In Transylvanna Ch. 1

Owen was cold.

Why was Owen cold? Well…

The simple answer is that that Owen lived in a place called Transylvanna where it was perpetually night time. It was a region where many citizens, youth and perhaps most crucially rulers either had personal difficulties coping with sunlight or were outright hurt by it. It was not that this region was part of the Arctic or Antarctic regions – quite the opposite. To put it bluntly, though – the ruling class here had simply decided one day a long time ago that they weren’t prepared to deal with the sun any more. The sun, they had angrily concluded, rubbing their burns and licking their paws after a particularly bad day had left several residents comatose, or worse, bured and blistered – could damn well get lost for the rest of time.

If this revelation confuses you, perhaps you are not familiar with the Transylvanna (note the “n”) we are talking about. Perhaps you are unfortunate enough not to have heard of the monsters, and if you are, you probably never in your life heard of the undead.

In Transylvanna, you see, things like biology and, from a wider point of view, most life sciences, do not follow the logic they do elsewhere. Here, there is no life. Not technically. What there is is unlife. Here, institutions like medical ethics and civil safety is guarded by a sizable population of mad scientists, quiet liches and gentle wisps. As a result, medicine is unethical, and civilians are quite unsafe. Not that this matters, because in Transylvanna, unlife is the norm. If you are a casual citizen, it is common to need to your skin restitched in places, to have your arms reattached, and occasionally to be entirely reconstituted if you are unlucky enough to be caught in the local mad scientist’s latest bid to get rich. Anaesthetic? What’s that? Nobody here feels pain. Well, Owen does.
Not being born as the result of a miscarriage is unusual. If you are born in Transylvanna, male or female, you are going to be born undead. This does not make you a monster, because being a monster alters your biology – although I would assure you now, that in Transylvanna, human women are a minority. Being undead makes you different, and Transylvannan society teaches us to love our country’s differences. The local populace is armed to the teeth, of course, and it is rather easy to be accidentally or deliberately decapitated in your daily life. On the bright side, wars fought against Transylvanna, by humans or monsters, quickly result in a laughable defeat for the aggressor. Generally, the world ignores them; sure, they were the first society to figure out monsters having male children, even if they didn’t see the problem with the children coming out undead, rather than incubised – but they did completely thrash Zippangu in the great war, largely by accident, and that global embarrassment alone is reason enough for other countries to ignore them.

Society is clearly divvied up here – you are either poor, and spend your time drinking, shooting guns, having sex, and laughing at the thought of needing food and water to stay alive; a scholar, in which case you are either a young mad scientist that spends his time coming up with various hair brained schemes to get rich or the quiet young lich from a noble background who will inevitably purchase said mad scientist’s student debts and make him her indentured servant, with benefits; or you are high nobility, generally a Wight, or some variation thereof, who will lead a comfortable, refined life aside from the occasional pitchfork wielding peasant mob to deal with if you are too crass with your authority. Fortunately, like I said, the local medical facilities are stellar. If you don’t feel pain. Like Owen does.

Do you know what else they don’t have in Transylvanna? Central heating. In the morning, when Owen woke up from his bed, he put on his coat. In the evening, he took off his coat. At no point while out of bed did Owen not wear a coat. Do you know why? Owen was cold. Simple as that.

The lecture hall was filling up rather quickly. This made sense – it was induction day, and most of Owen’s fellow students, many of whom he knew, would probably be interested in making a good first impression on their professor. Out of the corner of his eye, however, Owen noticed something. The people around him were parting. He had an inkling of who might be coming, but he was still a little surprised when he looked over and saw the white lace of her umbrella.

“Well hello there, bug.” His childhood “friend” purred in a sultry tone. “Come here often?”

If she saw Owen’s face redden, the Wight didn’t show it. As he tried his hardest to ignore her – knowing that if he gave her that kind of satisfaction, her behaviour would only worsen, as it always did – Sylphie did not sit down. As Owen turned to her – and noticed that the dress she had chosen today was a slit dress – she seemed to almost glide into her seat. He took a moment to carefully treat himself to the sight of her lush thigh as she looked around the room. As always, it was a beautiful dress, and by the gods, she was a beautiful woman. Not a happy, laughing little girl anymore, not the cheeky little thing he had grown up with in the palace grounds – today, Owen’s oldest friend was undeniably a woman. Her skin was a polished, porcelain white, her hips round and wide, her lips reddened and full. On her head, she wore a beautiful little thing that had a few too many eyes to be a tiara. Today, she wore her hair in a long, lush, ponytail – her fluffy blond locks tickling Owen as she gently leaned into him, apparently struggling to find something in her bag. It took a moment for Owen to realise he couldn’t breathe – frozen solid, he briefly recalled the bad thing he’d done, and wondered if she knew. But she showed no sign of knowing. That was good. What probably wasn’t good for Owen, though, was the naughty little smile she gave him once she found the thing she was looking for – tucking it back into her bag, she regarded him a little longer, then, quite suddenly, she flicked him in the face.

“Ow!” Owen yelped.

“I hope you’re paying attention,” She pouted. “I know we’re getting close to Christmas, but you need to focus. What are you thinking about? You’re moody.”

Owen tried to ignore her, but there wasn’t much else to pay attention to. Staring out of the windows in front of him only afforded him a rather boring view of an apparent wall of snow, pressed up against the glass. “I’m not moody.” He muttered, shivering a little.

“I didn’t see you this morning.” She said, adjusting her dress and arranging her papers on the table. “I thought we were going to travel together, but you left early. It’s not like you to know your place, bug.”

“I was, uh…” Owen adjusted the metal ward collar around his neck. “Keen to get going.”

He’d worn the collar since the first time they’d met, when both of them were very young. He didn’t remember anyone putting it on, it had just always been there, keeping him mostly safe from the dangers of Transylvanna as he grew older. It had some interesting effects, some of which he’d witnessed first hand. For example; if someone fired a shot at him, as Sylphie had once gleefully demonstrated with a hunting rifle, the shot would either miss or jam the weapon. If he ever got lost, Sylphie and the others could always find him. And, of course – if he did get injured, he would heal much faster than a normal human. There was one problem – the collar was very visible, and was forged in a perfect circle with no hinges or openings. He did not know how it had got onto him and had no idea if how could be taken off. He’d asked a few people when it had seemed prudent to do so, but even Sylphie just laughed, telling him that her mother might know. That was a dead end. Attempts at conversation with the older members of the royal family ranged from unsatisfying, to boring, to immensely nerve racking, depending on the person. He wished that Sylphie at least had some brothers, but alas, it would likely be some time before the queen managed to conceive another child.

“Well! I was too,” The Wight said casually, “But without my little pet, it was lonesome. If you are planning to do that every morning, perhaps you should get your own car. I did not convince mother to give you a chauffeur so you could act like a little freeloader and leave me on my own.” A pause. “Would you like to look at me when I am addressing you, you insect?!”

The people around them were going quiet, and Owen felt himself getting redder. This was typical. She was already being recognised, and all the two of them did nowadays was argue. “Look, you don’t own me.” Owen snapped. She snorted. “What?” Owen demanded.

“Nothing, bug.” She smiled. “Nothing at all. I was simply thinking that-”

“You told me I wasn’t a slave.”

“This again?” She closed up her umbrella, wary of the people behind – “Explain to me how that is relevant? Perhaps the chimpanzee who eats with my servants for free thinks that this fact makes us equals.” She smiled venomously. “No, I understand. Obviously those big ears are cutting off the blood supply to your brain.“

As the room got quieter, Owen felt humiliated. “You always find something to berate me about-” He complained quietly, desperately hoping that she was lower her tone – but was interrupted by a voice from the front.

“If I could have the class’s attention.”

A little girl was standing at the front. Owen couldn’t see how she had gotten there, but judging by the vapour around her head, she might well have just appeared. She had horns, and she was… wearing a lecturer’s uniform?

“What are we paying these people for?” Sylphie hissed quietly. “Are you at least going to give the lecture standing?”

“I am standing,” The girl at the front responded, just as quickly – “Princess.”

The people in the room that were either close enough to have heard what Sylphie said or sensitive enough to hear it form afar chuckled. Nervously.

“Hey,” She hissed, a playful look in her eyes as she moved out from behind the podium. “Kid.”
Owen moved back in his seat, pointing at himself as Sylphie fumed next to him, trying to look unfazed. “Me?”

“Yes, you. How old am I?”

Owen narrowed his eyes. “What?”

“Gimmie an age, pinkskin! How old?”

“Uh…” Owen floundered. “Fourteen?” Immediately, he knew he’d made a mistake.

For a moment, the Baphomet looked devastated. “Fourteen?” She thundered. “Fourteen?! Do I look like an old woman to you, then?”

“What?” Owen and Sylphia both said at slightly different moments.

“No,” The Baphomet whispered. “I’m actually over five hundred years old.”

Immediately, the atmosphere of the room gave way to something that would best be described as “general outrage”. Hushed whispering gave way to angry shouting, gave way to thrown textbooks and food fights and highly isolated intellectual debates over whether flat truly is justice. “PLEASE, GENTLEMEN! ALL WOMEN ARE QUEENS,” Someone cried.

“IF SHE BREATHES,” someone at the back screamed, “SHE’S A MILF!”

“Now, now.” The Baphomet chided, bringing the room carefully back into order. “I see that you are confused, and the fact is you misunderstand. And that’s alright. You simply need to learn more about BIOLOGY!”

And so, the lecture started.

Owen wrote down what he heard, but didn’t really listen. You can do that. Right up until…

“I’m to understand that we have royalty with us today.” The Baphomet said. “We have already spoken, have we not, Princess Sylphie?”

Sylphie glared at her. “Perhaps.” She muttered.

“So far I’ve given a general overview of some things you might not know about some of the species we have here today. Sylphie’s species is not an exception. Wights have a rather long running tradition.” The Baphomet continued. “You’ve probably heard about how Wights, as monsters, sip spirit energy, and we’ll be covering this next week when we start looking at the human physiology – which, I’m afraid, is the important one because it’s what we’re all derived from. One thing that some of us might look at is the unique capability of the Wight. She takes what she needs, and saves the rest. Her touch is electrifying. Observe the synapses within the hands and the structure of the skin cells. Observe the feathery miasma-“

Owen wasn’t listening. He slowly put his pen down, leaning back into the seat to adjust the always uncomfortable collar. He looked over at Sylphie. She was blushing a little, but nodding. She looked over at him. He looked away, a little too slowly. He looked back.

She was still looking. Slowly, she reached over and patted his head, her feathery miasma suddenly activating and pressing into him. It was the most gentle, wonderful thing Owen had ever experienced. As she smiled gently at him, he almost began to pant. Then, as if nothing had happened, she went back to writing, smiling as she wrote.

When the lecture ended, Owen went to leave. There were a few friends he wanted to catch up with, but as he walked past Sylphia, he found himself coming to a stop. Something had grabbed his hand, something big and soft. It was her hand, the larger version of it.

“Can I go, please?” Owen pleaded.

“No, you cannot.” She chided. “I want to speak with you and I am not finished making my notes. You will stay.”

Owen tugged at her for a moment, but quickly gave in. Her grip was soft, but completely secure. She was a mature and trained Wight. Her strength was many times his, and all she really had to do was touch him with her real hand and he’d be basically incapacitated on the spot.

“Now, insect.” She stated eventually. “As punishment for your earlier transgression, you will be spending the rest of today with me. Shall we get lunch?”

“I just want to go home,” Owen stated. “There’s nothing else on the timetable today.”

“I’m sure you do, you bone idle monkey.” She purred. “But I’m afraid not. I’m taking you to the coffee shop.”

“Why must you-“

“Hush.” She stated. “I arrest you so, because lesser beings like yourself need to be organised. If I don’t take you to have some breakfast, we both know that you will not have breakfast.”
Owen had no response to that. She was correct.

The two were home later than they should have been, and, Owen noticed, his hand was still held in her vice like grip. “Am I coming with you?” He asked, looking up at the high roof of the palace lobby and its winding spiral staircase.

“You know very well servants and family pets are not permitted upstairs.” She growled. “We will go… to your room.”

Owen’s heart sank. “To my room?”

She nodded, turning away from him. Owen could have sworn he saw her blushing. “Obviously we’re going to check your cleanliness. After the behaviour I witnessed today, I am concerned, so, yes. I am coming with you.”

It was a bit of a walk. If the servants found the sight of the two of them holding hands surprising, though, they didn’t show it. That’s when Owen realised it. They were holding hands now. It wasn’t her pulling him along, or vice versa; not any more! He looked down and confirmed what he felt. Their fingers were… interlocked! How lewd! Censor that! Pixellate it out! Oh god, what must the others think? He looked back. One butler gave him the thumbs up. A female zombie polishing the window they had just gone past winked at him. Oh god oh god oh god oh-

He began to subtly pry at Syphia’s fingers, trying to free himself, but she was just as aware of their connection as he was. She stopped walking, as did he, and the two began to fight as they always eventually did, this time refusing to meet one another’s eyes as they stood side by side – Sylphia to keep Owen’s hand locked tightly with hers, and Owen to remove it. It went on for almost half a minute. She prevailed, but was blushing furiously when his eyes returned to hers.

“I-I… You’re my property, it’s my right to hold it like that.” She snapped. “It’s my hand. Don’t you dare glower at me. You bug! I’ll hold this hand tight for the rest of my life if you complain! I’ll have them bound with Arachne silk! Then you’ll be sorry!”

Finally angered, Owen stepped in front, pulling her along behind him as he opened the door to his room in the servants’ wing. “You’re even more annoying that normal today.” He snapped, sitting down on the bed and pulling her down with him as he tried to take off his boots one handed. There. He said it.

Sylphie didn’t respond. Then, quietly, she asked, “Do you like it here, pet?”

Then, “What?”

“In Transylvanna.”

Owen was silent, staring downwards. Below them, next to Sylphie’s booted foot, was a thigh high stocking. It belonged to Sylphie. But it was in Owen’s room. And it was, for lack of a better adjective, crusty.

It had been the classiest wank Owen had ever had. He never came. He arrived.

“I’ve never seen outside.” Owen muttered, slowly trying to push it under the bed.

“My mother bought you young.” She said quietly. “From a slave trader. For me. You were to be my human playmate. It’s an, uhm, tradition. That’s where you came from. That’s why we met.”

Owen was quiet. Slowly, he said, “I didn’t know that.”

He couldn’t see Sylphie’s face in the dark. He could see her eyes, red and womanly. It made him feel strange, like he should be scared, but he wasn’t. He felt safe. For a moment, he wondered how red eyes floating in the darkness could be seen as a bad thing. The stocking was under the bed now, but it could be further under the bed. She could still notice it. She could smell it. How had she not smelled it?

“You were meant to be my personal slave. You did everything I said, because that’s how you were taught. More recently, you appear to have forgotten that.”

Something buried in the back of Owen’s mind began to resurface. Had he displeased her? This wasn’t good – “S-Sylphia, I’m really sorry if-“

“I’m glad you’ve forgotten.” She whispered. “It must be terrible, being a slave.”

“Yeah.” Owen responded, after a moment, still trying to push the stocking away. “It must be.”

“O-Owen?” She asked, her searching glare losing its focus, looking off somewhere into the darkness behind him as she released his hand. Owen heard his own name, but didn’t quite process it. No, that couldn’t have been Sylphia. Sylphia wouldn’t say-


“Would you like to kiss me?”

Owen tried to swallow nervously, but choked on his own saliva. He coughed and sputtered for a moment, watching Sylphie as she got up off the bed. “What?” He croaked.

“Would you like to kiss me, Owen?” She asked.

“Wh-What makes you think th-tha-“

Sylphie crouched down and picked up something. The stocking. She held it up in front of him. “Male semen is very precious.” She said. “Especially here. You shouldn’t waste it. It needs to be kept stored up.”

“O-Oh, no. It’s not, liste-“


She leaned in and kissed him then. Hard, but oh so sweetly. It wasn’t how Owen had imagined it to be. It was rough, unrefined. But it was breathtaking. Making contact with her skin, even, not her hands, was exhilarating in a way Owen had never thought possible. Of course, he realised. Who would she have to practice on but…


“I know what you’re thinking.” The Wight whispered. “You’re wrong. You’re not practice. I’m sorry, pet, but I’m afraid, now, you will never get to leave Transylvanna. And I’m afraid we can’t be friends any more. Mother was right. Mother is always right. You’re going to be my playmate forever.”

She held up a hand, and suddenly, the miasma between it and Owen vanished.

“Sleep,” She whispered, touching it to his temple. And it was so.

When Owen awoke, he was in a strange place, in a sitting kneel, and not wearing any clothes. He thought that it would be cold. Why wasn’t it? Had he died? Oh goodness, he had to-

Clink, clink.

Why couldn’t he move his hands or his feet?

When he looked down, he couldn’t see anything. But when he looked behind him, he saw it. A wooden box, attached to the floor in more or less the center of this room. Part of it was beneath him, keeping his ankles and feet anchored to the ground, while part of it, around his sides, held his hands. Attached to the side was a sturdy looking padlock. What was this?

Behind him, there was a huge four-poster bed. And some stacks of- were they his things? From his room? He strained to see, but couldn’t. Angered, he shook and rattled at the locked box holding his limbs in place, but only succeeded in getting the padlock to jump up and down. He couldn’t get free. He tried every way. He couldn’t even get out of the sitting kneel. He was completely locked to the floor by the box.

Behind him, he heard a door open. What was going on?

The door shoot, and then he heard footsteps. Quiet, and elegant. He knew who it was.

“Sylphie.” He growled. “Where are we?”

“Upstairs,” She replied, coming to a stop in front of him. She wore a loose fitting gown, underneath which – she was completely naked, Owen realised. Her hair was down, her wavy locks tumbling down her back and almost to the ground. All she was wearing was the gown, which looked expensive and ceremonial, moreso even than her dresses – and her tiara. Gently, she sat down in front of him, running a hand up his chest. Despite the warmth, Owen shivered, straining a little to get away. “What do you think of my room?” She purred, enjoying his discomfort.

“It’s dark.”

“Your eyes will adjust, in time. We will be here often, my pet.” She giggled a little. “It feels so nice to finally have you here.”

“W-What’s this thing holding me down?” Owen asked, leaning back as she tilted forward to follow him.

“It’s a trap.” She whispered. “For naughty little insects like you. A man trap. It can keep you nice and still for me, even when you can’t control yourself.”

“Can you unlock it?” Owen pleaded.

The Wight princess mimed thought for a moment, reaching past Owen and lifting the lock with her thumb. “I could.” She whispered, caressing it gently as the key around her neck bumped against Owen’s nose. She lifted it, and let go. Lifted it, and let go again. Clank, clank. “I could unlock it.” She said, watching it rise and fall as Owen tried to shift around. “But I won’t. Not just yet. Look at you, you’re so hard…”

She touched her miasmic hand to his penis for a moment, looking into his eyes for his reaction as he, too, noticed the raging hard on he’d apparently woken up with. Whatever it was, she immensely enjoyed it. For Owen, her touch was cold, but feathery, soft, and immensely stimulating. “A real penis. So sensitive.” She whispered. “I guess it’s a side effect from what I did to you earlier.”

Leaning back, she gently curled herself up around Owen, taking him into her arms and giving him a gentle kiss. “It’s okay,” She whispered. “I’m not going to hurt you. When we’re husband and wife… we’re going to do such lewd things together. Such lewd, naughty things, Owen. But for now…”

Wordlessly, she took her hand and touched it to his penis again, beginning a long and intense caress. As she took hold of and gently began to rub the head of his penis between her fingers, she whispered again to Owen – “Is this how you imagined when you ruined my stocking, pet?” With her free hand, she gently unbuttoned her gown, letting it fall to the floor to reveal her slim, curvy body in all its glory. She paused for a moment, letting the gown off slowly as she leaned back to show off her breasts, playing with one of her own nipples. “Did you imagine this?” She asked, wriggling her breast at him as she allowed the gown to cover her hips, alternating to her other hand to free herself from it as she continued caressing his penis.

“You made a big mistake soiling my property like that, pet.” She growled.

A moment passed, and Owen found he couldn’t speak. A gentle smile appeared on her face as she touched her other hand to the base of his penis, carefully stimulating both base and tip in perfect unison, sometimes squeezing hard and stroking quickly, other times allowing her fingers to linger, stroke their way along, and eventually drift off and around the shaft as, within Owen, a feeling of intense burning began to rise.

“Well?” The Wight whispered, as she expertly brought him closer and closer to climax. “Nothing to say?”

“I’m sorry about the s-sock~” Owen moaned, as her hands began to work him faster and faster.

“You could just be saying that.” Sylphia whispered. “Because you know I have you in a compromising position and that I can do… whatever I want with you, basically.”

“I’m n-not-“

“I know you’re not lying,” She interrupted, her strokes becoming harder, quicker, faster. “You are sorry. But I think you should be… a lot more sorry. I think you should be very, very sorry. And I’m going to make sure, that- Ah. Ah,” Oh, goodness. Owen was about to cum. “Just on time.”

Suddenly, her strokes slowed to almost a stop. They became long, endurant, and oh so soft. “No,” She whispered to him. “No you don’t. Ah-ah.” One claw touched to the base of Owen’s shaft, monitoring pulse, and continuing to stimulate only oh so gently as the other did the same. Owen, in shock, began to buck, rattling at the trap as she slowly ran her finger around the tip of his jumpy, desperate penis.

“W-Why-“ he stammered.

She leaned in close. “Rule one,” She whispered, “Of Wight love. An orgasm is a privilege, not a right. I hate those couples who have sex all the time. When you do it all the time, it stops being special.” He felt her real hand touch his penis then, sipping at his spirit energy as he bucked and shook at the trap uncontrollably. As suddenly as it had come, it moved away, and the feathery paw was back. “Did you think I was going to climb on top of you and take you before we were even married? How improper,” She drawled, circling at his penis with her finger as he gasped gently, held on the edge of nirvana – unable to go on, unable to go back. “No. Your cum is precious, remember. You’re the only live human for miles. I think we should keep it saved up, but…” She ran a finger up the back of his shaft, and then down again. She batted his throbbing penis gently between her hands for a moment, savouring the second missed orgasm. “Ah-ah. No. You’re being punished, pet. You’ve made me very angry. You talk back, you admire my appearance like you are my equal…. You destroy my things. Ah-ah-ahhhh. Temper temper… No, you need to be brought into check. And nothing will quite do the trick… ah-ah… no, no… like a wight’s gentle edging.”

Owen could hardly speak. He couldn’t move. He was trapped, and no matter how he wriggled and pleaded he couldn’t get Sylphia to release his throbbing penis. She was playing with it like she used to play with her toys, stroking at it, feeling at it, kneading at its texture and feeling it throb as an impish little smile appeared on her lips. Doing what a wight did best, sipping gently at his spirit energy with her hands. And even as she oh so gently handled his penis in complete nudity, she was elegant and graceful in doing so. Her quick teases and gentle, slow strokes were unbearable. Her hands moved with an artisan’s craft, with absolute mastery of the male organ from years of training with fakes. It was a beautiful, horrible bliss.

“Sylphia…” He begged. “Please…”

“The more you struggle and plead, the angrier I get,” She warned. “I will stop when I am satisfied that we understand one another. I will stop when I have made you as frustrated as you make me. You are not an equal in this relationship, and you never will be. This penis is mine. You are mine.”
They fell silent, Owen tilting his head back and moaning gently in submission as her fingers continued to flick and stroke his hardened member. She touched her feathery claws to the sides of it and ran them slowly up and down. She sped up, until he was ready to burst, and then…

She slowed down. “Ah-ah.”

She gently took hold of his cockhead and began to rub it between her gigantic miasma fingers, stroking the base in a circular motion. She caressed intolerably at the apex of his cockhead. She found one sweet spot, then another. She sped up, expertly manipulating both, and…

She slowed down. “Nope,” She whispered, sadistically. “I don’t think so… I don’t think so~”

She ran her fingertips down the bottom of his cock, then over the head, then down the top. “You’re getting so hard it’s starting to curve,” She whispered, curling her fingers and ticking at his cockhead oh so lightly as she held it with the other claw. She kept this grip for a while, going faster and faster, until, again…

“Shhhhh. Don’t groan like that. If I had a heart, it would be fluttering. Come here~” She took hold of his head and pulled to hers, looking deep into her lover’s eyes.

“PLEASE, SYLPHIA!” Owen whimpered, rattling at the trap.

“Oh, you poor boy.” She whispered to him. “This almost feels cruel, but I’m afraid it’s what I’m built to do, pet. Aww, are you in love? Are you going to cry? It’s okay. A lot of the husbands cry the first few times. Ah?” She tilted her head, her fingers coming to a stop at his tip once more. “No.” She said, sternly. “No cumming. It’s a privilege to be allowed to cum, pet. Perhaps in a few days? No, you’re right – a week~”

Gently, she brought his lips to hers and kissed him gently, circling his penis with two fingers as her miasma hand rotated in place, indefinitely, until…

“No, pet~” She taunted. “But… let’s keep this one for a while, shall we?”

Her miasma hands suddenly slowed again, but not enough to hold off an orgasm. Instead, they continued to administer their caress, one again at the base, one at the tip. As she stroked and caressed, she monitored her partner’s pulse very carefully. Too much, and he might cum – too little, and this particular orgasm would be gone.

“Your spirit energy is delicious, Pet.” She whispered, as it flowed into her plentifully. Under her fingers, a string of precum began to drop from Owen’s penis. “Insects shouldn’t be allowed to taste this good. Shhhh. Shhhhhh. Sh-sh-sh-sh-shhhhhhhhh.”

“C-Can’t s-stan-“

“You’ll have to stand it, pet.” The Wight whispered, with a sadistic smile. “I’m not going to stop. I’m going to hold this one for at least five… no, ten, minutes. You will have to just bear it. Don’t you know how advanced this technique is? I’m one of three people in the world that can do it. Oh, just look at your penis. It’s so hard… It’s so angry that it can’t cum that it’s throwing a fit and crying. Shhhh. Sh-sh-shhhh. Silence now, pet, don’t you start. I need to concentrate. If it helps, count the minutes with me as they arrive.”


“One.” Sylphia whispered.

As the miasma hands vanished and her two real hands very quickly descended upon Owen’s cock, he yelped, beginning to rattle hard against the trap. It didn’t matter. Sylphia’s had begun her caress, and for her, nothing else mattered now but making her husband the most frustrated man in the world for a few brief minutes. Her hands fluttered against his cockhead in a movement Owen could neither see nor properly understand as he bucked and yelled, taunted by a hot, desperate feeling as her soul made a direct connection with his. She flicked and caressed, a happy little smile on her lips as she leaned in watched the confused, desperate penis under her fingers. At some moments, it spat droplets of cum, at some, it leaked and dripped, and at some it swelled and flinched. It bounced between her fingers, uncontrolled and wild, but her strokes held it almost in place, and her trap continued to hold Owen. She regarded his writhing bucking form for a moment, then leaned close to his pink little ear and whispered:


He struggled harder, testing the strength of the trap’s enchanted wood. She continued along, shameless, and without a moment’s doubt. A simpler device held her father before she was born. This one would hold Owen.

She was confident, she noticed. Alright. Perhaps it was time to be creative. She could probably do the work both of her hands were currently doing with one, given that-

Yes. It was working. She slid two fingers down the back of Owen’s cock, still administering the flicking and stroking with her left hand, and began to run it up and down. God, it was hard as stone. It was so hot. She was looking forward to warming herself next to Owen’s body later. Once she gave him his birthday present, that was.


Owen stopped struggling. Or at least, he was trying something new. He was straining, arching his back and putting all of his might into trying to break the trap. Sylphia was almost proud. He was barely flinching from her most intense caress, having locked all his joints, and was only crying a little. Which made her quite pleased – what use, after all, was a Wight that couldn’t make her suitor cry from desperation on the first encounter? Nothing would work against her trap, but it was nice to know her husband-to-be had a bit of creativity in him. She gently leaned forward, planting kisses on his body and snuggling close to him.

“Four,” She whispered, still holding him on the same orgasm. “We’ll stop after this, okay?”

Quite carefully, she began to slow down, then speed up again, then slow down again. With her left hand, she read his pulse carefully, and with her right, continued to expertly manipulate his cockhead until, finally, she had done it. She was holding him on an orgasm within an orgasm. And she just kept going, and going, and going, until…

“Five, pet. We’re stopping early. I know that you’re-”

“NNNNNNNNNNNNNN,” Owen gasped, rocking back and forth in the trap as she kept one hand on his tip, giggling a little as her eyes met his. His body was dropping with sweat as she gave him one kiss on the lips, then another, snuggling close.

“Shhh. You’re not going to cum yet, pet. It’s far too early to be spilling any of that precious semen.” She tapped at his penis with her finger then, holding him in place with a miasma hand. “There there. You’re really quite backed up, aren’t you. You’ve done so very well. You were so brave. It never hurt, did it?”

“I d-don’t understand.” Owen whimpered, as she leaned down and planted a slow, soft kiss on his dripping cockhead.

“Don’t worry.” She whispered. “I’ll explain everything. But for now, let’s finish our little engagement ritual.”

Bringing forward a cup of ice, she gently touched it to Owen’s throbbing penis. Immediately, Owen flinched a little, but his penis quickly shrank down to its original size. Meanwhile, Sylphia brought something forward. “Do you know what this is?” She purred, showing him the metal tube, and its lock. “It’s something Wights invented a long time ago, and that many happy couples have made use of. You’ll still be able to get an erection, it would be cruel not to let you. The tube telescopes, you see… but it can only be extended by your… thing, inside. You won’t be able to touch it, at all, while this is on.”


“And with that… we’ll be husband and Wight.” She joked. “And so-“


All of a sudden, Owen surged to his feet faster than the Wight could stop him. In shock, Sylphia looked down. The trap! It had broken.

Owen had actually broken it.

With a yell of “I’m not ready for this!” Owen was off. Off where exactly was up for interpretation, for when he threw open the nearest doorway – that from which Sylphia had emerged – he found himself in a bathroom. Hearing a crash, Sylphia smirked. She knew that she was blocking access to the door. All she had to do was wait for him to come back.

Owen did not come back.

“If you’re going to hide in there,” Sylphia chided, “At least lock the door.”

There was no response. After a moment, the wight sighed, cursing herself for not making sure her man-trap was secure. An unpleasant breeze caused her to gasp and surge to her feet, pulling the discarded gown around herself. “Pet?” She called, moving carefully around the puddle of precum towards the bathroom. “What are you-“

She paused, a certain dread gripping her as she slowly took in what she was seeing. Before her, the window was open, a cold wind blowing across the snowy rooftop. Two shaky lines that then quickly converged into one parted the white sheet of snow on the rooftop, rolling off the side of the building into the darkened night. Between the sky and the rooftop, she could make out only darkness, a small bit of tundra, and… footprints? And Owen…

Owen was gone.

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9 thoughts on “In Transylvanna Ch. 1”

  1. I mean, what else could she really have expected him to do? The man actually felt as if his own body’s control was going to be forever stolen from him in that moment and the latent adrenaline surged his strength for those few precious seconds needed to make an instant response. At this moment, he probly won’t stop despite the piercing cold until he faints in some far-off cave somewhere. :/

  2. Glad it didn’t get to the point of male chastity belts. It’s borderline faggotry.

    The whole point of the monstergirl fetish is women who are desperate to make you blow your load, and there are such beta femdomfags that they want to be denied sex. Jesus.

  3. And yet, Salted, you read it and wanked to it anyway. Getting denied actually makes the orgasm better in the end, you know. Regardless, the author did a great job, and I really hope they continue. I actually hope it gets worse. Maybe with some forced orgasms. They can be quite intense. Deny a dick until he begs, then make him cum until he cries.

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