Beaten black and blue, the girls told me this was occasionally part of the job,
that some Johns got off on the violence and that I’d better find a way to deal with it
if I wanted to maintain clientele. I bought extra concealer, darker foundation to cover
the ink blots on my body, but no amount of powder or liquid skin could disguise
the pain on my chest, my arms, my thighs. I hated this weak, rag doll costume, despised the way they’d come when I screamed, when I flinched, when I bled, and so the next time they hit me, I hit them back. And some of them never got up.
<<====>>
AUTHOR’S STORY NOTE
Brothel is an erotic horror collection that straddles the line between pain and pleasure, sex and death. I wanted to write an assortment of poems that stimulated the reader, just as much as it frightened them, not just for the sake of repulsion, but rather to show readers that the relationship between arousal and fear is thinner than we might think. These poems are war cries to those who have been abused, who have been broken and beaten, or who have ever felt out of place in their own bodies and minds. Brothel takes off the patriarchal blindfold and shows that women aren’t victims; it reveals that sexuality is fluid and not taboo; and most importantly, it shows what happens when the body and spirit has been pushed to the brink of exhaustion, and has no choice left but to fight back to survive.
COMING OF THE DARKULA
ANDREW DARLINGTON
From Literotica: Sci-Fi & Fantasy
______
There’s movement, from the floors below. So she’s pacing on the raw stalks of nerves.
Strange days. Scared of what every sound portends. Been sealed up here for a month, keeping the mad world at bay. Keeping to shadows. But she steps out into the stairwell, in her white leatherette jacket, cinched at the waist, black stretch-pants and high-heel boots. She steals a glance down, sniping glimpses past the dust, the garbage and the giant bug carapace. There are figures moving in and out of shadows. Three men, no four. But yes, they are men. Can’t be sure these days.
Out beyond the skyline of city blocks the mauve radiation-glow shimmers across the river. Watch the skies. Between the stars, pinpoints of light flit and dance. Since the coming of the Darkula you hide from the sky. And the empty streets below are ghost-haunted by rad-mutants, and others. Those warp-infected by alien microbes. A distant explosion climbs the sky, roiling a deluge of vivid flame.
Stand still. Let them see you. They’re pointing up at you. One of them climbing the stairwell towards you. An impulse to turn and hide. Fight the terror. Wait. As he gets closer, you can see he’s tall and bearded. A soft denim hat. And a high-velocity rifle slung over his arm. The others stumble up behind him, they’re armed too. The man-tall creature-shell is precariously skewed, furred with mildew, its interior liquefied to green slime. The man halts on the level directly below, squints past its segmented obstruction, and looks up.
‘You alone here?’
‘Yes, I’m alone. Been here since it began. Hiding out.’
He visibly relaxes, but stays alert. Flattens against the wall as he lopes up the last stairs. Brushes past her. Kicks open the door and levels the rifle at no-one.
It’s only then he fully eases. ‘I’m John Roxton Lord. You got supplies here?’
She shakes her head. ‘I’m Grace. I did have supplies. Stockpiled it ready. But I’ve been here a month. There’s not a lot left. You’re welcome to what little I’ve got.’
When he makes to move into her apartment, she follows him. Heavy drapes curtain across the windows. The TV is dead. He sits on the chair arm. Three more guys file in behind him. An eager younger kid, maybe nineteen, heads for the kitchen and begin ransacking the freezer. Tries the faucets. No water, of course. An older paunchy guy slouches off his cap and mops his sweaty forehead with it. She watches them warily. The fourth guy stands at the door, covering the stairwell, in case this is a trap.
‘So where is everybody? Your partner. Your family.’
She pouts. ‘Don’t want to talk about that … There were four of us after it hit, after everyone else fled. That bug attacked and we managed to kill it. But one guy was wounded, got sick. They had to put him down. Eventually, my other friends, Rael and Miko, they ventured out, scavenging for supplies, and never returned. I’m guessing they were killed. Can’t be sure. But there’s only me. Where exactly are you making for?’
Roxton looks up at her. ‘Earthfort. It’s a military stronghold upriver from here. Two, three days away.’
‘I heard something about that on TV, when there was TV, before it went down.’ She laughs bitterly. ‘Is it real?’
‘We’ve gotta believe it’s real. A bunker. A consolidation centre, to organise and strike back. Rico here …’ he indicates the youth, ‘he’s a smart boy, he’s wired a solar-nav which picks up signal-guides.’
‘Will you take me with you?’
He glances this way and that. ‘Sorry, can’t do that. It’s hazardous out there, we cover each other’s backs. You’d slow us down. You stay here, where it’s safe, until things normalise.’
‘You’re a liar. You think things will normalise? This is it. It’s not gonna get any better. Not yet. Not for a long time. If ever. These are shit days. And I can’t stay here. Like I say, food’s about gone. I’d starve.’
‘Sorry. You’re safer here. We can’t take you.’
‘You must.’
The young guy—Rico, comes back. ‘Truth. Nothing here, nothing.’
The porky man turns, makes to leave.
‘Wait, you can’t go, please. You can’t just leave me here like this.’ She stands to block their path back out onto the landing level. The sky behind her changes colour. Ripples like some vivid aurora borealis effect. That’s the way they arrive, the Darkula, from whatever alien continuum that spawned them. More incoming.
Roxton stands and unhooks his rifle. ‘Look …’
She tenses. Bites her lip. Reaches up to the neckline of her jacket. Opens it slowly. The breasts spilling out are large, the darkly-pigmented nipples squinting slightly outwards. ‘I can be useful to you.’
The porky guys is grinning a big goofy grin now, fresh sweat breaking out across his forehead. ‘Whoo-Eeee. All four of us?’
She smiles in what’s intended to be a beguiling way, her jacket still open. ‘If that’s what you want.’
‘Whaddya say, Roxton?’ he defers to his companion, his attention transfixed on her, eyes never leaving her nipples. A pleading impatience in his whine.
Roxton shrugs. ‘It’s not for me to oppose, if that’s the collective decision, Randall.’
Randall grins. He heads off across the suite, shoves the bedroom door opens, turns and beckons. She hesitates for less than a moment, before submissively following him. Once inside, he looks around the confined space, there are sliding mirrored wardrobe panels, plush mauve-patterned floral duvet, a spill of old glossy style magazines.
‘Randall, how do you want me?’
‘You sure you’re OK with this?’
‘If it’s what you want.’
‘Then on your knees, Babe, on your knees.’ He’s less confident than he tries to make out. Unfastening his pants, fingers fumbling the zip as she squats down, compliantly. Shuffles closer towards her, angling a fat uncut cock in at her face. She looks up at him just once, a derisive smirk on her face. She opens her mouth, and devours his cock in one slurpy gulp. He flinches, his head shocks back as she sucks hard. Her head burrows deeper into his groin, dark hair fanning out across her shoulders, a tent to conceal what she’s doing. He can scarce believe. Her tongue on him, her lips tight around him, her warm moistness pulsing along the length of him. She moves her head a little side to side, up and down only slightly, keeping him inside her mouth so she can work. The hint of teeth on his glans, an excruciating pleasure. He bites his lip and whimpers. He can’t hold back. Can’t control. His legs are water. His buttocks clench so hard. He groans, and shoot
s into her. A gurgling slobbery sound …
The air is electric. Rico watches from the door, leaning up against the jamb. A big grin splitting the dark features of his slightly skin-pocked face. He swaggers across, unzipping, flipping out a long thin cock. As Randall withdraws and steps back on shaky legs, Rico replaces him. His cock sliding easily between her lips and into her mouth. She sucks at him. He stands with his legs parted, like he’s taking a long piss. ‘She’s lush, ain’t she, Randall? Huh—whaddya think?’
Randall slumps back, makes a lazy waving gesture, as though drained. Rico runs his hand through her hair as she tunnels her head into his groin, then pulls her back off him and up. ‘Pants off, girl, on the bed.’
She wipes her mouth luridly with the back of her hand. Slips her jacket off and carefully drapes it across the chair. Leans up against the bed to reach down and pull off the left boot, then the right. Hitches her thumbs under the waistband of her black stretch-pants, and skims them down and off in a single fluid motion. Her skin is pale. A neat patch of pubic hair is jet black, the upper opening of her pussy clearly visible as she lounges back across the mauve floral duvet. Rico struggles his own tight jeans off, then launches in between her splayed legs, brandishing his saliva-glistening cock like a weapon. He nuzzles it around the soft wetness, locates her cunt, and eases his cockhead in. She arches her back, and he drives in up to the balls. She gasps audibly, and his buttocks start pumping above her.
The third guy, L’Estrada, has left his post guarding the outer level, props his machine-pistol up against the wall, and now stands watching. He’s fiddling with his belt buckle.
‘Yeah-yea,’ yells Rico as he slams into her. ‘You ready, Grace? You ready for it. Yeah-yea, here it comes … !’ He buries in deep. They can see his bare arse clenching. He gives out one long low exhalation. L’Estrada shuffles in behind him, as Rico pulls out of her, he slides his cock in. Her legs spread as wide as they’ll go, she grunts as he enters her. She lies on her back, breathing heavily with every thrust, biting her lip in defiant concentration. L’Estrada lasts a little longer. He slows to a halt, rests inside her, then speeds up again. They can catch the rich fug of her arousal on the air. Hear the squelch of juices, the slap of flesh on flesh. She makes a little mewling noise as he cums inside her.
He withdraws and stuffs his softening cock back into his pants. The three men hang together, catching their breath. As Roxton enters they intercept his stern gaze, and file back out into the lounge, leaving the two together. He’s been raiding the bathroom cabinet. He carries a dispenser of perfumed oil. He indicates to her, a switching gesture with his hand. She catches his meaning, and turns over, into a crouch, lifting the rounded curves of her ass towards him. He moves close, loosening his pants with one hand, pouring oil into the valley between her buttocks with the other. His fingers follow its dribbling path down, seeking out the puckered anal aperture, massaging the oil around in wide circles, then smaller circles, smoothing it into the tight opening, his lubricated finger dipping in. He spills more oil, works it in, his finger dipping further in, opening and easing.
His cock is out, in his hand. He applies oil down its length, masturbates up and down until it glistens. Then he applies the oily glans to the primed butt-hole. She braces. He applies slight pressure. There’s tight resistance. He forces a little more. She relaxes her muscles as best she can, to receive him, then gasps as the cockhead opens her. Then he’s inside, beyond the sphincter ring, sliding deeper. His hands hold her hips, nudging in, slipping up into her. He fucks in and out, dribbling oil. His pace increases. She’s tight and deep, convulsing warm around him, the flesh of her buttocks rippling as he slams in at the point of maximum penetration. He doesn’t last long, until she feels the kick inside, the sudden warm deluge. He doesn’t utter a sound, but stays inside her for a long moment, before slowly pulling out.
Roxton glances down at his solar watch. ‘It’s late now. We stay here tonight, start out in the morning, OK?’ She settles back on her heels, naked, reaching up to tease her hair back into shape. Her smile is aloof, satisfied. She’s taken all four of them. They’re tired and beat. She’s triumphed. She’s in control. She lies back on the bed. Roxton returns to the lounge and stretches out on the couch. Randall takes the chair, pulls his peaked cap low over his face. Rico and L’Estrada alternate lookout duties, pacing from window to window, checking the door and the landing beyond. The night is uneventful.
Roxton leads the way down at first light, Rico and L’Estrada a step behind him, covering him. Grace and Randall bring up the rear. Past the bug carapace. The street beyond is empty, a low breeze blowing garbage where grass and weed is already bursting up through asphalt. A flurry of birds rise and swoop. Rico consults his solar-nav, and indicates a direction. They set off up the slight incline. There are two autowrecked vehicles collided at an intersection, the crumpled bodywork already rusting. The group feel exposed as they cross beneath the hostile open sky, until swallowed by sheltering shadows on the far side.
There are grotesque lumbering shapes down a sudden alleyway. Six of them, hideously deformed, they switch dulled diseased attentions around and lurch forward towards Roxton’s group. Infected by alien spores that settle and germinate inside their bodies, there’s no cure and no immunity. L’Estrada lines his machine-pistol and takes the first one, its head exploding like overripe fruit. Rico guns the second down. They set up a wall of lethal fire. They slither forward with no awareness or fear, crumpling down into twitching heaps of spasming limbs.
Roxton’s group move on. A brilliant sphere of light, a captive sun spins down between high city-blocks. They shelter inside a looted store as it hovers just above the highway surface, too bright to look at directly. It moves slowly along the central reservation, as though questing. It’s brilliant luminosity casting flickering shadows. Soundlessly it hovers away into the distance, until it’s safe to emerge. Darkula … ? A new species. A parasite or slave species? Who knows?
Roxton runs his eyes up and down Grace’s figure. Her white leatherette jacket zipped low so her cleavage is full. ‘Those boots,’ he says, ‘they’re not safe for travel. You can’t run in heels like that. You gotta change them.’ She pouts.
Randall glances around the smashed glass storefronts lining the street. ‘Department store across the way. We could try in there.’ She nods, and he leads the way inside. The others wait outside as he forces the door, an accumulation of grit and weed slowing him. Inside, the light is low, but shafts of illumination pick out displays of women’s fashion garments and designer gowns. She walks down the aisles, picking clothes at random, holding them against herself, checking for length. The elevator is dead, naturally. On the next floor there are shoes and heavy-duty hiking boots. She sits down on a low stool and begins trying them on for size.
Randall coughs. She looks up. He’s unfastened his pants and lowered them, his flabby thighs and stubby cock aimed at her. She smiles and looks up at him, ‘Mr Randall, really. You want your cock sucked again?’
‘Well, as I recall, it was part of the agreement.’
‘No worries, come over here.’ He shuffles across to her, she reaches up and takes his cock in her hand, flexing it up and down as it stiffens. She dips her head in and begins mouthing his fat balls, sucking each one into her mouth in turn. Then reaches up to kiss the rubbery cock-tip, and lick it up and down. He groans as her lips close around him and she starts sucking. He holds steady as she works him, his fists clenching and unclenching. His stomach grows and recedes, grows and recedes.
‘Jeez, you’re good.’ His hands come down to seek a way through her deluge of hair, and grip the sides of her head, so he can fuck her mouth. She moves to meet him, timing herself, taking him deep, sucking and tonguing. He moans and curses beneath his breath as the sensations radiate through him from that exquisite point of contact. He flinches, like he’s been kicked in the guts, and jets white fluid into her throat. She gurgles a little, and settles into sucking him some more.
&n
bsp; He draws back, wiping his cock with a handkerchief. ‘I can’t believe you swallow like that.’
She looks up at him, tying the laces of hiking-boots. ‘What do you expect me to do, gargle with it?’
He laughs nervously. ‘No, it’s just that I have no redeeming social values … and before, y’know, no chick’d ever do that for me.’
She shrugs. ‘It’s different now. Everything’s changed, morality is different. Survival is all that matters. We do what we have to do.’ It’s not the answer he wanted. ‘Tell me, what is it about Roxton, what’s his story?’
‘He’s English. We went to public school.’
‘So he fucks me in the ass because he likes to imagine I’m a boy?’
Randall seems agitated. ‘You happy with those boots, yes? Time we wuz going.’
Outside Rico has forced his way into a camper van parked on an adjacent lot. Against the odds, the battery is still charged. He’s jump-started the engine and it purrs into unsteady life. The fuel indicator is at half. They whoop and dance in a circle, like a crazy barn-dance. Roxton stands apart watching them with an amused smirk. The five of them pile in, and Rico drives it unsteadily across the yard, through a smashed wire-mesh gate, and out onto the roadway, picking up speed. Roxton sits in the passenger seat, scanning the sky and the buildings flashing past outside, as the others relax.
They make good time, following blips on Rico’s nav. To emerge on the wharf, looking out across the river. ‘We need to get cross-river at some point. But we have to travel inland a way, so we take the first bridge we get to.’
In the sullen tropical warmth, there are gaudy birds re-colonising the waters, nesting in abandoned warehouses since the city depopulated. There are supposed to be wolves too, and deer in the park, spilling out through walkways and precincts into empty shopping malls. Europe is gone. Transfigured into a methane rainforest of tubular purple growths, altering the global climate. The caliphate chain-nuked a thirty-mile-wide corridor to halt its spread, then began plague-dying due to rad-polluted rivers. Until the last com-link went down. Now, no-one knows. The group turn and follow the road-grid parallel to the river, moving inland. They stop at a couple of gas stations, without results. The third one still has a tank of gas from which they top up the camper van, and move on. There are bridge-towers ahead which they zero towards.
Year's Best Hardcore Horror Volume 2 Page 16