I had been given to Madam Zumir at the age of fourteen because my mother could not pay a debt to the Madam. Something about a beauty ritual, and a youth sacrament that my mother took, without being able to pay, and I was the repossessed prize. I was basically an annexed granddaughter to the Madam, she treated me well, fed me, and sent me to school, after a short while I barely missed living with my mother. On my eighteenth birthday, just so I was legal, I was created anew as a zombie, and my grandmotherly Madam Zumir became my employer as I joined the ranks of her other “brides of death,” my colleagues, among the zombie-prostitute brothel that she ran thirty miles south of town.
Do you wonder what it was like, becoming a zombie? Especially one as well kept and able minded as myself? It takes a master of necromancy and a mistress of voodoo in one vessel. Madam Zumir, grandmotherly as she may look, was brought up with the religion of vodoun and was instructed as a young adult in the mathematical magic of necromancy. Needless to say, as a voodoo priestess, she knew what she was doing, and was feared as much as she was admired, you didn’t fuck with the Madam. So on my eighteenth birthday she bid me to dress in a gown she pulled from a dark oak chest from her living room. It wasn’t really in style, a deep crimson, but it fit like it was tailored to my lithe form.
“The dress has power,” the Madam explained to me as I dressed. “It will ensure your beauty and the strength of your flesh so that you will not rot once you lay within the grave.” She pulled a seemingly ancient cameo choker from a polished wooden box. The cameo looked like ivory, or bone and had my likeness carved upon it, or at least it looked like me, like any girl with longish curly hair. It hung upon a black velvet cord and Madam Zumir tied it tight around my neck, to bind me to herself, she said.
Once I was dressed Zumir ordered me to lie in a coffin. Seriously, she had this coffin set up on cinderblock and she ordered me to lie inside. Not one to balk at directions I laid myself down, and folded my hands over my chest, my skin had contacted gooseflesh, and my nipples had tightened and perked from being placed in a casket. There was a mix of fear and thrill that aroused me slightly as I lay there pressed against the stiff satin of the coffin and watched as Madam Zumir lit candles around the room, murmuring in a whispers words that were not English. As she spoke the flames on the candles seemed to flare up and throw the room into almost day-bright color. Her skin, which before was merely a dull matte brown was highlighted by the candle light and showed patched of gold and of molasses, her eyes were bright with power, and for a moment I was afraid.
“You will be fine, my dear.” Madam Zumir said, sensing my duress. “You may close your eyes if you wish.” And I did. I could still see the brightness of the candles from behind my eyelids, and could hear the Madam bustling about, but for as far as I was concerned; I was just lying in bed. The heat of the dozens of candles seemed to be heating the room; my skin was feeling warm, nearly feverish, I was afraid I would perspire in the antique dress. The warmth spread through me, but gathered in my erogenous zones, my breasts felt hot against the cool dress, and the heat between my legs made me worry about staining the dress with liquids other than sweat. The smell of rosemary filled my nostrils, and I opened my eyes to see the Madam sprinkling the herb over my body. I watched her pick up three smooth stones, and weigh them in her hand before adding a fourth, and larger stone.
“Open your mouth.” She ordered, and when I opened my mouth she placed the stones inside so that they bulged out my cheeks. I figured I looked like a squirrel with too many acorns stuffed in my mouth. Madam Zurin then took a pinch of beige powder and mixed it with another powder that was a brackish brown; I think it was dried blood. She held the palm’s worth of the powder clasped over my nose, to my credit I did try to fight her. I twisted in the coffin, and tried to expel the stones from my mouth in order to pull in non-polluted air, but her powder-filled hand was clamped over my face, and I was unable to breathe, save through my nostrils.
I tried to hold my breath, but my body betrayed me, and I inhaled the powder that Madam Zurin held for me.
The concoction had no taste, which surprised me, but it was strong, and made my eyes tear up. I had never done cocaine, but I figured the burning and tingling that suffused my nostrils and spread throughout my face and neck was akin to the sensation. It took a few moments for me to realize why my eyes were tearing up, because I could not blink; I had lost control over my body, and could not move my neck or face. The tingling was settling into a numb feeling, and I could feel it spreading over the rest of my body like an icy wave, and soon I could not move any part of my body, and even my chest stopped moving, stopped puling in oxygen. Panic filled me as I fought to breathe, my head raced and psychosomatically I felt I was choking, which was silly, since I didn’t have the control over my body in able to choke.
“Very good, Germain. Good girl. Now, the worst part is coming up. Right now you are only paralyzed, you must spend time with the dead in order to attain your full capacity.” Madam Zumir said as she packed the coffin, my coffin with salt and the leaves of herbs that I could still smell. She pricked the skin of my arm with a long needle, and I tried to flinch, only that I could not move, only feel the silver prick of sensation. I could feel a drop of blood form on my arm and spill down the side of my arm towards the inside of my elbow, the blood made me itch. The Madam caught up a bit of my blood with a white rag and put the whole cloth into a jar that she set on a shelve next to other nondescript jars. I felt as if I was only one of many touched, pulled, and paralyzed by the Madam’s power. If I could have moved, I would have shook with fear, or perhaps I wouldn’t have since my emotions were slowing falling into a blend of mild curiosity and apathy. And then the Madam closed the casket over me, shutting out light, shutting out day, shutting out my life as a mortal.
In the days that passed, I grew bored. I could sometimes hear, through the thickly insulated casket, strange sounds outside of my coffin, outside of myself. I could feel my casket being moved, could feel it being lowered, and I assumed I was in the ground because of how much colder the air around me grew. I could hear the sound of dirt falling against my narrow wooden home, and I knew, without much worry due to my apathy, that I was being buried alive, or as alive as I still remained. It was at this time in my existence that I became, for a short while, a philosopher. There was nothing so determining as time in my undead lifestyle, I did not need to sleep, or eat, or breathe, I did not have a pulse to count, or heartbeats to measure the time I spent submerged in the soil. So I seemed to float on timelessness as time was only relative to the living, I only had time to think. I was detached from myself, felt no pain, no aches, and no desire to be anywhere but where I was. My body was cold, I could feel, but it didn’t matter, and when, an indescribable amount of time later I was pulled from the earth that no longer mattered either.
When I was taken from the earth is was not Madam Zumir that I saw above me. Large, rough hands that chaffed my skin hoisted me up; out of my entombment. There was no moon as I was raised from the grave, pun intended, but it was bright. The cloudy sky reflected what illumination there happened to be from street lamps and car lights. In this gloomy, glazed light I caught sight of my hero/grave robber: dark skinned, and more broad than tall, his face was thick, his lip generous. His build wasn’t fat, just big, like that of a bouncer, or if he was fat, it was the hard fat that could take a punch with little damage. A muscular fat. He wore a black cap over his hair, and faded black jeans, nondescript clothing.
“I’m here to take you home, Miss Germain,” he told me, in a bourbon voice, deep and low, rounded out with a husky growl. “Your old lady sent me, you can be callin’ me Nathaniel.” I obviously could do nothing, couldn’t move or even acknowledge that I was still alive, and I felt assured that ol’ Nathaniel knew as much, since he spoke to me as if I were able to hold a conversation. Only madmen chatted with corpses, so he must have been an employee of the Madam; I had been summoned from my grave.
I was neither thrilled nor afraid to be returned to Madam Zumir, I felt very little except my deadness. There was no surprise, or dread when instead of directly returning me to my mistress Nathaniel dropped my body on a patch of grass on the bank of my grave, a gaping maw marring the landscape. “You is mighty fine to my eyes, Miss Germain, you’ll be a fine tool for Madam Z. The good thing, I figure, is that she don’t care too much if I use her corpse as a tool before returnin’ her.” I did the only thing I could do; I lay perfectly silent and still. A part of me, a tiny part, seemed to wish that I would want to rebel, at least in my very silent mind, against this rape, this necrophilia.
My brain felt as uncaring and cold as my body while I watched Nathaniel’s dark, greasy eyes scan my body in the fitted burial dress. He pulled an old pocketknife from his jeans pocket and flicked the blade. It was a bit rusty near the edge, but glinted dully in the low light, he knelt next to me, on the far side of my grave and stared at my face as he put the knife to the hem of my dress.
“You won’t be mindin’ this at all, Miss Germain. None of Madam Z’s girls ever do. You is just a tool to be used, is all. You understand I’m sure.” And with that he shredded, none to gracefully, my burial dress. From the corner of my eye I could see vermilion tatters dressing the soil-strewn grass, a remnant of my humanity. I was naked before my loving rapist, my adoring and perverted paramour, a lover of things deceased. And yet, I wasn’t dead, because I felt his hands upon my ashen body; I was aware of the warm, slightly sweaty touch of his palms cupping my breasts, and his teeth pulling my nipples out, and away from my body. I did not move. I couldn’t. He clutched my body; so cold in comparison with his heated one, his shirt felt like flannel, a rough, but warm material, and his breath burst like steam against my neck as he nuzzled me.
Just because I am a zombie, doesn’t mean I cannot feel pleasure, I soon learned. The friction of his unshaven face rubbing against my neck as he kissed me, nearly reverently, gave me a strange sense of elation. If I were alive, I would have physically reacted to the pressure of his lips on my jaw, his tongue parting my cold lips, and his searing hot kisses. But I was only a mind, and the pleasure, was only in my brain. So peculiar, I thought, that the touch, the phantom arousal that I felt bled away the cold and lifeless apathy that I had insurgent within me. Silently, I began to urge my captor to fuck me. Wordlessly I cheered the removal of his trousers, and if I could have spoken I would have applauded the healthy girth and optimistic length of my first post-life lay. It was a fine cock, as good as any I had had while alive, and with my death I wasn’t nearly as picky. I would never have dated one of Madam Zumir’s toadies while I was living, but I didn’t mind him fucking me while I was dead. I considered him a tool as strongly as he thought me one, I got the man off, and he broke up the monotony of being dead. Besides, I couldn’t have stopped him even if it did bug me.
He gave his manhood a few priming strokes, it was two meaty fists high, and even Nathaniel’s substantial grip did not fully encase the cock. An opalescent bead fattened on top of the turgid member, but I worried about lubrication; physically a dead body couldn’t produce lubricant; this could become a rape in truth. But thoughtful ol’ Nathaniel was kind enough to spit a large wad of saliva onto his hand and smear it as lubricant on his cock, crude, but effective. He readied his slicked up dick to penetrate into my slit, positioning a hand behind my back to support me, and another hand on my tit, his breathing was excited and peppered with animated murmurs. His first push inside me was pain. Spit was not the best lube, and being dead, I found, leaves you exceptionally dry. The second thrust drove his entire length into my pussy, and if I could have made any sound, I would have howled. It burned me bitterly, and it wasn’t just the dryness. I felt like I was literally burning, the skin of his cock was scorching in comparison with my ground-chilled corpse.
Nathaniel rested for a moment inside of me, driven to the hilt; he gave me time to get accustomed to his heat. It seemed that ol’ Nathaniel was a pro at the grave-robbing-corpse-stuffing game, it figured. His body was pressed so close to mine that I could smell his stale sweat, and cigarette smoke on his flannel, but the feelings that stabbed into my head kept me from being disgusted. Sex was suddenly a mind-altering drug to me in my deadened state. My body could feel, but could not react, had no outlet except for my brain, and so my head was overloaded with sensation, nearly mad with pleasure.
Nathaniel withdrew his cock with a grunt before shoving it all the way into my sex again, and began to rhythmically pump himself into my body. We made eye contact only once: my head was tilted back as he cupped my ass to impale me on his cock, and a curly tendril of my hair fell over my eyes. He brushed the hair away, almost tenderly, and grinned at me before looking back to his work.
I reached orgasm only a minute before Nathaniel kindly filled my pussy with boiling come. To say that ‘I reached orgasm’ is like saying falling face first off out of a plane is reaching the ground; my orgasm tore into my brain like a raccoon through a wood chipper. As inhumane as the comparison is, I find it apt. My body did not orgasm, my mind did, all the shudders, all the moaning, all the tingling and exploding was quarantined to my brain. My thought process couldn’t even track what had occurred to me, nor even if Nathaniel had pulled out, near the end I think I fainted. Funny, I didn’t think zombies could swoon.
Part II
When I came to I was on Madam Zumir’s kitchen table, a pale yellow Formica affair. I knew I came to, because my eyes opened. All by themselves it seemed, and it was incredibly odd. Even stranger my body budged when I attempted to raise myself to my feet. Oh, I didn’t get anywhere; I just kinda wobbled and floundered salmon-like on the table. I was naked, so I did not make the clichéd mistake of naively believing I had dreamed the entire event of my zombification and sexual education with Nathaniel. Just thinking about the sexual tryst made my body shiver, and my nipples tighten perceptibly.
“Ah, then you’d be waking up then, aren’t you?” Madam Zumir asked as she stepped through the kitchen door. She flicked the overhead light, blinding me before I could reflexively shut my eyes. I struggled to roll over, away from the light, but I felt weaker, more unable to move myself. The light switched off. “Just checking, Germain. Your light response is normal, bright lights have a draining effect on zombies, sunlight is the worst, the most debilitating,” The Madam informed while she checked my nonexistent pulse and raised me to a sitting position. I had the strange feeling of being in a doctor’s office for a check-up.
“Is it through? Am I… dead?” I asked, croaking with my unused vocal chords.
“The transformation is complete, and you look perfect, my best yet. Little Germain, you are a masterpiece. And you. Shall. Live. Forever!” The Madam’s pride and prominence made me a little leery, even in the state I had taken, I gestured for a mirror to see what monstrosity I had become. I took the silver-backed hand mirror that Madam Zumir proffered, bracing myself to see my terrible state, and I was astounded: I looked like me. Actually, I was me. I was a bit dirty, and paler, but not deformed, or decayed like I had feared. So, here I was, my soul bound to The Madam, and undead to boot. “You shall draw in many customers, dear, beautiful Germain. Once we get your legs back, that is.” She said emphatically. “I figure we’ll have you ready in a day or so. Are you hungry yet?”
Come to think of it, I was. But it was a sort of hunger I never felt before. In my human life I felt hunger in my stomach as my tummy would gurgle, or rumble, and I would physically hunger; my hunger now was a thought in my brain, a small idea gnawing at my consciousness. I nodded.
“We’ll get you some food, Germain. You must remember always to eat when you can. That way the hunger can be controlled. Wait too long…and you will become a ravenous creature beyond reason.” Madam Zumir waltzed herself over to a large avocado-green refrigerator and pulled out a pound of raw, ground beef. She removed the plastic wrapping from the meat and removed the Styrofoam backing, and pressed the red, slimy meat into my hands.
“Ugh!” I shouted, my voice still hoarse. I set the cold wad of beef on the sunny yellow table next to me and looked around for something to wipe my greasy hands on. “It’s raw! I can’t eat it raw!” I choked out over my disgust.
“You can and will, darlin’. Sooner or later, when your hunger takes control over your revulsion. Zombies like you need a complete balanced breakfast of raw meat. Either you eat this beef, or when the hunger takes over your brain, you could feast on the mailman, an innocent, or God forbid: a customer. Eat now.” She broke off a small chunk of the raw meat and waved it under my nose, and I could feel my mouth water. The idea of hunger in my brain became more insistent, almost demanding; the thought of eating raw meat became less disgusting. I snapped at the piece of meat, and nearly gobbled a bit of The Madam’s finger. That thought didn’t even gross me out. I felt like a finger wouldn’t be too bad at all.
“Now don’t you even think about it, Germain. I am not that kind of voodoo practitioner. You will not be eating anyone if I can help it.” Her voice was stern, and she pointed to the hunk of beef on the table. I hesitatingly lifted the meat up, leaving a greasy splotch on the Formica and tentatively ate at the beef. Eating the raw meat slowly was a bad idea; I could feel the slimy texture slide down my throat, ever so gradually…If I wasn’t so sated by the retreating hunger pangs, I would have thrown up the cold, slippery meat. But before I knew it I had devoured the entire pound.
On the bright side, I felt stronger. I no longer had to fight to remain sitting up, I stretched a little, feeling a healthy ache from my body; coffins tend to be cramped, even if you can’t move. “Should I try to walk, Madam?” I asked, my voice gaining in strength. She nodded, smiling at her creation, proud of her power. I willed my limbs to move and I hung my legs off the side of the table, toes dangling four inches from the swept hardwood floor. I nudged myself off the edge and there was a great pain in my feet and calves when I touched down onto the floor. Severe pins and needles, like my legs weren’t just asleep, but like they were in a coma, I stumbled, and leaned my hands against the stove, willing the pain to recede. The Madam just calmly watched with arms crossed and bird-like eyes peering seemingly into my soul, if I still had one. I felt like she was gauging my worth, measuring my value to her…my employer was terribly shrewd.
I spent the night teaching myself to walk again, and I marveled at my body’s responses. I hesitated to ask The Madam how long I had been in the ground, but I realized I didn’t really want to know; none of that mattered except my new life. Once I regained the control over my limbs I didn’t sleep, since my need for it was gone, but rested on The Madam’s old plaid couch, watching late-night television and infomercials. I was surprised at how keenly I could still think and feel, but alarmed to feel that old apathy leaking back into me. I had assumed it was a part of being buried in the cold ground, but now I realized it was a part of my newly found zombiehood.
The next morning a car with a driver came for me at nine. Madam Zumir dressed me in an old robe with pink flowers and led me to the backseat of the car, settling herself promptly at my side. The car started and we began the drive to The Madam’s bordello, the both of us were silent for a long time. The driver took winding, dusty roads and we didn’t see a single other car besides our own. I could feel her eyes on me before she spoke.
“You are feeling the despondency, no?” she asked me kindly. I turned away from the view I was gazing at morosely through the car window and nodded, wondering how she knew. “Regretfully, that is a side effect of the zombification process; the loss of the soul removes emotions and feelings from the brain, causing the detachment. You will find, if you have not already, that sex temporarily restores and strengthens your feelings, that is why your occupation shall suit you perfectly.” My life, as a prostitute, I wondered absently what my mother would say.
Ten minutes longer, and we pulled through a large driveway, hidden by foliage. Through the trees a large, white house majestically emerged. It was three stories, with gabled roofs over the windows and scalloped siding, an old house from the turn of the century, but well kept with neatly painted trim. At least, I thought to myself, I’d be working in a pretty house. The Madam opened my car door and drew me out. She placed her hands on my shoulders, as if to get a better view of me. I was surprised to see tears in her eyes.
“You are so beautiful, my Germain. You are lovely, I am so proud of you, you will outshine every other girl in the house, I know you will. Because you are mine.” And with that said she kissed both my cheeks and left me on the doorstep, rapping on the large oak door before heading back to her car. My apathy receded enough for me to feel lonely, in front of the big white house, waiting for someone to open the door, and to let me inside.
Part III
It was a few moments before I heard stirring from within as someone came to usher me into the house. The heavy door was thrown open and in it’s wake stood a small man. Perhaps small isn’t the correct word, but he was perfectly formed, and petite, he must have topped off at five foot two, three inches shorter than myself. He was dressed in red silk pajamas, decidedly oriental, and it made his cheeks look pinker. His hair was the color of new hay, a stark blonde, and his eyes matched, being a pale blue. Eyes that reminded me of a husky, or a wolf, though they were not so very cold at the moment, I could imagine them becoming very harsh.
“Good morning, miss, what can I do for you?” He asked politely. I wondered if he knew who I was, or why I was here. The hidden drive would have made uninvited visitors a strange occurrence, but perhaps they wanted to be extra safe.
“I’m Germain. I belong to Madam Zumir,” I offered helpfully. I think I even smiled at the smallish man.
“Oh yes, yes! Figures the woman would just leave you here. Come in, please. She phoned us last week to tell us of your addition to our…little family.” He ushered me into the vestibule, closing the door behind me. The furnishings were lavish, this brothel spoke only of class, and elegance, and I must say I was surprised. The walls were papered with a textured sky blue, and sconces hung on the wall every eight feet or so, spilling warm light, the floors were of stone, perhaps marble, and an arrangement of lilies sat in a crystal vase on a small table near the door. “Have you fed, Germain?” The man asked me, more kindly than I expected. I shook my head; I wasn’t ready enough to chow raw meat this early in the morning.
“Very well, follow me please.” He led me down a long hallway, no less luxurious than the foyer, and took a right up a monumental staircase. I may not have been sure if the floor was marble, but the staircase certainly was. Each step was four feet wide, with cushioned chairs invitingly set every other stair. We traveled down another long hall, I kept back a few feet as to watch the sinuous way the man walked, a graceful glide that made he silken cloth covering his body shimmer in the dim light. I was amazed at how silent and still the big house was, and I wondered where the other whores were, the missing Brides of Death. Abruptly he stopped at a closed door and fished a ring of keys from the front pocket of his pajama pants.
Unlocking the door quietly the man directed me inside. He flicked a switch and low lighting glowed out a ceiling lamp, enough to comfortably see by, but not enough to bother me. The floor was carpeted in a shade of eggplant, and a modern king-sized bed took up the middle of the room, shrouded in a deep red coverlet, and hidden by gauzy white curtains. Heavy red drapes, the same hue as the bedspread covered large windows, blocking out all disdainful light, and original oil paintings, not prints, hung sporadically through the large room. I almost didn’t notice, but in a shadowed corner there was a large, dark marble bathing tub, sunk into the carpeted floor. It seemed incongruous with the rest of the room, nearly ludicrous except for it’s richness in the décor. There was a large wardrobe, and a cabinet made of fine, dark wood, also there was a small, stainless steel refrigerator by the bed, no doubt containing more raw meat so I didn’t end up wandering insanely eating up whatever I thoughtlessly chose.
“Your room, Miss. You shall be staying here, and this is where you will do the majority of your work as well. My name is Gregory; I am Madam Zumir’s overseer here at The White Birch House. I make sure all transactions run smoothly, and that the girls cooperate and are treated well, it’s my job to serve, and be served by you. I generally just take care of things for Madam Zumir.” Gregory gently closed the door behind him, and clasped his hands. “The first order of business, is to get you bathed, and presentable, so you may meet the other girls for lunch. Are you adverse to a bath, Miss Germain?”
“No, I would have showered much sooner, had I the chance. Even zombies don’t like being smudged with grave-dirt,” I said with a smile. I was rewarded by a genuinely warm laugh from Gregory. His laugh was robust and deep, coming from a smaller man, I was shocked, and comforted by his presence. It was either the apathy swallowing me up, or my comfort with the overseer, but I didn’t mind at all when he remove the slightly frayed, flowery robe and threw it on the bed.
He took me by the hand, and twirled me slowly about, making no move to hide his staring at my naked, soil-stained body. I felt my breasts weighed by his scrutiny, and I imagined the hair on my pubis to coil more tightly under his direct gaze. Gregory reached out a beautiful, pale hand, almost feminine and lifted my left breast gently.
“Much beauty, child. You are gifted with a fine splendor.” He said appreciatively, leading me over to the dark basin, releasing me to turn the faucet on with water hot enough to send whirls of steam wafting into the air. Gregory poured two large handfuls of a granulated pink powder, smelling of springtime and candy into the water, and big poufs of bath suds began to rise as the tub filled. While we waited for the bath to fill he gave me a tour of the wardrobe, dozens of dresses hung on padded hangers within the wooden alcove, I presumed they were all my size, and each one specifically designed to flatter my frame. I felt like an undead Cinderella from a macabre fairytale.
I stepped gracefully over to the bath, not really conscious of my nudity around Gregory and sank down into the sweet-smelling suds. The water was very, very hot, but I didn’t mind it. Somehow I knew if I was still human, I’d be in pain from the nearly boiling water, but it didn’t bother me now. I sighed and leaned my head back as the heat warmed the cold in my bones that I had grown so accustomed to in the chilly grave. I felt tender hands in my hair, pulling the long strands out from behind my head, massaging my scalp. I looked back at Gregory and smiled warmly, I felt like a princess with her own attendant, Madam Zumir had never treated me so well, hell, even guys I dated hadn’t been so kind. The shampoo he began to work into my hair smelled herbal and sweet, and soon he began to pour clear water over my head, rinsing my hair to cover my face.
Gregory took to washing me, he would not allow me to lift a finger or do anything other that relax as he rubbed me with a sea sponge larger than both my hands, washing away all my dirt and sins.
When I was washed and clean Gregory lifted me out of the rapidly cooling water and began to dry me off with a fluffy white towel, carefully drying my skin and hair and remaining respectful. “How are you feeling now?” He asked as he finished toweling me.
“Much cleaner, thank you, nearly my old self.” I replied, as grateful as I felt. I pulled the towel around me, relishing its softness against my skin.
“I sense that you might need to be fed soon, before dinner with the girls.” Gregory must have seen me recoil because he soon added: “No no, not meat, though that will come later. Are you feeling detached, unfeeling? Didn’t Madam Zumir speak to you about this?” He looked a bit cross until I nodded. Then he slowly began to unbutton his silk top exposing pale, creamy chest. He was perfectly formed with a small trail of blonde, almost invisible hair tracing from a patch on his chest to where it vanished in the waistband of his silky pants. I had the option of faking a quizzical look or just seizing the moment and accepting the offer of sex with Gregory.
“Are you wearing anything under those pants?” I asked. Being zombified didn’t make me a smoother chica; at best I was only a mediocre flirt. I didn’t wait for him to answer but slipped my hands over his hips, under the fabric of his pants. No, he was not wearing anything under the pajamas. His mouth opened partially, my desired reaction, and I took the opportunity to close my mouth over his. Let me tell you, kissing someone shorter than yourself is a very interesting feeling; I felt protective and gentle, and underneath I felt like I was in control of the situation. I cupped Gregory’s face in both my hand and pulled him further into my kiss, perhaps against his will because he struggled slightly to skirt away, maybe to breathe.
I moved so close to him I could smell his light, citrus aftershave and the scent of his skin; the aroma of skin, of meat. I grabbed him by the hair and kissed him violently enough to draw the copper-sweet taste of his blood into my mouth as I moved down to the bed. His hands were cupping my breasts as I straddled him, his moans were faint and swallowed up by my mouth, hungry and eager. The taste of blood held no revulsion for me; I sucked fervently on his lips, feeding myself from his passion. Blood wasn’t enough, I needed meat. I had to feed the hunger that loomed voraciously in my brain. I bit down a bit harder on Gregory’s lip, he struggled in earnest, but I was stronger by far. His erection was full, and pressed against my thigh, the thin silk a flimsy barrier, and the choice was mine: food, or fuck.
Instinctively I pulled my face away from his, to see the fear in his cool, blue eyes. And yes, there was panic, but also the darkness of the eyes that denotes arousal; he was scared, but lovin’ it. The thought of his fright mixed with physical pleasure filled me with heat, and I could feel moisture grow between my thighs, to my joy of course. I tested my strength on his trousers, taking them in my hands, pulling them taut, and tearing them straight off his skin with a wet rrrrrrrrip. My eyes went huge when I saw his cock. The man was five foot two, but he was huge. I had only seen a penis so large in pornography, he was very well equipped, and as thick as my forearm, my pussy began to tingle in anticipation. I began salivate as well, and not from arousal. One of my hungers had to be sated immediately, or Gregory would not survive.
I gave no warning, but let myself fall, penetrating myself on his cock. Gregory’s whole body convulsed, his back arched, and a low sound rushed forth from somewhere deep in his throat. He was a hair’s breadth away from being too big for me, I felt him pressing, throbbing against my canal… My mouth found his once more and I rode him, mindless enjoying the pleasure that wracked my body, as well as the extra something that filled my mind. It wasn’t as extreme or encompassing as before with Nathaniel, but I could still feel mentally my orgasm starting to build, and it urged me on. I would rise on my knees until only his head of his penis pressed inside me, and drive myself own, impaling myself and making the bed shake. My bloodstained kisses left his mouth, and I licked and sucked his neck and shoulders, his moans grew louder, more frantic. Perhaps he thought I was tasting him, and he was a little frantic. Perhaps I was tasting him. I could taste his fear, his need, and my power.
My licking turned to nibbling, and my nibbles became biting. I loved the feel of a mouthful of his skin and flesh. My one hunger began to feed my other hunger, the sex made me hungry for meat; hungry for Gregory. I was close to my climax, slamming my cunt down on his monster of a cock, filling my pussy, but starving my hunger…I still had some vestige of sanity, I would not eat the overseer. But the closer I came to orgasm, and the more Gregory writhed beneath me the more clear my realization occurred to me; when I came, I would feed. The rapidly shrinking piece of my brain that housed sanity suddenly wished I hadn’t skipped breakfast.
The hot waves of my magma lust were lapping at my consciousness, my teeth scraped Gregory’s collarbone, and he shouted my name blindly, hands clutching my hair and head, but I couldn’t tell whether he was pushing me away, or pulling me closer. He was moaning so much louder now, my teeth grinding deep into his body, and he writhed he lifted us both off the bed, and I came like a shower of sparks. It was actually very unexpected, and ripped through me as I had ripped Gregory’s pants earlier, I felt the explosion in my mind, and the contraction of my vagina, and his orgasm as well and his hands tightened on my head…and it was a few moment before I realized I had bitten through Gregory’s shoulder.
I had taken a small bite of his shoulder, and since there was no evidence, I must have swallowed it. His blood tasted fresh and sugary on my tongue, I held no remorse. Gregory lay panting on the bed, a trickle of blood from his shoulder seeped into the red coverlet. His eyes were glazed and wild. And he was in a lsight daze, grinning.
It was a moment before either of us could speak; he made no move to cover his body, or the wound. I spoke first: “Perhaps you should get a bandage for that.” I would not waste my time with apologies, Gregory was the overseer, and he knew what he had gotten himself into. I smiled, sated completely.
“And you should dress for lunch though you already had your appetizer.” He jested, gesturing to the wardrobe. Gregory slowly got to his feet and pressed my flowered robe against his shoulder to staunch the bleeding. “As much as I enjoyed that…extravagance, your customers may not. You must feed prior to every client. We cannot let any mishaps occur. Keep it in mind, Germain.” He said, a bit gruffly. Left with nothing to do but dress, I chose a simple gown, the shade of sea foam, washed most of the sex-fluids and blood off myself, and ran a brush through my still damp hair.
Gregory vanished for a moment and returned fully dressed and preened, like nothing had happened and offered me an arm. Down the steps we slowly waltzed, almost a ridiculous caricature of a prom couple. In a comfortable silence we strolled, down corridors, all decorated with perfect taste. I was perfectly assured that we were lost when we turned a corner into a huge meeting hall. There was an ornately carved table in the very center, huge, long enough to fit at least twenty people, and at the table were a strange assortment of the undead. I took a deep breath, and made ready to enter the lion’s den.