It was a dull, damp and foggy Monday morning in London. Sherlock Holmes, the great detective, lay stretched out full-length in his favourite armchair, too overcome by the familiar ennui to even smoke his pipe.

Dr. John H. Watson, M.D., standing at the window of his friend’s consulting rooms at 221B Baker Street looking down on the swell of humanity as it ebbed and flowed like the mighty Thames on the streets below him, very much feared that Holmes was on the verge of having recourse to the dreaded cocaine bottle and syringe once more.

Were it not for the fact that both bottle and syringe currently resided on the high mantelpiece above the fireplace and Holmes in his ennui could not be bothered to get up from his comfortable seat and fetch them, he might be in thrall to them even now. In this instance, Dr. Watson sent up a prayer of thanks to whomever might be listening that Holmes was such an indolent bastard at times.

He was deeply worried for his friend’s mental health. For days now, the dearth of clients and puzzles to keep his genius’s mind sharp and clear had caused him to sink deeper and deeper into a brown study.

He didn’t even want to play some of their favourite games any more, like ‘Doctor and Patient’ and ‘Docky-Wocky Sucky-Wucky Ickle-Wickle Cocky-Wocky.’ When Sherlock Holmes declined to play ‘Docky-Wocky Sucky-Wucky Ickle-Wickle Cocky-Wocky’ with his closest friend, Dr. John H. Watson M.D., then you knew you had a potential catastrophe on your hands. If some business didn’t present itself at their rooms very, very soon, God alone knew on what self-destructive course the bored and depressed famous detective might embark.

‘I say, Holmes, it looks like a case might be presenting itself at last, if I’m not mistaken!’ uttered Watson excitedly now from his vantage point at the window. ‘Yes, indeed, they’re standing now on the path opposite, waiting for a break in the traffic, now they’re looking up at our windows, no doubt wondering if the great detective is in situ. Oh yes, they’re crossing swiftly now that the traffic has eased somewhat, crossing, crossing, and yes! There is the ring at the bell that signifies that we shall soon have a visitor.’

‘Excellent, Watson, excellent! Now hush, not a word, while I endeavour to reconstruct a thumbnail sketch of our visitor from the facts at our disposal.’ Still stretched out in his armchair, he closed his eyes and dramatically placed the two forefingers of each hand over both of his closed eyelids.

‘Now, let me see. Elderly man, rigid military bearing, leathery tanned skin as testament to his long years in India. Not a subaltern, but a high-up officer, a general, or an old major, maybe. Walks with a pronounced limp in the left leg, caught some sniper shrapnel in India, perhaps. Uses a stick made of briar. Addicted to snuff, and the rather dubious confection known as pear drops. Keeps bull mastiffs. Bitten once, on the left ankle, left a scar. Keeps bees, too, like I intend to do when I retire to Sussex. Kept fish as a boy. Sang in a choir in his youth, till nodules on the vocal cords put paid to all that. There. What do you think, Watson? Have I hit the mark again?’

Dr. Watson stared at his friend in astonishment. ‘Why, Holmes, what a marvel you are! But unfortunately, in this instance, I rather fear that…’

What Dr. Watson rather feared, Sherlock Holmes was destined never to know, for at that moment came an urgent rapping at the door and the housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson, a stout, matronly woman of a certain age with a permanent expression of harassment and exasperation, bustled into the room followed by a handsomely dressed middle-aged woman of obvious means.

‘Mr. Holmes,’ gasped Mrs. Hudson, out of breath again after the stairs, ‘this is Lady Chastity Wilberforce-Belvedere, or is it Lady Chastity Belvedere-Wilberforce? I declare, those stairs have fair turned my brain!’

She huffed and puffed her way out of the room, leaving the handsome woman standing in the middle of the room.

‘Pray be seated, my Lady,’ said Dr. Watson, a great admirer of the fair sex when his time wasn’t being completely taken up by Holmes, who was needy and a psychic-vampire, someone who drew his own energy from draining the life-force out of the people around him. He pulled out a chair for her, directly across from Holmes’s armchair, because he knew his friend liked to get a good look at his clients during interviews.

‘Is the Major following behind you?’ said Holmes smugly, steepling his long thin fingers and casting anticipatory glances towards the door under languid, partially closed lids.

‘The Major?’ exclaimed the visitor in obvious surprise. ‘What Major? There is no Major, Mr. Holmes! There is only myself.’

Holmes’s long face turned a dull red with embarrassment at being not only wrong, but quite badly wrong, while Watson did his utmost to suppress a snigger. He was only successful inasmuch as he managed to turn the snigger into a cough, but, judging by the way Holmes was glowering at him, he’d still have to spend the entire evening playing ‘Docky-Wocky Sucky-Wucky Ickle-Wickle Cocky-Wocky’ in order to placate his mortified friend.

‘Pray, Lady Charity…’ began Holmes.

‘Chastity, Mr. Holmes, Chastity,’ said the woman sternly.

‘Pray, Lady Chastity,’ tried Holmes again, ‘be so kind as to state the precise nature of your business. Please to leave out all but the most salient facts.’

‘I am here to bring a ‘Missing Persons’ case to your attention, Mr. Holmes.’

‘The person’s name?’ inquired Holmes in his most bored voice. Christ, the man was such a rude prick at times, best friend or no, thought Dr. Watson crossly.

‘Jeremy Wintergreen,’ said the woman. ‘He’s been missing now in Transylvania for some time…’


Sandra Harris is a Dublin-based novelist, poet, short story writer and film and book blogger. She has studied Creative Writing and Vampirology. She has published a number of e-books on the following topics: horror film reviews, multi-genre film reviews, women’s 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:

Her debut romantic fiction novel, ‘THIRTEEN STOPS,’ is out now from Poolbeg Books:

The sequel, ‘THIRTEEN STOPS LATER,’ is out now from Poolbeg Books:


THE STORY SO FAR. 06/02/2021.

Well, here we are again, and about time too! Some of my readers might remember that I was obliged to abandon Anna and her Count Dracula to their own devices for a bit in December 2019, in order to concentrate on my romantic trilogy, THIRTEEN STOPS.

The first book, THIRTEEN STOPS, came out in June 2020, just as the first COVID-19 Lockdown was coming to an end. THIRTEEN STOPS LATER, the sequel, will be out sometime this Spring.

I never thought I’d be away from my beloved Anna and her Count for as long as a year (and what a year it’s been!), so now, even though I’m still up to my tonsils writing Book Four of the trilogy (yes, yes, I know what a trilogy is, lol!), I’m coming back to them and I hope they’re as happy to see me as I surely am to see them.

But you’ll need catching up after so much time has passed! How far into Book Five did we get? Well, Dracula is still resident in his isolated stone castle on top of a rock in the Carpathian Mountains, and with him reside the following;

His wife Anna, and their two children, Lucrezia and Baby Vlad; his cousin and childhood sweetheart, Carmilla Karnstein, and Carmilla’s handsome grown-up son Darius, who is currently engaged in having as much sex as he can with Dracula’s four ravishing sisters, Samara, Salome, Schira and Sabine.

Dracula’s widowed mother Ursula is by no means past her sell-by date. She has plenty to occupy herself sexually with at the moment, having full ownership of the lovely sisters Un-dead Lysette and Eveline Karsch and their Un-dead academic father Bruno. How can she wring the maximum amusement from the newly-reunited little family?

English honeymooners Edward and Vanessa Wintergreen haven’t been seen by the local villagers since they accepted an invitation to dine at Dracula’s Castle. That’s because Edward has been brutally murdered by Cousin Carmilla, and his shy, virginal wife Vanessa is now Dracula’s mistress, locked away somewhere in the castle where (he hopes!) neither a jealous Carmilla nor an even more jealous Anna can get at her.

Dracula is not remotely concerned as to any possible consequences of his murderous actions, but in London as we speak, one Jeremy Wintergreen, younger brother of Edward Wintergreen, is preparing to leave for Eastern Europe to attempt to find out what fate has befallen his newly-married brother and his young bride Vanessa, who haven’t been in touch with him by mail for weeks. Will he manage to ruffle Dracula’s feathers even slightly in the search for his brother, or will Dracula get to him first…? Only time will tell, dear readers!

Also resident in the castle is Dracula’s older brother Nikolai, who fiercely resents Dracula’s seniority over him in the scheme of things and would absolutely love to depose him in some way, preferably one that involves the most possible pain and discomfort to poor old Dracula. Think THE GODFATHER, if you will; he’s the Fredo of the operation! Nikolai’s mistress is Zena, by the way.

Valeria is Anna’s devoted personal maid and a former Chief Handmaiden of Dracula’s, Paloma and Persephone are the children’s nannies, and the castle is, of course, full of Dracula’s beautiful nude handmaidens who wait nightly for their Count to come to them, so that they can fulfil his deepest, darkest sexual desires while he flays the skin from their perfect bodies with his favourite whip.

Igor the huncback is Dracula’s bodyguard and go-fer, as in, Oi, Igor! Will you go-fer a beautiful young village girl for me at once and bring her back here post-haste? Igor knows where the bodies are buried, believe me…! Desdemona is his mistress.

Meanwhile, down in the village that lives permanently in the shadow of the castle, Magdalena the barmaid sleeps with both father and son in Ivor’s Tavern. Leon the son is a fine figure of a man who can satisfy even the insatiable Maggie’s sexual desires, while Ivor the tavern-owner can give her the security she’s lacked all her life. How long can she keep playing one off against the other, though?

Count Dracula still has unfinished business, you might recall, with a certain Miss Atalanta Pomeroy, the art mistress from Miss Peabody’s Exclusive Academy for the Education of the Daughters of Gentlefolks, which Miss Peabody was misinformed enough to establish in the midst of the Carpathian Mountains, but, hey, she was left the building as a legacy, what would YOU do with it, if not establish an exclusive girls’ school for sexy rich minxes in the middle of nowhere? And somewhere where the Count can pick them off one by one as well, just like shooting fish in a barrel…!

Anyway, are we all caught up now? We’re going on to Chapter Twenty-One in Book Five, in which Anna mourns the deterioration of her relationship with the Count since he found out she slept with his son with Carmilla, Darius, during her second pregnancy. Well, what does she expect? A man has his pride…!

So read on, dear vampire fans, and enjoy, safe in the knowledge that, whatever else happens, we’ll stay with the story now till it reaches a natural climax. Or an unnatural one…



‘Is he coming?’ said Anna, her heart pounding with the anticipation.

Valeria shook her head. “No sign yet. Go back to your dressing-table, mistress, and we’ll continue on with your hair.’

‘Are you sure he received my note?’ Anna looked distraught, and Valeria eased her down onto the dressing-table chair by one bare shoulder as she nodded and said: ‘I delivered it into Lilith’s hands myself, mistress.’

‘Lilith!’ Anna almost spat the name out, like the pips of a grape. ‘She hates me! I will lay wager with you that she will destroy my missive and not let him see as much as a corner of it!’

Valeria sighed. She loved Anna to bits, but her endless speculation about her husband the Count’s whereabouts and motivations and the motivations of everyone around him could be tiring at times.

‘Lilith doesn’t hate you, mistress,’ she said, lifting up the silver-backed hairbrush and continuing to brush Anna’s long golden hair, which she’d been doing before Anna had sent her to the bedroom door once more to see if she could spy the Count, en route to his wife’s bedchamber.

‘All those handmaidens hate me, Valeria! They all want to be in my place, married to Dracula and bearing him his children. Every single one of them would usurp me if she could, and well you know it!’

Valeria couldn’t deny it. Though the handmaidens were merely Dracula’s lowly naked sex slaves, it was in their nature to be always pushing themselves forward, trying to single themselves out in the Count’s mind for his special attentions. Whores they were, and sly with it, and Lilith was more sly than most. Anna was probably right to mistrust her.

Anna stared at her reflection in the mirror while Valeria began to painstakingly thread dozens of jewelled stars on the finest of gold chains through her blonde hair. She frequently fretted that her looks might be going and had to remind herself sternly that she was no longer a mortal woman, but a vampire, like Dracula and his harem. Her looks would never go.

She picked up a powder puff and began idly patting her ample cleavage with it. Her breasts looked huge and pale in the low-cut, pale blue sleeveless gown she wore. Hopefully Dracula would think so too, and tear the fragile, flimsy fabric from her body before making savage love to her.

As was usual when she was expecting him, she wore no undergarments. She remembered her wedding night with the Count in Birney Castle in England many, oh, so many moons ago now, when Valeria had informed her gravely that nothing, no garment, however fine or flimsy, must ever come between Anna and the master. And nothing ever had come between them, unless you counted Darius, the bastard son of Dracula’s cousin Carmilla…!

Anna shuddered and forced her mind off the subject of Darius and his hateful mother. Maybe one day she’d knock that scheming, manipulative bitch Carmilla into the middle of the last century where she belonged, but now was not the time. Carmilla was as deadly dangerous as a poisonous snake. It would take a lot of cunning on Anna’s part to depose her beautiful, violet-eyed rival.

The door slammed open and Count Dracula stood framed in the doorway, impossibly tall, well-groomed and swathed in his black cloak with the heavy silver clasp of ancient silver.

His dark hair, still only slightly greying at the temples, had been slicked back with a damp comb and, despite the fact that he shaved religiously every evening upon waking, his powerful jaw was already darkened with stubble, such was his overwhelming masculinity.

‘You requested my presence, my dear Madame?’ he said sarcastically before entering the room and making Anna what seemed almost like a parody of a deep courtly bow. ‘Leave us!’ he shot out of the side of his mouth at Valeria, who bowed respectfully back and instantly fled the room.

Anna slipped off the dressing-table chair and ran to him, clutching the folds of his cape tightly between her fingers, as tightly as if she would never let him go.

‘Where have you been?’ she cried, looking up into his handsome face as if expecting to see answers written there. ‘I’ve not seen you in weeks! Have you been with her? With Carmilla?’

The Count sighed and began to disrobe, tossing first his cloak and then his dark frock-coat onto the armchair beside his side of the bed.

‘I’ve been busy. On business. Pray don’t ask me a barrage of questions, not if you want me to stay.’

Anna’s full lower lip trembled mutinously, but she managed to hold her tongue. He grinned, knowing what it cost her- cost any woman- to stay silent under duress. A half-dressed Dracula then sat with her on the edge of the huge four-poster bed and took her in his arms.

His kiss left her light-headed, and she swooned back onto the bed while he divested first himself and then his wife of their garments. She wept with impending gratitude when her eyes beheld his massive male organ, fully erect now.

‘Oh, Dracula, make love to me, please, I beg you! I need you so much!’

‘Why else d’you think I’ve come here, wench?’ he teased. ‘To seek your assistance in doing my tax returns?’ He spread her thighs and plunged deep inside her, making her cry out loud with the intensity of his thrust. ‘I think not.’

Afterwards, they lay entwined together in a tangle of sweaty limbs. Anna put her hand on his chest, heaving with the aftermath of their lust, and gazed adoringly up at his face. His closed, heavy-lidded eyes were thickly fringed with the long dark lashes that were the only feminine thing about him.

Oh Dracula, how I love you, and now, because of what I mistakenly did with Darius, I dare not even tell you how much for fear that you might scorn me! Instead, she said shyly: ‘I haven’t been whipped properly in an age, Master.’

He scratched an armpit and yawned loudly. ‘Hmmm? What’s that? Haven’t I ordered Valeria to whip you nightly in my absence?’

‘It’s not the same, Master. It’s not the same at all!’

‘Fetch me my whip then, you little hussy, and I’ll see what I can do to rectify this deplorable situation.’

Anna, unable to keep from smiling all over her face, scurried to the whip cupboard in the corner of the room and fetched his favourite whip, his preferred instrument of punishment when it came to beating her.

She thanked her lucky stars that his interest in disciplining her hadn’t waned an iota. That was good. As long as he still wanted to do that, and make love to her beforehand as well, there was a chance for them.


Sandra Harris is a Dublin-based novelist, poet, short story writer and film and book blogger. 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, women’s 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:

Her debut romantic fiction novel, ‘THIRTEEN STOPS,’ is out now from Poolbeg Books.