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Robert Montague Renfield thrives on routine.
Mass on Wednesday, Mass on Sunday. Spaced out perfectly in the week to allow him to prepare. Regular, routine, safe. No surprises.
As a Catholic priest in a majority Anglican region, Renfield is used to newcomers who are curious, but leave after one or two Masses. But there is a particular gentleman who has attended Sunday Mass for the past three weeks, yet has not come to Confession.
If Renfield was to be perfectly honest, even that wouldn’t be an anomaly. He has had parishioners that have attended Sunday Mass for a full year who have never come to the confessional booth. But there’s something about this man that captures Renfield’s mind, his imagination…
Renfield has always been good at reading people, even if he doesn’t know how to respond to them, and this man - he’s a blue tit among sparrows, a peacock among hens. Exquisite fur-collared coat that would surely have cost Renfield six months salary; a mahogany cane with an exquisitely carved sterling silver dragon’s head.
And Renfield is a Catholic priest – he knows what the name Dracula means. Either “little dragon,” or “son of the dragon”. He gets the feeling Dracula would identify more with the latter.
Renfield would have dismissed this as the classical posturing of the nobility, except…
There’s something about Count Dracula that makes Renfield believe him.
He always disappears immediately after every sermon – every Sunday, except from today.
He’s the last one in line, the church silent except for a couple of elderly widows gossiping, half-in and half-out of the door. Renfield looks at the Count through the confessional grill, and his heart – no, his fucking soul – stutters.
Hail Mary, full of grace…
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” His voice is deep, dark, seductive.
Renfield nods, almost out of habit.
“It has been…” A pause. An insouciant chuckle. “One hundred and seventy years since my last confession.”
Renfield resists the urge to roll his eyes.
“The sins I have committed, oh, Father, we would be here all week. Let’s just talk about lately, shall we? What has it been… ah, yes. Lust. Pretty young things in their modern, slim-cut clothing -girls in thigh-skimming sequined dresses, boys in sharp tailored suits with little heeled Oxfords… tell me, Father, how am I supposed to resist them? How am I supposed to want to repent? The boy last night… dark raven hair, sea-blue eyes. Similar to you, actually. The noises he made when he was impaled on my cock, whimpering and moaning and begging – it’s difficult to imagine that Heaven could be any better than that.”
Renfield is momentarily shocked into silence. He’d had parishioners admit sodomite behaviour before, but never with such vulgarity, or such detail.
“Do you – do you regret your actions?” Renfield finally manages to stammer out. “Because that is the first step to atonement - ”
“Ah, Father, there’s the fly in the ointment.” His face is obscured by the grill, but Renfield swears that Dracula grins. “I don’t regret it.”
This is such a patently bizarre statement that Renfield is temporarily struck dumb, and for an instant, the only sound in the confessional is of his soft breathing. “You came to confess, but not to repent?”
“Now, now, Father. Anything would sound ridiculous if you said it in that tone.”
“So… why? Perhaps a little part of you does want to repent, and - ”
“Oh, most certainly not. Sometimes it is simply nice to confess something wicked, don’t you think? But then, I’m sure you’ve never done anything wicked, have you, Father?”
“I’m only human. Nobody is without sin.”
“And who do priests go to for confession? Each other? Seems… rather messy to me."
“I confess directly to God.”
The Count clicks his tongue, the noise echoing strangely on the wooden panels. “It seems rather unfair that you get to choose your own penance, don’t you think?”
Renfield feels like he’s being interrogated by Scotland Yard. “If you don’t intend to repent, then I think this whole exercise is pointless.” Renfield steps out of the confessional only to run straight into Dracula. He stumbles back, nearly tripping over in the enclosed space. The Count had just been in the other side of the booth – how on Earth had he managed to move that fast?
“Grumpy for a priest, aren’t you?” purrs Dracula, and Renfield swallows.
“Grumpiness is not a sin.” He attempts to push Dracula aside, but that velvet suit and flowing cloak must be hiding a body like an Ancient Greek sculpture, because Renfield’s push doesn’t even move him an inch.
His heart beats a little faster as the first flutters of panic set in.
“Um, excuse me –“ Renfield flinches like he’s been burned with a hot poker when Dracula lays a hand on his upper arm. “Uh - ”
“Why don’t you confess to me, Father Renfield?” He crowds in further, forcing Renfield to sit, arms flying out to try and steady himself. “Then I can give you your penance. A proper penance. I bet you just give yourself a couple of Hail Marys, don’t you?”
“I don’t… I don’t have anything to confess - ” Renfield gives a startled gasp as Dracula kicks open his legs and slowly presses his knee against Renfield’s aching, hard cock, and he moans, face flushing crimson. “Hey, stop – don’t - !”
“I think you have at least one thing to confess, hmm?” He presses down a little harder before relenting, and Renfield lets out a low groan that could have been one of relief or of frustration.
“Please,” whispers Renfield, voice barely audible. “Let me go.”
Dracula grins, flashing those unusually sharp teeth. “I care about you, Father Renfield. I care about your soul. Confess.”
Maybe it’s because Renfield has always had a submissive streak, a yearning to be told what to do – that’s a large part of what drew him to the Catholic priesthood in the first place, the rules and the strictures and the knowledge that there’s something greater than him that will look out for him. Maybe it’s because of Dracula himself – his unusual, uncanny handsomeness, his dominance, the sex appeal that oozes from him like blood from an open sore. Whatever the reason, Renfield says, “I-I confess to harbouring sinful thoughts.”
When he fails to elaborate, Dracula’s eyes narrow. “I’m afraid that’s not going to cut it, Father.”
Renfield takes a shuddering breath. “Lustful thoughts. About – about other men.”
“How many other men? Are you a whore, Father Renfield?”
“No!” he splutters indignantly. “I – just one man - ”
“Who?”
Renfield’s eyes flick from side to side, settling everywhere but Dracula’s face. “You know who,” he whispers.
“Say it, Father.” Dracula shifts infinitesimally closer.
Renfield closes his eyes. “You.”
Dracula gives a low hum of satisfaction. “Good boy.” His hand slides to the back of Renfield’s neck, whose eyes fly open. “Now for your atonement.” Dracula’s fingers go to the front of his trousers, unfastening them, and Renfield lets out a shaky breath.
“What – what are you - ”
“You’ve been a filthy, filthy boy, Father Renfield. And you’ve got such a pretty, pretty mouth.”
Heat flashes through him, contrasting sharply with the cold sweat beading on the back of his neck. He shakes his head frantically as he says, “No, no – I can’t, please, I can’t - ”
“You will.”
Renfield looks up helplessly, and his lips automatically part when Dracula’s proud cock slips from his pants, fixed on him as though hypnotised as he watches Dracula give one single, slow stroke to his shaft. A tiny, clear drop of precum shines on his slit, and the urge to catch it with his tongue is almost overwhelming.
“Suck it,” commands Dracula. “Now.”
“Oh God,” Renfield whispers. “Oh God, please forgive me - ”
“There is no God here,” snarls Dracula, nails scraping the back of Renfield’s neck. “I am your only God now, Renfield. So get on your knees and pray.” He pushes down hard between his shoulder blades, and Renfield falls to his knees, the head of Dracula’s cock centimetres from his nose. He can smell the Count’s arousal, fresh and musky, and he hesitantly flicks out his tongue to run over his slick glans. His own cock throbs, and his fingers dig painfully into the soft meat of his thigh to try and ground himself.
“Good,” murmurs Dracula as the head of his cock slips into Renfield’s mouth. “Mmmm… you really are a natural, aren’t you? I knew you would be. God wouldn’t have gifted you those plush lips without the talent to go with them.”
“Don’t – don’t mention God, not now – you said - ”
“Shut up and suck.”
Renfield feels a wetness in his pants at that command, his cock leaking pre-cum. His lips wrap around Dracula again, savouring the salt-musk taste and the weighty, girthy meat on his tongue.
He’s forcing me to do this, Renfield recites in his head. He’s forcing me to do this, I don’t want this, I’m not enjoying this, I’m not –
Dracula strokes Renfield’s hair, who gives a muffled moan. “Try taking more,” urges Dracula, voice oddly gentle. “There’s a good boy, hmm?”
He tries to obey, but he gags as soon as the cockhead hits the back of his tongue. He tries to pull off, but Dracula holds his head steady, allowing him to pull back enough that he no longer gags, but not letting him pull off completely.
“Shhh,” soothes Dracula as Renfield makes a noise of protest. “Why don’t you try again?”
Renfield looks up, those beautiful blue eyes starting to water. He slowly slides his lips back down to the base of Dracula’s cock, only to splutter and gag again. This time, Dracula lets go of him, and Renfield gasps for air. Dracula just looks at him for a while, drinking in the sight of him – the priest, on his knees, lips slick with pre-cum, tears glittering on flushed cheeks. Face tilted upwards like a supplicant gazing towards the heavens.
Renfield yelps as Dracula grabs him by the arm, pulling him out of the confessional and falling on him, ripping his vestments off him like a man possessed – no, not like a man, but a beast – Dracula is feral, eyes wild, and Renfield allows himself to be manhandled like a marionette as his holy robes hang off him in shreds. He looks up, dazed. “What…”
“Your repentance isn’t over yet,” growls Dracula. “It’s not over until I have claimed you, Father Renfield. Until I’ve made you mine, inside and out.”
“What do you – ah!” He breaks off as Dracula straddles him, pushing him down – on the floor, like they’re nothing more than animals – and mouths at his neck, needle-sharp teeth scraping ever so lightly over Renfield’s skin. Dracula is a sensory assault, and every square centimetre of his skin seems to be being touched by something: his back against the cold hard wooden floor, the crushed velvet of his suit soft against his legs, Dracula’s cock – one of the only parts of him that’s unclothed – sliding over Renfield’s stomach, and his lips – fuck, his lips – “Dracula - ”
“I am a voivode of Transylvania.” His sharp nails dig warningly into Renfield’s hip. “You will address me as My Lord.”
“N-No – my Lord is my God, I can’t refer to a man as - ”
“You’re forgetting something, Father.” Searing pain blooms on his skin as Dracula’s nails rake down the curve of his hip, and he cries out in mingled surprise and pain. “I am your God. I am your religion.” His tongue flicks against Renfield’s cuts, lapping up his blood, and the priest whimpers, body writhing. “Do not make me tell you again. Do you understand?”
“Y-Yes. Sir.”
Dracula hums. “Well. It’s not a My Lord, but it’s a start.”
Renfield closes his eyes. He feels… untethered. Like his soul is slowly drifting from his body. The pain is the only thing that grounds him, those vicious crimson-dripping stripes on his hip, but it’s becoming too much – any moment now, he’ll lose himself entirely, either floating off into the ether or being subsumed into his pain… and pleasure.
Almost imperceptibly, Renfield’s lips move. No words are audible, but there’s a soft, barely-there clicking of his tongue against the roof of his mouth.
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…
Dracula’s lips graze softly over Renfield’s unblemished hip, and his body jerks, a tiny drop of pre-cum landing on his belly.
Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus –
“Are you… praying?”
Renfield falls silent, freezes. He tries to say something – whether he’s about to confirm or deny, he doesn’t know, but he knows he has to say something, anything – except he can’t.
He yelps in pain as the Count seizes his arm and drags him bodily across the floor. For a split second, Dracula’s lifting him into a position that would have almost been romantic if he had been in any other circumstance, before he’s being tossed onto the altar. Glass jars and metal plates go flying, communion wafers scattering amongst broken glass, and Renfield lets out a cry of dismay. Dracula manhandles his limp body into a vague sitting position, and with one hand supporting his back, he lifts the carafe of communion wine to Renfield’s lips.
Renfield turns his head sharply, causing a few drops of the blood of Christ to fall onto his chest, berry-bright. “I can’t – I can’t just drink it, it’s part of a sacrament, it - ”
“Fucking drink, Renfield.”
Dracula’s eyes burn into his, and Renfield reluctantly parts his lips, allowing the dark Count to slowly pour the sanctified liquid down his throat. He splutters slightly, and Dracula allows him to catch his breath for a moment before tilting the carafe back upwards. Luckily, it was nearly empty after today’s Mass, so Renfield’s barely a little light-headed when the last drop of wine slides down his throat.
“Sir,” he croaks, throat feeling like broken glass – turns out, dribbles of wine do the exact opposite of quenching one’s thirst. He completely forgets what he’s about to say as Dracula pushes him back down to the altar, tilts up his hips, spreading his legs. “No, no, I can’t – please, Master, I can’t - ”
“Master?” Dracula makes a low growl in the back of his throat. “You know, I may like that even better than my Lord.”
Renfield swallows, head spinning. The word Master had just slipped out of him, and he has absolutely no idea where it had come from. It… scares him, if he’s going to be completely honest with himself. As though he’s lost control. As though he is no longer himself. “Oh, you can’t -!” he exclaims as he sees Dracula reach for the jar of anointing oil. “You can’t use - !”
“Would you rather I fucked you dry?”
“I would rather you didn’t f-f-fuck me at all!”
“Now that is a bare-faced lie. Or should I say, a bare-arsed lie?” The familiar, pleasant scent of oil drifts over to him as Dracula slides a finger into Renfield’s ass, who lets out a breathy gasp. “Do not lie to me, Father Renfield.”
“Oh…” Renfield’s hips buck upwards, his neck arching.
“Still want to pretend you aren’t getting any pleasure from this, hmm?”
“I’m not - ! ” And this isn’t even a lie, not really; Dracula’s finger inside him doesn’t feel particularly good, only a little odd. But then, as their eyes meet again, Renfield feels another finger join the first, and his flagging erection perks back up to full hardness at the sudden stimulation.
“Oh, my,” Dracula purrs. “Looks like you are enjoying this after all, hmm?” He scissors his fingers, pushing against Renfield’s warm, wet walls, and he squirms, unsure if he’s trying to escape or if he’s trying to drive Dracula deeper.
The shallow wounds on his hip, which he had almost forgotten about in the heady rush of Dracula’s ministrations, pulse painfully, and he lets out a soft whimper.
“Bet you’ve fantasised about this before, haven’t you? A man from your congregation, pushing you down on that precious altar of yours, defiling it – defiling you - ”
“N-No, I’ve never - !”
Dracula’s tongue makes a disappointed tut noise. “I thought I told you not to lie to me, Renfield.” He withdraws his fingers, and to Renfield’s humiliation, his entrance instinctively flutters greedily, as though seeking more, more, more. “If you’re going to disobey me, then you don’t deserve any more preparation, do you?”
“No, please – I’m sorry, Sir, don’t hurt me - ”
“Hurt you?” Dracula laughs. “Oh, no, Renfield. I’m not going to hurt you – at least, not in any way that won’t also bring you pleasure.”
The Count isn’t holding him in place; Renfield’s keeping this position of his own free will, hole on display and legs wantonly spread to the side; as Dracula had stopped working him open, leaving him completely free and unfettered, it hadn’t even occurred to him for a moment that he could perhaps make a run for it, or even that he could rearrange himself into a more modest, less compromising position.
Renfield doesn’t trust him. He doesn’t trust Dracula not to hurt him, not to devour him whole – and yet, he still can’t move. He still can’t bring himself to do anything but… be devoured.
He turns his head towards the statue of the Virgin Mary at the end of the church, her head framed by a jewel-bright stained-glass window. I’m sorry, he thinks, not even daring to mouth the words. I’m so -
The head of Dracula’s cock breaches him, and he hisses in pain, only to gasp a little as Dracula’s hands clutch his forearms, pinning him down. “H-Hurts -”
“Wait,” says Dracula. “It won’t, soon.”
Renfield wants to protest, but then Dracula pushes deeper, and he lets out a cry, legs curling instinctively around the Count’s waist. “A-Ah - Master –“ His entrance still stings, but Dracula’s thick, cool length pushing into him makes Renfield forget about the pain, his ebony locks fanning over the altar as he throws his head back.
“Look at you, Father,” mocks Dracula as he shoves in further, causing Renfield to whine in desperation. “You’re nothing more than a common whore, aren’t you?”
“I – I don’t – oh, fuck!” Those last couple of words are punched out of him as Dracula’s cock drags over his prostate, something which had been untouched until now, and Renfield’s nails score down Dracula’s pale, cold back. “Oh – what are you – what are you doing to me –“
Dracula flashes him a sharp, wicked grin. “You’re so desperate for me, aren’t you?” He thrusts viciously, and Renfield lets out a cry, a small tear squeezing from the corner of his eye. “You want me to touch your cock, Father? Want me to indulge your pathetic little desires?”
“I… please,” says Renfield hoarsely. “My Lord, please, touch my – my c-cock, please, I –“ He moans desperately as Dracula’s hips snap forward, fucking him deep, hard, mercilessly.
Dracula laughs coldly. “As much as I appreciate you finally calling me ‘My Lord’… no, Father Renfield. If you want to cum, you will do it on my cock alone – my fat, thick cock, sodomising you on this altar.”
A shock of lightning goes down Renfield’s spine. “Yes… yes, sir…” He feels a flood of thick, strangely cool liquid shoot into him as Dracula shudders above him, and then Renfield’s lost, his long-suffering straining cock spurting hot cum over his stomach, smearing onto Dracula’s, some even shooting onto his face –
“I’m sor- ” His apology is truncated when Dracula swipes the creamy liquid from his cheek, inspecting it for a moment before sucking his finger clean. “What are you…”
Dracula ignores him, hopping down and tucking himself back into his trousers, brushing his clothes down fussily as though he’d just accidentally stepped in a puddle, rather than fucking the living daylights out of a priest on his own altar. For a moment, he looks like he’s about to leave, but then he turns back to Renfield, still panting and trembling in the aftershocks of his climax.
“Say thank you.”
Renfield only looks at him uncomprehendingly for a moment, brain scrambled and punch-drunk.
“Say it,” repeats Dracula. “Thank me for defiling you on your altar, Father Renfield.”
Renfield manages to drag himself into a sitting position, muscles still shaky and soft. “I… th - ” A flush spreads over his cheeks, down his neck. “Th-Thank you, Master.”
Dracula leans down, pressing the swiftest, softest kiss on Renfield’s lips before pulling away. “I’ll come by tomorrow. Be ready for me.”
“Tomorrow? I don’t have Mass tomorrow, I was supposed to meet with the… bishop…” He trails off at the Count’s intense stare.
“You’re mine now, Robert. Cancel your appointment. Be ready.”
And just like that, Renfield’s resolve crumples. “Yes, Master. I will.”
It’s only when the church’s heavy door swings shut that Renfield realises –
How the hell did he know my first name?