BySandra Harris, writer at


Dracula strode along the silent, dusty corridors of the castle, his silk-lined cape billowing out behind him as he walked. He was well satisfied with recent events. The unexpected occurrence outside the home of Detective Jonathan Waterstone while he’d been driving past in his carriage had been the icing on the cake of a successful week.

Dracula naturally made it his business to keep abreast of any happenings in The Case Of The Bedchamber Abductions, though of course there were rarely any updates. How could there be, when he himself had been the perpetrator of the abductions, when he himself had been responsible for spiriting away the three noblewomen and one maidservant from their very bedchambers? He did not leave clues behind for bumbling policemen to find. Policemen like Jonathan Waterstone, on whose activities Dracula made it his business to keep himself informed.

Dracula chuckled to himself as he recalled how there had been one activity of Detective Waterstone’s that he had missed. An extra-curricular activity, no less. An extra-marital affair with his pretty sister-in-law Madeleine Wickerman, an affair that had ended in disaster for at least one of the involved parties. Little Maddy Wickerman, with her bounteous bosoms and generous backside, had gone to her eternal rest at the tender age of twenty-four.

Her blood had tasted like ambrosia, the nectar of the gods, to Dracula. Now the wolves of the forest were dividing up her mortal remains, and the wild birds pecking out her eyes, the china-blue eyes that had widened in horror when she’d seen the fangs and the red eyes and realised Dracula’s evil intent. Yes, thought Dracula, it had been a most unexpectedly successful episode in his week, and all the sweeter indeed for having been so completely unforeseen.

Now, however, he had a piece of unfinished business to attend to. He strode through a corridor that led to the castle dungeons, a dismal set of rooms indeed from which escape was virtually impossible. The corridors themselves were dark and damp, illuminated by very few lamps.

The dark didn’t pose any difficulties for Dracula. He loved the dark. He was at home in it. It caressed and comforted him. He drew strength from it. When he reached the room he wanted, he took the keys from his cape and unlocked the door. The girl, as he expected, was crouched in the farthest corners of the bed, her frightened eyes the size of saucers.

“My dear Miss Melanie,” he said smoothly, coming to the bed and seating himself behind her. “I trust my handmaidens have been looking after you satisfactorily?” He reached out a long, elegant hand and caressed her cheek. Though she was not pretty, exactly, she had beautiful brown eyes fringed with long, luxurious lashes and her skin was as soft as velvet. Underneath her dowdy brown maidservants’ frock, too, were hidden small but perfect curves that would fit neatly into a man’s hands. Dracula was a long-time connoisseur of womens’ bodies. He was rarely, if ever, mistaken as to a young lady’s potential.

“Why have you brought me here?” sobbed Melanie, former maidservant to Lady Victoria Strauss of Camden House in London. “What has happened to my mistress? What do you intend to do to me? This place frightens me, I hate it! I want to go home to Camden House!”

“Shhh,” said Dracula soothingly. “So many questions will only serve to furrow your pretty brow.” He stared deep into the young woman’s eyes for a long time. Helpless to look away, she could only submit to his superior, much stronger, will. When Dracula’s mind-control had worked its customary magic, Melanie began to unbutton the front of her drab maid’s frock, revealing small white breasts as perfect as anything Dracula could have imagined.

“That’s better,” he murmured, reaching out and taking hold of them. As he’d envisioned, they fitted neatly into the palms of his hands. “It is always better to serve me than to fight me.”

“Yes, Master,” breathed Melanie adoringly. She lay down without demur so that Dracula could take her virginity. When the pain came, she welcomed it as one might do an old, much-loved friend.


“My Countess is happy today,” remarked Valeria as she undressed a heavily-pregnant Anna for her bath. Valeria, of course, knew everything there was to know about the life Anna led within the castle walls. She was therefore fully aware that Anna’s good mood was due to the love-making and punishment session she had just enjoyed with her husband, Count Dracula.

“Mmmm, I am happy, aren’t I?” replied Anna, stretching luxuriously and yawning and smiling at the same time. “I only wish the Count did not have to hurry away to attend a dreary meeting in London with his solicitor. It feels like he is forever rushing away from me to attend to his various boring business interests.” The smile left her face as she raised both her arms and allowed Valeria to pull her gown up over her head, leaving her naked underneath.

“You know that the Count is a busy and very important man with many business interests,” said Valeria placatingly, taking Anna’s hand and leading her mistress into the adjoining bathroom and down the steps into the sunken bath. Valeria was naked too, naturally, as she was now merely a lowly nude handmaiden and was obliged to be nude at all times for Dracula’s pleasure. One never knew when he might wish to engage in sexual relations.

Standing in the bath beside her mistress, she picked up a soft washcloth and a cake of perfumed soap from the side of the bath and began to wash Anna’s naked body. Anna’s pregnancy had reached its full term and her belly was enormously swollen, as were her milky-white breasts which would soon be suckling the Count’s baby son or daughter. Anna moaned with pleasure as Valeria washed between her legs and expertly caressed her sensitive clitoris at the same time.

“Yes, I know the Count is a busy and important man,” Anna said impatiently, “but it feels like he is nearly always absent from the castle. I miss him, Valeria! Don’t you miss him too?”

“Yes,” admitted Valeria quietly. The truth was that she missed the Count most dreadfully, though her sexual and enduring emotional love for Anna were the things that helped her to get through the lonely days and nights without him. The Count hadn’t made love to her, Valeria, in an age. He had his new chief handmaiden Gloria to take care of his sexual needs now, though of course the Count was a man who could never achieve sexual satisfaction with just one woman. He was insatiable. That was both his curse and his blessing.

Valeria had a sneaking suspicion too that the Count had a new love-interest secreted somewhere in the castle, though of course she wouldn’t have dreamed of mentioning such a thing to Anna, who must not be upset while she was carrying the Count’s child.

Now, Valeria soaped Anna’s breasts and back and bottom and tried not to feel jealous at the sight of the marks of Dracula’s whip that striped Anna’s soft white skin. She knew that Anna lived for the Count’s punishments as much as she did for his expert lovemaking. She, Valeria, still had her uses, however. Discarding the washcloth, she slipped her fingers between Anna’s thighs and brought her swiftly to orgasm with the clever application of finger-tips to throbbing clitoris. Anna sighed and moaned gratefully and afterwards embraced Valeria with the words:

“I don’t know what I’d do without you, Valeria. I love you so much, do you know that?”

“I love you too, Countess,” replied Valeria fervently, meaning it with every fibre of her being.

“What’s this?” said Anna in surprise when they returned to the bedchamber, naked and dripping wet. On the four-poster bed which Anna shared with the Count lay a sheet of parchment. Anna picked it up and read the words on it curiously. “What on earth? Look here, Valeria. It says: ‘Whom is he hiding in the tower?’ What on earth can this mean? Who is hiding in the tower? And what does it have to do with the Count?” She looked at Valeria, her china-blue eyes full of questions.

“Throw it away,” begged Valeria, to whom had come suddenly the most dreadful feeling of foreboding. “Pay it no mind. It means nothing. Nothing at all!”

“I doubt that, Valeria,” said Anna slowly, her eyes wide. “I somehow doubt that very much…”


Slowly, made cumbersome by her great size, Anna climbed the stairs to the room at the top of the tower. Valeria, her expression one of fear for Anna and what she might find out tonight, followed close behind. In truth, Valeria was worried sick about whom- or what- Anna might find in the tower room. She had a strong suspicion too as to who had sent the nasty, underhanded anonymous note. Who else but the sly, sneaky Gloria would wish to alert Anna to a possible usurper in the castle?

At that moment in time, Valeria both feared for Anna and hated Gloria in equal amounts. If either Anna or the baby were hurt or distressed as a result of what they might find in the tower, she made up her mind to kill the bitch Gloria, to rip every silky black hair out of her head and tear her limb from limb regardless of the consequences to herself. Even if Count Dracula threw her out of the castle and cast her off forever, she would make Gloria pay for the damage she’d caused.

“The key is in the door,” whispered Anna when they reached the tower room. The two women had brought with them a selection of hairgrips with which to attempt to pick the lock, but there was apparently no need. Whoever was responsible for keeping this door locked (Gloria? wondered Valeria) had grievously- or deliberately- failed in their duty. Now more than ever, Valeria feared for Anna’s safety and peace of mind. There could be no good lurking behind that heavy wooden door.

“Don’t do it,” she urged Anna in a whisper as Anna began to turn the key in the stiff old lock. “We can go back downstairs and go about our business, pretend we never saw that stupid note.”

“I have to do it,” replied Anna desperately, as Valeria had known she would. Valeria sighed heavily and stood by as Anna unlocked the door and pushed it open. The first thing they saw was that the room was as opulently furnished as the ones which Anna shared with the Count. While the rest of the castle fell to rack and ruin, the Count was particular about keeping his own rooms in meticulous order. Though he could live like a Spartan should the need arise, when it was not necessary to do so he was a man who enjoyed his comforts.

Beside the door stood a magnificent suit of armour complete with a vicious-looking axe. The carpet was dark-blue and deep and plush. The drapes were similarly-coloured and were obviously made from the richest cloth. The bed was a four-poster and was dressed in the most luxurious of bed-linens. There was a dressing-table covered in scent bottles and jars of handcreams, face creams and body lotion. There was a jewellery box overflowing with gorgeous necklaces, bracelets and rings. The most fabulous gown of midnight-blue Anna had ever seen hung from the wardrobe door. The worst insult of all was the assortment of punishment whips hanging from the wall. So he punished her too.

Anna felt a pain such as she had never experienced before when she looked at the beautiful room and the fine, expensive things which it contained. Dracula must surely hold the occupant of the room in high esteem indeed to lavish such finery and luxuries upon her. The pain was like a knife, stabbing her in her belly. It almost took her breath away. Valeria, sensing her mistress’s distress, moved closer to her and slipped her hand into Anna’s, who squeezed it gratefully in return.

The door to the water-closet opened suddenly and a beautifully-gowned woman with long, light-brown hair and amazing light-green eyes stepped into the room. When she saw the two women, she stopped and stared for a moment, then her beautiful features broke out into a dazzling smile that had more than a hint of menace in it. Anna and Valeria knew immediately that she was no longer human, though she may once have been. She was a vampire, like them. Dracula had turned her. Her light-green eyes flashed like emeralds, but behind them she was dead. There was no longer any life there, any compassion.

“Countess Anna and her little lapdog Valeria,” she sneered. “How kind of you both to pay me a visit.”

“Victoria…?” exclaimed Anna, shocked. “Lady Victoria Strauss of Camden House, London?”

“Do you know her?” said Valeria in a whisper.

“She’s- she was- a celebrated London socialite,” said Anna. Valeria could feel how much her mistress trembled, how much it cost her to stand and face this woman, this possible usurper of her position in the Count’s household and, most importantly, in his heart.

“I no longer have need for all that,” said Victoria dismissively. Her smile turned sly and even more menacing. “I have secured for myself the greatest prize of all. I have Count Dracula now.”

“He’s my husband, not yours” said Anna, her voice shaking as the pains of jealousy continued to stab relentlessly at her belly. Victoria laughed, an evil, hideous sound.

“Look around you,” she said, shrugging elegantly. “See for yourself how well he treats me. He would not do all this for a mere handmaiden who is not even permitted to wear clothing.” She cast a contemptuous glance at Valeria’s nudity. Valeria felt the urge to cover her breasts and her thick black bush with her hands. Victoria then stared even more scornfully at Anna’s enormously swollen belly.

“You’re just a prize cow to the Count,” she said coldly. “A brood mare, nothing more. When the brat is out of your belly, he’ll have no further use for you. He has told me so himself.”

“You lying bitch! I don’t believe you!” Anna screamed. She launched herself at Victoria and scratched at her face. Victoria hissed and threw Anna easily away from her. Anna fell against a table and banged her hip. She groaned and struggled to right herself once more, her breathing ragged and her hair falling forward over her face.

“Now get out of my chambers, both of you,” said Victoria contemptuously. “You’re both utterly pathetic specimens of womanhood. No wonder he prefers me to either of you. Now, get out, will you?” she went on, turning away from the two women to sit at her dressing-table and lift the lid from a pot of face-cream. “The Count will be here shortly and I need to make myself pretty for him. He likes it when I make myself pretty for him.”

She raised her eyes to the dressing-table mirror. In the mirror, she saw Valeria standing behind her with the axe from the suit of armour in her hands. While Victoria’s light-green eyes froze in fear, Valeria raised the axe and swung it with all her not inconsiderable strength, cutting off Victoria’s head with one swoop and sending it rolling across the floor to land at Anna’s feet. Triumphantly, Valeria dropped the axe and turned to see Anna doubled over in pain, clutching at her belly. At Anna’s feet, Victoria’s head, the eyes still frozen in fear and surprised, rested in a rapidly-widening pool of water.

“Anna…?” whispered Valeria, shocked.

“My waters have broken, Valeria,” moaned Anna, her face creasing in pain. “The Count’s child is coming…”


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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