scream

SCREAM. 1996. DIRECTED BY WES CRAVEN. STARRING DREW BARRYMORE, NEVE CAMPBELL, COURTNEY COX, DAVID ARQUETTE, MATTHEW LILLARD, ROSE MCGOWAN, LIEV SCHREIBER AND SKEET ULRICH. REVIEW BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

scream

SCREAM. 1996. DIRECTED BY WES CRAVEN. STARRING DREW BARRYMORE, NEVE CAMPBELL, COURTNEY COX, DAVID ARQUETTE, MATTHEW LILLARD, ROSE MCGOWAN, LIEV SCHREIBER AND SKEET ULRICH. REVIEW BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

On the one hand, this film struck me as being one of the daftest, most unbelievable couple of hours ever to be committed to celluloid. On the other hand, however, it references about a dozen iconic movies in the horror canon, from PSYCHO and THE EXORCIST to NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET and HALLOWEEN, so I guess it’s all good.

A serial killer known as Ghostface is cutting a bit of a bloody swathe through the teens of Woodsboro, a small(ish) fictional American town that looks a lot like the town in NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET, which is not surprising seeing as both films were directed by Wes Craven. Pretty blonde Casey, played by Drew Barrymore, and her boyfriend Steve are the first to be bumped off by the instantly recognisable guy in the black robe and the scary mask. A rampage through Casey’s house leaves the poor teenager strung up on a tree in the back yard and her boyfriend tied to a chair, dead as a doornail.

The killer, who’s a bit of a bungler and is not immune from being kicked in the crotch and whacked in the face with things, thereby rendering him about as scary as hot buttered toast, then concentrates his attentions on Sid, played by Neve Campbell. (What? He’s a total klutz, this guy. You don’t see Michael Myers from HALLOWEEN falling on his ass every five minutes, do you? That guy’s got more class and style in his little finger than Ghostface has got in his whole body. There, I’ve said it. Judge me harshly if you want.)

Sid has a complicated back-story. Her mom was raped and murdered a year ago by an unknown assailant. A chap called Cotton Weary (God-awful name) was put away for the crime but some people don’t believe in his guilt. People like pushy news reporter Gale Weathers, for example, who’s mad-keen to break into the big-time and thinks she can do it with this story of the slaughtered teens.

Along the way, incidentally, Gale, played by FRIENDS actress Courtney Cox, manages to fall in love- or at least lust- with her husband in real life, David Arquette. He plays Deputy Sheriff Dewey, who’s not the sharpest tool in the box but he does get the girl in the end, so there you go.

There’s not much more to say about the film, really. The teens of Woodsboro hold a big house party at which Sid’s best friend Tatum encounters the killer and dies an interesting death in the garage door. Sid has sex for the first time- naughty Sid!- with her super-hot boyfriend Billy Loomis, played by Skeet Ulrich. (Loomis, geddit…???) Unfortunately for Sid, Billy is revealed to be the killer shortly after her deflowering. Don’t you just hate that? You give your most precious possession to a guy, and then he tries to kill you just because your mom was the reason that his Dad left his mom.

Yep, it seems that Billy-boy was the unknown assailant responsible for the death of Sid’s mother. He doesn’t get away with his dastardly deed, however. He gets shot by Gale Weathers- don’t ask- and that, thank God, is the end of that chapter. Sid’s okay, her dad’s okay, all’s well that ends well, etcetera.

I loved the clips from HALLOWEEN and the scene where one of the teens is talking us through how not to get killed in a horror movie. I enjoyed seeing ‘Fred’ the janitor cleaning the school in his battered hat and stripy jumper (remind you of anyone?), and also clocking the frequent references to famous horror movies. The final scenes were a bit of a laugh too, I suppose. Not entirely a dead loss so, you could say. I probably won’t watch it again, though. Once was enough.

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

https://twitter.com/SandraAuthor

Hammer-Horror

ANNA MEETS COUNT DRACULA… PART 37. AN EROTIC HORROR TALE BY SANDRA HARRIS. © STRICTLY FOR OVER-EIGHTEENS ONLY.

Hammer-Horror

ANNA MEETS COUNT DRACULA… PART 36. AN EROTIC HORROR TALE BY SANDRA HARRIS. © STRICTLY FOR OVER-EIGHTEENS ONLY.

“Where have you been?” snapped Anna, her blue eyes blazing as she whirled to face her lover, Count Dracula. “I haven’t seen you for nearly a week. I’ve been going out of my mind, locked up here with only Valeria and your handmaidens for company.”

“I’ve been busy,” replied the Count abruptly. He removed his long black cape, tossed it on a chair and began to disrobe, ignoring Anna’s indignant glare.

“Busy?” echoed Anna. “Doing what? And where? What can have kept you so busy that you disappear for days and nights on end?” She was conscious of sounding shrill but she didn’t care. Without the Count to whip her and make love to her nightly, she was bored, agitated and unfulfilled.

Valeria administered the whippings to her in the Count’s absence, the whippings the Count deemed necessary to her education as a woman. Valeria even made love to Anna illicitly with her fingers and her lips and her tongue but, when all was said and done, she was a woman, albeit a vampire woman, and most of all she wasn’t Count Dracula. It was he whom Anna needed, to mete out pain and pleasure in equal amounts and to make her experience sensations she’d never even dreamed of in all of her twenty-two years.

“That is none of your affair,” Dracula said coldly, pausing in the act of undoing his cufflinks to fix her with his sternest stare. “If you are wise, you will hold your tongue and question me no further.”

“Is it something to do with your brother Nikolai?” Anna said slyly. “Valeria told me you’re not happy about his leaving Romania and coming here to England.” Dracula crossed the room in two quick strides and took her by her shoulders.

Anna was shocked at the anger she saw in his face and realised immediately that she had been wrong to bring up the subject of his brother, of whom the Count had never before spoken to her. Valeria had warned her to remain silent about the matter and now, looking up at him nervously, Anna wished that she’d heeded the warning.

“How dare you mention that name in this house?” hissed the Count, shaking her by her shoulders till her head wagged back and forth helplessly. “Valeria was wrong to speak of him and, believe me, she will be severely punished for it.”

“I’m sorry,” gasped Anna as the shaking continued. “Please, Master, let me go. Please.” With a snort of contempt, Count Dracula released her and she fell backwards onto the bed, her long blonde hair dishevelled and her eyes brimming with unshed tears. Naked to the waist, the Count picked up the whip that habitually rested on the dressing-table.

He expertly flipped Anna over so that she lay face-down across the edge of the bed. Then he straightaway brought the whip down savagely some fifteen or twenty times on her naked back, buttocks and thighs, ignoring her cries of pain and pleas for mercy. When he was done he threw the whip across the room with a grunt.

“I see that discipline in my castle has become lax in my absence,” he remarked as he finished disrobing. “Well, now that I have returned, my little Anna, you may be assured that order will be restored without delay.” Fully naked now, he climbed onto the bed and stretched out full-length beside the trembling Anna.

“Go away, I hate you,” she sobbed as he lightly stroked her injured back and bottom and kissed her lingeringly all over her face.

“Do you?” he said softly as he slipped a hand between her thighs and began to lazily caress the tiny sensitive nub secreted between the moist lips of her sex. “Do you really hate me, my little Anna? What about now?” he added, increasing the pressure of his probing fingers on her most secret place. Anna moaned. “Do you hate me now, Anna…?” The cry she gave was torn from her with a great wrench.

“No!” she sobbed. “You know I don’t. You know I love you more than anything else in the world. You know that I cannot even conceive of an existence without you.”

“That’s what I thought,” murmured the Count, satisfied. In one fluid movement, he mounted her and prepared to make his entrance.

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

https://twitter.com/SandraAuthor

Featured Image -- 1460

FIFTY FILTHY-DIRTY SEX POEMS YOU MUST READ BEFORE I DIE. BY SANDRA HARRIS.

Originally posted on sandrafirstruleoffilmclubharris:

FIFTY FILTHY COVER

A collection of short, rude funny sex-poems. No stone left unturned in this hilariously bitchy and wickedly honest look at sex today. No, that’s it, nothing else. Just sex. Well, maybe a few bizarre fetishes, but that’s still just sex, isn’t it…? We’ll go with sex. Let’s just say sex. This book is about sex. It’s a sex-book…!

BUY IT WHILE IT’S HOT!!!

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dark water

DARK WATER. 2002. DIRECTED BY HIDEO NAKATA. STARRING HITOMI KUROKI, RIO KANNO, MIREO OGUCHI AND ASAMI MIZUKAWA. REVIEW BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

dark water

DARK WATER. 2002. DIRECTED BY HIDEO NAKATA. STARRING HITOMI KUROKI, RIO KANNO, MIREI OGUCHI AND ASAMI MIZUKAWA. REVIEW BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

Yoshimi Matsubara has big problems. Her estranged husband is determined to wrest custody of their six-year-old daughter Ikuko from her, and he’s a dirty fighter to boot. With her little girl, she’s just moved into a leaky apartment in a creepy old building staffed by an indifferent concièrge. Now she’s a single mum, she’s got to work for her bread and butter and she’s finding it hard to fit her job as a proofreader around her responsibilities as a mammy.

As the title might suggest, this is a very wet movie. Yoshimi is alarmed to observe that there are wet, dripping patches on the ceiling of their apartment that the building personnel don’t seem overly concerned about. When Yoshimi goes upstairs in the lift to talk to their overhead neighbour about the leak, there’s no-one there, though she does see the door open just as she’s heading back downstairs in the lift. Who’s there? That apartment’s been empty for months, ever since the parents of a missing schoolgirl of about Ikuko’s age decided to vacate it.

A child’s little red schoolbag keeps turning up around the place no matter how many times Yoshimi crams it in the dustbin. Ikuko collapses in her kindergarten after we see her being approached by a small, soaking wet figure in a raincoat and rubber boots. When Ikuko goes missing in the building, her frantic mother tracks her down to the apartment upstairs which is flooded, positively flooded, with water.

Even the janitors have to admit this time that there’s a problem with the plumbing. Yoshimi, who’s seen the silhouette of a little girl in the flooded apartment, knows that the problem goes deeper than that. She’s now convinced that the building is haunted by the ghost of the missing girl, and she’s scared to death for the safety of her own child.

She’s right to be scared. When Ikuko is in her bath, the ghost tries to pull her under the water and drown her. Long strands of black hair turn up in the water when they run the taps. The water in the building is pretty filthy overall, in fact. That shouldn’t be, should it? Of course it shouldn’t.

Yoshimi goes up onto the roof of the building and gingerly approaches the water-tower, where she’s previously seen a shadowy figure lurking. It’s obvious she thinks that the body of the missing schoolgirl is in the tower, which even the janitor admits hasn’t been cleaned in ages. Yoshimi gets scared, however, by terrifying shapes pushing their way out of the tower, and hurries back into the building.

Going back downstairs in the lift with a terrified Ikuko clutched in her arms, Yoshimi sees the door to the haunted apartment slowly open. A small arm appears, then out comes… Ikoku…? But if that’s Ikoku coming out of the empty flat, then who- or what?- is Yoshimi cradling so tightly in her arms…? Yoshimi slowly looks down and sees…

Well, I’m not not going to tell you what she sees, because that would spoil an ending that is both shocking and tear-jerkingly sad. The tension and suspense that have been simmering away nicely since the start of the film boil up and bubble over, leaving the viewer suitably breathless and blown away by the climax. This is an excellent film. Based on a short story by Koji Suzuki, the writer of RING, it’s only my third or fourth foray into the world of Japanese horror. I’ll be watching more of these little beauties, though. You can depend on it.

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

https://twitter.com/SandraAuthor

escapes2

ESCAPES. DIRECTED AND WRITTEN BY DAVID STEENSLAND. STARRING VINCENT PRICE. REVIEW BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

escapes2

ESCAPES. 1986. DIRECTED AND WRITTEN BY DAVID STEENSLAND. STARRING VINCENT PRICE. REVIEW BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

I came across this film by accident when I was looking for something else. I find that you uncover a load of priceless little gems that way, and this movie was no exception. It’s an anthology of fantasy, science fiction and horror tales presented by the master of horror himself, Vincent Price.

The way it goes is as follows. A young American man answers the door to the postman. As you do, right? Except that most people don’t have the honour and privilege of having their mail delivered to them by Vincent Price, which is what happens here.

Vincent Price, as the mailman, has a package for the young man. It’s a video-tape. The young man sticks it in the machine. Well, what else is he meant to do with it…? Up pops Vincent Price to present the six little tales of the weird, the wonderful, and the frankly macabre. The young man is intrigued. He settles back to watch the tape and becomes quickly absorbed, as you will too…

The first tale is called A LITTLE FISHY. A fisherman discovers, somewhat to his unease, I would imagine, exactly what it feels like to take the bait and be the prey instead of the predator. In COFFEE BREAK, a young man in a tearing hurry learns what it means to slow down, really slow down and smell the… um, coffee…

WHO’S THERE? scared the bejeesus out of me. A jogger on a lonely country path is pursued by hideous creatures whose agenda is oddly out of step with their terrifying appearance. In JONAH’S DREAM, an elderly woman living alone on a mountain finds that it takes a spaceship crashing into her barn to finally bring about the realisation of her late husband’s long-held dream.

THINK TWICE tells the story of a mugger who disregards a warning to leave well alone and learns the hard way that warnings are usually issued for a reason. The last tale doesn’t have a name. The young man watching the video-tape is gobsmacked, as we say here in Ireland, when Vincent Price informs him that he is to be the star of the final vignette…

The film ends with the young man screaming as he is swamped by the drowned fisherman, the coffee-toting inhabitants of the laid-back, sleepy little town known as Harmony, and all the rest of the protagonists. Vincent Price as the sinister mailman sits comfortably in an armchair and sniggers evilly, as indeed we all know he does supremely well. I really enjoyed this little prize of a film. Go and watch it. You won’t regret it. Have I ever steered you wrong yet? Of course I haven’t. I wouldn’t do that. Would I…?

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

https://twitter.com/SandraAuthor

RemakeDamien

THE OMEN… THE REMAKE. 2006. DIRECTED BY JOHN MOORE. STARRING LIEV SCHREIBER, JULIA STILES, MIA FARROW, PETE POSTLETHWAITE, DAVID THEWLIS, MICHAEL GAMBON AND SEAMUS DAVEY-FITZPATRICK. REVIEW BY SANDRA HARRIS.©

RemakeDamien

THE OMEN… THE REMAKE. 2006. DIRECTED BY JOHN MOORE. STARRING LIEV SCHREIBER, JULIA STILES, MIA FARROW, DAVID THEWLIS, PETE POSTLETHWAITE, MICHAEL GAMBON AND SEAMUS DAVEY FITZPATRICK. REVIEW BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

I was fully expecting to hate this film. Remakes, not naming any names, often stink to high heaven, right? I was pleasantly surprised, however, to find that it’s actually a damned good effort as far as remakes go. Nothing will ever top the original for sheer terrifying evilness, naturally, but this flick is by no means a waste of two hours of your time.

The plot remains pretty much the same as before. Robert Thorn is an American diplomat stationed first in Italy and then in London, after he’s been promoted to a high-ranking ambassadorial position. That’s a word, right, ambassadorial…? Anyway, the point is, when his wife gives birth to a son, the son dies and Daddy Thorn is persuaded by a sinister priest called Father Spiletto to ‘replace’ him with another baby boy who’s just been born. I suppose you can’t blame Mr. Thorn for agreeing to such a dodgy arrangement. This way, he gets to keep his son and he doesn’t have to tell the missus the devastating news about her baby boy. He totally did the right thing here, huh? Huh…?

The boy, Damien, grows up to be a little strange, however. His nanny commits suicide publicly at his birthday party. Don’tcha just hate it when that happens…? Damien savagely attacks his mother on the way to church. The animals in the Zoo react violently to his presence. His new nanny Mrs. Baylock, creepily played by Mia Farrow, has brought a Rottweiler into the house to keep Damien company. To top it all, Mrs. Thorn has been having nightmares with distinctly satanic overtones.

Mr. Thorn is approached by another priest, this one called Father Brennan, who claims that Damien’s mother was a jackal and that Mrs. Thorn and her unborn baby are in mortal danger from Damien, the little dickens. A jackal? Okaaaaay… Poor old Father Brennan dies horribly in what is one of my favourite scenes from the original film. He is impaled by a giant piece of metal in a churchyard during a lightning storm. Cool…!

When Mrs. Thorn is knocked off a balcony by sweet, angelic-looking Damien and loses her baby, Mr. Thorn high-tails it back to Europe to track down Father Spiletto, the man who brought Damien into their lives in the first place. Robert is accompanied by Keith Jennings, a photographer whose snaps of the Ambassador and his household contain chilling visual omens. Father Spiletto directs the two lads to a graveyard, where they uncover the skeletal remains of Damien’s jackal-mother and the Thorns’ murdered biological son… That scene is so sad, I admit I sniffled at it a bit.

Next, Robert hears that his missus is no more, having been bumped off by the evil-as-all-get-out Mrs. Baylock. He goes to a place called Megiddo to meet a chap called Bugenhagen whom he heard of through the late Father Brennan. Bugenhagen tells him that he must kill the Antichrist, better known as Damien, with seven sacrificial daggers. When Keith Jennings is decapitated in a manner foretold by one of his own photographs, Mr. Thorn sets his scepticism aside and hurries home to kill Damien, who incidentally bears ‘the number of the beast’- that’s 666 to you- on his scalp under his hair.

Robert has the devil’s own job- pun definitely intended- wrestling the nipper away from the demented Mrs. Baylock and her toothsome familiar, the Rottweiler. When he eventually gets Damien to a church and is just about to kill him and save mankind, Robert is shot dead by one of the cops assigned to protect him and his family. Aw, rats. Ain’t that a kick in the head…? The film then ends with Robert’s funeral, which is watched by a smug, smirky little Damien… Well. The little bollix, as we say here in Ireland.

This is a more than passable remake of an unforgettable horror classic. Sure, it’s not the original, but it’s well worth a look for all that. Don’t take my word for it, though. Watch it for yourself and you’ll see what I mean. I’d keep the lights on though, just in case. I mean, they never did manage to kill that little devil, did they…?

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

https://twitter.com/SandraAuthor

lee 9

ANNA MEETS COUNT DRACULA… PART 36. AN EROTIC HORROR TALE BY SANDRA HARRIS. © STRICTLY FOR OVER-EIGHTEENS ONLY.

lee 9

ANNA MEETS COUNT DRACULA… PART 36. AN EROTIC HORROR TALE BY SANDRA HARRIS. © STRICTLY FOR OVER-EIGHTEENS ONLY.

“You didn’t have to wait up for me, Harker,” said Sir Blaise Carfax as he handed his hat, his cloak and his gold-topped cane to his manservant. They were standing in the huge ornate hall of Richmond House.

“It weren’t no trouble at all, sir,” replied John Harker respectfully. He was tall and well-built, thirty years old and with thick dark hair that he wore brushed neatly back. Good-looking chap, Sir Blaise often thought. By rights, he should have had every little housemaid in the place clamouring round him like flies at an open pot of jam, but he kept them all effortlessly at a distance.

“Well, you can get yourself off to bed now if you wish. I shan’t be needing you again tonight.” Sir Blaise said as he turned towards the room he used as his own private sitting-room. He needed a place of his own to go to where he could retreat occasionally from the constant wittering of women.

The house seemed full of women now that his cousins, Lady Athena and Lady Abigail Carfax, had come to stay at Richmond House with their mother, Lady Eleanor Carfax. They had come up from their magnificent old mansion in Cornwall to keep his mother company in the continuing absence of his abducted sister, Anna.

Not that the two beautiful blonde sisters seemed to spend much time actually in the company of either his mother or their own. All they ever seemed to do was gad about in their carriage seeing the sights of London and giggle like schoolgirls with an exceptionally juicy secret whenever he passed anywhere near them.

“If you’re sure, sir,” said John Harker.

“Yes, yes, off you go,” said Sir Blaise absent-mindedly as he turned to the sideboard and decanted a large whiskey into a cut-glass crystal tumbler.

“Very good, sir, thank you, sir,” replied John Harker, bowing his way backwards out of the room. Sir Blaise sat down in his favourite comfortable armchair and took a grateful swig of his drink. It had been a long, tiring day. Until the hour of six-fifteen in the pm, he’d been in the office of his largest furniture factory, going over the accounts. Things were going well, thank God, but they could always be better. One could never have enough money.

He’d had a visit then, just as he’d been leaving for the day, from that bumbling incompetent and- quite possibly- mental defective, Inspector Jonathan Waterstone. This was the so-called detective in charge of the investigation into Anna’s abduction by person or persons unknown.

The man had dropped in to inform him that there was still no news. No news! Anna had been missing for weeks and the police were still no nearer to finding out what had happened to her than they’d been at the start of the investigation.

Blaise had been left so aggrieved by the man’s visit that, once he’d finally managed to get rid of him, he’d sent a note round to the home of his fianceé, Lady Caroline Cotter, informing her that important business sadly prevented him from having dinner with her and her parents that evening. He just felt too tense and irritable to be sociable and Caroline was demanding and hard to please at the best of times.

He’d gone instead by carriage to Madame Corinne’s. There, twenty-year-old twins Barbara and Shelley had kissed and licked and caressed every inch of each others’ bodies for his edification before submitting to his lovemaking.

They each had waist-length brown hair, large breasts and full, round bottoms. They were beautiful and skilled in the art of pleasing a man. He’d energetically inserted his manhood between the pretty pink sex-lips of one and deep inside the tight backside of the other. As they were identical twins, Blaise frequently had trouble telling them apart.

He’d passed a pleasant evening at Madame Corinne’s. The twins had certainly taken his mind off his troubles, if only temporarily. Now, he heaved himself out of his chair and stood up, stretching widely. Damned armchair was so comfortable, he could have slept in it without any difficulty at all. He stubbed out the remains of his third cigar and finished up his second large whiskey.

Tiredly, he made his way up the stairs to his bedroom. It had been a long day, he was more than a little drunk and he had an important business meeting at ten in the am tomorrow morning. The chap was filthy rich and could put a hell of a lot of business Blaise’s way. Blaise planned on getting into the office extra-early to go over what he intended to say to the fellow. Better to get a few hour’s shut-eye first, though.

Up in his darkened bedroom, Blaise turned up the wick on the oil lamp beside his bed, yawning hugely. When the room was illuminated, he turned to the bed and started when he saw the fully nude young woman stretched out provocatively on her belly across his eiderdown, propped up on her elbows as she laughed up at him mischievously. It was his twenty-one-year-old cousin, Lady Athena Carfax.

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

https://twitter.com/SandraAuthor