Three hours 'fore dawn,|
(When brooding night still deftly swathes faerytale Transylvania)
The belfry vomits forth a sinisterly silent surge of bats,
Fleeing for darker dominions as the chimes toll the unhallowed hour -
The hour chosen for her by the forest witch.
Spawned beneath the austere institutions of her forebearers,
She dwelled as a child in court; a cruel, bejeweled doll -
(The figurehead of her age, in a pious society laced with the hidden tinges of malice)
Her garnet lips murmured prayer faithfully by night,
And her distinguished presence at Sunday services as well noted.
To the constant chorus of applause, she graced the cathedral,
(Often stomping on the delicate feet of her ladies-in-waiting, for pleasure)
Smiling regally at her subjects, sapphire Persian cat eyes glazed with the thin haze of boredom.
Her young, bedazzled suitors smothered her with pomp and pretentiousness;
Thus she learned the subtle female art of seduction and material suction,
Carelessly discarding princes as peasants, and wearing their jewels as afterthoughts.
Yet when she tired (so easily) of prostrate suitors, their "God", and her subjects (Weren't they all?),
Her chief delight turned to her cold, polished looking glasses,
So exacting in their perception of human nature.
For hours, she gazed upon her budding beauty;
The milk-white, preternatural sheen of her skin;
The venomous, fatal gleam of her cerulean eyes;
Her pouting red mouth, so cruel with the corners turned up.
On the canvas of her lily skin, pain became art;
A masterpiece in watercolors of bruised purple and green.
Often, she painted her women the same for their petty misdeeds,
Giggling girlishly, yet aged beyond her measure, as they squirmed and cried.
Rife were the lusts and dark dealings in the castle; a hedonistic Erebus
Where screams and sighs skirted the same razor's edge.
She knew - Ah, she had seen - the maidens, so meek,
Danced in Black Rites on moonless nights;
And so many moons passed; Fate's die had been cast,
Until she, now a Countess, was a child no longer,
And her wolven desires had matured as well.
This lady of night, from her tower stirring,
Glides noiselessly down her spiral staircase,
Spectral shafts of moonlight mingling with her virginal white gown,
Down into the black bowels of the castle, where her company awaits
In a chamber drenched with despair, and so primed for pleasure.
The air is thickened with heat and fear, pulses quickened by delights to come.
A palpitating crescendo of shrieks soon ices the chamber walls,
Rising to a delectable peak at the opening of the obsidian door.
Between the nameless, stone-eyed accomplices writhes a lovely young girl,
Cherubic blue eyes darting madly with fear,
Desperate cries heaving from pallid, pink lips;
A bride to death.
(Ah, how she looks like the others so.)
The nocturnal lady sneers at the child's pleas,
Raising an ebon-taloned hand to strike her into silence.
A sharp, stunned gasp slits the air,
A trinity of crimson gashes marring the girl's angelic cheek.
The Heaven-born one quivers in terror, as the demon greedily laps the sweet sin from the creamy skin
(For the Blood is the Life...)
With a haughty twirl, the mistress retreats from her victim,
Motioning dreadfully to her attendants to commence their work:
Clawed hands viciously ripping at the tender girl,
Stripping her of her meager clothing and tearing at her chestnut hair.
The Countess glares at her sobbing victim, whose screams have turned to babbling prayer;
"Little slut!", she shouts, halting short the plea to God,
"Is that what your idiot village priest commanded of you? Whore!"
A sharpened, silver pin gleams in the hand of an attendant;
The Countess furiously snatches the pin away and swiftly pierces the girl's poor lips together.
A fresh scream slits the heated air, tearing the pin free;
Disgused, the feral mistress deviates to one side of the room, and begins to pace in sadistic thought,
Her servants drag the struggling, screaming virgin to the entrance of a monstrous iron cage,
Whose dark, cavernous mouth yawns open to swallow the girl in its spiked maws.
Another hooded woman approaches, clutching an enormous, red-hot poker,
Urging the girl into the cage, the entire room trembling with animalistic frenzy.
The succubus paces faster, eyes wide, hands wringing in anticipation,
Low, caramel-rich laughter slowly erupting from her chest.
The iron cage slams shut, the screams within growing tiresome and dull;
Rusted gears groan, slick, greased ropes slipping in agony,
Hoising the infernal cage upwards to the shadowed ceiling.
Spikes glitter around the small, bare feet of the violently sobbing, screaming girl;
At the apex of its abominable ascent, the cage begins to sway, rocking from side to side,
Flinging the trapped girl against the virulent points;
Horrifying screams tear from the cage,
The fading star within never so bright as in death;
A crimson shower rains down to the chamber floor,
Turning the Black Countess' innocent white gown a dark, venomous red,
Thus wrenching a cry of supreme pleasure from her now-moistened, succulent lips.
The cage continues to oscillate, building speed, the screams within rising,
Lacing the air with their agonized timbre, above the jabbing arc of spurting blood.
One final shriek from the dying swan penetrates the entire castle,
Sending ravens assailing doves soaring skyward from darkened eaves,
Rallying wolf howls in a chorus of the damned,
Bringing the Countess to violent rapture; writhing, blood-drenched, she screams,
"More, ever more; harder, harder!"