The Vampire's Seduction
(MF, nc) By: Punchinello punchinello@pulperotica.com
England, 1837
She was a pious little thing, even for a nun. But she wasn't
strong enough. Few are--even nuns. She stood transfixed by my
gaze there at the bottom of the stairs, in the flickering shadows
of the candlelight.
It was really quite pathetic, truthfully. Perhaps too much so.
She was so young and so innocent; she hadn't yet learned how to
control desire, how to harness it and use it to make her stronger
in resisting temptation.
Older nuns, beautiful and devout ladies of 30 or 35, must be
caught bathing or else in their nightgowns, and even then must be
coaxed and even debated. This poor girl, though, I needed merely
to charm, to catch her gaze, hold it, and draw her to me slowly.
The vampire's power to charm is quite astounding. Although it
does not always give him absolute power over his prey, it always
at the least gives the beast a moment to speak his peace, to
really tempt his prey, when she would normally flee from him
without thought; a vampire, after all, is not a beautiful thing
to look upon.
Men--mortal men--see the handsomeness of jaw and the patrician
nose and believe the vampire to be irresistibly attractive to
women. But women--beautiful women--see only the cruel mouth, the
dark eye. In that first moment, they see the vampire for what he
is: a gaunt and pallid creature, cold and unholy. But then, then
the dark eye sparkles in the lamplight; then the cruel mouth
speaks words of wit and style. And their defenses begin to
crumble.
But this poor, pathetic child required no words at all, merely
the sparkling spell of that sinister eye and unholy grace of
those gaunt limbs. She wore her habit, carried her beads, wore
the crux, but they did not help her. She did not turn to them,
find strength in them. Their beauty and their ceremony were only
so much ornament and ritual. She was mine from the moment that
our eyes met, there in the shadows at the bottom of the
staircase.
We rejoined the our hosts almost immediately, but with a new
understanding. She remained entranced, staring into the corners
of the ceiling, responding to questions and conversation only
minimally, and, eventually, begging a chamber in which to lie
down. Our hosts obliged immediately, hospitable young couple that
they were, with their own bedchamber.
I excused myself early, intent on returning late.
By the light of a sickle moon, I brought myself to the balcony of
the chamber. She, my prey, had opened the glass-paned doors as an
invitation, both an enticement and a sign. I crossed the
threshold without difficulty and brushed past the filmy curtains
into the dim chamber, silent and unseen.
The large bed sat apart from the rest of the room, curtained with
the same filmy fabric as that at the balcony doors. I approached
silently, with only the cool, night wind and the song of wolves
in the distance heralding my arrival. She, the woman herself,
parted the curtains.
Her face bore that familiar look of apprehension and relief: I
had come, and I had come to take her. Seizing her gaze, I took
her into my dark will again. She was helpless, but terribly
willing.
So dark and deep was her desire that she could not raise a hand
to clutch the silver crux that hung about her pale throat. I
snapped the chain that held it there and gazed upon it with
perfect impunity. I have not often had the opportunity to examine
the Idol, never in such detail, nor such a beautiful example.
The tiny figure hung pathetically from the wooden beams, iron
spikes driven through its wrists and folded ankles. A gaping
wound was in its side. Blood trickled down its face from pricks
made by the thorns in a wicked crown. The detail was magnificent.
A tiny plaque was nailed above its head and inscribed with
letters I could not know the meaning of. But all in all, it was a
glorious image, truly a thing to be worshipped.
And such a lovely way to die--so grand and picturesque, and yet
so simple and so deliciously cruel: death by slow torture.
I threw this thing away and with it her beads of prayer. She was
left alone to me, without power and without hope. I was saddened
not to have been present to deprive her of that one last vestige
of virtue: her voluminous, black habit. This had been the honor
of the young mistress of the house. I wished I had been hiding
outside the window to watch, but the girl would have known I was
near. Instead, I settled for another sort of disrobing. I pulled
the bedclothes down, further and further, to reveal her to me.
It was painful to me, physically painful, to see the sheets and
coverlet come away and find beneath them a simple, close-fitting,
white cotton shift. On a beauty like her I should have found
small, white, lace underthings done up in bows with tiny pink
rosettes. This would have shown the girl's true nature, her
secret longings and her wild desires.
A woman's undergarments should be the expression of her soul, her
heart's--cloth, the flushed and breathless poetry in her that she
may allow no one else to see but her lover and her very closest
friend.
This melancholy thing, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, trembled
preciously as I unbound the fate's--knot of her hair. The braids
fell loose and the strands came away with natural curl. Ringlets
framed her pretty face so daintily that I nearly wept for
pity--or laughed. In despair and desperation, she turned her face
away, but, in the act, could not help but offer up the buttons on
her breast for sacrifice.
It was then that I kissed her.
It is not a thing I often do, no matter how profound my desire or
desperate my hunger. This was a moment of weakness in me, I know,
smelling on her the scent of love bred from terror and
desperation. Mortals learn quickly to love what they fear; it
takes from the thing some of the power that it has. It makes it
less terrifying.
It was in that moment that I felt for her the love that the
hunter feels for his prey, that sickening love for something come
to offer total victory--and thereby to rob victory of its
sweetness. I kissed her pulsating throat, and I could smell her
rushing blood. I could feel her mortal fear and wicked thrill,
just below the surface, coursing through her veins. In her heart
of desperate hearts, she wanted every moment.
I snapped open all the buttons down the front of her
underclothes. I pressed her back upon the bed. I untied the
simple bows at her sides. Then I pushed the straps from off her
shoulders and there, in the light of the oil lamps upon the
dressing table, were revealed to me those small and soft breasts,
round and white, that she had kept so well hidden for so long.
The tiny rose nipples begged licking and their roundness begged
gentle caress. My cold hands and thin lips responded eagerly, and
her own mouth answered with soft moans and quiet encouragement.
I moved down her lithe and trembling body and slipped the
slippers from off her feet. My hands caressed her calves, pushed
up her skirts, and stroked her thighs. I took hold of one white
stocking and rolled it down her rigid leg and off her pointed
foot. And likewise with the other. I kissed her foot, her shin,
and then the soft, pale flesh of her inner thigh. It was so warm
with rushing blood that it nearly burned my undead lips. What
delicious pain!
I stripped off my shirt and boots and fell upon her with kisses
and soft touches. She moaned again and again and begged softly
for total domination. I held her motionless with my gaze while I
stripped off the rest of my clothing and, naked and pale, I lay
beside her on the bed, stroking her womanly inner flame and
pressing soft kisses on her breasts.
Her own hands roamed my body, clutching, caressing. I pushed her
underclothes down over her hips and then pulled them completely
off her flushed and heaving frame. She lay there, twisting
wildly, caressing her own body, enraptured. I stroked her, kissed
her again upon those soft, red lips, and mounted her.
She spread her knees immediately and pulled me to her. Her warm
fingers guided my rod into her sticky-sweet depths while her long
legs wrapped themselves around my own.
We began a slow and heaving rhythm of thrusts contrary to one
another. After each, she would gasp and sigh, a mixture of
pleasure and pain. Both my strength and my desire were of
supernatural proportions, while her tight virginity was unused to
such ardent motion. Before now, it had surely only experienced
the most timid and guilt-ridden of explorations. Now it took the
full brunt of our passion, each thrust a stab at mortality, each
gasp a gasp for life itself. Her gasps became cries, and her
cries became one long and desperate plea.
She gave herself willingly. I took her wholly and completely,
giving nothing in return, and left her naked and exhausted on the
ravaged bed, bleeding lightly from the slightest of wounds. I can
only imagine the state the mistress of the house in the morning,
when she came to wake her innocent guest--naked and uncovered,
blood staining the rumpled sheets at her neck and between her
pallid thighs....
I am curious. I shall have to know the finish of the tale; and
the mistress of the house is the only creature that knows it, the
lovely thing.
