drac 2 women

ANNA MEETS COUNT DRACULA… BOOK 2- PART 14. AN EROTIC HORROR STORY BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

drac 2 women

ANNA MEETS COUNT DRACULA. BOOK 2- PART 14. AN EROTIC HORROR STORY BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

Count Dracula paced the damp old corridors of Birney Castle, cold with rage at the impertinence of the villagers who had called at the castle gates earlier that day, searching for the missing girl. They would never find her, he was sure of that. He’d buried her so deep in the forest that only the worms and beetles would ever find her.

He didn’t want the peasants of the village of Birney sniffing around the castle, though. He’d chosen its remote location specifically to prevent his beautiful bride, Lady Anna Carfax of Richmond House in London, from ever being found by her own kind. He perhaps should not have committed such an indiscretion so close to his own doorstep, but when the lust for blood was upon him there was little he could do about it.

He’d stormed down to the gatehouse earlier and thrashed that imbecile gatekeeper Igor till his hump was torn and bleeding, just to remind him that he, Count Dracula, would not tolerate any intrusions on his privacy. Callers were to be informed that the Master was either away or incommunicado and sent away without delay. Under no circumstances were callers ever to be admitted to the castle grounds.

Igor’s very life, pathetic worthless thing that it was, depended upon his carrying out the Master’s instructions to the letter. Tonight, the Count had done an excellent job of ‘reminding’ him of that precise fact. Igor would see to it that the Count’s orders were obeyed, if he wanted to go on living, that was.

Giving Igor a severe thrashing had not sated the Count’s need for inflicting pain and punishment on an underling. Carrying the whip he normally used for disciplining Anna, he strode through the darkened corridors of his domain until he reached the dungeons.

The dungeons in Birney Castle were a maze of damp, dank, rat-infested rooms that a person could quite easily get lost in. Count Dracula knew every mouldering brick, every diseased rat, every trickle of stinking, rust-coloured water that ran down the dripping walls. He made his way confidently to the worst of the rooms. Deep. deep underground, it was icy cold and the stench of waste was overpowering. The Count could not have cared less for the condition of the place. He had other business on his mind.

Chained to the walls were three of his most sexually desirable vampire handmaidens. Naked, facing the walls and completely incapacitated, they had been kept locked up and deprived of the Count’s discipline and unmatchable sexual prowess for weeks now. When they glimpsed their Master, their combined voices broke forth in a cacophony of desperate longing:

“Oh Master, make love to us, please! We’ve missed you so much, Master! Please make love to us and whip us, we need it so much, Master, please! We love you, Master, don’t leave us down here where we can’t see you and be with you and try to please you, Master! We love you, Master, we-”

Silence, whores!” bellowed the Count. “I have not come down here for your satisfaction!” He raised the whip and brought it down savagely on the naked back of the nearest handmaiden. She screamed in pain and ecstasy while her two fellow captives looked on jealously and cried out:

“Punish us next, Master! Oh please, punish us next!” Count Dracula lashed the naked backs, buttocks and thighs of all three women until his strong right arm grew tired. Then he cast away the whip and adjusted his clothing minimally prior to penetrating the three handmaidens from behind, one after the other, ignoring their cries of pain and pleasure combined as he plundered their backsides and soft female parts.

When he had attained his own climax, he picked up his discarded whip and swept from the dungeon without a backward glance, leaving the women sobbing with gratitude and an overwhelming sense of sexual fulfilment. He strode purposefully back to his own chambers near the top of the castle, feeling marginally less tense and irritable.

It was time now for his bride’s chastisement. Pregnancy had not blunted her intense need to receive pain and punishment at his hands as well as love and sexual pleasure. He reached the master bedroom, went swiftly inside and shut the heavy door with a bang.

TO BE CONTINUED HERE SOON…

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, Le Dernier Paradis at the Trinity 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. In August 2014, she won the ONE LOVELY BLOG award for her (lovely!) horror film review blog. She is addicted to buying books and has been known to bring home rain-washed tomes she finds on the street and give them a home.

She is the proud possessor of a pair of unfeasibly large bosoms. They have given her- and the people around her- infinite pleasure over the years. She adores the horror genre in all its forms and will swap you anything you like for Hammer Horror or JAWS memorabilia. She would also 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

https://sandrafirstruleoffilmclubharris.wordpress.com

http://sexysandieblog.wordpress.com

http://serenaharker.wordpress.com

https://twitter.com/SandraAuthor

drac chest

ANNA MEETS COUNT DRACULA… BOOK 2- PART 13. AN EROTIC HORROR STORY BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

drac chest

ANNA MEETS COUNT DRACULA. BOOK 2- PART 13. AN EROTIC HORROR STORY BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

Jamie picked up his tankard of ale and downed a good half of it in one long, grateful swig. With closing time long since past, Jack Walton’s Tavern on the edge of Birney Woods was nearly empty now. A morose and tired Jamie propped up the bar while behind the counter Tamsin the barmaid washed the glasses and swept the floor.

It had been a long, disheartening day. Jamie’s pretty young lover, Rowena Sampson, had indeed gone missing, just as Jamie’s brother Simeon had told him she had. The men of Birney, every one of them that was fit to walk a goodly distance, had spent the day combing Birney Forest for the young woman, who had been absent from the home she shared with her father and older brother since last night.

The way Jamie saw things, something must have happened to Rowena as she’d walked home through the dense, dark tangle of woods last night after leaving his, Jamie’s, bed. He’d offered half-heartedly to walk her home. He’d been pleasantly tired after their coupling and it was cold outside and he had to get up early in the morning and so, in all honesty, he’d been glad when she’d refused his offer.

“Don’t be silly, Jamie,” she’d giggled, tossing her long light-brown hair over her bare shoulders and tucking her ample bosoms back into the front of her gown. “I know these woods as well as I know my own home. I don’t need anyone to walk me home. And besides, I need some fresh air after all that… well, you know!”

She’d giggled again and then kissed him lingeringly on his mouth before disappearing off into the night. No-one, including Jamie, had seen her since. If only he had taken the trouble to walk her home…! This whole bloody nightmare might not be happening now.

He couldn’t even let her father and brother, Thomas and Joshua Sampson, know that he, Jamie, had in all probability been the last person to see Rowena before she disappeared. They’d beat him to a bloody pulp if they got even a hint of what he’d been doing with her in his untidy little bedroom under the eaves. He’d joined in the search, though. He’d trudged through Birney Woods with all the other men from the village, even as far as Birney Castle, that ancient, imposing structure on the edge of the woods that seemed to overshadow Birney Forest.

“Same again, love?” Jamie said, raising his empty glass in the direction of Tamsin the barmaid. She looked at the clock, then shrugged and said with a smile:

“Well, I shouldn’t, but seeing as it’s you, Jamie Randall.” She set about fetching him his drink.

“You’re a grand lass, Tamsin,” Jamie said with a grin. As he drank his ale with relish, his thoughts wandered back to old Birney Castle, unoccupied for so many years and now suddenly tenanted again, and by a mysterious foreign nobleman too whom no-one in the village had ever clapped eyes on. There’d been no foreign nobleman at the castle today when the men from the village had called there looking for Rowena, no-one only a hunchbacked gatekeeper who’d told them that his master was away and that no lass had been seen anywhere in the vicinity that day or any other.

A creepy place, that castle, Jamie reflected, as he downed the last of his pint. The air around it had seemed dead, somehow. No birds sang in the immediate environs and no flowers grew either, only weeds, ugly, virtually indestructible weeds. Now he came to think of it, it gave Jamie the shivers, the castle and the entire area that surrounded it. He hadn’t felt really safe until he and the others had found themselves back once more on the path that would take them through the forest and back to the village. He belched now and wiped his mouth appreciatively with the back of his hand.

“I suppose I’d better be making a move,” Jamie said, realising as he did so that he was the only customer left in the tavern.

“What’s your hurry, Jamie Randall…?” said Tamsin the barmaid. “It’s not often we get the place to ourselves.” She came around the counter to stand beside him. Jamie’s eyes widened as she took his hand and placed it on her breast. Her face was plain and her long hair mousy but her breasts were full and snowy-white in her low-cut blue gown. Jamie, a long-time connoisseur of breasts, thought he could even detect a hint of nipple through the thin cotton of her frock.

“What’s all this about, Tamsin?” he said curiously. Tamsin had always greeted him as if he were a special friend but, after all, she was the barmaid and Jack Walton paid her to keep the customers happy. She treated all the other customers in the same way.

“It’s like I said, Jamie,” she replied with a smile. “You’re always busy with different girls, this girl or that girl, always the pretty ones, but tonight you’re finally alone. Maybe it can be my turn for a change…?”

Jamie hesitated. He thought of pretty, laughing Rowena, out in Birney Forest somewhere, maybe raped, maybe dead, slaughtered horribly by some madman perhaps or torn asunder by wild animals. Then Tamsin pulled down the front of her gown all the way to her waist and the largest, most perfect breasts that Jamie had ever seen before suddenly tumbled free. Jamie swallowed hard before saying with a grin:

“I don’t see why not, Tamsin my lovely. I don’t see why not…”

TO BE CONTINUED HERE SOON…

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, Le Dernier Paradis at the Trinity 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. In August 2014, she won the ONE LOVELY BLOG award for her (lovely!) horror film review blog. She is addicted to buying books and has been known to bring home rain-washed tomes she finds on the street and give them a home.

She is the proud possessor of a pair of unfeasibly large bosoms. They have given her- and the people around her- infinite pleasure over the years. She adores the horror genre in all its forms and will swap you anything you like for Hammer Horror or JAWS memorabilia. She would also 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

https://sandrafirstruleoffilmclubharris.wordpress.com

http://sexysandieblog.wordpress.com

http://serenaharker.wordpress.com

https://twitter.com/SandraAuthor

lee 11

ANNA MEETS COUNT DRACULA. BOOK 2- PARTS 11 & 12. AN EROTIC HORROR STORY BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

lee 11

ANNA MEETS COUNT DRACULA. BOOK 2- PART 11. AN EROTIC HORROR STORY BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

“I’ve missed you so much,” breathed Anna against the bare damp skin of his chest.

“And I’ve missed you, my fiery little Anna,” replied the Count, bending his head to hers and cutting off her next words by covering her mouth with his own. In the steaming, fragrant waters of the sunken bath, they kissed until Anna’s head spun. When they finally drew apart, Anna blurt out suddenly:

“I want you to get rid of Gloria!” The Count frowned, his dark eyebrows drawing together in a manner which normally boded ill for Anna or his handmaidens.

“What are you talking about?” he said sternly. “Of course I will not ‘get rid’ of Gloria, as you put it. Why would I? She’s my chief handmaiden. Explain yourself, woman!” Anna shrugged and lowered her eyes, uncomfortable now under his intense scrutiny.

“I don’t like her,” she said. “I don’t trust her. I can’t explain it. It’s just a… a feeling I have, that’s all.” The Count lifted her chin with a teasing smile and tilted her head back so that she had no choice but to look up at him.

“Poor little Anna,” he mocked. “So emotional. So hysterical. So filled with ridiculous feminine notions and feelings. Poor pregnant little Anna. So foolish and irrational. So silly.”

“You blame everything I say and do these days on my pregnancy!” Anna protested, hot tears stinging the backs of her eyelids. She could not believe that he was being so unfair.

“That’s because everything you say and do these days is coloured by your condition,” Dracula said, lifting her up easily and ascending the steps that led up out of the bath with Anna squealing and struggling in his arms. “But for now, little one, we will have no more talking. Gloria will naturally remain as my chief handmaiden and you will not raise the subject with me again. Is that understood?” He strode, naked and dripping, out of the bathroom and into the master bedroom, where he deposited the heavily pregnant Anna onto the huge four-poster bed.

“But…” began Anna.”

“No ‘buts,’ Anna,” the Count said, frowning. “Have I not made myself clear…?” Anna swallowed hard, then whispered:

“Yes, Master. You have made yourself clear.”

“Good girl,” he said, climbing onto the bed beside her. He leaned over her, careful not to rest his full weight on her swollen belly, and kissed her lingeringly on her mouth until she forgot about Gloria, the baby, even her own name. Her nipples began to stiffen and her womanly parts to moisten as he expertly caressed her face, her belly, her breasts, between her legs.

“Make love to me,” she begged him, desperate as always to feel him penetrating her innermost recesses. “I can’t wait, Master. Please don’t make me wait this time.”

“Little Anna, always in such a hurry,” mocked Count Dracula. “Don’t fret, my pretty Anna. This time, I promise you that I shall not make you wait.” He manoeuvred her unwieldy body onto its side, then he stretched himself out behind her and began to ease his erect member between the slick, glistening lips of her sex. Anna moaned out loud. Still wet and naked from the bath, they coupled until Count Dracula emptied his seed into Anna’s warm, welcoming womb. They lay together in a tangle of bare arms and legs for a long time afterwards.

I love you, Master,” Anna whispered as her eyelids grew heavy. The dawn was approaching and soon it would be time for them to rest. “I love you more than un-Death itself.”

But the Count was already asleep.

ANNA MEETS COUNT DRACULA. BOOK 2- PART 12. AN EROTIC HORROR STORY BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

Jamie Randall came down to breakfast shortly before seven in the morning. As one of only two coachmen in the small village of Birney, which nestled in a quiet and picturesque part of the English countryside, today he would be driving the coach to London and back for anyone who had business there.

Today, there was a bootmaker and an apothecary making the long journey from Birney to the big city, along with two elderly sisters who were coming into money on account of the death of an even more elderly relative. They were obliged to travel to the metropolis to meet with the family lawyer, close up the lodgings of their aged uncle and dispose of his effects. The two elderly sisters were greatly excited at the prospect of such an unprecedented adventure.

Jamie himself would stay the night in London before making the return journey home the following morning. He never minded the prospect of a night in London. He’d visit a tavern, have himself a few pints of frothy ale and pay a couple of shillings for the privilege of a pretty whore’s company till morning.

Not that he had trouble finding women to bed down with him. Jamie was handsome and well-built and had a smile that would charm the bloomers off a nun, as his older brother Simeon was fond of telling him. The girls in the village of Birney were queuing up to lie down for a young man as handsome and as virile as Jamie Randall. Jamie was happy to oblige as many of them as he could reasonably get around to. It kept him busy and usually more than amply satisfied.

Lately, though, he’d been devoting more and more time to pretty Rowena Sampson, twenty years old with long, lustrous hair and a curvaceous figure that had not gone unnoticed amongst the men of the village.

“I do love you, Jamie!” she’d told him the last time he’d tumbled her, here in this very house, in his tiny bedroom upstairs under the eaves. It had been just last night. She’d lain naked in his arms, her long, light-brown hair fanned out across his pillows, her full breasts heaving after their vigorous act of copulation, his seed still dampening the inside of her plump white thighs.

“And I love you, Rowena my sweet!” he’d replied automatically. “You’re the prettiest girl in all of Birney. No, not just Birney. England!” Words of love came easily to Jamie. It would never occur to Jamie not to tell a beautiful woman exactly what she wanted to hear.

“And I always mean it when I say it, brother,” he’d told Simeon laughingly on more than one occasion. “As God is my witness, I always mean it.”

“They just don’t know how many other women you’re saying it to as well,” Simeon usually responded with a grin. But Jamie was getting fond of Rowena. He was actually looking forward to bedding her again when he returned from London. She had the biggest, roundest, juiciest pair of buttocks he’d ever seen on a woman. He wanted to place her on all fours so that he could enter her from behind while walloping her plump, succulent arse with the flat of his hand. Rowena always squealed like a pig when he did that to her and tried to make out like she didn’t want it but if he dared to stop, she’d yell louder still. Jamie knew what she liked. It was what all women liked.

“Haven’t you heard the news?” was Simeon’s greeting when Jamie walked through the kitchen door. Simeon, Jamie’s partner in the coach-driving business and a better time-keeper than Jamie, had already breakfasted and was putting on his cloak.

“No, what?” said Jamie, taking a sweet red apple from the cupboard and taking a huge bite out of it. If his breakfast was to be taken on the run, then this would have to do.

“Rowena Sampson’s missing,” said Simeon. “Her brother Joshua’s been knocking on every door in the village looking for her. He’s telling everyone who’ll listen that there’s been no sign of her since him and his old man left their house to go to the tavern last night. They found out this morning that her bed hadn’t been slept in. She’s vanished into thin air, is what it looks like…”

TO BE CONTINUED HERE SOON…

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, Le Dernier Paradis at the Trinity 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. In August 2014, she won the ONE LOVELY BLOG award for her (lovely!) horror film review blog. She is addicted to buying books and has been known to bring home rain-washed tomes she finds on the street and give them a home.

She is the proud possessor of a pair of unfeasibly large bosoms. They have given her- and the people around her- infinite pleasure over the years. She adores the horror genre in all its forms and will swap you anything you like for Hammer Horror or JAWS memorabilia. She would also 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

https://sandrafirstruleoffilmclubharris.wordpress.com

http://sexysandieblog.wordpress.com

http://serenaharker.wordpress.com

https://twitter.com/SandraAuthor

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00VR8XE84

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00OV9EKG6

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00SAUGZ6K

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00OABATWO

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00PPM16YM

the_canal_2

THE CANAL. 2014. REVIEW BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

the_canal_2

THE CANAL. 2014. WRITTEN AND DIRECTED BY IVAN KAVANAGH. STARRING RUPERT EVANS, HANNAH HOEKSTRA, STEVE ORAM, CALUM HEATH AND ANTONIA CAMPBELL-HUGHES. REVIEW BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

This Irish horror film was shot near where I live in Dublin so straightaway I kind of felt a special bond with it. I’ve always loved the canal which is only a short walk from my house. I’ve walked the length of it many times and it’s a gorgeous walk. The kind of house the family in the film live in is achingly familiar to me too. I’ve been in houses like it many times and I love them. I’d love to live in one. When I win the lottery, haha…

I think this is one of the first Irish horror films I’ve ever seen. I’m by no means an expert on the subject but I don’t think we’ve made too many of them over here. We’ve never spawned a John Carpenter or an Alfred Hitchcock of our very own, so I was interested to see what THE CANAL was going to be like. I enjoyed every second of it, though I found it a tad confusing at times.

Here’s the deal. Rupert Evans plays David Williams, a film archivist who works just down the street from my house. Honestly! He’s jolly attractive in a stubbly, just-fell-out-of-bed kind of way. His wife is Alice, a beautiful Dutch woman who clearly doesn’t know how lucky she is to have bagged a man like David because she has an affair with a work client who’s not half as good-looking as her husband. The ungrateful hussy…! I’ll have him if you don’t want him, was my thinking on the whole matter.

David is gutted when one dark night he catches the cheating pair together having sex. Not long afterwards, Alice’s lifeless body is dragged out of the nearby canal. The hard-boiled, ginger-haired detective assigned to the case thinks David killed her. David swears it wasn’t him but the ghost who’s been haunting his house, the ghost of a man who brutally murdered his wife and children in 1902 in David’s and Alice’s very house…!

Naturally, the cops don’t believe in the existence of the ghost, but what can they do? They keep a close eye on David while he runs frantically here and there trying to prove that there is a murderous ghost in his beautiful old house. In the process, he frightens his small son Billy half to death, along with Billy’s babysitter Sophie and his own co-worker in the film archives place, Claire.

Then, one night, things come to a grisly head in the dark, filthy tunnels underneath the garden that lead straight to the canal. Let’s just say that there’s someone down there who’s most anxious to make contact with David. Maybe even two ‘someones…’

I absolutely adored the black-and-white olden-days photos of the murder victims. No, I’m not a ghoul, just a keen amateur Ripperologist, haha. The footage of the ghost that David manages to catch on camera is actually pretty terrifying and freaked me out. There’s a twist at the end that’s rather interesting and also one hell of a shock which I won’t tell you about in case I spoil it for you.

The makers of the film were a bit cheeky though, I thought, sticking what I’ve come to call yet another Little Grudge Girl on the film poster. You know, the girl in the long white dress with the long black hair covering her face…? Watch the film and you’ll see what I mean. It’s false advertising, if you ask me, and just tacked on to bring folks in off the street to watch the film. Hey, I should know, it worked on me…!

I must add that I was quite open and amenable to being scared on the night I went to see this film. I’d just finished reading the book of THE EXORCIST for the first time ever, so I was somewhat of a gibbering wreck to begin with.

I was one of only three people in the darkened cinema who’d turned up for this particular showing. As usual, I was sitting down the front with my bag of Sour Crazy Skittles. (Three euros and twenty cents for a bag of sweets…? That’s the real crime here, people!) There were two people sitting way behind me. I could just about make out their two pale faces in the gloom. When the film ended, however, only one other person besides me left the room. What happened to the third person? He or she hadn’t passed me at any stage during the screening and there were no doors at the back of the room for them to have nipped through. The only two doors were on either side of me. Spooky, eh…?

Oh and, also, there was a haunted urinal in the film so when I left the screening, dying to pee, I was afraid of my living life to use the empty cinema bathroom.

Um, you won’t lock me in if I go to the loo, will you?” I asked the cinema attendant, who was busy locking up. I was literally the last patron to leave the place that night.

We’ve never locked anyone in yet,” he quipped. Nonetheless, I nearly peed myself in my haste to get out of their admittedly clean but completely deserted bathroom. Well, I didn’t want some murderous madman from the flippin’ Victorian era squinting over the top of the cubicle at me with my Bridget Jones-style knickers down around my ankles, did I? The very thought…!

I had a deliciously scary night off the back of this film, what with one thing and another. I’d call that a job well done.

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, Le Dernier Paradis at the Trinity 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. In August 2014, she won the ONE LOVELY BLOG award for her (lovely!) horror film review blog. She is addicted to buying books and has been known to bring home rain-washed tomes she finds on the street and give them a home.

She is the proud possessor of a pair of unfeasibly large bosoms. They have given her- and the people around her- infinite pleasure over the years. She adores the horror genre in all its forms and will swap you anything you like for Hammer Horror or JAWS memorabilia. She would also 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

https://sandrafirstruleoffilmclubharris.wordpress.com

http://sexysandieblog.wordpress.com

http://serenaharker.wordpress.com

https://twitter.com/SandraAuthor

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00VR8XE84

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00OV9EKG6

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00SAUGZ6K

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00OABATWO

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00PPM16YM

wallace_gromit2

WALLACE AND GROMIT: THE CURSE OF THE WERE-RABBIT. 2005. REVIEW BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

wallace_gromit2

WALLACE AND GROMIT: THE CURSE OF THE WERE-RABBIT. 2005. DIRECTED BY NICK PARK AND STEVE BOX. STARRING PETER SALLIS, HELENA BONHAM CARTER, RALPH FIENNES, NICHOLAS SMITH AND LIZ SMITH. REVIEW BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

This stop-motion animation film is a delight. If you’ve ever been a fan of AARDMAN STUDIOS creation SHAUN THE SHEEP, then you’ll most likely dig Wallace and Gromit, the English man-and-dog combination who adore all varieties of cheese and invent the maddest gadgets and doo-hickeys in their spare time.

They live in a pretty, picturesque little English country village peopled with humorous caricatures like the dotty English vicar and working men in their shirt-sleeves and get themselves into sticky situations and hilarious scrapes galore. This film is no exception to that rule.

This time around, the sticky situations involve rabbits, if you please. Many, many rabbits. Let me explain. The Great Big Giant Vegetable Competition is happening soon in the village, and the villagers are going nuts because dozens of rabbits are chowing down on their precious vegetables.

If you knew how attached the English are to their village fêtes in which the biggest, shiniest, most succulent-looking slug-free veggies and the biggest, bestest roses win rosettes and trophies, then you’d know exactly how catastrophic this turn of events is for the townspeople.

In this case, the coveted prize is The Silver Carrot. We get the distinct impression that the villagers would sell their souls, never mind their grannies, to take home this not inconsiderable hunk of metal and stick it on the mantelpiece for the neighbours to admire and eat their hearts out over. The stakes then, as you can see, are high. Dangerously high…

Posh Lady Tottington of Tottington Hall is particularly concerned that the floppy-eared little blighters- the rabbits, that is, not the villagers- be dealt with humanely. Her posh, trigger-happy twit of a toupee-wearing suitor, Victor Quartermaine, wants to send the poor creatures to ‘bunny heaven,’ which does not meet with Lady T’s approval at all.

Wallace and Gromit, who together make up the ANTI-PESTO company, assure the villagers that they have the matter in hand. While working on a method designed to cure bunny rabbits of their desire to munch veggies, however, the pair make a rather disastrous boo-boo. Wallace is accidentally turned into a furry abomination known as The Were-Rabbit. He has an enormous appetite and his attentions are firmly fixed on the delicious Vegetable Competition Veggies…

The animation- or ‘claymation’- is visually gorgeous. The whole thing is so deliciously English in effect that it’s a bit like watching an episode of popular murder mystery drama, MIDSOMER MURDERS, except it’s animated and there aren’t really any murders, as such.

I enjoy it particularly because I’ve always had a not-so-secret desire to live in a pretty house next to a genuine English village green, where chaps play cricket and stand around nibbling on strawberries and cream and drinking cups of tea out of fine china cups when the weather permits. There’s nothing more English than Wallace and Gromit, so if that’s what you like you’ll be in for a jolly nice treat.

There are some great sight gags too, such as the cheese-loving Wallace having EAST OF EDAM, WAITING FOR GOUDA, FROMAGE TO ETERNITY and GRATED EXPECTATIONS in his bookcase. A little something for him to browse when he’s not flicking through the pages of ‘AY-UP’ magazine. (Instead of ‘HELLO’ magazine, see?) It’s just a nice, warm cosy little film that’ll leave you feeling good about life, and which of us doesn’t need a bit of that…?

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, Le Dernier Paradis at the Trinity 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. In August 2014, she won the ONE LOVELY BLOG award for her (lovely!) horror film review blog. She is addicted to buying books and has been known to bring home rain-washed tomes she finds on the street and give them a home.

She is the proud possessor of a pair of unfeasibly large bosoms. They have given her- and the people around her- infinite pleasure over the years. She adores the horror genre in all its forms and will swap you anything you like for Hammer Horror or JAWS memorabilia. She would also 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

https://sandrafirstruleoffilmclubharris.wordpress.com

http://sexysandieblog.wordpress.com

http://serenaharker.wordpress.com

https://twitter.com/SandraAuthor

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00VR8XE84

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00OV9EKG6

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00SAUGZ6K

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00OABATWO

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00PPM16YM

Trouble-Harry-Feet-590x320px

THE TROUBLE WITH HARRY. 1955. REVIEW BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

Trouble-Harry-Feet-590x320px

THE TROUBLE WITH HARRY. 1955. DIRECTED BY ALFRED HITCHCOCK. STARRING JOHN FORSYTHE AND SHIRLEY MACLAINE. REVIEW BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

I’ve said this before many times and I’ll say it again. The best way to watch an Alfred Hitchcock movie is on BBC2 television on a Saturday afternoon, curled up on the couch while the rest of the world trudges tiredly round Tesco doing the weekly grocery shop, trailing fussy offspring and a shopping list a mile long. I recently had another chance to do exactly this, for which I’m enormously appreciative.

This time, the film was Hitchcock’s 1955 black comedy, THE TROUBLE WITH HARRY. It was preceded by an excellent documentary called HITCH: ALFRED THE GREAT. Narrated by Sylvia Sims, it told the story of the famous director’s early years and how he got started in the business of making pictures.

The documentary was followed by SHIRLEY MACLAINE :TALKING PICTURES. I’ve never been a huge fan of hers, more because I’m not too familiar with her films than anything else. I therefore enjoyed hearing her talk about her ‘pictures,’ as they used to call them back then(!), and watching long clips of her flirty interviews with Michael ‘Parky’ Parkinson, back when she had the gorgeous long hair and looked for all the world like a simmering sex kitten.

The movie, of course, was next. It’s a black comedy that at times has an almost surreal feel to it. It’s set in small-town America- Vermont, to be precise- in the Fall, as they call it across the pond. The one thing I’ve remembered my whole life about this film is its absolutely glorious colour. The whole film is coloured rich russets, reds, browns, oranges and greens, all the colours of autumn. It’s a visual treat, almost an orgasm for the peepers (Tee-hee, I said the ‘O’ word…!), and undoubtedly one of the most beautifully-coloured of all of Hitchcock’s films.

The star of the film is dead from the off. That’s right, he’s a stiff, a corpse, a cadaver. He has ceased to exist. He is an ex-parrot. Um, I mean, person. Sorry. Monty Python joke. His name is Harry and he’s lying in a grassy meadow not too far from the town, just waiting to be discovered. And discovered he certainly is, by just about everybody in the place.

They poke at him, they pull at him, they bury him and dig him up numerous times in one twenty-four period, they stand over him chatting about him or even making dates with each other over his dead body, they even paint him in his deceased state, for crying out loud.

John Forsythe stars as Sam Marlowe, a quirky artist who is besotted with Shirley MacLaine’s cutesy-pie twice-widowed mom, Jennifer Rogers. Forsythe, of course, later went on to star in glitzy, heavily shoulder-padded, super-successful American drama serial, DYNASTY, in which he played business mogul Blake Carrington. He was usually flanked by his glamorous current wife Krystle (Linda Evans) and his superbitch ex-wife, Alexis Colby-Carrington (Joan Collins). He wasn’t quite as evil as J.R. Ewing, but he wasn’t a man to be crossed in big business, either.

It’s nice to see him in this film with his full head of lovely thick black hair, as we’re probably more used to seeing him with his Blake Carrington blue rinse. He’s very funny as Sam Marlowe, an artist so eccentric that he ignores a millionaire art buyer just so he can cut a middle-aged woman’s hair to pretty her up for her date with an adorable old sea-captain. And he isn’t even a hairdresser…!

There’s an absolutely hilarious conversation between Marlowe and the sea-captain about the aforementioned middle-aged woman. It’s a conversation conducted entirely, and brilliantly, in metaphors. They talk about how the sea-captain will be the first man to ever ‘cross her threshold,’ and how she may be well-preserved for her age but ‘even preserves have to be opened…’

Watch the film, please. The dialogue is witty, sharp and just so comical. The situation becomes more and more bizarre as the whole world and his wife- or so it seems!- gets in on the act. Who killed Harry and, more importantly, what’s to be done about him…? I won’t tell you how things pan out because I wouldn’t want to spoil it for you.

This is a terrific film and, while it doesn’t get as much publicity as some of Hitchcock’s other films, that doesn’t mean it should be overlooked by you, my review-reading friends. Go and dig it out. Meet Harry. He’s dead good company, you know. Only when he wants to be, though, that’s the thing. That’s the trouble with Harry, you see

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, Le Dernier Paradis at the Trinity 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. In August 2014, she won the ONE LOVELY BLOG award for her (lovely!) horror film review blog. She is addicted to buying books and has been known to bring home rain-washed tomes she finds on the street and give them a home.

She is the proud possessor of a pair of unfeasibly large bosoms. They have given her- and the people around her- infinite pleasure over the years. She adores the horror genre in all its forms and will swap you anything you like for Hammer Horror or JAWS memorabilia. She would also 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

https://sandrafirstruleoffilmclubharris.wordpress.com

http://sexysandieblog.wordpress.com

http://serenaharker.wordpress.com

https://twitter.com/SandraAuthor

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00VR8XE84

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00OV9EKG6

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00SAUGZ6K

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00OABATWO

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00PPM16YM

dracula groupies

ANNA MEETS COUNT DRACULA… BOOK 2- PART 10. AN EROTIC HORROR STORY BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

dracula groupies

ANNA MEETS COUNT DRACULA. BOOK 2- PART 10. AN EROTIC HORROR STORY BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

Valeria stripped the clothes from Anna’s body and handed them to one of the nude handmaidens to wash and put away. Watched by Valeria, Anna carefully stepped down the three or four steps into the sunken bath. It was filled with warm, scented bubbly water. She sank into the water with a grateful sigh. It swirled around her aching limbs like balm being applied to an open wound.

Her body was big and unwieldy now and she required assistance to do certain things. On the orders of Count Dracula, she was no longer permitted to hunt for victims of her own, but had to drink the goblets of blood brought to her by Valeria and the nude handmaidens. She couldn’t wait until the child in her belly was born and out of her and she could hunt once more for the fresh blood she craved.

As she luxuriated in the scented water, having her long blonde hair and her naked body gently washed by Valeria, who’d stepped nude into the water alongside her, she wondered if her unborn child would be a boy, and if he would look like his father, Count Dracula.

She was convinced that the baby would be a boy, a boy who would grow up to be as strong and powerful and darkly handsome as his father. Anna closed her eyes for a moment, imagining the child suckling at her breast while the Count looked on. Her boy would have a strong suck, like his father. She would be proud to be his mother, proud to be the mother of Count Dracula’s child.

She stretched lazily, enjoying the feel of the water on her bare skin, and opened her eyes. She started when she saw the Count’s highly-polished black boots and the hem of his black cape next to her at the edge of the sunken bath. She raised her eyes to see Count Dracula standing over her, looking down at her with an unreadable expression on his handsome face. Mostly unreadable, she amended, because his gaze was tinged as always with lust at the sight of her wet, naked body, heavily swollen with his child.

“I… I wasn’t expecting you,” Anna gasped. “I didn’t even know that you were in the castle. Where have you been?”

“I had business to attend to,” he said in clipped tones. He almost never told her about his various business interests or anything else that he was involved in. He’d flatly refused to tell her what had transpired between him and his younger brother Nikolai when they’d fought ferociously here at the castle.

It had been Valeria who’d informed her that the upshot of their terrible fight had been Nikolai’s immediate return to Romania in disgrace. He’d been under orders from the Count never on any account to return to England. Clearly, the subject of his badly-behaved younger brother was a sore spot with Count Dracula. Anna wished that he would be more open with her about these things but sometimes it did not seem as if that would be something that would ever happen between them. The Count was too used to keeping his own counsel.

“Well then, are you staying?” she asked him, hoping against hope that the answer would be yes.

“Leave us,” the Count said, without looking round or transferring his gaze from his bride’s body. Valeria bowed obediently and climbed, as wet and naked as her mistress, out of the bath before scurrying out of the room. The three or four nude handmaidens in attendance melted away also, knowing better than to delay in obeying a direct order from their Master. Anna’s heart began to pound more loudly in her chest and she could feel her pulses racing.

When they were alone together, the Count began to disrobe swiftly. Anna watched him with her blue eyes wide with a desire so profound it was almost painful. The Count was tall, at least six feet five in height, and lean with it. He was strong though, very strong, and muscular. Anna could not tear her gaze away from him. He was the very epitome of male strength and hard, cold male beauty.

When he was magnificently naked, his male member already erect and so impressive in girth and length that Anna gasped anew at the appearance of it, he climbed down into the bath beside her and immediately took her in his arms that were covered in a layer of fine dark hairs.

“Alone at last,” he murmured into her ear as Anna melted ecstatically against him. Her Master was here. The Master of all of them was here.

TO BE CONTINUED HERE SOON…

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, Le Dernier Paradis at the Trinity 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. In August 2014, she won the ONE LOVELY BLOG award for her (lovely!) horror film review blog. She is addicted to buying books and has been known to bring home rain-washed tomes she finds on the street and give them a home.

She is the proud possessor of a pair of unfeasibly large bosoms. They have given her- and the people around her- infinite pleasure over the years. She adores the horror genre in all its forms and will swap you anything you like for Hammer Horror or JAWS memorabilia. She would also 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

https://sandrafirstruleoffilmclubharris.wordpress.com

http://sexysandieblog.wordpress.com

http://serenaharker.wordpress.com

https://twitter.com/SandraAuthor

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00OABATWO

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00SAUGZ6K

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00VR8XE84

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00OV9EKG6

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00PPM16YM