Laura And The Impaler

Everyone in this fantasy is over eighteen, and so should you be! I originally thought

to post this in ' erotic horror' but my previous effort in that category seems to have had little response. Anyway, this is longer – I hope it holds together and is a bit of fun.

Laura Crane considered herself a normal enough young woman. She was twenty two, and worked in the computer department of a major City bank, earning a good salary, which enabled her to run a car, to wear good clothes, and to go on nice holidays. She had had a few boy-friends, attracted by her slender body and pretty face, framed by a cascade of long, very blonde hair. None had lasted, and, to tell the truth, she wasn't sure what she wanted in that department, anyway. She had found herself attracted to both sexes, almost equally, in recent years, and, although she had yet to sample Sapphic love, she knew there would come a time……

That, however, is another story, and it was an interest of Laura's well outside the realms of romance that concerned her as she scanned the newspapers one Sunday morning in her dockside apartment. Her eyes lit on an announcement which set her mind racing:-

FOLLOW IN VLAD'S FOOTPRINTS!

Check out the real history behind Transylvanian Terror!

Stay in Vlad's original castle – not for the faint-hearted!

There was a good deal more, in the same vein, but the point was – she could afford it! She had long been a vampire movie buff, having seen all the old Hammer Horror films, and the copies spawned around that time, and even had an extensive collection of videos and DVD's of many of them. The chance to stay a fortnight in a real Transylvanian castle was too good to miss. There was an email address, and she booked, there and then, paying the full amount by credit card – she wasn't an impulsive Aries for nothing, she thought!

Surprisingly enough, the confirmation returned with remarkable efficiency, a few days later – she wasn't due to go until three weeks later – and was full of information.

Besides her booking confirmation, there was a Romanian phrasebook, and a booklet giving helpful advice and instruction. She read with interest that the climate was 'alpine' and the nights could be cold. She was slightly surprised to see that guests were 'required' to dress formally for dinner, which 'would be taken in the elegance of the baronial hall.'

The only thing which struck an odd note was a tear-off slip at the bottom of the introductory letter, which the letter asked her to sign and return in the reply-paid envelope. It was basically a disclaimer, absolving the organisers from any claim against them for anything which may arise. It also asked for a photocopy of her passport, one of which she just happened to have handy. Reading the letter again, she saw that the travel insurance was conditional upon her signing, so she signed it, without really reading the small print, sealed it up in the envelope, together with the photocopy, and slipped it into her bag to post on her way to work. By return mail, her tickets arrived, with an odd little letter, saying that her booking had been 'accepted.' She put it down to translation, as it was signed by someone called Ivanescu, and thought no more about it.

The days dragged until it was time to pack and go to Gatwick Airport for her flight. When she eventually joined the queue, she found herself stood next to another girl of about her own age with a similar luggage label. Not feeling like entering into conversation with the studious-looking brunette, she hid behind a copy of the 'Independent' she had bought at the kiosk on the concourse.

The Boeing 757 was not full, and she had no immediate neighbour on the four hour flight, which suited her fine, as she enjoyed a nice view of the Alps, a decent lunch, and quite a good snooze.

When the plane landed on time at Mihail Cogliaceanu Airport, near the Black Sea coast, Laura wondered if she should have brought some more summery clothes, as it was scorching when they descended onto the tarmac.

After the usual ghastly wait for luggage, and customs formalities, she saw a darkly beautiful blonde in a dark blue business suit waiting at a stainless steel rail, holding up a board, on which her name was printed, as Miss L. Crane, along with those of three couples, Mr & Mrs Hanson, Mr & Mrs Epstein, and Doctor and Mrs White, and two other single women, Miss V. Turner, and Ms. M. Srivanath.

Laura went and introduced herself to the woman, who shook hands languidly, showing extravagantly long, dark red fingernails on the ends of equally long, artistic fingers.

'I am Ilona,' she said, in heavily accented English, 'I will be with you very much.'

It turned out that Laura was the first to clear customs, and had to hang about for almost half an hour until the whole party was assembled.

As they showed up, and made themselves known to the guide, she had the chance to give them the once-over.

Miss V. Turner, as she thought, was the bespectacled young woman who had been next to her in the check-in queue. When she spoke with the guide, her face lit up, showing a row of even white teeth, and that her denim travel gear might well be concealing a nice figure looked possible. Mr and Mrs Hanson spoke loudly, in upper-crust accents, which sounded as if they wanted all and sundry to hear. He was tall and blond – a 'chinless wonder,' thought Laura – and she was skinny and blonde, but elfishly attractive, though wearing a wholly inappropriate grey tailored suit. They were around thirty. Doctor White came next, with his wife absent, in the toilet. He looked to be in his mid-forties, slightly overweight, and pleasant-looking, with a northern accent, and going bald on top. When his wife put in an appearance, she was much younger than him, an attractive honey-blonde in her late twenties.

If Mr and Mrs Epstein had been wearing traditional Jewish garb and eating salt beef in Bloom's, they wouldn't have looked out of place, but they were a stunningly beautiful couple. He was a tall, graceful man with liquid, almost black eyes, and a spare, hard-looking body, and looked vaguely familiar, whilst she was also tall and elegant, with long, straight brown hair, streaked with blonde. She wore a long, flowing, cotton dress, and Laura caught herself thinking that she wouldn't mind going to bed with the two of them, together!

Before she could dispel that disgraceful image, Ms. Srivanath completed the party. She turned out to be a quite dark-skinned Indian girl, mid-twenties, petite, with long black hair. She wore western clothes, jeans and a leather jacket. As they were piling their luggage into a trailer, which was to be towed behind the rather smart-looking mini-bus that was to transport them, Laura wondered, just for a moment, about the make-up of the party. Far from complaining, it was nice to see she was going to be with people her own age, but it

did

seem a little strange that all the holidaymakers, with the possible exception of Doctor White, were below forty. All-in-all, she mused, they looked more liked a

Club 18-30

set!

They boarded the bus, which had pleasant air-conditioning, and Ilona introduced the young driver, Goran. She told them to relax, as it was a long drive, and off they went, through sparsely-populated, rolling farmland, with few trees, the odd shepherd tending a massive flock of sheep and goats by the roadside the only human being in sight.

After a small town an hour into the journey, the scenery started to change, and they stopped at a roadside tavern, where they could stretch their legs and drink thick Turkish coffee, or sample, as in Laura's case, the rather nice fruit 'nectar' – all in a wooded setting, with rocky hillsides rising around them.

When the journey resumed, they were on mountain roads, hairpin-bends and steep inclines slowing progress, with beetling drops by the roadside, and a deteriorating surface making driving hazardous. Laura found herself gripping the rail on the seat-back in front of her, and hoping they met no oncoming traffic. Only once did they have to make way for a huge logging truck, Goran pulling in his rear-view mirror in order to pass, the nearside wheels scrabbling on the edge of the precipice. Higher and higher they climbed through dense pinewoods, once stopping to allow two wild boar to cross in front of them.

'If we are lucky,' said Ilona, 'we see bears, or a wolf.'

But they were not, apparently, lucky, and darkness was starting to fall when Goran suddenly turned the bus off to the left, up a well-maintained, stony track, almost as wide as the road. After about a kilometre, he stopped at a gate, which barred the way, got out and pressed a button attached to a microphone. A buzzer sounded and he spoke rapidly into the gauze. There was a click and the gate swung open. Goran got back in and drove through, a further kilometre, Laura guessed, to where a huge pile of a castle, just like you imagine a Transylvanian castle should look, all turrets and crenellations, rose out of the dark, forbidding forest, against a backdrop of harsh, rocky mountainsides. He pulled up outside. Laura, ever the romantic, couldn't help thinking they should really have arrived by horse-drawn coach.

'Please leave your luggage,' said Ilona, 'It will be bringed.' – she had difficulty with the tenses.

She mounted two wide steps and a huge oak door opened simultaneously. Disappointingly – to Laura's eyes – there was no sinister hunchback in the doorway, but a darkly pretty girl in maid's uniform.

They all trooped in, and stood in a huge entrance hall, Laura's eyes huge with wonderment at the vast scale of the place. There seemed to be no formalities – rooms had already been allotted, and they were asked to follow the maid, who silently – apart from the clicking of her heels on the marble floor – led the way, across the massive hall and up a wide, elegantly curved staircase to a corridor, flanked by statues, the walls bearing huge portraits and gloomy oil-paintings. Heavy oak doors led off to left and right, each marked with a roman numeral.

The couples were given rooms, in turn, and Laura was the first of the girls to be shown into one of the rooms, which bore the number 'VIII.' The maid flicked on the light switch, and closed the door behind her, so that Laura was alone, cocooned in a high-ceilinged room, surrounded by dark-oak panelling, containing an overstuffed sofa and a big, ornate, four-poster bed, draped with lace curtains. When Laura explored, there waas a small but adequate en-suite bathroom, and when she opened the shuttered windows, she thought she would have a view of forests and mountains in the morning, though only a hint of shadowy skyline could be seen in what little was left of daylight.

She had ample room to hang her clothes in a huge walk-in closet, but already hanging there was a long plastic clothes-bag, the sort they give you at the dry-cleaners. Around the hanger was a tag. On it was printed:-

'A GIFT FROM THE COUNT. MADE FROM FINEST LOCAL LACE. PLEASE

ENJOY WEARING IT'

Laura took the hanger off the rail, and put it on the bed, pulling off the plastic covering. It was a quite magnificent nightdress and negligee set. The nightdress long, white and sheer, decorated with lace at the neckline and hem, the negligee fashioned from handmade lace. It was absolutely gorgeous, and Laura couldn't resist stripping off her travel-sweaty clothes, having a quick shower, and trying on the lovely garments right away. When she looked at herself in the full-length mirror set into the back of the closet door, with just the nightgown on, her nipples thrust out at the transparent material, and, even though she kept her blonde bush neatly trimmed, it showed as a dark shadow through the diaphanous gown. She slipped the negligee over her shoulders, and revelled in the soft, luxuriant lace, then smiled secretly as she brought to mind scenes from some of the films that had brought her here, and pictured herself, wearing just such clothes, being pursued down dark stone corridors by some rapacious monster. She closed her eyes for a moment, and her hand strayed up under the gown, her slender legs parting as she sought the little bud of her clitoris. Her pussy was damp, and she gave herself up to the pleasure of her touch – first pinching her clit, then sliding two fingers into her rapidly moistening cunt.

'OH,' she moaned, as the orgasm came burgeoning up from the very depths of her womanhood, and she moaned again, putting a hand into her mouth so that she hoped she wouldn't be heard as she came in a great wave.

'Well,' thought Laura, 'that's a first, anyway!' Less than half an hour in Vlad's castle, and she had had an orgasm. What brought that on? Not finding an easy answer, but still enjoying the feel of the immensely sexy nightgown and negligee, she kept them on while she unpacked and organised her things.

There was the question of dinner, and what to wear. Laura realised she didn't know when it was served. She had altered her watch to local time, and, glancing at it, found that it was after seven. She was just contemplating putting some clothes on and going in search of information, when a knock sounded on her door.

'Who is it?' she asked, but there was no reply, just another knock.

Cautiously, she went and opened the door – just a chink. It was the maid, so she opened it all the way and let her in.

The young girl looked Laura up and down appraisingly, taking in the negligee, with a look that was hard to read, then, with a sort of half-smile, said, 'Dinner, eight, OK?'

'OK,' said Laura, and was about to ask her advice on matters of wardrobe, but the girl had already turned on her heel and sped from the room.

Forewarned, Laura had brought several evening dresses, and thought she'd better go for something sexy for the first evening. In truth, she was still feeling just a little aroused, as she often did after masturbating – her body really demanded more.

Hoping it wouldn't be too cold in the dining hall, she chose a long, slinky purple gown, open at the front right down to her pierced navel, where she wore a dangling diamante pendant. The swell of her small breasts was just enough to be interesting, and, if she leaned forward, her nipples became visible to anyone who cared to look. Although they couldn't be seen under the long skirt, she wore the stilettos she always felt good in, and she wore no underwear – it was something of a foible with Laura, especially on an evening out; she loved the feeling of nakedness, vulnerability even, under her outer clothing. She decided she looked good as she applied her lip-gloss, and took a last look in the mirror.

She walked down the staircase, taking such care lest she tripped over her long skirt, that she didn't see the maid waiting silently, until she reached the tiled entrance hall. The maid smiled and pointed to the left, and Laura followed her directions, leading her through double doors into an enormous, brightly-lit, banqueting hall, with a massive table set for dinner, and all her travelling companions already milling around with glasses in their hands. Laura took a dry sherry from a tray proffered by a maid who looked to be a carbon-copy of the first one, and stood aside to get a look at some of the other guests, now dressed for dinner. Miss Srivanath stood out like a sore thumb, in a spectacular green and gold sari, a gold decoration (what

did

they call them?) hanging from her forehead with a huge stone in the centre, a fine gold chain looping from ear-lobe to the side of her aristocratic nose, and various amulets and bracelets decorating her slim arms. Laura's eye took in Miss Turner, who had undergone a metamorphosis, the glasses now gone, and the denims now swapped for a short black velvet dress, tight as a second skin, black patent heels showing off nice legs in fishnet stockings.

Mr and Mrs Hanson stood a little apart, he in an unfashionable tux, she in a long, backless, yellow silk creation, which might have been Versace, and certainly cost a fortune. They seemed to be having an argument.

Doctor White, in what appeared to be a suit which had seen a few summers, actually seemed to be conversing with the first maid, which struck Laura as odd, a she had shown no knowledge of English. His beautiful wife, on the other hand, wearing a long white silk Grecian-style gown with silver clasps at its shoulders, was talking animatedly to Ilona, who wore a dress into which she had been laced. It was black, and fitted her like a glove, tightly constricting her from neck to knees, laced in the back right down to the start of the crack in her buttocks.

But then, Laura's eyes lit on the Epsteins. Oh, my God, she thought. He wore a white tux, which he carried off with the elegance of a film star, whilst she was fantastic in a long, brown silk halter-necked gown, with a loose bodice, so that her breasts jiggled with unspoken promise at her every movement, and a tight skirt sporting a slit high up one side. Laura's eyes held hers for a moment, and it thrilled her beyond belief.

Just then, though, her attention was diverted to Ilona, who cleared her throat in the universal preliminary to an announcement.

'Please to sit at table. We will eat,' she said, 'you may sit where you wish.'

Laura decided to get as close as she could to the Epsteins, and followed them to the table, almost rudely elbowing aside Mr Hanson in the process.

Having achieved her aim, she found herself sat beside Mrs Epstein, and opposite her husband. At her other elbow sat the awful Mr Hanson, who tried to make conversation.

After exchanging names – his was Jonathan, and his wife Lavinia – she did her best to cut him out of her conversation, and left him talking with Miss Turner, whom she learned was Velda, at his other side. Laura concentrated on the Epsteins – Jakob and Myra, she soon found out - looking for likely filming locations.

'Did you find a nice present in your room?' asked Jakob, in a deep, musical voice, his dark, deepset eyes boring into Laura.

'Yes, what about yourselves?'

'Oh, Myra had a present, too, and so, apparently, did Madhuri.'

So that was Miss Srivanath's name, thought Laura.

Laura had difficulty concentrating on her meal – whether it was Jakob's eyes, the occasional – accidental? - soft touch of Myra's thigh against hers, or just her imagination running amok, whatever it was, she was in a state of semi-arousal all the way through dinner.

As they finished sweet, Ilona stood and tapped her glass, to gain attention, saying, 'I am not good in English. I ask Doctor White to speak to you.'

The Doctor took her place, and coughed before starting to speak.

'First let me tell you that I am here as interpreter and representative of the Count, who has had to go to Bucharest for a few days. Sandra here – he indicated the honey-blonde with whom he had arrived - is not, in fact, my wife, but an expert on local folklore. You may all have wondered at the make-up of this group, and rightly so. You have, may I say, been selected, vetted even. And now you want to know why. Of course you do.'

He looked around, as rumblings of discontent could be heard. Laura heard Jonathan say, 'I say, that's a bit thick, isn't it?'

White was continuing, 'Before I go any further, let me say straight away that all your money will be returned to you in the next few days, in full, and you will be free to return home, or enjoy the rest of your fortnight relaxing in the luxury of our castle.'

'So what's the snag?' asked Madhuri quietly.

He smiled, 'I'm coming to that. You may not think it a snag, either. The Count is a direct descendent of Vlad Tepes – you may know him as Vlad the Impaler, the 15th century Prince of Wallachia. Whilst not exactly proud of some aspects of his ancestor's reputation, he wishes to relive on film some of the legends attributed to his family. From all the people who showed interest in our publicity, we have chosen some of you who are sitting here tonight, plus three young women who are due to arrive tomorrow. The Count needs certain types to play roles, and positions will be offered to three or four young women and one young man in about one week from now. The remuneration will be very good indeed. Those deemed unsuitable will simply have enjoyed a free holiday. Are there any questions?'