Kinktober Day Three: Biting

 Original Characters / Original Concept
Biting/ teratophilia/ vampire/ femDom/ domination/ submission/ blood
3.5k

NOTE: I've been playing with the concept of a monster brothel for a while now, so this may crop up now and again!

Outside of town there is a large iron gate which stands guard around a substantial piece of property at the center of which is a rather old but still well maintained example of Queen Anne architecture that is the envy of every fine house in the town. Not that any decent person would ever allow themselves to be seen within the gates in the broad day light. But when the sun goes down and the inviting glow of the house lights come up, many decent and indecent sort are drawn to the harpsichord music lilting through windows. They come through the gates the same way, cautiously, full of trepidation for the dark and lovely things that everyone knows dwell here, but yet no one will talk about in polite company.    
 
The proprietor of the house is Madame Ambrosine, a fine lady with a smile that keeps secrets and a business manner that would put any suited man to shame. She's as much a manager for the odd assortment of artists here, but she takes pride in her station, even if the rest of the town won't give her the time of day. They all come here eventually, and she bares no grudge. Business is business after all. 

When you open the door here, you are greeted by one of Ambrosines secretaries. They are pretty things, and you can't tell if they are men or women, as they seem to flit somewhere in between. They each smell like a different flower, and their eyes are the color of topaz. They offer you a drink, sit you down on the pink chaise, and tell you the rules of the house.
 
You may not speak of anything that occurs here. You may not leave until dawn.
Each artisan will name their own price. It is non-negotiable.
Do not wander the house without an escort.
Do not wander the yard without an escort.
The basement, wine cellar and attic are off limits and require a special appointment to be accessed.  
Be polite, courteous and respectful of the artisans.
The House accepts no liability for any lost objects or harm (physical, emotional or spiritual), which may occur during your stay.
 
You are offered a contract, which at this point you may choose not to sign. If you do not, you will be led to a fine chamber where a woman who does not speak will pour you drinks. You will leave in the morning, but you will remember nothing which has occurred, though you are sure you had only one drink and did not go to sleep.   
 
If you sign the contract, the secretary will roll it up and fix it with a wax seal before handing it off to be filed. Then, they will lead you to a room. You do not need to specify which room. Trust the secretaries. They know your needs better than you do in most cases.   
 
Every now and again, someone will go missing. They usually turn back up, dazed and confused, but over all no worse for wear. Though in some cases they visit the Menagerie again under much different circumstances. What happens to them after that is not known.
 
Marcus knew he was not supposed to be here. Well he was, but not in the way most people might conceive. It was a rite of passage, for any adolescent really, though the girls were better at keeping their experience secret. On the eighteenth night after your eighteenth birthday, you went the Menagerie to have whatever experience Ambrosine and her secretaries selected for you. He had made it past the gate, and suddenly the noises of the town seemed far off, it's lights mere pinpricks in the distance.    
 
He had been summarily greeted, shown in, and sat down with a secretary that called themselves Calathea. They were polite, continuously smiling without opening their mouth. They covered the rules, and then handed him the contract. The wax seal was green and he did not understand the sigil pressed into it. Calathea rose gracefully and gestured to the stairwell. “You will come with me, please. Stay close, and do not try to look in any closed door. We value client privacy.” They said, pronouncing it pivi-see.   
 Marcus followed them, hands in his pocket as he looked around at the polished brass knobs along the banister and the matching scones that lined the wall. It would occur to him later, when his night there was over and he was far less nervous about everything involved, that there had been no candles behind the glass, but there had in fact been flames. Right now, that was the last thing on his mind. “So, you worked here long?” he asked, trying to make conversation in what appeared to be an endless hallway.

“For some time, yes.” They answered in a prim tone.   
 
“Where did you work before?”   
 
Calathea's smiled widened. “In the gardens.”

“The gardens here?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. No I mean, where did you work before you worked here?”

Their eyes wrinkled at the edges and they did not stop walking “I have always worked here.”

“...ok...” Maybe they weren't supposed to get too chummy with the clientele. Marcus followed behind, looking at the many doors and trying not to give in to his curiosity to listen at one of them. Most of them were closed, but as they passed by an open one, he saw a woman wearing a pretty black night slip as she pulled on a set of fishnet stockings. He noticed six more pairs on the bed, each one laid out neatly, but before he could focus on it too carefully, she seemed to sense that he was watching and turned. 

She had eight eyes. They blinked at him in pairs.
 
They seemed to be headed to the end of the hallway where the lights were dimmer. Marcus turned to one of the doors only to have Calathea lift their hand and tug at the large knotted rope that hung there. A set of stairs descended slowly, the carpet covering them was worn, but he could see that it had once been a deep crimson red.   
 
“She is waiting for you.” The secretary extended their hand up the stairs. 

“I though you said the attic was off limits.” He asked, looking up. He could not see anything past the rectangle in the ceiling. 

“It is by invitation only.” Calathea explained. “You have been invited. If you do not wish to go in, you will be taken down to the waiting room till dawn.”

“No. No I wanna.” he assured them, taking hold of the railing and lifting himself up one step at a time. He peeked up over the flooring, looking around with caution. He could see furniture arranged neatly as though someone did in fact call this their room. There were heavy velvet curtains on the windows and antique carpeting on the floor. As he lifted himself all the way in, the stairs closed with a bang, and he jumped, making himself much more nervous just by virtue of the fact that he had jumped. Marcus shook his head at his own foolishness and turned around, trying to get a better look at the surroundings. There was an alcove in the wall, a statue about the size of his hand depicting a woman dancing with a snake, or perhaps making love to it. It was hard to tell without better lighting.   
 
“Do you like art?”

Marcus turned in time to see curtains move. There was a tall figure in the shadows, and he could not see past the silvery moonlight to get a better look. “Uhm...yeah I guess. I don't know a lot about art but I guess I like it.” As he came towards the voice, he could that the person was female, and watching him closely. Her eyes had the same reflective nature as a cats, and when she raised a hand to clutch her robe, he could see fingers much too long extend. “My name is Marcus.” he said, swallowing back his fear. 

“Marcus.” She whispered. “Named for your father, I suppose.” 

“Yeah. Yeah! How did you know that?”

A thin smile flashed at him. “He came here once. It doesn't seem that long ago, but it was before you were born. He came back often, but about eighteen years ago he stopped.” She gazed at him under a thick brow. “I often wonder why?”

“You...you took care of my dad?”

A deep, husky laughter entreated him. “I have been here a very long time, Marcus. I wager I have taken care of many fathers, grand fathers, great-grandfathers.” She moved closer, taking long strides as she came into the moonlight. Her face was heavily shadowed, but she looked to be a woman in her late forties, perhaps early fifties. There was silver in the dark brown of her temples, and when she smiled, she showed all of her teeth. 

He did not like how pointed they were.   
 
“I am glad you came to see me tonight, Marcus. I was worried you would not come up the steps.” 

“I had a few hesitations.” He admitted candidly. “Why do you live in the attic?”

“Who says I live here?” She asked. “I have many places, sometimes I am here, other times I am traveling. I saw you when I peeked out the window.” she encroached on his, pressing her hand to his chest.

Marcus realized it was not her fingers which were long, but her nails.   
 
“Do you want to pass the hours with me, Marcus?”

“Do I have a choice?” He couldn't see where the door was. He'd list track of exactly where he came in at.   
 
She leaned down and kissed his forehead. “No, you really don't.” He glided across the floor, the fireplace coming to life as she crossed before it. She rested her hands on an ivory bathtub with faux gold filigree draped around the edge. It had begun to rub off, giving the whole thing a strangely charming appearance. “I am going to take a bath, Marcus. And you are going to help me.”

“I am?” 

“You are. I want you to come fill up the bathtub.” She turned her back to him, dropping the robe about her shoulders to reveal the blue veins along her throat and back. “And Marcus, you should take off your clothing. You would not want it to get wet.”  

He started to kick his shoes off, stepping on the heel and taking socks off as well. His belt buckle suddenly seemed frustratingly complicated, the buttons on his new jeans too tight. 

“Do not just leave them lying on my floor. Fold them neatly You may place them on the altar.”

~The altar?~ It took him a moment to realize she meant the shelf of the alcove where the statue was. He folded them up like he did when his mother had made him help with laundry, all neat and in a perfect square, and placed them on the bottom shelf.   

“Very good.” She gestured to the handles. “Turn on the water. I like it very warm. I should see steam rising off it.” She instructed without turning to face him. Under the robe she wore a matching lace shift beneath it, and the lighting was just so that the figure of her body could be seen beneath it. 

Macrus licked his lips and realized his hands were shaking as he turned on the water. He tried to gauge it as best he could, turning the antique nobs till the water pouring out was too hot form him to touch right away. The tub was deep and took a moment to fill. 

“Are you a virgin, Marcus?”

~No!~ He went to say like any eighteen year old man would. “Yes.” Came out instead, and he bit his bottom lip like he was angry at it for letting that out.

“I see.” She purred and turned around, holding out her hand for him to help her into the tub. 

He reached out. She was cold to the touch.   
 
“Ouh.” The woman moaned as she sunk her foot into the hot water. “That is lovely.” She sank in and sighed, her hair bundled up atop her head to keep it dry. She pointed to an urn on her vanity. “Fetch that and the cloth, as well as the soap. You are going to bathe me, Marcus.” 

“Yes, Miss.” He said and his chest felt tight. Something inside his brain was kicking about, angry at him for being so quick to obey. Wasn't he the on paying for this? Why was she giving orders? But he went to get the items, hurrying back quickly. “Where should I start?”

“My feet.” She instructed, lifting one from the water. “Start there. When you have finished you continue up the body.”

“Yes Miss.” Marcus walked down to the bottom of the tub and hand her foot by the heel. She was much warmer now, almost room temperature. He began to scrub the feet firmly, a thrill shooting through him as she hummed in pleasure.   
 
She let him was down to her knees, then stood, allowing him to get into the tub so that he could scrub her back and hips. She allowed him to kneel and rub the soapy loofa over her thighs. When she turned, he was greeted by the curled patch of hair between her legs. He felt much warmer about the face and looked down, starting to rub it clean. 

“Have you never seen a pussy?” She asked and touched the back of his head.

“N-no Miss.”

“You may look.” She allowed, taking his hands and guiding him to use the fingers and explore through the soft mound. She was warm to the touch, but as his fingers dipped inside, a chill touched the tip, and Marcus realized that her internal temperature had not risen yet. He pulled them out and played with the folds, discovering that one was longer than the other and tugged it experimentally, thrilling at her little gasp. “Cheeky Marcus.” Her coy tone was not disappointed in the least as she tapped his nose. “Back to work.” 

“Yes Miss.” He stood up, finishing her shoulders before getting out of the tub. He poured the urn full of water water over her to rinse the soap off and when she stepped out, he towel dried her from top to bottom, kneeling on the carpet. 

“Such a devoted young man.” She said and caressed the back of his throat. “So much like your father.”

“Thank you Miss.” He looked up and let himself be led by her pace to the couch. It did not even occur to him to rise from the floor.   

“Do you know what I am?” she asked as she sat down, her thighs parting to show off the tempting cunt once again. 

He felt his lungs squeeze short of breath. “I think I do, Miss.”

“Do you know whats going to happen tonight?”

Marcus whimpered in the back of his throat. “I...I think I do, Miss.” 

Her smile widened, her sharp teeth flashed. “Then come here.” He put a hands on the couch and lifted himself up, his cock brushing against her stomach as he sat in her lap so she could get a better look at him. She took him by the chin, turning his head one way and then the other, deciding her preference. She laughed as he started to shake, eyes closed while he waited for the inevitable. “Does it frighten you so?” 

“YES!”

“If I promise you will enjoy it, does it lessen your fear?” 

“...not by much, Miss.”

“Well then, perhaps you require proof.” She took him by the arm, tucking him into her shoulder and leaning him back so that he might feel helpless in her grip. She took enjoyment from the way he trembled as she lifted his wrist to her lips and kissed it softly.

The warmth helped. The cold would have been unbearable. Marcus shivered as if held down as the teeth scratched his bare flesh, catching it and pinching enough to hurt. “Haaah!” 

“Hush now.” she commanded.

“It...it...”

“I know. I would promise to be gentle, but I think we both know that won't amount to much.” She began to suck a mark into his wrist, her tongue flicking over it as she rolled her eyes back in clear pleasure.

Marcus tensed and let out a shocked bleat as the sharp feeling punctured his skin. The pain was momentary, and as she began to drink, a bleary sensation dulled his senses. He could only watch as she bent to his wound and as she took her fill. 

As she lifted her head, an amused smile crossed the stained lips. She let his wrist fall as she touched the  mans cock, now straining proudly up between his thighs. “Cheeky Marcus.” she lifted him up, tilting his chin back. “You do like me.”

Her teeth covered his nipple next, and his body flew into sensations. He knew some initial panic as the next sharp bite broke flesh and she began to feed once more. It was secondary. Marcus's eye fluttered and he began to writhe slowly in her grip. She took but a few sips from each point, finding places to make him moan in plaintive submission to her desires. Days later, when he was finally able to rise from his bed, he would could over a dozen large bites all over him, each one somewhere that could be easily hidden by regular clothing. In the moment, however, he wondered two things. Would he survive this interaction, and if he did not, would she at least let him cum before it was over? His prick had never been so hard. He ached to touch it, to stroke himself while she continued to drink him. Anything to create a sense of control in a situation where all had been removed from him.

But if he tried to move, even just a bit, she took it for struggle and a warning growl emitted from her throat. 

Another bite on his inner thigh, too close to his cock for comforts sake, but whatever she did was working. Marcus arched up into it, his dick twitching in strange response to this stimuli. She was ignoring it utterly, her hunger the more important thing in the moment. She noticed it while licking her lips and flicked it with the tip of her fingers, letting it bend to one side before releasing it. “You've been very generous with me, Marcus.” She informed him, touching the underside. “I should be a gracious host and repay you for it.” 

He could not speak as he was drawn up into her arms, straddling her thighs as she reached down and began to take him in hand, drawing her fingers carefully up around the head of his cock. “Houuugh!” he whined out, thighs pulsing as he pumped himself forward, desperate for any release.

“Good. Just like that, Marcus.” She leaned into his throat and nuzzled it closely, watching him struggle to fulfill himself in her grip. “You're doing so well. So very well.” She caressed his hair and dug her teeth in one more time.

He sunk into it, owned by her entirely by this point. He didn't care. He didn't give a damn if this was his last night! He was enthralled by her embrace, given over to her demands of him. “Please! Please, Miss! May I cum?”

“Why of course you may. Who so ever suggested that you couldn't?” She laughed and bowed her head. She squeezed and he lost all control, thrusting up as though this was the greatest fulfillment he might ask for. White jizz burst from the tip and he lost consciousness, her reflective eyes the last memory he had of that night. 

In the morning he would awake, Calathea standing over him with a breakfast tray and plenty of food to help replenish himself. They would check his wounds, though they claimed she had never left anything which would not heal, and patch him up, calling a cab to ensure he returned home safely. Marcus would insist he hadn't paid. Calathea would simply smile and tell him not to be troubled over it. Of the yellow taxi, he could swear he saw a heavy curtain move from the attic room. But when he turned to see, there was no one there.