Vampire Lust

by Damien Starkey

  “Are you ready to be our slave? Do you deserve the prize of a black eternity?” the faint whisper in her ear, a blunt end of a cold blade against her collarbone.

  On opening her eyes, the strongly emerging daylight behind the curtained windows pains her. The girl flings her uncovered nude body half out of bed, extending for the alarm clock before its grating tone has a chance to stir her master. An important rule: he mustn’t be disturbed.

  She sits up; propping her head on a pillow and narrowing her eyes, she wonders when her time will come.

  Chapter 6

  “My dinner not yet on the table,” the mid-twentyish busty dark-haired woman blurts, coming in to the kitchen – from her brusque tone it sounds more like a statement of fact rather than a question. She gives the man in his mid-twenties: apron, jeans, clean-cut and fresh-faced, cutting up vegetables on a work surface, a stern gaze.

  “Sorry, hon,” the man apologises deferentially, his head bobs low as he glances to the woman, “something came up.”

  “ ‘Came up’!” she intones with sharp distaste, her pencilled eyebrows raised as far up as her eyeballs can strain. “When I return from a bloodfest I get the munchies, y’know that.” She licks her top lip, closing her eyes a short while. “This just isn’t good enough. I feel like cutting your throat by the collarbone and taking my fill now. You’d like that, yeah? You sure deserve it.”

  “No, hon, I’m sorry,” the man’s shoulders sag, he looks to his feet.

  She stares at him up and down, her cruel expression unrelenting. Her fingers rake through her dark hair swept back atop her head, her straight hair comes away from her face, down to her ass. There isn’t a tangle anywhere, healthy strands right down to the ends.

  The long shiny dress, sleeveless, gleaming like latex under the lights in the kitchen, is skin tight at her chunky hips, a generous décolletage, the woman’s breasts enormous and pillowy. The dress reaches down to her feet, a split at its side along her right leg. She perches on big spike heels. The full lips a glazed fuchsia, clashing/matching her blue glimmerstick eyelids and shadow depending on taste. Demure it isn’t. The lids are totally coated, the shadow much fainter: only a hint of blue. A collection of tattoos progress from her shoulders, down her arms. There’s a dusky flavour to her skin, a natural hue she didn’t get by staying out in the So-Californian sun. It’s the same with her voice, it betrays a Hispanic twist when she turns angry.

  “Fuck you, you imbecile,” she says out of the blue, staring haughtily down her nose, her head slightly tilted back. She watches him dicing. “How long’s it gonna take, exactly?”

  Still chopping, the clean-shaven man looks to the pans ignited on the hob. Steam trails up to the ceiling. “Not long now.”

  “Don’t mess with me,” she jabs a censorious finger in his direction. “When I sweat to bring money home for you to put food on the table, the least I expect from you is an honest answer. Now tell me, how long till the food’s gonna be ready on the table? And I don’t wanna hear, ‘Soon.’” The last bit laced with the most pathetic rendering of his cheery, tittering voice she can manage.

  He places the knife down and carries the chopping board to a pot half-full with boiling water. “Oh sorry, hon, I’m trying my best,” he tips the board, carefully toppling the diced vegetables into the steaming water.

  “Fuck you and suck my ass!” She gives him the finger. “And you can sit on this too.” She stamps forward. Her right heel ends up on his slippered toe, with her weight behind it as she leans to the stove. “Am I gonna get my answer, pretty boy?”

  Shutting one eye, but keeping a look on the remaining pieces of vegetable still on the board, he finger flicks them off into the boiling water. He sniffles. “Sorry, sorry! The carrots and broccoli will be ready in twelve minutes, everything else will be on the table in fifteen.”

  “Broccoli!” She straightens up, balancing herself with a hand on the kitchen counter. Then slumps, her spike heel digging into his foot. “I told you what I think about broccoli. Broccoli’s for queers and stand-by-your-man little women. Brad, you’re looking for a serious bloody ass, and you’re gonna get one, that’s for sure.” She stares hard in his face – he’s looking down intently at the pans on the hob. She steps off his foot. “What a day – you couldn’t imagine, you in your little world making the home nice for your old lady. Y’know, a lady needs to relax after a hard day’s hunting. What I really need right now is one of my favourite beers.” She pauses, glances down his striped apron, absently scratches at the latex skin around her meaty right flank. “Bring me a Starapramen.”

  “Sorry, none left, hon. I got some on order, together with your other favourites. They have to specially import ‘em, y’know. How about a cold Bud?” he looks at her optimistically.

  She feigns a laugh. “ ‘Got some on order!’” What the fuck? You should know better than that by now. You make sure you restock well before the supplies run out. I don’t ask for much, do I?” She looks at him, restrained and reflective, like a parent weary at having to explain how things work to a child. But going through the motions nevertheless, because this is how it must be. “My favourite brand of beer when I get home, food ready on the table. It’s not a lot, is it.” No question intended. “Other men would appreciate what I can do for them, heck! a lot of them would give their left testicle to be my husband. And then make pretty damn sure they keep the home in spick-and-span order. But you!” she raises her voice, prodding his flat stomach with the knuckles of her right hand.

  She snarls, a camp movie vampire snarl that shows off her pointy fangs and the barbell in her pierced tongue. Her long-nailed hand reaches out to scratch his arm, the left hand swinging for his face; she looks like she’s about to rip out his throat, her hiss vibrates with anger. He back pedals, but not before she connects with a full-handed slap flush on his cheek.

  Flustered and unbalanced on the back of his heels he begins to fall. She swarms all over him, a flurry of blows with the flat of her hand catching him across the face. She falls on top of him, the backs of her meaty thighs coming into view in between her dress split, clawing and swiping. Slouched over him on her knees, her boobs jouncing up and down, it’s a frenzied assault that includes the occasional wild punch.

  Red in the face, the man spread-eagled on the kitchen floor respects the woman enough not to try to force her off. Instead he attempts blocking her hands with his arms. But he manages to fend off less than half her raging flurries.

  His main defence are his cries. A look of total desperation ought to fill the man’s eyes, but he can’t manage it. Instead he looks mildly put out. As a vicious slap slams into the side of his face, the bone-thudding sound of which echoes in the room, he whimpers, “Get off, please. I’m begging you, I promise I’ll do better next time.”

  She cackles and sits up high on her knees. The first draw of blood out of a nostril seems to physically excite her and acts as a signal for a cessation of her assault - or a pause. She purses her lips, throws back her head, her immaculate Bollywood starlet hair at the back and sides swaying gently. Slowly she runs a hand from her crotch up the dress to her generous bosom. She takes time lightly fingering her nipples. She can plainly feel each jutting stub through the dress and the smooth-grainy texture of her good-sized aureoles.

  The woman looks down: the homemaker is gazing up with a smug, satisfied grin, which dominates his face. She thrusts her crotch out crudely, in the manner of a pole nightclub dancer and shakes her ass.

  “Is this what you’re after?” she taunts, nodding down to between her legs. “Well, you ain’t gonna get it,” she bawls, staring down, her eyes livid. “No way!”

  She pushes herself up and steps onto his stomach. Her spikes sink into his belly.

  “Get off me, get off, my dear,” the man croaks.

  She responds by shifting her hips and putting the greater weight on her right side. At
least a couple of inches of stiletto are hidden in his flesh. To the man, it must feel like she’s about to pierce right through the skin; the extra pressure goes on his intestines.

  “You like that now?” she smirks. “Or would you prefer if I stamped on your balls?” She giggles. “That’d be fun: seeing ‘em pop and all.”

  He lets out a muted shriek. “No, hon, no!”

  Unsteady on her heels the woman shuffles, looking down and grinning as she inches along his stomach. As she leans back on her heels, she enjoys the man’s grimace of discomfort. It makes her chortle. She stays in one place; her spike heels are buried deep. There is an ominous silence in the kitchen. Then the woman steps off to one side, one foot at a time.

  His testes wiggle as the tip of her heel brushes against his scrotum sac. She teases his genitals with gentle, lenient prods. The man screws his eyes shut and grimaces, like she really is stabbing his balls with her spike heels. The attention he is getting is doing little to deflate his developing erection.

  He gets hauled up off the floor by the upper border of his apron. The woman breathes heavily: getting her man on his feet has taken a good deal of effort. She stamps to the far end of the kitchen, heavy-footed; her expression is slightly wreaked. In her skin-tight dress, cut that it allows a cleavage, her boobs gently rise and fall. She plops herself on a soft-cushioned chair. The plump, pushed-up mammaries bounce; it takes several seconds before they settle.

  “Come here!” she snaps.

  The man in the apron scuttles over with his head down.

  She looks at him sullenly and shakes her head. “What am I going to do with you, huh? How do I teach you to keep the house in good order? Can you be taught? Are you ready to learn, boy?” she raises her voice. “Well, are you?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he mutters softly, gaze centred on his toes.

  “What was that?” she booms, a nasty look of satisfaction flashing across her features. “Did you say something?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I said I was, ma’am, ready to learn,” the panicked man says, rushing it the words zap out of his mouth.

  “Well the first thing you gotta learn is respect for your mamma. I teach a hard lesson, boy.” She glances in the direction of his crotch. “Now git your pants off and get on my lap,” she says, patting her hefty thigh. “No slacking, the longer I wait the harder it’s gonna be.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he nods vigorously, unbuttoning his fly.

  His jeans down to his ankles he stands hunched, glancing up with a confused look. So scared of getting it wrong he waits for her instructions.

  The attractive woman snaps, “Do you have to be told everything? Am I your mom, huh? Get out of your apron and slip your jockeys just past your ass – then git over here, you hear!”

  As does as she orders, and hobbles up to her. He sets himself down front-first, gently in her lap. His limp penis settles on a warm bed of latex, the second skin smelling of her – bodily fluids, the soap she uses, everything - and talc. She pulls on his T-shirt so it rides up his midriff, and stretches to get his briefs down a little lower, halfway on his thighs. She half smiles peering at fully exposed pale butt-cheeks.

  Her crooked left arm across his back and coming round to his right flank, her left hand grips him by his upper swell. The man’s ass is uncannily white and the dress by it more glossy than usual, like a spotlight has been trained on the buttocks. She spanks his bare left cheek – a light swing of her arm. The next smack comes from higher up and is harder and the sound her palm makes on his fatty ass is a lot louder.

  “That’s for not ordering my beer on time,” she says. She pummels his buttocks hard with the flat of her hand at a steady rhythm, keeping her cool without any wild swings. There is the occasional reprimand, a “This’ll teach you to have my food ready on time,” or “It’s for your own good, y’know.” The whole time her expression stays much the same: blue hooded eyes as she peers down at his ass and a hint of a smile with no teeth showing. He reacts with a jerk of his butt and sometimes a small cry.

  “You gonna do what you oughta?” she asks. Her hand flies in from above her right ear. The tattoos on her arm are a blur. She grits her teeth; two rows are on display, including her fangs. The wallop is brought down with great force.

  Immediately after contact with her hand he yells, “I will, I will!”

  “You gonna stop disrespecting me, and maintain the home according to my strict instructions?” she continues, prompting his reply with another strong smack. The strain in inflicting it shows up in her face.

  “Yes, oh yes, ma’am, I promise!” the man cries out emphatically.

  “What the …?” the woman’s shoulders jump back, her expression suddenly stupefied. “You’re got a fucking boner!” she blurts incredulously. “I’m supposed to be teaching you a lesson and you disrespect me like this?”

  “Whadda do, whadda do?” he bleats, rotating his head round.

  “You acting the imbecile? I can feel your stiff penis in my dress! So this is how you show your respect? You cheap and dirty slut. Git off me!” she shrieks, shoving him at the flank and trying to get up.

  Rocked off her lap, the man starts tumbling to the floor. She stands up and looks down disdainfully, kicks at his bare flank with the toe of her shoe. The man has rolled onto his front, his T-shirt hem halfway up his back, mumbling incoherently. Deftly she steps over him and buries a spike heel in his asshole little by little. Her stiletto in deep all the way, he groans, sounding like he’s just come.

  “I feel it’s time I took more punitive measures, pretty boy!” the woman squalls, pressure put behind the sharp heel in the man’s ass. She smoothes back long wisps of hair from her collarbone. “I’m gonna bust your ass. It’s no more Mrs. Nice Guy, you hear?”

  Chapter 7

  Absently stepping into the corridor the girl finds she’s shoulder to shoulder with Anri, nearly knocking into her. Automatically the girl says “Sorry,” though there hasn’t been a collision.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Anri remarks, smiling. She keeps on walking.

  Without thinking about what she’s doing the girl tags after her down the Victorian period tiled corridor. A step from getting in line with Anri’s shoulder, the girl asks, “You don’t mind if I ask you something, please?”

  The hint of alarm in the girl’s tone, quickly picked up in the quiet, stops Anri dead. She turns on her bare heels. “Course you can, silly girl.”

  The thought Anri is looking in her eyes brings colour to the girl’s cheeks. “Can vampires enter dreams, mistress?” the girl asks, fidgeting with her fingers.

  “Well, hello, newbie. Theoretically? Sure they can. What’s up? You been dreaming about a special someone a little more than the norm?” flashing the girl an amused big-toothed grin.

  “No, well, yes, maybe,” the girl rambles.

  “This wouldn’t be about a certain master we’re talking about here? He been scaring you in your dreams too?” Anri giggles. “Poor girl.”

  Sure, the girl ponders, he’s been in them, but his appearances haven’t been anything out of the ordinary. The sort of part he plays in real time. Anri has appeared in starring roles more often and the experience has always been pleasurable. She appears as a caring, gentle, loving woman, a romanticized lover: the knight who defeats the enemy and takes the girl to her breast; the strong lover who will always protect her. It’s Electra and Evilyn who are the more disturbing. The most intimate the girl gets with the dream Anri is a chaste kiss in her embrace. When Electra and Evilyn are in her dreams the girl is their plaything, a sexual being. Always in exact detail.

  “Am I embarrassing you?” Anri asks – the girl is blushing, she can’t deny the Electra/Evilyn dreams do excite her: going by the evidence of waking up damp and with warm shudders. “What happens in those dreams exactly? No, don’t tell me, I don’t want to know. One
thing I was going to get round to asking you – have you only got the one T-shirt? It’s been whiffy for a while and, much as I think Marilyn Manson’s a good Satanist and an overall attractive kind of guy, I am starting to get a bit tired of seeing his ghoulish face, y’know, day after day after day. And isn’t he like supposed to be mainstream all of a sudden.”

  The girl twiddles with her fingers like she’s playing with a ring. “I don’t know if I can change. The master might find offence if he sees I put something else on,” she says hesitantly.

  “Balls. That arse! I only get edgy when my feed’s due. Jason’s always like that. What can you say – too late to change, I suppose. No, I insist: you’re gonna put on another T-shirt. Have you another?”

  “I’ve a Dimmu Borgir? Or a Cradle of Filth Tee,” the girl replies faintly.

  “A Jesus is a Cunt T-shirt? Anything blasphemous would be greatly appreciated.” Anri starts for the living room at speed. Over to the sofa and she flops back, extends across its length.

  “Is Jason in?” the girl blurts, breathlessly, rushing forward into the living room headlong.

  Her head propped up on cushions, her legs apart, Anri stares up at the girl, expressionless. “I think I heard him say he was going out somewhere. What’s up, hasn’t he whipped your arse enough today?”

  “No, I mean, I need to vacuum upstairs.” Feeling uncomfortable and not daring to peek at Anri, the girl starts turning to the door. “I better go,” she says.

  “Hmmmph.” Anri fumbles for a magazine on the coffee table, her gaze directed at nowhere in particular.

  The girl is thinking about Anri, rolling out the vacuum cleaner out of an upstairs landing cupboard. All of a sudden she is low down depressed. She’s concerned because her reading of Anri blanking her once she’d gotten on the sofa confuses as much as it enlightens. There isn’t a great deal to it – Anri’s playfulness and grins leading up to the living room, her sudden change in mood, like a major low attention span having reached its boredom limit, her empty expression, snatching at the pages of her magazine – and no one detail seems conclusive. Or fits to another to provide a logical explanation. All the pieces are just, well pieces. But one segment has to be more important than another. Somewhere there is an answer. It’s made harder to find because Anri’s face gives nothing away. And what did she mean by criticizing Jason as hard as she did? He is supposed to be her partner for life.