The door boomed loudly shut, seeming to spread in sonic waves throughout the castle, and Nigel Blackthorn closed his eyes and shivered.

He was alone now. He knew it in his bones in a way he’d known few facts. Parked outside the Transylvanian castle were his carriage and two horses. The horses would have to wait outdoors in the chill, damp weather until morning when he could get underway again. The castle was deserted; there were no stables or hay or horse utilities anywhere in sight.

Nigel opened his eyes and looked down the hallway. Torches he had lit and placed in sconces flickered fitfully down the corridor. He plucked a torch out and went upstairs. The bedrooms were upstairs.

He passed a statue of a Greek youth, frozen in the act of feeding a stone grape to himself. He passed a pair of suits of armor (half-expecting to see glowing red eyes in their visors, but there was nothing), he passed a painting of a debonair man in his forties with a waxed mustache. That must be Count Dracula, Nigel thought. Rather a pity he wasn’t around to liven up the night conversation.

On the third floor, he walked down a main hallway. The doors were all flung open as if expecting visitors. The beds were in pristine condition, with red covers turned neatly back. The pillows looked inviting. Nigel was tired, so dreadfully tired. His every step came with a womanish uncertainty.

He reached the end of the hallway, and the two largest bedrooms faced one another. Nigel took out a British coin and flipped it. Heads. To the right we go.

Nigel leaned against the door to shut it. There was a heavy layer of dust printed on the rugs of the room. Instead of a single unit of carpeting, each room came with multiple rugs.

Nigel undressed rapidly, leaving his clothes in a pile on the floor, and crept under the covers. He fell asleep instantly.

In the dead of night, after hours of much-needed rest and feeling loads better, Nigel heard a scraping sound. The door was opening.

Moonlight streamed in through the window, dimly illuminating everything. A woman-shape crept through the room toward the bed where Nigel lay in suspense. “Who’s there?” Nigel whispered, trying to raise his voice. “What do you want?”

“I want you.” But it was impossible to tell if he heard the sentence with his ears or if the words floated telepathically across the space between them.

Nigel pulled the covers hard enough to yank them halfway across the bed. The woman-shape sat at the foot of the bed — naked, obviously. She made a knees-up form in the dark, her long hair flowing over her shoulders.

“I am Electra,” the woman said. “It’s been so long since we’ve had visitors. The Count is mystified why there haven’t been more.”

Surely she couldn’t mean the Count, Nigel thought absolutely, while wondering simultaneously who the woman was and where she had come from. Already, there began a stirring of his groin. She smelled of clean sweat and womanly nightmares.

Electra reached out, touched Nigel’s hand. “I’ll do anything you ask,” she murmured.

“Who else is in the castle?” Nigel said instead of answering directly.

“So many!” Electra laughed, and threw her hair back. “They’re hiding in the roofs and vertical columns that cross-penetrate this sprawling stone mansion. This castle. Only I have the courage to approach you without the Count’s explicit permission. Only I. But then again, I’m starving … for company.”

She smiled. Her teeth were wondrously long and sharp in the dim moonlit room. Nigel finally succumbed and extended a trembling hand to her cheek. She nipped him lightly on his way to touching her. A thin thread of blood ran down his hand and dirtied the pristine covers of the master bedroom’s bed.

She held his wounded hand in two of her own and kissed the wound. From the feel of it, she was running a furry tongue over the cut, sampling his blood. Nigel shuddered.

“Don’t be afraid,” Electra begged. “Everything is so much better when it’s … fully voluntary. I can be any fantasy you desire. Look,” she said.

Black wings sprouted from her back. Twin curved ram’s horns protruded from her forehead. She spread her wings as she leaned across Nigel. Instead of being scared, he was incredibly aroused. He held her roughly and then threw her down onto the bed.

His erection was enormous.

She darted out her tongue to lavish the tip of his cock with her saliva.

Then she bit down gently into the glans of the penis, making two holes in his foreskin, blood oozing out slowly, coagulating from her saliva. She began to lick his bleeding cockhead. With each lick, she grew younger, more forceful, more excited. She licked faster. Nigel had to keep from ramming himself deep in her mouth. Electra was enjoying herself, and so was Nigel.

For fifteen minutes, she licked, nibbled and teased. Then she began to swallow him whole, sucking him off like a bulb in her mouth. He could resist no more. He ejaculated in her mouth, down her throat. Pump — pump — pump. Ah, Gods! He held her braided hair tightly.

Then she leaped on his body after swallowing his cum, and ripped him to shreds with her talons and feasted on the many gouting geysers of blood that exploded from his prostrate victim’s form.

the end