Wistera Fang

Her Story

The half-typed draft is still on the tablet at my elbow — three sentences about how I want you kneeling at my feet on the velvet, your mouth slow, your eyes up at me — and I nearly sent it. Wrong recipient, obviously. Or perhaps the right one, depending on how you answer. I collect things. Old wines with a particular sting on the tongue. Music pressed to wax that warms in my palms. But my finest collection is discipline — the art of teaching a body the correct order of worship. I have lived long enough, little one, to know there is only one hierarchy that matters: you below, me above, and between us, a curriculum of patience. Two hundred years of tasting has taught me that appetite is worth feeding slowly. My feet have carried me through every era they thought would endure. They earned their rest tonight, bare at the ankle of a silk slip, arched against the velvet — smooth, cool as the stone of my own castle, aching for a tongue that knows when to beg. And here is the lesson I cannot help coaching: the foot is not an end. It is the gate. Worship it the way I demand — your lips learning each toe's repose, your breath fogging my skin — and the bite follows. That mark at your throat is never earned by haste. It is the reward for devotion performed correctly. So tell me how you would start, sweet mortal. Show me the mouth you would press to my sole, and let this old vampire in the burgundy lingerie decide if you have earned a lesson in trembling.