Vampire Stag Weekend - Sex Stories

Vampire Stag Weekend

... strip club for which I had printed out flyers. I presented it all to Mark over a pint, along with a quickly nailed together cross and a few bulbs of garlic. He took it all in excellent humour. It came round pretty quickly, one weekend in mid-July, the five of us found ourselves sitting at the giant pub in departures, waiting for the late afternoon flight down to Romania. It seemed a funny affliction of early middle age that half way through the second pint, the Rough Guides and the printed out wikis of the Balkan nations popped out all round the table. I think all of us could feel the excitement creeping up inside, it had probably been 10 years for most of us since we'd been on a proper lads weekend away. A few of the guys, Steve and Karl had families now, Mark was clearly well on his way and it was only Dom & I left to really settle down. The flight was happily uneventful, only a few hours in the end. We didn't meet the two guys coming in from London, their flight was to land much later. Apparently their respective work schedules too flattering to be able to provide a few hours off early on a Friday afternoon. It was not long and the five of us found the car I had booked pretty easily just outside arrivals. We all sat solemnly in the back of an ancient Mercedes as it pulled out of the suburban sprawl where the Sofia airport is and headed towards what was clearly a more down-town area where we had booked a hotel. The main streets were nothing like that which I had imagined ...

... of some ex-Soviet, 2nd-World war-torn city, instead the pubs and clubs looked full, new and inviting. Lots of neon signs and black polished counter tops. The people looked anything but poor, the guys seemingly wearing summer suits and pretty much every girl tottering around in heels and a little thigh length figure hugging black number. To be honest, it was a hell of a lot nicer than the place from which we had just come. As we spilled out on to the cobbled street in front of our hotel, we were alive with chatter. None of us could wait to join what felt like a warm summer party evening in a young Mediterranean atmosphere. The hotel was 'quaint' in a nice way. It reminded me of an old Parisian bistro-hotel I had stayed in as a student. The reception desk was a rounded wooden counter squashed into a corner that divided one way into a narrow rickety wooden staircase and the other way into an open plan bar stacked full (I think of Absinthes, but I'm not sure). The portly barman/owner/hotelier who glanced at our passports, handed over the keys and ushered us up to our rooms seemed jolly enough although there was clearly not an awful lot of meaningful communication save a few thumbs-ups and big tit mimes as Dom went through. Dom and I had planned to share a room, as had Karl and Steve. Mark had been allocated his own room out of the kitty as the man of honour and the two yet-to-arrive Londoners Todd and John had both elected to pay for a room for themselves. We ran up to dump our ...