Of Devils & Deviants: An Anthology of Erotic Horror Read online

  Both boys fucked both girls from behind, three male ass cheeks bobbing above three female cheeks, slow and sure.

  Halfway through, Dwayne pulled his cock out of Theresa long enough to slick up his middle finger, then started fucking Theresa again. He reached over, like someone who knows exactly what he’s doing, and, with the help of Theresa’s lubrication, slid his middle finger easily up inside Wayne’s asshole.

  Wayne, surprised, shut his eyes, slowed his pump, shocked at how good it felt having Dwayne’s finger up inside his asshole.

  Above the girls’ beautiful, naked backs, Dwayne blew a kiss across at Wayne, pulling his long finger slightly out of Wayne’s asshole, then sliding it back up again, fingertip caressing all that soft, sensitive flesh up there.

  Wayne kept pumping down into Mona, but then, lips vibrating as Dwayne’s finger reached farther inside, wriggling wonderfully, touching untouched things up there, he sneakily slicked his own middle finger up in Mona’s cunt, put his hand between Dwayne’s two cheeks, one Dwayne’s, one half his, and pushed his finger to the bottom knuckle up into that gripping vacuum, finally, after all these years of arguments and plates thrown against the walls, caressing Dwayne inside his asshole the same way Dwayne was caressing him.

  After a while, Mona looked up from the weight of the two men on her and Theresa, reached over, and put her hand between Theresa’s legs, tapping Theresa’s clitoris, then rubbing it. Theresa moaned under the familiar strokes. When it was time, when Mona’s fingers had her, Mona nudged Theresa, swinging her blonde hair to get Theresa to look over their shoulders, to where Wayne and Dwayne were tongue kissing, fucking each other’s assholes with their longest fingers.

  Theresa swung her black-haired face back down towards her pillow, disappointed, but feeling the delicious tapping against her clitoris, the wonderful circular rub afterwards. Blinking, she followed the interlaced arms, tracing the arm slanting down between her thighs to Mona’s flexing shoulder.

  As she opened her mouth to protest, Mona tapped Theresa’s clitoris again, like the taps of a doctor on a vein just before injection.

  Theresa’s private world rotated inside her as she tried to decide what to do, as her thighs decided for her, spreading farther apart to let Mona’s fingers get a better hold on her cunt.

  As the sun came up, Wayne fucked Mona, as Dwayne fucked Theresa, as Wayne fucked Dwayne, as Dwayne fucked Wayne, as Mona fucked Theresa, as Theresa fucked Mona, as Theresa lay on her belly, facing Mona on her belly, Mona’s wide lips parting, opening, as Theresa’s lips touched on hers, teeth touching, tongues touching, Theresa’s shy, Mona’s careful, at first, Wayne no longer loving Theresa, Theresa no longer hating Mona.

  Stiletto

  Adam Howe

  Skeggs stood outside the shoe store window, breath fogging the glass as he watched the woman inside take a white stiletto from the display. She turned the shoe over in her hand, frowning as if to justify the price. The shiny white leather winked in the light. Skeggs moaned softly, rubbing a clammy fist on his trouser leg. A short, fleshy man with lank hair and moustache, he wore a red blazer with an ID badge clipped to the lapel, just like the mall cops on duty. People saw the uniform, not the man, he had learned. Nobody paid him any mind.

  Replacing the shoe on the display, the woman nodded at the sales clerk hovering nearby. The clerk returned from the storeroom with new shoes in a box. She followed him to the register, fishing in her bag for her purse. Her name was Jane. She couldn’t really afford the shoes, had only come to the mall looking for a birthday gift for her nephew; but like her boyfriend, who couldn’t pass a bookstore without browsing, and invariably buying something, nor could Jane miss a shoe sale. Shoes cost more than a book – God knows her lovely new stilettos did – but Steve didn’t have to know about that. Perhaps she might ease her conscience by modeling them for him later that night? The shoes and nothing else…

  Smiling to herself at the thought, Jane left the store with the stilettos inside a plastic carrier. As she walked away through the mall, the fake mall cop followed her, and the crowd swallowed them both.

  Before leaving the mall, Jane went to the LADIES. The toilet was empty and reeked of bleach; the attendant must have recently done their rounds. She entered the stall at the end of the white-tiled room, cushioned the seat with paper and then sat down. Sounds echoed from the mall: a Muzak rendition of the latest X Factor song; a loudspeaker announcement; a child throwing a tantrum before his mother threatened to give him something to really cry about—

  And then the sound of the toilet door creaking open.

  Jane listened for footsteps on the tiled floor, but there was only silence.

  When she stepped outside the stall, the room was empty. The Muzak sounded far away. Her reflection frowned in the long mirror above the sinks, where a leaking tap drip-dropped. Shrugging off the feeling of unease – it wasn’t like her to be nervous – she set her bags on the floor by the sink, and then washed her hands, ran them under the dryer. The roar of the hand-dryer drowned out the sound of the stall door as it opened behind her.

  The woman’s back was turned to him. Skeggs wet his lips with a fat stub of tongue, leering at the shape of her body beneath her summer dress. Her legs were recently shaved, the naked skin lightly pink; red-polished toes peeked from her sandals. He was rock hard. The hand-dryer shut off suddenly. Jane glanced up, saw the figure reflected in the white tile wall. She reeled around, jogging the bags at her feet. The carrier overturned, the stilettos spilling from the shoebox across the floor.

  Skeggs’s eyes darted to the shoes, his pupils shrinking to pinpricks. A ragged breath snagged in his throat and he swallowed hard. He looked back at the woman, cheeks flushed, his face prickled with perspiration.

  Jane saw the uniform – the red blazer, the ID badge – and for a moment she felt relief, then anger that the mall cop had frightened her; and then she realised that the face didn’t fit the uniform, that this horrid little man with his lank hair and moustache, his crooked yellow teeth, couldn’t be a security guard. She opened her mouth to scream—

  And he filled it with a fist.

  Her head snapped back and she staggered against the hand-dryer, which roared back to life, drowning out her cry for help like an accomplice to his crime. He struck her again, a solid blow to the jaw that buckled her legs, and she fell to the floor across her bags.

  Skeggs straddled her chest, hot sweat slopping off his face onto hers, pinning her arms to the floor with his knees. The glass face of her watch crunched on the tiles. Her hands clawed open and closed. He punched her again and she sagged unconscious, her long blonde hair flailing in the roaring breath of the hand-dryer.

  He tore open her dress to reveal her bra, her hitching chest. Clamping a hand to her breast, her tripping heart beat against his palm like a panicked bird. He scrabbled for the white stilettos on the floor, grasping one, raising it to his face and pressing the chill leather against his cheek, the mere feel of it bringing him to a violent climax. Still shuddering from the orgasm, he snatched a handkerchief from his pocket, wrapping the stiletto inside it, shoving the bundle back inside his blazer.

  And then he glared at the woman beneath him, this whore who had invoked such desire in him, this slut who made him feel so dirty and worthless—

  He punched her; again and again until her nose burst and her cheekbone cratered and her face seemed to melt like turps on an oil portrait.

  And then he clambered off her, heaving for breath, grabbing the sink to haul himself up. He rinsed his bloody hands under the tap, the cold water soothing his skinned knuckles. Catching his breath, he felt the bulge of the stiletto in his pocket, checked his reflection in the mirror, and then left the LADIES.

  The door clicked closed behind him. The hand-dryer stopped and the room went quiet, just the drip-drop of the tap and the echo of mall Muzak.

  * * *

  Ever since he was a boy he’d had a thing for stiletto shoes. He could remember peeking through the crack
in the door of Mam’s Special Room, watching her get ready for work. In her basque and silk robe, huddled on the cushion-stool in front of the mirror-dresser, applying her lipstick, pausing only for a puff of her cigarette or a sip from her tall glass of gin. Humming along to J’taime on the record player – her favourite song, for nights when she was expecting company. As she swayed in time with the music, Skeggs marveled at her beauty. When her makeup was done, then on came the fishnet stockings, and young Skeggs would feel his excitement rise, for he knew the stilettos came next. And as she gripped the spiked heel to insert her feet, he would stroke himself. Sometimes Mam would catch him spying, would chase him and beat him; but mostly she ignored him, and just let him watch.

  * * *

  Skeggs returned to the rundown terraced house in which he now lived alone. He wiped his feet on the mat before lining his shoes neatly beside the door, just like Mam always told him to when she was still alive. The drip-drop of a leaking tap echoed from the kitchen, reminding Skeggs of the LADIES, and he pictured the woman squirming under his weight, hands clawing, her watch crunching on the tiles as he pinned her down. He hung his parka on the coat-hook, and then trudged upstairs like a weary working stiff coming home from the office. The clock on the wall of the landing had stopped while he was at the mall, and he made a mental note to fix it later. First things first.

  He sat on the bed in Mam’s Special Room. Behind him lay a female mannequin. She wore a basque and panties and fishnet stockings, her arms held stiffly in front of pert plastic breasts as if to fend off an unwanted suitor – though she had never denied Skeggs. Raven hair haloed her head like a black sun. Her face was made-up with eye shadow and rouge and red lipstick, her head turned coyly upon the pillow. Her sightless eyes stared at the wall. The pink wallpaper had faded over the years, taking on the pallor of Mam’s diseased flesh in her final days. Around the bed, more mannequins, wearing an ensemble of Mam’s underwear, stood like loyal courtiers to a queen.

  Opposite the bed was Mam’s mirror-dresser. Skeggs stared at his reflection. Rocking gently, humming Mam’s favourite song. In the street outside he heard a boy wailing, before the child’s exasperated mother threatened to give him something to really cry about. Distracted by the noise, he got up to close the window. Unable to see the child or his mother, Skeggs sat back down, allowing his thoughts to return to the woman with the white stilettos. He hadn’t meant to hurt her, he assured himself. It was only her shoes he had wanted. She shouldn’t have struggled. It wasn’t his fault. He was sure she’d be alright. Like the others. Just a few bumps and bruises. He’d be sure to check the newspapers.

  Pinned to the mirror were news-cuttings from the others. One said: WOMAN BEATEN IN SUBWAY ATTACK. Another said: MAN ASSAULTS WOMAN ON NIGHT BUS. Other, smaller cuttings – from before he started his collection – said MAN EXPOSES HIMSELF TO MOTHER IN PARK and WOMAN’S UNDERWEAR STOLEN FROM LAUNDROMAT and PROWLER SEEN AT STUDENT HALLS. He found these articles endlessly fascinating. He learned from them – who had seen him, how close the police were to stopping him – correcting his mistakes before the next time. And of course, they were useful masturbatory aids for when memory failed him.

  Next to the bed, by the window, was a wooden cabinet with a velvet interior. Inside the cabinet was a framed photo of Mam, staring into camera like a stern Victorian governess, her hair tied tight in a bun. Young Skeggs had taken the photo with a second-hand camera he’d bought from his paper-round. He’d framed the photo, and then presented it to Mam for her birthday. She’d sat staring at the portrait in silence, her eyes leaking tears that smeared her mascara, the corners of her red lipstick mouth twitching. And then she’d hurled the picture at him, the frame shattering against the wall above his head and splintering the glass, a crack zigzagging through Mam’s unsmiling face. Mam pawned the camera, but Skeggs was able to salvage the photo from the bin, and he would stare at it every night, touching himself as the music and moans echoed from Mam’s Special Room. Now the photo formed the centerpiece of his shrine.

  Below Mam’s photo, at the bottom of the cabinet, four disembodied mannequin legs stood in a macabre can-can line. Each wore a stiletto shoe: one black, one blue, one brown, and – Skeggs’s favourite, the colour of Mam’s lipstick – one red. The white stiletto would join them. And when eventually he tired of his new trophy, it would be time to continue his collection.

  Still perched at the end of the bed, Skeggs took the handkerchief from his pocket and unfolded it in his lap, reverently, his hands trembling with excitement, revealing the white stiletto shoe like a gleaming pearl. Feeling himself harden, he gave a lusty moan, quickly stripping to his underpants and vest, needing only a few fierce tugs before he came. He flopped back on the bed to catch his breath, cleaning himself with the handkerchief. Nuzzling against the mannequin, he hugged the white stiletto to his chest and fell into a sated sleep.

  * * *

  In his dream he is nine.

  Mam has caught him in her Special Room again, rummaging through her underwear drawer, rubbing himself on her stiletto shoes.

  Dirty little boys go to hell, Mam tells him. Do you know what hell feels like?

  Twisting his arm, she snatches a brooch off the mirror-dresser, and then pricks his finger with the pin until he squeals in pain and it starts to bleed—

  * * *

  Skeggs woke with a start, his eyes snapping open, for a moment unsure where he was. Night had fallen. The orange streetlamp outside the window lit the room like a Jack o’ Lantern. His neck throbbed with a tight knot of pain. He kneaded the knot with his fingers, but it continued to ache until he came fully awake. On the bed beside him, the mannequin watched him with wide vacant eyes. Thick strands of hair hid the bottom of her face like a black veil. He swept it aside. Her red lipstick, which he’d so painstakingly applied, was smeared in a grotesque harlot’s grin. Suddenly uneasy, he felt about for the stiletto he’d been holding when he fell asleep, needing a talisman to comfort him. His hand scrabbled on the bed beside him. It was gone. He huddled up against the headboard, his sweat-soaked vest clinging to him.

  The knot of pain in his neck flared like a cattle-brand and he cried out in pain. Clutching his neck, he lurched from the bed, knocking over the mannequins on that side like skittles, stumbling against the cabinet-shrine, his trophies spilling across the floor in a jumble of legs and shoes and Mam’s photo. Looking back at the bed, he saw that the mannequin lying there was clutching the white stiletto in her hands. Blood oozed from the spiked heel, drip-dropped on the sheets.

  Behind him the window blazed suddenly with orange furnace light. He reeled around, shielding his eyes as the glass shattered and fell in jagged sheets. A wave of baking heat shoved him back. Blinded by the light, shrinking from the heat, he stumbled back, trampling Mam’s photo on the floor. The glass frame crunched beneath his heel like the woman’s watch on the floor of the LADIES. Squinting through the haze, he saw his news-cuttings fall from the mirror-dresser and shrivel like dying insects. The sickly pink wallpaper scorched and peeled from the walls, lolling like tongues. Around the bed, the mannequins began melting down like candles.

  He lurched towards the door, stopping dead in his tracks when he saw the LADIES symbol attached to the frame: a stick figure woman wearing a triangle dress. It didn’t make sense, he told himself he must still be dreaming. Hesitantly, he grabbed the door handle and pushed, pulled, put his shoulder to the door; but it wouldn’t budge; he hammered at it, hollering for help. Behind him a hot ball of flame spewed from the window and rolled in a burning wave across the ceiling. Ducking beneath the flames, he found himself level with the keyhole, where he saw—

  The white tile walls of the LADIES toilets.

  The woman washes her hands, the roar of the hand-dryer filling the room as he creeps from the stall behind her. He punches her to the floor. She falls across her shopping bags, the white stiletto shoes spilling out. Straddling her chest, he pins down her arms, her watch breaking on the floor, time frozen. He cocks h
is fist to strike her again, but she bucks beneath him and frees her arm, batting weakly at his face; before she reaches across the floor, hand scrabbling on the tiles, and snatches one of the stilettos that have spilled from their box. She slashes at him, the spiked heel sinking deep in his throat. He lurches back in shock, clawing at the shoe in his neck, wrenching the spiked heel loose, blood jetting from the wound and streaking his reflection in the mirror above the sinks, where the leaking tap drip-drops. Clamping his hand over the wound, blood gushing between his fingers, he collapses to his knees in front of the woman. Reaches to her, gargling for help. She crawls on her haunches away from him, watching as he splashes on his back in the widening pool of blood; letting him bleed out. He turns his head and stares at the white stiletto shoe on the floor beside him, the white stiletto shoe that has killed him—

  Skeggs jerked his eye from the keyhole, glancing up to see the LADIES symbol melting and slithering down the door like a fat black slug. He rose unsteadily to his feet, stooped beneath the burning ceiling, ash raining down like fiery confetti. His hair frizzed in the heat. He turned towards the bed. The mannequin was gone. Mam lay there now; corrupted and black, her lingerie rotted to rags, her skeleton embossed beneath the sloughing skin. Her lipless mouth, smeared in red lipstick, grinned at him fiercely; her eyeless sockets crawling with larvae that spilled out like rice as she heaved herself up. As she stretched out her arms to him, the white stiletto slid from the bed and fell to the floor, where the mannequins were melting like waxworks. Skeggs watched as it sank and disappeared into a frothing pool of wax. Then the bed caught like kindling, and the ceiling cracked as the flames devoured everything. All he could see through the inferno was the blackened figure of Mam, her arms outstretched, waiting for him. And as the room burned – as his skin shriveled in the heat, and the flesh roasted on his bones, and he screamed – he went to her.