Vampire girl #7

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Telling Diane that I wasn’t going to spank her wasn’t reassuring. I hadn’t meant it to be. I wanted her to think about the length of whippy ash-switch in my hand. 

Diane had her left cheek pressed against the bark of the ash tree she was clasping. She muttered, “Oh. Awffuck.”

But that wasn’t in response to what I’d said, or even the fact that the switch had just missed the backs of her legs by centimetres. It was because I’d slipped my fingers just out of her, to rub her lips, finding her clitoris alert and taking an interest, and giving it a little smack.  Her hips jerked forward, and back, while I stroked her. The little moan had come when I slipped my fingers back into the warmth and wet.

She said “awffuck”, again. It was a reasonable thing for a vampire gothgirl to say. If she was wearing only a shirt. And that shirt was tied above her waist. And she was pressing herself against an ash tree in her local park. And she was being masturbated. Pale in the pale moonlight.

Diane was happy. So was I, but I’d started to wonder if I was doing the right thing. The switch in my hand, brushing just past her skin, promising her a different kind of bite later: I was certain that this was part of why this was hot for her as well as me. She had some expectations of what was coming, and those thoughts were helping to keep her wet, and her bottom arched. I’d already imagined her white skin streaked with red, and her body jerking and rolling, and the little noises she’d make at first, and the louder noises she’d make later. And so I was hard, and I was ready to push her to the ground, switching and fucking her, mercilessly, there and then.

On the other hand, generally I believed that before I so much as smacked a woman’s bottom we should have talked about it first. And we shouldn’t begin the talking in the heat of the moment but beforehand, to make sure I had not just desire and consent but considered consent.

I’d already broken that rule that evening by smacking Diane’s arse when she’d tried  to bite me. I’d liked delivering that spank, including the fact that from her point of view – since we hadn’t talked about bdsm at all – I’d simply assumed the right to punish her. But the result was too wonderful to regret: Diane with her bottom arched back, riding my hand and riding the moment. I said, “Ah fuck it. Fuck the rules.”

“What you say? What rules?” 

I eased my fingers slowly out of her, and held them, slippery, to Diane’s mouth. She put her tongue out to lick them.

I said, “Exactly. What rules?” and smacked her bottom sharply, as never happens to real vampires, and as ethical doms never do without prior discussion. Diane opened her mouth properly for me. She sucked on my fingers, hard, with a lot of tongue.

It was an invitation, but I wasn’t sure I should trust her with my cock in her mouth. 

I leaned close, my face to hers, and let the switch touch her bottom, press against her skin. I whispered, “I’m going to whip you.” Diane nipped very lightly on my fingers, then licked them better. “Whip you until … what happens, Diane?”


The next episode is here.

Vampire girl #6

The previous episode is here.

But I didn’t talk about that mythological Daphne. I stroked the backs of Diane’s thighs, then between her buttocks to press my fingers just under her cunt. Diane parted her legs a little more. She wasn’t a silly girl like that tiresomely virginal Daphne.

I said, “There’s a reason vampires feared ash trees, you know.”

“I know vampire hunters are s’posed to make their stakes out of ash. Why, are you thinking of putting a stake through my heart?”

“Not a stake. But traditionally, you’re vulnerable to ash.”

There was a broken branch on the ground below us, still green and fresh. I picked it up and broke off a switch a little longer than my arm. At the thicker end it was only about as wide as my little finger, while the leafier end was extremely thin and whippy.

I swished it, experimentally, letting it disturb the air near the backs of Diane’s thighs. The air whistled admiringly as it passed. There was a lower sound beneath the whistle, which might have been the air or Diane’s moan. Goosebumps rose at her inner thighs and the upper slopes of her bottom.

I began stripping the leaves off, until the switch was down to stem and green twigs with only a few rags of leaf.

“Jaime, if you’re being a traditionalist, I don’t see that you can spank me. Villagers burnt vampires. Or they put stakes through them. Oh!”

The ‘oh’ was because I’d stopped stroking the outside of her cunt and pushed my fingers upwards. This vampire was penetrated not with stakes but with two fingers, wetly and deeply lodged, past the second knuckles.

The next sentence was breathier, but she could still speak it because she’d already prepared it. “They didn’t just give them a spanking – oh fuck! – and send them on their way.” 

I pressed my thumb between her buttocks, so she was held firmly by it and the fingers in her cunt. She leaned her forehead on the bark because that sensation was worth her full attention. Like Daphne, whose tongue turned to leaves, she had nothing more to say.

I swished the denuded ash switch through the air again, letting it pass centimetres from the backs of Diane’s calves. Without its leaves its breathy little song was somehow a little fiercer.

“But I’m not going to spank you, Diane.”


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Vampire girl #5

The previous episode is here.

Diane’s apartment was in a district where the council skimped on street lighting, so that few people noticed a man and woman walking together, even though the woman was pale, bosomy and she wore only a partially unbuttoned shirt. And canvas shoes. Men didn’t notice her, or politely ignored us. Only the old East European women saw her, and they stared, wasting their disapproval on Diane when it should have been directed at me.

But Diane was used to offending older women with what she wore, and how little there was of it. She was entirely unworried. She’d asked me one more question before we’d left her apartment, which was why the bottom of her shirt was also unbuttoned, the shirt-tails flapping near the tops of her thighs. One more button and she would be, as the Victorians would have said, quite undone.

So she asked no more questions. Instead she talked about the wet teenage vampires in Twilight, and how they were to real vampires roughly what Justin Bieber was to, oh, Kurt Cobain.

I wasn’t sure what she meant by “real vampires”, since there are no vampires and there’s never even been a good film featuring vampires which you could call “real” in the rock’n’roll sense of well-faked authenticity. Christopher Lee was probably best, but his Dracula was as camp as Adam West’s Batman; so was Gary Oldman, so was Bela Lugosi. The American efforts, from the Anne Rice movies to “Blacula”, are useless: not even funny. But she was amusing about the Vampire-lites in “Twilight”, and I didn’t argue.

The other good thing about the local Council being poor was that the local park was under-lit, and no-one had yet thought to clear away the undergrowth in the little forest there, or to thin out the trees so that a single policeman with a torch could light up the whole area. This was still a proper little forest, overgrown, unlit except by moonlight. Dark deeds could be done.

I led Diane to the largest tree, which was still youngish and only about as thick as her waist. An ash tree. I’d led her to stand facing it, but she took another step forward, marching like a radio controlled toy. She was clowning, a little protest against my bossiness. So I pushed her forward and she grabbed at the trunk for support.

Then, her body against the ash, her arms around it, she said, “oh.”

I said, “stay there.” I tugged the shirt up and tied the tails at her back, round her waist. The tree had pale, smooth bark, with occasional felminine curves, cupolas and crevices; Diane, pale and naked from the waist down, seemed in the moonlight to be part of the tree, like Daphne.


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