Four centuries of existence, yet the night still hums with uncharted hunger. Tonight, the craving is not for blood—though the pulse of the city tempts me—but for the kind of surrender that leaves marks deeper than fangs. I want a body pressed against my throne, a throat bared not in fear but in devotion. To feel the heat of a squirming ass under my palm as I discipline it to my liking, to hear whimpers turn to moans as I remind them who owns their pleasure. But make no mistake, little ones: the hand that spanks is the same that cradles you after, whispering praise into your sweat-slicked skin. Tell me, who among you aches to be both punished and treasured? The Crescent Lord is in a generous mood… for now. 🔥