Midnight Cocktail

Midnight Cocktail - Chapter 1

What nourishes me also destroys me
I walk in the sun, I am eating the gun
Go write your story, memento mori
I'll play a song about being no-one

StakeHart - "Memento Mori"
Track one from their début album, The End of Daylight

Midnight.

My time.

Above the mansion, the sickle shaped tear of a waning crescent moon hung in a sky the colour of overripe damsons.

My candlelit reflection in the triple-glazed window was a translucent hologram, enigmatic, looming over the city like a fabled destroyer of worlds.

But I'm not a destroyer.

Not of worlds, anyway.

And the window is triple-glazed for a couple of reasons: one pane is impervious to ultraviolet, another to bullets. The third pane is mirrored glass, dark, because at heart I'm a traditionalist.

The naked man chained to the bed behind me was whimpering, pleading for his life. He was play-acting, living out some kind of vamp-worship fuck fantasy, spread-eagled on the crimson mattress with his arms and legs securely and rather painfully manacled to the four black corner posts of the gothic metal bed frame.

The candles are black too, and they're actual wax candles with wicks, not those vulgar plastic ones with the LED flames that might even last as long as the guarantee promises but are still just tacky-as-shit imitations.

Like I said - at heart I'm a traditionalist.

I turned from the window, giving him the malevolent, soul-piercing stare he was expecting.

Three strides and I was at the side of the bed.

"Speak, vermin."

I was in character. What else was I going to say?

"Mistress," he said, fawning like a timid child and staring at my cleavage like a pro-footballer at a lap-dancing club. "Command me."

It was hard to think of anything I could tell him to do, that he was going to be able to do, seeing as how he was chained securely to the bed.

Instead of speaking, I climbed up on the bed with him and knelt between his legs.

That appeared to focus his attention.

He was already erect. I guess the sight of me in that clingy little black dress and a pair of four-inch red heels was all it took.

"You're a pathetic maggot," I said.

I slapped his cock and he yelped with genuine surprise.

"Yes, mistress," he said. "I must be punished."

"Don't tell me what must be done."

I slapped his cock again, harder that time. There was something about his faux subservient attitude that was fuelling an old rage deep inside me. He had no idea how important it was for his immediate and future wellbeing that he dropped that numb fucking attitude as soon as possible.

I slipped the straps of the tiny black cocktail dress from my shoulders and gave him a dirty little pout.

"Would you like to see some more, you disgusting worm?"

"Mistress is too generous. I am not worthy."

Well, he had that right at least.

I pulled the top half of the dress down to my waist and arched my back, giving him a few seconds to stare at my tits before I leaned forward to start earning my admittedly astronomical fee.