Dracula's Slumberous Sex Life

This is an offshoot of Bitsy's story involving her sister, Kaitlyn/Katya, the wife of Count Dracula (from the dinner scene) who disappeared ten years ago. I wrote this before I wrote the piece that mentioned her disappearance, and I'm posting it now as I ruminate over the next chapter (with that piece included). I'm placing it in the nonhuman category because right now I don't foresee as much BDSM elements to be included. Enjoy and let me know what you think.

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Three years ago (June 20, 2009)

From the Desk of Kaitlyn Mason, Mayor of Gypsum, Texas

I've never done this before.... My sister is the writer, the organized, has-it-all-together one. My other sister is the blonde bombshell, the femme fatale. So how did I become the woman every man wants and the woman every woman wants to be. But I'm getting ahead of myself....

I am a ghost. I am a superstar. I am both. I am neither. I am a wife and mother. I'm on the run from the most evil witch of our...and every...generation. I'm Lady Dracula, whose name in the minds of the majority of the planet conjures up images of bats, black capes, and pointed teeth.

So, how did I become America's Sweetheart? That's not important...right now. What is important are the dreams I have each night after I close my eyes. Now, prior to my abrupt departure from my husband's arms, he and I enjoyed a very active sex life. No, we didn't fuck like bunnies while hanging from the rafters of Casa Dracula, but there were a few...love bites.

The dreams are different. In my dreams, he and I, incubus and succubus, enflame the other's passions to a frenzied point. The sheer carnality of the dreams frightens me. Even though they are not anything that we have ever attempted, I awake, wet and panting, for the next installment.

Which happened tonight. But, I'm talking in riddles, aren't I? It would be best, as my older sister Bitsy is known to say, to show you exactly what is within my soul.

Even now my fingers shake as I write this. My stomach flutters with a yearning dread of what the next dream will bring. Though thousands of miles separate me from my Christophe, I know that the dreams are a combination of his—and my—fantasies, too long unexpressed and repressed.

Tonight, as my lids slid over my eyes, heavy with slumberous intent, my dream eyes opened onto a lush and opulent chamber. Silks, cushions, and murals vied for hedonistic dominance. Every shade of the rainbow created a cacophony that blinded...and lulled...me into acquiescence. Couples...trios...quartets...formed shadows behind curtains evoking images of sensual splendor.

Before me, arms crossed imperiously over his chest, stood my pasha. Chris, my Christophe, lounged upright...upright in all the right places, some wicked part of my mind supplied. Proudly nude, with features a Greek sculptor would have risked the wrath of the gods to chisel from stone, my Chris curled his lips in a wry parody of a smile. "Welcome," he said, that smile so familiar, yet at the same time, foreign with an almost cruel edge of sensuality alighting on his soft lips.

"Thank you," I stuttered, unsure of my footing in this dream world. "Welcome to what?"

He smiled the mischievous grin that I had not seen...or kissed...in almost a decade. "Welcome to our orgy," he declared, spreading one arm in the direction of the undulating shadows.

Orgy. The word echoed through my dream-mind. Orgy was a word I would more likely associate with the odious King Stuart and his trail of bimbastic sluts. I almost missed Chris's next words, "Besides, you are dressed for it, no?" I looked down and my dream self took in my nudity.

His strong, tanned hand skated down my neck to caress hypnotically at my carotid artery. His lips spread over his sharpened canines, and my dream self—as if in a dream—curled my neck back, offering it for his unlimited buffet.

A breathless moment, then he struck with rapier precision. His breath scorching the skin around his bite, Chris's tongue curved around the bite, lapping up the errant trickles that dared to attempt an escape from his hunger. My eyes closed instinctively so that I could feel the overwhelming emotions swamp me even more completely.

This was what I craved from the dreams. For brief moments during his dream-bite, I could again savor that closeness that used to be a part of me...a part of us. The brand of the Sacreds. I ripped ravenously at his neck, no preliminaries, driven by the compulsion to feed on his emotions. The licorice tang coated my lips, sliding past to clog my throat. Memories and emotions assailed me, knocking me to my knees. I could taste his loss, his loneliness. His eyes burned black beneath his mask as they seared mine. The tenth anniversary of my disappearance was tomorrow. His eyes were an accusation. A condemnation.

As lovers and then as newlyweds our sex was tinged more often than not as playfulness, tenderness, and innocence. These dreams were something else altogether. We knew these vignettes were brief, and the brevity gave everything a desperate edge. Forcefulness, grunting, growling, sweaty sex, brutal in intent and act had become the norm in this somnolent state.

Tonight was no exception.

I felt a heavy velvet mask settle over my eyes. Dream hands, more than Chris's, petted me, stroked me, groped parts of me that only he had touched. Masculine hands, feminine hands, a combination of the two, excited my nerves until I was a wet, writhing mass.

Chris's cock speared me as another broached my lips, shorter but thicker. My already wide mouth stretched over the invading member as tongues swirled at my nipples. My body already aflame, I felt myself combust as Chris's seed filled me. I swallowed around the cock plunging in and out of my mouth, choking as it spewed waves of spunk down my throat.

A woman's tongue, delicate and questing, parted my pussy lips, teasing my swollen clitoris until unbearable spasms made the little bud tighten in a miniature erection. I howled another orgasm around the cock that my tongue strove to lick clean.

I collapsed beneath my orgiastic partners onto the silk-coated cushions below, my limbs sinuous against their onslaught. From beyond the muted groans and moans, I heard Chris snap his fingers. Hands grasped my ankles and wrists and tethered me to the ground.

Fangs sank into my skin, those of others. They breached beyond my neck. A woman's teeth scraped my breast, urging my nipple to an instant peak. Another bit the inside of my thigh; another tasted the underside of my ass. The stinging bites built upon each other, a buzzing series of wasp stings that left behind a warmth, an afterglow that went beyond orgasmic.

The dream ended as it should have begun. Chris's lips skated over mine, halting me from talking. I had to say...something. The dream-me forgot exactly what needed to be said as my eyes started to open on the waking world, the conscious place that was my prison.

Now, as I type, my eyes burning a feverish shade of peach to match the pulsing burn between my legs, I remember what I meant to say. Angry sex, something Chris and I had never experienced in our newlywed bliss, was a revelation. The thirty year old me knew something the twenty year old could not—that there was more to sex than lovemaking.

I yearned for him anew.