THE TERROR OF THE TONGS. (1961) REVIEW BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

THE TERROR OF THE TONGS. (1961) A HAMMER FILM PRODUCTION DIRECTED BY ANTHONY BUSHELL. WRITTEN BY JIMMY SANGSTER.

STARRING CHRISTOPHER LEE, YVONNE MONLAUR, MARNE MAITLAND AND GEOFFREY TOONE.

REVIEW BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

‘Have you ever had your bones scraped, Captain Sale?’

This film provided Christopher Lee with his first ever top billing, despite the fact that he had already acted in three of Hammer’s most famous films: THE CURSE OF FRANKENSTEIN (1957) as the Creature; DRACULA (1958) as the titular Count; and THE MUMMY (1959) as Kharis/The Mummy.

And his role as Dracula became the one with which he remained most identified, right up to his death in 2015 at the tender age of only ninety-three. Well, I was convinced he’d make it all the way to a hundred and even beyond, but sadly, it wasn’t to be.

And, just regarding his lack of top billing in these films, it was said of Hammer at the time that Peter Cushing was its star; Christopher Lee merely its monster. Well, never mind; he certainly came into his own in the end.

Having said that, action-adventure movie THE TERROR OF THE TONGS, despite its lush settings and gorgeously sumptuous costumes, is not my favourite Hammer film, nor yet is Chung King my favourite leading role of Christopher Lee’s.

I much prefer him as Dracula, as that sexy midnight lover from the coldness of the crypt who died, yet lived; as that sexually magnetic and dominant lover who makes real women out of Melissa Stribling’s Mina and Carol Marsh’s Lucy in the original Hammer DRACULA film of 1958.

In THE TERROR OF THE TONGS, he plays Chung King, the undoubtedly dominant and austere but at the same time oddly sexless leader of a terrorist organisation of organised criminals known as the Tongs, a name to strike horror into the hearts of Hong Kong dwellers in the early twentieth century. They’re the Chinese triads, the Japanese yakuza and the Italian-American mafia all rolled into one, they’re so feared and abhorred and, dare I say it, opium-raddled.

Chung King, while undeniably a dominant and cruel leader, just as you’d expect from the head of such an organisation, is sort of strangely asexual, with sadly not much going on behind the voluminous folds of his black kimono.

Why doesn’t he get to have sex, even implied, with any of the beautiful women who attend at his court? Or even with Yvonne Monlaur as Lee, the stunning sexbomb heroine of the film? Christopher Lee as Fu Manchu, in another series of films, not made by Hammer, doesn’t get any sexual action either.

Once the make-up people slap the old ‘epicanthic fold,’ apparently his least favourite of all the prosthetic enhancements, over his eyes to give him an Oriental look, they might as well be de-sexing him, it seems.

Makers of both THE TERROR OF THE TONGS and the FU MANCHU films both gravely under-used the sensuality and sexuality of their handsome heart-throb of a star, methinks. The films could have been so much more memorable if they’d only allowed him to be the man we know he could be in them.

Anyway, the plot of THE TERROR OF THE TONGS is relatively straightforward. Set in British-occupied Hong Kong in 1910, it sees Geoffrey Toone as maritime Captain Jackson Sale revenging the murder of his teenage daughter by the terror organisation known as the Tongs.

They didn’t kill her willy-nilly; they did it to protect their identities from becoming known, but Captain Sale is beside himself with grief nonetheless. He won’t rest until he tracks down the head of this brutal organisation and cuts it off at its source, so to speak.

The head is Chung King; he won’t react well to being tracked down and killed…! He might even despatch one of his infamous ‘hatchet men’ to treat Sale (Sale/Sail- geddit???) to the solemn splendour of a so-called ‘ceremonial killing.’

Don’t be worrying on Sale’s behalf, though. The hatchet men announce their presence well in advance. They holler at you from across a crowded street once they clap eyes on you, then they wave their hatchets in the air and advance upon you slowly across that crowded street.

This gives you plenty of time to assess the situation, light a cigarette, chat with a friend, escape into a waiting rickshaw or even kill your would-be assailant as he approaches.

Even if, by some miracle, he actually manages to wound or even kill you, you’ll have plenty of time to put your affairs in order while waiting impatiently for your would-be assassin.

Maybe, just maybe, if the Tongs had concentrated more on the killing element and less on the ceremony element involved, they may have lasted longer as an organisation of terror. It’s just a thought, that’s all. Make of it what you will.

Man: ‘Oh look, that hatchet-wielding Tong over there is hollering menacingly at me. Looks like my number must be up, so. Have I time to get that haircut at all? Oh yes, that looks much better. Brings out my eyes, you say? Why, thank you! Still coming over here waving his little thing, is he, that Tong fellow?

‘Oh well, in that case, I might just try to fit in that show I’ve been dying to see. Is there time for a bit of dinner too? Oh, time for dinner and a few pre-show cocktails, how spiffing! God, I’m tired now after all that smashing grub and booze. I think I’ll just have a nice little lie-down while I’m waiting…’ And so on. You get the picture.

Anyway, Sale has two allies in his desperate mission. Ally One is Marne Maitland (he plays the mysterious Malay in one of Hammer’s most magnificent films, THE REPTILE, 1965) as the Beggar, who is in reality the leader of a resistance movement against the Tongs.

Ally Two is Yvonne Monlaur as Lee, the former enslaved mistress of a Tong debt collector, who now has decided she loves Captain Jackson Sale, because he has accidentally freed her from her bondage by seeing off her captor-owner.

Yvonne Monlaur could just be the most beautiful of all the Hammer women. Her face, her voice, her body! She’s perfect in every possible way. Her performance as Marianne Danielle in Hammer’s THE BRIDES OF DRACULA (1960), in which she plays a young finishing school teacher breaking her journey to the school at the sinister, vampire-ridden Chateau Meinster, is an absolute joy to behold.

How her dresser must have enjoyed putting her in those fabulous gowns and dressing her gorgeous chestnutty hair for THE BRIDES OF DRACULA. Am I in love with Yvonne Monlaur? A little, yes, what of it? Do you blame me? What a beauty! She wears some stunning Chinese dresses with matching shoes in THE TERROR OF THE TONGS.

She’s pictured with Christopher Lee in some publicity shots for the movie, but they don’t have a joint love story in the film, more’s the pity. They could have made her Chung King’s unwilling mistress who falls in love with the dashing and much less cruel British maritime captain, Jackson Sale.

Two of the best-looking people on the planet having an on-screen romance or even some hot and steamy rumpy-pumpy? Phwoar. Ah well. Probably not in 1961. Think of the kerfuffle down at the Censor’s office…! And anyway, who am I to tell Hammer what they should or shouldn’t have done? It is what it is. Enjoy.

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: http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B015GDE5RO

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

THE CASTLE OF FU MANCHU. (1969) REVIEW BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

THE CASTLE OF FU MANCHU. (1969) BASED ON CHARACTERS CREATED BY SAX ROHMER. DIRECTED BY JESUS FRANCO.

STARRING CHRISTOPHER LEE, TSAI CHIN, RICHARD GREENE, HOWARD MARION-CRAWFORD, GUSTAVO RE, GÜNTHER STOLL, MARIA PERSCHY, ROSALBA NERI AND JOSÉ MANUEL MARTIN.

REVIEW BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

This is Christopher Lee’s last film outing as super-villainous arch-criminal mastermind, Fu Manchu, and his last time to don the moustaches, rubber-soled shoes, little silk caps and regal Oriental robes of said villain.

This time around, Fu Manchu has the mad idea of controlling the world by freezing the oceans. Indeed, the start of the film is like TITANIC. He’s holed up in the governor’s castle in Istanbul (he’s taken over the castle) with a view to controlling the biggest opium port in Anatolia.

Now, while it’s no surprise to hear that Fu Manchu has his finger in the drugs pie, this time he actually needs the opium to fuel his ocean-freezing machine. Yes, reader, this is possibly the most far-fetched of all his zany schemes for world domination thus far, but who are we to judge, we who haven’t spent years studying and planning for world domination as Fu Manchu has done?

He needs the help of Dr. Heracles, an ailing scientist with a dicky ticker, to carry out his zany scheme. It’s this doctor’s magic crystals which will freeze the world’s oceans, see? But Dr. Heracles may not live long enough to carry out this mad plan of Fu Manchu’s. What to do, what to do?

Fu Manchu sends his men to kidnap a Dr. Kessler from England and his sexy colleague, a Dr. Ingrid, to perform heart surgery on Dr. Heracles. What would happen if they too got sick?

I suppose he’d just keep kidnapping more and more doctors until he eventually got the job done. But each quack has to be disposed of when he or she has outlived their usefulness, so the blood must flow before long…

English toff Nayland Smith, Fu Manchu’s Interpol/Scotland Yard nemesis, and his tea-drinking companion Dr. Petrie, are back once more to annoy the evil genius Fu Manchu, foil his plans and put the wind up him with their British doggedness and non-giving-up-ness.

Lin Tang, Fu Manchu’s beautiful, cruel daughter, is also here again, to say things like: ‘Father, they’re getting away!’ To which her unruffled Pops invariably answers: ‘They won’t get far.’ He keeps a cool head in a crisis, does Fu Manchu. Either that, or he has a lot of faith in his army of dacoits (bandits) to stop people from absconding.

I love the Fu Manchu Broadcasting System. It’s a lot like the Voice of Terror in the 1942 film SHERLOCK HOLMES AND THE VOICE OF TERROR, in which a stern German voice announces catastrophes the Nazis are planning to inflict on the British nation just before they happen. Fu Manchu has great fun threatening the world on his little toy. ‘The world shall hear from me again…!’

I’m sure it will, Fu Manchu, ya crazy loon. I’m sure it will.

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: http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B015GDE5RO

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

THE BLOOD OF FU MANCHU. (1968) REVIEW BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

THE BLOOD OF FU MANCHU. (1968) BASED ON THE WRITINGS OF SAX ROHMER. DIRECTED BY JESUS FRANCO.

STARRING CHRISTOPHER LEE, TSAI CHIN, RICHARD GREENE, HOWARD MARION-CRAWFORD, GŐTZ GEORGE, MARIA ROHM, RICARDO PALACIOS AND SHIRLEY EATON.

REVIEW BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

‘The world shall hear of me again…!’

Nowadays we’d probably be making all kinds of noises about cultural appropriation and how white English males should under no circumstances be permitted to play Asian characters in film, but 1968 was a simpler, more politically incorrect, time, lol.

Horror icon Christopher Lee looks surprisingly authentic here as the magnificentally moustached Oriental villain Fu Manchu. Holed up in his Amazonian jungle hideaway with a number of beautiful female slaves suspended from hooks in the ceiling, you’d think he’d have enough to do, recreationally speaking, without wanting to be bothered about world domination as well, but bothered he most definitely is.

Having discovered a novel method of killing known as ‘the Kiss of Death,’ where women bitten by a kind of venomous snake carry the poison in their mouths and can kill chosen males by kissing them on the lips, Fu Manchu is in his gleefully evil element.

He duly dispatches ten beautiful, venom-infected female slaves to go do that voodoo that you do so well, or, in other words, to murder his ten biggest enemies all over the world, including his nemesis, Nayland Smith, in London.

But Nayland Smith is British, you see, and is made of sterner stuff than to curl up his toes and die when kissed by a hot chick. Accompanied by his even more British chum, Dr. Petrie, he pursues Fu Manchu to his jungle hideaway, much to the chagrin of the murderous Asian mastermind.

You simply wouldn’t believe how chagrined Fu Manchu is, lol. He and his drop-dead-sexy Oriental daughter Lin Tang, who’s even crueller than her cold, cruel father, are both apoplectic with rage at the unsporting unwillingness of Nayland Smith to politely succumb to the Kiss of Death like a good fellow.

Have their plans for world domination, using mass-produced vials of the deadly snake venom to kill thousands of human beings, foiled by a couple of tea-drinking, public school botty-whackers? The very idea. Their vengeance will be swift and deadly. Unless of course it’s foiled first, as I said…

My favourite character is the super-English, tea-swilling Dr. Petrie, whom you can totally imagine using expressions like ‘top-hole,’ ‘jolly good,’ ‘old boy’ and ‘what-ho, old chap!’ I love when he says ‘Cold tea and no horses? I wonder why I go abroad!’ Quaite raight, old chap. Quaite raight.

I also love the boozy, rapacious character of Sancho Lopez, the outsized, larger-than-life, lust-and-dust-begrimed bandit, who ends up captured by Fu Manchu and reluctantly working for the splendidly moustached villain.

Ditto the character of attractive archaeologist Carl Jansen, who’s poking about the jungly area looking for the ‘lost city’ that Fu Manchu has already discovered and made his own.

Maria Rohm plays sexy nursie Ursula Wagner, daughter of the archaeological professor who is killed while working with Carl, and she seems warm for Carl’s steaming, sweaty form. Bond Girl and Carry On beauty Shirley Eaton brings sex and evil to the role of one of Fu Manchu’s deadly priestesses.

A few boobies can be seen bouncing around this Boys’ Own-style action-adventure film with a hint of espionage and a soupcon of derring-do, but I would definitely have put in more sex myself.

Fu Manchu lives surrounded by beautiful female slaves who are utterly in thrall and bondage to him. Surely he could have bestirred himself to slip the odd slave girl the benefit of his honourable Oriental boner? Ah well. We can but dream.

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: http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B015GDE5RO

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

SHE. (1965) REVIEW BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

SHE. (1965) A HAMMER FILM PRODUCTION DIRECTED BY ROBERT DAY AND BASED ON THE 1887 NOVEL BY H. RIDER HAGGARD.

STARRING BOND GIRL URSULA ANDRESS, PETER CUSHING, JOHN RICHARDSON, BERNARD CRIBBINS, ANDRE MORELL, ROSENDA MONTEROS AND CHRISTOPHER LEE.

REVIEW BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

Hammer was going crazy at one point for the fem-dom ‘dominant female’ films, films like this one and THE VENGEANCE OF SHE, PREHISTORIC WOMEN, THE VIKING QUEEN and even BLOOD FROM THE MUMMY’S TOMB.

I’ve never been mad about these ones, with the exception of the superb BLOOD FROM THE MUMMY’S TOMB, which I’m only including here because Valerie Leon comes across as quite dominant in her dual portrayal of Margaret Fuchs and the Egyptian Queen Tera, and which isn’t really part of the series.

I much prefer the Hammer films in which the male is dominant, for example, the Dracula films starring Christopher Lee. I was quite uncomfortable watching Christopher Lee in SHE grovelling around at Ursula Andress’s feet, referring to her as She Who Must Be Obeyed and scarcely daring to lift his eyes to her for fear of offending her and incurring her all-encompassing wrath.

Anyway, the film. Guy meets a girl in a bar on foreign shores, then the very next day he’s on a mad quest across the desert with his ex-army chums to rediscover an ancient lost city and get with another, even hotter girl. That’s about the gist of it, but let’s examine the particulars, shall we?

The guy is the blonde, handsome Leo Vincey, played by a pre-ONE MILLION YEARS B.C. John Richardson, before he grew so much facial hair he was virtually unrecognisable as himself.

The foreign shores are Palestine’s, immediately after the first world war, and the first hot girl, the one from the bar, is a dusky beauty called Ustane, who is used as a decoy initially, but who falls hard and heavy for ‘her Leo’ from the off.

The chums are Peter Cushing as Professor Holly and Bernard Cribbins as Job, orderly/batman to his two commissioned gentlemen, Holly and Vincey, who are free to pursue this wild goose chase now that the war is over.

The ancient lost city is Kuma, in a previously unexplored region of North-East Africa. It is ruled by the stunningly beautiful immortal queen and high priestess Ayesha, aka She Who Waits or She Who Must Be Obeyed. What exactly is she waiting for? Well, therein hangs a tale…

Several thousand years ago, this jealous beauty murdered her lover, Kallikrates, for betraying her with another woman. All these years, she’s waited for Kallikrates to return to her, and now, with the arrival in her kingdom of Leo, Kallikrates’ exact double, she thinks her years of waiting have come to an end.

But the beautiful Ayesha is a cruel and vengeful queen, who by her own admission, rules through fear and terror. Her treatment of the black slaves in her kingdom (very non-politically correct; you couldn’t do it nowadays) is appalling.

There’s an absolutely horrific scene in which fifteen innocent young black males are forced to a terrible death just so that Ayesha can be seen to be a tough ruler whom none dare disobey. She’s a proper little madam, is what she is.

Christopher Lee as her gimpy high priest Billali would be doing her more of a service by putting her over his knee for a blistering spanking, rather than by grovelling at her feet in the dust wearing ridiculously unflattering headgear while saying yes ma’am no ma’am on repeat till the cows come home.

Anyway, will Ayesha succeed in getting Leo to walk through the flame of immortality with her, to rule serenely by her side forever, or will her jealous and diva-like behaviour only result in pushing Kallikrates away from her for another several millenia? Knowing Ayesha’s capricious nature, nothing is guaranteed…

I love Andre Morell (Hammer’s THE PLAGUE OF THE ZOMBIES) as Ustane’s lovely Pops, Haumeid, who rules the army of Ayesha’s slaves, the Amahagger, and also Bernard Cribbins as Job, the gentlemens’ gentleman.

He’d be the kind of devoted orderly/valet (like Reginald Jeeves) who would die of shame if either of his gentlemen went out of an evening incorrectly dressed. That would reflect on him, it would, him and his poor valeting, and he’d rather die than be known as a poor valet.

You know who could really use some good valeting? Poor Billali (who at the end makes an ill-starred grab for the power previously denied him) and his dreadful beehive head-dress. We all know how Jeeves dealt with any ill-advised novelty items of costume or headgear favoured by his master, Bertie Wooster. Job, be a darling and see what you can do, will you…?

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: http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B015GDE5RO

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

A VIEW FROM A HILL (2005) and NUMBER 13 (2006): TWO MORE CLASSIC GHOST STORY ADAPTATIONS FROM THE BBC. REVIEW BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

view from a hill

A VIEW FROM A HILL (2005) and NUMBER 13 (2006): TWO CLASSIC GHOST STORY ADAPTATIONS FROM THE BBC. BASED ON THE SHORT STORIES BY MONTAGUE RHODES JAMES.

STARRING MARK LETHEREN, PIP TORRENS, DAVID BURKE, GREG WISE AND TOM BURKE.

REVIEW BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

These two ghost stories from the BBC are almost every bit as atmospheric as their counterparts from the 1970s. I say ‘almost,’ because nothing could ever really fully emulate the bleak loneliness of A Warning to the Curious or the lush Victorian creepiness of The Stalls of Barchester, but both A View from a Hill and Number 13 are pretty bloody jolly good attempts, lol, as the English themselves might say.

In A View from A Hill, a young archaeologist fellow called Dr. Fanshawe has come to a posh stately home in the England of post-World War Two to evaluate a collection of historical artefacts belonging to the current Squire’s late father. The current Squire Richards is an unbearable toff, despite his situation of being extremely strapped for cash (hence the selling off of the ‘family silver’), and he really gets on Dr. Fanshawe’s rather class-sensitive wick.

Dr. Fanshawe gets plenty of time off to explore the local countryside, armed with a pair of binoculars lent to him by the Squire. But through these extraordinary binoculars, Fanshawe seems able to view a magnificent old Abbey called Fulnaker which the Squire assures him is no more, and also a gibbet complete with a hanged man on the nearby Gallows Hill, which loathsome practice has also, fortunately, died out by now.

The binoculars once belonged to, and, in fact, were made by, a local character of no small measure of eccentricity called Baxter. Fanshawe is informed of all this by the Squire’s butler Patten, who still stays loyal to the Squire in spite of the fact that the rude and impoverished aristocrat can no longer afford to pay him.

The sad truth is that the ageing Patten probably has nowhere else to go at this stage of his life. One wonders how many more domestic servants suffered the same lonely fate as Patten, once the English aristcracy had started to decline in earnest in those post-war years. (Remember Mr. Steevens, the devoted butler from Kazuo Ishiguro’s The Remains of the Day? How happy do you suppose he was for the rest of his life, post-domestic service?)

Anyway, Baxter, who ‘fancied himself as an archaeologist,’ had a rather nasty habit of (believe it or not) boiling the bones of the condemned men who met their sad ends on Gallows Hill. Nothing good can therefore ensue from young Fanshawe’s ‘looking through the eyes of a dead man,’ as he is doing every time he takes up these accursed field glasses. There’s something evil abroad up on Gallows Hill and on the plot of land that used to house Fulnaker Abbey. Will it ensnare young Fanshawe, who just can’t seem to stay away from the place . . .?

Number 13 follows the popular M.R. James theme of a fusty, middle-aged academic, much more used to dreaming spires and dusty old tomes than life in the real world, coming to an old cathedral town to do some research in their ancient library. Professor Anderson is, admittedly, a good deal younger and, dare I say handsomer, than Michael Hordern in Whistle and I’ll Come to You, but he has the fussy, prissy mannerisms of the lifelong bachelor academic down to a T.

He demands to be moved from the hotel room he’s been given, to a room with a desk and plenty of room for him to work. This is how he comes to find himself in Room 12, next to the titular Room Number 13 which only appears to materialise intermittently.

That’s because it’s very much a ghost room, occupied by a sixteenth-century Satanist who still holds court there, giving rise to disturbing sounds and laughter and whispered conversations and shadows that all conspire to make Anderson feel like he’s going a little bit mad. He’s outraged to find that he’s no longer welcome in the archives of the town library, because of what he might find out about this Satanist fellow.

After all, the natives in this rural part of the world are still extremely superstitious already; what would it do to the town to discover that they once had a veritable coven of witches and Devil-worshippers in their midst…?

Okay, fair enough, but Anderson still has to contend with the tenant in Room Number 13, who has a most disquieting habit of trying to draw the occupants of Room Number 12 in to his world of devilish bacchanals and satanic revelries…

David Burke, who played the butler Patten in A View from a Hill, is excellent here too as poor Gunton, the put-upon proprietor of the hotel he doesn’t yet realise is haunted. (God Almighty, how could he not know??? Lol.)

Tom Burke (his real-life son), who is jolly good at playing decadent toffs (he portrayed rich, boorish swell Bentley Drummle in the 2011 BBC adaptation of Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations), is terrific here as the boozy, flirtatious lawyer Jenkins, who provides a good back-up buddy for Professor Anderson when Anderson tries to unravel the mysteries of Room Number 13 . . .

These are both good, creepy little ghost stories for Christmas. Enjoy them, but make sure to keep the lights on…

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:

http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B015GDE5RO

You can contact Sandra at:

sandrasandraharris@gmail.com

https://www.facebook.com/SandraHarrisPureFilthPoetry

https://sandrafirstruleoffilmclubharris.wordpress.com

NIGHT OF THE BIG HEAT. (1967) REVIEW BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

night of the big heat 1967

NIGHT OF THE BIG HEAT, AKA ISLAND OF THE BURNING DAMNED. (1967) RELEASED BY PLANET FILM PRODUCTIONS. BASED ON THE SCI-FI BOOK BY JOHN LYMINGTON. DIRECTED BY TERENCE FISHER. STARRING CHRISTOPHER LEE, PETER CUSHING, PATRICK ALLEN, SARAH LAWSON, KENNETH COPE AND JANE MERROW.

REVIEW BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

This is very similar to another Planet film I reviewed recently called ISLAND OF TERROR. It starred Peter Cushing on a remote island off the Irish coast with a lone pub on it, and he was trying to save the islanders (and also, I presume, the pub!) from a breed of artificially created monsters called silicates, who made a funny whirring noise and moved along the ground like the Blob from THE BLOB.

In NIGHT OF THE BIG HEAT, Peter Cushing and Christopher Lee are on a remote island off the Scottish coast with a lone pub on it, and they’re trying to save the islanders (and also, I presume, the pub!) from alien beings from another planet who make a funny whirring noise and move along the ground like the Blob from THE BLOB.

This film has tremendous heat in it as well though, a heat caused by the aliens which, if it’s allowed to continue, will turn Earth into a scorched wasteland like the planet Mars, and humans will no longer be able to survive on it. You can see, therefore, why the situation is somewhat pressing and why the aliens need to be eliminated post-haste.

At first, Christopher Lee, tall and dark and devastatingly handsome in his white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, dark slacks and professorial glasses, is the only person on the island who realises that there’s a problem. He plays Godfrey Hanson (Godfrey Handsome, more like!), a scientist with an abrupt and rude manner who’s staying at the island’s one pub. (Which is why it’s so crucial to save it from the aliens, lol.)

He strides around the island by day, being abrupt and rude and scientist-y, trying to find proof that the island is, in fact, being targeted by aliens. Everyone else just thinks he’s nuts at first, but the terrible increasing heat on the island, unheard-of for winter, gradually forces the islanders into a communal change of mind. The island itself is heating up, and if the islanders don’t want to end up as barbecue, they’d better start listening to crazy old Professor Hanson…

Peter Cushing plays the suave and sociable intellectual, Dr. Vernon Stone, who proves an ally of the right intelligence for Professor Hanson. Which is just as well, as I don’t know how much help the womanising novelist Jeff Callum will be.

Beefcake Jeff (not for me but I can see why some women would) and his wife Frankie (Sarah Lawson; THE DEVIL RIDES OUT) own the Swan pub, the village’s one inn, and this cheating bastard Jeff is carrying on a sizzling affair with his hussy of a secretary Angela Roberts, right under his wife’s nose.

Sexy saucepot Angela has come to the island against his wishes, but now she’s here I don’t exactly see him fighting her off. And his wife Frankie is a real diamond as well. It’s a clear case of going out for hamburger when you’ve jolly well got steak at home. Tsk tsk, Jeff.

And in the meantime, telephone wires are melting in the ever-increasing heat, the bottles containing the precious booze are exploding (nobody tell Homer Simpson…!) with the high temperatures and the villagers are going mad. How long before their eyeballs melt and their blood begins, literally, to boil…?

One villager in particular, Tinker Mason (Kenneth Cope; CARRY ON, MATRON and CARRY ON AT YOUR CONVENIENCE), previously of good character, is driven to commit a heinous rape by the sweltering heat. Let’s hope that, once again, a good clout around the ear-holes with a giant ashtray will bring a man hell-bent on crime to his senses before too much damage to virtue has been caused, heh-heh-heh…

If you encounter the aliens yourself, here’s what will happen. You will see a great light on a lonely road and be drawn to it. Your eyes will widen in horror. You’ll take a few steps forward, then draw back in terror, your arms in the air. You will scream at the top of your lungs as the blinding white light envelops you in its deadly heat.

The next time we see you, you will look worse than the pizza I accidentally left in the oven for an hour and a half when the proper heating time was seven minutes. In short, you will be cremated. Not happy? Sorry, but them’s the breaks. The film is called NIGHT OF THE BIG HEAT, after all, not NIGHT OF THE MILD DISCOMFORT.

A poor old tramp is burnt to a crisp in this film. He looks like one of the tramps I used to read about in my beloved Enid Blyton books, one of those auld lads who used to ‘tramp’ the highways and byways of Britain in the good old days, living off the land and the goodwill of the folks who resided on it. Whatever happened to these poor old guys, anyway?

They adhered, of course, to a strict dress code: straggly long hair and beard, old torn mackintosh belted at the waist, several layers of grimy shirts and cardigans and, naturally, the shoes with the holes in the soles and that flapping effect at the front that no self-respecting tramp would be seen dead without. A wide-brimmed hat was optional, but only if the crown was completely missing. They kipped in hay-ricks and under hedges with a piece of straw in their mouths and told anyone who’d listen that this was the life for them.

They’d sniff around the bins of any given household and, in Enid Blyton’s THE FIVE FIND-OUTERS books, Pip or Larry or Fatty’s mum would give them a pair of old but still good shoes belonging to the man of the house. And if the auld lad was really lucky, he might be told to go round the back of the house to the kitchen door where Cook would give him a hot meal or a cup of tea. I presume this stuff doesn’t happen any more in real life. I really do wonder what happened to these staples of children’s fiction from the ’50s, the ’60s and the ’70s. Answers on a postcard, please.

Anyway, the ending of NIGHT OF THE BIG HEAT kind of annoyed me. Handsome people who should have lived are shockingly permitted to die, and big cheating bastards, who should be spending eternity in the flames of hell with little devils poking them in the arse with red-hot pokers, are allowed to live. Grrr. It’s still a great film though, and very similar to ISLAND OF TERROR, lol. Catch it if you can. How does that song go again? Hey, it’s getting hot in here, so take off all your clothes…

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:

http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B015GDE5RO

You can contact Sandra at:

sandrasandraharris@gmail.com

https://www.facebook.com/SandraHarrisPureFilthPoetry

https://sandrafirstruleoffilmclubharris.wordpress.com

http://sexysandieblog.wordpress.com

http://serenaharker.wordpress.com

https://twitter.com/SandraAuthor

FANGS AND FOREPLAY… THE EROTIC ADVENTURES OF DRACULA: THE TRANSYLVANIA YEARS. BOOK 5- PART 20. BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

drac taste

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 20.

AN EROTIC HORROR NOVEL BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

Dracula unlocked the heavy wooden door to one of his private tower rooms and stepped inside, excitement building up inside him as he contemplated the seduction that lay ahead. The bedchamber’s sole resident was seated at the dressing-table, brushing her long blonde hair and admiring her reflection in the mirror. She turned when she sensed him behind her and said, her voice trembling: ‘I’ve been waiting for you, Count Dracula. Where have you been?’

‘Well, well, Mrs. Vanessa Wintergreen, I trust I find you well?’ he said, ignoring her question. If he didn’t answer to his wife Anna or his mistress Carmilla, then he certainly didn’t answer to his latest floozy, who after all might not even last very long. His whores often didn’t. Accidents and other unfortunate incidents kept befalling them.

Why, one of his very favourite conquests, a Lady Victoria Strauss, had been beheaded in his English stronghold of Birney Castle by a member of his own household. He had never found out exactly who the culprit had been, though he had his suspicions. Oh well. Easy come, easy go. The world was full of beautiful women, and fortunately there was plenty of Count Dracula to go around.

‘Come here, wench,’ he added. ‘Let me look at you. I too have been eagerly awaiting this opportunity of renewing our short acquaintance.’

She came and stood in front of him. He looked her over approvingly from his vastly superior height of six foot five. What a prime piece of female flesh he had in his possession now, by Jove! The former lawfully wedded wife of the oh-so-English businessman Edward Wintergreen, late of Windsor Grove, Chelsea, had scrubbed up quite nicely, quite nicely indeed.

She was trim of waist and full of bust, a combination Dracula always admired in a woman. Said bust was white as the breast of a dove and big stiff nipples showed brazenly through the pale shift she wore to cover her nakedness. Not that she’d be wearing it for long. He reached over and casually ripped the garment from her luscious body.

He gasped at the sight of her bare breasts, even lovelier in the flesh than they had been in his imagination. Her belly was softly rounded and her pubic thatch thick and a somewhat darker blonde than the hair on her head.

She was not a virgin, sadly; Edward Wintergreen had deflowered her on their wedding night some months previously. Dracula loved a virgin. So tight of pussy, so juicy, so… virginal. However, Vanessa Wintergreen was comely enough to have attracted his attention even without the presence of an intact hymen.

‘Has Brunhilde been adequately seeing to your, ah, needs, my dear?’

She had the grace to blush. Brunhilde, a tall, statuesque handmaiden from Bavaria with knee-length blonde plaits of hair, had been assigned by Dracula to assist Vanessa during the period of her ‘turning,’ her ‘turning’ from a human female to a vampire one.

It had taken several days, rather unpleasant days during which the sudden thirst for blood had taken her over completely. Dracula kept well out of the way when one of his handmaidens was going through her ‘turning.’

It was as tiresome as those monthly inconveniences from which women of childbearing age routinely suffered, inconveniences which made them ill-tempered and frowsy-looking for the duration. A man was much better off out of it, all things considered.

He would not make love to a new handmaiden himself until she was fully ‘turned,’ but he encouraged his other handmaidens to pleasure the newcomer themselves and in turn be pleasured by her, and all the while he immensely enjoyed the show by means of various peepholes he had had embedded in the bedchamber walls.

When the process of ‘turning’ was completed and the messy bits were dispensed with, then came Dracula’s time to shine… with a cock that would put a horse to shame. He was hugely looking forward to making love to Vanessa again. He had not touched her since the night he had vampirised her personally.

Thanks to her ‘turning,’ all thoughts of her former life as the wife of the rather staid businessman Edward Wintergreen would be banished from her pretty blonde head forever (though it was not unusual for flashbacks to occur), and she would return Dracula’s savage passion with equal ardour. First things first, though.

‘Turn around,’ he said. ‘I want to see your hindquarters.’

He was not disappointed. Her pale bare buttocks were round and full and infinitely spankable. One thing he could not abide in a female was a tendency towards a flat behind. Women were made to be spanked, and caned and whipped and birched and subjected to all manner of delightful thrashings on the backside, to which end a sturdy pair of fleshy haunches was preferable. In a flash, he pushed Vanessa face-down over the edge of the four-poster bed and administered a flurry of light teasing spanks to her upturned derrière.

She squealed in protest- though not too seriously- and squirmed about a bit but, overall, seemed to enjoy the process, just as he’d expected. And the fact of her backside’s now being a rather fetching shade of pink charmed him no end as well. Just wait until he had a chance to use his belt or a whip on her quivering female flesh! He would make those pale globes dance and bounce to his tune all right.

Now was not that time, however. Now was the time for loving, and for renewing their acquaintance. To this end, he undid his trousers and removed his already fully erect member, which he immediately inserted between the lips of her sex.

She cried out in pleasure and begged for more; she, who had been as buttoned-up and restrained as her stiff-upper-lipped English husband when first they had come to Transylvania! What a wanton little wildcat it was now, thought Dracula as he emptied the contents of his heavy man-sac into her welcoming womb with a shout of triumph.

What a slut, what a temptress, what a minx! He had done well to invite the Wintergreens to his castle for the repast that never was. Edward Wintergreen himself had proved an adequate supper for the castle dogs, and his lady wife was pleasing Dracula greatly now as his concubine.

Afterwards, as they lay in bed together, naked, sated- for now- and bathed in sweat, Dracula spoke sternly to her.

‘You will confine yourself to this suite of rooms I have had prepared for you. Under no circumstances is my wife Anna to learn of your existence here. The same goes for my… erm, my esteemed cousin, Carmilla, do you understand? I cannot answer for your safety if either of these two women find out about you. Is that clear, wench?’

‘Jealous, are they?’ said Vanessa, the lightest hint of mocking laughter in her voice. What cared she for wives and cousins? They meant less than nothing to her.

Dracula snorted. ‘You have no idea,’ he said. ‘It’s probably for the best if you steer clear of my mother Ursula as well. She has a low tolerance for what she terms my ‘whores and hussies.’

‘I’d like to see her apply such derogatory terms to me!’ replied his companion indignantly. ‘She might find herself missing her tongue afterwards.’

‘It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks of you. The only person you have to worry about pleasing is me.’

‘And I do please you, Master, don’t I?’ she murmured in his ear, running her fingers over his stubbly jaw as she did so. He shaved diligently every night when he rose, but such was his masculinity that the strong dark bristles began to push themselves forward again almost immediately.

‘Well, yes, my darling Vanessa,’ he admitted, ‘but the indisputable fact remains that my cock is nonetheless currently going unsucked.’ He quirked an eyebrow at her (eyebrow quirking was a skill of his for which he had won trophies and other accolades) and awaited her response.

‘Forgive me, Master,’ she said as she shimmied down the bed and took his member in her lush red mouth. It was stirring once more and eager for the fray.

‘Mmmmmm.’ Her moan of pleasure was most flattering.

Dracula lay back, his eyes closed and his hands comfortably clasped behind his head. He had a feeling that Vanessa Wintergreen would be an asset to his household. By the time she had expertly extracted the spunk from his man-sac a second time and swallowed it without a word of complaint and, what was more, with every appearance of pleasure, he was positively convinced of it.

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:

http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B015GDE5RO

You can contact Sandra at:

sandrasandraharris@gmail.com

https://www.facebook.com/SandraHarrisPureFilthPoetry

https://sandrafirstruleoffilmclubharris.wordpress.com

FANGS AND FOREPLAY… THE EROTIC ADVENTURES OF DRACULA: THE TRANSYLVANIA YEARS. BOOK 5- PART 19. AN EROTIC HORROR NOVEL BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

chris and jenny

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:

http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B015GDE5RO

You can contact Sandra at:

sandrasandraharris@gmail.com

https://www.facebook.com/SandraHarrisPureFilthPoetry

https://sandrafirstruleoffilmclubharris.wordpress.com