Dracula’s little mishap

“Allow me, milady, to express some concern,” he says.

On his head a pistachio top hat, strung into a tailcoat of the same colour, and underneath a silk waistcoat of pink and yellow and white flowers, with petals of a delicate pistachio colour between everything. Just the waistcoat.

It wasn’t entirely his fault.

The rags, that was just London fashion of the Victorian era. And the rubbish that he sonorously but monotonously pushed over his massive moustache, that was the etiquette.

Today, if you were him, you’d be screaming for someone to bloody call a doctor and injecting a reasonable degree of panic into your voice. While the starched elegiac is biting out sentences more complicated than the knot on his neck that slowly won’t let him breathe, he’s mouthing something about a rather unpleasant incident, meaning that his fiancée has gone down. Cheeks white and a few splashes of fresh blood on the bodice.

The lady to whom she was saying all this, as if they were just talking about the weather and as if the next conversation was going to go in that direction, just happened to be the mother of the lady sprawled on the expensive tread-covered floor. In a discreet voice that was slightly strangled by the corset, which not only flattered her incredibly, but lied to her, the noble lady calmly says something about a perfumed handkerchief, and someone is already stuffing it under the young girl’s nose.

When he wakes up, when he sits up, when he shakes his eyes and says in confusion that he doesn’t remember anything.

It’s the chaperone who makes the most noise.

As they discovered the girl on the ground, they also surprised the maid who was supposed to watch over the innocent girl’s honour during her visit to the music shrine. They caught the unfortunate woman quite simply sleeping.

But to admit that she was asleep would be to declare, in effect, that his adored one might not quite have her honour in place, intact and resilient. Ready just for him on the right night. The mother was even less inclined to doubt the matter, so no one called the doctor. It was obvious, after all, that the girl was only made to shiver by the exhilarating artistic experience, until she lost consciousness for a moment.

Upset, that was why she was lethargic.

Upset, just like that, two tiny bloody cuts appeared on her petite neck. There was nothing more to it.

And it certainly and definitely had nothing to do with the disaster that happened just three boxes across the hall and to the right.

It would be somewhat inappropriate to point out that honour was being stripped here. Repeatedly, and even in ways that would be opposed not only by the Church, not only by the husband concerned, but moreover by conservative British law.

Just think of it as having sex in here.

The lady, and again let us prefer to avoid the controversial term disabled, was simply a woman with a battered crinoline and a ruined hairstyle and reputation, who claimed that a man had attacked her.

Tall, strong, pale. Teeth like fangs, dripping blood.

With a blush on their cheeks and a sparkle in their eyes, the messy mistresses described how and where and how many times.

She was telling what he had to do and what she had to do, and a little bean was scribbling it on paper. He described about ten pages of the notebook like that before he slammed the notebook shut and just listened in disbelief.

It’s like this.

A guy, a normal, average guy, he’s got it easy. He’s doing dramatic performances and mating dances, he’s wriggling, trying and coaxing, chasing every skirt to get wet. He gushes about love and will confess to you anything, anytime, just to get a brief fuck at the end of the night. It may be that sometimes successfully.

That’s when the empty stomach kicks in and this emaciated male reaches for the first thing he can find to satisfy his hunger.

With a vampire, it’s the other way around.

If we ignore the meaning of his existence from the point of view of philosophy and don’t foolishly bring in humanity and all that crap, he understands his own mission very simply.

Satiate hunger.

This is where he entertains himself, here he develops his hunting passions, here he concentrates his eloquence, and sometimes a certain talent for cuteness and irresistible charm. He is a predator, he is fastidious, his taste and his taste refined.

Snob.

If he finds a throat worthy of his favour, then it goes fast. He bites into a vein and drinks. He sucks, he sucks, he gulps.

And then he fucks the first thing he can get his hands on.

Understand, if these litres of blood worked the same way as if you put a metre of beer in you, you’d barely crawl to the toilet or the nearest corner. Depends on what you prefer. And all the effort is, excuse me, up the arse. Or, as has already been mentioned, on a bollard.

Which, in the long run, would be pretty stupid.

The litres of blood that’s been sucked into the undead’s body splashes out in all directions, a new batch of blood is pushed everywhere where blood normally circulates. Nice and efficient.

One of the centres that gets its blood supply is undoubtedly the brain. Some medieval manuals, before they even got into the passages about garlic and oak stakes, warned quite pragmatically that it was pointless to engage in intellect-intensive games like chess with a vampire.

But a vampire who’s just had his fix isn’t going to play chess with you anyway.

The other chamber, which is ready to hold a sufficient supply of blood in a male vampire, is of course the penis. While the overpressure in the brain doesn’t bother the undead, the erection does.

Try walking around London.

The men’s tailcoat was quite a decent length, but quite impractical in the back. And neither the cut nor the material of the trousers had somehow taken this minor inconvenience into account.

Especially when it wasn’t just a small thing.

As Count Drejakula strolled casually down Adam Street, fragments of that evening replayed in his mind. Wonderful music that seems to take you back centuries.

Which from someone who can actually fly right now and has still had a nice couple of ages is a real compliment.

It certainly helped the experience that this was a time when your neighbour wasn’t popping popcorn and sipping Coke. In fact, the only one who stuffed his belly during the performance, figuratively speaking, was Drejakula. Again, he tried not to talk too much.

He entered the box where the young girl and her maid were. He gave Gardedama a flawless hypnotic look and she drifted off into dreamland.

Then he asked the girl to dance.

No words, just a gentle gesture. A bow with an outstretched palm, into which she, quite naturally, placed her tiny paw tucked into a white glove, and while Covent Garden was permeated with music, this box seemed to be somewhere else entirely, separated by a barrier of love and gallant protection. At least, that’s how it sounded to the lady.

Before the vampire bit into her neck.

She wouldn’t even admit it to her diary, but she actually wanted to. With a look, she begged him to nuzzle into her neck in the spirit of the romantic era and suckle at her desire.

Never mind that a few drops got on the dress.

Drejakula was enjoying himself at this stage. The artist in him manifested himself, he did magic, poetry. To hear and see him in action, you would actually offer yourself to him. Convinced that you simply couldn’t do better with your life.

What necessarily followed for the Count was no more than an infant needing to burp. After he has had his fill.

It had to be now. Immediately. It was a moment when the refined nose of the Romanian aristocrat temporarily lost not only his snobbery, but actually much of his judgment.

He’d take anything, as long as it was handy.

While the fragile beauty with two small wounds on her neck went down slowly and with a certain grace, in the other box there was no gnashing of teeth at Drejakul’s departure. What was ceded through them in a not very feminine voice sounded like “Come back, you bastard, you don’t walk away from a job you’ve done!”

The music was still coming from afar, soon to be followed by a rousing applause and then the even more boisterous shouting of the terrified fiancé. By then the Earl was walking through the London night, thinking.

It’s the blood in the brain. There was still some excess.

Recently, the second phase of feeding, let’s say wet burping, so here he had a couple of unpleasantnesses that he couldn’t get over easily enough.

At first, at the beginning of the night, the vampire clearly prefers deserted places. Or almost deserted.

One lonely soul with sweet blood.

When no one is around, Drejakula can win. Be charming.

Creative.

Instead of a quick stand-up snack, enjoy a fabulous evening because, strange as it may sound, these bloodthirsty predators are very social.

But when it comes time for sex, loneliness turns out to be a bit of a problem.

There are two things a proud vampire will never stoop to. He won’t cut someone whose throat he just bit off. And he knows his own hands are not for work, that’s what thousands and thousands of underlings are for.

So, freshly soaked and with a big pompom in his crotch, he wanders the dark alleys, waiting for a lady who would be willing. There was no shortage of these willing ladies who were not explicitly in the trade, even in the British capital. Especially when you consider that he wasn’t the only man who was driven out into the night by a desire to get a little bit of a buzz on.

Sometimes he tried to go to a public house. But he couldn’t quite shake the impression that they were trying to screw him over quite simply. Probably it was because when he walked in with a proper erection, the brothelmother easily came to the conclusion that this little man really needed it and therefore would pay for it without a second thought.

The worst part was that she was, of course, right about that.

When he conveniently reached for a transformation for his animal instincts, he didn’t fare much better.

In a villa near Regent’s Park he fell into the favour of a widow of about forty, but still quite handsome. They carried on a conversation, both pretending to drink tea, and drinking in each other with their eyes. By morning, he left the spoiled beauty in a dazed state and with a cute bite on her neck.

He transformed into a wolf and padded through the park, his nostrils clearly signalling the proximity of a she-wolf that had probably escaped from a nearby zoo. It wasn’t just his sense of smell that injected the scent of a snarling female into his snout. It was mainly a wistful, lonely howl, the kind you don’t find on internet dating sites these days.

It’s just that mistakes are made.

So it was a female and she really needed to stretch her fur. Everything was fine here. But it was more like a pack of six she-wolves, and the beauties had their female days wonderfully coordinated, as they were all barking at the same time.

Well, that’s where the poor Count got mixed up.

In the end, he was glad to escape with his life, a few nasty bites in his fur coat. He hadn’t even had a chance to vent, much less the strength and desire to make another desperate attempt that evening.

And if you think it’s funny that he had trouble closing the lid of his coffin at dawn and had to sleep on his side, he wasn’t actually giggling.

At other times Drejakula preferred the form of a bat.

When he first turned into a night-flyer in this condition, he was to find that his engorged cock somewhat impaired his manoeuvring and flying abilities, and although there were far fewer lanterns in London then than now, they had many more trees again.

The idea was that at thirty-four miles an hour you could not only get a nice smack on the mouth, but if you weren’t careful, your pride would forever lean slightly to the left, even in human form.

And that wasn’t the worst part of his transformation.

As he swam clumsily over Hyde Park, heavy as he was, because he was soaked, he smelled a female. With a graceful landing manoeuvre, he aimed for his target and this time he ended up with some nasty bites. Later, as he fell asleep on his side, he thought he’d get a bigger coffin.

He accidentally pounced on a stray poodle. After all, this Drejakula was not a young man, he just got it out of his head that he was a bat. The poodle noticed right away.

It’s time to consider whether to get a permanent partner.

Of course, he still has to get a different feed every night, but his journey to uncover his male pride will have a clear direction. Plus, there was a pretty good chance that, while hunting together and freshly sated, he could have his sex object by his side.

Quick and practical.

Mention has already been made of the aristocratic bearing of the dear Count, and therefore of his fastidiousness. A girl who gets the honour of dining with Drejakula for eternity or a substantial part of eternity on a tasty piece of Londoner, and then gets herself a few times a little pissed, whereupon she calmly lies down in a smouldering yew coffin, must naturally have been a magnificent specimen.

That’s how the Count felt.

Plus, the girl had to be a virgin. This was a matter of tradition again. For a ritual where vampire blood was toasted, innocence was required.

All she had to do was swallow one single drop of his blood and she would become who he is. Just as strong, just as voracious, just as bloodthirsty. Sexy.

Of course, there was a catch.

Drejakula knew well that the number of virgins in London had thinned somewhat. Especially the ones worth looking at.

But he must not be a proud Romanian nobleman to give up easily. With the help of a network of slick, timid spies, news of Miss Lucy reached him as soon as she appeared in Whitby. Whether she was a virgin was, of course, a matter of conjecture, but they were damned sure of her beauty.

It was clear as soon as the Count first saw dear Lucy. She seemed absolutely perfect.

Understandably, a swarm of suitors trailed behind her like ants after a sugar cube. Some were probably to be considered as rivals.

Drejakula was neither the youngest nor the prettiest of them, but his hypnotic, predatory look definitely had something to it. It was also worth noting that such a vampire could kill in more ways than just a reverse blood transfusion. This is the one he prefers for practical reasons.

Of course, it wasn’t supposed to be his first companion. There have been a few women with sexy fangs by his side over the centuries. Some he left behind in the Carpathians, others in Turkey.

It’s easy to sneak into a party thrown by Lucy’s mother one drizzly evening.

The hostess greets Drejakulu pleasantly and tells him in a friendly, even condescending manner to help himself to everything the house has to offer. The Count assures her that this is exactly what he intends and you would not consider his grin the least bit devilish.

While he talks to her, he tells her about his homeland and adds a story here and there that everyone in the crowd around them finds wonderfully engaging.

He also mentions her daughter. Where is she hiding her? He’s heard so much about her.

And the mother’s gonna be all snuggly.

He says: “Surely he will soon come to greet the distinguished guest.”

Then it really will appear. Fragile, gentle, with a face far more noble than beautiful. Drejakula even feels something in his heart that he hasn’t felt in a damn long time.

It’s not just hunger. It’s not just lust.

What’s the name of it?

With the pretty Miss Lucy, her ugly shadow appeared. Gardedama, who kept at most a meter behind her charge and gave everything around her that happened to have pants on, a hostile look.

It was clear to the Count that the way to his chosen one was through this bodyguard. He answered her frown with a kind, gallant smile. He even did something she had never experienced before. He started talking to her.

Drejakula has no problem being charming, but sometimes it’s a hell of a lot harder than other times. This lady, she was a tough nut to crack. When she finally thawed somewhat, she was ready for a hypnotic stare, and there had to be a comfortable chair to go with it. Somewhere secluded, where she could snooze while the Count did some number with his bride. After the ceremony, as he perceived it, of course.

The look worked, the chaperone’s knees buckled and she collapsed onto her stool. Her head lolled back, her mouth wide open, a low snore coming from it.

The vampire has returned to the main hall. He’s come for his victim. For his reward.

But unguarded Lucy was surrounded by a pack of horny males and happily toyed with them. Cheeks pink, eyes glistening with faint wine.

Drejakula was furious. He was seething with rage, and these feelings are usually closely linked to hunger. Thirst.

With a violent bloodlust.

He ran up the stairs to the first floor, walking quickly and trying to calm down, but his temples throbbed wildly. Well, as he passed one of the doors, he heard singing. It was a girl’s voice, and it was sweet, tender.

There was no time for games, flirting or social conversation.

He just jumped her. He quite simply crushed her jugular and drank heavily. The blood ran down his chin and he let it, wallowing in the blood, drowning in it, needing to feel it with all his senses.

He’s finally satisfied his hunger.

He rinsed himself off, straightened his clothes into a socially acceptable form, but of course only as far as his hard, unmissable erection would allow.

Then Lucy entered her room.

The maid had prepared her bed and was preparing some light cloth as a nightdress. Now there lay the cooling body, unfortunately for the chaste lady who had just entered, out of sight.

So he had her here. His chosen one. His bride. A companion for the next century or two.

He stared at her, trying to suppress his naturalness, while she stared at what was quite unaesthetically spoiling the Earl’s otherwise fitting trouser cut.

There was no rest.

Some part of him kept realizing that if he just took his acute need out on her, she would be of no use to him anymore. But he’d seen and experienced some things in his life, even in this state he realized there were other ways than taking her virginity.

So he tore off poor Lucy’s clothes, made her get down on all fours, and pressed himself against her from behind. He neatly removed the pants that had aroused so much of her astonishment earlier and slid them in where she certainly hadn’t expected it.

It’s hard to say if this scream was also due to her surprise, but she screamed a lot. She moaned and whimpered and squirmed, and the Count noted with satisfaction that he had made a wonderful choice.

It was a bit of a problem that someone else was responding to the screaming.

The door bursts open and a valiant fighter for girls’ rights, one of her admirers, rushes in. In his hand is a naked sword, while the Count has a quite different weapon bared, but it does little against the sharp metal.

And the angry defender of the wronged ladies is swinging the sword, swinging it sideways, and Drejakula can only do evasive manoeuvres.

Lucy is still screaming, naked, stretched out on all fours on a rumpled pelvis.

The two run around, and as one hit rips the Count’s face open, Drejakula realizes it’s time to retreat. He runs for the door, both hands trying to slip into his trousers. It goes just a little better than before.

He collides with her in the hallway.

He’s practically gonna get hit by the chaperone. She looks even uglier up close, in fact, she’s the ugliest woman the Count has ever met in his long existence.

But he was good to her, kind to her.

She is now returning the favor to Drejakul. She sees the scar on his cheek, strokes it gently, and kisses the cheek of the rather surprised count, who is followed by a man with a bloody sword.

She licks a tiny drop of his blood.

Her perspective changes.

She’s still ugly, she just has a predatory look in her eyes. Vampire predation, to be exact.

And the Count sighs.

The nice vampire shrugs unhappily, tired of defying fate he just huffs exhaustedly, “We should get out of here.”

The ugliest creature he has ever met growls softly, “As you wish, my dear.”

Fear not, we shan’t dry you out—just a coin or two will do!