The Aching Darkness_A Dark Fantasy Anthology

by Parker Sinclair

  We were well outside the city limits by the time we came to a stop. Ever the gentleman, I stepped out ahead of the lady and raised my hand toward her. She took it graciously and walked out of the carriage. I turned to see where I was and saw a large, multi-story home. It was made of white stone, almost gleaming in the darkness. It featured several large pilasters topped with finely carved capitals, leafed with gold. Other sculptures, also gold-covered, adorned the windows and roof. It was the most beautiful building I’d seen in my time in Vienna and laid any lingering doubts I might have had about the woman’s station. She was either a noble, or as rich as one, which was much the same thing when it came down to it.

  She led me to an appropriately lavish parlor and gestured to a plush chair. “Please, have a seat. Ficko will bring us a flagon of wine and some cheeses.”

  “Thank you.”

  She sat across from me, locking eyes again. “So… tell me your name.”

  “Josef Smith.”

  “Ah, Josef. You are my hero.”

  This reignited my curiosity about the bizarre circumstances of our meeting. Seemingly allowing herself to be assaulted while her two men stood idly by. But then the wine and cheese arrived, evaporating those concerns.

  “Are you gainfully employed, Mr. Smith?”

  “Most of the time,” I replied. “I’ve been clearing the forest for new homes being added in the south.”

  “I like a man who works with his hands.” She smiled wickedly.

  We chatted as we enjoyed the alcohol and snacks. I have mastered the art of making small talk that keeps my past a secret. Interestingly, she also seemed to have the same knack, blathering on for minutes at a time, while never revealing anything of substance about her true identity.

  Once the wine and cheese were gone and we had burned through all our topics of conversation, she offered to show me to my lodging for the night. She took me to a beautiful, opulent room that seemed so large it couldn’t have fit into the house I was looking at from the outside. Polished marble floors, elegant carvings on the walls (leafed in gold, of course), all centered around a four poster bed straight out of a fairytale.

  I was till reeling from the majesty of it all when I heard a click behind me. I turned to see that my hostess had locked the oversized double doors behind us and was now staring at me hungrily. She crossed the room in three great strides and hit me like the world’s hottest fullback, sending me sprawling onto the giant bed as she leapt atop me like a rabid beast, tearing my shirt off, kissing my nipples, then slowly moving lower with soft bites on my stomach.

  She turned me over and started biting my back. I have a keen sense of pleasure—it peaks on the threshold of pain. Her teeth would leave marks, but she held off just prior to piercing the skin. It was magical. I often had to request that a woman bite or scratch harder, but this girl nailed it right from the start.

  I removed what was left of her bodice to reveal her pert, soft breasts. Her skin was like silk, smooth and pleasing to the touch. I had had many women before, but I’d never felt a raw, animal lust like this. I couldn’t resist the urge to feed, so I coaxed a small amount of blood from her left nipple, just enough to taste, onto my tongue. It didn’t disappoint. It was the most exquisite I’d ever tasted—intoxicating in a way that I couldn’t describe. There was something special about this woman. What it was, I had no idea.

  I gave her the same treatment as she had given me, rolling her on her stomach and kissing and biting her back

  “Harder,” she pleaded.

  I bit harder and drew blood. This seemed to send waves of ecstasy through her. She arched her back and said, “More.”

  After biting through her skin in a number of places, I proceeded to pull down her hoop skirt and petticoat. I brought my head between her legs, kissing her thighs until I got closer to my final destination. My tongue slid between her legs and located her clitoris. I’d learned the art of pleasing a woman and bringing her to maximum pleasure with my blood powers. At this point, I did most things subconsciously. It wasn’t until the twentieth century that I started learning about anatomy and further honed my skills.

  She moaned as my tongue glided back and forth. Part of my subconscious was maximizing her pleasure nerves without causing a clitoral overload. She arched her back, breathing a bit heavy, moaning louder with the release of an orgasm. I gave her a moment’s rest while I pulled off my pants.

  I was rock hard. At full attention, my length was almost a foot and my girth was fat and heavily laden with veins. My powers allowed me to control my erection and hold off on ejaculation, which kept my adventures in bed satisfying for my partner. On my end, I had always enjoyed giving pleasure. Generally speaking, I often take what I want, but in the sexual realm, I was a giver.

  I kneeled on the bed and picked her up so she was facing me. Pulling her close, I slid between her legs. My manhood was greeted with a flood of juices as I moved back and forth, letting her body grind against mine without penetration. I moved faster and faster, bouncing her body off of mine. It was another way of stimulating her clit, teasing her before the real thing, and she began to move with the rhythm. Two orgasms later, she lay back on the bed.

  “Inside me, now,” she ordered.

  She held her knees open, and I gently entered her. I have had issues fitting in some women, but the girl only grunted and pulled me closer. It felt like the tip of my penis was nudging her cervix as I began to slowly draw back and push forward. I used my powers to give her g-spot an extra bit of blood supply, increasing its sensitivity. Beyond my dick, I told her vagina to pulsate around her erogenous zone. In and out. Pulsating. I kept up the motion as she eclipsed with two orgasms.

  “Woah, Joe, she sounds like some kind of sexual powerhouse.”

  “Much of our play was par for the course, but she did up the ante. At the time, I thought she must have been practicing clenching her vaginal muscles.”

  “Like kegel exercises?”

  “Yeah, but she had an advanced mastery. She could vibrate and pulsate and get me to come without even moving. Little did I know, though, that she had these tricks for a reason.”

  I looked at Joe, pondering that last comment for a moment...

  Now was her time to take charge. She had me lay on my back, and she hopped on top. In this instance, she was looking to pleasure me. She took my penis and slipped it inside her. Then, she seemed to vibrate. It was as if she had control over her vaginal muscles, like I have control over blood and various organs. At first it was a low pulsing. Then, she began to massage up and down. I was wondering how she was doing this, but laid back and enjoyed the ride.

  At one point, it seemed like her vagina was stroking me and her cervix felt like lips tickling the head of my cock. She brought me to the edge right before coming and eased back down a few times. Finally, when I exploded, it was the craziest orgasm I had ever had. To this day, none have rivaled the sheer blast of sperm and wave of ecstasy I felt.

  Man, she was good.

  We were both tapped out after that, so we drifted off to sleep. We had another marathon session when we woke up, then fell asleep again. That was the pattern for what seemed like forever: sleep, fuck, sleep, fuck. The servants seemed to know the drill. They’d prepare our meals, leaving them outside the door, and take away our chamber pots when necessary. My memory is foggy that far back, and on top of that I kind of lost track of time, but I think we probably spent the better part of three days going at it. It was all just a happy blur of eroticism and great food. Good work if you can get it.

  In between rounds of sex, I finally had enough blood going to my brain to say something that had been on my mind.

  “I don’t think you ever told me your name.”

  “Oh.” She propped herself up on a pillow and feigned surprise. “Do you really need to know? I didn’t think you were so old fashioned.”

  “You could call me an old soul,” I said. “And I do have my principles.”

  “Well, since you’re bei
ng a gentleman about it, as a lady I am compelled to respond in kind,” she replied. “I am the Countess Elizabeth Bathory.”

  I held out my hand and we shook. “Very nice to meet you, Countess.”

  When Joe said that, I nearly spit out my beer. “Woah… Did you say Elizabeth Bathory?”

  “Yep.”

  “The Countess of Blood?”

  “Yep.”

  “Who is listed in the Guinness Book of World Records for being the most prolific serial killer of all time?”

  “Yep.”

  I shook my head. “I gotta say, that’s something.”

  “Although at the time I had no idea who she was or what her bizarre habits were,” Joe continued. “What I did know, however, was that she was constantly horny in a way that I’d never encountered before. Little did I know that I hadn’t seen anything yet...”

  After our three-day sojourn in the bedroom, we decided it was a good idea to go out and get some air. We got as far as the dining room, but, you know, baby steps. The servants must have known we were coming because they had laid out an incredible feast for us: breads and cheeses, fresh fruit, crepes, plus the requisite wine and ale. Then there were the place settings, the silver cutlery glinting in the candlelight alongside beautiful hand painted plates. Table settings might seem like a funny thing to focus on, especially for a guy, but fine dining was something to which I hadn’t had much exposure. I’m sure the Countess must have found my constant dumbfoundedness a source of endless amusement. It might have been part of my appeal for her. I was as dark as she was but naive to her world. Someone she could show off for.

  Having sampled her hospitality so far, I was happy to play my part. I rubbed my hands together as I surveyed the feast.

  “I hope you have built up an appetite, my darling,” she said.

  “I am famished. You provide plenty of exercise.”

  We sat down as her servants brought other dishes out. I was partial to one of the cheeses—an extremely sharp cheddar, which was fantastic, followed by a swig of ale. Ficko brought out the main course covered on a serving plate. He took the cover off with a flourish, and my nose picked up a very distinct scent. One I knew but wasn’t expecting to smell in this place.

  The Countess was eyeing me with mischief as she said, “It’s my favorite. I hunted it myself on this very property. I use all the parts, as you’ll see over the course of the evening. It’s only proper.”

  The roast was small and rather resembled a ham. I have to admit it was prepared to perfection, with a crispy, golden exterior, basted in some kind of fine glaze.

  I could sense her gauging my reaction and tried not to look startled—the scent I had picked up was human blood. I have tasted many different animals’ blood and find them easy to identify. This roast had once been part of a human being. More specifically, my olfactory sense told me it was a teenage girl just after puberty.

  Now, I’m no prude—I’ve eaten human flesh before. In my early, more savage days I would often roast and eat parts of my victims after I’d drained them dry. But times change and the cannibalism had stopped, along with my killer practices, many years ago. It wasn’t out of compassion, of course, just self preservation. My philosophy was that everything living will inevitably die somehow, and if I wasn’t the cause, then something else would be. What difference did it make? My outlook is a bit more refined these days.

  “It smells delicious,” I said. I knew that no matter what the country, nobles always tended to get up to some depraved shit. I’d heard all kinds of stories, but a cannibal meal was a new one on me. Even more interesting was that she said she hunted her own prey...

  Ficko sliced off a portion of meat and set it down on the plate in front of me. I have to say that it was perfectly prepared, the staff had obviously done this before. I took a bite and was transported. It melted in my mouth and the flavor was like a symphony of savory and sweet. A far cry from the campfire charred atrocities I was used to gnawing upon. I finished it in a few bites and was actually drooling in anticipation as Ficko carved me another slice.

  “Well, it looks like you are enjoying my dish,” the Countess said, bemused. “ I’m very glad you have a taste for it. Some people find it salty with a metallic tinge.”

  “I love it,” I said between bites. “It’s a masterpiece! Please pass my compliments along.”

  I devoured several more slices, eating less like a dinner guest and more like a golden retriever now that I think back. I cringe now when I think of how uncouth I was, but in the end, I have to laugh. You’re only young once, after all.

  And, like I said before, I think the Countess appreciated my unvarnished nature. I wasn’t what she was used to, and that, I think, turned her on. Watching me enjoying myself must have awakened something in her because when I looked up from my plate, she was on my side of the table, standing over me. She reached down and tilted my head back, kissing me deeply, then lingered on the corners of my mouth as she licked some blood away.

  I stood up, sending my chair crashing to the floor while also, and this is amusing, catching my turgid erection on the edge of the table. I don’t mean to brag, but the table was heavy and made of teak and my member managed to lift it a half inch or so off of the floor.

  It was like something from late night cable as I pushed the feast aside, sending the food and dishes flying to make some room on the table for Countess Bathory’s perfect rump. Lifting her roughly to the table, I parted her knees as I lifted up her dress. I didn’t need my blood powers to sense that she was as turned on as I was.

  I dropped trou and got to work, pounding myself into her with animal speed and ferocity. She responded in kind. Her body was an open book to me, and I could feel her ecstasy as my penis contacted her cervix. Her pupils widened like black pools before she threw her head back and moaned. My gifts allow me to control my own body, and that extends to sexual performance. I can keep an erection going for as long as I like (I don’t have to call a doctor after four hours), and I have to admit, there have been times where I have needed that boost. Not tonight, not with Countess Bathory. Tonight I was in the moment. Nothing else existed except the two of us, dark lovers in the void.

  Eventually, however, I did notice out of the corner of my eye that Ficko was present. He stood, silhouetted in the doorway, hands behind his back, watching us. His face was an impassive mask. I didn’t care that he was watching; in fact, on a certain level, I appreciated that the greatest sexual experience of my life had an audience. I hoped he would tell his friends. But I couldn’t help but wonder what was in it for him. Was it voyeuristic? He didn’t seem interested in us any more than the tapestry on the wall behind us. Maybe he was keeping tabs on the Countess. Such a strange relationship they had.

  Thrusting in and out, I made sure the top of my cock made contact with her clit. Even without my powers, she came and came again. I finally spurted inside her. I had never been able to sire a child, so I didn’t worry about the potential outcome.

  The Countess lay back, propped by her arms. I fed her some final pieces of meat from my plate. She licked my fingers clean.

  In the following days, circumstances necessitated the Countess leave to visit her castle. Her husband was in Vienna and there were obligations that she couldn’t get out of. If she was bothered by me and her husband being in such close proximity, she gave no outward or inward signs that I could discern. I got the impression that hubby knew about her extracurricular activities and that the two had an understanding. It was common enough among nobles, whose marriages were often arranged and had about as much to do with love as a mortgage signing.

  Before she left, she even went as far as to say he might come by to visit. I didn’t know what to take from that, but if she was hinting at a threesome, I wasn’t interested. At least not with another guy. Although, if anyone could have talked me into it, it would have been her; easygoing yet firm in her convictions, confident but not controlling, Elizabeth Bathory was the complete package, and I wasn’t af
raid to admit that I had developed a great deal of admiration for her. This was saying something because, as I may have mentioned, at this time I was well into my “mortals are insects” phase and my outlook on humanity as a whole was less than rosy. It took someone very special to break through those hundreds of years of disdain, and she was more than qualified.

  At any rate Countess Bathory was gone and, apart from Andras, I was alone in the house. Left to my own devices, I decided to check out her abode. I had spent most of my time in the bedroom, so there was plenty left to explore, all of it breathtakingly beautiful.

  One of the rooms was a library, which was a new concept to me, as I wasn’t much of a reader at that time. It was large, at least for the era, and well appointed with the usual hand-carved furniture and embroidered tapestries on the walls. It’s funny how one adjusts so easily to luxury, how accustomed we become to the extraordinary. I perused the books, idly plucking random volumes from the shelves, flipping through the pages, then replacing them. I stopped in front of the fireplace and looked at the obligatory oil painting of the happy couple. The artist was good, but he hadn’t quite captured her beauty. Her eyes seemed lifeless, her smile wan. Or maybe it was just my confirmation bias at work, subconsciously wanting her to be unhappy in her marriage. Who knows? Both she and her husband looked young, like teenagers. I reasoned the portrait must have been commissioned for their wedding.

  I kept looking around, not wanting to leave just yet. Something had drawn me to this room, and I didn’t know what, but I felt a gentle pressure to stay until I figured it out. I made my way to the back wall of the library, which was an inside wall and thus had no windows. It bore a hodgepodge of fine art, some small paintings, an alcove with a small sculpture, and a large tapestry that, for whatever reason, looked out of place. I moved closer to the tapestry and that’s when it hit me. Blood. It wafted out from behind the heavy fabric in tiny, almost imperceptible waves.