FANGS AND FOREPLAY… THE EROTIC ADVENTURES OF DRACULA.
A NOVEL BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©
BOOK 3- CHAPTER 23.
Terry Fisher, the footman from Richmond House, and the under-coachman Freddie Francis were enjoying a frothy pint at Old Mother Reilly’s Public-House, where the view had to be seen to be believed.
At the bar stood Sally and Heidi, their two favourite prostitutes. The women downed pints and giggled together and gossiped and looked over constantly at the two young men, who were attractive enough to look at, clean and never tried to diddle them out of a few coins.
For that reason, Terry and Freddie were always welcome to try their luck at Mother Reilly’s, where comfortable enough rooms were provided upstairs for any business transactions that might be on hand.
For now, however, the women were leaving the men alone to drink and talk their men-talk, although they kept an eagle-eye out for any other whores who might try to jump their preciously-guarded claims. Terry and Freddie were, in fact, currently involved in a discussion of no small cerebral significance and appreciated the women’s keeping their distance for now.
‘So, ‘ow many times ‘ave you ridden Bessie Stoker this week then?’ inquired Freddie of Terry, who grinned and wiped a froth moustache off his upper lip before replying:
‘Three, or four if you count the blow-job in the broom closet on Wednesday morning while Old Ma Quincey were at Chapel.’
‘Lucky devil,’ said Freddie. ‘I mean, she ain’t much of a looker, Bessie, in the face, I mean, but ‘er tits and that fat wobbly arse! I’d do ‘er for them alone.’
‘I’ll put in a good word for you when I’m done wiv ‘er,’ said Terry, grinning broadly now.
‘Ow long will that take, then?’ grumbled Freddie. ‘She’s got ‘er claws into you now, ain’t she? You and ‘er are practically married.’
‘Not me!’ exclaimed Terry indignantly. ‘Just because I ride ‘er sometimes don’t mean that I owe ‘er anything. I’m a free man, me.’
‘Sure you are,’ scoffed Freddie in disbelief. ‘What about the way she’s always skulking around making cow-eyes at you? You and she’ll be starting a family next.’
Terry, alarm widening his eyes, snapped back:
‘Don’t even say that, Freddie, not even as a joke! I don’t want to be a father, not for at least another twenty years. I want to ‘ave a bit of fun first. See the world a bit.’
‘What, the view from Richmond ‘ouse, you mean?’ said Freddie sceptically. ‘Some world.’
‘I won’t always be a bleedin’ footman, will I?’ said Terry, signalling the barman for two more pints of his best ale. ‘I’m gonner make something of myself, I am.’
‘With Bessie Stoker and a passel of screaming brats hangin’ onto your coat-tails?’ said Freddie, licking his lips in anticipation of another frothy pint.
‘Will you shut yer trap about me an’ Bessie bleedin’ Stoker?’ said Terry, exasperated. ‘She don’t mean nothin’ to me, she’s just someone I ride sometimes when it suits me, that’s all. An’ if you mention ‘er name once more tonight, I’m going ‘ome, okay?’
Freddie shrugged, more interested in watching the voluptuous Heidi draw a little purse of coins from between her ample breasts than in what his friend was saying. Figuring that he and Terry had had all the man-talk they needed for one night, he beckoned to the two women waiting at the bar. They sashayed over immediately.
‘Buy us a pint, Terry my love,’ wheedled the dark-haired Sally, seating herself on his lap and exciting his male organ considerably by wriggling much more than was necessary in order to make herself comfortable. ‘I’m parching for a drop of ale, I am.’
‘Me too,’ piped up Heidi, an exotic honey-blonde of Eastern European origin, neither of the men knew where from, exactly.
‘You ‘eard ’em, Freddie,’ grinned Terry, putting his hand straight up Sally’s skirts, gratified to discover that she was wearing no undergarments and that her lady-parts were warm, wet and infinitely inviting. ‘Go get ’em what they want.’
Freddie obliged, returning almost instantly with four pints of Mother Reilly’s best ale. Sally and Terry were already kissing, Terry’s right hand down the front of her dress and his left well out of sight under her skirts.
Freddie deftly distributed the pints, then he grabbed Heidi and pulled her on to his lap, where he immediately commenced explorations similar in nature to Terry’s. Heidi’s breasts were huge and barely contained by the low-cut, wasp-waisted gown she wore. It was torn at both armpits but Freddie couldn’t have cared less. He was much more interested in what was inside her dress.
‘Give us a kiss, ‘eidi love,’ Freddie cajoled.
‘What’s it worth?’ answered back Heidi, quick as a flash.
Freddie opened his jacket to show a bulge in the inside breast pocket where nestled his purse. Heidi, satisfied, her light-green eyes gleaming at the sight of the money, wrapped her arms tightly around his neck and stuck her tongue down his throat.
FANGS AND FOREPLAY… THE EROTIC ADVENTURES OF DRACULA.
A NOVEL BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©
BOOK 3- CHAPTER 24.
It was Rent-Day at the Stokers’ house in Stocking Lane in Whitechapel. Promptly at four o’ clock (no chance he wouldn’t come, of course!), Jeremiah Nettles rapped loudly on the front door and bustled inside, filled as usual with self-importance and bluster, when Vera reluctantly admitted him.
‘Well now, well now, well now, Missus,’ he said pompously as he went straight to the tiny bedroom which Vera shared with her seven children, ‘I hope those pesky, snot-nosed brats of yours won’t be returning before we’ve- ahem- transacted our little bit of business.’
‘Do they ever?’ replied Vera bitterly, starting to disrobe so that their ‘little bit of business’ could be gotten over with as quickly as possible. She dreaded the visits from her landlord so much that they were making her feel sick. Sick and cold and shaky all over, but this was the only way she could afford to keep a roof over her own head and those of her seven children.
She really hadn’t been feeling herself lately, though. Her eyesight, failing rapidly after years of sewing by candlelight to make ends meet for her family, was causing her to have terrible headaches. They’d been so bad, Vera thought she was going out of her mind with the awful pain.
And there were times lately, oh yes, there’d been times when she hadn’t felt like herself at all. Times when she’d been hungry, exhausted, cold and fearful, most dreadfully fearful for her own and her childrens’ future. God alone knew what lay in store for them all.
God had been conspicuously absent from the little house in Stocking Lane lately, though, thought Vera, her bitterness overflowing as she watched the grossly obese Jeremiah Nettles fussily place his jacket and trousers on the one chair in the room, after checking first to make sure that it was clean.
Vera felt insulted by this. She always kept a clean house, no matter how bad things were. She had standards, she had, whatever Mr. Hoity-Toity Jeremiah Nettles thought about her and her little family.
Her arrangement to pay Jeremiah Nettles his rent ‘in kind’ had meant that she no longer had to walk the streets of Whitechapel at night, prostituting herself to anyone who had a few coppers on him.
Sometimes, though, she thought she might prefer that to having to lie underneath her landlord’s enormous sweaty body while he laboured over her, puffing and panting like an old clapped-out pair of bellows. He disgusted her so much, it was all she could to keep from retching when he smothered her with his incredible, foul-smelling bulk so that she couldn’t move.
‘Now then, Missus, lie down and open those scrawny legs of yours,’ Jeremiah Nettles commanded, easing his bulk onto the bed. His ‘manhood,’ if you could call it that, thought Vera scornfully, was hidden under the vast folds of his hairy stomach. Disgust flooding her every pore, Vera lay rigid on the bed while her landlord settled his weight on top of her.
‘You know, Missus, I’ve been thinking,’ he said as he tried to push his wormy slug of a male organ into her waiting feminine parts (it took all Vera’s willpower not to shrink away from him, he didn’t like that and might hit her a belt) ‘that daughter of yours, the one with the pigtails, the one what comes after your Bessie, what’s ‘er name, this little flower?’
A cold feeling of dread came over Vera as she stammered:
‘Why, th-th-that’s Tabby! Why do you want to know?’
‘How old is she, Missus?’ puffed Nettles, finally inserting his excuse for a male organ where it was supposed to go and starting to thrust in and out. He was so poorly-endowed that Vera barely felt his efforts, but she smelled his fetid breath on her face and turned away in revulsion. ‘Fourteen, fifteen, what?’
‘She’s- she’s fifteen,’ replied Vera, praying to every saint she’d ever invoked in her life before that Nettles was not implying what she thought he was implying.
‘Fifteen, you don’t say?’ he murmured thoughtfully in response. ‘I would have thought younger, by Jove. You don’t feed those brats of yours enough meat, Missus, that’s what it is, not enough meat and nourishing vittles!’
He laughed uproariously at his own joke, knowing full well that Vera couldn’t afford to put meat on the table for her offspring. As he laughed, drops of spittle flew onto Vera’s face and she could see that he had a piece of food caught between two of his teeth. Her stomach turned.
‘What do you want with my Tabby?’ she said anxiously.
‘Hold your horses, Missus, hold your horses,’ said Nettles as, his fat face contorted with his efforts, he deposited his issue in Vera’s lady-parts. He huffed and puffed for several minutes more then, sweat dripping down his face and onto a revolted Vera, he continued:
‘I want ‘er here next time I come, Missus. I want you both here together. She is- ah, unknown to man, I trust?’
Vera shook her head in shock and disbelief.
‘You can’t!’ she said. ‘Not my Tabby! Not my baby! You can’t have her! I won’t let you, I won’t!’
‘You will, Missus,’ replied Jeremiah Nettles nastily, pulling his male organ out of Vera’s body with a heave and a squelching sound that was immediately followed by a loud belch and a breaking of wind.
‘You will or I’ll have the bailiffs round ‘ere to chuck you and your snot-nosed brats out onto the street. See how you and your brats like living on the streets without a man to protect you. You needn’t worry about the girl. I’ll break her in nicely, show her what a real man can do for a woman. Have her cleaned up for me, Missus, mind, between the legs and what have you,’ he added primly. ‘I don’t want to catch none of your filthy brood’s nasty lice, I don’t.’
A red mist descended over Vera’s tired, over-strained eyes. Before Nettles could begin the arduous process of heaving his bulk off of her, she reached under the mattress for the knife she’d secreted there and stuck it right up inside of him, in the place where she supposed his heart to be, that’s if he had one. She wouldn’t be surprised if he hadn’t.
He must have had something there, though, because the blood began to seep straightaway from the wound and onto a shocked Vera. Blood bubbled from his mouth too, and Vera would never forget the look of utter surprise in his piggy eyes, bulging now out of his folds of face-fat. Vera began to giggle hysterically. She laughed until the tears ran down her face.
‘You’ve done it now, Vera my girl,’ she said out loud. ‘You’ve really done it now…’
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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