Previously in the story: New Orleans librarian Alpine has decided to experience the wicked nightlife of the French Quarter. To purchase the proper clothing she enters Madame De Baucherie’s Vamporium.
“I want the proper attire to attend a vampire club. You know, one of those places where people role play—“
“I know what you want,” the old woman interrupted. She firmly took Alphine’s hand and led her to a corner of the store with racks of black satin and lace dresses. Dropping the girl’s hand, Madame De Baucherie grabbed Alphine’s breasts. “Ah good. Not so large. You will be able to wear our most scandalous gown with a neckline plunging to the navel. Women, such as I, could not wear this particular creation because of the risk of a nipple peeking through. Most inappropriate.”
Madame De Baucherie thrust the filmy dress into Alphine’s hands and pushed her toward a dressing room. “Go meet your destiny.”
Inside the tiny room Alphine tentatively took off her clothes and wriggled into the black garment. The satin against her skin created a sensation throughout her body that scared her. As she smoothed out the dress, she heard the door open and saw Madame DeBaucherie’s shriveled arm presenting a pair of spiked black heels and a shimmering ebony wig.
“These will complete the ensemble.”
Alphine took the items, and the old woman slammed the door. Gingerly she adjusted the wig on her head. Her own hair was a bland shade of brown, limp, lifeless. Then she realized the wig was actually made with real human hair. The room did not have a mirror so she could not tell for certain if it were straight. Next she slipped on the heels which were surprisingly comfortable despite hurtling her toward Amazon-like stature. Taking a deep breath, Alphine opened the door.
Madame De Baucherie appraised her without emotion. “One final touch—makeup.” Skillfully, she whipped out an eyebrow pencil and filled in the spaces on the young woman’s brow. She flicked the thin eyelashes with a black brush and applied blood red lipstick. Lifting a powder pad, she paused to consider Alphine’s complexion. “Perfect as is.” She put away her tools of the trade. “Ah to have that deathly pallor again. Flawless.”
She took firm control of Alphine’s shoulders and turned her toward the mirror. “Behold yourself.”
What she saw in the mirror both frightened her and edged her toward spontaneous orgasmic combustion. Alphine could not discern one feature that spoke of her past as a protected fragile flower quivering in the breezes from the foreboding Mississippi River. And she liked what she saw.
“You are my most inspiring creation. Of course you need midnight black fingernail polish.” Without a breath Madame DeBaucherie added, “The dress, shoes, wig, makeup and nail polish come to three hundred and fifty dollars, including tax.”
“Let me get my purse and things,” Alphine whispered. If she had even the slightest doubt about her lifestyle decision, Madame De Baucherie had banished it. She picked up her librarian attire and her purse and headed back to the counter where she handed her credit card over.
With efficiency the old woman zipped the card through, punched the proper buttons, extended a pen to her customer to sign and placed her library clothes in a shiny black bag. Before handing the bag to Alphine Madame De Baucherie extended a thin withered finger, hooked it into the vee of the neckline at Alphine’s navel, pulled it forwarded and peered down.
“Panties. Tres gauche. Remove them before your evening at the clubs. Sally forth unto war.” She pushed the young librarian toward the door. “Go to the clubs. Find a young man and destroy his soul.”