Ecstasy in the Castle of Death

This is intended to be a long story, so don't expect fun and games right from the start - I try to build an atmosphere of erotic tension, and impending... well, you'll see...

*****

I STEPPED OFF THE SMELLY, OVERCROWDED BUS WITH A FEELING OF RELIEF, SOON REPLACED BY AN AWARENESS OF BEING IN AN UTTERLY STRANGE PLACE.

I was in Suceava, a bustling town in the remote north of Romania, not far from the Ukranian border. I looked around, as I hoisted my backpack into place, and realised that I wasn't the only person who looked out-of-place. A girl who may have been a touch younger than my twenty two years, as blonde as I was dark-haired, was looking about as lost as I was.

Recognising her plight I spoke to her, tentatively in English.

'Hi,' I said, 'I'm Julie. We both seem to be... er... lost?'

'That could describe it,' she said, an Australian - or was it New Zealand? - accent coming through, 'I'm Jane.'

'Let's find a café or something,' I suggested, 'And get the stink of that awful bus out of our hair.'

My new friend was surprised when I ordered coffee and donuts in decent Romanian, her blue eyes widening in her pretty, oval face. I thought she would be a very attractive girl if she were not clad in long, shapeless tee-shirt, cargo pants and hiking boots, but then, she probably had a similar view of me.

These factors didn't seem to put off the local stud, in the form of a tall young guy with greasy black hair and a seventies porn-star moustache, who instantly tried to hit on us. I rapidly repelled him with a few choice words of my best Bucarest dialect that I had picked up in University. Then Jane and I swapped tales.

Hers was simple enough. A nineteen year-old waiting to go to University in the States, on an athletics/economics course, she had a 'gap-year' and had decided to travel around Europe. Transylvania had always interested her since she read Bram Stoker's 'Dracula.'

Mine was a bit more complex, and sounded, frankly, a bit silly. I had, I told her, graduated in European history at Leeds University, and, in the process, discovered a previously unsuspected talent for languages, as well as a fascination for legend, in which Northern Romania abounded. A bequest from an aunt I had never known enabled me to travel for a year, and I had flown to Bucarest, where I had met up with Roman, briefly my boyfriend at Uni. I soon discovered why our liaison had been brief, and set out to look into one of the more intriguing legends, centred on a village not far from where we sat.

Jane's interest pricked up. 'Legend?' she said, 'What's that all about?'

'Oh, it's probably a load of old nonsense, but the villagers used to claim that all the young girls from the village were spirited away in the dead of night, and never seen again, on moonless nights.'

'Not on nights of full moon, then, like most stories?'

'No.'

'So what do you hope to find out?'

'I don't know, but there hve been reports in the Romanian papers in the last few years of recurrences - girls disappearing.'

'But surely that has to do with all these Mafia forced prostitution cases we hear so much about?'

'So I thought, until I got a friend of Roman's to map the disappearances, before I left England, and found a massively disproportionate number were from around here.'

'Shit,' said Jane, 'So we might just be walking into danger.'

'Not if I'm careful,' I said, 'And nobody said you had to get involved, Jane - you're just a tourist, right?'

'I'm up for a bit of an adventure,' she said, 'Where do we start?'

'We need to go to a village called Gorust, about twenty kilometres north of here - I believe it has a hostal, though it may be a bit so-so, I suppose.'

'How do we get there?'

'Taxi, I should think.'

In a battered Dacia taxi, on the twisting road up through forest towards the village, I told Jane what I knew of the ancient legend.

There had apparently been a Count Radiescu, whose infamy spread far and wide, and who was alleged to imprison young girls in his remote castle, after they were befriended or seduced by his beautiful young son or daughter. Several versions existed, and it seemed that the legend persisted for generations, but no one who was lured to the castle was ever seen again, and screams had been heard on still nights, echoing around the forests.

Gorust was in a sort of hollow between high mountain walls, and, apart from a modern-looking timberyard, where a huge truck laden with sawn logs was about to turn out onto the road, the village looked as if it had been unchanged for centuries. The taxi-driver dropped us off at the hostal, though, and the proprietress wasn't at all the surly old bat I had been picturing, but a pleasant, smiling woman in her fifties, who showed us up two flights of stairs to two interconnecting single rooms. The Hilton it wasn't, but the sheets looked clean, and so did the washbasin and the shower we were to share.

Alone in my room at last, I checked the shower was free, and smiled when I heard my new friend snoring gently next door. I stripped off my grimy, travel-weary clothes, and luxuriated in a hot shower, then took a critical look at myself in the long wardrobe-door mirror in my room. My long black hair had been tucked under a shower-cap I found, and now fell loose to the middle of my back. My breasts were small but firm, with nice, perky nipples, and I had long, shapely legs and a flat stomach. 'You're too good not to get fucked regularly,' I told myself, and a hand crept, seemingly of its own volition, to my nearly-clean-shaven pussy, where it found its way to my clit, and I watched my own face register the first signs of pleasure, then ecstasy, then the unbearable, inevitable throes of utter abandon as my legs virtually gave way and I came - right there, standing in front of the mirror. I couldn't be sure, but I felt as if Jane had been watching, through a chink between door and frame I could have sworn wasn't there before, when I had left the shower. Ah well...

The cheerful owner, Ida, had told us we could have some dinner at eight - it turned out to be a wholesome goulash with greyish country bread and rough red wine. As we ate, she switched on the plasma TV screen, which was showing a Mel Gibson film dubbed into German, with Romanian subtitles. Jane's eyelids soon began to droop, as she was unable to follow the plot, so I suggested she went up to bed, and was sat nursing another glass of wine, when in walked the most handsome guy I'd ever seen - I kid you not.

Something just over six feet tall, I guessed, he had thick black hair which fell to the collar of his leather bomber-jacket, and piercing blue eyes set under lashes which were so long as to be almost feminine. But there was nothing other than masculinity about his posture, the way his eyes - those eyes! - sought mine, and his long, athletic-looking limbs, his legs clad in tan chinos.

'Hello,' he said, in English, immediately recognising me for a tourist, 'I am Goran.'

I turned deliberately back to the film, and said, in Romanian, 'I was watching the film.'

For answer, he came and sat down beside me, in the seat that Jane had vacated, and, as luck would have it, a publicity pause happened right then. He leapt right in, this time in Romanian.

'Ah, a beautiful English girl who speaks my language. What in heaven's name would she be doing in a place like Gorust?'

'I'm Julie,' I said, holding out my hand for him to shake. To my intense surprise and embarrassment, he took it and kissed it.

When I'd recovered, I said, 'I am researching old legends in this region, and, well, doing a little sightseeing.'

'Ah,' he said, and was silent for a short time.

Then, moving into my line of sight, he said slowly, 'I have something to show you which will help you. Would you step out with me? It isn't far.'

I must have looked dubious, because he smiled, showing perfect white teeth. 'You will be perfectly safe, I do not bite.'

I somehow wanted to believe him. It was, in any case, a very long time since I had been with a man - and never one as gorgeous as this. I nodded, slipped on my jacket, and let him guide me out into the star-spangled darkness of the village night. As we walked along the narrow sidewalk, his nearness was far from unwelcome. Almost too soon we arrived at an iron gate, which he opened without needing a key, then led me up a short pathway to a short flight of stairs and a big, ornate, oak door. This he opened with a modern key, and I found myself in a different world. It was not at all what one would expect in a remote Romanian village, but beautifully decorated, with minimalist furnishings and modern art.

Goran motioned me to sit on a comfortable sofa.

'Coffee?' he asked.

'Black,' I replied, and relaxed a little. He must have had a coffee pot on the hob already, because he was back in no time, bearing a silver tray, with a pot and two small cups, sugar and a plate of tempting-looking chocolates.

'Surprised?' he asked, waving his arm around expansively.

'Frankly, yes,' I said, 'But I thought you brought me here to show me something in particular.'

'I did indeed,' he said, and fetched a heavy-looking leather-bound tome from a built-in shelf.

'Enjoy your coffee first, then I'll show you this.' He sat on the sofa and put it down between us, carefully, as if it were precious. I kept glancing at it as I sipped the coffee, which was excellent, then eventually, he picked it up, and placed it across his lap, carefully opening it. I saw straight away something I thought I recognised.

'The coat of arms - isn't it...?'

'Radiescu, yes, you know it?'

'I know something of the legend surrounding the family.'

'My

family,'

'Say again?'

'My name is Goran Radiescu. I am a direct descendant, and heir. When my father dies, I shall become, for what it is worth, Count Radiescu.'

Whilst I was digesting this information, he showed me the family tree, which was enormous, and obviously went back centuries, concentrating on the direct line of descent. This was folded into the first page of the great book, then there was page upon page of written history. The book must have been worth a fortune, and would need months to study.

But I had a question: 'If you are a direct descendant, and heir, why do you live here, and not at the castle?'

'I am twenty eight years old,' he said, 'I don't always agree with my father. And I like to live a modern life. That would be quite impossible in a remote medieval castle, don't you think?' As he spoke, he was taking my empty cup from me, and mesmerising me with his amazing eyes. I don't know how it happened, but I was in his arms, and he ws kissing me fervently in no time at all. And I responded. Boy, did I respond! I thrust my tongue into his mouth and pulled him towards me, then his hands were tugging my tee-shirt out of my jeans. I groaned with pleasure as he kneaded my breasts, my nipples growing hard and taut under his expert fingers. Meanwhile, I unfastened his belt, fumbled with the button at the top of his chinos, then pulled down his zipper. In no time I had his rigid shaft in my hand, and pulled away from him so that I could kneel on the floor, and get both hands around his cock, then lick the tiny droplets of pre-cum from the very tip of his crown. I looked up into his eyes and saw desire there, as I took first the circumcised tip of his rod into my lips, stroking the length with my hands, while his hands were carressing my hair, then I quickly took his whole length deep into my throat, practically gagging as I loved the feel of controlling his throbbing member. I knew I could make him cum very soon, but wanted him inside me, so I gripped the base of his cock tightly, and smiled up at him.

'Not yet,' I said, and let him pull off my jeans and panties, then stood before him, opening my legs wide, and spread my pussy with the fingers of both hands, showing him the wet pinkness of my eager cunt.

'Oh Christ,' he said, 'I want you, you bitch!'

I slowly impaled myself on his cock then, not letting his whole length into me until I was ready, and he was panting. Then, when I lowered myself completely, taking his whole considerable length inside me, I flicked my clitoris between thumb and forefinger of one hand, and cupped a breast in the other, as I rode him. But he was only human, and was not to be long delayed, suddenly thrusting his hips upwards, and giving out a sharp cry in some sort of dialect I didn't understand - or maybe it had no meaning. What I really did understand was the beautiful hot, gushing, spurting cum with which he seemed to be filling my whole body, so that I could release my own, pent-up, impatient climax, and let myself cum in a great, screaming flood, as I raked his back with my nails.

'And they say English girls are cool and reserved,' he said, as I rolled off him, exhausted, and he lit up a joint to share with me.

'Do they?' I said, 'Well, I suppose some are.Christ, Goran, I needed that.'

He pulled on his spliff, and lay back, saying, 'Well, I think I'd like some more of that.'

'Not right now,' I replied, dragging my jeans on, 'I'd better get back and get some sleep. If Jane wakes up, and decides to look in on me, I'd better be there.'

'Jane?' he asked, 'Is she beautiful too?'

'She's Australian,' I said, 'And yes, she's quite pretty - and blonde.'

'Mmm, I like blondes,' he said, and I threw a cushion at him.

He insisted on driving me back to the hostal, even though it was only a few hundred yards, and waited until I was safely inside before he drove off.

Next morning, I didn't surface until the sun was shining through the thin curtains, and grunted when I saw that it was almost nine o'clock. Jane was in the shower, singing tunelessly - I imagine that was what had awoken me from my dreamless sleep.

She knocked twice and poked her head around my door, shaking her long blond hair free of the shower-cap.

'Christ, you slept well, didn't you?' she said, 'Get to bed late?' She grinned.

I smiled back, and eased myself out of bed to take her place in the steaming shower-cubicle. It didn't take long to throw on our inevitable summer 'uniform' of jeans and tee shirt, then we went down to try for some breakfast. The owner, whose name, I learned without surprise, was Maria, soon provided hot coffee and gogosi, which were some sort of donuts, and welcome, too.

Just as we were finishing them off, who should walk through the door but Goran, looking very dishy, I thought, in jeans and a denim jacket.

'So this is the lovely Australian blonde?' he said, speaking Romanian to me.

'Let me introduce Jane,' I said.

'He's just fucking gorgeous,' said Jane, in English, after they had shaken hands, and Goran laughed uproariously.

'And he understands English,' I informed her. She turned bright red.

He duly changed to English. 'I think you would both be interested to know more of the legends surrounding my Radiescu family. I have just spoken with my mother on the telephone, and my parents are expecting you at the castle. Rooms are being prepared for you as we speak, so perhaps you would like to collect your belongings. I have paid Maria for your rooms.

'B... but, you had no need... ' I began, but he cut me short. 'It was nothing.'

Half an hour later, we were sat in his Mercedes, me in front with Goran, Jane on the back seat with our rucksacks, winding our way up narrow mountain roads, through looming pinewoods. We stopped for a snack lunch at a roadside bar, then after what seemed an interminable drive, we rounded a bend and a great grey pile of a castle, complete with ramparts, came into view.

'Castle Radiescu,' announced Goran, and a few more twists and turns took us to a long straight cobbled driveway, leading to what was an impressive gateway. He drove right through, into a big courtyard, and parked beside another, bigger, Mercedes. The perfect gentleman, he ran around and opened the doors for us, and hefted out both our heaavy rucksacks, then motioned us towards a doorway.

As we approached, the door was opened, not by the deformed hunchback of horror films, but by a darkly pretty girl in maid's uniform, a shortish black silk dress and little apron over black seamed hose and high-heeled sandals. To add to the image, she actually curtsied to Goran, and her heels clicked on polished granite as she led us into the castle's interior. I exchanged glances with Jane, knowing she felt as out of place as I did, in our ratty travelling gear. And this feeling was more than doubled a minute later, when a vision of elegance stepped out from a room in front of us.

'Meet my mother,' said Goran, 'Countess Radiescu.'

'Oh, please, Irina will suffice,' said the Countess, in a silky, deep voice. She dismissed the maid, with a 'Thank you, Katya, take their luggage to their rooms, please,' in Romanian, and the girl again curtsied prettily. I looked at the Countess. She had stepped out of a fashion magazine, wearing an ivory shot-silk suit with a pencil skirt which emphasised perfect slender legs, in silky hose, perched on gold-coloured heels, matching her silk blouse. She wore several gold bracelets and gold pendant ear-rings, her black hair tinted with a streak of pure white, and swirled up into a sophisticated style. Her make-up was perfect, too. It made me feel like an ugly duckling.

'Anca!' she called over her shoulder, and a girl about my age, with short dark hair, wearing a blue pleated miniskirt and white blouse, emerged from a door over to one side.

'Yes, Countess,' she said, formally.

The Countess introduced us and told us that Anca was her secretary. 'Katya has taken their luggage to their rooms,' she told the girl, in English, which she appeared to understand perfectly. Now please show them around, and explain what we do here. You can help them get ready for dinner at the usual time.' Then she turned to Jane and myself, 'You must make yourselves very comfortable here. I hope you will enjoy a long stay, and learn much here.'

Before I had a chance to ask her anything, she had swept off, leaving us with the secretary. Neither was Goran anywhere to be seen. We seemed to have no choice but to trot along behind Anca, her heels ringing on the polished granite - everybody except us seemed to be in high heels.

Anca spoke perfect English, and explained that the living quarters of the thirteenth century castle consisted of a great dining hall, which she showed us, several other rooms, and some twelve bedrooms, two of which would be allotted to us. It was all very grand and awesome, but then she unlocked a door to what she described as the North Wing, and we were in another world.

A vast hall was full of filming equipment, and filming appeared to actually be taking place in two different places, with girls posing in front of cameras, one in period costume of some sort, the other wearing nothing but a filmy negligee, as she was apparently being threatened by a huge bull of a guy, naked from the waist up, and carrying a nasty-looking whip.

I looked a question at our guide, and she smiled. 'Quite a surprise, isn't it?' Then she explained: 'What you see here is our main business at the castle - our acting school. There is, as you may be aware, a huge market for vampire films, especially erotic ones, and other... shall we say... specialist videos. Here we train actors, and particularly actresses, to take part - and we also make films here.'

'But all these people - you told me there were twelve bedrooms?' I could see at least a couple of dozen people in the hall.

'Oh, they have their own quarters here in the North Wing,' she said.

The scenes I could see unfolding before my eyes were fascinating, and I heard Jane gulp beside me, so I knew she felt the same, but Anca was leading us back into the main body of the castle.