Hemorrhage of Blue

Warnings in this chapter for: abuse, anal, anguish, BDSM, Domination, exhibitionism, fisting, mind control, M/M, non-con.



Thanks to Nemi, who assisted with ideas and dialogue.


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*Remember,* Vorador sent to his fledglings, *the blue room at the manor.* Deep in the mists of the swamp, lights ignited – the eerie green flare of the Ignus Fatus, bright to guide the tread of fledglings burdened with armor and prey. Then Vorador summoned his magic and vanished in a swirl of blue teleportation energies, the young knight’s cries abruptly silenced.



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Two incompatible instants combined into a single moment in which Rahab did not exist. Once, he had dreamt of such redemption, to be naught but a nightmare, a fragment -- to disappear like mist before the sun. It was a small yearning, one a whore could contemplate, but assuredly unworthy of him now as his Sire’s son. Trapped in a too-late blessing, Rahab fought it as he had fought his entire life.



Rahab skipped a heartbeat.



Vision dark and mind still addled, he struggled in the firm grip that held him.



“Now, now,” Vorador sighed, tucking the writhing mortal firmly under one arm as he surveyed the room in which they’d appeared. “None of that. The disorientation will fade shortly.”



Rahab might have been gladder if it had not. The room was expansive by the standards of medieval construction, as finely appointed as a banquet hall, though it contained no large tables. The walls were smooth, old, dark wood, polished by generations of fledglings to a warm glow, save along the longest side, where the chains of a dozen sets of manacles hung. There, the wood was scraped where captives had struggled and kicked. There was a large fireplace, intricately carved from wave-break marble, lit dimly with coals, and the stone floor was covered in thick rugs of royal blue. Crushed velvet, in the same shade of blue, padded graceful furniture -- wide divans, soft chairs, some kind of strange, small... table.



Torches flickered smokelessly to life upon Vorador’s entrance. Manacles aside, the chamber might have been mistaken for an elegant after-dinner smoking parlor.



But the alternate uses Vorador had for the room quickly became apparent. The ancient vampire set Rahab to his feet. Wobbly as a colt, the knight only managed to stagger a few steps before he was caught up once more, this time in an inescapable telekinetic weave.



“Monster! Philistine beast! I’ll have your degenerate grotesque of a head upon a pike within the hour!” Rahab shouted as he was dragged over to the table, his feet just above the ground, and bent over the soft surface. The table was more than waist-high to Rahab, but the magical hold lifted him a handspan into the air, raising his buttocks even as his chest was pressed flat into the crushed velvet top. His thighs were spread, his calves bound tightly to the finely carved legs of the table, his toes several inches above the ground. The position left his cock and balls dangling limply in empty air. Rahab squirmed and shouted and struggled furiously.



“You do so enjoy employing your tongue, do you not?” chuckled Vorador, smoothing the flat of his taloned hand over the displayed buttocks. A long talon dipped to the crease between. Contrary to the ancient’s expectations, the puckered little opening there was faintly reddened with scrubbing, scented of soap and clean water. And oil. "Aah... perhaps you have not abandoned your profession, as you had led me to believe..."



Rahab screamed. Screamed his rage, his disgust, his shame. The sound ended in a gasping snarl as those massive talons parted his buttocks and something touched the little ring of muscle lightly... and then was thrust through, slick and pliable and wriggling.



Vorador laughed softly, tongue probing deeper. Inhumanly long, the length of it twisted and writhed inside the human’s body. His fangs scraped along the soft flesh to either side, drawing mere pinpricks of blood, wetting his lips. As the blood was absorbed, so too was a flash of memory, bright and strong with recent and repeated experience -- Rahab settled himself in a lake, water chilling his body as he slowly pressed the nozzle of a water flask inside himself, just as he did every morning. It had been a ritual enforced upon him as a boy, and while his Sire had never demanded it of him... even still, after all these years, Rahab held some hope that his Sire would one day desire a creature such as he.



But now.... Now with that terrible long tongue slithering deeper into his body... Rahab screamed, struggled, snarled insults. His sole consolation came with the hope that he could force this terrible, ancient vampire to slay him ere the night was out -- for what use could there be for Rahab now? His lord would never want him.



One last, thick thrust of Vorador’s long tongue, and he withdrew. The sharp tip of a claw circled the small, slick, barely-stretched opening. "A shame I cannot do this to you myself, little Sarafan. We must await our other guests, however..." a ball of force formed between Rahab’s jaws, wedging them open as the knight tried to snarl another invective. “...if you cannot control your own tongue, I am glad enough to aid you.” Vorador circled Rahab’s body, scraping his talons over the knight’s buttocks, then his back, finally stroking the human’s soft hair.



Rahab glared daggers at him, and Vorador snorted softly, retreating to a massive, thickly padded armchair. He selected a fine sheet of paperboard and a thick-barreled stick of charcoal from a small basket atop the side table. “Such lovely eyes,” Vorador mused, balancing the drawing board across his knee and beginning to sketch. “I wonder, shall I spell them, so that they remain blue after you have been turned?”



Rahab’s muffled shouts and cries scarcely even made it through the gag. Vorador took his time drawing, murmuring encouragement or orders for Rahab to turn his head or lift his buttocks higher from time to time, enforcing those orders with telekinesis when the knight refused. It was well over an hour before the other Sarafan were dragged into the room.



They’d all been washed -- a peril to the fledglings involved, perhaps, but a necessity after having been dragged or carried at great speed through the Termogent swamp. Shivering, the men were chained, hands overhead, along the length of one long wall. Rahab couldn’t see them nor shout to them, his mouth still bound by that invisible gag, but he could assuredly hear them. And they could see him -- Rahab’s legs spread and bound invisibly to the legs of the table, his ass presented high, his cock and balls dangling.



Rahab’s face flushed with shame, and the gag of force in his mouth did not entirely stifle his low cry. Anger and frustrated writhing brought a flush of pink to the human’s lightly tanned skin as Vorador glanced up, watching as the warriors were bound. The ancient vampire laid aside his pad and thick-barreled charcoal, and then lazily stood, stalking past Rahab to take a careful look at his captives.



Ignoring Rahab’s bout of squirming, that lovely, delicate rise of blood to the surface, Vorador trailed his talons over the bodies chained to the wall, and the tendrils of his magic over the minds within. Each of the Sarafan was gagged -- more mundanely than Rahab, with simple fabric, but they hissed in rage or thrashed as he passed them. Vorador took his time, pausing to cup a man’s genitals in his great, clawed hand, or turning a particularly pretty face from side to side.



The youngest of the Sarafan caught his attention. The boy had the height of a man, but not yet the breadth. He was a freckled thing, with small hands and frightened muddy-hazel eyes. Vorador ran the curved backs of his claws down the Sarafan’s torso as he delved a little deeper into the soft, adolescent mind. What a sweet little thing, and just there, largely buried beneath the worshipful reverence the boy had for his knightly leader, a most definite attraction.



“Ah, a pikeman, I see,” Vorador rumbled, tracing the muscles of the boy’s shoulders, up to his bound hands, as if his bare and shivering body had offered up that knowledge. “You have a choice now, little Sarafan -- your leader has need of your services. You may either comply, and aid him... or you may resist, and your knight will suffer needlessly. Understand?” The fabric muffling the boy’s mouth dissolved at the touch of Vorad’s clawtips, but before the frightened pikeman could respond, the ancient vampire laid a thick talon across his lips. “Think carefully, boy. I will offer you but this one chance.”



In truth, there was no choice at all. The pikeman’s mind was young and undisciplined, and Vorador had already implanted the seeds of compliance. But the illusion of free will made submission ever so much sweeter. The Sarafan’s eyes flicked to the sight of his leader, so vulgarly displayed, and then back to the fearful countenance of the ancient vampire. The boy’s lips trembled a little under the leathery surface of Vorador’s talon. After a few moments, the boy mutely nodded.



With a flicker of Vorador’s will, the pikeman’s manacles dissolved. The ancient vampire drew back as the boy slumped briefly against the wall, first rubbing his aching wrists, and then, demurely, covering his groin.



Vorador suppressed a smile. Such a soft little thing, this human. Faster than mortal eyes could follow, he reached out and wrapped his talons -- ever so carefully -- around the Sarafan’s upper arm, dragging the boy forward. “Such reservation you have, boy. Or shall I call you Elam? That is your given name, is it not? Your leader speaks so much of you....”



In his bindings, Rahab cried out, for he’d given his enemy no such knowledge -- or at least, he believed he had not. But plucking the names of his men from the surface of his thoughts had been child’s play, and Elam’s own mind had confirmed the appellation. Vorador stroked along the boy’s face as he drew the pikeman into position. “How you do blush, pretty Sarafan -- though you make a gangly little maid, to be sure. And you have little enough to hide...” Vorador murmured thoughtfully as he pulled Elam’s hands away from himself. While he had the human’s wrists in hand, he lifted them, checking the condition of the boy’s nails.



Elam wriggled at that last, beginning to protest. Vorador dragged the human to stand just behind Rahab’s waiting ass, the ancient vampire’s own clothed body hard and immobile against the boy’s back. “Now then,” Vorador rumbled, bending to place his lips beside the Sarafan’s ear. “No fighting, boy. You are in a position to save your knight a great deal of torment.” Vorador traced the very tip of his talon down Rahab’s crease, let it linger just over the pink pucker. “You will take those pretty, slender little fingers, and you will put them here, to open your leader for me.”



Predictably, Elam shouted and drove his elbow back into Vorador’s belly, trying to writhe away. Lazily, Vorador caught him, hauled him back. “You Sarafan do try my patience at times. If you do not stretch him for me, I will fuck him like he is. You have seen my organ; the experience might kill him, whore or no. Or perhaps...” Vorador drew a line, just a shallow red scrape, around the human’s forearm. “Perhaps I will remove your arm here, and open him with that, whilst you cry and writhe and bleed out on the floor. Do you think your Knight would want that? To have your fingers in his tight little hole while you die before his eyes?”



“There, there,” Vorador soothed, now stroking along the shivering body as Elam gasped and squeezed his eyes tightly shut. Before Vorador’s gaze, Rahab’s back trembled with constrained struggle, his shouts of rage muffled by the ball of force that kept his mouth wide. To the eyes of the watching Sarafan, it appeared that Rahab simply stood, unmoved and unbound, bent over the blue velvet table. Vorador caught up the pikeman’s hand and pried the fist open with careful talons then, very gently, placed the forefinger at Rahab’s clenched entrance. “You are unhurt, and so shall he be, if you carefully follow my every instruction. You have thought of doing this to him, have you not? He is slicked already, just a little pressure, and you will slide in so easily. Yes, there. Just so. Very good, Elam.”



Tears rolled down the boy’s cheeks as the tip of his forefinger slowly, very slowly, penetrated that clenched ring of muscle. Vorador rumbled his approval. “Can you feel that your knight has done this before? He is assuredly no virgin, and soon he will be pushing back on you. He is so tight, so hot, wet as a woman... ah, yes.” As Elam’s finger slipped entirely inside, the boy’s eyes slit open, shining wet with tears but just slightly glazed. Vorador guided the finger out, and then back in again. “And now, just there, do you feel that? Press down, slip your finger over that place inside him.”



Watching closely, Vorador released the pikeman’s hand, watching him withdraw, and slowly sink his finger back into the little hole. The muscle was tight and grasping around the digit. Rahab’s choked cries did not diminish but, little by little, the tenor began to change.



As it did, Vorador’s deep rumble descended to a grating purr. He settled both hands on the Sarafan’s naked hips, his talons nearly circling Elam’s waist. “Among your little troop, you beloved knight is the only one who rides, whilst you must march afoot. Now he rides upon your hand, and so sweetly. Can you feel his wantonness? Those rippling muscles as he clenches around you -- he wants it. He is being overcome with the pleasure you command. He needs you, Elam.”



With a strangled gasp, the boy withdrew his finger nearly to the tip, and worked in a second, sliding both inside together. Vorador watched the ring of muscle stretch around the doubled thickness, opening like a hungry little mouth, so tight it seemed as if two fingers were all that would ever fit. Vorador’s voice came as a whisper, something deep and insidious that spoke to the back of the brain. “Would you be a kinder master than the others who bought this whore, Elam? I know you admired the slut from afar, watched him. Lusted for him, even before you knew his true employment. Mmm.... Imagine if you knew then what you know now. You could have watched him ride tall upon his horse during the day, and at night, he could have ridden you.”



The boy’s eyes were now fixed and staring, focused on the movement of his own hand.

“You might have sampled him,” said Vorador, now a little louder. “Taken him every night in his own tent -- a diversion already paid for from your own order's coffers.

He would have cried as his flesh clamped tight around you, a velvet grip more silken than a maiden's palm and tighter than her crucible. Would you have taken him again when you awoke? Pulled yourself from the grip of your warm bedroll, stiff, to sink into another warm hold? Who would have gone first? Certainly the watchmen would have him all to themselves when they traded shifts. But when you make and break camp, who would have the first right?



“Would it be your sergeant? Robert, with his greater strength and seniority? His big hands, scarred and broad, closing around Rahab’s hips and pulling the slut down onto his cock. Robert is so much bigger than you are. He'd stretch the whore so; it would be harder for the others after to enjoy him. It would be fairer if Robert went last, of course, but he has the right to take his pleasure first. Can you see it, Elam? This fine, tanned skin...” Vorador stroked one clawed hand over the bared flank before him, his talons touching side and back and then resting just above the place where Elam’s fingers moved. “Scarred, but cleanly healed, all slick and smooth. Giving flesh and taunt, tight muscles. Can you see how hard your sergeant fucks him, boy?"



With a muffled groan, the pikeman began to work a third finger into that clenching little opening, his wide eyes watching a scene rather unlike the one before him. Rahab’s shrill, muffled scream made him blink, momentarily confused. Vorador rumbled in his ear, continuing. “It is enough to cause one to wonder why this knight is your superior, is it not? But ah, that must be the answer -- he was knighted only because he permitted another, many others, take their pleasure with him as well. Just like your sergeant.



“Ah, Elam. Lord Rahab has sinned, do you see? He has transgressed, and must needs be punished accordingly. And yours is the body that will mete out his fate -- how roughly will you chastise your knight?” Vorador’s heavy-clawed hand stroked along Rahab’s back, just above where those three fingers plunged deep. Elam’s breaths gasped faster. “But you, youngest and greenest of them all,” Vorador murmured, “would be forced to go last -- when your Lord Rahab is mewling and leaking and stretched as wide as any other whore.”



Vorador barred fangs in a slow smile. “Shh, Elam, listen. Are those the sounds of pain or great pleasure he makes now? He is trying to hide it from you. But you know, ah yes, you know what he wants. You know what delights a whore.” The young pikeman’s wide-staring eyes fixated on a scene not far different from the true sight before him. Lost, swept under, carried by the soft and involuntary sounds from around Rahab’s gag, Elam watched the vision Vorador painted with his words. “Your Knight has served your fellows so well; worked so hard for their pleasure. It seems a shame to deny him his needs, don't you think? Look at the ecstasy, the high rose of his cheeks, his parted lips as he gasps for breath. Would you withhold his release? Of course you wouldn't, you're a good boy."



The pikeman’s three fingers plunged into Rahab’s tight body more urgently now, more quickly, oil glistening across the digits. Vorador watched the boy bring his free hand to his own bared groin, no longer covering, but stroking. "But ah, Elam,” Vorador purred, “you do not want him there. He's done a good night's work, you cannot fault him for that, but there is little left for you. And can you imagine how their leavings all slide down from his hole, slick between his legs and dripping to the dust? You would shun such a well used orifice, a boy of high tastes like you. And yet, your Knight cannot bear for you to leave -- feel how he tenses himself, trying to ready his body for you. He wants you. Craves the sensation--if he were allowed, he'd press his fingers inside of himself."



Elam moaned, cock erect and weeping. Vorador laughed softly into his ear. “But he is not allowed. How ever will you help your Lord Rahab, as well as yourself?” The vampire’s great claws slid from Rahab’s flank, the skin twitching under his touch, to still the pikeman’s hand for a moment, the tips of three fingers still stretching the little opening. Delicately, he drew his talon across Elam’s hand -- viscous oil spread, dripped, summoned by his touch. “You wield the pike, do you not? The weapon with which you excel, Elam; embellished with a cap for the haft. Ah, yes -- good, solid steel, covering the butt of the shaft for more than two handspans.”



Vorador teased the Sarafan’s smallest finger to unfold. “Easy indeed to lay your lovely spear upon its side. And now you have a means of satisfying your sluttish knight -- one provided by your own Order. The rounded cap need not even be slicked....” As the Sarafan’s four fingers worked into the tight little hole, Rahab cried out, a short sharp scream audible even around his gag of force. Elam shivered, a very brief and momentary struggle against layered compulsion. Vorador smiled. “How he does yelp at the cold, Elam. But the chill hardly discomforts your knight for long -- look at the motion of his hips now as he takes it, smooth steel slipping inside, the girth very nearly stoppers his stretched hole. He can take so much of it, inch after inch slips inside with hardly any pressure at all. There, work it in and out a moment -- it enters deeper each time, and the steel, ah, the steel develops such a lovely sheen.”



The pikeman’s four fingers moved deep, in to the third knuckle and out once again. Rahab cried out, whimpered, with each painful stretch. But his hips moved in unconscious little spastic jerks, trying to press his prostate against those invading fingers. "Mmm, yes, he loves it so, you can tell, can't you?" Vorador admired the movements of the Sarafan Knight, and under his heavy robes, he twitched. "So very hungry, and still leaking. There is a handspan and more inside him, yet he is never sated, is he, Elam?"



Vorador chuckled, "You have seen him crawl to Robert's tent, for his great shaft is the only thing that can satisfy -- your knight has never come to you, Elam, has he? No matter how you care for him. You try, but not even your pike can fill him entirely. It is simply not enough, is it?” Quite calmly, Vorador stilled Elam’s hand once more, tucking the thumb in close to the palm. “But when it comes to whores, one is good, and two…"



Vorador’s great, clawed hands slid to wrap over Elam’s hipbones. The scene was fed directly into the young Sarafan’s brain -- the second pike, the cries and pleading as the rounded tip was pushed inside, the resistance of the little ring of muscle until it finally gave and accepted the second length, alongside the first. With the scene, however, came Vorador’s will -- and that was utterly inescapable. Vorador wrapped power around the base of Elam’s brain, around the impetus for movement. Unwilling to trust an operation of such delicate nature to a virgin human, he co-opted Elam’s muscles and bones and flesh, utilizing them -- experiencing their sensations -- as if they were his own. “...Two is better,” The ancient purred, and then tucked Elam’s thumb tight to his palm, and, very slowly, made his entry.