dracula costume


It is the year 1890 and Dracula and his sex-crazed entourage, having made the English village of Birney too hot to hold them, have decamped for safety to Dracula’s ancestral castle in Transylvania, home to the Draculas since time immemorial.

Accompanying him are his beautiful pregnant wife Anna, their baby daughter Lucrezia and Anna’s faithful maidservant Valeria, all the nude handmaidens and chief amongst their number, the gorgeous Glamara. Igor, the Count’s loyal Gate-keeper, and Dracula’s wickedly bewitching Cousin Carmilla, who is now the Count’s captive, are also present.

Given that the crumbling castle in darkest Transylvania is already occupied by the Count’s mother, his siblings and all of their servants, as you can imagine it looks certain to be quite the crush. Buckle your seatbelts, dear readers and fellow vampire enthusiasts. It’s gonna be a bumpy ride…

This book, as all the ‘ANNA’ books are, is dedicated to the late Sir Christopher Lee, whose performances in the HAMMER ‘Dracula’ films inspired every word of it. May he rest in peace… until he rises once more from the crypt in which he lieth…



‘I don’t like your Cousin Carmilla,’ Anna told her husband as they prepared for bed. She wore a long, fetchingly transparent nightgown that accentuated her curves and her by now hugely pregnant belly.

She sat at her dressing-table and brushed her long blonde hair until it shone like the moon that peeped through the curtainless window of the tower that housed their marital chamber. ‘I don’t like the way she was looking at me at dinner earlier.’

Dracula sighed. Continuing to disrobe and place his garments in an orderly fashion across the back of a chair, he said, without much interest: ‘What way was that, then, my sweet?’

‘Like… like she knows things I don’t. Private things, about you and her. Things I’m not privy to, apparently.’

Dracula sighed again and rolled his eyes. Why were women always so insanely curious about a man’s previous relationships? Surely anything that had occurred in a man’s past was his own damned business. Naked, he climbed into bed and said:

‘Am I being held responsible now for the way that my cousin looks at you, my dearest Anna? Surely this is a trifling matter and one for which I cannot be held accountable.’

‘You’re splitting hairs,’ said Anna, pulling back the red wine-coloured coverlet and getting into bed beside him. ‘Why won’t you tell me what went on in the past between you and her, that smirking bitch? Or what’s going on between you now? Why are you so reticent on the subject of Carmilla Karnstein?’

‘Because there’s nothing to tell,’ Dracula said, pulling her into his arms and beginning to expertly caress her big, pregnancy-swollen breasts. ‘We’re cousins. We more or less grew up together. Our families, after all, the houses of Dracula and Karnstein, have been entwined since the beginning of time.

‘Yes, there may have been something in the way of a silly teenage romance between us at one point, centuries ago, but it was a pitiful, short-lived thing, sparked no doubt by the inevitable flaring up of teenage hormones and over almost as soon as it began. The reason I don’t talk about it is because there’s literally nothing to talk about. Am I making myself clear?’ He took Anna’s hand and placed it on his semi-erect penis.

‘Then why does she still look at you as if you’re her personal property?’ Anna persisted.

Dracula groaned. ‘How the devil should I know?’

‘Is she still carrying a torch for you, maybe?’

‘If she is, then it’s her own look-out and nothing to do with me,’ Dracula said impatiently. ‘Now listen to me, woman, and listen closely. As you know, I am not in the habit of repeating myself, but I will make an exception this once.

‘There is nothing going on between myself and Carmilla. And you know, do you not, that I will have business to attend to over the next several days that will take me away from the castle? So, knowing that, do you really wish to spoil our last night together before I leave with talk of my Cousin Carmilla?’ He put his hand between her thighs and began to caress her there with firm, confident strokes.

‘I… I suppose not,’ breathed Anna, beginning to relax against him in spite of her continuing misgivings. There was something about his repeated denials of any but the most innocent of relationships with Carmilla that set Anna’s teeth on edge.

It was not that she did not trust her husband’s word. It was more that she did not trust that superior bitch Carmilla an iota. She was as treacherous as any snake in the grass and she, Anna, meant to keep A Very Close Eye on Madame Carmilla in the future. After all, it shouldn’t be difficult now the wretched woman was actually domiciled with them.

But for now, the Count was distracting her with the movements of his clever, knowing fingers between her thighs. She could feel herself becoming wet there and began thrusting her little soft pussy at his hand in her eagerness to achieve her orgasm. The Count had a mischievous streak to his character, however, and at one stage withdrew his hand and closed his eyes as if to sleep.

‘Oh, please don’t stop!’ Anna begged, taking his hand and replacing it.

‘Oh, I wasn’t aware that you were all that interested,’ he teased as he resumed the swirling, tantalisingly lazy movements of his fingers against her throbbing clitoris.

‘Oh yes, of course I’m interested, I beg you not to stop! Pray continue, Master, or I… I don’t know what I’ll do! Just, please, please don’t stop what you’re doing. Oh, I love you, Master, I love you so much!’

Her orgasmic scream was wrenched from her as she trapped his hand between her thighs and quivered from head to foot for what seemed like an age, then she fell back against him, her eyes filled with emotional tears.

He kissed her hard on the mouth, then put her hand once more on his cock. It was good and big now, and rock-hard, and the Count was ready for more than just a little finger-play, however delightfully amusing that had been.

Anna was already on her side beside him, so he positioned himself behind her and slipped his cock into her that way. He took her breasts into his hands from behind and massaged them, pinching and squeezing her nipples, causing them to stiffen and elongate most satisfactorily. He kissed and nibbled on her neck and shoulders and, when she looked back at him with a smile, he bit down hard on her neck. Soon, he was climaxing himself and Anna’s body gratefully received his issue.

‘Did that blow your cobwebs away, then?’ he said afterwards with a lascivious grin.

‘Oh yes,’ she enthused, hoping against hope that he wouldn’t get up now and leave her bedchamber in favour of Glamara’s, his chief handmaiden and, before the arrival of dear sweet Cousin Carmilla, her only real rival. ‘Will you stay the night, dear Count, please?’

‘I think I well,’ Dracula said with a comfortable yawn. ‘As long as you don’t start talking about my bloody cousin again. Get your nightgown off, for starters.’

Obediently, Anna slipped out of bed. She stood and pulled the filmy, transparent material off her body, allowing it to fall to the floor, and stood naked by the bed with the moon behind her, glinting as it peeked in the window of their tower bedroom. The Count caught his breath. She was magnificent in pregnancy, with her pearly-white skin, her deliciously pendant breasts and the long golden hair that tumbled so bewitchingly down her back.

‘Now come here,’ he ordered, indicating his penis which, having already seen action once tonight, was once more active and ready and willing for the fray. She climbed onto the bed beside him, not without some difficulty because of her increased size. ‘You know what to do, woman,’ he went on, indicating his tumescence with a slight incline of his noble dark head.

Anna smiled and mounted him, lowering herself onto him with a cry of pleasure. He was fully erect and his cock filled her lady-parts as if they had been each made for the other. She tipped her head back and let her long, glorious hair stream down her back like a waterfall of gold silk, then she cupped his swollen man-sac and began to manipulate it, much to his lustful satisfaction. Entranced by the sensuous picture she made, he reached up and took her breasts in both hands, fondling them till they hurt, and she moaned in ecstasy.

As she rode him, however, giving every outward appearance of enjoyment, her tiresome mind refused to cease pondering the subject of Carmilla, the beautiful and mysterious visitor whose connection to Dracula Anna was determined to somehow unearth. There was something between them, she knew there was, she just knew it. And she was going to find out what it was, even if she incurred the Count’s displeasure or, more likely, his all-encompassing wrath.

‘I’m coming, woman’ he said now, his bare chest heaving and his dark eyes almost black with desire.

‘I’m ready, my dearest love,’ she replied.


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:






I loved this book when I had to study it in school, just like I loved every other book of Dickens’s when I read it. Does that make me unusual, being a female person who likes Dickens and now reads him voluntarily, for pleasure, and not just because I have to answer exam questions on him? I don’t know, all I know is that I dig him. His understanding of the social mores of his day are really quite extraordinary.

Not only that though, but he’s endlessly funny as well, especially when it comes to depicting characters who have a highly inflated sense of their own importance. Characters like Mr. Bumble, the ‘porochial’ Beadle in OLIVER TWIST, which I read for Christmas this year, or Mr. Bounderby in HARD TIMES. We’ll get to him- old Bounders- in a minute, lol.

First let me introduce you to a Mr. Thomas Gradgrind, one of the leading lights not only of HARD TIMES, but also of Coketown, the grim, smog-wreathed fictional industrial town in Victorian England where the novel is set. Here’s what Dickens says about Mr. Gradgrind:

‘Thomas Gradgrind, Sir. A man of realities. A man of facts and calculations. A man who proceeds upon the principle that two and two are four and nothing over, and who is not to be talked into allowing for anything over… With a rule and a pair of scales, and the multiplication table always in his pocket, Sir, ready to weigh and measure any parcel of human nature, and tell you exactly what it comes to. It is a mere question of figures, a case of simple arithmetic. You might hope to get some other nonsensical belief into the head of George Gradgrind, or Augustus Gradgrind, or John Gradgrind, or Joseph Gradgrind (all suppositious, non-existent persons), but into the head of Thomas Gradgrind- no, Sir!’

It’s important to understand how pragmatically practical, hard, cold and fact-based is Mr. Gradgrind’s belief system, or else nothing that follows will make sense. He eschews all fun and fancy, supposition and wonder, and he brings up his two eldest children, Louisa and Tom, under the yoke of the same harsh belief system.

They may privately long for some fun and fancy, but they know better, much better than to ask for it. They would only be directed straight back to their studies of fact-based sciences and mathematics. They are steeped in ‘ologies,’ you might say. Biology and bacteriology and etymology and every other ‘ology’ you might care to name.

‘Run along and be something-ological directly,’ their invalid mother tells them when they become too tiresome. Mrs. Gradgrind, who recedes into her bundle of shawls when life becomes too much for her (as it frequently does), is completely unable to cope with or comprehend her husband’s strict belief system.

It goes over her head, she is baffled by it. She worries all the time, perhaps, that she ‘will never hear the last of it.’ It’s not until the very end of her days that she has the courage to question even slightly the wisdom of the fact-based upbringing that was forced upon her children by their father. If only she’d acquired the courage sooner…!

The aforementioned Mr. Bounderby- Josiah Bounderby of Coketown, by Jove!- is the best friend of Mr. Gradgrind’s and a prominent local landowner and business-owner in Coketown to boot. Abandoned by his mother at an early age, a fact he never tires of telling people, he was dragged up by the bootstraps by a harsh and uncompromising Life, which Life has made him The Man He Is Today.

Namely, made of stern stuff and not expecting to be fed venison with a gold spoon every five minutes, as is, apparently, the dearest, most heartfelt wish of the Coketown ‘Hands,’ the nameless, faceless underlings who run his textile mills and other businesses for him.

He’s a braggart and a boaster and a bluffer who makes a constant pretence of a humility he doesn’t really feel. He has his eye on Louisa Gradgrind, even though he’s a good thirty years older than her. When Mr. Gradgrind tells Louisa that she must take Bounderby for a husband, she shrugs and says why not? What does it matter, when nothing else does?

A life without fun, laughter, love and life in it is barely worth living so why not? Why not marry old Bounderby, when one rubbish life experience is exactly the equal of another? As I don’t care either way, she tells her father, I might as well do what you ask. The marriage takes place.

Mrs. Sparsit, an ancient, Roman-nosed lady distantly related to ‘the quality,’ a fact of which neither she nor Mr. Bounderby ever tire of reminding people, is Josiah Bounderby’s house-keeper. She has her own matrimonial plans in relation to Mr. Bounderby, and is therefore immeasurably pissed off when he marries the much younger and prettier Louisa Gradgrind.

Spiteful old Mrs. Sparsit is thrilled skinny- well, maybe not skinny, never that!- when a dastardly young hound by the name of James Harthouse starts work with Mr. Bounderby and immediately sets his cap at Louisa.

Mrs. Sparsit is a nasty, prying old biddy who’d like nothing more than to see Louisa brought low and she, Mrs. Sparsit, installed in the younger woman’s place as mistress of the Bounderby house and estate.

Louisa by now is nearly dead inside emotionally, having had all and any finer feelings- or even attempts at same- hammered out of her, first by her father and then by her dreadful posturing husband, with his endless fake humility and making out loudly and brashly that he’s a self-made man who dragged himself up out of the gutters by the thumbnails.

Bored out of his selfish, foppish skull, James Harthouse decides that the thing he wants most in the world is to see Louisa smile at him the way she does at her brother Tom, whom she adores and who also works for Mr. Bounderby. Not in the same capacity as the Coketown ‘Hands,’ of course, who toil in the mills every day like the workers from Fritz Lang’s METROPOLIS, but in a more official, gentlemanly capacity.

Harthouse can’t stand Tom, incidentally. He calls him ‘the whelp’ and does nothing to dissuade him from descending ever further into a terrible maelstrom of gambling debts that will ultimately be the ruination of him. Harthouse is a pretty much disreputable character.

If he persists in his affair with Louisa Bounderby, a married woman, however unhappily, she’ll be ruined in the eyes of society forever. (You might think that that’s not a big deal nowadays but it was back then, especially for women.) And for what? Because this little jackanapes James Harthouse was bored and wanted a challenge? The bastard…!

Sissy Jupe, the young orphaned girl taken in by Mr. Gradgrind and initially raised according to that gentleman’s beloved ‘system,’ is the one ray of light in the grey and gloomy House Of Gradgrind.

Born and bred in a travelling horse-riding circus, Sissy is a girl of many unusual qualities. She even manages to bring out the one solitary teensy-weensy shred of conscience in James Harthouse, if you can believe that, and is of immeasurable help to Mr. and Mrs. Gradgrind and the poor lost Louisa.

You see, Thomas Gradgrind’s ‘system’ doesn’t have any more effect on Sissy than water off a duck’s back, luckily for the Gradgrinds. It doesn’t ‘take’ with her, you see, and because of that she’s able to lead at least three Gradgrinds, gently and delicately and so as not to seem like she’s leading them at all, out of the murky darkness of the ‘system’ and into the light.

Mithter Thleary With A Pronounced Lithp, if you please, is the owner and ringmaster of Thleary’s Travelling Thircus, and a great friend to Sissy and the Gradgrinds too, in the end. If this book had been filmed in the 1940s or the 1950s, the lovely cuddly character actor Miles Malleson would have been the perfect choice to play him.

Mr. Sleary puts one of Dickens’s main messages in a pretty neat nutshell. People need fun, and laughs and entertainment. They can’t be ‘allus a-working.’ And people are neither facts nor statistics, either, they’re people. 

How right he is. A happy, rested employee is a good employee. Mr. Sleary, for all his lack of any formal education, is streets ahead of the socially ‘superior’ Mr. Gradgrind in this particular matter.

Mr. Gradgrind isn’t a bad man at all, mind you, just severely misguided. When his beloved ‘system’ of facts and statistics collapses and he sees the results of it in his criminal son Tom and his broken daughter Louisa, he himself becomes a broken man.

I do love, however, when Tom, lately turned bank-robber and fugitive from the law, throws his father’s words back at him at the end. In a given period, x number of employees will steal from their employers. This being the case, when Tom himself turns round and steals from his employer, namely Mr. Bounderby, how can it be Tom’s fault?

The statistics speak the truth, don’t they? How can Tom help it if he’s just another statistic? This is one of the statistics once so beloved of Mr. Gradgrind, Superintendent of the School Board and responsible for filling so many little minds with the facts he craves. One gets the feeling that this grievously wounded gentleman won’t be relying on facts and statistics for solace and comfort in the future again.

It’s also hard on Mr, Gradgrind when he is confronted, in the form of Bitzer, ‘the light porter,’ with the very evidence of his ‘system-in-action.’ Have you no heart, he appeals to Bitzer, who is only too glad to rattle off the biological facts that go to prove that, undeniably present in his chest cavern, there beats the physical organ known as ‘the heart’ without which he wouldn’t be breathing and walking and talking and a-taking of ‘Young Tom’ here into custody, and surely Mr. Gradgrind, that well-known lover of facts, is aware of such a fact-based thing…?

Dickens brings in the Unions a lot as well and the poor wages and poor housing conditions of the Coketown ‘Hands,’ and indeed, their conditions are terrible. Unfortunately, however, I failed to like his main working-class hero, Stephen Blackpool, whose accent was drawn as being so thick that I could barely decipher it at times.

Plus he was a miserable git as well. So his wife’s an alcoholic miscreant who won’t give him the divorce he needs to marry Rachael, the real love of his life. Big whoop! We all have our troubles, our crosses to bear. Go out, have a few pints with friends and loosen up a bit. It’s not the end of the world.

I also disliked his mopey martyr of a girlfriend Rachael. Although I felt thorry- oops, I mean sorry!- for them both (ith thurprithingly hard to thop lithping once you thart!), I was much more interested in the actions and activities of the swells. The toffs. The big nobs. The gentry. The, as the Artful Dodger would surely put it, ‘Quali’y.’

Mr. Bounderby and Mrs. Sparsit are my favourite characters, and both long overdue for a come-uppance. How hard are the mighty fallen and all that. Dickens handles these come-uppances beautifully. Good on ya, Charlie. You da bomb.


Sandra Harris is a Dublin-based novelist, film blogger, poet and book-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:


burne jones le vampire
So, you thought that the Victorians just spent their time quietly drinking tea and genteelly repressing their innermost desires, did you? Well, you were WRONG! The household of the wealthy Carfax family is a hotbed of deliciously deviant carnality and vampire sex. The beautiful Lady Anna Carfax is abducted by none other than Count Dracula himself and is treated to the sexual awakening of a lifetime, or should that be undead-time…? The rest of the Carfax family, servants definitely included, are in and out of each others’ bedchambers like rats up the proverbial drainpipe. Even Sherlock Holmes and Jack The Ripper make an appearance in this shockingly scandalous paranormal sex-and-spanking romp set in Victorian times. You’d have to be undead from the neck up to miss out on it…


Sandra Harris is a Dublin-based performance poet, novelist, film blogger, sex blogger and short story writer. She has given more than 200 performances of her comedy sex-and-relationship poems in different venues around Dublin, including The Irish Writers’ Centre, The International Bar, Toners’ Pub (Ireland’s Most Literary Pub), the Ha’penny Inn, Le Dernier Paradis at the Trinity Inn and The Strokestown Poetry Festival.

Her articles, short stories and poems have appeared in The Metro-Herald newspaper, Ireland’s Big Issues magazine, The Irish Daily Star, The Irish Daily Sun and The Boyne Berries literary journal. In August 2014, she won the ONE LOVELY BLOG award for her (lovely!) horror film review blog. She is addicted to buying books and has been known to bring home rain-washed tomes she finds on the street and give them a home.

She is the proud possessor of a pair of unfeasibly large bosoms. They have given her- and the people around her- infinite pleasure over the years. She adores the horror genre in all its forms and will swap you anything you like for Hammer Horror or JAWS memorabilia. She would also be a great person to chat to about the differences between the Director’s Cut and the Theatrical Cut of The Wicker Man. You can contact her at: