“He’s quit it!” said Sarah Goodman. “I swear. My husband has quit the drink entirely. Two weeks it’s been, and there hasn’t been a whiff of whiskey in my godly house.”

The other women congratulated her with a circle of clapping hands and smiles. Some gave suggestions for how she might ensure that this good fortune continued.

The slave sat among them. She reached out a hand to lay it on Sarah’s shoulder, and told the woman how proud she was. Sarah smiled, and the slave let her hand linger a moment on Sarah’s warm skin.

They sat in Mrs. Putnam’s drawing room at midday, joining together to discuss matters of the Lord and the house, as they always did. Some of the more zealous ladies shared talk of manufacturing pamphlets to preach their message of temperance; the others only wished to complain about their husbands. Or, in Sarah Goodman’s case, brag.

The slave was perhaps quieter than usual. How fortunate she was for her friends’ kindness! They were conscientious of not bringing up the scene caused at the churchyard; it was a momentary spell brought on by the heat, nothing more. It was good to be able to sit with her ankles crossed, stirring with the familiar fervor she always felt at these gatherings. The glow of a purpose.

“But do you know where he goes?” Another lady– gossipy Catherine Thorpe– butted in. “Suppose he’s wasting his daylight at the bar, and you’re none the wiser!”

Catherine was a fair blonde, hair and lashes nearly white, with a plump figure and soft, smooth skin. She hated all husbands, her own especially. She tended towards idleness and was, perhaps, a bit too stupid for the rest of them. But that wouldn’t matter to Master.

“I have a nose, don’t I?” Sarah was curt. “I can tell.”

“And he knows you have a nose– all he’s got to do is take a dip in the ocean before he gets home!”

Sarah Goodman was not so much a beauty. What she had in spades was a spine and an outlook. She spent her days as a strict housekeeper and her free moments penning essays on a woman’s duty (which, to her, was obvious: to serve God first and their husbands second).

The slave pressed her thighs together. What a thought! To see such a woman unraveled under Ianthe’s power, bare and moaning. For all that passion and drive to be leashed and put into much more capable hands. For Sarah to learn her actual duty, and bury her face in Catherine Thorpe’s pussy.

Georgia was watching her.

The two of them sat on opposite sides of the room.

Georgia had changed, or was trying to– masking her apparent loveliness with a plain brown dress. But that shackling only made the slave want her all the more desperately.

“You can’t know,” Catherine said. “He can crow repentance all he wants, but you’ll never know what’s truly in a man’s heart.”

Georgia’s hair was pulled back, and she wore no rouge. She stared sidelong at the slave’s robin’s egg satin gown, at the lovely trim on her white gloves, and raised a cup of tea to her lips.

The slave’s mouth split into a smile. Georgia did not return it.

“That’s enough, Mrs. Thorpe,” said Mrs. Putnam.

All eyes turned to her.

Mrs. Putnam was the most extraordinary woman. A wealthy widow with a streak of devout kindness, she had founded the prayer group and personally led them from floundering beginnings into a truly wonderful circle of friends. When she spoke from her straight-backed rocking chair, everyone listened.

Well, the slave didn’t. She was too busy imagining Mrs. Putnam with her black, silver-streaked hair unbound and streaming over her pillow. Ianthe crouching over her, knee between Mrs. Putnam’s legs, tweaking her nipples.

“I wonder,” Master said in the slave’s imaginings, “just how repressed twenty years without a husband has left you, Julia?”

It was so hard! The slave felt her own blush, and hastened to suppress a noise with a sip of tea. She wanted it so bad. She wanted to show her master the depths of her depravity, that she would gladly trick any woman into a lifetime of servitude. Every woman, she understood, was only a snap of the fingers away from realizing their true potential.

Mrs. Putnam had brought out the Bible, and was informing their “congregation” about a parable she had lately been studying.

“It is about duty,” said she, “and how, if you are following God’s will, you should not be doing so in expectation of reward…”

The slave returned to watching Georgia. She wanted to enslave Georgia more than anyone else in the world. It would be so delicious, after Georgia had said so many unkind things about Master– including some that were true! – to bring her to heel. The slave could see it ever so clearly: play-acting as a regretful Pearl, spending weeks or months slowly, so slowly, regaining Georgia’s trust… slipping into her bed…opening the window… and watching, with joy and rapture as her master fucked Georgia into submission.

They could be lovers again. They would be better than lovers. They would be closer than lovers, bound forever to their infallible master.

Then the slave was fantasizing about Ianthe again.

When she closed her eyes, it was as if her master was only waiting in the shadows behind her eyelids. They were connected, now– a bond that would only grow stronger, when Ianthe at last drank her slave’s blood.

The slave had learned this that first night after her transformation. In the dead of night she’d woken in bed with Iphis; she knew at once that Master was not there. Iphis informed her that their master had gone off, as she was wont to do, and was to spend the night searching for unsuspecting women to feed from.

This notion aroused the slave, and she squirmed beneath the covers— even moreso once Iphis reached out, with such casual regard, to stroke the slave’s chest.

“When I first journeyed with Master,” said Iphis, “she fed on me every single night.”

Slow, deliberate circles on her nipples. The breath was drawn straight from the slave’s throat. Iphis’s large fingers were velvet-soft, strong, self-assured.

“Ohhh… tell me more… please…” the slave sighed.

There was no hope of her returning to sleep! Iphis was glad to keep her company. She coaxed the slave’s body into a haze of bliss while telling the most wonderful tale…

Iphis had been fleeing through the woods. The island was like nothing seen before on Earth: shadows thicker and darker than pools of ink, massive swollen tree trunks, strange shrieking bird calls that pierced the night. Iphis followed no path, no guidance— it was only horror that bid her move, and move she did.

“What frightened you so?” asked the slave.

Iphis only continued her story.

She had tripped over a root and fallen into the dirt. Lying there, aching, hungry, she came to her senses. She knew but one thing: she had to escape the island, and she must do it alone. She had nothing left— only the clothes off her back and a knife. In this rousing despair, she sought her options and found none. What she needed was nothing short of a miracle. What she needed was a functioning ship, even a raft, or a store of supplies that allowed her to stay on the isle long enough to build her own. She could not survive on nothing but fruit and wine. It would be a long, hard journey no matter what. Nothing but toil towards an uncertain end.

Did she even want to bother?

She had fought so hard, and for so long. Her life had been consumed by the hunt. She had no relations, no wife, no children. Not even a distant lost love she could cling to. She had devoted her life to killing monsters, and in the eleventh hour, she found herself going soft.

Why did the vampires on this island have to die? If the monster had been a man— or, as she appeared, a woman— it would have been a contestable crime to kill her in her sleep, no matter how wretched she may have been in waking. What harm was being done, here? If Spice’s men had never found this place, the inhabitants would have lived modestly, separated from the outside world, in their strange, female haven. What was the harm in that? Even the women…

The women did not seem unhappy with the arrangement.

Such thoughts brought Iphis up to her knees. Through the haze of the jungle she sighted a distant, orange glare. Smoke carried on the hot breeze.

Ah, thought Iphis. They are to burn it all down.

Snap!

What was that sound? Iphis looked about her, and reached for her weapon, pathetic though it may be. It was such a quick, harsh sound. It was not a broken branch. It was not a treading footstep. And it couldn’t have been…

Snap!

It was coming from above.

Iphis cursed herself for being so foolish— who knew how long it had been there? She followed the sound, and craned her neck. 

Lounging in the branches of the tree above her, bleeding from the shadows, was a naked woman, snapping her fingers.

Though Iphis, at that moment, had no idea what this woman would come to mean to her, she was quick to lavish her master with praises in hindsight. She was so handsome it took Iphis’s breath away; her black, black eyes bore down upon Iphis— why, it was possible Ianthe could have made her submit through her gaze alone!

“Finally.” Master lowered her hand. “Hasn’t anyone taught you to come when called?”

Iphis, still foolish yet, scrambled for her knife. She pointed it up, her hands shaking, but there was no threat, not to Ianthe, who radiated such power! Ianthe laughed at her.

“You can point that anywhere you please,” Ianthe said. “But I do not intend to harm you.”

“You cannot fool me, beastie.”

“Now, do I look like a beast to you?” Ianthe tilted her head.

No, she did not— she was quite the opposite, and Iphis was smitten even then. “That means n-nothing…”

“You poor thing,” said Ianthe. “You’re so frightened.”

There was another vampire left alive— did it yet know what Iphis had assisted in? Iphis could speak remorse all she wanted, but she doubted such a creature could see reason. Even if it could speak, as it was doing now, it was doubtful even a human could forgive.

“You’re upset about the slaves.”

“Obviously!” said Iphis. “It— it’s a ghastly business, and I cannot…”

“You did not even take your fill.”

If the vampire would only descend, perhaps Iphis could stake it to the ground. Yes… that is what she had to do. She had to convince the vampire (oh, how strange it was to hear Iphis talk of their master in such a way!) that she was dutifully cowed, and easy pickings, and no longer a threat.

“No. I could never do such a thing. I am appalled— beyond words— that the others were so quick to descend to such savagery. I cannot trust them ever again.”

“I can imagine,” said the vampire. “Where did they put the bodies?”

“Some, I b-believe, went on the pyre. The others in the sea. Spice wished to give them Christian burials, to the best of our…”

Oh, what sick hypocrisy! Even the vampire let out a bitter laugh.

Said it, “I ought to kill them all.”

“Yes…” Iphis fingered the knife in her hand. “It is only what they deserve.”

“But that is not all.”

“What?”

The vampire leaned forward, her face dangling above Iphis’s. “I saw.”

Iphis’s heart was pumping.

“I saw how you wept,” said the vampire, “when you thought the men could not see. That was not the sorrow of distant empathy.”

Iphis could not move, could not think, she was so terrified. The vampire’s words felt as if they were inside her, prodding at tender, hidden places best left unearthed.

“You say you cannot trust them. Why? These men would want nothing to do with your body. By their own twisted standards, you are the greatest of them all. What could cause you such despair? Such anguish?”

No, no, it could not be. Iphis had buried it for so long— not a soul knew, and she had never let so much of a hint escape. How could it be? How could this monster, this thing that was not even human, reach down so deeply to unearth those forbidden thoughts?

“You cried, for you saw yourself as one of them…”

Iphis began raving. “Quiet! Quiet, you fiend! I will kill you! If you dare speak it, you will not survive another moment, I swear—!”

“… and before all the rape and pillaging, the thought pleased you.”

Oh, she was ruined! How could she have been so foolish? This vampire was not like the others; its intelligence was unbounded. This silver-tongued, soulless thing had conquered her. Iphis had tried to speak, rather than fight, and it had found out at once. Her greatest weakness.

Always Iphis had cradled this desire; she had tended to it in secret, under cover of darkness, in her mind. Always her heart had quailed at seeing poor mothers; she could not prevent a murderous rage at men who beat their wives. She considered herself a hero, protecting the fairer sex, but deep within, she had known. She had prayed for it, in younger days, until it made her sick. And now, there was another who knew, and Iphis was at her mercy.

She swallowed. “What do you intend to do with me?”

“You’re in luck.” The vampire smiled. “I’m partial to pretty ladies.”

“I am not—”

“Please.” The vampire rolled her eyes. “Do you take me for a half-wit?”

Iphis said nothing.

“I see…” The vampire shifted her footing, and the branches rocked with her weight. “Your heart— I can hear it. You’re afraid of me.

Of course, thought Iphis.

“You expected a stupid, instinctual little thing. You thought that I lived in the dark, and acted blindly. That I chewed and grew and did nothing but mindless, territorial lashings.”

“That is…” said Iphis, “ generally the nature of your kind.”

The vampire laughed and laughed, enough so that Iphis began to feel… strangely. As if she were ill, with a fever rising to her cheeks.

Ianthe said, “You stupid, poor little thing—!” She covered her face with her hand. “Is that what your captain told you?”

“Yes.” Iphis stiffened.

“If there is anyone here who is dumb and blind as a dog,” the vampire said, “it is you.”

Iphis found it hard to disagree.

The glare of fire rose over the trees, sooty brimstone. And yet the vampire stayed, eyes upon Iphis, her words twisting in her ears.

“I am not such a trifling threat. My powers are well beyond anything you may have imagined,” said the vampire. “I can twist you humans any which way that pleases me. I can turn you against everything you’ve ever loved with nary an effort. I can have you groveling at my feet before you finish your next sentence.”

Speaking was an effort. “Then, why have you not done so?”

“I have no need to— I’ve encountered your sort many times before. I have what you have always wanted, your deepest desire, and I will give it generously. I’ve yet to encounter a will strong enough to refuse my offer.”

“Which is?”

“Quite simple. I will make you a woman—”

Even hearing such a thing, spoken so plainly, made Iphis quake in her skin.

The vampire’s face split into a smile more akin to a sharp-toothed maw. “And you, in exchange, will become my slave.”

Ianthe was correct. Iphis was not the stronger sort, and certainly not then. She agreed, as was inevitable.

The vampire took her mind at once; with another snap of her fingers, Iphis knew she had made the correct decision. The sight of the woman above her, once so heinous, compelled her to fall to unworthy knees.

That night, as the embers from the arson cooled, and the men fled on their ship, Iphis lay like a stone with the cold form of Ianthe, her new master, curled around her. In a crypt far below-ground, her nostrils bursting with the scent of decay, the man who was once Shackley was sharply remade. Uncertainty was pruned from her thoughts, and its place flooded fresh conviction. It was her duty to protect her master: to keep the vampire fed, clothed, and content when they ventured into society. It became obvious her place in the world; she was to blindly serve and obey, and she would cherish every moment of it.

Iphis awoke so convinced she could hardly comprehend a time when she wasn’t a slave. There was a weight lifted from her chest: the sort of stone in her stomach that had been there so long, she had simply considered it part of her body. But when she trailed her master into the dim morning, and they journeyed through the charred remnants, she was so light and eager it was a struggle to remain silent in what must’ve been a solemn moment.

In a cave near the shore, Ianthe had preserved an old dinghy. Iphis ventured out to sea with Ianthe disguised as cargo; the grip on her mind steered her to a ship which, albeit reluctantly, allowed her on, considering her sad state.

“Tell me more,” insisted the slave, “about how she enslaved you!”

Master needed to feed, and Iphis was the only willing body. Perhaps, had there been any women on that ship, Iphis would have been able to ensnare them for her master. As it was, she felt inadequate in her ability to wholly serve. She apologized profusely for her body, which would not be able to please Master the way she deserved. Iphis was still too large, too hairy, too mannish for her to be of any use. Why must Master, who had such exquisite taste, be forced to feed on her? Be gratified by such an unattractive body? Iphis, poor Iphis, already felt as if she were failing as a servant.

Master, of course, was far wiser than that. She only tilted her head, and in a mocking tone said, “Well, you’ve got a mouth, haven’t you?”

“Pleasuring Master,” said Iphis, “was the greatest experience.”

“Because we were meant to pleasure her.”

“Yes.” Iphis nodded. “We live to obey.”

Yes! Yes, the slave remembered with sudden rapture. She wanted to be a good slave, like Iphis was, she lived to obey, to serve, without question, without hesitation. “Please, continue, I cannot bear to wait!”

It was a turbulent sea that night. Master sat upon a crate in the bowels of the ship; it was pitch black. Iphis was guided by Master’s hands alone.

Iphis had pleasured women, before— whores, mostly. Iphis, in perhaps her only act of living her fantasy, would pay for a night and spend it pampering the prostitute with her tongue and fingers; never did she allow them to so much as glimpse her cock. Even with such practice, Iphis doubted she was worthy.

Not as if her opinion mattered anymore. Master took Iphis’s face in hand and forced her tongue into her servant’s mouth. Iphis pressed herself against her master’s body and allowed that calming wave of Master’s presence to wash over her. Despite Master being smaller, being naked while Iphis was clothed, her utter control of Iphis was apparent from the start. Through the violating kiss, Master repeated what a good slave Iphis was, how primed she was service. Like the slave after her, it was as if Iphis had only been waiting for Master her entire life.

And then—! Oh, the slave was so jealous just hearing it.

“Master bit me,” said Iphis.

“Tell me more!” the slave cried. “How did it feel?”

“I cannot possibly describe it,” Iphis said.

“At least try!”

It was intensely painful, at least on the surface. But Iphis, so consumed by Ianthe’s presence, was not bothered. The sensation traveled from the hole in her neck down her spine, until her entire body was rippling with sensation. 

Master then pushed Iphis away, face still streaked with her slave’s fresh blood, but the jangling high continued. Iphis’s focus was centered, without thought or reason, on her master’s pleasure. She needed no instruction; Ianthe opened her legs, and spread her cunt, and Iphis obeyed.

When her tongue touched Ianthe’s sex, the arousal washed away any vestiges of doubt; the sensation of pain and pleasure commingled, and in their intensity Iphis was reduced to a mindless, obedient automaton. It was enough to reach even her long bereft cock, which thrummed to life inside her trousers.

“Good girl…” Master sighed.

Iphis did not know what was happening to her, then. How could she? She had no thoughts, no will. She was following orders, serving her purpose, and there was no space left within her for anything but blind, sweet obedience. Recounting the story, even later, took her breath away.

As Iphis lost her mind in Master’s hairy cunt, her body, too, was remade. Sensitive nipples pressed insistently against her waistcoat. Her beard receded, as did all the hair on her body; her skin was turned to smooth alabaster. The pain in her chest grew all the more undeniable— she could do nothing but continue her task, but underneath, she was growing breasts, her muscles hid beneath layers of fat. Every press of her tongue against Master’s clit gave a response, in conversation, with her cock. With every jolt of pleasure, it receded, growing more concentrated until Master was on the verge of orgasm.

“Back,” Master commanded.

Bewildered, Iphis drew away. She knelt with knees spread; she did not look down, eyes inexorably drawn to her master’s countenance, the faint glimmer of eyes in the black ship. She did not look down, even as, with a command, Iphis loosened her fastenings and dropped her trousers. Master remained above, drinking in the sight of Iphis with unabashed lust that made her shiver.

“Look, now.”

Between her open legs oozed a perfectly formed slit. It was pink, swollen with arousal; her clit throbbed against the salty air.

Master’s words were like music! “You’re mine,” said she. “I control your mind, your soul, and your body.”

“Iphis, my sister…” said the slave, “I am glad to have you here with me.”

“And I am glad to no longer be alone.”

“It must have been so hard for Master!” The slave curled up against Iphis’s large, beautiful body. “Having to make do with only one slave.”

“Yes,” said Iphis, “even two is not sufficient.”

“At least it will be more bearable… oh, but we will have to fix that, soon!”

“Yes.”

“Yes…” The slave’s head was buried in the crook of Iphis’s neck. She opened her eyes, and they were dewy with emotion. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Iphis’s hands cupped underneath the slave’s chin. She was pulled into what was surely meant to be a tender kiss. But it was not sufficient; in her dizzy, overtired state, the slave eagerly continued, consuming Iphis’s mouth until it became something deeper. Before the slave knew it, she was straddling her new sister slave and fucked her in a wave of undeniable emotion.

After such a night, it was almost unbearable. The slave returned home.

She had been instructed to mask as her former self, so of course the slave did. She was eager to pretend, wet from the very act of obeying. To not do so was not an option. She had no options. She was a good slave.

But night after night, the slave was reminded of the time she had spent in her master’s presence. She had no idea how hard it could be— her previous period of waiting forlornly seemed a pleasant jaunt in comparison. She would burn with passion, masturbating furiously under the sheets, biting her pillow until feathers stuck between her teeth.

Mrs. Putnam read, “But which of you, having a servant plowing or feeding cattle, will say unto him by and by, when he is come from the field, Go and sit down to meat?”

When the clock struck midnight, always the slave woke from her lustful stupor. Her body coated in sweat, lying sprawled with her wrists turnt upwards, her lips would move with impulse, words that slipped from with and without.

“Eye for an eye, eye for an eye, eye for an–”

“And will not rather say unto him, Make ready wherewith I may sup, and gird thyself, and serve me, till I have eaten and drunken; and afterward thou shalt eat and drink?”

Master wanted her to rise. She was to find something wicked and sharp– sometimes a poker, sometimes a letter opener– and go down the hall.  The hall: blue and beautiful, the house aching and familiar like the back of her hand. She was to stumble down the hall that she had always known, the place she had learned to walk, the creaky entryway to the rest of her life, and drag that sharp point up through the doorway to the other bedroom. She was to raise her weapon and slice it straight into–

Always, come morning, she, having failed, adopted the mask of dutiful daughter. She was to find herself back where she started, though her hands shook with implacable emotion. It was not the slave’s fault. All she thought of was her master. All she knew was service. She wanted to prove it— and yet, and yet, when Master bid her to murder that man— 

“Doth he thank that servant because he did the things that were commanded him? I trow not. So likewise ye, when ye shall have done all those things which are commanded you, say, We are unprofitable servants: we have done that which was our duty to do.”

The slave’s mouth drooped. She did not think of the women around her— it was all Ianthe, her steward, her owner. The slave imagined Ianthe shrugging off her coat to reveal the strong line of her shoulders. What it would feel like to strip on command and lie on the floor, for her master to stroke her slave cunt with the square toe of her boot.

“Pearl?” Sarah laid a hand on her thigh.

The slave was drooling.

“Sorry,” said she. Master. “I’m feeling a bit under the weather.”

Sarah’s eyes glittered with sympathy behind her spectacles. Go to your master.

The woman said, “Of course, dear. I know you must be nervous.”

“As she has the right to be!” Catherine butted in. “Oh, but don’t make yourself ill, Pearl. We all know Mr. Darvell will treat you well.”

Georgia turned her nose up.

“Yes…” said the slave. Something was tugging at her mind, a painful jarring compulsion. Her hands twitched.

COME HERE, Ianthe’s voice shrieked. NOW.

Master! Her master, filling the room, blotting out all light. The slave’s face rose as the vision filled her mind– Ianthe standing in the center of the room like a pagan king, the women falling to their hands and knees around her. Ianthe holding out a dark hand dripping with gold, and pointing a perfect finger at her slave.

I WANT YOU NOW, said she. NOW NOW NOW.

The slave jumped to her feet. “Oh, I’m too ill to continue!” She tried to pick up her shawl to wrap it around her arms, but her hands shook too severely. “I must leave at once.”

“Not alone, surely?” Mrs. Putnam looked terribly worried.

“I’ll walk you!” Catherine stood.

“NO!” the slave shouted. Then, quieter, “No, no, do not trouble yourself. I’m only a lowly– I mean– I mean, I’m only Pearl Spice, and it is not a far walk and I must–”

SLAVE.

Her words shriveled in her throat, and she left without sparing another.

She fled, her head uncovered, stumbling from the force impressed upon her mind, until she reached Ianthe’s room. 

The door, being unlocked, was a trivial obstacle. The slave nearly fell through it in her haste. The first thing that fell upon her eye was Iphis, who stood in her usual spot, with her arms folded behind her and her back to the window.

The room had been positively ransacked! Chairs were knocked about, paintings torn from the walls and smashed on the floor. One wall, ringed with broken glass underneath, sported a hole the size of a fist. The slave saw all this, and with a bout of despair and desperation to protect her master from whatever had attacked her in broad daylight, cried out.

Then, Iphis spoke.

“Master,” she said. “She’s come.”

“Aghh…”

A hand, gripping the neck of a rum bottle, emerged from underneath the table. 

Sick, stumbling, and day-drunk, Master heaved herself up, only to collapse with her back against the bottom of the couch.

The slave lowered herself at once; her knees upon the carpet, her gaze away from her master’s, for she was meant to be seen and not to see. “I heeded your call, Master. What has happened?”

Ianthe’s eyes, bloodshot and rimmed with purple, glowered down at the slave. The cravat of her white shirt was stained, and her curls were lank and greasy. She did not speak, only popped the top off the bottle and took a swig.

The slave turned to Iphis, whose countenance spoke the same story: she hadn’t the faintest idea of the trouble, either.

This was unacceptable. It was the duty— the only duty— of slaves such as them to please their master. Ianthe was not simply displeased: she was wretched! Oh, the slave must do something at once, something that might rouse her master’s spirits, that might pull her from this horrible stupor!

As such, with shaking hands, the slave untied her cloak from around her, and let the heavy fabric slither down her arms. She leaned forward, placing her hands upon the carpet until she was crawling towards Ianthe on all fours. Her unworthy head was bowed in supplication, her bare arms and bosom rippling with goosebumps.

“Master…”

Ianthe sloshed the alcohol around in her mouth; her expression was unamused, and when the slave drew too close, only the low table between them, Ianthe spat.

It landed just above the slave’s brow; she flinched, instinctively, so that the liquid fell into her eye, and she began to tear up. Her master looked at her crying with a perverse, bored gaze. 

The slave did not move to wipe her face; though the tears were only the reaction to the burning alcohol, the slave allowed them to continue longer than necessary as she tried, oh so desperately, to preserve that attention!

“T-thank you, Master,” she said. “Did— did you want to fuck me?”

It was the wrong thing to say! Oh, how the slave regretted it at once! Ianthe lurched to her feet in a sudden freak, brandishing her bottle. “Oh, it’s always about fucking with you two!”

What was she to say? What was she to do? The slave sat on her knees, gazing up at her master in shock as Ianthe ranted and raved.

“What if I wanted a stimulating conversation about politics, how about it? Or what if I wanted to hear some fucking opera, or play chess? What would you do then?”

“I would do whatever you wished,” the slave said. “I live to serve you.”

“Right.” Ianthe slumped against the armoire. With a groan, she reached for a nearby cigar box— only, it was empty. “Iphis!”

“Yes, Master.” Iphis fetched another box from the table, only to find its contents used up, as well.

“What good are you for?!” Ianthe snapped. “Useless! Useless fucking whore! I ought to bleed you dry… I oughta…”

Iphis brought Master her snuffbox, and she grew quiet again. While the slave knelt on the floor, Ianthe patted her nose, sniffled, sneezed, and mewled miserably, like a sick kitten. In trying to walk again, she only swayed into the wall.

Some lingering vestige of her former self twisted in the slave’s heart, at seeing what drunkenness had wrought upon her master. Perhaps there had been something correct in her noxious preaching, that there was a truth even her pathetic free will had been able to find— 

“Stand up.”

The slave obeyed. She stood, her head raised, her arms folded demurely before her as Master circled her in overlarge steps. She stomped towards the slave, her head tilted, and pointed an imperious finger, still clutching the bottle. “Strip.”

“Yes, Master!” The slave, heart warm and aflutter, dutifully removed her clothes, one by one. Every piece was just like another piece of her mask, carefully constructed at her master’s behest. But underneath the artifice, she was only meat, same as all others. Her naked body was youthful, eager for service, ripe and ready for her owner to take her at any moment. She hoped that her skin was smooth enough for it to please Master when she raked her hands across it; she yearned for her master’s hand between her legs, where it belonged, for her master to use what had once been such an innocent body for countless perverse things.

Master, meanwhile, dropped her empty bottle. It fell, thudding ruefully, in the same spot where glass lay scattered upon the brown rug— evidentially the result of a previous fit. She snapped her fingers, barking an order at Iphis. “Fetch me something sharp.”

Something sharp? How was Master going to fuck her with that?

Ianthe turned to her slave, then, with hands upon her hips. The slave remained still under the attention, though every moment that Master observed her, the slick sensation between her legs grew!

Iphis brought a pair of sewing scissors and set them in Ianthe’s hand. With a flick, Ianthe was holding them improperly, palm wrapped around blade and handle, leaving a single sharp side gleaming in the air. 

“Tell me, girl,” Master was there before the slave could comprehend it, the blade set above the slave’s heart. Her voice was low and dark, like every lurid fantasy that had been implanted in the slave’s mind. “What parts of you stay the most hidden?”

“I… do not understand, Master.”

“What bits of you can I cut—?” Ianthe clicked her tongue, “without your dear, dear father noticing?”

“My breasts,” the slave said, “and my stomach, my thighs. The soles of my feet. Oh, any part, Master, I will make an excuse!”

“Hm.” The tip of the scissors dallied over the slave’s skin as Master’s inspection moved downwards, openly ogling her chest. She traced a path down her breastbone, the very tip scratching the upper surface of the skin and leaving behind a white trail. She flicked one of the slave’s hard nipples with the cold side of the blade.

“Ah!”

Master’s expression rippled. She circled the slave then, tracing the metal around the slave’s waist. The slave shivered, the sensation so strong that she almost thought there was already hot blood dripping down her legs. The scissors were run up her spine with a firm grip. Master grabbed hold of the slave’s body, and held the blade at her neck.

“I could cut you right through.”

“Yes, Master!”

“I could kill you right now, and you’d thank me for it.”

“Oh, oh, please do!” The slave tried to nod, only for it to nick her jugular. “Oh, if it would please you! I am your slave! I live to obey!”

Ianthe groped her from behind, and the slave moaned. Ianthe set the blade against the slave’s shoulder— not a hidden part of her, nothing she would have chosen, but, oh, she didn’t care!— and blood welled around it. There was hardly a sensation, the blade so sharpened, until her master pulled back, and the stinging cut felt the air.

She heard, though the slave was not given the privilege of seeing, Master lick at the bloody scissors. It was noisy, a disgusting sucking sound, and the slave trembled of anticipation as the blood from her cut dripped down her arm, pooling in her palm, staining the carpet. What a waste, what a waste! That blood should be on her master’s tongue!

There was a touch on the slave’s hand, almost gentle. Ianthe had given her the scissors; the slave looked down at them, resting there like a foreign object, smeared with red. Master’s hands had not ceased their violation, sharp nails digging into her breasts.

“Kill yourself.”

The slave did not move.

Ianthe’s mouth touched her throat; it was more sensual than sex, more teasing than a hand on her cunt. “Go on. Through the navel. Stick it all the way through.”

“Y…yes, Master.”

She was licking behind the slave’s ear, long slow strokes. The slave pointed the blade at her navel, as her master had ordered. She had to plunge it in. She had to kill herself. It was what Master wanted. She was a good woman, a good slave, and good slaves did as they were told. She was good. She wanted to be good.

Just as her hand was moving, Master let out a sharp bark of laughter. The slave started, and dropped the scissors.

Master pulled away from her, flopping onto the coach. She was laughing, hysterical, pointing at the slave who stood there, pale and bleeding.

“I was jus… I was just fuckin–” She hiccuped. “–with you.”

“Of course, Master.” The slave folded her hands.

“It was very funny, Master,” said Iphis.

“Sycophants!”

“We are,” the slave said. “Because you deserve our undying devotion. You are the most incredible thing in the world, my reason for living. I’d do anything for you!”

Already, the slave had forgotten her own misstep, so lost in rapture she was.

“I know.” Master’s arm slumped off the couch. “I made you that way.”

“I know!” The slave’s heart swelled with joy. “Thank you, Master, I love being your slave.”

“Because I made you love it.”

“Yes, yes!” The slave slumped against the wall, so overcome with the thought, and moved to touch herself.

Ianthe’s eyes mutely observed the ceiling. “And Daphne thought I was too cruel…”

Having not been given an order to masturbate, the slave only ran a hand against her inner thigh, spreading blood across her bare skin, her gasping throat praising the sound of her master’s voice on her ears.

“I’m not cruel at all,” Master said. “Now, she— she was too fucking nice, and would let the slaves do whatever they pleased. What a crock of shit! I had to always be retraining them, since my layabout sister just wanted them to paint pictures and suck cock! What was the greater cruelty? Making slaves serve their purpose, or letting them run about like a bunch of wild dogs?!”

Said Iphis, “Wild dogs, clearly.”

“Ah— ah—” The slave writhed against the wall. “You are not cruel, Master… or… or you are, but! But t-that’s okay, because we…”

Master swung her legs off the couch and returned to her pacing. “I can do whatever I fucking want with whoever I fancy! Why would I take slaves if I was going to coddle them? Daphne… soft-hearted… gentle…”

Ianthe trailed off, before waving her arms wildly about, back to anger. “And Iphis—”

“Yes, Master?”

“No, not you!” She stomped her foot. “I wasn’t talking about you. I was speaking of my brother! The other one! The…” Her restless hands froze in mid-air. “The dead one.”

She collapsed into a nearby chair.

The slave was struck with a bolt of sadness that killed the lust growing within her. As her master sat, hands folded in her lap, legs akimbo, in that creaking chair with such slackened countenance, the slave crawled over to kneel at Ianthe’s feet. Iphis drew closer as well.

“Oh, Master, don’t be upset…” cooed the slave, and rested her soft cheek on Ianthe’s knee. “You have us now.”

“Quiet.”

The slave smiled. Ianthe responded with a thoughtless gesture, stroking the slave’s head as if she were a little cat who happened to be in reach.

“As if you could understand…” said Ianthe, “with your mind completely in thrall. You’ll never have an independent thought for the rest of your life.”

Of course! The slave hummed in agreement, as enthusiastically as she could while remaining quiet. Her naked body pressed against her master’s leg.

Ianthe looked from one slave, to the other. Iphis was standing at attention before her.

“You never knew them…” Master said. “You never knew them as I knew. You have no quarrels to regret, no idle memories to turn sour. You didn’t have to see what remained of them, left to rot in the baleful sunlight, or smell the corpses they dumped—”

Ianthe’s nails dug hard into the slave’s scalp, to which she whimpered. “You should be glad, if anything. I’ve liberated you from a very evil man.”

What? The slave opened her eyes, not understanding.

Ianthe slid a finger underneath the slave’s chin, lifting it so their gazes met. Even a wreck as she was in that moment, sallow-cheeked and drunken, her eyes smoldered. She radiated power.

“Ah, of course…” said Master. “Ephraim Spice never told you a thing.”

“No, Master,” said the slave. “I was never to ask.”

“And good for him that you didn’t!” Ianthe said. “You might have not even needed my guidance, had you known.”

Master moved her index finger, stroking the soft skin underneath the slave’s jaw.

“W-what do you mean?” the slave asked.

Ianthe stood, and snapped her fingers. “The bedroom. Both of you.”

Unmoored by the open air she now leant on, the slave tottered. She fell against the floor, and stray shards of glass bit into her cheek. “M-Master?”

“Iphis, strip.”

“Master, what was this about evil?” The slave tried to roll over, her face ringing with pain, onto her back. “My father…?”

The kick came sharp and swift, into her jaw. It was worse than the glass, worse than the blade. The slave saw stars in her eyes and Master, like a brutal executioner, with a boot on her neck.

“You stupid fucking whore,” Master said. “You don’t have a father. You don’t have a family. You belong to me.”

It hurt, it hurt, it hurt.

“Bedroom.”

In that darkened room, the slave kept her mouth shut. In silence, kneeling naked in parallel with her sister slave, all thoughts slowed to the pace of molasses, a drip, drip, drip flowing behind empty eyes. It was only dimly that she tasted the iron in her mouth, and only without awareness that she raised her hands to her smarting jaw and realized that, with the strike, something had come undone, and her mouth was inundated with blood.

The thoughts continued to ooze.

What did it mean? Her f— Ephraim Spice was Master’s enemy, yes, a most despicable coward for killing Master’s family in the manner he had, yes, he was wicked, he was foolish, yes. And it was true that the slave was stupid, that the slave knew nothing of the world, and that is why she needed her master’s firm grip to lead her. That is why she had opened that window, why she had chased after Ianthe that fateful day in the churchyard, why she had come at once when her master had called her.

The weight of her own confusion was relieved when Master entered the bedroom, having stripped down, only her gentleman’s shirt remaining. From underneath the cotton hem, darkness spilled out, dense between her thighs and thinning as the hair continued down to her ankles. The slave’s eyes were drawn indisputably to her master’s crotch, and especially as Master strode forward, and through that bobbing hem the slave could discern the head of a leather cock between the thighs.

Ianthe took the slave by the neck and hoisted her upwards, til they were eye-to-eye, nose-to-nose. Master opened her mouth, revealing her glistening teeth and tongue, and crushed the slave’s cheeks between her fingers. The slave’s lips were forced open, and she spit all the blood that had accumulated from the kick into Master’s mouth.

Oh, there was no sight more erotic, nothing more satisfying than seeing her master with a leering grin, the slave’s bloody spit dripping from Ianthe’s bottom lip! The slave forgot all the pain, forgot all her distress in the dizzy wave of longing. It was as if the blood was still a part of her, and that she could feel it as it dripped down Master’s throat; fervid, wet, glutting her dastardly soul.

Master released her hold, and the slave stumbled back. She held a hand against her throat, there being a profound absence without the grip. It hurt so, and the slave knew that before the night was over, her face would be a mess of bruises.

“Iphis…” Master said, “you were there to witness that particular scene, were you not?”

“Unfortunately yes, Master.”

“Tell this girl all about it.”

As Ianthe stroked her false cock, Iphis rose to her feet. The slave was enraptured by the sight of both of them, with their gorgeous, well-formed bodies; and still whirling from being choked, did not notice until the deed was done: Master gaining upon her, and pinning the slave against the wall.

“It was the most vile thing,” Iphis said. “It was what at last spurred me to leave those men, and led me to Master. Despite this, I cannot claim that it led to any good. There was no goodness. I daresay it ended all possibilities of goodness in the future: for who would deserve it, in a world so wicked?”

Master’s hands on her wrists; Master’s chest against her chest; the tip of the dildo teasing at her slave cunt, Master sticking her tongue in her slave’s mouth, sucking the last of the bloody mess dry, yes, yes!

“We had emerged from the tomb, where Spice had done his murder—”

Master bit down on the slave’s lip.

“— and had just found the remaining survivors. All of the men were in dire condition. I insisted that what we needed was to collect our supplies and return to the ship. But the others wanted blood.

“Ephraim advised that we find the place where the basilisk slept. It was not hard to find, the same sort of tomb as the others. He and Morgan carried up the body, with intent to start a bonfire on the beach.”

The tip of the dildo pushed between the slave’s labia and was held there, agonizing. The slave was throbbing. Fuck her fuck her, Master was going to fuck her, was going to tear the slave’s inexperienced body to pieces with the force of it.

“But the women… it became clear that killing the vampires had not broken the spell—”

Master scoffed. “Because they were mine.”

“And Spice determined that it would be a mercy if we were to round them up and—”

The force of the words impressed itself on the slave’s mind. “No!”

She moved to cover her ears, but Ianthe still pinned her wrists to the wall. As she screamed, Master thrust herself into the slave.

“No! No!”

“We’ve not even started!” Ianthe pushed her face up against the slave’s, forehead to forehead, forcing their eyes to meet. “After all, if they all have to die, might as well get some use out of them!”

No— no, it was impossible, it was too horrible! The slave could hardly comprehend it. The others… there were others like her, others who had served Master faithfully to the end, only to be…

Ianthe’s mouth fell upon the slave’s cheek to kiss her tears away. Firm hands grasped at the slave’s waist to press the dildo further inside her. The slave cried and cried, no longer swayed by the pleasure. Iphis came and pulled the slave out of her embrace, and carried her to the bed.

On the sheets, the slave squirmed. She clasped at Iphis, her mind pulsing like a sore. “My father… he didn’t…?”

“He didn’t approve.”

“But he didn’t stop them?”

Iphis kissed her on the cheek.

The slave rolled over with a sudden desperate urge, and fell from the soft cushion onto the floor. She dragged herself over to Ianthe and pushed her face against her boots. “Master… Master, it can’t be! It’s too horrible.” She kissed the leather, not daring to look up. “Only… you’re the only one who should rape a woman!”

The slave sat up, still on her knees, and pawed blindly at her master’s crotch. She struggled to get hold of the dildo and catch it with her tongue. It still glistened with her slick. Master set a firm hand against the slave’s crown, halting her open mouth only inches from the glittering head.

“Iphis, hold her.”

The slave was pulled back. Iphis wrapped an arm around the slave’s abdomen before dragging her onto the bed. The slave nearly collapsed into the hold, the back of her head pressed up against Iphis’s tits, flesh against flesh. Iphis nudged the slave’s legs so they were spread towards Ianthe. Large fingers slid their way into the slave’s cunt.

Ianthe slinked towards them. The slave gasped in pleasure, her body quivering underneath Iphis’s skilled hand, and her master’s hungry gaze… the slave raised her face, Master’s eyes forcing her to attention. The world darkened around her, and all that she had been taught reiterated itself a thousandfold. She was a slave. She had no family. She had no name. Her service was to her master, her body was meant to please her, her blood was meant to sate her.

Master’s mouth was open. The slave was still, now, bouncing only from Iphis’s fingers ramming her cunt. The slave’s mouth bobbed open, and every nerve in her body was strung, waiting for the moment that was to come.

Master pressed herself against the slave and leaned forward… to bite Iphis.

The slave must’ve made a noise, a whimper at the unconscionable act. The slave was wrapped around her master, the force of her pulse against Ianthe’s marble body, and Ianthe was feeding from… not her! Not her! Even though it was everything the slave wanted, all she lived for! 

The slave wanted to gnash her teeth and scream and cry, and instead her cunt tightened around Iphis’s fingertips as Ianthe sucked her sister slave dry.

Ianthe’s hand sloped down the length of the slave’s body, and she calmed somewhat. Ianthe left her palm against the slave’s stomach, pressing down only just enough that the slave could feel it. She unleashed her bite on Iphis and turned to the slave; her eyes were like the eyes of the devil, filled with fire and malice!

Said she, “You hesitated.”

“Master, please!” the slave cried. “I made a mistake. I will not do it again. Please, Master, won’t you use me? I exist only for your pleasure. Don’t you want my blood? Won’t it taste the sweetest?”

“You hesitated,” repeated Master. “I won’t have it. I won’t have you until you behave as you should.”

“I will! I won’t do it again! I will be good, I will obey without question, I live only to serve!”

Master made a gesture, and the slave collapsed onto her back, keeping her legs spread. Ianthe and Iphis loomed over her, drinking in her sweaty and naked body with their eyes. The slave felt empty without anything inside of her; she spasmed around nothing. Ianthe stuck her thumb into the slave’s mouth, keeping it pinned to the roof. The slave caught the glitter of Iphis’s blood still on her master’s lips; Iphis herself had already healed over, well-used to the process.

The slave whined around her master’s hand. She yearned to speak. Perhaps there had been some vestige of her former self left in there, some part that was able to stay her own hand from plunging into self-destruction. But the slave wanted no part of that girl, nor any of the girl’s relations. There were some things that could not be forgiven. The slave had been taken, and taken, and now there was nothing left of her. She was only an empty vessel for her master to fill. Her master wanted her dumb and obedient. And so, the slave was.

Iphis was lapping at the slave’s cunt. Master looked on, gagging her, almost bored.

“Next time,” said Ianthe, “there will be no doubt.”

The slave ran her tongue against Ianthe’s finger. Yes, Master.

“I can’t have you ruining things with your lingering sentiments.”

There were none to give.

“If you do well, perhaps then I will feed on you.”

And the slave would live only for that day.

Master withdrew her thumb. A long trail of saliva clung to it, dripping across the slave’s blank face. She blinked, unmoving even as Iphis brought her to climax. The slave only scrunched up her face with the passing of the wave.

“Master…” said she, “do you smell… trout?”

The slave left the bedroom wrapped in Ianthe’s banyan robe; the colorful silk swept the floor, and the loose covering desired nothing more than to slip open. She had to stand with her arms crossed around her abdomen to retain even a semblance of modesty— not that she needed much of it, anymore.

There, among the ruined remains of her master’s breakdown, Georgia stood. In her plain cloak she glowered, spreading an evil eye throughout the room. The door hung open– the slave must have forgotten to close it, in her rush to heed Ianthe’s call.

At the appearance of the slave, slipping light-footed through the bedroom door, Georgia’s countenance blanched. She rushed forward. She forgot herself– until the circumstances that surrounded her came crashing down. She stopped still feet away from her ex-lover, and could have been mistaken for bashful– until she spoke.

“I knew it!” said Georgia. “I knew at once. You— you are absolutely without shame!”

Ah, Georgia was so beautiful, even when she was angry. She waved her hands wildly in the air, and her rosy lips curled as if she were preparing to spit.

“What are you doing here, Mrs. Cary?”

“I covered for you– I told the ladies that you were about to be ill, and that I would attend to it. But, mark my words, I will not do so again!”

“Of course. Thank you.” The slave readjusted her hold on the dressing gown.

“What were you thinking? Running off in the middle of a meeting, in front of everyone! And for what? Could you not wait another minute to satisfy your lusts?”

“Mrs. Cary, why have you come here?”

“Were you not the one advising me to be cautious? Have you changed that much? If this continues, you will be exposed, Pearl!”

“Ah, I see…” The slave giggled. “You are worried about me.”

“Do not laugh!”

It was all too clear, beneath her noxious anger. How desperate Georgia must be, to rush to warn her former lover, to push down the horror at finding her undressed in Ianthe’s den. But there was nothing she could do to alter the facts, and so Georgia was reduced to fretting like a mother hen.

“I am glad, Miss,” the slave said, “that you do not hate me.”

“You must be mistaken– I do!” Georgia stole a stony glance over her shoulder. Her eyes could not meet the slave’s; her gaze was drawn in anxious anticipation to the bedroom door. “Did you truly risk yourself just to warm Miss Zannouli’s bed?”

Her voice hushed at the utterance of Master’s name.

The slave shrugged. “I was wanted.”

“Yes, of course.” Georgia sighed. “For now.”

“What do you mean?” The slave tilted her head.

Georgia started as the bedroom door opened; Iphis exited, saying nothing. Her presence was a looming force. A comfort to the slave— and less so to Georgia, who turned to the slave with a sudden burst of energy. She raised her chin.

“I will not let myself be cowed. You ask why I have come? Well, I am here to say my piece. And then, whatever your answer may be, I will walk away from you, and I will never return.”

“Oh, Miss…” said the slave, covering her face. “You are so kind.”

“Do n-not interrupt me,” said Georgia.

The slave nodded.

With a deep sigh, Georgia began. “You love Miss Zannouli—”

It was not a question, but the slave was too excited not to butt in. “Yes!”

“ – and she, demonstrably, is happy to sleep with you.”

All that, and so much more! The slave realized, quite belatedly, that she must’ve been marked, too. Master had kicked her in the jaw, after all, and it still hurt. Oh, was she cut? Was she bruised? She wished she could find a mirror.

“I am no fool, and I have long-since learned that people cannot change. It is her nature, and she has no reason to change her habits— loathsome as they are.”

And Georgia did not know the half of it. What would she say if she did know: that Ianthe had stolen the slave’s soul, had enslaved her body and mind, had twisted and twisted her for months and months and months?

“That is true, Mrs. Cary, and she—”

“I am not concerned with her,” said Georgia flatly. “I ask a question that concerns only one. What shall you do when she is finished with you?”

The slave was quiet.

Georgia went on, “Women like her— they only take, and they take. She loves you now, perhaps— or claims she does…”

(Master did not, nor did she bother to pretend.) 

“But it will not last. When you are no longer her newest, shiniest acquisition, she will simply toss you aside to make way for the next.”

The slave nodded. “Yes.”

“Pearl—” Georgia looked her in the eye, and at last her voice wavered. “I do not expect you to return to me. But I urge you to think carefully. 

“You are—” Here, Georgia paused. “You are s-still dear to me, loath as I am to admit. Do not take this for envy. I do this with the last piece of tenderness in my heart. Leave her. Leave— this.”

Georgia gestured at the wrecked room. “Do not throw away your life, for her sake, or for anyone else’s.”

With the end of Georgia’s speech came a great stillness that fell over the room; Iphis still watched. There was no sign of movement from the bedroom.

Something stirred in the slave’s stomach, something that emerged as a wave of mirth. She could not help herself from smiling.

“You did not consider,” said she, “that such a possibility is pleasing to me.”

Georgia froze. “What?”

“I am no fool, either! Of course Master cares not for me. But I was not taken— I have given myself away. Master can have me— or not have me– any way she wants. It would be an honor to be disposed of, if it made her happy!”

“P-Pearl!”

“Georgia-dear, you do not know the half of it! I am Pearl no longer.”

Now it was Georgia’s turn to remain silent. The slave stalked forward, the robe falling loose from her sides, smiling all the while. “I have been remade. I’ve no quarrels left at all, and I am filled with joy. Can you even imagine it? Pleasure that never ends— never! Not when she casts me aside, not when I grow old and can no longer be of use. Her power is beyond compare, and we are all but—”

“Do not touch me!” Georgia drew away.

“Just before you came,” said the slave, “she beat me, and— forgive me for saying this— it felt better than all of the times we had ever kissed.”

“You need not mock me!” Georgia was backing towards the door.

“She raped me, too! And it made me feel…”

Georgia’s hand was on the doorknob. She pressed her back against the exit, her chest heaving against her stays.

“… as if every woman should have the honor.”

The slave had more to say, but was interrupted. The door behind her creaked, and all breath left her body. Master was near! She was coming to speak to Georgia! The slave whirled around— and was too late to stop Georgia, who saw what was coming. Without final words or good-byes, she fled the inn.

Nightfall. The church was empty, save for the single priest keeping vigil. Cool air from the open doors slid beneath his robes; he raised his head at the sound of someone approaching.

He had anticipated a beggar seeking alms, perhaps a poor man desperate to pray at such a late hour. He was taken aback, then, when a gentlewoman, in fine fashionable clothes, greeted him. She gave a small, charming smile which did nothing to hide the ghastly bruises across her face.

“My child, you should not be out so late unaccompanied,” said the priest.

But there was something in this woman’s bearing that prevented him from going further. Despite her pitiful physical state, she did not appear troubled. She was beatific, and held herself with grace. The priest wondered, idly, if he was being greeted by an angel.

He let her be.

She moved with a silent, rustling step to a dark corner of the church. She knelt before a statue of the Virgin, steepled her hands, and lowered her head.

In the soft candlelight, she disappeared. The priest could not fathom what she may have been thinking, and it was obvious he was not seeking council. He wondered what she sought from the Virgin in particular; perhaps a pregnancy, or aid in a troubled relationship. Though burning with curiosity, he returned to his own prayers.

This woman, in reality, was anything but contemplative. If the priest had drawn closer, perhaps he would have noticed: the growing flush of her cheeks, the stifled whimpers.

Master had ordered her to return home, upon Georgia’s escape… but she had not said anything about a diversion along the way.

The slave truly had intended to pray. After such an encounter, uncertainty was crawling its way inside her ribcage. Maybe she was not beyond hope. Maybe it was not the will of Ianthe she needed to submit to, but the will of God, as she had always longed for. If she could only find the strength, in this most dire of moments, perhaps she could see her life unclouded by the shadow of undeath: perhaps she could find a path ahead.

The slave’s fluttering lashes gazed at the bottom of the marble statue. Her eyes traced the lines of the sculpted fabric, at the space that pooled between the Holy Virgin’s legs. And then the slave was praying, alright.

Meanwhile, Georgia Cary was attempting to return home. She trudged bitterly down the street, fighting tears. After the fear had subsided, she was left with an ache that weighed upon her. There was no reason to cry, she assured herself. Pearl wasn’t worth her sorrow— she had done this to herself. Georgia had said her piece. It was over. It was always over. So what if Pearl wanted to be used and cast aside? So what if she begged to be beaten and assaulted? It had nothing to do with Georgia anymore.

But, oh! Alone on that dark street, with the tree branches like wicked fingers over the roofs, with the eerie silence of night, with the buzz of insects, her feet on the cold, hard ground, Georgia could not help it. Georgia had no reason to be sad, and it incensed her that she was anyway. What good was it! Georgia had known her lot in life, had grown comfortable and even— in a blithe, resigned sort of way— happy! What good was it to waste her tears and energy on a failed endeavor? What good was it to weep, like some stupid little girl lost on an empty street? She was pathetic, and if she could have seen herself like this, unmoored from her own body, she would have laughed at her petty woe!

Though— it turned out, she was not quite so alone as she thought.

Georgia stopped. “What do you want?”

Blocking her path was a dark figure. 

“Georgia, my darling…” Ianthe opened her arms, drawing back her cloak. “I wish to speak with you.”

“I have nothing to say.” Georgia raised her nose.

“I’m sympathetic to your plight,” Ianthe said. “You are the same as me. I understand how hard it is to live in such a place as this.”

“We are not the same at all,” said Georgia. “There is hardly even a passing similarity.”

She attempted to move past. Ianthe only swung around, cracking her walking stick against the cobblestones, and continued at Georgia’s side. “I do apologize,” she said, “but I need Pearl Spice. Had I known of you, I could have accounted for things properly.”

“Accounted?” Georgia let slip a scrap of curiosity before she could stop herself.

“I have big plans,” Ianthe said, “and your girl is the crowning jewel.”

“Don’t speak of her like—”

“I will make you a deal.” Ianthe touched her arm. “As I said, I understand you, George. If you’ll only wait a bit, I will repay you generously.”

“What are you speaking of?” Ianthe’s touch made Georgia want to flee her own skin. It almost burned.

“Is there anyone else you fancy? I’ll get you another girl.”

“What are you…?” Georgia was frozen.

“No strings attached,” said Ianthe. “And it is no matter if she has a husband— I can settle that, too. She can be whatever you’d like of her— slave, lover, mistress, all three.”

“Huh?”

“I can handle your husband as well. How would you feel about some new clothes? We could play together again— didn’t you have a good time back then? I’ll let you fool around with my slave when all is done. Maybe I’ll even let you keep her, though you’d have to move away, somewhere you could lie about your relation, or even—”

Her hands were no longer her hands. Her hands were her master’s hands, her body was her master’s body, she was nothing but a vessel for Ianthe’s will, and therefore what was happening was not the slave’s fault. It was only her fault for entering the church. For forgetting that her hands were her master’s hands, that her body was no longer her body.

Between her kneeling thighs her hand was stuck, pressing through the fabric that pooled between. The layers separating skin from skin did not matter, for her touch was merciless. Her hand was attacking her cunt, raking nails against her swollen clit.

“Hail…M-Mary…” she gasped. “F-full of grace.”

The slave squirmed against the cold floor, gazing up at the statue. A soft, unfamiliar sadness brushed past her mind. Mary, the most holy of women, the perpetual virgin. Had Mary felt that same anger the slave had felt, so long ago? Certainly it was a hard sell, for the men to believe in her immaculate conception. Did Mary have a father who cast her aside, a husband who besmirched her name?

“Blessed are thee amongst w-women—”

Unpleasant thoughts were cast aside. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. The slave was nothing, the slave was chattel, the slave was a whore who was consumed with blind lust at the notion of her utter powerlessness.

“Get away from me!” Georgia jerked out of Ianthe’s grip. “I have— I have no earthly idea… I wish I had no earthly idea what you are speaking about, with your girls and your slaves— but make no mistake, I want nothing to do with you!”

“I’m being very generous, George.”

“My name is Georgia!”

“There is no need to be ashamed…” Ianthe’s voice slipped lower. “Really. I understand. You have spent so long pretending, denying your true self. I am not needlessly cruel. I simply wish to leave you happy, more than anyone else here.”

“Then why did you…?” Georgia looked down, refusing to let Ianthe see her tears. “What did you do to her?”

“She’s better off this way.”

“I loved her!”

“Oh, you’ll move on.” Ianthe waved a hand. “You’ll make yourself a cozy little life and find some other boring church girl to fantasize about. But it won’t lead to anything, ever again, and you know that. Your girl only reciprocated because of my influence in the first place.”

“You’re… lying…”

“I don’t have to lie,” said Ianthe. “Now— answer me. Yes, or no?”

“No!” Georgia screamed.

“No?”

Georgia flushed in embarrassment— and then rose up, her fists at her sides. She spoke very calmly and clearly. “No. You are a monster. You think that we’re the same?”

Ianthe, stunned, nodded.

“Then you are mistaken,” said Georgia. “I would much rather die alone and unfulfilled then take my love by force. You are the most loathsome creature I’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting. There is not a level in hell low enough for you to sink to. I cannot save Pearl, but I can save myself. Get away from me. You make me sick.”

Her skirts were stained with her juices. Her prayer had long since dissolved from her lips. Her mind repeated the same notion, again and again. Even touching such ideas in her mind’s eye was enough to summon the pleasure. With no effort at all she had led herself into a trance, like lambs in a ring, her eyes glazed and fixed upon the statue of the Virgin, who to her looked like nothing but another suitable slave.

She was a slave. She obeyed. She served her master. Her body was not her body, it was her master’s body. She had no choice but to obey. She had no choice but to give her body. She had no choice. She had never had a choice.

She loved not having a choice. Slick fingers against her slit. She wanted to take the choice away from others, who did not deserve it. Unstoppable motion, humping her own hand, stupid dog. Not when they could reject her master, who deserved everything and every one. Anyone alive could smell her from a mile away. She was a slave. She wanted Master to kick her in the head until she was meat underneath her heel. She was powerless. She loved being powerless. She loved to serve. She was edging herself in a church. She was rising to her feet to mount the statue. Hand along cold curves, above the Virgin’s hidden pussy.

“Ah— I see.” Ianthe tilted the walking stick in her hand, like a dog looking at its master in confusion. “I see, I see… then, it is my mistake for being kind…” said she. “It always gets me in trouble. You are a lost cause.”

“Leave me be,” Georgia said.

“But you are still quite handsome…”

Georgia walked away, Ianthe be damned. She half expected the woman to pursue, and threw a warning glance over her shoulder. 

Ianthe lowered her finger from its contemplative spot at her lip, and glowered. “What a waste!”

Georgia turned away.

“Just know!” called Ianthe. “Just know, you’ve squandered your very last chance at happiness!”

Georgia ignored her, and continued on as if the interruption had never happened.

“I don’t forgive! I never forget! And I always get the last word!”

A noise startled Georgia from her firm walk.

There came a sudden shrieking. Something small and fast flew right over her bonnet. She tried to look up, only to tread on something soft.

It was a rat. Dead. Her soft slipper was lined with its innards. More of the animals were flowing from the gutter onto the street around her, skittering backwards, towards where Ianthe stood.

Only, when Georgia succumbed to the temptation and turned to see, no one was there.

The cold features of an unmoving statue were not unlike those of her master. The slave groped at Mary from behind, whining as her body (her body was not her own body) ground itself against the statue, sharp lines of marble against her clit (it was all her own fault), lips spasming, begging for release (her body was not her—), begging for forgiveness (nothing to forgive), begging for someone to hear her, to smell her, to find her and strike her down where she stood (— own body).

She was a slave to an infallible Master. The slave had opened the gates wide and let a monster slip into the hollow of her ribcage (vibrating with pleasure)— her master was the lining of her lungs (release), the white fleshy ligaments holding her muscles together (release!) — her master was unstoppable, and the slave was testament to it.

Come morning, the priest found the back of the Virgin glistening with an unidentified fluid. At first this was attributed to a miracle, but his failure to convince anyone else meant that the statue was quietly wiped clean, and the incident never spoken of again.

The slave drifted home, contented with her quiet reflection. She went to sleep in the bed of Pearl Spice— unthinking of her sundered face, of the suspicious hour, of the scene she had caused among her friends, and how all such things were about to come crashing down upon her. She did not know about Aubrey, or Moira, or that anyone paid any mind to her at all. She slept, blissfully unaware of the danger she would rise to.