Her Vampire Knight
Ines Johnson
Midnight Romance
Copyright © February 2021 by Ines Johnson and Midnight Romance, LLC
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writers’ imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction of this work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
All rights reserved. With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the authors.
This book contains descriptions of many BDSM and sexual practices, but this is a work of fiction and, as such, should not be used in any way as a guide. The author and publisher will not be responsible for any loss, harm, injury, or death resulting from use of the information contained within. In other words, don’t try this at home, folks!
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
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Chapter 1
Virius
I shiver as I run barefoot down the streets. My nostrils fill with the foul stench of refuse, both human and animal. But the smell makes my empty stomach grumble. It hasn’t been filled in days. I don’t let that stop me as I move through the carts and the people.
Pushing my body harder, I run down the footpaths. I leap taller than I am as I hop over a newly installed drainage ditch. Once, I would have marveled at the new age invention, but there is no time. I skirt a bridlepath, narrowly avoiding horse hooves.
Finally, I reach the door. The sounds of laughter barely mute the sound of squeals and grunts. I have only been alive for ten years, maybe less. No one paid me enough attention to keep track since my birth, and I hadn’t learned my numbers until long after I’d learned to run. But even then I’d learned to keep my mouth shut. Any sums I kept, I kept in my head.
I stayed quiet with the butcher who cheated Lena Marcella. Neither truth nor a lie would have done me any good. Either a strapping would come from the butcher when the lena’s back was turned, or the lena would lash me if the madame of the house thought I’d stolen from her. I knew I couldn’t win, so I kept silent and simply dealt with whatever punishments came.
It was all I could do. Slaves had no rights, no say in their own lives, or what their masters and mistresses did with their flesh.
“No, sir. Please, wait.”
The squealing maiden is playing coy. I know because of the breathlessness in her voice and the fact that she’s not running away from the large, out of shape male. His pockets are thick, and so she will stay and pretend to resist, as many of the rich men of Rome like. Others prefer for the women to seduce them so that they can deny their baser leanings and blame it on the puellas they’ve come to patronize.
This trick is especially used when the men come seeking out other males. Men enjoying the touch of others of their sex isn’t so much as frowned upon in the streets of Rome as it is simply not discussed.
I pass by rooms where men pummel into women from behind. I peek into another where a woman has her head buried between a rich matron’s thighs as the gray-haired, married woman trembles with delight. In another room, a man and a woman service a praetor. That particular magister runs his hands through the female puella’s hair but his gaze is locked on the male’s bare member.
I finally reach the scene I ran all the way for. A large male has a woman cornered in an empty room. There is no bed here upon which to do one’s business. The customer is fully clothed, unlike the other patrons of the establishment. But the puella’s back is bare. Her skin is blood red from the flailing of his instrument.
“Please,” she begs.
Her voice isn’t breathless in calculation or desire. She fights for breath with each word she is able to utter as the lash slices into her pale skin. The man digs his meaty paws into her blonde braids and yanks her head back.
“Please,” she whimpers, barely audible as her neck strains and her wounds pulse.
There is no fight in her. She knows better. Though she doesn’t want this, she has no choice. She is a slave. This man has paid for her time, to do with her as he wishes.
It isn’t rape even though she says no. Slaves can’t say no to the use of their bodies. The only person she could report this ill-use to is the madame. Lena Marcella would bother to take the matter to court if her property was damaged beyond repair. Which may be why the brute Felix keeps his lashing to the slave’s back and not the place where her thighs split. Bright dots of red blood stain his alabaster skin.
I’d heard that Felix the albino was coming to the brothel. The man’s name, along with his unnaturally pale skin, strikes horror into the hearts of anyone who sees him. He has been in town for a month and everyone in the brothels know of his name, his features, and his proclivities.
The albino has never ventured this far from the center of town. Not many come to this brothel on the outskirts. Vera is the prettiest meretrix in the establishment. When I heard Felix was coming in this direction, I knew he would
