BySandra Harris, writer at


“You bastard!” screamed Sir Christopher Vine, hurling his brandy glass across the room at Sir Daniel, who ducked. The expensive, heavy glass hit the wall and smashed. The amber liquid trickled down the wall and pooled in a sticky mess on the carpet. “You unspeakable shit! You’re only doing it because you don’t want your father and your family to know that you’re a queer like me! I hope you die! I hope you get syphilis from her and die, you lying, cheating bastard! You’re a filthy dirty rotter and I hate you! I hate you, I hate you, I hate you! I’ll hate you till I die!”

“All right, Chrissy, all right,” said Sir Daniel tiredly. “You’ve made your point. You hate me.” Christopher had been waiting for him when he’d returned to his apartments from Madame Corinne’s in the early hours of the morning. Biting the bullet, Sir Daniel told him of his engagement to Lady Victoria Strauss, one of the most marriageable young heiresses in London. The conversation had not gone well.

“How can you say it won’t affect us?” wailed Christopher, throwing himself down on the bed and crying like a woman. “You’ll be living with… with that bitch… and I’ll never see you again!” His next words were drowned in a paroxysm of loud sobbing.

“For Christ’s sake, Chrissy, you’ll make yourself ill,” said Daniel, sitting down on the bed next to Christopher and smoothing the younger man’s long blonde hair back off his face. “And you know how tiresome I find invalids,” he went on, “so dry those pretty blue eyes and let’s have no more of this. I promise you it will make no difference to us, or at least not much. Yes, I’ll have to live with her, but naturally I’ll be keeping on these apartments as well. You and I can still see each other here or at Madame Corinne’s or at our clubs as often as we wish. It will be as if… as if she doesn’t exist, I promise you.” He reached for his own brandy glass on the night-stand and drained its contents in one gulp before immediately pouring himself another drink with hands that shook. Emotional scenes like this one always took their toll. Like most men, he found them to be a most frightful bore.

“Do… do you love her?” sniffled Christopher, wiping his eyes on the coverlet.

“Christ, no!” replied Daniel emphatically. Yes, Victoria was beautiful, but Sir Daniel Rochester had known and bedded many beautiful women in his time. When their looks faded, what was left?

“I don’t believe you,” said Christopher sulkily. His sobs had died away to sniffles now. “I’ve seen her photograph in the newspapers. I know what she looks like. Do you take me for a fool, Daniel?”

“No, of course I don’t think you’re a fool,” said the older man wearily. He dragged both his hands through his thick dark hair till it came loose from the bit of ribbon with which he habitually tied it back. “I swear to you that I don’t love her. You know I’m only marrying her- marrying anyone, for that matter- because it’s what’s expected of me. You’ll have to get married too one of these fine days and, when that happens, you won’t see me carrying on like a foolish young girl. And it won’t be because I don’t care for you,” he added hastily, seeing that Christopher was about to start wailing again.

He began to undo the younger man’s shirt buttons. Christopher had already removed his jacket and tie. Daniel could see where they’d been tossed carelessly onto a chair. He gently pulled the shirt off Chrissy’s slim upper body. Christopher pouted at first, disinclined to stop sulking, then he began to breathe more heavily, his anger temporarily forgotten.

“Promise me you won’t ever prefer her over me,” he pleaded, beginning frantically to undress Daniel in turn.

“I swear,” replied Daniel, allowing his jacket and shirt to be stripped from his body.

“It was bad enough when you were going to marry that bloody Anna Carfax-” began Chrissy. Daniel resolutely covered his friend’s mouth with his hand and flipped him expertly over onto his belly where he lay expectantly, his thighs slightly apart and his blonde head to one side. Sir Christopher Vine, twenty-four years old and as pretty as any girl, was smiling broadly.

“No more talking, Chrissy, there’s a good chap,” said Daniel, easing himself into the younger man’s body. “Too much talking bores me, you know that. Now I feel like enjoying myself…”


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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