I sat alone, a haughty sex-goddess, the dancing shadows enshrouding me in dark mystery, observing the surrounding activity. As if I were their horny queen, my Tequila Sunrise a scepter, held aloft as I sipped, I surveyed my subjects. Behind me, my loyal page, the balcony bartender, pretended to wipe down his demesne as he surreptitiously leered at my exposed leg. My pale yellow and black lace bodice dress was slit from the hem to up above my hip, exposing the contours of my leg, my smooth, muscular thigh, and a mouth-watering side-view of my ass. I knew he could see because I had intentionally positioned myself in that manner to entice him, ensuring that my flesh was exposed to the point of scandal, just in case I decided to feast upon his flesh tonight. I ignored him, for the time being, as I worked on my theory.
To the casual observer, I probably appeared to be both infinitely sexy and infinitely bored. If one were a bit more astute, I was projecting a horny, sexual aura of stoic resignation, shouldering the mundane burden of being a sensual nympho in heat, irresistible in my lusty charisma. If one happened to be psychic, they’d realize that my mind was excitedly developing a complicated theory of hidden causality within the paradigms of social naming constructs. After one has been around for so many years, such mental exercises help one to pass the endless infinities between moments.
This nightclub was better than most. After countless prowls, they begin to blur together into an amalgam of sameness. The music was, blessedly, not oppressively loud; the lighting was tastefully understated, an ethereal, netherworldly glow that tied into the club’s theme. From my vantage, a cozy little bar-nook nestled in the shadows of the balcony alcove, I commanded a view of the dance floor, the main bar area, the seating areas, and the writhing sea of mostly-black-clad revelers.
My epiphany was that the niche adjectives of any nightclub dictated both the typical wardrobe, as well as what behaviors were permissible. While that wasn’t any earth-shattering revelation, the truism that it was governed by the patrons’ definition of what constituted a slut was revolutionary. I amused myself as I contemplated the laws of my new theory. One knows where the line of looking or acting like a slut lies simply by the niche adjectives.
In a regular nightclub, one that appeals to the plebeian masses, a woman will customarily dress sexy. She might show some cleavage, lots of leg, things like that. In that environment, showing your thong or ass cheeks, making out with somebody on the dance floor, or going without panties is considered to be scandalous and slutty.
If the niche includes the words “wild,” “adult,” “swinging,” “hookup,” “singles,” or similar adjectives, then see-through clothing, the occasionally exposed nipple, groping and kissing, and even some manual body stimulation become commonplace. The slut-line is drawn around the no panties or exposed genitalia territory. Recreational pharmaceuticals also become an open secret at this level.
If the nightclub niche includes the words “goth,” “punk,” “biker,” or other more narrowly focused descriptions, full nudity and sexual acts, just short of penetration out in the open, are permissible before one is labeled a slut. My list went on and on.
Being something of an expert in nightclubs the world over, I couldn’t recall a single instance where the theory didn’t hold up. The more focused a club is, the more permissive the slut-barrier. The slut-barrier dictated dress code, or lack thereof, as well as what sexual acts were considered normal. The more niche adjectives, the looser the morals and dress code and the laxer the vices.
I was in an elite, underground, goth, vampire nightclub.
This meant that the average chump was unaware of the place—no social media or advertising presence to draw in the posers—as well as the regular crowd ousting outsiders. Because it was a goth club, underwear was optional, nudity was everywhere, and it seems that one doesn’t get into the slut-zone until they take on all comers in the middle of the dance floor, while playing the kazoo, and having drinks licked off their cum-covered ass. The word “elite” can mean two things. In this instance, it meant that only those that fit the localized culture were tolerated. “Goth,” in tandem with the word “vampire,” dictated the music, mood, and mode of dress. As mere mortals associate sexual sensuality with vampires, the place had an erotic charge and plenty of people discharging.
My proof was in the sea of writhing, humping bodies all around me. I was a serene oasis in a desert of glorious sin. To my left, in a booth lining the back wall of the balcony, a very goth-looking, young woman, with pasty makeup, black lips, and demonic eye shadow, had her black, lacy dress hiked up, riding the hard cock of some lucky fellow. Her tits were out, spilling over the lingerie-style top, bouncing nicely. They were moaning and cursing with abandon, not caring who might hear or see. Her fake vampire-bite marks were a bit much for me, but the rest of her was lovely.
To my right, a young man, dressed like a cheesy movie vampire, was on his knees, his hands groping his lover’s ass while getting harshly face-fucked. His lover was not only enjoying the man’s oral skills, but he also had a bird’s-eye view of the lewd, lascivious acts playing out on the dance floor. Below, a pale blond was lip-locked with her dance partner, a goth, raven-haired woman, both of them fingering each other. I had marked her as a potential playmate for later. Other acts of lust-filled debauchery were everywhere; assorted drug use and general carousing were the norms, society’s restrictions be damned.
Flashing both a smile and my bare cunt to my bartender as he plopped down yet another free drink, I went back into my reverie. Pondering the negative implications of words such as “trendy,” “elite,” and “hottest,” I was only slightly annoyed when my contemplation was interrupted.
Mildly miffed that others had invaded the semi-private bar alcove on the balcony level, I watched as a scrumptious woman, dressed in Victorian lace finery, wearing fangs, angrily seated herself at the second tiny table in my alcove. She and her assumed boyfriend were in the middle of a heated argument. I listened, snickering into my drink. Throughout history, the males of the human species have been known to be dense, immature morons when it comes to understanding women. I wondered if I could somehow work that into my budding theory.
“I told you to follow me,” he scolded.
I usually don’t interfere in the affairs of others, but my experience and intuition allowed me to discern his entire personality from the timbre and tone of his voice. He was one of those typical male idiots that confused being dominant, which ladies usually like, with being domineering, an undesirable trait.
“No, you bastard,” she bellowed. “I told you to fuck off.”
She had verve. Visually, she was an unimposing figure. She stood maybe five feet and a couple of inches, all willowy and lithe. She had a naturally pale complexion, contrasting starkly with her thick, dark makeup and goth, technicolor hair. I was drawn to her moist, pouting lips and prominent cheekbones. Pale gray eyes matched her skin tone, making an overall very alluring appearance. Even with the tears pouring from her eyes, she looked quite edible. Her breasts were apple-sized but stood out very enticingly on her frail frame.
Her male companion puffed out his chest and bristled. “I’m the man, and…”
“That’s quite enough,” I interrupted, softly. “You’ll act like a man and mind your manners with the lady.”
“And just who the fuck are you, telling me what to do?” he challenged, turning to face me.
To me, he looked like a “wannabe,” the type that got into the whole Gothic vampire subculture because he thought he’d get laid. He towered over six feet tall, had jet-black dyed hair cut haphazardly, and wore mainly spikes, chains, and leather. Sullen eyes and flushed cheeks told me that he was obviously under the influence of something narcotic, and the sneer in his voice alerted me that he got his rocks off by abusing women. And I had thought that it was probably going to be a boring night.
“Oh,” I crooned politely. “I’m Lucy.” I held out my hand and stared into his eyes. “But you can call me ‘ma’am’.”
He glowered, drew back his fist as if to strike, then thought better of it. “I was, I was just…”
Another theory of mine revolves around why some men berate, belittle, and abuse their women. Mostly, it stems from the fact that they’re insecure, self-absorbed, and immature. Those types of men, such as the fine specimen of stereotypes before me, tend to cower when they encounter a woman that fully embraces her power. I hold more power than he ever could. Not only are my senses acute, my mind sharp, my reflexes cat-like, but no man can ever stand against my unbridled nature; he was merely prey to me.
“Just about to apologize to the young lady, then leave before you regret it?” I finished for him. My cruel, cold smile psychically implied repercussions resulting from not following my stern suggestion.
He stared into my piercing, moss-green eyes, becoming lost in their hypnotic allure.
His face softened, his posture deflated, and he slowly nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
Sheepishly approaching the woman, he looked at her, still dazed, and said, “You were right; I’m an asshole. I’m sorry. I’ll leave you be.”
I watched him, slumped shoulders and all, walk to the end of the balcony and slink down the stairs, his chains jingling softly.
The young, pale waif addressed me. “How can I thank you? I’m Lilith.”
Lilith, now there’s a unique name to hear in a goth vampire club, I sarcastically thought to myself. “Buy me a drink, sit down,” I said to her, allowing my sexual aura to overpower her.
“Bartender,” she said with surprising confidence. “Two of whatever she’s drinking.”
She stood up, straightened her Victorian, ruffled dress, adjusted her lace choker, and looked me over as she approached. Those light eyes of hers were mesmerizing, made wantonly moist from her tears. Having very keen senses, I heard the appropriate noises from the bar behind me, the bartender’s near-silent chuckle, and felt her eyes roam over my figure.
I felt the welcome heat of her stares as she drank in my pale skin, my vibrant, long red hair, and the way my bodice dress lifted and plumped my breasts. If I bothered to breathe, my tits rose and fell enough to capture anyone’s attention. Her eyes traveled down my taut torso and lingered at the gaping slit of my dress. I didn’t need to read her mind to know that she wondered if I had worn any panties, dismissing it as impossible as the waistband would have shown.
“I love your dress, so sexy,” she complimented. “I wouldn’t have thought of yellow for my vampire costume.”
“Candlewood Cream.”
“Pardon, ma’am.”
“Lucy,” I corrected. “Lucy Varney. The color, it’s called Candlewood Cream.”
My smiling bartender arrived with our drinks. I spread my legs for him, running my fingers along my wet slit, offering them to him to lick off. My new companion, Lilith, watched with big, gray, doe eyes. Staring directly into her eyes, I plunged my fingers into my dripping cunt and coated them with wetness. Tendrils of my nectar slowly cascaded off my fingers as I seasoned the rim of my glass with my juices.
“I taste like honey,” I told her. “It makes my drink all the sweeter.”
Lilith just stared at me, too stunned by my boldness to form words. Her mouth opened and closed repeatedly, a litany of emotions crossing her face.
Finally, she spoke. “He told me that vampires were real and that they sometimes hang out here, the lying bastard. I hate him. Thank you for saving me. I was scared he was going to hit me.”
Mentally correcting her grammar, I said, “Once again, you’re welcome. His type will eventually learn how to treat women. I didn’t want you to be another one of his mistakes, but he was correct.”
She gulped her drink and stared at me. “You mean vampires are real? No way!”
“Yes way,” I countered, using the parlance of the times.
“They’re just pretend, a fantasy.”
I squeezed her hand. Her delicate, smooth flesh was burning hot to my touch. “No, kitten, they exist, just not how most people think they would.”
Our conversation flowed after that. I used my keen senses of intuition and personality appraisal to slowly drive her into a state of horny bliss. While I thought that perhaps the bartender might be my willing victim for the night, or perhaps the blond on the dance floor would love for me to devour her while she writhed in sexual ecstasy, Lilith, who was actually named Miranda, presented herself as my quarry. My feminine wiles, honed to laser precision after years of hunting for nubile flesh, had her salivating over me.
Lilith was a typical suburban young woman, off to college, estranged from her family in all ways but for cashing their checks, that had fallen into the goth scene, then the vampiric subculture. She was sexually inexperienced, insomuch as those things go, but willing and eager to learn. Her several hints about how she “always wanted to be with a woman” were not lost on me.
I intentionally made her uncontrollably horny. As we chatted, her eyes would fixate on my cleavage, her gaze would caress my curves, and her stares were riveted on the high, revealing slit in my bodice dress. I found myself delighting in toying with her, intentionally spreading my legs so that the barest hint of my neatly-trimmed, red pubic hair, winter fire on my pale skin, would show for a brief split-second.
Eventually, the conversation turned back to her fixation on vampires. By now she’d crossed the line from gawking at me, laughing too vigorously at my quips, and dropping sexual hints to stroking my hand with her black-painted fingernails.
“If you’re right and vampires are real, how many are in here tonight?”
“Trust me, I’m correct,” I chided.
I allowed my eyes to scan the domain below us. The sweaty mob was still dancing, cavorting, drinking, and drugging. The sexual activity was nearing a crescendo, the dance floor and multiple places scattered throughout the nightclub resembled a crazed, roman orgy.
“Oh,” I mirthfully added, “there’s at least one vampire here, this very evening.”
“No way,” she repeated. “Where is he, or she?”
Shaking my head from side to side, making sure my long, slightly curly, fiery red hair shook around my face, I chugged my drink, stood, and grabbed her hand. Taking her arm, I led her to the balcony rails. They were a classical design, Grecian-inspired. The balusters were ornate pillars, the top rails smooth and marbled. I gently pushed her against the railing, so she faced the action below, my body behind her, pressing into her warm, inviting body.
My hands gently placed her palms upon the rails. Wordlessly, she submitted to my control.
Whispering into her ear, making sure my breath made her neck tingle, I softly said, “Look below. Don’t use your mind; use your heart, your emotions, your intuition. Find the vampires.”
My hands traced the sides of her breasts as she shivered in erotic delight from my breath on her exposed skin. Sliding my hands over her back, then down over her firm ass, I slowly pulled up her skirt. Her hands instinctively reached back to cover herself, but she didn’t object.
“Don’t stop me.” My voice was still a gentle whisper, but my inflection was a subtle command. I knew she couldn’t resist my sexual persuasion; I also knew that she didn’t want to resist.
“What if somebody sees?” she protested.
I dropped the hem of her Victorian costume dress, the dark blue hues shimmering in the stray dance lights.
“They neither mind nor care. Just look around.” My arms snaked around her tiny waist, squeezing her hotness into my cool, pale body. I could feel her ass pressing against my groin, feel her hotness seeping into me, warming me.
I continued, my voice husky, sexual, and wanton, as my lips hovered near her ear, my tongue occasionally flicking out to sample her flesh. She shivered with every syllable, her hips reflexively humping against the balcony railing, her ass thrusting into my cunt.
“Look at them, see them.” I drew out my vowels, adding all my passion, all my desire to my words.
As I spoke, her breath became deep and slow. Despite the noise and the music, I could hear her heart pounding, feel her pulse throbbing as she pressed against me.
“Do you see that black-haired woman to the left of the bar talking to her lover? Look closely at her hand; it’s down her skirt. Note how you can see her hand pumping up and down over her juicy, ripe pussy. She’s masturbating herself in plain sight.“
Lilith moaned in response, tilting her head back into my shoulder. Her multicolored hair smelled divine, reminding me of a fallow field from long ago, earthy from a newly fallen rain, aromatic with wildflowers.
My hands wandered up, cupping her breasts. They were plump and firm, her nipples instantly responding, growing taut and erect. Her moan turned to a gasp as her body stiffened under my touch. She quickly bent forward, shoving her delightful behind into me, thrusting her tits into my hands, harder. I bent forward to accommodate her new posture, moving my lips near her other ear.
“She saw you walk up to the edge of the balcony,” I continued. “As soon as she saw you, she began fingering herself. Does it make you hot to know that she’s going to cum in a few seconds because of you?”
I dropped one hand as my tongue probed her ear with delicate determination. Her knuckles gripped the railing, turning even more white. The back of her skirt was raised once more, this time eliciting moans of rapture. My hand ran up her thighs, my nails raking her flesh, my fingers kneading its smoothness. She panted in heat, thrusting her heated skin against my hand, her legs spreading enough to give me access to her hot, wet treasure in between them.
“In the sitting area, near the back. Look through the shadows and feel them with your lust. There’s a redhead wearing a Twilight t-shirt, leaning back. What do you see?”
“Her pussy is being licked by somebody.” Lilith’s moans made it hard for her to speak. “Is it a man or a girl? I can’t quite tell.”
“Good girl.” I squeezed her breast as a reward. “It’s a man, but he’s wearing a dress and slutty makeup. Do you know what else he is?”
She began to speak, but stopped, startled, when my lower hand reached her ass, traced the contours of her thong, then quickly tore it off her. The rent rag, soaked and smelling of liquid sex, glowed in the black light from her wetness. Nearing hysteria, she stared at me, turning her head to show me that she had now surrendered to passion. I tossed the ruined undergarment to the masses huddled below, a sensual offering from their queen of the night.
“He’s a...is he a vampire?”
“No, my child,” I smiled sardonically. “Use your intuition, your emotions.”
Beneath her skirt, my fingers found her wetness and began torturing her with the promise of release. Her hips bucked against my palm and fingers. Feeling dominant, I roughly shoved her against the railing. Her upper torso, held in place with my hand on her bosom, hovered over the banister. With my body pressed against her lower half, she was in no danger of falling. Adding two of my lithe finger past her inner folds, into her overflowing cunt, however, had her treacherously close to orgasm.
“Mmm, aah, you do that better than any man. He’s, umm, he’s a junkie. She’s his supplier.”
“Good girl. If you get the next one correct, I’ll let you cum.”
“I’m so close. That feels so good. What if I’m wrong?”
“Don’t be wrong. Unleash your inner goddess and let yourself know.”
“Please let me cum. I’ll do anything for you, to you. Just make me cum.”
I nibbled on her neck, sending convulsions down her spine.
“Just to our left, in the booth on the balcony. What do you see?”
She turned her head; Lilith was now panting and heaving against me. All concerns over being seen had abated. She was too lost in the throes of rapture to care if anyone saw.
“They’re fucking and watching us. She has him in her ass and loves it. The other guy lied to her and told her that he’s a vampire, but he’s only saying it to get sex.”
“Do you like being watched?”
“I don’t care; let them watch if it gets them off. It’s fucking hot. Please let me cum.”
I’d edged her enough, for now. Without warning, I spread her legs wider and pulled her skirt higher, exposing her bare ass to the club. Our audience fucked each other furiously, spurred to greater lust by the display. My keen senses altered me that the balcony bartender was enjoying the show, his "fapping" sounds audible to me.
I thrust my fingers deep inside her, finding that magical, spongy spot. I released my grip on her tit and used my now-free hand to squeeze her clit, letting off the pressure with every thrust of my inserted fingers, renewing the pressure with every withdrawal.
“Please make me cum; I’m so close, aah, mmm.”
“Give yourself to me; surrender all your will to me,” I commanded.
“Yes, please take me. I’m yours.”
“I’ll only let you orgasm if you submit to me as my whore.”
“But you promised!”
I had her on the cusp of cumming. I could keep her there as long as I wanted, and she knew it. I let her fester on the brink of orgasm until she neared hyperventilation.
“I lied. Now tell me that you’re my whore.”
“Yes, Lucy, I’m a whore, your fucking whore. Please let me be your whore forever. I want to belong to you.”
“Good girl. Now…cum.”
My expertly talented fingers gave her the final thrust, one final swirl over her engorged clit, allowing her to orgasm hard. Her screams of pleasure echoed off the ceiling as her legs buckled and stream after stream of hot, wet liquid shot from between her legs, making a lustful puddle on the floor. I had to hold her upright, lest she plummeted from the balcony.
“I, I never came that hard before. Is there something wrong with me?” She was staring at her squirted cum.
“No,” I laughed. “You were so turned on that you squirted. That’s a good thing.”
“Am I a lesbian?”
“Maybe, maybe not. It’s all about whatever you love. I don’t limit myself to just one gender, myself. My hunger for flesh knows no bounds.”
I traced her lips with my soaked fingers, then, ending in a kiss, our lips shared her cum.
“I didn’t see any vampires,” she lamented, holding me possessively.
“If anyone in this place would be a vampire, which one would you pick?”
She scanned the club and looked at the few people mingling on the balcony. Finally, her eyes locked on me.
“You, she gasped. “You’re a vampire?”
“I 'vant' to suck you,” I mocked.
She laughed at that, snuggled against me, purring. “I thought you said that vampires were real and there was at least one here.”
"They are."
I gently cupped her head in my hands, turning it to face me. As I showed her my teeth for the first time, feeling her body stiffen at the sight, her mouth voiced silent words of awe. Nobody noticed; nobody cared. I neither killed nor drained her, my teeth gently tapping her veins as I dined.
My heightened senses alerted me, by the taste, that she had the magic blood. What were the odds? Statistically, the chance of encountering somebody with the proper blood type was just under three percent, unless one also counts the RH-null blood type. I was tempted to go all the way, but held back; her evolution was in my power, but not within my right.
Instead, I drank less than my fill, just barely enough to reinvigorate my metabolism, gnawing a wound in my forearm as she gasped in the orgasmic rapture my feeding tends to produce. The euphoria of being drained by one of my kind is what allows us to feed. Our bodies, both in our natural pheromones and our bodily fluids, create a narcotic, sexual bliss. Just being near me will make you lust; tasting me will drive you into a sexual frenzy.
Feeding her just enough of my red nectar to feel free and empowered, the best she’ll ever feel in her entire life. I left her at our table. She was smiling, masturbating furiously, her eyes glazed, her moans loud. I didn’t turn her, and I spared her life. A scant few drops of her life’s red fluid slowly oozed from her neck. I lapped those up and gave her a passionate kiss on her quivering lips. What can I say? I’m a big softie.
Casually exiting the goth vampire nightclub, I was amused to see Lilith’s former abuser waiting across the street. He sat on the sidewalk, his back against the graffiti-covered brick wall, a half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey loosely held in one hand. With him, I was neither sweet nor gentle.
Minutes later, staggering slightly from the alcohol in his blood, I went home to watch some television and take a long, hot bubble bath. The morning papers told a good bit of fiction: “Man found in alley with slashed throat. Police cite gang-style execution.”
Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Lucy Varney, vampire.
