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From: punchinello@pulperotica.com (Punchinello)
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Subject: {ASSM} The Vampire's Seduction (MF, nc) Pulp story!
Date: Mon,  4 Nov 2002 00:10:02 -0500
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THE VAMPIRE'S SEDUCTION

The pale country gentleman came to dinner and found the young nun a
very tasty dish.


DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. If you are offended by sexually
explicit material or are under the age of 18, stop reading now. This
material cannot be reproduced for commercial purposes without the
consent of the author.

MORE PULP EROTICA AT http://www.pulperotica.com!


The Vampire's Seduction

(MF, nc)
By: Punchinello
punchinello@pulperotica.com

England, 1837

She was a pious little thing, even for a nun. But she wasn't strong
enough. Few are--even nuns. She stood transfixed by my gaze there at
the bottom of the stairs, in the flickering shadows of the
candlelight.

It was really quite pathetic, truthfully. Perhaps too much so. She was
so young and so innocent; she hadn't yet learned how to control
desire, how to harness it and use it to make her stronger in resisting
temptation.

Older nuns, beautiful and devout ladies of 30 or 35, must be caught
bathing or else in their nightgowns, and even then must be coaxed and
even debated. This poor girl, though, I needed merely to charm, to
catch her gaze, hold it, and draw her to me slowly. The vampire's
power to charm is quite astounding. Although it does not always give
him absolute power over his prey, it always at the least gives the
beast a moment to speak his peace, to really tempt his prey, when she
would normally flee from him without thought; a vampire, after all, is
not a beautiful thing to look upon.

Men--mortal men--see the handsomeness of jaw and the patrician nose
and believe the vampire to be irresistibly attractive to women. But
women--beautiful women--see only the cruel mouth, the dark eye. In
that first moment, they see the vampire for what he is: a gaunt and
pallid creature, cold and unholy. But then, then the dark eye sparkles
in the lamplight; then the cruel mouth speaks words of wit and style.
And their defenses begin to crumble.

But this poor, pathetic child required no words at all, merely the
sparkling spell of that sinister eye and unholy grace of those gaunt
limbs. She wore her habit, carried her beads, wore the crux, but they
did not help her. She did not turn to them, find strength in them.
Their beauty and their ceremony were only so much ornament and ritual.
She was mine from the moment that our eyes met, there in the shadows
at the bottom of the staircase.

We rejoined the our hosts almost immediately, but with a new
understanding. She remained entranced, staring into the corners of the
ceiling, responding to questions and conversation only minimally, and,
eventually, begging a chamber in which to lie down. Our hosts obliged
immediately, hospitable young couple that they were, with their own
bedchamber.

I excused myself early, intent on returning late.

By the light of a sickle moon, I brought myself to the balcony of the
chamber. She, my prey, had opened the glass-paned doors as an
invitation, both an enticement and a sign. I crossed the threshold
without difficulty and brushed past the filmy curtains into the dim
chamber, silent and unseen.

The large bed sat apart from the rest of the room, curtained with the
same filmy fabric as that at the balcony doors. I approached silently,
with only the cool, night wind and the song of wolves in the distance
heralding my arrival. She, the woman herself, parted the curtains.

Her face bore that familiar look of apprehension and relief: I had
come, and I had come to take her. Seizing her gaze, I took her into my
dark will again. She was helpless, but terribly willing.

So dark and deep was her desire that she could not raise a hand to
clutch the silver crux that hung about her pale throat. I snapped the
chain that held it there and gazed upon it with perfect impunity. I
have not often had the opportunity to examine the Idol, never in such
detail, nor such a beautiful example.

The tiny figure hung pathetically from the wooden beams, iron spikes
driven through its wrists and folded ankles. A gaping wound was in its
side. Blood trickled down its face from pricks made by the thorns in a
wicked crown. The detail was magnificent. A tiny plaque was nailed
above its head and inscribed with letters I could not know the meaning
of. But all in all, it was a glorious image, truly a thing to be
worshipped.

And such a lovely way to die--so grand and picturesque, and yet so
simple and so deliciously cruel: death by slow torture.

I threw this thing away and with it her beads of prayer. She was left
alone to me, without power and without hope. I was saddened not to
have been present to deprive her of that one last vestige of virtue:
her voluminous, black habit. This had been the honor of the young
mistress of the house. I wished I had been hiding outside the window
to watch, but the girl would have known I was near. Instead, I settled
for another sort of disrobing. I pulled the bedclothes down, further
and further, to reveal her to me.

It was painful to me, physically painful, to see the sheets and
coverlet come away and find beneath them a simple, close-fitting,
white cotton shift. On a beauty like her I should have found small,
white, lace underthings done up in bows with tiny pink rosettes. This
would have shown the girl's true nature, her secret longings and her
wild desires.
A woman's undergarments should be the expression of her soul, her
heart's--cloth, the flushed and breathless poetry in her that she may
allow no one else to see but her lover and her very closest friend.

This melancholy thing, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, trembled preciously
as I unbound the fate's--knot of her hair. The braids fell loose and
the strands came away with natural curl. Ringlets framed her pretty
face so daintily that I nearly wept for pity--or laughed. In despair
and desperation, she turned her face away, but, in the act, could not
help but offer up the buttons on her breast for sacrifice.

It was then that I kissed her.

It is not a thing I often do, no matter how profound my desire or
desperate my hunger. This was a moment of weakness in me, I know,
smelling on her the scent of love bred from terror and desperation.
Mortals learn quickly to love what they fear; it takes from the thing
some of the power that it has. It makes it less terrifying.

It was in that moment that I felt for her the love that the hunter
feels for his prey, that sickening love for something come to offer
total victory--and thereby to rob victory of its sweetness. I kissed
her pulsating throat, and I could smell her rushing blood. I could
feel her mortal fear and wicked thrill, just below the surface,
coursing through her veins. In her heart of desperate hearts, she
wanted every moment.

I snapped open all the buttons down the front of her underclothes. I
pressed her back upon the bed. I untied the simple bows at her sides.
Then I pushed the straps from off her shoulders and there, in the
light of the oil lamps upon the dressing table, were revealed to me
those small and soft breasts, round and white, that she had kept so
well hidden for so long. The tiny rose nipples begged licking and
their roundness begged gentle caress. My cold hands and thin lips
responded eagerly, and her own mouth answered with soft moans and
quiet encouragement.

I moved down her lithe and trembling body and slipped the slippers
from off her feet. My hands caressed her calves, pushed up her skirts,
and stroked her thighs. I took hold of one white stocking and rolled
it down her rigid leg and off her pointed foot. And likewise with the
other. I kissed her foot, her shin, and then the soft, pale flesh of
her inner thigh. It was so warm with rushing blood that it nearly
burned my undead lips. What delicious pain!

I stripped off my shirt and boots and fell upon her with kisses and
soft touches. She moaned again and again and begged softly for total
domination. I held her motionless with my gaze while I stripped off
the rest of my clothing and, naked and pale, I lay beside her on the
bed, stroking her womanly inner flame and pressing soft kisses on her
breasts.

Her own hands roamed my body, clutching, caressing. I pushed her
underclothes down over her hips and then pulled them completely off
her flushed and heaving frame. She lay there, twisting wildly,
caressing her own body, enraptured. I stroked her, kissed her again
upon those soft, red lips, and mounted her.

She spread her knees immediately and pulled me to her. Her warm
fingers guided my rod into her sticky-sweet depths while her long legs
wrapped themselves around my own.

We began a slow and heaving rhythm of thrusts contrary to one another.
After each, she would gasp and sigh, a mixture of pleasure and pain.
Both my strength and my desire were of supernatural proportions, while
her tight virginity was unused to such ardent motion. Before now, it
had surely only experienced the most timid and guilt-ridden of
explorations. Now it took the full brunt of our passion, each thrust a
stab at mortality, each gasp a gasp for life itself. Her gasps became
cries, and her cries became one long and desperate plea.

She gave herself willingly. I took her wholly and completely, giving
nothing in return, and left her naked and exhausted on the ravaged
bed, bleeding lightly from the slightest of wounds. I can only imagine
the state the mistress of the house in the morning, when she came to
wake her innocent guest--naked and uncovered, blood staining the
rumpled sheets at her neck and between her pallid thighs....

I am curious. I shall have to know the finish of the tale; and the
mistress of the house is the only creature that knows it, the lovely
thing.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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