Sips of Blood Part 3

Garrett swooned in the ecstasy of the blood letting. That La Maitresse deigned to feed from him elevated the thrill. His own o.r.g.a.s.ms did not have the power of her blood-sucking kisses.

Softly he felt her delicate breaths on his neck, felt the sting of the punctures and the moist exquisite movement of her lips.

He raised his body up into La Maitresse's kiss, and she responded by tightening the clamp on his right nipple. The dark pink gag m.u.f.fled his cry. Her long black fingernails traced a path down to his loin, and he found himself spreading his legs wider, praying for her touch to caress his manhood. Her fingernails danced circles around his c.o.c.k, causing a pleasurable ache.

Garrett moaned and rubbed his tongue against the muslin material of the gag. His parched mouth, his neck wet with blood and spit, and his c.o.c.k damp from the dribble of urgency combined to persuade him that the ecstasy must never end. Never cease to satisfy Maitresse la Presidente, he told himself, for her pleasure increased his own four-fold.

He was fighting the end, resisting the inevitable release that he yearned for.

The nylon rope tying his hands behind his back limited his freedom, reminded him that he must hold back, allow the pleasure to go on and on. He fought himself and the rope.

Suddenly the knot on the rope gave way and his arms swung out from behind his back, laying out La Maitresse in a b.l.o.o.d.y, disheveled heap.

Chapter 7.

Liliana hurried up the stone steps into her grandmother's arms.

"You are so pretty today, my little one."

"Grandmother, why are you tying and untying that rope around the rail?" As Liliana spoke she picked up the book her grandmother had been reading. The Ashley Book of Knots. She looked down on the stone porch floor and saw The Klutz Book of Knots and The Boy Scout Fieldbook. "Homework?"

"Thank Heavens we vampires heal quickly."

"Grandmother, are you all right? What happened?"

"An accident caught me in the jaw, but my slave paid dearly for the mishap."

"I wish you would give up this brutal way of obtaining blood."

"There is no way to avoid brutality when we feed. You, my child, have chosen to limit your hunger to small animals, but is it any less brutal than what I do? My victims simply have slightly higher intelligence quotients." She paused. "Sometimes. However, what about the dead that you feed upon? It is disgusting and unhealthy, child. Do I proselytize to you about that?"

"You try, Grandmother."

"Yes, but d.a.m.n it, it hasn't taken hold. My business is blooming. You could a.s.sist me. No s.e.x. Simply tie up, beat, and drain a few of my customers. It would allow me more time for my favorites."

Attempting to change the topic, Liliana asked about the T-shaped bench at the far end of the porch.

"It's an Eton Bench that your uncle brought over. He wants to store it in my dungeon. I left it here out on the porch because I have no idea where it's been nor who has been enjoying their pleasures on it. Knowing your Uncle Donatien, probably some cheap strumpets."

Liliana turned away from her grandmother to smile. Her grandmother was intolerant of most things Uncle Donatien did. Perhaps with good reason, she thought, remembering her childhood and the stories she had heard about her uncle, the Marquis de Sade.

A dusty gold Cadillac of 60's vintage pulled into the driveway. Liliana did not recognize the man behind the wheel and feared that she had interrupted her grandmother's workday. A sloppy man in his seventies got out of the car.

"My dear, I didn't expect a visit from you today," her grandmother called.

"He's here." The man gruffly p.r.o.nounced.

"Ah, your son. Liliana, this is Keith Bridgewater, a close friend."

The man grunted.

"And this is my granddaughter, Liliana. Keith's son has come to spend some time with his father. And we're both very excited about it." Marie flashed a smile at the man, who grudgingly nodded.

"How long is your son going to be staying, Mr. Bridgewater?" asked Liliana.

"Too long, probably."

"Keith has a wonderful sense of humor. Come up on the porch and sit for a while."

Slowly he climbed the steps. Reluctant to look at the women, he studied the ground instead. Once he was on the porch, his interest seemed piqued.

"What are you doing, studying about knots?"

"Oh, I wish I could share my interest with you, Keith." Marie reached out a hand to touch his face and he backed away.

"I need to take a leak. Mind if I use your bathroom?" he asked.

"You know where it is, dear."

He sighed and twisted around, almost knocking Liliana over, but she quickly got out of the way.

Once he was inside the house, Liliana turned to her grandmother.

"You must know him well to let him go into your house alone."

"If I hadn't let him use the bathroom immediately, I'm sure he would have pulled it out and p.i.s.sed from the porch."

"Grandmother, is he a beau?"

"Him! Child, he is in his mid-seventies, and not terribly well-kept at that."

"A client, then."

"No. Although I do have fun working my wiles on him. It's so different to be able to torture a man with kindness. Come in, let's have a little fun."

Liliana opened her mouth to say she couldn't stay, but her grandmother pulled her into the house.

The entry hall did not reflect her grandmother's taste. Black-and-white earthenware tiles covered the floor. Marie believed only in marble. The walls were covered with tiresome still-lifes, some done by famous artists, but her grandmother favored portraits of n.o.bility, especially those she had personally known. To the right side was an American Revolutionary-era side table. Antique to most, considered contemporary by her grandmother, and not very well made at that.

Liliana wondered why her grandmother had never bothered to redecorate the entry; after all, she had lived there for the past five years. She knew that for her grandmother the house was temporary, to be lived in only briefly while Paris had time to forget the Madame with the penchant for blood.

The salon had been altered. A portrait of Marie-Antoinette stood above the fireplace mantel. Grandmother had met the queen only once, but she spoke of her as an old friend. The furnishings were Louis XVI, from the jewel casket that had been designed for the Dauphine to the writing desk covered with Sevres porcelain. When she was fleeing Paris, she could not leave these objects behind, even though the French police had begun to take an interest in her activities. Grandmother had delayed her departure several weeks while she supervised the packing and removal of her favorite furnishings.

"Sit down, child, while I go fetch Keith a beer."

"A beer?"

"His favorite: a Schlitz."

"Oh." Liliana sat down on the green velvet sofa and waited for the show.

Bridgewater came into the room while still zipping up. When he saw Liliana, he immediately dropped his hands to his sides and rubbed his thighs.

"Fancy home your grandma has here."

"Yes, she's collected the furniture over many years."

"I bet. They real or reproductions?"

"Real."

Marie swept into the room holding a can of Schlitz in one hand and a beer mug in the other. She handed both to Keith.

"Don't need the mug." He s.n.a.t.c.hed the beer from her hand.

"I should have known."

"I hope I'm not intruding on your visit, Mr. Bridgewater," said Liliana.

"h.e.l.l, no. Makes no difference to me." He plopped down in a chair once owned by Charles VI. Liliana noted how inappropriate he looked.

Marie seated herself next to her granddaughter.

"Aren't you two going to have beers?"

"Our tastes are a bit more refined, Keith."

"Nothing like a good beer. My dad loved the stuff so much, he used to joke about wanting to be fed beer up until the last, even if it was intravenously."

Marie screwed up her face. "Glad I never ran into your father."

He charged into the reason for his visit. "I'd like to bring my son over for a visit. Prove I've got a friend. He's a little peculiar. Lives in Greenwich Village in the city." He lowered his voice. "Into leather and piercings, that kind of thing."

"Really." Liliana noted how her grandmother's voice had brightened up.

"But don't mention the earring. He's also got rings stuck in his nipples. G.o.d, I don't want to know where else he may have them."

"I would."

"Uh?"

"Grandmother said that she would never bring it up in conversation." Liliana noticed that her grandmother had kicked off her shoes and was rubbing the sole of her right foot against the base of the table separating them from Bridgewater.

"So when can he come over?" Marie eagerly asked.

Chapter 8.

Matilda had a daughter. A very pretty--no, beautiful-- daughter, with blonde ringlets floating down upon her shoulders and blue almond-shaped eyes. Long lashes naturally darker than her hair. A nose slender and pert. Full lips tinged a tomato red and teeth even, straight, and bright. Skin fair, clear, and he'd be willing to bet her flesh was soft and smooth. A body curved with luscious baby fat invited his touch. A student of dancing, she stood tall, although she was only five-six.

"Has Mom invited you to the recital?"

"Not yet. When will it be?"

"In two weeks. I'll be sure to get an invitation out to you."

"And I'll be sure I'm there, ma pet.i.te."

De Sade's housekeeper, Matilda, did not live on the premises, and she was limited to the public areas of the house. She kept the ground floor clean and ran errands during the day. The sun did not prevent Louis from leaving the house, but sometimes the languor that set in during the daylight hours slowed him down. Certainly he didn't want to waste energy on the mundane when the lower cla.s.ses were eager for work.

Infrequently the housekeeper would bring her daughter.

"Cecelia, we'd better go now. Your father will be home soon."

Matilda never allowed her daughter more than a few words with Louis, explaining that she didn't want Cecelia to be an annoyance. But Louis knew better than that. She simply didn't trust Sade. On the other hand, Sade did everything in his power to spend time with the seventeen-year-old.

"Perhaps you could have a role in one of my plays," Sade offered the wide-eyed girl.

"You write plays?"

"Oui, and quite a few have been produced."

"Where? In New York City?"

"In France."

"Paris?" she breathlessly asked.

He neglected to tell the girl that the plays had been produced at the Charenton insane asylum.

"At the Comedie-Francaise." He had submitted there twice, and only their lack of perspicaciousness had prevented them from producing the plays.

"I'm sorry, sir. Cecelia, didn't I ask you to come along five minutes ago?"