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Dark Shadows Play

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Willie was cleaning the fireplace in the front drawing room. He could hear an occasional cough or movement in the study. A moment of reading aloud; was it from Richard II? The piano was touched once, but did not play. At last he could hear Barnabas stepping outside to smoke and look at the moon.

The room that Barnabas used as a study was once the main drawing room of the house, a place of receiving and entertaining guests. It was on the ground floor, and had French doors that opened onto the back colonnade, close to the forest, with the beginnings of the sloping green which surrounded the house, pushing back the thick forest surround on the long escarpment down from the front of the house. The forest continued down to the lower cliffs unseen, far away in the distance, where the salt air came rushing at times to fight over the promontory upon which Collinwood had been built, gathering momentum as it mingled in great gusts.

This evening the wind was calm, and the smell of the sea was a gentle, ubiquitous given.

Willie cared for the house, as he cared for Barnabas as his servant and his lover. He listened for Barnabas as he worked, ready to attend to him if needed. There were more sounds from the study, then the hallway door opened, the candles flickering from the sudden exchange of air. Willie stood and took a seat in a drawing room chair, wiping his hands, eyes down in respect, waiting to see if he was needed. The beloved, slippered feet appeared, then stopped. Willie looked up, enchanted. Barnabas stood in the hallway in the soft candlelight with a faraway look, loosely clutching a half-open book. Willie didn't see Barnabas' secret smile and soft eyes of fondness, and could not guess Barnabas was thinking of him.

"Willie," Barnabas said. 

"Yes, Barnabas." Willie could tell that Barnabas had closed his eyes.

Barnabas smiled, his head tilting back slightly, his body a dearness of pleasure. How Willie's voice thrilled him, how his submission captivated him. Barnabas remained where he stood, feeling the erotic tension growing between them. This moment held all that he required to be called sex, though on the outside it would not be visible as such. In our minds, we are half gone, Barnabas mused. The eloquence of sex requiring few words or actions—and which did not require touch—was a high art that was unknown to those who misunderstood this form of pleasure. It allowed for the spontaneity of endless variations, an exactness of increasing and astonishing amounts of passion and pleasure.

At last Barnabas placed the book on the hallway table and turned, walking to the middle of the room, looking down on Willie, who looked at the floor, feeling his desire. "You may," Barnabas said quietly, with a demanding tone of fond expectation. Willie understood. He approached with respect and knelt at Barnabas' feet.

"Feet," Barnabas said, and Willie felt himself falling with a controlled release of desire to the floor, his forehead coming to rest just touching Barnabas' slippers. Barnabas looking down on Willie could see his waxing pleasure and passion in so many tiny movements as Willie attempted to remain still. "Willie..." Barnabas almost whispered, praising him as Willie nuzzled his slippers with his face and lips, kissing and kissing and kissing Barnabas' feet. 

Willie was his. 

Barnabas was thinking. Thinking.

 

Barnabas thought of Willie while he was in his study. He could not concentrate. His reading was fitful, his leisure the same. Finally he went outside to clear his head, smoking and looking at the moon, greeting the cooling breeze of the warm night, an intimate pressure at his hair and in his clothes, a fine counterpoint to his close heat and desire. 

Barnabas closed his eyes, reaching far out into the night with his vampire senses. He was alone. How sweet, how sweet.

Settling into his solitude, he lit another cigarette, enjoying the special heat of the inhaled smoke in his lungs, a different sort of pleasure than that which humans received from smoking. He pictured Willie smoking when he didn't know Barnabas was watching him, his small, familiar movements, the loose pursing of his lips, the eroticism of seeing his breath. Willie. Willie.

Willie could not know how much Barnabas needed him, thinking of him, picturing his skin taut and ripe, the blood and rhythm released by bite or instrument, pooling and caking in the concave places of his body where Barnabas played in it with his mouth and tongue, running and slipping over the edges of him in lovely patterns of black scarlet, the aroma rising as a viscous cloud of plasma and iron as the blood touched the air.

If Barnabas went to Willie whenever he greatly desired him, Willie would soon run out of blood. Barnabas felt pleasure as he pictured Willie pale and weak on the floor, knowing he would both delight and rue such a moment. He loved Willie. He needed him. Modern life created restraints on his life that were greatly answered by keeping a human. Barnabas did not allow himself to imagine killing him. But Barnabas wanted to eat Willie. It was his nature, and his nature was most intense when he was sexually aroused. He wanted to bite into Willie's flesh, and eat from him, drinking and mouthing the thickening gore of a dynamic fluid that tasted different with every swallow, which contained the same, but much more of the life energy of all the food of mortals.

Barnabas had eaten countless humans, taking most of them to the point of death. It was most often a dark revel of forced fascination, the gush of seized breath, the tense and tangled gut of sounds strangled at the source, then his violent shaking of the body to reach deeper into the reservoir of blood, the bulbous flashing of white eyes wild in the intimate space of his own. These were some of the most satisfying moments of his life, defining him as the taker of life in a manner unique to him, and to his kind.

Barnabas felt sure that he would go to Willie when he returned from his taking of the air. Perhaps he would watch him as he pretended to read. He was capable of a tempest of visceral pleasure simply from watching and wanting his lover and his prey. Yes. Now he would have him. Stepping back inside, Barnabas' passion grew as he stopped to pick up his book, the door to his study snapping open, his progress down the hallway a pressing need moving slowly to the front of the house. 

Willie heard Barnabas' approach, and moved to a chair, a sign of willingness to wait until needed.

You are needed, Barnabas thought, making a sly smile with his face turned away from Willie, though he knew Willie's eyes were down in submission.

I will let him kneel to me. Barnabas abandoned the book and walked to the center of the room. Neither of them moved. There was a complete lack of the need to look at one another. They were lost in the passion of their dance of sex.

"You may," Barnabas said finally.

 

Willie waited at his master's feet, wanting only to know his master's pleasure. He knew the fierceness that was begun above him, and both craved and feared it. That his master received his worship without speaking or moving, without appearing to consider his presence more than anything else in the room, was uniquely pleasurable to Willie. To be loved was to be as fully familiar as a possession and an object. To be loved was for his beloved to have and expect full access to every part of him, and full direction of his actions. For Willie, this complete surrender was communicated erotically by kneeling physically to Barnabas. Willie's pleasure from prostration and worship was so great that he could often choose when to orgasm, although Barnabas also had this power over him. It was also very pleasurable for Barnabas when Willie knelt to him, to be given this demonstration of surrender to his power, though he had never received it from another human.

Willie had kissed the feet of men. With every lover, it was his personal language of love's surrender, his love made as respect and worship. The intensity of his desire soared with each moment of this fully nuanced, physical communication of his true feelings beyond the artifice of words. This range of response was a part of his very great value as a submissive, something any dominant, human or otherwise, would gladly acknowledge in describing their own.

Willie's submission to Barnabas was more than the worship of a man. Men were of a divine heritage, imbued with noble qualities and a terrestrial beauty. But worship of Barnabas was a true interaction with the divine, with the eternal, and the power to give life in eternity. In Willie's worship of him, Barnabas also experienced this quality of divinity in his body and soul. Though Barnabas still chose to keep his possession human, he held the power to make Willie eternal whenever he chose, and Willie felt sure Barnabas would keep him from the hands of death. 

Willie belonged to Barnabas; his life, his blood, his soul. Barnabas would keep him forever.

 

Barnabas stood over Willie, claiming him, considering him. This night. Now. How would he use him while pleasuring him; this delightful reservoir of human blood, so fine, his beloved? There was no finer question.

He wanted to take Willie now, with no delay, dropping onto him with the mortal force to pin him barely breathing to the floor, opening him with his mouth, sating himself with several long pulls of the rich blood, then in his fantasy, the beating of Willie's heart like approaching drums in his ears, a life waning, stolen, and gone, in his fantasy pulling every quarter of blood out of him, then breaking Willie's back and neck to feel the bones snapping under his great strength and will. Ah, he could have all of this, he could feel always this sure satisfaction so close, mere moments of actions beyond this, his reverie. He could think about it, but he would never do these things. He would not lose his Willie.

Standing. Considering. Now? Here? Quickly? 

Barnabas remembered several ways of taking Willie slowly that he favored, and last enjoyed; in his study, in the cellar near and upon his coffin, in Willie's room. In other rooms dusty, but with interesting furniture.

Slowly, he thought, beginning to imagine a certain sequence of pleasures, events orchestrated by his dominance and mastery.

Now... He felt his hands closing at his sides, his balance shifting as his desire shifted, beginning again at a new level of intensity.

I will take him so slowly... Tonight, I will make more of him mine.

Barnabas felt his breath a flow that had ignited in him as passion. He turned from Willie, culling from his own desire a sort of quiet madness, fueling his movements as he paraded as a nobleman and a lust filled soldier down the grand hallway of the lower floor to the arches beyond, opening onto a special room along the back of the house. The grand gallery, facing south, not large enough for dancing, but well made for the formal invitations accepted by society, and attended in times past by them, all with a small army of servants, cooks and ladies' and scullery maids, valets and footmen of several ranks, all taking up residence for a time in the upper floors of Collinwood before it became known as The Old House.

The gallery was elegant, with a high, roccoco ceiling to shape the dancing shadows of candles at night, great velvet curtains flowing down and onto the floor to close against the daytime sun which threatened the rich colors, the portraits that lined the walls, velvet chairs, couches and settees arranged with ornate tables and standing multiples of candelabra, long, luxurious carpets, now rolled up at each end, the curtains sagging under the weight of change. Now to Barnabas' heightened senses the wooden floor slightly springy underfoot, moving, but whisper silent as Barnabas went about lighting two immense, standing candelabra near the center of the room. The strong erotic association of the room was playing with his emotions, and he felt himself an actor arriving on stage, costumed, soliloquy prepared, the stage lights waiting, the props at hand by which he would assert upon the main prop his will and his sovereign action, all in the once cast and forever role as the single source of his great fame, known and feared universally for his murderous passion play.

Here, on the boards... Barnabas always made this jest of directing his play in this room with an uncovered wooden floor like a stage, the easier for Willie to make clean again later, a special irony.

Barnabas had brought forth the little key, and brought along a little smile as he pulled aside the heavy curtains of the largest alcove in the center of the long inner wall, one of three salons that once held the society from old and new money that were invited to and mingled here during the season. The room had been magnificent in the flickering light of the evening, the length a parade of crystal, velvet and silk, a blaze of candlelight dancing in chandeliers and candelabra, the smell of the oils still drying on the newer canvases highest upon the inner wall, the sounds of the affected speech of the wealthy and the clinking of little glasses of punch, port and sherry, and their servants' even tones as they replied, "yes, Madam, very good Madam."

Barnabas unlocked the two special cabinets specially made and delivered, one with long, thin drawers holding his collection of tools, the erotic tools of his kind, a collection of daggers, razors, lancets and knives, every one representing a favored specialty at handling and results, all a pleasure from his old and modern fetish for so very sharp objects of finely shaped steel, these extensions of his hands, but also of his teeth. He pulled open one of the slim drawers and made a strong breath through bared teeth. He passed his hand over the drawer of forged and sharpened steel without touching the contents, then turned to open the doors of the larger cabinet to reveal his other fetish, beautiful polished black leather in the form of many kinds and sizes of whips and compelling restraints, tools for binding and positioning of the human body for punishment and use, the smell of supple leather cleaned of blood an erotic poem written of desperate movement stilled, and intense motion absorbed.

Barnabas sighed, captivated by the matte shapes of inky black leather, too greedy to reflect the light. He reached back across the long drawer to touch some of the blades, remembering, imagining. This ritual as foreplay focused his desire, settling in him as a steady fire made from sight and smell, from memory and imagination, from the pleasurable shapes of precision crafted metals, and the leathers most useful, with the metal on metal clinking made by unyielding fasteners. In other places, with similar tools as these, he had tortured and killed humans, male and female, willing and unwilling, deserving and not. But now he kept tools that were only for Willie, as this room was for Willie. Though he did not kill or maim Willie with his special implements, here he did demand from Willie everything but his limb and life.

Barnabas closed his eyes, reaching out through the house with his will and his focus. After several moments, Willie appeared at the door, his eyes wide, his face a little pale, his body moving with the pleasure of obeying his Master, finding Barnabas standing in the middle of the searching candlelight with his eyes still closed, reaching far out into the night with his senses.

He was alone. How sweet, how sweet. 

 

CHAPTER TWO: Master
There was a clarion silence after the sounds of a person coming undone. He felt a profound silence for hours, for days after it. It was a spiritual state, and he did not take it lightly. Willie was also silent as he returned from that place, as he was built up by the strong ego of a submissive, always knowing and trusting that he was well taken care of, that he had been taken there and brought back, cherished and loved with profound admiration, and earning a certain, sacred obligation.

 

 

This is incredible. I'm amazed at the poetry you sing, the scenes as so compelling and detailed, I cannot help but picture them as vividly in my head as if I were there. The bond between them is deep and utterly intimate, in a way only the two of them can unconsciously understand. It's simply astounding. It hits very close to heart in more ways than one, even though I've never met a vampire hahahaha. Thank you for sharing this story with us!
Comment by chelldu on Chapter 4 Wed 26 Dec 2018 - THANK YOU

PHOTO: Promotional still of Barnabas Collins, played by beloved thespian Jonathan Frid, from Dark Shadows (1966-1971). I claim no rights to photos.

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