The Vampire With A Manga Girl Tattoo Part One Girl On A Train
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The Vampire With A Manga Girl Tattoo, Part Three: Feeding Time free porn video
I wake up naked and alone in a single bed, my flesh chilled as butchered meat. My flesh has assumed an icy pallor that belies the fever raging at my core, the aching fatigue that permeates my bones and pulls my limbs fetus-tight.
One small lamp illuminates the room. Above my head, a skylight holds back the oblivion of a starless night. I sit up and try to make sense of my surroundings. The sparsest of spaces: a free-standing mirror, this bed and a bedside cupboard that supports the lamp. The angled attic ceiling makes me think of a girl named Chloe and her garret room. Then it all comes back to me, the memory of this strange house — and that even stranger girl and her friend. One by one, pieces fall into place: the train and the girl; the taxi and youths; the woman Pandora and her art. Then a nothingness that my mind cannot penetrate.
The door opens and light spills into the room. Pandora and Chloe, silhouetted in the doorway, then crossing the threshold wearing their fabulous gowns of deception.
Draped over Pandora's outstretched arms is the dress I tried on long ago in some improbable other life. Now it is presented to me again like some offering at a shrine. I recognised it immediately. It had called out to me and now greets me like a forgotten lover.
A fey light illuminates both women, and I marvel at their otherworldly radiance. Pandora's savage red hair falls about her flawless shoulders. All of her affected ennui, her decadent ease, is gone. Now she radiates authority, her eyes piercing me with the crystal clarity of starlight.
Chloe's dress shimmers as its substantiality flares and dims. Through its transparency I see her perfection, the rarity of her flesh, how it shifts continually from the hue of November moonlight to a blush of mortal incarnadine.
The beauty of these creatures — for I no longer believe they are women — takes my breath away.
I know that I'm just dreaming because human females, no matter how beautiful they might be, cannot look like these two beings who once might have been Chloe and Pandora. The perfection they have assumed is not possible in a sane god's creation. That such praetor-natural beauty exists is a cruel joke that breaks my heart, negates all aesthetics. With only half the radiance and presence of either of these entities, an earthly woman would be a sensation, lionised and feted, the world gasp — as I now do.
"Oh Arabella," Pandora says, "sweetheart, do not be sad. Your need sang to us. And now you will come with us and learn of our source, the place where a new beginning waits for you ."
Chloe helps me from the bed, takes my arm and leads me to the mirror. When I take the dress, I sense its vitality, its sentience. I gather myself and anticipate the struggle dressing will be in my depleted state. But more than this, I fear this time the garment will reject me, see that I am hardly worthy. But when I step into the fabric and pull it up over my hips, the material enfolds me as before, quickly assuming my dimensions, settling and nuzzling around me, purring with pleasure at our reunion.
I look at my reflection and see I have become beautiful, perfect, life's taints healed, the inscriptions of age, bumps and blemishes airbrushed away. Is it some trick? Can this be me? I touch my cheek and observe my reflection's reciprocating movements until I am obliged to accept the image in the mirror as my own.
As I stare, Pandora rearranges the fabric of my dress as it settles, pulsates and thrums, caressing my flesh as if a lovesick, living thing. She is joyous to be reunited with me, have someone she can adorn. An infinity of tingles travels in waves over the length of my body, enlivening my flesh, making every pore shout and dance.
My mind starts to clear, energised by the garment that now compels new life into me. Little by little, I remember, as if waking from a dream.
How could I ever have believed that Araminta had a daughter? There is no Chloe, never met a Chloe in my life. The deception undermines all sense of who I am. How could the illusion of a life never lived have been so real, indistinguishable from a life lived? But now the illusion is evaporating in the heat of revelation.
"Understanding is growing in her," Pandora says to Chloe.
I stare at Chloe — rather the being I thought was Chloe. Her form shimmers and appears enveloped in an aura of scintillating light, now rearranging, becoming that of another.
A fey, delightful creature returns my gaze, beautiful but hardly human.
And I realise now that what Chloe shows me is her chimerical reality. Her presence is not entirely a presence at all. She assumes a form so dear to me, one that comforted me many years ago, a book of fairy stories that I read when I was five years old. It was my only solace during three weeks bedridden with measles, re-read time and time again lying beneath a comforting duvet. And now the imaginary creature from that book is given expression, brought to life in the form of Chloe, every fold in the fabric of fairy attire made vivid, each pleat, bow and button defined, curl and eyelash poignantly revealed.
And it comes to me like a gift: this creature standing before me can assume any shape it desires. That Chloe has chosen her present form reassures me of her kind intentions, sensing it not by words but by a knowing that she shares from a place beyond dimensions outside the remit of time.
"Arabella, sweetheart," Pandora says. "When Iesha first saw you, she heard you call to her. And so she became appropriate for you so that you would join us." She looks across to Iesha – who has now resumed the guise of Chloe – and says, "She is stronger now." And then she turns back to me and says, "We will take you to a place of healing."
Chloe leads me from the room by the hand and down a narrow staircase, Pandora following behind. I negotiate the stairs with difficulty. My legs are so weak that they barely support my weight. It takes all my powers of concentration to put one foot before the other. It is as if I'm recovering from the ravages of influenza, some post-viral fatigue from hell.
On the second floor of the house, we make our way along a wide corridor that never concludes. I see it stretching away into infinity, throwing space and time off-kilter. I begin to falter. And so we stop for a moment while they gently encourage me: "Not far now, Arabella," Chloe says.
We descend a steep, narrow staircase to a subterranean level where we wind through labyrinthine passages that angle and twist to no purpose. I have lost my orientation, am barely conscious of my surroundings. I am unfit to endure the ordeal of a descent that will deliver us to the dark foundations of the house — a building that I sense has private sentience, a conscious presence whose dimension I dare not imagine.
Soon we are in a space where the air is iced and the darkness profound. But even as the blackness consumes me, my eyes adjust, and I see the world as if viewed through night-vision lenses, everything reduced to hues of heat and cold.
Great ornate doors stand waiting at the far end of an enormous crypt-like cellar. The metal that defines them seems to hum and pulsate in a display that is an outlandish chiaroscuro of ever-changing shades.
"Nearly there," Chloe tells me.
"Arabella, sweetheart," Pandora says. "You must never open these doors unless you wear your dress. Understand?"
I nod.
"I want to hear you say that you understand. I need you to say the words!"
"I understand."
"It is good that you understand."
She pushes opens the doors just enough to allow us to pass through them in single file. They indicate that I am to go through first, but I'm becoming weaker. I have to summon my last reserves of strength to cross the threshold.
And when I do, I am bathed in a radiance that has no source. My limbs have become light and dislocated, insubstantial. I can no longer discern my physical boundaries. I walk with tentative steps, taking ten paces into the super-electrified field of light. I'm dissipating, and soon I will be gone, leaving behind not even a memory.
We move forward, and the luminescence begins to dissipate, revealing a dimly lit tunnel. I turn and look for my companions and see them emerging from the light that still hums and swirls. They nod, indicate that I am to continue.
But it so hard for me. Every movement I make drains what little strength I still retain. I sink to the floor and hug my knees. Pandora stoops beside me and kisses my lips, offers me new purpose.
"You can rest soon, Arabella. It is not far now," she says.
The walls are raw, bare stone, damp and cold here. I fear they have tricked me, that I will be imprisoned and fed upon, my drained shell left to rot in chains. But we walk on, and my eyes become accustomed, pierce the gloom, even prefer it. When I look ahead, I can make out an opening that admits limpid light. It is impossibly far away.
Another illusion, already we emerge into the shadows of a cliff face, maybe a high stone wall. Now I see that time itself is fucked, is flowing backwards, the black of nighttime become twilight. Surely another evening should not be here yet. Then they urge me forward, and I am out in the open, a strange new world where my feet tread cold, wet grass.
The air of this place is fresh and sweet. I breathe it in, deep and gratefully, as they lead the way to a low stone balustrade that bounds a cliff edge that commands a view of an ocean enamelled by moonlight. The surf crashing below is loud and ominous. A salty wind is in my hair, deposits the subtlest tang of an ocean on my lips, and a gargantuan full moon rises pearl hued above the waves, casting its numinous light upon the water's surface. The companion satellite that trails in its wake is salmon-hued, a more distant object the size of our earthly moon.
My eyes scan the coastline, follow the dark, high cliffs stretching far away to a bleak headland silhouetted against the half-light sky. When I peer over the stone balustrade, I see mountainous breakers crashing against toppled rocks. I turn and look at Chloe and Pandora, and they smile, pleased to be showing me this place.
Looming behind them are towers constructed of cyclopean stones, walls and battlements that would forestall a race of giants. Tucked into the lower facade of a lesser wall is the postern door through which we arrived. I survey the central keep beyond the wall, craning my neck to understand its giddy height. But there is no ceasing to its edifice — at least not one I can discern. Its walls strain to reach scudding battleship grey clouds hurrying inland. And all around the central tower are curtain walls that ramble into distant hills whose green hues are rendered turgid in the half-light of this new evening.
But this place is no ruin. I wonder what makes those who dwell here maintain such fortifications, and try to imagine what they might fear. The glow of lights from many rooms sparkle bright, diamonds and stars studded fast into unforgiving granite. And as I strain to calculate the tower's height, my legs fail me and I fall into blackness.
*****
I awake snug beneath heavy bedding, furs and wool blankets over silk sheets.
"You have returned to us," says Pandora.
"How did I get here? How long have I slept?" I ask, not sure if it is hours, days, weeks.
"Three days since we arrived, We had you carried here from the ocean."
"Where's Chloe."
"She is making preparations for you. But now you must rest. When everything is prepared, then you must learn how to feed."
"Feed?"
"You are not yet complete; you need sustenance."
I sleep again.
It is the depth of night when I next wake. I am still tucked up in a giant's bed, the heavy woollen blankets and furs holding me fast after hours of dreamless sleep. I wriggle free, emerge, and allow my gaze to follow the course of two glowing crystal orbs the size of grapefruits as they circle each other and slowly traverse the room from one corner to another, casting shadows in their wake. The air here is heady with a balm of incense that soothes and reassures.
The ethereal light emitted by the globes entrances me. A greater but softer light invades the room through a series of mullioned, arched windows that house leaded panes. They command the entire wall to my right. Delicate, intricate lattices of stonework separate each one. I see the orb of the moon, full and ripe through one of the windows but distorted by the thick glass and angled lead. In the outlandishly decorated fireplace, a blaze of logs crackle and spit sparks out of the grate.
And then I remember the dress, sense its presence, its loving fibres pulsing gently and nesting my breasts like a sleepy lover, lulling me as if held within its weave are many voices humming lullabies. There is a stirring within the fabric — a new expectancy. I sense something about to commence. The woof and weave births desire, creating an intolerable need in my heart. I try to sleep again but can't. My mind races, and I toss and turn, am confused and aching. Then I hear the door slowly open, the hinges shrill, wood creaking loud as if timber might crack and split.
When I turn to face whoever has arrived, I see Pandora and Chloe ushering others into the chamber: three girls, all dressed alike in simple bright white diaphanous gowns that cling to their limbs as they move around the room. They are exploring, and I see that this chamber is as strange to them as it is to me, that it is a treat to be allowed here.
But not one of the girls pays me any attention, seem unaware of my presence. They are such giddy geese, full of life as if arriving at a party. They browse the eclectic hoard that are the contents of this chamber as if shopping for nick-nacks, souvenirs of an excursion. Only now do I notice the room is like a repository of objets d'art. All manner of curiosities and outre items fill the surfaces and many shelves. When something snags one of the girls' interest, she wants to share her pleasure, calls to her companions and holds it up. Their voices are as sweet as a cherished daughter. They sing and trill to each other in a language I don't understand. I watch entranced as they go about their charmingly unselfconscious explorations.
All three are beautiful, graceful, guilelessly at ease with each other. Each wears a garland of small blood-red flowers to decorate ghostly shoulder-length hair, talcum-white tresses of fragrant curls. I look to Pandora and immediately understand that one of these girls is a gift and that I must choose which one it will be.
"Do they have names?" I ask out loud, addressing neither Chloe nor Pandora in particular.
"We do not name these creatures. They are The Soon Raised. They are of no consequence. "
Chloe comes to me, takes my hand, encourages me to my feet, and leads me amongst the darling creatures. The three girls do not see me, continue to inspect the room's contents, the furnishing, the curiosities and trinkets that continue to delight them so. When they pass close by, their bodies softly brush against me, their soft, firm breasts grazing mine, and sometimes each other's with familial unconcern, followed by words whispered to elicit a smile.
Each girl is fragrant and lovely, brimming with life's exquisite energy. I watch them intently, now sitting together on a cushioned window seat with a heavy leather-bound tome spread open on the middle one's knee, a girl either side, one sometimes pointing at something on the page. They are, entranced by whatever they see within the binding, question each other from time to time, nod, smile, sometimes giggle.
The radiance and vitality of these young creatures excite me, their fresh beauty eliciting new darkness that, little by little, reveals its nature to me. Some deep wordless knowing informs that these girls exist only to provide for someone such as me, raised it in a nursery hothouse like fatted calves for nine months in utter luxury.
My dress is agitated, its living material stirred by needs. They seep from the fabric and onto my skin, into my veins. But I will not be rushed, even though I am on taut reins. I sense the material already feeding on the youthful energy that moves around us, fills the room.
"Do they please you?" Pandora asks me. She remains impassive, stands close to the door through which she entered. "They exist to please you, to nourish you. But you must choose."
I am still invisible to the girls as I pass among them, appraising, imagining, intuiting the bond they share. They are so at ease and familiar with each other. The tie of blood flows in their veins, and though unmistakably sisters, only a hint of the age disparity separates them, no more than sixteen, seventeen, eighteen.
It is like being asked to pick a diamond from a handful offered, the decision to be made by the cut of its facets alone, each stone equally exquisite, desirable, valuable. It is how the cut of the stone refracts the light! That is what differentiates one from the other.
They have returned the book to its shelf, and now the three are on their feet again. I wander among these heavenly beings paying attention to each face in turn, touching a cheek, running my fingers through strands of their ethereal hair as they pass me, sometimes staying one in her tracks, resting my palms light on her waist, reaching out to stroke a cheek or chin. And still, they do not acknowledge me, move on when I relinquish them without so much as a snarky, "pardon me!" I study their lips and eyes, the clearness of their complexions, the way their emotions enliven their features, how glances to each other animate the corners of their eyes, their pleasing smiles, bright teeth and full lips.
I make my choice, decide which girl appeals the most. It is the one who must be the middle sister. It's her eyes that draw me, the way she regards her siblings as she moves amongst them. I love how she is thrilled to show the younger girl the exquisite intricacy of the outlandish and beautifully carved fertility goddess she has lifted from an alcove. And how her eyes angle for approval from the older girl as she holds up a ring she had taken from a small box,
I have chosen well, my dress subtly tightening around me when I point the girl out to Pandora. Energy flows to every corner of my body, arousing exquisite desire, sending it coursing through my nerves, my veins.
Pandora walks to the girl and, as if to dispel an enchantment, whispers into her ear. I see the dawning of understanding in her eyes. She is like a grazing creature suddenly alerted to the presence of a predator. The moment for which she has long prepared has arrived. Excitement born from anticipation animates her gaze, a new single-purpose burning bright as she regards me as if for the first time.
The living garment that I wear grows agitated, urging me to reach for her, goading me on. It brims over with yearning, wants me to take the girl in my arms and devour her flesh down to the bone. My stomach churns with depravity, newly summoned by the creature I wear. It is as if her need is greater than mine — though I find that hard to fathom. My blood rushes inwards from my extremities, bloats and thrills my sex with unmanageable yearning. And then a look, and gone is the farce of girlishness; now I see only the resolve and acceptance of a prisoner long condemned as they are taken from their cell.
I know this girl or what she is: a creature conjured, a facsimile of the feminine, sown and nurtured by the blackest of arts, given the grace and subtle wiles of her sex merely to please, to sugar the pill. She is a flesh and blood fabrication, a creation without a soul. And when I understand that she is no more real than an NPC in some video game, my dress flares and then blackens, and a sadness ripples throughout her weave, the sad laments of many souls imprisoned in the fabric, beautiful dead things, one and all. And I wonder how many.
Chloe and Pandora spirit the remaining two girls from the room. The one I have chosen turns from me and gazes out at the ocean through leaded pains. The light from the window renders her gown translucent, and I see her legs in a haze beneath a diaphanous shimmer.
I go to her and wrap my arms around her, rest my head upon her shoulder and inhale the natural unearthly sweetness of her tenuous tresses. I turn her to face me, and she looks back at me with eyes full of trust, her acquiescence. And for a moment, my old humanity resurfaces, and I am full of compassion for her fate. Her youth and beauty fill me with sadness and regret the thing I have become.
The girl hesitates. And then she understands it is her time, smiles for me as if I am some welcome guest, one that is long-anticipated. Understanding has found her. She comes to me speaking words I do not understand. Her voice is pure and sweet, its cadence and rhythm a spell wove out of thin air.
When she stands in front of me, my excitement exceeds my capacity to contain it, and I will not be able to maintain self-control much longer. She has come closer and is whispering in my ear. I cannot understand her words, but I know that she is ready to give herself to me. Tonight is the moment for which she has long prepared, the sole reason she exists. I lay my hands on her waist and pull her to me. My dress leaps and squeezes my bones out of sheer joy. Its fibres caress my buttocks and belly, gently corseting my thighs. The upper fabric gains substance, pluckers like lips against my nipples. Everywhere it makes contact with my flesh, electric shocks of pleasure surge and rage.
My belly through my dress, flat against that of the girl, our gowns silky between us. My heavy breasts squash into hers as if wanting to merge, the pliancy of her nipples stout against mine. And when I look into her eyes again, I see total trust and wonder. She raises her fingers and touches my lips, parting them, pushing at my teeth and gums, widening. Then her tongue is there, astounding me with its skill.
The prospect of what flows through her veins intoxicates me like an addict anticipating a hit. I loosen and ease her gown from her shoulders, send it gliding to her feet. My hands stroke her outrageously talcum-white skin. I sense the core of heat below the blood that courses beneath; through veins, arteries to nourish muscle and bone. She overflows with life's vitality, and I marvel at how it animates her. When I lay her down and kiss her flesh, my tongue savours the youthful flavour of her skin that has the silkiness of fresh cream. Her flesh is unique, unblemished and fragrant, and I wonder how it might taste if I were to bite, tear a piece free and swallow.
The tang of her vulva is the quintessence of sweetness, already plump with blood, engorged by her need. I want to bite her there too, extract the precious liquid that swells its tissues, draw deep from those swamped blood vessels flush with excitement. But the dress tells me the girl's sex is not the place from which I must take. And so my mouth works her body until I am looking into her guileless, expectant eyes. She returns my gaze, and somehow I know that the ways of love are new to her, that she is precious, kept closeted away from birth, hoarded for the likes of me. She smiles, raises both hands, threads fingers and threads into my hair, fastening tighter as my tongue plunges, curls and withdraws.
I use my hand to stir her sex as I kiss her, sned fingers the length of her bevelled flesh while savouring how gratefully she responds to the pace I set. The sexual energy that I evoke, upon which my dress feeds, is merely an entrée, a starter, hors d'oeuvre to the main dish about to be served.
The girl lies dazed and gasping, her eyes unbelieving that I please her so intently. Whoever has tended this girl, nurtured and raised her over many months, has left her inadequately prepared for a lover's touch. She is nothing more than a prize animal; domesticated stock reared for only one purpose.
After the storm of orgasm has washed over her, thrown her body out of kilter, when she settles again, I study her eyes, try to see the person she might be — even become. But there is an absence there, her pretty features almost vacant. She offers me a long-practised smile, raises her right arm and places her wrist to her lips. Two tiny, sharp canines puncture her radial artery, and a crimson spate flows free.
But she does not keep her wrist at her lips. Her lifeblood is a gift meant only for me. I watch it bubble from her vein in steady surges, entranced by the lure and promise of renewed life her blood promises me. The springhead of the wound liberates a track of crimson that circumscribes her wrist. I watch her expressions shift, the fear that now spoils her face as she sees its flux issuing from her outstretched arm and falling and onto the bed covers.
Afraid she might yet come to her senses, I take her gift, snatch it from her and bring it to my lips.
Human blood! The smell of it! The steel tang of it! And when I taste it for the first time, new vim and vigour surge through my entire body, satisfying me more than anything I have ever known.
What she gives permeates my entire being, body and mind —and what little remains of my soul. I learn to appreciate the subtleties that season blood's silky, thickening viscosity. And as I guzzle with greedy delight, my dress clings tighter, purrs its satisfaction as I feed. With each draught of blood I draw, a life I once thought inevitable vanishes, negated with each swallow.
The girl is contented now, her purpose fulfilled. It doesn't hurt — does it? Just like they said it wouldn't. She strokes my head, and I nuzzle down and take and take and take. And now she hums some strange lament that soothes me until I'm sated and fall into the deepest, most profound sleep I have ever known.
I do not wake when they come for her body, the husk of a thing not quite human.
Kaidence
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