Vampire movie scripts , Vampiras de Malaga,

V A M P I R A S de MÁLAGA

("Female Vampires of Spain"-Rated PG. For Adult Version, click here for to request email book)

Translate the Vampyros Lesbos film into your language.

Around 1969, Southern Spain: I resided at various spots along the coast “Costa Del Sol”(Sun Coast). Sometimes I would stay in Malaga, the old Spanish city, or Marbella, a rich village for the jet-set, full of high-priced condos and extravagantly furnished high rise apartments with sweeping views of the Mediterranean.

Photo courtesy: http://www.sevillainfo.com/

All along the shore from Marbella to the Rock of Gibraltar, a.k.a., “The Pillars of Hercules”, Germans had bought restaurants, villas, bars, and made there a second home. The reputation of women from Northern Europe was “not boring”. Generically known as “suecas”(Swedish women), these blond Valkyries would come down on their winter vacation and really party it up. The local Don Juan’s would anticipate their arrival with pleasure, while the Spanish women became increasingly suspicious: “Where is Fernando today? At work, or down in Torremolinos chatting up some German *****?”

It was a bright winter day, quite cool in the shade, but comfortably warm out beneath the sun. I wore a dark-brown leather jacket into the Teteria Bakala, a Moroccan-style teahouse in a narrow alley amongst the dark warren of medieval streets that crowded the Barrio Viejo old section of Malaga.

My hair was long and bleached dirty blond and I was wearing a tie-dye hippie shirt underneath the jacket. I ordered green tea from Pedro, the owner of the teahouse. He was a young dude who wore beads and Caftan as part of his theme uniform. Some weird acid-jazz lounge music featuring sitar and Arabic oud discordant solos created the proper atmosphere, and I sat sipping my hot drink at a small antique wooden table near a Moorish arch.

“See her?” Pedro whispered in Spanish. “She is a vampire!”

He pointed discreetly to a beautiful Senorita wearing black dress and purple shawl seated in the back room of the teteria.

“Yer kidding, man!” I replied. I had known the tall owner of the teahouse for several years, and was used to his practical jokes.

“No really. The gypsies won’t even approach her. They turn away in fear when she walks down Calle Larios.”

The woman, more than a sight to see, turned her eyes warmly yet darkly towards us. She looked to be in her late twenties with long dark hair, narrow face, high-cheek bones, delicate doll-like features, somehow congenial, but sinister and forbidding. She crossed her slender legs, which were striking in dark blue, transparent pantyhose against the night-black dress, and she smoked a cigarette- an amused smile formed, starting at the corner of her lips.

Her most arresting feature was her occasional black stare, somehow inviting and admonishing at the same time.

Photo courtesy: SoledadMiranda.com

Pedro got up and asked her if she wanted anything. She ordered a snifter of Cognac.

As I sat reading El Diario, a Spanish newspaper, looking for a new apartment, I felt her eyes upon me.

Not finding any affordable or suitable flats in the ads, I turned to the front page: A triple murder had occurred in Torremolinos, a small fishing village full of international hippies and tourists and more English pubs than Crockham Hill in Kent.

The victims were found with small puncture wounds in their necks and their pants down to their ankles. They were all male: a young American, a 30-year-old Dane, and an Englishman. The newspaper went on to say that there had been some sort of “sexual contact”—and what, they wouldn’t say; so one could only imagine…

Later that day, I sat in my little apartment in Marbella, drank red wine and watched television. Though my Spanish is not great, I understood enough to follow the news report. The reporter was interviewing people in Torremolinos about the murder. No one had witnessed any drunken brawls or any type of problem in the bars that night of the murders. It was just the usual tourist party scene with a sprinkling of Spaniards. One bar owner said that he had served the three men, who had been downing some shots of whiskey with their beers and they seemed happy and jovial. They had been trying to flirt with one Spanish woman, whom the owner assumed was a prostitute, but he had never seen her before in his life.

I flicked off the TV, feeling drowsy and fell asleep. A loud motor scooter zipped by in the street several stories below an hour later and I woke up, smoked some Moroccan hash and took a sleeping pill.

Off in dreamland: I was back at the teahouse. The enchanting woman was there, staring at me with those raven eyes, beautiful eyes that pierced my American psyche. I tried to look away, but found myself looking back at her for a few moments. She uncrossed her graceful legs slowly and, more than usually apart, revealing ******* blue pantyhose. She laughed gently as my eyes opened wide, surprised.

She then stood up and walked in black high heel shoes to the WC (restroom). After what seemed like an hour, after I had eaten some patatas bravas in a pool of blood, there was a high-pitched wailing from behind the restroom door. Pedro brought out a crucifix and opened the creaking wood door.

Translate the Vampyros Lesbos film into your language.

There was no one there.

I woke up drenched in sweat as the morning sun blazed in broken shards through the blinds. I went to the café at the ground floor of the apartment building and had a coffee with warm milk and toasted French bread shiny with olive oil. After, I smoked a dark tobacco Fortuna cigarette and watched the burgeoning street scene. Attractive female tourists, businessmen, and Spanish matrons buying morning bread walked by. The Rolling Stones’ song “Paint it Black” played on the radio.

A young German woman, about 19, walked in the café brazenly, wearing an ultra-short, flowered mini-skirt and a thin sleeveless shirt, pronouncedly ****. The waiter looked quite perturbed and even blushed as he served her an expresso in bone white cup.

She drank her expresso quickly, slapped some pesetas on the bar, smiled and said “Hasta luego” as she left.

“Puta!” the barman whispered to himself.

I looked over at Jaime, a waiter I had known for a year or so, and asked “What’s the matter?”

“Strange girl. She came in her yesterday afternoon and ordered a Bloody Mary with her friend, a really lovely Spanish women who appears to be new in town. Never seen her before. Well, the German girl has been coming here for several months now, usually stoned and wearing next to nothing. She and her friend started kissing, with their tongues! And I’m sure I saw the Spanish woman slide her hand *********, under her skirt. I couldn’t believe it. Then the German girl laughed and spat out some of the Bloody Mary on the table. I didn’t know what to say, but a few customers left. The girls were laughing like they were drunk,” Jaime reported.

“Weird, man, really far-out,” I said.

“And, you know, I swear the German girl wasn’t wearing any ****** her skirt!”

“Jaime, ‘if your eye offends you, tear it out’”, I jokingly quoted Jesus. “Man, just let it all hang out with your priest at confession!”

I laughed and paid my bill, said “Hasta luego” to Jaime and went out shopping for some dress clothes for a business dinner that evening.

That evening, English real estate mogul, Mr. Phelas Grandshire, was hosting a semi-formal conference for his salesman, one of which was I. That’s how I made my money: selling the new high-rise apartments that were sprouting up every month on the Costa Del Sol.

After shopping, I decided to relax and go to the local nude beach. More often than not, it was full of men, and just a few couples and female tourists. But, I would see what luck I’d have today.

The beach was a rather rocky affair, a short strip of sand between two high rock outcroppings wedged between steep low cliffs. I spread on some suntan cream and sipped an orange drink. There weren’t many people out today, as it was sunny but not generously warm, and a cool breeze hindered one from splashing in the sea.

A few yards in front of me, two luscious tourists spread tanning oil on each other. One looked French, brunette, small perky ***. The other was definitely a real sueca, blonde Nordic, large *** with bulbous big **** and fluffy dark-blonde ****.For Adult Version, click here for to request email book

I watched them anonymously from behind my dark sunglasses. I felt my **** rise slowly as I observed the French girl turn over on her stomach, a movement which gave me a view of her naked white *** and *** peeking out from a closely-trimmed pie of dark **air. This was ’69 and most women didn’t really trim themselves then, so it was a special treat to see some Mons ****….

I was even more delighted and almost shocked to see them engage in a long French kiss.

Wind whipped up some sand that stung my face and a seagull splattered some *** near my foot.

What happened next forced me to plop down a T-shirt on my ****. The Nordic woman spread oil in slow , writhing circles on the French woman’s ****, then turned her over, and did the same on her stomach, right above her ***, edging closer and closer down into her ****, and eventually fingering her entire **** and covering it with fragrant grease.

A black bird flew and cawed near a flock of screaming seagulls. The Nordic woman abruptly stopped her activities when a policeman on motorbike, of the Guardia Civil, parked on the highway above the beach. He scanned the beach and cliffs with binoculars and then sped away.

The two sirens then got dressed. Nothing like watching reverse striptease, observing them pull up their colored *** into the soft mounds of their **** and bras cupping up **** anew.

Both of them walked lazily down the beach to the edge of the rock outcropping and cliff that formed the boundary with the next little stretch of sand. As soon as they disappeared from view, I got up and followed their steps.

It couldn’t have been more than two minutes before that they had climbed over the rocks and turned into the next small cove. As I stepped over the sea-worn boulders and round the base of the cliff, I saw the beach. There were a few nude bathers, a young Spanish man and two women, but they weren’t the same two women who had just entered the cove.

Hesitantly, a bit embarrassed, I approached the three Spanish nudists.

“Excuse me,” I said in Spanish, “Did you just see two women, a German, I think and a brunette?” CONTINUE>

DVD Review: Jess Franco's Vampyros Lesbos

(©Copyright 2006, Euro-California Esoteric Books, Ltd.) All rights reserved. No part of this novel may be reproduced or transmited in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author. Publishing enquiries, serial rights, film rights contact here.)