BySandra Harris, writer at


Having witnessed the death, first-hand and in his own cellar, of Lady Portia Delancey-Tate, Count Dracula was feeling pleased with himself as he stalked through the corridors of Birney Castle on his way back to his own private quarters. All in all, he mused, it had been a productive week for him. He laughed to himself, a grim humourless laugh, as he remembered the events of the night before last.

Carrying the unconscious forms of Lady Victoria Strauss, Lady Portia and Lady Victoria’s maid, a girl called Melanie, he had scaled the high walls of Camden House. It would have been an impossible feat for an ordinary man but Count Dracula was no ordinary man. In no time at all, he and the three women were safely ensconsed in the back of his private carriage, which was then driven furiously back to Birney Castle in the dead of night by Dracula’s servant and gatekeeper, the hunchbacked Igor.

They reached the castle safely before dawn. Victoria and Melanie were each taken to separate rooms and placed in the care of the nude handmaidens. Portia was brought to the dungeons where she’d eventually woken up, terrified and disorientated. When he’d woken up himself, Count Dracula had fully seduced and then vampirised Victoria. She’d be his property forever now. And, as a nice little gift to himself, he still had the seduction and vampirisation of Victoria’s maid Melanie to look forward to.

Dracula’s finely-cut lips drew back in a cruel smile as he thought about Melanie. He remembered the look of horror on her face as she’d opened Lady Victoria’s bedroom door to investigate the noises she’d heard and there had been Dracula, his eyes red and his fangs fully extended, standing over an unconscious Portia. He’d had to decide on the spot whether or not to kill her.

A quick scan of her face and form had revealed a shapely body beneath her drab maid’s frock and a mass of pretty brown hair underneath the mob cap she wore. She was not beautiful, but he saw something in her wide brown eyes and generous mouth that intrigued him. On impulse, he’d decided to take her with him too.

He’d put her to sleep as he’d done to Victoria and carried her down the steep walls of Camden House with the other two women. He did not regret his decision. She was a juicy little morsel and he looked forward to initiating her into his world when he had a moment to himself.

Now, however, he had pressing needs that needed to be attended to immediately. The way his three whores had clawed and pawed at Portia’s bare breasts, buttocks and private parts before tearing the flesh from her naked body and bathing in her blood had excited him immeasurably. He needed relief. Now.

“Get on the bed!” he snapped at Gloria, who awaited him in his private rooms. “I want you on all fours. Now, woman!” Gloria scurried to do his bidding. She knew better than to dilly-dally. When she was positioned in front of him on the bed the way he’d ordered, he stood behind her, adjusting his clothing. When he was ready, he thrust his stiff swollen member between the pink juicy lips of her sex. She cried out with the intensity of his onslaught. Dracula merely laughed and thrust harder.

“Bitch! Slut! Whore! Jezebel!” roared Dracula as he serviced his handmaiden. He pulled on her long black hair, yanking her head back painfully, and struck her repeatedly on her hips and bare buttocks. “Tell me what you are, slut!” he added, giving her a ferocious slap on her right hip.

“I’m a slut, Master!” cried out Gloria. “I’m your slut, your bitch, your whore! I love you, Master!”

“That’s right, slut,” said Dracula as he emptied himself inside her womb with a triumphant shout. Afterwards, when they lay with their limbs tangled in the sweat-soaked sheets, Gloria dared to touch his bare chest tentatively and whisper:

“Please, Master, is… is Lady Victoria to stay here at the castle with us permanently…? And… and do I have to serve her…?” With pounding heart, she waited for his reply.

“She’s staying for as long as Anna knows nothing about her and, yes, you do have to serve her,” he said, before yawning hugely and turning over to sleep. For a long time afterwards, Gloria lay awake, pressed up against his bare back which was now clammy with dried sweat.

It was bad enough that she had to play second fiddle to Countess Anna without a new mistress suddenly appearing on the scene. She, Gloria, should be the Count’s only mistress. Usurping Anna would be difficult enough, given that she was pregnant with the Count’s child, but getting rid of this Victoria creature, that might not be as hard as it seemed. If the wildly jealous Anna knew about Victoria, surely she would see to Victoria’s destruction herself…? But Anna didn’t know about Victoria. Yet… An evil smile spreading slowly across her face, Gloria closed her eyes and drifted gently off to sleep.


Dr. John H. Watson, M.D., hurried up the stairs of 221B, Baker Street, the evening newspaper clutched tightly under his arm. After a hasty apology to Mrs. Hudson, the housekeeper, whom he had almost sent flying across the hall in his haste, he burst through the door of the rooms he shared with Sherlock Holmes with the exclamation:

“The game’s afoot, old boy! There’s been another one of those perfectly beastly ‘Bedchamber Abductions,’ as the papers are calling them now. Shall I fetch your hat and coat, no doubt you’ll be wanting to get right to work-”

He broke off in dismay at the sight of the world’s greatest consulting detective stretched out on the couch in the brownest of brown studies, the cocaine-bottle and the syringe lying on the floor beside him. His head reposed on the arm-rest and his longish dark hair, perpetually in need of cutting, hung down behind him. One arm was flung across his closed eyes.

“Dash it all, Holmes, you haven’t…!” cried the good doctor. “I simply don’t believe it. After all the times we’ve talked about what that filthy stuff is doing to your health, not to mention your brain cells! After all your promises! Well, clearly we now know what a promise from the world’s greatest consulting detective is worth-”

“Oh, keep your petticoats on, Watson,” burst in Sherlock Holmes petulantly. “I haven’t touched the blasted stuff. I was merely thinking about doing it, that’s all. And I’m sure that you would scarcely blame me if you knew what a trying day I’ve had.” The great detective heaved himself into a sitting position with a huge sigh and rubbed his eyes with his knuckles.

“Why, what’s happened?” said Dr. Watson, seating himself in the armchair he usually occupied and crossing his legs. Holmes gave a theatrical shudder.

“Eugh, it’s that bloody Lestrade again,” he whined. “Dragging me down to the morgue to look at stinky corpses. As if he thinks that that’s my favourite thing to do in the whole world or something!”

“Bad, was it?” sympathised Dr. Watson, who knew how Holmes liked to be babied and cossetted when he was upset. Holmes shuddered again and said:

“Eugh, my dear boy, you can simply have no idea how frightfully horrid it was! A ‘floater,’ as they call it in the trade. Dragged out of the Thames only this morning. Been in the water a month or more, they think. Every colour of the rainbow and, dear Lord, the stench! I almost puked up Mrs. Hudson’s delicious breakfast kippers. Quite honestly, I don’t know how I managed to avoid doing so, all over Lestrade’s hobnailed policeman’s boots. I don’t believe I’ve ever smelled such vile putrefaction in my life-” He broke off and dry-heaved, his striking countenance a sickly green in colour. “Brandy, Watson, quick!” he gasped dramatically. “If you love me, Watson, please, the brandy!”

Watson jumped to his feet and did the honours. Only when Holmes was tucked up snugly in his own favourite armchair with a blanket over his knees and a glass of brandy in his hand did he say:

“So, Watson old boy, what exactly was it that you were bawling and roaring about when you came charging in here like a demented rhinoceros just now? Something in the evening paper, was it?”

“I wasn’t bawling and roaring,” replied Dr. Watson, stung. “I merely wished to inform you that two young noblewomen, Lady Victoria Strauss of Camden House and Lady Portia Delancey-Tate, the daughter of Sir Frederick Delancey-Tate, the MP, were abducted from Lady Victoria’s bedchamber the night before last. The bedroom window was found wide-open, as in the case of Lady Anna Carfax, though as the bedroom is once more on the third-floor and it’s a sheer drop to the grounds below, that doesn’t appear to help us much.”

“Any clues?” said Holmes, not troubling to hide an enormous bored yawn.

“Not as such, no,” said Dr. Watson, “but a maidservant is also missing. Lady Victoria’s personal maid, a young girl called Melanie Something. Strange, that, don’t you think, Holmes? That a maidservant should also be missing?” Holmes shrugged.

“Not really,” he said. “Clearly she disturbed the abductor as he went about his fiendish work and he had no choice but to bring her along with him too.”

“So it is a he, then, you think, and not an it…?” remarked Watson. Holmes rewarded him with a filthy look.

“If by that, Watson,” Holmes said sharply, “you are implying that some sort of supernatural agency is at work in the nocturnal abductions of these aristocratic young ladies, then you may go and take a running jump at yourself off a long pier.”

“Well, really, Holmes!” expostulated Dr. Watson, his whiskered face reddening. “You are undoubtedly the rudest, most infuriating-”

“If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times,” interrupted Holmes, “that this consulting practice has its feet very much on the ground. No ghosts need apply. I’m surprised at you, Watson, a man of science and medicine and supposed logic and reason, for thinking that any agency other than purely criminal is at work here.”

“Then why no ransom notes?” burst out Dr. Watson. “Lady Anna Carfax has been missing since November of last year. Her family have received no ransom notes for her safe return in exchange for money or goods. I guarantee you that if these new abductions are the work of the same person or persons, no ransom notes will be issued this time either. The perpetrator, or perpetrators, as the case may be, are clearly not motivated by money. But if not money, then what? Could his, or their, motives possibly be sexual? If so, then may God take pity on the souls of those poor abducted young women-”

“And may God have mercy on my poor soul if I have to listen to any more twaddle about missing women or drowned tobacconists who smell worse than a fish-supper that’s been left out in the sun for a month!” cried Holmes, throwing up his hands for effect. “I’m so bored with mysteries and puzzles and things that require me to use my brain all the time. Can’t we ever have some fun around here for a change?” He folded his arms crossly and stuck out his lower lip in an expression of comingled obduracy and dissatisfaction that Dr. Watson recognised immediately.

“So, what would you rather do, then?” he asked the great detective placatingly. He knew perfectly well that if Holmes was not wheedled and gentled out of this foul mood of his, it could easily last the whole night and quite possibly into the following day as well. For answer, Sherlock Holmes tossed aside his comfort blanket and indicated with a downward glance his intimate area.

“And what would you have old Docky-Wocky do for you, then?” Dr. Watson said in his best wheedling tones. It never failed to amaze him, the way the world’s greatest detective was always in the mood for sexual jiggery-pokery, regardless of what important cases he was involved in. “Mister Sucky-Wucky or Mister Handy-Wandy…?” Holmes thought for a moment and then said petulantly:

“Mister Sucky-Wucky, I think. No, wait, Mister Handy-Wandy. Oh, I can’t decide! It’s too hard!”

“You can always have both, you know,” said Dr. Watson fondly, dropping to his knees before his friend and beginning to adjust the great detective’s clothing in order to expose his manhood. Holmes smiled in the manner of a child who has just been told he may have rice pudding and jelly and ice-cream for pudding instead of just one or the other. “You’ve been a good little detective lately.”

“I love you, Docky-Wocky,” said Holmes, leaning back in his armchair and closing his eyes blissfully as Dr. Watson got to work on the great detective’s flaccid male member using both Mister Sucky-Wucky and Mister Handy-Wandy to excellent effect. “I really, truly love you.”

“And I you, Shirley-Whirley,” replied the good doctor, though he was hampered somewhat by way of having his mouth full at the time of answering. “And I you…”


“I declare that I simply do not know why you are sulking,” said Mrs. Gwendolyn Waterstone to her husband Jonathan, the police inspector in charge of investigating the kidnappings of aristocratic young ladies now referred to in the press as ‘The Bedchamber Abductions.’

While she spoke, she mopped an unsavoury-looking mess of mashed carrot and turnip off the face of an enormously fat, ginger-haired baby in a highchair. The baby grumbled and groused and spat up another globulous rivulet of partially-digested food.

“Sulking?” countered Jonathan, annoyed. “I’m not sulking. I’m merely wondering why marital intimacies are still being denied me when the baby is now old enough to practically cook her own bloody dinner, that’s all. And let’s not forget the nine months of the pregnancy when the playground gates were firmly locked against me then as well. It’s now over a year, I believe, since I’ve been permitted to avail of my marital rights and share my own wife’s bed. How long is this state of affairs going to last, that’s all I’m wondering…? A man has his needs. It’s so long now since I’ve had mine satisfied that it’s a wonder my balls haven’t shrivelled up and fallen off with disuse.”

“Don’t be so utterly revolting, Jonathan,” replied Gwendolyn, her face flushing a dull red. “It’s not my fault I’m still nursing the baby, is it? It just doesn’t feel right to be engaging in… in activities of a carnal nature when I’m nursing. Surely you want only the best for our precious little Victoria…?” As if on cue, their precious little Victoria belched hugely and flung a blob of mashed carrot across the table, where it landed on her father’s official police notebook.

“For Christ’s sake!” screamed Jonathan, leaping to his feet as if he’d been scalded and scraping the mess off his notebook with a knife-edge. “Look what she’s done! My bloody police notebook! Look at it! It’s ruined! I’ve got to report to my superiors this afternoon about this new spate of unexplained disappearances of rich bloody women and my bloody notebook’s covered in… in this shite…!”

“Don’t be profane, Jonathan,” said Gwendolyn piously as she cleared away the lunch things. “It’s not a good example to set to dear Victoria.” Dear Victoria chose that precise moment to fill her diaper to its utmost, to the accompaniment of the most delightful squelching noises and pungent aromas.

“That’s it!” said Jonathan, grabbing up his coat and hat and flouncing to the door. “I’m going back to work. At least I know I’ll get some peace and quiet down at the station.”

“Aren’t you going to say goodbye to sweet little Victoria?” called Gwendolyn after his departing form, just as sweet little Victoria opened the floodgates properly and vomited what remained of her carrot and turnip mash all down the front of her little frock. With a sigh, Gwendolyn set about cleaning her up. Meanwhile, her husband marched heedlessly down the garden path and collided at the front gate with a young woman carrying a heavy basket.

“Jonathan!” exclaimed Madeleine Wickerman, Jonathan’s sister-in-law. Her pretty face was the picture of disappointment. “You’re not going back to work already, are you? I was delayed at the market. Oh, and I was so looking forward to seeing you at lunch!”

“Lunch is over,” said Jonathan grimly. He felt harassed from all sides today. There was no respite to be found anywhere. Not at work, where he was hounded night and day by his superiors about these blasted so-called ‘Bedroom Abductions,’ and not at home where the reasonably serene nature of his former domestic existence had been turned on its head by a fat, ginger-haired baby girl called Victoria, after their most gracious Queen.

“But if you’re going to be working late again, that means that I may not see you again till tomorrow!” said Madeleine, her china-blue eyes beginning to brim over with unshed tears. “I never see you these days! You’re always working,” she added, tossing her long golden ringlets of hair over her shoulders. As she did so, her big round breasts jiggled in the low-cut gown she wore and as usual Jonathan found his eyes immediately drawn to them. He put a hand on her plump white arm and said, as placatingly as he could manage it:

“I’m sorry, Maddy. But I’m having trouble at work, Gwennie’s obsessed with the baby and pays hardly any attention to me at all any more and Victoria’s so much more… well, so much more trouble than I thought a baby would be. I just have so much on my plate these days. I know I’ve been neglecting you. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

Slightly mollified, Madeleine smiled her prettiest smile and said:

“When can we be alone, then, dearest Jonathan?” Jonathan thought a minute, then said:

“Gwennie’s taking the baby to your mother’s tomorrow for lunch, isn’t she? I can pop back at lunchtime for a bit. We’ll have the house to ourselves.”

“Pop back at lunchtime for a bit…?” echoed Madeleine, a warning tone in her voice that Jonathan well recognised. “Is that all I mean to you? You’re supposed to be leaving Gwennie for me, remember, and that’s how you refer to me…?”

“You know what I mean,” apologised Jonathan. “Look, I really must go or old Broadhurst will have my guts for garters. If I don’t see you tonight at supper, I’ll see you tomorrow at lunchtime, all right?” Bending his head to whisper in her ear, he added: “I’ll ride you ragged, you little minx. I’ll pull the titties off you and wallop that pretty little arse till you squeal.”

Madeleine giggled, wide-eyed, and Jonathan planted a quick, furtive kiss on her red, full lips. Not furtive enough, however. Gwendolyn Waterstone, standing at the kitchen window with the baby in her arms and tears pouring down her tired face, had witnessed the entire exchange. When she saw her husband swagger off down the road with more spring in his step than he’d had earlier and her pretty younger sister stroll up the garden path with a smile on her face and her basket swinging from her hand, she turned away from the window and took the baby upstairs for her nap.


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]



Latest from our Creators