Work Text:
The stench of dried blood permeates the air, its foul miasma etched into the walls of the manor they now occupy, seeping into Renfield’s pores. He should be used to it by now, he thinks, dragging along the carcass of yet another of his Master’s latest victims down to the wine cellar where the rest of the bodies lay.
But the smell follows him everywhere, even if slightly dulled by the odor of rotting meat and decaying flesh the further he descends. Pushing open the large wooden door with his shoulder, Renfield makes quick work of disposing the body. The skin still slightly warm, just having been drained, throwing it in the heap of piled up corpses. The action disturbing the many flies buzzing around them, scattering, maggots eating away through the eyes and open cavities of the older remains near the bottom.
The former owners of their lair somewhere beneath, decomposing. Old money, some steel or railway fortune he assumes. Their blood tasted of apathy and arrogance, his Master said, effectively evicting them from their home permanently. The servants of the estate joining soon after. The Count favored locations such as this when possible, indulging in luxury, intricately carved mahogany walls and crystal chandeliers.
Renfield wipes the blood on his hands on his trousers, doesn’t spare them a second glance as he closes the heavy door shut behind him. Forearms tainted red, dirt and grime under his fingernails; again the metallic redolence of dried blood following. He can’t remember the last time he’s had a proper bath, his time constantly occupied by attending to his Master’s needs. His stomach rumbles loudly, can’t remember the last time he’s had a proper meal either. It feels like years since he’s been allowed even the slightest comfort, decades even. The years blurring together.
“Renfield…" his Master calls to him, voice ringing in his head, cutting off his train of thought. “Come to me.”
“Yes, Master.”
-
Renfield scurries up the winding staircase, down the long hallways as quickly as he can manage lest he raise his Master’s ire, to the designated throne room. The Count likes to maintain a decorum of nobility, his status as Prince. A reflection of his own vanity, immune to the effects of time. Wears elegant clothes cut from the finest cloth, fingers adorned with precious stones, polished rubies, emeralds and sapphires. Seated on a great chair in the middle of the large ornately decorated room, Dracula drums his sharp nails along the armrest, impatient.
Perhaps he has displeased his Master in some way, anxiety pooling in the pit of his empty stomach, he braces himself to be berated or… worse. The tapping stops. Dracula raises his hand and beckons him closer. Renfield approaches, bowing low in supplication.
“Was there something you needed, Master?”
Chancing a glance up, expecting anger and fury, instead his Master’s face is cooly impassive, staring down at him. Black eyes like a shark regarding its prey, staring straight through into Renfield’s soul, unsettling. He suppresses a shudder.
“Yes. As a matter of fact, there is…”
The Count’s pale lips slowly unfurl, a row of serrated teeth tinted red shines in the candlelight as he grins. Hunger in the abyss of his dark gaze.
Dracula taps a clawed hand to his knee. “Sit.”
Renfield must have misheard him, or maybe he’s just slightly surprised at the request, no - command. He hesitates for a moment, locked in place until Dracula taps his knee again.
His servant obeys.
It feels as though with each step his legs get heavier and heavier as dread slows his movements to molasses, footsteps echoing loudly in the room; each one a ringing bell signaling his approaching doom.
Standing in front of the Count, Renfield is unsure of what this could mean, what it could lead to. A punishment of some sort, most likely. Dracula looks at him expectantly. Renfield does as he is told, turning, his back to his Master as he lowers himself to sit upon the vampire’s knee. Renfield is taller than Dracula, making this position slightly awkward, but his intimidating presence and power makes Renfield feel small and insignificant. A tiny insect compared to his Master’s strength, pinned under the weight of such force.
A hand comes to rest against his hip, the touch makes Renfield jump ever so slightly as Dracula adjusts him, settling flush against his back. Cool breath on his cheek.
“You have served me well all these years,” Renfield flushes at the unexpected praise, “I commend your choice for tonight’s dinner…” Dracula licks his lips, as if remembering the taste. “Most delicious, indeed.”
“Th-Thank you, Master. My only wish is to please you, my lord.”
Cold fingertips push back his hair behind his ear, goosebumps break out all over Renfield’s body. Dracula hums in contemplation, then settles his hand back down at his waist.
“Is that so?”
This must be a test of some sort then, of his loyalty perhaps. It feels more like a trap.
Renfield audibly swallows, throat dry. “Yes, Master.”
“You would do all that I ask of you, wouldn’t you, my pet?”
His Master’s words rumble down his spine, coils all around his body. He can’t repress the shudder this time as Dracula begins to trail his other hand up his side, up to his shoulder, pulling at his collar to expose his neck, long nails dragging along the exposed skin. Not enough pressure to puncture the skin, but the threat of it is there in the touch.
“O-of course, Master,” Renfield finds it difficult to voice his reply once Dracula starts nosing along the long line of his throat. He can barely even breathe.
Dracula inhales deep, making Renfield blush bright pink. Blood rushing south from the spark of arousal at sharp teeth playfully nibbling at soft sensitive skin. Where there once was shame at such a response, there is now only his Master’s will.
The vampire’s hand tightens around Renfield’s neck, twisting his face to look at him at the same time his other hand at his hip pulls him closer. Renfield gasps at the feel of his Master’s erection pressed against his backside, intimidatingly large even through the barrier of clothing. Dracula’s tongue darts out, licks a stripe at the shell of his ear, cold and slimy, extremely unsettling as it is arousing.
“And you would take all that I give you, isn’t that right?” His Master asks in his own smooth, resistless way. Cool air hitting the moisture left by his Master’s tongue, the confines of his woolen slacks becoming uncomfortably tight. Dracula bites down at his earlobe, drawing a tiny amount of blood and sucking it into his mouth, grinding up and rubbing himself against Renfield’s ass. The grip at his side keeping him in place near painful, possessive.
In his current state, Renfield can barely form a coherent thought. Lust creeping through their bond, isn’t sure of the source; his own or his Master’s. It’s been so long since Dracula touched him like this. Didn’t realize how much he missed it, how much he craves it. Renfield wouldn’t dare initiate such an act, although begging for it wouldn’t be beneath him, the miserable wanton creature he has become. Always stopping short of clutching at his Master’s clothes, kissing at his feet and imploring.
Who is he to demand such attention from an immortal being so powerful? Instead, he satisfies himself by his own hand, locked in the dark corners of his room, away from his Master’s prying eyes.
Or so he thinks.
The hand on his neck squeezes tighter, threatening to cut off his oxygen supply.
“Answer me."
“Y-yes, M-Master!” He manages to squeak out, pitiful worm that he is.
Dracula’s pleased growl rumbles in his chest, the sound inhuman, more like an animal’s. The grip loosens. Renfield sucks in air, panting heavy. Oh how sad and pathetic he feels, so hungry for his Master’s attention, that even this is a gift.
And just as quickly as Dracula can change his mood, with minimal effort he kicks Renfield off his lap and onto the floor. His servant stumbles to catch himself from falling face first onto the hard surface.
“Clean yourself up and wait for me in my chambers.”
Renfield crawls on his knees towards the exit. Weak and docile, he voices his obedience; “Yes, Master.”
He looks back at Dracula, the last thing he sees before leaving the room is his Master’s quiet smile, with the sharp, canine teeth lying over the scarlet under-lip, eyes glowing red.
-
Renfield is just about jumping out of his skin in agony of delightful anticipation, nerves jittery and skittering around like fire-ants biting under his flesh. Already at half mast from thinking back on his Master’s own arousal rubbing against him. Long ago such thoughts would disgust him, but now they only fuel his insanity, sinking further into lunacy.
His movements are perfunctory as he scrubs himself clean. His Master gave no instruction on whether or not he should be quick or take his time, but the wisest course of action is not to dally; clean himself throughly and await for the Count’s arrival. Dracula doesn’t like being made to wait.
Warm water feels good on his pallid skin, foamy bubbles surrounding him as soap clears away the crud from his hard labors. It almost makes him feel human again.
Almost.
Renfield rinses the shampoo from his hair. Squeezes a fresh dollop of soap in his hands from the dispenser, spreads himself to clean down… there. Around his most intimate parts. The tight ring of muscle clenching around nothing as his fingers make quick work of his current task. He wishes to take himself in hand, pump until he finishes but he restrains himself. His Master would be most displeased should he do such a thing, especially since he wasn’t granted permission. Keen senses would smell it on him, a severe punishment sure to follow.
Concluding this piece of business, Renfield rises from the tub, unplugs the drain and pats himself dry on what he knows are extremely expensive cotton towels. He inspects himself at the mirror, a once-over to make sure his Master will be satisfied with his appearance. Although he is clean, dark bags under his eyes and gaunt cheeks stare back accusatory, mad.
It will have to do.
Dressing himself in laundered, unwrinkled clothes, he hurries to the Master’s chambers. The fireplace crackles in front of the king-sized bed, animal skin rug on the floor, polar bear head baring its teeth, Dracula’s coffin tucked away in the corner. The room is empty, no sign of his Master. Renfield comes further into the Count’s temporary resting space, inspecting the bed, and it looks like it hasn’t been used. Bedsheets neatly arranged by the mansion’s late servants.
Shadows move in his periphery, dancing with the flames. Hairs on the back of his neck stand on edge, a ghost-light touch caresses his shoulder. Turning around, the shadows disperse. Dracula stands at the door, a considerable distance away.
The Count’s aura is all consuming, makes the temperature of the room drop noticeably by several degrees. Silently regarding his familiar, the vampire’s eyes shines in the darkness, tapetum lucidum, only the glow of the moon from the open windows and the light from the fireplace illuminate their surroundings.
Renfield drops to his knees in submission, right in the middle of the floor, on top of the fur pelt. His legs are shaking. If from fear or excitement, he doesn’t know.
“M-Master, I didn’t hear you come in. You startled me.”
From his vantage point, the lighting accentuates his Master’s unnatural countenance, baring his teeth in a twisted grin, sinister and demonic.
“Did I, now?”
Quietly, he stalks forward, as if gliding through the air, feet unmoving. Body posture reptilian, like a snake ready to strike, teeth itching to sink its venom deep, coming to stand in front of his most devoted assistant. Dracula cups his frigid palm against Renfield’s cheek, and his servant trembles, leaning into the touch, so desperate for attention.
“You have prepared yourself for me, then?”
Renfield nods enthusiastically, eager to please; “Of course, Master. I have done just as you asked.”
A wicked burning desire flares through their link, diabolical red eyes staring back at him.
“Excellent, my dear Renfield… Excellent…”
Dracula’s voice reverberates, an unearthly echo. Renfield shivers, pad of his Master’s thumb passing over his lips, nudges them open, and slips the bony digit inside. Another command. Renfield dutifully obeys, licks and sucks greedily at his Master’s finger. A gross mimicry of such a lascivious act.
“How I enjoy the sight of you on your knees.”
His Master is in a cheerful mood tonight it seems, although that doesn’t necessarily mean good, or even safety for poor Renfield. He glows at the praise regardless, looks up to his Master, grateful for the recognition.
Dracula removes his hand, cleans the excess off on Renfield’s cheek, pointed nail digging into the cheekbone.
“You’ll take what I give you,” the sharp tip draws blood. His Master steps forward, practically shoving his crotch into Renfield’s face. “All of it.”
If Renfield wasn’t already fully hard, he is now.
“Yes, Master.”
He knows an order when he hears it, it’s his duty to serve after all. Shaky hands come up to his Master’s tunic, unclasping the metal buckle, and releasing him.
The stiff length bobs under its own weight, long and thick, the swollen head flushed a deep purple, glistening with precum at the tip. Renfield licks his chapped lips and takes his Master into his mouth.
Dracula purrs his approval above him, hands falling to his side, letting his servant do all the work.
Prior to his becoming the Count’s thrall, Renfield never did such a thing as this. Doesn’t know if he’s good at it or not, but that doesn’t seem to matter to Dracula; makes him do it anyway. Taking pleasure in Renfield’s discomfort and watching him squirm. At this point, he’s already broken in. Broken completely, in fact.
Renfield lavishes attention to the fat head, licking and sucking, uses his hands to stroke at the base where his mouth cannot reach. The velvety flesh is cold, heavy on his tongue, the smell of death and dried blood enveloping him, both thrilling and repulsive.
He takes his Master in further, mindful of his teeth, tongue pressing flat against the underside, massaging it. Feels the throbbing vein there. Drool accumulates on his bottom lip, sliding down his chin. This is his reality now; a whore to be used whenever Dracula pleases, on his knees in service. Sick, corrupted beyond repair, former self far away and unrecognizable. Left the natural world behind.
In a way, he chose this. Allows it.
And somewhere in the back of his mind, much to his horror… he enjoys it.
Renfield feels the tip of his Master’s cock reach near the back of his tongue, does his best to stifle the involuntary gag reflex, catches a glimpse of his Master’s hands clenching into fists from the corner of his vision, and looks up. A hellish inferno in stone cold undead eyes, blazing red. With no warning, Dracula thrusts his hips forward, shoving more of his length into him.
It makes him gag, afraid of biting down without meaning to, he releases his Master from his mouth. As he coughs, Dracula laughs, mocking him, uncaring of his servant’s struggle with that horrid chuckling fragmenting into many voices all laughing at once.
As quick as a viper, a taloned hand grabs him by the back of his head, allows him no moment of reprieve before his Master shoves himself back in. Tears prickle at the corner of his eyes from the grip on his hair, painfully tight. Renfield’s hands automatically come to his Master’s waist, holding on while the vampire exerts his dominance, taking control.
The hand on his hair grips even tighter, talons digging into his scalp holding his head still as Dracula forces him to take his length further and further, deeper until he’s fighting back the need to vomit.
Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!
Oh Christ!
Dracula snarls. So loudly it shakes the room.
Shoves him down until he’s at the middle, mouth stretched obscenely wide around the girth, and keeps him there.
“I am your God now. You belong to me.”
Each word brutally punctuated with a hard thrust; “You. Are. Mine.”
Renfield’s hands clutch at his Master’s side, weakly pleading for mercy and forgiveness where he knows there will be none. Dracula lunges with his other hand, grabs him by the throat, while still fucking in and out of Renfield’s mouth, squeezing.
Oh.
Oh, no. Oh, no. Please, no!
Memories flash in the front of Renfield’s vision. Moments he thought were private, of him pleasuring himself to fantasies of his Master.
No no no no no no no.
“Yesss,” Dracula hisses back at him.
Renfield can’t breathe, lack of air making him dizzy, tears streaming down his face. Dracula, still holding him in place, rams the rest of his length into him. He chokes on it, throat convulsing around the intrusion, and that seems to please his Master. Growling in that low inhuman reverb. Hand tight around his throat feeling the bulge of his cock stretching his esophagus, pushing him to the limits of his what his body can allow. Dracula’s nails dig into the skin, puncturing it. More blood.
It stings and yet… it feels so good.
Shame, humiliation, the indignity of it all; petty human concepts of morality blur as his Master’s pleasure leaks into his mind. Warmth of human flesh wonderfully exquisite. Renfield’s own neglected member strains against his underpants.
Dracula pulls out, a noisy wet slick pop from the movement, saliva leaking from his mouth. Renfield heaves in deep breaths, coughs, spit drooling, making a mess of his shirt. Dracula barely lets him catch his breath, gripping his hair to pull his head back, so that Renfield has to look him in the eye.
“Isn’t this what you wanted?” His Master’s voice is harsh, loud in his ears and in his mind.
Taking his length in his hand, Dracula rubs the head of his cock against the wet mess of Renfield’s lips.
“What you’ve been begging for?”
Slaps it against his face, smears the fluids there, marking his territory. Renfield opens his mouth and lets his tongue dangle out. Dracula barks out a trilling laugh, delighted by his servant’s obedience.
“My little helper,” he sings, sinking into madness, hysteria, high from his own delusional, warped perspective. Engorged flesh moves over his tongue, “My companion…”
Renfield feels it more than he can see it, his Master tracing a particular pattern on his tongue, a perverse mockery of a Holy Sacrament, sacrilege; “Flesh of my flesh. Blood of my blood.”
Then he’s back inside, shoving roughly into Renfield’s mouth. Deep, hard thrusts. Going almost all the way out just to come back nearly fully inside. Hand around his neck and on the back of his servant’s head, keeping him in place while his Master face-fucks him, using him like a toy.
Dracula sets a cruel pace, drool bubbling and dripping from the corners of Renfield’s mouth, vulgar slurping and gurgling echoing at each thrust. His Master’s balls slap against his chin, animalistic grunting adding to the disturbing melody.
The hand around his neck squeezes.
And squeezes.
And squeezes.
Renfield’s hand grips the edges of Dracula’s robe.
Master, please!
Looking up, what he sees frightens him; his Master’s pale white face contorted to beastly proportions, eyes wild and ferocious. Snarling and huffing like a wild animal, growling in that brutish inhuman bass. The hand squeezes even tighter, nearly crushing his windpipe. Bones creaking dangerously, Renfield feels the blood vessels in his eye pop, sclera oozing inky spots of red. Dracula’s grip cutting off both blood flow and oxygen as he continues thrusting into Renfield. Stars swimming around the corners of his sight, he’s losing sensation on his extremities. His body cannot possibly tolerate further abuse.
No more! Please!
What frightens him more is that there’s no use in pleading, or begging for leniency and mercy. None will be granted. There is no escape from his Master’s hold.
Dracula howls, forces Renfield to take all of him, down to the root, nose buried into the bristly curls of hair, and keeps him there; impaling his cock into Renfield’s skull.
Renfield’s vision goes white, consciousness slowly slipping away. Here’s right there at the edge, going under. Falling, falling. Collapsing.
And just as quickly as he’s falling, he’s being pulled back up. Hand on his neck gone.
Oxygen surges back into his brain, head spinning at the intoxicating rush. It’s as if all of his bodily sensations have doubled, tripled in its intensity.
Dracula pulls back and with one final thrust, roars.
Vocalization thunderous, cock twitching violently inside Renfield as he comes down his throat, pumping his seed deep. Bitter and unnaturally cold, holding Renfield tight, so that he must either suffocate or swallow.
He can feel his Master pulsing on his tongue as he chokes and gags, tears freely falling. It’s useless, Dracula does not show remorse, keeps him there until he is finished.
And finally - finally - he is released.
Renfield sags to the floor, about to open his mouth to cough and spit, but a sudden firm clawed grip on his chin clamps his mouth shut.
Unforgiving eyes of his Master drill a hole into his cranium, nearly bulging out in fury.
“I said; you will take all of it.”
The grip bruises his already damaged face. Renfield has no choice but to obey. His Master’s hand is unmovable. Biting back the impulse to throw up, he swallows it down. The sour taste coats his tongue, burning his throat, all the way to his stomach. Nauseating and dreadful.
Dracula’s features slowly shift back to normal.
“Good…”
The Count’s voice makes Renfield shudder; both from the praise and from its reverb he can feel and hear through their bond.
Dracula lets him go and his body goes limp.
Renfied grasps the white fur under his hands in an attempt to ground himself, heaving in large gulps of air. Spit and blood drops to the floor, staining the bear hide. His lungs feel like they’re on fire, his jaw hurts. The puncture wounds on his neck and cheek a dull throb as it stings.
What have I done. Oh heavens, what have I done.
Sold his soul away, possessed by a nocturnal spectre that lives inside him now. The one he let in. A battle of his rational self and his Master’s rules tearing him apart.
And his Master always wins.
Dracula allows him but a brief moment of respite before Renfield’s world spins momentarily, the warbled cutting whoosh of air signaling his Master’s vampiric speed as he is tossed unceremoniously on the bed, face down.
Fabric tears and rips as Dracula shreds his clothes off his body, leaving scratch marks behind, wounding him further. Nude as the day he was born, shivering and vulnerable.
The smell of blood in the air excites his Master further, salivating he licks his fangs as he hovers above his servant. Grabs hold of his hair to pull his face up and shoves two fingers into his mouth.
“Get them nice and wet,” he commands.
Renfield pushes through the pain, and follows his Master’s orders. Licks and drools all over them, metal rings clanking against his teeth. There’s a ringing sound in his ears, mind a muddled mess, feels like he’s underwater, sinking as his body moves of its own accord obeying his Master’s command.
That’s enough, fingers out, Renfield’s face is shoved into the pillows. His body tenses at the feel of sharp claws scraping his skin along the cleft of his asscheeks. Suspended, dancing on the edge of a tight rope between pleasure and pain; the thrill of danger, this close to his genitals. His erection throbbing pathetically by his belly and oozing beads of clear fluid.
This is no gentle foreplay, if he can even consider it that. It’s more for his Master’s own sick, sadistic amusement. Treating him like a puppet, pulling on his strings and manipulating his every movement and action. Burning stretch as the digits invade him, pumping in and out.
Renfield whimpers, low wounded sounds muffled as his Master continues his ministrations. Unsparing of thoughtfulness, Dracula crooks his fingers, nails tearing open Renfield’s insides.
He screams.
Face shoved roughly back down, Dracula’s breath by his ear, venomous hissing; “Silence.”
Renfield has to bite down on his lip to stop the shouting trapped in his throat, bites it so hard the skin breaks.
When Dracula takes his fingers out, blood drips onto the sheets from out of him, then he feels the blunt tip of his Master’s cock at his entrance. Still wet from his spit, gathers the blood leaking out, and stabs it into the tight heat of his hole.
Fuck!
A shriek escapes him, Dracula gives him no time to adjust, the rhythm brutal and punishing, taking him raw. Renfield closes his eyes shut, bites into his forearm to keep from screaming.
From prior experience, Renfield knows his Master can keep this up for hours on end, never once letting him rest. Appetite insatiable. Meat for the beast. Until he ragdolls and loses consciousness, mortal flesh and bone unable to keep up.
Tight grip on his hips leave ugly bruises on the pale skin, nails perforating deep, pulling his body back onto that monstrous enormity. Smack! Smack! Smack! The sound of skin hitting skin repeats with barely a pause between hits as Dracula savagely violates him over and over and over again. Splitting him open, like his very soul is being torn apart. White, hot searing pain branding him, reminding him of his place.
Renfield cries, silently sobbing from the excruciating pain. What’s worse is that he’s still hard.
How fucked up is that? What kind of monster has he become?
Dracula pulls out, grabs the muscle of his ass and spreads them just so he can see his servant’s abused gaping asshole. It makes Renfield shiver, the scrutinizing attention of his Master makes his hole flutter, twitch open and closed.
A deep laugh rumbles around him, vibrating in his bones. One of his Master’s hand moves downward, the touch soft and gentle, a stark contrast to the previous severity. It confuses his brain, can’t come to an agreement, good or bad, it leaves him bewildered. Dracula traces the outside of the open ring, blood on the tips of his fingernails as he slowly, slowly brings it down, pressing on his perineum with light pressure. Then more, slowly, more.
Renfield cries out. Then bites his tongue.
“Look at you.”
Dracula’s voice drones and buzzes, the sound far away yet so close. The hand travels further down, cupping his testicles and squeezing.
Renfield’s legs are shaking, it takes all of his strength to keep from collapsing, to keep from disobeying his Master’s orders.
“So hungry for it your own body betrays you.”
He’s right. His Master is in his mind. Wrapped all around him, indistinguishable from each other. And the fact that when Dracula lowers his hand further still and palms an impressive erection, is all the proof he needs.
The hand retreats, and then a squelchy crunch of teeth cutting open skin. Dracula bites into his own wrist, lets the blood fall into the puffed up orifice, lines himself up to the opening and dribbles some along his length. Pushes it inside, all of it, down to the base agonizingly slow so that Renfield feels every inch.
A rush of endorphins shoots up his spine, crisp stinging as flesh mends itself, insides shifting back into place from the power of his Master’s healing blood, alleviating the pain.
Dracula groans, the telepathic link between them alight with desire, authority, passion, domination, hunger and longing and…
Love.
Oh how horrible. Just horrible.
How can this be love?
Renfield doesn’t let himself ruminate on that, can’t - his thoughts aren’t just his own. Mind slipping into a deep pool of darkness as Dracula pulls his hip back, and pushes back in oh so deliberately slow, fat head of his cock rubbing right against that sensitive spot inside him. Stimulating it again and again with pin-point precision.
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
The pressure builds. Higher and higher, he’s almost there, about to come untouched. So, so close, just a little more, please, just a little more…
Dracula abruptly pulls out.
FUCK!
If it weren’t for his Master’s iron-clad grip, he’d have collapsed by now, legs quivering like a new-born baby fawn.
Renfield feels the solid weight of his Master’s length rubbing along his cheeks, hears that sadistic chuckling behind him, all around him. Dracula waits for moment, leisurely moving back and forth above him. Making a mess of his backside, blood and spit. Languid strokes, as if he had all the time in the world. Well, he does, doesn’t he? Until he drives back in, fucks into him harder, hitting that spot over and over, and oh - he’s gonna come, he’s gonna come oh my G-
Dracula pulls out.
Master, please! Oh please, Master! Please!
It goes on like that for… several minutes? Hours? He does not know. Eyes bloodshot and dilated, glazed over, quietly weeping from the overstimulation as Dracula takes what is his, torturing his little servant. Drawing out his pleasure, bringing him nearly to the brink then back again.
Then suddenly everything comes to a rapid halt. Renfield feels empty without his Master inside him. Without him to hold him up, his limbs gelatinize out of their solid state.
Then - smack!
Dracula slaps his ass so hard, Renfield’s body is pressed flat into the mattress. A yelp leaves him, from the shock more than the action itself.
When his Master slaps him it’s usually a slap to the face, backhanded more than anything, large jeweled rings breaking the skin open, almost to the bone. This… is new.
A few more, some in quick succession, others with pauses in-between. The blows sting his skin, turning into bright red welts. His body a macabre painting of blue and purple bruises, claw marks and blood. Trapped between his stomach and the bed, his erection twitches, desperately seeking release. Renfield bites down on the pillow, to stop the shouts. But he’s not entirely sure if he would actually shout or moan; the lingering pain unexpectedly incredible and electrifying, each hit shooting sparks down his spine, infusing his brain in a cloud of toxic smoke.
Dracula puts the full weight of his body on top of Renfield, nearly crushing him as he enters him again. And stays there. Unmoving.
An arm slithers underneath his neck, raising his upper body at an uncomfortable angle, putting him in a chokehold.
Pressing his face right up to Renfield’s ear, malicious and affectionate; “Who do you belong to?”
It takes a moment for Renfield to realize he’s being asked a question, being allowed to speak.
A hard thrust snaps him out of his daze.
“You, Master! I belong to you!”
Inhuman purring, garbled and distorted, vibrating all over his body, then an abhorrent sound of skin stretching as Dracula opens his maw, crocodilian and wide, fangs fully elongated. Licks the side of Renfield’s bloody neck with his unnaturally long tongue all the way up to his face, wiping the blood clean off, leaving a wet trail of chilly slime.
Whispering the words into Renfield’s ear, pressing them onto his very soul; “And what is your purpose?”
“T-to serve you, Master! My only purpose is to serve you!”
Another hard thrust.
“Please, Master, please!”
“As you wish.”
Dracula bites down, hard. Right into the meaty flesh of his neck and shoulder. Renfield wails, nearly coming then and there.
Jaw locked, clamped around the muscle, grinding and tearing, his Master starts fucking him, hard and fast. Then faster. Faster. Faster.
So fast it displaces the air around them, driving into him with powerful, severe force, each thrust pushing the air out from Renfield’s lungs. The bed frame creaks with the strain, loud wooden thumping as it bangs against the wall. It’s so hard to breathe, all he can do is whine like a bitch in heat, disorientated from the pleasure and agony. The feel of teeth gnawing his flesh, digging into the bone.
Dracula uncoils himself from around his neck, releasing him. Uses his knees to squeeze Renfield’s legs together, pushing him on the back of his head, holding him down until he’s essentially being smothered.
The change in angle, the way his legs are glued together makes it seem like his Master’s cock doubled in size, as if he’s being bludgeoned in two. Over and over.
While still inside him, Dracula puts his feet on the bed, on either side of Renfield’s hips, and pummels into him so fast it feels like his neck could snap from the whiplash. It would if it weren’t being held in a vice. Inhuman strength and speed, the smack of skin warbling and distorting as his Master pushes past what is normal, beyond human limitations, with a velocity so ferocious it blurs the movement of his body.
Blood oozes from his open wound, drenching the sheets in a pool of blood sticking to his face. Drenched in sweat, seeping into the lacerations, cutting him like razor sharp knives. Agonizing arctic pitch black pyre, disorientated from the blood loss and the pressure of his Master’s cock hitting his prostate continuously. With his free hand, Dracula yanks one of Renfield’s arms behind his back, almost wrenching it out of its socket from the speed so that he can hold him down with his forearm twisted.
Time seems to stand still. There is no end to his Master’s ruthlessness. Mounted like a beast, Dracula jack-hammers his hips with unrelenting viciousness. Renfield doesn’t know how much more he can take, how much longer he’ll last before he passes out.
His Master leans forward, still pining him down, movements slowing to something less supernatural, putrid stink of his breath on his face as he grunts and groans above him.
“Come. Come for me Renfield.”
That’s all it takes.
A command.
Renfield shouts, writhing and shaking, screaming out in anguish as he comes, squeezing around the monster cock impaling him. Blinding heat, overwhelming, muscles convulsing and spasming.
It echoes through the bond, Dracula snarls and sinks his fangs deep into the carotid artery on the other side of his neck. Pumping once, then twice, going all the way inside and then -
Renfield’s vision bursts. Explosions of color and sensations. Body disintegrating and melting together with his Master’s. Undead sperm floods his insides, spilling out from where they connect from the sheer volume. Dracula ruts into him, as if trying to push it deeper inside him, fill every part of him with his cum. Imprinting a vile symbol, a brand for his slave.
It’s too much.
Brain static fizzles, vision dimming. Dracula pets his hair, pushing back the damp locks away from his forehead, purrs and coos in his ear; “Shh… Shh…”
It’s the last thing he hears before his world blacks out.