Franengeld

Previously in Frankengeld. Damion von Frankengeld, and his assistant Helena, have arrived in Carlsbruck after an eventful journey home. After providing evidence to the Chief of Police, regarding the demise of the highwayman, they are met by Stephan the Frankengeld footman for the final journey to the family estate. Helena uses her social skills to get Stephan to tell all the gossip.

Now read on...

5th June, in the year 1784, late in the day.

The final part of our journey, to our isolated house in the woods to the north of Carlsbruck, took only half of one hour. I sat in silence and listened to Helena expertly extracting the latest news from Stephan.

Father was still taking his mysterious business trips, that kept him away from home for days, or even weeks, at a time. I groaned internally thinking he would have forgotten our agreement but then Stephan explained that on his return he had immediately sent for an agent to hunt for a suitable property for my consulting rooms.

Mother had been having an affair with Bruno our steward for the last year, but still has her bench of 'worship of the great mother', and was looking forward to my return.

Elodie, having arrived at the age of eighteen, was being presented with suitors, and was - apparently - arranging to test each and every one of them during overnight stays.

My dull elder brother Karl and his new wife Gerda, were being very boring - the worst that was being reported by Una, the chambermaid, was that they were indulging in loud and energetic sex every night and morning as she strove to provide him with a son.

And Stephan himself was courting a young lady in the hamlet of Tatariv, half a mile to the west of our estate. She seemed a interesting young lady from his descriptions, but I wondered that they had met in a graveyard, not a noted social venue.

But by far the most interesting news was that cousin Victor Frankenstein had got engaged to a young lady called Elizabeth, sole heir to a business in Carlsbruck. And, astonishingly, he was delaying the wedding! She was, according to Stephan, staggeringly beautiful, a real catch. A woman any man would be proud to have on his arm, and wealthy as well. However Victor was spending most of his time not courting her, but working in the nearby ancient tower that I have already told you he had adapted for his studies. People were saying he was mad, or perhaps preferred the company of men.

Stephan pulled on the reins and the cart turned into our estate through the ornate iron gates that always stood wide open. The stone gateposts had large bronze statues that fascinated me when I was a child, and still made a shiver run down my spine. I had named them as 'man-beast' and 'beast-man' from an early age and had climbed the pillars on many occasions to get a better look. I glanced up now.

The right hand pillar had a statue where the upper part was like a wolf with furred face and hairy arms ending in clawed hands. The lower half was more man shaped, and dressed in tight fitting trousers, though the feet were hairy and clawed. This was 'beast-man' and the impression was of a dreadful, though fantastical, predator.

On the base was written 'Even a man who is pure of heart.' which is the first line of a poem mother used to recite to me when I was young.

Even a man who is pure at heart,

And says his prayers at night.

May become a wolf, when the wolfsbane blooms,

And the moon is shining bright.

Mother was inclined to recite the weirdest of poems, or tell me the strangest of stories, at bedtime. And would always deny having done so the next day, or when I woke with nightmares.

The left hand pillar was, if anything, more disturbing of the pair for the upper half was a muscular man with a tight curly head of hair, and the lower half was beast-like being covered entirely in long, thick, hair. Between the beast's legs, protruded an enormous phallus, terrifying to women - I presumed - in its girth and length. I called this one 'man-beast' and, I confess, I used to swing on the phallus, or sit upon it watching the world go by when I was a child.

On the base was written simply the words...

'Our blood may be bad, but our seed is good.'

I never really understood these words and my father and elder brother had never bothered to explain them to me. One of my school friends suggested it was sort of 'Make Love, Not War' statement on the lines of blood is bad, but semen is good. I personally doubt this interpretation considering the number of Frankengeld's whom we have sent into the army, and the violent contents of the Red Room. But it must have some significance for the phrase, in Latin, is also on our family crest.

Up the short driveway we drove, the horse's hooves skittering slightly on the gravel, and my family home, which I have failed to mention was named Durishaus, came into view. Durishaus means 'demon-house' but why we should have adopted such an unattractive title for the place I never discovered. The building was never going to receive an architectural award, even if such a thing existed. A cube of black stone, four stories high, with tiny single-room towers on each corner. Small windows and a strong iron and oak front door completed the look of a defensive monolith.

In other parts of Europe noble families were building elegant red brick mansions, with large windows, and filling their homes with light. They hosted soirees, garden parties and masked balls. We live under different conditions, though we do occasionally have masked balls.

A hundred yards away, presumably not to spoil the 'beauty' of our home, were two outbuildings - the servants quarters and the stables. I believe many noble families have the servants living in the main house. For many, many, years our servants have happily made the short journey to their quarters each night, returning as dawn breaks. As a young boy I could never understand why they would do this, but as I grew up I realised that it was an issue of superstition. The servants, I realised, feared the supposed 'bad blood' in our family, and perhaps thought we changed into 'man-beast' or 'beast-man' at the stroke of midnight. It was sometimes inconvenient not being able to call for a servant to do a task for us during the night. But on the other hand not having servants around the place in the dark hours did allow us to indulge our vices without being observed.

As I mused on the foolishness of the uneducated masses, those unfortunates who had not had the benefit of a scientific education, the cart made its final approach to the front door. Here our steward was waiting for us with the cook and the chambermaid standing in line next to him. The man must be psychic, or at the very least have very sensitive ears, listening out constantly for the sound of wheels on gravel. He always seemed able to conjure up the staff in time to pay their respects to arriving guests. They stood at attention, in line, starting with Bruno himself, one of the tallest men I have ever met. He was about fifty years old, slim and held himself proudly, as if serving us was the greatest of all honours. He had very large feet, appropriate for such a tall person, but if the old-wives-tale was right about size of feet and the size of the penis was true then that would explain why my mother was having an affair with him. Next down the line was Tania, our cook. Squat and square-faced, she was an absolute treasure and I looked forward to tasting her meals again. At Engolstadt I ate from the refectory - where the food was filling but boring - or when Helena made me a meal. Helena is good at cooking, but what Tania creates is simply superb.

The person stood next to Tania was new to me. This must be our latest chambermaid, Una, a petite, slender, twenty-something woman who looked at me seriously with beautiful, wide, brown eyes. A few strands of her auburn hair escaped from under her white, frilly, maid's cap. As a family we seemed to go through quite a few chambermaids, some found boyfriends in the neighbourhood and got married, some went home to nurse their ailing parents in their old age. Others just disappeared one day, for no reason that I could detect, and we never saw them again.

Stephan, having unloaded the cases, went and stood in line with the others. There were two more members of staff, our gardener Ulf, and our gamekeeper, Sven, but they were out on the estate and not expected to be part of a welcoming line up. Bruno gave me a formal bow.

"Welcome home Master Damion," Bruno said in a deep, rich, voice. All the rest of the staff bowed to me.

"Good to see you Bruno," I replied. I thought about adding 'Is my mother looking after you properly?' but discretion got the better of me so it went unsaid.

Bruno was studying Helena, "Who is this woman, sir?"

"Bruno, meet Helena, she is my Medical Assistant," I tried to emphasise the title to ensure he didn't think she was my mistress, or something.

"Then I shall arrange a room for her, sir... in the Servant Halls," he replied. He had quickly assessed her status, one of the skills of a steward. He continued, "Your mother is waiting for you in the Music Room."

"Thank you Bruno," I replied. Then, turning to my companion I added, "Helena, make yourself at home, we will talk tomorrow about the work."

Helena curtsied elegantly and I entered the family home. There had been little change in the three years I'd been away. The same gallery of portraits stared down at me in stern disapproval, my ancestors dating back near two hundred years. For older representations of our line, and we went back nearly six hundred years as Frankengeld's, you needed to go to the family crypt and look at the statues, or do a brass-rubbing.

I should point out that brass-rubbing is a great hobby for both the elderly, for whom it gives gentle exercise, and the young, for whom it teaches history. I recall spending many a happy hour kneeling on top of my ancestor's tombs, rubbing the crayon across the paper to pick up every detail, until father caught me at it and, strangely, told me to stop waking people up.

Either side of the main staircase were the stuffed brown bears. Slain in the mountains many years ago they exuded that peculiar smell of animal and antiseptic that goes with taxidermy. The rooms on the ground floor consisted of three Withdrawing rooms, a couple of Storerooms, the Blue Room with our collection of historical artefacts, and an Estate Office, often used by my brother. The Music Room was on the next floor along with the Dining room, and other rooms for entertaining family or guests. I set off up the main staircase and soon came to the door I was looking for. From inside came loud piano music, but slightly stilted, as if the player was a little unsure of the next chord, or was being distracted in some way. The violin on the door looked as if you could lift it off and play it, but it was just an optical illusion. An oil painting, so well executed, so cleverly represented, that it almost looked real.

I pushed the door open, it creaked very slightly, then smoothly swung back to reveal my mother. She was kneeling on the floor with her skirts bundled around her waist, bent over the piano stool, with her fingers rippling up and down the keys of our pianoforte by Jacobus Ball. A portly, red-face, middle-aged, man stood behind her, pleasuring her vigorously. His shirt was open and his trousers were around his ankles. His beer gut was rubbing up against my mother's generous backside. I thought I recognised him as one of the tradesmen from Carlsbruck. Mother continued to play the dark, powerful, piece of music. Her hands occasionally faltered on the keys as his thrusts disturbed her equilibrium, but her concentration was astonishing given what was happening to her.

"Damion! So nice to see you," she said as if it were perfectly normal to be found by her son in the act of fucking a tradesman. Then she explained, "I'm just paying the butcher his bonus. I will be with you in a minute." She continued to play and grunted a few times as the tradesman speeded up, bashing his cock into her like there was no tomorrow and this was his last chance to be with a woman before being sucked down to whatever level of Hell butchers go to when they pass over.

I settled down to wait and the butcher nodded his acknowledgement,

"Uh, uh, uh, Master Damion, good to see you home. Gnaaaah!"

With a roar he came. I thought he would pull out of Mother, and perhaps he was going to do so, but she ended the music with a final dramatic chord and reached back to hang onto his hips, holding him deep within her until his pumping spasms had stopped. She waited patiently until he had withdrawn his, now limp, penis then stood and rearranged her dress. This involved tucking her breasts back into the corset, and then flouncing and adjusting her skirts until they once again covered her ankles. Finally she collected a leather coin-purse from the mantle above the fireplace, pushed it into his hands, and pushed him out of the door.

"See you next month, my man," she said. "Get us some really good cuts and perhaps I'll arrange for my daughter-in-law to pay you next time. I am teaching her how to manage a household, though she seems particularly slow to catch on that she needs to spread her legs for the tradesmen if she is to keep them happy."

He seemed very pleased with this prospect. I had not yet seen my sister-in-law for I was ill at the time of the wedding and unable to travel, and had not been home since. The butcher backed out of the room as if Mother were royalty, and closed the door behind him.

"Come here Damion. Say hello properly," said Mother with a lascivious smile.

I knew what to do. I walked over and kissed my mother on both cheeks, then went and lay down on the 'Bench of Worship of the Great Mother'.

This device had been found by mother in some obscure town in southern France where, rumour had it, the locals still worshipped the pagan 'Great Mother Goddess'. The Grand Tour is supposed to enlighten the traveller as they travel around Europe exposing themselves to the rich culture of foreign lands. I suspect Mother did a lot of exposing herself on the trip, and what she brought back could be considered cultural, in a primitive and sexual sort of way. But it wasn't the sort of item most tourists brought back. I seem to remember I brought back a small marquetry box and a glass vase.

I lay on my back on the bench, which had a depression to allow the head to lie back comfortably, and stirrups so that someone could straddle it. Mother bent down and lifted the front of her skirts then put her feet into the stirrups and lowered herself over me. All went dark as the layers of cloth covered me. But I had been doing this worship of motherhood for some time and knew exactly what I had to do. Indeed when I had occasionally performed this on Helena she had commented favourably on my skill. I applied lips and tongue as mother had instructed me. At that time I believed that all sons honoured their mothers in this way, and Mother neglected to tell me otherwise. Under my attentions she sighed, and after a minute spoke again.

"Damion!", she said, with a high pitched sigh.

"Mmmmm?" was all I could reply.

"It is wonderful to have you back," she said. "Only you can pleasure me so well."

"Muuuumm," I said and kept going. To stop before Mother had decided she had had enough pleasure would lead to stern looks and cutting remarks over dinner. I did as I had been instructed years ago. I delved and pushed my lips hard onto her until I decided it was time to move on up. I slid my tongue up her crack until I found the mysterious nub, like a tiny finger, and then pressed my lips over it. Semen seeped from her vagina and I spent a moment licking it up, and then returned to her nub.

Anatomy was, of course, a substantial part of the natural sciences degree at Engolstadt and I had watched, or taken part in, numerous dissections. But, and this was interesting, they were nearly all male cadavers. Female cadavers were rare in the dissection room, and always jealously guarded by the senior staff. It was as if we, the students, were being told that the mysteries of the female body were not for us juniors. But, despite their near monopoly of the female cadavers, I only ever got to dissect one, I began to think that there was a woeful lack of knowledge amongst the seniors of the female anatomy. Take the organ I was currently stimulating. Most of my tutors had failed to mention it at all, and those who - very briefly - said something about it would only say that it was vestigial, and had no purpose since it was unconnected to other major organs. I kept quiet knowing that there was little point in saying something. Mother and I knew exactly what it did, and I had a theory about where it was connected.

I proceeded to test my theory. With my lips giving gentle stimulation to the mysterious organ the subject sighed. Stimulation continued with gentle nibbles, the subject started to breath more deeply with the occasional ragged breath. More active pressure caused the subject to wriggle her hips and grab the sides of the bench. Further stimulation, including the occasional use of teeth to rub the organ, caused the subject to gasp, groan, pant and finally spasm with her back arched and her head thrown back. My theory proven! The organ was directly connected to the brain of the the subject, specifically the part which felt pleasure, possibly by a single, very long, nerve. And this pleasure presumably encouraged women to put up with clumsy procreation. This was something you would never learn from dissecting a corpse!

"That was good Damion," said Mother.

So dinner would be a relaxed affair, that was nice. She dismounted from the bench and again rearranged her skirts.

"Thank you Mother," I said, then wiped my face with my kerchief.

"It would be nice to do that again," she replied. "But we must dress for dinner soon, and your sister would like to see you before we eat."

This was an order, and not optional, despite the way it was phrased, so I was quick to answer, "Very good Mother, I will go and see her straight away."

I left the room wondering if mother knew what Elodie occasionally asked me to do for her. It was hard to read my mother. Perhaps she did know, but didn't care, or perhaps she never imagined that I was as much a slave to her daughter's whims as I was to hers.

I knew exactly where Elodie would be at this time of day so headed up to the next floor where the bedrooms and sharing rooms were located. A light tap, our special rhythm, on Elodie's bedroom door got the usual response.

"Enter brother!"

Inside the room was a deep red gloom, the late afternoon light filtering through blood red curtains. Elodie's room was dominated by an enormous four-poster bed. It was a sign of her lascivious nature that she had demanded, and had been given, the largest bed in the house. Elodie was currently sprawled naked across the black sheets, very rare black silk, all the way from Vienna.

"Come, join me, and draw the curtains. I have been writing poetry," she giggled and gestured at the scattering of papers around her.

She wasn't very good at poetry but I hadn't the heart to tell her, for she had so little else in her life. And I couldn't understand why she so often had to take her clothes off to write. I clambered onto the bed next to her and pulled the heavy curtains of the four-poster closed to give us some privacy. A single candle burning in a holder on the headboard cast a golden glow over her skin, and illuminated the carvings.

A local craftsman had laboured for months carving erotic panels on this masterpiece of the woodcarvers art. The panels showed various positions for lovemaking, many of which I was incapable of achieving. The gossip in Carlsbruck was that Elodie was the model for the female, and the woodcarver for the male. And that they had practised the positions before he did the carving to make sure he was accurate in his representations. I had seen the carvings up close many times and knew that they showed a wide variety of body shapes, so while some might have been Elodie, and some might have been the woodcarver, this was not the whole story. I had often wondered if they were from imagination or life but the creation of the bed happened during my second year away at Engolstadt, so unless I plucked up the courage to ask my sister, or met the randy woodcarver, I would never know.