Integra's Fantasy, Part I:

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I've been masturbating for as long as I can remember--before I even understood there was a word for what I was doing-- before I knew it was a sin.

As a girl, when I went to sleep at night, I would touch myself, stimulating my little body into a maddening hum. Then I would fall asleep, unsatisfied, because I didn't know anything about orgasms. I just knew I was curious about my own body and it felt good to touch, and it didn't hurt me or anyone else. It was my secret.

When I was a little older and my father finally sat me down and started explaining the mechanisms of sex and puberty, I was mortified. He used this future language when he spoke--all the information he gave me was meant for when "you become a woman" or "when you're married" or "when you have a husband." Experiencing any of what he described before marriage was a crime. I sat there, in front of my father, completely crushed inside. I couldn't confess what I had done, so I sat in shameful silence. I was evil.

When my father died, I was too ashamed to do it for a long time. I bottled up all my feelings and hid them away.

Your ethereal, supernatural presence reinforced my guilt. You walked through walls, you read my thoughts, and you roamed wherever you wanted all night long. I swear to God, you watched me all the time. I was always looking over my shoulder.

There was a day when I was completely crippled in shame. I wanted to change my tampon, and I couldn't, because I was convinced you were somewhere in the room.

Earlier in the day, when we had been together for a moment alone, completely apropos to nothing we had been discussing, you sniffed the air and closed your eyes with a pleased expression. "You smell good today," you said. That was enough to set off my paranoia. Now I expected you to show up any moment. I sat, trembling on the toilet, my knickers bunched around my ankles and my knees tightly pressed together. I couldn't reach between my legs and tug the string and pull the unpleasant little cotton suppository out. I couldn't do it. You had frightened me too many times, snuck up behind me too often.

When the phone rang in my bedroom, I almost had a heart attack. I pulled up my skirt in a hurry and ran over to the phone and answered breathlessly. "Hello?"

"Do you need me to come upstairs?" It was you.

"No...Why?"

"You're thoughts woke me up. You sound frightened." You sound drowsy.

It hadn't crossed my mind that it was the middle of the day, that you were sound asleep in your coffin four floors below me. "No, I'm ok. You must have been dreaming. You can go back to sleep."

You released a contented sigh. "Mmm. Yes, master." And then I hear the phone click.

I felt much more at ease after this experience. For once, I may have overestimated the reach of your powers--at least during the day. Now I found myself free to do all sorts of things during the daylight hours--all sorts of things.

In the past few months, I've become addicted to pornography on the internet--to my complete undoing. I've discovered there's a hidden world of sex, wanton, shameless sub-humans who will do anything, absolutely anything. Every time I find something that initially churns my stomach, I find myself feverishly hunting for it again, then I pleasure myself to it. And while my fingers feverishly delve into my moist folds, I wonder to myself; am I like these sub-human people? Is that why it turns me on? How can I be the leader of the Hellsing Organization and secretly ache for these fetishes? What would my father think? What would Walter think--if he caught me?

I am fascinated by sex toys. They seem so brutal. And I'm starting to like brutal. And if I could only get my hands on some, I could play with them alone and satisfy my own freakish urges. I've been eyeing the same 3 or 4 vibrators for a few hours--simple looking things, but they have ridges and bumps along the shaft for stimulation. But I'm wondering where I could hide them, and how I could get one? If I buy one online, I'll have to use a credit card, and Walter audits my personal spending. And I'm still too young to walk into a sex shop--I wouldn't even know where one was.

I'm so engrossed in thought, I haven't thought about how much time has passed this afternoon. I haven't noticed the sun sinking into the horizon. And I don't notice you standing right behind me.

"Really?" you say.

This is my worst nightmare.

I almost jump out of my skin. I have no idea how long you were standing behind me. I try to exit out of the offensive window, but you take the mouse from me and begin to scroll. "Are you going to buy one?"

"Of-of course not!" I stammer, shaking. "I was just looking." It had to be you walking into the room, didn't it?

"Some of these have spikes." You continue to leisurely browse. "That one has an extension to stimulate your..."

"Please go away," I beg. "Look, you caught me: I was looking at something dirty on the internet. Ok? I'm really embarrassed and...."

"This isn't dirty. This is hot." You pull up a chair next to mine and you started to hunt around while I sit frozen. " I can't believe some of the things that humans have invented in the past 20 years. What's that?"

"What? The..." I follow where you were pointing. "It's a...." I don't want to talk about this with you. "…it's a penis pump. You...you put your penis into the sleeve and you pump the handle and its supposed to make a sucking sensation."

You look at me. "Shut. Up."

"No, I'm serious," I say.

This is either riotously funny or the best news you've heard since you were released from the sub-levels, because the look of glee on your face floors me. "And what's that?" you ask, eagerly pointing at something else on the screen.

"It's a sex doll. It has...openings that you can...insert yourself into."

You are roaring with laughter. "What else is there?"

Before I know it, we spend an hour browsing through different categories of sex toys--vibrators, cock rings, butt plugs, bondage sets, slings and harnesses, nipple clamps, whips and paddles, and some really strange stuff like silicone vaginas and plastic lips, detachable breasts, strap-on dildos..all the way to hydraulic, gasoline powered fuck machines. And as we talk, we're laughing. We're laughing hard. I find myself relaxing. I'm having a good time. I can't believe how relaxed I feel. I'm opening my mouth and things I never dreamed of saying out loud just pour out with ease.

As I explain the supposed pros and cons of flavored lubricants, you're looking at me with a warm glow. Our moods shift back and forth as we find something side-splittingly funny, and then we quiet down whenever we see something that's a genuine turn-on, then we quickly move on to the funny and obscene before the silent tension forces us to acknowledge each other's restrained arousal.

Eventually, we exhaust the site, but we're still talking.

"So, were you ready to buy something before I interrupted, or we're you still undecided?" you ask coyly.

"I was strongly considering buying," I admit. "But sitting here with you has made me realize how silly it would be. Besides, there's no way to buy something discreetly." That's the real reason, if you couldn't tell. "My credit card receipts are official Hellsing business. You understand."

"I'll help you get whatever you want."

"I don't..." I pause. "Really?"

"You said you're too young to walk into one of these stores. So I'll do it. I'll buy whatever you want."

That was tempting. But then, if I did something like that, something would fundamentally be different between us from now on, something I wasn't comfortable with. "I am your master, and I must command you. This is going to sound awful after the lovely time we've had tonight, but I can't allow you to be so familiar with me."

You wave your hand dismissively. "Servants of old," you argue, "used to dress and even bathe their masters. As a servant, I can serve your intimate, private needs discreetly and professionally. All I'm doing is running an errand..."

I don't listen to the rest of what you say, as I am preoccupied with the mental image of us sitting naked in a bath tub, while you 'discreetly and professionally' serve my 'private, intimate needs.'

"I can read your thoughts," you remind me.

We're both quiet. Then we both start laughing again.

-- To be continued in Integra's Fantasy Part II