‘You have to see their point of view,’ Cicely retorted.
‘I am only too well acquainted with their point of view,’ the Baroness snapped back. ‘Now go and feed Aunt Isabella. I don’t want to have to tell you again.’
‘Yes, do, Cicely, darling,’ Florence added. ‘It is your turn.’
‘I don’t want to! You know what she’s like!’
‘A little eccentric, I grant you, but you normally rather like that sort of thing.’
‘Not before she’s fed! Look, I’ll do it when I get back.’
‘Now,’ the Baroness insisted. ‘You are beginning to try my patience, Cicely St Cyr.’
‘Don’t start that again, please,’ Cicely answered. ‘I am more than one hundred and ten years old, and –’
‘Do as you are told,’ the Baroness said firmly, ‘or you will have to be spanked.’
‘Isn’t it really about time you stopped doing that sort of thing?’ Cicely demanded. ‘This is the twenty-first century.’
‘So it is, my dear,’ the Baroness answered, ‘but you and I belong to the nineteenth, and I see no reason to change our behaviour.’
‘I do!’ Cicely exclaimed, but it was already too late.
A pale, bony hand had shot out, to grab hold of her arm. She was quickly drawn in, her squalling protests ignored as she was hauled into place across the Baroness’ knee, her skirts turned up, her drawers pulled open and her rounded, milk-white bottom soundly spanked in tune to her howls of pain and indignation. When she was finally allowed up she stood rubbing at her rear cheeks, her face set in a resentful scowl.
‘And if you continue to pout you’ll get more,’ the Baroness warned her, ‘with my hairbrush. Now go and feed Aunt Isabella.’
Cicely made a face and continued to rub at her bottom, still defiant.
Florence had watched the spanking with a curious mixture of sympathy and approval, in silence, but now gave a sad shake of her head and spoke up. ‘Run along, Cicely, or it will be the cane.’
Not deigning to answer, Cicely gave an angry toss of her unruly curls and stamped indoors, but Florence’s argument had been persuasive. Being spanked across the knee was something she could cope with, but the cane was another matter entirely, although having given in didn’t make the task in front of her any easier. She climbed the stairs slowly, twice stopping as some new argument occurred to her, but both grounded on the fact that if she employed them she was more than likely to end up touching her toes with her bare bottom sticking out of her drawers as she was given six of the best.
She hesitated again when she reached the landing. Aunt Isabella’s door was closed and there was absolute silence, which was only to be expected. Plucking up her courage, she went in, taking a moment for her eyes to adapt to the dull orange light of the single candle that illuminated the room. In front of her was a great four-poster bed, the canopy half-concealing the occupant, who lay with the bed sheets pulled back, her body limp and naked, the skin stretched taut and yellow over angular bones, the eyes sunk deep in their sockets, the mass of ghost-pale hair oddly incongruous.
‘Aunt Isabella?’ Cicely queried, suddenly worried that the woman on the bed might actually be dead.
A voice like cobweb answered her. ‘Cicely? Come close, my dear.’
Cicely obeyed, seating herself on the bed and extending one cautious hand to touch the desiccated chest. Aunt Isabella’s flesh felt cold and oddly waxy, while one withered nipple had already begun to crack, yet the bony hand which had settled across Cicely’s shoulders was pulling her in with considerable strength.
‘I’m sorry we left you so long,’ Cicely said quietly, as she allowed herself to be drawn in against Aunt Isabella’s mouth.
A sharp cry of pain escaped Cicely lips as the fangs punctured her neck, and Aunt Isabella had begun to feed. Cicely stayed still, trembling badly, her breathing growing deeper and more urgent as the blood flowed from her neck and into the mouth of the creature suckling from her. The one bony hand had stayed on her back and the other now moved up, slowly, to scrabble at the front of Cicely’s corset.
‘Please, not yet,’ she sighed.
She was ignored, her corset tugged down to spill out her breasts, while fingers like claws scraped across the soft flesh. A rasping groan escaped Aunt Isabella’s throat as she continued to feed, with Cicely now sobbing in her grip. She’d shut her eyes tight, unable to watch, for all that she knew exactly what was happening, and no longer able to escape had she wanted to, with her body held tight in a bony embrace and Aunt Isabella’s long, curved fangs pushed deep into her neck.
Even when the emaciated hand released her breasts to move lower, Cicely stayed as she was, whimpering faintly into Aunt Isabella’s abundant hair as long, thin fingers pushed in at the slit of her drawers. She cried out as what felt like gristle touched her cunt, but her thighs had come wide, seemingly of their own accord, to allow one slender digit inside her. Now penetrated, her sobs grew deeper, more urgent, and still the blood flowed.
Cicely gave in, letting her thighs open wider still and throwing her head back, her neck fully exposed as Aunt Isabella climbed on to her. Pinned down on the bed, with the fangs locked into her flesh as now strong fingers worked in her cunt, Cicely found herself helpless, unable to resist either mentally or physically as she gave strength to her aunt. Her heart was pumping fast, her breath coming in urgent, ragged gasps that broke to an involuntary cry of ecstasy as she came to orgasm under the now firm and pliant fingers.
A moment later Aunt Isabella pulled back, and for a long while the two women lay together in silence.
Only when the gashes in Cicely’s neck had fully healed did she voice her feelings. ‘I do wish you wouldn’t masturbate me while you feed. It’s most unsettling.’
‘It makes your heart beat faster and improves the flow of blood,’ Aunt Isabella replied. ‘As I believe I have explained before. And, besides, you whimper so nicely.’
Cicely made a face but didn’t reply. Aunt Isabella was now propped up in her bed, her round, pale limbs still naked, but smooth and supple, her breasts full and firm, her belly a gentle womanly curve. She had fed well, rather better than usual, which had left Cicely feeling weak and a little dizzy.
‘I see you’re dressed for town,’ Aunt Isabella said after a while. ‘New blood?’
‘I hope so,’ Cicely replied. ‘There’s a club I want to try, full of boys who think they’re vampires, girls too.’
Aunt Isabella gave a wistful sigh, then spoke again. ‘You couldn’t bring one back this time, could you? A girl, of course.’
‘You know I can’t, Auntie,’ Cicely replied. ‘That sort of thing gets noticed nowadays, and we couldn’t very well let her go afterwards, not with the way Florence looks, and … and you.’
‘But I’m beautiful,’ Aunt Isabella protested.
She had risen from the bed, her naked milk-white flesh glimmering in the candlelight, her hair a cascade of pure silver, her eyes flickering with reflections of vivid red. Her mouth was now full, her lips a delicate blushing mauve, the fangs that rose both up and down from her jaws long and sharp.
‘Beautiful,’ Cicely agreed, ‘and very obviously a vampire, a real vampire.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Aunt Isabella replied, ‘only the other day you were saying how good the make-up is these days, and that film, Van Helsing, was most convincing, I thought.’
‘It’s called CGI, Auntie,’ Cicely said patiently. ‘Computer-generated imagery. It’s not real.’