Читать книгу The Visitor: Vampire Erotica - Various, Glenda Jackson - Страница 5

‘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.’

‘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.

‘I don’t see why not,’ the Baroness went on. ‘It would certainly be a help to have somebody around during the day.’