скачать книгу бесплатно
Drunk with arousal, Rose could hardly focus on what she saw before her: Amanda in her austere grey dress, her delicate face a mask of hunger; Amanda kneeling before the two of them and nuzzling up to her breasts, sucking and lapping at the runnels of blood. But Rose surely felt it – the same thrill that raced from the puncture wounds like liquid lightning, all the way to her clit and her burning core. Her arousal gathered like a thunderhead as he impaled her to the hilt.
Then Reynauld caught her head and drew it back against his shoulder. She hung between orgasm and terror. She’d seen the movies; she knew he was going to bite out her exposed throat. His cold breath swept her neck and cheek and ear.
‘Give it up to me, Rose. Give it all up. Let my beloved taste your pleasure as you surrender to me – ah, yes.’
Disobedience was never a possibility. Rose broke like a storm, and tears ran down her face as she howled.
But he didn’t bite. To her indescribable relief and disappointment, he did not touch her throat. Instead, as Amanda lifted her face to show a scarlet lip-stain that looked garish against her porcelain pallor, he took Rose’s whole limp weight in his hands and began to slide her up and down on the cock impaling her.
‘Wait,’ said Amanda. ‘I know what you want.’ Taking Rose’s hands, she drew the girl to her feet, right off Reynauld, and turned her to face him again. A push on Rose’s shoulders dropped her to her knees. ‘Suck his cock,’ Amanda ordered.
Reynauld’s expression filled with consternation, almost dismay – which Rose might have found baffling if her attention had not been fixed on other parts. His stiffly erect cock made Kyle’s look like a toy. She would hardly have believed that it had all been inside her, if it hadn’t been for the glistening evidence painted the length of its shaft.
‘Amanda, this isn’t –’ he said, his teeth bared like an attack-dog’s.
‘You want it,’ Amanda answered. She caught Rose’s hair and pushed her head to his cock. ‘Take it in your mouth.’
Overbalancing, Rose grabbed his thighs. Hair ran rough beneath her palms. Oh fuck, he’s so … she cried inside her head. There was hair on his legs, his chest and his belly, as black and glistening as lines drawn in fresh ink. He was all muscle beneath it too, his thighs hard like stone and just as cold. She’d never touched a body like it. It made her feel ignorant and tiny. She opened her lips to the bell of his cock as Amanda forced her head down upon it, and tasted her own pussy on him.
Reynauld made no more protestations.
‘Take it all in,’ Amanda commanded.
Oh, God, there was no way on earth she could get that thing in all the way to the root. She laved him with her tongue, trying to make it more slippery and manageable, but Amanda pushed her right down until he butted the back of her throat. For a long moment she couldn’t draw breath. Then with a tug Amanda brought her back up for air, just before she started to panic.
That was all that was required of her: to make her mouth welcoming. Amanda controlled the speed and rhythm. Reynauld’s hips jerked to urge his cock a little deeper every time. Her jaw began to ache from his girth, but she couldn’t stop. Her breasts burned. She longed for him to bite them again. She hurt with the need for it.
As if he heard her wish, he reached down and pinched her nipples between his fingers and thumbs. Those buds of flesh were still as hot as if they’d been stung by wasps, and his touch was icy. It was torture, and it was what she needed. She felt herself open up, every part of her: cunt and throat all at once. She felt his thigh muscles jump beneath his skin as his length surged right into her throat, and then he let loose a cold flood of semen.
Gasping for breath, she jerked herself free, his come running out of the corners of her mouth. Reynauld stared down at her, his bulk filling her vision. Then he snatched her right up off the floor and threw her on the bed. All teeth and cock, he wrenched her thighs apart and fell upon her pussy. Wrapping his mouth over her pubis, he bit down hard.
Rose screamed. There was no distinction between terror and pain and pleasure in that cry; they were simultaneous and overwhelming. Then they too were overborne by the great supernova of her orgasm. She kept on coming as he fed, glutting himself on her ecstasy. She clutched the coverlet and bucked her hips and kicked against him – with utter lack of effect – until Amanda crawled up on to the bed to face him.
Reynauld lifted his head then, his mouth leaking crimson. Amanda went to him, licking his lips – like a puppy to a big dog, thought Rose through the fog that blurred her mind. At that instant her whole picture of them flipped inside out. He is old, she thought, not with contempt but with a kind of vertigo. He’s so much older than her. And he fed her, letting her suck from his mouth, until the two of them moved into a full kiss whose unselfconscious absorption made Rose ache with jealousy.
In her need she moaned out loud.
Reynauld remembered her then. ‘Drink,’ he told Amanda, drawing her down to the open pussy he had abandoned. Amanda shifted to straddle Rose’s supine torso, head to tail, her knees either side of the younger woman’s shoulders, her wicked three-inch heels slicing the air, her tight skirt and neat ass filling Rose’s field of view. But Rose didn’t care; she had what she wanted – a mouth on her clit once more, sucking.
She didn’t even care when Reynauld tugged that skirt right up – revealing dove-grey stockings, slim thighs and a lack of panties equivalent to her own – even though she’d never confronted another woman’s pussy before. Amanda’s sex was perfectly shaven, its lips plump and glistening. In the welter of her own ecstatic turmoil, Rose forgot to be disgusted. And the sight of Reynauld’s thighs eclipsing the light as he moved up behind his protégée and spread her cunt with his fingers made Rose come again.
There, inches above her face, he put his cock to Amanda’s slit and speared her, ramming home with a determination nearly brutal. Amanda moaned into Rose’s pussy and pushed back on to the shaft impaling her, begging for more.
‘Oh!’ Rose gasped, arching her neck and licking at Reynauld’s swinging balls. He laughed out loud then, a sound so deep and harsh that it sounded like a snarl.
She saw it all. Every slap of his dark and hairy thighs up against Amanda’s pale smooth ones. Every inch of his thick cock as it slid in and out of her split pussy, wet with her juices. Every jiggle of his ball-sac as it bounced back and forth – though soon enough it stopped swinging and tightened up to a hard knot of intent. For Rose the sight was all one with the awful, racking joy of being fed upon.
And when Reynauld came once more, his fingers biting into Amanda’s ass, his thighs a shuddering tattoo that ended in slamming blows and straining stillness, she saw that too. When Reynauld pulled out, she saw his cream spilling from Amanda’s sex in a slow wash. Then Amanda sat back on Rose’s face and the girl saw no more, not until she’d swallowed every mouthful of Reynauld’s seed and Amanda had ground out her own orgasm on Rose’s face.
She thought it would be over, after that. Her body was a trembling slick of exhaustion and pleasure. But she had to wake up when Amanda tugged her back into a sitting position.
‘Come on, Rose. On your feet.’
‘What are we doing?’ she mumbled, unable to focus her eyes.
‘Going down to dinner, like we planned,’ said Reynauld’s deep, warm voice. ‘They should have cleared the dining room of other guests by now. The food here is supposed to be excellent. Amanda still eats solids. And you will need to keep your strength up. You’ve a long night ahead of you.’
‘What?’ She blinked herself properly awake in time to see the shadows crawl out of the corners of the room and from under the furniture and creep up his limbs, arranging themselves into a reasonable facsimile of sombre clothing. Hiding his still rock-hard erection.
‘Did you think we’d finished?’ Amanda smiled as, ignoring all that, she tugged Rose’s silk slip back up into place for her, covering up her breasts though not the jut of her engorged nipples. ‘That was only an appetiser. We’re still very hungry.’
Rose had a sudden intense vision of herself laid out on a hotel table under the horrified, avid eyes of the waiters, as Reynauld and Amanda fucked her and sucked her, turn and turn about, until she died of it. At the thought her pussy tingled, moistening anew.
It would be wonderful.
She didn’t resist when Amanda took her hand and led her to the door like a child, though her legs were so shaky she had to lean on the older woman. Her breasts and pussy were heavy and aching. The touch of Reynauld’s palm on her ass only made her tremble with anticipation. But just before leaving the chamber she stopped abruptly. They were facing one of the big gilt-framed mirrors. She could see herself in it, slender and waiflike and debauched in her stockings and slip, with the bloodstains leaking into the silk over her breasts. She could see Amanda clearly too: improbably neat and pristine after their tussle. But where Reynauld should be behind her there was only a shadowy distortion in the glass.
Oh, God. It’s all real. Everything they say about them.
‘You don’t show up in the mirror,’ she blurted.
She recognised the flash of Amanda’s eyes: a swift, protective anger. She turned, expecting to see a similar rage in Reynauld and already flinching.
But he didn’t look angry. She couldn’t begin to identify his expression, only knowing that in that moment he somehow looked more human than at any point previously.
‘Only light is reflected, Rose,’ he told her, his voice low. ‘Only light.’
* * *
Rose woke alone to breakfast in bed and a taxi waiting downstairs to take her to the Sorbonne. She had no memory of how she came to be in a beautiful Michelin-starred French hotel. Or how she’d lost three days. None whatsoever.
It was just like a fairy tale.
* * *
Author’s note: Amanda and Reynauld appear in Red Grow the Roses, by Janine Ashbless
A Girl’s Got to Eat
Aishling Morgan
‘But I don’t want to feed Aunt Isabella!’ Cicely stormed.
‘Don’t pout,’ the Baroness told her. ‘It’s not ladylike.’
‘Somebody has to,’ Florence added, ‘and it is your turn, Cicely.’
‘It always seems to be my turn,’ Cicely answered, folding her arms across her chest. ‘When do I get to feed, that’s what I’d like to know?’
‘You’ve been doing very well for yourself,’ the Baroness said, ‘at least to judge by your embonpoint.’
‘We must share what bounty we are given,’ Florence stated, ‘for the good of all, and not only are you better equipped to provide than either of us, but your name is at the head of the rota.’
Cicely didn’t trouble to answer, sparing only a brief downward glance for the way her chest bulged from the top of her corset before turning to stare out across the moonlit lawn. The cedars and the turrets and chimneys of the house created oddly shaped shadows on the grass, while a faint breeze was making the leaves of the beeches clack and their branches creak, all of which would have been very pleasant were it not for the intransigence of her companions. The Baroness was bad enough, with her superior airs and malicious humour, but Florence was worse by far, with her firm but reasonable tone and irrefutable arguments.
None of the three spoke for some time, each thinking her own thoughts and listening to the sounds of the night. The Baroness, as always, had dressed for the evening and in garments she felt correct for her age and status: a long, high-necked gown of black silk, black boots with a sharp heel, gloves and a tall hat from which depended a veil, all black save for a spray of feathers that showed a hint of dark, iridescent green. Florence, in a sense, was no less formal, in the flowing white shroud she’d been buried in a hundred and forty years previously. Cicely had dressed for town, in a corset of brilliant-green satin, voluminous split-seam drawers, stockings and smart brown shoes decorated with brass buckles.
‘I should go,’ she said. ‘It’s fully dark, and the traffic will have died down a little.’
‘Not until you’ve fed Aunt Isabella,’ the Baroness insisted. ‘And, besides, you can’t go out like that. You’re in danger of popping out, and your hair is a bird’s nest!’
‘It’s the fashion,’ Cicely explained, ‘and, besides, I need a man, or a woman, maybe, some nice, plump, baby vamp who’ll let me lick –’
The Baroness drew herself up. ‘Manners, Cicely! In my day –’
‘In your day,’ Cicely interrupted, ‘I could have bought myself a prostitute for less than a shilling and done as I pleased with her, but I don’t suppose you ever did that?’
‘One does not remark on such things,’ the Baroness answered in her most glacial tones.
‘What about that nice Rococo boy?’ Florence put in hastily. ‘Aren’t you seeing him any more?’
‘Goth,’ Cicely corrected. ‘Marco is a Goth, and no I’m not. He was getting too weird.’
‘Too weird?’ the Baroness queried. ‘Strange, coming from you.’
‘He wanted us to sleep in a coffin,’ Cicely explained, ‘half full of earth.’
‘I can’t understand why people do that,’ Florence said. ‘It’s desperately uncomfortable, and, besides, the whole idea of a coffin is to keep the earth out.’
‘I used to have a beautiful coffin,’ the Baroness mused. ‘It was padded throughout the interior, even on the underside of the lid, in crimson velvet, with my coat of arms worked in gold leaf. Wretched peasants!’
‘You have to see their point of view,’ Cicely retorted.
‘I am only too well acquainted with their point of view,’ the Baroness snapped back. ‘Now go and feed Aunt Isabella. I don’t want to have to tell you again.’
‘Yes, do, Cicely, darling,’ Florence added. ‘It is your turn.’
‘I don’t want to! You know what she’s like!’
‘A little eccentric, I grant you, but you normally rather like that sort of thing.’
‘Not before she’s fed! Look, I’ll do it when I get back.’
‘Now,’ the Baroness insisted. ‘You are beginning to try my patience, Cicely St Cyr.’
‘Don’t start that again, please,’ Cicely answered. ‘I am more than one hundred and ten years old, and –’
‘Do as you are told,’ the Baroness said firmly, ‘or you will have to be spanked.’
‘Isn’t it really about time you stopped doing that sort of thing?’ Cicely demanded. ‘This is the twenty-first century.’
‘So it is, my dear,’ the Baroness answered, ‘but you and I belong to the nineteenth, and I see no reason to change our behaviour.’
‘I do!’ Cicely exclaimed, but it was already too late.
A pale, bony hand had shot out, to grab hold of her arm. She was quickly drawn in, her squalling protests ignored as she was hauled into place across the Baroness’ knee, her skirts turned up, her drawers pulled open and her rounded, milk-white bottom soundly spanked in tune to her howls of pain and indignation. When she was finally allowed up she stood rubbing at her rear cheeks, her face set in a resentful scowl.
‘And if you continue to pout you’ll get more,’ the Baroness warned her, ‘with my hairbrush. Now go and feed Aunt Isabella.’
Cicely made a face and continued to rub at her bottom, still defiant.
Florence had watched the spanking with a curious mixture of sympathy and approval, in silence, but now gave a sad shake of her head and spoke up. ‘Run along, Cicely, or it will be the cane.’
Not deigning to answer, Cicely gave an angry toss of her unruly curls and stamped indoors, but Florence’s argument had been persuasive. Being spanked across the knee was something she could cope with, but the cane was another matter entirely, although having given in didn’t make the task in front of her any easier. She climbed the stairs slowly, twice stopping as some new argument occurred to her, but both grounded on the fact that if she employed them she was more than likely to end up touching her toes with her bare bottom sticking out of her drawers as she was given six of the best.
She hesitated again when she reached the landing. Aunt Isabella’s door was closed and there was absolute silence, which was only to be expected. Plucking up her courage, she went in, taking a moment for her eyes to adapt to the dull orange light of the single candle that illuminated the room. In front of her was a great four-poster bed, the canopy half-concealing the occupant, who lay with the bed sheets pulled back, her body limp and naked, the skin stretched taut and yellow over angular bones, the eyes sunk deep in their sockets, the mass of ghost-pale hair oddly incongruous.
‘Aunt Isabella?’ Cicely queried, suddenly worried that the woman on the bed might actually be dead.
A voice like cobweb answered her. ‘Cicely? Come close, my dear.’
Cicely obeyed, seating herself on the bed and extending one cautious hand to touch the desiccated chest. Aunt Isabella’s flesh felt cold and oddly waxy, while one withered nipple had already begun to crack, yet the bony hand which had settled across Cicely’s shoulders was pulling her in with considerable strength.
‘I’m sorry we left you so long,’ Cicely said quietly, as she allowed herself to be drawn in against Aunt Isabella’s mouth.
A sharp cry of pain escaped Cicely lips as the fangs punctured her neck, and Aunt Isabella had begun to feed. Cicely stayed still, trembling badly, her breathing growing deeper and more urgent as the blood flowed from her neck and into the mouth of the creature suckling from her. The one bony hand had stayed on her back and the other now moved up, slowly, to scrabble at the front of Cicely’s corset.
‘Please, not yet,’ she sighed.
She was ignored, her corset tugged down to spill out her breasts, while fingers like claws scraped across the soft flesh. A rasping groan escaped Aunt Isabella’s throat as she continued to feed, with Cicely now sobbing in her grip. She’d shut her eyes tight, unable to watch, for all that she knew exactly what was happening, and no longer able to escape had she wanted to, with her body held tight in a bony embrace and Aunt Isabella’s long, curved fangs pushed deep into her neck.
Even when the emaciated hand released her breasts to move lower, Cicely stayed as she was, whimpering faintly into Aunt Isabella’s abundant hair as long, thin fingers pushed in at the slit of her drawers. She cried out as what felt like gristle touched her cunt, but her thighs had come wide, seemingly of their own accord, to allow one slender digit inside her. Now penetrated, her sobs grew deeper, more urgent, and still the blood flowed.
Cicely gave in, letting her thighs open wider still and throwing her head back, her neck fully exposed as Aunt Isabella climbed on to her. Pinned down on the bed, with the fangs locked into her flesh as now strong fingers worked in her cunt, Cicely found herself helpless, unable to resist either mentally or physically as she gave strength to her aunt. Her heart was pumping fast, her breath coming in urgent, ragged gasps that broke to an involuntary cry of ecstasy as she came to orgasm under the now firm and pliant fingers.
A moment later Aunt Isabella pulled back, and for a long while the two women lay together in silence.
Only when the gashes in Cicely’s neck had fully healed did she voice her feelings. ‘I do wish you wouldn’t masturbate me while you feed. It’s most unsettling.’
‘It makes your heart beat faster and improves the flow of blood,’ Aunt Isabella replied. ‘As I believe I have explained before. And, besides, you whimper so nicely.’
Cicely made a face but didn’t reply. Aunt Isabella was now propped up in her bed, her round, pale limbs still naked, but smooth and supple, her breasts full and firm, her belly a gentle womanly curve. She had fed well, rather better than usual, which had left Cicely feeling weak and a little dizzy.
‘I see you’re dressed for town,’ Aunt Isabella said after a while. ‘New blood?’
‘I hope so,’ Cicely replied. ‘There’s a club I want to try, full of boys who think they’re vampires, girls too.’
Aunt Isabella gave a wistful sigh, then spoke again. ‘You couldn’t bring one back this time, could you? A girl, of course.’
