Girls Who Bite

by Delilah Devlin

  Her nostrils filled with the sultry feminine scent of sex and desire while her lips and tongue explored Lenore’s folds. Evangelina latched on to her lover’s clitoris and sucked greedily.

  Hands burrowed into her hair and Lenore rode her face, grinding so that Evangelina fought to keep hold of the swollen bud she knew was the key to Lenore’s pleasure.

  Evangelina understood that she would follow this woman anywhere. She would do anything for her, just to be with her, just to know this again and again.

  “Oh, yes!” the vampyre cried, bucking furiously. “Bite me. Drink from me, my love.”

  Without thinking, Evangelina’s mouth moved from Lenore’s pussy to her inner thigh. Her fangs ached to bite. Her tongue bristled to taste, and Evangelina sank her teeth into the pulsating femoral artery there.

  Gripping and tugging Evangelina’s hair, Lenore growled. She screamed and she moaned in bliss.

  Evangelina felt wild. Crazed. Blood filled her mouth, and she drank as if she were dying of thirst.

  Lenore’s fingers plunged to massage her own clitoris, and after she’d reached orgasm a second time, she gently pulled away from Evangelina.

  Evangelina gaped, astounded. The two wounds her fangs had created on Lenore’s thigh healed almost instantly.

  Her gaze collided with Lenore’s and overwhelming love filled her with such force Evangelina feared she couldn’t contain it.

  Lenore gathered her into her arms and covered her mouth with her own. Intense passion flared. Love and belonging replaced lust until Evangelina was left breathless and trembling in her maker’s embrace.

  At that moment, nothing else mattered. Not Rudolf. Not society. Not even life.

  She was free. She was soaring.

  Evangelina’s eyes snapped open, and the previous night’s events rushed back over her in a torrent. She had been made immortal by a three-thousand-year-old vampyre.

  After making love time and time again, they’d slept in a casket together, arms and legs entwined, in the dark catacombs of the castle where Lenore lived.

  But now, Evangelina burned with a carnal hunger for the blood. Living blood. Human blood.

  She shook Lenore’s shoulder.

  Lenore opened her eyes and smiled as she brushed back an errant lock of Evangelina’s hair.

  Evangelina resisted the urge to bat her lover’s hand away. “I must feed.”

  “The hunger is always worse at the beginning,” Lenore crooned. She sat, pushing the lid of the coffin away. Lenore climbed out. “I anticipated this moment. Come. I have a gift for you.”

  Shaking, Evangelina took her maker’s hand and climbed out of the coffin.

  Lenore stole catlike through the dank catacombs with Evangelina at her heels.

  Evangelina realized her eyes had adjusted and that she could easily see in the darkness. With impatient curiosity, she watched as Lenore removed a key from a peg on the stone wall and then unlocked a thick steel door.

  The door swung open, its rusted hinges groaning in protest. Evangelina smelled him—her prey—at once.

  “Who’s there?” a panicky voice echoed from the shadows.

  Chills broke out across Evangelina’s scalp and raced down her spine. She salivated, practically able to taste the blood from here. “Hello, Rudolf.” A wicked smile played on her lips and her fangs protracted with a snap. “Look what you made me do.”

  PET DOOR

  Angela Caperton

  I scratched, just like the bitch I am.

  Wet, shivering, hungry, I pawed at her door and salivated, drooled really, a puppy eager to be paddled with a newspaper and scolded.

  I’d watched her for several nights; watched how she’d stared down the valets, eloquently subdued jerks who propositioned her after her performance, salivated as she stroked her tempered violin and fingered the bow before she bound them into the velvet-lined case.

  After all, how many virtuosi performed in tight-laced corsets and four-inch spiked heels? For her, I could even listen to the same Brahms concerto a thousand times before I stabbed myself in the chest with a broken broom handle.

  She was it; she could give me what I wanted, what I needed. One glimpse of her complete and utter control of the bow passing over the strings of the violin and I knew I was lost, or maybe saved.

  The rain fell in buckets, the late-night squall a blessing to me. I shook off the excess water before I scratched at her door again, eyes acceptably pitiable, the tremble in my body horribly exaggerated, but I was in the form of a little wolf-dog. Would she discern the difference between real discomfort and playacted misery?

  The front entryway to the antebellum home made me smile. At the base was a large pet door, one meant for a medium-sized dog.

  I scratched and whined with delicate distress and, even before I was ready, she answered, her corset loosened, breasts freely bobbing in the cups, her tight black skirt gone, revealing red silken panties, a lacy garter and sleek black stockings. She still wore her high heels. I wanted to lick them, but they stood beyond the invisible barrier of her permission.

  I trembled, but this was no act. I wanted her. God, how I wanted her. I whined, unabashed, begging.

  She just stared, fresh rain soaking my pelt again. I tilted my head and lowered my lids, going for a look as forlorn as I could manage. I uttered the slightest yip of distress.

  “Jesus,” she groaned, looking at me as if I were a worm.

  I quivered, excited, wanting more of her contempt.

  “Come on in, you idiot,” she said, and I bloomed inside, my entry blessed. I started forward beyond the threshold.

  And the door bruised my nose.

  She closed it. She invited me in, but closed the door.

  I blinked, stunned. Was she kidding? Was she just being cruel? I knew about cruel; I was born from it. I could be cruel too if provoked.

  The narrow plane of the pet door swung open, kicked by her high-heeled foot.

  I shivered anew, almost unable to move for the shaking of my four limbs. She knew me. Oh, she knew me so well.

  I pushed my nose against the pet door, her blunt welcome freeing me to enter, and I slid between the wet, cold night and the warmth of her house.

  She looked at me as though my damp, musky coat was my fault. Disdain, barely restrained tolerance and chastisement shimmered just a breath away.

  Saliva pooled behind my canines.

  She pointed. “Kitchen. I’ll not have that smell in my carpet.”

  Kitchen. Hard, cold, smooth tiles. I padded across the forest-green carpet to the Spanish-red floor. I wanted to shake, dislodge the excess water from my pelt before it tickled my skin, but the look in her eyes stilled the instinct. I didn’t want to anger her, didn’t want to have her toss me out into the rain again.

  I trembled for the control, ached for the firm grip on the leash. She had it, I knew she did.

  I settled down on the tile, the cut of the grout on the sharp points of my legs welcoming.

  “Good, girl.” She clicked across the tile, filling a bowl with water and setting it on the floor by my head. My tongue lolled as I panted. Was this love?

  She left the kitchen for the bowels of the house. I didn’t even think to follow. I heard her moving in the hidden chambers—bathroom, bedroom; sometimes there was music, once a curt phone conversation with someone I guessed was her manager. I ached to see her again, sniff her, taste her. Her scent seduced me, weakened me. All I wanted was the grace of her approval.

  Okay. Maybe that wasn’t all I wanted, but for now, for this first meeting, it would be enough.

  My ears twitched as she walked toward the kitchen. She wore silk, an ivory sleep shirt that barely covered her ass. She flipped on the light, blinding me for a moment. She ignored me as she poured herself a disciplined glass of wine. She leaned against the counter, her back to the sink, and reached out her hand, never looking at me, her silent permission a gift.

  I rose quickly and went to her, my wet nose easing under her neatly
trimmed nails. I wanted those fingers to pet me, stroke me, fall across the bridge of my long nose in a testy tap. I looked up at her with wanting eyes, hoping she’d look down. I needed her to see me.

  She smoothed the short hair between my eyes, then blessed me with a glance, her lake-blue eyes cool but depthless. I wanted to swim in them forever, to see them change from calm to calculating, to see fire burn within—for me, her pet.

  I looked into those amazing eyes, my desire for her tangible, a living thing I willed my gaze to instill in her. She didn’t blink, didn’t flinch and didn’t soften as my animal-black eyes focused completely on her blue. The tile beneath my padded feet disappeared, the walls melted into a haze of desire, the counter she leaned against slid away from the two of us, her fingers drifting off my head to hang before my nose.

  I tilted my head and lolled my tongue out, licking the back of her hand, drunk on the taste of her. Spice and heat, the pulsing life in the delicate veins that tempted my teeth and called to my hunger, the musk of her sex just inches away, the scent as alluring as warm, buttery pastry. My tongue reached out again, a long, wide swath of favor, my gaze never leaving hers.

  Lightning flashed across the windows and the loud, immediate crack of thunder broke the spell. She tapped my nose twice, a slight admonition for my forward affection. She pointed to the tile where I had been sprawled, and like a good girl, I circled around the spot and fell to the floor, her flavor still rich in my mouth, fueling my need to feed, and my desire for her leash.

  She watched me for a few more seconds, not long enough for a binding stare. Then she smiled and walked out of the kitchen, flipping the switch and taking the light from the room.

  The storm continued through the night, shrouding the stars and moon, but I didn’t care. Her roof was all the sky I needed, but I felt the darkness fading, the dreaded sun gaining strength in the east. I did not want to leave, but I knew I must return home to safety, utter concealment, apart from any trace of daylight.

  I wanted to see her one more time, struggled against my desire and then padded quietly to the front door. I bumped my head against the pet door and slipped into the night, the rain a welcome misery as I raced through the darkness toward the secret place that would keep me safe.

  Until night came again.

  I waited an hour after the lights faded from the windows of her house. The door was closed, but the barrier to my entry had been removed by her stern welcome the previous night. I’d come to the house as a little wolf again, and very carefully I pushed at the pet door, thrilled when it swung easily on oiled hinges.

  Inside the house, I renounced the wolf and stood upright, bare, my long black hair falling over my breasts and back. The shadows of the house clothed me, and I walked into the kitchen, overjoyed to see a bowl of water, and beside it, another bowl, empty, and a neatly folded blanket.

  She knew I’d come back, though she could hardly guess the form I would wear.

  I followed her scent up the stairs and paused at her bedroom door. Breathless, I peered into the room to stare at her, watch the life rise and fall in her chest, hear her heartbeat. I wanted the taste of her in my mouth and down my throat almost as much as I wanted her control.

  She did not sleep restfully. She squirmed and tossed, throwing off the duvet and the sheet to expose her naked body to the air and my hunger. The perfume of her cunt tickled my nose and filled my mouth with saliva. It would be so easy to take her now, sink my teeth into her thigh, drink, charge, get her off on the pain and the erotic spell of the exchange—her blood, her life for my dark, dangerous kiss. I could have her, make her my toy, make her dance for me, force her to do anything I wanted with one sharp kiss: my ragged, knotted sock, shiny with playful use, limp and without will.

  He had done that to me. He had claimed my soul eighty-two years ago. He said he’d been enthralled by my youth, my spirit, my natural desire to submit. He’d bound me to him with his steel control, his desire my command. He’d sealed our union with a bite, a kiss, a brand on my inner thigh that showed the dimples of his fangs’ eternal penetration. When my heart stopped, my last breath joined the smoky layer of sin in a Boston speakeasy. Three nights later, he allowed me to feed, commanded me to kill, his will a lash on my skin, welcome, but bitter.

  Thirty-six years later, his ashes severed the leash and I was free, hungry and anxious for another firm hand. I found Mistress Rika three years later, an escaped Yugoslavian engineer working in St. Paul. Her steel control had me begging for her hand across my ass or holding my head to her pussy until I lapped her to orgasm again and again. She filled my ass with plugs, teased my clit mercilessly until I drooled like a puppy around the ball gag in my mouth. She owned me and I loved it. We were inseparable.

  I knelt at her feet, kissed her toes, cooked for her even though I could not eat, and loved pleasing her in every way. She knew my nature although we never spoke openly of it. Maybe it was her eastern European history, but she didn’t ask about my daytime absences, didn’t question my lack of appetite or my unbeating heart under her ear when we slept entangled. For five years, we loved and lived, moving twice, once to Los Angeles, then again to Atlanta. It had been in Atlanta that my greed broke the spell between us. The humidity of that old Southern city made her sweat when we made love, and there in the golden light of candles and moonlight, I saw two gray strands of hair curling from her temple.

  Forever was mine to give.

  I drank deep, gave her my bleeding breast as the last breath left her, then pulled her beyond the beat of her heart.

  I felt old and wise then, but I was really still a foolish child who knew too little of the rules that shaped my kind. My gift was our doom. Mistress Rika, my beautiful masterful lover, wore a leash when she returned to me, my leash. Always would she answer to me, always would I feel her most intimate thoughts and feelings. Gone like a guttered flame was the intense mystery of what she wanted, lost forever the joyful game of guessing what she needed.

  I watched Rika thrive. Six months later, we could no longer pretend. I know she is still out there. I feel her still, but we will never again be lovers.

  I stepped past the threshold of my new obsession’s room as her duvet fell with a whisper from the bed to the ground. She curled against the chill, tucking one foot under the other. I carefully eased onto the foot of her mattress, retrieving the duvet. I pulled it up around her legs, a plush wall between us. Her sheets held her scent and a ripe lust surged through me from my lips to my nipples to my pussy. Nothing flowery or soft to her; she smelled of nutmeg and ginger, earth and heat.

  She turned over, fully exposed, and I maneuvered to accept her feet against my belly. She stretched, a languid arch of back and legs, a sleepy gurgle in her throat. I watched her eyes slit against waking, and her heart tripped as groggy recognition tangled with dreamy disbelief. I didn’t move, my head cradled on my elbow, my worshipful gaze penetrating her lashes, my will kissing to calm her fear, chaste and respectful until it slid away to join her illusions in dreams.

  She sat up slowly, rising on her elbows, and in the deep shadows of the room, she took three steady breaths and pressed her feet into my belly, pushing me farther back until my butt rested hard against the thick rods of the brass frame.

  She settled back, pulled the duvet cover up over her body and kept me pinned beneath her heels. Sensations lived inside me. The still heart that once measured my desire now burned with longing, the acid of my blood on my tongue a reward for staying still. I bit my lip against a whimper or a yearning touch.

  I felt the dawn imminent outside, but I didn’t move. Her feet, soft yet strong, held me against the brass rods even as she half dreamed. I had wanted this control, this attention for more days than I could count. The agonizing ash of morning’s kiss would be worth another second of her French manicure cutting into my belly.

  But she knew enough to spare me. Husky-voiced, her command rang sharp. “Go the way you came.”

  Release. Sweet, understanding releas
e.

  She rolled over as if in a huff, her face buried into the pillows, her neck with its thick pulse of life, yanking mercilessly at my hunger. I swiped my arm against the saliva on my lips, took her final loving kick from the bed with glee and left the bedroom.

  My pelt never touched the edges of the frame.

  I didn’t wait the next night. The lights were still on in the kitchen when I slipped through the pet door and into the warm fragrance of her. She stood there, a glass of wine casually cupped in one hand; the slight curve of her full lips and the cool control in her gaze had me on my belly as I crawled to her.

  She wore a simple black slip, the scents of the concert hall faint against the spice of her. Her cunt beckoned me to her, to life, to heat and sex. I wanted to feast, and I knew she knew what I wanted.

  “Bold, aren’t you?” she asked as I reached her feet. I trembled in my wolf’s clothing. “I like bold.” She reached down and scratched me behind the ears. The churn of lust within my soul tested my form as my vision blurred and my longing struggled against claws and fur. My tongue lolled out to her bare toes, painted blood red, and I tasted heaven, savory, warmly aromatic, true.

  My pelt melted away. Naked, on hands and knees, I kissed her feet, laved my tongue over the fine bones of her foot and worshipped her ankles with nibbles and controlled sharp nips.

  “Wicked pet,” she breathed, her voice heavy, the scent of her pussy washing over me, lush and rich, cream and earth, the very flavor of desire.

  I looked up at her, my fingers trembling above her shin. I wanted to touch with my fingers, with my lips, but waited for her permission.

  Some women might recoil in horror or reach for a knife from the block on the counter, but she just looked down into my face, exploring my soul, and as the thick moments passed, we bartered our relationship.

  She reached out, stroked my unkempt black tresses, wound her fingers into them and yanked my head back. In a single moment, she sealed our fates.