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

  Not one that Mike had signed up for. He was a little disappointed, already horny and wanting to get to it. But he knew that soon enough one of his numbers would be called and he would get what he wanted.

  Mike ordered a fourth drink and sipped it while he watched the line of men, eight in all, take turns at a beautiful blonde with huge tits. He had fucked her two weeks ago and she was a piece of work. High cheek bones, thick lips that begged to be kissed and a tight pussy that he had spunked all over, then rubbed his cock in the white mess, before fucking her again, pushing his cum into her. The memory of that, watching as one of the men was busy going to work on her, made him feel as though he was going to lose control and ruin his underwear right then and there. He quickly downed his drink, turning away from the scene before him, and ordered another. As he waited for the bartender, listening to the slap of flesh against flesh, the grunts of the man as he came to orgasm, he tried to think of something to avoid getting too worked up, not wanting to blast a load as soon as one of his girls was called.

  The easiest thing was to think of his wife and how mad she was going to be when he got home. Would there be tears? Screaming? Maybe she would be packing her things up, threatening to move in with her sister again. She had done it before, when he had forgotten their ten year anniversary, but he had been able to smooth out that one. He was good at smoothing things out. He was sure that he’d be able to do the same again when he got home.

  That worked. His erection was retreating and as he turned back to the center of the room, they were wheeling the blonde out and Gus was taking the spotlight again.

  “That, my friends, was a treat. But don’t worry; the night is just getting started. I’m sure you are all ready for the next girl, so let’s see who it will be.” He reached into the hat and pulled a number, a smile unrolling on his face when he saw it and knew right away what it meant. The new girl. “Gentlemen, you are in for a treat. We have here, number five, the new girl! But I see not many have signed up for her, a real shame. Line up in this order. Harris, Klein, Masters, Yeung, and Fletcher. Line up and we’ll bring her in. Enjoy!”

  Mike moved to the center of the room, his head light from the booze, and he felt his pants monster coming to life again. He licked his lips with nervous excitement as two men wheeled in the woman on the gurney. He looked over as she approached, her hair hanging over the side of the bed. It was light, but not blond. A sandy brunette. His favorite type of girl. He moved his hand towards his belt buckle, freeing his cock, and then there she was, right in front of him.

  Pale skin.

  Nice legs.

  Perky tits that weren’t too small, light pink nipples.

  And her face was soft, not sunken in like some of the others. She still had a fullness that he adored, a shape that was just how he liked it.

  He stopped, his cock touching the hairs of her pussy, wanting to get a good look at her face, as he was a face man more than an ass or tit man. He leaned forwards, the head of his cock sliding into her cold hole, and he turned her face so he could see it straight on.

  He wished he hadn’t.

  “Darlene?”

  Her lips were purple, as all the others were, the blood no longer flowing to give it the colour it once had. Her eyes were glassy, already getting milky. She was dead like the other girls, but she was his wife. It couldn’t be. There was no way it could be Darlene. She was at home, mad at him for ditching her. It was impossible that she was on the gurney.

  Mike’s cock shriveled as he pulled out of her and backed up. Others in the room were still watching, jerking off and wondering what he was doing, not sure if he had already cum or not. He took two steps back and then Gus was beside him.

  “Mr. Harris, what are you doing? Don’t disappoint us. Don’t disappoint her.”

  “That’s my fucking wife!” he growled, turning to face the smaller man. “That’s my fucking wife there. Dead!”

  “I know.”

  “You know? What do you mean, you know? You killed her?”

  Mike grabbed a hold of Gus, but he was immediately pulled off by the two muscle thugs that had been working the door. They held him while Gus straightened his shirt.

  “Calm down, Mr. Harris. It was not my choice to kill her. She chose it herself.”

  “What?”

  “I guess she thought you were cheating on her. For some time now. She started to follow you, saw you come here every Thursday. She approached me a few weeks ago and, not being one to come between a marriage, I told her what was going on here. She was a wreck, couldn’t believe her husband had been coming here for months to fuck dead girls, but I showed her. Then I explained it. The fetish, the fascination. She wanted to understand, wanted to be part of your world. She is a loving woman; you should be glad she’s your wife. Most men here will never find that kind of love, Mr. Harris.”

  “Sh-she’s d-d-dead.” Mike started crying, going limp; the muscle men holding him saw he wasn’t a threat and let him go.

  “She did it for you, Mr. Harris. Wanted you to be yourself with her. That’s why we changed this group to Tuesdays. She said that date night was important to you and to her. Now, you can still have date night with your wife and not lose the club either. It’s a win-win situation, don’t you agree?”

  Mike looked up at Gus, the man standing over him, smoking again, looking happy, almost smug. He held a hand out to the man kneeling before him.

  “Come now, Mr. Harris. Don’t keep your wife waiting.”

  Mike stood up and was led back to the gurney that his wife was lying on. He walked around, leaning down and kissing her cold lips, running his fingers through her hair. He buried his face in her neck, sobbing.

  He never wanted this; never wanted her to be a part of this, part of his world, but it was too late. She was dead, naked and waiting for him. With his face buried in her neck, he breathed in, smelling her. She still smelled like his wife, the woman he made love to at least once a week, the woman he had been married to for twenty years. Yet under it, there was something else: that other scent that was sensual and forbidden. Wrong, but so good.

  At that, he felt his cock come to life again.

  He went back to the foot of the bed, looking down at her flawless skin, letting his fingers slide over her, the chill of her giving him shivers. She felt so good. So real. So perfect.

  He spit on his hand and lubed himself up before spreading her soft pussy lips open and sliding deep inside her, feeling the perfection she held for him there. He didn’t pay any attention to the others around him, fucking their cocks as they watched. He pushed himself into her cold flesh, played with her tits as he thrust deep inside her. It felt so good and he wanted it to last, but felt on the brink of cumming.

  It was the best sex he’d ever had; finding his two worlds colliding.

  Wife.

  Death.

  Marriage and the club.

  His hands gripped her hips as he came, pulling her hard against him, his cum exploding in her as his body convulsed with waves of pleasure. He slid out of her, leaning over and kissing her hip bones just the way she liked. She smelled so good to him.

  “I love you, Darlene,” he whispered to her as he pulled his pants up, fighting off the emotional breakdown that was threatening. “I’m sorry. So sorry. But…thank you for this.”

  He moved away as the next man in line stepped up, not wanting to see it. Gus was waiting for him, a smile on his face.

  “That was beautiful, Mr. Harris. Nearly brought a tear to my eye. I hope we will see you here every date night then?”

  Mike nodded, knowing he would never even think about cancelling on her ever again.

  It had been the best date night ever.

  A Taste for It

  Jenn Loring

  Marie hurried down Iberville and turned the corner onto Marais. She stopped only to light up a cigarette. Seeing Vachel always filled her with nervous excitement, and she needed to take the edge off.

  Her saggy stockings slipped a li
ttle farther down her thighs. She was wasting valuable time, but Vachel often paid her more than she could ever make turning tricks. He would take care of her, he always promised. Rumors were flying in Storyville that the Secretary of the Navy was hell-bent on shutting the district down, due to his boys having a higher rate of the clap than any other military branch. And if the Secretary had his way, all the girls would soon find themselves homeless and jobless.

  That was where Vachel came in. Vachel vowed to marry her one day and make her a respectable woman, so long as she continued to help him in the shop. She was pleased with herself for having developed another skill besides hooking, and so was Vachel.

  The bell rang above as Marie pushed open the door. Vachel, brawny forearms striped with red, wrapped up a steak for a woman with a fox stole around her neck; one of those people who never sweat even on the hottest day, never had a blemish, never had to work a day in her life. The kind of woman whose husband made sure the finest French perfume permanently haloed her head. Marie glanced down at her frayed white silk dress and the stockings now bunched at her knees.

  “Thank you,” said the woman as she thrust her coins across the counter. She cocked an eyebrow as she passed Marie, her mouth turning downward in distaste. Marie gathered up a mouthful of spit to hurl at her, but the woman disappeared into the early evening crowd before she had the chance. Marie took her last puff off the cigarette, flicked it out of her fingers, and stamped on it. She wiped an arm across her damp forehead, then fluffed her blonde, wilted curls and strutted across the shop.

  “What’s the biggest piece of meat you have?”

  Vachel, surrounded by fresh sausages and steaks, all pink and dripping with the scarlet juices that made Marie’s mouth water, smiled. He set his meat cleaver aside and rubbed his hands on the apron. Flies buzzed lazily around his head; he swatted at them absentmindedly. The slaughterhouse reek of the place was even worse than usual on a day like this.

  “There is my girl. How are you, cheri?”

  “Fine. Closing time yet?”

  “Yes. Let me clean up.” Vachel swabbed the counter and his cleaver with a rag, then removed his apron and mopped his sweaty face with it. “A hot day today, non?”

  “Sure is, baby.” Marie fanned herself with one hand as she leaned against the counter. “I got more for ya.”

  “More? Already? The freezer is full.”

  Again. She wished he would get a bigger freezer already—it wasn’t as if he couldn’t afford it. He was the best butcher in town. “What do you want me to do? I got no more room in that place! When can I move in with you?”

  “Patience, cheri, patience. You might find I’m not so compatible to live with. But I know the crib is no good for you.”

  “So what do I do?”

  “Stop for a few days. I’ll give you enough money.”

  “Christ, Vachel, I’m tired of living like this!”

  “Let me show you the freezer.”

  “You know I have to get out of there!” Marie cried as Vachel grasped her forearm with his chunky fingers and led her to the back of the shop. “It’s not like I can go home—Mama disowned me when she found out where I was living.”

  “Not to worry,” said Vachel in his gravelly yet comforting voice. “I take care of my girl.” He pulled the doors open and guided her inside. Fat, raw flanks dangled from meat hooks, the white ribs gleaming as the last light of day began to fade outside.

  “It’s cold in here.” Marie rubbed her hands up and down thin, goose-pimpled arms. Vachel grabbed her and clamped his mouth over her own, and in an instant, his breath warmed the frost burning in her throat.

  “You know work makes me hungry,” he whispered. Marie took this as fact, for Vachel was by no means a small man, and he worked long, hard hours. And, no matter how much imported French cologne he bought from the spoils of a thriving business, he always smelled like meat. Marie associated the scent with him, and thus with more carnal pleasures. She couldn’t even eat meatloaf without getting horny.

  Vachel forced Marie’s legs apart with his knee and hiked her dress up to her waist. His trousers stroked the tender, pulsing flesh between her thighs, and she felt her own juices dribble down her skin.

  “That’s my girl,” he said, his voice still soft. With one hand, Vachel pressed Marie against the frigid wall, and he unfastened his trousers with the other. His plump pink cock bobbed up, already bubbling with fluid, and quickly pushed its way inside of her. It hurt at first, for her muscles had clenched in the cold, but Vachel only shoved harder until she opened completely to him. She caught the aroma of her sex, stronger than she’d ever remembered it, mingled with the scent of stale sweat under Vachel’s arms and the ever-present stench of raw flesh.

  “Just for a few days,” Vachel said through gritted teeth. “Just stop for a few days. I’ve got more than I can handle.”

  “You talking about the meat or me, baby?” Marie smiled and wrapped her legs around Vachel’s waist as he slipped his hands beneath her buttocks. He grunted as he began to come, his brown eyes bottomless in the near darkness.

  * * *

  On a lazy summer evening the redolence of magnolias and an endless jazz concert from the Razzy Dazzy Spasm Band, playing for the paltry coinage tossed at them, drifted in through the open window. The air was typical New Orleans, thick with humidity and alcohol and sex. But in this part of Storyville there were no silk- and diamond-clad madams, no Jelly Roll Morton tickling the keys with endless dirty versions of “Make Me a Pallet on the Floor”, no fifty-dollar tricks. These girls weren’t good enough for Josie Arlington and her theme rooms, where a girl might make a hundred dollars from a single john. Josie’s girls could almost pass themselves off as high society in their satins and silks and pearls.

  Marie leaned out the window. Crib girls to her left and right, above and below, all did the same from rooms that could barely fit the beds paying for them. Just a block away from the other side of the district was the Creole splendor of the French Quarter they dreamed of but could never have. Girls like Marie never saw the glorious Bourbon-Orleans ballroom, in which even the mulatto descendants of slaves danced with rich white men to win their favor. On the social scale, crib girls were the cockroaches crushed beneath the soles of expensive Italian shoes while looking for a good time on Bourbon Street.

  The girls rented the whole building. With her face in the breeze from the Mississippi bordering the far end of the Quarter, and Vachel’s money in her pocket, Marie forgot for a few moments that the walls really did have eyes, and ears, and mouths. Peeling paint and weathered, termite-ridden floorboards whispered secrets local men suspected. Much safer to see the naked circus in Josie’s Turkish Parlor. Marie waited instead for travelers who had already visited the Arlington, and Miss Lulu White’s Mahogany Hall and the like, sailors drunk on whiskey and whores and all the decadent pleasures only New Orleans could offer. She waited for those who wandered innocently into the darker corners of Storyville with the few dollars left in their pockets.

  The open window somewhat alleviated the fetor of rotting meat, though it invited in an effluvium of mosquitoes. They joined the flies and their maggot children who squirmed along the cracks between the floor and the walls.

  “Hey, honey!” Marie called, dangling one stocking-clad leg out the window. Vachel could give her all the money in the world and she wouldn’t be able to stop. She had a taste for it now. A young man, perhaps twenty-five or so and wearing a brown duster, glanced up at her. “Two dollars, honey. Two dollars and you can have everything you ever wanted.”

  “Two dollars? Is that all?”

  Inside she turned as grim as the reality of her existence in this filthy, tiny room, but she pasted on her finest smile and toyed with the string of fake pearls around her neck. “A better bang for your buck. Those rich bitches are all show and no go.”

  “I’ll be right up.”

  A few minutes later, his footsteps sounded on the stairs. The soft splat of blood dripping rhyth
mically from the dark spot growing like a gathering storm on the ceiling, near the window, seemed to tick away his final moments.

  He flung the door open; it bounced off the corner of the bed and slammed shut behind him. “Quite an entrance,” she said with a smirk. The man grabbed her by the waist and forced his Southern Comfort-soaked mouth on her at once, fingers clawing at her thinning and soiled cotton shift before bending her over the bed. They all stank like that, like alcohol and pussy. Sometimes you could smell three or four different girls on them.

  “You don’t waste any time.”

  He grumbled in response. She decided it was too murky for him to notice the giant terracotta stain in the center of the mattress.

  A click next to her ear, and the cold barrel of a gun jammed up against her temple. Sure, hookers turned up dead in New Orleans all the time, especially in Storyville. And it had been just shy of thirty years since the first reports from London about the Whitechapel murders. The oldest profession in the world had never claimed to be the safest.

  “You do what I say, bitch, you got it?”

  She wanted to laugh but held her tongue. “Got it,” she whispered in her best “please-don’t-hurt-me” voice. The gun moved away from her head. Now the last few inches of the barrel parted her lower lips and crawled into her like a huge metallic insect, caressing the soft inner flesh of her cunt. She slid back and forth over it as her hand crept beneath the mattress. In the dark, he’d think she was fingering herself. She moaned obligingly and grasped the razor blade, the barbershop kind she’d swiped from just such an establishment. All she’d had to do to distract them was flash her tits in the hope of drawing a few customers back to her room. It was easy when you had no shame, and they were more than happy to take her up on the offer.

  “I want you to come,” he hissed.

  “Oh, I’m coming.”

  Before he could squeeze the trigger, rooted to the spot as he was by the belief that no low-class slut would ever have the guts to pull such a dirty trick, Marie whirled around and caught the tender flesh of his throat beneath her blade. Blood sprayed out in all directions, splattering her naked dead-white flesh like a grenade exploding in a rose garden.