November Red meets her father

The first thing November Red knew was the cold of iron against her wrists.

The second was the silence. It was total, the dead quiet of a room built so that no scream could leave it. She opened her eyes slowly, and the world swam back in shades of crimson and black. Candles guttered in iron sconces along walls of dark stone. Red light bled from fixtures set into the pillars, and it made the whole chamber look like the inside of a wound.

“Where am I?”

Her voice sounded small in the stillness, and she hated it.

She was bound to a great diagonal cross of dark red timber, her arms spread wide and her ankles locked into heavy iron cuffs. It was a saltire, a St. Andrew’s Cross, the kind once used to display the condemned. Chains ran from the cuffs to the wood. Her leather coat was gone, and so were her pistols, her blade and her belt. Someone had stripped her of every weapon she owned and left her with only the red mask on her face and a scrap of red silk that had never been meant to protect anything.

She pulled against the chains with everything she had. Her arms shook and nothing moved. Her strength, the inhuman strength she had trusted all her life, felt like water in her limbs.

“You were drugged.”

The voice came from the shadows beyond the candlelight. It was warm, cultured and amused, with the faintest trace of an accent from a land and a century that no longer existed.

“Someone mixed a special elixir into your drink. It is quite remarkable, really. It weakens the drinker for twenty-four hours and leaves them entirely at the mercy of their captors.” You stepped into the red glow, smiling, whistling a lazy tune under your breath as your eyes traveled over her, slowly and without shame, the way a man looks over something he already owned. “Young girls like you should be more careful about your drinks.”

November’s breath stopped.

She knew that face. She had pursued it through a dozen countries and a hundred cold trails. She had glimpsed it in old photographs and in the testimony of the dying, and she had seen it in her own mirror in the sharp line of her cheekbones. It belonged to a man who looked barely thirty, with a smile that did not belong on anything human.

“You!” she gasped. “It’s you!”

Years of hunting, and every time she thought she was close, every time she thought she had him, he had slipped away like smoke. Now, after all that time, he had simply been waiting for her at the end of the road.

“Hello, daughter,” you said, and the smile widened. “I am truly pleased to see you like this.”

“Don’t call me that!” Her voice cracked on the words. “You’re not my father! You’re the monster who raped my mother and drove her to suicide!”

“I am,” you agreed pleasantly.

There was no shame in it and no hesitation. You said it the way a man confirms the time.

“Though I would not rank it among the hundred worst things I have done. It was a small thing, a diversion. Immortality is tedious, you understand. Five centuries of the same sunsets you will never see, the same faces and the same prayers. Raping a devout nun is a fine way to take the edge off the boredom.” You tilted your head, almost thoughtful. “Your mother was far from the first nun I raped, and she was far from the last.”

“You’re sick!”

November threw her whole weight against the chains, teeth bared, tendons standing out along her arms. The saltire creaked, but the iron held, and the elixir burned in her veins like a chain of its own. She sagged back, panting, and you watched her struggle with the patient interest of a man watching a moth beat against glass.

“And yet,” you said softly, “something good came of it. Did it not? You. You would not exist if I had not done what I did to your mother. You ought to be grateful that the rape happened." You ogled at her body in a way no father should ogle at their daughters. "You grew up to be a fine young woman, with a fantastic body."

The words landed like a blow. For a moment the only sound in the dungeon was her ragged breathing.

November Red pondered your words and, for the first time, realized her situation. Drugged, weakened, and at the mercy of the man who raped her mother. "Stop," she said hoarsely, as you touched her bare skin, caressing her navel, "You can't do this."

"I killed, tortured, burnt down cities and villages, burnt priests and nuns alive, ordered my soldiers to smash babies against the walls, and I did these things so many times that I lost count, and all before I ever became a vampire." You stopped smiling and looked at her in the eye. "Do you honestly think incest is where I would draw the line?"

November Red's anger turned to disgust, then to fear, realizing what you intended to do to her, something that would leave trauma that would never heal. "Don't," she muttered as you reached for her red silk lingerie.

You stopped. "Call me daddy, tell me you are my daughter, and beg me not to do it," you asked, "then I might not do it."

November Red shivered a little. Then she said, her voice breaking almost like a little girl's, "Daddy, I'm your daughter, please don't do this."

You smiled, an almost fatherly smile. "Oh, daughter, you have no idea how happy your words just made me," you then leaned in and whispered in your daughter's ear, "or how fucking hard."

You ripped off her red silk lingerie, to her horror and fear. Then you quickly undressed and did to your daughter what you had done to a thousand women before her. Your cock penetrated your daughter's cunt inch by inch until it was fully inside her, leaving her eyes vacant. "Your father's cock is throbbing inside your pussy. Imprint this in your memory, daughter, and remember this to the last of your days."

You kissed her then, in a way no father was supposed to kiss their daughters, forcing your tongue into her mouth, violating your daughter's mouth with your tongue and saliva, while your cock and precum violated her lower lips; you began thrusting, and with each thrust, the tip of your cock kissed your daughter's womb.

You fondled your daughter's breasts, round and perfect, then kissed her nipples, sucked on them, then bit her breasts. "Ah!" November Red screamed out in pain. "Remember the pain, daughter," you smiled at her, "and also the pleasure, the pleasure of your father's cock filling your cunt. The involuntary, guilty kind of pleasure that you're trying to deny but can't. You feel like you're betraying your mother for feeling good from my cock," You chuckled. "Maybe you are. But trust me, your cunt and your tits are far better than hers were, and I am enjoying raping you far more than I ever enjoyed raping her. I want you to burn this pleasure into your memory, every orgasm you will have from your father's cock." You thrust deeper and deeper into your daughter with every thrust, and soon it was time. "I'm going to cum inside you."

"No!" November Red's eyes went wide open at that. "No!"

"Yes!" You grunted as you felt your daughter's wet pussy walls tighten involuntarily around her father's cock, and you came inside her, as deep into her womb as you could, your hot sperm flowing deep into her. She had her first involuntary orgasm at that moment as well. "Your father's sperm is floating into your womb; never forget this memory, daughter. Both your mind and body are forever marked."

"I'll kill you," November Red muttered, her eyes regaining defiance, her voice filled with pure hatred, "I'll fucking kill you, you bastard."

You laughed, "I'd like to see you try." You whistled, "We are just getting started; we have a whole day ahead of us, and I hope to cum inside your pussy at least a dozen more times." You raped your daughter again and again, for hours and hours, your cock filling her pussy, your semen filling her womb. You cum inside her more than a dozen times, as you promised.

You cupped and caressed your daughter's thick hips, spread her thick thighs, then got between her legs to examine her well-used pussy up close, a line of your sperm dripping out of her. "It would be nice if you got with child from this. Do you know old Zoroastrians considered a child born from a father and a daughter the holiest of births? I would have both a new daughter and granddaughter on the same day. A son and grandson would be less rewarding, but I would be willing to accept that as well."

"I'd rather die than have your baby, you fucking filth," Your daughter spat at you.

You laughed at her petty defiance. "How very unchristian of you, daughter. Has no one ever taught you that abortion is a sin?"

“I hate you,” she whispered, and then louder, a snarl from the bottom of her chest. “I hate you!”

“I know.”

The smile slipped from your face. It did not fade so much as get put away, like a mask set down on a table. What looked out from beneath it was old. Nearly 585 years of hunger and cruelty looked out of your eyes, and for the first time November felt truly afraid.

“The hate you feel for me is the strongest thing you have ever felt, and it is the strongest thing you ever will feel. It is greater than your love for your mother. It is greater than the love you will ever feel for any man. It is greater than the love you would feel for your own child, if you were ever fool enough to have one.” You stepped closer, your voice low and even. “I am the most important person in your life, daughter, and I always will be. I own you.”

“I belong to no one,” she spat.

“You belong to me.” You said it as calmly as a man reciting a fact of nature. “I want you to hunt me forever. I will always be one step ahead, and you will always follow. I will be on your mind when you wake, and I will be on your mind when you sleep. I will be inside you, always, in every thought you have.”

You leaned in until she could feel the chill that came off your skin.

“And if you ever think of stopping, if you ever think of settling down with some man and giving him children and building a quiet little life, then I will come for you. I will kill your husband in front of you. And then I will take whatever child you have borne that was not made from my seed, and I will break it.” Your voice dropped to almost tenderness. “You are mine, daughter. I will never let anyone else have you.”

Then the smile returned, as if it had never left.

You kissed your daughter's cunt, savored the taste, stimulated her clitoris with your tongue, licked her cunt, sucked on her cunt, and kept going until your daughter orgasmed for the last time.

After that, you straightened, smoothed your coat, and turned toward the stairs, whistling the same lazy tune you had begun with. At the door you paused with one hand on the iron.

“The elixir will wear off in a few hours. You have been asleep for most of its duration. When your strength returns, you can find your own way out.” You glanced back over your shoulder. “I’ll see you again, daughter.”

“I will kill you one day.”

November’s voice was hoarse, but there was no tremor in it. It was the voice of someone who had finished weeping long ago and had nothing left but certainty. She raised her head, and her eyes burned through the red mask.

“I will drive a stake through your heart or fill your body with hot, thick silver. I swear it on my mother’s soul.”

For one moment, a single heartbeat in five and a half centuries, you felt a chill that had nothing to do with the dungeon. She was your daughter. You had heard that exact conviction before, in the voices of men who had meant it. For an instant you saw it in her face, and it was frightening.

Then the moment passed, and you smiled again.

“Goodbye for now, daughter.”

The door closed behind you with a soft, final click. You climbed the stairs into the sleeping mansion, whistling in the dark, and wondered idly how long it would take her to begin the hunt again.

Behind you, in the red silence, November Red hung in her chains and did not cry. She stared at the closed door and began, very quietly, to plan.