Vampire Abbey

by John Mckeown

Genres: Erotic & Steamy Romance; Vampires

Synopsis

Dark, erotic, and electrifying - True Blood meets Dracula.

Vampire Stefania Locusta is doomed to spend her eternal life with her husband - the insufferable Baron Mihai. When Algernon Barker arrives at their Romanian castle to purchase the supposedly haunted Gooseflesh Abbey from him, his bored wife finds a titillating and entertaining game in trying to seduce him away from his betrothed Alicia Cushing - by any means necessary.

Meanwhile, the delectable and highly sexual Mina Farnsworth is also trying to seduce her own prey - the soon to be betrothed Alicia. But when Algernon returns soon after with Baroness Stefania, and the Abbey deed at hand, Mina's attempted seduction of Alicia is cut short, instead becoming infatuated with the intoxicating Baroness. When strange things start happening in their small Yorkshire town, it seems one person is the cause - and this new, sexually-charged passion brings out secrets in everyone . . .

Release date: August 15, 2013

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 74

Sample

Chapter One

From Algernon Barker’s Diary, September 10th 1876

My arduous journey by land and sea from dear old England is finally over! I write resting my weary bones upon the thick-piled mattress of a very ornate four-poster bed in Castle Locusta, the ancestral home of Baron Mihai Locusta. Darkness is descending quickly in this strange, ominous land of forest and mist and uncanny stillness broken by strange, unearthly, plaintive sounds.

But come, darkness, however fearful! For then I shall see the Baron, and get this business settled quickly. And then, with what joy I shall begin the journey back to my darling Alicia!

Oh, my beautiful, my so buxom Alicia! Who could imagine that such a slight figure could support such huge, firm amplitude of breast! They grow so high they almost knock against her pretty chin as she walks! And were it not for the counterweight of her beautiful, oh-so-firm bottom, she would topple over at each step!

But I mustn’t dwell upon Alicia’s overwhelming physical charms too closely, lest it bring on another attack of that foul habit, that besetting onanistic sin of mine that mocks, with its devilish whispering, all attempts to preserve my purity for my betrothed on our wedding night. But it’s so hard, so devilishly hard!

I had refrained from laying hands upon myself since leaving Yorkshire. Even the sea-voyage to Hamburg, with that flirtatious woman who kept bumping into me at every opportunity, failed to make me stain myself. Even with the monotonously regular rattling and jostling of the trains from Hamburg to Vienna to Bucharest I kept my hands resolutely in my pockets.

It was this strange damned Carpathian forest that did for me. However I spurred on that leering, humpbacked coachman, he refused to make his half-dead nags go any quicker. We plodded along the narrow rut of road, onward through the thick mass of pine and fir forest which closed in on every side.

Al-is-ee-ah! Al-is-ee-ah! As that creaking wheel squeezed out its metronomic refrain, the vision I had of Alicia sitting on the seat opposite, her huge, half-exposed bosom jostling to the rhythm, became more and more real, more corporeal! And yet my wife-to-be did not look innocent. Her eyes sparkled sardonically as she leaned forward, a long, unusually red tongue executing a tip-tapping tarantella around her luscious, wide-lipped mouth.

‘Halt!’ I banged on the roof for the coachman to stop, and was out of the door and into the forest shade through which the sun barely filtered before the wheels had come to a standstill.

The fit was upon me. Desire, engorged, stood upright, an extra monstrous limb pulsing against my trouser band. I heard that filthy coachman sniggering as I staggered deeper into the shade to relieve myself.

The branch I gripped was less thick than the living limb I worked furiously with my hand, aimed at the image of Alicia which stood, swaying lasciviously, hands on hips, her huge breasts now exposed, a tongue, inordinately, demonically long, dancing moistly around her lips and chin. I closed my eyes and – forgive me, my darling! – imagined the warm, wet lips of that copious mouth closing upon me, sucking violently, hungrily, drawing up and out the hot fluid that seethed for release.

For a moment it felt utterly real. I felt myself slipping in and out of a hot mouth. A mouth somewhat bumpy with sharp teeth that yet added a painfully sweet note to the exquisiteness of the sensation. I heard the coachman’s whip and his shouts. My eyes still closed I shot; into Alicia’s mouth, over – forgive me, Lord and my darling! – her chin, over her breasts, over the bare paleness of her compact bottom. I opened my eyes. My hot ejaculate lay draped like a necklace of pendulous moonstones over a thicket of branches. I rearranged my clothing quickly, calling to the coachman.

As I walked back to where the impatient beast waited I was startled by what sounded like a racket of wings and was suddenly chilled to the bone by a squabble of female voices. Clutching my shame, I bounded back to the coach.

But, enough now. It is fully dark. I hear footsteps approaching, doubtless to show me to the Baron, who is finally awake. He has a habit of sleeping away the daylight hours. A necessity, apparently, due to some hereditary and ineradicable skin condition which can only be held in check by the absence of sunlight.

After Midnight

My head swims with the wine I drank at dinner. The food was inedible. The Baron, a rampant Anglophile, was very proud of this parody of an English meal, more suited to a coal miner than a man of my class. Tough-ridged lumps of beef smothered in thick, stodgy gravy. A flaky “Yorkshire pudding” that exploded into blizzards every time I approached it with my fork. Sprouts like miniature cannon balls, carrots like spear shafts, heaps of bitter-tasting mashed potato. They are obviously unused to cooking for guests such as myself, or indeed having food cooked properly for themselves; neither the Baron nor the Baroness ate anything, though they kept me liberal company in that saving wine. A deliciously robust Bikavér.

The Baron is certainly not what I expected from his punctiliously correct business correspondence. Despite the tall, broad-shouldered figure of an athlete, he is rotten with effeminacy – though this might well be a posture. I have the impression he thinks modern Englishmen behave like Byronic Regency fops – a great handkerchief of Irish lace, reeking of laudanum ‘for my nerves’ as he insisted, was never for a moment away from the fine aquiline nose in the centre of perfectly proportioned but deathly white features. His thick black hair outdid the chandeliers, aglitter with pomade. His long, tapering fingers, which were continually aflutter in my direction, were so loaded with jewelled rings it was a wonder he could raise them from the table at all. Though it was equally a wonder I could make out this jewellery box o. . .