I felt her hands on either side of my calves, making small indentations. I felt Ariel still breathing beside me. The Other crawled forward, up my indifferent body until she straddled my hips. She sank lower—the cool, fleshy inside of her thighs, the place between her legs warm against my belly.
Breath on my face, scentless, like barely-there wind. But in that moment, I could move again—I could feel—and my hands went instinctively to her sides. Shadowy, yes, but her skin was real and sweet against my hot sweat. Fire started in my blood, racing to my center. I rolled my hips under her, unthinking. Her tongue found mine and she arched her back again, the heat between her legs increasing, pushing at me, ravenous. Her voice echoed in my head, hollow and insubstantial. Goosebumps broke out all over me in spite of the summer heat. She slid her hand beneath my shirt, franticly.
Her fingers searched the round underside of my right breast, then found my nipple. She pinched, and I rolled my hips again, biting back a groan. The soft t-shirt raked against my skin, against the newly hardened tip of my left breast, as I writhed. The sensations were fever-sharp, sending shots of heat and light downward, making me swell. She moved lower, raked her tongue over my nipple, heedless of the shirt and still tweaking the other.
The Other sat up slightly, pushed my shirt up so she could rest one palm flat on my belly. I rolled beneath her, begging, the heat in me overwhelming. She put her free hand between us, inside my underwear, and rubbed at me—not gently, but hard, demanding. I spread my legs, wanting her closer, harder, watching her shadowy elegant body writhe on top of me—the small round breasts that made my mouth water, the roll of her smooth hips, the tightening of her stomach. It happened at least every other night. The Other came, she told me I was hers, she fucked me so completely that it was all I could do not to scream and wake up Ariel.
Fucked me so completely that when I looked at Ariel in the light, I felt almost nothing. Affection, but almost motherly, devoid of wanting. It was a dream, though, all a dream, like my parents used to tell me. But Ariel knew, somehow. The magic was gone, the thing that made us real together had been shattered. And there was nothing to tie me to the world out there—nothing like the thing that tied me to the bed at night, the thing that made me come alive. That death is just the beginning, when you belong to someone, to something like her. Rain lashed the house.
The thick, clotted drops clung to the outside of the misted-over attic windows, reminding Barry of sweat. The muggy weather mixed it all together into a carnal, narcotic scent. Barry had discovered the collection of grimoires inside a steamer trunk that had also boxed in a peculiar smell.
Unlike the usual aroma of old paperbacks, library books, and yard sale finds, these exuded an odor of perspiration and sin. One in particular, a leather-bound volume with a mottled gray-pink hide, felt oily to the touch. One, its indigo cover decorated in a spiral pattern of gold leaf, looked German.
Barry had taken two years of German language in high school. Another was filled with sexual pictographs and hieroglyphs. Age and isolation had conjured a waxy, pale pink resin from within, gluing the pages together. To force them apart would likely damage the book beyond repair. Barry sensed it was valuable; the most-valuable of the thirteen books in the trunk. It had to be. Simply touching its pallid, gray-pink cover sent equal parts excitement and revulsion through his blood, the latter leaving his stomach feeling like it had taken a punch while the former made his cock swell.
For the second time that rainy afternoon since entering the attic, Barry fumbled his loose-fit jogging shorts aside. His balls spilled out, hanging full and heavy between his spread legs. Bracing an eave with his spine, he worked his cock free. Since finding the books, he felt eighteen again and knew that with just a little extra effort, all he needed to do to get his cock sucked was to lean down, extend his tongue, and both of his heads would meet, an act both selfish and sacred. Barry cast a furtive glance toward the book filled with hieroglyphs, opened to a page that showed a trio of rudimentary human figures, all male if the swollen genitals jutting between their legs were an indication.
The three formed more of a triangle than a circle, the traditional geometry for an oral chain.
Mouths were aimed at dicks. At the center of the human triangle, a giant inhuman eyeball sat open, observing. The warm breath teased the sensitive flesh of his cock, now so close he could take it between his lips. While one half of his body moved lower, the other wiggled higher. Barry sucked and tasted his pre-cum, salty and bitter at the edges. Smelling the musty sweat of his pubic thatch and balls lit his skin on fire.
The sweat… the attic was doused in perspiration and haunted by the ghosts of past sex. The kind of sex that had few, if any, boundaries. Sex that had teeth. For a startling instant, the vision became strikingly real: Between suckles on his cock, Jamie spoke in a garbled foreign language. Barry swallowed, struggling to keep up. One large shot slipped free of his lips and fell between the rafters, fresh ejaculation added to all the now-stale loads deposited there in decades past.
The air had grown almost too hot, too ripe, to breath. Perspiration cascaded down his face and legs. Despite two climaxes since tromping up the stairs, one pumped directly into his mouth, his cock hung hard and heavy, wanting more, and his balls loosened up, aching for further release. He wanted to gaze through them again and enjoy their wickedness. Instead, he tucked his protesting dick back under cover and piled the antique books into the trunk. Touching the leather bound grimoire with the mottled hide and the resin-soaked pages again nauseated and aroused him. By the time he lugged the steamer down the narrow staircase to the second floor landing, his cock had unintentionally rubbed itself to the verge of unloading a third time.
Barry silenced its complaining and finished the job in the shower, where he washed away the external grime coating his body. Not long after he emerged, pondering the internal, the doorbell rang. His name was Nickolas Kantemir. The lone sentence was both vague and promising.
Barefoot, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, Barry padded down the stairs and opened the front door. Twilight had fallen, welcomed in early by the rain. Standing between the threshold and the dusk was a column of darkness in the shape of a man, its back turned toward him. A classically handsome face with sapphires for eyes, dark hair one length longer than that of most professional athletes, and a mouth too tempting to ignore materialized out of the shadows.
Barry choked down a painfully dry swallow and nodded. Kissed everywhere, shuddering as it grew intimate with his flesh. Blinking, he regained some of his composure. He sensed his cock had grown stiff—if it had ever softened following his shower, which he doubted—and that if he looked down, the tent in his jeans would be capped by an expanding wet spot, damning proof of his guilt.
Worse, what if the vision standing outside on the top step noticed? He glided into the house, graceful yet masculine. The illusion was there one moment, gone the next. Nickolas Kantemir wore a spotless black button-down shirt under a leather jacket. One shirttail hung out of his jeans in that jaunty, modern style. Old hiking boots on big feet, faded blue jeans.
One more step
The man was stunning in an understated way. He was obsessed with experiencing sex on every plane, not only physically but the metaphysical as well. Every sacred and sinful kink and bent ever conceived. And in order to obtain that goal, he assembled a collection of the rarest books on the subject. Arcane, forbidden books which became known as the Langston Collection. Barry glanced around the simple New Englander, half of it in desperate need of updating. Nickolas half-smiled and, inwardly, Barry reacted fully. Do you know anything about the history of the place?
Silence fell between them, warm and awkward. The central air conditioning felt nonexistent, though Barry sensed it whispering over his arms. The connection was powerful, icy and electric. Barry gasped, suddenly aware of his nipples as they stiffened into hard points beneath the thin cotton of his shirt. But Nickolas was already a step ahead of him and navigating the staircase to the dark room at the top. The other man knelt between the open trunk and the mattress and box spring sitting on the scuffed hardwood floor in what Barry envisioned as becoming the guest room some day.
Nickolas withdrew the indigo book with the gold leaf spirals. An exploration of unholy sexual rituals with those abominations known as the First Gender. The original text was written in human blood, by the Mad Hungarian, Adolfo Ardeshin. Subsequent copies were even more meticulous in their creation, bound in the flesh of his unwilling victims. Nicholas drew the silk-wrapped volume from the trunk. His hands shook as he unwrapped. A buzzing undercurrent of electricity infused the air. Nickolas clutched the pinkish, gray-skinned book against his chest and stroked it.
The book made an undulating motion, like a snake, as though the pages were pulsing from within. Dave and Jamie were a couple of local guys, friends bored out of their skulls during an otherwise unremarkable summer. Barry thought of them again as Nickolas maneuvered him onto the nearby mattress.
The scent of pine hit his nostrils strongly, more nostalgia than Nickolas, he imagined. Nickolas, so handsome, moved on top of him. But in the murky near-absence of light, it was Jamie he saw.
J. Daniel Stone
Jamie was a brute of a young man, probably now married, divorced, and living with one female friend or another in a long succession of meaningless lays since that long ago afternoon. Barry hoped Jamie thought about their day in the woods, too, when he jerked off or was buried balls-deep in a choice pussy or ass. Barry blinked and the face now belonged to Dave. Dave was the handsomer of the two and the dirtier-minded of the boys his uncle had labeled no-good punks.
Dave, who was also probably married and still playing around with men, cuming and making them cum. A fortune, Nickolas had said. Barry was about to become rich, thanks to the Langston Collection. Of course, Nickolas would take possession of the books. This very night, in fact.
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Or the lengths I went to in order to reunite with you, after that charlatan of a dark priest stole you away from me? Barry summoned his strength and looked. Turning his head required more effort, but when he did, Barry saw the book, placed on the bed, expanding and contracting, as though breathing. The lamp had been switched off, but candles had been lit, fat and waxy ones that exuded a bitter sexual smell. The only other light in the room came from the section of the floor where the steamer trunk sat.
The lid sat open; an unnatural glow, part indigo, the rest a mix of crimsons and greens, emanated dully from within, as if from the arcane books themselves. He knew the texts were valuable, but at that moment, he also realized they were different from other books. Dare he think it? A shadow passed between Barry and the books. Whatever protest he thought of making died in a rush of exquisite sensations. All else was ecstasy. They were naked, skin pressed against skin, their chemicals mixing liquidly as sweat mingled with sweat. Nickolas sprawled out on the bed, his body as magnificent as Barry imagined.
Every detail came clearly: The kind of hardcore, primal sex one man can only experience with another. Sex so dirty, so wrong , outcasts throughout human history had written forbidden books about it. Sex rarely spoken of, but also never forgotten. Their lips met, and Barry knew that Nickolas would give him all that he wanted. The black and the blessed; the hallowed and the unholy; from head to toe and everywhere in between. Chest to stomach, lower into that thatch of male-smelling curls. The longer Barry suckled and savored it, the more sanguine it grew.
He closed his eyes only to suddenly be transported there again, onto the army blanket in the woods, only…. The old blanket was different, stained with a dark, moldering circle at the middle. Feathered skeins decorated the top of the circle, like eyelashes, thought Barry. The stain at the center of the army blanket resembled an eye. He lay across one side, at an angle, canted toward the other, naked.
The book, no longer pallid and gray, had taken on a rosy complexion. The circle at the heart of the triangle, too, had changed. A two-dimensional line drawing of an eyeball now stared up at him. An arm first, and then a cock. A lone, pink tentacle stretched out from the resin, hooded and moist. Barry only saw the abomination briefly.
Without warning, the room went dark, and he smelled the acrid wisps of smoke from the blown-out candles. How much of their sexual fumbling was real, and how much had he imagined? The finger became two, filling him while searching for the trigger of sensitive nerves buried deep at his prostate.
A guttural sucking sound teased his ears. The fingers found their target, and Barry started to unload. Something warm and wet engulfed his cock. The only other mouth in the room was at his neck, feeding. Through that inhuman pleasure, Barry somehow focused on the book, that vile text bound in human flesh, and how it had seemed to come alive beside him on the bed.
The mouth on his cock sucked, and the fingers inside him wiggled… if they were actual fingers. Neither were the two horrors draining the blood and the life out of his body, he realized, Nickolas and the body being reborn out of the book, right before his dreams of the woods faded, and the darkness claimed him. The dinner on the table laid untouched, ice-cold and bathing in congealing fat. Her cinnamon coloring disguised the angry flare of heat in her cheeks. He waggled his long, limp penis at her before he tucked it into his pants.
Like we used to. He took a pick from his back pocket, the metal one with a balled up fist for a handle and ran it through his short, tight afro. You promised me no more sleeping around, Henry. Frieda parked the aging Chevy at the edge of the dirt road leading to the marsh. Although the marsh teemed with life, loneliness pressed in on her like an unwelcome suitor in the dark. The moon parted the dark in shifting layers as clouds crept across the Carolina sky. As the toe of her shoe hit the porch, the front door creaked open. Big Mama was barely on the right side of six feet without shoes.
Her massive bosom filled the doorway like shells in a double-barreled shotgun. Her hair, fluffy and cotton white, stood out against pecan tan skin. You here in the middle of the night? I know what this must be. The muggy night gave way to the cool marsh breeze fluttering through the thin curtains. She returned to the table with two jelly jars filled with rose-colored liquid.
The homemade liquid scorched her throat and she coughed, but the burning cleared her head. She took another sip while her godmother pulled a cheroot and a lighter from her generous bosom. The sweet scents of tobacco and clove danced entwined. To never be alone? Alone you come in this world and alone you go out. Nothing gone change that. Find yourself somebody else. Not like your Daddy was to your Momma. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. I made a promise before God and everybody and I will not leave Henry. Big Mama tapped ashes in a chipped china teacup.
You better off alone. You supposed to like going to bed with your husband. That what make him feel like a man. You married him that way. Henry had been late for their wedding. Big Mama and Francis, her fourth husband, found him drunk in a motel room with a street girl. The girl screamed and held the crusty motel sheet to her nude body and ran for the door.
Big Mama grabbed her arm and whispered something in her ear before letting her go. Then she waited while Francis cleaned Henry up and they headed for the church. Frieda and Henry were married an hour later. You can put him in a jar or something. They both dangerous, in the right hand. Only one thing can do that. She do as she please. Big Mama nodded and lit the first candle. Murky shadows danced to its flickering.
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When the final candle began to glow, she spoke. Frieda smoothed her shirtdress and tiptoed out to the marsh, her Keds squishing in the soft, dank mud. The moon was a smile in the darkness as she looked for a stalk of seagrass leaning heavily to the ground. Finding one, she crouched to complete her task, her feet sinking deeper into the cool, black muck. She plucked a conical shell from the crisp grass and hurried back inside. Big Mama placed the open end of the shell against her neck and hummed low in her throat.
She pulled the shell away from her throat and Frieda saw a small, pale crab, stirred by the vibration, peek out of the shell. Big Mama yanked it from its home and pulled a switchblade, slick with sweat from the depths of her bosom. In one motion, she opened the knife and skewered the frightened crustacean to the floor before it could scuttle away.
She took a gulp of the caustic wine, spat it on the gruesome pile and touched a candle to it. It burned, not destroying the wooden floor, while both women took up the humming again. Wind came, strong through the curtains and the hovering shadows coalesced into a swirling ash grey mass. The grey cloud moved around the calling space, stopping at each candle, before it slunk between the two women to examine its sacrifice.
Satisfied, it slid over to Frieda and swayed like a cobra. She could feel a presence inside her mind, inside her chest and she gasped as it probed at her most tender heartaches. Crushing memories rushed to the surface of her psyche: She gasped for breath as scabs, new and old, tore from each emotional wound. Her chest heaved and shook with impending sobs. The smoky funnel whirled and danced with its newfound knowledge. The whirlwind roiled with fervor, covering the wine-soaked crab carcass in its dervish.
When it finally moved, only the switchblade remained. The coil of ash rose in the thick, muggy air and hovered above the women. It extinguished each candle, then dissipated to leave the women surrounded by darkness and the scent of charred sulfur. Working till I die. I was wondering why Frieda was so hell bent on having dinner with me. Oh, she has good days and bad days. Starting to be more bad days. Give me a few hours rest. You know, live my life sick.
I wanna go quick. A chill crept through his bulky frame and gooseflesh grew on his meaty arms. Butch watched his friend approach the mystery woman. He started forward to intercept him and the woman looked up, straight into his eyes. Her grey-blue gaze, startling against her tawny skin, held him fast. All ambient sound from the crowded bar faded. Butch felt himself grow hard and the throbbing ached like a wound. His skin itched like it was covered in dirt. He dug his short nails into his arm with ruthless fervor.
Angry welts rose up and still he raked his flesh, unable to get rid of the feeling that she was on him, in him, crawling around. He yelped when his blunt nails broke skin. The mental hold loosened and he was able to move. Without another glance at Henry, Butch pushed through the throng of people and ran from the bar. The woman was chatting with the bartender as Henry strolled up. And you sure is foxy. She almost choked on a sip of strawberry daiquiri, but it turned into a spurt of laughter. He leaned closer and her fragrance glided over the smokiness of the bar, a tangy mixture of sea air and citrus fruit.
She shook her head and chestnut ringlets brushed her bare shoulders. Fresh flowers stood in crystal a vase on the side table next to an overflowing fruit basket. She stepped out of the purple satin puddle at her feet and stood, clad in only a black strapless bra and panties, in the middle of the room.
She nudged him toward the king-sized bed. Henry lay down in the middle of the bed and watched her reach behind her back to unhook her bra. Her high breasts sprang free from their confines and he salivated at the sight of her dark, hard nipples. She straddled his waist and ground herself against his hardness as she brushed her breast over his lips. He opened his mouth and sucked on the stiffened tip. Warm liquid flowed into his mouth and after his initial surprise, he suckled harder. He tried to pull her closer, but his body resisted. It trembled with the vain effort of movement.
Lumpy curds drained down his cheeks. He gagged, tried to turn his head and spit, but his lips were fused to her slick flesh. Her swollen nipple popped from his mouth when she leaned back to remove her brief panties. She squatted, her legs wide and her nether lips open to expose two rows of glinting silver-white teeth. His scream bubbled through the lumps in his throat as she lowered herself onto his stiff penis.
Hours later, Eldra climbed off his limp, wasted body. She gave an impressed grunt. Her salt and citrus scent filled the room as she lowered her acidic mouth again and again. She rushed to his beside and pulled back the dividing curtain. Her breath caught in her throat as she looked at her disfigured husband, small and shriveled in the middle of the hospital bed. He reached out a shaky hand to her, his eyes wide and white and staring. The bank lobby was dark, half-hidden in shadows. It looked like a nice, soft snowfall at first, but, just before closing, it had intensified. I toiled at my desk, rushing to finish closing duties before I got stuck at the bank.
Snow collected rapidly in the corners of the windows, adding an eerie sense of isolation to the lighted island of my desk. I felt jumpy and wished I had all the lights blazing, not just the floor lamp to my left. The other bank managers hate closing. They find dealing with the tedium of balancing accounts and locking things up for the night boring. For me, the ordered world of the bank—assuring balance and that everything is in its place—provides armor against the chaos of the rest of the world.
The sound of the snowstorm brushing against the windowpanes and the act of counting the money in the drawer lured me into a trancelike state. I jumped as the silence was shattered, knocking the coin towers across my desk. I stood at the side of my desk, holding the phone until it began beeping. After carefully setting the receiver back into the cradle, I crossed the lobby once again to peer out the windows, the heels of my shoes making staccato taps on the wooden floor.
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They echoed in the large room, a reminder that I was all alone. I peered out the window when I felt light pressure on my shoulder. I screamed and jumped away, spinning around to face the lobby. I was shocked to see David, the new night officer, who had started at the bank several weeks ago. Where did you come from? Feeling foolish, I leaned against the window, my legs weak from the adrenaline rush. Steve asked me to come down and make sure you got out of here okay.
The phone lines are all broken up. Out of all the bank officers, David was the youngest and the best looking, with soft black hair, deep brown eyes and smooth caramel skin. He probably lifted weights every day, because his body was tight and muscular. He looked at me, a small grin playing around his mouth. I smiled back, not immune to the warmth in his eyes. Smart, gorgeous men very rarely notice shy, awkward, average women. I looked down at the floor. I was just ready to put away the deposits and do the last run through before setting the alarms.
I looked back at him. Shrugging, he strolled across the lobby. The way his body moved reminded me of a wild cat prowling the jungle, all heat and muscle. Our eyes once again locked and a different kind of warmth spread through my body, a fire settling in my pelvis. Embarrassed, I turned back to my desk. My self-consciousness growing, I dropped quarters as I tried to put them into coin wrappers.
Knowing David had to be thinking I was an idiot, I tried to get a grip on my libido. I took a deep breath which caught in my throat when I felt his hand on my shoulder. My head swam for a moment, and I vaguely thought I might fall, my knees once again refusing to support me. His fingers lightly brushed the nape of my neck. I almost whimpered as he gently turned me toward him, his fingers reaching up and curling into my hair. Unbidden, I leaned my body against him and pressed my hips against his.
I could feel his excitement. My thighs tingled and a warm blush spread over my skin. Coins scattered all over the floor as David lifted me onto the desk. Cradling my head with one hand, his other stroked an electric trail from my knee up my inner thigh, lightly brushing over my waiting need. I gasped at the intensity of my desire, but his hand had already continued over my stomach, pulling my shirt over my breasts. As he lowered his head to lick my exposed skin, I felt myself grow wet. I reached for his waistband, but David grabbed my wrist firmly and secured it behind my back.
He lowered me the rest of the way onto my desk, my back arching over our arms. As he released the front closure on my bra, I shivered with anticipation. His lips tantalized the nipple closest to him. The breath and heat of his mouth caused me to flush, my blood racing. Moving on to the other nipple, David sucked gently, sensuously. I arched my back even further, desperate to feel his mouth devouring me. David started sucking harder to match my growing intensity.
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Books by Jack Burton. Trivia About Steamy Screams. I want to create a brotherhood of the hated, jaded, and exasperated. How long did it take you to write? Was the writing and publishing process exciting? The Absence of Light took me a good two years to write. It was conceived in but written slowly between and I was full time student and had a full-time day job as well, so you can understand my time was limited.
The research was the most stressful and scariest part, but also so much fun! The whole ghost hunting thing kept me awake all hours of the night, wondering what this noise and that noise was. I had a lot of sage and sweet grass smudges going on at that time. I wanted to write the book before getting eaten by a ghost. The publishing process was so much fun!
Editing the book with a team made me see so many flaws, made me realize that I had to shorten some parts to make them better and like I said before I loathe to let go of things. You can contact Mr. Stone online by way of the icons below. Daniel Stone Villipede Publications: