Vampire Stag Weekend - Sex Stories

Vampire Stag Weekend

... and humoured him. “Where you think vampire legend come from? Piotre tell you”. “It said that there peoples who live in Romanian mountains who drink blood to make strong.” “There no magic, it just tradition”. “You know how Romanian mountain girl like take blood?” He looked up at us. I have to admit that by now we were creasing a little bit, trying to cover it so as not to offend him. “Hungry girl best way to take blood, she take man, have love to him. She make hard him and then just as he most happy she bite.” “She have very sharp teeth, it like blood sausage”. At this point the two of us exploded with laughter, my stool fell out from underneath me and Pete was holding on to the bar. “Ah stupid American”, chided Piotre as he picked up his towel and marched down the other end of the bar. The two of us regained our places at the bar, steadied ourselves and clinked glasses again. “Forgive him”, came a female voice from the very end of the bar. “There are many very old men in this part of the World who cling to old tales”. We both turned to a woman that we had not previously noticed sitting just a few places away. To say she was stunning is an understatement. She had the full dark Mediterranean-green eyes of the local Romany, a dark tanned-olive complexion, with thick red painted lips. Her face was framed by glossy, slightly curly black hair that fell down over her bare shoulders and framed her ample bust. The two of us sat silent, slightly shocked as she held us in her gaze. She ...

... lifted a drink with a black straw jutting out of it to her black-red lips. We both sat spellbound as she received it in to her beautiful mouth, twisting her tongue around it as she did. She broke into a smile, sensing her temporary hold over us and then stoop up, clutching her drink and sauntered over. As she swayed towards us we were both mesmerised by a vision of seduction. Her long dark hair cascaded down over her tanned shoulders, bare save for thin straps holding up a deep maroon velvet dress. The bust was cut low and was tight enough that her smooth boobs seemed to lead as she came, hard nipples jutted, brushing the rim of her glass as she came. The dress split at her toned waist, and parted to allow her long legs to stride out in their high heels towards us. The woman commanded such an air that the two of us stood up from our stools as she approached, almost involuntarily. I remember her heady perfume hitting me and being locked into her deep-green eyes as she stopped in front of us. “Lonela”, she purred in an almost Italian accent, holding out her hand to Pete who took it without looking away from her face, as fixed as I was. “Pete”, he stammered. “Chris”, I volunteered. She broke the tension, leaning her head back and emitting a silvery laugh as she let go of my hand. “You British are always so formal, relax, welcome to Sofia”. She pulled up one of the stools and leant against it, asking us about why we had come here and congratulating Pete on his impending nuptials. ...