Abstract: Every few decades every imaginable trope of All Hallow's Eve gather at a special haunted house for one and only one mysterious purpose, but first the staff must be assembled.
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As Francette's hands pushed away from the stone bannisters, she feared having been caught listening in on her mistress. Somewhere below in the great hall, the witch continued to gab and banter with the guest, the female vampire -- inamorata -- then again maybe they weren't lovers at all. The fake pleasant conversational tones indicated either that they didn't like each other or that they needed to patch up after a lovers' quarrel. Without stretching herself over the railing, straining to hear, the voices jumbled, lost in echoes bouncing up the dark main stairwell to be quelched by the shuddering of a large mullioned window pelted with rain.
Crouched down on the floor above the two women, Francette could only discern the existence of flitting laughs and gossiping chitchat. It seemed best to slink off, so the French maid quickly slipped away from the museum-like marble posts of the handrail. Pressing her body back against a wall, she prayed the vampire would not chasten her. Vamps clearly heard the single blood droplet hit the floor. There would be no escape if Vamps pounced. In a second, a sudden flashing movement would be followed by fangs sinking deep into the flesh.
Bending over the railing to eavesdrop had been an amateurish mistake. Francette's fingers felt her bleeding neck and the two punctures she had received a few minutes ago. Her mistress witch and the mysterious female vampire were both certainly deadly creatures to avoid.
But were they lovers? The maid wondered how Wicky, in her full length corset dress, could be anyone's lover. Francette remembered dressing the woman once. It was morning and the witch had just fucked a female elf.
Knowing Wicky's gown, Francette wondered how even an eager sexual sweetheart could keep interested after plucking the hundreds of dress buttons that pinned a line down the witch's spine, over the curve of the derrière, and bridged a taunt seam stretched by the bounded legs. Opening the gown would still leave any amorous lover with the task of safe cracking the next layer of exposed endless corseting lacings of the leather underdress. And once that corset shell cracked open -- honestly -- Wicky just didn't seem the type to show a wild unconstrained tenderness. In short, was it worth the work to get in there?
It was difficult imagining Vamps being so patient as to pull and pluck and tug and peal. The stunning undead woman seemed the type capable of taming any creature, but not with patience and empathy -- no -- not Vamps. Whips and chains maybe -- then again, maybe the cruel woman secretly liked being submissive in bed. Wicky could demand her fetish dress be undone slowly and properly. It would be part of the game. She would give orders on how to do it too. But Vamps as a sub seemed impossible.
Francette's mind stuck on that for a moment: hmmm, Vamps as a sub or, more alluring, as someone's sexual pet. A nice little dog collar and leash, maybe? A mistress slapping Vamps with a paddle. Hmm? Never.
The maid continued to slide against the wall towards a darker corner to hide and recoup. Tucked around a corridor, adjacent the great stairs, Francette's isolation helped diminish her anxiety. All her snooping senses returned. Her legs stopped shaking, her stance recovered, and her mind, finally calm, could no longer ignore a door a few feet away, labeled 'servants' all in lowercase -- as any good maid knew a serf's status deserved.
The door creaked as she peered inside afraid to intrude. Her hand found a tiny wall switch, shaped like a Frankenstein lever with exposed copper bars and wires. It zapped her. The electrical work looked like Edison himself installed it. She tried again, finding some remaining rubber covering at the lever's tip. Connecting the flat metal rod to its copper pincher, a tiny bulb overhead glowed. Not much help. She sighed.
She had been in this wing of the manor years ago when she was first captured and trained. Daring to enter, she proceeded down a long narrow corridor. Rain hit the fenestrations to her left. The glass panes were more like waist high portholes, requiring a deep servant's bow to see out. A series of doors to servant rooms were on her right. The hallway was only shoulder width, forcing the puff of her skirts to dust the walls and windowsills as she guardedly crept forward. The narrow hall tapered, becoming more claustrophobic but she knew mere servants did not deserve more.
The bastard architect was obviously a Dom. His dead spirit probably watched her even now, laughing at all the poor women shifting their way inside his misogynistic design.
But where was the staff? A large party needed a staff. Wicky had planned over a hundred guests easily, maybe more, maybe twice or thrice that. Francette's former master had indicated so, plus he warned how Wicky's event would be fraught with dangers for a pretty young woman. Francette remembered climbing into the coffin for shipment. He had smirked at his troubling comment, implying her. His eyes checked her out one last time. He enjoyed seeing the fear his words added to his blood maid's imagination just before he shut the coffin door to send her off to Wicky. The maid remembered almost hyperventilating as the chains went around the pine box, with her inside.
In the gloom of the hallway, the maid stepped forward, pressing her skirts down to keep them clean from the dusty walls rubbing her shoulders. She hesitated. She wanted to keep her hands raised and ready, not busy fussing about her costume. Could someone sneak in from behind? Were wild animals lost in this abandoned wing? She shivered and proceeded a bit more. What good would free agile hands do her anyway? Did she actually think she had some kung fu talent against a monster? She missed her former master because she knew what to expect from him; draining her of blood night after night -- enjoying her like a human aperitif.
