Friday afternoon, my room turned into a walk-in closet. Every piece of clothing I owned was spread out as I deliberated on exactly what outfit to wear. It was kinda funny to me, but, because everyone usually wore drab colours, the “goth” look was light colours. I realised that after thinking about what Lydia would wear and got stuck remembering her pastel-coloured chokers—usually pink, sometimes blue, depending on if she was wearing burgundy or navy.

And after realising that, I asked Lydia to wear her “gothiest” outfit tonight, to which she smiled a very mysterious and so sexy smile. But that left me putting together something that would go well with soft pinks.

Fortunately, on my shopping trips with Aph, I had bought some stuff that wasn’t entirely steampunk. So I settled on red and white. I mean, red also goes well with vampires.

For my top half, a white, short-sleeved blouse, with a leather corset covered in copper bits on the top—gave my boobs a good lift and really put them out there. Then something special for my bottom half: white tights with a single red garter, just low enough that it matched the hem of my reddish leather miniskirt, flashing it if I, say, bent over. My long boots were a similar leather to the skirt and the highest heels I had, hopefully enough to kiss Lydia comfortably. As for my head, I’d discovered that the eyelets added to hats—maybe originally aesthetic—were now used to “tie” them on, either with hairpins or ribbons. So I had a cute little top hat in white, decorated in copper, with a thin, coppery ribbon going through my bun to keep it on, tied in a neat bow at the front.

It wasn’t super steampunk, but the leather and copper agreed with the white, the red garter a sexy surprise—same for my red lingerie underneath. The final touch was a white choker, for once thankful I wasn’t gothly pale, just enough contrast to make it nice.

I loved contrasts. Not just colours, either—my love for steampunk came from the cloth, metal, and leather combination, each of them so different from each other.

Anyway, I was happy with my outfit. To complement, I went a bit heavy on the rouge and lipstick, eager to add more red, skipping the eyeshadow to balance it out. No skipping mascara and eyeliner, though, and thankfully they were decent, not ash mixed with wax or something stupid.

When I came downstairs, well, Aph said, “Oh my, how talented my daughter is, polishing a gem to a gleam,” and I made such an awkward smile, unprepared for the double-praise. Not that I would have coped better with a single praise from a beautiful woman.

“I can’t make Lydia look bad,” I mumbled.

Aph tittered, the notes like birdsong, then held my shoulders as she took a good look at me. “Most mothers would be rather uncomfortable to hear of their children dabbling, yet this mother is so glad.”

My stance on the mother/daughter stuff that I only brought it up when I found it funny, I said, “It’ll be a small wedding—will you be okay doing the duties of four parents?”

As amused as she was by that, the clearing of a throat behind me made me realise that I hadn’t been listening for the bell, and that Aph was maybe thoroughly amused for a different reason.

“Planning on marriage so soon?” Lydia asked.

I was ready to answer with a flirt, but the words died in my throat, captivated. Instead of the pastel pink I was expecting, she was, well, covered in hot pink and rose gold. A pink leather corset-dress that only covered her front, rose gold eyelets along the sides, apparently tied at the back, with a huge, gauzy cravat covering her cleavage, almost like a neck ruff. While the dress only came down to her thighs, her high boots went past her knees, leaving just a strip of her dark skin between. For her arms, she had matching gloves that ended at her biceps. Instead of a hat, she had a silk scarf sort of wrapped around her hair bun with a bow at the front.

If that wasn’t enough, her lips and eyes looked utterly gorgeous with bright pink lipstick and eyeshadow.

“Fuck me,” I mumbled.

Lydia’s lips drew into a delicious smirk. “After our outing,” she said.

“Shall I not expect her home tonight, then?” Aph asked.

“Nor tomorrow morning if how she is looking at me is any indication of how late this night shall go,” Lydia replied.

I honestly didn’t care they were talking about it like it was a done deal because, well, it was. The only thing I could think of that was sexier than Lydia in those clothes was Lydia out of them. Actually, she could keep the cravat and gloves on.

“Let’s go before I don’t let you go,” I said, taking her hand and dragging her out. Aph’s laughter was our send-off.

The “where” was unspokenly Her. Like last week, it was full of women and maybe some not-women, music blasting, and a drink made it even better. I had money for my own, but Lydia treated me to something sweet. “For when I kiss you in a minute,” she murmured in my ear, hard to decline, and she made good on her promise, soon feeling her tongue trace the edges of my lips for every undrunk drop.

When my senses returned, I pulled her onto the dance floor. We weren’t subtle. Hands low, lips locked, swaying to the music. But I broke away now and then to see who was watching. The bait set, we hooked in a third, danced with her, then set her free. The next third, I gently touched her cheek, watching, my thumb on her lip asking, her smile, her nod, and I kissed her. The ache inside me grew, but we set her free too. The third third, we sandwiched her with kisses, Lydia working along her bare shoulder up to her neck and then ear, her moans tickling my lips. Finally, Lydia leant over her shoulder and I broke away to kiss her, our third feeling up my arse.

We ended up in a bathroom stall, our third’s fingers deep in my cunt while hers was grinding against Lydia’s hand. Fuck, it felt good. Not because she was good, but, fuck—I loved being a slut. I loved knowing how her fingers felt inside me and not a fucking clue what her name was or if I’d ever see her again. And I loved Lydia watching, watching how turned on I was being fucked, loved her fucking our third.

It was something I couldn’t explain to other people, they either understood or didn’t. Sex made me feel sexy, gave me this primal confidence, and I loved the high. And Lydia—she could drag any girl back here, but I was the one she’d drag home. I was hers, she was mine.

Our third’s fingering started to slow, every breath a moan, so I asked her, “You want to be tasted?” Her head tilted, baring her neck. But I smirked and ran a nail from her chin to collarbone, enjoying her shiver. “Beg.”

She stilled for a moment, then said, “Please, taste me.”

I looked past her to Lydia, our eyes meeting. And I saw what I just thought I might see.

The way to Lydia’s flat was a blur of groping and kisses, ending in her bedroom. It was incredibly “goth”, covered in pastel colours, even a pink teddy bear on the desk. But I only had eyes for her right then.

Sat on the end of her bed, I lifted up one leg and said, “Take off my garter.”

The only light came from a coel stone, flickering, her skin glowing with a sheen of sweat. A soft smile warmed her lips, her eyes a little hazy. Watching her kneel down in front of me, my heart pounded, but I needed more.

Her hand reaching out, I tutted, stilling her. “Use your teeth.”

Subtle, I saw her shiver, saw how obediently she listened, putting her hands behind her back. But she was disobedient too, kissing along my leg until her mouth came to the red garter. As she slid it off, it rubbed through the tights, leaving a ticklish trail. The erotic kind of tickle, begging for more of her touch.

The garter still in her mouth, I told her, “Come closer.” She shuffled forward, closer and closer, then I grabbed her cravat and pulled her in for a kiss, leaning down to close the distance. She didn’t dare drop the garter, leaving me to kiss her, my tongue to trace her lips, my teeth to nibble her.

When I finally pulled away, I took the garter from her, tossing it aside.

“Tell me, do you want to eat me out?” I asked.

She nodded, earning a tut from me. Lowering her gaze to my crotch, she said, “Yes, I do.”

“Then you can’t.”

Pulling her head down and adjusting my position, I soon felt her breath on the inside of my thighs, tights thoroughly soaked, but my lingerie kept her breath off my pussy. She naughtily obeyed me, her kisses so close, and I left her to enjoy herself until she nipped me.

I caressed the top of her head and said, “Fuck me.”

She did. I was still horny from the bathroom fingering, enough that feeling her mouth and tongue through two thin layers got me close. Seeing her between my thighs, hearing her suck my juices from the tights, her hands still behind her back.

“Good girl,” I whispered, stroking the back of her hand—and she liked that, nipping my thigh again.

It was still dirty, still physical, but I felt myself falling. The more she teased me, the more I ached to kiss her, hold her, fuck her. And I denied it until I drove myself crazy.

“Kiss me,” I begged.

She didn’t make me wait, my taste on her lips mixed with her spit, messy, messing me up. It wasn’t enough. I kissed her as long as I could hold out, then broke to undo the corset part of her dress. Her tits out, I stroked them with my fingertips, listening to her gorgeous moan slip out, deep and sensual, tickling my ears.

Little by little, I stripped her down to just the cravat, gloves, and thong. And I let her strip me back, coyly asking her what she wanted to take off and then telling her to take off something else, so I ended up in only tights and a hat.

“Lie down,” I told her.

She did. I crawled onto her, needing that skin-to-skin touch. My pounding heart soothed, our kisses turning tender, my hand sliding through her hair, the feel so different, yet wonderful, and her hands appreciated my back, fingers massaging me.

The whole time, my horniness grew, ached. I didn’t know how to touch a woman for so long without fucking her. Something my old one-night-stands and flings didn’t know, the desperate need to please, to be needed, to see the desperate look in their eyes as they begged me.

Pulling back, I stroked the side of her face and softly said, “I want to fuck you.”

She held my cheek. “Please.”

Kissing her, I slid a hand down to her thong and slipped under. Even without looking, I knew, told her, “Your pussy’s gorgeous.”

She tried to laugh, but my tender strokes turned it into a moan.

Moving my kisses to her cheek, I said, “You’re beautiful.”

Her shuddery breath brushed my ear, nails dug into my back, just enough to hurt—how I liked it. As wet as she already was, I worked her slowly, covering the side of her face in kisses, burying her ear in praises.

“You’re such a good girl,” I whispered.

She definitely liked hearing that again, nipping my ear.

Despite telling me she was intersex, I couldn’t really feel anything unusual about her pussy, maybe her clit kind of big, and it seemed like she only had inner lips. And she did have a vagina, my fingers swirling around her entrance.

“Tell me,” I whispered, knowing she knew.

She knew. “Please, I need your fingers inside me,” she whispered.

I teased her into frustration, then worked out her frustrations, loving how she writhed under me, how she moaned, how she stared at me with teary eyes, pouting, looking so bullied—and how she loved being bullied.

I loved her sexually, both giving and receiving, our every intimate touch making me hot and tense, building to the orgasm I’d denied myself since the nightclub. I loved her sensually, from her fashion and body to the smell of her sweat to the softness of her lips when we kissed, feeling high from how entangled we were. I loved her as a friend, seeing her smile and hearing her laugh and sharing my poetry with her, so comfortable in her company.

And now I was loving her romantically, finding so much peace in our intimacy, barely moving, yet my heart pounded, sang. This feeling of togetherness that went beyond sex, of closeness, filled with a need to cherish her.

“I’m close,” she mumbled.

I wanted to tease her more, draw out our game all night long, show her just how fucking good I was after all my practice. Instead, I kissed her again, softly, then stared into her eyes. “You’ve been a good girl, so you can cum.”

And she did, pulling me down to her and holding me tight, legs wrapped around me, her breathy shudders tickling my ear.

“Good girl,” I whispered, over and over, gently working my fingers in and out of her pulsing pussy.

Long after her tremors stopped, we stayed like that, just that I stopped fingering her and moved to gently rubbing her through her thong. Eventually, she spoke up.

“That was the best orgasm I have had in a long time, perhaps ever,” she whispered, mouth right by my ear.

“Do you have many?” I asked lightly.

“Usually, I… finish myself after a tasting,” she said.

Tutting, I gave her pussy a light spank, enjoying how she tensed. “What a dirty girl.”

She knew how to play this game. “I’m a very dirty girl,” she whispered, her voice deeper, richer.

Nothing about her was what I’d expected from a vampire, but, well, she was still absolutely loveable, and love her I did.

mialbowy

This marks the end of the arc! I had fun writing more flirty characters and coming up with outfits (hopefully they make sense, I tried not to over-describe). This also marks the end of the series for the time being as I want to work on novel/las for a while.

If you like my writing and want to read more by me, I have a ton of stuff on my subreddit and a couple of long stories on RoyalRoad. Or if you like to beta read, I nearly always have a lesbian romance story I’m working on, so send me a message if that’s something you’d like.

Anyway, I’ve been me, you’ve been you, thanks for reading.