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

lee 2

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

http://sandrafirstruleoffilmclubharris.wordpress.com

http://sexysandieblog.wordpress.com

http://serenaharker.wordpress.com

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

 

chapter 12 image

THE DEVIANTS. A NOVEL BY SANDRA HARRIS WRITING AS SERENA HARKER. © CHAPTER TWELVE. STRICTLY FOR OVER-EIGHTEENS ONLY.

chapter 12 image

“I can’t come next Thursday,” he said. He’d only been in the flat five minutes. They’d hugged and kissed and told each other how much they’d missed each other over the last seven days. Juliet had taken Max’s hand and led him to the bedroom and now they were sitting on her bed, beginning to undress for sex. Juliet felt cold suddenly, though it was a hot, sticky night.

“What?” she said.

“It’s Georgia’s birthday,” Max told her apologetically. “She’s having a party at the house and I have to be on hand, along with her mother, obviously, to make sure that things go smoothly. I can come on Friday, though,” he added. “I’ll tell Lena that I’ve switched my night doing up the house on Geraldine Street just this once to accommodate Georgia’s birthday.”

“Oh, all right then,” said Juliet, breathing freely again, the knot in her chest dissolving. “That… that should be fine.”

The thought of missing out on seeing Max for even one Thursday night had felt like the end of the world. She lived for the nights when she could see Max. Her job was only something she did to earn enough money to buy food and pay the rent on the flat. She barely knew her neighbours, hardly saw them, even. Her mother, she felt sure, didn’t love her and would never have a kind word to say either to her or about her.

She still considered Karen a good friend whom she called or texted every few days but Karen, with her own fraught and complicated history, would never fully give her blessing to Juliet’s relationship with Max, a married man. The only thing in Juliet’s life that brought her any happiness, that made her feel that her life was worth living, was Max.

“Are you sure that you don’t mind?” he was asking her now. “There’s nothing I can do about it, I’m afraid. I thought that Friday might at least be an acceptable compromise. Is it?” he added with a deliberately wheedling grin.

“I’ll miss you on Thursday, of course I will,” Juliet said, “but if I know that I’m seeing you on the Friday, then it won’t be so bad.”

“Good girl,” Max said softly. “Now get undressed for me.”

Juliet quickly stripped off the sleeveless blouse and short denim skirt she wore. Underneath, she wore neither bra nor panties and she was pleased when she heard Max catch his breath at the sight of her naked body.

“You’re beautiful,” he said. “Kneel up on the bed on all fours for me now, that’s a good girl.” She hastened to comply, loving the way that Max’s natural and easy domination of her sexually made her feel loved and cared for, cherished even.

“Lift up your ass, slut,” he said. Juliet did as she was ordered, excited that she was so exposed, that every part of her, even the parts normally kept hidden and private, were now all stretched and open to Max’s gaze. Behind her, she could hear him undressing. She heard the clink-clunk of his belt-buckle and the rattle of the loose change in his trouser-pockets as he lowered his clothing to the floor and got into position behind her. His cock entered her pussy and began moving in and out. Juliet moaned with pleasure. When his cock was slick with her juices, he pulled it out of her.

“Oh, don’t, please, Max,” she complained. “I was loving that. That was so good. Please don’t stop fucking me, Max, please.”

“I’m not going to,” Max said calmly. Juliet felt her buttocks being spread apart and the tip of Max’s swollen penis pushing into her rectum.

“Oh no, Max, please,” she begged. “You’re going to hurt me.”

“With any luck,” he said with a short laugh. Juliet stayed in position as best she could, her knees apart and her head down, her face almost on the bed-covers, while Max fully entered and then fucked her anus. “Do you like that, slut?” he asked her, slapping her hard on her right hip and pulling on her hair till her head snapped back.

“Yes, Max,” she squealed, wincing at the stinging slaps which were all landing on the same spot on her right hip and making it rapidly grow tender.

“I don’t care if you like it or not, slut,” Max said, his thrusting intensifying. “You’ll take whatever I give you and like it.” Juliet clenched her teeth while trying to relax her buttocks and waited for the penetration of her rectum to be over. When he came, he grunted in satisfaction and eased slowly out of her bottom, wiping his slick prick on the pretty rose-patterned coverlet.

They lay down together for a while then. Juliet snuggled into his bare chest, happy to be close to him, able to touch him and feel him and smell him after a week of deprivation and longing.

“Is your bottom sore?” he asked her. She lowered her eyes shyly and nodded. “Good, “ he grinned.

“When did you lose your virginity?” Max asked her then after they’d shared a post-coital cigarette.

“When… when I was fourteen,” Juliet told him tentatively, praying he wouldn’t think that she was a tramp. “It was to a boy who lived on our street. He was seventeen and he wore an earring and a motorcycle jacket, though he hadn’t actually a motorcycle to go with it. I’d had a crush on him for ages.”

“What a naughty little slut you must have been at that age,” Max said. He sounded admiring, and not at all censorious. “Did he fondle your titties and finger your tight little pussy for you behind the bike-sheds, then?”

“Something like that,” Juliet said uncomfortably.

“Did he hurt you when he fucked you for the first time?” Max said.

“Yes,” Juliet said. “He hurt me a lot.” Max seemed pleased with her answer.

“Have you had many lovers since then?” he quizzed her next. Juliet was silent, squirming next to him in the bed.

“Go on,” prompted Max.

“Promise you won’t be angry?” Juliet begged him nervously.

“Why would I be angry?” Max said, shrugging. “Anything you did before you met me is nothing for me to be judgemental about.”

“Do you still promise, though? Please, Max?” Juliet repeated in urgent tones.

“All right, I promise, if that’s what you want,” laughed Max.

“I don’t know how many,” Juliet said then in a small voice, “but there’s been a… a few.”

“How many is a few?” said Max. “More than ten? I’m just curious, that’s all.” Juliet hesitated, then she nodded. “More than twenty?” he went on, looking at her keenly. She bit her lip and nodded again.

“Should we stop there?” Max said.

“Maybe,” she whispered, adding: “Are you angry with me?” Max shook his head.

“I told you,” he said. “Whatever you did before you met me is none of my business. The only reason I’m asking is because I love you so much that I’m naturally curious about everything to do with you. Besides, I like the idea of you spreading your legs for any guy who asks. It’s exciting.”

“I’m not a whore,” Juliet protested.

“Relax,” Max said. “I’m fine with it. You’re a naughty girl, aren’t you, though?” he went on, stroking her breast lightly. “A naughty, dirty little slut. Who was the last man you slept with before you met me?” He looked at her expectantly. Juliet took a deep breath, then she said:

“I don’t know his name. He was someone I met at a club in Temple Bar.”

“What were you doing on your own at a club in Temple Bar?” Max said, increasing the pressure on her breast.

“I’d been depressed,” Juliet admitted, shame-faced. “It was a few months ago. I’d just broken up with my boyfriend, Cesare.”

“Cesare?” queried Max.

“He worked in Morrissey’s,” Juliet explained. “You know, the bakery where I work? I loved him, or at least I thought I did. But he cheated on me and when I complained about it, he hit me. He hit me and then he… he raped me.”

“Poor Juliet,” Max murmured, drawing her closer and kissing her forehead tenderly. “You’ve certainly been used and abused by guys, haven’t you? But go on with what you were saying about this man you picked up at the club. Did you bring him back here with you to the flat?” Juliet nodded. “What happened?” prompted Max. “What did he do to you? Did he give you a good fucking?” He took her hand and placed it on his flaccid cock.

“Well, you know,” Juliet said reluctantly. “ We… we had sex.”

“Yes, but what kind of sex?” Max urged. “Come on. Did he fuck your cunt, your mouth, your asshole, what? Where did he come, and how many times?”

“In my pussy, twice,” Juliet said, lowering her eyes again and flushing pink with embarrassment.

“Did you enjoy it?” probed Max. He held his hand over hers, making her rub his cock and slowly bring it back to life once more. “Did he make you feel good? Did you come?”

“He was gone when I woke up the next morning,” Juliet told him, flinching at the memory. “He didn’t even leave me his number or any way of getting in contact with him. I felt a bit used, to tell you the truth. I’d actually kind of liked him and… well, I guess I kind of thought that it was going to be the start of something but obviously… Well, obviously it… it wasn’t.”

“But did you enjoy being fucked by him?” Max broke in impatiently. He pushed Juliet’s hand away from his cock and began to masturbate. “Did he fuck you good and hard?”

“Yes,” said Juliet in a small voice, blinking back tears.

“Did he make you sore?” persisted Max, his hand working furiously. “Did he make your pussy good and sore? Did he fuck it till it hurt? Answer me!”

“Yes, he did,” whispered Juliet miserably.

“Sit on my cock,” ordered Max. “Quickly now, before it goes down again. For fuck’s sake, move your arse, woman!” Juliet scrambled hurriedly into a kneeling position astride him and lowered herself down onto his erect penis. Max began immediately to thrust upwards.

“Ride me,” he commanded, reaching up and grabbing hold of her small breasts. She squealed in pain as he squeezed the nipples hard. “Did you enjoy being fucked by that stranger you picked up in the club?” he began again.

Juliet’s heart sank. The man from the club, after being initially complimentary and flirtatious towards Juliet, telling her she was beautiful, had turned out to be a drunken and aggressive asshole. He’d treated Juliet like she was shit on his shoe as soon as they’d reached her flat. The sex had been clinical, cold and unromantic and afterwards she’d done her best to forget about it. Now Max was forcing her to relive it.

“Yes,” she whispered. “I enjoyed it.”

“Speak up,” he said harshly. “Say it. Say that you enjoyed being fucked by him. Say it!”

“I enjoyed being fucked by him,” she said, louder this time.

“Tell me how he fucked you,” Max demanded. She could tell that he was close to his climax.

“He put his cock in my… my pussy and he fucked me,” she said, praying that that would be enough for him. She moaned as he placed the palms of his hands against her breasts and squeezed them. His face was red and bathed in sweat. He bucked and jerked and shot his load upwards into her wet, open vagina. Before he’d discharged the last few drops of his spunk into her, his phone vibrated loudly from Juliet’s bedside table.

“Shit!” he swore, before adding:

“I’d better take this. Stay quiet for a minute, okay?” Putting a finger to his lips, he reached over and picked up the phone. Juliet, still sitting astride him, still filled with his cock and his semen, remained resentfully still while he took the call. He sounded tense and irritable as he muttered a series of ‘yesses’ and ‘okays’ and one or two ‘fucks’ into his phone. He ended the call and sighed heavily.

“That was Lena, obviously,” he said abruptly. “I’m going to have to go. The power’s gone off at the house and she’s having trouble with the fusebox.” He lifted Juliet unceremoniously upwards and off of his cock. Juliet, bitterly disappointed, lay back naked against the pillows and watched him as he dressed.

“I made supper for us,” she complained.

“What can I do?” said Max, shrugging as he buttoned his shirt. “Lena’s hopeless with the electrics. And the plumbing, come to that. I’ll see you next Friday as we planned, and I promise that I’ll call you and text you as often as I can during the week, okay? The sex was great, by the way. Sorry about your poor bottom,” he added with a grin. He didn’t sound remotely sorry.

“I love you, Max,” Juliet told him tearfully.

“I love you too,” he said. “More than I could ever possibly tell you. Promise me you’ll always remember that?” He pulled on his jacket and reached for his keys and phone.

“I promise,” she sniffled, locking her bare arms around his neck eagerly when he bent down to kiss her goodbye.

After he’d left, she padded nude to the kitchen and fetched the wine she’d bought to go with their late supper. Taking a glass out of the cupboard above the sink, she brought both glass and bottle into the bedroom and slammed the door behind her. She poured herself a brimming glass of the wine and took a long thirsty slug, then she sat down on her bed and picked up her phone. Taking a deep breath, she dialled Max’s number and waited nervously for him to pick up.

“What’s up?” he said in surprise when he heard her voice. “Did I leave something behind me?” She could imagine him fumbling in his pockets for his wallet and house keys.

“No, no, you didn’t,” she assured him. “I just thought that we could talk for a minute while you drive home, if that’s okay?”

“Of course we can,” he said easily. “Anything in particular on your mind?”

“Not really,” she said, “but…” She paused.

“Go on, what?” he prompted. “What’s on your mind?”

“I just miss you, that’s all,” she said in a rush. “I wish… I wish that we could see more of each other.” She took a long drink of her wine and hoped that she hadn’t made him angry by overstepping any boundaries. To her relief, he didn’t sound angry.

“So do I,” he said with feeling. “I can’t stop thinking about you. Do you know that I think about you from the moment I wake up in the morning to the minute I fall asleep at the end of every day?”

“Do you really?” said Juliet.

“You’d better believe it,” Max said. “I’m addicted to you. I can’t get enough of you.”

“I feel the same,” she said. “I don’t know how I’m going to be able to wait till the Friday of next week to see you,” she added hopefully. She waited for Max to say that he would try to come over another night before the Friday of next week. Instead he said:

“Me too. I’ll be counting the days.”

Disappointed, Juliet was silent for a while, then Max said:

“I’d like to buy you a gift. Something to wear, maybe. What size are you?”

“Ten,” replied Juliet. “But you don’t have to buy me a gift. I’m happy enough just to be with you. You’re all I want.”

“Ditto,” said Max. “I want to, though. I want to do something nice for you. What about jewellery? Do you like bracelets, necklaces, what?”

“I like all kinds of jewellery,” Juliet said with a laugh. “I’m a woman, aren’t I? There isn’t a woman alive who doesn’t like jewellery. But I don’t expect you to go into a jewellery shop and try to choose something for me all by yourself.”

“I’ll have you know that I’m pretty nifty at choosing jewellery for women,” Max said in mock  indignation. “Every year for Lena’s birthday I buy her a new piece of jewellery and she hasn’t complained about anything I’ve chosen for her yet.”

Juliet said nothing. She didn’t want to talk about Lena. She listened to the sounds of Max driving his car for a while. The noise was repetitive but soothing. She felt like she could easily have fallen asleep to it. She drained her wine and poured herself another glass.

“What did you think of the anal sex?” he asked her after a while.

“It was good,” she lied. It had hurt like hell and had felt more like an invasion than an act of love.

“Had you done it before?” said Max.

“Yes,” she admitted. “It always hurt a fair bit. I didn’t like it much. I’ve never been too keen on having anything in my bottom. Anything too big, anyway. I liked doing it with you, though,” she added hastily, fearful of offending him.

“Who did you do it with?” he asked her. Juliet hesitated, then she said:

“I did it with a few men. I can’t remember which ones. I’m sorry. It was a while ago.”

“You’re quite the little slut, aren’t you?” he said then. He didn’t sound displeased, rather the opposite. “Have you ever been fucked by two guys at once? Have you ever had a threesome?”

“No,” replied Juliet uncomfortably. “Listen, Max,” she went on, “I don’t want you thinking I’m… I don’t know, sexually permissive or easy or whatever you want to call it. I know I’ve had a fair few lovers… I mean, boyfriends, but I swear to you that I haven’t done anything out of the ordinary with any of them. I’ve just had normal sex with all of them. Just normal stuff, I swear. Do you believe me?”

“Relax, Juliet,” Max said. He sounded upbeat, cheerful even. “I wouldn’t give you a hard time no matter what you’d done sexually. It turns me on, if you want to know the truth. I like the thought that you’ve had sex with a lot of men. It makes me get hard trying to picture it.”

“It wasn’t really a lot,” said Juliet, confused.

“I told you, sweetheart, it doesn’t matter how many,” said Max. “The more the better, in fact. I’m not like most other men in that respect. I don’t get jealous. I like the thought of you fucking other men. I like the fact that you’re a little bit of a whore. I’ve always wanted a whore for a girlfriend. It’s exciting. Like I told you, it turns me on.”

Juliet noticed that he hadn’t said he liked the idea of having a whore for a wife, only a girlfriend. She wasn’t sure that she liked the idea of his calling her a whore, or of his not getting jealous about her where other men were concerned. She wanted him to love her so much that he was filled with a murderous rage at the thought of another man possessing her. There was the sound of car horns being violently beeped and Max swearing.

“Fucking cunt, cutting me off,” he muttered.

“What you just said about me,” Juliet said uncertainly. “It doesn’t mean that you… that you don’t love me…?” She waited apprehensively for his answer.

“Of course it doesn’t mean that I don’t love you, silly,” Max said with a laugh. “If anything, the fact that you’ve had so many lovers just makes me love you and want you even more.” Frightened to contradict his view of her, a view that obviously- inexplicably- afforded him pleasure, she said nothing.

“Listen, can I ask you something?” he said.

“Anything,” Juliet said, happy that he’d said he loved her but wishing that he wouldn’t keep placing so much emphasis on her past sex life and especially wishing that he wouldn’t keep calling her a whore. She wasn’t one, not really. She’d only slept with all of those men in the hopes that one of them would turn out to be the one that would love her and care for her for the rest of her life.

“Would you do anything for me?” he asked her. “I mean, if I asked you to do something for me some day, would you do it, no matter what it was?” Juliet, thinking that they were just talking generally, saying the kinds of things that lovers say to each other, said fervently:

“Of course I would, Max. I’d do anything at all in the world for you, you know that. Are… are we talking about anything in particular?” she added, just in case they weren’t just talking generally. “I mean, is there something you especially want me to do for you? Because I’ll do it, I promise.”

“That’s my good girl,” he said, before adding:

“Maybe some day I might ask you to fuck another man for me. Would you do that?” Juliet bit down hard on her lower lip. Then, reluctant to ruin the loving mood between them, she said quietly:

“Yes, Max. I’d do that for you, if you wanted.”

“And let him finger your pussy, and fondle your tits, and fuck your cunt and asshole?” he said, his breathing sounding like it was becoming shallower.

“Yes, if you wanted me to,” she said, wishing that they could drop the subject now and maybe talk about the possibility of their future together.

“Would you let him come on your tits and face?” he said then. “Come in your mouth, maybe, like I do? Would you let him use you as nothing more than a dirty old cum-bucket?” Juliet flinched.

“Yes, Max,” she forced herself to say. “If that was what you wanted.”

“That’s my good girl,” he said again. “I’ll have a treat for you when I see you again.”

Neither of them spoke for a while and eventually, the sounds of driving that Juliet had been able to hear died away and she could hear Max switch off the engine.

“Are you at home, then?” she asked him miserably. She’d been enjoying being able to talk to him uninterrupted, even if they’d only mostly been talking about sex, and her sex life before she met him in particular. Juliet enjoyed sex. She always had, but none of her past lovers had ever made her feel as loved and wanted as Max did.

“I’m sorry, love,” Max said. He sounded genuinely regretful. “I was driving as slowly as I could legally get away with but I’m right outside the house now. I’ll call you tomorrow if I can, and I’ll text you so often, you’ll be sick of the sight of my number.”

“I could never get sick of you,” Juliet said.

They chatted generally for a few more minutes, then Max said:

“I’d better go in, love. I’ve been sitting out here in the car for the last ten minutes pretending to be listening to a CD, but if anyone looks out the window and sees me bobbing my head up and down in time to this purely imaginary music like this, they’ll think I’m having a fucking epileptic fit or something and call an ambulance.” Juliet burst out laughing. Max joined in and they both laughed till the tears ran down their faces. Juliet wasn’t sure if she felt happy or sad while she was laughing.

“I love you to bits,” Max said when he was signing off. “And I’ll call you tomorrow for sure.”

“I love you too,” Juliet whispered. “Promise you’ll call me?”

“I promise,” he said. He hung up then and Juliet, bereft, Max’s come still seeping out of her bottom, finished her wine.

 

Sandra Harris (writing as Serena Harker) is a novelist based in Dublin, Ireland. You can contact her at: harkerserena@gmail.com

This novel is a work of fiction and comes entirely from the imagination of Serena Harker. Any resemblance to any persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

This is copyrighted material and any reproduction without prior permission is illegal. Serena Harker reserves the right to be identified as the author of this novel.

Serena Harker. ©

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

WK-Screen.2.8

ANNA MEETS COUNT DRACULA… PART 26. AN EROTIC TALE BY SANDRA HARRIS.© STRICTLY FOR OVER-EIGHTEENS ONLY.

WK-Screen.2.8

ANNA MEETS COUNT DRACULA… PART 26. AN EROTIC TALE BY SANDRA HARRIS. © STRICTLY FOR OVER-EIGHTEENS ONLY.

“I can’t believe we’re really here at last,” exclaimed Lady Abigail Carfax as she piled her thick coils of rich blonde hair up on top of her head in readiness for her bath. “I mean, here! Here in London, of all places. It’s so… well, it’s just so exciting! Don’t you think so, Athena my darling?”

I just hope Papa doesn’t change his mind about letting us stay here at Richmond House,” replied Abigail’s sister, Lady Athena Carfax, with a slight shudder. “I should so hate to have come all this way for nothing.” She turned her back on her sister so that Abigail could unhook her gown for her. Abigail, busily unhooking, replied:

“As long as Aunt Grace needs Mummy here to comfort here while Cousin Anna is missing, we’re as safe as houses.” The sisters and their mother, Lady Eleanor Carfax, had travelled up from their home in Cornwall to stay with Lady Grace Carfax in her time of need. Lady Eleanor was the wife of the late Sir Bernard Carfax’s brother, Richard.

As Lady Grace’s sister-in-law, Lady Eleanor was hopeful that she might prove to be of some use to poor dear Lady Grace, who appeared to have gone somewhat to pieces since the sinister abduction of her only daughter, Anna, by person or persons unknown. However, Lady Athena and Lady Abigail, aged twenty-one and twenty respectively, were more interested in seeing what delights and surprises London had to offer socially than in offering comfort and solace to their seldom-seen Aunt Grace.

Athena stepped out of her gown and laid it carelessly on the bed. “Now you do mine,” said Abigail, turning her back on her sister, who began obligingly to unhook the back of her gown for her. Their dresses being once discarded, the two sisters began to remove the rest of their clothing. Soon, shoes, stockings and petticoats lay in a haphazard heap on the bedroom floor. Hester Price, Lady Anna’s personal maid, appeared in the open doorway of the adjoining bathroom.

“Your bath-water is ready, Lady Athena, Lady Abigail,” she said demurely, averting her eyes from their nudity. The sisters were so alike as to be almost twins. They each had the same long golden-blonde hair, large round breasts and big bouncy bottoms. They each also possessed copious amounts of soft blonde pubic hair, so copious that Hester’s eyes widened at the sight of it, though she was trying not to look.

As they scampered past her to the bathroom, nude and giggling, the two young ladies completely ignored Hester, who would act as their personal maid for the duration for their stay. They spoke to her when it was necessary only, and even then they were cold to her, and arrogant to the point of rudeness.

Hester stood quietly by the door, holding an armful of clean warm towels in readiness, while Lady Athena and Lady Abigail luxuriated in the hot scented water and washed each others’ nude bodies with the softest of washcloths. Hester stared wide-eyed as the sisters soaped each others’ bare heavy breasts and bottoms and blonde hairy mounds. Their big pink nipples stiffened under each others’ ministrations.

“I just really want to have some fun, that’s all,” Lady Abigail was saying now as she kneeled up in the bath and presented her pink glistening bottom to her sister to be washed. Lady Athena began to gently sponge her sister’s bottom in sweeping circular motions. “I liked the look of that young footman we saw downstairs earlier,” Abigail continued. “Thomas Something, I think his name was. Dark-haired and well-built, you remember?”

“Mmmm, yes, he was certainly handsome,” Athena murmured in agreement as she soaped the lips of her sister’s upturned sex. Hester stiffened as she recognised her lover, Thomas Renfield, by his description. If that posh uppity bitch so much as glanced in Thomas’s direction, she determined hotly, she’d scratch her eyes out for her, she would. She’d bleedin’ swing for her.

“Of course, the real prize around here is Cousin Blaise,” went on Abigail mischievously, referring to Anna’s older brother and the head of the Carfax household, Sir Blaise Carfax. “Tall, dark, handsome and rich. Deliciously, delightfully rich. What a husband he would make!” She giggled.

“Abby Carfax!” exclaimed her older sister mock-scoldingly. “That’s our cousin you’re talking about! You should have your bottom soundly spanked for talking like that.”

“So, spank my bottom then, big sister,” teased Abigail, waggling her pretty bottom, pink from the hot bath-water, in her sister’s face. Athena landed a flurry of gentle spanks on the proferred bottom. Abigail merely continued to giggle and waggle her bottom about. Hester watched the play-spanking in increasing amazement.

I hate them, she thought vehemently. I hate them more than I ever hated Lady Anna. And if I have to skivvy for them for too long, I might just go mad and kill myself. Lady Abigail clicked her fingers. “Over here with the towels, you,” she said imperiously. Reluctantly, Hester obeyed.

Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t, wasn’t that what her granny always used to say? Under Lady Anna, it was true that Hester hadn’t known she was born. Under these two witches, each born with silver spoons in their mouths, her life would scarcely be worth living.

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