Applying and Arriving

You've never been a particularly insecure person, beyond childhood. You considered yourself decently handsome, and did well enough romantically, despite, or maybe owing to, being a born vampire. That said, you couldn't help but feel a little tense after completing 'The Bleeding Rose' online application form to become a client.

In retrospect, your answers seemed somewhat relatively vanilla. You'd clearly outlined your open-minded attitude towards new fetishes and the like, but didn't express any particulars that might've helped you stand out, nor did you have any great experience in any, your past girlfriends being frankly basic, rarely even indulging your thirst out of fear, and forcing you to mostly make due with frozen blood packs.

Your anxiety proved unfounded however, when a day and a half later, you received a letter from the establishment; a purposefully yellowed letter, written in black cursive ink, accepting your application, and inviting you to enjoy their services whenever you pleased, 24/7. You got an email confirming this a little later, making the extravagant flourish of the letter redundant.

Giddy with excitement, you dressed in a formal white button shirt, business pants, black formal blazer and shiny dark leather shoes, before driving down the same night, parking in the dedicated car park, just in front of black iron gates leading up to the tall Victorian manor that loomed eerily in the night sky, it's many windows lit with dim, flickering firelight.

You click on the gate's little buzzer, hearing a quiet, shrill tone, before speaker came to life with static, then a pleasant, chirpy woman's voice.

"Good evening. Name, please?"

You give your name, and after a moment of silence, you hear a low beep, and the gates slowly swing open. You head down the cobbled path cutting through the Bordello's lush, neatly maintained garden, lit by the gentle amber light of the lamps running alongside it. You pass a couple of pleased looking men and women, most giving a polite smile and nod as you pass, before entering the propped open double oak doors and into the foyuer.

The interior is as grandiose as it's online photos implied, with glistening white marble tiled floors, tall arched doorways, deep crimson walls, decorated with aged landscapes and ornate silver sconces. At the end of the foyuer is railed staircase, with men and women going up and down, some together, some giggling and flirting, other's alone, still fiddling with undone buttons and disheveled hair, or blood staining their lips and collars.