comely in spite of its tainted looks. Although some would differ with that observation. Different strokes for different folks.
The girl lies down in the coffin. The Nosferatu gets on top of her and feeds, drinking the girl live. Cheeks, breasts, thighs, and torso, even vulva, are suckled, but most time is spent with the Nosferatu’s mouth affixed to the leftside of the girl’s neck.
Drinking live is much more than just about obtaining sustenance, for the Nosferatu. This, for them, is how they have sex. Enjoy who you drink. After all, this is one of the ways that they reproduce.
Cautious Nosferatu are monogamous. They drink live from only one human. This minimizes detection.
And … When it comes to wives, this Nosferatu is very picky. It prefers a certain physical type. Fisher is its type. Blonde, blue-eyed, and buxom – long legs, slim hips, generous mouth, fair complexion, and tight ass [read: flat, pancake ass and slim hips].
When it is in-between wives. During that risky period when it’s in search of a replacement, because it’s either used up its chosen or she’s turned, it feeds indiscriminately. Sometimes it does so intentionally to attract the attention of a potential mate, which is what it did in Fisher’s case. When its brazen attacks of commoners failed to elicit the desired response from the powers-that-be, it knew that the Guard would send their best to come after it when it publically abducted the Councilor’s daughter. Its encounter with Hawk and Fisher was a trap. It was wife shopping.
How does it conceal the eating of people? That’s the easiest part of this elaborate charade. This is a very violent part of town. People die, every day. It’s child’s play for her to pass off one of its carnivorous feedings as the handiwork of mortals. Besides, there are Lycan afoot, in the area. A Nosferatu’s carnivorous feedings can easily be mistaken for that of a Lycan’s handiwork, and vice versa. Many uninformed humans don’t realize that Nosferatu eat as well as drink live. Ignorance is not always bliss.
As if they are cannibals, Nosferatu derive great sexual pleasure from eating live. Enjoy who you eat. It’s not quite the serious banging that they get from feeding, but they derive quite the [intense] orgasm from it, nonetheless. Major league wetty/woody, depending upon the applicable [male, female, she-male] gender involved. Feed the demon within [and without], so to speak.
With each feeding, Fisher becomes less and less human, and more and more monster, until none of her former self, her humanity, is left. Once transformed … She will prey upon those that she once protected and loved. No one will be safe from her unnatural cravings, not even her husband Hawk.
In folklore, turning someone is portrayed as being so easy and inevitable. In reality, making a human into a Nosferatu is problematic, at best—i.e., neither easy nor inevitable. The same can be said of turning a human into a Lycan. Of all of the supernatural beings in Creation, only Lycan and Nosferatu can reproduce in this asexual fashion.