by Mina Vaughn
Date: May 5, 2012
To: William Gentry
William,
Thank you for your kind letters. They remind me daily of why I selected you above all the other officers that tried to court me. You are truly impressive, and I look forward to the next time you may show your appreciation for me.
Tonight may offer you this luxury. A few officials from my troupe are headed in your direction on a routine patrol—I can offer to tag along. They’ll be attending the local pub in your area, and I will have an hour or so to myself before they return.
Have something special planned.
Sincerely,
Nurse Norrel
I licked my lips and pictured what he may have arranged. We may very well be playing doctor tonight.
I wanted another e-mail. After I hit SEND, I wished that I had included some sort of prompt that would get him to respond.
I needed something to distract me from the memories being dug up by the interaction between Hannah and Scott, now sitting together at a table, flirting.
I wished I could erase my sophomore year entirely.
“Hey, Cerise, you know what I’ve always wanted to do?” my new boyfriend, Nick, asked.
“What?” I asked, eyes glazed. I stared at him in his spiky-haired glory. He was a bad boy, and he wanted me. The meek little girl from his history class. He had asked me out last week—completely out of nowhere.
“I’d really love to go ice skating with you. Hold hands. Drink some cocoa together,” he said.
Oh my God, I was so lucky. It’s like he was reading right out of my diary. Ice skating and cocoa was, like, my dream date.
“That sounds great, Nick,” I said, probably looking doe-eyed. I couldn’t help it; there was something so wrong about it. It felt right.
He smiled, and glanced toward the back of the classroom. “You called all the shots on our first date,” he laughed, “now it’s my turn. I want to be the one bossing you around.” He kissed my nose playfully. “Sharpen your skates, little girl.”
My face burned. I was upset that he had noticed my bossy nature. So what, I picked where we went? So what, I was the one to lean in for a kiss? I’m assertive. I’m a modern woman. Still, if he wanted to call the shots, I’d let him.
I’d probably let him do anything. He was so dreamy. And my dad hated him. And I loved it.
And, for the second time that week, his friends started uncontrollably laughing.
William’s timing was impeccable. Just as I was starting to nearly convulse with anger, a reply popped up unexpectedly.
From: William Gentry
Subject: Re: Report from the field
Date: May 5, 2012
To: Cerise Norrel
Sorry for the “out of character” response, but I wanted you to know I sent you a picture text. I’m not sure if you keep your phone on you during the day.
—W
Well, “W,” it just so happens I kept it on me, just turned off. But now that I knew I’d be getting picture messages . . .
. . . Oh wow.
. . . Wow.
. . . Unffff.
I had always found “taking my picture in the mirror” photos to be very tacky, but this one . . . drool.
Compose yourself, Bizzy.
Okay, this one was decidedly going to be my phone’s wallpaper indefinitely.
William, naked, holding my flogger in front of his boy parts, with the reddest thighs I’d ever seen. His face looked proud and yet subservient. I wanted more than anything to go home sick, but unfortunately, I had to give out a test next period and the other substitute who was in today had the intellect of a carrot.
But, like a trooper, I plodded on for another hour and a half. While proctoring the test, I did a little doodle of William’s . . . well, doodle. Big doodle. Hell, it wasn’t a doodle, it was a dong. A King Kong–sized dong that I was going to hit hard, like a frat boy to a bong. Wow, I was like a horny Domme Dr. Seuss. Then again, the guy wrote Hop on Pop, which sounded pretty dirty itself.
During the drive home, I nearly blew through every red light on the way. My house was only ten minutes from school, but it felt like forever.
I couldn’t wait to see my soldier. My lonely boy, out on the front, whose only thoughts were of me. I shivered, and Bizzy started singing some R. Kelly. I called her a perv and walked inside.
The house was silent. Okay, so no swing music in the background, that was fine, it was his scene.
In the bathroom hung a really impressive costume. William was nothing if not historically accurate. I pictured some white vinyl naughty nurse’s outfit, but apparently Mr. Gentry had a thing for wool and linen. It looked like it belonged in a museum, or on the set of some movie. He even had NURSE NORREL stitched into the uniform. I shook my head, and slipped the nurse outfit on and assumed the guise of a stern but horny-as-fuck field nurse.
A quiet groan echoed in the hallway as I stepped out.
He was pleasuring himself, from the sounds of it.
I wanted to catch him in the act, and maybe watch. And maybe help, I thought to myself as I opened the door and was treated to a different sight altogether.
William lay in my bed, his uniform tattered, his head bandaged.
Groaning in “pain.”
“What happened, Lieutenant?” I asked, approaching him. I sat by his side and clutched his fingers sympathetically.
He looked absolutely delectable . . . and young. The uniform was fitted to his body perfectly, and I could see the outlines of all his muscles under the coarse uniform’s fabric, which was torn and singed in spots. He looked up at me, reverently.
“Thank God you’re here—my angel,” he said quietly. “I’ve missed you so much.”
“William, what happened out there?”
“I don’t know—a grenade? I was knocked out, and—” he said, dropping off, head lolling to the side, floating in and out of consciousness.
I put my hand on his smooth, graceful neck and pretended to take his pulse. “Don’t talk, William. Save your strength for me.”
He smiled, wincing. “Anything for you.” His hand reached up to me, and softly stroked my hair.
Then he cupped my cheek and drew me to him.
Only then did it dawn on me that we had never kissed.
“William,” I whispered as his hands guided my face toward his.
“My angel,” he repeated, his breath tickling my nose.
I leaned forward and pressed my lips to his. He moaned lightly and parted his mouth to me. Our lips slid against each other, dry at first. He felt like rose petals and tasted like cool mint.
I felt his tongue breach my lips and I sucked on it gently. I leaned farther into his embrace and allowed him access deep into my mouth. It felt so good—now it was my turn to moan.
I felt his body tense, and realized my poor officer needed more than my kisses.
“Let me see your wounds, Lieutenant.”
I began to unbutton the shirt of his dark-green uniform. He tensed, almost afraid.
I opened his shirt and ran my hand down the most perfect chest I had ever seen. Muscular but not bulky. “You seem to have suffered no damage to your torso,” I said slowly. “But I need to make sure you don’t have any other wounds.” I tugged the sleeves down, and pulled the shirt off gingerly. He pretended to wince. I slinked my hands up and down his arms, turning his hands over, checking for injuries. In reality, I was absolutely worshipping his smooth complexion. His skin felt—it’s impossible to describe. William’s skin was silky, like slipping on a satin nightie. But I wanted him to slip me on.
His expression was nearly terrified as I ran my hands all over his skin. “What’s your diagnosis?” he asked wearily.
I smiled, saying, “I’m not done, Lieutenant. Not by a long shot.”
When my fingers rested on his belt buckle, he finally relaxed into a smile. “I’m not worried. I know I’m in expert hands,” he said.
I tightened my grip on the waistband of his pants. “You’re not really in my hands, yet. Trust me . . . ,” I said, leaning in, “you’ll know.”
He threw his head back and watched me work. I unzipped his trousers and slid them around his ankles. First and foremost, I wanted to inspect his actual wound—his flogger-induced redness.
“Oh my,” I said, “I think we finally have an injury.” I ran my hand over the skin, examining the pink patches on his thighs, expecting them to feel warmer to the touch.
They weren’t. The spots were an odd shade of pink—nothing like I had ever seen on a sub. Then again, nothing about William was ordinary. I pressed my finger down hard, expecting him to wince or expecting the spot to further redden.
It didn’t.
I met his gaze. Again, his expression was concerned.
“I think you’ll live,” I said curtly. “These look painful, but in war, these things happen. You’ll barely see the marks tomorrow.”
He sighed, relieved.
I pulled the pants off his legs and removed his socks. God, he even had beautiful feet. My hands traveled back up his muscular legs.
“What the hell is this?” I asked nobody in particular. On my hand was some pink substance. I began to rub it off.
William sat up, out of character. “Ignore it,” he said boldly.
I gritted my teeth. How indignant of him! I opened my mouth to speak when I noticed that his “redness” was peculiarly . . . streaked.
I ran my pointer finger down his left thigh roughly, and sure enough, a little chunk of pink accumulated on my fingertip.
My mouth frowned, and my eyes constricted into slits. “End of scene. Explain,” I growled.
He drew a deep breath and began to speak. “Mistress, I had mentioned to you during our first conversation how I didn’t redden or bruise,” he said, eyes downward and voice barely audible. “I didn’t want to let you down after such a wonderful experience yesterday, so I did whatever I could to please you. I even replaced your blush,” he said, gesturing toward my bathroom.
Apparently, he had used my MAC blush as his “wound.” Expensive taste for costume makeup.
I was furious on so many levels. He lied. He faked an injury. He disobeyed. He used my fucking MAC! Why couldn’t he have used the cheap dollar-store stuff I had in my makeup bag?
I could barely think.
“Dismissed,” my mouth said to the gorgeous, nearly naked man on my bed.
His eyes searched my face, and his mouth moved silently. “Mistress?” he asked, nearly whimpering.
“We’re done for the week. I’ll see you Monday.”
He sat up on his knees, pleading. “If you’re angry, take it out on me, Mistress. Punish me. I’m so sorry. Do with me what you will.”
I shook my head. “I need to actually desire you to do that, William, and right now I’m so upset, I can’t even see straight. Get out of my house, or explain what the hell is going on.”
I laid my cards out on the table, as they say. I was angry, but I required answers. I needed to show him he didn’t deserve to be in my presence, but I also didn’t want to lose him. Once again, I wanted something I didn’t quite have, and I wasn’t ready to compromise myself for him just yet. We had a few incredible scenes, but that wasn’t enough to win my trust or loyalty.
He planted his hands on his thighs, and lifted his head up to me. His voice sounded like it was being sliced with knives. “You already know everything you need to know, Mistress. What I told you, and the words in those diaries . . . they’re all true.”
I breathed in deeply through my nostrils, and spoke with a shaking voice. “Get. Out.”
CHAPTER NINE
Cerise
Of course he was fucking insane. That was my luck, right? Of course the handsomest, most creative and panty-dampening guy I’d met in years was a complete and total whackjob.
A vampire. Great. How long until he tried to “bite” me, or drag me to some Goth club where he and his weirdo friends would drink pig’s blood and wear plastic fangs and cat-eye contact lenses? How long until we were married and had little Goth kids named Caligula and Artery? Fucking weirdo.
And yet he didn’t seem weird-weird. Sure, he had bizarre skin and other peculiar traits. But, in all honesty, I really couldn’t picture him doing any of that Goth stuff. So why the lies? Occam’s razor dictated that the most obvious answer was usually the right one . . .
. . . so he must actually be insane. Most obvious answer, right?
Truthfully, I was the insane one. I declined all substitute calls today. That wasn’t insane . . . the fact that I stayed home for the day to cry my eyes out and read the rest of his journals . . . that was the crazy part.
I sat on my bed, fully flannelled, with a bowl of Häagen-Dazs Dulce de Leche in one hand and a leather-bound journal of an insane “vampire” in the other. I mean, I knew that sexy manpires were all the rage these days, but seriously, to actually try to get me to believe that he is one? Deranged. And yet I still held this journal in front of me.
What the hell was wrong with me? I told myself years ago I’d never let another guy dupe me. I’d never be lied to again.
But was fiction actually lying?
September 22, 2010
Dear Journal,
I think I need to be alone for a while. I am tired of my family and friends trying to set me up.
“William,” my niece says nearly monthly now, “you need a woman.”
What I need, Bree, is a good spanking and I can’t find anyone to give it to me.
Their latest attempt at matchmaking failed miserably. Steve called down his friends from Philly with the intent that I pair off with one of them—Sarah or Melissa. Both sisters were vapid and utterly soulless, even for our kind. Their temperaments were pleasant enough, but they both exhibited personalities that simply were not strong enough for me.
I’m beginning to worry that my friends just want to be rid of me. Their constant efforts and attempts to cheer me up have taken a new turn after my rejection of both women. Now Steve wants me to maybe get younger and go back to school, so I may pour my attention into my work. Find something to live for.
As if I live at all.
I’m tired of changing my age just to find people that are suitable for me. I’ve vacillated between my thirties and teens so many times I can’t count. A vampire’s body can change its age in seconds—it’s part of our ability to adapt as predators. Sometimes the little old man on the bench is a greater threat than the hulking thug on the corner. This talent ought to make life’s journey more fresh, but instead it is always a disappointment. Each time I grow young, I think more opportunities will open themselves to me, but instead it’s just the same trite experiences with different background music and technology. Plus, I’m enjoying my job, and I don’t want to leave the administration to someone else. My life is good right now, just not the loneliness.
So I paint, I sculpt, I dally in museums, and waste my time in a million ways.
Frustrated and tortured . . . as usual,
William
Okay, I thought to myself as I closed the book, definitely insane.
I mean, if the whole purpose of writing these journals was to set a scene where he seduces me, why include all this unnecessary (albeit fascinating) information? Did he think it would turn me on to hear about his nephew-in-law’s aspirations for him? So strange.
Then, I thought about it more. All of these entries were so consistent. They all exhibited the same personality—the desperate yearning of a lonely soul. Maybe he didn’t work because he was a writer. Maybe he was a really fucking good writer who made enough from his first book to be able to afford not to work and to spend all his m
oney on buying me pianos and gowns.
Fuck me.
I realized I was doing it again: self-sabotage. When it comes to S&M, I was both sides of the coin. I loved the feeling of slapping the ever-loving bejeezus out of someone with a leather whip, but I did the same shit to myself mentally. I was a sadistic masochist. What the hell was it about me that tried to undo any potential happiness that came my way?
I flipped through my recipe box. I didn’t really know why. Was it to remind myself why I had this fetish? To show myself all the fun I’d had over the years? Or was it to prove what a bitch I was—reminding myself of all the men whom I threw away?
I held on to one card a bit too long. The title simply read CHOCOLATE DECADENCE.
I fanned myself, remembering that day.
“Ms. Norrel,” Brent crooned, “I hope you’re hungry.”
I walked into my home, and the scent of chocolate and other indulgent sweets filled the air. I smirked, wondering what Brent had concocted for today’s scene. I didn’t eat all day in anticipation of this buffet.
Hot damn, I thought to myself as I walked into the kitchen. Brent was there, shirtless and collared as usual, licking cake batter off his fingers. He reached into the bowl for more and gave the remaining batter a good stir. I watched his tongue curl around the long length of the spoon and nearly fainted.
“Your usual pastry chef cancelled today, sadly, so the chef asked me to fill in,” he explained in a low voice, seemingly not noticing the chocolate dripping onto his abs.
I could barely control myself.
“Are we to have a tasting?” I asked, and bit my lip in anticipation.
He nodded, an impish grin creeping up his face. “Whatever you’d like.” He walked over to the table and I saw what he had been working on. Cupcakes, some parfaits, a whole array of desserts were placed in front of me.
All desserts, I noticed, that are lickable. Not bad, Brent.
“I think I know what I’d like,” I said, pulling him close to me by his dog collar. I could feel the heat off his chest as I yanked him near. I bent low and slowly licked the drip that had nearly reached his hips.