Vampire Slut Begs Lord to Bite and Breed Her

The candles along the north corridor burned low and uneven, throwing long fingers of gold across black marble and the gilt frames of portraits that had not changed their expressions in centuries. Ingrid moved through that light as if she had been poured into it on purpose. She was twenty-eight, a vampire in her own right, and she had accepted Lord Sullivan’s invitation the way a woman accepts a dare she already intends to win. Guest. The word had been written in a careful hand on thick paper, sealed in dark wax. She had read it twice and then chosen the dress that would make the word meaningless the moment he looked at her.

Black latex. Skin-tight. Cut so low that the upper swells of her large breasts threatened to spill with every breath, the hem riding high enough on her thighs that a slower step would have shown everything. No underwear. No bra. Nothing between the slick, clinging material and the heat gathering in her cunt but the thin film of her own anticipation. The dress whispered and squeaked when she walked, an obscene little sound in a house built for silence. It clung to the heavy hang of her tits, to the dip of her waist, to the full curve of her ass, and it left nothing to the imagination. She had come alone. She intended to be found only by the man she was hunting.

Lord Sullivan was three hundred and forty years old. Ancient in the way that made younger vampires lower their eyes when his name crossed a room. Ingrid had no interest in lowering hers. She wanted his massive fangs in her flesh. She wanted his cock claiming her until her voice gave out. She wanted to be used hard, bent and bitten and bred, and she had dressed for exactly that hunger. The shamelessness of it sang through her as she passed another sconce and caught her reflection in a dark window: mouth painted nearly black, eyes bright, nipples stiff enough to tent the glossy latex. A slut on a mission. She did not soften the word, even in her own head. She liked it. She had come here to earn it all over again.

The corridors smelled of beeswax, cold stone, and something cleaner and older that she recognized as him. She followed it. Her heels she had kicked off at the threshold because she wanted the chill of the marble under her bare feet and because she wanted nothing slowing her when she reached him. Vampiric quiet carried her past closed doors and empty galleries. What passed for her pulse thudded low and filthy between her legs. She thought of his hands spreading her. She thought of being taken standing, then on her back, then marked until the bites ached for the rest of her unending life. She thought of thick seed flooding her womb and painting her skin, and the thought made her cunt clench and wet the insides of her thighs beneath the short hem.

Electric tension lived in the air of the house, as if the mansion itself had noticed what she wanted and was holding its breath. Candlelight slid over latex and pale skin. A portrait of some long-dead courtier watched her pass with painted indifference. Ingrid smiled at it, vicious and eager, and kept hunting. Every step rubbed the tight dress against her nipples. Every breath reminded her she was bare underneath, a guest who had arrived already soaked and already decided.

At the end of the gallery a door stood ajar. Firelight leaked across the threshold. Leather. Old paper. The colder scent of the lord of the house, close now, unmistakable. Her large breasts rose and fell against the latex. She was wet enough that walking had become its own small indecency. She did not knock. She was a guest, and she was a whore who had come to be ruined, and she was finished pretending those were separate things.

She pushed the door wider and stepped into the study.

He was standing at the hearth, coat open, shirt undone at the throat, pale as marble and twice as hard. Three hundred and forty years sat on him like a crown no one else in the house could wear. Firelight cut the lines of his throat and the severe set of his mouth. His eyes found her at once. They dropped, slow and deliberate, over the latex, over the obvious absence of anything beneath it, over the way her breasts strained the neckline as if they were trying to escape into his hands.

“You are my guest,” he said. His voice was low, controlled, the kind of control that had not been properly tested in a long time. “This house has rules about guests.”

“Then break them.” Ingrid crossed the rug in three strides and pressed herself against him. The latex squeaked faintly where her tits met his chest. The cold of him went straight through the dress and into her nipples, and she rolled her hips once, shameless, letting him feel that the hem hid nothing at all. Her cunt kissed the front of his trousers through a slick of her own making. “I’m not here for the wine or the portraits or whatever polite little evenings you throw for people who know how to behave. I’m here because I want to be used hard. I want you to fuck me. I want those fangs of yours in my tits. I want you to breed this cunt until I can’t stand up.”

Something in his jaw shifted. His hands stayed at his sides. Control, still. Barely. She could feel it fraying where her body touched his.

“You walk into a lord’s study dressed like that,” he said, “and you think you get to give orders.”

“I think I get to beg.” She dragged her nails lightly down his chest, not enough to challenge him, enough to show him she was already his if he would only take her. “I’m twenty-eight and I’ve been hungry for exactly this since the invitation hit my hand. Look at me. No underwear. Latex so tight you can see how hard my nipples are. I’m dripping on your rug. That’s not a guest. That’s a vampire whore who hunted you through your own halls because she couldn’t wait another minute to be ruined.”

His nostrils flared. He had smelled her the moment the door opened. She knew it. She wanted him to.

Ingrid dropped.

The latex dress rode up as her knees hit the rug, bunching at her hips, baring the wet shine of her inner thighs and the swollen, needy flush of her cunt. She looked up at him, mouth open, one hand braced on his thigh, the other tugging the neckline lower until the upper curves of her breasts nearly escaped. The fire warmed one side of her face. The rest of her was cold with wanting.

“Please,” she said, and she meant it with every filthy inch of her. “Lord Sullivan. Bite my huge tits with those enormous fangs. Breed me. Use me like the eager vampire whore I am. I came here for that. I dressed like this for that. Nothing in the way. Just me, on my knees, begging you to fuck me mercilessly and put your seed where it belongs.”

His cock strained against his trousers, thick and unmistakable, inches from her mouth. She leaned in and pressed her cheek to it through the cloth, breathing him in, letting him feel how desperate she was. “I’ll take it however you want to give it. Standing. On my back. Fangs in my flesh while you pound me. I want to be covered. I want to be filled. I want you to stop being careful.”

A sound left him that was not quite a growl and not quite a word. Control snapped like a thread pulled one inch too far.

He seized her by the hair, firm and sure, exactly the handling she had crawled here to get, and hauled her up against him. Their mouths met, cold and hot, her tongue eager, his fangs already lengthening against her lip. She moaned into the kiss and ground her bare cunt against his thigh, latex squealing, offering every soft part of herself without shame. His hands found her ass and squeezed hard enough to promise bruises. She pushed into the grip.

“You want to be used,” he said against her mouth, voice gone rough. “Then you will be used. Say it again.”

“Use me.” Her breath shook. “Fuck me mercilessly. Bite me. Breed me. Please, my lord. I’m yours to ruin.”

He answered by ripping.

The latex tore down the front with a sharp, wet sound, the neckline giving way under his hands until her massive breasts spilled free, heavy and pale, nipples dark and tight and already aching. The ruined dress clung in shreds to her arms and waist, glossy black framing the flesh he had uncovered. He looked at her tits the way a starving man looks at a feast he has decided, at last, to devour. Ingrid arched her back and lifted them toward his mouth with both hands, offering, obscene and grateful.

“These,” she whispered. “Bite these. They’re so sensitive I could come from your fangs alone. Don’t be gentle with them. I didn’t walk through your halls for gentle.”

He did not wait. He bent his head and sank his huge fangs deep into the soft flesh of her left tit.

The pain was bright and immediate, two enormous points punching into yielding tit-flesh, and then it was not pain at all. It was a flood. Ingrid’s back arched hard. A raw moan tore out of her, loud in the study, bouncing off bookcases and glass. Her cunt clenched on nothing and gushed against his thigh. The fangs were buried to a depth that made her knees buckle, and the pull of his mouth was obscene and perfect, a slow drink that turned her nipple to fire and her whole breast into a throbbing, claimed thing. She clutched his shoulders and held him there.

“Yes — deeper — oh fuck, yes, bite me, drink me, don’t stop—” Her voice cracked into something helpless. “Mark your whore. Make it hurt so I remember who used me.”

He drank. Not enough to weaken her past wanting. Enough to mark her. Enough that when he finally withdrew, two deep punctures welled dark and sweet and her breast throbbed in time with the ache between her legs. Blood smeared his mouth. He licked it from his lip and looked at her like a man who had decided to stop pretending he had rules left.

“Over the table,” he said.

She went at once. The antique table was broad, scarred, older than some countries, and it took her weight without complaint. Ingrid bent over it, cheek to the wood, ass up, the ruined latex bunched at her waist. Her cunt was dripping, swollen, bare, the lips glistening in the firelight. She reached back and spread herself with two fingers, opening for him, letting him see how wet the hunt had made her.

“Look at me,” she said, voice already wrecked. “Look how wet your whore is. Pound me. Don’t ease in. I want to feel you in my throat from this end.”

Sullivan freed his cock. It was thick and pale and hard enough to look angry, the head already wet. He set it against her slick entrance, gripped her hips with both hands, and drove in to the root in one brutal thrust.

Ingrid screamed into the tabletop, a sound of pure filthy gratitude. He was big. He filled her completely, stretching her cunt around him, the cold of his body a shock against her heat, the head kissing the deepest place she had. He did not give her time to adjust. He pulled back and slammed in again, and again, a standing fuck that shook the table legs and made the candles jump in their holders. Each stroke punched a moan out of her. Her large breasts swung and slapped the wood, the bitten one throbbing, the punctures smearing a thin dark line across the grain when she rocked forward.

“Harder,” she begged, fingers scrabbling for purchase. “Use that cunt. Breed it. I want your seed so deep I taste it tomorrow.”

He gave her harder. The wet slap of his hips against her ass filled the study, obscene and steady, a rhythm that had nothing polite left in it. One hand fisted in her hair and yanked her head up so she had to take every inch while staring at the fire. The other slid under her and mauled the unbitten breast, squeezing, rolling the nipple, preparing it. She pushed back onto him, greedy, meeting every thrust, her juices running down her thighs and onto his balls and the edge of the rug.

“Filthy guest,” he said, voice gone to gravel. “Dripping all over my table. Begging to be bred like a bitch in heat. Is this what you hunted me for?”

“Yes.” The word broke on a thrust that knocked the air out of her. “Your bitch. Your slut. Your eager little vampire whore. Don’t stop. Don’t you dare be kind to me.”

He fucked her until her legs shook and the first climax hit like a seizure. Her cunt clamped down on him, milking, fluttering, and her cry shattered into helpless little sounds she would have been ashamed of if shame had any place left in her. He did not slow. He rode her through it, brutal and relentless, hips snapping, cock dragging over every sensitive inch until she was babbling his name and filth in the same breath, until the latex at her waist was slick with sweat and her own mess, until a second smaller peak chased the first and left her drooling against the wood.

“Still with me,” he said, not quite a question.

“Always,” she gasped. “More. Flip me. I want to watch you. I want the other tit bitten while you rail me. Please. I’m not done. I’m nowhere near done.”

He pulled out. The sudden emptiness made her whimper, a high broken sound, her cunt clutching at nothing and leaking onto her thighs. He turned her with careless vampire strength, lifted her as if she weighed nothing, and laid her on her back across the table. Her massive breasts rolled, one marked and shining with a thin trail of blood, one bare and begging. The ruined dress framed her like torn gift wrap. She spread her thighs wide before he asked, hooked her knees up, and reached for him.

“Come back in,” she said. “Fill me. Bite me. Breed me. I consent to all of it. I want all of it. Use me until you can’t.”

He shoved her thighs farther apart and sank back into her cunt in the same motion, missionary now, deep and crushing, his weight pinning her while he railed her. The new angle hit something devastating. Ingrid wrapped her legs around him and locked her ankles at the small of his back, heels digging in, holding him where she needed him. Each thrust rocked the table. Her tits bounced. She stared up at his face, at the fangs still long and wet, and felt herself unravel all over again.

“The other one,” she gasped. “Bite the other tit. Please. I need your fangs in both. Mark me while you fuck me. I want to feel them sink in when you cum.”

He lowered his mouth to her right breast. For a heartbeat he only breathed against the soft flesh, cold air on a tight nipple, and she whimpered and pushed up into him, begging with her body. Then he sank those enormous fangs deep into the yielding tit-flesh while his cock pounded toward her womb.

The double sensation shattered her. Pain and pleasure braided so tight she could not tell them apart. The pull of his mouth, the stretch of her cunt, the slap of his hips, the weight of him holding her down on his own table — she came again, harder than before, clawing his back, crying out, her whole body seizing around his cock. He drank and fucked and did not let her escape a single inch of it. She thanked him through the orgasm, voice cracking, hips rolling up to take him deeper, words dissolving into moans and then reforming because she needed him to hear them.

“Inside,” she begged when she could form anything like a sentence. “Cum inside me. Flood my womb. Then all over me. I want it in my cunt and on my face and on my tits and on this ruined dress. Every drop. Please, Lord Sullivan. Breed your whore. Paint her. Don’t hold back.”

His rhythm broke. A snarl vibrated against her breast, fangs still buried in soft flesh. He drove in to the hilt and erupted.

The first thick pulse of vampire seed hit her womb like heat where everything else about him was cold. Ingrid felt it, jet after jet, flooding her, filling her until she overflowed around his cock and the excess ran down onto the scarred wood. She held him with her legs and milked him, sobbing with the fullness, begging him not to waste a drop and then begging him to waste it on her anyway. Her bitten breasts throbbed in time with each spurt. She was covered in the feeling of being claimed, and still she wanted more of it on her skin.

“All over me,” she whispered, wrecked and shining-eyed. “Pull out. I want to wear it. Please. Give me the rest.”

He pulled out while he was still coming.

The next ropes painted her. Thick and hot across her belly, across the bitten swell of her tits, across the fresh punctures, across her throat and her open mouth and her cheek. She turned her face into it, tongue out, catching what she could, the rest striping her hair and the shredded latex still clinging to her arms and waist. He stroked himself through the last of it, aiming, generous, groaning low while she held her breasts up for him and begged for every drop. A heavy stripe crossed her lips. Another landed between her tits and slid down toward her navel. Her face, her chest, her ruined dress — glazed and dripping, exactly as she had hunted him to be.

“More,” she said, even as it slowed, licking her mouth clean and smiling up at him like a woman who had gotten precisely what she came for. “All over me. Inside and out. Don’t stop until I’m covered.”

He gave her the last weak pulses across her tongue. She swallowed what landed there and let the rest shine on her skin, chest heaving, cunt still fluttering around the emptiness he had left full of seed.

When it was over, the study smelled of sex and blood and wax. The fire had burned lower. Ingrid slid off the table on shaking legs, cum already sliding down her breasts and over the bite marks, mixing with thin trails of blood and her own juices on her thighs. She sank to her knees at his feet because that was where she wanted to be, not because anyone made her. Aftershocks rolled through her cunt and made her whimper. She leaned in and licked the last traces from his cock, slow and grateful, cleaning him with her tongue, tasting herself and him together, savoring the mess she had begged for.

“Thank you,” she said, voice small and hoarse and utterly sincere, her cheek resting against his thigh when the licking was done. “Thank you for using me so savagely. Thank you for biting my tits. Thank you for breeding me and covering me. I wanted it. I asked for it. I still want it.”

The bites throbbed. Not only with pain. Something older moved under the punctures, a hook set deep, his power and his seed and his claim knitting into her flesh. The pleasure did not fade so much as change shape. It became hunger. An eternal, aching hunger for more of this — for his brutal breeding, for those enormous fangs in her soft flesh again, for being the slut on her knees in his study for as long as both of them lasted. She could already feel the next craving forming under the satisfaction, sweet and endless, and she welcomed it.

Sullivan’s hand rested in her hair. He did not speak.

Ingrid pressed her cum-smeared cheek more firmly to his thigh and closed her eyes. Seed cooled on her breasts. The punctures ached in a way that felt like a promise. The fire cracked once. A candle guttered and went dark.

Neither of them made another sound.

The mansion held its breath around them, and the quiet settled, complete.