Evil kidnapping smut (content warning for stalking, kidnapping, abuse, noncon, suicide, Stockholm syndrome):
Two years before we first met, I took up the hobby of bird watching. Those days, my legs still had some energy left in them. So I would enjoy the peace and quiet of hearing birds chirp in a forest grove, far away from the rest of the world. Once, I fell during a hike and couldnât get back up. By chance another hiker found me while I was lying back listening contently to the song of a bright red cardinal in the branches above me. I believe at this time you were still in college, and had just started the first wobbly steps of transition.
Six months before we first met, I took up the hobby of people watching. Hiking by myself was impossible, so I would merely set my cane down beside a park bench and watch from the shade of a wide willow tree as people strolled, danced, and raced along the fields before me. You had graduated by then, and had just moved to my city with a new gang of friends.
One week before we first met, I resolved to kill myself. I wanted so badly to return to those wild and unkempt forests, leave the barren fields and parks with their mocking passerbys, that I was willing to look for them in the afterlife. I made up a plan, got my affairs in order, and ensured my camera had as much film as it could carry. Your friends planned to hike the same trail as I did, and you went along gleefully.
On the day we first met, I knew my life had purpose. Lying back on a short stump, waiting for my body to return to the land around me, I was surprised to see you pass through the trees right before me. Young, beautiful, ablebodied, you were everything I wanted to be, and yet you didnât even cast me a glance. From there to the parking lot I followed far behind you, crawling over the dirt and leaf litter, just to take a picture of your license plate as your car pulled out. You were in the backseat of your girlfriendâs Subaru, the day nothing more than a happy memory.
Five days after we first met, I tracked down your apartment. It wasnât too difficult, although I did have to go through a few rather shady individuals to find what I was looking for. A divorced ex-cop gave me your address after I passed him two-hundred dollars and said you hit my car without leaving a note. You and your girlfriend left the apartment that night to go on a moonlit date, never knowing I was sitting at a bench just across the street.
Five weeks after we first met, I could fill an album with the pictures I had taken of you. From your home to your little receptionist desk, at the grocery store and the gym, even on your weekly dates to the arcade. I had collected images of you from every angle, every emotion, every state of undress. You were enjoying life as a young liberated woman, and I so badly wanted you by my side.
Six months after we first met, I decided to make you mine. I caught the exact moment your girlfriend struck you across the face. For a moment you even looked me in the eyes as you fled her complex with tears streaming down your eyes. Did you recognize the pain in my eyes? Did you have anyone else in your life that cared about you the way I did? Have you ever had someone like that? You crashed at a friendâs place that night only to come back to your girlfriend the very next day. I knew you needed my help.
One week before I made you mine, you lost your job. I had to make sure there would be no one looking for you when the time came, and that meant hurting you out of necessity. I knew everything about your schedule, your workplace routine, even when you had coworkers around that mightâve given you an alibi. So when the time came and I put in a fake sexual harassment complaint about a trans woman that fit your description, your boss was all-too happy to send you crying home with a pink slip. You must have been so scared, not knowing I was watching over you the whole time.
The night I made you mine, you had just been kicked out onto the streets. All it took was a few noise complaints about loud sex in the apartment while your girlfriend was away for her to throw you out of her life and into my arms. You were so exhausted, so miserable, that you practically melted into me as I drove the taser into your neck. Having you cradled in my lap as I drove you to your new home made all the months of planning worth it. You awoke to find yourself restrained and gagged in my bathroom.
Twenty-four hours after I made you mine and you were already trying to escape. Apparently the grab bar I had you chained to wasnât nearly as strong as I thought, and over the course of your first day you managed to rip the thing straight out of the wall. Iâm lucky you were so caught up in your frenzy to bash down my front door that you didnât notice me creeping up from behind. Obviously I had to punish you for it, but a few good whacks to your knees with my solid wooden cane got across how much it hurt me, physically and emotionally, to have to chase after you like that. You looked so pathetic groveling at my feet and apologizing for your escape attempt. I just had to snap a picture.
One week after I made you mine, I bathed you for the first time. You had settled into your new routine of waking up beneath me, curled up like a dog at the base of my bed frame with your new leash wrapped tight around one of its heavy wooden supports, and I thought it was time for a reward. We bathed together, since I didnât have a bar anymore to help me stand up straight in the shower, and I made sure to scrub all the grimy places under your metal shackles. You trembled and shook at the slightest touch like a puppy getting affection for the first time. Perhaps the shampoo got into your eyes at some point, because you just wouldnât stop crying even as I held you close in the warm waters.Â
One month after I made you mine, I couldnât help myself anymore. I had just set down your dinner bowl when you lunged at me. You had been doing so well, would lie all docile while I scrubbed you in the bath and whimper so sweetly while I cuddled you at night, only to explode out in sudden rage. I tried to punish you with my cane, and then even the taser, but each time you only snapped back more viciously. I decided to reassert dominance in the only way I knew how. We both apologized to each other the entire time, but in the end I still felt dirty as I dismounted you. I threw away the strap-on that night and the feeling went away. You were very quiet for a long time afterwards: docile but absent, attentive but always far-away. Life was almost mundane with you acting more like a doll than the person I most cherished, accepting everything I gave you without so much as a word in response.
One year after I made you mine, we celebrated our anniversary. I marched you into the living room and opened the blinds. For the first time in three-hundred-and-sixty-five days you saw the afternoon sun filter through, even the hazy shades of people walking along the sidewalk outside. There was a knock at the door and I saw you stare at it with an uncomfortable mix of dread and anticipation. The pizza boy gave me my order and you a small awkward nod. The message was clear: the rest of the world had moved on from what you once were, and now you were only mine. We watched a movie and you let your pizza grow cold, too preoccupied with sobbing throughout the night into my lap until you ran out of tears.
Two years after I made you mine, you had adjusted quite comfortably to your new life. Your old dull self was gone, replaced by a wonderful new you that was ever bubbly and obedient. I lengthened your chain and even let you wander around the house freely with supervision. You made most of our meals and, when my legs had all but given up, you were there to carry me around the halls and lay me gently down on the couch. Youâd even bathe me from time to time when the pain got to be too much. You still had moments of grief for your old life. Some nights I would hear you sobbing in the den of pillows and blankets I had made for you at the base of my bed. When Iâd drag you under the covers with me, youâd clutch at my arms and beg for me to take your old life away, to remove those memories that came by like ghosts in the night. Youâd weep in my arms like that for hours, until eventually sleep came to take you away from the nightmare. I promised myself that we would leave this city and all its bad memories behind. For your sake.
Itâs been five years since I made you mine. We live in a small cabin in northern Maine with a few big dogs. Itâs quiet out here. When it snows you cuddle up beside me and warm my aching joints. During summer, I watch you from the porch as you explore the wilderness around us, the dogs rustling up bright-feathered birds into the sky. You could run - itâs only an hour or so drive to the nearest town - and in my state I would have no way to catch up to you. But I know you never would. The monitor around your ankle is worn like a wedding vow, and the chain I weave between your wrists every night is a kiss that means âI love youâ. You fret sometimes when we go into town that the people there might recognize you. I just kiss you on the nose and buy you a new computer game.
Now, as you roll me through the canopied trails, the chain attached to your collar clinking against the metal bars of my wheelchair, you stop for a moment to let me take a picture of an eastern bluebird before it flits away behind a maple tree. It jumps down from its perch and swoops overhead just as the flash echoes through the woods. The picture captures nothing but clear air. You nuzzle my cheek and whisper in my ear, "Thank you for making me yoursâ.
having media-illiterate friends is sort of like having extended family over for christmas and they start talking politics. just because she's trans doesn't mean you can convince her that jax is trans, too. you're just gonna waste 45 minutes arguing and trying to explain what "show don't tell" means. keep quiet and eat your pork.
CW for: More evil lesbians, non-con, vampires eating people, transphobia
Arabella always had a knack for fucking things up. All she needed for this evening was a quick bite and maybe some after-dinner sex, and once again she had gotten carried away and left behind a soon-to-be walking corpse in her wake. But it wasnât really her fault, was it? When a dusky blonde feels you up at a party, takes you home, and practically begs you to put steel to flesh, who can resist digging in for more? Besides, she had screwed up worse than this before. All she needed to do was find the person that always made it right, time after time.
Whether it was turning her ex-boyfriend into a ghoul, or wrapping a police car around a lightpost, or even sucking a university student dry, Mother Ynez would always forgive her and find a way out. Sheâd pull some favors, send the newly turned girl off to some isolated convent, and maybe give Arabella a stern talking-to. Everything would return to just as it was before. And so, as Arabella stepped out into the biting winter wind, she didnât worry about the blood still clinging to her thin jacket.
As Arabella made her way to Motherâs chateau she weaved through crowds of drunken party-goers. Even in the dead of winter the town of Vilanova still sustains plenty of revelers to sate the appetites of the hungry dead. Were this a better night, a less complicated night, she couldâve wined and dined on any number of youthful university students, foreign tourists, even married men looking for some action on the side. With a face like hers, she could make anyoneâs blood boil.
One such celebrant caught her eye. A husky dyke outside a bar in a drunken argument with her friends. She looked trans - hair poorly cut, clothes too tight for her new curves, the smell of oh-so-sweet hormones coursing through her veins - but her friends didnât. Sure enough, in a few quick moments she was left all alone, her now ex-friends gone off to some other party without her. It would be irresponsible of Arabella to not do something, wouldnât it? Especially when some of the men at the bar seemed to already be eyeing up her prey. The night was still young and she could use an easy snack to calm her nerves.
It was the same old practiced routine, another Luna or Estrella or Ana ditched by her friends once she demanded to be a woman, not just trans, and Arabella was a practiced professional in giving them what they needed. It only took a few compliments and some pretend listening to have the poor thing eating out of the palm of her hand. Look at her cheekbones while she vents her frustrations, place a soothing hand on her shoulder and mention the eyeliner it must have taken her so long to perfect, tell her âI never could have guessedâ when she feels the need to confess what she is. In a flash she was fucking the girl in her favorite dive bar in her favorite bathroom stall.
She liked how easy these types were. Despite the added difficulty in acquiring them Arabella always preferred the taste of women, even if men could be lured in with a bit lip and a bit of cleavage. But these girls, surging with hormones and self-doubt, were the perfect mark. Theyâd practically beg you to hurt them at times, like that dead blonde from the party, and the Lord knows no one would believe them if they talked about what happened to them. Plus, it was always fun to see what new humiliations these girls got off to.
Currently, this one was wrapped around her leg, desperately rutting into her heeled boots while she sat back on the dirty lid of the toilet seat. Anyone walking by could see the girlâs stretch marks on her ass and the striped panties riding up between them as clear as day, a fact that Arabella made sure Luna-Estrella-Ana knew. Of course, no one really cared in this bar. It was her favorite for a reason: the owner was a fellow vampire and most of the clientele were drunk on a constant supply of his narcotic blood. Still, Arabella loved the pungent smell of red flushing through the girlâs cheeks.
This kind of sex, where Arabella just had to recline back and let the other party finish on some exotic clothing she wore, was always the easiest. No extra effort of miming through the niceties of dull penetration, no questions about her room-temperature skin, and most of all no temptations like she had with that dusky blonde. She could relax as the girl climaxed against her boot toe and reap the delicious rewards afterwards. When her toy slowed down or pleaded for some more affection, all it took was a swift kick to the groin to send her back to work. They always made such adorable squeals when hit like that. It was pathetic, sure, but in an endearing sort of way.
Arabella hooked a toe under the hem of the dykeâs sweaty camisole and pulled it over her perky budding breasts. They were awfully cute, all swollen and sore from the sudden growth and the girlâs lack of a bra. Based on the shape, she figured, the girl couldnât have been more than a year on estrogen, not nearly enough time to figure out just how fun those new fat-sacks could be. Arabella raised her other boot and jabbed down on a tender nipple a few sharp times with her heel. Those three inches of stiletto raised beautiful little red welts and a growing hunger within Arabella. There was no time for the girl to flinch or protect herself, so she just made an adorable yelp and shuddered closer and harder to the leathery she was riding.
By now the girl was so lost in whatever masochistic pleasure she was getting out of this that she started to drool. A few of those drops landed on Arabellaâs precious black boot as she pushed the heavy girl off of her leg and back against the stall door, still mindlessly grinding away on her other instep.
âEyes up, faggot,â Arabella commanded, loving the rush she got from that word and the pitiful, dutiful look that girl gave her, âI wonât be letting trash like you ruin these shoes, theyâre probably worth more than a month of your rent.â
That was a lie, of course. She didnât actually know how much the shoes cost, only that they came from the home of a past meal that had the misfortune of dripping blood on her old flats. The effect was all the same, though, and she loved the way the girlâs lips quivered as she pressed the glossy toe against them.
âLick them clean for me, and I just might not send you the bill.â
She could practically feel the little faggotâs erection get harder as her tongue passed over the dark leather. As her lips puckered around the acrid material, tongue lapping up the bitter polish still left on them, a sticky wet spot began to form in her panties. It was a humiliating display, and Arabella gave the girl a few more jostling kicks to her bulge to rub it in, but she still felt altogether bored.
It would only take a muscle twitch to liven things up. Flick the welt that this girl was so passionately making out with, shatter a few teeth and crack her head against the tile. That would at least be interesting, Arabella thought, and odds are this girl would like it, too. Nevertheless, she had places to be and cleaning up blood from the bathroom floor sounded like too bothersome of a chore. So she just satisfied herself by pushing the toe box further and further into the girlâs mouth, savoring her gagging sounds as she forced it to accommodate the shoeâs width.
Those plump hips began to rut faster, thrusting in time with quick and low pants like a dog in heat. The girl leaned forward once more, mouth still salivating around the boot leather, and wrapped her arms tight around Arabellaâs leg. Arabella could tell the pathetic thing was nearing orgasm without even smelling the rich cocktail of hormones flushing through her body, so for her part she rocked and jostled her foot against the throbbing girl-bulge.
A soft sort of murmuring poured out from around the shoe as the girl approached climax. A broken string of âI love youâ and âplease mistressâ, she was sure, but for now Arabella was paying more attention to the sound of the crowd gathering outside. By the sound of their breathing alone she could count half a dozen or so blissed-out drugged-up patrons spectating the main event. They would filter out as soon as the pitiful moans broke into a sudden orgasmic shriek, but for now they must be watching intently as the girlâs cute little ass shook and strained to hump harder, faster, deeper against Arabellaâs boot.
The coup de grace came none too soon. The girl bit down hard - hard enough to bruise if Arabellaâs body still could - and her rapid thrusts transitioned into slow, weighty, straining grinds. Between clenched teeth she let out a long and heavy groan as her body shook and seized, wrapped around the long black tower of Arabellaâs laced stiletto boots.
With a huff the girl slumped against the stall door. Her eyes hazy, body weak and trembling, she could hardly resist as Arabella claimed her prize. With one hand she hoisted the girl off the floor by her throat and with another cupped her beautifully bruised tits. The hazy look of shock was delicious. The smell of adrenaline and endorphins flushing through her body was mouth-watering. Her prey tried to fight back with a few faltering kicks that collided against her body like soft rain against a metal roof. God, she even seemed to wince from the impact of her own foot against Arabellaâs frozen side.
The girl made a gurgled scream as Arabella bit down on her budding nipple and squeezed tighter against her throat. Her heel had done good work tenderizing the skin, such that when she bit down she hardly had to suck at all to get that delicious post-sex blood rushing up to the surface.
From above came a choked squeal.
âWhy? Why are you doing this? Why are you doing this to me?â the girl said.
The answer was so obvious as to not warrant a response. Arabella could tell from that frightened, tiny, powerless voice that this wasnât the first time that she had been backed against a wall and had her body violated, pleasure wrung from her unwilling body like juice from an unripe fruit, nor would it be the last. It was a law of physics really: objects in motion tend to stay in motion, as do victims tend to stay victims. Maybe a switch would flip someday - as had happened for Arabella - and the girl would metamorphose from this pitiable prey into something greater, stronger, wilder. Regardless, the constant whining was getting on Arabellaâs nerves, so she might as well settle the score.
She pulled herself from the girlâs bleeding breast and craned her head up, resting her bloody chin on her heaving cleavage. Her tongue circled a growing smile, savoring whatever fluid was still stuck to her lips.
âWhy? Itâs because,â she said, âI only give this kind of treatment to women. Pretty women, if I can help it.â
The girlâs face twisted into a look of fear, gratitude, but mostly resignation. It didnât take much to break these types, desperate for validation in whatever form, and for the rest of the meal the girl hardly made a sound. Her head hung limp against Arabellaâs iron grip, like a corpse swinging on a hangmanâs noose. Those trembling, useless hands even found themselves amidst Arabellaâs hair, no doubt searching for any comfort they could find in this situation. They brushed feebly through the glossy strands and gripped lightly when Arabella pressed her fangs deeper into the flesh. She did love it when her victimsâ bodies betrayed themselves in moments like these.
At last, Arabella had her fill. She made sure to not take too much, just enough to leave the girl delirious yet traumatized, able to recall the hazy memory of a predator the morning after. She released her grip and the girl fell to the ground. Her eyes, half-lidded and dull, still seemed to look for something within Arabellaâs own. The sad little thing, like a kicked puppy. She mustâve grown attached. She had to break her spirit before that misplaced affection became a problem.
âYou should be grateful, you know. If I still took you for a man, youâd be dead right now. Those types are always too liable to seek revenge. But I know youâll be a good girl, and make your way back home. Donât bother to tell anyone else what happened tonight, you did want this after all. Even the cops will just assume I turned you down after realizing your⊠anatomy⊠they always do, donât they? Oh, and do be sure to get better friends the next time you go out at night. Maybe get a haircut, too.â
Arabella gave a practiced giggle and she could see the last glimmer of hope leave the curled-up thingâs face. That last comment seemed to sting particularly bad. Sara - that was the girlâs name, she finally remembered - didnât even dare to look her in the eye anymore. She just huddled within herself in the corner, trying her best to shrink down into the grungy space between the toilet and her bloodied cast-off clothes. A pungent cocktail of lust, grief, fear, and rage wafted out from Saraâs silent tears.
Satisfied, Arabella left the half-drained girl crumpled in the stall. She washed off any lingering blood in the sink and gave the barman a generous tip as she left. All in all, she was grateful for the easy meal. A full stomach and a bolstered pride would help her withstand the lecture Mother Ynez was bound to give her. Plus, she proved she had learned her lesson from her mistake with the blonde. She had kept her cool and only taken what she needed. Well, she had taken what she wanted, but not so much as to leave yet another body in her wake. That was the key to forgiveness, wasnât it? To not just avoid mistakes, but to learn from them.
It only took another thirty minutes to finally reach Motherâs Chateau, a graceful estate converted from Motherâs very own convent almost a century ago. Officially it was a national landmark, and during the day mortal visitors were allowed to come and go as they pleased, but at night the gates closed for all but the undead, a few enthralled servants, and Mother Ynez herself.
A maid greeted Arabella at the gates and let her in. As usual, Mother was in her private room reading and not to be disturbed. This was an emergency, though, and the conventâs maids knew better than to get in Arabellaâs way. She stopped to pluck a rose from the moonlit garden and lingered some time in the entryway watching the maids busy themselves repairing the damage todayâs tourists had brought to the estate. Historical accuracy was paramount for the old-fashioned Mother, and Arabella was none to complain: lacy white aprons over long red dresses, silken stockings disappearing far up those abundant skirts, frilled bonnets that kept tanned necks totally, tantalizingly exposed. If Mother Ynez didnât protect those girls as if her own, Arabella wouldnât think twice about bending one over and exploring just what tender prize was hidden under all that luscious wrapping.
A grand clock chimed somewhere deep in the house. Three long and dolorous tones proclaimed that it was the witching hour. Arabella had best wrap up her business before the sun rose over Vilanova. Even in the dead of winter when the sunâs feeble rays hardly warmed the ground enough to melt the lingering snow, a few stray glints of light would be all it took to end Arabellaâs long, long requiem. Through the hall and up the grand stairway she went, the maids taking care to avoid her long, predatory strides. Even during the day, tourists are barred from exploring the upper floor of the convent. At night, the long straight hallway, with countless low doors opening into cloisters and dormitories on either side, is so silent that one can hear the breeze whistle through the rafters overhead. Tonight, though, even the murmur of wind above was mute, leaving Arabella with nothing but her own thoughts to fill the void.
She crossed the dark and desolate hall to the final door at the end, Mother Ynezâs personal quarters. In her living days, she was the head of this convent, and that position gave her a moderate indulgence in comfort compared to the other nuns, nothing more than a room the size of two broom closets instead of one. Even now, with all the other sisters long rotting below in the chapel catacombs, she still secluded herself in that cramped room, far away from the mortal world just outside the walls.
Arabella opened the door to find Mother Ynez still asleep in her cot, the thin white sheet pulled all the way over her head. Oddly, Motherâs favorite bible, printed in the old Catalan that she spoke in her living days, was open on the wooden desk, a candle burning low beside it. It was unlike her to sleep so late, even more so to let an open flame burn freely beside that precious antique book. Perhaps old age was finally getting to the Mother.
Arabella spent a moment conjuring up a sprinkle of fake tears and put on that childish tone of anxious regret that so moved the nun time and time again.
âMother Ynezâ, she sniffled, âsomething happened and I need your help.â
There was no response from the figure under the sheet.
âPlease, it was an accident and I donât know what to do!â Arabella put on the waterworks and tears, salty like blood, began to leak from her cold eyes, âYou canât leave me like this! It wasnât my fault!â
Still, there was no movement from under the sheets. Arabella shuffled forward, still putting on an air of timidness, and slipped a practiced trembling hand under the bedcovers. The Motherâs eyes were closed and her face was in a peaceful state of repose, as still and quiet as death. When some more calculated sobbing still failed to wake the sleeping nun, Arabella pulled the linen down further. She was still in her robes, although her long dark hair pooled freely around the simple pillow like tendrils of a great tree, and her hands were clasped between her breasts, holding something tight to her chest. Arabella grabbed those comforting hands, only to swipe through them like seafoam. Looking closer, she fell back in horror at what she saw.
Pieces of Mother Ynez clung to Arabellaâs hand like stringy cobwebs, shining in the faint candlelight and slowly dissipating into dust. In the center of the nunâs chest was a wooden stake, pierced through her unbeating heart, with the golden cross of her rosary gently placed atop.
Someone had done what a dozen wards, a hundred hunters, and a thousand years could not do. Mother Ynezâs long dream had at last ended, as it should have many, many lifetimes ago. Arabella screamed.
i try and i try to keep my girlfriend and father from having to interact, but sometimes there's holidays, you know?
like last time, i'm at a picnic on a grassy hillside, catching up with a younger cousinâshe hasn't seen me since before i got my first dress (she stares at me in disgust, i smile back)âand i completely forget i was supposed to keep an eye on both of them.
i hear shouting. heads turn. i shift my weight onto my cane. my girlfriend is away down the hill, she's barely like armslength from my father, grinning. he's taller, leaning in, making fists.
she looks up at me, blows me a kiss and follows it up with a leash-tug gesture that makes me whine and stagger forward onto my knees in front of my extended family. my dress settles onto the grass.
that does it for my father. he swings, she swats it down and swings over it, and like that he's on his back on the grass. his brothers are running to him, shouting, and i'm breathless and blushing;
she practically steps over him to get to me. the hem of her skirt brushes by his cheek. i can see in her smug smileâit's the sun to meâthat she considered kicking him in the head.
my mother steps in front of me. her shadow falls across me. "'scuse me ma'am," says my girlfriend, and "no you don't," says my mother, crossing her arms. "we won't be letting you make our son any worse."
"chelsea?" asks my girlfriend, and i answer to my name by bowing my head and stammering "yours, owner" far louder than i meant to.
my mother stiffens. i feel them staring each other down. at the top of my vision i see my girlfriend silently but firmly repeat the leash tug gesture and i whine the words again, unmistakable to all present.
mother, voice clipped, growls something about getting her good-for-nothing husband some ice, and stalks past my girlfriend.
i look up at my sun. she's smiling down, elated, bloodthirsty. i look around at my cousins. several are laughing. a couple have their phones up, consumed by the all-hungry urge to record everything for cloutânot that i have a leg to stand on, hereâ
i feel her scratching behind my ears. i gasp and relax into her. people are still shouting, but none of my uncles seem to want to be the one to approach us to pick a fresh fight.
"heyyy," she says sweetly, like i'm the dumbest thing alive. "hey chelsea. hey girl. wanna get out of here? wanna go somewhere else?" i'm nodding stupidly into her words.
we get dinner elsewhere.
and you know, i was always so scared of the day i'd try to cut them all off, and the thousand ways they'd try to force themselves back into my lifeâshouldn't have been! not one of them will speak to me since!
faggy boy: ever wonder why they call them "cell" phones? it's because they have to $ell. it's subtle subliminal messaging to get you to buy into the machine. i know the truth of the ancient pyramids
30 year old tranny holding back laughter so hard she looks in tears: im gonna brainwash you into my little wife
CW for: More evil lesbians, non-con, vampires eating people, transphobia
Arabella always had a knack for fucking things up. All she needed for this evening was a quick bite and maybe some after-dinner sex, and once again she had gotten carried away and left behind a soon-to-be walking corpse in her wake. But it wasnât really her fault, was it? When a dusky blonde feels you up at a party, takes you home, and practically begs you to put steel to flesh, who can resist digging in for more? Besides, she had screwed up worse than this before. All she needed to do was find the person that always made it right, time after time.
Whether it was turning her ex-boyfriend into a ghoul, or wrapping a police car around a lightpost, or even sucking a university student dry, Mother Ynez would always forgive her and find a way out. Sheâd pull some favors, send the newly turned girl off to some isolated convent, and maybe give Arabella a stern talking-to. Everything would return to just as it was before. And so, as Arabella stepped out into the biting winter wind, she didnât worry about the blood still clinging to her thin jacket.
As Arabella made her way to Motherâs chateau she weaved through crowds of drunken party-goers. Even in the dead of winter the town of Vilanova still sustains plenty of revelers to sate the appetites of the hungry dead. Were this a better night, a less complicated night, she couldâve wined and dined on any number of youthful university students, foreign tourists, even married men looking for some action on the side. With a face like hers, she could make anyoneâs blood boil.
One such celebrant caught her eye. A husky dyke outside a bar in a drunken argument with her friends. She looked trans - hair poorly cut, clothes too tight for her new curves, the smell of oh-so-sweet hormones coursing through her veins - but her friends didnât. Sure enough, in a few quick moments she was left all alone, her now ex-friends gone off to some other party without her. It would be irresponsible of Arabella to not do something, wouldnât it? Especially when some of the men at the bar seemed to already be eyeing up her prey. The night was still young and she could use an easy snack to calm her nerves.
It was the same old practiced routine, another Luna or Estrella or Ana ditched by her friends once she demanded to be a woman, not just trans, and Arabella was a practiced professional in giving them what they needed. It only took a few compliments and some pretend listening to have the poor thing eating out of the palm of her hand. Look at her cheekbones while she vents her frustrations, place a soothing hand on her shoulder and mention the eyeliner it must have taken her so long to perfect, tell her âI never could have guessedâ when she feels the need to confess what she is. In a flash she was fucking the girl in her favorite dive bar in her favorite bathroom stall.
She liked how easy these types were. Despite the added difficulty in acquiring them Arabella always preferred the taste of women, even if men could be lured in with a bit lip and a bit of cleavage. But these girls, surging with hormones and self-doubt, were the perfect mark. Theyâd practically beg you to hurt them at times, like that dead blonde from the party, and the Lord knows no one would believe them if they talked about what happened to them. Plus, it was always fun to see what new humiliations these girls got off to.
Currently, this one was wrapped around her leg, desperately rutting into her heeled boots while she sat back on the dirty lid of the toilet seat. Anyone walking by could see the girlâs stretch marks on her ass and the striped panties riding up between them as clear as day, a fact that Arabella made sure Luna-Estrella-Ana knew. Of course, no one really cared in this bar. It was her favorite for a reason: the owner was a fellow vampire and most of the clientele were drunk on a constant supply of his narcotic blood. Still, Arabella loved the pungent smell of red flushing through the girlâs cheeks.
This kind of sex, where Arabella just had to recline back and let the other party finish on some exotic clothing she wore, was always the easiest. No extra effort of miming through the niceties of dull penetration, no questions about her room-temperature skin, and most of all no temptations like she had with that dusky blonde. She could relax as the girl climaxed against her boot toe and reap the delicious rewards afterwards. When her toy slowed down or pleaded for some more affection, all it took was a swift kick to the groin to send her back to work. They always made such adorable squeals when hit like that. It was pathetic, sure, but in an endearing sort of way.
Arabella hooked a toe under the hem of the dykeâs sweaty camisole and pulled it over her perky budding breasts. They were awfully cute, all swollen and sore from the sudden growth and the girlâs lack of a bra. Based on the shape, she figured, the girl couldnât have been more than a year on estrogen, not nearly enough time to figure out just how fun those new fat-sacks could be. Arabella raised her other boot and jabbed down on a tender nipple a few sharp times with her heel. Those three inches of stiletto raised beautiful little red welts and a growing hunger within Arabella. There was no time for the girl to flinch or protect herself, so she just made an adorable yelp and shuddered closer and harder to the leathery she was riding.
By now the girl was so lost in whatever masochistic pleasure she was getting out of this that she started to drool. A few of those drops landed on Arabellaâs precious black boot as she pushed the heavy girl off of her leg and back against the stall door, still mindlessly grinding away on her other instep.
âEyes up, faggot,â Arabella commanded, loving the rush she got from that word and the pitiful, dutiful look that girl gave her, âI wonât be letting trash like you ruin these shoes, theyâre probably worth more than a month of your rent.â
That was a lie, of course. She didnât actually know how much the shoes cost, only that they came from the home of a past meal that had the misfortune of dripping blood on her old flats. The effect was all the same, though, and she loved the way the girlâs lips quivered as she pressed the glossy toe against them.
âLick them clean for me, and I just might not send you the bill.â
She could practically feel the little faggotâs erection get harder as her tongue passed over the dark leather. As her lips puckered around the acrid material, tongue lapping up the bitter polish still left on them, a sticky wet spot began to form in her panties. It was a humiliating display, and Arabella gave the girl a few more jostling kicks to her bulge to rub it in, but she still felt altogether bored.
It would only take a muscle twitch to liven things up. Flick the welt that this girl was so passionately making out with, shatter a few teeth and crack her head against the tile. That would at least be interesting, Arabella thought, and odds are this girl would like it, too. Nevertheless, she had places to be and cleaning up blood from the bathroom floor sounded like too bothersome of a chore. So she just satisfied herself by pushing the toe box further and further into the girlâs mouth, savoring her gagging sounds as she forced it to accommodate the shoeâs width.
Those plump hips began to rut faster, thrusting in time with quick and low pants like a dog in heat. The girl leaned forward once more, mouth still salivating around the boot leather, and wrapped her arms tight around Arabellaâs leg. Arabella could tell the pathetic thing was nearing orgasm without even smelling the rich cocktail of hormones flushing through her body, so for her part she rocked and jostled her foot against the throbbing girl-bulge.
A soft sort of murmuring poured out from around the shoe as the girl approached climax. A broken string of âI love youâ and âplease mistressâ, she was sure, but for now Arabella was paying more attention to the sound of the crowd gathering outside. By the sound of their breathing alone she could count half a dozen or so blissed-out drugged-up patrons spectating the main event. They would filter out as soon as the pitiful moans broke into a sudden orgasmic shriek, but for now they must be watching intently as the girlâs cute little ass shook and strained to hump harder, faster, deeper against Arabellaâs boot.
The coup de grace came none too soon. The girl bit down hard - hard enough to bruise if Arabellaâs body still could - and her rapid thrusts transitioned into slow, weighty, straining grinds. Between clenched teeth she let out a long and heavy groan as her body shook and seized, wrapped around the long black tower of Arabellaâs laced stiletto boots.
With a huff the girl slumped against the stall door. Her eyes hazy, body weak and trembling, she could hardly resist as Arabella claimed her prize. With one hand she hoisted the girl off the floor by her throat and with another cupped her beautifully bruised tits. The hazy look of shock was delicious. The smell of adrenaline and endorphins flushing through her body was mouth-watering. Her prey tried to fight back with a few faltering kicks that collided against her body like soft rain against a metal roof. God, she even seemed to wince from the impact of her own foot against Arabellaâs frozen side.
The girl made a gurgled scream as Arabella bit down on her budding nipple and squeezed tighter against her throat. Her heel had done good work tenderizing the skin, such that when she bit down she hardly had to suck at all to get that delicious post-sex blood rushing up to the surface.
From above came a choked squeal.
âWhy? Why are you doing this? Why are you doing this to me?â the girl said.
The answer was so obvious as to not warrant a response. Arabella could tell from that frightened, tiny, powerless voice that this wasnât the first time that she had been backed against a wall and had her body violated, pleasure wrung from her unwilling body like juice from an unripe fruit, nor would it be the last. It was a law of physics really: objects in motion tend to stay in motion, as do victims tend to stay victims. Maybe a switch would flip someday - as had happened for Arabella - and the girl would metamorphose from this pitiable prey into something greater, stronger, wilder. Regardless, the constant whining was getting on Arabellaâs nerves, so she might as well settle the score.
She pulled herself from the girlâs bleeding breast and craned her head up, resting her bloody chin on her heaving cleavage. Her tongue circled a growing smile, savoring whatever fluid was still stuck to her lips.
âWhy? Itâs because,â she said, âI only give this kind of treatment to women. Pretty women, if I can help it.â
The girlâs face twisted into a look of fear, gratitude, but mostly resignation. It didnât take much to break these types, desperate for validation in whatever form, and for the rest of the meal the girl hardly made a sound. Her head hung limp against Arabellaâs iron grip, like a corpse swinging on a hangmanâs noose. Those trembling, useless hands even found themselves amidst Arabellaâs hair, no doubt searching for any comfort they could find in this situation. They brushed feebly through the glossy strands and gripped lightly when Arabella pressed her fangs deeper into the flesh. She did love it when her victimsâ bodies betrayed themselves in moments like these.
At last, Arabella had her fill. She made sure to not take too much, just enough to leave the girl delirious yet traumatized, able to recall the hazy memory of a predator the morning after. She released her grip and the girl fell to the ground. Her eyes, half-lidded and dull, still seemed to look for something within Arabellaâs own. The sad little thing, like a kicked puppy. She mustâve grown attached. She had to break her spirit before that misplaced affection became a problem.
âYou should be grateful, you know. If I still took you for a man, youâd be dead right now. Those types are always too liable to seek revenge. But I know youâll be a good girl, and make your way back home. Donât bother to tell anyone else what happened tonight, you did want this after all. Even the cops will just assume I turned you down after realizing your⊠anatomy⊠they always do, donât they? Oh, and do be sure to get better friends the next time you go out at night. Maybe get a haircut, too.â
Arabella gave a practiced giggle and she could see the last glimmer of hope leave the curled-up thingâs face. That last comment seemed to sting particularly bad. Sara - that was the girlâs name, she finally remembered - didnât even dare to look her in the eye anymore. She just huddled within herself in the corner, trying her best to shrink down into the grungy space between the toilet and her bloodied cast-off clothes. A pungent cocktail of lust, grief, fear, and rage wafted out from Saraâs silent tears.
Satisfied, Arabella left the half-drained girl crumpled in the stall. She washed off any lingering blood in the sink and gave the barman a generous tip as she left. All in all, she was grateful for the easy meal. A full stomach and a bolstered pride would help her withstand the lecture Mother Ynez was bound to give her. Plus, she proved she had learned her lesson from her mistake with the blonde. She had kept her cool and only taken what she needed. Well, she had taken what she wanted, but not so much as to leave yet another body in her wake. That was the key to forgiveness, wasnât it? To not just avoid mistakes, but to learn from them.
The Wartenberg wheel rolled languidly along her stomach, eliciting a soft but not quite gentle tickling sensation along her exposed flesh, like the dragging of bristling briars past unprotected skin running through a field. Long gentle arcs glided from flank to flank and sent shivers up and down her restrained, naked body as the pinpricks passed across the equator of her navel.
The pace quickened. Rough zig-zags across her chest. The pirouetting of a single prick digging in like a driving nail. One-two-three-four-five quick dagger-swipes down her tummy. One long, slow, torturous drag across her collarbone pressing bone-deep yet never breaking skin from left to right and right to left. Stopping at her jugular and pressing in deep. Rocking back and forth. Teetering on crimson oblivion.
The tool retracted and Lucileâs muffled whimpers gave way to gasping moans. With her hands tied and eyes blindfolded, all she could do was squirm and wait for the next slice to come. The lingering heat of the not-quite-cuts did little to warm her chilly body. The thin walls of her apartment hardly kept out the frigid winter air, but it was her companion for the night that was colder.
She hadnât noticed earlier that night at the party. With all the frenetic dancers and not-insignificant amount of alcohol in her system, the dance floor felt hot and steamy. When that gorgeous woman offered to come back home with her, Lucile felt even steamier. Now that it was just the two of them, she could feel the icy chill of her companionâs hand as it traced up and down the reddening tracts that raced across her body. Her breath upon her neck was as cold as the grave.
A sudden sharp scraping sensation brought her attention back to the scene. She couldnât help but scream and writhe against her bonds as three or four sharp prongs dragged sideways across her breasts, making shallow cuts against the tender flesh. She could feel warm blood begin to rise from the lengthening cuts. Short and flat streams of the liquid flowed down her cleavage and pooled at her solar plexus. This wasnât part of the plan. As the device moved downwards and began to claw at her stomach, Lucile started to thrash against her bindings and plead for her companion to stop.
âApologies my dear,â said the other woman, a single ice-cold finger tucking Lucileâs hair behind her ear, âbut I just couldnât help myself.â
A dry tongue, coarse like sandpaper, lapped at Lucileâs breasts and dipped into the shallow pool of blood collecting within her cleavage. As the sharp pricks of the wheel dredged up warm blood across Lucileâs body, the other womanâs tongue followed closely behind. Whereas her hands left Lucile cold and shivering, the womanâs mouth seemed to suck away at her very strength. Try as she might, Lucile hardly had enough strength to pull away from the woman, let alone escape her binds.
A frigid hand pushed her legs apart with vice-grip strength and more quick, deep swipes cut down her inner thighs. The blood flowed quicker here and her attacker seemed to struggle to lap it all up. She dragged her mouth along the length of her thighs, passing up past one row of moistening cuts to then glide down the other. At times, she would stop to kiss and suck at one of the gashes, that dry and freezing tongue dipping in to coerce out more blood from deep inside Lucileâs weakening body. By now, it took all the strength Lucile could muster to clutch her hands into loose fists, the last pitiable token of resistance her body had left.
Lucile felt her attackerâs blood-soaked hair brush past her hips and pool in mounds around her breasts. Even her hair, stringy and lifeless, seemed to worm its way into the countless cuts that formed half-circles around her nipples. A hand reached under Lucileâs blindfold and gently pulled it up. Not wanting to confront the horror above her, Lucile used the last dregs of her strength to close her eyelids shut.
âPlease darling, it just isnât right for you to die not knowing whatâs happening to youâ said the woman.
âAnd,â she placed her thumb firmly against Lucileâs eyelid, the freezing skin seeming to drag it along, âI find that first look of terrified understanding almost as sweet as heart-blood itself.â
With little effort the woman pried open Lucileâs eyes.
Blood-splattered hair shrouded her too-perfect skin, like that of a freshly embalmed corpse. Crimson streaks ran down her mouth and mixed with the black lipstick smeared over her lips. Her tongue slowly circled around a satisfied grin, but her eyes flashed a bitter and uncaring blue.
Lucile began to beg, more so murmuring incoherent fragile pleas, only to be silenced by two frozen fingers plunging deep into her mouth. She coughed and attempted to gag, but found her throat paralyzed as it squeezed around the invading digits.
The woman leaned in close and whispered an arctic breath into Lucileâs ear.
âAnd now, my sweet morsel, a parting kiss.â
Her lips, soft and cold like bitter snow, pecked at her jaw and traced down to the side of her neck. Lucile felt two sharp pinpricks penetrate deep within her, and the rest of the world seemed to grow distant and numb. She felt the quivering of her attackerâs jaw like the rumbling of a distant electrical storm, her own dying convulsions like the mellow waves of a serene ocean. In a dreamlike memory without time or distance she recalled two more fingers invading her lower half. They moved slow but sure like glaciers carving a path deeper and deeper within her. All sensation receded, save for the cold numbness that came along with every advancing violation.
She could feel the two fingers push further inside of her and press out from the inside, greedily sapping any lingering heat. They massaged her inner walls while the womanâs palm caressed her entrance. At times the fingers would retreat to better tease her hole before plunging back in deeper than before, and each time Lucile felt as if she had been submerged in arctic waters. The shock would make her body tighten around the trespassing digits and her flesh would adhere to their icy skin. Lucile felt horribly, unbearably full, just as the rest of her body became more and more empty.
Any moans or whimpers that might have escaped were silenced by two other digits now penetrating her throat, energy better siphoned off by the two razor sharp teeth cutting deeper into her neck.
Her attackerâs jaw suddenly clenched and those two teeth broke through the last barrier of Lucileâs body, the rest of her attackerâs teeth coming to hilt against her exsanguinating neck. A bit harder and the bite might have given Lucile a merciful, sudden death. Perhaps snapped her spinal cord in two, killing her outright or leaving her body paralyzed and painless. Maybe shredded an artery instead of just piercing it. She wouldâve even preferred a crushed windpipe, since then her death would have been on her own terms, from her own spasming lungs. Instead Lucile was forced to lie back, powerless, helpless, able to squirm but not resist, as the woman commanded every last drop of energy from her body.
Lucile knew that she would die here. That her twenty-two short years of life would culminate in her becoming another victim to the nightmare that was leach-suckling against her neck. Her last moments would be spent becoming just one more feast for that monstrosity. Both it, and the rest of the world, would soon move on from the tragedy that was her untimely end.
And, with the kind of strength that only comes when you have no worries for what comes after, Lucile bit down on the invading fingers as hard as she could. Her teeth cracked and chipped against the frozen block of flesh, but succeeded in splitting the silken skin and peeling off a hearty sliver as the monster yanked its hand out of her mouth. The salty, stagnant blood seemed to mix and froth with the scant saliva left in her dry mouth. The woman released her bite for a moment and looked upon her ravaged finger with pure incredulity, as if the degloving was more of a novelty than an injury. She smiled tenderly at Lucile and for once those cold blue eyes seemed to share in that genuine warmth. Lucile used the last of her strength to spit dark red hate onto the thingâs face.
She heard an indignant howl come from the other woman as Lucile collapsed back into the bed. She felt the last of her lifeblood weakly pulse out from the wounds in her neck. The monstrous woman seemed to desperately lap at what little was left, cupped hands scooping at the wet bedsheets beside her. Distantly, coolly, Lucileâs face crept into a serene blankness as the rest of the world finally froze over.
Lucile awoke with a strange sense of calm for a woman that had just died. She knew she was terrified, that she should be terrified, yet she felt nothing but a serene stillness. The chaotic heat of the night before, of her struggle and pain, had frozen now into a profound quiet. Her body still sported countless deep cuts, but she felt no pain. Her body lay in a pool of her own dried sticky blood, but her stomach turned no knots. Here she was, still tied up in the same position that she had very surely died in, yet her heart beat no faster. In fact, it didnât seem to beat at all.
Raising a bound hand to check her absent pulse she heard a woody snap from behind: she had broken through her bedpost with the same care as breaking a matchstick. She grabbed the sturdy rope that bound her other hand and pulled: her fingers tore through the coiled fibers like strands of dead hair.Â
With weightless steps she left her bed and took a shower. For an eternity she stood under the nozzle, head down and eyes glued to the tiling, watching as the remnants of her own blood circled the drain. As hot as she set the water, it brought no warmth. With one unshaking hand she glided over the bloodless cuts that curved around her body, prodded at the gashes her attacker had invaded, and felt nothing but her own icy touch.
Lucile knew she should be crying. She should be curled up in a ball, scream-sobbing into her arms. She should be mad, hate and hit herself for letting this happen to her. She should be hurt, hurt just as bad as she was last night. Instead, she felt nothing. So she stood there, motionless, watching as the steamy water poured over her numb body.
She didnât know how long she stood there, but at a certain point between a few minutes and a few hours the water trickled to a stop. She heard someone moving down the hallway to her apartment - by the weight of the steps, most likely her landlord - and went to get dressed. Without the sound of her own heart beating in her ears it seemed like she could hear far more than she thought possible. She could hear the buzzing of insect wings as she disturbed her closet, the rumble of individual car tires outside and four stories below, the jingle of each key as her landlord fumbled for the right one five doors down. The sounds, overstimulating as they were, came as a welcome relief to the stark emptiness of her own mind.
She was waiting at the door long before Mr. Reyes finished messing with his keys. She could smell him through the doorway as he turned the knob, all salt and oil. Heâd have a heart attack within the year, she thought, and be dead within three. She could smell the greasy sweat on his brow like the perfume of a lover, and for once her empty thoughts had something to focus on. When the door finally opened she could hardly contain the heat that was boiling behind her teeth.
The smell of adrenaline came first, and then something like fear from Mr. Reyes. In the reflection of his eyes she saw her studio bedroom, bloody and trashed. Then his pupils twitched, lazily scanning up her pale legs and slashed midriff before coming to rest on the two holes sunk deep into her neck. She could see her own eyes in the reflection, bitterly cold like her attackerâs.
When he reached out a trembling hand, she pounced.
tried to do some eroguro predicament type shit with this girl but I didn't realize it's ace so now I'm just listening to it infodump about the .357 lever action I tied betwixt pup's legs while the vibrator slowly loses battery
The Wartenberg wheel rolled languidly along her stomach, eliciting a soft but not quite gentle tickling sensation along her exposed flesh, like the dragging of bristling briars past unprotected skin running through a field. Long gentle arcs glided from flank to flank and sent shivers up and down her restrained, naked body as the pinpricks passed across the equator of her navel.
The pace quickened. Rough zig-zags across her chest. The pirouetting of a single prick digging in like a driving nail. One-two-three-four-five quick dagger-swipes down her tummy. One long, slow, torturous drag across her collarbone pressing bone-deep yet never breaking skin from left to right and right to left. Stopping at her jugular and pressing in deep. Rocking back and forth. Teetering on crimson oblivion.
The tool retracted and Lucileâs muffled whimpers gave way to gasping moans. With her hands tied and eyes blindfolded, all she could do was squirm and wait for the next slice to come. The lingering heat of the not-quite-cuts did little to warm her chilly body. The thin walls of her apartment hardly kept out the frigid winter air, but it was her companion for the night that was colder.
She hadnât noticed earlier that night at the party. With all the frenetic dancers and not-insignificant amount of alcohol in her system, the dance floor felt hot and steamy. When that gorgeous woman offered to come back home with her, Lucile felt even steamier. Now that it was just the two of them, she could feel the icy chill of her companionâs hand as it traced up and down the reddening tracts that raced across her body. Her breath upon her neck was as cold as the grave.
A sudden sharp scraping sensation brought her attention back to the scene. She couldnât help but scream and writhe against her bonds as three or four sharp prongs dragged sideways across her breasts, making shallow cuts against the tender flesh. She could feel warm blood begin to rise from the lengthening cuts. Short and flat streams of the liquid flowed down her cleavage and pooled at her solar plexus. This wasnât part of the plan. As the device moved downwards and began to claw at her stomach, Lucile started to thrash against her bindings and plead for her companion to stop.
âApologies my dear,â said the other woman, a single ice-cold finger tucking Lucileâs hair behind her ear, âbut I just couldnât help myself.â
A dry tongue, coarse like sandpaper, lapped at Lucileâs breasts and dipped into the shallow pool of blood collecting within her cleavage. As the sharp pricks of the wheel dredged up warm blood across Lucileâs body, the other womanâs tongue followed closely behind. Whereas her hands left Lucile cold and shivering, the womanâs mouth seemed to suck away at her very strength. Try as she might, Lucile hardly had enough strength to pull away from the woman, let alone escape her binds.
A frigid hand pushed her legs apart with vice-grip strength and more quick, deep swipes cut down her inner thighs. The blood flowed quicker here and her attacker seemed to struggle to lap it all up. She dragged her mouth along the length of her thighs, passing up past one row of moistening cuts to then glide down the other. At times, she would stop to kiss and suck at one of the gashes, that dry and freezing tongue dipping in to coerce out more blood from deep inside Lucileâs weakening body. By now, it took all the strength Lucile could muster to clutch her hands into loose fists, the last pitiable token of resistance her body had left.
Lucile felt her attackerâs blood-soaked hair brush past her hips and pool in mounds around her breasts. Even her hair, stringy and lifeless, seemed to worm its way into the countless cuts that formed half-circles around her nipples. A hand reached under Lucileâs blindfold and gently pulled it up. Not wanting to confront the horror above her, Lucile used the last dregs of her strength to close her eyelids shut.
âPlease darling, it just isnât right for you to die not knowing whatâs happening to youâ said the woman.
âAnd,â she placed her thumb firmly against Lucileâs eyelid, the freezing skin seeming to drag it along, âI find that first look of terrified understanding almost as sweet as heart-blood itself.â
With little effort the woman pried open Lucileâs eyes.
Blood-splattered hair shrouded her too-perfect skin, like that of a freshly embalmed corpse. Crimson streaks ran down her mouth and mixed with the black lipstick smeared over her lips. Her tongue slowly circled around a satisfied grin, but her eyes flashed a bitter and uncaring blue.
Lucile began to beg, more so murmuring incoherent fragile pleas, only to be silenced by two frozen fingers plunging deep into her mouth. She coughed and attempted to gag, but found her throat paralyzed as it squeezed around the invading digits.
The woman leaned in close and whispered an arctic breath into Lucileâs ear.
âAnd now, my sweet morsel, a parting kiss.â
Her lips, soft and cold like bitter snow, pecked at her jaw and traced down to the side of her neck. Lucile felt two sharp pinpricks penetrate deep within her, and the rest of the world seemed to grow distant and numb. She felt the quivering of her attackerâs jaw like the rumbling of a distant electrical storm, her own dying convulsions like the mellow waves of a serene ocean. In a dreamlike memory without time or distance she recalled two more fingers invading her lower half. They moved slow but sure like glaciers carving a path deeper and deeper within her. All sensation receded, save for the cold numbness that came along with every advancing violation.
She could feel the two fingers push further inside of her and press out from the inside, greedily sapping any lingering heat. They massaged her inner walls while the womanâs palm caressed her entrance. At times the fingers would retreat to better tease her hole before plunging back in deeper than before, and each time Lucile felt as if she had been submerged in arctic waters. The shock would make her body tighten around the trespassing digits and her flesh would adhere to their icy skin. Lucile felt horribly, unbearably full, just as the rest of her body became more and more empty.
Any moans or whimpers that might have escaped were silenced by two other digits now penetrating her throat, energy better siphoned off by the two razor sharp teeth cutting deeper into her neck.
Her attackerâs jaw suddenly clenched and those two teeth broke through the last barrier of Lucileâs body, the rest of her attackerâs teeth coming to hilt against her exsanguinating neck. A bit harder and the bite might have given Lucile a merciful, sudden death. Perhaps snapped her spinal cord in two, killing her outright or leaving her body paralyzed and painless. Maybe shredded an artery instead of just piercing it. She wouldâve even preferred a crushed windpipe, since then her death would have been on her own terms, from her own spasming lungs. Instead Lucile was forced to lie back, powerless, helpless, able to squirm but not resist, as the woman commanded every last drop of energy from her body.
Lucile knew that she would die here. That her twenty-two short years of life would culminate in her becoming another victim to the nightmare that was leach-suckling against her neck. Her last moments would be spent becoming just one more feast for that monstrosity. Both it, and the rest of the world, would soon move on from the tragedy that was her untimely end.
And, with the kind of strength that only comes when you have no worries for what comes after, Lucile bit down on the invading fingers as hard as she could. Her teeth cracked and chipped against the frozen block of flesh, but succeeded in splitting the silken skin and peeling off a hearty sliver as the monster yanked its hand out of her mouth. The salty, stagnant blood seemed to mix and froth with the scant saliva left in her dry mouth. The woman released her bite for a moment and looked upon her ravaged finger with pure incredulity, as if the degloving was more of a novelty than an injury. She smiled tenderly at Lucile and for once those cold blue eyes seemed to share in that genuine warmth. Lucile used the last of her strength to spit dark red hate onto the thingâs face.
She heard an indignant howl come from the other woman as Lucile collapsed back into the bed. She felt the last of her lifeblood weakly pulse out from the wounds in her neck. The monstrous woman seemed to desperately lap at what little was left, cupped hands scooping at the wet bedsheets beside her. Distantly, coolly, Lucileâs face crept into a serene blankness as the rest of the world finally froze over.
And then at some point, it stopped embarrassing you so much. Maybe it was just because it ceased to be something new. Like watching a movie over and over. Eventually the tears stop flowing and it simply becomes a fact of life. Novelty lost.
Is that normal? Perhaps for some the emotions run forever. Not yours, at least. Sometimes it seems like hers do. Burning bright for ten billion years like the fire of the sun. For you, time passes. Things end. Life continues.
Just as well, she continues the routine, of course. Stuffs you into a pretty dress. Petticoat holds up pink flower patterns. Corset tied tight until any motion rings a reminder. Cutesy tiara tucked into hair so you move your head slowly. And after showing you your new reflection, she takes you out on a walk.
As you cross the door to outside, you look up and see the yellow gem hanging in the sky over the lake. Clouds pass over it, but its light pierces right through them. Unavoidable realities.
âYou know, pretty soon winter's going to start,â she says. âEither I'll have to stick you in a different genre of outfit or we won't be able to go outside anymore.â
At one point she tried taking you around by a leash, but it was a bit past your tolerances. And then the next time she asked, you pre-emptively vetoed it. Too much, too far. Always another time. Or maybe it's just not precisely the fantasy you're after. She's still having you wear the collar out, at least.
âActually, I have quite a few more outfits planned that I don't think we'll have the weather for. Not for a while,â she says, then tightens her grip around your fingers. âHow was your week?â
Where once your steps were timid and careful, now you walk with confidence. Click clack of heels against the pavement. The path is set out before you. Your footsteps occasionally faster than hers, even as her hand is the one guiding you forward. Weaving between leaves that crunch and rocks that children kick.
âIt was pretty good, miss,â you say. âI mean, not the best, work still kinda sucks. Remember that old lady who thought I was cis? She's quitting soon.â
These days you spend more time seeing nature than seeing yourself. Once your eyes were turned inward, sneaking glances at your own dress as you looked fearfully around for strangers. Unable to meet their gaze, you'd turn away. Hide behind trees, make yourself small, act normal. It's not an act anymore.
âAw. I'll miss your stories of her angry ramblings and incomprehensible politics,â she says. âYou look really cute today, by the way.â
Now, you're simply smiling. Enjoying the world. Look out towards the lake and see how red and orange infects it. Spreading out across the surface, floating and covering it. Not quite hidden in the leaves, you can see the sun's reflection in the waters.
âI wonder if we'll ever see the lake's surface totally covered by leaves,â you say. âOr will the trees run out first.â
At the end of the lakeside walk lies a strip of shops and a grocery store. A year ago, you outright refused to go inside any of them. A few months in, she would take you into them as a punishment of sorts. Refusal to comply met with forcing you to order yourself ice cream. She chose a new âfavoriteâ flavor you would never have picked for yourself. It tastes like her.
âDo you ever think about how much we've changed?â she asks right before you enter.
You're regulars now. The woman sees you arrive and begins preparing your regular order before she can ask for it. A weekly tradition carved into the world. Two children passing by stare at your dress outright but you don't even look at them. They're the oddity here, not you.
Inside the shop, the sun and its reflection are truly hidden. Can a reflection still be said to exist if it can't be seen? On your work days, are you still the girl in the elaborate dress? Waiting for the ice cream in silence, you ponder how to respond.
Talking in front of strangers while dressed up is still taboo. She never pushed you on that front. Something about cute dolls not talking. Paying only takes her a few seconds, then the two of you are heading to the table. Outside, in celebration of the warmth of distant sunlight.
âI've been thinking about it more recently, miss,â you say as you walk. âMost of the time it feels like it's always been like this. Then I remember to look back, and it feels so strange. Do you ever feel that way, miss?â
Tongue swirls over chunks of strawberry. Catch every last drip before it can fall. On the third visit, the âpunishmentâ was for a drop landing on the dress on the second visit. By the third month, it was simply part of the ritual. Ice cream in a pretty dress. You learned clean eating habits quickly.
âI always try to have a plan for these kinds of scenes,â she says. âThen somewhere along the way I got used to it. I started looking forward to it just as our weekly dates. Power gives way to just wanting to see you.â
You notice her looking at her tongue and smile at her. See the sun in her eyes. Make a teasing face, stick out your tongue further, give an obscene gesture, and watch her turn away in turn. Where your own boundaries expanded, inevitably you found hers. Lines criss cross. âWho's really in charge?â She is, of course.
âYes, miss? Tell me about it, please.â
The breeze picks up and catches your dress. Hair tossed every which way. Hand held tight on the cone and down on the skirt. She teased you about your first upskirt by strong winds for weeks, even between sessions. Evidently you made this really particular face. Wide eyes looking left and right, shoulders shrinking in, and just a hint of a smile. You make it again, for her amusement.
âYou're adorable,â she says. âLet me think.â
Bite into the sugar cone, finish off the last of it. There's a pause. At some point when it shifted from special kink activity to regular dates, the teasing lessened. It became less of a kink thing and more something between art and showing off. Can something ordinary be erotic?
The sun is so pretty at this time of the afternoon. Beginning its descent into the lake. Soon, it'll meet its reflection, and become one with it before disappearing. The only possible conclusion to an ordinary process. Yet, it's still so very beautiful.
"I guess, I've been thinking. When we started, is this where you saw yourself ending up?â she asks. âYou were so embarrassed to go out like this, and now this is simply you.
âMaybe you only dress up like this on occasion, but this is who you are to so many people now,â she says. âYou're the weird girl in the collar and dress who shows up on Saturdays. I'm the weird girl walking you around.â
Once, the idea inspired fear in you. Speaking of doing this regularly occasionally led to tears. You called off weekends after work went poorly. She congratulated you, perhaps in a teasing way, for how brave you were when we went.
âNow, this is normal,â she says. âThis is simply who and what you are. Is this what it is to be a doll? A thing that I dress up and show off. No longer is this exceptional, violating, or peculiar. This is simply how it is.
âAnd, I just want to know. Are you okay with that? We've started doing other play some other nights of the week. S/m and other kinds of exhibitionism. At some point, this ceased to be a scene, didn't it.
âAnd so, how does that make you feel? Are you happy with this? Is this enough?â
For a few minutes you're lost in thought. Then as the sun touches down upon the waters, you give her your answer.
.
On days that aren't Saturday, I write short things for my patreon. Somewhere between 'exploratory kink writing' and 'working on getting better at writing'. Then on Saturday I select one of the pieces from the week to share on tumblr. This is that.
I like dress up play, but I also like the shadow it casts. At what point is this just you? Will you ever let it be just you? Is it still a kink?
