Blake Lively

 

Dracula crafts a plan. He knows of Blake's fascination with antebellum architecture, decor. She sits at home, when her wisecracking husband Ryan pulls out a strange looking envelope. An invitation. To the oldest plantation house in the country. The author knows she of all people will appreciate it.

The pair arrive, the moonlight shining over the trees. Blake gasps at the sight, the grandeur of it all. Dracula greets the couple. Ryan trying to be polite but unable to avoid making a joke. Dracula ignores him. His eyes fixated on his radiant wife. The luminous Blake Lively. Her golden hair, the way her dress accentuates her neck and cleavage. Dracula is a hidden tempest of desire and anticipation.


The two are taken to the dinner hall, the spread a celebration of history. Ryan is somewhat irreverent, but Blake is anything but. She marvels at everything. Dracula talks about the restoration, the controversy, how some wanted it taken down brick by brick. Blake pouts, just because maybe some bad things happened, doesn't means something so beautiful shouldn’t be appreciated. History should be remembered, not erased. It's magnificent. Again, Ryan quips, as Blake sighs. Dracula remains placid, deep inside he finds it astounding such a clown has such a goddess on his arm. But that is a cosmic wrong that shall be corrected soon.

He walks them through the grounds, the gardens, the columns, again Blake sighs dreamily, imagining what it would be like to be a lady in the old south. Dracula says it's easy to imagine her in this age of American chivalry. Ryan agrees, but again, tempered with humor.

They turn in, exchanging their thoughts, Ryan tries not to seem outwardly jealous, again making jokes, as Blake, excitement and fatigue battle, settles in for bed.

Hours pass, a mist pours in, crawling up Blake's famous figure. A voice calls to her, she rises, stepping out into the hallway, past paintings and busts that seem to follow her with still eyes. She makes her way to the door, opening, to a suite, the most resplendent room yet.

He walks up to Blake. Is she mesmerized? Is this all her dreams come true? It does not matter, she is here. He undresses her, and gazes as the splendor before him. Her legs, her breasts, her sobriquets, her nicknames given to her well deserved. More deserved than belonging to that jester. Such a Goddess should be his. And now...she is.

Ryan wakes, wondering if Blake has gone to look at the Spanish Moss under the moon, he thinks maybe he should join her, try to be actually romantic. He steps out into the hall, then he hears her. Moaning. Crying out in pleasure in a pitch he's never heard before. Crying like she's a Belle in the Old South. He opens. The site in all its macabre carnality, all its erotic horror. All its depraved splendor. And for once, he is speechless.

His fangs sink into her breast one last time, she gasps in pleasure with what little energy she has, and goes goes limp. The woman who embodied sunshine, now cold and lifeless, and eerily stirring sight. He carries her down into the coffin, prepared especially for her.

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