Steamy Screams: Anthology of Erotic Horror

her legs for me.  I leaned in and put my hand around the back of her thighs, nestled under her buttocks and kneading the flesh rhythmically.  I lengthened the strokes of my tongue, moving toward the top of her vagina.

The flesh here was less fresh, tainted with the warm elixir of her blood.  I thanked God that she had not yet cleaned herself.  Whilst I always returned to the clitoris, I probed deeper into the vagina.  Soft clots and strings of blood slid under my questing tongue.  The mixed musk of her excitement and her blood made me drunk.  My nose against the soft burr of her clipped hair, the moist air awash with scents, and the taste of her, like syrup of port wine laced with sea salt.

My desires were sated as her passion peeked, a moment of mutual perfection.  It was somehow surprising to find myself back in our small tatty bathroom, with my disheveled girlfriend collapsing into my arms.

* * *

For a few days, I saw little of Phoebe, and when she finally reappeared, she was terse, firm-breasted and somehow different in her manner.  She was unusually attentive; normally, it had been I who paid court to her–and she was almost indifferent at times.  For a while, she was rarely from my side and always keen to let me have her way.  I was cautious around her with her strange new moods.  Almost a month passed with this peculiar tension in the air until one night, all became clear.

“How do you feel?” she asked at night as we lay in bed together.

“Fine,” I said, pulling her close.

I hadn’t pulled the curtain over the sliding door into the back garden.  The glass door overlooked my small lawn and the wooded defile beyond it.  The full moon was all but shuttered by busy, scudding clouds.  For a moment, the clouds parted and the clear, pale light washed over us.

Sudden passion washed over me and I pulled her close.  She kissed me back hard with a clash of teeth, as if she felt the same.

She pulled back… “I was afraid of this,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

She slipped out of bed and I watched her trim body as she went to the door.  She unlocked it and pushed it a little ajar.

“What are you up to?” I chided.

“You will see… ”

As she turned, I saw strange tensions shiver across her skin.  Her neck and stomach jumped with muscles that didn’t seem like they should move in that way and her skin absorbed the moon and took on its uncanny glow.  I felt a sudden ache, a cramp across my whole body from my shoulders to the soles of my feet.  Suddenly, I smelt the unmistakable tang of blood, sharper than I ever had before.

“It’s time,” she said.

She beckoned to me like a pale siren, limned by the beguiling light of the moon—now quite unveiled.

“I tried to tell you,” she said.  “I did not mean for this to happen.  But it does with some—with men like you.”

As I stood, I felt the bones and the muscles of my legs distort and change, but somehow this did not seem wrong—only more right.  My skin pickled with heat, with fine hairs as they emerged uncannily.  I saw the pelt appear upon my arms and the backs of my hands as I reached for her.  But even as I almost reached her I fell, unable to stay upright.  I fell upon my paws.

I heard wolf song upon the wind, as the others came, the others that had fallen for sweet Phoebe’s musky blood.  A big black wolf shouldered the door open and they all came in, greeting me with nose and tongue as one of them.  There was no jealously amongst her followers as we would never again be her lovers, never again be human men–but something more.

Phoebe went out onto the lawn and I went with the others, joyfully sniffing the rich autumn air.

“Now… ” she said.

… the air said, as the baying of my brothers said, as the whispering trees said…

“Now, we hunt.”

She ran ahead of us under the cover of the trees, but we were next to her in moment.  I felt strong and I went into the lead—my keen nose skimmed the ground, searching for the subtle scent of our night’s prey.  Anticipation ran through my body and my teeth ached.  I could almost feel the warm blood in my mouth from the killing bite.

Phoebe laughed joyfully as she ran with uncanny swiftness amongst us and I determined that I would be the one to make the kill and bring the prey back to my glorious mistress.  I howled for joy as I led them all into the deep, sparkling forest.

MOONLIGHT RIDE Kenneth E. Olson

“I don’t want to die in my sleep, or of old age, or O.D… I want to feel what it’s like. I want to taste it, hear it, smell it. Death is only going to happen once; I don’t want to miss it.”

-Jim Morrison

He’d never planned anything in his life. He never thought you could, really. Shit had a way of happening whether you wanted it to or not, and the best way to deal with that, he found, was to go with the flow. Let it ride. It got bumpy for a little while, but eventually the road smoothed out again. And for the most part, it had gone well —much better than he’d hoped, actually. But lately, things

had become just a little too fucked up. People were on him like flies on shit, and the move to Paris hadn’t changed that.

So, for the first time in his life, he’d had to plan.

“Voulez-vous vivre toujours?” Do you want to live forever?

She poked one slender finger through a loose curl in his long, shaggy, dark hair. He shook impatiently loose from the probing digit.

“Non. J’ai besoin de mourir.” No. I need to die.

“Good.” Her thick French accent whispered in his ear and he felt her hot breath on his neck; smelled the rich, salty scent of her lips. Her firm breasts pressed into his back as she drew her arms around him and pulled him against her. His first impulse was to pull away, roll out of the bed and run back to his apartment. Back to safety. He fought it. He’d worked too hard—planned too well—for this moment to run from it now. If he wanted what she could give him, he had to play the game.

“Zat is very good,” she repeated. The tip of her tongue probed his ear. “We will have ze good time, you and I, non?”

He didn’t reply; just lay on his side with his back to her—this divine, unnamed creature he’d met only a week ago in one of the many darker bars he frequented—watching the neon lights of Le Hotel Coucher du Soleil spill through the open window and bathe the room in red. A slight breeze stirred the satin curtains. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose, wondering if he’d be able to smell the cool evening breezes any more after tonight. Wondering if he’d care.

“A quiet lover, eh?” she said, lover coming out as the French-twanged lovaire. She drew her bare right leg up and over his, letting her foot slide over his outer thigh and move teasingly down to his own foot. He could feel her pubic hairs tickle the small of his back as she drew herself even closer. His skin broke in gooseflesh as her fingers lightly traced his ribcage, then followed the curve of his hip to his stiffening penis. She wrapped her long fingers around it and he shuddered. He squeezed his eyes tighter.

“It is a surprise,” she continued, “I thought you would be ze wild man, like in your shows, no? And ze stories I have heard. Well, let us just say you are not quite what I expected.”

“Nothing ever is,” he replied smoothly.