BySandra Harris, writer at


“It was the strangest thing,” mused Lady Victoria Strauss to her closest friend, Lady Portia Delancey-Tate. Both young women reclined languidly across the former’s four-poster bed in her luxurious bedchamber in Camden House. Outside, the rain lashed against the windows and dark clouds scudded across the April sky, pregnant with still more rain. The lamps were already lit in Camden House, though it was not yet evening. They cast a soft glow about the rapidly darkening room.

“Tell me again,” urged Portia, her eyes alight with curiosity and even a tinge of envy.

“Well,” said Victoria, twirling a lock of her long, light-brown hair around a finger, “it’s as I’ve told you, Portia darling. He is without a doubt the handsomest man I’ve ever seen. He’s much, much older than me. I mean, he must be well over forty and yet his appearance is so pleasing to the eye that I cannot even tell you! His hair is black and his eyes blacker still, and his form and figure could not be improved upon in a thousand years of trying. When he looks at me, I feel… Well, I declare that I feel positively weak with desire!”

She giggled and fluttered her fingers in front of her face. On the ring finger of her left hand reposed the enormous diamond engagement ring placed there by her new fiancé, Sir Daniel Rochester, to whom her parents had recently betrothed her. The brilliant stone twinkled in the soft lamplight. Portia truly did not know of which she was more envious, the ring and the betrothal that came with it or Victoria’s sensual nocturnal adventures with the handsome cloaked stranger, the stranger who most decidedly was not Sir Daniel.

“Tell me again what he did to you,” she begged her friend, agog for ever more salacious details. Lady Victoria blushed prettily, the crimson bloom accelerating the pallor of her otherwise white cheeks.

“Well,” she said, “he kissed my neck over and over, as I’ve told you. He kissed it so passionately that I began to fear I would be marked. Then he began to kiss me lower down, on my… on my breasts. I was wearing my nightgown, as I’ve told you, and he… he pulled it down to beneath my bosom so that I was fully exposed here.” She indicated her round full breasts to her friend, who gasped. Victoria’s blush deepened and her breath quickened as she went on:

“He took each of my nipples into his mouth in turn. And such a beautiful mouth at that! Oh, Portia, you can have no idea what it felt like, to have such a handsome and commanding personage as he is direct his attentions so thoroughly to my unclothed bosom! I felt that I was transported to heaven, so divine was the experience! And then,” she lowered her voice to a whisper, “just when I thought that I quite literally had died of sheer happiness and was amongst the angels themselves, he… Oh, Portia my darling, he… he touched my private parts…!”

“Go on,” breathed Portia, her eyes wide, feeling a growing heat and moistness in the vicinity of her own sex. “Tell me at once what he did! Pray omit no detail, however trifling it may appear.”

“I declare that I am so mortified that I cannot tell you unless I hide my face,” Victoria said. She snatched up an antique fan that had belonged to her grandmother from the dressing-table. Covering her face so that only her bewitching light-green eyes were visible over the top of the ornamental accoutrement, she continued in a whisper:

“He parted the lips of my sex, Portia, and then he put his fingers inside me! When he found a part of me that I never thought to have a man touch and he began to… to palpate it somehow, I thought that I should faint clean away from the feelings of… of pleasure and desire he produced in me.”

“And you say that he just… appeared… in your bedchamber one night recently?” said Portia, her breasts heaving with arousal and jealousy. She was a beautiful woman in her own right, with no shortage of suitors, but she was bored with her life and with her suitors and she envied Victoria her thrilling midnight experiences.

“I’ve told you before,” said Victoria impatiently, her cheeks still flushed at the recollection of the stranger and the feelings he had engendered in her. “On each of the times he has come, I was woken suddenly as from a dream to see my bedchamber thick with mist. I tell you not one word of an untruth, Portia, when I say that I could not see my own hand in front of my face, so thick was it. Then, out of the gloom, he appeared at my bedside, a look upon his face that seemed both… well, hungry, somehow, and also as if… as if he liked what he saw when he looked at me.”

“And he has returned twice, three times since…?” questioned Portia eagerly. “And will undoubtedly come again?”

“Oh, undoubtedly,” said Victoria confidently. “He has sworn to me that he will return to bring me back with him to his castle. To live, I mean. He has sworn also that his love for me is as strong as mine for him. I declare, Portia, that I think about him every minute of every day. I love him so much that it is an actual physical pain to even think of ever being parted from him.”

“What on earth will Sir Daniel say if you go off with this mysterious foreign Count with the delightfully sensuous accent from who-knows-where?” demanded Portia excitedly. “What will he do, come to that?”

“I don’t give that much for Sir Daniel,” Victoria replied defiantly, clicking her fingers. “He was my parents’ choice, not mine. I only care for my Count. Oh, and there is something else, Portia, something which you must swear on your life never to tell!”

“I swear on my life and my soul,” said Portia solemnly. “What is it?” Victoria unwound the soft chiffon scarf from around her slim white neck with trembling fingers.

“This,” she whispered dramatically. Portia stared wide-eyed at the two livid red marks on the side of her friend’s neck. The whiteness of Victoria’s skin made the marks, which looked almost like holes, or bites, stand out all the more starkly. “See, Portia? See how he has put his mark on me. He says it means that I am his, that he owns me and will forever, even till the end of time.”

“That’s it,” exclaimed Portia, her own voice trembling now. “I want to see this Count of yours for myself. I intend to conceal myself somehow in your bedchamber when next he comes. When do you expect him again?”

“Tonight,” replied her friend, her snowy-white breasts heaving so violently that they threatened to escape from the confines of her gown. “But you must promise to keep silent and not draw his attention to you in any way. He would be angry to find that I had betrayed him after swearing so faithfully to keep my own counsel on the matter!” Portia dismissed her friend’s fears with a wave of her small white hand.

“He will not even know that I am here, I promise you,” she assured Victoria, who bit down doubtfully nonetheless on her soft lower lip. “I shall conceal myself over there,” Portia continued, “in your water-closet. Then I shall see for myself exactly what manner of man your Count is.”

“Oh, Portia!” cried Victoria ecstatically. “He is the most wonderful man in the whole world! There is no other like him in all of England. I love him so much that my heart positively aches with longing to see him again. You must help me with my bath and toilette after supper. I want to look my best for him. Will you help me to curl my hair and to choose my prettiest nightgown to wear?”

“Of course I will,” said Portia, just as a gentle knock sounded on the bedchamber door and a maid entered before curtsying deeply to the two young women on the bed.

“If you please, Lady Victoria,” she said quietly, “a cold supper is laid out in your private sitting-room for you and Lady Portia.”

“Thank you, Melanie,” replied Victoria, climbing down from the big bed. “Oh, and Melanie,” she added as she and Portia made to move in the direction of the door which adjoined Victoria’s private sitting-room, “I will take my bath immediately after supper. Lady Portia will be joining me as she is to stay with me overnight. Will you please see to it that everything is in readiness?”

“Yes, Milady,” replied the servant, curtsying deeply once more and standing humbly to one side as the two young ladies of quality swept past her on their way to supper. “Of course, Milady.” The young ladies were too busy chattering and laughing excitedly together to hear her.


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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