Happy Birthday, Dear Wampyr... (Part I)

The Dark Lord Stefan celebrates Her birthday...

"369, The Goose Drank Wine, The Monkey Chewed Tobacco On The Streetcar line..."

It was her birthday. The Dark Lord rose, the old rhyme humming in his head as he scented her upon the night air. The scent of her yes, but also the smells as she prepared herself to allow him to take her into the night in celebration. The Almond Butter she used to dress her curls, the ancient Florentine perfume she still favored after all these decades, the hot ironed smell of her crinolines, a darker duskier aroma as she donned the lingerie he has bought for her to wear for their night out. He groaned. Three flights above stairs, the little Wampyr Contessa felt his pleasure and smiled as she continued dressing.

The Lord had dressed, standard evening dress with, tails, linen shirt, waistcot, cummerbund, silk Top-Hat and cloak, and ascended the staircase. He smiled, wryly. Although she dearly loved to be entertained, the Contessa was not a fan of birthdays. (Neither would you be, Dear Reader, if you were 369 years old...) And the thing was, she WASN'T 369. Not technically. She had been turned in The Year Of Our Lord 1645. But she had been 27 then. So really, she was 396. As if it mattered. What's a few hundred years between lovers, after all?

Lord Stefan arrived at her door and paused. Inside, he could hear her bark impatient orders at the little Mexican Mortal girl she employed as a maid. "Tighter with the stays, Consuela, child!"

"But you won't be able to breathe, My Lady!"

"I SAID TIGHTER! Oooooooh! Better, Girl. Now fetch my boots and lace them up, girl. Is my hair alright? He said he wanted it up. Is my face alright? Are my lips too red? Oh, look at my eyes! I look like a Parisian Whore! My God the things men like! Does your boyfriend like you to look like a courtesan when he takes you out, Dear Child?"

"I don't have a boyfriend, My Lady," mumbled the little maid, "And I don't know what a cortizone is..."

"Lucky you, girl," gasped The Contessa. "I feel like a trussed turkey! And I probably look like one... He'll expect me to fly like this. Och!"

"Will you need me to call a car to take you to the airport Madam?"

"What? Why would... Oh. No, child, that will be fine. In fact, you can go now, Little One. I shall see you tomorrow at sunset. Thank you, Consuela. You are a dear girl..."

"You look beautiful, Madam," murmered the girl.

"Come and kiss me for luck before you leave, child..."

The little maid kissed her Mistress lightly upon each powdered cheek. The Contessa inhaled and her fangs pricked at the life-scent of the girl. But she did not seccumb to temptation. Although she wanted to. But it was vulgar to turn the help.

As the little girl bustled out the door, rather flustered now, she collided with the Dark Lord, almost making him drop the bottle and two glasses he was carrying. "I beg your pardon My Lord Stefan!" the girl panted.

"It's fine Consuela," whispered Stefan, his voice like the sound of midnight wind in leaves, his smoldering eyes boring into those of the little maidservant. "It's quite alright, child."

He suppressed a smile as he smelt her fear, and yes, a virginal, uncertain arousal. Perhaps another time, he thought. He patted the girl on her pert bottom. "Off with you, Miss," he instructed. The girl bounded down the staircase and he heard the slamming of the main door as she exited.

Lord Flashman entered the bedchamber of his lady. Her hair is up, her raven curls pinned, the dress hooped charcoal silk with ivory trim and bustle. Her cloak on the bed. He can only imagine her lingerie. For now.

 "Why Karen, you look beautiful..."

"Don't be ridiculous, Sir, I haven't even begun to get ready! And no doubt you shall say we must leave forthwith. Such Nonsense!"

"Karen, it's your birthday. We should celebrate, look, have a glass of wine..."

The Contessa sipped daintily. "This is nice but it's too cold, Stefan..."

Stefan smiled. "Happy Birthday," he whispered.

"Birthdays are silly. You still think like a mortal, Sir. I hate birthdays! When I lived in Berlin I knew a man called Reinhart, a mortal. On my birthday he brought me to meet his boss, an odious chicken-farmer turned policeman! Ugh! He was there, that Chaplin-Chancellor. Do you know when he kissed my hand I actually recoiled! Truly evil people! Got what they deserved..."

"Then perhaps we should stay in?"

"Where were you going to take me?" she asked, petulantly.

"First to Vienna, then to spend the night in Venice, I thought..."

"What a horrible bore," groaned the Contessa as she donned her cloak, walked to the large window and opened it. "But if we have to... Here, take my hand, Sir..."

He did and they shot into the night sky.

***

Within minutes, the Lovers alighted in an alley leading to the Stage Door of The Vienna State Opera.

"Please tell me we're not going to a fucking opera, Stefan?" whined The Contessa. (She had started to swear again since knowing him.)

"Karen, stop! It's not an opera. They're doing Strauss tonight and it's the Philharmonic. You'll like it, Darling. Please try to have fun, My Love..."

"Is it the Younger Strauss? I knew him. Oh, not like THAT, don't be jealous, Stefan. Silly Boy!"

"It's the one who wrote the fucking Radetsky March, Karen..." said the Lord sharply, slightly peeved now at her lack of appreciation.

"That's the older one," she sighed. "His father. Never mind, let's get on with it..."

Fuming now but controlling his temper, the Lord approached the Stage Door. "Karadjan, please," he demanded.

A small flunkey approached, and in a riche, nasal Vienna accent said, "If you mean the Conductor Herbert Karajan, Sir," here he sniffed, "the Maestro is preparing and cannot be disturbed..."

"Don't tell me you haven't even booked," said Karen.

The Lord's temper snapped. With one hand he held the flunkey by the throat, his feet dangling off the ground. "Listen carefully," he snarled. "Tell Karajan that Stefan is here. I need a box, with a view, I need complimentary bar service from the cellar and I need a waiter or waitress on call outside the door. I also need a Viennese Cream Pastry with one fucking candle, LIGHTED, delivered after the first interval. Do you understand?"

Stefan dropped the terrified mortal and he scurried away like a half-stamped-on spider.

The conductor himself came down within minutes after the doorman had scurried off. "Lord Flashman, you honor us," he said, with a beaming smile. "And this beautiful Lady is?"

"Karen, Bertie, Bertie, Karen"

The Contessa curtsied daintily and held out her hand to be kissed. "My honor, Maestro. Nobody conducts Strauss quite like Karajan!"

("For fuck's sake," thought Stefan.)

But within minutes they were ensconced in a private box. He noticed her at first tap her dainty foot and, after a while, begin to clap as the orchestra's rich sound filled the ancient auditorium. He watched her in rapture at her pleasure.

At one point, she looked over her wine glass at him, her violet eyes twinkling. She winked at him. Eyes shining for her, he allowed his head to dip in a short bow. Smiling briefly at Her Lord, she turned back around to watch the concert finale.

As the audience stood as one and applauded after the climax of the concert, the trembling flunkey from earlier arrived with an envelope on a silver platter. Stefan took it, tore the envelope open, read it, snarled a "Yes!" at the unfortunate and then smiled as the man tripped over his feet in his haste to leave.

"Herbert has invited us for drinks with the musicians. Would you like that. My Love?"

"Oooooh, yes!" smiled Karen. "Will that little red-haired second cellist be there?"

And indeed she was.

The Contessa, as usual, the most beautiful woman in any room, mesmerized the players. In fact, so knowledgeable was she that at one point she made a faux pas. "Do you know, that Johan originally wrote the woodwind section for strings, and only changed it because the players couldn't master the complexity of the piece!"

"How could you possibly know that?" asked a long-haired percussionist.

The Contessa simply looked at the boy. It was a look that might melt metal.

"I should be going," said the boy as he scuttled away.

"I love your dress," said the second cellist, the one she had noticed, the one with the red hair. The one who smelled like lilies.

"Come to the ladies room and you shall try it on!" offered the Contessa.

"Karen! We are... We are eating later, My Darling... We can't tarry, My Lover..."

"I shall be but a moment, My Lord," smiled the Contessa brightly as she led the young girl away.

(Things you don't know about my kind, Part Six: How to explain. Ah, yes! Mosquitos... Some of you are highly allergic... Some of you not so much, but may come up in little bumps if bitten. And some of you can be feasted upon and not even notice you've been bitten. So it is with us. You yourself may have been bitten. However would you know?)

In the ladies room Karen looks at the green eyes of the pretty Cellist and allowes her the full effect of her own violet eyes. The musician sighs and moves forward. The Contessa's kiss melts the girl and helplessly she reaches to touch the older woman. Karen kisses the girl deeper and runs her painted fingernails over the bodice of the her red dress. Her mere touch there is enough to make the girl orgasm, and she does so, so hopelessly indeed that her legs weaken and she feels faint enough to collapse... But Karen's hand drops between her legs, under her skirt, holding her upright as her fingers feather at her pussy... The Cellist gasps, "Oh God, cumming again," as the Contessa lifts her, high, upon one hand, feeling her cum as the girl's legs shake, causing her heels to drop to the floor... They rotate in the air, like figures on a Music Box...

 "Hush now..." whispers the Contessa as she lowers and hugs the redhead to her bosum. Now she bites. Now she feeds. Not too much. 

 The Little Cellist thinks she must be stoned. For in the mirror of the ladies room she can see this exotic dark creature hold her carefully, lovingly, and kiss her neck. But they are hovering six feet off the floor. She knows they are. She sees it. She can see her shoes on the tiles. Pain and pleasure and something else. Abandon.

Stefan watches the red-haired second cellist stagger glassy-eyed from the direction of the ladies powder room in her stockings. She stumbles as if drunk, her dress disheveled, and yet, her eyes shine like a girl who has just experienced an orgasm. And perhaps she has. Her fellow musicians gather around her and, after discussion, she is escorted to a car to take her home. "Cocaine?" they mutter darkly. "Does she drink?" (This episode will rather unfortunately cost her her place in the Philharmonic.)

The cause of her exquisite distress emerges from the ladies room in a swill of curls and crinoline. Karen glows. Her eyes shine with an unearthly brightness. I motion to her with a pass over my lips and she wipes a smear of crimson from the corner of her perfect mouth. As she will when she has just fed, she speaks in a throaty whisper.

"You said something about Venice?" she giggles softly.

We walk into the cold of the dark night. I look at her. "Having fun, Birthday Girl?" She narrows her eyes and sticks her tongue out at me cheekily. I take her hand. 

We fly to Venice. The night is young. And Ours.