Author’s Notes: This one’s set a fair while before the rest of the story, and long before Nanageddon. Anthrax at least is still in her teens here.

From the prompt “forsaken”.

The Death of Paulette

The look on his face is a picture of shock, and Anthrax’s eyes are drawn to every sag of skin, every stretched wrinkle, the way the mouth hangs open like it’s on a slack string, the way his eyes are dulled, but with one little glint left, a glimmer of hope that, maybe, she might be lying.

“The phone has been disconnected. We do not use the internet. Anything that arrives by post will be burned.”

Ebola savours the last word, pronouncing it with a hiss of spite. There’s a delight in it, a thrill of malice, and Anthrax shivers.

“Darling, surely… you don’t mean this?”

He’s trying to smile, but Anthrax hears it catch. It’s a false hope. He knows she means it very well.

“Tell me why I wouldn’t mean it. Why would I joke about this?”

There’s a strain on Ebola’s voice, and it’s so unusual that Anthrax almost fancies she feels nervous.

“Do I look like a person who jokes?!”

Ebola is shouting now, practically screaming. Anthrax has never even heard her raise her voice before, and it’s shrill and hysterical and strange. That quiet subdued control that Ebola exudes is gone. This almost-nervous feeling is gnawing at Anthrax’s insides.

“I won’t–”

“If you come near us, we will not call the police. We have… other allies.” She’s calmer now already, getting back her control, but she’s breathless, and not as calm as she should be.

She turns abruptly, takes Anthrax by the hand and pulls her toward the door.

“Paulette, please!”

Ebola stops and turns back. Not a full-body turn, just a disdainful incline of the head.

“Paulette is gone,” she says.

And Ebola leads Anthrax away, while her father slumps and endlessly repeats “Paulette, Paulette…” as though it might bring the dead girl back.

Powergames

Author’s Notes: Set a little while after the last chapter, but stil before Anthrax gets her fangs.

From the prompt “fear”.

Warnings: implied sex, light dominance, powergames, something far more cruel than blindfolding, erotic biting (is there a name for that?)

Powergames

Control is a delicate balance. They play an intricate game, darting close to the boundary, yet ever pressed intimately against it. Both are infinitely aware of it, but neither will say anything, make allowances for it, or even acknowledge it.

Anthrax takes the lead; nips, pushes, presses.

But Ebola is in control. Because this is how it is. Because it is.

Anthrax sucks, pinches, bites on Ebola’s command. She doesn’t question. Ebola says, Anthrax does. Simple.

Until the night Ebola holds her down. She submits at first, uncertainly. Ebola doesn’t need force, not even the slightest amount. Anthrax will always do as Ebola wants, because that’s how it is.

With one hand on her chest, Anthrax is still. Ebola picks up some incense-ash, and Anthrax looks up, breath hitching. And then sharp pains hit her eyes, and she cannot keep them open. Her vision fills with thick water, and she feels it spill, hot and strange, dimly aware that her makeup is running in ash-black streams down her face.

“Bite,” she hears from above. Skin-of where?-is pressed to her face, and she turns away, raising her hand to her eye, but she is held down. “Bite,” Ebola orders again, and the skin presses closer.

She bites down, hearing faint gasps. She pulls away but the skin is pressed to her more firmly, so she bites again, and the strained moans turn to “more, more”, so she bites again, harder, harder, and the cries become euphoric screams, raising to climax as Anthrax buries her teeth in savagely, Ebola’s scream of ecstasy burning the air.

The world is still, then there are hands in her eyes, and she opens them to blurred vision but only a dull pain. And she lies back, panting, as red teethmarks gradually come into focus.

Beautiful

Author’s Notes: From the prompt “bleed”.

Warning: blood-drinking.

Beautiful

Ebola leads her through the house, and she sits silently. The anaesthetic still hasn’t worn off, so Anthrax is maintaining a dignified silence and covering her mouth as much as possible in case she drools and doesn’t feel it.

“Still numb?” Ebola asks, though she knows the answer.

Anthrax nods. Not a word.

The corners of Ebola’s mouth twitch a little. “Show me,” she requests.

One side of Anthrax’s mouth pulls into a sly smile and she bares her teeth, the long, sharp porcelain fangs that have replaced her canines looking threatening and seductive in the stifled light.

She leans down, lifting Anthrax’s face under the chin, holding her own face close above, waiting.

“You look beautiful,” she hisses.

Then she steps back, leaving Anthrax to the air.

“Wait here,” she says. Then she is gone.

She takes her time preparing. She waits in the kitchen doorway, imagining the subtle changes on Anthrax’s face. Only when she is brimming with anticipation does she enter, and Anthrax’s features shift and open in a way that is so delicious that Ebola almost grins.

She hands her a tall champagne glass, filled almost to half way, as inconspicuous in her hand as any glass of red wine.

Anthrax takes it and holds it as though it is made of gold. She looks up at Ebola, her mouth slightly open, the tips of those beautiful fangs just visible between the full red lips.

Ebola smiles, and raises her hand to show the shallow cross carved into her palm.

Anthrax raises the glass to her lips and drinks. The noise she makes as she swallows is the same one she makes when she’s touched. She lowers the glass, and a small trail of blood runs down from the corner of her mouth.

She is beautiful.

The Sound of Pain and Love

Author’s Notes: From the prompt “cry”.

Warnings: blood-drinking, in a more violent, vampiric way than the last one.

The Sound of Pain and Love

It’s not the feeling of tender skin breaking under steadfast porcelain.

It’s not the slight snap or the jerk underneath her as flesh is pierced by sharp points.

It’s not the warm trickle of blood against her lips.

It’s not even the metallic tang, the faintly bitter taste as it runs hot and viscous down her throat, as she savours every drop and the power within that taste.

It’s the cries.

The quiet involuntary gasps as she hovers over her, tracing the skin of that elegant long neck with the tips of her fangs. The barely audible whimpers as those fangs press just a little more firmly. The one steely breath as she prepares for penetration. And most of all, the euphoric cries as the fangs puncture the skin and the blood flows.

As Anthrax’s fangs sink into her soft flesh, Ebola lets out a high-pitched squeal, barely just restrained by anticipation and dignity, but spurred on by pure euphoric pain. As she licks at the first trickles as they run out, bright crimson against Ebola’s white skin, the cry fades to quick moans, gasps of pain mixing indivisibly with breathy calls of tingling ecstasy. As the flow steadies and Anthrax presses her mouth to the raw puncture-marks and sucks the blood from her veins, her cries become louder, and all trace of pain vanishes, replaced by orgasmic rapture. She cries louder and harder and more and more beautifully, until it all culminates in a scream of love and pain, and Anthrax’s closed eyes roll back and she almost comes just from hearing that scream.

Anthrax stays silent as the scream dissipates to moans and quiet gasps. As they lie exhausted, there are no words between them, just lingering breaths and the faint resonances of screams as they pass through.

The Lost Girls

Author’s Notes: From the prompt “ache”.

The Lost Girls

When it first starts, she doesn’t quite notice it. It’s not a twinge or a pang, more an itch, a barely-there tickle, just a feeling inside her. It sneaks up on her quietly, cautious as a hunted animal, delicate as a creeping spider. By the time it’s close enough to acknowledge, she realises that it’s been there for some time.

She’s bored, she realises. She’s no longer captivated. That voice, like honey and cloves, no longer makes her melt. Those eyes, the greenish blue of the ocean’s depths, can no longer crush her. Her gaze is wandering.

Girls in dresses, girls in capes, girls with their lips painted black. Girls who stare coyly, and skirt over to the side when she walks by. One cheeky little madam who curtsied when Ebola allowed her gaze to linger.

It didn’t bother her, when her eyes began to stray past the shape of a bodice or the cut of a skirt and onto the slender little waists and long legs beneath. It amused her, even aroused her, to imagine herself pressing the pretty raven to her bed, plucking free the corset laces, touching the pale skin, running her hands over shapely thighs, gently curving buttocks, pert little breasts… She shuddered to think how she would spread the young lady beneath her, hold her gently down, see her looking up, silent and obedient, and how she’d break that silence and make that girl scream in ecstasy.

And then she looks back at her Anthrax, at the tightly-cinched waist and daringly shown-off legs and beautiful, beautiful breasts that no longer send her into entrancing fantasies, and she worries that she shouldn’t have these thoughts about girls on the street.

And then her eyes stray to the next wasp-waisted Lolita, who smiles coquettishly in her direction.

The Siren With the Back Belts

Author’s Notes: From the prompt “unrequieted”.

The Siren with the Black Belts

It was through Aunt Louise that Ebola discovered the Goth movement; through those trips to Whitby when she was still a girl, the first secreted sips of absinthe from a silver flask, the nights under the moon, talking about the end of all things.

How ironic it feels to watch her now, cold in her coffin.

She tosses a black rose into the grave. It’s what Louise would have wanted. Goths to the end. To the end of all things.

To the untrained eye, the Goths are indistinguishable from the other mourners, but Ebola can see how their dresses and suits are of a more refined, more regal cut. And there’s that dignity and elevation, almost haughtiness, in the way they carry themselves.

Her father isn’t here. He didn’t really like Louise much, come the end.

Ebola is leaving the mourners to themselves, when she spots another figure, similarly detached from the crowd. Her stomach lurches in a most undignified way, which she’s glad isn’t outwardly visible. It’s something that hasn’t occurred like this since her adolescence, when she used to watch them come and go in her aunt’s house, always admiring and envying the effortless way they carried their dresses and the shadows that wove themselves within them.

It is an uncontrollable, embarrassing urge, a crush, the crush of a submissive girl, on being carrying far more authority and power than she does.

It is Evelyn. Evelyn the shadow. Evelyn the beauty. Evelyn the siren with the black belts.

There is no reason that their acquaintance should be anything beyond innocent, of course not. And these uncomfortable urges within her are indiscernible to everyone, Evelyn included. And besides which, she’s left Anthrax in London, so Anthrax need never know…

There is no harm, Ebola reasons, in leaving with her.

Stalemate

Author’s Notes: Writer’s choice of prompt, for which I chose “stale”.

Stalemate

The nights are hotter now. And lighter, but Ebola keeps the blinds drawn. Even in the shade, boxed in between four walls, she is stifled, and the sweat dries in a sticky layer over her too-pink skin.

She is lying, still, on the bed, wearing only her babydoll nightie. Black chiffon; almost see-through. Her hair is loose and damp with sweat, weighing her head down into the pillow.

A light, tickling touch runs across her abdomen, and she shivers involuntarily.

“I know what you want,” Anthrax teases. “You’re not getting it.”

Ebola laughs dryly. “Yes I am.”

“No you’re not,” Anthrax maintains, fingers still playing through the thin black ribbon between Ebola’s breasts.

She is. She always does. The game has become as familiar as any other, with a set game-plan, and rules and a predetermined outcome where everybody wins. Anthrax will initiate, though she pretends to be reluctant; Ebola will cajole her, assertively, but never aggressively; then, Ebola will give one final, unquestionable word, and Anthrax will obey. Ebola will submit, Anthrax will drink, and they will fuck until the light is gone. Like they do. Every night.

It’s only the sharp punch of Anthrax’s fangs piercing the thin skin of her neck, the nimble expertise of the fingers probing every nerve ending, the soft lap of the gently suckling tongue, that keeps her screaming.

The fangs that Ebola gave her; the fingers that Ebola taught to touch; the tongue that Ebola first baptised with the flow of human blood.

It’s all a pure gut reaction to the electric waves and impulses that run through her body, stimulated by physicality alone.

Except for one moment, just before Anthrax pulls out, where she sees an image, a beautiful fantasy; her own body, caught in a twisted tangle of black belts.

Beneath the Black Belts

Author’s Notes: From the prompt “infidelity”.

Beneath the Black Belts

It only takes one phone call. Just a few short words. Evelyn has asked to meet up.

Meet up. What does that entail? Tea? Coffee? Absinthe?

An afternoon? An evening? A night?

She left Anthrax at home. Whether Anthrax chose to stay at home is none of Ebola’s concern. She can go where she likes. Ebola doesn’t care.

Evelyn no longer lives in the house she had when Ebola was younger, but she’s still in the same area. The streets are wide, imposing and privileged, and the house is large. Ebola keeps her head down and the brim of her hat low as she walks through, fearful that someone will recognise her and call her other name.

She almost hesitates at the gates of Evelyn’s impressive house, but swallows and rings the bell. She can’t leave now, not when she said she’d come. It would be rude.

“Paulette,” Evelyn says, smiling a greedy smile. No one’s told her that Ebola is called Ebola.

Ebola smiles back, the sight of Evelyn’s greed arousing enough within herself to match it. Her bloodstream is pumping with adrenaline, heart pounding, loins crunching, and she’s salivating heavily.

She stumbles as Evelyn leads her upstairs, but she carries on, falling through the hallway as she is pulled into the bedroom. She is thrown down onto the wide bed, and she stares upwards feeling like her chest will explode as Evelyn licks her teeth hungrily, pressing her down with a look. The black belts are unfastened, and Ebola is allowed to gaze on the beauty beneath.

In the end, though, it’s quick and clumsy, fantasies fulfilled like those of a teenage boy who doesn’t know what he wants. She doesn’t stay the night, and flees in darkness, lest Anthrax suspect the happenings that the night has brought.

Open Up

Author’s Notes: From the prompt “secrets”.

Open Up

There must always be secrets. Everyone is hiding something. There are things that people don’t need to know.

Anthrax is no exception, nor does she desire to be. Her mother doesn’t need to know that she’s had her canines replaced with porcelain fangs. Ebola’s father doesn’t need to know how much they cost. The vicar doesn’t need to know what they’re used for.

But, Anthrax thinks with a smile, in the case of lovers, the opposite is true. If you keep a secret, then that shows mistrust. And mistrust between lovers is doom. How can you love someone if you’re convinced they’re running off to someone else, and you can’t believe them when they say they aren’t?

When she’s taken you away from everything old; when she’s the reason that you don’t know your own parents any more; when she’s all you’ve got left, and all you want; when she is everything, you have to trust her entirely. And that means no secrets.

Anthrax knows Paulette, who got in trouble in year one for telling the other children what she’d read in her father’s medical textbooks, and played with dolls right until she started high school. Who sold her virginity for a ticket to a Black Sabbath reunion concert, which transpired not to exist.

And Ebola knows chubby little Amy who collapsed at an athletics competition that she only entered so she could look at girls’ legs, and who used to think that “tonguing” was another word for kissing.

They don’t have secrets. If Anthrax thinks Ebola is keeping something, she has only to ask.

So she asks, though she almost fears the answer, because she knows Ebola will be truthful.

“Bo,” she says, using the name she only sometimes uses. “Did you?”

Ebola seems to look through her.

“Yes.”

Thingogram

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To Her Dark Mistress