"Are you sure you want to go up there?" asked the driver. Fear and superstitious dread colored his words.
Anne ignored him. She watched fat raindrops splatter the windshield. The driver had asked the same question three times since picking her up at the station. She knew the fear in his voice was for his own safety not hers. The villagers feared Castle Frankenstein, but Anne did not.
It was her home after all.
A home never visited, but a home all the same. Her father had tried to relocate to the village once when her oldest brother was young. Her father rarely spoke talk about what happened during that time. For years her parents had tried to sell the castle, but no one wanted it. Instead her older brother hired two caretakers and let the castle squat on its mountaintop.
She saw a rough outline of the castle through the storm. A squarish heap of brick on a wooded hill. Next to the castle a single broken tower thrust into the sky like an accusing finger pointed at God. Lightning crashed across the sky casting the buildings into silhouette.
To Anne the castle looked no less forbidding than the village. That place was full of crumbling brick paving stones, slanting buildings, and sturdy dull eyed peasants. An old woman had even made a sign against the evil eye at Anne. So different from the world Anne had grown up in. New York and London had been full of excitement, new people, new ideas. She doubted a new idea had taken root in this village since before her father was born.
"The castle is no place for a young lady to go alone," continued the driver. "I can take you back to the village. There is a good inn there. Get us out of this filthy weather and get something warm in you."
Anne remembered how the driver's eyes had devoured her slim legs and athletic chest. Tweed traveling clothes did nothing to hide her pale skin, full lips, round blue eyes, and red hair bobbed in a style that, while common in London, was no doubt exotic here. His lust was as obvious as his fear.
She sighed. He wasn't a bad-looking sort. Nice big shoulders and just bright enough to be guided by her. If the man had more courage she would told him to stop the truck. Swallowed his cock to take his measure before forcing his badly shaved face between her legs. In Anne's imagination she mounted him in the front seat and felt him thrusting into her as the storm raged around them, orgasms ripping through her with the crash of thunder.
"The castle," said Anne. No it wouldn't do to reward fear even through a quick fuck was just the thing to take the edge off her excitement.
The driver said nothing.
Soon they parked in the courtyard of the castle. Reaching across the driver's Anne pressed the horn. In the cab she scarcely heard it above the storm.
"Miss, I'll put your things in the stable. Ought to keep them dry." He suggested. His eyes were locked on the front door as if expecting a monster to burst out and devour him.
"Doctor." Anne corrected him automatically and added, "The stable will be fine. I'll have the servants get them tomorrow. You can handle the trunks?"
"Yes miss." The driver noticed her glare. "I mean doctor."
"Good," Dr. Anne Frankenstein said icely. She gathered her valise from the floor of the cab and leapt into the storm.
Before reaching the door she was soaked to the bone. Anne pulled on the door and to her surprise it opened. Lightning threw shadows across the long dark entry hall. Anne ducked inside quickly. Fighting the wind she shut the door behind her and stood in the darkness.
Doctor Anne Frankenstein had arrived. Ready to begin her great work and make a name for herself. A name that would not be her father's or her brother's, her own. A name that would make all of the empty-headed, needle-dicked, society doctors in their drafty gentlemens clubs quake with envy.
Anne blundered forward with her valise. There was a dim light at the end of the hall. She supposed the servants hadn't expected her in this weather. Anne frowned she would have to make them understand that she was a woman of daring.
The light turned out to be a low fire in front of a sofa. Anne set her valise on the flagstones and her drenched hat and jacket on the sofa to dry. It was a room of fine old furniture. Above the fire hung a portrait of her grandfather as a young man, one hand clutching a black book and the other resting on a skull.
White electric light spilled through the outline of a door to the right of the sitting room.
Anne supposed now was the best time to deal with the servants. According to her brother their names were Ygor and Inga. No doubt a cripple and a grandmotherly spinster. Not what she wanted. They would have to do for tonight.
"She won't be here in this storm," said a voice from the lit room. The voice was male and excited. "No one would drive her to the castle in this. No matter how she offered to pay."
"You're wicked, Ygor." The woman's voice was breathy and eager.
"You call me wicked with your tongue."
"I'll show you what my tongue can do."
Anne crept toward the door and peeked into the dining room.
Her servants were not what she expected. Inga looked to be maybe thirty with large pert breasts, a slim body, and honey colored hair pinned up in curls. Ygor on the other hand was a trim butler with a full head of graying hair, a fit frame under his jacket, and a sharp nose set in his round face. Anne had not thought her first sight of servants would be Ygor pressing Igna toward a table while thrusting a hand under her skirt and pulling a large round breast from her blouse.
"What can't your tongue do?" Laughed Ygor.
Smiling Igna spun out of his grip and dropped to her knees in front of him. Anne had a gone of view as the housekeeper pulled down Ygor's pants to reveal his cock. It had to be seven inches long. Seven inches that Igna swallowed in a single gulp before rocking herself back and forth along the length.
"Nothing," Ygor said. "There is nothing your tongue can't do."
Apparently satisfied Inga moaned around Ygor's cock. Her hands busily unbuttoned her blouse, released her breasts the bra, and cast the clothes to the carpet. Pulling her lips from Ygor's dick the woman declared, "Get your filthy cock busy fucking my tits. Fuck them until they bruise like peaches."
Ygor appears to take Igna at her word. Her thrusts madly as she presses her breasts around his penis. Lowering her head the housekeeper let the head of his cock pound her chin. The tips of her fingers pinched, squeezed and flicked at her nipples.
Ygor grunted. "Is this what the lady wants?"
"This lady wants a proper fucking," Igna replied. Releasing her breasts Inga rose, sat on the table, and flips up her dress. To Anne's surprise the housekeeper's quim is trimmed to light mound. "Get that goddamned cock in me."
Reaching out Ygor took up a knife and sliced off a pad of butter. He rubbed it up and down the length of his shaft, spat on Inga's asshole, and began feeding himself slowly into anus. Once buried to the hilt Igna wrapped her legs around Ygor.
"Fuck my filthy asshole. Fuck me sore," Igna needlessly commands. Ygor is thrusts like a man possessed. Soon Igna yowled like a she-cat has he savaged her tender hole. With one hand she gripped the table cloth while the other furiously works her clit to orgasm. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"
There is a smile in Ygor's voice. "I am, Rosebud."
Inga pulls at the tablecloth as the orgasm wracked her body. Water and wine glasses fall on their sides. She is visibly flushed with sweat and desire.
