Outside, the moon is a pale sliver, a fingernail scratch against the blue black of the sky, the day faded to a strip of orange, leftover sunset.  Inside, I light the gold snake arms of the candelabra and check the gilt clock reflected in the mirror over the fireplace, which sits cold and empty even though it is December.  When I first came here, I feared cold and darkness, missed the crackling heat of fires, the smell of cooking food.  Now I do not--they have shown me that the darkness is bright and alive and the night air smells like them, the cool sweet smell of dying leaves and snow.  I look back at the clock—I have five minutes.  I straighten my watered black silk dress and pause for a moment at the fireplace mirror, the only one in the house, smoothing a black strand back into place, brushing dust from my apron, pinching my cheeks to give them color.  I silently pray that I will stay pleasing to them, that I serve them well.
 
They are behind me, quick as the cat that I keep to keep my kitchen free of mice.  The candles flicker and I feel no cold as I kneel and press my forehead to the floor, kissing the delicate instep and heel of the kid slipper presented to me, then when nudged, turning my head to tongue the shiny black leather of the riding boots that I love so much. The flick of a hand makes me rise, my eyes still downcast.  Look up, I hear inside my head.  Do you find us beautiful?
 
Oh, how I do.  Master and Mistress, a set like the matched china dolls that lived in my dollhouse, skin the white of bone and ashes, him in black tailcoat and ascot, standing so tall, a fine figure of a man, his hair shining like copper pennies  and his eyes piercing and sweet.  And she, the lady of my house, hair red as hellfire, flowing like lava down her back, the hair that I brush and braid every night, curl into the knots she remembers from Godey's Lady's Book, her hands white stars, white doves hiding in the black lace at her wrists.  Master and Mistress glow like fire opals, lit from within in the dark room.

In the mirror above the fireplace, I kneel to empty air, proclaiming their beauty with my prone body.  You are utter beauty, my Lord and Lady and I am your slave.  Even though my lips have not moved, they smile, and I am rewarded by her hand stroking my hair, running a long nail down the back of my neck.  I close my eyes and smile, feeling my breath start to come faster, the heat of it clouding in the cold room.  Master bids me follow and I follow the ghostly trail left by the drag of my Lady's skirt on the dusty floorboards.  He sits on the sofa, the other furniture in the room covered with white sheets, a roomful of ghosts and a few lit candles.

Do you offer yourself willingly?

I hear them both ask and it rings in the air even though nothing has been said.  It still makes me tremble to hear it, to look at their eyes grown luminous, like creatures that dwell at the bottom of the sea and to see the soft baby pink of gums slide out razor points.  Their smiles chill me even as my mouth barely breathes yes Master, yes Mistress.  It is more intimate when I say it like this, feel them touching at my mind, like their cold fingers probing between my thighs, finding my warm dark secrets nestled tight in my skull.  As I kneel and undo the hooks and eyes on my dress, I feel like a burning coal in the cold room, the only, hot glowing, living thing in the ghostly dark.  Outside, the night sky is the blue black of ink and the moon is a chariot sweeping over the clouds.
 
Inside, behind the heavy drapes, with the sweet smell of candlewax and dust, I am stripped bare, my clothing folded, my hair flowing over my shoulders.  I leave footprints in the dust when I come to them.  Master and Mistress sit on the highbacked sofa, like a courting couple waiting for me.  It is then, quicker than I can react that Master swoops me up, puts my neck to his lips. His hand strokes my hair, runs to the small of my back as he nuzzles my skin, licking and kissing, nipping hard.  Mistress' hand runs between my thighs, teasing the shell-pink folds of skin.  I try and hold back at first, but they know I can't-we like you hot blooded, little one they whisper.  This is the way of their audiences with me—my flesh fascinates them.  Sometimes before the embrace, before my body is pressed to theirs, they will have me lie on an antique rug and use my fingers, posturing and probing, playing with  myself while their eyes glow. As they watch, they stroke the tender inner skin of each other's wrists with fragile white fingers, twitching with pleasure and interest.  They are like scientists, questioning, puzzling, excited by what makes me hot and wet; they like it when I worship them, on my hands and knees, tonguing their shoe leather until it shines black obsidian.  Sometimes Master or Mistress will sneak up behind me, probing between my legs with a foot, prodding me into heavy, sweet breathing and flustering me even as I lick and lick.  But tonight there is none of that, there is only the fierceness of Master's embrace and the nipping of Mistress' teeth.
 
We are a strange Pieta, my body and blood that which sustains them and what gives me my hope, their hunger what makes me burn and melt like the white candles that throw shadows in the dark room.  Take me and be satisfied, my Lord and my Lady I am not worthy, but only say the word and I shall be yours.  I am theirs, my body shining against the dark waterglass of the mirror.  Mistress kisses up my leg, sliding her hands around my hips to squeeze and claw at my flesh, her rough tongue licking at the moisture on my thigh, nipping at the full ripe blue vein under the skin.
 
I feel the orders inside my head and their breath upon me.  It is then that they strike in tandem, drinking as my body arches up to meet them.  Master's large hands tangled in my hair, Mistress biting and drinking deep, as brutal and elegant as fencers, crossing and uncrossing themselves over my body.  I am enraptured, wet between my thighs, wet with the blood that paints their faces the red of Chinese lacquer.
 
My body is a scream of pain and joy and my mouth moves on its own, forming o's, ahh's, thin squeaks and moans muffled by their bodies—it is now I know that they are beyond my language. They are in the shapes of predators and lovers, each reveling in seeing the other well fed, dyed with my blood.  They squeak and cackle, eyes glowing, licking lips, drinking me, piercing my flesh again, again, again and it is in heat and passion that I howl, the sound ripping itself from my body as they feed.
 
In the final thrust of fangs, I feel myself pouring into them, faster, faster spinning, their hands bruising my skin, screaming as they take me and take me, feeling the heat rush up my thighs as my life rushes down their throats. . .
 
I awake as dawn paints the sky pink.  Master and Mistress sit in wing chairs beside the sofa where I lie.  Master scoops me up like a rag doll, taking me over to the polished mahogany box that smells of Mistress, of blood, of cloves and Egyptian Musk.  Before I can protest, he places me next to her.  She smiles, licking a last bit of red from her pointed teeth and wraps her arm around me as thin membranes, then lids cover her eyes.  The coffin scrapes shut; dark and safe.  I fall asleep hearing her whisper to me, feeling her breast warm from my blood in her veins: You please us little one—we are glad you are with us in Paradise.  My daylight dreams are sweet.

Melusine lives and writes in Boston.  She delights in Restoration Comedy,  canes and thick black eyeliner.

About the Artist:

Sean Simmans is the Cover Illustrator of DEAD END STREET PUBLICATIONS LLC and the Creator of THE BELIEVABLE TRUTH @ Scowlzine and VIBE Nation (UK). In addition he illustrates for UMM Magazine (Canada) and is staff illustrator for Blood Moon zine.