Bright lights floated back and forth, a slow sort of strobe against the fabric pulled tight over her eyes. Hands pulled hard at her arms, twisting till the bone and tendon pulled free of sockets. Ropes wound through her bent back arms, tying around wrists, holding her in place. Ah how Fukimo loved these games, pushing the limits of undeath and pleasure, redefining pain, such a fantastic life. Every moment was a form of art, and the artist every man and woman that tortured her. In truth, they tortured themselves far more.The experience shared something deep and moving between then two. She learned so much from her lovers. And the movies became a library of momentos.
Rough large hands pulled her around, spinning her bodies in slow circles. Her toes tapped over some soft, silken surface. Sheets, a bed, but so far out of reach. She hung her for nights and days, pain giving way to some heated rush until finally she couldn’t feel anything but pain and this softness under her toes. The strangest of sensations.
Time ceased to exist as the man that tied her up watched her, never touching. He would ask her questions time and again. To describe her home, where she was born, what life was like as a human before her fall into vampirism. Her first hunt and kill. Her favorite way to feed. Songs she enjoyed. All the while, she felt such burning pain in her limbs. An odd sort of mix she experienced before. Ah what a long series of nights that was.
Finally as he promised, the five days ended. He lifted her, cutting the bindings, dropping her on the bed. Hunger throbbed behind her eyes, set veins a flame. Across from her was a young man, drugged, eyes watching her sluggishly. Cuts along his forearm bled to give her the scent. Frenzy consumed her mind, sending her writhing close to him, unable to move her arms. There she ripped open his throat, glutting herself on his blood, the white sheets, white garments, sprayed in fresh blood. When finally she came to her senses, the same hands that tied her lifted her from the bed to settle her into a fresh hot tub.
With absolute care, Deacon washed Fukimo. Never did he fuck her in some traditional way, or have her near death. He just enjoyed the sensual way she moved and moaned, her stories, and finally how she fed.
“You are…such a tormented romantic.” She smiled and rested, letting the bubbles and water turn red.