BySandra Harris, writer at


Portia opened her eyes. For several moments after so doing, she was still in blackness and none the wiser as to her whereabouts. It was only when her eyes became accustomed to the gloom that she realised that she was in a dungeon. She was chained to the wall of a damp, mouldering, foul-smelling dungeon. The meanest of barred windows set into the solid stone wall did little to alleviate the darkness. Tonight was a moonless night.

Her dress was torn and her hair had come loose from the pins with which she had secured it in Victoria’s opulent, comfortable bedchamber. That seemed like centuries ago now. Her body felt sore and shaky, as if whoever had transported her to this dreadful place had neglected to take sufficient care of her comfort in so doing. A sudden squeaking and scurrying around her feet, no longer clad in their satin slippers, caused her to jump violently and cry out. Rats…! This horrible dungeon was surely infested with rats!

“Get away from me!” she screamed, tears of sheer terror streaming down her face. She had a mortal fear of rats. They made her heart pound like a jackhammer and the blood freeze in her veins. She struggled with all her feeble strength against the chains which bound her to the wall. When she only succeeded in hurting her wrists, she slumped back hopelessly against the damp stone wall.

Was there no escape from this dismal prison? Knowing in her heart that she was trapped here until the strange man who had abducted her had no further use for her, Lady Portia Delancey-Tate burst into harsh, grating sobs that felt as if they were being dragged from the depths of her very soul. She cried until the sound of her prison door opening shocked her into frightened silence.

“Well, well, and what a fetching sight you make today, Lady Portia,” came the cold, mocking tones of the man known as Count Dracula. He crossed the small cell in two strides and took hold of Portia’s chin, tilting her head back so that she was forced to look up into his handsome, unforgiving face. “I trust that you now know exactly what happens to rich, idle young ladies who poke their aristocratic noses into that which does not concern them…?”

“I order you to release me at once,” demanded Lady Portia in as imperious a voice as she could muster, given that she was very much at a disadvantage against the man who had taken her prisoner. “My father is Lord Frederick Delancey-Tate, the Member of Parliament, and if it is ransom money you seek, I am sure that he will pay any sum you request of him.” The Count laughed, a horrible cold sound that sent a shiver of apprehension down Portia’s spine.

“I don’t want your father’s money,” he said contemptuously. “I have an ample sufficiency of your human money. You are here, my dear Lady Portia, because you interfered in a private matter of mine which was none of your affair. The only question that remains to be answered,” he continued in mock-thoughtful tones, casually fondling her breasts in her torn gown while still holding her chin steady, “is do I keep you for myself or do I allow my pets to have you as a treat…?”

He inclined his head backwards towards the door. It was only then that Portia saw the three creatures that lingered behind Count Dracula at the door to her cell. They were women, she saw as they came closer, beckoned over by Dracula, but they were not like any women she had ever seen in her life.

They had long, lustrous hair that fell below their hips and their voluptuous bodies were squeezed into tightly-laced gowns. Portia, whose own figure had always been considered perfectly-proportioned, had never seen such full bosoms nor such slender waists.

Their faces were extraordinarily beautiful but chalk-white, almost as if they were… dead, somehow. All three of them were smiling as they approached, and the sight of those terrible, dead smiles made Portia’s blood run cold, even more than the razor-sharp fangs which she spied in the mouths of each of them. Portia screamed wildly as one of them touched her bosom with ice-cold, clammy hands. Count Dracula laughed and tore Portia’s gown all the way down to her waist, fully exposing her soft white breasts to the hungry, rapacious gazes of the three she-devils.

“PLEASE…!” she begged Count Dracula in desperation. “Please, let me go home and I will give you anything at all in my power! Please, I’m begging you, please…!” The Count merely shrugged and turned away.

“It is too late,” he said coldly. “As you have sown, so shall you reap.” Portia felt her bladder give way and a stream of warm urine drench her legs as the three she-bitches fell upon her at a signal from their Master. Count Dracula laughed as they tore the remains of her dress from her body and clawed at her breasts, her hair, her buttocks and her private parts.

They sucked on her nipples and insinuated their long, cold fingers inside her. One of them, surely the most bewitchingly beautiful of all three with long, light-brown hair and light-green eyes, laughed evilly as she kissed Portia on her mouth before biting down hard on the chained woman’s lower lip, drawing blood.

“Victoria…?” sobbed Portia in dawning horror. The other woman only continued to laugh crazily and paw at Portia’s naked body. Portia recoiled from her former friend, her face a mask of sheer bewilderment and terror. But for the hair and the eyes and the bountiful figure, there was no trace left of the gentle, refined Lady Victoria Strauss in the godless creature in Count Dracula’s cellar. She was gone forever.

“And so am I,” thought Portia in a moment of devastating clarity. “And so am I.” The grotesque thing occupying the body that had once been Victoria’s opened her mouth to a terrifyingly unnatural degree and took a savage bite out of Portia’s neck.

As his three she-devils tore the flesh from Portia’s body and first drank, then bathed in her blood, Count Dracula watched the proceedings with a grim satisfaction and a mounting excitement. So, the little bitch would interfere in his business, would she? She would interfere in nothing else ever again. He caught a piece of flying, blood-soaked flesh and chewed on it absently, never taking his eyes off his whores and their plaything. No, she would interfere in nothing else ever again. He’d seen to that.


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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