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: