tagSci-Fi & FantasyIndigo Ink Ch. 01

Indigo Ink Ch. 01


Author's Note:

This (part 1 in a series) is a work of vampire erotica – complete with all the tropes associated with that genre (mesmerism, blood, mild violence). If you are disturbed by these, please do not read further. This series is more story than sex, so if you're looking for a quick romp, this probably isn't for you.




The girl in her arms was in a somnolent daze.

"Do it," he said, insistent. "Drink."

Ink hesitated. It was getting harder to resist. The girl was warm – flush with arousal. Hasdrubal repeated the command, and this time Ink obeyed.


Nights earlier...

"Going out, Ink?" Felicity called from her bedroom.

"Yeah," Ink shouted back, lipstick in hand. She'd picked up the nickname in high school. Her real one was Indigo. Her mother had picked it in honor of the Indigo Girls. Ink wasn't a fan of the band or the name. "Want to come with?"

Felicity didn't answer. Instead, she squeezed into the bathroom beside Ink. Like the rest of the apartment, the single bathroom was tiny. Even with two of them contributing, student loans only went so far. Felicity's hair was still sleep tousled. She idly ran a hand through the tangle and yawned shamelessly. All night cram sessions were taking their toll. Even after sleeping all afternoon, Felicity still looked exhausted. "We're like night and day," she said, nodding to the girls in the mirror.

"More like before and after," Ink countered. Felicity chuckled once in agreement. Friends since high school, Ink and Felicity could pass for sisters. Both had black hair, which they wore long. Both had light eyes – Ink's blue to Felicity's hazel. They were even of a height, around 5'6, with similar builds, though Felicity liked to boast about having a little extra up top. At the moment, however, the puffy eyed girl in the flannel Mickey Mouse pajamas looked like the morning after version of her vamped up counterpart in the slinky black dress. "So, want to come for a change?"

Felicity shook her head. "Can't. Research paper."

"I knew a girl once who said she was going to party every night when we got to the city. Any idea what happened to her?" Ink chided.

Felicity snorted. "She died when her GPA almost dropped below 2.0. Honestly, I don't know how you do it and still pull a 4.0. It's not fair. Now, quit hogging the bathroom."

Before Ink could protest, Felicity ushered her out and closed the door. "Have fun studying while I party, bookworm," Ink said through the door. If Felicity had an answer for that, Ink didn't wait around to hear it. The Abyss was only five blocks from their downtown apartment, three if she cut across the park – which she usually did. Tonight was no exception. The club catered to an alternative crowd – corsets and latex were as common as nylon and leather. Inside, the industrial aesthetics all revolved around one central point - the dance floor. Recessed and framed by balconies, it was a haze of artificial smoke, strobe lights, and writhing silhouettes. This was what drew her back each night. Nineteen years old, Ink had spent the first eighteen living with her mother in a small town. She'd been a good girl – gotten good grades, gone to church. It was all a means to an end: escape. Together with Felicity, she'd dreamed of a neon life. College had gotten them to the city. Ink found everything else on the dance floor.

Friday night. The Abyss was packed. Ink slipped into the current that would eventually carry her to the dance floor. Anonymity was part of the allure. She dropped out of the flow of traffic and onto the floor, just one more silhouette in the churning mix. The circle of strobes that illuminated the outer edges left the heart of the floor in relative darkness. This was Ink's final destination. The closer she got, the less she could see and the tighter the press of bodies became. Ink didn't care who she touched or who touched her, so long as there was contact and a beat. She surrendered to both as the dancers closed in around her.

She felt his hands settle on her hips, drawing her against him. She leaned back, feeling his contours. What she found – a solid chest and agile hips – did not disappoint. Within the space of a few beats, she felt him harden. Ink focused on that, grinding against it as his hands began to wander. She did nothing to discourage them as they explored the flat of her stomach. Her hands, which had been weaving intricate patterns over her head, slipped backwards. She ran fingers through his hair. It was long. She liked that. When his hands slid over her breasts, Ink rewarded his boldness by raking his scalp with her fingernails. Her nipples stiffened under his palms. For the duration of the song, Ink moved with her unseen partner – each swaying motion charged with seductive promises. Then, as the song transitioned, she pulled away, abandoning him. Before Ink could disappear into the crowd, he grabbed her by the arm and pulled her around to face him. "You're hurting me," Ink shouted over the music as she tried to rip her arm free. It was useless. His grip was vice-like.

The man's smile was Cheshire-like. The rest of his features flickered in and out in time with the distant lights. His shoulder-length hair was dark like hers. His eyes were lost amid the shadows. "Who do you think you are? You don't just walk away from me like that," he said, his voice somehow coming to her clearly despite the pounding bass.

"Let me go," Ink demanded. He didn't. Instead, he pulled her against him and tried to press his mouth against hers. For that, she kneed him in the groin as hard as she could. Pain shot through her leg. It felt like she'd hit a brick wall. The man let go, but he didn't go down. Adrenaline carried Ink several steps into the shifting crowd, but then the pain in her knee caught up. She hobbled off of the dance floor, looking for a bouncer. She was too slow. Over her shoulder, Ink could see the man, scanning the crowd as he moved. Their eyes met and his cruel, Cheshire smile returned. He was enjoying this. The moment stretched as Ink stood, fixated by his gaze– then, the crowd closed between them, her wits returned, and she ran.

The ladies' room was uncharacteristically quiet when Ink ducked into it. Several stall doors were closed, but the typically crowded sinks and mirrors were unattended. Ink leaned against a counter and examined her knee. A knot of discoloration was already forming there. It would be a nasty bruise by morning. This asshole wasn't the first guy to get pushy on the dance floor, but something about him – about his smile, about the way he seemed to enjoy stalking her – made her skin crawl. Why hadn't he gone down? What the hell had she hit if not what she was aiming for? A woman's throaty moan interrupted her train of thought.

"F...fuu...ck," the unseen voice panted from within a closed stall. The door bucked, as though someone was pushing against it. Ink stifled an incredulous laugh and glanced towards the exit. She wasn't about to go back out there. Not yet, anyway. She'd give it another ten or fifteen minutes in the hope that the creep would lose interest. Then she'd make a break for the front doors. "Oh, god... Oh, god," the moans continued. Beneath the stall door, Ink could see a pair of women's legs, both sheathed in sheer nylon. She wasn't into girls – that was Felicity's fetish – but the sounds coming from behind that door were making her pulse quicken. "Fuck... I'm... I'm.... I'm... cu," the voice trailed off into the unintelligible language of climax.

A moment later, the door opened. Ink turned to face the mirrors, pretending to wash her hands as the pair of women emerged. Curious, she glanced up at their reflections as they passed. The first she recognized as one of the club's shot girls. Brittany? Bethany, maybe? Ink couldn't remember her name. Judging by the girl's flush breathlessness, Ink pegged her as the source of the voice. The other woman was stunning. She wore a short, silver dress with a deeply plunging neckline and an open back. Straight blonde hair toppled over her shoulders and framed red, pouty lips and powder pale, blue eyes – eyes that had met Ink's in the mirror. Blushing, Ink returned her gaze to the sink.

Seemingly oblivious, the shot girl stumbled her way back out into the club – the music briefly blaring as she opened the door. The other woman took a place beside Ink at the counter. "Lovely weather we're having. Wouldn't you say?" she asked casually as she rinsed her hands.

Ink barked a laugh. "Yeah, sure."

"I'm Lavinia," the woman said, reaching out and running a single finger down Ink's arm. The touch drew Ink's gaze back towards those pale eyes. "I've seen you on the dance floor," Lavinia said, finger gliding back up Ink's arm before drifting from her shoulder to crook beneath Ink's chin. Ink's pulse was racing. The woman's eyes, her electric touch, her honeyed voice – even the perfection of her porcelain complexion, it was captivating. "Would you like to dance with me?"

"What about that other girl?"

"The shot girl?" Lavinia asked, bemused. "I don't even know her name. What's yours?"


"Ink," Lavinia repeated, as if trying the word on for size. "That's unusual. I like it. Come," she said, taking Ink's hand and turning for the door. The man with the Cheshire smile, the ache in her knee, the shot girl – these things were forgotten. There was only Lavinia. As the woman walked ahead of her, Ink marveled at her exposed back – the curve of her shoulder blades, the way her golden hair hung against them, her flawless skin. As if sensing her gaze, Lavinia glanced back over her shoulder, smiling knowingly. Ink hardly noticed as they walked back out into the bustle and noise. Lavinia snaked seamlessly through the shifting tide of people, Ink clinging to her hand like a lifeline. They passed beneath the ring of flashing lights and plunged into the darkness together. There, in the midst of other twisting shadows, Ink's guide turned on her.

Lavinia moved like quicksilver. She was fluid heat. Ink was good, but Lavinia danced like a hungry succubus. Now and then, other dancers encroached – attempting to join or separate them. Each was denied. The driving music transitioned into a grinding drone and Lavinia entwined herself with ink – her thigh pressing up between Ink's. Ink's nails raked down Lavinia's naked back as her partner grinded against her throbbing sex. In the heat of the exchange, Lavinia took a fistful of Ink's hair and pulled back, tipping Ink's head upwards and exposing her neck. Her other hand snaked down between them, finding its way under the hem of Ink's skirt. Deft fingers caressed her as Lavinia pressed her mouth to Ink's neck. Ink's moan of pleasure was lost amid the music. Ecstasy like nothing Ink had ever known drowned out everything else – the music, the people. Everything. Orgasmic heat spread like a flash fire across Ink's skin. The pleasure seemed to go on and on. Ink was left dizzy and gasping, her head sinking to Lavinia's shoulder. For a few moments, Lavinia danced slowly with Ink, gently caressing her hair and back until Ink's knees began to buckle. As if in anticipation this feebleness, Lavinia again took her hand - leading her off of the dance floor and into a corner booth.

"Are you alright, Ink?" Lavinia asked as she settled Ink onto seat.

The genuine concern in her voice drew Ink back from the recesses of her afterglow. "Yeah," Ink said, smiling like a drunkard. It was half true. She was still breathless, but a strange sense of aching lethargy had swept over her. Her head was spinning.

Lavinia considered Ink for a moment. "I'm going to get you a bottle of water. Wait here. Okay?"

Ink nodded, sinking back into the cushioned seat, and Lavinia disappeared into the crowd. She was dripping with sweat and her hands were trembling. Slowly, her mind began to reconstruct in reverse the sequence of events that had led her here. The climax, the dance, the shot girl... Fingers dug painfully into the flesh of her arm. Startled but sluggish, Ink looked up into dark, malicious eyes and a Cheshire smile.

"Hello," he said, squeezing her arm. The sudden pain roused Ink. It felt like her arm was being crushed. She tried to rise, but his other hand locked around her neck and pushed her back against the seat. Ink clawed at his wrist, but her nails couldn't find purchase. He laughed at her impotence, his Cheshire smile never wavering. It was the most sadistic thing she had ever heard. The fingers around her throat tightened, slowing choking off her airway. Already sapped, even the jolt of terrified adrenaline lent her precious little strength and that was fading fast. Wild, inane thoughts began to flood Ink's mind. Who would tell her mother? What would Felicity do? She couldn't afford their apartment all by herself. Ink even felt a pang of regret over not being able to tell her friend about Lavinia. Felicity would have been so amused.

"Benjamin!" The voice was stern, commanding. "She is with me." Abruptly, the pressure relaxed. The man with the Cheshire smile released Ink and turned to face Lavinia. Chest heaving, Ink slipped off of the seat as she gasped for air. She landed on the floor in a heap, coughing. And then Lavinia was there, gently pulling Ink's hair out of her face. Carefully, Lavinia sat her upright, propping Ink's back against the seat she'd fallen from. "Slowly. Breathe slowly, Ink. It's okay. He's gone," she said, cupping Ink's face in one of her hands. "Look at me," Lavinia urged. As Ink's panicked eyes focused on Lavinia's, an inexplicable sense of calm washed over her. Fear melted away under the numbing influence of those bottomless pale eyes. "Here, drink this," Lavinia instructed, bringing a bottle of water to Ink's lips. The cold liquid felt good against the raw pain in Ink's throat. "Better?" Lavinia asked. Ink nodded and allowed Lavinia to help her back onto the seat.

"You... know that guy?" Ink croaked through the dulling haze.

Lavinia's expression soured. "In a manner of speaking."

"I should call the police," Ink said, fumbling for the cellphone tucked under her bra strap.

Lavinia took her hand away from it. "No, Ink." Confusion furrowed Ink's brow. "Nothing good will come of that. Benjamin is well connected."

"Oh," Ink said. Her thoughts seemed distant, just out of reach. "Am I drunk?" she asked.

That made Lavinia smile. "No. You're just a little light headed. You haven't had alcohol tonight."

Again Ink's brow furrowed. "How do you know that?"

Lavinia arched an eyebrow, her smile widening. "I like you, Ink. For now, though, I think it's probably best if, as soon as you're able, you went home, got some rest, and forget all about Benjamin."

There was an odd emphasis on that last part. The words seemed to burn themselves into Ink's thoughts. "Forget all about Benjamin," she repeated. Lavinia leaned in and kissed her softly on the lips. Ink closed her eyes and drank in the delicate feel of soft, feminine lips against her own. Slowly, she opened her mouth, accepting Lavinia's tongue. Ink held her breath. She'd never really kissed a woman before, not like this at least. Even through the inexplicable haze and the tender sweetness of the kiss, some part of her still registered the significance of this. Then, it was over. "That was...." Ink said, exhaling in a sigh. She couldn't find the words to express the curious mix of sensations and emotions that she was experiencing. She stopped trying. "Will I ever see you again?"

Lavinia smiled warmly. "Perhaps. I come here often. Listen, I have to go now."

Ink could only watch as the woman that had first seduced and then saved her slipped away. Saved her? From what? Ink finished the bottle of water and rose slowly. She could still taste the other woman on her lips. During their sophomore year, Ink had allowed Felicity to kiss her. Felicity was still in the process of finding herself and Ink had admittedly been a little curious. That kiss had been an awkward disaster. "It's just not for me," Ink had told Felicity afterwards. "You just haven't met the right girl yet," Felicity had teased. Ink was still considering that as she stepped out into the night. She was straight, wasn't she? Ink hesitated before crossing the street. Part of her desperately wanted to turn back, to try and find Lavinia again. No. She needed to go home and rest. Ink was still wrestling with the competing urges as she cut back across the park.

A hand seized Ink's shoulder and flung her around. She had just enough time to see a vaguely familiar smile before a fist took her in the face. The force of the blow threw her to the ground, her head bouncing off of the concrete. A hand grabbed the front of her dress, heaving her up. Ink heard the fabric rip as the man punched her again. Something in her face crunched as she slammed back into the ground. Pain and the taste of blood. Everything else was a blur. Her assailant laughed at her attempt to roll over and crawl away. His boot caught her in the side, flipping her onto her back, and sending her phone, driver's license, and debit card skittering away. Benjamin picked the ID up as Ink struggled to reclaim the wind the kick had knocked out of her. "Indigo Paige," he read. "Tell me, how do you like being kicked, Indigo?" He kicked her again for emphasis.

There was a stabbing pain in Ink's side. Broken ribs? Blood from her nose and busted lips choked her. Benjamin crouched beside her. "You like to tease men, Indigo? Well, I don't like being teased." Casually, he picked up her hand and wretched two of her fingers backwards. The sound of the bones snapping was nauseatingly audible. Pain seared away what little coherence Ink had left. She tried to scream, but Benjamin clamped a hand down over her mouth, muffling the sound and making it harder to breath. In her panic, the memory of the man's smile returned to her. He was smiling it then, only now his upper canines had elongated into fangs. His teeth are so white, Ink observed as he brought her maimed hand to his face. Another stab of pain shot down her arm as Benjamin sank his teeth into the flesh of her wrist. Not real. This wasn't really happening. It was a nightmare. It had to be; only the pain was so real, so intense. I'm going to faint, she thought. No. I'm going to die. The realization seemed almost welcome.

"Release her."

Benjamin looked up from his feast. Blood smeared his lips and chin. "Lavinia," he said cordially. "Do you mind? I'm trying to eat here."

"I told you that she was with me," Lavinia said, stepping into the periphery of Ink's shrinking field of vision. Benjamin dropped Ink's hand and stood, removing his hand from her mouth in the process. Desperately, Ink tried to speak. To call for help, to say Lavinia's name. Nothing came out.

"So you did," he conceded. "Now she's with me. Unless you're telling me that you're actually claiming this whore?" Lavinia hesitated. "I didn't think so," Benjamin said, his voice triumphant. Slowly he lowered a boot onto Ink's neck. Ink willed her hands to move, to try and push it away. Nothing happened. She couldn't feel them, or her legs, anymore.

"Yes," Lavinia blurted as if the word had come unbidden. Then, she repeated the word, this time with more certainty. "Yes. I claim her, Benjamin."

The man with the Cheshire smile withdrew his boot and howled with laughter. "You Julians are all so pathetic," he scoffed. Benjamin's terrible, mocking voice was the last thing Ink heard before her eyes closed and she slipped into merciful unconsciousness.


Ink awoke to the scent of fresh linens. She was lying in an unfamiliar bed, cozy under a soft, down comforter. Groggily, she sat up and stretched. "What the..." she muttered, taking in her surroundings. Four posts rose from the corners of the bed, suspending a canopy above her. Beyond the bed's drawn curtains, the large bedroom was populated with antique furniture. The floor was polished hardwood, and elegant paintings adorned the walls. Thick, burgundy, floor-length curtains obfuscated what Ink assumed was a pair of windows. A door to the right of the bed opened into a bathroom. That door was mirrored by a smaller one on the left. A closet, Ink guessed. A miniature chandelier, dripping with crystals, bathed the room in a gentle amber light, giving everything a warm, sepia glow. The room felt old. Instinctually, Ink looked for her phone and cards. They were nowhere to be seen. Neither were her clothes. She was wearing currently a long, black, silk nightgown. It clung to her sensuously as she slid out of the bed. Considering the circumstances, she was remarkably calm. A third door, well beyond the foot of the bed, drew her attention. Answers were somewhere on the other side but exploration would have to wait. Despite her curiosity, a more compelling need demanded her attention.

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