Wishing I Was A Girl Just To Be Owned By You!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Wishing i was a girl just to be owned by You!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

you dont need to be a girl. you just need to be willing to let me dress you like one :)

what do you think? some panties? a little makeup? it'll be fun!

A Commanding Weakness Ch. 9

Alara takes Kuznetzov down to the holodeck to face her feminization fantasies once and for all

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The holodeck couldn’t recreate smells, but all the same, Semya thought that she could taste stale tobacco in the air as she and Alara walked down the narrow, hardlight alleyway, between buildings that were made of nothing more than photons and data. Semya wrinkled her nose at the phantom stench, but in truth it was a pleasant distraction from other aspects of her situation.

It didn’t last. The holodeck was extremely capable of creating local temperature adjustments, and the biting cold of the simulated night air on Semya’s bare legs was a constant, unpleasant, forcefully arousing reminder of what she was wearing.

“Are you ready?” Alara asked her.

Semya flashed her a jealous look. Unlike her, Alara Hisarlik was wrapped up in a long, fine, warm coat. Why did Semya have to be so uncomfortable? What sense did it make for her to be dressed in such a humiliating way, while her therapist was comfortable and dignified? What kind of therapy was this, anyway?

Semya thought about voicing that question, but she couldn’t seem to muster the focus. Instead, she just found herself saying:

“Yes, Alara.”

“Good.” There it was again; that wide, unwholesome grin that had Semya convinced the counselor was bad news. “We’re here.”

She gestured to the building they had just arrived outside: a grubby little hole of a dyke bar, charmingly named ‘The Scissors’.

Semya knew it well. It was a perfect, holographic recreation of the real deal, a bar that Semya had gone cruising at often enough during her stints of shore leave on Earth. She’d actually built the simulation herself, although she’d never quite plucked up the shameless daring to go through with any of the deep, dark fantasies that had motivated it.

But now, thanks to Alara, that was about to change. And Semya was about to experience The Scissors in a very, very different way.

Just thinking about that made Semya whimper. She could already feel herself dripping down her leg.

“Don’t be nervous,” Alara cooed. “This is simply the culmination of your therapy, Semya. The final push. It’s what you need to finally break through your own walls and barriers.”

Semya nodded in instinctive submission. The final push. After this, she’d be cured. Cured of the messed-up, embarrassing fetish that had kept her holed up in her cabin touching herself all day long ever since their last session.

Then she could alert the captain and the rest of the crew. She could save the Inyx. She’d have Alara Hisarlik in the brig. She just needed to be cured.

Semya frowned for a moment as she tried to remember why, exactly, what they were doing was so important to her therapy. Her head started to hurt. The memories wouldn’t form. How had she ended up here? Why was she doing this?

She couldn’t remember. When she tried, she just found herself picturing Alara’s pocket watch.

Alara was doing something to her. Definitely. Something sinister. Semya was sure of it, and it terrified her.

But before she could come to terms with that, she needed to be cured.

“I understand,” she whimpered softly.

“Then,” Alara said, licking her lips and reaching out to open the door to the lesbian bar, “let’s get started.”

Before Semya could brace herself, Alara rested a hand on her back and pushed Semya through the door.

It was loud inside the bar, but as soon as the door closed behind the two of them, a distinctive hush washed through the space as conversations fell silent and heads turned, punctuated only by the scraping of barstools as every single patron craned to look at Semya Kuznetzov.

Semya’s cheeks turned bright red. She knew those looks. She knew what she was to them.

Fresh meat.

The Scissors might have been a filthy dive bar, but there was a kind of etiquette to the place that was as rigid as any military discipline. The way the bar worked was that dominant, butch women hung out and drank, and if any submissive, feminine girls wanted some action, all they had to do was walk through the door and pick who got to buy her a drink.

In the past, Semya had always been one of the butches. Not anymore. And now she was learning how all those femmes had always felt, staring down all these hungry, cocky, lustful stares.

Someone wolf-whistled. A moan slipped out of Semya’s lips.

It was little wonder that everybody was staring. Semya was dressed in the outfit Alara had picked out for the occasion - and it was beyond even her wildest fantasies. A metallic, gold minidress, cut tight to her figure, but ruched so that each of its folds caught the light and attracted attention to Semya’s physique. She felt she didn’t have the figure for a dress like that, but from the looks she was getting, the bar’s patrons disagreed.

In one hand, Semya was clutching a tiny purse Alara had given her to hold her badge. Alara had given her a necklace, too: a woven little gold chain that hung down as if pointing the way to her exposed cleavage. And then there was her makeup: under Alara’s stern instruction, Semya had been practicing, and in a few weeks she’d become skilled enough to give herself a perfect complexion, full, vibrant lips, striking eyeliner, and deep, sultry eyeshadow. But Alara had insisted on a heavy hand. The colors were a little too lurid; the pronounced blush and bright lipstick looked slutty instead of simply pretty, and the way she’d used bright pink instead of a deeper red ensured the resulting look was girlish rather than womanly.

All in all, with her mid-length hair, she looked just like a freshly-turned femme looking to get fucked like a princess for the first time.

And it was desperately, humiliatingly hot to know that, in a way, that was exactly what she was.

The crowning humiliation was the tall, dainty, heels Alara had forced her to wear. Semya stumbled like a newborn faun as Alara pushed her a few paces deeper into the bar.

“Go on,” Alara jeered. The rich pleasure in her voice was unmistakable. “Time to take your medicine, lieutenant.”

Semya let out a plaintive little whine. She had never been so turned on. The outfit was bad enough, but now, feeling dozens of pairs of eyes roving over her body, Semya was completely robbed of the ability to form words. Her head was full of steam. She couldn’t think.

“Does…” she whimpered eventually. “D-does it really… have to be… t-them?”

She gestured at the bar’s patrons. They were all dressed for the part, but each and every one of the patrons’ faces was familiar to Semya - because they were holograms of the Inyx’s crew.

“Oh yes,” Alara insisted, giggling. “Private therapy is merely the beginning. To complete your counseling, you need to be properly socialized into your new, feminine social role.

Hearing that didn’t make thinking any easier.

“B-but,” Semya tried to say, “I t-thought… b-but you said…”

She was supposed to go back to normal after this, wasn’t she? She’d be free of her fetish. She’d be able to go back to being butch. Wasn’t that the whole idea?

Semya wasn’t sure anymore. She just couldn’t think. Why couldn’t she think?

“You have to feel seen,” Alara assured her. “By people familiar to you.”

Semya felt seen. She’d never imagined that people would see so much of her. It was as mortifying as it was hot.

For years, she’d had fantasies just like this.

“Go on.” Alara nudged her forwards. “Give them a show.”

Hesitantly but obediently, Semya started walking along the length of the bar.

“They’re… just holograms,” Semya muttered to herself under her breath. A reminder. Alara had promised. The counselor had created this scenario for her. Nobody else here was an actual person. But they seemed so real. “Just… just holograms.”

It didn’t help. Every one of those amused smirks and lustful stares was written into Semya’s body. They were like burning hot coals on her skin. She could feel her legs turning to jelly beneath her - but all the same, she found herself trying her best to obey Alara’s command. As Semya walked, clumsily putting one heel in front of the other, fighting to maintain balance, she tried to make her hips sway appealingly with each step in that hypnotically alluring way femmes always seemed to manage.

For just a moment, she managed it - but then, a harsh spike of shameful arousal made Semya stumble wildly.

Until someone caught her.

Semya gasped at the sensation of a rough hand clamping tight around her bare forearm and hauling her back to her feet.

“Careful there, princess,” said someone, voice full of a familiar swagger. “Let’s at least get a drink or two in you before you go spreading your legs like that.”

Laughter rippled through the room. Semya had to bury her face in her hands to hide her brush. She wasn’t used to this - to being dressed this way, to being desired, to feeling pursued, any of it. In that moment, what left her tongue-tied the most was just how fragile she felt as this woman - a short-haired butch who worked in engineering, Semya thought - grabbed her and pulled her around.

Fragility. That was new. And it put butterflies in Semya’s stomach.

“C’mon now,” the engineer teased. “Don’t I even get a ‘thank you’?”

“Thank you,” rose instantly to Semya’s lips in a flustered, mortified squeak.

A fresh round of laughter rendered her speechless again. Semya was startled by just how high and feminine her voice came out.

“You’re welcome,” the engineer replied, grinning. “Has anyone ever told you that your voice is just as pretty as your face?”

Semya saw white for a moment.

Pretty?

That was the last thing Semya ever expected to be called. The last thing she wanted to be called.

And yet she couldn’t keep a dumb, shy smile from coming to her face.

“Y’know,” someone else piped up, “I don’t think she has.”

More laughter.

“I’m always happy to take a pretty girl’s first time,” the engineer winked. “Why don’t you let me buy you a drink, princess?”

“P-p-princess?” Semya squeaked. She was used to using lines like that, not having them used on it. It was wrong. It was mortifying. And yet, her body was reacting to it all with supreme eagerness. Each word, each laugh, was a fresh rush of heat across her skin.

She was too flustered to form a reply, but that didn’t seem to matter to the engineer who was currently hitting on her. She was still holding Semya by the arm and used it to guide her over towards where she’d been sitting at the bar. Semya followed meekly. Struggle was beyond her. She was a leaf in the wind.

A small crowd of women, all eager for a piece of the new girl, quickly formed around her.

“So,” the engineer asked, “what do you like to drink?”

Semya was grateful for such a simple question. “I’ll h-have a beer,” she replied automatically.

The chorus of laughter that prompted was louder than ever.

“Aren’t you cute?” the engineer laughed derisively. She held up her hand to get the bartender’s attention. “White wine spritzer for the lady!”

The lady. The humiliation was unbearable. Semya squirmed from the treasonous pleasure that gave her.

Why? Why was this getting to her so much? Semya had always liked feeling strong. Hard. Tough. Feeling strong was comfortable. It suited her. That’s what she’d always thought. In a way, that simple feeling had guided her entire aesthetic. Her identity. Feeling weak? Fragile? Delicate? That was wrong. It made her stomach flutter. It made her feel the way a zero-G-to-atmosphere spacedive made her feel.

And now she was trapped with that feeling of falling. Every look, every whispered comment, every sleazy flirt made it grip her anew. And as the minutes wore on, it was being transformed into a kind of panicked euphoria that robbed all the thoughts from Semya’s head and sent giddy endorphins pounding through her body.

She wished she hated it. But she didn’t. It felt amazing. It was just the way it always was in her fantasies, only the reality of it made it a hundred times more intense.

No. Not reality, she reminded herself. Holograms. These were just holograms.

“So,” the engineer said easily, “what do you call yourself, princess?”

“Don’t let her keep you all to herself,” someone interrupted, sidling up to Semya on the other side and saving her from even deeper embarrassment. She recognized them too. One of Carter’s people. A security officer. “And don’t let her talk your ear off all night either. I know you’re not here for talk.”

“I…” Semya tried to protest, “I’m…”

She stopped when she realized how unconvincing any protest would sound, given her clothes.

“You should try talking for once,” the engineer said to the security officer. “Some girls like it when they know your name before you try getting your hand in their panties.”

“Not sure I agree,” the security officer shot back, a huge, shit-eating grin on her face. “My way hasn’t failed me so far. Anyway, by the time I’m done with them, they don’t even remember their own names.”

She flashed Semya a look. Normally, the lieutenant would have rolled her eyes at a crass boast like that. Now, it just made her squirm all the more.

Then, a third bar dyke joined the fray. “Why don’t we leave these two to bicker?” she suggested to Semya. Semya only vaguely recognized this one - a mess worker, perhaps. “And go somewhere a little more private.”

“Hey now,” the engineer interjected. She leaned across and slipped an arm around Semya’s shoulder, keeping her pulled close. “No poaching! I saw her first.”

The exchange left Semya burning up with flustered heat. It wasn’t just the way the engineer pulled her close so effortlessly, making her feel small and feeble. There was another element, too: the heady intoxication of being desired.

All these women were fighting over Semya. Competing for her, like she was a pretty bauble to be won. That was new to Semya. She’d been appreciated for her looks before, certainly - but never quite like this. It redoubled her euphoria, making her feel light, proud, giddy from the attention. It made the way she was being objectified and swept off her feet feel almost flattering. Like it was a victory, instead of a humiliation.

No, Semya tried to remind herself. This was-

Wrong?

Or was it right? She couldn’t tell. Suddenly, she remembered that Alara was still here, lurking in a far corner, watching. Smiling.

Therapy. This was Semya’s therapy. She had to go through with it. Right?

Suddenly, the sheer wrongness of that struck Semya. She became abruptly aware of the fact that she was on a precipice, teetering, about to lose a vital part of herself. She needed to fight that. She needed to remember who she was. She needed to-

“Hey now,” the security officer piped up. “Who says she’s yours to cop a feel of?”

Semya was about to try and say something - to insist everyone back off - when another arm snaked possessively around her waist. Again, she saw white as the security officer squeezed her.

“I’m sure the princess herself has something to say about it,” the engineer retorted. “She owes me for the drink, remember?”

There it was again. Princess. It made Semya’s stomach do loops. “N-n…” she tried to say. “Nnnno-“

“Oh, I don’t know,” inserted the mess worker. “The pretty little thing seems real tongue-tied. Here, I think you two are crowding the lady.”

Far from helping, the mess worker reached forward, trying to squeeze up next to Semya. In the process, one of her hands came to rest on Semya’s hip, fingertips already teasing at the hem of Semya’s unreasonably short dress. The lieutenant whimpered.

She couldn’t stand up for herself. Why couldn’t she stand up for herself?

“Of course not,” the engineer scoffed. “She’s enjoying my company. She’s my kind of girl. Aren’t you?”

Semya wanted to deny it. All that came out was a moan. She could feel the body heat of these three tall, strong, confident women as they surrounded her. She could smell their scents. She was drowning in it. She felt so light. Like any of them could effortlessly throw her over their shoulders and carry her away.

“I think it’s my company she’s enjoying, actually,” the security officer put in. “Aren’t you, beautiful?”

Semya had to look down meekly as her cheeks scorched with heat.

“See?” the security officer boasted.

“What are you, a high schooler?” the mess worker sneered. “That’s not how you tell if a girl is having a good time. This is.”

In a single deft, well-practiced move, she surged forward and slipped her hand up the skirt of Semya’s minidress. A loud moan erupted from Semya’s lips as she felt the mess worker’s fingertips stroking against her.

She wasn’t wearing anything under the dress.

“See?” the mess worker crowed, holding up two of her fingers for the others to inspect. As she stretched them apart, a long string of sticky wetness formed between them. “She’s loving it.”

Semya had never felt more embarrassed. She wanted the ground to swallow her. Being presented with such visceral proof of her body’s eagerness was humiliating. It made all the denials she wanted to scream seem ridiculous and dishonest, even to her. There was an extra level of humiliation to the fact that she was being treated this way by a mere mess worker - a woman who, normally, couldn’t look her in the eyes without saluting.

But things like that didn’t matter here.

At least it was just a hologram, Semya reminded herself.

That was the only thought she managed to hold on to as the bar around her erupted into mocking, raucous laughter.

“Wow,” the engineer whistled. “Maybe you were right. Maybe she really is the kind of girl who likes to be treated rough.”

As flustered as she was, Semya couldn’t let that pass without comment. She had to hold on - to her butchness, to her strength, to her dignity. To something.

“I’m…” she managed, in a pitiful squeak, “nnottt.”

As ever, her voice, high and girly, completely undermined her. The women lurking around her simply cooed condescendingly and drew even closer.

“Oh? You’re not?” the security officer teased. “Don’t worry, princess. We know how to treat a girl right. Don’t you worry.”

Semya could sense a subtle but sinister change in the atmosphere. The looks she was getting from these other women were growing more and more lustful. More and more predatory. They were no longer competing with each other - at least, not quite in the same way. Their competitiveness had been outstripped by a simple need to see the pretty, feminine Semya utterly ravaged for their collective pleasure.

This was no longer simply flirting. It was a feeding frenzy.

As much as anything else, she could taste it in the air. The pheromones, as all those bar dykes closed in. The smell, too; the musk, really. Sweat, smoke, booze, cologne. Semya was used to it, she’d thought, but not like this. Somehow, it was all the worse for that single, light, floral note; the perfume Alara had made her use before coming here. The dizzying mixture of it all was in her head, making it harder than ever to think. Making her painfully aware of her own weakness.

“So, princess,” the mess worker cooed. “Am I taking you back to my place? Or are you showing the whole bar a good time?”

After a sharp intake of breath at the proposal, Semya glanced gratefully at the woman. There it was. One last offer of dignity - at least, relatively speaking. She wasn’t sure what taking it would even mean, given that she was here for her therapy, but she had to try.

But as soon as she opened her mouth to reply - to beg, in the most humiliating way possible, to be taken home and fucked as a one-night-stand - the mess worker pushed two fingers inside her and expertly hooked them to stroke Semya’s g-spot.

All that came out of her mouth was a high, loud, unbearably needy moan.

The moment felt like it lasted forever. Once Semya’s moan died and she stopped seeing stars, all she could hear was mocking laughter.

“I guess our princess isn’t such a good girl after all,” the engineer commented, smirking. “Looks like we found our entertainment for the night!”

A cheer went up around the bar. Semya wanted to protest, but that word had robbed her of her voice.

Entertainment. That was her now. The center of attention. The star of the show. Semya had always hated it. Had always hated being flashy. Hated the way people looked at her when she wore makeup and dresses. Like she was nothing more than a feast for their eyes. A treat to be devoured.

Except now, it made her cunt drip all over the mess worker’s fingers.

“Hey, wait,” piped up the security officer, although she was clearly no ally. “Don’t keep her all to yourself. I want a piece.”

Semya squealed as she felt the woman’s hand snake down the back of her seat and cup her ass, squeezing and groping without mercy. The touch made her melt and squeal, and made her painfully aware of just how soft and yielding her body truly was.

It was like she was meant for this.

“Relax,” drawled the engineer. “There’s plenty of her to go around.”

“Yeah,” added the mess worker, “and she’s plenty eager for it.”

Using the hand between Semya’s thighs, the mess worker started to pry her legs open - not forcefully, but again, Semya found herself utterly powerless to resist or protest. As she spread her legs, the hem of her tiny dress began to ride up, exposing more and more of her skin to the air. To the eyes of the hungry predators gathered around her.

“Don’t look so scared,” the security officer cooed. “This is what you wanted, right? This is why you came in here. Don’t pretend. We know what you are, princess. You want this. You need this.”

More than ever, Semya wanted to deny it - but this time, the simple truth of what she was being told overwhelmed her.

The security officer - no, this hologram - was right. She had come here for this. She needed this. Alara had taught her that. What use was there in denying it?

So instead, she found herself nodding meekly.

“Good girl,” the security told her. Semya moaned again.

Everyone was looking at her now. Everyone. Not just the three who were immediately crowded around her. She was the center of attention for the entire bar. Even the bartender was watching. Her moans were the music. Her shifting, writhing body was the entertainment. Everyone was looking, and Semya knew all they saw was a needy, flashy femme who was all but begging to be fucked.

And… was she? Semya was starting to lose track. She needed this, but she didn’t want it. Was that right? But if she didn’t want it, why was her body responding with such vicious eagerness? Why did every touch, every crass comment, every vulgar gaze fill her with violent heat?

She… wanted this?

Why? Because of her fetish? But what was it Alara had been saying? That her fetish was her real desires, repressed, waiting to be released? If that was the case, then…

Semya gasped as, out of nowhere, someone leaned forward and claimed her lips with a messy, forceful kiss. She could taste smoke on their breath and cheap whiskey on their tongue. The sheer coarseness of it left her whimpering.

“Wow,” Semya heard someone say, “she really is eager.”

Semya realized she’d been kissing back just as needily.

As everyone laughed, Semya looked down and tried to hide her face, although some implanted instinct against ruining her makeup kept her from burying it in her hands. One moment, she wanted the ground to swallow her up and shield her. The next, that same sense of humiliation was transformed into a lightness of being; a desire to be swept up and aloft, higher, brighter, more visible than ever. Semya was giddy with the urge - before the shame returned, and crushed her anew.

As she grappled with those warring feelings, she could hear the nearby bar dykes arguing about her - specifically, about who was going to get the first ‘turn’. They were comparing dibs, debating about Semya’s potential preferences, and even, in a few cases, planting elbows on the bartop so they could arm-wrestle for her. Being the center of attention was mortifying, but being actively fought over was lighting an undeniable fire inside Semya.

This was her, now. A trophy. A prize to be claimed.

That was so new. She’d never felt desired quite like that - desired, certainly but in a different way. She was learning that the relationship between butch and femme was far from symmetrical - and that, until now, she’d been blissfully unaware of just dizzying the euphoria that stemmed from being desired and chased could be.

It was hot. It was so fucking hot.

After a few moments, the pecking order was decided and the ‘winner’ presented herself; unsurprisingly, it was the engineer who had first caught Semya when she’d tripped. Once, Semya would have squared up against a woman like her with a grin on her face for the opportunity to take a pretty girl home. Now, as the engineer ogled her, Semya felt nothing but meek, flustered submission.

“Hey, princess,” the engineer said. Her voice was soft, but the cocky shark’s grin on her face made a lie of it. “Don’t worry. I’ll make you feel good.”

The promise made Semya shiver. For the first time, she truly looked at the other woman. She was tall, and wearing a ribbed tank top that left her burly arms on display. She had a thick-set, husky build, but when she moved and flexed, the musculature underneath was clearly visible, attesting to long hours spent lifting and carrying machinery in the bowels of the Inyx. She had sailors’ tattoos on her biceps, marking ships and campaigns served on, and her hair was short and slicked over to one side.

Words came unbidden into Semya’s mind. Words she’d normally reserve for herself, not think about other women. Cool. Handsome. Strong.

Hot.

A nervous, dumb smile came to Semya’s face.

And her eyes went wide as the engineer dropped to her knees and buried herself between Semya’s thighs.

The very first touch of her tongue had Semya moaning. She twitched and writhed as the pleasure hit, although all her efforts did nothing more than encourage the engineer as she started eating Semya out. It overwhelmed her instantly and defied all reason. Semya had always been a giver, not a receiver, but within moments this woman’s skillful tongue unraveled that part of her.

Always a top, always a giver - but not anymore. She couldn’t forget this. Her body couldn’t forget this.

At that moment, far too late, as the first rush of her new addiction hit, Semya suddenly became conscious of the fact that this was wrong. Completely wrong. This wasn’t a cure for her fetish. It was the opposite. It was fuel for the flames. And she was at risk of losing something she could truly never get back.

She needed to fight this. She needed to resist. She needed to-

“O-oh myy gggoddd!” The scream forced its way from Semya’s lips as the engineer’s tongue found its way even deeper inside her. The entire bar laughed at her plight, and the mixture of humiliation and pleasure robbed her of her train of thought.

She needed to… what?

She couldn’t think.

The engineer was making a hopeless puppet of her. She had such power over Semya; whenever she wanted, she could make her moan loud, or gasp breathlessly, or twitch this way or that, all with a single flick of her tongue. She proved it, over and over again. She delighted in it, making a mockery of the feeble resistance Semya tried to put up when she attempted to hold back her moans.

Little by little, she was teasing out and eroding Semya’s resistance. Chewing it up and spitting it out. Every time Semya stifled a moan or bit down on her own thrashing, the engineer noticed and made sure that her next display of ravenous pleasure was all the more humiliating for it. She tongue-fucked her skillfully, slow one moment, fast the next, attacking her clit, or stroking her lips, or pushing her tongue deep inside her until Semya’s back arched and her screams filled the whole bar.

Every time Semya tried fighting back, even a little, she slipped deeper into pleasure-drunk euphoria and she became more and more painfully aware of her own weakness. Her own lightness. Compared to the engineer - to how strong and forceful she was - Semya felt like she was made of nothing.

And all the while, her moans grew louder and louder.

“Settle down, princess,” jeered one of the women who had accosted Semya earlier - the security officer, she thought, although her vision was far too blurred to tell. “You’re getting exactly what you came here for.”

“N-n-noooo,” Semya forced out, even as the bar echoed with mocking laughter. “I’m not… I’m nnnottt… I’m… this… isn’tttt…”

She couldn’t quite get the words out. The engineer’s tongue was turning her thoughts into slurry. Even if Semya could speak without moaning, what would she say? What was there to protest?

It wasn’t like she could pretend not to be enjoying this. The wetness dripping onto the floor of the bar made a lie of that.

“I’m…” she moaned. “I’mmmm”

What?

Masc? Butch? A top?

She wasn’t sure any of those things were true anymore.

Her identity itself was being washed away by the simple fact that nothing had ever felt better than this.

“OK, princess,” said the engineer from between her thighs, drool and stickiness dripping from her lips. “How about we let everyone else take their turn?”

Before Semya could reply, the engineer rose smoothly to her feet and spun her around with her powerful arms, so that she was facing out into the bar. Her deep blush and shameful wetness were on display, and even without someone holding them apart, Semya couldn’t seem to find the strength to close her legs.

She was a spectacle. And everyone was looking. Everyone. A dozen pairs of eyes, each of them full of lust.

And it was all for her. All for Semya.

In the face of that, her soiled pride simply melted away. The simple euphoria of being beautiful and desired and prized cleansed away everything else. Amidst Semya’s frenzied lust, it seemed like clarity.

She wanted this. She needed this.

Because, deep down, it was who she really was.

And with that settled, she found herself nodding and grinning stupidly.

“Y-yes,” she said, in a dumb, high-pitched, girly voice. “Y-yes, please.”

That was all anyone needed to hear. In an instant, everyone else was on top of her, a dozen or more hands exploring every part of her body with the kind of ravenous, destructive lust normally reserved for picking the petals from flowers.

Everyone wanted a piece of Semya. They wanted to soil her. They wanted to ruin her dress, to smear her lipstick, to leave her eyeliner running down her face. They lived for it. They loved it.

And so did she.

It was a new feeling to Semya. The feeling of being a pretty vase, cracking apart. It was such a thrill. All along, Semya had suspected how good it would feel. That was why had become such a singular, fetishistic focus of hers. But to experience it was something else. It put the lie to all her excuses about it being ‘just’ a fetish.

This wasn’t ‘just’ anything. And Semya could see, now, clearly, that Alara had been right all along. She couldn’t be cured. Not of this. It was too intense. Now she was drowning in the feeling, and all she wanted was more.

She wanted to live this. Every day. Every moment.

She wanted to make sure there was no going back.

So, as the mess worker from earlier dove between her legs and started eating her out, Semya made sure her moans were higher and girlier than ever before. As another, a woman Semya hadn’t exchanged a single word with, yanked the top of her dress down to make her tits spill out, Semya made sure the faux-protest she let out was breathy, weak, and very distinctly feminine.

It felt so good, being violated like that. The fragility, most of all. Fragility and femininity were inextricably fused in Semya’s mind. For the longest time, she’d been laboring under the delusion that it meant femininity was wrong for her. Now, Alara had helped her to understand how breathtakingly pleasurable fragility could be.

And you never felt more fragile than when you were breaking.

“Y-yes!” Semya moaned. No more ‘no’s. No more denials. She was beyond that. “P-please! Moreeeee!”

She was free. Free to embrace her fantasies. Free to sink into the bliss, safe and secure in the knowledge that besides Alara, nobody was watching. These were all holograms. They weren’t really members of the crew.  Nothing more than hardened light. With that fixed firmly in her mind, Semya was free to embrace her darkest fantasies. To breathe deep, and let the overpowering scent of sweat and lust carry her away.

At first, there was only one woman who wasn’t participating in the feeding frenzy. Alara Hisarlik, the ship’s counselor, was still standing off to one side, watching without a word. But anyone who saw her would have been able to tell that her bystanding was anything innocent. There was an unhealthy, lurid glow in her eyes; a fascination that was entirely at odds with her duty as a therapist and a healer. Her enjoyment was evident, but it was just as obvious that this wasn’t enough to sate her appetite. Not even close.

Semya Kuznetzov was simply her first subject. And this was simply the beginning of her new career.

Out of nowhere, another woman appeared next to her. The holodeck’s emitters carefully manipulated the photons passing through the air to form a holographic image that was the perfect duplicate of Wasp, the hacker, right down to the neon green highlights in her hair. After a brief moment, the image came to life, a wicked grin spreading across her face as she trained her eyes on the counselor.

“Nice work, ‘lara,” Wasp drawled. “I knew you had it in you.”

Alara didn’t so much as glance at her. She didn’t want to miss a thing. She wanted to etch every moment of Semya’s fall into her memory.

“I suppose I did,” Alara mused in reply. “All along. I really did.”

For her, as much as for Semya, this was a rebirth. It emanated from her; every mote of dignity and strength that Semya had lost, Alara seemed to have gained.

“I just got one question,” Wasp said, as she sauntered around, phasing through tables and stools as she did. No hardlight today, apparently. With her punk look, she seemed oddly at home in the dark confines of the dyke bar. “Why do it so slow? All the sessions, the old-school hypnosis schtick… why? If you wanted her like this, all you had to do was slip her one of my new little toys.”

Alara smiled a thin smile. “You don’t understand,” she replied. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you? It’s about the journey, not the destination. It’s the personal touches. The little push-and-pull of watching her come apart.” The counselor shivered. “I wouldn’t skip it for the world.”

Wasp stared at her thoughtfully for a moment, but then just shrugged. “If you say so. Not like I’m in any place to judge. As long as you’re still in with me, you can be any kind of pervert you want.”

Alara laughed. “Thank you. And besides, you’ve used the time well, I think.”

Wasp tittered like a giddy child. “Oh, absolutely. I’ve got almost all of them now. Doc, down in medbay, is quite the little worker drone. The whole crew has pretty much got their ‘vaccination’. We’re ready for the endgame.”

“I see.” Alara seemed more interested in her own plans than Wasp’s. After a moment, she nodded towards the bar dykes were fucking Semya. “Speaking of: thank you for their cooperation. I think it’s the perfect little touch.”

“No problem.” Wasp grinned. “I’m no stranger to theatricality.”

Both of them watched the developing orgy. A couple of the women had lifted Semya up onto the bartop, and people were taking turns crawling up between her legs and eating her out. They seemed to be competing to see who could make her thrash the most. At the other end, another group was using her mouth just as forcefully, making her suck on fingers, strap-ons, beer bottles. Whatever they wanted.

Semya was eager for all of it.

She was the center of attention. The focal point of all this debauchery. In a strange, perverse way, she really did look like some kind of princess, in the ruins of her delicate jewelry and golden dress, now hopelessly torn and crumpled from all the groping. Everyone else at the bar was gathered around to pay her a twisted tribute, and her skin was covered with proof of their adorations: cum, drool, kiss marks, love bites, and more.

And Semya loved it. She was in heaven. She had completely given herself over to fantasy.

Now it was time for Alara to bring her back down to reality.

“Time to rip off the band-aid,” she murmured, stepping forward.

“Knock yourself out, shrink,” Wasp said, dissolving back into nothingness as she offered a mock salute to her conspirator.

A vicious smirk on her face, Alara held her head high as she walked to the center of the space.

“Computer,” she said, in a loud, clear voice. “End simulation.”

The ship’s computer responded instantly, and with a shimmer, the world around them dissolved. The bar, the stools, the drinks, even the street outside - all of it phased out of existence as the light dissipated. Semya was still held up in the air, a few feet from the ground, but only by a nondescript, gray, hardlight box generated by the holodeck’s safety subroutines. That was all that remained of the holodeck scenario that had been running. Everything else had shut down. Nothing else was left.

But all the bar dykes were.

“Do you see, Semya?” Alara said to her patient. “I’m afraid I can’t simply allow you to lapse into futile escapism. What kind of cure would that be?”

It took Semya a long moment to rouse herself from the blissful overwhelmed, aroused stupor she’d lapsed into. But when she started to process what was happening to her, her eyes went wide and started trembling.

“Wha…” she panted in disbelief. “What… you’re… they’re…”

Real.

Not holograms. Real people. All of the women who’d been toying with Semya were simply members of the crew, dressed up and playing their assigned parts. It had to be true - it was the only way to explain why they were still here - but even so, Semya couldn’t quite bring herself to accept it.

But eventually, the truth forced her to her knees. As much as Semya wanted to pretend this was simply a cruel trick, now that she was thinking about it, there was something no amount of holodeck deception could explain: the smell. The scent of sweat, musk and sex Semya had been drinking deeply of all evening.

Holodecks couldn’t recreate smells. She should have known.

“That’s right,” Alara confirmed, as she saw the penny drop. “You’ve been doing all this in front of members of the crew. In front of people under your command. And rest assured: they won’t forget it.”

Unpleasant laughter echoed around the now-empty space. Wasp had used her tools of mental manipulation to make them play along, but they were far from mindless drones. They had been enjoying it every bit as much as Semya.

A chance to defile a stern, stuck-up XO? Who wouldn’t?

Semya looked between them like a frightened, trapped doe. There was no escape. All of them had seen her at her lowest. At her most humiliated. They knew her innermost secret. Her fetish had been laid bare. They would never look at her the same way again - and nor would anyone else, once word spread.

Semya’s reputation was shattered. Her dignity was a thing of the past. Her very identity, a facade barely held up by increasingly thin excuses, was now collapsing.

After a few long, unpleasant seconds, Semya made peace with it the only way she could.

By embracing it.

Her eyes fogged over again and, with a vacant, girlish giggle, she beckoned to a familiar face: the mess worker who had first touched her.

“Heyyyy,” Semya slurred. Her voice was breathy. Needy. “Why did you stop?”

In that moment, her pride broke. Her identity broke. Her mind broke. Whatever had been left of the stern, quiet, understated, strong XO of the Inyx was currently dribbling out of her mouth and drooling from between her thighs. In the face of impossible humiliation, Semya had collapsed in on herself and decided that this was all she wanted to do and all she wanted to be.

The women surrounding her exchanged looks. They all knew prey going limp when they saw it. Still, they looked to Alara for permission. She returned a quick nod. With that, the orgy resumed.

They kept at Semya for hours, eating her out, slapping her around, leaving her makeup a ruin - and all the while, she did nothing more than giggle and moan and squeal girlishly in submissive acceptance. Alara didn’t stay for that, though. She had already seen the moment she’d been working towards. She’d won. And for what felt like the first time in her life, she knew satisfaction.

The next day, when Semya Kuznetzov reported for duty wearing a dress, it was nothing more than confirmation.

—

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A Commanding Weakness Ch. 8

Kuznetzov, the Inyx’s second-in-command, enters therapy with Alara, who shows her that her desire to be more feminine is at the route of her "paranoia"

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---

“You’re telling me…” Lieutenant Kuznetzov said slowly. “There’s… really nothing going on? No conspiracy? Nothing to worry about? It… was all in my head?”

“All in your head,” Counselor Alara Hisarlik replied, placing careful emphasis on those words. “It’s as I’ve told you. I know this may be difficult to accept, but I’ve been investigating thoroughly over the past two weeks. Your fears that the crew of this ship are being manipulated or infiltrated in some way are entirely unfounded.”

“I see,” Lieutenant Kuznetzov muttered. “Thank you.”

She was grateful, wasn’t she? After all, this was what she’d been hoping to hear, wasn’t it? It was the best possible outcome. A few mental health issues aside, there was nothing to worry about. The Inyx wasn’t in danger. She should be relieved.

So why, instead, was Lieutenant Kuznetzov finding it so hard to accept?

Maybe it was how bad things had gotten. More than ever, Lieutenant Kuznetzov was sure something was up. So many members of the crew were behaving strangely - the science officer, the ship’s doctor, even the captain. Every time she entered a room, Kuznetzov was greeted with eerie silences and glassy stares, as if there was some sinister secret that everyone but her was in on.

Paranoia? It was possible, of course. But Lieutenant Kuznetzov would never have made second-in-command if her instincts weren’t worth a damn, and they were telling her that something was terribly, terribly wrong.

“What’s wrong?” Alara prompted. “You seem troubled, Lieutenant.”

Or perhaps it was Alara Hisarlik.

She’d changed. Hadn’t she? There was something different about her. Lieutenant Kuznetzov just couldn’t quite seem to put her finger on it. She seemed… what was it? Calmer? Happier? More confident? Yes, all of those. But those were good things. Weren’t they?

So why did Lieutenant Kuznetzov suddenly feel so uneasy around her?

Maybe it was her cabin. Two weeks ago, it had felt warm. Inviting. Since then, the counselor had redecorated, stripping back much of that pleasant decor in favor of a far more spartan vibe. It wasn’t bad, exactly. Just about every cabin on a warship like the Inyx could be called ‘spartan’. But the difference was palpable.

Or maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was all in Lieutenant Kuznetzov’s head.

“I’m just…” Lieutenant Kuznetzov confessed. “I can’t shake the feeling that… Look, are you sure? Absolutely certain?”

“Certain,” Alara insisted, as she took a sip of her tea. Somehow, her icy calm wasn’t comforting. “Completely. It’s all in your head.”

“I… see.” Lieutenant Kuznetzov found herself unconvinced, and it was clear that she wasn’t going to get any answers here. She made to stand up. “In that case, counselor, I’ll try to put it out of my mind. My apologies for wasting your-“

“No, sit.”

Lieutenant Kuznetzov was so surprised, she found herself sinking back down into her seat. Alara Hisarlik wasn’t usually one to give orders - certainly not with that kind of steel in her voice. She sounded more like Captain Vasser than she did her usual, mild-mannered self.

“Excuse me?” the lieutenant said.

“What kind of counselor would I bet if I just let you walk out of here?” Alara tutted. She was smiling - it was meant to be warm, perhaps. Comforting. It didn’t come across that way. “Lieutenant Kuznetzov, I’m deeply concerned for your mental well-being. Paranoid delusions, anxiety, uncertainty… we really must get to the bottom of this.”

Lieutenant Kuznetzov flinched. She hadn’t been prepared for such bluntness. “Perhaps you’re right,” she admitted.

Painful though it was to face up to it, her conviction that something was amiss aboard the Inyx was entirely undercut by her lack of evidence. Put another way… yes, she really did sound paranoid. She couldn’t blame the ship’s counselor for being firm when the moment called for it, she decided.

“Of course I am.” Alara laughed. “I’m an expert. Now, please, get comfortable. We may need a little time.”

She reached over to a small, wooden jewelry box that was resting on a nearby table. From within, the counselor produced what Lieutenant Kuzentzov just about recognized from historical photographs as a watch - the old, analog kind, worn in a pocket and attached by a chain. This one was gold, it seemed, with fine Roman numerals around the face, and when she strained her ears, the lieutenant could just about hear it tick.

“Do you know what this is?” Alara asked, touching the watch fondly. Her eyes were fixed on it.

“A family heirloom?” Lieutenant Kuznetzov guessed. From how she handled it, it was clear the pocket watch was of great significance to the counselor.

Alara just laughed, though. “Not at all!” she exclaimed, voice rich with humor. “It’s just a replica. I had the ship’s computer fabricate it for me recently. But it’s based on something I saw in an old movie, while I was growing up. I remember being quite fascinated with it. It really awakened some things in me. Things I hadn’t thought about in years - until very recently, in fact.”

Lieutenant Kuznetzov shifted uncomfortably. How was this related to her counseling?

“Anyway.” With a flourish, Alara lifted the watch into the air and dangled it by its chain as she sat back in her chair. “I’d like you to look at this, please.”

“Why?” Lieutenant Kuznetzov asked, although she was already looking. The pocket watch had a way of catching the eye.

“Because I told you to.”

The lieutenant blinked. She couldn’t tell if Alara was joking.

“An external visual focus can often be conducive to the kind of mental state we want you to achieve in therapy,” Alara explained after a moment. “That’s why. But you really must trust me, lieutenant. We won’t get very far if you keep asking ‘why’ like a precocious child. I know what I’m doing. Trust that your welfare is my highest priority.”

Lieutenant Kuznetzov felt her choler rise at the reprimand, but she quickly reasoned herself out of anger. Alara had a point. She was the ship’s counselor. It was natural to think that she knew what she was doing, and that she had the lieutenant’s best interests at heart. Alara was probably a little offended she kept questioning her. Maybe Lieutenant Kuznetzov should try being a little more cooperative. After all, if she really was paranoid, she certainly needed Alara’s help.

And if there really was some kind of conspiracy afoot, and if - as her instincts were telling her - Alara was now part of it?

Lieutenant Kuznetzov shook that thought off. It was all in her head.

“You’re right,” she said, after taking a few deep breaths. “My apologies.”

“Thank you.” Alara nodded. “Now, please. The watch. Look closely.”

Obediently, Lieutenant Kuznetzov turned her full attention to the pocket watch. She wasn’t really sure what else she was meant to do besides simply looking. It was nice to look at, she supposed. The watch was pretty, and there was something pleasing about the perfect regularity of the second hand as it moved around the face. It was impressive to think about how, in the pre-electronic age, humanity had been completely dependent on clockwork pieces like this to tell the time with any precision. A fine pocket watch must have held an almost godlike sway over people, simply by counting the minutes and keeping them to schedule.

“Yes, good,” Alara cooed, “keep your eyes focused right in the middle there. Let yourself be aware of the hands moving without looking straight at them.”

It took Lieutenant Kuznetzov a few minutes to slip into that particular mental groove. At first, her attention kept wandering - and with it, her gaze. It was so easy to find herself following the tip of the second hand instead, as it moved in a circle around the watch’s face. But deep breathing helped - it was just like reentry training, she told herself - and so did letting her eyes half-unfocus until the ticking of the pocket watch seemed to be happening in a blur all around her.

“OK,” Lieutenant Kuznetzov said eventually. She felt strange. Sleepy, almost. Maybe she was more exhausted than she realized.

“Good,” Alara repeated. “You’re doing very well, Lieutenant. Think of this as a meditation exercise. We’re doing this so that we can communicate with your subconscious mind. That’s where we can find the source of your trauma.”

Lieutenant Kuztetzov frowned - or at least, she tried to. Her face seemed strangely unresponsive to her emotions. Her trauma? That didn’t sound right. But… why? She wasn’t sure. Her thoughts were slow. It was proving surprisingly easy to slip into a kind of meditative stupor as she stared at Alara’s watch.

“Yes, trauma.” Alara seemed to register the lieutenant’s skepticism.

The older woman started to swing the pocket watch back and forth like a pendulum. At first, Lieutenant Kuznetzov felt faintly annoyed, but she quickly found she could stay focused on it regardless. Her eyes moved back and forth, matching the watch’s rhythm, and she leaned forward a little, eager to bring all her concentration to bear on the object.

“We all have trauma,” Alara explained. Her voice was very slow - or maybe the lieutenant just heard it that way. Everything seemed slow to her now. “Every one of us. It shapes us, even though we may not realize it. We carry it around inside us all the time.” Past the watch, Lieutenant Kuznetzov could just about make out a wide grin dawning on Alara’s face. “Or, as in your case, we wear it on our sleeves.”

What did she mean by that? Lieutenant Kuznetzov found that her skepticism had already sunk into the quicksand of her entranced mind. Now, she was simply eager to understand. Alara’s words had an irresistible power to them. They were compelling, and she could sense that on some level, she was just as focused on them as she was on the watch.

“You know what I’m talking about,” Alara told her. “I’m talking about how you present yourself. About this aesthetic of tough, strong, butch masculinity you insist on presenting.”

Lieutenant Kuznetzov’s blood suddenly ran cold. “The… my… what are you…”

What was she talking about? Clearly, it was some kind of reference to Lieutenant Kuznentzov being butch. But what did that have to do with anything? She’d always been a butch lesbian. She was perfectly comfortable with her identity. Her butchness had nothing to do with her present feelings.

Right?

Suddenly, Lieutenant Kuznetzov wasn’t so sure. Her usual reserves of will and confidence were lost in the fog. And Alara seemed very, very certain.

“Don’t you see?” The counselor’s voice was stronger than ever. There was a rich pleasure to it, like she was finally, truly alive, even as Alara sat back in her big, comfortable chair, the perfect picture of calm and assurance. “It’s deeply connected. Your butchness. Your paranoia. They share a root in your psyche.”

"N-no…” Lieutenant Kuznetzov murmured. A murmur was all she could muster. She felt so weak. If only she could look away from the pocket watch… but she couldn’t, she had to keep looking.

Who had told her that again?

It was all so confusing. The lieutenant was losing track. All she could remember was that she needed to keep staring. Then, everything would become clear. Yes. She was sure of that.

“Don’t worry, dear,” Alara insisted. “It’s all going to be OK. All you need to do is listen to me.”

Lieutenant Kuznetzov shook her head numbly. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she was about to lose something precious to her. “S-stop.”

“We can’t stop,” Alara said patiently, like she was talking to a child. “Not while you’re still so confused. Don’t you see the connection? The way you present yourself is like a barrier between you and your colleagues. It keeps you apart. Alone. And now you’ve concocted this fantasy about a conspiracy in order to reinforce those barriers. You’d be much happier without them, you know.”

“No,” Lieutenant Kuznetzov repeated. She was finding her voice again. With great effort, she was able to rouse herself a little. She needed to put a stop to this. Right now. “That… is not…”

“Come now,” Alara cooed. “It’s trauma. All of it. How else do you explain those forced-feminization fantasies of yours?”

At that, Lieutenant Kuznetzov froze. She was paralyzed. Her resistance evaporated into the ether. The sheer shock robbed her of it.

How did she know? How did she know about that?

“A new… friend of mine was showing me your holodeck files,” Alara tutted. “I’m afraid that’s not a very healthy outlet, lieutenant. Can’t you see it? This twisted little fetish of yours is simply your true self, begging to be set free.”

Lieutenant Kuznetzov was too stunned to argue. Too stunned to react. Too stunned to do anything but accept the words Alara was pouring into her hypnotized ear.

“Yes, we really must address this,” Alara mused. Her grin was overwhelmingly sinister, but Lieutenant Kuznetzov was too far gone to see it. She had eyes only for the pocket watch. “We’ll have to go deep. I’m sure you have some repressed memories that can shed light on this. Listen to me, lieutenant. Let me tell you all about it. Let me show you what, exactly, you need to remember.”

Lieutenant Kuznetzov slumped forward in dumb, mindless acceptance. She was completely hypnotized. Her mind was an open book - and Alara Hisarlik its author, as she spoke a new, twisted truth that turned the lieutenant’s identity on its head.

***

“For my records,” Alara dictated to her holocorder, “this is week two, session four of my feminine adjustment therapy with Lieutenant Kuznetzov.”

Lieutenant Kuznetzov squirmed at the name Alara had chosen to give it.

By now, these sessions had become familiar. As usual, Lieutenant Kuznetzov sat, hunched and uncertain, in Alara’s cabin while the counselor helped her. As ever, Alara was supremely at ease. She sat back in her chair, tall and formidable, teacup in one hand and notepad in the other, and regarded the lieutenant with an unpleasantly piercing gaze.

In truth, the whole experience was unpleasant. But Lieutenant Kuznetzov had no choice but to go through with it. Because…

She frowned. There was a reason, wasn’t there?

Of course there was.

“So, Lieutenant,” Alara began, “how have you been feeling since our last session?”

“I’ve been well.” Lieutenant Kuznetzov immediately flinched at how uncertain she sounded. “I think.”

“You think?” Alara raised an eyebrow. “Tell me about that.”

The counselor sounded so forceful. So imperious. That wasn’t right, was it? Lieutenant Kuznetzov was growing increasingly sure of it. There was something off about Alara Hisarlik. With each session, Lieutenant Kuznetzov was more and more certain.

But… was that simply her paranoia talking?

She wanted to raise the issue with the captain. But her therapy was too important to jeopardize.

“It’s been… a little distracting,” Lieutenant Kuznetzov confessed.

“Ah.” Alara’s smile widened. Became predatory. “Then, you’ve been following the instructions I gave you?”

Lieutenant Kuznetzov nodded curtly, and tried to hide how much she was suddenly blushing.

“Wonderful.” Alara’s voice was slow and gleeful. “Show me.”

Lieutenant Kuznetzov sucked in a breath so hard she almost choked. “C-counselor!” she gasped. “That wouldn’t be… I can’t… t-that’s inappropriate!”

As soon as Alara started shaking her head, though, Lieutenant Kuznetzov felt her conviction beginning to wilt.

“Lieutenant,” Alara tutted. Condescension dripped from her words. “Be reasonable. How am I supposed to supervise your therapy if I can’t inspect your progress?”

Lieutenant Kuznetzov shrank back. Her therapy. Right. It was all-important, and Alara was the only one she could trust with it. She knew that, somehow. There was no room to argue.

“V-very well,” the butch woman muttered. “H-here.”

Alara watched her carefully over the rim of her teacup as Lieutenant Kuznetzov rose to her feet. After a long moment of hesitation and with great reluctance, the lieutenant presented herself for inspection. She unbuttoned her smart jacket halfway down its front, and at the same time shucked her uniform pants down beneath her hips.

Doing so made her blush fiercely. It felt obscene. Like she was flashing someone. And the worst part was that now there was something for them to see.

Instead of her usual sports bra and boxers, beneath her uniform, Lieutenant Kuznetzov was wearing bright pink lingerie.

It was an assignment from the counselor. Alara had even picked out the bra and panties for her. They were so humiliatingly eye-catching, especially for a butch. So lacy. So thin. So damn frilly, with those needless little bows and floral embellishments.

It was exactly like what Lieutenant Kuznetzov wore in all her worst fantasies.

“Perfect,” Alara purred. “You look lovely in them, by the way. Very cute.”

A sudden rush of heat turned Lieutenant Kuznetzov’s thoughts to ash and her voice into a girlish squeak. “T-t-thank you.”

She slumped back into the chair and hid her face. Why did she have to find that so hot?

“I suppose you haven’t worn anything like this in… how long?” Alara asked.

“S-since I was a teenager,” Lieutenant Kuznetzov managed.

“Almost exactly as long as you’ve had this fetish,” Alara noted. “Telling, don’t you think?”

Lieutenant Kuznetzov balled her hands into fists and said nothing.

What could she say? Somebody else knowing about her feminization fetish was a nightmare come to life. She’d always tried her hardest to excuse it to herself. To insist that it was nothing - just a harmless little quirk of her psychology; a little bit of unprocessed trauma that came to the fore, sometimes, when she was in a certain mood.

So what if thinking about someone forcing her to dress like a femme got her off harder than anything else? That didn’t mean anything. 

That was what she’d always told herself. In her late teenage years, Lieutenant Kuznetzov had discovered that dressing in an androgynous or even masculine fashion made her feel good. It completely addressed the uneasy feeling she got in her gut whenever she wore a skirt or a dress. Her newfound butchness went hand-in-hand with her realization that she was a lesbian, and as a butch, she’d found a place in the community.

But slowly, over time, her fetish for feminization had grown inside her like a tainted seed. In her mind’s eye, that unease with femininity had been steadily transformed from disdain into a kind of sick thrill, the need for which she couldn’t satiate anywhere else. Trying to clamp down on it completely hadn’t worked, so Lieutenant Kuznetzov had resorted to indulging it little by little, in masturbatory fantasies or holodeck scenarios. Throughout her military career, it had remained her naughty little secret, never to be revealed or disclosed.

The secrecy made it feel even more shameful. But Lieutenant Kuznetzov had achieved a kind of peace with the fact that she was more than just a fetish. What got her off didn’t dictate her identity. It didn’t undermine who she was. It didn’t undermine her butchness. That was what she’d always thought.

Alara had shown her otherwise.

“You see? You’ve learned to eroticize your own femininity, even as you keep it at arm’s length,” Alara explained for her again. “It’s a symptom of your deep longing for a reconciliation with it. We need to demystify it for you, lieutenant.” She tilted her head to one side. “And yet, you’ve been finding this distracting?”

Lieutenant Kuznetzov flinched again. Why did Alara have to look at her like that? Her gaze made it so damn hard to think, and even harder to lie.

“I get…” she confessed in a whisper, “t-turned on.”

“And there it is.” Alara’s vindication was audible. “Well. Clearly, we need to go a little deeper.”

A chain jangled. Lieutenant Kuznetzov looked up. The counselor’s pocket watch was hanging in the air between them.

She let out a low groan. She hated this part. Whenever the watch came out, she seemed to get so confused. It robbed her of the ability to stand up for herself. To assert herself and her identity. Already, she could feel the room around her beginning to swim and spin as her eyes locked onto the center of the pocket watch.

“Please…” Lieutenant Kuznetzov tried to say. “Can’t we… do we really have to…”

“Yes, lieutenant,” Alara scolded. “We do. Focus, now. You know how this works.”

Without really meaning to, Lieutenant Kuznetzov nodded in submission. That response had been conditioned into her now. Obediently, she stared into the watch and let its rhythmic ticking take her away from herself.

“How about your other homework?” Alara asked as she began to swing the pocket watch from side to side. “Did you cut your hair?”

This time, Lieutenant Kuznetzov couldn’t even flinch. It was like all the strength had gone out of her body. “N-no,” she replied distantly.

Every single week, for years now, Lieutenant Kuznetzov had made sure to get her hair trimmed back so that her neat, short side shave remained perfect. But not this week.

She was dreading the moment someone else on the crew noticed.

“Good,” Alara told her soothingly. “Good girl.”

Lieutenant Kuznetzov moaned softly. She hated being called that.

Unless she didn’t. Unless the fluttering in her stomach meant something else. Thanks to Alara, she wasn’t sure.

“Let’s go a little deeper,” Alara said, as Lieutenant Kuznetzov started to slip into trance. “A little deeper into your mind. A little deeper into this fetish of yours. We need to get to the root, lieutenant.”

Lieutenant Kuznetzov nodded, the movement barely perceptible. Yes. They needed to get to the root.

“The root of your paranoia,” Alara continued, songlike. “The root of your masculine presentation. It’s the same, lieutenant. But don’t worry. We can fix them both.”

“But…” Lieutenant Kuznetzov managed to say, as something within her stirred. “That’s not… I’m… butch…?”

She was a butch lesbian. That was her identity. That was who she was.

That was what Lieutenant Kuznetzov wanted to say. But her thoughts were sludge, and she could barely muster words. And besides, she was feeling less and less sure of her identity by the day. After all, wasn’t it just something she’d adopted to keep people at arms’ length? Wasn’t that the reason she was currently so worried about the ship and the crew?

Alara had taught her that. Now Lieutenant Kuznetzov didn’t know what to think.

“We’ll see about that,” Alara laughed, brushing past the lieutenant’s feeble resistance like it wasn’t even there. “Don’t worry, lieutenant. Counseling is all about discovering who you really are. That’s all we’re doing here. Sometimes, the truth can be surprising - but that’s why I’m here to help you come to terms with it. You have nothing to worry about.”

“Oh…”

Lieutenant Kuznetzov’s shoulders slumped. She couldn’t think clearly enough to find any fault with what Alara was telling her.

She had nothing to worry about.

But didn’t she? Wasn’t this all terribly wrong? Once again, the lieutenant found herself wondering: what if Alara was part of the conspiracy she suspected? What if Lieutenant Kuznetzov had accidentally fallen into their clutches? What if this twisted form of therapy was simply part of their plan?

In the end, it didn’t matter. As she stared at the pocket watch, those thoughts vanished little by little - and soon, she was left mindless, thoughtless, and free of doubt.

Perfectly hypnotized.

“Very good,” Alara cooed. Her voice was unmistakably sinister, but Lieutenant Kuznetzov was beyond hearing it. “Now, lieutenant, I think it’s about time we talk about the way you refer to yourself. Always by rank. It’s so stiff, don’t you think? And ‘Semya’ is such a pretty, girly name.”

Lieutenant Kuznetzov had always hated it. But after a few minutes of listening to Alara, she realized that in truth, she felt very differently.

***

“For my records,” Alara recited, “this is week four, session nine of my feminine adjustment therapy with… Semya.”

She said the name with such vicious softness, it made Semya squirm. Why did simply hearing her own name make her so wet?

“So tell me, lieutenant.” Already, Alara was holding her pocket watch, playing with it between her fingers. Even that had Semya transfixed. “How have you been doing lately?”

Semya managed to peel her gaze away from the watch and did her best to glare fiercely at the counselor. She knew, though, that the effect was hopelessly undermined by her long mascara and the dainty, pink lipstick that always seemed to make her lips pouty. Semya knew exactly what she looked like. She’d certainly spent long enough staring at herself in the mirror that morning.

And touching herself.

She couldn’t help it. She was a slave to her fetish. It had taken over her entire life. But at the same time, Semya knew she had a responsibility to the Inyx and its crew. She was certain of it now: there was a conspiracy afoot, and Alara Hisarlik was part of it. She was helping someone take over the ship using some form of mind control, and she needed to be stopped.

Semya was going to stop her. Soon.

She just needed to complete her therapy first. She might not have been able to trust Alara with anything else - but her therapy? She could count on Alara Hisarlik for that.

Semya’s forehead started to throb. She scowled at the pain. That happened a lot. It was like something deep inside her brain was begging her to remember.

But… remember what?

Everything was so foggy these days, but Semya could at least keep a few key details straight in her head. She was investigating Alara Hisarlik and the threat she posed to the ship, but she also needed the duplicitous counselor’s help to deal with her overbearing feminization fetish. She needed this therapy, or else she’d…

What?

Semya wasn’t quite sure. She just knew it was important. Very, very important.

Somehow.

Semya wasn’t sure why her head hurt. It was, admittedly, strange that she needed the help of someone she suspected of working to brainwash the crew. Paradoxical, even. But that was simply the predicament she found herself in. Wasn’t it?

And given the state she was in, it was hard to deny that she needed help.

“Semya?” Alara prompted. Semya realized she’d lapsed into confused silence. “Tell me. How have you been doing?”

“Not well,” Semya growled. It hurt to admit it, especially to Alara, but there was no point in lying. Not in therapy. “I’m always distracted. And…”

“Turned on?” The corners of Alara’s smile turned upwards.

Semya looked down. “Y-yes.”

Little by little, under Alara’s guidance, she’d been reshaping her aesthetic. Her hair was now almost mid-length, she wore make-up every day, and she’d switched to a more feminine cut for her uniform. And, of course, there was the lingerie.

“Better than before?” Alara asked, although she sounded like she already knew the answer. “Or worse?”

Semya grit her teeth. “Worse. Much worse.”

Her new, feminine look put her in a permanent state of arousal that left Semya all but incapable of attending to her duties properly. It was a miracle that Captain Vasser hadn’t noticed. Even now, Semya could feel herself soaking through her lace panties.

“My,” Alara remarked, with cold, sadistic glee plain on her face. “How interesting. Clearly, we need to go even further.”

Semya almost nodded in instinctive agreement before she realized how absurd that sounded.

“But…” she said slowly. Her head got even foggier whenever she considered resisting Alara. “If it’s getting worse then… shouldn’t we… s-stop?”

Alara just laughed at her. “Silly girl!” she replied. Semya moaned. “These conditions often get worse before they get better. We mustn’t stop now. Understand?”

“But…”

Before another word could pass Semya’s lips, the cabin’s dim, cold lights glinted off the gold surface of Alara’s pocket watch as she turned it over between her fingers. At once, Semya was stunned into silence. Her eyes turned glassy and foggy.

She could hear it again. The ticking. It drowned out her very thoughts.

“Understand?” Alara pressed.

Semya nodded dumbly. “Yes, Alara,” she said, because she knew that was what she was supposed to say.

“Good girl.”

Semya moaned again. Being called things like that drove her crazy. There was no quenching her arousal. Touching herself wasn’t even close to enough, but she was desperate to all the same. She began to rub her legs together pathetically.

Alara seized on that at once.

“You see?” the counselor tutted. “You poor girl. You simply can’t control yourself. You can’t possibly go on like this. We need to get to the root of your fetish.”

As she spoke, she lifted her pocket watch and started to slowly, lazily swing it in the air between them. That was all it took to keep Semya’s resistance utterly smothered.

“Yes, Alara,” she said thickly.

“We need to release your femininity,” Alara told her, malice woven through her voice. “To let you embrace it. To let you relish in it.”

Distantly, Semya was aware that that was the last thing she wanted. Hadn’t she always wanted to rid herself of this embarrassing little kink? To keep it hidden? Not to let it run her life.

But somehow, the thought just wouldn’t form.

“Yes, Alara.”

She slumped deeper into her chair. As she stared numbly at the pocket watch, a bubble of drool formed at the corner of her mouth.

“Very good.” Alara’s grin widened still further. She was nothing like her former self. The counselor was utterly transformed by power and confidence, into something completely sinister. “In fact, I think you’re ready for the final step. For your big debut. For your next session, in three days, I’ll book the holodeck for us. I have something very special planned for us.”

“Yes, Alara.”

After a long moment, a faint sense of terror forced its way to the forefront of Semya’s hypnotized mind. However suppressed and misdirected they were, the lieutenant’s instincts weren’t completely gone. Not yet. Eventually, the terror crystallized into a specific concern.

“Alara,” Semya drooled, very slowly, as she stared vacantly into the counselor’s pocket watch. “You’re… you’re not… doing something… to me. Are… are you?”

Alara just smiled. “Of course not,” the older woman said, and kept swinging the pocket watch. “Put it out of your mind, Semya.”

Against her wishes, Semya did. And then, once her mind was completely empty, Alara explained exactly how she was going to destroy Semya’s tough, butch exterior once and for all.

---

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i went to forcefem island and uhh... i don't remember what happened there but my head is full of pretty pink thoughts and ive never been happier so it must have been nice ^_^

Jetsetting hypnodomme CEO getting the stewardess to induct her into the mile-high club in between brainwashing the girl in the seat next to her. By the time the plane lands they're both ready to follow her back to her hotel.

Preyblood

After drinking her prey’s corrupted blood, a vampire hunter discovers who the real predator is as feelings of love and hate for the vampire begin to blur

A commission for LadyTheophania!

If you like my writing, please consider supporting me on Patreon!  For less than the price of a cup of coffee each month, you can get immediate, early access to everything I write - 4 pieces of hypno-smut a  month, including the latest chapters of all the multi-chapter stories I write. Your support helps me keep writing and is greatly appreciated <3

---

As Emily was swallowed up by the club, with all its riotous colors and dancing, pounding music, and sinuous writhing of bodies, she clutched the wooden stake tight in her hand. She hated hunting in places like this. It set all her old military instincts on edge. Watch your six, check the corners, keep line-of-sight to the exits - none of that made any sense in such a chaotic environment. She couldn’t control what was going on around her. It made her feel defenseless.

Emily ran her fingers up and down the stake in her hand, taking a moment to feel the grain of the wood and remind herself of its heft. No, she told herself. She wasn’t the defenseless one here.

She was the hunter. And the vampire nesting here was her prey.

It was a typical enough haunt for a bloodsucker. Dark, sensual, open all night, lots of potential, pliable victims. An ideal hunting ground. This one, in particular, was a lesbian club, and Emily had to grant the vampire a little grudging respect for that. It was the kind of place she might have enjoyed spending time herself if she wasn’t on the hunt. Picking up a girl was a nice way to blow off steam, and what kind of lesbian wouldn’t go for a tall, strong, athletic dyke in a leather jacket and combat boots? Just as long as they didn’t mind that she was trans, anyway.

But that would have to wait for another night. Tonight, Emily could afford no distractions. She was an experienced hunter, but vampires were never easy to bring down. Emily kept her ears strained to hear over the loud music, and she kept scanning the room, searching for the slightest hint of reddened eyes or sharpened fangs. Nothing yet. In all likelihood, the creature was holed up in a private room out back or on the floors above. That was their usual way: a quiet little den, a place to sleep through the day and feed undisturbed at night. So, slowly and cautiously, Emily started making her way towards the back of the club, although she had to struggle to push her way through the tight crush of dancing bodies, made strange and hard to track by the dim, shifting, flickering, multi-colored club lights.

“Hello there, stranger,” someone whispered in her ear. “Are you looking for a good time?”

Without warning, some girl - drunk, probably - was draped across Emily’s shoulder. Emily did her best to brush her off, but the girl was clinging to her tight, entangling their limbs together.

“Hey,” the girl drawled insistently. “There’s no need to be so rude!”

“Not tonight,” Emily grunted. “Busy. Out of my way.”

The girl didn’t budge. Wary of distractions, Emily kept scanning the club. The girl was pressed up to her side, and all Emily saw of her was a shock of long, curly, red hair. Still no sign of the bloodsucker.

“Come on now.” The girl was purring right into her ear now. Her words sounded strange; it was as if she had a hint of some weird, old-timey accent. Maybe she was on something. “What’s the hurry?”

“Looking for someone,” Emily replied. She couldn’t spare the energy to think of a lie.

“Aww!” The stranger made a pouty noise. Emily still couldn’t seem to shake her off. She was surprisingly strong and clingy, for a party girl. “You’re all taken already? I can’t have you?”

“Not tonight.”

“Who you looking for?” the girl whined.

Emily sighed. Maybe if she just answered, the girl would leave her alone.

“Letitia,” she said. “Letitia Clarendon. Know her?”

“Oh!” the girl replied brightly. “In that case, I guess you’re all mine after all!”

A single heartbeat after all the alarm bells sounded in Emily’s head, she felt two sharp fangs plunge into her neck.

Emily didn’t scream. She was far too much of a pro for that. All around her, people kept drinking, dancing, laughing - but the vampire hunter was keenly aware of the fact that she was in dire danger. Emily turned, thrashing, elbowing - but now the vampire was using all her unholy strength, and Emily could already feel the creature’s soporific venom spreading through her body.

With each drop of blood Letitia Clarendon sucked from her veins, the vampire grew stronger, and Emily grew weaker.

“Get the fuck off me!” Emily roared. Mustering all her strength, she managed to wrench her body forward, out of the vampire’s grasp. Emily had time to let out a single gasp of relief, before wheeling to face her foe, stake raised.

“I’m sorry, darling,” Letitia sang. As lights flickered on, Emily saw pale skin, red lips, a wide smile, and blood. “I like it rough, see. And I think I’d like to keep you.”

Emily was ready to strike. She was ready to defend. She wasn’t ready for the vampire to surge forward and kiss her.

She felt the bloodsucker’s lips against her own before she knew what was happening. The vampire was a formidable kisser, despite her grave-cold flesh; she teased Emily’s lips apart effortlessly, and the vampire hunter found her mouth invaded by a tongue that was unnaturally long and impossibly nimble.

And that was coated in something that tasted of iron and sin.

A little of it had already trickled down Emily’s throat before she figured out what it was. Blood. And not her own. Not human. No, there was something distinctly unnatural about the taste. The vampire must have pricked her tongue on her own fang as she moved in for the kiss.

She was feeding Emily vampire’s blood. Vitae.

Emily recoiled violently at the sensation of that poison being poured down her throat. She tried to make herself choke it up, but the vitae was somehow sticky and slick in equal measure, and with the vampire’s tongue prying her throat open, Emily couldn’t keep it up. Letitia’s kiss was equally as inescapable. She was wrapped around Emily like a serpent, coiling tight, clinging, somehow guiding Emily as the two of them stumbled and struggled.

“Come now.” Letitia drew back, just barely, so she could hiss to Emily. Her voice was dripping with sour candy. “Let us get to know each other somewhere a little more private.”

Before Emily could spit a reply, the vampire’s tongue was back in her mouth, pumping even more of her poison past the hunter’s lips. Emily was still trying to throw her off, but something about the blood she was unwillingly imbibing was robbing her of her strength. Her vision was blurring, and she was finding it hard to resist as Letitia dragged her through the club and out towards the back rooms.

To anyone else, they probably just looked like one more pair of drunk, horny, stumbling lesbians.

Once the vampire finally drew back and allowed Emily to take a breath, the two of them were in a large, private room, luxuriously decorated, illuminated by low, steady, yellow lamps. Emily bent double and heaved, trying to will her body to expel everything she’d just drunk. It didn’t work.

“My, my,” Letitia purred. “Aren’t you a strapping thing?”

Emily looked up and, for the first time, got a real look at her prey.

Letitia Clarendon, vampire, was around a hundred years old, and came from an upper-class, old-money background. That was about all Emily’s research had given her. The real thing certainly bore that out. Letitia was only medium-height, but she certainly carried herself like an aristocrat. She had long, red, rich, curly hair, high, arching cheekbones, and freckled, milk-pale skin, lit within by a slight, pink blush that Emily knew came only from the blood the vampire had just drunk. She had an aristocrat's figure, too; plump from indulgence, and all the more alluring for it.

For a moment, Emily was struck by the odd notion that, in another life, Letitia could have made for a perfect farmgirl. Soft, rosy, warm, sun-kissed. Instead, she was a pale, immortal predator from another age.

Letitia’s attire - a floor-length dress, accented by no small amount of jeweled finery - was just as old-fashioned as her accent, but thanks to a few modern touches, probably let her pass herself off as some kind of devoted subculture fashionista. Anyone who looked too closely, though, would be sure to see that her apparent humanity was nothing more than a paper-thin veneer spread across undeniable monstrosity. Her eyes gleamed with a wicked, red light, she had a corpse’s countenance, and two of her teeth were far, far too long to be natural. Still, there was an undeniable, elfen beauty to her undeath that stirred even Emily. She was having a hard time peeling her gaze away from the vampire’s figure.

But more than anything else, Emily hated her. She simply hated her.

It didn’t matter what they looked like. She hated every single one of those bloodsuckers. Emily had vowed to devote her life to hunting them down. Letitia Clarendon had already given her more trouble than any yet - but Emily was sure she could still put her down. A little exchanged blood didn’t change a thing.

The stake in her hand was still sharp, and Emily still had the strength to lift it. That was all that counted.

“Darling,” Letitia drawled, as Emily raised her weapon, “if you wanted to dance, you ought to have simply asked. You really are my type.”

Emily’s lips pulled back into a snarl. “Funny. Real funny.”

“Oh, darling,” Letitia tutted. “Who’s joking? You’re really quite the kisser, you know. Enthusiastic. I enjoyed it.”

The vampire made a show of opening her mouth and letting her elongated drool out of her mouth, dripping some of her own black vitae onto the floor. As she lapped at her own fangs, polishing them clean, Emily was embarrassed to note a strange shiver race down her spine. She thought, unwillingly, about just how dexterous that organ was, and about how it had felt when it had forced its way into her mouth and down her throat.

Then she thought about how much of the vampire’s blood she’d drunk. She’d heard stories, of course. Dependency. Thralldom. She didn’t know exactly how much vitae that required, or exactly how much she’d drunk. Was it already doing something to her?

With all her being, Emily rejected that. She summoned up all her hate for the unholy, predatory creature standing before her, and spat it in her face.

“Fuck you.” Emily’s voice came out alarmingly thick. “Go fuck yourself.”

Joy danced in Letitia’s eyes. “You’d enjoy watching that, I’m sure.”

“Fuck. You.”

“Even more than you enjoyed our kiss, perhaps.”

“Bullshit! Fuck you!” Why was it suddenly so hard for Emily to find her fire?

“Oh, darling.” Letitia licked her lips. Another treasonous shiver. “I can see for myself that you’re not being truthful. Slut.”

Her eyes flicked down pointedly as she spat out that last, pointed syllable. Emily couldn’t help but look down too, following the vampire’s gaze. Once she saw it, her cheeks started to burn.

Emily was hard.

Despite the folds in her loose combat pants, it was unmistakable. Emily was hard. Harder than she’d ever been, maybe. At once, her bravado was undercut by embarrassment. Suddenly, the nature of her distraction was so much clearer. Emily’s overpowering attraction to the vampire standing before her was buzzing in the back of her brain.

Emily immediately started flailing for an explanation. She was a lesbian, yes, but this was more than that. Normally, she would never allow herself to feel such longing for an undead monster like Letitia.

“Who cares?” Emily spat, with a fierceness she was no longer sure she felt. “You’re about to be dust.”

Letitia let out a loud, shrill laugh. “My! You really are something.” She licked her lips once more. “Yes. Yes, I really must make you mine.”

Emily snarled furiously. She decided to end this before the vampire could confuse her any further. Drawing on all her strength, all her hate, Emily raised her stake and charged forward. Vampires could be inhumanly fast, but Emily’s combat instincts were honed to a razor’s sharpness. She crossed the short distance between them in no time at all. As the tip of Emily’s stake scythed through the air, towards Letitia’s chest, she rejoiced as she saw that the vampire hadn’t even raised a hand to defend herself.

Typical bloodsucker. Too cocky, and too slow when it really counted. It was already over.

Then, Emily’s arm froze.

It took her a long moment to realize what had happened. At first, Emily thought that she’d hit some kind of forcefield, or perhaps that time itself had ground to a halt. Eventually, though, she realized that her muscles had simply locked up. Her limbs felt like iron girders. They refused to obey her commands, and Emily was left standing there like a scarecrow, paralyzed, stake held mere inches from its target.

Letitia’s lips curled up into a smirk.

“W-what did you do to me?” Emily whispered. For the first time ever, she felt powerless on a hunt.

“You’re taking to it well,” Letitia noted, pleased. “Yes. Yes, I think we’re going to get along beautifully, darling hunter.”

The savage confidence in Letitia’s voice made Emily step backward. Discovering she could move again restored her confidence, but that drained away again just as quickly when she realized that she still couldn’t strike at Letitia. Every time she tried, her body rebelled. Something inside her was fighting Emily’s commands. It was like there was something black and wet wrapped around her spine, pulling her nerve endings like strings, formed of an inexplicable reluctance to hurt the monstrous creature bearing down on her.

The vitae. It had to be.

“What’s the matter, hunter?” Letitia chided. She took one step forward; Emily, one back. “Where’s that adorable confidence? Where’s that strength now?”

Emily opened her mouth, but all that came out was a strangled grunt. She kept backing away, but Letitia kept coming, and all that came into Emily’s head were useless, childish protestations at the unfairness of the vampire’s power.

Those, and stray, unwelcome observations about her unnatural beauty.

“Come now,” Letitia chided. “Don’t run. Let me get a proper taste of you.”

Emily felt her back hit the wall. Nowhere left to run. Some hunter.

“Don’t worry.” Letitia’s smile made her fangs look sharper than ever. “You’ll enjoy it.”

Until the bitter end, Emily tried to make herself strike at Letitia, but it was useless. Once the vampire’s fangs pierced her jugular, even that rebellious urge drained away. By the time Letitia started feeding Emily more of her vitae, the hunter was far too weak to do anything but lap it up.

Shamefully, despite the blood loss, she remained hard the entire time.

***

Without real energy or enthusiasm, Emily once again yanked at the sturdy, iron chain binding her to the wall.  Sitting, slumped, she watched forlornly as, unsurprisingly, the bracket didn’t even budge.

There was no escape. But then, Emily had already figured that out a long time ago.

It had been weeks. At least, Emily thought so. All she had to count by were the glimmers of sunlight that passed through the cracks in the paint on the blacked-out windows, but she was starting to lose track of exactly how many nights it had been. At first, things like that had seemed important - counting the days, figuring out where she was and how to get away. Emily had the sense that she was somewhere high up, perhaps in the disused rooms a few floors up from Letitia’s club. But over time, fear and boredom had given way to a kind of haze in which nothing mattered at all. She’d even abandoned the exercise regimen she’d planned to keep herself in fighting form for when the vampire came.

But when she came, there was never any question of fighting.

Letitia’s irregular appearances were the only times anything at all seemed to matter. They were the only times Emily felt alive. Every time her ears pricked up at the sound of footsteps, Emily’s breast swelled with a sick kind of anticipation, knowing that as soon as that strange, aristocratic creature appeared, Emily’s heart would begin to pound again with a heady, uncomfortable mixture of hate and admiration.

It was the only thing she seemed to feel at all, anymore. There was nothing else. Letitia Clarendon’s twisted gift had seen to that. Her unholy blood. Emily could feel the inky, black substance inside her, gnawing at her, hollowing her out. It was the stuff of her worst nightmares.

Emily didn’t know how to fight it. All she knew was that she had to hold on to what she was sure of: her purpose as a hunter, and her violent hatred for the bloodsucker keeping her captive.

How long? That was the question she kept asking herself. How long until someone came for her? How long until she was rescued? Only, over time, as hope had grown fainter and fainter, that question had started to change. To mutate.

How long until Letitia comes to see her again?

A footstep. At once, Emily’s pulse quickened. She was sure that a creature like Letitia could move silently, if she chose, but she couldn’t help but be grateful that Letitia allowed Emily to prepare for her coming. To savor the anticipation. Emily drew herself upright, back resting against the wall, and listened to the steps getting closer.

In the last moment before the door opened, Emily found herself grinning.

Letitia Clarendon swept into the room like the night. She was dressed, as usual, in a huge, sweeping, Victorian dress, and adorned in other, equally-archaic finery. Her fashion, it seemed, had never quite kept up with the times. She was sharp, though. Emily knew that much. Letitia knew exactly how she looked, and how best to turn it to her advantage.

There was a gleeful spring in the vampire’s step, like coming to see Emily was the highlight of her night. Emily couldn’t help but feel a little appreciative of that. By the same token, being in the same room as Letitia made Emily feel sharper. On edge. Alive. It was a chance for her to spit her fire at the bloodsucker holding her captive. To assert herself. To hear her own voice spoken out loud without talking to herself like a crazy person.

And a chance to look. Letitia Clarendon really was astonishingly beautiful. More and more, as nights passed, Emily found herself dwelling on it. She’d given up pretending she wasn’t stirred by the vampire’s appearance. By her sensual presence. The evidence was all too pressing.

Emily kept insisting to herself that it was just because she was a lesbian, and just because she didn’t have anything else to think about. That was why couldn’t help gratifying herself to the thought of Letitia between visits.

“Good evening, Emily,” Letitia greeted her, smiling. Showing teeth. “How is my hunter this fine evening?”

As she spoke, Emily noticed a fleck of crimson on the tip of one of her fangs. It made bile and choler rise in her throat.

“Not bad,” Emily spat defiantly. She was still grinning. “Strong. How about you let me out of these chains and we can find out?”

Letitia let out a merry laugh. “Good, good! I’m glad to hear it. I wouldn’t want you to lose that fine spirit of yours.”

It was incredible how everything came into focus when Letitia was around. Suddenly, Emily’s tongue cracked like a whip. She could feel sparks in her belly. It was so much better than all that numbness. Emily had to remind herself, forcefully, that the vampire’s presence was no kindness. It was deceptively easy to forget that. Letitia Clarendon was coated with candy. Her words were thick with an overbearing sweetness that belied the malice beneath.

Emily knew better than to be fooled by such a transparently two-faced demeanor. But with Letitia, there was something slippery about it. Her presence was so undeniably pleasant and it was somehow a constant temptation to slip beneath the vampire’s flow; to take her pretty face and easy smile at face value. To treat her like a friend or a lover, instead of a captor.

To forget what she was.

Again and again, Emily had to remind herself she was dealing with a monstrous predator. Why was it so easy to lose sight of that?

Probably because of her beauty.

“Of course not,” Emily growled. “Why? What are you keeping me here for?”

“Why?” Letitia blinked at her, eyes guileless. “For the pleasure of your company, of course.”

Her beauty was oppressive. It weighed heavy on Emily’s shoulders. Frankly, she wasn’t sure how she’d ever been so oblivious to it. Emily had noticed, certainly, but somehow, on the first night, she hadn’t been dazzled by it. Letitia’s true beauty hadn’t quite struck her. Now, it was different. Just being in the same room as the vampire was distracting. What Emily had first deemed ghoulish about Letitia’s undead features, she’d now come to accept was simply her own difficulty coming to terms with physical perfection.

Yes, Letitia was perfect. Her cheekbones, her complexions, her long tongue and teeth, her ethereal red eyes - all of it was perfect. Her beauty was beyond human.

Perhaps that was why it was so treasonously tempting to just say ‘yes’ to her.

“Bullshit,” Emily spat. She refused to give in to that instinct. “I know your type. You’re hungry. Always hungry. If you’re not drinking me dry, there’s gotta be a good reason for it.”

Again, Letitia laughed merrily. She always seemed so carefree. It kept Emily wondering: what if she could find something sharp? What if she could lure the vampire just a little closer?

“I suppose you’re right,” Letitia admitted. “It’s true. I have my reasons. You see, you have something I want.”

Emily was all ears. “And what’s that?”

“I already told you,” Letitia replied. “Your spirit. You see, it really is so hard to find good servants these days.”

For five solid seconds, Emily just blinked. Then she scrunched up her face in disgust and started guffawing.

“Oh, that’s a good one,” she spat, between laughs. “Me? Serving you? That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” Letitia’s confidence was unmarred by Emily’s open mockery. “I hardly think so. You see, at my side, you could be magnificent. I have use for a hunter. I want you - and I always get what I want.”

Her smugness was insufferable - but beneath that, Emily couldn’t help feeling ever so slightly flattered. Letitia Clarendon wanted her. Of all people - her. It was an intoxicating notion. There was a certain pride to be taken in it, even. Part of Emily badly wanted to ask: why? Was it her looks? Her skills? Something more?

But she had more dignity than that. “Let’s get one thing straight, bloodsucker,” Emily made her gaze steel as she stared into Letitia’s eyes. “I hate your kind. I hate you. And no matter what, as long as I live, I will never, ever serve you.”

“Really?” Letitia raised an eyebrow, and then a hand.

“Yes, damn you!” Emily roared. “You fucking disgust me, vampire. I would sooner die than… I’d never… never…”

Her words died. Her eyes betrayed her, and she gave way in their little staring contest of wills. Instead, her vision locked onto something else: the little drop of black blood, welling up from where Letitia had pricked her finger on one of her talons.

And there it was again. The need.

Most of the time, during her captivity, Emily had been free from want and need. She’d felt nothing. No appetite. No hunger. But when Letitia confronted her with the vampire’s vitae, it all came roaring back. Suddenly, Emily became conscious of just how long it had been since any food had passed her lips. Her stomach, cavernous and empty, began to eat at her from the inside. A piercing, debilitating awareness of her own weakness washed over Emily. The hunter felt faint, pale, sluggish. Like she could barely move.

But one drop could fix all that. Just one drop.

Emily felt the chain pull taut around her ankle. She looked down, and realized that she’d already been crawling forward.

“I’m sorry?” Letitia said sweetly. “What was that you were saying?”

A whine forced its way past Emily’s lips. It had been like this ever since that first night. The very first drop of Letitia’s unholy blood, given in a kiss, had taken root inside Emily like a poisoned seed. Most of the time, she managed not to dwell on it. The cravings. The addiction. After each visit, she promised the next would be different. She promised she’d be tougher. Stronger. Sterner with herself. That she’d find the courage to say ‘no’ to Letitia.

Those promises were melting all around her.

At first, she’d fought tooth and nail to stop Letitia from force-feeding her the vitae. But the vampire, flush with fresh blood and unnatural strength, had always won, and so somehow, eventually, Emily had given up resisting. She’d just allowed it to happen. And then, before she’d realized what was happening, it had become too late.

“I…” Emily found herself saying. Her words came out wet and thick. She was salivating like a dog. 

“I suppose there is something else I want,” Letitia mused, as if she was oblivious to Emily’s plight. “Besides your spirit, I mean. Something very important.”

An offhand gesture sent a single, tiny droplet of Letitia’s blood spilling onto the ground. Emily watched it fall in slow motion, unable to stop it. As it splashed uselessly across the dirty floorboards, Emily let out a weak, keening cry. In moments it was gone, absorbed into the sawdust.

“I need your spirit,” Letitia told her, “and I need your love.”

That word caught Emily’s attention. She looked up at the vampire, dumbfounded.

“L… love?” she bleated.

“Do you know why dogs are so wonderfully obedient to their masters?” A touch of madness glinted in Letitia’s crimson eyes. “Because they love them.”

As hard as it was to feel anything but worship while she was in the throes of addiction, that comment made Emily indignant. “I’m not a goddamn dog.”

Letitia ignored her. “Do you know why dogs love their masters?” she asked. “Because they feed them. It’s that simple.”

Emily barked a laugh. Her head was swimming. Above her, Letitia shone like the moon. Every clear thought was a struggle.

“You’re crazy,” Emily spat.

“And you’re hungry,” Letitia replied.

Before Emily could form a retort, Letitia took a step towards and held her hand out towards the captive hunter. Instantly, Emily’s world shrank to a single point. The little back droplets welling up on the vampire’s finger were the only things that mattered. It was so close now, Emily could even smell it. The scent was more intoxicating than anything else; the iron, and the hint of something darker beneath. Emily was starting to drool down her chin.

“That’s better,” Letitia soothed. “Would you like a taste, my dear hunter?”

Without thinking, Emily nodded. She wasn’t even ashamed of herself for doing so. Raw hunger was the only thing left in her head.

“Then taste.” Letitia moved closer still, holding her hand down at the level of her hips. “Drink.”

Emily’s brow furrowed in confusion. Usually, when Letitia visited her, she poured her blood into a dish and offered it to Emily. Sometimes, she simply overpowered the hunter and forced her into another twisted kiss. This was new.

“H… how?” Emily asked, tongue wet. She already knew the answer.

“Drink,” Letitia repeated.

She didn’t explain. She didn’t need to. It only took a few more moments for Emily’s hunger to overpower her better judgment.

Emily stretched forward and wrapped her lips around Letitia’s bloody finger.

She suckled with the starving fervor of a newborn babe. It tasted every bit as good as she’d known it would. Just a few drops of the vampire’s blood were all it took to infuse Emily’s entire body with energy. She felt like she could run a marathon, or climb a sheer cliff face. She felt like she could fly.

She felt amazing.

Nothing could pierce that euphoria. Not shame, nor humiliation, nor the bitter sting of defeat. Emily was immune to those. She was on cloud nine. Emily kept licking and sucking, unwilling to let even the smallest droplet of Letitia’s ambrosia go to waste. She lavished the vampire’s skin with worshipful attention, kissing and licking every inch of her finger until it was clean. Letitia even helped, pumping her finger backward and forward, in and out of Emily’s mouth. Distantly, as if it was coming from far away, Emily heard the vampire’s laugh.

It didn’t matter. In that moment, all she could feel towards Letitia was an overbearing sense of gratitude.

Emily stopped once it became obvious that the small cut on Letitia’s finger had healed minutes ago. The hunter slumped backward and shivered rapturously as vitae coursed throughout her body. There was no feeling like this. No drug or high came even close.

“Well,” Letitia remarked mirthfully, “I don’t know about your spirit. But I see that your energy is certainly undiminished.”

Emily knew at once what she was referring to. As always, after a feeding, Emily was rock hard and tenting her pants. She couldn’t help it. Letitia’s blood left her infused with vigor - and besides, the vampire’s beauty seemed to grow after each meal. Emily felt like she could stare at Letitia forever, admiring her like a work of art. It was so strange, that such a dark creature would look so angelic.

“I’ll give you some more time to yourself,” Letitia announced, and spun to face the doorway. “To… contemplate your situation.”

Her sudden absence dimmed Emily’s blissful mood a little. It wasn’t long before the effects of the blood wore off, and Emily was left, once again, ashamed of her weakness and conscious of her own thirst. She knew the vitae was doing something to her. After each twisted feeding, she could feel something growing inside her. A kind of foreign influence, utterly alien to her true desires, but terrifyingly seductive and potent. It was nursing a kind of obsession for Letitia Clarendon; a violent one, perhaps, but still, a passionate one.

It was the kind of thing that might give birth to the very worst kind of love.

Emily had to stop. She knew she had to stop. Next time, she had to find a way to avoid drinking Letitia’s blood.

But somehow, as the minutes wore on, that thought slipped through her fingers, while the bittersweet memory of her captor’s face burned bright in her head, distracting her, luring her hand between her legs to deal with her sudden need.

It wasn’t long before she was counting down the time until Letitia might visit her again.

***

Emily didn’t look at the girl’s face. She refused to. She didn’t want to remember it. She didn’t want that face to haunt her, as others had. But, as ever, Letitia was kind. As she kept one hand clasped around the girl’s throat, she offered the other, dripping with vitae, toward Emily. As always, the former hunter was instantly transfixed by the mere sight of the substance. It helped her to block out everything else that was going on.

At least there was no whimpering or screaming. Mercifully, Letitia had somehow stunned her prey into submission. The poor, innocent thing remained calm, a vacant, dreamlike smile on her face, even as the vampire started tearing into her throat.

Emily flinched, but she still didn’t look. She kept her eyes on Letitia’s black-coated fingertips.

The first time Letitia had brought prey to Emily’s room, she’d been confused. When Letitia’s intentions had become clear, Emily had even managed to find some of her old fire, dampened though it was by weeks and weeks of starved apathy.

It had been useless, of course. Emily wasn’t chained up anymore - though she didn’t remember being freed, either - but Letitia had quickly taught her that resistance was meaningless.

And anyway, Emily couldn’t really bring herself to fight Letitia. Not anymore.

There was a splatter and a spurt, as Letitia’s fangs pierced the jugular. It churned Emily’s stomach, but she ignored it. She just sat waiting, peaceful and patient, exactly the way the vampire wanted.

Emily knew what was happening, of course. She was too smart not to, and besides, Letitia had made no real secret of her plans. It was simple exposure therapy. A way to desensitize her to the vampire’s true nature, and to progressively erode Emily’s convictions. After all, it was difficult to stand up against something when you’d been a silent, tacitly accepting bystander to it time and time again.

Emily knew what was happening. The problem was that she couldn’t seem to make herself care.

She’d long since given up on keeping track of how long she’d been held captive by Letitia - if ‘captive’ was even the right word anymore. She could leave whenever she wanted, but Letitia had made it clear that if she left, she’d never see or taste the vampire ever again. And for no more than that, Emily had stayed in that dark, squalid room, enduring countless hours of numbness and boredom that ground her down into a shadow of who she’d once been. All that was left were her feelings for Letitia.

She didn’t care about anything except Letitia anymore.

With a loud, wet smack, Letitia withdrew her fangs from the drained girl’s neck. A single, offhanded shove sent her sprawling to the ground, spent. Emily flinched - but she still didn’t look.

Letitia nodded approvingly at her stillness. “Good,” the vampire told her. “Very good.”

Pride, just as poisonous as any unholy blood, started to glow within Emily. She couldn’t help but be proud. Being praised by a creature like Letitia was a wonder. Her beauty was indescribable. She was more like a goddess than a mere mortal being like Emily.

“Drink up.” Letitia thrust her hand toward Emily. “You’ve earned it.”

Emily’s composure broke in an instant. Her meek stillness was gone, replaced by an unnatural voracity. Emily fed like an animal, lapping, licking, kissing, sucking - lavishing her new master’s skin with worshipful attention, and then, once all the vampire’s blood was gone, licking it clean of her own unworthy saliva.

She smiled. There it was again. Bliss.

Letitia took a moment to brush her fingertips affectionately across Emily’s cheek. It had become a little ritual of hers, after each feeding. A way to bond with her new pet.

“Yes, you’re coming along nicely,” Letitia mused. “Aren’t you?”

Emily blushed, flustered. Letitia was talking to her the way someone might a puppy, but Emily could feel nothing but warmth.

“Yes,” she muttered. “T-thank you.”

Letitia raised an eyebrow. She seemed pleased.

“And still… energetic, I see,” she remarked, eyes flicking downward.

Emily was hard. She always was, when Letitia graced her with her attention. Emily had given up on pleasuring herself - it didn’t seem to satisfy, without the vampire’s presence - but now that her belly was full of black blood, she was conscious of her own, desperate need.

“Do you remember,” Letitia asked her, “what I called you, the first night that we met?”

Emily nodded. Every detail of that encounter was burned into her brain. The memory was steadily supplanting all memories that had come before. It was the moment she’d begun.

“Yes,” Emily replied, voice stilted and meek. “A slut.”

“And I was right, wasn’t I?”

Before Emily could agree, Letitia stepped forward and, balancing on one leg for a moment, brought her other foot down to press against the stiff tent of Emily’s cock.

Emily gasped. She saw white. She looked up in awed confusion. The former hunter had never dared to dream that Letitia would touch like that.

“Wasn’t I?” Letitia repeated.

“Y-yes!” Emily gasped urgently. Letitia was barely touching her, but the pleasure was unbelievable. The sole of her foot felt better than any other girl ever had.

“Good girl.”

Letitia nodded in a way that Emily somehow knew meant permission, and without hesitation, Emily started to buck her hips and hump Letitia’s foot.

“Oh my god…” Emily panted. She was practically weeping with joy. Touching Letitia like that was transcendent. “O-oh my god.”

It took an embarrassingly short amount of time for her to reach her peak. Emily had once been a lot of things - a hunter, a stud, a top - but now all that was gone, and all that mattered was Letitia was rewarding her with this. The symbolism was more important than the sensation. A being as great and as beautiful as Letitia Clarendon had decided Emily deserved to feel something good. Even the condescending sneer on the vampire’s face was perfect. It helped to remind Emily of what she was.

A pet. A dog. A thrall.

And if she was that, nothing else she did really mattered.

Entranced by the thought, Emily kept rutting and humping, her moans and grunts becoming ever more desperate and animalistic. She was trapped; she was too desperate to stop, but she couldn’t continue for much longer, but she couldn’t even conceive of finishing without Letitia’s permission.

Eventually, Letitia set her free. “You may,” she pronounced, with a slight nod of her head.

With a ragged moan, Emily came. Letitia took her foot away at the last moment, and so the former hunter only succeeded in making a mess of her own, filthy clothing. Emily expected shame to follow on the heels of her orgasm, but no. Letitia’s presence kept that at bay as well, and as Emily basked in the afterglow of her reward, the vampire bent down to stare intently into her soul.

“Yes,” Letitia mused, a smile on her face. “I think you’re almost ready. There it is. Coming along nicely.”

Emily knew instinctively what she was referring to. She could feel it growing within herself, black and sickly, and all for her new master.

Love.

***

Instinctively, Emily squeezed the stake in her hand. It felt good. Comforting. Familiar. Even after all that had transpired, a few things still hadn’t changed.

That was a nice lie she could tell herself.

In any case, many more things had. Emily wasn’t stuck in that room anymore. She wasn’t wearing her old, now-filthy clothes either. She’d replaced her old look with one that was new and slick: a black suit, nicely tailored, cut slightly feminine, complete with tie and perfect white shirt.

It was exactly the way Lady Letitia liked her.

“Come on,” Emily called, raising her voice so it could be heard over the club music. “This way.”

“Right,” the other hunter nodded, following closely behind. “Are you sure she’ll be there?”

“Yes,” Emily replied. “At this time of night, the bloodsucker’s always in her lair.”

Emily twitched and scratched a phantom itch at her neck.

“Got it,” the other hunter replied. The girl was painfully young, and too trusting. “If you know where she sleeps, I’m surprised you need me. I’d always heard you worked alone.”

“She’s strong,” Emily replied simply. “I wanted backup.”

“Right.” Emily glanced over her shoulder, and saw a faint, bashful smile appear on the other hunter’s face. “I’m flattered you picked a newbie like me.”

That tugged at Emily’s heartstrings for a moment, before she shoved the guilt way down. Beneath the hunger.

“Focus,” Emily warned, as she led the other girl through the crush of dancing bodies, toward a dark doorway at the back of the club. “It’s dangerous here.”

The other girl nodded. Both of them clutched at their stakes. Emily’s heart was pounding, but not from danger. Not from guilt, either.

From anticipation.

The two of them entered the doorway and proceeded down a dimly lit corridor, the sounds of the club steadily dying away. Then Emily came to a halt and indicated a door.

“She’s in here,” Emily hissed. “You first. I’ll watch your back.”

The other girl nodded. After a moment of hesitation, of gathering up her courage, she opened the door and walked inside. Emily followed her a few paces behind and slipped her stake back into the inside pocket of her jacket.

And nodded to Lady Letitia, lurking in the shadows.

In an instant, the vampire was on top of the blindsided hunter. The poor girl barely had time to scream before Lady Letitia’s fangs pierced her throat and sucked dry her veins. After a few seconds of useless spasming, the stake rolled out of her open hand and clattered to the ground. The girl’s pale, dry, cold body followed soon after.

Emily only twitched a little. She could even look at their faces now.

But she didn’t need to. Not for more than a moment, anyway. Soon, Lady Letitia turned to Emily and smiled, blood still dripping from her fanged maw. Emily didn’t care about that, though. She just cared that her master was smiling.

“Well done,” Lady Letitia told her, “my hunter.”

Yes, Emily was still a hunter. She even hunted vampires, sometimes - Lady Letitia had rivals, after all - but mortals had become her usual prey. She helped to drive them into Lady Letitia’s cruel embrace, keeping the area free of genuine vampire hunters in the process.

Still a hunter - by some measures, anyway. But more than anything, Emily was simply a thrall.

“My lady.”

In a single, smooth motion, long-practiced, Emily dropped to one knee and bowed her head before her master. It was only right to lower herself before a being as beautiful and superior as Lady Letitia. Emily served her in all things. It was the only thing that gave her life a sense of purpose. The only thing that delivered her, even temporarily, from the gnawing numbness that had consumed everything else about Emily.

And there was the hunger, of course. Only Lady Letitia could sate that. But Emily no longer received the gift of her unholy blood every night, or after every service. Lady Letitia had trained her well. The vampire’s approval was all the reward Emily needed.

Like a dog with Pavlov’s bell.

"Thank you,” Lady Letitia said softly, “for my meal. You’ve proven yourself to be every bit the servant I hoped you’d be.”

“Thank you,” Emily whispered. The force of her master’s praise was enough to make her weep. She had to keep her face turned down, or else Lady Letitia’s beauty would overwhelm her. “Thank you, my lady.”

With her head bowed, she could see the body of the other hunter, lying just a short distance away. More and more, its presence started to eat at Emily. It stirred memories of another life. A life in which she’d protected people from vampires, instead of luring them into the predator’s lair. Emily could remember a former version of herself, one who would have been outraged and disgusted at what the fallen hunter had become.

Did that mean something? Wasn’t all of this terribly, terribly wrong?

Emily felt herself starting to panic. Her breaths came up short, and her pulse quickened as she fought with herself to fill her lungs with air. What was she doing? Why was she doing any of this? The doubts were suddenly swimming around her, eating at her, but within, something dark and wet and equally vicious was fighting back. The corruption nested in Emily’s bosom, the part of her that longed for Letitia, refused to let her go. Those two conflicting forces made a battleground of her soul, all but paralyzing her with sudden indecision.

Her hand trembled. Her stake was right there. Within reach. Couldn’t she just-

A familiar touch to Emily’s cheek stirred her from those unwelcome thoughts. In her usual, ritual way, Lady Letitia stroked her thrall’s face and guided her eyes upward, until Emily was staring into the vampire’s impossibly beautiful visage. Her fangs, her tongue, her eyes - Emily was captivated by all of it.

A single moment of being caressed by the vampiric master she now adored was all it took to remind the fallen hunter: she was exactly where she was supposed to be. Everything else was simply a delusion Lady Letitia had been kind enough to free Emily from.

The vampire’s touch left her hard, too. It always did. Emily had always been weak to beautiful women, and her thralldom had given the lesbian a singular, erotic fixation on her master. Lady Letitia noticed immediately and licked her lips pointedly, spreading blood across her face.

“Rise,” she bade, “and come with me. I require your service in other ways.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Emily rose to her feet and, misgivings forgotten, stepped over the other hunter’s limp body as she followed her master to her coffin chamber.

---

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