I won’t even get into how I had ended up here. Well, alright, I guess I have to? But the details- the Rubber Ball, fetishist’s dream come to life- need to remain mum. Suffice it to say that if you want to fuck in a coffin, you can do that here. Mmmhmm. Damn fucking straight, and you know that’s what every little vampirella wants to do. So I put on my best rubber dress- yes, rubber- and I found the hottest vampire stud I could and here we are.
Oh, he’s not really a vampire. You didn’t believe that, did you? But he is a hot stud. Fishnet shirt covering a tattooed torso. His stomach says something, but I didn’t pay much attention. ‘Punx’, I think. That’s pretty fucking hot. Tattooed arms. Tattooed back. Pierced lips. A Monroe. On, you can say that Monroe’s are not meant for boys but I will beg to differ til the sun goes down. Or rises, for that matter. And if the pierced boy in question is wearing fishnet and black leather pants, with messy black hair covering his face…Mmmm. Fuck if I care what he does or doesn’t have pierced.
The coffin is pretty tight. As you would expect a coffin to be. Obviously, it’s a prop built for this event, because how else could we fit two adults inside the damned thing and shut the lid? Yes, that’s right: I shut the lid. There’s no excitement in riding some poor schmuck who’s laying in a coffin, lid open, and the crowds around us watching. Where’s the fun in that? There is none, clearly. It’s cliche. It’s been done. When I found this tasty morsel, I wanted to lay him inside the casket, shut the lid, and tear the fishnet from his body. Leaving scratches. I hope I marked him. As my own. Forever. Eternally.
Tonight is about eternity.
So inside the coffin, he is growling. I didn’t stop to ask his name. It didn’t seem particularly important. So whatever the fuck his name is, he’s growling and moaning as I drag my long nails across his chest. Fishnet still intact. But not for long. As we lay side by side in the infinite darkness, our lips meet. We do battle. His tongue searching my mouth, my tongue searching his soul. He tastes of candy and cotton and chocolate and blood. Fake blood. There’s a certain sugary sweetness to his taste, and I lose myself. Almost forget that I am poised to rip his clothing from his stocky little body. He is short. He fits inside this tomb so perfectly. He and I. Together.
I feel his growing enjoyment to be here, and I moan to myself. Wait til I get my hands on that. He’s not so patient, and his hands are already working up inside my silk panties. Forcing my legs apart. Pushing my skirts upward. There is no room for this. There is nowhere to stretch. I feel claustrophobic. I feel suffocated. I love this feeling. His body so close, his breath surrounding me. The sounds of our lips and tongues and hands and fingers. So tight. Everything is so tight inside this…
“I want to taste you,” he breathes. The warmth fogs my mind. “I want to taste you here,” he beckons, inserting a gloved finger inside my moistness.
“There’s no room,” I breathe back. My mind is a cloud, a haze. I want to feel, want to feel everything he has to offer. But we are, afterall, confined inside this black sarcophagus.
“Open the lid,” he states, starting to twist and contort. “I’ll sixty-“
“No!” I demand, grabbing his throat and stalling his movements. “We do this my way.”
He nods.
I squeeze his throat tighter, harsher. He squeaks. “I want to tear your clothes off of you.”
He nods again.
“I want you to bleed for me.”
With that, I began the process of ripping his fishnet shirt from his beautiful body. I scratched and tore and pulled and bit. He was bleeding. My nails tore long trails into his skin, my teeth closed over his right nipple. It was all a part of the rush, of the game. He lay submissively beside me as I ravaged him. As I dominated his body and took him for my own pleasure. As the fishnet became nothing more than strands of torn fabric encasing his chest, my right hand slid slowly down to the fly of his pants. Unzipping. Slowly. So slowly. Teasing him. The gaspes from those pierced lips sending my body into bliss. So beautiful. So languid. He gasped as I finally took him into my hand. He was already semi-hard.
“Thank god,” he breathed into my ear, the warmth prickling my skin. “These pants are too tight for this.”
“I will tear them off you,” I promised, licking my lips and squeezing his length. “Don’t worry.”
“Oh god,” he growled, tossing his head back into the silk lining. That was the positive side to attending fetish events: the props, as they were, were always designed for ideal useage. Or in this instance, fornication. Hence the oversized coffin for two, lined in silk. Black silk, in fact. Somewhere underneath our bodies, there were red rose petals as well. I could smell them, feel them sticking to my legs on occassion. But I had yet to see one.
Trying to remove such items as pants- especially tight black leather ones- while inside of a closed casket was, however, tricky. That was something that could not be worked around or planned for; one just had to indulge and do their best. Removing his pants proved interesting. Thankfully, again, I had chose a short little stud. He inched up his legs, I tugged, he twisted, we rolled and the pants were down enough. Enough. I didn’t need them off, I just needed some room to work. Work. You realize what that means, yes?
Before long, he was embedded deep inside my velvety depths. He was so hard. So long. So thick. Girth is important. No little vampette wants her beautiful male lead to be, well, unimpressive. As they say. He was impressive. I could work with this. And oh I would. I moan and screamed and pulled that shiney black hair. Rough. I wanted this to be rough and I wanted it to hurt. Of course, there were space limitations and thrusting is difficult when…trapped inside a coffin.
“Fuck,” he hissed, his hips driving forward and forcing his erection deeper. “So tight.”
“So sinful,” I countered, licking up his scruffy jaw line.
He moaned, pulling our bodies tighter. Frantic hands grasped for my breasts, still enclosed tightly in my silk corset. Of course. Played out, I know; but every good vampirella loves a corset. Mine happened to eccentuate my large breasts. Natural. I wanted to bury his face in my cleavage, but there was no time for that. Instead, I forced our bodies to slam together rougher. Harder. Louder. Everything inside this encasement was so loud. So vibrant. I could hear and feel our every move. His every breath. His every-
“So close,” he panted, his hands digging into my hips. Marks would be there tomorrow. I was marked. Fuck, I loved this kinky shit.
“Cum for me baby,” I taunted, licking his jaw again. “Cum deep, cum hard.”
My nails dug into his back, the blood seeping out onto my fingertips. I brought my middle finger to my lips and sucked hard. Just that action seemed to drive him over the edge, and it was shortly thereafter that I felt him melting from my body and seeping down the insides of my thighs. Surely, the black silk would be stained. Beautifully. How wonderful to know that we had left our mark on this fetish ball. How deliciously perfect it is to feel this evil.
I opened the lid of the coffin, climbed out, and left him there. Panting for breath. Calling out for my name.
He didn’t even know my name.
Here are the rules to being the perfect lil angel in everyday life. I live by these rules and they have served me very well.
