THE NO-COUNT COUNT
CELEBRATES HALLOWEEN
IN A NEW WAY
by:
Will B
(Copyright
2007 by the Author)
The author retains all rights. No reproductions are
allowed without the author's consent. Comments are appreciated at...
Halloween Night and Count Dick was awake and striding through his castle noting with approval that I-Gore, his faithful servant, had lit all the candles in the Great Hall, their flames flickering flamboyantly over the flimsy furnishings. Meanwhile, outside the castle, lightning flashed, thunder boomed, and rain lashed masochistically against the windows. Yes, readers, it was truly . . . a dark and stormy night!
It was almost time for the Annual Feast, and the Count was licking his lips lasciviously as he contemplated the coming consummation of his carnal desires.
Yes, the Count was a Vampire, living in his castle high above the village in the valley below, a village inhabited by the vacuous villagers who feared their dark count. By a treaty that was older than the castle or the present village, the count was prohibited from bothering the villagers in their valley, provided that they proceeded with torches to the area in front of the castle door, where they would bring the handsomest 18 year old man in the village, and bind him, naked, to the scaffold erected there for the purpose.
To digress from the direct plot of the story let it be noted that the count’s life was not without excitement. Once a month, at the full of the moon, Dick’s friend Warren the Wolf-Man would pay a visit and the two friends would play cards, reminisce about the days before the government had clamped down on certain activities as being “unhealthy for the people.”
“Piffle on the people,” Warren said at one time. “So what if I take a villager or two once in a while? A man’s got to live! Piffle, I say Piffle!”
Sometimes the two would play cards, and usually they ended up playing strip poker. By the end of the game their two naked bodies would be seen in the candlelight. The two were just over six feet in height, their bodies well developed, and their nether regions quite attractive, if you know what I mean (wink, nudge). Dick’s body had very little hair except for a modest bush about his noble genitals, while Warren’s body was covered with dark matted hair.
Sometimes after a game of strip poker the two friends would wrestle. These wrestling matches would usually end with one on top of the other, chest-to-chest, abdomen-to-abdomen, cock to cock. At these times Dick wanted something, but he didn’t know quite what, and after Warren had gotten up, gotten dressed, and gotten out the door on the way to his grotto in the forest, Dick felt…he didn’t quite know what he felt, but he wanted to feel some more.
(Back to our story)
Once the young victim was immobilized the villagers would hurriedly hide themselves to their humble homes, where they would retreat behind locked doors and tightly drawn drapes, thankful that they would be spared the visitations of the count for another year.
The young men who were chosen were told that if they agreed to present their naked muscular bodies to the count, they would be granted riches beyond their wildest dreams, and they would have more gold than they could ever spend for the rest of their lives.
Once the villagers had vacated the premises, I-Gore would open the door, come out to the scaffold, loosen the young man’s bonds, and envelop his luscious body in a robe of velvet and ermine and lead him into the Great Hall where the count would greet him graciously, and invite him to take a seat at the table.
The setting was always one designed for seduction. Violins played softly in the background. Flowers cast a fragrance over the room. I-Gore would serve course after course of deliciously cooked food. Tomato soup would be followed by roast boar’s head, and then baked chicken, oysters, roast beef, with vanilla ice cream with cherry syrup for dessert.
The count would ply his guest with course after course, in the mean time talking to him, asking him what his hope and fears were, and what he wanted to get out of life.
The guest would be so taken with the splendor of the Great Hall that he didn’t seem to note that although he was being served with every delicacy, the count seemed to take nothing.
After the fifth or sixth glass of wine the young guest would feel as if he were getting a bit sleepy. Lower and lower his head would drop on his manly chest. Now Count Dick would be ready to move in for the kill.
“Oh, my young friend, this room is sooooo hot! Oooooohhh, my dear young friend, let me help you out of that heavy robe,” the Count would sigh sibilantly, barely able to wait for the succulent treat that would be coming.
The Count would divest his guest of his vestments and suggest that the lithe young man lie on the table, so that he could feel a little cooler. The young stud would do as the count directed and position his posterior on the table, with his equipment laying lazily on his abdomen.
Now Count Dick, or Count Dickula, Baron of Transylvania, Knight of Carpathia, to give him his full title, would approach the table, licking his lips and considering the delicious sight displayed on his table.
Slowly he would approach the table, and run his eyes and then his hands over the supine sweet fellow, lying there.
At last the Count could wait no longer. He would bend over the bonny boy, and purse his lips and prepare to suck
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the nectar from the young man’s strong, firm, muscular
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neck. The jugular vein would be punctured and the stud’s lifeblood would gush
into the Count’s waiting mouth so rapidly he could barely swallow it all. Alas,
all good things must come to end. The blood would be gone, the young victim
would be gone, and the Count’s desire for nectar would be gone . . . . except .
. . the count always had this feeling that there was something more. What could
it be?
(Our story shifts swiftly to the sweet, simple village below the castle, and the time is a few days before the next Halloween Feast.
We see a young man carrying a suitcase and an artist’s paint box and easel approach the village inn. He arranges to have a room for a few nights, and asks if there is a room somewhere where he might paint his subject. He is preparing paintings for a previously unpublished physician’s guide to the male anatomy. If there were any young men in the village who would be prepared to pose for him, he would pay handsomely, especially if the models were handsome, and even more especially if they would allow the artist’s hands some freedom to pose them just as he wanted.
The landlord was a handsome bachelor of 25, and looking the visitor straight in the face, said, “Young man, I am the owner of this inn, and I am also the village mayor. Before I allow you to pose our young men, I think I had better volunteer to be your first model, if I may so immodestly propose such a thing.”
“Agreed,” said the young man whose name was Peter. “I would be delighted to meet with you tomorrow at 10:00 in the morning in the room you may have for me.”
“Well, young Peter, I would suggest you some to the barn up the hill from the inn. It is quiet and you need fear no interruptions to your . . . painting, or posing.”
The next day was quite warm for an October day. Peter was out in the barn quite early, setting up his easel, and arranging some bales of hay, which he covered with a blanket, making an arrangement of mounds on which his model might choose to sit or recline, as his inclinations might arise.
As the sun rose in the sky, Peter stripped off his clothes and was wearing only his artist’s smock, which revealed his cock (seven and one-half inches long, uncut), balls (low hung and hairy), and bush (thick and soft). As he turned to arrange his painter’s pallet, his posterior was revealed to be round and firm with dual grapefruit sized ass cheeks.
The Mayor/Inn keeper came into the barn, took one look at Peter’s cock, and said, “Nice cock, chum.”
“Well, let’s see what you’ve got, Your Honor.”
The Mayor took off his shirt, his pants, and his apron, and stood in all his glory so that Peter could drink in the mayoral man-meat (seven inches long, cut, thick, and already semi-erect), the mayoral male globes (round, firm, just right for touching, and the mayoral matting of medium dark hair that ran from his mayoral crotch up through the mayoral treasure trail of tantalizing territory to the inn-keeper’s inestimable infinitely appealing pecs, with round brown nipples nestling on two nice hairy pecs.
“Great body, Mayor. Now if you will just let me pose you as I would like to capture you on canvas . . .”
Somehow Peter found it necessary to kneel in front of the Mayor, and move his legs this way and that, all the way his tongue almost touching the terrific tool of his model, who looking at the awesome artist’s twisting torso found it hard to keep from his drooling. The Mayor’s mouth was also feeling his taste buds tingling.
“Your Honor,” Peter asked, “I’m getting thirsty. Might I slake my thirst from this hose I see staring me in my face.”
“By all means, dear, dear boy. Drink all you want. There’s plenty more where that came from.”
After Peter had tasted the treat in front of him he offered his own man-milk in case the Mayor desired a similar sip of sweet, savory juice.
The day went on, and somehow, Peter did not get much painting done.
That evening, the Mayor told Peter about the annual offering to the count at the latter’s castle high on the cliffs. The Mayor was able to persuade Peter to provide himself as the offering to the count (The Mayor had his eye on the lusty youth who had been selected for this year’s gift to the count. He wanted to sample the youth’s wares himself).
Peter agreed, and thought that maybe the count would be a good lay . . I mean a good subject to be painted.
Accordingly, on the appointed night, Peter was led by the Mayor and the rest of the villagers to the scaffold, where he was stripped and bound. The Mayor himself tied the ropes, and then kissed Peter on the mouth and gently groped the guy’s gigantic genitals, generously giving Peter a prod with his own prick.
The villagers retreated, I-Gore came out, took one look at lusty Peter, and came without even touching himself, shooting his cum high into the air.
“Oh, my fine young buck, I think the count will be only too happy to have you to suck . . . I mean to have you to supper.”
With that I-Gore untied Peter and led him into the castle’s Great Hall, where Count Dickula awaited this year’s guest.
Dinner proceeded as it usually did, and at the end of the meal, the cunt was inviting Peter to arrange himself on the table, when Peter suddenly sat up and said, “Your lordship, I know you’re a vampire and you want to suck my blood, but I must tell you there is something better. I am Peter the Cock Sucker (formerly known as Peter Peter, the Pumpkin-sized Penis Eater), and I want to introduce you to the joys of mutual oral sex.”
Suddenly Count Dickula knew what he had been missing all these years.
“Show me, now, Peter. Tell me what to do,” the count cajoled.
Peter gladly did so, and before the candles had burned themselves out, Peter and Dick were engaged in happily sucking each other’s cocks.
No more would the villagers have to give up their young men. No more would the Mayor have to say good bye to handsome hunks after whom he had hankered. No more would I-Gore have to lead bare-assed boys into the count’s clutches. In fact, I-Gore left the count and went to live with Warren the Wolfman and they spent their days frotting happily in the hay.
Happy Halloween to My Readers.
My thanks to my friend, A. Nonym. Ouse (of the Transylvanian Ouses), who read this story and caught a few minor errors, which he corrected. He doesn’t want to be named, but he knows who he is, and I have arranged for a mysterious cloaked and hooded stranger to show up at the Ouse house on midnight of Halloween. A. Nonym will be able to see the stranger’s face, but something will be hooded. I hope Ouse will be able to give the hooded object a treat (or receive one himself). He
He
He
He
H…
h…
(Signifying the laughter is getting deeper and lower and more mysterious!).
Enjoy!
Posted: 11/02/07