Read Alison's Wonderland for Free Online Page B

getting today. It’s the sun, you see. It brings people out, makes them loose with their cash. And this loose cash is making me feel loose with my morals.
    I stare blankly ahead. I’m coated in white body paint and wreathed in a toga, my hair coiled high and dyed a bright chemical pink. My arms are held in an elegant curve, chinangled to the left. I am a busker, a living statue, and I’m very good at my job. Crowds gather. They stare and smile. A few will move tentatively closer. “It’s like she isn’t even breathing,” they’ll whisper.
    And of course, I’m not. I am dead.
    My hairline starts to prickle. If it weren’t for my pink sweat, I’d still adore the sun, though I realize that makes me atypical. The heat clings like memories, taking me back to those sticky nights of tangled sheets when my cunt would throb with lust for another. Oh, to be vital again! To be fucking someone for the sake of fuck alone, not fucking them with thoughts of their blood in my throat. Or, best of all, to have someone fucking me, to have them holding me down, fearless, brutal and strong.
    Because, to my shame, that’s what I crave: a man to overpower me. Once when I was alive, I asked a boyfriend to act as my kidnapper. “Tie me up and gag me,” I explained. “Use me as your plaything. Take no notice of my screams.” But he said he couldn’t do that because sexual expression through violence contravened his pacifism and he viewed our lovemaking as a cosmic union of souls and in this I was his sister. Sister? If you ask me, that’s far worse than what I was suggesting.
    A bead of sweat trickles down my back. That’s fine. They can’t see under my robes. To my right, I hear the soft click of a camera. More money clinks into the collection. Two hundred seconds later (Christ, it’s boring being on a pedestal), I twist my shoulders and turn my head several degrees. A murmur of delight ripples across the crowd.
    He’s mesmerized as if my stillness is infectious. He’s big, beautiful and rough looking, an arrogant young bruiser with his hands stuffed in his pockets. He’s wearing a suit, but he’s no businessman. His tie is askew and he clearly doesn’t care about preserving any neat lines of tailoring. He watches, fascinated, contempt curling his lip as if he’s thinking of all the sordid things he could do to me, irrespective of my wishes.
    I cast him a glance, wondering if I can snare him. Unfortunately, I attract the wrong sort of guy. Maybe that’s inevitable. I know my place in popular culture and the assumption goes because I’m a monster, I must also be an aggressor and a sadist. But the truth is, I’m a sexually submissive vampire and, if you’ll forgive the pun, that sucks.
    It sucks because I feel I’m letting the team down. My kind are predators and they tend to be on the toppy side. But it’s not as if I was ever going to fit in anyway. Ever since my sweat turned pink, I’ve been shunned by my peers. I was once an ordinary monster, happy to get along, but then something went wrong inside me. When I feed, I can’t use all the blood. It seeps out through my pores, making me a liability, a freak in danger of exposing the community. I’ve no choice but to be itinerant, keeping my head low, because there are many who would rather see me dead. Truly dead, not undead-dead.
    But being submissive sucks mainly because I’m just not getting any. I guess I come across as scary, and I’m aware my inability to form lasting relationships has engendered a certain aloofness. Maybe that’s why I’m often propositioned by men who offer money to call me Mistress. Or maybe it’s because I earn my living from being bored on a pedestal. Perhaps they see their proposal as promotion.
    But being on top leaves me cold. I want a man who’ll bring me down, do terrible things to me and take away my power. I want him to debase me, bind me, fuck my face and force me into sex, perhaps with a little help from his friends. And if