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Renfield could hear the gentle pitter-pattering of rain outside, and see through the shattered glass far far ahead of him that the moon was rising to its crescendo in the sky. Dense woollen clouds blocked the night sky. The moon or the sun were little more than memories in the back of his head, piercing orbs of light that shone far too brightly. He preferred the darkness now, not that he had any choice.
Weeks or months had passed, maybe even longer, since Renfield had seen another face but his Master’s. The dank hospital was worse than the sanitorium all those decades ago, and Renfield almost enjoyed the fact that nobody could see him but his Master: He felt exclusive, unique. Nobody could know him like Dracula, by design.
Thick, heavy iron chains coiled themselves around Renfield, looped around his joints and hanging him taut above the floor by about 3 inches. His head hung limp slightly, edging to the right. His exposed neck was littered in peck marks; little bites in the name of love and saturation. Most were old, just slight discolouration. Others were fresh, the skin around them red-raw and the wound itself deep, starting to scab over.
The sharp ringing of footsteps from across the hospital snapped Renfield to attention. The harsh clack of heels, one after the other, carefully choreographed. Dracula didn’t need to walk, but he knew that Renfield would hear him coming. It would get his blood pumping faster, his heart rate up. All the more delicious, all the more oxygenated. It was like chasing prey, without the waste of exerting force or effort.
The sound made the marks on Renfield squirm. Like goosebumps they portended the terror that would enter the hall in a moment. He was dressed in nothing besides dust and Lilliputian flies that clung to his exposed skin, stealing from his Master. The long slits across Renfield’s arms and wrists trembled against the ley lines of his veins, his blood aching to escape.
With a final flourish, Dracula entered into Renfield’s view. Renfield no longer picked out the specifics of his Master’s outfits: Just the colours, black and red. Night and Blood. The only two things Renfield could compare them to anymore. Count Dracula stepped back to look over Renfield’s scarred pelt.
“Good morning Renfield. You know why I am here.” He didn’t bother to look Renfield in the eyes as he continued to assess his body, to check over it for faults or defects, revelling in the way it trembled very slightly, only to stiffen again when Renfield became aware he was moving without permission.
“You look as dreary as ever, dragul meu[my darling].” He made sure to enunciate each syllable with the care required that Renfield could feel them reverberating into his cochlea and around his brain, taking up his thoughts with only those of his Master. There wasn’t much else he thought of anymore, with the lack of stimuli besides aches and groans, but it drew Renfield closer in, made him feel appreciated, made him feel as though he was loved.
“There is a glint in your eye, Renfield. You know what is to come, and I would be remiss to think you had not come to enjoy it.” Renfield stiffened again, trying to shiver in some innate reflex, rebutted by the chains that bound him here, suspended before Dracula.
“My hunger has become your pleasure, so to speak. As though the lamb comes to enjoy the slaughter. What twisted irony is that?” He ran his thumb along Renfield’s jaw, and tilted his head from side to side, looking at his handiwork, before pressing the sharp nail of it into the soft flesh above his neck, pushing his head up ever so slightly.
“Open wide, mielul [lamb].” He raised his other hand above Renfield’s head, and clenched it in a tight fist, digging his nails into his own palm. Blood quickly spilled forth, falling onto cracked lips and a dry tongue, that lusted after that salty sanguine flavour as intensely as though it were his lifeblood. In a way it was. This was his oasis in the vast desert of isolation Dracula had confined him to, the mirage of hydration, and the reality of the torture to come. Renfield knew what was coming, but to know that he was becoming one with his Master was the greater joy. He drank his Master’s blood to keep him alive and satiating, and his Master drank from him for convenience.
Altogether at once Renfield felt the rush of blood from Dracula work within him, untwisting knots of hunger and relaxing tense muscles. The myriad bruises, like dots of night sky against his skin, began to fade slightly. This feeling would not last, but Renfield was elated to know that he had been granted something, a gift. Continued service. Dracula could toss him away at any moment, but Renfield knew that as long as Dracula kept him strong enough to feed from, he still has his uses. Still had his purpose, and that enough was plenty for him.
Dracula watched, musing to himself, as Renfield lapped up the blood he had given to him. “You are too eager, Dragă [Dear]. I shall have to do something to make sure you do not get too full of yourself to develop any ego.” He looked into Renfield’s eyes for the first time that day, and saw joy. A crooked smile tugged at the corners of his lips, but was kept away by the thought of a puppy humping its owner. A useless act in the heat of their lives. Perhaps that is what Renfield is feeling for him, Dracula considers. This does not deter him from his feast.
Dracula steps away again, and silently moves to watch Renfield’s wrists, limp against the chains now. The whole arm seemed to lean into his touch as he traced a cross along his wrist, and dug his fingernails in to mark the shape with crimson. He watched the crucifix dribble for a moment, small splatters of blood landing on the floor, before leaning in to press his lips against it, and lap up the meal.
Renfield could feel his Master’s touch against him, and the very thought of it made his breath haggard and uneven, but he remained calm and kept himself steady, cognizant of the last time he had struggled.
The pain had been unbearable, that first time. The cut was deep and gouged into his tendons, leaving his wrist practically broken, hanging on by the force of skin alone. The heat leaving his wrist came forth like a tidal wave, and the tips of his fingers were blue with de-oxygenation. Dracula had been cruel, edging deeper into him every time he dared move.
By now, the pain was dulled, and the pleasure of his Master touching him far outweighed that pain. Touch was precious in his isolation. He could not touch anything besides to grasp at air, and the only contact was with agony: And so Renfield learned to love agony.
Dracula moved onto the other arm, and drained that in the same way. Renfield could no longer feel his arms, numb either from dissociating the pain away or the atrophy of his musculature.
Dracula came back to face Renfield, and with one hand pressed his head sideways, tilting it to expose his riddled neck once more. He felt Renfield shiver, and felt his temple pulse irregularly and irreverently.
“It’s safer for you if you stay still.” Dracula announced, little more than a warning that if Renfield disobeyed him, agony beyond the threshold of his love would come. Dracula believed this to be a threat, and consciously Renfield did too, although a begging voice in the back of his head whimpered out that he didn’t deserve to be safe, that his Master should use him as the tool that he is to him, and nothing more. This same song and dance had happened countless times, and Renfield was conflicted in knowing that his Master would hate him to struggle but that he himself would love to be used by the person who undoubtedly ruled over him. To be no more than an extension of Dracula’s will; something for him to use, and to love to use.
Renfield assented, and let his head hang sadly down. It was out of his control. He resigned that Dracula would use him however he wanted, and if he wanted him to consent then he would. He stared down absent-mindedly at the floor, as dusty as he, as Dracula dug his fangs deep into Renfield’s neck, scraping against one of his vertebrae. He wrenched his head back and watched the fountain of food spray out and over Renfield’s neck, before diving in to satiate himself. He kept a hand pressed against Renfield’s jugular, and squeezed it when he felt like Renfield was too limp, to jog him back into the reality of the situation, and watch as he spasmed slightly, spurting more blood from his carotid artery.
It hardly worked, Renfield seems to have a loving look upon his face even as he stared away. Dracula frowned and looks upon him with disgust. He moves away to look upon his work tonight: Limp wrists with dripping crucifixes and head hung low. All Renfield needed was a crown of thorns and the set would be complete.
Dracula hardly has to do as much as look scornfully upon the bondage for the chains to fall away from Renfield and have him crumble onto the floor in a heap of debris, his skin stained with more of his own blood. Dracula leers over him like an obelisk, to call out that his jucărie [toy] had disobeyed him. Renfield wasn’t sure how, but the blood loss tired him out beyond the point of critical thinking, trusting his Master to know him better than himself. Dracula told him that he must be punished for this, and Renfield nodded as best as he could.
Dracula untangled him from the floor, and laid him flat, as if he was to make a snow angel in the hot and salty mess beneath him, that still flooded out of him in droves.
Dracula started with the tips of his fingers, driving the heel of his shoe into each individual distal phalange, shattering them into fragments. Renfield felt the tips of his fingers burst open, skin paring apart. For the thumbs Dracula considered for a moment before levering his thumb in the opposite direction of the hand, snapping it apart from the carpal bones. The rest of his phalanges were bent in whichever direction took Dracula’s fancy. His mangled hands resembled tumbleweed.
Dracula pulled at his wrist until the nerves strained him so visibly that he leaned over and slashed a finger across them, tearing them so that the wrist spasmed and stiffened. Renfield could no longer feel anything but pain, an overwhelming overstimulating cacophony of screams in his head yelling at him not to deny his Master the pleasure.
Dracula slid his hand along Renfield’s blood-stained arm up to the elbow, and gripped it tightly, twisting it ever so slightly. He felt the joints and bones crunch as they slid apart and with a harsh tug the arm came apart, bouts of blood surging out of his open wounds. Dracula ignored this blood. The rest had been for show, but now it was his time to take Renfield and do as he truly pleased. He had satisfied Renfield’s lust for purpose, and could now use him freely, without true purpose. Without any greater motive but joy. He snapped the bone in the other arm trivially, shifting Renfield’s arm into unnatural positions, more like a triangle than any semblance of the angle it had once been.
Dracula turned his attention towards new horizons, bored of his arms already. He lined his heel up with Renfield’s big toe, hoping to get all 5 in one go. He slammed down onto it, contact with the first toe deflecting his aim and only smashing the biggest and smallest. He turned to stomping, pounding his foot into the ground. Inevitably he’d get them all, Dracula concurred: He had the time. Each stomp was met by a violent wince or yelp by Renfield, so Dracula suspected each to have hit in enough capacity, and looked down to see the pulp beneath him, and to see the metatarsals in his toes fractured. Renfield was barely conscious, and the feeling of his Achilles tendons being crushed, and the sharp pang of agony that Renfield couldn’t ignore any longer, that shocked him out of awareness.
The taste of hot metal pressed its way to the back of Renfield’s throat, his nose flooding with a sour and pungent odour that brought him enough to his senses to gag on Dracula’s dick as it forced its way further into Renfield: A slit along the dorsal vein dousing it in his master’s blood. In gagging, he swallowed plenty of the sanguinity and felt himself brought back from the edge of the abyss of death. His nose flared as he tried his best to service his master, working with him to impale himself on his shaft, nestling deep against his base, pressed into a forest of knotted pubic hair. It smelled exactly like the rest of his master, beautiful. Dracula tilted his head to look at Renfield, and deciding he had had enough blood, pushed Renfield’s head off of his dick with a distasteful tut.
Renfield sat as upright as his still broken body would let him, and looked up at the man he loved, who looked down upon him as less than a pet. Renfield thought on the life he had led, and considered himself glad to be so close to Dracula. The pain, the death, the loss, it was all worth it, for eternity.
Dracula kicked him back down onto his back, and turned away to find some rock or similar to rest Renfield’s head on. A pile of loos bricks was enough to prop Renfield’s head up enough to look upon his desecrated body in its entirety. Dracula leaned down to trace an “X” across his abdomen, halfway between his belly button and leaking cunt.
Dracula had noticed it earlier. The disdain in his face had been obvious, he thought, but Renfield’s hapless grin and blank stare had left him besides himself, unable to look critically at his master, only to revel in his glory. Dracula hated the way Renfield got off on him, as if some God of irony had decided that Renfield deserved anything from him, even sexual pleasure. Dracula resolved to never let that happen again.
Dracula drove his heel into the intersection of the cross he had marked, and felt his flesh give way to the sharp heel that dug through his abdomen and penetrated directly into his uterus. He retracted his foot, looked at the blood and tissue on it and mused on how annoying that would be to clean, when an idea came upon him, and he stepped over to Renfield, taking his shoe off and forcing the heel into Renfield’s mouth, commanding him to clean it. He left Renfield to figure that out, and returned to his abdomen, gently prying his wound open to peer inside. He about guessed where the ovaries were, and plunged his hand in, bursting through the side of Renfield’s uterus and feeling around for that uneven spheroid, and, grasping it, crushed it in his hand, and ripped it out of Renfield, laying it carefully upon his chest like a funeral rose. Reaching in again he did the same on the other side, though tried to preserve this one, as if doing so would give Renfield hope. He laid it flat across the other, and looked up to Renfield, who was weeping.
“Why are you crying Renfield? Here are all your children laid out before you. You always said you wanted another one, to replace those ones you left behind all that time.” Dracula was incognizant to the fact the stories he had been told about Renfield’s children were all about one. He didn’t care enough to make the link between their name and their actions, humouring Renfield’s stories as one might look upon a monkey banging against the walls of the zoo it’s confined in. Making a short pleasure out of their misery. He continued, “So here you are, Robert. All of your children, every single one left. I admit I unfortunately relieved some of them the tragedy of you abandoning them again by taking the matter into my own hand, quite literally.” Dracula didn’t bother to look at Renfield’s reaction. “Of course, these ones left aren’t any good without me, are they?” And he reached down towards his cock, and revealed to Renfield his plan: “I’m going to fuck you, Renfield. And as a last gift, I shall pull out and ejaculate onto your useless ovaries and you can hope anything comes of it.”
Foregoing all of his prior work, Dracula picked Renfield up by the hips, and slammed himself deep into Renfield. He feels Renfield twitch and spasm around him, and with one hand reaches into Renfield’s abdomen and slashes his nails around his cervix, making Renfield scream out. His head was forced against the ground as he hung limply off of Dracula’s dick. Dracula ignored this and began to start thrusting in and out with practised rhythm, or rather, thrusting Renfield against him, bucking his hips back and forth, crashing Renfield’s head against the floor with each deep stroke. Dracula felt the drips of blood that lubricated his sex meld with the slight remnants of the blood he had left in Renfield’s mouth, his dorsal vein hadn’t fully healed yet. Renfield felt both agony and rejuvenation, the constant cycle of thrusts that forced his wounds ever open and the dispersal of Dracula that tried to close them.
Renfield wept, knowing he had lost one of the things he thought Dracula valued in him. What had he done to deserve this? Renfield always thought that Dracula kept him around both for his blood and the fact that Renfield would willingly bear his offspring, without a second thought. Yet here, resting on the floor besides his eyes, were a crushed ovary – another stained and covered in gore – having fallen, when Dracula picked him up, onto the dusty floor.
Renfield felt his head slam on the floor constantly again and again as he began to dissociate, staring at his lost legacy.
Dracula kept fucking him, and looked down lovingly at his dead-eyed stare. He felt himself coming close to climax, and peered at the ovaries in front of Renfield. He hadn’t realised they had fallen off his chest, expecting them to stick there like pins. He considered the “promise” he’d made to Renfield to cum on them, and imagined the way Renfield would react to it. Perhaps he’d cry over them, clutched in the palms of his hands, mangled as they were. Perhaps he would simply lay there and dissociate from his pain. Perhaps he’d just pass out. Maybe, just maybe, Renfield would try and force them back in, and pray to his “God” for children. Dracula smiled at the thought, and decided to honour his promise. With a last deep thrust he groaned and teared himself out of Renfield, who fell to the floor. Dracula stood above him and finished himself off, gloating that he didn’t even need Renfield to relieve himself, before spurting vaguely in the direction of the ovaries, some splattered onto Renfield’s face, but he didn’t blink as it dripped into his eye, just looking ahead.
Dracula doesn’t bother to stay around and find out what Renfield did, taking his shoe back and slotting it onto his foot, and hovering back down the hallway from whence he came, to rest in his coffin of consecrated dirt.