She was first written in 2006, as a submission for a magazine called Cthulu Sex, which, if I recall correctly, prided itself on works of sex, death and tentacles. This story was perhaps my first attempt at erotic horror, but unfortunately, it didn't make the cut for the magazine. There's something about it I still love, though, so here it is, my lovelies.Enjoy!
He’d first seen her from the walkway connecting The MGM and Excalibur casinos: she was below, in the milling flow of the sidewalk that ran the length of the strip. Her dark, wavy hair was held back from her face by a pale blue headband; she wore a loose, short white blouse which had slipped down on one shoulder, and a black vinyl mini-skirt. Her eyes, scanning the crowd, were the deep, liquid color of fine green glass, shaded by long, feathery black lashes. But it was her lips he focused on: sensually glossed, they parted slightly in patient anticipation. Perhaps she was only waiting, unaware of the tantalizing shimmer of her pout—but he doubted it.
This woman was a killer.
He took up a position by the railing and kept watch, noting the slow, graceful movements of her head as she surveyed the people passing by, and the subtle, somehow instinctual sway of her slender hips. It was obvious what she was looking for: a man to turn a trick for. He watched her for the better part of an hour, but she never looked up. She didn’t have any reason to; the kind of people interested in her services didn’t linger on the walkways. They descended to the street.
Soon enough, her evening’s partner strayed from the flock: a young man, probably not even old enough to sit at the tables and partake of the free beer, nervous and green but fidgety in the way that said he was after exactly what she was selling. Her pout became a grin, those wet lips turning up at the corners with secretly wicked delight. No words were exchanged; she sidled up under the boy’s arm and led him away.
Now her observer also grinned. He left his place at the railing and turned back in the direction of the casino, to play a little blackjack.
Over the next few days, he saw the woman many times. It was always in the shadow of one of the big hotels—she didn’t waste her time with the action off the strip. He caught her by the Paris one night, and then the Mirage; later, by Treasure Island and even by Circus Circus. That last one surprised him; it was a family hotel, for Christ’s sakes!
Each time it was the same. She never let the men take her to wherever they might have been staying. Instead, she took each of them her way, so he had to assume she had a place of her own where she conducted business.
On the third night, he started to follow her. This time she’d picked up a rather elderly old codger right away. Her observer kept pace with them across the street. After two blocks, they turned off the strip and headed towards a cluster of seedy motels. They disappeared into one called the Rest Easy Inn.
The woman led her client directly to the elevators, and he watched from across the lobby, pretending to be interested in the maps and pamphlets by the front desk. The doors closed on the couple, and his eyes went to the red blinking numbers above the cool silver.
They stopped at 5.
He thought maybe that was enough for one night.
The next evening, he rode the elevator at the Rest Easy to the fifth floor, and waited. She showed up after eleven, this time with a sexy power player, a tanned gent with unruly curls. Strolling casually past them, her observer nodded amiably, and her client nodded back, an idiot’s arrogant smile plastered across his face. She regarded him only with cool disinterest.
He waited until they’d gone some distance down the hall and then he turned around. She took the man into a room near the end; after they’d ducked inside, he doubled back after them see which one it was. 527.
He returned to the lobby. It took him a moment to locate the place he wanted on the hotel map, and then he went to ring in at the front desk. Luckily enough, the room was vacant.
The window in room 502 looked directly across the courtyard and, as he’d hoped, directly into the window of 527.
And his mystery woman hadn’t closed the curtains.
Maybe she likes the moonlight, he thought with a grin.
He sat on the edge of the queen-sized bed and turned off the lights. His eyesight was good; he could see her room clearly, could see everything she and her corporate client were doing. The man evidently enjoyed a little light bondage: he had her on all fours, her wrists tied with a scarf, and was paddling her tight little bottom happily with his big, meaty hand. That smile was still on his face, only now it was twisted into a lewd little snarl, looking stupider by the minute. He hadn’t undressed her yet, and every time his hand came down, she swayed forward and rolled her eyes in over-acted lust. In his room across the way, her observer couldn’t hear her, but he thought she might be moaning for the man’s benefit—it wouldn’t be real moaning, of course… he obviously wasn’t hitting any of her buttons.
Then, the client seized her by the shoulders and flipped her on her back, ducking his head under her skirt. Her observer raised an eyebrow in surprise—the idiot actually pulled off her lacy black panties with his teeth.
Now they were getting somewhere.
The woman threw her head back with a gasp as he buried his head between her thighs, and with her wrists still tied together she tangled her fingers in his curly hair, pressing him down, as if she wanted to smother him in her. The observer smiled… that woman was enjoying herself.
The client seemed to realize this, too. He came up from her with that goddamn stupid grin, then ducked in again for more.
In room 502, her observer realized he had an erection.
There was a moment where he thought the man might actually bring her to climax—he seemed so into what he was doing—but then he withdrew from her, sitting back on his haunches and struggling with his belt buckle.
“Fucker,” the observer muttered. “Finish her off, why don’t you?”
But of course, like so many other single-minded men—this woman had surely met a share of them—this polished professional prick had done all that was required, at least in his mind. Hell, he probably thought he’d done her a favor; he was paying for this, after all.
She obviously understood. Almost without pause she rolled off her back and fumbled (wrists still tied) to help him. Together they managed to free his persistent cock, and she took it—hungrily—into her mouth.
The man’s eyes rolled heavenwards. He seized her head and thrust.
Her observer narrowed his eyes.
All around him, the air seemed to grow a little colder.
That’s when the fun began.
She ate three of them that night. Literally.
Her observer remained in his room. After the first man died, she left and returned an hour later with another. He died with his cock in her mouth, too. Her observer imagined several of them fell for that trap. The third man lasted longer: he wanted her from behind, which made it difficult. She managed, though—she was, of course, experienced at what she did. After he spent himself in her and collapsed, she rolled over and pulled him into an embrace.
It was the kiss that did him in.
As he came close to her, shutting his eyes and pouting his lips in a ridiculously childish expression, a sinuous bulge rose up beneath the flesh of her neck.
“At least your head’ll go before your balls,” murmured the observer.
She opened her mouth like a snake, wider and wider, unhinging her lower jaw so that if the man had only just opened his eyes and looked, he would have seen the eager, throbbing muscles of her esophagus beyond the red and glistening maw. Her eyes bled, filling with viscous black mucus, her pupils dilating until only a single glittering ring of poison green was left. As her victim leaned in a filthy, polluted tear of joy rolled down the side of her twisted, nearly reptilian face.
From deep in her craw snaked two winding, pulsing coils. They stretched up and out, around the head of her victim, touching, feeling, tasting him almost tenderly before she struck.
Now the man opened his eyes. And had a single instance of confused, shocked terror, before her coils snared him by the back of the skull and pulled him down her throat.
The next night, she only took two. It took her some time to devour them whole, and her observer suspected that by the second one, she was too tired to go out again. The night after that, three. After that, two more men—and a woman.
She’s getting hungrier, he thought to himself as he watched her gorge on the regrettably under-endowed breasts of her evening’s final victim. A week ago, she was probably taking only one. A week before that, maybe one every other night. So what will happen next week?
He didn’t think it would matter by then. He’d been watching long enough in this dark, cold room—it grew colder every night, and worse on the nights she took her time. He’d nursed his arousal, ignored his own needs, all as he watched her hunt and feed. He thought by tomorrow night, he’d be ready for her.
Or, more aptly, she’d be ready for him.
He waited by the elevator. When she appeared, he gently touched her shoulder. There were no words. She understood.
She took him to her room. He undressed her, and lay her down on the bed; she tried to go for his member first—the easy kill—but he stopped her. Kissed her breasts. Dragged his tongue across her skin, tasting the warm bitterness of her pheromones.
Yes. She was ready.
He entered and sunk himself into her; she gasped, a fake, practiced sound she used on all the men. An attractive trick. She tried to moan, and he covered her mouth with his hand.
“Don’t play with me.”
For the first time, those green eyes looked surprised.
He worked in her slowly, relishing the slick feel of her, the firm tensing of the muscles around his organ. He savored her smell, spicy and ripe underneath her cheap perfume. It was like heavy drink, indulgent and intoxicating. He licked her neck from shoulder to earlobe, driving a little deeper in her, holding a little longer, delaying the moment of climax as long as he could. Fine beads of sweat had risen upon her full, flushed breasts; she moaned against his hand, really moaning, as she probably had for no other lover before.
Finally, when he could hold back no more, he bit down on her neck and drove himself to the limit in her, exploding in her, spilling his seed deep, deep within her. At the same time she arched her back and he felt her tighten around him, quivering and seizing as her orgasm rocked through her like an electric shock.
When it was done, they lay still for several moments. He rested his head on her breasts and listened to her breathe. Then, he looked into her eyes.
She watched him warily; his hand still covered her mouth.
“Want me to let you go?”
He took the hand away. Almost immediately she split her jaw to swallow him. He seized her by the throat and wrenched her head to the side—there was a cruel SNAP!, and she went limp beneath him.
He waited in silence. When he was sure she was dead, he bent close to her neck and breathed in the scent of her again. Pungent, piquant… hot. Very, very hot.
He stood up and lifted her body off the bed. He used a belt to tie her wrists and ankles together, and hang her from the heavy wooden rod in the room’s closet like a fruit from a vine. Her spine curved down, her womb safe and warm in the cradle formed by her torso and pelvis. Already, the flesh was starting to glisten, as though it were being baked.
When the corpse was secured in its suspended position, he stepped back to admire his work. Her head hung limply to the side. He lifted her chin to admire her fine, lovely face once more.
Then he opened his mouth, wide, like a serpent unhinging its jaws. Two long, sinuous tendrils snaked their way out of his throat. They touched the head, feeling it, tasting it.
Then they tore it from the neck and pulled it down his throat.
He grinned, satisfied, and left his new cocoon hanging decapitated in the dark.
He felt like a little blackjack.