I just wanted to take a moment to say thank you to those who reviewed the last chapter. While I know there are a number of you lurking in the background still reading (and I see and love you more than you could know), I greatly appreciate those taking the time to review - especially Scarlet Empress and She-Devil Red for being so damn consistent. I don't deserve you two ladies, but I am oh so grateful for your continued support!
Like I've said many times before - writing is so solitary enough on its own, but posting can prove just as lonely sometimes, so your reviews mean everything. And I mean everything.
CW: more sex... because evidently these two had a lot to get out of their systems ;) There's also the exploration of some mutual kinks. It gets a little... depraved. (i.e. references to spanking, anal, forced orgasms, orgasm denial, a wee bit of teratophilia featuring hellbeast forms, double penetration... and just generally impossible marathon sex because what's a refractory period? We don't know him :P)
Copyright © 2022 TSM. All rights reserved.
Chapter 9
Decadence
Francesca sighed as she slowly lowered herself with shaking arms into the bathtub, the scorching heat excruciating yet simultaneously heavenly as she sank down into the water. There was a jet at her back and two more on either side of her, sending the water to churn and bubble around her trembling limbs. She leaned back against the wall of the tub with great care, resting her nape just on the edge before allowing the remainder of her body to fully submerge and then completely relax.
It was a miracle she was still conscious, although given what she had just endured, she had no doubt that when she did finally get around to sleeping, it would be deep and restful.
Her body ached in all the right places, her sex deliciously sore, bum still stinging a bit, and her limbs noodle-like with the occasional spasm or tremor reminding her that they were even there at all – all of which proved rather impressive, considering her preternatural healing abilities. But those lingering bodily discomforts were a small price to pay for what was still faintly rippling through her.
That last orgasm had broken her.
She hadn't expected it, for him to work her up so damn high, so thoroughly. Being handcuffed to the headboard had only served to make her more excited and when she had told Dracula not to hold back, he had taken her at her word.
He hadn't restrained himself.
Not even a little.
And she would never be the same.
She had kept waiting for her blood-rage to manifest itself, that insidious dark passenger that had plagued her for the last two centuries, praying it wouldn't come to claim her as she abandoned all control – and to her eternal disbelief, it hadn't.
Through the spanking and the edging and the fucking and all that glorious dirty talk in between, Frankie had remained wholly her own throughout, and the realization of it, the freedom, coupled with the earth-shattering, mind-numbing release… it had been too much.
A full and complete sensory overload.
She had shattered as the climax shredded her nerves to ribbons and then she had wept, a deep, cleansing sob of relief and unadulterated joy. Not once did Vladislaus judge or condemn her as she bawled. If anything, it made his aftercare even more tender, which only served to shatter her anew. But he was there to put her back together, and for as long as she lived, Francesca would forever treasure the things he had whispered to her in his native tongue as he brought her back down, the gentle reverence of his touch as he soothed her, consoled her… and then carried her into the bathroom.
He had left her for a few minutes – though with great reluctance – but only because he had intended to strip the bed and change the linens, declaring that he had no desire to sleep in wet sheets – as much as he had enjoyed making them thus. Frankie smiled at the thought, her eyes flittering shut for just a moment, a wave of contentedness washing over her. She never wanted to leave this apartment... at least not for a good long while.
She could certainly get used to this, though– the decadence of nothing but sex and blood, of the slick glide of flesh, the delicious stings of pain, the duet of their mutual pleasure.
But they both understood that time was limited, which was why they were still up, in spite of the hour and the exhaustion, that growing need for respite. It was a miracle they were in completely different rooms right now. Naturally, it didn't last long, and as promised, Dracula returned. She had felt his entrance into the bathroom long before she heard it.
Frankie only opened her eyes when she heard the plop and fizz of something being dropped into the water by her feet and she discovered what appeared to be a bath bomb frothing near the surface. It was turning the water a deep shade of red.
Vlad, still naked, was sitting on the edge of the tub, stirring the water idly with one hand as his eyes lingered hungrily on her. His biceps, shoulders, and upper back were littered with angry red tracks, evidently still healing from the way she had scratched and clawed at him near the end. The sight of those thin marks left her lips curling just a little in pleasure, as if she had been drugged.
High on dick, is what Lyra usually called it – seemed rather appropriate, considering.
"If it were up to me, I'd insist on a proper blood bath," Vladislaus explained casually as he continued moving his hand lazily about in the water. Such a perfectly neutral and safe topic of discussion. "But seeing as how that's kind of impossible at the moment, this is the next best thing."
The water continued to bubble and churn, turning darker and darker and she lifted her hand to find that consistency was indeed a lot like blood – just a little less sticky.
"Guess there will have to be a shower after the bath, then," she said. She forced herself to sit up and scoot forward before motioning with her head for him to get in behind her.
"I certainly don't mind the idea of taking another shower with you," he replied suggestively. So much for keeping everything neutral. "Although I'll have to insist on the water not being this damn hot. Doesn't your ass still hurt, or did I not spank you hard enough?"
She chuckled.
"Oh it stings plenty, but the rest of me is grateful for the heat." He smiled and shook his head a bit as if in part amusement, part disbelief. "Come get in with me. It's not that bad."
"It's practically scalding."
"Is not. Don't be such a baby," she insisted, reaching for his hand. "Besides, I know I'm not the only one who could benefit from a good soak."
He eventually accepted her invitation with a sigh, hissing as he placed one foot into the water and then the other. Vlad took his time lowering himself, his arms trembling a little as he did so – evidently as worn out as she was, though he certainly hid it better. When he was finally seated, he eased himself back against the wall behind him with a groan before urging her to recline against his chest. She accepted the invitation immediately, situating herself comfortably between his legs as he used his foot to turn off the faucet. She then rolled over a little in his hold to take some of the pressure off her bum as his arms finished wrapping around her.
Being so close to him sent her body thrumming anew with desire, in spite of her fatigue and everything they had done to each other these last several hours.
Either he sensed her wanting, or he was suffering from the same thing, because suddenly one of his hands was smoothing down the valley of her stomach and between her thighs. She opened for him on instinct, whimpering a little when his fingers began to lazily pet over her sensitive sex, light, gentle strokes.
"Does it ever stop?" she wondered allowed.
"Hmm?"
"The wanting."
"Sick of it already?" he teased, kissing the side of her neck. She gripped his thigh to keep from squirming.
"Hardly. I'm just concerned about having to manage it once we rejoin the rest of the world… which we are going to have to do at some point."
Vlad growled his disapproval against her nape where he had taken to lightly suckling the binding mark on the back of her neck.
"Allow me to convince you otherwise."
"Marcus and Basilio aren't going to kill themselves, you know."
"I wish they would," he grumbled, and in an effort to distract her from that current line of conversation, he slowly plunged two fingers into her silk channel without warning.
Not even the bath water could hide how wet she still was. She cried out softly at the intrusion, a keening noise. Her channel was still engorged, sensitive, and she grabbed his wrist as if she intended to stop him, and yet she couldn't bring herself to. He felt too good inside of her. What was more, he had none of the impatient urgency she had expected from someone who had been forcibly abstinent for nearly four decades. He was insatiable, absolutely – that wasn't even a question – but for the most part, he continued to keep his hunger tightly leashed, ever in control of himself. It was that self-mastery she simultaneously adored and loved to test.
Even now, he was making this about her, everything slow and sensual. She wondered if that's how he preferred sex to be: he, the master; and she, the acolyte – eager, submissive, yet always impatient for more.
If he kept this up, he'd spoil her.
She told him as much and she felt him grin against her wet shoulder in response.
"But I so delight in spoiling you," he said, grinding the heel of his palm against her clit for added emphasis. Frankie twisted in the tub so she could face him better, hands reaching up to take hold of his face, even as she involuntarily squirmed and crooned at his ministrations.
"I thought we were supposed to be relaxing," she chided, though her heart was nowhere in it. He knew this and that curve in his lips grew mischievously, the man still continuing his slow, methodical attentions.
"We are relaxing," he said, lowering his head so she could reach his mouth better. She kissed him deep, all tongue and shared breath.
"Are you sure you're not trying to seduce me?" she countered, her voice a low husk. "Besides, I don't think I can orgasm anymore. I'm pretty sure I've reached my limit."
"Dragostea mea, you shouldn't say such things. You know how much I enjoy a good challenge," and he hoisted her up a bit more so her face was level with his. He removed his fingers from her sex as they continued to kiss, soon contenting himself with kneading the flesh of her ass – which was still a little tender – in his hands. She coiled in his hold, slippery and soft.
"We're going to need to eat at some point," she mentioned suddenly, her attention snagging on the side of his neck. He watched as her irises began to glow, that shift from blue to violet captivating.
"You mean something else besides each other?"
There was something dark and humorous in his tone, but it melted away into a delighted moan when she leaned forward to drive her fangs into his flesh. He buried his fingers in her hair to hold her to him as she drank. The sensuous slide of her lips, the velvet press of tongue… it made him hard all over again.
And as if she had known, she reached down between their bodies to grip his length at the base, her touch setting his blood on fire. Using the buoyancy provided by the water, she moved herself up into his lap with ease, still feeding from his throat as she guided the tip of his cock to her entrance.
"I thought you were tired," he said, the words coming out in a rasp, but not even he had the strength to hold back the moan that tore from deep within as she seated him to the hilt. His eyes rolled back and then closed at the sheer sensation as his hands landed heavily on her hips beneath the water.
"I'm exhausted," she whimpered against his damp and sticky skin, his blood painting the sides of her mouth as consequence. "But I can't stop," and just to prove it to him, she rocked up and down in a long, slow stroke, languidly rolling her hips, the crimson bathwater sloshing up in a wave, threatening to spill over the edge of the tub.
His fingers bit into her skin, a low, wounded cry settling in his chest. And then her arms were wrapped around his neck and she started to move more steadily – his face buried in the soft bed of her breasts as she moved. The grind and roll of her hips were like the waves of the sea – an erotic, hypnotizing dance that only managed to ramp up his lusts further.
Like her own, his irises had taken to glowing, fangs at full length, their true natures slowly manifesting themselves. And as was rapidly becoming standard during their couplings, a sudden burst of energy and alertness washed over them both, like a second wind that smothered their fatigue, replacing it with pure adrenaline.
What had been intended to be a relaxing bath quickly transformed into a new and exciting arena for them to christen with their lovemaking. Vlad eventually pinned Frankie to the wall of the tub, her cunt pressed near one of the Jacuzzi jets so it could pummel her clit with a hard stream of water as he took her from behind. She came voluminously, her channel clenching around him and he swore in response, desperately drawing up on his own pelvic muscles to keep from finishing too quickly.
The washroom floor was soon littered with puddles of blood red water that looked more like a grizzly murder scene, but the frenzy was without end as they eventually moved from the tub, to the floor, and finally into the shower. Dracula's refractory periods also seemed to be getting shorter and shorter with each release, as if the sight of her alone was enough to get him hard all over again. The pair of them were nothing but trembling limbs and feverish gasps as he took her underneath the warm spray of the shower, her front pressed against the cool, slick glass of the wall, hips rocking back to meet his every thrust.
Francesca's hands tried to find something solid to hold onto as another orgasm continued to build mercilessly inside of her, but there was nothing but fogged glass and marble tile and she wasn't sure she'd even be able to stand when all this was done. But then he pulled out suddenly, a rough hand grabbing hold of her hip to turn her around. He pinned her to the wall with his body before three long fingers plunged inside her welcoming sheath.
Somewhere in the haze of sex and steam, she watched as he took his aching length in his other hand, fisting it frantically from base to tip and back down again hungrily. His face was pure demon by that point – harsh angles and razor sharp teeth, the whites of his eyes black as his irises burned blue. Something primal in her loved him like this – out of control, ravenous…
His fingers moved furiously within her, the slosh of his digits pounding at her sex loud enough that not even the roar of the shower could drown it out. The sound was so vulgar, so lewd, so obscene… it was going to make her come.
"Come for me," he commanded her, his eyes crazed like some kind of addict. His voice was low and thick, she could feel the reverberations of it in the glass at her back, in the marrow of her bones, deep in the recesses of her soul. "Come for me, iubito… yes… yes…" His fingers moved harder, faster – a merciless and demanding pace that soon had her screaming.
The moment she began to fall over the crest, gushing liquid lust all over his hand, he removed his fingers and plunged himself back inside of her, uninhibited by the clear spray or the contractions of her engorged channel. The sudden fullness sent another wave after the first and she went blind from it – from the pleasure, from the sting of pain as his claws dug into her skin, the hypersensitivity of her quivering cunt as his hips snapped against hers at least four more times before he bellowed his own completion, biting down hard on her shoulder as he came, damn near sobbing from the relief of it.
Frankie's voice gave out somewhere in between, followed quickly by her legs until the pair of them were in a coiled heap on the shower floor, the water still raining over their bodies as they panted – a slow, languid descent back down.
"I don't think I'm ever going to get used to this," she muttered some time later.
The sound of her voice brought him closer to her as he curled his arms around her wet form.
"The sex?"
"Yes… and no," she breathed dreamily, that familiar exhaustion starting to settle over again, only stronger this time. "I mean this – in between the sex and the frenzy… I don't think my mind has ever been this quiet before. I can't remember the last time I felt this good, this safe." She felt him go utterly still beneath her, the only movement being that of his head as he tucked in his chin to look down at her. She didn't have the strength to look back, her eyelids so heavy. "And it's strange – because right now, these last few hours, it's like the whole world outside of this flat doesn't exist. The war, the misery, the danger. I think the worst part is I know I should feel guilty for being this happy, for feeling this good while so many are suffering – but I'm not. Not really. Does that make me wicked?"
He chuckled at the innocence of her question, though deep inside, he was still reeling over the profound compliment she had paid him – that she felt safe with him. Truly and genuinely safe.
"I personally don't think it does, but I may not be the proper authority on such things… being the supposed son of the devil and all that."
She laughed quietly, a sleepy hum of a sound and he could feel her growing more and more relaxed in his hold until she was almost deadweight.
"Mmm, yes. If anyone here is truly wicked, it's you."
The rumble of his amusement vibrated against her cheek.
"It's not all my fault, you know," he insisted. "You're just so delicious. I can't get enough of you."
Those spidery fingers of his started to caress the flesh that curved in at the small of her back and then a bold digit slid down the narrow valley between her ass cheeks, until he was lightly stroking that impossibly tight hole of hers – once, twice. A silent question. She purred in response.
"Later, Vladislaus," she murmured into his chest, sleep finally starting to take her. "And only after you work me up to it. There's a big difference between a couple of your fingers and that cock of yours."
She didn't have to open her eyes to know that infamous and purely arrogant male grin of his was now plastered to his face.
"I'm going to hold you to that, dragă."
"Sleep first," she said with a yawn. "Then a proper meal. Afterwards, you can fuck my ass to your heart's content."
"I knew there was a reason why I loved you," he replied teasingly. "You're just as depraved as I am."
"Oh, mon chéri," she whispered, pressing the lightest of kisses to the lion brand on his chest, her eyes still closed, "they didn't call me la siréne for nothing."
Time was a blur as the four nights came and went.
It was a haze of sex and blood and new heights of pleasure Francesca had never dreamed possible, but she had never been happier to be wrong. It was so rare to be surprised by much of anything as an immortal being – especially in the bedroom – but Vladislaus had managed to turn the very meaning of desire on its head. Nothing would ever compare, not after the last several lust-filled days and nights they had shared together.
Her husband and lover was seated at the piano, in little more than a pair of silk boxers, his hair open. She was busy rubbing his neck and shoulders as he played, the robe he had lent her barely keeping her decent.
This was to be their last night together in this blissful solitude, and while she understood that they couldn't hide out here forever, she couldn't help but mourn that come sunset tomorrow, they'd have to return to normal – to their friends, the alliance, and the war ahead.
She sighed heavily at the thought.
What she wouldn't give for just one more day… or ten.
He chuckled, having heard her unspoken thought.
"I couldn't agree more," he said, leaning his head back to look up at her. "I like having you all to myself. Going back to sharing you is going to be a challenge."
Frankie smiled affectionately down at him, caressing the column of his neck thoughtfully before she kissed him once, thrice.
"I'm more worried about the questions everyone will inevitably have," she admitted, reaching for their empty glasses and bottles of blood so she could put them in the kitchen. "If me insisting on being MIA for nearly a week out of the blue hasn't already raised certain people's suspicions, your scent all over me certainly will."
"You mean your brother?" he clarified, glancing back at her.
He observed as she paused briefly beside the dining room table, a vaguely haunted look on her face, before she shook it off and kept walking. Vlad chuckled silently to himself, knowing perfectly well what had inspired that reaction.
He had tied her up on top of the table two nights ago, arms and legs fastened with silken rope so she was spread for him, her knees bent back and bound – nothing hidden from his view. He had insisted he was merely curious – wanting to see how many times he could get her to come, how hard he could get her to squirt; and while she knew it was born out of a purely male sense of vanity, the suggestion had thrilled her, and so she had readily consented.
The result had been a soaked table and a deliciously slippery Francesca as she took everything he gave until she orgasmed so hard – she had lost count of the number by that point – she hadn't been able to stop coming for nearly a full twenty minutes before the tremors finally subsided. Even the faintest breath of air, the sheer insinuation of touch on her sex had had her climaxing all over again, her brain and body short-circuiting from the pleasure.
He'd had to carry her to bed afterward, her legs having lost all their strength, the muscles in her lower abdomen and thighs twitching faintly even after sleep had claimed her.
But his Francesca had gotten even with him, of course, later that morning when she had tied him to the bed after he had dozed. The woman had worked him so thoroughly, had brought him so high, that the free fall had not only resulted in another multiple, full-body orgasm, but he had partially shifted into his hellbeast form by accident – wings and everything.
He'd never forget the way she had looked at him after that – the awe, the searing lust.
What had followed had left the bed in shambles.
Not to mention a nice crack in his wall… and several claw marks that he had no desire to fill in or cover.
The memory of his monstrous winged form dwarfing her against that wall as he pounded into her ass sent a purely male smile to his lips.
Dracula had always been a generous, if not demanding lover. And in his seven centuries of living, he had met very few women who could keep pace with him in the bedroom – from the stamina to the boundlessness of her imagination. He'd never get over the fact that his blood-bound mate had already proven herself to be the greatest of them all, multiple times over, no less. Of course, given her history, he shouldn't have expected anything less. And yet, it had been a lovely surprise regardless.
For someone who was a self-proclaimed serial monogamist, the woman was insatiable and unapologetically hedonistic. His own personal succubus.
He wouldn't have had her any other way.
"I just don't know how we're going to explain the mating scent, or the bonding marks, to Rémy," Frankie continued from the kitchen. "And I haven't the faintest idea how we're going to keep from jumping each other at every possible moment on top of that."
"Do you want to tell him the truth?" he called out curiously.
"Do you?" she asked. "It's your secret to tell. Not mine."
He paused his playing for a moment to turn and look back at her more fully, clearly considering her question.
"Honestly? No – I don't want to tell him. Not right now, anyway."
"Because you want to spare him or is it because you're afraid of how he'll react?"
"Both," he admitted after some deliberation. "I think if he knew who I truly was, especially what you and I have been up to behind his back – and that's after I had denied having any romantic interest in you – I think he'd take it more as a betrayal than anything else."
Frankie couldn't argue with that.
"You're going to have to tell him eventually," she insisted, making her way back into the living room.
"I know," he conceded, returning to his playing. "I just haven't figured out how, yet. And I think what makes it worse is that he's one of the few people that hasn't figured it out for himself. Sometimes it feels like everyone knows but him."
"Well, there's still Danny… and Vesper. Although sometimes I wonder if the two of them suspect."
"I wouldn't be surprised if either of them did," he chuckled.
Frankie settled herself in her usual oversized lounge chair nearest to the piano, sighing contentedly as she leaned back into the plush seat.
"What are you going to tell him?" Vlad asked once she had situated herself.
"If he asks? The truth – that I was blood-bound to Dracula. I just won't mention the obvious connection."
"You ready to have that conversation with him?"
"No," she conceded, glancing over at him with a lazy expression. "But he's been around long enough to know what a mating scent smells like, and if I know Lyra and Carmen at all, the two have probably been nothing but whispers for days, which means that even if he didn't smell you on me, he'd already be suspicious. I think the real concern is how we're going to explain away the scent on you."
"We could say it's residual from being in his majesty's presence," he offered with an arched brow.
She shrugged.
"I leave that decision in your capable hands, my love," she said, closing her eyes as she soaked in the sound of his music.
But as the minutes passed in comfortable silence, her contentedness began to shift, and while her eyes eventually opened again, she found herself staring at nothing in particular. There was something troubling about her aura and once Dracula sensed the change in her, he stopped playing.
"You're far away, iubito," he noted.
Frankie felt his probing caress in the back of her mind and she blinked once, twice, and then looked at him briefly.
"It's just… I have this feeling."
"What kind of feeling?"
"I'm afraid to leave this flat tomorrow," she confessed suddenly. "I don't want to go back to reality – to a world where men like Basilio and Marcus continually threaten everything that I love."
He rose from the bench as she spoke, making his way over to sit on the edge of the coffee table in front of her.
"Dragă…" he called out soothingly, caressing an exposed knee with the back of his finger.
"I know it's silly," she continued, trying to smile off her concern, but she couldn't hide from him – not anymore. Not when they were linked like this. "I just can't shake this feeling that something dreadful is on the horizon, like I'm on the brink of losing something, but I have no idea what. It frightens me, Vladislaus."
Without a thought, he fell to his knees in front of her, taking her hand and squeezing it, a silent reassurance that he was here with her, that she wasn't alone. The act softened the grief in her expression, but it did not go away entirely.
"I blame you, you know," she added with a rueful smile. "Loving you has always made me want what I cannot have."
He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her open palm.
"Like what?"
"Everything," she answered simply. "And it's dangerous – to have all that one's heart desires. It means you have more to lose. You've made me vulnerable, ma moitié… l'amour de ma vie." My better half. Love of my life. That's what he had become to her... her safe place, a part of her very soul.
There wasn't a single ounce of resentment in her tone, but still he found himself asking,
"Do you regret it?"
Francesca immediately shook her head no, caressing his cheek with the back of her fingers.
She had no idea – no concept of how weak she made him feel. He knelt for no one, but he was kneeling for her now, this chair her throne, and this apartment their little court. Their kingdom.
And she was his, just as he was hers.
He didn't think it was possible for him to feel this way about anyone, had never dreamed that the hole left behind by the sudden death of his children could ever be filled – but she had been filling it for over a year now. She still was – every time she gave herself to him or made these little heartfelt confessions.
She whispered,
"Never. No amount of loss or pain could ever make me regret loving you… being bound to you – blood, body, and soul."
Dracula hadn't been able to openly admit it to himself yet, but he could do so now.
He was a lost man.
And he never wanted to be found again.
With utter reverence and adoration for the woman before him, he leaned forward, situating himself fully between her knees as he took her face in both of his hands and kissed her – slow and deep. The caress of his tongue against hers was the most eloquent thank you he could muster and she accepted his gratitude with unyielding devotion.
"I love you," he whispered, pausing for only a moment to share her breath, and then he kissed her again, deeper this time, with a little more emphasis. "I adore you." His lips traveled down her neck, gently nudging the robe out of the way so he could kiss her shoulder, her collar, her chest. "I worship you," and he untied the garment with nimble fingers as if he were unwrapping a present.
She was naked underneath, and the sight of her made him hard and hungry.
"You worship me?" she asked, eyes slitted with pleasure. They soon darkened with lust as he kissed and licked a path down to her navel. He lifted her parted legs and propped them up on either arm of the chair so she was spread for him.
"I can't get enough of you…" and to prove his point, he pressed his head between her legs and slowly French-kissed her sex, earning a delirious sigh from the woman as he dragged the taste of her down his throat, savoring her.
"See, this is what I was referring to earlier about not being able to keep our hands to ourselves," she said between labored breaths, but then her body shuddered as two digits entered her, and then he was slowly fucking her with his fingers.
"Then it's a good thing we have eighteen more hours to get as much of it out of our systems before we have to go back to behaving ourselves," he replied, nibbling her inner thigh.
"I'm fairly certain you don't know how to behave yourself."
"You're probably right," he said with a chuckle.
He switched between using his hand and his mouth for some time, alternating the two to keep her on edge while forcing her to rebuild that now pending orgasm over and over again because of the different areas of stimuli. He did this until she was muttering to herself in her mother tongue, filthy oaths that made his spine tingle in delight. He loved her like this – soaked, debauched, profane, and his. All his.
"Where would you like me to fuck you next?" he asked conversationally after removing his mouth from her sex to give his fingers another go. She actually growled impatiently at the switch, sending him an accusatory look.
"Vladislaus…"
"Let's see… I've had you in the bedroom…"
She hummed her amusement.
"Every square inch of it."
"The tub, the shower, on the stairs, in the kitchen, on the floor by the fire, the living room window, several walls… and then there's the dining room table of course," and he sent her a knowing look, curling his fingers inside of her, coaxing another moan out of her. She writhed against his hand, but otherwise remained where she was.
"I think that's been one of my favorites so far," she admitted, licking her lips at the memory.
His pleasure at her little confession was dark, eyes wicked as he teased her clit with the tip of his tongue.
"My slippery little slave," he cooed affectionately and she groaned when he pushed his fingers up against her pelvic wall again, hitting the spongy muscle of her g-spot. Her toes curled and her spine bowed under his ministrations. She was so close now, but he continued to hold her suspended on the razor's edge, his fingers going still as his mouth went to work once more.
He was an insufferable tease, always prolonging her pleasure – but she loved him for it.
She hadn't answered his question, however, and so he soon stopped altogether, waiting patiently.
"Well, my dear?" he asked, caressing the valley of her ass with a finger just to keep himself busy. Her puckered hole was still slippery and glistening with the lube from their last session. He began to poke and prod the clean, pink star with his thumb, spreading that slickness, teasing her back open.
"I can't think with you doing that…" she panted. "Can't you just finish me off in the chair?"
But he shook his head.
"Nope. I've already done that twice now."
"I really don't care, you know."
"That's not an answer, Francesca. Come now – there must be somewhere…" and then he pushed two fingers through the tight opening of her ass and she whimpered, gripping the armrests of the chair as he started to pump his fingers in both orifices now.
It was like torture.
Sweet, depraved, delicious, double-penetrative torture.
Somewhere, in the fog of her lust, she turned her head away from watching him and her eyes settled on the grand piano next to the window. He must have followed her gaze, because he was now growling his approval against her sex, the gentle lashing of his tongue on her clit making her shiver.
"You need only ask," he purred into her skin.
"I'm not sure I should," she answered breathily. "I wouldn't want to desecrate such a beautiful instrument."
Those fingers of his started to move with a little more purpose, drawing her attention back to him.
"Not possible," he declared. "Any altar I worship you on can only be consecrated by your pleasure."
"And what about your pleasure?" she asked, fingers in his hair, one of her feet now smoothing over his shoulder, down his back as she tried to hold his mouth to her weeping sex when he started to pull away again.
His smile was predatory, pupils so wide they nearly eclipsed the blue of his irises.
"Do you want to please me, dragă?"
"Yes."
"Yes?" and he curled those fingers again. Her whole body arched into the movement and she moaned loudly.
"Yes, Vladislaus."
"Then say the words."
At that, he removed his fingers from her entirely and the sudden deprivation pulled an uncharacteristic whine from her. She yielded immediately.
"I want you to fuck me on the piano."
He had the nerve to pause as if considering her request.
But that's when she saw it – the shift in his eyes, the telltale darkening of his countenance. A hungry, borderline malicious glee spread across his features as he said,
"Lower the lid and then climb on top of it. I want you on your knees. Lose the robe."
Francesca swallowed hard, a little intimidated by what she saw in his face, but the needs of her body were far more insistent than any lingering sense of self-preservation she may have possessed. She obeyed his instructions to the letter, only barely managing to keep the extent of her excitement from her expression.
But he wasn't looking at her face as he circled the grand instrument once. His gaze was raking over her body, appraising her – and had it been any other man, the blatant objectification would have had her rolling her eyes. And yet, there was something about his attention that always undid her. She could feel him in her blood and at her back, devouring the sight of her with his eyes – exposed, swollen, glistening… damn near dripping.
"Try not to scratch my piano," he taunted, a hand coming down to rest between her shoulder blades as he guided her upper half down, leaving her ass a little higher up in the air. The polished wood of the instrument was cool to the touch, leaving her nipples to harden and furl at the contact as her breasts were pressed against the glossy surface.
"On one condition," she called out, catching him out of her periphery as he stepped out of his boxers. He arched a single dark brow. "Give me the beast."
His surprise was tangible, but not nearly as satisfying as the pleasure her request sparked in him.
"Any other requests?" he asked, a menacing note to his tone. It made her sex quiver in anticipation.
"I want you in my ass again. And don't be gentle about it."
His hand came down hard on her left cheek, then the right. She didn't even flinch – relishing the sting, the heat, the delicious suspense.
"What do you say?"
She rested her cheek against the cool surface beneath her, eyes fluttering closed as a serene smile softened her features.
"S'il te plaît, mon chéri, je t'en supplie..." (*)
Frankie could feel his low snarl of approval vibrating in the air and in her blood.
He always did love it when she begged.
And then he was shifting, making that physical transformation from man into hellbeast – and she could hear it, feel it, a tangible change in the room, in the atmosphere, in her bones. There was a soft rush of something cool and breezy as his outstretched wings disturbed air, but it was nothing to the intensified heat radiating from his massive, towering body behind her. She felt his grip – those monstrous hands bedecked with black, razor sharp claws – around her waist as he slowly dragged her body closer to him, sliding her over to the edge of the piano.
Francesca's lips curled into a delighted grin, cunt leaking as she felt his breath at her cleft, her entire body tightening with the anticipation.
"You always beg so prettily," he growled behind her, voice several octaves lower than normal – that register so deep, she could feel the reverberations of it in her sex as his tongue raked from clit to hole, and then his mouth was on her arse. She gasped and whimpered softly as he teased and tasted her, but it was when he started to devour her more greedily that her quiet keening turned to unabashed moans. His monstrous tongue was soon slithering, probing, driving her mad with need and she tried to spread her legs a little further apart, to make him pay attention to all of her, not just her ass – but then his tongue wiggled and pushed its way inside of her fully and she howled.
Spasms of pleasure arced through her core as her thighs began to quiver. His touch was ecstasy and it sent her on an endless ascension – past the mountain top peak and into the sky, touching clouds of bliss previously unexplored – until him.
His laughter was dark and rumbling when he finally pulled his face away, only to straighten so he could rest his already lubricated erection between her buttocks, mocking her with its weight and nearness as he rubbed it between her cheeks.
"Yes," was all she could manage to utter, her hips already gyrating in a lewd dance, trying to lure him in where she knew he wanted to go – where they both wanted him to go.
He carefully slipped one finger between her folds to tease her clit in response, making sure to keep his claws out of the way of her more sensitive places. The stimulation made her inner channel clench.
"Do you have any idea how delicious you look right now?" he asked suddenly, rubbing the head of his cock at her rear entrance.
She didn't need to see it to know. She could feel the depth of his need, his approval in her blood, in her mind – but seeing with his eyes through their bond was something else, as he started to press his cock inside her ass, her cunt dripping honey all over the piano, running down her thighs. Vlad continued to carefully stroke that sensitive little bundle of nerves at the crown of her womanhood, even as he eased himself deeper within her back channel. Frankie was already rocking back onto his cock, breathing deep between each moan and murmur of profanity. She needed all of him, every inch.
"Touch yourself for me, dragă," Dracula growled, returning both of his hands to her waist. She obeyed, quickly becoming overwhelmed by the size of him, and then he was moving. And the way he stroked her from the inside out – in her ass and in her mind through their bond…
Too much.
It was entirely too much.
The pleasure of her fingers at her clit paled in comparison to the feel of his cock plundering her ass, the weight of him in her mind and in her blood – the pleasure… so much pleasure.
Sex with Vladislaus was quickly becoming a borderline spiritual experience for Francesca – whether he was fucking her as a man or as a demon with wings, she didn't care. Just as long as he was inside of her, pillaging, ravishing, taking. Being with him was an all-consuming joy, a gushing bliss as he worked her over until she was drowning in a pleasure so deep, she wasn't sure she would ever surface. Not that she cared if she did or not. Only he could make drowning feel so good.
His grip on her waist tightened as he suddenly pulled her half-way off the piano, her toes barely touching the floor as he kept her bent over the back of the instrument with a hand gripping her nape and holding it down, the thrust of his hips becoming more insistent. The slap, slap, slap of skin punctuated every little noise he fucked out of her, until she was borderline delirious. The heat in her blood had flared into a full-blown inferno and for just a moment, Frankie thought she might combust.
Fire.
She was drowning in fire and she never wanted it to stop.
Francesca gripped the edges of the piano, desperate to find purchase as his relentless pounding pushed her closer to the edge, but her nails had begun to transform into talons, and without so much as a word, he spun her around to face him. Her back was slammed against the top of the piano, hands held down above her head as her legs were lifted up into the air, folding her part way and then he reseated himself inside of her again - an almost fluid, effortless readjustment, as if she were no more than a rag doll in his hands. His enormous wings flapped once, twice, sending the crystals of the chandelier above to tinkle and chime as those great extensions of leathery flesh pulled in around her like some kind of shield of velvety hide, steel, and muscle. Until all she could see was him above her.
The abrupt position change, coupled with the aggressive act of dominance, the way his hellion-like face was now perched above hers, fangs dripping with venom, eyes black as pitch – she didn't think it was possible, but the sight of him made her wetter. This man was everything… everything she could have ever wanted for herself and somehow more.
How did I get so damn lucky?
"Do you like what you see, dragă?" he asked, something so feral and self-indulgent and male to his baited remark, but it sent the most delightful shivers down her spine.
"Yes," she whispered. And it was the truth. She enjoyed all sides of Vlad the lover, but she adored him like this – his true nature revealed, the beast totally unleashed, unhinged.
"Is this what you wanted? My cock in your tight little ass?" She could only moan in reply. "Or is that greedy pussy of yours in need of some attention too?"
The look in his eyes burned all speech from her tongue as he took his free hand and slid it down her front between their gyrating bodies, lightly raking his claws over her skin, leaving faint pink scratches like track marks in his wake. She watched as his intimidating looking talons shrank down to a significantly less frightening length the further down he travelled, until they were blunt nails once more. And then he was burying a monstrous finger into her sopping sheath. The dual penetration wrung a sob of joy from her, her body practically lifting off of the piano.
"I thought so," he said with a male arrogance that only served to make her hotter.
He timed the thrusts of his cock with his hand, soon working both of her holes so thoroughly, so completely, Frankie was sure she was going to come apart at the seams. She wanted to break out of her skin, the friction and the heat everything she could have possibly wanted and yet, she still wanted more – always more.
"I love this obedient little pussy," he continued almost conversationally, panting, adding a second finger even as she swore in French, his other hand still keeping her wrists pinned above her head. "Always so wet and eager… ready to come when I tell her to."
"Tell me," she pleaded in her mother tongue, damn near out of her mind. "Tell me to come. Tell me to come all over you… wring every last drop from me."
Oh, how Vlad appreciated her mutual sense of depravity. That she wasn't afraid to talk dirty when they fucked, to play along; how she seemed to get off on the sound of his voice, on being dominated by him… she was perfect. So fucking perfect. There was no such thing as shame – not with her, and it thrilled him to his core.
"Not yet," and he pulled his fingers out of her so he could slap them across her clit, the sharp, contrasting taste of pain making her cry out. He lifted his hand up a little to find the wet sap of her sex was now dripping in strings like pulled sugar from his fingers back down onto her mound. The sight made him groan, and he had to draw up on his pelvic muscles to keep from coming. "Hold it in just a little longer."
"You'll be the death of me," she groaned, though she clearly didn't seem too bothered by the thought. She was too far-gone as it was.
He hummed his approval at her confession, and then his fingers returned to that little sensitive nub, lightly smacking it over and over and over, timing it perfectly with each of his trusts.
"If by death you mean la petite mort…"
"You're a cruel son of a… ahh!"
Another light slap to her clit, a bit harder that time.
"Leave my mother out of this."
Frankie laughed, the sound breaking off into a moan when he brought his hand down on her again a few more times, before returning those fingers of his back home between her folds and into her slick, snug channel.
She hadn't known it could be like this – that a man like Dracula could gaze upon her own perversions and lusts and desires and match them with his own – and with such a feral, gleeful delight.
He worked her with both cock and fingers until she was screaming, and then with wet digits furiously sliding over her clit in a rapid blur of unyielding friction, she came, body practically levitating off the piano as she sobbed her release, soaking his thighs and lower abdomen – and the instrument beneath her – shouting his name until the grip at her wrists fell over her throat, bearing down just enough. His visage had become more man than monster as he hovered over her, though the wings remained.
He was holding her down by the neck, now; slamming greedily into her body, chasing his own end, and it was everything – everything she ever could have wanted. She came once more just as he tumbled over the edge with a deafening roar, her claws digging into the skin of his arm to hold his hand where it was, even as her entire body trembled.
As it often did, the madness waned once they returned to themselves slowly, by degrees. But even as Vlad buried his face into her bosom, gasping for want of air, the love-drunk smile on Frankie's face never diminished.
She would never get tired of this.
Of him.
Of them.
Not in a million years.
(*) "S'il te plaît, mon chéri, je t'en supplie..." translates to "Please, my darling, I beg you", according to our lord and savior, Google Translate (lol)
Fuck, I feel like I need a nap after that, haha!
Hopefully I didn't scare anyone away ;) DON'T BE A LURKER! PLEASE REVIEW!