Dua Lipa

 

Dua and her fiance Callum are enjoying themselves on the beach shores of Mexico, the sun reflecting her on her glistening skin in the festively adorned but tiniest of bikinis. She notices a cargo ship passing by the port. She doesn't know why, but a sudden chill runs down her spine, her she wraps her arms around herself, smashing her breasts together. The man who is ostensibly supposed to be her future husband notices the strange look, and inquires.

That night she and Callum are in the hotel lobby, a fusion of Latin American splendor and cheer. As they are sharing drinks, a stranger walks over. Callum tries to be polite but dismissive, but as he looks into Dua's eyes, she feels compelled to ask about his accent. There, Dracula talks about his homeland, his fiefdom, how that part of the world almost worships Dua like a Goddess. She nods, saying she's always been touched by the devotion of her Balkan kin.

That night, dreams of Balkan courts, ancient rites come to Dua in her dreams. She stirs, moans, as whispers call to her. He moans, her hands explore her breasts, her extremities. Callum wakes up asking she's alright. She says she's...thirsty, can he get something from downstairs. He obliges the incredibly beauty whose heart he think she has. As he heads down stair, Dua, trancelike, opens the door, the wind blowing through her sheer nightwear.

There, Dracula stands. She reminds him so much of beauty of his homeland. Bulgarian Princesses, Serbian Queens, Wallachian Maidens. Though he has tasted so much of the eclectic offerings of the world, there's something...nostalgic about her allure. He carries her to the bed, her slowly drawing away her drenched fabric. He stares admiring the naked perfection, her bronzed, fit physique, her statuesque beauty, her chest heaving, her breaths and sigh already foreshadowing orgasm.

And so she is taken, Dua gasping the invasive girth, rocking in tandem and with the dark claim staking his claim as a sovereign. His hands exploring her bronze perfection, as Dua moans in pleasure, his appetite for her Balkan blood hits a crescendo.

Callum returns upstairs with the water when he hears her, her moans, her cries, her begs for more, he opens the door, the sounds, the sight surreal, heartbreaking, horrifying and erotic. He cannot stop it, nor hardness forming in his own loins.

Dracula continues to drink as Dua begs for more, her labored gasps, her words expressing how much gratification she feels at her own exsanguination. She goes limp, and Dracula rises, satisfied with the nostalgic meal he has partaken in. He lifts her past a devastated Callum, taking her to the docked ship, into a more hidden deck, with adjoining coffins. His...and hers.