Anna snuggled up to Count Dracula in the most blissful of post-coital dazes. The Count had made love to her no fewer than eight times in the last several hours, each time better than the last. It was a long time since Anna had felt this happy or fulfilled. No cloud marred her state of perfect happiness. No cloud but one, that was. A rather noxious cloud called Carmilla…

It was the strangest thing. The Countess Carmilla Karnstein had recently arrived at Birney Castle after the long journey overseas from Romania, but almost no-one save for the Count himself seemed to have laid eyes on her since her arrival.

She had not been introduced to Countess Anna, Dracula’s wife and the mistress of the house, a grievous social oversight, surely. Now Dracula was claiming that Carmilla was ‘indisposed’ after the difficult journey and unable to leave her bedchamber.

But Anna knew through her loyal handmaiden Valeria that the bedchamber that she herself, Anna, had ordered should be made ready for Carmilla had not been occupied. Anna smiled to herself as she recalled how she had assigned Carmilla a bedchamber as far away from the Count’s private quarters as she dared.

Anna was still not exactly sure how things currently stood between her husband and his cousin Carmilla from the old country. Did the Count still love his childhood sweetheart, his first ever love, or was the visit really just an opportunity for the two cousins to catch up, as Dracula had claimed? Anna wished she knew how much truth there was in his words.

But the bedchamber stood empty, and Anna was completely in the dark as to the whereabouts of Carmilla. Had Dracula and his cousin had a row, was that it? Maybe he’d been too proud to tell her that he’d squabbled with Carmilla and now she was refusing to speak to him, or be introduced to his wife Anna, the mistress of Birney Castle.

Anna knew the whereabouts of her husband perfectly well, however, for which she was immensely grateful. He slumbered naked beside her now, one arm thrown casually above his head. His long dark eyelashes cast shadows across his handsome face, which seemed younger and softer somehow in sleep.

Delicately, Anna trailed her fingers over his bare chest, entangling her red-tipped fingernails in the smattering of dark hairs that covered it. His nipples stiffened under her touch. She let her fingertips move teasingly down his belly to the triangle of thick black pubic hair at its base. His idling manhood jerked into life at the touch of her hand.

‘Who gave you permission to embark on such an obscene voyage of exploration?’ came the Count’s voice now, a layer of amusement beneath its customary sternness. His dark eyes had shot open and he was looking at his wife with one eyebrow quirked in sardonic inquiry.

‘No-one did,’ giggled Anna, wrapping her hand determinedly around his rapidly awakening manhood and beginning to manipulate him, with the expertise of many long hours of practice, to a state of full erection. ‘I acted solely on my own authority, dearest Count.’

‘I see,’ replied the Count, pretending to frown. ‘It’s a slutty little minx we have here then. Do you perchance know what happens to slutty little minxes who get caught with their hands in the metaphorical cookie-jar?’

Anna shook her head and giggled again, her blue eyes wide with mischief and happiness, the happiness of having her beloved Count’s undivided attention for once. She was forced to share him with so many women. It felt wonderful beyond words to have him all to herself.

‘No, tell me,’ she said delightedly. ‘What happens to them?’

‘I prefer to show you,’ said the Count, mounting her and pinning her suddenly to the bed with a speed and dexterity that took Anna’s breath away. ‘Actions, my dear Anna, speak so much louder than words, don’t you find?’

Anna gasped, unable to answer him as he entered her with one fluid movement. He began to thrust his now fully erect manhood in and out of her wet and welcoming lady-parts with an energy that would have put a much younger man to shame. At seven hundred years of age, the Count liked to think that he still had what it took to satisfy any woman alive, or Un-Dead.

Anna moaned and writhed beneath him rapturously as he plundered her feminine parts while fondling her breasts and pushing his tongue between her eagerly parted lips. She forgot all about Carmilla as they moved together towards a simultaneous orgasm that would leave them both spent and shaken.

Carmilla? As Anna gave herself up to the beauty and savagery of her climax, it was much more a case of Carmilla Who…?

Sandra Harris is a Dublin-based novelist, film blogger 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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brides of dracula