Content Warnings:
This story includes lots of bratting, degrading dirty talk about the submissive's intelligence, sapphic usage of "daddy", vampire venom that acts as an aphrodisiac, and forced orgasms as punishment.
Watching Carmilla drink a man into head-lolling bliss on the other side of the bar made me understand why vampire hunters are always so obsessed with staking in the books and movies. My wife was a sensual, almost feral apex predator when she was out at night. She didn't so much hunt her prey as seduce them, coaxing them into shadowy corners with a few bats of her long lashes and a flash of soft-looking, pale cleavage. They always smiled dopily as she ran them to ground, thrilled at their luck, unaware that agreeing to have a beautiful woman sip from their veins didn't guarantee her presence in their beds. She struck with the ferocity of a viper, drank with the hunger of a starving animal, then walked away with the sway in her step of a well-fucked woman. When Carmilla fed, she was the most powerful creature in the room and she knew it. It made me want to nail her to the floor with my strap like staking her into a coffin, and she knew that too.
I watched her lick the blood off her lips in self-satisfied arrogance as she walked away from the schmuck with glazed eyes and a wet spot on the front of his jeans. Her hips switched in that way that made me want to paddle her black and blue for the way it invited everyone else to stare at her ass. Not because I was all that jealous or possessive, but because the covetous looks made her an absolutely insufferable brat. Her blood-colored eyes were smug and excited when she met my gaze.
"All done?" I asked coolly, not wanting to make a spectacle of the violent lust I knew she could hear pumping through my veins.
"Mmhmm."
I stood and let her help me put on my lavender trench coat. Looking at us, people probably guessed I was the more submissive, demure partner. My dress was pristine white, my makeup sweetly pastel, my accessories whimsical. Meanwhile Carmilla was dressed in her signature black and sky high stilettos that made her tower over me, with a cat eye nearly as sharp as her discreet fangs. There was a reason her name had starred in hundreds of "predatory lesbian" stories, penned by the men she drained then left for a woman. She
was
a predator, in the more animal sense of the word, and when we were standing side by side, most people couldn't tell that so was I.
As we walked the few blocks from the bar to our apartment, Carmilla slid her cold fingers into mine. When we paused for traffic at a crosswalk, she lifted our entwined hands up to her black-painted lips and kissed my knuckles. The mischievous, disrespectful sparkle in her eyes gave credence to the sillier stories of vampires that glittered in the daylight. She looked at me over my knuckles like she was in charge, like I could be manipulated and hunted the same as her dinners.
"Sass me all you want," I drawled, "I'm not playing hard tonight."
"I made him cum," she purred. "I could've stopped before he did, but I didn't."
I tugged her forward by our hands as the crosswalk light changed. My brain buzzed with the need to put her in her place, to punish her until she cried, to tie her down and make her cum again and again until she broke. Was this how she felt before she fed? What was the difference between regular lust and bloodlust when my regular lust included a blunt edge of violence?
It didn't matter. The needs throbbing in my clit and the flats of my palms didn't matter. Neither did Carmilla's needs that sometimes seemed to match mine so well it felt as magical as immortality. I'd had a god awful week at work and we'd gotten in a fight just this Tuesday. Hard play was great stress relief but it wasn't the right place to vent my frustrations, especially not when some part of both of us might wonder if I was fucking her up because I loved her or because I was still a little pissed off. Inflicting pain wasn't really the point. The trust and the control and the fucked up fantasy head games were. I didn't ever want to make Carmilla cry or bruise for anything except ecstasy. Certainly not for signing me up for her annoying friend's year-long pottery class and paying the hefty deposit out of our joint account without talking to me first.
Besides, she wasn't totally in her right mind tonight anyway.
"You're blood drunk," I reminded her.
"Come onnn," she whined as we turned the corner onto our street. "It's not like I'm alcohol drunk. My head's just a little buzzy."
"Not happening."
"I'm totally sober!"
I didn't respond as we reached our building and trudged up the stairs. I fished my keys out of my favorite purse, a red sequin shoulder bag that looked like a Heinz ketchup bottle. It had been Carmilla's first present she ever got me, and I kept my eyes on it as we walked up the stairs to our apartment to remember how much I loved her when she pulled out The Brat Voice.
I didn't think of myself as a Brat Tamer because Carmilla wasn't really a brat. She was a centuries-old powerful monster with enough beauty, money, and magic to get basically everything she wanted whenever she wanted it. Carmilla was a brat like children were brats—she hadn't been told 'no' enough, and now it was everyone else's problem.
My
problem. She wanted a Domme, wanted to be submissive and agreeable, wanted to be praised and spanked and fucked into oblivion. She had years of experience as a trained submissive. But she had even more years of experience having her way. Calling me a Brat Tamer was like calling a mothman hunter a lepidopterist.
I wasn't a Brat Tamer, I was a Countess Domesticator.
"You just don't have the strength to make it hurt when I've just fed," Carmila said airily, trying to bait me. "You should have me on a cross right now for making a boy cum without your permission."
"Oh, you will get your punishments for that," I warned her darkly, kicking off my boots as we walked through the door. "But not tonight. You're blood drunk."
"Am not!"
Carmilla's foot landed in a spoiled child's stomp, only she wasn't a child. She wasn't human at all. The hardwoods she stomped cracked, splitting a plank in two. I rubbed the fuzzy ring on my right hand with my thumb to self-soothe while I stared at where her bare, colorless foot had damaged the floor.
"Yes, because that was the act of a sober person," I said dryly.
"Fuck!"
My infuriating, beautiful, amazing wife turned on the ball of her destructive foot with the grace of a Russian ballerina and stormed out of the room. I mentally wrote off the broken floorboard as tomorrow me's problem and went through the motions of putting away my things with forced calm. That was the other thing a hard scene was good for: giving me a methodical outlet when things felt out of control. There were repeatable, familiar steps to a scene, planned sequences of flogging or paddlings that had a calming, monotonous affect on me. Punishing Carmilla the way she was begging me to would put everything back to rights in my head, burn off all the frustration of seeing her at her most potent that I always felt on feeding nights. But hard scenes were right out when she was this frenzied, so I had to go with something softer. Which meant putting away our coats and shoes and the rest of our date night clothes with fanatical military precision until I felt a little more in control.
She wasn't in our bedroom, but that was fine. I changed out of my dress and put on one of the latex lingerie sets she liked, the plain lavender one that didn't slip or roll down when I put on a strap. It was a time-consuming process, getting latex on. Less like donning clothes and more like carefully applying a second skin. A second skin that, if it ripped, was beyond my skill to repair. By the time I had it on and my hair pulled out of the way, I felt level again. The scene appeared in my head suddenly, like unfolding a map that had been drawn centuries ago. It was perfect. Softer, in that it didn't involve physical pain. But meaner than physical pain. The exact kind of punishment she would need tonight, after breaking the floor during a temper tantrum. The kind of punishment
I
needed, to feel like I'd subdued and contained a volatile creature I had no actual ability to physically control. A perfect scene.
Time to hunt down my vampiress and give her the staking she needed.
I found her in our playroom, lying facedown on the bed with her arms splayed wide in defeat. The room was floor to ceiling white, without a speck of color. The Saint Andrew's cross and paddling bench, the bed frame and all its attached hardware, the floggers, paddles, and vibrators. All of it matched the inhuman color of Carmilla's skin and hair. In the arctic white of the playroom, when she was naked she blended in perfectly with the bed. Her spoiled baby stomping foot had the only spot of color in the room, showing off a thick wooden splinter. You'd think a creature whose one physical weakness was wood would be a little bit more careful with the hardwoods. I grabbed the first aid kit I kept in the closet and sat on the edge of the bed to start pulling it out. She whined and tensed up when I probed the skin around the protruding splinter.
"You know better than that," I said calmly when she started to jerk her foot away from me. "Be a good girl for me and hold still."
Once the sliver about the size of my pinkie was removed, I pricked a finger on my non-dominant hand and pressed it over the round, bloodless hole in her foot. Carmilla moaned first from the small dose of human blood and then from my hands massaging her feet. Vampire foot massages felt like mashing granite wrapped in a weighted blanket, but they were good for keeping the muscles in my fingers strong. Definitely preferable to the rubber band exercises I used to do, especially when they came with such pretty moans.
When both feet had gotten proper attention, I started touching her with firm authority, running my hands up her legs, over her hips, her back, her arms. I fondled her until she squirmed, then climbed on top of her, bracketing her ass with my thighs and pinning her down with my weight. She liked feeling caged and controlled so much that it probably wouldn't even occur to her that I was as easy for her to throw off as a teddy bear. I put one hand on the back of her neck in a firm hold and she sighed happily, completely melting beneath me.
"I'm sorry," she mumbled into the bed.
"I know, baby," I soothed, sliding my fingers into her mass of silvery curls that felt like steel wool. "What do you want to do tonight?" I massaged her skull in a way that would be rough on a human and I knew her toes were curling behind me. "I could have some of those macarons and you can lick the sugar off my lips while we cuddle..." I leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her shoulder through her dress. "Or we can have some vanilla sex and I can tell you how much I love you..."
"I want to play," she whined.
"No hard stuff," I said gently, laying my body over hers so she could feel my heartbeat right above where her own was still.
Carmilla drew her arms in under her chest, showing both that my weight on top of her really was meaningless and that she felt self-conscious. "Please punish me.
Please.
I fucked up. With the floors and the guy and being a bitch. I deserve it."
