Monday, 2 May 2016

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a filthy excerpt for your entertainment!

Since I've been deep in some gruesome territory for the last few weeks writing a horror story, I think today I'll get it all out of my system and post an excerpt from my story "Montague's Last Ride". It appeared in my very first story collection, Cruel Enchantment, way WAY before zombie erotica was ever a Thing, and it is really horror-erotica. I even read it out loud at the World Horror Convention some years back. 

Bored, masochistic gentlewoman Cecilia has sort-of-inadvertently tempted family ancestor the rakish Lord Montague back from his grave...

Lord Montague stood near the foot of her bed. Cecilia forgot to breathe.

She could see that he had once been more than handsome; he wore the rags of his beauty as he wore the torn trousers and the loose, yellowed linen shirt. His hair was dark and fell to his shoulders like a gleaming shadow, his cheekbones were high, his shoulders broad over a lithe body and narrow hips. But his burial clothes did little to hide the terrible wiry thinness of his limbs, or the discoloured skin stretched tight as parchment over jutting collarbones, or the long narrow hands with their yellowed nails. and  - he had no eyes. Blackened pits gaped at her turning his face into a mask.

For a moment that could not be measured - for both breath and heartbeat seemed to have deserted Cecilia - they faced each other down the length of the bed, both perfectly motionless. Then she opened her mouth and gave a terrible choking gasp. But at that he began to walk round towards her, and the cry she might have uttered died in her throat. A clutch of cold gripped her entire body like a straitjacket and she could not stir from where she knelt. The action of walking transformed Lord Montague from a simple corpse, an object of disgust, to something much worse. The horror of it hit her like glory; he was beyond mere revulsion.

He did not move like a living man - he was too stiff, unused to the motion. His bare feet clicked on the polished floorboards. Cecilia shut her eyes briefly, but opened them when he stopped before her. Her next shuddering breath brought the sweet carrion stink of him to her nostrils. She noted without thought that beneath the stained cravat knotted about his throat, the bruises of his hanging could still be glimpsed, torn and livid.

He inclined his head towards her.

Slowly she reached out with one hand and touched his chest, just where skin and cloth met at the deep neckline of his shirt. He was cold, and his skin slightly damp to the touch., like old leather left out in the rain.  There was no rise and fall to his ribs. Cecilia whimpered deep in her throat and very gently Lord Montague raised one hand to brush and then cup her cheek. She shut her eyes, leaning into the chill of his brittle fingers. Her own hand slid down the front of his shirt, felt the tightness of the abdominal skin and the suggestion of writhing movement beneath it. A dark wave of dizziness threatened to drown her. Struggling above it like a woman fighting a rough sea, she opened her eyes wide, raised her head, and did not flinch even when his face descended upon hers and their lips met.

He stank of death. He tasted of death. Breathing deeply, she found she could not support herself any longer; all the strength seemed to have ebbed from her. She sank helpless down from her kneeling position, back against the pillows, and watched dreamily as his hands traced the outline of her breasts. One by one he undid the the little white bows down the front of her nightdress, exposing her plump breasts. His hands were so cold; her nipples leaped at once under their icy caress and became hard as pebbles. He cupped her in his skeletal grasp and bent to tug one stiff pink nipple lightly in his teeth. She moaned and writhed under the horror and the pleasure. Her hips moved in blind circles. She brushed his dark hair with one hand, felt something wriggle away from her palm, and did not care. His touch was torment.

"Oh God," she whispered as he pulled and rolled her flesh between the leathery bones of his fingers. The coldness within her was giving way to a terrible, melting heat; her sex was all liquid fire and desperate need. When he released her she began to sob.

His hand  went then to her nightdress and the fabric tore like wet paper beneath them. He bared her down the entire length of her body, seemed to contemplate the sight, and then traced that path across her skin with his fingertips, cracked nails scoring pink lines upon her. His touch reached her pubic mound, the rough hair of her secret flesh. Cecilia swallowed her last gasp, froze, and then opened her thighs to him. his fingers slipped into wetness.

Her eyes pleaded. She lifted her arms to her ancient lover.

He stooped to her. The rotted cloth of his trousers ripped under his nails. She felt the cold, hard length of his embrace, the push of his thighs parting hers, the icy length of his slippery member sliding between her hot inner lips. She wrapped her legs around his thrusting hips and groaned aloud with pleasure, clawing at his back. His flesh disintegrated under her nails and she felt the bare bones of his spine against her fingertips, but it did not slow him or give him pause in his terrible quest. The appetite that had brought him back from the grave overmastered everything. Not death, not damnation, not the collapse of his earthly flesh could hold him back.

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