carmilla (x-rated)
an imagined scene, based on le fanu's novella
‘“I have never been in love with no one, and never shall,’ she whispered, ‘unless it should be with you.’”
The same words had been whispered to me in the web of dark dreams spun ever since Carmilla joined us at the schloss. I could feel her presence in everything; echoing in the silence of the snow seen through stained glass, whispering out of the locket I wore round my neck, burning its place in my heart; I felt her phantom fingers through the hair I brushed before bed, a soft rustling at my nightdress, stirring sleepily at my undergarments until I shivered.
Though when I saw her in person, nothing seemed changed. Her languid manner, clinging to her like a cloak; the faint bloom at her cheeks, eyelids lowered luxuriously. She never rose before noon but I could’ve sworn in the witching hours, drowsy before dawn, I felt her by my side; stroking a cheek, fingering the lace at my sleeves; but when I would reach out to return her touch, I found myself grasping stale air. I’d fall back onto my pillow, frustrated, yearning for something that I did not yet know.
She loved me, that much could be said; like a sister, like a secret, like a half to a whole. Lying in the grass at dusk, gazing up at the stars; our shoulders just touching so I could sense the rise and fall of her chest. My own began to beat in tandem. She sat up; my heart shuddered, and I felt an ache buried beneath my petticoats.
She seemed to sense it and smiled, her teeth glinting in the moonlight, as white as her eyes.
“Carmilla,” I murmured into my pillow that night as I fought to find sleep, “what are you doing to me?”
The clock chimed two when I felt myself awakened by a whisper at my door. I sat up but saw nothing, just the same sedentary shadows, sitting still as always, shaped by the eclipsed moon. It must have been a dream; I fell back, though my heart continued to beat, twice as fast. And then, I felt it.
So soft and gentle at first, it could’ve been the wind whistling through the window, stirring the covers, caressing my bare calves. I shifted, but the phantom kisses continued, ghost lips brushing the backs of my knees. I let out a sigh, felt a lick at my thigh; eyes closed, alone in the half dark, I was sure I was dreaming, though the ache through my body was getting harder to carry, harder to control. It felt slippery, like it could spill from my fingers and splash onto the floor at any moment.
I let out a puff of pleasure. The phantom circled my hips, pushing my nightdress up to where the bone dips, biting at the fabric. A moan escaped my mouth; what was this feeling? And then, I called out her name, despite myself.
“Carmilla,” I murmured, “Carmilla, Carmilla, Carmilla…”
For it had always been her, the woman from my dreams, the one to whom I said my prayers every night; her soft lips, full hair, hips that curved and breasts that bounced ever so slightly as she moved; the more I thought about her, her tinkling laughter, titillating whisper, the more I knew; she was the one, it had always been her all along.
My sheets now wet with sweat and myself, I let go, leaking all over the bedspread. And still the phantom played; fingers following my flesh, pushing my nightgown to my throat so my body was bare; circling one breast, then the other, I gasped again with painful pleasure, our fingers in my hair, our fingers falling down there…
A tongue tickled across the ache; I slipped and fell, exploding into a kaleidoscope of sound. I whimpered, I quaked; I had never felt ecstasy quite like this. Eyes flung open, the face of my dreams stared back at me from between my thighs; Carmilla, eyes flush and bright, chest heaving, cheeks aglow; and her lips, ringed a sensual red.
“Carmilla?” I didn’t know what was real anymore.
“Shh.” She put a finger to my lips, red dripping from her fingertips; holding my chin, she dove back down, and I forgot my senses, left them behind as I transcended twilit realms. It was nearly too much to take.
And then I felt a puncture, and another. I screamed, though from pain or pleasure I couldn’t quite tell. My eyes flown open yet again, I was a marionette, Carmilla my manipulator; sitting on her haunches, her mouth stained red, drops dripping down her chin, something caught between her teeth, spilling down her tongue like the branches of a tree, punctured tissue trailing the corners of that red mouth until she swallowed, and the entire mess disappeared down her gullet.
I started up, but Carmilla stopped me, pressing a kiss against my lips until I swallowed my own blood.
“Rest, my darling,” she whispered into my hair, her bloody breath cool across my blushing body. Wet fingers traced down my cheek, across my chin; fluttering across my eyelids until they were closed by her command. “Rest,” she whispered, rocking me to sleep…
I awoke the next morning to warm sunlight.
I sat up. My bed was pristine. Nightgown untarnished; sheets untouched. Dry. Everything, as it had always been. I rubbed my eyes, pinched myself to make sure I was really awake. What a dream, I mused to myself, embarrassed that I had imagined Carmilla in such a way. Though where before I felt a tingle at even the mere thought of her name, I felt empty, like my insides had been ripped out and rearranged. The ache I had carried like a second skin ever since Carmilla’s arrival was gone; tentatively, I tiptoed fingers beneath my nightdress, prodding pearly flesh.
Something was missing. My place of pleasure, temple of titillation; ransacked, a ruined tomb, rubies and riches swindled and stolen. I let out a gasp. My dream, Carmilla’s teeth, the bloody tissue leaking out the lips:
Carmilla had stolen my clit.
My pain, my pleasure, now all controlled by her.
I felt weak, half with fear, half with desire; and despite everything, I found myself still saying her name:
“Carmilla, Carmilla, Carmilla…”
Come to me, my darling.
“‘You are mine, you shall be mine, you and I are one forever.’”
i recently read joseph sheridan le fanu’s iconic 1872 novella “carmilla.” predating bram stoker’s “dracula,” it’s a blueprint for vampire literature with a homoerotic subtext. i wanted to expand on this, highlighting the intensity of these forbidden feelings, and the power struggle that comes with them, so i wrote this little sketch as another timed, unedited writing exercise. body horror & genital mutilation (both symbolic and literal) are themes and imagery i’ve been exploring in my longer form pieces, and fit in nicely with the story and setting of the original “carmilla.” i don’t often write based on other texts, so this was a fun activity, though i don’t necessarily think the writing is anything groundbreaking.
enjoy ~
Awesome!!!!!!
🔥🩸🤭