by Chanel Smith
The lady turned out to be the Countess Bathory herself! After Michael had trained for two weeks, she met him as he walked to a nearby lake for a bath.
“Bet that water is cold this time of year,” she remarked.
“Yes, doamnă Bathory,” he responded nervously.
“Don’t call me that! My name is Liz,” she told him. “Come on. I know where there’s a much warmer place to bathe.”
She’d led him to a remote castle entry point, then down so many halls that he’d been instantly lost. He was so busy studying his surroundings that it didn’t matter.
The statues alone were so different from anything he’d imagined in such a castle. Naked people, mostly. Why have statues of something you see all the time? Rich people were a mystery, he concluded.
He came to a room with an enormous tub of water being heated by a series of small fires, each tended by a child. His mouth dropped. Who in the world was rich enough to live like this! All of that work: the wood brought in, fires started, water hauled—just so rich people could scrub their arses. He learned quickly enough that there were other uses for heated water. Elizabet asked him to step up on the platform and look into the tub as there was, “Something interesting he should see.”
Dutifully he’d climbed the ladder and arrived next to her. Looking down into the mist coming off the heated water, he said, “I can’t see a thing.”
Next thing he knew, she gave him a massive shove and he landed butt first into truly hot water. She roared with laughter.
“See well enough now?” she asked as she’d dropped her robe and stepped in after him, stark naked.
For the first time in his life, Michael was truly speechless—a state he was to become familiar with during his time in Bathory Castle.
They romped for hours. He learned what a mouth on his cock felt like (sheer heaven,) and what a twat tasted like (not bad, but nothing like heaven.) He enjoyed his first lengthy kiss and thought he’d die from the pleasure of it, and finally she allowed him to penetrate her.
Then he knew he’d die from the pleasure of it.
He learned through his own growing exhaustion that Countess Elizabet Bathory was just getting started. Michael went from being a virgin to experiencing three rapid orgasms within a few short hours; Michael didn’t know whether he was coming or going.
Once he saw what Elizabet kept in a nearby box, he thought he might be going— anywhere, as long as it was away from what lay inside.
“Michael, I feel like playing with a toy,” she began.
“I can barely keep my eyes open,” he mumbled. In all honesty he held his eyes tightly close through both exhaustion and fear; in hopes he could avoid what was coming next. He wasn’t at all sure he could live through another orgasm. His heart pounded nearly out of his chest while the Countess clawed hell out of his back. This sex business—there was more to it than met the eye, at least with royalty. He hoped that maybe normal people fucked like horses and cows: a straight-up bang and done.
“Oh this will wake you up, I promise,” she said and he heard a hint of laughter behind it.
In time he’d learn to dread that not-quite-a-laugh.
“Reach over and hand me that box, will you?” she asked, pointing at a burnished wood box on a bench near his left hand.
He did as requested, and the weight of the thing actually did wake him a bit out of sheer curiosity. However, then she reached in and withdrew a familiar yet bizarre item and his curiosity vanished as if it had never existed. The sight of the object itself filled him instead with an undefined dread. It was brown and gnarled; about the size of a fennel root, but not that well proportioned. He had no idea what kind of a plant it was, or what it could be used for. He only knew that it so closely resembled a well known poisonous root: mandrake. But why would Elizabet have mandrake root in her rooms?
She held it out to him, and now he saw that the plant in her delicate white hand, though it resembled the poison, wasn’t mandrake at all. It was shriveled and had several thin, stringy tendrils hanging from it.
“What is it, Liz?”
She’d obviously seen the question on his face, “Wondering what such a thing is used for, are you?”
“Yes doa- uh, Liz,” he managed to respond. Once again he heard that little non-laugh and he was beginning to comprehend that he didn’t want to hear it.
“Come to me and lay in my lap,” she commanded.
He did as requested, looking up at her with bewildered blue eyes. Again she did that non-laugh, “Open your mouth, you idiot.”
Again he followed her instruction; he felt he had little other choice. Immediately he felt more naked than he ever had before and worse was to come.
She took a small paring knife from the table beside her, and for the life of him couldn’t figure out what on earth she was doing that required a knife. Maybe it was a rich person’s ritual?
In the next second he felt something cold and hard poking at his lips, he opened his mouth, and then...
“CHRISTOS!” he shrieked as he bit down on the piece of bitter herb in his mouth. He’d never tasted anything like that nor even known it existed.
“Shut up you fool,” she hissed like an adder from the woods.
“Oh dear God. What is it? It tastes horrible,” he cried frantically and spat onto the ground until the awful taste was gone.
“It’s a Chinese potion called ginseng. It’s to invigorate you and awaken the senses,” Elizabet chided. She paused, taking in his ridiculous reaction. Then her expression changed rapidly. “Get the hell out. You might have awakened the Count, you fool. Get your clothes and go.”
When he didn’t move with shock, she shrieked, “NOW! Go!”
Michael was out of that water and gone like a shot. He was still running when he hit the woods, still stark naked with his clothes over his shoulders.
“Not your night tonight,” a voice came out of the darkness. “Poor bastard. Let me help you.”
It was one of the guys he’d been training with, and for the first time they weren’t laughing at him.
Fredo, the kid who’d spoken, helped Michael to lay on his side on his pallet. No one was snoring or farting, a sign that all the guys were awake. Michael was horrified that they probably all knew exactly what he’d undergone.
“Yeah, a few of us have been there,” Fredo said as if he’d heard Michael’s thoughts. “Looks like you’re the lucky favorite for a while,” he paused. “Rest of us will do what we can to help.”
Michael forced himself to remain at the castle for years, so he might complete his training. By then, he was running the regiment, a development that didn’t amaze anyone. He was still seeing the Countess on a regular basis. He’d managed to establish boundaries such as anything involving the ingesting of mind or body altering substances was out of bounds; much to the Countess’s disappointment.
To make up for it, he’d invented several games which were brand new to the jaded Countess.
“Elizabet, can you get two servants up here? I have an idea for a really fun game,” he began.
Puzzled, she rang for two women as he’d asked. He refused to say anything until they arrived, although he did also request a pair of sharp needles. He couldn’t help but notice Elizabet’s pupils widen at hearing needles. Yes, this would work: it would take her attention off herbs and drugs. It had to. And he’d make sure the girls were well-compensated.
The two kitchen girls appeared, along with the two needles; the game was ready.
Michael explained, “Now this is easy. Each of us pokes a needle into the girl we think can withstand pain for the longest time. Last girl standing is the winner!”
Elizabet’s face lit up like an early sunrise.
“Michael, you’re a genius. I get to pick first. Ladies first,” she winked at him seductively, she was turned on by his control of her, of understanding her, manipulating her, “…and I pick...” she stared at both girls. Michael could see wheels turning in her mind. Finally she spoke again, “I pick the br
own-haired girl. Brunettes have thicker skin than blondes, you know,” she giggled a little with that non-laugh Michael had come to fear and hate.
Michael gave both girls a look of pure lament when the countess’s face was turned away, but there was nothing he could do but go along.
“On the count of three,” Elizabet commanded, excitement causing her voice to shake, “One, two, three!”
There was complete silence for a moment, then a muffled groan and a crash that seemed to happen at the exact same moment.
“You fool!” the Countess raged at the girl she’d been poking.
“You got your shitty peasant blood all over my arm. Why, I should—” her voice suddenly cut off, and Michael saw that she was staring at her own arm with intense fascination.
“My god, look at the skin where that young bitch bled on it. Look, Michael—it’s a miracle.”
“You,” she said to the terrified young girl, “How old are you?”
“Sixteen, doamnă,” the girl stuttered.
“You a virgin, per chance?” Elizabet said.
“Y-y-yes, of course,” the girl responded, “Im not yet married.”
“That’s the answer to aging!” Elizabet screamed, bits of saliva flying from her lips, eyes gleaming.
“Look at my arm closely! Wherever her blood hit my skin has become pure, beautiful, youthful!” She grinned widely, “Michael, I’m going to be young forever. You mark my words.”
Indeed Michael never forgot that moment, as it was the spark that inspired a chain of atrocities that would become synonymous with the name ‘Elizabet Bathory’ until the end of time.
He witnessed the Countess’ descent into madness. At first she’d use only drops of blood, but soon her blood thirst began to rise. After several years, she was bleeding girls to death, one per day. Michael’s training was almost complete five years later, and by then Elizabet demanded two girls every few hours... Michael’s training finally ended; he had reached his mental breaking point at the same moment. With nary a glance over his shoulder, the young warrior left Castle Bathory forever.
Michael heard rumor of a major conflict in Transylvania and headed in that direction. He crossed Walachia and Moldavia to reach the state. There were sights along the way left him shaken to his core. He had lived like a veritable king while these people had been dying, slowly from of extreme poverty. This was another lesson that would stay with him forever.
The Turks seemed unstoppable in their numbers when Michael caught his first sight of their army spread across the valley. The only way to stop them was to unite: Walachia, Moldavia and Transylvania must become one. It was a feat that had never been conceived, much less realized—yet ‘Michael Raya the Brave’ would accomplish it.
The unification lasted six brief months, a single Romanian Prince ruled over all Romania for the first time. Unfortunately, one short month after Michael’s unbelievable triumph, Basta had him executed. The name ‘Michael the Brave’, however, would resound throughout history as the ‘Hero of Romania’.
The stories of both Michael the Brave and Elizabet Bathory are well known. What was never known was that Michael Pătraşcu was not then executed by Basta, as legend would have us believe. Instead, must like Petra’s story he made the choice to disappear from the world he knew. He bribed his executioner, asking him to take him deep into the forest so he might return to life he born to. He’d had enough of castles. He changed his name, became Raya, his middle name; shaved his head and discarded his armor. The change was complete. No one would know he was once everything to do with ‘Michael the Brave’.
As Raya he hunted and fished with friends he knew from his happy youth. He was content with his new life of the old. But then came unwelcome news; Elizabet Bathory had been arrested and was destined for death. As disgusted as he’d been by her, she was his first love and he couldn’t sit in the woods whilst she was executed.
He back to the cache, deep in a cave to recover the weapons he left behind him to start his new life. And so began the long trip back to Bathory where Elizabet had been locked in the tower of her own castle.
The years had not been kind to her, in spite of her bloodthirsty skin regimen. But his heart still skipped at the sight of her wide set brown eyes and pale blond hair. He stayed with her a while to do what he could to brighten her immediate mood. They were served a paltry meal of boiled meat and bread that night. Afterward, Raya wanted to take Elizabet for a walk but learned she couldn’t leave her prison.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have suggested it,” he said as the meal was cleared away.
“How were you to know?” Elizabet asked, and something in those deceptively soft brown eyes sparkled for a moment.
In those eyes Raya saw the woman who had infatuated him years earlier; it was as if the years simply melted away. He stood, walked to her side where she sat at a small table, grabbed her shoulders gently and pulled her to her feet to face him. Abruptly a wave of uncertainty flashed through Raya. What if she no longer wanted—Before the thought was complete, the tiny woman stood on tiptoes as she always had and brushed her lips against his own tentatively, as if afraid he’d pull away in disgust. It was all the invitation Raya needed. Her lips still pert and lush and her eyes clear from want, humbled. He swept her small frame into his arms and kicked the dividing curtain aside with one boot. The bedroom was poor: a tattered blanket on the floor served as her mattress. He did not care. He kissed her deeply and felt her nipples harden to life under his seeking hands.
A mattress was naught but frippery to a soldier at any rate, Raya thought as he threw himself onto his back and brought Elizabet to his wide chest. She moaned softly, and Raya lost himself in her familiar scent. Normally he’d have ripped her clothes off, but he was acutely aware that these robes might be her entire wardrobe. He unhooked them and carefully laid them aside, then was finally able to feast his eyes on that body that belonged to him and his dreams.
She was carrying a few more years, but her breasts were still large and heavy. Her bush still sprung up under his hand like a hedge in the spring. And her lips still tasted like honey from bees who’d feasted on anise. He kissed his way down to her core. Elizabet passionately thrashed in his arms with a desperation that was entirely new. Christos, how long had it been for her?
With a conscious effort Raya slowed himself down. This had to be special for Elizabet it would be the last time she’d ever fuck and he was damned if he’d rush it. He removed his mouth from that inviting slit and began brushing light butterfly kisses down her plump inner thigh; something he remembered had driven her nearly to madness in their youth. She moaned softly, her eyes flashing nervously around the small chamber. He noted her reluctance to really let go, he realized she was afraid they’d be caught.
He’d see about that. He worked his way back up to her snatch but casually skipped over it to her lower belly. There, he sank a questing tongue into her belly button with small thrusts. Elizabet didn’t make a sound, but thrust her lower torso high in the air against his hand. He pushed up and captured the peak of one large breast between his teeth, then bit down lightly before flicking it with his own tongue. Her mouth opened wide in a soundless scream and unwillingly he saw where several teeth had been yanked from her jaw. Only holes remained; those bastards!
With his right hand he captured her other nipple and rolled it back and forth until it was as hard as her left one. With that, his hand shot downward until his fingers tapped lightly across her damp lips. At every touch, Elizabet let escape from her, the tiniest moan possible.
Raya kissed his way up her neck, her chin, over large lips until he tasted the dampness of tears. Shite. No matter what this woman had done in her life, she was still a human being and should be treated as such. He would do what he could to remind her of who she’d been. He undid the laces on his britches until his large cock sprang free. Grabbing the shaft he rubbed the head over her still-flat belly up and towards those breasts he remembered so well.
Using both
hands, he squeezed her breasts together and shoved his cock between them. Christos the bliss! Nobody had breasts like this woman. Nobody. It was as if they had lives of their own. He wondered if she could still...
“You certainly haven’t lost that particular talent,” he muttered as he felt each breast twitch against his straining cock, “How could I have forgotten a sensation like this one?”
He pulled his cock from between her breasts before they could shorten what he intended to be a lovely long act. But before he could do anything else, Elizabet reared up and caught the tip of his cock’s head between her lips. He froze. She gave his shaft a series of long wet licks from the base to the tip, then circled the head with her tongue before sinking it down her throat with one deep suck. It was Raya’s turn to stifle a yell and he had no idea how he managed it as Elizabet began regular, deep sucks punctuated by a nibble or a lick here and there.
He flipped her onto her back, slid his cock out of her mouth, and kissed his way down to her drenched core. Yes! Her juices were as sweet and plentiful as ever. He could fill a small cup and drink it in two gulps, he thought as he forced his tongue into her tight orifice.
Her head jerked upward and cracked into his chin with such force that both of them saw stars. Raya shook his own head rapidly to return the sense to it. He couldn’t stop a roar of laughter. Beneath him Elizabet had begun to grin. Now he was getting somewhere! Before she could do anything else, he grabbed his shaft and aimed himself directly into that well-remembered orifice, watching her face closely as he slowly entered, then pushed himself all the way inside of her, deep to his straining balls.
Her eyes lost focus as she began grinding blindly against him. Raya planted one hand on each of her ass-cheeks and yanked her down onto his cock time after time. Her fluids squirted all over his cock and thighs, soaking the thin blanket as her moans grow louder. He opened his eyes and looked down just in time to see her eyes roll up in her head just as they always had, just as before—
His balls sprung together tightly, and energy raced down his body to his cock just as he felt her cunt spasm around him, gripping his shaft like a grasping hand. He exploded, unable to stop himself, pumped hard into her as she bucked against him and wrapped her legs around his hips.