BySandra Harris, writer at


The stranger who had appeared before her so suddenly and blocked her path was the tallest- and handsomest- man that Rowena had ever seen. He was so tall that she had to tilt her head right back to look up into his face. He was dressed entirely in black, his cloak fastened at his throat with a heavy silver clasp.

He was dark-haired, with a sprinkling of grey at his temples. She would have placed him perhaps in his late forties. He was well-built without being heavy-set, and his eyes were the darkest she’d ever seen. Rowena felt that she might disappear inside them, literally be swept up into their swirling depths, if she looked into them for too long. They were the strangest, most magnetic eyes she’d ever seen in all of her twenty years.

“A pretty girl like you should not be walking alone in the forest after dark,” the stranger said. His voice was deep and cultured. It sent a ripple of something that felt a little like desire through Rowena’s belly and she blushed, confused.

“I… I’m sorry, sir,” she blurted out. “I… I… I was just…” She broke off. How could she tell this handsome, elegant stranger that she was hastening home from her lover’s house before her father and brother discovered where she’d been and whipped her, with maybe worse in store for her beloved Jamie…? She stared wordlessly up at the tall, dark man with eyes that were wide and frightened.

“Do you think your father and brother would be happy to hear that you spent the evening in your lover’s bed…?” the man said, a touch of gentle mockery in his voice. Rowena gasped, shocked. How did he know what she’d just been thinking? How had he known her exact thoughts? Had he been following her? Watching her?

“N… No, sir,” she breathed, her full, luscious breasts heaving. “They… They’d flay the skin from my body, sir, if they knew.” The stranger tutted, again with the same hint of mockery in his voice.

“Such a shame,” he murmured, “to mar such pretty skin. To abuse such a perfect body.” He reached out a hand and casually caressed Rowena’s bare shoulder. His touch was electrifying. Rowena jumped as if she’d been scalded. The stranger kept stroking her, his long, strong fingers moving ever closer to the curve of her soft white breast. Rowena stood rooted to the spot.

“Such a pretty girl,” he repeated, his dark eyes never leaving hers. “Did your lover touch you here?” he added suddenly, his hand closing painfully around the swell of her breast. Rowena cried out but she made no attempt to struggle. The stranger’s eyes seemed to be boring into her, hypnotising her, rooting her to the spot until she felt like she no longer had any will of her own.

“Answer me, slut,” the man commanded, his voice no longer silky, like a caress. It was cold and stern and it made Rowena tremble with fear.

“Yes!” she cried. “Y…Yes, he t… touched me there!”

“And you liked it, did you, slut,” the man snarled, “when he put his hands on your naked body?” He tore the front of her gown away and her full breasts tumbled out, her big pink nipples immediately stiffening in the cool night air. Rowena tried to put up her arms to cover her nudity but her arms would not obey her. Instead, she said, her voice rising in fear and the strangest desire:

“Yes, sir! Y… Yes, I liked him touching me when I was naked! I loved the things he did to me, I always love them!” The dark man nodded, satisfied. He bent his head and kissed her full on the mouth while his lean fingers fondled her bare breasts and pert nipples.

His kiss held for Rowena all the sweetness and terror of an afterlife that yawned before her like an abyss. She gave herself up to it entirely, not caring that she was nude from the waist up and that her flimsy undergarments were moist from the suddening dampening of her feminine parts.

When the man finally lifted his head from hers, his eyes were no longer dark but glowing red in the moonlight. He smiled down at her. A scream froze in Rowena’s throat when she saw the sharp white fangs in either side of his mouth.

He bent his head to her neck. Her heart beat fit to burst in her chest. His mouth was on her neck. She could feel his hot breath on her bare skin. Then his fangs tore into her unprotected flesh and the agony and ecstasy promised her by his kiss were upon her all at once and she knew no more of the world of people.

This story is a work of fiction and comes (almost!) entirely from the imagination of Sandra Harris. Any resemblance to any persons living or un-dead is purely coincidental.

This story is copyrighted material and any reproduction without prior permission is illegal. Sandra Harris reserves the right to be identified as the author of this story.

Sandra Harris. ©


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:

[email protected]


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