Page 9 of Dracula: Bound in Blood

As they entered the tent, Jonathan was struck by how unnaturally dark it was inside. He could barely make out shadowy forms moving around him, and the air felt thick and heavy in his lungs. Cool to the touch, slender hands gently removed his clothes and caressed his skin.

A small part of his mind screamed in protest, but a wave of sensation drowned him out, unlike anything he had ever experienced. The touch of those hands was electric, sending shivers of pleasure coursing through his body. Jonathan felthimself giving in, surrendering to the exquisite sensations that threatened to overwhelm him.

He fell back onto a soft surface - a bed, he assumed, though he could see nothing in the inky blackness. Hands and lips explored his body, each touch igniting a new flame of desire. Jonathan gasped, his mind reeling as he was caressed and kissed in ways he had only ever dreamed of.

In the velvety darkness, Jonathan could only rely on his heightened senses. The soft rustle of fabric, the scent of something exotic and intoxicating, and the feel of cool, silken sheets beneath him were his only anchors in this surreal experience. He felt a shiver run down his spine as unseen hands continued exploring, tracing the contours of his chest, stomach, and thighs.

A soft, warm breath ghosted over his ear, sending a jolt of pleasure straight to his core. He could feel lips curving into a smile against his skin before they moved lower, trailing kisses down his neck. Each kiss was a brand, marking him, claiming him. Jonathan couldn’t suppress a moan as their lips found that sensitive spot where his shoulder met his neck, biting down gently.

The hands on his body grew bolder, one wrapping firmly around his hardening length. Jonathan gasped at the contact, his hips bucking instinctively. The touch was confidently skilled, knowing exactly how to drive him wild. The hand began to move, stroking him in a slow, maddening rhythm that had Jonathan panting and writhing beneath the touch.

When Harker thought he couldn’t take anymore, the hand was replaced by something wet and warm. He moaned as someone took him into their mouth, the sensation of the hot, wet tongue swirling around his tip almost too much to bear. Each bob of their head sent Harker spiraling closer and closer to the edge.

His hands fisted in the sheets as he surrendered to the pleasure, his body trembling with anticipation. The mouth continued to work its magic, bringing him to the brink before pulling back, only to start all over again. It was a sweet torture, one that Jonathan never wanted to end. But as the pleasure built to an unbearable crescendo, he knew he couldn’t hold back much longer.

Just as he felt himself teetering on the edge of some great precipice, a sharp pain in his wrist cut through the haze of pleasure. Before Jonathan could react, a gust of wind tore through the tent, and a voice like rolling thunder filled the air.

“CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT!” the voice boomed, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. “YOU DARE TO TRESPASS ON WHAT IS MINE?”

The tent was suddenly flooded with light, harsh and blinding after the profound darkness!

Jonathan blinked, his eyes struggling to adjust. Around him, he caught glimpses of pale, beautiful faces twisted in expressions of fear and rage. They scattered like smoke in the wind, their wicked laughter echoing in Jonathan’s ears as they vanished into the night.

Trembling, Jonathan scrambled to gather his clothes. His hands shook as he pulled on his trousers, not bothering with the rest as he fled from the tent. He ran blindly through the fairgrounds, the once-cheerful sights now seeming sinister and mocking.

The streets of Paris were a blur as Jonathan raced back to his hotel. The city that had seemed so enchanting just hours before now felt alien and threatening. Every shadow concealed potential dangers, every passerby a possible threat.

When he finally reached the safety of his room, Jonathan collapsed onto the bed, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. As the adrenaline faded, he became aware of a stickiness on his shirt. Looking down, he saw a dark stain spreading across the white fabric.

With trembling fingers, Jonathan pushed up his sleeve. There, on his wrist, was a small, neat puncture wound. As he stared at it in horror, a drop of blood welled up and began to trickle down his hand.

Jonathan’s mind reeled, unable to process what had happened. Paris, he realized with a chill, was indeed another world compared to London - a world where the line between reality and nightmare blurred until it ceased to exist at all.

He dressed the wound and flopped back onto the bed as exhaustion overtook him. Jonathan’s last conscious thought was a fervent wish that morning would bring clarity and reason to a night that had spiraled into a seductive madness.

The encounters of this night - the wolf-man, the beautiful strangers, the booming voice that had saved him from God knows what fate...he couldn’t make heads nor tails of it. Maybe he was dreaming and would wake up snugly in his bed come morning. Perhaps he should leave Paris and let his partner handle this job. He feared that if he continued, he might never return as the same man again. Even now, Harker was no longer the same man who had left London just days ago.

He drifted off into an uneasy slumber. The puncture wound on his wrist continued to throb, a small but insistent pulse that whispered secrets yet to be revealed and horrors yet to be faced.

Chapter Six

The sun hung low on the horizon, painting the Transylvanian sky in deep orange and blood-red hues as Jonathan Harker’s carriage rattled to a stop in a small, nameless village. The cobblestone streets were already emptying, shopkeepers hurriedly pulling down shutters and extinguishing lamps. An air of palpable fear seemed to permeate the very stones of the buildings.

Jonathan stepped out of the carriage, his legs stiff from the long journey. The driver and his attendants hastily unloaded his luggage, their movements quick and nervous. Their eyes darted to the darkening sky.

“Excuse me,” Jonathan called out, his voice unnaturally loud in the eerie quiet. “Can you take me to Count Dracula’s castle?”

The men froze, their faces blanching at the mention of the Count’s name. Without a word, they finished setting Jonathan’s bags on the side of the road and scrambled back into the carriage, whipping the horses into a frantic gallop as they fled the village.

“I’ll take that as a no.” Jonathan stood bewildered, watching as doors slammed shut and windows barred around him. ‘Why on earth is everyone retiring so early?’ he wondered, a sense of unease settling in his stomach.

Lucy’s teasing voice echoed in his mind: “This trip may be just what you need to finally sate your... desires.” Jonathan felt a flush of embarrassment creep up his neck. ‘So much for sating my desires in this place,’ he thought ruefully. ‘Although, I suppose I should be grateful for the experience in Paris if it weren’t just a fever dream.’

The memory of those phantom hands caressing his body in that dark tent made him shiver, equal parts desire and shame coursing through him. ‘Get ahold of yourself, Harker,’ he chided internally. ‘You’re here to meet a client, not indulge in lustful fantasies.’ Jonathan fiddled with the spot on his wrist that still throbbed, though the wound he was sure was there was gone the morning he awakened. What happened that night seemed like a terrible and seductive dream that the solicitor was all too ready to leave behind.

As Jonathan watched, villagers hung garlic wreaths on their doors and straightened crosses above their lintels, their movements frantic and fearful. The words of Lucy’s servant, Bistra, came back to him: “In my homeland, we fear theVampyr.” He clutched at the crucifix beneath his shirt, its weight oddly comforting against his skin.

‘Surely it’s all superstition,’ Jonathan reasoned, but he couldn’t ignore the eerie shivers that ran through him. ‘There must be a rational explanation for all of this.’

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