I am Emmeline, just eighteen years old, my body a ripe offering that high society has meticulously groomed like a flower behind silk curtains. I am taller than most women, and my breasts are firm and high, with a small waist and hips that flare with a lush, decadent curve, like the mouth of a chalice meant to receive every excess. My skin is milk poured over rose, my hair a fair chestnut blonde, and between my thighs the untouched seal of maidenhood still gleams like a pearl. They call me innocent, but I know myself to be nothing of the kind. If I have never known more than a gloved hand at my breast or a cousin’s tongue in my ear, it was not for lack of curiosity, but rather because my father had kept me under fierce, obsessive lock and key. Yet innocence, I now learn, is only the choicest spice for depravity.
This very night, the carriage of Madam Violet stops before our estate. The Beaumont Estate lies just outside Paris, in the countryside. The moon is full, and my father, spent by whiskey, cards, and whores, bids me goodnight and sees me off into Madam Violet’s awaiting carriage. I stand outside at the bottom of the stone steps at the foot of the carriage with my travel trunk, wrapped in a cloak of midnight-blue. My father, Monsieur Beaumont—once a power at Versailles, now a shadow ruined by speculation and drink—stands beside me. His face is haggard, and his eyes are wet, whether from brandy or regret, I cannot tell. He believes I am going with Madam Violet for “placement in society” and “advantageous introduction.” He knows nothing about the Velvet Salon. “Remember, Emmeline,” he asserts, “this is your best chance. Mademoiselle Violet is...not what you expect, but she is respected, and her friends are powerful. You must make yourself useful to her.”
“She is a legend,” Emmeline responds. “You have spoken of her since my childhood.”
He nods and presses a trembling kiss to my forehead, a gesture that feels as though he is sending me away forever. “I shall miss you, Emmeline,” my father laments. “I fear you will succumb to the corrupting influences of Parisian society.”
“Oh, papa, never.” I sigh, “I’ll only be away for a few months.”
The carriage arrives without a sound, as though it materialized from the very darkness it embodies: a thing of exquisite menace, hearse-black, lacquered to a mirror sheen that holds the moon’s reflection, with windows that are curtained in heavy crimson velvet so that not a whisper of light escapes. The carriage is drawn by four colossal stallions whose blood-red eyes burn with an unsettling supernatural intensity. The carriage door opens of its own accord, without the assistance of a footman. A gloved hand—long-fingered, silken, black, and elegant—emerges from the carriage and reaches out, palm up. It beckons once. My breath pauses, and I feel a slight trepidation. I hesitate momentarily, then catch hold of her hand and sink into a curtsy. “Madam Violet.”
“Emmeline, ma chère, come in from out of the cold,” Madam Violet beckons.
I step into the carriage, and the vampire queen lifts her veil just enough to press her lips to each of my cheeks. Madam Violet is very much the legend that haunts the half-whispered stories of the Parisian demimonde. She is beautiful, with shoulders as sharp and pale as marble in moonlight, and her eyes glitter with a predatory intelligence. Her skin is flawless, whiter than fresh fallen snow, so fine and translucent that the delicate blue veins beneath trace faint rivers across the creamy expanse. She is draped in layers of black silk and lace. Her dress is cut to reveal her long, graceful neck encircled by a single strand of white pearls and a firm bust, the silk fabric clinging only to the outermost curves of her breasts, leaving the inner swells of her breasts almost entirely exposed—a decadent display of milky décolletage—two magnificent globes of ivory flesh rising proudly from the midnight silk.
My drunk father finds his voice. “You will... care for her, Madam? She is untouched, innocent—”
Madam Violet turns her eyes upon him with amusement. “Untouched? Innocent?” She laughs. “Monsieur, I shall preserve her innocence as one preserves a butterfly.”
She places a hand upon my lower back and guides me to the seat opposite her. The interior of the carriage is illumined by a single lamp of crimson glass suspended from the ceiling, saturating the black satin cushions and lush carpet with a blood-red hue. I look out the carriage window at the man who sired me.
“Papa, don’t worry,” I sigh, “I shall see you again in a few months.”
He smiles. “Go, my child. Paris awaits you. This is your season. Balls, suitors, a brilliant marriage perhaps...”
The carriage door closes with a soft click. Through the window, I watch my father as the carriage lurches forward. Gravel sprays beneath iron wheels, and the horses surge forward with a strange, almost manic eagerness, their nostrils flaring as though taking in my scent—the high society-bred cunt, as the driver had coarsely put it, that awaits their mistress’s pleasure in her Velvet Salon in Paris.
Madam Violet slowly removes her gloves. “Remove your cloak, little one,” she commands softly. “Modesty is a garment I intend to tear from you piece by piece.”
I obey, fingers fumbling for the drawstrings. The velvet cloak slips from my shoulders and pools at my feet onto the carpeted carriage floor, revealing the dove-grey travelling dress that clings revealingly to the contours of my form. The dress, cut to the latest Parisian fashion, is modest in color but scandalous in the way it highlights my shape. The light catches the sheen of the fabric, outlining the high mounds of my breasts and the delicate curve of my waist, and the skirt, though full, does little to conceal my long, shapely legs as I shift uneasily on the soft cushions.
There is nothing shy in Madam Violet’s gaze; her eyes linger on my pale skin rising above my scalloped neckline, tracing my delicate collarbone down to my slender belly, pausing momentarily on the insistent peaks of my two nipples poking prominently through the thin silk. Her gaze follows the sweep of my skirt to where it lies draped over my knees, pausing to admire my shapely, creamy thighs.
“Exquisite,” Madam Violet compliments.
“My father believes I am destined for court presentation,” I tell her.
She smiles as the crimson light catches her face, and for a moment, I could have sworn I saw the flash of razor-sharp tips of fangs behind her lips, but the impression vanishes as quickly as it arrives. “Court presentation? Oh, my sweet innocent. You speak of the little games played by mortals, the powdered wigs and petticoats of Versailles. Such things are a momentary distraction, a flash in the pan of history. There are courts, and then there are courts. You are destined for one far older than Versailles, far more exclusive. By dawn, you will kneel before it, and by the next moonrise, you will beg never to leave.”
Madam Violet lets out a deep sigh and begins to settle into her seat opposite me. The faint scent of expensive French perfume fills the air. Her movements are economical yet possess an unnerving, deliberate grace. With a rustle that speaks of wealth and layers of carefully chosen silk, she lifts the voluminous hem of her black skirt, drawing it up inch by inch, parting her legs just enough to reveal the smooth, creamy expanse of her inner thighs and the dark shadow nestled between them. I freeze in my tracks, completely transfixed. I cannot—no, I would not—look away. The sight of her luscious cunt peeking out from the dark patch of neatly trimmed curls holds me spellbound.
“Your pussy is so exquisite, madam,” I tell her, the words a breathless, involuntary confession that escapes my lips before I can censor them. I am unable to tear my gaze away from her magnificent cunt. A wave of base, elemental desire sweeps through me, washing away all vestiges of propriety and caution. My immediate desire is to bury my face in her mound and feel the tight, wet sensation of her clit on my tongue.
Madam Violet laughs softly and leans forward, her dark eyes locking onto mine. Her eyes draw me in. I try to avert my gaze, but a strange, invisible force holds me fast, and her eyes stay locked onto mine, pulling at the very threads of my will.
I can feel her pulling me toward her cunt. I sit motionless, entranced. I feel her taking control, a cool flood pouring into the hollows of my being, filling the voids left by my father’s neglect and society’s repression. I am entirely under her spell—a profound, almost hypnotic surrender.
“Well?” Madam’s voice is hypnotic, wrapping around my thoughts like the cords of a marionette. “Are you simply going to stare? Or do you intend to discover what Parisian society is truly built upon?”
I move in closer, unsure whether to kneel or to sit upright.
“You’re nervous,” Madam observes.
“Yes, madam,” I whisper, uncertain if I ought to be ashamed of myself for feeling this way.
“Kneel, my sweet dove,” she asserts, her voice resonating in my mind, a sonic caress that bypasses my ears and vibrates directly within my consciousness. It’s not merely a sound I hear, but a feeling, a command woven into the very fabric of my being. An irresistible compulsion overtakes me, a deep, primal surrender. I find myself obeying without question, my body moving with a liquid grace, sliding from my seat to the carriage floor, drawn by a mysterious force I don’t understand. My knees sink into the plush carpet as though into her embrace.
Her legs part wider, and her scent, a wild aroma of arousal mingling with expensive French perfume and the musky undercurrent of desire, envelops me fully. It floods my senses, choking off all rational thought and leaving only a base, agonizing hunger. I whimper, my mouth hovering just above the glistening folds of her cunt. The hunger is impossible to resist.
“Please,” I beg, my lips barely moving, “ I want to taste you.”
Madam cups my chin and forces me to look up. “You will learn to starve before you feast, little one. But I reward obedience.” Madam purrs and angles her hips, bringing her cunt even closer. “You may kiss it, if you like. You may even lick. But only one taste tonight.”
The carriage air grows thick and heavy, charged with the scent of unbridled arousal. Driven by a sudden, consuming hunger, I plunge forward. My lips press against her slick pussy, and my tongue darts out, tentative at first, then greedy and desperate. My hands grip her thighs as I lick deeper, my tongue probing the tight, velvety entrance of her cunt, sliding inside to taste the depths of her arousal. The taste fills my mouth—sweet, alive. “Yes,” she moans, her voice thick with pleasure, “just like that.” My tongue works feverishly, lapping at her cunt like a starving, desperate animal. I want to drown in it, to devour her until nothing remains. Her moans grow louder, filling the carriage, and I can feel her body trembling, her orgasm building as I continue to lick and suck, my tongue dancing over her clit, probing her tight, wet entrance, until her hips buck wildly and she screams my name, ‘Emmeline,’and collapses back against the seat, her chest heaving with the force of her release. I look up at her, my lips glistening with her wetness, my eyes wide with awe and desire.
“Good girl,” she purrs, her fingers tracing my lips, smearing her wet release across my mouth.
I kneel obediently, my body trembling, my heart racing.
The carriage thunders down the road, hurtling toward Paris, toward Madame Violet’s Velvet Salon, where its members, a shadowy collective of the city’s elite, await with anticipation Madame Violet’s new acquisition, the fresh aristocratic innocence approaching.
I close my eyes. I don’t feel the cool fingertip of Madam Violet that is now tracing the frantic pulse in my throat, testing, measuring, choosing the exact spot where the first bite will fall. She traces the line of my jaw with one fingertip, then slides downward to rest on my throat, where my pulse leaps like a trapped bird. I cannot speak, cannot resist. My will has melted like candle wax under her power. My lips part on a soft, broken sound—half sob, half moan—as she draws closer.
Then her lips brush the skin just below my ear, a feather-touch that makes my entire body arch toward her. Her mouth moves lower, following the line of my pulse with slow, deliberate kisses. I feel the faint scrape of her fangs against my skin, not piercing yet, merely resting there, testing the give of my flesh. The anticipation is unbearable. My breath comes in ragged, wet gasps that fill the carriage with the sound of my surrender.
Madam Violet begins to hum a low, ancient lullaby as she slowly sinks her fangs into the soft, delicate flesh of my throat. The pain is sharp, instantly followed by a dizzying rush. Blood flows hot and sweet into her mouth; I feel the rhythmic pull as though she were drinking directly from my soul, drawing my very essence, my vitality, into her. When she finally withdraws—lips stained blood red, fangs gleaming—she presses her lips to mine in a deep, blood-smeared kiss, feeding me the taste of my own surrender. My tongue meets hers, and I taste myself on her, consumed and drained of life. A dizzying, profound exhaustion settles over me, the final, perfect silence of a will utterly broken.
The carriage rolls on through the night, and the horses gallop faster, carrying me toward Paris, toward the Velvet Salon, racing to deliver fresh innocence for an exquisite sacrifice—a destiny I have always believed would one day be fulfilled.
