Darker Passions: Dracula Read online

  Lucy had left a pink powder on my dresser. I applied some to my lips and also colored my nipples and the area surrounding them. The red looked healthy and bespoke of the yearning I felt.

  Perhaps this Quincey, whoever he may be, might at the least deliver entertainment. This rest by the sea had in many way been far from a rest, and yet I seemed to be spending substantial hours alone. Perhaps a bit of masculine input would do the trick.

  Lucy and a tall broad-shouldered man stood by the French doors in the dining room. They turned as I entered.

  The man had black hair, swept back and pomaded. It told me immediately that he was an American. His dark eyes locked onto me and I felt a shiver of fear and delight ride up through my thighs.

  "Mina, dearest." Lucy kissed me on the lips and shoved me forward, presenting me like a present to this man. "Mr. Quincey Morris. Quincey, my best friend, Mina."

  "Ma'am," Quincey said, kissing the back of my hand. His lips were full and wet and I felt the imprint of them as if I had been tattooed.

  "Isn't he delightful?" Lucy exclaimed, adding, "He's from Texas."

  "Really?" I said, hardly knowing what to say.

  We dined on roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, with a whipped chocolate dessert that Verna had created for the occasion. While we ate we chatted.

  I learned that Mr. Morris was a rancher by trade. Horses.

  "You must ride frequently," I said.

  "Every day, Mina. Gets you mighty sore in certain places, if you know what I mean." His dark eyes laughed.

  "Oh, Mina does," Lucy said, and I felt my face color.

  He had come to England on business and would not be staying long. Still, during that time Lucy had managed to meet him and he had managed to propose marriage.

  We spoke of many things while we ate, including Jonathan, at which point the meal became tasteless for me.

  "Mrs. Harker, how long's your husband been gone?"

  "Far too long and yet not long enough," I said, an unusually candid and witty remark for me.

  "Mina is recently married, Quincey," Lucy told him. "They're still sniffing their way around one another."

  Quincey laughed, a hearty laugh that did not feel mean-spirited yet I knew he was making fun of me. "Hell, in Texas folks take a lesson from the horses. When a stud sees a mare he wants and she's willing, well, they just do it on the spot, no ifs, ands or buts about it. That's the way we do it in Texas."

  "An interesting approach, Mr. Morris," I said. "I suppose in England we are rather more formal."

  "Some of us," Lucy corrected. "Personally I think it's refreshing. If men and women want to explore their animal natures, I for one do not believe convention should stand in their way. These acts are perfectly natural, after all."

  "I suppose so," I said, feeling that sentiment was against me yet not really understanding how I'd managed to assign myself the role of official opposition. After the last few days, I was no longer certain just what I did believe. But one thing I knew for certain: my life had altered. When Jonathan came home, he would not find the woman he had left behind. The idea of that both frightened and excited me.

  Jonathan. I had been so hard on him in my mind. Since I'd arrived, I hadn't written him even one letter. Of course, I'd received none either, although the mail would needs be forwarded from London.

  I looked at Lucy and Quincey. What a fine couple they made. Whatever had I been thinking? I was still Mrs. Jonathan Harker. Nothing had changed that. Perhaps I'd had certain experiences that awakened my sensibilities, still my allegiance was clear.

  I excused myself, much to the protests of Lucy and Quincey, and retired to my room, determined that tonight I would write to Jonathan. For good or for ill, he was my husband and I at least owed him my loyalty.

  Half a page had been written when I heard sounds through the wall. I kept my back to the portrait of the staid relative, determined that tonight I would ignore Lucy's lascivious behavior. She had her life and I mine. We could be good friends but that did not mean we must share everything.

  But the racket continued and I could not concentrate. Despite all my willpower, I found myself sliding the portrait aside and peering through the hole.

  Quincey was on all fours, naked but for the bridle he wore over his face and the bit between his teeth. Lucy, also naked, pert breasts jiggling with each movement, sat astride his back. Her bent knees allowed her pretty little bottom to plump out behind her. In her left hand she held the reins high and tight, forcing his head this way, then that, as if he were a horse. In her other hand she clutched a riding crop which she flicked smartly against his rear end.

  The scene transfixed me. As Quincey galloped about the room, Lucy cropped him repeatedly, bouncing merrily on his back, reining him left and right, yelling "Giddyap!" and "Whoa!" as they say in the American Western novels.

  Quincey pranced about like a fine steed. His dark hair had fallen into his face so that it resembled a mane. His well-defined muscles gleamed from sweat and rippled under the tension of Lucy's directed movement. At one point, when she pulled the reins, he reared back on his knees and I glimpsed a penis so steady and hard I gasped out loud.

  Both he and Lucy turned to the wall.

  "Mina!" Lucy said.

  I would have hidden, but something in her voice held me.

  "Mina, come in here right this minute!"

  I could not move at first, but then suddenly found my legs propelling me towards the door, down the hallway and into Lucy's room.

  "Take off your clothes!" she commanded. Her amethyst eyes and Quincey's dark orbs glittered as they locked onto me.

  I did not move a muscle.

  "Remove them or I shall." Lucy's tone was sweet, but it did not invite discussion.

  Slowly I unbuttoned my borrowed dress. The fabric rustled as it drifted down my body to the floor. Next I unrolled my stockings to my ankles, then slipped them off after my shoes. My bloomers embarrassed me. They were plain, unadorned cotton, the utilitarian kind, not the beautiful undergarments that Lucy wore, and I peeled them off quickly. Because Lucy's dress was a size smaller than my own dress size, I'd had to tighten my corset more than I normally would. It held in my waist and plumped my breasts up high, meanwhile pushing my derriere out so far that it appeared to be as round as Lucy's. My fingers fumbled in nervousness and I struggled with the hooks; the task seemed to take forever, although apparently neither Lucy nor Quincey minded. Their eyes roamed my exposed parts and I was reminded of hungry predators.

  Once I stood naked before them, Lucy vacated Quincey's back and pointed to it with the crop. Shamelessly I sat astride him, taking the warm spot Lucy had so recently sat upon and where her sweet slippery juices still lingered. Two small stirrups had been harnessed to his sides and I bent forward in order to slip my toes into them. They kept my body thrust forward and my derriere jutted out behind me like a jockey at Ascot.

  Lucy handed me the reins and a second crop. "Well," she said sweetly, "he is a stubborn beast and will not move unless you whip him soundly."

  "Whip him?" I said stupidly. I had never whipped anyone. The idea of it frightened me.

  "Whip him properly or I shall whip you." I glanced at her and she smiled, but I knew she meant business.

  I flicked the crop lightly against his rump.

  Lucy's crop lashed my buttocks and I yelped.

  Determined to do better, I struck him harder and felt him tremble beneath me. The feeling was a delicious sense of power. Between my legs was an animal. A beast that needed taming. A beast I could learn to control.

  The leather crop stung me again, once on each cheek in quick secession, so I would get the point.

  I cracked mine against Quincey's bottom and nudged his sides with my knees.

  He moved around the room slowly at first, my crop lapping at his ass, Lucy's flailing mine. Soon Mr. Quincey Morris from Texas galloped over the carpet like the fine American breed that he was, responsive to my every whim.

  His cheeks ha
d been pink when I arrived. A quick glance over my shoulder assured me they had brightened considerably, as had my own sweet seat, which plumped red against the white skin of his back.

  Each gallop tossed me up into the air a bit, there to receive the precisely timed cropping, then plunging me down so that my tender nub bounced against his hot sweaty skin.

  We rode this way for a good hour, I on Quincey whipping him, Lucy's crop licking me madly, until at last Quincey collapsed onto the carpet in exhaustion.

  "On your knees!" Lucy ordered. Quincey, like a horse that had laid down, struggled to obey his mistress under the smart cracking of the thin leather punishing his hide.

  "Get up!" she told me, "and on your knees too."

  I did as I was told, the stinging leather tongue encouraging me to make haste.

  Lucy mounted him and rode him in a circle until they were behind me. I felt tense with excitement. All the little lash marks on my bottom pulsed in unison with my swollen little button. I was out of breath, waiting, excited, fearful.

  Lucy nudged him forward. I heard the crop cracking against him.

  "Mina, spread your legs," she ordered, and I did.

  Within moments I felt something close to my opening. Warm breath. A wet tongue slid from the front of my crack all the way back to my anus, there to linger. I quivered at the contact. Fleshy lips sucked and chewed on my anal opening, forcing moans of pleasure and embarrassment from my throat. A firm tongue entered me. I groaned again and the crop cracked against him and I felt him shudder. The tongue licked my bottom hole clean then moved back down to my sensitive womanly slit.

  The pleasure was so intense I could hardly stand it.

  Instinctively my chest lowered and my bottom thrust back into his face. He slurped the juices from me, swabbing the layers and folds outside, nibbling my tender swollen nub. Tremors passed through my body. The crop whipped me anew, increasing my pleasure.

  Then his tongue entered me. No man had entered me before but Jonathan. I felt indecent. Dirty. Vulgar. Thrilled.

  I begged, "Lucy, whip me, I beg of you!" She complied, raising and lowering the crop quickly, lashing both cheeks, forcing me to lose all decorum and moan and beg them both to continue.

  Quincey's tongue darted in and out of me and his lips sucked skin that now shot sparks of sensation through me.

  I groaned and cried as they kept time with tongue and whip.

  Tongue, whip. Tongue, whip. Both brought torturous pleasure and exquisite pain. I wondered if I could go on this way forever. Could I build and build and never reach the top? And yet I had a sense of escalating, nearing a mountain peak that would show me sights I had longed to see.

  Suddenly, Lucy jerked the reins.

  Quincey's tongue and lips were gone.

  The crop disappeared.

  I was left on my hands and knees, my burning derriere sticking high up in the air, my insides pulsing, the cool air of his absent tongue tempering the heat.

  I looked over my shoulder. Quincey lay on his back with Lucy astride, riding him, his fine manhood piercing her.

  Suddenly Verna appeared at the door, riding crop in hand. She came straight towards me.

  "No!" I screamed.

  Her crop found my bottom without delay. I was whipped out the door, back down the hallway and into my room, all on my hands and knees. The blows were many and she laid them on heavily.

  Once in my room, Verna yanked me up by my hair and threw me onto the bed. Then she gave me the crop good, striking my already swollen cheeks, the backs of my thighs, my calves, using the leather tongue and the cane part. In no time I was pleading for her to stop. My body throbbed like a heartbeat. If I could get no release I would die.

  She stopped, as I had asked, but now it felt too soon. She switched off the light and left. Again I lay till morning, my body steaming in an agony of not-quite-ripeness.

  I lay in my bed on my stomach sobbing. Would I never be fulfilled? Would I never taste the magic others took for granted? Lucy and her multitude of beaus. Verna and Hodge. And I? I would be leaving soon. What had I to look forward to? The moral Jonathan. A good man. A righteous man. A man who would not even use a riding crop on a horse!

  I wept in bitter disappointment, feeling like a new bud that would never flourish but die on the vine.

  Chapter Ten

  The following evening was to have been the last of my visit. Again, I saw almost nothing of Lucy during the day. I had only my wounded bottom to entertain me.

  Lucy arrived while I was eating supper, but did not join me. Shortly thereafter the doorbell chimed. Dr. Steward was led into the living room where I was enjoying a glass of cognac while I sat upon a soft cushion.

  "Mrs. Harker."

  "Doctor. I'm afraid Lucy is in her rooms. I'll send Verna for her."

  "That won't be necessary." Lucy stood in the doorway. She was dressed in a satin gown and a black velvet cape with a hood, as if she were ready to attend the opera.

  "It was good of you to come, John, but I'm afraid I cannot see you tonight. Perhaps Mina would be kind enough to entertain you."

  I was speechless once again. Was Lucy now offering my services as a paddler to this man who was virtually a stranger? The gleam in his eye told me he was not opposed to the idea, although I had the distinct impression that he felt as annoyed at Lucy as I had become.

  "Don't wait up for me," she told both of us. "I've met a fascinating man from the continent. A lord. Count Dracula. He's escorting me to the theater and I shall be home late. Very late."

  Part 3 - Jonathan

  Chapter Eleven

  Someone must have carried me to my bed for when I awoke I found myself in my bedroom in Castle Dracula, unable to move. Alone.

  Magda did a job on me, that is certain. Every limb and my entire torso had been cut by her harsh whip. She suspended me on the rack for hours—until just before sunrise. The woman is a fiend, gleaning pleasure by forcing cries from my lips.

  I have never met a female so methodical. She began at my shoulders and worked her way down my back, searing the flesh with the sharp tail of the bullwhip. The sound alone as it cracked through the air terrified me. Each cut sliced into my skin until I thought I could not bear it. Until the next one.

  She traveled down my back slowly and I suspect the stripes that tortured me later were no more than an inch apart. If the Count had not broken my shaving mirror, I would have been able to look, but there were no mirrors in the castle, or none I found.

  When she reached my waste, she paused and returned to my cock, still suffering on the other side of the rack, standing tall but alone, except for my balls, which she had also forced through the wires. I did not wish to have an erection. The situation did not call for one. And yet, I found the pain oddly stimulating in a sexual way. But the wires kept me from ejaculating.

  My back raked raw, she then used the end of the whip to slap my penis and testicles. Back and forth she went and shamelessly I cried out. But much to my amazement, the fellow would not quit. He defied her attempts to break him. And when the heat threatened to tear him open, suddenly cool lips slid down my shaft and fingers kneaded my swollen balls. Cries of pain turned to groans of delight. She licked and sucked him until he felt full and ready to burst. But I could not come. It may have been the manner in which the wires propped up my genitals, or it may have been some conscience arising to inform me that a woman other than my wife was attempting to suck me dry. I do not know from whence my impotence stemmed. Magda, though, did not appear to mind.

  Presently she picked up the jar of herbal scented oil again. Before resuming her vicious work, she oiled my lower flanks, rubbing the stinging liquid into my ass cheeks, around the monstrous leather penis the Count had forced up me the night before and which I still wore. The invasive tool was uncomfortable at least, only truly painful when my muscles tensed, as they must at contact with the whip, and yet that sensation was not entirely unpleasant. Much to my surprise, I found that the longer I wore this 'tail'
as it were, the more it felt a part of me, a sensual and necessary part.

  Magda continued on down between my legs, the inside of my thighs, the backs, and my hips, down my calves to my feet. The liquid pricked but that seemed to lessen the fire raging across my upper body.

  When she was satisfied, she picked up the dreaded whip and began anew.

  Of course, I had never been whipped; what civilized man has?

  I had received the cricket paddle in school once or twice, an initiation into a fraternity, the other time, again by my peers. It was enough to tell me that a warm bottom was not an unpleasant sensation, but the occasion had never arisen for a repeat application and I had not foreseen that it would. And it had not, until the Count used the birches on me.

  But this was different, entirely. Magda is a beautiful woman, although her exact nature mystifies me. She and the other females are like the Count, yet what they are I could not say. Their skin is pale, as though they need sunshine, the one thing they avoid like the plague. Her red hair is coarse and wild and her green eyes will flash at a moment's notice. Her figure is full, breasts inviting lips to them, and her bottom generous and begging to be squeezed. Of course, last night it was no longer white but seared from the fire I had spread across her at the Count's instruction.

  That had been an unusual experience. On the one hand, being in control of her agony satisfied me in a way that was foreign. But as well, part of me wished to resist being a mere instrument the Count utilized to punish Magda. Yet after the previous night with Count Dracula, I knew resistance to his will was impossible.

  That night had been unlike any in my experience. When the Count found me fucking his wife, and being titillated by his other two spouses, I expected his ire. That he struck me was not uncalled for and the pain of that blow felt deserved. Still, it embarrassed me to be picked me up like a woman, although there was something arousing as I lay in his strong arms whilst he strode purposefully through the castle and up the stone staircase to my bedroom.