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The Cozy Spot



10 posts categorized "erotic horror"

November 11, 2007

Honey, Sweetie, Cutie Pie - erotic horror

All great love affairs honeymoon for a short period of time. I have been unable to locate a reliable statistic; all I know is that all honeymoons come to an end. The end may vary, and it is all but a story, or a theatrical play; the curtain must come down, and if the other party is reluctant to bring it down, one must become…what’s the word. Yes, the operative word in the 21st century is proactive.

Proactive…Don't you love it? A true 21st Century word, that implies dynamism.

Like our first encounter in the mall, in the vicinity of cheapie emporium where I shopped for socks, and he remarked on my choice after systematically observing my limbs, ‘he must have big feet!’ he remarked, and I knocked him sideways with a lance-like glare:

“I like them big…humongous, in fact.”

The fact that I was receiving an intimate massage by a fine pair of steel Geisha balls added pep to my verve, creaming me up from within. He searched for an assistant, any one who would conveniently offer assistance or stopper the blood coursing through his cock. Shopping here is like navigating the Sahara solo; you can keel over and die, and no one will assist you.

“Are you big?”

I thought I’d slay him in the underwear aisle. Why not? I’d finished a hard day. It was Monday, and there was hope…just as well we mortals carry hope…

“I’m Declan…and I’d like to have coffee with you.”

I knew I’d hit a jackpot when his eyes responded, saying other things: ‘sure thing, honey snatch, cuddle pot, and fucktoy.’

People obsess about extraterrestrials, and alien civilization; sexual desire opens up a galaxy within the eyes. Pupils dilate, and the remaining mortals, or innocent bystanders, may as well burn on pyres. I don’t think the piquant odor of burning flesh is sufficient to quell the crimson tide that pulses in the groin. Others are butthole surfers, but I prefer the soul. The eyes mirror the emotional spectrum. I couldn’t wait to get him home. We stopped for a coffee at Donut King, and he remarked on my lush appetite. I figured he was in the game for other things. A few donuts weren’t going to put him off his game.

Our bodies, infused with primordial desire, ransacked the house of Love. His mouth played mine; the wondrous flute tickled my lips. Its sweet song drenched my tongue, and his cock drew no quarter. It pummeled, tenderizing my cunt; the fiery residue, after the first climax, added fuel to the ongoing bonfire. We rested, and commenced anew, like a fresh lust crazed couple; our bodies twisted and shook, and his fingers rivaled Sir Edmund Hilary, doing devious things to my peaks. I squealed a couple of times, tits aflame.

We began in this fashion; did I tell you the other? He was a theatrical director…

Don’t you adore theatrical types?

I didn’t over analyze in the beginning, well not to the extent his therapist did.

“You have a therapist?” I asked, incredulous at his revelation. He gazed at me, equally incredulous. His pretty blue eyes widened.

“You don’t have one?”
“Are we supposed to have matching therapists?”

His therapist approved. Just as well!

We continued to fuck; we christened every room we could think of, including his office. His antique leather chair squeaked and squawked as he gave it to me good. I called him Daddy. It made him happy, and it had more naughty elements than Photoshop; I returned to the museum, floating along the way; I gloated at the stuffy assistants who lusted after a bit of cock; I thought of directing them to my director, and snickered.

It was so wonderful; we enjoyed snow cones, and cut work to fuck in ratty motels; he’d spank, finger and trek through his dirty lexicon, giving me a guided tour of my body, ‘I’ll poke that wet slit, sweet lips. Open up, and suck my cock…’

And then the finance came through for Macbeth…

“Another version? How many are there?” I told him, feeling somewhat foolish considering…
“It’s a classic. It doesn’t matter…I’ve got the woman for the ghastly role.”
“D’you think Lady Macbeth is ghastly? In today’s world she could be…” I listed a few known celebrities, those who’d won roles, and who were portrayed as pretty innocent virgins in the press. It was his fault; he’d reveal all the gossip before Defamer greeted the new day.

He did…does make me incredibly wet. I like his black theatrical do; he’d finish a show, return home, and sneak in the house like a burglar –as we’d planned- tie me up, and lick me to oblivion, topping it off with a clear taunt: ‘Do you want it? Tell me how much…this much?’ and I’d feel the nettle slap against my bare flesh.

I came on demand…

Act I, Scene I

She gazed at him, he gazed at her, “That’s all for now,” his eyes lit up and I knew she bagged the role. Bitch. She transformed into a vampire overnight, as most do: anything to please the director.

His cock would be halfway inside, and the phone would ring…theatrical types. “I do need to answer it now that we’re in production darl…”

Sure, I’d say.

Sure, and an hour would elapse, and I’d relent, to fuck myself with a battery operated cock.

It was all about Declan; he knew I’d worked at the museum. His only visit involved him waiting on the top step. He wasn’t into former life forms, as he’d call them. It was, ‘yuck,’ and unnecessary.

“It’s an art Declan. Taxidermy is beneficial. It offers three dimensions, besides its not like we all go hunting on an English estate, orgasming over a pack of hounds chasing a fox…”

“Sport for the inbred…”

“Why are we talking about this?”

Then he’d resurrect his therapist. His therapist said…

He needed a break but he couldn’t have a break (the production). How was his relationship? Fine, as fine as it can be…what does that mean? Fine as it can be. What the fuck is that?

I knew what it meant after the first lot of late rehearsals.

I knew what it meant when I’d pick up the house phone for the person on the other side to ring off – at three in the fucking morning!

I attended the premiere, to see the wench drool over Declan; ‘Declan, can I speak to you alone? Thank you, darling…’ and her eyes would travel to me, spiking me with ‘see darling, I’m better than you,’ venom. She owned Sharon Stone…funny how I forget Lady Macbeth’s name…I must have blocked it out. Never mind, it will come…

The sex stopped. If I were a film director I’d say that it stopped with Deep Impact tenacity; one impact, and life – as I knew it – as gone. It evaporated. He’d return home, and creep into bed like a teenager. Four weeks. The sun climbed through the clouds the day Macbeth ended; the Broadway run was over. Declan, overwrought with stress, took a breather at the request of his therapist. Fucking therapists. I’d told him countless times, in a sweet offhand way of course; ‘don’t you want to go away for the weekend? We can go to the Hamptons…what about Bermuda?

“I’ll stick through it…” his downcast eyes would implore his cereal for some finite piece of wisdom; his therapist was God.

Everything rolled over, and one fell out the morning Miss Precious announced her upcoming starring role in a Spielberg epic. Have to fly darling. My agent will pay you out Declan. No hard feelings Declan…

Declan followed his therapist’s advice; honesty is the best policy. If you’re a guilty turd, confess. Why not? Catholics do it, and if God can forgive them, then why not your partner when you’ve screwed all three orifices of another woman?

“We had an affair….”

Music to my ears; it was a Beethoven moment. Declan watched his prized Faberge egg crash against his Basquiat.

“My painting!” he waved his arms in the air like a fruity lead.
“Never mind your painting…you’re lucky I didn’t aim for your prick!”
“Y-You’re angry now…”
“Did you expect me to be happy? Introspective…no wait…Philosophical? I suppose your therapist will find something to pin on me…maybe I didn’t listen to you when you’ve hardly been here, and were busy exploring Hollywood cunt!”
“Please…darling.”
“Maybe I didn’t give you enough blowjobs? What will the doctor’s verdict be?”
“He’s been my therapist for a decade….if you’re suggesting I dump him…”
“Here’s a suggestion: you can fuck him. You can have a cozy relationship with your therapist…Look at you, how you refer to him. If you dump him. Did I request this?”
“Not in so many words,” his eyes narrowed.
“I’m going to pack my bags…”
“Where are you going?”
“Back home…you’re way too New York for me…”

Some relationships die instantly, while others take eons…

Our mutual friends gathered round. It was as though someone was terminally ill. They fretted, advised, and some suggested shopping marathons. I didn’t need a new Hermes handbag. I needed an honest man. Declan was too airy-fairy. I got what I deserved. ‘But I invested so much!’ some said. So what, I’d reply. Tycoons experience downturns by the day; I wasn’t a millionaire, but I wasn’t poor, at least not of mind and that’s what counts…

Relationships can take eons…ours did.

We went through the recovery period; it was like a twelve step program.

“My name is Declan, and I’m a cad.”

“My name is Felicia and I’m a doormat…” or so I pretended.

We endeavored…or struggled to fuck one balmy night. His hand crawled over my stomach like a hermit crab; he eased his way across, his eyes imploring me to open up, relax and go with the moment…

But his fingers were stained…with her cunt.
I thought I was going mad.

I can smell it…

It was a pure Unbearable Lightness of Being moment…

I can smell her cunt in your hair.
I can taste her cunt on your lips.
I bet her flavor coats your cock…

I turned over. Declan sighed. I awoke to a full English breakfast and his suggestion to get out of this hellish city.

“Sounds good. I’d have to get time approved…” I lied. I’m the head of my department…Declan never bothered to ask…it was all about his curtain calls, rehearsals, castings…cock…not necessarily in that order.

That morning, I visited the botanical department as a refresher. I also visited my storage container; I’d need reading material for the trip. We decided on a road trip, the classic rite of passage. Declan, thrilled with being my guide, prepared for his role. He bought maps, and planned itineraries.

“What does your therapist think?”
“I haven’t seen him…”
“What?”
“It’s been two weeks,” he smiled sheepishly, waiting for my verdict. I continued loading the SUV and smiled.
“What’s this?”
“My things.”
He gazed at the hefty leather valise, and groaned.
“It’s heavy…do you need it?”
“I’m a girl…I need everything,” ever so cheerful, I smiled and presented my cheek for his lips.
“I’m so glad we’re taking this trip…it’s what we need…”

Until you cast another Hollywood harlot in your next adaptation, prick. Hamlet, Othello…take your pick, there’s plenty to choose from.

We drove for two days, arriving at a cute little cottage. Out of the way, and rather intimate, it featured an open fire (the cliché fuck) and a fully equipped kitchen. It was as I unpacked our things that I spied a small velvet box. Tiffany. How sweet! I’d have to be dense to accept such a proposition…

I’d planned it down to the last detail, pride welling up within my brain. Mother said she was proud when I aced my examinations; when my IQ score returned, she almost keeled over. Felicia, where do you get it? Wow…

180 is pretty good…but I’m down to earth; Mensa didn’t interest me…I like the simple life.

“Tea…darling?”
“Is there any beer, sweetheart?”

Darling-sweetheart…what had we become?

“No, honey…but this blend is wonderful. Relaxing…I was told that it has aphrodisiac qualities.”

Declan laughed.
Laugh buddy, that’s right…kack your pants…

He sipped as I unbuttoned.

“I’ll spill it.”
“Okay…but take it in the bedroom…honey,” I ripped open my button fly.

Some things in life are like a Band Aid…you have to rip it off and let nature take its course…

“F-Fe…ughhh…”

He gurgled a little, and I groaned aloud, hoisting the rest of him on the bed.

“Are you all right, pork chop?”
He winced.
“Cutie Pie?”
“W-What’s wrong…with…you…”
“Sweetie? Me?”

What would your therapist say now?

“W-What…tea…my legs…”

He couldn’t move that much…and all movement would cease in a matter of hours.

“Hemlock, pumpkin.”
His lips parted.
“Hemlock, the potion that silenced Socrates…”

His eyes traveled to my valise. I proceeded to unpack its contents.

“That’s for you…for later. I’m getting myself setup…”

I’d call it horrific, but it didn’t have the pomp and emotional outbursts of Misery. All right, the clang of stainless steel instruments did add a certain chill to the fragrant air, but I didn’t need a baseball bat or sledge hammer, to terrify the fuck out of him…

“I know what you’re thinking, sweetie. Your therapist hasn’t seen you for weeks on end, and the last time you saw him you were agonized…our intimate friends are aware of your illicit affair with Lady –Gonorrhea-Macbeth, thank you for giving me the clap by the way…so you see it’s easy. Up and coming director disappears…his devoted fiancée is devastated…his therapist was aware of his unstable condition prior to his disappearance, and his sudden cessation of treatment, coupled to his mysterious cash withdrawal, adds further suspicion. His creditors are awaiting payment…and he’s disappeared…You think they'll really cotton on to the fact that the head taxidermist at the Metropolitan Museum has pickled you?”

Ahh Declan…

“How does that sound Declan? It could be a movie! Better yet, a play. Maybe that clap-trap pussy can play my part…would she weep, you reckon?”

By this time, I was talking to myself…they say that’s the first sign of insanity…

September 27, 2007

Masters of Horror

What's a girl with a cold-flu-sinus hell supposed to do?

If you're a horror freak like me and a Masters of Horror fan: muck about with montages. For all horror fans out there, there's a competition to win Masters of Horror prizes. I'm not eligible to enter due to my Australian status (which sucks), but it was fun to enter anyway, just to make a Masters of Horror Mash. The competition is run in conjuction with Brightcove, and all you have to do is click the links, and use the media provided (video, image, sound) to put together your own mash.

I used clips from the episodes: Jenifer, Dance of the Dead, Fair Haired Child, Dreams in the Witch House (a horrifying HP Lovecraft adaptation), Incident On and Off a Mountain Road, and Pick me Up (not in exact order: Jenifer opens and ends my mash).

The link to it is here, but you can watch it below. But before I forget:

Horror themes, gore, horror...you've been warned:

August 28, 2007

Levator Palpebrae Superioris

Tonight presented a beautiful lunar eclipse, or a blood moon. I watched it from the balcony, wishing I owned a telescope (or a Canon EOS), and at the same time I was caught by the horror muse. Below is a quick story, or quick in the making; a product of the moment.

PS: It's definitely fiction.

Levator Palpebrae Superioris

It rose steadily throughout the day, hidden behind the vivid blue layers of sky, and I didn’t cotton on until much later. I met the day, awoke coated in dampness that I couldn’t link to sexual arousal; quite the contrary.

I faced two policemen, and my arms…

Lord!

Dreams are shreds of subconscious code, dancing from one neuron to the next, one synapse to the other, exploding to offer panoramic views, and emotional spikes that mirror everyday reality. I found myself in a predicament, and as for the origin, I can’t define it much except to say that someone, using an empty nib or needle, decided to write two essays; one on each arm. I became the observer and participant; my arms, covered with lines of cursive strokes, bled profusely. The only things I can recall are the two cops and the blood; vermilion. First stage bleeding; coagulation would arrive much later, but I awoke, gasping for air.

I couldn’t read the bleeding words that were etched on my arms. It was very much like having a tattoo without any ink, the profuse bleeding a product of alcoholic overload; I didn’t drink, not in the dream.

Continue reading "Levator Palpebrae Superioris" »

August 25, 2007

Slut - Aural Fiction

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For those desiring the text version of the above aural story, click below blue highlighted continuation link.

I thought I'd sort of reveal what kind of emotions drift through my head. Text tends to drown it out, adding a literary uniformity that tends to minimize the actual voice. Who knows, I'm thinking of commencing podcasts, instead of the usual type written passage on most days, now that I've downloaded an ace recorder and no longer need the crappy recorder that comes as part of the XP package.

PS: This is what I actually sound like (eek!)

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July 08, 2007

Atelier - fiction

I’ve attempted to construct a bridge to unite the erotic or sexual, with elements of horror or fear. The comic book is a prop in the story, and its importance becomes more pronounced as the story progresses. There is only one word I can use in association with Atelier. Creepy.

~~

He whistled while he sketched. The Acropolis towered over the nefos that plagued the city below; modernity coexisted with antiquity, while the people bustled underneath, often taking the relic for granted. Tourists roamed, and steel cased digital cameras glimmered; their Rockports hugged ancient rocks as their eyes surveyed past millennia. His ears pricked up to tour guides, and the tourist caught his eye. Lagging behind, she rolled her eyes at the small group, and continued to dawdle.

‘It’s a nice day for a tour,’ he said, continuing his tune.

Captured, her curiosity got the better of her.

‘What are you sketching?’ she asked. He hugged his sketchpad protectively.

Drawn, like an iron filing to a magnet, she gazed into his eyes. Blinking, she smiled and gathered her wits. A sensual face, marked with full mouth, his symmetry riveted her to the ancient ground.

'It is unfinished.'

His spoken English laced with a cornucopia of accents, slithered; music to her ears. A definitive change from the posed intonations she’d been accustomed to. His tan confirmed a Mediterranean leaning; white, a predominant shade of summer, swathed his limbs.

‘Are you drawing the Parthenon?’

He shook his head, and presented his surprise. Each flowing line, every precise curve, muffled her voice. She inspected his hands, from the calloused mounds cushioning the base of his digits, to the sinuous stretch of ligaments housed between his metacarpals.

‘Do you live here?’

‘No,’ he said. His mellow and resonant drifted through the air between them like smooth cigarette smoke, as it effortlessly blended with air molecules, to form a symmetrical helix.

‘Tourist?’

‘έτσι και έτσι,’ he replied, his left hand teetering this way and that.

‘So-So?’

‘A little of this, a little of that, and the other.’

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June 04, 2007

The Collector IV (final)

Thought I’d kick off Monday with the final, gruesome instalment of The Collector, which can be found in its own index/page. It has a few themes that I thought necessary for the main character (Samantha) to have, elements that chart her evolution. The Collector was, from its conception, a horror story and it's not for the faint of heart.

~~~

Impressive, there was no other word to describe his robust capacity to endure the sun, and maintain a steady clipping pace. They’d filled two wooden crates, and left them in the center of each row for her to collect at the end of their session.

Crouching, with a half full bottle of water, she watched James straightening up. The moment took on a different air. Samantha likened it to the unknown, that which seeped through the collective conscious of everything; much like a waking dream. Déjà vu.

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April 27, 2007

Eros + Horror

"The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents," - HP Lovecraft (The Call of Cthulhu)

Fear, above most other emotions, galvanizes a person into action. The action, or fight-flight response, hinges on survival and fear, unlike most other emotions, makes one realize one’s own mortality and there is no minimal age for fear. I clearly remember nights where I’d huddle under the bedcovers, terrified to open my eyes or poke my head through the covers lest some monster, or shadow, ended my days; I’d wonder if I’d wake up the next morning, or if I’d safely fall asleep, sleep being relegated to some kind of safety zone in my childish mind, and this all thanks to the horror movies I’d enjoy watching. I just never stopped to consider the period of time after the television was switched off.

By night I’d be seduced by actors like Vincent Price (such a haunting voice) and watch Peter Cushing transform into a dark provocateur, like the shopkeeper who’d knowingly sell evil antiques (pure, unadulterated Hammer House of Horror). Then there was Christopher Lee, seductively blending into the dark as Dracula. All this before I turned ten. Horror, back then, was more about the notion than the gore of today. Contemporary horror, or what is considered horror today, films like the Saw trilogy and Hostel, operate on gore as the prime mover, whereas films of yester-year operated on synergy; gore manifested as blood during pivotal scenes (not overkill), and along with this, the supernatural, folklore, and occult.

After experiencing horror films of then, I moved onto the world of comics and I think that once upon a time horror comics were more popular than horror literature. Comic books were more accessible to me, as a kid, than horror novels. I really didn’t know about horror literature or novels until I was older. I still think Stephen King put horror literature (in terms of worldwide book sales) in its current form, on the map with Carrie in 1974, and is considered a master of contemporary horror for the sheer volume of work he has created. That’s not to dismiss horror legends like H P Lovecraft, and Edgar Allen Poe, but King more or less resuscitated horror literature in our contemporary time; his stories revived horror, and enabled new readers to explore Poe and Lovecraft, to name a few. Horror literature isn’t a core subject in high school curriculums.

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March 23, 2007

The Collector - III

The first two parts are accessible through Categories: The Collector.

The Collector - III

Looking up, ignoring the sun’s crisp glare, she smiled at his wincing face.

‘Going slightly over the forty-five degree mark makes you quiver,’ she maintained her grip. Her knees dug into the earth; she stared at her static hand. ‘You’d like me to continue….like this…’ each dry stroke pained him. Searching his eyes, she locked into his displeasure.

‘So Pavlovian. You’d like me to suck you, but you’re willing to take the second option,’ she said, her mouth widening with each passing second. ‘Does that feel good? No? Too dry…’

‘Then wet it…’ his hands gripped her shoulders, digging into her shoulder blades.

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March 07, 2007

The Collector - II

I was going to apply a few dark shades to the story today, but thought it too early. When the heavy duty stuff comes out, I'll post a pre-emptive warning sign or something and the content will be under the continuation cut.

The Collector - II

Her warm, aching thighs gradually ushered her to consciousness; she sluggishly pushed through a dream, attempted to run, and awoke to the aroma of burnt toast. The odour, long absent, dragged her out of bed; she recalled her last breakfast in the kitchen, balancing on the stool as her brother Roddick hulked over the gas stove. She’d just turned eighteen; they barely knew each other. Roddick returned to sort out the estate after their mother died. Freshly divorced, he relaxed into his role as her sole guardian. It took him little time to promote himself, and fully transform into the Lord of their ramshackle manor.

Grapes_1

She entered the kitchen; James stood, clad in a towel, over the sink.

“What are you doing?” she’d asked.

“Cooking, or trying to. This toaster’s stuffed,” he stood at the sink, scraping the sooty bread.

“Forget it. We’ll eat later; get something at the diner…”

“Meant to ask you…Do you study insects or something? The den’s crawling with butterflies. How long did it take?”

“How long did what take? I’m not an entomologist. It’s a hobby.”

“Just like the coasters, teaspoons, books…Anything you don’t collect?”

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March 05, 2007

The Collector - Fiction (Part I)

I haven’t felt any urges to write pleasurable erotica, not since January anyhow. I’m hoping to continue having fun with Metamorphosis, the contemporary sans Christianity themed vampire story I started last year, but for today I thought of another kind of story. The Collector isn’t a touchy feely story. I’ll tell you from now that it won’t have a nice pretty ending. The sex is as far from the romantic stream that one can get. It’s not erotica, but a story containing sex. The two things that I thought of as I began it were Bluebeard and vineyards.

The Collector - I

The night sky exploded in splashes of quicksilver. Each vein impregnated the sky before knifing the earth. Samantha deeply inhaled, folded her arms across her chest and felt the type of accomplishment one felt after a tumultuous round in bed. Renewed, she turned, and smiled at her visitor, who sat with his back against her timber bed head.

“Better be careful,” she nodded toward the makeshift shelf above his head.Lightning

“It could be dangerous,” the man replied, eyeing the precarious evenly spaced stacks above his head. “They’re in need of a bookshelf.”

“D’you think so?” she raised her right arm, like a game show model. Vanna White meets Samantha Dubois, small town spinster or at least that is what the locals thought. Thirty two, no suitor in sight. What they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt, she thought.

Continue reading "The Collector - Fiction (Part I)" »

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