You know, I never considered myself a horror writer. But my editors at Forbidden Fiction think otherwise, and so included two of my stories, “Oasis Beckoning” and “The Ravening Season” in this anthology, Strange Appetites. 😉
So just in time for Halloween, you can read 11 dark, bizarre tales. Be warned: this is erotic horror, not paranormal erotic romance. In fact, I don’t think romance very much comes into it here. If you are after stories that embrace the darkness rather than the happily ever after, this anthology may well be for you.
Edited by Lon Sarver
Hunger is irrepressible. One can only ignore it for so long, and then the emptiness refuses to let go. The ache to be filled becomes a constant companion, with an opinion on every thing—and everyone—one sees. After that, hunger eclipses all other considerations. All other sensations dull, all other thoughts fade. There’s only the hungry, demanding flesh and its strange appetites.
Presented for your consumption are eleven tales of hunger and obsession. Here are jaded sexual adventurers, lost souls, frustrated dreamers, and a few who find themselves willing to pay any price to survive. There are monsters, as well, but they aren’t always the villains.
Take this book home to devour at your leisure. Nibble just one story a night, or wolf the whole thing down at once, however satisfies your desire. And if, when you’re done, something doesn’t feel quite right, ask yourself: What’s eating you?
- Jaded Appetites by Richard Freeman
- Oasis Beckoning by Jacqueline Brocker
- Frogger Says by Konrad Hartmann
- Black Paint by Nobilis Reed
- Hunter’s Tree by Konrad Hartmann
- Witch’s Price by Ann Gimpel
- Strange Hospitality by Kailin Morgan
- Ravening Season by Jacqueline Brocker
- Sleep of Reason by Richard Freeman
- Screen Siren by Annabeth Leong
- Little Henna Hair by R.W. Whitefield
You can read more about the other stories on Forbidden Fiction’s website.
Excerpt the First – Oasis Beckoning
He crawled out of the bushes, as scraggly and dusty as a desert dog, and looked around him with half-lidded eyes. Was this real, or was some strange magic at work? There were tall trees and drooping vines, verdant bushes with red and purple flowers. He’d seen nothing like this in weeks. Was this truly no longer the desert?
Then he saw, just feet before him, a wide, glinting expanse. He focused his eyes, fearing another all-too familiar mirage… and ecstasy washed over him.
It was the answer to his long-held prayers: water. A large pool of water.
He scrambled to it, thrust in a cupped hand and greedily snatched the water into his mouth. It was deep enough for his whole arm to sink in, shallow enough for his knuckles to graze the bottom. The blessedly cold liquid drenched his dried tongue and seared its way down his parched throat. It almost made him dizzy, the feeling of life coming back to him so rapidly that he thought he might go insane.
He slowed down his gulping, concentrating on the steady quenching of his thirst. Eventually he stopped drinking, and took a long, deep breath. He’d forgotten that water had its own scent.
He splashed his dirty face three times. When the water settled, a reflection stared back up at him that he didn’t recognise. Dust still caked his brown skin, the water making it drip dirtily from his cheeks. His black hair, thick and curly, was now a sandy brown, and much wilder than it ought to have been, forcing itself to be noticed from behind his keffiyeh. He looked so much older than his 25 years. His beard and moustache, once trimmed and proper, were now long and made him look like an animal. He cursed, took off his bag and fished through it until he found his knife.
The shave he gave himself was rough. He gasped all the way through it, cut himself twice. When it was done, though, when his hair was shorter and his beard in the style that was correct, he felt he had reclaimed part of him that he’d thought he’d lost in the desert.
The pool was larger than he first realised; hollow rather than sprawling. He saw that beyond the edge it was deeper, perhaps enough for him to stand in, or at least crouch. Perfect, he decided, for bathing. He stripped off his fraying cotton trousers and tunic, kicked away his nearly broken sandals. His body shuddered as he sank into the water.
Under the surface, there was a blessed silence. The hollow shriek of the desert winds still tore at his memory, so the gentle hush of the water came as a balm to his ears. When he emerged, water spilling down his face, he rubbed his hands over his hair, smiling as the collected dirt and dust sloughed away from him.
At the edge, the pool was shallow, so he settled down with his arms resting on the edge and the water up to his chest. It cooled the scars and rashes on his skin. A gentle current drifted around his toes, and he felt his groin quiver and tingle as his cock and balls rested in the water. It was comforting, not arousing. He smirked, and wondered if he would ever feel that sensation again.
Then he sighed. At last the vast expanse of sand and dirt, with its looming white-blue sky and incandescent sun, was behind him. As was his village, the place that had ceased to be his home when the army came, when the echoes of rifles and cannons had scattered everyone, when small planes had dipped so close to their huts and dropped firebombs, setting their roofs alight, when he’d grabbed what he could and ran into the wilderness that had turned into gaping, dry space.
This new land was quite different from his own. Would he be welcomed here? Would the people have heard of what had happened to his home? There had been no border markers, but he had never had any official papers. Would they send him straight back to face the army who was supposed to protect him?
The gentle lap of the water, and the cool breeze drifting over the pool, overcame him, encouraged him to succumb to the weariness which wafted over him. His worries were soon replaced with gratitude for his life, and soon, he closed his eyes, leaned back and slept.
Excerpt the Second – The Ravening Seasons
In the spring, he wanted to kiss her so badly. But he waited until summer, when her dress was a rich green filled with sunflowers and her hair like wheat waiting for harvest. Even then he did not press his lips to hers, but held his fingers to her mouth, and waited to see if she would bite.
She did, though her teeth were like a kitten’s, the gnawing unable to tear the skin on the side of his finger. It was more like a mouthing than a bite, sweet in its single-minded pursuit of food, without craft or guile.
Summer continued to pass. Her breast grew under her dress, rounder, fuller, more beckoning, and as she kissed his knuckles, his palm, his free hand journey up her waist to hold her breast like a ripe melon. He did not squeeze, but cupped, moving and circling to discover the shape. He hung always in the balance of wanting more, of desire to suddenly rip her dress and plunder the furrows between her breasts, the warm spot between her legs. His erection would insist on attention, but he forced himself to wait. In his bed, in his dreams, he thought of her softness, pressing his weight and hardness into it, as his hand circled his member and rubbed the foreskin back and forth over the head, groaning impatiently as he came.
Later, her tongue glided around his fingers, her lips more luscious and plump, and then, she learned to suck. Not suckle, but wrap her lips around his digits and draw down their length, her eyes on his, both coy and knowing. He could no longer prevent the swelling in his groin, nor his haggard breath as her tongue lathed over his knuckles.
He caught her up in his arms, and kissed her, wet-mouthed, grasping her palm and pressing it to his growing member. She did not sigh or simper. She only gazed at him with serious eyes. As her head lowered, he caught a hint of wickedness, but it did not disturb him, only made his head rush with anticipation, knowing she must have done this before, that her mouth would take him with expert fashion.
Yet, he thought, as her tongue sought out the drop of his essence on the head, as her lips nibbled the hardening length, and long fingers sought out the hanging sac below, how do you claim and mark one as your own without staining them?
Her mouth was a warm barrell as his member dipped in and out of her – though it was more her guiding him in, even as his hips rolled. Her hands and mouth were in total concentration, tracing his length, nibbling on his foreskin, pinching and teasing the base, pulling his sac away from its safe place, pulling it away from his body like it was held to him by a spider’s thread. The tender ache of that, the straining, and her hot wet tongue lavishing him, practically eating him, soon made him come, his fingers digging in the grass beneath him, for he couldn’t quite bear to hold her head to him much more.
There was no stain when she was done but the sweat on his hot face, for she swallowed everything he expelled. And she gave his length one final lick before she smiled.
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