BySandra Harris, writer at Creators.co

ANNA MEETS COUNT DRACULA. BOOK 2- PART 19. AN EROTIC HORROR STORY BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

In the quiet and darkness of Richmond House in London, Sir Blaise Carfax, Anna’s older brother, was in bed. Sleep evaded him, though, and he lay wakeful, staring up at the ceiling. The last few months had been most trying. Most trying indeed, in fact.

That idiot policeman Jonathan Waterstone had failed utterly to discover what had become of Anna. Since she’d been abducted from her bedroom in the autumn of 1888, several months ago now, not a single clue to her whereabouts had been uncovered.

Mind you, Blaise thought to himself, they hadn’t caught that dastardly Jack The Ripper chap yet either, though there was no longer any real feeling amongst the police that the fellow who’d murdered and mutilated all those street-walkers had had anything to do with Anna’s disappearance. The modus operandi was just too different, according to the officials at Scotland Yard. Even Sherlock Holmes, the world-famous detective, had fared no better in the quest to find the missing Anna.

Sir Blaise’s mother, Lady Grace Carfax, had scarcely come out of her room since the abduction of her youngest child and only daughter. Always something of a hypochondriac, she’d used the sinister occurrence as an excuse for practically abdicating her role as matriarch of the Carfax family.

Thank heavens for Mr. Wilkes the butler, Mrs. Quincey the cook and Mrs. Whitby the housekeeper, Blaise thought, yawning hugely and scratching idly at the hair on his bare chest. This invaluable trio had kept Richmond House running perfectly smoothly these last few months.

Thomas Renfield, the murdered footman who’d been unaccountably drained of every drop of his blood that dreadful night last winter, had been replaced. So had Hester Price, the unfortunate young woman who’d been Anna’s personal maid. Pregnant with Thomas Renfield’s child, she’d hung herself after hearing the terrible news about her lover.

A plain, soberly-dressed female by the name of Sarah Parrish had been engaged as personal maid to Blaise’s younger cousins Abigail and Athena Carfax, the beautiful but endlessly troublesome sisters who’d come to live at Richmond House.

Their mother, Lady Eleanor Carfax, was the wife of Blaise’s uncle, Sir Richard Carfax. She’d accompanied her daughters to London initially so that they could all three of them provide support to Lady Grace at the time of Anna’s abduction.

Sir Richard, ensconced in the family estate in Cornwall, had recently had a stroke, however. Lady Eleanor had hurried home to Cornwall to be with her husband in his time of need, leaving the naughty, sex-mad sisters in Blaise’s care.

Sir Blaise sighed hugely now as he thought about his pretty cousins. No amount of spankings and birchings from Anna’s old governess Miss Cushing seemed to put manners on the self-willed pair. He really didn’t know what the devil he was going to do with them. The sooner he got them married off to suitable matches, the better it would be for him and for them.

He stretched and then broke wind loudly. Beside him, Athena, the elder of the two young women by one year, stirred and yawned.

“Did you speak, Cousin Blaise?” she murmured, reaching down between Blaise’s thighs and taking a firm hold of his manhood. It was currently at half-mast, but it rarely needed much encouragement to stand to attention again. Blaise groaned as her clever fingers manipulated him back to life. Dash it all, she was so good at that! How could he even think of marrying her off?

“Mmmm, keep doing that, my dear Athena,” he said. He closed his eyes, an expression of bliss on his handsome face. When his member was sufficiently aroused, Athena climbed astride his naked body and confidently lowered herself down onto him.

She rides like a champion, Blaise thought delightedly as Athena, twenty-one years old, milked him ferociously of his issue. And her breasts were utterly magnificent, he reflected as he reached up to fondle their milky-white fullness. He squeezed them hard and pinched her pink, pointy nipples till she squealed.

“I say, sister dearest, I do hope that you are not ruining our cousin for when it is my turn,” said pretty blonde Abigail then. She lay on Blaise’s other side, as naked as her older sister and just as hotly eager for the sexual union to come. She stroked Blaise’s bare chest and belly and thighs while waiting impatiently for her sister to dismount and move over.

“I beg of you not to worry, my pretty Abigail,” said Blaise cheerfully as, above him, Athena moaned and writhed her way to her own tumultuous climax, “there’s more than enough of me to go around.”

He really must find suitable husbands for Abigail and Athena as soon as possible, he decided, groaning involuntarily as Abigail set to work on his by-now flaccid manhood with her pink lips and tongue. They were as troublesome and badly-behaved and unruly as a barrel full of stray cats. But not yet, he amended as a particularly pleasurable wave of sensations washed over him and carried him away on its crest. Dear God, not yet…

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:

[email protected]

https://www.facebook.com/SandraHarrisPureFilthPoetry

https://sandrafirstruleoffilmclubharris.wordpress.com

http://sexysandieblog.wordpress.com

http://serenaharker.wordpress.com

https://twitter.com/SandraAuthor

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