INTRODUCTION

 

This is the first book in a series of five erotica horror novels recounting the adventures, horrors, and tragedies of Jefferson Milton Davis.

 

This story is based on the private and personal diaries of Jefferson Milton Davis, and covers his first 756 years of life as an angel, demon, vampire, ghost, mystic, musician, and author. After that... no one is really certain.

 

This series of books is a history of the thoughts, words, and deeds of love, never consummated in life, between Jefferson Milton Davis and his nine dead wives; women he had never met in life, but grew to love and honor and worship in death. And death is where he finally joined them, and where they are finally together.

 

"Real women: They mate savagely, and forever".

 

During the course of his many lives, Jefferson discovers his own history, his own ancestry, including the fact that his own Mom is playing both sides against the middle. She is God, and She is also the Devil.

 

To quote Jefferson:

 

"God is Love - and she charges by the hour".

 

Notes from my Grave

 

I never intended to do this.

And then, she was gone, and I had all these letters, from me, and from her, and I felt I had to do something.

Something that would make her memorable.

Not to me.

Sadly, I will never be able to forget her, even though that would be my only wish in this life.

I wish I had never known her.

I wish I had turned a corner somewhere else, and had never sat at that particular table, at that particular café, at that particular moment in my life.

I would give anything to forget her.

And I will love her forever.

 

From the diaries of Jefferson Milton Davis

Chapter One

Olya

 

I am not much to look at.

I have never accomplished anything that anyone really would notice.

I show up for work on time.

I do my job.

And then I go home.

On particularly wild days, I will actually stop at the market and buy a chicken. Maybe even a potato. Beyond that, I make no impact on the world around me.

Beyond being exceptionally dull, I am also invisible. I can walk down any street, in any city, and people look right through me.

Just for fun (or desperation) I will, on occasion, step into traffic to see if anyone will actually notice. When backed into this kind of corner, your average driver will be forced to actually admit that I exist in their world, and slam on their brakes.

I find this disappointing, as I figure if I die and go and see Saint Peter and say:

"Hey! Not my fault! I got hit by a car! You gotta let me into heaven - because God knows I already have been living in hell!"

I tell you this not because I want you to notice or care about me. I tell you this because you need to understand how remarkable it was for me, a nothing, a nobody, to find a letter tucked under my coffee cup at my table, at my favorite outdoor café.

What also caught my attention was the fact that there was no one else there.

I had gotten my coffee, added extra sugar (because they never do it right), grabbed a few extra napkins (okay, I'm invisible AND sloppy, which actually works out well for me as I drool down my front), and carried myself, my coffee, my extra sugar, and my emergency napkins to the table outside in the corner under the canopy, where I would pretend to be important and consult today's copy of the Financial Times.

In fact, I have NO idea what any of this stuff means. It's a holdover from way back when. From that time I was still trying to meet women, and discovered that I was a glass door. People mostly just don't see me until its too late. But it did make me very aware of my surroundings as I tried to dodge impacts from very large (well, fat) men carrying donuts, and briefcases with very sharp edges, that always manage to catch me on my inside thigh.

It's at that point I figured that I cannot be THAT invisible, if men want to smack me with leather.

So, here it is. A note.

Under my coffee cup.

I would imagine that my friends are playing a trick on me, if I had any friends. The people I work with would not go to that much trouble, especially if it meant they would actually have to walk down the street instead of jumping into a taxicab on the company credit card and going to buy lunch across the road.

So, a note.

Okay, why not? Maybe it's a bill for the coffee. But I just paid, and left a tip. I know I left a tip because I could hear the change hit the bottom of the tin cup. It surprised the girl behind the counter because she was actually looking straight through me even as she was handing me the very hot and sticky cup.

So, again, why not?

I gently tug the paper out from under my coffee, sit back, out of the sun (I hate the sun - I am much too close to my vampire and werewolf ancestors, I suppose) and open the note.

 

Olya

"Morning Jefferson,

So unexpected to get the letter from you, but very nice. I have never communicated with any person, who, how to tell, likes bisexual girls.

Do you want to share me with somebody else or how do you imagine it?

Warmly,

Olya"

 

And this is the point where I began to have a life.

Suddenly someone had noticed me. And I felt alive. I felt happy. And I had never been happy before. It took me a few moments to realize all of this, as I stared at this amazing document.

It was that moment in time where I actually switched on. I could feel my breath in my body. I could feel my heart beating. I could feel the sweat on my arms as my eyes got wet, and tears began to run down my cheeks.

I was alive! But now what?

I was suddenly not alone. But if I am not alone, then where is she?

What do I do now?

As I tried not to tear this precious miracle into shreds between my fingers as I read it over and over again, trying to figure where it came from, who she was, where she was?

And I am not even wondering if this still is just a joke. But it feels too real for that. Not that I have much experience with feelings or emotions, unless you count loneliness, emptiness, sadness, desperation, despair, and crying myself to sleep every night "feelings". Then no. Haven't got a clue.

But I was feeling something that I actually liked. Something different, and for me anything different was good! I think normal people would call it "hope".

And maybe even "joy".

Now I am afraid to leave. What if she is here, waiting for my reaction? Oh, god! Do I look like a nut-job sitting here clutching a piece of paper to my chest like it's a diamond ring? What if she is watching? I try to be calm, to get some control over myself. I have managed all my life to be invisible, somehow, and even have managed to function on a day-to-day basis at work, to the point where people count on me for the big jobs. They know I will stay and get the job done, no matter what. No matter that it's a holiday. No matter that I might have family to visit on my birthday. I don't, but no one ever bothered to ask, and I managed to pretend that it didn't bother me.

So, I can function as a walking disaster on a daily basis. I should be able to handle a change so complete in my life that I have to remember to breathe!

Okay, so I am not screaming like a lunatic (plenty of time for that later once I get my hands on her), I am not shaking like a leaf (it will be her job to make me shake, but not now!), and I can feel some blood returning to my legs. My face? I don't dare look at that thing even on my good days. Besides, I don't even carry a mirror, as I might actually see myself clearly, and why would I want to do that?

Okay. You're calm now. So, look around, casually. See if there is anyone who looks like a crazy psycho bitch, and then jump her bones right there in the street, in cross-town traffic, at 11am in the morning. Maybe we'll get arrested for lucid and lascivious behavior!

Now THAT would be cool!

Me? Lucid AND lascivious!

Wow!

So I am trying so hard to be cool, to be casual, and not wet myself all at the same time.

I realized at that moment that being wound up like a string on a dead kite makes it slightly more difficult then I would imagine as I try to turn my head to the right, to look out past the front door of the café and down the street. Sitting bolt upright in a hard metal chair, my right hand with a death grip on the arm, my shoulders locked in position like a linebacker, I can actually hear my neck creek as my head snaps around to stare mindlessly at the street.

My head swings around so fast and so far, I figure I will be levitating and spitting out pea soup next.

Thankfully (I guess that is the right word) there is no one around to see me do my floating demon head trick. So without thinking I snap my head around the other way, momentarily grateful that I looked forward first, as I did not want to snap my own spine in two just then.

But not thankfully, no one there either.

Maybe somebody inside the café? No, just the one girl behind the counter who serves me coffee every morning, while pretending that I don't exist.

Okay, time to get it over with. Just have a nice cry, let it all out, and once you are released from the mental ward, you can go back to being invisible and forgotten, and forget this ever happened.

So, with time passing ever faster, I had to go back to work. I don't smoke so I cannot legally take a twenty-minute cigarette break every fifteen minutes (I am still unclear as to the company policy on that, or how that was even possible) but at that moment, I could appreciate having something to do with my hands, and with my mouth on a regular basis.

Okay, so think! Don't think of this as being personal. Think of this as being a business problem. If I am good at anything, it's business. It's all I have. It's all I have ever known.

So, what is the first step? Identify of the goal. So, what is the goal? Besides ripping off all her clothes and eating her alive?

Meeting her!

So communication is the issue. I mean, you have to actually meet the girl first, before tying her down to your bed and feeding her through a straw. But how am I supposed to do this?

I wish I was clever, or smart, or had a clue as to WHAT the hell was going on! But I know I have to do SOMETHING!

The note.

The letter.

She left one for me.

I will leave one for her.

Now this is good, I'm talking to myself about an invisible woman. If she is invisible, and I'm invisible, maybe she's right here and I can't see her!

Okay, calm down, take a breath, pretend you have a brain, and think!

The only paper that I have is the Financial Times. I mean, I could write on her note, and leave it behind, expect for the fact that you would have to kill me first before I would ever let this little piece of my new life out of my hands!

So, the Financial Times it is!

Trying so hard to write like a person, even as my wrists are shaking (which I didn't even notice until the pen flew out of hand, twice) I try to think of something intelligent, something witty, something clever to say to my mystery women. Then I remembered who I was, and immediately gave up on that idea.

And asking some God (whomever she is) to have mercy on me for the first time in my life, I prayed that whatever I wrote would mean as much to her, to my new Olya, as her few precious, perfect words had meant to me.

 

Jefferson

"Hi Olya,

It is very nice to hear from you.

My goal is to marry a breathtakingly beautiful woman (such as yourself) and share a life together with you where we would share everything.

So my goal with you is that we would become permanent partners in every aspect of our lives together, and become inseparable from one another.

Part of that goal would include finding other beautiful women and making them our friends and lovers, and forming long-term relationships with them. Again, sharing every aspect of our lives together, and never doing anything without each other. Becoming completely possessed by each other forever.

I am looking for a woman that I can trust completely with everything that I am.

If you would be interested in continuing our talks, we can communicate via this note exchange for now, and then perhaps later we could communicate directly with our private email addresses and telephone numbers.

I hope to hear from you again.

Jefferson"

 

As I read these words on the back of the Financial Times, (realizing that for the first time this damn thing had finally been of some real use to me), with such love, and with such hope, and with such overwhelming fear as I put my still full cup of coffee down on top of the neatly folded paper, I had only one stunning thought:

Oh, damn. I am such a nerd.

It was going to be a REALLY long day.

 

And so I had a relationship.

True, I had never seen her, never spoken to her, had never held her in my arms, never felt her breasts pressed tight up against me, had never known if I was what she really wanted, what she really desired (I am guessing her nipples pressing hard into my flesh would have been a dead giveaway), never held her close all night long, had never woken up covered with her scent, had never tasted her sweat, never sampled her blood.

But she was all mine.

And we had an invisible life together.

Like all couples, we had our routines. I would leave work every day at 10:15am, go far enough down the street that I could actually forget where it was I worked, the people there, and everything that I had ever known, which wasn't much, and was not worth keeping. But now I had nothing on my mind but my beautiful, perfect woman.

I would say that I had hope that this would turn out well, turn out the way I dreamed that it would, but having been invisible for so long I knew that hope was the single most horrible word in the English language. Give me someone who has hope, and I will show you the dead walking. I had hope for some many years then I finally realized that crying did nothing. You cry when you think someone (some God) is watching and cares what happens to you. You cry in public when you think someone will see you and help you, give you want you dearly want, what you desperately need to be happy. And when you finally know, without doubt, that no one cares, you stop crying.

I stopped crying.

So now, every morning, there at my table, was a folded copy of the Financial Times, courtesy of what I came to call the Magic Postman. Never seen, never heard, and who never stepped on your Grandma's flowerbed.

And the Financial Times, always today's edition, was there, waiting for me.

And inside, was a neatly folded gift from my Goddess, my dream woman, and it was just for me.

 

Olya

"Thanks for your reply. I didn't believe that you would answer me, but I hoped.

I have never had such experience before this, and it is all so strange, so new, but everything can be a first time.

I think it is very exciting to have threesome sex but I thought about your letter and when I read this one, one and the same question emerges in my head: Are you not afraid to catch some illness from a permanent partner?

You understand what I am talking about.

I would love to know you better, your life style, it is very important for me.

Waiting for your letter, darling,

Olya"

 

And so our life together began. It was not all I was hoping that it would be. Matching drapes and carpet. Our pillows stacked together on the floor as we knocked the mattress off the bed by tearing at each other. Long hot baths in the tub wrapped around each other. But for having been invisible for thirty-one years, this was as close to heaven as I had ever been.

And there was no problem about what my friends thought about this.

I didn't have any.

The people at work were the closet things to friends I had, and they only remembered me when they had work for me to do. Well, what I mean to say is that when they had their OWN work that they couldn't do because they were too lazy, too stupid, or too hung over, then they would remember me.

The girls in the office were far worse then the guys.

The girls are what we call token lesbians.

They decide to go gay because it gives them social status in their little group of clucks. Brainless, mindless sex (okay, so I was insanely jealous, but let's skip over that point for now) in nightly drunken orgies as they swapped partners faster then I changed shoes.

And being so painfully in all the time.

At least when they mated with each other, they were not torturing some poor, innocent, nice guy who just wanted a woman to love. At least when they had those screaming hissy fits of theirs' they only put each other into the hospital!

I am thinking that the next time two of them decide to make that commitment, a matching pair of steak knifes would make a nice wedding present.

But I was happy. I had my invisible woman.

And she was all mine.

I mean, who else was going to sit at the same coffee café every morning, and swap love letters with someone who uses the Financial Times as a envelope?

 

Jefferson

"I am also very happy to hear from you again.

As for diseases, I have been studying what they call "alternative" medicine for many years, and I now know how to cure almost any disease.

For myself, I am completely disease free, and every day I take very basic precautions against all illness (vitamins, colloidal silver, clay, oxygen, magnetics, etc), and because of this I have not had even a cold or the flu in over a decade.

If you have any health problems, there is an excellent chance that I can make you well again by using the exact same methods that I use myself. All are easy to use, cost almost nothing, are painless, and rebuild your body from the cells upward, and will keep you healthy for decades.

It is a fact that over 98% of all diseases today are caused by oxygen depravation (the atmosphere of our planet once has a very high oxygen content of almost 50% - but today it is down to less then eleven percent), and a lack of a high magnetic field (the earth's magnetic field has dropped from 4 gauss one thousand years ago - to less then .4 gauss today) causes the living cells of our body's to fail to repair / reproduce correctly.

Both these problems are easily solved!

So disease is the least of our problems...our main concerns should be "are we compatible?" "are our goals the same?" "do we share the same outlook on our lives together?" "can we share our lives together and with other beautiful women?"

Variety will keep our lives interesting, and we will keep each other in our hearts.

Jefferson"

 

And so our relationship continued, and it grew.

Separately.

Invisibly.