Vampire lust, p.2
Vampire Lust, page 2
Microseconds after the cane connects, the victim lets out a gasp, the muscles in her back tightening. On the second blow, as on the first, her butt-cheeks jerk. As they will on each strike. Opening up her legs Anri brings the cane home from distance, the speed of the stroke making the bamboo whistle. Six blows come without respite, all at the same seemingly unsustainable pace. There isn’t enough time for the victim to appreciate the force of each strike. The searing pain setting her cheeks aflame seems an amalgamation. Grimacing, she tries pleading, but the only thing that comes is her pained cries as another six thwacks hit, the cane perfectly straight as it lands across the cheeks.
The sounds of the slaps on her seat pierce through the loud music. With the scream of the victim the noise coming from Anri’s corner is enough to grab an audience from part of Jason’s crowd, already getting bored by the entertainment continuing on their table. They know Anri draws blood more quickly.
“No more! I beg you!” the victim manages to emit as Anri slows down.
Showboating to the crowd, Anri adds a touch of elegance to each embellished sweep of her arm. The vibrating bendy cane slices the air and whistles. A flash of in-swinging bamboo tip, seeming to change direction just before it connects, her strike is perfectly placed. Undeterred, not wanting to curtail a sequence of hits that have carved diamond and cross patterns in the victim’s flushed skin, Anri brings the cane round.
“Hush!” she demands, flicking the tip with a turn of her wrist. “Almost there,” admiring the emerging lines that, when complete and healed, will form a pentagram.
She lowers the cane. Puts it in a place where it’ll be clear to anyone still watching: the show is over. Her pulse still beats frantically. The sight of the victim over the chair, limbs and muscles and butt-cheeks now relaxed and yielding, makes her throb all over. She knows, between the legs, her victim feels the same.
On her knees Anri licks the tip of her little finger and runs it along the victim’s pulpy pussy folds. A few inches away she strokes a deep horizontal laceration high on the victim’s left butt-cheek, fingering the groove tenderly before she digs in her sharp nails. The victim lets out a little cry, quickly soothed by a fingertip finding her hard clit and gently stroking. The fingernails act like a razor, making the cut deeper, splitting skin. Anri brings her lips closer to the trickle, her tongue not missing any discharge of blood. The tip of the tongue playing on the cut, Anri’s fingers rubbing up and down the inner lips, sparkling lights flash on and off behind the victim’s eyes, hot shudders course through her midriff.
Again using her fingernails in the wound, Anri delves in. The blood tastes coppery on her palate. To control the outflow of crimson fluid Anri tucks the lacerated skin together, mindful that the blood is slightly thinner than other donors she has tasted – the woman must be a vegan – and feeds patiently. The unclogged blood is good – so good Anri thinks about making this victim one of her regular exclusive donors. Otherwise Jason or another of the dark lords of the scene will get her to join their cult and once they get their fangs in, there are never any leftovers to spare.
Without being able to see what she is doing Anri gets her fingers an inch inside the victim’s front opening. She knows she’s found the spot, the flabby button of tissue, once she hears the abrupt excited grunt, quickly followed by a tensing of muscles in the back, which shortly ease. And uses the moment to slit the cut a fraction more on one side. Her tongue springs out, rapidly lapping up the purple-red rivulet.
“Yes, that’s it!” the victim blurts out excitedly – Anri realises the cry isn’t just a response to the fingers working deep and knowledgably in the woman’s sex slit. The feeling - felt as a flitting tongue in a wound - that her life force is passing to another, is as much of a big buzz to the victim as it is to her. Well, almost the same.
Imbibing another warm trickle of blood, Anri tells herself, no one but a vampire understands what it means to feed. If heroin makes the user feel bigger than life, blood is the liquid essence of the life force itself. The euphoric drug that sustains and regenerates existence.
At times like this she feels immortal.
“You do go a little over the top with her sometimes, Jason,” Anri says flatly, glimpsing him over the rim of her coffee cup.
Before Jason Winter replies he sips his coffee and peers down at his spread-open magazine. He fixes on a glossy picture of a model, encased head to toe in rubber.
“Did she think it was going to be like an episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer?” he guffaws, a weird grin dominating his face.
Having reached the kitchen, the girl gazes at a toaster with varying degrees of impatience and anguish. She looks no more than 18, long, very black hair, thick and straight, draped both sides of her face. Her skin is like an albino, devoid of colour.
The toaster pops. In a rush she puts two slices of toast on a plate and moves quickly toward the adjoining dining room.
Unobtrusively, the girl places the plate by Jason Winter’s coffee cup. He doesn’t look up. The girl, hunched and head bowed, remains at Jason Winter’s side. He stares at his magazine a bit more. Then takes a cursory glance toward his toast.
“Where’s the fucking jam, bitch?”
The brutal voice strikes the girl like a whip. She flinches back in alarm. Anri, legs crossed, looks the girl over: apart from sandals, the girl is naked. Anri’s gaze lags on welts crisscrossing the girl’s white ass. There is bruising of differing hues, recent and several weeks gone. A few lacerations mark her back.
“Standing there like an imbecile. Do you do this on purpose - just to test me?” Jason shouts.
The girl looks like she’s about to burst into tears, her bony shoulders hunch a little more in apology.
“O, leave her alone, Jason, why don’tcha. Just get the jam, darling,” Anri says matter-of-factly, which, under the circumstances, borders on sounding sympathetic.
Wheeling round to face Anri, the girl hesitates. Her head twitches convulsively, like she isn’t sure which of the two at the table to look at. Then takes a step in the direction of the kitchen.
“Did I say you could go?” Jason Winter snaps.
“You want the jam, let her get the fucking jam,” Anri says shrilly. She turns to the girl. “Off you go,” she says, with a side-glance at the girl’s cut-up wrists. She has a series of wounds, one, barely hours old is seeping a blood trickle.
Just before the girl is about to pass Anri snatches her wrist. Without saying a word or looking at the girl’s face, Anri holds the bleeding cut to her lips. Her tongue flits, her grip becoming gentler as she realises the girl offers no resistance. She stops when she is satisfied all the blood that would otherwise exit the wound has been lapped up. The wrist is released and the arm flops down.
Still eyeing the girl’s wrist Anri remarks, again matter-of-factly, “You better get a plaster on that. There’s no point wasting blood like that.” She gathers up her cup in both hands and sips.
“You’re too lenient with that girl,” Jason Winter says as the girl leaves the room. He leans forward, half-whispering, “You made me look a fool there. She’s my responsibility, all mine: remember that.”
“Sorry, I forget. You’re the master,” Anri enunciates sarcastically, giving him a wide-eyed look and a mock silent laugh that, for her, is the same as saying, How – sad and pathetically – funny you are.
He feels an urge to jump out of his chair, throw the table aside, and slap her hard. But he lets it go.
“You know it, my eternal bride,” he retorts, eyes down.
“Well, that was the lamest comeback of all time,” Anri responds, deadpan.
The girl returns with a jam jar and cutlery: knife and spoon. Timidly, she hovers at the table.
After two minutes Anri raises her chin. “Did you get a plaster?”
“Whaddya say? Come closer. And speak clearly.”
“I dunno where anything is,” the girl stammers, her voice tinged with anxiety and diffidence.
“She’s got that right,” Jason grunts. “Absolutely useless.”
Rolling her eyes, Anri clutters her coffee cup and gets up petulantly. She tells the girl to follow and moves for the door. The girl has to move quickly, Anri’s strides are long and urgent.
In a bathroom Anri opens a cabinet and locates a box of sticky plasters. She wets a patch of towel, then takes the girl’s affected wrist and wipes it. The wrist has ten or more cuts, sliced across rather than up or down. Most of the cuts are recent and superficial, like the work of a bored or disturbed teenager. They vary, some festering and oozy, others completely dried up. The worst cut - naturally the deepest and longest, now partially clogged up - punctured two veins. She eyes the girl’s blank expression, shakes her head demonstratively and drops the wrist. Finding what she wants in the bathroom cabinet she soaks a cotton ball with antiseptic solution and returns to treat the wrist.
The girl flinches, her eyeballs clenching. The expression doesn’t change. Daubing more carefully Anri looks into the girl’s eyes for a few seconds. She thinks the girl looks like she’s in a trance, or tripping.
“That’s better,” Anri says, slowly bringing down the arm. She comes back from the cabinet and applies two plasters. When she lowers the girl’s arm this time she doesn’t let go. She grips the wrist firmly and stares directly at the girl’s face. About two minutes go before the girl can bring herself to return the look; her expression is full of apprehension and fear. Anri grins. “What do you think I’ll do? Eat you?” she laughs. Still holding the wrist she hunches forward and lightly kisses the girl on the cheek. Draws back an inch, then pecks her on the lips. She lets the wrist go and says, “Silly girl.”
At first, from first impressions and going into the first week, Anri hadn’t appealed to the girl. Why Jason Winter had chosen her as his life-long partner isn’t apparent. She doesn’t look like a vampire; she’s too healthy. There is only an occasional inclination to garb herself in black clothes and Gothic lace, or whiten her complexion and use gaudy reds, purples, greens and classic black in her makeup. Certainly there’s the aloofness and arrogance of their kind. But whether that is innate character or reaction to a rival, the girl isn’t sure. It hadn’t really concerned her much because Anri had affected an attitude of disinterest: Jason had brought the girl in, it was nothing to do with her.
The feelings the girl is beginning to recognise do not come as a shock. They have been gathering over a number of days, encouraged by the little things Anri has done. A look of interest or a tone that, though not exactly considerate was light and engaging, simple acts as they were, they alleviated her oppression. Then, to be kissed by her, any doubts she had about the veracity of her feelings she now dismisses instantly. Because her whole body tingles with what can only be signs of her love. Such an unexpected affection. Anri does not seem her type, especially right in front of her this very moment. Anri with clean long blonde hair and a clear complexion, jeans on and a plain shirt.
“Thank you,” the girl murmurs, her fragile voice barely audible. She returns Anri’s gaze and senses her face reddening. She prays her eyes do not show the gratitude and devotion she feels washing all over her.
Anri gives her an unreadable smile and walks out the door.
She is alone again, left with such exquisite feelings she is content doing nothing and letting them linger. The perfect peace can’t last long, her master will see to that. The scene in the dining room with Anri’s intervention will mean she will be punished more severely than otherwise would’ve been the case. She closes her eyes and pictures the light kiss brushing her cheek. The soft touch of her lips. For her to keep this memory she is ready to suffer whatever pain the master fancies inflicting.
She’d begged to enter Jason Winter’s life, understood to be like him and to be accepted she had to forsake her existence in the so-called real world, the world of mortals. Everything she suffered was through her own choice. She got aroused reading and seeing movies about vampires. To be turned into one was what she’d desired and fantasized about for some time; she searched through websites, looking for like-minded people. She looked at hundreds of sites devoted to vampires, most containing fictional and movie vampires, with little out there for people for whom vampirism was a lifestyle. She chanced upon the site for a Vampiric Society - chanced because the search engine took her there because of her input error: whoever had registered the site had done so with a mistake when spelling the adjective.
The Vampiric Society’s website didn’t have much information. Mostly text, outlining the ideas of the society, which read like a dreary manifesto. The main ideal was simple. The Society believes that the vampire is not solely a fictional creature. The vampire is a real being and sustains its life by feeding on blood. Moreover, the Society believes vampires exist because its membership is open only to the genuine article. An email address is supplied for interested parties and comments. The girl’s first email started off a long exchange.
To start with, Jason Winter, the Society’s Lord, did not reveal much about himself. The girl wanted to know about real vampires and emailed out, telling him about her number one fantasy. Jason Winter’s messages continued to be vague. By his fourth email he asked for the girl’s jpeged photograph. Only over time did his replies become more explicit. He scoffed at those on the Vampiric scene who played at being vampires, those who call it a lifestyle in the so-called vampire community. Among prolix reiterations of Society policy, he informed the girl that a normal human cannot devour blood. Blood is full of diseases and viruses. A human chokes on blood, huge quantities makes him or her sick. Blood drinking on the phoney vampire scene amounts to the consumption of a few drops - the most the phonies can stomach.
From the way he bitched about the fakes it sounded like he was against human blood-drinkers - many vampire societies ban such enthusiasts, strangely enough. She wasn’t entirely sure what he thought or what he was, but kept on sending emails hoping his attitude was one of someone who was genuine, naturally inclined to show contempt for frauds. In an email - appearing without warning and for her having as much impact as seeing Moses, come down from Mount Sinai bearing the Word of God did for the Israelites - Winter claimed he was able to consume large quantities of blood. He looked a lot younger than his real age; blood kept him young.
Seeing the plain words, an easy target for ridicule, she read and believed. She was shaking, there it was in front of her on screen: he could turn anyone he chose. The breathtaking email excited her so much she immediately started concocting plans to leave her father’s home in Bucktown, Chicago. To pay for the expensive trip to Europe she would have to sell what she owned. That wasn’t enough, to get the money she needed she knew she had to steal.
He signed off with the words, “I am the King of Vampires,” and without hesitating she clicked on Reply and started typing: Whatever it takes to turn me, I will do it. I want to come straight away. Tell me what you want. I will do anything, anything you ask, whatever is required, just make me what you are.
Her hands stretched high above her head, manacled at the wrists to the dank ceiling. The spine erect, leg-irons secure her to the floor; by stretching she is just able to rest on the soles of her bare feet. Long hair draping down, covers much of her back. A young naked body that is completely unmarked.
She watches the master pacing closer, strides that seem to take an inconceivably long time to complete within the small confines, like everything is happening in slow-mo. The ends of his long black mane flow behind him. His bug-eyes hook hers; he brings them down with his. To the plate he’s holding, to the coil of shit that’s on it. Together with everything else seeing his sneer makes her quiver; an undertone of dread shows in her feature
He holds the plate under her chin. Instinctively, she screws up her face in an attempt to block out the smell. That makes him giggle. However much she wrinkles her nose she still gets an unmistakable whiff of human shit.
“You agreed, isn’t that right?” He stares hard, unblinking. Her swift nod makes him smile. “To be one of the chosen you must eat of me. You must show you are ready to take on part of me. This is only the beginning; the gift I can give you has to be earned. I have to be convinced you do not abuse what I can give you. How am I to know you won’t use that power against me? For me to be satisfied, you have to show me your loyalty. You have to submit, be my slave.” He looks deep in her eyes. “Are you ready to begin your servitude?”
“Servitude?” she gazes at him in confusion – it’s a word she isn’t familiar with.
“Yes, servitude!” he hollers in her face. “Didn’t they teach you the meaning of the word at school? Or were you too busy giving blowjobs to jocks, down in the high school basement? All right, let’s put it another way. You wanna be a vamp, you gotta be my slave. You gotta prove yourself. Get it? You ready for that?” he asks briskly, gaze drifting for no more than a second to the proffered plate.
Silence. All she hears is a clink of chains overhead and the sound of her excited breathing. Her head slightly tilted back, his rigid eyes are directly in front of her, all that she sees. There is coldness in his stare, a trace of base glee and a mysterious depth the quality of which she can’t put her finger on, but takes it as a mark of the eternal. Unquestionably, she believes his commanding predatory stare is worthy of a King of the Vampires. Exactly how she expected it to be. The same as it didn’t warrant a double take the first time she opened the household refrigerator and clocked a glass beaker filled with blood. A sense of foreboding seems to build inside her by greater and greater degrees as he continues to stare straight into her eyes. It is a fear the force of his power will vanquish her till she is nothing but ashes, a fate she can only avoid if she isn’t weak.
by Damien Starkey have rating 4 out of 5 / Based on32 votes