A Dark and Stormy Night

A Dark and Stormy Night Nexis Pas (c) 2007 by the author

Part 1

`. . . The vampire's very long and extremely sharp incisors gleamed like wet phosphorescent stalactites in the bright moonlight as storm-wracked clouds scudded across the noon sky. Outside the tempest raged, and the shadows cast by the hurricane lashing the bare winter trees writhed across the bedroom wall like a tangle of serpents trumpeting Armageddon. "Vhat iss disss?" hissed the vampire. "Do I smell garlic? Oh, it isss mein favourite. Garlic-scented boychick sushi. It wassss zo sweet of you to remember, Billy." Festive bursts of icicles exploded from the ceiling as a laugh torn from the bowels of hell plunged the temperature of the room into arctic chillness. "And you are wearing a silver cross around your neck, my dear young man. The contrast with your golden skin, the way the chain accentuates the curve of your chest-simply superb. There's no other phrase for it, simply superb. Now, Billy, let's see that stake you have hidden under the bedcovers."

`The vampire's primeval eyes flashed green, and the coverlet and sheets dissolved in a shower of molten sparks. Billy's flesh luminesced as his body was exposed to the vampire's lubricious gaze. "No, no, back, back," he cried as he tried- -in vain--to use his hands to hide his tumescent tool. The vampire smiled. "You know you want me, Billy. You want me, you want me to nibble those nutty brown nipples."

Billy realized to his horror that was precisely what he did want. He whimpered deliriously as the image of the vampire's sharp teeth biting into him, piercing him, skewering his nutty brown nipples, filled his mind. The vampire leered and pointed his index finger at Billy, revolving it slowly. And I was just thinking of your backside. How perspicacious of you to mention it." Billy couldn't take his eyes off the vampire as his body writhed as he struggled against the fever gripping his body and mind. The bed clattered across the floor as his trembling hands tried to grip the bedposts. But he was helpless against the vampire's stronger will, which penetrated his mind like a red-hot blade slicing through an overripe banana. He screamed in an attempt to focus his psycho-physical energies and defy the foul fiend, but he was powerless to resist. He could not stop himself from rolling over and exposing his rear to the vampire.

` "Oh ho ho, someone has been naughty, I see. Very naughty indeed. Painting crosses on your hot buns with a magic marker. Wrong story, Billy. This isn't The Hairy Potter and the Three Transylvanian Bears." The vampire's evil chortles ripped the last shreds of resistance from Billy. "You know, Billy, if I tilt my head, those crosses look like x's. And you know what they say." The bolt of lightning sundering the tree outside Billy's bedroom could not drown out the vampire's howl of victory. "X marks the spot." The vampire's long, wet tongue snaked out between his snarling lips and licked Billy's buttocks. A flame of lust blasted Billy's body. He drew his knees up and lifted his hips off the bed to bring them closer to the vampire's ravenous maw. The vampire raked his sharp claws across Billy's buttocks and then licked the rivulets of blood that oozed across Billy's firmly packed and well-rounded glutes and down his balls and cock. Billy twisted his head around and looked over his shoulder. The vampire's incisors had grown to the nine inches of legend, but the legend did not do justice to their thickness. Billy moaned in fearful ecstasy as he watched the formidable fangs poised above his quivering body. The vampire bent over him and playfully nipped him. He grinned in triumph and then lowered his jaws and began to feast on Billy's powerless body. Billy suddenly understood Hemingway. The earth moved. It was a night filled with explosive waves of passion that Billy would remember from here to eternity.'

*** Professor Phillip Martinson laughed out loud as he wrote Excellent' at the head of the paper. Imaginative exploitation of the phallic nature of the vampire's teeth.' He took a sip of brandy as he congratulated himself, once again, on his idea of asking the students in his gay fiction- writing course to come up with an `over-the-top' story. The students were outdoing themselves. Asking them to be ridiculous had allowed them to open themselves up and write for once. Perhaps now that they understood what made prose really bad, they could start to produce good prose.

He set the brandy snifter on the table and turned with pleasure to the final paper. He had forced himself to read the other students' stories first, saving Simon's for last. Simon Michaels--the student every teacher dreamed of. Sharp, challenging, inventive, totally dedicated to becoming a writer.

Oddly enough, Simon hadn't impressed him at first. Students who wanted to take his course had to have an interview and submit a writing sample. Twenty-seven candidates had signed the list posted outside his office door giving the times he was available. Simon had chosen the last slot. Phillip had anticipated that paring the list down to the ten whom he allowed to take his course would be a headache. By the time he had finished interviewing the twenty-sixth supplicant, he was worried instead that he would not be able to find even ten worth teaching. By that point he had found only six with a modicum of talent and intelligence.

It was wrong to judge students by their looks, of course, but the final interviewee didn't seem promising when he slouched into Phillip's office. The word nerd' could have been invented for him. Short, gangly, unkempt, probably unwashed. He looked as if he had spent his teens glued to his computer and hadn't seen the sun for months. And the dean had been worried that Phillip might use the course to recruit students into some form of gay harem. Of course, Professor Martinson, in courses such as the one you are proposing, the teacher must take especial care to avoid any hint of unprofessional behaviour. "Purer than Caesar's wife" would be the operative maxim, I believe.' The idiot had tapped his nose at that point and smirked at Phillip over those ridiculous half-moon glasses he wore in an attempt to look scholarly. "Operative maxim", indeed--Was it a requirement of the job that one had to sound like one had written a book entitled "Clich‚s for Bureaucrats"? The dean had obviously had little contact with aspiring writers and the earnest, precious young men who wanted to write novels.

The college authorities had no cause for concern. The sports teams were not enrolling en masse in his courses. `More's the pity,' Phillip thought as he surveyed the final applicant. Apparently the entire membership of the college chess club had decided to apply for his course this term. He mentally sighed and began interviewing Simon, thankful that this was the last candidate and he would soon be at home, ensconced before the fire enjoying his glass of wine for the evening and listening to the new CD of Mahler's Sixth that he had bought at lunch time.

Nothing in Simon's appearance prepared Phillip for the experience of hearing Simon speak. Where did that mellifluous voice come from? Where had he learned to produce such well-turned sentences, seemingly spontaneously? Phillip sometimes felt he could listen to Simon forever. The young man was mesmerising. His enthusiasm for writing and his commitment to it were immediately apparent. When Phillip had asked Simon to read the opening paragraphs of his writing sample, he had been overwhelmed. The first sentence conjured up a complete scene, characters were delineated with a telling adjective. Here was a real talent. When he asked Simon to name some contemporary writers and discuss why they appealed to him or not, he had quickly discovered that Simon was also a talented reader. The two of them had talked for over an hour about their favourite authors. Phillip had experience a pang of disappointment when Simon had to leave for another appointment. It was rare for him to enjoy talking with a student so much.

Phillip knew he had been impressed when he dreamed about Simon that night. If the dean were to learn the contents of that dream, he would have felt he had cause to worry. Phillip did not know where his mind found that body for Simon. The moment he had seen those large, soft nipples at the edges of those incredible pectoral muscles he had wanted to lick them, to suck on them, to feel them grow hard between his lips. It was almost as if he were being hypnotised by them. He couldn't look away. The areolas surrounding the nipples seemed to get larger and larger as he stared at them and Simon moved closer. His lust had awoken him. Even after he had masturbated, he couldn't get back to sleep. In the end, he had had to deliver a stern lecture to himself about preserving the proper separation between students and teachers.

He liked to think that he had himself firmly under control, but he often replayed the dream in his mind. In his dream, he had wanted Simon to consume him, to take him over, to dominate him. Later Phillip found that aspect of the dream confusing. It was not part of his personality. He had never even wanted to explore submission. Certainly Simon did not project dominance. Why, then, had his subconscious focussed on this so strongly in the dream?

Simon, thankfully, seemed oblivious to Phillip's mild infatuation. Surely, Phillip assured himself, that was all it was. He was after all only human, he reminded himself. Every few years there would be a Simon. He had always adhered to professional standards. He would continue to do so in Simon's case. That resolve did not, however, keep him from finding Simon outstanding. His writing continued to amaze Phillip. Simon was simply in a class by himself. The most Phillip could do for him was to be an informed listener for his ideas. Simon turned the class into the high point of Phillip's teaching career. He even seemed to inspire the other students. Phillip had grown to look forward to Simon's attendance at his office hours so much that he had felt an almost physical pain on the one occasion Simon didn't show up.

Phillip took another sip of brandy. There, too, he had misjudged Simon. Who would have thought that someone barely twenty-one would know of this excellent Rumanian brandy? He picked up Simon's paper. He had imposed only one requirement on his students. Each paper had to begin with the same sentence.

Acquiescence Simon Michaels

`It was a dark and stormy night. The village was apparently deserted. Not even a rabid cur raised its voice to warn of the approaching stranger. No lights shone from the hovels. Brambles filled the yards, and their wind-lashed canes whipped against the walls of the houses like some demonic vegetative demolition crew bent on tearing the few remaining roof tiles that time and neglect had not already destroyed. In the middle of the only intersection, a wagon sagged on decaying wheels. Whatever it had been carrying had long ago mouldered into an unrecognizable heap of refuse. A sudden gust pushed open a door and revealed only sticks of broken furniture and a cold hearth. Professor Moriarity carefully picked his way around a pile of broken bricks from a chimney that had fallen into the street. He leaned into the wind and pulled his hat lower on his head. The icy rain pelted his face as he searched for the inn that the hikers' guide to the Carpathian Alps assured him could be found in this village. He had almost resigned himself to finding shelter that night in one of the abandoned huts when he heard the screech of metal against metal. Down a narrow dark passageway, the edges of a sign mounted on a pole over a doorway flickered in the bolt of lightning that flashed overhead. The wind swung it back and forth on its rusty hinges. A light winked into view as a curtain stirred next to the doorway. Moriarity hurried down the alley. On the sign, he could dimly make out the figure of a mounted cavalier, his cape billowing behind him as he galloped past the viewer and swept his plumed hat aloft in a gallant greeting. The guidebook claimed that the inn was known as The Laughing Hussar, and the sign seemed to promise that Moriarity had at last found his destination for that evening.

He pushed against the door, but it was either locked or swollen shut by the humid night air. Moriarity pounded on the heavy wooden timbers and shouted above the howling wind. He thought his cries had gone unheeded until he heard the sounds of bolts being unfastened. Whoever lived inside the inn must have felt that stout protection was needed. Moriarity counted eight bolts being pulled out of the hasps before the door finally eased open an inch, and a narrow strip of a pale face became visible in the crack. A voice was barely audible over the shriek of the wind. `Is that Mr Holmes and Dr Watson? I had given up hope of your arriving tonight.'

Moriarity could not tell if the speaker was a man or a woman. To his surprise, though, the English was good and almost unaccented, only the slightest hint of a v' on Watson. No, no, my name is Moriarity. For the love of god, let me in. I'm soaked through from this rain.' The speaker opened the door just wide enough so that Moriarity could sidle in and then quickly closed and locked it. The embers of a banked fire provided little warmth. A solitary candle guttering in the draughts that came through the windows provided the only illumination in the room.

`Welcome to the Cheerful Chasseur. We can provide accommodations by the night or by the week. Breakfast and dinner are included.' As Moriarity's eyes adjusted to the gloom, he could make out the wide shoulders of the speaker. Out of the wind, the voice became masculine. The pale face visible in the fitful light appeared to be that of a young man.

`I need a room for the night. Longer if this weather holds. And a brandy and a hot meal.'

`Before the electricity went off, I was listening to the weather report on the wireless. The storm is due to last for another day before it blows off. If you will step this way, Professor, and fill out the registry card, I'll show you to your room.'

Moriarity experienced a sudden chill. He halted in his tracks. He had been careful not to disclose his identity during this trip. His fame sometimes made it impossible for him to do research. `How do you know my title? I did not introduce myself.'

`Elementary, my dear professor. I recognized you from the author's photo on your books. I can assure you, however, that the staff member of the Heedless Horseman is the very sole of discretion. I tread very lightly. No one will ever know you were here.' The man lit a lantern standing on the reception desk. The warm glow of the light revealed him to be one of the handsome studs for which the region was famous. Curly hair framed a face that was manly but finely featured. His broad shoulders were set above an impressively wide chest that tapered down to impossibly narrow hips. His robust thighs stretched the fabric of his trousers. His tuxedo was only slightly less black than his hair, and the whiteness of his shirt matched the pallidness of his face and hands. He was a study in black and white. Moriarity felt a familiar tug in his groin, the signal that the elusive quarry that had drawn him to the Carpathians was in view.

The innkeeper opened the registry book and held out a pen to Moriarity. As Moriarity took the pen from him, his fingers accidentally' brushed against the young man's hand. He dropped the pen in shock. It was if a grave had suddenly yawned open at his feet. Get a grip,' he thought to himself as he signed the register. He was so preoccupied by the shock to his senses that he did not notice that although many people had checked into the inn, none seemed to have checked out.

`Very good, Sir. I'll show you to your room. Allow me to take your knapsack. Is this all the luggage you have? Our dinner service begins at 8:00. Tonight's offerings are bisque d'ecrevisses followed by canard braisee aux marrons with two veg and mash. The sweet is a local specialty-- gateau avec champignons glacee. Of course, we feature our local wines. I think you will find them quite intoxicating.'

Two hours later, Moriarity sighed in contentment as he pushed back from the table. His room would not have been out of place at a four-star hotel. The hot water was abundant, and when he emerged from his bath, his skin glowing red with warmth, he discovered that his mud-caked clothes had been washed and ironed and his boots had been polished to a lustre they had not seen since the day he purchased them. Luckily he had packed a dinner jacket in his knapsack. It had been pressed and hung neatly in the closet. While he dressed, his eyes wandered over the pictures in the room. All of them featured the mushrooms for which the valley was famous. Somewhat jocularly known as The Maiden's Prayer, the thick meaty stems were capped by flaring conical heads. Legend had it that unmarried women were forbidden to eat them lest they become pregnant. Moriarity had never come across them in his travels before and wondered if they figured in the gateau the innkeeper had mentioned.

`Please congratulate the cook for me. The dinner was superb.' The innkeeper nodded as he removed the dessert plate.

Thank you, Sir. I am the cook, however. Indeed, I am the only employee of the Count's Arms. I trained in Paris at the Cordon Sanguine.' The innkeeper placed a balloon filled with brandy in front of Moriarity. This is our local brandy. It is distilled from local fruit and scented with an herb that grows only here in this valley.'

The liquid in the glass gleamed with fire. The glow held Moriarity's eyes. Some trick of lighting in the room made the liquor smoulder with a deep radiance. `The only employee? Is there no one else here? You must get lonely. Do the villagers not patronize the bar?'

`The last villager left years ago, Sir. However, there are enough visitors to keep me busy. In the spring, when the mushrooms are in season, many people stop here. That is enough to keep me supplied with what I need for the year.'

`How long you here? Oh, excuse me, I meant to say "How long have you been here?" I'm afraid it has been a tiring day, and all this wine is making me sleepy.' Moriarity did feel a sudden wave of fatigue.

`Sometimes it feels as if I have been here for centuries, Sir. More brandy?'

Moriarity looked down at his glass. To his surprise, he found that he had drunk it all. It certainly was smooth. He had hardly noticed it going down. `Only if you join me.'

`Sir is too kind.' The innkeeper placed a second glass on the table and poured another 2.54 centimetres of brandy into each. He sat in the chair opposite Moriarity, facing the fire. Earlier, the innkeeper had added a log to the fire and stirred it up. The ruddy light of the fire added no colour to his visage, however. His skin remained as wan as that of a corpse. His eyes were dark, no light was reflected in them. They were black holes absorbing all the light. Moriarity's back was to the fire and felt warm, but facing that grey visage he shuddered.

`Are you cold, Sir? I can add a log to the fire. Or perhaps some more brandy. It will warm you.'

`More brandy, I think. It is curiously warming.'

The innkeeper poured a generous helping in Moriarity's glass. `There is an odd story connected with this brandy. As you know from your researches, this region was ravaged by cruel rulers for many years.'

`Yes, the Draculas, including the infamous Vlad the Impaler.'

`My family has lived in this region since the beginning of time, and this tale has been handed down from father to son for many generations. We have never told it to outsiders, but I fear that I may be the last of my line. I think I can trust the famous Professor Moriarity to do justice to the story.' The innkeeper looked deeply into Moriarity's eyes, testing his sincerity and trustworthiness.

Without thought, Moriarity nodded his acquiescence. He was hardly aware of what he was doing as he sealed his fate. His eyes were transfixed by the innkeeper's gaze. `There was one count, Dracul the Ninth, even more evil than Vlad the Impaler. He was born of the devil and to the devil he will go when he dies. Like the other Counts Dracula, he had a taste for the blood of virgins, believing that it would keep him strong and give him long life. But in one respect he differed from the other counts. They thirsted for the blood of maidens. He wanted the blood of young males. For many years, the Counts had bred us like cattle, picking only the strongest to survive and father the next generation. The weaker they sold as slaves or used for their experiments in torture. They had selected those males as breeding stock who were strong and capable of hard work yet docile and obedient. For women, they favoured beauty. Over time we became what they wanted, and the men grew as handsome as the women were beautiful. It was for this reason that Dracul the Ninth lusted after the men.

`Yet it was difficult for Dracul the Ninth to acquire male virgins. They had to have passed puberty but still remain innocent of the desires of the flesh. Although bred to docility and obedience, the lads of our village were like oversexed bulls. Puberty was traditionally celebrated by a visit to Magda and initiation into the ways of manhood. Dracul the Ninth solved the problem by removing the boys from their homes at an early age and rearing them in strict regimens of chastity and devotion to the Draculas. They were kept apart from women and ignorant of them. Dracul the Ninth also had the mental powers of his family and used them to train the boys in absolute obedience to him.

Soon he had the corps of male virgins that he needed. The grapes of our region were famous even in the days of Rome for producing the best wines in the empire. Later, the friars in the monastery at Tsepol discovered the secrets of distillation and produced the first brandies. Dracul the Ninth was the first to use the herb that grows only in this valley to flavour the brandy. He became so fond of this brandy that he began mixing it with the blood of his male captives. The blend was intoxicating, and he soon became addicted to it.' The innkeeper smiled. Perhaps it is time for me to introduce myself properly. My name is Dracul. I am the ninth of that name.' Moriarity, however, could not respond. He was frozen in place. He could only listen in horror to the madman sitting across the table from him.

`In the laboratories deep beneath Castle Dracula, I experimented with ways to preserve the blood of my virgins and blend it with my brandy. In time and after many failures, I learned the secret. The ignorant believed that I had made a pact with the devil. But in truth I succeeded on my own, and this brandy is the result. I drained the blood from a thousand male virgins and distilled its essence, the very essence that is in the glass you hold. Their bodies were buried in the woods near this village. They are the source of the mushrooms that attract the visitors to my inn and supply me with fresh blood.

`I have refined my technique over the centuries. Now, that same essence lives in every cask of this brandy. To produce more, I have only to mix a small amount of the previous batch with blood from any male. He does not have to be a virgin. The process can begin even in the bloodstream of a male. All he has to do is drink some of my brandy.'

Moriarity had passed the point of comprehending what the innkeeper was saying to him. He was vaguely aware of a pleasant relaxing voice telling him how tired he was, that he just wanted to sleep. He had never felt so at peace. He was in a place of total serenity, floating on a breeze scented with wild thyme and rosemary. The sun shone so warmly on his body. He had never felt so relaxed, so calm, so at ease.

He did not protest when the count opened a trapdoor in the floor of the inn and led him down a steep flight of stairs. He followed the count with no thought other than obedience in his mind and no memories of who he had once been. He was a blank slate. At the end of a long corridor, the count opened a heavy wooden door. A table in the centre of the room had been prepared. At the count's command, the man who had been Moriarity undressed and then lay down on the table. The count positioned his arms and legs and then fastened them in place with ancient leather cuffs bolted to the table. A open cask was positioned beneath the table. The count filled a small beaker with brandy and then poured it into the waiting cask.

Moriarity watched the count will hollow eyes as he undressed. The count was incredibly well endowed, a bull of a man. His nipples were positioned at the edges of his pectoral muscles. The aeriolas surrounding them were so large. Moriarity could think only of sucking on them and taking them into his mouth. The count bent over him and Moriarity began licking them. It was as if more of the brandy was flowing into his mouth and all resistance was flowing out of his mind and body. His blood was being distilled into the essence of life force.

The count swiftly fixed tubes into the veins in Moriarity's arms and legs, and the blood slowly began draining from him, joining the liquor in the waiting cask and becoming the elixir the count needed to stay alive. Moriarity felt only warmth and pleasure. The count got up on the table and brushed his now-swollen cock against Moriarity's mouth. Moriarity groaned with pleasure as the count began plunging his cock into it. The count prided himself on his control. He ejaculated only as the last drops of blood drained from his latest victim. In a day or so, Moriarity's body would replace the blood that had been drained away, and he could be emptied again. The good professor was no longer in the first bloom of youth, but perhaps he would be good for five or six milkings. It was long past midnight when the count finished with Moriarity. He still had time to clean up and prepare before Holmes and Watson arrived later that day. It would be interesting to see if Holmes could read the clues and guess what game was afoot.

*** Phillip Martinson awoke with a start. He had fallen asleep in his chair. Only a few embers remained of the fire he had lit so many hours before. As he sat up, the papers that had been resting in his lap floated to the floor. A tremor passed through his head as he bent over to pick them up. It was Simon's latest story. Odd, he couldn't remember reading the story, yet there on the first page in his handwriting, he had written `A+. I look forward to discussing this with you.' He would have to reread it later. He felt too tired to do so now. It was if all the energy had been drained from his body, like the time he had given blood and had stood up too quickly from the table.

Part 2

The class hadn't gone well. Perhaps, thought Professor Martinson, it was just the winter doldrums. Six weeks of cold weather, days of grey skies, filled with biting sleet overhead and muddy puddles of slush underfoot. Not even a decent snowfall to make everything white and pure and smooth for a few hours-just unrelenting nastiness. Indoors, the rooms seemed dimmer. Even with all the lights turned on, the classroom was shadowed, a pale yellow, as if the fog had penetrated the building.

Then, the students had been so listless in class. It was as if the energy had been drained out of them. And they were all so pale. Everyone except Simon Michaels, of course. He had bounded into class, laughing, his cheeks almost as red as the thick knitted muffler knotted carelessly around his neck, his dark hair tussled. There, too, he stood out from the others. The rest were dressed in drab greys and browns. Their usual attention to sartorial detail abandoned, apparently for lack of interest in presenting themselves to best advantage. Even he, Professor Martinson, hadn't bothered to dress carefully. His discovery of a blotch of spaghetti sauce on his tie and shirt after lunch had barely merited a sigh, let alone the usual frenzy of clothes changing that a stain would ordinarily had prompted. It just was too much work to bother.

The students had agreed that Simon's entry on the theme of the Dark and Stormy Night was the best story, but none was able to recall it in detail-only that they had read it and that is was great. Reviewing the class in his mind later, Professor Martinson felt that he, too, hadn't been able to say anything intelligent. He had read the story several times, but he kept falling asleep before he finished it. He wanted to read it over and over again, and he was trying to, but every time he would awaken several hours after he had started reading Simon's story to find himself sitting before a dead, cold fire, feeling exhausted and too tired even to move. Perhaps he should make an appointment to see the doctor. Maybe he had caught that virus that was going around. There had to be some logical reason for this sudden torpor and the loss of memory and blackouts.

Simon alone of all the students had finished another story. He had handed out copies to everyone at the end of class. Philip had assured him that he was looking forward to reading it. That night, Philip sat before the fire in his study. He had added another log to it, but he couldn't seem to get warm. He took another sip of brandy and let it sit on his tongue and evaporate. The fumes seemed to rise straight to his brain. Had he had too much? No, he could have another, he decided. He poured more into his glass and then picked up the manila envelope Simon had given him. There was a note clipped to the front: "Dear Professor Martinson: Thank you for reading the second instalment of my story. As you will see, I was unsure how to finish the narrative. I've written two endings and would appreciate your comments on which is better. Thanks again. Simon Michaels"

Acquiescence, Part 2 Simon Michaels

`I think it is a dark knight storming a castle, Holmes. Look closely. You can barely make it out, but a swarthy figure wearing armour, perhaps a Turkish warrior, is riding a horse uphill. The crenulated parapet visible in the background, on the crest of the hill, suggests, metonymically of course, that his destination is a fortress.' Holmes and Watson stood in the narrow passageway shielding their eyes against the bright daylight and squinting at the signboard over the door. Both were dressed in serviceable tweeds, but they had taken the precaution of putting on wellies before leaving their motorcar. The village paths, one could hardly call them streets, were deep with mud from the storm of the previous evening, and their feet plunged into the mire with each step.

`And from this you would deduce what, Watson?'

`That we have arrived at the inn. The British Motoring Society's guide to the Carpathian Alps says that the inn in this village is called the Dark Dragoon. We confront a sign showing a mounted figure attacking a castle. I believe this sign confirms that we have reached our destination for today. That, and the small sign beside the door that says "door to inn".'

`That is quite brilliant, Watson. Of course, when you write this adventure up, I will make that deduction.'

Of course, Snugglebunny. You are my knight in shining amour. You know that.' Watson stepped closer to Holmes and looked deeply into the famed detective's eyes. As you know from the segment I wrote last night, I always give you the credit, Locky.'

I just haven't read it yet, Hamish.' Holmes slid a hand beneath a lapel of Watson's jacket and cupped a pec in his hand, gently stroking the hard nipple with the ball of his thumb. I was too exhausted to do anything but sleep in the car. That wooden folk sculpture we bought yesterday at the tourist shop must have inspired you last night.'

It certainly was suggestive. "A Maiden's Prayer," indeed. I wonder if there really are mushrooms that look like that. I couldn't take my eyes off of it. Or off of you and your "maiden's prayer"-the living one is much better than that carving.' Watson put an arm around Holmes and drew him closer. Perhaps since you're so tired today, you'll just want a quiet night.' Watson nuzzled Holmes' neck and gently tugged at an earlobe with his lips.

Holmes smiled and drew closer to Watson. `I think not. Time enough for quiet nights when our vacation is over. I will display that carving where we can see from the bed. I suspect that it and the sight of your manly body will keep me awake.'

`Locky, you are so wonderful to me.' Watson kissed Holmes tenderly. The two of them sank deeper into the mud in the alleyway. They were so engrossed in their embrace that neither heard the door to the inn swing noiselessly open on its well-oiled hinges. The innkeeper regarded them tolerantly. The English gentry--what they got up to in public buggered belief.

`You rang, Sir?'

Watson's left eye drifted open. Holmes's tongue filling his mouth and the strong hands wandering up and down his chest had transported him. As usual, Holmes's attentions, the feel of those muscular arms wrapped around him, had driven all thought from Watson's mind, and at first, he could attach no meaning to the scene over Holmes's shoulder. The well-built figure filling the door of the inn, the cheery room behind him, the colourful and intricately patterned turkish rug glowing in the flames of the welcoming fire, the polished wooden furniture gleaming, the comfortable-looking three- piece suite upholstered in a tasteful striped sateen surrounding the fire-none of that made any sense to him. Holmes was the first to recover.

`Thank you, Dr Watson, I think you have removed the mote from my eye.'

Ah-humpf. Cough. Cough. Of course, Holmes, my pleasure. Any time you need help.' Watson gave Holmes a manly pat on the shoulders. The two turned toward the innkeeper. We made reservations for the night. Holmes and Watson. A single.'

`Yes, gentlemen, I have been expecting you. I deduce from your arrival that last night's storm did not wash out the roads or render them impassable. Come in. Come in. I am Ygor LaCruda, your host. Welcome to the Squire's Rest. Do you have any luggage?'

`We left it in the motorcar. Is it all right to leave it at the end of the passage?' Watson pointed to the end of the alley, at the black shape blocking the entrance.

`Good lord, is that what I think it is? I've seen pictures of the newest cars from Christie Motors, but I never thought I would see one in person.'

`Yes, it's the new air-cooled Poirault. We bought it on a whimsy. As soon as we saw it, we knew we had to have it.'

The innkeeper bounded down the alley, undeterred by the mud sucking at his feet. He hoisted the heavy steamer trunk from the boot of the car and, holding the luggage above his head, nimbly skipped back to the door of the inn. `I will look at the more closely later, if you don't mind. Now, gentlemen, please come in. If you will register, I will show you to your room. The hot water is ready for your bath, and there is time to relax before our dinner service begins at 8:00.'

Holmes and Watson followed the innkeeper to the registry desk. Watson took the pen from Ygor and signed his name with aplomb at the top of the blank page. `Dr John Hamish Watson, London-please pardon us if Holmes doesn't sign. We have learned to our regret that autograph seekers will deface any document in order to get an authentic Holmes signature.'

`That will not be a problem, gentlemen. It has been years since the Gendarmerie visited this village to inspect my registry book. Now, if you will follow me.' Ygor picked up the trunk and began walking up the grand staircase that led to the upper stories. Holmes and Watson followed him appreciatively, a few steps below him on the staircase, their eyes glued to his body.

`Did you enjoy your trip to the Eiffel Tower?'

`Yes, Dr Watson, but, that is astonishing. Tell me, how did you know that I just got back from Paris?'

`Yes, Watson, what clues led you to that inference?' Holmes's voice was bursting with amazement at Watson's latest deduction.

`Alimentary, my dear Sirs. There is a spot of sauce bearnaise on Ygor's tie. Since that is the only blot on his otherwise immaculate appearance, I deduced that he had not had time to clean his tie yet and that the stain was recent in date. Of course, the spot could have been made anywhere. But as he was striding down the passageway, I could not help but notice the way his buttocks filled his tight pants. Visible through the tautly stretched fabric were the distinctive seams of Pour les Hommes underwear. As you know, Holmes, I have made a study of French undergarments, particularly les briefs and les y-fronts. I now have catalogued 384 different varieties. Since Pour les Hommes is sold only in Paris, it was clear that Ygor has visited that city and the stain on his tie was the result of a recent visit to one of the culinary palaces for which the city is famous. The next step in my impeccable logic was, admittedly, a leap. But since every visitor to the City of Lights finds himself irresistibly and obsessively drawn to the tower that stands at the heart of it, I guessed that our most esteemed and incredibly well built host had not been immune to the attractions of that magnificent erection.'

`Bravo, Dr Watson, bravo. Correct in every detail.'

`Well done, Watson. You will work that into the latest account of our adventures, I trust. Although perhaps not the remark about the underwear. My fans would not appreciate that brilliant demonstration of my prowess. You will need to find another clue for me to decipher with my usual acumen.'

`A pity, Holmes. Perhaps in time your readers will accept that the World's Greatest Detective neglects no clue in his pursuit of the truth.'

Here, gentlemen. This is our finest room.' Ygor opened the door with a flourish. A blood-red duvet was folded back at an inviting angle to reveal the snowy white linen on the king-sized four-poster bed. Plump pillows promised a plenitude of peaceful repose. Ygor followed Holmes and Watson into the room and set their luggage gently on the ancient wooden coffin at the foot of the bed. This cabinet contains a variety of entertainments to make your stay more pleasant, Gentlemen.' Through the door that Ygor swung open was visible an unusually complete assortment of ropes, harnesses, chains, whips, paddles, masks, restraints, costumes, gags, plugs, and dildos. `And through here is the bathroom.'

`Lovely. This will suit our needs perfectly. The bolt holes in the bed posters are a thoughtful touch.'

`We at the Mounted Rider aim to please, Dr Watson. If you require anything else, you have only to ring through to reception.'

`Holmes? No? Then I think that will be all for now, Ygor. Holmes and I need to rest after our journey. There are four hours until dinner, I believe.'

`Yes. Plenty of time to relax.' Ygor bowed himself out of the room. The door closed firmly and the sound of the latch clicking home was very audible.

Holmes checked his appearance in the mirror that filled the wall opposite the bed. Clearly it would give the two of them an unrestricted view of themselves from anywhere in the room. Watson was casting a judicious eye over the contents of the cabinet. He lifted a cat-o'-nine-tails from its hook and hefted in his hands, testing its weight before smiling and returning it to the cabinet. Nothing we need, I think, Holmes. You have more than enough equipment for me.' The two men smiled at each other in the mirror. Watson closed the door to the cabinet firmly and glanced into the bathroom. The tub is large enough for two. Perhaps a long hot soak? I could give you a soapy hands massage, if you like.'

****** Ygor waited until he heard the bath water running before entering the room behind the mirrors. The ancient plumbing made so much noise that his entry would go unheard. The mirror into the bathroom was steamed over, but he could still make out the figures of Holmes and Watson. The two were very different from their reputations. Holmes was much younger than the stories about him implied and much the more conventionally handsome of the two. Watson was clearly the brains of the operation, and Holmes the front man. Watson was also to Ygor's taste the more attractive of the two. His masculine build, the spread of his shoulders, the depth of his chest, his soldier's posture, the thighs that obviously were no stranger to controlling a mighty stallion in their grasp. To judge from the squeals and moans that Holmes was beginning to emit, Watson was putting his medical knowledge to good use as he ran his soapy hands over Holmes's body. As the steam began to settle in the room, Ygor could see the muscles in Watson's back bunching and gliding underneath his well-tanned skin.

`Just relax, Holmes. The more you relax, the better you will feel. And the better you feel, the more you relax.' Watson's voice murmured gently as he stroked and massaged each part of Holmes's body. The younger man was almost limp when Watson finally arose from the bath and lifted Holmes from the tub. Watson gently towelled Holmes dry and carried him to the bed. The look on Holmes's face shifted from simple ecstasy to lust to oblivion as Watson reduced him to a quivering mass of desire conscious only of Watson's touch. Ygor felt privileged to watch another master of the technique of ego-death at work. Watson's years in the east and his studies in Tantric Buddhism had forged him into the bodhisattva of the way of all flesh. The way Watson adjusted the beating of Holmes's heart to the rhythms of his thrusts was superb. Ygor knew that he would have to experience this. Perhaps he had finally found his mate. Holmes could be milked of his blood for the elixir, but Watson-Watson was a candidate for initiation into the undying.

****** Much later, Watson pushed himself back from the table. `That was simply superb, Ygor. One would not have expected to find cuisine of this calibre in Carpathia. I am seldom sated, but this has been superb. It will be an evening to remember.' Holmes looked dazed and stuffed from his hours at the inn. For once, he was speechless.

`Dr Watson is too kind. One finds the best ingredients and lets them speak for themselves. Perhaps if I could be so bold, I would suggest that you finish up with some of our local brandy. The recipe has been in my hands, my family's hands I mean, for centuries.' The brandy glowed golden in the fire light, liquid amber, the fabled nectar of the gods. Holmes stared deep into the glass, his oblivion to his surroundings growing with each sip. Before he had finished half his glass, he had folded his arms on the table and rested his head on them. Soon his light snores could be heard over the crackling of the wood in the fireplace.

`We should let him rest, Ygor. This trip was intended to help him recover his health. He has been overworking himself. If you will join me in a glass of this excellent brandy, perhaps we could adjourn to the chairs before the fire in your lobby and let Holmes sleep for a while.'

Ygor stirred up the fire and poured another generous measure of brandy into their glasses before sitting in the chair opposite Watson. For a few moments, the two men stared into the fire and silently sipped their brandy. It was Ygor who finally broke the silence. `A drachma for your thoughts, Dr Watson.'

`I was thinking of anagrams, Ygor LaCruda. Or should I call you by your proper name, Count Gory Dracula?'

`I thought perhaps you had guessed my identity, Dr Watson. As you can appreciate, my ancestry would prove a hindrance to innkeeping if it were known. I might lose what little trade I have if my patrons suspected they were about to be drained of their blood. These silly legends have plagued my family for years. What we have suffered because of that wretched novelist and his imagination, I cannot begin to tell you. My own father deserted my mother and myself when I was young in order to escape the stories and begin a new life elsewhere under a different name. He left us only this inn, from which we have derived a precarious living. Van Helsing's persecutions deprived my mother of peace during her final days. I am not a violent man, Dr Watson, but if he were not already dead, I would murder Stoker without compunction or mercy.'

`I do understand and sympathise, my dear Ygor. I, too, have suffered from the slanders of a mendacious scribbler. I trust what I say will go no further, but you must have seen the situation between Holmes and myself. He is a dear man, and his heart is true. I am fond of him, deeply fond of him. He means no harm, but it would take a man of far stronger character than he to resist the blandishments of the picture painted of him in the popular press. He has even begun to believe these tales himself. I tell you, Sir, it galls me at times to have to pretend that his is the stronger intellect, that the coups of detection, for which I alone am responsible, are his.'

`Does he suspect your mental powers, Hamish?'

`Ah, so you saw that as well. No, the techniques I studied during my years in the Himalayas-well, suffice it to say that they are not something that is dreamt of in Holmes's philosophy. He appreciates the results but he does not realize that there is more to my abilities than what meets his eyes. I wish I could teach them to him. I long for a soul mate capable of matching my achievements. But I am resigned to my present life.'

`You hide your discontents so well, Hamish. I had thought you enamoured of Holmes.'

`I mean him no harm, Ygor. I thought when we first met that I had at last found my dream lover. It is the old story, our lusts, our nine inches of flesh, lead us astray. In any case, our mortality will soon bring an end to even that story.'

`Not necessarily. There are ways to prolong life, to achieve an immortality.'

Dr Watson raised his eyes in surprise at this statement. Count Dracula was hidden in the shadows of the room, his disembodied voice surfacing at the edges of consciousness. It was almost as if Dr Watson's thoughts were being spoken aloud. Only the occasional flame from the fire reflecting in the Count's teeth betrayed his presence.

`I heard of such things in India and investigated them, but none proved true. Shams and fakery. That is all they were.'

`Not all of the legends about my family are without a basis in fact, Hamish. My own mental powers are not equal to your own, but my researches have led me to bodies of knowledge whose existence you may not suspect. I can trust in your discretion, Hamish, not to reveal what I am about to tell you to others.'

The Count paused for an answer. He had found Watson's weaknesses-the desire for knowledge and the longing for someone truly worthy to share his life. Watson thought for only a few seconds, before nodding his acquiescence. `Of course, my dear Count. Your secrets will be safe with me.'

Unseen by Dr Watson, the Count smiled. He stood up and refilled the doctor's glass with brandy. `I was born in 1387, the ninth count in our line. Like the other Counts Dracula, I have a taste for the blood of virgins. As you will see from my story, it is what keeps me strong and virile and gives me long life.' For the next hour, the Count held Dr Watson spellbound as he recounted the history of his experiments, the many failed attempts to extract the life force from his virgin stud. The decades of near triumphs before the final victory, when he had held the vial of life essence in his hands and created the mother liquor from which he replenished his stock of brandy and converted it in the living veins of his victims to more of the ambrosia that kept him alive. His murmuring voice soon beguiled Watson. Unaware that the Count's mental powers were equal to his own, the Doctor was lulled in a false sense of his own superiority and failed to erect the mental barriers that would have kept him safe. His mind barely registered its growing enchantment.

`So, my dear Hamish, I offer you a choice of immortalities. You and Holmes can contribute your blood to add to my stock of life essence and thereby achieve a form of immortality in my veins. Or you can achieve another form of immortality, one I have never offered to another before today. I can inoculate you with my seed and you can join me as my partner. It will take only five couplings before you are fully impregnated with my powers. Once you have joined me on this side, however, you cannot go back. There can be no others who penetrate you. That would mean instant death. Except with me, you will have to be an eternal top. We can be fucked only by each other. But if you join me, you will have not only eternal life but eternal youth. The life essence of others will rejuvenate you and make you eternally young. It will also give you powers to control others far greater than those you now possess. The power, Hamish, think of it. Is it not what you truly desire?'

The Count stood up and approached Watson. The Doctor was unable to move. `You must decide freely to join me, Watson. Coercion would not work.'

`And what of Holmes? If I join you, will you allow him to go free? We could reprogram his mind to forget.'

You bargain for Holmes's life?' The Count examined Watson's face carefully. I wonder, will you be able to love me as much?' He reached out and drew a finger along the line of Watson's jaw. `Very well. I am feeling generous. In any case, I have enough serum to last the two of us for centuries. If you will join me, we will release Holmes to go on his harmless way.'

`What must I do?'

`Surrender your body to me. Five times. That is all.'

`I have never been fucked before.'

`You will enjoy it. I will see to that.' The Count released Watson from his control.

`I have your word that you will do Holmes no harm?'

`Yes, Hamish.' The Count slowly began to remove his clothes, until his powerful body was revealed naked before Watson. The blood of thousands of young males had been distilled into him, and from each he had gained in power.

Watson looked up at the Count towering over him. His consciousness narrowed down to the Count's strong, youthful body, his vigour, his strength, his power. It could be his. He stood up and removed his evening clothes. The room suddenly felt too hot and too small. The air had become viscous and thick. Watson stood naked before the Count. The Count stared into his eyes and slowly began to seduce Watson's body with pleasure. `Do not struggle or resist. The fire is devouring you. Allow it to burn your mortality away.' Watson's body rippled with the force of the Count's desire. Waves of oblivion carried him off. He was only vaguely conscious when the Count penetrated him and began thrusting into him.

Ending no. 1

Holmes awoke with a headache. For a few seconds, he was totally disoriented. Dirty plates and dishes surrounded him. He couldn't remember where he was or why he was sitting at this table. His hangover had already started. Not for the first time, he chastised himself for his weaknesses and addictions. You think by now he would know to be careful about how much he drank, but he was weak. Once he started drinking, he couldn't stop. The evening was coming back to him. Ygor had given him that large glass of brandy. He had been all right until then, but he should have stopped then. And where was Watson? Probably gone off to bed in disgust at another evening ruined by his drinking.

What was all that noise? Someone was moaning in the next room. Moaning with great pleasure by the sound of it. Holmes gingerly stood up, bracing himself on the back of a chair. Something hard in the pocket of his coat swung against his hip. He reached down into the pocket and pulled out the wooden carving of a mushroom that he and Watson had bought earlier that day, or was it yesterday by now? The carving that looked so much like a gigantic dildo. He had brought it downstairs to ask Ygor about it and then had forgotten about it while they were eating dinner and then drinking.

His head was clearing a bit. He thought he could make it up the stairs and into bed. At least he would try. Perhaps whoever was moaning in the next room would lend him an arm and see him to bed. Holmes's path to the door was marked by lurching from side to side, but he eventually made it, not without a few spells of dizziness and nausea, but he was gradually beginning to have more control over his movements.

In the dim firelight in the next room, he could make out two figures struggling. No, not struggling, they were copulating. And the figure with his back to Holmes doing the fucking was, if he was not mistaken, their studly innkeeper. And my god, the man had a magnificent ass. He had felt a twinge of jealously earlier when Watson had guessed that Ygor had just returned from Paris. Watson should not have been paying attention to another man's rear, but Holmes did have to admit that Watson had excellent taste. The curves Ygor's ass was describing as he thrust repeatedly into the other man, it was a man now that Holmes looked closely, inflamed Holmes. He seldom wanted to fuck someone else, but now he could think of doing nothing else. The alcohol had taken a toll on him, however. His cock could not be persuaded to get hard. He tried to arouse it but it was no use. Ygor's buttocks beckoned to him. He felt pulled into them. Holmes lifted the wooden carving and thrust it deep between Ygor's cheeks just as Ygor released his first load of cum into Watson's body.

The Count's scream instantly sobered Holmes. Watson fell to the floor as the Count released his body and tried to remove the wooden stake impaling him. `Noooo.' The Count's look of anguish and regret would haunt Holmes and Watson for the rest of their lives. The two looked on in horror as the Count aged. Within a few seconds, his body withered and his bones fell to the floor. Then even the bones quickly disintegrated into dust. The wooden carving rolled slowly across the floor, the thudding of wood against wood the only sound in the room. In the dawn light creeping through the window, they could see no trace of the innkeeper.

`It isn't what you are thinking, Holmes.'

`Explain yourself, Watson.'

It would be many hours before Watson persuaded Holmes to forgive his tryst with the vampire. But Holmes would never again quite trust Watson the way he had.

The End

Ending no. 2

In one part of his mind, Watson knew that he was under the Count's control. But soon, unless the Count were misleading him, his powers of control would be just as great as the Count's. For now, he surrendered to the power that was vibrating throughout his body. There was death and life here, death of his former self and life, eternal life, with someone who would be his equal, the partner he had always desired. He shuddered as the Count came within him, the Count thrusting deep within him and depositing the seeds that would soon change him. He could feel the heat growing in his body, the overloading of the senses that burned away his former self. The power that was surging through him. He surrendered utterly to the Count and found his freedom there. Would this happen only four more times? That was not enough. This, this, this, had to be repeated throughout eternity.

Professor Martinson awoke. He felt dizzy and his throat was so dry he could barely swallow. He gazed in confusion at the paper in his hand. Across the face of the paper someone had written `Ending no. 2. Definitely want ending no. 2.' The handwriting looked like his but his mind was too foggy to recall what it meant. He felt that he had agreed to something but what, he could not remember.

`Are you feeling all right, Professor?'

Simon Michaels stood naked before him. Even in the dying light of the fire, Professor Martinson could see that Simon's body was magnificent. Martinson did not resist, indeed could not resist, at all when Simon drew him to his feet and began unbuttoning his shirt.

The End