ANNA MEETS COUNT DRACULA. BOOK 2- PART 20. AN EROTIC HORROR STORY BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©
John Harker, Sir Blaise’s valet, listened outside his master’s bedroom door for a bit, chuckling quietly to himself all the while. The master of the house had his hands full with his two pretty- and promiscuous- young cousins Athena and Abigail. All three of them were as naked as jaybirds, cavorting with each other without a care in the world, certainly not caring that what they were doing was immoral and disgusting.
Both Athena and Abigail had each tried their luck in the past with Sir Blaise’s handsome, thirty-five-year-old valet, but without success. John Harker did not waste his looks and charms on sluts and hussies like the two Carfax sisters, or at least not often.
No, reflected Harker now as he turned away from his master’s door and made his way up the stairs to the next floor, the sisters were well-endowed and undoubtedly sexually bewitching, but he had bigger fish to fry.
The second floor of Richmond House was as quiet as it always was at this hour- just after midnight- and dimly-lit by candles left burning in alcoves. When Harker reached the door at the end of the long, richly-carpeted corridor, he turned the knob and entered without knocking.
Lady Grace Carfax, mother to Sir Blaise and Lady Anna Carfax, was pacing the room agitatedly, her long blonde hair loose and tumbling down the back of her nightgown.
“Where have you been, John?” she cried when she saw him, running to him and covering his face with kisses. “It feels like I’ve been waiting simply hours and hours for you to come to me!”
“I had to wait until Sir Blaise no longer needed me,” Harker replied coolly. He knew perfectly well how best to handle the neurotic, highly-strung mistress of the house. She needed a firm hand. And he was just the man for the job. “Have you been a naughty girl?” he asked her sternly now, holding her at arms’ length and looking her up and down with cold grey eyes. “Have you been touching yourself?”
At just past fifty years old, though she would rather have died than reveal her true age, Lady Grace Carfax was still a beautiful woman. Her blonde hair had lost almost none of its sheen and her face and figure had slackened and softened only a little over the years. She was a vain woman though, inordinately proud of having retained her youthful looks and girlish figure, and had been known to sack servants who had the ill-advised temerity to mention her real age.
Now, she looked like a disobedient débutante who had been caught allowing a man to make love to her behind a potted palm-tree in a conservatory at a ball. She flushed guiltily and lowered her eyes and wrung her hands together as she told him:
“Yes, John, I’ve… I’ve been naughty. I’ve been touching myself, just like you told me not to. I’ve been a very bad girl and you should punish me. Oh God, John, punish me, please!” she cried, throwing herself at him once more. “I can’t wait a moment longer. Please, John, please!”
“Don’t fret, Milady,” said Harker grimly, flinging her roughly face-down across the bed and crossing to the dressing-table where a stout leather belt resided permanently in the top drawer. “I’ll punish you. You need have no fears on that score.”
He lifted her nightgown as high as it would go. Underneath the flimsy garment she was naked. Her buttocks were not as high and firm as they had once been, but they were pale and round and turned a satisfying shade of red when he lashed them soundly with the belt. Lady Grace lay as still as she could manage to during the beating, her face wet with tears of pain and her small fists crammed into her mouth to keep her from screaming out loud and alerting the servants.
“Now get on your back and spread your legs like the wicked slut you are, Milady,” sneered Harker after he’d flung aside the belt and pulled the trembling mistress of the house to her feet. “That’s if you expect me to make love to you.” Lady Grace wiped away her tears with the sleeve of her nightgown.
“I do expect you to make love to me, John darling,” she said, regaining a little of her customary sense of entitlement now that she’d received what she’d so urgently craved. “I want you to make love to me more than anything else in the world. I love you, John darling,” she added as she pulled the nightgown over her head and lay down on the bed like she’d been bid. “Do you love me? Tell me you do, John, tell me you do!”
“You know I do,” he replied coolly, disrobing swiftly and climbing onto the big bed with her. When they’d finished coupling, she would give him something. A trinket, she’d call it, as she pressed it into his hand, or a keepsake. Last time, it had been a pocket watch made of heavy gold that had belonged to her late husband, Sir Bernard. Another time, it had been a silk handkerchief filled with gold coins. What would it be tonight? John Harker could hardly wait to find out.
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:
1) ‘… BY A WOMAN WALKING HER DOG…’
2) A WRITER’S JOURNEY
3) ANNA MEETS COUNT DRACULA
4) ANOTHER FIFTY REALLY RANDOM HORROR FILM REVIEWS TO DIE FOR…
5) CANCER BALLS
6) CATCH OF THE DAY
7) FIFTY FILTHY-DIRTY SEX-POEMS YOU MUST READ BEFORE I DIE.
8) FIFTY REALLY RANDOM HORROR FILM REVIEWS TO DIE FOR…
9) THE DEVIANTS
10) VISITING DAY