"I don't want to ruin the dress, anyway, but I'm not going to be naked. I want one of your shirts you don't mind if I ruin."
"All right." She helped me out of the dress, leaving me in undies and a soft shirt. She turned a chair for me, then sat on her bed. She took off her shoes, then began telling me about her marriage.
Marriage
Demetria Dunn
I was nine when my father died. Times were difficult, and my mother re-married a year and a day later. My stepfather was a two-faced man, outwardly kind and caring, and the entire village said what a good man he was to take in another man's children. But at home, he wasn't kind and caring. Oh, he was at first, but he discovered he didn't care to be a father, after all. By the time I was twelve, he was abusing us.
Oh, not sexually.
But it was abuse, not only by today's standards, but even by the standards of the day. Of course, we didn't tell anyone. Who could we tell? What would it matter? A wife was little more than a man's property, and there was no one else who would protect us.
We received whippings for the least offense. If dinner was burnt, we were whipped. If we spilled something, we were whipped. If he tripped over something and stubbed his toe, he found a reason to blame us, and we were whipped.
When mother died, it got worse.
He waited two weeks before he called in a priest and told me we were getting married. My opinion was not solicited, and I was too afraid of him to say "no". I was fifteen.
Fifteen wasn't young to be a bride, not back then.
Of course, I gave up my virginity that night. It... wasn't pleasant. Neither was the beating I got afterwards.
It took only a few months before I got pregnant, and only a few months before I lost the baby.
Finally, at nineteen, which was old for a first birth, it looked like I was going to carry a child to term. Of course, I still worked hard, and I was five or six months pregnant, doing the laundry, when he discovered some slight. I don't remember what it was.
Cassius heard my screams. I remember, he came upon us and pulled my husband off of me.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" my husband asked him.
"What do you think you're doing?"
"She's my wife, I'll do what I want with her."
Then he threw himself at Cassius. The fight, as you can imagine, was brief.
It was too late for me, though. He had gone too far, and I was having a miscarriage and internal bleeding.
Cassius did what he could for me. He even gave me his blood, trying to save me, but it wasn't enough.
And that was how I became a vampire.
Scars
She talked for a long time. I had been sketching her, but when the dress came off, I saw the scars. She turned slowly, letting me see them, all of them, and I couldn't help but stare.
My heart ached for her, and I was ashamed. She had been through so much worse than I had.
But as I watched her, it was like she glowed, and there was a weight lifted from her shoulders.
"I've hid this from you," she said. "I didn't want you to know."
I dropped my pad and went to her. I pulled her into my arms, holding her tightly. We clutched at each other for a while, then I stepped away. "Show me," I told her.
And she did.
"I thought you would heal?" I made it a question.
"Nothing from before I was turned," she said.
"Do they hurt?"
"No."
I reached out and traced my fingers along one of the scars and then another. Her back, her sides, and her stomach were covered with crisscrosses. They made patterns I could see, and I traced the patterns.
"Why did you hide this, Demetria?"
"It's so ugly," she said. "I look like the monster you think I am."
"I don't think you look like a monster, and I don't think you are a monster, either."
"I am."
"You are not." I traced more of the scars. "How did you survive?"
"In the end, I didn't."
"You did," I said. "You're here." I tugged on her arm. "Come here." When I pulled her to the bed, she went with me. "Does a massage for a vampire feel as good as one for a human?"
She smiled. "Yes."
"Lie down." I pointed.
She smiled and obeyed, and I sat on the bed next to her and began massaging her back. She began moaning to express her pleasure, which made me smile. I bent over and kissed the back of her neck.
I took my time, and I was thorough. And while massaging, I explored the scars, memorizing them. I also watched the clock.
"Have you had any lovers since I came here?" I asked her.
"No. I haven't had any since before you were born."
"Were you and Grandma lovers?"
"Oh good lord, no. She was as straight as they came."
"Any of my ancestors, since Gretchen?"
"No, not one."
I massaged a little longer, and then my tablet's alarm rang.
"What's that?" she asked.
"Stay here." I climbed off the bed and turned the alarm off. When I turned back, she was lying on her side, watching me.
"Good," I said. "I was done with your back. Now you can lie face up."
"What was the alarm?"
"Midnight. Onto your back now."
She obediently complied, and I went to her.
She was beautiful, with a body that appeared much younger than mine. Her breasts were modest and pert, and I found it difficult not to stare. They were, miraculously, unscarred.
"He didn't hit you here?" I said with a gesture.
"He did, but not in a way that left scars," she said.
"Does it bother you, me looking at you?"
"No." It was almost a whisper.
"Why did you ask for a kiss?"
"You know why."
"I'm old."
She laughed.
"Knock it off," I said, when she couldn't stop laughing. "You have this body-"
"Yeah, thanks for reminding me."
"I'm in good shape, but you have the body of a 19-year-old-"
"More like 25," she replied.
"I show my 37 years."
"You have a good figure and nothing to be ashamed about."
"So you like my body?"
"Very much so."
I smiled.
"You said you would do what I wanted. At midnight. It's midnight."
"So I did. I am yours to command, but can I put some clothes back on?"
"No. You aren't going to need them."
"Oh?"
"They'll get in the way."
"Melissa?"
"Make love to me, Demetria."
And then I was on her, our mouths pressed together. She wrapped her arms around me, and we kissed, deeply kissed. I felt her fangs grow while we kissed, and she scratched my lip. I don't know if that was intentional or not, but she took a taste of my blood with her tongue, infusing me with pleasure at the same time.
Just her kiss was magical. My mouth felt like it was a pool of desire, and I couldn't get close enough to her.
She rolled us over, flipping me onto my back on the bed, then literally ripped the clothes from me.
"I hope you didn't like that shirt," I said.
In response, she kissed me again, and I could barely think. When she finally released my mouth, I told her, "I want this however you want to do it, Demetria," I said. "If you want to bite, bite. If you want to touch, touch. If you want me to touch, tell me where."
She growled in her throat, and her eyes glowed.
I lost track of the ways we made love. Oh, she bit. She bit a lot, never deeply, and it was amazing.
And what she could do with her tongue. One touch and she had me begging.
She wore me out, but she looked pretty satiated by the time I told her I couldn't take anymore. So she pulled me into her arms and tugged the covers over us.
"Stay with me at least until I fall asleep," I said.
"I'll s
tay all night," she said.
And she did.
Morning
I woke shortly after dawn. I thought my body would hurt, but I felt wonderful. I remembered drinking some of her blood, and as good as I felt, she must not have taken as much of mine as I had thought.
Demetria was out cold. She'd once told me that when she slept, it was as if she were dead.
This was to be my last day. When she woke, she would take me to the garden and we would say goodbye. But I thought that might take some time.
I pulled on another of her shirts and a pair of undies then crept down to the kitchen. It was deserted, so I raided it for some fruit and a can of soda, leaving a note for Maria that I'd already taken my breakfast. I thought about saying more, but decided not to.
Demetria was still out cold when I returned to her room. I ate breakfast quietly and thought about her scars.
I felt playful.
I peeled the covers from her body. She didn't stir. I arranged her body. She didn't stir. I looked, and I could see patterns.
I got out my paints, and I painted her body in bright, happy colors, connecting the patterns formed by her scars, her ribs, her pelvis, her belly button. I spent an hour painting her, and when I was done, she was beautiful. I stared for a long time at what I had created from the ugly scars.
I switched to my pencils, grabbing a pad. I sketched, studies. It wasn't enough. I moved the easel, selected my paints, and I painted.
I lost track of what I was doing. I lost track of time. I was in the zone, and I didn't know what I was producing.
But then she stirred, breaking my trance, and I looked at the painting.
I collapsed to the floor, sobbing.
Demetria
Even when I was mortal, before Cassius found me, I had learned to go from sleep to full wakefulness instantly. It had become a survival skill around my stepfather and future husband.
As a vampire, that hadn't changed. My waking habits took seconds. I would stir, stretching, and then my eyes would open, and I would be wide awake.
That morning, I stirred and stretched, remembering. We had made love for hours, and even my body had begun to feel it. I'd been relieved when Melissa had said she'd had enough.
She'd been insatiable, although perhaps the blood I gave her had something to do with it.
Then there was a noise, a body crumpling to the floor, and I heard Melissa sobbing.
I was beside her in an instant, protecting her.
"Honey," I said. "My love. We don't have to do it. We don't. We can be happy. Maybe the beauty will come back. You have to give it more time."
She didn't say anything, she only sobbed, but when she looked up, the tears streaming from her eyes, her face was beautiful. She was smiling, glowing with her smile.
"You're so beautiful," she said. She giggled. "I painted you and you didn't notice." She pointed at me, and I looked down. I was covered in her paint.
"Oh, you naughty girl!" I told her.
"Beautiful!" she said. "Look. You're beautiful. The patterns. I see the patterns."
I couldn't really see what she meant, but then she said, "Look!" and she pointed to her easel.
I looked up. She had painted me.
Oh, it was done quickly. She hadn't had that much time. Slowly, I stood.
It was I, it was clearly I, nude, standing tall, and my body was painted on the canvas the same colors she had used on my skin.
And stretching behind me were angel's wings, and a glow. And before me, looking at me almost with rapture, was Melissa.
It wasn't her best work, of course it wasn't. It was rushed and clumsy.
But even still, it was beautiful.
She stood slowly, her fingers tracking the lines on my torso.
"It's not the lines though," she said. "It's something else. It's trust. And love. Can you see?"
And I could.
"It's your history," she said. "And in a way, mine too."
She looked at her painting. "There's ugliness, too. In the shadows. I didn't have time for the details. Beauty and ugliness together. And the scars, alone they're ugly, but I painted them with love, and ... I know, it doesn't make sense."
"It doesn't have to make sense," I said.
"This is just a study," she said. "A start."
"A start?" I asked.
She smiled. "A start. I think it's going to take a long time, and maybe this is just afterglow from last night. I was wondering, do you think I could have an extension?"
"Oh honey!" I said, pulling her to me.
"Two months," she said. "And we'll see."
"Two years."
"Two months," she said again. "Promise."
"Two months," I said.
"Good. Now, there's something I want to do today, or did you have something you needed to do?"
I pushed her away. "What?"
"I think you should take me back to that bed, and I think there's a spot you didn't bite last night."
I laughed. "Oh?"
"Uh huh. Do you think you can find the spot I mean?"
"I think I might be able to."
I took my time finding it.
Extensions
It's been another year. Melissa refuses to cancel the death permit. She keeps extending it, two months at a time.
She isn't healed. She may never be healed. She still produces more of the horrible art than anything else, and Edie doesn't believe she'll ever return to the art she used to produce. But often enough, she produces something that is darkly beautiful. Oh, it's often haunting, but it's enough.
It's hope.
And for now that's enough.
Blood Slave
Copyright 2014 by Robin Roseau
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, businesses, characters and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, actual events or locales is purely coincidental.
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