by Syra Bond
Title Page
HEART IN A BOX
By
Syra Bond
Publisher Information
Heart in a Box
Published in 2013 by Silver Moon Limited
Digital Conversion by Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Copyright © Syra Bond
The right of Syra Bond to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.
PREFACE
Sometimes, it feels as though I have spent my whole life in captivity, or slavery, or under the control of another in some way. And there has been so much pain, and suffering, and fear. I shiver when I think of it. I have been taken to the limits in so many ways - so many different punishments, so much hurt - but, even as I have screamed and yelled that I could take no more, I have been filled with the urgency of my own pleasure. The pain itself brings something with it that is uncontrollable - its own delight, yes, but also the promise of joy so ultimate that beyond it there is nothing. It is this terrible need that stalks me. When I am being whipped or spanked, when my flesh is stinging from mistreatment, or I am gasping with the terror of being overfilled, or quenching my thirst with semen. When I am subjected to any of these things within me there is always a growing scent of pleasure. Yes, it’s like something I can smell - a perfume, an aroma that eventually overtakes me, sucks up my suffering, converts it into something beyond pain, and brings me to extremes of ecstasy that leave me gasping for breath in another world. Yes, it is exactly like that, it is as if I transcend all of this world and am transported to another. I am addicted to it and the means by which I can find it - addicted to this beautiful suffering because it is only when I suffer that my transcendence can be complete. Yes, suffering is my pathway to guaranteed pleasure. No matter how much I have suffered it has always led me to the heavenly delights. This has been both my downfall and my only desire; my descent into the horrors of suffering has always been accompanied by my ascent to rapture.
When finally I escaped from Father Dawson - the harshest and cruellest of my captors - I thought my life would change, that at last I could free myself of the need for pain. I thought that I could find pleasure like others, from simple satisfaction, contact, and excitement. But I was mistaken. Even from the dead he brought me almost unbearable torture and with it came again the excruciation of overwhelming joy. And this time there was another, more terrible legacy. His own evil spawned something worse even that his joy of the infliction of pain and suffering. He found that within me was the germ of a terrible bloodlust. I was unaffected by the infection within me but ingestion of my blood brought a horrifying change in others - each lost their human life in exchange for the dark consuming life of a vampire. My blood condemned them to an existence focused only on lusting for blood and flesh. And from me they also took my appetite for joy through pain. Their life, a combination of the pleasures of pain and joy with the insatiable need for the drinking of hot blood was what they owed to me.
The legacy of Father Dawson’s cruelty in his followers brought me into their fold - I too became infected with my own germ, but the sacrifice of another led me to be saved. But it was not a complete cure. I still carry the germ. I have delighted in the pleasures of blood myself and it will not leave me - the draw of it is too strong. Even though an antidote now runs in my veins, it is accompanied by a latent desire for the taste of blood of which I cannot rid myself. I can control it sometimes, but it is a battle. Whenever pain overtakes me, and my ecstasy erupts, so does the desire to sink my teeth into the flesh of another, the need to taste the hot ambrosia that runs within them, to drink it, to refresh myself with it, to nourish myself with it. No, I am not cured - the infection is only kept at bay, and barely at that.
And those that have been infected by my spore pursue me. They are a flock, a rabble of lost souls in need of a focus. In the absence of Father Dawson, they want to be close to their progenitor - and that is me. Their need is no respecter of my wishes. I do not know if I can escape them, but for my own safety I must try. Nor do I know if I can suppress my own needs - but for my own sanity that too I must try.
Syra Bond
Bratisalava
2009
ESCAPE!
They didn’t believe my story to start with. The fact that I was there standing in the office of the Bayview District Police Station convinced them I wasn’t dead, and that was a start, but that I was actually me - that was a different matter. They’d actually got my passport there - God knows how - but they didn’t plan on handing it over just like that. They had lots of forms - and they all had to be filled in correctly! This was San Francisco, U.S.A. - not a place for inexactitude!
It was already dark. The fluorescent lights inside the station were dim but harsh. Multicoloured window blinds at all the windows were pulled down.
‘This is the S.F.P.D ma’am,’ said the sergeant. ‘And we’ve got regulations.’ He hitched up his black leather belt and held the grip of the heavy black revolver that was squeezed tightly into the shiny holster at his hip. ‘Where would we be without them? That’s right isn’t it officers?’ He nodded to two young police officers seated behind him in front of computer screens. They nodded back enthusiastically. One was a beautiful young woman in shorts with long hair. A shimmering weight of velvet black curls hung about her pale, smooth skinned, and wide mouthed face. As she turned and removed her sunglasses, her luscious mane moved in a slow wave. It shone in the harsh fluorescent light - abundant, glorious, mesmerising - like the Pacific swell on a warm starlit night, catching the phosphorescent light beneath the skin thin surface in magical glistening sparks. The man smiled thinly. He looked ashen. He pushed his hand down the front of his trousers, hitched up his weighty cock and smiled again.
Three hours later I was still there, standing at the high, bar-like desk trying to fit the right answers into the appropriate boxes. Every time I made a mistake they made me start again with a fresh form.
The beautiful woman smiled at me. Her white teeth shone. The sight of them thrilled me. She turned back to her work and threw her mass of hair back onto her shoulders. There was no insignia of rank on her blue shirt; its buttons strained against her tightly pulled breasts. She looked so young and inexperienced. I leant forward and read the motto on her shoulder patch: “Oro en paz, fierro en guerra” - “Gold in peace, iron in war”. She smiled again and this time her smooth pale cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Her teeth were truly beautiful - even, large, the canines slightly proud of the general line both top and bottom, and all perfectly white.
My head was aching - it was hot and one of the fluorescent lights was flickering. I took a conical paper cup and filled it from the iced water machine. I was thirsty and tipped it too fast against my lips. It sloshed out, dribbled down my chin and dripped all down the front of my thin white shirt. I looked down. I could see right through it! My nipples were hard and poking up against the translucent material. I felt them aching - deep and penetrating. The wet material clung to them and drew out a profound painful yearning from within my breasts. I wanted to touch them, squeeze them, pinch them. I coughed and held my hand to my mouth just so that I could rub my forearm across them. They tingled at the contact and I breathed in deeply to try and ease it. But I didn’t want to ease it. I did it again but only quick
ly and the briefness of my touch only increased my frustration. The aching went even deeper - right down into my hips.
I could feel the male police officer’s leering eyes on me as I walked back to the desk. I know my cheeks were red. I asked for a fresh pen and carried on working with the forms. As I wrote my answer to the heading “Next of Kin” I couldn’t stop myself imagining going again to the drinks machine and spilling some more water, this time on purpose, over each of my breasts. I could almost feel the cool water wetting my shirt and sucking my nipples against it. I squeezed the tops of my thighs together as the yearning ache went again into my hips. I felt my cheeks reddening again as I pictured my embarrassment, this time not only because I could not disguise my hard nipples pressing through the wet material, but because I had done it on purpose. Surely they would be able to guess!
About an hour later - and after starting another form because I got mixed up over how long I had been in the US - a tall man wearing heavy sunglasses and a dark suit walked lazily through the double doors. He had a muscular build and his face was tanned.
‘FBI,’ he said flashing a card and pushing it back quickly into the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘You have a Syra Bond here. I need to talk to her.’
Hearing my name like that was a shock. A wave of nervousness spread into my stomach; it was as if I had done something wrong and should feel guilty.
The sergeant looked up from behind the desk. He nodded towards me.
‘Yes sir, we sure do. That’s her. Still having trouble with our forms, I think. But, as I say, where would we be without them? You can use our interview room.’
It was a tiny room, just two hard backed chairs, a small square table between them set beneath another flickering fluorescent tube that hung on rusty chains above it.
With a wave of his hand the man told me to sit down. I was glad to get off my feet.
He stared at my prominent nipples, pressing hard against the still wet material of my shirt - two dark pink circles with a delectable hard centre. I drew my thighs together and felt their pressure on the soft flesh of my cunt. I felt flustered under his penetrating gaze. I checked the buttons on my shirt - just to distract myself and escape his hard stare. My face reddened with embarrassment and I licked my dry lips. I felt guilty in his presence - it was as if I was awaiting punishment for a crime I did not know I had committed.
‘I think you know why I’m here, Syra.’
‘No ... no, I don’t,’ I said nervously, still looking down and fiddling with the buttons of my shirt. ‘Unless ... unless it’s about Father Dawson? Is it about him? Is it about Father Dawson?’
‘Father Dawson is dead, Syra. You know that, of course. But he wanted you to stay at Pacific Heights. It was his wish. Pacific Heights is your rightful place. He would have been very troubled to know you had left. Syra, you need to go back.’
I couldn’t believe what he was saying. I had only just got away! I had been locked up there for I don’t know how long - tortured, treated as a captive, bitten by insane people lusting for blood! He couldn’t really be suggesting I should go back!
I went into a fidgeting panic. I wanted to run.
‘No, no, I couldn’t. I just couldn’t! It’s ridiculous! You can’t imagine what I suffered there. No, no, I couldn’t go back. It’s impossible!’
My hands were shaking.
He removed his sunglasses, smiled condescendingly and sat on the table. He spread his legs wide, reached over and laid his hand on my shoulder. There was a thick pallid band of skin around his neck - even paler than his face - as though he had been wearing a tight collar since birth. As he turned - halfway between his ear and the whitish ring that encircled his throat - I saw two red blotched punctures in the skin of his neck. I went cold and pulled back but he grabbed the collar of my shirt and held me fast. The material yanked up against my nipples. The yearning ache came again between my hips. I drew in breath sharply.
My panic made me angry.
‘How do you know I’m from Pacific Heights anyway?’ I said struggling to get away from his grip. ‘What’s this all about? How did you find me here?’
I tried to pull his hand away but he tightened his hold on my shirt and twisted it up in his clenched fingers.
I choked and coughed.
‘Syra, you must return. It is your rightful place, to be amongst the flock. They are part of you and you must be with them. They owe their new life to you. They need you. They depend on you.’
I felt suddenly stupid! I realised what was happening! He was one of them! He was one of Father Dawson’s flock! Of course! He was one of the blood suckers from Pacific Heights and he had been sent to bring me back! The thought of it made me dizzy. My heart was thumping madly in my chest. The veins in my neck were throbbing. Suddenly, I thought of my blood being forced through my arteries under pressure, the idea of it returning from all parts of my body, along my veins, to my lungs, filled me with a surge of excitement. I couldn’t suppress it. I felt giddy with confusion.
‘You’re one of them! You’ve come to take me back!’ I screeched still struggling to break his grip. ‘You’re one of them!’
He grinned. His pointed canine teeth glinted in the harsh fluorescent light. He rubbed the puncture marks in his neck. It was as if massaging them gave him pleasure, as if either the feeling of pressure against them, or just the touch of his caressing fingers opened up again the pleasurable memory of when he had received them. I imagined opening up the wounds afresh, pressing my hollow canine teeth into the rounded holes, sucking, finding the strongest flow, slurping at the nectar, feeding on it. I couldn’t keep my thoughts back. My mind was in turmoil.
I still wanted to run though. I knew that. Even as images of blood filled my mind, I still knew that. Yes, at least that made sense. Whatever my other desires were, they were still overpowered by my need to escape.
Pulling against his grip on my shirt, I turned to the door. I wondered if I could run to it and get away. My heart was pounding louder and louder - its thumping filled my giddy head. I could not compel myself to move. He gripped my shirt tighter. I choked again. It pulled harder against my nipples. Angrily, he snatched at it. It twisted around my left nipple, pinched it tightly and pulled it painfully. I shrieked.
The door opened. The sergeant and the two other police officers came in. I expected them to rush over and drag me from this man’s clutches but instead they just wandered over nonchalantly.
‘Not having trouble, I hope? There are a couple of problems with these forms.’
They completely ignored the fact that I was screaming and struggling against this man who had my shirt wound up viciously around my neck.
The sergeant held out the papers. The ‘FBI’ man scowled and dragged me angrily to my feet.
‘I don’t think we need worry too much about the forms, sergeant. This interview is at an end. She’s coming with me.’
He yanked at my arm, pinched his fingers into my skin and dug them deep.
I looked at the beautiful woman in shorts. She tossed her mane of hair back and smiled. Her teeth captivated me. I pulled myself towards her.
‘Please, can you help me? Please, he’s not who he says he is.’
‘She’s a fugitive,’ said my captor pushing past the beautiful woman. ‘They’ve always got a tale. I’m pleased you managed to find her; and new to the job too by the looks of it. I am very grateful, sergeant. Good work.’
‘Always willing to help,’ said the sergeant. I tried to break free. The sergeant jumped back. ‘She really is a minx!’
I struggled against the ‘FBI’ man’s grip as he dragged me towards the door. I stumbled but he held my full weight by the shirt and pulled me along bodily. I choked and thought I was going to vomit.
‘Here, let us help.’ The sergeant stepped forward. ‘Least we can do.’
He told the two officers to grab my legs. They lifted me off the ground. I struggled and fought against them. I twisted and threw myself from side to side. I couldn’t believe what was happening. It was terrifying.
‘On here! Put her on here!’
They carried me to the table and pushed me down backwards onto it.
I thrashed my legs and caught the backs of my calves on the edge of the table. I shouted out in pain.
The female officer pressed herself down onto me to try and hold me fast. Her long black hair fell across my face. It smelled sweet and clean. It lay across my skin like a silk cloth. I inhaled it deeply. She pressed down harder. I felt her breasts against mine. I knew she could feel mine too. I saw her neck. I reached my mouth up towards it. I placed my lips against her skin. It was smooth and firm. I could not resist the urge. I opened my mouth and ran the edges of my teeth against her skin. The contact thrilled me. It ran through my whole body in a massive wave. I lifted myself involuntarily. I felt her pressing down harder on me to hold me in place. The confinement, the inability to move, the lack of physical freedom, all conspired to excite me with another wave of joy.
I opened my mouth wider. I increased the pressure against her skin. I felt the throbbing artery - I saw it in my mind, pulsating with crimson blood, fresh from her heart, filled with oxygen, with life itself.
They held me down firmly. The beautiful woman pulled herself back; her hair swished across my face like a gentle whip. It caught the tip of my tongue and stung it. I pulled it into my mouth. The next thing I knew I had been turned over and thrown onto my front.
I gasped for air as I felt the weight of the beautiful woman against my back. It must have been her companion who was holding my legs - I couldn’t move them at all. The sergeant was strutting around me dangling his shiny chromium handcuffs in his hands. He bent down, rattled them in my face and grinned
