It is the year 1890 and Dracula and his sex-crazed entourage, having made the English village of Birney too hot to hold them, have decamped for safety to Dracula’s ancestral castle in Transylvania, home to the Draculas since time immemorial.
Accompanying him are his beautiful pregnant wife Anna, their baby daughter Lucrezia and Anna’s faithful maidservant Valeria, all 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 mother, his siblings 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 34.
AN EROTIC HORROR NOVEL BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©
A tap on his bedchamber door roused Nikolai from his half-slumber. He’d been restless earlier and had sent Zena away so that he could be alone with his thoughts (thoughts as always of revenge against Dracula for keeping him down), but instead he’d drifted into a sort of uneasy half-sleep. He scratched his head and armpits and, yawning hugely, went to open the door. His eyes widened as he beheld his visitor.
‘What do you want?’ he said ungraciously.
‘A private word,’ purred Carmilla silkily, as she entered the room and shut the door firmly behind her.
‘What do we have to talk about?’
Nikolai crossed the room and sprawled in an armchair, deliberately not offering his guest a seat. Carmilla was not shy, however, and seated herself on the chair opposite him, taking her time arranging the folds of her midnight-blue gown around her to her satisfaction. When she was finally comfortable, she said, with an air of mystery: ‘Your brother, Vladimir.’
Nikolai visibly started. ‘He’s dead,’ he said uncertainly. ‘Isn’t he?’
‘How did he die, dear Nikolai?’ Her voice was as slinky as he imagined a cat’s would be, if cats could talk.
‘He was murdered by brigands, robbers and villains on the road, on his way to meet with one of our tenants about the rent. Dracula told us so. He was the first to hear the bad news.’
‘And why on earth, Nikolai, would he be making such a journey himself when he employed agents to collect any monies for him?’
‘It’s what Dracula said he was doing,’ insisted Nikolai.
‘What would you say, Nikolai, if I told you that Vladimir was not dead but alive, very much alive, in fact, and being kept a prisoner in the dungeons of this very castle…?’
She stared at him triumphantly, waiting for his reaction. Nikolai’s face was thoughtful. A year or two earlier, Nikolai had enjoyed a sojourn in London during the so-called ‘Autumn of Terror’ of 1888, when a vicious murderer known as ‘Jack the Ripper’ had stalked the streets of Whitechapel.
This Jack the Ripper fellow (a monster, the press had hysterically dubbed him) had killed random prostitutes and left them on the blood-soaked streets with their insides out and their entrails tossed casually over their shoulders. He was a fearsome being, almost a mythical creature in the minds of the badly frightened general public who held him in such awe.
Nikolai had been greatly excited by these murders and had used them as an excuse to get in on the act himself. He had taken to the darkened, piss-soaked streets by night and murdered a goodly number of street-walkers himself in their dingy little rooms, only, after he’d strangled them, he’d bitten their necks and drained their poor, used-up bodies of every drop of their blood.
The police had been greatly confused when these strangled, bloodless corpses began turning up almost in tandem with Saucy Jack’s handiwork. Nikolai had never been happier in all his five hundred years of being a vampire.
He was utterly in his element. London was like his own personal giant sweet-shop or playground to him, and he the cheeky young rapscallion riding the carousel for as long as he liked with his cheeks bulging with bulls’ eyes and aniseed balls.
Of course, he’d come to London against the express instructions of his older brother Dracula, who was a mean-minded cur who wanted to keep the attractions of London and England all to himself.
He’d have been happy for Nikolai to stay buried in boring, stagnant old Transylvania for all eternity. But Nikolai had craved the bright lights, the crowds, the fresh meat (and blood) and the rich pickings to be found thronging virtually every street in the huge metropolis.
Dracula, then based in London but with an English country property somewhere where he spent much of his time, had bawled Nikolai out good and proper for his indiscreet and dangerous murder spree and ordered him peremptorily back to Transylvania. No second chances, no fair hearing, nothing but Nikolai’s marching orders in no uncertain terms and a flea in his ear to boot.
Nikolai, furious at being despatched back home to Mummy like a naughty schoolboy, had sought Dracula out and fiercely challenged him. There had been a violent showdown, with some three or four of Dracula’s nude handmaidens present, whores he’d been in the middle of servicing when Nikolai had disturbed him.
The two brothers had fought long and loud, and at the end of it all, Dracula had asked his brother- in a menacingly soft voice that contrasted with the shouting and lent a terrible weight to his words- if he wanted to end up like their eldest brother Vladimir, chained to a wall in the dungeon of Castle Dracula in Transylvania for two hundred years, the equivalent of twenty long, horrible earth years.
‘But… but Vlad’s dead,’ Nikolai had stammered, ashen-faced.
‘Is he indeed…?’ Dracula had sneered, then he’d clammed up and said not another word on the subject.
Nikolai had returned to Transylvania after that, there being no help for it as Dracula’s word was law and, besides, Nikolai was more than a little afraid of what Dracula had said about Vladimir’s real fate.
Nikolai had searched the castle dungeons himself when he arrived home and had been more than a little relieved to find no trace of his brother. He’d thought about it the odd time over the months that had followed, however, and now here was that sultry, purple-eyed witch Carmilla suggesting to him the exact same thing.
‘How do you know?’ he said, glowering with suspicion all over his face.
‘I’ve seen him,’ Carmilla said smugly, helping herself to one of Nikolai’s expensive French cigarettes from a side-table beside her.
‘You’ve seen him?’ Nikolai whispered. ‘Is he… is he… alive?’
Carmilla nodded, then coolly blew three perfect smoke rings in the shape of tiny coffins into the air. She was the only person Nikolai had ever known who could do that, besides Count Dracula himself. He’d tried it himself a hundred times and failed dismally every time.
‘Why are you telling me all this?’ he said harshly, his voice raspy with emotion.
‘Because I need your help,’ she purred, her cat-like eyes glowing in the half-light of the chamber, taking in every inch of his face and body. ‘A great wrong has been done to your eldest brother. We’re going to get Vladimir out of those dreadful dungeons and back where he rightfully belongs… at the head of the Dracula family. With me by his side as his wife, naturally.’
‘O-ho, so that’s your game, is it, you poisonous wench? Why should I help you to advance yourself, tell me that?’
‘Because you hate Dracula even more than I do.’
Her words hung in the air between them like an unexploded bomb. Eventually, Nikolai said in a hoarse whisper: ‘What do you want me to do then, you insufferable wench?’
Carmilla smiled and lifted her hands to the back of her neck, undoing the clasp of her gown. Then she lowered the front of the midnight-blue dress to her waist, exposing to Nikolai’s hungry gaze two of the most magnificent breasts he’d ever seen in all his five hundred years.
Full, round and white with big, pinky-brown nipples, they had the luscious, over-ripe quality to be found in the older woman rather than the pert perkiness of youth, but Nikolai, who loved all breasts on all women, was utterly enchanted with them. He looked at her questioningly.
‘First, you will fuck me,’ she said softly.
‘And afterwards?’ he breathed, his heart beating like a jackhammer.
‘Afterwards, my dear Nikolai, we talk business…’
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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