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You always have to watch your back in the castle. Work hard, don’t talk. Don’t make friends, stay docile. Never complain. Keep every toe in line. As a maiden in the service of Lady Dimitrescu, you are to be seen, not heard. But for your safety, it is always better to make yourself scarce and invisible as possible. Even the best, quietest maidens don’t make it.
For the past two months you have been there, that method has worked well. Muted rumors said that a girl not taken after her first two weeks has a good chance of lasting a long time. Not once have you been stolen in your sleep and been absconded with by the lady or her horrible daughters. And though you have had it better than your colleagues during your run, it feels as though you’re just waiting for the other shoe to drop. Always dread hangs over your shoulder, its piercing teeth grazing your unmarred skin in a taunting dance to remind you it’s there, waiting for the moment you’ve finally let your guard down to bite, sink in, and drink you dry.
Even as you sleep, frequently your rest is violated into nightmarish episodes of being taken away to the lady’s chambers, and just as she turns to size you up like a cut of flesh, you awake convulsing in tears, clutching your feather pillow with one hand and the crucifix round your neck with the other while you try to catch your breath. Your body knows the constant danger and will not sell you out by screaming.
At least you can trust your own body.
It often takes hours for you to recover from the terrors of your nightmares, if even you can; if you do, it is rare you will be able to coax yourself back to sleep. These phantasms alone are not the sole cause of sleeplessness amongst the castle’s help. From time to time, the muffled and garbled screams for help in the corridors are what wake you. For this, you have incurred an unpayable debt of sleep, and when you work you function solely off fear.
The unpredictable fate of taken maids only worsens your paranoia. If you knew none returned from their abductions, perhaps you would find respite in the promise of death, a certainty that would release you from this perpetual purgatory. Alas, some do return, in a state worse than before. Some are selected again and return, others never do. A tactic, you gathered, to keep all the girls on their toes and never get comfortable.
The day’s shift you just completed was particularly arduous. Your feet hurt and your head pounds, and the previous night’s horrors make your eyelids heavy with exhaustion. Tonight, you decide, you would retire to your shared quarters early without dinner. Maybe this would be the miracle night you sleep in peace.
You figure there are simple pleasures you can find that may heighten your chances of good rest. The softest cotton nightgown in your drawer, a long prayer to any listening god, and imagining yourself free from the castle. Being able to lay down at all is a gift within itself, and you know that if you endure another nightmare, you’re fortunate enough to relax before it comes.
Though you wish to drift off after a whole rosary, your heart knocks against your ribs incessantly. Through the barred window, the sun had set since you first laid down, casting a cloudy dusk over the rugged mountainous autumnal landscape.
You think to journal a bit in hopes to quell your nerves. Only to write of your feelings. You remember naught of your past. There is only the castle’s despair to document. But still, to release it gives you comfort.
You sit up and reach for the bedside table, sliding the drawer open, and—
Where is your journal?
Maybe in a tired haze this morning you misplaced it. You check your absent roommate’s nightstand, open the drawer, and find it is empty.
You check beneath your bed and find clumps of dust. The same beneath your roommate’s.
You ransack your clothing drawers. No book.
The closet. Only clothes.
The nightstand. No.
Your roommate’s. No.
The drawers. The closets. The beds.
You feel defeated and see no point in questioning further your journal’s whereabouts. At the low rumble of thunder, you retreat beneath the safety of your bedsheets. Tears spill down your cheeks, and you maul your lip to prevent your sobs from becoming more than whimpers. The patter of rain against your window lulls you to sleep.
The familiar nightmare begins once more with the twelve strikes of the village clock tower. The wretched slithering of frigid, slender fingers creeping across your face to stifle your wails, the binding of your arms and legs in rope to stop your protests, the brutal yank of your hair just to taunt you. The stench of blood assaults your nose.
Your heart halts as it is gripped in ice to hear a voice this time — this has never happened. A chilling, lilted laughter as six hands roam your gowned body and pull you out of your bedroom. Your protests intensify, and their unforgiving grips only tighten. They grunt in exertion to keep you from breaking free, nails and sharp rope scratching against your skin.
“Stop your fighting, little maid.” The Dimitrescu daughters. That was Miss Daniela.
Hands tangle in your hair to pull again, their owner groaning mockingly as you grimace, shrieking into another frozen palm. “We’re going to make sure Mother has a good time with you, little one.” The girls howl with sick mirth.
Their fingers nastily dig into your flesh with careful pressure as though they test the strength of your skin. You’re not sure if you’re bleeding from their touch.
“It’s a shame we can’t have your tight little body to ourselves.” Miss Cassandra.
You stick your tongue out onto the hand smothering you, desperately attempting to catch a finger between your teeth. Drool rolls down your chin. One hand stops groping you and slaps you hard across the face, followed by an irritated growl. Your mouth is stuffed with cloth. The same hand comes down forcefully over your eyes, blotting out any sight.
“This one fights.” Miss Bela.
“Mother will break it,” giggles Miss Daniela.
Their cackles fill the air. The speed of their movement through the corridors whips wind against your exposed skin. You writhe and wriggle in their grasp, but to no avail. When they stop moving, you scream and scream until your voice grows hoarse, no longer making any audible sounds. They push the doors open and throw your bound, worming body into the chambers. Behind you, the doors clank shut, and the sound of the girls’ crowing fades away. So too do your screams, as you become so lightheaded and breathless you can no longer sustain to cry.
There you lay, tied on the chamber floors, begging your lungs to fill with enough breath. This room is quiet.
Gasping softly now, your eyes dart about the dim chambers. To your left, a grand four-poster canopied bed. An unlit candle chandelier hangs above it. To your right, shackles strewn about the floor. Far across from you, an armchair. Before the chair a fireplace crackles, burning wood to ash. Its heady aroma swells and coils itself in your head. It slows you down.
The fire casts a huge silhouette and shadow upon you. You choke down your pants to silence. Maybe you can disappear like this. You can wake up. You know she would turn to look at you any second and it would be the morning again—you would be tucked safely in your bed.
“‘I’ve made it through another day, thank God,’” the seated shadow speaks. You yelp through your gag. Why hasn’t she stood up and turned around yet? “‘I never know when I might be next or which page will be the last I am blessed to write.’” You scream. She reads from your missing journal.
“‘Hell is empty, and all the devils are here. I don’t know what happens to the poor girls, whether or not they come back from turning missing. I only pray God may spare me from any such fate.’”
Your face soaks with tears as you thrash helplessly on the floor, screaming in complete incoherence.
The lady stands slowly and her shadow lengthens. You have been rendered only to a tremble.
Over the crackle of the fire, a page turns, and she hums a deep rumble. “I am plagued by recurring nightmares for which I find no remedy. Every night I watch myself abducted and held at the mercy of the castle’s lady.” The book shuts, and her arms fall to her sides. In her hand, your journal appears it should fit into her pocket. Her low chuckle fills you with dread.
“Midnight has just struck, Y/N,” she states. “Today is my birthday, and my daughters have given me a gift.”
She turns. It is not a dream.
You are on her floor, a corpse still alive on borrowed time.
It is too dark in the room to properly discern the features of her face. She steps closer to you ever so slowly. “Tonight you will find out what happens to girls so sweet as yourself.”
A flick of her wrist exposes a horror you have never before imagined. From her fingertips she has conjured monstrous talons where once there were none. Palm up, she takes your journal and slides it down onto a claw. The leather covers and paper are cut cleanly through like fat. The halves flitter to the floor.
“The ones who never return, I drink. The virgins.” She steps over your destroyed book, towering above you. Lady Dimitrescu slides her long, thick fingers flush against your scalp and raises you into the air to meet your eyes. “The ones who do, I take for my desires.”
Her talons recede, one shortened remains. She drags it down the side of your face tenderly, the point resting at your throat’s pulse, tapping it. “But, draga mea, you are special. My daughters paid a steep price to bring you to me. An extra virgin with which I may do whatever I want. The first virgin I have been able to defile.
“How thoughtful my girls were… so closely studying you during your time in my castle that they prepared a dossier for me to read before I chose you. To quote, ‘Y/N lacks the stench of desire. It may be that she is pure of mind as well as body. A perfect, innocent virgin.’ How rare.”
Her grip grows stronger, forcing your head to tilt up. She smirks, still holding her sharp claw to your artery. You dare not breathe. “How impoverished do you imagine a family to be to sell a beautiful virgin? So desperate for money they forfeit their daughter rather than marrying her to a pathetic village man who offers two goats and his earnings. A shame, truly.” Lady Dimitrescu’s talon drags along your jaw, then hooking on the gag stuffed into your mouth. She plucks it out and discards it, laying her claw on your chin. “Such a good girl, too. You know not to resist me.”
At this demeaning language, you kick and squirm. She laughs at your futile attempt. “To break your spirit will please me.” Her claw travels down your chin and neck, linking with one of the beads on the rosary tied about you. She hums. “What’s this?”
“It’s… it’s mine,” you croak. “My rosary, my lady.”
“Yours, hm? Is that so?”
You nod.
“You pray to God with this?”
“Yes, ma’am, I do.”
Lady Dimitrescu smirks. “How naïve.” She snaps the rosary off your neck, sending the beads flying and clattering all over the floor. You watch as she smashes the crucifix beneath her heel.
You draw up spit in your mouth and cast it forcefully into her face. She scoffs and wipes it away; you’ve caused her an inconvenience more than an offense. “You will behave if you value your life, Y/N. A despoiled girl still makes a good liquor.”
By your hair still, she carries you to the fireside armchair. The lady sits and lays you across her large lap, eyeing you hotly. Here, by the fire, you can see the harrowing beauty of the lady: the soft arch of her brows, her golden eyes and the mark of exhaustion hanging beneath them, the slope of her fine aquiline nose, her full red lips curling over her sharp teeth. The fire casts dancing shadows about her face. “I wonder if you are smart enough now not to fight me. You stand no chance here.” With her single claw, she tears apart the fibers of the ropes binding your arms and legs.
Immediately, you try to push yourself out of her lap. It takes one hand upon your abdomen to still you. With her other hand, she draws up your wrists and holds them above your head so tightly you feel the blood pounding in your fingers. The lady’s gaze is hungry upon your body, raking up and down your figure. Her free hand starts at your face, tracing your lips soft and slowly with her leather-gloved thumb. A simple attempt to adjust your trapped hands earns you a stiffer hold. She snickers, baring sharp fangs.
You kick your legs about uselessly. Her huge, open palm cracks against your face, and you cry out in anguish.
“Obey.” Her thumb returns to your lips, sliding down the center before attempting to push it into your mouth, where you’ve clenched your teeth shut. Your jaw is no match for her manual strength as she wedges her thumb between your teeth, probing about. Her glove tastes of smoke, tobacco, and cinnamon, and for a moment you are pleased it doesn’t taste like blood. Lady Dimitrescu notices your ease as her thumb glides over and under your tongue, skating over each tooth and your gums and back again. “There’s a good girl.”
Her impressive thumb retreats, but only to push back in again, languidly sliding in and out of your mouth. You realize your compliance has earned your wrists a more lenient grip. She hums, “There it is. Be good, Y/N.” Your lips purse around her knuckle in a suction about it. If this is all it is and nothing more, you reckon it will be a fine, albeit strange, experience to endure. But that’s just wishful thinking.
When her thumb pulls away wet with your saliva, you gasp, and she traces it down from behind your ear to your collarbone in a cold trail. The air against it fills your skin with gooseflesh. She replaces her thumb with her index finger now, reaching deeper into your throat. You gag on it occasionally, but she takes it slow. You know it’s so she may draw it out and enjoy it rather than to allow you time to recover. Each gag fuels the fire in her eyes to see how the slightest ministrations make your body respond.
She slides another finger into your mouth. Combined, they blanket your tongue and make your gagging more unpleasant. They reach farther, and the lady takes the liberty to begin holding her fingers in your throat down to her knuckles. For this, you writhe against her hold to fight for air. Her hand clamps tighter around your wrists. She forces you to choke on her digits, encouraged by your coughing and sputtering.
A third finger fills your mouth much too far. It is a challenge for her to push them down your stretching maw, and a challenge for you to accept them. Without air, your vision grays at the corners.
She withdraws her fingers with a thick string of spiggle connecting them to your swollen lip. You gasp loudly, back arching with the sudden intake of air. A sadistic smile graces Lady Dimitrescu’s fair face. “What a good pet, sucking on your mistress’ fingers and rejecting your body. Now you’re learning well.”
With her wet hand, she begins to trail the tips of her fingers along your body, first closing tightly at your neck, searching for the various quickening pulses beating beneath your flesh. Where she finds them she massages them as though to prime the soft spots of your body for what’s to come. The sensation is nearly pleasant, and it draws a whimper from you.
Her hand wanders lower, exploring the ridge of bones in your collars. The ghost of a touch chills your skin. It rides down, falling atop your breasts and squeezing them with a might characteristic to her size. It makes you yowl shamefully. She takes up a nipple between her slick thumb and forefinger through your gown, pulling and rolling, then doing the same for your other nipple. Her hand falls lower still, through the valley of your bust, between the rack of your ribs, long fingers running down your stomach. Lady Dimitrescu’s hand strays from its path here, instead going to your side to grope you painfully. You whine.
Just before her hand touches your crotch, she stops, her grip on your wrists unrelenting. Does it relieve you that she has stopped before your groin, or fill you more with dread?
Instead, she draws up your ankle, thin in her hand, and begins to slide up your leg. She ignores the cloth of your underwear, moving swiftly and grasping your breast beneath your nightgown. You meet her eye as though to plead for mercy, and she tilts her chin up to watch you down her nose. Her lips fall open, and a sigh escapes them.
She squeezes and gropes, pressing the pad of her thumb into your areola to massage a circle around it, feeling for the glands and ducts beneath, repeating this for the other side. You feel a twinge between your legs, and the lady inhales sharply, groaning.
From her lap beneath you, something throbs, pressing into the small of your back.
She takes two fingers to circle your nipples now, hands so large they cover much of your breast. They take the same path down your body, stopping short at the waistband of your underwear. Her fingers don’t break beneath the elastic, instead traveling atop the cotton fabric at a distressingly slow pace. Your groin is sensitive, the delicate touch making you wind in her lap. Her fingers close over your pussy, doing nothing more than resting where they shouldn’t.
The growth under your back pushes harder into you, its pulse beating stronger.
The lady begins to apply slight pressure between your thighs, sliding two of her fingers back and forth on your labia, which have started to petal apart instinctively. Her fingers now move with ease, slickened by wetness drenching your underwear. Lady Dimitrescu’s touch is light and almost ghostly on you, and it makes you throb. “This feels good, hm? Your heart begs between your legs, draga mea.”
The arm that retrains your wrists extends, pulling and stretching your body out further across her lap. She adds just another ounce to her touch as she massages you, and a filthy moan falls from your lips. “Not one person has touched you as I am. I wonder if you’ve ever done so much as touch yourself. Look at what this simple contact does to you. And I have yet to lay myself on your little clit.”
Her fingers fall into a rhythm, rubbing back and forth for what feels like hours. Her chambers are full with the desperation in your moans, the pleas for it to stop — the wordless pleas for more. You feel yourself building up, the steady pleasure mounting.
Lady Dimitrescu flattens her fingers on the curve of your vulva, now applying pressure on your clit. The sensation is delicious, and it disgusts you. She coos mockingly at your sounds, mimicking you, followed by taunting laughter.
A voice in your head nags at you that this isn’t so bad, and you could get used to it. Your arms relax in her grip, and your legs spread themselves apart. Her touch deepens, and aided by your slick, and she almost seems to slip into you through your panties, stopped only by your unbroken hymen.
The lady takes a blunt claw to the fabric of your underwear, slowly splitting them down the center. She takes a deep breath and sighs fiercely. “Now you reek of desire. Have I filthied your sweet mind?”
You whimper. You want to say no.
A gloved finger glides with ease between your labia, pressing into you. Unable to slide into your hole unobstructed, the tip of her finger ventures lower.
Shocked, you ask, “What are you doing?”
Her hold on your wrists tightens, filling your hands with blood and forcing them to splay wide. “Silence.” Her fingertip rests atop your asshole, drawing heavy circles on it. The sensation makes your body tense and seize up against her touch.
With strength your own muscles cannot protect your body from, Lady Dimitrescu forces her finger through your strained asshole, stretching you wide around her thick digit. The merciless intrusion makes you scream in pain, and she has yet to sink in to her first knuckle. “No, please! You’re hurting me!”
Your plea simply makes her chuckle at your suffering, the firelight catching the deadly sharpness of her fangs. Her golden eyes study your contorted face. You attempt to meet her gaze to find some humanity, hoping she would see your agony, but it only seems to encourage her to continue.
You feel your hole stretch farther around the swell of her first knuckle, but her invasion of your body is ceaseless. The second segment of her finger flares wider than the first, worsening your pain. Here, she stops pressing more of herself into you, giving you a moment of respite.
Only to begin sliding her finger in and out of your asshole. The penetration makes your stomach burn and roil, and she hasn’t even pushed her entire finger into you yet. With each thrust and curl, more of her digit goes inside you, reaching deeper inside your hole. Your hands warp in torment, cries of distress ripping your throat raw. “Please….”
“So tight and warm,” she moans. “I can only imagine what your cunt will feel like.” You finally feel the base of her long finger, and as much as it hurts, you’re relieved to know there’s no more for you to take. Her pace quickens and the force behind her thrusts intensifies. The repeated movements make your body relent and relax, and it’s only then that the lady seems to grow bored of violating your asshole. Her finger retracts, leaving you miserably out of breath.
Lady Dimitrescu begins to stand, still clasping you by the wrists above your head. At her full height, you dangle helplessly, your arms stiffened and locked by the continuous position. She walks slowly towards her bed, forcing eye contact with you and a perverse, sharp grin upon her face. You’re thrown onto her bed, crawling backwards to the headboard in a frivolous attempt to put distance between you, as she looks at your body hungrily. Between her massive thighs, you spot something large protruding from beneath her dress, twitching rhythmically.
“I will make you mine tonight, Y/N.” She makes a show of removing her gloves, digit by digit, and pulls her dress off her statuesque body with little effort, as though this moment has been practiced many times before. You knew it had. There, you see what had been pressing into your back, a monstrous pale cock with a reddened head standing tall, needing to be buried deep inside something. It throbs and pulses and drips a string of clear fluid. Behind it hangs a pair of full, lumbering balls tensing with each twitch.
In a panic, you try to scuttle off the bed. Your head jerks back suddenly with the lady’s giant hand taking a fistful of your hair. She forces you towards her and flips you onto your back, keeping you still by your scalp. “Don’t run. You can’t get away from me, draga mea. There’s nowhere to go.”
Lady Dimitrescu climbs atop the bed, towering over your spent body. With sheer strength alone, she clutches your nightgown and tears it open, discarding the shredded cloth off to the side. Your panties face the same fate, and there you lay, naked at the mercy of the brutal lady. Silently, you observe as she wraps her hand around the impressive girth of her cock, stroking it languidly, balls swinging. Her grasp squeezes out strings of clear, warm precum that pool onto your stomach. The lady’s strokes seem to make her member grow impossibly larger.
Before you can register what happens, she has moved up along your body, weightlessly straddling your abdomen with her cock suspended just above your lips. The scent is heady and musky, though still carrying the softness of womanhood. She takes it into her hand and brings the weight of it crashing against your cheek, a solid slap filling the room. Lady Dimitrescu continues to lay blows of her hard cock against you, leaving it wet and stinging from the heavy impacts all about your face. You’re sure you would wear dark bruises on your skin from the smacks alone.
She brings her laden cock to rest along the length of your face, covering you from chin to forehead. You feel the burden of her warm balls pressing against your throat. She places her palm over her shaft, fingers and thumb gripping the sides of your head to hold it in place and form a hole with which to fuck on your face. Her hips rock back and forth, sliding her cock along your parted lips, nose, and forehead. “Mica mea târfa,” she moans. “Such a sweet face to ruin.”
With a hand clutching your hair, Lady Dimitrescu forces your chin up. She guides the tip of her cock between your lips; it alone is so large she has to force your jaw to unhinge. “Take it.. Fuck, you’re so small.”
You make a worthless attempt to bite down. She growls, forcing her thick shaft deeper into your mouth. It makes you choke and sputter. “Don’t make me punish you, Y/N. This could be so much worse.”
You feel her cock begin to press the tight barrier between your mouth and throat, and you’ve only just taken the tip. She lets out a rumbling groan, fucking in and out of your mouth and letting her cockhead slam against your throat. The flavor of her dick spreads across your tongue, a thick and acrid saltiness. You feel the ridges of her wide, thumping veins sliding into all the surfaces of your little mouth.
If you can make her finish, maybe it’ll be over soon.
You hollow your cheeks as best you can with her imposing girth filling your mouth. This draws a primal, guttural sound of pleasure from between her own lips, but to your chagrin, it drives her to fuck your mouth harder and faster. You cough and choke on her, but she continues, pulsing intensely. Your saliva coagulated with her precum dribbles out of your mouth, spilling over your cheeks and jaw. Despite the challenge, you tighten your lips around her, do your best to stick your tongue out with each thrust, and suck her in.
“Oh, you slut. Suckling on my cock like you need it. Fuck,” she growls, leaning down over your head for easier access to your face. This way, her balls begin to slap disgustingly against your chin, an added sensation that makes her grumble and groan with every drive of her hips. Your throat burns from having it taken so forcefully, pulled taut to its limit about her thickness. Her motions become frenzied.
“God, never have I felt a maiden’s throat so tight, so warm. You’re going to make me cum, draga mea,” the lady whines. She braces herself with her hands gripping your head, pushing you into the mattress below, thrusting so hard she’s managed to force her entire shaft into your throat. Her black thatch of pubic hair scratches against your nose, leaving it red and raw.
Unable to breathe, your hands fly to find something for support. You find her muscular thighs surrounding your torso, grip as tightly as you can, and dig your nails into her flesh.
She thrusts fully into your throat one last time, a strangled roar cutting through the chambers’ air. “Fuck, Y/N!” the lady exclaims. Her balls tense against your chin over and over again, her shaft twitching, the hot, thick shots of her heavy cum flowing down your throat and warming a path to your stomach. You cough on overflowing spurts that cover your face disgracefully. Her clutch on your small face tightens, moaning like a rutting beast while she feeds you her many loads of sultry cum as though it were a gift. You have no choice but to swallow tightly around her cock, drawing out the last drops of her orgasm.
Even after her release, the countess’ cock does not relent. It rests hard in your throat, and only the quieting of your need for air tells her to pull out. As you gasp loudly to fill your lungs, Lady Dimitrescu pulls you up by your hair, licking her teeth in a depraved smile. She presses her red lips to yours in a starved kiss you refuse to return, moaning into your mouth and exploring it with her powerful, slick tongue. When she pulls away, a tendril of spit connects your lips.
Forcefully, she releases your hair and you fall back into the soft bed. Lady Dimitrescu takes hold of your legs and pushes them into the air as leverage to move back.
Now, looking down at your lifted legs and the tight grip her hands have on your fragile ankles, the full, muscled monolith of the lady’s kneeling body centered between your thighs, and the pulsing leviathan bobbing impatiently between her own, you realize why women leave here changed.
“Please,” you whisper. Your lip quivers and your chest heaves. “Please, my lady, see reason. Please don’t do this to me.”
Lady Dimitrescu snarls, and she throws your ankles down to the bed. Still on her knees, she slithers up, hovering to envelop you. You are petrified beneath her.
Mockingly, she coos, “See reason?” With pointed nails, she slowly slips her fingers into your hair, a strangely delicate touch against your scalp. Her fist closes around locks of your hair, pulling your head back and your jaw up. “What reason must I see other than that I have you at my full disposal, hm? My mercy. Are you so simple to think I will stop here before I’ve even begun to have my fun?”
A sob wracks your body, and she draws a bare finger against your lips. She whispers, “Shh, draga mea. You will learn to enjoy being owned. To enjoy being fucked and taken by someone with complete control.” Her hips press forward, and you feel the wide, burning tip of her cock against your virgin hole.
“You’re soaking wet,” Lady Dimitrescu groans. “You fight so much to stop, and yet… your body needs me.”
“No.”
“No?” She chuckles, abruptly jolting herself forward. The bed shakes under the force. You gasp and your muscles tense, but she still hasn’t broken through. With one hand still cinched painfully in your hair, the other drops between you, and her fingers drag up your pussy. She holds her hand in front of your face, gleaming with slick that drips down the side of her hand. “You see this and lie?”
Her mouth opens torturously, and she slips her fingers in, swirling her tongue about them.
She nestles her mouth beside your ear, hot breath against your tingling skin. “You may beg and plead with me, Y/N, and believe you don’t want this,” she inhales, “but I take a breath and my nose is absolutely offended by the stench of lechery all over you. And still you smell so exquisite.”
Lady Dimitrescu cradles your head, turning it side to side. As you whimper, she stares at you intently, her lip drawn between her teeth. She drawls, “Sanguis Virginis is so rich, but the other ingredients seem to take away from the taste of the main element. I’ve never had the pleasure of drinking the pure, unadulterated blood of a virgin.”
You scramble to cover your neck—she bats your hands away. “How utterly petulant you are. Must I remind you that your life depends on your obedience?”
You still.
“Good. Now, let’s have a taste, hm?” She tilts your head to the side, exposing your unblemished neck, and unhurriedly dips to latch her lips to your artery. Her warm tongue flattens against it, kneading your quickening pulse skillfully. The sharp spikes of her fangs graze you, waiting, and—
Your scream is cracked and piercing, sobbing despondently as she bites. It sears your flesh, the beating of your heart more intense as it’s held between her teeth. It aches. It stabs clearly through to your chest, and yet every sip of your blood she sucks from you eases the pain and makes your head swim in delirium.
Lady Dimitrescu groans. Her nursing grows impassioned and fervent, her trembling hands holding your head. Her hips solidly cant into you. Your back bows off the bed. Your vision darkens.
She’s finally broken into your body, and she will rob you until there is nothing left.
It’s hard to discern which throbbing is yours and which is the lady’s cockhead inside you. It spreads you wide apart, tearing the seams of your pussy to take its frightening girth. She stops there, taking one last drink of you and pulls back. Her mouth is stained with your glistening blood, and she purrs, lapping it off her pale face with her tongue in one motion.
“You are intoxicating, Y/N,” she mutters. Her hands release your head and grip your hips, pushing them down into the mattress with potent strength. In the fire and moonlight, every one of the muscles in her arms and abdomen ripple beneath her skin. Her body is that of a ravenous beast, sinews, rugged dense flesh, and brawn contained all in an awful woman’s figure.
She pulls you down by the hips, forcing you to sink onto her cock.
“God, please!” you wail, throwing idle blows of your fists against her. Your legs thrash and fight to close, but her body between them is unrelenting. “Stop, please!”
A great hand snakes around your sore, wounded neck and squeezes. “Hush, whore. God can’t save you. Take what you’re given.” Lady Dimitrescu spears you deeper, relishing how tightly wound you are and the way it makes you squeal to so forcefully undo you. A thumb digs into your supple belly. With every inch of cock that she shoves in you, her thumb rises with your stomach, displaced by the invasion.
One more push, a monstrous roar from the lady’s chest, and she’s bottomed out in you, her bone flush against your swollen clit, her balls resting on your ass. “Fuck, your little cunt is so tight.”
You are completely full of her, split in half and brought past your limits.
“Mine,” she snarls, her nails raking against the pliable meat around your hips. Your body becomes leverage for her to force herself further inside. It makes your belly bulge. “Look at that, Y/N.”
You close your eyes. Lady Dimitrescu grabs your face, and with one finger lifts an eyelid wetted with tears. “Look. Look at how your body has no choice but to accommodate me.”
She draws back, and you exhale in pleased relief. Her hips sway forward again slowly, moving everything inside you around her cock. Its laden tip prods your cervix, and your body arches again in distress. She chuckles. “Watch me violate your sweet body, draga mea.”
Her pace quickens, so too her husky moans, and it doesn’t take much effort for her big cock to slam into the mouth of your womb. But she keeps stuffing you to the hilt anyway. The stretch rips at you and pulls your pussy apart. As you further unwind on her against your will, it’s easier for her to plunge into you, ramming her cock all the way in over and over and over again. She covers your stomach below the navel with her palm and presses, tightening your pussy and feeling herself through your skin. Lady Dimitrescu groans roughly.
The chambers fill with your broken pleas and protests and sobs, the dirty squelches of your sopping pussy being ravished by a cock far too big for you, and the heavy grunts and moans in time with every single dreadful thrust. Lady Dimitrescu’s fangs glint in the light between her lips, her eyes of cool gold flashing with greed. She drags her tongue over her teeth as she looks down at you, then leaning on her forearms to get frighteningly close. Her warm, coppery breath tickles your face.
She licks at your cheeks, lapping up your streaming tears. Another few thrusts hit you especially hard, the blanket of her weight enveloping you and restricting your airflow. You yelp. “Keep crying, Y/N. I only find it harder to restrain myself seeing how much this hurts you.”
There’s no way to tell how much time has passed, but it’s been entirely too long. What was once an agonizing stabbing pain in your innards has dulled to an ache. Her rhythm is steady and powerful. The sound of her deep groaning and the creaking bed’s headboard hitting the wall places you in a trance. You stop your useless punches, and your hands instead make their way to snake tremblingly up the sides of her muscled back. The veins running up her cock, thumping with need, slide in and out against your slick walls. Her body is warm, firm on you. You dig your nails in, drawing a strangled and throaty grunt from her.
“That’s it, darling. You’re starting to enjoy it, hm?” Lady Dimitrescu drops herself lower, angling herself upwards inside you, and thrusts into a sensitive area never touched before. Your eyebrows knit together and your mouth opens—a moan tumbles out, betraying your dignity. How disgusted you are with yourself. “Oh, my dear, is that the spot?” she drawls, her pace unbreaking. She waits for no response and fucks up into the spot again. You just can’t control how much your body loves it, and you have no choice but to hold her tighter and mewl.
Is this really so bad?
“It delights me that you have known no pleasure before me,” snarls the lady, “and that you will never know a pleasure better than me.” Her lips close around your bite wound, and her teeth graze over the punctures. Your heart skips a beat in fear. How much more do you have left to give her?
And when you feel her lips tightening, you think this might be it. You will die slowly and painfully beneath your monstrous lady, deflowered without your consent, emptied of your lifeblood and purity you fought so hard to protect.
But filled with an impressive cock sating an unknown hunger.
All she does is suck your neck tenderly, flicking her tongue over it. The vibrations of her moans caress your throat and your sore lesion. Her hard, thick cock keeps piercing you right in that sweet spot, spreading a blazing pleasure through your arteries and clouding your mind in a dirty haze. Your arms wrap tighter around her, fingers exploring the rolling ridges of the teeming muscles in her broad shoulders and down her back. She takes her time savoring your fragile neck, licking, moaning along a trail of cool saliva up to your ear. Every thrust strings you tighter around her shaft, your pussy pulling her in deeper with carnal need.
Lady Dimitrescu threads a hand in your already knotted hair, clamping tightly. In your ear, she whispers gravelly, “Confess that you like this. Admit my cock makes you feel good.”
You let her tense grip pull your head back and whimper. She’s so rough with you. She fills and distends you. She hurts so badly inside you, she doesn’t belong in there, you don’t fucking want it, but God, she feels….
“I know it does. Say it, Y/N,” she croons, peppering wet and heavy kisses along your jaw. The head of her cock keeps beating against that place inside you. Every inch of your cunt is pleased—pervaded by her length. Wet and soaking and dripping all over it and there’s no way you could ever control it, no matter how much you want to. Your speech is slurred, incoherent and messy, just a string of tortured sounds broken by the rhythm being pounded into your hole.
“Speak, draga mea. I feel your body begging for more. You simply keep getting wetter for me. You can’t deny it. Be good and tell me.” Every stroke fucks the thoughts out of you. She chains you to the moment, underneath her, taking her cock like you’re told to. Letting her take pleasure in stealing your body and virtue.
“I—I—” Your pussy tenses. The sensation just isn’t ignorable. You are so full, every part of you. Your tight, wet little hole is crammed with thick cock that keeps ramming into you a feeling you could never even have dreamt. Your nails claw at her back.
“Come on.” Lady Dimitrescu pistons into you harder, deeper. Her heavy balls, stickied with your desire, slap against your skin. “Fucking say it,” she snarls.
“Yes—yes, fuck yes,” you gasp, shaking arms wrapping around the lady’s smooth nape as you throw your head back. She keeps pounding into you, emboldened now, grunting and huffing with every vicious stroke she lays.
“That’s it. Say it. Be a good girl for me.”
“Oh—” you choke out. “Oh, God, yes—”
“Where is it, Y/N? Where is your obedience?”
“It—it—” You clench around her big, throbbing cock so goddamn hard there are stars behind your shut eyelids. Your nails scrape the back of her neck and your legs are wrapped around her hips and you’re just a moaning, bumbling, whorish mess at the will of your body—you’re enraptured by overwhelming pleasure, and nothing can stop it. “It feels—it feels so fucking good!”
“Fuck,” Lady Dimitrescu roars, pressing her nose against your neck and breathing in deeply. “Cum for me, Y/N. Take my cum.” She buries herself in you to the hilt of her cock, prodding your womb. It pumps hot seed deep inside you, spurting rope after rope in your abused, stretched cunt. Her balls tense against the swell of your ass.
Uncontrollable moans spill from your mouth as she continues to lazily fuck her cum deeper inside you. Your pussy spasms and contracts tightly around her, begging for more.
“You’re milking me,” she murmurs, her thrusts waning. With a sigh, she wraps an arm around your waist and rolls onto her back, securing you on top of her body with her cock still wrapped in your filled cunt.
You twitch here and there, drawing out a groan from the lady. Her cock softens inside you, dripping with shared orgasms in thick streams. One hand strokes your hair, delicately combing out the tangles formed before. Her heart beats dull and slow in your ear, and her lungs whistle with air.
You’re sleepy. Your head is filled with a strange buzz, your mind empty of any thoughts. Your body is entirely spent, your own heart finding her tempo. Your eyes flutter shut.
“Such a good girl,” purrs Lady Dimitrescu. “I may keep you around longer.”