Categories > Original > Horror
Your Slave
Two characters locked in battle - for control, though of whom they are not sure. One character has not yet been named, nor will he ever...I lost all the material for this story when my computer cra...
?Blocked
She was fixing her face in a mirror. Not that she had much face to fix, and not that make-up was ever that important to her. But she knew that this particular mission rested partially on her appearance, and besides...when does a woman not like feeling like a woman? She leaned down to smudge the lipstick a little to the right, a bright crimson shade that matched the exact same tone as her hair - the red fall that draped across the right side of her face, hideous as it was. She had declined to use a mask for this event, deciding that she could use her body to it's fullest advantage.
She never even heard the door open - true vamps were like that. He came up behind her without a word, without a sound. Quiet like a cat, and he looked so much like one too - long, black hair that hung to the small of his back, and blue eyes that burned with an inner fire that would scare away most beggers; all set within that fantastically pale skin that was a trademark with all of the infected. One of his thin hands caressed the back of her head and she snapped around like lightning - she might've been 20 years his senior, but dhampires were nothing compared to wampyr. Nothing. Like comparing the throw of a light switch to the rage of a lightning storm. There was no comparison.
His eyes were humorous, laughing at the mockery of her, and yet something in them lurked deep - desire. She sneered at him, making what was left of the beauty in her into an equally ugly mask as her scarred features. It wasn't so much that she loathed him - though he'd killed more than his fair share of dhampire and human alike - but moreso what he was, what he represented. The wampyr, freaks of the infection that spread like a plague across the continents, taking innocent lives and turning them into something grotesque. Something like her. He reached out a hand to caress her pale porcelain skin on the left side of her face, but she hissed at him in warning. He only laughed softly - it was no more the display than that of a kitten warning off a territorial tomcat. A foolish, beautiful kitten that entranced him somehow, even with her imperfections.
He grabbed her face with force, pressing his thumb into her cheek with enough force to bruise. She growled and moved to strike him, but he grabbed her wrist with greater force, breaking the bone cleanly to snap the thin wrist in half. Crying out in pain, her intricate grey eyes coiled in agony, rolling away from the sight of his face as tears edged into the scene. He pushed her up onto the sink with no more force than a child uses with a beloved plaything; he spread her legs with his hips and pressed against her. Back against the mirror, face held painfully in a winch-tight grip, right wrist broken and healing at an odd angle - this was not how the mission was supposed to go. She wasn't even supposed to have come into contact with him, he wasn't supposed to know she was there. Now she was caught like a mouse in a very well-set mouse trap. And the bait was...utterly delicious.
He pressed his cheek to hers, breathing in her scent with a deep breath, retracting his hand slowly to move it lower down - the feel of her, she was somewhat alive, when his flesh had never been. He released her wrist and his hands dived greedily at her pale, half-dead flesh with equal fervor. One unbuttoned that hideous man's shirt that she wore, even with her skirt, revealing the lacey white bra underneath - white to match white. White was oh-so her color, with her hair spilled against it. Red blood spilled on virgin snow. The metaphor simply added to her mystique.
The hand cruelly grabbed one breast and twisted, taking the whole piece of flesh in one hand and feeling the firmness with a fervor unmatched. He could barely breathe as she moaned under his caress, her grey eyes winking maliciously, the thoughts in her mind so transparent - imagining what his intestines would look like sprawled across the clean tile of the women's restroom. Still, when her mind refused to submit to his wants, her body was more than willing, a supple, well-tuned tool that hadn't been utilized enough to make it worthy of someone like him. And yet...he was inexplicably drawn to her and he knew, within her subconcious, she was drawn to him as well.
Continuing to grope her breasts, reaching under the bra to have skin to skin contact, the other hand sought under her skirt, nails scathing gently along her inner thigh until he reached the wonderfully matching lacey white panties - such risque for a femme, even one who no longer had monthly cycles - and gently stroked the heat that was emitted fiercely from between her legs, even against her protestations. His mouth sought hers and she even fell into it, kissing him back hungrily as if they would devour each other. She was gripping the sink with her abnormal strength, cracking the porcelain - he lifted her and pushed her against the wall with force. She twined her legs around his waist and and pressed against him, her hands buried in his hair to rake nails against his scalp in her own twisted motion of promises that had yet to be fulfilled. Death, blood, and unending pain.
His hand sought beneath her skirt again, finding the wet warmth between her legs and buring as many fingers as he could, pressing hard into her clit - equally pressing as hard into her mouth, his fangs cutting her lips to let blood flow carelessly down her neck, over her breasts, soaking into that once wonderfully clean, white shirt - stained now with his answer to her promises, with his own, things he had always offered her, and what she had always spurned. Their endless tango through time, caresses that were taken by force, pain offered with pleasure. Nothing else would they have ever taken from each other. He pulled his hand out, his nails hovering at her entrance and she whimpered, all at the same time looking ashamed for having done it, hating herself for having done it. Some small part of him hated her too, for doing it, and he shoved the hand back in with such force that she had to bite down on her lips, those wonderfully plump lips painted with the crimson that matched her hair so perfectly, causing them to break open anew and causing more blood to pour.
He leaned into the crook of her neck, pressing against the skin as he worked her, breathing in her scent and sweat, having her panting like some bitch in heat, her hating him for it and him loving her for hating him. He trailed his fangs along her neck, the one thing he knew he wouldn't take from her without her consent, the one thing he tantilized both her and himself with. The one thing that was keeping them from being...
"Say it." He whispered, in that midnight voice, the very epitome of the abyss that beckoned her into it's depths. That dark, deep pit that dangled the bait and lured her in each night, one step closer. Always one step, no more. No more needed - patience was something the abyss cultivated naturally. All things took time. She bit her bleeding lips and shook her head, her eyes glaring hatred into his beautiful face.
"Say it." Again, she refused. But he knew she would, eventually. Eventually. Everything came to him, in the end. He would hate it when she finally broke, when she finally came to him on hand and knee and begged him to fuck her. That was when he'd be able to refuse her, able to say no. Until then...he was more her slave than she knew. He put up his free hand to slid it over the hair that constantly covered the right side of her face, those gorgeous scars that she loathed so much - the one part of her that he could love fully and without regret. Something of himself, he could say, that he found in her.
"Angelline, say it, and it's over." Say it, and end the rape. I know you want it, and that's why you hate it. Why you hate me. Say it, and we're done. Something in her was close to some edge, close to some breaking point and she snarled at him as her body began to spasm as it reached it's climax.
"I hate you, you...you fucking bastard," she said, rather, spat at him with such force that he couldn't help but laugh, and then he pulled out of her so quickly, in mid-orgasm, stepping back to let her fall to the floor. Those smooth buttocks smacking the cold tile with enough force to make her blush with the pain of it. He procured a handkerchief from his pocket, but before whiping his fingers, he delicately sniffed them, enjoying the scent of her, and then cleaned his hand efficiently so that no trace was left.
"See you around...Absinthe." She sneered in reply to his words, half in anguish as she struggled to retain some dignity with her sore thighs. He left the women's bathroom smiling to himself, always refreshed after their little bouts.
At last left alone in the bathroom, when the whole encounter lasted no more than ten minutes, she tilted her head to let the crimson hair fall down over her face, covering her scars and her shame. For a few moments there was no movement, just a body, broken and bleeding and spent, laying against the wall. Then words destroyed the fragile web of silence.
"And I love you, you asshole."
She never even heard the door open - true vamps were like that. He came up behind her without a word, without a sound. Quiet like a cat, and he looked so much like one too - long, black hair that hung to the small of his back, and blue eyes that burned with an inner fire that would scare away most beggers; all set within that fantastically pale skin that was a trademark with all of the infected. One of his thin hands caressed the back of her head and she snapped around like lightning - she might've been 20 years his senior, but dhampires were nothing compared to wampyr. Nothing. Like comparing the throw of a light switch to the rage of a lightning storm. There was no comparison.
His eyes were humorous, laughing at the mockery of her, and yet something in them lurked deep - desire. She sneered at him, making what was left of the beauty in her into an equally ugly mask as her scarred features. It wasn't so much that she loathed him - though he'd killed more than his fair share of dhampire and human alike - but moreso what he was, what he represented. The wampyr, freaks of the infection that spread like a plague across the continents, taking innocent lives and turning them into something grotesque. Something like her. He reached out a hand to caress her pale porcelain skin on the left side of her face, but she hissed at him in warning. He only laughed softly - it was no more the display than that of a kitten warning off a territorial tomcat. A foolish, beautiful kitten that entranced him somehow, even with her imperfections.
He grabbed her face with force, pressing his thumb into her cheek with enough force to bruise. She growled and moved to strike him, but he grabbed her wrist with greater force, breaking the bone cleanly to snap the thin wrist in half. Crying out in pain, her intricate grey eyes coiled in agony, rolling away from the sight of his face as tears edged into the scene. He pushed her up onto the sink with no more force than a child uses with a beloved plaything; he spread her legs with his hips and pressed against her. Back against the mirror, face held painfully in a winch-tight grip, right wrist broken and healing at an odd angle - this was not how the mission was supposed to go. She wasn't even supposed to have come into contact with him, he wasn't supposed to know she was there. Now she was caught like a mouse in a very well-set mouse trap. And the bait was...utterly delicious.
He pressed his cheek to hers, breathing in her scent with a deep breath, retracting his hand slowly to move it lower down - the feel of her, she was somewhat alive, when his flesh had never been. He released her wrist and his hands dived greedily at her pale, half-dead flesh with equal fervor. One unbuttoned that hideous man's shirt that she wore, even with her skirt, revealing the lacey white bra underneath - white to match white. White was oh-so her color, with her hair spilled against it. Red blood spilled on virgin snow. The metaphor simply added to her mystique.
The hand cruelly grabbed one breast and twisted, taking the whole piece of flesh in one hand and feeling the firmness with a fervor unmatched. He could barely breathe as she moaned under his caress, her grey eyes winking maliciously, the thoughts in her mind so transparent - imagining what his intestines would look like sprawled across the clean tile of the women's restroom. Still, when her mind refused to submit to his wants, her body was more than willing, a supple, well-tuned tool that hadn't been utilized enough to make it worthy of someone like him. And yet...he was inexplicably drawn to her and he knew, within her subconcious, she was drawn to him as well.
Continuing to grope her breasts, reaching under the bra to have skin to skin contact, the other hand sought under her skirt, nails scathing gently along her inner thigh until he reached the wonderfully matching lacey white panties - such risque for a femme, even one who no longer had monthly cycles - and gently stroked the heat that was emitted fiercely from between her legs, even against her protestations. His mouth sought hers and she even fell into it, kissing him back hungrily as if they would devour each other. She was gripping the sink with her abnormal strength, cracking the porcelain - he lifted her and pushed her against the wall with force. She twined her legs around his waist and and pressed against him, her hands buried in his hair to rake nails against his scalp in her own twisted motion of promises that had yet to be fulfilled. Death, blood, and unending pain.
His hand sought beneath her skirt again, finding the wet warmth between her legs and buring as many fingers as he could, pressing hard into her clit - equally pressing as hard into her mouth, his fangs cutting her lips to let blood flow carelessly down her neck, over her breasts, soaking into that once wonderfully clean, white shirt - stained now with his answer to her promises, with his own, things he had always offered her, and what she had always spurned. Their endless tango through time, caresses that were taken by force, pain offered with pleasure. Nothing else would they have ever taken from each other. He pulled his hand out, his nails hovering at her entrance and she whimpered, all at the same time looking ashamed for having done it, hating herself for having done it. Some small part of him hated her too, for doing it, and he shoved the hand back in with such force that she had to bite down on her lips, those wonderfully plump lips painted with the crimson that matched her hair so perfectly, causing them to break open anew and causing more blood to pour.
He leaned into the crook of her neck, pressing against the skin as he worked her, breathing in her scent and sweat, having her panting like some bitch in heat, her hating him for it and him loving her for hating him. He trailed his fangs along her neck, the one thing he knew he wouldn't take from her without her consent, the one thing he tantilized both her and himself with. The one thing that was keeping them from being...
"Say it." He whispered, in that midnight voice, the very epitome of the abyss that beckoned her into it's depths. That dark, deep pit that dangled the bait and lured her in each night, one step closer. Always one step, no more. No more needed - patience was something the abyss cultivated naturally. All things took time. She bit her bleeding lips and shook her head, her eyes glaring hatred into his beautiful face.
"Say it." Again, she refused. But he knew she would, eventually. Eventually. Everything came to him, in the end. He would hate it when she finally broke, when she finally came to him on hand and knee and begged him to fuck her. That was when he'd be able to refuse her, able to say no. Until then...he was more her slave than she knew. He put up his free hand to slid it over the hair that constantly covered the right side of her face, those gorgeous scars that she loathed so much - the one part of her that he could love fully and without regret. Something of himself, he could say, that he found in her.
"Angelline, say it, and it's over." Say it, and end the rape. I know you want it, and that's why you hate it. Why you hate me. Say it, and we're done. Something in her was close to some edge, close to some breaking point and she snarled at him as her body began to spasm as it reached it's climax.
"I hate you, you...you fucking bastard," she said, rather, spat at him with such force that he couldn't help but laugh, and then he pulled out of her so quickly, in mid-orgasm, stepping back to let her fall to the floor. Those smooth buttocks smacking the cold tile with enough force to make her blush with the pain of it. He procured a handkerchief from his pocket, but before whiping his fingers, he delicately sniffed them, enjoying the scent of her, and then cleaned his hand efficiently so that no trace was left.
"See you around...Absinthe." She sneered in reply to his words, half in anguish as she struggled to retain some dignity with her sore thighs. He left the women's bathroom smiling to himself, always refreshed after their little bouts.
At last left alone in the bathroom, when the whole encounter lasted no more than ten minutes, she tilted her head to let the crimson hair fall down over her face, covering her scars and her shame. For a few moments there was no movement, just a body, broken and bleeding and spent, laying against the wall. Then words destroyed the fragile web of silence.
"And I love you, you asshole."
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