Mixing spooky with sexy… For me that’s a cocktail so delicious that it often proves quite irresistible and, as an author, it also allows me to indulge in some of my darkest fantasies.
So when the nights begin to get longer and the dark comes early along with foggy evenings and the scents of fires being lit, it’s nice when emails from editors start filtering in with requests for Halloween stories for their October anthologies.
Being a lady of certain years, shall we say, and well past the spring chicken stage of life, I grew up on Hammer re-runs in our local Odeon on Sunday nights, and there was always a certain thrill in the way that old Jimmy Sangster movies used to mix men with hairy chests with large-breasted women in diaphanous nightgowns and copious buckets of blood. (What can I say, I’m weird and I know it!)
Of course, I’ve always been into weird cinema where they love to put the erotic hand-in-hand with the forces of darkness, and there’s been a big helping of sexiness in the weirdos who slide out from under our beds when the lights go out at night from the silent-era German expressionists onwards. Just Google Conrad Veidt as the Somnambulist if you’re feeling horny some dark sleepless night, and you’ll see what I mean! And, oh, Bela Lugosi’s eyes as Dracula… Sorry, Robert Pattinson, you’re a beautiful boy but you just don’t have those eyes, oh those eyes… [Slaps self in face to regain composure.]
Anyway, you get what I’m saying. Dark and sinister, sexy, it’s a foregone conclusion. Plus erotic horror gets to be that little bit darker than ordinary work-a-day erotica too!
So, to this end, I thought I’d treat you all to a little excerpt from one of my spine-chillers (though it will –hopefully – effect some other parts of your anatomy too!) – a naughty little piece of surrealism called First Blood that goes off into all sorts of forbidden places. Here’s the blurb:
World War II England. A voluptuous girl is led from her towering iceberg-like mansion while the midnight sky is aflame with the sound of bombs and gunfire. Taken across a gleaming black lake she is left bound, naked, to a tombstone, waiting for whatever is roaming the derelict island cemetery to slake its lust…
“A darkly Gothic tale which skilfully combines the macabre with the erotic, resulting in a ghoulish exploration of taboo sexuality that will make even the coldest blood boil.”
It’s available as part of my two-story collection called Crimson Velvet and I’m pleased to say that my wonderful publishers have several copies of this to give-away. Just “like” my Erotic Fairy Tales Facebook page
( https://www.facebook.com/eroticfairytales?ref=br_tf ) and I’ll send you one on!
Here’s a little excerpt for you:
But my hungers, far from being appeased, only became magnified ten-fold from my constant masturbation and I yearned constantly for the touch of another’s flesh, the hot sweet juices of an excited pussy all over my face as my lover buried her tongue deep inside my sopping slit.
And then one morning I discovered my power.
My family had lived on our land for millennia, constantly rebuilding our stately homes as fashion dictated. We owned the valley in which we abided and the salt water lake that gleamed in front of us. We owned the hills behind us and the fields in the plain and the wooded slopes and meadows beyond our hills. More importantly, we owned all the people who lived here and worked for us too, the servants, the farmers, even the officious estate stewards who still exercised my long-dead father’s hunter in the frost-kissed parklands each winter dawn.
Thus when Rose came to my room with my tea that morning I asked her to undress for me.
I was trembling as I spoke the words, fearful and uncertain still of my power, but she simply looked at me from beneath her long lashes and nodded.
“Is there any special way that you would like me to disrobe, Madam?” she asked, a slight tremble to her voice as her fingers toyed with the pearl buttons on her blouse, her little breasts pert beneath the shimmering white silk.
And I knew that I should strip her slowly and savour the moment, like a fine French confection constructed from layer upon fragile layer of spun sugar and filo pastry, peel her garments from her like the petals of a warm artichoke dripping in butter. And yet I could not. I was like a starving man before a banquet, a carnivore with the scent of blood in my nostrils, and I just wanted to throw myself upon her and taste the salt of her cunt.
And so I told her to lift her skirt and pull her panties down, and, to my astonishment, she obeyed wordlessly, her fingers tremulous as she drew the stiff black material up, quickly turning it inside-out and pulling it over her heaving little breasts, standing there breathing heavily as my eyes ate her up.
I had expected her to be wearing cami-knickers like my own, loose and silky, but instead she had on a pair of tight snowy white cotton interlock panties, the thin fabric glued to her frame like a second skin with a deep indentation at the crotch, like a camel’s foot.
“Do you want me to pull my pants right down or just flip them over?” she asked. She should have been wearing stockings but the war had all but stopped the production of nylons and I knew that she was saving the only pair she had left for dinner time, her utility white suspenders hanging nakedly over the bleached cotton of her underpants.
“Turn them inside out and then pull them down to your knees, so that you cannot run away,” I managed to blurt out and she immediately obeyed, denuding herself for me.
At first I thought that she had shaved herself, but then I realised that her cunt was just as hairy as mine except that her silky vixen fur was so fine and blonde that it was almost white, like a snowdrift, her big deep slit like a chasm, all her pink low slung labia clearly visible.
“Am I what you imagined, Madam?” she asked in a low tremulous voice, touching herself.
“How do you know that I imagined?” I countered, eating her up with my eyes and inhaling her scent.
“Because I take your silken undergarments when they are still warm each night and press them to my face and breathe in your desire, and I imagine kissing your hot and hairy cunt and feeling your tongue in mine,” she whispered, then added respectfully, “Madam.”
I was speechless for a second before I managed to gasp, “Come here.”
Vanessa de Sade is a forty-something full-figure gal who likes to write hot stories about real women exploring the darker regions of their own sexuality. She is a regular contributor to anthologies, plus is the author of the solo story collections Black & White Movies; Nude Shots; In the Forests of the Night and Tales from a Tangled Bush.