The woman closest to you is openly leering, gaze so hungry on your chest, your throat, and it just makes you feel... Warm... You think about pulling at the edge of your top to expose a little more skin, to make her stare more, harder, to maybe come closer and... Do something. You aren't sure. But it seems appealing.

The first sip of your wine is intoxicating. Not like alcohol is normally, it tingles sliding down your throat, making it feel more sensitive inside and out, and you feel so, so good, pleasantly hazy. You don't made the stares. The laughter... Is it a little callous? A little condescending? It doesn't matter. You just smile and nod, maybe give a small giggle of your own as you squirm a little in your seat. This is such a lovely party.

For just a moment, you slip into a pleasant daydream of being pulled onto the table, stripped, so many elegant hands leaving you more and more exposed, touching you. Preparing you for the feast. Mouths on your skin, and then— 

You come back to the moment. One of the women has been speaking to you, although you have no idea what she has been saying, conscious only of the sweetness of that low, smoky voice. You apologize and say you didn't catch that, and she smiles and says that's perfectly alright, that's exactly how she wants you to listen, and somehow that doesn't seem like a strange thing to say at all, and you find yourself nodding along and smiling, simply happy that she is happy.

They are discussing something now, and you let the words slide past you, understanding instinctively that you are not a party to this conversation, even if it seems to be about you.

The first woman, the one who invited you in, is saying she has a right of some kind. Another is saying that the right is hers, as she is the oldest. What a strange thing to say, you think, giggling a little. They all look precisely the same age, although what age that is you could not possibly say.

Pointed remarks are exchanged, flying over your head as you drink more of your wine and smile and nod and feel good and laugh. Whatever decision they come to, it will be perfect. You will enjoy it. You enjoy all of this, so much. You are happy. You are safe. You are content. The butler is standing next to you and her lips are shaping the same words you are thinking. How peculiar. How lovely.

The argument seems to be resolved, now, with the second woman, the one who is older, staring down into the face of your hostess, who's eyes have now fluttered closed as she clings desperately to the hand on her cheek. She is so beautiful. You want to be beautiful like her.

That second woman, the one who is older, is approaching you now. Her strides are so long, so fluid. Her teeth are showing. The tiniest part of your mind prickles with a warning, that something about her screams "predator". What a silly thought. You giggle as she reaches out a gloved hand and you take it, allowing yourself to be led to a side room. You ask if the party is over and she assures you that it is only just beginning, that you will rejoin the others soon, that she simply wanted to take a moment with you in private first.

Her hand is swaying back and forth, pushing and pulling your own along with it in a loose, rocking motion. She is still smiling at you, and saying such lovely things, telling you how pretty you look, that you are such polite company, how adorably weak-minded you are. She calls you a foolish, silly, thing with such an unmistakable air of approval that you do not feel the least bit slighted. You are perfectly happy to be whatever pleases her.

She asks what you know about vampires. You begin babbling, eager to show off your knoweldge, to please her. She smiles and you feel so good, so warm, so happy, so safe and content.

She calls you sweet, and tells you that she is going to do something terrible to you, and asks whether you might like that. You trip over your words in your haste to agree.

She says that it will feel good, always and forever, and that is wonderful, but you didn't need convincing.

She has the right to do with you as she sees fit. She just... Does. It seems as readily apparent as the fact that a dropped object falls to the floor. To the floor. Down. On the floor.

The carpet in this side room is so soft and lush, it feels like relaxing into a soft blanket. You are laying on your back and the woman is kneeling over you. Her eyes are holding yours the way a hand might grasp your neck. Inescapable.

You have no notion of their color. They are so, so beautiful, you want to know everything about them, every imaginable detail but the word for the color simply will not come. Other words, too, are evading you, brushing up against your thoughts with a pleasurable, feather-light touch before slipping away into a deep and all consuming darkness that is blooming within you.

It is not a cold darkness, no, but blazing hot, the perfect darkness of an unlit room with the curtains drawn thick and heavy against the daylight, of the mess of tangled, ecstatic bodies sliding against each other in the darkness. Of sins spoken in secret.

There is so much heat inside you now. You ache to toss your head back, your muscles inexplicably trembling with the desire to bare your throat, but you cannot look away from those perfect eyes.

She is explaining everything, now, though you do not have the words to interpret it any longer. You feel the meaning begin to trickle from her eyes into yours, curling up on itself and nesting in that darkness. The darkness does not swallow that thought, but cradles it, sustains it, intensifies it. Her thoughts are stronger than yours, and can survive in that heat.

She is inhuman, as are her companions. Greater than human, something ancient and powerful and terrible. The natural master of the weak, like you. She has made you an offer, one you have already accepted several times over, the shape of it only now becoming somewhat clear in your emptying head.

You are going to be given a gift, the greatest that any human can be given. You are going to be made useful. You will be allowed to serve, to be their chalice of immortality, to sustain and pleasure them.

You will surrender your mind, surrender your body to their service. You will relive the perfect ecstasy of corruption a hundred times over each day.

You will remain mortal, of course, a weak thing like you could never possibly be transformed into one of their kind. But you will... Adapt. Be adapted. Become more suitable for your purpose. That is only fitting, and that is only right.

You will age slower, an unnatural vitality sustaining you for many, many years of service, a beautiful gift of more time spent serving. Decades, she whispers. Centuries of bliss.

You will survive trials that would kill another human, the pain of near death transformed into pleasure as you are drained dry, over and over, your body always flush with new blood the next day, ready to give more, to serve more.

You will be made strong, but that strength will not be yours. It will live only in the service of your new masters.

It is all so right, and so perfect. Haven't you felt so lost? So aimless? Confused? No longer, sweetling. You have purpose, now. Use. You need not worry. You need not think at all. Your mind, such as it is, is nothing more than a receptacle for pleasure. An act of glorious generosity from your rulers, a means for you to feel all that impossible joy and ecstasy in their service.

Won't you offer up your neck, sweetling? She is loosening the grip on your mind, allowing you to choose how you will respond. Not that it is any real choice, she has made sure to shape your remaining mind in such a way that you could only ever answer yes, but it amused her, perhaps, to see you play acting at free will, going eagerly to your own destruction.

It is immensely satisfying, to hear her breath catch when you comply. To know that her desire for you is feral, ravenous, overwhelming. She controls you, and she is controlled by the Hunger. You live to serve the Hunger, both of you, this moment is the perfect consummation of both your roles, predator and prey engaging in the satisfaction of that pulsing, pounding need. You are both slaves to that desire but you are so much more a slave than her, even in the throes of red, animal instinct you remain lesser, weaker, humbler, needier. And that is only right, and that is only perfect.

And it is perfect, when her fangs sink into your throat, just short of tearing it open, blood spilling into her mouth and she takes, and takes, and takes, and takes, and takes. You are taken. You are a taken thing, a possession that is now owned. The eros of your rushing heartbeats pounding faster to spill more of yourself into her ready mouth intertwines with the agape of perfect, transcendant service to your natural superior. There is no greater love that obeying your masters. There is no greater pleasure than obeying and loving your masters, and receiving their love in return.

For they do love you, you are certain, not in the way a woman loves her wife, oh no, that requires too much equality, but in the pure and perfect way she might favor a beloved pet, or the scent of the summer breeze, the way she might fall in love with the absolute pleasure of sensation itself.

In a moment of shattering absolution you realize that you are perfect. You have been made perfect. There is no way in which you could be better suited for your appointed role in life. There is no greater achievement to strive for, nothing you must accomplish, no self-improvement to undertake. You are exactly what you ought to be, and it is wonderful.

You are a servant of vampires, the fountain of their satisfaction, a tool for their endless pursuit of pleasure. You are thoughtless, mindless, aroused, desperate to be used, drowning in bliss, truly happy and actualized and fulfilled in a way you never really thought was possible, filled up more and more with pleasure and satisfaction even as your veins and your mind empty out in worship of your vampire queen.

When she finally pulls away from your neck, no more blood flows. You feel.... Light, less substantial, but also heavy, each and every movement of your muscles an exhausting effort in the face of the overwhelming lassitude capturing you. Light-headed, but you always are now, aren't you. You think a feeding like this should have killed you, but you have been made perfect by her grace, and you will be ready to give again when it is required of you, over and over again, a lifetime of impossible pleasure stretching out before you, beckoning you further down the path you can longer choose to stray from.

You do not know how long you lay there in her arms before she returns you to the dining room. Time is only an attribute of pleasure for you, now. But you can feel the fresh blood stirring in your veins by the time she fulfills that wonderful daydream she planted in your head so long ago (or was it merely minutes?), laying you out on the long table, stripped bare, fangs digging in at a dozen places across your body as, with the eldest's privilege satisfied, the coven may now begin the everlasting feast.