The Mistress' New Girl
Written by Erika Winter, based on ideas and inspiration provided by Serinthia Kelberry
Triggers: Blood Sucking, Assault, Mind Control
The house slept, but she did not. Midnight had settled over Anastasia's estate like a blackened shroud, hushed and heavy, coating it in eerie silence. The sound of the wind was heard outside, but the song of cicadas and the call of nocturnal birds were rare around the property. Indeed, as far as Melissa had noticed, the only animals that seemed to have no problem approaching the manor were the bats that insisted on nesting on the rafters of the attic and the stray cats that often slept on the porch. Melissa understood to some degree the hesitance that would warn even beasts with barely any intellect away from the home. The atmosphere there was thick, dense, with something that had no taste, no colour, no scent, and yet was undeniably hanging in the air. But unlike animals, Melissa did not fear that unfelt caress. She had embraced it, and it was now like the ghost of a hug, permanently around her, not truly felt, but still, somehow, there.
She walked barefoot on the old carpet, which she kept immaculately clean. Her steps were silent, her purpose absolute. The mirrors had been uncovered, cleaned, dusted meticulously and then covered again. She had the windows locked; she double-checked every point of egress into the home twice over and made sure the sheets were perfectly flat on beds no one used. The kitchen, where very few meals were cooked, was kept in pristine condition, and every frame, every painting, and every sculpture was aligned. It would be boring work for someone else, for anyone else, but it wasn't for Melissa. She was keeping the lair of her mistress with the same devotion that an ancient priestess kept a temple to her goddess. In her mind, she was Anastasia's shrine maiden, and each gesture of cleaning, of keeping, was a gesture of pure worship. But unlike shrine maidens and old priestesses, she had the satisfaction of seeing her goddess in the flesh. Of watching her move through the temple she had so devotedly prepared for her. No dust dared gather where her mistress walked.
Cleaning was not her sole duty, however. Day and night, she kept watch over the manor and, most importantly, the door that led to its depths. The depths she was not allowed to visit unless her mistress specifically commanded her. She watched over Anastasia as she slept during the day, keeping her safe, and at night, during her absence when she went to Mointcroix to oversee her business, Melissa made sure no interloper touched her mistress' property, no hunter laid in ambush for her. If she were to die, then her death would be a warning to her mistress, who told her she would be able to sense it across the Veil. It was not the death Melissa wished, but it would still be a privilege to do so in Anastasia's service. While she lived, though, she lived with purpose. She lived a life full of meaning, and that was priceless.
She was passing the eastern hall of the second floor, the one filled with the strange portraits that were all so stern and cryptic, not smiling, not sad, just expressionless and yet so full of a resigned melancholy, when she felt something stir in the darkness. Even before she could see her or smell her, she sensed her mistress. A prickling of the hairs on the back of her neck, a gentle cold brush of a ghost hand down her spine, and the immediate stiffening of her nipples. In the darkness, she saw a pair of barely visible red orbs, her mistress' eyes, with only the faintest of glows. But besides them, an even fainter pair of red eyes appeared. Less bright, not as full of life. Unknown to Melissa, but... Familiar. Like an impression, an echo of her mistress. The copy of a copy, lesser, yes, but a part of Anastasia all the same. She knew; she knew without being told that that one was also to be obeyed. Her heart knew it before her mind could speak.
“Goodnight, mistress and...”
“This is Amara,” her mistress' voice said simply.
The name was new to Melissa but was immediately committed to memory. Everything her mistress said was without hesitation.
“Goodnight, Mistress and Amara... How may I serve you this fine night?”
The words were not natural to how she was raised in the street, but they were neither forced nor fake. They were how Anastasia preferred to be addressed, and Melissa would always do whatever her mistress desired, in the way she would find most pleasing. Not even as the result of a command, just by instinct.
Her question, however, was not answered. It did not bother her; her mistress owed her no answers. Yet, she felt something else on the back of her neck, something bothering her that she wasn't used to, and her eyes darted a couple of times to the young blonde woman standing next to her mistress. That 'Amara'. That which carried a small shard of her mistress' essence. Her eyes were not as calm and contained as Anastasia'. They were hungry, predatory. The ravenous gaze upon her neck was not well concealed if she was trying to conceal it at all. It both excited Melissa but also gave her an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach.
“Her,” the voice of her mistress said to the other girl as they stepped out of the darkness. “Careful... She's a good thrall, so feed just enough and do not kill her,” Anastasia warned.
Her mistress was a vision. She was wearing a nightgown, black silk draped over her pale form, revealing the contours of her body and the beckoning form of her breasts. Melissa remembered feeling them against her own or her back while her mistress' fangs ripped into her neck. She moaned from that memory alone, her cheeks flushing. Was she going to be fed on by Anastasia? It was a rare treat but also her greatest pleasure. The rush, the bliss that came with those teeth sinking into her flesh, was greater than any drug she had ever taken. And she had taken so many of them, maybe all, before Anastasia saved her. A few words, a lock of her hair, a promise, an intense gaze, that hunger for rush and adrenaline that never went away was gone. That hollow space inside her she tried to fill with meth, with sex, with heroin and crack, it was suddenly full, to the brim, with Anastasia. And all she asked of Melissa was her undying, complete devotion. The best trade she had ever made.
The hungry woman slowly took a few steps towards her, and Melissa understood it. She was going to feed her mistress'... Companion? Child? Something in between?... Not Anastasia herself. She did not mind it. If it was what was required of her, Melissa would do it. Her head tilted to expose her long swan neck. Her pixie haircut meant she had no hair to brush aside to reveal the throbbing vein under her temples to the hungry gaze coming near. Memories of the bliss of feeding rushed through her, and yet, something felt... Wrong.
Melissa was unfamiliar with fear. She had felt a lot of it in her former life, the life that ended two years before when Anastasia adopted her. But since then, she had scarcely ever felt scared. She also had not felt hungry, cold, or aching for her next fix. Perhaps that made her soft because the sensation in her chest suddenly flared cold and bright; it told her to run. It screamed as the other vampire, now just a few steps away, opened her mouth, baring her fangs with her eyes full of an unhinged desire. A bloodlust that shook Melissa to her core. She would never want to disappoint Anastasia, but she was never explicitly told not to run, and while she sensed her mistress wished her to stay, she also could not ignore that mammal prey instinct within her telling her to run from the bright eyes and sharp fangs in the darkness.
The girl was like a ghost out a Victorian horror story, wearing a vintage white gown soaked in blood around the collar and sleeves, and as Melissa caught the full picture of her, she stepped back instinctively, avoiding the griping arms reaching for her shoulders and that first step broke any resistance she had to the idea of fleeing. She tried to run. She didn't go far. As she screamed and turned, she went but a few steps ahead before she heard a human voice produce an inhuman roar, and Amara leapt towards her. The girl's weight wasn't much, but then again, neither was Melissa's, and the two tumbled onto the floor. Melissa's chest pressed against the carpet as Amara gripped her short hair to yank her head aside, and despite her thrashing, she pulled on her collar, tearing her dress open from shoulder to bicep. Even though her neck was exposed already, the act seemed more like a vicious display of violence than need. She felt the hips weighing down on her as the blonde woman straddled over her, legs to each side, and her breasts pressed against Melissa's back. But they were cold and not Anastasia's. She screamed again, first in horror, then in pain. Amara's fangs found her neck and tore through her skin like it was just wet paper.
The pain came first: a white-hot jolt of it, familiar but still blinding, debilitating. Melissa struggled against the weight, pressing against her hips and her back. Her hands clawed at the carpet, trying to pull herself away, but she couldn't move an inch. The creature on her back was too strong, too ravenous. Even with every fibre of her being trying to thrash and push her out, she could not be made to budge. It didn't last, though; the pain or the thrashing, the ache coming from her neck was washed out in a tidal warmth of bliss as her blood began to flow into the mouth of her mistress' new pet. Her motions to push her away transitioned seamlessly into a writhing of pleasure as her scream of horror became a moan. Melissa was barely aware of the transition. It was like being bitten by her mistress, like feeding her; lesser perhaps, but even a lesser version of feeding Anastasia made her feel better than any drug, any orgasm she ever had before. It was not just the physical pleasure that the drain brought her either. There was a perverted sense of nourishing something dear to her. It was like breastfeeding, except, instead of drinking from her mother, her mother was drinking from her. Such a wicked thought should disgust her. It did not. It aroused her.
Her wetness felt like a summer storm: Damp, warm and violent, hungrily demanding. And that was when she felt those hips weighing down on hers, grinding desperately against her body as if they could summon a cock with which to mount her. There was no cock, but it didn't stop Melissa from moaning and raising her hips in an animal act of presenting to the grinding. Her mistress' pet was visibly beyond aroused. Melissa could tell that feeding provoked something primal and erotic in Anastasia, but she was often too contained to dry-hump her; to act like a dog pumping hips against her back as she drank from her. But not her pet. Her pet was insatiable, her ghost- mounting growing more needy and vicious the more she drank.
“Careful... Only drink enough,” her mistress' voice warned as Melissa felt her senses dulling.
Her breasts tingled, sensitive, as she found herself rubbing her chest against the carpet. Even though she should not be resisting anymore, the hand on her hair shoved her head on the floor, pressing her cheek against the fibres while the aching thrusts continued. Even their light impact was enough to make Melissa's soaking sex quiver in need, and paired with the feeding, that growing warm pressure inside her threatened to expand. She felt herself coming closer and closer to a body-rocking orgasm, even as her senses drifted further away from her body. She knew she was in danger. She knew she was close to death, and yet, that climax and the feeding of her mistress' pet seemed more urgent than her survival.
“Enough,” Anastasia said, just a notch harsher than her usual neutral tone.
Just as Melissa was about to release, just as she was tethering on the edge of coming, she felt those fangs being ripped from her neck. The whole woman standing on top of her was pulled up, grabbed by the back of the neck like a baby kitten and lifted nearly effortlessly by Anastasia, who threw her back down the corridor. Melissa groaned in mild complaint, feeling her sex aching for release. She just needed a few more seconds of that feeding, those humping motions, those breasts on her back and that hand on her head, just a few more seconds...
Amara tried to stand, to rush towards Melissa's fallen body again, and as the girl turned from her position on the floor to see her charging, she found herself tilting to offer more of her bloodied neck to the vampire and spreading her legs, eager to receive her. But Anastasia's hand intercepted Amara, grabbing her by the throat and locking eyes with her.
“I said 'enough',” she spoke, and the world seemed to come to a halt.
The fight in Amara's eyes drained, her hands relaxed, and her posture deflated. That predator, that vicious creature, became a mewling kitten in Anastasia's hand. Albeit one with her mouth coated in Melissa's blood.
“I'm... S-sorry...” she spoke, weak, even a little pathetic.
“You will learn to control yourself, in time... But you need to fight it, Amara. You cannot let the curse ride you like a horse. You need to ride it and hold the reins. At all times. Understand?”
Amara nodded, and Melissa watched the two walking towards the corridor as she was left, panting, soaking, and still bleeding a little, on the floor. She closed her eyes, frustrated and yearning, but she knew nothing she could do with her hands came close to the high of feeding one of her mistress' kin, so she sighed and pushed herself up. To find bandages for her neck and something to get her blood and sex juices, which had bled through her dress and panties, from the carpet.
The sanctum was still. Quiet in that strange, sacred way – like the world held its breath as dawn crept near. Amara lay curled against Anastasia's chest, her limbs loose with exhaustion, her lips stained with dark blood that was now smeared thanks to a passionate, hungry kiss she had shared with Anastasia a few moments prior. She was still feeling aftershocks of the pleasure of feeding. And the pleasure of hunting. She was scared to admit it to herself, but she had enjoyed that half a heartbeat of chase between the thrall she was told to feed on, turning around to run, and her catching up to her. And she had enjoyed tearing her dress, grinding against her. She knew how it looked. She was shocked at herself for it. But that was now. Then? Then she was drunk on it.
“It was too much,” Amara mumbled, her voice slurred with half-sated hunger and sleep as the sun threatened to rise on the horizon.
“Yes,” Anastasia said, simple and final, but after a pause, she added, “you didn't kill her, though. That's what matters.”
“Because you pulled me away... Else I would have...”
Anastasia did not deny it. She did not offer false comfort. Instead, she offered a pause. A heartbeat. Even though none of their hearts would beat anymore. Not in the same way they did when they were alive.
“You will learn. You're already learning,” she added.
Amara believed it. She believed whatever Anastasia said because, so far, she had kept true to her word. She had not lied to her. Amara's face was pressing closer against the hollow between Anastasia's breasts, drinking the subtle scent of her skin. Childish, almost. Trusting. She never felt that comfortable, not even on her own mother's bosom. Her mother's hugs always felt a bit too tight and too bony. That one felt... Real.
The bloodlust had passed. For now. Amara could still feel its simmer, like heat from a cooling iron. She would need to temper it. Sharpen it. But not that night. That night was almost over, and she couldn't wait for that dreamless, dark and profound sleep she would sink into until sunrise.
“Sleep, little starling,” Anastasia whispered, her lips brushing the crown of her hair. “I'll hold the reins until you're strong enough to take them.”
And as the sun began its slow crawl above the horizon, shining off Lake Michigan and bathing Montcroix in its golden light, Amara felt Anastasia arms tighten around her, and for a moment Amara indulged in the thought of being a small wolf-pup, with her mother's warm, fur clad body engulfing all around her in the safety of their lair. And to that image, she drifted into sleep, the taste of Melissa's blood and Anastasia's kiss still on her lips.