Hammer-Horror

ANNA MEETS COUNT DRACULA… PART 32. AN EROTIC TALE BY SANDRA HARRIS.© STRICTLY FOR OVER-EIGHTEENS ONLY.

Hammer-Horror

ANNA MEETS COUNT DRACULA… PART 32. AN EROTIC TALE BY SANDRA HARRIS. © STRICTLY FOR OVER-EIGHTEENS ONLY.

After his encounter in his private dressing-room with Valeria, chief amongst his handmaidens, Count Dracula went straight to the master bedroom. Lady Anna Carfax eagerly awaited him there. She was naked, as Dracula had decreed she should always be, and her blonde, milky-skinned beauty almost took his breath away.

“Where have you been?” she cried, running towards him and grabbing hold of the folds of his black, satin-lined cape. “I’ve been waiting for you for hours.” She had to tilt her head back almost as far as it would go in order to look up into his face, because of his superior height of six feet five inches. Her huge blue eyes were brimming with unshed tears.

Count Dracula saw that she had placed the whip with which he would shortly beat her in readiness for him on the bed. His face gave nothing away as he removed her clinging hands from his garment and said:

“I had business to attend to.”

“But I need… I need…” began Anna tearfully.

What do you need?” mocked Dracula, turning to the huge four-poster bed and picking up the whip. He cut the air with it a couple of times, making Anna flinch.

“You know,” whispered Anna, flushing deeply.

“Say it,” commanded the Count.

“I need… to be… to be punished,” Anna said in barely audible tones. “I need to be… to be punished by you.”

“Then get into position,” he ordered curtly. Anna obediently bent herself over the edge of the bed, presenting her soft white buttocks to him for chastisement. She no longer cared that when she was in this position, Dracula had an unimpeded view of the cleft between her buttocks that led downwards towards her womanly parts.

All she cared about was feeling the sting of the whip on her unprotected nether regions. That was what Dracula had done to her. He had taught her to crave the pain he inflicted so cruelly. The first cut made her scream and thrash her legs about wildly.

“Be still!” snapped the Count, bringing the whip down savagely once more across her bottom. A second welt immediately criss-crossed the first. Anna screamed and thrashed about again but Dracula ignored her suffering and continued the punishment. Some ten or twelve times more, he brought the whip whistling through the air to land with a crack on Anna’s upturned backside.

When he was finished, he threw the whip aside and swiftly disrobed. Once the last of his garments had been discarded, he positioned himself behind the sobbing woman and inserted his swollen member between the pink, pretty lips of her sex.

Anna’s sobs quickly turned to moans and soft little cries. She called out his name repeatedly and drummed her small fists on the counterpane of the big bed. Afterwards, as they lay together between the cool linen sheets, Anna said petulantly:

“Why do you spend so much time away from me? Where do you go and what is it that  you do there? And why can’t I go with you?” Count Dracula’s face hardened and became cold.

“I have business to attend to elsewhere,” he said abruptly, repeating his statement of earlier. “Do not question me, or I assure you that you will have cause to regret it. A mere whipping will be the least of what you will receive.”

“Then may I go out alone?” Anna persisted. “I’m tired of being permitted to drink only the blood that Valeria and your handmaidens bring me. I want to drink fresh blood. I want to drink the blood of a live victim, one that I have sought out for myself. I can do that only if you will permit me to leave the castle. I promise that I shall return as soon as I have found what I need.” Dracula rose from the bed and dressed as quickly as he had disrobed.

“It is absolutely out of the question,” he snapped, his face thunderous. “You are not ready for the activities of which you speak. I doubt you ever will be. You are a weak and feeble woman, of limited intelligence and logic. You will remain in the castle, under my protection and jurisdiction, for as long as it pleases me. Speak of the subject again at your own peril.”

He turned and left the room, slamming the door so loudly that the reverberations were heard in the farthest reaches of the castle and Valeria and the handmaidens looked up from their various occupations in surprise and trepidation. Anna kneeled up on the bed and stared after his departing form. When the door had slammed behind him, she hissed and extended her fangs.

“I will have fresh blood,” she said out loud to the empty bedchamber. “I will. I’ll find a way, somehow. And you, Count Dracula, will not always be able to stop me.”

This story is a work of fiction and comes (almost!) entirely from the imagination of Sandra Harris. Any resemblance to any persons living or un-dead is purely coincidental.

This story is copyrighted material and any reproduction without prior permission is illegal. Sandra Harris reserves the right to be identified as the author of this story.

Sandra Harris. ©

AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY OF SANDRA HARRIS.

Sandra Harris is a Dublin-based performance poet, novelist, film blogger, sex blogger and short story writer. She has given more than 200 performances of her comedy sex-and-relationship poems in different venues around Dublin, including The Irish Writers’ Centre, The International Bar, Toners’ Pub (Ireland’s Most Literary Pub), the Ha’penny Inn and The Strokestown Poetry Festival.

Her articles, short stories and poems have appeared in The Metro-Herald newspaper, Ireland’s Big Issues magazine, The Irish Daily Star, The Irish Daily Sun and The Boyne Berries literary journal.

She is addicted to buying books and will swap you anything you like for Hammer Horror or JAWS memorabilia, and would be a great person to chat to about the differences between the Director’s Cut and the Theatrical Cut of The Wicker Man. You can contact her at:

sandrasandraharris@gmail.com

https://www.facebook.com/SandraHarrisPureFilthPoetry

http://sandrafirstruleoffilmclubharris.wordpress.com

http://sexysandieblog.wordpress.com

http://serenaharker.wordpress.com

drac_1513745c

ANNA MEETS COUNT DRACULA… PART 31. AN EROTIC TALE BY SANDRA HARRIS. © STRICTLY FOR OVER-EIGHTEENS ONLY.

drac_1513745c

ANNA MEETS COUNT DRACULA… PART 31. AN EROTIC TALE BY SANDRA HARRIS. © STRICTLY FOR OVER-EIGHTEENS ONLY.

Count Dracula had changed into fresh linen and was combing his slicked-back dark hair, edged with grey at the temples, when Valeria quietly entered the room. No-one, not even the nude handmaidens who normally did all the cleaning and tidying of the castle, was allowed into Dracula’s private dressing-room except for Valeria. Not even Anna, who for the most part was confined to her bedroom while she impatiently awaited the Count’s nocturnal visits.

“Does my Master require anything?” Valeria murmured as she approached him now. At six feet five inches in height, the Count towered over her as he did most people. Valeria, though she had served him for a long time, was always struck anew by his sternly handsome appearance each time she encountered him.

His eyes were so dark as to be almost black, and they were magnetic. Magnetic and compelling. They made Valeria feel as if she could get lost in them. His cheekbones were high and sharp, a direct result of his Eastern European heritage.

His lips were well-shaped and his jaw perpetually shadowed with an imminent growth of dark stubble, though he shaved every evening upon waking. He was the most handsome and charismatic man Valeria had ever known, and also the most suavely dangerous.

The Count shook his head.

“Not at the moment, Valeria,” he said.

“Master looks fatigued after his trip,” ventured Valeria then. Only her long standing as chief among his female servants emboldened her to make such a personal remark.

“It’s been a fatiguing few days,” the Count replied with a short, humourless laugh.

“How are things at Richmond House?” asked Valeria, referring to the house in London in which Lady Anna lived with her mother, Lady Grace Carfax, and her older brother, Sir Blaise Carfax. Had lived, Valeria corrected herself. Since her abduction by Count Dracula, Lady Anna now lived with Dracula in his castle in a remote spot in the English countryside, a place where it was unlikely she would be found. Unlikely, though not, Valeria supposed, impossible.

“Investigations into Lady Anna’s sudden disappearance are continuing apace,” Dracula replied with another short bark of a laugh. “Though not very successfully, I might add,” he went on as he fastened his cufflinks. “The Metropolitan Police are scratching their no doubt worthy heads in bafflement at the complexity of the case. I rather fancy that Lady Anna is quite safe where she is at present and that we have no immediate cause for alarm.” He had travelled to London incognito to check personally on the status of the investigation.

“That is indeed good, Master,” said Valeria. “And… and what of the new arrivals to Richmond House?” she continued, lowering her eyes demurely so that Dracula should not see the excitement in them. “Lady Athena Carfax and Lady Abigail Carfax? Did you… did you see them while you were there?”

“Yes, my dear Valeria, I saw them,” replied the Count, his dark eyes alight with mocking amusement. “And yes, they are as beautiful as you have heard. But no, I have no immediate plans to bring them here to the castle to join their pretty cousin, so you must swallow your disappointment as best you can and content yourself with being permitted the continued care of Lady Anna.”

Valeria flushed. She might have known that Count Dracula, who knew everything about her and who could read her thoughts as easily as if they were the printed word on a page before him, would be aware that she was desperate to get her hands on- and fangs into- the beautiful Carfax sisters, both cousins of Lady Anna’s.

Valeria’s preference in life had always been for soft, yielding female flesh. Lady Anna was truly a vision of beauty, but Valeria wanted the sisters too, and Count Dracula would not permit her to go to Richmond House to feast on them nocturnally there. She wondered if perhaps he was planning on keeping the delectable sisters for himself. It would not be the first time that such a thing had happened. Now she shrugged, feigning an indifference in which Dracula would be unlikely to believe.

“Is Master certain that he requires nothing further for the moment?” she said, easing the straps of her white Grecian-style gown down over her shoulders and baring her perfect, snowy-white breasts. “That he has no needs which he requires satisfying…?” she continued as she dropped to her knees in front of him. “Needs which Valeria can perhaps assist him with…?”

Dracula quirked an eyebrow at her in cynical amusement as he looked down upon her from his superior height. His finely-chiselled face betrayed no emotion as Valeria rearranged his linen and reverently removed his member, the pale, stiff stalk that Lady Anna had regarded with such mingled fear and fascination when she’d laid eyes on it first.

Neither did his face betray his true feelings when Valeria handled his member expertly for a time prior to taking it in her mouth and wrapping her full red lips around it, managing to encompass it fully despite its not inconsiderable girth. The lowering of the cynical eyebrow was the only sign he outwardly gave that Valeria’s bare-breasted and highly-dexterous manipulations were not entirely lost upon him.

This story is a work of fiction and comes (almost!) entirely from the imagination of Sandra Harris. Any resemblance to any persons living or un-dead is purely coincidental.

This story is copyrighted material and any reproduction without prior permission is illegal. Sandra Harris reserves the right to be identified as the author of this story.

Sandra Harris. ©

AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY OF SANDRA HARRIS.

Sandra Harris is a Dublin-based performance poet, novelist, film blogger, sex blogger and short story writer. She has given more than 200 performances of her comedy sex-and-relationship poems in different venues around Dublin, including The Irish Writers’ Centre, The International Bar, Toners’ Pub (Ireland’s Most Literary Pub), the Ha’penny Inn and The Strokestown Poetry Festival.

Her articles, short stories and poems have appeared in The Metro-Herald newspaper, Ireland’s Big Issues magazine, The Irish Daily Star, The Irish Daily Sun and The Boyne Berries literary journal.

She is addicted to buying books and will swap you anything you like for Hammer Horror or JAWS memorabilia, and would be a great person to chat to about the differences between the Director’s Cut and the Theatrical Cut of The Wicker Man. You can contact her at:

sandrasandraharris@gmail.com

https://www.facebook.com/SandraHarrisPureFilthPoetry

http://sandrafirstruleoffilmclubharris.wordpress.com

http://sexysandieblog.wordpress.com

http://serenaharker.wordpress.com

lee 2

ANNA MEETS COUNT DRACULA… PART 30. AN EROTIC TALE BY SANDRA HARRIS.© STRICTLY FOR OVER-EIGHTEENS ONLY.

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ANNA MEETS COUNT DRACULA… PART 30. AN EROTIC TALE BY SANDRA HARRIS. © STRICTLY FOR OVER-EIGHTEENS ONLY.

The bedroom door opened and Anna whirled round eagerly. She had woken from her slumber as usual just as night had fallen and drunk deeply from the goblet of blood that one of Dracula’s nude handmaidens had brought for her. Since then, she had been on tenterhooks waiting for the Count to come to her as he always did around this time.

She saw with disappointment that it was only Valeria, chief amongst Dracula’s handmaidens, who had entered the room. Naked, Anna moved away from the window where she’d been looking out, mesmerised, at the stars. She climbed up onto the enormous four-poster bed where Dracula made love to her every night and stared inquiringly at Valeria.

Anna no longer felt as embarrassed or self-conscious about her enforced nudity around Dracula’s handmaidens as she had done when she first arrived. The days she’d spent as Dracula’s mistress in his secluded castle deep in the heart of the English countryside had turned into weeks. During her stay, Valeria and the other women whom Dracula kept as servants had bathed and oiled and massaged every inch of Anna’s bare body every day. Only the Count himself had the power to make Anna blush and attempt to cover her nudity with the fierce intensity of his gaze.

Now, Anna said impatiently to Valeria:

“Well? Where is he? Where is Count Dracula? I’ve been waiting all evening for him.” Valeria bowed and replied quietly:

“Count Dracula sends his apologies, Lady Anna, but he has important business to attend to and he will be unable to attend at your bedchamber this night.” Anna stared at her in dismay.

“What?” she said. “But… but I need him here. I… I can’t be without him. He knows that.” A deep blush suffused her cheeks now as she thought of the whipping she received at the hands of the Count every night, followed always by love-making so powerful Anna knew that, even in her wildest imaginings, she would never experience its like again.

Count Dracula was supremely masterful at both activities. True to his word, she’d been stripped naked and whipped daily since she’d lived with him. Over the course of the time she’d spent at his castle, Anna had grown to love and crave equally the punishment and the pleasure he meted out to her. The thought of going without, even for one night, filled her with dread.

“If it pleases you, Lady Anna,” Valeria said then, “the Master has authorised me to carry out your punishment for tonight.”

“You?” said Anna incredulously, her china-blue eyes wide. “But… but…” Her words trailed away. It was better to have Valeria do it, surely, however unsatisfactorily, than to go without altogether? She needed the whipping, in some ways almost more than she needed the lovemaking that followed it. Her body craved it and longed for it every night now.

When she remembered how much she’d loathed being made to bend over and touch her toes, shamefully bare-bottomed, for Miss Cushing’s birch in her past life, Anna found it incredible that she should desire the whip so much. She shrugged.

“Very well,” she said. “If that is the Count’s wish.” She got into position on all fours on the bed, her soft white bottom raised high and facing outwards towards the room as the Count had taught her to do, while Valeria fetched the Count’s whip from the cupboard. Anna put her head down, her long blonde hair pooling like silk on the bed, and waited quietly with her bottom upraised and her heart pounding.

The first stroke lashed down across her tender skin and she screamed in pain. Valeria, with her inferior physical strength, had not struck her as hard as the Count would have been able to do but she’d hurt her just the same. Some ten or twelve strokes or equal ferocity blazed a trail across Anna’s buttocks while Anna howled and desperately shook her agonised bottom from side to side in a futile attempt to ease the pain.

When eventually the punishment ceased, Anna collapsed face-down onto the bed and sobbed hysterically. After a while, she became aware that Valeria was dropping a series of light kisses across her hotly punished buttocks. The sensation was pleasurable, so much so that it was almost erasing the pain of the whipping. Anna lay perfectly still, still face-down, her pulses racing, while Valeria continued to kiss and caress her buttocks.

Slowly, infinitesimally, Anna parted her thighs and raised her bottom, though not for the whip this time. When she felt Valeria’s tongue beginning to probe between the damp, swollen lips of her sex, her whole body shuddered in pleasure. She pushed all thoughts of Count Dracula from her mind. Nothing existed for her, nothing mattered but Valeria’s tongue bringing the contractions of her orgasm ever closer.

When it happened, it shook her to her core. She lay on the bed and sobbed, but now her tears were softer and sweeter. They were tears of relief. When she opened her eyes, Valeria had divested herself of her white, Grecian-style gown and was lying fully nude beside Anna. As Anna stared, wide-eyed, Valeria parted her alabaster thighs so Anna could see that the pink lips of her sex were glistening with moisture. Valeria smiled and put her hand gently but firmly on the back of Anna’s head and guided it towards her exposed sex.

“Drink, Anna,” Valeria said quietly. And Anna, forgetting Count Dracula and everything else, bent her head and drank.

This story is a work of fiction and comes (almost!) entirely from the imagination of Sandra Harris. Any resemblance to any persons living or un-dead is purely coincidental.

This story is copyrighted material and any reproduction without prior permission is illegal. Sandra Harris reserves the right to be identified as the author of this story.

Sandra Harris. ©

AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY OF SANDRA HARRIS.

Sandra Harris is a Dublin-based performance poet, novelist, film blogger, sex blogger and short story writer. She has given more than 200 performances of her comedy sex-and-relationship poems in different venues around Dublin, including The Irish Writers’ Centre, The International Bar, Toners’ Pub (Ireland’s Most Literary Pub), the Ha’penny Inn and The Strokestown Poetry Festival.

Her articles, short stories and poems have appeared in The Metro-Herald newspaper, Ireland’s Big Issues magazine, The Irish Daily Star, The Irish Daily Sun and The Boyne Berries literary journal.

She is addicted to buying books and will swap you anything you like for Hammer Horror or JAWS memorabilia, and would be a great person to chat to about the differences between the Director’s Cut and the Theatrical Cut of The Wicker Man. You can contact her at:

sandrasandraharris@gmail.com

https://www.facebook.com/SandraHarrisPureFilthPoetry

http://sandrafirstruleoffilmclubharris.wordpress.com

http://sexysandieblog.wordpress.com

http://serenaharker.wordpress.com

lee 4

ANNA MEETS COUNT DRACULA… PART 29. AN EROTIC TALE BY SANDRA HARRIS.© STRICTLY FOR OVER-EIGHTEENS ONLY.

lee 4

ANNA MEETS COUNT DRACULA… PART 29. AN EROTIC TALE BY SANDRA HARRIS. © STRICTLY FOR OVER-EIGHTEENS ONLY.

Nicholas Flint walked quickly away from the prostitute and back down the pitch-black Vinegar Lane the way he’d come. He had a spring in his step and a grin on his face that broadened every time a woman scuttled away from him, her eyes wide with fear and mistrust. It was this Jack The Ripper fellow who’d put the fear of God into the women of Whitechapel, if not the whole of London itself.

Women were beginning to look upon every man they came across as a possible Jack The Ripper, someone who would cut their throats in a heartbeat and slash at their innards with his pointy knife. Flint had respect and admiration for the man and his work, but the idea of so much blood and mess left him cold. Flint knew a better way, a quicker, cleaner way.

He’d nearly tried it on the prostitute he’d left behind in Vinegar Lane but, though she’d been attractive enough in her own way, she was thirty-five if she was a day and tired, dead tired-looking, with a worried expression that furrowed her brow and made her look older.

She hadn’t had the fresh-faced, wide-eyed look that appealed to him more than anything else. The look of the woman who confronted him boldly now as he turned down Farthing Lane and made to cross the road which would take him into the Penny Whistle Pub for a nice little pick-me-up.

“Fancy a good time, lovey?” she said, her tones as coarse and uneducated as he would have expected from one of her ilk. She was eyeing him up and openly appreciating what she saw. With his dark hair that needed cutting, brown eyes so dark as to be almost black and good strong build, Nicholas was used to being an object of attention and desire where women were concerned. He returned her bold stare and said, in the roughened tones he’d been perfecting:

“How do you propose to show me a good time, then, my little flower?”

“I have me ways, sir,” she giggled. Flint looked her over with interest. She was about twenty-one or two, with roses in her cheeks and long dark curly hair that tumbled down over the bodice of her low-cut gown. The gown was undoubtedly shabby, but the breasts that spilled out over the top of it were round and white and if Flint had been asked, he’d have said they were sublime.

She had a full complement of teeth too, unlike most of the women who worked the grimy streets of Whitechapel, and she hadn’t yet developed the tired skin and expression of used-up, despairing hopelessness common to the older prostitutes.

Flint hesitated. He’d availed of satisfying congress with one prostitute already tonight. But this girl was beautiful, as fresh-faced and wide-eyed as he could have hoped for. And he was by no means tired. He was rarely tired.

“Where?” he said gruffly.

“I know a place,” said the girl, taking hold of his arm and pulling him with her down a darkened alleyway that led off Farthing Lane. As they walked, she prattled on cheerfully, telling him that her name was, appropriately enough, Rosie, and that she had a little boy of two years old called Eddie.

When they reached what looked to Flint like the backyard of a disused and dilapidated house, she turned to face him with a wink and said: “So, how do you want me, sir?” For answer, he pushed her up against the wall of the house and kissed her violently, forcing his tongue between her teeth. He scooped the huge snowy-white breasts out of the neckline of her gown and squeezed them together painfully. Rosie gasped, then giggled again.

“Ooooh, you’re a right one, you are, sir,” she said.

“Am I, now?” he said as he bent her face-down over a rain-barrel and yanked down her drawers to reveal a backside as round and flawlessly white as her breasts. He caught his breath at the sight of it, then fondled it briefly. Rosie squirmed and moaned, evidently enjoying the feel of his hand on her bare bottom.

Within seconds, Flint had lowered his trousers and inserted his newly-swollen member between the plump pink lips of Rosie’s sex. She continued to squirm and moan as she remained obediently bent over the rain-barrel. Flint could have sworn that her enjoyment was genuine. He felt his excitement beginning to build.

He thought of two things as he leaned over her and prepared to make his move. The way her eyes would widen with horror as she guessed his intention, and the fact that Jack The Ripper, whoever he was, would in all likelihood take the blame for his, Flint’s, crime. He could no longer contain his excitement. He wrapped both hands round her neck from behind and squeezed with all his strength.

This story is a work of fiction and comes (almost!) entirely from the imagination of Sandra Harris. Any resemblance to any persons living or un-dead is purely coincidental.

This story is copyrighted material and any reproduction without prior permission is illegal. Sandra Harris reserves the right to be identified as the author of this story.

Sandra Harris. ©

AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY OF SANDRA HARRIS.

Sandra Harris is a Dublin-based performance poet, novelist, film blogger, sex blogger and short story writer. She has given more than 200 performances of her comedy sex-and-relationship poems in different venues around Dublin, including The Irish Writers’ Centre, The International Bar, Toners’ Pub (Ireland’s Most Literary Pub), the Ha’penny Inn and The Strokestown Poetry Festival.

Her articles, short stories and poems have appeared in The Metro-Herald newspaper, Ireland’s Big Issues magazine, The Irish Daily Star, The Irish Daily Sun and The Boyne Berries literary journal.

She is addicted to buying books and will swap you anything you like for Hammer Horror or JAWS memorabilia, and would be a great person to chat to about the differences between the Director’s Cut and the Theatrical Cut of The Wicker Man. You can contact her at:

sandrasandraharris@gmail.com

https://www.facebook.com/SandraHarrisPureFilthPoetry

http://sandrafirstruleoffilmclubharris.wordpress.com

http://sexysandieblog.wordpress.com

http://serenaharker.wordpress.com

oblong-box-vincent-price

THE OBLONG BOX. 1969. DIRECTED BY GORDON HESSLER. STARRING VINCENT PRICE, CHRISTOPHER LEE AND ALISTER WILLIAMSON. REVIEW BY SANDRA HARRIS.©

oblong-box-vincent-price

THE OBLONG BOX. 1969. DIRECTED BY GORDON HESSLER. STARRING VINCENT PRICE, CHRISTOPHER LEE AND ALISTER WILLIAMSON. REVIEW BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

This film, the first in which horror heavyweights Vincent Price and Christopher Lee appear together, is a cracking little British horror set in mid-Victorian England. Vincent Price plays Sir Julian Markham, a rich landowner who keeps a guilty little secret locked in an upstairs bedroom. The secret is his brother Edward, who suffered a hideous voodoo- related deformity at the hands of the natives while on a trip to Africa. Now Sir Julian keeps him chained out of sight for his own good and the good, one imagines, of the family name.

Sir Edward, however, is basically thinking, screw this for a game of soldiers, and he plans to escape by means of an ingeniously convoluted plan. With the help of the family lawyer, Trench, a man motivated purely by financial gains, and a witch doctor called N’Galo, he fakes his own death using a drug concocted by N’Galo which simulates a deathlike state.

The plan goes awry when Sir Julian finds his brother ‘dead’ and seals him immediately into his coffin, or oblong box. He charges Trench with the task of finding a less hideous corpse for the local clergyman and others from the village to view and pray over. He tells Trench that he will pay him handsomely for his services.

Trench and N’Galo, unable to resist such a tempting offer, forget all about their deal with Sir Edward and toddle off to kill a chap by the name of Tom Hackett. The unscrupulous pair, along with a fellow called Norton, tip Hackett over a bridge when Sir Julian no longer has need of his attractive corpse. Sir Julian buries his brother and makes plans to marry his betrothed, Elizabeth, now that he’s no longer keeping his sibling chained up in one of the bedrooms. It’s amazing what a deterrent to matrimony that can be…!

In an incredible twist of fate, however, Sir Edward is dug up by gravediggers and delivered into the hands of a Dr. Neuhartt, a medical man who experiments on cadavers brought to him fresh from the grave. Dr. Neuhartt, handsomely and sexily and smoulderingly played by Christopher Lee- yes, I’m bloody well biased…!- gets the shock of his life when he is blackmailed into sheltering the grotesquely deformed Sir Edward, who has now taken to sporting a dashing ‘crimson hood’ to conceal his rather obvious lack of looks.

Thus garbed, Sir Edward gets busy, and within a short space of time he has murdered Norton and Trench, fallen in love with Dr. Neuhartt’s maid, a hot little strumpet called Sally, and had sexual relations with and murdered a stunningly beautiful but greedy prostitute called Heidi. Wow. That is busy. He’s also inadvertently attracted a shed-load of unwanted attention to himself and his dubious activities in the process.

He’s also tracked down N’Galo with a view to asking him to cure his deformity and discovered that the voodoo curse that has ruined his life was visited upon him because of a crime committed by his brother, Sir Julian. Well…! Dont’cha just hate it when that happens…? When the witch doctor fails to cure him, the pair fight, leaving Sir Edward wounded and N’Galo with a most unwelcome faceful of hot tar.

Sir Edward makes his way to Dr. Neuhartt’s place for medical attention. He ends up killing the devastatingly handsome poor doctor (yes, still biased!) instead, however, and heading over to the family pile for a showdown with his treacherous brother. The showdown results in Sir Edward being shot dead by Sir Julian, and in Sir Julian being viciously bitten by Sir Edward on the hand.

There are even more twists in this great-value-for-money film when a seriously pissed-off N’Galo revives Sir Edward in his coffin, but there is no more escape for Sir Edward from ‘the oblong box…’ Finally, Elizabeth discovers her beloved Sir Julian hiding out in his brother’s old bedroom-slash-prison. She is horrified to see the first signs of deformity on her boyfriend’s face, and the film ends when Sir Julian informs her that his brother’s old room is ‘his room’ now…

Ooooh-er. Chilling stuff. This film, based on a short story by Edgar Allan Poe, gave me exactly what I require in a horror movie from this period. The scenery is gorgeous, the acting is good and Price and Lee each bring their A-game. Watch it. You’ll love it. And if you don’t, maybe a spell in the oblong box will put manners- and good taste- on you…

AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY OF SANDRA HARRIS.

Sandra Harris is a Dublin-based performance poet, novelist, film blogger, sex blogger and short story writer. She has given more than 200 performances of her comedy sex-and-relationship poems in different venues around Dublin, including The Irish Writers’ Centre, The International Bar, Toners’ Pub (Ireland’s Most Literary Pub), the Ha’penny Inn and The Strokestown Poetry Festival.

Her articles, short stories and poems have appeared in The Metro-Herald newspaper, Ireland’s Big Issues magazine, The Irish Daily Star, The Irish Daily Sun and The Boyne Berries literary journal.

She is addicted to buying books and will swap you anything you like for Hammer Horror or JAWS memorabilia, and would be a great person to chat to about the differences between the Director’s Cut and the Theatrical Cut of The Wicker Man. You can contact her at:

sandrasandraharris@gmail.com

https://www.facebook.com/SandraHarrisPureFilthPoetry

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lee 7

ANNA MEETS COUNT DRACULA… PART 28. AN EROTIC TALE BY SANDRA HARRIS.© STRICTLY FOR OVER-EIGHTEENS ONLY.

lee 7

ANNA MEETS COUNT DRACULA… PART 28. AN EROTIC TALE BY SANDRA HARRIS. © STRICTLY FOR OVER-EIGHTEENS ONLY.

Vera Stoker, Bessie’s mother, stood self-consciously outside the pub known as The Frying Pan and tried her hardest to look confident and available, the way she’d seen the other women do it. She’d curled her brown hair carefully and rouged her cheeks and put on her least patched and worn dress under her coat. Several men passing by eyed her with interest but none approached her.

It was Vera’s first time. The money she made as a seamstress was not sufficient to feed and clothe her seven remaining children, even when coupled with Bessie’s wages. Bessie was a good girl, Vera reflected now as she watched a drunken couple fall out of The Frying Pan shrieking with laughter before picking themselves up and staggering off down the road together. Bessie gave her mother most of her wages, the money she made working as a kitchen maid in Richmond House, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing was ever nearly enough.

“You working, love?” said a man suddenly in Vera’s ear. Vera recoiled at the foul, fetid breath that assailed her nostrils. She shook her head and turned away, her heart pounding. The man, fat and greasy-looking and stinking of fish, shrugged. “Suit yourself, love,” he said nastily. “It’s no skin off my nose.” He walked off down the road and was soon lost to sight.

Vera bit her lip. Vera, you stupid fool, she chided herself. You can’t afford to be choosy. You’ve got seven kiddies at home that need feeding and a husband who’s gone off God knows where with some tart. You can’t pick and choose who you go with, not when it’s a matter of the kiddies going hungry. But the man outside the pub had been repulsive. Her stomach had churned at the thought of being in close proximity to him.

She walked until she’d left The Frying Pan several streets behind her, looking nervously around her as she went. She thought about what the fiend known as ‘Jack The Ripper’ had done to Polly Nichols and Dark Annie, to Long Liz and Catherine Eddowes, and shuddered as she stationed herself near the entrance to one of the many dark back-alleys that made up Whitechapel.

It made her want to retch, thinking about what had been done to those poor women. She knew a woman who’d known both Mary Ann Nichols and Annie Chapman. She forced the gruesome thoughts out of her mind and tried to think instead of her children, aged from fourteen months to fifteen, not including Bessie, who was a month shy of her nineteenth birthday.

It was hard, too, not to think of her failing eyesight that would soon make it impossible for her to do the immaculate stitching for which she was known and which was her children’s bread and butter. Years of sewing in the guttering light of a candle-end had caused her worsening sight.

What she would do to support herself when she was no longer capable of sewing fine work was something she could scarcely bear to think about. It was what had brought her out onto the murky streets of Whitechapel at the height of the most frenzied killing-spree that London had ever known.

“You working, love?” said a soft voice in her ear, startling her. Vera stared at him. He was about thirty-five, with dark shaggy hair and brown eyes and a strong build. He looked at Vera as if he liked what he saw. Vera bit down hard on her lip, then she nodded. “Down here, then,” he said, indicating that Vera should come with him down the dark deserted alley. When they reached the darkest part, so dark and foggy that Vera could hardly see her hand in front of her face, he said gruffly:

“Turn around. Face the wall.” Her heart pounding, Vera did as she was ordered. “Hold up your skirts,” he said, his voice beginning to shake a little from excitement. Vera felt the cold air on her bare buttocks when he pulled her drawers down. Behind her, she heard the clunk-clink of his belt being unbuckled, then she groaned involuntarily as his stiff member pushed its way between the lips of her sex. She felt the stranger squeeze the twin cheeks of her backside and separate them to better facilitate his passage.

His hands felt and fondled her heavy breasts that had suckled all eight of her children, then they moved upwards till they encircled her throat. Vera stiffened. This is it, she thought frantically. It’s him. He’s The Ripper. This is my last day on earth and I’ve seen my children for the last time.

She waited for the slash of the knife across her throat that would spill her life’s blood on the ground around her. It never came. The man behind her grunted loudly and intensified both his movements and the pressure on her throat, then he released her. Vera’s legs buckled beneath her and she sank to the ground. The man adjusted his clothing, then he reached into the pocket of his coat and extracted a coin which he tossed on the ground beside Vera.

“Nice doing business with you,” he said with a grin, then he disappeared back down the pitch-black alley from which they’d just come. Vera released the breath she’d been unconsciously holding and burst into noisy, hysterical sobs. How can I do this every night? she wondered despairingly. If The Ripper doesn’t kill me, the terror of him surely will. She stayed sitting on the ground, sobbing, until she felt strong enough to stand up again. Then she picked herself up and went home to her children.

This story is a work of fiction and comes (almost!) entirely from the imagination of Sandra Harris. Any resemblance to any persons living or un-dead is purely coincidental.

This story is copyrighted material and any reproduction without prior permission is illegal. Sandra Harris reserves the right to be identified as the author of this story.

Sandra Harris. ©

AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY OF SANDRA HARRIS.

Sandra Harris is a Dublin-based performance poet, novelist, film blogger, sex blogger and short story writer. She has given more than 200 performances of her comedy sex-and-relationship poems in different venues around Dublin, including The Irish Writers’ Centre, The International Bar, Toners’ Pub (Ireland’s Most Literary Pub), the Ha’penny Inn and The Strokestown Poetry Festival.

Her articles, short stories and poems have appeared in The Metro-Herald newspaper, Ireland’s Big Issues magazine, The Irish Daily Star, The Irish Daily Sun and The Boyne Berries literary journal.

She is addicted to buying books and will swap you anything you like for Hammer Horror or JAWS memorabilia, and would be a great person to chat to about the differences between the Director’s Cut and the Theatrical Cut of The Wicker Man. You can contact her at:

sandrasandraharris@gmail.com

https://www.facebook.com/SandraHarrisPureFilthPoetry

http://sandrafirstruleoffilmclubharris.wordpress.com

http://sexysandieblog.wordpress.com

http://serenaharker.wordpress.com

count dracula

ANNA MEETS COUNT DRACULA… PART 27. AN EROTIC TALE BY SANDRA HARRIS. © STRICTLY FOR OVER-EIGHTEENS ONLY.

dracula_1894931i

ANNA MEETS COUNT DRACULA… PART 27. AN EROTIC TALE BY SANDRA HARRIS. © STRICTLY FOR OVER-EIGHTEENS ONLY.

Bessie Stoker hurried through the dark, fog-wreathed streets of Whitechapel, looking nervously to the left and right of her as she went. Though there were plenty of people about, she was frightened half to death by the notion that any one of the men who passed her, most of them muffled up in coats and caps because of the chill weather, might be Jack The Ripper.  And though there were people about, no-one seemed to be lingering. Everyone was scuttling almost, both men and women alike, as if they were afraid to loiter as they went about their business.

Women had been brutally murdered over the course of the past few weeks, their throats cut and their bodies mutilated. The newspapers were calling it The Autumn Of Terror. People who could avoid Whitechapel did so. Bessie would most certainly not have ventured into the warren of dirty, gaslit streets herself were it not for the fact that her family lived there. The two rooms in the ramshackle lodging-house in Stocking Lane were home to her mother and seven younger brothers and sisters.

Bessie, as the eldest of the eight children, gave her mother Vera most of her wages from her job as kitchen maid in the Carfax household. Vera Stoker was an expert seamstress and paid the rent on their two rooms by taking in sewing. There was little enough left over for food and clothing, though, which was why Bessie stole bread and potatoes and other little foodstuffs from the kitchens at Richmond House whenever she could and brought it to Stocking Lane.

Tonight, in addition to a few potatoes and a pocket handkerchief filled with rice, she’d brought them a pork pie that had gone stale and been thrown away. Bessie had retrieved it from the dustbin and delivered it to her hungry family, who’d fallen on it like dogs. It had broken her heart to see it.

If she was caught pilfering, it would mean instant dismissal from her job, without references, and probably the strap as well from Mrs. Whitby the housekeeper or Mr. Wilkes the butler, both of whom ran a tight ship. But what was she supposed to do? She couldn’t see her family starve, could she?

It was with relief that she left the streets of Whitechapel behind her and headed for Richmond House. It was her evening off and she was on time, but she still hurried for fear of being even a minute late and getting into trouble. She let herself in by the side door and, from there, up the backstairs to her boxroom in the servants’ quarters.

She quickly pulled off her coat, hat and gloves and put them away. She then stripped off her gown and draped it over the one chair in the room before removing her underthings and beginning to take the pins out of her long brown hair. Naked except for her little black buttoned-up boots and thick brown woollen stockings, she put the pins away in a little box on her bedside table and picked up her hairbrush, oblivious to the gentle click of the door opening behind her. Quick as a flash, a pair of strong male hands covered her eyes from behind and a deep masculine voice said:

“It’s me, Jack The Ripper, and I’ve come to get you, Bessie Stoker!” Bessie shrieked and whirled round to see Thomas Renfield, the Carfax family footman, grinning all over his handsome face at her.

“Thomas Renfield, you wicked devil, how could you?” she cried, beating her little fists ineffectually against his chest. “There I was, hurrying away from Whitechapel and frightened half to death for fear that I should meet the Ripper himself, and you think it’s funny to play a prank like that on a girl who was lucky to escape with her life from those God-forsaken streets? You should be ashamed of yourself, Thomas Renfield, and no mistake!” Thomas immediately flashed her a repentant grin.

“Give over, Bessie love,” he wheedled, pulling her into his arms and squeezing her big round naked buttocks. “It was only a joke. How was I supposed to know you’d start yelling the place down fit to wake the dead?” No doubt seeing that more protests were forthcoming, he bent his head and covered Bessie’s mouth with his own.

As he slipped his tongue between her lips, he inveigled a hand between her thighs. He parted the brown silky curls that covered her mound and lightly rubbed her secret place. When Bessie, somewhat against her better nature, began to tremble and sigh against him, he grinned and said:

“That’s my girl, Bessie love. You don’t want to be yelling and fighting me, not when we could be doing much nicer things. Things like this.” Bessie moaned despite herself and Thomas went on: “I don’t have much time, Bessie love. Why don’t you be a good girl now and kneel up on the bed for me?”

Bessie hesitated, then she climbed up on the bed and positioned herself as he’d directed. With her white soft bottom in the air and her full breasts and long brown hair hanging down, she looked back at him over her shoulder and said:

“This don’t mean I forgive you, Thomas Renfield.” Thomas unbuttoned his fly and lifted out his already swollen member. He stood behind her and began to ease himself between the pink glistening lips of her womanly parts.

“I didn’t think for a minute it did, Bessie love,” he said.

This story is a work of fiction and comes (almost!) entirely from the imagination of Sandra Harris. Any resemblance to any persons living or un-dead is purely coincidental.

This story is copyrighted material and any reproduction without prior permission is illegal. Sandra Harris reserves the right to be identified as the author of this story.

Sandra Harris. ©

AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY OF SANDRA HARRIS.

Sandra Harris is a Dublin-based performance poet, novelist, film blogger, sex blogger and short story writer. She has given more than 200 performances of her comedy sex-and-relationship poems in different venues around Dublin, including The Irish Writers’ Centre, The International Bar, Toners’ Pub (Ireland’s Most Literary Pub), the Ha’penny Inn and The Strokestown Poetry Festival.

Her articles, short stories and poems have appeared in The Metro-Herald newspaper, Ireland’s Big Issues magazine, The Irish Daily Star, The Irish Daily Sun and The Boyne Berries literary journal.

She is addicted to buying books and will swap you anything you like for Hammer Horror or JAWS memorabilia, and would be a great person to chat to about the differences between the Director’s Cut and the Theatrical Cut of The Wicker Man. You can contact her at:

sandrasandraharris@gmail.com

https://www.facebook.com/SandraHarrisPureFilthPoetry

http://sandrafirstruleoffilmclubharris.wordpress.com

http://sexysandieblog.wordpress.com

http://serenaharker.wordpress.com