Bloodied

I want to get away; leave this den and run. Maybe I want to take him with me, maybe I don't.

His steel blue eyes hold mine for a moment as he opens the door for me; the synthesised smoke from the machines assaulting my sense.

"Scared?" he mutters under his breath as his hand tightens on my upper arm. I can feel the spring of his grasp as he holds onto me. He senses my reluctance and, instead of attempting to put me at ease, instils his control over me.

I try to respond, but my eyes are trapped by the lights, the bodies, the blood-smeared stage. Gyrating females sweep past me, their skin even in more patches than the swathes of clothing can demurely encompass. One of the girls strokes my cheek as she giggles to her companion. Her hand feels like it's been buried in snow.

I shudder at her touch.

His voice is quiet and strained against his sudden disapproval, "I asked you a question."

I can't meet his gaze as his eyebrow arches in impatience.

"Yes."

He nods and sweeps in front of me, a look thrown over his shoulder roots me to the floor even though I would like nothing better than to turn back. He swings his arm in front of one of the women who stiffens as though about to let loose a tirade of abuse before she recognises him and squeals in delight.

He leans into her and his lips stroke the underside of her mouth where a slight ruby colouration disappears with a touch of his tongue. The girl quivers and smiles glitteringly at him as he pulls away from her.

She looks over to me, her sweet, welcoming warmth corroding to the grin of a cat inspecting a mouse.

"And who might this be, Marcus? Such a pretty little thing, but so shy," I look away from her eyes as they bore into mine. I did not comprehend until this moment the true meaning of the phrase the eyes are the window to the soul. I could swear she has seen all my sins and all the purity within me and has found me sorely wanting.

Marcus's hand touches my chin gently and lifts my face to his gaze. He whispers quietly in my ear, too soft for any but me to hear, "Do you remember what we spoke about? In here you are not to look away. Behave as though you belong with me."

I look at the girl and the force of his gaze on my temples like a laser of heat sweeps through my face, transforming my features into a mask of contempt for the simpering thing before me. Her vicious grin falters as a slightly affronted sneer replaces it. Parting my lips, a voice I don't recognise as my own streams out, "I'm Heather," I clasp her chilled hand in both of my own, "Forgive me, I have not been out in quite some time. I must be losing my manners." I lean closer to her, breathing in a scent of copper and sweet, cheap perfume as my lips touch the delicate pillows of her own. They taste as much like ice as her hand felt and while my lip dances a tango against her own I can feel the cold of them piercing my flesh, forcing a ridge of ice to shudder down my spine. Her hand brushes lightly across my breast and I hold back the small cry inside, knowing that he would disapprove of my obedience to this stranger's touches.

I touch her lips once more, lingering before pulling away, back into the arms of my companion who remains a chilled unyielding statue beside me.

The girl stutters an excuse of needing a drink and sashays away, her legs somewhat more unsteady than before.

Marcus breathes his chilling breath into my ear as he speaks again, "Adequate. Now go backstage and remove your clothing. I will call you to me when the time is right."

I glance sidelong at him, unsure of this next step. We had not spoken of it. He had informed me that we would be visiting the club tonight and be a part of the entertainment, but he had not explained how and why. The thought of baring myself in front of them all makes terror ridden tears slip from my eyes.

He shakes his head at me, the first look of concern crossing his face, "No. No crying. You wanted an introduction and I have sequestered you one. Do not back out of the agreement now. You don't want to disappointment me, do you?"

"No," I whisper as I head through the door marking backstage right.

Even here in the dark of the wings I can feel eyes on me as I strip my shirt from my body, stepping out of my unzipped skirt. In the dark I can almost feel a hundred hands sliding over my skin, across my nipples beneath the curve of my backside. And as shamed as I feel at the thought of parading my naked form in front of strangers, a small thrill I had thought impossible zings through my veins and settles at the base of my spine, warming my thighs, sliding through my cleft.

Something else burns up in me as I remember the sight of blood on the stage, but I bite it back, refusing to waver.

I listen for him, intent on not missing his call as the repercussions would be distressful.

And then it comes.

A soft whisper along the lining of my skull, a voice zapping along my synapses, a scream pulsing through my arteries as he calls my name so that only I can hear.

I step out from behind the curtain to find him standing centre stage, his shirt gone, his chest covered in s small smattering of dark hair against his pale skin. In his hands he holds a delicate a riding crop, his wrist flicking gently as though memorising the movement.

He does not smile as I step through the curtain, but rather points to a stock of some sort. A thick wooden block with a seam near the top and holes for arms and a head.

I walk towards it, too fearful and impatient to notice the glaring lights disguising shining eyes. He lifts the top, which screeches against its hinges and positions me so that my arms and head fit through the holes while my bare body remains exposed and horizontal to the ground. Only the position of my knees keeps my body from falling at an even more uncomfortable angle.

His fingers stroke down my spine slowly as he steps behind my exposed body.

I hear the zip of his trousers and my body tenses against the stock, wishing I could at least see the expression on his face.

A rustling sound behind me alerts me to his position moments before I can feel the warm hardness of him pressing against my slit. I try not to wriggle against him, but a small cry escapes me. I flinch as his hand punishes my backside for my yielding libido.

Having satisfied himself that I am now sufficiently quietened even though my insides shudder at his barest touch, he lays a warm hand on the small of my back. A signal. I clench uncertainly as with a whistling sound above my head I feel simultaneously the sting of the whip and a burst of anticipated pain and pleasure as he pushes into me.

He pulls back as he whips the lash up again and both plunges his length into me once more, just as the burn spreads yet again across my flesh.

A soft coppery scent flavours the air around me and I feel him push into me once more, but this time the whip does not land. Instead I feel his tongue lap gingerly at the lines in my back. My body bucks against his, eager to be released. To taste what he tastes, but I find myself trapped between his cock and the wooden stock.

I can smell my own blood in the air and the red haze of need guts through me, forcing my body to respond as I rattle against my bonds. Marcus moans behind me, his body tensing to the crush of my want around him as he shudders and moans, collapsing against my back.

With a sigh he slips out of me and walks around to the front of the stocks, undoing the bonds. I stand, not noticing the burn along my spine where the whip cut deep. I can smell the blood on him, see it smeared across his cheek.

Leaping onto him I push us both off stage, into the lap of the girl from earlier who has the glazed expression of a drunken teenager as she bites at her lip; a dainty fang pierces the flesh there.

"Please Mistress," Marcus whispers, his face slack with satisfaction, but his eyes fierce with need.

Straddling my pet, I lick the blood from his chin and bury my fangs deep within his throat.