crienneoftarth - Tumblr blog

crienneoftarth · 4 days ago

Text

stay.

Larissa Weems x f!reader

Tags: smut (cunnilingus, dildos - Larissa receiving), overstimulation, hurt/comfort, alcohol may be involved, Larissa is kind of subby and has a praise kink and is hopefully not too ooc

Words: ~4.8k | ao3 link in title

Where does the thump of the bass end, where does your body begin? The song that’s playing doesn’t matter, all that matters is that you can feel its vibrations in your chest. You’re slightly tipsy — not hammered, not by a long shot, but just intoxicated enough to feel relaxed in the mass of people. Scantily clad bodies push against you from all sides, sticky and warm. No ‘excuse me’s, no ‘sorry’s, just vibing. It doesn’t bother you, they don’t bother you; you’re having fun, they’re having fun. You push your way across the dance floor, the bar is your goal.

As you get closer, you notice a woman standing at the bar. She’s nearly a foot taller than everyone around her, her hair so pale that it takes on the color of the flashing LEDs above her head. Blue red purple yellow. Blue again. It’s curled into an updo, too sophisticated for a place like this, she doesn’t blend in with the rest of the crowd. She leans forward on her elbows, tries to get the bartender’s attention — he’s flirting unsuccessfully with some guy at the other end of the bar, hopeless. Now this woman is your goal.

The person to her left heads towards the dance floor — you take the opportunity to sidle up next to her. A glance at her out of the corner of your eye tells you she’s starting to get annoyed that she can’t get the bartender’s attention, so you do it for her. Luckily, he glances over at just the right time and sees you wave him over and, luckily, he decides he should be getting on with his job.

“Gin and tonic for me, please,” you shout over the music. “And…?” You turn towards the woman, motion for her to speak. She doesn’t yet, she’s taken aback for a moment, and the bartender raises his eyebrows impatiently as he starts on your drink.

“Whiskey on the rocks, please.” She’s found her voice, and you almost lose yours — it’s just slightly deeper than you’d expected it to be, smooth and velvety, and she’s got the most melodic English accent. You wonder how long she’s been in Vermont.

She shoots you a grateful look, her tension clearly easing with the promise of a drink on the way. The bartender sets down both drinks and she opens her little clutch, but you’ve already tapped your phone to pay by the time she’s snapped open the clasp. Her eyes widen imperceptibly — she starts to protest, you shake your head and give her a look, a broad smile, and her words die in her throat. Her lips move, you assume that she’s thanking you but you can’t hear her over the music. Her lips are pretty. Soft, plump, you don’t know anyone who wears red lipstick like that. She knows you’re staring at her lips, her cheeks are starting to match them in color, but today you don’t care. You take a sip of your drink and she mirrors you.

“What brings you here?” you shout. It’s a basic question, but you genuinely want to know the answer. She doesn’t look like she’s having a good time. And she’s not dressed like the rest of the partygoers. Not that she isn’t dressed well, she is. A little black dress, a satin clutch, with gold details to match her jewelry. But her dress is a few inches longer than what most of the women here are wearing, and her heels a few inches shorter, and she doesn’t have any cleavage on display. She’s a bit stiff, proper, hesitant, like she’s drinking everything in, deliberating, considering. What to say, how to say it, who to trust. You think you already know what she’s going to say before she says it.

“My friend dragged me here,” she shouts back. Bingo. You smile. A beat. “Is it that obvious?”

You smile wider. “Yes.” You pause. “But not in a bad way, trust me.”

The woman gives you a quizzical glance. “What do y-”

“Larissa, I lost you in the crowd!”

Larissa. It fits her somehow. You’ve never known anyone with that name before. That belongs exclusively, uniquely to her now.

The source of the interruption is a petite redhead with long bangs and thick-rimmed glasses. Larissa’s friend places a hand on her arm and leans in to shout directly into her ear, so loud that even you can hear her. She’s a little drunk. “I’m going home with Chel-sea,” she slurs.

Chelsea lingers by the dance floor. It must be Chelsea because the redhead glances back at her and winks. She’s young and she’s butch and she looks a little jealous at the way the redhead’s lips are plastered to Larissa’s ear. She looks away when Larissa looks at her.

You miss the rest of the conversation between Larissa and her friend, but you don’t really care. Her friend leaves with Chelsea and Larissa is still standing next to you at the bar, and that’s all you really care about.

“It appears I’ve been abandoned,” Larissa says, you can tell it's an attempt at self-deprecating humor, you smirk.

“Sometimes it’s more fun on your own. You get to meet new people.” Larissa knows you mean her, her eyes drift from your face down your body, slowly — scanning, appraising — then snap back up to your face. You wonder if she likes what she sees, and you know you’re fucked because you even had that thought in the first place.

“I didn’t catch your name,” she says, and you take it as a sign that she, at the very least, doesn’t find you completely repulsive.

You introduce yourself and Larissa repeats your name, and you think you don’t ever want to hear anyone else say your name but her. She says her own name then, and you smile, because you already heard her friend say it, but it sounds even more beautiful falling from her own lips. Larissa.

“It’s nice to meet you, Larissa.”

She smiles with her lips closed, it’s sweet and almost shy — maybe she likes the way her name sounds coming from your lips.

Someone pushes past you, trying to get the bartender’s attention — he’s flirting again, with the same man. He’s down bad. You move to make room at the bar and find yourself closer to Larissa. You’re close enough to smell her, she smells nice, heavy, white florals. She doesn’t smell like sweat or booze or cheap body spray like everyone else here. She’s different, she doesn’t belong. In a good way.

Larissa asks you something but you can’t hear her. “What?” you shout, and she repeats herself but you still can’t make it out, and the person behind you elbows you in the back and you nearly spill your drink down your shirt, and it would annoy you if Larissa weren’t clearly suppressing a smile. You have to shoot your shot. “You wanna get out of here?”

Thankfully Larissa’s hearing is better than yours and, thankfully, she agrees — you both down what’s left of your drinks and you lead her around the bar and towards the door. You’re afraid to lose her in the crowd, you keep looking over your shoulder, but then her hand closes around your bicep and suddenly the thick, warm, sticky air of the club is less suffocating, fades into the background. Your skin is on fire even through the fabric of your shirt, and you cannot get out fast enough.

The air outside is a welcome contrast, there’s a cool breeze, and Larissa loosens her grip on your arm but doesn’t let go completely. The door closes and muffles the music playing and your ears ring. “I don’t know why I come here anyway, I have this ringing in my ears for days after,” you joke. You’re still shouting and it makes Larissa laugh, and you realize that her laugh is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard. You’d like to make her laugh some more.

“I don’t think I’ll let Marilyn take me here again,” she admits with a smile. “It’s not really my scene.” You could tell. You wonder how hard her friend had to beg her to come along.

You lean your back against the cool brick of the building, breathing deeply, getting some cold air into your lungs. Larissa’s hand drops from your bicep and you miss the feeling immediately. “What made you come in the first place then?”

Larissa takes her time answering, leans against the wall next to you, clearly pondering her words carefully. “Marilyn always picks up girls here,” she starts slowly. “She insisted on being my ‘wing-woman’. Which has clearly worked out quite well, seeing as she’s gone home with someone and abandoned me.” There’s a touch of humor in Larissa’s tone, as if this isn’t the first time Marilyn has done something like this, as if it’s some endearing personality trait of Marilyn’s.

“The night isn’t over yet…” You try to sound nonchalant — you wonder if Larissa would consider coming back to your place, but you can’t get a good read on her. “There’s still time, you could go back in?”

Larissa deliberates again. “Or I could stay right here?” Her voice rises at the end, like a question. Your gaze snaps to hers, searching, searching for what?

“Would you like to come back to my place?” you ask bluntly. Larissa smirks, her cheeks turn pink — there’s something about her mixture of confidence and shyness that has you desperate for her. She steps closer and nods.

“Yes.”

Not shyness, something else. She’s reserved, as if she’s never done this before, you wonder why she’s doing it now, if she’s proving something to her friend, if she’s sick of being alone. If she just really likes you.

Your arm goes around her waist. It feels soft and warm. Your eyes go to her lips. They look soft and warm. Your body draws nearer to her as if pulled by some magnetic force, the same force that’s slowly pulling her face down towards your own.

Her lips are just as soft and warm as they look. Softer even. You feel as though you’re melting into her. She tastes like whiskey and lipstick and you know that the latter will stain your chin but you couldn’t care less. She’s eager but so are you and you deepen the kiss simultaneously, your tongues brushing as you taste each other. The feeling makes you shiver. Makes your arm tighten around her waist and your free hand trace her hip. You wonder what it is about you that makes her let go of her reservations, you shake the thought from your head, you don’t care, kissing her feels so good.

She buries her hands in your hair. Tugs a bit. Scratches your scalp. You moan, dig your fingers into her hip, maybe she’ll bruise. Fuck, she feels like heaven. You’re floating. You mumble something about calling a cab. You don’t though, not right away anyway, you don’t want the kiss to end.

You end up in a cab together. Larissa is handsy, you’re handsy. Your thigh is squished against hers, your hand is inching up her thigh, her hand is in your hair again. Her breath is heavy against your lips. The windows are cracked. The driver is used to this. He clears his throat, he’s come to a stop at the bottom of your driveway.

He’s happy about your generous tip, and you’re happy about Larissa’s hand in your own as you lead her up the driveway in the dark. You let go of it to fumble with your keys and Larissa giggles in your ear, her hand rests on your lower back as she waits, fuck, her fingers are so long, the thought makes you drop your keys.

Finally inside, you close the front door with your ass, lean back against it, pull Larissa against you by the hips, bypass her lips in favor of her neck. Moans fill the air, Larissa’s moans, deep and sensual. They vibrate against your lips as you taste the skin beneath her jaw. Heat fills your belly, sparks shoot up your spine, your groin aches.

You give Larissa a push, walk her backwards through the dark house towards your bedroom. She clings to your shirt, she’s panting, she likes kissing you, her lipstick must be all over your face, it turns you on. Her back hits the bed and she pulls you on top of her by the shirt. Your thighs bracket her hips and your breasts press against hers through your clothes, your teeth clash as you briefly lose the rhythm of your kisses. Her hands slip beneath your shirt, brush against your lower back, you’re sweaty, she doesn’t seem to care, enjoys the way you grind against her.

Your hands push at her dress, it clings to her, you’re almost jealous of the dress, you should be wrapped around her like that, where does your body end and hers begin, you want to meld into her. She tries to sit up, you let her, she pulls the dress over her head, you pull your shirt over your head. Both of your chests are heaving, Christ, it’s hot in here — your gaze traces the lace that clings to Larissa’s breasts, the delicate black pattern creating a delicious contrast against the milky white flesh that strains against it, that moves up and down with every breath.

“May I?” you ask, fingering the straps that dig into her shoulders. At her breathless “yes” you push your fingers beneath them and drag them down her arms. There are pink indents in her shoulders, your fingertips soothe over them, your lips replace your fingertips which search Larissa’s back for the clasp. The bra falls away from her body and your lips follow her shoulder down to the swell of her breasts, kissing, licking, nipping, letting out little moans, soft soft soft so soft.

Your hands on her waist, also soft, something out of a renaissance painting. Her hands on your back, she’s found the clasp of your own bra, you smile against her flesh. Bra is tossed aside, your nipples poke against her skin, hard, her nipples are hard, too. She arches her back when you lick them, slides her hands into your hair to keep you in place — you’re starting to realize what she likes.

Larissa’s belly is soft, you want to bite it so you do, she groans. You pull back to admire your handiwork, the indents of your teeth in the soft fat of her lower belly, the faint reddish marks covering her torso, remnants of her own lipstick that have transferred from her lips to yours to her skin. You kiss the bite mark, there, all better, you kiss your way down to her venus mound, pull her underwear down, dark blonde curls tickle your chin, her thighs part.

Kiss the crease where thigh meets groin, smell her arousal — shudder in delight. It coats your tongue, tastes just as good as it smells, makes your own cunt ache. Your nose is in her pubic hair and your arms are around her thighs, the softness of which press against your ears and muffle her moans. Your tongue laves her folds, shit, she tastes better than anyone you’ve ever had, you can’t remember ever having anyone else, you don’t ever want to have anyone else.

Larissa holds your head in place by the hair, you can tell she’s a little desperate for release by how roughly her nails scratch your scalp, not gentle like outside the club, and by the way her hips roll against your mouth. It’s hot, how bad she wants this.

“Mm, good girl,” you moan against her clit — her fingers flex against your head and her hips stutter, fuck, she’s so responsive.

You let go of one of her thighs to touch yourself, popping open the button on your trousers and shoving your hand into your underwear — relief courses through you as you start to rub your clit, matching the pace of your tongue on Larissa’s clit. Her thighs tense around your ears, her hips buck erratically, she’s close, you suck her clit with urgency, you hump your own hand with the same fervor. Come on, same time maybe, it’s building, building, Larissa cums all over your chin, you can’t hear whether or not she moans, your heart is pounding in your ears, your own orgasm coats your hand and drenches your underwear. Trousers ruined, who gives a fuck, being between Larissa’s thighs is worth it.

Long fingers tug at your hair, pull you up, soft lips descend upon yours — you feel Larissa’s breath catch in her throat, you taste like her. You wiggle your hips, kick off your trousers, tug off your underwear, Larissa gasps when she feels how wet you are. Flexes her thigh against you, you mewl, god, what a pathetic sound, you don’t have time to be embarrassed, she kisses you harder. Her hands on your hips encourage them to roll, grind against her, use her to cum.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” you pant — you’re looking down at Larissa as you ride her thigh and she looks like a goddamn angel, lips swollen, parted, lipstick smeared around them, pupils blown, lashes fluttering, cheeks flushed, hair half undone and stuck to the sweat on her forehead, tits bobbing, belly rippling, arms flexing. Her gaze tracks your own features, the movements of your own body as your muscles tense, your tits bounce, your chest heaves. You wish you could take a photo of the way she’s looking at you.

Your release is the sweetest thing you’ve ever felt, heightened by the way Larissa’s throat bobs as she swallows thickly. You want to kiss her senseless, so you do. “God, I want to fuck you so bad,” you mumble against her lips — she groans and squirms beneath you, you reach blindly over to your bedside table and pull your strap out of the drawer and Larissa shivers at the sound of the silicone bumping against the drawer. “Is it okay if I fuck you?”

Larissa moans a “yes” into your mouth as her hands cup your ass to pull you closer, her fingertips brushing against your core. Fuck, your eyes roll back in your head and it takes all your willpower to sit up, climb off of her, put on the harness. Her eyes track your every move, her tongue darts out to wet her lips, it drives you wild. You climb back on top of her, straddling her, squeezing some lube onto the dildo and spreading it with your hand — Larissa’s fingers twitch against the sheets, as though she’s itching to touch you, as though not touching you is driving her wild.

You settle between her legs, they part for you, her eyes are locked on the dildo, she pushes herself up on her elbows to watch as you tease her inner thighs with the tip. Her folds stick together with cum, you part them with your finger, her head falls back and her thighs twitch. She’s glistening, she’s drenched, you push your finger inside of her and she clenches around it, you wish the dildo was a real cock, that she would clench around you like that. A second finger, she takes it well, her body drawing you in, clenching with every pump of your fingers, your free hand gently rubs her outer thigh, there, that’s good, ‘fuck, so wet for me, are you ready?’

You withdraw your fingers and replace them with the dildo, teasing her folds, her clit, circling her entrance, pushing in, slowly, slowly, watching Larissa’s lips part, ‘breathe, that’s it, be a good girl and breathe for me.’ Your hips meet hers and you still for a moment, you let her get used to the feeling of being full.

“You okay?” you ask, you wait for Larissa to find her voice.

“Y-yes… it’s just a little big.” She blushes, it’s the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen. You’ll start slow, you tell her, and she looks grateful, she takes a few more breaths before she tells you to move and you drag the fake cock out of her until only the tip is left inside. Wait a beat. Push it back in, just as slow as the first time. She moans. Fuck, make that sound again, you pull your hips back and push them forward, just a little faster, she makes that sound again.

You call her a good girl again and she responds by rocking her hips into you. She really likes being called a good girl, she closes her eyes and her hands fist at the sheets and her chest turns pink. She mewls and moans and whimpers and her hips meet your pace thrust for thrust, even when you start to pound into her. She grabs your hips for stability, her fingers dig into your flesh, her palms are warm and sweaty and they stick to you, you wish they would stay stuck, you like how they feel on you.

Larissa cums hard, her face contorts in ecstasy, her eyebrows knit together and the creases there are deep, would it be weird to kiss them? Fuck it, you kiss them — that was the right move, Larissa’s arms wrap around your back, slide down to your ass, give it a squeeze, try to guide it to move again, to keep fucking her. You snap your hips, you kiss her sloppily, you moan into her mouth as if the cock were part of you, as if you could feel her warmth around you, you almost can if you focus on it hard enough, she moans back and clenches as if you could really feel it. She cums again, stops kissing you while she does, just pants erratically into your mouth.

“Be a good girl and turn around for me,” you mumble against her lips, receiving a tired moan in return. You pull back, slowly slip out of her, she whimpers a bit at the sensation. Your whole body is on fire. “I’d love to see you on your hands and knees for me.”

She turns, groans a bit, clenches her thighs together. You grip her by the hips and give her a gentle tug and she falls onto her elbows, her forehead rests against the mattress, her ass is in the air. So pretty, you run a hand along its curve as you push her legs apart with your knees, she’s open wide like this, she’s perfect. “This feel good?” you confirm as you tease her slit with the dildo, you wait for a muffled “mhm” before pushing in again, she’s tight like this and you go slow, you stroke her hips, her thighs, you watch the muscles in her back tense.

Something is different, you notice — Larissa’s moans are much quieter, her hips are much more static than before, she slowly stops meeting your thrusts, her biceps shake as she holds herself up. You slow to a stop, your hands rub her hips, you ask if she’s okay — she freezes, that tells you everything you need to know. You’re going to pull out, you tell her, and she stays perfectly still as you do just that, she stays still as you crawl beside her and urge her to relax, to lie flat on the bed.

“Larissa?” She avoids your gaze, she lies on her stomach with her head turned the other way. You hardly know her, you don’t know what’s happened or what she needs. “Larissa?” you try again, trying not to sound pleading or desperate.

“Sorry, I just need a minute,” she finally replies, her voice shaky. You give her a minute, two minutes, three minutes. She sniffles and your heart sinks. You sit up a bit and peer around her, seeing tear tracks run down her cheek.

“Larissa…” You tug gently at her shoulder, urging her to turn towards you — she resists, then she relents. She lets you pull her onto her side, she buries her face in her hands, one covering her eyes, one covering her mouth, as if you can’t tell she’s crying like that.

You don’t know what to do, your heart constricts in your chest, your stomach hurts. “I’m sorry,” you say — you don’t know exactly what you’re apologizing for, but you feel like it's your fault that Larissa is crying, you want to make her feel better, you don’t know how. She shakes her head and her palm muffles a sob.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she mumbles, and your brow furrows. What the fuck are you apologizing for, you want to say, but the words get stuck in your throat and you rub her bicep in what you hope is a soothing manner. Is it worse to touch her or worse to pull away completely?

“What are you sorry for? You have nothing to be sorry for,” you finally say, but you don’t think Larissa has absorbed your words, because she keeps mumbling something about being sorry, that she’ll be ready to go again in a minute. “It’s okay,” you whisper over and over again as you rub her bicep. “We can stop, we don’t have to keep going.”

“We don’t?” Larissa sniffles, glancing up at you, and you shake your head vehemently.

“We don’t.”

Another sniffle. The words ‘I’m sorry’ repeated again. You don’t like that she’s apologizing. You ask her why. She sniffles again. She dabs at the inner corner of her eye.

“It’s s-silly to be crying,” she says dismissively, it makes you frown.

“It’s not silly,” you tell her. “What happened? Did you get overstimulated? Was it the position?”

She nods reluctantly, avoids your gaze. “I’m s-sorry… It was just too much…”

Your heart threatens to crack in two — what sort of shitty partners has Larissa had in the past that she didn’t feel comfortable telling you to stop? You push down your sadness and anger, they aren’t productive. You brush Larissa’s hair off her face, catch a stray tear on your thumb, trace her jaw with the tips of your fingers. “You don’t have to apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong, Larissa. If one of us wants to stop, for whatever reason, we stop. Whether it’s just a break or we stop altogether, we both deserve to have fun and to feel safe.”

Larissa closes her eyes, nods slowly, wipes her nose with her wrist — you get up, you’ll be right back, to get her some tissues and a wet washcloth. Larissa blushes as you clean her up, tries to be subtle as she blows her nose, mumbles out another apology which you chastise her for.

“I doubt this is how hook-ups are supposed to behave,” she retorts — you laugh, that gets you a reproachful look from the blonde.

“You’re not a ‘hook-up’, you’re a human. You don’t have to behave a certain way. I just want you to have a good time. And to be able to tell me if you’re not having a good time. I’m many things but a selfish cunt isn’t one of them.”

The tension breaks, Larissa snorts and shakes her head, you grin up at her from between her legs. She looks like a mess — lashes clumped together, mascara streaked down her cheeks, lipstick smeared down her chin and up onto the tip of her nose, foundation caked beneath her eyes. She’s beautiful. It’s the kind of moment that could make you fall in love — you shake the thought out of your head.

A trickle of morning light is seeping in through the blinds, bathing your bedroom in a soft glow. As you toss the washcloth aside and crawl up next to Larissa, you realize you can see her irises clearly for the first time. They’re the truest blue you’ve ever seen, deep and bright at once. Your eyes flicker between each of hers, which do the same to yours.

“Sun’s come up,” Larissa says hoarsely.

“Can I kiss you?” you ask.

She gives you a shy, closed-lip smile. You cup the back of her neck, wait. It’s her move. She closes the gap, kisses you. Still smiling. You smile back, kiss back, stroke the base of her skull with your thumb. She hums, you hum back.

You pull away first. “We should get some sleep.” You get up, cross the room, close the blinds, the room is dark. Stumble back to bed, bang your knee against the bed frame, curse — your eyes haven’t adjusted yet. Larissa chuckles.

“Should I leave? It’s morning…” she suggests almost timidly as you lie beside her.

“Only if you have somewhere to be. Otherwise I’d very much like for you to stay, if you want that, too…” You hold your breath, you hope she does want that too. Her answer comes in the form of lying down to face you, tugging the covers over herself.

Your eyes meet. “Thank you,” Larissa whispers. “Nothing to thank me for,” you whisper back.

Even in the dark her smile is radiant. “Goodnight then.”

“Goodnight, Larissa.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Taglist: @alexusonfire @pro-weems-places @kimiinou @imprincipalweemspet @h-doodles @bychrissi @giogwensversion @gela123 @friskyfisher @justcallmelittleone @scream-queenlover @a-queen-and-her-throne @anne-lister @winterfireblond @imgayforwoman69 @fictionalized-lesbian @aemilia19 @milfsloverblog @missdowling @billiedeansbitch @http-sam @saltrage @renravens @opheliauniverse @niceminipotato @thevillagegay @barbarasstar @jadewolf22 @autumn-leaves-chasing-breeze @lilfartbox1 @dovesintherain @fallenbutch @lunala-rose23 @ahauandthesun @thenazwife @m-0-mmy-l-0-ver33 @thesamesweetie @theonefairygodmother @lvinhs @rainbow-hedgehog @daydream-cement @im-a-carnivorous-plant @milfomaniac @ilovetlcc @lesbiahonest24 @wastdstime @gwens0girl @larissa-weems-chokehold @makemyworldworthliving @spacetoaim22 @m1lflov3rrr @nightingalespen

#fics

330 notes · View notes

crienneoftarth · 9 days ago

Text

❥ 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐦.(𝐧𝐬𝐟𝐰)🩸

vamp!Jane Murdstone and named!fem!reader (Written for an art piece I did, which you can find here.)

Summary: Lady Jane is in need of blood again. Her hunger knows no bounds. You, her maid, give her exactly what she wants, and in return, she gives you what you've been quietly fantasising about.

Content Warnings: Biting kink, blood mention, fingering (r & Jane receiving), orgasm denial, degrading with occasional praise, mentions of church and religion (brief). Reader is named, but no descriptions are used.

word count: 3.2k

Your lady’s bloodlust was relentless.

Oftentimes, she would call upon you in the dead of night to satiate her thirst for crimson. The metallic, savoury taste that would make your nose scrunch in discomfort, but rip a satisfied moan from her vocal cords as it coated her tongue…

…to your dismay, tonight was no different. For whom the bell tolls, you suppose.

Lady Jane called for you earlier that day to ensure you were aware she needed your presence tonight for unsaid reasons, though you became accustomed to not being told and knowing the outcome of your lady’s plans. You couldn’t shake the feeling, however, that Miss Murdstone wanted more from you tonight, and it made your skin crawl, thinking about the many things she could possibly need—your blood, obviously… but what else?

Jane was not the kindest to you either. She was a very snappy woman with a short temper and long legs. You could only assume what she was like beneath those thick fabrics and extravagant accessories, like her oversized bows that she would allow only you to tie. Nobody correctly tied her bows, nobody but you, and Jane valued that. She valued it as much as she valued your blood. You were the only one she would drink from until you assumed she would get bored with how you tasted and kill you, eventually. Was that not how all vampires worked, you thought?

No, perhaps not. A part of you hoped not.

You peer outside for a moment, taking note of the dim light of the sky, the sun setting. You knew you were going to meet your lady at dusk in her bedchambers, but you couldn’t stop thinking about other possible outcomes. One thing you knew, tonight would either end in a short and content feeding session or the end of you.

Either way, you did not see yourself enjoying whatever was in store for you tonight, even if you would never admit out loud just how wet it made you to be held in Jane Murdstone’s lap as her fangs sank into your tender flesh—one of her cold hands holding you close by the waist and the other supporting your head as she laps at the bite wound on your neck like a starved beast, blood trickling down your body. Or how the taste of your blood drew out borderline vulgar moans from her chest… How she would praise you for being a good girl, her good girl, taking her so well, all of her, fangs and all. Oh, gods, Jane, please…

You rip yourself away from those thoughts, like Jane would rip away a satisfying orgasm from you, lightly shaking your head. No maid of Miss Murdstone’s should think such sinful thoughts, especially on the day of the sabbath, despite church service being long over and stars beginning to freckle the sky.

Right, Lady Jane, you remembered then. You had foolishly allowed your mind to wander for far too long. Quickly, you finish your last chore of the evening, which was to sweep and tidy up the kitchen.

Miss Murdstone’s home was extravagant. Jane preferred to reside in the basement's downstairs chamber since no windows brought in more unwanted light, like the rest of the house did. You did her an extra kindness and snuffed the candle torches that lined the upstairs walls as you swept, the darkness of the upstairs now creeping up on you. Jane liked the darkness. You did not.

You scurry back to the kitchen in a nervous heap and quickly light a match, grabbing the oil lamp that was conveniently placed on the countertop nearest the stove, and use the match’s flame to set it ablaze. Light, finally, how wonderful. Less wonderful now that you needed to tread down those godforsaken stairs, cautiously to keep yourself from tripping on the steepness of the steps. And then you heard it, halfway down the steps, the soft sound of your lady humming to herself in her chambers. Your blood ran cold.

When you reach the basement, you did not bother knocking, knowing she would criticise you for it; “You know you’re always welcome when I call for you,” Jane would say with a tsk. You peer through the cracked door and gaze inside, greeted by her stunning beauty, sitting elegantly at her vanity while she removes the pins from her hair. Even dressed in her nightrobe, Jane was a vision, her black hair cascading down her shoulders in waves as calm as the salty shores of Suffolk. Her beauty was a harsh contrast to the unkindness she so often chose to show.

“I’ve got eyes on the back of my head, girl. Enter,” Jane’s voice was sudden and clipped. You must have peered too long.

You caught her gaze in her mirror, pretty blue eyes with the slightest hint of yellow gold. You often thought about her eyes, especially when she would pay you a visit in the garden while you worked on the rose bushes. If the sun hit her eyes just right, she would squint, yes, but you got the best view of those eyes of hers—light blue with golden accents, like the glass window panes of the church building that depicted dances of angels. Miss Murdstone was no angel.

“I’m sorry, m’lady. Please forgive my staring.” You quickly pass the threshold of her doorway and close it behind you, locking it with a soft click. It was one of her expectations during your nightly visits.

“Worry not, girl,” Jane said, “come help me with my hair.”

You’re quick to obey your mistress. Setting the lamp on her vanity table, you grab the brush from her hand and run it through Jane’s locs that are black as night. The silence that follows while you brush through her hair allows you the time to admire her beautiful features—from her porcelain skin that’s covered in soft freckles, to the paleness of her eyelashes and crooked tip of her nose. You brush from root to end, slowly, calculating, silently adoring. Jane’s little smirk, her pink lips—so soft against your neck as she whispers words of praise meant for your ears only. Her hands, large and strong in appearance, are gentle and tender around you, and so cold.

“Your eyes wander…” Jane interrupts your quiet stare, and your gaze meets hers without question. “Come.”

You turn to let her pass, returning her brush to the vanity before snuffing out her candle torches, then follow her silently as she crawls into bed. Jane pats a hand against her thigh. “Sit.”

You knew then what she wanted.

Warily, your legs involuntarily follow her command—one moment standing, and the next, straddling the vampiress. In that moment, you wonder how the church would feel knowing their most pious woman was a cruel mistress with a taste for women’s blood behind lowered curtains. You silently question her true devotion to the church, yet you weren’t any better either, with your equally sinful infatuation towards Lady Jane Murdstone.

Jane moves your hair to the side. She’s in love with the colour, fascinated by your features. One could say she was infatuated with you just the same, but she would not let you know that. Jane would not ruin her favourite game.

Like clockwork, slender fingers snake around your body, skillfully unbuttoning your uniform. She absolutely loves the way your body shivers from her touch. One could not be certain whether it was from her cold touch or simply her.

“Wait,” you whisper, “please, my lady.” Though you were enjoying her treatment, you had forgotten to bring the lantern over. You did not wish to be bitten in the dark.

Jane let you go and was patient with you, despite her impatient hunger demanding that you stay. Her blue-yellow eyes never move away from your movements, her hands craving your body against them, to caress and hold and squeeze to her liking. She felt like you were taking an eternity to get the damned lantern. “I’m impatient, Marie. You can move faster than that, you’ve proved it countless times.”

“I cannot see in the dark like you, Miss Murdstone…” you huff, stumbling in the dark. A sudden yelp tore from your lips as you bonk your toe against one of Jane’s chairs, and you wince at the sudden pain. Jane snickers and motions for you to come back to her, letting you place the lantern closer. She barely gave you a second to recuperate before pulling you back onto her lap.

And again, your body shivers as Jane carries on with the removal of your clothes. You love how she looks at you, how her eyes gaze over your body with what you’d dare deem the look of love and hunger. Your curves, every stretch mark and blemish, she seemed to adore. Her affection was short-lived as she pulled you closer to her, the same routine becoming more ritualistic.

Her lips against your neck, her hands holding your waist, softly squeezing your hips to distract you, to keep your mind off thick fangs piercing into your flesh like butter. Oh, gods, the faint sting, the dull throb, from both your neck and the heat between your thighs. Jane’s gentleness, her soft groans and murmurs as she drank from you, and those damned whispers of praise always somehow manage to arouse you…

“Good girl,” she cooed. “I love the way you taste… only you.”

Her words brought a blush to your cheeks, soft pink. Your breaths quicken. You curse yourself as your body betrayed you, and you lean into her touch, a quiet whimper dripping from your lips like the wine your lady kept hidden someplace in the kitchen. You knew where it was. You knew how it tasted.

“Eager?” Jane jests, kissing the deep tissue wounds she left, her tongue impatiently lapping the slightly viscous liquid she so craved as it flowed from your neck at the same pace your heart raced in your chest.

“Yes, Miss Murdstone, always…” You murmur. Perhaps you were lying to yourself when you assumed you would not enjoy this. Your core was dripping, soiling the knickers Jane had so ‘kindly’ left on your body. You hated her for leaving them on, but not for long. That hatred was quickly replaced again with need as Jane’s thumb put pressure on your clit. Your eyes fluttered, but you dared not moan, knowing she would stop. This is her game, and this is how it was to be played.

No, no, you certainly hated this; you were supposed to. This was disgraceful, this was blasphemous. Your lady was so cruel, the pad of her thumb stroking your swollen pearl in painfully slow circles. She left a dark purple mark above your wound, sucking and nibbling the flesh. Her lips purse into a wicked smile, feeling you tremble and your clit twitch against her.

She loves the way your hips buck and how you try so desperately to suppress every whimper and moan. You want nothing more than to cry out her name and feel her fingers fill you as you fantasise they were meant to. But she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t do that for you, and you hated that she wouldn’t as much as you loved that she would do this. So sadistically, how her thumb presses harder against you, testing you, seeing how far she could push you before you broke.

You feel a cold finger curl beneath your chin, bringing your head up to meet her eyes. “Look at me,” she said forcefully, and as if you had no control over your actions, your gaze quickly shifted to Jane’s. Gods, how you loved those eyes, the way she looked at you, how she just loved to watch you squirm.

She tuts and removes her thumb from your aching nerves. Her hand didn’t pull away, moving instead to cup your center, drawing in a breath through gritted teeth as your wetness coated her fingers. “You’ve soaked through your knickers…” Jane sounded almost repulsed, though the way she desired you was the opposite of her tone.

“Filth,” she sneered, “you always make such a mess.”

You couldn’t help but whine and frown. Jane’s favourite part of this game was to humiliate and degrade you, after praising you for being so compliant and sweet, taste-wise and mannerisms. “I’m sorry, Miss Murdstone…” You scramble for a meek apology, expecting her to keep taking from the wounds in your flesh. But she did not.

Instead, slender fingers tug longingly at the waistband of your knickers. As if the soft lace texture didn’t turn her on enough, your immediate response to help her take them off added to her desperation. The moment those came off, she pocketed them, stuffing them in the breast pocket of her robe, white and satin and parting just enough to reveal herself to you as she untied the belt, uncaring that her robe fell past her shoulders and pooled around her elbows.

“Pathetic… so soaked and drenched over nothing… You’re nothing but a whore, Marie.” Jane’s words stung, but the hurt of her words was soothed by her thumb retreating to your clit once more, this time unrestrained and so, so fast, so mind numbingly fast, fuck, Jane, please…

Your thighs tremble as Jane’s touch ruins you, finally, bringing you so close, long fingers dipping into your core, curling just right, so perfectly, filling you and pleasuring you in ways you had not thought possible. Her strong arm controlled the pace at which her fingers fucked you. Fast and deep, pulling guttural moans from your throat as she attacked a soft spot against your walls, begging her for more, begging her to cum.

“Oh, Jane! Plea- please… Gods!” Her name rolling off your tongue in such a vulgar manner left Jane’s own knickers soiled and soaked just the same. “Please let me cum, Jane-... Please, please, pleasepleaseplease—“

“Of course you can cum…” Jane waited for you to near your peak. Your legs shook and you clung desperately to Jane, gasping and crying out as your walls clenched around her fingers until it was taken from you, suddenly left empty and aching worse than before, “…when I give you permission.”

You were furious. How could she fuck you so good just to take it all away? You whimpered and whined as your hips swayed, searching for lost friction, the dull throb becoming unbearable.The ache of your poor cunt was too much to handle. You almost hated how Jane’s hands would travel so soothingly up your torso, holding your breasts, worshipping the very flesh she cradled.

“I h-hate you…” You squeal as Jane’s hand wraps harshly around your throat, squeezing you just right. You loved it when she let you wear her hand like an elegant necklace.

“Oh, you don’t mean that. You know you don’t mean that,” she cooes, earning a quick whimper from you as her fingers finally took up the empty space inside you again. “If you hated me, sweet girl, you would not be so needy. You wouldn’t howl like a bitch in heat, I’m certain. Nor would you be so wet for me.”

With one hand still snug around your neck, and the other hitting that soft spot, curling again so good, so perfectly, you could barely speak. Every moan that spilt from your lips was shaky, and your body was unstable. Jane knew just how to make you shake, how to make you cum so good… only Jane could get you like this. You were certain, she reassured you of it every time she drank from you, every time she got you absolutely dripping and yet this was the only time she had kept going, the only time her digits continuously fucked you, so good, gods you were so close.

But Jane knew how to make you cry, too.

The tight clench around her fingers became a squeeze around nothing as Jane ripped her fingers again from your dripping cunt, leaving you squirming and crying — literally — for her to let you cum like the good girl you knew you could be for your mistress. You felt mocked and humiliated as Jane chuckled at the silent tears that fell from your glossy eyes.

“Oh, Marie, foolish girl. Your pleasure is in vain… You know I love to play with my food,” she tskls, parting your lips with her slick fingers — slippery with your essence — and let you taste the sin that coated them. Cruel, unrelenting Jane Murdstone.

Your tongue swirls around her fingers, eyes fluttering shut and suckling weakly. Jane decided she’d had enough of that and took her fingers away, using them to curl beneath your chin and force your eye contact. Your lady was a snake with blue eyes. That was a thought you kept to yourself.

“Please, please milady…” You whine and bite down on your bottom lip. You had forgotten how mean she could be every time her fingers ravaged your walls.

“Very good, good girl.” But instead of pleasing you, as is never the guarantee, Jane moves you, positions you so that only she would be pleased, and you’d be left with nothing. Your palm lay flush against the vampiress’ warm cunt, blocked by nothing but expensive silk. You looked to her with pleading eyes, knowing Miss Murdstone would never let you advance without permission. A faint nod granted you the consent you’d been looking for. With an eager hand, you pull the silk of her knickers aside, greeted to the sight of her – glistening and aching.

“Oh, milady…” You groan as a finger parts her slit, slick gathering on your digits. “Is this because of what I’ve given you?”

Jane bites her lip, swallowing back a groan. Instead, she scoffs, yanking your hair back, just to remind you who’s in control. “Silence yourself, you wretched girl… such a sinful whore you are, how would the church feel, finding out about your filthy needs?”

You whine as small strands are ripped, but you are not deterred. Instead, you remark, “and how would the church respond to their most pious figure bedding a woman, feeding from her neck whilst you take her fingers?”

That both struck a nerve and made her clench around your finger, almost as if to beg for another. You obey, cooing as she hisses from the gratifying stretch of an added digit. A retort dies off the tip of her forked tongue as your wrist curls, pumping your fingers deep enough to hit a spot that invites her back to arch like a cat from the bedsheets. Jane rocks her hips against your palm, meeting every thrust. You watch, mesmerised by the sight of her breasts as they sway with her movements.

You feel her walls start to quiver around you, her breath coming in soft pants as her thighs tremble. This was it, you were going to lose the game, but at least this felt like a win enough – feeling her slick drip down your palm as she came with a cry of your name.

“Very good,” she huffs, body quivering like a leaf in autumn. “You will accompany me at the same time tomorrow, sweetling. Fetch yourself tea and bring a candle to bed with you.”

Something in her tone sounded like she’d deliver a promising reward. You turn to leave without question, though Jane stops you with a soft grip to your wrist. She presses a kiss to your pulse point, soft as a whisper. Jane likes how your heart flutters against her lips. She smirks against your skin before swiping a finger between your legs, gathering the mess you’d made, licking it clean before sending you on your way.

#fics

93 notes · View notes