How to Discipline Your Vampire (2 page)

He wrinkled his nose as I tipped the cup to his mouth. “Um, do you have anything more organic?”

My teeth clenched so hard, I got lockjaw. “Excuse me?”

“I try to put as few artificial things in my body as possible.”

You can’t really hover over someone when you’re a five-foot Domme, but I tried my best to stand over him menacingly as I berated him and his hippie tendencies. “So, you must use organic ink and metal for your tats and piercings, huh?”

He just stared ahead as I pushed the cup closer to his face. “I guess since I’m not swallowing it, sure, I’ll swish it around.”

I brought my hand back to his mouth forcefully and nudged the little paper cup past his lips. I guess I let the Listerine flow a bit too fast, because before I got to the bottom of the cup, he was spewing it everywhere. My face dripped the minty antiseptic and it pooled on his now not-that-interested crotch.

“Dismissed.”

He left without a word, just waggling his middle finger behind him.

“How dare you!” I barked.

He snorted. “Fuck you, pip-squeak.”

I scampered up to the doorway and pulled on his collar, trying to spin him toward me. “Excuse me?!”

He contorted his mouth into a sneer. “You’re probably the least intimidating Domme I’ve ever seen. Maybe you should invest in some platforms,” he snickered. “Or stilts.”

“GET OUT!”

I stomped my apparently pathetic two-inch heels into the kitchen and scribbled his entry onto a note card, poking through the paper in three places. I put an asterisk at the bottom with a note regarding freshness of breath as a requirement for future submissives.

I felt the immediate need to text Erin, but restrained myself.
Which is funny,
I thought,
because I’m used to restraining others.

I slumped down at my computer and turned it on. Lots of my buddies in the local BDSM community blogged, so I figured I’d peruse some of their websites and maybe find a man that way.

Hey, I had two strikes against me now. Any port in a storm.

Granted, the three-strike rule is self-imposed. I had enough of crappy subs and historically inaccurate scenes. I wanted the real fucking deal, but if I didn’t get it soon, I’d just give up and become a hermit. Meaning I’d date regular guys.

Bleh!

The keys clicked wildly as I explored the blogosphere, which—by the way—was the stupidest term ever. There really wasn’t much of interest. A website about a Portsmouth guy who made custom strap-ons.
No thanks
. A forum dedicated to the local chapter of Furries.
Also gonna opt out of that.

Then I found something on Flog Blog that sounded interesting. A local hotel was hosting a BDSM mixer where you got to meet between fifteen and eighteen potential matches in one sitting.

I leaned back in my chair and mused for a bit. It was tomorrow night. Should I not tell Erin about my most recent failure and just go?

Just then, Bizzy awoke from her slumber. She was the one who begged me to go. I silenced her momentarily with a vibrator and steeled myself for the mixer, ready for anything.

CHAPTER TWO

Cerise

I sat uncomfortably in the hard, maroon banquet chair. I was assigned to seat twenty-one, at a small cocktail table in a hotel ballroom. It was decorated to look like a coffee shop—someplace where you may casually meet someone. Not an event hall rented out by a bunch of horned-up singles with spanking fetishes and the like.

My bum was starting to fall asleep, so I shifted my weight and prayed for some success. I glanced down at my card—only two more guys to go.

Last chance,
I told myself again.
Then I’m out
.

“Um, you’ve got more prerequisites than med school,” the young potential sub said, eyebrows furrowed.
Brian something,
I read from the card he handed me. It didn’t matter what his name was, since I had already checked
NO
once he started to tear apart my set of rules. This most definitely wasn’t going to work out.

Another one bites the dust.

“You will address me as Mistress Cherry, and
clearly
if you have a problem with my requests, then you’re not cut out to be my sub. Next, please,” I said dismissively.

He held out his hand, wanting a minute to explain. “Come on, who makes these kinds of demands?” he said, face turning red, gesturing at my page of requirements. “Must be self-employed? Must be responsible for role-play props and costumes Monday through Thursday? Seriously, you’re out of your mind. Where’s that freaking bell?”

That was probably the most tedious thing about the mixer—the timer.

Every four minutes, the bell would ring, and someone else would come up to my table. Brian was the fifteenth guy to arrive and get frustrated before minute three. That meant I’d have to make small talk with my rejection for another minute before he moved on.

“So, how about them Sox?” I asked.

“I don’t like baseball,” he grumbled.

Neither did I, especially since I was staring down strike three.

However, I’m sure if I counted, I’d really be on strike twenty-five. I’ve only had a handful of subs that could stand up to my rigorous demands for more than a month.

The bell rang and I sipped my drink, preparing for another disgruntled man who couldn’t handle my demands. The last of the night, if my watch was correct.

Then I saw
him
.

An absolutely beautiful specimen was making his way toward my little table.

I sipped the soda again, careful not to smudge my lipstick. Typically, Dommes were easy to find at mixers—the redder the lipstick, the stricter the rules. Mine was crimson on the border of downright arterial. I had hoped that my selection would weed out the weaklings in the pack. I touched it up just in case it had faded and bent down to put the compact back into my bag. By the time I sat back up, he was in front of me.

“Hello,” he said sheepishly, eyes downcast.

This was a good sign. Subs ought to act their place at events like this—unlike that last jackass.
Please, please be up to my challenge
.

“Sit,” I said to him, gesturing. His posture was erect, but guarded. This man was very stylish—a corduroy blazer over a graphic tee, paired with perfectly fitted dark jeans. Urban, hip. Thank God no leather—I didn’t care how long I’d been involved in this sort of thing, I would
never
get into leather. Unless it was required for a scene . . . then it would be acceptable. He folded his hands neatly in his lap, and began the conversation in a surprisingly self-deprecating manner.

“I have something,” he said, eyes still downcast, “I should tell you before we begin.”

I leaned forward, ready to berate him for speaking out of turn, and not letting me begin our conversation.
The nerve of these guys.

Then again, this was speed-dating and I didn’t want to waste time with a lecture, so I allowed him to begin.

“I’ve never been kept by a Domme. I have been advised to tell you in advance a few of my qualities that have been turn-offs. Firstly, I can tolerate
any
kind of pain.”

Odd, but not a deal breaker. I did the “go on” gesture, rolling my pointer finger.

“I flinch at nothing, nor do I bruise or redden. Many women have found this off-putting, if you like that sort of thing.”

“Um, I’m a
substitute teacher
. I dish out pain all day. I’m not that kind of Domme,” I explained to him, trying to put him somewhat at ease. His posture relaxed somewhat.

I probably shouldn’t have disclosed my occupation to this guy, but what was he going to do? Show up at every secondary school in the Seacoast Region wearing assless chaps?

“I also have very cold hands,” he said, trying to hold back his smirk. “It’s been problematic in nearly every encounter I have had. Here, feel.” I reached out my hands and touched his.

Freezer burn.

I recoiled slightly, but caught myself and steadied my hand. I said nothing. His eyes remained downcast.

He was stunningly handsome, I appraised, examining his face. Strong jaw, straight nose, blue-black tousled hair, and lips full enough to almost be considered feminine.

Almost.

“I don’t mind cold hands. I’m from Nevada—I
love
to feel the cold compared to the heat I grew up in. It’s refreshing,” I said.
Oh boy, here comes the hurt,
I told myself as I handed him my list of needs and wants. “I do, however, have a very long list of requirements, and I’m afraid I’ve scared everyone off, too. I’m just as used to rejection as you seem to be,” I laughed. Half the local community thought it was great that I was a strong woman who won’t settle for anything less than what I want, and the other half thought I was an insane bitch. “In fact, they call me
the Deal Breaker
.” He smirked again, a small dimple forming in his chin.

He was wickedly handsome.
If the room was less well-lit, I’d be tonguing his earlobe right now.

“All right,” he said, glancing at the dossier. “Hit me.” He laughed at his choice of words for the situation. I did, too.

I shifted into uber-Domme mode and breathed in deep, ready for my long-winded explanation.

Last chance, Cerise
.

“The requests I make of my subs are simple. Show up at my house Monday through Thursday at two
PM
sharp. On Monday through Wednesday, I will give you role-play prompts. You must come up with the details, props, and costumes. You will e-mail me details about the scenarios while I’m on my lunch break so I can arrive home in character. When I get home at three, you will be in costume and in character. Whatever outfit you may have for me will be hanging in my bathroom. We will perform the scene from three o’clock until whenever I feel it’s over. You will then eat dinner with me and return home. On Thursdays, you will create an original scenario. You have free rein on those days, but please be creative. I may not be a dominatrix in the traditional whips-and-chains sense, but I want your
full
subservience when you are with me. You will have three-day weekends to yourself.” My voice was strict like a smack on the wrist with a wooden ruler. I hoped he understood that just because he was creating one scene per week, he was
not
in charge of where it went. I knew my methods were unconventional, but hey, whatever gets you off, right?

He listened intently, head cocked to the side, eyes still not leaving the table.

“Is that all?” he asked.

I gasped to myself.
A taker?
Usually guys weren’t down with the hours
and
the financial demands of coming up with new costumes and props four days a week. Then again, judging by this guy’s clothes, he could afford it. Don’t think I didn’t notice the curvy
R
s on his Rock & Republic jeans. That cut retailed for $259 at Nordstrom.

And yes, in addition to being a Domme, I was a serious denim whore.

“No, that’s not all,” I said, worried that this would be the deal breaker. “You must come up with our first scenario right now. Don’t let me down.” I expected him to either tell me to fuck off, or to walk away in a daze after spending several minutes blathering his way through a half-assed attempt to come up with something that might excite me.

Of course, when hearing I was a teacher, nearly every potential sub told me the scenario where he was failing my class and wanted extra credit.

And would do
“aaaanything”
for it.

So, the men who usually made it to this round never made it out.
Unoriginal pricks
.

“I think I have one you’ll like, if I may,” he said politely.

I must be dreaming. “Proceed,” I said, both anticipating and dreading what was going to come from his lips next.
Please don’t be a student scene . . .

“I’m a vampire who has endured decades of loneliness. All I want is a woman who I can worship—who will look past all my flaws. I need a fearless Domme who will punish me for all my past misdeeds.”

This guy was either insane, or a fucking genius.

And to be perfectly honest, I didn’t care.

“Sold,” I said. “I like that kind of originality, and seriously, you’re going to need it with me.” I handed him my card and explained that I’d be checking
YES
for him on the official tally. The organizers of the mixer would tell me at the end of the session if he picked me as well, in addition to other matches. Which there would be none.

He rose with me, took my card, and looked me in the eyes.

And somehow just got more beautiful.

His eyes were gorgeous. Blue tinged with purple. That elusive indigo color they
say
is in the rainbow, but I’ve never seen it. Stunning. He smiled and I forgot about everything around us.

The speed-dating for pervs, the interview process, and for a moment—just a moment—my dominant behavior.

“I’m William Gentry,” he said.

No, you’re flawless.

“Cerise by day,” I stumbled out, and straightened my shoulders. “Mistress Cherry by night.”

His small smile spread into a broad grin. “I like the pun.”

My jaw fell even lower. “You know that
cerise
—” I stumbled.

“Means
cherry
in French, yes. Clever,” he said, voice lowering dangerously, “and very sexy.”

Pull yourself together and stop ogling him. He’s going to be your sub.

“E-mail me to schedule a time to get acquainted and exchange checklists. I expect us to engage in this scenario tomorrow or the next day,” I said stiffly, trying to maintain my best possible poker face.

“I look forward to serving you,” he said, and walked away.

I politely took the paper coaster from beneath my Coke and dabbed away the drool.

Was I up to this?

Of course, when you are trying to seem nonchalant, that’s when you are the clumsiest, right? There I stood, fumbling with the keys to my meek but eco-friendly hybrid, as William eyed me from across the parking lot. He hopped in his new SUV gracefully, pretending to check his mirrors. He was staring at me pretty obviously, and I began to dampen my skivvies thinking about the things I was going to do to him.

“Um,
Chilly Willy
?” a tall brunette said to me, appearing out of nowhere, arms crossed beneath her breasts sternly.

“Erin!” I meeped. “You scared the shit out of me!” The keys dropped into a puddle.

“
You
are scaring the shit out of
me,
my dear,” she said, waggling her pointer finger at me accusingly. “Did I see you give your card to
Chilly Willy
back there? What happened with Roy?” She bugged her eyes and her head cocked in William’s direction.

Oh.

I took a deep breath and shrugged my shoulders. “Roy didn’t work out,” I said quickly, and then gestured toward William. “And as for William—have you
seen
him? He’s gorgeous. Plus, he’s actually agreeing to my terms,” I said casually. Erin was a killer Domme—really stern when she was in the zone, even with her friends. A plain-Jane administrative assistant by day, a fierce conqueror by night. We didn’t really socialize with each other at community functions—normally she and I just shopped and drank tea and talked about tying up men.

Like all girls, right?

Erin continued giving me the evil eye. “That guy has issues, Cerise.”

I leaned against the car, pretending not to care. “Are you going to offer details, or are you just going to give me the creeps?” I took out my lipstick and slicked on another coat of Red Velvet.

She shook her head and looked lost in thought for a moment. She was trying to find the right words. “He,” she began, finally settling on an answer, “he’s just not normal.”

“Hey, Erin, try being more vague. That would help.”

“You really haven’t heard of him?” she asked, uncrossing her arms and placing them on her slim hips. “Look him up on the Flog Blog or FetLife. Before he lived here, he had a few encounters in Philly—I guess he lived there for a while before he moved to Portsmouth. His Dommes all say the same thing—they couldn’t get anywhere with him. His cold hands were such a turn-off.” She lifted her thin eyebrows at me, waiting for some shocked expression.