FANGS AND FOREPLAY… THE EROTIC ADVENTURES OF DRACULA.
A NOVEL BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©
BOOK 3- CHAPTER 12.
While Sir Blaise noisily pleasured his cousins Abigail and Athena in his luxurious bedchamber in Richmond House, he was unaware that, two floors above him, his mother lay in bed with his own personal valet, John Harker.
Lady Grace Carfax, a mere fifty-two years old and, in any case, in excellent shape for a woman of her age, enjoyed the services of her son’s handsome thirty-five-year-old valet on a regular basis. His male organ so far exceeded her late husband’s in length and girth as to make almost a mockery of her dear departed Bernard’s sexual accoutrements.
Now, after a vigorous session of love-making that had been preceded by the usual thrashing of her bare buttocks with the thick leather strap she kept hidden in a drawer, Lady Grace lay wantonly naked in John Harker’s strong arms. She felt sated and alive, truly alive in a way she had never known in the entire duration of her marriage to Sir Bernard.
‘Have you been thinking about what we discussed?’ John said now as he idly fondled her breasts. Lady Grace yawned and stretched in a wholly relaxed and pleasurable way.
‘What was that again?’
John did his best to hide his annoyance as he said lightly:
‘You know, you and me getting married, like we talked about.’
Lady Grace looked uncomfortable. She laughed somewhat awkwardly and replied:
‘John, dearest John, light of my life. You know it’s impossible. I am a member of the aristocracy. I have been to Court and have been most graciously received by our dear Queen. How could I possibly marry my son’s valet? How would it look to people? And how could I ever tell my son? He’s the man of the house now since Bernard passed. Besides,’ she added, a shade too brightly, ‘aren’t we fine as we are? Why change something that works so well for us?’
‘So you’re ashamed of me then,’ John said, removing his hand from her breast.
‘Not at all,’ Lady Grace hastened to reassure him. Replacing his hand on her soft white breast, she went on with a tremendous sigh:
‘Why, if it were not for the conventions, I would marry you tomorrow. You know that I love you. Please don’t be difficult, John darling.’
John considered his words carefully. A lot was riding on what he said next.
‘If we were married, I could thrash your backside soundly every night for you without us having to be so secretive about it. I could sleep here in this bed with you every night and no-one could stop us. And I could take charge of your finances for you too,’ he added as casually as he could. ‘Your pretty little head shouldn’t have to be bothered with such tiresome mens’ business as monies. I could take all of that burden off your hands for you.’
Grace was silent as she considered his words. It was true that she’d gotten into the most dreadful muddle over money since Bernard had passed away nearly two years ago now. She was so sick and tired of managing things on her own that she was quite literally on the verge of handing sole control of all her considerable finances over to her son Blaise.
‘A pretty young girl like you shouldn’t have to worry about money and the running of a big household like this one,’ said John slyly, allowing his hand to lightly trail along Grace’s belly down to her hairy mound. ‘Let me take care of you. Let me care for you always, and discipline you too when you need it. Naughty pretty young girls like you need to be disciplined every day, lest they be tempted to disobey.’
‘Will you punish me now, John dearest? I’ve been ever so naughty,’ lisped Grace in a little girl voice. ‘I need to be punished so very badly.’
‘Well now, I don’t know,’ said John, deliberately coolly, turning away from her. ‘If you don’t love me enough to marry me, then I don’t know if we can have any kind of a future together.’
Grace hesitated, then made up her mind. Social niceties and conventions be damned! She needed her place in society, it was true, but she needed John’s lovemaking and the strap across her bare bottom more, much much more.
‘I’ll do it, John,’ she said excitedly. ‘I mean, we’ll do it. You and me. We’ll get married. Only spank me now, please! I’ll do anything you want, only please spank me now. Spank me hard!’
‘Turn over onto your belly then,’ John ordered sternly.
Trembling, Grace obeyed. The thunderous spanking he gave her then, on top of her already beaten backside, was all the convincing she needed that she could not live without John Harker in her life.
Afterwards, she gave him a pair of emerald earrings the late Sir Bernard had given her as a reward for his services. A little token of her appreciation, as she put it, pressing the earrings into his hands with a light, deprecating little laugh.
She knew he would sell them for hard cash but what did it matter? There were plenty more useless trickets and gee-gaws where the earrings had come from. She no longer cared for the jewellery and dresses her late husband had lavished upon her.
The only thing that mattered now was keeping John in her life. If marriage and a few trinkets was the price he demanded, well then, so be it. It was too late to go back on her word. The die was cast.
After the spanking, she slept soundly in his arms.
FANGS AND FOREPLAY… THE EROTIC ADVENTURES OF DRACULA.
A NOVEL BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©
BOOK 3- CHAPTER 13.
The gypsy girl had whipped the crowd into a trance during her frenzied dance. As her long black curls bounced and her green eyes flashed and her skirts swished and twirled about her bare legs, they could not take their own eyes off her for an instant.
She was beautiful, surely the most beautiful, bewitching and fascinating creature that had ever graced the Heath. While she danced to the music of the fiddler, a pair of dwarves, also from the circus, deftly and ably pickpocketed the unsuspecting crowd. There were rich people watching the dance too, proper toffs, not just the ever-swelling ranks of London’s underprivileged.
John Harker was in the crowd. When the dance to some haunting foreign air drew to a close and the gypsy girl bowed and curtsied and preened before the applauding people, John elbowed his way through the crowd till he was by her side. He grabbed her arm and half-pushed, half-dragged her up the steps of the nearby caravan and shoved her roughly inside.
Once inside, she turned to face him angrily with her green eyes flashing fire. She slapped him hard across the face. For a moment, his fists twitched by his sides, then he grabbed her and kissed her roughly on her mouth.
He lifted her up bodily then and threw her down on the caravan’s one bed. He lowered himself down onto her and hiked up her brightly-patterned skirt. Tearing off her flimsy undergarments, heedless to her protests that they were ‘nearly new,’ he thrust his engorged maleness into her soft pink lady-parts, which nestled snugly between her thighs in a riot of thick black curly hair.
Afterwards, they lay together in a tangle of sweat-soaked sheets and naked limbs. John smoked a cigarette and the gypsy woman known as Maggie Carandini said:
‘So, what have you got for me today then, lover?’
John Harker, trusted valet to Sir Blaise Carfax of Richmond House and secret lover to Sir Blaise’s mother, Lady Grace Carfax, stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray beside the bed. Leaning across Maggie’s naked form, he fumbled about in the pockets of his coat until he found the earrings. He handed them to her with a grin.
‘How about these little beauties then?’ he said placidly. ‘They match your eyes,’ he added.
‘Real emeralds,’ Maggie said, her eyes huge. ‘I ain’t never seen real emeralds before.’
John winced at the harshness of her Cockney accent. He was inordinately proud of the fact that he’d managed to remove almost every trace of the slums in which he’d grown up from his own accent. Maggie came from Whitechapel, though it suited her to affect a foreign accent sometimes for the benefit of the enthralled crowds who watched her dance.
Stupid people, John frequently thought contemptuously. They actually believed what she told them, that she had come to England from a place far across the water called Romania, the land of mountains and castles and shadows and gypsies and their outlandish superstitions about monsters, vampires and other ghouls.
‘The old bitch must really have a thing for you,’ Maggie was saying now as she inserted the emerald earrings into her own pretty ear-lobes and admired her reflection in a broken bit of mirror. ‘You must really have done a number on her.’
‘Are you jealous, little Maggie?’ John taunted her.
‘I’d scratch her eyes out for her if I ever met her,’ Maggie said, meaning every word. ‘But I never kill the goose that lays the golden eggs. It’s bad for business, me Dad always says.’ She grinned at him wickedly, shaking her head from side to side to watch the earrings dance.
‘Well, this goose is all set to go on laying golden eggs for a good long while yet,’ John told her as he watched the lights in her eyes match the dazzling earrings sparkle for sparkle. ‘It might interest you to know that Lady Grace Carfax of Richmond House has at long last consented to be my lawfully-wedded wife.’
Maggie stared at him in disbelief. Then she let out a screech of triumph that nearly perforated his eardrums.
‘You’ve done it, Johnny Boy!’ she exulted. ‘We’ll be on Easy Street now for sure.’
‘Let’s not count our chickens, Maggie,’ John warned. ‘There’s many a slip ‘twixt cup and lip, after all. She may yet change her mind, as ladies are wont to do,’ he added drily.
‘But she’s said yes, ain’t she?’ said Maggie excitedly. ‘You’ve got to keep her to it now, that’s all. And when we’ve got our mitts on her cash, I’ll wear emeralds like these every day.’
‘You’re not keeping those, Maggie,’ John said sharply. ‘I want my share of the money for them next time I see you.’
Sulkily, Maggie removed the earrings and wrapped them in a grubby handkerchief.
‘I’ll take ’em to my friend tonight,’ she said.
‘Good,’ said John. ‘And don’t pout, it makes you look ugly.’
‘You can be a real bastard sometimes, John Harker, you know that?’ Maggie grumbled as he mounted her naked body and prepared to enter her once more.
‘It’s all part of my charm, Maggie my darling,’ he replied with a cold humourless grin. ‘It’s all part of my charm…’
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY OF SANDRA HARRIS.
Sandra Harris is a Dublin-based novelist, film blogger and movie reviewer. She has studied Creative Writing and Film-Making. She has published a number of e-books on the following topics: horror film reviews, multi-genre film reviews, womens’ fiction, erotic fiction, erotic horror fiction and erotic poetry. Several new books are currently in the pipeline. You can browse or buy any of Sandra’s books by following the link below straight to her Amazon Author Page:
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