INTRODUCTION TO BOOK 5.
The year is 1891, and Count Dracula and his sex-and-spanking-crazed harem of beautiful handmaidens are still camped out in Dracula’s ancestral castle in Transylvania. Dracula’s brother Vladimir’s head currently adorns a spike on the castle battlements. His brother Nikolai’s head, while for the moment still attached to his shoulders, is filled with resentment for Dracula and a continuing desire to depose him as head of the family.
Dracula’s beautiful wife Anna and his demanding mistress –– and cousin –– Carmilla are each jockeying for position as his Number One squeeze, and he has two newly-acquired sons he doesn’t have a clue what to do with.
Meanwhile, the genteel young ladies of the nearby Miss Peabody’s Exclusive Academy For The Education And Refinement Of The Daughters Of Gentlefolks are all still waiting impatiently for Dracula to fly through their bedroom windows at midnight, to endow upon them the sexual awakening of a lifetime and an introduction into Dracula’s twilight world of pleasure deliciously commingled with pain.
Add to this his domineering mother, his four sex-mad sisters, his temperamental nude handmaidens and a cartload or two of angry villagers, and you might just have an idea of why, for this year at least, Dracula’s dance-card is fully filled out…
This book, as all the ‘ANNA’ books are, is based on characters created by fellow Irish authors Bram Stoker and Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu, and is dedicated with much love 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 rests…
FANGS AND FOREPLAY… THE EROTIC ADVENTURES OF DRACULA: THE TRANSYLVANIA YEARS. BOOK 5- PART 19.
AN EROTIC HORROR NOVEL BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©
(‘Oh Leon!’ Magdalena shook her long hair back over her bare shoulders and waggled her breasts at him. ‘You’ll drive yourself mad thinking like that. There’s no-one to come. I’m telling you, in an enormous country like England, you think someone’s going to notice two poxy posh Britishers who didn’t come back home off their holidays? No-one’s coming, Leon, I tell you. No-one’s going to come.’
‘Well, except me,’ grinned Leon, holding her tightly by the waist as his issue exploded upwards into the welcoming warmth of her pussy.
There, that was enough about the blasted Wintergreens for today, Leon decided, his head now filled with much more luxuriously sensual thoughts. Magdalena was most likely correct in her assumption that there was no-one coming for them, to ask awkward questions and poke about in awkward places, bringing trouble down on the village from Castle Dracula. That had happened before, and no-one from the village had any desire to see it happening again. Magdalena was right, as usual. There was no-one coming.)
Or was there…?
Back home in London, England, Jamison Wintergreen let out a roar of satisfaction as the strength and power of his male organ in the throes of its sexual climax lifted his companion clear off the bed. He felt his life-giving fluid drain from him and into her, and collapsed onto her nude, sweat-slicked body with the distinct feeling of a job well done.
‘Oh Jamie, Jamie, my love! My Jim-Jim, my Jimmy, my own Jamie, you are the greatest, the best, the best who ever lived!’
Jamison grinned as he heaved himself off of her and leaned over to pluck his cigarette case from the bedside table. There was no arguing with her; the woman knew quality when she saw it. He offered her a cigarette, then lit one for each of them when she accepted. Then he lay back on his pillows, smoking intently and staring at a fixed point at the ceiling.
‘Jamie, my darling,’ said Lady Chastity (a misnomer if ever there was one) Belvedere-Wilberforce after a while as she snuggled into his bare chest, ‘why the serious face? Talk to me, my dearest love, my precious lover! What are you thinking?’
‘Did no-one ever teach you never to ask a man that question?’ he said with a lazy grin.
‘I make my own rules,’ she pouted, and Jamison was inclined to believe her.
Chastity Belvedere-Wilberforce was a remarkable woman. Forty-five years of age, she still had the firm, trim figure of a much younger woman, despite having given her husband two children. Jamison put her trimness and youthful vigour down to all the sexual intercourse in which she still engaged, and precious little of it with her husband these days.
Lord Simon Belvedere-Wilberforce wore his crown of cuckold’s horns lightly enough. His own infidelities with serving wenches and other ladies of the lower classes were legendary. He and his lovely red-haired wife (only a touch of henna was necessary to ensure that her long, lustrous locks retained their gorgeously natural red colour) went to balls and parties together occasionally for the sake of appearances, vitally important in their society, but whether or not they finished the night together was an entirely different matter. One encountered such pretty serving wenches, bosomy barmaids and comely ladies of the night whilst one was gadding about town.
‘Seriously though, Jamie dear,’ she said now in her most persuasive tones, ‘you have something ponderous on your mind, do you not? Would you not share it with me, lover, that I might shoulder a little of the burden alongside you? Two heads are better than one, you know.’
‘And a very pretty head it is too,’ he replied, turning towards her to twirl a strand of her long curled locks idly round his fingers.
‘Well, then?’ she said expectantly.
‘I was just thinking about good old Eddie again,’ he said. ‘It’s just that… well, I haven’t heard from him in a few weeks now and I can’t help hoping that he and the little woman are, you know, all right.’
Jamison’s older brother, Edward Wintergreen, a furniture manufacturer, and his newly-married wife Vanessa, had been married in London several months ago. After the wedding, a quiet but tasteful affair, the pair of them had travelled to Europe for a six-month honeymoon tour of the countries there, particularly the Eastern ones. Eddie, dear Eddie, bless him, sent Jamison a letter from every town or city through which they passed. But now, it was long past the time when Jamie should have received another letter, and he was beginning to worry.
‘What on earth possessed them to travel to such far-flung, God-forsaken places anyway?’ asked Lady Chastity, idly stroking his bare arm with her beautifully manicured fingertips. ‘I mean, Europe is Germany, France, Spain and Portugal, isn’t it, and maybe Belgium in a pinch? Why the devil would anyone travel farther afield than that? It beggars belief, you know. It really does. Simon and I went to Ireland on our honeymoon. Dreadful place, even if England does own it. Worse than India, by all accounts. Peasants and poverty and mud everywhere, and no shortage of village sluts to lure Simon away from the marital bed. Dreadful place, truly dreadful.’
Jamison had heard the ‘honeymooning in Ireland’ story before, and he cut across her without a qualm. ‘It was a mad fancy of Eddie’s,’ he said. ‘He’d always wanted to visit that part of Europe, the land of ghouls and hobgoblins, ghosts and phantoms, and the honeymoon was the ideal time to do it. I only hope that one of those phantoms hasn’t caught up with him and made off with him.’
He laughed uneasily. Chastity fondled his neck and face soothingly. ‘How is the factory working out in his absence?’ she asked him.
Jamison sighed. He’d found himself spending far more time there than he’d ever thought he’d have to, simply because there was just so damn much to do. So much for thinking that the bally place ran itself, under the keen eyes of Mr. Metlock and Mr. Travers! The sooner Eddie returned home from his sojourn in the countries of witches and warlocks and freed Jamison up to return to his usual more relaxed pace of life, the better.
‘The thing is,’ he went on absent-mindedly, as if he were talking mostly to himself, ‘if he doesn’t send word soon that he and the new little missus are okay, I’ll have to go over there and get him and bring him back.’
‘No, I absolutely forbid it!’ cried Lady Chastity. ‘My darling Jamie, the very thought of you over there, all alone in that horrid place! No, I shan’t allow it, Besides, however would I manage without you?’
‘Oh, the way you managed perfectly well before I ever came along,’ said Jamie, laughing at her professions of devotion. ‘Why, the first time ever I saw your face, thou hadst a cock in thy slut’s mouth and another in thy cunny! Thou couldst bathe in the spunk that coated thy skin.’
Jamie had fond memories of the aristocratic party at a mutual friend’s house that had turned out to be little more than a naked, drug-fuelled orgy, but a naked, drug-fuelled orgy to which he was invited and at which he had enjoyed considerable success. Amongst the scalps on his belt that memorable night had been Chastity’s.
She flapped at him idly, as if to say, why, the piffling trifles men remember! Then she said: ‘Excuse me a moment, my Jamie, my love. Nature calls.’
She walked nude to the corner of the room, where the chamber-pot resided. She squatted over it in front of him with not a trace of self-consciousness, the sound of her urine splashing into the bowl, and then wiped herself on the cloth provided, before strolling unconcernedly back to the bed. Not one trace of shame did she display, the bold hussy.
Jamison, greatly excited at having witnessed something which women normally kept private from men (What a dirty girl she was! Maybe one day she would permit him to spy on her as she vacated her bowels), urged her to mount his cock, which was good and erect once more. She needed no second asking, but did what she was bid immediately.
‘You’re a dirty, dirty girl, Lady Chastity Belvedere-Wilberforce, has anyone ever told you that?’
‘Many people,’ she teased him, from her exalted position on his cock. ‘But you’re the only one here fucking me right now, so why worry about the others?’
‘Consider them forgotten,’ said Jamie. All thoughts of his dear older brother Eddie and Eddie’s wife Vanessa forgotten also, at least for now, he buckled down and concentrated on the job of pleasing her in earnest.
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY OF SANDRA HARRIS.
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:
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