He would do it! It had been so long! Take the blood offering. Suck her dry. Ease his own gnawing hunger! Why not? She was just a human. A frail, useless human with only a few natural years to live. Why not take her now? Who would know? He could disappear, leave this city and drift again, perhaps back to Europe.
Marguerite was moaning now, screaming her pleasure as he rammed his cock deep inside of her. She clutched his neck, wrapping her legs around his hips to pull him even deeper into her. Julian opened his eyes, seeing her face, a young face still barely defined, cheeks still rounded in innocence. Would he take that life? Snuff out her essence with one greedy kiss?
She cried out now, “Julian, Julian! Yes! Yes, yes, yes!” She spasmed against him, jerking for several seconds. Her dark eyes slowly opened, unfocused at first. The mascara was smeared down one cheek. Slowly she smiled, and then covered his face in a myriad of tiny kisses that suddenly broke his heart. Sweet, trusting girl, bestowing those little kisses on the being who was contemplating her death while he fucked her.
Focusing instead on her hot cunt still wrapped around his cock, Julian moved inside of her, creating the needed friction to come, which he did, arching against her, his eyes squeezed shut, his mouth pressed closed to keep from offering that fatal kiss.
As he lay, his heart pounding against hers, Julian moaned softly. His cock at least was satisfied for the moment, but he knew it wouldn’t be long before he would be forced to take some blood. New Orleans was going to taste the kiss of a vampire.
Chapter Five
Saturday morning dawned in typical fashion, humid and hinting of the heat to come. Grace lay naked on her bed—the sheets twisted around her legs, watching the sky darken from palest pink to watery blue. The heady perfume from the magnolia blossoms wafted through the screen window. The thick creamy petals were wilting, turning brown at the edges in the hot Louisiana sun.
Grace fingered the little card she’d kept on her nightstand since she’d fled the Vampire Ball the week before. She’d tried to ignore it, focusing on her daily duties at work and her usual routines at home. She hadn’t succeeded. It almost seemed animate—whispering as she passed by.
Now that the day had come at last, she’d picked it up again, reading the bold red embossed letters on the front, Robert Dalton—Elder, Coven of the Red Covenant. Flipping it over, she read the words that were already memorized, 124 Charles Street. Saturday, 9:00 p.m.
He had said to call him. Did that mean she needed to call and confirm her attendance at this thing, whatever it was? This meeting of the chosen few. Of the “real” vampires who were going to partake in silly little blood rituals, pretending they were something that couldn’t be real?
Yet, who was she to put it down? Especially when just the thought of human blood now sent a fierce jolt of desire zinging through her? How had she denied it for so many years? And why now had the layers of denial and protection seemed to fall away like discarded garments?
She would go. Not that this was a new decision. She had decided from the moment he’d handed her his card that she would go. Only now, she was finally admitting it definitively to herself. Yes, she would go.
Robert had seemed surprised but pleased when she’d telephoned. He’d given her directions which she didn’t need, having found occasion several times over the past week to wander by the address, not far from her own.
The house was an old colonial-style mansion, in a state of semi-disrepair, but still grand in its own right. Several large weeping willows graced its front lawn. Robert had told her he lived there with several other members of the coven. “It was my grandfather’s,” he had remarked proudly. “And now it’s mine. The entire estate went to me, as the last surviving heir.” I’m rich was the underlying subtext but Grace, who had never much cared about material things, hadn’t been particularly impressed.
Now as she walked down the old cobbled walk to the door her legs felt boneless and her mouth was dry. What was she doing? Something compelled her forward and she found herself at the door, a massive oak affair with an old-fashioned knocker positioned in the center. It was 9:15, as Grace hadn’t wanted to be the first one to arrive.
A nondescript young woman in a black blouse and black jeans opened the door. She was barefoot, and her long blonde hair was pulled away from her face. Grace suddenly felt overdressed in her silk, sleeveless blouse and narrow skirt that tapered just below her knee.
“Come in, you must be Grace!” The young woman smiled, showing uneven teeth and dimpled cheeks. Her voice was kind and welcoming, and Grace felt one of the little knots of uncertainty in her gut unwind.
“I’m Rhonda. I’m a swan. Uh, a donor. Robert’s told me about you. He says you’re new to the scene, but very learned in the lore. A scholar, he said.”
“Oh, well,” Grace said, not sure how to respond.
Rhonda led Grace into a large living room. It was full of comfortable old furniture covered in faded, dark pink velvet. Plump sofas and chairs were distributed about the room and the floors were covered in faded Oriental carpets rubbed threadbare in patches but still quite beautiful. Huge oil paintings graced the walls, depicting scenes of old New Orleans and the Mississippi as well as portraits of dowagers and dignitaries now long forgotten.
Robert was sitting with a small group of people. He turned his head as they entered and stood up quickly, smoothing his hair back with one hand. “Grace! You came. I’m so pleased. I’ve told the others about you, and they are looking forward to meeting you. Come, let me introduce you.”
Grace met several unremarkable people. As she shook one hand after the other, she realized she felt rather let down. She’d been expecting a production, she realized, more along the lines of the Vampire Ball, with costumes and blood dripping from fangs.
Robert placed his hand proprietarily on Grace’s back as he led her to a large chair, pressing her shoulder lightly to indicate that she should sit. “Today we’re going to perform a cutting. Our swans are going to give us their blood. We have three swans here today—Rhonda, whom you’ve met, as well as Gina and Mark. Gina belongs to the coven at large. That is, we all share her. Rhonda—” he patted Rhonda’s arm as she smiled up at him, “—is owned by me and Mark serves Mistress Margo. And this is Frank, one of our select sanguines.”
Grace stared at the donors. Gina, a little woman of barely five feet, was perched on the knee of Frank, a slightly balding man with a kind face. Mark was standing behind his mistress’ chair, a hand lightly on her shoulder. He looked to be in his mid-thirties and his most striking feature was a full head of bright yellow-blond hair.
Mistress Margo was striking, with dark hair streaked with lines of pure silver. Her eyes were a rich brown, set against olive-toned skin. She was dressed in a dark leather vest and pants. She wore no shirt beneath it and her cleavage was pronounced. Grace noticed that Mark wore the same outfit, his arms bare and thick blond hair curling up at the top of his vest.
“And you, Grace? Would you like to be a swan today? Or are you more interested in tasting the sweet offering? You must choose one or the other, you know. We aren’t a freak show put on for your amusement.” It was Margo who spoke, and her voice was rich and deep, smooth as syrup.
“Oh.” Grace felt herself flush and yet her mouth was actually watering as she contemplated the offer of blood. The longing in her belly was so fierce now she had to consciously resist the urge to double over. “To taste,” she whispered. Her pussy was throbbing, and she fancied for one horrible moment that the others could smell her arousal.
Margo laughed, throwing back her head theatrically. “I thought so,” she nodded. “You don’t have the mark of a donor, though Robert was hoping, weren’t you, lad?”
Robert smiled a little, but he looked irritated. Abruptly he said, “Well then. We shall give you a demonstration, and you shall find out for yourself if you are sanguine or simply curious. Rhonda!” His voice assumed an authoritative tone as he called for her. “Come here. I’m going to use you tod
ay for our guest’s pleasure.”
“Yes, sir.” Rhonda hurried over. Like many donors, she was sexually submissive and the giving of blood was a turn-on. With no apparent embarrassment, Rhonda stripped off her blouse, revealing her bare torso. She was small-breasted and had no need of a bra, but Grace had not been expecting the young woman to strip and she found herself blushing. No one else seemed the slightest bit concerned.
Rhonda knelt on the carpet in front of Robert. Her eyes flickered across Grace, who couldn’t help but notice the soft roundness of Rhonda’s little breasts, tipped with creamy brown nipples. She tried to focus as Robert said, “The important thing during a cutting is to make sure that you are both as relaxed as possible, as tension will make the incision more painful. You need to use a clean razor knife or razorblade. You choose a fleshy area such as the biceps, outer arm, thigh, calf muscle or stomach.”
Robert produced a little silver razor knife and flicked up the sharp blade at its tip. “You must make sure the area is clean—” he swabbed at Rhonda’s arm, as if preparing to give her a shot. “You use the blade to make a shallow incision, never deeper than the top of the fatty layer of skin, and never over a vein.”
Everyone was quiet, leaning forward with their eyes on Rhonda, whose eyes were now submissively focused on the ground in front of her. If she was nervous about the fact that her flesh was about to be cut, she didn’t show it.
Grace found herself clutching the arms of her chair, barely breathing. Robert took the knife, sliding it gently against Rhonda’s flesh. Rhonda drew in a sharp breath, but otherwise remained still.
“You must make the cut slowly,” he said, as he drew the blade down, “not too fast or sloppy. And stop if it hurts your donor too much. Rhonda can tolerate the pain, though, can’t you, girl? She likes it, don’t you?” His voice changed when he spoke directly to Rhonda, it was overlaid with sexual innuendo and power. Rhonda nodded slowly, still keeping her eyes to the ground. She drew her tongue slowly over her lips.
Robert turned back to his audience, clearly enjoying the attention. But Grace’s eyes were on Rhonda, on her arm. A thin line of bright red no longer than an inch stood out against her triceps. Little red droplets hung suspended, and Grace actually had to resist an impulse to leap up and suck them away. She gripped the arms of her chair as she watched, riveted. Rhonda’s head remained bowed but her nipples were erect, and her breathing was labored, making her little breasts rise and fall.
Robert now knelt next to Rhonda, ignoring her bare torso, focusing instead on the little cut on her upper arm. He lowered his mouth to the cut and Grace could sense his nervousness, his excitement. His eyes slid toward her as his tongue darted out for a tentative lick. Grace suddenly had the feeling he was performing. He wasn’t a “vampire”, he was a showman and she was his audience.
She could feel his words against her brain. Are you impressed? Look at what I’m doing. I’m sucking someone’s blood. But her own blood-hunger superseded her awareness of the man. He was speaking again, “The trick is not to lose control and bite down, but to use a gentle, firm suction and stop after a minute or so to let more blood fill the area. If your donor feels dizzy, stop and let them lie down and quit for a while. Never take more than a mouthful or a few tablespoons total.”
He covered the little cut, his head obscuring Grace’s view. He sat back after a moment. Rhoda’s eyes were closed and her head had fallen back. Her mouth was slack, partially open, as if she were sleeping.
“Powerful!” Robert exclaimed, looking again directly at Grace. Everyone in the little circle seemed riveted to his performance. He licked his lips, smiling at them all. Grace almost expected him to stand and take a bow. Instead, he said, “Grace, would you like to try?”
“Me?” she responded inanely.
Margo intervened. “Not yet, Robert. She’s not ready to cut yet. But perhaps a taste of the life’s blood would be in order. Would you like to taste, Grace?”
Grace bit her lips. Her teeth actually felt itchy. It wasn’t a razor knife that she wanted to use. She wanted to bite. She wanted to bite down on the tender jugular just visible beneath the skin. God, what was happening to her! Of course, she couldn’t do that. These professed vampires didn’t use their teeth! Of course they didn’t. All this talk of sharp blades and cleansing the area. They made it sound like a procedure in a doctor’s office.
And yet, what else would they do? Grace felt so confused. Why did she have this fierce desire, this burning need, to taste that blood? How had she gone for so long resisting it, only to have it rear itself now with far more power than when she first felt the need at puberty?
“Hello, earth to Grace,” Robert said impatiently. Grace realized with a start she had been daydreaming.
“Yes,” she said, her voice trembling slightly, “Yes, I’d like to taste.”
Robert had pressed a bandage over Rhonda’s right arm. Now he moved to her other arm and flicked out the little blade. With less fanfare, he drew it across her flesh. Rhonda winced but again remained still. Grace knelt down from her chair.
She could feel her own heart hammering against her ribs. The smell of the blood hit her like something palpable. Oh, God. She had to have this. Trying to hide her brazen need, she leaned carefully toward the thin arm. A trickle of blood slid down the pale skin and Grace’s tongue snaked out, eager not to miss a drop.
It melted away like the promise of freedom. She bent forward again, this time locking her mouth over the little wound. Licking across the length of it, she felt the sweet blood coat her tongue. Against her will, a little moan escaped her throat as the blood bubbled up with her gentle suck.
She swallowed, feeling the hot, sweet nectar course down her throat like something magic. For the first time since she could remember, the gnawing pain in her gut was eased. Sometimes only a whisper of discomfort, sometimes a raging ache, it had never truly left her since the onset of puberty, when she first became obsessed with all things vampire.
She exerted all her will to keep from biting. Her canines actually felt longer, sharper, against her tongue. But she knew she mustn’t bite. She must control this bizarre impulse.
Grace felt a curious lightness in her limbs. She felt powerful and as if all her senses were heightened. Suddenly she became aware of Rhonda, of Rhonda’s reactions. She could sense the girl’s sexual arousal. She could smell Rhonda’s desire, mingling with her own. Rhonda’s eyes were closed, but Grace suddenly knew, as if Rhonda had spoken aloud, that the young woman was deeply aroused by this process, in spite of the sting of the cuts on each arm, or perhaps partially because of it.
Grace knew with the part of her brain that could still think that she should sit back. Robert had intoned that she mustn’t take more than a mouthful. And yet, she couldn’t stop. It was good—so good. It was water to a parched desert. It was startling awareness to someone who had always lived in a kind of semi-sleep state, waiting for something that had at last arrived. She sucked harder, giving in to her own desperate craving, though still managing to keep her teeth safely tucked under her lips.
“Grace. Grace. Grace! You need to stop. Now. Grace.” Dimly she became aware of the voices. And then she felt hands, strong hands but feminine ones, as Margo pulled her away from the donor. With deep reluctance, Grace yielded her hold. She felt feverish and suddenly angered that something was standing in the way of her drink.
The mist of blood-fever slowly cleared and she sat back, dazed. Her cheeks were hot, her eyes over-bright. “Jesus Christ, Robert. Where did you find this one? She is the real thing, cher. No question about it.” Margo was smoothing back Grace’s hair, which was matted with sweat. Gently she helped her to the couch, sitting next to her and taking her hands into her own.
Robert was staring. He seemed a little put out, as if he had been expecting a different reaction from her. Perhaps he had been hoping to impress, even to horrify a little. Instead, Grace was the one who had impressed them all.
Turning his attention to his
submissive, Robert opened a little bandage, prepared to press it against the bloodied cut. Oddly, it was no longer bleeding. One could barely detect the wound! He glanced sharply at Grace, his expression confused. “Rhonda!” he barked. “You’re dismissed. Put your blouse on and go wait in my room.” Rhonda stood slowly, her legs shaking. The experience had clearly been an intense one for her as well. She swayed slightly, and Mark stepped over to steady her, taking gentle hold of one elbow. He walked her out of the living room. Just before she disappeared, Rhonda turned back to stare at Grace.
“I don’t know what you think you were doing,” Robert began, his voice injured and imperious.
“Hush, now, Robert. I don’t think she knew what she was doing, did you, chérie? Just leave her be. Rhonda is fine. Why don’t you go check on her, to make sure, Robert?” Margo’s gaze was firm and Robert, his mouth crimped in a tight little line of disapproval, left the room.
Reaching toward a bowl of fruit on the low table in front of them, Margo selected a large round orange. With a little knife, she cut the thick dimpled rind, revealing the sweet fruit. Silently she handed a wedge to Grace, who took it with trembling fingers and lifted it to her lips.
Margo continued to smooth Grace’s heavy hair from her pale face. Speaking softly she said, “Where have you been hiding yourself, my dear? And how long have you felt the thirst?”
Chapter Six
Marguerite stayed the night, though Julian would have preferred that she left. She was passed out in a drunken stupor and he was gentleman enough to let her be. Now that his sexual lust was satisfied for the moment, his thoughts turned back to blood.
“Marguerite,” he whispered several times, but she didn’t move or respond. Focusing his mind on hers, he sensed the fuzzy cotton of liquor-induced unconsciousness. She would have to sleep it off. He doubted she would stir before morning, and so he quietly dressed and left the room.
Sacred Circle Page 6