Hot Blood: Tales of Erotic Horror

The wet spot, slowly growing in the center of the bed.

Her name was Linda. She said that she worked for Murjani, International. 'I wanted to be a model,' she continued, 'but they told me I was too short. So now, instead of modeling clothes on the cover of Vogue, I hustle 'em in the showroom.'

'That's a damn shame,' he told her. 'I mean it.' And he did. She must have been tremendous as a kid, he thought. When she was fresh. Wish I could've been there.

That would have been some fifteen years ago. Linda wasn't a kid anymore. Very faintly, he could see the scars that the years had left on her. She'd borne them well. She was still a looker. And there was something tough about her… a worldly wisdom, a sense of having learned to survive… that he found very appealing. With Linda, he knew, there'd be no need for bullshit and fancy dances. She wouldn't stand for it. It made him happy.

He wanted it to be with her.

Perhaps they'd find it.

In each other.

Moaning, now. Breath coming in firebursts. Backs arching. Eyes flashing. Teeth glistening. Loins pounding. As the climax builds.

And the moment draws near.

And the clock slices holes in the night.

They spoke for a while, of a number of things. Her eyes were large and dark and penetrating. Her face had a slight flush, blood tip-toeing gingerly to the surface. When she smiled, her lips were red and full. They made themselves clear.

She wanted it as badly as he did.

After that, there was nothing left to say.

Hoarse cries in the darkness. The animals, revealed. Flesh sliding over flesh over tensed muscles, writhing.

As he nibbles at her throat.

And she digs into his back.

And the rhythm drags them forward, like the pounding of their blood. Like the ticktock scalpel slashing at the warm body of Time.

While the wet spot grows. And grows. And grows.

They went to his apartment on Riverside Drive by taxi, nuzzling each other and the hip-flask that she carried in her bag. The pain was gone now… the hunger firmly in its place… and all seemed propelled by a drunken exhilaration, pounding through him like a thousand primitive drums.

And then they were in the apartment, where they quickly dispensed with formalities, as well as their clothing. He was startled, but not surprised, by the red gash that ran the length of her soft underbelly, dwarfing the scores of other old wounds that pock-marked her flesh.

Tom Savich glanced down at his own scars for a moment: some as recent as Doreen, some dating back to his very first piece in high school, all those many years before. Some of them gleamed whitely, like bleached bones, like that fabled picket fence; others blushed red, embarrassing memories that he didn't want to think about. Not now. Not now…

And then he was looking at her again, as she moved toward him. Memory drowned in the sight of her body; the sagging breasts, the tightening nipples, the hips that undulated in a dance as old as the first woman, converging with the first man, on the day of the birth of human hunger.

And as they descended on the bed together, he only knew that it was all right. That the past was irrelevant, as irrelevant as the future, in the face of the moment itself.

It was only natural.

Now.

The first scream. Ten thick grooves, carving lengthwise down fleshy expanse. Jaws, clamping down. A hot spray. Muffled howl.

Taste of meat, raw and steaming. An audible tearing away. Head, whipping from side to side while its mouth bellows agony. Twists with rage. And attacks.

In the moment.

In the flow.

While the clock ticks off seconds that slice like razors into the soft parts that no claw could reach, no tooth impale, no casual glance reveal.

And the dark wet tendrils stream outward from the center of the bed…

Linda was gone when he awoke. It was better that way. It was hard enough to face his own wounds, in private. He didn't want to see what he had done.

She had left very few traces of herself behind. A bit of blood, on the bathroom floor. She was meticulous. He was glad. It meant that she still had her presence of mind; she would be okay; she would make it.

Of course, there was still the bed. There would always be the bed.

Later, after breakfast, he would definitely have to burn the sheets.

And put on clean ones.

For the next time.

THE VOICE Rex Miller

I am Dallas's Ruler of the Night, the voice in the shadows, whispering of Stardust and moonglow and bossa nova rhythm.

The scratchy cut be-bops through the coda and the automatic cart-light flashes a five-second cue as I wait to perform. The engineer pots me up full as the red light blinks and the final note slides under my first words to the faithful:

'Cliffie Brown. Joy Spring.' The hand behind the ear, old style. I smile up at the face on the other side of the double-paned glass. My engineer McVey punches up a spot and twangs into the studio intercom:

'I never heard of the cat.'

'You never heard of the cat because he's dead. He was very young. He was the Ritchie Valens of the jazz trumpet.'

I open the turntable well where we keep the ice bucket. About a third of the Thermos gone. Drinking on the air seems unthinkable to a civilian. But contrary to public image, air personalities are often paranoid, quivering skin-bags of insecurities, their professionalism measured not in behavior but in air sound and ratings. Drink, smoke, attack the receptionist if you must, but just make sure you sound great. Total control is our brand of semi-pro ball. I take the Beefeater's Express nightly. That's my ticket out there.

'Those sloppy esses are gettin' pretty sibilant, bro,'

McVey laughs. 'One more Beefy-Weefy and it's the Robert McVey show!'

'Whatever it takes, we can handle it,' I assure him. The Friends-and-Groupies line, or FAG line as we call it, lights up and I stab at the glowing button.

'Yellow.'

'Yellow yourself.' It's my lady. The Voice.

'Heeeeeyyyyy, you're just what I need right about now.'

'It's nice to be needed,' she breathes. This lady Patricia has a voice that would peel a banana.

'You could say that. Yes. Can you, ahh, hang on?'

'What should I hang on to?' she breathes into the other end of the phone. I just about shove my pen through