Bite Me! Part Deux
Copyright© 2026 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 1: Opening Night
Scene 1: Seoul Olympic Stadium
The bass hit like a physical force, rattling the bones of eighty thousand screaming fans packed into Seoul Olympic Stadium. Selene stood center stage, bathed in crimson light, her body moving in perfect synchronization with the driving beat of “Eternal Hunger.”
She’d forgotten how much she loved this—the heat of the lights, the roar of the crowd, the way her enhanced vampire senses could pick out individual heartbeats thrumming in time with the music. Every pulse, every gasp, every screamed lyric fed something primal in her chest.
Behind her, Lucian emerged from a cloud of stage smoke, moving with the predatory grace that had made him a viral sensation. The crowd’s volume doubled.
#LucianBiteMe was trending worldwide. Again.
He prowled toward her, all coiled masculinity in black leather pants and an open shirt that showed off the kind of physique that came from centuries of immortal perfection. His hands found her hips as she dropped into a deep bend, her spine arching as he pressed against her from behind.
The choreography was ... explicit.
Selene rolled her hips in a grinding motion that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Lucian’s hands slid up her sides, over her ribs, stopping just beneath her breasts as she threw her head back against his shoulder. His mouth hovered at her throat—not biting, not yet, but the threat of it, the promise, made the crowd absolutely lose their minds.
“Voulez-vous,” Selene sang, her voice husky and deliberate, “me mordre?”
The bridge dropped into a pounding electronic beat. Selene spun, wrapping one leg around Lucian’s thigh as he gripped her ass with both hands and lifted. She locked her other leg around his waist, suspended in his arms as the lights strobed crimson and violet.
From this angle, broadcast on every PPV stream and jumbo screen, it looked exactly like what it was meant to suggest.
Lucian walked forward, still holding her, and set her down on the edge of a black grand piano. His fingers slammed onto the keys—an aggressive, discordant riff that shouldn’t have worked but did. Selene arched back across the polished surface, one leg hooked over his shoulder, the other wrapped around his waist as his hands moved across the piano keys with the kind of precision that made it look like something else entirely.
She moaned the chorus.
The piano riff built, faster, harder, Lucian’s face intense with concentration as his fingers penetrated the keys in rapid succession. Selene’s voice climbed, breathy and desperate, until the final note hit and she threw her arms wide in theatrical ecstasy.
The stadium exploded.
Confetti cannons fired. Pyrotechnics erupted in columns of flame. The lights shifted to gold as Selene rolled off the piano and landed in a crouch, breathing hard, her skin glistening with sweat that the cameras caught in perfect high-definition detail.
Lucian stood behind the piano, chest heaving, looking at her like he wanted to devour her whole.
Which, given they were both vampires, wasn’t entirely metaphorical.
“Seoul!” Selene shouted into her microphone, her voice cutting through the roar. “Are you ready for something special?”
The crowd’s answer was deafening.
Selene grinned, fangs fully visible, and gestured to the wings. “We have a winner!”
A young woman emerged, led by two backup dancers dressed as Victorian vampires. She looked maybe nineteen, dressed in an elaborate Gothic Lolita outfit, her hands trembling with excitement and terror in equal measure.
“What’s your name?” Selene asked, pulling her center stage.
“M-Min-ji,” the girl stammered.
“Min-ji won our ‘Bite Me’ contest,” Selene announced, turning to play to the cameras. “She wants what all of you want.” Pause for effect. “To be bitten. By me. On stage. Right now.”
The crowd chanted: “BITE HER! BITE HER! BITE HER!”
Min-ji’s pulse was thundering so loud that Selene could hear it over the screaming. Fear and arousal mixed in a heady cocktail that made Selene’s fangs ache.
“Are you sure?” Selene whispered, just for Min-ji, though every microphone caught it.
Min-ji nodded frantically. “Please.”
Selene turned to Lucian, who was watching with dark, hungry eyes. “What do you think, mon amour? Should I give the people what they want?”
Lucian’s smile was slow and wicked. “Always, ma chérie.”
Selene guided Min-ji to kneel on a velvet cushion that the dancers had placed center stage. She knelt behind her, one hand sliding Min-ji’s hair aside to expose the pale column of her throat.
The stadium fell into breathless silence.
Selene’s fangs extended fully—and the cameras caught every moment in crystal clarity as she struck.
Min-ji gasped, her back arching, and Selene drank. Just enough. Just a taste. The girl’s blood was sweet with adrenaline and youth, and Selene’s venom flooded the bite immediately, making Min-ji’s gasp turn into something closer to a moan.
Three seconds. Five. Seven.
Selene pulled back, licking her lips, and the bite marks on Min-ji’s throat sealed almost instantly, leaving only two perfect punctures that would scar beautifully.
Min-ji swayed, glassy-eyed and euphoric.
“You’ll feel a little weird for a few days,” Selene told her, helping her stand. “Your teeth might hurt. Don’t freak out.”
Min-ji just nodded, dazed, as the dancers guided her offstage to thunderous applause.
Selene turned back to the audience, wiping a trace of blood from her lower lip with her thumb. “Who’s next?” she purred into the mic. “New York? London? Paris?”
The final song launched—a driving anthem called “Immortal”—and Selene threw herself back into the choreography. This one featured a suspended cage that lowered from the ceiling. Selene climbed inside, gripping the bars, and the cage began to rotate slowly as red spotlights caught her from every angle.
Lucian circled below, reaching up through the bars to grip her hips, pulling her down against the metal as she arched and writhed in ways that made the implications absolutely unmistakable.
The cage lowered further. Lucian’s hands slid up her thighs. Selene gripped the bars above her head and rolled her body in a sinuous wave that would have made a stripper proud.
The final chorus hit, and the cage door sprang open. Selene dropped into Lucian’s arms. He caught her, spun her, and dipped her low as the lights went black.
The final image, caught on every camera: Lucian’s mouth at her throat, Selene’s leg wrapped around his waist, both of them frozen in a tableau that was pure sex and danger.
The lights came up.
The crowd absolutely lost their shit.
Selene straightened, laughing breathlessly, and took Lucian’s hand. They bowed together as roses and fan letters rained onto the stage.
“Seoul!” Selene shouted. “You’ve been fucking incredible! See you next time!”
She blew a kiss, flashed her fangs one more time, and strode offstage with Lucian’s hand firmly in hers.
The roar followed them all the way to the wings.
Backstage, thirty seconds later:
“That was INSANE!” Selene laughed, accepting a towel from a stagehand and wiping sweat from her face.
Lucian pulled her against him, not caring that she was drenched and covered in stage makeup. “You were magnificent, mon cœur. Absolutely magnificent.”
“The cage thing worked?”
“Magnifique. I thought Laurent might have a stroke if he was watching.”
“Oh, he was definitely watching.” Selene grinned. “That’s the whole point.”
Mrs. Choi appeared, tablet in hand, her expression the usual mask of professional calm. “Trending number one worldwide in forty-seven countries. PPV sales exceeded projections by 340%. Social media engagement is—” she paused, scrolling, “—unprecedented.”
“And Min-ji?”
“Medical team checked her. She’s fine. Posting selfies with the bite marks already. Her follower count has increased by two million in the last ten minutes.”
Selene smirked. “See? Everyone wins.”
Mrs. Choi’s expression didn’t change. “Oh, and the Councils have summoned you both to Paris.”
The smile froze on Selene’s face. “What?”
“Both Councils. Parisian and Asian. Joint summons. You’re to appear before them within the week to ‘address concerns regarding conduct unbecoming of vampire dignity.’” Mrs. Choi’s tone was perfectly dry. “Their words, not mine.”
Lucian’s hand tightened on Selene’s waist. “They can’t be serious.”
“They sent Gregor to deliver the message personally. He’s waiting in your dressing room.”
Selene’s fangs extended reflexively. “That fucker is in my dressing room?”
“He was very polite. Didn’t touch anything. Just ... standing there. Menacingly.”
Lucian’s expression darkened. “I’ll handle him.”
“We’ll handle him,” Selene corrected. She looked down at herself—still in her stage outfit, which consisted of a leather bodysuit with strategic cutouts and thigh-high boots. “Actually, let me change first. I’m not facing down an ancient vampire assassin while my tits are half out.”
Mrs. Choi raised an eyebrow. “Your tits were completely out during the cage scene.”
“That was art, Mrs. Choi. This is politics.”
“My apologies. I’ll be sure to note the distinction.”
Selene snorted and headed toward her dressing room, Lucian close behind.
The fun, apparently, was over.
Now came the part where ancient, stuffy vampires tried to tell her what to do.
Selene smiled to herself as she walked.
They were going to hate what she had planned next.
Parisian Council Chambers - Simultaneous
The ornate chamber beneath the streets of Paris had stood for over six hundred years, built when the Transylvanian Council fell and the survivors fled west. Vaulted ceilings stretched into shadow. Ancient tapestries depicting vampire history lined the walls. Candelabras provided the only light—Prince Laurent insisted on maintaining tradition.
At the moment, tradition was being violated by the enormous 8K television screen that had been wheeled in for tonight’s emergency session.
On that screen: Selene, on all fours in a cage, gyrating while Lucian gripped her hips from below.
Prince Laurent looked like he might actually vomit.
“This,” he said through gritted teeth, “is what she calls art.”
Around the long obsidian table, twelve council members watched in varying states of horror, fascination, and—in the case of the female members—grudging appreciation.
“The production value is quite high,” offered Councillor Marie-Claire, a French vampire turned during the Revolution. “The lighting design alone—”
“THE LIGHTING DESIGN?!” Laurent’s voice cracked. “She’s—she’s—” He gestured helplessly at the screen where Selene was now arching her back while Lucian’s hands slid up her thighs. “She’s gyrating like a common—”
“Performer?” suggested Councillor Zhang Wei from the Asian Council, attending via hologram. “Because that’s what she is, Laurent. A performer. A very successful one.”
“She’s a VAMPIRE!” Laurent slammed his hand on the table. “She should conduct herself with DIGNITY! With GRACE! Not—not—twerking in front of mortals!”
On screen, the piano scene began.
Councillor Henri, turned during the Sun King’s reign, leaned forward. “Is that the Marquis de Rochefort playing?”
“Yes,” Laurent said bitterly.
“He’s quite talented.”
“HE’S SIMULATING SEXUAL INTERCOURSE ON A PIANO!”
“Well, yes, but technically speaking, he’s playing a rather complex—”
“HENRI, I SWEAR TO GOD—”
The Asian Council’s representative, Madam Zhou, raised one elegant hand. “Perhaps we should focus on the substantive violations rather than our ... personal reactions.”
Laurent took a breath, smoothing his waistcoat. He was average height, average build, with the kind of forgettable features that had served him well in his mortal life as a baker’s son. Now, turned for three centuries, he’d clawed his way to Prince through sheer political acumen and rigid adherence to protocol.
Which made watching the Marquis de Rochefort—actual French nobility—debase himself on stage even more infuriating.
“The substantive violations,” Laurent said coldly, “are as follows: Public feeding. Creating partial-vampires without Council approval. Commercializing vampire imagery and—”
His phone buzzed.
Everyone’s phones buzzed.
Councillor Marie-Claire checked hers and winced. “My daughter wants to know if we can get her backstage passes to the Paris show.”
“WHAT?!”
“She’s been texting me throughout this entire meeting. Apparently Selene’s using the Sulwhasoo Concentrated Ginseng Renewing Cream and Sophie—that’s my daughter—wants to know if it really works on vampire skin or if it’s just marketing.”
Another councillor checked her phone. “My son is asking the same thing. About the Night Reign sleeping mask.”
“My niece,” offered another member quietly, “has tickets to four different cities. She wants to ‘collect’ bites from each venue.”
Laurent’s eye twitched.
On screen, Selene struck, biting into Min-ji’s throat. The camera zoomed in—perfect high-definition close-up of fangs penetrating flesh, of the girl’s ecstatic gasp, of Selene’s throat working as she drank.
“Seventy million people,” Madam Zhou said softly, “are watching this right now. Live. On pay-per-view.”
“How much is she charging?” someone asked.
“Forty-nine ninety-five for standard. Ninety-nine for the premium multi-angle feed.”
Someone did the mental math. “That’s...”
“Approximately three point five billion won. Just for tonight. Not counting merchandise, which—” Marie-Claire checked her tablet, “—appears to include a new feet product line?”
Laurent closed his eyes. “Feet products.”
“‘Worship-Worthy Feet Collection,’” Marie-Claire read. “‘Marquis-Approved.’” She paused. “There’s a commercial. The Marquis is ... well, he’s literally worshipping her feet.”
“Show me.”
“Laurent, I don’t think—”
“SHOW. ME.”
Marie-Claire sighed and pulled up the advertisement on her tablet, projecting it onto a second screen.
The commercial was shot in black and white. Selene reclined on a chaise lounge in what appeared to be their Bordeaux château. Lucian knelt at her feet, slowly massaging cream into her arch with the kind of reverent attention usually reserved for religious artifacts.
His voice, in French-accented voiceover: “Perfection deserves worship. From her toes to her soul, every inch of ma belle is a work of art. ETERNAL Worship-Worthy Feet Collection. Because beauty this exquisite should last forever.”
The final shot: Lucian pressing a kiss to her ankle while Selene smiled at the camera.
Silence in the Council chamber.
Then: “That’s actually quite romantic,” murmured one of the female councillors.
Laurent’s hands were shaking. “He’s a Marquis. From one of the oldest bloodlines in France. And he’s ... he’s selling foot cream.”
“It’s quite good foot cream,” offered Councillor Henri. “My wife bought some. Her calluses disappeared in three days.”
“I DON’T CARE ABOUT CALLUSES!”
Back on the main screen, the concert was ending. Selene and Lucian took their bows to thunderous applause. Roses rained onto the stage.
Laurent stood abruptly. “Summon them. Both of them. Immediately.”
“Laurent—”
“I want them before this Council within the week. Formal charges: Conduct unbecoming vampire dignity, unauthorized creation of partial-vampires, commercialization of vampire culture, and...” he gestured at the screen where Selene was blowing a kiss to the camera, her fangs fully visible, “ ... making a mockery of everything we’ve worked for centuries to build.”
Madam Zhou’s hologram flickered. “The Asian Council concurs. This has gone too far.”
“Gregor,” Laurent called.
From the shadows stepped a figure that made several councillors flinch despite themselves.
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