This is a Vampire story. It contains only relatively mild bondage and sexual activity, primarily in one scene. Still, if you are below the arbitrary age set for your area, don't read it. If for any reason it is illegal for you to read this story, don't read it. Copyright (c) 1998 Trystl. ALL Rights Reserved This story may not be reproduced in any form for profit without the written permission of the author. This story may be freely distributed with this notice attached. All the characters and events in this story are fictional, any resemblance to real people or events is entirely coincidental. ---------------------------------------------------- SHELL BY By TRYSTL Marisa is hunting again. I can see that she's surfing the Internet as I set the drink she requested down on the table beside her and wait to see if she'll need anything else. I know she knows I'm watching her. It doesn't take a psychic to figure that out. But I always wonder what it means when she doesn't reprimand me for it. I always wonder what it means when she does. "It's the new girl," Marisa says triumphantly; and her voice makes me jump. She looks at me, as if her words are meant to answer my unasked question. "She's finally agreed to meet with me." The silence filled clatter that follows makes my heart jump even higher. Is she trying to tell me something? Or was she just making conversation? Does she expect an answer? Or will speaking up bring a sarcastic rebuke that will leave my heart dragging blood across the floor? Her moods are always so hard to tell. The only thing for certain is, she's sighted her prey and eager for the chase. I watch her fingers, mesmerized by their dance over the computer keys; enchanted by the letters that appear on the screen. A meeting place: somewhere non-threatening, on neutral ground so the girl will feel safe and protected during their first visit together. A lump rises in my throat as I wonder what this will mean for our relationship. Not that I would ever willingly leave Marisa. Might as well never breath again. Might as well make the blood stop pumping strong--and red, like wine flowing from the bottle to the glass. I think about such things longingly from time to time. And sometimes I wonder when the bottle will drip its last drop. She turns off the computer and stands, looking at me with that peculiar expression that I never understand, no matter how many times she throws it at me. A look I might think were fondness if she or I were anyone else. She sighs, and something more enters her eyes, as if she's begging me to understand something that I cannot. I drop my eyes, studying the weave of the carpet on the floor; feeling uncomfortable beneath the weight of her melancholy stare--the weight of my wishful thinking. "Should I prepare an extra room, mistress?" "No," Marisa says; and the word hangs in the air. Strange how such a simple word can have so much power, so much meaning. I start to breathe again: deep, calming breaths. My fear is like sweet perfume. "This is my least favorite part of any affair," she says, walking towards the door. "Mine, too," I say with all honesty; and she laughs. I can always make her laugh. No matter how I cry and scream inside, I can always make her laugh. I wonder if that's why she's put up with me for so long. Accountants are a dime a dozen, so it can't be the financial services I provide. And it's obviously not my expertise in the bedroom or the kitchen. Nor is it my willingness to serve any of her other needs. Most of her slaves would be only too happy to die for her. We worship the ground she walks on; the air she breathes. We live for another chance to see her; another chance to feel her naked body press against ours, her hot breath tickling our neck and ear with its tongue. Who wouldn't die or kill for a creature such as her. The thought makes me shiver. I, for one, would definitely prefer to kill for her. She stops at the dungeon door and holds it open for me, as if our roles were reversed. As if she were the one wearing the leather harness, with chain trailing from her hands and feet. Again, I wonder what this means. I always look for meaning in everything she does, but especially at times of heightened awareness, like this. I enter the room, feeling as naked and vulnerable as the other slave, manacled to the far wall. I know she knows what this does to me: walking in front of her instead of behind, where I always feel safer and the view is better. It's part of the ritual; part of the foreplay that turns her on. I shiver with the chill of the room as sweat rolls down my face. A little trickle under one arm, works its way across my skin. I want to wipe at it. I'm afraid; ashamed to let her see that I am afraid. Regret and guilt gnaw at me, telling me I'm unworthy. Will it prove to be wishful thinking this time? Has she perhaps grown tired of me? Was that sigh her way of giving me one last wistful goodbye? I still cannot imagine what she sees in me. And yet I remain. Of all her slaves that have come and gone, I remain. Like an irritating stain on the carpet floor: ugly and useless, but too stubborn to wash away. Too stupid to admit that I don't belong. I can't help flinching as Marisa places her strong hand on my shoulder. I close my eyes, soaking in the delicious essence of her: the warm, musty smell of her standing so close; the sound of her slow measured breathing. For a moment, her hand almost seems to become a part of me, as if her arm were a tree and her fingers were its roots, sinking deep into my soil. The image steals my breath as a sliver of fear rides up under my ribcage, mingling with my desire to melt into her arms. To let her hold me, and rock me to sleep forever. I could stand like this for the rest of my life, letting the touch of her fingers radiate through my body, sparking little stars of light in the darkness of my soul. But I feel the insistent pressure as she guides me towards Reardon and the extra set of manacles on the far wall. Dread fills me, knowing as I do what this means. My eyes open, as if of their own accord; I can't risk leaving without seeing her one last time. Our eyes meet and she smiles. A smile of reassurance or a sad smile of parting? I can never tell. Her hand closes about my wrist, drags my arm above my head and snaps metal in place. Then she turns me around, standing very close as she takes hold of my other hand. I long to sink my face between her breasts and breath deeply. But I fear what she would do, what she would think. My back presses against cold stone as I shy away from her, terrified by my own thoughts. She takes a step towards me, as if she knows, fumbling with the cuff, pressing against me with the full length of her body. As always, when she teases me this way, I wonder what it means. Nothing she does is clumsy or accidental. There are little hidden meanings everywhere, like landmines. I only wish I knew where they were, and what they meant. I wish I had time enough to learn every nuance of her being. But I know that's just the coward talking. Even with eternity, I could never learn to understand anything about her. She is too far above me. Like the bird is above the worm. I turn my head to the side and glance at Reardon: one worm lying on the hard earth beside another worm, so close they're almost touching, but with no place to hide and nothing soft to dig in to. Looking at him, I admire the calm he's learned to maintain in Marisa's presence. When will I learn to accept the eventuality of my fate with such dignity? He looks tired, though. I've felt the way he looks sometimes. Worn out, as if he's lived his entire life in the last few seconds. Too exhausted from the living to care if he dies. He's close to the end, I realize. But how close? Is he closer than me? "He's jaded," Marisa says, when she sees my expression. "Jaded and faded. Not like you." She sticks her tongue out and licks the sweat off my brow. "You're still just as sweet and naïve." "And a little salty just now, I should think." She smiles. Almost a laugh but not quite. "It's going to sadden me when you're gone," she says. I feel the fear gripping me by the throat; see her smile of pleasure as she basks in it. Her long fingernails brush across my chest; I look down. With her usual flawless grace, she's holding a long, jagged sliver of metal between her thumb and forefinger, while using her pinky and ring finger to tweak my nipple. My heart stops, expecting her to drive the small spike through my flesh right away, but she toys with me. Stretching it out the way a connoisseur tastes wine: letting it breath, and teasing the rim of the glass. And then, just when I begin to hope that maybe she won't do it this time, she leans forward, kisses me on the lips and my fear falls away. I soar, weightless for a moment. Like a stuntman, falling to my death. Her lips swallow me whole with their warm, moist greed--and suddenly I can't help myself, I'm kissing her back. Not even caring if that's what she wants, only knowing the taste of her on my tongue. Our bodies seem connected in a way that is more intimate than they have ever been connected. I feel the needle break my skin, and gasp. Is she punishing me for going to far? Her teeth sink into my lip as I try to pull away, holding me in place, making my eyes water with the pain. And then she's kissing me again, along the corner of my chin, working her way lower, down to my neck, to the two scars where she usually kisses, but where I can never get used to her kissing me. How many times have I seen her kissing one of the others like this, just before they died? I feel the familiar lump of panic rising up my throat, the sweat beading up on my forehead, stinging in my eyes, dripping from my palms onto the floor. Has she found me worthy at last? My heart swells with pride, although I know I am unworthy of it; know that I still fear it, wish that somehow I was not so worthy. I can sense her feeding off my emotions. They stream away from me like an airplane voiding fuel. Sometimes I wonder which she needs more: the draw of blood or the rush she seems to get as she savors our fear and pain, and the way it mingles with love and devotion. She moves away from me then, casts me adrift, abandoning me after a brief testing that found me wanting once again. I want to reach out for her, pull her back to me, although I know I could never force her to do anything. I feel the chains tighten as she moves away from me, towards Reardon, as she has so many times before. He watches calmly as she approaches, as if he knew all along that she would choose him. A slight smile touches his face and he closes his eyes as she kneels in front of him, slowly unsnapping his harness and peeling it away, revealing his tremendous erection. It seems to have sprung to life without his will, like a trained dog. She pets it, kisses it--and I wish that it were me she were caressing with her mouth. I can still remember the feel of her lips on mine, and I wonder what kind of heaven it would feel like if she were to touch me down there, like that. I'm ready for her touch. So ready for her touch I can't stand it. But once again she has found me unworthy of that particular honor. Reardon begins to make little noises. Helpless moans of reluctant pleasure. His response builds as she works on him; then she rises up, moves in close, guiding him inside her. Riding him with increasingly wild abandon, she kisses his neck, running her tongue along the old scars. I wonder if she will use him for everything this time. But then, still riding him, she leans over, teases me with another kiss on the cheek. I feel her teeth pricking at my bare skin; her tongue, like a paintbrush flicking over a worn and frayed canvas, lifting the colors instead of laying them down. I feel her hand groping blindly for my nipple. She finds it, gives a twist that sends new colors flying from the canvas, spiraling away from me in lazy trails. I feel my strength slowly ebbing even before her teeth break new skin. Feel that slow fading away that steals my sight and senses, drags me down into the maelstrom of her being, like an insect caught in the whirlpool as a tub drains. Sucking me down, drawing me closer and closer towards eternal darkness. It's one thing to know that you would gladly die for someone, quite another to feel it slowly happening to you. To feel your strength and energy draining away. I wonder if this will be the time it happens. The time she sticks her straw into my well and finds it too shallow to satisfy her needs. I will miss her. But no. I feel the sucking tension ease within me, open my eyes and look at Reardon. He stares blankly into space, his slack body hanging from the chains. A wave of relief sweeps over me, making me feel suddenly stronger and renewed. I know it's just an illusion. I will feel sluggish and dull for days, but the wave of relief always seems to give me back my strength. And then, as always, another, stronger wave of guilt crashes down on me. Guilt that I could be glad another human has died instead of me. Guilt that I don't love her enough to wish that it had been me instead. Guilt that there must be something lacking inside me, making it impossible for her to find what she needs there. I look at Marisa, she clings to me, as if the effort has drained her more thoroughly than it has me. Her beautiful face is flushed with the post-feeding glow. And she gifts me with a smile, telling me that she is pleased. Even if it wasn't me who filled her needs. Why does she put up with me? And for how much longer? I feel the familiar dread, knowing that sooner or later I will loose my appeal for her. One day she will look at me and say to someone else, "He's become jaded. Jaded and faded." Nothing but a shell: an empty husk.