The Selie

Aud laid helpless and vulnerable on the floor of the helicopter were I had secured her as my prize. Even broken as she was, her pale beauty drew me in and I tasted the pure blood flowing through the strong vein in her unbroken wrist. True, the taste would be better under more pleasant circumstances for her, but the intoxication of that ever flowing source made the capturing of such a hard won prize all the sweeter, like the Moal Flidhais.

She would undoubtedly resent me as her new master just the same, but, unlike the fool Fergus, I would speak gently to her as did Bricne, thereby winning her love, loyalty, and that wondrous liquid that was her blood.

I woke and tried to feign sleep, but her stare bored into me. I opened my eyes and was drawn into her depthless black ones.

From years of experience, I assessed my situation reflexively from the inside out in under five seconds. Most of my wounds were negligible, but one or more crushed vertebra and torn organs were far from fully repaired and the bones of my right leg and arm were completely shattered. Human biology is not designed to survive such physical trauma and the resulting pain is difficult to bear at all, let alone with the dignity I'd need to display. What choice did I have though?

A slight pain on my left wrist indicated that she'd taken a tasting bite. Normally such a minor wound would heal nearly instantaneously, but my recovering body was too desperately diverted in multiple directions in mending the greater injuries I'd sustained.

That she took only a taste surprised me. Confused me even. But I put my wits to more pressing concerns.

My body was stripped and securely strapped down to a heavy stretcher latched into the floor of an otherwise empty cargo helicopter, destination unknown. I also couldn't know whether I'd been secured so thoroughly to prevent further injury to myself through the jostling of travel or to prevent escape attempts on my part. Or both.

In any case, escape wasn't even a slim chance anymore. The anguish of my broken body wouldn't have allowed it. The realization of my complete helplessness took only those few scarce seconds. Frighteningly, her catching me gave me relief rather than terror. No more running, at least for a while, removed the unpleasant ball of stress that tightened my stomach since we'd met.

She hadn't blinked.

"I hate your hair." She trailed her sharp, hard fingernails through my inch short dyed brown hair and across my scalp with the slightest of smiles on her terribly beautiful face.

"Let me go then?" I knew release wouldn't be so simple, but how could I not at least ask?

Her smile grew perceptively and she exhaled her breath silently in the vampiric manner of laughter.

"It will grow back." Her fingers continued to caress my scalp. "What is your name?"

"Rochelle Evans," I answered without hesitation, "I-"

"Your real name, selkie," she interrupted me sternly. "I am Marika Farkasova."

I hesitated then. I hadn't given my real name in centuries, but for reasons that didn't matter in the current situation. Still, my name is my most intimate and oldest possession.

"Aud." So strange. My own name spoken aloud.

"Aud," she repeated. "Aud, I want you to know that you're perfectly safe."

"You're not, vampire," I threatened with as much vitriol as I had to give. She'd made me feel vulnerable and that made me want to lash out, but I also hoped to find a way out. Any way out, however slim the odds.

Her eyebrows rose, but she seemed more amused than concerned.

"Your threats might be more frightening if you were not bound and broken on the floor." Her knuckles grazed so very lightly over my crushed arm, and I winced. Her eyebrows drew together and she didn't touch my broken half again. "How am I not safe, exactly?"

Vampires reason. Their violent passion can be checked by cold logic in service of self-interest. I'd at least attempt to negotiate my release.

"A combination of gambler's ruin and the law of truly large numbers."

"Explain."

"You're stronger and faster than me and you presumably would take precautions to ensure my captivity when you're away or asleep. But I represent the house in the sense that I have infinite time and restoration with which to effect the admittedly unlikely event of my escape. In my opinion, an attempt -- not necessarily the successful one -- like as not will necessitate your death."

"Infinite Monkey Theorem," the vampire nodded sagely. Apparently, that line of reasoning wasn't foreign to her.

I nodded in return, and instantly regretted moving even that much. As my eyes closed in pain, her cool palm rested gently on my feverish forehead to discourage further movement.

"Tell me," she asked in earnest, "where would you go if I released you? Back to your human lover in California? Whoring and drinking in the desert? Where would freedom take you?" She said the word "whoring" with some vehemence. My visiting a prostitute apparently offended the moral sensibilities of a fucking

vampire

?

"The Gulf of Bothnia." Unwise to tell a vampire one's destination, yes, but unwiser still to lie to a vampire when incapacitated. Truth would answer much more crisply than fabrication.

"Because you remember it fondly?" Her fingernails grazed over my left shoulder.

I couldn't nod, so I blinked a yes. Then consciously unblinked.

"Full of container ships and cruise liners now though, hardly the idyllic northern arm of the Baltic Sea that it once was." Her nails ran over my throat, emphasizing my injury-slowed heartbeat.

She could be right. Sad that my native region is despoiled, but no matter.

"Helluland then."

"Where's that?"

"Canadian East Coast."

"Canada? With faked I.D.s? How long will you be able to drift there before the authorities bring you in for using a false identity? And, if you do successfully hide among the humans again, how long until someone else like me finds you?"

I doubted. Only for a second, but a second was too long. "I'm surprisingly resourceful."

A bare smile again, this time with a touch of affectionate pride. "Most werebeasts are found locked away as prisoners in private residences, owned by vampires or other powerful immortals. Even wealthy humans sometimes. The few werebeasts I hunt in the wild are uniformly driven feral." Her fingertips brushed through my hair again. "I am not questioning your capabilities, Aud, only your motivations."

My eyes closed again under her touch and took longer than they should have to open. My motivations felt distant. My body needed to hibernate, to heal.

"I am taking you to our dormitory for werebeasts, the Menagerie. They have all the modern conveniences and entertainments, choice furnishings, and acres of land." Her index finger and thumb turned my head slightly to face her and her mesmeric eyes held me again. "Security. Comfort. Friends who will not age and die. Would it be so bad?"

I thought of Ina and of Phixidis, but then I thought of those cells. "To live in an abattoir?"

"There is no slaughter, not even during the monthly hunts. Nor will I allow you to be drank to the point of enfeeblement." Her fingertips traced over my temple. "I think of it more like a dairy farm."

"A dairy farm?"

"Yes," she laughed silently again, "you have never had a favorite pet cow?"

"Flattering...com-parishawn." My eyes closed once more.

I felt her smooth hand stroke my cheek and her cool lips kiss my eyelids.

"Rest, dear Aud. We will have plenty of time to talk later."

By the time I could wake, even intermittently, we'd left the helicopter. My consciousness faded in and out while I laid on a cushioned surface, unrestrained physically. No great escape chance in that lack of restraint however. The pain demobilized me entirely, so much that I still couldn't lift my own head.

The first solid impression I gained was a man's hands. Not vampire, but not human either. He massaged my throat, presumably to make me swallow medication. But he left before I gathered the wits to ask anything.

Other presences entered thereafter. By their timbre, three vampires. One of them was Marika.

"That's little werebeast who gave you so much trouble?" An authoritative voice asked. "She doesn't look like much of a killer."

"She is not much of a killer," Marika answered, "but I intend to keep her all the same. For myself."

"You can't-" the third voice -- younger -- broke in indignantly.

"No one was speaking to you, Childe," The authoritative voice cut her off immediately. "Of course you may keep your own prey, Marika. Please give us a moment, so I may instruct my progeny?"

I sensed Marika leaving, but the other two stayed.

"Childe, first, when I speak to your elders, you don't," The authoritative voice reprimanded.

"Second, Marika is an invaluable ally, presumably my age and certainly my strength, but without any ambitions or bloodline to make her a political rival. On the other hand, that political indifference means that only the convenience of her hunting lair currently garners her loyalty and the continuous stream of allies, assets, and enemies she captures."

"Keeping an immortal slave here will give her a personal stake in our continued success and safety?"

"Yes, and she understands as well as I do. You must be careful to avoid equating political indifference with political ignorance, as both must be leveraged in very different ways. She formally asked for the werebeast out of a courteous respect for my position, but knows that the prospect of her keeping a werebeast of her own here benefits us more than her," The authoritative voice grew philosophical. "Besides, disposition of one's own prey is an inherent prerogative. That's what makes the Prepatent Initiative so difficult and unnatural to enforce."

"The others'll still be pissed that she gets a private blood bag."

"Let them. Maybe the lazy bitches will be incentivized to hunt more valuable prey themselves."

The voices left. I soon blacked out into a deep drugged slumber.

Aud lay in the hellcat's laboratory, healing. I watched her on the monitors, aware that I had fallen for her as Carmilla did her Laura. From my first taste of her, my infatuation had built into more and I knew that bond would be cemented permanently as soon as I allowed myself to drink from her fully.

Thankfully, with my sweet selkie, I would not be forced to choose between turning her into a creature like myself - whom I could never hope to love - or letting her die.

Upon waking, I found myself able to lift my head and good arm. Even the thought of standing left me dizzied and indisposed though.

Irritated at my ongoing feebleness, I brushed the hair from my eyes. Its length suggested that I'd been unconscious for well over a month. The only silver lining in that being that I slept through at least one forced shift.

Whatever drugs that man had used must have been very potent and administered often for me to simply sleep undisturbed through my brain, skeleton, and organs reforming while my body lay broken.

The cushioned surface I laid on was a metal examining table, but a makeshift mattress had been added. The table itself was probably there for corpses, but the large room with its multitude of whirring and glinting equipment suggested a laboratory rather than a morgue. A very modern laboratory that strongly conflicted with the neoclassical architecture of the room.

I stared at a beautifully rendered mural of The Judgment of Paris on the ceiling and contemplated my fate.

I suppose that "favorite cow" is more flattering than "blood bag" as a description of my new station in life, but the semantics weren't worth quibbling over. I was to be a slave -- specifically I was to be Marika's blood slave -- for the foreseeable future.

The only decision to be made was my response. Resistance, acceptance, or enjoyment.

My culture, my worldview, and my ethos all inform me that I should fight captivity with every fiber of my being. Understand that my blood predates even the civilizing effects that created the Ancient Norse warrior cult. My core beliefs do not recognize freedom as an inalienable right. Rather, freedom is the privilege of victory and slavery the unthinkably abhorrent consequence of defeat. Slavery must be conquered with victory or it must be endured in silence.

Vae victis,

bitch.

Still, savage that I am, I am not a fool. Open defiance and irrational resistance would only encourage greater restriction on my person. I would need to affect subjugation until an opportunity arose. But how quickly would feigned compliance become real complacency? How long before my sense of self caved in to acceptance?

Moreover, my id battled my superego in its insistence on what I should do. When I thought of Marika's beauty, her touch, and her charisma, the base part of me wanted to be a slave to her. To live my lusts under her sway, to be enveloped and consumed in passion. I craved submission to her.

As to what I

should

do, there could be no doubt. But I did begin to mistrust whether my judgment would be better than Paris' and -- for the first time since hearing the myth -- I felt sympathy for the poor blighted bastard and his terrible choice.

I originally heard the story in Corinth, where I worked as a hetaira (sex worker) due to my exotic Northern looks and relatively ecumenical background.

The variation of prostitutes and their cultural status throughout history is endless. The hetairai were less exclusive than concubines and less independent than courtesans, but in the same general vein of sex worker, providing what modern call girls call the "girlfriend experience" discreetly to men and women who could afford their services.

I'd been captured in a failed attack on Illyria by a Celtic tribe I raided with around 300 BCE. After provoking one of the victorious Greek soldiers to the point that he "killed" me, I shifted into my seal form and dug my way out of the shallow grave they put my body in on the side of the road to Corinth.

Unfortunately for me, a caravan passed before I shifted back, so I was sold as a curiosity to a showman in the next town. It was damnably awkward when he found a naked blonde woman in his cage instead of a valuable spotted white seal the next morning and he screamed at me in Greek for 30 minutes before throwing up his hands and selling me to a slave importer. The slaver sold me to a brothel and there ended a rather disturbing road trip.

Over time, I started my own chain of brothels in the cities of Greece. By switching between them every decade or so and utilizing a few trusted managers and bribed officials, I successfully maintained my life as a female metic for centuries, well after the Roman conquest.

After spending millennia largely in tribal cultures, the urban life of Greece was a revelation. Access to a constant flow of new trade, writing, and art from both East and West fascinated me. Between my position and the more liberal nature of Greek culture, I could also indulge nearly any sexual whim that occurred to me. And indulge I did.

"Rua, Tadi, come with me," I'd returned to my brothel in the seaside city of Megara and the air got to me, inspiring me to enjoy an evening of carnal delights.

The continuum of sexuality is a real thing, and some women are legitimately hard over to the heterosexual end of that continuum. Rua and Tadi were not.

"Yes, Potnia," they agreed together easily and followed me back to my office/bedroom.

Again, I truly prefer lovers who want to be with me. As quasi-independent contractors, they could pretty much say no to anyone but me. (Not that they were choosy. Prostitutes don't make a decent living if they only take on clients whom they'd fuck for free.)

Although all the girls were professionals and would have well-faked enthusiasm with me, having two naturally girl-loving girls who didn't need to fake anything was much more fun for me on a mental level.

Neither girl was any more ethnically Greek than I am. Rua was of Gaulish descent, not so pale and ice blonde as me, but of a ruddier complexion with auburn hair. She stood about the same height as me, but with a broader frame. Tadi was extracted through Cyrenaica, dark as night with a shaved head and beautiful smile. She had less height or muscle than either me or Rua, but made up for that shortcoming with a natural sexual dominance that I've rarely found matched.

I should mention that the leathern strapon dildo was widely available in brothels at the time in Greece. I'm not sure if they were widely used in private homes. Either way, Tadi took to a strapon like a duck to water.

"Any preferences, Potnia?" Rua asked from behind me as her hands caressed my bare arms in my sleeveless linen peplos.

"I have a few preferences," Tadi smiled as she answered for me, unpinning my flowing garment from one shoulder.

Rua gently rubbed the back of my neck as she unpinned the other side of the simple gown and it fell to the stone floor. I stepped out of my sandals, naked as a jaybird.

Tadi's hand on my chest pushed me hard back into Rua, while her other hand roughly pinched my nipple.

"Hold her," Tadi instructed the ginger girl curtly, before she bit my other nipple. I screamed out pleasure/pain, "You are so fun to play with, Potnia."

Oddly, even when ordering me to be held down and attacking my breasts, Tadi remained ever respectful of my position as the master of the house or the 'Potnia.'

Rua held me in what would be called a full nelson in modern parlance, giving Tadi free access to my full frontal nudity with my arms pulled back and my chest thrust out. She whispered to me as her brawny arms flexed, "I like it when Tadi plays with you too, Potnia."

I turned my head to kiss the inside of her wrist, then gasped as Tadi left another hickey on the underside of my breast.

My knees weakened as my breath became ragged with all the teasing bites, gropes, pinches, and squeezes. Soon, Rua was holding me up as my body sagged in her iron grip.

Which was Tadi's cue to take things further.

"Spread her legs," she ordered Rua, who dutifully complied. She put her feet inside my heels and pressed out well passed shoulder width apart. My whole frame felt stretched elastic.

Tadi grinned and kissed me, hard. Her gropy hand reached between my opened legs to finger me roughly, "You like that, Potnia?"

"Yes," I agreed.

"I didn't hear you, Potnia?"

"Yes!"

"You want more, Potnia?"

"Yes!"

"Say, please." Her voice dripped with lust. Dominating someone with legal and commercial authority over her doubtlessly added to the thrill for her.

"Please, Tadi," I begged, shameless, "Please fuck me?"

Her broad smile shone like polished ivory. "Whatever pleases my Potnia."

Rua giggled.

Tadi cupped my cheek and kissed me, not with love by any means, but with a passionate tenderness that bespoke a more intimate relationship than is typically shared between an employee and an employer.

"Hold her on the bed," Tadi broke our kiss to give Rua fresh instruction.

The stronger girl didn't release me, but laid on her back, still holding me tight to her chest and with her fingers still interlaced behind my neck and her elbows holding mine back. Her legs she looped into mine, spreading my knees apart widely.

I laid pleasantly entrapped, pinned spread-eagle with Rua acting as a kind of erotic human bondage from beneath me.

Unfortunately, strands of my long pale hair fell in Rua's face and she was just as locked into her position as I was in mine. She twisted and wiggled slightly beneath me, but eventually gave up and took the very undignified and entirely unsuccessful course of blowing the hair off her face.

Both of us giggled, breaking the serious sexual tension of the moment.

Tadi, already attaching the leathern strapon, shook her head at us and smiled, "Perfectly hopeless, you two are." She brushed my hair aside and kissed the warm girl below me. I did and do suspect that Tadi and Rua were rather a lot more than simple coworkers or friends. The sweet submissive and diminutive dominant made a charming couple.