Author: Rich Bottles Jr.
Date: 2013-09-05 07:00:00+00:00
Description: Introducing the complete set of erotica stories from the controversial anthology, "The Big Book of Bizarro," by Burning Bulb Publishing.Featuring the following twelve bizarro Hell of a Band by J.T. SeateLester's Ominous Gift by Eva HoreThe Gathering by Madeleine SwannWomb With a View by Reina SobinLove Bites by Andrée LachapellePomegranate Moth by Richard GodwinSonata for Insects and Violins by Peter BaltenspergerFrosty by Alice JacobsFun House by Kimber ValeButterfly Kisses by Duncan MeeceSexual Madness by Rose de FerTerra Cupidus by Robin Tiergarten

The Big Book Of Bizarro Erotica Collection

Edited By Rich Bottles Jr. and Gary Lee Vincent

Burning Bulb Publishing

P.O. Box 4721

Bridgeport, WV  26330-4721
www.BurningBulbPublishing.com

PUBLISHER’S NOTE:  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2011 Burning Bulb Publishing. All rights reserved.

Cover art by Jon Towers; used under license.

Kindle Edition

One Hell of a Band
J.T. Seate

Lester's Ominous Gift
Eva Hore

The Gathering
Madeleine Swann

Womb With a View
Reina Sobin

Love Bites
Andrée Lachapelle

Pomegranate Moth
Richard Godwin

Sonata for Insects and Violins
Peter Baltensperger

Frosty
Alice Jacobs

Fun House
Kimber Vale

Butterfly Kisses
Duncan Meece

Sexual Madness
Rose de Fer

Terra Cupidus
Robin Tiergarten

One Hell of a Band

By J. T. Seate

It takes the right kind of groupies to get the load out.

No matter how Mr. Seate starts a story, it inevitably turns to the macabre. It may be told with hard-core realism or erotic humor, but it gets his pulse racing enough to pull him from the grave to write something new. He is especially keen on stories that transcend genre pigeonholing. His stories and memoirs appear in numerous magazines, newspapers, anthologies and webzines.

You will find many of his works at www.troyseateauthor.webs.com
and on amazon.com. J. T. currently reposes in Golden, CO.

The Crimson Cowboys never sang before sunset. Their music was filled with dark words and sensual licks. The band had tapped into a disenfranchised collection of music lovers. It didn’t hurt that their metal was heavier than any other country and western group. Listening to their concerts were many kinds of faces, each with a pair of hands, always moving. A thousand eyes were on them and hopeful smiles curved the mouths of the females.

Their followers had invented a hand symbol—a raised fist with the fingers curled over the thumb. The first and fourth fingers protruded forward just enough to symbolize canine teeth. To the beat of the songs, the fists bent like the strike of a snake. Whatever symbols and songs the eclectic mob took to their bosom was fine with the band.

They rocked and rolled and crooned, and even destroyed an instrument now and then. Wherever they appeared, they could count on a cluster-fuck of Goths, cowgirls, and biker-type chicks who toked on doobies, did liquor and stronger drugs, and cut themselves—a nice, schizophrenic mix that guaranteed a lot of exposed breasts and a broad selection of hot-pants at the after-parties.

The band members had long flowing hair and wore modified C&W band garb—black ten-gallon hats, mirrored shades, crimson-red shirts, blue jeans and shit-kickers.  They played a few country standards such as “All my Exes died in Texas,” “I’ve got Friends in Cold Places,” “Even Vampires get the Blues,” and “Looking for Blood in all the Wrong Places.” But most of their music was original. “Bloodlust Country,” some called it. Their fans would tell you they put on a hell of a show and always clamored for more of the Cowboys.

Kane was the band’s leader. It was his dark vision and his musical genius that had made the Crimson Cowboys what they were—a red-hot, country-western vampire band. For Kane, the lead guitarist, it was always night. He was a bit of a risk, being blind and a spaz, but he could lay down riffs and hot licks that charmed many of their following right out of their panties. His long thumbnail served as his guitar pick and he was most calm when he was picking and singing. His shortcomings didn’t seem to matter then.

During their intermissions, while a canned cacophony of sounds rattled though the concert hall, there was any number of girls waved backstage by security who were happy to suck the band members’ dicks. The Cowboys made a point of restricting the antics to that activity even though the hunger was always there. Keep things clean and neat, until later.

Then they would ramble out for their second set. A session drummer pounded the skins and the band jumped in. The Cowboys always ended their concerts with their classic, “Chug Another Beer then Blow Me.” When they came to their final refrain, of “Momma, just chug another beer,” repeated three times, the four musicians pulled their cocks out of their blue jeans, and finished the song with a screaming, “And blow me!”

A cheer went up and bodies moved haphazardly, repeating the final stanza along with the band. The crowd roared and hooted. They cried, they screamed, they jumped up and down in apparent rapture—young, old, drunk, and sober. It was an event to encourage unfettered pagan fun and frivolity. Fans screamed wildly with the joy of their own liberation as well as the band’s dangling organs.

When the bright lights and colors dimmed, and the multitude began to disperse, it was time to get down and dirty. Badass bouncers assured the Cowboys’ escape. They shuffled the band through to their idling, customized motor coach detailed with heavy drapes. Soon a smaller, but no less passionate crowd formed on one side of the mobile hotel. Slick, the fiddle player, was in charge of chick procurement. He popped open a soda, licked his lips and scanned the crowd.

He pointed at a group of four similarly dressed, well-appointed girls who were abundant with superficial attractions in all the right places. He motioned for them to come to the bus’s door. They grinned, looked at each other then made their way through the crowd. Rock helped them up the steps while the Cowboys’ driver held back the rest of the wannabes.

The giggling girls were ushered past Slick and Rock to where Kane and Animal were drinking soda pops. A blonde dressed in fishnet, black lace, and an ass-twitching leather skirt identified herself as Tish. A brunette, dressed from head to toe in a bright pink ensemble so tight it looked like it had been sprayed on was called, Candy. There was also a redhead named Stormy. Her top was a dazzling floral, see-through that blended her large nipples into the pattern just enough to avoid an X-rating. The fourth girl’s most outstanding feature was her long hair, the color of unfinished oak, that fell to her cute-ass miniskirt. Her name was Honey. Slick had selected well. All four girls were brutally hot and they knew it.

A great thing about celebrity was that you could be dog-shit ugly like Alice Cooper, or have leathery crags like The Stones, but the hottest little tits on the planet would line up to fuck you like you were spiritual guides into the party world.

“You ladies ready to party?” Animal asked with a cockeyed grin.

“Oh, hell yes. Our motto is ‘keep in shape, have a blast, die anyway,’” said Tish.

“Not necessarily,” Rock said.

The girls took inventory of the interior. “This is downright decadent,” Honey said.

“Thanks,” Slick answered. “Do you all love the Cowboys?”

“Let me show you how much,” Candy said. She unzipped her leather top. A red and blue tattoo adorned her left breast, the letters CC intertwined inside a heart. The Cowboys whooped. Slick bent over and laid a sloppy kiss on Candy’s symbol of devotion.

“What the fuck’s she got?” Kane asked.

“Candy here’s got our initials tattooed on her tit,” Animal told him. “Our kinda girl.”

“Fuckin’ A,” Kane agreed.

“You girls want a snort? A little toot? What?”

We’re up for anything,” the redhead replied. “We’ve dreamed about getting in the Cowboy wagon. We just want to experience you guys.”

“Want to be a part of the legend, huh?”

“Un huh,” they answered in unison. “We know what you’re all about. The rough stuff, I mean.”

“Whoa, darlin’,” Rock, the bass guitar player, said. “We might leave a few bruises, but in all the right places, that’s all.”

The girls looked at each other. “Cool,” Tish said.

“Then let’s get the show on the road. Hey, Billings,” Rock called to the driver. “Time to get this pile of tin outta here.”

Gears shifted and the bus began to move.

“Better get high, ladies. It might make our party go a little smoother,” Slick advised. As the custom-made motor coach moved slowly away from the auditorium, muffled shouts and the sound of fists against the bus could be heard. “Don’t worry about your wheels. We’ll ride for a while then we’ll bring you back,” Rock told the girls.

“God, I can’t believe we’re actually with the Cowboys,” Stormy gushed.

“Believe it,” Kane said.

The bus rumbled out of the parking lot and onto the dark city streets. Like most bands, the Crimson Cowboys had their assortment of drugs and booze. But what really got them off was blood—the crimson elixir that kept them going. That’s where all the groupies came in. If you partied with the Cowboys, expect to get bitten.

The girls slipped out of their clothes like snakes shedding skin then sat on the Cowboys’ laps and allowed the musicians’ hands to get acquainted with their bodies. Free of their leathers, lace and thongs, the groupies were on their knees in less time than it took to belt out a tune.

“It’s awesome when you guys pull out your dicks onstage,” Honey said while Animal pulled off his jeans so she could have a closer look. “How come you don’t get busted?”

“We got a deal going. Everyone and everything has a price,” he told her.

“Oh.” She looked at Animal’s cock up close. “Ohhhh, gee. You’ve got a big one. Is this why they call you Animal?”

“Start sucking it and I’ll show you.”

“Drop our jeans and socks, and grab hold of our cocks,” Rock chimed in.

A Cowboy’s song called, “My Lovin’ left with the Dawn,” boomed through the bus at a decibel level that discouraged conversation. Kane’s guitar led into his bass vocal.

“Oh, Kane. That’s one of my favorites,” Stormy said, then went back to work on his thick, slick shaft.

“Mine too, darlin’. Let me feel what you look like.” He ran his palms over her face and then reached down further to feel her breasts. Her image burned through his hands to his dead eyeballs and into his brain. He grinned at the vision and unsnapped his shirt. His chest was wide and hard, covered with a thick mat of dark hair that trailed down his stomach and disappeared into the waistband of his jeans. “Come and get it,” he said.

Stormy lowered her face to Kane’s chest and dragged her mouth slowly down his belly. She set upon the task of freeing his penis. Her tongue found its tip, shooting heat through his veins.

The alcohol and drugs were having their affect. In a semi-circle of plush chairs, all four girls took to their assignment with gusto. Not only did they take the Cowboys’ cocks down their throats, they ran them between their lips and gums, manipulating them as if they were cheek implants.

While the girls worked them, the Cowboys sang a ragged chorus of “Chug another Beer then Blow Me” with their ten-gallon hats and sunglasses still in place.

The suck-fest continued until Rock complained to Candy, “Easy, baby. My rod will only bend down so far.”

“Oh, am I hurting you?” she stopped to say.

“That’s actually one part of us that can be damaged.  Sort of our Achilles Heel.”

She looked at the thick, slick dick she was holding. “How about if I sit on it instead?”

“Yeah, ride the pony.” He grabbed Candy by her armpits and lifted her onto his boner. “It’s our turn now ladies. We’ll swallow first.”

That pronouncement was a signal to the other three guys. They pulled their girls’ mouths off of their pricks. Slick lifted Tish from the floor and pulled her breasts against him. Crunch. His teeth bit into the soft flesh of her neck. Blood flowed over his upper lip as his mouth suckled at her throat. Tish gasped once and rested the weight of her body against his, surrendering to his thirst.

After a few moments of tonsil hockey, Animal did the same to Honey. Kane, being a bit of a spastic, jutted his jaw against Stormy’s shoulder. He couldn’t find the exact spot he desired on her neck. Instead he traced the underside of a large breast with his thumbnail and made an incision. “Let me drink,” he instructed her.

She lifted the sliced, pendulous tit over his parted lips. While he imbibed on her crimson flow, he strummed her ass and corded her back like a human guitar. A dark pink shade stained the teeth of all four musicians while they dined on blood. The girls occasionally winced or moaned as the transfusions took place. Their throbbing hearts forced their blood, hot and thick, more rapidly through their veins. The Cowboys’ hunger came with the fierceness of a special kind of caress, touching their deepest instincts, igniting a response as involuntary as the pounding in their loins.

Rock lifted his mouth from Candy’s neck without losing a drop of her most precious elixir and licked his lips. “That takes the edge off, doesn’t it, boys?” he intoned in a reverent voice.

“Ahhhh. America, the land of opportunity,” Slick answered. “Where the buffalo roam and the hottest little cowgirls and punkies come out to play.”

Candy managed to smile at Rock, not at all sure she wanted to be bitten again. She needn’t have worried. The Cowboys never took too much. They didn’t want to kill their groupies or take their souls. They just wanted some blood and ass.

“Now let’s give these little fillies more of what they came for,” Kane said.

“Amen to that,” Animal answered.

While the bloodmobile continued its leisurely journey around the outskirts of the city, Rock got up, walked to the john, and came back with disinfectant, medical gauze, and tape. As the steel guitar player and onboard medico, he patched the girls’ wounds and served them a round of whatever they’d chosen before to help dull their pain.

With their primary hunger satiated, the Cowboys returned to their secondary desire. This time, Slick partnered with Stormy and her taped tittie. Animal grabbed hold of Tish by her blonde, short curlies. Rock had designs on Honey, and Kane happily accepted Candy.

In the back of the bus, beyond the lounging area, was the bathroom, a kitchenette with two fridges—one for food and one for the boys’ frozen specialty drink—and four sleeping compartments, but the hot-to-trot eight-some didn’t make it that far.

The Cowboys tossed their headgear and removed their wraparounds. All four sets of eyes were the same—pinkish white around fiery red, piercing pupils. Even Kane’s blind gaze burned crimson.

Animal admired the pink petals of Tish’s vaginal lips. His tongue and lips turned hard. He gobbled at her rosebud mound then found the little man in the canoe. She trembled in exaltation and begged him not to stop.

Kane lifted one of Honey’s feet off the floor. “I promise not to bite off your toes,” he told her. In addition to lead guitar, he played a mean harmonica. He worked her piggies back and forth between his lips like he was running the scale.

He accidentally brought a little blood from her pinky toe, but it was Kane, the Crimson Cowboy, after all. “You want to play the other one?” she asked.

He returned her foot to the floor and pushed his cock into her love canal instead, like a hand slipping into a velvet glove. “I’d rather strum your cunt.”

Individual proclivities were cool as long as the end result was red rather than dead. The Cowboys always appreciated a little initiative on a girl’s part. They were especially happy to oblige any chick who could handle all four of them at once—one in the front, one in the back, and two in her mouth. That achievement would garnish more reward than just a group photo.

The music wailed as the sex continued. Four fannies bounced irregularly as each Cowboy and his partner had sex to the beat of his own drum. They played women like they played their instruments—long and hard. The spent semen they shot into their condoms was almost as red as their eyes. A couple of the girls cried out in rapacious glee at the strength and voracity of their masters’ probing, insatiable cocks.

“We’re back, boss,” Billings called from the dark recesses of the driver’s seat.

“That’s it ladies,” Slick announced. “Time to get your cute little asses dressed and outta here.”

“Can we get autographs?” Stormy asked while looking for her top.

“Sure you can,” Rock told her. Glossy 8x10s with pre-printed signatures appeared.

Tish took them. “Can’t we at least get an original signature?”

“C’mere, girl,” Animal said. He found a Sharpie and signed his name on her bare ass, next to where he’d bitten her. The other three decided they wanted the same thing, so the other Cowboys signed their bite marks as well.

“I think all of us should get a permanent reminder to commemorate the evening,” Honey squeaked. “Get the name of our favorite blood-sucking band member tattooed over our wounds in tribute to this fabulous night.”

“Once a blood-sucked groupie, always a blood-sucked groupie,” Kane said.

It was getting early. The horizon would be losing its darkness soon. “All ashore,” Billings called to the girls.

Honey wiggled to the front of the bus. “Don’t open the door just yet. We have something for you as well,” she told the driver. She reached over and placed her hands on the sides of his head. Her breasts dangled in his face for a moment. With a lightning quick move, she twisted Billing’s neck. The pop could be heard all the way in the back of the cabin.

Animal saw Billings slumped over the wheel. “What the fuck? Open up so these broads can take off,” he ordered.

Honey strolled into the lounge. “He won’t be opening up. And I’m afraid we won’t be leaving either.”

“What in—”

“You picked the wrong bushel of titties tonight, cowboy.”

Before the satiated Cowboys could protest too much, the girls were on all four of them like magnets as they turned into what they truly were—lustful succubi from Hell. They ripped open the throats of the Cowboys, tearing past vocal chords and muscle, twisting their necks until the four heads pulled free.

While blood spurted, the foursome held the mementos aloft in victory. “They were easy pickings, full of blood and emptied of their love juice,” Stormy said victoriously.

“Guess it never occurred to them that someone might be looking for a little more than their peckers and a nibble,” Tish added.

“We did what the master told us, so now it’s our turn to rock the music world,” Candy said.

“You go, girl,” Honey said gleefully. “The Four Brimstones can play like hell. And we have better curves and better voices than these guys.”

“We’ve only just begun,” Stormy sang. She rubbed her hands along her arms. “Let’s get some clothes on. I’m fucking freezing my tits off.”

Tish drove the bus while the others dismembered the bodies. When they were finished, they observed the pile of not-so-human flesh and mockingly flashed the Cowboys’ hand gesture. By the time the girls finished tossing body parts along the highway, the Cowboy flesh would be shriveled by the sun to the point where it could pass for deadwood. Bloodsuckers’ remains didn’t hold up well.

In the distance, a teasing palette of pastels signaled the approaching dawn. The captivating devil’s imps planned to drive the bus to Mexico where it would be painted and rechristened “The Brimstone Express.” Perhaps the master would drop in and play a lick with the hot, new band now and then. The girls preferred to run their own show, however. The master could be such a grouch, no matter how much he was accommodated.

Lester’s Ominous Gift

By Eva Hore

There’s nothing like a holiday
in the country
to get the old juices flowing

Erotica writer Eva Hore has been published worldwide. Her work is seen in magazines such as Hustler, Forum, Desire, Penthouse, Newcummers, Leg Sex, XL Magazine, Naughty Neighbors, Scared Naked Magazine, For Women, Adult Spy FRM, Playgirl, In the Buff, Hot Spot, Grass Roots and Swank Magazine.

Slamming on the brakes I cursed as I missed the turn off.  Reversing quickly, the car fishtailed before I turned sharply and headed down the winding track, surrounded on all sides by flowering gums and eucalyptus trees.  Lowering the automatic window I breathed in the wonderfully fresh air.  The wind had picked up, tossing the leaves wildly, swirling them through the air before lashing out at my windshield.

I hoped Mary had informed the caretaker I was coming.  The last thing I needed was to be bothered and the old guy, Lester, was creepy.  I’d been up here once before, many years ago, while my husband was still alive.  We’d come up for a romantic weekend but Lester bothered me so much we only lasted one night.

Now as the old shack loomed before me I wondered why I allowed my sister-in-law Mary to talk me into this.  She said they’d done it up, that it had a homey appearance now, with a manicured and flower-filled garden that would cheer me up, would make me forget all of my problems.

My mouth dropped open as I broke through the clearing.  There seemed to have been no work done at all on the outside of the shack, and the garden was overgrown with weeds.  The lawn, if there was one, was buried under a mass of old car parts, weeds and rubbish.

Pulling up at the porch steps I hesitated.  With the motor running I debated whether to turn around and go back but suddenly there in the rear view mirror was an ugly face, a face I’d hoped had changed, had somehow become less sinister, but alas that was not to be.  If anything Lester looked uglier, scarier.

His face was deathly white with a tinge of grey.  Eyes yellowed with blackened pupils that recessed so far back into his skull they were almost insignificant.  His lips too were a stony grey, the color continuing down his neck into his probably equally revolting torso.

I shuddered, sickened by him.  He seemed almost skeleton, his grey flesh hanging off his face.

My heart began to pound as suddenly loud splats of rain hit the roof of the car.  My eyes were still locked on him and he smiled, a smile that showed his rotting teeth but did not reach his yellowed eyes.  He shuffled over to my door in his baggy clothes, opened it and turned off the ignition.

"Nice to see you again,” he chuckled.

Instinct told me to push him away, slam the door shut and take off, drive anywhere, be anywhere but here.  Instead, I allowed his leathery old skin to touch my elbow as he guided me out.  His flesh was reptilian, cold and crinkled.  He had a hypnotic way about him; once he touched you it was as though his will became your own.

“Hi Lester,” I whispered, trying hard not to show my revulsion.

“I’ve collected firewood and taken the liberty of stocking the fridge.  Mary told me you were coming,” the words whistling through the remainder of his teeth.  “I’ve even left you a small basket of goodies, something to keep you amused,” his chuckle had the hair on the back of my neck prickling with fear.

He popped the boot and retrieved my suitcase, carrying it effortlessly up the steps.  He reminded me of an Auschwitz survivor, all skin and bones under his clothing.  Considering his size he appeared quite strong and kicked open the door, to peer over his shoulder and, with a nod, beckoned me to enter.

I climbed the steps on shaky legs, terrified and yet unable to take my eyes from him.  His clothes had a smell of rusty iron, like old blood and as I passed him the distinct odor of feces and urine assaulted my senses.  I circled him, not wanting to contaminate myself with his scent and found myself in the lounge room.

The carpet was still the same and the dark furniture old and dusty.  Why had Mary told me she’d renovated when clearly she hadn’t?  The slamming of the front door had me practically jumping out of my skin.  I turned to see my suitcase standing by the door and hurried to peek out of the window, just in time to see Lester shuffling off, but as he did he stared back at me as though knowing I’d be looking after him.

What was I doing here, every instinct told me to go?  My sixth sense screamed at me, “Leave before it’s too late!”  I pulled back, away from his lecherous stare and leaned against the wall trying to hold on to my emotions.

Locking the door I breathed a sigh of relief.  I went from room to room, checking that all windows were locked and the house was secure.  I was pleased to find both the bathroom and one of the bedrooms had indeed been fitted out luxuriously.  A large spa and shower had been installed, as well as indoor plumbing.  Thank God, for that.  I’d almost forgotten about having to go out to the toilet the last time we were here.

I shuddered, remembering how whilst I was emptying my bowels, Lester had taken it upon himself to change the pan.  How long he’d been out there, watching and listening, I did not know but I did know that he’d had the small door open for quite a while, catching me right in the middle of straining downwards.

It was the last straw for me.  I had demanded John take me home but he just laughed it off, told me I was over-reacting.  John had a way about him where he could only see the good in people. And one year, when they’d been younger, Mary had fallen into the lake.  It had been Lester who’d saved her and the family had been grateful ever since.

And ever since they’d shared a special bond.  You’d see them whispering together, laughing at what I couldn’t imagine.  Mary I’d always thought a bit strange too.  She also was quite pale with darkened eyes, her pallor more accentuated by her long, stringy hair, which she insisted leaving loose.

Making him the caretaker had been Mary’s idea.  She said she felt secure with him around.  Funny, how we differed on our views of him.  I decided that perhaps I had over-reacted and I should give Lester a chance to prove himself to me too, after all it wasn’t his fault he’d been born ugly.

I threw my suitcase onto the bed and began storing things away.  The boom of distant thunder had me back in the lounge, lighting the kindle that Lester had so thoughtfully placed in the hearth.  As the fire blazed to life lightning flashed and the rain began to fall at a steady pace.

With the room warm and the fire glowing, the eeriness of the old shack became more rustic.  I lit some candles and headed off to fill the spa.  As the water filled the tub, I pulled out my favorite pair of satin pajamas, threw some bath bombs in the water and padded to the kitchen to inspect the fridge.

True to his word, Lester had it stocked not only with food but bottles of expensive chardonnay as well.  Pouring myself a large drink I carried the glass to the bathroom and stripped out of my clothes.  Easing my tired body into the warm water I hit the jets, sculled half the contents and leaned back to relax.  The wine warmed my insides while the water soothed my tired body.

A powerful crack of thunder jolted me awake.  I must have nodded off.  The water was cooling and I had the unnerving sensation that I was being watched.  Glancing towards the window I was sure to see Lester’s hideous face staring back at me, but thankfully he was not there.

Rising from the water I caught a glimpse of myself as I grabbed for the towel.  Not bad for a forty-six year old.  I’d had two children and my body showed no signs of stretch marks or cellulite.  I’d been lucky.  My breasts were full and my body toned from hours of exercising.  After John’s death I took refuge at the gym, exhausting myself to forget my loneliness.

Just before wrapping the towel around me I stared hard at my body.  A cool breeze passed me and it was as though icy fingers tweaked my nipples and ran over my mound.  My nipples stood rigid as I broke out in goose bumps.   I gasped, securing the towel and hurrying back to the bedroom to dress.

The fire had the shack at a comfortable temperature.  Filling a plate with cheeses, dry biscuits and fruit, I grabbed the bottle of wine and, placing everything I needed on a tray, carried it to the low coffee table where some magazines were neatly stacked.

Picking at the light meal I drank more wine, pleased with the inner glow I was feeling and the peace that came with it.  I hadn’t noticed before but there, on a side table was a basket.  Must have been the one that Lester had spoken about...

Placing it on the couch beside me I began to unwrap the parcels stacked inside it.  You can imagine my horror when I uncovered a large black dildo, a packet of condoms, love beads, anal probes and an assortment of sexual enhancers.

What had he said?  Something to keep me amused...  I scanned the room expecting to see him standing there but fortunately I was still alone.

What on earth had Lester been thinking?  The thought of his disgustingly stained fingers wrapping these gifts had me rushing to the bathroom to wash my hands.  When I returned the basket was back on the side table.  I was sure I’d left it on the couch.  I couldn’t remember moving it.  I decided I was tired and perhaps I’d drunk too much wine and that was why I couldn’t remember.

With the rain falling steadily I decided to take a nap.  That was what I’d come here for.  Since John’s death, four months earlier, I’d had so little peace.  There’d been so much to do.  John’s export business was booming and I had to learn very quickly all the ins and outs of it until one day last week where I’d collapsed on the floor.

My children and Mary had decided I needed this break.  There were no phones, no passing traffic, nothing but peace and quiet.  Taking my glass I headed off to the bedroom, pulled back the doona and slipped between the sheets.  I fell asleep almost instantly.

My subconscious was dreaming.  Erotic images of men and women fucking and sucking each other had my hand stealing its way between my thighs.  Mary’s face suddenly loomed before me as her fingers tore at the buttons of my pajama top, ripping it wide open.

I lay there staring up at her.  She was dressed in a long robe which she shucked from her shoulders.  It dropped to the floor and she stood there naked before me, her body almost waif-like, her bones protruding through taut white flesh...

Her breath was warm on my breasts as she lay upon me, suckling me like a child.  I moaned in my sleep, enjoying what I obviously was craving in my real life:  The touch of another person.  Somehow she managed to remove the pants and was snuggling in between my thighs, her hot tongue lapping at my slit, licking down to my puckered hole before flicking amongst the folds to tantalize my clit.

All around the bed were strangers, standing there in their long robes watching.  Lester too was there, sitting high on a throne with two naked women at his feet.  Even in my sleep I sensed revulsion of him but couldn’t tear my emotions away from what Mary was doing, loving every second of it.

I squirmed back into the bed, my legs falling further apart as she nuzzled in, parting the folds to lavish me with attention.  My silky juices began to ooze and my clit throbbed, begging to be rubbed, to bring me to a climax I hadn’t had for so long.

Her hands kneaded my breasts, her long fingers tugging the nipples, drawing them out.  Oh, how wonderful it all felt and soon I was coming, exploding into her mouth, my sweet nectar gushing from me to pool onto the sheets.

I stared fleetingly at the people surrounding my bed.  They seemed to be whispering something, chanting, and Lester, one hand on each of the women’s breasts, was leaning forward, spittle drooling from his mouth.

Something was tugging at my subconscious as she rammed a strap-on dildo into my saturated cunt.  She slammed into me.  I caressed my own breasts before pulling the hood back from my clit and rubbing it crazily as she continued to fuck me.  Her voice was loud and edgy, demanding of me, commanding me to lift my legs, to drop them further apart, to rub harder, faster until I was screaming in ecstasy, coming over and over again, only to fall back into the pillows, exhausted and sated.

I wanted to wake but couldn’t open my eyes.  It was as though I was drugged and I let go of the feeling and allowed myself to sink further into a deep and much needed sleep.

A shaft of light, creeping from the split in the drapes knocked at my eyelids.  I knew I should get up, see about dinner, but I was still glowing in the aftermath of that wonderful dream.   I’d never dreamt of having a woman make love to me, and why Mary, why not someone more, more sexually appealing?  I wanted desperately to go back there, in my dreams, and relive that powerful orgasm but the growling of my stomach reminded me of how hungry I was.

Still feeling groggy I threw off the doona and pulled back alarmed.

I was naked.

Hugging the doona to me I thought back to my arrival.   My head pounded as I tried to remember just how much wine I’d drunk.  Surely no more than three quarters of the bottle.  I certainly never opened another.  What had happened to my pajamas?  I peered about the room but couldn’t see them.

Enfolding the doona to me I cautiously left my room.  The fire still burned brightly in the hearth.  The rain had stopped and a faint rainbow of light broke through the window.  I walked quietly into the kitchen.  It was spick and span.  Nothing out of place.  I opened the fridge door and there in the shelf was the nearly empty bottle.

What was going on?  Had I removed the pajamas myself?

Deciding I would accomplish nothing by staring blankly at my surroundings I made my way to the bathroom, turned on the shower and adjusted the water temperate before stepping into the cubicle.  My hands ran over my body and down between my thighs.  There had certainly been some sort of sexual activity going on down there.  The lips were swollen and sensitive.  I inserted a finger and sure enough I was wet.

Remembering the dream had me feeling horny.  My nipples became rigid as my memory gave me flashes of Mary between my thighs, her hot tongue probing me, her fingers groping and caressing my flesh.  I pulled the hood back over my clit and noted the nub was swollen.

I began to rub and very quickly my desire built up.  I leaned against the shower wall, lifted a leg and placed my foot flat against the tiles and began to rub vigorously as sharp stabs of water from the jets pounded onto my sensitized clit.

Within seconds I was coming, gasping for air as the convulsions overtook.  That was what was wrong with me.  I needed sex, lots of sex and if I couldn’t have it then I’d have to pleasure myself.  The thought of that black dildo, slamming into my pussy had me coming again, until my legs shook and I realized the water was begging to cool.

Drying myself quickly and with my head now cleared I dressed in warm clothes, made myself a hearty breakfast of scrambled eggs and bacon and then set off for an early morning walk.

Two hours later, my mind alert and my body invigorated.  I rustled up a light salad and stoked up the fire, enjoying a glass of red wine whilst eating.  Sitting at the dining table, my eyes roamed the walls, floors and windows.  Everything was in order and yet I still had that uncomfortable feeling as though someone was watching me.

Rummaging through my bag I pulled out my latest novel and settled on the couch to read.  My mind was drifting, my thoughts erratic until finally I lowered the book.  Something was nagging at me.  What?  My eyes spied the basket and I pulled it towards me.

On inspection I found one dildo, a black strap-on like the one in my dream, condoms, an anal probe, nipple clamps and an assortment of other paraphernalia.  What was it all doing in here?  Surely Lester hadn’t left this for me.  Why would he?  I shuddered as I placed the basket back on the table and as I did I noticed something shiny lying on the floor.

It was a condom packet.  The condom was still inside, as though someone had changed their mind.  I dropped it back in the basket, pushing it away with my foot.  Images, like snippets from a movie crowded my sight.  Lester, the two women, the people chanting around my bed...  Surely it had all been a dream, what else could it have meant?  The blazing fire had my eyes drooping and my head lolling back on the couch.  Within minutes I was sleeping peacefully.

Intuitively I knew something was amiss.  I tried to open my eyes but the lids were too heavy.  A cool breeze kissed my body alerting me to the fact that I was cold.  Had the fire gone out I wondered?  Eventually, my eyelids fluttered open.  I looked down to find myself naked once again, only this time I was lying on the dining table, my legs splayed open, my wrists pinned down by some imaginary force.

I struggled against whatever held me tight.  Frightened, I tried to scream but something covered my mouth before a cold, eel-like presence slipped in between my teeth.  I tried to scream but my voice froze as a cold manifestation settled over me.

My eyes searched the room for some sort of explanation.  Cold finger-like sticks attacked me, searching out my nipples, tweaking them between what could only be fingers.  I screamed, my voice piercing the stillness of the room.   The fingers now roamed downwards, over my mound, caressing my slit before probing my pussy to pull apart my flaps.

I attempted to pull my legs together, to once again scream, to alert anyone to my frightening circumstances, but the cold weight across my ankles held firm as other hands seemed to roam all over me while I tried to struggle against my invisible captors.

Nipple clamps attached themselves to my breasts and the dildo that I’d been thinking about earlier rammed into my pussy.  I was terrified as hands tore at my flesh, scratching at the soft skin of my inner arms and thighs while my breasts were crushed and played with.

My head thrashed from side to side as I tired to buck whatever was holding me away, but they, whatever they were, held me firm.   Suddenly I was lifted upwards as though levitating from the table.  My screams died in my throat as I hovered over towards the fire.  My fear escalated as the front doorknob turned.  Some sort of poltergeist was holding me up from the floor and as the door creaked slowly open I struggled vainly as Lester and his lecherous stare filled the room.

“Lester, please,” I begged, “do something.  Please, help me.”

He stood there staring at me, his disgusting fur-coated tongue slipping from his mouth to drool over his bottom lip.  His fingers fumbled with the buttons on his shirt, then his trousers as he shucked off his clothing.  His stench over-powered the small room and before long he was standing naked before me.

“No, please don’t.  Please help me,” I begged, repulsed by him yet unable to tear my eyes away.

He laughed; a sinister evil chuckle that bounced over the room.  His ugly saggy body, grayish and bruised with long thick body hair nauseated me.  Fearfully, my eyes stole down his torso and I struggled for breath as my eyes feasted themselves on his ugly cock.  It hung over his saggy balls, flaccid and thick, half way down his thigh with something else, perhaps another disgusting testicle, hanging behind it.  The knob was covered with a long membrane of skin and dangling from it was a slimy trail of precome.

Struggling against the hands that held me so tightly I begged yet again for help.  Lester laughed as he made his way closer, his gnarled and knobby fingers probing my pussy flaps.  I recoiled back from his touch, cold like ice; I was petrified of not knowing what was going to happen.  The realization that this was not a nightmare, that it was real, that something evil was going on here and there was no way I could see of escaping.

He lowered his head and I jerked backwards, disgusted by his pock-marked face.  His bulbous nose drooled snot and he sniffed loudly, sucking it back up through his nostrils, phlegm building in the back of his throat before he coughed it up and spat it into the fire.

“Please, Lester.  Don’t!  Please help me.  Please,” I begged.

He lowered his head, his nose only inches away from me and sniffed in my scent.   Looking up at me through sleep-encrusted eyes I saw the yellow of his eyes.  Snot was dripping down his lip.  His tongue snaked out and licked at it before he lowered his head further and tentatively lapped my slit.

“No, don’t touch me,” I screamed.  “Someone help me.”

He nuzzled in, his bulbous nose wiping his mucus against my pubic hair, leaving trails of silvery, yellow snot to continue further down where it rubbed against my slit.  His disgusting tongue flickered over me.  I began to scream and scream again but this only seemed to excite him and in a moment he was greedily devouring my pussy, his tongue digging in deeply, slathering me with his revolting saliva.

Tears fell as I screamed and attempted to buck away from him.  It was as though a hundred hands all held me tight.  His fingers were gripping onto my arse cheeks, pulling them apart as a dirty fat finger probed my puckered hole.  For what seemed an eternity he had his way with me, his broken teeth nipping at my clit, electrifying it not with passion but pain.

I closed my eyes tight, hoping I’d wake to find it all a bad dream.  Finally he stopped.  I peered at him as he stepped backwards.  Unable to stop my eyes from traveling downwards I spied his ugly wrinkly cock.  Still flaccid, secretion flowed from it, a thick yellow discharge, to leak onto the floor.

A group of people had formed a circle and we were the centre of it.  Mary was there with the two women from last night.  They were naked and looked almost zombie-like with their graying skin and deathly features.  Mary dressed in her robe reminded me of a priestess from one of those scary novels I usually read.

I willed myself to faint. To obliterate this all from my mind...

“Your pussy tastes delicious,” he breathed, the rank odor emitting from his mouth threatening to knock me out.  Death, that’s what his breath smelt like.  Was he too a zombie, where all these people in this room dead?  Was I, would I be?  Oh, God, please let this be a dream I begged.

“Lester, don’t … please make this stop.”

“Stop!  You don’t want me to stop,” he laughed.  “Not when you see what I have hiding in here.”

He lifted his left arm.  His right hand fumbled about the elbow and suddenly his forearm dropped to the ground.  I screamed, louder than before, wishing fervently that I’d stayed home, in the security of my own fortress.

A long thick serpent-like cock, if you could believe that, slithered over my abdomen.  His other hand pulled at the cock between his thighs, pummeling it to no avail.  My eyes were riveted to the monster, hanging where his arm should be, and I watched in terror as it began to grow.  Within seconds it was hard, firm, and making its way up my body, over my breast and towards my mouth.

My head shook from side to side as it inched over my chin.  I pressed my lips closely together as this monster, smelling like a rancid piece of meat, forced my lips to part.  Cunning fingers pinched my nose until I gasped for breath and as I did he slipped the disgusting knob into my mouth.

Bile rose within me and spewed forth from my mouth.

“Oh, yeah,” he leered.  “Hmm, yeah that feels so good.  All hot and juicy just like your pussy will be when I fuck your cunt with it.”

“Get away from me you disgusting maggot,” I screamed biting down on it.  The image of the condom flashed before my mind.  It would at least be some sort of protection against this vile entity, against disease and God knows what else.

“Maggot am I?  You’ll be sorry you said that?” he threatened.

“Please at least put a condom over it,” I begged.

“Oh, so you want it now?  Want it filling up your cunt do you?”

I didn’t have time to answer.  He laughed as he pulled back and rammed his serpent deep inside me.  I screamed, cried and begged but all to no avail.  He fucked me hard, slamming into me as my body swallowed him up to the elbow.  He pumped harder, his eyes glazing over as he watched my pussy lips stretching to accommodate this ugly appendage of his.

My body was shaking, the hands that were still holding me so securely pinching into my flesh.  Mary came closer, her face shining, her interest in what he was dong evident as she caressed his withered shoulders. Then suddenly he screamed and I felt a hot burning liquid fill my insides, and he pumped deeper, making sure his seed was in as far as it could go.

“Oh, yeah, baby.  Your cunt is so hot, so fucking hot, just like I knew it would be.”

“I told you it would be,” Mary gushed happily.

“Get away from me, you bastards,” I cried.

“Oh, I’ve not finished with you yet,” he laughed.

The hands that were holding me now pulled at my flesh, pinching and nipping.  Cold tongues slithered over me like cold-bellied snakes as fingers probed every crevice.   Not only did I feel violated and debased but I was terrified as to what would happen next.

Lester lifted the cock he had hanging between his legs and another popped out beneath it.

“See what I have for you, what pleasures I can give you?” he said.

I didn’t want to look.  Didn’t want to see but I had to.  My eyes stared in disbelief.  He was jiggling two ugly cocks at me.  How was that possible?  How was any of this possible?

Mary laughed maniacally.  “You gave your life for me and now I give you her.”

What?  What was she talking about?

He lay back on the couch and what could only be mouths sucked at the limp pieces of flesh, pulling and tugging at the wrinkled flesh. An anal probe that had been in his basket of goodies was making its way towards me.

“No,” I struggled, uselessly against them.  “No, please no more.”

He laughed hideously as my arse was pulled apart and the probe inserted.  In and out they fucked me with it and all the while Lester’s drool dribbled onto his sunken chest, the skin yellow and wrinkly as the mouths sucked him harder and before too long the cocks stood rigid.

“Flip her over,” he demanded.

“No, no,” I shrilled.

In a flash I was facing downwards, my hair hanging to cover my face.  My legs were spread and his disgusting fingers slipped inside my pussy while his tongue rimmed my hole.

“Hmm,” he said, licking my arse as though starved.  “Just like I knew you’d be.  Delicious.”

I said nothing from then on, allowing him to have his way with me.  His hands groped forward and latched onto my breasts, squeezing hard he milked my nipples enjoying himself when I whimpered in pain.

Finally, he stopped.  He stood and they lifted me so I was level with his waist.  He held onto my hips and in one quick motion both cocks entered me, one sliding deep into my pussy, the other spearing my hole while he shrilled with delight.

I passed out at some stage and when I came to I was lying face down on the floor.  Liquid was oozing from my pussy and hole.  My body was bruised and battered.  I opened my eyes cautiously hoping he’d gone.  Not moving my head, my eyes darted about.  I could hear nothing.  When a minute or so had passed I carefully maneuvered myself to my knees.

How long I lay there I don’t know.  I crawled, unable to stand, to the bathroom where I cowered into the shower.  Hitting the taps I allowed the water to cascade over my hair and body, trying desperately to wash away the horror of this ordeal.

My teeth chattered and my body shook as my eyes darted about fearfully.  What was I to do?  I needed to get out of here, to leave in case they all returned.  Lester!  What was he?  A monster!  A zombie!  Living here, ingraining himself into John’s family.  And Mary?  What was she?  He gave his life for her, what did that mean?

I didn’t care; I had to get out and now.

I scrubbed my flesh, trying to wash out the semen that was trickling from me.  It oozed over my fingers, thick and green in substance and I retched over my legs, unable to stop the bile from rising and spewing from my mouth.

I cried, cried for all I’d lost.   Anger surged through me as I tried to plan my escape.  How on earth would I be able to outrun them, out smart them when I didn’t even know what they were?  I had to try though.  Had to get away from here as quickly as possible...

Weak but determined I dressed, not bothering to take my bag in case they were watching, and rushed from the house.  Shaking fingers eventually managed to insert the key in the barrel and the car roared to life.  My eyes darted about like a frightened rabbit’s as every second I feared Lester’s return.  The horror of my ordeal had me driving like a madwoman, the car sideswiping trees, denting the panels in my haste to leave this nightmare behind me.

Just as I rounded the first bend I saw a red jaguar partially hidden behind Lester’s dwelling.  I gasped with fright.  It looked like Mary’s car.    The dream about her mortified me.  Had she made love to me, had she really been in bed with me?  Had my wanting of her brought this on?  Revulsion consumed me.

“Oh, John,” I cried, tears blurring my vision.  “What,” I blubbered, “am I to do without you?  Who will believe me?”

Pushing my foot hard on the accelerator I sped off through the bush vowing never to return and hoping beyond hope that there was no way I’d be pregnant to that fucking freak.  Lester and Mary and all their scary friends could have the cabin and anything else they wanted as long as they left me and my family alone.

The Gathering

By Madeleine Swann

Come along, come along,
to the castle hug and song.

Madeleine Swann has had several articles published by various magazines including Bizarre, ranging in subject from church restorations to the toe wrestling championships. She writes and performs as part of comedy group Braintree Ways and writes fiction in numerous forms from her home in deepest, darkest Essex, England.

Elena, the housemaid, had been kind to her from the first moment. They had grown up in the same town and reminisced over things that reduced them to fits of giggles while the rest of the staff looked on.

The old castle had not been in use for kings or queens for several hundred years but, in typical Gentry fashion, Lord and Lady Symon had bought it and done their best to recreate its old aesthetic. The staff joked privately that a Knight was certain to wander from one of the rooms instead of a modern nineteenth century couple.

Elena’s presence to Maggie was a miracle. Maggie had been lucky enough to find employment after her previous misdeeds, and had expected to live out her duty in plain servitude. Elena tried often to get her expand on the details but the shame of it made her blush. Secretly, however, she would revisit it at night in her room and feel horribly guilty the morning after. Her gratitude to Lord and Lady Symon for employing such a wayward girl was always in her thoughts.

She and Elena had been changing the sheets in the master bedroom when the other girl first mentioned it, excitement lighting her eyes like sulphur. “Surely the Master and Mistress wouldn’t be involved in such things?” Maggie asked, pretending to be horrified at once.

“Oh but they are, they and their friends, the same night every year.” She paused. “They wish me to bring you.” Maggie was uncertain whether to believe her, trying to put it from her mind as she continued her daily rounds. That afternoon she couldn’t help eyeing the overweight, middle aged cook as she leaned heavily over the range oven and wondering if she too attended the strange gatherings.

A week passed and its urgency faded in Maggie’s thoughts. She was dusting the rooms when she entered the study without knocking. She was horrified at her faux pas when she saw the Master and Mistress leaning over an enormous slab of a book on the table. “Please, do not concern yourself,” said the Master, “carry on as though we were not here.” Maggie’s eyes flicked uncertainly from husband to wife, but both seemed in very good spirits. She continued dusting self-consciously, specks tickling her nostrils as she tried not to sneeze on their fine clothes.

“How have you enjoyed your time here so far?” the Master asked in the confident baritone that came from a high society position.

“Oh wonderful,” enthused Maggie, “I’m most grateful –” she stopped short, blushing furiously at her own mention of her past.

“Oh nonsense,” he continued, “’t’is the hypocrisy of society that punishes mere high spirits, do you not agree my good wife?” the Mistress smiled, exposing her complete set of white teeth. Maggie fidgeted, uncertain whether she was expected to speak or continue cleaning. She opted for the latter as questions flamed against her head. The couple had returned to their book, however, and she was left dusting vaguely at shelves.

That night her sleep was uneasy as she dreamed of snakelike figures twisting and writhing over and around each other. In her half-waking confusion she could still feel the smooth lips and warmth from Mr. Cooke and reached out to him, waking fully and seeing nothing but white moonlight shining on the empty pillow. The heat from between her legs was too strong to ignore and her mind drifted back to the time his tongue had wandered down there. Involuntarily she let her hand take its place. When he had first done it she had laughed, thinking he had gone mad, but had soon moaned in surprise. He had looked so pleased with himself as he continued, tracing soft circles over the little nodule buried in her wet lips.

He was doing it now, slowly building up the fire that began at her groin and spread like little sparks down her legs and her arms. Her hips began to rock gently against her fingertip as the nodule grew bigger, the scent of the wood-smoke in his hair filling her nostrils. She sighed heavily, almost feeling his hand stroking her inner thigh. The flames built up higher and his tongue moved with greater speed as he slipped a finger inside, allowing it to slowly slide upwards and crook forwards, tickling the part deep inside her that made her moan her loudest. Her rubbing became furious and the release made her tip forwards in her bed. She rocked her hips still as her entire body was engulfed, and slumped down into the mattress. The gathering had lost its sinister edge; she didn’t relish the idea of only her digits for company and she would be hard put to find a husband who didn’t mind her unwholesome past. The month was closing in, soon she would have to decide whether to act or stay locked in her room.

The day in question began without ceremony. She rose as always, ran her washcloth over her skin as always and chose fresh garments. For hours she scrubbed windows alone, wondering if everything inside the castle was a dream. Everything changed when Elena scuttled past carrying fresh towels. “I’ll see you later,” she said in a low voice, winking lasciviously. Maggie was desperate to run after her and ask whether she meant at the staff dinner table or much, much later.

The Mistress drifted into the bedchambers while she swept the floor. Maggie tried to decipher the look she was given; was it an inviting, secret look or the usual empty glance the rich bestowed on their servants? When evening drew in Maggie was far more exhausted than after a usual day’s work but the thrilling tingle coursing inside her cut through it. She suffered through the evening meal, trying to catch Elena’s eye as they said grace. The other girl’s face was serene and Maggie began to feel concern; surely a person who expected such an evening wouldn’t be so calm. She tried to sneak a word with her afterwards but Mrs. Milne insisted on talking about her rose bed.

The candle flickered late in Maggie’s room. She had been so terrified of falling asleep and missing the whole thing that she had remained upright in her wooden chair. Her hands shook with either anticipation or cold from the lowering fire. When the clock chimed midnight her heart surged; she removed her nightgown and slip and changed into her best outfit, a dress she wore for church. She picked up the candle lantern and departed into the dark.

The hallway was silent and the shadows skulked across the walls. Every footfall had her straining her ears for followers. Only now did she consider how wrong it all seemed, the danger of such activities. She arrived after a very long journey through the stone corridors.

Maggie heaved aside the wooden door, almost dropping her lantern. She bit her lip fearfully; Elena could have spun a pretty story, and with each minute she became more and more certain she was the subject of a practical joke.

Now, as she stood in the dark hallway, Maggie’s corset suffocated her as she realised she had indeed been made a fool of. Candles surrounded the walls of the vast ballroom and eerie melodies strained from a violin, cello and piano. Men in expensive suits and women in elaborate gowns danced and drank from goblets of wine, and the air was laced with musky perfume. It was precisely the sort of gathering her mother had always warned her against.

All eyes turned to her and she opened her mouth, mortified. “I’m terribly sorry, I have the wrong room,” she muttered, turning to leave.

“On the contrary, do come in,” a male voice slithered from the crowd. She turned but couldn’t tell its owner from the multitude of pale faces.

As she stepped forwards she noticed the strange markings painted on the floor in sticky dark red. The owner of the voice took the candle lantern from her and replaced it with a goblet of wine, and she smiled at the need of the upper classes to appear shocking. “You are beautiful,” he told her, and she laughed. He didn’t seem offended and danced with her, winding in and out of the other couples. He wasn’t a man she would have chosen for herself, though his dark hair and brown eyes were pleasing. The situation was as intoxicating as laudanum and she allowed herself to be led.

The shadows stretched over the walls and after an hour of dizzying movement she saw Elena dancing with a man and another woman, he in the middle with his arms around both. This was unusual enough but the gentleman’s hands also caressed their breasts. “My goodness,” Maggie laughed, “Just look at what they’re doing.”

“They seem to be enjoying it,” said her partner after a quick peek.

“Yes, they do,” she agreed, her eyes growing wider as she watched. Despite her private vow to appear unruffled she couldn’t quite hide her surprise. Talking about it and seeing it were such different things.

His hands had moved from stroking their fleshy breasts to the nipple area, covered as they were in the dark velvet of their ball-gowns. The two women smiled, slightly self-consciously, but did not push him away. They sighed as he began to circle the now hard nipples with his finger. Elena’s gaze drifted to Maggie, who was now watching intently. Elena’s pupils were so dilated her eyes appeared black and her lips were flushed bright red. Maggie gripped the shoulder of her companion.

Elena lifted her long skirts as the other dancers circled around them. Maggie herself had stopped moving, unaware now of her partner’s presence. The man’s hand fell from Elena’s breast downwards to the hem of her dress. Her lace underwear was visible to all yet nobody seemed to notice. His fingers reached for the rim of the lace next to her white thigh and tugged gently at it, drawing a deep sigh from her. Slowly they crept inside the fabric and inched towards her private lips, tracing along them confidently.

Elena was now biting her lip and closing her eyes, and Maggie felt hot and wet between her legs. Turning her gaze she noticed the other guests in various acts that should have made her leave indignantly, but she stayed. Her heart thudded and her nerves jangled as her partner pulled down the material at her chest and found her nipple with his lips. She moaned softly, shivers of pleasure reaching her groin as she surveyed the scene around her. Many couples were already sprawled over the floor, some entwined with others to form a bundle of stroking, sighing, half-naked bodies.

She lowered herself to the ground, shaking with excitement but frightened of somehow making a mistake. He unbuttoned her dress and let it fall away, and she lay on the ground in her undergarments. A girl in a complete state of undress crawled over to them, candlelight playing over her skin. “You don’t mind?” she asked the man coquettishly, resting on her knees, and he shook his head vigorously. She took Maggie’s hand and placed it on her soft belly. Maggie’s fingers nervously fell downwards until she reached the girl’s wetness. At first it felt strange, but when she saw how much the other enjoyed it she began to explore more confidently. The blonde girl gasped softly and from the corner of her eye Maggie noticed the twitch of the man’s erection inside his suit.

“You should massage her clitoris,” he explained. Maggie looked up at him questioningly, but allowed him to guide her hand to the right place until she found the little nodule. She was delighted she wasn’t the only one who had it. “How does it feel to you?” he asked as she gently circled her finger over it.

“It is getting harder,” she answered, and the girl’s mouth opened as her breathing grew heavy and her lashes were low over her blue eyes. “She likes it,” Maggie continued, watching in wonder as the girl’s hips began to move along with her. As if in reply, the girl’s moaning grew louder. Maggie felt the man’s smooth hands slide over her shoulders and reach down for her breasts, squeezing them once before releasing them from her corset. He clasped her nipples, carefully teasing and rubbing them. Maggie cried out in shocked arousal, and the blonde girl shuddered and did the same.

Maggie turned now to the man, who kissed her briefly before removing her clothes entirely and reaching for her own soaking private lips. She made no effort to stop him, a tinge of guilt mixing with her pleasure and heightening it. His fingers felt hot and she lifted her pelvis slightly to meet them, focusing on his tense jaw-line. He smiled at her eagerness, locating her clit and doing for her what she had done for the girl now lying content on the ballroom floor.

Where he rubbed she became hotter and wetter. Her nerve endings slid downwards as her hips moved against his finger, and she gripped his shoulder as he inserted a finger inside and curled it gently forwards. To her slight annoyance he stopped and removed his own clothes, but she knew it would begin again soon. She stared at his erection nervously, she had had one before but the thought of another made butterflies tickle her stomach. She put out her hand as he placed a sheath over it but before she could feel it he flipped her onto her knees.

When the surprise had passed she enjoyed the scene of writhing figures; directly in front of her two men nibbled the ecstatic body of a woman, while elsewhere another took one man in her mouth and another behind her. Maggie shook her head at the strangeness of it all, squealing when she felt a familiar hand on her wetness. She turned briefly to face him, smiling, to reassure him as he hesitated. A moment later she felt something very different press at the opening of her quim; with a wry smile she felt him push his way in. She had not expected the sensations it would bring, the tingling as it slid inside, filling her up as its tip tickled against her innermost point. She gripped it with her muscles as tightly as she could, drawing a low moan from him.

His hand felt for her wet lips once more at her front, massaging her clit again. She rolled her hips with his as he pushed in as far as he could and withdrew, again and again, until she realized his finger was waking all of her senses once more. The feel of his cock along with his stroking finger made her feel dizzy and hot; she moved quickly against his outstretched finger, rubbing herself against it faster and faster, feeling something build up and up until she sighed and moaned along with the rest of the room. A rush of intense pleasure washed over her and her muscles stiffened. As she shook, he pressed himself into her with greater urgency until he too tensed over her.

His weight pressed down gently as she lay sprawled over the cool floor. Sounds of people lost in their private worlds surrounded her and the scent of flesh and sexual fluids filled the air. She looked up to see them entwined over the red paint of the pentagrams. The candlelight illuminated various body parts and Maggie smiled to herself. Whilst the Devil may not have made an appearance to this particular party, she still wouldn’t mention it to her mother.

Womb With a View

By Reina Sobin

More boys in the hood.

Reina Sobin is 30-year-old writer of Bizarro and erotica from Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Her work appears in Collaboration of the Dead: Putrid Poetry & Sickening Sketches.

The quiet girl, who was not a girl, ate her dinner as she walked. She dug into her cart for another portion, constant hunger gnawing at her belly. Sharp teeth bit into the morsel and juices ran down the technological wasteland that was her arm.

She was a rebuilt child, a mechanized wonder, with a bloody heart encased in glass. A crimson robe wrapped her form, the hood of which was pulled over the terrible beauty of that flesh and brass face.

A fierce wind blew though the oxidized trees, the whistle reminiscent of a poorly-played flute. Shards of rusted leaves littered her way, crushed with ease under her booted feet. The conveyance whined like a temperamental child, its wheels spoke of a lack of oil.

The road was long, her way deserted, as she traveled further into the thickening copse. The townspeople told tales of this place being haunted, of grim specters that chased the unwary. She had cackled when she heard this and wondered how a dead thing
could cause such fear.

She hummed to pass the time and, before long, her sweet voice emerged with limericks more suited to a common whore or a drunk.

“Your cock is hard, your balls are blue. Since I’m on my knees, I’ll swallow you too.”

“Her breasts are round, her labia thick. I’ll bend her back, and take a lick.”

She rounded the bend, her rhymes each more vulgar and carnal that the last, and jerked to a halt. A man appeared before her, a grin twisting his lips. In a smoke-grey suit and  leaned against a fallen rowan, he appeared comfortable with the bitter air. A gold watch gleamed on his wrist and a briefcase dangled in his hand. She could smell him even at a distance-- a curious combination of expensive cologne and desperation.

“What have we here? A child shouldn’t have such a filthy mouth.”

The girl eyed him cautiously but continued her walk. A lone man in the woods was always a sign of trouble. This ones’ good looks made him even more dangerous.

Her hunger rose.

“I am far older that my looks convey.”

He trailed her as she knew he would. Graceful stalking that trampled the dry leaves.

“How old? 15? 16? A virgin yet, I wager.”

“Much older than that.” She let him get close, close enough that she could smell the animal in him. “And my fucking habits are none of your concern.”

“Perhaps I would like to make it my concern. A mechanical girl with a bewitching
face makes one wonder what is beneath the cloak.”

Wolves thought themselves cunning at seduction, but women were the true manipulators.

“You wouldn’t know what to do with me.”

He strutted up to her, his briefcase bounced with each step. She allowed him to press her against the cart, his golden eyes narrowed on her face. He dropped the case at his feet and revealed what parts of her were still woman.

He saw the beating heart, the blood that trickled in the glass. He licked his lips and she saw his hunger. His fingers poked at the copper plating over her ribs and slid lower.

“At least the good parts of you are still human.”

“I don’t have time for this.” She shoved at the solid chest. “My grandmother’s waiting.”

“Waiting where?” His fingers toyed with the copper rings that ran through her nipples.

She jabbed a thumb behind her. “Just down the road. She’s been ill, so I brought her some sweets to cheer her up.”

In an instant he stepped back and open his case. He rifled through until pen and paper was in hand. “Was she injured at work? I can have my aide look into unsafe working conditions at her place of employment.”

A lawyer. And one involved in personal injury. It was worse than she feared.

“She mentioned something about some kind of jelly and a vibrating curiosity that
her and the neighbor were testing. She seemed embarrassed so I didn’t ask anything further.”

“Did she say who owned this ‘curiosity’?”

“I believe that they were sharing the cost.”

“Well, damn.” He tossed his implements back into the case and closed it. “It doesn’t sound like negligence.”

She closed her robe around her bared breasts and turned back to her cart.

“Sorry to have lost your interest.” The cart groaned as she continued her walk.

He danced up to her, cavorting like a puppy who needed attention. “Oh, I’m still interested in your charms but my concern for your grandmother took hold. I apologize.”

He is slick. I’ll give him that.

“I must see to grandma’s needs first.” She slid a metal finger to his waist. “But then we see about meeting yours.”

“Some flowers might cheer her up.”

She could see his eyes on her welded face, her metal arms and body. He is probably wondering where to file the lawsuit. Bastard. “That’s a kind idea.”

She grabbed a set of cutters from her vehicle and bent to task. Silver roses were clipped and thorns meticulously trimmed away, the metal shavings dropped between her feet. She tied the rigid bundle and turned back to her lupine pursuer.

He was nowhere to be seen but she could guess his location.

She snatched a bulging sack from her cart and strolled down the path. A elaborate
marble structure came into view. Intricate columns lined the porch and a tangle of briars climbed the walls. She stepped over a scatter of weathered bones as she walked through the door.

“Grandmother?!” She called through the maze of hallways. “Grandmother?!”

“Red? In here, child.”

“Ah, well, I see you two are becoming acquainted.” She entered the bedroom to see the old woman bent over the unconscious wolf, a broken jug beside her. Red dumped her bag onto the table with a wet plop. “Thank you for watching her while I was gone. I’ve brought something for you.”

The old crone’s lips curled back and revealed her wicked yellowed canines. Red gestured to the table and watched as the woman pounced on the sack. Her hand dug inside and emerged with a chunk of dripping meat, which was instantly shoved between her lips.

The girl turned back to her bed and dropped her cape to the floor. She climbed over the creature and straddled him, one of the few part of her still organic squeezed against his groin. His eyes opened, groggy and bewildered.

“So you thought an elderly woman and her granddaughter easy prey?” She gripped his wrists with inhuman strength.

The wolf, no longer in lawyer’s clothing, shook his head. Her free hand around his throat prevented speech..

“My, my, what big eyes you have.” She ran silver-capped fingertips down his furry chest. “The better to see what I’m going to do to you.”

The man whimpered.

“My, my, what a big cock you have.” She ground against him. “The better to fuck you with.”

The erection that rose under her let her know that he wasn’t nearly scared enough.

She leaned down and spoke against his ear. “My, my. The scent of your blood entices me. All the better to drink you.”

Her teeth sank into his neck as he struggled for breath. He tried to shove her but the weight of her metal-infused body kept her seated. Hot blood slipped into her mouth and she gulped, starved for any fluid that he could provide.

“Red, don’t drain him yet, dear. We need him.”

She yanked herself from his throat and growled. “Meet my grandmother.”

A young woman stepped up to the bed, her beauty such that any man would be helpless to resist her. At least until one saw the feral nightmare of her eyes. She caught a bit of the lawyer’s blood and brought it to her lips.

“Clean, a bit of a dark taste, heavy meat-eater… You have found a good one.”

“Actually, he found me. Wanted to take me right out there in the woods.”

“Eager, is he? Good.” The grandmother turned away and grabbed the old woman, who was still gnawing on a bit of liver. “Come, let’s take our meal and give them some peace. Our Red can handle this one alone.”

The man’s eyes darted between her and the closed door, his brow wrinkled.

“You’re confused by her looks.” She rubbed her well-lubricated sex against his shaft. “Not to worry. You will not be thinking about it for long.”

She sank on his hardness and released her hold on his throat.“ You were excited by the thought of claiming me earlier… I’ll tell you what- show me the wolf and I’ll let you go when we’re done.”

His golden eyes narrowed to slits. “You want the wolf? Alright, you metal tease, let’s play.”

He gripped her copper-infused hips and surged upward. She could feel the way he stretched her pussy, gaining thickness and length as he changed. His face sharpened into a muzzle and long canines flashed each time he groaned. His body stayed human, but the hair covering it turned black and long.

Red rocked against him, delighted with his stamina. She released his wrist and scraped her nails through his chest hair. Her tongue rasped over his nipple and he howled behind clenched teeth.

“You like that, did you?”

“I’ve never…ugh… had a woman play with my nipples.”

She lapped at the tiny bud and slid her tongue up over his collarbone. She drank in his salty flesh and hummed in appreciation.

“That’s a shame. Sensitive little things they are.”

His hands found her breasts and teased them to nubs. He thrust up into her as she sucked at his earlobe. He growled and panted heavily.

“I want you under me.”

Red stared into his eyes and saw nothing but his lust. She flipped them over, without breaking their connection, and wrapped her human leg around his thighs.

“Take me.”

His thrusts were powerful, deep and full. She eased a hand between their bodies to fondle her clit as he moved. A series of whirls and clicks sounded as her mechanical arm worked her to peak. She tightened and cried out, milking his cock as she came.

“Ugh… come on, lawyer boy…mmm… come for me.”

Sweat dripped from his face onto the tubing in her neck. She could see his struggle to control himself, the way he tried not to bite at her neck. Her fingers slid down his slick back and eased between his buttocks. Before he could protest, she drove one finger into his ass.

Birds squawked in answer to his strangled cry  and she bit her lip when her grandmother whooped from downstairs. He jerked spasmodically as his balls emptied then collapsed onto her chest.

She eased her hand from his ass and pet him like a favored lapdog. “That’s a good boy.”

When his breathing finally slowed, her teeth sank into him once more.

She swallowed his memories of her and this house, then pinched a nerve in his neck until he passed out. She pushed his weight from her and capped the precious fluid inside her before it could escape. Her grandmother and the servant were called to make quick work of dressing him and carrying him downstairs.

Grateful for the twilight sky, they doused him with liquor and dumped him into their car.

“Drop him on the edge of town. He will wake up, think himself drunk, and
stumble home.”

The old servant nodded, long used to the ritual, and drove off.

“Perhaps, we should have taken care of him. He would have make a tasty roast.”

The grandmother smiled at the hunger of youth. “That he would have, but we may have need of him again soon.”

“Not for awhile yet.” She opened the metal corset over her abdomen.

The translucent flesh revealed the intricacies of her body. Copper tubes meshed with organic structures, trails of wiring interlaced throughout. Her womb sat at the forefront of it all, luminous and pulsating with every heart beat.

Even as they looked on, the swirl of fluid from their guest swam and danced around the egg within her. Its coloring shaded to red and the invader was pulled inside.

The grandmother touched the clear flesh, her canines emerged. “Our modifications finally worked. Ah, the wonder of machines.”

The metal girl gazed at the glass marvel in her chest. No longer a trickle, but flowed to the top. “My heart is full.”

“New life will do that, my dear.”

Love Bites

By Andrée Lachapelle

In the dead of night, love bites.

Originally from Québec, Andrée Lachapelle grew up near the highway that ran through her small town, past the strip-mall, the strip-joint, and the old movie theatre…

Before finding her true home, she wandered the world. She climbed a volcano in Guatemala; museum-hopped in Vienna; had her chakras realigned in Mexico; and swam with sharks in Turks & Caicos.

Andrée enjoys reading, snorkeling, luxurious bubble baths, and meat-flavored potato chips. She likes to wear bikinis year-round, and takes great delight in all things taboo.

Her work has appeared in numerous publications including Broken Pencil, Canadian Woman Studies, and Hustler Fantasies.

She lives in Toronto, Canada, with the most wonderful man in the world and a ferocious savanna huntress masquerading as a calico cat.

When I heard a knock at the door of my trailer, I knew it had to be Dale. I grabbed my hairbrush and ran it through my hair to try to make some sense of the tangled mess. I looked like crap. I knew this. Dale walked in and stood in the doorway for a few seconds, six feet tall and dirty as sin, his t-shirt covered in dust and mud and what looked like specs of blood. It probably was.

He stared me down, closed the door behind him and took a few steps toward me, his face sombre. He was drop-dead gorgeous, when he got all serious.

I looked up at him and tried to smile.

We’d been sleeping together for three days.

We had known each other for four.

Without so much as a greeting, Dale reached out, grabbed a handful of my hair, and pulled me toward him. I started to melt, and my legs gave out from under me.

He pushed me down to the ground – not really violently, but quickly enough for me to gasp as the hard ground hit my newly bony ass. It felt as if something splintered off my hip but I ignored it, focusing instead on the bulge struggling against the threadbare fabric of Dale’s jeans.

My mouth filled with saliva and I swallowed, hard. Dale unzipped his pants and his thick cock slipped out easily; he didn’t bother with underwear, anymore. I licked my lips.

Dale grinned down at me and pulled my shorts halfway down my thighs. The little jewel in my labia glimmered in the moonlight, and Dale’s thick cock stiffened.

“Turn around,” he said.

I grunted, and got on my hands and knees.

Dale pulled me up a bit and then pushed me face down on the orange bench – the one that turned into a narrow bed, when you bothered to pull it open. He unhooked my dirty pink bikini top, now so clammy with stale sweat that it stuck to my breasts, grabbed my chin, and stuck his thumb in my mouth to keep me from making any noise; I sucked on it gingerly.

The rough upholstery brushed against my cheek as Dale slipped his cock between my legs and found my pussy. My skin felt alive with tiny flames. I spread my legs further apart as Dale rubbed the head of his dick on my swollen clit, teasing me; when he put his full weight on me and pushed his dick deep inside me, I started to moan.

“You’re mine,” Dale said, and I nodded, thinking of nothing but his smooth flesh on mine, how his cock moved in and out of me and how good it felt to be taken that way, rough and fast. No man had ever fucked me like that, even before – when I was still beautiful.

I spent every daylight hour waiting for this, Dale’s nightly visit, that moment when he would come to me, hold me in his arms and make love to me, and make me feel alive again. When I was with Dale, the world around me melted away and there was only this. Him. Inside me.

“Let me hear you say it,” Dale continued, his cock thrusting into me, a hard push I felt deep inside my belly, as if I were being ripped wide open. He rubbed his thumb on my lips, smearing the last of my raspberry lip-gloss.

“I’m yours,” I tried to whisper, but I couldn’t get the words to come out. I lost track of time, of space, of everything when Dale moved in me.

“Again,” he said as he slowed down to penetrate me a bit more gently; his cock, sleek with the wetness of me, pushing in and out of my pussy rhythmically as I fought hard to catch my breath and speak. “Again.”

His warm hands rubbed my skin and caressed every curve and crevice of my aching body. I pushed back against him and focused on tightening my flesh around his cock to hold him inside me as long as I possibly could. Dale started to breathe fast, one hand pulling my hips close to his belly and the other still wrapped around my hair. His firm grip had turned to a sensual caress.

Dale pulled out just long enough to turn my body around to face him before sliding into me again, the thickness of him unbearable now, pushing me open, overfilling me. His eyes were wild and I could smell the last of the Canadian Club on his breath as he pinned my arms behind my back and kissed me for what seemed like an eternity. The taste of his tongue in my mouth was maddening; I wanted to eat him alive.

He nuzzled my neck and nibbled on old love bites before traveling down to my breasts, three-day stubble scratching my chest as his tongue and teeth moved on my nipples, biting hard this time, breaking the skin.

When another small moan escaped me, Dale pulled his dick out of my soaking wet pussy and shoved it in my mouth roughly, his eyes piercing mine, all gentleness gone again. Dutifully, I started to suck on his cock, my mouth filled with the taste of oak and moss that seemed part and parcel of Dale’s genetic make-up, like the sandy hair that refused to behave and blue eyes you could drown in.

He tilted my face up and we stared at each other as he moved in and out of my mouth. I ran my tongue along his shaft, exploring the length of his erection and lapping at the head of his cock, drawing small circles around the pearl of semen glistening at its tip until Dale took a deep breath, gasped, and filled my mouth with cum. His eyes, half-closed now, never left mine.

I tried to swallow it all, but semen dripped down my chin.

“I came here to mark my territory,” Dale whispered, rubbing my face dry with his dirty fingers and bringing them to my lips, making me lick them clean.

I obliged. The man tasted very fine, indeed.

He adjusted himself, zipped up the filthy jeans he had been wearing since I met him, and sat on the floor next to me.

““I need to know that you’re mine,” he said, “no matter what. I can’t do this half-assed. Not after everything that happened here. You’re either with me, or you’re not.”

I tried to nod while struggling to keep my eyes open against a descending veil of darkness.

“Don’t let those assholes get to you,” Dale said.

The assholes in question had joined the camp the day after I came. One was your typical beer-swilling, sports-loving suburban idiot while the other – the Number One Asshole, the first one to have crashed our party – was more of the same with a bit of sexual molester added for good measure. He’d started off by trying to get into my pants, and was now taunting Dale, urging him to fight for what was his. The two men had hated each other from the start.

In these troubled times, relationships moved fast. People quickly became friends – or enemies – and the person who was your buddy yesterday could kill you tomorrow for a piece of stale bread, or a piece of ass. Food was scarce and so were women, and belonging to Dale was not the worst thing that could happen to a girl.

Outside, I could hear the two assholes arguing as they tried to come up with a plan. Asshole #1 – the one with the wandering hands – was telling his friend that he should be the one to take care of me while Asshole #2 – the more congenial of the two – argued that #1 should do it. I could see his point: Asshole #2 had already killed me once.

I absentmindedly swathed a fly off my shoulder while Dale got dressed. When he was done he helped me get back into my shorts and top, and lifted me onto the orange bench without bothering to open it into a bed. It didn’t matter: I wasn’t going to sleep, anyway.

Propping me up against the old pillows, he adjusted the soiled sheets around my wasted body and cocooned me in the old fleece blanket – once incredibly soft against my bare skin, but now stiff with blood and semen.

He smoothed my hair, and kissed my forehead.

“Don’t worry about them, ok?” he said.

I struggled to hear his voice, a soft whisper like butterfly wings against my ear. I was so tired. Nothing made sense anymore.

“Just hang in there. I’ll bring you something to eat when I come back tomorrow, I promise…”

Dale left, turning off the lights before closing the door behind him. And I sat alone, staring into the darkness.

***

I had been driving for a long time when I found the camp, and I hadn’t seen another human being in weeks – nobody who hadn’t already changed, that is. The few people I saw were dark figures hunched over in the cover of the night, hungrily ripping the flesh off god knows what and devouring it brutally, all traces of humanity long gone.

Some days, I saw no one at all. Those were the good days.

But that day, I thought I had finally gotten lucky. Constantly in need of supplies, I had stopped in the town of Leemansville, population 910 – in itself a good sign. How many goons could there be, if less than a thousand people had lived there to begin with?

I had no food but enough gas left over from my last pit stop to make it through town, and enough daylight hours left to try to find a store or a house that looked reasonably untouched, and quiet enough for me to do some looting in peace.

Near the edge of town there stood a little mom and pop shop that doubled as food market and fishing supplies store. This too, was a good sign: where there was fishing, there was water, and water was what I most desperately needed. I grabbed an old bag of Doritos and the few remaining dusty cans of Diet Coke and French-style seasoned green beans off the shelves and ignored the loud buzzing coming from the back room. Flies. They were everywhere.

On my way out I saw a little display by the door, advertising the hidden charms of Leemansville and the surrounding area: “Camp Tomago: A Fisherman’s Paradise.” The hand-drawn picture on the flyer showed a fisherman with an unnaturally large grin and equally unnaturally large trout. The back showed a detailed map on how to get to this pastoral paradise. I grabbed the flyer and stuck it in my back pocket.

I walked out and sat in the cab of my camper for a little while, drinking warm Coke and eating stale Doritos, trying to figure out my next move. Where I came from, was gone. And I had no clue where I was going. Camp Tomago seemed as good a place as any.

I headed north, away from beautiful downtown Leemansville, population 0, and toward the unknown. I checked the rear-view mirror frequently to make sure I wasn’t being followed by throngs of undead – or whatever the hell they were – but I wasn’t too worried: there was hope in my heart. I quickly lost it.

When I finally saw the faded sign by the side of the road, “Camp Tomago, Keep Right,” I kept right, until I came to an old dirt road, poorly maintained and barely visible through the brush. At the end of the road stood a little pop tent that had been set up near an old pick-up truck parked in the shade of large maple trees. A picture-perfect squirrel sat on a branch, calling his mate. Beyond the clearing, by the lake, I could see an old boarded-up log cabin. And in the middle of the clearing stood a tall, sandy-haired man with the broadest shoulders I had ever seen, and the bluest blue eyes.

“Well shit,” he said.

I took a quick look in the mirror and walked toward him. He was the first real live man I had seen in a long time.

“You’re the first real live human being I’ve seen in weeks,” he said. “You ARE real, right?”

I smiled. “Yup, real as they come.” I introduced myself.

“Dale,” he said, extending his hand. “You look hungry.”

I was hungry, and tired, and dirty, and all of a sudden, horny. Despite his sunburned skin, Dale cut a dashing figure. He looked pretty good, all things considered. Clearly the lake had served him well.

“I was about to cook this up. Want some?” He took a small fish out a bucket that sat on the ground by his feet, and held it up. I had never seen anything that looked so tasty.

I grinned and nodded, and shielded my eyes from the sun.

“How’s the lake?” I asked.

“Perfect,” Dale said, “nice and refreshing. Go check it out. I haven’t seen any goons out this far, I think it’s pretty safe.”

I headed down to the lake, took off my clothes, and waded into the cool waters. It felt amazing. I stayed in, enjoying the fresh air and the feeling of being clean, at last, until Dale called me back to reality.

“Hey, missy,” he called out. “Dinner’s ready!”

Feeling giddy, I got dressed and walked back to camp, where I was greeted by the smell of freshly cooked fish. I handed Dale what was left of my supplies and we sat together by the fire, quietly eating fish and French-style seasoned green beans, drinking Diet Coke and Canadian Club late into the night.

***

I had been awake for a few hours when I heard a car approach. Rays of sunshine were coming in through the little window above my fold-out couch, warming my bare skin. I felt wonderful, clean, fed, well-rested. I could see Dale standing in the clearing, looking up toward the road. He had his shirt off; I could see beads of perspiration on his smooth chest and a dark line that ran from his belly-button and past the belt of his jeans, into unknown regions. I was mesmerized. My eyes lingered on his body while I absentmindedly caressed my own skin.

I found the soft folds of my pussy and slipped my fingers inside. I was already wet: this guy did it for me. If not for the Canadian Club and hours of driving, I would have been climbing all over him the night before. Instead, we had talked about who we were and where we came from and when Dale said goodnight and headed to his tent, I came back to my little camper and soon fell asleep – all sexual thoughts gone.

This morning was another story. After so long on my own, I was used to pleasuring myself – but the thrill offered by Dale, firm and fit in the morning sun, was enough to make me come almost instantly. My heart raced as I shivered in the throes of a violent orgasm but I wanted more.

I licked my fingers and caressed my breasts, rubbing small circles on the pink areolas before moving back down to the soft, moist hair of my pussy. I fingered the ring in my labia and played with the little bead until I climaxed again, struggling to catch my breath as my body arched into orgasm. I tried to smother my cries with the old pillows that littered my bed, but in the end, I gave up.

Outside, a man had just gotten out of an old beat-up Ford, and Dale absentmindedly rubbed the smooth flesh of his lower back while talking to the newcomer. When a load moan escaped my lips, the man turned toward the camper and grinned. Asshole.

***

The second man arrived later that day.

Dale and I had introduced ourselves to Asshole #1, making idle chit-chat. Asshole told my breasts how he stopped in Leemansville for supplies, saw the ads for the fisherman’s paradise, easily located the dirt road, and then stopped by to see if anybody in these parts was still alive.

“I didn’t expect to see the likes of you here,” he said, never taking his eyes off my chest. “Don’t see too many women anymore.”

“We’re a rare breed,” I said, turning toward my camper.

“Huh-huh,” Asshole said. And he smacked my ass.

I sat inside for a bit, fuming. After a while I put on my swimsuit, threw a pair of shorts over the bikini bottoms, and headed down to the lake for a quick dip. Water was a rare luxury, and I wasn’t going to let anyone ruin this for me. I swam around for a bit, keeping my eyes on the shore and possible danger. But Dale had said he hadn’t seen any goons since coming to Camp Tomago.

I was heading back to camp, wondering if lunch was even an option at this point when I bumped into the asshole. He came up toward me and kept pace as I walked. I could see Dale in the distance, fiddling with his fishing gear. Asshole was quiet until we passed the old log cabin.

One minute we were walking side by side in the sun and everything was going to be ok, and the next my world was turned upside down and my life changed forever. I didn’t see it coming.

Asshole grabbed my arm and pressed my body against the wall of the old cabin, his hands reaching for my breasts before moving down to my ass, his dick pushing against me.

“Come on, honey,” he said, “I know you want this.”

He stuck his hand down my shorts and I stomped on his foot with all my might, and started to run.

I was aware of branches scratching my face, of him yelling and of an impact that made my head snap back and threw me full force into the bushes lining the road. The car that had just hit me screeched to a halt, and Asshole #2 got out.

“Oh my god holy fucking god, fuck, oh fuck oh fuck!”

Everything slowed down, and sights and sounds came to me from far away. I saw Asshole #2 run toward me and hold my wrist, feeling for a pulse. I heard him scream “oh fuck oh my fucking god she’s dead!”

Asshole #1 came up to us and kneeled on the ground next to me.

“Is she breathing?” he asked the other man.

Without waiting for an answer, Asshole #1 loosened my bikini top and put his ear down on my chest. His palm covering my breast, he squeezed a nipple between his fingers. His penis had grown hard. He was breathing rapidly. The other man was weeping.

I tried to speak, but all that came out was a gargled moan. The two men jumped to their feet and stepped back. When I tried to move, I felt myself being picked up by strong arms and although I couldn’t clearly see who was holding me, I could smell oak, and moss.

***

When I came to, night had fallen. I was lying on the sofa-bed in my camper, my legs covered in blood, one of them sticking out at a very odd angle. I couldn’t sit up straight or hold my head high. Dale was sitting next to me, cleaning my wounds using an old towel and water from the bucket that had held a small fish when I first got to camp, so long ago. My blood-stained clothes were on the bench next to him, neatly folded.

Dale took the damp towel and rubbed the blood off my thighs, parting my legs slightly as he did so. A small moan escaped my lips and Dale started, and then continued to clean me up, hands edging higher and higher up my thighs until he was no longer bothering with the water or the towel. His warm hands traveled over my mound and past the softness of my pubic hair, slipping right into me. His fingers played in the wetness of my pussy and I shifted my weight to push my pelvis against him until his entire hand was engulfed in my womb.

He gasped and folded his fingers into a fist, and I was paralyzed by pleasure, the entirety of him filling me up, touching every inch of my insides. He slowly pulled his hand out and rubbed his thumb over my clitoris while his other hand undid his pants and I saw his gorgeous cock for the first time. I swallowed, hard, the copper taste of blood filling my mouth.

Dale pushed his fist back into me and this time my flesh parted for him willingly; I looked down to see his hand disappear, the soft curve of my labia wrapped around his thick tanned arm, pulling him deeper into my pussy. When he could go no further I started to move slowly, letting his arm, his fingers, his fist fuck me as I rocked back and forth on the little orange couch until my back arched into orgasm and I grew limp, spent, and Dale spilled his warm semen on my ravaged stomach and chest.

Slowly, he pulled his fist out of me and rubbed his sperm all over my breasts before bringing his hand to my mouth, to make me lick it clean.

We were lost in the moment until we heard a voice right outside my window.

“Holy fucking god,” it said, “did you fucking SEE that?!”

Dale had come to see me every night since the accident and each time he left, I could hear the arguments picking up speed and volume.

“I know she’s hot,” Asshole #1 said, “she WAS hot, I get it. But we’ve got to put an end to it, Dale, she’s gone. You gotta let her go. You gotta finish her off.”

“Nobody’s finishing anyone off,” Dale said. His footsteps faded away. “Nobody touches her. You two assholes just stay the fuck away from her, understood?”

I heard him get into his tent and the other men’s conversation turned to a whisper as slowly, smoothly, darkness fell over my mind, and I found rest.

The next evening, when I heard the knock on my door, I tried to prop myself up but I felt weak, depleted. I could hardly move. It’s only when Dale opened the door of the camper and let in some fresh air that I became aware of my own stench.

He walked over to me, smoothed my hair and kissed my forehead.

“Don’t worry, baby,” he said, “everything’s gonna be ok. You’re mine, and I’m gonna take care of you til you get better.”

He held my face close to his chest and I took in the scent of him.

“You hold on a minute and I’ll be right back,” Dale said.

He went out into the night, leaving the door open behind him. Flies rushed in immediately and descended upon me. I was afraid, all of a sudden.

I heard a single gunshot echo in the night, followed by a scream.

“Holy fucking god!”

Dale shuffled his feet outside my door, out of breath as if struggling with a heavy weight. When he came back in, his shirt was dirtier than ever and his face was red. He bent down to drag something up the stairs, and then lay the beast down on the floor, where a pool of blood started to form.

Without a word, Dale walked back to the sofa-bed and picked me up to bring me over to his kill, and gently put me down on the floor next to it. I lapped at the blood like an animal and then, feeling a little bit stronger, I slowly crawled toward the asshole and started to feed while Dale watched tenderly.

And I knew then that he was right: it was going to be ok. Everything was going to be ok.

Pomegranate Moth

By Richard Godwin

Flavored to the max.

Richard Godwin is the author of Apostle Rising, a crime novel in which a serial killer is crucifying politicians and recreating the original murder scenes of an unsolved case. He writes crime and lets it slip like wash into horror. He is also a produced playwright. His work has appeared in many magazines and anthologies, including CrimeFactory and Needle Magazine. His Chin Wags At The Slaughterhouse are his unusual interviews with fellow authors. You can see a full list of his published works at his website at www.richardgodwin.net.  Apostle Rising can be bought at all good bookshops, and online Amazon.com and www.blackjackalbooks.com.

He lived in the residue of sin.

Maxim Moth knew how to shake a fork at an angler.

He reasoned beyond reason.

He shook the dust from the wings of moths into the dishes he served at his diner ‘The Filthy Phlegm House’.

He knew the Heterocera of each breeding zone and lived in the ash of flavours.

His customers loved his food and chewed ravenously on the dusty flavours of his pomegranate sauce.

He would stretch the living forms of caterpillars like slugs and drop them in a sizzling pan.

He thought they tasted of clothes and Naphthalene once seasoned with the relish that made him salivate.

He was a silkworm spinner and layer of violets in costly sauces that made the men and women who flocked there chew insanely until they swallowed.

He found the midnight flappers matched the taste of pomegranate and he made his dishes from the combination.

Their wings would shake food into a powdered trance.

He imported them from the Iranian Plateau and he would tear their red flesh until the seeds dropped out. He ran his hands along their raised erotic surface.

He would separate the arils from the peel and eject them into a bowl watching them fly from their husk and land liquidly in the water.

They bobbed like nipples in sauce.

Maxim Moth found their red soft fleshy skin erotic and slid his finger into them feeling them ply their tradework desire for human ingestion.

He opened his pomegranates up and brought them to a moist froth and tasted their fluids with finger to his lips as his wife Alicia bent over the stove.

He could smell her and read the desire she held inside her like the secret sign on a bleeding leaf.

He would watch the juice rise from their flesh and add the sap to his sauces shaking the moth dust in and letting it settle there.

That day at ‘The Filthy Phlegm House’ Maxim Moth cooked his dishes and watched his wife moisten at the sound of the hissing in the pan.

He cradled her with his hands and let her taste of the fruit as she bent to massage him.

She tasted of sin and he took her juice and added it in.

The customers were arriving as the sun penetrated the glass that looked out onto the marauding street.

They sat and waited to be fed.

And as Maxim Moth fed Alicia and quickened her desire he felt her juices stir and he brought his sauces to a froth that he added as a Carpaccio to the meats he stewed.

He served his customers and watched them taste the food.

Alicia rubbed her hands across her body and found hysteria’s mantel in her heart.

Maxim Moth watched his wife denude herself at the spectacle of the eating and she found with hungry hands the hole she feasted on.

The sound of chewing was relentless and it filled the room with the sucking noise of cows and lips on lactating nipples.

Alicia’s hands slowed and she spent her liquid in a tide of intoxicated gasps.

And Maxim Moth saw the dust settle in the air and spiral in the sunlight as the pomegranate sauce passed down the smooth throats of his customers and they parted their wet lips.

Sonata for Insects and Violins

By Peter Baltensperger

Listen to them…what sweet music they make.

Peter Baltensperger is a Canadian writer of Swiss origin and the author of ten books of fiction, poetry, and non-fiction. His short stories, poems, and essays have appeared in several hundred publications around the world over the past several decades. His erotic stories, poems, and essays have been published in print in The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica, Sex in the City - Paris, Daily Flashes of Erotica Quarterly, The International Journal of Erotica, and In the Buff, and appear on-line in Clean Sheets, The Erotic Woman, Oysters and Chocolate, Black Heart Magazine, and Every Night Erotica, among others. He makes his home in London, Canada with his wife Viki and their two cats and a tortoise.

In the precarious uncertainty of a late night, charged hours barely held together by thin threads that could so easily tear, the fragile crescent of a waning moon hangs from invisible wires in a black sky, eclipsing a few stars close by. The rest of the sky glitters with myriads of pinpoint lights as if a giant hand had thrown them up and strewn them into the darkness like so many flickering beams, so many reminders of the tenuous transparency enveloping life.

A naked woman lies on a wooden table in the middle of an otherwise empty room, gripping the edges with her hands, her legs joyfully spread, her body shivering with blatant excitement, her mind delirious from myriads of minuscule feet, minuscule mouths, minuscule drops of acid stimulating her honey-brushed skin. A man stands by her side, his limp penis beginning to stir between his legs, quickening his own mind with the image of the prone woman exposed, the honey-covered breasts, the wide-open legs.

Their shadows sway in the flickering light of pillar candles arranged haphazardly around the room to illuminate them just enough to watch each other get higher and higher on their stimulations, bathing their bodies in a softly comfortable sheen. There are no windows in the room, shielding them from the delicate moon, the slowly rotating night, enabling them to fully concentrate on themselves and each other and the growing intensity of their mutual arousal.

A sophisticated sound system with the volume turned low softly plays a varied selection of sonatas for violins by different composers from different times, Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, Liszt, Brahms, Grieg, Debussy, masters all of the most complex compositions. The melodies wash through the room, intermingle with the candle light, enhance the sexually charged atmosphere for the two lovers in their intense arousal, mind to mind, soul to soul.

The woman is crawling with a colony of black ants grazing on the white landscape of her honeyed skin, scurrying all over her body in their single-mindedness, tickling her, nibbling at her, excreting their acid, stimulating her to distraction. Her body has morphed into one large expanse of shivering nerve endings, acutely sensitive pleasure centers, incredibly arousing sensations, feelings, emotions. She laughs delightedly between primordial moans and groans, cherishing the flood of sensory stimulation, then reaches out and grabs the man’s penis, exchanging ants.

The more she writhes and moans on the table, the more ants venture across the synapse, the harder the man’s penis becomes in her hand, the more tenuously fragile their tableau in the precarious night. Late night hours rotate slowly, enabling the mind to slowly submerse itself in the intricate physical pleasures derived from the ants, the string instruments, the hands. The soul joyfully saturates itself with the myriad of sensuous impressions flooding the body and the mind, penetrating the enchanted psyche all the way to the core.

The woman becomes increasingly aroused from the tireless ants crawling all over her and into her, nibbling at her, stinging her skin with their acid, tickling her with their busy multitudinous feet. Her breasts are tingling with excitement, her nipples big and hard, her pussy dripping with her fragrant juices, her mind a tumble of exquisite exhilaration, her psyche on fire, brightening the dimly lit room. She moans more and more throatily now, keeping tempo with the violins, with the rotating night, with the slow-motion journey of the moon.

And then, just as an errant cloud passes across the floating sickle in the sky, she arches her back, tightens her grip on the table and pushes her head against the wood. The rushes of her orgasm take hold of her, take over her shuddering body, wrap her into the night. She rocks through the rushes with total abandon, letting her orgasm fill every cell of her being, every nook and cranny of her mind, every recess of her soul. Screaming her absolute satisfaction into the room, she shivers with the delight of her release, the power of her gratification, the all-encompassing joy of her passion. Her whole body quivers, like so many butterflies in an afternoon breeze.

The man can hardly contain himself, watching her come again and again, listening to her scream and moan and groan, but he restrains himself. For him, all this has merely been the beginning, the slowly executed prelude to his own concerto, to his own fleeting participation in the night. As soon as the woman collapses on the table and lies quietly, gasping for breath and sighing contentedly, he releases his pulsing penis and reaches for an ornate box lying on the floor beside the ant farm. This is his culmination, his act of completion, his singular contribution and participation in the night.

Every night eventually comes to a point like that, when disparate currents line up in straight lines, the air suddenly becomes very still, and the mind can discern the distinct aroma of impending closure. The moon may still be hanging in the sky from its invisible wires or it may not, it’s of little consequence at this point in time, and there may be clouds obscuring the stars or not. The strains of the violins are still filling the room with their soft persistence and the flickering candles continue to cast vague shadows on the ceiling and on the walls and the woman is still sighing on the table. She is sitting up now to watch him perform his own ritual and get aroused all over again from the spectacle he is about to provide.

And so the man opens the box in this extended moment of anticipation and carefully picks out two of the bees from his collection, one with each forefinger and thumb, attentive to their delicate nature. The woman watches wide-eyed as he places one bee on each side of his penis and lets them sting. He winces with the pain of the stingers penetrating his sensitive organ, but he grits his teeth so as not to disappoint the woman, then drops the bees to die on the floor and pulls the stingers out of his flesh. The night is gradually working up to a crescendo.

They watch intently as the head of his penis swells up from the acid injected into it until it reaches a formidable size. The man shudders with pleasure at the transformation, his arousal reaching a fever pitch from the mixture of intense pain and intense pleasure. He carefully takes his penis between two fingers placed well behind the swelling and holds it out to the woman to admire.

The woman moans. She reaches out and lightly touches the swelling, sending mutual shivers of delight through their bodies. She lies back down, still covered in ants, moves her rump to the edge of the table. Then she spreads her legs as wide as she can, pulls up her knees, steadies herself with her hands on her shins, exposing her receptive pussy to him. The night is at its fullest, the silence between them profound. They know exactly what to do.

The man steps up to the table between the spread legs, aims his swollen penis at her dripping opening, and pushes his enlarged head into her willing receptacle. They moan in unison, he from the pressure on his swelling, she from the engorged penetration, both from the incredibility of their fusion. The man digs his fingernails into her ant-covered thighs to alleviate the excruciating pain, grits his teeth as he pushes further and further into her. The woman moans and groans as she sucks the enlarged penis into her and clamps her muscles around him until he almost screams.

Yet he isn’t to be deterred. This is what he has come here to do, drawn to her acidic cave, her ants crawling all over his exposed glans, intensifying his suffering, atonement under a star-strewn sky. In the final analysis, the excitement and the pleasure far outweigh the pain as he keeps holding on to her thighs and thrusts into her and she rocks against him until he shudders with his own orgasm and gushes into her. She reaches down and rubs her clit to treat herself to yet another orgasm while his swelling is still deep inside of her and he can feel her muscles expand and contract with the eagerness of her release.

The night has fulfilled itself. The recording of sonatas for violins is nearing its end, the candles on the floor are beginning to burn out, and the precarious moon in the sky has disappeared behind the horizon. A piece of sky breaks off the edge. The man and the woman, oblivious to the tenuous fragility of the night and everything that entails, wrap their arms around each other, he still buried inside of her, and slowly rock through the afterglow of their mutual completion.

The world has never been as good as this, despite the inherent ambiguities permeating the night. They, too, exist for legitimate reasons, just as the moon will always be somewhere in a sky, and something will always be taking care of the uncertainties no matter how precariously balanced everything might be in a late night with a crescent moon. Somewhere, a solo violin to keep the universe in place.

Frosty

By Alice Jacobs

There must have been some magic in
that old silk hat they found.

Alice Jacobs works as a manager for a Canadian governmental agency. Long days are spent writing boring reports that nobody reads and going to endless meetings that decide nothing. It allows her semi-engaged mind to roam - to explore topics that are more bizarro than the effect of currency fluctuations on manufacturing output and the gross domestic product. Or perhaps it is just a different kind of bizarro - we'll leave you to be the judge.

The first time that Bill screwed a snowman, it was to win a drunken bet.

He had been out drinking with a group of friends. The discussion had turned into a series of lies about who had had the kinkiest sexual experience. Claims were advanced about partners, locations and practices that were too outlandish to believe, let alone waste time repeating here. All in all, it had been a convivial and harmless evening.

That is, until the bar closed. The group was walking back to the college dormitory. It was a cold December night. The snow crunched under their feet as they walked. They passed a small park in which children had built a snowman. Or, perhaps it was a snow woman. Weird as Bill’s fetish eventually became, it was not driven by latent homosexuality.

“Did I ever tell you about the time I screwed a snowman,” Bill said.

There was a groan from his companions.

“Is that why your pecker is so small?” George asked. “It got freeze dried?”

Bill hated George.

“It’s impossible,” asserted Landon. “The cold would cause the blood vessels in the penis to contract. It would be physiologically impossible to maintain an erection.”

Landon was in pre-med.

“Ever get a blow job from one?” Riley wanted to know.

Riley was on the varsity football team.

“No, really. This one is true,” Bill insisted for reasons that probably had to do with drinking.

“Fifty bucks says you can’t,” George said.

One reason Bill hated George is that George always had lots of money.

“You’re on,” said Bill. He took out his wallet and took out a twenty and a ten. Now it was empty. He dug in his pocket and got up to forty. With a ten dollar loan from Landon (who was very curious – from a professional point of view, of course), Bill was set. It was easier for George to come up with his wager – he simply peeled off a crisp fifty from a large roll.

Riley held the stakes.

Bill approached the snowman.

“Better get her some chocolates,” George called out. “She looks like a frigid bitch to me.”

Bill’s first problem was to get an erection with everyone watching. Fortunately for him, a few of the stories told that evening had struck a chord with him – never mind which ones. One fetish per story is enough to deal with.

Bill undid his fly and grasped his cock. He stroked it gently, thinking of some of the activity he’d heard described that evening. It worked. In a very short time, he was hard.

“Be careful Frosty,” George catcalled. “Either he’s got an icicle in his pants, or he’s happy to see you.”

Bill used made a hole in the snowman with his finger. Then he slid his cock in it.

“Ohhhh. Up the ass,” George hooted. “You are a dirty pig Bill.”

But this time, George’s wisecrack did not bother Bill. He was discovering, to his amazement, that he enjoyed the sensation.

Bill’s sexual experience was limited, and generally solitary. He’d gone all the way with two girls – both at college. It had been fun, but the warm wetness of their insides had been faintly disgusting to him. Perhaps he had become too accustomed to the cooler dryness of the palm of his hand.

The snowman, however, was different than anything he had ever experienced. It was cold, to be sure, but a pleasant cold. It was neither wet nor dry. In all, it was a bit like using a cold damp cloth to clean himself off after making love – but in this case, he was still more excited than in need of cleaning.

Bill began to thrust. His cock was expanding the hole, compressing the snow so that he could get further and further in. The hotness of shaft, and the friction began to melt snow. He could feel the cold trickle of water down onto his balls. The sensations excited him. To be honest, so did the sheer weirdness of what he was doing.

Then he came. He slammed into the snowman as hard as he could, with a cry of joyous triumph. He felt the warmth of his cum on his cock, contrasting with the coldness of the snow. He sagged for a second, and then composed himself.

Pulling himself away from the snowman and tucking his cock back into his pants, Bill tried to me nonchalant.

“Easiest fifty I ever made,” he said, trying to be as cool as his cock was.

“Quickest too,” George replied. “No wonder Glenys never went back for a second helping.”

Normally, this underhanded jibe about one of his two conquests would have enraged Bill. Tonight, he did not care. Riley handed him the money. Bill, with a flourish, handed ten back to Landon and put the rest in his pocket.

“Thanks for staking me even though you thought it was impossible,” he told his friend. “Now you’ve know something the physiology text books don’t.”

The group was silent the rest of the way to dorm. They seemed awed by what they’d witnessed. Even George was subdued.

As for Bill, he was simply pre-occupied. He was wondering where else he’d seen a snowman.

Thus began Bill’s nocturnal wanderings. From that evening, every night that it was warmer than 10 below, Bill would walk the streets. He’d find a snowman or a snowwoman, and have his way with it. Sometimes, especially if it was in a more exposed location, he’d approach it like he did the first night – just make a hole in the large bottom ball of the snowman and enlarge it with his cock. Other times, he strived for new experiences. A few times, he found smaller snowmen – their heads were level with his cock so he imagined they were giving him blow jobs. A few times, he took off all his clothes so that he could get a fuller sensory experience. This was much more exciting to him, but only down to a certain point on the thermometer. He tried entering the snowman from the front and the back to see if it made a difference. It did not – although entering it from the side seemed to lend a new level of kinkiness that amused him for a few nights.

During the days, Bill found himself making snowmen and snowwomen. He retained enough common sense to do this off-campus only since he knew that his all those present that fateful evening would jump to conclusions if they saw him rolling balls of snow and piling them up. So too would the three hundred people who had heard the story of that evening.

Then Bill even found a way for a snowman to screw him. He had come across a snowman that had a large carrot for a nose. He converted this into a snowman’s cock, dropped his pants and pushed against it with his ass. He gasped as the cold hard carrot entered him. Bill slid back and forth on the vegetable, his cock as cold and hard as the orange root inside him. But not even this was enough. A few days later, Bill made two snowmen very close together. One had a carrot for a cock. That night, Bill squeezed in between his two frosty friends and rocked back and forth. When he leaned backwards, he could feel the carrot penetrate deep inside him. When he moved forward, he imagined that the snowman was feeling his cock in exactly the same way. He felt strangely at one with the snowmen.

Then came spring.

Studies have found that 37% of first year college students are jilted by their lovers at the end of term. At least Bill had company in his misery.

Fun House

By Kimber Vale

Nothing like a clown to turn that frown upside down.

Kimber Vale is an avid reader, writer, and gardener.  She worked as a registered nurse in a previous life, and more recently as a slave to three tiny people.  A year ago she realized that her dreams of being an author would require actual writing and has been hammering away at the keyboard since.  Thankfully her husband is supportive of her lofty ambitions.  Currently, Kimber is armpit deep in a number of projects that span the genres of fantasy and sci-fi, to bizarro and erotica.  She is thoroughly enjoying the “polluted stream of consciousness” that bizarro fiction allows her and has some deviant tales percolating right this second.

I had heard so much about the Fun House, and yet I had heard nothing. Like one of those old men’s clubs my grandfather was involved with when I was a child. Elks or Masons or something. My brother once asked Pop what he did in his secret society. He gave no specifics, only told us “it’ll change a man.” Well, the Fun House would change a man or woman, it didn’t matter which. With the coin and the desire, the Fun House would twist you permanently.

I longed to be twisted.

Once the war began and the bombs came raining down like a macabre hail storm, the world that had been Mason meetings and apple pies was warped as well. The shelters, scarce and underground, cost more than most could afford. And few enough could fit below to be ‘saved.’ But my family came from the few, the elite. The moneyed. And so down we went to salvation. And prohibition.

Lovelies we were christened. The unmarked and unscarred; the pale race that lives below the sun, subsisting on algae produced with eclipsing machines and rat meat from our free-loading friends. Had the vermin realized they would become cattle to our subterranean tribe, they might have taken their chances above with the Gritts. But once the hatches had been spun shut, only the coin would convince the guards to open them for a time. And rats had no coin.

If the Lovelies are ghostly pristine, we are still unfortunate in many ways. We live in darkness, cold and silent. Our skin glows white like the underbellies of dead fish recalled in flashes from my youth. We are locked in our cells and told we are blessed. And the privileged may be matched up for mating. But not all. Not many at all.

The barracks are crowded now; a small baby boom directly following our descent strained the capacity of our world. While the bombs still shook our ceilings and loosened rubble onto our heads, the scared rabbits fucked to stay sane. They fucked to recall the good old days and because life feeds on life. How could our world end when we still fucked ourselves silly?

But not me. I was only a child. And now fucking is a lottery for which I will never hold a winning ticket. Silliness I will never experience. My legs are too long, less than ideal for underground passageways. Our species will not stoop in future generations. I will never be allowed to reproduce in this shadow-filled world.

They did not sterilize me. They did not need to. No man would risk The Ostracizing. They would pull on their cocks and spew their juice into the running sewers of the Public Works tunnels before they would give it to me. I know. I have seen them. Strings of white exploding into the murky waters, wasted; and me watching with an aching vortex between my legs, coveting a taste of their raining spunk.

Above-living is considered too dangerous for us to move our people. Radiation readings have leveled off, but are too high to allow for non-mutated offspring. Cancer rates soar on the surface; the Gritts are grotesque and deformed from the heat.

Vile and unrefined but free and happy.

So some of us starve to stand in their seedy sunlight; to bask in their depravity. To be a snow white dove released from a tarnished cage and go forth to suckle at Gaia’s disfigured teat.

Steady I scraped, working by day to recover the coin lost with the purchase of our passage. I worked to buy my trip back, harvesting algae in the sweltering containment chambers by day and sneaking to the sewer catwalk by night. After offloading my haul, I would run for a glimpse of the men offloading theirs. And I was reminded of the reason for my toil.

“How do you come to be at this hatch?”

It was the guard speaking. He was tall like me. I wondered if I had seen him with his hands stroking his hard shaft and grimacing as he reached his relief far above the rancid river.

I liked him better to think on it.

“I have coin for passage. My return will be at twenty-three hundred hours. I will tap with the iron pole above.”

“Who told you of the pole? I am the one who will tell you what to do.” He was scowling. I liked him less then. He would control me and stand before my well-deserved pleasure.

“I know people. I have coin for passage.”

I repeated it. In the end, it was the only thing that mattered; the only language I would speak to this captor.

He took the purse.

“Twenty-three. If you do not tap at the designated time, you may try once more tomorrow. No more after that. The fall-out follows those who tarry too long. We do not want to suffer for your perversion.”

“Would that I could throw my own perversion into the sewers,” I glared at him, and he had the decency to look ashamed as I climbed up to the hatch and my freedom.

*

The clown had painted his face—candy-apple red with white surrounding his lips. He was naked but for the paint, and his radiation burns snaked across his body in angry pink welts.

“Why do you paint your face?”

He was rubbing up and down my length; raw, red phallus cocked like a gun. He dry humped my leg as a horny dog will.

“I would hate to show you my shame-faced shamefulness.”

He turned to pinch my leg by separating the cheeks of his rear and squeezing them closed around the skin of my thigh.

“Do put on your outfit, my lovely lady. We will begin shortly in a short manner. Your coin will buy you such happy times here in our Fun House.”

He disappeared through a small door, his scrawny ass sagging on his jutting bones and I noticed the slick black wings poking from his back. They were crumpled and defective, as a damp butterfly just out of a chrysalis. A shame he could not use them. Neither man, nor bird, nor truly clown, either; my heart bled for him.

The room was quite dark, but patches of lights, sconces upside-down tossed blasts of prismatic color toward the ceiling. They illuminated a writhing collection of insects; pearly silver reflected the rays. They undulated to and fro above me. I watched their choreographed waving, liquid in unity, and wished Lovelies could work together with half the precision.

I peeled off my shift, white as my corpse skin, and tossed it aside. The black of my provided suit matched my mood, my desires; dark, inky things I veiled in my mind’s recesses. Like these latex pants, skin-tight but for the gaping hole in the crotch; I would wear my depravity on the outside. Here my wickedness would be ordinary. My baseness the least base of my companions. I wore rubber and the devil’s smile when my guide returned.

He circled me, snapping a finger under the strap of my suspenders. Rainbow striped and bedazzled, their elastic cracked against my otherwise naked breasts leaving them tingling with delicious anguish. I felt the dig of metal prongs behind the plastic jewels, biting my flesh.

His red-rod had grown larger. Near thick as my foot and twice as long, he slapped me with it as he spun. His giggle was childlike and sent a shiver pitching through my body. I would touch that stiff rocket, but the rules forbade it.

-Be touched, but never touch.

-Only suffering can birth satisfaction.

-Obey or go.

The plaque outside the crumbling stone building made my role abundantly clear. Did I know what consequence lurked behind disobedience? No, and I would not. Servitude was my lot below, but the demands of the Lovelies required my self-denial. Here service would stand before a mirror, and carnal gluttony would look back. Both would wear my face.

“To the next room, my Lovely? The Gorg awaits your face-making, make-facing. Already your attire has grown my man wand like magic, see?”

He poked at my open umbilicus with his fat stick, causing a flood of excitement to wet my lower lips.

“But not enough. The half-men like you in paint. They will show you their pleasure-poles, Lady, but hide your Lovely loveliness we must. Do not remind them to remember who you are!”

He pulled me through a door off the changing room. Well lit, spacious; my eyes squinted in the bright surroundings. A vanity covered in cosmetics hosted a set of chairs. On the far seat sat the peach-toned snake.

“Gorg, won’t you Gritt this girl?”

“Of coursssse. Ssssit.”

The snake, Gorg, gestured to the chair with a hand that was a smaller serpent sprouted on the side of her body. A matching appendage on the opposite side, and two legs lower down gave her five faces. She sat, thick bodied and bent, in a mockery of human posture. Her vertebrae were folded in a sitting position with a long coiled tail wound up under the chair. A hissing leg crossed over the other and she bounced it impatiently. The supporting limb buried fangs in the wood floor; a foothold held by a face-foot.

“Sssswiftly…” she beckoned me forward, the forked tongue of one hand gesticulating as a curled finger.

I moved and sat, my guide forgotten, so entranced was I by her sightless orbs. Lashes like horses’ mane, thick and flowing, parted around each milk-white lens. Spider webs of blood vessels, no pupils, resided in those eyes.

“And yet you see.”

“Ssshe sssells sssea ssshells…” Serpent heads spread before my face, imploring me to see. Eight eyes, beady black, sparkled like crystal. Eyed me up.

A small head snapped forward, biting a can of orange-yellow paint.

“Sssspread a ssssaffron ssssmile.” Gorg’s mouth moved, her sibilant tongue flicking with each consonant. I saw no teeth. Her mouth seemed puckered and shriveled with age; ancient as her eyes.

I took the pot of face cream from the jaws and dipped in a finger. Arrow-tipped limbs wove breezily about me, guiding, as I smeared the paste around my lips. They nudged my application wider and I complied, circling mouth and nose in a golden orange oval.

“Ssssapphire sssswirls sssurround the csssircle.”

The blue was thicker, caking in my eyebrows and sticking in my pale hair. Gorg hissed encouragingly.

“Sssso nicsssse.”

I watched a lump growing from what passed as her neck while I worked. It bulged bigger while I smeared the voluptuous cake through my hair. It clumped in a halo of midnight blue dreadlocks. The snake hands pushed me onward until my pot was empty.

By then the tumor was twice the size of my fist and something squirmed beneath the soft shell. A jagged white tooth pierced the skin from inside, slicing the covering in a smooth gash. A snake emerged. Head and body swayed provocatively as the serpent gazed with wonder through infant eyes.

Gorg spun her withered head toward the arrival and snapped at it with gummy jaws, opening and closing on the fresh flesh. She did not kill it with her toothless maw, but I could see the muscle and skin injured and crimped with each squeeze of her vice. The new snake fought back, sinking its egg-tooth into the murky eye of the mother.

But it was an act of dying desperation and as the upper limbs recognized the victor, they pounced, tearing into the wilting hatchling, ripping at it until it was no more than a patch of gore on the floor and a bleeding hicky on Gorg’s diamond-dusted scales.

“A turtle-neck would cover that up, or is that reptile cross-dressing?”

The large head swiveled to me, the mutilated eye leaking bloody tears.

“Ssssillier. Sssso you may go.”

I stood and noticed a wet spot where I had been sitting. A giggle, a high delirious trumpet passed my lips. The answering warble erupted from a door on the far wall. My wonderful guide stood waiting for me.

He would not slap me with that beet-red beat-stick now. A small woman, her trunk the size of mine, but her arms and legs half in length, stood before him. She faced me, her expression stoic as the firm sausage rested on her head. It was bigger than her leg, but she did not raise tiny hands to balance the swollen cock. I was reminded of the foreign women that carried ponderous vessels on their heads. Did they still live? And how about those jugs?

The two turned in perfect unison to lead me astray. My coin insisted, after all. The room I entered next was a never-ending corridor.

“Lay down if laying is what you crave, lovely lass.” Clown stroked my stiff hair, trailing a skeletal finger down to my lips. I sucked in the tip and he did not scold me. He touched first, not I.

On the floor was centered a foot-wide conveyor. An outline marked my place and I molded to it.

From my perspective, the flood of nude males that marched down the aisle toward my prostrate form was astounding. Their cocks were heavy and hard, promenading proudly before the rest of their bodies. The first stopped, straddled above my face. He was a clown of sorts, tall, covered in raw welts. His two ass-holes stared at me, winking lasciviously. Others lined up down the hall, countless cocks and balls hanging above like bunches of tantalizing grapes. I saw a dew-drop form on the fat helmet above me and shivered, watching the clown stroke himself with a sneer.

The belt moved, began to pull me languidly beneath the bare bodies.

First they were clowns, decorated in motely paint, but their pricks were all scarlet, and not one was small. They dangled above me as their masters rubbed them with zeal. My face passed under a man as a jet-stream of cream flew off, missing me by the smallest margin. I craned my neck, snapping like a new-hatched bird toward brackish sustenance, but without reward.

On I slid, tears rolling down my temples and doubtless marring my gritty blue with rivulets of pasty white. The men were growing shorter; their bulging knobs teased closer and closer to my starved tongue. The legs surrounding me grew ever twisted by degrees, stunted and gorgeous.

Finally a beefy cock stroked my cheek as I rolled through. It slid over my lips and I stuck a tentative flick of the tongue to it. Salty manna greeted me and the half-man hopped to the side to allow me passage. My body would not fit between his legs. I watched him spend himself on the ground, screaming in agony at the game they played. Did they know that this was the same misery of my entire existence?

I howled in rage, gnashing feral teeth while my body lay in obeisance.

The lights died completely, but I felt myself rolling onward.

And then a sudden halt.

A match flared. At first I could not see beyond the wisp of flame, but my eyes adjusted to show another half-man. He lit candles on the floor surrounding us before picking one up and showing his face to me. Sandy hair fell over his neck and ears and his eyes were emeralds. His cheeks were sculpted and covered in sand-paper stubble. A god among small men.

“Come and bathe,” he spoke, tilting his head to a steaming metal tub. I rose, peeling down elastic and rubber as I walked. I stepped in, and my beautiful dwarf sponged honeysuckle bubbles over me, washing away my colors and rinsing me clean. His fingers lingered on my breasts, pinching my small nipples to hard peaks. He slipped a diminutive hand under the foam; green tinged now, and found my clit. He worked it frenetically while he spoke. I trembled and tried to listen.

“Your roar touched me. I, too, burn to possess that which I do not. The masking entices the others. They have come to love our world, and themselves most of all. Not I. I am the Gemini to your deepest proclivities. I hold the keys to unlock you, and you me.”

He bent and placed his lips to mine, his tongue, thick and strong molested my mouth while his fingers entered my hot twat. I arched and groaned.

“The others cannot possess you as I can. Come.”

I stood, dripping. My lover pointed to a bed of pillows nearby.

“Down.”

I watched him strip. He was the only covered man in the Fun House. His pants dropped to reveal his double treasure. Two long cocks, one behind the other hung gloriously before me. I was wet from my bath, wet from his fingers, and wet from the sight of him.

Slowly the dueling members squeaked inside my coordinating holes. In and out they slid, brutally unhurried until I could expire from the torment. He knew. He pounded at me next, his two tools stoking each other through the slick wall that separated them. With hysterical laughter we climaxed together, him filling me up wholly in my holiest of holies. His thick jizz ran over my thighs when he pulled free of my clutches.

Tears distort my vision whenever I recall that sweetest pleasure of my life.

Now my belly swells and my breasts are puffy and sore. A small life kicks within me as I slave away in the food collection unit. But I have tasted the salt of the earth and my body has savored the seed of a half-man, more man by half than these clowns down below.

My babe may be the smallest Lovely ever born and will never want for gratification. And if not, I know where we will go. All wait to see if I will be Ostracized or become the Queen Bee, but either way it will not be the end of the world.

We have done that already.

Butterfly Kisses

By Duncan Meece

Dedicated to the girl who inspired the
hard-on that inspired this story.

Duncan Meece is a fan of weird, dirty and violent shit. When not getting drunk, he writes stories and makes films. He does this mostly to entertain himself, though he doesn’t mind if others enjoy the shit he makes as well.

On a hot day in June, Henrietta Mae Culbertson discovered a family of fairies in a dead hornet’s nest in her back yard.

She pulled her hands from her flower garden, knocking the dirt from her late husband’s tattered work gloves and wiped the sweat-soaked tufts of gray hair from her brow as she struggled on wobbly knees to stand. She was walking sluggishly through the thick brush of her back yard towards her rickety, wooden porch when she saw the nest, jutting out from the ceiling like a bulbous, mutant tumor.

She wondered how she managed to miss it when she walked outside earlier. It was one of the biggest she’d ever seen. She grabbed a large twig and proceeded to prod at it when a head poked its way out from the entrance. She stepped back and blinked in disbelief. A tiny man with blonde curls. He immediately retreated into the nest upon seeing her.

“Hey. It’s all right,” she said. “Come on out. I won’t hurt you.”

He appeared again, cautiously.

“Hi there,” she said.

“Hello,” the tiny man said.

“What are you doing in there?” she said.

“It was abandoned when we got here,” he said.  “I’m sorry if we’re trespassing but our village was attacked.”

“Attacked?” she said, stepping towards the nest.

“Blackbirds. They brought death with them from the sky.”

“My gosh! There’s more of you in there?”

“Yes,” he said. “Four of us. We managed to escape the massacre. There could be more survivors but... there was so much chaos...”

“How terrible. You must be awfully cramped in there. Why don’t you come on inside where it’s nice and cool?”

A relieved smile appeared on the tiny man’s face. “I can’t begin to express my gratitude.”

The fairies fluttered their way into Henrietta’s home. She watched them with wonder as her eyes began to glisten. Frail, transparent, kaleidoscopic wings. Tiny, naked bodies, no more than six inches high. She felt blessed to have these majestic creatures in her presence.

They landed atop the kitchen table and took in their new surroundings. It was a small, country home filled with various knick-knacks. A vast, alien world to the little fairies.  Mrs. Culbertson kneeled forward as much as she could with her achy joints, a wide grin upon her face, observing every subtle twitch they made.

After several minutes, when she finally managed to break her fascinated stare, she went to the hall closet and retrieved an old fish tank. It had been years since she had fish but she figured it would make an appropriate residence for her new guests. She washed the tank in her sink and placed it on the table before them. “It’s not much,” she said.  “But it’s sturdy.”

Henrietta’s tabby cat was slinking around under the kitchen table. The commotion had roused him from his lazy slumber. The fairies settled themselves inside the tank. A solid, transparent barrier between them and the world of her home. The cat jumped onto the table, as enthraled by the visitors as Henrietta, pawing playfully at the glass. They looked upon the furry beast in awe and were grateful for the protection of the tank. Henrietta shooed the cat off the table.

“Do you have names?” she said.

“I’m Warren,” the adult male fairy said.  “This is my sister, Rose.” He motioned to the female about his age. “The little one, Robin.” The child was staring up at Henrietta, mouth agape and wide-eyed. “And Ella,” he said, “the elder.” He motioned to the oldest fairy sitting in the corner. She was a brittle thing, wings crinkled. It took every bit of her strength to fly as far as she had. Her eyes wandered farther than the rest of them.

“You poor things must be famished,” Henrietta said. “I have some delicious, homemade pot pie in the fridge. I’ll heat it up for you.” She walked to the kitchen to prepare the food.

“Are you sure this is a wise decision?” Rose said to Warren, tapping her foot anxiously.

“Do you have to question every decision I make?” Warren said. “This is a safe place. How long do you think we would’ve survived in that nest?”

“Humans can’t be trusted,”she said. “This place gives me a bad feeling.”

“Have you ever dealt with a human personally? All your assumptions are based on dark tales from foolish elders.”

“Foolish?” she said with a laugh. “That’ll be the day when you’ve earned the right to call anyone but yourself foolish. Anyway, you’ve never dealt with a human either. All I’m saying is we shouldn’t let our guard down.”

Mrs. Culbertson returned with a saucerful of pot pie. “Here you are, my darlings,” she said, placing the steaming meal inside the tank. Robin rushed over and inhaled deeply, filling his nose with the unfamiliar but intoxicating scent of fresh cooked vegetables and chicken.

“Let it cool, Robin,” Warren said, patting the little one on the back. “Thank you for all you’ve done for us,” he said to the grinning giant before him. “What do I call you?”

Her grin grew wider. “Call me Henrietta.”

Waking early the next morning, Henrietta gathered the biggest plants from her garden and constructed a faux oasis inside the tank. She filled a plastic container with water from the tap and placed in on a leafy bed so they could bathe.

She spent hours watching the fairies with an old magnifying glass she had found in a forgotten desk drawer in her bedroom. She watched Rose sit in the corner and talk to Ella while Warren roughhoused with Robin, the two of them laughing together for the first time in quite awhile since the village had been destroyed.              Most of Henrietta’s attention was focused upon Warren. His body was lean and tight. And he was well-endowed, she noticed, relative to his diminutive stature.

Rose looked with disgust upon the colossal, veiny eye that monitored them. “Does it not disturb you to be put on display for that monster?” she said to Warren, keeping her voice low to escape the ear of Mrs. Culbertson.

“She’s only curious,” Warren said as Robin ran circles around him. “She’s hardly a monster.”

“We shouldn’t have come here,” she said firmly.

“When did you last see Robin this happy? Doesn’t his laughter bring you any joy at all?”

“This place is a prison. Every time I look up at that thing, I expect it to grab me and gobble me up.”

Warren laughed. “Rose, you are–”

“I am concerned for this family,” she said, standing up to look him in the eye. “You don’t know the intentions of this human. You’re as reckless as you’ve always been.”

“I made a decision to take this family out of harm’s way,” Warren said, clenching his fists in frustration. “This human hasn’t been anything but welcoming to us. And yet, you call her a monster and condemn me. I didn’t see you turn down the hot meal she gave us yesterday. If this shelter is unacceptable to you, you can leave any time.”

“I would never leave this family,” she said. “You know that.”

“Then unless you have a better alternative...”

“I have an alternative,” she said. “We leave this place and seek out other survivors. We regroup and rebuild.”

“We can’t go out there with the children and Ella again. It’s a wonder we survived as long as we did.”

Ella let out an exhausted moan from the corner of the tank. Rose and Warren turned to see her drooling and slumped over on her side. Rose rushed over and set her upright, wiping the drool from her shriveled lip.

“It’s all right, Mama,” Rose said, smiling. “I know you don’t like it when Warren and I fight.”

“She’s getting worse,” Warren said, crossing his arms and stepping forward.

“It’s this damn place,” Rose said under her breath.

“It’s not the place, it was the move,” Warren said. “And now you want to bring her back out there to roam around some more and get attacked again? Do you think that will help her mental state?”

“Of course we can’t bring her and Robin. But one of us should still go and try to find others.”

“And which of us might that be?” Warren said. “I suppose I should go, yes? It wasn’t enough that I found this heavily fortified shelter, now I have to leave to find survivors that may not even remain.”

“I can go find survivors!” Robin said boldly from the other side of the tank, thrusting a small leaf into the air like a sword.

“I know you could, my boy,” Warren said with pride. “But I need you here to stand guard.”

“I’ll stand guard!” Robin went back to rushing around the tank, weaving in and out behind plants and diving into leafy piles.

“What would you have us do then?” Rose said. “Stay here forever?”

Warren looked up at Henrietta’s massive face, still watching over them. “I’ll think of something.”

Warren couldn’t get to sleep. Leaves rustled underneath him as he tossed and turned. He rolled onto his back and noticed the massive silhouette of Henrietta, watching him from the darkness. He sat upright and she stepped into the light, revealing her smiling face. He stood and fluttered his way to the top of the tank as she opened the lid to greet him.

“Hello, Henrietta,” Warren said to the giant.

“Can’t sleep? Would you like to visit for awhile?” she said hopefully.

“Sure,” he said, after a quick glance at his sleeping sister.

Her bedroom was overwhelmingly blue. Blue walls, blue bed sheets, blue curtains, blue carpet. All different shades, all just as blue. It was cold.

She plopped down on her bed and placed Warren on the headboard shelf next to hand-painted clay figurines about his size. He looked curiously into their hollow eyes.

“I made them myself,” she said picking one up. “They can be your little friends.”

Warren chuckled awkwardly as she placed the figurine next to warren. Its painted grin. Its sightless, dead eyes. A friend it was not.

“Your sister doesn’t like me too much, huh?” Henrietta said.

“She’s just protective,” Warren said. “She’s always been cautious, even as a child.”

“I can see why she’d be protective of a cute little thing like you.”

“Yes. I suppose. But not just of me,” he said. “She’s protective of the family.” The dead eyes of the statues became increasingly disturbing to him.

“Did you have a wife?” Henrietta said.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Girlfriend?”

“There was no one like that,” Warren said, eyes pointed down. “I took care of my mother with my sister. We stayed together. No one else.”

“And the little one?” she said.

“Robin isn’t our blood. He was orphaned after the attack on our village. But I look after him as if he were my own.”

“Do you get lonesome?”

“It doesn’t bother me. I’ve got enough to worry about.”

“I know what it is to be lonesome,” Henrietta said. “I’ve been alone for a long time since my husband passed.”

Warren didn’t notice Henrietta’s finger until it brushed lightly against his thigh. Startled, he took a step back.

“It’s okay,” she said, scooting closer to the headboard shelf. “Relax.”

“What are you–?” Warren backed himself against the headboard.

Henrietta spread his legs open with her index and middle finger. “It’s okay,” she said softly. He did not resist, keeping himself pinned against the headboard, arms out, palms flat. She began stroking his cock with her pinky. His heartbeat quickened. She licked her lips, watching as he slowly became hard.

She stroked from his balls to the base of his cock. He kept his head turned to the side, away from her, eyes shut tight. Her face moved closer. He could feel her hot breath against him. “It’s okay,” she said, softer still. His eyes popped open wide in shock when he felt her warm, sticky tongue in-between his thighs. He looked down at it with disgust, pink and yellow undulating flesh.

It didn’t take him long. He came for the very first time onto Henrietta Culbertson’s colossal tongue. The tongue retreated into her mouth and she swallowed before looking down at him and smiling. “Wasn’t that okay?”

Warren was petrified, frozen against the back of the headboard, Henrietta’s hot saliva coating his lower body.

She laid her palm out flat before him. “Come on,” she said.

He reluctantly stepped onto her palm. She brought him close to her face and began to lick all over his body, coating him good. She stopped and looked at him. “I want you inside me,” she said.

“Please...” he said desperately.

“I want you to go down there and go inside me,” she said. “It’s only fair.”

Tears began to run down Warren’s face.

“Do it now,” she said, “or I’ll rip your goddamn wings off.”

Mrs. Culbertson set Warren down on the bed between her legs. She hiked up her nightgown, revealing her underwear, crotch stained with a pale shade of yellow. She pulled her underwear down to her ankles. Warren stood before her pussy. The hair was very thick and very dark and very gray. The smell was overwhelming. He could taste the foulness in the back of his throat.

“Go on,” she said. “I want you in there. You go in there and wiggle until I say you can come out.”

Warren slowly stepped forward and, breathing through his mouth reached through the matted hair and pulled apart the opening, releasing an even more intense stench.

“That’s it,” Henrietta said. “Go on in.”

Warren shoved his right arm in and then the other. His eyes were clenched tight, tears dribbling down his chin. He took a last breath before plunging headfirst into Mrs. Culbertson’s slit.

She grunted with delight. “Get all the way in, you little sonnavabitch. Fuck me!”

Warren wriggled his way inside her. He left enough of his legs protruding so he could maneuver his way back out. He started to wiggle around as best he could to please the giant, surrounded by the pink and purple undulating walls of this cramped, stink-filled tomb.

Henrietta closed her eyes, slack-jawed, and reached down to her crotch. She pushed Warren deep inside her until his legs disappeared. He was sealed in. The more he struggled, the more Henrietta moaned and tensed up.

The vaginal walls convulsed. Warren felt them closing in on him, ready to squeeze the life from his bones. They were getting more and more moist with each convulsion. He kicked at the sealed entrance, fighting for freedom. This stimulated his living coffin further.

As Warren began to lose strength and give up hope, a torrent of sludge washed over him, filling his mouth, his nose, everything. He closed his eyes, struggling to swim, but there was nowhere to go until he felt himself being pulled from the death trap.

He opened his eyes, looking up into a hazy, blue sky. The stench was still heavily upon him, but it was less intense. He coughed some of the goo out of his lungs as he sat there on the mattress in a puddle of sludge, catching his breath. Henrietta had her back against the headboard, breathing heavily.

Neither of them moved for quite awhile.

At dawn, Warren stood wide awake in the tank after a mostly sleepless night, trembling from head to toe with the crushing weight of shame and the still intense stench upon him.  He had tried to scrub himself clean earlier in the night but to no avail.

He could hear Mrs. Culbertson beginning to stir in her bedroom. He stared at the door, a cold, hateful look in his eyes.

“How are you going to convince her to let you out?” Rose said.

“She will let me out.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Trust me.”

Rose hadn’t gotten much out of Warren when Henrietta returned him to the tank earlier in the night. Right away, she had detected the stink. She knew something terrible had happened to him, but he wouldn’t give her any information. All she knew was that his opinion on the hospitality of the giant had drastically changed.

“And what happens when you return?” Rose said. “What if you don’t find anyone? And even if you do, what then?”

“If I can find some able-bodied survivors, I’ll have them wait outside,” he said. “When that thing in there goes to sleep, they’ll sneak in and free us.”

“And if you can’t find anyone?”

“Then I’ll try again tomorrow.”

Mrs. Culbertson’s door creaked open and she shuffled out into the living room, rubbing her tired eyes. “Good morning, my little dears,” she said. The fairies watched as she removed the tank’s lid and took the empty food bowl and the dirty bath water over to the kitchen sink.

Warren nodded to Rose before fluttering out of the tank and over to the giant.

“Well, hello there,” she said.

“Henrietta,” Warren said, nodding. “Last night–”

“Last night,” she said as she scrubbed the food bowl with an already dirty sponge, “was a fair exchange for free room and board for you and your little family. You live under my roof, you live under my rules.”

Warren felt a hate-filled sickness rising up through his guts. He did his best to keep it from showing on his face. “No, that’s not it at all,” he said. “I... enjoyed last night”.

She stopped scrubbing. “You did?”

“Yes,” he said. “I’ve never felt such a feeling.”

Henrietta smiled.  “You haven’t?”

“When I was young,” Warren said, “the elders told legends of giants. Stories of wondrous, erotic adventures. Until last night, I thought they were just stories. You’ve shown me a magical world, Henrietta.”

Henrietta soaked in every word. Her eyes drifted up and down his tiny body, moisture building in her mouth. She could still taste him.

“I need to find others,” Warren said.

“What?” Henrietta said, snapping out of her lustful gaze.

“My people,” he said. “There could be dozens more out there, fighting for survival. I have to find them and bring them to you.”

“You can’t go out there,” she said, firmly, turning back to the sink.

“Please, I have to. They need you. They need to know you exist so that they can worship you as I do.”

Henrietta was stunned. “Worship...?”

Warren kissed his sister, mother and little Robin goodbye before fluttering out of the tank, out the back door and into the wilderness that was Mrs. Culbertson’s yard. She watched him fly away, fantasizing about the swarm of miniature men that would accompany him upon his return. Their little hands. Cocks. All over her naked body. Inside her mouth. Her pussy. She shuddered and clutched at her collar with a trembling hand.

Henrietta stepped out onto her porch, the golden glow of sundown enveloping her. “Warren!” she said, calling out. No response.

She rustled through bushes and gazed into treetops, squinting to fight the piercing orange glow. Each time she called for him, each cry louder than the last, only deafening silence called back.

As she turned around, she almost ran face first into it, seeing it and stopping herself only at the last second. A colossal spider web in-between two oaks. When her eyes adjusted, her heart skipped a beat. There he was, tucked in the corner of the web. A gray, shriveled husk, blood and organs sucked clean out.

“Warren...?” she said as she stepped closer, her voice cracking.

He had been dead for hours. As he had fluttered from the house in a hurry, he found himself suddenly stuck, never seeing the silk death trap until it was too late. He watched in horror as the spider disemboweled and ate him alive.

Henrietta clenched her fists, tears streaming down her wrinkled face, flushed with anguish. With an agonized scream, she swiped the web down from between the trees and stomped it furiously into the dirt. She collapsed to her knees and began to sob.

Rose had been awake all night. There had been no meal that evening. After Henrietta had come back inside around dark, she retired to her bedroom and had not reappeared since. Rose could feel Robin’s stomach rumbling as she held him close.

She missed Warren. Somewhere inside, she knew he was dead but she couldn’t admit it to herself. Her vision fixed on that ember of hope, she closed her eyes.

The water hit fast and hard, slamming Rose and Robin against the wall of the tank. She looked up and saw the source of the torrent; a garden hose fed through the lid of the tank. The giant shuffled back to her chambers, leaving the fairies to their fate.

Rose threw Robin on her back and rushed towards Ella. She plunged her arms into the water, grasping for her mother, buried under a pile of wet foliage. Finding a frail arm, she pulled. Ella’s body came up from beneath the steadily rising water, eyes empty. With tears welling up in her eyes, Rose let the body sink back down.

Her wings were too wet to fly. She grabbed onto the base of the tallest plant in the tank and began to shimmy her way to the top, turning her head to shield her eyes from the stinging spray of the hose. Once at the top, Robin climbed onto her shoulders and slid out through the crack where the hose had entered. He made his way onto the roof of the tank, followed closely by Rose.

The hose ran down from the table to the floor. Robin wrapped his tiny, trembling arms around her waist and she slid down the hose until her feet touched the floor. She scooped Robin up in her arms, her eyes darting to the malicious giant’s door. Still closed. She followed the hose with her eyes to the cat door. That was their escape route. The cat door.

Before the dreadful realization hit her, a pair of green eyes lunged at her from the darkness of the house. The feline was on top of her in an instant, claws tearing her breasts open, as it sank its teeth into her shoulder. Robin was thrown from her arms, tumbling across the kitchen floor. This caught the cat’s attention and he turned to the tiny morsel.

Rose watched, bleeding out, as the cat pounced and munched down Robin. The bones cracking in the furry beast’s jaws. Screaming. Gurgling. Echoing forever in her head.

With her final breath, she prayed. May Henrietta Mae Culbertson live forever.

Sexual Madness

By Rose de Fer

Anna is fit to be tied.

Rose de Fer sees the sensual in the strange and she loves the view from the edge. She lives in England with her husband, who feeds her wine and raw meat and keeps the chains tight when the moon is full.

Anna gasped as Dr Rawlinson’s strong fingers pulled the laces tighter, pressing the steel bones of the corset even harder against her ribs, so tight it felt as though she would be crushed. There was a momentary flash of panic as she realised she could no longer inflate her lungs fully, but that was merely another element of the absolute control he had over her. He controlled her shape, her breathing, her fear. Everything.

The steel cage forced her soft curves into the dramatic contours of an hourglass, pinching her waist while accentuating her bosom and hips. Across the room she could see her chambermaid’s uniform, folded neatly on a chair, her own plain and functional corset on top. She had never seen, let alone worn, such a fine garment as the one her master was lacing her into now. It was of rich blue silk, accented with delicate pink blossoms.

She stood in the centre of the room, naked but for the beautiful corset. Her wrists were bound with soft cords and secured to the iron coat tree just in front of her. To keep her still, he’d said. In this way her body was presented for the demonstration.

“You see, gentlemen, how eager she is to please, how willing to endure discomfort merely for my approval.”

“Very like a well trained pet, Rawlinson.”

“Indeed,” he said with pride. “She is the ideal specimen.”

Anna’s face grew hot as the men discussed her. There were eight of them in all. She closed her eyes and lost herself in the moment.

He pulled the laces again, slowly and firmly, cinching her waist ever smaller.

“As you can see, gentlemen, her breathing has become very shallow. Were she to be exposed to some fright, she would likely swoon. We are all aware, are we not, of the link between fear and arousal? Such constriction of her body is both frightening and arousing for her. Indeed, she is quite flushed.”

He laid his cool fingers against her face and she trembled at his touch. But she would not disgrace herself by fainting as delicate ladies did. She would do her best to earn her master’s praise.

“Compressing the female body in this way inflames the lower organs, overheating the blood and thereby exciting impure desires. Little wonder our good Reverend Chatham is so opposed to the practice, eh?”

The men chuckled in agreement and Anna braced herself as the laces were pulled tighter. Each tightening made her feel as though she were shrinking, as though her entire body could be laced down to the size of a tiny creature her master might hold in the palm of his hand or tuck away inside his pocket. She was grateful for the bonds. Without them she would not have been able to stand.

One of the older men frowned at her and then turned his glowering countenance on Dr Rawlinson. “But sir, surely these women are merely following the dictates of fashion. They can’t possibly be aware of anything as complex as sexual desire, nor can they possess the mental capacity to actively seek it out. That is the sole province of the male.”

The statement sparked some discussion amongst the group. Half of the men insisted that the female of the species was not designed to experience sexual pleasure while the other half argued that it was possible but abhorrent to the sensitive female nature. None of them sought the opinion of the only female present.

“Gentlemen,” Dr Rawlinson said, “this is a debate for another time. For now let us focus on the subject of this demonstration. Namely, the observable effects of extreme corsetry on the female body. Our Anna is proving a most agreeable specimen, don’t you think? Quite aware of the irregular nature of these proceedings and yet entirely trustful and obedient.”

The older man who had spoken before snorted at that. “As I said earlier, Rawlinson, a well trained pet. She can’t possibly understand the risks involved. Why, Reverend Chatham only last month published a pamphlet warning of the dangers of tight-lacing. It is a proven fact that it produces insanity.”

Dr Rawlinson smiled. “It is an argument I have heard, my good man. But I suggest to you that this ‘insanity’ is of a purely sexual nature. A temporary madness, if you will, which passes once the lady is freed from the constricting garment.”

As he spoke he drew his fingers down the front of the corset to illustrate its constriction. Anna could barely feel his touch through the material, but it was enough to send a little thrill of arousal through her. She felt light-headed.

His hand moved down to the base of the corset, where he rested his palm gently against her bottom. Then he deftly slipped a finger between her legs and she gave a little cry as she felt him touch her sleek wetness. It was as though a light had flared within her. Her entire body came wildly alive in that moment and she felt the pleasure in every inch of her flesh. Her legs threatened to buckle and she clung to the coat tree, gasping until her master leaned in to whisper in her ear.

“Calmly, my girl,” he urged. “Slow your breathing.”

She obeyed, blushing at his nearness. She had felt the scratch of his whiskers against her cheek, smelled the hint of brandy on his breath. Delicious. Unable to stop herself, she pressed her thighs together, desperately craving his touch again and not caring if she made a spectacle of herself.

“Sexual madness,” Dr Rawlinson repeated for his audience. “She was a chaste young lady before this little demonstration and look at her now. As wanton as any harlot.”

One of the men approached, standing before her and peering closely at her face. The evidence of her wantonness must be plainly visible, for he shook his head with disapproval and stepped away again. “My own wife is herself deceived by this scandalous practice of tight-lacing,” he grumbled.

The gentleman nearest him, the youngest of the group, smiled at that. “I take it then, sir, that you are not the beneficiary of it?”

“Why, you impertinent—”

Dr Rawlinson interrupted before the flustered man could complete his oath. “I believe there can be little harm in the practice if the lady is closely watched.”

“But what of this resultant sexual madness you speak of? Are we to allow our women to succumb to such – such wickedness?”

“Perhaps one might provide the lady with an outlet for it?” Dr Rawlinson suggested mildly.

The younger gentleman laughed. “That’s what our friend here is afraid of!”

Anna ignored their jest and focused on the exquisite confinement of her body. Dr Rawlinson had trained her well. Inch by slow inch he had accustomed her to the rigours of tight-lacing, first in the privacy of his laboratory and now here before his guests. But it wasn’t merely the compression of her ribs that brought on the sexual madness. She experienced a similar madness whenever she brought her master his tea. Or his morning paper. In fact, she felt flushed and discomposed whenever he was near. Her mind would fill with un-chaste images and impure thoughts. And although she had never confessed this shameful secret to him, she sensed that he knew it anyway.

She imagined him stitching her permanently into a corset, the long needle piercing both her skin and the corset as it bound the two together. She dreamt of the pain she would feel with each sharp penetration and with every movement thereafter. The euphoric suffering she would surrender to as she became a living statue of flesh and steel and silk. He would position her in an alcove in his bedroom and gaze at the perfection he had inflicted on her. There she would stand, day after day, driven to a pleasing madness by her desire. At night he would carry her to his bed and defile his creation, taking her in unspeakable ways. His violent exertions would tear the stitches and blood would stain the fabric like roses. Perhaps in time her body would absorb the corset, making it a living part of her. Then he would cut new laces from her skin. Pulling them tight would induce such a frenzy of lust that she must remain confined for the rest of her days, treated by him with the most extreme methods at his disposal. . .

“Are you ready, Anna?” he said, startling her from her reverie as he gave the laces a final pull, fully closing the silk panels around her torso like a cage. Her sex pulsed hungrily as he encircled her waist with his hands, the fingers meeting with room to spare. With a nod of approval he untied her wrists and turned her to face the group. His eyes met hers and she knew he could smell her desire. The wetness must be obvious to all. She couldn’t have felt more exposed if she had been naked.

“But how can the poor creature breathe?” came a querulous voice from the back, “let alone go about her duties?”

“She is fully able to breathe,” Dr Rawlinson explained patiently, indicating the pale curves of her breasts. They rose and swelled with each shallow inhalation, faster now that she knew he was watching. “As for her duties, well, of late her duties have been rather specialised. You see, she is more than just my chambermaid. She is both my subject and my assistant.”

“A female assistant,” scoffed the older man. “Next you’ll be giving her the vote!”

Even the younger man laughed at that, clapping his companion on the shoulder as he turned to go. “I thank you for your hospitality, Dr Rawlinson. It has been a most. . . intriguing display.”

Dr Rawlinson sighed and shook his head. “Gentlemen, you disappoint me. Here I had hoped to disabuse you of the notion of the delicate, asexual female this evening. A pity.”

“You would have our wives and daughters embrace such indecency.”

“Utter lunacy, sir!”

“There’s a reason you were asked to leave the university,” one of the men said darkly. “Your theories have no place in a civilised society. Good night, sir!”

Muttering like-minded sentiments, the men filed out, leaving Anna standing in the centre of the room.

Dr Rawlinson turned to her with a shrug. “Perhaps the world is not yet ready for my ideas.”

“Nor mine,” she said and immediately blushed. She hadn’t intended to voice her thoughts aloud.

“Oh dear. Has this public display had an unnatural effect on my little specimen?”

She lowered her head as her master approached her. He led her to the desk and turned her around, bending her forward at the hips. She placed her hands on the cool expanse of mahogany and spread her arms out to either side, lowering her face to the red leather inset.

“Let’s see, shall we?”

He edged her legs apart and she whimpered softly as her dampness was exposed to the cool air. Her insides throbbed while she waited for him to touch her. It seemed an eternity before he finally pressed his fingers into her soft folds. Again, her body felt jolted and she cried out, pushing back against him to force him deeper.

“Goodness me,” he murmured, and she could hear the smile in his voice. “If only I could submit my findings to the Royal Society.”

His fingers described lazy circles around her sex and she clamped her legs together against his hand, begging him to go further. He didn’t make her wait long. She heard the rustle of cloth as he removed his trousers and then something hard was pressing against her sex, demanding entry. Then he held her by her tiny corseted waist as he drove himself into her, again and again. She hadn’t known such ecstasy was possible. Each penetration sent waves of excitement through her entire body and she cried out as she abandoned herself fully to the pleasure.

A deluge of images spun through her mind as her master fucked her. She saw herself naked and bound to the table in his laboratory, obscenely splayed for him as he penetrated her with cold steel instruments and commented on her unnatural response to such violation. She saw him towering above her as she knelt at his feet, a collar around her neck and attached to a chain he held in one hand as he fed her morsels of food with the other. She saw herself suspended via a series of elaborately looped leather straps from an iron frame, her body exposed and helpless as he stimulated her to madness.

Suddenly his body tensed and he clutched her tightly with a low deep moan. She felt the tiny spasms of his cock deep inside her and she realised that he had climaxed. She knew it was something that happened to men, although Dr Rawlinson believed it was also possible for women. “Hysterical paroxysm”, he’d told her it was called. She didn’t know what such a thing would entail but as he pulled her to her feet and turned her around she suspected that he was about to show her.

His face was flushed and his hair dishevelled, but he suddenly seemed more dominant than ever. His authority brought out a natural submissiveness in her and she chewed her lip nervously, awaiting further instructions. She was panting for breath and her legs trembled, barely able to support her after the onslaught her body had endured.

“Remember your breathing, Anna,” he said. “We don’t want you passing out.” He lifted her easily and sat her on the edge of the desk and then he eased her onto her back. “Shall we test another one of my theories?” he asked, smiling.

She closed her eyes, knowing he didn’t require an answer. There was the sound of a desk drawer sliding open, followed by the rattle of items inside. Anna tensed in anticipation as he spread her legs wide apart. Something metal pressed against her sex and she gasped at the sudden chill. There was the whir of gears, as though someone were winding a clock, and then a series of fast and intense vibrations began to race through her entire lower body. The sensation was overwhelming and she cried out wildly at the powerful stimulation.

She could just hear her master’s voice over the hum of the device. He murmured encouragement along with amused observations, objectifying her as he had during the demonstration. His little pet, his experimental subject, his specimen. The words bound themselves up with the physical feelings and before she knew it her body was entirely out of her control. At last the rising swell of ecstasy overtook her and for a moment she thought she would burst out of her skin. It lasted so long it was nearly unbearable. Stars exploded behind her eyes and she found herself crying with joy by the time the throbbing had subsided. Her whole body felt alive, exhilarated, devastated.

When she returned to herself she saw that Dr Rawlinson was smiling at her. She covered her face, blushing furiously. He peeled her hands away.

“Don’t be silly, girl,” he laughed. “There’s no reason why ladies shouldn’t have as much fun as gentlemen do.”

“But I’m not a lady, sir,” she said shyly. “I’m just your chambermaid. It wouldn’t do to be getting ideas above my station.”

“Nonsense. You’re my research assistant and my greatest achievement. My findings will change the world one day, you’ll see.”

He helped her up and she got shakily to her feet. Her body was still buzzing from everything he’d done to her that evening and she was sure she could even feel the vibrations through the steel bones of the corset. She closed her eyes, remembering. As she stroked the blue silk, a flurry of terms came to her: impure desires, hysterical paroxysm, sexual madness.

“Here,” he said. “I should probably release you from that.”

But she drew away. “Oh, please may I keep it on, sir?”

He looked both pleased and puzzled by her resistance.

“You said the madness was only temporary, that it would pass as soon as the corset was removed. And – well, I don’t think I’m quite ready to be cured yet.”

Terra Cupidus

By Robin Tiergarten

See a doctor for an erection lasting more than four hours.

Robin Tiergarten lives in Southern California and loves playing in the mud and getting filthy.  The outdoors are especially appealing to Robin who enjoys hiking, camping, and trail running in the local mountains.  When not sleeping under the stars, Robin writes strange stories.

Hatchet-face and I have this deal. Used to be with Mallet, but she got burnt out, actually dried right up, like she was an old shriveled-up puss or some schoolmarm snatch who couldn't work it for fuck anymore. Just broken down, withered, but not Hatchet-face. She's my number now and has been for a while. She's all juicy like a watermelon, squirt right in your eye like a lemon. So refreshing, too. She can entice anyone. See we use that to our advantage. But you know that, huh?

Hatchet-face isn't just juicy; she's a piece too. Has a tight body with all the right curves and straights that she accented in just the right way. I don't know what I'd do without her. Anchor of the game. Most powerful piece. If I am king on the chessboard, she's the queen. And I need her. Without her, it would be not worth living—none of it. Can I tell you why? Promise you won't tell anyone else? Not that you have the energy for that, huh? All right, here's the deal:

I lost my passion. I know what you think; you think everyone loses his passion for stuff, for everything he ever cared about. But that's not it. I really didn't lose it; it was stolen.

Let me be upfront. I have, well, interesting tastes. I like the exotic in certain areas, and sex was one of those areas. I'd tried most things you've heard of, the typical garden variety stuff—you know multiple partners, sex toys, all the orifices, tying up, tying down—until I was exhausted. Still I wasn't satisfied.

Then I met this woman—Joyce Janus. I saw her at this well-known bar for people like me. Had a few drinks with her, typical shit small talk. After the drinks and the small talk, she moved in close to me. She had one of those mouths I can only describe as dirty. Her lips were full and sensual. The lines in them were pronounced and deep. The lipstick clung in them and made little dark spots on her lips. Her teeth were slightly stained and a little crooked, but her tongue was deep red and it moved behind her lips and over her teeth like koi in a pond. That mouth wanted to eat not just me, but the entire world. Damn, if I didn't want to be part of that glorious meal, but something told me she would just consume me, leave me nothing but a husk. I didn't care enough; I wanted what I wanted and that mouth with its dirty promises of fleshly consumption couldn't be denied.

It whispered in my ear, “I have something you've never seen. Would you like to see it? Feel it?” I felt the heat of those lips. Imagined them licking the edge. “It's not what you think. I promise you have never felt something like it.”

Joyce led me to a grimy backroom where there was a bed that only special customers could use. It was a really crappy bed that sagged in the middle. It had a thread-worn blanket on it. I normally wouldn't get near the thing, but Joyce Janus started kissing me. Then she went down with that dirty mouth of hers that seemed to work black magic. I could have been satisfied with that. I should have been, but she pulled me out of her mouth and said, “Ready for your new experience?”

I was so full of passion, so throbbing and hard, I could only manage a nod. I was stupid with desire.

She reached into a black shoulder bag. She had probably left it in the dirty backroom before she met me. She pulled out a mason jar. I looked at her like she was nuts. What was in there? Moonshine? Some kind of cheap high? Was she trying to get me to huff some industrial cleaner? When she brought it into the light more, I could see it was dark and muddy looking. Did she shit in a jar or something?

I was about to forget about this new thing even after that dirty mouth had worked its magic, but she grabbed my arm and stopped me.

“Look,” she said. She held it as close as she could to a 25 watt bulb hanging near the door. The bare bulb threw grimy light on it. “See it?” Inside the mason jar, gold, purple, and red veins of light glowed and moved in a brown substance. Little sparks shone up and down the veins.

“What is it?”

“terra cupidus.”

I stared blankly at her.

That dirty sensual mouth of hers cracked a smile. “That's Latin for this rare substance. It is a special mud that can only be found in very rare and special caves. The best translation for it in English is 'desirous earth.' When you rub it on your skin...let's just say...it is like nothing you've ever experienced.” Her smile grew. She licked her lips with that red tongue. Then she reached down with her free hand and stroked me.

The glowing mud, her smile, her lips, and her hand got me going again. Got me ready for anything. Made me agree when she asked if I wanted to try it.

“The best way to apply it is thickly on your most sensual spots.” She pulled my pants down all the way and helped me sit on the edge of the cheap sagging bed. Then she sucked me a little. She got my full attention before she reached for the jar.

She opened it. A smell of earth, flowers, honey, and something slightly sickly wafted my way. She poured the muddy substance on my erection. Then she rubbed it over my skin, covering all of it. She took the mason jar and placed it underneath, waiting to collect it as it dripped off me.

It took a few seconds before the terra cupidus took effect. At first I felt heat and then intense humid sensual wetness. Suddenly it seemed to pleasure every part it covered, sucking from it the energy.

Imagine every pore having an orgasm at the same time. Now imagine every orgasm as the most intense one you have ever had. Now imagine the orgasms going on and on. Imagine that tired feeling you have, that contentment after a good orgasm. Now imagine you have nothing left—no passion because it was actually all spent. Imagine being so satisfied and tired that you didn't care if a strange woman who suddenly looked like a witch to you collected the muddy reason for this feeling by scraping it off you with a plastic spatula until you were nearly clean again.

Imagine her smiling as she held the mason jar aloft—the substance inside was glowing purple, gold and red. It was hard to look at it was so bright. Imagine yourself helpless, so unable to move because you have no desire to do that or anything. That was me. I was just like that as she closed the mason jar and shook the contents. But then you can totally relate to that, huh?

“You certainly were a passionate fellow,” she said. “I love a good horny man. So easy. So predictable.” She studied the contents. Then she looked at me. “You'll live, just not the same way ever. You won't feel that rush again. It's gone. Told you you'd never experienced something like this.”

I lay there and listened to her. On that crappy saggy bed, I could barely lift my head.

Then she did something cruel. She kissed me with that dirty mouth, held the jar against my cheek and opened it. That smell permeated the room this time. It was so strong. She breathed it in and sniffed at the air a few more times. Shudders of pleasure moved through her frame.

“Delicious.”

Then as if to taunt me, she dipped her fingers into jar and covered them with the glowing substance. She moaned as she brought the hand under her dress and masturbated with it. She placed the jar on a table next to the bed and dipped her other hand inside. This one also moved under the dress. She moaned and gyrated beside my exhausted form. She stared into my eyes.

“Oh baby, you feel so good.” She rubbed and rubbed herself with her muddy glowing hands. She showed it all to me by placing one knee on the bed. “Consider this your lovely parting gift.” She rubbed frantically and slapped her flesh.

“Ahhh...ahhh...oh...”

But something happened. Right then, she just fell over. If I were a curious person, I would have asked myself, “Was it a massive heart attack or stroke?” Thankfully, I didn't give a shit. All I cared about was the hand with the glowing mud.

I struggled to lift my hand and reach for it. It took a few tries, but I managed to flop my hand on top of hers. The energy of the mud moved through me. I had the desire to rise and the energy to do it. Moments later, I stood over Joyce Janus' dead body. I reached for the mud, sat on the bed and poured the entire glowing contents on my cock. I felt the surge of returning energy; it was a huge rush of orgasm. As the mud ran off me, I took the mason jar and collected it. I'm not sure why I did. Perhaps it was because Joyce Janus did. I didn't want to break the effect of the terra cupidus. I even used the spatula to get it all off of me. When I looked at the mud, it was no longer glowing; it just had those purple, red and gold veins again.

Now I wish I could tell you I was all back to normal after that, but it just isn't so. I felt pretty normal for a day or two, but then, I started feeling drained again. A few days after that, I felt weaker and weaker. I knew what I had to do. I had to use the mud.

I cruised through the pages of Craig's List. I found a couple looking for a male third. I met them at a motel. We played around a little. I asked them if they would like to experience something new. Just like Joyce Janus, I spread the mud, but I did it to both of them. I left them exhausted on the bed. Perhaps they died.

I found I had to use the terra cupidus every few days. Once when I had a little extra energy, I spared Mallet. She reminded me of a girl I had a crush on in elementary school. She became my bitch who lured horny men to me. She spread the mud and collected it. I loved her.

But she touched the mud too much. Got all dried up. Finally, I left her on a bed with the last guy we drained. Some dumb fuck with a huge beer belly and a little cock. Not much energy there.

Later that night, I ran into Hatchet-face in the middle of the night at a Circle K. She was looking for a bite. I went in. Came back to the parking lot with a pile of food. Gave it to her. She had sex with me as a thank you. We enjoyed it and kept doing it.  She's my number. Tight and juicy. She collects the mud now. Gets better guys than Mallet ever did. These young assholes from the local club want to fuck her or at least get a hummer. She leaves them drained in their driver's seats. Brings me the mud. She spreads it on me. She takes the spatula and cleans it off. Then she washes me carefully and completely. The whole time, I make her wear gloves. I don't want her to become another Mallet. When I'm fresh, clean and ready, Hatchet-face and I go at it all night long.

So now you get it, huh? Why you can't move from that bed. Why the last thing on your mind is fucking. You know I like you. I think Hatchet-face does too, young fella. I think we'll put on a show for you. Who knows? Maybe she'll put her stuff in your face. Maybe you like that. Doesn't really matter, huh? You get it whether you like it or not. You know if you had any energy left, you could scream. You won't. Not even if we decide to fuck you like a love doll. One more thing before we start. Look at Hatchet-face. She is so lovely in those garters, that leather bra and panties, ain't she. And don't you like how the glow of that mason jar lights up them titties?

“Hatchet honey, come on over here.  Give Daddy his smear. Let's get this night started.”

Bizarro Anthologies by Burning Bulb Publishing:

The Big Book of Bizarro Horror Collection (Kindle)

The Big Book of Bizarro Sci-Fi & Fantasy Collection (Kindle)

The Big Book of Bizarro Erotica Collection (Kindle)

The Big Book of Bizarro – (Paperback, complete works)

Westward Hoes (Paperback and Kindle)

###

Table of Contents

- One Hell of a Band
- Lester’s Ominous Gift
- The Gathering
- Womb With a View
- Love Bites
- Pomegranate Moth
- Sonata for Insects and Violins
- Frosty
- Fun House
- Butterfly Kisses
- Sexual Madness
- Terra Cupidus