You try to twist away at first, but the effects hit fast. The sharp terror softens into a warm, heavy haze. Your thoughts grow slow, floaty, and loopy. The room sways gently around you.

Doctor Crowe steps between your spread thighs, clipboard in hand, his expression cold and utterly detached. His voice is flat, clinical, and professional.

“Subject 347. You are now conscious. We will begin preparation by thoroughly cleaning your vulva for detailed inspection.”

The first touch is the warm, dripping rag. You inhale sharply as the thick, wet heat drags slowly across your puffy outer lips. Doctor Crowe wipes with precise, methodical strokes, carefully folding back your labia to clean every slick, sensitive crease and fold. The warm fabric glides over your clit again and again, sending unwanted sparks of pleasure through your nitrous-dazed body.

“Labia majora: symmetrical and plump. Light natural moisture present,” he dictates in a cold monotone. “Labia minora: deeply flushed, highly vascularized. Clitoris: already erect and protruding from the hood. Subject is producing noticeable lubrication.”

The warm rag continues its slow, thorough strokes, the wet heat and gentle friction making your hips twitch faintly against the straps. Every pass over your clit sends a fresh wave of slick warmth through your core.

Then comes the sharp hiss of the showerhead. Warm water sprays out in a fine mist at first.

“We are now rinsing the area,” Doctor Crowe states coldly. “You may experience considerable stimulation. React in whatever way feels natural, 347.”

The stream shifts, and suddenly a strong, pulsing jet of warm water is beating directly onto your swollen clit. The sensation is intense, pressure hammering your most sensitive spot without mercy. A shaky, loopy moan escapes you through the mask.

They begin testing. Different modes: soft rain, strong pulsing massage, oscillating jets. Temperatures from soothingly warm to almost too hot. Your reactions grow louder and more desperate. When they find the perfect setting, firm, rapid pulses of perfectly hot water pounding right against your throbbing clit, your body jerks hard in the stirrups.

“Ah—! Fuck…” you whimper, voice floaty and broken from the nitrous.

“Optimal response with pulsed mode at 40°C,” Doctor Crowe notes without emotion. “Significant clitoral engorgement. Vaginal secretions increasing rapidly.”

The nurse turns the nitrous flow higher. The gas floods you deeper, turning the world soft and dreamy. Your head feels heavy and light at the same time, every sensation amplified and distant.

Doctor Crowe’s voice remains ice-cold. “Breathe deeply, Subject 347. Just relax.”

The water pressure increases, pounding harder against your clit. Then you feel the thick, smooth head of a dildo pressing against your slick entrance. It slides in slowly, stretching your hot, velvety walls with a wet, obscene squelch that echoes in the room. Doctor Crowe begins a steady, deep thrusting while the showerhead continues its relentless assault.

“Vaginal canal: warm, slick, and tightly gripping the instrument. Depth achieved: 14 centimeters,” he dictates clinically. “Cervix soft. Subject’s internal muscular contractions are strong and rhythmic.”

The combination is almost too much, the hot, pounding water hammering your clit, the thick dildo stroking deep inside your cunt, the heavy nitrous making everything feel floaty, overwhelming, and impossibly intense. Your moans grow louder, more desperate, turning into broken, loopy cries.

“Subject 347 is approaching orgasm,” Doctor Crowe states flatly. “Vaginal walls spasming. Increasing thrust depth and water pressure for complete assessment.”

The water pounds mercilessly. The dildo fucks you faster, harder. Your entire body tenses, thighs trembling violently in the stirrups. A long, shattered moan tears from your throat as you cum hard, your cunt clenching around the thrusting dildo, clit throbbing wildly under the hot spray, waves of blinding pleasure crashing through your nitrous-drunk mind.

Doctor Crowe keeps the stimulation going through every powerful spasm, observing with clinical detachment until your body finally goes limp, twitching and spent.

“Orgasm achieved. Strong stimuli response recorded. Subject 347 is now properly cleaned and sensitized.”

He turns off the water and slowly withdraws the dripping dildo with a wet pop. A soft, warm towel gently pats your oversensitive, puffy cunt dry, stroking carefully over your still-twitching folds.

“Preparation complete,” he announces in the same cold tone. “Subject 347’s vulva and vaginal canal is clean, flushed, and optimally prepared for the full examination.”

Doctor Crowe looks down at your blissed-out, floaty face, the mask still sealed over your mouth, eyes glassy.

London burned.

The second inquisition has come down hard. Some of the older licks in town were calling it Gahenna. You're not sure how much you believe that. Just some fucking Nos letting their guard down, letting the kine get into their shit. Suddenly everyone in London was paying for it. Can't leave the city, it felt like every route that took you out of the M25 was blocked up. A ring road crawling with so many hunters you'd find yourself rapidly on the wrong side of a road flare. How they were still managing to keep it quiet from the sheep was beyond you. Vampire hunting dressed up as counter-terrorism.

You wouldn't mind, it wasn't your lot that caused this whole mess. Of course, the Order of Excalibur didn't care about the differences between anarchs and Camarilla. All Kindred are the same to them. Blank-bodies, to be neutralised with extreme prejudice. Fucking Ivory Tower dicks making things shit for everyone else. Almost like it's a centuries-old cycle of oppression and violence…

One thing seemed to be a reprieve from the abject shitstorm. A Kindred you'd been introduced to a couple of decades ago. Back when he was still green, fresh out of the Cam. You didn't trust him back then. Still don't, you barely know his name.

Not to mention, he's a Tremere.

Tremere aren't common on this side of the schism. It's not a secret how they keep their new blood in line: every newly embraced warlock gets blood bonded to a whole bunch of their elders. Loyalty is a big deal over there, and it's bought with control. Each Tremere in a vinculum to the rung above, rising through the generations until you get to the big daddy of them all who ate Saulot four or five centuries ago. How he managed to find an antediluvian in torpor, you don't know. How he then managed to diablerise a being no more than two bites away from Caine, nobody knows.

Not that the history of the clan matters. They were wizards, bound up into their own forced hierarchy of blood. The Pyramid. Very much a Camarilla MO. That's why when one pops up asking to be let into the Anarchs, you were a little suspicious. You know where you stand with a Brush, a Gangrel, fuck even a Ventrue could be relied on to be a backstabbing scumbag. A fucking Tremere. And here you were at his haven.

An unassuming magic shop. A shitty little hole in a wall in Camden. Open the door, climb the steps, then through to his office-cum-haven where he’d be waiting. Just had to get the foul taste out of your mouth first.

A bored-looking clerk stood behind the counter. You could smell he was a ghoul, even before he grinned at you and waved you into the back. “The boss is waiting.”

You could feel his eyes on you. Sizing you up, taking in your outfit: a leather jacket probably older than he is, an Iron Maiden t-shirt, patched-up crust jeans and spiked wrist cuffs. Sure, you dress like you’ve stepped directly out of the 1980s punk scene, but some looks are timeless. If not entirely odourless.

You climbed the stairs. Ian’s office was at the top of the stairs. A bead curtain, because of course it was. Nothing to knock on, so you slipped in. Bells attached to the ends of each bead chain jingled as you pushed them aside. One way to avoid being taken unawares. Not that you were trying.

“Colin. Good to finally meet.” A middle-aged looking man was sitting behind a desk, going over some papers. Half-moon glasses on the bridge of his nose. Ian looked twenty years your senior, though a lot of kindred do. Brujah embrace young, you’d barely escaped getting collared for hucking a molotov at a police car before a shape moving at mach-fuckoff clotheslined you. By the time you woke up, your heart had stopped and you were an anarch. You hadn’t asked exactly how old Ian is, but you knew he joined the ranks of the dead in the nineties, and walked into your bar just after the banks fell apart in the aughts. You weren’t a baron or anything, just an open ear who held down some neutral turf. One thing led to another and he got the name of someone a little more interested in political agitation than you. Who knows, if he’d found you a decade previous, you might have been more down for tearing shit up. Now though, you just wanted a quiet unlife.

Irresponsible tearing up of shit is what’s brought the wolves to the door, after all.

“Yeah. We met before, remember? You came into my pub asking for sanctuary. Fucking gutsy considering half the licks in there were Gangrels. I remember having to talk one of them down from staking you out for a suntan.” You grinned “I was tempted to let him. What’s a warlock doing as an anarch anyway? You fucks are all Tower all the time usually”

That struck a nerve. Good. Ian grimaced as he looked up at you “Some of us wanted a change. It was… Remarkably easy to get out of the Pyramid. Once that happened it was just a case of finding some new friends. You were the first step to that, for which I am eternally grateful. Now I seek to repay that major boon. I’ll get you out of London, under the noses of the Inquisitorial forces stalking these streets. There’s just one catch.”

“Which is?” Always a fucking catch with warlocks. You should just take your chances walking across the bed of the Thames

“Assurances. It’s no secret you dislike my clan, as do most Anarchs. I need to ensure my own safety. A vinculum”

You felt your hackles rise. This asshole wanted to blood bond you, keep you under his thumb and call it a boon. “What, get me drunk on your blood and use me as a pawn? What makes you think I’ll agree to that?”

Ian smiled. A soft smile, as though realising something for the first time “Of course. You don’t know. Why would you? Do you know the bane of clan Tremere?”

You stopped. You were about to leave, but you know the value of information. Even if it’s bullshit, you’ll be able to peddle this on “Continue”

“Our blood is broken. Normally, if you drink the vitae of another kindred you become bound. Since the destruction of the Vienna chantry, this is not the case for us. Some Tremere are incapable of even binding ghouls to our will, though thankfully this is not the case for me. No. Instead I propose something a little different. My house, House Carna, have developed a ritual that will allow us to be bound, albeit temporarily, to one another. You will be bound to me, me to you, until our business is concluded.”

You frowned at the man as he rose from his desk “So… What, we need to drink from each other? Is that it?”

“No,” he shook his head “We need to fuck”

You took a step backwards. The realities of undeath mean that being in the midst of a long dry spell isn’t unusual, some neonates can still be intimate with people, but it’s never as intense as when you had a beating heart. You weren’t a neonate any more, and your strategy for feeding wasn’t exactly… Seductive.

He looked at you. You looked at him. The room hadn’t got any warmer, but suddenly felt close. The way was open and at the speed you could move if you needed to, you could be out of here before he or his ghoul could stop you. On the other hand, he’s still your best bet to get out of this city without getting pinched, and that's saying something.

“There’s no other way?”

“No. Carna’s rituals are… Specific.”

You sighed. This wasn’t how you expected the night to go, but it’s better than suffering final death. With a roll of your head, you felt power coarse through you as you roused your blood. The blush of life returned to you. Colour long since missing from your cheeks flowed back, your ribs rose and fell in a mockery of breath. A moment of focus, and you felt yourself harden, cock straining at your antique denim jeans. “Bend over”

Ian cocked an eyebrow “What?”

“Bend over. If I’m fucking you to get out of this city, I’m the one doing the fucking.”

“Ah-” If he could blush, the Tremere would be blushing. “Very well.”

You watched as he extricated himself from his clothes, folding them as he stripped. Considering he just propositioned you, he seems a little confused about the way things are going. Maybe you should help.

Celerity: the vampiric art of moving very, very fast indeed. Potence: the ability to crush a car like a soda can. Both of these are talents the Brujah have in spades. Both of these are tricks you have become quite good at using during your time as a kindred. Better, it seemed, than Ian was at stopping you. By the time he'd noticed you move, you were behind him. His wrist in your hand, pushing him over the desk.

“Be honest, you've wanted to try this little ritual of yours out for a while, haven't you?” The last discipline a Brujah has at his disposal is Presence. You didn't need to use it. Kindred don't tremble, not from fear, not from excitement, certainly not from arousal. The noises this Tremere was making, you reckon if he had a pulse he would be.

“N-not exactly-”

You pushed him down harder. Your other hand pulled your cock free, turgid and thick, resting it on the older-looking man’s rear end. Kindred regrow hair and nails to their state at the moment of the embrace, unless a Dragon is involved, so either this man was waxed clean when he got bitten, or he'd prepared for this. “Be honest. A young buck walks into your office and folds you with one hand? You've had dreams about this. Good ones” You thrust your hips against him, slamming him against the edge of the desk, feeling the wood crack beneath supernatural force. Hearing the moaning whine come out of the man in front of you

“I have, I have! Please!”

“Good man. Now we can really have a dialogue”

He scrambled for a desk drawer when he felt you line yourself up with his winking hole. The sound he made when he felt a gobbet of your bloody spit land on him was almost musical.

You reached around him. He was soft, limp and cold. He'd not brought himself to the facsimile of life you had. It didn't matter, a dribbling of cool wetness was already coming from his tip. You thought you could smell someone else's blood in the air. One hand on his flaccid excuse for a cock, the other still holding his wrist halfway up his back, you stepped in.

Kindred are tough. One benefit of being undead, you don't bruise easily. The superhuman thrust which hilted you in his rear broke something, and it wasn't just the desk. Splintering wood almost covered up the gasping cry that tore from Ian's mouth. A holdover reflex from when he needed to breathe, maybe. Now the hyperventilating kindred pushing back into you was just doing it for kicks.

That you can respect.

“Too much, wizard?”

He shook his head

“More?”

Nod

“Harder?”

More nodding. You grinned. You haven't had a painslut to play with since the 90s.

“Good lad.”

You dug your nails in, the skin on his wrist splitting, filling the room with the scent of blood as it flowed in rivulets between your fingers and down his back. Your hips worked overtime, unnatural speed and stamina driving him over and over into the creaking, cracking furniture until it at last gave way.

You were too deep in him to fall out, holding him to you as you went down together. Clawing a handful of thinning grey hair, pulling back on it even as you drove his pleading, grinning face into the carpet. Hips hammering into him, knees on the ground, conscious of the dripping blood soaking into the floor.

You felt something. Something you hadn't felt for so long. Pressure welling up inside you. A lightness in your chest, a swimming in your head. You were starting to groan, almost as loudly as he was. The inhumane tempo of your body hitting him set the rhythm for your grunting. Every stroke brought it closer.

You felt yourself release inside him. Your cock twitching, balls tensing against your torso. It was like you hadn't fucked in decades which, of course, you hadn't.

You stayed locked to him. Each shuddering pulse sent another squirt of precious vitae into his ruined hole. Over and over. Groaning together, blood dripping from fresh wounds.

He healed himself before dressing. Calling his ghoul into the office and drinking his fill before channeling the power to his wounds. Skin knit together, bones fused. When he was done you wouldn't have known he'd just taken such a beating had you not been the one to break him. It was almost disappointing.

“Is it done?”

“You can't feel it?”

You could. Normally a bond takes a while to come on. This was different. You could already sense you couldn't betray him, even if your own life was on the line.

“Is this what the Pyramid was like?”

“Oh, that was worse. This is just for now, until our business is concluded. Now, I know a Nosferatu who can get us out of here and into Cardiff. An old-fashioned gangster type. He owes me a boom from my days in the Tower. Goes by Ryan”

Shit. First you find yourself balls-deep in another man's ass, now you're relying on the Tower.