Date: Sat, 10 Mar 2007 15:02:24 +0000 (GMT)
From: Nexis Pas <nexispas@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: 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