dracula caroline munro




Terry Fisher, the footman from Richmond House, and the under-coachman Freddie Francis were enjoying a frothy pint at Old Mother Reilly’s Public-House, where the view had to be seen to be believed.

At the bar stood Sally and Heidi, their two favourite prostitutes. The women downed pints and giggled together and gossiped and looked over constantly at the two young men, who were attractive enough to look at, clean and never tried to diddle them out of a few coins.

For that reason, Terry and Freddie were always welcome to try their luck at Mother Reilly’s, where comfortable enough rooms were provided upstairs for any business transactions that might be on hand.

For now, however, the women were leaving the men alone to drink and talk their men-talk, although they kept an eagle-eye out for any other whores who might try to jump their preciously-guarded claims. Terry and Freddie were, in fact, currently involved in a discussion of no small cerebral significance and appreciated the women’s keeping their distance for now.

‘So, ‘ow many times ‘ave you ridden Bessie Stoker this week then?’ inquired Freddie of Terry, who grinned and wiped a froth moustache off his upper lip before replying:

‘Three, or four if you count the blow-job in the broom closet on Wednesday morning while Old Ma Quincey were at Chapel.’

‘Lucky devil,’ said Freddie. ‘I mean, she ain’t much of a looker, Bessie, in the face, I mean, but ‘er tits and that fat wobbly arse! I’d do ‘er for them alone.’

‘I’ll put in a good word for you when I’m done wiv ‘er,’ said Terry, grinning broadly now.

‘Ow long will that take, then?’ grumbled Freddie. ‘She’s got ‘er claws into you now, ain’t she? You and ‘er are practically married.’

‘Not me!’ exclaimed Terry indignantly. ‘Just because I ride ‘er sometimes don’t mean that I owe ‘er anything. I’m a free man, me.’

‘Sure you are,’ scoffed Freddie in disbelief. ‘What about the way she’s always skulking around making cow-eyes at you? You and she’ll be starting a family next.’

Terry, alarm widening his eyes, snapped back:

‘Don’t even say that, Freddie, not even as a joke! I don’t want to be a father, not for at least another twenty years. I want to ‘ave a bit of fun first. See the world a bit.’

‘What, the view from Richmond ‘ouse, you mean?’ said Freddie sceptically. ‘Some world.’

‘I won’t always be a bleedin’ footman, will I?’ said Terry, signalling the barman for two more pints of his best ale. ‘I’m gonner make something of myself, I am.’

‘With Bessie Stoker and a passel of screaming brats hangin’ onto your coat-tails?’ said Freddie, licking his lips in anticipation of another frothy pint.

‘Will you shut yer trap about me an’ Bessie bleedin’ Stoker?’ said Terry, exasperated. ‘She don’t mean nothin’ to me, she’s just someone I ride sometimes when it suits me, that’s all. An’ if you mention ‘er name once more tonight, I’m going ‘ome, okay?’

Freddie shrugged, more interested in watching the voluptuous Heidi draw a little purse of coins from between her ample breasts than in what his friend was saying. Figuring that he and Terry had had all the man-talk they needed for one night, he beckoned to the two women waiting at the bar. They sashayed over immediately.

‘Buy us a pint, Terry my love,’ wheedled the dark-haired Sally, seating herself on his lap and exciting his male organ considerably by wriggling much more than was necessary in order to make herself comfortable. ‘I’m parching for a drop of ale, I am.’

‘Me too,’ piped up Heidi, an exotic honey-blonde of Eastern European origin, neither of the men knew where from, exactly.

‘You ‘eard ’em, Freddie,’ grinned Terry, putting his hand straight up Sally’s skirts, gratified to discover that she was wearing no undergarments and that her lady-parts were warm, wet and infinitely inviting. ‘Go get ’em what they want.’

Freddie obliged, returning almost instantly with four pints of Mother Reilly’s best ale. Sally and Terry were already kissing, Terry’s right hand down the front of her dress and his left well out of sight under her skirts.

Freddie deftly distributed the pints, then he grabbed Heidi and pulled her on to his lap, where he immediately commenced explorations similar in nature to Terry’s. Heidi’s breasts were huge and barely contained by the low-cut, wasp-waisted gown she wore. It was torn at both armpits but Freddie couldn’t have cared less. He was much more interested in what was inside her dress.

‘Give us a kiss, ‘eidi love,’ Freddie cajoled.

‘What’s it worth?’ answered back Heidi, quick as a flash.

Freddie opened his jacket to show a bulge in the inside breast pocket where nestled his purse. Heidi, satisfied, her light-green eyes gleaming at the sight of the money, wrapped her arms tightly around his neck and stuck her tongue down his throat.




It was Rent-Day at the Stokers’ house in Stocking Lane in Whitechapel. Promptly at four o’ clock (no chance he wouldn’t come, of course!), Jeremiah Nettles rapped loudly on the front door and bustled inside, filled as usual with self-importance and bluster, when Vera reluctantly admitted him.

‘Well now, well now, well now, Missus,’ he said pompously as he went straight to the tiny bedroom which Vera shared with her seven children, ‘I hope those pesky, snot-nosed brats of yours won’t be returning before we’ve- ahem- transacted our little bit of business.’

‘Do they ever?’ replied Vera bitterly, starting to disrobe so that their ‘little bit of business’ could be gotten over with as quickly as possible. She dreaded the visits from her landlord so much that they were making her feel sick. Sick and cold and shaky all over, but this was the only way she could afford to keep a roof over her own head and those of her seven children.

She really hadn’t been feeling herself lately, though. Her eyesight, failing rapidly after years of sewing by candlelight to make ends meet for her family, was causing her to have terrible headaches. They’d been so bad, Vera thought she was going out of her mind with the awful pain.

And there were times lately, oh yes, there’d been times when she hadn’t felt like herself at all. Times when she’d been hungry, exhausted, cold and fearful, most dreadfully fearful for her own and her childrens’ future. God alone knew what lay in store for them all.

God had been conspicuously absent from the little house in Stocking Lane lately, though, thought Vera, her bitterness overflowing as she watched the grossly obese Jeremiah Nettles fussily place his jacket and trousers on the one chair in the room,  after checking first to make sure that it was clean.

Vera felt insulted by this. She always kept a clean house, no matter how bad things were. She had standards, she had, whatever Mr. Hoity-Toity Jeremiah Nettles thought about her and her little family.

Her arrangement to pay Jeremiah Nettles his rent ‘in kind’ had meant that she no longer had to walk the streets of Whitechapel at night, prostituting herself to anyone who had a few coppers on him.

Sometimes, though, she thought she might prefer that to having to lie underneath her landlord’s enormous sweaty body while he laboured over her, puffing and panting like an old clapped-out pair of bellows. He disgusted her so much, it was all she could to keep from retching when he smothered her with his incredible, foul-smelling bulk so that she couldn’t move.

‘Now then, Missus, lie down and open those scrawny legs of yours,’ Jeremiah Nettles commanded, easing his bulk onto the bed. His ‘manhood,’ if you could call it that, thought Vera scornfully, was hidden under the vast folds of his hairy stomach. Disgust flooding her every pore, Vera lay rigid on the bed while her landlord settled his weight on top of her.

‘You know, Missus, I’ve been thinking,’ he said as he tried to push his wormy slug of a male organ into her waiting feminine parts (it took all Vera’s willpower not to shrink away from him, he didn’t like that and might hit her a belt) ‘that daughter of yours, the one with the pigtails, the one what comes after your Bessie, what’s ‘er name, this little flower?’

A cold feeling of dread came over Vera as she stammered:

‘Why, th-th-that’s Tabby! Why do you want to know?’

‘How old is she, Missus?’ puffed Nettles, finally inserting his excuse for a male organ where it was supposed to go and starting to thrust in and out. He was so poorly-endowed that Vera barely felt his efforts, but she smelled his fetid breath on her face and turned away in revulsion. ‘Fourteen, fifteen, what?’

‘She’s- she’s fifteen,’ replied Vera, praying to every saint she’d ever invoked in her life before that Nettles was not implying what she thought he was implying.

‘Fifteen, you don’t say?’ he murmured thoughtfully in response. ‘I would have thought younger, by Jove. You don’t feed those brats of yours enough meat, Missus, that’s what it is, not enough meat and nourishing vittles!’

He laughed uproariously at his own joke, knowing full well that Vera couldn’t afford to put meat on the table for her offspring. As he laughed, drops of spittle flew onto Vera’s face and she could see that he had a piece of food caught between two of his teeth. Her stomach turned.

‘What do you want with my Tabby?’ she said anxiously.

‘Hold your horses, Missus, hold your horses,’ said Nettles as, his fat face contorted with his efforts, he deposited his issue in Vera’s lady-parts. He huffed and puffed for several minutes more then, sweat dripping down his face and onto a revolted Vera, he continued:

‘I want ‘er here next time I come, Missus. I want you both here together. She is- ah, unknown to man, I trust?’

Vera shook her head in shock and disbelief.

‘You can’t!’ she said. ‘Not my Tabby! Not my baby! You can’t have her! I won’t let you, I won’t!’

‘You will, Missus,’ replied Jeremiah Nettles nastily, pulling his male organ out of Vera’s body with a heave and a squelching sound that was immediately followed by a loud belch and a breaking of wind.

‘You will or I’ll have the bailiffs round ‘ere to chuck you and your snot-nosed brats out onto the street. See how you and your brats like living on the streets without a man to protect you. You needn’t worry about the girl. I’ll break her in nicely, show her what a real man can do for a woman. Have her cleaned up for me, Missus, mind, between the legs and what have you,’ he added primly. ‘I don’t want to catch none of your filthy brood’s nasty lice, I don’t.’

A red mist descended over Vera’s tired, over-strained eyes. Before Nettles could begin the arduous process of heaving his bulk off of her, she reached under the mattress for the knife she’d secreted there and stuck it right up inside of him, in the place where she supposed his heart to be, that’s if he had one. She wouldn’t be surprised if he hadn’t.

He must have had something there, though, because the blood began to seep straightaway from the wound and onto a shocked Vera. Blood bubbled from his mouth too, and Vera would never forget the look of utter surprise in his piggy eyes, bulging now out of his folds of face-fat. Vera began to giggle hysterically. She laughed until the tears ran down her face.

‘You’ve done it now, Vera my girl,’ she said out loud. ‘You’ve really done it now…’

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:

You can contact Sandra at:


dracula caroline munro




The moon was full tonight. It shimmered through the clouds like a lady’s ball-gown, covered in a million sequins. Millie was thankful for its light as she hurried through Birney Forest. She was anxious not to stray from the path.

The forest had an evil reputation. Even though it was several months now since first Rowena Sampson and then her older married sister Jessie had disappeared from there, young girls and women from the village of Birney were still reluctant to walk there alone.

Millie would not be walking there at all now, if it were not for the fact that she was late home tonight. Taking the short-cut through the forest might just get her back home and into her bed before her father returned from Jack Walton’s tavern and gave her hell for breaking her curfew.

She’d had ever such a lovely time tonight with Simeon Randall, the older brother of Jamie Randall who was courting Tamsin, the barmaid at Jack Walton’s. Simeon was different to the outgoing, mischievous Jamie, Jamie with his devil-may-care good looks and the devastating white smile that would charm the birds out of the trees.

Simeon, who ran his own coach business with the help of Jamie, was not as handsome as his brother, but he was tall and strong and he’d made Millie feel so safe and protected tonight as she’d lain naked in his massive arms after they’d made love. He’d taken her virginity tonight and he’d been ever so gentle about it.

She’d just die if she were pregnant, she would, but Simeon had pulled out like he’d promised so fingers crossed she’d be all right. Fingers crossed, Millie, fingers crossed, was what her mother said every month while she anxiously awaited her own monthlies.

Seven children her mother had had and she was determined to have no more, but her mother’s determination on the subject did not deter Millie’s father, who rowdily insisted on his conjugal rights almost every night on his arrival home from Jack Walton’s.

The moon went behind a cloud suddenly. Millie, temporarily deprived of her source of light, tripped over the root of a tree that jutted out over the path. A gigantic old tree it was, gnarled and ancient. The forest was filled with such antiquities.

Winded, Millie lay prone for a moment to catch her breath after the sudden shock. Shakily, she got to her feet, brushing the leaves and little twigs from her dress. It was crumpled enough already from having spent an hour or two on Simeon Randall’s bedroom floor without adding muck from the forest floor to the mix.

The moon came out from behind the clouds and illuminated the forest as if it were day-time. On the path in front of Elizabeth, surely no more than ten or twenty feet away, were two women. They were certainly women, Millie thought as she blinked in surprise and curiosity, but they were unlike any women Millie had ever seen before in her life.

They were beautiful to be sure, but in an otherwordly kind of way, not like the women from around here. One was blonde, with long hair that fell to her waist like a fairytale princess in a childrens’ story-book. Her low-cut gown was of midnight blue, and her breasts were full and luminously white in the glow of the moon. She was a breath-taking sight indeed.

The other woman was dark-haired, with black curls piled Grecian-style on top of her head and a white sleeveless gown, again Grecian-style, cinched around her tiny waist with a wide gold belt. It was this woman who spoke, breaking the silence of the forest. The night was so quiet, not even an owl could be heard hooting.

‘Come here, child,’ said the dark-haired woman. ‘There’s nothing to be frightened of.’

Millie, to her amazement, found herself stumbling forward on unsteady legs. When she was close enough to reach out and touch the strange women, she stopped, her heart pounding. Now she could see them both properly, she was even more in awe of them.

The blonde woman wore a necklace around her white throat that even Millie, with her inexpert eye, could tell was a real jewel. It was a blood-red stone in the shape of a love-heart that nestled between the woman’s breasts and nearly took Millie’s breath away. From the woman’s ears dangled matching blood-red earrings and on her wedding finger, she wore a heavy ruby ring, the most magnificent piece of jewellery Millie had ever laid eyes on.

‘What a pretty thing you are!’ said the dark-haired woman, picking up one of Millie’s soft brown ringlets and twirling it around her finger. ‘What do you think, Countess?’ she added, addressing the blonde-haired woman, whose intense blue eyes roved over Millie’s face and body. Millie was a well-developed young woman of nineteen, whose curves had drawn the eyes of most of the men in the village by now.

‘I’m inclined to agree, Valeria,’ remarked the blonde woman softly in refined tones, certainly not the village brogue. ‘This is a rare find indeed.’

Millie, standing and staring at both women as if in a trance, could only wonder if she were dreaming. Was this even real, or was it a dream? She had never seen creatures this exotic, this different from the village women, in her whole life.

Her head felt funny, as if she were light-headed or something. Her mind was muzzy, that’s what it was. She had no control over her body, either. She was rooted to the spot as if a witch had cast a spell over her, some kind of mystical enchantment.

‘And look at this, Countess,’ exclaimed the woman called Valeria, suddenly tearing at the front of Millie’s dress with a surprising strength. Her actions exposed Millie’s breasts, round and white and firm, with pinkish nipples that stiffened when exposed to the cool night air.

Millie tried to shriek, to protest somehow at this shocking assault on her modesty, but she could not make a sound above a strangled whimper, and her arms would not move to cover her breasts. She was powerless to do anything but wait, wait to see what it was that these strange women, these apparitions, required of her.

The blonde woman smiled suddenly, revealing two hideous fangs on either side of her mouth. She placed her hands on Millie’s breasts and squeezed them hard, much harder than Simeon had done earlier on tonight. The other woman, the dark-haired one called Valeria, smiled a similarly terrifying smile, the fangs in her mouth gleaming bright white in the moonlight.

This woman held Millie’s arms fast from behind, though there was no need. Millie could not have moved, nor yet screamed, to save her life. A horrible crunching sound and a searing pain in the left side of her neck were the last things she knew before she fell to the ground in a dead faint, the two women standing over her with sneers of lust and triumph on their perfect faces.




Igor the hump-backed gate-keeper, watched intently as the two women glided arm-in-arm back through the gates which he’d left ajar. They were giggling like schoolgirls, talking animatedly together about their high-jinks, with the blood from their kill still dripping down their perfect little chins.

Igor would have tugged respectfully on his forelock had they seen him but they were in their own little world and paid him no attention. Valeria it was who’d asked him to leave the gates open for their little jaunt. She’d reminded him too to say nothing of this to the Master, who would have had Igor’s hide if he’d had even an inkling of what had transpired this night.

Igor owed Valeria for past favours, so he’d done what she asked. Then he’d watched from a discreet distance as the two she-devils sighted their prey, a pretty young woman from the village called Millie Something, Millie Myers, maybe, and then jumped upon it.

They’d drunk every drop of the woman’s blood, then left the drained and lifeless carcass on the forest floor, where it would no doubt already be attracting the attention of the forest beasts.

Now Igor would bury it where no-one would ever find it, except maybe the worms. He trudged into the forest, an accursed place if ever he’d seen one, carrying his shovel over his shoulder and whistling tunelessly. He’d done work like this before.

It didn’t take him long to find the woman where those two fanged bitches had left her. He’d watched them kill her, hadn’t he? He shuddered at the sight of the pale-faced, pitifully naked creature who lay so limp and lifeless in a patch of ferns.

She’d been pretty once, this little Millie Myers, if such was her name, but what man would want her now? Her breasts and buttocks and inner thighs were bitten and scratched so badly it made even Igor wince at the sight. God alone knew what those two vicious she-devils had done to the girl.

They were so beautiful to look at, both of them, Valeria and the Master’s bride, Countess Anna, but they had hearts as black as the pits of Hell underneath their perfect facades.

Igor got on with his job. He’d didn’t care to spend any more time in this bleak, grim forest than he had to. Besides, Desdemona was waiting for him by now back in the gatekeeper’s lodge, his quarters.

‘Where have you been?’ she queried him petulantly when he returned, sweaty and covered in the dirt of the girl’s tomb. She was six feet under now, that little Millie, and likely to remain so. Her family would mourn her but they would never find her rotting corpse, not where Igor had put the poor scrap of humanity. Igor was good at burying the bodies of women. He’d had plenty of practice.

‘I ‘ad a job to do for the Master,’ Igor answered abruptly. Never tell a woman more than she needed to know, that was Igor’s motto. He’d parked the muddy shovel against the wall of the gatehouse hallway, where the Master wouldn’t see it when he came home through the gates in his carriage. Now he pulled off his sweat-soaked shirt while Desdemona watched him intently from her position stretched out on the bed.

Igor was not self-conscious about the hump on his back in front of Desdemona. Desdemona, fascinated by his deformity, had kissed and licked every inch of it and even liked to hold onto it tightly while she lay beneath him during their coupling. She even raked her blood-red nails against it, that was how much she liked its feel.

Now she openly eyed it, lust in her she-devil’s green eyes. Igor was not tall, and with the hump and his solid build, he might have been taken for squat. But he was only thirty years of age and his face, framed by his over-long brown hair, was not exactly unpleasing to the female eye.

Best of all, Mother Nature had compensated him for the hump by generously endowing him with a male organ of above average length and thickness. This held Desdemona’s interest long after she would normally have tired of him. Igor was grateful for this fact. Desdemona was one of the most exotic and lustful of the Count’s vampire handmaidens.

When Igor was naked, his maleness springing automatically to attention like a soldier on parade, he climbed onto the bed and began immediately to seek out Desdemona’s female parts beneath her wine-red velvet dress. She wore no undergarments, the randy whore, just like all of the Count’s sex-slaves, and parted her milk-white thighs readily.

‘Lick me, Igor,’ she said huskily, gesturing towards the thatch of jet-black hair between her legs, as waywardly curly as the hair on her head. Igor’s eyes widened greedily at the sight of the red lips that nestled between those thighs, jewelled with little glistening drops of moisture.

Was there ever such a sight? It was enough to drive a man clean out of his mind. Desdemona spread the lips wide open with her white fingers. Igor needed no further invitation. He bent his head towards her and licked his own lips…

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:

You can contact Sandra at:




Any film that begins with naked whipping is usually fine by me, and this brilliant old ‘Seventies erotic horror movie is no exception. It has the added bonus of starring Tom ‘MAGNUM P.I.’ Selleck, whose thick luxuriant moustache and hairy-chested manliness has provided fantasy fodder for many a horny housewife over the decades.

My favourite role of his wasn’t, in fact, the Hawaiian-shirted detective but the time when he played Monica Geller’s much older boyfriend Richard in ‘Nineties sitcom FRIENDS. It was so sad when they split up because Monica wanted babies and Richard didn’t, as he’d already been there and done that with his first wife. All together now: ‘Awwwww…!’

Anyway, I loved the scene after they’d split up and Monica was curled up on the couch miserably smoking one of Richard’s yucky cigars with one of his old beloved American Civil War tapes in the VCR, just to feel close to him. Well, we can all relate to that, I guess.

She’s asleep by the time her Dad, played by the wonderful Elliott Gould, comes over to see how she is. The look of pure bliss on Dad’s face once he’s commandeered the smouldering cigar and the Civil War documentary for himself is just priceless.

Tom Selleck is terrific in DAUGHTERS OF SATAN too. He plays a moustached, hairy-chested handsome man (no change there, so!) called Jim Robertson who lives in a gorgeous house in the Philippines with his beautiful wife Christina.

She’s an empty-headed harmless little thing who looks fabulous in an array of typically early ‘Seventies dresses, but she’s seeing a psychiatrist and one suspects that the lift, in her case, doesn’t quite reach all the way to the top, haha. I’m not saying she’s wacko or anything, but she’s definitely impressionable and easily influenced and that’s what makes her perfect for the horror that unfolds.

Any-hoo, one day art buff Jim buys a rather macabre painting of three witches being burned at the stake (with a big black dog being burned with them) because the middle witch is a dead ringer for the lovely Chris.

Chris is understandably baffled as to why he’d bring such a hideous and upsetting thing home with him. I mean, a picture of her being burned at the stake, for crying out loud…! Some husbands have no common sense at all.

The advent of the painting brings some strange changes into the Robertson household. A big black devil-dog appears out of nowhere, who’s devoted to Chris but tries to take off one of Jim’s legs every time they cross paths.

A surly disobliging maid called Juana (a bit like Consuela from FAMILY GUY!) joins the household too. Again, she’s all up in Chris’s business but she’s nothing short of downright rude to Jim.

The arrival of the strange close-mouthed domestic servant at the same time as the devil-dog reminded me strongly of one of the most famous Satanic movies of all time, DAMIEN: THE OMEN, which came along just a few short years later. The indomitable Billie Whitelaw played the sinister Mrs. Baylock to perfection. I don’t know who played the mutt. I really must watch that film again later.

Gradually, anyway, Jim realises that weird stuff is happening to his painting that appears to be mirroring real life. The third witch in the picture bears a strong resemblance to Juana the maid, for example, and the painting of the dog keeps fading in and out to beat the band. Weird…!

When he discovers another painting in the series in which he himself features as the man who’s condemned the three witches to death, it becomes clear that his own life might be in danger as the three reincarnated witches, his own innocent wife included, seek revenge for their grisly ends all the way back in 1592… Eeep!

Barra Grant, a real looker, is excellent as the dreamy, dopey Christina. Tani Guthrie plays a blinder too as the sex-mad head witch who really enjoys whipping half-naked females. You do see tits in this, by the way, and jolly nice tits they are too. And not surgically-enhanced, either, unless I miss my mark.

You’ll also hear some great early ‘Seventies horror movie music and you’ll discover a novel use for ice in both the killing of a husband and also the establishing of an alibi so you don’t get done for the aforementioned. Nice…!

You’ll see some gorgeous cinematography and ‘Seventies costumes and interiors and whatnot too. This is a really enjoyable film, with tits and whipping and even some titty-whipping into the bargain. Seriously, what more could anyone possibly want from a horror movie…?


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:

You can contact Sandra at:


ANNA 3I have brilliant news for fans of my ongoing sexy Victorian vampire serial, ANNA MEETS COUNT DRACULA. Book 2 is out now under its new name of FANGS AND FOREPLAY… THE EROTIC ADVENTURES OF DRACULA!

Also, Book 3 will be starting here soon in serial form so I hope anyone who likes the story will hop on board once more and ride the choo-choo train back to Victorian London and the sauciest, sexiest, spankiest, whippiest shenanigans you could possibly imagine…! What’s the second book all about? Read on and find out, you naughty, naughty people…!

So, has the horny-as-hell Count Dracula settled down and mended his lecherous ways now that he’s a baby-daddy-to-be…? You’d better believe he hasn’t! If anything, he’s hornier than ever. Join him as he bed-hops his way around Victorian London, giving serving wenches and duchesses alike the benefit of his extraordinary- ahem!- ‘swordsmanship.’ Heaving bosoms, thrashed buttocks and stiff members abound in this wickedly saucy sex-and-spanking romp from the mistress of horror erotica herself, Sandra Harris.

Here’s the link!*Version*=1&*entries*=0

And here’s my Author Page on Amazon Central, the book is also available there along with all my other books!

Drop me an email if you have any problems on:


funny sex 6


A collection of short, rude funny sex-poems. No stone left unturned in this hilariously bitchy and wickedly honest look at sex today. No, that’s it, nothing else. Just sex. Well, maybe a few bizarre fetishes, but that’s still just sex, isn’t it…? We’ll go with sex. Let’s just say sex. This book is about sex. It’s a sex-book…!



cover max new

Max, a bored and unhappy middle-aged man, meets a younger woman, Juliet, by chance in a bookshop. Instantly attracted to each other, they begin an affair. Juliet quickly realises that Max is not like most other men sexually. Lonely, and craving the affection she has been denied throughout her life, she allows herself to become Max’s sexual plaything- and punchbag- in exchange for his love. Max takes full advantage of Juliet’s friendless state and coerces her into doing things that leave her feeling degraded and violated. Afraid of losing Max, Juliet is unable to say no to his demands and so the game continues until the situation blows up in their faces and both Max and Juliet have no choice but to face the consequences of their fucked-up love.*Version*=1&*entries*=0

cover max new


filth cover sex poems

A collection of short, rude funny sex-poems. No stone left unturned in this hilariously bitchy and wickedly honest look at sex today. No, that’s it, nothing else. Just sex. Well, maybe a few bizarre fetishes, but that’s still just sex, isn’t it…? We’ll go with sex. Let’s just say sex. This book is about sex. It’s a sex-book…!