This is not the best ‘you’ve had sex with the wrong person and now your life is ruined’ stalker-type film you’ll probably ever see in your life, but I personally enjoyed it, and it was definitely worth watching at least one time.

There are at least four (go on, count ‘em!) distinct nods here to the original stalker film, the Daddy of them all, Adrian Lyne’s FATAL ATTRACTION from 1989, and the movie turns into Alfred Hitchcock’s 1951 masterpiece STRANGERS ON A TRAIN near the end as well, with the whole ‘I did your murders, now you do mine!’ thing. Kriss Kross, as they say in THE SIMPSONS

Derrick and Tracie Tyler are one of those beautiful, rich high-achieving power couples. He’s an agent to a whole stable of sporting celebrities, as well as being a former college basketball star, and she’s in real estate. They have one of those magnificent but soulless show-homes made of glass and steel, similar to the one in THE INVISIBLE MAN (2020). All mod cons but literally no heart…

They’re nice to look at, these show-gaffs, but personally I find all those empty, clutter-free acres of space deeply, deeply impersonal and boring. Where’s the character? Where’s the personality? Where’s the mountain of old TV guides and calendars from 1982, lol…? I can’t be doing with that kind of spotlessness; it’s too high maintenance. Besides, my kids would make shite of all those pristine, jam-and-chocolate-free surfaces.

Anyway, Derrick and Tracie’s marriage is on the rocks, and Derrick confides to his business partner, the burly Rafe, that he thinks Tracie might be cheating on him. He doesn’t seem to see any irony in the fact that, when he goes to Vegas for a mate’s bachelor party, he meets Hilary Swank’s character, Val, and has energetic stranger-sex with her in her hotel room.

The erotica here is not terribly erotic, just so you know. There’s no nudity, not even a nip-slip or a butt-shot, and no discernible sexual chemistry or electricity of any kind between the two leads. It’s extremely disappointing.

The sex in FATAL ATTRACTION is messy but believable, and the sexual tension between Michael Douglas and Glenn Close is both palpable and sizzling like a pan-full of fat Irish sausages. And, let me tell you, that’s fairly feckin’ sizzling…!

Back goes Derrick to his wife, anyway, after all the illicit sex-with-a-stranger. No doubt he feels suitably guilty for having been a cheating louse, as he seems like a half-decent bloke. No sooner is he back home, though, than the Tylers are broken into, by a burglar in a balaclava who doesn’t steal anything but roughs Derrick up a fair bit before legging it. Who’s got it in for Droopy Derrick, then?

Enter the detective, the mopey Val Quinlan. Sound familiar? Yep, that’s because she’s the Val with whom Derrick has had all the illicit nookie in Vegas. But what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, right? Wrong, very, very wrong. This Val chick has an agenda, and, now that she has a hold over Derrick (all the sex, remember?), she intends to use him to further that agenda. Derrick is in for a world of pain…

With the STRANGERS ON A TRAIN-style twist, this is FATAL ATTRACTION with a slight difference. It’s a very grey-looking film, with not much colour in it. It’s all that washed-out glass and steel and chrome. Even Hilary Swank herself looks long and grey and washed-out in it, but she seems like a good enough actress and the plot is fairly decent too, so, overall, I give FATALE a thumbs-up. Enjoy it.  

Sandra Harris is a Dublin-based novelist, poet, short story writer and film and book blogger. She has studied Creative Writing and Vampirology. 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:
Her debut romantic fiction novel, ‘THIRTEEN STOPS,’ is out now from Poolbeg Books:
The sequel, ‘THIRTEEN STOPS LATER,’ is out now from Poolbeg Books:



It was a dull, damp and foggy Monday morning in London. Sherlock Holmes, the great detective, lay stretched out full-length in his favourite armchair, too overcome by the familiar ennui to even smoke his pipe.

Dr. John H. Watson, M.D., standing at the window of his friend’s consulting rooms at 221B Baker Street looking down on the swell of humanity as it ebbed and flowed like the mighty Thames on the streets below him, very much feared that Holmes was on the verge of having recourse to the dreaded cocaine bottle and syringe once more.

Were it not for the fact that both bottle and syringe currently resided on the high mantelpiece above the fireplace and Holmes in his ennui could not be bothered to get up from his comfortable seat and fetch them, he might be in thrall to them even now. In this instance, Dr. Watson sent up a prayer of thanks to whomever might be listening that Holmes was such an indolent bastard at times.

He was deeply worried for his friend’s mental health. For days now, the dearth of clients and puzzles to keep his genius’s mind sharp and clear had caused him to sink deeper and deeper into a brown study.

He didn’t even want to play some of their favourite games any more, like ‘Doctor and Patient’ and ‘Docky-Wocky Sucky-Wucky Ickle-Wickle Cocky-Wocky.’ When Sherlock Holmes declined to play ‘Docky-Wocky Sucky-Wucky Ickle-Wickle Cocky-Wocky’ with his closest friend, Dr. John H. Watson M.D., then you knew you had a potential catastrophe on your hands. If some business didn’t present itself at their rooms very, very soon, God alone knew on what self-destructive course the bored and depressed famous detective might embark.

‘I say, Holmes, it looks like a case might be presenting itself at last, if I’m not mistaken!’ uttered Watson excitedly now from his vantage point at the window. ‘Yes, indeed, they’re standing now on the path opposite, waiting for a break in the traffic, now they’re looking up at our windows, no doubt wondering if the great detective is in situ. Oh yes, they’re crossing swiftly now that the traffic has eased somewhat, crossing, crossing, and yes! There is the ring at the bell that signifies that we shall soon have a visitor.’

‘Excellent, Watson, excellent! Now hush, not a word, while I endeavour to reconstruct a thumbnail sketch of our visitor from the facts at our disposal.’ Still stretched out in his armchair, he closed his eyes and dramatically placed the two forefingers of each hand over both of his closed eyelids.

‘Now, let me see. Elderly man, rigid military bearing, leathery tanned skin as testament to his long years in India. Not a subaltern, but a high-up officer, a general, or an old major, maybe. Walks with a pronounced limp in the left leg, caught some sniper shrapnel in India, perhaps. Uses a stick made of briar. Addicted to snuff, and the rather dubious confection known as pear drops. Keeps bull mastiffs. Bitten once, on the left ankle, left a scar. Keeps bees, too, like I intend to do when I retire to Sussex. Kept fish as a boy. Sang in a choir in his youth, till nodules on the vocal cords put paid to all that. There. What do you think, Watson? Have I hit the mark again?’

Dr. Watson stared at his friend in astonishment. ‘Why, Holmes, what a marvel you are! But unfortunately, in this instance, I rather fear that…’

What Dr. Watson rather feared, Sherlock Holmes was destined never to know, for at that moment came an urgent rapping at the door and the housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson, a stout, matronly woman of a certain age with a permanent expression of harassment and exasperation, bustled into the room followed by a handsomely dressed middle-aged woman of obvious means.

‘Mr. Holmes,’ gasped Mrs. Hudson, out of breath again after the stairs, ‘this is Lady Chastity Wilberforce-Belvedere, or is it Lady Chastity Belvedere-Wilberforce? I declare, those stairs have fair turned my brain!’

She huffed and puffed her way out of the room, leaving the handsome woman standing in the middle of the room.

‘Pray be seated, my Lady,’ said Dr. Watson, a great admirer of the fair sex when his time wasn’t being completely taken up by Holmes, who was needy and a psychic-vampire, someone who drew his own energy from draining the life-force out of the people around him. He pulled out a chair for her, directly across from Holmes’s armchair, because he knew his friend liked to get a good look at his clients during interviews.

‘Is the Major following behind you?’ said Holmes smugly, steepling his long thin fingers and casting anticipatory glances towards the door under languid, partially closed lids.

‘The Major?’ exclaimed the visitor in obvious surprise. ‘What Major? There is no Major, Mr. Holmes! There is only myself.’

Holmes’s long face turned a dull red with embarrassment at being not only wrong, but quite badly wrong, while Watson did his utmost to suppress a snigger. He was only successful inasmuch as he managed to turn the snigger into a cough, but, judging by the way Holmes was glowering at him, he’d still have to spend the entire evening playing ‘Docky-Wocky Sucky-Wucky Ickle-Wickle Cocky-Wocky’ in order to placate his mortified friend.

‘Pray, Lady Charity…’ began Holmes.

‘Chastity, Mr. Holmes, Chastity,’ said the woman sternly.

‘Pray, Lady Chastity,’ tried Holmes again, ‘be so kind as to state the precise nature of your business. Please to leave out all but the most salient facts.’

‘I am here to bring a ‘Missing Persons’ case to your attention, Mr. Holmes.’

‘The person’s name?’ inquired Holmes in his most bored voice. Christ, the man was such a rude prick at times, best friend or no, thought Dr. Watson crossly.

‘Jeremy Wintergreen,’ said the woman. ‘He’s been missing now in Transylvania for some time…’


Sandra Harris is a Dublin-based novelist, poet, short story writer and film and book blogger. She has studied Creative Writing and Vampirology. 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:


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

The sequel, ‘THIRTEEN STOPS LATER,’ is out now from Poolbeg Books:




‘In a South American prison, life is cheap but sex is cheaper…’

Not to be confused with the animal exploitation film, BEAR BEHIND BARS (relax, there’s no such thing; I made it up!), this is a sexploitation flick of the ‘women in prison’ genre. It was banned by the British Board of Film Classification in 1994, though that’s since been reversed, I do believe.

There’s no excuse for anyone to be watching this film, really, except that it’s chock-a-block with female nudity, lesbianism and simulated sex, both heterosexual and same-sex. No gay men though, only heaps and heaps of lesbians!

The scenes of nudity and sex are threaded together loosely by a thin plot involving a sadistic female prison warden, a prostitution ring and an escape attempt, but don’t worry! I promise you that nothing as tiresome as a plot will get in the way of the bouncing tits and jiggling asses you’ve come prepared to see.

The film is set in a women’s prison in Brazil. Conditions are disgusting and insanitary and the food is slop. The staff are all-female, all good-looking and their blouses are always falling open to reveal braless bosoms. They carry whips, which they’re not shy of using, and they like to watch the inmates showering, doing nude keep-fit in the dreaded exercise yard and getting off with each other.

The inmates are all young and beautiful with perfect, sun-tanned bodies. Nearly all of them sport the white bits round the hips and over the boobs that imply lots of bikini-clad sunbathing. They wear thin shirt-dresses and are forbidden to wear underwear because it makes it easier for them to hide contraband like weapons and drugs. Yes, easier, lol.

They all have thick dark bushes of pubic hair because women still had pubes back then. They weren’t ashamed of them because everyone had them. It’s only the modern era that has taught women that hair anywhere but on your head is a bad thing and must be immediately decimated.

There’s absolutely no privacy for toileting or bathing in the prison; everyone has to muck in together and, if you saw the state of the place, you’d agree with me that ‘muck’ was really the operative word.

The ice-blonde, alcoholic aristocratic female head warden, Sylvia, likes to get down and dirty with the new inmates. She also likes whipping them and inventing sadistic tortures for them, and she sells some of the choicest plums in the prison- by which I mean the girls- to rich millionaires as sex slaves with no future. Inmates are often ‘accidentally’ whipped to death and must be buried, with all records, in the already overcrowded prison cemetery…

The prison nurse, Barbara, is a Marilyn Monroe lookalike and soundalike. ‘I simply adore raspberry pudding,’ she says in a breathy, baby-voice while gorging from what we’re supposed to think looks like a carton of spunk, for crying out loud!

She hasn’t a clue how to take someone’s blood pressure but she knows how to check a pussy or a crack for a knife, a razor-blade or a bag of weed, and also how to take sexual advantage of a nubile young newbie who’s far from home and crying out for a bit of comfort.

There’s male-female sex in the film too, in the form of an hilarious encounter between a prison officer and a dark, hairy, heavily-moustached local man who comes to the prison to deliver a consignment of brooms, of all things.

He grabs the prison officer’s breasts from behind while she’s ticking off figures on a list, and the next thing you know, she’s having wild, uninhibited nudie sex on the prison store-room floor with her exceptionally hirsute, sad-faced middle-aged Romeo.

Together they enact pretty much every position from the Kama Sutra, including the very hairy one known as sixty-nine. When her lugubrious Lothario eventually takes his leave, he wishes the prison officer he’s just royally shafted ‘a Merry Christmas to you,’ and she does the same. Funny isn’t the word…!

There are a lot of scenes showing derelict and dilapidated shanty towns and the most abject Brazilian poverty in the bits where some prisoners manage to escape and see a bit of the countryside around the prison, but I’m not convinced that any real attempt at social commentary is intended here.

I forgot to mention that here, the ‘screws’ or prison guards have sex with the inmates too. There’s one mad scene where a gasping, half-naked ‘screw’ is standing splay-legged and orgasmic outside a locked cell while hands come out of the cell’s food hatch to manhandle her pussy and breasts.

Still, it’s not as mad as the scene where someone’s carved a perfectly acceptable, if oversized, knob, to use as a dildo, out of an actual pineapple! Still, it makes a change from the whole prison having to share the only other dildo all the time, taking turns and then passing it from cell to cell on a string…

They’re all mad in this prison, if you ask me, sex-mad, and, if you’re planning to watch this silly, filthy movie, then you’d damn well better be sex-mad too, that’s all I’m saying…!


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 STORY SO FAR. 06/02/2021.

Well, here we are again, and about time too! Some of my readers might remember that I was obliged to abandon Anna and her Count Dracula to their own devices for a bit in December 2019, in order to concentrate on my romantic trilogy, THIRTEEN STOPS.

The first book, THIRTEEN STOPS, came out in June 2020, just as the first COVID-19 Lockdown was coming to an end. THIRTEEN STOPS LATER, the sequel, will be out sometime this Spring.

I never thought I’d be away from my beloved Anna and her Count for as long as a year (and what a year it’s been!), so now, even though I’m still up to my tonsils writing Book Four of the trilogy (yes, yes, I know what a trilogy is, lol!), I’m coming back to them and I hope they’re as happy to see me as I surely am to see them.

But you’ll need catching up after so much time has passed! How far into Book Five did we get? Well, Dracula is still resident in his isolated stone castle on top of a rock in the Carpathian Mountains, and with him reside the following;

His wife Anna, and their two children, Lucrezia and Baby Vlad; his cousin and childhood sweetheart, Carmilla Karnstein, and Carmilla’s handsome grown-up son Darius, who is currently engaged in having as much sex as he can with Dracula’s four ravishing sisters, Samara, Salome, Schira and Sabine.

Dracula’s widowed mother Ursula is by no means past her sell-by date. She has plenty to occupy herself sexually with at the moment, having full ownership of the lovely sisters Un-dead Lysette and Eveline Karsch and their Un-dead academic father Bruno. How can she wring the maximum amusement from the newly-reunited little family?

English honeymooners Edward and Vanessa Wintergreen haven’t been seen by the local villagers since they accepted an invitation to dine at Dracula’s Castle. That’s because Edward has been brutally murdered by Cousin Carmilla, and his shy, virginal wife Vanessa is now Dracula’s mistress, locked away somewhere in the castle where (he hopes!) neither a jealous Carmilla nor an even more jealous Anna can get at her.

Dracula is not remotely concerned as to any possible consequences of his murderous actions, but in London as we speak, one Jeremy Wintergreen, younger brother of Edward Wintergreen, is preparing to leave for Eastern Europe to attempt to find out what fate has befallen his newly-married brother and his young bride Vanessa, who haven’t been in touch with him by mail for weeks. Will he manage to ruffle Dracula’s feathers even slightly in the search for his brother, or will Dracula get to him first…? Only time will tell, dear readers!

Also resident in the castle is Dracula’s older brother Nikolai, who fiercely resents Dracula’s seniority over him in the scheme of things and would absolutely love to depose him in some way, preferably one that involves the most possible pain and discomfort to poor old Dracula. Think THE GODFATHER, if you will; he’s the Fredo of the operation! Nikolai’s mistress is Zena, by the way.

Valeria is Anna’s devoted personal maid and a former Chief Handmaiden of Dracula’s, Paloma and Persephone are the children’s nannies, and the castle is, of course, full of Dracula’s beautiful nude handmaidens who wait nightly for their Count to come to them, so that they can fulfil his deepest, darkest sexual desires while he flays the skin from their perfect bodies with his favourite whip.

Igor the huncback is Dracula’s bodyguard and go-fer, as in, Oi, Igor! Will you go-fer a beautiful young village girl for me at once and bring her back here post-haste? Igor knows where the bodies are buried, believe me…! Desdemona is his mistress.

Meanwhile, down in the village that lives permanently in the shadow of the castle, Magdalena the barmaid sleeps with both father and son in Ivor’s Tavern. Leon the son is a fine figure of a man who can satisfy even the insatiable Maggie’s sexual desires, while Ivor the tavern-owner can give her the security she’s lacked all her life. How long can she keep playing one off against the other, though?

Count Dracula still has unfinished business, you might recall, with a certain Miss Atalanta Pomeroy, the art mistress from Miss Peabody’s Exclusive Academy for the Education of the Daughters of Gentlefolks, which Miss Peabody was misinformed enough to establish in the midst of the Carpathian Mountains, but, hey, she was left the building as a legacy, what would YOU do with it, if not establish an exclusive girls’ school for sexy rich minxes in the middle of nowhere? And somewhere where the Count can pick them off one by one as well, just like shooting fish in a barrel…!

Anyway, are we all caught up now? We’re going on to Chapter Twenty-One in Book Five, in which Anna mourns the deterioration of her relationship with the Count since he found out she slept with his son with Carmilla, Darius, during her second pregnancy. Well, what does she expect? A man has his pride…!

So read on, dear vampire fans, and enjoy, safe in the knowledge that, whatever else happens, we’ll stay with the story now till it reaches a natural climax. Or an unnatural one…



‘Is he coming?’ said Anna, her heart pounding with the anticipation.

Valeria shook her head. “No sign yet. Go back to your dressing-table, mistress, and we’ll continue on with your hair.’

‘Are you sure he received my note?’ Anna looked distraught, and Valeria eased her down onto the dressing-table chair by one bare shoulder as she nodded and said: ‘I delivered it into Lilith’s hands myself, mistress.’

‘Lilith!’ Anna almost spat the name out, like the pips of a grape. ‘She hates me! I will lay wager with you that she will destroy my missive and not let him see as much as a corner of it!’

Valeria sighed. She loved Anna to bits, but her endless speculation about her husband the Count’s whereabouts and motivations and the motivations of everyone around him could be tiring at times.

‘Lilith doesn’t hate you, mistress,’ she said, lifting up the silver-backed hairbrush and continuing to brush Anna’s long golden hair, which she’d been doing before Anna had sent her to the bedroom door once more to see if she could spy the Count, en route to his wife’s bedchamber.

‘All those handmaidens hate me, Valeria! They all want to be in my place, married to Dracula and bearing him his children. Every single one of them would usurp me if she could, and well you know it!’

Valeria couldn’t deny it. Though the handmaidens were merely Dracula’s lowly naked sex slaves, it was in their nature to be always pushing themselves forward, trying to single themselves out in the Count’s mind for his special attentions. Whores they were, and sly with it, and Lilith was more sly than most. Anna was probably right to mistrust her.

Anna stared at her reflection in the mirror while Valeria began to painstakingly thread dozens of jewelled stars on the finest of gold chains through her blonde hair. She frequently fretted that her looks might be going and had to remind herself sternly that she was no longer a mortal woman, but a vampire, like Dracula and his harem. Her looks would never go.

She picked up a powder puff and began idly patting her ample cleavage with it. Her breasts looked huge and pale in the low-cut, pale blue sleeveless gown she wore. Hopefully Dracula would think so too, and tear the fragile, flimsy fabric from her body before making savage love to her.

As was usual when she was expecting him, she wore no undergarments. She remembered her wedding night with the Count in Birney Castle in England many, oh, so many moons ago now, when Valeria had informed her gravely that nothing, no garment, however fine or flimsy, must ever come between Anna and the master. And nothing ever had come between them, unless you counted Darius, the bastard son of Dracula’s cousin Carmilla…!

Anna shuddered and forced her mind off the subject of Darius and his hateful mother. Maybe one day she’d knock that scheming, manipulative bitch Carmilla into the middle of the last century where she belonged, but now was not the time. Carmilla was as deadly dangerous as a poisonous snake. It would take a lot of cunning on Anna’s part to depose her beautiful, violet-eyed rival.

The door slammed open and Count Dracula stood framed in the doorway, impossibly tall, well-groomed and swathed in his black cloak with the heavy silver clasp of ancient silver.

His dark hair, still only slightly greying at the temples, had been slicked back with a damp comb and, despite the fact that he shaved religiously every evening upon waking, his powerful jaw was already darkened with stubble, such was his overwhelming masculinity.

‘You requested my presence, my dear Madame?’ he said sarcastically before entering the room and making Anna what seemed almost like a parody of a deep courtly bow. ‘Leave us!’ he shot out of the side of his mouth at Valeria, who bowed respectfully back and instantly fled the room.

Anna slipped off the dressing-table chair and ran to him, clutching the folds of his cape tightly between her fingers, as tightly as if she would never let him go.

‘Where have you been?’ she cried, looking up into his handsome face as if expecting to see answers written there. ‘I’ve not seen you in weeks! Have you been with her? With Carmilla?’

The Count sighed and began to disrobe, tossing first his cloak and then his dark frock-coat onto the armchair beside his side of the bed.

‘I’ve been busy. On business. Pray don’t ask me a barrage of questions, not if you want me to stay.’

Anna’s full lower lip trembled mutinously, but she managed to hold her tongue. He grinned, knowing what it cost her- cost any woman- to stay silent under duress. A half-dressed Dracula then sat with her on the edge of the huge four-poster bed and took her in his arms.

His kiss left her light-headed, and she swooned back onto the bed while he divested first himself and then his wife of their garments. She wept with impending gratitude when her eyes beheld his massive male organ, fully erect now.

‘Oh, Dracula, make love to me, please, I beg you! I need you so much!’

‘Why else d’you think I’ve come here, wench?’ he teased. ‘To seek your assistance in doing my tax returns?’ He spread her thighs and plunged deep inside her, making her cry out loud with the intensity of his thrust. ‘I think not.’

Afterwards, they lay entwined together in a tangle of sweaty limbs. Anna put her hand on his chest, heaving with the aftermath of their lust, and gazed adoringly up at his face. His closed, heavy-lidded eyes were thickly fringed with the long dark lashes that were the only feminine thing about him.

Oh Dracula, how I love you, and now, because of what I mistakenly did with Darius, I dare not even tell you how much for fear that you might scorn me! Instead, she said shyly: ‘I haven’t been whipped properly in an age, Master.’

He scratched an armpit and yawned loudly. ‘Hmmm? What’s that? Haven’t I ordered Valeria to whip you nightly in my absence?’

‘It’s not the same, Master. It’s not the same at all!’

‘Fetch me my whip then, you little hussy, and I’ll see what I can do to rectify this deplorable situation.’

Anna, unable to keep from smiling all over her face, scurried to the whip cupboard in the corner of the room and fetched his favourite whip, his preferred instrument of punishment when it came to beating her.

She thanked her lucky stars that his interest in disciplining her hadn’t waned an iota. That was good. As long as he still wanted to do that, and make love to her beforehand as well, there was a chance for them.


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.




‘Beautiful, haunting erotic love and an absolutely terrifying ghost story.’

The New York Times Book Review.

A Book-of-the-Month Club Main Selection.

At the time of writing this book review, I haven’t actually seen the 1988 film that was made from the book, but reading the film’s entry on Wikipedia certainly helped to clarify a few things that were left unexplained in the book, lol.

Not that I didn’t enjoy reading the book. Quite the contrary. I loved reading it. It gave me something to look forward to on those cold dark January nights just gone. It was a fantastic read right up until the last thirty-five pages or so, after which things became positively baffling and I admit I was disappointed by the ending, because I felt that the mystery surrounding Käthe, the joint lead character, hadn’t been resolved at all.

The book is an erotic mystery/suspense novel, written by the guy who wrote WATERSHIP DOWN. You know, the anthropomorphic rabbits? ‘Bright eyes, burning like fire…?’ Song made everybody cry? Ah, you know it. Well, this sexy, bordering-on-pornographic oeuvre was a bit of a change of pace from the poor wee bunnies. It’d really make you wonder how you’d go on to write one after the other…!

Anyway, the book is the story of Alan Desland, a quiet young intellectual Englishman who has made himself an expert in pottery and ceramics after the death of his father, whose ceramics shop he’s inherited.

The cultured Alan lives quietly with his widowed mother, in the very house where he and his sister Flick, now married with a child of her own, grew up. They live in a lovely quiet country town and it sounds idyllic, except for the fact that Alan hasn’t met the right woman yet and he’s starting to wonder if he ever will…

He stops wondering when he meets Käthe, a beautiful, mysterious young German secretary, on a ceramics-related trip to Copenhagen. Without knowing the first thing about the girl (indeed, he never really does), he falls head-over-heels in love with her and proposes marriage to her.

They get married and honeymoon in Florida, on the suggestion and offer of free accommodation from a business acquaintance of Alan’s. Then they come home to England, and straightaway Käthe is a huge success with Alan’s friends and family and even the women who work in his pottery shop.

Käthe really is the perfect wife. She’s a superb cook, she knows how to save Alan a few pennies here and there on the housekeeping, she becomes knowledgeable about ceramics and even acquires for a gobsmacked Alan the pottery find of a century (The Girl In A Swing), although to call it the find of several centuries might be nearer to the mark.

And the sex! My God, the sex. Alan goes from being impotent with her to becoming almost like one of his creator’s anthropomorphic bunny rabbits, rutting with his lovely young wife all the livelong day and night. They even have sex on the kitchen table once, while a whole roomful of acquaintances and friends wait for them just next door in the sitting-room. The dirty beasts!

Alan comes home from somewhere once to find Käthe naked as a jaybird and ready for loving on the swing in the back garden. Naturally he obliges her, and, when she wants them to have sex on the public beach as well one day, he obliges her in that too, the lovesick fool. (Their simple garden swing becomes the ‘sex swing’ of Joey Tribiani’s dreams in sitcom FRIENDS, lol!)

You know the word, uxorious, right? As in having or showing an excessive fondness for one’s wife? Well, that’s Alan Desland for you. As Käthe is unlike anyone he’s ever known before, and possesses a deeply ingrained sexuality that entraps, enslaves and enchants him, she quickly becomes the thing he cares about most in the world, maybe even more than his precious ceramic figurines.

But some things are happening around the young couple which give Alan no slight cause for concern, and which seem to be connected with Käthe in some way. There’s the sound of rushing water in the night, with no visible source for the noise. There’s the sighting of a corpse on a Florida river-bed, and the morphing of a seemingly harmless green cushion into a stuffed green tortoise toy for some reason…

Then there’s the sound of a child crying in the garden, but, if she’s only in the garden, why can’t Alan find her? Whose is the big black dog on the heath, and why is he hostile to Alan but not to Käthe? What’s Mrs. Taswell got to do with the price of fish? And why does she put me in mind of Billie Whitelaw as Mrs. Baylock in DAMIEN: THE OMEN (1975)?

Then there are all the dreams of drownings and drowned people, and then comes a night of such horror in Alan’s childhood home that he doesn’t demur when his distraught missus begs him to take her away from their house and bring her to… the sea, of all places. But, what with all the water-based ill omens that have been plaguing Alan so far, what on earth makes him think that the sea is a safe place to which to bring Käthe…?

The book falls apart at this point. Nothing makes sense any more. There’s a REBECCA-style inquest and a shame-faced confession of nudie seaside lovemaking but nothing that explains the dog, Mrs. Taswell or the dreadful night of terror in the house.

As I said, I probably learned more from reading the film’s Wikipedia entry than I did by reading the end of the book. I’d read 325 pages looking for a pay-off that never really came, which was immensely disappointing.

One minute, I’m reading what I feel might be a genuinely spooky piece of folk horror set in a breath-taking countryside location (the countryside is a surprisingly fabulous setting for a good horror story!), and the next, kablam-o…!

Still, the first 325 pages were spellbinding and breath-taking, and you should still read the book if ever you come across it. So long as you know that the end is confusing and doesn’t really explain much.

And that The Girl In A Swing is a real group of porcelain figurines, which lends a good deal of authenticity to the plot of the book. Unfortunately, it’s not authenticity it needs, but some clarity as to what really happens in the end. Oh well. Win some, lose some. It’s all grist for the mill at the end of the day. Happy Swinging…!


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.






‘Michael Armstrong is creating history by being the first film-maker to publish his entire screenwriting output. With the original uncut screenplays in print for the first time ever and peppered with a mixture of wildly entertaining anecdotes, astounding behind-the-scenes revelations, creative and educational insights and brutal ‘no holds barred’ honesty, these books are guaranteed to provide a completely new kind of reading experience while offering a unique insight into the movie industry. Starting from his first professional screenplay written in 1960 when he was only fifteen and which he subsequently directed in 1968, the books will ultimately encompass a career that has spanned over fifty years. The books will include not only those screenplays which made it onto a cinema screen but, for the first time ever, all those that didn’t- and the reasons why…’



VOICE: Emergency. Which service do you require?

Miss Friggin, an elderly lady: Police. There’s a sex maniac outside.

I remember once watching a brilliant old film of Buster Keaton’s, in which Buster’s character goes out one day to play a nice relaxing game of golf and ends up on the gallows, about to be hanged.

I forget the name of this film but, if you read the film-script book of Michael Armstrong’s hilarious sex comedy, ADVENTURES OF A PRIVATE EYE, like I just have, you’ll probably be able to work out why I connected the two oeuvres in my mind…

Derek: How anyone can turn a simple visit to a police station into a low-budget British sex comedy, I do not know …!

We first meet the titular private dick, Bob West, after he’s just delivered what used to be known as a jolly good seeing-to to a married woman, Gretchen Prentiss, whose husband’s out working nights.

Milkman: Morning, Mr. Prentiss. You’re up early?

Mr. Prentiss: Up early? I’m on nights this week.

Milkman: I bet the wife doesn’t like that?

Mr. Prentiss: Doesn’t seem to bother her.

Well, now we know why, lol. Why would she be lonely when she has Bob West, private dick, to keep her company? Although, to be brutally honest, Bob is not so much a private dick as the assistant to a private dick.

His boss, Judd Blake, is the one who really gets all the perks, the life of luxury and excitement … cocktails in St. Moritz, intrigue in Morocco, South of France on the yacht then straight off in a private jet to some dangerous assignment in South America or Tangiers …

Bob is understandably jealous of his suave, sophisticated boss. He works his way through secretaries like a chain-smoker. Judd Blake is handsome, debonair, middle-aged, elegant and vain, and, boy, doesn’t he know it.

Judd to the gauche, socially awkward Bob: Think yourself lucky you’re working for the biggest dick in the business. That says it all … But then one fine day, Judd and his latest secretary sweetie go away for a bit and Bob is unexpectedly left holding the reins.

Judd: Cases, Robert … cases.

Bob’s face instantly lights up.

Bob: Do you want me to handle them while you’re away?

Judd: No. I want you to take them down to the car.

The screenplay is chock-full of hilarious lines like that. Judd is adamant that Bob keeps his nose out of any ‘cases’ which may arise. He’s to hold the fort and take messages and that’s about it. But Bob has other ideas, especially when a gorgeous broad called Laura Sutton comes in to the office looking for help and mistakes Bob for his boss. Laura is a real hot tamale.

Laura: Let me explain. I used to be a professional model- fashion model. To be honest, I lived a pretty wild life, Mr. Blake … Until I met Ashley … Ashley Dotrice. It was love at first sight. The fact that he was eighty-seven and a multi-millionaire with a bad heart condition had nothing to do with it, naturally.

Oh, naturally. You can’t argue with love at first sight. Laura has a little problem, however. A nasty rotten anonymous blackmailer is threatening to scupper her lovely plans to inherit the now deceased Mr. Dotrice’s massive estate.

Will Mr. Blake please help her to see off the blackmailer so she can inherit her ancient lover’s millions without having to keep looking over her elegant shoulder? Bob, now cast ineluctably in the role of Judd Blake, Private Eye, eagerly agrees to help the stunning model in distress …

Laura invites Bob (still thinking he’s Judd Blake, his boss) down to Ashley’s rural seat, the rather sinister-sounding Grimsdyke Manor, to see what’s what. The house is chock-a-block with relatives and aged retainers.

There’s Craddock, the rusty old butler, and Zelda, the busty maid. There are Ashley’s two daughters: Medea, a tall, exotically attired woman with green hair who fancies herself as a bit of a psychic (I see the mark of death upon you), and Violet, step-mother to the well-endowed Clarissa and wife to spanking enthusiast Sydney Burke.

Violet: … We have a lovely house in Esher. Sydney built it. He’s a building contractor. Remember that block of flats that fell down last year? That was one of his.

So much for Sydney …! Anyway, Bob is determined to uncover the identity of Laura’s dastardly blackmailer and prove himself as big a dick as Judd Blake any day. Even if he has to bonk, screw, roger, diddle, fiddle, poke, pork, fondle, caress, ride, bump and grind, hump or jump the bones (did I leave any out?) of every female from Land’s End to John o’ Groats to do it. Well, or thereabouts …!

Sally, a desperate housewife: Then there’s the dustman. We’ve been working our way through ‘Emmanuelle’ in the mornings, then into the high-heeled boots and Gestapo uniform for a quick bit of ‘The Night Porter’ with the window cleaner. It helps liven up the day.

I’ll say it does. And then there’s Jane: Tell me, is it getting harder? Ahem. And as for Little Willy: Another man came and jumped up and down on Mummy last week. I’ll bet he did …!

The humping and jumping of bones Bob can do with one hand tied behind his back. But I doubt if he was prepared for his lovely, farcical sex comedy of errors and mistaken identity to turn into a proper, Agatha Christie-style murder mystery along the way:

Bob: What about the police? I mean, you can’t just go around the place hiding dead bodies when you feel like it. There’s laws about that sort of thing.

Laura: Nobody need know. There’s an old chalk quarry only a few miles from here. He wouldn’t be discovered for days.

Well, well, well. The plot definitely thickens. Bob’s time as Judd comes to an hilarious climax in a spot of cross-dressing:

Stage Manager: I thought we were only booking four girls? Who’s the big ugly one in the middle?

Who indeed? I’ll give you three guesses. By the way, here’s a riddle for y’all. Why did the private dick stab himself in the balls with a fork? Because it’s in the plot, that’s why, silly!

ADVENTURES OF A PRIVATE EYE was filmed in 1976 with two of my absolute favourite actresses of the period, the fabulous Diana Dors and Suzy Kendall, in the cast-list. Harry H. Corbett from STEPTOE AND SON also starred, as Sydney the Spanker. The film script book, along with Michael’s other beautiful film books, are all available to buy now from the following links:



I’ll give internationally famous superstar Lisa Moroni the last word:

‘You know, ever since I was a little girl- you know? I’ve had secret fantasies about dicks.’

Haven’t we all, Lisa lovey, haven’t we all … ?


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




‘The most sexually perverse movie to hit our screens since David Cronenberg’s CRASH.’

Daily Record.

I don’t know about ‘sexually perverse,’ but this Korean film is certainly what I would describe as an ‘ouch-y’ type of a movie. There are at least two major ‘ouch’ moments in the film, each involving fish-hooks (yes, fish-hooks!) that I personally could have done without.

Apart from these squeamish-making scenes, and the scenes of animal cruelty in it as well,THE ISLE is a really rather good, starkly beautiful film about the folks whom society throws away; prostitutes, their pimps, people who feel isolated and the people who put themselves outside the law by committing maybe a one-off crime, as in the case of the film’s male lead, a criminal on the run from the law.

It’s the story of a stunningly beautiful mute woman called Hee-Jin, who runs what is known as a ‘fishing isle.’ Men come and stay at the gorgeous picturesque lake for a few days at a time in order to avail of the lake’s excellent fishing and take a break from the rat-race for a bit.

They stay in structures that each look like a child’s wendy house or play-tent on top of a raft. The tiny ‘houses’ are not big enough for a man to stand up in, but he can sleep in them, and also use them to shelter against the rain if needs be. The ‘toilet’ is merely a hatch leading to a hole in the bottom of the raft: lift up the hatch and do your business in the lake. It’d put me off swimming in the lake, that’s for damn sure.

Hee-Jin rows out to the little fishing ‘houses’ with bait for the fishermen, and coffee and food as well. They’re all sexist pigs who try to get their ravishing ‘landlady’ to speak, but she just flat-out ignores their bullshit. She’s not only supplying them with the necessities of life and fishing, however.

The most expensive commodity with which the fishermen are provided is, well, sex. Teenage prostitutes are rowed out to the fishing houses by Hee-Jin, whenever the men require them. The girls have a pimp, but to all intents and purposes, Hee-Jin is their madam, although she has sex with the clients herself when required.

The girls cut tragic figures, with their skinny legs and tiny feet in their huge clunky hooker shoes, the miniscule outfits and garish make-up of their trade. They act so blasé and know-it-all, but underneath all the bluster and bravado, they’re just children. It’s heartbreaking, really, to see them being pawed and mauled and even abused by the disgusting, much older businessmen who have rented the fishing houses.

A problem arises when one of the little baby hookers develops a crush on Hyun-shik, the criminal on the run with whom Hee-Jin, mistress of the fishing isle, has fallen in love, or in her version of love, anyway.

Both Hee-Jin and Hyun-sik have a very skewed take on love. Their affair is violent, masochistic and probably very unhealthy by so-called ‘normal’ standards. It seems to be the case that they’re almost vying with each other to see who can physically hurt themselves the most, usually with the dreaded fish-hooks.

Hee-Jin is a woman to whom violence comes easily. She swims like a fish and is eerily and supernaturally mermaid-like in the way in which she silently manipulates the residents of the fishing isle and the prostitutes and pimps who frequent the area also. I don’t fancy the chances of the little baby hooker who falls for Hyun-sik, the man whom the damaged-beyond-repair Hee-Jin has marked down for herself…

The film is visually gorgeous to look at. The isolated lake in the rain, the lonely fishing houses in the sunlight, the solitary Hee-Jin as she sits with her dog watching the rain fall on her little domain; it’s all haunting, compelling beyond words. The isolation of the undoubtedly fabulous surroundings mirrors exactly the alienation of the protagonists. Watch the film with your legs tightly closed and your hand clamped firmly over your mouth. Why? I have only one word for you people… fish-hooks. Or is that really two words…?


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:





Okay, peeps, so let’s get on with the list we were working on of all the things that characterised my own personal lockdown of 2020; I believe we were up to number twelve?

12. Sport: sport was bloody everywhere in the lockdown. Now, I hate all sports, except for the one that has Cristiano Ronaldo in it, and I would have loved a sports-free three or four months, but no such luck. Irish people are obsessed with bloody sports. A mere lockdown wasn’t going to stop them getting their daily fix. Give us this day our daily sports…

First, the sports news on the news bulletins we watched daily told us of all the sporting events that were being cancelled one by one as the lockdown (and the coronavirus) took hold. Then, they told us how all the sporting organisations, teams and individual personalities were coping with the cancellation of their various sporting events. Well, negatively, one would assume…!

Then a series of whimsical sports news items began to permeate, not only the sports news, but the main news as well. A load of mad sports people were running marathons in their gardens, completing triathlons in their gardens, building swimming pools in their gardens and raising money for charity by doing mad sporty things, you guessed it, in their gardens.

And it looked like RTÉ and TV3 were all filming the same garden every time, as well. Oh look, it’s the studio garden, we’d say sarcastically when it came on the news, yet again, as part of an ‘inspiring’ or ‘heart-warming’ little end piece to finish on. I was really starting to hate these cheese-fest pieces with all my heart, I can tell you that for nothing. They were so sweetly optimistic and hopeful that they made me grind my teeth in reaction. Bah humbug, much?

Then the sports news people engaged in endless speculation as to when the various sporting fixtures might be allowed to resume/continue/pick up where they left off, etc. Would the various sports be able to socially distance their participants and any spectators?

Would spectators be banned, at least for a while? How much money had been lost on horse-racing so far this year, and should all players of every sport be tested for the virus before being permitted to take part in their sport of choice? How long would it be before I threw myself off a cliff out of sheer desperation? It was just endless, the speculation. But worse was to come.

Then, the sports fixtures/tournaments, etc. started to come back. Oh God. A different one back every day, with Irish television focusing on the GAA (Gaelic Athletic Association) as usual. One cannot underestimate the importance of our national sports body to the Irish public.

Our entire government could collectively mince down the street, each TD dressed as a wealthy dowager twirling a parasol and peering over the top of a lorgnette, and the headlines would still be about whether or not the GAA would be able to go ahead with a certain fixture. I’d ban all sports if it were up to me, except for the one with the men in the little shorts chasing the ball. That one can stay.

13. And now let’s talk about Le Sexe. Due to the two kilometre travel restrictions in operation, a lot of single people didn’t- couldn’t- have any sex during the lockdown, and a new phrase was born… quarantine-horny.

Were you quarantine-horny during the lockdown, because your sex buddy lived further away from you than the two kilometres? And then, when the two kilometres was increased to five kilometres, were you quarantine-horny because your sex buddy lived further away from you than the five kilometres? Did you live in hope of having the travel restrictions reduced so you could get your leg over?

The travel restrictions have indeed since been relaxed to twenty kilometres. If your sex-buddy lives further away from you than these twenty kilometres, then you, my friend, if you’ll excuse my French, are truly fucked, lol. Or not, as Le Case may be.

I wonder about those couples, though, who were self-isolating together or just stuck at home together for the ten or twelve weeks. I have some questions. Did they pass the time by copulating like rabbits non-stop? Will there be a baby boom in nine months time?

Did they wear masks when they did it, or did they do it from behind to minimise the risk of any infection spreading from mouth-to-mouth? Did people forget about STDs while worrying about coronavirus, or did they still remember to wear condoms?

I saw couples holding hands together and kissing on the streets during the lockdown. If this is what they do in public, I doubt very much whether they practise abstinence behind closed doors. Is the time right for the people of Ireland to rediscover sex and their sex buddies, or do we still need to stay at least two metres apart for the foreseeable future? I don’t know any man who could manage it from two metres away, heh-heh-heh. I truly wish I did, but I don’t. I think we might need some governmental input on this one. Guidelines, please…!

14. Getting in touch with old friends, because hearing about all the deaths on the news made you wonder if they were safe.

15. Seeing the Guards in their hi-viz jackets everywhere we went during the pandemic was hugely comforting. I liked that they had the power to tell gobshites who didn’t think the travel restrictions applied to them to turn the car right around and go the feck home. I forget some of the details of this particular story, but remember the guy who drove from one county to the other at the height of the pandemic to pick up a trampoline? Behold, I give you your Number One Gobshite…

16. Online shopping, because what other kind was there…? It’s my poor card that’s on a bleedin’ ventilator now.

17. It’s probably the first time in the history of the Universe that the whole world is experiencing the same thing at the same time. This aspect of the pandemic is so weird. We all went into lockdown more or less together, we endured the fear and the difficulties and the isolation of it all together, and now we’re all coming out of it together, give or take a few weeks. It’s a shame that it took a global pandemic to bring us together in the first place, but everything happens for a reason. Now that we’ve all connected with each other, I really do hope we stay that way.

18. Streets as quiet as Christmas Eve night every night, because, with the pubs and clubs and restaurants all shut, no-one had any reason to come into town after dinner.

19. Newsreaders saying ‘A Saint Patrick’s Day like no other;’ ‘A Mother’s Day like no other;’ ‘An Easter Sunday like no other;’ ‘A May Bank Holiday like no other,’ followed by depressing shots of an empty Grafton Street, Dublin’s main shopping street. All right, we get it! We’re living in strange times. No need to hammer it home…

20. Seeing more of your neighbours than ever before (not necessarily a good thing), because everyone’s either furloughed or working from home.

21. We became really attached to the Angelus during the lockdown. This is a religious thing; the Catholic religion, to be precise. It’s basically just one minute of church bells ringing out on RTÉ ONE television at 6 o’clock every evening, just before the Six-One News, the main news bulletin of the day for most people.

You’re meant to use the time for private reflection as you watch the images provided, often of older people working at various crafts that are dying out in these modern times. It always comforts me to know that probably half the country is watching these self-same images right alongside me at the exact same time.

At the weekend during the crisis, RTÉ ONE would put on a little programme called ‘IRELAND REMEMBERS’ as well. To the accompaniment of a very sad, dirge-like music and a background of images of people laying wreaths in our Garden of Remembrance, photos of people who had died of COVID-19 would appear on the screen.

Mostly these people would be elderly, but some were quite young, and it was not at all unusual to find me in floods of tears at the terrible waste/loss of all of these vibrant lives, young or old, by the end of the piece.

22. Finally, there’s my book. My debut novel, THIRTEEN STOPS, published by Poolbeg Books, was supposed to hit the shops in physical form this July. That’s not now happening, thanks to the fact that some of the shops here are still shut, and a load of other books that were meant to come out during the pandemic are now coming out ahead of mine, so mine will have to wait a bit.

The e-book is out for now, though (the link is below), to keep us all going, and the book is available for Print-On-Demand from Amazon if you’d like an actual print copy. Thanks to anyone who’s bought it so far (that’s a huge help, lol), and thanks for following the progress of this mini-memoir too. We’ve reached the end of our memoir, but not, I hope, of our association. May that be long and happy. https://www.amazon.com/Thirteen-Stops-Sandra-Harris-ebook/dp/B089DJMH64


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:









Wow. I watched this vintage British television series over the May Bank Holiday this year and it practically fogged up the screen with the smouldering sexuality. I believe it was the critic Clive James who said of it that, by the end, everyone in it except for the baby had slept with everyone else, a pretty accurate assessment, if you ask me.

Not that you see any nudity or actual sex happening on screen, but you see the before bits and the after bits and it all leaves you with the distinct impression that you’ve actually seen the middley bits too, if you know what I mean.

It’s a family saga with lust, physical violence and forbidden desires simmering away under the surface, with a generous dollop of guilt, remorse and consequences thrown in for good measure, just in case any of the characters should be seen to be enjoying the deliciously illicit sex too much…!

Frank Finlay does a phenomenal job as grey-haired paterfamilias Peter Eliot Manson, a wealthy publisher with the ‘perfect’ family: Cassie, his lovely wife, who’s devoted the best years of her life to supporting Peter and bringing up her family (but she has her secrets too); their twin sons of about ten whom we hardly ever see, because they’re ‘away at school;’ and a beautiful, spoiled adult daughter called Prue…

The series was mired in controversy on its release because of the overtones (never mind the undertones!) of incestuous desire between Peter and his daughter. They’ve never actually slept together, as far as we know, but Peter is head over heels in love with the flirty, mischievous, shit-stirring Prue who, all her life, has always gotten exactly what she wanted from both parents. Now she’s as manipulative and dangerous as any other spoiled child to whom no-one’s ever said the word ‘no…’

Peter is sick with jealousy that Prue, a university student (for all the work we ever see her do…!), has met and married an attractive but independent-minded fellow student, an American chap called Gavin Sorenson.

Gavin’s had the exact opposite upbringing to Prue and therefore has no problem in calling her out when she’s out of line. Prue is having Gavin’s baby now too, and Peter wants to kill Gavin for sullying the virginal body of his beautiful perfect daughter. It’s all very uncomfortable, albeit thrilling, to watch…

Into Peter’s complicated life (and office) then comes his new secretary, Sarah Francis. Sarah is one of those independent working girls who shares a house with other girls, the kind where there are always knickers and tights hanging in the bathroom to dry. Her house-mate Annabel is rich and a walking bitch, just thought I’d mention it!

Anyway, Sarah doesn’t come from a rich, privileged family. In fact, she hails from quite a dysfunctional one and she’s never been able to depend on them for anything. She has to fight for her place in the world. She has two lovers, the impoverished artist Simon and the handsome son of a rich businessman, Geoff, and she can’t decide between either of them. (Geoff would be my choice, lol.) In fact, Sarah never seems to really know what she wants in life and this could spell trouble for her down the line.

Sarah has a delicate beauty and an air almost of damaged fragility that draws her restrained, prim and proper cold fish of a boss Peter to her in his hour of need. He feels betrayed by his precious daughter, he hates Gavin’s guts and he and his wife are barely communicating.

Sarah is like a soothing balm to Peter’s many wounds. Knowing the risks, but nonetheless supremely confident that they can be the first two people in the world ever to have an affair where absolutely no-one gets hurt, not even themselves, they embark on a secret relationship. No-one gets hurt, right, because no-one ever needs to find out? Talk about famous last words…

The series was also famously controversial for its dark themes of sadomasochism, a shady subject that probably had never been openly portrayed on the screen before. Prue Manson-Sorenson has a powerful need to be knocked about by her husband Gavin, and she manipulates him into doing it by pushing him to his limits.

He needn’t respond, of course. He could of course just walk away with his hands in his pockets, but he’s such a hothead that he can’t resist getting into it with her every time. They need to be very careful, these two, especially with Prue’s being pregnant and everything. This is a dangerous game they’re playing and, if they’re not prue-dent, excuse the pun, the consequences could be deadly…

The Manson family is a hotbed of secrets, lies, terrible betrayals, sex, violence, resentment and, buried deeply somewhere underneath all that, love. The aristocratic Frank Finlay at fifty, with his cut-glass accent and meticulous dress, would put one in mind of Christopher Lee, who was only four years older.

Both men would attract you in the same way, with their same aura of stern austerity and regal command. I’m getting weak at the knees now at the thought of it all, lol. I hope to be back to you all in a few days’ time with my review of ANOTHER BOUQUET, the follow-up to the original BOUQUET, so until then, stay safe and we’ll talk again soon.


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:


You can contact Sandra at:





drac taste


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…



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.


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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