The Razor's Edge

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Domme finds ultimate submission in a vampire's arms.
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"The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it."
Oscar Wilde

I.

The setting, the shadow world of Perilous Gard.

Medieval in tone, velvet tapestries of mythological beasts and of beautiful men and women under their dominion adorn the fortified stone walls. Grotesque gargoyles gaze sightlessly at the revelers, certain in their power to terrify. Discordant chants and sinful madrigals echo the seductive screams of the blessed.

Those in attendance move as if wraiths; the silks, satins and brocades of exquisite vestments barely making a sound. Voices are low whispers as if amongst the wind. Crystal goblets chime, filled with vintages rare and precious. The food is a delight even for the most discriminating of tastes.

Perilous Gard is a world where the lines between pleasure and pain are non-existent. Those considered masters and mistresses of Perilous Gard are highly sought. They are at the very height of their decadence, moral only when it suited their purpose.

Unlike many of their kind who regard a submissive only in terms of a willing body to be used and discarded at whim, the dominants here tended to form lasting attachments to their slaves. Many of the slaves at Perilous Gard bore marks of loving ownership, either brands or rings. Deep and fierce commitments between the two are certainly not uncommon. A few of the more pragmatic souls, however, saw the bond as a means of securing total and abject devotion.

The slaves of Perilous Gard were highly trained, pampered, and prized all over the world as the most obedient. They are not picked for beauty alone, for all know well that beauty fades over time. They are striking creatures, no doubt, but are chosen for their intelligence, as well for their capacity to transcend the boundaries of pain. Sometimes cruel, almost god-like in their demeanor, the masters and mistresses of Perilous Gard expect nothing less than total worship. And, nothing else is given.

II.

She is Regine d'Florentaigne—known to all as the Countess Regine. A sobriquet, bestowed upon her by those who adore and worship her dark beauty and regal bearing.

Those who know her well and there are but few, for Regine does not take her attachments lightly, that when she enters Perilous Gard, all action, all conversation ceases. Her very self demands, and receives, obeisance.

This night, she is dressed in a gown of shimmering ebony velvet, the cinched leather bodice compressing and pushing her breasts up and out, a train of black Valenciennes laces trails in her wake. A sparkling Victorian garnet cross adorns a slender throat. Beneath the gown, a pair of patent leather boots with six inch heels caresses a pair of voluptuous thighs.

Her short dark hair, a widow's peak lending a faintly enchantress-like air, is pulled away from smooth ebony skin, emphasizing a seductive innocence that belies the heart of a skillful whip hand. Full, lush lips are coloured a sultry crimson. Dangling from slender fingertips with their perfect half-moon nails, a leather crop, the thin snakelike tongue supple from much use.

Outwardly, Countess Regine epitomizes all that a well-loved Mistress should be—arrogant, proud, and untouchable. Inwardly, she seethes with an unspoken desire. Regine is restless tonight and has been for several evenings past. Many are aware of it, as well as being more than familiar with the cause. However potent Regine's overwhelming hunger may be, none would dare to presume upon her willing submission. If questioned (and again, none would dare such presumption), she would be unable to explain such need. She'd never experienced anything so demanding, a feeling that filled her waking days and dreaming nights.

Regine seeks one who will take her far beyond the rubicon of pain, past where it crosses over into pleasure. She has not yet savored the feel of giving up control, of being at the mercy of another's caprices and she feels denied, incomplete. Her last slave left unsatisfied, complaining that her mistress' punishments left little to be desired. Unfortunately, her heart simply wasn't in the moment.

Regine has been dominant for so many years, and it no longer excites her. She is consumed by the need to belong, heart, mind, body and soul...

She wants to walk on the razor's edge.

III.

He stands in a corner, enveloped in warmth and the mystery of shadows, sapphire eyes blazing in the semi-darkness. Regine is aware of his presence long before their gazes meet. To some around him, he is an afterimage, created by flickering wall sconces; to others, he simply isn't there at all.

His attire is that of an eighteenth-century man of leisure; the close fit of dark trousers, a perfect frame for his tightly muscled thighs. The gleaming knee boots and waistcoat were also dark. A silk shirt, almost blinding in its stark whiteness, lays casually open at the throat. The most startling aspect of his dress however, is a leather collar with the familiar d-ring fastened around his throat.

Regine moves closer, intrigued by coldly sensuous eyes with the feral glint of a predator. His hair is waist-length and silky straight, the subtle light casting bronzed-gold shadows through the strands.

His features were too perfect, too delicate; the high cheekbones, thinly arched brows, long sweeping lashes, and yet the seeming femininity of his face did little to diminish the powerful air of masculinity at its core.

In spite of the d-ring that marked him, Regine is more than certain that he has never submitted to anyone. The aura that surrounds him is tempestuous, dangerous. He was a blatant challenge.

Their eyes were level as she stood before him. A few inches taller, yet his presence made him appear more than he was. Once locked into that disturbing cerulean gaze, nothing else existed.

"I do not believe that we have been formally introduced." It is the Countess Regine who addressed him, in a voice of low velvet steel. Those who knew it well knew that it was a tone to be disobeyed at one's peril.

The alluring stranger regarded her with aloof insouciance. Taking her measure and finding her wanting. At first, Regine was angry. Who is he to look upon her in such a way? Then, curiosity overrode anger. She had never been appraised quite so frankly. Like an object.

"My name, if it is that important for you to know, is Astin Prescott. I am the tenth Viscount Sothern, not that my title holds any relevance for me any longer." The voice was deeply resonant, the English accent elegant, highborn and just slightly patronizing. Here was a man more than used to being obeyed at all times.

"Viscount?" Regine sniffed. "How many of those pass through the gates of Perilous Gard, only to be brought to their haughty little knees by the harsh, yet loving ministrations of my pleasure toys? Far too many, I daresay. So," and Regine's tilted her head arrogantly, "Your title, if indeed it is truly your title, holds absolutely no allure for me."

Astin's reply was just as insolent. "For a dominatrix suffering from ennui, you certainly have a high opinion of yourself. I am uncertain as to whether I should be angry or amused by such temerity."

Regine raised her crop, pointing to the d-ring that encircled his throat like some barbaric celtic torque. "You dare to wear such a provocative piece, yet you consider me arrogant. Your audacity is astonishing, to say the least."

He shrugged casually, dismissing it. "I am a peer, my dear. Audacity as well as arrogance is my right. You, however, have no such excuse."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning that you are nothing more than the proverbial bitch-goddess whom all and sundry allow free reign."

"For a stranger in my world, you dare much, Astin Prescott. It is quite obvious that you have no idea who I am." Regine drew herself to full imposing height, insouciance as much a part of her being as the shade of her dark, mysterious eyes.

"I do more than dare, my sweet. In fact, I believe that you need a serious lesson in acknowledging those of a more distinguished bloodline. Not to mention someone far more malevolent than you could ever be."

He gazed at her, lust and the potential for conquest clearly in his eyes. An underlying hypnotic menace in his voice drew her further into his web of seduction, all done without the slightest touch.

Regine found their banter, the ritual of ceremonial braggadocio that often occurred between rivals quite disconcerting, and very arousing. Astin folded his arms and began to circle Regine like the hunter he was.

"By the way, on that rather tiresome subject of names, I do indeed know who you are. The infamous Countess Regine d'Florentaigne, celebrated dominatrix extraordinaire." At one time, such a supercilious tone would have merited a scathing set down followed by absolution and sincere apology. Not this time.

"And it appears the so-called "mistress" of Perilous Gard has come full circle. How refreshingly novel. I wondered how long it would be until you began to envy the sublime freedoms that a slave always experiences." A sardonic smile creased his sensual mouth.

Regine quivered involuntarily, not entirely from fear. Within moments of their meeting, this stranger from the shadows has seen into her heart. Not only that, but was willing to give her what she has truly desired for so long.

Or was he?

"I take it, then, that you are into reading minds?"

Again, that secret smile full of malice and the promise of dark delights. "As a matter of fact, Regine, I am very much into reading minds. And bodies." Sending such a scorching look towards her, his meaning was more than clear. "Others may dream of possessing you, but only I can."

He stalks her once more, the air around them heavy with anticipation. A hand reaches out, a light caress upon her bare shoulder, shockingly cold and flame hot at the same time.

"I am not known for showing mercy easily. If you choose to come with me, everything you have is mine to give and mine to take. Every moan, every ounce of pain I choose to bestow upon you." The sapphire eyes now bore deep into her soul. "Your pleasure . . . and your life, if I wish it so."

Every fiber of her being cries out in warning, and in wanting. Regine knows that she should not go with him, that they haven't negotiated the scene. He does not know her limits, what she will allow and what is forbidden.

Neither does she.

"You have no limits, Regine d'Florentaigne."

Astin's hand reaches out to cup her chin. His fingertips once more connect with her skin, searing her. She shudders from the contact.

He smiles wickedly, showing teeth perfectly white against the pale of his skin. The canines are long sharp points, lethal, animal, able to rend and tear through flesh and bone like a knife through paper.

Regine knows what he is. She did not turn away. He could compel her to obey him, but they both know that a slave under compulsion is little better than a mindless puppet. Then again, he does not have to compel her, she is open to him.

Terror and desire warred for dominance.

"I now give you a choice—turn from me, and I will not harm you. Come with me and your fate rests in my hands. This perhaps might be your last night upon this mortal earth."

Her decision took mere seconds, and there could be no regrets. Silently, he takes Regine's slender hand.

No one noticed their exit.

IV.

There were candles lit, hundreds of them, the flames reflecting onto the highly polished surface of a hardwood floor. The dimensions of the room were lost upon Regine as shadows leaped and pirouetted in the flickering light.

She gazed at Astin from under heavily lidded eyes. It was almost dream-like. Her rational mind urged her to be frightened, to escape this madness, and the man before her who is no longer mortal.

His pristine shirt was undone, revealing a chest marble smooth, the hue of rosy alabaster. His waist and hips were a satin plain of taut muscle and dark raw energy. Even the silken tendrils of his raven hair were alive with energy. Subtle musculature carried an air of power and of safety, though Regine was hard pressed to understand the last.

There was nothing safe about Astin Prescott. He was beautiful to look upon, as beautiful as the fallen angel, Lucifer, was reputed to be still, yet he could take her life without fearing the consequences. How many others were seduced by his siren's call of promised ecstasy? And what befell them afterwards?

Astin seized the crop from her hands, the smooth handle fitting into his palm as if it belongs there naturally.

The supple tip rested against her throat, and slowly trailed downward.

"I believe we should dispense with the niceties, agreed?" He murmured, not expecting an answer. "Undress!" the command given with all the potency of a lash. "I would prefer that you leave the boots on. They lend a certain allure to your nudity."

Without compunction, Regine obeyed, eager to undress before him. She goes slowly, watching the tell-tale shimmer of his eyes as the elegant frock falls to the floor. Her seduction of him becomes a game.

She stood in the middle of the room, naked, except for her boots, the heat of her body surpassing that of the candle flame, her body in provocative pose.

"Spread your legs," he ordered quietly.

Regine remained immobile this time, curious to see if he could make her. She wondered just how far she could push him.

Astin knew what Regine was attempting, more than familiar with these little games. His smile was wicked. He was very much looking forward to disciplining her.

Among other things.

"I have the power to force you, Regine, but why should I? Do you wish to bear no responsibility for your actions?" He asked, purring sensuously against her ear, the salt tang of his breath overwhelming her senses. "Perhaps you want to believe that I compelled you?"

A serpentine tongue snaked out to taste the salt of her skin. "However, you forgot one small detail, my sweet slave. I didn't compel you, which means you shall enjoy this all the more. Besides, it is far more arousing to smell your fear as well as your lust and to know that I am its cause. And, its cure."

His fingers tugged harshly at her nipples, slowly building into a pulling, then his teeth grazing them, careful enough not to break the delicate skin. His tongue sensed the blood racing to the aureoles. Regine threw her head back and moaned deeply, her body arcing, nipples insistent against his tongue.

He stopped, anger on an angelically perfect face. "Be silent! I am not the least interested in your desire."

"And if I'm not," she challenged, heightening the tension between them, her breathing keeping pace with the rapid pulse of her heart. Defiance, while part of the game, takes on an added dimension. How much defiance is too much?

"Then I stop, and simply sate myself upon your luscious body, which I might enjoy for a fleeting moment or two, but can quickly lose its appeal, especially once I have drained you. I can feed upon anyone. What I plan to do to you is something else entirely."

The tip of the crop continued its slow, tortuous exploration, resting at the juncture between her legs.

"Spread your legs!" he commanded. "Please do not attempt to try my patience, since I am gifted with precious little of that commodity."

She does. His eyes burned her.

"Very good. It appears that you can obey your betters after all. Now, hanging above you is a silk tassel. Grasp it with both hands, wind it tightly around your wrists, and do not let go of it. For anything. I'm not in any mood to cater to your whims. I may appear civilized, but trust me; it is the thinnest of veneers."

Regine reached up, the silk soft as she wrapped it around her wrists. What does he see, Regine wondered. Does he find her beautiful, her dark skin glittering in the candlelight, standing in the middle of the room, arms over her head?

"You are quite beautiful, my vain little bitch-goddess," he answered her unspoken question softly. Her body ignited within him a potent rush of heat. "And by the time I've done with you, you'll be stunning. Because you will belong to me in every way. And I do so adore beautiful things," Astin added facetiously.

"I don't belong to anyone." Regine's tone belies the rebellion of her words.

Astin paced around her slowly, the crop and his fingertips caressing, was driving her insane. Every pore is electric and charged. The lightest touch sent her into a frenzy.

"You want to belong to me, body and soul, don't you?" His eyes burned with a savage inner flame that threatened to consume her. Even in the half-light, his eyes glowed crystal blue. The silk shirt flutters loosely around his torso; rose pink nipples beckoned for her touch.

"You've been seeking me, whether you know it or not. I've seen your dreams. I am your dreams made real. Neither mortal man nor woman, no matter how skilled, can possess you the way you need to be possessed. I can drain you to the very last drop of blood, and you will allow me to do so."

The crop flicked lightly against her ass. The leather tongue slides between the firm round cheeks and between puckered lips. He withdrew it, satisfaction clearly written on his face.

"What, my sweet little whore, wet already? Imagine how wet you will be by the time I've finished with you."

Skillful fingers found their way between her legs. So close to her, his lips barely touched her skin, feathering her face with the barest of kisses. His hair, the scent of flames and sandalwood, but strangely not of death. His breath hot and moist flowed around her. Fingers parted her swollen pussy lips, pulling back the hood that concealed her clit. One finger slid inside, and then another joined it. A third. A fourth, until his entire hand was inside her. A savage dance began inside of her, in and out, deep yet slow, and there was no resistance to his invasion. His fingers clenched; his arm, like the rest of his body, sensitive to the flow of blood that stemmed from her arousal. For a fleeting moment, Astin wished she were on her monthly courses; most nosferatu disdained feeding from a woman's menstrual flow; to Astin, the hot iron saltiness was a drug beyond intoxication.

Regine danced on the tethers of silk binding. Against Astin's wishes she cried out from his sweet ravishment. He removed his fingers quickly, then smacked her hard with the crop on her thrusting buttocks.

"You were told to be silent," he reminded her, striking her again. "You forget your place, 'Countess'. Perhaps a little reminder is in order?" "What kind of reminder, Astin?" Regine panted the query, baiting him, knowing that he will punish her for her insolence. Hoping that he will punish her. But her past cannot be put aside so easily; she cannot surrender without knowing how far Astin will take her.

Even to the point of death.

Astin laughed, a beautiful and terrifying sound. Regine d'Florentaigne was proving to be more than he'd dared hope. And the night was still young.

"I could spend all evening proving just how badly you want this. Look at you, begging to be hurt. Begging to be fucked like the little pain slut that you have always been. My entire hand was inside your dripping cunt, and you thoroughly enjoyed it." Without warning, his hand penetrated her again, thrusting deep into her womb, heedless of her pain, but very aware of his merciless delight in being its cause. Regine writhed against him, willing to take his entire arm if he so chooses.

"Not so haughty are we, countess, with a man's fist between your nether lips." Astin took her in a slow, steady rhythm, opened her up to him like a hothouse flower.

It was too much and again, Regine disobeyed by crying out for more. He gave her more, hard and fast and cruel. With each thrust, the riding crop landed its blazing kiss upon her ass. Regine spiraled into madness, and even this barely marred the surface of her hunger.

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