How to Discipline Your Vampire

by Mina Vaughn

  “None. I thought you were aware of my track record,” he said, combing his fingers through his longish hair. He was one of those guys who looked like he was due for a haircut, but it didn’t matter. It fell straight, nearly into his eyes, but curled slightly at the end. I wanted to grip it in my hands. God, why couldn’t our scene be right now? Bizzy hounded.

  “Not even casually? I thought you might have played with my friend Jennifer.”

  “No, I’m afraid not. Glad I don’t have to make things awkward between friends.”

  “She’s not really a friend, she just tags along when she’s not fucking anyone.”

  He nodded and handed me an envelope with more paperwork. “Health records. Clean as a whistle.”

  A whistle I’d like to blow.

  “Are you on the pill?” he asked quietly.

  I nodded. “The one where you get it four times a year.”

  His eyes widened. “That’s a medical miracle,” he joked. He looked somewhat relieved.

  We laughed some more, and talked casually about places we had been in the area. I was astounded he had never had brunch at the Friendly Toast. “Can I buy you a drink?” I asked. There were so many great bars in Portsmouth, plus it’s always fun to show off a gorgeous hunk on a weeknight.

  “I’m going to politely decline, if I may,” he said. “I planned to check in at work for an hour, and then I’d like to prepare for our scene.”

  “So you do work?” I asked, intrigued. “But only for an hour at a time?”

  He stood. “I own a chain of nursing homes throughout New England. I pop into the New Hampshire ones from time to time, just to make sure everything’s looking good and the residents are happy.”

  “That’s really sweet,” I confessed, not liking the warm feeling this was giving me. He loves old people? I wondered. Does he also rescue puppies from burning buildings?

  “I have to do a little planning for a show. I hired a jazz trio to play there tomorrow evening, which is part of the reason I’m going. Actually, I’d love for you to join me—after our scene, of course. They’re always eager for someone new to talk to.”

  “I don’t really listen to jazz.”

  He pursed his lips. “That doesn’t necessarily mean you wouldn’t like it.”

  “I just don’t know anything about it.”

  William reached down and picked a flower from the small garden to the right of our bench. “Do you like this flower?”

  “Yeah,” I said, appraising the soft pink petals. “It’s pretty. Why?”

  “Do you know what kind of flower it is?”

  I shook my head. “No clue.”

  “See?” he asked. “You can appreciate something without knowing anything about it. Come see the jazz with me.” He took my hand.

  My stomach tightened. This was far too normal. “No thanks.” I smiled to soften the blow.

  He nodded, unfazed. “I’ll just have to appreciate the beauty of the music since I won’t have you by my side.”

  I cleared my throat. “Well, then, William, I’ll see you tomorrow.” I tried to keep my cool as my insides began to melt.

  He bent and kissed my forehead and began to leave. “I’ll be counting the hours,” he said, walking away. He stopped about three feet from me and turned around. “Mistress Cherry.”

  I didn’t waste any time once I got home.

  Tomorrow, Mr. Freeze was coming over and the house had to be clean.

  So, I put on some punk music and cleaned my house like a motherfucker—it sure as hell was a lot more fun to listen to than jazz. Then again, I probably would just be ogling William if I went to the old folks’ home instead of appreciating the tunes. I tried to put away the thought of the semi-date he proposed, and focused on my music. I bopped along to the beats, dusting, sweeping, and throwing in some sexy moves here and there. Thank God my broom didn’t have eyes; poor guy would be scandalized.

  I grabbed a paper towel and lovingly wiped down my recipe box, the little treasure that sat on my counter like an innocuous piece of housekeeping. Sordid details of my sexual past, neatly alphabetized by scene. It fit right into my home, both the outside and the contents.

  I lived in a cute town house on a small cul-de-sac. It looked like all the others, and hopefully the neighbors didn’t care about the sporadic men who, for the past two to three years, had been faithfully letting themselves in at two PM. Except for the last few months.

  I couldn’t wait to clean the bedroom. My playroom. My pleasure room.

  I had a brushed-metallic motif going on. Polished-silver curtains, with flecks of bronze here and there. A gunmetal gray comforter. A few framed black-and-white photographs on the wall. Pretty stark, actually. The point of minimalist décor was so that the room could transform into anything once a scene had started.

  My mind was restless—what did William have planned for me this week? The anticipation was killing me; thank God for obsessive-compulsive cleaning routines. I typically did a thorough scrubbing before any new sub came over, just to calm my anxieties. At least I knew a little about tomorrow.

  To say I was excited for our first scene would be a gross understatement. I felt like a romance novel was going to come true in my home. Tomorrow, a dark lover would appear. A lonely vampire who desired domination. I could give him what he wanted. And he, oh yes, would give me what I wanted. I wanted that beautiful face to regard me with reverence. I wanted that lovely mouth to tell me filthy, naughty things. And I wanted that notoriously tight-assed form to pleasure me in a thousand different ways.

  Granted, the vampire thing was kinda overly trendy lately, but I was definitely still intrigued.

  I ran my hand over the cool silk sheets and imagined what his cool body would feel like. If all that were true, I told myself, he may just run a little colder than others. I shook my head to keep the thoughts away as I moved to my toy chest.

  As I removed each piece methodically, as I had done dozens of times, I cleaned it with a wipe and thought about how I’d use it on him.

  Riding crop—maybe not tomorrow. I definitely planned on spanking him with it at some point this week, if things went well. I loved to use the riding crop to set our pace. I’d ride him, and when I wanted to go faster, I’d smack him with it. Giddyup!

  Flogger—hmm, maybe. I wasn’t planning on pleasuring him tomorrow, but who knows, maybe he’d use it on me. Nah, he probably won’t have the guts yet. Most of my subs are shocked when I tell them that, by permission only, they may use floggers and crops on me. Sometimes that was what the scene dictated. I’d had a few flat-out reject the idea of using anything on me that induces the slightest amount of discomfort. I told them that if I asked for it, I got it. That’s what a Domme does.

  Then I dismissed them.

  Massage oil—definitely not tomorrow. The smell of it still reminded me of that unpleasant night. The scent of the almond oil and red wine still wouldn’t come out of my drapes. The bottoms were still slightly stained from when the glasses smashed and the cabernet went everywhere. There was one part of the hardwood floor that was more maroon than the rest. I put a rug over it.

  I think that is enough cleaning for today.

  On to happier subjects: He was coming tomorrow.

  On several levels, I hoped.

  “Dismissed.”

  The bell had rung, but I typically punctuated the sound with my own permission to leave. Kids filed out of class frantically, desperate to get to lunch.

  But, as always, one or two stragglers remained. It was like this wherever I went.

  The punk kids adored me.

  “Miss Norrel, did you hear Red Monday’s releasing a box set?” Nevaeh asked, bouncing up and down in her hand-painted Chucks.

  I nodded. “Preordered it last week,” I said, giving her friend Lizzie a fist bump.

  “I got you these,�
� Lizzie said, reaching into her bag and pulling out a little tissue paper bundle.

  She pushed it into my empty hand and giggled as I peeled off the tape and unfolded the paper.

  Pink hair extensions with a Hello Kitty clip to hold them in.

  “I saw them on some girl at a concert and asked her where she got them,” Lizzie said as Nev tried to clip them in my long blond hair. “I told her I had a teacher who would love them.”

  “Substitute,” I corrected her with a laugh, working the pink part into my own hairdo. I loved extensions, and never shied away from wearing them to work.

  “Totally you,” they both said.

  I nodded in agreement. “So me.” I smiled brightly at the two little misfits, in their neon socks and multibraceleted forearms.

  “I wish you were our real math teacher,” Nevaeh whined. “You explain the homework better than the actual teacher.”

  Lizzie nodded. “I hear Mr. Wood’s leaving to teach at SNHU—you should totally apply.”

  I shook my head, feeling the artificial pink hairs dangle down my shoulders. “I’m all set. I like being free.”

  “Oh I hear you—I wouldn’t want to come back to this place every day, either,” Lizzie said.

  I held my hands up in protest. “It’s not like that. I enjoy high schoolers. I just like variety.”

  “My friend at Londonderry High said you’re there sometimes.”

  “I’m everywhere, my dear. No escaping me!”

  The girls picked up their book bags and gave me a quick hug and made their way to lunch.

  The rest of the day, however, dragged like RuPaul.

  Today I was at Newmarket High, a place I frequently called home. One of their math teachers, Mr. Wessel, was a hypochondriac, so I got calls at least once a week here. I was basically part of the faculty. Work today was more torturous than usual—kids had nitpicky questions, the other teachers wouldn’t stop hounding me about helping plan a colleague’s baby shower, and I was literally doing equations in my head for fun to kill time until lunch.

  Lunch meant a break. Lunch hopefully meant an e-mail from him—from Chilly Willy. The anticipation was killing me. I strode toward the teacher’s room purposefully, head in the clouds—or in the gutter.

  “Cerise, so do you think we should go with a ducky theme or a clown theme?” Deirdre asked, trying to catch up to me. I threw up a little in my mouth at her suggestion. Maybe because I thought it was a horrible idea, or also maybe it was because Deirdre was a douche-cannon who talked down to substitutes.

  “Clowns?” I asked incredulously, screeching to a halt. “Isn’t, like, ninety percent of the population terrified of clowns?”

  She pursed her gross, chapped lips at me and pushed her glasses up her nose. “My dad was a clown, thankyouverymuch. I thought it might be cute to have a circus theme for the shower since Katy always does that field trip to the carnival.”

  Katy was a history teacher who was eight months pregnant. Deirdre was a science teacher who kept disgusting specimens in her room on display. She even had a dog fetus she called “Pickled Poochie.” Of course she wouldn’t mind clowns, I noted.

  “Listen,” I said, trying to maintain my decorum, “do what you want; I’m just a sub. All I know is that most people have a visceral reaction to clowns and circus folk, ’kay?” I just wanted her to leave me alone with my pervy thoughts. I didn’t want to think about baby showers—I was only twenty-nine and the only clock inside me was ticking to the beat of “Let’s Get It On.”

  “Fine,” she huffed. “Duckies it is.” She walked away, and I noticed that her jeans were from Sears. I shuddered and continued to the break room.

  I heated my Lean Cuisine panini—oh and seriously, does anyone else think that word sounds dirty?—and discreetly checked my iPhone.

  An e-mail!

  I blushed and leaned against the microwave, feeling its slow rotation vibrate against my back. My thoughts drifted again, for the billionth time, to William. I slid my finger against the screen of the phone, opening the e-mail slowly, savoring the anticipation.

  From: William Gentry

  Subject: Scene One: Atonement

  Date: May 3, 2012

  To: Cerise Norrel

  Dearest potential Mistress,

  I have made all necessary preparations to meet with you today. I made sure my thirst is fully sated, as not to be a threat. The last thing I would want to do is hurt you, but please know that it typically takes extraordinary restraint to control myself. I have been looking forward to our scenario today since we met. Because I do not sleep, my mind has been occupied with thoughts of you and what you would like. I do hope my talents are to your liking, and please know I would do anything you ask, for as long as you will permit.

  Do not be afraid; my only thirst now is to please and serve you.

  Sincerely,

  William, your potential submissive

  “Cerise, are you going to leave your lunch in there to marinate or what?” Paul asked me, eyes bulging. Apparently I was holding up the line at the micro. Shit.

  Anyone who has teacher-friends knows that we all eat really fast and seldom talk while we dine. That’s because we’re conditioned to wolf down our food as fast as humanly possible. Twenty-six-minute lunches—that was all we got. Factor in five minutes of waiting in line for the microwave, then another two for lunch to cool down, then another three to get back to the classroom, and we were left with virtually no time to eat. Lunch in the teacher’s room was a serious affair, and I was breaking some social faux pas by not removing my panini fast enough.

  “Sorry,” I muttered, bringing my hot sandwich to my seat, fanning it with my hands.

  I pulled my phone back out and began a response while my ham and cheese cooled.

  From: Cerise Norrel

  Subject: Re: Scene One: Atonement

  Date: May 3, 2012

  To: William Gentry

  William,

  I appreciate your assurance of my health; however, your e-mail was more formal than I’d like. I am henceforth requiring a little more pizzazz in your response. Essentially, please go on about being a bad vampire, and how you’d like me to assist you in your atonement.

  Waiting patiently . . . for now,

  Mistress Cherry

  P.S.—See attached spreadsheet detailing your scenes for the next two weeks, Monday thru Wednesday only. Consider this your homework.

  I bit into my sandwich, but quickly tried to disengage when I realized how hot it was. As I pulled it away from my face, the melting cheese drew a long string before snapping back and hitting me in the eye.

  “Fuhhh,” I muttered, mouth full of nuclear-hot Swiss and mozzarella. I ran to the barrel and spit out the offending mouthful.

  Paul snickered while hovering over the microwave, heating his Chunky soup. Chunky like his ass—gross.

  Quickly, I began to swirl some water around in my mouth. The burning subsided and my mouth was left relatively unharmed, aside from the pizza burn. You know, that little flap of burnt skin you get right behind your front teeth when you eat something too hot. I resisted the urge to use my long acrylic fingernails to peel it right off.

  I headed into the bathroom to inspect the damage to my eye area from the cheesesplosion . . . ugh. Redness. There was a small streak from my lower eyelid halfway down my cheek—evidence of the dairy attack on my face. The last thing I needed was to look injured in front of a vampire, I giggled to myself. I couldn’t wait for our scene.

  Luckily, there was a quick reply e-mail from my dear Chilly Willy that made me wish for another five minutes to my lunch break . . . so I could be alone . . . in the math office . . . just reading it over and over.

  From: William Gentry

  Subject: Re: Scene One: Atonement

  Date: May 3, 2012

  To: Cerise No
rrel

  Dear Mistress Cherry, (May I call you this already?)

  I am sorry my first e-mail wasn’t to your liking. This is a road we will travel together for a while, I hope, and I’m glad you gave me feedback so soon. From now on, I will make sure my e-mails are more titillating. Additionally, I have read and memorized your spreadsheet. The days that come will be filled with untold pleasures, I assure you.

  I had difficulty selecting your outfit today, since our scenario is less costume-driven and more plot-oriented. So, what I did was imagine your beautiful body. Then, I asked myself, what could possibly cover such a lovely form that would do it proper justice? I didn’t want to select something overtly sexual—that would be too cliché, but I also wanted a chance to see my Domme in something befitting of her position over me. And hopefully under me, eventually, should you permit, Mistress. I went to La Perla and, with a basic idea in mind of what I wanted, shopped for you. I thought of your beautiful tan skin tone, and which colors would bring out your lovely blush best. The color is ingrained in my mind. I was torn between pale green silk that reminded me of your eyes, and a lovely midnight navy that would offset your coloring nicely. I bought both sets.

  I spent the entire ride home imagining how glorious you would look in my purchases. In all my years on this earth, I have never seen someone as beautiful as you. I hope I am worthy of the kind of worship I will lavish you with. I simply cannot wait for you to do with me what you will. Have you thought of what you would like to do? I’m sure you have plenty of plans for me.

  I live to serve, and count the moments until I hear your footsteps through the front door.

  I will be, as you have asked, in your bedroom, clad in black.

  Servile to only you,

  William

  My mouth was watering. The last few potentials hadn’t worked out this well from the start—their scenarios were unoriginal or totally awkward, and none of them had a way with words.