The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

No one else was in Camille’s chambers for that night’s Muse Session. Camille sat on the edge of the bed, her feet crossed, naked except for a flattering choker and bright blue heels. Laura’s mouth watered.

“Where is everyone else?” she asked.

“Just us tonight.” Camille gestured for Laura to sit in her usual seat. Laura gripped the precious book in her hand tightly. She read the whole thing. Twice. Marcilla was a vampire. She hunted after Laura, she loved Laura K, but her prey was indifferent. Marcilla pleaded with her, offered her immortality, but Laura K didn’t want to live forever.

The end was hard to sort out. Laura K was certainly a lesbian or bisexual. She served Marcilla’s body, but she never satiated Marcilla’s hunger. Some poems were dedicated to Marcilla devouring young maids in the city as if to move on or forget Laura K, but her hunger chased her. It beat her. She needed to taste Laura K, to eat her whole, but she wouldn’t do it without her consent.

The final poems were a tangle of metaphors about life and death, birth, and bloodlines. Laura thought it had something to do with becoming a vampire. On her first reading, she was sure Laura K did become a vampire and joined Marcilla, but on the second reading she was convinced that Laura K rejected her. There was something about eternity, but it was a “somber bloodline” or a “new vein.”

“Did you finish the book?” asked Camille.

Laura nodded. “Twice,” she said and blushed, looking down at the floor.

“What did you think?”

“I don’t know. The end is confusing.”

“Yes.” Camille uncrossed her legs and leaned forward. She reached for the book, and Laura handed it over. Camille flipped through the pages at the end. “Each time I read it, I convince myself that Laura will change her mind. She will go to Marcilla and beg to be with her forever.”

“She doesn’t?” asked Laura. “One time I thought she did but the other …”

“No.” Camille closed the book. “Laura chooses another life. She stays with her husband. They have a child.”

“Isn’t Laura a lesbian?”

Camille smiled. “I think she would laugh at such a word.”

“Why?”

“Because she wouldn’t see the point. The word would help us, yes? We hunger for women. We want to know what other women will accept our advances. We want them to label themselves so we know who is off limits and who is free to hunt.”

Laura shrugged. “Makes sense.”

“She wouldn’t care about making it easier on us,” said Camille. She laughed at some private joke or funny thought. Laura had never heard her laugh before. It was slight, almost like a sigh.

Camille handed the book back to Laura. She took it but didn’t open it. She almost didn’t want to read it tonight. She wondered if she could make something up for Camille instead. She could tell her own version where Laura K submits to Marcilla as she should. They are meant for each other. Marcilla could crush Laura K and drink her blood from a corpse, but she wants Laura K to give it to her. It’s impossibly sad to get to the end of a story like that and have it end in tragedy.

“I don’t understand,” muttered Laura.

“What don’t you understand?”

“Why wouldn’t she give in to Marcilla?”

Camille shrugged. “Perhaps Marcilla wasn’t interesting enough.”

“Bullshit.” Laura started to flip to the page where “Unspoken” was, but she knew the words by heart. “I offer you Lust itself. The very fount of passion and hunger, sex made whole,” she recited. “Who doesn’t take that offer? What kind of fool was Laura K?”

“I doubt she was a fool,” said Camille. There was an edge in her voice.

Laura pressed on. “Yes, she was. She’s an idiot. She didn’t deserve Marcilla.”

Camille pursed her lips, but then a smile spread across her face. “You’re getting awfully worked up over a piece of fiction.”

Laura blushed and looked away. She was getting awfully worked up. Marcilla may be a real poet, but vampires aren’t real. This is some fantasy. It’s a story. Just a story.

“You’re right,” she admitted.

“But that’s why we write, isn’t it?” asked Camille. “To make the imaginary real?”

“What’s the virtue in making a tragedy real?”

“Life is the tragedy, dear. Life is long and cruel and painful.”

“Then Marcilla should have put them together. If she had control over it, she could have made the world a better place.”

“Perhaps,” said Camille. The dark-haired woman stood and moved to the bathroom. Her heels clacked pleasantly over the hardwood floors.

“I would have done it,” said Laura.

Camille stopped.

“Done what?” she asked.

“Submitted,” said Laura. Her face must have been bright pink, but she didn’t care. Camille was being foolish. Camille, who had such a great gift with words, should know that art should make the world a better place. Even tragedies, even bleak art, should propel us to our better selves. If Laura was going to work for her, she had to know that Laura took this seriously. Marcilla was wrong as a writer. Laura K was wrong as a character. The whole world lost out when they didn’t come together. The world full of it’s ugly and simpleness shouldn’t miss out on what could have been beautiful, even if it was dark and twisted.

“Really?” said Camille.

“Yes.”

“You know that Marcilla was a vampire? She didn’t want to fuck Laura. She wanted to devour her.”

“Yes,” said Laura.

“Death,” hissed Camille.

“Beauty,” countered Laura.

Camille’s heels clacked back towards Laura. She stood behind Laura, leaned over her shoulder, and whispered into her ear: “Do you want to die, pet?”

Laura’s body erupted in shivers. She wanted to squirm away, to run back to her room and masturbate, but she was trapped with Camille’s lips a centimeter away from her ear.

“I want to be devoured,” she whimpered.

Laura felt Camille’s breathe lower to her neck. “Like this?” she asked. She gave Laura a light kiss on the neck.

Laura shuddered. “More,” she whispered.

“Like this?” asked Camille. She kissed Laura’s neck again, this time like a lover. Laura felt the pressure of Camille’s tongue.

Laura tried to slide down in her seat. Her legs went wide and her hips slid forward, but Camille pinned her to the seat, not letting Laura’s neck escape her lips.

“More,” whimpered Laura.

“Like this?” Camille ran her tongue up and down Laura’s neck. Laura’s head tilted back as she sighed with pleasure, and Camille nuzzled her mouth under Laura’s chin, gliding her tongue into the crook of Laura’s neck.

“More,” moaned Laura.

Camille began to lightly nibble on Laura’s neck. Her teeth barely glazed over the skin.

“More,” demanded Laura. She reached back with her hand and grabbed the back of Camille’s head, pressing her against her neck.

Camille’s nibbles turned to bites. Laura felt the teeth sink down and press into her skin. There was a slight pinch of pain, and Laura’s body tensed. Then, the teeth released for another bite. Laura’s body relaxed and she sighed with pleasure. It went on like this. A vice of pain followed by a flood of pleasure. Laura felt her body relax into the cycle. She wished she was naked. She wished she could feel Camille’s teeth over every inch of her body.

“You like?” whispered Camille between bites.

“More,” begged Laura. “I want more.”

“Then what about this?” Laura felt a sharp pain stab into her neck. She yelped and jumped out of the chair. Her hand flew to her neck. She pulled her hand away and saw it run red with blood. She turned to yell at Camille, but paused.

Camille stood before her in a new light, in new glory. Her curly hair was wild around her, swept to one side and cascading down her back and over her shoulders. Her green eyes caught the candle light of the room. The thick black velvet choker drew attention to how pale she was. She was moonlight and silver. She was ethereal. She was a spectre and a dream, an angel and a ghost, all at once. She had bright, cobalt blue heels and her arms were spread wide in a gesture of magnificence. She was ready for her worship, her adoration, and her terror. She was a sight to behold, but Laura could not escape her lips. On top of ink black lipstick was a slight slash of scarlet. Blood. Laura’s blood. Camille smiled, and two sharp fangs shimmered in the gloomy chamber.

Laura wanted to shriek and run. She wanted to stop and stare. But more than anything, she wanted to fall to her knees and tilt her neck to one side. She would be no Laura K. She would stay true to her word. Faced with a beautiful oblivion, she would not let her life be a bland tragedy.

“You’re not afraid?” asked the vampire.

Laura shook her head. “More,” she whispered and tilted her neck, offering it.

Camille laughed to herself. Again, it was a song and sigh. “You are too precious to die like cattle,” said Camille. “Though you do taste wonderful, like the autumn. Cinnamon and apple. Your blood is sweet and makes me think of older and warmer times.”

Laura shuddered. She felt her knees go weak. She lowered herself in the presence of true power. “Please,” she whispered.

Camille shook her head. “No. Not now. Maybe not ever. I need your mind and your tongue.” Camille stepped in front of Laura and placed her hand under Laura’s chin. She lifted Laura’s eyes to meet her sharp green ones. “Though your service and loyalty are noted. It’s not a small gesture to offer your life.” Camille lifted and Laura followed, rising to her feet. Camille ran and hand over Laura’s body, her skin was gooseflesh and her nipples stiff. Camille smiled and brought her hand into Laura’s panties. She was soaked. “Your body tells me you were sincere. That earns you more than you may understand. But sit, this moves things up for me and there is much you must understand.”

Camille stepped away from Laura, clicked her heels back to the bathroom, and grabbed a sheer black chiffon robe. She didn’t tie it close around her as she sat on the edge of the bed. She gestured to Laura, and Laura sat in her seat.

Laura moved slowly, as though underwater. She was in awe and shocked. Camille was the same woman she had been the entire time, and yet she was something entirely new. She acted as though this revelation was nothing, but it was everything to Laura. She was Laura K now with the rare chance to live out the story and change the ending, but Camille was uninterested in consummating the relationship of prey and predator.

“You have questions,” said Camille.

Laura nodded.

“Begin with the simple ones.”

“You’re a vampire?” asked Laura.

Camille nodded.

“Vampires are real?” asked Laura.

Camille nodded.

“How old are you?”

“It’s never polite to ask a lady’s age, even an immortal lady.”

Laura nodded. “What’s true about vampires? What’s myth?”

“That’s a much longer and honestly biological and academic conversation. Neither your body, nor mine care much for academic understandings of my body right now.”

Laura shivered.

Camille laughed again, the same delightful and girlish laugh.

Laura smiled. “Do you kill people to live?”

Camille’s face grew serious. “I can. I don’t have to.”

Laura nodded, trying to process all of this. “Did you know Marcilla?”

“Ah, now the story begins,” said Camille. “But first, we’re both hungry, yes?”

Laura’s eyes widened. “What?”

“Food, dear. This will be a late night.”

“You eat food. I mean, besides blood?”

“As you can eat dirt, so I can a strawberry. The good news is that strawberries taste much better than dirt.” Camille smiled and Laura relaxed.

Camille sent for some food to be brought up. She was right; Laura was starving. Laura washed up in the bathroom, trying to calm her body down. Everything became so unbearably normal. Angelica brought food. Did she know about Camille? Camille got dressed. People told jokes. They talked about what they would do tomorrow. It was painfully normal, as though they didn’t know the world had changed in a moment. As though they didn’t know how close Laura was to oblivion and how desperately she wanted to go back there.

Camille urged Laura to leave the bed chamber and follow her out into the suite. There, a small table was set with food. Camille only had a bowl of strawberries at her seat.

“Now,” she said as they both sat, “you want to know about Marcilla.”

Laura nodded.

“I am Marcilla,” said Camille without hesitation or profundity. “I’ve had many names over the ages. For a long time, I acted under the name of Carmilla, but that name failed me. When I came to the United States, I took a new name.”

“Then … Laura Karnstein is real?” asked Laura.

“Unfortunately and fortunately, yes. Your namesake is a real woman, a real lover of mine. The book of poetry chronicles our love affair, and my youthful obsession with her.”

“You wrote the poems?”

Camille laughed. “Yes. The same power you found in my writing for The Magician’s Mistress is in those words. Did you not recognize it?”

Laura shook her head.

“Ah, when you asked about it, I thought perhaps you were on to it.”

“Oh,” said Laura. She looked down at her food and distracted herself with eating.

“Laura is real, though I think she would laugh at me if she read my silly book, but I don’t know what else to do.”

“What do you mean?”

“Laura ran away from me. Well, that is an extreme word. Laura’s husband was stationed in Stryia. He was then assigned to a new post in Germany, and she went with him. Of course she did. She was pregnant with his child. I wrote letters, but I never saw her again after that. She never wrote back. Ever since then, I’ve been writing to her. Each story is about her. Each poem is for her. Each word on the page has power because it calls out to her, begging her to come back to me.”

“But …” Laura paused to show delicacy. “Wouldn’t she be dead?”

“No.” Camille’s lips pursed. Her voice tightened. She looked away for a long moment. “On our last night together, I drank her, and she drank me. Our blood danced and mingled within us. We were one flesh in ways humans can only dream. We were one organ, one circulatory system, and I sired her, brought her into the Sisterhood of the Night.”

“And she still left?”

“Yes,” sighed Camille. “She still left. She was furious with me. She blamed me for something, I know not what, and called me a demon, the devil. She said I had cursed her, shamed her, and she left with her husband.”

“I’m sorry.” Laura wanted to do something, to comfort her, to reach out her hand and take Camille’s, but it all felt foolish, like a toddler comforting a wife after losing her husband of sixty years. Camille was ancient, and Laura was nothing. How could she comfort someone like this?

The silence grew between them. Laura distracted herself with eating. Camille picked at her strawberries. Laura still had questions, so many questions, but none of them felt right. Nothing felt right. What happened to Laura’s child? Did Laura turn her husband? Did she outlive her husband? Did she outlive her daughter?

“Laura loved books,” said Camille with a sigh. “It was one of the few things she truly loved. I could lick her for hours, and it moved her body, but the only thing that moved her heart was a good book. I would watch her read for hours at time without interruption, and I wished I could be the book, holding her undivided attention. I wished I could be the author, moving her heart and being.”

Camille turned to Laura and smiled sadly. “I have little talent for writing. I can perform a trick or two. It is one of the benefits of my curse, and that is what you have responded to in my poems and some of my stories. But my power is not enough to draw her back to me. If she were with me here, in this room, I could take her under my sway, but the power fades with each iteration as it gets further from me.”

“For years, I wrote books to her. I wanted her to stumble upon them in a bookstore, open them, and feel the familiar tug of me on her soul. I wanted to call her back to me. All of my books are one failed attempt after another to call her back to me. But I do not have the talent to write a book that will reach everyone, that Laura will stumble upon in her long unnatural life.”

Camille reached out grabbed Laura’s hand. “I need your help.”

“My help?” asked Laura.

“Yes. We will write this book, the book you suggested. We will fill it with your words and my power. Everyone will beg for it, fall to it, and there is no way it won’t reach Laura, my Laura.”

“Your power?”

Camille looked at Laura intently, until she was looking into Laura. Laura couldn’t break Camille’s gaze. She stared into Camille’s eyes, until she could see herself in the green of Camille. She could see her eyes in Camille’s eyes. In those eyes, were Camille’s eyes again. The closer she looked, the more she saw Camille. It was all Camille. Everything was Camille. The deeper you went, the more Camille you found. Something changed inside Camille. The wounded woman disappeared, and the huntress emerged. Camille decided on something, something she wanted from Laura, and she moved to take it.

Camille lifted her thumb and bit it. A tiny bead of blood swelled up. She brought it to Laura’s lips, and Laura sucked on it eagerly. The more she drank, the more she filled up on Camille’s blood, on Camille, the less room there was for Laura inside her. She became less Laura. She became less human. Even by a tiny bead, she was a tiny bead less in every way.

“You will help me,” said Camille. There was less of Laura inside Laura, and it was replaced with Camille’s words. Less Laura and more Camille.

“You will serve me,” said Camille. “You will be my silver tongue. You will make my words gleam. You will help me find my bride and bring her to me. This will be your purpose, your burning desire beyond and above all things.”

“Yes, Marcilla.”

Camille smiled. She took her hand away, and Laura whimpered. Camille stood, grabbed Laura’s wrist, and brought her into her bedchamber. She sat on the edge of the bed, where she had sat for Muse Sessions time after time for Laura. Laura read for Camille before, but there was less Laura now. Laura didn’t need to read now. She needed to serve. She needed to compose. She needed to speak, and words come from the tongue.

Laura fell to her knees in front of Camille. Camille spread her legs.

“Now,” said Camille as she grabbed the back of Laura’s head, “be my silver tongue.” She pulled Laura’s head into her pussy, and Laura submitted. Her tongue was eager. It was less her tongue and more Camille’s tongue. It belonged to Camille. It was for Camille to use as she pleased. She wanted to cum. Laura would serve.

Camille leaned back, and Laura leaned forward. She started slowly. In another time, maybe a week ago, Laura would panic at the idea of licking another woman’s pussy. This morning, she would have panicked at the idea of licking her bosses’ pussy. Now, she didn’t worry about that at all. She was less. Camille was more. It was her place to serve.

She started with small licks, igniting Camille’s desire and hunger, but Camille was impatient. She grabbed the back of Laura’s head and forced the younger woman’s mouth closer to her pussy, almost into her pussy. Laura could barely breathe, but she didn’t need breath. She was less Laura and more servant. She was less brain and more tongue. She was less air and more pleasure. She slithered her tongue as deep into Camille’s pussy as she could. She stopped trying to go deeper when Camille stopped pressing down on the back of her head.

“That’s right,” moaned Camille. “Be my silver tongue. Serve me.”

Laura used her nose to stroke Camille’s clit, and bent at the neck, moving her head up and down, to stroke Camille. Camille’s body writhed on the bed, her back arched, and moaned louder.

“Serve me, Laura,” commanded Camille.

Laura served her to completion.

That night, she served her three more times. Laura fell asleep in Camille’s bed, the vampire wrapped around her. Not once did Laura cum. Not once did Camille touch or pleasure her. But it didn’t matter. She wasn’t supposed to become more Laura. She was supposed to become less. All good prey become less.

That was her final thought as everything became dark.

Laura woke up to the familiar soreness in an unfamiliar room. She was in Camille’s bed, but Camille was gone. She sat up, and looked around the room, looking for any sign of her but found nothing. The dark and heavy curtains of the room kept Laura from guessing what time it was, and she decided to stumble back to her bedroom to get food. It was a painful walk of shame to the other side of the mansion. The soreness was worse than before. Whatever sickness was taking her must be getting worse.

Though her body was getting weaker, her mind felt sharper than last night. She remembered most of it. Things were clear until she locked eyes with Camille. She knew she ate Camille out several times. She knew Camille tasted wonderfully, but she didn’t remember many of the details. Other than that, her faculties were normal. As she walked, she noticed that life seemed to be going on per usual in the mansion. Angelica passed her and gave her a judgemental glare when she saw Laura’s wrinkled clothes from last night. She guessed that is was late morning by the way the sun was hitting the windows.

And more importantly, she still saw no sign of Nikki. She wanted to tell her about Camille, about Marcilla, about Laura K. She wasn’t sure if Nikki would think she was crazy for talking about vampires, but she didn’t care. She had to process all of this with someone. She didn’t know if Nikki would be jealous either. She should probably withhold the part about eating out Camille, just to be safe.

Her bedroom was empty when she entered, and she fought off the sting of disappointment. She’d buzz for Nikki after breakfast and a shower. Then, she could tell her everything.

Laura called down to Jacques to send the usual breakfast up, especially the smoothie, and hopped into the shower. She still felt like she stank of sex without the pleasure of sex. Her panties were practically stained from all the excitement last night when she took them off.

The warm water calmed her down and helped clear her mind so she could focus on what she had learned. Camille was Marcilla. Did that mean she should call her Marcilla now? No. That would be ridiculous. The rest of the staff didn’t call her Marcilla. Did they know? Either they knew and still called her Camille or they didn’t know and calling her Marcilla would ruin that. No matter what, Laura resolved to keep thinking of her as Camille.

Besides, Camille still didn’t feel like Marcilla to Laura. Marcilla was strong, relentless, fierce. She was a force of nature. Marcilla wouldn’t cry over Laura K’s rejection. She would hunt Laura K down and take her. She would hunt. She would devour.

Camille was a shadow of that. Laura felt a bit of Marcilla in her when she looked into her eyes, when she tasted Camille’s blood. Something clicked in Camille, something changed, and Marcilla emerged for a moment. Laura had to bring her back. She had to evoke Marcilla again. Marcilla wouldn’t fail to devour Laura when she offered her neck as Camille did. Marcilla would feast.

Laura stepped out of the shower and found her breakfast waiting for her. She dried off, got dressed, and was halfway through when there was a knock on the door.

She smiled. She couldn’t wait to see Nikki. “Come in,” she said with her mouth full.

The door opened a crack, and Angelica peeked her head inside. “I see you’ve changed,” she said dryly. Laura’s smile died.

“What is it?”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” chastised Angelica.

Laura stared at her, chewed quickly, and swallowed. “What is it?” she repeated.

“You have a visitor.”

“I have a what?”

“A visitor. A human guest that would like to spend time with you for unknown and unfathomable reasons.”

“Bitchy looks terrible on you,” said Laura. She stood and wiped her mouth. “Who is it?”

“Someone named Claire.”

Laura smiled. “Oh Claire!” Her smiled wilted. “Oh, shit. Claire.”

“Should I tell her to go away?” asked Angelica.

“Uh, no. She’s fine. She can stay. Just, uh … tell her I’ll be down in a minute. I need to finish breakfast.”

Angelica closed the door without a word. Laura scarfed down her breakfast, while trying to figure out why Claire was here. More importantly, could she let Claire walk the grounds knowing her boss was a vampire? More important than that, how on earth could she explain to Claire all the absolutely crazy things that had been happening to her lately?

When she was finished, Laura left her tray for Angelica to clean up—the bitch—and headed downstairs to the foyer. There, looking around the room and gawking, was Claire.

Claire was beautiful in the way that no man appreciates and every woman envies. Her beauty was effortless and the product of good genetics. She was tall, just shy of six feet, and curvy. She could be a model for Torrid or something because she had big tits, perfectly thick thighs, and hips that drove men crazy. She had almost grey eyes, and straw-blonde hair that went past her shoulders. She looked like she played professional women’s basketball and did lingerie advertisements for plus sized women in her free time. But more than that, she required almost no makeup. Her complexion was perfect, her eyebrows were darker than her her hair color, her skin was flawless. She woke up like this. Laura wouldn’t believe it unless she saw it, but she lived with Laura for three years, and the girl—honest to God—woke up like this.

Today, she was wearing a light blue tank top and skinny, very skinny, pale jeans. All the correct curves were highlighted. She finished the look with peach heeled sandals with straps at the toe and above the ankle. She looked gorgeous. She always looked gorgeous.

“Hey, Cla—”

“Shut. The. Fuck. Up,” said Claire, still staring at the giant and beautiful building. “You live here?”

“Yeah?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Umm ... okay.”

“You live here?” she repeated.

“Yeah.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Claire finished her rotation and turned to face Laura. She stopped, as if noticing Laura was there for the first time. “You lucky bitch.”

“Uh … thanks?”

“You are one severely lucky bitch.”

“I am.”

“You going to show me around?”

“Um, why are you here?” asked Laura nervously.

“Are you kidding me?”

“No?” said Laura with an awkward shrug.

“Jesus, we set this up like a week ago. I told you I was taking today off to see how the other half lived.”

“Oh,” Laura blushed, “right.”

“You forgot?”

“A little bit.”

“Wow. Okay. Just … wow.”

“A lot’s been going on this week.”

“And it hasn’t for me? Jesus, my new apartment reeks of cats.”

“Sorry,” said Laura. “I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”

“Oh yeah? How?”

“Indoor movie theater?” suggest Laura. Claire seemed indifferent. “Free popcorn machine?” Claire’s mouth twitched. “I can make a maid go get us candy?”

Claire finally broke and smiled. “Fine.”

Laura extended her arm for Claire to take, “Shall we, my lady?”

“We shall.”

The next hour was severely embarrassing for Laura. She showed Claire most of the building, and everything was met with some version of “shut the fuck up,” “you gotta be kidding me,” “oh my god,” or “you are one lucky bitch.” Claire took her time going through each item of furniture, each door, each quarter, and each section to remark on what a lucky bitch Laura was.

But it was fun to have Claire back. It was good to have any familiar element back in the stuffy house. Miss Lancaster was scary. Angelica was a bitch. Nikki was missing. Camille was a vampire. It wasn’t exactly a place that felt like home, and though Claire was strange, she was like a big sister to Laura.

And that made things awkward for Laura. It started when they were by the gardens and the sunroof. There was a ladder that goes up to the sunroof, and you can look out and see a beautiful view of the city. It’s too small for two people to go up at the same time, so Claire climbed up first while Laura waited below.

Only, while Claire climbed the ladder, Laura couldn’t take her eyes off of her best friend’s ass. Claire said something, probably about how beautiful the city is from that window, but Laura couldn’t hear her at all. It was like blood was rushing from her brain to her pussy. There was a roaring in her ears. Her senses dulled, the edges of her vision blurred, and she become totally preoccupied and obsessed with Claire’s ass. Her whole vision locked on to it. There was nothing else. The skinny jeans showed it off perfectly. Honestly, it was a perfect ass. Laura would kill for an ass like that. She would kill for a body like that.

But she could never look like Claire. Claire’s genetics made her. No, the closest Laura could ever come to having an ass like that would be to serve an ass like that. If she could kiss it, lick it, clean it, then it would almost be as good as being as beautiful like Claire.

Claire didn’t notice when she got off the ladder. She didn’t notice that Laura wanted to be one or two steps behind her as they climbed the stairs. She didn’t noticed that Laura was always lagging behind, turning her head sideways and staring. It was worse when Claire walked. The way her best friend swung her hips? God. It was no wonder she rarely went home alone. This is what it must feel like for men at the bar. They can’t help themselves. They have to stare. They have to watch. They can’t look away.

Until, of course, they see Claire’s breasts. The tank top had a low cut. Claire thought it was a foundational rule of all fashion to show off her cleavage, and she was right. As they went down another flight of stairs, Laura looked away from Claire’s ass long enough to look over Claire’s shoulder and see her breasts.

Her breasts were perfect. Laura found herself licking her lips over and over. They were bigger than Laura’s. Comically bigger. Laura would need implants and some kind of back surgery to have tits like those. They reminded her of Nikki’s breasts, perfect mounds of flesh and energy and nerve endings and nipples and more and more and more. She wondered what Claire tasted like. What did her nipples taste like? She couldn’t remember what Claire’s nipples looked like. How dark were they? What did they look like stiff? Laura imagined Claire naked in her mind a dozen times. She tried different versions of Claire’s breasts in her mind. Each one was better than the last. Each one stoked the flame of her hunger.

In the movie theater, Laura was looking forward to Claire’s distraction. Claire would spend the whole time staring at the screen, and Laura would spend the whole time staring down Claire’s shirt. It would be perfect. That was all she needed. That’s all she wanted.

But when they sat down in the small private theater, Claire moved the armrest between them back. She said was more comfortable that way, and when they sat down, tits and ass were only a portion of what drove Laura crazy.

Skin. Contact. Pressure. Laura felt Claire press against her, and she had to stifle a moan. She wanted Claire against her, pressing her up against a wall, straddling her hips, riding her. She watched over and over as Claire’s pleasant smile turned to a lustful grin, as Claire’s eyes became hooded with hunger for Laura’s body. She wanted Claire to push her back, slam her against a wall. Over and over she watched imaginary Claire slam imaginary Laura against the wall. Each time, imaginary Laura moaned louder. She started with a whimper, but she was a Vaudeville whore by the end.

Slam.

Claire would kiss her.

Slam.

Claire would grope her breasts.

Slam.

Claire would grab her pussy.

Slam.

Claire would bite her neck.

No.

Claire wasn’t Marcilla. She wouldn’t bite, would she? No. Not like Marcilla. Would Marcilla slam Laura up against the wall? No. She wouldn’t have to. Laura would whimper and offer herself. There would be no use of force. Overkill. Force would be overkill. Laura would come willingly. She would beg Marcilla to take her. Marcilla would own her, body and soul, and teach her.

Yes. Teach her.

Claire laughed next to Laura. She looked over to see the tall woman’s breasts jiggle with laughter. So much flesh.

Laura licked her lips.

Now, she could see herself pressing down on Claire. Claire would resist at first, but then she’d see Laura’s hunger. She’d see the need in Laura’s eyes. She’d see her teeth. She’d see and wonder. She’d see and whimper. She’d see and beg.

Slam.

Laura would kiss her.

Slam.

Laura would move down to her neck.

Slam.

Laura would nibble the tender skin.

Slam.

Laura would lick and taste the salty fear.

Slam.

Laura would sink her teeth in.

Claire would cry out in pleasure. She would cum for Laura. Laura’s hands would roam Claire’s body. She would be in Claire’s pants. Claire would be naked and bare before her. Claire would be drizzled in chocolate and spread. Claire would be collared and strapped to a bed. Claire would bend over and kneel before Laura. Claire would cry out in pleasure. She would cry out in pain. She would cry out in fear as Laura took her last breath, as the hot blood dripped down her chin.

Laura stood up in the theater.

“What?” hissed Claire.

“I need to go,” said Laura quickly.

“Where are we going?”

“Uh … just me,” stammered Laura. “I don’t feel well. I’m sorry.”

“Wait, what’s wrong?” cried Claire after her, but Laura was already fleeing. “Was it something we ate? The popcorn?”

“I’ll text you!” shouted back Laura as she ducked out of the theater.

She ran to her room. She needed to lock herself inside. Where did those thoughts come from? She wasn’t a vampire. She shouldn’t want … that.

Laura bumped into a stranger in the hallway, but she didn’t apologize. She didn’t stop to help them up. She didn’t listen to them cry after her. Laura ran because she was desperate. She ran because she was afraid. She ran because she was a danger to her best friend. She ran because she was hungry.

And soaked.