Prologue: The Arising - The storm finally broke. Illuminated in stark white flashes of lightning, the castle squatted on its rocky perch, high above the skeletal late autumn forest, its four unevenly spaced spiky turrets giving it the appearance against the night sky of some hideously misshapen lurking beast, waiting for its prey... *** The noise of the storm was to some extent muffled by three feet of solid stone walls, but the staccato of rain lashing the windows disturbed the peace of the great hall. Fat white candles sputtered on their heavy iron sconces as a chill breeze occasionally nibbled at their flames. The fire popped and crackled beneath the high stone mantel, its flickering light twisting the cherubs' faces of the cherubs carved upon it into something malevolent, demonic. They stared unseeingly across the cavernous room, the well-worn heavy oak furniture, and over the cold stone flags to the huge brass-bound wooden door, set into a stone niche at the far end. *** Water dripped slowly but incessantly, the echoes rising up to the vaulted ceiling, there to be lost in the deep darkness. A heavy, still darkness, like molasses. Nothing else could be heard in the cellars, not even the rage of the storm fifteen feet and a hundred tons of stone above. Even the rats eschewed the place. All was still. Then, a whisper of air, and in each corner of the chamber, dried bundles of wood tied together into an inverted cone and strapped to the damp stone with brackets of blackened iron suddenly burst into flame, illuminating all but the uppermost reaches of the vaulted ceiling with a fierce yellow light. Beneath a plain carved arch at the rear of the long chamber lay four featureless stone biers, mere rectangular blocks. Upon each bier, fitting its dimensions exactly, rested a long, polished box of a deep dark wood, also rectangular. The dancing torchlight was reflected in the rich reddish surface of the wood. In the blinking of an eye, the lid of one of the boxes lifted and slid smoothly and silently upright. Inside, lay the body of a young woman. Her face was thin, almost pixie-like, with high cheek bones, its milky white complexion framed with long, shining raven hair, curling freely down past her shoulders. She lay in perfect repose. The torches flared as if caressed by an unexpected breeze. Almond-shaped green eyes suddenly flicked open, staring blankly up at the ceiling. She sat up, as if pulled by strings. The porcelain features remained still, expressionless; she might have been a china doll. With a curiously smooth, almost mechanical motion, as if she were not in charge of her own body, she rose to her feet. In another blink of an eye, she stood on the cold flags of the cellar floor, with no indication as to how she got there. Her slender form was wrapped in a shining silk corset of deep crimson, which nipped her waist and pushed up her smooth white breasts. Her trim legs were encased in black silk stockings, running up to the pale marble of her thighs, and fastened to the corset by black garters. On her small feet were laced black patent leather ankle boots, with a tapering two inch-heel. Red opera gloves spun a web of silk from her fingers to her elbows, broken only by the thick glossy leather cuffs around each wrist, strapped tight and held with silver buckles. Two silver rings were clipped together, holding her wrists crossed, and resting in the small of her back. A crimson scarf of pure silk parted her ruby lips, holding them slightly apart. Her bloodless cheeks bulged slightly indicating that there was more of the smooth soft material inside her mouth, ensuring her silence. Time passed, a mere few heartbeats, then the woman appeared to come to life. A small red flame began to twinkle from the depths of her shining pupils, a quiet moan from her cloth-filled mouth. She turned smoothly, and heels tapping on the stone floor, moved over to the box next to hers. It was identical in every way, yet she sank lithely to the floor, falling gracefully into a kneeling position with her legs open, exposing her naked and shaved crotch. She waited there, arms held firmly behind her, as the second lid whispered open...
Chapter 1: New Life - Elena Bratescu was terrified. Despite this, excitement bubbled up in her like an underground spring. The anxiety and elation churned her stomach as she contemplated her new position in life. She was going to work at Castel Sleampa! As the pony and trap jolted over a rough mud track partially overgrown with weeds, her mind was whirling with a jumble of emotions. It was a great honour to be accepted for service, and not many peasant girls were favoured in this way. But the castle was so far away from her village, which they were even now leaving as night fell, and she would rarely be allowed home. She would miss her father and sister terribly, but this was her opportunity, her means to a new life. *** The hiring fair had been a way of life in her home village of Gaura for generations. It was one of the larger villages in the county, and the fair was visited by tradesmen throughout the area looking for an apprentice, providing the boys of the villages with the route to an honest trade, and a better life, once their indentures were completed. Local girls also attended these events, but usually not for the purposes of seeking employment. Girls were expected to find a good husband, settle down and bear children, and where better to earmark a husband than from the ranks of a group of fine young men who were about to secure a trade? Elena had not attended a fair before; at twenty-one, she was her father's despair. She should have been married off by now, perhaps with a child. Her beloved mamica had passed on in the evening of Ziua Crucii - Cross Day - a year ago. She well remembered rushing home, breathless, after a day spent in the forest with her sister Juana gathering the last of the remedying plants before autumn set in. Mamica had been unwell for weeks past, since being caught in an unseasonable torrential downpour in July, and had been growing steadily weaker ever since. There was a doctor in nearby Focsani, but no one in the village could possibly afford his services, and Bunica Vremeceara, the old woman who lived in the forest outside the village, had been called to tend to her. She was well known in the district, as one who delivered babies and tended to injuries and was widely respected for her knowledge of herb lore. Even she had been unable to do anything than make Mamica more comfortable. On what should have been a day of celebration, as Mamica had finally slipped away, with Elena clasping her thin hand tightly, all her certainties had ebbed away with her. She had wept bitterly, but Bunica had been brisk - death was a crucial time, and the best way to aid the departed was to ensure that the customs were strictly observed. Elena had sat through the death-watch that night, the tears drying on her face as she endeavoured to come to terms with her loss, not only of her mother, but of a basic foundation of her life. As the sun rose the next morning, so did Elena. She walked in the forests, her skirts dampened by the early dew be-dappling the ground, and resolved not become like her mother - tired, worn out by the daily toil of home and family, existing on little money, with only the prospect of growing old before her time and her daughter attending to her death-watch. *** Elena had dressed in her Sunday best for today. Her normal attire of black skirt and shirt, were here replaced by a richly adorned shirt, embroidered around the neck with coloured wool and cotton. The chest and the sleeves were decorated with float embroideries; the sleeves finished with the cuffs embroidered in black. Her ankle length skirt was woven of plain black wool, as was the belt. Her long auburn hair was swept up behind her headscarf. Her father, Petru, was beside her in the village square, his shoulders, bent from years of labour in the fields were even more hunched today, and his face was a mask of stone, but she could feel disapproval radiating from him in waves. They had argued about this, time and time again. He felt it was right that she marry locally and settle down. She argued that this life was no longer for her, and that in any case, Juana was still there for him. She was now seventeen, and could attend to the house and to his keeping. As further weight to her argument, Elena held up the contingency that her entry into service would allow her to send money home for them both. Elena had had to think long and hard about this. It had been all very well to talk grandly of having a different destiny, but in practice, there were few ways out of the village, service in a fine casa being one of them. She was a hard worker, a necessity after the death of her mother, and she was aware that a competent maid could progress to a higher status, perhaps even to that of Housekeeper, a position of great respectability indeed. Housekeepers from Focsani infrequently attended the fairs, looking for well-presented peasant girls, and word had arrived that a lady from Sleampa would be in the village today. Elena stood up straight, and folded her hands demurely in front of her. Sleampa, so the men said, was about twenty kilometres away in the foothills of the Muntii Vrancei. The villagers knew little of it, twenty kilometres being at least a journey of four hours by cart on the rutted tracks that passed for roads away from the large towns. The more curious of them were puzzled why anyone would venture this far for a hiring fair, when there were many villages that were much closer. *** By late morning, the tiny square had filled up with various blacksmiths, butchers, coopers and the like from the local villages, some to select lads, others just to talk and drink and laugh in the only tavern, a low red-brick cottage with two barrels of ale in the corner of the front room. It was in the way of being a small holiday for them, as well as business. Petru had stumped back to the house to get something to eat, but Elena did not dare move for fear of missing the lady. The day stretched out endlessly as she shuffled and waited and eventually crouched down in order to rest her weary legs and back. Petru had brought her some wheatbread and onions at midday but she was growing hungry again and her supply of patience, always a scarce commodity, was running low. None of the other village girls had stayed after the lads had left and hers had been a lonely wait. As the sun dropped low in the sky, a chill autumn breeze sprang up from the direction of the mountains, and she shivered in her thin clothes. Elena had been about to give up, to be resigned to another season at home, when the pony and trap trundled up the main -the only- street, passing the tiny dwellings huddled alongside it as if for comfort. She looked up expectantly as the vehicle drew to a halt. Sitting on the hard seat in the back was a tall anonymous figure, wrapped in a hooded cloak. The driver, a weather-beaten fellow in breeches and a grey cloak, clambered down from his seat, giving the skinny grey animal a brief pat. He moved over to where Elena waited, suddenly feeling greatly vulnerable. His sharp blue eyes roved over her face, taking in the delicate features, the shining green eyes and the clear skin, his face expressionless, as if he were sizing up a beast at market. Elena fidgeted uncomfortably under his scrutiny. Finally, with an air of decision, he turned back to the figure on the trap and nodded. The figure spoke. "Come, girl." Elena jumped, and her stomach began to flutter, but she obediently approached the trap, and curtseyed deeply before the occupant. The soft, but authoritative voice sounded amused. "So, you have manners? That is good. I am the menajer of Castel Sleampa, and I am looking for a new scullery maid. You are seeking to enter service?" "Yes, doamna, " Elena said politely, but her heart leapt. A scullery maid! A low beginning, to be sure, but a beginning, especially when she considered that this was no ordinary townhouse, but a castle! A nagging voice in the back of her mind asked why anyone from a castle's household would stoop to visiting a village for servants, when any fully-trained maid could be lured from the towns with the prospect of working in such a magnificent place. Her practical self admonished that it was not her place to question regarding such matters. It was the chance she had been waiting for! The woman spoke again. "Do you know any housekeeping, do you help your mother?" Elena lowered her eyes. "My mother is dead, doamna, I run the house now. I wash, sew, cook and clean. I milk the goats and tend to the vegetable patch. My younger sister helps of course." The cowled woman was silent for a time. Elena wondered if she was being sized up from the depths of that dark hood. She stood up straighter, pulling back her shoulders, and then the questions began. How many goats, how big a cottage, describe your daily tasks? Elena had answered all these, and volunteered other information, such as how she often helped Bunica Vremeceara with herbal preparations. Finally the woman said, "Very well, it is becoming late now. I must return to the Castel tonight, and I believe you have sufficient character and attitude to be worthy of a trial. You should say goodbye to your family and fetch any belongings you wish to bring." "Thank you doamna!" Elena smiled widely, and curtseyed once again. There was no acknowledgement from the cloaked woman. Elena ran back to the little cottage she shared with her father and sister. It was easily in view of the main street, and her father had been watching out the door for her. His lined, tired face had fallen as he had seen her turn from the trap wearing a large smile; he was about to lose her, as he'd lost her mother. But she was of age, and he had never been one to hold her back. She had always been headstrong, and could wrap him around her little finger, ever since she was a baby. She had to do what she thought was best. That greater part of him that was practical also realised that the money would be useful, but he would miss her enormously. There was no need for a long goodbye. It was customary for apprentices to leave immediately with their new masters, and for goodbyes to be said the previous evening. Elena had accordingly cooked a special meal the night before, a large stew with pork and cabbage, and they and Juana had sat, and talked and talked all evening by the crackling fire. It may have been all for nothing, had the pony and trap not arrived, or had Elena been rejected, but she had been determined to bid her beloved family farewell in the proper manner. Her belongings amounted to a few changes of clothes and her mother's rosary, all bound in a sacking bundle. With tears in her eyes, she tightly hugged her father, and then her little sister, a smaller version of herself, whose tears ran freely down her pink cheeks. Who knew when they'd see each other again? *** Elena had been glad to accept a travelling cloak from the taciturn driver, and huddled inside the rough woollen garment. Beside her sat her new employer, still silently shrouded in her own cloak. Elena knew better than to try and start a conversation, but she secretly wondered what it would be like to work for this aloof woman. And who was the Master of the castle? The trap rattled onwards, away from her old life, as the sun started to sink behind the far mountains.
Chapter 2: Journeys - The torches flared brighter again as if in welcome. The kneeling woman lifted her head, the fiery gleam that flickered deep in the dark pools of her eyes sharpening, brightening. She awoke. The delicious torment of another night lay in wait, another night, another eternity of blood and desire. A pattern without change... The body began to animate, reluctantly, as if powered by forces not within its control. The eyelids swept open, revealing icy blue eyes. They were flat, expressionless discs, cold and desolate. She sat up as if hinged in the middle, and scoured the room with that cold gaze, finally focussing on the slave. she sensed her Mistress, even before she saw Her. That powerful sensation that awoke a terrible raging hunger within, one that was never satisfied. she tensed in her restraints, trembling with want, but not daring to move an inch. There were worse things than the gnawing hunger, than the insatiable lust. she hurriedly lowered her head, to stare at her own exposed crotch, as Mistress stood up. A shiver of fear raced up and down her body. Fear, mixed with love. And yearning... She gazed down at Her slave, kneeling correctly before Her. The tide of hunger rose up as it always did. She must control it; She was not a beast! She rose in a single fluid movement, and the torches dipped low, as if in obeisance, as She stepped from her place of sanctuary, and approached Her pet. Long red nails ran lightly down the side of the pallid face, drawing a line of blood, stark against the ashen skin. her body was twanging like a bow string, her heightened senses almost overwhelmed with the presence of She who Sired her. she smelt the blood as it trickled down her face, but felt no pain. How could she? All she could feel was the deep, deep ache, and the Need. Unbidden, she grew aroused. She gripped the slave under the chin, nails digging in like talons, and pulled the head up to look at it. Blue eyes met green, and locked. Slowly the slave rose to her feet, her grace belying her bound arms. she tilted her head up and to one side, exposing a patch of bare white skin under where the silken gag ran round to the back of her head. her juices started to drip from between her puffy labia, pooling on the floor as her Mistress planted the Kiss - the Kiss of life, the Kiss of death...Her gift, her curse. *** The owl glided silently over the spiky treetops. It was the Hunter, silhouetted against the rising moon. Much has been said of the wisdom of owls, and that wisdom is the knowledge that a hunter is always alone. All else is prey, rival or threat, nothing more, nothing less. The wisdom is to live that solitary existence, to truly know one's place in the world and be content. Its sharp eyes spotted a quicksilver movement at the forest floor, and it swooped effortlessly down through the gaps in the grasping branches. The mouse looked up and saw its future descending to meet it. It stood transfixed, one tiny paw in the air, paralysed in the very act of its next step. The mouse, too, knew its place, just as did the owl. It now knew itself to be prey, and waited, frozen, for its fate to be fulfilled. The owl skimmed down, claws flexing, prey within inches... The heavy thudding of hooves broke the spell. The cold dry earth trembled almost imperceptibly, but to the mouse this was an earthquake. It quickly scurried away as the pony and trap approached, and the owl soared back into the cold night air, screeching its frustration. The harsh cry of the owl seemed to rake down Elena's spine, as she sat huddled inside her cloak. She had hoped that their journey would be broken at some stage, but they had passed through the little town of Nicieri without stopping, the pony's hooves echoing eerily across the rough cobblestones as they crossed the deserted marketplace. Elena had looked yearningly at the warmly glowing windows of the town's tavern as it had slipped away behind them. Not one word had either of her companions uttered for the last hour, and it looked as if they were to be on the road for some time. She shivered as they plunged deeper into the forest, beech trees and twisted oaks jostling for position along the rough track as if eager to reach out and grab the passers-by. She was chilled, despite the cloak, and uncomfortable from having no choice but to remain in place on the hard wooden seat of the trap as it jolted along the track through the forest. She was also becoming quite hungry, as her last meal, the dry bread and hard onions, seemed like an age ago, in another life. The pallid radiance of the moon lit their way, transforming the forest into a tangled monochrome confusion of light and shade, but there were clouds on the horizon in the direction of their journey, visible as great rolling patches of deeper darkness against the night sky, blotting out the stars. Elena couldn't help but imagine that they were lying in wait for someone... *** The lightning lashed through the inky sky, cracking over the back of the castle, and illuminating its jumble of red-tiled roofs even as the incessant rain battered down on them. The cellars were still smothered in a heavy silence. She had sipped from Her slave, struggling against the almost unbearable urge to drink deeply, to drain her to the last drop. But no, that function would be served by another... For her part, slave again knelt on that unyielding stone, her bound arms forcing her shoulders back as she dipped her head between Her legs, as She pulled her full silk skirts and petticoats up to accommodate her: slave must perform her duties before she received her reward. She sensed the questing tongue slide into Her, and in an instant "felt" again! Those old, bittersweet, mortal memories flooded into Her mind; those many, many times of gentle, sweet fulfilment, when love was a young and fragile bird, taking its first faltering flight from the nest, revelling in the host of unfamiliar and exciting images and emotions. Before the darkness, before the Need... slave could scent her Mistress, not merely the hot sweet arousal, but the stronger, metallic tang of the fluid of life that ran sluggishly through those cold veins. slave had to feed, must feed to live. The removal of her gag, the whispering of silk as it was pulled from her mouth, had almost been her undoing, as it always was. slave knew, though, somewhere in that part of the mind that could still reason as the person she'd once been, that her Needs were subservient to those of Mistress. Should she not show discipline then she would learn it. Perhaps she would never be allowed to feed again, left to suffer the Hunger, bound and wasting, for eternity. Such a fear stood out bright and sharp from the murk that enshrouded her mind. That and her ever-present restraint, ensured her obedience. The hot passion arose in Her, setting that cold body aflame, as slave's tongue caressed and swirled inside Her. She clasped slave's head, Her long fingers tangled in the raven curls, forcing her in deeper, and compelling the utterance of a soft muffled moan from the kneeling woman. she sensed Her arousal growing, and her efforts to pleasure Her took on a more intense urgency, instinctively knowing that her own Need would soon be satisfied. Her adept tongue danced, eagerly lapping at the musky sweetness within. She cried out, a cry of consummation, as the climax spread though the body, like lava flowing through cold rock. The throaty cry echoed through the cellar, shredding the heavy blanket of silence, as she was swept back to recollections of warmth and love, of being a real woman. Her fingers curled, her nails biting into the skin beneath the slave's hair, even as the body bucked and twisted in the throes of fulfilment. And then they were gone, ripped away, leaving only a distant dream. She grasped for the warm, contented feeling as it too, slipped away. Mere minutes had passed, all too soon. She opened her mouth, as if to sigh, but there was no breath. There had been none for a long time past. As the chilly desolation swept through the body again, she had the presence of mind to whisper "you may" at slave's unspoken plea. She barely felt the piercing of the skin of her inner thigh nor the steady flow as slave finally received her reward. slave drank greedily, revelling in Her completion, and the fusion of Being - Mistress and slave, One to another, back to One, a circle of eternal life, and eternal Need. *** The storm clouds began to roll in, thick and swollen with rain, as the pony and trap continued its slow journey towards Castel Sleampa.
Chapter 3: New Blood - slave knelt beside her Mistress, head bowed, eyes lowered, the gnawing Hunger staved off for now. It was never enough, but she was content to have served well, and to have received her reward. Her sharp incisors sank into the soft silk wadding of her gag. In her dim feral mind, she imagined them sinking into yielding flesh, supping on the life-giving goodness within...Not mere drops, sufficient only to keep her from wasting, but an endless flow - a feast. This had sometimes been permitted by the grace of her Mistress, but was so rare an occurrence to be the stuff of dreams. Her thoughts, such as they were, dwelt on little else, but it had never occurred to her to question or feel even the slightest resentment. It was the way it must be. Mistress was oblivious to the thoughts of Her slave. Were it possible that She could even perceive such faint, sluggish stirrings in that clouded mind, She would not have given them more than cursory attention. It was a slave. It had been fit for no other purpose, and would serve Her until She decreed otherwise. What happened beyond that time was of no importance. But, they were not alone in that deep secluded place, and Mistress' ruminations turned towards the other. She rose and glided over to the third sarcophagus in the row of four. This was identical to its brethren in every way, except for the very precious contents. She cracked the lid, and swung it upwards, raising the heavy rectangle of wood with no apparent effort. A faint gurgling scream instantly burst forth from within. She smiled down upon the occupant of the coffin. It was a kind, almost motherly smile, but there was no hint of warmth in the glittering depths of those crimson-tinged pupils. Inside lay a girl, of perhaps 20 years of age. A thick mane of ash-blonde hair, an unusual colour in this region, hinting at perhaps Scandinavian stock, flowed around her normally cheerful-looking plump face, her cheeks ruddy and glowing with health and vitality. Two terrified blue-green eyes darted from side to side under thick eyelashes, striving to focus on the dark figure silhouetted in the fierce light of the roaring torches. A muffled whimper was absorbed in the large square of silk wadded thickly into her mouth and bound in tightly behind another scarf. Mistress reached out a cold pale hand and gently stroked the soft cheeks, the pallid fingers a stark contrast with the pink skin across which they brushed. The girl sobbed into her gag, twisting her head wildly from side to side in a vain attempt to dislodge the icy touch. She writhed within the tight confines of the sarcophagus, and the tighter confines of the garment into which she was strapped. It was of white linen, swaddling her from waist to neck. Her arms were encased in long narrow sleeves, which were crossed over her chest, pushing up her ample breasts. The sleeves were wrapped around her body and disappeared behind her back, where they terminated in closed ends to which were sewn strong leather straps. These were buckled tightly, giving her the barest minimum of movement, but with little discomfort. Mistress had no intention of harming the girl; she was far too precious for that - she merely required safe storage until she became of use. Beneath the garment, she wore a coarse black woollen dress, and her legs were bare, save for the soft leather straps tethering her ankles to the two bottom corners of the coffin, keeping her legs spread apart. "Hush now," She whispered, almost sighed, as the girl squealed again. "Don't cry little one. I will keep you safe. You are so very important to me..." *** The storm had pounced with ferocious rapidity. The rain was lashing down as the little trap rattled through the dripping woodland, now on an upward incline, as the deep forest had begun thin out, giving way to the sparse foothills of the Vrancean Mountains. Elena wrapped her arms about her chest, hugging herself in her sodden cloak and fought to stop her teeth from chattering. Her silent companion hardly seemed to register the change in weather at all, and the driver merely pulled his hat lower over his eyes and hunched down into his seat, as if he could repel the downpour with the force of his will. Elena wondered, and not for the first time, why they could not have possibly stopped somewhere for the night. It would do her prospects little good to be stricken with a fever immediately upon arrival. She was a strong, hearty girl, who had scarcely a day's illness in her life, but then her mother had been caught in a storm exactly like this. Her throat constricted at the bitter memory. *** slave knelt once more at the feet of her Mistress. She could sense Her disquiet, Her unease, and the tattered remnants of reason she had been allowed to retain generated terror in her cold heart. she longed for her sister - she had watched in terrified incomprehension as Mistress indifferently cast her out of their world into the chaos outside and, her basest fear now was that the same fate would befall her. her cheek rested against Mistress' thigh, which was now discreetly covered by layers of silk and velvet, and she retreated back into sensuality, allowing the feel of the supple collar around her throat, the comforting softness of the cloth in her mouth, the security of the bindings keeping her arms snugly behind her back to chase away the terrors, at least for now. She almost purred as, without warning, soft but chill fingers began to absently run through her thick tresses. *** Their destination had been visible for some time now, and as they drew closer, Elena looked upon Castel Sleampa with awe. The stone edifice soared out of the rock as if it had been carved from it, as little detail could be seen in the darkness, except when a shaft of lightning starkly lit up the area. Elena shuddered upon seeing it. She was an uncomplicated, practical girl, but for some unfathomable reason, the sight of the forbidding exterior of her new home filled her with anxiety. It hardly seemed built of lifeless stone at all. Rather, the lightning appeared to animate its facade, each new flash twisting it into a misshapen travesty of itself, as if the place were alive and waiting for her. *** Terror burned in Adriana's heart. She was all alone in the dark, the dank blackness pressing in, not only on her body but also in her soul. Her struggles were weaker now, her arms no longer flailing ineffectually against the constricting linen sleeves that kept them tightly folded across her body. Her shoeless feet were bruised and sore from hours of kicking against the implacable wall and lid of her tiny prison, and her ankles were chafed by the straps that so constrained those kicks. Her mouth was parched and sore, both from chewing on the cloth wadded deep inside it, and her attempts to scream for help, for mercy, for salvation. She wept silently, unable to summon enough moisture to her mouth to scream anymore, futile though it was in any case. Her feeble cries had been immediately absorbed into the padded silk lining of her prison, and this exacerbated the dread feeling that she had been buried alive, with nothing more to look forward to than a slow suffocating death. At first her sense of panic had been overwhelming. Her heart had pounded against her rib-cage and her chest had felt so tight she could hardly breath. Her entire body had become numb, and she had believed that she would surely die, but her body could not sustain such a level of tension. She was worn-out, but sleep would not come, not to a mind constantly invaded by fear. The look in the Mistress's eyes, as she had raised the lid and had touched that cold unfeeling hand to her perspiring face, had been petrifying. The light had seared her eyes at first, but once her vision had returned, it had beheld a grotesque look of affection, almost motherliness, on the face of her employer, a face she had seen very rarely in the past, as her duties had been confined to the kitchens. Her almost hysterical sense of relief that light had returned had instantly dissipated at the sight of those eyes: cold, dark, yet aflame with...desire, no more than that...with hunger - a ghastly gloating lust. She had not known what this meant, but her muddled instincts had screamed at her, screamed that she was in mortal danger. And then the lid had crashed down again, returning her to darkness and providing her terrified mind with the seed of yet another fear. And now...now she was alone and she knew. She knew there would be no more light. As sure as the animal dragged into the abattoir somehow senses its fate, she knew that she would die. Her body cramped, parched and exhausted her mind barren and brutalised by fear, restrained tightly in that confining prison, in that coffin, she prayed to God, for a merciful release and for her soul.
Chapter 4 - Cast Out The tavern in the little village of Gunoigramada was a small circle of warmth, light and life in the cold howling darkness as the storm broke over the thatched rooftops of the tiny huddle of rough-stone cottages. *** It could smell the life, hot, flowing, vibrant. It hungered. It ached for that life, for the taste, the smell, and the feel of it. But the light terrified it. The light, and the noise - the laughter, the ribaldry, the bustle. All these things struck terror into its dead cold heart. All brought dim, hazy reminders of a life once known, of that warmth and companionship once shared. It longed for those things, even as it longed to feed, but it knew it could never have them again. It cowered in the crook of a branch, high above the tavern, shivering, not with cold, because the sensation of cold was one to which it had long since become accustomed, but with desire. It had been cast out, literally hurled from its rightful place at Her feet, and into this dark world, full of such delights and terrors. It still had the capability to feel regret, but not to understand how it had displeased Her. It wanted more than anything to serve again, to join with Her and bask in her approval, but the call of hunger was too strident to ignore. A memory floated slowly to the surface of the murk that filled its mind, vaguely recalling that the warm, glowing stone box beneath it, unlike most stone boxes in the blackness, would soon be emptying. The life would leave it and return to other stone boxes. The life would be happy, relaxed and unwary... Betiv raised an earthenware tankard to his fleshy lips, and took a deep long draught of the dark brown nutty ale that foamed within. His coarsened features were flushed with the effects of several tankards of the ale already this night, which was no different from any other night. He swallowed and belched pleasurably, looking sneeringly around the large room with its rough stone-flagged floor and whitewashed walls. It was packed with farmers, and farm labourers, all determinedly blotting out another day of unremitting toil and tedium with the ale and the entertainment of dice games or idle chat as they sat on the rough wooden benches arranged around three sides of the room. They laid their tankards and flicked their dice on crude wooden trestles. They were not particularly loud, coarse, or raucous - everyone was too tired for that - but it was a brief period of relaxation and companionship amid the drudgery of a peasant's life. Against the fourth wall were the ale casks, into which each man occasionally dipped his tankard, and made a mark on a slate beside it to indicate their tally. This slate was watched attentively by the landlord, a large florid faced man in coarse woollen trousers and tunic, with a leather apron tied over his bulging pot-belly. He would be the first to admit that most villagers were perfectly honest - the place was too small for much petty crime, but it was a fact of life that one or two of the villagers would, when thirsty after a hard day's work, occasionally forget to make their mark, leaving the landlord several tankards to the bad, a loss he could scarcely afford. Like everyone else, he was not a rich man, but the ale that filled the cups of his patrons was lovingly brewed in his own cellars, and he was accountable to no-one except the tax collector and the local landowner, who held title to his inn. Betiv was not a popular man. He was a bully and a drunkard, and as a farm labourer could more often be seen leaning on a pitchfork telling off-colour jokes than doing an honest day's work. Talk in the village was also that he beat his poor little wife after these nightly trips to the tavern. The other wives were well-used to her excuses of slipping over and walking into doorposts when they encountered her, and it did not take great intellect to work out that she was either the clumsiest woman in the district, or that her oaf of a husband was a little too quick with his fists. Of course it was none of *their* business, and they merely counted themselves lucky that their own husbands did not raise their hands to *them* -no more than was normal. Given the dubious qualities of the man there was a universal raising of spirits as he drained his tankard and banged it down on the trestle, causing the last few drops of ale within to spatter onto the hand of his immediate neighbour, who of course said nothing. There was little point in starting a fight now, and Betiv never changed. He threw a few coins onto the scarred and pitted wooden surface, then wobbled to his feet, and lurched towards the door without a word. He put his thumb on the latch, and as it clicked up, the door blew open violently, nearly bowling him over. He cursed profusely in a slurred voice. Damned weather! Why hadn't the woman warned him of this storm? Well she was going to pay for that when he got home. With that pettily vengeful thought uppermost in his drink-addled mind, he weaved off into the night, leaving the door swinging loose after him. *** It sniffed, savouring the new and rich scent of life. The need almost overwhelmed it, and all but overrode its fear of the light pouring out of the new opening in the stone box. It watched, hunger gnawing at its insides, drool pouring unchecked from between its lips as the life moved off into the turbulent night. It was not a natural hunter, and there was no idea or plan in that vacant mind as to how to bring the life down. There was however, the tiniest flicker of awareness that it would have to be careful. If the other life saw it, it would have no chance to feed tonight. It slithered down from its perch, barely registering as the twigs and knots abraded the pale flesh, creating fresh scratches to join the collection it had already picked up this past day. The smell of its own blood assaulted its sensitive nostrils, but the odour was cold, flat and unappealing. It needed the hot fresh blood carried by the life that even now weaved through the darkness below. Oh, so close, so close...Reaching the ground, it moved on bare silent feet, over the soft muddy ground towards the wonderful delicious life... *** The cellar was dark again, save for a solitary candle valiantly fighting to push away the waves of darkness that threatened to overwhelm it. She ought to return upstairs, join the living souls in this prison of Her own making but, somehow, wanted to avoid the necessity for as long as possible. It was not so much from a repugnance for mixing with people, for She rarely paid attention to any save for Her housekeeper, and did not particularly consider Her servants as "people" in any case. She had occasionally hosted tiresome dinners for the local gentry, if only to maintain Her credibility amongst the tightly-knit ranks of the country "nobility", and ensure the continuance of Her solitude at all other times. On those occasions she was at Her best, elegant, intelligent, the perfect hostess. But it was a facade, a shell. It reminded her of times past, when the warmth and friendship seemed good, but now they were nothing to her. On this night She felt tired - tired of this sterile semi-existence, tired of the endless hunger, and the dark - Yes, tired of the choking, swamping dark. Oh, for the kiss of the sun on Her pallid face again, the cool breeze of a spring morning, the dew glistening on the grass, the cornflower blue of a cloudless sky. In the curse of this endless existence, all these things had been ripped away from Her. She had not asked to be as She was, and was becoming weary of it. There had to be change... *** Betiv mumbled sourly to himself as his errant body ineffectually struggled against the winds that buffeted it. His course home was none too steady at the best of times, but to his muddled senses it seemed the cruel vixen of a wind was taking particular delight in sending him off on wild tangents. His house was at the far end of the village, only half a mile from the tavern, but the giggling harpy of a storm sent him crashing against darkened cottages, upended him in a patch of nettles, which he barely felt, and with an evil gust at one stage propelled him to his knees into something he didn't really want to think about, especially once the smell hit him. With each frustrated step his temper grew more vile, and the prospects for his poor wife became ever worse. It was after he had been sent reeling headfirst into a tree that he saw her. He shook his head, certain that something had been shaken loose by the heavy blow. She was naked, or at least as good as naked to a man who had barely seen his wife's ankles more than a dozen times. The shredded remains of some red undergarments clung to her thin body, with more scraps trailing from her arms and legs. It was almost pitch black with only the sullen glow from a moon partially obscured by scudding clouds to illuminate her, so details such as her emaciated condition, the dirty, tangled hair or the scratches and bruises that marked her arms and legs were scarcely noticeable. Nor did he register the damp earthy smell, like grave-mould, that exuded from her battered body. What he did see were her rounded breasts peeped out through the rips in her bodice, and her slender neck and shapely arms and legs. And her eyes! They almost burned with an incandescence he had never seen before. She was beauty personified, and she had come to him! A stupid leer spread across his ugly face. If she was the product of his sudden collision with the tree then by god he ought to hit his head more often! As she drew closer, he held his arms out in a drunken embrace. *** Love? She vaguely remembered love. A man holding out his arms, to hold and draw her to him. Yes love...warmth...passion...love... This life, this...*man*, loved her, and was going to help her, in the only way he could. She smiled, and took her new lover in her arms, drawing him to her in a long passionate kiss... *** Margareta Betiv heard the scream, even above the banshee wail of the wind as it forced its way through innumerable cracks and holes into her unkempt little hovel. She shivered in superstitious fear, as well as cold. Only the good Lord knew what roamed in the night outside. Thankfully her strong husband would be home soon. He would protect her from whatever was out there. He was a good and understanding man, even if her many faults forced him to discipline her more than she would prefer. She smiled happily and snuggled down in her threadbare blankets, waiting for her man.
Chapter 5: Castel Sleampa The echoes of the pony's hooves on the cobbles, though magnified and tossed back by the acoustics of the ornate stone arch under which they passed, were almost lost beneath the incandescent rage of the storm. Elena was almost numb with cold, the dampness from her sodden cloak seeming to seep into her very bones, and she was grateful for the temporary protection afforded by the arch, which formed the main entrance into the walled grounds of the great Castel, being part of a gatehouse. Despite her initial misgivings at the sight of the unwelcoming stone edifice, she was almost pathetically pleased to have finally arrived; she had had a long day, and an interminable journey, and longed for food and sleep. The pony clip-clopped to a halt, and the trap rocked slightly as the driver got down to shut the immense oaken gates behind them. Elena looked back as they banged closed with an air of finality, and the stray ridiculous thought flitted across her mind, would she ever pass through them again? She clicked her tongue, chiding herself for being so foolish. She knew that as a newly indentured servant she would have very little free time, and that she would probably not be allowed to return home for several months, but the few leu she earned as wages would be regularly sent home to her father, probably carried on the same trap that she was now sitting in. The driver climbed back into his seat at this point and the trap trundled off, the vibration from the rough cobblestones working its way through Elena's numb posterior and up her spine, already aching from the jolting it had received throughout this journey. A space of a few heartbeats, and they were back in the open air and being pummelled by the wind and rain once more. Elena squinted through the sheets of water pouring from the heavens, trying to make out her new home, but could only obtain a confused impression of shadowy looming walls and the occasional tiled roof as it was lit up by intermittent flashes of lightning. "It's just a building," she admonished her timid soul as apprehension again tried to lay claim to it. Then it struck her. Of course she was nervous, she had left her home, her father and her sister for the first time in her life to work in this grand place, knowing that she could be dismissed at any time should she fail to measure up to expectations. Her fears were normal, and quite understandable - now she recognised them for what they were, they were simple to push away. She was a hard worker, a thoughtful, practical, intelligent girl, and she would succeed here. She smiled, somewhat comforted by this resolve. This brief period of introspection had diverted her from the end of her long journey, and she looked up to see that the trap had threaded its way into a long narrow passageway between two high walls and was drawing up before a wide set of steps, leading up to a plain arched doorway. The door was of dark wood, and looked most unimposing, the arch lacking decoration or ornamentation of any kind. Elena had not really thought very hard about her arrival at this place, but had formed the somewhat hazy assumption of a grand entranceway lit by flaming torches and leading into a fine hall bedecked with rich tapestries and chandeliers. But this, of course, must be the servants' entrance. Not for her the honour of sweeping into the Castel like a visiting lady, but rather the hurried dash up the steps, at least as fast as her muscles, stiff with cold and damp, would allow her. And to stand dripping in a narrow stone flagged hall, inadequately lit by a dim tallow candle set into a metal sconce, dancing in the breeze from the door. It was in that dim light, that Elena finally saw the face of the menajer of Castel Sleampa, as she swept back her hood. It was a narrow face, with sensuous full lips, a strong chin and a thin tapering nose. Her eyes were deep set beneath finely shaped brows, and her thick red hair was pinned up neatly into a bun atop her head. Most surprising of all was her age - she did not look all that much older than Elena, at least not by this light, however the expression was that of a woman who had lived. She had seen something of life and not just the good side - she appeared...haunted? Elena mentally shook herself; these childish fancies were going to take a hold on her mind if she was not careful. The woman was probably as tired, cold and hungry as she herself was. The thought of hunger acted instantly on her stomach, even as she followed the other woman's lead by removing her drenched cloak. She wondered if she would be fed tonight. *** She reclined on the blue and gold brocaded chaise longue, hardly feeling the bite of the corset into Her ivory skin, as She watched the fierce magnificence of the storm outside Her window. It pleased Her to sometimes sit here in these chambers, as would a mortal woman, as She would have done once Herself, had She been born to the station that She presently occupied. But no, this lofty position was a gift, albeit a double-edged sword, like the greater gift that had been awarded to Her so long ago. A crystal goblet of ruby-red Madeira sat untouched on the rosewood table at Her side. The wine was occasionally an adequate diversion, but like any of the bounty that was ripened in the sun, or sliced from the carcasses of slain animals, or plucked out of the mud to extend the pitiful span of human life, it was merely swamp water to Her heightened tastes, when compared to the only sustenance worth the name. She sensed change. Rosu had returned, and along with the sullen mud-coloured grumbles that She had instantly plucked from her house-keeper's mind, was the dull silver gleam of hope, of uncertain optimism, that the right choice had finally been made. *** The outer door had now banged shut and the driver had disappeared with the pony and trap, evidently to return to whatever stables existed here, and Elena was alone with the reticent housekeeper, but not for long. Before she could make a further attempt at conversation, a door at the end of the short corridor clicked open, admitting a short plump fair-haired girl, perhaps half a head shorter than Elena. She was attired in a plain grey dress, somewhat shapeless, in Elena's opinion, over the top of which was a lighter-coloured bibbed pinafore. She had a mischievous-looking broad face, but the only expression it wore at that moment was one of respect, tinged with anxiety, as she came into the presence of the housekeeper. She bobbed a quick curtsey to her as she received the wet cloak and came level with Elena, smiling softly at her as she relieved her of her travelling garment. Finally, for the first time in hours, the housekeeper spoke, her authority belying her weariness. "Marica, this is our new scullery maid. You will see to it that she is fed supper and then assign her to Adriana's former quarters. Also see that she has proper attire before she commences her duties tomorrow. She is to report to the cook at 5 o' clock tomorrow morning. Have my supper sent to my room in an hour." "Yes, doamna Rosu," the girl called Marica murmured in a light clear voice, and curtseyed again, Elena quickly emulating this gesture, to be on the safe side. With that, and without a further glance at either of the girls, the housekeeper, or Rosu as Elena now knew her to be called, swept down the corridor and through the door at the end. Elena wasn't sure what to make of this abrupt departure, but was secretly glad that the remote unsmiling woman had gone. Marica reached out and took her hand, enfolding it in her own soft grasp. "Come," she smiled. "You must be very hungry." Elena smiled back, nodded and allowed herself to be led off down the corridor. Idly she wondered who Adriana was, and what she had done to lose her position here...She felt somewhat guilty for having taken another's job, though of course she did not know the girl. She hoped this Adriana had found a better place. *** Adriana awoke. Her nightmare-haunted sleep was over but yet another horror-filled day lay ahead. The constant fear of death hung over her, the terrifying thought that at any moment she would be damned forever... it was almost too much to bear. Half-starved and dying of thirst, she chewed continually on the sodden cloth sealed in her mouth. Her fatigued muscles feebly strained against the heavy cloth forcing her arms across her chest, even as her eyes strained against the inky blackness inside her sarcophagus prison. When would it end? When? With the same passion she had prayed for her soul, she now prayed for death...she called to God to lift her away from this living hell. She expected nothing else now. Death, whenever it came, would be a blessing, she could only trust in The Lord to deliver her from evil.
Chapter Six: A Bond Renewed Rosu hurried up the stairs, the gentle swish of her plain black cotton frock a counterpoint to the click of her heels on the stone flags as she made her way to report to her Mistress. Those clicks spawned a series of echoes in the narrow spiralling staircase, overlapping and merging into an eerie discordant tune. Her heart measured the beat as she climbed, pounding in a strong, steady rhythm against her ribcage as the blood pulsed through its chambers and snaked its warm, life-giving course through her veins. Despite the warmth of the exertion, she was cold, bone-weary and famished but knew that her own needs, as was only right and proper, were subordinate to her duties. She arrived breathless at the top of the stairs, and halted before a single oak door. It had no ornamentation of any kind; it was merely a simple rectangle of wood, smooth shiny with age and polishing with one blackened iron ring for a handle. She hesitated, but in a perverse irony, her fear of her Mistress drove her on, and she raised one shaking hand, which slowly formed into a fist to tap on the worn surface. It froze in mid-air as a voice, cold and crystal clear, called from behind the door, "Enter, Rosu." She suppressed the shudder of deep dread that threatened to overwhelm her, as it always did, no matter how many times she entered Her presence, and prepared to report to her Mistress. *** She was staring out of the narrow mullioned window at the breathtaking radiance of the storm outside, almost as if She were drinking in the spectacle. Her thoughts seemed a thousand miles away, but Rosu knew far better than to flout protocol. With fingers stiff from the cold she unbuttoned her dress, letting it drop to the floor, to puddle around her ankles. She stepped out of the garment, and slid her petticoats down to join it. Her long slender legs were revealed, clad in pearly white stockings. As her Mistress ordered, she wore no undergarments and her smooth-shaven mound was presented for Her attention. She then removed her chemise and stood now only in tightly laced white corset, before descending to her knees, which sank into the deep richly woven Turkish rug. This, together with the other rich furnishings, brought a certain vivacity to the dead stone of the chamber, although in doing so merely further highlighted the apparent lifelessness of its occupant. Rosu clasped her left wrist in her right hand behind her back, and lowered her eyes, which as ever were drawn into the swirling maelstrom of vibrant blues, crimsons, ochres and golds of the intricately woven rug. She was now to remain like this, awaiting her Mistress' pleasure. On most occasions, this entailed merely listening to her report, and dismissing her, leaving her to struggle back into her clothes, rejected. But then, there were the other times... After what seemed like a lifetime of waiting, her Mistress spoke. "As the storm-tossed ship is sacrificed to the jagged rocks, so my friend, the tempest, gives me that which I desire." Her voice was far-away, almost dreamy. "It was on a night like this when first I came here, when the rage of the heavens delivered me to Her. It is strange how little I remember...so many years..." Her voice trailed off as She contemplated the rain streaming down the windows. Then She turned, Her skirts swishing around Her with the abruptness of Her movement. The vague, dreamlike state had evaporated and Her steel-sharp stare skewered Her housekeeper, who did not even have to meet Her gaze to feel it piercing her soul. "you were successful." It was a statement, not a question. Rosu shivered anew. "Yes, Mistress. One found a new scullery maid in Gaura, but..." She stopped, biting her lip. "But?" The word hung in the air over Rosu's head like the Sword of Damocles, a single syllable, but drenched in threat. Rosu swallowed. She knew she had no choice now but to continue, else the thought would be plucked from her mind as easily as she might pluck a daisy from the earth and with as little regard for the effect she might have on the delicate plant. "It has become necessary to journey further afield for new...staff, Mistress, " she ventured, her voice trembling, as she prepared to dare question Her commands. "No-one from the local villages will send their daughters here now. They...know the stories...about the disappearances..." She was therefore surprised to hear her Mistress' laughter, but there was little warmth or gaiety in that harsh sound. "They know nothing," came the flat rejoinder. "They still cling to the old superstitions and legends, to try to explain what their feeble minds cannot comprehend. Vlad Drakul, Countess Bathory, mere petty thugs and butchers! They killed not for a purpose, not for need, but merely to slake their own thirst for blood and torture! And now you suggest that I have joined their ranks in the minds of the peasants? One girl, maybe two, in a decade, I take from the household here. The others that serve my needs, those peasants in the villages, die as people have always died. If I hasten the process, then so be it." The icy voice became warmed with contempt. "Better that their dull lumpen existence ends for a purpose other than just to rot away in their rat-infested hovels, from disease, or old age and infirmity, or at the hands of their barbaric husbands." Rosu withered under Her glare, yet still, somehow, found the fortitude to respond. "Yet, Mistress, one did not refer to the disappearances alone. Even those who work here, work to maintain both Your estates and Your reputation, cannot but help question the strange sounds from the cellars, the orders not to stir from their chambers at night...and the gossip reaches their families...and then spreads like the plague." "I rely on you, Rosu," her Mistress interrupted, Her voice heavy with menace, "to choose wisely and at random between the villages. For my part, I am neither greedy nor indiscriminate. I select those whom I wish to serve me with due care and attention - as I selected you - and I expect you to do the same." The kneeling woman lowered her head still further in a gesture of deeper humility, so that her chin almost touched her chest. She glided over, extending a delicate slim hand and grasped Her servant under the chin, tilting her head firmly up, forcing her to meet Her stare. The housekeeper flinched, but her eyes fixed unswervingly on those of their Mistress. She had no choice. "If the locals are getting suspicious, Rosu, then you are taking insufficient care. I do not care for the notion of a torch-carrying rabble battering at my gates. It is somehow... trite. You, therefore will have to apply more wisdom to your future choices, or so indeed shall I." She left the rest of this threat unspoken but its presence was clear and tangible in that circular chamber. She released her grip on Rosu's chin, leaving behind the deep indentation of her fingernails. Rosu gathered her fragmented wits back together and drew in a deep breath. "I have ordered the new girl to bed for now Mistress, and that she be ready to take up her duties by 5 o'clock tomorrow morning." The housekeeper groped for the mundanity of household affairs and work shifts as if desperate to take refuge there from the terror instilled by her Mistress' words. The brooding figure that had now returned to the window waved a negligent hand. "I have no interest in her duties, Rosu, you deal with the servants as is your place. I will...evaluate her in My own time." She turned her face back to the glass. Rosu ducked her head again. Normally this would be a signal that she was dismissed, but she did not rise. Her Mistress sensed it immediately: the dull black tendril of fear, so conspicuous from the formless grey clouds of dread that normally shrouded the minds of those who were close to Her. "Well, speak!" she snapped, suddenly wearying of this. Rosu knew her station, knew the terms upon which her continued service was based, and the guarantees that She had most graciously granted, but still she yielded to baseless fear like a dull common peasant. She was beginning to tire of the woman, despite her undoubted ability at running the household. "Rosu, the day that I first sipped at your throat, as a courtly lady delicately drinks her tea from a china cup, was the day that I took ownership of both your body and your mind. But the latter is as murky as a stagnant pond, and I see only the thoughts that float upon the surface like scum. Either tell me what it is you wish to say, or go. I grow tired of your timidity, slave, and the necessity of delicacy becomes ever less important. I thirst constantly and one of these nights I *will* take my fill." The servant's breath caught in her throat, and her voice was arrested for the space of several heartbeats. "One fears for the consequences of banishing the other slave, Mistress!" the sentence finally tumbled out. "It is running wild out there and who knows what might happen, whom it might kill in order to feed." Having blurted out this implied criticism, she lowered her head once more, half-expecting to feel the sharp teeth tearing at her throat at any moment. She sighed inwardly. Not only was She well aware of Rosu's error in questioning Her judgement, but also of the servant's overwhelming terror at the thought of the consequences. She modified her approach therefore and spoke more gently. Despite her annoyance, the woman was still useful. For the present. "Rosu, you have little cause for concern. The slave is unused to fending for itself. It will be confused and terrified, as I have left little of its former humanity behind. It will be as a wolf raised in captivity and then let loose into the wild. I do not doubt that it will sustain itself on what small creatures it can catch, but they will be insufficient, and it will eventually become weak and sickly. Naturally it cannot die, but I presume it will crawl into some filthy hole and exist as best it can." This condemnation of another living creature to eternal purgatory was uttered in a tone of complete indifference. There were all kinds of hells, and the slave's would be of its own making. In any case, how could one feel compassion for an object, a mere beast that could not obey the simplest of orders and control its urges unless constantly and stringently restrained? She turned Her attention back to Her servant, seeing the opportunity both for calming the woman's fears, and also meeting Her own needs. "Come, Rosu," She whispered. "Enough of such matters, let us renew our bond. I feel your thoughts grow vague and slip into grey shadows. Let us return the colour." She approached, slipping out of Her own attire as easily as a snake shedding its skin, revealing the milky white perfection of Her form. She snagged a leather belt from an occasional table as she passed, and rounded behind the housekeeper, wrapping the belt around the thin wrists, gently but snugly pinning them in the small of Rosu's back. Despite her fear, the housekeeper felt a frisson of arousal at the loss of her freedom. She licked her lips, moistening them as they dried, mere moments before a wadded silk scarf entered her mouth. She moaned gently as another scarf was knotted tightly behind her head. As the power of speech, of movement, of *choice* was taken away, she finally relaxed and barely felt it as needle-sharp incisors penetrated her neck and her Mistress joined with her again.
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