Sips of Blood

by Mary Ann Mitchell

  Infrequently the housekeeper would bring her daughter.

  "Cecelia, we'd better go now. Your father will be home soon."

  Matilda never allowed her daughter more than a few words with Louis, explaining that she didn't want Cecelia to be an annoyance. But Louis knew better than that. She simply didn't trust Sade. On the other hand, Sade did everything in his power to spend time with the seventeen-year-old.

  "Perhaps you could have a role in one of my plays," Sade offered the wide-eyed girl.

  "You write plays?"

  "Oui, and quite a few have been produced."

  "Where? In New York City?"

  "In France."

  "Paris?" she breathlessly asked.

  He neglected to tell the girl that the plays had been produced at the Charenton insane asylum.

  "At the Comédie-Française." He had submitted there twice, and only their lack of perspicaciousness had prevented them from producing the plays.

  "I'm sorry, sir. Cecelia, didn't I ask you to come along five minutes ago?"

  "Obey your mother and run along." He almost reached out a hand to touch the girl's cheek, except that he was aware of the mother's intent observation.

  He watched the girl leave. Her high, tight, round bottom quickly slipped away from his view. He was tempted to see her to the car, except the mother might become too suspicious. He meant to have the girl and wanted to be sure to keep his channel of communication open to her.

  * * *

  His full head of hair was almost white. At least he had hair, unlike her father, who had but a fringe. Louis Sade was sophisticated. He could talk about anything, and she'd even bet he'd been everywhere. He used his slender body to magnetize a room. His speech had only a slight accent. Oh! But she loved the occasional French word he would drop into a sentence. His features were noble and warm. The few lines his face possessed instilled confidence in her that he had and could still wield terrific powers. His eyes seemed to contain a chuckle, especially when he looked at her.

  Cecelia turned her head to look at her mother, who was driving the old Ford home. He had a Jaguar and even a Rolls Royce and a Harley motorcycle. Once she had seen him riding the Harley. He was returning from a vacation in the city. If only her mother hadn't rushed her off before she could ask him where he had stayed, what he had seen, to whom he had spoken, what and where he had eaten. Shit!

  "What's the scowl for?"

  The sound of her mother's voice made Cecelia's body jolt.

  "You lost in your own world again?"

  Cecelia shrugged.

  "I wish you wouldn't talk to Mr. Sade."

  "He likes me."

  "He's much too old to like you."

  "What does that mean? I can only talk to nerds like seventeen-year-old Joey?"

  "You used to like Joey before you met Mr. Sade."

  "Joey's okay for a movie and a pizza."

  "Mr. Sade is old enough to be your father. You and he could have nothing in common."

  "He writes plays and has had them produced in Paris at the..." The French what? "At a big playhouse. And he said..." Cecelia decided not to share his offer of putting her into one of his plays. "That they were very well accepted. Matter of fact, he was a sensation in all of France."

  "He said that?"

  "Yup." Cecelia rested her back against the seat and smiled.

  They'd walk arm and arm down the Champs Élysées, the paparazzi sneaking shots for the world newspapers and magazines, the star-struck begging for autographs. She sighed.

  Joey and she had had sex a handful of times, and they were getting good at it. When one would learn of a new position they would try it together. She was supple. Maybe she could surprise Louis Sade with the knowledge and ability she had.

  "Uncertain of the torture, he pictures it in a thousand forms, one more frightful than the other; the least noise he hears may be that of his approaching assassins..."

  Justine

  by the

  Marquis de Sade

  Chapter 9

  La Maîtresse had torn a piece of cloth from his white oxford shirt to use as a blindfold. He remembered the viciousness in her eyes and the strength in her hands. She had already chained his nude body to the grey cement wall, preventing him from stopping her.

  Now he felt the coldness of the wall, the bite of the manacles, the heaviness of the chains, and the smell of freshly oiled leather. Blindfolded, he could not see but heard and experienced the breeze caused by the whip's sharp crack as it passed near him. Which whip had she chosen?

  There were the bullwhips and blacksnake whips, but he had never seen her use one of those. Her favorite had always been the signal whip, used in the vanilla world to command dog sled teams. She had frequently whipped him into following her commands.

  He felt the splash of the whip across the tops of his feet.

  Silence. Stillness. Was he alone? Had she only meant to tease him? The passage of time continued. No breath except his own, which seemed more ragged. No gusts hinting at movement. Silence. Stillness.

  Would she leave him in the dungeon alone, and if so, for how long? Would he be able to count the time in minutes, hours, days?

  "Maîtresse," he called.

  Silence. No answering lash for crying out. Silence.

  The minutes passed. Did he smell something in the air? His own sweat heavy with fear. The drops of salty sweat languidly moved down his features, occasionally settling into a furrow where it would build until the sweat overflowed and continued its progress down to his chin.

  Sweat gliding down his chest, matting his hair, tickling the flesh covering his ribs.

  "Maîtresse." This time he screamed.

  Silence.

  "Give me a taste of the whip, but don't leave me alone," he shouted.

  Silence.

  He pulled on the chains. He attempted to slip his hands and feet out of the manacles. Useless effort.

  What was the time? He had to get home to his family by nine. He was expected to have dinner with his wife and teenage children.

  "Maîtresse."

  He was disoriented. Did he face the door? Was he even in the dungeon or in the midst of a nightmare?

  Silence. Stillness.

  His skin tingled. Prickly nerves searching, desiring the touch of leather, the kiss of pain.

  Silence.

  His arms and legs spasmed, jerked in the enforced tension of the confinement.

  "Maîtresse!"

  Quiet. His fingers touched the palms of his hands, grabbing for something solid. He threw his back against the wall. He was sobbing. His right foot slipped in the sweat of his sole, but he couldn't fall, he couldn't move; fixed to the darkness of his world.

  He breathed furiously fast. Too shallow. Not enough time to take in air. Not enough oxygen to feed his lungs.

  A smell. A sound. The crackling of burning paper; the ash of paper. Something more. Cloth. His clothes! No, no, she wouldn't do that. The ripping of cloth to fuel the flames.

  "Maîtresse!"

  A rod fell to the floor. Metal, heavy.

  Oh my God! Don't brand me, please.

  They had discussed branding. Ornate letters marking him as hers. She had shown him the branding iron. It had looked used.

  Heat singed the hair on his chest but never touched the flesh. The odor of burnt hair, his hair. Then the heat was gone.

  Where would she chose to brand him? He heard the rattle of metal against metal. The iron being reheated.

  A hiss and a spit.

  A gloved hand touched his cock. The sting of alcohol from damp cotton.

  "No!" he screamed.

  The release of the whip bit his flesh.

  "More!"

  Chapter 10

  Marie looked forward to meeting Keith's son, Wilbur. Not a very promising name, but that decision had been in the hands of his father.

  Another fifteen minutes and they would arrive. She had made her love cocktail, complete with rose leaves, white sugar, Grand Marn
ier, white wine, and rosé champagne. And for Dad there was the Schlitz.

  Her dress was cut low, her heels high, and her jewelry came from the safe. Designed by the jewelers Böhmer and Bassenge, the necklace contained five hundred and forty diamonds. So expensive that Marie Antoinette had refused it when her husband offered to purchase the necklace for her. But Marie-Madeleine Masson de Plissay hadn't had to pay for it. Instead she offered Bassenge his life in return for the gift of the necklace. Later she would suck his life to seek revenge for a copy that he was making.

  She heard Keith's dusty car pull up in front of the house. Early, but she was ready. The car doors slammed. She counted the seconds. The doorbell rang.

  Slowly she walked to the hall, sucked in her belly, and threw the door open.

  Stunned either by her necklace or the amount of cleavage, Keith said nothing. Behind him stood a tall young man, six-two, six-three, she judged. His black hair brushed the shoulders of his meticulously made charcoal suit. Stylish, natural fiber. A good sign. His features were strong: well-defined cheekbones, eyes the color of coal, nose pronounced, and lips filled out with a smile. Charming.

  "Wil Bridgewater." The young man nodded and switched a decorative cane to his left hand so that he could extend his right hand. She felt the heat of his hand in hers. The flesh was softer than she had expected, unused to manual labor.

  "My father likes to call me Willful." His teeth brightened his knavish face.

  "I love willful men," she replied, waving the two men into her house.

  "I never had that impression," Keith grunted and moved to the salon, where he seated himself in his favorite Charles VI chair.

  The son allowed her to lead the way. The heat of his body made her dead flesh sizzle.

  "Sit down on the sofa, Wil. I'll go get some refreshments."

  "We can't stay long," Dad interrupted.

  "You've just arrived." She heard the edge in her own voice.

  "And we have nowhere else to be," Wil said, crossing the room to the velvet sofa. He twirled his cane once before setting it down against the sofa's bulky rounded arm. His lissome body filled the room with the scent of salty-sweet blood.

  Could he be pliant enough to earn a trip to the dungeon?

  "Damn, can't you ever keep your mouth shut, boy?"

  Marie had almost forgotten Keith.

  "I have lots of Schlitz..." She glanced at the son. Certainly the father had done nothing to deserve endearments. "Keith."

  "At least that's better than that deary stuff."

  "Oh, is there something you forgot to tell me, Dad?" He winked at his father and turned a crooked smile on Marie.

  "God forbid. I'll be back in a minute."

  Marie's mouth salivated while she poured the love cocktail into two champagne glasses. Her fangs ached and her hand shook while lifting the Schiltz. Keith would not prevent her from having his son.

  Wil had already seated himself on the sofa when she returned. First she brought the Schlitz to Keith. The stench of the old man's blood turned her stomach. But a fresh kill might ease Liliana back into the fold, if Liliana believed the death were accidental. She placed the tray on a side table and approached Wil with the glasses. The old man was brittle, an easy kill, a twist to the neck and... But with the father gone, would the son stay?

  "Did you grow up in this town, Wil?" she asked as she passed one of the glasses to him.

  "Yes. Hated it. Couldn't wait to leave. Even ran away a few times before I turned eighteen. On my eighteenth birthday I was out the door."

  "Pimping. I found him in Greenwich Village pimping other young boys. At eighteen he moved in with a queen, and I'm not talking royalty. Disgusted, I let him be." Keith swallowed a gulp of the beer.

  "I apologize for my father. He doesn't understand how to act in polite company."

  "Don't apologize." Cautiously she reached out and touched Wil's arm. Solid muscle. "Your Father and I are..." There was a moment's hesitation. "Old friends."

  "I take it that you'd never move back here." Her fingers still pressed against his arm, she allowed herself the joy of tightening her hold.

  Wil winced and turned his head to face her. Immediately she withdrew her hand.

  "No, never."

  She saw the hint of a bruise on his neck. A human bite, it had not drawn any of his precious blood. A faded scar on his left jaw fascinated Marie. She ran her thumb across the whiteness of the scar.

  "How did you get this?"

  "Sex play gone awry," he truthfully answered.

  "A true professional would only leave desired scarification. Never a mark left in error."

  "I was young."

  "And now you are old?" She laughed and caressed his cheek in the palm of her hand.

  "You're a dirty old lady," Keith spit out.

  Marie did not remove her hand from Wil's cheek.

  "We all have a calling and are driven to sate our secret desires whenever we can. Some like the lick of the whip; others like to apply the taste of leather."

  "I'm getting the hell out of here. Wilbur," Keith called.

  Marie easily held the son with her eyes. Her fingers slid down to undo his tie. As the tie came free, she grabbed each end of the material and drew it tightly around Wil's neck. His breath caught. She loosened the hold and removed the tie from his shoulders. Using two fingers, she flicked the buttons open on the oxford shirt. Fine thin cuts criss-crossed his chest. He had recently made love. She yanked the shirt out of his pants to reveal the jagged loops that pierced his nipples. Not smooth rings, but crenulate gold pierced his skin. She slid her pinkies into the loops and pulled gently at first, then more forcefully, watching his eyes take on a glassy look of desire. His tongue wet his lips. Her pinkies left the loops to wonder down to the zipper of his pants.

  "Christ! What are the two of you doing?" screamed Keith, who reached over to separate them.

  A burning fire of anger rushed up her chest and she lashed out, knocking Keith to the floor. He fell short of the stone fireplace, hitting his head instead on the cushiony softness of the Aubusson rug.

  "Dad!" Will yelled. He stood and then dropped to his knees beside his father.

  "Wil?" Marie softly said.

  "Dad, take it easy. Try to catch your breath."

  Ignoring the panting old man on the floor, Marie stood and put a firm hand on Wil's ebony hair. She clutched a handful of hair and drew his head back so that he was looking up at her.

  "Come back without the old fart."

  "What does one want when one is engaged in the sexual act? That everything around you give you its utter attention, think only of you, care only for you... every man wants to be a tyrant when he fornicates."

  Philosophy in the Bedroom

  by the

  Marquis de Sade

  Chapter 11

  La Maîtresse beat him long enough to draw blood. Her tongue caught the rivulets in strong lapping motions. Garrett had never seen La Maîtresse so impatient, so out of control. Her hands shook with the intensity of her emotion. Her glazed eyes looked beyond him. Could she even hear him?

  A wail issued from her throat as she beat him with a strength far beyond her size. Garrett's eyes watered, not from pain, no, he knew there was someone else in her mind. A vision of another slave. Someone had managed to take control of La Maîtresse.

  "Stop!" he shouted.

  Not the safe word, but Maîtresse dropped the whip and slowly backed away from him. Her eyes focused, a hiss came out in a spray of saliva, and the blood on her lower lip hardened into a brown stain. The black corset she wore suddenly seemed too tight for her body, too confining for the energy that pumped her breasts into a spillage of flesh.

  "Shut up, you piece of shit!" Her voice cracked.

  He watched her grasp for control, but it kept slipping away.

  "You are not worthy to speak to me, not even in a whisper. You're just shit that I wipe from my shoe. You're a turd from the bowels of the devil."

  Maîtresse r
eached up and ripped away the material covering her breasts. Balanced on spiked heels, she slowly walked toward him. The shower of spit that hit his face caused him to close his eyes. Roughly she blindfolded him with the material in her hands. Edged in black lace, the material felt scratchy. But not warm. Not body temperature as he had expected. Indeed, her touch never heated his skin. Cold, chilling, icy, and yet the cool hand that caressed his face drove his body into desire. He could feel the erection. She withdrew her hand.

  "Tell me a story. Tell me your secrets. When you're in the midst of fucking your mate, what drives you? Certainly not the insipid stench of her pussy. Nor the angular shape of her body. What is it you see, hear, and feel inside your head? Tell me, you weak ass!"

  "The touch of leather splitting my skin. The whistling of the whip as it seethes through the air before striking me. I see you training me, guiding me, helping me to find my true pleasure in serving you. Please don't be angry because I envied another."

  "Another?" she asked.

  "God, I'm so sorry," he shouted. "I coveted your touch and attention, and I'm not worthy of either."

  The whip cracked in the air, and he felt the strands cross his flesh. But the power no longer fed the sting. The pain paled in comparison to the earlier blows.

  I must win her back. I must prove my worth as a total slave.

  Chapter 12

  Exhausted, she rolled onto her back. Cecelia always slept deeply after masturbating. The deep, dark sleep of sinners. She smiled. "Dirty old man," she muttered, remembering the fantasy she had had of her mother's employer.