Myra sat nervously as the Principal looked through her portfolio. This was her seventh interview since graduating from teacher training college as a qualified art teacher. He sighed and closed the portfolio and Myra feared the worst.

“To be honest, it looks great. But I know jack shit about art.”

Myra stared at him with her mouth open.

“Listen, Myra, I’ve had two teachers bail on me in the past month. I need a body in the classroom. I’m sure you’ll do a great job with the kids. You can get your timetable and class lists from my secretary, Angie. He stood up and reached out his hand.

“Welcome to St. Jude’s.”

The next morning, Myra was up at 6.30am. She tried on three outfits before setting on her favourite pair of jeans and a white top with a high collar. She remembered the advice one of the older teachers gave her on her first work placement. Never wear anything too revealing. Don’t give the boys a chance to stare down your top or up your skirt.

She called into the staff room and found the place empty yet reeking of cigarette smoke, despite it being against the law to smoke inside for the past twenty years. The room looked dingy and uncared for. She found Angie who handed her her timetable and warned her to watch out for the 5th Years. Myra nodded and thanked her and headed off to the art room.

She had the 5th Years first thing so decided to just sit and wait and let them file in. The bell rang to signal the end of registration, and the corridors filled with the sound of teenage voices. She watched them walk in. Girls preened their hair while surreptitiously checking her out. The boys were more blatant. She got the feeling they were sizing her up as fresh meat. The Principal's words rang in her ears. “I’ve had two teachers bail on me already this month.”

She ran her fingers through her long black hair, gave her best welcome smile and introduced herself to the class.

“Hi everyone, I’m Myra, I mean Miss McDonagh and I’m your new art teacher.” She cursed inwardly as they all chorused back, “Hi, Myra.” So much for giving an air of authority, she thought.

The class went well. She’d decided to get them all to do a pencil sketch to see what their skill level was at. There was a pile of old stuffed animals on a shelf at the back of the room so she placed a grey squirrel on one table, a duck on another and two pheasants on another. She spent the rest of the class walking around, offering advice and encouragement as the fourteen students, eight girls and six boys, tried their best to capture the animals’ likeness.

There was one girl whose drawing was exquisite. She gave a gasp when she saw how the girl had captured the slightly puzzled expression on the male mallard’s face with the beak almost turning down in a sneer.

“That’s beautiful,” she whispered to the girl, as if frightened to break her concentration. The girl looked up and gave a smile that made Myra’s insides turn into a washing machine. Her eyes flashed emerald green and a shock of red hair framed a pale face dotted with freckles.

“Thank you, Miss,” she whispered back. Myra ran her eyes over the drawing once more, then let her eyes travel further down, checking out the girl’s short skirt and black stockings. She was sure she could see a hint of lace stocking top peeking out as she sat on the high stool, one foot swinging as she drew. Myra noted the scuffed Doc marten boot with purple sparkly laces and smiled. God, this girl is beautiful. Quickly she chastised herself and moved on before the girl noticed. Myra moved back to her desk and picked up the register. “Sorry class, I forgot to take the register.” She called out the list of names and made a small asterisk beside Carmel Fitzpatrick.

She made sure to spend an equal amount of time with every student, but again and again, she found her gaze being drawn back to Carmel. She scolded herself inwardly. She was in the closet. She couldn’t let a bunch of teenagers know she was gay. They would crucify her. And she couldn’t be fantasising about one of her students. That was easier said than done, though. Every time Carmel licked her top lip or stuck her tongue out a little as she concentrated, Myra had an overwhelming urge to squeeze her thighs together.

Carmel’s drawings continued to enchant her every time she saw her in the art room. Carmel drew with a skill and confidence of a woman many years her senior, and it was hard to believe a seventeen-year-old girl was producing such exquisite work.

Myra had taken to having the art room open at lunchtime, and it quickly became the home of the various waifs and strays around the school. One lunchtime, Myra noticed Carmel deep in conversation with a classmate. She watched Carmel reach out her hand and brush a strand of hair back behind the girl’s ear, and both Myra and the girl had that same look as if they were melting. Was Carmel gay? Myra wondered.

That night, Carmel was even more centre stage than usual in Myra’s increasingly perverse fantasies. Myra knew it was so wrong. Carmel was only seventeen; Myra was her teacher. Myra was in a position of authority and yet, Myra couldn’t shake the feeling gnawing away inside her that Carmel knew about her. She was sure Carmel knew Myra was gay, knew that Myra was fantasising about her and cumming to thoughts of her as she thrashed around, impaled on her fingers every night.

Carmel had taken to leaving the art room later and later after school. She always seemed to want to help tidy up, or she decided to rearrange her portfolio case at the end of class. Myra glanced over at her as she gathered the pencils and dropped them back into the jam jar that served as a pencil holder. Carmel’s red hair was pulled back into a pony tail leaving her long neck exposed. She was gnawing her bottom lip as she slid the pages of sketches into a particular order. Even in her school uniform of shapeless green jumper and grey skirt, she looked stunning. Her skirt was shorter than the regulation length and Myra was able to admire the girl’s long stocking-clad legs. The thought of this girl in holdups caused Myra to blush. Suddenly Carmel looked up and caught Myra staring at her.

“Do you ever paint, Miss?”

Myra was flustered at having been caught staring and blurted out the truth before she had time to edit her reply. “Yes, I do. I’m working on a submission for the Glebe Art Gallery competition.”

Carmel smiled. She smiled a warm, genuine smile. “That’s so cool. Can I see it?”

Myra shook her head. “No, I don’t think that would be a good idea. Besides, it’s nowhere near finished. I’m having difficulty getting the girl in the painting to look right. And the closing date is next Monday, so I don’t even know if I’ll get it finished in time.”

Carmel looked devastated. “But that’s so unfair. You have to get it finished.”

Myra shrugged. “Yes, well. We’ll see. My friend was modelling for me but she's had to go away for a few days. I’ll work on it over the weekend.” She smiled and busied herself. “Anyway, Carmel. It’s Friday evening so I really think you should be heading home.” She guided Carmel out of the art room and locked it and the two of them walked down the now deserted corridor and out into the gathering gloom.

“What’s your painting about, Miss?”

Myra stopped. “I’ll see you on Monday, Carmel.”

Carmel smiled. “Maybe, Miss.”

Myra stood and watched as the girl turned and left. She glanced over her shoulder once and gave Myra a look that she knew would be part of her nighttime fantasies.

Myra spent most of Saturday morning lying in bed, thinking about Carmel and masturbating. She finally got up and put on her painting clothes; an old xxl t-shirt that covered her, hanging down to mid thigh. She liked the freedom of painting in just the t-shirt and was usually naked under it. She walked barefoot into her spare room that had become her studio and looked at her painting.

She was working on a modern reinterpretation of Love and Pain by Edvard Munch. His series of paintings from the 1890s featured a man and a woman embracing with the woman kissing the man’s neck. Munch had always rejected the theories of critics such as his friend Przybyszewski that she was a vampire biting the submissive man’s neck but Myra was drawn to the eroticism of the vampire but wanted to turn it into two women. It was only as she looked at the dog eared postcard she’d picked up at the art gallery on a trip to Gothenburg in Sweden a few years before that she realised the similarity between the young red haired woman in the painting and her student Carmel.

At that moment, the doorbell rang, and thinking it was an amazon order she was expecting went to the front door.

“Hello, Miss. Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

Myra stood in shock. Carmel was standing on the doorstep. She froze. She should have closed the door in the girl’s face, but instead, as she stared into the girl’s mesmerising green eyes, she stood to one side and let the girl enter.

Carmel walked down the hall, her ass swaying in a pair of peach coloured flared joggers. She turned and faced Myra. “Which room is the studio, Miss?”

Myra pointed to the left as she finally regained control of her legs and followed Carmel into the studio. Carmel stood staring at the unfinished painting. “It’s… it’s beautiful,” she whispered. She turned to face Myra, her eyes ablaze. “Munch was wrong, you know. Przybyszewski was right. It is about vampires.”

She turned back and stepped closer, she stretched her hand out as if to caress the submissive woman’s black hair.

“Don’t. It’s still wet.”

Carmel nodded and let her fingers flow over the canvas, not touching but almost caressing the woman’s hair.

“You’ve barely started the Vampire.”

“I.. I can’t seem to capture her hair. It’s as if the brush has a mind of its own and decides what it wants to paint.”

Carmel nodded. “You have to teach it who is boss, no?”

Myra laughed. “Perhaps.”

Also, you need to paint from life. Have you been looking at photographs of red hair?”

Myra blushed, feeling like one of her shirker students who always looks for short cuts.

“You can paint me.”

Myra shook her head. This was wrong for all sorts of reasons, but as she looked into Carmel’s eyes, she felt her resistance crumble. She could see the benefits to painting from life. And Carmel was beautiful and her hair was perfect. Carmel reached her hand up and pulled on the bobble holding the pony tail in place. She shook her head and let the long coppery fiery red hair fall around her shoulders.

Carmel smiled even before Myra nodded and whispered a barely audible “ok then.”

“Where do you want me?” Carmel giggled. “Here?” She pointed to a stool. “Or there?” Myra blushed as she realised Carmel was pointing at her crumpled unmade bed visible through the open door.

Carmel looked straight into Myra's eyes and Myra felt suddenly embarrassed.

“It’s not a very realistic setup just having a stool for her to sit on. No wonder you are having difficulty capturing it.”

Myra stuttered in indignation. “What do you mean? The model just gives me a guide. My painting brings it to life.”

Carmel laughed. It wasn’t meant to be condescending but Myra flushed even more.

“You need to feed from the model, Miss. You need to draw your inspiration from them.”

Without another word, Carmel pulled off her big shapeless hoodie, and as Myra stared at her perfect breasts in a tiny white lace bra, Carmel stepped up to her and took Myra’s hands in her own.

“You have to make your audience lust after the subject in the painting. And to do that, you have to lust after them too.”

Oh, I do, Myra thought. As if reading Myra’s thoughts, Carmel took Myra’s hand and placed it on her breast.

“Can you feel my breast? You must know it to paint it.”

Myra didn’t dare tell her she wasn’t planning on painting her breasts, only her hair, but as the teenage girl guided Myra’s hand over her partially clothed body, a small still-rational part of Myra’s brain studied the contours. The rest was just hot wired to her pussy.

Carmel gazed up at Myra and kissed her. She pressed soft pink luscious lips to Myra’s mouth. Myra groaned the sigh of the defeated. She knew she was lost. Carmel released the hand holding Carmel’s breast and slid her free hand up Myra’s leg. She gave a low murmur of approval as she felt the slick stickiness of Myra’s naked pussy under the baggy t-shirt.

“Please,” Myra begged.

Carmel wrapped her arms around Myra’s neck and pressed Myra down until she was bent over, pressing on the table. When she was draped to her satisfaction, Carmel ran her lips and tongue along Myra’s neck.

“Can you feel the abject surrender of the victim in the painting?”

Myra’s pussy gave another involuntary squeeze as she felt herself be described as the victim. She moaned as she felt Carmel’s teeth drag along her throat.

“Do you think they can stop the Vampire biting them?”

“No,” Myra whimpered, feeling as powerless as the victim in the painting.

“That is what you need to paint, Miss.”

After one long slow drag of her fingers through Myra’s now dripping slit, Carmel stood and slid down her jogging bottoms. Wearing only her underwear, she leant in and whispered, “I think you’d better start painting before you lose the moment, Miss.”

Myra, nodded. In a trance, she stood and stepped back to the easel. Carmel grabbed a cushion and draped herself over it, posing like the Vampire, her red hair falling over her face, shining copper red under the skylights letting the early autumn sun stream in.

Myra painted like a woman possessed. She fumbled with paint tubes, squeezing and mixing. She captured the shape of Carmel’s hair with a base coat of burnt sienna before streaks of cadmium red gave the intense fiery red for the copper highlights. Streaks of cadmium yellow gave more muted natural undertones and she strove to capture the vivid copper hues. She resisted the urge to use too much titanium white, being careful not to make the vibrant copper too pale.

As she painted, she couldn't stop her eyes wandering over Carmel’s almost naked form draped over her table. She captured the curve of her spine and the barely visible dimples of Venus whilst acknowledging that capturing Carmel like this added another layer of eroticism to her painting.

At last, after almost two hours, Myra put the brush down. Carmel straightened and stretched, cat like, accentuating her breasts even more. Myra tried not to look, convinced there was a damp patch of Carmel’s pale pink boy shorts.

Carmel walked around the easel to check on the progress of the painting. She gave a low whistle.

“That’s hot. You just need to put yourself in the painting too.”

Myra flushed but nodded. The woman draped underneath Carmel had black hair. She’d always known she was the victim, the submissive. And she knew Carmel knew too. The emphasis on calling her Miss just highlighted that despite her position of authority as her teacher, or her being almost ten years older, Carmel was the one in charge.

‘I’ll do it tomorrow,” Myra protested. “It’s getting late and I’m exhausted.

“No!” Carmel stood, her arms folded, with a scowl on her face. “You will complete the painting today.”

She prowled behind Myra and pressed against her back. Myra half-heartedly attempted to stop her as Carmel slid her hands up under Myra’s t shirt and caressed and squeezed her boobs.

“You feel so good,” Carmel murmured as her lips brushed Myra’s neck once more. “Paint for me,” she whispered.

With shaking hands, Myra squeezed burnt umber and aquamarine onto the palette and swirled the colours together, adding just a touch of ivory black.

“That’s it,” Carmel whispered, her fingers rolling and squeezing Myra’s nipples as the art teacher struggled to create the vibrant hues of the victims’ shiny black hair. She mixed subtle hints of purple and blue into the midtone shadows so the hair reflected the ambient light.

“Good girl,” Carmel sighed as she watched the woman come to life on the canvas. Myra mixed white with ultramarine blue to give the soft highlights on the curves and bends where the light hit the hair.

Her hand seemed to move of its own free will. Her brain seemed focussed on the waves of pleasure Carmel's fingers produced as she played with Myra’s nipples. Myra felt the teenage girl grind her pubis against her arse. The woman couldn’t help but grind back, slowly rotating her hips as she mixed and blended the paint on the canvas.

Myra groaned and whimpered as Carmel dragged wet lips along her neck. When Carmel’s hand slid between her legs and cupped her dripping hairy mound, she knew she couldn’t hold back. Her paintbrush trembled as she painted the shadow cloud enveloping them both. She felt Carmel’s breath, soft on her neck as Carmel’s fingers slid easily inside her. They both could hear the squelch as Carmel began to fingerfuck her. Her legs trembled, a half gasp half whisper escaped her lips. “Please…” she begged.

The paint flew onto the canvas. She was possessed, in heat. Every press of Carmel’s fingers tapping on her spot seemed to coincide with another dab of paint on the canvas. The figures seemed to come to life as her orgasm threatened to overwhelm her.

She felt two stabbing pinpricks on her neck as the orgasm was unleashed inside her. She imagined two piercing beams of light shooting from her neck as she bucked and writhed, impaled on Carmel’s hand. She screamed as she orgasmed.

Then everything went black.

The Glebe Art Gallery opening was a roaring success. The small oil painting of two women in an embrace, with the redhead looming over the dark haired woman pinned beneath hair and titled “What is love without pain” by Myra McDonagh had been announced as the winner. Though sadly the artist had not been present to receive her prize or the accolades of the large crowd in attendance. The painting had been submitted the day before the closing date, though no one could remember Myra bringing it to the gallery.

Carmel stood at the back of the room, gossiping with the rest of her art class, and lamenting how that was three teachers now who had just disappeared from the school shortly after joining.

“Well, St Jude is the patron saint of lost causes,” Carmel intoned. Then she shrugged. “Maybe they are just damned.”

“It’s a shame,” one of the other girls lamented. “I really liked Myra.”

“Yeah, she was tasty,” Carmel agreed. “Talented too.”

Myra woke. It was dark. She tried to sit up but her head banged against a stone wall. She felt around with her hands. She was trapped in a stone box. She put her hands on the lid and pressed. She couldn’t get any purchase. There was a dull pain in her neck. She touched it with her fingers and remembered. She remembered Carmel touching her, making her orgasm. The pain in her neck as Carmel bit her. The two pinpoints of pain. Flashes of memories pulsed behind Myra’s eyes. Carmel’s eyes turning yellow. Carmel’s lips coated in blood. Her blood. Carmel has drunk her blood. She thought of Munch’s Vampires. Was that what Carmel was? Was that what she was? Or what she was to become?

She banged on the stone lid. A coffin lid she suddenly thought. She screamed and banged again and again until her fists ached.

Carmel had to come back. She had to…