The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Breakfast in bed, perhaps?”

Abby groaned and rolled over. Flora Weinstein was standing beside her with a pair of butlers bearing trays of, yes, actual breakfast. Abby shielded her eyes, even though the morning light leaking through the windows had been strained by winter clouds until it was thin and gray. “Uhhhm,” she mumbled, “God, I’m exhausted....Flora, what are you doing here?”

“Well, let’s see.” Flora touched a finger to her chin. “Why don’t I bypass the expected, ‘I should be asking you the same question,’ and just skip straight on to, ‘You’re welcome’?”

Abby frowned. For some reason, nothing seemed to be sinking in this morning. She felt like she could roll over and sleep another ten hours. “Welcome?”

“For letting you spend the night, sweetheart. But after all, I pride myself on being a good hostess. I wouldn’t have turned you and Carly out in any case, since you weren’t in any condition to drive.”

“Carly?” At some point, Abby hoped her brain would kick in enough that she could talk in complete sentences. But for the moment, she settled for nudging the covers back enough to see her wife beside her, curled in a fetal knot. Carly looked like Abby felt, her ashen pallor testifying to a night of overindulgence. Abby knew they must have drunk a lot, since she couldn’t remember what they drank or how fast they drank it. “Right,” she mumbled. “Carly.”

“I tried waking you both up,” Flora continued as her butlers set down their trays in disconcerting unison, “but you were spark out. Whatever the three of you did up here, it certainly must have been vigorous. In the end, I decided just to let you sleep it off.” She paused a moment as the butlers lifted the lids. “I hope you don’t mind vegan pancakes. I couldn’t remember your feelings on meat.”

Abby felt suddenly ravenous, as though she hadn’t eaten anything in years. She’d shoveled several forkfuls into her mouth before Flora’s words even registered. “Free?” she managed around a mouthful of pancake.

“Of course they’re free, dear,” Flora sniffed. “You’re a guest.”

“No,” Abby said urgently, “Free!” She held up three fingers for clarification.

“Oh! I see!” Flora let out an unexpected giggle even as Carly began to stir, the scent of food achieving what the conversation hadn’t. “Yes, Dalila left hours ago. That was when I came to check on you; I wasn’t too concerned about the three of you sneaking away together—and don’t look at me like that, darling. You’re not nearly so stealthy as you think. You didn’t need those two burly friends of Dalila’s in front of the door, either. I was more than happy to give you your privacy. It’s a party, after all. People are bound to sneak off and have sex. Why did you think I left the fire going in here?”

Abby fumbled around in the fog of her brain, trying to locate any memories of last night’s events. She hadn’t even remembered meeting Dalila until Flora mentioned her, but one new realization led to another. She and Dalila and Carly, talking about...about... “We, um...it wasn’t sex,” she mumbled, swallowing a bite of food. “We were just taking some pictures.”

“I see,” Flora answered brightly. “And you thought that a shot of your panties dangling from the lamp would make a nice tableau?”

Abby glanced to one side, then groaned. Those were her panties, all right. She peeked beneath the sheets. And Lord only knew where Carly’s had ended up; they certainly weren’t on her. She patted her wife’s face gently until her eyes opened.

“What?” Carly mumbled, licking dry lips. “Is it time to get dressed for the party?”

“My party?” asked Flora, leaning in. “Or are you two popular enough to have them back to back?”

Carly frowned at the older woman, then back at her wife. “Abby, what’s Flora doing in our apartment?”

Abby sighed and began to scoop up whatever clothes were within reach. “We’re not in our apartment, love. Let’s get dressed, and I’ll explain on the way home.”

Going over the events of the party helped Carly patch a few memories together, but only a few. Abby couldn’t explain much when she kept drawing blanks, herself. In the end, they realized that pooling their recollections amounted to pooling their ignorance; so Abby settled for getting Carly home, getting them both showered and fed (they were both hungry enough to eat a second time, a testament to the amount of energy they must have burned the night before) and settling back into bed. Her second sleep was as deep as the first, and was only broken by the ringing of the telephone.

Abby fumbled the receiver to her face and adopted the false, overly bright tones of the recently awakened. “Hello?”

“Darling!” Dalila’s voice sounded lush and welcoming on the other end of the line. “So nice to talk with you again. I’m sorry to call you so early, but I just wanted to let you know that I’m running a little behind, so if you could turn up at 3:45 instead of 3:30, you’d be doing us both a lovely favor. You won’t need to twiddle your thumbs waiting for me, and I won’t feel guilty about making you twiddle them.”

Adrenalin shocked Abby to true wakefulness. “3:45? Today?”

“For the shoot,” Dalila answered patiently. “You do remember last night?”

Abby cringed. Should she bluff it out, or admit that her memories of the party trailed into a bank of white fog that lasted all the way to morning? In the end, her resolve broke. “I can’t remember anything after the camera started clicking,” she admitted, her voice sounding small and weak in her ears.

Dalila seemed more amused than annoyed. “Oh!” she answered. “Well, then, allow me to fill in the gaps. The shoot went wonderfully—I took the camera with me to look at the pictures; I hope you don’t mind. You can have it back this afternoon when we’re done. Then I told you I’d be thrilled to shoot with you again in a more professional setting. I suggested you come to my studio at 3:30 this afternoon, you agreed, and I left you and your lovely wife to celebrate the arrangement together.” She paused. “You must have celebrated more strenuously than I expected.”

Each word from Dalila filled Abby with more certainty than the last. Abby still couldn’t remember most of last night, but her new friend’s descriptions somehow felt more real than actual memories. She nodded absently, then realized Dalila couldn’t see her through the phone line. “Oh, yes,” she said. “I remember now. So...could you e-mail me directions to your place?”

“I already did,” Dalila answered smugly.

Three hours later, Abby stepped out of the cab and chivvied her camera bag further up her shoulder. Then she gazed up at the four rows of identical windows and whistled softly. From outside, Dalila’s home looked like a typical collection of SoHo lofts; but Abby knew from the e-mail that the simple facade hid a beehive of interlocking apartments, all owned by Dalila and housing not only her but also several dozen of her closest friends. Who knew, Abby thought as she started toward the door, she and Carly might end up moving in, too.

She chuckled at her own foolishness, then paused. Something dark had flickered in the corner of her vision, right at the edge of the building. It was gone the moment she noticed it, but Abby could have sworn she’d seen a man’s head peering around the corner and then ducking out of sight. Just a typical New York weirdo, she guessed. She dismissed him with a shake of her head and rang the bell.

“Abby, darling, you made it! And right on time!” Dalila’s voice sounded warm even over the tinny speaker.

“I wouldn’t want you to twiddle your thumbs waiting for me,” Abby laughed.

The buzzer sounded, and soon Abby was riding a lavishly appointed elevator with a stone-faced operator she thought she recognized from the party. Of course, he wasn’t wearing the face paint today, and his hair was auburn instead of white, but that look of blank complacency seemed pretty familiar.

The man let Abby out at the penthouse level without ever speaking a word; then another ex-harajuku ushered her through a succession of living spaces, each with its own rich set of colors and patterns. Dalila’s tastes were astonishing and eclectic; yet somehow she found ways to tie every element of every room together, from the ancient Persian rug on the floor to the modern art on the walls. Abby was happily agog, even before she’d been ushered into the presence of the model herself.

Dalila looked like a completely different woman today. She’d ditched the elaborate kimono in favor of a simple black dress, and she’d washed out the hair dye and let her naturally dark hair hang down past her shoulders. Without the body paint, her skin was a rich shade of olive; Abby practically salivated at the thought of how it would look on film. None of the changes had dimmed Dalila’s beauty; on the contrary, she glowed as though she walked in her own private spotlight. “Oh, sweetheart!” the model exclaimed, embracing Abby like an old friend and drawing her deeper into the penthouse. “I can’t tell you how much I’ve been looking forward to this.”

“Me too,” Abby beamed, realizing only now how much she meant it. She had been looking forward to seeing Dalila again. She’d been looking forward to it with an almost physical ache. Dalila leaned in for a kiss, and Abby felt her own lips shape into a bow. The thought of Dalila’s skin against hers made her shiver deliciously. Her eyes fluttered half-closed in anticipation—

Then Dalila gave her a peck on the cheek and said, “Shall we get started? I’ve converted several apartments into studio space; I’m sure they’ll have everything we need.” She headed deeper into the maze, and Abby fought to unpucker her lips as she trailed behind.

Dalila was right, though; the studio did have everything Abby needed for a professional shoot. The lighting was absolutely wonderful, and the wide space gave Abby plenty of room to set up her equipment. The air was a bit on the cool side, but Abby knew that once they got going, the lamps would raise the temperature to sweltering. And that meant Dalila would be comfortable wearing light clothing, or even no clothing at all—

“Darling?” the model asked, waving her hand back and forth in front of Abby’s face. “Are you still with us?”

Abby wiped absently at the damp corner of her mouth. “Um, yeah,” she said. It felt like the temperature had already risen five degrees, and she hadn’t even unpacked her lights yet. “I’m fine. Just thinking about...um, about what we’re going to be doing together.” She blushed, grateful that her dark skin hid the reaction. Her words sounded like a clumsy seduction attempt, and she wished she could take them back.

Dalila didn’t seem to have noticed, though. “I can’t wait to find out,” she said. “Shall we start by choosing a wardrobe? My admirers have given a number of lovely outfits over the years, so I’m sure I have something you’ll want to see me wearing today.”

“Um, yes, that sounds...that sounds fine,” Abby managed. Somehow she wasn’t in control of the shoot, and that was strange; normally, she’d be the one telling the model what to do. But that seemed inappropriate with Dalila for some reason. All Abby really wanted was to let the other woman guide the course of events—

No. That was a lie. All Abby really wanted was to drop her camera and fall on the couch in the corner with Dalila on top of her, to feel Dalila’s silky skin against her own. But Abby was here on assignment, she was married, and Dalila probably wasn’t even interested in her like that.

....But what if she was? Abby felt her knees wobble, just barely.

Dalila, meanwhile, had turned away and was opening the doors of a gigantic walk-in closet. Abby gasped at the vast array of dresses, shoes, lingerie, catsuits, and even more exotic under- and outergarments. Her fingers trailed eagerly along the fabrics. It was so easy to imagine Dalila’s skin beneath them, then to imagine Dalila’s skin beneath her fingers. She drew in a long, slow breath; and yes, she could, very faintly, catch the scent of Dalila’s body. It was at once unbearably exotic and exquisitely familiar.

Abby leaned in even as Dalila turned again, reaching for a dark, gauzy confection beaded in black and bronze. “This one, I’m thinking,” she said, and hugged it to her chest. “It brings back so many pleasant memories.”

The model had chosen a vintage flapper dress of such thin material that Abby already knew what would happen to it under the lights. “It’s lovely, Dalila,” she answered with total sincerity, then bit her tongue against the warning she wanted to add. Dalila must already know about the gown’s transparency; she’d probably chosen it for just that reason. And if not—

The sparkle in Dalila’s eyes told Abby that she knew perfectly well what would happen under the lights. She knew, and she couldn’t wait to demonstrate the effect.

Abby couldn’t wait, either. She wanted to shoot Dalila like that, posing her so that the shadows artfully hit what the fabric wouldn’t bother to conceal. She wanted to watch Dalila shift position, each motion unveiling new and delectable vistas of flesh. Other people would see the pictures and fantasize, but Abby would know. Tonight, when she had sex with Carly, she’d be picturing Dalila. Whether she meant to or not.

Abby tried to keep Carly in mind as she replied, “Yes, we can use that one,” but her voice came out as a squeak, and she knew the reason for that squeak must be abundantly clear. Dalila nodded and turned away, giving Abby a moment of relief. Then the model slipped out of her dress, and all thoughts of Carly fell away with the fabric. In fact, all thoughts fell away from Abby’s mind, period. Her eyes traced the curve of Dalila’s buttocks as carefully as if she were running her finger along them, and se felt a surge of heat between her thighs. Dalila hadn’t been wearing anything under her dress all this time. The realization became a tangible weight in Abby’s mind, growing and growing until it was impossible to ignore. At any time, Abby thought, she could have reached down underneath the skirt and felt warm, wet flesh under her fingertips. At any time, she could have knelt down and, and, and—

Dalila slipped the dress over her shoulders, but it didn’t help. Even without the lights, the fabric barely concealed anything. Abby felt like she couldn’t breathe, even though she heard herself gasp quite distinctly.

“I hope you don’t mind my changing in front of you,” Dalila said, turning to face her again, “but I figured that as long as it was just us girls...”

Abby didn’t respond. She couldn’t say anything; she couldn’t think anything over the pounding of her own heartbeat. She just stared at Dalila’s chest, unable to tear her eyes away from Dalila’s large, dark, oh-my-god-they’re-stiff nipples.

“Oh!” Dalila exclaimed theatrically. “Sorry, I forgot that you were....” She made an attempt at covering her body; but there was simply too much skin to hide, and she didn’t seem to be trying all that hard anyway. At last she chuckled and let her hands flutter back to her sides. “Anyway,” she said brightly, as Abby fought to keep her own hands where they belonged, “let’s pick out a set. How about this one, with all the comfy cushions and throws? I believe it will work perfectly with this dress.”

Abby trailed helplessly in her wake as Dalila led her to a corner where rich, dark, velvet cushions clustered under palms in Art Deco vases. “Yes, perfect,” Abby managed, because it was. It was perfect for the dress; perfect for the shoot; and perfect for, oh, a whole boatload of other things she really didn’t need to think about right now.

Dalila threw herself down on the pillows and Abby squatted beside her, beginning to unpack her bag. Out came the first light. Out came the second light. She forced herself to remember that she was a professional, here to do a job. She forced herself to remember that she had a wife at home. Then, just when she’d finally bought herself a second of lust-free concentration, the tip of Dalila’s toe brushed the back of Abby’s hand.

Abby looked up into Dalila’s eyes, glittering almost as darkly as the beads on her gown. Then the corner of her mouth curled, and all the niggling little pieces fell together in Abby’s mind. As they locked into place, they left her unable to think of anything else but this: Dalila did want her. More than just want; Dalila hungered for her. Abby could feel it, and she couldn’t resist it anymore. She let her thoughts fade into a hazy white fog of bliss.

This had happened before, Abby almost-thought.

Then she tasted Dalila, and she stopped thinking altogether.

Abby stepped out on the sidewalk, the breeze from the opened door making her loose hair fly around her face. She brushed a blonde lock behind her ear and paused, letting her eyes adjust to the light. It gave her the perfect excuse, as if any were needed, to dig the metaphorical knife further into her gut. God, what had she been thinking? Carly would never have cheated on her, and up until a couple of hours ago, she’d have sworn she’d never cheat on Carly. Now, though, she couldn’t even swear not to do it again. Dalila was just—she just—she did something to Abby that Abby couldn’t explain. All she knew was that she’d never felt anything like it before, and the mere thought that she might feel it again made her legs wobble. “Oh, Carly,” she moaned, and squeezed her eyes shut against the tears.

“Did you see the corpse, or had they burned it already?”

Abby jumped and spun, instinctively swinging her camera bag at the head of the man behind her. Unfortunately, her boots had high heels and he was a little shorter than she’d expected. The bag only caught the topmost sprouts of his lank black hair.

The stranger fell back and held up his palms, looking more than a little panicked. “Hey, whoa! I’m not the one you should be attacking!” He paused and cocked his head. “Unless you’re already in so deep that you know everything, and she’s put you up to this.” The panic vanished instantly, and he took on the expression of a mathematician puzzling over a particularly knotty equation. “If she remembered me from the party, if she saw me in the other taxi and knows that I’m getting too close, then she might—” He chewed a thumbnail, then looked back at Abby as if he’d just remembered she was standing there. “Um, never mind,” he muttered. “Just thinking out loud.”

By now, Abby had stopped trying to clobber him and was swinging rapidly from confusion to pity. “Hang on,” she said, rummaging in her pockets. “I think I have a few quarters. I can’t spare much—I don’t usually carry cash, and I’m going to need some for the fare home—but it’ll be enough for a cup of coffee.”

The stranger drew himself up with an air of offended dignity. “I am not a homeless person!” he snapped. Abby wasn’t ready to take his word for it, though. He had a sharp, ferret-like face with haunted eyes that darted around the street as if expecting the cops to descend on him at any second. He hadn’t shaved in about three days, and his clothes were stained and shabby...no, not shabby, Abby realized as she examined him with a photographer’s eye. They were new, but ill-used. Like he’d been running through hedges or something. They also carried a multitude of stains that Abby hoped were only food.

“I understand,” she said, reaching out carefully with her change. “You’re temporarily disenfranchised, that’s all. You’ll be back on your feet in no time.”

The man slapped at her hand, spilling coins across the sidewalk. Then he grew panicked again. “Sorry!” he stammered. “I didn’t mean to—” He bent down and began to pick up the money. “My name is Geoff, Geoff Coen,” he said, concentrating hard on the pavement. “I’m a dermatologist. That’s important, you see. She can’t lie to me like she does to all the others. I know. I know every single skin disorder, and she didn’t have any of them.” At last he turned his face up to Abby’s, and the grief in his eyes made her gasp. “I’m sorry. I’m not making sense. It’s hard to explain all this without sounding crazy.”

Abby made a quick scan for taxis but didn’t see any, so she concentrated instead on hiding her discomfort. She wasn’t used to chatting with lunatics. Well, not this kind, anyway. “All what?” she asked.

Geoff stood abruptly and pressed the change back into her palm. “Dalila kills people,” he said flatly. “Here, you dropped this.”

Abby burst into startled laughter. “She what?”

“She kills people. She killed one today. A woman walked into that apartment six hours ago, and she never left. I was out here the whole time, watching, and she never left. Dalila probably wanted to look good for you.” He scrubbed at his forehead, grimacing. He looked completely exhausted. “It’s the color, you see. That’s why she became a model, so she could explain all the changes away as wigs, or make-up, or...what color was her hair?” he suddenly demanded.

“Dark brown,” Abby answered, not quite sure why it mattered. She was having a little trouble following the thread of Geoff’s delusions. Probably everyone did...well, everyone but Geoff.

She must have said something wrong, though, because his face fell again. “Not auburn?” he asked hopefully.

“No, it was much darker than that. Almost like mine.” Abby twirled a strand between her fingers. “Well, mine before I had it frosted.” She smiled absently to herself, remembering the mischievous expression on Dalila’s face as she suggested it, right before—Abby’s smile turned into a frown and she cut the thought off quickly. Better to deal with Crazy Geoff than to deal with that.

“Oh,” Geoff said. He looked dismayed for a moment but recovered. “She must be saving her for later, then. I don’t actually know how often she feeds. All the lore is wrong, you see. Everyone thinks it’s about blood, but that’s a corruption of the original concept; she steals...essence. They’re not pale because they’re bloodless. I’m a dermatologist. I know what that looks like. They’re pale because she’s stolen their vibrancy. Everything that makes them them“

Abby put one hand on her hip. She saw where this was going, and just because she could trace the thread of Geoff’s delusion now, that didn’t make it any less delusional. “So you’re saying Dalila’s a vampire,” she frowned, no longer bothering to hide her irritation. Where were all the damn cabs, anyway? Maybe this lunatic had paid off the drivers before he accosted her. No, wait, now she was beginning to think like him.

Geoff was so caught up in the drama, though, that he didn’t seem to notice her words. He just put his hand on her shoulder and said, “I’m sorry to tell you this, but...Dalila’s a vamp—” He broke off as his ears finally caught up with his brain. He opened his mouth, blinked, closed his mouth, and opened it again. “Well, I suppose if you want to be completely technical about it; then, yes, Dalila is a vampire.”

“Great.” Abby reached out the hand with the change again. “Nice knowing you, Geoff, but I have to get going. It’s a long walk back to my apartment.”

“Wait!” He snatched her hand before she could withdraw it and gripped it tight in both of his. Then he gave her that look again, the one that had made her gasp. This time it just froze her in her tracks, but that was all he needed. “I had a patient once,” Geoff said. “A beautiful woman with deep gold hair, green eyes, and just the very lightest sprinkling of chronic acne. Her name was Alice.”

Abby had no reply to that, so she hesitated a moment longer.

“Alice was a caterer,” Geoff continued, his voice growing softer and more earnest by the syllable. “She worked a lot of celebrity functions, and when she came to see me for her monthly treatments, she’d tell me about them. That’s how I heard about Dalila.” The hand holding Abby’s began to tremble. “Alice was only too proud to brag about sleeping with a famous model. She thought it would shock me, but I was more surprised by the changes in her appearance. She’d lost all pigmentation practically overnight—not just her skin, but her hair, her eyes...she was drained. Literally and metaphorically drained.” He sighed. “That was the last I ever saw of her.”

Abby saw her chance. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, extricating her fingers as gently as she could. “I can see how much you’re hurting, Geoff, but really, it’s time you talked to someone about it. Someone who specializes in helping people like you.”

The doctor’s face hardened. “I’m not crazy,” he snapped. “Here, just let me show you—” He rummaged in a pocket, and Abby was suddenly frightened again. What if he had a weapon? She backed up slowly, preparing to run. But when Geoff’s hand came out again, it held only a simple compact mirror, not much different from her own. “See?” he said, snapping it open and thrusting it into her face.

Abby sighed, then took a good, long look at herself. “Sorry, Geoff,” she said, “but my reflection’s still right there. I haven’t turned into one of the undead.”

Geoff shook his head in exasperation. “Of course you’re not undead. But you’re a lot closer to dead than you were when you went in there! Can’t you see it, girl? Can’t you see how much she’s taken from you already? Your hair was black before!”

Abby eyed him coldly. By this point, she was right out of sympathy. “I told you I had it frosted.”

“And your eyes?” he shot back. “Your skin? How did she lighten them, eh?”

Abby closed the compact. “My eyes have always been hazel, and my skin has always been pale for an Indian. There’s a little English in my ancestry.” She tossed the mirror back to Geoff, then raised her arm to signal a cab that had just rounded the corner. “Nice knowing you, Doctor Coen, but I really do have to be going.”

She slipped into the taxi and slammed the door closed, almost on Geoff’s hand. He pulled it back just in time, then banged a fist against the window. “Alice never touched a cigarette before she met Dalila,” he called as the taxi began to accelerate. He chased after it, shouting louder as he fell behind. “Two weeks later, her house burned down! They said she was smoking in bed, but—” The cab sped up, and Geoff increased the pace of his story to match. “Alice is dead! You’re next!”

Then the taxi rounded the corner, and Abby was free of him at last.

Except that she wasn’t. Abby might have escaped the physical Geoff, but his words stuck in her mind all night long. She thought about them during the argument with Carly, when her comment that “It was a draining shoot” touched off a nasty fight with startling speed. She thought about them during the icy silence that followed over dinner, and she thought about them while lying in bed and trying not to feel like she was alone. “Alice is dead. You’re next.”

It couldn’t be true. Abby knew it deep in her heart; she saw it in the darkness of Dalila’s eyes when they looked her over, that sense of owning something treasured. (Perhaps literally, Abby thought, remembering with guilty arousal the things Dalila had done with a leather choker and a length of cord.) Dalila wanted Abby to be hers forever, so she couldn’t want her dead, could she? No. That wouldn’t make sense.

With a sudden shock, Abby realized she was only arguing against the second half of Geoff’s accusations. She hadn’t questioned the idea that Dalila might be responsible for someone else’s death. And now that she thought about it...Abby pictured those dark eyes again, the hints of cruelty around their edges when she smiled. It was easy for Abby to believe that Dalila wouldn’t hurt her. It was a lot harder to convince herself that Dalila wasn’t a murderer.

And a vampire? Was that just Geoff’s crazy talk? She opened her eyes and studied her skin, barely visible in the darkened room. But it was visible. She could think of times when she and Carly had made love by moonlight, Abby’s body invisible while Carly’s practically glowed....Abby choked back a sob, the burden of guilt suddenly overwhelming. Heidi Klum hadn’t tempted her, so why had Dalila? What was it about those eyes that made her go all weak inside and—Geoff’s absurd claim came back to her yet again. “Dalila is a vampire.” In the darkness, it didn’t seem so crazy.

But darkness bled into morning, and Abby’s mind still swirled with unanswerable questions and undeniable exhaustion. Her only consolation was that she knew now what she had to do, if she ever wanted enough peace of mind to sleep again: She had to go back to Dalila’s place. She had get the answers she needed, and then she had to break up with the woman.

It took her almost an hour and a half to get back to SoHo, but Abby wasn’t willing to wait for rush hour to end. She had to do this now.

The same operator was manning the elevator today, and he looked neither surprised nor curious to see her again so soon. He simply delivered her to the penthouse and the care of a stone-faced woman who led Abby down long, winding halls to a door she hadn’t seen yesterday. Steam leaked through the crack between wood and floor, and Abby heard splashing from within. “Uh uh,” she whispered, mostly to herself, as the servant opened the door and ushered her into Dalila’s powder room.

The model was lounging in a sunken tub large enough for three. She smiled coyly as Abby entered, then flicked a tuft of suds at her. “Well, now, Abby Desai. What an entirely unexpected surprise. A welcome surprise, but entirely unexpected.”

She didn’t have to wink as she said it. Abby knew, the moment she shuffled inside, that Dalila had fully expected her to return today. No, wait, that wasn’t quite right. Abby’s eyes met Dalila’s, glittering through the steam as she watched her guest work the knots from her mind. Dalila had—Abby’s mouth dropped open—Dalila had commanded her to return today. And she’d obeyed, all the while convinced that she’d made the decision on her own.

Dalila nodded as though she could read her victim’s thoughts. And who knew? Maybe she could. Abby wanted to run, but her legs seem to belong to someone else. She could neither feel them nor move them, not until Dalila crooked a finger at her. “Come closer, pet. I don’t—” Dalila chuckled. “I don’t bite.”

Abby felt almost like a deer in headlights, except that headlights didn’t pull. Her brain had been stunned into immobility, but her legs carried her steadily toward Dalila, and the throb between those legs kept time with her footsteps.

“Closer,” Dalila whispered again, and Abby knelt without having to be told. She leaned out across the water towards Dalila, her loose hair dangling in the suds, and her eyes dropped naturally downward. Through a gap in the foam, she caught a glimpse of Dalila’s pubic hair, so much darker than Abby’s own hair, now. The sight forced a feeble realization into her brain: Dalila had stolen Abby’s color, her vibrancy.

And she’d stolen Carly’s too, Abby realized, her thoughts stirring sluggishly to life. But Dalila had only drained Carly to keep her from fighting for Abby, not because Dalila really wanted her. It was so clear, now that it was too late for Abby to make any use of the knowledge. Right from the start, Dalila had had only one prize in mind. She just needed to go through Carly to get to it. Abby tried to summon outrage at the thought that she’d been fought over like a trophy, but all she felt was dreamy passivity. If she was a trophy, she was one that already rested on Dalila’s mantel. And Carly was—Carly was disappearing back into the fog. Gone. Meaningless. She belonged to another life.

Dalila lifted one hand from the water and reached toward Abby’s lips. Abby could already imagine the taste of her skin, running with bathwater, but Dalila’s fingers stopped just a fraction of an inch away. “You had something you wanted to talk to me about. Didn’t you?”

Abby’s eyes—her whole world—focused on those paling fingertips. She wondered how long it would take before the color faded completely, leaving them as ivory-white as when they’d first met. Silence hung in the air between them, tangible as steam, and at last Abby had to speak just to break it. “I...I met a man,” she said. “He told me....” Abruptly she trailed into silence, the words too bloated with strangeness to clear her throat.

Dalila didn’t move her hand. Abby couldn’t move her head. “He told you about me,” her owner said; and the things she didn’t say spoke volumes. “If I were to tell you it was all true, would that make any difference now?”

“...no.” Abby’s voice was half-whisper, half-sob. Her knees ached where they pressed against the porcelain, but she couldn’t imagine standing anymore. Her clothes clung to her skin in the humid air, and she ached to tear them off.

“Because you want this.” The bubbles were breaking up, revealing Dalila’s body as slowly and enticingly as any strip-tease. “You want me. And that’s all that matters now. Isn’t that right, pet?”

“...yes.” Abby knew that was the wrong answer; she knew that she only said it because Dalila’s control was too strong to resist. But it didn’t matter to her, not now. Not with those beautiful fingers still dripping with water, so close to her lips...

“Then prove it to me, pet.” Dalila smiled triumphantly. “You know what to do.”

For a moment, Abby remained frozen. Then even her helplessness collapsed in the face of Dalila’s infinite strength, and she leaned in to nuzzle Dalila’s hand with her mouth. Abby tasted the water as it trickled down her chin, and she imagined it leaving white streaks behind.

In those last few instants before thought vanished again, she knew with all her heart that it was worth it, just to be owned by Dalila.

The trophy that had once been a woman named Abby Desai stood at the window, staring out at the fading sun. She had no particular interest in the sight; she stood there because her Mistress had posed her there, and that was that. Her eyes wandered across the facade of the building opposite her, then down to the street below. Crowds of pedestrians milled along the sidewalk, skirting a few last remnants of snow.

One person, however, stood perfectly still. Abby felt her attention drawn to this woman, and she knew that it was her Mistress’ doing, so she allowed her gaze to linger. The object of her focus was tall and angular, with long brown hair and an expression that might have been pinched if Abby could have seen it more clearly. Her eyes seemed to be focused on Dalila’s penthouse, perhaps upon this very window.

The woman was Carly D’Antonio.

Abby studied her for a moment, idly wondering whether Carly could see her up here, idly wondering if Carly could recognize her. She thought that was unlikely, considering her new appearance. Her gaze shifted to her own reflection in the window, glimmering like a ghost against the fading sky. So pale, so perfect, so passive. Everything Mistress wished her to be. She nodded, very slightly, then turned away from the world outside. Dalila was here waiting for her. Nothing else mattered.

Her Mistress lounged on a divan, nude, her skin richly bronzed with Abby’s hues. She beckoned her newest acquisition forward, and Abby settled to her knees beside her. “Just a few drops left,” Dalila purred, brushing her fingertip along Abby’s lips. “And they fade so soon. It’s time you had your own first drink.” At that, she pouted slightly. “Pity it will change your flavor for me, but I’ve already had the best of that, anyway. And even an inferior vintage will have its charms, filtered through your beauty.”

Abby only vaguely understood the words; her mind sorted out the commands from her Mistress and discarded the rest as irrelevant. She hungered for...something, the same thing that Mistress had taken from her...but she knew, deep in her winter-white heart, that it would never replace what she’d lost. Everything that once made her a free-willed human being had been absorbed by Dalila’s touch, and now she was merely a vessel for her Mistress to drink from. Dalila would command her to feed, and she would do so—but only as a slave, refilling her wineskin just to offer it once more to her Mistress. Taking enough essence to free herself required willpower, and that was something Abby no longer possessed. It was a paradox that would enthrall her forever. How wonderful, Abby thought.

Then she heard the scraping sound.

Dalila must have heard it, too, but she must not think it important as she didn’t turn to look. Abby wouldn’t have seen anything, either, if she hadn’t already been facing in that direction. But behind Mistress’ hand she noticed another hand, much further away. It was outside one of the windows on that wall, fumbling for a way to open it. Abby watched bemusedly as the hand struggled, trying to find a way to unlock the catch from that side. Eventually it dawned on her that this was something her Mistress would want to know about.

That was right around the time the hand gave up on the catch and decided to smash the window instead. Dalila turned at the sound of breaking glass, even as Geoff’s face and body joined his hand at the window. He unlatched it and pulled it upwards.

Mistress rolled languidly to face him, not bothering to conceal her nudity. “Ah, Doctor...Combs, was it?” Her dark eyes glittered merrily. “The fire escape is such an unwieldy way to make your way up four floors. You could have asked for me in the lobby.”

“It’s Coen,” Geoff answered. His mouth was set in a thin, determined line, and he dropped a backpack on the floor beside him. “Besides, I hardly think your flunkies would have let me in. Not with a bag of vampire-killing supplies.”

Dalila smirked. “Did you bring the holy water this time? Or the crucifix? Or perhaps another wooden stake, like you tried to use on Lucien?”

Geoff’s eyes watered momentarily. “That would have worked if I hadn’t gotten it wedged in between his ribs!” He pulled a piece of sharpened wood from his backpack, then reached for the hammer with his other hand. Unfortunately, the hammer was half-buried under a pile of stakes and wouldn’t come free easily. “This is the end for you!” he shouted as he struggled. “You won’t take another...” His gaze turned to Abby, kneeling beside Dalila, and his face fell. “I’m too late, aren’t I?”

“Yes,” Dalila sighed, “and thank goodness for that! You know, Geoff, you were fairly amusing at first, but when you tried to snatch away the tastiest treat I’d found in the last seventy years, you went too far. Doctor Coen, I regret to inform you that you are no longer amusing. At all.”

“Glad to hear it,” Geoff snapped. He jerked once more at the hammer, and this time it sprang free. Stakes rattled across the floor.

Abby felt the tiniest twinge of worry, but it faded when she remembered that Dalila was infallible. Sure enough, Mistress laid a hand on Abby’s shoulder and said, “Darling, be a good little pet and step between me and my guest.” Abby obeyed, but not quite blindly, because Dalila wanted her to notice the anguished indecision on Geoff’s face.

“There now, Dr. Coen,” Mistress purred. “Let’s see how effective you are at not being amusing. Just how hardened a vampire killer are you? Hardened enough to go through poor little Ms. Desai to get to me?”

Geoff’s face twisted, and he shifted his grip on the hammer and stake. “I’ll do what I have to,” he muttered. “The girl’s lost now, anyway. If I kill her, it just sets her free, right?”

“If you say so,” Dalila replied. “Abby, dear, Dr. Coen intends to murder me. But you won’t let him, will you?”

“No, Mistress,” Abby murmured. This was the first time she’d spoken since Dalila took her, and she was thrilled to note that her voice was every bit as colorless as her skin.

“Good slave. Walk towards him, then. Slowly, unless he attacks. Then you may kill him.”

Abby padded across the floorboards, barely hearing her own footfalls over Geoff’s ragged gasps. He had begun to sweat, and she made a mental note to hold on tightly when she laid hands on him. Something moved in the corners of her vision, but all her attention was focused on Mistress’s attacker, so she ignored the distraction. Such an obedient slave, she told herself, and smiled a little.

“Dalila, you monster,” rasped Geoff, “now I really am going to have to kill you.”

“I don’t know if you brought enough stakes for that,” Mistress answered. “Come now, Dr. Coen. Did you honestly think I’d risk the safety of my newest, tastiest acquisition? Look around you; I’ll give you the leeway for that, at least.”

Geoff frowned suspiciously, but he glanced around the room. Abby heard him gasp; then she was free to look as well. All the while she’d been approaching him, the loft had been silently filling with the rest of the coterie. They’d moved quietly to cut off every avenue of escape; she could even see one standing on the fire escape, his pale skin vivid in the gathering gloom. “Oh, you bitch,” Geoff whispered.

Dalila’s grin tightened. The smile went out of her eyes. “You know what they say, Geoff,” she said. “I’m a bitch...and then you die.” The coterie closed in.

Abby would have joined them, but she felt Mistress’ will holding her back, so instead she just watched passively as Geoff swung the stake. He raised only a few scratches before the pack disarmed him. They plucked the hammer and stake from his hands as easily as children picking daisies. Then they pulled him to the floor and Abby felt Mistress’ arms enfold her, even as the others ripped away his clothes and exposed more flesh to their touch. “They’re a little clumsy, I’m afraid,” she heard Dalila tell Geoff. “What I coax free, they tear out by the roots. But don’t worry, Doctor. I’m sure it doesn’t hurt—” Geoff’s screams filled the loft. “—for long.”

Abby caught only glimpses of Geoff after that: a hand here or a foot there, whitening in jagged bursts. Gradually his struggles lessened, and then there was nothing left to see but the writhing bodies of the pack as they crawled across him.

Abby’s own body quivered to join the feast, but Mistress restrained her. “Not this one,” Dalila whispered. “Not for your first. He’s bound to be sour and dusty, and I’d rather not taste that from your lips. From the others, perhaps; they’ve held so many different flavors that it all tastes the same after a while. But I want your first to be someone...delectable.”

The way she spoke made Abby wonder if Mistress had already selected her first victim. Unbidden, her mind leapt back to the view from the window, the sight of Carly staring up at her without even knowing it. Abby’s pulse quickened at the thought of drinking her lover dry.