How to Discipline Your Vampire (6 page)

I decided to e-mail him.

From: Cerise Norrel

Subject: Angry Mistress

Date: May 4, 2012

To: William Gentry

Submissive,

While yesterday’s scene was very pleasing, I reminded you that you broke a cardinal rule of mine when you mentioned something in the hallway that was related to the day’s “plot.” I have said several times, including in our nondisclosure agreement, that you may not revisit or discuss a scene after it has ended. The scene ends in the bedroom.

When you arrive today at my house, I’d like for you to go to my toy chest. You saw where it was yesterday—I got the ropes from it.

You are to pick the flogger of your choice and give yourself ten lashes across your thighs.

I want to see red. Show me how sorry you feel, and I may spare you an additional ten.

Mistress Cherry

I centered myself and began thinking about today’s scene.

Now, how the hell was I supposed to think about classical music when all I wanted to do was read about the sexual misadventures of a vampire submissive?

By the way, that would make an awesome band name. Ladies and gentlemen,
The Sexual Misadventures of a Vampire Submissive!

And the crowd goes wild.

“Sup, slut?” Erin answered.

I sat in my car during lunch break, anxious to talk to Erin. I couldn’t wait to tell her about my exploits with Chilly Willy.

“I’d say a whole lot,” I teased.
I should make her work for it,
I decided.

“Spill your guts. Chilly Willy. Details. Now.”

I looked around the parking lot to see if anyone was near my car. Couldn’t have a student walking by as I detailed tying up some guy I just met.

“He’s impressive,” I said confidently. “Very creative, intelligent, mysterious. I’d give him a nine out of ten, so far.” I subtracted a point for mentioning the scene after it was over.

“Really?” Erin asked, intrigued. “The highest you ever rated Brent was an eight,” she laughed. “Now that I’m fucking him, I gotta tell you, eight is
low
.”

“Well, my needs are different from yours,” I clarified. Erin was more of a straightforward Domme, whereas I was a scene fetishist.

I heard a harsh laugh. “Yeah, Brent’s pretty psyched he doesn’t have to do those whacky scenarios anymore,
chica
. He just gets to be shackled and tortured and pleasured.”

I was silent. Even for Erin, that comment was a little too insensitive for my liking.

“Honey,” she said after a moment, “Brent says nothing but good things about you. He’s mostly kidding about the scenes. He had fun with it, but it was exhausting.”

“I know,” I said, deciding to turn the subject back to William, “and that’s why William is so refreshing. He’s so creative.”

I heard a low whistle. “Yeah, but how is he in bed? Did he freak you out? Did he run?”

Should I divulge details?

I hunched down in the seat, again to make sure no student nearby could hear the naughty details. “Let’s just say he’s masterful with his hands and took care of me in so many ways.”
Telling partial truths wasn’t lying, right?

“Hmm,” she said approvingly, “sounds like all those girls were overreacting. I’m proud of you, Cerise. Taking on a real challenge. Good for you.”

I smiled and did a little victory dance. It sort of looked like a seated running man.

“I’ve been thinking about him nonstop. I can’t wait for today,” I said, and as soon as it came out, I knew I had said too much.

“Careful,” she cautioned. “Don’t get too ahead of yourself. Keep your cool.”

“I will,” I said, attempting to end the call before the bell rang for the next class to start. “Talk to you soon. See you Saturday.” As happy as I was about William, Erin’s comments had set me off. I began thinking of things I shouldn’t.

My last scene with Brent. My mind flashed to the outfit hanging in the bathroom. The unclaimed ring. The fluffy white dress. The long lace veil.

As I walked back to class, I could have sworn I smelled the bittersweet scent of almond massage oil and red wine.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Cerise

I swear on all that’s holy, the kids were on chat steroids today.

“Miss Norrel, do you shop at Hot Topic?” Dylan asked as I walked in.

I looked down at my Ramones tee shirt. “Is it that obvious?” I asked.

“No, just other teachers are frumpy as hell.”

I pointed at him. “Don’t swear.”

Another kid chimed in. “
Hell
isn’t a real swear word—it’s like
damn
or
sucks
.”

I handed out worksheets, and shushed them with my secret Domme voice. I was imagining William at home, gagged and bound, and they just wouldn’t shut up so I could daydream.

“Miss N, will you take us to a Battle of the Bands in Boston? We need an adult,” Emma begged.

“Sorry, hon, I don’t think they’d allow a substitute to assemble a field trip, and I’d be liable if I drove you anywhere,” I answered. Five of her friends pouted.

“Do you watch
American Idol
?”

“Enough with the questions! What’s your deal today, guys?” I asked, exasperated.

They laughed a bit, but more than one of them tried to answer.

“You actually
talk
to us,” one said.

“Like we’re people,” another retorted.

I went up and down the rows, putting checks or zeroes on their homework as I had been asked to. “You are people. And I do like talking to you.”

“Just tell people that Gunderson tried to look up your skirt and replace him.”

“Enough!” I growled, and the snickering continued, but hopefully I didn’t get their hopes up. It was true, I did love these kids, but I really didn’t want to put roots down in any school.

Especially a school with chatty kids who didn’t let me fantasize about my scenes.

Unlike many lifestyle Dommes I knew, I did my scenes during the workweek. All my friends in the community prefer two or three-day weekends with their subs so they could do what they want at their leisure.

Me? I
needed
those scenes to get me through the workday. No idea why more people didn’t do it this way. Walking into school on a Tuesday knowing I was gonna get my socks rocked off later on? Amazing. Fridays were fine because I knew that once I went home, I wouldn’t change out of my flannel jams for days on end.
Ahhhh,
comfort. Cotton, the commercials were true—you really are the fabric of our lives.

As I walked out of the building, I realized I didn’t even wear socks today since I knew William was going to rock them off. Plus, socks with high heels was like wearing white after Labor Day. I shuddered at the thought.

I couldn’t get William’s song out of my head. He didn’t reply to the e-mail. I didn’t expect him to. But back to what had tormented me all day—the haunting piano, the passionate notes. Would he have the CD on when I got in? Did he have a choreographed fuck routine ready that went along with the rhythms of the tune?

Then there were the journals. My mind could not discern anything about them—their origin, that story, when he even got time to write them. The list went on. I put it from my mind as I pulled into the driveway. I noted that there were at least fifteen steps from my car to the door, so if he really were a vampire, he would have fried today. The sun was completely unobscured by clouds, so unless I found a pile of charred handsomeness at my doorstep, he was not a vampire.

I checked inside—no ashes, but my ears were delighted to hear that eerily beautiful tune as I walked through my front door. I smiled and my feet nearly danced their way into the bathroom, where I would find today’s outfit hanging.

I gasped audibly and blushed. There, hanging on my shower curtain, was a ball gown fit for the Oscars. It was a deep gold with layer upon layer of diaphanous material. Some sparkle and shimmer, but nothing over the top. Honestly, it looked like something an opera singer would perform in. Something grand and glorious that could be seen from afar. It even came with long, matching gloves. I had to check the tag. Balenciaga? Badgley Mischka? No tag. Did he cut it out? The
Vogue
reader inside me was desperate to know.

It fit like a dream. The sweetheart neckline accentuated my décolletage, and the flare at the waist gave me an enticing hourglass look. I had always considered my body type to be more of a “ruler” than an “hourglass.” The word
ruler
kind of turned me on, and I decided I was ready to step out, preparing to debut my role as today’s character—the diva.

I walked slowly toward my bedroom, ready to see his muscular body (reddened thighs and all), but realized the music was coming from my dining room. I followed my ears and was rewarded.

This time I was sure he heard my gasp, which was accompanied by my gloved hand fluttering to my mouth and my eyes widening as far as my lids would stretch. He smiled, and kept playing.

Playing the
grand piano
that was now sitting in my dining room.

I almost rubbed my eyes like a kid coming down the stairs on Christmas morning to see that instead of getting presents, Santa actually came through and got her a pony.

William was clad in a black-tie tuxedo, gloves and all, playing piano where my dining room table used to be.

I did not care where my table was. I got it cheap on Craigslist from some creepy dude named Hal who lived a town over.

I
did
care about not looking like an utter fool, drooling over the demigod playing the most beautiful music human ears had ever heard. I assumed my role.

He stopped when he saw me waiting.

“Continue playing for me.”

He put his fingers to the keys for another song, then rose. “Miss Norrel, I’m delighted you accepted my invitation,” he said smoothly, walking over to me. He took my hand and kissed my glove politely. “O, that I were a glove upon that hand,” he said, quoting
Romeo and Juliet
.

Bizzy said,
I’ve got your glove right her
e
,
but I told her to get some class or she wouldn’t be seeing any action. As much as I loved her, it was like having a heckler. I was trying to play a
role
here!

“Your invitation was vague, Mr. Gentry,” I said sharply. “Would you like to clarify?”

He nodded politely. “Of course. As a singer of your caliber, I know you are a busy woman. I brought you here tonight so I could audition for you privately. I know your usual pianist has moved to England, and I was hoping to win you over. Would you kindly come listen to me play for you?” He gestured grandly to the piano.

It was a Steinway. They cost tens of thousands of dollars. Who the hell was William Gentry and why was I lucky enough to have him in my home, ready to please me? He looked older today—not a bad thing, just different. Perhaps it was because the tuxedo made him look sophisticated.

“Please,” I managed to say, as I followed him over to the piano. “Play for me.”

He ran his gloved fingers across the keys deftly, and I nearly salivated. His motions were so graceful, and yet so powerful. As he began to play, I found myself at a loss for words. I simply moved closer to the bench so I could get a better look at my pianist, and listen. I watched his face, enraptured by the music, shaking slowly back and forth to the tune. Sometimes he closed his eyes and threw his head back. I licked my lips. I wanted him now.

“That will be enough,” I said, breathily.

“Miss Norrel,” he said, “are my skills not to your liking?” He attempted to rise, but I held my hand down on his shoulder, indicating that he stay.

“You passed the audition,” I said, scooting between him and the keys. His head was nearly pressed to my breasts and he looked up at me with near-palpable anticipation. “However, I need to see a demonstration of your stamina. I have a very rigorous schedule, Mr. Gentry, and I have to make sure you are up to my standards.”

“Whatever you desire,” he breathed. I felt his exhalation on my chest, and my breath hitched.

“That’s right,” I said, “whatever I desire.”

“Of course. Are you going to punish me?”

“I’m going to fuck you.”

I grabbed him by the bow tie and pulled him to standing as I perched myself upon the piano. I thought I heard a soft growl escape from his throat, and I quickly unzipped his pants and reached into his silk boxers and he gasped. No hesitation—I knew what I wanted, and I wanted it right fucking now. My gloved fingers wrapped around their desired target and I pulled him up against me wordlessly, not even bothering to remove any clothing.

“Yes,” he whispered. “Please, Mistress,” he begged for permission. I nodded, and his hands fluttered through the layers of my full skirt to expose my spread legs.

I pushed aside the fabric of my thong and forced him inside me. Ever since I laid eyes on this man, I wanted him. Why bother kissing or bantering words? I wanted his cock, and now I had it.

We groaned simultaneously and the piano keys whined. He gently put his hands on my hips as I watched his ferociously aroused expression.

Once he was sufficiently settled in position, William began to move.

The man was a fucking jackhammer.

I gripped the piano for dear life as my fully tuxedoed submissive serviced me roughly. “Fuck, William,” I moaned with surprise. I never expected such aggression during our first time, but I wasn’t going to complain.

“Is this what you desired?” he panted, removing one hand to tickle the piano keys softly.

“Just play me.”

He smiled wickedly and placed his free hand between us, working me with his thumb.

“Mmm, I think I can make you hit a high note,” he said, flicking gently as I squealed.

As my grip on the piano tightened, I watched him work. His eyelids fluttered, and his mouth was caught between a smile and a snarl. I clenched my teeth as I rode out the waves of pleasure he dealt. I was beyond feeling, beyond words. I couldn’t tell if he was cold; all I knew was that he was inside me and that was perhaps all I would ever want. Nothing had ever felt this good. Ever.

And we stayed there, fully clothed and fucking, for what seemed like hours.

I called him my toy, my slut, and taunted him.

I stretched my legs and wrapped them around his shoulders. He groaned and watched with a curious smile as our bodies slid apart and back together.

“You feel so good,” he whispered. “So good.” I whimpered at the sound of his low voice, and the vibrations it sent throughout my body.

But I needed more and wanted it deeper, so I sat him on the bench and mounted him, sliding down slowly, inch by inch, teasing him. When I was fully settled, I began to rock back and forth, grinding myself against his hips and pushing down on his shoulders for leverage.

I noticed his eyes settling on my cleavage, so I yanked down the top of the dress, exposing my breasts.

He stroked my chest with his gloved hands gently, and I squirmed beneath the silky touch. He watched my body heave as he gave my nipples a soft pinch, and I ground into him deeper and harder.

And while the entire experience pretty much felt like one long orgasm, I realized I needed something to push me over the edge. One more thing that would do the trick.

I undid the sash of my gown and blindfolded him with it. His eyes closed slowly as I wrapped the luxurious fabric around his temples. “Yes,” he goaded. “More.”

“More?” I asked, undoing his bow tie. “How about this?” I made the tie into a makeshift gag and stuffed it into his open mouth.

And the sight of him beneath me, bound and gagged, was my undoing, and my body unraveled explosively.

“You may come, submissive,” I said to him, and he did as he was told.

Like a good boy.

I needed a moment to calm the fuck down, so I sauntered casually over to the fridge and opened the door.

“I know you won’t eat,” I said passively, “but please stay while I make myself some dinner. I’d love to talk.” Between the journals and the music, I simply had to talk to this man who had just rocked my world.

He approached me, straightening his tux, composed already. “Mistress, would you like me to prepare you dinner while you make yourself more comfortable? As breathtaking as the dress is, I doubt it’s terribly comfy.”

I smirked at his offer and kind gesture. “That’s why I like the weekends,” I explained. “Once I get home from school on a Friday, I wear flannel until Monday,” I laughed, then looked at him seriously. “Is there anything you can’t do, Mr. Gentry?”

His eyes searched me. “I’m sure if pressed, I could find something,” he joked.

“Well, start thinking, because I might just press,” I said, placing my hands on his hard chest. “There are plenty of ingredients to work with in the fridge and cabinets. I’m not picky . . . when it comes to food, that is.”

“I don’t see any recipe books,” he said, eyes scanning my counter, “but I would like to learn your food preferences. May I prepare you something from this?” He began walking toward my recipe box.

No!

“That’s all right. Those are my mom’s recipes, and she’s a real cunt.” He nodded, backing away from the box. “But enough about dinner,” I said, changing the subject. “I would like to see the results of your penance.”