La Maitresse de la Nuit

an Early Work by Han Li Thorn

She was exactly my type. Dressed to kill, all in black - short leather skirt, deep-scooped bodice held almost closed by a lacing of criss-crossed thongs, set off by a tailored jacket that accentuated her waist and set off the flare of her hips, long slender legs encased in sheer nylon, perfectly complemented by black, patent leather stilettos. A touch of silver jewellery, just enough to set off the black costume. Huge, dark eyes; ruby lips; a pale, perfect complexion. I'd gone to the bar to read my paper and watch the world, but I ended up just watching her. Perhaps she noticed how I was drawn to her; perhaps she would have chosen me anyway.

I heard her heels clicking on the wooden floor and looked up from the paper again. She was coming across the room towards me, eyes locked purposefully on my face, confidence in every line and every movement, like a huntress approaching her prey. Somehow, she walked better than any woman I'd ever seen, as if she'd had more practice than most people, balancing on the high heels as though she'd been born in them. She walked slowly, as if she knew I was hypnotised like a bird before a snake with no chance of escape. I pushed my chair back to look up at her as she eased herself onto the table, crossing her legs, planting one steel-spiked foot on the chair between my knees - just sufficient to invade my space, to mark her territory, to let me know that she was in charge of this encounter.

I watched as she reached into her handbag and took out a flat silver case, opened it, and took a cigarette. She looked into my eyes as she placed it between her lips and leaned slightly towards me. I fumbled for my lighter and reached forward, and saw the ghost of a smile on her face in the brief, flickering illumination of the flame. She replaced the cigarette case and took her purse from the bag.

"I'd like a Bloody Mary", she said, handing me a twenty pound note. "I like it with a dash of Tabasco and Worcester sauce to give it some bite." I took the money, and went to the bar.

"I'm sorry", I said when I returned with her drink and change. "No Tabasco".

"And there I was, hoping that you'd be resourceful. Perhaps I shouldn't be wasting my time on you... but I'll let it pass this once. If you'll learn to address me properly".

"Address you properly?"

"You can call me Mistress. Keep the change; you'll need it when you go to the bar again. In fact, I seem to be out of cigarettes."

I was taken aback. To be honest, I couldn't believe my luck - I'd been looking for a strong, assertive woman all my life, but had never found anyone who had not looked to me to set the limits, to define what was allowed and what was beyond the pale. This was the first time anyone had been so bold, so predatory. Perhaps I could be getting myself in serious trouble... but if I refused her, I could be passing up the chance of my lifetime, the one true soul who could fulfil me and whom I could fulfil. And there she was, still leaning over me - the toe of one stiletto shoe almost in my lap, its cruel spike heel inches from my groin - assertive and commanding for her own sake, not for mine, a dark night-time fantasy brought to life and leaning on my table... Then there were her eyes, golden-flecked, intimate yet distant, penetrating, hypnotic. As I looked into them, I found myself saying the fateful words, as I knew I would all along: "Yes, Mistress".

"Good. We've got that established. You can get my cigarettes, then you can take me to dinner. If you amuse me I might let you walk me home."

She drained her drink in one long, slow swallow, and I watched as she licked the blood-red droplets from her lips. She looked at me impatiently. "Cigarettes", she said.

***

The restaurant was expensive, classy, and the waiter greeted her warmly and ushered us to her usual table. I drew out a chair for her, and then sat down opposite her. Another cigarette had appeared in her mouth, without me noticing her take it from the case. She seemed absolutely confident that it would be lit for her, and of course, it was. I almost thought that if I'd been any slower with my lighter, it would have ignited spontaneously rather than leave her to light it herself.

When the menus came, she took hers, and reached over and pushed mine down to the table with surprising, gentle strength, pressing it shut, indicating that I was to leave it there. She ordered red wine, and when it came, the waiter showed her the bottle, awaited her approval, stood by as she sampled it and nodded. He served her, then me; then she ordered for both of us.

While we waited, sipping wine, she questioned me. I can't remember what she asked, or what I said - I can only remember her eyes gazing into mine, measuring me, weighing what I said, as if she could see the truth and value of my answers. As we talked, her feet were pressed against my legs, gently stroking them - first with the toes of her shoes, then with hard, sharp heels hooked under the hem of my trousers and caressing my naked skin underneath, finally, shoes slipped off and discarded for a moment, with her delicate, stockinged feet.

I remember little of the food or of our conversation. Perhaps it was the wine, perhaps the heady, compelling feeling of her presence, perhaps her touch underneath the table. But mainly I think it was something in her gaze that took me out of myself and left me with a pleasurable, gentle confusion, as if her look held some strange enchantment. By the time I was fully aware of my surroundings again, she was paying the bill, then waiting while I helped her into her coat, before taking me by the hand and leading me outside.

She linked arms with me as we walked through the night, a little shorter than me even in the heels that tapped against the pavement, leaning against me and leading me at the same time. A short distance, and we were at her door, and she was opening it, leading me inside. Something about her had changed; her purposeful, confident demeanour, suggestive of the huntress stalking her prey, had turned into an exuberant gaiety, as if she had accomplished a difficult and important mission. "Get me a drink. Cognac.", she said happily. "I'm in a good mood tonight, so you can have one as well."

I went to the sideboard, and poured two glasses of cognac. She was sitting on a long leather couch, so I handed her a glass and made to sit down as well. "I haven't given you permission to sit", she said. "Remain standing".

I remembered what I was supposed to say: "Yes, Mistress"

"You've got too many clothes on. Get rid of them".

I stood before her, and removed my shirt, then the rest of my clothes.

"Do you know what I am?", she asked.

"No, Mistress".

"Will you do anything I want".

The answer was obvious, and at that moment I was feeling so submissive, so deep in her power, that it was true. "Yes, Mistress".

"Would you die for me?".

Deep inside, resistance flickered - fantasy is fantasy, but surely this was too bizarre... Then her incredible eyes caught me, and I knew that I would happily submit to anything for her, even death.

"Yes, Mistress, I would die for you".

"Good, because that's what I need. Give me your hand".

She reached out, and grasped my proffered hand, and squeezed. It was not a woman's grip. It wasn't a even human grip. Bone and cartilage protested, and I heard myself whimper as I sank to my knees. But still, I did not try to pull free - I was under her spell, and if she wanted to tear my arm off, so be it.

"Now, do you know what I am?". She smiled, and for the first time I glimpsed the cruel sharpness of her canines, recognised the significance of the blood-red lips and the pallor of her skin, and then I understood. "It's good that you are ready to die for me, because tonight I need a human soul".

My slave nature was fully, obviously aroused now, and I would have been happy to lay down my life; but I longed to have time first, time to experience her power, to serve her, to show her that I was hers - years, decades of time if possible, but at least an hour, or if possible, the rest of the night... "I'm ready, Mistress. But if it would please you, if it was permitted..."

"Yes?"

"... if there was any other way I could serve you. Perhaps you could think of it as a last meal for the condemned man?"

"Oh, you really do have the true slave nature, don't you? The others have always been screaming and struggling and begging for mercy by now - souring themselves with fear and hate in a most unsatisfactory way - and you just say you want to serve me! It almost makes me wish I didn't need to take you... but there's really no choice, I must taste a human's essence tonight. And you'll be all the sweeter if you submit willingly, and you're so eager... perhaps if things had been different you could have been my slave, my little human pet - until you grew old and died, of course. That's always the problem with your kind. Still, it might be nice to allow you to serve me for a while. But I must taste your life before sunrise".

She released my hand, and sat down again, indicating that I was to remove her shoes and stockings, then pressing her feet to my lips. The worship began. In that single night, I knew more fulfillment than I had in a lifetime. I was perfectly under her control, doing exactly as I was bidden, my hands, mouth, and body at her disposal, tools for her to use as she pleased. And use them she did, skillfully, masterfully, selfishly, paying a bare minimum of attention to my needs, giving me exquisite, gratitude-filled pleasure with the lightest, briefest touch.

The clock chimed. It was five in the morning. "It's time. I would have liked to allow you release - you deserve it - but then you wouldn't be able to accept what I need to do to you. So I'm afraid you'll have to remain unfulfilled - but I can give you ecstasy as I drink you - that gift is in my power - and it really will be better that way", she said. I looked up from where I was kneeling before her, lifting my eyes reluctantly from the pretty bare feet and elegant legs that had so recently and so delightfully taken all my attention - and never would again. "I'm far from unfulfilled, Mistress. But please, I would like to go on serving you, for ever".

"That's impossible", she said sadly, as she rose to her feet.

"But couldn't you... take what you need, and then make me into... one of your kind, under your control..."

"No. It's hard enough having one of my kind in this city. I've lived for a thousand years without being caught, by being alone, by not taking risks, by only drinking when I really need to... A thousand years, and you are the first who ever served me so completely. I'm more sorry than I can say to have to lose you. But it's just not possible. And I think you will be the sweetest thing I've ever tasted, so it's not all bad, is it? Come here".

I submitted to her embrace.

"I want to take some blood first", she said.

I looked at her, confused. "I don't understand... First?"

She smiled as she moulded her body even more closely to mine. "The essence of a man isn't in his blood", she said, "but it makes a nice starter." With that, she pressed her lips to my neck, and I felt the tiniest pricks as she penetrated the skin, followed by endlessly-light, warmly-insistent tongue-caresses as she lapped, catlike, at the dark flow pooling at my collar bone. I felt my strength and vigour starting to leave me, being replaced with a languorous but pleasant drowsiness that stole warmly over me as she drank. After a few moments, I slumped against her, and would have fallen if she had not held me up.

"Mmmmm, you taste nice", she said, licking the dark stains from around her mouth, then from my bare shoulder. "Now kiss me".

She leant into me, still supporting me even as she rose to tip-toe to brush my lips with hers. I tasted the salt of my blood still in her mouth, and felt her drawing the breath, and then something more than breath, from me. A warm, intense feeling of pleasure stole over me, spreading slowly, reaching deeper than anything I had ever known: I was falling: slowly, gently, feather-like, sinking into a soft, velvet night that rose around me and welcomed me home. Darkness came, and an end.

***

Darkness. A smell of damp, mouldering things, sickly yet somehow wholesome. A sense of enclosure, confining, claustrophobic, homely, secure. A sonorous creaking sound, and a dim, flickering light. She stood above me, the candle she held guttering, illuminating the dark graveyard soil on which I lay as she raised the heavy oak cover.

She grinned wickedly. "I couldn't resist", she said.

[Home]