Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Be careful when you tread into the dark waters of Incubus; unseen things swim there, waiting for the unwary, waiting to bite...
Incubus is the story of a newly-married gay couple from Chicago who have taken advantage of Canada's sensible same-sex marriage law. On their way home from their honeymoon, tragedy strikes and one half of the couple is knifed in a parking garage, leaving his new spouse to mourn him.
But when the dead spouse returns, seemingly alive, his widower has to decide if he can put aside the telltale signs that that his returned lover is not quite who--or what--he seems to be.
BUY your copy of Incubus, one of my most haunting--literally--stories to date.
Here is an exclusive excerpt:
The next night Oliver lay sleepless. His eyes had long ago grown accustomed to the darkness and the objects in the room; the furniture and discarded clothing had taken on the shapes of gray hulks, almost alive in the shadows.
Sleep eluded him. He dreaded its coming, even though his eyes cried out for it, even though his muscles ached.
What if Ryan came back as he slept? What assurance would he have Ryan might slip into his dreams? Besides, even if he had such an assurance, Oliver wanted more than this ethereal connection.
In spite of his resolve, he found himself drifting. The confines of their bedroom would dissolve and Oliver would suddenly be searching for footing on slippery outcroppings of granite and limestone, where one misstep would send him plummeting into an abyss so deep and black, the darkness rose up, palpable as stone. One wrong step was all it took for Oliver’ s muscles to retract, hurling him back into wakefulness.
It was during one of these fugues that something else brought him back.
A whispered voice.
Again, the voice…whispery, dry and empty as a husk, the end of his name a growl.
Oliver got up on his elbows, searching the silver/gray darkness.
Was it Ryan?
Nails dug into the sheets, clawing. What if it was him? Oliver needed to show his love and desire, not terror.
“Oliver.” The whisper segued into a dry, throaty chuckle.
Oliver flattened himself against the headboard, one quivering hand reaching out to switch on the lamp on the nightstand.
Light broke into the room, shattering the darkness.
Perhaps under the bed? Nightmare images assaulted him. The closet door stood open a few inches, enough to give the banished darkness a shelter, enough to cause Oliver to wonder what lurked within.
Ryan’s hat rested on the pillow and Oliver snatched it up.
He put his feet to the floor, expecting taloned hands, red and sore, to fly out from underneath the bed. The hands would grab his ankles tightly enough to force the blood out, with bright rings of white appearing above monstrous fingers.
And Oliver would be pulled under the bed and farther down, deeper until he could no longer breathe.
Until he vanished.
Oliver squatted. Under the bed he found nothing more horrifying than clumps of gray dust and pairs of shoes, both his and Ryan’s, continuing to mingle.
He crept to the closet and swung open the door. The darkness disappeared and he faced rows of hangers holding suit coats, pants, shirts.
Yet what lurked in the back, where the light did not penetrate?
Wasn’t that the shape of something? The shape of something crouched, yet human?
Oliver’s heart stopped; his mouth went dry. With the last of his resolve, he pushed aside the hanging clothes and let in the light.
Ryan hid like a child…stooped, arms gripping himself in an attempt to make himself smaller. He stared at the floor, but when he looked up at Oliver, his eyes had an odd clarity, a paleness that almost made them translucent. He chuckled. And then, mocking his whisper of earlier, he whispered, “Oliver.”
The room, for an instant, lost substance, whirling. Oliver felt drunk…dizzy and nauseous. He sat down and placed his head in his hands.
When he looked up, Ryan was squatting beside him, naked. Oliver was shocked to see Ryan was aroused.
“Ryan?” He touched his face. It felt oddly cool, and a light stubble covered his chin. Oliver ran his fingertips over it, marveling in its reality.
“You’re really here, aren’t you?”
Ryan’s response was to lift Oliver from the floor and carry him to the bed. He lowered Oliver to the sheets, which were cold and gritty.
Oliver lay back, staring into the eyes, trying to forget that these eyes were paler than Ryan’s. But they were close enough.
Oliver bit the inside of his cheek as Ryan spread himself out on top of him, a blanket of silken cool, conjuring up images of blue-green water. He gripped Ryan’s back as Ryan entered him, unable to stop the sharp cry of pain at the ice of his penis as it rammed into him, insistent in a way Ryan would never have been.
Oliver tried to accustom himself to the pain and the chill, biting his lip and grasping Ryan so tightly his nails dug into his back, drawing blood.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Yes, Earthlings, it is time once again for the outer-space, inner-rim adventure known as Starship Intercourse, courtesy of our bottomless vat of ecstatic kinkiness, William Maltese. My observation on Part Six: it must be a bitter pill to swallow when the entire civilization of your home planet has been wiped out, but using your twat to swallow gigantic man-cock might help you cope with your grief.
By William Maltese
“They’re dead, Charles,” she said. “They’re dead.”
He was about to ask who, but she pointed to the cipher on the communicator. He scanned the message.
“No!” he said, turning to her. “This is some kind of a goddamned monstrous joke. No one just wipes out the whole population of Earth, just like that.”
He programmed the communicator to provide the series of signals that would theoretically beam a message back to Earth asking for verification.
“I’ve already done that,” she said. “I waited the prescribed five hours for reply. There wasn’t one.” She started laughing hysterically; her body shook and took on the aspects of a spastic fit.
He went to her and slapped her hard across the face. When that didn’t work, he hit her twice more.
Oh, God, Charles,” she said finally and buried her face into his shoulder. “Oh, my God, what do we do?”
He held her, and he was obviously dazed at the implication of Earth’s final message. The reality of it, though, hadn’t completely set in.
Margaret, though, had had the five hours during which she’d awaited for verification of her message. That was plenty of time for the horror to be seen as reality. Alone, she’d faced the grimness of the at-first unacceptable possibility. Alone, she’d waited for a reply which she finally realized would never arrive. Earth, her Earth, was dead. Its every man, woman, and child was dead—murdered by aliens from another world. No matter that Earth explorers had probed the universe for almost forty years and never stumbled, until their end, upon any semblance of a life form
Margaret held tightly to Charles. She wanted reassurance that she was no longer alone. Here was somebody who could help her cope—a man. No matter how many points went into her near-genius IQ, she was a woman who had lost self-control. She was desperately striving to regain it. She not only needed Charles as a helpmate, but she needed him inside her, as a man.
“Fuck me,” she said.
“Yes,” he replied, as if he actually understood her need, as if he knew what she was thinking, what she wanted, why she had to have it. “Yes,” he replied again, unzipping his flight suit at its crotch, hefting out his large cock, and not even bothering to undress.
She was ready for him, her own uniform open to give him ready access to her cunt that was eager to have his manly cock rammed deep inside it.
His powerful initial thrust caused her pain. It was what she wanted and needed, though, in that it provided her with a vital link to reality. If the pain was real, then she was real in being able to feel it; there was, it logically followed, a real world still existing and not yet perished into the same oblivion Earth had.
“You will reactivate freezing units to allow the trip’s completion without defrost of any other member of the crew,” the communiqué had instructed. Yet, she’d disobeyed. But why had she revived Charles? It had been because she knew Captain Peterson wouldn’t be able to help her. He would have been way too cool, collected, and genuinely perturbed at her display of emotions. She wasn’t supposed to act like a woman but like another piece of the craft’s specialized inanimate machinery.
“I’m a flesh-and-blood woman,” she said and put her teeth into Charles’ shoulder.
“God, yes! God, yes,” was all he muttered; his prick non-stop ravaged her pussy.
“Not a machine,” she mumbled, vaguely ashamed it was sex she needed at a time of such crisis, as if sex were a panacea; as if she, when done with it, would somehow be well and fine again. “Oh, God, I’m not an unfeeling machine, not a machine, not a machine.”
Charles humped her. He was dazed, not really even fully aware as to how he’d gotten onto the floor with her, or how he’d managed to get his cock from his pants and inside her pussy.
It was something to do with a ciphered message.
It was something to do with her request, “Fuck me.”
The message, though, had to be untrue, or certainly he wouldn’t be fucking, then and there, on the floor of their spaceship. God, no! He wouldn’t be ramming his prick into a twat, with millions of his countrymen dead and gone. It had to be a bad dream.
Obviously, the doctors had gotten it all wrong.
“No dreaming while under deep-sleep induced in this manner,” they said. “Experiments and clinical analysis of humans and other mammals indicate that the same electronic pulsations which lull subjects into stupor slow down body components and completely impede the dream sequence. Even were a dream somehow formulated, it would progress only seconds between a subject’s going under and coming out, even if the subject were under for years and years.”
Only a bad dream, on the other hand, explained Earth dead and gone, aliens having destroyed millions of people, Charles fucking out his brains while the rest of the crew lay in their tubes like corpses at a mass funeral.
His hands moved beneath Margaret to better cup her ass. He gripped to tug the tight sleeve of her cunt up farther around his poking dick. She gripped his shoulders and enjoyed the sheer wonder of his hot cock drilling ceaselessly inside her.
Her vaginal muscles tightened, grasping his hunk of stiff meat. He groaned his pleasure and appreciation. He sweated in his uniform; perspiration beaded his neck and face. Margaret licked it, tasting it. Simultaneously, her tits flatten beneath his pressing chest. Her nipples went taut and rubbed against her inner clothing. That increased her pleasure and pushed her nearer the ultimate climax she prayed would return her sanity.
His cock continued to plow her guts. She felt its each and every motion. She enjoyed the intense pleasure conjured from its constant hammering. Her twat stretched with his cock’s pressing; her cunt closed again about those same inches when they were exiting. There was a fire in her loins, stoked continually by the firebrand that was his fucking erection.
Suddenly, she was engulfed in a sunburst of pleasure erupting in her hole but expanding into all the rest of her. She was only vaguely aware that his body stiffened atop her. His ass muscles bunched. He moaned. His heartbeat thumped hard and fast through his flesh and through their combined clothing to tattoo against her breast.
“Fuck me!” she said. “Oh, God, now, now, NOW! FUCK ME!”
“Baby, baby, baby,” he muttered over and over in her ear.
Then, he bit her uniform and her shoulder. His cock swelled larger inside her, pulsed like a huge vibrator and, then, exploded sticky streamers of suddenly released spunk that catapulted far and deep into her greedily sucking pussy.
“Oh, God!” she said, wracked by orgasms. Her legs rose higher and locked about his waist. She lifted her crotch in order to accept each and every inch of cock he had to offer … to accept each and every squirt of scalding cum he could provide.