Robots... with vampires
an excerpt

"Blood? Ew, what--" But then his eyes went wide and his face filled with such longing, Belladonna thought he might attack her right there.

"Easy, Morrie," she murmured. "It gets better, I promise, but you have to get a handle on this particular craving." She turned towards the door, checking to make sure it was closed securely. Then she turned back to Morris. "Wanna have sex?"

Morris' eyes flicked from Belladonna's neck to her eyes then immediately back to her neck, then lower to her bosom. He started grinning. "Are you, uh, serious?"

"Why not? We're not going anywhere, I like you--"

"You do?" His eyes flicked back up to her face, searching. "Really?"

"Of course I do," she said. "Plus, we just had an intense, near-death... er... anyway, we just had an intense experience. Why not?"

Morris was already unbuttoning his trousers and kicking at the pant-legs. Belladonna helped him, then hurriedly wriggled out of her wetsuit, causing Morris to stare unashamedly at her contortions, a big goofy grin on his face.

"Stop smirking and help me," she commanded, and he immediately leapt forward to pull at the tight sleeves and leggings.

Clothed, Belladonna was the kind of woman who commanded men's attention wherever she went. She gave off sex appeal the way ripe fruit gives off sweetness, and she attracted men to her in a way that ripe fruit attracts fruit flies. She was magnificent and disarming and could turn a single man into a quivering, drink-buying frail example of humanity in seconds.

Naked, Belladonna looked like a marble statue of a Greek goddess, Aphrodite in particular. She was curved where a woman should be curved, soft where everything soft should be, and firm of thigh and belly and arm. Her body had the tight glow of a creature not entirely of this world, and for a moment Morris wondered if she was an angel, not a vampire.

Naked, Morris.... well, first Morris would have to get naked, wouldn't he?

After de-trousering, Morris had helped Belladonna disrobe, and as a result he had failed to remove the rest of his clothing. His socks, which he had been wearing and handwashing since his initial kidnapping, three months earlier. The button-down shirt, which he had only worn every other day or so, but which had now been soaked in seawater and smelled faintly of brine. The undershirt, a white cotton T-shirt that he had worn on the days when he wasn't wearing the button-down. And, of course, the tidy whiteys he had been wearing nearly every day (whenever he didn't go commando, of course-- and whenever he didn't decide to lounge around the room entirely naked, which wasn't often, since the Faceless Chickens preferred temperatures just slightly above fourty degrees Farenheit). For three months. The very idea that Belladonna should see his three-months-worn underwear caused Morris to grab his shirt-tails in his hands and yank downward to cover the embarassment.