A Bloody Valentine: Eric Dean

Oh, what a treat this is! One of the State of Horror authors must really like me, because he answered my questions AND gave me a short story to post, all for nothing! I feel so loved!


It’s Valentine’s Day. What’s your take on the “Most Romantic Day of the Year”?

To me, Valentine’s day is 2/3 crap. If you’re single, it’s a painful reminder. If you’re in a long term relationship, it’s one more day you’re forced to spend money because society said so. If you’re in a new, exciting relationship, then yeah, it’s one more exciting excuse to get buzzed and make love, as if you NEED an excuse. For those people, in those circumstances, it’s great. For everyone else, it sucks.

What made you decide horror would be your genre of choice?

Fate. I originally wanted to be a fantasy and sci-fi writer, but it turns out I’m much better at horror.

From where do you pull your horror inspiration?

Usually, my dreams. I dream often and vividly, and I’ll usually take the most interesting kernels from my dreams (or nightmares) and expand them into stories.

What is one horror stereotype you absolutely despise? What is one you love? 

I absolutely hate the dark and mysterious tough guy who is always prepared and never afraid (a la Batman). I absolutely LOVE the opposite – the average Joe or Jane who may not be adequately equipped for the situation at hand, but through blind courage and dumb luck manages to pull through (Billy from Gremlins).

What scares you?

Three things: The idea that I’m less than think I am, and others are too polite to tell me, the idea that I might be crazy, and the thought of dying alone. Real talk.


by Eric Dean
Posted with Permission of the Author

The first time I tried the black meat was also the last, though not for lack of interest. As a journalist, I’d written many articles about the product – the one you’re reading being, obviously, the most recent. It was cloudy and raining the day I received my hostess’ unexpected invitation, by private courier. It was unusually warm for early January, and I’d left the house in only a wool shirt. A driver picked me up at my home at 3:00 pm. He stoically checked my driver’s license and matched it to a picture he’d been given, and then silently opened the rearmost door of the black limousine and motioned me inside. The letter the hostess had sent was hand written on a fine natural paper. It requested that I leave all electronic devices, including my phone, and that I bring only a pen and paper for taking notes. It asked that I give the letter itself to the driver, who arrived precisely when the letter said he would, and that I politely not photograph or transcribe the exact text therein. I complied with all requests. We drove in silence save for classical music at a very low volume – I think it might have been Debussy. I was given a blindfold and a flute of champagne, both of which I used as implied.


The black meat had been described by a certain surly, sarcastic TV chef as “like chewing through decomposing wood… wood that tasted like an odorous French cheese with a vinegar edge… notes of molasses and bourbon. Not pleasant necessarily, but not entirely bad. Dare I say… fascinating?”

The production of the meat was steeped in as much mystery as its ingredients. Saffron robed monks with ash caked skin hid away in log-built smoke-houses and hummed surreal melodies over their fires. They’d emerge, faces striped with gray ash cut by rivers of sweat, humble and bowing, and trade out with their replacements in a nearly silent and well-rehearsed ceremony before retiring to nearby tent or yurt barracks. They’d have crates and packages shipped in whose contents were protected by special laws – the same special laws that protected the production and consumption of the black meat. “Government sanctioned cannibalism,” had been thrown around in the early days, to no avail. No one really knows where it started, or with who – someone in the 1% had discovered it during travel abroad; no doubt, exposing it to the elite of the elite. The quiet, old money was first, and the young new money followed in never ending emulation of extravagance.

It became fashionable contraband, like cocaine and Cuban cigars. Rock stars made references to the infinite complexities of the flavor in the lyrics of “fictional” ballads and tabloids were plastered with stories in which certain leading men of Hollywood were rumored to have tasted the black meat. Moral debates raged across the aisle as new bills were proposed to ban consumption, and calls were made for the UN to publically denounce it. Amid the fervor, a bill was quietly presented with bipartisan support – aged senators with red and blue ties and American flag lapel pens spoke of “religious ceremonial freedom” and “traditional memorial practices”. The bill mentioned nothing of the black meat, nor its consumption, but ensured that one’s remains could be dealt with as one saw fit, in keeping with one’s religious traditions and practices, despite any pre-existing laws, so long as the wishes of the deceased were clearly laid out in the proper legal documents and no unwilling parties were involved or directly affected. The bill passed with a comfortable margin, and a subsequent Supreme Court case found that consumption of the black meat could be protected under the new law, given that close controls be put in place to ensure valid legal documentation of a party’s wishes to be processed prior to their passing, validation by a licensed coroner that the party’s passing was natural or accidental, as any hint of foul play or unusual circumstances would be in violation of the “non-incitamentum” (no incentive) clause. A further appeal from the moral minority ended in a compromise – an amendment to the law which required that any portion of the black meat sold be procured from a single party, and that the party’s (previous) identity be clearly labeled on any packaging.

It wasn’t long before various churches of the black meat sprang up on the internet. Sign up from the comfort of your own home, attend an occasional web-service on YouTube, and print out your own certificate of membership. The churches’ dogmas were tongue-in-cheek lists of variations on a theme – a theme of mostly libertarian, sometimes borderline hedonist, personal freedom and privacy. “Thou shalt drink whatever thou wishes to drink, in whatever amount thou wishes to drink it, so long as thou does not drive inebriated or in any way harm another person outside of thyself.” Membership in many of these churches also required proof that the applicant had also drafted what became known as the “black meat clause” into their legal will. Many lawyers provided this service at a discount until the option showed up on the automated will-builder of a popular legal document website.

Unsurprisingly, this clause evolved into a very specific form in which a party could not only dictate their wishes to be processed into the black meat, but also dictate a specific party or parties that could then receive the product – assuming either party could afford the exorbitant cost of processing. Crazed fans left themselves to rock stars. Lovers left themselves to one another in a final and ultimate act of intimacy. Controversy arose when a frightening number of terminally ill patients began leaving themselves to wealthy patrons “as a thank you” for said patrons charitably relieving their families of their medical expenses. These charitable acts soon included college scholarships and luxury items as the poor had begun bidding for the opportunity to ceremonially thank the rich, and the rich, as it were, had begun to literally eat the poor.

The ash-masked, saffron clad monks (if they were even really monks at all), faced competition from a commercially mass-produced product out of China. It was generally agreed upon by the culinary elite that this was a vastly inferior product, often leaving less wealthy consumers with strange parasites, and in a few documented cases, a fatal variant of Creutzfeldt–Jakob disease.

Many dubious internet articles claimed to know the secret traditional recipe of the black meat, and though each varied slightly, most seemed to rely on the same general protocols. The body was skinned, and the skin cleaned and put aside to dry. The meat was separated and packed in rare spices and various dried berries while the rest of the body was cremated and pulverized. This pulverized ash was mixed with salt and packed into earthen jars. The meat was buried in this salt and ash mixture, and the jars were capped and set aside to allow the meat to cure. After some time, the meat (including the ash, spices, and berries) was removed and coarsely stone-ground into a dry, charcoal-gray hamburger. Other spices and oils were added, and the meat was packed tightly into the now plasticine skin, tied with natural fiber twine, and left to smoke above the other crematory fires.


We arrived about an hour later. I stepped out onto wet, well-manicured grass, though as dead as my own humble lawn. We walked through what appeared to be an outdoor shooting range. I kicked aside the occasional broken bits of orange clay and a single yellow shotgun shell. The driver checked over his shoulder to make sure I was still following. An icy breeze swept across the large yard from somewhere over the surrounding pine forest and made me regret not wearing a jacket. He led me toward a high wooden fence, or wall, more accurately – built not with planks but 8-foot wooden posts driven into the ground side by side, like the defensive walls of an early colonial settlement. Smoke billowed from the other side of the wall. A large wooden gate was opened, and my hostess, whose exact description she requested be kept undisclosed, was, suffice it to say, a beautiful and well-known old-money socialite. We exchanged formal greetings and she motioned me inside. She was dressed pragmatically, with rain boots and a large golf umbrella – a duplicate of which she offered to me. With our matching umbrellas, we crossed the large inner courtyard, leaving the driver at the gate, standing in his suit and tie, stone-faced against the rain and cold.

My hostess reiterated the conditions she’d laid out in her letter, all of which I, again, agreed to, assuring her that I had complied, to the letter, with each. She led me toward a log-built smoke-house. She explained that she’d tired of navigating the legal channels that bottle-necked the product in the face of high demand, and that her own standards of freshness and quality were far above what had become the standard. She admitted that this, her private operation, was both very illegal and very expensive, but that she complied with all moral and ethical criteria laid out by law. “I have an application process,” she explained, “and interested parties must meet certain physical and genetic guidelines. I also demand a level of freshness that simply isn’t possible under the federal protocols. For this,” she smiled, “they are compensated far beyond the norm.”

From the smoke-house emerged an ashen-faced monk clad in saffron robes grayed with ash – exactly as I’d imagined. He bowed, and we returned his bow. He presented to my hostess a parcel wrapped in oily brown paper and tied with string. My hostess guided me to a nearby table set up under a crudely built gazebo. The driver had prepared two more flutes of champagne, and offered me a cigar. “For after,” he said quietly. I politely declined. The hostess placed the parcel between us and unwrapped what appeared to be a human hand, twisted into a Buddhist mudra. The hand seemed to be translucent and over-stuffed, like a partially inflated latex glove. Before I’d come to terms with the situation, my hostess had casually cut into the meaty, outside edge of the hand, opposite the thumb, and carved out a small wedge of densely packed, black meat, flecked with exotically colored spices and small, dried berries. I took the oily wedge in my hand and turned it, noticing tiny hair-like spices protruding from the coarse mixture. I smelled it – indeed, an odorous French cheese. Then, after a quick sip of particularly good champagne, I took a bite, chewing slowly and allowing the oils and flavors to flood my mouth and my mind.

An odorous French cheese with a vinegar edge. Perhaps notes of molasses and bourbon. Spices I could not identify. Beyond this, an infinite and overwhelming complexity of incomparable flavors I can only describe as…sentimental. Bittersweet. The familiar voice of a long lost lover somewhere in a crowd. A quiet, comfortable shame. An ecstasy of solitude on the tongue, and after, the familiar sorrow of loneliness at the back of the mouth. I felt the lump in my throat even before I’d swallowed. A knot that rose… and I began to softly weep. When the bit was gone, and I again opened my eyes, the grays and browns around me had become somehow more vibrant. The gemlike eyes of my hostess, also wet with tears, were now the eyes of a friend… the eyes of someone who knew, and who knew that I now knew, that we were on the same page.

I don’t remember the drive home, nor the rest of the evening I spent in darkness, sucking on my tongue and swallowing my own saliva. It’s been two days now, and I remember only the impossible flavors of the black meat, and the feelings I can’t adequately describe. I no longer know what’s right or what’s wrong… I don’t even know if it matters. I only know that I’ve seen beyond the veil. I know the orgasmic bliss of surrender to the black meat, and I know I’ll continue to seek the experience. Until then, I know I will taste it on my tongue until the day I die, and I know, now, what I would like done with my body.


Edited by Jerry E. Benns
From Charon Coin Press

Eric Dean is featured in State of Horror: Illinois.

State of Horror: Illinois State of Horror: New Jersey State of Horror: North Carolina
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A Bloody Valentine: Selah Janel

Come on, guys… you knew I was going to drag her into this. I always drag her into things. She’s my partner in crime, remember? Oh, you forgot, did you? Then I’ll prove it. See this book?

Lost in the ShadowsYeah. We did that. Together. And it’s awesome. She even agreed to share one of her stories with you. From this book. For Free! So here it is…enjoy!

The Invisibles

Selah Janel

We make up the wind. Our tattered souls are stale breath and glass. We have been here forever, disfigured in agony. We wait and watch, always right beside you. The soft lilting breeze is the woman with protruding ribs. Her skin rips in a line from pelvis to chin.

The storms are children with wisps of limbs and piles of flesh for hands.

Our large, hollow eyes may or may not see you walk by. The scratch of bark and crunch of leaf? That is the creature with no gender, no species. Its opulence melts it into layers of streaming fat, forever bleeding. A bitter sigh becomes the skeleton woman. Her neck is sunken. What’s left of her hair is just bristles and thorns.

We live between what is real. We are the things never invented, the ideas never realized. We are the fears that never fully come to fruition, the things you’re nervous about for no reason. We are the almost terrors, the could-have-been horrors, the should–have-tried abominations. We are guilt and anger and frustration congealed into monstrosity. We break into pieces of stained glass and dirty water and ride the wind until we are reformed and left to agonize unseen. We are doomed to be reshaped yet never Real.

We are never seen, never heard. We are the ignored. But we are here, just the same. We feel, just the same. We hate what we cannot have, just the same. We are always there and have been for a long time. Our waiting only makes the fury and hunger grow stronger.

We are always here in the twilight, the dark, the dank air.

Gasping. Longing. Dying. Existing. Plotting. Waiting.

For you.

How to Stalk Her

Link: www.selahjanel.wordpress.com

Fb: www.facebook.com/authorSJ


Buy Our Book, Damn It!

Lost in the shadows link: http://www.amazon.com/Lost-Shadows-S-H-Roddey/dp/1491015160/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1423538217&sr=8-2&keywords=selah+janel

Welcome to the Shadows:

Journey with authors Selah Janel and S.H. Roddey to a world where every idea is a possibility and every genre an invitation. In this collection of forty-seven short stories, lines blur and worlds collide in strange and wonderful new ways. Get lost with the authors as they wander among fantasy, horror, science fiction, and other speculative musings.

Shadows can’t hurt you, and sometimes it’s all right to venture off the path.


Because I am, as the title of this post says, completely shameless.

Lost in the Shadows is officially available in paperback through Amazon, and I’d love it if everyone in the world went out and bought a copy, because it would mean that I might actually be able to pay my bills this month. YES, I AM THAT SHAMELESS. I WILL GUILT YOU INTO BUYING ONE.

Ahem…not really. But it’s worth a try, right?

Truth is, I’m ridiculously proud of this book, and I know Selah is too. It’s our first step toward taking over the world. If you’re wondering which of us is Pinky and which is The Brain, you’d best go ask someone else, because neither of us knows. I think we swap roles on a daily basis.


Yeah, I’m going to stop talking now.  How about another teaser? I’ve got over twenty stories in the book, so I might as well use them to the fullest extent of my ability.


Lost in the Shadows


Paperback | Ebook

Downing Street

From the front it appeared no different than any other house on the 200-block of Downing Street – a well-kept two story monument standing as a proud testament to pre-1900’s architecture. Festive decorations adorned the front porch while spooky blow-up caricatures lined the steps like undead marching soldiers. Even a pumpkin graced the front lawn, hiding inside it a peeping Frankenstein. Orange and black lights blinked along the trim of the wide porch day and night without fail. Hidden in the front hedges was a motion sensor that exuded an eerie laugh each time someone passed by. Many people paused to gaze at the spectacle. Some took pictures, but nobody ever stopped. Just because it was six days after Halloween with no change in scenery didn’t mean the still-standing decorations were that unusual.

No, it just meant that the owners of the house were dead.

If the passersby were to look closely they would have noticed that the broken door jamb was real, and that the dark trail marring the bright-white boards of the steps was blood, and it led across the threshold. If they were to push open the ruined door they would notice other things out of place – a broken crystal goblet and an overturned bottle of scotch to start. The trail would continue through the house into the kitchen where a once-beautiful blonde woman lay, face up in a pool of blood that had long-since oozed from the angry gash across her throat. From there bloody footprints would lead upstairs where her husband lay sprawled on the landing, almost completely disemboweled. Intestines would be strung along the banister much like the lights out front. His eyes would still be open, staring sightlessly ahead.

But nobody would witness these gruesome sights, because nobody paid attention. Nobody would stop to see what was wrong. Nobody would care.

At least, not until Christmas.

A Bloody Valentine: Hellshift

Back today with another taste of darkness is author Tom Olbert, sharing his Dark Mocha Bites story, Hellshift.

For those that don’t know, Dark Mocha Bites is a short horror series presented by Mocha Memoirs Press. They’re short, creepy, and best of all they’re only $.99 a pop! Here’s Tom once more with a glimpse into Hellshift.


Preston Chandler is a lonely, overworked corporate office drone on the worst assignment of his life. In the dark future world of Preston’s time, low-level clerks like himself must serve a 1-year shift on a corporate mining colony on a hellish alien planet whose indigenous population has been wiped out by nuclear genocide.

He isn’t safe even in his corporate offices, as dismembered human bodies begin turning up. Preston fears he is losing his mind. He desperately wants to return to Earth, but is trapped in an escalating nightmare. Computerized psych-evaluation technology probes his mind with dehumanizing invasiveness.

Preston finally completes his assignment and is looking forward to returning home to Earth at last. But will his Hellshift ever end ?

Something was moving in the shadows, in the sputtering light of the dark tunnel.  Something inhuman.

Preston Chandler’s flabby chest was tight, his breathing shallow.  He was afraid to move. It stirred just outside the darkened subway car, the guttural breathing and scraping claws of the thing outside inching their way up his spine.  Preston had dozed off on the subway on his way home from another exhausting double shift at the office.  At first, he’d thought it another bad dream.  The hair prickling on the back of his neck, he’d dug his fingernails deep into his forearm, the pain infuriatingly real.  His eyes swept the darkened car.  Only intermittent power remained in the tube station outside.  “Hello?” he called out in a strangled throat, hoping desperately he wasn’t alone.  His eyes froze, his jaw dropping in a silent scream. In the brief illumination of an electrical flash, he saw disemboweled human cadavers.  Their flesh was shredded like cheesecloth, their, disembodied organs strewn across the inside of the car like butcher’s scraps.  The walls and seats were splattered with gore.

The thing outside shrieked and howled, throwing its lengthy bulk against the side of the train.


Blog: http://tomolbert.blogspot.com

HELLSHIFT: http://mochamemoirspress.com/hellshift/

A Bloody Valentine: Joseph DeRepentigny

On tap now is another short story, this one from Joseph DeRepentigny. Sit back and have a read. See if what pisses his characters off pisses you off as well.

This one comes with an ADULTS ONLY disclaimer… and also, be warned that it is a bit on the graphic side. However, it is horror, so anything goes.


Pisses Me Off

by Joseph DeRepentigny

“Pisses me off,” Prudence said to no one in particular walking by herself through the park.

She was mad, madder than she had been in months. Her newest companion, Quentin, had taken it upon himself to disapprove of her lifestyle. He insisted that she was living a tenuous existence as a vampire that hunted sexual predators. Though she was immune to the various diseases that plagued the living, he insisted that sooner or later she would encounter a predator that was more than she could handle.

She laughed at his comment and accused him of wanting her to become his slave. His reaction shocked her. He asked her to leave. This was the final insult to her. No one had ever asked her to leave in fact the opposite was what she expected. In her one hundred years of existence, no one ever broke up with her or asked her to depart.

Flashing her pert tits at him she sneered, “You’ll never see these again!”

“I’ve seen them before and I will see them again,” Quentin replied with a bored tone.

That was the final straw. She slapped him and left the bar ignoring the stares of the other patrons. They all stared as the petite brunette marched out still showing. Buttoning her blouse, she marched out of the bar toward home, all the while mumbling in a rage.

Quentin sat in the small bar brooding. The echoes of his argument with Prudence still rung in his ears, He had always loved her ever since meeting her some seventy years ago. His fear was that she no longer fed on the bass rapists or perverts that haunted the bar scene. She was looking for the predators that hunted women with a skill equal to her own. This worried him. When he let her know his concern, she believed he was jealous of her sexual escapades. This was far from the truth. He himself engaged in numerous rendezvous and thought nothing of her doing the same.

“Man, she was mad as a wet hen,” a voice said.

Looking up Quentin saw Steve the bartender smiling at him. Steve was a thin man with a well-trimmed mustache. Unlike many of his coworkers, he had a skill at mixing drinks and therefore had a future in his trade.

Frowning Quentin asked, “You heard the argument?”

“Heard it?” Steve replied smiling, “We saw it!”

Quentin blushed and asked, “You saw everything?”

“Yeah, but don’t worry we’ve all seen Pru’s tits before,” Steve replied with a wink.

Quentin frowned angrily. He was about to thrash the man when he realized that Prudence didn’t mind flashing people. Then shaking his head he said to Steve, “I wonder about her sometimes. She is a hard woman to love.”

“If you love her so much why’d you let her leave in a huff? People are vulnerable when they are blinded by anger,” Steve then added. “This isn’t exactly the safest neighborhood in the city.”

“She can take care of…” Quentin let the last part of the sentence hang. After their last argument, it sounded almost prophetic. As a hunter, he knew anger could blind even the keenest senses. Realizing that this man may have just saved Prudence’s life Quentin tossed him a twenty-dollar tip and headed out after his girl.

Bert was a career criminal. He had the look of someone whose profession included acts of evil against others. With a shaved head, a hard muscular build, and covered in tattoos his look shouted prison yard trash. From the age of twelve on, he was involved in or committed everything from burglary to murder. As was the case with most people like him Bert spent plenty of time in jail. For him it was just another home but where he learned to improve his vocation and his vocation was rape.

For reasons known only to Bert and his state appointed therapist he enjoyed the power rape gave him over his victims. He relished in the squirms and moans from his victims. Yes, he got some of that from robbery, but a woman or man’s tears made him feel good. To Bert this was better than drugs and he had tried them too. Now he was out and about to get some fun from the first woman to cross his path that evening. Crouching near a tree, he saw a petite woman with big tits and a short dress. This was all he needed.

With a speed born from years of practice, Bert jumped Prudence from behind. Pushing her forward she fell on her face. Pulling a piece of lamp cord from his pocket, he quickly tied her hands behind her back and rolled her over. With lightening speed he wrapped her mouth closed with duct tape, he didn’t want her screams to alert passersby and ruin his fun. Sitting on her chest, he began punching her face. He did this for two reasons; the first was to render his victims senseless and the second because the blood turned him on.

Once she was nearly unconscious, Bert took a safety razor from his shirt pocket and sliced his victim’s clothes down the middle. He then pulled them aside like the flesh of a gutted fish. The razor always made a mark down the woman’s chest. The sight of the red line billowing with blood is what excited Bert and not the sight of a naked woman before him.

Prudence was confused. The fall had knocked the wind out of her and the pummeling had confused her. She was in a half dream state trying to make sense of the flashes of light and the pain. Then the feel of the man roughly taking her brought back memories she’d long forgot. Nearly a hundred years ago a gang of soldiers brutally raped and murdered her. Now the feeling had returned.

Quentin Followed Prudence’s scent her mixture of imported perfume and a little talc was easy for him to track. It was a smell that sweet and seductive. He loved the fragrance. In his two hundred years of existence, he truly felt the advances in personal scents were the greatest achievement of the human race. In a matter of minutes, he realized she was heading home.

Cursing he sped up and took a short cut to the park. He wanted to get to her before she got home. If she locked the door before he got there, he’d have to wait a full night before being able to apologize. Quentin was not a man that likes to stew in his thoughts. Crossing the park, he picked up Prudence’s scent again this time it was mixed with blood and sweat. With the skill born of vampires, he moved up quickly and quietly to the source. Here he found an odious man raping his beloved. “That’s my girl you are defiling!”

Bert looked up in shock. He saw the older vampire in his usual dark suit and bowler hat. “A queer!” well he had a solution to this problem in the shape of a pistol in his back pocket. Without a word, he pointed the pistol and put a round through Quentin’s chest.

What happened next, confused Bert. Instead of crumpling to the ground, the idiot in the suit grabbed him and threw him roughly to the ground. Grabbing both of Bert’s arms, the man snapped his fore arms as if they were twigs. The pain from his arms being broken was so intense that Bert blacked out.

Prudence woke from what she thought was a horrible dream. Then she tried to move and realized it all happened as if she remembered it. She hurt everywhere. Then she realized that she was in someone’s arms. She felt safe like she did when she was a small child. Though it hurt to move, she wanted to snuggle up to whoever was holding her.

“Lie still Pru.” Quentin said gently. “It is going to take you a few days to heal.”

“What happened to that evil man?”

“He’s entertaining a few of my friends.”

In the darkness of a sewer tunnel, a small mind sat in the dark watching. The prey was large and noisy. Its roars and movements frightened everyone. Yet the smell of blood and adrenaline blinded a few to the dangers, their bodies lay strewn everywhere. The mind also knew that as soon as their numbers grew larger enough the beast’s roars and movements would no longer cause them fear. Then the rats would feast!


More on Joseph:

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Joseph-DeRepentigny-A-Gothic-Writer-with-a-Differance/152820908141895?ref=ts&fref=ts

A Bloody Valentine: Crymsyn Hart

Welcome back for another taste of darkness! Back today is the lovely Crymsyn Hart with a short story for your wicked pleasure.


The Fifth Stroke of Midnight


With the thwack, Collette jumped in her velvet restraints as the tip of the whip grazed her right shoulder leaving its faint sting. A black satin mask was the only article of clothing she wore. The cool air caressed her nakedness raising the fine hairs along her nubile flesh. Everything about her was alert, waiting for the Mistress to punish her for all her bad behavior. And she had been wicked.

Roxanne examined Collette’s body with experienced eyes, watching for the subtle beating of the heart to increase, for the skin to take on the first blush of unfilled pleasure from only the sound of the whip. Her slave was beginning to tremble in the velvet fetters, from fear, from the anticipation of what she was going to do to her. Was she going to be merciful and punish her captive with only the sound of the crop? Or zebra stripes showing the others how insubordinate she’d been? Roxanne draped the bullwhip around her shoulders, running her hand slowly up and down the leather handle. Her eyes drank in every curve of the supple flesh before her. The alabaster-smooth texture of the flesh was virgin pure except for the long scar that ran from her right shoulder, down the arc of her spine, and onto her left ass cheek. The mark was old, white and raised. Roxanne had first run her fingers over the imperfection, knowing it was the mark of one master. One that had been hers eons ago. Everything laid on Collette hadn’t fazed her until she brought out the bullwhip. It was the first time she’d seen Collette tremble with expectation. Her nipples pink and hard.

Now her hand wandered over the whip’s hard shaft as she flicked the other end like an impatient cat’s tail. The tip hit her thigh-high latex boots. She could brand her poppit with a sister trophy, but Roxanne didn’t want to break the girl just yet. She desired Collette begging, crying out for the whip to never stop licking her skin. The sharp pain would penetrate the flesh, zinging to all the pleasure centers of the body. Even Roxanne’s tits wanted the leather to fondle them as she strained in her latex corset. A bead of sweat formed on her upper lip. Her tongue caressed it slowly and she shifted her weight as her sex moistened at the thought of the bullwhip. But she mustn’t get too carried away; she was the Mistress now, no longer the slave to her own whims.

Roxanne tested the whip’s weight finding the right grip on the handle.


She snapped the empty air. Collette jumped and moaned at the sudden sound. Roxanne saw the insubordination and grabbed the puppet’s mahogany hair and wrenched her head back.

“Is that what you want, my lustful bitch? Do you want its searing hand on your flesh? Or do you want it in your cunt? Tell me or you get nothing.”

“The pain, please,” her slave moaned.

Roxanne smiled and released Collette, running the whip under her nose. The perfume of leather and oil mingled as the smoothness ran over her lips, and she remembered the first time the whip nicked her; the first time her master let her handle the implement. Oh, so many wonderful memories. Many times had she been under the wanton ecstasy of the leather, had the aroma of the oil on her skin, and like her petite slave, she had her own trophy, a twin to the mark on her own back, given to her by the same master.

She let the whip trail between her fingers, letting her own memories slip away as the candles flickered.


One flick and the tip licked her slave’s skin. A drop of crimson appeared and a thin line dimpled across the small of Collette’s backside. The quick bite sent spasms throughout the victim’s body. Collette felt the warmth between her trembling thighs with her pussy growing wetter and wetter. She’d waited so long she would burst at one more painful lash. An eternal string of nights had passed her by without feeling the lick of the whip, the tempting pain that bought her to ecstasy in one, long, never ending strike.

As the leather formed like a second flesh and ripped open her body, too long had she been left without the bliss of the connection and then the sweet burst of air that left her breathless. Her body was slick with sweat. Her cunt was moist from its touch. Now as it connected again, she welcomed the pain. Her hands clenched and unclenched in the velvet restraints. Blood welled in her mouth as she tried to tame her swelling pleasure. Her legs wobbled as her muscles tensed from the orgasm about to rip through her body.


An evil smiled caressed Roxanne’s lips. Collette was coming, trying to hold back from the pleasure of the flogging. All her nerves were hot and alive. So close to midnight and with one more stroke she’d be hers. Crimson rivers meandered down the alabaster landscape as the wounds sealed and dried in seconds. It was what she loved about Collette’s kind. They understood pain and pleasure. They knew how to embrace their bodies’ biology and revel in punishment. The only drawback was she lost them to their animal selves once a month. But right before their change was when they were prime.

Just like Collette.


The whip caressed her slave and her legs buckled. Moans escaped her lips even though she tried to suppress them, but it was too much. Collette’s wanting crashed over her, consuming every thought. Body glistening with sweat, hair in her face, and the smell of her sex filled her nose. Another lash was all she wanted, was all she needed to be tamed.

“Please. Oh please,” she whimpered.

Her mistress stared at the drying blood, capturing her insides. Her own need rose and caressed her. The whip slipped from her fingers. Roxanne wrapped her hand in Collette’s hair and pulled her slave’s neck back. One hand glided over sweat shimmering tits, kneading them while her tongue stroked her throat letting the beat of life intoxicate her more than any memory of lashings, of the fiery sweetness of the whip. Her hand found Collette’s naked cunt. Her gloved hand slid into the depths as her poppit gasped at the cool latex, but Roxanne yanked her hair back hard building the pressure again for her captive to come. Lips parted reveling ivory fangs that separated flesh and gave her the elixir of life as her bitch moved against her, coming, changing.

The restraints ripped and the slave’s moans became howls, but Roxanne held on as Collette’s spine cracked and bowed. Blood ran hot in Roxanne’s cold body, jump-starting her heart as she released the wolf that fell to fours.

Rubbing against Roxanne’s thigh, Collette gazed up at her mistress with the whip in her teeth, careful not to bruise the leather. Roxanne wiped her glove across her mouth, getting rid of blood that stained her lips.

“Good bitch.” She patted the wolf’s head.

She ran her hand the length of the whip, feeling its warmth and the suppleness. Her grin widened and her teeth flashed in the candlelight.

A thunder crack split the silence and a howl pierced the night as a clock struck midnight.


More Crymsyn:


A Bloody Valentine: Ellie Potts

Our first victim today is a fellow No Boundaries Press author,  Ellie Potts.  She sacrifices for our pleasure today a short story called “Melissa’s Project”. Please take a seat, have a read, and enjoy.


Melissa’s Project

She loved working with her hands. She loved the feel of pressure of the needle as she forced it through, the pop as it gave way, and the satisfaction of pulling the thread through. She could do this forever. But she knew one day she would have to stop. She looked down at her new project with a proud smile and gleam in her eyes. Still, it made her warm and fuzzy inside as she worked on the project.

She finally looked at the time and realized she needed some sleep. After all she had to go back to the real world tomorrow. She hated the real world. With a sigh she packed up her craft stuff and dragged herself to the shower. Just the idea of waking up to go to work in the morning made her tired, but she didn’t feel tired when she was crafting.

That night was filled of sweet dreams as always when she was almost finished with a project. And she woke up. Already the idea of the day before her dampened her spirits but not this time. She had one more item to get to complete her craft.

Sitting at her desk with her headset her brown eyes watched the people move around her. She sighed as the phone rang.

“Boo,” Jordan pounced beside her make her jump and smile. It must be lunch time, she thought. She looked over at her the clock and sure enough.

“I need a coffee,” she said getting out of her chair listening to her legs and shoulders pop as she stretched.

“No coffee today,” Jordan said, “We are getting ice cream.”

“I don’t care for it that much.”

“Melissa, you have to go and see this guy who works there. He is gorgeous.”

Gorgeous? Hmm worth checking out. “Okay.”

After they found lunch Jordan took her to the ice cream place. The place was crowded, and she didn’t like crowds all too much. “Come on,” Jordan said pulling her along inside the crowd.

The noise and the closeness to so many people seemed to almost take over. Her head started to pound and her blood inside her body felt as if boiling. But then her brown eyes fell on the man behind the counter. Gorgeous, didn’t even fit the bill. He had the crystal blue eyes that just made her want to stare.

“What did I tell you?” Jordan whispered into her ear.

She looked at Jordan and the people in the ice cream shop. A small smile crept to her pouty lips. Tonight she would finish her newest craft. Excitement beat through her body, and for the first time in a long time she wanted some ice cream. She wanted to hear this guy’s voice.

Work took forever but when it was done she jumped into her car. And the world went black. She woke up at her home. Laid out in front of her was all her sewing kit. She picked up her thread and needle and went to work trying not to damage the newest piece.

Her phone went off. She looked at the time. 8 pm. She never got phone calls around this time. “Hello?”

“Melissa, have you checked out the news?”

“You know I hate the news,” she replied.

“The gorgeous ice cream guy disappeared after work last night.”

Last night? “Jordan what day is it?”

“Monday silly,” she said and went on about how crazy it was he disappeared.

“I have to go,” she said hanging up the phone and walked over to the large mirror on the wall. Dread weighed heavy on her chest.

“Why are you so worried about it?” she asked her reflection.

Her reflection blinked and smiled at her. “I do the dirty work and you get to play doing your little crafts.”

“You were supposed to only take up a few hours not a whole day!” She screamed at the mirror.

“Now, now,” the reflection said and reached out to touch her. A pain flashed through her head and she fell to her knees screaming. She pressed her palms to her head. But the pain wouldn’t let up instead it took her back to the night before. The pictures of her talking to the ice cream man flew by as well as the part of her bringing the bat down on his head. The struggle with shoving him into the trunk was relatively easy the weight lifting had been very helpful.

Now it flashed her home. Into the room she never goes into. The pain still there she used the wall to get to her feet. Unsteadily she made her way to the back room. She had no time to take in a deep breath and pushed open the door. The stink of the decomposing bodies hit her hard making her stomach clench tight.

“Stop that,” her reflection over the dresser said. “We both know that you really don’t mind that.”

“You were supposed to-” she paused as more story came to her.

She had the ice cream man bound down to her folding masseuse table. Half unconscious and half doped up. She sharpened her blade and let it slip easily into his skin. It moved with her hand easily. The blood started to leak and she was laughing. The vision fast forward and she had removed the skin and now naked she played in the chest cavity she had broken open with giant pliers.

She rolled around in the blood, tissue and organs. She reveled in the silky warmness as it coated her bare skin. She smelt of thick copper and bile from the organs. The blood and some of the bile would splash in her mouth as she laughed and played and it excited her making her want more. She started tasting the pieces she lay on. Small bites of the liver, the kidney, and accidently took a bite of the upper intestine which she spat out.

“Yuck,” she said as she rubbed her gore covered hand on her tongue.

She had spent most of the day in the body until it became cold and gelatinous. Sadly she pulled herself away from the body and went to the shower. When it was done she turned the messaging head on the pulsing side and beat it along her sensitive spots, it still wasn’t enough so she turned the water hotter. The pain seared her sensitive flesh and she thought of the ice cream man, the way the knife slipped into his flesh oh so easy, the sound of the pliers breaking into his rib cage, and she orgasmed violently.

She pulled herself out of the shower satisfied on shaky legs. She grabbed the crafting set throwing it on the table, and went back to fetch the item her other side needed.

Melissa opened her eyes the pain in her head gone. Her brown eyes went over to the mirror. “Go back to your crafting,” her mirror self told her.

She nodded and walked back to her table. There on the table she had almost finished creating the newest chair cover. It still bled but she would dry it. It stuck of rotten meat, but the smell would go away. The skin pillow was nearly complete. She reached out to throw a piece of heart in her mouth. The tangy copper slid down her throat.

What Melissa didn’t know is they found a hair at the scene that brought the cops to her. That night as she spoke to the psychiatrist she remembered how her victim’s eyes never kept the color, but their clean skin made the best pillows to sleep on. The cops called her the Valentine Killer, because she said she ate the hearts of her victims which to her tasted liked ice cream.

How to Find Ellie:

Website: http://authorelliepotts.weebly.com/
Blog: http://authorelliepotts.blogspot.com/
Twitter: http://twitter.com/fangirlellie
Facebook:  http://www.facebook.com/FanGirlEllie

A Bloody Valentine: Rie Sheridan Rose

Back for Round Two, Ladies and Germs, is The Barbadee Poet herself, Mrs. Rie Sheridan Rose! Today she’s sharing a short story from her collection. Pull up a seat, have some popocorn, and enjoy!


These Bones are Made for Walking

 “Bruce, there’s a skeleton in my closet.”

“Don’t fret, Roxanne – we all have a few secrets in our past we would rather not have come to light. Whatever it is, I’m sure—”

“Not that kind of skeleton, Bruce. A real one. Naked bones. Grinning skull. Eau de Cemetery. That kind of skeleton.”

“Oh. Why didn’t you say so?”

Roxanne Rogers studied the six feet plus of matinee idol that was her fiancé and wondered – not for the first time – where he had been the day they passed out brains. Probably in the heavenly equivalent of the women’s locker room.

“The question is,” she went on, enunciating each syllable, “what are you going to do about it?”

“Well, it’s your closet.”

“But technically, it’s your house. Until the wedding, you are my landlord, and I’d say this is one big pest control issue.”

“I hate it when you get technical.” Bruce sighed, doing distracting things with his muscles.

Focus, Roxanne, she chided herself mentally, or you’ll wind up taking care of it yourself. Again.

“How long has it been there?” Bruce asked.

“Well, obviously, it’s—” The thought stopped her dead. “It wasn’t there last night when I changed for bed, but when I went to get dressed this morning…” She shivered, suddenly aware of the fact that she wore only the sweats and t-shirt she slept in…and that the skeleton had made its way into the closet while she was sleeping in them.

Bruce patted her shoulder with his good hand. She’d finally broken him of using his hook after one too many times it caught in her hair.

“Don’t worry, Rox. We’ll get to the bottom of this. Did you ask the guys upstairs if they had…you know…lost something?”

“No, but don’t you think they would ask before storing anything downstairs? After all, you gave them the whole top floor.”

“Would you wanna store it in your bedroom? Well, obviously not, or it wouldn’t be bothering you…”

“Bruuuuce—” The warbling carol could only mean one thing. Madame Rose had arrived. Eight hours early.

“Great,” groused Roxanne. “Can this day get any worse?”

“Bruce, darlink,” gushed the medium as she wafted into the room on a cloud of rose water and rum. “Der is a disturbance in de force!”

“Enlighten us, Madame Yoda,” mumbled Roxanne.

Rose drew herself up with a sniff. “Because someting vuz stolen by a pop cultural hack does not mean it isn’t real, Miss Smarty-Pants. Ve had it furst.”

Roxanne rolled her eyes. “Whatever.”

“As I vuz saying before I vuz so rudely interrupted…” Rose glared at Roxanne, but her words were directed at Bruce. “Der is someting very wrong in de manor today. Someting evil.”

“Well, whatever it is will have to wait, because Roxanne has an unwelcome visitor….”

“Bruce, the two may not be unrelated,” Roxanne said dryly.

“I thought you had no idea who it—oh! Right.” Bruce nodded, as if he had a clue what he was talking about.

“Vat are we talking about?” Rose plunked herself down on the edge of Bruce’s bed, running an appreciative hand over the satin coverlet.

“I vuz—was just telling Bruce that there is a skeleton in my closet.”

“You haf no secrets from me, Roquesanne. I can see all that you would –”

“No, a real one! We were just going to look.”

“Zen I vill come and see too.”

Roxanne marched straight to her bedroom closet and threw open the door. She pointed into its depths with a flourish. “There! Now get rid of it, Bruce.”

Bruce leaned into the closet. “Get rid of what, Rox?”

“The skeleton. It’s right—”

“—ze bed…Roquesanne…ze bed!” Rose’s hand shook as she stabbed a finger toward the canopied bed.

Stretched out under the coverlet, which was drawn up to its bony chin, lay the upwardly mobile skeleton.

“Okay, that does it! That’s the last straw. I’m getting a new bed.”

The figure on the bed turned its skull toward them with a creak. Twin dots of a fiery cobalt blue flickered in the depths of its eye-sockets. “Cooooolllldddd,” it moaned.

“Tough toenails,” Roxanne growled back. “Get your boney butt out of my bed.”

“C’mon, Rox. Give the guy a break,” soothed Bruce. “You already said you want a new room. Let the man get warm.”

“You don’t even know it is—was—a man, Bruce.”

The skeleton sat bolt upright. It pointed at Bruce.

“Guess it was his turn,” mumbled Roxanne.

“Yoooouuuu,” sighed the skeleton, “you made me come here.”

“Should have known.”

“Look, Mister—who are you, anyway?” Bruce asked.

“Beauregard P. Bonaparte, of the Bay Ridge Bonapartes, at your service.” It sketched a little bow, cradling the comforter beneath its chin.

“Well, Beau, what brings you to the Stuck Pig?”

Yoouuu dooo….”

There was a tinge of exasperation to the sighed words that said Beauregard wasn’t sure who was the real bonehead here.

“…like I said.”

“How do you said—say—what you said anyhow? You haf nuthing to say with,” broke in Rose.

“It’s all on account of the business with the industrial waste disposal you people mishandled a few months ago.”

“You wouldn’t happen to have been a lawyer in a former life would you now?” Roxanne interjected.

“As a matter of fact—”

“Ah ha! I told you zere was evil in zis house!”

“Figures,” Roxanne muttered.

“Whatever the case,” the skeleton continued, “when the leakage occurred, I was happily interred in the family plot in the Third Cloud All Saints Choir Evangelical Church cemetery, where I had been residing for the past fifty or so years. Suddenly, I had the urge to do some traveling, and, while the rest of the family plodded up hill toward your restaurant, I went on a walkabout in the opposite direction.

“When I tired of my travels and came back to my cozy, warm plot, I found that the cemetery had been abandoned and all remaining residents re-interred elsewhere. They paved over the whole thing for additional parking. I have no home to return to. So here I am. Since you are responsible for my current lack of roots, you are responsible for remedying that situation.”

“Definitely a lawyer,” muttered Roxanne.

Beauregard shivered, the tremor clicking together all the smaller bones in his body like wind chimes. “I really am chilly.”

Roxanne dug in her closet and came up with a turtleneck sweater and an old pair of jeans. “You’re more my size than Bruce’s. Try these on.”

The skeleton pulled on the clothing.

Bruce looked him up and down. “Y’know, if you don’t look too closely, he could almost pass for any Goth kid on the street…”

“Better,” Beauregard beamed. “Now, about that accommodation….

“What about the basement?” Roxanne suggested.

“We have a basement?”

“Yes, Bruce. And it is warm and dry down there. Earthen walls – just like home.”

“Is there electricity?” asked Beau skeptically, “because I really miss HBO.”

“Six Feet Under?” Roxanne guessed.

“Hated it. I’m into Deadwood.”

“Sure. I can drop a cable, no prob,” Bruce promised, slinging an arm around Beau’s shoulder. “Let’s go see the new digs. Y’know, it might come in handy to have a lawyer in the house.”

After they had gone, Rose shook her head. “I do not know about this, Roquesanne. It seems like there is no point to this whole encounter.”

“Well, it does seem a bit sketchy…guess you might call it a ‘skeleton plot.’”

More on The Barbadee Poet

Website: http://www.riewriter.com
Amazon Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/Rie-Sheridan-Rose/e/B002QW9NB2
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Rie-Sheridan-Rose/38814481714