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Emily’s dressing room at this concert venue was dramatically lavish. There was a velvet sofa, a long catering table stocked with snacks, a large vanity littered with her various makeup and hair care products. That’s where she was now, sitting in front of the harsh white lights of the mirror, applying her eyeliner with a careful precision. Careful, because her hand was shaking.
You were sat in her lap.
You were curled tight over her thighs, your head cocooned over her chest, and you were content. There was no heartbeat to be heard from your lover. No breath drawing her shoulders up. You were both still. But you could smell her, the intoxicating scent of her cologne and sweat and you were aching. Periodically, you were squeezing your legs together, trying to get some sort of friction on your weeping cunt, but it was futile. Emily had requested you wear a skirt to today’s show, and you obliged, always happy to be a good pet and appease your master.
“Em,” you whined softly, grinding your ass on her thigh. You craved her touch, her reverence, her love, her devotion. “Kiss me.”
“Not now, baby,” Em said through gritted teeth.
You furrowed your brow. “Why not?”
“Because,” she said with a huff, placing her eyeliner pen on the desk before her. Her eyes met yours. You were expecting the normal vibrant blue but was instead met with orbs of icy glass. Emotionless. Empty. Dark circles painted her cheeks. “I need to get ready for the show.”
“The show isn’t for, like, another two hours,” you responded. But your eyes flickered to her gaunt cheeks, and realization sunk into your stomach like a cold brick. “Em… you’re hungry.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re starving,” you persisted, sitting up in her lap, adjusting until your legs bracketed her thighs. Her strong hands grabbed your waist to steady you, and even then you could feel their tremors.
“I’m not.”
“You are,” you insisted, grinding down on her hips. Emily groaned beneath you, eyes rolling back into her skull, her grip on your waist tightening. “Feed from me, honey. I don’t mind.”
“I mind,” she rasped, and it was then that you could see her fangs prodding her bottom lip which was adorned with a dark lipstick. Normally the fangs only came out right as she was about to feed. The realization sent a potent thrill through your core. “I’m too hungry today, angel. If I bite you… fuck… once I start, I swear to God I won’t be able to stop.”
You had the audacity to roll your eyes. “Emily, seriously? You’ve fed from me before.”
“Not like this,” she growled. Her finger nails were pushing hard into the flesh above your hipbone, eliciting a gasp from your lips. “I’m fucking ravenous. I’m going to drink you dry and not even realize until you’re a husk. A fucking corpse under me. Do you understand that?”
“Yeah, yeah,” you said teasingly, burying your face in her neck, inhaling the sweet scent of her. Your humped against her, chasing the friction you’ve been wishing for, dragging your cunt against the seam of her jeans. “It feels good, though, Em. Want.. want to feel your fangs in my neck. Please.”
“You should really get off of me before I lose control.”
“Mhmm.” You moaned, as your clothed clit dragged against the button of her jeans in a particularly delicious way. Electricity was buzzing under your skin. “Just one bite, Master.”
Emily pulled you back by your hair to meet your eyes. She gripped your chin with her free hand, not with passion, but to hold you still. Her touch was ice, nails dragging into the soft flesh of your cheeks. “Are you not listening? I said no. It’s not a craving today. It’s a fucking famine. If I put my mouth on you, I will not stop. I will drink until your heart stutters and goes quiet in my ears. I will forget you’re a person. You’ll just be a warm, emptying sack. Now stop.” She released your chin with a slight shove.
Frustration, hot and prickling, washed over you. The need between your own legs was a throbbing, impatient counterpoint to her refusal. You decided to keep tempting her. “I’m just trying to imagine you going out on stage, drained of energy, of life, performing and pretending to be the hero they expect you to be.”
You saw the fracture happen. Her pupils, already dark, swallowed all the remaining color in her irises, leaving behind a black, bottomless hunger. A low, visceral snarl ripped from her throat, a sound of pure animal desperation. Her hands flew to your shoulders and, using any last ounce of energy she had left, she pushed you. Hard.
You flailed backward, your lower back hitting the sharp edge of the vanity with a painful thud. Bottles of foundation and perfume rattled. You glared at Emily with the heat of a thousand suns.
Why was she being so difficult about it?
“You’re a walking, talking bloodbag to me right now.” Emily began, barely lifting her eyes to glance at you. Really, she lacked the strength and energy after all. “I will fucking kill you. Do not test me.”
The rejection was a slap. But beneath the sting, the dark, needy thing inside you uncoiled fully. Fine. If polite offering was rejected, you’d give her a banquet she couldn’t refuse. You’d force her to see you, to take you.
You pushed yourself off the vanity, your spine aching. You didn’t look at her. You turned and walked, with deliberate, measured steps, toward the long catering table at the back of the room.
You had seen the knife glistening beside a bowl of fresh fruit when you had first entered the room an hour ago. Then, you hadn’t paid it a second thought. Now, you were going to make it impossible for Emily to ignore you.
It was a simple, sharp chef’s knife with a black, rubberized handle. You picked it up. It was heavier than you expected. The metal gleamed dully under the fluorescent lights.
You lifted your left forearm, palm up. The skin was smooth, the blue veins tracing delicate paths beneath the surface. You positioned the sharp edge of the blade against the palest, most tender part of your inner wrist, where the pulse thrummed closest to the skin.
Then, with a calm that felt alien, you met Emily’s gaze in the mirror across the room.
She was frozen, a statue of agonized denial. Her dark eyes were pleading Don’t You Fucking Dare.
You gave her a small, sad smile. And you pulled the knife toward you, sawing deep.
The pain was not immediate. There was a split second of pressure, then a bright, searing line of agony. Then the sensation of the blade catching, grating as it tore through layers of skin, muscle, the resistant fibers of your flexor tendons. A choked gasp escaped you. Then the blood came.
A hot, violent torrent of crimson welled from the gaping trench in your wrist, pooling and spilling down your arm in a vile wave. It hit the the concrete floor, your shoes, and flooded down your shirt and skirt. The second pulse from your heart sent another thicker gush, and the coppery, metallic smell filled the air, immediate and dark.
A raw, animal sound tore from Emily’s throat. It was a mix of horror, fury, and ravenous, undeniable need.
You barely had time to register the blur of motion before she was on you. Her body slammed into yours, throwing you to the velvet sofa beside you, pinning you against cushions. One cold, vice-like hand clamped around your bicep, her fingers digging into your muscle. The other hand smashed down on your forearm, close to the horrific wound. Her face was inches from the carnage, her breath coming in ragged, panting gusts.
“You… insane… fucking… dog.” She growled. Her eyes were wide, and all pretense of control was incinerated in the face of your blatant sacrifice.
With a groan that seemed to come from the very depths of her starvation, she lowered her mouth and pressed it over the ruin of your wrist. Her lips formed a tight seal around the ragged edges of the wound. Then her icy cold tongue thrust inside. She wasn’t lapping at the surface. Emily was probing deep into the torn meat, seeking the very source of the hot, salty flood. The sensation was grotesque, profoundly intimate. You could feel the rough texture of her tongue against severed tendon, the powerful suction pulling at the deepest layers of the injury. It felt less like being drunk from and more like being swallowed from the inside out.
Blood flooded her mouth, overflowed, and spilled in thick ropes down her chin and neck, soaking the collar of her white shirt, turning it a translucent red. A continuous, guttural groan vibrated from her throat directly into your ravaged arm, a sound of pure, desperate ecstasy. Her body began to move against yours frantically, her hips grinding against yours.
She tore her mouth away with a wet, ripping sound, strings of saliva and blood connecting her crimson-smeared lips to your decimated flesh. She gasped for air, her chest heaving. The grey exhaustion from her face was gone, replaced by a vibrant, feverish flush. Her eyes, when they found yours, blazed with stolen life and a kind of mad, frightening power.
“You… are too fucking sweet.” She panted, her voice thick and syrupy with your blood. Her hand, slick and scarlet, darted up. She smeared her thumb across your lips, then shoved two blood-slicked fingers past them and into your mouth.
You gagged once, a reflex, then succumbed. The taste was overwhelming as you suckled her fingers, moaning around them as she fucked your mouth in slow, languid thrusts, a disturbing mirror of the thrust of her tongue in your wrist.
“That’s you,” Emily growled, her voice a low, possessive rumble. “That’s your life on my fingers. And it’s mine now.”
She withdrew her fingers from your mouth with a pop, a string of bloody saliva stretching between them and your lips. Her gaze, now blazing and full of monstrous intent, dropped. It traveled over your chest, down your stomach, to where your short black skirt had ridden up during the struggle, exposing your blood-spattered thighs.
“I don’t think we’re done yet,” she purred, picking up the dropped knife from where it had clattered to the floor. The blade was still slick, gleaming red. “I let you cut yourself open for me. But now it’s my turn to have some fun with your flesh.”
Before you could even process the words, she hooked her free hand under the hem of your skirt. In one sharp motion, she hiked the black fabric up to your waist, bunching it there, leaving you in just your panties from the waist down. The cool air kissed your bare skin, raising goosebumps. With terrifying, surgical precision, she placed the wet, red tip of the knife against the soft, untouched skin of your right inner thigh, high up, close to where your thigh met your groin.
“Look at me, pet.” Emily commanded, her voice leaving no room for disobedience.
Dizzy from blood loss and a dark, spiraling arousal, you forced your eyes to hers.
She pressed down and sliced.
This cut was different from the brutal tear on your wrist. It was a clean, deep, deliberate incision as the blade parted your skin. For a half-second, you saw the layer of subcutaneous fat before a curtain of dark red welled up, obscuring it. It was hot, rapid pour, like a tipped-over jug of wine. It sheeted down the inside of your thigh, and began to seep into the plush sofa. The pain was a bright, clean line that instantly dissolved into a deep, throbbing ache that seemed to resonate in your very bones.
Emily dropped the knife and it clattered to the floor. She made a sound like a choked, rapturous gasp.
“Oh… oh, fuck.” Emily groaned, clearly aroused by the gory mess she was witnessing. She hooked her thumbs into the clean edges of the new wound and peeled it open, stretching the glistening, red-and-white meat apart like someone opening a precious, bloody book.
“Look at that,” she whispered, mesmerized. “So perfect inside. So… pretty.”
Then, holding the wound open with the fingers of one hand, she pushed three fingers of her other hand directly into the slit.
A scream, raw and ragged, tore from your throat. This was beyond any pain you had names for. This was violation. You felt her cold fingers slide into the warm, dense muscle of your thigh, a sick, intimate massage that you felt in your teeth. She curled her fingers, thrusting inside your leg, fucking the wound with a slow, experimental rhythm.
The pain was a living, white-hot entity in your leg. It shot up your spine, exploded behind your eyes, and crashed down into your gut like a physical blow. A violent, unstoppable wave of nausea surged up from your stomach, burning the back of your throat. You managed to sit up a bit and turn your head just in time.
You threw up.
It was a hot, sour rush of bile and half-digested food that splattered onto the scuffed concrete floor beside the sofa, mixing with the spatter patterns of your blood. You heaved again, empty and painful, your body shaking with the effort.
Emily didn’t stop. Her fingers kept moving inside the meat of your leg, her rhythm unbroken. She watched you puke with a dark, fascinated intensity. As your dry heaves subsided, she leaned in close, her lips brushing your ear.
“Good girl,” she murmured, her voice thick with arousal. “Let it all out.”
She thrust her fingers deeper, twisting them, and you whimpered, tears tracking through the sweat on your cheek.
“Next time,” she whispered, the promise dark and seductive, “I’ll make you puke on my strap. You can choke on it while I’m fucking this pretty little wound right here.”
The vulgar, possessive promise sent a shocking new jolt of arousal through your pain-racked body. A cruel smile touched her bloody lips.
“You feel that?” she panted, her own breath coming in ragged gasps. Her body was trembling violently against yours. “You feel how deep I am? This is where your strength is. And I’m inside it.”
The blood loss was pulling you under. The room began to tilt, the edges of your vision darkening, speckled with static. The pain was a distant roar, the sensations blurring into a surreal tapestry of cold fingers, hot blood, the acidic smell of vomit, and the relentless, wet sounds of penetration.
Emily saw your consciousness flicker. With a brutal, effortless motion, she spun you around. Your vision swam. She pulled your ass into the air, your bloody forearm and savaged thigh smearing fresh, grotesque patterns across the cushions. Your skirt was still bunched at your waist and she took a second to tear your panties off of you. You were completely helpless, exposed, like an offering.
You felt her cold, blood-slicked hand slide between your legs from behind. Her fingers, dripping and wet from the inside of your thigh, found your clit first. She smeared the slickness of your arousal and your blood across the sensitive nub, making you cry out. Then, without ceremony, she plunged two fingers deep inside your cunt.
She fucked you with the same deep, brutal rhythm she’d used in your wounds, her fingers curling to hit a spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. It was punishment and reward.
Then her other hand returned to the wound on your thigh. She didn’t just touch it. She pushed her thumb back inside the hot, torn opening, burying it to the knuckle in the yielding muscle.
The double penetration (the relentless thrusting in your cunt, the deep invasion in the meat and muscle of your leg) unmade you completely. Your body convulsed, a brutal orgasm ripping through you. Your cunt clamped down on her invading fingers in a series of violent, fluttering spasms, and a fresh gush of release mixed with the dark pool of blood on her hand.
Emily rutted against the back of your leg once, twice, and came as well. Her body slammed against your back, shuddering in hard, wracking waves. She buried her face between your shoulder blades, her hot, panting breaths audible as the tremors subsided.
For a long minute, there was only the sound of your combined, ragged breathing and the steady, melodic drip of blood from your wounds and the sofa spilling onto the growing pool on the floor.
Slowly, gently, she pulled her hands free from your cunt with a soft, wet sound, and from your thigh with a thicker, more visceral smack. The absence was its own kind of pain. Your body gave out. You lay on your side, curled slightly, a shivering, ruined thing in a sprawling mess of blood and sweat and cum.
You heard Emily get up and move nearby, her footsteps quick but not retreating. Upon returning, she sank to her knees beside the sofa with a soft, weary sigh. Her hand, when it touched your cheek, was surprisingly gentle, wiping away a tear-track through the grime and blood.
“Look what you made me do,” she whispered, but her voice was thick with regret, not accusation. Her eyes, still dark with power, now held a pained warmth as they scanned the damage she’d wrought. “My beautiful, reckless girl. You pushed me right over the edge.”
Her gaze fixed on your wrist, where the deep, ragged cut still oozed a slow, steady trickle of blood. A line of worry creased her brow. “I can’t leave you like this.”
She leaned close to the wound. You felt her take a slow, deep breath, then heard the soft, wet sound as she gathered her saliva. She spat carefully, not onto the wound, but into her own palm first. The clear, viscous fluid pooled in her hand.
“This is going to hurt,” she warned, her voice low. “But I need to seal this, or you’ll bleed out here during the show. Just… try to stay with me.”
She pressed her saliva-slick palm directly over the gash and began to massage. The pain was immediate and excruciating. It was a burning, searing agony that felt like liquid fire being forced into the torn flesh. You screamed, a hoarse, broken sound, and your vision tunneled. Her other hand came to rest on your shoulder, not to pin you, but to steady you.
“I know, baby, I know,” she murmured, her voice a strained litany against your cries. She kept working her hand in a firm, circular motion, mixing her healing spit with your blood, forcing the tissues to knit together at a brutal, accelerated rate. She withdrew her fingers, glistening with a pinkish, viscous slurry of your blood and her saliva. She brought them to her own lips and sucked them clean, her eyes fluttering closed for a second. You could only stare with half-lidded eyes, stunned and barely alive.
Consciousness returned to the feeling of strong fingers firmly gripping your chin. You forced your eyes open, blinking wearing. Emily’s face was close but blurry. She had cleansed blood from her skin, and her expression was a complex map of fierce possession and aching concern.
“There you are,” she breathed, a flicker of relief softening her features. “You need this inside you, not just on the outside.” She leaned closer, her dark lips almost brushing yours. “Open for me, sweetheart. Just a little.”
Dazed and obedient, you let your lips part. She gathered saliva again and let a warm, thick stream of it fall onto your tongue. The mineral taste flooded your mouth. You gagged instinctively.
“Shhh, just swallow,” she coaxed, her thumb stroking your jaw. “It’ll help the pain. It’ll help you. Do it for me.”
Trusting her, you forced a convulsive swallow. The fluid slid down your throat, and in seconds, a wave of cool, soothing warmth spread through your chest, taking the sharpest edges off the deep, throbbing aches.
Her eyes, watching you, were impossibly tender. “Good girl.” Her hand drifted down your body, over the blanket of your skirt, to the tender, abused flesh between your legs. You flinched, oversensitive and raw.
Before you could process it, she lowered her head. You felt the warm puff of her breath, then the soft, deliberate wetness as she spat directly onto your swollen, aching clit.
Her thumb met the sensitive nub and began to rub with slow, gentle circles. A broken whimper escaped you.
“That’s it,” she whispered, her lips peppering soft kisses to your cheek. “Let it happen. Let me give you this.”
The pressure in your core built and built as she pushed you towards the edge. Your back arched off the couch, still sticky and soaked with blood, as a soft, pulsing orgasm washed through you, less violent than the last, but deeper, leaving you trembling with a vulnerable, spent sweetness. Tears welled in your eyes.
A sharp, urgent knock at the door broke the spell. “Emily! Thirty minutes! You in there?”
She jerked her head up, the loving caretaker vanishing behind the mask of the professional. But the look she gave you was one of profound apology. “Just a second!” she called, her voice smooth.
Emily found a coarse grey blanket and shook it out. Gently, she wrapped you in its scratchy warmth. She tucked it around your body with meticulous care, ensuring you were covered.
She knelt for a final moment, cradling your face in both hands. Her thumbs brushed your cheeks.
“The healing will take hold now. You’ll sleep deep, and you’ll be stronger when you wake.” Her voice was a low, loving rumble. “Because you are mine. My perfect, devoted pet.”
She leaned in and pressed a lingering, tender kiss to your forehead. It was a promise. A vow.
“Sleep now,” she whispered against your skin. “I’ll be back when the concert is over.”
Enveloped in the blanket that smelled of dust and her, soothed by the strange warmth inside your veins, you let go, and let the darkness consume you.