Born in Blood
Written by Erika Winter, based on ideas and inspiration provided by Serinthia Kelberry
Triggers: Sexual Exploitation, Blood, Suicidal Thoughts, Death, Graphic Sex
To die. Just for a moment.
Those words, that thought, echoed inside Amara's head as she felt Anastasia's weight settling next to her on the cushions of that strange antique couch underground. She pressed her nose against Anastasia's skin, and the vampire's flesh felt cold to the touch. As if Anastasia had just stepped in from a walk through the winter breeze. But she hadn't. She had been there, in the warm, dim-lit place that was both a cellar, a vault, a bedroom, and a tomb, all rolled in one, for as long as Amara. The girl flinched at the initial discomfort, but it didn't seem surprising or discouraging to Anastasia, who pushed out her tongue, touching only the very tip of the cold and wet appendage against the skin just below Amara's ears. The young model – or was she now already a 'former model'? – let out a shuddered breath of anticipation, gripping the cushions under her tightly. She could hear her own heartbeat. She could feel it, too. Heavy and strong, desperate; inside her chest, on her temples, and in the throbbing veins where Anastasia's tongue was pressed. The vampire drew a line down across it, with her cold saliva marking a path over Amara's skin.
Amara had always felt a little squeamish about the fluids involved in a sex act. Her arousal, semen, spit, sweat. She wasn't a virgin, but she didn't like feeling them on her skin. Whenever she fucked someone, whether because she wanted to or because of necessity – the latter being far more common – she always had to rush into a shower after. Even masturbating felt uncomfortable. Touching her wet folds with her fingers was strange to her. She would still do it to get off when she had to when she felt too restless, and it was the only thing that would calm her down, but she had grown to prefer rubbing herself through her panties or using a vibrating toy than making direct contact. And that was why, when Anastasia's tongue traced a line over her skin, she was expecting to feel the icky creeping feeling across her neck, inside her throat, and in the back of her mind. That rush to wipe it clean and restore her body to the purity it had before it was tainted. But she didn't.
For once in her life, she focused just on the present sensation rather than the thought of erasing its traces, and it allowed her to feel the warmth pooling between her legs more clearly. It allowed her to feel her throat tightening in not disgust but a thrilled and excited nervousness. And Anastasia's hand found its way to her thigh, holding it, gently beckoning it to part. Amara did so without wondering why parting her legs was part of becoming a vampire. She had agreed she would die by the woman's hand. She had agreed she would be transformed into something she didn't fully understand and agreed she would be her servant in her newfound eternal life. Why would she flinch at any other demand? Yet, Amara felt a gnawing suspicion in the back of her mind based on little more than instinct, raw intuition, or perhaps simply wishful thinking. A part of her suspected Anastasia needed the surrender from her for more than just for pleasure, but for what came next. Amara felt like Anastasia wanted her to understand at a visceral level the power of being owned before she could own others. Or before she received the power that would come with the vampiric embrace.
Why would she stop when she almost sucked some photographer's dick for a way smaller gift? For a boon that wasn't even to herself? No. Amara was giving herself whole-hearted, and she parted her legs even further than the pull of Anastasia's touch suggested, leaning back into the couch, reclining, and feeling the brush of lips against her neck. Except now, they were warm. The tongue licked again, wiping the cold saliva with warm wetness that replaced it and spread across her skin. Amara moaned, and she allowed Anastasia's weight to push her down until she was lying on the couch on her back, and the woman was above her. She broke away from her neck, holding her wrists together as if she were about to tie them above Amara's head and looking at her prey. The black hair cascaded and framed Anastasia's face in shadow, making her red garnet eyes glow in the darkness.
“Fuck...” Anastasia whispered, breathy.
Her legs were up, her knees bent, and the bodycon dress, short as it was, had rode up to pool around her stomach as Anastasia stood between her thighs, which squeezed the vampire's side. Amara felt shame about her underwear. A very racy, minimal black thong. A deliberate choice she had made for the visit to the studio. In case the photographer wanted racy pictures. But it wasn't her. Now she felt both shame and some arousal born out of self-degradation that that was how Anastasia would see her if she were to look down. Her sex grew dewy and hot, soaking the black fabric against it even more by the second. Anastasia inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring and eyes closing as she drank Amara's scent. Could she... Smell her down there? Her arousal?
“I can smell you across the room, Amara,” Anastasia said as if reading her thoughts. “I could smell your cunt in the whole ride here. I could smell your sweat from across the Night Market...” Anastasia said, sharp and cold; her tone wasn't comforting, wasn't even teasing, and yet in that bluntness, Amara once more found something deeply erotic. “You could never hide from me, even if you wanted to. But you will never want to, you understand?”
Amara nodded, and the older woman – which was likely an understatement – released her wrists. She brought them to caress her face. So strange, her cheeks and her jaw were warm to the touch, yet from the neck down, she was cold as a cadaver. Amara's body ached and throbbed. She felt desire running through her like a river of warm honey, and she couldn't even find that difference in temperature off-putting. It just made her sensorially curious. She wanted to touch her more, feel her more.
“I will never want to hide...” Amara repeated, entranced.
Anastasia smirked, and Amara felt a cold hand touching her warm thigh, sliding down against it, and the sensation made her shiver and arch her hips. It was like running an ice cube through her aroused nipples. The stark contrast of cold against warmth. But as the hand slid down, it grew hotter quickly. Fast enough for Amara to notice it doing so until it cupped her sex. She moved her hips to obscenely and needfully grind against it, rubbing her pussy against the digits through the panties as she would do to herself to get off. A memory flared in her mind.
A bus ride in an agency bus taking her to a pageant out of state. Two in the morning, deep into the night, and everyone else was asleep. The bus vibrated as it drove across the desert highway. It was one of those fancy ones with the seats perpendicular to the direction of travel and mostly empty. She was sitting in the far corner, away from everyone else, and she couldn't sleep. Still wearing the plaid skirt of her last outfit, Amara found herself moved by a deep, debauched desire. She straddled over the seat so that the hard plastic armrest pressed between her legs, against her sex, with her knees on the cushions of either seat. She was just fifteen, but her body was on fire. She couldn't remember what had her so aroused back then. But she remembered feeling the hard armrest vibrating against her sex. Of looking into her dim reflection in the window and the desert beyond as she allowed the bus to get her off. It was only later that she learned about women sitting on top of a shaking dryer and other similar stimulations being commonplace. But for years, she carried that bus encounter in her head as something utterly pleasurable and utterly shameful. She got off to an inanimate object in a room where, even if sleeping, there were other people. And she loved it. She loved it. And she never told a soul.
Then she remembered relaxing after her third orgasm in the position, happy she never got caught, only to see the mess of her nectar glistening against the black hard plastic of the seat. She remembered spending the rest of the trip paranoid that she smelled strongly like sex and that everyone could tell how much of a freak she was. She wondered if that was the moment she became so squeamish about fluids. She wasn't sure, but the fear and guilt were crushing. Anastasia's fingers were nothing like the bus armrest, but the act felt just as wrong. If vampires were undead, did it make Anastasia an inanimate object? A corpse? Was she a necrophiliac? Labels. Categories. What did it matter? She didn't look anything like a corpse. She didn't feel like a corpse. Why was Amara's mind searching technical definitions to guilt herself into not enjoying something her whole body craved? She continued to grind her sex against that palm. And then Anastasia gripped her panties and yanked them off.
They tore too easily. Like paper. Amara's pussy was waxed smooth in preparation for a lingerie shoot the next morning, and that meant there was no hair to shield the skin around her petals from her arousal as Anastasia shoved her palm against her naked sex. Smearing it, the soft pad where her digits ended and her palm began pressed against Amara's clit, while two fingers stroked down her slit, fingering her. She gasped and gripped the couch. The sounds of wetness filled her with shame, and while Anastasia's saliva did not make her squeamish, her arousal did. She did not like to feel soaked like that. Smearing almost to her thighs. She wanted to be clean. She needed to be clean. Yet the pleasure of being fingered prevented her from stopping it. Her body ached for more.
'After,' she compromised. Then she remembered. After this. After this, she would die. For a little bit. Would she die with that sensation on her? Would she get to feel clean again after that moment?
“W-What... Are you doing...?” Amara asked between moans as the vampire continued to stroke and grind against her nethers.
“Your blood will taste sweeter after your release,” Anastasia whispered.
Was it all about her, then? All to enhance the taste of Amara's blood? She wasn't concerned with Amara's pleasure, just with her own? Fuck it, at least she was honest. That was something refreshing about Anastasia. She was honest. Painfully so. Honest about wanting her to serve her and honest about the dark price of her gift. Honest about everything. Even her nature. Amara decided that honesty was hot. “T-Then m-make me come hard...” Amara said, meaning to be bossy, but it came across as pleading, begging. “How?” Amara was caught off guard by the question, and she moaned before she could answer. How? She knew the answer, deep down. She knew where her thoughts went when she masturbated. What she thought about when she was having sex with someone who didn't arouse her to bring herself there. But she never told a soul about it. Not one. No one deserved it. They would mock her. They would see a nakedness in her that went beyond removing clothes. But Anastasia was going to drink her blood. Kill her. Amara couldn't think of a more intimate act than consensually drinking the life force of a body. The notion of draining essence felt both deeply personal and yet obscene and wrong. The comparison struck her as the thought of drinking cum, only filthier. More taboo. More debasing and more possessive. Was this what men felt when a girl swallowed their seed? This yearning she felt to know Anastasia would have a vital part of herself inside her.
Fuck it, she decided again. Anastasia was honest about being an immortal killer, she could bear her soul to her. She could own her kinks. She could tell her exactly how to make her come.
“Tell me... I'm worthless...” Amara begged. “Tell me I'm filthy... I'm a w-whore...”
She hated that she liked it. But she did. Everyone was so fucking nice to her when they wanted to bone her that when some jackass called her a slut, it at least felt... Real. She knew she was worthless. She knew she was filthy and flawed and dirty. She knew her beauty was a fucking mask to something utterly rotten inside. All she wanted was for someone to recognise it. Someone who could see what a fucking mess she was and still fuck her raw.
Anastasia didn't seem shocked, but she did hesitate, just for a fraction of a second. Not out of revulsion – never that. But like a sculptor pausing as they were handling a tool. To feel its weight, to sense its balance. A tool to sculpt her. To shape her. Into what? Amara didn't care. Whatever she became would be better than what she was then. And Anastasia seemed very sure about what she was doing. She did not baulk at the suggestion but did not embrace it immediately. She brought her fingers up, spreading Amara's labia and bringing her index to her clit to begin vibrating it and flicking, sometimes grinding in quick circles. Oh, god! The intensity of it. Amara let out a suppressed moan.
“Don't mute yourself, my little starling... No one can hear you... Scream. Scream like you want the entire city to know you are being fucked by your killer.”
Yes! She opened her mouth and moaned in delight. Wouldn't that be grand? The whole of Montcroix shocked, terrified, and disgusted at the little pretty model giving herself willingly to slaughter. Maybe they would hate on her parents for it. Blame them. Not because they cared about Amara, but because they cared about pretty white rich girls in general. They would hate the Crowe parents not out of love for her as a person but blaming them for one more young pussy being wasted while it was ripe for fucking. She moaned loudly, and Anastasia licked her neck.
“Louder. You can do better than that... That's all you are good for, isn't it? For this wet fuck-hole between your legs... And for letting everyone know how much you love when they make use of it.”
Holy. Fuck.
Amara did not know she was close to orgasm. She was so focused on the words, the situation, the touch that she had lost track of the warm pressure building up inside her body. Or perhaps she wasn't that close, but the words from Anastasia were so much harsher, so much more shocking than what she expected, and yet hitting her dark desire so squarely on the head that she wasn't just pushed past the edge. She was flung violently as if shot from a cannon.
The precipice of the point of no return zoomed by her without her realising it as she came. Amara had no idea she was a squirter until she felt that warmth exploding against Anastasia's hand and soaking her stomach, her dress, and the couch. She should feel disgusted and horrified at how graphically her body betrayed her enjoyment. And at the sheer amount of fluids that now soaked her.
She couldn't. All her being was focused on the jolts of pleasure in her body. Her stomach, thighs and chest were contracting and relaxing so violently that she feared her muscles might break her bones. She was crying with such abandon that she didn't realise her voice was making any noise until her throat ached. If it was true that a climax enhanced the flavour of her blood, Anastasia could have stopped fingering her there and then and killed her, and she would have tasted as sweet as sweet can be. But the vampire seemingly had different designs. Different desires. She intensified her touching through Amara's orgasm, prolonging the pleasure to the point it became pain, but the good type of pain.
“Oh... Oh god... Oh...” Amara panted.
“No. Not god. Me,” Anastasia whispered, hands still pumping.
There was no question in Amara's mind in switching it in her mind.
“Oh, Anastasia! F-Fuck... You're killing me...”
“Not yet, I'm not,” Anastasia purred.
Before Amara could appreciate the joke, the hands left her soaked sex, and despite the mess her splashy climax had caused, Anastasia did not hesitate or flinch. She plunged across her stomach and dove between her legs, lapping at the side of her thighs, around her sex, all across the flat of her pubic bone to her stomach, and so far down her pussy Amara felt tickled against the tight ring of muscles of her rear passage. Anastasia didn't just taste her. She didn't merely eat her out. She devoured her. As if she could forego the bloodsucking of vampirism and consume Amara's soul through her pussy.
There was an unspoken act of accepting those fluids that she thought filthy and watching them become a feast to a woman in all measures grander than she was, that rewired her brain. She still felt dirty, but now, instead of wanting to wash herself off, she wanted to roll in the spillage of her sex. All so Anastasia could lick her body clean of it. And it was with that utterly wrong and depraved thought that she was once more tossed past the edge of orgasm and into that blissful abyss of pleasure. No squirting this time, just a mind- bending, full-body rocking experience that left all of her muscles shaking and her body limp as warm butter left out on a summer day. She only noticed that Anastasia was cutting her dress off of her body with a knife once her senses returned, and she had not even realised they had disappeared. The panties and dress she had worn that night were now ruined. Shredded.
Anastasia promised no looking back, and she had just destroyed the last bit of her old life that was carried into the underground facility. Naked, like the day she was born. Strange symmetry it was to leave the world as naked as she was when she came on to it. The vampire pulled her into a kiss that tasted like sex. But also like iron and salt. Blood.
Amara opened her mouth, feeling a warm tingle upon receiving a few drops of Anastasia's blood. Without her seeing it, the vampire had punctured her tongue. The drop of vampiric blood caused her whole body to warm and go into overdrive. Her senses flared up. She could hear every detail in the crack of the fireplace. She could smell the many layers of aromas in the room. The sex, the filth, the sweat. But also the smoke, the old musk of the furniture. The dampness of stone. And her skin, her skin became entirely an erogenous zone. The light weight of Anastasia over her stomach felt like something rubbing across her breasts. And the tail end of her orgasm became even more acutely blissful.
“W-What...” she babbled but never finished a sentence.
Words were meaningless.
“Good night, my little starling. Tell the Pale Mistress I said hello...”
“I... Will?” Amara muttered, fuck-drunk and dazed, without knowing what she was promising.
The fangs pierced her skin, and it felt like what she imagined getting a clit piercing would feel. The pain was indescribable. Yet, it was also short-lived. In the white-hot flash of pain rode a tidal wave of pleasure. The piercing of skin hurt, but feeling her blood flowing into Anastasia's mouth felt good. Too good. Yes, that must be why men loved to see women swallowing their seeds. Amara could hear the gulps of Anastasia's throat, and she knew that it was her, her living essence, going down her neck, filling her with life. She felt herself fading quickly. Weakening.
No. She was not fading. She was becoming a part of something immortal. Even if Anastasia lied and she was not going to turn her into a vampire, Amara did not mind. She would be part of Anastasia. She could feel herself existing less and less. Her feet got cold, then her hands, then her chest. The numbness crawled fast after it. Her senses dulled. Then her sight. Her thoughts became less coherent. Less frequent. Less.
She was less.
She was less and less.
And then she was nothing at all.
Amara Crowe, age twenty-one, died at three forty-four that morning, as her heart stopped beating due to severe bloodlessness. The pallor on her body would make it obvious to any pathologist that she died of extreme exsanguination. And that some of it proceeded after death.
The woman was white as bone. Hair. Skin. Eyes. Pale pink failed to show under her near-translucent skin. She stood in the middle of a void that was nearly as white as she was. Amara stood up. It was a weird dream. The vampire was an even weirder dream. But she shouldn't be aware that she was dreaming, should she? She had never lucid dreamt before.
“I... Where am I?”
“You won't be for long,” the Pale Woman said.
“Anastasia... She... I think she killed me...”
“Yes,” she replied.
“Wait... I think I know you.”
“You do. You all do,” she spoke.
“She told me to say...”
“I know,” she spoke once more, infinite patience in her tone. “I would send a message back, but you won't remember it.”
“Remember it when? Wait... What...”
The pull of gravity yanked her away. Not down. Not up. Just away. It was as if she was zooming out of the void until the white void became a dot in the distance. And then not even that. She was pulled, she was falling, she was...
She woke up and tried to scream, but there was no air in her lungs. Nothing came out. Her mouth was dry. Cracking dry. Her lips were aching. Every one of her joints was stiff. No, stiff didn't begin to describe it. The lightest motion seemed painfully impossible. Not a single inch of her skin didn't feel both aching and dull. And she was so parched. So hungry. She couldn't tell the difference. She did not know if both or if there was no longer a distinction.
She recognised the underground of Anastasia's cellar and found she was lying on the large bed. And she saw the predatory red eyes standing in the darkness. She tried to speak, to call for her, but the voice didn't come. She had no air in her lungs. She should be choking, but as she realised she was not breathing, she also realised she didn't have to.
The black shape of Anastasia, wearing a silk black nightgown, slithered from the darkness. She had a cut on her wrist. A chalice in hand, and she drank from it. Dark crimson ran down her chin, and she threw it away to the floor, waddling on her knees to straddle the confused and freshly awoken Amara. She held her face and pressed a kiss onto her lips.
And then blood flowed. Warm. Iron and salt. Amara wasn't disgusted. Not even by instinct. She immediately drank it all. Swallowing hungry. And somehow, she knew, beyond a doubt, it was Anastasia's. She tasted her in it. Tasted her personality. Tasted her history. Drinking it was like drinking the whole idea of her. Anastasia fed her a mouthful in that kiss, and somehow, it made all the difference. Her skin flushed, her breath returned, and her body grew less stiff and more relaxed. It all took seconds. No medicine, no drug, worked that fast.
As Anastasia pulled free, she licked the blood from her lips and swallowed.
“Welcome back, my little starling,” she whispered. “You might be able to talk now... Try.”
She did. Nothing came out. Then she inhaled and tried again.
“What... What the... I... I died. I think.”
“You did,” Anastasia said, caressing her hair.
“I... Saw something,” Amara insisted. “It was important... I swear, it was so important...”
“But you can't remember, can you?” Anastasia spoke softly.
“I... I cannot.”
“That cold bitch... She has a wicked sense of humour,” Anastasia whispered, dismounting from the straddle to kneel beside her fledgling, caressing her hair.
Amara had a thousand questions. How long was she out? Would she need to drink Anastasia's blood every day? Could she? Who had dressed her in the strange black Victorian gown she was now wearing? What time of the day was it? Or night? But nothing felt more pressing than the hunger in her stomach.
“C-Can... Can I have a bit more...? Please?” she asked, craving another mouthful, maybe two, of that salty and sweet blood.
“No, you may not,” Anastasia said simply.
“But... I'm not full yet.” Amara pouted. “Please?”
“You... Will never be full again. Not for any length of time that matters. This sensation you feel right now? That is your most faithful companion. It will save your life. It will lead you to your death. But it will never go away.”
“W-what?”
That sounded horrible. Surely, Anastasia didn't understand how close to being full she was. She just needed a sip. Or two. But she needed it. She needed it more than she needed air. Well, she guessed.
“Don't worry... You get used to it faster than you expect.”
“But... You can't feed me?”
“It would be a waste. It would not suit you. Only that mouthful was required to... Reanimate your body from the rigor mortis. You should be good... For another night.”
“For... Another night... And then, what?”
“Then I'll feed you. You are too weak to hunt. Too inexperienced, too. This cellar? This is my sanctum... This is also the womb where your life begins. And right now, you are still being gestated. Your strength, your powers... They take a moment to take root in the flesh.”
“H-How... How long?”
Amara couldn't think about anything other than feeding. The idea she would not be allowed to hunt, to drink her fill, for a while, felt painful. It felt cruel. She was angry. She was growing very angry.
“Three, four nights...” Anastasia said.
“What? No... No, I can't... I need to go out!”
“You won't.”
Amara's rage boiled quickly to a point. Her fangs popped out. She lunged with hands out for Anastasia's neck. She wanted to rip into her and drink her blood by force. She hated the woman. No. No, she didn't. She loved her. But she would kill her for another sip. Yes. She would.
Yet, Anastasia wasn't fazed. She shoved her back. She slammed her into the bed with ease. Despite her frame, she was powerful. She had no trouble pinning down both of the girl's wrists and resuming her straddling over her chest. And she did all of that with a near-bored calm. As if she knew exactly what would happen. And when. And why. No sense of betrayal for her fledgling wanting to kill her. Just procedure.
“I know. All you are feeling, I felt too. Once you are one hundred, four nights feel like a blink. But right now, you are a newborn,” Anastasia said, effortlessly keeping the thrashing Amara pinned.
Amara didn't care about the words; she could not even hear them. She shouted 'let me go' and 'no'. Thrashing. Turning her head, bucking and kicking. And Anastasia didn't even move. She waited for exhaustion to settle. For the rage to burn itself out, and when it did, Amara's senses seemed to return. A clarity and shame for how she acted just seconds before hit her like a truck, and Anastasia released her even before she could apologise.
“I'm... I'm so sorry, Anastasia! I didn't mean it...”
“No. You did. But you don't have to apologise.”
“No, I didn't. I promise! That... That wasn't me!” she muttered. “It was like... Someone else...”
“That was you... Though... Some vampires call that part of themselves their 'shadow'. Some try to suppress it. Some try to tame it... You will find your path... But I suggest you befriend it... Your shadow is your hunger. Your hunger is your shadow. As I said, it could kill you... But it can also save your life.”
“This... Is too much...” Amara sighed.
“Yes. It is. And you have the rest of time to wrangle it,” Anastasia whispered, stroking her hair. “My little starling.”
Those first moments of care set the tone for what was to come. While Amara had no reason to believe Anastasia lied to her, and she knew that soon, those first nights would feel like a blip in her existence, time seemed to drag on endlessly. A single night seemed to take an eternity to pass. Once she got used to the hunger, or at least used enough to see past it, Amara realised she was meek. She had less strength than she had as a human, barely strong enough to lift her torso off the bed. She also felt the weakness and dizziness that she associated with the beginning of the flu, except it was constant. Anastasia stayed with her most of the night, but when she left to hunt, she gave Amara an order:
“Do not leave this cellar, my little starling...”
The tone had been casual but imposing. And something deep within Amara's bones, deeper than the hunger she felt, compelled her to obey. She tried to leave, to disobey and hunt something on her own. But as she opened the door to the cellar stairs, which wasn't even locked, she couldn't bring herself to step through the threshold. That was when she knew how deeply the truth Anastasia had said the previous night was: She would no longer be her own person. She would belong to her. It wasn't just a figure of speech. She was under the vampire's control.
Amara leaned into it, and knowing she didn't even have the choice to leave made waiting in the cellar easier. That first night, Anastasia returned, more flushed and vibrant, but she did not feed Amara again. They mostly just talked. About Amara's past life, and little else. It didn't feel like they were getting to know each other, though. It felt like Amara was mourning it, slowly coming to grasp that she would not return to it. And Anastasia was merely facilitating the process.
At some point, a deep exhaustion set upon Amara, and it was then Anastasia explained that whenever the sun was up, even if she couldn't see it, she would feel like that. She took her hand, and together they went towards the bed once more. The next night was much of the same. Deep, dreamless sleep, followed by a strange awakening. A persistent sense of being displaced in time for spending three days without seeing the light of the sun or the night sky. She wasn't as hungry or as meek on the second night and felt like she could walk around on her own. But her head still throbbed, and her fangs ached. Her body still adjusted. Anastasia left again that evening, but when she returned, she was carrying something over her shoulder. A dead body. Freshly killed. It was still warm. She tossed it on the floor over the mantle. The small man fell on his stomach, and Anastasia looked at her fledgling with a calm but demanding expression.
“Remove your gown for me,” she requested.
“Wh-Why? And who is that?”
“The why is because I said so. I do not need to provide you with reasons, my starling. But I will, this time...” Anastasia said. “I want to look at your body. I want to see you fully and lustfully gaze at you as I command you. And you will do it. I could compel you, but I know I don't need to.”
Amara blushed. She had spoken so plainly. She wanted her naked because she wanted to see her nude. Yes, it was sexual; it was done for lustful reasons, based on desire, and it was about control, and she had no reason to hide it. The girl pulled her gown, noticing that even though it had been days since she had waxed herself, she had no stubbles of hair growing around her sex. She wondered if vampire hair simply did not grow. Would she be Barbie-smooth for eternity? She wasn't sure if that was a nightmare or a dream. But as she disrobed herself, she realised that Anastasia liked it. She liked how the absence of hair exposed her even more. And if Anastasia liked it, it was all she needed.
“Good, my little starling. Now come, crawl to me, lick my hand and thank me for caring for you. And for bringing you this meal...”
Anastasia stretched her hand towards Amara but stood there. And Amara, without being compelled by vampiric magic, just out of utter intoxicating devotion, crawled to her and nuzzled her hand. She licked it, kissed it, and worshippingly said:
“Thank you for caring for me...”
“Would it arouse you to be treated like a beast, my starling?” Anastasia asked.
Amara gulped. She was naked, kneeling and thanking her mistress for the food. And she was almost dripping wet. Yes, it sounded like a safe bet that it would.
“I think so, m-mistress...”
She watched Amara with that same strange calm – like a mother seeing her child walk for the first time or a general watching a soldier take their first life. No, not either, but both. She watched her like a lioness would watch a cub approach the bleeding and subdued zebra in the Savannah. Wobbly, adorable steps, fangs bared, ready for their first taste of blood. There was hunger in her eyes, yes. But also pride. Satisfaction. She was teaching Amara about the thrill of feeding. The wicked motherly eroticism of it wasn't lost on the girl. Instead, it was embraced. And it was why her loins were set ablaze as Anastasia spoke commandingly:
“Good... Then... Feast, my little animal. And touch yourself while you do. I'll be watching.”
And Anastasia kicked the man on the ground. Rolling him over. He was dead but still warm. His body was still soft. Amara could smell the blood inside his veins and the blood spilt on his pretentious black turtleneck. But it was when she saw his face that she gasped in recognition. The photographer. His glasses were gone, though the mark on his nose remained. A small cut marred his brow and he was a little paler than she remembered, but it was him.
As she looked at his features, with rage and shock, she noticed Anastasia moving, from the corner of her eye, to sit behind her on the couch and watch. Amara gulped, feeling her fangs pulsing, pushing out of her gums and growing like a dog's dick emerging from its sheath. It felt just as sexual and as animalistic as that, too. Like a throbbing erection hungry for a place to enter. Except her fangs didn't crave an existing hole. They craved making some.
Amara sunk her fangs into the dead man's neck, cutting skin without being needed to be told how and where to bite. And then she began to suck his blood. It was surprisingly easy. It felt good. And even better was knowing her mistress was watching her. She pushed her naked hips in the air, bringing her fingers between her legs to start spreading herself open, fingering herself while she fed on the man.
“My little starling...” Anastasia praised, a voice dripping with lust. “What a good beast.”
Amara shuddered. The praise was almost better than the blood. Almost. And as she thought about what she was doing, drinking the blood of a dead man and showing herself at her most naked, exposed and vulnerable to the older woman, she knew she was no longer Amara. Not the one she knew. Not in any sense that mattered. Her old life was dead. Her old self was dead. And this new self? This one was simpler. Moved by simple hunger. For blood and Anastasia's approval. She was nothing more than that: A vampire. Her mistress' little starling. Her little animal.
What sort of animal would she become? A beast of pleasure or a loyal watchdog? A hawk or a show pony? Amara realised she did not care. Anastasia had a plan for her. The blood of the sleazy photographer filled her throat, and Amara feasted in the pleasure of blood and the pleasure of the flesh, knowing she was being watched. Whatever Anastasia's plan for her was, she loved it. She would become whatever her Sire wanted to make of her.
She was her Pygmalion, and for once in her life, Amara did not resent being Galatea.