This week, in view of certain news I've received (but may not yet announce), I'm going with a horror theme and taking another look at The Blood of the Martyrs, which I think was my first ever vampire story. Set in modern-day Venice, it features a medieval vampire who has somehow been venerated as a Catholic saint. That doesn't stop him wanting blood...
I wondered which was worse; lying to a saint, or lying to a vampire. The visions had shaken me, moved me, filled me with heat and awe, but they had not convinced me. These days we no longer believe that spiritual enlightenment can be found in hallucinogens
‘Your blood, though…’ His fingers were gentle on my throat, stroking the pulse, even as the lift of his lips betrayed the tips of his teeth. ‘Tithe me a little, Emily. I have starved for nine centuries.’
My eyes widened.
‘I will not hurt you.’
Yes, I thought: like an alcoholic will stop at only one glass. But I couldn’t resist his need, and not just because he was physically so much stronger. The charged particles of the vision were still pouring through my body. My limbs felt heavy, my heart pounded thick and fast, my skin fizzed with the chemical memory. And he was holding me still, close against him. My unhinged mind could not respond to something so overwhelming, so my body was left to its own instinctive responses: terror and submission. I lifted my chin.
Gratitude lit his eyes, momentarily holding hunger at bay. He shook his head. ‘Too much.’ He slipped the buttons of my pyjama top instead, one at a time like a lover, until he was able to bare my shoulder. ‘Here.’
I nodded, certain he did not need my permission. He stooped to my shoulder. His mouth was hot.
The first wave was sharp, pure pain, the second euphoria. It was like when the Professor laid me over his knee and smacked my bare cheeks as hard as he could, until bottom and hand alike were burning with heat. It was pain, but it was good pain. It made my heart race. It made me soar. It made me open up like a blossom of sensation. I suddenly realised that my panties were sopping wet and had been since I came round from my visionary journey, that my sex was heavy and hot and my breasts tingling with need. I groaned out loud.
Aronne’s hands tightened on my hips. I pushed up into him. And again I felt the insistent jut of his erection.
Slowly he withdrew his mouth so he could look me in the eye. His lips were dark with blood.
Holding his gaze, I reached between my breasts and slipped the remaining buttons, opening the pyjama top, revealing my flushed breasts. My nipples were engorged and hard. Paolo had enjoyed putting sprung paper-clips on those deceptively fragile points, then playing with them until I begged for release. ‘Bite those,’ I whispered, shaking. Aronne’s eyes widened.
‘I remember this…’ He shook his head slightly. ‘His memories of you are very strong. He was obsessed with you.’ His gaze burned. ‘Your breasts, still so young and perfect. ’ He touched them, just with the very tips of his fingers, and I shook with fear and pleasure. Then he turned me, rolling me to face the ornate bars and pulling down my pyjama bottoms. I felt the cold church air on my skin. His voice was almost dreamy as he caressed me. ‘Your sweet round bottom, that rolls so temptingly as you walk.’ His hot hands cupped and stroked my bum-cheeks, sending aching messages through to my clit and belly. ‘Your hot wet fica, hidden from sight yet always there for him to touch,’ he growled, finding it with his fingers, delving deep. ‘The perfume of your body lingering on his hands and face, tasted secretly while he lectured or wrote notes or attended meetings.’
My pussy was all juice and plump, swollen flesh. He painted me wet up the entire length of my crack, right to my puckered hole, and I gripped the metal until my knuckles went white. But then he turned me back to face him again, his nails light yet threatening on my skin, scoring faint pink trails down my flanks. I knew they were longing to find the blood beneath, that he was barely restraining himself.
‘The look in your eyes when he gave you an order and you obeyed so gratefully ... Oh, he adored that. He needed that.’ He shivered, his eyes hooded. ‘Whatever he asked of you, Emily, you would do it. You would submit to every one of his deepest and most unthinkable desires. You knelt down in that church, Emily, and sucked his cock like an angel worshipping at the Throne of God. That was his memory.’
I wet my lips and he caught his breath.
‘Let me live to remember him,’ I whispered. ‘Please.’
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