It is New Orleans, 1850, and Blanche Paradis, a free woman of color has carved out a good life, including a job she enjoys, and a man she loves, gambler Bart Donovan. One small blemish mars her happiness, the obsessive interest of a mysterious aristocrat, Lucien St.Clair.
In a moment of weakness, Blanche falls into Lucien’s bed, sealing her fate and that of her lover. For Lucien is much more than he seems, and his lust for the beautiful Blanche knows no bounds.
Je m'appelle...excusez-moi...my name is Blanche Paradis. That name will mean nothing to you now, I suspect, but in my day I was famous...adored...known. But those days are all forgotten...quel dommage.
As creatures of my kind go, I am relatively new, having lived in this form, if living you can call it, a mere hundred and fifty years. What form is that, you ask? Why, as a vampire.
That shocks you, I see. It is the stuff of legend and fairy tale, yet I stand here today as testament to the veracity of these tales. I am a vampire, turned in my twenty-seventh year by the obsessive jealousy of my erstwhile lover—the man who I witnessed savagely slaughter his rival, my newly affianced, my Bartholomew. And a century and a half later my own rage burns hot. My need to avenge sweet Bart's murder is the ruling passion of my life. I shall have no peace—shall find no solace—until I have wrought payment from the black heart of Lucien St.Clair.
Blanche Paradis woke, the bright New Orleans sun filling the bedroom with steamy heat. It was mid-afternoon, her usual time to awaken considering she was such a creature of the night.
She stretched, and the man sprawled on his belly beside her in the big canopy bed stirred and mumbled. He had tossed the covers off during the night, and she scanned his splendid nude form, feeling arousal build at the sight of his broad shoulders, thick powerful arms, muscled round ass and sturdy long legs. He rolled to his side, reached out in his half sleep and ran his hand across her voluptuous naked body. Desire erupted within Blanche, and she snuggled closer to her love. She ran her hand across his well-muscled hip and thigh, then stroked the evidence of his growing desire.
“You are insatiable,” said Bart Donovan, his voice husky with sleep and arousal. He wrapped his hand around hers as she gripped his cock.
“It is because you are so deliciously desirable.” Blanche leaned over to press her full breasts against his broad chest, and to capture his mouth in a searing kiss.
“Mm,” he murmured and trailed kisses down her long neck and across her soft shoulders. His hands now fondled her breasts and his erection pressed against her rounded belly. He lay back and pulled her across him, his mouth seeking hers again.
She knew what he wanted—for her to straddle him and impale herself upon him. She knew he wanted to see her heavy breasts sway with the rhythm of their passion—his hands and mouth free to sample their many charms. And so she did just that, sighing with the pleasure of feeling his thickness stretch her, his heat fill her.
“I love how your skin glows in the mid-day light—such a rich dark brown—like the hot chocolate Tante Louise serves on Sundays,” Bart said. “I wonder, do you taste as sweet?” He took her nipple in his mouth and suckled eagerly. “Ah, sweeter,” he sighed.
“And I love how your skin is so fair next to mine. The contrast is exotic.” Blanche slowly undulated reveling in the friction of their bodies, the growing pulse of heat. “You are smooth like butter cream but hard like steel.” She was panting now, her excitement mounting. He thrust up into her matching stroke for stroke—a familiar dance.
“You drive me wild, my black beauty.” His voice rasped with his passion, his thrusts became more rapid. They both ceased speaking, focused now on the race toward climax. He grunted with each upward thrust. She sighed and moaned as she plunged herself over and over on the steely length of his cock. They traveled upward in harmony, and when they arrived at the peak, they plunged over together. Bart bellowed as he emptied his cum into Blanche's willing body. Blanche cried out as she clenched her pussy walls around her lover, taking all he had to give. And as the spasms passed, they remained joined and she lay her upper body upon him.
“Magnifique, mon amour,” she murmured.
“I love you,” he said. And they slept.