Harker: Not everything you heard about Count Dracula is true!

By Kris Andersson

In the spring of 1897, young solicitor Jonathan Harker leaves behind his fiancée Mina and his Rent Boy lover Renfield and sets off on a business trip from London to the distant Carpathian Mountains.

What begins as a sexual adventure, however, soon becomes a journey into terror as Harker falls victim to dark forces and is unable to resist the depraved authority of his host and captor, the mysterious and charismatic Count Dracula.

Bram Stoker may have told the official version of the Dracula myth but only now can Harker himself speak out about the lust-fuelled, all-consuming, life draining power of an unstoppable force, Nosteratu…the undead!

• Language: English
• Publisher: House of Erotica
• Release date: Sep 18, 2013
• ISBN: 9781783332694

Book preview

life...

Chapter One

IT begins on the evening of May 2 and dinner with the Murrays, the very proper thing for a young English gentleman to do when he is about to leave his fiancée for a journey across Europe on behalf of his employer.

Mr Hawkins would not normally have sent even a junior partner like myself all the way to a distant corner of the continent for a meeting with a client none of us had ever seen but the lure of the aristocracy proved too much for a man of Mr Hawkins’ cautious temperament to resist and the name Dracula and the title Count - even if he wasn’t a trusty English Count - had worked a kind of magic, persuading him that a man of my lowly standing could easily be spared for a few days.

Of course Mina had not been pleased but she had been persuaded that the journey would elevate my status within the firm and therefore speed the chances of an early marriage.

And so here we were tonight at the Murrays’ London home, with Mina trying hard to hide her fears and pretending to be desperately interested in the maps as we looked once again at the journey that would take me via boat, train and carriage to Bistritz in Romania and then on into the Carpathian mountains to Transylvania and the Borgo Pass where, we had been assured in an extensive correspondence, the Count would meet me at his home.

Our distraction for the evening, apart from the endless fussing by Mrs Murray, who’s prime concern seemed to be that I should not catch a cold during my travels, was Mina best friend Lucy, simpering as ever about the men in her life and how she was finding it almost impossible to make the decision on which one should be lucky enough - her words not mine - to marry her.

By ten in the evening I had endured as much as I could of Mina’s stoicism, her mother’s concerns and Lucy’s almost indecent need to talk about love and romance - and anyway there was somewhere I wanted to be before I left for the boat train early the next morning.

And so I took my leave, kissing my fiancée on the cheek as a good suitor should, the only sign of affection a young lady of Mina Murray’s standing in society would allow, even from the man she was planning to marry.

Out in the warm night air, I breathed deeply, smiled as I suddenly felt my pulse quicken and took a cab towards the East End.

I knew there was no decent cabbie would want to take me where I was going so eventually I left him and walked the rest of the way towards Whitechapel, ignoring the squalor and the cries of the women on the street corners, drunk and going about their nocturnal business with a flaunting brazen lack of regard for public decency that the women I had left behind would have been appalled by.

For me, though, their exposed breasts and outrageous manner held no attraction and I ignored their shouts, the cries of: ’Ere ducky, fancy a good time?’ and I descended deeper and deeper into the abyss that was London’s hidden world of squalor and vice.

Eventually, I reached my destination, a dingy courtyard, badly lit by a pale gas flame, where I knocked at a door and waited impatiently for a reply.

After a few minutes I heard the shuffling of feet, the rattle of a key turning in the lock and the door was opened by an old woman, badly dressed, her grey straggly hair falling to her shoulders.

She looked me up and down and said: Well?

Is Mr Renfield at home? I asked, aware that the question, simple and polite, sounded ludicrously out of place in the drab setting.

Oh it’s him you want is it ducky? She took in the smart suit, the neat haircut, the nervous smile and smirked to herself before looking over her shoulder and shouting: Robbie. It’s for you!

Then she stepped aside and pointed towards the gloomy staircase.

Ye’d better gone on up then - sir, she said sullenly. "I suppose Mister Renfield will be waiting for yer."

I ascended the stairs and was about to knock on the door at the top when it opened and there he was, my Robbie, as beautiful this night as he had been the first time I had seen him two months earlier at the corner of Piccadilly and Regent Street, where he had loitered outside Swan and Edgar with a group of young men, eyeing the passers by, knowing exactly what they were looking for.

I stepped into the room and had barely allowed him to close the door when I grabbed him by the front of his waistcoat and pulled him towards me, feeling the first electric surge of his mouth against mine, his tongue thrusting forward to tease mine as our hands roamed over each other, fumbling with buttons, tugging at shirts and vests, pulling down trousers and long johns and then collapsing in a tangled hear onto the creaking bed that sagged beneath our combined weight as we wrestled with each other.

Mina’s chaste kiss was completely forgotten as I pressed my tongue into his mouth and then nibbled, sucked and pinched his nipples as I played with the light dusting of hair in the centre of his chest before moving on down to his groin where his glorious cock was poking, hard and long, through the slit in his long johns, the foreskin already fully retracted to reveal