After the Assault on Castle Vesh, Ravinical promised Rutt that her indestructible vampire vagina could offer him an experience he had never known; An ongoing, consensual, sexual relationship.

He bade her come to the Levers’ farm three nights hence.

That night has come at last.

It is three nights hence.

The Heterosexual Vampiress patted her pussy.

"You shall go to the ball," she told it. 

It was her big night. Her cunt's big night. Her occasion. Pussy prom. 

Five long years without dick. Without any dick except for that one embarrassing rape by an ordinary bat, and she preferred not to think about that. Being raped was kind of okay, she guessed, but it made it weird when it was by a small winged rodent. And anyway, was it even really her pussy that had been plundered that time? Given that she had been in bat form herself? One for the philosophers. 

Five long years, and now Ravinical Vesh was finally about to put her unambiguous body to the purpose she unambiguously believed it was most suited. She was about to fill her hole. She was about to be a hole. She was about to feel whole.

It was three nights hence, and Ravinical Vesh was ready to spread her undead legs and take a pounding from the Minotaur's sublime dingus. A pounding no mortal bitch could survive, but that the vampire's preternatural cooze was more than ready to receive.

She wondered what to wear.

He had bade her meet within the barn of the old Lever farm, there to fuck like base degraded beasts amidst the straw. Hot as fuck. Her minge was dripping already. They would be dirty animals on the dirty ground, creatures of raw filth and passion. But how to approach the barn? She could just fly there as a bat. She could get a skeletal coachman to drive her. Those were both options.

But it felt more dramatic to Ravinical to walk. To move deliberately step by step from the castle, down the mountain, through the village, to the farm. Bringing purpose and meaning to each footfall. To treat the distance between her bedchamber and the barn as the aisle of a church. This approach would be her true wedding march. This was the journey she would take to give herself to cock. To marry her body and soul to throbbing, pumping manly meat in a way she had never truly felt married to her fruity husband.

Ravinical knew that the feeling of uselessness, tedium, rejection and redundancy she had felt as the show bride of a gay aristocrat would be vanish as soon as the Minotaur slammed his stinking soiled shaft into her cunt. Marriage is nothing in itself. Marriage is nothing but a metaphor. A metaphor for the union of dick and pussy. Ravinical would be the bride of cock. She would transcend metaphor and become the actual. Her flesh would be a receptacle for the strong and vital flesh of the male. She would be realised in that conjoinment of flesh. Her snatch would be violated by his power and will and, in that moment, she would be her truest self. The separated and fragmented understanding of the body would collapse. She was made of meat, and all the cuts of meat that made her would feel united as a singular part of the warm, wet, bleeding well between her legs. The butcher's dotted lines would fall from the chart. She would be a true bride. She would be her true self. She would be a cunt. She would would be the true and truest woman. She would be a hole.

But still she wondered what to wear. 

She would walk alone from the Castle to the Barn. From the High to the Low. From the seat of Nobility to the dwelling of the Abased. 

But in what garb? This profane procession was sacred. What were to be her vestments?  

Most of her clothes now, after five generous Christmases as a Vesh, were the kind of things she liked; Lacey, thotty, gothic extravagances. Non-Euclidian nightmares of stitching and underwiring that burlesqued the flesh they restrained into a quivering theatrical elevation of tortured, feminine mannerism.    

That was who she was. She had found the clothes that expressed that. Ravinical was a grandiose and lavish big-titty dumb goth whore and she dressed the part each day. There would be an honour and a dignity in walking to the barn in her regular get-up. In facing her destiny as who she knew and understood herself to be; A grandiose and lavish big-titty dumb goth whore. Extra and absurd. Straps and seams and clasps and cups. Ravinical Vesh.

However what there would not be, in dressing in her usual clothes, would be any act of surrender.

Her journey to the Minotaur's phallus was a journey to give herself, not to assert herself. The path she would walk was not to say "This is me" but to say "There is no me. I am empty. I am woman. I am a hole. Fill me. Fill me with cock. Fill me with cum." 

So she should go nude, right?

She should walk shamelessly past the gawping villagers in a state of complete exposure. Her 42H udders swaying free, her eager cunny frothing down her thighs, and her hair untied. The evening air alone enfolding her pale, deathless flesh. 

This made sense on paper. But not in the context of Ravinical's own life.

Life in the castle was mostly conducted in the nude. Nudity was normalised and ordinary when you lived with two narcoholic erotomaniacs and a nobleman. Most days she'd see the Burgrave nude, Laura nude, Evangelina nude, and whichever babies they were eating nude.   

There was nothing special about nudity for Ravinical Vesh.

And this should be a special occasion.

So, she thought, I guess my wedding dress?

That kind of worked. That was almost there. Almost right. 

This was her true wedding. Her escape from the torpid LGBTQ+ netherworld in which she'd accidentally trapped herself, and her coming into what she held to be the true estate of marriage. The transcendent union of todger and quim. She was gonna get fucking RAILED. Surely she should be wearing her wedding dress while it happened. She could redeem the garment. Give it a second shot at fulfilling its purpose. 

But there was something kind of weird about that, yeah?

This had been the dress she wore to marry the Burgrave. 

The dress unavoidably brought him into the symbology. Into the conversation.

The dress would make her fucking Rutt into something that was about cucking Chevoy, and it wasn't about that at all.

The dress would make this new union all about rejecting the queer vampires' lives rather than about speaking her own straight truth. That's not how she wanted it. That's not how she wanted it at all.

Ravinical laid the wedding dress out on her bed.

Ravinical laid her fancy gothic slutwear our next to it.

Rainical laid her naked body out before her mind's eye.

All three were right. All three were wrong.

"Then this is it what it is, and this is what it is to be," the heterosexual said.

She took a scissors. She took a needle. She took thread. 

Working with savage rigour and inspired vision, she cut like a magician and stitched like a poet. Her dress and her lingerie were cannibalised, processed and hybridised. Her identity, her female need to abrogate that identity, and her history itself were slaughtered and rebirthed into an outfit that sung bitterly of them all.

Ravinical donned what she had made.

In the mirror, her own vampiric flesh was invisible to her, but the chaotic, ragged outfit she had fashioned was reflected as a holy vision. She knew it fit perfectly.

Silently, she drifted from the castle in this bizarre assemblage of scraps of wedding dress and fragments of suspenders and corsetry.

One titty cupped and raised. One titty loose and free. Her pussy on full display. Her face hidden beneath a veil. Her pussy was her true face now.

Ravinical Vesh headed to the barn, looking like everything that she was in her heart.

She looked like a bride. She looked like a whore. She looked like a cunt.