Of Devils & Deviants: An Anthology of Erotic Horror

by Graham Masterton

  He pulls into a nondescript apartment building, finds a parking spot and kills the engine. We step out of the car and he makes his way over to me. His hand grips mine and he guides me into his home.

  * * *

  We tumble clumsily into his apartment and kick off our shoes as two pairs of hands tug at random pieces of clothing. I peel off my shirt and toss it to the floor, then he pushes me against the wall. His hardness grinds into me. I moan into his mouth and bite his lower lip. He kisses me deeply and pulls away with a grin.

  I follow him into the bedroom.

  We enter the room and he grabs me by the waist and shoves me playfully down on the bed. I watch him strip off his shirt as I slip out of my bra. His breath burns on my skin as he bends to kiss my neck. I grope at his crotch and pull him closer between my spread legs. He stands in front of me at the side of the bed as I fumble with his zipper and whisper in the darkness, “Fuck my mouth.”

  Tucking my hand into his pants, I free his erection.

  He grunts.

  I look up, lick my lips and take his thick cock deep into my mouth.

  “Shit,” he hisses through clenched teeth. His eyes are closed and his head is tilted towards the ceiling. My pussy throbs as I stroke him with my skilled mouth. He rests his hands on my shoulders, and silently urges me to slow down.

  Too much, too quick. I know what he’s thinking.

  I slow my strokes and study his face for approval.

  Lost in the sensation of his cock in my mouth, he doesn’t notice I’m changing.

  He can’t see and won’t see until it’s too late.

  Inside, I feel it happening.

  He pulls out of my mouth and pushes me back on the bed. He undoes my jeans and peels them off my long legs. I squirm beneath his fingers. Kneeling at the bed, he kisses my thighs softly and works his way up to the lace hem nestled in the crease of my leg. He hooks the hem of my panties and tugs them aside. He finds my swollen clit with his tongue and licks between my soaking wet lips. I moan and wriggle as he grips my thighs, holding me tightly against his face. He mouths my hot pussy and brings me to my first orgasm.

  “Yes. Yes. Yes!” I cry out over and over as my body shudders and quakes to the motions of his roving tongue. My body trembles and quivers, but he doesn’t let up. Licking and sucking, he slides in two fingers. “Oh my god… FUCK YES!” My back arches and every muscle in my body tightens at once as I gush against his hand and face, soaking the linens under my ass. Wave after wave of convulsions wrack my body as I ride out my orgasm.

  I’m still trembling when he pulls away and kicks off his pants. I am breathless and shuddering but I wriggle out of my panties and slide up the bed, motioning him to join me.

  He crawls up the bed and takes my nipple in his mouth. I wrap my fingers through his hair and pull him closer.

  Something from within interrupts the exhilarating sensation of his lips on my nipple.

  My skin feels tight like it’s a size too small.

  This is how it begins.

  The change has started.

  He kisses me and climbs over my body. I spread my legs and wrap them around his waist as he guides his thickness into me. We groan simultaneously as he slips into the full depth of my slit. He fucks me slowly as he holds a breast in one hand, and his fingers toy maddeningly with my nipple. He kisses my lips and catches my whimpers with his mouth as he impales me on his shaft over and over.

  My skin feels too dry, too tight, like it’s two sizes too small.

  “Take me hard from behind,” I beg in his ear. He slows his strokes and allows his cock to slip out of my tight hole. He sits back, watching me as I roll over and sprawl catlike on all fours. I cock my ass in the air like a bitch in heat and growl, “Fuck me.”

  He positions himself behind me and uses my hips to pull me into him. The tip of his cock spreads my lips as he skewers me onto his hardness. I push back against him, driving him deeper into me. He uses my hips for leverage and fucks me savagely into the mattress. I tuck my hand between my legs and stroke my clit, urging another orgasm from my aching hole. My pussy tightens around his shaft and he can sense I’m close. I bite my lip as I teeter on the brink of another orgasm.

  “Holy fuck, you’re tight,” he grunts into my ear.

  It’s part of the change. I’m different inside.

  I convulse and squeeze even tighter around his cock.

  He inhales deeply and slows his strokes. He watches me, and feels my every shiver and shake as I ride out my orgasm, impaled on him.

  I slip off his cock and pull my hand from between my legs. I smile at the strands of wetness that stretch from my fingertips like spider webbing. I kneel up to meet him. He kisses my mouth, and his erection burns hot against my hip. I take his shaft in my hand and stroke him with the wetness still slick on my palm.

  He holds me close but doesn’t notice I’m different.

  My skin hurts as the euphoria from my orgasm begins to dissipate.

  Three sizes too small.

  He lies on the bed as I straddle his hips and guide him into me.

  “Jesus.” He whistles softly. “So fucking tight. You’ve got some crazy Kegels. It’s a good thing you’re so wet, you—” He stops talking as I start to ride him.

  He paws at my breasts, pinching my nipples between his thumb and forefinger. I groan and grind into him to show my appreciation. He’s breathing hard and grunting with every thrust as I take his thickness in as deep as I can. I ride him harder as I feel the warmth of another orgasm beginning from deep between my legs.

  It’s not long before the orgasm rips through me and I throw my head back. A deep, guttural sound vacates my lips as I quiver atop his hardness.

  He groans as I tighten even more around his cock.

  I’m sure he’s never felt anything like this before.

  My body begins to swell.

  My skin darkens and stretches thin from inside.

  I feel him throb inside me. He’s close to the moment where endorphins are released in his brain and he tumbles into an orgasmic abyss. He shudders and thrusts into me erratically as he starts to cum.

  His eyes are closed and he doesn’t notice my skin starting to split.

  They always close their eyes.

  They always miss the molting.

  From four limbs come eight and I stretch out my black spindly legs as I straddle the sides of the bed to ride out his convulsions. My skin crumbles away from me as his hot liquid fills my slit. I look down upon him with an octet of black eyes and unfurl my fangs as I shed the remains of my human husk.

  He opens his eyes and gazes upon my new form. His mouth forms an “o” and his eyes open wide. He can’t find the words to express the terror and beauty I’ve become. The sound that leaves his lips is something lost between a scream and a moan. His eyes follow my armored cephalothorax down to see my black bulbous abdomen still impaled on his cock. He wants to pull out but he can’t, it’s far too tight.

  The bristles inside my slit stroke him and coax another orgasm from his sensitive member.

  This is when I take them.

  Right after the greatest orgasm of their life and just before they start to scream.

  I sink my fangs into his neck and chest and ejaculate my liquid into him like he did to me. There is no pain. The venom destroys his nervous system and he feels nothing.

  The enzymes in my venom soak into his flesh, liquefying muscle and necrotizing bone, turning him into a soupy mess. I lower my mouth to him, and pause for a moment to embrace his melting forehead before opening my jaws to feed. He doesn’t live long.

  As I swallow his rendered flesh down my throat, another orgasm rips through my arachnid form. I shriek between slurps as I devour him.

  He tastes like peaches.

  Soon, not one morsel of flesh remains of him. I tremble and squeal, not from passion but pain. My exoskeleton cracks from within and I am reborn. Naked and pink, I stand on two shaky legs. My stomach is full and my hunger is satia
ted once again. The molted spider form becomes brittle and decays to a fine dust as I gather my clothing. I’m still trembling from sexual release and I smile as I think of him.

  He will not be forgotten.

  He did not die in vain.

  His death was a good death.

  He died Le Petit Mort.

  Martin

  Stacey Turner

  Lying in bed in a post-coital stupor, the words kept circling around in Martin Caswell’s mind: She’s sucking me dry.

  Even now, as he heard Ellen in the kitchen with her pots and pans and cooking utensils ka-clanking away, humming loud enough to wake the deaf, cooking with a fever to replace her expended calories, he could sense her frenetic energy. Could all but feel it. And with all his soul, wished for his former strength. Instead, nauseous, and weary, he had to face the plain truth. Ellen’s draining the life right out of me.

  * * *

  It all began as a Friday night lark, with Susan talking everyone into visiting a psychic after work. Martin wasn’t really into mediums, ball-gazers, or the supernatural. He thought it a bunch of foolishness. But with Ellen out of town, and him not looking forward to an empty apartment, he let himself be dragged along. The plan? To venture downtown to a new shop on Broadway advertising AURAL READINGS.

  Susan was the first to spill from John’s minivan. “Isn’t this exciting?”

  Martin waved an index finger. “Whoopty-doo!”

  “Oh, come on, Martin. It’ll be fun.” Nancy punched his shoulder. “And don’t forget, you’re the one who agreed to come along.”

  “A fact I may live to regret.”

  “Well, a little spot of nonsense never hurt anyone. And if it makes the ladies happy?” John had just enough time to give Martin a wink before Susan, following Nancy’s lead, gave him a shot to the shoulder. “Ow! Ya big bully.”

  Watching John rub his shoulder in mock pain, Susan smiled, then led her troop into the shop. Inside, Martin nodded hello to a teenage girl sitting on a stool behind the counter, no doubt keeping a watchful and psychic eye for any shoplifting patrons. Figuring he probably looked like just the nervous type who would lift a thing or two, he stuck his hands in his pockets and tried to look nonchalant. He knew there was no way he was going to relax. Not with the women wandering in, oohing and aahing over all the knickknacks: Tarot decks, crystals, pentacles, full-length finger rings, dream catchers, books, and a horrid assortment of incense sticks. He sniffed the air. Was that Patchouli oil? The familiar feeling of a building headache pounded from behind his eyes.

  A moment later, another woman came in from behind a curtain of black beads. “Hello, I’m Zena. Can I help you?”

  John laughed. “Shouldn’t it be: Madame Zena?”

  The woman put a hand on her hip. “Ah, a skeptic; that’s good.” She looked John up and down. “If you must know, my real name’s Brandy. But that makes me sound like a hooker. If Zena’s too hokey for you, trust me, the magick’s real.”

  Maintaining his smile, John answered, “An honest huckster … I like it.”

  Zena motioned with a hand. “You’ll be first then?”

  “No doubt, Zena.”

  From Nancy, a deep voice: “And so it begins.” Martin and the women gave a chuckle and watched as John followed Zena behind the beads.

  And …

  … in what seemed like mere minutes, John was back.

  “She’s fantastic.” John’s smile appeared genuine. “Susie, you’re next!”

  Susan gave Nancy a high-five and disappeared. Next went Nance. Finally, and with anxiety still present, Martin went for his turn with the mystic arts, back behind the black beads.

  Passing through the portal, Martin found himself in the kind of room he’d always imagined in such a setting: heavy, velvet drapes, the color of bruised cherries; a circular table in the center covered in a panoply of colored scarves; and a ceiling decorated with painted tiles cut into the shapes of stars, planets, and flaming comets hanging from strings. Seeing Zena seated in wait, Martin took the opposing chair amidst the faint smell of burning jasmine. Wonder if she’s a foot pedal under all this silk to make the table bounce up and down?

  “I know what you’re thinking.”

  “Do you, Zena the Mysterious? Reading my mind, are we?”

  Zena frowned a moment. “No, not at all. No need to work that hard. More like reading your face, your body.” A pause. “You disapprove of the artifice. I understand. But even the gifted have bills to pay, and when I changed my name and threw up some glass and such, my business tripled overnight. Sometimes you have to give the customer what they want. Do I need it to do what I do? No, I don’t.” Another pause. “It’s the customers who do; completes the experience for them. Lives up to their expectations.”

  “Fair enough.” Martin placed his hands on the table. “Let’s give this a go.”

  Zena gestured toward a deck of cards and a small velvet bag. “So what will it be? The Tarot? Runes? Your palm, maybe?” She stopped a moment, looked into Martin’s eyes. “Perhaps some tea reading? Jasmine, of course.”

  Martin shrugged. “I never drink tea. My friend Susan mentioned … and your sign, as well … something about aural readings?”

  “Perfect.” Walking to a wall, Zena tugged on a cord. A heavy drape slid to the side, offering up a plain white wall. “Makes it easier for me to see.” With Zena pointing at the wall, Martin walked over and took his place in front of the white background.

  “Have you recently been ill?”

  “No.”

  “Depressed?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Any major life changes: change of job, loss of a loved one, a move, anything out of the ordinary, stressful, traumatic?”

  “No.” Martin began to get exasperated. “Shouldn’t you be the one telling me these things?”

  Zena, concentrating, didn’t appear to have noticed the question. In fact, to Martin, the woman looked confused. “Well that’s odd,” she said at last. “You have a lovely brown aura, which is fine … even what I would have expected. It means you’re practical by nature, loyal, consistent and a perfectionist—”

  “Sounds boring.”

  Silence. Zena continued to stare, eyes focused, forehead wrinkled in thought. Martin, feeling weirded out, tried again. “Sounds BORING.”

  “What? Uh … no, not at all; it makes you a wonderful employee and a considerate spouse.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “Well, there are large areas that are dark or entirely black. That usually signifies an illness or some crisis in your life. Something or someone’s draining your energy.”

  “Someone?”

  Zena nodded. “See, everything affects a person’s aura. Every time you interact with someone, the auras come in contact, and you either exchange a bit of energy or repel one another. Have you ever met someone you instantly disliked? That’s when your auras repel. Some auras, like purple, are very magnetic, attracting other people; you often see these with people in high profile positions.”

  Martin held up his hands. “I’m a little confused.”

  Zena pointed to the chairs and the two retook their seats. “I know it’s hard to take in. What you really need to know is this—everything affects your aura, from physical well-being to your emotional and spiritual states. Seriously ill people, for example, have a lot of black in their auras. People in abusive relationships have the same, depressed people too. If you don’t fit into any of these categories—and you say you don’t—then something else is draining your aural energy. Tell you what, you go home and think about it. I’ll do some research, and then you come back and we’ll see if we can’t figure this out. If all else fails, I can always do an aural cleanse.”

  Martin chuckled. “Is that painful?”

  “It’s a lot easier than that other cleanse. Now come on.” Zena took Martin by the arm and led him out to his waiting friends. “Stay in touch and we’ll figure this out.” Nodding, Martin left the b
uilding and joined his friends who were all piling into the van.

  “What did she say to you?” Not waiting for Martin to answer, Susan rushed on. “She told me that soon I was going to meet someone important. And listen, Nancy’s supposed to be having a baby this year, and John will be getting his heart’s desire within the next six months!”

  “Wow.” Martin twirled his index finger again. “I feel cheated. I only learned that I have a brown aura.”

  “Oh?” Nancy called from the front seat. “What does that mean?”

  Martin laughed. “Means I’m boring.”

  * * *

  When Martin got home the phone was ringing. “Hello?”

  “There you are! I was getting worried.” Ellen sighed. “Where’ve you been?”

  “Sorry, El. I didn’t think you’d have time to call.”

  “Well I had a few minutes and thought you’d be home after work. How’re you feeling? You were so tired when I left this morning.”

  “I had reason to be, you wore me out.” Martin smiled as he thought of the hasty coupling that morning. Ellen’s laugh was husky on the other end, and he could hear the noise of the convention in the background.

  “So where were you?”

  “Oh, I let Nancy and Susan drag me to a psychic.”

  “A psychic? Really?” Ellen’s voice rose with excitement. “That’s fantastic, Martin! I’m so proud of you! What did they say?”

  “Some silly stuff about my aura and such.” He would have continued but there was an announcement over a loudspeaker drowning out the conversation.

  “Listen, hon, I’ve got to go; the keynote speaker is starting. I love you! We’ll talk tomorrow. Take care.” And she was gone. Martin smiled and shook his head. Life with Ellen was just like that phone call. Short bursts of enthusiasm and then she was gone.

  Wandering into the living room, Martin sighed at the clutter atop Ellen’s desk. Where Martin liked things tidy, Ellen was a bit of a slob, with her desk always a disaster. She wrote horror novels for a living and when she was writing, researching, or plotting, the work consumed her. She was up all night sometimes, plugging away at her PC. Once, Martin had even caught her sleeping there, with her head pillowed on an arm.