How to Discipline Your Vampire

by Mina Vaughn

  He walked out of my bedroom in a tux. His super-cut body looked really nice in a tailored suit, as opposed to his usual attire of wifebeater and jeans.

  “Mrs. Sorenson,” he said with reverence as I walked out of the bathroom completely mortified over the scene.

  I nodded at him, and tried to avoid his eyes. His glare was so intense and so full of longing. I was embarrassed for him.

  He scooped me up over the threshold of my bedroom, and into our “honeymoon suite.” He had placed little hotel-room items everywhere. Even a room service menu.

  “I know you don’t like champagne, darling, so how about a little red wine?” he asked roguishly, handing me a glass.

  I took it and gulped it down in three swigs. It was more than obvious that I was nervous. He looked at me warily, but refilled anyway.

  “So, I know wine is relaxing enough as it is, but how would my new bride like a massage on her honeymoon night?” he asked, rubbing some almond-scented oil between his palms.

  Brent was a master of massage. I was a sucker for his back rub, so I just smiled politely and lay down on my stomach.

  He undid the halter, unzipped the white gown to the waist, and slipped the sides off my body. I felt his hot breath on my neck, and he got to work on my shoulders.

  I groaned, and let my worries drop to the floor as Brent massaged my back softly. Every few minutes or so, I’d take another long sip of my wine, and let myself be pampered. This wasn’t as bad as I had thought . . . at first.

  Once Brent had finished on my back, I wanted more. I wanted legs, I wanted arms, and Bizzy wanted a “deep-tissue” massage. So I flipped over preemptively.

  And caught him off guard.

  With a ring box in his hand.

  “Uhh,” he stuttered. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

  I frowned and said, “Of course I’ve seen it, silly, we’re married.” I tried desperately to keep him in the scene, and to prevent him from doing what I thought he was going to do.

  “Cerise,” he said, “I want this to be real.”

  I pulled the halter back up. “This is real,” I said, grabbing his hands. “That massage was real, and from my estimation, you weren’t done with it yet.” I put his hands on my thighs, and indicated what I wanted.

  “No,” he said, quietly.

  I gritted my teeth. “Excuse me?” I asked.

  He pulled the ring from the box, and got down on his knee. “Please, will you marry me?” he asked.

  “No, Brent.” I looked at him squarely. “The scene is over. Get dressed. We’ve danced around this subject enough, and you know not to question your Domme.”

  He frowned deeply, and said, “But you’re not just my Domme, you’re my girlfriend, and I want to marry you.” He pulled out an envelope.

  And handed me two plane tickets to Aruba. Dated the next day. “We could have a private ceremony on the beach.”

  “You are not my boyfriend. You are my submissive. And I said no.”

  He waved the tickets and ring in my face. “Do you really think I’d do all this just for a spanking? Seriously, Cerise—I love you. Not your whips and your cuffs, but you. Your mind, your soul. I fucking love you and I’m starting to think you don’t even care.”

  That’s when the tears started. Tears for him, tears for me. “I’m not made of stone, Brent,” I explained. “And I do care. Really. Why else would I be with you for so long?” I cried. “But the truth is, I don’t see that kind of life with you.” The last part came out as a near whisper.

  He looked at me, bewildered. “What do you mean, ‘that kind of life’? Normalcy?” he barked angrily.

  “Babies, marriage, a white dress. It’s not me, and it’s not going to be my life. I never wanted that,” I said.

  He approached me and looked me in the eyes. “I know you’ve been hurt. Now, I don’t know why, but I can assure you that I would never, ever hurt you.”

  I shoved him away, knocking over the red wine. I scooted my feet away from the broken glass and resisted the urge to command him to clean it up. “This isn’t about me being damaged, Brent—I just know what I want. And what I don’t want,” I nearly shrieked. “How dare you question my values? Not everyone in the world wants needy little brats running around and breaking shit. I don’t need that kind of life to be happy.”

  He picked the broken glass off the floor, but not before knocking the almond oil down into the already growing pool of liquid on the floor. “Then I guess you don’t need me. You just need a sub.”

  I was hurt, and spoke with equal sting. “I guess so.”

  And he left.

  And I found other men to temporarily satisfy my needs. And he found Erin.

  Then I found William.

  Who rocked my world. Who shattered my preconceived notions of what my life could be. Brent just wasn’t right for me. He couldn’t see the happy medium between submissive and boyfriend. He could see only his cookie-cutter version of the future, and I’ll be damned if anyone were to decide to shape my future but myself. And if that future involved blood, well maybe I’d entertain it.

  When William gets home, I think I’ll have a word with him.

  He came back in the house looking slightly happier than when he left.

  “William, I want to talk.”

  His shoulders slumped. “I just spent the last hour trying to get over our last conversation, Cerise. I’m not ready for another letdown.”

  I took his chin in my fingers. “I want to compromise.”

  He tensed and averted his eyes from me. “I don’t really see how there can be a compromise.”

  “Hear me out?” I asked. “If you won’t, I’ll strap you to the bed and nag in your ear until you listen.”

  He laughed and pulled me down onto the couch. “Fine,” he chuckled. “Although the alternative kind of sounds like fun.”

  “Listen. I can’t be someone I’m not, so don’t push me. I’ll move forward at my own pace. Maybe I am a little interested in being like you, but it’s not something I’m ready to even wrap my head around right now. As a concession, how about you move in with me?” I said, saying the words before I really thought them out. I was busted. Bizzy had already started picking out china patterns for us.

  His eyes widened comically.

  “It’s just for convenience, you know? We’d be together more, and I do want that. Plus, I mean, you don’t, like, need anything. No sleeping, no eating, so you don’t have to . . . I don’t know. Just get your clothes, and, um, toiletries, and put them here,” I said, brow furrowed, rambling like an asshole.

  Did I just seriously ask him to move in with me?

  Do you even need a toothbrush? I wondered randomly.

  He took my hand and smirked before answering. “If you think inviting me to move in with you is the best way to throw me off your scent, you’re wrong. But then again, this is a significant step. Thank you,” he said.

  “You still need to admit that at least part of this desire to change me is about pain.” I began the talk I was dreading worse than the one about love. “William, no offense, but it’s really clear that we have an imbalance of power in our relationship,” I said, voice on the verge of quavering. “As a Domme, I have needs,” I said, and as soon as the words left my mouth, his face fell.

  I tried to recover. “Needs that include physically dominating you, not just asking you to keep your hands still, or to test your restraint.” He perked up, albeit slightly. “I have thought once or twice about becoming a vampire and being stronger, but for now I do want to tie you up so tight that you can’t move, and then spank the hell out of you. I want you to struggle and mean it. And, the worst part is, I know you want that, too. There has to be a part of you that’s slightly disappointed that I can’t bring you pain with pleasure. I read your journals—I know what you want.”

 
His face told me he agreed, but his words betrayed that sentiment. “I swear to you, as appealing as all that sounds, it’s not why I would want you to change. I’m still not sure if I want you to. It would be painful, but then again, if it would give you satisfaction . . .”

  I groaned. “I’m satisfied, don’t get me wrong, but really—think about it. You have all the power in the relationship,” I said glumly. It was hard to say, but my pride pushed my fears aside and I said it.

  “You’re wrong,” he whispered, got out of his chair, and knelt at my feet. “Have you listened to a word I’ve said this whole time? Have you read a word I’ve written?” His voice trembled with fervor. “From the moment we met, you have had me in your grasp.” He clutched my face in his hands, almost roughly. “You are the one with the power. The power to grant me happiness or punish me with loneliness. I think only about you. My every move is motivated by how you will react. You’re virtually God to me, Mistress.” His body quaked with obsession. He shook his head in dismay, eyes locked on mine. “Don’t you see the power you have over me? My strength is nothing in comparison to the hold you have.” He let go of me, and backed away, slowly, embarrassed by his outburst.

  I tried to process everything he had said. It did seem true—I had a hold over him that was perhaps stronger than shackles and more torturous than a good flogging. But that didn’t change what I wanted.

  “So this isn’t about being squeamish about years down the line, serving a Domme who’s sixty-five years old? I’m sure you won’t be as thrilled with my boobs when they’re sagging,” I said with a pout. As silly as it sounded, I meant it. I was self-conscious about aging.

  He laughed.

  “I love every inch of your body,” he purred. “Plus, I can age along with you.”

  “What about when I’m eighty-seven and I still won’t change for you?” I asked smugly. Surely he wouldn’t have an answer for that.

  “Then I’ll serve you your toast and tea—while naked, of course—and make sure you’re satisfied well into your later years. You’ll be the happiest octogenarian on earth.” He smiled broadly. He stopped to think, then added, “I’m thrilled you’d want me that long.” His smile nearly reached his ears.

  I shrugged. “I did just invite you to live with me,” I said truthfully.

  His face was peaceful. “You did, didn’t you?” he asked softly. “Shall I go get my things?” he asked.

  I nodded. “Anything else you’d like to add, since we’re in catharsis mode?”

  “Let’s start really living your life. I want you to go after a full-time teaching position, because you talk about it in your sleep you want it so bad. Let’s clean up your past, the things you talk about that are holding you back. I think you may end up looking at my offer differently,” he said, voice nearly bursting with affection.

  I blushed, embarrassed. I thought I was doing such a good job at keeping the skeletons neatly arranged in my closet, but in reality they were bursting out when I looked away.

  “Ready to shake on that, Gentry?” I asked, reluctant.

  He positively glowed. “Yes, Mistress,” he said, pulling me in for a soft kiss. “You know I have a hard time telling you no.”

  “I like giving you a hard time,” I said, giving him a swift spank to the bum. “Fresh boy. Go get your things.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Cerise

  He plopped the single box in the center of my living room floor.

  “That’s it?”

  He shrugged. “That’s it.”

  “You own an entire complex down the Banke and all you’re bringing here is this single box of stuff? No artwork or anything?”

  “Breanna and Steven can keep the rest. I don’t hang on to things long. If I had kept everything I had ever bought, I’d need a home the size of Buckingham Palace. All I need is right here,” he said, taking my hand and planting a soft, cool kiss on my wrist. “And as for the art, I’d like to maybe make the guest room into a studio, considering how often you inspire me.”

  I walked up to the box out of curiosity and sifted around. A few clothes, some books, and a garden spade. I held that last item up. “Planning on digging up the petunias?”

  He laughed and took it from me carefully. “That is the only item I have that belonged to my parents,” he explained gently. “They were very simple people. Maybe that’s why I don’t need more than a box of worldly goods.”

  “I thought your parents were Renaissance vampires. Paintings, extravagance, and the like. Or did they have some crazy over-the-top garden?”

  “My biological parents were farmers,” he said, fingering the garden tool with reverence. “They sold me to vampires.”

  I clamped my mouth with my hand and sunk down to the couch, horrified by this revelation. And horrified at his reaction to it. “How,” I asked, eyes watering, “how can you speak of them kindly after they did something like that?”

  His gaze clouded and his expression was unreadable. “They were only looking out for me,” he explained. “It was the beginning of the Great Depression, and caring for a precocious—and ravenous—five-year-old boy was too much of a burden. And nothing was left of their farms but dust.”

  I shook my head. “But to sell you to vampires!?”

  “I spoke too strongly. A rich couple passed them one day. My parents were on the side of the road, begging for food for me. The couple explained how they were unable to have a child of their own, and despite all the luxuries the world had provided them, the only thing they wanted was impossible.”

  “Which was true,” I whispered, understanding.

  “My parents thought it was in my best interest,” he said, eyes downcast. “Here were wealthy people who could take care of me. Who wouldn’t let me starve. Who would love me.”

  I gripped his hand. “They didn’t hurt you, did they? The vampires?”

  “They never fed from me,” he said softly, “but the restraint was quite difficult. They loved me from afar. We never cuddled like most parents and children do. I was never kissed for getting high marks at school. But they did give me a great deal. They gave me a world-class education, trotting the globe in search of the finest things in life. They gave me companionship, which was what they always wanted. And they gave me this,” he said, gesturing to himself. “Eternal youth. Undeath.”

  “You were never held?” I asked, running my hands up his arms.

  “Not until you.”

  I examined his face, searching for more than what he told me. “Do you love them or hate them?”

  He sighed and paused for a long time. “I love that they saved my parents from a life of poverty, and saved me from painful starvation. I love the intellectual gifts they gave me, and the support I needed during my young life. But once they changed me when I was fifteen, that was when I began to hate them.”

  I sat back and exhaled. I was fifteen when I started to hate my parents, too. My too-strict father and the milquetoast mother he scared away. Who sends a Christmas card every year in smaller and smaller writing that I worried she’d disappear one day. Not that I saw her.

  “I’m sorry this subject matter is unsettling,” William said with a wave of his hands. “I shouldn’t have said so much.”

  “No,” I protested. “It’s just reminding me that I haven’t talked to my mom in a long time.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?” he asked.

  “I just want ice cream,” I said, standing up and heading toward the kitchen. “But I do want to hear the rest of this story, so sit tight.”

  A hefty carton of salted caramel and fudge ripple sat on the freezer shelf, begging me to drown my sorrows in cold sweetness. Maybe that was why I liked William so much, I mused. Cold and sweet like ice cream.

  I pulled him down to the couch with me and prompted him to continue. “What did they do when you were fifteen?”r />
  “They turned me into a killer. They were very traditional vampires, my parents. I always knew what was going on in the lower chambers of my house when I slept in my four-poster bed. I knew they fed off the humans who came inside and never left. And when they changed me, they taught me to do as they did—feed from the living, so I could continue to exist.”

  “But you don’t do that now,” I replied. “You’re . . . progressive.”

  He swirled his finger in the bowl and held a creamy finger to my mouth. “See how you opened for it? Because you craved that taste.”

  I giggled.

  “It’s not exactly the same, but close. I wanted it. For a while, I drank from humans because my thirst compelled me to. I wasn’t old enough or wise enough to learn self-restraint while feeding. And the humans they provided were untrained in vampire feedings. In my coven we train and feed from willing donors, like Harvey. They learn to stay still, make no sudden movements, and slow their breathing. When you’re a new vampire, you can break a neck as easily as a twig on a dry tree. You can siphon the life from a person before they even know what’s happening. I did what my nature told me to.”

  I nodded. “I know teenagers. They aren’t very good with self-restraint. I get it.”

  He stroked my hair. “You’re too willing to forgive. I killed, Cerise. And then I left. I found other vampires who existed through donors and other nontraditional means, and that was that.”

  I was mesmerized by his story, but had to know more. “Do you ever see them?”

  “Occasionally I’ll visit—they’re normally in France, where they’re from. They are always happy to see me, but never satisfied with my lifestyle.”

  I nodded. “So, you feed on only Harvey and others like him?”

  He froze. “Not exactly, Cerise.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, my breath hitching in my chest.

  He took my hand back and looked at my face with fear. “Please, don’t judge me too harshly for this.”

  “You’re home,” I said simply. “You shouldn’t fear anything you say here.”

  He continued, stiltedly but determined to explain. “Harvey isn’t enough for Breanna, Steven, and myself. For this reason, I often feed at the nursing homes. I use IVs on the terminal patients and order blood supplies from the local hospitals.”