How to Torture a Vampire
by Mathilde MaddenHe wants pain. Pain is his thing, what he needs, the thing he begs for. Down on his knees with tears in his eyes, he implores me to find a way to torture him. To find a way to give him the pain that will satisfy him. But it isn’t easy.
He’s a vampire, after all.
And with that comes a massive headache for when it comes to recreational sexual torture: he’s practically indestructible.
He shrugs off the hardest blow. He heals in a heartbeat. I’ve tried everything. Everything. I’ve hit him with everything I can lift high enough to swing. I’ve locked him in a cage in the cellar and starved him of blood (or anything else) until he passed out. Holy water and fire got boring months ago (both are really just flesh wounds to him in any case.) He wants something bigger. Something so intense that it will take him up and out and away. Over and above it all.
The trouble is that the only things that do more than graze him seem to kill him outright. Stakes, beheading - I mean, I’m as fond of edge play as any kinked-up, vampire-dating woman in her thirties would be – but I’m not ready to be suddenly single just yet.
And the things is, the big thing, I want to do it. I want to see it in his face. The magic. Pain magic.
But how exactly do I do that? Just what do you do when you’re is in love with a big old pain slut vampire? I can’t exactly ask about it down at the Citizen’s Advice.
And up until recently I had thought I was doing okay. Keeping my end up reasonably well for a puny human trying to play dominatrix to a submissive vampire. But then the last time I tied him down and beat him until he was bloody, he finally confessed he’d barely felt a thing. He screamed and writhed as always, but it was all an act. All for me. To get me wet. And it had worked. At least it had until he’d told me he was barely even half hard.
But that was the trigger. That was when I knew I had to do something.
And right on cue some inspiration turns up.
He’s watching some vampire film. I’d like to stress here that he’s watching it. Not me. I am – despite my domestic set up – no vampire freak. I do not have any interest in vampire books, films or television shows. The whole vampire for a boyfriend thing is just, well, just one of those things. (I should also stress that my boyfriend doesn’t even look vampey. He doesn’t dress up like Marvin Manson, or anything; he looks like a geek. He has very short, spiky-when-he-bothers-to-gel-it, blondish-brownish hair and little wire rimmed bottle-end specs [I know, I know, super powers and myopia – it kills me, too]. Like I say, he sometimes settles down in front of a Bela Lugosi marathon, but he doesn’t walk the walk. Why would he? He reckons that as he does actually drink blood and repel bullets he doesn’t actually need to dress up all Nosferatu.)
So, he’s a lot like all my other geek-boy-boyfriends. Except he drinks blood and doesn’t go out during the day. Actually, the drinks blood part probably is the only the difference.
So anyway, he’s watching the film and I notice this bit where some vampires get shut in a cell with a window. It’s night, but when the sun comes up and the daylight streams in through the window the unfortunate vampires become little piles of dust in the wind.
My kinky little supernatural-loverboy actually squirms and flinches a little on the sofa at this. And a tiny part of my brain says, "ooh."
And I have a plan.
Equipment is so expensive. Heavy duty bondage gear often needs to be custom-made. My angel is so strong that ropes might as well be strips of tissue paper, so I needed to get chains and manacles for him not long after we first met. Now my bank is well and truly broken. Thank God for credit cards is all I can say - I’ve sold my soul to Visa by way of a local carpenter and the nearest DIY superstore.
He’s ready, too. Well, he’s naked and he's in a big wooden crate. He has no idea what he’s ready for. No idea I’ve opened the curtains for starters. And absolutely no idea I’m holding a great big fuck-off drill.
(Brief aside from the red hot action: weirdly, I didn’t actually realise I wouldn't be able to see him when he was inside the box. It’s completely obvious, but I didn’t think. I try kicking the box though, and hear a sort of muffled groan from inside. The noise zips straight to my clit and I realise, with a huge relief, that not being able to see might just be okay. So long as he keeps on making those cute, super cute, and pitifully cute little noises everything’s going to be okay. [Okay, great big agonised noises might be good too.])
When I start the drill up, it’s insanely loud. The juddering movement of it makes me vibrate too and every part of me seems to stand up on end. I’m shaking with something more than that too, adrenaline, lust, something. I don’t know if my prisoner is making any sounds now. I can’t hear him over the drill’s roar, but it doesn’t matter now. Something else has taken me over. Power-tool power-lust. All I want to do is penetrate. (And yeah, the symbolism of me with a my huge throbbing tool is almost too much to bear.)
The drill seems to scream as it makes its first contact with the wood. Suddenly it's more than symbolic. The box really is a part of him and the drill really is part of me. For once I am strong and he is weak. And this piercing – this breaking and entering that I am doing right now – really feels like a violation. And when the hole is made, ripped and jagged through the splintering wood, I pull the drill away slowly, ready for the pay off.
I can almost see the way the shaft of sunlight spears its way into the box – stabbing him. He screams and I hear him move, shift position enough to escape it. And then I make another hole.
The box starts to shake. The low, nasty, purr of the drill is still loud, but now that he knows what I am doing his screaming is louder.
"No, no, no - " And, "No, don’t."
Now, more than ever, I like the sounds he makes.
When I have made about five holes I put my eye up to one of then. Inside the box, he’s just visible in the sunshine stripes, contorted up against a wall, twisting away from the sparkling pain. There is a slight smell in the air, sour and acrid, like burnt toast, but worse. I know just what it is.
Part of his right heel is smouldering. A little dab of sunlight is brushing it. I watch for a sec and then he shifts position, saving his heel, but sacrificing his left elbow, which falls into another beam as he moves. Another couple of seconds and he squirms back again. He can’t keep himself entirely out of the light.
As I watch it seems to become a strange little dance. A constant squirm of tiny moments, saving a thumb from the light, but scalding an ear, saving the ear but scalding a knee. On and on. As he writhes, extremity after extremity takes its turn in the light.
His eyes find mine, where my wide pupils are pressed up tight against the wood. And then I see that the fear in his face - the fear mixed with agony - is a masque for real arousal. It’s working. The way his lips are parted. The way his breath is sharp, shallow. His nipples are hard as little beads. And there, in his half closed eyes is the look, the look that I’ve been craving. He’s drifting away from me, coasting on pain, and arousal, and endorphins.
I watch him dance.
When I know it’s time for my next move, I walk around the box trying to find a new site for a new hole. I’m holding the picture of how he is positioned inside the box in my head and I look for the perfect angle.
I make my decision and take my chances with my visuo-spacial scratch pad, plunging the drill into the wood just where my mental image of the box and the criss-crossed pattern of light inside it tells me will end his squirming.
There’s a gratifying noise. A scream of pain cut with arousal and almost, somewhere, jubilation. I think I must have got it right.
Next moment I’m pressed against the box again. Pushing my face tight to the wooden side. The new shaft of light has pinned him, like a butterfly in a cage. He can’t move now. No more writhing dance, no more choosing which part of his body to save and which to burn. Now he has a focus. He’s surrounded by shafts of light, trapping him, and every extremity is fizzing and popping, gently licked by a beam of sunshine. His brow is picked with sweat and there, right in the middle of the web, a final pure white spear lies right between his legs, almost grazing the root of his magnificent, glistening cock. He isn’t burning there, not yet, but he will if he shifts even a fraction of an inch. Hence the concentration.
He’s bound by light now. Tortured and controlled and utterly helpless. And I watch him forever as the sun goes down.
©Mathilde Madden
Mathilde Madden lives in the literary city of Oxford, where she writes thrillers and erotica and sometimes knits, when not being interrupted by her husband, her ridiculously cute 3 year old daughter and beautiful baby boy. Mathilde Madden’s second novel, Mad About the Boy, is published this month in the UK and next year in the rest of the world.