BySandra Harris, writer at


Count Dracula, temporarily sated after his seduction and killing of village girl Rowena Sampson, strode along the silent castle corridors with his long black cape billowing out behind him. He was tired now. The sun would soon be up and he would retire to his coffin in the castle dungeons to sleep soundly until night fell once more. For the moment, however, he would repair to his private dressing-room to tidy himself after his exertions. He was a man who prided himself on his appearance.

He opened his dressing-room door to find Gloria draped naked across his bed. She lay on her belly across the coverlet, propping herself up on her elbows with a smile of lustful welcome on her face. Since Valeria’s fall from grace, Gloria was now the chief amongst Count Dracula’s handmaidens. She was more beautiful than any of them, almost as beautiful as Lady Anna Carfax herself.

She had long, silky blue-black hair, sallow skin and dark, glittering eyes. Her breasts and buttocks were round and full. Her hips were ample, her waist was small and her legs were long and well-shaped. Count Dracula, despite the bone-weariness he always felt after a kill, felt a stirring in his loins at the sight of her wanton nudity.

“Who gave you permission to be in here at this hour?” he said coldly, turning away from her to stand before his dressing-table, the surface of which was much less cluttered than Anna’s. There was a brush and comb, freshly-laundered handkerchiefs, soap and a bowl of clean water. He washed his face and hands with the cold water now, drying himself with a towel that hung on a rail above the bowl, and felt himself somewhat revived for having done so.

“I was waiting for you, Master,” said Gloria, “to see if you needed anything.”

“I require nothing at this hour,” he said. He picked up the comb and slicked his thick dark hair, flecked slightly with grey at the temples, back from his face. Gloria pouted. It made her full red lips look even fuller.

“There must be something I can do for you, Master,” she insisted. She knelt up on the bed and tossed her glorious black hair back over her shoulders. For a moment, the Count allowed his eyes to feast greedily on the sight of the huge heaving breasts, the gently-curved belly and the full thick bush of jet-black hair that covered her sex.

By Hades, she was beautiful. There wasn’t a man alive- or un-Dead- who would be able to resist the lethal pull of her raw, undiluted sexuality. He relished the look of disappointment on her face on her face when he deliberately said with a careless shrug:

“I have no time for games. I must go to Lady Anna in her bedchamber before I retire.” Count Dracula’s sharp eyes, which rarely missed anything of importance, saw the look of pure and utter hatred that passed over Gloria’s pretty face at the mention of Anna.

He knew full well that Gloria hated Anna with every fibre of her being. She wanted to be in Anna’s place. She wanted to be Dracula’s bride, with all the privilege and status that that position entailed, and not merely one of his servants, even the chief amongst them. With Valeria in disgrace and dancing attendance on the pregnant Lady Anna all the time now, Gloria was closer than ever before to achieving her goal.

The Count knew that Gloria could never manage to replace Anna in his affections. No-one could ever do that. But it pleased him to let the brainless, big-breasted slut think that she could. Dracula liked to control peoples’ thoughts and emotions. Dracula liked to play cruel mind-games. They afforded him much amusement during moments of tedium, of ennui. Now Gloria lay back against the bedcovers, still fully nude, and spread her shapely legs wide.

“Don’t go to her,” she whispered. “Make love to me, Master. Please.” Dracula pretended to hesitate for a moment, then he made himself shrug and sigh heavily before disrobing, climbing onto the bed and burying his swollen member deep between her parted thighs.


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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