knowledge, perhaps given the suggestion to never drive down this road again. No, it’s not that unusual they can keep these cars out in the open without challenge.
I would never walk somewhere like this alone at night. I can’t think of a single person I’d feel safe here with. I try to imagine walking through this area even in the middle of the day with Devon. I can’t seem to picture it. But with Christian, I’m at ease.
This feeling is punctuated with an exclamation point as some punk teen rushes at us with a knife. “Give me your wallet,” he says.
Christian laughs, then he growls at the kid, his fangs showing. “Get lost, kid.” The moonlight hits the front of the boy’s pants just right and a dark stain appears, then he turns tail and runs.
My master makes no further comment; he just leads me inexorably toward... whatever. I feel my heart picking up its pace, a nervous flutter that can’t be calmed. Though my nerves weren’t jangled when the knife-wielding teenager showed up, they are now. The prospect of the rest of my night looms large and terrifying.
We stop at another building, its exterior the same as the other places we’ve visited. Again, the inside has the characteristic disgusting carpet and stray rat or spider with an elevator at the end. The elevator, of course, goes down.
When the doors open, it’s electronica music again, only this music feels different. It feels like somehow sex has been distilled into a sound. It’s an erotic, hypnotic pull. Just hearing it scares me, excites me, makes me wet. I look up at Christian and he smirks down at me. He knows. He smells it.
Several heads turn our way in sharp, predatory unison. They smell it, too. Not everyone. Just the vampires. They are the only ones who looked up. The others are too lost in their haze of pleasure and pain to notice anything.
Looking around me, men and women are chained and tied down to various contraptions, while random inanimate objects are being forced into the sexually appropriate openings. Moans and cries mingle: some pleasure, some pain. Whipping, blood, biting, fangs, orgasm, cocks everywhere.
I suspected what this club was, but to see it, to be immersed in it, is something else. The deep, pulsing sounds of the music seem to thrum with an aching need that has started between my legs.
As Christian leads me through the club, bodies part like the Red Sea. He weaves us in between spanking horses, the occasional St. Andrew’s Cross, benches meant for fucking, whipping, playing. Every way someone can be chained down and used is represented in the various kinky furniture around the club. We end up in the center of the room where a long, wide bench just happens to be vacant as if I’m to be the main course entertainment of the evening.
He doesn’t order me to do anything. He doesn’t say a word to me. He merely starts undressing me, slowly, as if he’s teasing everyone in attendance, enticing them with the package he’s unwrapping. His first pet in seventy years.
There is a part of me that knows I shouldn’t be so laissez-faire about this. As each bit of my flesh is exposed for their visual consumption, I feel another little piece of acceptance lock into place. For a moment I feel like I’m the vampire and they are the humans because I could swear I can hear their every lewd thought as it’s projected out at me. These imagined thoughts should bother me more.
I feel hot and cold and scared and exhilarated. Dimly I’m aware that it might be normal for me to cry or beg or try to escape, but I still swear that music is hypnotizing me, not in some metaphorical, poetic way—in a real way. It breaks down my defenses, like magic is encoded in the notes. All I want to do is please him. All I want to do is entertain the gathering darkness.
It feels like I’m in a dream again. I hold onto that thought because it makes it easier to not protest, to go along and explore and see where this leads. I shiver as layers of
I would never walk somewhere like this alone at night. I can’t think of a single person I’d feel safe here with. I try to imagine walking through this area even in the middle of the day with Devon. I can’t seem to picture it. But with Christian, I’m at ease.
This feeling is punctuated with an exclamation point as some punk teen rushes at us with a knife. “Give me your wallet,” he says.
Christian laughs, then he growls at the kid, his fangs showing. “Get lost, kid.” The moonlight hits the front of the boy’s pants just right and a dark stain appears, then he turns tail and runs.
My master makes no further comment; he just leads me inexorably toward... whatever. I feel my heart picking up its pace, a nervous flutter that can’t be calmed. Though my nerves weren’t jangled when the knife-wielding teenager showed up, they are now. The prospect of the rest of my night looms large and terrifying.
We stop at another building, its exterior the same as the other places we’ve visited. Again, the inside has the characteristic disgusting carpet and stray rat or spider with an elevator at the end. The elevator, of course, goes down.
When the doors open, it’s electronica music again, only this music feels different. It feels like somehow sex has been distilled into a sound. It’s an erotic, hypnotic pull. Just hearing it scares me, excites me, makes me wet. I look up at Christian and he smirks down at me. He knows. He smells it.
Several heads turn our way in sharp, predatory unison. They smell it, too. Not everyone. Just the vampires. They are the only ones who looked up. The others are too lost in their haze of pleasure and pain to notice anything.
Looking around me, men and women are chained and tied down to various contraptions, while random inanimate objects are being forced into the sexually appropriate openings. Moans and cries mingle: some pleasure, some pain. Whipping, blood, biting, fangs, orgasm, cocks everywhere.
I suspected what this club was, but to see it, to be immersed in it, is something else. The deep, pulsing sounds of the music seem to thrum with an aching need that has started between my legs.
As Christian leads me through the club, bodies part like the Red Sea. He weaves us in between spanking horses, the occasional St. Andrew’s Cross, benches meant for fucking, whipping, playing. Every way someone can be chained down and used is represented in the various kinky furniture around the club. We end up in the center of the room where a long, wide bench just happens to be vacant as if I’m to be the main course entertainment of the evening.
He doesn’t order me to do anything. He doesn’t say a word to me. He merely starts undressing me, slowly, as if he’s teasing everyone in attendance, enticing them with the package he’s unwrapping. His first pet in seventy years.
There is a part of me that knows I shouldn’t be so laissez-faire about this. As each bit of my flesh is exposed for their visual consumption, I feel another little piece of acceptance lock into place. For a moment I feel like I’m the vampire and they are the humans because I could swear I can hear their every lewd thought as it’s projected out at me. These imagined thoughts should bother me more.
I feel hot and cold and scared and exhilarated. Dimly I’m aware that it might be normal for me to cry or beg or try to escape, but I still swear that music is hypnotizing me, not in some metaphorical, poetic way—in a real way. It breaks down my defenses, like magic is encoded in the notes. All I want to do is please him. All I want to do is entertain the gathering darkness.
It feels like I’m in a dream again. I hold onto that thought because it makes it easier to not protest, to go along and explore and see where this leads. I shiver as layers of
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