Greetings, dear readers,
I hope you all enjoy this submittal. This story contains paranormal and psychic erotica, if you are not open minded to such topics, read no further.
Immense thanks to Bloodbaron62 for his stellar, impressive editings.. Please leave feedback and enjoy!
Saphiria was a goth. She loved wearing the trappings of the culture – the black clothing and makeup, the jewelry, the boots – but for her the greatest thing about her goth personality was the subculture of vampirism. She was an active member of House of the Midnight Song, the nearest vampire community group, and anything to do with the vampire community (or VC, as she liked to refer to it) enticed her. But one thing she loved more was the East European country of Romania, which encompassed the old nation of Transylvania. She found Romanian guys ridiculously hot, Romanian girls strikingly beautiful, and she was certain that her soul belonged in Transylvania. Somehow the universe had made a mistake and dropped her thousands of miles away from that almost mythic land where she should have been born and where her soul yearned to be. There was no way of convincing her otherwise. Saphiria felt the tug on her heart of that faraway place and she knew that would surely, someday, be her physical home.
But until then she lived in a small, quiet town --little houses populated by little people with little lives. The only thing about the town that kept her from going insane there was a tiny but vital population of immigrants from Romania. Seeing their dark, strong faces every day made the bucolic Noplace livable. Saphiria had made friends with several of these sturdy, pleasant people and she never got tired of hearing about "the Old Country" from which they (or, increasingly, their ancestors) had come. There was a Romanian woman who intrigued her. Lina, unlike many of her European countrymen, was blond and blue-eyed, and Saphiria thought she was strikingly beautiful. Lina's house was not too far from where Saphiria lived, and it was quite common for the two women to see each other when Saphiria passed the blond's home on her way to the shops at the other end of town. Lina would often be seated on a wrought-iron bench in her little front yard singing softly to herself and playing with a small grey cat named Misty, whom she had rescued from the friendless streets. Saphiria would give her a friendly greeting with a smile as she passed her tidy blue house to go to her VC meetings or coffee shops. Lina always returned the friendly wave, her sapphire blue eyes brightening up the day more than any amount of sunlight ever could. The whole planet could plunge into darkness, thought Saphiria, but if Lina were still here we'd all find our way around by the light of those eyes.
It was Thursday, the day that Saphiria liked to spend in the town's book store. As she was walking down the quiet street she passed Lina's house and, as usual, saw the woman out on her bench. "Good morning, Lina," she waved cheerily.
"Greetings to you as well, Saphi," Lina replied in her musical voice.
Saphiria carried on, smiling to herself. I'd really love to get to know her better. She's adorable! Damned hot too, she thought to herself, blushing as she finished her sentence, afraid Lina had somehow heard her unspoken comments. Saphiria was bisexual, so her lusting after a pretty Romanian girl was normal, but she was sure that Lina didn't know of her orientation and she hadn't yet decided whether to act on her attraction to the blond Romanian woman.
Part 2
On the exterior, Saphiria's house wasn't much different from the rest in town. Once you passed the front door, however, the differences became more obvious. Although other houses had photos or artworks hanging on their walls none had a painting to match the one that hung in a
prominent place in her living room. The man in the painting was handsome in a hard sort of way, with a long and angular face that bespoke of harshness and cruelty. The portrait was draped in glimmering red satin and flanked by tall black tapers. If anyone from town had visited they would have felt uncomfortable around the picture, although they could never have defined exactly why. Even if they had read the small brass plate affixed to the bottom edge of the frame the legend it proclaimed, "Tepes, 1431 -1476" would have been meaningless to them. This man was Saphiria's ultimate Romanian fascination – Vladamir Tepes Dracula, whose name meant "Vladamir the Impaler, Son of the Devil."
Saphiria's thoughts were filled with Vlad as she watched paper feed out of her printer. Three pages of information from a new source concerning the Wallachian prince's diplomatic visit from three Turkish emissaries and how, when the three men had refused to remove their turbans in respect for the viovode, or warrior prince, he'd had the turbans nailed to their heads. She barely realized she was putting the pages in the red three-ring binder with her other data about the Romanian ruler because she was imagining herself awaiting him in his bedchamber, a captive from an enemy's palace brought to him for his pleasure. "Great impaler, mighty prince of Romania," Saphiria would whisper to him, her heart begging that he not do to her as he had done to conquered enemies without number – skewer them on long stakes and stand them in great gardens of torture and slaughter – and her body pleading for his cruel touch on her wanting flesh. Without consciously realizing she was speaking she kept repeating the name to herself: "Vlad Tepes. Dracula..." She'd had it bad for him ever since she found out about his savage image and brutal reputation. She loved guys with a vibe like that. She'd never admit it to anyone, but Saphiria would often bring herself off with her favourite toys whilst thinking about Vlad. She would picture him taking the place of them, or moving her hand out of the way to take over.
Saphiria was a psychic medium, a natural gift that enabled her to talk with nearly any spirit she wished. She had never dared try to contact the spirit of Vlad Tepes but in the past few weeks the compulsion to do so had grown stronger and more consuming. Now it was an obsession to the woman, if only she could determine the proper ritual to draw his essence to her from the land behind the veil. "I will summon him somehow," she promised the empty room. "I will bring him to face me and find out for myself what kind of man he was." Switching off the computer, Saphiria was still determined to learn about Vlad Tepes and what savage heart had beat in his breast so many centuries ago.
She walked to the kitchen to pour herself a glass of strawberry drink. Saphiria loved strawberries, especially when they were mixed in food or a beverage of some kind. Their phallic shape and blood-red color were almost as pleasing to her as their tangy flavor. But this batch of juice wasn't quite what she needed today. Not as strong as the last strawberry juice I bought, but it'll have to do for now, she frowned as she raised the glass to her soft, and very kissable, lips. Saphiria was a pretty and petite Celtic woman, only standing about 5 feet tall, with crimson hair which fell around her face in soft, calm waves. Her hair was thick and quite plentiful, and she loved to have it played with or done up in a sophisticated manner. Saphiria loved to dress sexily and provocatively, and at times even erotically. She was known to go out at night looking for male and female attention alike, especially to get warm and cozy with some hot Romanian if she could. Most times, the attention she received was from the wrong group, and was often beyond her control.
Saphiria's house very much reflected her personality. A two-story Cape Cod, it had soft white carpeting in all the rooms except the kitchen and bathrooms. The walls were painted ocean blue to reflect the spiritual, serene layers of the many sides of herself and the rooms had numerous ornaments, trinkets, and decorations of all kinds decorating them. But none of the artifacts those rooms held drew her now, and serenity was a forlorn hope; she was too deep in thought about the cruel prince of her dreams.
Saphiria closed the red binder and sat down on her sofa, cradling the book against her breasts as she pondered. Interesting, she mused. There are no records of him haunting anyone, yet spirits
who die violent deaths almost never cross over fully to the other side. Vlad was slain in a terrible battle, fighting for his people. He should have come back to visit somebody, or at least haunt the site of his burial or his fortress. Yet there were no reports she could find of Vlad Tepes' restless ghost appearing to anyone. The puzzle enchanted her but her answers stayed stubbornly out of reach. A trip to Transylvania to seek his psychic presence might be needed, she knew. If Saphiria could not get her answers from her research then perhaps she would have to try to reach the prince himself.
