BySandra Harris, writer at


“I’ve missed you so much,” breathed Anna against the bare damp skin of his chest.

“And I’ve missed you, my fiery little Anna,” replied the Count, bending his head to hers and cutting off her next words by covering her mouth with his own. In the steaming, fragrant waters of the sunken bath, they kissed until Anna’s head spun. When they finally drew apart, Anna blurt out suddenly:

“I want you to get rid of Gloria!” The Count frowned, his dark eyebrows drawing together in a manner which normally boded ill for Anna or his handmaidens.

“What are you talking about?” he said sternly. “Of course I will not ‘get rid’ of Gloria, as you put it. Why would I? She’s my chief handmaiden. Explain yourself, woman!” Anna shrugged and lowered her eyes, uncomfortable now under his intense scrutiny.

“I don’t like her,” she said. “I don’t trust her. I can’t explain it. It’s just a… a feeling I have, that’s all.” The Count lifted her chin with a teasing smile and tilted her head back so that she had no choice but to look up at him.

“Poor little Anna,” he mocked. “So emotional. So hysterical. So filled with ridiculous feminine notions and feelings. Poor pregnant little Anna. So foolish and irrational. So silly.”

“You blame everything I say and do these days on my pregnancy!” Anna protested, hot tears stinging the backs of her eyelids. She could not believe that he was being so unfair.

“That’s because everything you say and do these days is coloured by your condition,” Dracula said, lifting her up easily and ascending the steps that led up out of the bath with Anna squealing and struggling in his arms. “But for now, little one, we will have no more talking. Gloria will naturally remain as my chief handmaiden and you will not raise the subject with me again. Is that understood?” He strode, naked and dripping, out of the bathroom and into the master bedroom, where he deposited the heavily pregnant Anna onto the huge four-poster bed.

“But…” began Anna.”

“No ‘buts,’ Anna,” the Count said, frowning. “Have I not made myself clear…?” Anna swallowed hard, then whispered:

“Yes, Master. You have made yourself clear.”

“Good girl,” he said, climbing onto the bed beside her. He leaned over her, careful not to rest his full weight on her swollen belly, and kissed her lingeringly on her mouth until she forgot about Gloria, the baby, even her own name. Her nipples began to stiffen and her womanly parts to moisten as he expertly caressed her face, her belly, her breasts, between her legs.

“Make love to me,” she begged him, desperate as always to feel him penetrating her innermost recesses. “I can’t wait, Master. Please don’t make me wait this time.”

“Little Anna, always in such a hurry,” mocked Count Dracula. “Don’t fret, my pretty Anna. This time, I promise you that I shall not make you wait.” He manoeuvred her unwieldy body onto its side, then he stretched himself out behind her and began to ease his erect member between the slick, glistening lips of her sex. Anna moaned out loud. Still wet and naked from the bath, they coupled until Count Dracula emptied his seed into Anna’s warm, welcoming womb. They lay together in a tangle of bare arms and legs for a long time afterwards.

“I love you, Master,” Anna whispered as her eyelids grew heavy. The dawn was approaching and soon it would be time for them to rest. “I love you more than un-Death itself.”

But the Count was already asleep.


Jamie Randall came down to breakfast shortly before seven in the morning. As one of only two coachmen in the small village of Birney, which nestled in a quiet and picturesque part of the English countryside, today he would be driving the coach to London and back for anyone who had business there.

Today, there was a bootmaker and an apothecary making the long journey from Birney to the big city, along with two elderly sisters who were coming into money on account of the death of an even more elderly relative. They were obliged to travel to the metropolis to meet with the family lawyer, close up the lodgings of their aged uncle and dispose of his effects. The two elderly sisters were greatly excited at the prospect of such an unprecedented adventure.

Jamie himself would stay the night in London before making the return journey home the following morning. He never minded the prospect of a night in London. He’d visit a tavern, have himself a few pints of frothy ale and pay a couple of shillings for the privilege of a pretty whore’s company till morning.

Not that he had trouble finding women to bed down with him. Jamie was handsome and well-built and had a smile that would charm the bloomers off a nun, as his older brother Simeon was fond of telling him. The girls in the village of Birney were queuing up to lie down for a young man as handsome and as virile as Jamie Randall. Jamie was happy to oblige as many of them as he could reasonably get around to. It kept him busy and usually more than amply satisfied.

Lately, though, he’d been devoting more and more time to pretty Rowena Sampson, twenty years old with long, lustrous hair and a curvaceous figure that had not gone unnoticed amongst the men of the village.

“I do love you, Jamie!” she’d told him the last time he’d tumbled her, here in this very house, in his tiny bedroom upstairs under the eaves. It had been just last night. She’d lain naked in his arms, her long, light-brown hair fanned out across his pillows, her full breasts heaving after their vigorous act of copulation, his seed still dampening the inside of her plump white thighs.

“And I love you, Rowena my sweet!” he’d replied automatically. “You’re the prettiest girl in all of Birney. No, not just Birney. England!” Words of love came easily to Jamie. It would never occur to Jamie not to tell a beautiful woman exactly what she wanted to hear.

“And I always mean it when I say it, brother,” he’d told Simeon laughingly on more than one occasion. “As God is my witness, I always mean it.”

“They just don’t know how many other women you’re saying it to as well,” Simeon usually responded with a grin. But Jamie was getting fond of Rowena. He was actually looking forward to bedding her again when he returned from London. She had the biggest, roundest, juiciest pair of buttocks he’d ever seen on a woman. He wanted to place her on all fours so that he could enter her from behind while walloping her plump, succulent arse with the flat of his hand. Rowena always squealed like a pig when he did that to her and tried to make out like she didn’t want it but if he dared to stop, she’d yell louder still. Jamie knew what she liked. It was what all women liked.

“Haven’t you heard the news?” was Simeon’s greeting when Jamie walked through the kitchen door. Simeon, Jamie’s partner in the coach-driving business and a better time-keeper than Jamie, had already breakfasted and was putting on his cloak.

“No, what?” said Jamie, taking a sweet red apple from the cupboard and taking a huge bite out of it. If his breakfast was to be taken on the run, then this would have to do.

“Rowena Sampson’s missing,” said Simeon. “Her brother Joshua’s been knocking on every door in the village looking for her. He’s telling everyone who’ll listen that there’s been no sign of her since him and his old man left their house to go to the tavern last night. They found out this morning that her bed hadn’t been slept in. She’s vanished into thin air, is what it looks like…”


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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