FANGS AND FOREPLAY… THE EROTIC ADVENTURES OF DRACULA.
A NOVEL BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©
BOOK 3- CHAPTER 48.
Sir Blaise Carfax discarded his robe and stepped down, stark naked and holding his lighted cigar in his right hand, into the sunken bathtub at Madame Corinne’s brothel, or high-end establishment for Gentlemen and the Sons of Gentlemen as she preferred it to be known.
He heaved a huge sigh of relief as the warm water lapped around him, caressing and soothing his weary body. His favourite twins at Madame Corinne’s brothel, two exotic, tawny-haired beauties from the wilds of Romania called Demeter and Varna, stepped into the tub beside him, giggling and playfully splashing him and each other.
‘Mind the cigar, ladies, please,’ he scolded mildly, holding the cigar aloft and out of reach of the water.
The two naked women, slippery-wet already and gleaming all over their perfect bodies with water droplets that glittered like diamonds, continued giggling but directed their splashing away from the man who was paying big money for their time.
Blaise puffed away on his cigar, content just for the moment to enjoy the visual spectacle of a naked Demeter and Varna disporting themselves joyfully in the water and to think back over the last few dreadful weeks.
His younger cousins Athena and Abigail Carfax, each of them as pregnant as the other with Blaise’s infant (or someone’s infant, God alone knew how many lovers they’d had since landing on his doorstep a year or two ago, the little hussies!), had thankfully been despatched by now to the convent in the isolated little French village which would house them, safely and securely, till they had each given birth.
He had not travelled with them- Miss Cushing had gone with them, but only after he’d offered her nearly triple her usual pay for accompanying the Terrible Twins to their destination and remaining with them thereafter- but the Mother Superior of the Abbey had promised him faithfully by letter that the twins would be well looked after and carefully watched during their sojourn in the French mountains.
They would give birth to their babies and then return home, without the infants, after an appropriate period of recovery had elapsed. The infants, the Mother Superior had assured Blaise, would be placed with suitable families for adoption and Sir Blaise need never be troubled with the matter again, if such was his wish.
This was indeed Sir Blaise’s wish. He only hoped now that Athena and Abigail’s parents in Cornwall would never find out the truth about this dreadful affair. If needs be, he would inform them that their wayward daughters were holidaying in a little French villa with their governess but he would certainly prefer not to have to tell them anything at all, and to have them continue to believe that their daughters were safe and sound in Blaise’s London home, Richmond House.
The formidable Miss Cushing was under the strictest of instructions that Athena and Abigail were to write regular letters home to their parents, full of nice things and little endearments without, of course, breathing a word of their current situation. Miss Cushing would post them to Blaise in London, who would then re-post them on to the twins’ parents in Cornwall. That way, the letters would bear a London postmark and not be a source of worry and suspicion to the Cornwall Carfaxes.
‘Mmmm,’ he groaned now as one of the girls- Demeter, or was it Varna?- took hold of the pale, semi-erect stalk that dangled between his wet thighs and began to massage it to full stiffness. He tapped some of his cigar ash into the heavy crystal ashtray that sat on the floor beside the sunken bath-tub and said:
‘You wicked girl, what are you doing to me? You’re a very naughty girl, aren’t you?’
The twin giggled and continued with her expert ministrations, while her identical sister began to kiss Blaise’s bare neck and chest while her fingers twiddled with his surprisingly sensitive nipples. Blaise took a long satisfying puff of his cigar- Madame Corinne’s finest- and let the twins work their magic on his tired, aching body.
He missed his old friend Sir Daniel Rochester as well. He and Daniel had been to school together, and in fact had first bonded on the playing fields of Eton like so many of the sons of gentlemen did. Daniel’s murder-by-shooting a few weeks ago in his London flat was nearly more shocking than the abduction of Blaise’s sister Anna from her bedchamber by person or persons unknown a year or two ago.
The police were currently searching for a young nobleman called Sir Christopher Vine in order that he might, as they put it, ‘help them with their inquiries.’ According to the grapevine, however, this Vine chap, whom Blaise had seen out and about a few times with Daniel but to whom he’d never been formally introduced, was rumoured to have been Rochester’s lover and to have killed him in a fit of jealous pique over Daniel’s repeated visits to Madame Corinne’s brothel.
Blaise could not believe it of Daniel. Daniel, one of those homosexual chaps? Never in this world! Daniel liked women, he only fucked women. The women at Madame Corinne’s had practically queued up to be used and abused by the wealthy and darkly attractive Daniel Rochester. He may have left them bruised and bleeding sometimes but he always tipped them handsomely in return.
Now Daniel was dead and his father, one of the wealthiest men in England, had apparently dropped dead of a heart attack on hearing the news of his son’s murder. There were rumours circulating there too, nasty, ugly rumours, that Rochester Senior had set a private detective on his son to weed out evidence of homosexual tendencies, with a view to cutting his son out of his will if such evidence were uncovered.
Then, it was said, that Daniel had gotten wind of his father’s intentions and had broken things off with Christopher Vine so as to put himself in the clear and above suspicion. His father would have disinherited Daniel and maybe even disowned him as well if he’d uncovered proof that his son was a homosexual. Daniel had stood to lose a lot through such an unmasking. Vine had supposedly done Daniel to death then because he could not handle being jilted by his lover.
Blaise didn’t know what to believe. He certainly preferred to believe that Daniel loved women as much as he, Blaise, did. The good times they’d had boozing and whoring together at Madame Corinne’s, or losing huge sums or money carelessly together in poker games at their club, the Diamond! He would never forget those happy times and he felt sorry that his old chum, that friend of his boyhood years, had fallen so low.
Not so low as his own, Blaise’s, mother, though, thought Blaise as the twin who’d been stroking his penis to life straddled him now and lowered herself carefully down onto his fully erect member.
Lady Grace Carfax had so nearly disgraced herself utterly by agreeing to marry her son’s valet (valet!) John Harker, just because he was young and virile and, Blaise supposed, handsome after a fashion. Darkly saturnine and a bit sinister, that was how Blaise would have described the rogue, the rascal, the blackguard who’d tried to steal his mother’s heart and, without a shadow of a doubt, her not inconsiderable fortune as well.
But John Harker lay now in a pauper’s grave in a little churchyard not far from Richmond House, with a bullet in his brain and the worms feasting on his once-handsome face.
Lady Grace, distraught, had collapsed on hearing the news of her lover’s demise and had taken to her bed where she’d lain, under heavy sedation, ever since. Blaise had every hope for her recovery and, as long as she never found out just exactly who’d ordered her lover murdered in the coldest of cold blood, for their continued good relationship as mother and son as well.
These Romanian twins were doing a marvellous job of helping him to forget his troubles, though. With one twin sitting in his lap underwater riding his manhood while he rubbed his face against her splendid titties, and the other twin stroking and kissing him wherever she could reach while she waited for her turn to ride the cock-horse to Banbury Cross, he felt all thoughts of his worries drifting away for now.
Goodbye, troublesome cousins Abigail and Athena. Goodbye, Daniel old friend. Goodbye, John Harker, vile seducer of older women and would-be appropriater of their fortunes. Goodbye, goodbye all. For now, Sir Blaise Carfax of Richmond House, London had other things on his mind… and in his mouth…
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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