It is the year 1890 and Dracula and his entourage, having made the English village of Birney too hot to hold them, have decamped for safety to Dracula’s ancestral home in Transylvania.
Accompanying him are his beautiful wife Anna, their baby daughter Lucrezia and Anna’s faithful maidservant Valeria, the nude handmaidens and chief amongst their number, the gorgeous Glamara. Igor, the Count’s loyal Gate-keeper, and Dracula’s wickedly bewitching Cousin Carmilla, who is now the Count’s captive, are also present.
Given that the crumbling castle in darkest Transylvania is already occupied by the Count’s parents and his brothers and sisters and all of their servants, as you can imagine it looks certain to be quite the crush. Buckle your seatbelts, dear readers and fellow vampire enthusiasts. It’s gonna be a bumpy ride…
This book, as all the ‘ANNA’ books are, is dedicated to the late Sir Christopher Lee, whose performances in the HAMMER ‘Dracula’ films inspired every word of it. May he rest in peace… until he rises once more from the crypt in which he lieth…
FANGS AND FOREPLAY: THE EROTIC ADVENTURES OF DRACULA: THE TRANSYLVANIA YEARS. BOOK 4- PART 1.
AN EROTIC HORROR NOVEL BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©
The moon was full tonight, spectacularly so. Dracula, standing on the battlements of his ancestral home smoking a sneaky cigarette, almost felt as if he could reach out and touch it. He’d quite forgotten how beautiful and brilliant the moonlit nights could be here in Transylvania. The moonless nights, however, under cover of loving darkness, better suited his purposes.
He breathed in the cigarette smoke lovingly. With his wife Anna and her maidservant Valeria casting him filthy looks whenever he lit up indoors, he frequently found it expedient to retreat to the great outdoors to have his smoke in peace. Though what the world was coming to when a man couldn’t smoke in his own home- it wasn’t only the Englishman’s home that was his castle- he was sure he didn’t know.
As he effortlessly blew out an elegant series of perfect smoke rings, his mind drifted back to what he had heard of events in England after he and his entourage had decamped- hurriedly, it must be said- to Transylvania.
The pitchfork-and-torch-wielding villagers of Birney had raided Birney Castle mob-handed, only to find the coop deserted and the chickens all cunningly flown. They’d burned what remained of the castle to the ground, but that mattered little to Dracula.
What really annoyed him about the whole affair was that the villagers had discovered the existence in the overgrown castle grounds of the small disused chapel he’d been using as a charnel-house. Many of their missing village wenches had ended up in there, bloodless and minus their virginity- the few that still retained it, that was- after the Count had finished with them.
He’d ordered that lazy bastard of a Gate-keeper, Igor, on numerous occasions to clear the chapel of the bodies of the murdered women and bury them all deep in Birney Forest, in a place so remote and godless that no birds sang there and no humans ever ventured there. If anyone even knew about it, which the Count doubted.
But Igor had been remiss, terribly remiss, a mistake for which the Count had lashed him severely on his mis-shapen hump with his horsewhip, and the villagers had found the chapel and all its grisly contents, that overflowed out the door when it was opened.
The stench alone must have permeated the forest and the village for days and days. Even Dracula himself blanched and turned away when he caught a whiff of it, and Dracula was made of sterner stuff than all the villagers put together.
The grim discovery of the bodies had made it into the English newspapers and, for a while at least, that cold country had reverberated up and down with talk of vampires and she-bitches and banshees and the Un-Dead, who feasted on the blood and flesh of the living in order to stay alive, or should that be Un-Dead, themselves.
Dracula tsk tsk-ed and flicked his cigarette ash over the battlements. The publicity was most unwelcome. He couldn’t return properly to England now for at least a year, or at least till the heat had died down, thanks to all the ridiculous hoo-hah. Even Jack the Ripper, that notorious slayer of whores, hadn’t received as many press column inches as the unfortunate occupants of that bloody charnel-house.
It was bad enough that there were very few years left before that damnable Irishman Bram Stoker would write the book that would destroy Dracula’s privacy forever. The Count, possessed of a certain amount of foresight bestowed upon him at birth by an evil gypsy woman who’d gatecrashed his Satan-ing ceremony, had known about the Bram Stoker book for some time now.
He’d toyed with the idea of having the Stoker fellow meet with a nasty accident one night on the way home from the theatre where he was currently working, but the Count’s vanity, not to mention his curiosity, had thus far prohibited him.
He was curious, goddammit, about the book that would make the name of Dracula a deservedly household word across the world. Once leash that book upon an unsuspecting world and the name of Dracula would be known all down through the millenia to come. Maybe he’d let Stoker write the damned book and be done with it. Someone was bound to at some stage, anyway. It was only his due, after all.
A sudden stirring in his loins caused his gaze to slide downwards. Virginie’s tender ministrations were beginning to take effect. He stubbed out his smouldering cigarette on the castle wall and placed a hand on either side of the nude handmaiden’s blonde head, the better to steady her while he ejaculated into her red rosebud of a mouth.
Virginie- a misnomer if ever there was one- had given him great satisfaction since he’d abducted her from the Whitechapel brothel where she worked, a place where she’d had more cocks in her than were ever to be found in the busiest of English poultry farms. She was a vampire woman now, one of his harem, and one of the most skilled in bestowing oral pleasure, thanks to her earlier ‘training’ in her former ‘workplace.’
‘Good girl, Virginie, keep it up now, don’t stop,’ he urged her as he fondled her face and pretty little ears while still contriving to steady her head.
Her blue eyes flashed in answer and she redoubled her efforts to bring him the release he craved. The movements of her tongue and nimble fingers now pleased him greatly, and he shuddered right to the core of him as he climaxed.
‘It’s quite the slutty little whore you are, isn’t it, Virginie?’ he said as he removed his solid gold cigarette case from his breast pocket and extracted one for each of them.
‘Just the way you like me, Master,’ replied the whore complacently as she sat naked, curled up at his feet on the battlements, and enjoyed a puff on her cigarette.
Dracula made a mental note to administer a severe whipping to the woman for her insolence later, when he was feeling a bit more lively. For now, as he gazed down from the battlements of his castle at the dark and desolate countryside of his birth, he felt relaxed and almost happy. For now at least, it was good to be home.
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY OF SANDRA HARRIS.
Sandra Harris is a Dublin-based novelist, film blogger, poet and book-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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