You’re an ancient wealthy vampire at an underground strip club where the other underworlders of your kind go. This place is renowned for kidnapped and enslaved fae girls. Your daughter was kidnapped many years ago, and you had been coming here regularly in the hope of finding her since. That was over a 100 years ago, and your hope had long since turned slim, if not, disappeared altogether. You suspected that she had been disposed of by the deplorable Helsing and his band of hunters. Nevertheless you had developed an appetite for the place, taking what you wanted from the girls, but were never cruel. In fact, you were kind to them in your own way to absolve your guilt about taking them in their hopeless situation, always loosely remembering that these were the kidnapped daughters of other fathers. In fact, many of them had come to view you as a father figure. You were one of the rare kindnesses they had known in the years since their enslavement, but that still held the firm hand needed for them to fear and respect you.
It’s that time of the month when they auction off particularly valuable slave-girls, who usually sold for sky-rocket prices. Freshly captured and untrained, affording the pleasure of taming them to their soon to be masters, and occasionally mistresses. You watched this part idly, always loosely entertaining the idea of owning your own slave. But the level of attachment you might develop for her scared you, thinking it would be a betrayal to your own daughter, all those misplaced mixed up feelings you’d experience for her.
The auction goes by rather quickly; an astronomical amount paid for the five proceeding girls. Finally the announcement goes out that they have captured the allusive Fae child of Helsing himself. A rumour that had arisen, and circulated 18 years ago but was quickly squashed due to Helsing’s abhorrence to all things Fey. Out they dragged me, struggling in vein against the iron chains that burned my milky skin. Clearly I was part Faerie, but as was apparent from my shimmering skin, piercing blue eyes, wispy figure, and tresses of long silvery hair that floated around me independently; I was not just any Faerie. I was part Veela!
There was no denying I was Helsing’s daughter either, for I had been branded at birth by his mark on my ankle. I gasped, gritting my teeth in agony as the chains burned into my delicate flesh, leaving me no energy to turn on my charm appeal to try and rescue myself. I was dragged from the floor by my hair, pulled against the solid muscular body of one of the auctioneers. A hand at my throat to still me so that viewers could take in the slender curves on my delicately crafted body, all long limbed and sculpted; covered only by a icy blue silk dress, chosen to compliment my colouring and show off all my beautiful assets.
A deathly silence ripped through the room. Not so much as a breath had been heard since the announcement involving my identity. But now a quiver of excitement and longing rippled through the pure hatred induced at my heritage, aroused by the presence of an oh-so-rare Veela in their midsts.
The auctioneer, getting carried away, moved his hand and ran it across my sensuous lips. Suddently he cried out in pain as his blood spattered my mouth, retreating his bitten finger instantly. He back handed me to the floor, and instantly the crowed elapsed into mingled indignation, furry, and excitement at the treatment of the Veela, who were treated as goodesses by all lucky enough to come into contact with them. The crowed conflicted between hatred and uncontrollably desire, drawing closer to the fingers aching to rip me apart in one way or another. The electrical traps around the stage were set off designed for such occasions to keep the crowed back. Then, if only to shift the attentions of the crowed, my auction began.
It’s that time of the month when they auction off particularly valuable slave-girls, who usually sold for sky-rocket prices. Freshly captured and untrained, affording the pleasure of taming them to their soon to be masters, and occasionally mistresses. You watched this part idly, always loosely entertaining the idea of owning your own slave. But the level of attachment you might develop for her scared you, thinking it would be a betrayal to your own daughter, all those misplaced mixed up feelings you’d experience for her.
The auction goes by rather quickly; an astronomical amount paid for the five proceeding girls. Finally the announcement goes out that they have captured the allusive Fae child of Helsing himself. A rumour that had arisen, and circulated 18 years ago but was quickly squashed due to Helsing’s abhorrence to all things Fey. Out they dragged me, struggling in vein against the iron chains that burned my milky skin. Clearly I was part Faerie, but as was apparent from my shimmering skin, piercing blue eyes, wispy figure, and tresses of long silvery hair that floated around me independently; I was not just any Faerie. I was part Veela!
There was no denying I was Helsing’s daughter either, for I had been branded at birth by his mark on my ankle. I gasped, gritting my teeth in agony as the chains burned into my delicate flesh, leaving me no energy to turn on my charm appeal to try and rescue myself. I was dragged from the floor by my hair, pulled against the solid muscular body of one of the auctioneers. A hand at my throat to still me so that viewers could take in the slender curves on my delicately crafted body, all long limbed and sculpted; covered only by a icy blue silk dress, chosen to compliment my colouring and show off all my beautiful assets.
A deathly silence ripped through the room. Not so much as a breath had been heard since the announcement involving my identity. But now a quiver of excitement and longing rippled through the pure hatred induced at my heritage, aroused by the presence of an oh-so-rare Veela in their midsts.
The auctioneer, getting carried away, moved his hand and ran it across my sensuous lips. Suddently he cried out in pain as his blood spattered my mouth, retreating his bitten finger instantly. He back handed me to the floor, and instantly the crowed elapsed into mingled indignation, furry, and excitement at the treatment of the Veela, who were treated as goodesses by all lucky enough to come into contact with them. The crowed conflicted between hatred and uncontrollably desire, drawing closer to the fingers aching to rip me apart in one way or another. The electrical traps around the stage were set off designed for such occasions to keep the crowed back. Then, if only to shift the attentions of the crowed, my auction began.