BySandra Harris, writer at


“By the way, old boy,” drawled Sir Daniel Rochester, “I was sorry to hear about your bit of bad news.” Cigar in one hand, brandy in the other and with his booted feet resting on a low table in front of him, he looked the picture of decadent ease. He and his friend, Sir Blaise Carfax, were seated once more in Madame Corinne’s exclusive establishment for titled gentlemen. The furnishings were discreet and tasteful and cleverly designed to pale into insignificance beside the dazzling and exotic beauty of Madame Corinne’s girls.

“Bad news?” slurred Sir Blaise, taking a long swig of his own brandy. He wondered to which specific area of his rapidly-unravelling life his friend could possibly be referring. His sister Anna was still missing after several months and the detective charged with the task of finding her clearly couldn’t find his arse from his elbow, so that dismal state of affairs could presumably be referred to as bad news.

His pretty and bewitching cousins, Athena and Abigail, were certainly bad news. He was exhausted from servicing the pair of minxes sexually morning, noon and night but he couldn’t seem to keep away from them. One or other of them was constantly in his bed, when it wasn’t both of them together.

They found him handsome and sexually irresistible, something he wasn’t altogether unhappy about. He seemed to lack the strength or the moral fibre to do the sensible thing, though, and send the two lusty wenches packing.

What he should do, he reflected as he reached out for the brandy bottle to refill his glass, was to find them both suitable husbands. Their mother, Lady Eleanor Carfax, ensconsed in their family home in Cornwall with her semi-invalid husband Sir Bernard, was trusting him to do just that. And he’d do it too, dash it all. Just as soon as he could get the two hot little bitches out of his system.

The problem was that they wouldn’t do as they were told. They were reckless and mischievous and they needed a damned good thrashing. The trouble was, however, that the two naughty sluts would enjoy such stern measures entirely too much, as he already knew from experience.

“I’m sorry, old man, what was that you said?” he asked Sir Daniel now. Lost in his drink-fuelled daydreams of Athena and Abigail, he’d failed to notice that his companion had spoken. Sir Daniel looked at him in amusement.

“I said,” he repeated, “that I was sorry to hear about you and the delightful Lady Caroline. Still off, is it?” Sir Blaise looked confused for a moment, then he said:

“Oh yes, Lady Caroline. Oh yes. Still off. All off. Most definitely.”

“What happened there, then?” said Sir Daniel, blowing a series of perfect smoke rings and leaning back in his armchair to observe them in admiration. Sir Blaise sighed, rubbed his nose and then said:

“She just got tired of waiting, old boy. Waiting for the police to smarten up and find my sister so that things could get back to normal and she and I could get married. Caroline and I, that is, not my sister and I. Dash it all! It’s a bloody nuisance, the whole lot of it.”

He rubbed his nose again, something he did when he was feeling guilty about something. The truth was that he and his former fiancée, the thin, angular and frequently prickly Lady Caroline Cotter, had not simply drifted apart.

They hadn’t really liked each other to begin with, though that fact of course was immaterial. They’d come together in the first place because a match between their two families would have been most financially advantageous to all concerned parties. But now there was the unsavoury whiff of scandal attaching to the Carfax family name because of Anna’s abduction by person or persons unknown- the favourite catchphrase of that idiot police detective’s, Waterstone or whatever his damned name was- and the possibly sexual connotations that that held. Caroline’s family obviously felt that the match was no longer advantageous and might, in fact, actually have become quite the opposite.

In addition to which, Blaise reflected glumly as he lit one of the expensive cigars in a box on the table in front of them, he’d neglected Caroline dreadfully since the arrival on the scene of Abigail and Athena. She was not an easy person to get along with, though, and throughout the duration of their engagement he’d mostly been happier not to have had dealings with her than he’d ever been to see her.

She’d been saving herself for marriage, too, and she’d resisted all of Blaise’s attempts to get her into bed so he’d given up trying and gone back to his favourite prostitute, Flora Pitt, or to his wilful young cousins at home or even here, to Madame Corinne’s, for his sexual pleasures.

Still, at least he was getting his sexual satisfaction from somewhere. Poor old Caroline was quite obviously still a virgin. He couldn’t imagine any man wanting her for her face or body alone, or indeed for any part of her besides her immense fortune. He imagined even her sex-parts to be narrow and angular and awkward and non-accommodating, just like Caroline herself.

“Was she good in bed?” Sir Daniel asked him now, a lascivious grin on his handsome face. “You did get her into bed, didn’t you?”

“What?” said Blaise, startled. “Oh, well, yes, rather. I mean, er, yes, she’s a hot little filly all right.” He sent up a silent prayer of thanks to whatever deity was out there that he wasn’t given very much to blushing.

“You dirty dog,” said Sir Daniel, still grinning. The door to Madame Corinne’s comfortable and elegant suite of waiting-rooms opened quietly then and Madame Corinne herself, a well-dressed, well-preserved woman in her fifties, stepped inside. She was unaccompanied, which was unusual.

“Gentlemen,” she said in her low, well-modulated tones. “May I present to you, from an impoverished and underprivileged village faraway in Eastern Europe, the newest addition to our little family here, Demeter and Varna.” Both men sat up straighter at the sight of the two young women who entered the room, even Sir Daniel who rarely stirred himself out of the sardonically indolent torpor which was his stock-in-trade.

“Well, well,” said Sir Daniel softly, ash from his cigar dropping unheeded to the carpet as he stared openly at the newcomers. “Well, well, Madame Corinne. You’ve surpassed yourself tonight.” Madame Corinne acknowledged his words with a gracious little bow.

“Sir Daniel is very kind,” she murmured. To the two girls, she added: “Show yourselves to the gentlemen.” The young women stepped forward and stood in front of the two seated men. They were too alike not to have been sisters. They were stark naked, as decreed by the viewing policy at Madame Corinne’s.

They each appeared to be in their mid-twenties and had long thick hair of a golden-brown colour that Sir Blaise immediately thought of as ‘tawny.’ Their eyes were strangely ‘tawny’ in colour too, and of an unusual almond shape. Their faces were beautiful, their expressions submissive yet somehow dangerously exciting and their sex-parts shaved clean of all hair. Sir Daniel felt himself grow instantly hard. Even Sir Blaise, who’d been drinking since late afternoon, felt a strong renewal of sexual interest in the region of his breeches.

“Turn around and bend over,” Madame Corinne ordered the two whores. “Display yourselves properly for the gentlemen.” The women did as they were told. Bending over obediently with their long hair grazing the carpet, they spread the cheeks of their rounded buttocks apart to show the tight holes nestling between and, underneath, the pink sex-lips ready to be opened up and stretched. Sir Daniel gave a long, low whistle. Sir Blaise just stared open-mouthed, hoping fervently that he would not waste his valuable fluid on the inside of his breeches.

“Which one do you want, then?” Sir Daniel said, grinning wolfishly all over his face. “Or shall we take ’em on together…?” Sir Blaise swallowed hard. They were stunning. Utterly ravishing. Athena and Abigail would have their work cut out to compete with these two exotic creatures.

“Together, I think,” he replied. Sir Daniel would ably compensate for any possible drunken inadequacies on his, Blaise’s, part.

“Then what are we waiting for?” said Sir Daniel, getting to his feet.

Let Caroline keep her virgin bed and be damned, thought Sir Blaise as he followed the others out the door and down the hallway that led to the bedrooms. I have no more need of the frigid bitch…


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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