Justin MacCormack brings us the first of his Tales of Monsterotica — a hilarious and sexy romp through the world of classic movie monsters, but re-envisioned through a gay erotic lens. In the scene below, intrepid young Jonathan Woodcock first meets the imposing and sexy Count Shagula!
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The Count took the coat from me and, with an elegant movement, hung it by the door. “You will, of course, stay for dinner?” he asked. “I know that it is late, but for such a valued guest, surely you will allow me this honor.”
I let myself glance around the great hall. Now that I was inside the gates, the grandiosity of the building could not be denied. But yet, the place appeared to be almost desolate. Carpets were tattered and threadbare and cobwebs lined the walls. It seemed that age had worn away much of the place’s splendor.
The Count moved elegantly, like a cat, inviting me to follow along behind him with his long fingers.
“I don’t want to impose,” I said, quietly.
“You do not,” said the Count, almost dismissive of the idea. “I rarely have guests, and I enjoy to play the host.”
Nodding, I said, “It must be quite lonely to live alone in this castle.”
Pausing in his step, the Count turned to me and shook his head. “No,” he said, “not alone. Not here in Castle Shagula, no, not alone.”
I waited for him to say something more, but he did not. “Oh,” I said.
He smiled to me. In the moonlight, I caught a hint of a shine to his teeth.
Grasping my luggage, I tugged it open and rummaged through its contents. “I have the papers that you requested,” I explained. “For the purchase of Carfax Abbey in England. All that remains is for them to be signed, and…”
The Count slid forward. I felt his fingertips brush against my cheek. “Later,” he said. I inhaled — his touch was cool; soft, like velvet, but electric. “Later,” he said, staring into my eyes. “First, dinner.”
I followed the Count obediently into the cavernous interior of the castle.
We walked up a tall staircase, and through a long and winding hallway flanked on both sides by great portraits that hung on the wall. My eyes were drawn to each in turn as we walked past them.
“Family,” said the Count, without glancing back at me. “They are the ancestors of my line. All gone, now.”
“Oh,” I said, hearing my footsteps echo down the great hallway as I walked.
“Yes,” replied the Count, “I am the last in the great Shagula line.”
I nodded, struggling to keep up. I hurried up to the man. “It’s a curious name,” I said, stuttering a little as I did. “I couldn’t find any reference to it in the history books.”
“We do not like to play an impact on the international stage,” he said. “But we have endured, until now.”
One portrait caught my eye. I paused, mid-step, staring at it. It depicted a man in great plate armour, standing against a battlefield. “My word,” I exclaimed, “he looks just like you.”
“Yes,” said the Count. “That is my great uncle Isban. They called him The Impaler.”
“He impaled people?” I asked.
“No,” said the Count, “He was just, how do you English say? Hung like a stallion.”
I blinked. “Oh,” I said.
The Count chuckled. “You need not worry, young Mister Woodcock. The great seed that ran through the Shagula line is all but dried up now, I’m afraid. I am the last of my line, and when I die, I fear that the dynasty will die with me.”
I tried to wonder if I should take the count seriously. I watched him for a moment. He certainly did cut a handsome figure, both aristocratic and dominating. The last, I thought, of a great line of shaggers. It was no wonder that there seemed to be such a great sense of sadness to him.
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