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‘You know I can’t, Auntie,’ Cicely replied. ‘That sort of thing gets noticed nowadays, and we couldn’t very well let her go afterwards, not with the way Florence looks, and … and you.’
‘But I’m beautiful,’ Aunt Isabella protested.
She had risen from the bed, her naked milk-white flesh glimmering in the candlelight, her hair a cascade of pure silver, her eyes flickering with reflections of vivid red. Her mouth was now full, her lips a delicate blushing mauve, the fangs that rose both up and down from her jaws long and sharp.
‘Beautiful,’ Cicely agreed, ‘and very obviously a vampire, a real vampire.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Aunt Isabella replied, ‘only the other day you were saying how good the make-up is these days, and that film, Van Helsing, was most convincing, I thought.’
‘It’s called CGI, Auntie,’ Cicely said patiently. ‘Computer-generated imagery. It’s not real.’
Aunt Isabella was making a critical inspection of one heavy white breast and didn’t reply immediately.
‘I must go,’ Cicely stated.
‘Flawless,’ Aunt Isabella remarked, ‘the colour and texture of cream as one sweet boy once remarked.’
‘Did he live?’
‘No.’
‘They don’t often, do they? Not with you.’
‘I can’t help it if I have a passionate nature.’
‘Maybe not, but that is another very good reason for you not to come out with me tonight.’
‘Oh very well, give your auntie a kiss then, and you’d better run along.’
Cicely stood to kiss her aunt, their lips meeting in a faint caress, only to open in passion, their mouths wide together, tongues entwined, with no sound but the faint chink of their fangs.
‘Little and pointy in the mouth, and such big boobies,’ Aunt Isabella remarked as she finally pulled away. ‘You’re a lucky girl, Cicely.’
Cicely smiled and kissed her aunt once more before scampering from the room, only to slow as she reached the top of the stairs. She’d let Aunt Isabella take more blood than usual, while it had been a long time since she’d fed herself. Her need was now urgent, but she found herself obliged to support herself on the banister as she descended the stairs and she tripped on the last step as she came back out into the moonlit garden.
‘Are you all right, my dear?’ Florence asked.
‘She was a little greedy,’ Cicely answered.
‘You really must learn to assert yourself,’ the Baroness advised. ‘Don’t put up with her nonsense.’
‘I just need to sit down for a moment,’ Cicely said. ‘Then I’d better go.’
‘You’re weak,’ the Baroness stated. ‘I shall come with you.’
‘Come with me?’ Cicely said in surprise. ‘But, Baroness, you haven’t left the grounds in years. Decades in fact.’
‘Since 1952, to be precise,’ the Baroness responded.
‘Really, my dear,’ Florence put in. ‘I’m not at all sure that it’s a good idea.’
‘Nonsense,’ the Baroness answered her. ‘It will do me good.’
‘Things have changed,’ Cicely said.
‘I have seen change across very nearly two hundred years, Cicely St Cyr,’ the Baroness pointed out. ‘And now I am of a mind to see some more. Besides, you are so weak you can barely stand.’
‘I can manage, thank you.’
‘Not another word, Cicely. Let us go to the carriage.’
‘The car, Baroness,’ Cicely pointed out. ‘I drive a car.’
‘A most vulgar abbreviation, and a most vulgar vehicle. Blood-red paintwork indeed. Sometimes your sense of humour is positively grotesque.’
‘It’s inconspicuous. Speaking of which, at the very least you will have to change.’
‘Certainly not!’
The Baroness had risen and stalked into the house. Cicely made to follow, but Florence spoke up. ‘Shall I come too, my dear?’
Cicely turned to make a brief inspection of the corpse-white face, the ragged grave shroud that only partially concealed the emaciated body, the inch-long fangs projecting over bloodless lips. ‘I’m not sure it would be your thing,’ she said.
‘Perhaps not,’ Florence agreed.
Cicely followed the Baroness through the house, throwing on a coat as she went, then out to the stable yard, where a double row of vacant stalls faced each other across time-worn flagstones. Her car stood to one side, the colour just evident under the brilliant moon.
‘And why so small?’ the Baroness demanded, picking up the conversation more or less where she’d left off. ‘A carriage should reflect a lady’s status. I had a beautiful black and gold landau once, drawn by a team of six greys …’
The Baroness continued her reminiscences, as Cicely started the car and drove out from the stable block and down the long curving avenue of intertwined beeches that hid the house from any curious gaze. Another mile and she was on the motorway, with her companion now silent as she watched the passing scenery and speaking only when they had stopped near to the old warehouse in which the club was being held. A sign in glaring red-orange neon above the doors proclaimed the name of the premises ‘Suzi’s’, while a painted board advertised the fetish vamp night that had drawn Cicely’s attention.
‘Rather common, is it not?’ the Baroness remarked as she climbed from the car. ‘But you’re sensible, of course. Nobody notices the occasional missing peasant, after all, but take somebody from even a moderately notable family and, oh, the fuss!’
‘I think it might be better if you didn’t refer to them as peasants,’ Cicely suggested.
‘But they are peasants,’ the Baroness pointed out as she made a disdainful inspection of a group of girls in nothing but fishnet tights and brightly coloured underwear, ‘although in my day –’
‘Oh shut up!’ Cicely said.
The Baroness gave her a haughty look but made no move towards reprisal. Neither drew comment at the door, where Cicely paid for two tickets, admitting them to a great square of open space, flickering with coloured lights and loud with music. The floor was already crowded, with dancers sporting a vast variety of styles: dour or flamboyant Goths in their black finery, role players and cosplayers, dominants and submissives, fetishists of every description.
‘Extraordinary!’ the Baroness remarked, her voice raised above the music. ‘Although I recall a ball at Chantilly, given by the last Condé …’
Cicely was not listening, but concentrating on the hunt. Some three hundred people were visible, one of whom would be giving up his, or her, blood, maybe more than one, especially if the Baroness chose to join the chase. It was never an easy choice, but always a thrilling one, while the occasional rejection only added to her hunger. The victim had to be pretty, fey and sufficiently dedicated to the vampire cult to allow Cicely to feed as they made love, something the presence of the Baroness made rather awkward.
‘Do you think, perhaps –’ she began, only to break off as she turned to discover that her companion was no longer with her. ‘Bother!’
Irritated, Cicely went in search of the Baroness, a task made harder by the jumping shadows and because well over half the guests at the club were dressed entirely in black. Climbing to a balcony, she scanned the throng in the main room over and again before moving on to the bar, then into a series of smaller rooms set aside for more intimate encounters. She found the Baroness in the very last, the darkest, the deepest within the labyrinthine warehouse, and what she saw made her gape in astonishment.
The room had been fitted out as if it were a medieval dungeon, with walls painted to resemble dripping grey-green stone and a single high window set with rusting iron bars. Against the far wall was a tall cross of heavy beams fitted with chains and leather straps, while other pieces of furniture intended to aid in restraint and punishment stood to the sides. A man was strapped to the cross, naked, his burly back and heavy buttocks criss-crossed with scarlet welts, while three others knelt on the floor, their faces pressed to the dirty concrete. Between them stood the Baroness, her thin lips set in a pleased smile as she employed a long single-tail whip with practised efficiency.
‘Ah, there you are, my dear,’ the Baroness said when she finally noticed Cicely. ‘I must say, this is tremendous fun! I had no idea modern people knew their place so well.’
‘They –’ Cicely began and thought better of it, breaking off as one of the men on the floor spoke up, addressing the Baroness.
‘Mistress, please, I beg you, just one kiss of your boots. I’ll do anything you want, anything you say!’
‘I want to please you, Mistress,’ another said, looking up with an expression of awe. ‘Make me your slave, Mistress, I beg you. I have no limits. You can do anything to me, anything!’
‘You see,’ the Baroness remarked to Cicely, ‘positively servile! Is it usually like this?’
‘Not for me,’ Cicely admitted, as the Baroness extended one booted foot from beneath her skirts to allow the man who’d asked the favour to plant a single kiss on the toe.
‘They recognise nobility, of course,’ the Baroness said as she began to flick her whip at the man on the cross, aiming between his legs to snap at the dangling testicles, ‘but, really, I haven’t had so much fun in years. You, peasant, you bleed well. My friend is a vampire. Let her feed.’
The man she’d addressed looked up doubtfully, his eyes moving first to the Baroness and then to Cicely, or, more precisely, to her chest. ‘Er …’ he began. ‘That’s not really my thing.’
‘Um …’ Cicely put in, but the man clearly assumed she was a role player.
‘You said you wished to serve me, did you not?’ the Baroness stated. ‘You said you would do anything to please me. Look on it as a test of your devotion.’
‘Yes, Mistress, but –’ the man began, only to be interrupted by another.
‘Your slut may feed from me, Mistress. I would be honoured.’
‘Slut?’ Cicely queried, but the man had already been sent in her direction with a well-aimed kick of the Baroness’ boot.
He stayed down, his head hung to the floor, exposing his neck, a sight too enticing to allow Cicely to hold back. She would have preferred a girl, or a younger, more virile man, but the victim she had been offered was well fed and sleek, which promised rich, nourishing blood, while it was impossible to deny that his craven submission had fired her lust. Sinking down, she took a firm hold across his back, pressed her open mouth to his neck and sank her fangs deep into his resilient flesh.
‘Jesus shit!’ he squealed, and tried to rise, but too late.
Cicely had him in her grip, too strong for any mere mortal to break, with her fangs sunk in deep and the blood already flowing into her mouth. As she’d hoped, it was thick and rich, sending her dizzy with pleasure as she swallowed and swallowed again, breaking off only with an effort. The man rolled back as she released her grip, to stare up at her, wide-eyed with horror, his gaze fixed to her open, bloody mouth as she wiped away a trickle of blood.
‘You fucking weirdo!’ he swore, and he scrabbled to his feet and fled the room.
‘He’ll report us,’ Cicely said.
‘You were only playing,’ the Baroness said blithely, ‘and, if we can whip them, why can’t we bite them? Tell me that, Miss Cicely St Cyr?’
‘True,’ Cicely admitted, ‘but please could you let me choose the next one? There’s a knack to this.’
‘Make me your next victim, I beg you, Mistress,’ a voice sounded at Cicely’s shoulder. ‘I am worthy, Mistress.’
She hadn’t looked back since entering the room, and was surprised to find a knot of male faces peering in from the gloom beyond the door. The man who’d spoken was the largest of them, tall and well built, his great barrel chest and tree-trunk legs naked, his crotch concealed only by a straining pouch of thin black rubber.
‘Do you mean that?’ she asked, opening her mouth to show her fangs and the bloody interior. ‘I bite.’
‘Please, yes,’ he begged, his voice weak with need, although others in the audience were more critical, one giving his opinion that Cicely’s fangs were obviously fake and another suggesting that her image would be more effective if both her breasts hadn’t popped free of her corset as she fed.
Cicely ignored them as she beckoned her victim closer. The situation was ideal, a fine, big young man to feed on and a disbelieving audience, which would allow both her and the Baroness to gorge themselves to satiation. He was as good as his promise too, coming into the room to wait patiently as Cicely released the man on the cross. Both the other men had fled, allowing them to work uninterrupted save for the occasional comment from the door.
Whichever of the men had originally owned the whip had lacked the courage to retrieve it, allowing the Baroness to liven up their new victim with a few smart cuts to his legs and chest, while Cicely fixed his ankle cuffs into place. He seemed already in ecstasy, moaning as the leather smacked down across his flesh, and as the Baroness stepped close the look he gave her showed no fear, only adoration.
‘Let us see then,’ she said gently. ‘Are you truly worthy?’
He gave a low whimper in response as her lips brushed his neck, then a sharp cry of pain as her fangs went home. Her eyes closed in bliss as she began to drink, while Cicely looked on with a quiet smile to see her friend and mentor indulging herself for the first time in so very long. For a while she simply watched as the Baroness fed, her own belly already round with blood, but with Florence and Aunt Isabella to feed as well she had soon moved close, only not to the man’s neck, but to his crotch.
It was a rare treat, one she hadn’t allowed herself in a while, and she smacked her lips in anticipation as she pulled their victim’s rubber pants low to free a large, heavily hooded cock straight into her mouth. He groaned as Cicely began to suck, as helpless to the pleasure of being in her mouth as had he not been restrained, while even the crowd at the door had gone silent. Another tug at his pants and his balls were free, allowing her to lick at the salty flesh before taking his now stiff cock into her mouth once more. Her hands went to her breasts, stroking herself as she sucked, now dizzy with reaction to the long thick cock shaft in her mouth. He began to push, fucking her lips, and she slid a hand into the slit of her drawers, masturbating shamelessly for the sheer joy of sucking his cock, and brought herself to climax at the exact instant he gave her what she wanted most of all, a warm, sticky mouthful of come.
Cicely swallowed and rocked back on her heels, smiling happily for what she’d done. Above her, the Baroness was still feeding, with a long trickle of blood running down over the man’s shoulder and across his chest. Cicely came up a little, to lap at the deep-red trail, cleaning up the spillage before gently detaching the Baroness from the man’s neck.
‘Enough, darling. That must be enough.’
Both the man and the Baroness nodded and behind them the watchers broke into applause. The Baroness responded with a carefully measured nod, while Cicely curtsied before setting to work to release the man from his cuffs.
‘Thank you, Mistress,’ he sighed, ‘and you too, Cicely. May I buy you both a drink, because I think I need one. I’m Dave, by the way.’
‘Blanche Ēlodie Marie-Sabine d’Annecy, Baroness de Brouilly, charmed. A cut of champagne would be pleasant.’
* * *
Four hours later Cicely and the Baroness left the club. It had been a good evening, by any standards. The story of their performance in the dungeon had quickly circulated, leaving the Baroness the object of adoring male attention from all sides, while Cicely had been able to feed three more times, to leave her belly swollen with blood and her breasts engorged to the point at which fluid had begun to seep from her nipples.
‘I do hope Florence is hungry,’ she said as she drew away into the now empty streets.
‘Yes,’ the Baroness replied vaguely, her mind clearly on other things. ‘Ah, what a night! I am not certain I recall a better, and I really had no idea that modern men had such an instinctive ability to recognise their betters.’
Cicely didn’t answer, more concerned with her aching breasts and straining belly.
‘It is only natural, of course,’ the Baroness continued, ‘that the lower orders …’
Bright headlight beams illuminated the interior of the car from behind them, making it difficult for Cicely to see, while she was more than familiar with the Baroness’ personal philosophy in any case. Concentrating on her driving and her ever more urgent need to feed one of her friends, she had quickly put everything else from her mind. Only when she was almost at the gates of the house and the car behind them was still close did she wonder if it was following them. She turned on to the drive and the lights swung around behind her.
‘Whoever could that be?’ the Baroness asked.
‘I suspect I know,’ Cicely answered her.
She got out of the car, to find Dave already standing by his own, with a hang-dog expression on his face.
‘I – I thought … my Mistress.’
‘Go home,’ Cicely urged. ‘You can’t come here, this is where we live.’
‘I live only to serve my Mistress,’ he replied.
‘We could do with a houseboy,’ the Baroness spoke from behind.
‘No we could not,’ Cicely answered firmly.
