BySandra Harris, writer at


Count Dracula strode purposefully back through the forest to Castle Birney, his long black cloak flying out behind him. He never missed his footing, even though the thick, tangled forest was virtually in pitch darkness whenever the moon disappeared behind a cloud. He knew his way instinctively and was as sure-footed as a mountain goat.

He was well satisfied with his night’s work. The girl Rowena was dead. When he’d finished with her, when he’d taken everything from her that she’d had to give, he’d buried her deep in the ground in a part of the forest where no-one ever went. By the time she was found, if she ever was, there would be nothing left of her but bones. He had toyed with the idea of bringing her back to the castle with him as one of the undead, but at the last minute, he’d changed his mind and killed her instead.

“Oh Master, Master!” she’d moaned against his chest after he’d taken his first bite of her soft, snowy-white neck. “I love you, Master!” she’d wept when he’d lain her down on the forest floor under cover of darkness and taken her the way a man takes a woman. “Oh Master, let me love you! Let me please you and stay with you forever, please, I beg of you!” Tears of naked, unashamed desire and pleading spilled down her flawless cheeks.

“Be silent, woman,” he’d told her sternly before raising her skirts and tearing off her flimsy underthings. He was used to such slavish adoration from women and it held no surprises for him. The eagerness with which she spread her plump white thighs did please him, though. It always pleased him when a woman knew her place in the scheme of things.

And she did look beautiful as she lay there, panting and pleading, with her long coils of honey-blonde hair fanned out around her like a skein of silk. He adjusted his clothing and pushed his erect member up in between her thighs, making her cry out like a wild animal. The woman called Rowena clawed at his back and shoulders with her long fingernails as he drove into her again and again and he made a mental note not to appear shirtless in front of Anna until his scratches had healed.

He squeezed her big, bouncy breasts while he penetrated her to her core and pulled on her stiff, elongated teats until she screamed in pain. In the shadow of Castle Birney, where his pregnant bride Anna, formerly Lady Anna Carfax of Richmond House in London, paced her bedchamber impatiently waiting for him to return, he emptied his seed into the peasant woman. Then he clamped his mouth down over the holes in her neck and drained her of every last drop of her life-blood.

Now he was making his way back to the castle. He would not present himself immediately at his bride’s bedchamber, however. He had some business matters to take care of in his study first, some issues pertaining to his ongoing lease of the old and rambling Castle Birney. The castle dated back almost to the time of William the Conqueror. It suited his purpose exactly. It was a secluded, rock-solid and isolated structure hidden away in the depths of the English countryside and surrounded by thick forestation.

It was the perfect place to hide Anna and his harem of undead brides of Dracula. Anna’s family would never dream of looking for her here. The investigation into her abduction from her home in the autumn of 1888 was still ongoing. Count Dracula made it his personal business to keep abreast of any developments in the case. Naturally, there were none. Anna was here with him and she was safe. That was the way it would stay.

There were leads that went nowhere and wild goose chases and other such silly bits of nonsense, of course. Things like that always happened in such cases. But Anna’s brother Sir Blaise Carfax and that ridiculous jackanapes of a detective in charge of the investigation, Waterstone or whatever he was called, and even the world-famous detective, Sherlock Holmes, were no nearer to finding the missing woman than they had ever been.

This state of affairs suited Count Dracula perfectly and he had no intention that they should ever find her. The bewitchingly beautiful Lady Anna Carfax was his, Count Dracula’s, and that was how things would remain. He strode now between the open gates of Castle Birney. The watchman scurried out of his lodge and shut the heavy iron gates behind the Count with a resounding clank.


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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