The Razor’s Edge originally appeared in the Circlet Press anthology Erotica Vampirica back in the early 1990’s, written under my real name—Kymberlyn Reed. This was the first story I’d written after nearly two years of debilitating writer’s block.
I had no idea that vampires and BDSM would eventually become two of the big subgenres of romance. I came from a fantasy background, which is why I submitted the story to a publisher of sci-fi/fantasy/GLBTQ-based erotica. Unlike most publishers back then (way before the rise of Ellora's Cave and other e-book publishers), they had no problem with the story being interracial (though a few of my friends did after they’d read it). Since then I’ve gone and done other things, though I've come back to revamp it (no pun intended). Yes, I know what I’ve said about vampires and that still holds true. My vampire anti-hero is a paean to the dark, classic Nosferatu that I miss.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
“The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it.” Oscar Wilde
The setting, the silken shadowy world of Perilous Gard.
Medieval in tone, velvet tapestries of mythological beasts and of beautiful men and women under their inhuman dominion adorn the fortified stone walls. Grotesque gargoyles gaze sightlessly at the revelers, certain in their power to terrify. Discordant chants and sinful madrigals echo the seductive screams of the blessed.
Those in attendance move as if wraiths; the silks, satins and brocades of exquisite vestments barely making a sound. Voices are low whispers as if amongst the wind. Crystal goblets chime, filled with vintages rare and precious. The food is a delight even for the most discriminating of tastes.
Perilous Gard is the world where love’s possibilities and permutations are endless and the lines between pleasure and pain are non-existent. Those considered Masters and Mistresses of Perilous Gard are highly sought. They are at the very height of their decadence, moral only when it suited their purpose.
Unlike many of their kind who regarded a submissive only in terms of a willing body to be used and discarded at whim, the Dominants here tended to form lasting attachments to their slaves. Many of the slaves at Perilous Gard bore marks of loving ownership, intricate brands, exquisite collars or precious rings. Deep and fierce commitments between the two are certainly not uncommon. There were a few of the more pragmatic souls, who saw the bond as a means of securing total and abject devotion.
The slaves of Perilous Gard were highly trained, pampered, and prized all over the world as the most obedient. They are not picked for beauty alone, for all know well that beauty fades over time. They are striking creatures, no doubt, but are chosen for their intelligence, as well for their capacity to transcend the boundaries of pain.
Sometimes cruel, almost god-like in their demeanor, the Masters and Mistresses of Perilous Gard expect nothing less than total worship.
And, nothing else is given.
***
She is Regine d’Florentaigne—known to all as the Countess Regine. A sobriquet bestowed upon her by those who adore and worship her dark alluring beauty and regal bearing.
Those who know her well and there are but few, for Regine does not take her attachments lightly, that when she enters Perilous Gard, all action, all conversation ceases. She demands and receives obeisance as her just due.
This night, she is dressed in a gown of shimmering crimson velvet, a train of black Valenciennes laces trailing in her wake. A sparkling Victorian garnet cross adorns a slender throat. Beneath the gown, a pair of patent leather boots with six inch heels caresses a pair of voluptuous thighs.
Her short dark hair curled just so beneath her chin with a widow’s peak lending a faintly enchantress-like air is pulled away from flawless ebony skin, emphasizing a seductive and ageless innocence that belies the heart of a skillful whip hand. Full, lush lips are colored a sultry crimson. Dangling from slender fingertips with their perfect half-moon nails, a leather crop, the thin snakelike tongue supple from much use.
Outwardly, Countess Regine epitomizes all that a well-loved Mistress should be—arrogant, proud, and untouchable. She speaks few words, acknowledges her fellow Dominants with a slight incline of her head. Inwardly, she seethes with an unspoken desire.
Yet another night unfulfilled.
***
She sat demurely, sipping upon a cool glass of mint water, regarding her latest toy with something akin to leisurely boredom.
He was a beautiful man, well-muscled and rugged and he lay hunched over, shackled to a padded sawhorse, his athletically taut ass cheeks fire engine red from a good and thorough caning.
Regine could nearly hear his rapidly beating heart, could nearly read his racing thoughts, conjuring up frightful yet arousing images of what she might do to him next. Regine was simply content to let the beverage to bathe her tongue in its crisp sweetness, since it seemed far more interesting to watch him work himself into an unbearable frenzy of excitement. She thought about whipping him until the perfectly smooth skin broke into exquisite crimson lines, but he was on loan from one of the dominants and it was not her place to mark him in such a way.
She considered strapping on a dildo and ramming it hard up his ass, since it was widely known throughout the Gard that the delicious alpha man before her had a taste for anal play, the rougher the better. She did have permission for that but tonight her mind simply wasn't into it.
Setting aside the half-filled glass, Regine sighed wistfully then picked up the bamboo cane and laid fifty artistic strokes upon the bare flesh. She was far from satisfied with this, nor with his expertly theatrical cries for mercy, so she made it fifty more, and made him slowly count each one. By the time the session ended, he was grateful and she was absent.
***
Later that evening Regine sat alone in Perilous Gard’s private salon. She nibbled upon finely crafted tapas while sipping fresh fruit juice. In spite of not being involved in a scene, Regine did not drink alcohol. She nodded politely yet vacantly to the other dominants that came to refresh themselves and to socialize.
The last session had left her cold. Her last full-time slave had ended their contract and though both parties behaved in a civilized manner, it was well-known she’d been unsatisfied, that her mistress’ attentions left little to be desired.
Many at Perilous Gard were aware of Regine’s state of affairs; some had experienced that same sense of disconnect and ennui. However potent Regine’s overwhelming hunger might have been, none would dare to presume to speak of it. If questioned (and few would dare such presumption), she would be unwilling to explain such need. She’d never experienced anything so demanding, a feeling that filled her waking days and dreaming nights.
She desires to be taken far beyond the rubicon of pain, past where it crosses over into pleasure. She has not yet savored the feel of giving up control, of being at the mercy of another’s caprices and after so many years she feels denied, incomplete. She has been dominant for far too long and it no longer excites her. Now The Countess is consumed by the need to belong, heart, mind, body and soul.
She wants to walk on the razor’s edge.