Vampire girl #3

“You tied me up.” 

“I tied your wrists. And I asked you if you wanted it. You wanted. Anyway, it wasn’t having your hands tied that upset you. It was not being able to bite me.”

“Yeah. I like your blood.”

“I’m sure my blood’s very nice. But I like it inside my skin. It’s tidier.”

“It’s a brilliant colour. Like passion. And it’s full of life.”

“Yeah, I can see all that. I can see how you’d like it. Though you like it … a little more than most people. But you still can’t bite me, Diane.”

Diane was on her knees facing me on the bed, naked, pouting, and bouncing a little. Her breasts bounced a lot. If she’d been a submissive, and consenting, I’d have spanked and fucked her then and there. Instead, she said, “What would you have done, if I’d asked you to untie me?”

“I’d have untied you.”

“Goodie! Then I should have thought of it.”

“But if you tried to bite me I’d have got dressed and gone home.”

“Um. Not good. No, I wouldn’t have wanted that.”

I shook my head in wonder. “You have a lot of lovers who don’t mind you biting them?”

“Actually, I don’t usually flash my legs at strangers and let them take me home in a taxi. I don’t have a lot of lovers.”

“Oh? Really? Oh. That’s quite flattering.”

“God, you’re clueless. But, yes, I’ve never known anyone make as much fuss as you.”

“It’s not fuss. I don’t let people bite me.”

“Oh, I see. You’re never the one who gets done to. So would you bite me?”

“Sure.”

“No, I mean, to draw blood.”  

“No. No, sorry, I wouldn’t want to do that. No.” 

 “You’re no fun.” She was joking, but she was disappointed. 

“Wait a minute. You want to bleed, then? While you’re being fucked?” 

“Yes? Yes.” 

“Then put a shirt on. We’re going for a walk.” 

Vampire girl #2

For our second night, I brought a sort of picnic. For her there was red wine and steak tartare. I was quite charmed, in a way, by the fact that Diane found the steak tartare quite challenging. All talk, these vampire girls. I’d also brought along plenty of fruit, so that was okay.

When we went to bed I took off her corset as well. She protested a bit, but she relaxed once I started moving my tongue down from her left nipple to her cunt, and then up to her right nipple, and then back to her cunt. My hands squeezed her breasts and my tongue pushed her cunt, hard, while she pressed against my face. Soon she wasn’t missing her corset at all.

She was a vampire girl and not a bdsm girl, let alone a submissive, so she thought that a simple thing like tying her wrists to the bedposts was enjoyably perverse, and a good compensation for losing the corset. I’d turned her onto her front to tie her, with her calves between my knees, and my cock sometimes touching her excellent ass. Once she was tied, with pillows under her hips, she rocked her body up and down like a rubber duck in choppy waters, with three of my fingers in her cunt and my thumb in her ass.

In time she made it clear that she wanted to be fucked, not fingered. Fucked right now. So I lifted her hips, with my thighs between hers, and slid into her cool, melon-wet cunt. We were very slow, my vampire girl and her male victim, and deep, and she didn’t notice for a while what was wrong. 

When we sped up, and were fucking hard and deep and for dear life: that was the right time for her, the emotional and sexual pitch she reached when she would have bitten her male. But her face was in the pillow, and she couldn’t turn her head far enough, and her wrists were tied. There was a brief commotion. She wanted to bite me, it was time to bite me, and she couldn’t reach. She didn’t ask to be untied, but she did call me a bastard. 

So I pulled out of her nearly all the way, the tip of my cock just inside her lips, and held there. She wailed, dismayed: empty.

Then I smacked the side of her bottom. My own body was in the way, and I couldn’t make it as meaty a smack as I’d have liked. But she knew she’d been smacked, and she needed my cock back, and she quietened down. Being smacked wasn’t one of her perversions, but I hadn’t smacked her hard, and I’d felt pretty sure by then that she’d like anything technically perverse, so long as it wasn’t unpleasant. Anyway, I pushed my cock all the way into her, and she arched up her arse to meet me, so bygones were bygones.

We started the fuck again from the beginning, excruciatingly slow, slowly speeding up. This time, when we got back to the hard fast section, when she was gasping and concentrating, she suddenly started shaking her head from right to left, and I heard the pillowcase rip. She liked things between her teeth when she was excited. But she made no more attempts to bite me.

And she came, like a banshee. A happy banshee on a train. When we got our breaths back she said, “Oooh, you bastard.”

But she was happy. I said, “Ah, the creatures of the night, such music they make.” I meant the racket she’d made while being fucked by a bastard. 

So she called me a wanker instead. That was sort of affectionate, and anyway I agreed with her. But it was time for us to talk about her thing about blood, and drawing blood.  

Vampire girl #1

I did once get bitten by a vampire girl. Her name was Diane, which isn’t a very vampirish name, is it? Anyway, I met her in a bar because I was talking to her brother about horses, and she’d come to borrow some money. She wore upside-down crucifixes, black lace and red satin and so on, and she had a furry little purse with a little Vampire-girl doll poking her head out, with laquered blood dribbling down from her mouth. I thought this was just a fashion statement, a specialised version of Goth. And when I teased her about owning Anne Rice vampire novels – at least she didn’t own any of the Twilight teen Mormon vampire books – I thought it was no more stupid than adult women who read Harry Potter books.

But when her brother left she stayed, and she told me that she knew people who took it more seriously, who were starting to convince themselves that they couldn’t go out during the day, and who were trying to move to a blood diet. With no success, fortunately. But when I pushed her again, she admitted that she knew perfectly well that they were nutters. 

I didn’t care much about her vampire fixation, because she was good fun when we talked about other topics, and she had a pretty face, and that ridiculous waist to bottom and breasts ratio you get by being absolutely ruthless with corsetry. But you have to have the right body to get that spectacular effect. Anyway, by the second glass (red wine for her, of course) I was thinking about what she’d look like without all that lace and whalebone on.

On the third glass I said the skirt was sexy, and she thought I said it was slinky, and agreed that it was slinky. So I slid it up her left thigh, pretty much to her hip, and she could have been annoyed, but she moved her left thigh towards me, and her right thigh, still hidden under lace, away from me, so we kissed and I got a taxi.

We went to her place. She took most of the vampirella gear off, but left the corset on. That was fine. I was a civilian, not dressed as anything, so I took all of my clothes off. 

At some stage in the night, presumably while we were fucking, she bit me. I didn’t notice at the time. But when I stared at myself in her bathroom mirror in the morning I realised I was still bleeding slightly around my right collar bone. I’d lost some blood and some skin which, I guess, she’d eaten. She’d had her head against my chest, but I’d thought she’d just been giving me a hickey. Now that I was back in a normal state of mind it ached a bit. It took weeks to heal. 

The trouble was, Diane might not be a safe girl, but there were things about that night that I remembered more intensely than the being bitten and the losing blood. I hadn’t even noticed the bite, but I had noticed her heels resting on the small of my back. So two days later I invited myself round to her place again. 

Lust and death #2

I was back at work a couple weeks or  later. Someone who knew I’d been punctured (I got harpooned with a great metal rod, like Moby Dick; not a long story, but some other time) said it was great to see me up, walking about and looking cheerful.

I said I felt great, but it was only because I had a couple of litres of someone else’s blood sloshing around inside me. 

She said, “Um.” Then she turned pale and wan, and walked away. Probably not a vampire fan. 

Actually, I’m not a vampire fan either. Vampires aren’t remotely scary, partly because I can’t suspend disbelief in them for a second (see also werewolves, zombies, etc), and partly because, like the original Daleks, they’re too rule-bound. 

You’re being pursued by a vampire? Well, cross running water: they can’t. Go home and don’t invite them in; they can’t enter your home, the first time, without an invitation. Vampires originated in a traditionally Catholic part of Europe, so they’re scared of crucifixes. So get your silverware, make the sign of the t, and wave it at them. They don’t like garlic. I do.

If I met a vampire, I’d probably just tell him to go back home and listen to his Nosferatu and Cradle of Filth records. And to take those silly red contact lenses out, unless he was going to meet another vampire fan through Fetlife, in which case he shouldn’t be loitering around anyway. 

Anyway, I was going to say something sententious in this post, about sex and death. But all I found is that there’s a period after you’ve nearly died when you can’t fuck. You haven’t got the blood, I suppose, and you’re concentrating on other things. 

A little bit later, lust comes in with a vengeance. I wanted to fuck anything – hospital sheets, nurses, passers-by. I got talking to a night nurse, who knew lust when she saw it. This isn’t some porno movie, so we didn’t have wild sex behind the curtains, and so forth. But we got chatting about injuries, and life, and lovers, and such, and for some reason by the third night she knew I’d like to see the bruises on her thighs. That involved wriggling pantihose about halfway down her thighs and shimmying the skirt up, so curtains were involved. 

The bruises were put there by a bicycle accident, not a lover. But she was right; I thought her bruised thighs were … life-affirming. She had a boyfriend. And she didn’t want her thighs kissed better. Or new bruises. She was just reminding me of life’s pleasures.

So sex beats death, at least in the skirmishes. Life is good.