Alucard's Fantasy, Part II

--

I see your naked, muscular lover writhe on the bed and try to sit up. He must realize he's not alone with you anymore. But your restraints are very effective and he can only struggle desperately. Oddly enough, I notice his erection doesn't wilt at all.

You turn to your startled companion. "No, no, don't be afraid," you soothe in a loving voice, a voice that makes me melt. "Everything's going to be ok. Just lie still."

Like an obediently trained slave, he quiets down immediately and lies still. I watch him with envy. I wish I was in his place. If I were tied up next to him, it would be enough for me. Whip me, too, master.

You close the bedroom door and approach the pile that is my body. "Alucard, what's the meaning of this invasion! Explain yourself!"

I twist and turn in glee, my quivering mass melting into a black ooze and slithering to you like the slime that I am. "Master, let me take your coat. I hope you had a restful weekend." I pool at your feet. I ramble helplessly, my mind dissolved, my will destroyed.
--

I have no memory of the next few hours.

I awake in the Rolls Royce, driving across the rolling country side. I blink slowly in the glaring sun light, but I become aware of myself and my surroundings. I look down at my body and see that I am reformed and solid.

There is a beautiful taste in my mouth. I looked over at you as you drive, and I see the bandage wrapped tightly around your palm. You gave me your blood to sedate and heal me.

You notice that I have regained consciousness. You look at me once. You have no expression in your face. Our eyes meet for only a few seconds before you turn your attention back to the road. You don't speak to me. We drive in silence.

After a half hour, you say: "He helped me carry you to the car."

I hadn't been wondering about it. My brow furrows as I imagine that faceless stranger holding me and carrying me, a stranger who had every reason to hate me. "He wasn't angry?"

"No."

"Are you angry?"

You don't answer. So, yes. I'm a spy. A pervert. You should find all these qualities unacceptable and disgusting…in a stranger. But from me? From your servant? It is the deepest violation imaginable.

I ask, "Will he be my new master soon?"

You look at me, stunned; "What?"

"Will you marry him? Will I serve his children?"

You look as if the thought never occurred to you. "No. No, we're not….no." You look back at the road. You eye me again. "No, Alucard."

I don't know why I say it. I don't know where it comes from, what damaged and sick recess of my brain these infantile words have been germinating, but I blurt it out: "You should."

"With him? No." You chuckle as you imagine it. The tension eases a little as I see that tiny ghost of a smile touch your lips. I sit silently, looking at your face. Even as you dismiss it, I can see your face light up as you think of your lover.

"You're in love," I say regretfully, surrendering. It is good that you, my master, has found someone. "It is the way of humans."

"We're….its not the same thing. At most, we're compatible," You say as you shake your head sadly.
" He has a very sensitive job, just like I do. We have similar needs and we meet when we can. If anyone knew we were in a relationship, it would be a disastrous nightmare for him, for me, for Hellsing. We have no delusions that we can make it 'work'. I promised to protect his identity. In return, he protects mine. That's all."

I lick my lips, tasting your blood. "You're a virgin still."

You nod. "I am."

"Why?"

"I said we shared similar needs," you say. "I want to maintain my virginity, whatever may be left of it. And he has his own reasons for remaining celibate—if you can call masochism celibacy." You look at me again. "Are you going to be ok?"

"I am loyal, Sir Hellsing," I reply. "I will guard your secret."

"That's not what I asked."

I shrug slightly. "Is it even relevant?"

"Aren't you jealous?"

I remember when you defended me against the Round Table conference when you were thirteen. They said I couldn't be trusted, that you couldn't be trusted, and that I needed to be surrendered into the custody of the British government. I was standing right beside you, and those foolish old men had the nerve to call for my detention in my presence. I was ready to kill them all. You touched my hand and kept me still. I could feel the blood surging under your skin, even with our gloves between us. "You'll have to lock me up, too," you'd said passionately. "I am his master. I am responsible for him. I will not allow you to separate us." I don't know why I think of this. I think I've loved you since the moment you shoved a gun in my face. But I think it was this moment when I believed you loved me back, when I started to imagine you were my beloved, that you would save yourself for me and nothing more than circumstances and polite appearances kept us apart.

"I'm sick," I tell you, not sure if you can understand. "But I'll get better." I'm devoted to it. "You'll see soon that I am loyal, and that my fidelity was paid for a century ago. I need nothing further from you or your family to seal my allegiance." I don't think what I said makes any sense in reference to what you had asked me. I try to clarify: "What I mean to say is; I don't need you to love me back. Everything will be as it was. I will not interfere again."

You look at me, disbelieving. You put on your turn signal and you pull the car over.

"What?" I ask.

Wordlessly, you press your hand against my stomach. It slides down.

It sinks between my legs, finding the softness of my relaxed penis.

I'm frozen.

I stare at your hand.

You don't squeeze or stroke. You hand is perfectly still.

My cock swells and fills your grip immediately. It's involuntary. I tremble, wanting both to take your invading hand away and thrust into it. I don't know what you expect me to do. I'm confused. "Master?"

You say nothing. You hold perfectly still.

I get harder and harder. You don't answer me. Your hand feels so good. This can't be happening. This must be a dream. I'm the hardest I've ever been. I can't help it. I can't stay still. "Integra?" I start gently fucking your hand, helpless to stop myself. Once I feel my cock sliding sensually against your palm, I completely lose control, fucking violently, wildly, my feet planted firmly on the floor, my hands gripping the seat, my ass rising up to thrust higher and higher and faster and faster.

You say nothing. You hold perfectly still.

I fuck and fuck and fuck, each thrust punctuated by a question: "Master?"

I don't understand. Why would you touch me? Why would you subject yourself to a parasite like me? You are Integra Hellsing, the esteemed and courageous leader of the Hellsing organization, admired for her leadership and bravery, adored for her beauty and purity. Integra Hellsing: giving a vampire a hand job in a parked car.

My question soon becomes an exclamation: "Master!" Then, a plea: "Master!" I feel myself about to cum. I don't want it to happen. It's wrong. You are Integra Hellsing. I am soiling you. "No!"

"No?" you say, answering me at last, calmly. "If you don't like it, stop. You're the one who is thrusting. I am only holding my hand still. If you don't want to be stimulated, just still your hips and calm down. If you stop yourself, I'll take my hand away."

But I can't stop and you know it. I plead with my eyes, but you've already set the rules. I have to stop myself, and I can't. My head rolls back and I give up to it, begging, moaning. I stop trying to hold off my orgasm. I ejaculate.

My hips slow down and still. I slump heavily in the car seat, my legs trembling. I feel my cum pooling in my clothing. My limbs are limp noodles. I can't move.

Now, you take your hand away.

You start the car and begin driving. You say nothing.

I am still. My stomach is churning. I am disgusting filth. Cum is streaming down my thighs.

"Nothing can be as it was," you say at last. "You'll never forget what you saw. Despite what you say, I think your loyalty has always been conditional."

As my strength returns, I shut my thighs.

--

Another day.

--

The week crawls by. I wait every night for you to summon me, but you don't.

I am obsessed with the memory of your lover spread eagle and tied to the bed, and his eerie black mask, gagging him, blinding him, leaving him vulnerable and at your mercy. Do you switch places? Do you lay like that for him? If you were tied up like that, naked and spread, and you heard the bedroom door open and realized there was a third person in the room, a stranger, would you thrash in fear? Or would you keep yourself spread, obedient, and submit, as he did?

As my mind, and my body, crawls up the walls, my thoughts are scattered and non sequential.

I think of my first wife, committing suicide by throwing herself into the Arges River as the Turkish hoards descended upon our land. I think of how terrified she must have felt as she fell towards the black, churning waters. What a lonely and gruesome way to die. The blame lies entirely with me. I failed to protect her. I was not worthy to be her husband, or to be the voivode of Wallachia. I was incapable of wise judgment. Any responsibility left in my care was squandered.

I think of Abraham. An old man when we met, using only his wits, defeated me even as I had limitless advantages. The fact that I was bested by this weak mortal proved I had no business having any power, that my dreams of supremacy and control were just fantasies, that for all the killing and the cruelty and hate and revenge, I would never accomplish any feat that would eclipse the shame of being sodomized as a youth. Being sodomized, and being forced to cum.

"Yes, you like that," the Sultan had whispered soothingly in my ear as I sobbed, holding myself steady on shaking hands and knees while he took me from behind for maybe the tenth time. He'd pumped my youthful prick in his large, clenched fist, keeping it hard, keeping it stimulated, milking droplets of semen onto his finger tips and smearing them on my lips, ordering me to lick it up and telling me my arousal was proof I was born to be a slave.

I could not concentrate enough to resist, his strong cock straining to rape my tiny asshole. I sobbed and sobbed and obeyed, sucking his fingers, swallowing my own fluids. Anything to make that rape end. Except, it never seemed to end. He would use me, and then hand me off to his son. The days bled and blurred together, a never ending cycle of pain, torture, coercion and bargaining. I knew what I was expected to do in exchange for food and warm clothing, and I was expected to be enthusiastic in my duties. I learned to suck cock as skillfully as any courtesan whore.

I sink to the floor in the empty sub levels, writing on the ground.

Something in my mind is broken. I can't think straight. I am barely aware of my surroundings. I want my master, but I am afraid to approach you right now. For centuries, I have tried to suppress these horrible memories, but they're welling to the surface, mixing with the present reality, robbing me of strength.

In my mind, I can see the Sultan, standing imposingly over my naked form, his frightening erection at full strength, his disgusting precum streaming down his shaft. "Pleasure me," he commands, "and I will spare your ass tonight."

Behind him is you, my master. You watch me with disapproval, shaking your head.

"Not in front of her," I sob. I grovel. "Please. Make her leave."

"But look how hard it makes you," the Sultan points at me. I realize I am naked, and I am erect against my own will. "Why do you lie to yourself and others, when you know this is all you are good for? Why do you resist your true nature, when slavery and submission beckons you back into the safety you long for? Do not resist us. Obey the orders we have provided you with, and you will be plagued by uncertainty and doubt no more."

I cannot resist any longer. I sink his cock into my mouth and suck wantonly, appreciatively. I have no will of my own. I was born to be used.

I look past the Sultan's hip and I find your eyes with mine.

I see you nod in approval.

--

I wake from my dream, laying on the cold stone floor, shaking.

--

Late Thursday night, I hear the silver chime of your voice beckoning.

I race to you, streaming up the stairs and under the cracks of doors in a black mass of tension and desperation. I can barely reform my body when I find you in your office. I have starved myself. I don't deserve the sense of well being drinking blood provides.

You're sitting at your desk, regal, calm, waiting. You're on the phone. You have it cradled in your shoulder, but you wave me closer.

I wait for no instructions. I don't wait for your phone conversation to end. I frantically sink to my knees before you and take one foot in hand and openly, hungrily lick the leather of your boot, not making any effort to hide this time, not trying to hide my erection, not trying to hide anything. I lick and lick and lick, like a dog. I even whimper. I don't care if you get angry and punish me. In fact, I hope you do.

But you're not angry. You watch me lick, relaxing your ankle so there's more leather for me to worship. "He just walked in," you relay in a bemused voice over the phone. "He's on his hands and knees and he's displaying his loyalty and submission by kissing my feet. I think he feels guilty for spying on us." I th

You must be on the phone with your lover.

I recoil a little, my lust tempered. But I keep looking at the soft Italian leather of your boots and I close my eyes and nuzzle the arch of your foot. I don't care about him. In moments, my tongue is lapping the soft material again. I am your servant. I long to prostrate before you.

You reached down and hook your fingers into my collar and pull me up from your shoes. You pull until my chest is resting against your knees and you guide my head to rest in your lap. I allow myself to be moved with no resistance. I lay my check against your warm thighs. I feel you pet my hair absently. I shudder in ecstasy, my erection throbbing. "No, he's always been submissive and loyal to varying degrees," you continue to say. "Obedience is where he struggles. Even at his most dutiful, he can't seem to follow orders or wait for instructions. He rushes in and does whatever he wants."

Yes, yes, I think. I am loyal, but I struggle to please you. I knew you would understand, master. You are limitlessly patient and perceptive.

I hear unintelligible garbling answer through the phone.

"He has his head in my lap now," you reply. "No, he's not being aggressive, I put him there. I think he wants to be obedient, he just doesn't know how." More garbling. "Yes, the situation can't be ignored. I blame myself for allowing this to get out of hand—I should have brought Alucard into the fold months ago. But I think he won't have any problem adjusting, he just needs a firm hand and some patience as he learns. I expect you will be extra obedient and make an example of yourself. My vampire will need someone to look up to." You stroke my hair and I look up at you with longing. "How does that sound, vampire? Would you like to come away with me this weekend and have my little pet boy display the fundamentals of submission and obedience so that you can study it yourself? When we're done, you can demonstrate what you've learned."

My eyes grow wide. My mouth is so dry, I cannot respond verbally, but I feel a burning surge between my legs. My hips surge forward, my erection finding the firmness of your foot, and I start grinding.

--

To be continued…