"Vampire Diaries Gothic Romance" - Starring Lady Sybilla & Alf Starling - With Ian Somerhalder & Robert Pattinson

The wind was howling over Cragston Moor as midnight approached and Lady Sybilla finally galloped into the winding mud-splattered driveway that would eventually lead her another mile uphill to the haunted manor known locally as Rochester Heights.

A passionate, knee-tremblingly exquisite, red-blooded 21 year old heiress in a transcendental dream. Going she knew not where - to meet, she knew not who.

All Sybilla remembered as she impatiently dug her heels into her stallion's flanks, was that three nights earlier she had woken to find herself gloriously spreadeagled between black satin sheets: writhing herself crazy underneath infamous vampire film star, Robert Pattinson.

And that afterwards, the tousle-haired heart-throb had turned ardently towards her and confessed he wasn't Pattinson at all. That Pattinson doesn't even exist and never has existed.

And that furthermore, shock of all shocks, Robert Pattinson was only the paranormal metamorphosis of a broken-down 104 year old Viagra addict from Worthing, on the south coast of Great Britain. A certain Alf Starling.

"So What!"

"So what that Sybilla had slept with a male incubus. Where's the crime in that?" she muttered to herself as she whipped her stallion yet again.

"So what if a dirty old man from Worthing has mastered the trick of turning himself into handsome young film stars in order to seduce beautiful girls. What do you think Dracula was about? I'm hardly the first romantically inclined damsel to have fallen for the zealous charms of a bloodthirsty demon. And doubtless, I won't be the last."

"I mean, if Kristen Stewart enjoys sleeping with Alf Starling, believing him to be some non-existant brainless twerp of a tousle-haired actor called Robert Pattinson, then who am I to argue. More to the point, why shouldn't I get my share?"

By now Sybilla had tightened her grip on the reins and caught her very first glimpse of the rooftops of Rochester Heights, as the towering 1628 mansion slowly unveiled itself out of the swirling shadowy mist

"Who is he?" she shouted to the moon impatiently. "Who is the man whose amazingly sensuous voice I heard but an hour ago - that raised me from my chaste maiden's chamber and out onto this dangerous moor?"

"Robert Pattinson again? Or perhaps some even more dashing Lord of the Night. My very own Mister Darcy, drawing me out as if by magic into the powerful clutches of his lusting arms? Mmmm. Wow!"

"Oh tell me my Lord and Master: Who is this mystery gentleman that has beckoned your innocent raven-haired Sybilla from her virgin's slumber to join him alone in his 17th century Cromwellian four-poster bed?"

She had arrived. And towering Rochester Heights now rose up in front of her very eyes, before its smoking chimneys disappeared into the rumbling clouds above.

Sybilla's heart was beating like a wild thing as she leapt from her exhausted horse and ran headlong across the eerie carriageway towards the imposing entrance door.

She was soaking wet. Her black skirts and riding boots sodden with cloying peat from the moor. Her thick curling hair spilling wildly in all directions from its tangled web of black lace scarves. Her sparkling black eyes flashing excitedly into the night, transfixed on the fervent yet enchanted venture that lay moments ahead.

The massive oak door of Rochester Heights creaked menacingly open as if by magic.

Awestruck, Sybilla gritted her teeth and tip-toed inside.

A magnificent, candle-lit Great Hall was dominated by a huge organ, softly playing Bach's Toccata & Fugue. Or rather the keys and pedals were being played. But there was no sign of anyone sitting at the keyboard.

A log fire was blazing in the baronial fireplace. And two vast guard dogs lay peacefully stretched out on a leopard-skin rug. At the side of the vaulted room, an elaborate mahogany staircase swept majestically up in a semi-circle to the floor above.

At the foot of the staircase, on a fabulous Jacobean chest, a carafe and a tumbler of water.

Beside these, on a Queen Anne pewter platter, an unopened packet of Super-Strength Viagra.

A voice boomed out as if from nowhere.

"Lady Sybilla Henrietta Anstruther Ffitz-Ptarmigan Carstairs - Welcome to Rochester Heights."

"Please remove your wet clothing"

"And put on the nightgown provided."

"Your master awaits."

Sybilla looked anxiously about the room. But nothing stirred, not even the sleeping hounds. Only the haunting sound of the organ playing the Toccata & Fugue.

Beside the fireplace she could see what looked like a long white cotton nightdress, neatly folded on one arm of a vast leather armchair. Suddenly her entire body began to tingle. Every sense, every feeling she ever knew, began to quiver in a cocktail of exquisite danger mixed with almost unbearable excitement.

Dare she?

Sybilla stood there silently. Still as a waiting cat before its prey. Quiet as a hawk in the tree. Silent as the night itself. Transfixed. Waiting for that sacred pulse of inspiration which would determine exactly what she would do next.

Suddenly she ran across to the fireside, knelt down behind the armchair, unlaced her riding boots, released her tumbling hair from its nets - and quickly began throwing off her many layers of warm yet still very wet clothing.

Within seconds she was down to her long black-damask undershift.

But what if someone was watching? Suppose a man. Suppose any man was concealed somewhere. Behind a curtain. Anywhere. Spying upon her.

She draped her damp clothes carefully over the armchair and placed her riding boots on the edge of the hearth, knowing that the roaring fire would soon dry them out.

Dare she?

Gently, as if in a slow motion trance, Sybilla gazed down upon the beautifully folded white nightgown, left out for her to wear.

Minutes passed. Until the moment came when she tenderly reached down, picked it up and thrust it gloriously above her head: as if offering the gown as a sacrifice at the Gothic High Altar of Rochester Heights.

When this was done Sybilla reached out, holding the now sacred garment ceremonially in front of her. Before finally clasping it by its two delicate straps and allowing the gown to unfold until it gradually tumbled down to its fullest length.

The moment it touched the floor, the organ playing Bach swelled up until it reached its highest volume. And the triumphant sound of the Toccata shook the very walls of the great manor house.

Dare she?

Very slowly, almost tantalisingly, Sybilla draped the white nightgown over the armchair.

Then she moved away until she stood alone in front of the blazing fire, looking out into the magnificent Great Hall and up towards the top of the grand staircase and whoever was waiting beyond.

Regally, as would any true Queen of the Night, Sybilla proudly and very slowly unhooked the buttons of her black damask undershift. One at a time. Until finally it passed over her delicate shoulders and fluttered down onto the warm oak floorboards.

For an entire minute she stood there. Her black eyes flashing in proud defiance. Perfectly still. Perfectly naked.

Then she slipped on the clean white gown, softly stole across the Great Hall and onwards up the sweeping staircase.

THE TRYST

Sybilla was now upstairs on the long gallery overlooking the Great Hall. In one direction the portrait-lined corridor disappeared into the eerie gloom of the formidable East Wing, about a hundred feet into the distance.

Opposite, less that twenty steps away, was a half open door with soft light spilling forth.

A strange perfume, which she had first noticed on the staircase, now started to fill the air. What was it? Jasmine? Sandalwood? Tincture of chamomile? Somehow she felt she knew it from somewhere. But where? Then suddenly it came to her. It was an aroma she'd encountered only once before. Just three days earlier. During her night of passion in Robert Pattinson's bedroom. Unmistakably, it was mothballs!

Sybilla followed the scent along the corridor, towards the room with the door ajar. Only it quickly became clear that this wasn't just any old room on the first floor. It was the master bedroom and the door that had been left slightly open was one of a gigantic pair.

She went in, pausing at the threshold to appreciate the sheer scale of this enchanted Gothic boudoir that was easily some sixty feet square.

Exactly the same 17th century Cromwellian four-poster bed she had seen in her dream dominated the magnificent room. She recognised it immediately. Only here it was mounted on a raised dais and surrounded by a semi-circle of some fifty man-size candle-holders, flickering a ghostly light in every direction.

Yet what was it about the light that made the room appear so paranormal? So unworldly? The answer arrived as her eyes adjusted to the light. Only then did she suddenly appreciate that the entire ceiling was adorned with one single enormous cobweb, dripping with thousands of glittering sequins of water which trickled down like a succession of beautiful silver waves lapping against the shoreline of a tropical island.

Someone was lying in the bed.

Behind the net drapes drawn tightly around the four-poster, Sybilla could now see the shape of a person looking directly towards her. Presumably a man, he was sitting up in bed with his head resting against a huge black pillow.

Sybilla coughed gently.

"I am come," she announced. Purposely choosing 18th century English vernacular in preference to her more usual, though tonight somewhat inappropriate, 'Hi there'.

But despite waiting patiently for several seconds, there was no reply.

"I am come," repeated Sybilla. "I have answered your call and now I am come. As you can see I am wearing the sacred nightshirt as instructed by the master and I am now ready to obey your command."

Again, there was no reply.

A grandfather clock at the side of the room chimed the hour. It was one o'clock.

Slowly, Sybilla tip-toed across the vast room until she arrived at the end of the bed. She reached forward, took hold of two lengths of net curtain and quietly pulled them apart.

"Hello Sybilla", said the man in the bed. "Don't be afraid child. I've been looking forward to this moment."

It was Alf Starling. The harmless looking, infamous, Viagra addicted, 104 year old pensioner from Worthing. Wearing a nightcap. His teeth in a glass container on the bedside table.

Sybilla was temporarily speechless.

"You've had a long and tiring ride," said the concerned Starling. "I have a glass of vintage wine for you. Here, on this side table. And some excellent legs of quail and breasts of partridge and grouse. Or fresh lobster if you prefer. There are salads and sweetmeats too."

Sybilla was quick to compose herself. She reached out and picked up a golden goblet full of red wine.

"I know you," she said. "I don't know how and I cannot remember us ever having met. But somehow I definitely know something about you."

"Yes my dear. You are perfectly right. Allow me to introduce myself. Alfred Henry Starling Esquire at your service," he answered.

"But how? How do you know my name," replied Sybilla.

"Because we did briefly meet. Quite recently as a matter of fact," said Starling. "Now come on. There's no need to concern yourself with such trivial details whilst you're enjoying your supper."

Sybilla helped herself to some food and sat on the edge of the bed. Making very sure she was a safe distance from the reach of the strange old man in the nightcap.

"Mmm the wine is absolutely beautiful," she smiled. "Was it you that called me here at the dead of night?"

(IGNORING HER) "Chateau Rochester 1807," he replied. "I hoped you might appreciate it. There are less than two dozen bottles left in the entire world"

"Please tell me old man. Please confirm what I feel. I do know you very well don't I," whispered Sybilla.

"Of course you do my dear," confirmed Alf.

"We know one another intimately."

"Now then," he continued. "I want you to do something very special for me. A tiny favour. Not much and not now. But soon. When you have finished your wine."

"What is it that you want?" asked Sybilla quietly.

"All I ask is that you stand perfectly still at the bottom of my bed. then close your eyes and count to ten."

"Whatever for," laughed Sybilla.

"Must you always have a reason to do something you're asked," asked Alf.

"Not always," she replied.

"Well then. Won't you oblige a very tired and very stupid old man? Just this once."

Sybilla smiled and drank from her goblet of wine.

"This truly is the best 1807 Chateau Rochester I've ever tasted," she winked. "Now then, where exactly do you wish me to stand?"

She got up and moved to the bottom of the huge bed.

"Will this do?"

"Perfect," said Alf.

"You want me to close my eyes for ten seconds yes? Just as soon as I've finished my wine?

"If you wouldn't mind my dear," he smiled.

Sybilla finished her wine and placed the empty goblet on a side table.

"Phew! Is there anything you can do about that smell of mothballs," she enquired. "It's suddenly beginning to quite overwhelm me."

"Never fear my dear. Just stand there and close your pretty little eyes. By the time you open them again, the smell of mothballs will have vanished forever," promised Starling.

Sybilla now did exactly what she was told. Standing up at the end of the bed, closing her eyes tight and counting down for ten seconds.

"One", she said in a soft clear voice. "Two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine... nine and a half-nine and three quarters...... nine and seven eighths........ten."

"May I open them now,"

"Why not," replied Vampire Diaries superstar, Ian Somerhalder, smiling from the centre of the huge bed and proffering two goblets of red wine.

"You", gasped Lady Sybilla, suddenly open-mouthed and aghast in absolute delighted amazement.

"Would you rather it were someone else," smiled handsome Somerhalder, as the huge muscles at the top of his strong arms rippled and quivered in the candlelight. Suggesting to Sybilla that it might just about be possible that beneath the sheets he was naked.

"Of course not, Mr Somerhalder. I'm totally delighted," whispered Sybilla. "Can you tell me what happened to the elderly gentleman who was here earlier?"

"He had to go," replied Somerhalder. "He apologised and said he hoped to see you again sometime soon. Hey Sybilla, how about trying some of this wine?"

Lady Sybilla sighed. Not openly. But deep inside her womanly being. With the warm sense one occasionally gets when one turns the page of a particularly thrilling book - and realise for the first time that it's about to have rather an interesting conclusion.

Things were looking up! What's more, all of a sudden she couldn't help but notice the terrible stench of mothballs had vanished. To be replaced by the wonderful aroma of her very favourite, Giorgio Armani Pour Homme.

"Why not", smiled Sybilla. "The night is but young. I'm sure we've just about enough time for a quick glass or two."

She walked around the bed, took hold of the wine on offer and sat down beside Ian Somerhalder.

Immediately she could feel the heat of his body as it so nearly touched her own through the flimsy black satin sheet.

She nestled back against the huge pillow, cuddling down and sinking herself deep into the vast warmth of the wonderful 4 Poster bed.

Ian leant over, pressed a secret button and those curtains that had been left open elegantly glided across hidden rails until the couple were secretly enclosed. At last cut off from the world within their own lovers cocoon.

Had Sybilla been a cat, she would have instantly begun to purr.

(And as for the rest, dear Reader, we shall draw a discrete black veil over the precise details of what happened next. And for the next six hours. Seconds after Sybilla melted into Ian Somerhalder's powerful arms.)

The following morning Lady Sybilla awoke late.

The storm of the night before had passed. And shafts of sunlight now played tantalisingly through the vast windows onto the bed on which she slept.

She stretched herself out. Enjoying the feel of satin sheets against her naked body. And thrilling to the memory of the wonders that taken place in the romantic seclusion of her bed chamber within Rochester Heights.

Suddenly, Sybilla realised she was alone.

She opened her eyes.

But there was no sign of Ian Somerhalder.

Save for the faint aroma of his perfume.

The same black net curtains, that last night surrounded the bed , were now completely drawn apart. And the huge room that had once seemed so dark, was now flooded with the intense bright light of morning.

Nothing remained of the night before.

The wine had vanished. The food was gone. Even her sacred white nightgown. She looked across at one of the magnificent Regency sofas that lined the extremities of the room - and there were her boots and her riding clothes. All neatly folded and ready to step into. Almost as if last night had never happened.

Except for one thing.

Just as Sybilla stepped out of the beautiful bed to get dressed, she noticed something on the opposite bedside table. Something she had spotted downstairs the night before.

It was the Queen Anne pewter platter.

"Ah", she thought. "Here's the answer to what happened during my glorious night in Rochester Heights."

Upon the platter was that very same packet of Super-Strength Viagra.

Only now it had been opened and was completely empty.

And Alf Starling was nothing but a very faint memory.



(With special thanks to the real Lady Sybilla)