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simone-de-boudoir · 1 year

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Blood on Her Lips — Ch. 10: Hey, Miss Murder

Blood on Her Lips: ABOUT

The next morning, Rose sat on her windowsill and smoked her vape under the protective shading of the awning. “Was there something to what Margot said?” she asked herself. “Is being a vampire a great opportunity? Does this power bring with it a responsibility to wield it for good?”

Power. Rose turned this word over and over again in her head.

Her ruminations were interrupted by a buzz on her phone. It was a text from Zari: “Salut, Chérie! Can I stop by chez toi?”

“Of course,” Rose texted in response. “You know the door code, you can let yourself in and come up.”

Once in Rose’s apartment, Zari produced a plastic bag filled tightly with burgundy liquid. “It’s the hospital grade blood I promised you,” she explained eagerly. “It’s sealed airtight, so it will be fresh when you open it. I’ll put it in le frigo.”

“Thank you, Zari,” Rose said sincerely. “And thank you for everything. You’ve really been helping me with these horrible cleanup jobs. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Zari popped the blood bag into Rose’s refrigerator and came to join Rose on her windowsill. They sat across from each other and Rose shared her vape. They both puffed languidly.

“Well, I wasn’t the one doing the cleanup,” said Zari. “But I was happy to help you arrange it. If I’m being honest, it was kind of a thrill being a part of that asshole politician’s demise.” Zari giggled behind her hand. “He deserved it,” she added.

“I’m glad to hear you say that,” Rose expressed. “This is a strange and horrifying power in so many ways, but if I can do some good with it…” she trailed off, unable to say “then it would be worth it.”

“The world is better off without that monster,” Zari reassured. “Sophie’s attacker too. I’m glad that fucker got what he deserved.”

“Another vampire visited me yesterday,” Rose revealed to Zari.

“Whoa…” Zari uttered, surprised. “Is that a good thing?”

“Yes. I think so. It was a lady, she gave me some helpful information.”

“Like what?”

“One thing she mentioned,” Rose began, “is that our cleanups have been good by human standards, but not by vampire standards. Apparently other vampires can sense the kills, and that can be dangerous for me. She told me that vampires can ‘vampire’ other vampires. Just to add another layer of shittiness to this whole thing.” Rose was being flip with her words, but Zari understood the seriousness underlying them.

“What does that mean going forward?” Zari asked.

“I’m not completely sure,” Rose responded honestly. “But I feel deeply that I need to find Nico Dacia — the vampire who turned me — because he owes me answers, and ultimately I think he’ll be useful for me. I need to understand this world more.”

“I heard about Margot,” Zari said softly. “I’m sorry she put you in that spot, and I’m especially sorry that you can’t count on her for her blood anymore. I wish I could say she’d come around, but you know how stubborn Margot can be.”

“Do you think she’s right?” asked Rose. “Do you think I have a responsibility to use this power to go on a crusade of sorts? If we were able to bring some kind of justice to the politician and Sophie’s attacker, does that mean I need to expand that to a larger scale?”

Zari contemplated silently for a moment. “I don’t think I can give you that answer,” she responded at last. “But I do have a surprise for you,” she said, guiding the conversation away from this depth of seriousness.

Rose looked at Zari with perked-up eyes. “Oh? What is it?”

In lieu of an answer, Zari stood up and walked toward Rose, who remained seated. Zari approached closer, bringing her pelvis close to Rose’s face. “Notice anything?” she asked.

Rose leaned in and inhaled a whiff of Zari’s pubic area. Rose felt a ripple of goosebumps wash over her as her eyes lit up. She looked up at Zari with a knowing smile.

“It just started,” Zari told Rose. “But I’m always super heavy on the first days.” Letting go of coyness, Zari grabbed the bottom edges of her dress and slipped it off over her head. It was warm out, so she hadn’t put on a bra. All that was left were a dark pair of panties.

Rose reached for Zari’s panties and slid them off her legs. Rose noticed a small patch of red on the crotch of the panties. Instinctively, she inserted the panties into her mouth and sucked on the stained piece of cloth. Rose’s eyes clenched shut as she savored the amuse bouche she pulled from the soft fabric that only seconds ago had been pressed against Zari’s sweet pussy.

“Don’t neglect the main course,” Zari instructed, bringing herself closer to Rose. Overcome, Rose gripped Zari’s hips and buried her face within.

Rose clenched Zari’s ass cheeks and submerged her mouth within the delicate folds of Zari’s glistening vulva. Rose extended her tongue deep inside, greedy for the thick, red nectar dripping steadily from Zari’s innermost walls. Rose brought a thumb to Zari’s clit and began rubbing in slow, circular motions. Zari exhaled a moan and ran her fingers through Rose’s hair.

Lightning was beginning to kindle in Rose’s muscles. She felt her veins tingle and expand. Her focus narrowed in on extracting the crimson lifeforce produced by Zari’s body. She stood up from the windowsill and pressed Zari against the wall in between the tall windows. Rose threw off her clothes and pressed her naked body against Zari’s. They kissed and Zari got a taste of her own blood on Rose’s lips.

Rose kneeled in front of Zari and pushed her legs apart. Rose returned her mouth and thumb to their places, and both picked up speed. The tentacle-like muscle in Rose’s mouth tossed around inside Zari’s pussy like a restless sleeper. Her thumb atop Zari’s clit burrowed down against the magical button that was the center of Zari’s pleasure universe. These motions made Zari shiver and convulse, and she grinded herself against Rose’s mouth for maximum intensity.

Zari’s convulsions were releasing fresh tides of blood onto Rose’s tongue. In response, Rose swirled her tongue frantically inside Zari’s soft cavern to ensure she was able to consume each and every drop. Zari gripped a handful of Rose’s hair as her body tensed and tightened. Rose felt this tightening and moved her mouth up to Zari’s clit, where a single lap of her tongue sent a quiver throughout Zari’s body. Rose then surrounded Zari’s clit with her mouth and sucked rhythmically. A final pull on the tender strip of skin pushed Zari over the edge into wild orgasmic spasms.

These spasms caused a rogue trickle of red to escape Zari’s pussy and form a small rivulet down her thigh. It caught Rose’s eye and just as she was about to pounce on it, a sudden tapping sound startled them both.

They looked at each other, confused. When it happened again, Rose recognized it as a knock on her door. She stood up and approached the peephole.

“It’s Vanesse — the vampire who visited me yesterday!” Rose whispered to Zari over her shoulder.

“Let her in,” Zari instructed, intrigued.

Rose threw on a long t-shirt, while Zari picked up her discarded dress and held it against her naked body.

Rose cracked open the door. Vanesse was dressed in her typical trenchcoat and tall boots. Sunglasses covered her piercing eyes.

Before Rose could think of anything to say, Vanesse had already clocked the smears of blood on Rose’s chin and the nearly naked Zari standing at the back of the apartment. “Bad time?” she asked through a grin, popping her sunglasses into a coat pocket.

“How — ” stammered Rose, “how did you get in the building? How do you know my door code?”

Vanesse shrugged. “I have my ways.”

Rose frowned.

Vanesse laughed in return. “Don’t worry, darling, I was behind someone who let me in.”

“What are you doing here?” Rose questioned.

“I have something important for you,” Vanesse answered, but her eyes were not on Rose — instead, they were examining Zari behind her. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?” she asked, bringing her gaze back to Rose.

“Please come in.” These words floated past Rose’s lips before she was even aware of them. Vanesse didn’t hesitate. She pushed herself past Rose and into the small apartment.

“Who do we have here?” Vanesse inquired, staring hungrily at Zari.

Instinctively, Rose rushed in front of Zari and stood in a protective stance. “I won’t let you kill her,” Rose announced determinedly.

“Please, darling, I don’t need your leftovers,” Vanesse responded as she threw off her trenchcoat to reveal a slinky black dress. She was making herself quite at home, thought Rose.

Vanesse leisurely approached where Rose and Zari stood. “You’re a good and trusting friend,” she said looking into Zari’s eyes, “to let a vampire eat your pussy while you’re on your period. Not every vampire would stop there after getting such a taste.”

Rose was annoyed, and impressed, that Vanesse always seemed to know exactly what was going on.

“Why don’t you continue eating your friend’s pussy,” Vanesse suggested, addressing Rose, “while I show you a little trick. It won’t harm her, I promise.”

Zari and Rose looked at each other. Zari shrugged. “You need all the tricks you can get,” she told Rose.

They acquiesced. Rose threw off her t-shirt and again knelt in front of Zari, who tossed aside her dress. Rose began tentatively with gentle tongue strokes, first lapping up the rivulet along Zari’s thigh, then moving back to her pussy.

As Rose was tonguing Zari, she watched Vanesse gather one of Zari’s breasts into her hands and bring it to her mouth. Vanesse then revealed two pointed teeth, and she gingerly placed Zari’s nipple under one of them.

“It’s a delicate art,” Vanesse began, Zari’s nipple hovering between her lips. “But if you do it just right, you can draw the tiniest amount of blood from the nipple while simultaneously bestowing a euphoric mixture of pain and pleasure.”

Vanesse dug her fang lightly into Zari’s nipple. Zari winced, but her smile instructed Vanesse to continue. Vanesse sank her fang deeper into the pointed flesh, then deeper still, piercing through the crown atop Zari’s breast. With this prick, Zari erupted in shivering moans as her nipple produced a pearl of blood. Vanesse stopped to display the results.

“Are you okay?” Rose asked, looking up at Zari.

“I feel amazing,” Zari answered through heaving breaths, a droplet of blood hanging buoyantly from her punctured nipple. “You can keep going. Pleasekeep going.”

Vanesse clutched Zari’s other tit and inserted it into her mouth. Rose continued licking and stroking Zari’s pussy. Zari again erupted in orgasm, emitting a screeching shriek of pleasure.

“Beautiful,” remarked Vanesse, admiring Zari. “Now, let’s try something else…” With this, Vanesse pushed Rose onto her back along the floor and instructed Zari to sit on Rose’s face.

With Zari perched above her mouth, Rose gripped Zari’s hips and flicked her tongue against her clit. Zari writhed and more blood spilled out and into Rose’s parted lips.

Meanwhile, Vanesse crouched down and pressed her mouth against Rose’s lower lips. Rose’s body reacted with a shiver of excitement. Vanesse traced her tongue along the edges of Rose’s exposed opening, then brought in the reinforcements of her fingers. She fingered Rose in pulsating motions as she brought her lips around Rose’s clit and began sucking.

Vanesse incorporated her teeth once again by pulling on the sensitive casing of Rose’s clit, stretching it out with exquisite precision. Rose felt her thighs trembling around Vanesse’s head. Vanesse’s fingers inside her cunt and teeth upon her clit gave her rapturous, agonizing gratification.

Zari continued to pump against Rose’s face and her tits bounced wildly. Reaching down, Zari gripped Rose by her head and pushed her harder against her pussy. With feverish grinds, Zari groaned through her teeth as she came again and released even more blood into Rose’s busy mouth.

Glowing with release, Zari moved her hands to her own breasts as she bobbed softly against Rose’s mouth. Vanesse, still burrowed between Rose’s legs, reached up a hand and grabbed one of Rose’s tits. She squeezed it tightly, capping it off with a pinch on Rose’s nipple.

Rose’s body rumbled and shook, her pussy twitched and jolted in response to Vanesse’s every touch. Electricity shot through Rose’s entire body, emanating from her charged-up cunt. The sparks that danced on her skin gathered like an unholy coven at the cauldron between her legs.

With her face still submerged, Rose discharged a resounding scream of ecstasy into Zari’s pussy. The scream was muffled, yet it echoed. Afterward, Rose’s limbs fell limp and her head collapsed against the hardwood floor beneath.

Zari hopped off and leaned against the wall. Her hair was rumpled and her skin was flushed. “Holy fuck!” she laughed.

Vanesse stood and wiped the edges of her lips. She slipped her trenchcoat back on, but before tying it up she reached into an inner pocket and pulled out an envelope. She tossed the envelope onto Rose’s torso, who was still sprawled listlessly upon the floor.

“That’s what I came here to give you,” said Vanesse. “That…and a few orgasms.” She winked at Zari and headed for the door.

Rose’s head felt engulfed by fog and her body felt exceedingly weak. She felt disoriented and sapped. She knew something had fallen onto her chest, but her arms felt too heavy to move to pick it up. This confused her, for she usually felt strong and in control after feeding, and she had just gorged on Zari’s blood.

Rose blinked until her eyes at last came into focus and she saw the outline of Vanesse at her front door. “Oh,” Vanesse added, putting her sunglasses back on, “and that’s for yesterday.”

The door had already closed behind Vanesse before Rose summoned enough strength to sit up.

“What does she mean?” Zari asked.

Rose had to hold her head up with her hand. A chuckle managed to pass from Rose’s lips. “Payback,” she uttered.

“You can explain later,” said Zari, recognizing Rose’s extreme fatigue. “But what is in that envelope she gave you?”

The envelope had slid off Rose’s chest and onto the floor. She had forgotten it already. Mustering all the energy she had left, Rose picked it up and tore into it. She pulled out a slip of paper with an address scrawled on it, along with the name “Nico Dacia.”

~~~~~~~~

Chapter 11: Coming soon!

Companion song: “Miss Murder” by AFI

** Visit SimoneDeBoudoir.com for companion media (stripteases & sexier boudoir photoshoots) + more! **

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simone-de-boudoir · 1 year

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Blood on Her Lips — Ch. 9: Die Happy

Blood on Her Lips: ABOUT

Vanesse was unmistakable amongst the audience of Theatre La Chatte. Rose was glad she had decided to stay and watch her perform.

“Die Happy” by Metric sailed into the cavernous room and swelled rhythmically. Dark and atmospheric and promising, the music set the mood.

Inspired by Vanesse’s look, Rose descended the stairs in tall black books and a trenchcoat, this one a stunning fuschia. She felt more energized than in her previous acts that day. Her chat with Vanesse had given her new life.

Rose trotted on stage and planted her booted feet in a wide stance. She swayed her hips to the music and untied the trenchcoat’s waist strap. She then unbuttoned the trenchcoat with deliberate slowness. This unveiled the treasure beneath — a tightly-bound black corset that sensuously contorted Rose’s torso and accentuated her curves.

Rose let the heavy trenchcoat fall off her body and onto the floor. Stepping out of the pool of her fallen coat, she moved into the realm of the audience. The lights glowed blue and purple on her like liquid gemstones.

“Is this dystopia?” implored the song repeatedly.

Rose eyed Vanesse but did not immediately approach her. First, she diligently bestowed attention upon other audience members. She sat on a lap and leaned all the way back. She sprawled along a velvety sofa back and pumped her pelvis in the air. She flirted and tempted, seduced and vamped.

But she could not resist the pull of Vanesse for very long. Rose glided up to where Vanesse sat and perched on the seat next to her. She extended a hand.

Vanesse peered at Rose’s extended hand, unsure what to do. A nod toward the stage was Rose’s only explanation, but it was enough. Vanesse placed her hand in Rose’s, and then Rose led her to the stage and sat her down on the spotlighted divan.

There, in front of the audience, Rose led Vanesse’s hands to the upper mounds of her breasts that spilled out from atop the corset. She bent perpendicularly at the waist and brushed her lips against Vanesse’s. This gave the audience a spectacular view of her blue- and purple-highlighted ass.

Rose knelt in front of Vanesse, who was still seated on the plush divan. She pushed Vanesse’s legs wide open, and brought her mouth tantalizingly close to where Vanesse’s legs met. She feigned a licking motion, and glanced back to confirm that her audience was enjoying the show. But ultimately they were of secondary concern.

Rose turned her attention back to Vanesse. She lifted herself up and sat next to Vanesse on the divan. Pulling her body toward her own, Rose pressed her lips softly against Vanesse’s. Then more firmly. Then firmer still.

They were passionately making out as Rose again took control of Vanesse’s hands. She guided them to the seemingly infinite row of tiny latches and instructed her fingers to carefully release each hook from its eye.

With each new unhooking, Rose’s body became more and more revealed. By the time Vanesse was half way down, the edges of Rose’s tits were highlighted by the saturating lights. The rest of her body yearned to be released as well.

Once the unlatching was finally complete, the open corset fell off Rose like a discarded shell. Her nipples stood erect, celebrating their uncovering. But the panties still needed to come off.

Rose jumped up onto the divan, standing with her front facing Vanesse and her back toward the audience. Placing a hand on the back of Vanesse’s head, Rose directed her to take hold of the slender panty straps with her teeth.

No stranger to the art of seduction, Vanesse knew what to do next. She used her teeth to slowly pull the panties down Rose’s legs. The audience gorged their sights on the spectacle before them.

Now naked apart from thigh highs and the tall black boots, Rose pushed Vanesse into a supine position on the divan and crouched over her. She writhed in tandem with the song, with Vanesse lying obediently beneath her.

“In this dystopia,” chanted the song.

Rose brought a hand to Vanesse’s pussy. Though clothed, it was undeniable that the pleasure seeped through, for Vanesse’s face expressed a vision of ecstasy. Emboldened, Rose moved her hand past the clothing and felt Vanesse’s wet cunt within. She fingered her with heaving motions.

The audience sat silently enthralled.

Vanesse was now breathing heavily and her body joined in with the wavelike movements of Rose’s hand. Vanesse’s eyes fluttered shut as she moaned beguilingly.

Rose felt the tremblings of an orgasm start to arise in Vanesse’s body. She swirled her finger more vigorously, like a sorceress inviting a thunderstorm to erupt. Vanesse’s body trembled and her hips hoisted upward in a greedy arch.

“Die happy,” chimed the song, “In the summertime.”

The grip of sharp fingernails around Rose’s throat stopped her abruptly. Her eyes bulged as a faint gurgle struggled past the hand clutching her neck.

“So happy,” the song continued, “I could die.”

Vanesse had popped up — on the verge of cumming but without reaching it — and now towered over Rose.

With Rose pinned under her along the divan, Vanesse brought her face close to Rose’s. “I know what you’re doing, you little bitch!” She spat these words at Rose through a grin. “Don’t you ever try to drain me of power again, and don’t you ever make me regret bestowing kindness upon you.”

Masked by the music, Vanesse’s words were inaudible to the other audience members, but Rose heard them distinctly.

“Die happy,” the song concluded and the music faded. The audience applauded wildly.

Rose suppressed a cough when Vanesse released her grasp. They both turned to the audience and smiled in place of a bow.

~~~~~~~~

“Who was that striking woman you brought on stage?” Margot asked Rose backstage.

Rose looked over her shoulder to ensure they were alone. “Another vampire,” she answered quietly.

“Wow, really?” Margot responded. “How cool…” Margot’s eyes trailed off, lost in a private thought.

“Yeah, she’s helping me, in fact,” Rose explained.

“I don’t think I’ve heard you say the word ‘vampire’ yet,” Margot noted.

Rose abruptly shushed Margot. “You feel very comfortable saying it, I see.”

“Actually,” Margot said, looking at her feet, “I wanted to talk to you about that.”

“About the word ‘vampire’?” Rose asked in a hushed voice. “Sort of,” Margot responded vaguely. Rose shot her a sideways glance.

Margot unexpectedly took Rose by the hand and yanked her into a shadowy corner. She looked Rose steadily in the eyes. “I want you to turn me.”

“Quoi?!” exclaimed Rose.

“Make me a vampire,” Margot stated directly.

“You’ve lost your mind,” Rose said dismissively, attempting to push past Margot. But Margot held her there.

“I’m dead serious,” Margot stated. “I think we can do a lot of good with it! We killed that shitbag politician. You killed Sophie’s attacker. Think about what else we could accomplish! Think beyond La Chatte. Think beyond Paris. We could go on a global crusade, taking down all the evil fuckers ruining this world.”

Rose watched a wildfire flicker in Margot’s eyes. “You don’t know what you’re saying. You don’t know what it’s like,” Rose responded in a broken voice. “Being a vampire isn’t a vigilante lark. It’s an existence full of darkness and death.”

“I’ve thought it over long and hard,” Margot insisted. “It’s an opportunity, a powerful gift. Don’t be afraid to wield that power! And anyway,” she added, “at least you’d have me as a companion for eternity.”

Rose smiled wistfully and contemplated Margot’s ask. “I’m sorry,” she said at last. “I can’t do that to you.”

Margot blinked angrily at Rose and dipped a hand into her pocket. She brought out a switchblade knife and flicked it open.

A shiver of fear flashed across Rose, but then she remembered herself. “You can’t kill me,” she uttered softly, reminding both Margot and herself of her immortality.

Forming a devilish smile and keeping her eyes locked on Rose’s, Margot brought the small knife to her own throat. Without a murmur, Margot traced a diagonal line along the side of her throat and a thin red line followed in the knife’s path.

The blood glowed mesmerizingly. Rose felt her salivary glands pump liquid into her mouth. She yearned desperately to suck on that sumptuous crimson nectar spilling from Margot’s throat.

In perhaps the greatest act of self-control of her life, Rose shot past Margot and screamed “I can’t. I won’t!”

Rose ran home to her apartment and collapsed in tears on her bed. Margot was persistent, this wouldn’t be the end of it. And presumably this meant that she could no longer count Margot — and her monthly supply of blood — as an ally.

She hoped desperately that Vanesse would come through and help her find Nico Dacia.

~~~~~~~~

Chapter 10: Hey, Miss Murder

Companion song: “Die Happy” by Metric

** Visit SimoneDeBoudoir.com for companion media (stripteases & sexier boudoir photoshoots) + more! **

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simone-de-boudoir · 1 year

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Blood on Her Lips — Ch. 8: La Petite Mort

Blood on Her Lips: ABOUT

Their plan had worked, yes — they had executed the kill of the American politician rather flawlessly. But this type of prey was far from abundant. They needed a new plan going forward.

Rose’s blood supply was starting to run low. Finding new victims had taken over her mind, it was all she seemed to think about anymore. She craved fresh blood. And in the moments she was most honest with herself, she also craved the kill. The hunt was exhilarating. The fear exuded by her victims added rich notes to the bloodfeast.

She felt the lack of fresh blood in her veins sharply. Her skin felt like needles. She felt hungry and deflated. She wanted more blood, she neededmore blood.

However, as much as she yearned for it, blood would not pay the bills. The ennui and drudgery of everyday life — when she was not feeding or fucking, which frankly felt very similar — weighed on her like a prison chain. A storm of depression clouded her mind as she sat at Theatre La Chatte waiting for her shift to start. She had to continue working, there was just no other option.

She wore simple, sheer black lingerie and thigh highs, covered only by a leather jacket. She sat in front of the globe-lighted mirror in the dressing area, but no reflection stared back. She lacquered burgundy-black lipstick onto her lips, hoping she had not made a mess of it.

It was time for her to go on, so she handed Madame LeClerc her thumb drive with the lilting yet doleful “La Petite Mort” by Cœur de Pirate.

Rose descended the stairs into the dark, velvety underground to perform her act for the audience patiently awaiting below. Frantic strings introduced the song, but the mood soon transitioned into a soft, melodic dirge.

“La foudre chante ta descente,” it sang.

On stage, Rose’s skin glowed supernaturally in the dim lighting. The leather jacket over lingerie gave her a pinup aesthetic. She resembled a faded postcard from another age, a black and white print from a dead era.

She teased the release of her jacket over her shoulders before letting it fall to the floor. She pumped her derriere to the audience as she ran her fingers along her body. Cold. Every inch of her was cold. This she confirmed silently to herself.

The soft, sheer cups of her bra could be pulled down, leaving just the wire frame in place. She tugged down one cup and then the other, and squeezed her tits in her hands. It enlivened her a little to be sensual in front of an audience.

Yet she knew her heart was not in it. Literally and emotionally. She felt that profoundly.

But she powered on, focusing on the music and the smooth motions of her body. She removed her bra entirely, and her breasts bounced lightly with the freedom granted to them.

Reclining along the divan on stage, she peeled her sheer black panties over and off her legs. She tossed them toward the audience. Then she twirled upright and sat on her knees. Her body swam with the gentle waves of the song.

As her body continued the dance, her mind considered the song’s title — “La Petite Mort.” The Little Death. It was the common term for orgasm, of course, but the song was about loss. At that moment, Rose felt intensely the throughline between sex and death. Both brought you into another world. Both enthralled and consumed. They were two sides of the same coin. They mirrored each other. Climax can make you feel immortal, and the specter of death can make you risk everything for a good fuck. Sex is life-giving, death makes life and sex precious.

She had experienced her own little death. That night she was turned, she certainly orgasmed, but she had also died — just a little bit.

These thoughts dissipated when silence rang in the air. Her act was over. “Merci,” she thanked the audience. “Je suis Scarlette.”

She gathered her discarded clothes and headed back upstairs. There, Madame LeClerc informed her that she had a request for a private show. Funny, she thought, she hadn’t noticed anyone from the audience go upstairs.

~~~~~~~~

It was rare to have a private dance requested from a solo woman, especially ones as striking as Vanesse. She appeared to be in her early forties, with raven hair and piercing eyes. She wore a trenchcoat and femme fatale air. Rose didn’t even remember seeing her in the audience — and a woman like that she would not have been able to forget. Not in a million years.

And yet…there was something oddly familiar about her.

“You are so beautiful.” Rose couldn’t help blurting out these words as she led Vanesse to the private showroom.

“Merci,” Vanesse responded softly. “My name is Vanesse.”

Rose closed the door to the showroom behind them. “Enchantée. I’m Rose.”

“Not Scarlette?” Vanesse asked with a raised eyebrow.

Rose’s mouth fell open. She had forgotten herself.

Vanesse chuckled. “Don’t worry,” she assured. “I won’t tell your secret.”

Rose pointed to the chair in the middle of the room, motioning for Vanesse to take a seat. Vanesse eyed it but did not sit down. Rose allowed her to take her time, as she turned to set up her music.

“Wait.” Vanesse stopped Rose with a hand on her bare shoulder. The shocking iciness of her touch was unmistakable, even against Rose’s own cold skin. Rose felt her breathing accelerate and, had a heartbeat been possible, she sensed it would have been thundering.

“You’re — ” Rose began. “I — I know what you are…” She stammered and backed away, rocked by her own heaving breaths.

“You needn’t fear,” Vaneese stated directly, with a tone of calming sincerity. “But as you may have guessed, I’m not here for a private dance.”

“What then?”

Vanesse glanced over at the chair in the center of the room. With elegant strides, she marched over to it and lowered herself in. Gracefully, she crossed her legs and rested her arms against the armrests. Rose only now noticed the tall, shiny black boots with dagger-like heels that adorned her legs, protruding from beneath the skirt of her trenchcoat like two cannons.

“I know what you are également, darling,” Vanesse told Rose.

Rose felt the phantom sensation of blood draining from her face. She didn’t know whether to be terrified for her life or relieved to have found a possible mentor. Oscillating between these extreme feelings, her mouth ran dry and all the words she could think of became lodged in her throat. She blinked rapidly as her lips hung loose.

“As I said, you have no need to fear,” Vanesse reassured. “Not from me, anyway.”

“Why are you here?” These were the only words Rose could pull out from her clogged vocal chords.

Vanesse heaved a heavy sigh. “For many reasons, I really shouldn’t be here. It’s dangerous for two vampires to be alone in the same room.”

Rose had never heard that word — vampire — spoken aloud, not since turning. She had not uttered it herself, nor had she even allowed her thoughts to manifest the word. Instead, vague thunderstorms of terms and impressions haunted her mind, hiding and obscuring the starkness of that defining word. Her friends, too, intuitively knew to refrain from speaking it aloud. She had desperately feared that saying it or hearing it would have completed the spell and made her new life — or whatever it was — final and irreversible.

But now there it was. It hung in the air. It had been spoken to her, and in such a casual and matter-of-fact way.

Rose’s shoulders slumped. Had this word sealed the final nails in her coffin? That she didn’t feel changed by it was anticlimactic and left her feeling strangely empty. It had the unfulfilling, yet somewhat soothing, effect of a procrastinator finally responding to that long-overdue email. It was done now, it had happened. She felt flat. Slightly relieved, but flat. But it didn’t mark anything final, it just sat there like some lines in a sent box. If anything, it was a beginning.

Vanesse shot Rose a sympathetic smile. “I can also tell that you’re very new,” she said tenderly. “Not just by your carelessness — which you have been!”

Rose’s eyes widened like saucers.

Vanesse chuckled. “Don’t worry, all new vampires are careless, usually unintentionally. Alas, there is no official vampire orientation to help walk newbies through all the complicated options and rules. But it’s true, you have been careless, and you should know it, because that is also incredibly dangerous. Not just by human laws, those are easy enough to shirk. It’s other vampires, unfortunately, that you have to be most cautious about.”

“But aren’t you — ” Rose began, lifting a trembling finger toward Vanesse.

“Yes, I am a vampire.”

Rose started again at Vanesse speaking that word so frankly. “And, as a rule, yes, you should be cautious of me too,” Vanesse continued. “You are going to have to choose whether or not to trust me. I’ll give you some backstory about myself to hopefully ease your mind and show that I do in fact mean well by coming to you here.”

Rose pulled a velvety cushion from a corner and sat down upon it on the floor, like a child waiting to hear a story.

“Before I go into my own story,” said Vanesse, “I think it’s important to explain how you’ve been careless. It’s good in a way, because it helped me find you. You are simply very lucky that I found you first. First of all, you’ve been killing in public. At this very theatre in fact, non?”

Rose nodded, a lump still in her throat.

Vanesse nodded back, confirming what she had suspected. “We vampires have very keen senses. It’s what makes our skin vulnerable to the sun. It’s not, as legend has it, that our evil inside makes us catch fire in the sunlight, or whatever nonsense they like to say. No, it’s that we feel so strongly, that our sense of touch is magnified, and so the sun is extremely powerful against our skin. And we don’t have warm blood pumping through us like humans, so the sun on our skin is like pouring boiling water into an ice-cold glass — the extreme temperature change shatters it. We also have a heightened sense of smell for human blood. Perhaps you’ve noticed this?”

Rose nodded again.

“Well, that sense gets sharpened with time. I’m sure every old vampire in town came sniffing around after you butchered your victims here. You did a decent enough job cleaning it up for the human authorities, but that smell lingers like a curse.”

“And that’s how you found me,” Rose uttered with lowered eyes, hardly as a question. A memory flashes across Rose’s mind; she remembered a stiletto-booted stranger pass by as she and Sophie sat on the curb in front of Theatre La Chatte, awaiting her murderous rendez-vous with the American politician.

“I’ve been watching you for a while now,” Vanesse replied. She leaned in, resting her elbows on her crossed legs. “This is what’s most important, so please heed my words. Vampires can also sense other vampires. There is a kind of energy that shoots out from us and attaches to other vampires. Evolutionarily speaking, I’m sure it has helped us find community and safety in numbers. And that does happen, I hope you’ll believe that’s why I’m here. But we vampires still hold many of our old human qualities, the good and the bad. In terms of the good, many of us feel tortured over having to kill people, leading some to develop compassionate ways of murdering. Or at least we try.”

“And the bad?” asked Rose.

Vanesse smiled sadly. “We can also be cruel, not only to humans, but to each other. We can and have been violently competitive over scarce resources. We used to be humans, after all, and as I said, many human qualities stay with us.” She shrugged. “I suppose it’s unfair to label them merely ‘human qualities,’ when they are equally ours. You’ll come to learn it’s more difficult than it seems to draw a distinct line between Vampire and Human. Every vampire was once a human. Although, with time, you do start to feel farther and farther away from that human you once were. It’s a little like a pickle and a cucumber, the longer you have been fermenting the more distant that former self feels.” Vanesse smiled and hoped her bit of levity would ease Rose’s tension.

Rose said nothing, so Vanesse continued. “So, yes, vampires can be cruel to one another. Let me ask you something: have you only fed on human blood so far?”

“Yes,” Rose answered. “Are there other options? Like animal blood? I’ve tried regular food and couldn’t stomach it at all.”

“No, not animal blood. But there is one other option.” Vanesse locked eyes with Rose as she said these words, underlining the weight of what she was about to say. “Vampires can feed on each other.”

Rose furrowed her brow. “But we don’t have blood — ”

“It’s not each other’s blood we feed on, it’s our energy. Now, I don’t mean to say that I could feed on you, for example, from miles away. Not in the slightest. Much like feeding on humans, we need to be right there with the other vampire. That’s why I said it’s incredibly dangerous to be alone in a room with another vampire, unless you trust them literally with your life.”

Rose felt the heavy solitude of the room around the two of them, and wrapped her arms around herself.

“The way we feed on each other,” Vanesse explained like a teacher giving a lesson, “is that we can pull energy from the other through exercising power over them. Again, much like feeding on a human. An important caveat is that a vampire’s energy is really only useful to another if that first vampire is full, either of human blood or another vampire’s energy. Otherwise it’s like sucking a straw in an empty glass. Most simply put, it involves stealing another vampire’s lifeforce. Thus, if you have just fed, you are most vulnerable, because other vampires can not only smell the fresh blood on you, they may see you as their own next meal.”

“And you can steal another vampire’s lifeforce by exercising power over them? What does that even mean?”

Vanesse smiled. “Oh, it can mean any number of things. Sadly, for most of vampire history, it’s meant practicing torture. There are many horrifying accounts of seasoned vampires stalking newer vampires, letting them do the dirty work, as it were, of killing humans. Once they have fed, the experienced vampires drain them by torturing them.”

“Why does it have to be torture?” Rose asked.

“It doesn’t,” Vanesse responded. “It just most commonly is. You see, the process of extracting energy from another vampire requires eliciting an extreme sensation from the victim. We don’t have blood running through us, but we have intensified sensations. Extreme pain oozes out of us much like spilt blood.”

Rose grimaced. She felt nauseous.

“Sometimes,” Vanesse went on, “fear alone is enough. I’ve heard of hungry vampires dangling their victims over cliffs, terrifying them enough to suck every last drop of energy from them. I myself once made the mistake of taking a rollercoaster ride with another vampire, who during the ride sucked all of my energy, leaving me a stumbling mess and catching the attention of all the humans around. I know it was just a ride, but my adrenaline and fear were real enough. It was one of the most terrifying experiences of my life.” With a melancholy laugh, she added, “I thought it was going to be a date, that’s why I went. But it was only a cruel trick.”

“And that’s why I need to be cautious of all other vampires,” Rose concluded. “Why should I trust you then?”

“Well, you should be cautious, that part is true. I said there is no vampire orientation, but I’ve been around long enough that I feel it is my duty to help guide newly-turned vampires, especially women and marginalized groups, through this utterly baffling new world. The world of vampires, like humans, is still highly patriarchal and oppressive in many ways. Many of us are ancient humans, after all. Yet, also like the human world, our system is beginning to change. I’m trying to help that change along, in small ways.”

“By warning me and others like me?” Rose felt admittedly relieved to have this new knowledge, as terrifying as it was.

“Yes,” Vanesse answered softly. “But I haven’t finished. I told you I’d tell you my backstory. Well, I won’t go too far into the details of my human life. For better or worse, those memories are beginning to fade. But I was born into my vampire life just over 400 years ago. After I first turned, like you I was also careless. Even more so in fact, as police were less effectual and thus less of a concern. My carelessness, however, did attract the attention of an older male vampire — old in the sense that he had himself been turned centuries before me.

“I remember vividly that first time he caught me feeding on a human,” Vanesse went on. “He clenched me by the throat and dragged me to a cave in the woods. He tied me up and tortured me. It was enough to drain all of my energy from that kill. But he didn’t stop there. He told me he would turn me in and that the humans would take no sympathy on a female bloodsucker, that I’d surely be burned alive. He told me he would do all that, unless — ” Vanesse paused to steady herself.

“Unless I became his slave, essentially,” she continued. “He used me as his bait. He’d send me out to kill and feed on humans, then he’d force me back into that cave and steal every drop of energy I had gathered. He left me so empty and hungry that I had no choice but to scurry right out at the first opportunity and feed again. This repeated for more days than I can count; possibly it was decades.”

“How did you finally escape?” Rose inquired.

Vanesse’s face lit up. “I mentioned torture and fear as ways to suck energy from other vampires. Well, there’s one other way: sexual gratification. I learned this quite by accident. But I long knew the power of sexuality. I had learned to be a rather good temptress while luring human victims. And as I said, humans and vampires share many qualities. One day, out of desperation, I had the idea to turn that on my captor.”

Rose sat listening intently.

“Today you might say I faked Stockholm Syndrome with him. One day, after I had made a kill and I was still full of energy it hit me that this was my moment to strike. We were in the forest on our way back to the cave, and, full of power, I pushed him up against a tree.”

“You overpowered him?” Rose asked eagerly.

“In a way,” Vanesse answered, the hint of a smile appearing on the corner of her lips. “I didn’t attempt physical force. He was much bigger than I, and even with my full energy and him being hungry, I wasn’t sure I would have been able to overtake him. I worried that, at best, we might have been evenly matched.”

“What did you do then?”

“I begged him,” Vanesse explained, “to let me suck his cock.”

Rose’s eyes widened.

“He refused at first,” Vanesse went on. “I was covered in blood, after all, and we were far from the protection of the cave. But I mustered all the energy I had and channeled it into seduction. He struggled against me while I had him pinned against that tree, but he relaxed a bit when I stuck a bloody finger into his mouth. He was hungry and desperate for it.”

Rose was on the edge of her seat.

“I whispered into his ear that I couldn’t wait, that I needed to suck his cock right then and there. His temptation proved to be too powerful. He unbuttoned his pants and released his already hard penis. I knelt and sucked it with enormous veracity. I had just fed so I was at peak power and energy.”

Vanesse uncrossed and recrossed her boot-adorned legs before continuing. “A couple of times he tried to stop me. But it quickly became clear that I was the one full of power and he was the starved one. So I was relentless and kept going. He was at my mercy. At last the tables had turned.”

“Sucking his cock drained his energy?” This news shocked Rose.

“Exactly. And I was just as surprised as you,” Vanesse laughed. “I was merely hoping to distract him enough to escape. But I looked up and noticed his face was more gaunt than before. As I continued sucking, I watched his skin shrivel and his bones begin to protrude. I pieced it together in real time that the sexual pleasure I was giving him was also killing him.”

Rose stared at Vanesse in silence.

“I sucked and sucked until he was hardly more than a skeleton covered in crêpe paper. When he finally came, he collapsed into a still pile on the forest floor. I enjoyed that more than any other kill of my life,” Vanesse said wistfully.

“And is that how you feed now, by seducing and killing other vampires?”

Vanesse laughed. “Well, you’ve got the seduction part right. But I don’t kill other vampires, no. You see, I’ve learned over the centuries that, like fear, sexual domination is enough. The killing part isn’t necessary. But I don’t exploit my victims, I vowed I would never turn into my captor. It’s all consensual and mutually beneficial. Again, it took me the better part of a century to figure all this out, which is why I’m sharing it with you now. I don’t want the young vampires of today to go through the same struggles I did.”

“How is it mutually beneficial to steal other vampires’ energy?” Rose asked skeptically.

“Oh, darling, it’s not stealing! I have a long list of vampires clamoring for my services.”

“Your ‘services’?”

“Indeed!” Vanesse replied with a coy smile. “Sometimes I tie them up and drip wax on them; sometimes I gag them and hurl insults at them; sometimes I slap their faces or step on their balls or whip their pussies. You see, they are more than willing to share some of their energy with me in exchange for sexual dominance. When they cum, they feed me. I’m what you call a vampire dominatrix.”

Rose’s eyes fell to the tall, glossy black boots that coated Vanesse’s long legs. “Didn’t you say your captor died when you made him cum?”

“He was hungry,” Vanesse reminded. “My clients come to me full, so it’s safe to allow them to cum. I drain them just enough to feed me. And bringing them to the edge of ravenous hunger can be very thrilling — for them and for myself. Trust me, I rely on repeat customers. It’s not good business to kill off your clientele.”

“And the sexual pleasure you give your clients is just that much better than…a regular human can give them?” Rose asked septically. “It seems like a huge risk coming to you and being brought to the edge of starvation — to the edge of death, really.”

“That’s the whole point, darling!” Vanesse assured. “What is more exciting than that? And, anyway, my clients feel like they can be themselves around me. Have you tried fucking a human yet and not feeding on them? It’s quite difficult to practice such restraint. My clients come to me to feel sexual excitement without needing to worry about holding back their fangs or being overcome by bloodlust. It’s a sort of safe space. As I said, it’s mutually beneficial.”

“Is that the only way you feed? By dominating other vampires?” Rose inquired. “Or do you need to fill in the gaps by killing a human every so often?”

“As I said, I have a very long list of clients,” Vanesse responded. “They bring me more than enough energy. I’ve managed to avoid the messy necessity of killing humans.”

“But your clients come to you filled with human blood…” Rose said, more of a statement than a question.

“Yes. I consume it indirectly, if you will.”

“So your clients do your killing for you.” Rose blinked as she thought this over. “Does it matter to you who they kill? Or how?”

“I don’t ask,” Vanesse stated flatly. “None of us has the luxury of being so picky. How and where my clients obtain their victims is their business.”

“But you must have to arrange some sort of schedule,” Rose probed, “if you need to dominate them while they’re still full? Surely they can’t just randomly show up at your place immediately after murdering someone?”

“I book appointments, of course,” said Vanesse. “I can’t operate by being totally on-call. But sometimes I also make last-minute visits — for an extra cost.”

“You charge extra…energy?”

“Sometimes it’s credit, or human money. Alas, we all still need human currency to survive.”

This last statement hit all too poignantly for Rose.

“If you are struggling for either,” Vanesse offered tentatively, “I can always use a little help. The clients are building up faster that I can keep up with. There’s been a wave of new vampires springing up lately. Some of us can be careless with how many we turn!” She rolled her eyes in frustration.

“So that’s why you’re here,” Rose observed, “to bring me on as an assistant?”

“Or an apprentice.” Vanesse traced a finger sensually along one of the chair’s velvety armrests. “I imagine,” she mused, “that you must know a thing or two about the power of sexuality and seduction.”

“I’ve been trying to use that to find victims,” Rose admitted, “but it’s been a bit…messy so far.”

“Dominating other vampires can be a much safer method of feeding,” Vanesse noted in an offhanded manner, “rather than haphazardly murdering humans.”

The dust of this new information hadn’t yet settled in Rose’s mind. She was still processing it, still muddling through it all.

“Think it over,” Vanesse added with a smile. “I’m here to help if you need it.”

A smile etched itself onto Rose’s lips. “You know, if you really want to help me…I’m looking for the vampire who turned me. Nico Dacia. Do you think you could help me find him?”

“I’d be happy to try,” said Vanesse.

An idea flashed across Rose’s mind. She drew in a breath and felt a spark of confidence kindle inside her. “You should stay for a few shows downstairs before leaving. I’ll be on soon. I’ll even comp your ticket as a thank you.”

~~~~~~~~

Chapter 9: Die Happy

Companion song: “La Petite Mort” by Cœur de Pirate

** Visit SimoneDeBoudoir.com for companion media (stripteases & sexier boudoir photoshoots) + more! **

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simone-de-boudoir · 1 year

Text

Blood on Her Lips — Ch. 7: My Kink is Karma

Blood on Her Lips: ABOUT

It was thick and burgundy and cold. Rose held the jar she had pulled from her fridge and examined it. It was filled with Sophie’s blood.

She unscrewed the lid, dipped in a finger, and tasted it. It just didn’t hit like fresh blood. She popped it in the microwave — a Hail Mary effort to make it palatable. She tasted the heated-up blood, but it still wasn’t right. It was sticky and sweet, stale and impotent.

It was an incredibly kindhearted gesture by Sophie — it’s a special kind of friend who saves their old period blood for you! — but, alas, it wouldn’t do for drinking. But maybe there was a use for it yet.

Rose carried the jar into her bathroom. The vast majority of the small space was taken up by a bathtub, and Rose deeply appreciated the infusion of warmth from a hot bath, especially now. She disrobed and climbed in, but did not turn on the faucet. Not yet.

She inserted a finger into the jar’s contents, ensuring it was nice and coated. She then clicked the coated finger against her thumb, and a thread of warm burgundy connected them as she pulled them apart.

Her bloody finger then traveled south and slid itself in between the fleshy lapels of her pussy. She swirled her digit inside, then lifted it up. A wine-colored thread again maintained contact. Sophie’s blood had mixed with her own intimate fluids. She tapped her clit and viscousy strands of the mixture tethered her finger to her pussy.

Her eyelids fell and lips parted. She glided her finger gently up and down, then side to side, before greedily dipping more fingers into the jar.

Blood makes for good lube, she noted. Her stained fingers picked up speed and plunged deep inside her, coming out only to rub circles against her clit. She threw a leg over one side of the bathtub to spread herself wider, and her ass pumped against the pressure of her fingers.

Needing more, Rose emptied the jar over her naked body. While one hand was busy pleasuring her pussy, her other hand gripped a tit tightly and squeezed and released it like a stress ball. The bloody lubrication made slick, slapping sounds. Both her hand around her breast and her fingers in her cunt smacked audibly with the vigorous motions.

Savoring these sounds, Rose raised the outstretched hand and brought it back down with directed force. This slap against her pussy splashed and spattered the blood. She writhed in response, wallowing sumptuously in the mess.

The warmth of the artificially heated liquid was a welcomed pleasure in itself, but it was noticeably cooling down with passing time. Rose intensified her fingering, liberally interjecting slaps against her clit and vulva, wanting desperately to cum before the substance became tepid.

She pinched her nipple and gave her pussy several resounding slaps, one after the other, ending with the hardest. The final thwack brought with it a scream that scorched her throat and a splash that showered the floor tiles surrounding the tub with murderous little droplets.

Her limbs collapsed over the edges of the bathtub, completing the crime scene vignette. She laughed at the thought of someone walking in on her.

Looking down at her blood-streaked torso, Rose knew she couldn’t meet her friends like this. And she was meant to meet them soon. Zari had kindly suggested that she, Rose, Margot, and Sophie meet at Zari’s uncle’s hookah café to help Rose plan out future feeding options.

Rose turned on the tub’s faucet and let the streaming hot water wash over her. The bathwater turned red, a simmering signal that everything in her future would somehow be tinged with blood.

~~~~~~~~

Zari led Rose, Sophie, and Margot into the hazy, dimly-lit Chambre Maroc, the hookah café owned by Zari’s uncle. Clouds of white smoke muted the coral-colored walls and encircled the hanging lanterns, giving the entire space a dreamlike and secretive quality. Patrons chatted and smoked and drank steaming mint tea.

“Bonsoir, cher Oncle.” Zari greeted her uncle as they exchanged cheek kisses. She introduced her companions, who took turns exchanging cheek kisses with the uncle.

Chambre Maroc was just blocks away from Theatre La Chatte. This was unsurprising given that Zari’s family owned a smattering of businesses and establishments in this quartier of Paris. Indeed, Zari represented her family as Queen of Nightlife in this buzzing neighborhood nestled away on the rive gauche.

“We’ll share a hookah, please, Uncle,” Zari continued. “Flavor? Green apple?” She looked to the others for confirmation, who nodded. “Green apple. Et thé à la menthe, s’il te plaît, pour nous toutes. And the quiet table in the back, if it’s free.”

Zari’s uncle led the group to a hidden cove in the back of the café. It was filled with a round table and semi-circle booth. A faded mural of an oasis in a desert decorated the curved wall behind, and cutouts in the hanging lantern above cast tiny diamonds of light throughout the intimate space.

Her uncle promptly brought the tea and hookah, then left them to their business. Zari poured the tea and puffed on the hookah’s pipe to get it started. The steam of the tea mingled with the smoke of the hookah, shrouding the little cove and its occupants in wispy, wafting sheets of white.

“D’accord,” Zari said, getting down to business. “Together, if we stagger our periods, we can feed you, Rose, for about half of each month. Also, I’ve talked to some people, and I can get you a fresh bag of hospital-grade blood once a week.”

“What? Who — where — how are you getting that?” Rose stammered.

“Don’t ask,” Zari answered. Her look punctuated the seriousness of her words. Rose accepted. Sometimes it was better to not ask Zari follow-up questions.

“So, we’ll have to hunt for victims to fill in the rest?” Margot queried, a bit too eagerly. The others exchanged glances.

“Until we have a better plan, yes,” Rose said, resigned. She paused then looked up, her eyes glistening. “I can’t tell you all how much I appreciate your help,” she said to them all at once. Her lashes fell back down as she wiped away a tear. To distract herself, she took a drag on the hookah and inhaled the rich, flavored nicotine. Like pot, nicotine still held its effect on her. Thank God for small favors.

“We need to find Nico Dacia, the client who turned Rose,” Sophie explained to the others. “We don’t have any leads on him, other than his name. But I’m certain he’ll have invaluable information. And I can’t help but think he’ll be willing to help if we can just locate him. He turned you, Rose, he didn’t leave you for dead. He must owe you some responsibility.”

“Yeah,” said Rose sardonically, “he didn’t even leave me orientation materials.”

“We’ll work on it,” Zari interjected. “But we can’t stop feeding you in the meantime. We need to focus on that too.”

Rose nodded as she exhaled a plume of billowy white smoke.

“I have an idea for the next victim,” Margot offered tentatively. All eyes looked to her and she continued. “A politician from the U.S. — B.K. something — is visiting Paris this week to meet with the Le Pen camp. Some sort of anti-immigration rally, or something nauseating like that. This B.K. guy led the anti-abortion charge in the States. He’s also rumored to enjoy sex workers — because, of course he does. I say we send him a special invite, maybe temp him with a private show with the four of us, after hours. Who could resist such an offer?”

“A politician from the U.S.?” Sophie repeated. “Can you imagine what kind of media shitshow will follow if we murdered an American politician?”

“That’s just it, though, there will be no media coverage,” explained Margot. “His team has been trying desperately to hide his secret little habits. Old stories have leaked, but he’s promised he’s ‘reformed’ and now devoted to ‘family values.’ His team will never let it get out if the last place he’s seen alive is a debaucherous Parisian sex club.”

“Is that what we are, ‘a debaucherous Parisian sex club’?” Zari asked with a laugh.

“Of course not,” Margot answered. “But we’ll sell it that way when we send the invite. He won’t be able to refuse, and his publicists, henchmen, or whatever will make sure to keep that secret. No matter what happens.”

Rose hesitated before speaking. Her lips and throat struggled to form the words, but with effort she was able to get them out: “Do you think he deserves it?” she asked.

“He deserves it more than anyone!” Margot snapped back. “He thinks female and female-presenting sexuality is causing the downfall of society. What perfect poetic justice it would be to kill that patriarchal fuck at La Chatte!”

“So in this case,” Rose noted, “female sexuality would cause his downfall.”

Margot laughed, but Rose hadn’t meant it as a joke.

“Trust me,” said Margot, sipping her tea. “The downfall of this particular man is a public good.”

Rose puffed on the hookah pipe and her gaze blurred. “I sure hope so.”

~~~~~~~~

The four went ahead with the plan. They printed an invitation on thick stationary paper with gold filigree — it needed to look legitimate. They included a picture of the four of them posing seductively in lingerie.

The note read:

You are cordially invited to a celebration of your diplomatic exchange with the nation of France. On behalf of the French people, we would like to gift you free access to a very private show and erotic party. It will be held at Paris’ most elegant and discrete fully-nude cabaret and sex club: Theatre La Chatte. The four ladies pictured will happily greet you at 2AM on June 30th. Come alone, this invitation admits only one. No exceptions. Directions are on the back. We look forward to spending a night of decadence with you!

They included the website address and social media handles to give the invitation an air of authenticity, in case the invitee wanted to check out the establishment first, and to hopefully lure him further with the tantalizing photos and reviews.

They had no idea if he would actually show up. But they prepared meticulously just to be safe.

The night of June 30th was warm and stormy. The air hung humid and turgid, blanketing all of Paris. The stones of the roads glistened wet and the streetlights cast out halos of glowing mist. One yearned for the break of proper rain to ease the heavy warmth of the air.

Rose arrived with Sophie at 1:30AM. They waited outside Theatre La Chatte for Margot and Zari, and of course for Zari’s crew — the two burly goons who would take care of disposing of the body. Rose and Sophie sat on the curb and watched the twinkling mist fall like tiny shards of glass against the gray sky.

“You’re sure you’re okay being so involved?” Rose asked Sophie, sitting beside her. “You can back out at any time, you know. I wouldn’t blame you.”

Sophie turned to face Rose. The warm, wet air glistened on their foreheads. “Never,” she replied. Rose squeezed Sophie’s hand tightly.

They both turned their heads at the sound of footsteps, assuming it was Margot and Zari. The street had been deserted since they first arrived, so they were hopeful it was their friends.

But it was a solitary figure. A woman — dressed in a black trenchcoat and stiletto boots — passed by without turning to look at them. They watched in silence as she emerged from and disappeared back into the haze of the night. The sharp click-clack of her boots signaled her arrival before she appeared, and the sound trailed after her several seconds after her image was no longer visible.

Alone again, Rose and Sophie released a sigh in unison. The minutes were ticking by like days.

Thankfully, Zari and Margot arrived not long after. Two large, shadowy men trailed behind them. The four women greeted each other with cheek kisses. The goons stayed some distance away and never spoke. Their faces were obscured by the dark, damp night.

Zari opened the doors to Theatre La Chatte with her key and the four of them went in. Without a word or direction, the two goons slinked away into the fog, waiting to be needed.

Rose, Sophie, and Margot went to set up the showroom while Zari stayed by the front door to wait — hopefully — for the politician. They used the private showroom on the first floor, the one with the big window. They closed the drapes, turned on the lights, and set the music to play Chappell Roan’s “My Kink is Karma.”

They each donned a costume that riffed on this politician’s fetish for traditional Western gender norms and stereotypes. Zari wore a blonde wig and white lingerie accented with bows and ruffles. Margot wore pink-lace lingerie and accessorized with a flouncy housewife apron. Sophie put on her schoolgirl outfit. Rose wore a nurse costume.

By the time they had finished arranging things, there was still no sign of anyone showing up. Their hearts hung heavy with anxiety, anticipation, and a fear of looming disappointment. Would the politician come? Would he instead send the police to investigate the suspicious invitation? Or would the night remain quiet, with no one knocking on the door of La Chatte that night?

By 2:20AM, it was starting to look like their plans were a bust. The three had joined Zari in the entryway, where they all sat in lingerie-clad silence. Feet tapped, fingers drummed, and lips pursed with the anguish of waiting.

Breaking the tense silence, Sophie stated what was on all of their minds: “We need to think of a back-up plan. Rose has to feed tonight, tomorrow at the latest.”

“I was hoping that if he didn’t come, he would at least give the invitation to an assistant or bodyguard or something,” Margot muttered.

“It was a longshot,” Rose admitted. “We knew that. And anyway, that wasn’t the plan.”

“Wait — shh!” Zari put her finger to her lips. In a whisper, she asked: “Do you hear chattering outside?” She put her ear to the door, then her eye to the peephole. “There are some people out there…I can’t tell if one of them is him.” She threw on her silk robe and a masquerade mask (she couldn’t risk letting his companions see her face). She unlocked the door and peeked out.

“Bonjour messieurs,” she greeted through the cracked door. “Can I help you with anything?”

There was some chatter exchanged between the people outside and Zari, but the others couldn’t make it out.

“Ah! You have the invitation,” they heard Zari exclaim gleefully. “You are most welcome, but I’m sorry it only permits one. This is a very private experience.”

More chatter ensued, this time amongst the politician and his entourage. Zari poked her head back inside and gave an encouraging nod.

There was more back-and-forth between Zari and the men outside. Evidently, the politician was wary of entering alone. Fair enough, thought Rose. But she had confidence in Zari’s ability to persuade hesitant men.

Zari succeeded. They heard the politician instruct his entourage to wait for him back at the hotel. He entered wearing a blue suit, red tie, and broad smile.

“Wow,” he offered as a greeting. “You chicks are hot!”

They escorted him to the private showroom on the first floor with the big window and sat him down in the chair in the middle of the room.

The opening bars of “My Kink is Karma” stormed into the room, startling the seated politician.

The four encircled him, closing in slowly. Margot, slinking up behind him, ran a folded piece of rope along the side of his cheek. “Up for a little kink?” she asked into his ear. Before he could respond, she was tying his arms to the chair.

Rose fell to her knees in front of him and spread open his legs with her hands. Sophie and Zari quickly jumped in to assist Margot with the ropes, securing his legs to the chair. His eyes betrayed the murmurings of uneasiness. He swallowed audibly, despite the music.

Rose inhaled the smells of sweat, eagerness, arousal, and anxiety that wafted off him from between his legs. These scents swam through her head like a cocktail of drugs. It was intoxicating, invigorating.

“It’s comical, bridges you burn,” Chappell Roan’s sweet voice lilted through the room. “Karma’s real, hope it’s your turn.”

Snaking herself upright, Rose brought her face close to the politician’s. “Don’t be afraid,” she instructed, her lips hovering over his. “We know what we’re doing. Just sit back and enjoy.” She winked and turned her back to him. She grinded her ass against his crotch, while Zari and Sophie stroked his arms and Margot rustled his hair and pressed her tits against him from behind.

Margot then added a mouth gag, tying it tight around his head. He squirmed, showing the beginning signs of protest.

In response, the four initiated their most disarming move. They stood facing him in a line. Slowly — but not too slowly — buttons became undone and zippers slid open. Bra straps began to roll off shoulders. Clasps began to snap open. Each teased the uncovering of their bodies.

Sophie went first. She untied the white button-up crop-top of her schoolgirl uniform, letting the flaps hang open. Her bare tits framed the schoolgirl necktie that hung from the white collar around her neck. She rubbed her breasts enthusiastically and her face contorted into a display of pleasure.

Zari went next, unlatching the front clasp of her bra and spreading the now empty cups wide open and allowing her tits to bounce in their release. She swayed to the song to keep the inertia of her bouncing breasts going.

Next up was Margot, who teased the release of her tits from the pink lace by squeezing them in her hands. She then revealed them by pulling the bra straps far enough down that her nipples popped out like erect, guiding semaphores.

Rose went last. She peeled off her nurse costume, leaving just the accessories: a little hat, panties, red fishnets, and a stethoscope. The prop stethoscope hung between her breasts, ironically hovering next to a heart that did not beat. Rose crossed her arms over her head, adopting a vulnerable and submissive pose.

The four sets of tits directly in front of him seemed to ease the politician’s discomfort and distract him. His eyes focused in and he awaited what was next.

“Oh, God…” the song teased, mimicking sexual pleasure. The four women writhed and kneaded their tits in rhythm with the music. “It’s coming around, yeah, it’s coming around, yeah, it’s coming around…Oh, God, oh, God!”

Rose and Sophie faced each other and began to explore each others’ bodies with their hands and mouths. Zari joined in by slapping Rose’s ass, while Margot began kissing Sophie’s neck.

Rose and Sophie locked lips, their tongues visibly toying with each other. Zari fell to her knees and traced her tongue along the bottom curves of Rose’s ass. She tugged down Rose’s panties and looked over at the politician. His hands were gripping the arms of the chairs tightly.

Margot, still kissing Sophie’s neck, reached her hands around and cupped Sophie’s tit with one hand and Rose’s with another. Zari pressed her face in between Rose’s ass cheeks.

Sophie then fell to her knees too, taking advantage of Rose’s exposed pussy. Sophie buried her face in Rose’s vulva, allowing Rose to receive pleasure from two directions. Meanwhile, Margot took hold of Rose’s lips, so that no opening was missing attention.

The gaggle of hands helped Rose release the panties from her stilettoed feet. She tossed the panties in the direction of the bound politician, where they fell at his shiny brown dress shoes.

Rose — now naked apart from the fishnets, hat, shoes, and stethoscope — strutted seductively toward the politician. She sat on his lap facing him, her knees spread apart over the tops of his thighs. She held the stethoscope up to his chest and inserted the ear pieces.

Rose frowned coquettishly. “What does it mean if I hear no heartbeat?” she said into his ear. “You must be some kind of monster, non?” His response was muffled by the gag.

Her hips began to grind, bringing the tip of her clit in and out of view. The others closed in on them. Margot took Rose by the hand and helped her off the man’s lap, while Zari and Sophie unbuttoned his pants. A hard cock burst forth, along with a muffled moan.

Sophie and Zari each licked a hand and brought the wetness to the politician’s eager erection. They engaged in gentle gliding, up and down, up and down, along the trembling dick. His eyes revealed that his previous disquiet had dissipated; he sank into a relaxed state, accepting his lack of control.

Margot snuck up behind him. She tickled his neck with her fingertips then yanked his head back toward her. She nibbled on his earlobe, as Zari and Sophie continued to tenderly stoke him.

Rose kneeled in front of the guy’s only free appendage. She had placed a pair of blue surgical gloves under the chair, and she snapped them on to block the coldness of her hands.

Rose waved Zari and Sophie away, who stood aside and caressed the bound man’s arms. Margot did the same from behind.

Holding onto his dick with her gloved hands, Rose hinted at inserting it into her parted mouth.

Rose felt herself get wet. Seeing him tied up with his cock vulnerable in her hands made her mouth water and her pussy lubricate. She gripped it more firmly and felt the sensation of power ripple through her.

The four checked in with each other by examining their victim and exchanging glances. They needed him to be completely relaxed and disarmed. The ropes they used were made for pleasure, not kidnapping, and the gag was good quality but not completely soundproof. So they needed to be careful about provoking him.

At last, they clocked that his eyes were serenely closed and his lips were slackened around the gag. The three others nodded to Rose, signaling it was time to act.

Rose tested the waters by licking the tip of his penis. His eyes remained closed and only a groan of pleasure escaped past the gag. She traced her tongue along the shaft, feeling around for a thick vein.

Her lips pressed against the head of his dick, signaling that the best was yet to come. With her eyes, she continued to survey the landscape of his penis, searching for just the right spot to claim.

She found it. A blue vein bulged and pulsated. She ran her tongue along it, whetting her appetite. The thrill of power raced through her. She felt her teeth tingle and her muscles tighten, readying themselves for battle.

Sword-like teeth protruded and scratched the papery skin of his dick, drawing blood.

The politician’s eyes popped open, wide and terrified. Looking him dead in the eye, Rose grinned with his cock between her fangs.

“It’s hot,” announced the song, “when you know that you’re caught.”

The two thin lines of red jumped to Rose’s eyes, and all else blurred around her. Her teeth sliced through the flesh, sending flying streaks of blood shooting into the air. The gag suppressed a frightful shriek.

“And you’re getting pissed off, it’s getting me off,” continued the song. “It’s hot, it’s hot! Oh, God, oh, God!”

Rose gulped, drank, gorged on the thick dark fluid that erupted from the politician’s punctured member. She put her mouth around the entire thing to prevent any more blood from escaping her.

“Oh, God!” the song roared orgasmically.

When she finished, his lifeless body hung limp in the chair. Wide, unfocused eyes bulged from above the gagged mouth and bound limbs.

Margot approached and examined his motionless face. “It doesn’t feel so good to have your bodily autonomy taken away, does it, connard?” She spit at him.

This cleanup was much easier and more straightforward than the first kill. It helped to be organized. Zari called the goons and they appeared below the window, their faces still shadowy and obscured by the hazy night air. The ropes aided the women in dragging and hoisting the body out. A tarp they had hidden under the rug made for easy blood cleanup.

Rose peered through the window and watched as the men below adeptly bundled up the corpse and dragged it off. Having just gorged on fresh blood, she felt strong and powerful and satiated. Yet, she also felt oddly hollow. It was like watching a reenactment rather than the real thing. Was it becoming too easy? Was she losing her humanity already?

The next day, no police came by Theatre La Chatte. As it turned out, the secret perversions and reputation of a conservative politician were indeed a keen layer of teflon protecting the events of the previous night. Their plan had worked.

~~~~~~~~

Chapter 8: La Petite Mort

Companion song: “My Kink is Karma” by Chappell Roan

** Visit SimoneDeBoudoir.com for companion media (stripteases & sexier boudoir photoshoots) + more! **

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simone-de-boudoir · 1 year

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Something a lil' creepy for Friday the 13th 😘💋🖤

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simone-de-boudoir · 1 year

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Blood on Her Lips - Ch. 6: I Made an Exception with Him

Blood on Her Lips: ABOUT

It was an oppressively warm late afternoon that Monday, and all of Paris yearned for a breeze to break through the stagnant air. Rose’s now perpetually cold skin, however, acted as a heat buffer, and so she wasn’t bothered by the heavy summer air anymore. Sweat, she learned, now only came from nerves, not from overheating.

Fortunately, the parasol Rose carried on her walks to work during the day did not look too out of place. A smattering of other pedestrians marching along Boulevard Saint-Germain carried umbrellas to shield themselves from the heat of the sun. Her sunglasses, too, were inconspicuous as many other shaded eyes bobbed hurriedly along the streets. These were advantages of the summer, despite the disadvantage of the long, seemingly endless daylight.

Grateful to no longer need these protections, Rose heaved a sigh of relief when she entered the windowless confines of Theatre La Chatte.

Rose sat beside Antoine, a fellow dancer, in the dressing area and took a deep breath. She was apprehensive about acting out the plan she and Sophie had concocted.

“Is it still sweltering out?” Antoine asked her.

Rose looked at them and stammered, “Ah — yes. Yes…it’s quite hot out.”

Antoine approached her with a handkerchief. “Here, chérie, let me help. Your forehead is sweating, you look like a whore in church!” They winked at her as they began to dab her forehead.

Rose got anxious about Antoine, who was not in on her secret, getting too close, so without thinking she grabbed their arm that held the handkerchief in midair.

Antoine let out a stunted shriek. “How is your hand so cold? Isn’t it a million degrees out?”

Rose felt that her cheeks would have flushed bright crimson, had there been blood flowing through her veins. She was angry at herself for acting impulsively. Today was not the day to be reckless.

“I was carrying a bag of ice,” she lied with downcast eyes, worried that the falsehood was glaringly obvious.

Antoine raised an eyebrow. They looked suspicious, Rose confirmed to herself.

“Well,” Aintoine drawled as they walked away, “I have to go on. You should go cool down, or warm up, or whatever it is you need to do. Ciao!”

“Salut, Antoine, merci,” Rose called after them as they left the dressing area, relieved to have not been caught in an unexplainable situation.

“One more thing!” Antoine announced as they popped their head back into the dressing area. Rose started with a panicked little leap off her seat, and she felt the phantom racing of a heart that in reality remained eerily still.

“What is it?” she asked, trying her best to sound calm.

“There’s a guy here for you, he said you arranged a private show.”

He’s here, Rose thought, it’s time. “Merci, Antoine,” she said through a forced smile.

~~~~~~~~

Donning her satin robe, Rose peeked through the curtains into the main entry hall of Theatre La Chatte. There he was, waiting alone. The sight of her prey kindled some confidence in herself. She narrowed her eyes on him and licked her lips.

She emerged through the curtains and felt a droplet form on her temple. “Don’t be nervous,” she instructed herself. “Keep it together!”

“You must be Igor,” Rose greeted him aloud. As he nodded she examined his face closely. She noticed his cheeks redden slightly at her presence. His brow also became burdened with beads of sweat, and this calmed Rose. He was nervous too — as he should be, returning to the scene of his crime. His entitlement and desire must have outweighed any concerns, for he had accepted the invitation.

She watched as a tiny droplet of sweat meandered down his ruddy cheek. It formed a salty glaze on that ripe, pink flesh. Rose felt her tongue run instinctively along the tips of her teeth. She was beginning to feel hungry, excited.

Out of habit, Rose offered him a flash of her body through the slits of her robe before tying it back up and extending a hand. This quick flash revealed a champagne-colored lingerie set — bra, garter-belt, and panties — and chocolate brown thigh high tights. Gold heels crowned her legs. In an unusual twist, she had also put on long gloves. This was to conceal her cold hands.

“This way,” she instructed.

Igor followed her speechless, looking almost possessed. Rose led him up the narrow, winding flights of stairs to the only showroom on the top floor. “We’ll have the most privacy up here,” she explained with a wink. He grinned.

The room on the top floor was a converted attic and retained many of its attic-esque features. The ceiling slanted on one end, and the only windows were peekaboo squares with small shutters. The heavy attic door was made of thick wood adorned with intricate carvings, a relic of a former age that prized beauty and excess.

Rose led Igor to the gold-trimmed chair with purple velvet cushions in the center of the room. She dimmed the lights and set her phone to play music. She queued up Cherry Glazerr’s “Juicy Socks.”

“Ready?” she turned and asked him. He nodded.

“First we must go over the rules,” she said with feigned seriousness. “Rule one: you must stay in that chair until I tell you that you can get up. Understood?” He nodded.

“Rule two: your hands are free to touch yourself, as you like, but they can only touch me when I guide them. Understood?” He nodded.

“Formidable,” she said through a smile. She turned back to her music and pressed play. The song lilted its opening verse:

“I don’t want nobody hurt…”

Rose twirled herself around to face him.

“But I made an exception with him.”

She strutted closer to him and dropped her robe with a flourish. She danced her fingers along his thigh, up his arm, and across the back of his neck. She gripped his hair tightly, then mussed and released it. A blue vein that twisted along his temple jumped to her eyes. She felt wetness fill her mouth.

Moving behind him, she ran her palms over his chest.

“Don’t be nervous,” the song instructed. “Don’t be nervous.”

Rose girded herself. “Don’t be nervous,” the song repeated. And once more, this time lowering her mouth to his ear, her voice sang along in a whisper: “Don’t be nervous.”

She whirled in front of him and fell to her knees. She parted his knees with her palms and edged herself in closer. She felt his eyes glued to her. She glanced up and gave him a coy little parted-lip smile and batted her lashes generously. Her hands traveled upward over his thighs until they reached the pinnacle. She caressed the bulge in his pants that had grown since first sitting down in that velvet chair. Her fingers reached for the button holding everything in.

“Ça va?” She looked up at him as she waited for consent. (It was a gesture he hardly deserved.) He nodded. Her gaze darted past his eyes — that blue vein had started pulsating visibly. Rose unbuttoned and unzipped his pants, but left the rest to him.

She got up and turned to give him a good view of her ass. Framed by the shimmering champagne of her lingerie, the two mounds of her backside looked like an upside down heart wrapped like a gift.

Facing away from him, she caressed her ass cheeks and gave herself a slap with both gloved hands. She glanced back to ensure he was relishing this show, but also to inspect his progress. He had gotten his cock out and was stroking it in undulating motions. His mouth was agape, and new beads of sweat had emerged on his temple. The sweat highlighted the pulsating blue vein like a spotlight.

Rose smiled, satisfied. Her nervousness had melted away. She felt the moisture in her mouth intensify and a ravenous hunger begin to percolate within her. In a conscious effort, she focused her mind on her dance and away from her quickening saliva in order to avoid getting too distracted. She couldn’t act too hastily. And she needed him nice and aroused — and distracted — before she acted.

Whipping her head down between her spread legs, she grabbed her ankles. Slowly, she slid her hands across the back of her calves, up her chocolate-clad thighs, and to her ass where she squeezed her cheeks tightly, pressing her fingertips into her flesh. The touch of her own skin delighted her, and she closed her eyes briefly to savor it.

She opened her eyes and glanced back at him. He was losing himself in the moment, as planned. Pulling her panties to one side, she traced her wet finger slowly along the outer contours of her pussy. She was watching him, upside down, like a bat from a rafter. She slid her wet finger into her pussy and moaned. For a moment she was able to forget the dreadful task at hand and simply enjoy the softness of her ass cheeks, the tautness of her calves, the wetness of her cunt.

But that was only a momentary treat, for herself and for her undeserving client. Arching her back, she raised her head up, then turned to face him. His strokes were getting faster, his dick was getting harder.

There was precious little time, so Rose rushed through the rest of her striptease. Where she would normally linger on the tease, she focused instead on the stirp. She needed to stick to the plan she and Sophie had devised. So she removed her bra and then promptly took off her garter-belt. She teased the release of her panties just a bit, as her eyes caught a glimpse of his cock that now looked like it was glowing red.

Only rarely did Rose lose control of herself while dancing. The dancing usually took hold of her like a trance, her own arousal taking the reins and guiding her through the motions. The pleasure and power she felt through dancing became her animating force, and she flowed as if possessed by the most libidinous and sensual cachés in her mind. Intertwined with this was a heightened attunement to certain details of her surroundings — like a client’s lip needy for a touch or an open space on a sofa where she could sit between two clients and stroke two sets of knees at once. Her confidence was never lacking during a dance.

Once in this state of mind, it took a lot to shake her. She had gotten adept at handling grabby clients, was keen to move through any trips or technical difficulties, all the while keeping her act on track and not breaking the erotic spell for herself or for her audience.

So it caught her off guard to be stalled in her steps by the sight of a cock of all things. After all, how many had she seen in this very room? This was no special cock, aside from it being attached to Igor. But that was the important difference.

That veiny thing in his hand was turning pink with the attention and blood flowing into it. It pulsated, palpitated, pleaded. A desire filled Rose, but not a sexual desire. Her mouth continued to lubricate itself with saliva. She felt her eyes fixate on that writhing cock, blooming with fresh thickness and redness. She felt her breath quicken, but, notably, her heart didn’t race. Where a pounding hammer may have been, there was only silence, starkly apparent despite the music. She clocked the profound nothingness in her chest once again, but could not linger on it.

“Cannot breathe–no!” the song called out. “Cannot breathe–no! Cannot breathe–no! Cannot breathe–no!”

Rose shook herself back into attention. He didn’t seem to notice anything was amiss. He kept stroking away, not bothered by her temporary distraction.

She was back in control of herself, albeit tenuously, for her eyes would not peel themselves away from that red, throbbing cock in his hand, now stroking with furious intensity. The tiny blue vein in his temple had become a distant thought, a discarded garnish overshadowed by the main course.

Her legs walked herself closer toward Igor, who was still obediently sitting in the chair. Her eyes locked on his cock. Red. Pulsating. Throbbing. It was filled to the brim with fresh blood.

Rose felt herself pounce. Hardly a conscious action, it felt more like an animalistic instinct that erupted inside her. Igor was taken aback, but he let it happen without protest.

She clutched his dick in both hands and thrust it into her salivating mouth. Igor was stunned; this had never before happened to him here, not like this. It had been years since his last visit to Theatre La Chatte, but he remembered his previous visits vividly. Never — never — had a dancer consumed him so thoroughly with her mouth, not by her own choice anyway.

Her eyes were watching him. He looked elated, like he was experiencing a fantasy unfolding in realtime. His eyelids started to close, but he snapped them back open to watch the show that was too good to miss.

As she enveloped his cock with her mouth, she felt a tingling sensation in her teeth. The taste of skin was not the goal. She felt the tips of her teeth jut forth and press themselves into the thin skin of his hard penis. Her eyes never left his visage. He winced, but his smile widened. You like that, huh?she thought. Deeper her teeth sank, piercing through the stretched skin and reaching the bulging veins of blood beneath.

He let out a groan. Was it pleasure? Pain? Sometimes these sounds are indistinguishable. Her teeth went deeper. This, too, was something other than a conscious choice. It was as if they — the protruding, dagger-like teeth — were now in control, and she was just the vessel catering to their desires.

“Wait, stop — ” he panted as he brought his hands to her head in an attempt to move her away. In response, her hands clamped down on his, securing them to the chair’s armrests. He struggled but couldn’t budge. He looked baffled by her strength.

Holding him down, her teeth sank deeper, drilling into a thick, quivering vein. Instinctively, she began to suck, to pull forth the blood that gave this previously limp appendage its girth and rigidness. Blood can be transformative in that way. It gives life, strength, power.

His scream startled her but it did not shake her resolve — quite the opposite. Her mouth gorged itself with one last deep pull from that withering vein in his now shriveled cock. Satisfied, she pulled herself upright. She felt invincible as she knocked him and the chair over with one swift kick. She watched him struggle out of the toppled-over chair and immediately collapse next to it, his penis bleeding profusely. He held his soggy member in hands and writhed in the fetal position on the floor.

“HELP!” he shrieked. Rose approached and kicked him onto his back. The sole of a sparkling gold heel clamped down on his mouth and muffled his screams. She knelt beside him and glared into his eyes. He was helpless, pathetic. Her hand gripped his jaw and pulled it toward her, her nails digging into the flesh of his face.

“Help?” she laughed. “Who helped Sophie when you assaulted her? Who came to her rescue then? The same who will help you now. No one.” Her teeth, now longer and sharper than ever, bored into his throat. She gulped and sucked until she was fully satiated and he was completely emptied of life.

“Take me with you,” the song gasped in its last breath.

Moments passed and Rose became herself again. She sat on the floor, nearly naked and drenched in this dead man’s blood. It covered her mouth and chin, down her neck and torso. Her gloved hands were sopped through with the viscous liquid.

There were pools of blood all around her, black and wet and menacing. There was little chance anyone had heard Igor’s screams up on this floor, behind the heavy door and whirring music. But this crime scene could not be kept secret for long.

Things hadn’t gone exactly as she and Sophie had planned. The original plan was for Rose to seduce him, to convince him to go home with her following the private show. She was meant to lead him to the storage cellar in Sophie’s apartment building, which was pretty much always deserted and could be locked from the inside. Sophie would be waiting there to assist Rose in the grisly task at hand.

But her instincts had taken over, and now a dead man lay in a dark, glossy pool of his own blood at her place of work. With daylight still prowling the streets and casting watchful eyes over the city’s every move, a stealthy recovery to this botched situation seemed direly out of reach.

Rose grabbed her phone and with shaking fingers sent a beseeching text. “Sophie, I fucked up. I need your help. Come to the attic showroom ASAP, don’t let anyone see you. I’m so sorry.”

~~~~~~~~

Rose and Sophie stared in silence at the motionless body splayed on the floor, corpulent and stained with patches of brown and red.

“We need to call Zari.” Sophie uttered these words matter-of-factly.

“No!” Rose protested. “No, we can’t get anymore people involved in this — ”

Sophie looked at her and crossed her arms. “We need to call Zari,” she repeated.

Whenever the words “we need to call Zari” are uttered, you know you are in trouble. Something has gone terribly wrong. But, at the same time, you are eternally grateful to be able to utter those words, because without fail Zari will come through for you. No matter how dark or twisted the request, she’d be there for you.

Zari — another dancer at Theatre La Chatte — was equal parts beauty and danger. Equal parts Mother Teresa and Mata Hari. Equal parts fairy godmother and mob godfather. She was loyal to a fault and staunchly trustworthy, and also had a seemingly endless list of shady connections. She could get you the best designer drugs, find you a fake passport, or help you launder money. She was a getter, a fixer. And her silence on the matter was always guaranteed. In short, she was a badass.

They called Zari.

Zari arrived in record time and assessed the situation. They all agreed this could be kept secret until La Chatte closed for the night. It would take some lying and finessing, but they could keep other dancers from taking clients to the attic showroom for at least the rest of the day. They further agreed to meet back at Theatre La Chatte at 2am. Zari, inexplicably, had a set of keys and could let them in.

~~~~~~~~

For Rose, the following hours were filled with anxiety, anticipation, intense fear, and wild elation. She had killed a man. Not only that, she had killed a man for the sake of drinking his blood, which she did with ravenous pleasure. She feared the aftermath that was approaching — Zari had promised to bring a couple burly guys to drag the body down and dispose of it, but how would this gruesome endeavor play out in realtime? She didn’t doubt that Zari would bring the right closed-lip goons to get the job done. But still, how could she not worry, not agonize about what was going to happen? About what had just happened? About what she had done? About what she would do next?

And yet…She was also giddy with strength, high on power, drunk on dominance. She desired to feed again, not because she was hungry necessarily, but because she enjoyed the rush of killing. And this worried her even more.

He was a bad man who did terrible things, she reminded herself over and over. He deserved it. That made what she did okay.

Right?

It did make it okay. It had to. At least, this is what she told herself. She tried desperately to convince herself of it. It half worked. These thoughts kept swimming around in her head, but never quite settled. In the murky waters of her mind, countering thoughts also lurked beneath the surface and popped up every now and then. Thoughts like: Is this strange form of vigilante justice really condonable? How long before she runs out of “bad guys” to feed on? Was this a sustainable way for her to exist? She pushed these nagging thoughts down, attempting to drown them, but their buoyancy proved stubborn. What kind of life was stretching out before her? Could she live with herself like this?

And yet…A part of her couldn’t wait to kill again. She yearned for that rush.

She sat alone in the dancers’ dressing area, so she was free to smoke her vape with the soothing marijuana liquid within. (Some of the other dancers didn’t like indoor smoking of any kind.) As she inhaled a deep stream and released a pillowy cloud of white vapors, she appreciated that — while she had lost her ability to consume, let alone enjoy, food, wine, and the like — she could still consume and enjoy the pleasures of weed. What a miracle drug, she thought to herself. She felt instantly calmer after a series of puffs.

The door to the dressing area creaked open and Rose instinctively waved the cloudy vapors away with her hand to dissipate the odor. But, to her relief, it was just Sophie and Margot, who wouldn’t mind the smoking.

“Salut, Margot,” Rose greeted, attempting to sound composed. “Ça va?”

Margot didn’t respond, but looked instead to Sophie.

“Margot isn’t working today,” Sophie explained. “But I’ve brought her here because, well…”

“Because?” Rose prompted.

“J’ai mes règles,” Margot offered. “It’s actually why I’m not working. I have such a heavy flow on the first days. Sophie explained to me — ”

Rose’s eyes widened and darted to Sophie. Her look implored, without words, how could you tell yet another person? Rose’s head collapsed into her palm. “You’re being reckless!” she lamented aloud. “We’ve already dragged Zari into this. Are you going to tell all of La Chatte? All of Paris?”

“It’ll just be three of us, I promise — Zari, Margot, and me. We are all on the pill, so we can space out our periods and cover about half of each month. Between us, we can give you fifteen or so days!”

“And the rest?” demanded Rose.

“We’ll figure it out. We can fill in the rest by finding you…special clients,” Sophie responded. “I know it’s not perfect, but at least it will reduce the number of times you will have to…rely on finding special clients. And next time, all future times, we won’t be sloppy like today, we’ll do it wisely. We’ll game plan and figure out a smart way to do this. We can make this work.”

Sophie’s “we” was always comforting. Miraculously, it somehow managed to be calming even in a context of serial murder.

Rose glanced at Margot. “You’re okay with all this?”

Margot smiled wryly. “I’m intrigued. A little excited, even.”

Margot was the Suicide Girl of Theatre La Chatte. Her body boasted a wealth of tattoos and piercings, and you could never predict what hue her hair would take on next. Margot once hosted a midnight tarot reading party at a cemetery that ended in an orgy. She knew where to find the secret passages that led to the chambers of the Parisian catacombs unseen by tourists’ eyes. Her dances were typically performed to the sexier sides of alt rock, punk, and post-punk. She readily supplied other dancers with music recommendations for their darker or edgier acts, and Rose herself had borrowed many songs and artists from her. So, Margot’s penchant for the dark and macabre made her enthusiasm for helping Rose in this rather unique predicament somewhat unsurprising, or at least less surprising.

“I’ll leave you two to it,” Sophie said with a wink on her way out.

No stranger to undressing in front of an audience, Margot instantly commenced unbuttoning her jeans. She slid them down her ornately inked legs and tossed them off. For good measure, she removed her t-shirt as well, pulling it off over her head.

Rose hesitated. So Margot took over. She approached where Rose was sitting, bent in a 90 degree angle, and pressed her auburn-lacquered lips against Rose’s. The kissing started softly, tenderly, then slowly transitioned into a turbulent dancing of tongues. Their hands were in each other’s hair as they reclined along the sofa, never interrupting the intertwining of their lips and tongues.

Rose’s hand clutched Margot’s breast and felt her nipple piercing grind into her palm. Rose delighted in the warmth and softness of her tit coupled with the hard coldness of the metal ring. Margot angled her chest closer toward Rose, but also put her finger lightly against Rose’s mouth, indicating a “wait a second.”

Margot then slipped that same finger into the black panties she still wore, and glided her fingers around for several seconds. Although hidden by the black fabric, these motions released a wafting scent of copper and plum. Rose heaved with desire, her appetite whetted.

Margot lifted her finger, now covered with a thick red coating, and slid it gently past Rose’s parted lips. Rose’s lips and eyes closed in simultaneous ecstasy. Just this small hit sent a hard, immediate rush through her entire body.

Rose had fed mere hours before, and she had not been feeling especially hungry. Yet, the sight and smell of Margot’s blood triggered Rose’s salivary glands, as well as something much deeper. She wanted it, she needed it now that it was in front of her. She felt her body take over her mind. The animal took over the rational. She felt her muscles tighten and make ready to pounce.

Before she knew it, Rose found herself on top of Margot, who lay supine on the velvety sofa. Rose’s mouth made its way to Margot’s pussy, which was decorated with its own glittery piercing and crowned with a tattoo of two cherries.

Rose pulled down the black panties and hurled them off of Margot’s feet. The cherries, the piercing, and the hint of blood like strawberry syrup made Margot’s cunt resemble a decadent ice cream sundae. Rose gorged herself, licking every last drop of syrup, using her finger to release more. She gnawed delicately on the clit beneath the piercing, as her finger, deep inside Margot’s canal, made come-hither motions, imploring the fluids to come out and see daylight. Bringing her mouth lower, Rose thrust her tongue into the exquisite, treacly realms of Margot’s pussy.

Margot released a guttural moan and writhed as if in pain, her nails digging into the sides of the sofa. Her lower back arched upward, thrusting her pussy forward, grinding it harder against Rose’s mouth, whose tongue whirled maniacally within.

Rose’s hands reached upward and grabbed Margot’s pert breasts. The hardened nipples protruded forward like tiny masts hoisting their metallic flags. Margot’s lips parted at the sensation of her tits being kneaded, and instinctively her knees fell to either side, widening her opening.

Rose lapped up the fruits of her labor, sucking down every last drop. She felt in Margot’s body the early signs of an oncoming earthquake. She felt Margot’s body begin to clench and tighten, gearing up for the trembling thunder that was approaching.

Bit by bit, little by little, the build-up gained steam. Rose’s hands and tongue went harder and deeper in response. The crescendo was gaining force, the point of release was approaching inevitability. And, finally, the rumbling promises of extreme pleasure erupted through Margot’s body, starting from her core and released through a tremendous explosion of moans and contractions and shivers.

Margot’s hands gripped Rose’s face and brought it to her own. Margot kissed Rose deeply, passionately. The taste of her own blood mingled with Rose’s saliva gave Margot a tiny aftershock of an orgasm. When they finally pulled away from each other, both of their faces were smeared with bloody streaks.

“That was hot as shit,” Margot exhaled through heaving breaths.

“I feel amazing,” Rose concurred.

“I’ll be here all week,” Margot said with a wink, biting down on her blood stained bottom lip.

~~~~~~~~

Chapter 7: My Kink is Karma

Companion song: “Juicy Socks” by Cherry Glazerr

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simone-de-boudoir · 1 year

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Blood on Her Lips - Ch. 5: One Way or Another

Blood on Her Lips: ABOUT

Sitting on the wide windowsill, Rose leaned back against the tall, open window and inhaled deeply on her vape pen. The still solitude of her apartment welcomed the breeze that wafted in from outside. After a moment of savoring, she released a long, languid cloud of smoke, her eyes closed behind a pair of sunglasses.

Lifting her lashes, she gazed through her dark lenses at the array of red chimneys sprawling out before her. They sprouted up from a sea of Haussmann-style buildings, but, unlike herself, none of them emitted any smoke.

The sun was out, so she couldn’t step from her windowsill onto the petit balcony. She had to remain in the protection of the shadow cast by the small awning hanging above.

Her phone beside her buzzed and she saw the text from Sophie: “Be there in 5. I’ve got breakfast.”

When Sophie arrived at Rose’s apartment building, she punched in the entry code that she had long ago memorized and marched up the five flights of stairs. Rose had unlocked the door for her, so she was able to go right in.

“Salut, ça va?” they said in near unison. Rose stood as Sophie entered and they greeted each other with cheek kisses.

Sitting down at the table, Sophie set down a to-go coffee cup and a paper bag. She pulled out a croissant. “Ça, c’est pour moi,” she stated. She then pulled a jar from her messenger bag and set it down on the table. “Ça, c’est pour toi.”

Rose picked up the jar and examined it. A thick, dark substance filled it half way up, but swishes of the jar left smears of reddish-brown coating along the glass. “Blood?” she asked for confirmation.

Sophie nodded. “I had this idea yesterday — I wish I had thought of it earlier! Especially since today is my last day on my period. But I thought it was worth a try.”

“This is your old blood?”

“Exactly,” Sophie answered, laughing briefly at Rose’s frank phrasing. “I got myself one of those menstrual cups and saved what I collected in that jar. I’m dying for you to taste it, to see if it has the same effect as fresh blood. If so, I can save some for you each month!”

Rose removed her sunglasses and regarded Sophie’s grinning face. “Your level of friendship really knows no bounds.” She said this with a dry yet sincere chuckle.

“Taste it!” Sophie insisted. “You must be hungry, non?”

“I am,” Rose admitted. She unscrewed the jar and dipped a finger into the syrupy liquid, then sucked on her coated finger. Her face grimaced.

“Oh no,” Sophie exhaled disappointedly. “It’s too old, isn’t it?”

“It’s hard to say,” said Rose. “It doesn’t exactly taste bad, it just tastes…stale. Like old bread.” With a shrug, Rose downed the remaining contents of the jar and licked the edges. She remained still to see what would happen — would it give her the energy she needed, with just a slightly off taste? Would it make her sick? Would it have some other effect on her?

She felt a subtle tingling in her veins and a slight contracting in her muscles. Her eyes felt a tinge less tired, and some of the clouds in her mind dissipated. Sophie was watching her, expectantly, hoping for a positive response.

“It feels a little like I’ve had a cup of coffee,” she explained to Sophie. “Bleh — stale coffee. No offense, your fresh brew is exquisite!” They laughed together, and Sophie looked relieved.

“Fantastic!” Sophie cheered. “So this is worth doing, then? Saving my blood for you? Even if it tastes bad and is less powerful, it can tide you over for a little bit each month, non?”

“Like methadone,” Rose joked.

“We can open a clinic,” Sophie quipped. “For other, uh…for others like you.”

“Speaking of,” said Rose, becoming more serious. “I think I need to find him — the client who turned me into this. He could have so much useful information, like whether we can drink old blood, how old the blood can be, is there a proper way to store it, what other options I’m not thinking of, etc…I know Madame LeClerc keeps records of clients. I need to find his name.”

“You don’t even know his name?”

“No, but it has to be in that endless spreadsheet Madame LeClerc keeps. I’ve caught glimpses of it on her computer. Once we have his name, I’m sure we’ll be able to find him, one way or another.”

“And while we’re looking through that spreadsheet,” Sophie declared intensely, as she gripped the arms of her chair tightly, “I know who else we should look for.”

“Who?”

Sophie’s gaze dropped to the floor. She gulped visibly as her eyes blinked rapidly over downcast eyes. It was as if her long lashes were trying to fan away dark thoughts. Her lips tightened and wrestled with themselves, debating how to utter the words.

Rose knew something serious was up. She went to Sophie, kelt on the floor below her, and took her by the hand. She rested her other hand on Sophie’s knee. “Who?” she repeated softly.

“I’ve never told you about this,” Sophie began. “It happened before you started working at La Chatte, maybe four years ago now.”

Rose’s brow furrowed, worried about where this story was going.

“Well, you know how clients can get carried away, how they can be assholes, and how they can sometimes get…aggressive,” Sophie continued.

Rose gripped Sophie’s hand tighter and nodded for her to go on.

“Well, I was giving a private show to this client — Igor, I’ll always remember that name — and I told him I could give him a blow job for an extra tip, and he accepted right away. So, I started going down on him, and after a few minutes — ” Sophie paused to take a deep breath. She was visibly shaking.

Rose reached a hand to Sophie’s face and traced a strand of hair behind her ear, adding a gentle caress with the motion. “What did he do to you?” she asked, nearly in a whisper.

“He grabbed me by the neck and the back of my head, and started thrusting hard. Too hard.” Sophie wiped away a tear that she could no longer hold back. “I was gagging, choking, and I yelled for him to stop, but it was muffled, and I knew he wouldn’t have listened anyway. He came in my mouth and it went down my windpipe. When he finally released me, I was coughing wildly, and my eyes were pouring. He left without paying the extra amount.”

“Did you tell anyone?”

“I only told Madame LeClerc that he left without paying the extra for the blow job,” Sophie responded. “That was enough to get him banned from Theatre La Chatte, so I didn’t say any more about it.”

Rose fetched a tissue for Sophie, whose tears were now streaming down her cheeks.

“I know I should have told the police,” Sophie said with a stunted sob, before regaining composure. “But I was scared and naïve. I was worried they wouldn’t believe me, especially since I offered the blow job. And I offered it for a price, so there was that layer to explain. They could have charged mefor a crime. And would they even believe a sex worker? I didn’t know how to explain the difference between how it started and where it went wrong. For me, I know the exact moment when it switched, it’s when I had this horrible, sinking feeling in my stomach, and I knew I had lost all control. And I felt in every inch of my body that he knew what he was doing, that he knew he was forcing himself on me, that he knew he was wrong. But I didn’t know how to explain that in a way that the police, or anyone, would accept. And so, I didn’t tell Madame LeClerc or anyone else, because I knew they would insist that I go to the police. I didn’t know how to explain that I didn’t know how to explain it, and I was just too scared to even try. I was too terrified to even attempt to utter the words. Also, saying it out loud would have made it feel real, and I wasn’t ready to feel that. I didn’t want to have to think about it. And telling people would have meant that I would have had to deal with it, to relive it, over and over. So, I didn’t tell anyone. Honestly, even now I’m barely ready to think of it as real.” Having finished her story, Sophie collapsed into a full sob, her head in her hands. She stayed like that for several minutes, while Rose stroked her hair.

“But knowing that there’s something to do with it now,” Sophie went on, wiping rivulets of tears from her cheeks, “that there’s somewhere to put the old feelings, somewhere to direct the new feelings, makes it seem somehow more manageable. That something can be done about it makes processing it seem more possible.” The strength of her words could not dam the tears, and a fresh flood poured forth. She buried her face again in her hands. “How dare he?!” she screamed through her palms.

Rose stood and brought Sophie’s head against her chest, embracing her tightly. “We’ll find this motherfucker,” Rose spat through her teeth. “And I’ll bite his fucking cock off.”

A hint of a smile broached Sophie’s lips. “That sounds like a special kind of justice. But right now, I’d really like to think about anything else. Give me a distraction.”

Rose handed Sophie her vape pen. Sophie drew in a long, soothing inhalation. “Remember when I said it’s my last day on my period?”

Rose nodded and a knowing smile crept onto her lips. “It’d be a shame to waste that.”

Kneeling again, Rose gently parted Sophie’s legs. She inched herself in closer, a breath away from Sophie’s pussy. Rose then lifted Sophie’s skirt and slowly peeled off her panties.

Knowing Sophie was in the throes of traumatic memories, Rose began with soft, whispers of kisses upon Sophie’s sweet little pussy. She watched Sophie’s eyes flutter shut and her lips relax into a part. Taking these as cues that it was okay to go a bit harder, Rose extended her tongue and tickled the outer petals of Sophie’s pussy. She kissed the creases of her legs, and grazed her clit with the faintest lick.

A tiny pearl of red peeked out from Sophie’s opening. Since it was her last day, the flow would be a mere trickle. Rose tongued the little droplet and savored the taste. Slowly, meticulously, Rose guided her tongue further inside Sophie’s velvety cavern. She swirled and twirled her tongue, wanting to be thorough and attend to every inch and lap up every drop of the viscous, saccharine nectar.

But Sophie’s clit refused to be ignored. Inflated and engorged, it called out like a fleshy siren atop the pink and red sea of Sophie’s glorious cunt. Rose pounced on it, giving in to the sucking and rubbing and tonguing it desired. Rose’s finger found its way into the deepest realms of Sophie’s pussy, where it implored the remaining stash of blood to be released.

Rose lowered her mouth and gorged on the bashful yet fruitful stream of blood that trickled forth. Having lapped up what seemed to be all that was left of Sophie’s period blood, Rose raised herself up and sat on Sophie’s lap, facing her. Rose lowered a hand back to Sophie’s pussy and inserted two fingers, as her mouth found Sophie’s and kissed her deeply.

The two found a rhythm as their making out intensified, while Rose fingered Sophie furiously. With Sophie’s body pressed hard against her own, Rose felt the tell-tale trembles of an approaching orgasm. Rose thrust her fingers deeper and clamped her thumb down hard against Sophie’s clit, rubbing and twirling it, creating a vice-like sensation that utilized her entire hand.

With her pussy submerged in Rose’s tight and thrusting grasp, Sophie released a wild scream as her arms wrapped around Rose and her nails dug into her back.

Rose withdrew her fingers and found with surprised delight that a dessert course was awaiting her. She licked her blood-streaked fingers clean then thrust them past her panties and into her own pussy where she found a wetness of her own making. Rose, still on Sophie’s lap, grinded her hips as her fingers swirled inside herself. Sophie reached her hand into Rose’s panties and added her fingers to the mix. Full to the brim with fingers, Rose grinded and writhed, lifting herself up and down against Sophie’s lap. Using her other hand, Sophie pulled Rose’s face to her own and kissed her passionately.

Rose’s pussy spoke to her from within: just a few more thrusts, keep going! Rose obliged and pounded herself harder and faster against Sophie’s knees, their fingers mingled together deep inside Rose.

Keep going, keep going! Rose’s pussy implored. And then, with a paroxysm and a shriek, lightning bolts shot through the entirety of Rose’s body, reaching her toes, her fingertips, her ears, her nose, the top of her skull. She came with such a force that it almost matched the delectable taste of Sophie’s blood on her tongue. Almost.

~~~~~~~~

Rose felt energized. Sophie’s blood ran through her veins, the afterglow of intense orgasm radiated through her skin, and the tantalizing appeal of hunting for Sophie’s attacker — a deserving victim — excited her mind. She felt like a lioness, a black widow spider, and the Angel of Death all rolled into one. She felt powerful, invincible. She was also more determined than ever to find the one who turned her. If he wouldn’t give her answers, she may just bite off his cock as well.

~~~~~~~~

It was an easy enough plan. Rose and Sophie would wait for the exact right moment at Theatre La Chatte to gather the information they needed. They would wait for Madame LeClerc to open the extensive spreadsheet to register a new client; and before she had a chance to close it and secure it away in the endless folders on her computer, Sophie would distract Madame LeClerc while Rose searched the spreadsheet for the names of their offenders. Sophie enlisted the help of a loyal client, whose knowledge of the situation was limited to the fact that he would pretend to faint during a private show, in exchange for a free one the following week. Sophie gave Rose all the useful information she could think of — the offending client’s name and the rough date of the incident. Rose may not have known the name of her offending client, but she did know the exact time and date she had given him a private dance.

Rose pounced into action as soon as Sophie pulled Madame LeClerc upstairs. Her nerves made her shake but her resolve enabled her to push through the anxiety. The name she needed for herself she found rather quickly: Nico Dacia. “Unusual name,” she thought to herself as she snapped a picture with her phone. No other information was listed under his name. Some clients had a phone number and/or email associated with their names, and others even an address, but not Nico Dacia.

She quickly moved on. The name she needed for Sophie was more difficult to find, as the exact date was unknown. Her eyes scanned line after line, pleading for the small print in little boxes to spell out the name she sought. Then, at last, there it was — highlighted unmistakably in red, with the word BANNED in the cell next to it — the name: Igor Martín. His phone number and address (though quite likely outdated) were there as well. Rose snapped a photo and shot off a text to Sophie informing her that she was done. Mission complete.

Yet, in a much more real sense, their mission had just begun.

Late that night, after their shifts had ended, Rose and Sophie returned to Rose’s apartment — they couldn’t risk Rose staying too late at Sophie’s place and getting caught in the morning sun — and poured over her laptop. Shrouded by the quiet darkness of the deep night, they engaged search engines and all forms of social media to stalk their prey.

Igor was easy enough to find. They struggled to confirm his current address and phone number, but they did manage to find an email address for him. His name, somewhat unique in Paris, proved to be useful in assuring it was the right person. They drafted an email to send him — a special kind of invitation. The email would inform him (falsely, of course) that Theatre La Chatte was under new management and that as an act of good faith they were lifting all bans on formerly banned clients. And a free private show was offered as a special welcome back gift. They would have him come on a Monday, Madam LeClerc’s day off.

Nico Dacia proved more difficult to find. He seemed to exist like a ghost, apparently leaving no tracks or trace online. But wasn’t everyone on the internet, somewhere? No one — especially someone so young — was completely offline, right? They were sure he must be lurking somewhere.

Having exhausted all the variations of his name, location, appearance, etc. into search engines, and coming up with no viable results, they at last gave up for the night. They would have to try other strategies going forward.

Neither of them slept well that night. Their minds raced with dark memories and murky futures.

~~~~~~~~

Chapter 6: I Made an Exception with Him

Companion song: “One Way or Another” by Blondie

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Blood on Her Lips - Ch. 4: The Hunger Inside

Blood on Her Lips: ABOUT

Sophie sat at a little round table on the café’s patio, smoking a cigarette. Her black leather jacket, long unbrushed hair, and cateye eyeliner gave her an effortless bad girl aesthetic that belied her friendly disposition. She stood when Rose arrived and they exchanged cheek kisses.

Cars and pedestrians whizzed by. Boulevard Saint-Germain was abuzz with life and energy in this late afternoon. The sky was overcast but Rose kept her sunglasses on. She felt the sun’s blistering rays on her skin through the gray clouds. The brightness, despite the coverage, was agonizing.

“Do you mind if we move inside?” Rose asked Sophie. “It’s too, um…loud out here.”

“Pas de problème,” Sophie responded, smashing her lit cigarettes into the ashtray provided. Rose helped transport her little white cup of café au lait with the lipstick smudges and the half-eaten croissant into the café’s interior. They found a new table away from the windows. Rose removed her sunglasses and heaved a sigh.

“Rough night?” Sophie asked with a wry smile.

“I think I just need to eat something,” Rose replied weakly.

Sophie tore off a piece of the flaky croissant she was nibbling on and offered it to Rose. “Hungover?” she ventured.

Rose sniffed the piece of croissant in Sophie’s hand and pushed it away, feeling the nausea rise in her throat. “I’m starving, but nothing sounds good. I had some wine last night…more than I remember, I suppose.”

“Try some café au lait, it always helps me.” Sophie slid her cup closer to Rose, who sniffed it and winced.

Rose watched as Sophie shrugged and downed the rest of her drink. It was subtle, but Rose noticed a slight blush come into Sophie’s cheeks from the heat of the coffee. It was beguiling and attractive. Oddly, just the sight of it made Rose feel minorly better.

“Let’s get going or we’ll be late,” Rose said, slightly perked up.

“We’re already late,” Sophie corrected with a chuckle. Nonetheless, she obliged, putting money on the table and picking up the remainder of her croissant to finish on the way.

“You’re late,” Madame LeClerc confirmed from behind her desk without looking up as Rose and Sophie entered through the unassuming front door of Theatre La Chatte. Madame LeClerc did a double take at Rose when she finally looked up. “Chérie, you look like hell!” Madame LeClerc was not one for mincing words. “Are you up for performing today?”

Rose nodded. “I’ll be fine.”

“Let’s get you some water,” Sophie said, taking Rose by the hand and leading her away from the scrutinizing eyes of Madame LeClerc. They headed toward the dressing rooms in the back. “Your hand is ice cold!” Sophie whispered, once out of Madame LeClerc’s ear range. “You must be hungover, cold sweats are a sign.”

In these dimly lit back chambers, Rose started to feel better. She sat down on a little purple sofa. “The sun was blinding today!” she groaned, rubbing her temples.

Sophie chuckled. “It’s actually been quite overcast all day. You’re definitely hungover. Here, drink this.” She handed Rose a glass of water.

Rose sipped the water, but immediately spit it out. “I hope I’m not sick,” Rose uttered weakly, bringing her palm to her forehead. Sophie was right, her skin was indeed ice cold.

Sophie knelt in front of Rose and gently brushed aside a strand of hair that had fallen across her face. “I’ll cover your shift today, you should go home and rest.”

These words drifted by Rose without registering. Rose felt her attention drawn to something else, something she couldn’t ignore. “You smell amazing,” she told Sophie, leaning in closer and drinking in a deep breath. “Are you wearing new perfume or something?”

“No, not a thing, but thank you,” Sophie replied. She examined Rose’s face, which seemed to be perking up. Sophie was surprised, but not displeased, when Rose bent forward and brushed the edges of her lips against Sophie’s neck. Sophie felt her flesh flare into goosebumps as the airy brushes of Rose’s lips turned into light, delicate kisses.

“Your skin tastes like candy,” Rose said, surprised by her own delight in kissing Sophie’s soft, delicate neck. Rose moved her lips to Sophie’s parted mouth and kissed her gently. Food and water had disgusted Rose just moments earlier, but the smell of Sophie’s skin and the taste of Sophie’s saliva mingled with her own invigorated Rose. She felt something change inside her. She felt something stir in her veins.

Rose pulled Sophie up onto the purple sofa and kissed her harder, deeper. She unbuttoned Sophie’s shirt and brought her mouth to the stiff, pink nipple crowning Sophie’s warm, pillowy breast. It resembled a cherry atop a perfect scoop of ice cream, and tasted just as sweet. Rose felt her teeth sink ever so slightly into the tip of Sophie’s nipple. She felt Sophie’s body gasp, but it was a shudder of pleasure rather than pain, made evident by the seductive moan released.

Sophie pulled Rose’s face toward her own and kissed her on the mouth. Their tongues danced as their hands explored each other. Rose brought a hand up Sophie’s skirt and fingered the edges of her narrow underwear. She then plunged a finger beyond the fabric and into the wet caverns of Sophie’s pussy.

Rose brought up her hand to reveal a finger coated with a thin layer of warm, red blood.

“Ah, merde!” Sophie exclaimed. “It’s early. Fuck, I’m not sure I’ll be able to perform today. Someone else will have to cover your—”

Before she could finish, Rose tore away Sophie’s panties and buried her face between Sophie’s legs. She gorged herself, ravenous and insatiable for the sweet life-force flowing from Sophie’s elegant little cunt. Sophie leaned back, her eyes fluttering shut and her body giving in to the compulsions of desire.

It hit like a drug—the taste of blood on Rose’s tongue flashed a surge of ecstasy throughout her entire body. Rippling waves of pleasure flowed through her with each new sip, gulp, and lick. The edges of her mind clouded and all she could focus on was consuming that thick, decadent juice.

Rose traced her tongue along the outer edges of Sophie’s pussy, cleaning each delicate petal of its crimson droplets. She sucked hard on Sophie’s clit, scraping it gingerly with her teeth, and they both felt a surge of agonizing pleasure race through their veins. Rose then submerged her tongue completely within the walls of Sophie’s trembling pussy. The taste of blood on her tongue was exquisite and enlivening. Rose traded her tongue for a finger, to help release more of the sweet nectar. Rose drank, slurped, sucked, and swallowed, as her finger slid in and out with the ease of excessive lubricant. Finally, at last, Sophie orgasmed with a vibrating scream and release of even more blood.

Rose looked up at Sophie and beamed a smile through the blood smeared across her lips and chin. They looked into each other’s eyes without words for several seconds. Each set of eyes glittered with a mix of surprise and intrigue.

“Rose! What has gotten into you?” Sophie said through coquettish giggles and flushed cheeks. She wiped a patch of blood from Rose’s chin with her finger, and Rose grabbed that finger and brought it into her mouth before Sophie could wipe it clean. She wanted to savor every droplet.

But it was a good question, Rose thought to herself. What had gotten into her? Slowly, she felt her lungs expand and her muscles perk up. Her bones felt suddenly sturdier and her senses sharper. She felt powerful and strong, renewed and revived. Yet, fear and confusion tempered her new sense of strength. What was happening to her? What had gotten into her?

~~~~~~~~

By the time Rose finished retelling the events of the previous night, a murky silence hung in the air. Rose and Sophie sat side by side on the purple sofa in the dressing room, holding each other’s hand.

“What did it feel like?” Sophie asked, breaking the silence.

“Which part?” asked Rose. “Being turned? I didn’t even realize it was happening. I’ve only just now pieced it all together. I was distracted last night—he was biting me all over, which I enjoyed and which always makes me cum harder anyway. Then this morning the sunlight felt excruciating and I had lost my reflection. I felt like a zombie all day, too zonked to seriously think about what had happened or what was happening. And just now when I smelled your blood it kindled something wild and ravenous inside me.”

“I mean,” Sophie corrected, “what did it feel like to drink my blood?”

Rose thought it over, wanting to use the right words to describe it. “It felt like…” she started, “shooting heroin and adderall at once…while cumming…on an airplane that has just lost control and is plummeting to earth.”

“Jesus,” Sophie responded.

“Yeah,” Rose said flatly.

“And now you feel…better?” Sophie ventured.

“I feel alive,” Rose admitted. She covered her eyes with her palms. “Sophie, what am I going to do?”

“It’ll be okay,” Sophie told Rose, stroking her hand. “I’ll have my period for, like, four more days. You can feed on me, and then…”

“Then I’m fucked?” Rose suggested.

“No,” Sophie asserted. “No, not at all! I’ll help you. We’ll figure something out.”

“I have to go on soon,” Rose said, changing the subject. “I need to start getting ready.”

“Are you sure you’re up for it?” Sophie asked skeptically.

Rose furrowed her brow and contemplated it. “I feel fantastic,” she confessed. “And I know which act I’ll do.”

Rose scurried off to prepare herself. She fixed up her hair, did her makeup, and put on her attire. When it was time to go on stage, Rose gave Madame LeClerc a little thumb drive with the song to play, and she queued herself up to march down the stairs and perform in the dimly-lit cave below.

The lights poured a rich blanket of red over the velvety, cavernous showroom, and “The Hunger” by Bat for Lashes lilted into the ears of the expectant audience members. Rose eagerly trotted down the stairs.

For this act, she wore a magnificent lingerie set of transparent lace and tiny red roses. In lieu of a proper outfit to strip off, she merely covered herself with a cardinal-red muslin veil trimmed with lace. The semi-opacity covered yet revealed her. It tempted and teased, and promised more to come. She resembled a bride of the underworld, and when she stepped into the fiery red light she appeared even more otherworldly.

With the red veil flowing down around her, she lifted her arms to create the effect of wings sprouting from her sides.

“I want to fly,” called out the song, “You know how I like it / I want to feel / Like I’m still alive.”

Rose twirled and spun the veil along with her. “I want to bleed,” the song continued like a dark lullaby, “And feed us forever / But I want to feed / The hunger inside!”

Keeping the long veil draped over her, she reached behind herself and unclasped the back of her bra. She slowly released her arms from the bra straps, but kept her breasts covered by the fabric until a beat in the song demanded they be released.

With a flirtatious flourish, she unleashed her bra and granted the audience visual access—through the veil—to her breasts that bounced with freedom. She cupped a hand around each tit to frame them as the delicate works of art that they were, inviting her audience to focus even more heavily on their supple forms.

Rose caressed herself all over, guiding the gaze of the audience to each curve and contour of her body. Her form was highlighted by the rich red lighting, yet muted by the semi-sheer fabric of the veil.

She then unlatched the strips of her garter-belt that held up her thigh highs, each in their turn. After allowing them to jangle against her thighs for just a moment, she unclasped the back of the garter-belt, held it up, and let it fall to the floor.

Rose then pranced across the stage to the gilt-framed mirror where she liked to tease her own reflection and let the audience admire her twice. She leaned her back against the mirror and felt the cold of the glass against her skin. The cold touch of glass was less shocking than usual, but she enjoyed it all the same. She had momentarily forgotten that her reflection would evade her.

Her memory snapped back to reality when she turned around to face the mirror. Seeing only her surroundings in an otherwise empty glass box sent a bolt of panic through her. She felt a bead of sweat form on her brow under the muslin veil.

Instinctively, she yanked down a scarf hanging nearby and fluttered it over the mirror, shrouding its reflective surface. A specter of her dream flashed across her mind, but she pushed it away.

Her eyes darted to the audience to check for facial expressions that suggested knowledge of what had just transpired. No one seemed to have noticed. She heaved a breath of relief, then returned quickly to her act, lest anyone catch on that something was amiss.

She managed to not betray herself, but she clocked the distinct lack of rhythm in the left cavern of her chest. With such a close call it should have been beating maniacally. She gulped deeply and carried on.

Rose impressed herself with her own ability to keep her cool and keep her dance on track without fumbling too much over these disturbing hiccups. But she also wondered how much more of them she could withstand.

Continuing the act, she glided into the realm of the audience. She hadn’t given them much attention yet, and, anyway, it was farther from the mirror.

In front of an eager watcher, she stuck her thumbs into the side strings of her panties and pulled them slightly out and downward, hinting that she was about to remove them. She turned and bent to slowly slide off the panties, giving this particular audience member a generous view of her ass and pussy from behind.

Her body was now covered merely with the red veil. She hopped onto the back of a sofa and laid backwards. Her hands explored her body through the fabric of the veil and she pulsed in rhythm with the song.

She then hopped off and moved to the velvety divan at the back of the stage where she sat facing the audience. She slid the veil over her head and gathered it in a cotton-candy-like bunch on her lap.

She pointed two fingers and inserted them into her mouth. She sucked on them briefly before sliding them down her chest, past her tits, and down behind the billowy viel on her lap. There was no need for illusion, she grinded herself greedily behind the veil.

She made eye contact with everyone in the room, each in their turn, granting everyone a little smile and attention and she touched herself. She maintained these glances as she rose from the divan and let the veil tumble to the floor. She did not remove her fingers from her pussy until she marched back toward the audience.

As she strode back into the audience, she tasted herself by hungrily licking her fingers. She meandered through the audience a while with her fingers in her mouth. It reminded her of eating out Sophie just moments earlier and she nearly came at the thought of it.

Rose was startled, however, by the sensation of a clammy hand on her leg. Her response to handsy audience members was automatic by this point. She gently removed it and gave a tsk-tsk motion with her finger and a negative nod of her head. With a first offense, she remained coy with mostly feigned condemnation of the naughty behavior. Anyone who frequented La Chatte knew they could only touch when dancers guided their hands. But every now and then patrons would forget themselves, and dancers had to remind them, usually with mock scolding, to keep their hands to themselves.

This offender seemed to understand and accepted the removal of his hand. Rose proceeded with her dance. But before she could get far, she felt the same clammy hand squeeze her ass cheek. She slapped it away and turned to face him. There was protocol for these kinds of situations, which involved first asking the offender to leave, then calling in Madame LeClerc. It was unfortunate that some inconsiderate audience members would interrupt the show, disturbing both the dancers and the rest of the audience, but fortunately it was a relatively rare occurrence.

Rose was about to start the process of telling this handsy asshole to leave, but she stopped herself and abruptly changed scripts. She leaned in close to him, bringing her lips next to his ear.

“Touching can be arranged with a private show,” she whispered to him. She watched his eyes light up with interest. Rose wasn’t totally sure what she had planned, wasn’t totally sure how far she would take this. But she couldn’t resist the temptation to try.

“And we can come back from the dead,” concluded the song, “And feed this endless hunger.”

Predictably, the handsy offender requested a private show with Rose immediately following the end of her act.

Rose rushed to the back dressing rooms to freshen up before taking this client to a private showroom. She found Sophie waiting there.

“How did it go? How do you feel now?” Sophie asked.

“Ça va, ça va,” Rose replied with a smile. “Except there was this client who would not stop putting his hands on me. But instead of scolding him, I told him to request a private show. He’s waiting for me now.”

“Rose…wait,” Sophie cautioned. “What are you planning?”

Rose lacked the words to explain, partly because she didn’t fully know herself what she had planned.

But Sophie didn’t need to hear Rose say it. She surmised enough, piecing things together more clearly than even Rose herself.

“Are you still hungry?” Sophie ventured quietly.

Rose took stock of herself. “No,” she answered, truthfully.

“It’s not urgent then. Good.” Sophie took Rose by the hand and seated her next to her. “We need a better plan than this. It’s not sustainable to just kill asshole customers as they come along.”

Sophie’s “we” in her plea for a better plan touched Rose. She felt immediately comforted and far less alone.

“You can feed on me as much as you need over the next few days,” Sophie went on. “Honestly, you won’t hear me complain about that.” Sophie’s smile brought Rose back into the full reality of her situation, but in a way that eased rather than heightened her tension.

“We need a longer-term plan,” Rose reiterated, emphasizing Sophie’s original point. Rose relished being able to say “we.” It was a gift from Sophie.

“Exactly,” Sophie confirmed. “Go explain to Madame LeClerc that it was a misunderstanding, that he was being inappropriate during your act, and let her deal with him. Then come back here and we’ll put our heads together. D’accord?”

Rose nodded and obliged. She would let this offender off the hook. This time.

~~~~~~~~

Chapter 5: One Way or Another

Companion song: “The Hunger” by Bat for Lashes

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Blood on Her Lips - Ch. 3: The Morning Hunts You Down

Blood on Her Lips: ABOUT

Rose’s place was small but charming. A large bed took up about a quarter of the wide but oddly-shaped studio apartment. Two sets of tall, narrow windows were draped with sheers and black-out curtains, and each opened up to its own tiny balconette. As with many Parisian apartments in aging Haussmann-style buildings, this one was complete with unexpected nooks and inexplicable wall angles. But it was also adorned with beautiful artistry, ranging from the ornate designs of the crown molding to the flourishes of the wrought iron balcony railings.

Rose liked to smoke her vape pen and have her morning tea on the balconette closest to the kitchen. The kitchen, furnished only with the basics, and a minimalist bathroom nestled into a single corner, occupied the area opposite the bed. A small, round table and chairs sprouted from the middle of the room, like hospitable mushrooms inviting you to sit and rest.

Still holding onto his cold hand, Rose led the mysterious young man—whose name she had not yet learned—up the five flights of stairs and into her apartment. Her drapes were pulled open and the twinkling lights of the city at night glittered through the tall panes of glass.

“Would you like some wine?” she offered. “Or more weed?”

He contemplated for a moment before responding: “I’ll take another hit on that vape.”

She brought it to him and opened one of the large window panes. He leaned against the open pane without stepping fully outside. After pouring herself a glass of red wine, she leaned against the opposite pane, facing him.

“What’s your name?” she inquired.

He drew a long puff on the vape and exhaled a white stream of smoke that dissipated into the night air as it mingled with a gentle breeze. “Can’t we keep this anonymous?” he asked in response.

Rose sipped on her wine. “As you like,” she told him with a shrug. Anonymous could be sexy, she thought to herself. She downed a large gulp of the crimson liquid and set down her glass. She approached him languidly. Keeping her eyes on his, her hand explored the air for his. She gently purloined the vape pen from his fingers. She slipped the pen into her mouth and sucked. Using her finger, she opened his mouth and blew her vaporous clouds into his agape lips. She then sealed his mouth with her own.

The melange of their lips, tongues, and smoke played a cloudy melody of passion and desire. The intensity of their making out amplified when Rose felt a faint bite on her lip. Her nails clawed in response, digging into the flesh that she desired with ravenous hunger.

With a knowing smile, she pulled herself away from him, grabbed the bottom edges of her shirt and pulled it over her head. This action revealed the sumptuous mounds of her tits peeking out from a black-lace bra. She grabbed her wine glass and finished what remained. Then, with coy come-hither finger motions, she instructed him to follow her to the bed. She took out a condom from her nightstand and tossed it in his direction.

Both now sitting on the bed, she took hold of his icy hands and placed them on her lace-clad breasts. He squeezed them eagerly and released a pleading moan. He then pulled her forcefully toward him and reengaged her lips with his own. Reaching behind her, he unclasped the hooks of her bra and released her tits with a tantalizing bounce. He brought his lips to each nipple, licking and sucking and biting ever so gently, each in their turn.

He took hold of her body with both arms and laid her supine on the bed. Together, they yanked off the remainder of their clothes. His cold hands spread her legs open, and he dove tongue-first into her exposed pussy. His tongue licked and flicked the spiraling contours of her clit; it twirled and tangoed inside the deep cavern of her cunt. A finger joined in, then another, to add rhythm and bass to the symphony of pleasure he was performing. The occasional bite added a staccatoed harmony, and sent a shiver throughout her body.

Rose’s eyelashes fluttered shut as she allowed all her focus to parade down to the wild sensations her pussy was experiencing. Each lap of his tongue, each thrust of his fingers, each electric tease of his teeth sent a bolt of pleasure through her body, radiating from her pussy outward like a nuclear bomb detonated in the ground zero of her erogenous zones. When he triggered her g-spot, she could not hold back an explosive cry, a mad scream signaling climax.

Rose collapsed in satisfaction, her lungs gasping for air and beads of sweat collecting like dew on her forehead. “You’re very good at that,” she chuckled. “You must have had a lot of practice.”

“I’ve been around for a long time,” he muttered under his breath as he unzipped his pants and released his erection, now thick and hard and pulsing with desire. He hovered over her for a moment and inspected her body. He clenched his eyes shut and bit his lip, as if trying to hold something back.

Before his eyes reopened, he felt a warm hand grasp his hard cock. Rose had unwrapped the condom and was sliding it onto his erection. She then guided his sex into her own, and each released a moan of intense pleasure. Having been invited in, he began with slow plunges, sliding in and out with ease thanks to the dripping wetness of Rose’s eager pussy. He pulled himself mostly out and teased the inflamed petals and foregrounds of her pussy with the head of his cock, inviting her to moan uncontrollably in anticipation.

His thrusts then got harder and more determined. He propelled his dick into her and pumped with ferocity. He gripped her tits and brought his mouth back to them. In their jostled movement, Rose found her head hanging off the side of the bed with the mysterious stranger perched above her, thrusting himself ever harder and deeper inside her. She hoisted her hips upward, allowing her clit to feel the full, vigorous pounding he was bestowing. He cupped her ass cheeks, supporting her arched back and discovering that this enabled him to go even deeper.

Rose felt the penetration through her entire body, almost as if his dick had pierced into her throat from her pussy. Her tits bounced and her headboard rattled as she again sang out cacophonous cries of outrageous pleasure. Rose hurled her body upright, and with him still inside her, she pushed him backward. As he was sprawled along the bed she rode him furiously.

Bit by bit, her cries increased their volume, each new one encouraged by the last to go louder. The rising pitch and volume of her screams filled the small apartment like air being blown into a balloon until the whole thing burst with the final, wailing scream of utter ecstasy.

Rose’s head fell back and buried itself in a pillow. She could barely open her eyes. Her head swam with a toxic mixture of pot, nicotine, wine, and orgasmic sex. She could feel herself breathing heavily, she could feel her pussy quiver with the tiny aftershocks of cumming. The haze in her mind was blissful, the electricity in her skin was exhilarating.

She felt the tingle of frosty fingertips along her body and she opened herself to allow the fucking to continue. She felt his thrusts resume and accelerate. Already so charged up and aroused, it didn’t take much to ignite the short fuse of another orgasm for her. She felt the build up inside her, the race to the finish line, the shot to the target, the storm clouds propelling themselves toward a thunderous clap.

He felt it rise up in her too. He felt her body clench and tighten, he felt the walls of her pussy contract around his cock. With a final, fatal thrust into her pussy and against her clit, he brought her to and then over the edge of another dazzling climactic thrill. And just at that precise moment, he plunged something else deep inside her. But it was not his dick, nor a finger, nor a tongue. A bite, quick and powerful, into the skin where her neck met her clavicle. She winced, not from pain, but from an overwhelming sense of pleasure. At that same moment, he came inside of her.

~~~~~~~~

He had explained that he couldn’t spend the night. Unsurprising, Rose thought, for someone intent on remaining anonymous. She stayed naked in bed, her hair tousled and knotted, as he dressed and let himself out. He seemed nonplussed and in a hurry, but Rose didn’t give it much concern. In fact, she was eager for him to leave so she could go to sleep.

Rose was still feeling a bit out of it, her head was still cloudy from intoxication and sex. Though her mind was fuzzy, she felt herself radiate a golden halo, a sparkling afterglow of pleasure and satisfaction. Though entirely content, her muscles felt weak, her body exhausted.

Through the tall windows, whose drapes were still pulled open, she admired the indigo and gold of the night’s landscape. The city was quiet at this late hour, apart from pockets of revelers and drifters.

She allowed herself to stay in bed and drift off to sleep without completing her usual bedtime chores: brushing her teeth, washing her face, tidying up, closing the drapes, etc. She knew she would likely regret the aftertaste of wine and cigarettes in her mouth the next morning, along with the various other unpleasantness of leaving chores undone, but she was too tired to dwell on that too much. Her eyelids were heavy and the morning was only a few hours away anyway. Surely things could wait.

A moment after her head hit the pillow, the edges of her world began to blur as a dream overtook her. She was sure it was a dream, even while in the midst of it. It had to be a dream…

She saw black lace and sheer black muslin. They enveloped her. A witchy glitter washed over her and she saw her reflection appear like another person in front of her. It was unsettling yet mesmerizing. She felt a pang of panic strike her stomach, but she could not draw herself away from that reflection. Her reflected self seemed to mirror her panic. The reflection itself seemed, strangely, like it was trying to escape her—an impossible liberation. Every time it began to back away, it was pulled again toward her.

Then, like an old photograph, her reflection began to dissolve around the edges and fade into half-opacity. Except for her lips, that is, which remained vivid red in the reflection. Rose became fixated on those lips. Her eyes were glued to them as the rest of her reflection dissipated around them. Rose held up her fingers to the lips in the reflection, but it was impossible to touch them. That was the nature of reflections. Only her eyes could capture them.

A brief glance upward showed Rose that her reflection’s eyes were terrified, like those of a caged animal. The shadowy image of herself with the fiery red lips resembled a hostage trapped inside a glass casing.

Rose wanted to run, to grant her imprisoned reflection the gift of separation. But she still could not draw herself away. Rose’s eyes fell again to her reflection’s lips. Those reflected, crimson lips stared back at her and parted as if about to speak. But what emerged were not words. Rather, her top lip curled upward to reveal two white fangs jutting menacingly out from under their scarlet sheath.

Unbelieving and awed, Rose moved her face closer to those ivory daggers. She came as close as she possibly could to the reflection before being blocked by the glass. She pressed herself hard against it and felt the icy smoothness of the mirror against her skin.

Rose felt compelled to press her own lips against those of her reflection. Having given up on running and freeing her imprisoned reflection, Rose now felt she needed to be one with this version of herself inside the mirror. She felt that the only way to save her from fading completely away was to accept her into herself, to merge and become one. Now pressing her whole body against the mirror, she felt the frosty prickles of cold glass invade every inch of her.

Pressed fully against the glass, Rose felt calm. And then, like a fatalistic Alice in Wonderland, Rose fell through that mirrory surface and into the realm of her wispy doppelganger. Rose tried to scream but no sound erupted from her lips. All that emerged from her own rosey lips were the painful sprouting of her own pair of pointed fangs. Rose attempted to cry out again, but, as before, in place of a scream were merely two pearly daggers.

~~~~~~~~

Rose awoke with a start. The blaze of the morning sun through her windows was always an unwelcome intruder. Hence, her purchase of the black-out drapes. But on the rare occasions she forgot to (or simply didn’t) close them, the fiery streak of the morning sunbeam on her sleeping face was a stark reminder of why she had bought them in the first place.

But this morning, the flash of sun on her face felt especially excruciating. She swore she even heard the insidious hiss of a sizzle emanate from her illuminated cheek. Shielding her face with her arms proved insufficient, as her whole body seemed uniquely sensitive to the morning rays of this brutally glaring sun. Ducking the sunbeams, she frantically pulled the drapes closed.

She then ran to the bathroom to throw some cold water on her face. The splash of water was refreshing after the sizzling sun, but upon opening her eyes she realized she was facing an even graver problem than sun-sensitivity. She looked in the bathroom mirror—the same one she looked into nearly every morning—but something was different, something was missing, gone. All she could see was the towel behind her that she had hanging on the back of the bathroom door.

Rose shook her head in disbelief. She hadn’t smoked for hours, but was she still high? She had barely had any wine, but was it possible she was drunk? She scurried from the bathroom and ran to the full-length mirror propped up next to her bed. Nothing. She scoured her apartment for other mirrors—hand mirrors, compacts, anything with a reflective surface. Everywhere, no image peered back at her. She opened up her phone camera, switched it to selfie mode and, with much shock and relief, saw her face looking back at her. She had no reflection; but at least she was not a ghost.

Yet her dream from the previous night haunted her. Waking from a nightmare about reflections to a world without functioning mirrors was far more unsettling than the dream itself.

~~~~~~~~

Chapter 4: The Hunger Inside

Companion song: “Strangers” by White Lies

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Blood on Her Lips - Ch. 2: Desire, Desire

Blood on Her Lips: ABOUT

It was finally time. Rose’s final private dance of the night. She was rattled by a sense of jittery nervousness that she hadn’t felt since her first days as an erotic dancer. But now, just like then, her nervous energy was not entirely fear-based; rather, it stemmed from excitement and eagerness. She was chomping at the bit, perched expectantly at the starting line waiting for the signal flare to go off.

Rose took a deep breath in an attempt to ease her shaking hands. She laughed at herself. How ridiculous to be nervous after all this time! She shook her hands as if drying them, in an effort to release her nerves through her fingertips. She glanced at the time—how could there still be 12 minutes left? She had been in this private dance room for nearly twenty minutes, ensuring that everything was prepped and ready.

Her phone was in place and set to play Anna Calvi’s “Desire.” She checked it again just to make sure. Everything was in order. She drummed her fingers restlessly and heaved an anxious sigh. Needing a distraction, she bolted to the tall, french-door style windows across the room, and propped open one pane. She pulled up a chair next to the window and took out her vape filled with liquid marijuana. She drew a few languorous puffs and felt the calming potion wash through her.

Her pussy also seemed to be hyper aware of this upcoming client. It tingled with readiness, seethed with anticipation. Would she fuck him? It had been quite some time since she had fucked a client, mainly because it had been some time since one interested her. Toying with the idea of fucking this mysterious young man gave way to toying with herself.

She was naked apart from a garnet necklace and thigh-high fishnets held up by a simple garter-belt. Patent leather heels adorned her feet. This left her pussy exposed and accessible. Her fingers traced along the curve of her hip bone, over the sensitive skin of her stomach, and across the softness of her upper thigh. Her nails dug into the flesh of her thigh before moving over the delicate folds of her pussy. Her eyes fluttered shut and her lips parted.

Her fingers explored the contours of her clit. She rubbed herself gently, gingerly at first, before intensifying the motions. Like the graceful legs of an ice skater, her middle and forefinger spread open and slid down the grooves of her pussy’s innermost realms.

She purred and moaned as her fingers picked up speed. Her pussy, made agape by one leg propped up with its pump against the windowsill, felt like it was glowing. It was true that if any passers-by on the streets below should look up, they would catch an eyeful of Rose pleasuring herself, since she had opened the drapes and window in order to puff on her vape. This thrill of exhibitionism urged on her exploratory fingers.

Closing her two spread fingers into a firm arrow, she plunged them deep into her exposed opening, now wet and trembling with desire. At first, she let her hand take the lead, pulling her glistening fingers in and out of herself in heaving waves. But her hips quickly joined in, rising and falling, up and down onto the chair, her bent leg still steadied against the windowsill. The pointed tip of her pump peeked out past the window pane into the open air.

Rose withdrew her two fingers and darted them into her mouth, as much to gain extra wetness as to taste her own dripping pleasure. Her fingers lingered in her mouth for a moment, then rushed back down again. Her wet fingers licked the outer layers of her throbbing pussy, as her moans got louder. Her free hand clutched an uncovered breast, squeezing it tightly, while her hardworking fingers continued their dance inside and all around her beating cunt.

Her fingers rubbed and thrusted, thrusted and rubbed, exchanging focus from her inflated clit to her slippery cavern, and then back again. Rubbing and thrusting, clit to cavern. Thrusting and rubbing, cavern to clit. Cavern to clit, clit to cavern, until—with violent force—her body erupted into a paroxysm of pleasure.

She lounged back in the chair, her limbs draped languidly over the arms. Both feet now rested on the ground. She felt relaxed and empowered, ready to perform.

~~~~~~~~

Finally, it was time to go downstairs and collect her client. Rose patted the sweat from her brow, fixed up her rustled hair, and covered herself with her silk robe. Her skin was hot and charged with the afterglow of sexual pleasure, and the silk felt sensual and cooling against it. Goosebumps flared and hard nipples protruded through the thin layer of silk.

The dark stranger was waiting in the narrow entrance of Theatre La Chatte. It was 11:30 at night, yet he wore sunglasses. Shyness could perhaps explain this, along with some of his other odd behaviors, Rose thought to herself. Or maybe he prized anonymity. Was he scared of a less-than-understanding girlfriend finding out, or perhaps he worried about crossing paths with a coworker? Irrelevant to Rose, these were common distractions that hovered in the minds of her clients. Her role was to distract them from their distractions.

"Bonsoir, chéri," Rose greeted him. In addition to the sunglasses, he kept his head bowed, and all he gave in recognition was a subtle nod.

Rose always flashed a peek into the contents of her robe to ensure her clients liked what they saw before going off to have their private dance. This one, however, turned his head away, averting his look. She shrugged mentally at his seeming disinterest, then took him by the hand and led him up a winding flight of stairs and into the private dance room she had arranged. She directed him to sit in the chair she had placed in the center of the room—the same one on which she had just pleasured herself—and set up her phone to connect to the speakers and play music.

“Ready?” she asked over her shoulder. He nodded. She noticed he still did not remove his dark sunglasses.

“First, the rules,” she said, turning toward him. “Rule one: you must stay in that chair until I tell you that you can get up. Comprenez-vous?” He nodded slowly.

“Rule two: your hands are free to touch yourself, as you like, but they can only touch me when I guide them. Comprenez?” He nodded. She smiled.

She turned to play the music, her finger hovering above the play button, but stopped herself. She turned back around and approached him slowly. Coming close enough to touch him, she traced her fingers along the outline of his sunglasses.

“You would like these to stay on, or may I—” He answered by abruptly pushing her hand away. This startled her, but she had certainly encountered much more bizarre requests from clients, so she shrugged and acquiesced.

Finally, she played “Desire” and began her act.

Rose tossed off her robe and gave the seated stranger a full view of her body. Her necklace dripped a trail of twinkling garnets between her exposed breasts. Legs in fishnets, hips in garter-belt, feet buttressed by heels, she rested in a standing pose. Her own hands caressed the lines of her body until they reached her chest. She could feel his eyes following the movements of her hands. She cupped her tits, gazed down and admired them lovingly. She then coyly raised her gaze to his eyeline—this little trick typically gave her clients the titillating sensation of being caught looking at her, which in turn gave her a little thrill. But those damned sunglasses blocked this effect, at least on her end.

Anna Calvi’s deep, throbbing voice rang out: “But it's just the devil in me / The devil that's calling as I come undone.”

Rose had planned on dancing a good distance in front of him for a while longer, as she typically did in her private acts, before shifting to the portion where she touched him. Yet she felt herself compelled to initiate that part faster.

“The sky is getting dark tonight / Darker than the fear that's gonna pull us apart,” beat the song.

She stood directly over him as he remained seated, gazing up at her, his eyes blacked out by opaque rectangles.

Bending her knees, she sat down on his lap facing him, her legs spread apart and flanking him. She ran her hands along her own legs, savoring the woven, binding texture of her fishnets.

“And it's the fire, the fire, the fire,” chanted the song. “It's heavenly, heavenly—”

Rose grazed the length of his neck with the tips of her fingers before tightening them around his throat.

“Desire, desire,” pounded the song. “Desire, desire.”

She released her grasp and let her hand fall onto his groin. Its hardness was unmistakable. She felt her own wetness respond. Rose undid the button and zipper of his pants, allowing the hard cock to spring forth. Propelling herself off his lap and onto her knees, facing him, she brought her mouth tantalizingly close to his erection. She refrained from touching, however, permitting only her hot, wet breath to coat it. She watched him writhe at this teasing, this hinting, this promise of touch.

He was not touching himself, for reasons Rose could not discern. This was rare, but it happened. Instead, his hands remained locked on the chairs’ armrests.

Gazing at that hard, silky cock that protruded just inches from her face, Rose noticed two sources of wetness gather like a storm within herself—both her mouth and her pussy salivated for this dick in front of her. She felt it deserved some touch, so she sprang up, twirled herself around, and perched herself back on his lap. This time she sat with her back toward him, as the firm softness of her ass cheeks pressed and grinded against his penis.

A moan escaped his lips. He was behaving so well, Rose noticed, his hands still perched obediently on the arms of the chair. Yet, upon closer inspection it seemed that his fingers were gripping those chair arms with agonizing tightness, apparently in a battle to maintain control.

Rose was feeling generous. She gently clasped his hands with her own and lifted them off the armrests, brought them up around her and onto her tits. His cold hands triggered goosebumps on her flesh and made her already hard nipples pucker even further. She gasped slightly at this shock of coldness, but continued on, pressing his hands harder against her chest.

“You don’t know how much I need this.” These breathy words were the first he had spoken to her, but it was as if they were not directed to her but merely fell carelessly from his mouth, almost unintentionally.

Reaching backward, she caressed the side of his face with her palm and turned her profile toward him, eyeing him compassionately out of one eye. “There’s more to come,” she uttered softly, sweetly, with a wink.

Rising from his lap, she turned to face him again. Standing, she bent herself at the waist, bringing her face close to his. Her hand reached down and grasped the hard cock below. She began with gentle, teasing strokes. Even his cock is cold, she thought with surprise. The blood filling it with stiffness was somehow not translating to outer warmth.

Still bent over him, she brushed her lips against his. He stayed motionless, apart from his accelerated breathing. She pressed harder and his lips parted in response; soon their tongues were dancing.

“It's coming, coming, coming for you,” warned the song.

She drew her face away from his, a single thread of saliva lingering between them before splitting apart. Pushing his knees wide apart, she crouched again in front of his towering erection. The garnet necklace glittered between her tits and cast a crimson gleam against their inner curves. Her tongue, still wet with his saliva, stroked the length of his shaft and tickled the tip of its head. She watched as it twitched with yearning. In a full sweep, she swallowed his entire cock, rested a moment with its entirety inside her, then released it with a slobbery backstroke.

Now that there was sufficient wetness, her hands joined in. Her mouth and hands stroked up and down in winding, twisting motions. She found herself getting lost in these motions—up and down, in and out—it was as if a cock-sucking demon had taken possession of her. She craved his hardness deep in her throat, hungered for his smooth head against her tongue.

She had gotten so caught up in sucking his dick that she lost track of time. The song was still playing, suggesting not too much time had passed. But how was that possible? Had she put the song on repeat? The reality of the world around her was hazy and faded into the distance, as if swallowed by the walls encircling them.

Rose stood up and threw one leg over his thigh, a patent leather heel hanging over the side. This brought her pussy to just hovering above the tip of his penis. With the faintest of movements, she allowed the head of his cock to get a taste of the satiny wetness of her pussy, which now ached to be filled. Thrusting her hips back and forth in undulating strides, the tip of his dick was now coated with her pussy’s sweet nectar.

“I can go fetch a condom,” she offered in a whisper.

In a surprise move, he pushed her off of him. Had she completely misread things? A pang of panic and embarrassment rushed through her. But he was not finished. He picked up her entire body with startling strength and nearly flung her onto the perch of the half-open windowsill. Rose noticed, with both horror and delight, that she had forgotten to close the window and drapes.

Her back was mostly against the closed pane, but one shoulder peeked out from the open pane. The coldness of the glass against her back reminded her of his cold hands. Through the ajar windowpane beside her, she smelled the cement and exhaust of the city below. Distant honks and motors chimed in her ears. A view from outside would have revealed her nearly-naked form framed by the tall, narrow window, with her hand pressed against the open pane to steady herself. She was both inside and outside. She was exposed yet secure. In this liminal space, she surrendered herself.

Now it was he that was crouched in front of her. The coldness of his hands on her inner thighs gave her a fresh thrill. The iciness of his tongue surprised her most of all. A sensation of prickly needles shot through her. It bordered on pain, but she didn’t shy away. She needed more. Her eyes clenched shut, as if she needed to dull all her other senses in order to fully and only experience the feeling of his touch.

His icy tongue stroked her engorged clit and whirled inside the depths of her pussy. From the corner of her eye, she caught passers-by going about their business on the street just a few stories below.

“And it's the fire, the fire, the fire,” called out the song, climbing steadily toward its climax.

Then, in an unexpected turn, she felt the sharp clench of teeth upon her clit, like an oversized staple piercing into her most sensitive patch of flesh. This sent a lightning bolt through her and tensed her entire body. Her fists tightened, toes curled, upper lip snarled, and teeth clamped together. The pleasure tiptoed so close to ferocious pain that she felt as if she were dangling off the ledge of a skyscraper. The intense rush of this quasi-dangerous pleasure ignited every cell in her body. She felt life flush into every extremity, every inch of her skin tingled with an electric charge. Usually, she had to ask her partners to bite her clit. It was a bold move to try this without being prompted.

“It's heavenly, heavenly—” the song was nearly at its climax, and so was Rose, “Desire, desire! Desire, desire!”

With one final icy thrust of his tongue, a primal scream erupted from deep inside Rose’s throat. Her body spasmed violently, causing her hand to slip from the opened windowpane. She was in no real danger of falling out, but nearly a quarter of her body hung out the open side of the window.

“You don't have to be lost,” the song concluded.

A frosty hand pulled her away from the window and onto her feet. “My hero,” she teased.

With a start, she noticed that his sunglasses were gone. Had he taken them off, or had they fallen off? When his gray eyes finally, at last, met hers, she felt an aftershock of an orgasm rattle through her body. It was almost stronger than the first. He seemed embarrassed and quickly averted his eyes. Had he noticed her aftershock? What’s to be ashamed of? He had pleasured her with surprising alacrity!

“I should go,” he muttered, stuffing his still hard cock back into his pants.

“Wait!” Rose ran to him and gripped his shirtcollar with both hands. This forced his eyes back into hers.

He blinked rapidly, either alarmed or thinking over something very serious. He chewed the side of his lip. Then, finally, through quickened breath, he asked: “Do you live nearby?”

Rose nodded with a wry smile.

“Let’s go,” he said. “Get dressed, I’ll be waiting downstairs.”

~~~~~~~~

He was smoking a cigarette as he waited for Rose outside Theatre La Chatte. He threw it onto the cobblestone street and stepped on it without a word when she came out.

“It’s this way,” she said as she began walking. He followed her.

“Wait!” Rose explained, glancing at her phone. “It’s nearly midnight.”

“And?” he responded. “Do you turn into a pumpkin?”

She smirked and took him by the hand. By now, she was not startled by the cold temperature of his skin. She pulled him along with her as she made a sharp turn down a sidestreet.

“Let’s go to the river. I like to watch the Eiffel Tower twinkling,” she explained over her shoulder.

After a few blocks, they arrived at a bridge stretching across the Seine. The Eiffel Tower could be seen in the distance, through the mist and darkness of the night sky. They arrived just in time to watch it transform into a dazzling display of twinkling lights at exactly midnight.

Rose leaned her elbows against the bridge’s railing. Reflections of the lights danced in her eyes and in the water below. They watched the full five minutes of the show in silence. When it finished, Rose escorted the man back toward the direction of her apartment.

“How long have you lived in Paris?” he asked as they walked side by side.

She was surprised to hear him make small talk; he was usually so stolid and silent. “Two years,” she answered. She chuckled slightly, “And I’m still not sick of these light shows at night.”

“No? I’m sick of all things night-related.”

“All things?” she quipped.

It was the first time she saw him smile. Leaving her question unanswered, he remarked: “You know, most Parisians would be ashamed to admit they like the Eiffel Tower’s lights. Most call it kitschy and gauche.”

“Sometimes I feel like a Parisian,” she said thoughtfully, “and other times I feel very, very different.”

“I know what you mean.” He said these words almost without thinking.

“Where are you from?” Rose asked him.

“East,” he replied.

“Eastern France? Or…farther east? I swear sometimes I can detect the faintest of accents when you speak, but then other times I’m not so sure. But I guess I haven’t heard you speak very much yet, you’ve spoken very little really…”

“Do you mind if I smoke as we walk?”

“Not at all, we still have a few blocks to go. Mind if I vape? It’s weed if you’d like some.”

He shook his head. They each pulled out their smoking devices, and the irregular-shaped cigarettes in his gold case caught Rose’s eye. “Do you roll your own?” she asked him.

“Yes. I like to add extra tobacco.”

“Health nut, eh?” Rose joked. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a puff on mine in between pulls on that death stick of yours?”

It was a silent chuckle expressed solely through his shoulder motions, but it delighted Rose because it was the first time she had seen him laugh. “After,” he replied, exhaling a long, billowy stream of smoke.

“How about we switch for a few puffs?” she offered.

“I thought mine was a ‘death stick’...”

She shrugged. “As I said, sometimes I am Parisian.”

They stopped at a corner and traded smoking devices, each taking a few puffs. “You’re very mysterious,” she told him through the pillowy white clouds of smoke released past her lips.

He looked at her and his demeanor changed. He quickly exchanged her vape for his cigarette back, but instead of smoking it he threw it on the ground. “I have to go,” he stated starkly. “I’m sorry.”

“What? Why?” He had already begun walking away as Rose called out these words. She ran after him and caught his hand with her own. Again, the coldness of his palm did not startle her.

He stopped and turned toward her, but he kept his face turned away from hers. He didn’t speak, but the fact that he stopped made Rose optimistic.

“Look,” she said, “obviously you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, but I was really looking forward to spending the night with you. Did I say something wrong?”

“No…” His lips remained parted as if he had more words to say, but instead of uttering them he closed his mouth and ran his hand through his dark hair. He was holding something back, Rose suspected.

“Do you not want to come back to my place?” she asked delicately but directly. “It’s just around the corner.”

He looked at her for a drawn out length of time without speaking, then cast his gaze off into the distance. He chewed his bottom lip, as if words were trying to escape and he was fighting to hold them in.

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” Rose repeated. “But we could have a glass of wine, smoke some more, talk…”

Without warning he took Rose by her shoulders with both hands and pushed her against the stoney wall behind her. “I don’t want to talk,” he said, then pressed his lips firmly against hers. The cold of the stone behind her matched the icy slickness of his lips and tongue.

They continued kissing, deeply and hungrily, for several more minutes. He pulled up her skirt and slid a frosty hand past her panties and cupped her pussy. She felt an icy finger pierce into her, and she let out a moan of satisfaction. He fingered her rhythmically as they continued making out. She threw a leg around him to help spread herself so his finger could go deeper.

“Fuck me,” she whispered. “Don’t cum in me until we have a condom, but you have to fuck me. Now. Please! Fuck me…” It was a plea, she was begging.

He did as he was told and released his hardened cock from his pants, then slid it into her soaking wet pussy. She groaned louder this time. The hard, freezing dick inside her gave her an unusual, new feeling—like being fucked by smooth, solid steel.

He continued fucking her against the wall, neither of them checking for passers-by or open windows in close range. With each new thrust, she felt something rise inside her. The fuse had been lit and it was rapidly reaching the explosive. Her pussy clenched around his thrusting, steel-like cock. She pressed her hips harder against him so that her clit felt the full force of his body against it. The fuse was crackling and burning, quicker and quicker. Her pussy tingled hot and every inch of her skin sizzled with the approaching pleasure. Then, at last, the explosion erupted like a volcano. She pulled his hair and dug her nails into his arm, as she released a fiery, hot-breathed scream into the misty night air.

She kissed him energetically, still overcome by pleasure and desire. “This way,” she said confidently, knowing instinctively that he would follow her without protest this time as she again took hold of his icy hand. She led him to her apartment and welcomed him inside.

~~~~~~~~

Chapter 3: The Morning Hunts You Down

Companion song: "Desire" by Anna Calvi

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simone-de-boudoir · 1 year

Text

Blood on Her Lips - Ch. 1: Anything Could Happen

Blood on Her Lips: ABOUT

Rose stood atop the cramped, dim stairwell that led to the basement of Theatre La Chatte. She peered down, waiting for her act to begin. Everything in the shadowy room was drenched in deeply-saturated red and purple lights. Most noticeable were the gold trims of the plush velvet sofas and the metallic embroidery of several large, tasseled Turkish pillows thrown about. Each glittered occasionally in the shifting lights. Delicate scarves and luxurious upholsteries were draped around the small space. This muted the lights and gave the room an intimate, almost claustrophobic feel. It could have been a tiny harem or opium den, but the platform at the back that served as a stage suggested that performers ruled this realm.

She couldn’t see the seats directly—where as many as twenty patrons might be waiting for her—but the tall, gold-framed mirror that rested against the wall opposite the stairwell reflected a few customers sitting on red velvet couches and richly-embroidered armchairs waiting for the next show to start.

Madame LeClerc—owner, manager, and DJ at Theatre La Chatte—pressed play and “Anything Could Happen” by Ellie Goulding started playing in the tiny showroom below. Rose descended, step by step down the carpeted stairs that led into the ethereal little performance room. It did not seem to belong in the 21st century. Instead of the neon lights and sticky surfaces of a strip club or the large cabarets of Montmartre, the basement of La Chatte was more elegant, intentionally decadent, and eternally an anachronism.

A plush, burgundy divan sat at the back of the stage, and Rose began her act there. She wore a dazzling silver dress, adorned with sequins and her own round shoulders peeking out from behind the thin straps. She lounged languidly, her body stretched out across the length of the divan. She raised her legs so that each silvery, strappy high-heel was planted on the divan’s cushions. Her knees were spread apart. She traced her hands along her exposed legs, up her sequined torso, and through her hair that draped over the edge of the divan. The touch of her own hands on her warm body and through her hair were immensely pleasurable, and she let her audience in on this secret with a subtle parting of her lips and fluttering of her eyelashes.

Twirling herself upright, she faced the audience. She spotted the flash of a gold watch on a man in the front row. Men wearing gold watches often bought private shows from the dancers. Accordingly, she paid him some special attention with her eyes.

Her mirrory dress reflected the reds and purples of the lights as she strode into the audience. The man with the gold watch was sitting on the frontmost sofa of the audience, so it was easy to give him a little extra attention first. She perched herself on his lap, her back toward him, and reached her arms behind her and around his neck. She writhed in motion with the music, and the fuzz of her cheek just barely grazed the side of his stubbled face.

The song’s chorus—“anything could happen, anything could happen”—beat over and over again in her ears and throughout the cave-like room.

She could favor the man with the gold watch, but she couldn’t ignore the other clients. She also didn’t want to—it was too boring to focus only on the clients that were likely to buy private shows.

About eighty-percent of the clientele were older men, nice enough but less thrilling than the wildcards in the room. The younger men tended to be cute, with their shyness and eagerness mixed into confusing head clouds. Rose liked to lead them through those mixed emotions. The women in the audience tended to have a special glint of awe in their eyes, appreciating her talent and eroticism equally, which pleased Rose greatly. She felt a connection to them. Everyone else was welcome too, of course, as long as they were respectful and kind.

Every now and then, an asshole would invade the audience and behave rudely, make a scene, or not respect the rules, but luckily this was rare. In the most extreme cases, Madame LeClerc would ban a customer from returning.

Most often, it was a warm and inviting atmosphere at Theatre La Chatte. Rose wanted to ensure that everyone—not just the private show patrons—had a wondrous, sensual, and exhilarating experience with her during her act.

She moved to the back of the room and mingled with the rest of the audience. Sensually, she reclined backwards on the soft yet sturdy back of a sofa. The sofas were constructed for this exact purpose, doubling as audience seating and spaces for dancers. The sofa backs were wide and flat and lined with red velvet, and dancers used them liberally in their acts.

With her back arched, breasts thrust forward, and head thrown back, Rose closed her eyes and swayed as if under the song’s spell. Eyes from around the room circled in on her, some of which were mere inches away. She licked two of her fingers and moved them down to spread her pussy, making this tableau even more intimate.

Rose fingered the hair of a nearby client before hopping off to move around the room again. She could touch them, but they could not touch her, unless she guided their hands. That was rule number one at Theatre La Chatte.

She tiptoed around the audience’s realm for a bit, weaving in between chairs and sofas, stroking a knee here and gliding a finger along a chest there, before strutting back to the stage. There, in full view of the audience, she shimmied off her silvery dress to reveal pale-blue lace lingerie.

In long strides, she approached the tall, gilded mirror at the side of the room. She turned to face her reflection and ran her hands over her body. Her skin felt smooth and soft and supple. The blue lace of her lingerie, strapped across her chest and hips, stood out against the red and purple lighting. Rose and her doppelganger in the mirror flickered like delicate flames in the semi-darkness.

In the mirror she also caught the eyes of the gold-watched man. He was watching her intently. She locked eyes with him through the reflection and lingered just a second too long before shifting her gaze. This added an extra dash of enticement. She smiled to herself—he was hooked. But she wouldn’t show him that she knew, not just yet.

Rose found it incredibly erotic to hold herself just barely out of reach while nearby clients’ eyes brimmed with desire. She loved looking down at her own body, with her tits framing her pussy—all while strangers hungrily peered on.

When she first started dancing she thought she would just close herself off for a few minutes, focus on her technique, keep herself mechanically minded while the clients drooled around her. She had been shocked that, instead, she too found it pleasurable. Not because of the clients, who were often interchangeable and faceless. Instead, strangely, she awoke to the eroticism of her own body.

She became legitimately aroused during performances, and was often desperate to get home and rub her pussy to orgasm after a long day—one of the perks of the job.

“Baby, I'll give you everything you need…” trilled the song.

Rose unbuttoned the back of her pale blue bra and allowed the fabric to dangle while still keeping her breasts covered. She swayed with the rhythm of the song. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted a new client descending the stairs. It was common for clients to arrive mid-show, and dancers always welcomed additional audience members. She waited for him to find a seat before revealing her tits—a most gracious welcome.

He was handsome, she noticed. Very handsome. Dark hair covered one eye, but this accentuated rather than hid the chiseled face beneath. He appeared young, but unlike the typical young solo patrons, who were often nervous and unsure, this man carried himself with an unmistakable yet unostentatious confidence. He chose a corner seat in the very back and crossed both his legs and arms. There was no anxious leg shaking or tensed shoulders. He was relaxed, yet sought to be hidden and guarded. His aura of mystery titillated Rose and she decided to indulge a whim.

She took her time getting to the back of the audience, where this new client sat. On her way, she traced a finger along the leg of the man with the gold watch, allowing a naked breast to come tantalizingly close to his cheek. She also gave some other audience members flirtatious little touches and looks as she meandered around them. Her tits bounces lightly as she hopped up the steps to the back row, where at last she made her way to the new client.

Standing wide-legged in front of this mysterious, darkly-clad man, she stretched out the thin straps of her blue panties with her thumbs and teased the motions of removing them. Her bare tits were at his eyeline and the edges of her pussy were nearly revealed, yet this man’s eyes rested on neither. Instead, his eyes were locked on her visage. He did not look into her eyes, but seemed to focus instead on the lower edges of her face—her mouth, her chin, even her neck. Rose couldn’t decide whether it was sweet or unsettling.

But Rose enjoyed a challenge. She picked up his hands and guided him to grasp the straps of her panties. The feel of his skin startled her, but she didn't let on. It must be freezing outside, she thought to herself, feeling the icy temperature of his hands.

She kept her hands over his as she helped him release her panties down her legs. Hopping onto the back of the sofa behind her, she kicked off the panties and spread her legs, daring this young man not to lower his gaze and admire her exposed pussy.

But he merely looked away, turning his head. Rose shrugged in her mind and concluded that he was just not into her. She moved on, giving her attention to the other, more worthy audience members. Moments later, he got up and left, carefully weaving past other audience members and silently climbing the stairs.

Perhaps he was there looking for another dancer, Rose thought. Theatre La Chatte tickets were not cheap, but one benefit of them was that they were good for the whole day—patrons could come and go as they pleased as long as they held onto that day’s ticket. So sometimes clients only stayed for a short time, often returning later in the day. This was especially true if they were hoping to catch a specific dancer’s performance, which was fairly common for the regulars.

Rose finished her act, not giving the interruption much more thought.

“Merci, tout le monde! My name is Scarlette,” she announced, giving her stage name so that clients could request private shows with her. She had confidence in the man with the gold watch, who promptly stood up. This usually meant they wanted to hurry and be first in line to secure a private dance.

Rose gathered the clothing items she had scattered around the room and followed him upstairs, pulling on a silk robe at the top.

“I’m sorry,” she heard Madame LeClerc tell the gold-watched man. “You’ll have to wait, this other man has already requested a private dance with Scarlette. May I invite you to watch the next performance while you wait?”

“Other man?” Rose questioned to herself. She peered over and saw that behind the man with the gold watch stood the mysterious younger man. She could barely make him out; only his tall outline was discernible in the shadowy corner. This was quite surprising! Her pussy worked her magic after all—much faster than usual, it seemed. She was pleased, and intrigued.

“I want to go last.” All heads turned toward the young man. “At the end of the night,” he clarified. The surprises were compounding and the mystery around this person was waxing. Madame LeClerc took care of the arrangements and Rose took care of the man with the gold watch, though her mind stayed with the dark young man and his odd behavior. Her mind and body ached to explore this mysterious man further.

~~~~~~~~

Chapter 2: Desire, Desire

Companion song: “Anything Could Happen” by Ellie Goulding

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