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It had been a rather splendid party, you think as you remove your mask, setting it down on your vanity and looking at your reflection in your mirror. Your cheeks are tinted pink and there are small indentations just above your cheekbones, an outline of where your mask had rested over your face all evening.

Much of the night had been occupied by pleasant conversation, but there had been a few precious minutes where you had been allowed to leave your father’s side and dance with one of the many curious men interested in your hand. The party had been one of many hosted by your family throughout the year, and there was always an All Hallows Eve masquerade ball, but this year had been different. You had finally been deemed of a marriageable age, and your parents had turned it into more than a ball – additionally, it had been a night to present you to various young men of other upstanding families close to yours in social standing.

It hadn’t excited you much. In past years you had been free to converse with who you pleased, and dance with anyone you wanted to when you fancied it. This year had been almost painful in comparison. Conversations were limited to polite exchanges with young men either too cocky or too nervous to truly enjoy their company and consisted mostly of them detailing their estates, their futures. Hinting at what kind of life they could provide for you. The brave ones had asked you for a dance, but you had only been allowed to accept if your father had approved of them, and he was a hard man to please. You had kept a tally in your head all evening. Fourteen potential suitors. Eight offers to dance. You had only been allowed to accept three.

It had been about halfway through the ball that you’d felt a pair of eyes on your back, and mid-conversation with a nervous young man you had turned around to see who it was who was staring so intently at you from across the room. You hadn’t really expected to see anyone, sure they would avert their gaze when they noticed you searching, but your eyes met his almost at once, and he didn’t turn away. He stared back at you, almost defiant, a smirk on his lips.

It was a man all dressed in black, save for his mask, which was simple and white. His dark eyes shone through it. He had brown hair, neatly groomed and without product, unlike the slicked back hair of so many other party-goers.

A shudder ran up your spine beneath his gaze. You tried to approximate his age. Late twenties, early thirties, perhaps? You didn’t see a woman on his arm, or even a woman anywhere near him that seemed like she may have some claim. If he was unmarried, perhaps he would come over and introduce himself, entering the contest for your hand. You almost wanted him to. His gaze was so direct, so piercing. He looked at you with a sort of hunger, a great respite from the awkward, vaguely intimidated looks of the potential suitors you’d met thus far.

You watched as he brought one of his gloved hands to his mouth, allowing his lips to brush against his fingertips, and you realized his hand had six fingers. Perhaps it was part of his costume, but somehow you doubted it. He made a circular gesture with that hand, inclining his head to you in a slight bow without ever breaking eye contact.

You had half a mind to abandon your current suitor and approach the man, but your father’s hand went to your shoulder, demanding you return your attention to the nervous, mousy young earl still stammering out the details of his lineage. You listened politely, nodding every few moments, before your father dismissed him. As another young man approached you glanced back in search of the man in black, but he was gone.

Maybe you’d imagined him.

It is very late. The sun has long since set, and midnight is approaching. The house is silent, the only sounds you can hear those of your soft footfalls and the ticking of the clock in the corner of your chamber. The air has chilled in the autumn night, cold biting at your skin. You adjust the robe on your shoulders, which doesn’t do much to help since it’s so thin, but it is of no consequence. A servant should be by soon to relight the fire in the hearth. You’re surprised they haven’t come already, to be honest. They usually don’t wait until so late, but perhaps the aftereffects of the ball have thrown them off schedule.

You’re very close to through with your nightly routine by now; all that’s left now is a slow and methodical brushing of your hair. The monotony of it usually calms you, brushing through tangles, creating order in some small aspect of your life.

You’re halfway through your nightly ritual when you hear it – three sharp, short raps against glass coming from your balcony door, now half-open. Your head whips towards it at once, startled, gasping when you see the figure on your balcony. But it’s impossible. You’re on the second floor, and there are no stairs to reach it, no way to scale up the side of the mansion wall up to it. No one could be there without having entered onto it from your bedroom.

Yet there he stands, the man. A familiar figure, but you just can’t quite believe it. Maybe you’re dreaming again.

“Who’s there?” you call out, though you can see him clearly. The light cast from the various candles lit in your room illuminates his features, and the white mask seems to glow in the gentle moonlight.

You hear a chuckle belonging to a deep, throaty voice. “Your voice sounds so innocent,” he says in amusement, leaning back against the railing. You can’t quite see his eyes now, only the mask, but you know he’s staring just as intently at you now as he was during the ball. “Surely you recognize me. I doubt you could forget that brief moment during your party when you saw me. It was the only time all night you didn’t look entirely miserable.”

His voice makes goose pimples erupt over your skin. Very slowly you set down your hairbrush on your vanity, standing and taking a few steps towards your balcony door. You want a better look at him. “I wasn’t miserable,” you protest weakly, embarrassed that someone saw through your meek façade.

“No?” His voice sounds patronizing. “You could have fooled me.”

You take a few more steps, pushing one of your gossamer curtains aside in an effort to cast more light onto his face. It doesn’t do much but make the mask glow brighter, make the light reflected in his eyes a bit stronger. “How did you get up here?” you ask, looking for the signs of a rope or the like tied to your balcony rail but seeing none.

“I have my ways,” he replies easily. He doesn’t sound as though he’s trying to hide something from you, and it frustrates you just a bit, not knowing. He straightens his posture, his eyes meeting yours. “May I come in?”

Your eyes narrow, unsure. Your mind branches, imagining all the possibilities of what could happen should he enter. “I don’t think that would be proper,” you say, though your curiosity fights you. A pat of you wishes he would come in, maybe explain himself. You want to know who he is, how he got an invitation to your parents’ ball… what he’s doing at your door.

He cracks a grin, a wide lipped smile that shows off perfect teeth. “Yes, of course,” he agrees, sounding merely amused. “I suppose it would be improper, a strange man entering your bedroom unchaperoned – especially after dark.”

You nod as he speaks, but wonder if you shut your doors to him how he is going to get down from your balcony. The ground is several feet below it, after all, and a fall from that height could seriously injure a man. “The servants are rather fond of gossip,” you protest, a halfhearted excuse. You’ve never really cared what the servants said about you. “If someone were to see…”

“It might spoil your charming reputation?” he finishes for you, and you nod again in agreement, grateful that you do not need to finish your meager explanation. “I understand, of course,” he continues amiably, straightening one of his sleeves. His cufflinks flash in the moonlight. “However, you’ll find that there will be no servants in this house bothering us tonight. They’ve all gone to sleep, you see, and they won’t be waking until morning – and by then I will have long since departed.”

You’re standing at the threshold of your balcony door now, staring at him. This close you can see the stubble on his jaw, an impressive cleft in is chin. “What do you mean, they’ve all gone to sleep?” you inquire curiously. How could this man possibly know the whereabouts of every servant in the house? “What brings you to that assumption?”

His voice sounds almost condescending as he replies. “I don’t assume, my dear, I know. And I know because it was my doing.”

Relief washes over you, because he must be joking. No man has the power to put an entire household to sleep. You laugh at the joke. “You know, a servant should be by any moment to light the fire in my room,” you tell him, your eyes darting nervously to your bedroom door. “You’d best return home. It is, as we have already established, quite late.”

He shakes his head, a smirk on his lips. He wears the expression of a man who is amused by something pitiful before him. “I don’t think I shall be going anywhere; not for a while, at least. Are you cold, love?” He asks, noticing the shudder that racks your body at his words. They sounded like a threat. “If you’ll invite me in, I’ll do my best to warm you up.”

You protest again. “No, I… I really don’t think I should.” He’s confusing you, but perhaps that’s what he wants – for you to be confused. It makes your confidence falter. Has he really done what he’s said, put a whole house to sleep? But then, how could he have done that? With drugs?

He laughs now, but the laugh sounds more dangerous than amused. “Still you deny me?” He sighs and clicks his tongue, a noise that makes you feel scolded. Though you know you’ve done nothing wrong, you can still feel the blood rush to your cheeks. The man sighs, peering up into the dark night sky. “I didn’t want to have to resort to these measures,” he says softly into the still night air before lowering his gaze back to you. “But your continued hesitance has forced me to pursue more... diabolical means of gaining entry to your bedchamber.”

You feel something cold at your chest quite suddenly, alarmingly, and the cold pushes straight into you, settling at your heart. You can feel it beating now, hear its accelerated thrum in your ears. It’s as though it’s pumping ice through your veins. Your mind feels hazy. You don’t quite remember what you were doing anymore. Heading to bed, perhaps, since it’s dark outside. The only thing you can focus on is him. The man on your balcony with the deep, inviting voice and the dark eyes.

“Yes,” he breathes, his eyes not once leaving yours. “Just let go, don’t fight it.”

Something in the back of your mind is screaming at you not to listen, to look away and shut the door, but you don’t. You can’t. You haven’t felt this calm in years. Why should you throw it away? “What’s going on?” you whisper. You try to take a step forward, but your legs don’t move. In fact, you don’t appear capable of moving any of your limbs.

“I’m surprised you haven’t yet figured it out,” the man says bemusedly, a hand reaching slowly for his face and closing around the mask he wears. “I am sorry I’ve had to resort to hypnotism, but I simply must have you.” He lifts the mask away with one fluid, graceful motion, revealing a face more handsome than you could have hoped for. Strong, square jaw and a cleft in his chin, deep and soulful eyes. “We could have forgone all this unpleasantness if you had only been a good little girl, you know. But you refused. And unfortunately, I require an invitation to enter your room.”

You know you should probably be frightened of all this, but somehow you cannot bring yourself to be. A handsome, intriguing man is at your door and he has taken all your nerves and trepidations away with nothing but his gaze. Perhaps it’s sorcery. You no longer feel the ice in your veins – it has turned warm, almost hot even.

The man continues his monologue, watching you leisurely. “However, I cannot force you to invite me in. If I put the words into your mouth they will have no meaning. So instead, I shall persuade you.” There is a long pause as he sighs and twirls his mask in his hands. He chuckles. “Are you still cold, my dear?”

No. In fact, you've grown too hot, too hot to bear. There is a fire inside of you, spreading throughout your body. Your nightgown is stifling you and you long to tear at it as though it is aflame, but it’s not. Maybe it’s your skin – yes, surely that must be it – but you can’t escape from that so easily. It longs for touch, cool hands against it, but you cannot move, cannot end the torment. Your heart beats harder still, and the man sucks in a breath through gritted teeth. “That heartbeat,” he mutters. “What a symphony!” He peers at your face, at the discomfort clearly displayed there, and says sweetly, “I can end it, you know. I can douse the fire within you – after a bit of stoking, of course, but I promise it will no longer torment you. Quite the opposite.”

You whimper, trying again to force your arms to move. You want to clutch your arms, soothe them, but you are still rooted to the spot.

The man stands a little straighter. “Let us try once more,” he says smoothly. “May I come in?”

You shut your eyes, pursing your lips. Let it end, you want to beg, let it end. “Yes,” you whisper out on a shuddery breath.

And he enters, striding through the door in two paces until he is upon you with the most charming smile you've ever seen. “Thank you, my dear,” he says softly, bending his back in a slight, respectful bow as one of his curious, six-fingered hands reaches out for yours. He raises it to his lips and gently kisses it, staring into your eyes all the while.

Immediately the fire stops, except for a growing heat in your lower stomach, and you find yourself with autonomy of your limbs again. You rub your arms gratefully, taking several steps back until you are seated in the chair at your vanity again.

“You are just as lovely now as you were at the ball this evening,” he compliments you, placing his mask on your bedside table as he watches you. He begins to loosen his tie. “Thank you so much for inviting me inside.”

You do not look at him directly – not at first, at least. But when you glance up into your mirror to see him and find only your own reflection staring back at you, you realize quite suddenly what you have just done. Except for it’s impossible. They don’t exist.

“Looking for my reflection?” he asks. You feel hands on your shoulders and jolt, not expecting them. You didn’t hear him walking towards you, and there was no reflection to warn you he was approaching. “Let me know if you find it; I’d be so interested to see what I look like now.”

“You’re...” you breathe, craning your neck to look into his face. His smirk is practically triumphant. “You’re a vampire.”

“At last the lady comes to her correct conclusion.” He moves his hands down your arms and back up, rubbing them slowly. “I am indeed. And it has been so long – so very long – since I have had a proper meal.”

You jolt up from your chair almost involuntarily, backing away from the man until you reach the wall and have nowhere further to go. “No,” you say, your voice trembling. “You can’t.”

He almost seems hurt by your violent rejection. “Why do you fear me so? I’ll remind you, this doesn’t need to be unpleasant.”

The fear is making your chest tight. You feel like running, fast and far away from this man who stands at the chair near your vanity, his eyes fixated on your trembling body. But your legs won’t move and you are once again rooted to the spot. His eyes are so transfixed upon you that you realize he must be exerting his curious hypnosis over you again. But even if you did run, where would you go? You had nowhere to hide where he wouldn’t find you. “I don’t want to be bitten,” you plead. “I don’t want to be…”

“Like me?” he finishes the sentiment for you, sighing. “You have fallen prey to a common misconception, my dear. I cannot turn you by merely drinking your blood, so fear not for your humanity. You will be just as human when you wake as you are right now.”

You find your feet moving without your permission, crossing the room towards him. Your heart is pounding and your breaths are short. You can feel tears welling in your eyes, and silently curse. You don’t want him to see you cry, don’t want to display any further signs of weakness. “I won’t say anything to anyone,” you beg quietly as you come to a stop before him. “Please just let me be.”

He shushes you gently, reaching out a hand to caress your face. “It will all be just fine, love. Relax. Look into my eyes.” With his thumb, he wipes at a tear rolling down your cheek.

You do as you’re told, thinking you have nothing left to lose. You’ve already fallen under his hypnotic spell; you can’t imagine you can fall any deeper. Maybe he’ll see the fear in your eyes and repent.

His eyes are so soulful, so… earnest. They sparkle in the candlelight of your bedroom. You want to run, every fiber of your being begging to flee from this man, but you can’t. You feel an onslaught of lightheadedness and your legs go weak, as though they may betray you.

He slides his hands down your arms again, covering your hands in his. You flinch. His hands are like ice. He chuckles. “I know. Cold hands to match my cold heart. Don’t worry, dear. They will warm up once I’ve… eaten.”

You whimper as he leans in, his lips hovering just above your neck. You squeeze your eyes shut, expecting pain and a rush of darkness, expect to feel fangs in your neck and the sensation of your blood, your very life, being drawn from you. You can feel his breath, hot and wet, making gooseflesh erupt over your skin.

Your whole body shivers when he whispers directly into your ear. “Lie on the bed.”

Your body shifts, your legs following his command. You aren’t certain anymore if you’re following instructions because you want to or are being forced to, but you find yourself in moments crawling onto your bed, lying on your back atop the cool sheets staring up at the canopy. You watch, maybe in horror or fascination – you aren’t certain which – as he removes his jacket, placing it carefully over the back of the chair at your vanity. He glances at you as he begins to loosen his tie, smiling. “I can feel that you have stopped fighting me so much. That is good.” He pulls his tie off, draping it over his jacket, and pulls the straps of his suspenders away from his shoulders, and they hang at his legs. “That will make it much more pleasurable for you,” he says, pulling his gloves off of his peculiar, six-fingered hands.

Your breath hitches as he approaches you again, stroking the back of his hand against your cheek. “It’s alright,” he coos, his voice turning gentle. His hand turns, tracing the pads of his fingertips down your skin to your collarbone and lower, until his hand rests between your breasts. “Your heartbeat is erratic,” he mumbles. “But is it from fear or anticipation, I wonder?”

He pulls his hand away, letting out a sigh as he undoes the top couple of buttons of his shirt. “I wish I could tell you not to be afraid, but I know from past experiences such sentiment is pointless. You will be afraid no matter what comforts I whisper in your ear.”

He moves to the foot of the bed and begins to lift himself onto it, crawling on top of you. You let out another whimper, more high pitched. You’ve never felt the weight of a man atop you, and you can feel the length of him, half hard, pressing against your inner thigh. You are afraid, there is no denying it. His face hovers a mere few inches above yours, examining your expression. “Relax, my dear,” he whispers soothingly. The voice is calming, but your nerves rage on.

His body presses against yours, and you feel something you hadn’t expected. “You… have a heartbeat,” you say, amazed. The legends all claimed such a thing impossible. But then, the existence of a vampire was supposed to be impossible as well, so you suppose you can no longer take stock in those stories.

He seems taken aback by your sudden statement, and laughs. “Why, yes. I am still alive, in a matter of speaking, though it is in a much different way than you humans are.”

You shudder, but the curious discovery of his heartbeat, something that even slightly startled him when you asked about it, has given you back a modicum of your bravery. “What happens next?” you ask, your voice only falling to a tremble when you pose your next question. “Are you going to bite my neck now?”

Now when he laughs you can feel it in his throat, pressed so close to yours. “That would be the traditional thing to do, wouldn’t it? And yes, the neck is a marvelous place to partake from, but I don’t like to rush to the main course, so to speak. There are plenty of other places on a body that do just fine for blood flow, and I find one spot in particular quite sufficient for… well, not calming your nerves, perhaps, but certainly helps to make you feel a bit looser.”

You’re not sure if you should be afraid of the emphasis he placed on that word, but you can’t stop the shadow of apprehension from crossing your expression, and he leans in close to plant a delicate kiss on your cheek. Even his lips are cold. “Allow me to show you,” he whispers before quite suddenly disappears, his weight lifted from you. You start to sit up, thinking perhaps some miracle has happened and he has fled, but at once you feel hands on your hips and his voice commands from your feet, “No, no. Don’t move.”

You pause, wondering if it’s even worth it to fight him, before slowly lowering yourself back down on the bed. There is no point in fighting, he proved that long ago. You always thought yourself strong-willed, but you suppose even your stubborn nature is no match for a vampire. You hear the smirk in his voice when he says approvingly, “Good girl.”

“What are you doing?” you ask nervously, feeling his hands slide down your legs to the hem of your nightgown and pulling it up, up, until it is bunched up just below your breasts. The cold night air hits your skin and you shiver. You wriggle uncomfortably, realizing with a modicum of horror that you’ve been exposed to him, and draw your hands to your face to hide your humiliated expression behind them.

“You don’t have to be nervous,” he reassures gently, though his words do no good. Nerves and shame are all you can feel. “I promise I will make this quite enjoyable for you. Yes, there will be pain, but only for a moment. It will pass soon.” His hands creep back down your body, along your legs until they reach your knees, and he pries them apart. You don’t fight. There’s simply no point to fighting. And if you have to be completely honest with yourself, you are curious. Curious to find out what he is about to do, and especially curious about the pleasure he keeps promising to you.

He begins to rub his hands up and down your inner thighs, getting closer and closer to the heat between your legs. “Now, it is necessary before I begin to make sure the blood is flowing to just the right spot…”

You yelp when one of his fingers slides along the length of your wetness, teasing you. His finger is so cold that the sensation startled you further. No one, save for yourself, has ever touched you there. He doesn’t bother to try and quiet you. There must be no need, since everyone in the house is in a hypnotic sleep. You suppose you’re free to make all the noise you want.

He sounds delighted. “My, my, what have we here? You are so very wet, my dear. I wasn’t aware I had made such a powerful impact on you.”

You don’t have the capacity at the moment to come up with a retort. He has rendered you quite unable to think clearly. Instead you whimper in embarrassment and clutch your hands closer, trying to hide your face more completely.

“But wet as you may be,” he chuckles at your display. “I do think you’ll require some more stimulation before the blood is flowing properly.”

“What do you mean, stimu – oh!” your words break off in a moan when, mid question, something soft and wet slides between your folds, and begins to stroke you up and down. You feel something like sandpaper but softer rubbing against the very tops of your inner thighs, and his hands gripping your hips tightly, keeping your squirming at bay.

My god. He’s licking you. And you’re enjoying it.

Even the sounds are affecting you, the wet smacking and sucking that matches the suction and makes your hips writhe as the intensity of his efforts grows. He’s even enjoying it, mumbling in satisfaction, and the vibrations from his voice stimulate you even more.

You pull your hands away from your face to grip the sheets, trying desperately to gain some sort of anchor and his efforts grow more fervent, his tongue probing your entrance at first before slipping inside. One of his hands releases your hips, and you feel one of his fingers on your clit, sending tendrils of intense heat throughout your legs and stomach. It builds and builds until it is almost unbearable, and you can’t suppress your whimpers, your moans, anything to try and find some release when his tongue plunges deep, and you fall over the edge with what sounds like a scream, but much more guttural.

That’s when you feel the sharp, and pricking pain where not a moment ago you had felt intense pleasure like you’d never known, and your moan turns into a yelp. He’s still sucking you, but this time you know he is coaxing something other than an orgasm from you. You try not to think too hard about it, but you can almost feel the blood being sucked from your tender folds.

The pain does subside fairly quickly, just as he promised, and after a few moments you’re free to ride out your climax with some comfort, though the suction he’s still providing is getting you hot again almost immediately.

Your breaths are short when he finally surfaces, smacking his lips, which are noticeably redder, smudged with your crimson blood. “That was a most splendid treat,” he breathes, his voice thick. He’s looking down at you with a new expression. More intense than hunger. “But I do not think I am quite yet satisfied, love.”

He wipes at his mouth as his eyes rake over your body. You stare back at him, wide-eyed, unsure of what to do. How can he not yet be through? “But… you got what you came for,” you protest, feeling betrayed. You thought that was it. You’d endured the indignity of it all, though you reluctantly admitted that you’d enjoyed every second. “You’ve had your fill.”

“Oh, but I haven’t. Not yet,” he smiles charmingly. “The main course, as I’ve stated previously, is to be from that pretty, slender neck of yours. However…” his hands, noticeably warmer, find your hips, sliding up your stomach and beneath the bunched up fabric of your nightgown, tracing the swell of your breasts. “I think that even that may not be enough. No…”

You gasp as his hands cover your breasts, squeezing them gently at first but growing rougher with them as the moments pass. His thumbs flick over your nipples, making them stiffen. You whimper with pleasure and the moment the noise escapes your throat he begins to pinch them, rolling them between his fingers with a smile on his lips, enjoying watching you arch your back.

“What do you want from me?” you ask, whimpering again as he pinches one of your nipples a little harder. There is pressure, but not pain. It’s driving you mad. The heat is growing between your legs again from those ministrations alone.

You looks you directly in the eyes as he tells you his intentions. “I need to penetrate you.”

The confidence, the almost casual nature of that statement makes it seem perfectly natural. You don’t even feel afraid. Maybe you knew, somewhere in the back of your mind, that this was coming. Certainly he wasn’t going to leave after just one taste. He went to all this effort, after all, for the pleasure of drinking your blood.

He seems pleased by your lack of protests. “Yes,” he breathes, lowering his body back over yours, his lips hovering over your ear. “My fangs buried in your neck while I am inside of you…” You jolt as he places a kiss, so soft it almost feels reverent, against your neck. “It has been so long since I have experienced anything remotely close to lust,” he whispers into your skin. “I don’t think I’ve felt so strongly for a woman since I was human.”

He lifts himself off of you again, but it is only a brief reprieve as he slides down his trousers. You don’t look, staring pointedly up at the canopy of your bed. You aren’t sure what to feel anymore. The fear lingers, but it has been overtaken by something else. It is stronger than a curiosity, stronger than attraction. Lust, he had said. You’d thought you understood what that meant. Now that you’re finding yourself in the throes of it for the first time, you realize you knew nothing.

You feel his weight atop you again and you look back down, directly into his eyes. He is not smiling now. His mouth is partially open, his eyes meeting your gaze with a look of longing so great you shudder. You feel his hardness at your entrance and his face lowers, nestled in the crook of your neck. You whimper once, unsure of how any of this will feel.

He thrusts in and bites down simultaneously, and you’re not sure which of the sensations to focus on – the stretching, full, slightly painful feeling between your legs or the sharp pain at your neck. The decision becomes clear as both pains fade. He is sucking at your neck with fervency, and it feels absolutely incredible, but the stimulation below as he thrusts in and out is causing an encore of the heat you experienced when he was licking you, and you find yourself bucking your hips in time with his, praying once more for release. He’s moaning, you’re moaning, it’s a cacophonic symphony that fills your room and echoes back off the walls. You cling desperately to his shoulders. His body is hot. You want to tear his shirt off of him, feel more of his skin against yours. You want his mouth off of your neck. You want it on your breasts, on your collarbone, on your mouth. You want more.

He dips his body down and begins thrusting from a more pronounced angle, groaning against your neck, and you can’t hold on any longer. You let out a wail unlike any noise you've ever made – unlike any noise you've ever even heard – and collapse onto the bed, riding out wave after wave of pleasure, and you feel his body shudder violently atop yours. He groans and finally pulls his lips away from your neck, looking back into your eyes as he eases out of you. Both of you are breathing heavily.

He finds his voice first, as you knew he would. “That was, I daresay, the best meal I have ever had,” he says, his voice gravelly. He rolls off of you, lying next to you and wiping at his mouth once more with the back of his hand. “I suppose I should thank you.”

You catch your breath, and your voice is still tight. “So will you let me go now?”

His laughter startles you this time. It is loud and almost harsh. “I relinquished my hypnotic hold over you long ago,” he informs you triumphantly, sitting up and stroking your leg. “Try as you might to insist I forced you, everything that has happened on this bed tonight was done of your own free will. As you know,” he chortles. “I cannot enter without an invitation.”

You freeze, realizing what you have just done. All of it, every moment, you had brought upon yourself. You could have protested. You could have fought. “You tricked me,” you protest meekly, sitting up and backing away from him until you are pressed against the wall, trying to pull a bedsheet up to cover yourself. “I thought… I thought I had to!”

You are very close to tears again. What would people say if they ever found out?! You had gotten lecture after lecture from your father about purity, about no man wanting you if you were soiled, and you had ruined all of that in one evening. The shame is almost unbearable. Your skin is crawling with your humiliation. You can feel the ghosts of this man’s hands on your hips, under your breasts. The space between your legs throbs a little more pronouncedly, reminding you of your grave mistake.

“You didn’t have to do anything,” he grins, moving towards you with graceful motions, like a predator approaching its prey. You shrink away from him, but you have nowhere else to move. He leans his face close to yours. “From this moment on, you’re mine,” he breathes dangerously.

You open your mouth to protest, but anything you wanted to say is gone when he presses his lips over yours, his tongue slipping into your mouth as his lips move against yours with a voracious urgency. He tastes rusty, metallic. Like blood. You don’t care. You've never been kissed before, and you can’t believe how wonderful it is. It feels so intimate, even more intimate than sex.

You’re forced to pull back and gasp a lungful of air, but he doesn’t let you be for long. He wraps his hand behind your head, his fingers buried in your hair, and forces your face back to his. He keeps on kissing you in a manner that alternates between gentle and rough, until your head is buzzing with more thoughts of where you want those lips to go.

You’re fairly dazed when he finally pulls away and climbs off the bed, leaving you to slump onto the mattress, watching him readjust his clothing. He is very meticulous about it. He puts himself back into his trousers and pulls them back up to their proper place on his waist and redoes the buttons of his shirt. You still wish you’d ripped that shirt off of him. He replaces his suspenders, carefully running his fingers along them to ensure they aren’t twisted, and shrugs back into his jacket.

He pockets his gloves instead of putting them back on, and leaves the mask where it is. You assume it is to be a reminder to you of what has happened here tonight.

“I will return,” he promises, adjusting his collar. “I can’t say when for sure, but it will be soon. I do not think I am presumptuous in assuming I have a standing invitation?” he looks to you expectantly, and you give a sluggish nod.

He smiles. “Then I must take my leave for now.” He crosses the room back to the bed and plants another lingering kiss against your lips. This one is the sweetest yet.

When he pulls away, the question you've been wanting to ask for some time slips out. “Why did you choose me? Surely this wasn’t… easy for you. There are much easier targets, aren’t there?”

He thinks on this for a few moments, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear as he answers. His eyes are soft now, his gaze almost forlorn. His words are much gentler than they were several minutes ago. “You are right. It took tremendous effort to have you tonight. It isn’t easy to hypnotize an entire mansion’s worth of people, as I’m sure you can guess. I normally wouldn’t dare go after someone of such noble birth, surrounded by servants and family… but you are special. Your blood speaks to me in a way no one else’s ever has. I knew the moment I first saw you, heard the blood singing in your veins, that I had to have you.”

You nod sluggishly, considering his answer. You like the thought that you are special. No one else has ever seemed to think so. “Will you turn me into a vampire, then?” you ask.

“No… well, I suppose that isn’t quite the truth. I won’t turn you tonight. One day, maybe. If you decide you can tolerate my companionship for eternity.” He strokes your cheek with his hand. It’s incredible, the difference between how cold it was at the night’s start and how warm it is now. “You should sleep,” he whispers. “Humans need so much sleep. You are very fragile creatures, after all.”

You suppose he’s used his hypnotism on you again. You feel yourself struggling for consciousness almost immediately.

You watch him turn to leave, approaching the balcony, and you manage to call out, “You never even told me your name.”

He pauses in the doorframe. “No, I suppose I didn’t. Normally I wouldn’t divulge such information but in your case… I suppose you've earned it.” He looks back at you. “My name is Stanford.”

“Stanford,” you repeat, your voice soft. You want to watch him go, but your eyelids are so very heavy…

You think you see the shadow of a bat and hear the flap of leathery wings as you slip into a deep, velvety sleep, but that may have very well been a dream.