When Petra regained consciousness, the first thing she felt was an overwhelming sensation of cold.
She was freezing.
She quickly realized at least part of the reason: she was only wearing her black lace bra and matching knickers and the thin gold chain around her neck, nothing else.
The next thing she felt was that her bladder was incredibly full.
She knew she was quite desperate and had to have a wee very soon or …
Petra squirmed a bit in the chair she was sitting on, but she found that she really couldn’t do too much in the way of moving because she was bound to it tightly and intricately with rope; her legs were spread apart, her hands were tied behind her, and her long brown hair was pulled up and attached in such a way that she could barely move her head in any direction.
The rope was even threaded up between her thighs with a few knots very strategically placed as it passed underneath her bottom. Those knots were pushing up against her privates, creating a stimulating pressure there that made itself known with even the slightest movement she made.
It was a very strange and unusual combination of pleasure and pain Petra was feeling now, and despite her peculiar plight, she found that she was actually enjoying the sensation.
She had always loved the feeling of desperation, but now there was something new added to the mix.
She couldn’t help squirming because she had to pee so badly, and she had no way of squeezing her thighs together, but every time she moved even a little bit the rope between her thighs pressed harder and pulled tighter, which excited and aroused her more and made her even more conscious of her helpless and desperate state.
She couldn’t have stopped squirming even if she had wanted to, thanks to her overly full bladder.
She didn’t want to stop though, because of how the way she was bound was making her feel …
so she continued to squirm, which got her more excited ... which made her squirm even more …
and the heady mix of humiliation, pleasure, and pain she was feeling now was almost too much for her to bear.
It was as if it had all been tailored specifically to her psyche, fine-tuned to that very specific frequency that was the realisation of her innermost dark secrets, the final revelation and admission to herself of all of the shameful things that really turned her on.
How could anyone else have known, or guessed?
She heard a soft laugh coming from the darkness in front of her.
Oh, god, that bloody American girl; Petra was really starting to hate her with a vengeance.
“Did you really have to do all of that?” Vicky asked. “She wasn’t threatening you at all.”
“Did I have to? Of course not,” the young American girl said, obviously amused.
“I just felt like having some fun with her. I never said I wouldn’t hurt her, but I haven’t.”
She laughed coldly. “In fact, it looks more like your big sister is enjoying the situation.”
“So, who’s the bitch now, bitch?”
The American spoke icily as Petra squirmed and wriggled in obvious hot distress in front of her.
“You said you wanted to talk to your little sister. Well, here’s your chance.”
She laughed yet again; her laugh was quite evil sounding, really.
It took a huge effort, but Petra managed somehow to tear her focus away from the intense sensations caused by her urgent need and her bound state.
“Vicky,” she said breathlessly, “what’s going on here, sis?”
“Let me make this simple. She’s not your sister any more, bitch.”
That cold, evil laugh again.
“She’s our sister now.”
“Who are these girls, Vicky?” Petra spoke, ignoring the other girl’s interjection.
“They’re vampires, P. … and they’ve made me into one too. I’m sorry that I got you involved.”
The sadness in Vicky’s voice was almost palpable.
“Vampires? What in hell are you on about, Vicky?”
Petra couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
This wasn’t some bloody gothic movie, this was real life and there were no such things as vampires.
“Yes, we have turned your little sister, and there is nothing you can do about that now."
The older of the two vampire girls spoke quietly again in her odd accent. "Although she is a bit unhappy at the moment, she will have plenty of time to get used to her new situation.”
Another cold laugh, coming from behind Petra’s chair this time, accompanied by an enthusiastic, “Oh, yeah!”
It was that bloody American girl again.
Petra had never been that keen on Americans, and this one certainly wasn’t doing much to change her opinion.
“Plenty of time for her. Now you, on the other hand …”
The American girl let out that evil laugh yet again.
“Speaking of which … let me give you one!”
Petra suddenly felt an ice-cold hand against her stomach.
As it pressed hard into her lower abdomen she gasped again and her entire body shuddered uncontrollably.
Somehow Petra managed to tighten her pelvic floor muscles and resist the urge to release, but it was clear to her that she wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer.
The younger vampire girl laughed at the bound woman's predicament, giving a little mocking wiggle of her own in answer to Petra's involuntary spasm.
“Ooh, it feels so good, doesn’t it, sweetie?”
This was accompanied by yet another by-now-almost-inevitable evil laugh, of course.
No matter how badly Petra wanted to, she couldn’t deny the truth of what the American girl was saying.
She was so turned on, her nipples fully erect beneath the thin lacy fabric of her bra and her knickers already quite damp.
She was only seconds away from losing control completely, her head spinning from the sensations overwhelming her.
“Look, your sister is just about to pee her panties,” the American said to Vicky almost gleefully.
“This ought to be good …”
Despite herself, Vicky felt compelled to watch Petra’s degrading humiliation.
A strange mixture of horror and hot fascination invaded her mind as her older sister twisted and squirmed in the chair before her, perspiring despite the cold as she strained helplessly against those binding rope ties.
She could sense the arousal coming from Petra now.
It was as if visible waves of heat were radiating off of her sister's entire body, but especially centered in the warm wet place between her soft thighs, and now somehow Vicky was beginning to feel an answering heat coming from down inside of her own knickers.
“Oh, my … god, “ Vicky moaned as she suddenly realized that not only was she actually excited by the idea of what was happening to her sister, they were also empathetically linked and so she was feeling exactly what Petra was feeling now!
She didn’t want to watch, but at the same time, she couldn’t look away from the scene playing out in front of her.
It was too hot!
Petra was panting loudly now, struggling to retain control as she moved.
This was causing the knots which were pressing against her to bring her even closer to the point of climax.
Her arousal was such exquisite torture and her desire for a wee so great she had no idea which would come first or feel better, the release of the liquid she had been forced to hold for so long or the orgasm she was about to have despite her unwillingness to do so.
Meanwhile, little Victoria was feeling quite overwhelmed.
She had always had something of a psychic connection with her older siblings, but this was something else entirely.
It was a truly empathetic reaction; now she was actually feeling every single thing her sister was feeling, physically, mentally, and emotionally.
Petra’s excited state, her uncontrollable urge, her humiliation, and her rage were all mixing together to form a potent cocktail of sensation, and it was just about to come to a head.
To make things even more intense, she could feel the heat and arousal from off of the two vampire girls added to the mix, their senses feeding off of what her sister was feeling just as hers were, but now all four of them intertwined.
It was almost unbearable in its intensity, this sensation, an intricate web made of what they each were feeling combining with their empathetic ability to feel what the others were feeling also, which had now been heightened to an unimaginable level as it fed on itself.
Meanwhile, Petra had finally reached the extreme limit of what she could stand and Vicky could feel her sister’s sense of humiliation mixing with relief now as her will failed her at last.
“OHHHHH, no ...” she gasped as hot tears of shame ran down her pretty chiseled cheekbones.
She was wetting her knickers as well as the knotted rope between her thighs fully now, an answering hot stream jetting out hard and fast with a soft hissing sound and there was absolutely nothing at all she could do to prevent it from happening.
To make matters even worse, she could feel herself in the beginning throes of orgasm as the relief of finally letting go merged fully with her aroused state.
The other three girls in the room were also having their own orgasms now as well, and like a feedback loop the intense sensations fed on each other, growing even stronger as they all climaxed together, over and over again ...
because they were emo vampires and this is exactly what they fed on (besides blood, of course): incredibly strong emotions.
Petra was still peeing all the while, her knickers soaked, the chair dripping, the warm wetness pooling beneath her bare feet.
She had been so full, and held for so long.
Now she moaned, she sighed, and she gasped for air as she spent, letting out what seemed like a small but endless waterfall at the same time.
Despite the unbelievable humiliation of it all (or possibly because of it), she found herself relishing the sensations; her relief at being able to release what had been threatening to come out this whole time and the thrill of her orgasmic state.
It went on seemingly forever and she had almost totally lost track of time when at last the waves of multiple orgasms engulfing her began to slow, diminish, and finally stopped.
Completely drained now, she sagged in her bonds and collapsed.
Before she passed out again, the last thing she heard was, “Was it good for you too, sweetie?”
It was that horrid American girl’s voice again, coming from right beside her now.
Petra felt the burning sting of sharp fangs as they penetrated her, and then the darkness swallowed her whole.
-----------------
“Wow, that sister of yours is something else,” the younger vampire girl said, once she’d drank her fill.
Meanwhile, little Vicky was still leaning up against the wall, her legs wobbly and her breathing ragged; she had never felt anything that intense before in her short, thrill-seeking life.
“Is it always like this?” she asked softly.
“Pretty much,” was the reply.
“I’m yours then … just as long as you promise to leave my brother and sister alone,” Victoria said in a whisper.
Wow it's a mini novel, really. I like all the authentic British terms used!
Very moody good use of delay and other effects, very ethereal.
Can't imagine that much... imagination!!!
Fantastic work.
Peter had been waiting for quite some time on the steps outside the building.
In fact, it had been hours since the sun had gone down beyond the horizon, and the sky was now purple-black, moonlit, and cloudless.
This had been one of the longest and most difficult days of his life.
As a man of action, having to stand by and do nothing while both of his sisters were still inside was pure torture.
It was as if these vampire girls had created a private hell specifically for him.
He was powerless to help either Vicky or Petra, and while he knew that Petra was a very skilled fighter, the fact that there was absolutely no sound coming from the house and that neither of his sisters had emerged was causing him a great deal of concern.
He was so worried now that it was hard for him to keep his mind off of what might be happening to his sisters inside that house right this instant, and what was even more worrisome to him was this: for some reason, the normal psychic connection he shared with Petra, and to a lesser extent with Vicky, seemed to have been disrupted.
In the past, there had been many times when he had been truly embarrassed by that unusual connection to his sisters and had wished that it didn't exist, but now that it was no longer there he felt truly alone for the first time in his life.
It was a very odd feeling.
It was as if an essential part of himself was missing now, and the unfamiliar sensation was almost unbearable.
He had thought about trying to force his way back inside the house, but with there being double doors he would have given away any element of surprise even if he could have somehow managed to get them both open.
He would also have had to find an effective way to orient himself within that cold, dark room once he had gotten back inside, and then possibly have had to fight two virtually undetectable opponents of unknown size, strength, and skill in order to extract his two sisters, who might both be injured, possibly even too incapacitated to move on their own.
Even for a master tactician such as himself, the difficulty of the situation at hand seemed insurmountable, so he did the only thing he could do under these very trying circumstances: wait patiently.
He centered himself, breathed deeply, and forced his mind to empty itself of all conscious thought.
He counted very slowly to ten, thinking only of breathing in, and breathing out, over and over.
Thinking only of breathing and counting, allowing no other thoughts to intrude.
“One … two … three … four … five … six … seven ... eight ... nine ... ten.“
Counting, and breathing ...
"One ... two ... three ... four ... five ... six ... seven ... eight ... nine ... ten."
Breathing and counting ...
“One … two … three … four … five … six … seven ... eight ... nine ... ten.“
Counting, and breathing ...
-----------------------------------
"One ... two ... three ... four ... five ... six ..."
Suddenly a soft sound interrupted his meditation.
It was the click of the door latch being released.
He glanced down at his wristwatch, pressing the button that illuminated the face.
Amost midnight.
He rose from his kneeling position, pushed the door open, and waited inside.
The second door’s latch opened with another click; Peter walked through it into the dark room.
He heard that strange rustling sound again and then the American girl spoke, her voice coming from directly behind him.
“We’re leaving now, and we’re taking our new sister with us. You can have the other one back; we’re done with her.”
She laughed that cold laugh once again.
“Walk forward about twelve steps, and you’ll find her. Well, what’s left of her, anyhow …”
The rustling sound grew louder.
Suddenly, there was a feeling of cold air right next to him and Peter heard Vicky’s voice.
“It’s better if you forget about me, Peter."
The woman with the odd accent said, "Don’t try to follow us, don’t try to find us.”
The strange rustling sound became louder still, and there was a rush of freezing air moving rapidly past him towards the open antechamber.
Then, there was only silence.
“Petra?” Peter called softly, but there was no answer.
Fearing the worst, he walked forward twelve paces as he had been instructed to do.
He stopped suddenly, having bumped into something; a shadowy figure bound in a chair in front of him.
It was his twin sister.
Peter knelt down on the floor in front of her, feeling something wet soaking into his trouser legs as he did.
There was a rather large puddle there, and an unmistakable odour when he touched it and raised that hand to his face.
"Oh, sis," Peter said, "What have they done to you?"
He gently felt around the seated figure, finding the ropes that held her captive.
Peter pulled out a small knife from an inner pocket of his jacket and carefully sliced through the thin rope binding her hair, then did the same to free her arms and legs.
Petra was unconscious, but Peter could feel a weak pulse at her throat; at least they had let her live.
The sun rises in the east and it sets in the west.
Some things never change, and even if you haven’t seen a sunrise for many long years you can still depend on it rising in the east every morning whether you are there to witness it or not.
Can people change, though?
That’s a question worth pondering, and vampires are still people; unusual people for sure, sometimes even quite remarkable people, but still people in the end, and there’s certainly at least a whole lot of opportunity for change in even one single lifetime, so can you imagine the possibilities when your existence is measured in centuries?
————————
Sivad Selim was a court musician back in the time of the Pharoahs, and Hannah was a Jewish slave in the Pharoah’s house in charge of the night kitchen shift.
They knew each other only as casual acquaintances at first until they realized that they had something very unusual in common: they were both vampires, and so neither of them would ever age normally or die a natural death.
In the culture of ancient Egypt, where preparation for the afterlife was everything, to be unable to die was perhaps the worst fate of all.
Sivad had already lived many lifetimes and had eventually become resigned to his continued existence, although it had made him first angry, then bitter.
Hannah had been undead for a much shorter time, but she was already quite comfortable with who and what she was, although not with feeding on beings weaker than herself.
In contrast, Sivad Selim took great pleasure in hunting and feasting on his prey.
If they were strong enough to survive that they became his ‘little ones’ and served him, at least until he eventually tired of them and cast them out.
If not, they would pass into the Great Beyond without him ever giving them a second thought.
“I did them a favour by getting them there faster.”
That’s how he put it.
When their work was done, long into the day which was their night Sivad and Hannah would debate the issue, each presenting their philosophical musings, not on the meaning of life but rather on what it means to be undead.
Hannah’s belief was that the challenge of an undead existence was to be what one was without causing harm to others while to Sivad, this was to deny one’s fundamental nature.
“Be yourself, be true to yourself,” he always said.
“Yes, but I define who I am, not my appetites,” she would always reply.
To which Sivad would always respond by simply letting out an evil laugh and then extending his sharp fangs fully before teleporting off to some dark alleyway where he would gleefully snack on his next victim.
Yet somehow despite their difference of opinion on this fundamental matter they came to care for each other and to become good friends.
And time passed.
Through the centuries Sivad would reinvent his music and his playing to match the current fashion, ever-changing and yet somehow always remaining himself.
His clothing changed, his name changed, the members of his band changed, even the horn changed a bit, but he was always exactly who he was, and he always sounded only like himself.
Never imitating others, always striving to be a true original; to him, that was what music was about: the long search to find his own sound, and then to develop it fully.
Time was not his enemy in his quest, for he had plenty of it to spare, and so time for him became elastic, stretching and compressing like a rubber band to suit his whim, the beat going from straight time to swing time to no time and back again seamlessly now.
Form was elastic also; he had played everything from the simplest folk melodies to the most complex and intricate classical pieces, navigated the trickiest harmonies of jazz standards, and shouted the gutbucket 12 bar blues … now he was able to play whatever he wished, whenever he wished.
“I’ll play it, and I’ll tell you what it is later,” he said in that raspy voice of his at one recording session.
Another time, the engineer had asked him the title of an improvised piece.
“Call it anything,” he responded offhandedly.
And that’s what they wrote down on the track sheet: 'Call It Anything'.
Hannah’s personal preference had been his Baroque period.
His technical mastery of the trumpet had been at its apogee then; his playing was fast, it was clean, and it was powerful, but eventually he had grown bored … both with reading the dots on the paper in front of him, and with the pursuit of technique for its own sake.
As the centuries passed he gradually pared away everything superfluous from his music; he played fewer notes, but now each one meant more.
Every single detail was weighed and measured now: the way the note was shaped in his lungs, his throat, and his mouth, the pressure of his full lips on the mouthpiece, and then how it was articulated, sustained, and bent; now he chased only pure sound, tone, and nuanced phrasing.
Hannah asked him about it once.
“I just figure that all the technique in the world is worthless if you have nothing to say for yourself,” Miles laughed.
"It's like a writer with good penmanship but no ideas. And why use a hundred notes when just a single one played right will do?"
--------------
Tonight we were at the Fillmore East checking out his latest persona: no longer a ‘jazz musician’, but something else instead; maybe not quite a rock star, but close enough.
Gone were the handmade Italian suits, the crisply starched white button-down shirts and the silk neckties, replaced by a tank top, a long scarf, tight leather trousers, and high heeled boots, and the dark sunglasses he always wore were now oversized, which was perfect for hiding the blood-red eyes of a constantly hungry, angry vampire.
To live on for centuries, unable to pass into the Great Beyond, chasing sound, chasing a dream, attaining technical mastery and yet still being unsatisfied … now he pursued simplicity, the simplicity of snowflakes. All alike in their basic nature, yet they contained infinite complexity, each one being unique, each one different, like the solos he would play over the same vamp on different nights.
Trane was long gone too, and Shorter had left to form his own electric ensemble.
Although Miles still had a sax in the group, he had become fascinated with the sound of a certain electric guitarist from Seattle who played left handed and loud and did things with a guitar that shouldn’t have been possible by pushing his wall of Marshall amplifiers hard and making that distortion a part of his entire sound instead of simply using them to make what was already coming out of the guitar louder.
They were kindred spirits, both of them sonic explorers and pioneers, but before they would ever have a chance to collaborate Jimi would unexpectedly pass into the Great Beyond, gone far too soon.
This was even more fuel for his bitterness and anger, since everyone Miles had ever cared about had been taken from him sooner or later as they moved on to the Afterlife without him.
Everyone … except for Hannah.
They had never been lovers, for Miles took and discarded lovers as casually as he might pick a flower, sniff it, and then toss it away.
This relationship was far too precious and even if he had desired her Hannah was not attracted to men in any case.
Still, there was something that drew them to each other besides their shared undead state; despite their differing philosophies as to how a vampire should comport him or herself they too were kindred spirits of a sort, for both of them sought the deeper meaning to who and what they were.
All existence must serve a purpose, of this they were both certain.
Their main difference of opinion came in the interpretation of what that purpose might be.
Miles (being both self-centered and a hedonist by nature) believed that to "do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law”, while Hannah believed that it was what we did for others that made our existence meaningful, rather than what we did for ourselves.
Over the many long years they had debated back and forth, neither one able to convince the other to change, and finally they had simply agreed to disagree.
Friends were hard enough to come by in the vampire world.
The predators were all naturally in competition for the same food, and those who chose not to hunt humans generally didn't associate with those who did; it was just easier that way.
And of course, to be friends or, god forbid, lovers with a human, well ... that was a sure ticket to heartbreak for they all lived such short lives, and having to watch someone you really love die got pretty old after the first few times.
And so Miles and Hannah remained friends, knowing that at least they had each other no matter who else might come and go.
Now, to understand who and what you are, you have to understand where you come from.
The ancient Egyptians believed that during Zep Tepi, The First Time, the time of the gods, there was a direct link between Heaven and Earth.
In The First Time, the heavenly Milky Way was reflected in the path of the Nile River on Earth and the Pyramids on the Giza plateau were in alignment with the stars of Orion’s Belt, and so the gods were able to travel along the Milky Way from the Duat (or Celestial Kingdom as it has also been called) to here on Earth.
The First Time was a Golden Age, “before rage or clamour or strife or uproar had come about”, to quote the Egyptologist Rundle Clark whose own premature death in January of 1970 had come before he had had the chance to get very far along in his intended magnum opus, a monograph on the god Osiris.
“No death, disease, or disaster occurred in this blissful epoch, known variously as ‘The Time of Re’, ‘The Time of Osiris’, or ‘The Time of Horus’,“ he had written, but he had not explained why.
Indeed, why was there no death or disease?
The reason was this: these ‘gods’, as the local inhabitants of the Giza plateau had referred to them, were in fact star voyagers who traveled along the Milky Way in the form of pure energy, and although they were able to retain their normal great longevity once they had again manifested in physical form once again at this end of the celestial river, in order to survive here on Earth in that form they had to find a new source of sustenance.
The blood is the life; they became blood drinkers, and as such they were immune to death, decay, and disease.
----------
The legend was that, wanting to rule both Upper and Lower Egypt, the god Set had killed his brother Osiris and dismembered his body, cutting it into pieces and scattering them around the world, and by that act of violence putting an end to the Golden Age.
Isis, the wife of Osiris, using her magic, had gathered up the far-flung scattered pieces and brought him back from the dead just long enough in order to receive his seed.
The result of this union was the birth in due course of the ‘god’ Horus, the falcon-headed Sky God, the god of war and of hunting.
He who became Father of all the Undead.
So to Miles, all vampires were descendants of the original hunter god and were therefore entitled to feed on what he saw as lesser beings than himself.
Hannah, having been born a slave, tended to sympathise with the exploited and oppressed but even if her own station in life hadn’t been lowly, her sympathies and moral centre would have been in the same place. That was just who she was, and even being undead didn’t change that; if anything, it heightened her sense of compassion even more.
--------
Of course, i wasn’t thinking too much about any of this as Hannah and i listened to the band play on Saturday night at the end of a four day stint at the Fillmore East, the air thick with smoke.
The house was totally packed, long-haired hippies tripping on acid standing right alongside some of the more progressive jazz fans who had followed Miles on this new trip of his, unsure of where he was leading them but willing to travel.
Miles on the trumpet of course, doing his own thing, as always.
Chick Corea on the Fender Rhodes electric piano, and Keith Jarrett on an electronic organ, not the usual jazzer's Hammond B3.
Dave Holland from the UK doubling acoustic and electric bass, another new element coming from the rock world.
Jack DeJohnette on drums and the Brazilian Airto Moreira handling percussion and his native cuica.
And finally, there was Steve Grossman on tenor and soprano sax, the same ones Trane played. Although he didn’t sound anything like Coltrane to me, it was also pretty clear that he wasn’t trying to.
In fact, all of them were deliberately not referencing any jazz music that had come before this point whatsoever.
“Just be yourself; be true to yourself. That’s the only thing that really matters,” Miles had told them. “In the end, it’s all you have.”
