Of Devils & Deviants: An Anthology of Erotic Horror Page 5

  Above us, acrobatic fairies floated and fucked, rolling close to the high ceilings on swings. Their wilding cries rang out like birdsong. A net protected the entertainers from falling to the floor and the party-goers below. Alongside the walls, huge fish tanks bore the evidence of mermaids performing gymnastics both honest and sexual, long clear tubes feeding them oxygen. One mermaid, thrust hard against the glass, entertained an audience as she was taken by a merman from behind. When he finished, another quickly found his place. I put my hand against the glass where her nipple pressed. I stroked the glass to circle and trace her gasping mouth. She risked drowning to enjoy this fuck. I kissed her reflection in the glass to show my respect, my appreciation for her sacrifice.

  I was dumbfounded. All around me, pleasure abounded, raw and true. There was very little of evil here, and far too much of heaven. I murmured in my Mistress’s ear, “Tell me, Princess, what does sex have to do with the devil?”

  She looked at me, momentarily startled, naked in her honesty. “Why, nothing. Sex is life.” Grasping lightly then my upper arm, she led me through the room, and past others. “Pain is both life and love,” she continued, “for it lets the body know it survives and promises redemption through sacrifice. Even humiliation is life for it shows the spirit its boundary and transcendence.”

  She stopped us then, before a life-sized painting of possibly the most beautiful androgyne I’ve ever seen. Darkness roared behind his/her eyes as a cold smile promised a commanding cruelty that would not be pleaded with or denied. This one’s pleasure would surprise constantly, the demands placed on his/her lover both unforgiving and unreasonable. And I would willingly crawl across broken glass and salt to beg his/her love, to cry into those hard hands, to cum only when commanded. The dark beautiful androgyne sat on a throne-like chair, a riding crop held lightly in one hand, a long reined leash curling like a whip held in the other.

  “But lies, deception, the cheating of death and feeding on the life and love of others…that has the Devil all over it. Human Immortality is not in God’s plan, especially when it is served by the suffering and sudden end of other’s lives and souls.” The Princess stopped, staring deeply into the painting. “Here it is, the bastard-bitch that broke me. Like that story by Oscar Wilde, glorious and damned, revolting and haunting. I want him to burn in Hell for all eternity. I want to fuck her until he loves me.”

  I stared at her. “Do you want the painting or do you want me to kill…?” My words drifted, unwilling to label a gender for so perfect an androgyne. I smiled, deep with malice. “Would you like her head in a jar or his penis?”

  “I want to live a human life and die a human being with my soul firmly intact,” the Princess said and she shoved me into the painting.

  I fell into darkness and cold. I fell for miles before I floated. And then when my feet found ground again, I nearly fell again for it was sudden and unexpected and with my arms bound behind my back, I was at a loss for balance.

  I stumbled forward as the ground beneath me heaved and…breathed? My shoulder struck the soft wall that now bent towards me and someone cried out, a whimper that stretched into a moan. I rubbed my face into that moving, shifting wall and smelled…flesh. A belly. Then, my tongue darting out, I was rewarded with the bittersweet taste of human ocean. Flesh pressed into my face as I mouthed a warm wet cunt, tonguing her lightly to drink her oyster juice. I suckled her labia and she rushed against me, her cunt thrusting into my tongue and lips, begging for release. I gave it to her gladly and in return, I thrust against the wall, welcoming the attention of various mouth and tongue and fingertip.

  I moved forward, my body pressing against the heaving wall and I found others there, in the wall: wet cunts and dripping salty cocks, open mouths and darting tongues. The nibbling of fingertips wriggled, tickling my flesh and I rolled against them, letting the fingers tap longing into my ass, my breasts, the mound of my cunt. The walls closed around me, the ceiling dropping, the floor writhing upward to trap me.

  Bound they were in a living eternal flesh wall, all the souls that the Glorious Dark Bastard of the painting had enslaved. All his victims, all his lovers, caught here, serving time in sexual lust and frustration, in longing and dream, made flesh and emptied of spirit, made mindless and reduced to animal senses. He lived forever as long as they were trapped, tied into this moment.

  The moving, writhing tunnel was long and dim-dark, only lit at the very end with a light like the sun. I walked when I could and crawled when I couldn’t take it any more. I stopped once and let my ass be fucked by a huge dick, ringed with cold silvery cock-rings. It was delicious: warm flesh and the ice of the silver deep in my ass as I bounced up and down, my cunt slippery as I came again and again, my breasts slapping up and down in delightful pain. I stopped another time to suck a cock with bar piercings, my tongue rolling tight full balls in my mouth and I swallowed the salt of it, drinking like I was drowning in a flood. There were cunts I could not resist along the way. Labia to chew lightly on, clit rings to tug at with my teeth and tease with my tongue. Mouths suckled my nipples and drank of my cunt.

  Wet, softened by sex, warmed by flesh, I walked the tunnel.

  Sighs, moans, cries followed me, echoed behind me.

  I sucked and fucked where I could to release the wall. And the wall sang as I walked and crawled and rubbed and pressed and thrust against it. The wall took and gave and I whispered and cried out my thanks in return. I came again and again, as Maya, as Kiera Storm, Jayne Quist, Tara, Ana, Penny, Chelsea, as all of us. I came as all of us took a turn to be fucked and sucked, to lick and nibble, and drink and thrust and join. All of us came out to play in the body and the wall fed our hunger. And I cried as I came, as we came, for I knew this would be the only time we’d all be joined and come close to being fulfilled, to being fully satisfied. We of the body share one cunt and it is always hungry. The end of the tunnel came too soon.

  As Maya, in command of the body, I came out into the light.

  I heard the crack before I felt its touch. The whip flickered around my back, whispering a stroke of pain, before it nipped my left nipple. Fire blossomed, a line from nipple to back and then, another crack and my ass felt the flame, a kiss of pain. I gasped. So sharp, so quick, tired as my cunt was, I felt a stirring there, a rustling, a tickling in my clitoris.

  I fell to my knees immediately to show my obedience, my thighs open and willing. Head high, eyes downcast, my arms still bound behind me, I knelt there awaiting his/her pleasure. I was born for his pleasure. I was created by her displeasure. I was under lash and contract until I could rescue the painting and the book. And then, even if far away, I may be his and hers still, in mind and spirit if not body and longing.

  She circled me, studying me and from my defiant rebellious peeking, I saw the painting had not done him justice. The androgyne was far more godlike in person, far more angelic in looks and bearing, far more demonic in need and desire. Black in hair and eyes, the nose hawkish, the lips full and curling, female melted into male. Taut arm, leg and stomach muscles coiled behind the licking whip and shadowed darkness as the androgyne moved like a dancer, like an athlete around me. Her breasts were large melons, the nipples bruised purple black. His cock hung heavy, thick, the head fat. Inside my head, the chorus screamed, hunger building, lust seeking, needful and desperate.

  If the Princess was a few centuries old….how old was the androgyne?

  His crop lifted my chin even higher and my nipples hardened, begging to be touched, stroked, bitten, hit and pinched. Whatever she wanted, I wanted. And I wanted it badly. My clit swam now, my labia holding back the seas. Bound behind me, my fingers twitched, nearly numb in their ties but echoing my longing.

  His cock stirred, brushing against my cheek, growing, engorging with blood. Like a brat, I swayed against the head, my suddenly dry lips brushing it to stir it further. My tongue darted out, stroked the warm softness of a testicle. I glanced upward, defiantly. If I raise you, will you fuck me as punishment? Or
will you make me beg first? Does a cunt sit behind that cock and balls, both needing my tongue?

  He leaned down, his eyes the color of deepest night. I tried to look away but found I could not, my chin caught in her cruel grasp.

  “No one survives the tunnel,” the androgyne sang softly, his voice smooth and musical. “They all become the wall. Hunger, longing depleted, they fall into the wall, and then, find themselves unable to crawl out. Hunger and longing, release and satisfaction, over and over and over again for all eternity. The itch is never fully scratched and the need for it never ends.”

  He stroked my face then, her long fingers cradling softly before digging into my cheek and chin. “How is it, then,” the androgyne whispered, and a chill ran down my neck and back, “that you could come through the tunnel without becoming part of it?”

  I swallowed and his fingers then found a comfortable choking hold on my throat while his riding crop stroked down my chest between my breasts to my belly, towards my wet clit. It fell into a notch there, secured between my cunt lips, the tip of the crop resting on my clit. I wanted to state that the fucking wall was a blunt instrument whereas this engorged cock, these full breasts, the tempting question of cunt, and the hidden ass, these were sharper tools, drawn from a wayward angel, a broken devil.

  I choked out, “I sacrifice individual pleasure for others.”

  The androgyne peered deeply into my eyes to measure me for lying. One pair of eyes, shared among many, returned his gaze unflinchingly. Within the body, the others grew hungrier. She pulled back then, the crop still tickling my clit. He tapped me lightly and I spread my thighs further, pushing my sex out further. If his crop wanted my cunt, he’d have it willingly.

  “You may ask, then,” he sighed, her crop tracing the lips of my labia, playing like a small black tongue into my open wet cunt. I waved. Was it that easy? As an afterthought, she pulled idly on my left nipple. I moaned loudly, not bothering to muffle it. She twisted my nipple sharply and then as I gasped at the pain, traced my bottom lip with one finger tip. The riding crop pressed harder against my clit and despite myself, my slippery cunt rose up to meet it.

  I looked up into that cold cruel smile from the painting. I lost my breath. For that smile, I would do anything. Anything. It promised trespass and transcendence. Lawless, boundless, exploration into unknown territory. Oh, what to do, what to do.

  Softly, she repeated, “You may ask.”

  My cunt growled hungrily, my clit painfully hard. He raised one eyebrow in question, amusement playing out across her cruel face. I smiled back sweetly, my teeth neatly bared in a slightly promising threat.

  I rose up on my knees, letting the crop slide between my wet lips and thighs like a straw. I breathed lightly, wetly on his shuddering cock, my nose and mouth stirring it to near bursting and yes, I could smell hot wet cunt hiding behind velvety balls. Our body brushing gently against him like a ghost, like a feather, like a dream half-woken from. More than want, I needed his cock in my cunt, her cunt in my mouth. We throbbed, humming madly. We breathed deeply, bathing in her musky earthy scent.

  “I want a copy of the book and a painting by Courbet so that I may punish my lover.”

  He swayed against me, listening, feeling the promise in my lips and mouth. “And in return?”

  “In return,” I said, rising now, sliding against him fully: siren, snake, and slave, “I will give you what the wall could not. For you, for me, for all of us.”

  “Which is?” She laughed, a trace of bitterness lining the shivery bell tones as if he’d heard this promise before.

  I opened my mouth to let all of us answer. There are so many of us in this body, filling this vessel. All of us lustful, demanding, willing, and knowledgeable. All of us sharing one set of breasts, one cunt, and one ass. All of us spoke then, in this most secret of places, in this temple of sin, in this wounded hole of redemption.

  We said, “We are Legion. Our pleasures multifold. Our pain manifest. We give. We take.” Then, hissed in whisper, “No one walks away unsatisfied. No one waits unfulfilled.”

  “Accepted,” she murmured against my lips, sealing our deal with a kiss. I bit his mouth to take blood and when she pulled back in surprise, we swept in to devour. And we fell onto him like angels feasting at the apocalypse.

  We are not known for making bargains we won’t profit from.

  * * *

  I didn’t know what to expect really but the burning of the painting took me by surprise. The Princess cried silently as the Courbet burned. I could understand the sentiment. For all my callousness, even I could see the haunting beauty of the lovers caught naked and honest by Courbet’s soft colors and brushstrokes. They had been in love once. Many, many years ago. My beautiful Princess and her androgyne lover. In her shoes, I might have kept the painting as a token, a keepsake. But, then, when we are Maya, I like to take a trophy or two. Now and then.

  We were alone in the field now, the early bleak morning cold and grey, unlikely to be discovered. Rain drizzled, and I glanced blearily up into the milky skies. Chances were good that it would rain melancholy all day.

  I mused, “Is your soul back now? Is it as heavy as you expected?”

  The Princess nodded, turning away to walk back across the field to her black limousine, “It’s better to be human.”

  “Really?” I asked softly, watching the flames hiss as they fought with the rain.

  And in our mind, Kiera argued bitterly with the others that we really should burn our copy of the Magickal Sex Book. Unfortunately for her, the rest of us were already in the thrall of the promise of endless eternal possibilities.

  Oh, what to do. What to do. What to do.

  Masks

  Taylor Grant

  Jonathan dabbed at the blood on his neck and licked his crimson-stained fingertips, savoring the sharp, coppery taste.

  “What the hell’s taking so long?” Margaret yelled from outside the bathroom door. “I’m going to be late for my spinning class.”

  Startled from his reverie, Jonathan noticed his reflection in the mirror and recoiled at the face staring back. He’d never smiled like that in his life; it was more of a grimace.

  “Hurry up, goddamn it,” Margaret said, pounding on the door.

  Jonathan’s fists tightened. He forced himself to take a deep breath before opening the door. “Sorry, honey,” he said, “I nicked myself shaving.”

  Margaret brushed past him, shoved him out the door, and slammed it so hard his scrotum tightened.

  With a familiar sigh, he continued his morning routine.

  * * *

  Later, while crouched over his computer at work, Jonathan couldn’t shake the disturbing reflection he’d seen in the bathroom mirror –and that horrible gash of a smile.

  It’s just work-related stress, he thought. God, please let it be that.

  He couldn’t take another year like the last – and he sure as hell couldn’t afford the therapy, although it seemed clear he needed another session with Dr. Hatchman. He warmly recalled his former therapist’s signature western wear, bushy white beard, and perpetually rosy cheeks. He looked like Santa Claus moonlighting as a country-western star.

  Jonathan chuckled at the mental image, gradually returning to the job at hand. He attempted to analyze a spreadsheet of projected revenue figures for the next fiscal year, but found it impossible to focus. He glanced down and noticed his fingers tapping at the keyboard as if they belonged to someone else. The spreadsheet minimized on his screen and was replaced by a Web browser. Moments later, a parade of violent, sexual obscenities marched across his screen.

  He felt the twisted grimace of a smile invading his lips once again. He sat immobile at his desk, both repulsed and intrigued by the imagery on the computer. It was like driving past a particularly gruesome car wreck, not wanting to look – yet unable to tear his eyes away.

  And then he noticed his hands. Jesus Christ, my skin looks like . . .

  “Mr. Bailey?” a soft voice becko
ned.

  Startled, Jonathan quickly minimized the images on his computer screen.

  A petite brunette with perfect teeth to match her perfect smile peeked inside his office. “Mr. Bailey, your three o’clock is here.”

  “Thank you . . .” Jonathan’s voice wasn’t his. It was deeper. Colder. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Thank you, Jenny. Tell them I’ll be just a moment.”

  She gave him a curious look. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine,” he lied. “I’m fine.”

  She raised her shoulders in that little shrug he hated and closed the door with a click.

  “Whore,” he heard himself mutter, feeling surprised at the venom of his tone.

  He turned his hands palms up, then down, studying every inch. They appeared normal again. It’s just work-related stress, he told himself for the second time that day.

  * * *

  He’d chewed two of his fingernails down to bloody nubs by seven o’clock that evening. He swore if he had to create one more Power Point presentation he was going to rip the skin from his bones. In an uncharacteristically bold move, he ignored a handful of last-minute email threads and left early.

  Jonathan drove home, thinking about the bizarre events of the day with an increasing sense of unease. He longed for a session with Dr. Hatchman. Unfortunately, he’d already used up the allotment of counseling sessions his pathetic HMO covered. If he wanted to reenter therapy, he’d have to pay out of pocket – and he simply couldn’t afford that. He and Margaret were hemorrhaging money due to her obsession with home renovation, and he didn’t have the balls to stop her.