f/f, vampires, sexual use of holy water and stakes, explicit racism from the pov of a racist (including use of ethnic & misogynistic slurs), white character, chinese character, failed humiliation & degradation, consensual nonconsent, subverted stereotypes. 2,900 words.

Tell Me How I Look ⇥

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Gumroad

Blanche watches the body on the rug stir from her seat on the armchair across the room. Meg’s skin, marred at first by the UV rays from the sun lamp Blanche always carries, has already begun to stitch together and smooth over. She’s tied up, rope roughing against her wrists, ankles, arms, and thighs. Once she comes to fully, she wriggles upright and twists around to meet Blanche’s gaze.

She smiles.

“Oh, hello,” she says, blowing a kiss.

Blanche sneers.

“You little liar.”

Venom laces every word that drips past her lips, her abhorrence made acid as she spits curses in Meg’s face. But instead of cowering before her like any other filthy chink should, Meg only smiles.

“Had you fooled, didn’t I?” she says. Her voice is low and rough, her English unaccented—American. Blanche snarls. As if this dog-eater could even lay claim to being American with her slanted eyes and yellow skin. Humiliation steals over her, quaking her to the bone. That this chink—this undead leech, this vermin—managed to deceive her—

She pushes the thought away and brings her fury forward instead.

“I’m going to kill you,” Blanche says.

Meg snorts.

“And people say I’ve got anger issues.”

Blanche grinds her teeth and turns away. She takes a couple steps from Meg, her shoulders stiff, her hands balled into fists.

“What’s wrong?” Meg says, sing-song voice carrying over her shoulder, penetrating her ears. “You were so sweet on me before you found out I’m a vampire. You told me all about how you’ve never dated a Chinese girl before, but oh, how you wanted to…”

“Shut up!” Blanche yells, whirling around to face Meg again, baring teeth. “You didn’t tell me you were a leech.”

“You never asked,” Meg says, grinning, her fangs retracted, just barely visible. “Why, is that a problem?”

“Tch.” Blanche steps back up to Meg and kicks her bound knees out from under her. Meg hits the rug again with a thud. As soon as she wriggles herself back up to a seated position, Blanche comes close, looming over her.

Her rage has condensed into molten metal, heavy and hot in her chest, burning furious channels through her. Her anger transforms into action. Catharsis, and pleasure—utter, satisfying pleasure—wash over her as Meg’s facade slips, revealing hatred in her eyes.

“I have so much planned for you,” Blanche says, smiling mercilessly.

But Meg lets out a haughty laugh, her upper lip curled back.

“Please, do tell,” she says, relaxing her posture as she puts her facade up again.

Oh, she won’t let the little bitch get to her this time. She knows the truth: that the Chinese live to serve and take orders like their commie government asks them to. They’re weak. Frail. A dose of pain and they’ll crumple, beg for their lives, no matter how tough of a front they put up. And the way they plead, all sense of dignity and resolve broken—oh so amusing.

Chinks like Meg would make excellent pets. Little toys to play with until she grows bored. Disposable, too. How many billion crawling around China now?

For her to be a vampire, too, leading her on with her glamour, charming her out of her right mind… Yes, that was how she must have been lured in. Meg’s glamour, radiating dark and dangerous from her shit-brown eyes. She’s the victim here, really, misled by an undead predator ready to feed off of her like a parasite. Her fury upon discovering Meg’s true nature is justified: after all, a vampire’s very existence puts her, a living human, at risk.

And she can’t have that.

“I won’t spoil the surprise,” Blanche says, relishing the way Meg’s eyes narrow, her gaze hardening. But Blanche doesn’t give her a chance to come up with a witty comeback. She seizes Meg by the main knot in the rope between her shoulderblades and hauls her toward the bathroom, holding on tight even as Meg thrashes like a freshly caught fish out of water.

Blanche smiles. She won’t be out of water for long.

She hurls Meg into the bathroom. Meg slams onto the tiled floor, her head narrowly missing the hard porcelain of the toilet. The tub before her is already stopped and full, the water steaming, diffusing the scent of the palo santo and fuzi floating on the surface.

Meg takes in the sight, her nostrils flaring.

“Spa day?” she says, cocking a perfectly plucked eyebrow. “You shouldn’t have.”

Blanche doesn’t dignify her with a response. Instead, she slaps her, hard, across her cheek.

Meg cackles, making Blanche’s blood boil. But she needs to remain resolute and focused as she stands over vermin that would dare to laugh in the face of someone superior, like a rat laughing in the claws of a bird of prey.

“Do you know what this is?” Blanche asks. She seats herself on the edge of the bathtub and dips her fingers into the hot water. Soothing. Comforting.

“Let me guess,” Meg says, feigning concentration. “Foreplay?”

Blanche ignores her quip.

“Holy water,” she replies. “Triple blessed.”

No fear rises in Meg’s eyes; no fight comes to the surface. Instead, she grins.

“Kinky. I like it.”

Blanche can’t contain her growl before it comes to the surface. She hauls Meg up by her hair—black, strong, sleek—but never brings her up to eye level: she forces Meg to look up with those ugly, slanted eyes from below, where she belongs.

“You won’t.”

She plunges Meg into the holy water bath, keeping her head under the surface; she grins as Meg struggles and bubbles roil the water. A sharp hiss echoes through the bathroom as Meg’s skin heats up, holy water’s effects creeping over her as the tub erupts into a violent cloud of steam.

Blanche pulls Meg back up. Meg sputters, gasping for breath, perfect hair now disheveled and sopping wet, every droplet of holy water hissing as it slides down her skin.

Meg laughs. Her chest rattles with the sound, shudders with little ups and downs.

Furious, Blanche spits on Meg’s face, taking some satisfaction in the briefest flicker of disgust that stains Meg’s expression. It’s not uncommon for some vampires to be able to tolerate exposures to holy water. A rare few are even immune to it. But for a leech to show such arrogance—

“You’re just asking for it now,” Blanche says, dunking Meg back into the water. Meg jerks and twitches. An insect beneath her gaze. Blanche smiles wickedly as she watches Meg struggle, tense with pain, unable to fight back with her limbs bound.

She holds her under for longer this time. As Meg’s thrashing turns more violent, Blanche pulls her back up. Meg retches and sputters, spitting up holy water. Her chest hitches as she fights for breath again, until finally her heaving chest evens out its rhythm.

Silence falls around them. Blanche waits. The pain is that much more intense when there’s a moment of reprieve, a chance to hope that there will be no more.

“Is that all you got?” Meg says, smirking. “Maybe you should drop by a BDSM club sometime. There are a lot in Hollywood—”

Enough!

With a burst of strength, Blanche hauls Meg over the lip of the tub and shoves her into the bath. Holy water splashes all over the tiled floor. She’ll clean it up later. Right now, all of Blanche’s focus is on digging her fingers into both sides of Meg’s throat. She forces her underwater, submerging her completely. Watching her choke—desperate half-gasps for breath only barely making it out of her mouth, becoming wasted bubbles of air—is satisfying in itself.

Choking won’t kill Meg, though. Blanche considers holding on longer, wonders how satisfying it would be to feel Meg’s spiking pulse feed back into her fingers—but that’s a level too unrefined for her.

Better to stick to methodical, drawn-out torture.

Blanche pulls Meg back up and lets her breathe again. Holy water is most effective when it enters through the membranes and orifices of the face, but Meg’s still-submerged limbs will continue to hiss and sting.

“Apologize for your insolence,” Blanche says, her voice low and dangerous.

Meg looks up, her gaze defiant.

“No.”

Blanche curls her lip.

“Apologize, you bloodsucking leech.”

Meg laughs, hollow and angry, even as she continues to spit up holy water. She extends her deadly sharp fangs.

“Bitch, I’m vegan. I survive off of orange juice and shakes. It’s the vitamin D we need, not blood, you ignorant, moldy cashew.”

Shock jolts Blanche, sparked at first by the gall of hurling an insult at her, then by Meg’s actual words. No—it’s a lie, meant to humiliate her. Another one of her jokes. There’s no such thing as a civilized vampire. Preying on the living is encoded into their DNA. No matter how much the leech tries to convince herself or others that she’s different, she’s not. When shit goes down, they will always prey indiscriminately on humans.

Or, in the chink’s case, dogs, too.

Blanche expects calmness to sink over her, now that she knows the leech is lying. But anger, rather than serenity, burns through her. Some of it must show on her face. Meg is smirking, dark eyes infuriatingly defiant.

A surge of energy crashes through Blanche: manic, uncontrollable energy that pulses through her hands, makes her fingers twitch with the desire to tear something asunder.

She turns that energy onto Meg. She heaves Meg out of the bath, dumping her onto the wet tiles; the momentum slams Meg into the wall. Blanche stalks over, unsheathing her knife from her thigh holster. She cuts through the ropes binding her legs together, then through her skirt and panties. She’s careful to keep the chest harness and double-column arm ties intact even as she cuts away Meg’s shirt, exposing her breasts and pierced nipples.

An unbroken expanse of golden skin.

No—yellow skin.

Still, when Blanche spreads her legs, Meg’s cunt is a rosy pink. Funny. She’d always heard that chinks have slanted pussies, too. But other than the two rings pierced through her inner labia, one on each side, Meg’s cunt looks like any other—a hole. An entry, one that will yield like any other.

“Oh, is this what you wanted?” Meg says, sweetly. Her eyes glitter as her full lips pull into a wide grin, her fangs still extended. “You could’ve just asked. I would’ve hooked up with you in a heartbeat. Despite being a pathetic, squashed pumpkin of a bigot, you are hot, you know.”

She winks.

“Shut. Your. Smart. Mouth,” Blanche says, punctuating each word with a slap across Meg’s cheeks, first the left, then the right. But the flush that spreads over Meg’s face is more than just what rises from the blows. It’s a warm, diffused glow, high on the apples of her cheeks, making her shine with life.

With desire.

“You twisted, fucked-up chink,” Blanche says. “Are you enjoying this?”

She rests her hand on the butt of the steel stake she carries alongside her knife. She could use it to violate Meg—shove it in her cunt, twisting and jabbing until she begs for mercy. It would be a show of dominance, a reassertion of the fact that this insolent bitch is second-class, nothing compared to herself. A message to her and other chinks like her that they are merely ants in this world.

“What?” Meg says, grinning. “Were you counting on raping me? On this being nonconsensual?” She leans back and lets her legs fall open. “Oh no, darling. Please. Go ahead.” She licks her lips, then runs her tongue over her fangs. “Fuck me.”

It’s the charisma, Blanche tells herself, that makes her comply. She pulls out the stake, touching the blunt end to Meg’s cunt. There’s still holy water dripping down her thighs, but her pussy is too slippery to be just that.

“Slut,” Blanche says, sliding the stake into Meg’s hole. Meg arches her back, biting off a hiss.

“Rough,” Meg says. “Just the way I like it.”

In response, Blanche twists the stake, pulls it back, and jabs it in again. Meg yelps.

“That’s right,” Blanche jeers, grinning. “Bark like the little bitch you are, you dog-eating leech.”

“Shall I call you ‘Mistress,’ too?” Meg says in between breaths.

Blanche glares at her. She picks up a spare piece of rope and ties a knot into it.

“Shut your insolent mouth,” she says, shoving the knot into Meg’s mouth. She secures the makeshift ballgag around her head.

Meg bares her teeth, grinning as her fangs sink into the rope. Her legs fall open wider. Her nipples are hard, little mountains rising into the air; the lines of her pelvic bones cast soft shadows onto her inner thighs. The stake glistens, deep in her cunt; she twitches around it, squeezes it, defiant even in her silence as she stares straight into Blanche’s eyes.

Blanche growls. Furiously, she thrusts and jabs the stake into Meg’s cunt, but Meg only lifts her hips to receive her. An invitation.

Heat rises in Blanche’s cheeks.

Then, Meg moans. Actually moans, and everything about her body language tells Blanche that it isn’t fake.

“Filthy slut,” Blanche hisses. “Are you getting off from being degraded? Your kind deserves to die.”

As her heart pounds against her ribs, fire uncoils deep in Blanche’s belly. Her hand moves differently now—longer strokes. Gentler, almost. She tells herself that she wants to draw out this humiliation, wants to drive home the fact that she is being pleasured with a stake—

The makeshift rope gag slips down to rest around Meg’s neck. Her unmuffled moans are loud enough, but now, they grow in intensity as she gasps for breath. Her body undulates, her hips thrusting down to meet Blanche’s hand, leaving her skin sticky with her juices.

Blanche’s fingers tremble. Her arm and shoulder ache with the effort of thrusting the stake into Meg. But, as if compelled to, Blanche pushes through the ache. She tilts the stake, dragging it along the firm ridge just behind Meg’s lips. The slippery tiles glimmer; light plays across Meg’s skin, highlighting the swell of her breasts, her soaked pussy.

Something glints in Blanche’s peripheral vision. She looks over at the full-length mirror beside her. What she sees: herself, alone, stake piercing empty air, eyes wild, mouth twisted, expression frenzied, barely recognizable. The image sears itself into her mind, even as she turns back to Meg, reminding herself that the mirror is just another leech illusion.

“Don’t stop,” Meg breathes, every syllable heavy, charged with lust.

Blanche complies. Tells herself that this is to humiliate her, to show her her inferiority; she pulls the stake back, then drives it in again. Meg throws her head back, crying out; a throaty yes slips past her lips.

Blanche tingles.

Meg closes her eyes and bites her lip. Her whole body pulls into a smooth curve—the arch of her back, the dip of her stomach, the lines of her legs. She holds still for a half-second.

Blanche holds still for a half-second.

Then, the wave crests and breaks. Meg’s orgasm is powerful, tearing through her body, making her quake and clench her toes; she gasps, trembling, her breaths coming out in bursts, her moans raw, gutteral. She even squirts, the slut, making her mound and cunt glisten.

Once she’s released from shuddering climax, Meg opens her eyes, fixes them on Blanche, and grins lazily, drunk with pleasure.

Blanche’s legs buckle.

Humiliation, she reminds herself. Meg will be ashamed that something like this could bring her to an orgasm.

Meg falls still. The bathroom is silent save for the soft sound of Meg catching her breath.

Blanche stands. Still grinning, Meg pushes the stake out from her cunt. It clatters onto the tiled floor, creamy with her cum. Blanche glares disdainfully at Meg’s naked body, at her slick pussy, hole gaping ever so slightly, as if also defying her, asking her to stare.

She could kill her.

She should kill her. She always kills the vampires she hunts. It’s the only way to prevent their spread.

Meg’s chest rises and falls. Inhale, exhale. Thighs wet, cunt fat and flushed, nipples staked through with metal, keeping them hard.

She will kill her. But first, she has to shame her more. Make her pay for her arrogance, her insolence. Draw out this torture. Make her repent for her lies. For deceiving her.

For existing.

Blanche’s gaze lingers on Meg’s yellow skin, on the color in her cheeks, on her eyes that remain bright and defiant, even now.

Blanche turns on her heel. She storms out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

Her feet carry her to her bedroom on the other side of the house. She crosses the threshold, locks the door behind her, then presses her back against it. The wood is solid against her sweat-slicked skin. Her breaths, she realizes, are coming out heavy, fast. She runs a hand through her hair, claws at her face, then lets her arms drop to her sides.

Meg will pay. She will die.

Blanche sits on the edge of her bed. She grabs her pillow and buries her face in it.

In the sanctuary of her bedroom, Blanche screams until her throat and lungs are raw.

© 2020 by December Seas
ISBN 978-1-7344576-7-4
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