#penance

Arabella always had a knack for fucking things up. All she needed for this evening was a quick bite and maybe some after-dinner sex, and once again she had gotten carried away and left behind a soon-to-be walking corpse in her wake. But it wasn’t really her fault, was it? When a dusky blonde feels you up at a party, takes you home, and practically begs you to put steel to flesh, who can resist digging in for more? Besides, she had screwed up worse than this before. All she needed to do was find the person that always made it right, time after time.

Whether it was turning her ex-boyfriend into a ghoul, or wrapping a police car around a lightpost, or even sucking a university student dry, Mother Ynez would always forgive her and find a way out. She’d pull some favors, send the newly turned girl off to some isolated convent, and maybe give Arabella a stern talking-to. Everything would return to just as it was before. And so, as Arabella stepped out into the biting winter wind, she didn’t worry about the blood still clinging to her thin jacket.

As Arabella made her way to Mother’s chateau she weaved through crowds of drunken party-goers. Even in the dead of winter the town of Vilanova still sustains plenty of revelers to sate the appetites of the hungry dead. Were this a better night, a less complicated night, she could’ve wined and dined on any number of youthful university students, foreign tourists, even married men looking for some action on the side. With a face like hers, she could make anyone’s blood boil.

One such celebrant caught her eye. A husky dyke outside a bar in a drunken argument with her friends. She looked trans - hair poorly cut, clothes too tight for her new curves, the smell of oh-so-sweet hormones coursing through her veins - but her friends didn’t. Sure enough, in a few quick moments she was left all alone, her now ex-friends gone off to some other party without her. It would be irresponsible of Arabella to not do something, wouldn’t it? Especially when some of the men at the bar seemed to already be eyeing up her prey. The night was still young and she could use an easy snack to calm her nerves.

It was the same old practiced routine, another Luna or Estrella or Ana ditched by her friends once she demanded to be a woman, not just trans, and Arabella was a practiced professional in giving them what they needed. It only took a few compliments and some pretend listening to have the poor thing eating out of the palm of her hand. Look at her cheekbones while she vents her frustrations, place a soothing hand on her shoulder and mention the eyeliner it must have taken her so long to perfect, tell her “I never could have guessed” when she feels the need to confess what she is. In a flash she was fucking the girl in her favorite dive bar in her favorite bathroom stall.

She liked how easy these types were. Despite the added difficulty in acquiring them Arabella always preferred the taste of women, even if men could be lured in with a bit lip and a bit of cleavage. But these girls, surging with hormones and self-doubt, were the perfect mark. They’d practically beg you to hurt them at times, like that dead blonde from the party, and the Lord knows no one would believe them if they talked about what happened to them. Plus, it was always fun to see what new humiliations these girls got off to.

Currently, this one was wrapped around her leg, desperately rutting into her heeled boots while she sat back on the dirty lid of the toilet seat. Anyone walking by could see the girl’s stretch marks on her ass and the striped panties riding up between them as clear as day, a fact that Arabella made sure Luna-Estrella-Ana knew. Of course, no one really cared in this bar. It was her favorite for a reason: the owner was a fellow vampire and most of the clientele were drunk on a constant supply of his narcotic blood. Still, Arabella loved the pungent smell of red flushing through the girl’s cheeks.

This kind of sex, where Arabella just had to recline back and let the other party finish on some exotic clothing she wore, was always the easiest. No extra effort of miming through the niceties of dull penetration, no questions about her room-temperature skin, and most of all no temptations like she had with that dusky blonde. She could relax as the girl climaxed against her boot toe and reap the delicious rewards afterwards. When her toy slowed down or pleaded for some more affection, all it took was a swift kick to the groin to send her back to work. They always made such adorable squeals when hit like that. It was pathetic, sure, but in an endearing sort of way.

Arabella hooked a toe under the hem of the dyke’s sweaty camisole and pulled it over her perky budding breasts. They were awfully cute, all swollen and sore from the sudden growth and the girl’s lack of a bra. Based on the shape, she figured, the girl couldn’t have been more than a year on estrogen, not nearly enough time to figure out just how fun those new fat-sacks could be. Arabella raised her other boot and jabbed down on a tender nipple a few sharp times with her heel. Those three inches of stiletto raised beautiful little red welts and a growing hunger within Arabella. There was no time for the girl to flinch or protect herself, so she just made an adorable yelp and shuddered closer and harder to the leathery she was riding.

By now the girl was so lost in whatever masochistic pleasure she was getting out of this that she started to drool. A few of those drops landed on Arabella’s precious black boot as she pushed the heavy girl off of her leg and back against the stall door, still mindlessly grinding away on her other instep.

“Eyes up, faggot,” Arabella commanded, loving the rush she got from that word and the pitiful, dutiful look that girl gave her, “I won’t be letting trash like you ruin these shoes, they’re probably worth more than a month of your rent.”

That was a lie, of course. She didn’t actually know how much the shoes cost, only that they came from the home of a past meal that had the misfortune of dripping blood on her old flats. The effect was all the same, though, and she loved the way the girl’s lips quivered as she pressed the glossy toe against them.

“Lick them clean for me, and I just might not send you the bill.”

She could practically feel the little faggot’s erection get harder as her tongue passed over the dark leather. As her lips puckered around the acrid material, tongue lapping up the bitter polish still left on them, a sticky wet spot began to form in her panties. It was a humiliating display, and Arabella gave the girl a few more jostling kicks to her bulge to rub it in, but she still felt altogether bored.

It would only take a muscle twitch to liven things up. Flick the welt that this girl was so passionately making out with, shatter a few teeth and crack her head against the tile. That would at least be interesting, Arabella thought, and odds are this girl would like it, too. Nevertheless, she had places to be and cleaning up blood from the bathroom floor sounded like too bothersome of a chore. So she just satisfied herself by pushing the toe box further and further into the girl’s mouth, savoring her gagging sounds as she forced it to accommodate the shoe’s width.

Those plump hips began to rut faster, thrusting in time with quick and low pants like a dog in heat. The girl leaned forward once more, mouth still salivating around the boot leather, and wrapped her arms tight around Arabella’s leg. Arabella could tell the pathetic thing was nearing orgasm without even smelling the rich cocktail of hormones flushing through her body, so for her part she rocked and jostled her foot against the throbbing girl-bulge.

A soft sort of murmuring poured out from around the shoe as the girl approached climax. A broken string of “I love you” and “please mistress”, she was sure, but for now Arabella was paying more attention to the sound of the crowd gathering outside. By the sound of their breathing alone she could count half a dozen or so blissed-out drugged-up patrons spectating the main event. They would filter out as soon as the pitiful moans broke into a sudden orgasmic shriek, but for now they must be watching intently as the girl’s cute little ass shook and strained to hump harder, faster, deeper against Arabella’s boot.

The coup de grace came none too soon. The girl bit down hard - hard enough to bruise if Arabella’s body still could - and her rapid thrusts transitioned into slow, weighty, straining grinds. Between clenched teeth she let out a long and heavy groan as her body shook and seized, wrapped around the long black tower of Arabella’s laced stiletto boots.

With a huff the girl slumped against the stall door. Her eyes hazy, body weak and trembling, she could hardly resist as Arabella claimed her prize. With one hand she hoisted the girl off the floor by her throat and with another cupped her beautifully bruised tits. The hazy look of shock was delicious. The smell of adrenaline and endorphins flushing through her body was mouth-watering. Her prey tried to fight back with a few faltering kicks that collided against her body like soft rain against a metal roof. God, she even seemed to wince from the impact of her own foot against Arabella’s frozen side.

The girl made a gurgled scream as Arabella bit down on her budding nipple and squeezed tighter against her throat. Her heel had done good work tenderizing the skin, such that when she bit down she hardly had to suck at all to get that delicious post-sex blood rushing up to the surface.

From above came a choked squeal.

“Why? Why are you doing this? Why are you doing this to me?” the girl said.

The answer was so obvious as to not warrant a response. Arabella could tell from that frightened, tiny, powerless voice that this wasn’t the first time that she had been backed against a wall and had her body violated, pleasure wrung from her unwilling body like juice from an unripe fruit, nor would it be the last. It was a law of physics really: objects in motion tend to stay in motion, as do victims tend to stay victims. Maybe a switch would flip someday - as had happened for Arabella - and the girl would metamorphose from this pitiable prey into something greater, stronger, wilder. Regardless, the constant whining was getting on Arabella’s nerves, so she might as well settle the score.

She pulled herself from the girl’s bleeding breast and craned her head up, resting her bloody chin on her heaving cleavage. Her tongue circled a growing smile, savoring whatever fluid was still stuck to her lips.

“Why? It’s because,” she said, “I only give this kind of treatment to women. Pretty women, if I can help it.”

The girl’s face twisted into a look of fear, gratitude, but mostly resignation. It didn’t take much to break these types, desperate for validation in whatever form, and for the rest of the meal the girl hardly made a sound. Her head hung limp against Arabella’s iron grip, like a corpse swinging on a hangman’s noose. Those trembling, useless hands even found themselves amidst Arabella’s hair, no doubt searching for any comfort they could find in this situation. They brushed feebly through the glossy strands and gripped lightly when Arabella pressed her fangs deeper into the flesh. She did love it when her victims’ bodies betrayed themselves in moments like these.

At last, Arabella had her fill. She made sure to not take too much, just enough to leave the girl delirious yet traumatized, able to recall the hazy memory of a predator the morning after. She released her grip and the girl fell to the ground. Her eyes, half-lidded and dull, still seemed to look for something within Arabella’s own. The sad little thing, like a kicked puppy. She must’ve grown attached. She had to break her spirit before that misplaced affection became a problem.

“You should be grateful, you know. If I still took you for a man, you’d be dead right now. Those types are always too liable to seek revenge. But I know you’ll be a good girl, and make your way back home. Don’t bother to tell anyone else what happened tonight, you did want this after all. Even the cops will just assume I turned you down after realizing your… anatomy… they always do, don’t they? Oh, and do be sure to get better friends the next time you go out at night. Maybe get a haircut, too.”

Arabella gave a practiced giggle and she could see the last glimmer of hope leave the curled-up thing’s face. That last comment seemed to sting particularly bad. Sara - that was the girl’s name, she finally remembered - didn’t even dare to look her in the eye anymore. She just huddled within herself in the corner, trying her best to shrink down into the grungy space between the toilet and her bloodied cast-off clothes. A pungent cocktail of lust, grief, fear, and rage wafted out from Sara’s silent tears.