ANNA MEETS COUNT DRACULA. BOOK 2- PART 14. AN EROTIC HORROR STORY BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©
Count Dracula paced the damp old corridors of Birney Castle, cold with rage at the impertinence of the villagers who had called at the castle gates earlier that day, searching for the missing girl. They would never find her, he was sure of that. He’d buried her so deep in the forest that only the worms and beetles would ever find her.
He didn’t want the peasants of the village of Birney sniffing around the castle, though. He’d chosen its remote location specifically to prevent his beautiful bride, Lady Anna Carfax of Richmond House in London, from ever being found by her own kind. He perhaps should not have committed such an indiscretion so close to his own doorstep, but when the lust for blood was upon him there was little he could do about it.
He’d stormed down to the gatehouse earlier and thrashed that imbecile gatekeeper Igor till his hump was torn and bleeding, just to remind him that he, Count Dracula, would not tolerate any intrusions on his privacy. Callers were to be informed that the Master was either away or incommunicado and sent away without delay. Under no circumstances were callers ever to be admitted to the castle grounds.
Igor’s very life, pathetic worthless thing that it was, depended upon his carrying out the Master’s instructions to the letter. Tonight, the Count had done an excellent job of ‘reminding’ him of that precise fact. Igor would see to it that the Count’s orders were obeyed, if he wanted to go on living, that was.
Giving Igor a severe thrashing had not sated the Count’s need for inflicting pain and punishment on an underling. Carrying the whip he normally used for disciplining Anna, he strode through the darkened corridors of his domain until he reached the dungeons.
The dungeons in Birney Castle were a maze of damp, dank, rat-infested rooms that a person could quite easily get lost in. Count Dracula knew every mouldering brick, every diseased rat, every trickle of stinking, rust-coloured water that ran down the dripping walls. He made his way confidently to the worst of the rooms. Deep. deep underground, it was icy cold and the stench of waste was overpowering. The Count could not have cared less for the condition of the place. He had other business on his mind.
Chained to the walls were three of his most sexually desirable vampire handmaidens. Naked, facing the walls and completely incapacitated, they had been kept locked up and deprived of the Count’s discipline and unmatchable sexual prowess for weeks now. When they glimpsed their Master, their combined voices broke forth in a cacophony of desperate longing:
“Oh Master, make love to us, please! We’ve missed you so much, Master! Please make love to us and whip us, we need it so much, Master, please! We love you, Master, don’t leave us down here where we can’t see you and be with you and try to please you, Master! We love you, Master, we-”
“Silence, whores!” bellowed the Count. “I have not come down here for your satisfaction!” He raised the whip and brought it down savagely on the naked back of the nearest handmaiden. She screamed in pain and ecstasy while her two fellow captives looked on jealously and cried out:
“Punish us next, Master! Oh please, punish us next!” Count Dracula lashed the naked backs, buttocks and thighs of all three women until his strong right arm grew tired. Then he cast away the whip and adjusted his clothing minimally prior to penetrating the three handmaidens from behind, one after the other, ignoring their cries of pain and pleasure combined as he plundered their backsides and soft female parts.
When he had attained his own climax, he picked up his discarded whip and swept from the dungeon without a backward glance, leaving the women sobbing with gratitude and an overwhelming sense of sexual fulfilment. He strode purposefully back to his own chambers near the top of the castle, feeling marginally less tense and irritable.
It was time now for his bride’s chastisement. Pregnancy had not blunted her intense need to receive pain and punishment at his hands as well as love and sexual pleasure. He reached the master bedroom, went swiftly inside and shut the heavy door with a bang.
TO BE CONTINUED HERE SOON…
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. ©
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY OF 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: