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Don’t Be A Prude! Enjoy Your HORRGASM Today!

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Featuring six titillating tales, this anthology delivers a chilling blend of provocative horror.

THE WOMAN IN RED opens with a lusting and blood thirsty couple hell bent to outshine Jack the Ripper.

Take a bizarre road trip delivering talking heads with a hot blonde with a twisted past in HEAD TRIP.

DOSE goes through hookers and drugs faster than Charlie Sheen, explores the S&M scene, while delivering a haunting climax.

SEX TOY plays with an odd, foreign and blasphemous sex curio that takes a couple’s love life to a whole new level.

TOUCH ME, I’M SICK warns of a grave consequence no lustful adulterer would ever want to pay.

Lastly, THE VAMPIRE NYMPH wraps up the anthology with sizzling vampire sex served with a cold dish of irony.


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Deadly Admiration – Jovan Jones

Enhance your coffee



Caleb Thomas’ drab routine had grown tiresome. The dishes clanged as the dishwasher plucked them from the steaming carts. The vociferous mixture of Spanish and broken English hailed from the grills. The staff bellyached about their jobs, and how it was unfair that they were paid lousy wages. The manager’s constant threats to fire employees simply to scare them into working faster irritated him. But it was a job, and at least he didn’t have to wait by the back door like Mack; the homeless man who engaged in conversations with himself while he waited for a hand out. So, he donned his well practiced shit grin and went to work.

“My name is Caleb. I will be your waiter for the evening,” he greeted two pretty blonde women and their garish dates. He wrote his name on a napkin and took their order. One of the women caught his eye. Caleb tried not stare, but found it difficult to look away. He gathered his bearings and walked off.

Brook Abernathy gathered with a few friends at Lidia’s Italian Home Kitchen on South Boulevard just outside of Downtown Charlotte, North Carolina. They celebrated her divorce from her husband, Richard over Veal Marsala, bruschetta, prosciutto, and a bottle of Ecco Domani Merlot. A friend and co-worker, Derrick Ruben flirted unabashedly with the newly single woman. He rubbed her bare thigh under the table.

“How does it feel to be back on the market?” Derrick asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe if I were a piece of meat I could tell you, but for now I’m enjoying the company of my friends,” Brook said; slapping his hand off her leg. “Slow down, lover boy. I haven’t even finished my first glass of wine.” She winked.

Brook’s friend Marcy wore a white see –through blouse that revealed her red lace bra. It squeezed together her well endowed breast. She said, “Well, I guess Rich is up for grabs now, huh?” Marcy gulped down her glass of wine. “I’m just kidding, honey. That jerk is not my type.”

Yeah, you would fuck him if given the opportunity. You might have already; slut.

Brook smiled. “You can have him if you want, and everything that comes along with a sadistic psychopath.”

“I’m not sharing,” another one of Brook’s male friends, Walter stated. “This one is mine.”

“You’re sure of yourself aren’t you?” Marcy fronted a look of surprise at his remark.

“I go for what I like.” Walter moved closer and rubbed her back. She moved in rhythm to his touch.

“Can I get anyone dessert?” Caleb asked the table.

“No, thank you. We’re ready for the check,” Brook smiled. She subtly sized Caleb up. She liked what she saw. He was average height with an athletic build. He had a clean shave, clean cut hair, and soft brown eyes. She unconsciously adorned a wanton smile. Caleb reciprocated. He extracted a handful of mints from his apron and placed them in the pay dish. As he started away from the table he caught a menacing glare from Derrick. He met his glare with an intense gaze of his own. Derrick averted his eyes. Caleb smirked at Derrick’s attempt to intimidate.

“Thank you. Have a wonderful rest of the night,” Caleb said, but not before placing his palm on Brook’s shoulder. Derrick stared with enmity as the waiter ambled away.

“He’s kind of cute Brook,” Marcy said. Her voice was slurred from the alcohol.

“Yes, he is,” Brook responded.

“Too bad he’s a waiter,” Marcy said. “He can’t afford me.”

Please, you’re as cheap as they come.  Brooke thought.

They all pitched in on the tip and got up from the table. As they were leaving Caleb bumped into Derrick and caused him to fall into a nearby booth.

“I’m terribly sorry, sir. Here let me help you up.” Caleb gripped Derrick’s hand so forcefully Derrick’s knuckles popped. “There you go. Again, everyone have a splendid evening.” Caleb waltzed into the kitchen feeling good about his small victory. His focus turned to the voluptuous blonde with the Caribbean Sea blue eyes and puckered full lips. He visualized her chiseled calves strutting out the door. She smelled of cucumber and watermelon body wash, light scented sweet perfume, and a subtle hint of citrus; her shampoo perhaps. In that brief encounter he had become enamored with the woman.    


Derrick stood in the parking lot pissing behind his black Audi S7. He shook his meat, zipped up his pants, and turned.

“Jesus Christ!” He was startled by Caleb standing by the driver’s side door of his car. “Don’t you have some tables to bus?”

Caleb stayed silent; his breathing expanding his muscular physique through a white T-shirt.

“Look, buddy. I apologize for my manners. I didn’t mean to rub you the wrong way,” Derrick said. His voice cracked.

“You ever go to her house?” Caleb asked.

“Whose house?”

“The woman you kept unsuccessfully coming onto.”

“Brook, yeah she’s my friend,” he stated nervously. “Look, if you want I could . . .”

“I bet you were a bully in school. One of those jerks who got their kicks by picking on poor kids, or did you terrorize the retards?”

“Get out of my way.” Derrick tried to push past Caleb.

Caleb delivered a vicious uppercut to Derrick’s abdomen. He slumped over and heaved out his Chicken Parmesan dinner. “What do you want?”

Caleb got behind the man and wrapped cooking twine around his neck. It smelled of pork roast, and raspberry glaze. He tightened his grip. Blood seeped into the twine as it cut into Caleb’s fingers. Derrick kicked wildly. His arms flared desperately as he tried to get loose from his attacker. The lights in the parking lot dimmed. Derrick could hear nothing, except the panicked palpitations of his heart beating voraciously in his chest. His arms went lame. He couldn’t feel his legs. The taillights of his car looked like demonic eyes watching him being murdered. He had a bile movement, just as everything went black.

Caleb retrieved the keys to Derrick’s car and popped the trunk. He threw the lifeless body in and shut it. He got in the driver’s seat and typed in Brook. 4815 Ashley Park Lane appeared on the screen. He got out of the car, wiped his hands on his apron, and went back inside the restaurant to finish his shift.


“So tell me. How was it?” Marcy asked Brook.

“How was what?”

“Did he give it to you right?”

“Marcy. What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about Derrick, of course. How was the sex?”

“I didn’t sleep with Derrick,” Brook said with disgust.

“Well, hell what did you guys do, make s’mores?”

Brook grew impatient. She didn’t know what Marcy was talking about, or why she assumed her and Derrick had been intimate. It was 6:30 in the morning and the coffee maker hadn’t even beeped yet. She looked at Marcy through a squint of confusion.

“Don’t look at me like that. I saw his car pull out the parking lot just as I was pulling in. I know it was him. His is the only Audi with a CUMSH2R license plate,” Marcy said.

“You sure you saw him leave, just now?”


“I thought Derrick was cool, but he’s a creep. I can’t believe he was stalking me!” she said angrily.  

Brook and Marcy left out of the parking lot. Derrick’s Audi pulled in Brook’s parking spot. Caleb got out and headed to the office. It was closed. There was an emergency number on the door. He called the number and a heavy lethargic voice answered.

“Ashley Square at South Park, maintenance department.”

“Yes, sir this is Derrick. I’ve locked my keys in my apartment and my girlfriend has the spare. Can you unlock it for me please? I’m at 4815 apartment B. It’s kind of urgent. I forgot my insulin inside.”

“Give me a minute,” the maintenance man said.

Thirty minutes later the man showed up with the remains of his breakfast trapped in his scruffy beard.

“You have to be careful with that, man,” the maintenance man stated. “My mother went into a diabetic coma once. She wasn’t good with taking her medicine either.”

Than why the fuck did it take you thirty minutes to get here you fat slob? “I know. I have to be more careful.” Caleb said. He had contrived several rebuttals for why the guy should let him in, but the dingy maintenance man never questioned him. He didn’t even ask to see I.D. He unlocked the door and told Caleb to have a good day. “Thanks.”

Caleb entered the apartment and began searching. He surveyed the medicine cabinet first; relishing in the sweet perfumes that reminded him of Brook’s presence the night before. He imagined her doing her make-up in the nude; her supple cream flesh calling for his touch. Caleb ventured to her bedroom closet. It wasn’t what he expected. There were a few party dresses, but mostly professional attire and flats instead of high heels; a woman who could care less about impressing the corporate world, or she had a bad case of corns. Either way it made her seem more down to Earth. In her nightstand there was a black leather bound diary. He took it into the kitchen and placed it on the breakfast table. He found some pastrami in the fridge and made a sandwich. He sat down, lit a cigarette, and read her diary.


Brook and Marcy sat at a table outside of Mert’s restaurant on Church Street in downtown. They ate lunch and sipped on ice teas. Brook focused on her plate. She tried to filter Marcy’s never ending monologue of drama spewing from her mouth. The streets were lined with city maintenance laborers, vagrants, and office slaves released from their cubicle prisons for an hour to gorge themselves with greasy food. Through the sea of the heteronomy she glimpsed a handsome man strutting toward her. His gaze was fixed on hers. He stopped at her table.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hi . . . hello, how are you?” she greeted.

“I’m fine. Do you remember me?”

“Yes, I remember you. Lidia’s on South Boulevard, right?” He nodded. “I’m sorry, but I forgot your name.”

“Caleb Thomas,” he said proffering his hand. “What’s your name?”

“Brook. Brook Abernathy.” She gave him a toothy grin. Marcy cleared her throat. Brook pointed to Marcy. “This is my friend, Marcy.”

“Hi, nice to see you again,” Marcy said.

“I’m sorry. Where have we met before?” he asked.

Brook said, “She was with me that night at the restaurant.”

“Yes, yes of course.” Caleb nodded and reestablished eye contact with Brook. Marcy slid a finger through her hair, and pushed her breast up. It was an unconscious habit of hers when she didn’t get the attention from a man she thought attractive.

“Listen, Brook I’d really like to take you out sometime. How about we exchange numbers and set something up?”

“I’d like that. Have a seat. Have some lunch,” Brook invited.

“I don’t want to interrupt you two’s lunch, besides I’m on my way to the library.”

Marcy snorted a snide chortle, “You read?”

Caleb ignored her. It embarrassed her to be disregarded by a man.

Brooke kicked her friend under the table. She gave her a quick wide eyed reproach and smiled up at Caleb. He gave her his number and she called him to put her number in his phone. They exchanged niceties and he strolled off. It was Marcy’s annoying negativity that broke Brooke of her entrancement.

“You don’t even know him. He’s a waiter for Christ sake,” Marcy said.

Brooke shot her a playful grin. She leaned in and said, “Your jealous heifer.”

Pffft. Like I said before, he cannot afford me.”

“Maybe he’s scared of those big ole tits of yours.” Marcy’s jaw dropped. “You could smother a man to death with those things.”

“You’re a mess,” Marcy laughed.

“Let me tell you. Richard had a lot of money, but he was an asshole. I rather be treated with respect then slapped around with a money clip. Besides, Caleb seems like a nice guy.”

That night Caleb sat in his dark room at the edge of his mattress set on the floor. His naked body was lathered with sweat from his daily regimen of five hundred push-ups, and five hundred sit-ups. He held a piece of blank printing paper he took from Brooke’s printer in her apartment. He sprayed it with her perfume before he left. He basked in her scent; ruminating on the possibilities of them together.

Caleb stood and went to his dresser. He grabbed a pencil and began to draw her face. Caleb captured the details like a forensic sketch artist. From the wavy hair, to the full lips he was able to quicken her image onto the page. She smiled seductively at him through pursed grey and white lips. He smiled back at her. A malodorous stench seeping into his window broke his fugue. The funk of Derrick’s carcass was too pungent. He had to dump the Audi.


Brooke stepped out of the apartment on her way to work. She was greeted by the maintenance man. “How’s your boyfriend doing?”

Brooke turned her lips down and stared.

“How’s your boyfriend; you know with taking his insulin?”

“I don’t have a boyfriend, Mr. Russell,” Brooke said. “Insulin?”

Ole Mr. Russell went over the scenario in his head. He’d realized that he let a stranger into Brooke’s apartment. How could he be so careless? He couldn’t reveal that he did. He would lose his job. Mr. Russell needed his job. Ashley Square Apartments was the only place who hadn’t done a background check, because if they did they would’ve know he was a repeat sex offender, and sex offenders aren’t the type welcomed around women and children.  

“Oh goodness, I’ve got you mixed up with Mrs. Johnson,” he said with a straight face. “It’s early, and the blonde hair, you know?” He searched her eyes for accusations. “Never mind. Have a good one.” Mr. Russell scurried past her. Sweat dripped from his double chin. Brooke shrugged and got in her car. Her cell rang.

“Hello,” she answered.

“It’s Caleb. I hope I’m not calling you too early, but I’m on my way to work and I wanted to catch you before I got tied up all day and couldn’t call.”

Brooke beamed. “I’m on my way to work too. It isn’t too early. I’m glad you caught me.”

“I wanted to invite you to a get together tomorrow night. Some of my friends from work are pitching in and having a bar-be-cue. There’ll be drinks, and some card playing, things like that.”

“I’d love to,” Brooke said.

“Okay, see you tomorrow.”

Brooke hung up feeling a healthy and sprightly energy flowing through her body. It had been a long time since she felt that way about a man.

Caleb set out to court a beautiful woman, and her response toward him was positive. He felt triumphant, as he gazed upon the gorgeous watch that Derrick once wore. He unburdened the dead man’s wrist of it before he dumped his body in an abandoned house in Grier Town; a seedy part of the city on the east side of Charlotte.  


Caleb clothed himself as a regular Joe at work. He hid the maniac inside him well. He cogitated on Brooke, and the well of emotion she induced in an otherwise cruel and merciless mind. Staring out from the plateau of lunacy he saw a man filled with joy marching through the valley of depravity, bringing with him a torch of hope to illuminate his black quiddity. He turned from the bathroom’s mirror, and readied himself to do his job.

Marcy occupied the only table in his station. She was alone. Her mascara seemed heavier every time he saw her. She looked dejected.

“Hello, what are you having today?” he spoke with an exasperated tone.  

“I came to talk to you,” she said.

“I’m at work right now, what is it?”

“Why don’t you like me?” she asked. The insecurity of a school girl resonated in her voice.

“How do you figure I don’t like you?”

“You want Brooke,” she said.

“That’s right. I’m fond of her and would like to get to know her. She’s your friend, isn’t she?”

“She is,” Marcy’s eyes flickered with lust, “but I want you to be my friend too.”

“Look, Marcy I . . .” She placed her hand on his stomach. He felt blood rush to his member.

“Brooke gets all of the good guys. For a change I want one—just one good guy.”

“Which car is yours?” Caleb shoved a thumb toward the parking lot.

“The silver Buick Enclave in the front.”  

“Pull around to the back of the restaurant. We’ll talk, okay?” Caleb’s tone softened. He sighed as he shuffled through the traffic doors. Marcy stomped through the lobby. Her platform shoes sounded like props for an old western themed radio program. The host eye fucked her tits as they bounced around in her shirt like a waterbed mattress.

“Right there,” Caleb whispered. “That’s a good girl.” He held Marcy’s hair back as she bobbed on his cock. Spittle dangled from her lips. Red lipstick smeared her mouth. He pushed her head back down. His thick, heavily veined dick slid in her throat. She gagged, and came up for air.  

“Your cock taste so good,” she panted her words. “Cum in my mouth Daddy.” She jerked him into her mouth as her lips and tongue glided, sucked, and tickled the tip of his dick.

“Oh shit,” he said.

She sucked, and bobbed until she drank it all. He shivered. His body went limp. Her lips made a loud pop sound when she released him from her mouth.  

Marcy’s mascara ran from the tears produced when she gagged on his member. “See, Daddy. I can be your friend.”

Caleb’s shift ended. The time had come to enjoy Brooke’s company. Her image occupied his mind like a portrait set on the wall of his psyche. He’d removed Derrick from the picture. Caleb knew that he would have to eventually do something about Marcy’s insistent covetousness, but for the time being her lewd thirst was satiated. The day couldn’t have gone by quick enough.

Brooke met Derrick at the bar-b-cue. Her hair was curled, and hung just past her shoulders. She sported a flowery sundress that accentuated her curvaceous frame. Caleb met Brooke at the front of the house. Before greeting her properly he stood back; watching her strut and taking her all in. She was captivating. He was experiencing an unfamiliar feeling. He’d loved women, before, but this was different. He loved his mother. Caleb loved Mrs. Lojowski, his high school guidance counselor who took his virginity. Brooke had intelligent eyes. Her disposition was humble, yet authoritative. The woman’s presence incited amorous emotion. He admired Brooke.

Caleb introduced her to his friends. His friends were different from hers, and it was a welcome change. They were inviting. It wasn’t a competition of who had the best material item, or who knew the most successful people. They simply enjoyed each other’s company.

“Thank you for inviting me,” Brook said.

“No, problem,” Caleb responded. “They like you.”

She felt herself blush. Caleb cupped her hands in his. She looked at him with a felicitous beam.

I knew you’d like that. I’m so glad I read your diary before I pursued you. I want to be your dream man.

“Can you get me another drink?” Brooke asked.

“Sure, sure,” he said. Caleb went into the house and mixed her a rum and Coke.

“Oh my God Caleb, these are my absolute favorite flowers,” Brooke stated. Along with the drink he brought her a bouquet of violet and white carnations.

Your ex-husband wouldn’t bring you your beloved carnations other than on special occasions. I know, because you told me in your April seventh entry. Thank you for sharing your secrets.  

They sat silently, dreamily gazing into each other’s eyes; allowing their chemistry to work rather than screw it up with words. Caleb grabbed her hand and led her to his car. They went back to her place.

Brooke lay on Caleb’s chiseled chest. The moonlight leaked through the blinds illuminated his square jaw, and distinctive Mediterranean features. Something powerful emanated from his presence. She couldn’t pinpoint the source, but for some reason she had no explanation for, she visualized him turning into a werewolf at any moment. She tittered at the ridiculous idea, and got up to use the bathroom.

The day before she’d placed The Charlotte Observer on the tank of her toilet without reading it. She caught a glimpse of the black and white photo on the front page. A tow truck was lifting a car out of the marsh in Wilmington, NC. The license plate read CUMSH2R. She gasped, before reading a part of the article. It read:

Swansboro authorities say a Charlotte man’s car was recovered from the marshes of Bogue Sound. DMV records show the vehicle is owned by Derrick Ruben, an investment banker for First Union located in downtown Charlotte. No missing person report has been filed and police haven’t speculated on whether or not there was any foul play. They are attempting to locate Derrick Ruben at this time.

Brooke got back in the bed. She roused Caleb awake.

“What’s up? What’s going on?” he asked.

She told him about Derrick’s car being found. Brooke told him how he hadn’t been to work in a while, and nobody had heard from him.

“No one filed a missing person report?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “Honestly, there weren’t too many people that liked him.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it. If they didn’t find a body he’s probably on vacation. Some juvenile delinquent probably stole his car, took it for a joyride and ditched it in the sticks.” He wrapped his arms around her waist, and rested his head on her shoulder. She snuggled into his midsection and lifted his arm to her breast. His watch was cold on her nipple. She looked at it. The band had D.R. inscribed on it.

“Where did you get this watch?” Brooke tried to sound natural, but failed miserably. Her tone sounded worrisome.

“My mother gave it to me years ago as a birthday gift.”

“What’s D.R. stand for?”

“Okay, I know you’re not stupid. I confess. This is Derrick’s watch.”

Brooke jumped out of bed. She frantically tried to put her clothes on.

Caleb was calm. He said, “What’s the matter?”

“You know what. You killed him!”

“What?” Caleb looked shock. “Honey, calm down let me explain.” He held his palms up in a surrendering pose. “That night you came into the restaurant your pal kept giving me the evil eye. I never said anything to him. When you guys left I was taking the trash to the dump, and he approached me.

“I said, ‘What do you want.’ He said, ‘She doesn’t want you. Next time we come in here you stay the fuck away!’ I guess he noticed our vibe, so he continues on with his bullshit spitting his insults toward me. Brooke, I’m sorry, but yes I beat his ass. I didn’t kill him. I don’t have those kinds of balls. I’m not that type of guy. I let him get under my skin”

Brooke contemplated. She dropped her clothes, and laughed. “I’m a nut sometime. My imagination can get the best of me.”

Caleb sat back pondering on the situation. This is bad. I don’t want to kill her, but I might have to. Damn. Why does this always happen?





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Turbo Slut: Skull Fucked

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Turbo Slut: Skull Fucked

Alexis stared at her reflection on the elevator door as if searching for the slightest imperfection. Her face a canvas for a cosmetic obsession. A mole appeared just below her right eye, but then disappeared. Light freckles formed to compliment her red hair, but were discarded for being too ginger.


“Alexis, you’re obsessing,” said Loca, rolling her eyes. The Mexican FuckBot wore a skin hugging black leather dress that could hardly contain her dairy cannons. “Just go with the dimples, these old perverts love that sweet sixteen look.”


“These old perverts also love it when you call them daddy,” said Lotus, as she smacked on a wad of gum. Her blue wavy hair obscured the right side of her face. Her black leather mini jacket was opened, revealing a leather bikini with a rack so plump and juicy it would make Hitomi J-Cup blush. The pale smooth flesh of her midsection was exposed like a blank canvas ready for some sploodge art. Her curvy Asian cakes spilt out from a tight leather short-shorts too short to conceal her black thong. “And they’re gonna be on me like flies on shit.”


“I’m not doing it for them. I’m doing it for me. If I don’t want to fuck me, then its not good enough,” said Alexis, as she bent forward to get a closer look at her reflection. Her gargantuan golden tits hung low, restrained only by a lacy bra and the sweetheart neckline of her low-cut strapless dress.

Her round plump ass covered only by a thin layer of skintight red polyester.


Lotus grabbed a handful of white privilege and moved a thirsty finger for that sweet American honey. Alexis slapped her hand away. “No lollygaggin until we’re done with the assignment,” snapped Alexis. She stood up, smacked her lips for a flush of red, and found confidence in her motherload of debauchery wrapped in a coat of that good ‘ole sweet southern charm. She embodied that three gallons of crazy in a two gallon bucket stereotype that them southern boys tend to flock to. “Them old perverts are gonna love me.”


The elevator doors opened, and a cacophony of indiscernible chatter, shrill whoos, and guttural yeahs accompanied by a loud pulsating soundtrack greeted them. Vivid hues bled together and illuminated the dark interior like a gay bat cave.


This here is definitely a republican convention.” Alexis led the way with a modest hip sway, capitalizing on that sweet and innocent southern gal trope. Her green eyes scanned the room, lifting several threads of raw data from the faces, moving bodies, and inanimate objects. The information rushed through her sensors and uploaded on to her memory banks for cross examination. Her auditory sensors delivered a continuous string of chatter to a central processing unit that filtered for keywords and trends. “Y’all, I’m having difficulty locating the target. A lot of bodies to sort through.”


Lotus scanned a pocket of suits as they raised glasses to celebrate their latest political gains. “I located a few closeted homos for you Loca,” said Lotus, through an internal channel.


“Let me guess, it’s the fat ones. It’s always the fat ones that yearn for a good ole backcountry fuck,” Loca retorted.


The full-bodied bombshells walked over to a crowded bar. Lotus placed a seductive hand on the shoulders of an older man as her moisten lips whispered in his ear, “You wouldn’t mind if I take your seat, would you?”


Panic struck his face as his lips contorted, “Oh Jesus, I hope my wife isn’t around.”


Lotus’ arms wrapped around him. Her lips released Asian fever on his ear. “Oh, such a powerful man like yourself deserves a little something extra, right? I’m sure your wife wouldn’t mind.” Her lips kiss the old wrinkled flesh of his neck, and a surge of his sexual perversions flooded her mind. “Your wife doesn’t let you have fun in the backyard, does she? You play your cards right, and I’ll give you an all night invitation to mine.”


The balding man hesitated. His wrinkled, liver spotted mouth folded into a frown. “Are you could just leave before your wife sees you with me,” she said. The old fogie awkwardly fumbled out from Lotus’ clutches, and shuffled away. Lotus shook her head in dismay and straddled the stool like giant robocock. “Geez, who invited Bernie Sanders to this party?”


“Seems like a fish out of water, sugah,” said Alexis, as she sat next to her. She motioned the bartender for a drink.


“You should be impressed, you managed to find the one honest guy. Might be the only one in this fucking place,” retorted Loca, as she sipped on her margarita. Her organic taste buds, assisted by artificial sensors and relays, simulated taste. The alcohol absorbed and transmitted through what’s left of her organic tissue.


The bartender came around to Alexis. A baby-faced Aryan race with a hard-on for old bigots, which was evident by the swastika pupils. “What do you want?”


“A whiskey sour.” Alexis glanced at Lotus. “Darlin, make that two. Two whiskey sours.”


The bartender rubbed his thumb against his fingertips. Alexis’ face furrowed as if exposed to a fart from a sweaty ass teeming with wet butt-nuggets. “What’s the problem? You’ve got no money,” said the Hitler youth. Alexis leaned in and he cut her off before she could even send him a wink. “Your boobs do nothing for me.”


“How did Loca get a drink,” asked Alexis, discombobulated.


“You know why.” Lotus redirected her to a sight of a man’s hand grabbing a handful of meat that poked out from Loca’s dress. “I have a feeling we’re going to be wallflowers at this event.”


“Don’t be jealous,” retorted Loca, through internal channels. “If you’re nice, I might get you a drink but I’ll want something in return.” Loca gave them both a coyful wink.


“Darlin, these guys can’t all be gay. Most of them are married, and their wives are present,” said Alexis, as her processors continued the scanning through the bodies.


“Seeing Kommie Sanders swap spit with a Limbaugh in front of his wife does not bode well,” said Lotus, as she shook in horror. “Loca, where’s my drink dammit!”


“Don’t worry I got you covered,” said a dark haired, crooked jaw motherfucker, a smug sense of pretentiousness thick in every word. He inserted  a ChipCard into the bar, and instantly the Hitler fag greeted him with a smile so white it must’ve been glossed with cum. “I’ll have a whiskey, neat. And she’ll have a…”


“Whiskey Sour. Make that two. One for me and for  my friend.” Lotus’ smile sealed the deal.


“I’ve never seen such an incredible rack on an Asian before,” he said, as he stared at her skin trench.


“You’re one with words, aren’t you.” She maintained her smile.


“My mother always said I was gifted with a silver tongue.” He laughed as if he disclosed something that resembled a fun fact, grossly ignorant to the obvious fact that Lotus did not give a fuck.


Alexis spoke on an internal encrypted channel, “I found our target. He’s in the back booth with loaded security.”


“Neato. Does that mean we can waste him and blow this joint,” Lotus responded, while laughing at another stupid joke about some con man’s childhood.


“I reckon you didn’t catch that he has security. Fully loaded security. We gotta do this discreetly. Let’s see if this southern belle can get his attention.” Alexis chugged her drink. Her synthetic taste buds registered a flavor to transmit from a database. The alcohol, however, was broken down for material determined useful for body maintenance. Momma had yet to approve of the inebriation augmentation she had requested a year ago.


Alexis navigated through a den of snakes and smirked with cute dimples as she approach the dead squirrel wearing buffoon. The orange faced butt plug boasted about his business and claimed his father’s success as his own with arms that swung wildly. The Asshole’s moment at the helm of the glorious ship that is the U.S. of Fucking A had long since passed, but his insistence on his significance had not.


“They said I wouldn’t do it, but I did! And, I got Mexico to fucking pay for it. Oh, you better believe I had something old El Presidente! My huge, and I mean huge American cock!” The Don erupted with bombastic laughter.


Alexis blushed as she approached The Don. “Oh, dear.”


“Well, excuse me miss…”


“Don’t worry about little ole me. The name’s Alexis.” Alexis beamed with manufactured modesty. “Excuse me, Mr. Drumpf, I just wanted to thank you for your brave sacrifice for our country.”


He puckered his face, looked through her with piercing eyes, and frowned. “What’s your angle, tuts?”


“Bless your heart,” she said, confused by his sudden defense. “I’m only wanting to give you gratitude for your.”


“Bullshit,” interrupted The Don. “You waltz up here with your pornstar body and want to shower me with gratitude? No. What you want is to shower my dick with kisses, but for that you’re gonna have to wait in line.” He glanced at his black companion. “Chocolate Thunder, give the bimbo a number will you.”


The muscular bald black man pulled a card from his jacket and placed it on the table. “Look at that. You’re number twelve.”


Alexis grabbed the card and glanced at it as if stunned.


“Don’t worry, tuts. The card will buzz when your number is up,” said The Don, as he took a sip from his drink. “I’ll need you to be committed to your turn for dick sucking. To make sure you’re committed, my guys will come and get you.”


The Don squinted, spasmed as if passing a stubborn fart and then sighed. A brunette emerged from under the table, licking the Asshole’s essence off her lips. “Thank you, Mr. Drumpf,” said the brunette, glowing with enthusiasm.


“You still got a few more drops, baby.” The Don shoved her head back down. “There you go, eat Mr. Drumpf’s shit, baby.”


Alexis forced a smile and turned around. She walked away tearing the card into shreds. “The motherfucker has a fucking list! You believe that shit!”


“Jump ahead,” responded Lotus.


“The carrot skinned fucker is being serviced right now.” Alexis returned to the bar. “Lotus, where did you go.”


“I’m getting rid of a distraction,” she said, internally. Her hands roamed over the senator’s body. He snapped, grabbed her arms, and pinned her face against the tiled walls. “You fucking whore. I’m gonna fuck the sin out of you.”


“Finish up, will ya? I think we need to try something else.” Alexis’ voice flowed through her.


“Did your mom also teach you how to talk dirty,” said Lotus, as she licked her lips. “You should tell her that this little Japanese hoe loves it.”


The sleazy senator’s fingers spread her cherry blossom, while his head swelled with purple torment. “I’m doing this to teach you a lesson.” He shoved his cock into her wet pussy.


“Alexis, I see you’re not concerned about your Mexican sister. Did Mr. Drumpf’s racism get to you already?” Loca’s saucy accent transmitted internally.


“So am I.” Lotus moaned. Cytotoxic fluids gush out from her insides, flooding her vagina cavity with acid. Instantly, the Senator’s dick dissolved down to a bloody pulsating stump. He cried out for help, but a quick stab of a well-timed blade rendered such alarm impossible. Lotus sheathed the blade back into her wrist, and positioned the bleeding body on the toilet.


“Hardly,” said Alexis, while she sat at the bar, trying to sucker someone into buying her a drink. “I figured you’re so deep in the closet that you’ve found Narnia.”


Lotus stabbed the senator’s throat with her fingernails. She drained blood from his body, while a free hand searched for loot. A thin black wallet with a ChipCard, a dozen Benjamins, and presidential clearance card. She pocketed the wallet in the inside pocket of her mini jacket. Satisfied with the amount of sustenance received, Lotus dislodged her fingertips from his neck.


She squeezed her leather short-shorts over her thick thighs and plump ass. She freed one of her Asian melons and aimed an enlarged and enticed nipple at the metal privacy bolt. A thin arch of acidic substance shot from the pink love button and melted the bolt into the latch. She climbed over the stall.


“If Narnia is somewhere in the depths of Kristi-Kream’s asshole, then I’m about to find it,” said Loca, as she made waves out of the bloated pig’s ass cheeks.


“That’s disgusting,” Lotus added, as she checked herself out in the mirror. “Not to add pressure to this assignment or anything, but we’ve got a gift with an expiration date in the men’s room.”


Alexis slammed her fist into the bar, cracking the surface just beneath her hand. “What the fuck? I thought you understood that we need to be discreet.” She glanced around as she covered the damage from curious eyes.


“The motherfucker had it coming,” said Lotus, as she adjusted her hair.


“Lotus, meet me near Mr. Drumpf. I’ve got another plan,” said Alexis. The triple-D redhead bombshell snuck away from the bar, navigated through the throng of corporate owned, family-value praising, self-loathing homos. The roaming waves of light illuminated elder men engaging in all sorts of carnal activities. The wives drank their wine, and watched, while recording future blackmail material.


Alexis bumped into a suit. The tall form turned, revealing a face that triggered her alarm. A white bearded canvas with a familiar face tattoo. The entity did not speak, not even to apologize. The beast of a thing just lumbered away awkwardly. “Lotus, you need to hurry.” Alexis watched as the lumbering giant forced his way through the crowds. Her sensors failed to lock on. “Those guys that beat the shit out of Loca are here.”


“Are you certain,” asked Lotus, as she slithered out from the darkness to join Alexis.


“Yeah, I’m certain.” She shook her head and fixated her vision on Mr. Drumpf. Alexis glanced at Lotus and gave her an assuring smirk. The smoking fire bunny and her buxomly fucky-fucky strutted towards the bombastic carrot. Without any warning, Lotus leaned in on the man, and whispered a thread of hot lust into his ears.


“Pardon me, Mr. Drumpf, but I’m not waiting in line for you dick.” Alexis bent forward with her hands on the table, and watched as Chocolate Thunder and Mr. Drumpf’s other friends stared into her flesh chasm. “When I told my friend the news, that I would have to wait, she just couldn’t bare it.”


“No deal,” said The Don, as he shoved off the thick dose of Asian persuasion. “I get offers from bimbos like you all the time. You losers want it too much. No deal.”


Lotus and Alexis shared a look of confusion. “I was rejected, again!” Alexis yelled through their internal intercom.


“Blackmail might work,” responded Lotus.


“Not likely. He’ll double down and then we’ll be on the defensive.” Alexis body language matched her silent dialogue.


“Ladies, I’ve got this.” Loca emerged from the thick crowd. “I hope these two sluts aren’t bothering you.” Spanglish fell from her black lips in heavy waves, as she approached the booth.


The Don examined her up and down, and his wrinkled frown relaxed. He motioned for her to come closer, “You must be the black rose of Mexico.”


Loca blushed. She placed her feminine hand in his, and leaned in for a whisper. A sweet gift for one wrapped in a promise of political gain escaped from her lips. The Don stared through his people, captivated by the intoxicating offer.


“Leave a man to do what two hoes can’t,” joked Loca, as The Don escorted her towards the elevator.




The Don led Loca inside a small hotel room and closed the door behind them. Loca sat at the end of the bed, smiling at him as he fixed himself a drink. “So, what did my people tell you?”


“They’re your people, Miss Mexico. You should know,” said The Don, as he poured whiskey over ice.


“You and I both know my people are idiots. Blundering businessmen that aren’t willing to play ball, but they’re not me.” Loca examined her nails, and sighed. “That’s why I’ve come to you directly.”


“I’ve already got my hand in just about every export Mexico has, what more could you offer,” said The Don as he leaned against the desk with arms crossed.


“There’s a whole market that you have been blind to this whole time,” she said, taunting words seethed in a thin veil of courteous advice. “A market that would give you leverage over your rivals. So what if it involves exploiting children. They’re Mexican children, right?”


The Don furrowed his brow, squinted his eyes, and crumpled his wrinkled mouth into flabby folds. “Why would you want to go against your people? What’s your angle, Miss Mexico?”


“I want the same thing you want: Power.” Loca swayed her hips as she slithered closer to The Don. Her arms wrapped around him.


He pushed her away and chugged his drink. “What do you want from me right now.”


“Your full cooperation.” Her dry tone raised The Don’s guard. She shoved her long black nails into The Don’s neck. “No screaming for help, Mr. Asshole!”


She felt his blood pump through her fingertips. She slammed her knee against his junk, delivering a catastrophic world of hurt. She bashed her whoreknee against his damaged goods, again. His balls popped and white gunk and blood sprayed like a busted water hose. A mess of ball juice and dark crimson dripped from his saturated slacks. He fell to his knees.


Loca withdrew her fingernails and blood leaked from his perforated neck. “You want huge? You want to see huge? I’ll show you huge!” She inched her leather dress up her thunder thighs.


“Is eleven inches of pure Mexican meat huge enough for you?” She grabbed her thick flaccid cock like a bat and slapped it across his face as if going for a home run. A splatter of blood and saliva shot from his mouth.


“Remember, what goes around comes around!” Her thick meat smashed against his face like a raw 8lb steak. A tooth rolled along the carpet, with a trail of red driblets.


“Now open your fucking mouth,” she roared!


Air bubbles seeped out from his neck wounds, as his lips attempted to mumble something. Loca grabbed a handful of blond roadkill. “If you don’t open your fucking mouth. Miss Mexico is going to skull fuck the shit out of you!”


More air bubbles.


Two-feet of erect Mexican meat slammed against The Don’s right eye like a battering ram, and delivered a jack hammer lobotomy.


A pounding at the door shook Loca from the thrall of a good cranium fuck. She pulled out. Chunks of brain matter stuck to her cock. “Who is it?” She scanned for heat signatures, but did not detect anything near the door.


“Girls, is that you,” asked Loca, as she approached the door. Pieces of brain gunk fell from her stiff member.


The door flew open. Loca ducked as it slammed into her. The wood splintered, while a shockwave pushed her back. A fist battered through the door frame like a sledge hammer, clearing the way for a massive beast of a man. Its blue rageful eyes locked on her, while the familiar face tattoo seemed to glow.


“I’m guessing you’re here for round two,” muttered Loca. She touched the flesh behind her ear to communicate with her sisters, when the beast picked her up by her hair. Its titanium fist pounded into her chest like a battering ram and sent her plowing through a wall. She pushed herself from off the floor, and rolled to escape an incoming wave of mini-rockets. Explosions ate through the interior. Shattering the floor, scorching the carpet, and blasting chunks of gooey gibs from the frightened dudes that held each other in tender embrace.


Loca dodged another close encounter with a rocket. The side of her dress melted into charred flesh. She clinched her fist. Three gun barrels slipped through a small compartment on her wrist, and immediately released a dose of hot lead. Small bullets pierced through the colossal’s suit, picking at bits of flesh.


“You want me that bad, do you?” Loca charged at the roid-raged freak, while she liberated her chichotas from their leather restraint. He fired another mini-rocket from his shoulder cannon. The volatile shell blew through her thigh, taking with it a chunk of flesh and metal. She seethed with gritting teeth, and jump on the muscle-on-muscle freakazoid. He flailed around to get her off, while her nipples doused the fucker’s face with a downpour of cytotoxic fluids. His fleshy face boiled and bubbled to the sizzling chemical burn, as he collapsed to his knees.


Loca forced her milk bags back into the dress. A bit of acid leaked from her left breast and burned through the leather. She limped her way through the devastated hotel room, and into the hallway. The ceiling sprinklers released a stream of water, while an alarm wailed like a banshee.


“So much for discretion,” muttered Loca. She pressed a spot behind her ears. “No one’s worried about little Loca this time?” She dragged her injured leg as she inched her way towards the elevator. “Ladies?” She seethed, and punched the down arrow. No response. She punched it again, and noticed an emergency decal that advised to use stairs in case of fire.


“Jesus H. Christ, I’m not walking down a flight of stairs with this fucking leg,” she mumbled to herself. She pressed her index finger on the emergency switch on the control panel.


“Alexis! Lotus! C’mon, answer me.” The elevator doors opened and revealed a smear of blood. “I take it you two also had a party.” She limped into the elevator. “The silent treatment isn’t cool, ladies.”




The elevator doors opened and Loca stepped into a bloody warzone. Body parts strewn here and there like discarded bones after an all you can eat buffalo wings buffet. Blood ran down the walls and rained from the ceiling. Mutilated bodies with minutes of life flopped on the floor like fish out of water. The wounded crawled under tables and other obstructions for safety.


“Looks like the latina Turbo Slut is ready for round three!” the voice echoed throughout.


“Loca, over here!” Alexis’ voice shouted from the shadows.


“I hate it when they help each other.” The voice resonated along the walls. A slender bearded wonderbread with a face tattoo and cybernetic eye stood on a balcony. He fired a series of slugs from massive machine guns with rotary barrels that ran under his forearms. Chunks of wall splintered, tables shattered, and burst of blood pumped from the scattered bodies.


Two full-bodied silhouettes ran from booth to booth, barely escaping the line of fire. Loca did not need her visual sensor to know that they were Alexis and Lotus. She raised her gun hand at the cybernetic cyclops, when something that had to have been a silverback gorilla pummeled her. She found herself snug in a bear hug, ensnared by tree trunk of arm painted with the blackest of black.


“NiggaPunk got you, bitch,” grunted the gorilla before he executed a body slam. Loca’s vision fluttered. Pixels and static scattered throughout.


Loca kick wildly. Her legs clutched and held in the grip of a wild ape. Partially blind, She fired rounds from her gun arm. The sound of punctured flesh and wet blood, followed by the guttural grunt of pain, told her that she hit her target.


“NiggaPunk about to get fucked up!” She wiggled out from his grasp, and fired at the bastard until the magazine ran dry.


NiggaPunk hunched over and ribbons of blood seeped through his hands. Metallic spikes ran along his head like a morning star. Shades covered his eyes like a Blade wannabe. Golden teeth poked out from behind thick lips that folded into a snarl. NiggaPunk ripped off his red muscle shirt, and pounded on his chest like a fucking ape. Thick globs of saliva flung from his foaming mouth, while the bullet wounds sealed to a close.


“Your ass ain’t nigga cheap,” said Loca, as she backed away with her dick in her hand like a shotgun.


“I’m gonna use that dick as a toothpick, you fucking piss flipper!” NiggaPunk charged the Mexican tranny. Loca cocked her erect dick and shot wad cytotoxic jizz. The acidic cum splattered on the gorilla’s face, but his animalistic rage drove him through it. NiggaPunk rammed his spike head against Loca’s chest, knocking her into a mess of scattered tables.


“Fuck me,” she said, as the winced at the sight of her ruptured fun bags. Blood leaked from the craters in her chest, while fractured titanium exposed sparking circuitry. “Someone needs to put this fucking gorilla back into its cage.”


Like a goddamn stereotype, NiggaPunk pounded on his chest like an alpha ape high on testosterone. Even more typical, he pounded on the floor like a frenzied King Kong boasting for territory.


Loca rolled on to her stomach. She raised her ass up into the air. The ground shook as the wild ape drew closer. She closed her eyes, and waited. The ground shook harder. The chairs, the tables, the bodies all vibrated as the beast drew near. The ground around her splintered as the silverback gorilla honed in on her. His hands wrapped around her lower back. She smiled. “I hope NiggaPunk is an ass man.”


NiggaPunk’s chest cratered. Chunks of dark meat and organs blew out from his back. His arms and legs grew weak like wet noodles. The wild beast collapsed on his ass, where he bled like a blood piñata.


“Fuck Harambe,” muttered Loca, as she pulled herself off the floor. The flesh on her chest had begun to reform, but the dented titanium and exposed circuitry remained. The huge gash on her thigh had reformed, with flesh rebuilding around the exposed electronics.


She grit her teeth, fought through the pain, while scanning for Alexis and Lotus. She found them. Alexis’ voluptuous triple-D breasts bounced as she showered cycloptic Wonderbread with a slew of bullets. Heavy machine guns attached to her wrists smoked as the rotary chamber spun.


Lotus’ thick thighs and big ass wobbled as she ran towards a burly thug. Blood splattered on her midsection, as she punched through a motherfucker’s chest.


Loca attempted to communicate with her sisters again, but no response. She noticed Wonderbread had pinned Alexis under fire, and raised her gun arm to rectify the problem. A quick burst spurted from her barrels. A stream of tiny bullets nipped at the red-eyed cyclops’ face. The face tat motherfucker grabbed his face, and groaned.


Alexis exploited the distraction and sent the squirming cybernetic cyclops a fatal dose of headshot. A gusher of blood sprayed from Wonderbread’s mutilated neck, as the remains of his body plummeted to the ground.


“Loca, are you okay,” said Lotus, internally. “I found the fucking communication jammer.”


A wide grin grew across Loca’s battered face. “I’m alive. Fucked up, but alive.” Toxic milk leaked out from her punctured breasts. “Alexis, what happened?”


Alexis groaned as she limped over the slew of bodies. “These motherfuckers knew we would be here.”


Loca limped towards the bar. “You’re sure about that?”


“They blocked all communication with a jammer, and used tech to throw off our scanners and heat sensors. Yeah, I would say they knew.”


“I think she was being sarcastic,” chimed Lotus.


“You ladies made a mess of these fuckers,” said Loca. Her hands feeling through a jacket on the bar. “I think the military will be looking for us now.”


“It’s not our fault,” Lotus exclaimed. “Five billion changes people, and those thugs and gangbangers did most of it.”


Loca rifled through the contents of a purse, pulled a few cards and a wad of cash. “Just don’t let them go to waste.”


“We don’t have time for that,” said Alexis, tone rushed and alarmed. “These fuckers knew we would be here and there’s a reason for that.”




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Of Diamond Tongues and Seaside Tourism – Carson Winter

beverage-mug-000000Enhance your coffee today


They got on separately, at different stops. The first snuffed a cigarette on a lamp post and entered wordlessly while flashing a monthly pass to the driver. He was a bit past middle-aged and wore it more obviously than most. He dressed himself as an icon of a bygone age; torn and dusty and almost entirely in blue denim; jean jacket covered in iron-on biker patches. Beneath it all was a graphic tee, detailing the rules for dating his teenage daughter.

The second man wore a conservative grey suit; also middle-aged, but a lot better looking for it. He sat down a seat behind Blue Denim. A couple stops passed by in silence until the Businessman tapped Blue Denim on his shoulder, and then, flashing a broad smile, pointed to one of his patches.


Blue Denim grinned and nodded. “Went there last summer, man. Time of my life.”

“Me and the family went just a couple weeks ago.”

“It’s a helluva place.”

“Helluva place.”

They shared one last smile, like old friends remembering that time in that place years ago. Then, Blue Denim got off at his stop and it was only me and the Businessman.

I’ve seen young men with missing teeth playing music on their phone, unaware or in spite of headphones. I’ve seen fare arguments with screaming, cracked-out mothers-to-be. I’ve seen welfare parents off to interview at fast food jobs they couldn’t get. But, the conversation between Blue Denim and the Businessman was a different sort of interaction. Everything else on the bus was a desperate transaction. But their conversation was easy. It was intimate, soaked with the warmth of recognition. A few stops later and I was still replaying it in my mind.

Meanwhile, the businessman sat, swaying with the bus’ stops and starts while I was searching his back for something. I silently rehearsed my words and once I gathered the courage, I asked aloud the nagging question: “What’s Maritimus?”

The Businessman turned and smiled– a garish plastic thing that came with the ring of a cash register. He looked pleased to see I was eavesdropping. “It’s a little resort town on the coast,” he said. “You have kids?”

“I have a daughter.”

“How old?”

“Just turned sixteen.”

He adjusted his belt and gave me a flash of his realtor’s smile. “She’ll love it. Great place to just, you know, unwind.”

He said it as if he was indulging in an obvious innuendo. His smile flashed again with conspiratorial panache, and I found myself longing to know what knowledge was buried behind those bared teeth.

He turned back around to stare out the window and in another stop he was gone, briefcase in hand strutting importantly into a grey compound under siege by shiny new cars. His words tumbled about in my ears. Five stops later, I was surrounded by treeless lawns and cracked sidewalks. Houses painted ugly shades of yellow flanked my own, painted an ugly shade of pink. It was cracking like lizard skin in the summer sun. A part of me hoped it would all just fall off in flakes and save me the trouble. I walked up the dead grass of my sloping lawn and opened the door.

Kayla was already home and on the couch, a blanket covering her legs, her eyes glued to the flat, smooth glass of her smartphone.  She greeted me without as little as a look.

I closed the door and began the steps to our usual dance. “How was school?”

“Diddly-dank,” she said, rolling her eyes.

I closed the door and slung my bag on the chair. “I’m not stupid, Kayla. I know no one says that.”

She rolled her eyes and said, “I say it.” She then tossed her phone to the side and stretched her arms out. “What’s for dinner?”

“I don’t know, doll. We have chicken defrosted, so probably some sort of chicken.”

Kayla went to the kitchen to look at her options and I sat down. She brought me a beer, and I thanked her. She asked me if she could have one too. I told her no, and our after-school ritual survived another day.

I thought of the bus.

Blue Denim and the Businessman ran through my mind as the bitter lit my tongue. Kayla had resigned herself to chicken and was improvising a marinade. I swished the beer around my mouth, letting the bubbles invade and pop in every toothsome crevice.

I hadn’t realized how tired I was. The walls of our home,  modest to be sure, seemed to inch closer together every day. Maybe the talk of resorts wormed its way through my sense of space. I suddenly had the tangible feeling that I was missing something. As Kayla was in the kitchen, digging for ingredients, potatoes for a side, the thought grew, ballooning until it started to carry weight; a slab of concrete on my shoulders, pressing me down into the couch cushions, souring my beer… Minutes passed and it was like being stoned, I tried to chuckle quietly at my own anxiety, but levity did nothing. I had to expel it. I had to vomit it out, like a poison. I chewed on the words, till they were practically mush. Finally, I acquiesced and called to the kitchen with fateful words: “What do you think about going on a vacation?”

Kayla looked up, cocking a head out of the refrigerator and asked, “What were you thinking?”

“Some guys on the bus were talking about a place on the coast. Maritimus.”

Kayla raised a single, mocking eyebrow. “Seriously? Maritimus?”

“You’ve heard of it?”

“Jesus, Dad, like every girl at my school is rocking a Maritimus hoodie with a seal or some bullshit on it.”

“Don’t you wanna ‘rock’ one too?”

“Dad, please. Maritimus is for kids and old people.”

“I just thought it sounded fun. Good place to unwind or something. Sound of the ocean. All that jazz.”

“Its a tourist trap, dad.”

“Maybe,” I admitted. “Probably, actually. But it could be a fun one.”

Kayla dropped the chicken into a plastic bag filled with a myriad of seasonings and worcestershire sauce. She said, “Whatever,” but it was as good as ‘yes.’

That night I lay awake in my bed. My sheets were chilled and the night was still. I was tired, but I lay awake. I thought of the ocean air. Seashells. Sand. Rocky cliffs that stood noble and proud; jagged gargoyles to keep the ocean at bay. Helluva place.

I felt myself growing hard. I reached down to my thick shaft and started rubbing it up and down, at first weakly, and then faster, and then faster and harder still. At the end it didn’t even feel like flesh.


It was a mere two weeks before we departed. Summer break came. Vacation days were marked on the calendar.

Kayla rolled her eyes, as she was apt to do, and I understood it. Maritimus wasn’t quite cool. But, she was sitting beside me. Content to leave for the coast, to indulge in ol’ Dad’s fantasy vacation as long as her eyes were allowed to roll back and forth at will. It was a small concession.

I let her drive til we got to Portland and then I switched for the last hour. Windmills passed us faster than traffic. Grey and pregnant clouds stretched out across the sky as far as we could see. There was nothing dreary about them. The wind blew the scent of rain yet to fall.

A rustic sign of carved wood appeared on the horizon. Mountains and waterfalls and a spare elk framed Maritimus, OR, carved deeper than the rest. I rolled down the window and smelled salty air. Kayla stirred and looked up.

“Oh look. They have an iHop,” she said, pointing to a sign filled with restaurant logos.

“They also have shopping, and the ocean, and crafts, and I’m sure a lot of other stuff.”

“Tons of stuff.”

“You’re a peach, doll. Shut up and have fun.” I couldn’t help but smile when I said it. She looked like me then: looking out the windows, picking apart the seams of Maritimus, searching for disappointment.

But the air. It was sweet and salty, and suffocated my own cynicism. “Listen,” I said. “Do you hear that?”


“Listen closer.”

Just over the car engine, the cutting call of peace. The ocean washing over sand, slowly eroding jagged rocks into smooth pebbles, seagulls honking for food.

Kay looked over at me and smirked, and then put her hand through my hair and tousled it, “You’re a cute kid, Dad.”



The hotel was quaint by design. It looked like an old lodge, with the outside of it covered in what I would assume were fake logs. The lobby was cavernous, with big wooden pillars holding the ceiling. On closer examination, I realized they were carved with various animals; one with a bear, another a seal, and another had a scene of salmon jumping from a stream. Another was of a native woman, eyes closed and arms crossed over her chest, a subtle smile spread across her lips.

The lady at the front desk was exuberantly friendly. So much so that on her second “You guys are going to have so much fun!,” Kayla gave me her you-have-to-be-fucking-kidding-me eyes.

The room had the same Trapper’s Lodge aesthetic as the rest of the hotel. Kayla jumped on one of the two beds. I was pleased to see she was impressed for once. “This place is huge,” she said.

“It’s nice, right?”


I took that as confirmation and looked at the tourism pamphlets spread out on the night stand. “What do you wanna do first?”

She looked up at me and shrugged, “I don’t know, Dad. You’re the Maritimus expert. This is your deal.”

It was almost lunchtime, and the sun was high in the sky. The air was crisp and cool. “How about we walk down to the coast and find some place to eat?”

Kayla agreed, holding her stomach and making exaggerated claims of hunger. She freshened up and we went back downstairs, the lady at the front desk smiling broadly, giving us double thumbs up as we left out the doors.

You could hear the coast wherever you were in Maritimus. It was as omnipresent as air. You could follow it, an audible compass to due west. We saw couples holding hands, splashing their feet and running away back up the wet sand. Kayla was braver than I, dipping a sandaled toe into the ocean. She withdrew it quickly and shivered, “Shit, that’s cold.”

We heard cackling, loud and mirthful. At first I felt a pang of shame, but it dissipated as I saw they weren’t laughing at us. They appeared to be locals, seven women, of varying ages laughing to themselves at a private joke. Their clothes looked like a lighter shade of burlap. Their spot on the beach was covered in straw. One of them, a brunette about twenty years older than me, turned her head slightly and acknowledged our presence. Kayla watched them curiously as I turned the other direction.

“Let’s go get some food,” I said.

She turned after a moment, as if we hadn’t seen anyone, “Not seafood.”

“Fine. You still like burgers?”

Kayla nodded and followed along behind me, up the beach to a series of businesses that looked like seaside cottages. Gauche fish seemed to be jumping over every decal. A diner called Maritimus Maximus looked to be our best option, built around a dissonant Roman gladiator theme that also incorporated marine imagery, perhaps even more dissonantly.

“What the fuck is this place?” Kayla asked.

“Watch your language,” I whispered, “We’re in public.”

She rolled her eyes, not bothering to correct them when a waitress only a couple years older than her popped into sight.

“How are y’all doing today?” She exclaimed it almost as a declarative, like the answer was a foregone conclusion of ecstasy. She turned to Kayla and hunched over a little, who was the same height as her and said, “You spending the day with your Daddy, girlie?”

Kayla looked at me from the corner of her eyes, it was a look of panic. “Uh, yeah,” she said.

“There’s a lot of things to do in Maritimus,” she said sweetly, “But nothing’s better than hanging with your Daddy!” She then gave me a knowing wink and sat us to a table booth overlooking the beach. Kayla mouthed ‘what the fuck’ to me as soon as she left us our menus.

“Well, it looks like they have burgers.”

Kayla shook her head and giggled. I started to laugh because she looked the same as when she was an infant and I’m sure our waitress’ heart warmed, watching father and daughter have a grand time.

We both ordered burgers with tacky Roman names, each with the suffix -us and they came out quick enough that we barely had time to make conversation.

In between mouthfuls of beef, grease dripping down her chin, she asked, “Who were those women?”

“No idea,” I answered, “Probably just locals hanging out.”

“I figured locals would be bored with the shore.”

“Probably just a club or a church group or something. Why stay inside when you have the beach so close, you know?”

The waitress picked up our plates. “I hope everything was super great!”

We told her it was and I paid the bill while Kayla texted.

“Anything catch your eye?”

“I saw a row of shops and stuff on the way down to the beach, maybe tool around there,” she said casually.

“Sounds good,” I agreed, and I let her lead the way.

It was a sort-of pseudo boardwalk. The ground was planked with white wood that served as a pedestrian walkway as big as the average street, with signs warning vehicles that it was not an actual road. I stood off to the side, picking benches to sit on as Kayla wandered from gift shop to clothing shop to milk-sugar-coffee shop. I wandered into a shop called Maritimus Mercantile. A lone shopkeeper, a chipper young man with a bright face greeted me excitedly.

It was half-museum and half-tourist shop he said, self effacingly. But the deprecation was surface level. His excitement betrayed no sense of shame. There were displays of pieces of wood, ships that sailed a long time ago, when Maritimus was a port on the way to Canada and beyond, a strategic fuel stop that faded into a resort town as ships became more advanced as well as anachronistic. A tribal headdress was on the wall, displayed like the head of a hunter’s kill. Maritimus boasted kind and progressive treatment of the native population back when such tolerance wasn’t in vogue. White settlers and natives exchanged culture and assimilated evenly and quickly. These facts were presented typed and printed, framed by red construction paper under an ancient photograph of men, women, and children, both native and settlers, smiling together arm-in-arm.

“We have a very rich history,” said the young man behind my back.

“Yeah,” I said. “Looks like it.”

I heard the door chime ring a set of ascending notes and turned to see Kayla with an iced coffee in hand.

“Whatcha looking at?” She asked.

“Oh, you know. Just checking out the local history.”

She nudged me in the side and she said, “Guess who I saw?”


“Those ladies in the weird brown dresses. They were walking around and I said ‘hi.’”


“They’re part of some sort of local committee, apparently we hit Maritimus during festival season.”

“What kind of festival?”

“C’mon, Dad. I thought you were reading up on the local history? We’re celebrating the day the town was established.”

“Oh, cool.”

She shrugged, as if not wanting to come off as too excited, “Well, yeah, a little. They invited me to go along with them and check out the town.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” she said, circling to the point, “Can I go?”

I thought a moment. I said, “Sure,” but I wasn’t sure I meant it. I turned to the shopkeeper, who was adjusting a painting of Maritimus of olde, and asked, “What’s the story with the festival?”

He beamed at the question. “It’s a celebration. Of community and persistence, along with everything that makes Maritimus, well, Maritimus!”


“Do you know the women who are involved in the planning?”

He cocked his head robotically, “Oh? You mean Becky, Sue, Rachel, Erin, Gertrude, Olivia, and Willow? Yes, of course! Wonderful women, all of them. Very knowledgable of the area. All of them have keys to the city, well, practically. They are the folks that keep Maritimus as a place families can be themselves and relax! Bearers of the old ways, I’d say!” He laughed aloud at his rhyme.

“Alright,” I said to Kayla, “Just meet me at the hotel for dinner.”

Kayla agreed and gave me a peck on the cheek. Soon I was left alone with the sun, the sea, and the feverish keeper of the gift shop.



Maritimus was a good place to unwind, I decided. I laid on the beach, which was cool, but warm enough with the sun I didn’t mind. I read a book and breathed in the air. Down the sand, I saw other tourists, similarly complacent and relaxed. Another father, a little older than me, held his daughter in one arm, and his wife in the other. They laughed together as they watched a crab scuttle past.

I rolled over and closed my eyes, listening for the sound of rolling eternity. The laughing was too loud though, so I turned back and opened my eyes. The man looked at me and winked, then kissed his wife on the lips, long and hard. And then, without a second thought, turned to his daughter and did the same. All three looked at me and giggled.

I sat up, unnerved. Curious and sick. But they didn’t come to greet me. They turned away and continued to laugh, heading back to the center of town. I tried to push it out of my mind and watch the ocean lapping like a hungry tongue at the sand.

And then out of nowhere came a voice. “You enjoying Maritimus so far?”

I jumped, startled, then turned to see an old man in a white shirt and straw fedora standing behind me. He smiled broadly and offered a hand to shake. “Yes,” I said, “I am.”

He had a short white beard and shiny white teeth. When I took his hand, I also realized he was wearing white cotton shorts.

“My name is Emmett Grover– I’m the mayor.”

“Of Maritimus?”

“No other,” he said with a grin. “I like to check in personally on our guest’s good time.”

His face stared back at me expectantly, daring me to be unsettled, to be anything but relaxed and happy. “I’m having a great time,” I said.

“Just wait for the festival,” he whispered conspiratorially, “It only gets better. I like to think of Maritimus as the ultimate resort town. And you know what makes it special?” He opened his arms, as if the town behind him was his to display, “Authenticity. Locals and tourists understand Maritimus intrinsically, because it is real. There’s no fakery, no plastic tourism. It’s a real town. A place like this, a place where a man can unwind, is good for the soul, you know? It helps you shed layers. Here, on the beach, with the sand, and the water, you become the real you.”

“You don’t need to sell me.”

“Ha! Ha! Of course not, dear sir! Of course not! You enjoy your time in Maritimus, and let us know if we can help you with anything.”

And with that, he ran off, hooting and hollering up the beach, like an excited child.



Through a mouthful of marbles, Kayla gargled up the words, “Now, Dad, don’t be mad.”

I was going to say, “Why would I be mad?,” but then she opened her mouth. In the center of her tongue was a diamond stud, shining white under the hotel room’s lamplight. I said, “Holy shit,” instead.

Kayla explained as best she could, around her swollen tongue. “I’ve always wanted one and Becky said carpe diem.”

In the face of my daughter’s tongue piercing, words escaped me. “Dad, stop looking at me like that. It comes right out,” she said as she played with the sharp rock, “But not for another month. It needs to heal.”

Her eyes glistened with tears, but she wasn’t upset. She looked at me like I was a pathetic little kid, or an out of touch old man. Maybe there wasn’t that much of a difference. She told me she loved me and that it’d be okay, rubbing a smooth hand across my face. “It’s Maritimus, Dad. Relax. Let’s just have a good time.”

I had that same numb sick feeling from the beach. It never left. The air just magnified it. The dissonance. Nevertheless, I sat numbly on the bed and accepted her words as truth. She brushed a soft hand across my face, and held my head against her chest, like she could see and feel my unease; softly whispering that everything was okay, that everything was good. That Maritimus would bring us closer together. She turned off the light and took off my shirt, and then took off her own and tucked me into bed. She laid beside me, warm and soft and young. And soon, we were both asleep.




The sun dodged through blinds and carried with it the warm glow of a new day. Kayla was snuggled up in the crook of my arm. She woke up looking at me, with her big eyes and long lashes, an affectionate smile on her lips. I struggled with the intimacy for a moment and then it dissipated when she yawned and everything started to feel normal.

“I slept so good,” she said. Her diamond tongue refracted light, a lighthouses swinging beam on the rocks of a dangerous shore.. I couldn’t help but think, in the early morning light, that it completed her though. Like a natural extension of her personality, a real-life gemstone joined to flesh.

She swayed her hips and yawned once more on the way to the bathroom. I was rock hard. Ready to explode. With her out of sight, I was overwhelmingly tempted to self-pleasure.

I shook my head and closed my eyes, burying my face into the pillow for a little longer, feigning sleep.

“Anything I can help you with, Dad?”

Did I imagine how she said it?

I shifted my head, my erection burying itself into the bedspread, leaking like a pubescent boy. She was standing, fully dressed, a half-smile, possibly a knowing half-smile, on her lips. “Like coffee or something?”

“Sure,” I said. And she was out the door. I followed her footsteps down the hall, lightly tapping out an arcane rhythm. I held the blankets close.

By the time she got back, I was dressed again. I was composed. I was her father and she was my daughter. I made peace with her piercing, and briefly told her to ask me next time she made a big decision. I drank coffee from a paper cup and we wandered out to the lobby. Everything felt like a dream, like it was floating on Maritimus’ salty air. We were light, nearly weightless, and on the horizon, past the ocean on one side, and the mountains on the other, I was sure there was nothing else but where we were right then.

“Look alive, Dad. It’s Maritimus Day!”

And then as soon as we exited the hotel lobby there were the women in burlap: Becky, Sue, Rachel, Erin, Gertrude, Olivia, and Willow. And in the center of them, in white cotton from head to toe was Emmett Grover. His mouth was a wide open ‘o’ of excitement, as if he and the committee had just taken a walk, right up to the doors of our hotel and that running into us was but a happy coincidence.

“Oh dear! Look who it is!”

Kayla waved to the ladies and stuck out her tongue, showing her diamond. One of them, a raven-haired woman of about forty-five beamed and said, “It looks beautiful. What do you think, Dad?”

Without thinking, I said, “It is very becoming.”

The raven-haired woman winked at me and I felt exposed and disgusted.

Emmett Grover’s teeth were as white as the rest of him, they showed when he spoke. “Why don’t you all join us for the rest of the day? A first hand tour of the freedom and family values that runs to the very core of Maritimus.”

“That sounds lovely, Mr. Grover,” Kayla said. I didn’t know how she knew his name.

She grabbed my hand in hers and pulled me along as the group moved down towards the ocean. Grover and the women, who only spoke to correct him on the minutia of the town’s history, led us to the water. Overnight a carnival had been erected, straw had been formed with twine into the shape of men, themselves arranged in a triangle. Each had a phallus made of sticks, denoting their sex. At the high point of the triangle was the sole female figure, twine binding the straw into a curvaceous figure. Between the three points, was a pedestal.

“Authenticity! Honesty! With yourself and your neighbor! Love!” Emmett Grover raved. “That is what Maritimus is about.”

He turned to no one in particular and shouted: “Soon the shackles will be lifted!”

Others were gathering, following the siren song of the carnival. Kayla ran off into the crowd leaving me with little but my thoughts and discomfort.

The crowd was swelling as conversations turned to a wave of indistinguishable static. Emmett Grover was running pell-mell through the crowd, and I could hear his voice piercing above it all. “The transference of power! Our deepest temptations turned to our greatest memories! Maritimus is good! Maritimus is great!” He reminded me of those old movie posters, with giant radioactive cockroaches and a strong-jawed leading man. “Romance! Thrills! The Greatest Spectacle on the Silver Screen!”

From here, things only got stranger.

The beach was packed, the faux-boardwalk was packed. The entire population of the town was gathering for the festival. I was being pushed along to the triangle. Emmett Grover was on the pedestal. The women, Kayla included, were hauling giant sacks of burlap, the same as the women’s dresses. The fabric darkened where the wet soaked through. They dumped a small furry body at one tip of the triangle. I squinted and saw that it was a young black bear, mouth slung lazily open. At another was the slick, wet, gray body of a seal, blood oozing from the concave hammer blow atop its skull. Finally, they reached the last point and dumped a bag of silver and asphyxiated salmon. Kayla turned to me and waved and then took one of the salmon and ripped it open with her teeth. She held it up in the air and the town erupted in cheers. A hundred pink eggs fell into her open mouth and she mashed them with relish. Her pink lips held a thousand promises.

I gagged on my questions– the who’s and the what’s and the when’s stopped in my throat. I was numb, and then I was shocked, then revolted, then– most strangely– I felt–

My eyes turned to the mayor.

Emmett Grover stripped off his clothes with aplomb and produced a knife in which to slice the seal jaw to fin.


He pulled out big bloody-white handfuls of blubber, rubbing it up and down his naked body. The women were skinning the bear.

(My beautiful daughter)

Before long one of them, the youngest, was wearing the skin. And through it all, children sat in the ferris wheel, laughing and pointing, cotton candy crystals hanging to their chin.


It was night time. I don’t know where the time went, but miraculously, the sunlight became torchlight and I was naked like the rest of them. Maritimus was alive with energy. The perfect little town. The ultimate resort. Helluva place.

Kayla was leading me to the pedestal. I suddenly remembered watching the other men go up, giving their penance in exchange for dreams. The young girl in the bear skin was already in the water. It was a lovely display, I remembered. Emmett Grover was standing behind a teenage girl with bird-like legs stretched out, gyrating hungrily into her ass. The whole beach smelled of a different sort of salt. Of flesh and sweat and sickly-sweet lust. Everyone was doing it, I realized. The older women were applauding and offering advice and commendations, the younger were paired with sometimes two-to-four men, three to four times their age.

Kayla took me by the hand. I was scared, and she knew it. She put her lips to my ear and told me it would be okay. Grover was raving, madder than ever, his body glistening with the seal fat, the girl in his hands face twisted in wretched pain. He wasn’t speaking English. Some forbidden portmanteau of syllables, a curious patois that everyone seemed to understand but me. I stared out at the ocean and was sure it was staring back.

I stood on the pedestal and Kayla kissed me deeply. She held me by my hips and suddenly I didn’t care that we were being watched. Her diamond tongue clinked against my teeth and I was hard again. Thirsty for her touch, ready to take it if need be. But when she broke her kiss, I knew there would be no need for taking. It was the inherent promise of a resort: transcendence from means, weeknight dreams made weekend reality. Her eyes said it all. And it was all for a price.

I was happy to pay it.

I was naked. She took me in her mouth, bobbing her head. The same head that kissed me on the cheek when she was a little girl. That giggled when I gave her raspberries on her four year old belly. She was a woman now, and she was finally mine. Running her diamond tongue back and forth along my shaft, slicing my most precious skin. Tendons and vessels shredded. Years from now I would delight in my disfigurement.

I made good on the promise sixteen years in the making. Blood and semen washed over my daughter’s diamond tongue.

Maritimus grew and shrank in my vision, swelling as I did. Wilting as I was. Kayla stood up and let me taste her lips.

The women took her body to the water and let her sink as I assumed they had done so many other times. The ocean roared and for a moment I thought I saw something rise out of its waters, but my knees were weak and I just wanted to lay on the sand. I saw her diamond shine from beneath the ocean. The other women tended to my shredded member, sucking the last bit of life from me, healing me of my weakness. I turned to see hundreds of glinting diamonds in the dark crowd, nearer to me I saw dozens of scarred genitals and the smiles of their happy owners. They gave me knowing winks and I felt elated to be so acknowledged.

An amalgam of animals rose out of the sea, eyes gleaming green, with my daughter in its arms. Emmett Grover said that this was Maritimus’ very own Director of Tourism. Its mouth was hungry for dread dreams, he said.

Kayla was awake. I was dripping out her mouth. The other girl too, bear skin still draped over her shoulders. He laid them down on the beach. When they came to, they began to kiss. The crowd cheered. “Another hundred years of seaside tourism!” “We’ve been saved!” “Print more hoodies! More posters! More everything! Maritimus is here to stay!”

Emmett Grover pulled us together in a big, naked hug. He smelled of sex and carrion. He handed us a big burlap sack, filled with sweaters and T-Shirts, calendars and trucker hats– all emblazoned with the town’s name.

Everything was soft and the world shifted lazily. I hugged my daughter and she hugged me back. We told him we couldn’t wait for next year and he laughed a deep laugh and slapped me joyously across my back as giving eyes from the ocean twinkled like diamonds in an old and forbidden rough.


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Deadman’s Tome is a growing horror zine that publishes horror short stories and horror flash fiction. The online magazine publishes dark and gritty content from professional horror writers, Bram Stoker award nominated horror authors, along with talented newcomers of the horror writing craft. Deadman’s Tome features chilling, terrifying horror shorts ranging from ghost stories, zombie invasions, bigfoot sightings, monster horror, and even horror erotica. Deadman’s Tome is one of the best online horror zines to publish horror short stories, horror flash fiction, and dark flash fiction. The darker the tale the better. If you enjoyed the story, or even if you didn’t, leave a comment below as it helps the horror authors.


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Drunk Reading of Unbloom and Fly Blown

Mr. Deadman reads two NSFW horror stories, Unbloom by Kristine Hall-Garcia and Fly Blown by Kenneth Whitfield after about 4 or 5 shots of Malibu… lost count.

Mr. Deadman explores how a story like Unbloom could work in real life where a wife knowingly allows for her husband to pork cold dead underage flesh that he keeps in the basement. Perhaps the wife is one of those regressive Left types that would defend her husbands “condition” because it’s not hurting anyone, right?

Mr. Deadman uses Fly Blown as an example of what not to do for both men and women. Ladies, wash your vaginas! If you have flies and maggots going on down there, then just isolate yourself from society, please. Or just, give up on life. Like a video game reset, but with a handful of pills or a glock.



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Turbo Slut: Eat More Pussy – Mr. Deadman

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“You’re such a freak.” His words dripped with anticipation. Spread eagle on a cheap hotel bed and down to a wife beater and boxers, the man observed as she walked over to the other side of the bed. The metal rim of the handcuff dug into his wrist, he shook his hand as if it would help. “Most girls charge extra for this treatment.”


“Well, I’m not like most girls,” she said, as she cuffed his other arm. “I thought you said you don’t normally do this sort of thing.” Her eyebrow raised, blue eyes pierced through him. She snapped the handcuff to the headboard.


“I..uh, I mean, I uh.” He squirmed like a worm on scorching pavement.


“Don’t worry,” She said as she shushed him. “Lotus will be taking care of you tonight.” She shot him a kiss. A Japanese sexdoll with milky skin, long dark hair that fell on her bountiful mounds, and a plump ass with thick thighs. Her pornstar bust contained by a black bra, and a sweet and sour spot behind a thin layer of silk. She stood beside the bed like a perfect goddess. A goddess corrupted by the vile hand of the night life.


“That’s good and all, but I think these things might be a bit tight.” He tugged on the restraints, and the anticipation on his face faded. His cock, however, did not seem all too concerned. A fat stump of Italian sausage formed a tent in his boxers. “You could loosen these up, right?”


“Oh, but what fun would that be.” Lotus removed her bra. Her pale busty ladies freed from the patriarchal restraints. She glanced at him while she pinched an erect pink nipple. “Lotus wants to have fun, don’t you?”


“Oh, course baby.” The man’s eye fixated on her bust. “Now, why don’t you bring those milk bags over here.”


“Milk bags?” A driblet of white leaked out from her nipple. “Oh look, I’m still lactating. You wanna taste?” Lotus climbed on to the bed and he begged her to get closer as she approached. She straddled him. Her plump and cushioned ass pressed on his erect member like stack of weights, as she leaned forward. “Damn, baby. You’re crushing my balls.”


He bucked, and she slapped him. “Not yet. Lotus wants to have fun.”


“Hey, baby doll, why don’t we just get to fucking,” he stated.


She closed in on his face and a cascade of dark hair enclosed around him. “Because Lotus wants to give you the best fuck of your life.”


“That’s great, baby. Believe me that no one likes a good fuck more than Johnny, but…”


Teeth nibbled on his earlobe. Warm breath poured heavily out from wet lips. “But nothing. Lotus is going to give you the best fuck of your life and you’re going to enjoy it.”


“Fuck,” he gulped. “Hey baby, I only got a fifty on me.”


Big mounds glazed with the slightest hint of sweat. Pink nipples aroused and ready. She teased him with a taste. A bead of milk splashed on his bearded chin. “Consider this on the house.” Lotus lowered her milk sacks. A mouth cupped her breasts. A tongue circled her nipple. The man sucked as if trying quenching an insatiable thirst. “That’s right,” said Lotus. “Drink every last drop.”


The man bucked, again. Lotus responded by pressing her breast into his face as he continued to drink, but the man bucked, yet again. Lotus pulled away from the man and gave his face a red palmprint. “Not yet,” she ordered.


“But, baby, c’mon,” he begged. “I want that sweet Chinese pussy.”


“First of all, I’m Japanese,” She retorted. She sat on his chest and unveiled an freshly shaven, tight, pink clam. “Second, if you want to fuck it, you first got to lick it.”


“Baby, bring it on.” His mouth gaping wide open, tongue punching the air.


Lotus sat on his face, spread her pussy, and moaned just slightly as his tongue slithered around. “You make Lotus happy, Lotus make you happy.” Her clit tickled. Her pink flesh aroused. Her pussy widened and a gaseous burst funnelled into his mouth. He squirmed. Handcuffs knocked against the headboard as he desperately tried to reach her. He rocked his head and kicked wildly. Lotus squeezed her thighs, and drilled even harder into his face. A stream of acidic gases flowed through her, green vapors seeped out from her tight grip.


His reddened face, flush with blood, boiled. Bulges of flesh expanded like inflated balloons only to pop with a gory rupture. Blood and pus sprayed from his body as he contorted and convulsed under her. Lotus tightened her grasp as much as she could, and a let another acidic stream rip right through her. The hairs along his melting flesh burned, and released an odor of rotten eggs that permeated the air.


Lotus  rode his face until the last convulsion. “Hope that was the best fuck of your life,” she whispered to him. “You actually made me moan for moment.” She stood over his scorched and melted remains. Johnny’s face looked like a five layer dip poured over a skull. “And for that, I’m gonna give you a parting gift.” A brown log of shit squeezed out from Lotus’s sphincter and splashed in a thick globs on Johnny boy’s face. Not a savage, Lotus wiped her ass on his boxers, using his still erect dick as a shit stick of sorts.


Lotus climbed out of bed, and put her breasts back into captivity. She slid her arms into a denim jacket that remained unbuttoned, and pulled up a pair of skintight jeans. Lotus searched Johnny’s slacks and found a rough leather wallet. A few hundred dollars, some crumbled receipts, a condom, and a picture of an Asian girl smiling. She pocketed the cash in a small purse, and paused to examine the photo.


“You won’t be fucking anymore. Will you, Johnny boy?” she said, as she placed the photo in her bra. She went for the door and paused. “You’re less than shit you fucking kid fucker.” She shook her head, took a deep breath, and somehow managed to maintain her shaking fingers. He’s dead and though the wrongs he committed could never be reversed, she could find peace knowing that the bastard couldn’t harm another. She searched her thoughts, closed her eyes, and found comfort in that she killed him.


She walked out into the hallway, closed the door behind her. A stale emptiness intertwined with desperation clung on to the weathered walls of the narrow corridor. Doors lined in rows like prison cells. Auras of light feather from the hanging light fixtures and offered a pathetic fight against the overpowering darkness.


She pressed the flesh just behind her ear. “I got em, Momma,” she whispered.


“Did everything go well? You seem a bit shakened,” said Momma, her synthesized tones formed a harmonic, calming chorus.


“No. I’m fine. Just the motherfucker knew how to use his tongue.” Lotus pressed on her left breast, and a tiny compartment opened at the top.


“Why did you give him the chance? Did you use the Cytotoxic Milk?” Spoken like an overbearing mother.


Electronic circuitry encased a small vial with milky streaks. She pulled out the vial and tossed it. “I forgot. But I had backup.” She lodged a finger into her bellybutton and pulled out a small vial with a faint green glow. “It’ll be the last pussy he’ll ever eat.” She slid the vial back into her bellybutton until she heard a distinct click.


“You girls need to be more careful,” said Momma.


“Hey baby.” Words reeked of beer flung at her by a passerby dressed in clothes at least a week old. “You could feed the homeless with those titties.”


“Hold on a moment, Momma,” said Lotus. She forced a smile at the drunk and motioned for him to get closer. “Today’s your lucky day.”


“A momma’s girl, huh.” He grinned with yellow teeth.


“Yeah, something like that. Momma always said to feed those in need.” Honeyed words poured out from her lips. She pulled on his stained shirt and endeared a waft of dried sweat and garbage.


“Your mom is a wise woman,” he said, mesmerized by Lotus’s cleavage.


“Come here, let Lotus make it better for you.” She buried his head into her pale fleshy chasm. He pulled back for breath. She pressed harder. The long red nails of her other hand pierced into the side of his neck. The tips of her fingers latched onto his flesh and created a crude seal. Blood flowed through him, drained like a vacuum through grated fingertips. Lotus smiled as he struggled to escape from her grasp. Her smile grew wide while his face grew pale.


His head exploded like a rotten pumpkin loaded with blood bags hit with a baseball bat. Her nails sliced through his neck as he collapsed to his own weight. “What the fuck!” She thought. A man dressed in black on black stood in the shadows with a smoking gun. Cliche as fuck. He stepped into the light, revealing himself as a Hispanic man with such stereotypical features he looked like he came off the Tapatio hot sauce bottle.


“El Turbo Slut,” he said, with a sly smile. “I’ve finally found you. El Jefe del Culo wants to talk.”


“Tell El Jefe he can reach me at 1-800-eat-shit,” said Lotus. She kicked the bleeding heap of bum. The body flew towards El Jefe’s puta, and Lotus seized the opportunity. She ran towards Mr. Tapatio’s blindside, and went to deliver a face destroying kick. A bullet slammed into her, somewhere, shaking her off from the attack. She collapsed and felt a burning on her right upper arm. The sleeve of her denim jacket ruined. Her flesh punctured, but the metal beneath was unharmed.


“It’s not going to be that easy,” said the cliche Mexican. He approached the downed Lotus and placed her under the barrel of his forty-five. “You’ve been costing us a lot of money when you could be making us a lot of money.”


“What are you going on about?” Lotus groaned as the flesh on her arm reformed.


“You’re our property, and El Jefe del Culo wants you back.” He spoke behind the protection of raised iron sights.


“Bullshit.” Lotus rose from the dirty carpet.


Mr. Tapatio fired. A slug slammed into her chest, chipping away a handful of flesh. “Read it for yourself.”


Lotus regained her composure, and glanced down at the exposed titanium alloy.Product of Tokyo, Japan – property of Chivo Cortez AKA El Jefe del Culo.


“You must be stupider than you look,” said Lotus, as she peeled off the hanging bits of flesh from the wound. “You seriously think I give a single fuck what this reads?” Lotus stepped towards him.


“Stay back,” he said, steadying his aim.


“You don’t want to play with Lotus?” She pulled her left breast out from her bra and rubbed her erect nipple. “Please play with Lotus.”


“I know what you do,” he retorted.


“Please play with me, papi.” Her hips swayed with each step as she advanced.


Mr. Tapatio fired a barrage of rounds. Stray bullets whirled by. A slug chipped her shoulder. “Ai Papi.”


“Get away from me you evil puta.” A bullet punctured her right breast like a blood balloon, and a yellowish vapor seeped out from a metallic opening.


“Ai Papi,” she said, with “fuck-me” eyes.


Mr. Tapatio backed into a corner, while she approached as if unphased. With shaking hands, he pulled the trigger only to hear a click.


“Don’t tell me you blew your load already?” She stood over him. Blood dripped from the damaged flesh. Exposed metal shined in the faint light radiating from a flickering florescent bulb. “I don’t have five minutes to wait while you reload.”


“Get away from me you freak!” His voice demanded that she leave, while the bulge in his pants asked for her to stay.


“Are you lactose intolerant?” She played with her nipple, rubbing her blood splattered breast.


“Those are lovely.” His eyes darted from hers to her voluptuous breast. “Perhaps I could have one lick before I go, por favor.”


“Whatever you say, Papi.” She squeezed her nipple and milked her boob. A stream of yellow liquid splashed in burning waves on his face. His hands clawed at his throat while he gasped and convulsed.


“Lotus,” the motherly voice bounced through her skull. “What happened?”


“Don’t worry, mother. It was nothing I couldn’t handle,” she said, while she pressed her fingertips against his exposed flesh.


“You turned off the comm and then your vitals drop, why shouldn’t I worry.”


“He shot my boob,” said Lotus, as she remembered to cover her other one. “But he’s dead now. The pervert couldn’t resist even a one boobed Lotus.”


“How’s it healing?”


A mess of bloody punctured flesh hung loose from a damaged bra. “It’s coming along. The blood I’m taking should help finish the job.”


“I’ll need you to head back so I can run more tests.”


Lotus found a cell phone. The dim glow of the screen illuminated before her like a gift. “No can do,” she said, amazed that the cliche Mexican didn’t bother locking his phone. “El Jefe del Culo is trying reclaim his property.”


“Not likely,” said Momma.


“Not likely? I’m staring at one of his thugs. Dead, of course.” She flipped through the screens on the device and located a thread of prior messages rich with details. “This fucker tried to send a message and I think the professional thing to do is to reply.”


“El Jefe is not a threat. Let him suffer the loss of one of his goons.”


“I’m reading communications that say otherwise. Look, I’ll send it to you.” Lotus placed her palm over the screen and closed her eyes. An explosion of noise rushed through her.


“Is this legit?”


“Pulled it from the fucker’s phone.” Lotus swiped through various tabs until she found a gallery of stills. She found her face smiling back at her among other faces. Most were known associates, familiar faces of the nightlife, but there was one that held her attention. A latina female with blonde highlights smiling back at her.


“Lotus,” Momma alarmed. “They’ve put a hit out on Loca.”


“I’m on my way,” said Lotus. She took the Mexican’s phone along with his wallet and went for the nearest exit.


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Deadman’s Tome is a growing horror zine that publishes horror short stories and horror flash fiction. The online magazine publishes dark and gritty content from professional horror writers, Bram Stoker award nominated horror authors, along with talented newcomers of the horror writing craft. Deadman’s Tome features chilling, terrifying horror shorts ranging from ghost stories, zombie invasions, bigfoot sightings, monster horror, and even horror erotica. Deadman’s Tome is one of the best online horror zines to publish horror short stories, horror flash fiction, and dark flash fiction. The darker the tale the better. If you enjoyed the story, or even if you didn’t, leave a comment below as it helps the horror authors.


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Tentative Cover

Featuring six titillating tales, this anthology delivers a chilling blend of provocative horror. THE WOMAN IN RED opens with a lusting and blood thirsty couple hell bent to outshine Jack the Ripper. Take a bizarre road trip delivering talking heads with a hot blonde with a twisted past in HEAD TRIP. DOSE goes through hookers and drugs faster than Charlie Sheen, explores the S&M scene, while delivering a haunting climax. SEX TOY plays with an odd, foreign and blasphemous sex curio that takes a couple’s love life to a whole new level. TOUCH ME, I’M SICK warns of a grave consequence no lustful adulterer would ever want to pay. Lastly, THE VAMPIRE NYMPH wraps up the anthology with sizzling vampire sex served with a cold dish of irony.

HORRGASM is due to release August 15th, 2016. PRE-ORDER your copy today.

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Sex Toy by Bob Freville


Illustration by James Neyman

They had been happy once, Eric thought. Before that primordial pecker monster, that god-fuck-it-all sexual sacrilege, made its entrance. The thought of the damned thing and the word entrance brought bile to his bearded throat, stuck in the craw of this love sick loser in his unwashed attire.

The rolled legs of his jeans smelled of piss and he hadn’t showered in longer than he could remember. What was the point? Ain’t no fuckin’ goin’ down, you can bet on that. Why bother? Truth be told, sex no longer held much fancy for Eric. He felt like chemical castration might be the answer for the human animal as a species. Neuter the damned.

Entrance. That word, goddammit. A reminder of that sick demonic curio’s slow then furious entrance into his wife’s sopping wet slot. And her. His angel. His whole world. The chick who’d sworn to be faithful, pledged to always be his, so easily losing herself in slobbering stupid devotion to something so wretched.

Thinking on it like that transferred Eric’s blind hatred from the thing to her. Elle, that ginger stupid, that harlot.

How had something so magical, so seemingly solid, been quashed out, made moot? Why?! He cried inside his piston of a head as he packed the box of bullets into his gym bag.

The worst part was that he still loved her. That dumb whore, taken in with the snap of a finger or the spurt of an inanimate ugliness by abject evil. What were you thinking? What happened to us?

No answer.

Only his recollection of the day they decided to try some new kinks on, inject some strange into their lives.

“Doesn’t it just…” Elle sighed, the muscles of her throat contracting where they faced the ceiling.

She was on her back, head hanging off the side of the mattress, still-wet ropes of permed auburn hair tickling the floorboards. Eric sat Indian-style against the wall, watching her delicate neck as what looked like two electric eels writhed beneath the dermis. He was so hot for her, he couldn’t wrap his mind around this.

“Just what?”

What was the matter with the way they’d been doing it all along? What she was saying was all Chinese to him. Not a word made any sense.

“Just, I don’t know,” she said, sighing again.  She came up on one elbow and fixed her eyes on the man she’d been sleeping with for four years of marital bliss, a marital bliss that had recently run dry, at least in her opinion.

“What?” Eric reiterated, exasperation in his voice this time.

“Come correct,” she said.

Eric threw up his palms. “I’m for real,” he said, wide-eyed, trying to stress how earnest his ignorance was. “I don’t know what you’re trying to say. You’re what? Sayin’ the flame’s burned out? At thirty?”

“No,” Elle cooed, bringing a warm hand to Eric’s cheek.

He resented this gesture, knowing that it was a mock-parental display, that he was, in essence, being placated in the way a small child is placated. Still, the warmth of her palm sent tingles to his loins. He wondered if she was getting moist…decided, balefully, that she wasn’t.

“I’m just sayin,” Elle blurted anticlimactically before taking her hand away from Eric and crossing the room to a Bic and a pack of Nepenthe ® cigarettes. She lit one of the smokes, exhaled a silky purple plume and, with her back to Eric, she said the words she knew she’d regret.

“I don’t get off, I don’t feel anything.” A long pause, penetrating the room the way she wished she could be penetrated, causing an unbearable silence that felt more leaden than any cock.

“You’re saying,” Eric started with painful uncertainty, choking back tears, the word flaccid whirling around in his aching brain.

Elle cut him off, determined to squash her husband’s suffering before it grew any more acute. “I’m saying that I’m in love with you, that I love you as much as I did the first minute, the first millisecond I saw you…but it’s all, the sex, it’s just grown stale. Routine. Ritual…tired.”

Eric contemplated this for a long beat, unable to think of a single sex act they hadn’t engaged in. Without a doubt, their twenties, especially those first two years before tying the knot, had been spent crotch-locked in estrus, tearing motel rooms apart with their intertwined flesh. They’d pissed in each others’ mouths, fucked in every conceivable public and private place, made love in virtually impossible positions. Eric had delivered the fruits of his loins to every inch and orifice of Elle’s body. And she’d thirsted for it! He thought. Hadn’t she hungrily sucked up every drop?

“Okay,” Eric said and watched as Elle turned to him, her eyes brightening with hope. “But,” he continued, and her face dropped.

“But what?”


Elle’s shoulders went slack. She returned to the bed in a state of begrudging resignation, stubbing her cigarette out on the lid of a flat can of beer on her way.

“Everything,” she said.

“Well…” Eric thought. “You already agreed that a threesome or…cuckhold…it would ruin us for each other.”

“So,” Elle spat, sparking a fresh Nepenthe, blowing the smoke in Eric’s direction.

“So we’ve done the facial thing, we went bungee fucking that time.”

Elle blushed with amusement at this last part, a smile cracking defiantly across her grill. “It was bungee jumping. You made it into bungee humping.”

“Yeah,” Eric said, smiling too now, edging down on the mattress to meet his wife’s gaze. “And we made love in the middle of that field with all the houses around. Woke up when the sprinklers went off, fucked in broad daylight for anyone to see.”

“Could’ve gotten arrested,” Elle added.

“Okay, so we could’ve fucked in the back of a police cruiser. I’ll give you that.”

Elle laughed out loud at this one.

“Seriously,” Eric said. “What do we need to spice things up?”

They were at the XXX shop the next day. Except it wasn’t called a marital aid shop. It was called “Spanky’s Erotic Novelty Emporium” and it sparkled with neon-lit glittery shades, a sore thumb sticking way out amidst a complex of cluttered gray industrial factories along the Interstate.

Spanky’s, it turned out, only sounded janky. Truth be told, it was the finest triple X shop operating on Long Island. From its mirrored ceilings hung chandeliers. Its mirrored walls were bordered by ornamental mosaics depicting every variety of Tantra. The shelves, racks and wall hangings were festooned with every high-end product line people read about in lad mags but seldom see in real life.

Browsing Spanky’s aisles, they bore witness to the full canon of fuck possibilities (or so it seemed), marveling at the uber-expensive gadgets—Kia Sorrento-sized Sybians, full body latex replicas of adult film performers, even a $4,000 orgy simulator with six remote-operated dongs—and they yawned as they explored the more cost-efficient apparatuses on display. Whips. Been there. Nipple clamps. Ouch! Ball gags. What for?  Ben Wa Balls. Already wearin’ ’em. Cock ring. No thanks. Nobody likes a purple dick going black and begging for an ER visit. Labia stimulant? Done that. Grape-flavored cock cream? Done that too. What’s good, kid? What else you got?

Turned out the answer was nothing, at least as far as Spanky’s was concerned. After forty-five minutes, they’d looked at everything Spanky’s made accessible to the public. When Eric and Elle had exhausted all these options, from crotchless undies and feather boas to home video titles as sophomoric as “Nad Santa” and “DVDA: Black In Black,” they both felt boring and bored. None of this stuff was for them or, if it was, it already had been.

They were about to step out empty-handed when Elle spotted a black door at the rear of the store, on which hung a sign that read: RING STAFF FOR ACCESS, NO FREE ADMITTANCE.

Eric peeped the message and scoffed, “No free admittance. You know who that’s for? Some Williamsburg hipster in khaki pedal pushers and Buddy Holly glasses, comes to visit his relatives on ‘Lawnguyluhnd,’ decides he’ll plunk down all his blog earnings on something priced like a truckload of Ed Hardy swag so he can make some SoHo bar skank think he’s a collector of rare and special shit.”

But Elle wasn’t hearing anything. She was entranced by the door and the sensual scent spewing forth from the slat at their feet.

“Rare and special,” she droned.

“Oh Jesus! Don’t tell me you’re taken in by this hokum. It’s a fetish room dressed up as somethin’ exotic and exclusive. And can’t you smell that? We’re outside a friggin’ head shop!”

The odor, strong enough to provoke olfactory hallucinations of hellish BDSM acts, was one of Teutonic ecstasy, of sexual holocaust. Incense, foreign spices, a faint touch of lavender and sweat, definitely sweat. Oily flesh came to mind, mixed with something more, something ineffable.

“Patchouli and surface cuts,” Eric mocked. “We’re outside some emo kid’s dorm room in Bushwick.”

But he could see Elle wouldn’t let up til they’d glimpsed its presumably bogus wonders. So he flagged down the store manager, a thirty-something guy with a soul patch and a ridiculously receding Rockabilly hairdo.

“How do we get in here?” Eric asked.

“That’s not us, bro.” Soul Patch. “That’s kind of a sub-contractor. Private dealer throws us some dough for loanin’ him some space for his collection, dig?”

“Yeah, I dig it,” Eric said, biting his tongue. “So what’s it gonna cost to ring this dude’s bell?”

“He sets the price, that’s ‘tween him and you. We just get a kick-back. Number’s on the wall, bro.”

Eric looked around and, as if materializing straight from scratch, he saw what he hadn’t seen previously—a business card, laminated but yellowed and peeling, taped to the wall by the door. The black Book Antigua typeface stated no business name, only digits: 632-3232.

Eric took out his cell, stole a glance at Elle, whose eyes remained glued to the door, shook his head and punched in the number. A voice came on the line before the first ring was completed. Naturally, Eric thought. Cat’s so desperate for business, he’s been waiting by the phone, praying for two Rubes to come along as we just have.

“Yeah, what can I do yuh for?” the voice asked in a hoarse guido tone.

“We’re outside your…establishment,” Eric started. “Can we come in and play?”

“I’ll be right witcha.”

“How much?” Eric inquired, but the line was dead. The door was creeping open without an answer. Before them stood a hirsute man of indeterminate age, crow-black hair greasy and gleaming, slicked back severely to reveal an emphatic widows peak. His moon-shaped face was shrouded in a heavy beard, his grotesquely obese midsection ensconced in a thick dark vestment of sorts. His cupped hands could do nothing to conceal the shiny gaudiness of the gold rings that strangled his sausage fingers.

“Come on in,” the man said, waving and grinning at them, wonky eyes taking both of them in at once.

Eric craned his neck and could see that Soul Patch had already returned to stocking out suck pumps by the storefront windows.

“Before we come in, what’s this gonna run us? Dude up front said you determine the price.”

Stan smiled at Eric. “Yes, I base it on whether I like you for my pieces. If you’re suitable for my wares.”


“So lemme ask yuh dis. How’d you say yer relationship is?”

Eric laughed faintly at the absurdity of this dollar store interrogation. But Elle answered straight away without considering him. “It’s great! We love each other very much. We’re just looking for something to key us up.”

The guido’s grin spread wide across the cratered plains of his fat skull.

“Excellent,” he said. He extended a hand. Elle took it. “Name’s Stan A. And you sound like just the type uh clientele I’m after.”

“Hazzat?” Eric interjected.

“Happy couple,” Stan A. said. “That’s what I want.”

“Your customers so happy, why do they need you?” Eric could see, almost feel the daggers Elle’s eyes threw at him.

“Stop it,” she murmured.

Stan guffawed. “You got jokes, huh, kid? That’s all right. You work in this biz, you hear it all. Had a customer once, brung back a butt plug that was, shall we say, drippy. Said, ‘What’s your return policy?’ I shit yuh not.”

Stan howled with laughter at this recollection.

Eric wasn’t having it. “No refunds, I take it?”

“Correct,” Stan said. “You comin’ in?”

“You haven’t priced the admission,” Eric reminded him.

“Fuhgedduhbotit!” Stan insisted. “You’ll pay once you’re in.”

Eric shifted from one foot to the other, wrapping his mind around this, trying to figure the grift. Finally, after some seconds, Elle poked him in the back and they crossed the threshold. Before the darkness of the hallway opened up into a dust mote ruled space of overhead fixtures, Eric was asking about the name.

“Stan A, you said?”

“I did.”

“Don’t people usually abbreviate their first name?”

“You just call me Stan. I abbreviate my last name ’cause you wouldn’t be able to pronounce it. Pretty long and indecipherable.”

“What? Like Ahmadinejad? You’re talkin’ to a career journalist,” Eric lied. “Try me.”

“Fair enough,” Stan said as he found the light switch and allowed his bloated hand to hover over it. “It’s Stan Alilamasabachtani.”

“You were right to abbreviate it,” Eric said.

Stan drew a short laugh then threw the switch. The dull shape of objects previously scanned, unimpressed, by Eric as he grilled Stan in the dimness, jumped to life in the harsh luminescence of the fluorescents. Now they were in a relative museum of awesome attractions. A monolithic statue of Adonis, chiseled features thrust out, stood before them in a stance of glory, a mortal a mere eighth of his size dangling from the shaft of his magnificent erection, gleefully milking the god. And his well-defined arm, flexed for the tension borne of his conquest, was extended to the east, pointing the way to the rest of Stan’s curios, ushering them to indulge their curiosity.

Eric’s peepers were naturally poised on Adonis’s ungodly prick, a plaster that put his—and every other human man’s—to shame. Elle’s eyes, on the other hand, had wandered down to grovel at the god’s feet where she could see the gold plate and its engraving, a verse ironically torn verbatim from the King James Bible: “For he bore the sin of many, and made intercession for the transgressors.”

As they inched their way along, the clutter of marvels appeared to reveal itself one glorious object at a time, as if every object waited for a spotlight to alight it so that its individual power could be fully appreciated without distraction from its predecessor. There was the Pearl of Anguish, a medieval metallic torture egg meant to be fitted inside an offender’s vagina where it would then open up and ruin the offender’s insides. And by the side of this so-called pearl, legs akimbo, head thrown back in terror recoil or terrible euphoria, was the porcelain effigy of a woman who wouldn’t have been out of place in the Korovo milk bar of Clockwork. Beside this medieval atrocity of eros stood a psychedelic lantern that spun of its own will, hurling mini-silhouettes of sodomy against the back wall. To its left were stacks of literary antiquities, first editions of Bataille’s “The Story of the Eye” and de Sade’s “Juliette,” to name but two.

Eric was chuckling like a dirty old man, gaping at mannequins with blinders on and phallus spilling from their plastic mouths, when Elle declared, “This is what I was.”

“What?” Eric said. He knew what he’d heard, but it made no sense.

Elle corrected herself. “This is what I…want. This is it.”

She delivered the words in a spent voice of sexual agitation, that panting, jittery sound of exasperation. Eric could remember hearing it the first time they’d gotten hot and heavy when, after sucking face for close to forty-five minutes, he’d asked her what she wanted him to do. And her answer was one he hadn’t heard since: “Everything you want.”

His head jerked around from the mannequins to meet the thing head on. His stomach sank at once. Elle stood before a marble table on top of which, dead center, sat a gargantuan…what? Not a big, black cock exactly and not quite a fist and forearm. Something of its vine-like shaft and helmet-like head’s spiky circumference suggested a sea creature from some sci-fi world. A moon snake, that’s what it was! A Mars-roving eel, Eric thought. Most definitely not a replica of any living manhood or other appendage. And was it pulsating underneath the opaque glow of the fluorescents? Sho nuff! But—and then the pulsing was gone, removed from the now inanimate object and placed inside Elle’s heaving chest.

“Fuck no!” Eric exclaimed.

Elle’s head shot around, snapped toward him and, with one eye on him and one never leaving the benighted battering ram beastie on the marble table, she shot Eric a look so cold it could create icicles in a dude’s urethra.

“This is what I want,” she said.

“I’m not using that, whatever it is, I’m not usin’ that on you.”

Stan laughed.

“Somethin’ funny?” Eric barked.

“Hey, don’t worry about it, kid. Your lady’s box, it contracts, same as her asshole.”

“Excuse me?! You talkin’ about my wife’s vagina?!”

“Easy, sport,” Stan said, holding up a chubby palm. “I’m just sayin.”

“I want it, Eric.” Elle, still staring.

“Nah, this is some bullshit.” Eric was flush with anger and awkwardness. “No.”

“How much?” Elle practically frothing like feral animal at the lips. Presumably at both sets.

“Give it to you for six.” Stan looked beyond Eric, through him, as he said this.

“Six hundred dollars!” Eric cried. “You gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me!”

“I’ll take it,” Elle replied.

“You’ll…what?!” Eric was on the verge of whiplash now.

“Give him a check, Eric.”

At a loss now, all Eric could muster was, “You gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me” again.

No joke.

On the car ride home, Eric watched with unease as Elle peeled back the upper folds of the packaging and fixed her incandescent irises on the toy. “Touch it, Eric,” she cooed.

“What? No! I’m not touching that thing. It’s hideous!”

They drove in silence the rest of the way.

He could see the signs that something bad was happening that first night. Almost at once, Elle regarded him differently than she normally had. As soon as she’d unwrapped the onyx toy and set it down on the glass coffee table in their living room, she’d been unable or unwilling to move from the spot where she sat, on the bearskin throw rug, in front of It. She was adhered there, transfixed, from, the very moment after she’d drawn the venetian blinds and dimmed the recessed lighting.

After taking a shower, buzzing his pubic hair, lathering his crotch and belly in Elle’s favorite body lotion and brushing his teeth, Eric had returned to the living room, expecting to find a randy wife good and worked up and ready for marital intimacy. What he found, instead, was Elle, in moistened panties and nothing else, running her hands up and down the thing, from base to head. Sweat. Not unlike the smell from the black room. Heat. A stifling heat like a furnace.

Although disturbed by this sight, and against his better judgment, Eric disrobed and crept up behind his wife, placing a hand on the back of her neck and bringing his hot mouth to rest over her pulsing carotid artery.

There was no response from her, other than the pulse’s erratic drum beat, but when Eric opened his eyes, he thought he could see the onyx “toy” pulsing too, would swear the thing emitted a tea kettle hiss.

Illustration by James Neyman

Before he could react to what he hoped was a hallucination, Elle whirled around and smacked him away. Eric was stunned for a beat, then his eyes temporarily brightened.

“You wanna play rough?” He went to kiss her anew.

Elle shot out with both palms to his chest, knocking him off balance and on to his back. He briefly expected her to go cowgirl, but no straddling was forthcoming and, when he chanced a look by burying his chin in his chest, he could see that his wife had returned her attention to the toy, stroking it protectively like a dog that’s been kicked by an abusive boyfriend.

Eric got up and stormed down the hall to the bedroom, grabbed up Elle’s pillow and marched it into the living room, hurling it at her back. She didn’t move, didn’t break her silent vigil before the black Martian eel.

“Here! Sleep with yer fuckin’ toy then! I try to play along and this is what I get? Six hundy in the fuckin’ red and this is what I get?!”

She didn’t answer, clutched the onyx toy instead.


No dice.

“Fuck you,” he sighed and, seconds later, after he’d slammed the bedroom door and lay in bed, jerking off, he thought he could hear slurping sounds. But was it his wife or that hideous “toy?” The thought haunted him long after he’d reconciled himself to not getting off before slipping into restless sleep.

That night he dreamed of his wedding day. But it wasn’t his real wedding. The proceedings were held in a black lodge, divorced of excitement, imbued with dread. The flower girl slunk, hunched, along the aisle, surrounded by suited freaks in gnarled face masks, her skin melting, bones splintering as she reached the stage. Her little flower girl body wilting as she went and the rings she beared in her arthritic claws turning to ash and water.

On the altar they were not Eric and Elle, they were exoskeletons, aged and broken, ring fingers stuck in their cankered mouths, tears welded to their jowls in a fine crust. And when they stopped sucking their brittle digits and the high priest made his wicked pronouncement, their jaws dropped open and they howled in unison, an ear-shattering outcry of sad babbling hurt.

When Eric awoke, he knew nothing would ever be the same ever again. Entering the living room, ready with an apology for throwing the pillow, he found his wife crouched in the same spot on the now-soiled shag carpet where she’d been seated when he left. A puddle darkened the area of rug right in front of her and condensation had formed on the glass beneath the “toy,” so that it was impossible to tell whether the ejaculate fouling said rug belonged to his wife or her plaything.

The answer to this was, of course, both, something Eric ascertained when he sidled up behind Elle and saw her drenched nether regions and saw, too, the smaller puddle spreading under the toy. It was different from Elle’s effluence. It was thicker. It carried with it a stronger, more pungent scent, something between expired milk and industrial solvent.

Eric’s intense focus on the toy and its effluvia was broken when Elle turned to face him. Time was suspended and life dropped out of Eric when he saw her face. She was panting like a dog, prickly heat ruining her rosy cheeks, blisters scoring her sweat-saturated forehead.

When she opened her mouth, he could see nothing of the perfectly pearly chompers he’d always admired and loved. All that remained in their stead were crimson stalagtites of torn gum, shredded threads of pink-gray skin. That’s when he saw the needle nose splashed in red by her knees and the same red coating the head of the plaything, a head that had swelled, bloated with purple color, the purple of anguish. Or, rather, the purple of ecstasy. Unholy ecstasy!



Read more of the story in HORRGASM

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Touch Me, I’m Sick by Mark Slade


It was never about love for Mike and Carrie. It was always about sex.

Where ever they found themselves, the attraction was so strong that they couldn’t keep their hands off of each other. Dropping their kids off to school, Carrie would climb into Mike’s Classic ’66 Dart and they would pull around the school—behind the chain link fence where the baseball diamond was empty and have their way with each other. On a weekend picnic at the park with Wade and Denny, Carrie would see Mike with Jen and Francine. They would chat a few minutes, then off with their respective spouses and children to eat their lunches. Carrie would excuse herself as Mike did. They would search each other out, go into a Porta potty on the opposite of the park where their families were and go at each other like horny rabid animals.

The funny thing is, up until a week ago, they were complete strangers.

Only Wade and Jen knew each other from work, and had brought, actually, dragged Mike and Carrie to an office party. Wade and Jen were in advertising. They worked closely on an ad program for the Church of Latter-Day Saints that has become something of a pop-culture phenomenon. A child that is bullied at school, bullied at home, grows into an adult, comes back home to help the bully who is now homeless and bring his father home to live with his family.  Not the message, nor the way the commercial was shot, was not the reason the ad was such a big hit. It was the great CGI effects used to morph the child into an adult as he offered his hand to the bully sitting on the sidewalk. For some reason, the campaign had gotten into the American public’s consciousness, sparked debate on social media, for good or bad.  The agency was so proud of Wade and Jen, they threw a party to honor them. Wade was a banker. He found advertising more boring than banking. Carrie felt the same way. Her interest in real estate was waning to the point she was thinking of going back to teaching high school.

“Hey,” Jen said to her husband. “I’d like you to meet Wade’s wife, Carrie.”

“Oh,” Mike changed hands with his drink. “Hi. Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you,” Carrie flashed her big brown eyes at him in her usual shy, little girl way. Mike exuded all the arrogant charm of a jock.

Mike smiled, shook Carrie’s hand.

Carrie looked at Mike, Mike looked at Carrie, eyes wild, body full of electricity.  Both of them had this unholy urge and desire to strip each other’s clothes off and screw each other silly, right in front of everyone. It was all both of them thought of the whole evening. For most of the evening they stayed away from each other. Sometimes trading meaningful glances, or nervously brushing past each other as one of them worked the room.

Finally, neither one could take it anymore. Carrie sat her drink down, made sure her purse was on her shoulder and headed out the door for some fresh air. She stood in the parking lot, partly hoping Mike wouldn’t follow, but mostly needing him to. She heard footsteps on the gravel behind her and there he was, hands in his pocket, glaring at her. Carrie trotted to him, grabbed him by the arm and off into the bushes they went. Her dress went up, his zipper went down. Her pantyhose rolled down, his penis came out, driving hard inside her. She pushed her face into the bushes, gripped the tiny limbs in her hands and took it.

Intense as it was, satisfying somewhat, both were disappointed it ended in a few minutes.

Carrie rolled up her pantyhose, fixed her dress. Mike placed his penis back into his trousers and zipped up. Without words, they beheld each other guiltily.  Mike sighed, nodded, and walked away. Carrie waited until Mike was out of sight before she started back.  She retrieved her phone out of her purse and pretended to speak with the babysitter.

“No, Tina,” Carrie gave out a fake laugh as she came upon Wade. “Denny cannot have the rest of that Chocolate pie. Yes, tell him I said that! Goodbye!”

Wade had a strange look on his face. Carrie stopped smiling until Jen strode over like she was on a cat walk and handed Carrie another drink.

“Uggg! Kids!” Their glasses touched in a toast. “But we need them to validate our existence in this world.”

Carrie giggle, took a sip of her wine. ‘Ain’t that a fact!” Carrie stepped backwards and bumped into Charlie Dixon, one of the other Ad people. Carrie nearly fell over backwards, spilling her wine on the office carpet.

“I’m sorry,” Charlie said as he caught Carrie.

“Oh!” Carrie giggled.

“Are you alright?” He asked, showing a bit of concern, but was mostly annoyed.

“Yes,” Carrie said, steadied herself on Charlie’s arm. “I guess I’m tipsier than I thought.”

Charlie smiled, nodded, and headed for the bathroom.

“Hey,” Wade approached her. “Who is Tina? Your Aunt Delia is taking care of Denny tonight.”

Carrie gave Wade a cold gaze. “It was a joke, alright? Just relax. I won’t embarrass you anymore.” She said and rolled her eyes.


When Carrie finished her shower, she noticed a bruise on her midsection. She ran her fingers across it. It didn’t feel like a bruise. It didn’t even hurt. It almost looked like a tattoo.

“That’s weird,” Carrie said examining the mark in the mirror. “Maybe I did it in my sleep…..scratching….hmmm….I don’t know….I wasn’t wearing anything tight past few days…..”

“Honey?” Wade called out before entering the bathroom.

“Yes?” carried called back.

“I got an odd phone call from Jen,” He looked distressed, in a daze, almost walked into the bathroom cabinet.

Carrie finished drying off and pulled Wade to her, wrapped her arms around him. She kissed his ear. “Oh, honey, what’s wrong?”

“Remember Charlie Dixon? You met him at last night’s party?”


“He died,” Wade’s voice broke slightly. “In his sleep. He was only thirty five.”

“What caused his death?” Carrie led Wade to the bedroom, sat him on a footstool in front of the bed.

“Apparently….a heart attack. He was…only thirty five.” Wade looked confused.

‘Maybe he just didn’t take good care of himself.” Carrie rubbed Wade’s shoulders.

Wade scoffed. “No,” he raised his eyebrows at her. “Charlie was a health nut.”


They finished inside the porta potty, again, having almost nothing to say.

Mike shrugged, gave Carrie an embarrassed smile.

Carrie sighed. “This is crazy,” she said, fixed her bra and shirt.

“Yeah,” Mike nodded. “I don’t even know you.” He laughed nervously.

“We can’t keep doing this,” Carrie closed her eyes, reopened them, trying to compose herself.

“I’ve never done this before,” Mike said.

“Well, I’m not a cheater, either!” Carrie said, her nostrils flared.

“Whoa lady….. I didn’t say you were….”

“Is….is it….just me? Or….is this….something hard to control? I mean….I don’t even have to see you…ever since the party a few days ago…..”

“No,” Mike fastened the button on his shorts. “I’ve….been driving down your street, hoping wade wasn’t home.”

“He wasn’t home yesterday.” Carrie breathed uneasily, fixed her honey-blonde hair back into a ponytail.”

“You should’ve came inside.” Carrie touched Mike’s chest.

“Yeah,” he sighed, flinched slightly at her touch.

They heard footsteps outside the porta potty. Carrie withdrew her hand quickly. Mike placed a finger on his lips, Carrie held her breath the best she could.

A man in light brown khaki shorts and a shirt appeared at the porta potty door. Mike rushed out, closed the door quickly. The park worker stood with his hands on his hips, cutting his eyes at Mike. Beads of sweat rolled down the man’s unkempt beard.

“Hi,” mike said.

“Sir? Was there another person in there with you?” The park worker said with all the authority given to him by NATO.

Mike laughed nervously. “No. Of course not.”

“Well I’ll just have a look myself…….”

“Look,” Mike touched the man on his elbow, and he instinctively pulled away. “Okay,” Mike whispered. “Hey….yeah…I have someone in there. I made a mistake…”

“You bet you did!” The park worker growled.

“I’ve got fifty bucks here that says you didn’t see anything,” Mike took the bill out of his wallet and offered it to the man. The park worker eyed the money and Mike, not sure what to do. “C’mon, man,” Mike cleared his throat. “This is a better situation for all involved. I’m sure you’re the only one that has seen anything. Just give us ten minutes and we’ll disappear. As a matter of fact….it looks like rain….we’ll both leave immediately.”

The park work took the fifty dollar bill, rolled it up and dispatched it into his front pocket. “Ten minutes,” he pushed a finger in Mike’s face and walked toward the edge of the lake.

“Ten minutes,” Mike echoed the park worker and watched him disappear around a cluster of trees. Mike opened the door to the porta potty and shooed Carrie out.

“Thank you for not getting me involved.” Carrie kissed Mike.

He tried to dodge the kiss, which was more a brush on the lips. “Yeah, well. We better get back to our families. I’m sure they’re wondering about us.”

By the time Carrie and Mike reached the picnic area, there was a crowd gathered at the edge of the lake. Carrie went to the left to Wade’s side and Mike went to the right, fought to separate the middle of the crowd, where Jen was front and center. Jen glanced over her shoulder and saw Mike. She ran to him.

“Oh geez, honey. I was getting worried.” She said, her hand cupping her mouth.

“I know, I went to find a bathroom and got lost,” Mike said.

“You wouldn’t believe what has happened.”

“Why? What happened, Jen?”

“This,” Jen led Mike to the edge of the lake.

The park worker that Mike had just bribed was floating, face down, his body motionless.

Read more of the story in HORRGASM

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The Vampire Nymph by Jim Lee


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In the traditional myths taught before the Revolution changed so much, Nymphs were minor Goddesses who manifested themselves in human form as lovely, innocent and above all unattainable maidens. So to my adoring eyes seemed Dominique Benoit!

Cascades of soft brown hair framed a fair-complexioned face which showed a slight degree of north-south angularity—just sufficient, to my way of thinking, to balance the tendency toward the excessively oval that suggested in the other village girls a vapid nature, at least to my Paris-bred preferences and/or prejudices. Said face was multiply blessed, indeed—with warm wide eyes, a sturdy but by no means masculine nose, pixie-like dimples and full, ever-laughing lips.

A pair of high-riding breasts swelled appealingly beneath an array of brightly colored peasant blouses and contrastingly plain shifts. Of modest size they were, yet as near to perfect as nature would allow in both contour and degree of firmness.

Her hips flared outward most adequately, though their curvature was of a subtle nature—thus lingering on just the proper side of vulgar invitation. And yes, my mouth went dry as the proverbial bone, even as a fantastic yearning to feel her toned thighs locked tight around my lower reaches made me sweat that fateful early summer when our briefly restored Emperor led the nation toward final and absolute defeat far to the north—even as Dominque and I both turned eighteen in isolated and blissful ignorance.

I was not alone in admiring her, of course.

Seemingly every male of a certain age in that village—if not in the entire Department, as the Provinces have been styled since 1790, according to the old calendar that would itself soon be restored—felt drawn to her, sure as the compass needle is compelled to seek magnetic north!

Faced with such legions of self-assured competition, the humbled and often tongue-tied son of an equally humbled minor aristocrat turned political refugee and struggling high-country barley farmer that I was, considered my chances almost negligible.

Still, if he is to avoid drowning in despair a youth must dream his dreams; hope his bittersweet and hopeless hopes. Only later, if at all, when faced with ultimate disappointment, must he grow past and beyond them.

This natural process was abruptly deranged for me on that too-warm 15th night of what today is again known as June—even as our ‘Little Corporal’ prepared to lead his doomed army into the Belgian sections of the United Kingdom of the Netherlands.

That was the night, in the foothills unimaginably far south of Waterloo, that one of the mountain-dwelling Vampires whose existence I once confidently scoffed at paid my adopted village a visitation. What news of the nation’s latest spasm of martial lunacy that had so far filtered to this distant outpost preoccupied all those not as love-struck as I. Additionally, the unseasonably oppressive heat that normally cool region had suffered under that entire preceding week rendered the lot of us at once restless and lulled to near-insensibility.

In short, our guard was down and the legendary creature had all-too-easy a time of it.

In the morning, we took stock of our losses: Old Madame Le Clair and her grandson Henri dead—utterly drained of blood, the both of them—and our beloved Dominque gone missing. “Carried off,” it was whispered in appalled fright by all and sundry.

A search was mounted, armed parties plunging deep as they dared into that region of the central Pyrenees beyond the village. But of course, as per the too-familiar pattern of such infrequent yet recurrent tragedies, no clear trail was in evidence.

Soon enough another potentially deadly night drew near.

The others had to forcibly drag me back toward our homes.

I struggled futilely, not soothed at all by their insistence that by now Dominque “must surely be dead.” I fought them, shaking bodily and crying out—exclaiming that I would not believe it till I beheld her lifeless form.

The one true friend I felt I had among the unschooled country folk I was interned with clasped me by the shoulders. Gaston, who like so many had formerly harbored his own hopes regarding the girl, shook me with uncommon violence. Then he looked back, across his shoulder at the looming, nearly unchartered peaks.

I saw his fear, heard it in his voice.

“Wyatt,” he used the diminutive I’d long outgrown and would’ve never tolerated from any but him and my parents, and very possibly Dominque, should she have ever deigned to speak intimately to me. “Wyatt, you had best pray she’s merely dead! And that you never see nor meet her again! I would have had her too, you know—but not now, my friend. No, most assuredly, I say it—not now!”

I took his meaning, gave my aching skull a nod. Yet I did not share his terrified disgust. Somehow, I could not do so. I felt only loss, and the exhaustion born of despair.

Broken with grief, I followed my companions back to the relative safety of the village.

We heard no more of Vampires for a two full years and five months, at which point an especially brutal winter had already fully settled upon us. Then a village to the east was raided.

Though the attacker escaped, her description was suitably vivid.

All the others quaked in fear and said, “Now we know for sure—she is damned!”

Gaston insisted we go to the tavern and get very drunk. We did so, which only led to trouble. My friend grew ever cruder with each cup of cheap back-county wine. Nearing the evening’s end, he slapped my shoulder and exclaimed loud enough for all to hear, “Pity none of us ever got to stick it to her, Wyatt! But fear not, the opportunity might still arise—only this time, we best use actual wood! Sad but true, a fleshy stake is well beyond her interests now!”

Others looked up, stared at us. Many looked dismayed, even appalled. Others grinned, two nodded. One even dared laugh.

I struck that lout then turned and gave Gaston a matching blow.

And so I was tossed out, into the cold mid-November night.

I wandered off, more than half-drunk and weeping.

How could they be so faithless? How could they turn so easily against one they’d once all sworn to adore forever?

The tart bite of a slightly premature winter wind revived and partially sobered me. Yet it instilled no desire to return and see Gaston or any of the others.

No, none at all!

A wild fancy come upon me, I sneaked past the village watch and headed south. I walked perhaps an hour, till I reached the base of the nearest true mountain. I took a deep breath of icy air then carefully picked my way upward—perhaps twenty of the still-new meters we were now expected to measure such distances by. There I encountered a level area too broad to properly be styled a mere ledge or outcropping. Beyond it, the upslope became quite more gradual for a good distance. There I paused. I could not have told you how I knew; why I felt drawn to that very spot—I simply, inexorably was!

With gloved hand I brushed a thin film of snow from a somewhat flat slab of the ubiquitous granite. I sat, lowered my head into my cupped palms.

Rather than linger there to shiver mindlessly, I began musing on an obscure piece of legend I recalled from before my family fled the Terror—the tale that supposedly explained how this very mountain range received its name.

Like so much of the mythic, it was a story full of lustful passion, betrayal and abandonment, tinged with cautionary horror followed by regret and concluding with a measure of vaguely ironic and incomplete, semi-magical redemption.

The legend held my notice for some indeterminate time.

Then I chanced to look up—if indeed any that happened that night or since was mere chance.

In any event, I saw her in the moonlight. Moving purposefully and sure-footed, she practically glided down the slope and toward the copse of stiff-needled Mountain Pines I sat among.

Pinus Mugo,” I murmured, absentmindedly voicing the Latin name for that particular species of conifer. And it occurred to me that the previous spring I had accompanied Gaston and some others to the crique—the semicircular upper end of a neighboring valley which ended in the more typically precipitous cliffs. It was a spot not too far southwest from where I now sat and we’d come to harvest the young cones, which were then sun-dried before boiling what dripped from them to a sugary concentrate—thus producing the pine syrup I still craved with childlike gusto.

I sat patient—and not as discomforted as I should have been—observing her approach.

She came to me, as pale and diaphanous as the soiled and torn nightgown that was her only garment. I marveled briefly that she seemed unaffected by the chill then laughed at my own foolishness.

What did I know of Vampires? Perhaps they reveled in such conditions.

But for her part, the once-mortal found me a marvel, indeed!

She stood over me, her mouth open and fangs exposed. The latter were displayed thoughtlessly, without guile or pride or pretense.

“You’re unafraid,” she whispered as I slowly regained my feet. “You don’t fight, or struggle—or flee, crying out for mercy?”

“But I do,” I responded quietly, making bold to touch her bare upper arm. It was cold, of course yet still soft, still firm and, most especially still—her arm! “Only I fight and struggle to regain your presence. I flee to your side and the only mercy I seek is in your embrace—not in being allowed to escape from it!”

Her eyes narrowed. “Are you a suicide?”

I shook my head. “I love you. That is all. I would be with you, Dominique—forever if it could be so?”

She stared long at me—as if searching memories so distant they might have been from another lifetime. Then she smiled and that first time—I shall admit—was a weird sight, fangs and all. Merciful Jesus, they were long! And they looked sharp, and deadly.

Yet they too—they too were hers.

At last awareness glimmered in eyes that, in contrast to her previous existence, had till then seemed cloudy and somehow remote.

“Guy!” She cried out and I was thankful that she used my adult name. The childlike Wyatt would have been too much to hear, under such circumstances. “Is it you—truly?”

“Indeed, it is.”

Vampiric arms flung about me, I felt crushed in a preternatural embrace of greeting. At length she released me and stepped back.

“But all the others—why aren’t you afraid?”

I ran fingertips across her partially bare shoulders. “I am,” I admitted. “But I’m far more afraid of trying to go on without you!”      

She met my eyes, saw truth in them and nodded slowly. Then she stared into space for a time. “Come,” she said at length, rousing herself and beckoning.

I followed her for hours, upward and around, around and upward and still further upward along winding trail more hinted at than truly evident. At last we approached one of the gaves—the lofty mountain-side waterfalls common here. This one was already frozen by more than half. Behind it hid the mouth of the glacial cave that was now my beloved’s place of residence.

Inside, we sat upon the raw and ragged skins of assorted local fauna—I recognized remnants of ibex, mountain otter and even, to my foolishly shocked eyes, a full-grown brown bear.

I could scarce imagine her taking such creatures on her own, even in her extraordinarily altered state. Reluctantly, I voiced these sentiments.

She admitted it was not all her doing.

The Vampire who abducted and turned her—her ‘Sire,’ she called him with a justification I could not decline to accept though it had an unpleasant temper to my ears, had called this rude and icy palace home as well.

Hearing this, I looked about me with some trepidation.

Dominique laughed at my alarm. She assured me we were quite permanently alone.

Six months after her Transformation—he having overseen her training in her new manner of existence—her Creator had departed for distant climes. It seemed that Vampires, by their usual preference and a practical necessity she did not then explain, were traditionally of a solitary nature.

Even so, I shivered and mostly for my comfort we built a fire using wood supplemented by a few chunks of the low-grade lignite found nearby—for what little good coal there is in these mountains is found to the south, on the Spanish side.

We spoke a few more words then drifted into reflective silence.

I smiled to myself and she inquired as to my thoughts.

So I recounted for her the tale—no more than a side-story to the wider legend, really.

The often dubious hero Hercules once traveled through ancient Gaul in route to the site of one of his Seven Labors—I couldn’t then nor now quite remember which one, but that didn’t seem to matter.

In any case, King Bebrx offered him respite from his journey.

Hercules paused there and that monarch’s virginal daughter Pyrene caught the lusty strongman’s eye. In a drunken frenzy, he raped her and then resumed his latest quest in his usual, thoughtlessly carefree manner.

Pyrene was found to be pregnant.

Worse, when her time came the unholy nature of the situation caused her to give birth to a hissing serpent!

Horrified, she ran off to the woods and hence into these very mountains.

Weeping and crying out, she told her troubles to the surrounding trees. In so doing, Pyrene called attention to herself and wild beasts came. They tore her to pieces.

His task complete, an unknowing Hercules retraced his steps for home and in due course learned of Pyrene’s fate. Now sober and remorseful in his typical manner, the big lout saw her remains properly buried. Furthermore, he arrogantly demanded that the entire locale where she met her fate should forever mourn her and preserve her name.

“And so,” I concluded, “this entire vast mountain range is the Pyrenees—after the tragic Princess Pyrene.”

If I’d hoped to impress the relatively unschooled country girl turned Vampire with the piteously small fruit of my Parisian education, my smug self-assurance was instantly dashed.

She knew the legend as well as I.

“But you tell it well,” Dominique said, kindly stroking my crestfallen ego.

“My one true love,” she said next and sighed, looked at me. “I probably should have known!”

My fingertips met her hand. “Now you do.”

“I could kill you in one blink of the eye,” she reminded. “You and one-hundred like you.”

“But you won’t—will you?”

“By rights, I should.” There was profound sadness in her eyes. “I can’t let you go back, Guy. You’d never betray me of your own will, but—”

“I don’t wish to go back. Simply make me like you! Why else do you think I sought you out?”

“But it is not a simple thing,” she insisted. “The Transformation—I’ve never done it. I’d have to take your blood repeatedly—and just the correct amount each time. It must be enough to make you ready for the Change, weakening you again and again but never quite enough to kill you—until the final stage. Then I must open one of my own veins and feed you my now-tainted blood, and you must suffer through the Change—which is, I must tell you, intensely painful for long hours at a time.”

“I understand.”

“No, you do not!” Her eyes blazed, with no trace of the remote character they now typically presented. She pushed my hand back and glared meaningfully. “Our nature is such that, once feeding there is a powerful urge—no, a compulsion—to continue until the source is exhausted! Each time would be an enormous risk—and one you would face each night for a solid week!”

“The legends speak only of being ‘thrice-bitten,’” I observed, but this drew a scornful snarl.

“As if you mortals know!”

I noted the phrase ‘you mortals’—a reminder that this was a no longer a sweet French country girl—no longer human, even. But still, she was Dominique.

“I agree. After all, you came through it!”

“Under an experienced Vampire’s attention, yes. But Guy, I am uncertain—”

“I, on the other hand, am quite certain.” A firm hand placed upon her shoulder, I continued speaking. “I’ll face the danger, with thoughtful concern but no qualms. And besides, your only other alternative would be to kill me outright. But I do have one request: Love me, Dominique. Let us do so before we even begin, so if it goes badly—at least my greatest desire and hope will have been satisfied?”

Despite her great new powers, I now saw that she was in some ways still strangely vulnerable. She looked aside and spoke softly

“I—have never—”

In some sense I should have felt relief. Yet I was more puzzled than otherwise. “But—the other one, he who made you Undead—surely he—I mean, all the stories—?”

“Mortal guesswork again,” she sniffed, almost haughtily. Then her tone softened; she stroked my face. “He is as a Father to me, now. We have no other means to reproduce. The Change takes away the other possibility—though sexual congress itself is still possible, I surmise. So on occasion, when one of us feels the need and an acceptable opportunity presents itself—”

I nodded, understandingly. “And he would no-more lie with you than with his own natural child,” I said and instantly regretted my choice of words. “But what of you and I—?”

“Different,” Dominique admitted, ignoring my unwitting reference to her current, supposedly accursed condition. “We’re the very same age. And I have known you for some years—ever since your Father came among us, in order to avoid the possibility of a Shave, as they say, from our infamous National Barber! I could never feel as a Mother to you!”

I was glad to hear her speak thusly and gladder still when she did not dismiss my proposal out of hand. Nor did it win immediate and full approval, I must add.

“Stay with me a fortnight or two,” she said. “Observe all that this novel existence entails. Then—should it still be your desire—we can proceed. First as lovers—though I admit such intimacy itself carries great risk, with me not knowing quite how I might respond and the degree to which I can retain self-control. And then—if that part goes well—we can attempt the other, even greater Change?”

Now Dominique paused. Her expression remained thoughtful, yet her voice now conveyed a tangle of emotions—an uneasy mix of awakening desire, honest hope and great fear of the unknown and unknowable.

“But what,” she added with evident pain, “if you should find all this intolerable? If you choose not the Vampiric way, I should be required—”

“Unlikely,” I replied. “But if so,” I added in a rush, lest my courage fail me, “you shall be spared such an unpleasant task. I—I shall—do the deed for you,” I concluded, though I admit the last words of the promise came forth hesitantly and with a quavering characteristic.

The silence then between us was profound and long-lived.

She finally broke it with a sigh, followed by a nod. “You must love me truly. I regret not sensing your dedicated passion beforehand. Though I never acted upon them with another, I have long felt certain impulses—desires?”

A shy smile passed her lips and I felt warmth that had no connection to the crackling fire.

I rose to my feet and circled the fire. She rose to meet me, but did not face me as I positioned myself behind her.

Dominique sighed as my arms encircled her middle.

I lifted my hands to her breasts. I clasped and squeezed them.

She sighed again. “Please don’t,” she whispered.

My hands persisted where they were as I kissed her neck.

“No, Guy—please!”

“Pleasing you is exactly my intent,” I whispered in her ear and one of my hands slowly descended her torso. I found the sweet, sweet place between her thighs and caressed it through her minimal attire. My gentle stroking grew more intense and she moaned; her bottom began to rotate—grinding against the growing prominence in my pants’ front.

“This is dangerous for you,” she gasped.

“Worth the risk,” I gasped with equal passion and began to lift the thin garment with flexing fingertips.

“All right!” she snarled through flashing fangs and turned her head to meet my gaze. “Take me! Fuck me!” Her eyes glowed red with inhuman lust. “But do so from behind. Do not meet my eyes, nor come near my mouth—I doubt I could control myself!”

“Understood,” I growled and she let me ease her down, onto her hands and knees.

She directed her vision toward the flickering campfire as I yanked the soiled cloth up to the small of her back. Her naked backside captivated me and I cupped the perfectly rounded though unnaturally pale flesh-globes with eager palms.

My mouth watered as I contemplated tasting of the folds of flesh protruding from amid her dark curls of womanly hairs. And yes, for an instant I also thought of applying my wanton tongue to the other opening for her enjoyment.

For an absurd instant I wondered if that puckered orifice still expelled solid waste as a mortal’s did—and what form it might be take, given her liquid-only vampiric diet?

“Fuck me, Guy!” she demanded again, breaking me from this bizarre reverie. “Do it, while I still retain enough self-control—so that you might survive it!”

“Immedaitely, my love!”

My hands abandoned her buttocks and thrust my own garments aside. My member was painfully rigid with a droplet of the preliminary fluid already glistening in the pulsating opening at its tip. I guided it against her with both hands then slapped eager fists into place around her flared hips.

My lower body drove forward. Her love-flaps opened around me and we cried out  and I together in bestial joy. I thrust myself in deep, taking her ‘cherry,’ as they say with ruthless abandon. Balls-deep, I ground against her for a long, delicious instant.

I pulled back, but not out. And from there, we rutted together for all-too-short a time—back and forth, in and out—we fulfilled our destiny with a gasping, groaning and mutual frenzy.

I climaxed in her depths and ground my lower body against hers yet again.

We collapsed together and my member slipped from her. I saw it coated with a mix of my mortal semen and her bloody, vampiric fluids.

I joked stupidly, asking if she would care to lick it clean and her head jerked around in fury. Her eyes were even redder than before and her fangs bared.

“Idiot!” Dominique snarled and jumped up, quit our sanctuary before she could do something most regrettable. She was away all that night, returning only just in advance to the dangerously imminent dawn.

“Not again,” she said then, just before throwing herself down to rest. “Not till the matter has been decided, Guy—do you understand?”

I said that I did and hung my head in shame. I tended the fire as she slept away the daylight hours.        

Thusly, our time together began.

The agreed time period passed slowly and yet in another sense too quickly, if you take my meaning?

Now a creature of the night, Dominique slept almost the entirety of each day.

At first, I attempted to keep watch for the vengeful intruders I was certain would come—though in fact, none did. Absolute exhaustion took me after three days of that and I joined her in deep, untouched slumber on the opposite side of the low fire we maintained to shield my mortal form from the cold.

Each night thereafter we prowled for food, traveling in a range of many hundreds of square kilometers and occasionally sighting the tracks of humans in the snow.

Whether any were searching for me—or I dare say us—I could not say.

And now, quite frankly, I hardly care.

She did not go among the humans at all those nights—and that, I learned, was not merely a nod to my still-mortal sensibilities.

Her former brethren were too organized, too dangerous to be standard prey. Foremost on our bill of fare were the wild creatures. In that time she took ibex on three occasions and I roasted, feasted on and quickly developed a hunger-fueled appreciation for those wild goats’ flesh, even as she drained every drop of blood from the animals.

We scouted out the hiding places of future prey, large and small alike, on the other nights. I noted that, if a given meal was substantial enough, she felt no need to sup as regularly as I did.

“We’ll turn to the smaller creatures later, so as not to unduly cull any particular kind of food’s number,” she told me. “A predator must not become focused exclusively on one sort of prey—otherwise eventual starvation beckons.”

I noted my relief that, though she’d also made certain to locate the winter dens of the greatest wild creatures found within her range, she had made no effort to confront any of them.  

“Yes,” she remarked matter-of-factly, “the bears are of course the single greatest source of food—of either the solid or liquid variety—in this locale. In the grasp of their winter sleep, one can catch them unawares. But I know if I chose to take one, you would insist on attempting to help—and I will not risk you, in your present vulnerably mortal state, in such a circumstance.”

I was dismayed to think that Dominique felt obliged to protect me from danger.

She shook her head at the complaints my male pride brought forth.

“Perhaps later,” she said to pacify me, “after the Change—we shall attempt it.”

I grumbled but bowed to her will.

Toward the end of this period, we finally observed what I took for far less dangerous prey, but again she warned me off.

“The Basque herdsmen and their dogs guard their sheep well—especially at this time of year.” Dominique gestured as to a foolish child. “If the winter proves as long and hard as I fear, we may find it necessary to take the risk—but not now, not yet!”

“You raided a human village,” I pointed out. “And before, your Sire—”

“On both occasions, scouting was done, Guy. He and then I noted a laxness in their defenses. Village life can be a challenge, but is for the most part more stable and safer than a herdsman’s existence. The Basques tend to be more wary—and more determined in exacting vengeance for the loss of their property, when it occurs.”

I shrugged and she looked closely at me.

“Why do you think my Sire left this region? Why are vampires—especially ones in areas such as this—mostly solitary?”

I shrugged again.

She sighed, disappointed in me. “I hoped you would see that we must never overtax one district’s resources. To do so leads to desperate measures—which can in turn arouse mortal anger and prove dangerous, even fatal to us!”

I saw her point and suddenly it occurred to me that she might send me away at some point—to forestall such an eventuality.

“We shall be careful!” I exclaimed. “We’ll be all right!”

“One vampiric raider, rare and singular, is a nuisance. A dangerous and deadly one, I concede. But two or more—it becomes impossible for mortal men to put such a threat from their minds. They shall band together, gather their courage and hunt us down—so my Sire claimed and I tend to accept his wisdom.”

I shook my head, finding it a reasonable argument, even as I knew I could not live without Dominique—especially now, having been truly with her once and then spending every waking moment at her side for so long!

“Time for your decision,” she told me the following evening.

I nodded, answered her with a kiss.

She trembled slightly then returned the tender contact.

With no further words, we began to remove one another’s clothing.

Dressed as minimally as she was, my task was far simpler than hers. Yet I compensated by moving extra-slowly, willfully restraining my eagerness by lingering for long moments over each bit of cool, pale and perfect flesh that I exposed.

I trembled as much as she, even my male pride must admit.

Oh, I loved her—I desired her so!

And at last the two of us were naked—gloriously, wondrously naked together!

Again, I touched a breast as fine-shaped and firm as I had imagined. I bent my head, folded my lips with care around a jutting brown bead of nipple-flesh. I suckled briefly then kissed its tip.

More kisses followed—there and on its twin, on my Undead Beloved’s cheek and lips and chin and forehead. And soon after, lower—much lower.

On my knees and unashamed, I clasped two mounds of cool bottom-flesh and kissed, licked and suckled upon the most compelling of Dominique’s woman-parts.

Other acts of love followed—as many performed by her as by myself, and with a building urgency, not to mention eagerness and even, in some measure, confidence.

We loved one another deeply, passionately and—better, not as furiously as that first time. Our passion compensated for our relative inexperience. We coupled often and with undoubted, mutual delight. We shared a rich variety of lovemaking activities—excepting only open-mouthed kisses, which she warned that at the present still presented excessive danger to me.

In fact, on only a single occasion did she bare her wickedly gleaming fangs. She leered at me a moment then threw her head aside and sank the elongated canines into her own upper arm—to stave off the impulse to drink from me.

We held one another afterward, she on top of me and our arms interlocked, our eyes focused on the embers of a dying flame that neither of us wished to take even one precious minute to reinforce with fresh fuel.    

“Make me as you are,” I muttered at last.

“Yes.” She sighed. “We shall begin tomorrow night.”

The week of nights that followed were as Dominique had explained to me.

I found being fed upon a strangely giddy experience—which she told me was normal, the sudden loss of blood triggering a unique species of euphoria. Each time she stopped in time, if only barely so and I was left progressively weaker.

Likewise, the Change itself was as painful as she had warned—yet I bore it without, I hope, too much complaint.

And then I was as my Beloved—a new, potentially Immortal and quite hungry Vampire!

At her direction, we hunted all manner of wild creatures and for a time things went well. My skills grew and along with them, my confidence and daring. We hunted as a team, helping and protecting one another. This was, I thought, just as it should be—even as the passionate embraces we also shared were absolutely correct and normal in my eyes.

Yet as that winter dragged on, as cruel and long-lasting as she had feared, Dominique grew moody and taciturn.

“One of us should go away,” she said once and then several more times, her tone reluctant yet progressively more determined. “Otherwise, we two will utterly denude the landscape of wildlife and be forced to seek the other alternatives!”

But like me, she could not face our parting and we went on, till even so unseasoned a predator as I saw that we must reduce the pressure we put on the wild things’ numbers.

“What can they do?” I snarled with too much confidence and not nearly enough experience, as we observed our old village from a safe distance. “A grown male bear, so much stronger than any of them, we have taken in his den and with little difficulty! Such as they—”

“The watch is well-posted this time,” Dominique remarked. “And armed, in ways no mere animal is capable of. We may not age, but we are not—legends notwithstanding—immune to injury and even death. No—this is not the time!”

“What then? I hunger—and so do you!”

I wanted to argue further, yet the look in her eyes cowed me.

We withdrew to our glacial mansion and a night of gnawing, seemingly unnecessary hunger. We quarreled at the beginning of the next night and for the first and last time we resolved to hunt apart from one another.

I, foolish and arrogant, returned once again to haunt the fringes of our old village.

Again well-armed guards were posting, shivering in the cold.

One was Gaston and my eyes narrowed, recalling the intemperate words he’d spoken that last night of our friendship. I sat on my haunches behind a withered bush, observing him with contempt.

At length, another came to his post—a comely gal whom I recognized.

Nicole was Dominique’s cousin and almost as lovely, though with a superior sniff I remembered that her bosom was too large and often too blatantly exposed for my taste. Altogether, I found her quite distressingly obvious—especially now.

Of course, coming abroad in such weather, she was more properly wrapped—at least until she reached Gaston’s side.

Nicole had brought a steaming pot of tea and a cup—her excuse for this late-night rendezvous. But having looked about to confirm their illusion of privacy, her true purpose manifested itself. She put the pot and cup aside, leaving them to melt the snow around them. She abruptly wrenched multiple layers of garment aside. The grinning Gaston propped his musket against a nearby tree and welcomed her into a lewd embrace with gloved hands flexing eagerly.

Nicole threw her head back as he sank his fingers into her recklessly exposed breasts and the two fur-lined hats stacked upon her head tumbled to the snowy earth behind her. Her mouth puckered open in a silent yet undeniable expression of ecstasy.

Gaston’s mouth, gaping likewise, covered hers and they surged together—as profoundly distracted and unaware as any could have wished. Their hot groins exposed to the cold with sudden frankness, they surged together in frenzied and freestanding lust.

I could easily have eased past them stealthily, yet I had another idea—a mean impulse that I acted upon.

I jumped out, broke one neck and then the other with heartless efficiency.

Yet the second one to die—it was Gaston—did have time to scream in protest.

The balance of the guard came running from the village perimeter—running and, soon enough, shooting!

I snarled in scornful laughter when one musket ball tore into Gaston’s already lifeless form. I had no time to feed, yet I was unwilling to abandon all hope of a meal of rich human blood.

Accordingly, I tossed Gaston’s corpse aside and hoisted Nicole’s body onto my shoulders by the wanton’s dirty-blonde hair.

One of her dangling breasts absorbed most of the force of the next shot, though the ball did pass through to break my skin and painfully damage my left shoulder-blade.

I staggered once then took off running.

I knew from the shouts behind me that more armed men were coming—boiling out of the village, weapons in hand. I pressed on through the snow, but though stronger than any mere mortal and normally able to run faster, the burden of my prey slowed me so that the swarm of angry men began gaining on me.

I was about to decide I was doomed unless I gave up my burden—until a bestial snarl came from my right and in front of me.

Eyes glowing with a fierce and mindless rage, Dominque rocketed from the darkness—a wild and wondrous thing, speeding out to protect her mate!

She took the first man with fangs full in his throat and threw him aside, already dying. The next lost his heart to her—but far more literally than I, as she plunged a powerful fist into his chest and tore the still-beating organ from his body with one mighty jerk.

However, others were upon her by then.

Men armed variously with firearms, torches and, perhaps worst of all, pick-axes and stakes turned from pursuit of me to surround and bring down, slaughter my Beloved even as I staggered to undeserved and cowardly safety in these now-bleak and empty mountains.

Not halfway to our icy lair, I stopped and hung Nicole’s remains upside down from the branches of a tree. And yes, I fed on her. I drained every droplet of what was left in her bleeding, cooling corpse.

It filled my belly, but provided little satisfaction.

Taking two great fistfuls of blonde hair by the roots, I twisted and pulled until Nicole’s head dislodged itself from her neck. “Worthless thing,” I snarled at it—though I might as well have been addressing myself. Then I flung it with all my considerable vampiric might as far from my sight as I could manage.

That done, I trudged home through the snow—making certain that, failing a fresh snowfall that my expanded senses told me was unlikely, my trail would still be plainly visible to even mortal eyes come morning.

Thus I returned to crouch at the mouth of our cave, as I do this very moment. Thus I shall await the coming of dawn and of a pack of vengeful villagers. In the daylight, they will have every advantage and I shall accept my fate—while taking as many as I can with me.

I see no further point to my existence beyond that—not with my Dominique gone.

Yet it is only the rash and foolish act of attacking blatantly when stealth was more properly called for that I regret—that, and what inevitably followed.

I sit reflecting upon all the long, sweet, tender and blood-drenched nights we had.

And I know what the lowly mortals only dimly sense, if at all—that love can make most anything beautiful and right!


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Deadman’s Tome Book of Horrors Anthology

Deadman’s Tome is a growing horror zine that publishes short stories and flash fiction whether it’s ghost stories, zombie invasions, bigfoot sightings, slasher sprees, bizarre fiction, classic horror literature, lovecraftian literature, or erotica. The darker the tale the better. take Snoflower for example, a story of necrophilia and kidnapping entwined with love and infidelity. If you’re thinking where to submit horror short stories then consider Deadman’s Tome. If you enjoyed the story, or even if you didn’t, leave a comment below as it helps the authors.