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Rated: 18+ · Short Story · Fantasy · #1938738
You never know what you truly chose. First attempt at horrorerotica

The blood was starting to dry on her hands, rust-coloured streaks sticky to the touch. She stared at them with incomprehension, with utter disbelief. She had killed a man, had pulled the trigger of a gun and shot him. She, who had never before even touched a weapon more dangerous than a kitchen knife, had shot and killed a man. It did not matter that she had done so in self-defence, that he had been ready to rape her. Her mind could not get past the fact that she had shot a man. For three months he had chained her, had tortured her, had forced her to endure unspeakable acts for his own amusement. For three months he had killed one girl after the other in front of her, making sure that they all understood how interchangeable they were to him when he dragged in another the day after disposing of the most recent corpse. Now she stood over him, curiously frozen in place by his demise. She had planned for this moment, plotted for it but when she had had the chance she simply reacted, had grabbed for the gun and pulled the trigger never believing it would actually fire, that she would actually kill him.

It was the whimpers form the other girls that broke her paralysis. Suddenly the world intruded on her again, the mildew scent permeating the old abandoned hotel, the ice cold air streaming in through the washed-out curtains like shards of glass, the clank of the heavy iron chain attached to her collar. She met the eyes of two of the other occupants of the room, met the strange apathy and passivity there and wondered what it said about them all that not even the death of this monster elicited a reaction anymore. Both women, painfully thin to the level of emaciation, sat slumped, chained to the wall on the other side of the bed, emitted low whimpers, a constant barely audible soundtrack to the surrealism of the moment. For a moment she was tempted to let the weight of the chain pull her down, to fall to the floor and simply resign herself to what may come. Her short burst of activity having used up almost all the energy she had. Despair ever present in her mind. She might have killed the monster - but in the end he was only one of many infesting this hellhole. But the cooling body besides her, the body of a young woman whose name had been Patricia, who had loved the smell of cut grass and dreamed of becoming a vet before the monster had found her and imprisoned her here, was a strange and powerful motivator. Patricia had died this morning, after only six weeks captivity, had simply let go and refused to wake up again. It had been that act of absolute defeat, of surrender and it had reached something in Sania she had thought lost: a will to live. So when the monster had come in to play his own version of russian roulette, pointing the gun at each of the remaining women, she had snapped. She had lunged forward, ripping the gun from his hand and pulling the trigger - never expecting, against all odds, that the gun would actually fire a bullet the moment she had it trained on him. But the gun had fired, had killed him and now, counter all expectation, she, Sania Kerrel, had another chance to fight for her life.

The first impediment, the heavy chains, was surprisingly easy to overcome, the key on the chain at HIS waist not only opening the chain but also the collars. The pain from removing the thick leather band, from digging it out of her chafed and bleeding skin, was enough to wake her mind fully. As she helped the other two women to free themselves she mused that no matter how battered she felt, she would get out of here - or die trying.

She quickly realised that the same might not be true for the other two women. Though both had been here less time than her, they were weaker, barely able to stand anymore. The younger of the two, a slip of a girl barely into womanhood, had silent tears tracking their way through the dirt and blood coating her face; the older woman’s arm was clearly broken. Neither had spoken a word though that might turn out to be a blessing in the circumstances. At least their whimpers had ceased, their eyes trained, if not with liveliness than at least with dawning comprehension on Sania. In a fight, they would not be of much help but then, neither would she be. They had no weapon, aside from a gun without bullets, no clothes, aside from the dirty sheets they had been able to draw from the bed and no idea how to get out of here. But at least they did not have anything to lose anymore either.

At the brown, standard issue hotel room door, Sania hesitated, waiting, listening. She could see the tarnished gleam of the door number
across the hall through the half-open door. A 27. Did that mean they were on the 2nd floor? She had been here too long, having been carried up locked in pain and shock. She had no memory of where she was. The dark hallway taunted her with its seeming emptiness. She was almost tempted to remain here, in the relative safety of horrific familiarity with her surrounding. Only rationality, in the realisation that their room would not remain safe for long as soon as the other men realised that their leader was not coming back, made her push the door cautiously open, expecting every second an arm to snatch for her. But there was no arm, there was only a long, dark hallway stretching in front of her with ominous doors, each containing potential danger, lining their escape route. Taking that first step down that hallway, her first step to either freedom or recapture and death, took almost more strength than she had. But she took that step.

The first three rooms on either side proved to be uneventful, they yawned empty and abandoned in typical 70s hotel chic, their curtains as brown and washed out as the one in the room she had been forced to spend the last 3 months in, their furniture broken and dirty. In two, the window was broken, adding grey light to the general dreariness and despair. With every step they took she felt more despondent - and more hopeful at the same time. They had almost reached the end of the hallway, had almost reached the lobby before the staircase down, when she heard it: footsteps. But not the heavy footsteps of their captors, not the sure and certain tread of a man who knew that there was nothing more threatening than him around. No, these were the furtive noises of a being on the hunt. Had they already been found out? Had someone already realised that they had freed themselves and decided to stalk them before they had even left this floor?

The other women had also heard the sounds, had frozen in place like deer in the headlights. She had not thought that she would still be able to feel terror but the icy hand closing around her heart could not be identified as anything else. For a moment, her mind went blank, totally blank and her whole world was consumed by white noise. Then the world crashed back, time speeding up to catch up with the fast thump of her heart. Without ceremony she pushed both women into the nearest room, hoping, against all reason, that they would be able to hide at least long enough to let the source of the noise pass. If it was only one man they might be able to slip past him, possibly make it down the staircase, though she was aware that the further down they went the more likely was discovery. The noise seemed to come from above them, a barely audible shuffle. Possibly they should try to go up instead? But where then? They would be even more vulnerable.

Frantically, Sania looked around the room in search of a weapon. But there was little there. The other women had cowered in the far corner besides the narrow double bed, holding onto each other in a futile attempt to disappear into metaphysical oblivion - or at least the wall. The dresser, the bed, the chair - nothing promised to provide a useful implement that might in any form or format be made to resemble a weapon. Nothing. The only possibility was the slightly askew table leg - a possible cudgel, if a pitiful one? The second instance of luck presented itself when it came off at the first touch. It was light, and she suspected it might shatter at the first possible opportunity - but it was better than nothing.

Turning back to the door she waited. The sounds that had alerted them to the movement above them seemed to have ceased and seconds started to stretch into minutes. With each moment her fear threatened to overflow into panic - and she knew that they did not have that luxury. Their only chance would be to try to sneak past - or they would die here as they had expected for the last three months. Her eyes began to water so fixed were they on the narrow opening of the door and the dim hallway outside. Was that a shadow moving? Had there be a noise? She could not be sure and the uncertainty was threatening to undermine her composure. She could hear her own breath in the silence of the room and was convinced that their captors must hear it too, that it would lead them directly to them.

After what she thought was an eternity the light at the end of the hallway flickered as if a body had moved through it. In the first instance she thought her mind was deceiving her, but as the movement repeated she settled into the knowledge that they were not alone anymore. The moment had come. It was now or never - either they would manage to evade the person in front of the door or they would be caught here. At least the time of waiting was over. She tightened her hands on the table leg and raised it, cognisant of the pitiful weakness of her weapon and still feeling better for holding it. The shadow moved down the hallway, gliding through the shadows in a definite stalking pattern, avoiding the irregular pools of light in preference for the deeper shadows. She almost swore when she realised that there was a second and third shadow following the first. Their luck had run out - it was not only one of their other captors but all three of the remaining men. And they had clearly realised that their prey had flown the coop.

Now their only chance was speed - speed that was beyond their battered and weak bodies. Still, they had to try. She gestured to the other two to come closer, to follow her and made a dash for the stairs. Every fibre of her being was concentrated behind them, fixed on the three men that had just reached the end of the hallway and would follow them. They just had to make it down and out. If they could make it to the street there was hope that someone would be around to save them, that they would be able to attract enough attention to safe themselves. All her senses were directed towards the men whose pursuit she could sense. Her feet stumbled on the second flight of stairs, around the first corner, before she heard them reach the stairs and for a moment she thought they might make it, they might live. Then her left foot went out under her and she stumbled, lost her balance. And then oblivion.

She remembered that terror, remembered it every night, every waking moment - even now, six months later. Remembered it as she was waiting for Jasper in the same dilapidated hotel lobby. She had no idea why she had asked him to meet her here of all places - except for the symbolic meaning of it. She had come full circle. Her survival of this place had been a mere chimera, a cruel illusion. It was fitting that she would finally admit that, to him and herself, in this place; fitting that she would finally surrender and give up here. The three shadows had not been her captors - it had been an elite strike team under the auspices of the vampire council under the command of Jasper de Renow, former musketeer, Master vampire and, inexplicably since that horrible day, her friend. She had found out that there is such a thing as a vampire the day she had been kidnapped - the day she was rescued she had found out this did not mean brutal anarchy but a tightly controlled social structure underlying the human world. And the man now waiting behind her was one of its enforcers. At the moment she did not know which of his roles she appealed to today - friend or executioner.

“Why did the Council not simply pull down the building?”

Her eyes had come to rest on the stained paint pot, calico yellow, in the corner; one of the many signs of renovation and restoration in the lobby.

“The building is sound. There was no reason to.”

And that truly was all the reason there had to be. Vampires were not sentimental about much, definitely not places. They had a expedient practicality she almost admired. She assumed that, at their lifespan, if you let bad memories limit your movements, you would quickly become housebound. She felt him move behind her, not too close but a comforting presence, a reminder of all the times he had brought her here to face her demons.

“You know why I called?”


A simple word, calm acceptance that allowed her to turn to him. Six months of seeing him almost daily had not inundated her to his presence, to the sheer force of his personality and beauty. The moonlight from the window behind him played intricate patterns over his dark red hair, turning the fiery mass from its usual brilliance into something softer, colder. He sat half leaning against the banister separating the former seating area from the rest of the lobby, positioned so that the work light would illuminate his ascetic features never leaving her skittish mind in doubt who was here with her. It was a conscious kindness she had come to depend on.

“I lost time yesterday.”

“How much?”

So matter of fact.

“A few seconds - I moved from the bedroom to the kitchen without knowing. But I have been getting headaches from the sun since weeks now”

That last was an admission she should have told him weeks ago and because she knew that she squared her shoulders and met his calm green gaze without apology. She almost missed the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“I know.”

The acceptance in those two words let something settle in her. Six months ago she had known it may come to this, had been warned by the council representatives of the eventuality of infection. She had been a captive too long, the rogue vampire who had kidnapped her had fed on her too often. A simple blood test had revealed the sanguinati pathogen in her blood after her rescue. The problem was that the concentration had not been enough to turn her throughout her captivity, most likely as the pathogen had been introduced into her system by various, incompatible donors. But the concentration was enough to cause a disease, what they called bloodrage, the slow but sure descent into violent madness. There was no cure, the infected had to either submit to the absolute control of a Master with enough power to suppress the rage, or they had to be killed in order to protect innocent lives. She was told it was kinder than locking them up and watching as they slowly ripped themselves apart, literally, in their rage. For the first few months she had been tested daily but the pathogen had remained dormant in her bloodstream and they all had thought she had gotten away. Then the light-sensitivity had started three weeks ago - and now the lost time. That was the moment she knew she could not ignore it anymore.

The council had assured her that, were the infection to surface, she would be well cared for, that due to her circumstance as an innocent victim arrangements would be made to find her a “good” Master. That had almost made her laugh. As if enforced slavery would be acceptable under any condition. She knew she would never be able to trust anyone enough to accept that - and to be honest, she had become tired. The last six months, the time since her captivity, had been hard, harder than she had thought possible and instead of getting easier it just seemed to worsen by the minute. The smallest occurrence could catapult her into a panic attack, she barely slept anymore, had to fight to hold down even the smallest amount of food. And she was always tired, not just mentally, but physically. She had reached the stage where stopping, simply ceasing to exist, had started to sound good. So she had come to him, the council’s executioner. She knew that traditionally she should have waited, should have brought it to the council and waited for his sword to fall in front of the assembled court but she also knew that as her friend he would spare her that spectacle if she just asked. And she did ask.

“Are you sure?”

She saw sadness in his eyes, a sad resignation that tucked at her heart. She knew it was unfair to ask him for this but also knew that he would never allow another to fulfil her wish. He was old enough to know that death was not always a punishment - it could be a mercy. His movements were measured and deliberate as he moved towards her, as he stroked her short tresses gently from her forehead to cradle her face in both his hands like the most breakable of objects. His brow came to rest on hers, his hair falling forwards to surround them both in a strange intimacy.

“Are you really sure?”

She felt his words against her lips, the brush of air carrying his scent of apples and wine to her like a tender caress.


Her answer was barely a whisper on the wind - but he heard it nevertheless.

Carefully he pulled her closer, gathering her wrists in one of his hands, a soft restraint at her back. She wanted to protest, but then subsided. What she asked of him exceeded anything friendship may demand and she would not make it harder on him. His lips travelled along her cheek, not in an erotic caress, but in a reassuring touch, soft as butterfly wings. For a moment he buried his face in her hair as if he needed to collect himself, as if he needed to preserve her scent, the feeling of her here, for eternity. She heard his whisper as his fingers tangled in her hair to stretch her neck to allow him better access:

“I love you. Know that and always remember it.”

Then his sharp fangs found her jugular and sank deep. There was a moment’s pain, made worse by the memories suddenly crashing into her mind, and she knew why he had restrained her in his arms. Her frantic struggle was short-lived, quickly a soft wall surrounded her mind, insulated it against the fear and pain raging in her, cradling her in warm oblivion.

She did not expect to wake again. She definitely did not expect to wake tied naked to a bed with a vampire looking down on her,8 barely veiled concern in his eyes. Almost absentmindedly she realised that her ever-present state of panic was strangely quiet - not gone, just muted and distant. She narrowed her eyes at him:

“What have you done?!?”

Why relief should light his eyes at her annoyed tone eluded her. He lay besides her, his equally nude limbs warming hers, one arm crooked to support his head as he looked down at her. At her snark he smiled and raised a hand to stroke her cheek in an almost teasing caress.

“There you are.”

She was not about to be side-tracked.

“What have you done?”

“I have taken enough blood to allow a preliminary bond to form. I …”

She did not let him finish.

“Jasper, they DID tell me how this works. I know that to make me your servant you have to make me submit to you mentally through either sex, pain or fear. The last two are not your style, and I know you too well to believe that you have raped me when I was comatose. So, again, what have you done?”

His finger continues its leisurely caress of her face, painting a line across her forehead, along her nose to come to rest on her lips in a gentle reminder to let him speak.

“To safe your life I might. And if you think I am not capable of violence then you are sadly deluding yourself.”

As she tried to open her mouth to protest, to correct him, he exerted a little pressure on the finger across her lips to assure her continued silence.

“What I have done is to establish a light mental connection. It is not a servant’s bond - not yet, but it is the first step.”

It almost robbed her of the ability to breathe.

“I don’t want this.”

There was pain in her voice, pain and fear, a deep sea of quiet despair. His answering smile was bittersweet:

“I know - but you need it and sometimes that has to count for more. I would love to give you more time, more space to heal, but we both know that it was not going so well anyway.”

She pulled at the cuffs holding her hands firmly, but not uncomfortably, extended over her head. They were soft, almost caressing, and absolutely immutable.

“Jasper, you cannot force me into this!”

She tried to imbue her voice with as much authority as she could. He just cocked a brow before he, with a lithe and unhurried movement, rose to straddle her hips. The sight of his body over hers, beautiful and unashamedly male, stalled her thought processes for more than a few seconds. Her eyes developed a mind of their own, taking in the view presented to them in long, greedy swipes. He was utterly breathtaking - not perfect, his skin showing the marks of life in scars and nicks, but overwhelming in the leashed power evident everywhere. He had the strong shoulder and arm muscles of a man for whom a sword had not simply been a toy and the narrow waist of the rider. He had the physique of an ancient greek statue - though his fully erect penis, long and beautifully smooth, put those long-dead models to shame. That thought sobered her a little, penetrated the lust filled haze.

“Why am I not frightened?”

Not an unreasonable question considering her panic attacks and the fact that she was naked, bound and being towered over by a fully aroused man, a vampire. It should have pushed her straight over the edge into panic. She watched him lean over her, bracketing her face in his hands again as his hair curtained them against the world.

“You are frightened - you just cannot feel it.”

“You know that makes no sense.”

His hair was a constant silky caress on her skin, his scent surrounding her very soul. She was captivated by his too expressive mouth, the moisture she could see hovering on his oh so close lips, the outline of the still extended fangs. But as she met his eyes she could only see warm desire in them. He touched his nose to hers in a gentle tease.

“It does make sense when you have a vampire in your mind shielding you.”

That did frighten her, made her struggle against the bonds as his lips began to nibble and caress along the outline of her own. In a fit of spite, of obstinacy, she turned her head to the side, denying him access to her mouth. He let her, moving his attention instead along her jawline towards the sensitive skin below her ear. Anger rose, anger at him, at herself, at the feeling of warmth in her bones.

“Remove the restraints. Now!”

It was not quite a yell but it contained enough venom to surprise even herself. He stopped moving. She tried to tell herself that she was glad of it. In a smooth move his hands stroked along the sensitive outside of her arms towards the cuffs. She expected him to loosen them, to untie her, to grant her the personal space he had been so careful to accord her for the whole time they had been friends. Instead his hands spanned her wrists on top of the cuffs, held her, made her aware of the limit imposed on her movement as well as the fact that it was by his will she was held.


He let her see the power and control in his eyes, the unbreakable will he was intent on bringing to this, let it shine through the warmth that was an integral part of how he treated her. When he spoke next his voice was deeper, held an indefinable quality of command, of absolute certainty.

“The cuffs are there to allow your mind to give in, to overrule the fear and independence that keeps you from giving into the desire to trust yourself to me, to submit to me. You know that I will not harm you, these will allow you to trust into that knowledge no matter how much you need to fight.”

This time as his lips came down on hers they were not teasing, they were claiming, conquering and demanding a response she was unable to withhold. His mouth seized hers, his tongue invading her with an explosion of taste and touch so intimate and so intricately him that no space remained for fear. After the first claiming he took his time, familiarised himself thoroughly with her taste, her mouth, coaxed her into an almost playful duel of tongues. By the time he allowed their mouths to part her lips were swollen and glistened with moisture and her breath was coming in pants.

“I like you like this, nicely befuddled by my pleasure.”

She felt adrift, cut lose and laid bare in a way she had never before, frightened and protected at the same time. Her eyes held onto his as his hands began a soft journey of discovery over her skin, the calluses on his fencer’s hands scraping in counterpoint to the gentle strength. She wanted to say something, wanted to tell him to stop, but as she opened her mouth she did not know what. Before she could discover a valid argument he shook his head.

“Shh, Baby, don’t speak. I don’t want to have to gag you - you are not ready for that yet. Just allow yourself to feel.”

He never stopped the sure movements of his hands over her skin, the teasing touches as he awakened her body to his touch and discovered her most secret reactions, her most sensitive places. His lips twitched as she could not help squirming as his fingers stroked along her sensitive flanks, his eyes shone as her mouth parted in an involuntary moan at his knuckles grazing the underside of her breasts. Soon his mouth followed the path of his hands, a wet questing of sensation with lips and teeth. The heat coursing through her body started to turn into flames, into overwhelming waves of pleasure. She wanted to fight it, wanted to resist, did not want to give in, to be drawn back into an existence that held little but fear and confusion for her. She strained against the restraints, tried to break the bonds to no avail and that realisation, the realisation that she could do nothing but simply feel, freed something in her, allowed her to let go.

She could enjoy the slight scratch of his rougher skin against hers as he cupped her breasts. For a moment he just looked at her, mustered her with all the admiration and joy in his eyes she suddenly suspected he had been hiding for a long time. He held her gaze as he leant closer to her left nipple, let the tension build as his mouth hovered over her skin let her wait and somehow it pulled a smile from her. She felt his mouth stretched in an answering grin when his lips closed over her nipples. And then her world narrowed onto the feeling of the heat of his mouth, the every increasing draw of his mouth. She had never had particularly sensitive breasts - but his touch could wake her to it. Though his patience was clearly waning, his endurance stretched to its limit. With an audible pop he abandoned her breast and let his mouth travel further south, the nips and licks with which he teased the skin over her belly and along her hip bone heightening her expectation.

By this stage there was no room for anything but him, his touch, his scent, in her mind anymore. A coiled spring of molten lava was winding its way through her blood, tightening with every millimetre his mouth moved closer to her core. She was ready to scream as he nuzzled along the juncture of her thigh and she thought her heart would forget to beat as his strong hands spanned her buttocks and lifted her hips to his pleasure. She expected his mouth on her clitoris, expected the heat roughness of his tongue - and felt nothing. She could not swallow the sudden whine breaking from her and she realised that sometime past her eyes had closed. It took more concentration than she thought possible to lift her lids and meet his green wicked gaze over the length of her body. The sight was entirely wicked, indulgently decadent.

“Keep your eyes on me, Sweetheart. And beg!”

She thought he wanted her to beg now and almost scoffed. But his mouth found her labia, nipping the sensitive skin before his seemingly prehensile tongue delved deep into her. Her back tried to arch off the bed, her head restlessly moving on the pillow in helpless pleasure. Just as she was about to come, he stopped, withdrew, only letting her feel his cool breath on her over-sensitised skin. It took her a moment to realise that the keening noise filling the room came from her own throat. His chuckle was dark and deep, torturing her skin.


She did not know what he wanted and got no time to figure it out before his tongue began to lave at the sides of her clitoris in even strokes, circling the exposed nub but never really touching it. She tried to push her hips higher, forcing the contact, but his hands only tightened to hold her in place.

When he stopped this time she was so depleted that she could not even keen, her mind swimming in sensations. A sharp nip at the inside of her thigh helped her to collect her senses somewhat.


It was a growl and as the wet heat returned to her clitoris a desperate cry broke from her:


She felt him move, felt him set her back to the bed and the sudden absence of his touch caused sobs to rack her body.

“Shh, little one. Soon.”

She sensed him more than felt him move over her, so caught up was she in her own mind. Then she felt him hovering at her entrance, felt the promise of his penetration and it brought her eyes open to meet his, to meet that intent stare. When he saw he held her attention he sheathed himself in one strong move into her, stretching her beyond pleasure, bringing on the strongest orgasm she had ever felt. And as he thrust through the spasms shaking her body, drawing every last shiver from her body, his eyes never left hers. She surrendered to the pleasure, to him and felt something in her mind click into place. He did not need to tell her what had happened, his triumphal smile was all she needed as he finally let go himself. Still she heard his declaration:

“Now I have got you - body and soul.”
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