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Vampire lust, p.3

Vampire Lust, page 3

 

Vampire Lust
 


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  “I’m ready, please believe me, I’m ready,” the answer coming from her in a panicked burst soon after Jason Winter’s question.

  More glee shows up in his face. He lifts the plate closer to her nose.

  “Then let’s begin.” He breaks off a morsel of shit and extends it toward her mouth. “Do you renounce Christ, the Church of God, and all its teachings? Speak child, say ‘I do,’ then take the offering,” he chides.

  “Yes, I do,” she blurts, gaping.

  She tries swallowing it down quick, the lump carried to the back of her mouth on her tongue. She gulps, but can’t miss the taste as it passes her palate. It tastes sour and toasty and much like the food it is made of.

  He already has another piece in between finger and thumb. The gesture reminds her of someone about to feed a parrot. “And do you accept Satan as your master, ready to follow him in all your deeds?”

  “I do.”

  The next lump is bigger, she has to use her teeth and gulp hard. Jason Winter stares fiercely, briefly breaking eye contact to glimpse her masticating.

  “Are you ready to follow Satan’s High Priests? Are you ready to submit yourself to his Prince, here on Earth?”

  “I do – I mean, I am!” Her mouth wide open.

  He places the plate on the ground, the last pieces of shit distributed on the flat of his left hand. “Do you take Jason Winter as your master, your one and only master here on Earth?”

  “I do.”

  He pops the final bite-size piece in her mouth. The rest of the shit he smears over her right bosom and over her flat stomach. Rattles the chains of the leg-irons as he gently forces her legs apart, and wipes his fingers on her wild, untrimmed pubes. His eyes flaring, he examines his fingers critically; brings a hand up to her face and orders her to lick him clean. He proffers two to three fingers at a time, which she sucks on, her puckered lips making popping sounds as he tugs his digits out.

  His hands licked clean of excrement, the newly proclaimed master paces to a storage area of the cellar. He returns within her sights, gripping a beer bottle. Liquid plashes in the glass neck as leather boot soles clip-clop on stone ground.

  Behind her Jason places a hand flat on her ass-cheek and stretches it out. He positions the bottle by her asshole and thrusts the neck in. She grunts in pain, the bottle stubbornly refuses to enter, its glass lip the only part that gets inside her butt.

  “I’m dead surprised.” Jason glares down at her ass. “I’d have thought you’d given yourself up for Satan’s cause, a little more than this,” he plods ineffectually. A lukewarm fluid splashes between her crack. Her ass lips stay rigid around the glass top. “You sure haven’t let any Christian boys come at your arse. So it’s a virgin for Satan!” He chortles nastily. The bottle head out, he spills a little of its contents on his hand and wets her butt crack. “Do you give your complete body and soul to your master? Do you pledge to be his slave for all eternity?” he declaims, the voice one of resolute authority. He yanks a tendril of her hair. “Answer me, bitch!”

  “Yes, I do, I do!” she shrieks. The glass feels cool, her ass lips pressed tight around the neck. But what she feels most is discomfort.

  “And you, this master’s slut, you who hath taken of his offerings,” the bottle shoved in as hard as his grip allows, “do you submit yourself here today and forever? Are you ready to be ripped to pieces, to wither like the rose, to live pain, so as to live again?”

  “Uh-ahhh,” she grunts, her eyes shut tight and her teeth chomped together. “Y-yes, yes!”

  She contracts her inner pussy lips, an involuntary thrust that feels as though they’re pushing up through her tingling outer labia. Delightful and sensual images flash under her eyelids. The master’s forceful stare directed at her eyes with real menace, its force spreading little waves over her insides; the gleam of his sleek hair as he passes under a fluorescent strip; a remarkably huge member he eases out gently as he takes her from behind.

  Jason pokes the bottle in by another half inch. There’s a prominent bulge in the crotch of his velvety trousers; her ass muscles are still resisting the bottle’s entry. Her grunts entice him to force the neck all the way. He has to yank hard on the base of the bottle to get a little of the neck out. Leaves it half in, half out. Then shoves it back all the way again. Back and forth every few seconds. The friction of the cold glass on her butt lips makes her shudder. Like he’s just put a key down her back. She feels full inside, a warm trickle escaping only now and then. When the liquid runs down the inside of her thigh, it feels good; in her mind one image keeps on repeating more than any other. As he slowly removes the bottle it’s his monstrous cock she sees coming out; thick semen bespatters her butt-cheeks.

  The bottle clinks as he puts it down on the ground. Coming from behind he steps in front of her and waves a mass of dangling leather-tipped lashes in her face. Ten in total, the stiff tails are small, befitting of a penis-whip. Grinning, he drags the tips lightly across her chest; they slither and snarl. He untangles the tails by flogging her left boob. Pacing back a step to get a better view, directs the lashes so they slap right across her bosom. And changes direction with a flip of his wrist, bringing the leather tips in from the left side. She lets out a little whine; the tails leave behind faint reddish imprints on her left breast as he slaps her hard. Switches to the other bosom; swipes the large nipple. She shuts her eyes, her lower lip gripped in between her teeth.

  Her boobs, small as they are, look set hard to him. The nipples are sticking out. Looking suddenly offended, Jason slaps her face hard with the penis-whip. Her head jerks back sharply; she looks at him, her face flush with bewilderment.

  “Yeah, you liked that, didya, bitch? Felt like Satan’s hot tongue on your tits, huh? Let me introduce you to a friend of mine you’ll really gonna love. He’ll make you come all right.” He stalks outside her field of vision for a moment, back in seconds with a thick cane in his hands. She looks across its long length, observing its glossy dark veneer, the silvery club-handle, its springiness as he demonstratively flexes the instrument. “Meet the Thunderer; I think you and he are going to get along fine.”

  She shuts her eyes as the light catches the metal handle and glares. By the time she opens them he’s behind her, looking up and down.

  Gripping the cane by its handle, the master sends the stick toward her back at great speed. There is no sign of effort on his features; he handles the bulky tool with ease.

  The cane cracks sharply, her pain instant. The force of the blow sends the girl’s torso swinging out, a rocking motion cut short as the chains tense tight. She resists a scream, holding her gums together firmly for the first three blows he delivers without interruption. On the fourth she throws her head back and cries out loudly. As the cane is drawn back her head drops forward. It snaps back again on the next thump, and now every time she feels the cane connect. Her eyes shut tight, her cries hit high and tortured notes.

  The wrist manacles tear into her skin. She hangs limp from the ceiling, her knees giving way, her legs going slack. Throbbing pain covers her back and buttocks, and the backs of her thighs. Sweat pops out all over. Or is it blood she feels pouring down her back and along her flanks? Her heart is knocking. The head bobs up and down. Her breath comes in gasps in between her pitiful cries of pain. Stings, the roasting heat under her skin. Red shows up on her ivory skin like rouge, in blotches. Her buttocks unclench. Something brushes her cheek. A tear.

  He gets no reaction from her on five, six swift blows that slice her open, high below a shoulder, on her right hip and an ass cheek. Her head flops from side to side.

  “A novice,” he tells himself, out loud. He leans the cane on the wall. “She must’ve been in agony and she didn’t even beg me to stop.”

  He scoops up the beer bottle, walks around and throws whatever’s left of his urine in her face. She starts to come round. With
the piss a blob of his thick seed dribbles away from her bangs.

  “What’re you doing here?” Jason Winter asks petulantly at the bathroom door.

  The girl looks round and feels heat on her cheeks. He sees shame in her sheepish expression - it seems as if Anri left her alone with her thoughts a long time ago; it has only been a few moments.

  “Nothing master. The mistress was attending to me,” she replies softly, flicking a quick glance at the plaster Anri stuck to her wrist. Doesn’t look him in the eye, a lingering mental image of a light kiss making the girl blush.

  “Attending to you, was she? What the fuck does that mean, exactly? Nobody attends to you,” he rants. Everything about her suddenly annoys him; the fact she’s calling his girlfriend “mistress,” her nipples, which are large for her breasts, a gawky posture, flanks with their residual of puppy-fat, her flat stomach, unwaxed downy pubes. She disgusts him. “The thing that attends to you is a cane or whip across your arse. Nothing else. You make me sick. I promised you the chance to become your own darkest marvel. You want to stay of this earth? Do you? Bitch, come with me.”

  Anything: the master starts for the basement of the large Victorian house. The girl follows hastily; she finds it hard to keep up with his large strides.

  Harsh fluorescent light floods the cellar. Absently, the girl glances to the few features: a bare mattress at one end; a St. Andrew’s cross; a network of chains thread from the ceiling supports and trailing on the ground; the Witches’ Chair against a wall, throne-like. Like an Inquisition chair, but with not as so many spikes – though enough in the armrests and a wooden horizontal strip in the back to cause considerable discomfort. The girl’s mouth really did drop open the first time she spotted the chair; it belongs in a museum, the steel rings for feet and hands rusted, the wood black with age.

  Jason steps into her line of sight; she averts her eyes, her gaze cast downwards. He ducks his head down. By her feet he snaps on the familiar leg-irons and secures two chains to them. Takes the chains through a pulley mechanism. Before he starts to pull, the girl, unbidden, gets down on her side, up on her elbow.

  Jason tugs on the chains and almost immediately after he loses the slack, the girl starts to get hauled up, ankles first. His face doesn’t register any strain; he’s got on his usual grin, scornful and bizarrely twisted. In seconds the top of her head is dangling a foot off the ground, the girl keeps her arms bent to stop her knuckles getting grazed on stone. A few more graceful tugs and he’s yanked her up far enough that, even if she stretches hard, she can’t reach out to touch the ground. Effortlessly, or so it seems, he holds her weight steadily with one hand, stretching to clip shut padlocks and the pulley traction. He lets go. Upside-down, she twirls a little. Clockwise and anticlockwise. His grin turns mischievous. He thinks about whirling her round, in his mind he sees it: the girl’s body a spinning top. On part of the cycle of her rotation – it doesn’t come up again as the momentum slows – the girl catches the master’s face. It seems to her he’s transfixed, but on something inside his head rather than what’s happening in the cellar.

  Jason refocuses. The girl’s naked body, extended to its full length, is still. Her thin arms hang down. Hair drapes away from her head, like a cloak.

  He sighs, what’s missing is immediately apparent. More time wasted, hooking things up, having to kneel on the ground. He wavers. He’s almost on the verge of storming out, leaving the girl dangling, untouched, because he’s can’t be bothered. The commentary in his head reminds him, he’s got things to do, other women to attend to. Attend to. Anger spills into his eyes. Why do those words appear again? Seemingly coming out of nowhere and bringing him back to the girl’s hesitant words, the one’s that infuriate him so much his motivation to punish the girl is reinvigorated. It’s Satan’s work, it has to be – the thought brings back his grin. On the way to the tools cabinet, he’s buzzing. Satan made me do it!

  In less than a minute he tethers the girl from her wrists to the ground. He chooses a thick instrument, a pole, and stands behind her nude body. His in-swing is at waist level, coming round in an arc through the air. The thicker the tool the less likely the skin will cut. The heavy thumps on the backs of the girl’s arms and on her shoulders, reverberate through her slight frame. The whole body rocks. Crunching blows, he lets go at a slow pace, which she feels deep down in her bones and muscles. He bends low on his feet and catches her on the fingers of her right hand. The arm flinches; she lets out a little gasp. He gets her on the elbow, a sharp tug of his lips exposing his even teeth.

  “Satan made me do it,” he says again, but this time out loud, the tone mocking. “But you knew that anyway. Satan’s bitch.”

  Lancinating pain pulses through her entire arms, from the fingertips up. A tingling sensation shoots up into her legs. A thump into her side just above her shoulders sends her swinging gently, side-to-side. The girl opens her eyes: a brick wall; seeing the room upside-down as she moves feels funny, a weird sensation, like she’s walking on the ceiling. It makes her dizzy; she’s light-headed and suddenly aware she can’t feel her toes. The pole banging against her slender right arm jars a little of her drowsiness out of her system; she manages a breathless groan.

  From behind her, she hears the pole knocking on the ground. A rush of cool air brushing against her back. She flicks her eyes to the clacking sound of his heels. But he’s too quick, or her reactions are too slow; or he never comes within the angle of her limited range. Which of the three, she isn’t quite sure.

  A click. The light goes out. So dark she can’t make out the outlining shape of any landmark. But then again, the girl doesn’t remember there having been any. She strains to hear something. Is he still in the basement? Blood pumps loudly in between her ears. Her legs are numb, there’s stabbing tingles in her arms that come and go in waves. She shuts her eyes and doesn’t resist as her mind rapidly goes blank.

  “There can only be one you serve.” His half-whisper makes her shoulders jolt, rattling the chains. “Do not forget, I am your one master, now and forever.”

  A streak of light enters the room, falling across the ground. And disappears. The cellar door clicks shut.

  Chapter 3

  The vampire approaches. Long hair slicked back, shiny under moonlight; a black cape billows off his back. He scoots through the thick pale mist washing over his antique early Victorian clothes. Bulging out of his eye sockets his eyes open wide and fix on the moonlit face of an attractive young woman, in clothes of the same period.

  Spotting the vampire in the theatrical garb, she gasps with a little flail of her arms. Her features quickly stiffen, a look of shock frozen on her face.

  The vampire calls her forward with one extended finger, smoky mist swirling madly all around him. The woman clutches her chest; histrionically she balls a fist over her heart. Drifting mist reaches her well-covered-up knees – the very full skirt reaches the ground. With what seems to be at great effort, she switches her gaze downwards. Dread flickers in her eyes, her shoulders tense-up and her arms rise up in front of her protectively. It seems she desperately wants to get far away from this place, but can’t get her legs working.

  “Look at me,” the vampire says imposingly, whitish mist swerving around his head, “look at me.”

  The woman’s head twitches convulsively; Anri laughs, nearly bent-double on the sofa.

  “The old ‘look into my eyes’ routine! Really fucking original; the film’s a classic!”

  “No please … don’t!” the woman whimpers. A strong, sudden breeze strips a curtain of hair off her forehead. In the monochromatic background dark low-lying clouds, the stark outline of a forest; the panoramic back projection requires a suspension of disbelief at a par for a B-movie of any decade. On the soundtrack a sound like wind whistling through the treetops. Her head gets steadily twisted round against her will, forcing her to face the vampire. Her eyeballs veer, ce
ntring in her sockets. She begins to bring her hands up to her face. They freeze in mid-motion; then come down slowly, as if her arms are being dragged under resistance. “Please?” the woman whimpers.

  Anri chortles. “What’re you waiting for? Go for it, boy, get your fangs out.”

  Eyebrows high, the vampire’s intense stare fills the screen. The corners of his lips rise: a toothless grin.

  “Come to me, come to me,” the voice ponderous, mesmerizing.

  “Like that’s even scary. Can you believe this?” Anri says, wide-eyed, flicking her gaze at Jason for a moment. “Course you can. This is bad, surely you gotta admit that. Don’t you feel just a bit responsible?”

  “I didn’t write the screenplay,” Jason says, an undertone of discomfort on his features as he peers at the TV screen. Entranced, the woman on the TV screen comes forward. “I would’ve liked for it to have been a more developed character and it’s too bad that was all there was to it. Because their vampire is based on the Bram Stoker character, the plot is hardly going to be convincing. Dracula’s such a pathetic character. What does he do exactly? Chase some skirt he took a fancy to. Evil,” he intones sarcastically. “Is that all his life has come down to? He’s got eternity and he wastes his time for a woman who doesn’t really want to know. Potentially he’s one of the most powerful men in the world, so do you really think he’d have any problem finding a lover?

  “But you can understand why he’s got no ambition beyond feeding, moving to Whitby, Yorkshire and chasing a woman who’s playing hard to get. He’s lived so long, learned all there is to know, he’s overloaded with progressive thoughts and knowledge. He’s lost the ability to feel. What he wants is a mechanical life, a mental oblivion.

 
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