Miss America - a BDSM Vampire Tale

by Chrissie Bentley

  He embraced a package, a bundle of newspaper and very slowly he unwrapped it for me. It contained the bellhop’s severed head.

  I called the fourth man the Executioner. Once I had recovered from my hysterics, that is.

  So far, I had been treated – let’s call it humanely. The beatings continued, usually occasioned by what they construed as my infractions; saying “Sir” when they expected “Master”; answering a question that was intended as a comment, or ignoring a comment that disguised a question. Things, I suppose, that I should have learned on that first day.

  I was well-fed, however; and not only had the chains been removed but I now spent much of my time in a small apartment, tastefully decorated, comfortably furnished. The walls were a gentle pastel color, with just the ghost of a floral print still remaining

  – it might once have been a child’s bedroom.

  Of course there was no window, and a single bulb burned ceaselessly in an alcove beside the locked door. But I had a writing desk, a reading lamp, a bed and a couple of chairs, even a handful of gaily colored throw cushions.

  There was an en-suite bathroom, a dresser and a small closet, although I wasn’t certain why – still naked, it wasn’t as if I had anything to put in them. Still, if it were not for my constant dread of my visitors, and the knowledge that, at some point every day, I would be transported back to the dungeon for hours on end, I might almost have felt well treated. The phrase “a bird in a gilded cage” came to mind.

  And while I twittered on my perch I had just one task to perform. On the day that the Magician showed me into the apartment he also handed me a heavy, leather-bound book, and a handful of pens.

  “This is your diary.” I opened the book; the pages were blank – as blank, I thought, as my days and it seemed, for a moment, that the Magician had read my mind. “It is not for your present thoughts and deeds. It is for your memories. Your past. Your autobiography. In this book, we require you to write down, in exquisite detail, every sexual encounter you have ever had.

  “You will begin at the beginning, your first thoughts of sex and you will end at the end with the last person you had relations with before you came to us. We want to read your every thought, your every action, your every sensation and your every motivation. You will leave nothing out and you will embellish nothing. You will write clearly and neatly. And you will obey the rules of grammar and punctuation as obediently as you obey the rules of this establishment. Do I make myself clear?”

  I nodded. “Yes, Sir.” “You will write during the hours you are in these rooms. When you leave them, you will leave the book here so that we might examine it. You will complete at least one story in every two visits to this room. You will not tear out any pages nor will you obliterate any mistakes you may make. A single crossing out will suffice. Again, do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, Sir.” The Magician turned and left; I simply stood, staring at the book until I gave in and pulled one of the chairs up to the desk and with only a few moments thought began writing…

  I was drunk, but I could still feel the blush flood my cheeks. “You really mean to say you’ve never done it?” Lisa’s voice rose an octave and cracked with laughter. “Never?”

  “Never. I mean, I’ve thought about doing it, but….” “Believe me, you give a guy a good blow job, without him having to ask you first, and you can make him do anything.”

  The memories came fast; they protected me from the present. Without even thinking about what I was going to place on the paper, my pen flowed across the page. I was amazed how easy it was – after so many years of using a computer for even the simplest shopping list, I could barely remember the last time I’d actually used my hand to write; was certain that the muscles would simply cramp up the moment I started. Instead, it was as though my fingers had been awaiting this opportunity forever. Just as my mouth had been, all those years ago.

  I don’t know how long I spent writing but my first effort covered eleven pages before I felt the start of what had been demanded was finished. I lay down my pen and read back over the last page or two.

  He had refilled my wine glass so many times that I’d given up counting, let alone saying no. There’s only so many times you can nurse the same day dream before finally giving in when it is pushed into your face... and tonight, after an eternity spent touching, caressing and teasing my flesh, we had finally crossed that final frontier.

  He was mine, and I didn’t care whether it was the wine talking. I was going to take him. I needed to taste him, to set my tongue and lips where my fingers were. Breaking his grip, I slipped down to nuzzle his belly, my tongue flicking out to sample each fresh part of his flesh. For a moment, my mouth hung poised over his cock; I could see it straining upwards to meet my lips, and I planted a light, lingering kiss on the tip – and then moved away and started, instead, to nibble his balls. By the time I turned my attention back to his prick, my jaws stretching wide to engulf the solid monster that stood before me, his breathing alone told me how close he was to orgasm.

  I sat up. His cock was glistening with my saliva, and a bright droplet of pre-cum nudged its way out of the wide eye of his helmet. I licked it off, then squeezed the glans gently. Another droplet, another gentle lick and I felt the gossamer-thin thread of moisture that stretched from his cock to my mouth.

  Reaching for the wine glass on the table, I took a deep draught, and sloshed it around my mouth, bathing my gums and tongue. Then my mouth plunged over him again, and the sensation was indescribable, the deep heat of the wine mingling with the sharp tang of his flesh to send every nerveend in my mouth into delicious paroxysm. I can only imagine how it felt for him, but I’d swear I could feel his cock actually swelling in my mouth, growing longer, thicker, heavier.

  I withdrew. “Again?” he whispered and I smiled, took another mouthful of wine, then another of him. Once more, the cocktail left my entire body tingling – and this time, there was no wondering how he felt. His balls tightened in my hand; any moment now… I pulled away and, in one deft movement, I was astride him, my pussy sucking as greedily as my lips had, sliding up and down that massive cock, willing it deeper and deeper inside me.

  He hammered himself back against me, faster and harder, as he sped closer to the edge, and then he erupted inside me, grinding himself against my body as he pumped every last drop deep inside my snatch. His eyes were closed, and slowly, his thrusting became less urgent. I lifted myself off him, heard the thick, moist “plop” as our flesh disengaged, and I shuffled myself around, to face his softening, sticky prick.

  It was soaked with our juices, and just inhaling the aroma unleashed a tsunami of sensations that set my every nerve a-jangle. I closed my lips around him, drawing taste and tingle into my throat. I licked him, I sucked him; how I sucked, drawing our warm, mingled spendings… the thickly perfumed taste of our loving … into my mouth.

  It was salty, it was sweet, it was good. I swallowed, then searched for more as he moved beneath me, rubbing himself against my face, faster and faster. His thighs were clamped against my ears, his hands held my head in place.

  I held his softness in my mouth, and there was no question that he was soft. But suddenly he gave a cry, a moan and one final, massive thrust, and my mouth was flooding with fresh cum, drawn from who-knows-which reservoir deep inside him. And then he was kneeling, stroking my pussy as he began leaning closer.... Then he buried his face in my dripping pussy, licking first, but then plunging his tongue inside me, sucking and slurping at my flesh, and swallowing hard as his own cum dribbled back into his mouth.

  I wished I had a mirror handy, I wished I had a camera; in my mind’s eye I could see his face smeared with white, and the thought set my hips bucking furiously, grinding my cunt into his mouth, pushing his mess back down his throat. And as one final, keening orgasm threatened to rip my entire body to ribbons, I knew one thing for sure.

  I would never refuse a refill again. CHAPTER FOUR

  Days passed. The writing be
came the sole focus of my existence, an escape route out of this nightmare, back to a time when I was free to go wherever, do whatever and, yes, screw whoever I chose. Neither did I sublimate that freedom in my prose. Rather I exalted in it, allowed it not simply to percolate through the stories but to propel them along, to grant them wings that a simple retelling of events could never have sprouted.

  But the gruesome murder of the bellhop, for that surely was what had happened, chilled me beyond any point of relaxation. For now I knew what these people were capable of and that shattered my earlier conviction that my life, at least, was safe. Nor could I rest easy, even when installed in the apartment. For, having visited me once, the Executioner now became a regular caller, his visits as often as those of his colleagues.

  He never spoke. He never asked questions. He never hit me. He merely stood silently before me and as I watched his penis would begin to rise, expanding and lengthening as if by the power of his will alone. And it was huge. The first time I saw him, before he’d unwrapped his ghastly parcel, I had merely registered his nudity; had spotted his cock, but really noticed nothing out of the ordinary about it. Average size, average shape, circumcised.

  Erect, however, it barely resembled the same organ, or any other that I had ever seen. The head was broad and distended, the shaft was thick and knobbly. And so pale. Horrified beyond even the slightest thought of fascination and curiosity, I could think of nothing more than a great lump of

  driftwood, washed up on the shore after months out at sea, but surmounted by some vile, bulbous sea creature, a pulsating purple jellyfish. I prayed, the first time I saw it, that he would never try to touch me with it, and I continued praying as the days… I think they were days… passed by.

  But I also prayed that something, anything, would happen, to break the suspense of my confinement. The Doctor with his

  examinations, the Weasel with his sex talk, the Magician with his verbal tricks, the Executioner with his repulsive chopper. Four visitors, each with his own unwavering routine, his own sick twisted script. Even the Magician was predictable now, so much so that not only could I anticipate his remarks, I even amused myself by deliberately offering the wrong response, as if to catch his complacency off-balance. It didn’t even dawn on me to wonder how I could ever consider it amusing to invite his sharp slaps. It was simply a chance to break the routine, so I did it.

  I considered other tricks. I wondered what the Weasel would do if I responded to his murmurings. How the Doctor would behave if I reacted to his clinical probings. And what would happen to the Executioner, if I reached out and clasped his distended cock? But I knew that I could never do that; that I would vomit before I could handle that monster. Just as I would rather choke before I gave any of those other animals anything more than the dullest of glares, the most vacant of smiles, the most subdued of responses. Only the Magician entertained me, for I believed that in him lay a key to my freedom.

  I now know that I was mistaken. On the seventeenth day, or what I estimated to be the seventeenth day, the Magician awoke me in the dungeon as usual,

  unchained my arms and legs and, wordlessly, led me out to the corridor that I passed through every morning on my way to and from what I now considered my apartment.

  I always enjoyed this part of the day. Although the vista remained unchanging, a lengthy bare corridor paneled in dark wood, the few minutes that it took to pass from one place to the other was the most exercise I ever got, a chance to stretch my limbs after their night’s confinement.

  The dungeon door was open. I stepped through and turned, as I always did, to the left – to be pulled up sharply, as the Magician grabbed my hair, slammed me to the wall and then to the ground. He placed a booted foot firmly on my shoulder.

  “You do not lead. You do not presume. You have no will. Now get to your feet.”

  Confused – he’d never objected before – I rose and stood stock-still. “You think you understand us, don’t you? You think you know our routines, our rituals, and our methods. Now I will tell you, you do not know shit.” He spat the last word out as though he could taste it in his mouth. “You know only what you are told to know.” A hand slapped at my face, once, twice, three times. I bit my lip, forcing back the tears, refusing to allow him the triumph of a cry, but he did not notice. “Now follow.”

  I still thought we were headed towards my apartment; paused a moment as we reached the door, but was sent sprawling again by a firm push. “You will stop when you are told to stop.” Again I scrambled to my feet, and continued walking, following the corridor as it turned first one corner, then another. How big was this place?

  I began to notice small signs of human habitation… comfortable habitation, that is; a chair that matched the pair in my

  apartment; a small, ornate wooden table upon which someone had placed a vase of freshly picked flowers; a portrait hanging in a frame that glittered – in sunlight. For the first time since I was snatched, I saw daylight, streaming in through a window at the end of what was now a grandiose hallway, something out of Masterpiece Theatre.

  I looked down. The floor was suddenly carpeted, a lush crimson into which my feet were gratefully sinking. The paneled walls were brighter, as though someone took the Pledge to them daily. Oak, I thought. Ahead of me, the hallway opened out into a vast room – the dining hall of a medieval castle came to mind, the walls draped with ornate tapestries, the high ceiling festooned with banners that hung suspended from the beams, the walls lined with chairs, decorated with swords and shields. If we were in the States it might have been someone’s fantasy of a regal ancestral home. In Europe, assuming I was still in Europe, it was probably the real thing.

  I heard voices, and was suddenly horribly conscious of my nakedness. But I continued walking, for to falter would only invite another shove. Besides, even before I saw the people in the room I was entering, they saw me.

  “She walks like a sloven. Straighten up, woman.” A voice to my left, commanding and imperious. And then a second. “She holds her breasts well. How old did you say she was?”

  “Forty-one. A little older than we customarily work with, but no matter.”

  Then, “Approach.” A vast wooden table ran the length of the room. Behind it, three figures sat with their backs to that enormous window. It was several moments before my eyes adjusted to the unaccustomed brilliance, and even then I could only make out their shapes. But I did as I was commanded.

  “You may kneel.” I knelt, upright on my bent knees, my nose level with the tabletop. Through the huge window behind them, I could see only sky; it was a beautiful day out there. I could see the men’s faces a little better now, but I did not recognize any of them. I did, however, recognize the objects that were strewn across the table – some items of my own clothing and make-up, a paperback I’d been reading on the plane, my cigarettes… I suddenly realized that I’d not had one in all this time; had not even missed them. But now I craved one more than ever before in my life.

  And my laptop. One of the figures leaned forward and swiveled it around, so that the screen was facing me. My own eyes were smiling back at me, a freeze-frame of a little movie that Pedro and I shot sometime during that second afternoon… was it really less than two weeks ago?

  The film was only a few minutes in; the action was frozen just moments after I raised his penis to my lips, and moments before I took it in my mouth.

  “You have no right…” I began to say, before the breath, and any hope of completing my sentence, were slammed from my body by the most colossal burst of pain I had felt in my life, a slashing, burning, screeching agony that enveloped my back in white hot fire. I fell to the floor; a second lash

  paralyzed me, left me screaming, writhing. I rolled to my side, desperate to escape whatever was causing such pain, then bellowed again as the whip – for now I saw it, in the hands of a fourth man – sliced into my shoulder, my arm, my breast.

  Five times the whip bit into my flesh, five times I screamed louder th
an I ever had in my life, but even when the beating had stopped, the pain continued to burn, searing my flesh, devouring my ability to speak, or even think. I lay sobbing; even when a voice commanded me to “Resume the position,” I was unable to move, to even imagine moving ever again.

  The whip came down again.

  “Resume the position!” This time, I tried to obey, reached out one arm, the one that had caught the beating, and winced as it buckled beneath me. Somehow I struggled back to my knees.

  “You were instructed in your duties on your first day in our care,” the first voice spoke calmly. “Those duties have not yet been changed. Therefore, I can only presume that your refusal to carry them out is due either to insolence or stupidity. Which would you prefer us to believe?”

  I looked towards the speaker, then towards the figure beside me. The whip remained poised, its cruel lash trailing behind it. “Neither, Sir. I apologize.”

  “Your name is Christine Bentley. You are forty-one years of age, and you are an American citizen. Is this correct?”

  I nodded. “Yes Sir.”

  “You are unwed?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “You are childless?”

  “Yes, Sir.” “I see. Would you mind explaining how it is that a woman of your age, with no

  discernible faults, physical or mental, should remain single for so long?’

  I weighed up the possible answers – because I enjoy it? Because I’ve never met anyone I loved so much that I wanted to wake up alongside them every morning for the rest of my life? Or… “Because I decided that a career was more important to me than settling down and raising a family.”