I ran and ran through the halls of the seemingly endless mansion, fast gasps rushed past my chapped lips, scorching my throat dry. My muscles burning with early fatigue.
His pounding steps echoed from behind, as he stomped up the stairs with his uncanny speed. His rage pushed him further, and faster, as he leaped, with odd silence, in front of me.
my heavy skirts hindered me further, not being strong or fast. being human.
Curse the damn skirts!
I turned, my train flowing behind me, and my slippered feet softly slapping the midnight black marble floor.
He lunged, and grabbed the front of my corset through the filmy lace that the servants had given me. that He had given me.
He yanked and pulled me forewards.His arms came around me and held me to his muscular chest. I pushed feebly, and somehow managed to turn around.
His other hand roamed down over my quivering stomach and down to where I was allowed no underclothes down to my thighs, and I felt the heat through the satin cloth.
His hand fisted and yanked, ripping the skirt up past my knees and practically to the top hem around my waist.
The satin whispered as it fell to the floor from His hands. His hand now roamed freely over my now clammy skin. His hands going where no other had been.
I gasped and shivered as the cool air clung to me and He pushed me to the cold floor.
His eyes slowly raked my body.
My face was thankfully, clear of blemishes and now covered with the scent of sweat generated by fear. My chest was average a good sized B cup, the corset heaving because of my heavy, distressed breathing.
My shaking belly, one unadorned by any jewelery or scars. Over the bottom hem of the now ripped skirt, the cold made goosebumps arise and he twitched even that scrap of cloth aside.
Under it I wore nothing, would have if I would have found a sewing needle to make one, would have but he followed me, quietly, then loudly, to scare me.
I struggled but my quiet denies were only pushing His frenzy and lust further.
Far enough until his strong grip pulled the flimsy corset aside, baring me against that tile.
The cold cold tile.
His warm hands roamed over my body and I convulsed in horror.
He held me down with his body and continued to let his hands roam.
- Title: Running
- Artist: Confictura
A young woman around 16 or 17 years of age, is resting in her own bed where there is no time, only the now.. and there is no escape.
A rare, warm blooded vampire, with enough of his human self left that he wants a lover, and one no older than 23.. The younger the better, and one that hasnt been tainted, as so many young woman have been.. will she survive to escape?
rate fairly and read completely. I tried to make it easier to read by making the paragraphs shorter!
- Date: 01/27/2010
- Tags: running