Darker Passions: Dracula

by Kilpatrick, Nancy

  Jonathan had me lie on the bed face down. He spread me wide and tied my arms and legs to the bedstead, then used the harsh crop on my delicate inner thighs, which had never been whipped before. I screamed and cried in pain, begging him to cease, but as always he only finished when he was satisfied. He seemed to know my limits better than I, for when I thought I could take no more, I was always amazed that I could.

  He crawled up my body, his rock hard member impaling my throbbing inner flesh from behind. His thrusts were long and solid and steady, each slamming the dreadful plug into my rectum, causing pleasure mingled with pain to streak through me. Once again he had brought me to a deliciously vulnerable state where I could no longer tell the difference. My moist womanly slit welcomed him and made his visit worthwhile.

  Later, when Jonathan asked me yet again if he should continue to accompany me, I said, "Of course." After all, we were almost at my destination.

  But as we traveled from Buda-Pesth to Bistrita, I began to feel nervous, for this was indeed the last leg of my journey. Our arrangement was that at the Borgo Pass Jonathan would leave me and I would travel alone to Castle Dracula by coach.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  "When will we arrive?" Mina asked me.

  I checked my pocket watch. "Approximately six hours. I suppose it's time for a parting gift."

  She had, of course, no idea what I meant.

  "Undress and kneel on the seat," I told her.

  "Jonathan, this is not very private."

  Indeed, this train was not at all like the European variety. The compartment was ours alone yet there was no lock on the door and people had been constantly popping in, realizing their mistake then leaving. I knew that for Mina the idea of being naked before strange eyes would be impossible, at least under normal circumstances.

  I felt the look in my eye must be dangerous because of her reaction. She undressed as if she did not do so with her will. I would see to it that the act was accomplished against her will if need be, and truly, that is how I felt. She would not have liked the manner in which it was done. She did as I bid her, removing her traveling jacket and skirt, her long petticoats, shoes and stockings. She no longer wore a corset and bloomers—I had forbidden it. I saw that she would have liked to remove the terrible thing that speared her rectum, but she could not, for only I could do that and I had no intention of removing it just yet.

  I had her kneel on the seat, her nearly healed bottom exposed before me. The sight of skin only slightly pink brought my cock to its full height. It had been worth the wait.

  "I have saved something special for you, Mina," I said.

  "I know I shall be whipped," she said in a voice filled with terror and desire. "From this position what else would I have to look forward to? Fortunately, it can not continue more than six hours."

  I knew this made her feel in control. I intended to change that comfortable, confident feeling.

  A quick glance behind her did quite a bit to move ahead my goal. I showed her the thin bamboo cane, or one half of it to be precise, for it had been split lengthwise. Mina, I knew, had not been whipped with a cane. I suspected she believed that because it was thin, it would not have the impact of a thicker object. I could see she was reassuring herself: the train would stop regularly and afford her relief.

  I stood behind her and cracked the somewhat flexible cane across her bottom. It was a very light whack. She barely uttered a word. She did, however, glance behind her again and from that look of disdain I felt she thought I'd lost my metal.

  Her resolve to leave me showed in her face and brought out the monster in me.

  But over the next hour, as the cane whisked her bottom in its delicate manner, she came to realize that she had been mistaken. The train did stop at stations on the way, but I did not. Her screams were heard by all, but this did not bother me. My seemingly light-weight whipping had turned horribly painful for her. She writhed and cried out, "I cannot believe how such easy switches can cause such grief!"

  She was beside herself with agony, which I found delightful. "You have five more hours to suffer at my hands," I informed her, "and I shall see you through the whole round, of that I can assure you."

  The door to the compartment opened and an old man and his wife looked in. I knew Mina felt shame at being whipped before these strangers. The large muscles of her behind contracted in pain around the horrible dildo. I kept the rod coming. The man and woman stood at the door and watched a long time. The humiliation of a stranger witnessing her being mercilessly caned added tears to the ones that continued to flow from Mina's eyes.

  The bamboo left her no room to manoeuvre. She could not avoid it and she could not stand it. She howled out her misery as the hours passed, the gentle swishing welting her backside, swelling her bottom and coloring it to purple. The act of whipping her so continuously swelled my cock to heights it had not hitherto reached until my balls ached with semen I needed to expel. But still I continued. Her pleas did not affect me. She no longer tried to avoid the blows, having learned that doing so they came worse.

  Finally, as we were an hour from the Borgo Pass, I lay down the rod. Her behind steamed in anguish. Her entire body trembled uncontrollably. I knew she had never been punished so and imagined she hoped never to be so again.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  It was a punishment, regardless of what Jonathan said. He was angry at me for leaving him and intended to make his final statement a strong one.

  The thongs holding the plug in place were cut and the object of much discomfort removed. My relief was short lived.

  At first I thought he was replacing it with a far larger tool, but what I felt probing my anus was fleshy and hot. His cock pierced me then filled my rectum with its full length. I felt split asunder.

  He stroked in and out, spreading me wider, rubbing places inside me that radiated hedonistic pleasure throughout my rectum. My vagina contracted and I orgasmed spontaneously. I could hardly stand the pleasure of being taken in this way. Shamelessly I thrust my fiery behind back into him, begging for him to plunge deeper and harder, to invade me completely. I heard the door open and knew someone was watching. But I could no longer control myself. My husband's cock owned me and told me so in no uncertain terms. I could do nothing but follow my own irrepressible longings and eagerly submit to him.

  As we arrived at the Borgo Pass, my emotions were a potpourri and I had the distinct impression that something was amiss but I could not identify what. The train pulled away from the station and Jonathan and I stood alone together on the platform. Nearby a coach for hire waited to take me to my final destination where my fate would be sealed.

  Jonathan stood before me, tall, slim, handsome, his eyes serious and penetrating.

  "You're going to beg me to stay," I said.

  "Not at all," he told me. He handed me a large sum of money. "You have your inheritance as well to draw from," he said, "I wish you the best."

  I could not fathom his reaction and told him so.

  He looked at me with a steady masterful gaze. "Mina, the choice is yours. If you stay with me you know now how your life will be. You will receive more of the same. Much more."

  His words sent a thrill through me. A life of pain and pleasure with a man of flesh and blood compared with being a member of a harem, caught in the spell of a cruel monster who must divide his time among many seeking his attention. Either decision was one I might regret.

  The train arrived on the opposite track, waiting to take Jonathan from me forever. He picked up his bag which held the means to pleasure and grabbed the back of my neck in his hand, pulling me to him. He kissed me hard on the lips, his tongue sliding into my mouth, filling me, sending waves of pleasure rippling through me. My burning vagina and rectum contracted and my derriere pulsed with the molten heat inflicted by his hand.

  He was boarding the train when I ran to him. "Jonathan, I want you."

  He looked down at me. The train began to pull away and I had to run to k
eep up. "If you come with me, Mina, you stay with me, you submit to me and submit willingly. As your Master I have a right to imprint my ownership on you daily, and shall. Can you live that life, Mina?"

  "Gladly!" I told him.

  The train began to move faster and Jonathan bent down and grabbed me around the waist, scooping me up to the step. My skirt rose and his hands slid under it, clasping my naked scorched buttocks in a proprietary way. I looked up into his light eyes filled with dark promises and felt I belonged to him fully, and to him alone.

  I saw my steamer trunk, still on the platform, fading from view. A trunk packed with symbols of the faded woman I had been and was no longer. Silently I bid farewell to Count Dracula. Whatever he was, he had opened me to my own dark passions.

  As my demon lover looked into my eyes, he placed something into my hand. I looked down. A ring, like the one in his genitals. I nodded my head, knowing I would be wearing this intimate gift very very soon. I also knew I had made the correct decision.

  Part 7 - Destiny

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Quincey Morris stared at the massive fortress imbedded into the side of the mountain. His legs felt unsteady. This castle, or what remained of it, had melded with the harsh boulders over the centuries. Whatever occurred within its crumbling walls no doubt reflected a mentality as ancient as the landscape itself, and as severe. This was not Texas!

  The massive drawbridge had been lowered, as if their party was expected. When the four men entered the courtyard, they dismounted at once. Van Helsing tied his horses' reigns to an iron post, and the others followed his lead.

  Why Quincey had come here was beyond his understanding. What had started as a simple visit to England for business purposes had turned into an adventure that might lead to his destruction. Back in Texas, he had experience nothing like the bedroom antics of the frisky Miss Westenra. That, alone, would have been enough of a treat for any man of the world. But what followed left him 'non-plussed', as the good Dr. Steward would put it. He'd never seen such escapades played out, even in the Austin whorehouses he patronized. Much to his surprise and delight, he'd never debased himself to such an extent—he didn't think he had it in him. And now here he was, following Professor Van Helsing to this wilderness in a remote region that, by the looks of it, very few civilized people had set foot in.

  He watched the professor gather his apparatus. Clearly the man was obsessed with Lucy. And while Quincey had enjoyed himself immensely at her parties, still, she wasn't the reason he came half way around the world. When he fessed up, he knew he was fascinated by the enigmatic Count Dracula.

  Van Helsing mounted the steps of the castle as if he'd been here before and might be welcome. He didn't knock but pressed the latch. The door opened. Maybe they were expected.

  He led them into a vast hallway stretching so high up into the gloom that Quincey couldn't see the ceiling. The place was cold and filthy, massive cobwebs strewn between the pillars and over the bannister, and across the tapestries and portraits and code-of-arms adorning the walls.

  Rooms led off at various angles and the professor stopped their procession from going further. "We have but one hour to find her," he said, "then the sun sets and Dracula will be on us, of that you can be certain. We are the mice, this his trap, hence the easy access."

  The task seemed impossible to Quincey. Four of them couldn't cover so much territory in such a short time. And there were greater worries. "It's not a good idea to split up," he warned.

  Van Helsing spun around. His metal cane smacked Quincey across the face. "Mr. Morris, if you are not man enough to investigate in a logical fashion, I shall tether you outside with the horses."

  Quincey felt stunned. The sharp sting was followed by a severe burning of the skin. He moved his finger to his cheek—the flesh had already swelled. He felt humiliated before the other men, not something he would put up with on home soil.

  "You, Mr. Morris, will take the top floor, John the next down, then Arthur the one below. I shall investigate these rooms, although I suspect not even the undead reside on this level. I shall also examine below, where the crypt must be located. You all have your kits?"

  Each man held up a knapsack.

  Quincey, John and Arthur started up the stairs. Once they had left Arthur to the murky second floor and were headed up the stone steps to the third, John said, "That rod is wicked, is it not?"

  "You can say that again," Quincey admitted, feeling his flesh scream with each step. And although his cheek smarted still, the professor's hand did not measure up in some fundamental way. Quincey thought of that other man, the one whose rod he had yet to experience. "He's amazing."

  "Who, Dracula?"

  John and Quincey looked at one another, startled. They had obviously had the same thought. "I haven't met anyone like him."

  "The Count makes me feel like a school boy," John confided, "awaiting his pleasure, or displeasure."

  Quincey left John at the third floor and proceeded up to the top level, or what he felt must be the top. He wandered through a series of bedrooms with old heavy wood furniture, dark and oppressive. And yet this atmosphere also held a fascination for him. Things here seemed solid and permanent, unlike in the United States. Not just the eternal mountains, but this castle had been this way for centuries and would continue to be so indefinitely. Quincey and his puny will could never alter that fact.

  When he had exhausted all the rooms along this wing and was about to enter the western section, he saw the sun drop below the horizon through the cut glass casements. Suddenly he heard a sound to his left. He reentered a room he had already inspected and discovered there a door that somehow he had missed. He opened it. Narrow black marble steps led up. They spiraled and the steep passage grew even narrower. Finally he reached another door, this one locked.

  The door would not budge. He set down his knapsack. Although it was pitch dark, he made a quick search over the walls with his hands and along the top of the door frame for a key. Within he heard a sound, like groaning. He peered through the keyhole.

  A hundred yellow beeswax candles lit the room. Lucy hung from a contraption shaped like a giant X. Her wrists were tied at the two posts at the top and her ankles spread wide and secured at the bottom. Fresh whip marks streaked her lily white chest. Her face looked exquisite, though, her loveliness obviously enhanced by the agony she suffered.

  He felt transfixed as he watched her breasts quiver. Never had he seen her so intense, so alive, and yet it was clear that she had altered. Besides the tone of her skin, two pointed teeth jutting over her lower lip alerted him to this peculiar post-death state.

  Suddenly Quincey, still bent over, became aware of a hand inching slowly up the inside of his thigh. The hand reached his balls and stopped. Quincey froze. The hand clutched them and he trembled. The hand began to squeeze and Quincey screamed.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  John heard Quincey's scream and raced up to the top floor. "Which direction?" he wondered aloud. He took the nearest corridor.

  John searched the rooms along this wing. Finally he stumbled upon a door that led up. He called down the staircase to Arthur to join him and, not waiting for a reply, ascended the narrow steps alone. At the top of the dark twisting stairwell he was met by a ravenous beauty, the likes of which he had never encountered.

  The girl, for she was no more than 20, stood, hands on hips, breasts thrust towards him, visible through a gossamer gown that revealed tantalizingly curves. A rawhide bullwhip hung around her neck. She tilted her head in an insolent manner and flipped her red tresses back from her face. John felt a stirring at his crotch.

  "John!" Quincey called from across the room. He was affixed to a stocks, bent over, head and wrists through the holes, ankles trapped in yet another stocks at his feet. Next to him, Lucy hung on a St. Andrews' Cross, her chest nearly stripped of flesh.

  "I have had an Englishman before," the girl said. "I found him flabby and weak and not familiar with my whip, a
s was Dracula's new bride. Does this flaw run through the blood of your nation?" The girl's voice was deep and throaty, with a peasant quality to it that John found lustful. He threw his shoulders back and his chest out in patriotic pride.

  She extended her hand and smiled seductively. "Come."

  "No!" Quincey yelled. "We're here to rescue Lucy. Use your weapons!" John remembered his pack and withdrew a sharp stake and the heavy mallet.

  The girl hissed at him like a snake. Her enormous eye teeth flashed in the candlelight, and her green irises pulsed with an unholy light.

  Suddenly, from behind him, two more beauties appeared, one fleshy, the other slim, both dark-haired. Each gripped an arm and he was propelled into the chamber.

  Now that he was within, John realized the true purpose of this tower—a torture realm. Affixed to the walls were all manner of restraints and implements of punishment, many of them ancient.

  The women dragged to a heavy-looking chair. John struggled in a way that would have caused an ordinary chair to topple; this one stayed rooted to the stone floor. The chair proper was made of a dark dense wood, the seat of metal. The three women tore his clothes from his body as if they were jackals shredding the flesh from prey they intended to devour. The slim girl and the fleshy vixen tied him securely, wrists and ankles, while the red-head encased his neck with a black leather band like the type of collar a hound would wear. All this forced him to sit upright.

  The red haired one moved to Quincey and used a knife to slowly cut off his pants and shirt, leaving him wearing only boots, like John. "You may call me Magda," she said, "first wife of Count Dracula." She ran a hand over the rod mark on Quincey's cheek. "Who did this to you?"

  "Professor Van Helsing."

  "Ah!" This seemed to intrigue her. "Awe-inspiring. Great skill is required to slash the skin with such precision. The Dutch have a way with the flesh, do they not?"