BBC's Dracula - Mistress Agatha

BY : Camille_de_Statte
Category: -Misc TV Shows > General
Dragon prints: 151
Disclaimer: I do not own BBC's Dracula, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Sister Agatha van Helsing of St. Mary’s Convent, Budapest, walks briskly down the corridor towards her bedchamber, her evening’s reading under one arm; she will drop the papers off at her desk before returning for evening prayers. Outside the barred windows she can see that dusk has fallen into a deep red line across the horizon, a quiet darkness descends over the streets below. As she approaches her room, she can see flickering firelight under the door. Strange, her fireplace is usually not lit until later, at least not for another hour or two.

She reaches for her key ring, looking forward to the heavy metallic dropping of the tumblers in the lock, but realizes that the door is already ajar. She hesitates, sensing that something unsettling awaits her on the other side. Well, no use delaying the inevitable. With firm resolve, she swings the door open. Her suspicions are confirmed: Count Dracula is standing in the middle of the room. He is dressed with his usual class – a heavy black suit, dark grey vest and a red cravat around his neck. She notices that he is barefoot, an odd departure from habit, he must have been in a hurry to get here. His dark eyes move over her body with hungry impatience. He is panting, no doubt he has smelled her coming. She quickly deduces that the Count has spent his early waking hours sneaking around the convent, avoiding detection, until he could quietly force her door open and slip inside.

With a nod of understanding, Agatha sets her papers down on the floor, removes her shoes and the large crucifix from round her neck, and bolts the door shut behind her with a satisfying clank; he’s not going anywhere.

Turning back to him and leaning casually against the door, she says, “Well, well, well,” with her light Dutch accent, which makes every word sound both aloof and deeply contemptuous. “Shall we begin?”

Without a word, Dracula starts removing his clothes, carefully at first, long fingers working around the buttons of his jack, then his vest. But the act itself, performed so demurely under her hateful gaze is already driving him mad, and he gives up the pretence. The shirt is ripped off, buttons and all, and the pants are hurriedly pulled down and tossed aside.

In the dim firelight, Agatha can see that Dracula is quite gaunt; he has clearly not eaten in a while. His tall naked frame seems to have sunk in on itself. His once lustrous black hair hangs around his face in greasy dejected strands. A sheen of sweat covers his pale body and droplets of it form on his upper lip. His eyes are downcast, he dares not look at her directly. His breaths are fast and shallow, and it looks as if his whole body is suppressing a violent shiver. With satisfaction, Agatha realized that Dracula had been starving himself for days, possibly weeks, in preparation for this evening. Glancing down, she notices that his penis is erect – dark and thick with anticipation.

Her gaze moves to his face and she whispers coldly, “On your knees.”

Dracula drops to the floor with relief, head bowed. He looks so weak, like the mere effort of standing there has exhausted him.

“Yes, that’s right,” she says icily, “you are a filthy beast, you belong on the filthy ground, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Dracula whispers, shaking slightly.

“Yes, what?” Agatha demands, and Dracula flinches at the harsh tone. “I can’t hear you.”

“Yes, Mistress,” a little louder.

“That’s better.”

Agatha slowly pulls up the hem of her habit, to reveal her naked leg and foot. Dracula’s eyes inch hungrily up and suddenly stop and glaze over with the sight of a thin glistening line of blood running its bright path down her leg. As it gets lower, Agatha raises and turns her foot, allowing the blood to run down into her toes and drip slowly onto the stone floor.

Dracula stares at the growing red pool, his eyes blood shot, his face slack, teeth bared, a low growl rumbling in his throat.

“Please, Mistress,” he says hoarsely.

“Do not speak unless you’re spoken to!” she snaps at him, and he cowers back, but his eyes never leave the blood, dripping, pooling through her toes.

“Come here,” she says.

Dracula lurches forward eagerly on his hands and knees, ignoring the rough stone tiles scraping against his skin. His tongue is already reaching for the bloody pool when Agatha’s foot slams into the back of his shoulder, driving him painfully down to the floor. Dracula submits under her weight, breathing fast, his skin burning with the pleasure of her touch. With her foot against his shoulder, the smell of blood is intoxicating and Dracula lets out a fierce growl.

“Count Dracula, please attend my words with care,” Agatha says quietly. She traces a smear of blood across to his neck, and finally onto his cheek. Forcing the side of his face down into the cold stones she says, “You are a lowly beast, deserving of my utmost contempt.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Dracula gasps.

“And as a beast, you will obey my every command.”

“I will, Mistress,” breathless with hunger.

“You know the rules. You will not touch me with your filthy, disgusting hands.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“And you will have only as much as I give you.”

“Oh, have mercy, Mistress!” Dracula cries in total despair. He struggles under the weight of her foot, hands clenching and unclenching on the floor, buttocks taut.

With a satisfied “Hm,” Agatha removes her foot, admiring the blood print it leaves on his cheek and says, “Come and get it then.”

Dracula instantly turns his face up towards her and feverishly presses his open mouth against the bottom of her foot as if he would devour it whole, but she quickly pulls away again. He growls in frustration, neck straining up to reach her.

Agatha laughs cruelly. “Slowly,” she says, “you will take your time; one must never rush a nun.”

The blood is dripping onto his face, he’s lapping at it with his tongue. As she lowers her foot back down, he is already raising his head up to meet it, and finally, his lips close over her drenched toes. He moans somewhere deep in his chest and his eyes shut tightly with the pleasure of it. He works his tongue diligently around each toe, under each nail, across the bottom of her foot. Then he raises himself up on one elbow to reach her ankle, licking, suckling at her skin, getting every last drop. Crouched on his knees now, he licks up her calf, the tender skin at the back of her knee. It’s taking all his power not to grab her and plunge his fangs into her soft, warm flesh.

At that moment, Agatha suddenly feels his sharp teeth against her skin.

Smack! Smack! The force of her slaps whips his head from side to side and he staggers back, stunned. “Stupid, disgusting animal!” she spits. “No biting!”

Dracula looks stricken; he throws himself to the ground and cries, “I’m sorry, Mistress!”

“I should throw you out right now for your impertinence!”

“No!” he bursts out, suddenly with real fear in his voice, “No, please, I beg you!”

“You have not begun to beg.” She leans down and pulls him up sharply by the hair. “You know, despicable fiend, that if you bite me and I become like you, you will lose this sweet nectar forever.”

“Of course, Mistress,” he pants desperately, “please, please forgive me.”

“Very well,” says Agatha, cupping his chin tightly in her other hand, “but only because you are so very good at grovelling.” She pushes him down again and returns to lean against the door. When he’s up on his knees, she offers him her foot. He resumes his feast, but with much more restraint. She can see the effort of it in the strain of his back muscles, in the shudders going through his body with every taste. He emits low grunts as he works his way up her leg. His head disappears under her skirt, and she feels his face moving against the inside of her thigh, lips pressed tight to her skin, jaw working to swallow. He finds her dark opening and plunges in. She moans, bracing against the heavy oak door as his tongue darts in and out of her, deeper and deeper, hungrily consuming every drop that comes to him. His whole mouth opens up to devour her, bringing her in; his lips suck at her lips, his teeth grind against her clitoris, and she is pushed up by him, raised almost off the ground. She feels a climax mounting and lets out a yearning cry. But then she catches herself.

“Enough!” Agatha orders and shoves him back away from her.

Dracula sprawls on the floor as if drunk. Thick smears of dark blood cover his face and neck and he laughs under his breath as he languidly licks it from his lips, gathering some here and there with his fingers. Agatha can see that her blood has begun to work on him. Already his skin is less pale, his cheeks filled in, his arms and legs newly fleshed with firm muscle. His cock is harder now, twitching against the dark hair running up his tight stomach.

Good, she thinks to herself, he will need some fortitude for what is to come next.

Agatha approaches him slowly, “So this is the great Dracula,” she says with derision. “Look at yourself. And to think people cower before your very name. If they could see you now, shameless fiend.”

Dracula is oblivious to her taunts; he is lost in the bliss of lapping up the last of her blood from his face and hands.

Agatha steps over him and places her feet firmly on either side of his hips. “I am not finished with you yet,” she says with quiet menace.

Suddenly fearful, Dracula stares up at her, eyes wide, a finger stopped between his lips mid-suckle. He is trying to guess what further humiliation she has planned for him. Without a word, Agatha lowers herself over him, spreading her starched skirts around them. She loves the feel of his sweat slicked thighs against hers. She reaches down between her legs and when her fingers emerge they are covered in bright red blood. Dracula follows the movement of her hand, mouth open and ready.

Holding her fingers just above his mouth Agatha hovers her hot sex over his. “Do you want more?” she asks.

A drop falls onto his lips. “Yes, Mistress.”

“Will you be good and obedient?”

“Yes, I will, I swear it.” His tongue is reaching up to catch the droplets, his hips thrusting upwards, trying to find her.

“Stay still, you dog, control yourself!”

With a frustrated growl, his body stills.

“I want to see the limit of your capability,” she says.

With that, Agatha gently presses her bloody fingers against his lips and holds herself just over his tip. Then, in one agonizingly slow movement, she slips her fingers into his mouth and brings herself down to take him inside her, deep, all the way. A tremor goes through his body and it feels delicious to her. She starts to move, taking her time as he lovingly licks her fingers clean. But the blood brings back the frenzy and suddenly, his hands are on her hips and he is thrusting her down on himself, nails biting into her flesh through the habit. In a fury, she rips his hands away and slaps him hard across the face.

Smack! “Do not touch me!” Smack! “With your filthy hands!”

“I’m sorry, forgive me!” he gasps as her hand cracks across his skin again and again with each reprimand.

“Filthy! Disgusting!” she shouts.

“Please, Mistress!” Dracula cries. Agatha can see his pain, but she can also feel his cock jerking excitedly with every smack. Just for the fun of it, she slaps him again.

“Put your hands over your head where I can see them,” she commands. Dracula obeys, grimacing at the sting in his face.

“Now,” says Agatha, “you are going to be still, and tell me what I want to hear.” With a wry smile, she squeezes his cock inside her and watches him moan. She savours his struggle to not move, to stay still under this exquisite torture.

“My Mistress,” Dracula obeys, gasping pitifully at each contraction of her tight passage. “I am your servant – a lowly beast – here for your pleasure and purpose. You are my goddess – I live only to please you. Oh, please, Mistress! Have mercy!”

“Good boy,” says Agatha, placated. She places one hand on his chest and the other on his neck, bracing against him. Dracula shudders at this, but he obligingly turns his chin up to expose more of his neck to her, giving in to his helplessness.

This time as she starts to move, he stays still, his hands clenched tight on the floor above his head, the muscles in his arms rippling. She rides him slowly at first, enjoying the size and contours of him. With each thrust she forces gasps of pleasure and anguish from his parted lips.

She feels the climax coming again and whispers, “Look at me.” His eyes dart to hers, but he can’t keep them open. She leans in closer, her hand tight around his throat, “Look at me, Dracula.” He meets her gaze and doesn’t look away this time. With their eyes locked, she rides him faster and faster, driving her body against him, grinding out her pleasure in abandon.

“Mistress!” he says, the word a barely contained growl.

“No!” she commands, “You will not cum until I tell you.”

“Yes, Mistress!” he forces out between clenched teeth.

They are moaning together now, Dracula’s body glistening with sweat and blood beneath her, his face flushed with exquisite suffering as he desperately tries to obey her commands. But it’s so hard, his organ is a rock inside her, so close, too close.

“Yes,” Agatha’s voice is low and husky, her movement faster, sharper. “Yes!”

“Mistress,” Dracula breaths, “please!”

“Now, Dracula, now!”

The build up is tremendous and the orgasm crashes over her in wave after delicious wave. Dracula lets out a strained growl as he empties himself, head thrown back, cock thrusting up into her. Agatha’s hips convulse again and again over his tight body and together, they ride out their ecstasy into oblivion.

Gradually, her movements subside and she sighs deeply. She looks down at her captive with resigned affection. As the last few shudders roll over her, she reaches down and runs her thumb across Dracula’s blood-stained chin. She offers it to him and he accepts gratefully, pulling her finger deep into his mouth. Finally, they are both still, spent. The only sounds in the darkening room are their slowing breaths and the crackle of the dying fire.

Dracula looks up at her with complete devotion and whispers, “Thank you, Mistress.” She can’t help but smile, his vulnerability in this moment is touching. But sooner or later, she has to break the spell.

With a sudden briskness, Agatha extricates herself from his now flaccid sex. “Your gratitude is appreciated, fiend,” she allows, “but it is tarnished by your poor performance.” Dracula laughs at this.

Agatha turns away and proceeds to wipe herself clean with a towel from the washstand. “Twice I had to reprimand you,” she continues. “Perhaps this game is a little too challenging for you. Perhaps you should find yourself a more yielding nun.”

Dracula sighs. “I shall try to do better next time,” he replies, “you are the only nun for me.” And then he adds, smiling wickedly, “Sister Agatha.”

Agatha ignores his impertinent tone. She adjusts her nun’s habit around her waist and head, smoothing out the creases. As she turns to leave, she glances back at Dracula. He is still sprawled out on the floor, eyes half closed, lips in a sleepy smile. His is running his hands through his blood streaked groin and licking them, consuming every last trace of her from his body.

“Same time next month?” she asks.

“Of course,” Dracula replies, mumbling around the bloody fingers in his mouth.

“Don’t speak with your mouth full,” she chides.

“Yes, Mistress,” he laughs again.

Sister Agatha van Helsing leaves him there, closing the door firmly behind her, and joins her sisters for evening prayer. Her footsteps fade away down the darkening corridor as the night deepens outside the convent windows. In her bedchamber, a fully revived Dracula raises himself on one elbow and runs a hand through his now thick glossy hair. In the light of the dying embers, his eyes shine with preternatural glow. He shakes his head, chuckles lightly to himself, and lovingly licks the last bits of Agatha from his fingers.

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