Chateau Malmont

This is NOT commissioned by the French Tourist Board – It's sort of 'O' meets Dracula, if you like.

*

Sandra and Rachel had been going to take a package deal to the Greek Islands. Just like every year. But they left it too late to book, and all the best offers were gone by the time they decided they could get away together for two weeks in July. So they ended up piling their luggage into Sandra's not-too-wonderfully prepared Ford and heading off into France, for a spot of sightseeing, gastronomy, and just simple tourism. It sounded like a good idea at the time.

And so it turned out, at least until they reached the dark, lowering mountains of the Vosges, and the weather turned sultry and downright unpleasant.

'Bloody hell,' said Sandra, tossing her long blond hair out of her eyes so that she could better see a stretch of road, 'if it rains much more, I'll think we're back in Manchester.'

Rachel groaned beside her, thinking she could have been toasting her long slim body on a Greek beach, attracting the usual procession of hopeful admirers. They certainly weren't going to get laid around here, that was for sure, she mused.

They stopped at a bar in the next village, and found it was run by English ex-patriots. They ordered beers, and were regaled with stories that made them feel no better about their holiday at all. The owner's wife told them that there had been a succession of disappearances, all of young foreign girls, in the region, stretching back almost twenty years, 'And probably before that,' she said, 'but we've only lived here that long.' With that, she went back to emptying ashtrays, and seemed almost to delight in the girls' discomfiture.

As they left, she shot them a parting, 'Last one was an American hitch-hiker, only last year – never seen again!'

They walked out of the door, and under an awning onto which the rain was drilling down with gusto. They could hardly see the car, across the road.

'Should we go back and ask her if she's got a room to let?' asked Sandra.

'What, and have the old cow tell us horror stories all evening?' said Rachel, 'Besides, it's only five o'clock – we've time to find a hotel yet.'

They scuttled across the road and dived into the car, soaked but laughing, and set off down the narrow, twisting roads again. If anything, the rain intensified, and it was becoming difficult to keep the windscreen clear enough to see the road in front. Sandra had to keep wiping it with a rag to keep it from misting over, and the wipers were having trouble keeping up with the downpour. The next village was bigger, but the only hotel was closed, and looked as if it had been for years, so they had to carry on – onwards and upwards, as the road wound up a hillside through a dense forest of tall trees with rocky outcrops. As they got higher, the car started to protest, and Sandra tapped the petrol gauge, but it wasn't that – she had half a tank left.

'I don't believe this,' she said, as the engine stuttered again, then finally died.

'You'd better,' said her friend, 'I think we're in the shit.'

They looked around them, and all they could see were trees and rocks, but there was a track leading off to the right – no sign, but a well-used and maintained track just the same, flanked by two large stone pillars. There was a mail-box beside it – a sure indication that there was some kind of house up the track.

Sandra made several abortive attempts to start thee engine again, gave up in despair, and finally let the handbrake off and allowed the car to run backwards into the side of the road, out of the way of any traffic. (Traffic, she thought – now there's a thing! They hadn't seen a car for hours)

'I suppose I'd better go and see if I can find a telephone,' said Rachel, pointing at the track.

'You're not leaving me here alone,' said Sandra, and they both got out in the rain, locked the car, and started to trudge up the track, which wound on up the hill. It seemed to take for ever, but they saw smoke rising from the trees.

'At least they've got a fire,' said Sandra, 'It's none too warm up here.'

It was true. The mountain air, combined with the chilling effect of the rain, had brought their temperature down, and they now craved a bit of warmth. Sandra glanced at her watch. It was only seven, but seemed almost dark, and when they came within range of them, lights shone from through the trees with the intensity of night-time.

They rounded a corner and Rachel gasped, 'Look, Sandra, bloody hell, it's a fucking great castle.'

And it was, indeed, a huge grey stone pile of a fortress, set high on the mountainside, complete with turrets and battlements, hidden from all sides by the towering forest.

Somewhat daunted, they had, however, no option but to seek whatever help they could find there, and they marched up to the first entrance they could find, a huge oak door, set at the top of a flight of six wide stone stairs. Rachel tugged at a big old-fashioned iron bell-pull, and a great clanging noise sounded from within, startling them to the core.

They had to wait only a few seconds, before a young man appeared, opening the door wide to them.

'Entrez,' he said, 'quel surprise – deux mademoiselles, et comme il pleut!'

Sandra's French was just about equal to the occasion, but she was in no mood to try out too much in the way of linguistics that evening, and was almost grateful when the ever-practical Rachel chipped in and said, 'Our car is broken down, back there on the road.'

The young man, who she could now see was remarkably handsome, smiled, and said, in perfect English, 'Please don't worry. We have plenty of room for you here, and you will be our guests. It will be a pleasure to have two beautiful English ladies here – you may stay as long as you wish. My name is Jean-Marc. I shall have Celine show you to your rooms and provide you with dry clothes. Your car will be taken care of.'

Sandra opened her mouth to speak, but he turned on his heel and was gone, leaving them stood, dripping, in the palatial hallway.

Thirty seconds later, a darkly pretty little maid minced in on unrealistically high stilettos. She wore a microscopic black miniskirt and seamed fishnet stockings, the tops of which could be seen as she walked.

'Venez,' she said, and led them up a wide staircase, and along a short carpeted corridor, off which led many doors. She threw open two, one at each side, and indicated with a flourish that they should take one each.

Sandra's first reaction was that she would almost have preferred to share a room with her friend in this great spooky castle, but the luxury of a room to herself also had its compensation, when she looked at the huge four-poster bed. Celine was in the room with her as the thoughts crossed her mind, opening the double doors of the huge, old-fashioned wardrobe, and indicating, with a very Gallic wave of her hand, the clothes it contained. It was truly amazing.

After the maid had gone, the first thing Sandra wanted to do was to get out of her wet things, so she went into the adjoining bathroom, and threw off all her clothes, slipping into the towelling robe she found behind the door. Then she went across the corridor to find that Rachel had done similarly, and was drying her black hair vigorously with a towel.

'Wow,' she said, 'what a place.'

'And what a guy, Jean-Marc! I saw him first,' said Rachel.

'Have you seen all the clothes in the wardrobe?' asked Sandra, changing the subject, but just then, Rachel's bedside telephone gave a discreet ring. Hesitantly, she picked it up.

'Yes,' she said,

'Hello,' said Jean-Marc, 'please both dress for dinner, and we'll expect you at eight-thirty. Just come down the stairs and turn to the left.' He rang off and she was left holding a dead instrument.

Wide-eyed, they were going through the clothes in the wardrobe, when Celine came back, silently collected their wet clothes, and as silently disappeared.

In their wardrobes were day-clothes, dresses, skirts and blouses at one side, all neatly arrayed, whilst hung at the other side was a glamorous collection of evening gowns. On the floor were shoes, all high-heeled. At a glance, Sandra saw that everything appeared to be more-or-less her size, and wondered how that should be.

Seeking further, she found the bathroom well-stocked with perfumes and cosmetics of all kinds. The drawers in the bedroom contained lots of costume jewellery, but, when she thought she had found the underwear drawers, they contained only two nightgowns and a negligee, two satin garter-belts, and several pairs of stockings.

She slipped across the corridor to tell Rachel about her finds, and found her naked, a long silver and diamond pendant dangling from her navel, still drying her hair, this time with an electric dryer she had found in the bathroom. Sandra mentioned the lack of undergarments, but Rachel seemed unconcerned, saying, 'I often go without panties, darling, don't you?'

Sandra had to confess that she didn't – not normally, anyway, but supposed she could get used to it. She went back to her room to choose a dress for the evening.

Spoilt for choice, she plumped eventually for a dreamy cream silk halter-neck gown, completely backless. When she slipped it over her head, she felt the sensuous softness of the silk caress her flesh like a lover. She finished her outfit with a pair of large gold hoop ear-rings and stepped into strappy gold stilettos. When she had finished her make-up, she went to see how her friend was getting along, and whistled when she saw Rachel in a long black velvet sheath, open at each side, fastened in three places with a silver clasp- She had put her black hair up and wore long silver ear-rings, which brushed her shoulders. At her wrists and elbows were a lot of silver bangles and bracelets.

'Ready?' she asked.

'As I'll ever be.'

They made their way down the stairs, feeling a bit like actors in a fifties movie, then turned left, as instructed, through huge double oak doors, into the massive, baronial dining hall.

What faced them was a daunting sight. A remarkably imposing man was seated at the head of a huge dining table, in a monstrous throne of a chair. He was large and broad-shouldered, with a fine head of wavy silver hair, and a large, aquiline nose. By his right hand sat a handsome woman, in her forties, with her platinum-blonde hair elegantly coiffed, her dress fastened with a gold clasp on one shoulder, the other bare.

At his other side sat Jean-Marc, whilst beside him sat two young women, one an incredibly beautiful blonde, who might well have been a fashion model, wearing a yellow dress with a plunging neckline, the other a shorter girl of unmistakeably Asian visage, wearing a green silk sari.

As the girls entered, they got a considerable surprise, though, when Jean-Marc suddenly appeared, as if by magic, behind them!

'Hello,' he said, 'welcome to Chateau Malmont!'

'What the..........!' Started Sandra.

The newcomer smiled. 'I am Jean-Pierre, Jean-Marc's twin,' he clarified.

Sandra gulped, and both girls started to laugh at once – they had never expected to be confronted by a pair of identical twins. They took their places at the table, opposite the other two girls, with Jean-Pierre at the end, opposite his father, who introduced himself as Yves. The lady at his side, who didn't seem nearly old enough to be the twins' mother, was introduced as Jacqueline.

Then it was the turn of the two girls sat opposite to them, and they were introduced as, respectively, Natalya, who was the drop-dead gorgeous Russian, and the demure-looking Eurasian Dana.

The silent Celine tottered in on her heels and served soup, and was helped by another, taller girl, also dressed traditionally as a maid, when the main course was brought in.

Conversation was limited to the weather, and conducted in English, presumably in deference to the girls' lack of French.

As she was finishing her main course, Sandra felt a knee move against hers. She moved it away, in case the move had been accidental, but the knee soon returned, and started to move smoothly up and down her thigh, helped by the smooth silk of her dress. In spite of herself, she found she was getting turned on by this – it may have had something to do with the heady atmosphere, the steady flow of heavy red wine, or the very male presence of Jean-Pierre at her side. Or it might have been that she hadn't had a man for a long time – whichever way, she was starting to get a little damp between the legs, and was suddenly acutely conscious that she was wearing no panties – what if she was staining her light-coloured dress? She would die of embarrassment. She glanced sideways at Rachel, but saw that her friend was talking animatedly now, across the table, with Natalya and Jean-Marc. The subject seemed to be fashion, or something like that.

When her attention returned, a hand had replaced the knee, and Jean-Pierre was smiling at her as he massaged her shapely knee under her gown. She knew she should have stopped him there and then, but didn't want to. Not at all. Instead, she put a hand over his, and looked at him pointedly, opening her mouth ever so slightly, and letting the tip of her tongue emerge from between her teeth in what she knew was a lewd gesture no man could resist.

The waitresses had taken away the dirty plates, and were bringing in the sweets, but Sandra hardly noticed as she was far too preoccupied with Jean-Pierre's probing hand, which was now gently gathering up her skirt, pulling it slowly, ever so slowly up her leg, until the hem reached her knee, then, faster, he slid his hand up her thigh, encountering no opposition from her, but causing her to squirm, and bringing a sidelong questioning glance from Rachel. His hand slowed as he reached the top of her thigh, and he very deliberately pushed two fingers into her crack, then parted them, pulling her labia apart. An involuntary 'Oh' escaped her lips, and Rachel looked around sharply, then knowingly, and laughed lightly, and looked away pointedly.

Jean-Pierre's finger was now crooked into Sandra's wet slit, seeking her cunt, and she was horribly close to a very embarrassing orgasm, which she would never be able to conceal. She had to stop this, and be strong. Decision made, she yanked his hand sharply away, smiling as sweetly as she was able.

'Later,' she whispered, out of the corner of her mouth, 'please!'

She thought she had managed the situation reasonably well, and the rest of the meal passed off without incident, and light-hearted conversation continued, but Sandra noticed that Yves and Jacqueline took no part in the discussions at all.

When the dinner was over, Jean-Marc stood, and said, 'Please, everyone, we should go into the library for coffee.'

With that, everyone stood, and they all followed Jean-Marc through a door into another high-ceilinged room, lined with bookshelves and furnished with nests of overstuffed sofas and coffee tables.

Rachel and Sandra sat together on a sofa, facing that on which the other two young girls sat, and accepted the offer of a coffee from Celine.

Rachel then whispered in Sandra's ear, 'You cow - if anyone asked me, I'd swear you were getting finger-fucked under that table!'

'Jealous?' said Sandra.

'Fucking right I am,' she breathed, 'and just get a look at those two.' She inclined her head towards the two girls opposite them, and Natalya had her arm around Dana's shoulders, and her hand had disappeared into the folds of the Indian girl's sari. She was obviously toying with the other's breast, and Dana's face was buried in the Russian's neck. Their legs were intertwined, and they gave every appearance of being lovers.

Whilst they were taking coffee, Jean Marc (at least, Sandra thought it was he, and not his brother) came and stood behind them, and put his hands on Rachel's shoulders, causing her to look around quickly. She smiled and he said, 'I expect you girls are tired. Please feel free to retire whenever you want. If there is anything you need, don't hesitate to ask. Tomorrow, I shall arrange to have your car brought here.'

They went off upstairs, leaving the two girls, now locked in a passionate embrace, alone in the library, and it was only when she got to her room that Sandra realised that she was, indeed, rather tired.

The nightwear in the drawers was not what she would have chosen, but when she let the long, flowing, silk gown drop over her head, she had to admit to herself that a bit of old-fashioned luxury was a nice feeling, and she climbed between the satin sheets ready to enjoy a night of sensuous indulgence. Just how sensuous, she hadn't begun to realise, because no sooner had she turned out the light than she heard a soft click at the door. Her thoughts went from first thinking it would be her fried coming to ask her for something, to terror that it was some intruder. She scarcely dared move, but then a gentle hand brushed her hair from her face, and Jean-Pierre's voice said, quietly, 'I had hoped you were not yet asleep, English Rose. Please let me turn on the light, so I may drink in your beauty.'

Smooth bastard, she thought, but she felt again his knowing fingers parting her labia under the table, and knew she had to have him inside her. She flicked on the bedside light, and there he was, in a magenta dressing gown. She took the initiative, and pulled him towards her, struggling to release his excited shaft from the boxers he wore under the dressing gown. Soon she had it in her hand, and guided it into her mouth as he knelt beside her on the bed, seeking her breasts through the silk of her gown. She took him deep into her throat, and heard his moans, so that she knew he couldn't hold off long enough to fuck her, so she sucked his length with all her soul, and looked into his eyes as he came in great spurts, deep within her. She made sure she swallowed every precious drop, licking the last globules off his crown, then cradled him in her arms, her whole length entwined around him, moving, moving, gently against hi, so that he remained hard. To further ensure that, after a while, she found his arsehole, and brusquely pushed a long-nailed forefinger straight up his rectum, which had the effect of giving his cock new life, and she found his fingers straying, as they had at dinner, to her crack, parting her labia, seeking now her erect, burgeoning clit. He plunged two, then three fingers into her cunt-hole, now soaking wet, waiting for his cock.

'Fuck me, Jean-Pierre!' she told him, 'now!'

He threw himself on top of her, roughly parting her legs, and plunged his rod into her, right to the very neck of her womb, so that his balls thumped against her arse with every thrust as he pounded her. Her cunt-muscles contracted and expanded in the way she knew she could drive a man wild, and she raked her nails up and down his back as he fucked her. When she felt her orgasm coming, welling up from her inner depths, threatening to make her scream the house down, she again rammed a finger up his arsehole, to ensure that he came simultaneously. She knew it would work, and so it did, as he stiffened, and they came together in a huge, tumultuous melt-down.

After laying with her for a while, and smoking an evil-smelling cigarette, he was gone, and she turned over, and slept for ten hours.

When Sandra awoke, the sun was streaming through the window, on a very different day to yesterday. She looked at her wristwatch and was mildly surprised when she saw it was after nine o'clock. Swinging her legs out of bed, she cautiously opened the door, looked up and down the corridor, saw nobody, and slid across into Rachel's room, to find her standing looking out of the window, her long, slender limbs outlined by the morning light under the thin silk of her long nightgown. 'Good morning,' she said, and her friend turned to her with a broad, give-away smile, 'Ah,' said Sandra, 'you too, eh?'