Bloody Sexy Anthology

by Carmilla Voiez

  “Shit,” he mumbled. He felt like he was drowning in those wide eyes, until she moved aside.

  “See you around,” she said nervously, as she rubbed her fingers with the hem of her skirt.

  Slightly put out, Jason took his dinner and left the takeaway. Not before he took one last lingering look at the beautiful young woman who had stolen his heart with one look.

  ****

  Jason could smell her before he could see her.

  He had not known her for long...in fact, he didn’t really know her at all, but she was only a tender little thing. She didn’t deserve half the shit that went on in this town, and she certainly didn’t deserve what was happening to her now. The pale faced and blood covered vampire grabbed her ponytail, dragging her back against him, toying with her like a cat with a mouse. His hands were all over her, grabbing at her flesh, whilst she could do nothing but scream as tears rolled down her cheeks.

  Jason had to do something...anything...to help her.

  Shedding his leather jacket and jeans, he dumped them behind a dry rubbish bag and called upon his wolf. The black, hulking beast charged to the forefront of his mind, his eyes mingling with Jason’s. He felt his bones crack and elongate as he fell into a crouch in the litter-strewn alleyway. His shirt and boxer shorts ripped clean off and fell to the ground in tatters. His nose became hypersensitive and the smells that assailed his nose made the human side of him want to be sick.

  He felt his tail grow as his body shifted and moved, his fur taking control of his limbs. Closing his eyes tightly, he felt the final push of the change take him over. His hackles rose and his lip curled back over his canines in a howl.

  Barrelling along the alleyway, he knocked the vampire straight off his feet. The girl stumbled and crashed forwards into the opposing world, crying out in shock and pain. Jason didn’t have time to pay attention to her as the vampire made a grab for him. Long fingernails scraped through his fur and along his skin to the bone.

  Jason bared his fangs and, in one practised movement, he snapped at the vampire, biting and holding onto the wrist. It screeched and flailed, trying to push the wolf away, but to no avail.

  The girl screamed, loud, long and piercing.

  Jason turned his yellow wolf eyes towards her. Hers were filled with fear as she nursed her bruised neck. Jason jerked his head and growled low in his throat.

  “Run,” was the same in any language...human or mammal. She turned on her heel and did as he bade. Jason would find her later, see how she faired. First, he had to kill the vampire...

  ****

  Jason shifted back minutes later, the vampire an ashy mess. He skulked back along the alley, pulling on his jeans, jacket and shoes. The bare flesh on display felt chilly, but it didn’t matter. Clothes were replaceable. A human life wasn’t.

  As he crouched to tie his shoe, he took a whiff of the air. That sweet tantalising fragrance again. It had drawn him close to the situation and it continued pull him along, leading him on a merry dance. Digging his hands in his pockets, ignoring the vibrations from his mobile phone, he stalked streets and crossed roads, sniffing in the shadows.

  Finally, he found her. She was holed up in a small flat in a tall squalid building. And as far as his senses could tell, she was alone. He hung around, concealing himself in the failing light of the building, waiting for the next person to enter. They had a pass-code, he didn’t. His plan worked like a charm, as he entered behind a heavyset young man in a black hoodie, carrying a boxed games console.

  Jason followed his nose, taking the stairs two at a time, until he was before her door, a shining brass 74 before him.

  He could see her now. He could almost taste her. He could smell her.

  Virgin.

  He knocked, every primal wolf instinct taking over him. The chain rattled on the door and it creaked open on its hinges.

  A hazel eye met his blue one.

  “You,” she whispered.

  He swiftly pushed the door open, making his way into the apartment, silencing anything she might have wanted to say with a long and hard kiss. Her lips were soft beneath his, and he parted them with his tongue, kissing her deep, drawing out a tiny unexpected moan from her. Even though, they were complete strangers, there was some connection that went deeper than anything between a man and a woman.

  Could she truly be my...mate? Jason thought, as he pressed their bodies closer together, her kisses making him even harder than ever.

  Wrapping one hand around her neck, he supported her as her knees shook with desire. Holding onto her hip tightly, he moved them backwards until they were against her small two person sofa. He continued to kiss her as deeply as he could, whilst his nails scratched lightly at the side of her neck. He opened one eye slightly, revelling in the small red lines that marred her perfect skin. He had done that to her, and boy, did he feel good about that.

  She uttered something halfway between a protest and a moan, as his hand travelled underneath her pinafore dress, but when she felt his fingertips caressing her inner thighs delicately, all rational thoughts went out of her mind. Cautiously, she sucked in his lower lip and nipped it.

  At the feel of her teeth on him, his fingers moved from thigh to her panties, delicately touching her moistness. His middle finger rubbed against her, but when he felt her trying to writhe against him, all hesitation went out of the window. Hooking his fingers inside the crotch, he tore off her panties. The rip split the air and he threw them carelessly across the room where they landed on a stack of battered library books.

  “Please,” he heard her whisper against his skin. “Please, I want you too...”

  He came undone. He slid his tongue back into her mouth, the same time he thrust a finger into her tight willing wetness.

  There is nothing better than this, he thought, as he moved inside of her, working her with a single finger, until her body could take no more. He felt her climax on the verge and he wanted them to do it...together. As mates.

  He removed his fingers from her and she practically wilted in his arms. He turned her around carefully, bending her over the sofa, displaying her wonderfully wet lips and a perfectly rounded ass.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” he whispered.

  She turned her head slightly, twisting to touch the side of his face. She met his eyes, and he could almost see the twinkle that dwelled within them.

  “Yes,” she said softly.

  “You should bite your lip.” He let his leather fall in a crumpled heap on the floor, before unbuttoning his jeans. He shuffled them down until they were around his ankles. Freeing his thick, hard cock, he could barely contain himself. Pre-cum glistened on the tip and he took one long stroke of it.

  Slowly, he spread her lips, taking the opportunity to lay his tongue across her, tasting her juices, coating them with his saliva, before mixing the wetness together with the tip of his finger. She groaned in pleasure and her hips wriggled in delight.

  He positioned himself at her entrance, counting to three in his head. On three, he pushed into her. Her moan was high and full of pleasure as he tore her hymen. As he felt her body adjust to the intruder, he slowly began rocking his hips back and forth, until she began groaning, not biting her lip as he had advised her to. The care he wanted to take her with had been overridden with its urgent need to mate, and he fucked her.

  He fucked her through the pain, through the pleasure, until she was screaming at the top of her lungs.

  Biting her shoulder so hard that her once virgin blood seeped out in pinpricks, he let his wolf seed spread into her, making her his mate, as she released onto him.

  She held onto the sofa as he removed himself and tried to clean her as best as he could. She whimpered, exhausted, as he brushed against her, kissing away the blood. It tingled on his tongue, making him hard once more.

  Jason picked her up and cradled her in his arms like a child. She wrapped her hands around his neck, letting her head rest against his chest. Their hearts beat erratically
together, but to Jason it was a beautiful symphony. He brushed a strand of her from her face.

  “What’s your name?” he asked gently.

  “Serenity,” she said, her voice no more than a whisper.

  “Beautiful name for a beautiful girl.” He smiled.

  A blush spread across her cheeks. She cocked her head to one side, puzzlement finally reaching her, her hormones abating.

  “You came into the takeaway, didn’t you? You...You’re eyes...You...” Serenity flustered with her words. She hung her head and muttered. “You need to talk to me. I feel weird.”

  “All in good time, dear heart. Because believe me, you’re going to need a coffee to get you through it.”

  She wrinkled her nose, peering up at him. “I’m more of a tea drinker actually. Milk and two sugars.”

  He shook his head, laughter bubbling up. He kissed her lips in such a tender manner that his heart ached. Ached like he had found and claimed his true mate and he would do anything to keep her with him for the rest of their lives.

  Bringing Me Alive

  by Angel Edenburn

  He has me under his thrall, doing his bidding.

  I have no will of my own when he calls.

  My heart beats like a captured bird;

  waiting, waiting, waiting for him.

  I know what he asks is wrong and yet I cannot refuse.

  He excites every fiber of my being, waking my passions and desires.

  His voice brings my blood to fire as I come undone.

  My bones turn liquid; melt me from inside out.

  The thirst he awakens with his first bite is stronger than reason.

  I am turning slowly into something I know should not exist on this Earth.

  My mortal self is dying and I am coming to life.

  Hamilton Tales

  by Victor George Matak

  He was a brute in high school. Osoyoos, they called him, after the way he took her, in a detached, selfish way. The way she would react every time he clasped on her body, scornfully, emphatically: a whimper, blithe, afraid. Maniacally, she would writhe and beg Osoyoos to come and he would squeeze her neck, choke her, until it was over. Neither of them cared about consequences. If she should purchase birth control of if he should wear a condom, these were not topical discussions, they were implications of a potential that was dithered, incompatible. They did not talk about the future. They did not talk about their dreams. When she was pregnant, he paid for the abortion and she let him. He was a bastard. But he had a large cock and this seemed an allowance, forgiveness for her purple bruises, the shattered knee one summer in eleventh grade, and the two broken fingers she had when I first met her, at the gym, hunched over the water fountain.

  Then again, so did I but, like anything, I knew that it did not matter. You had to love, ferociously, if you wanted valid respect, what was genteel, soft: affection. Abuse wasn’t the word she used. It was degrading, impudence, an affront to her feelings rather than a violation. She was telling me about one of her ex-lovers, while I lay on her queen sized bed in her childhood home.

  “Yours is thicker, there’s more veins.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “How do you feel about all this?”

  “Fine.”

  “You asked, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “Don’t get upset.”

  “I’m not upset.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, for god’s sake. Stop asking.”

  “Okay, I’m sorry.”

  “Me too, I didn’t mean to swear.”

  “Why are you apologizing?”

  “Because, I swore?”

  “Okay.”

  I was here for three days, a long weekend, before Della and I headed to New England for one of her friend’s photography exhibits. The friend, we hoped, would like Della's photographs and perhaps, get them into an exhibit somewhere or have a word with her agent. She liked to work in black and white. She called this a primeval dichotomy of colour - the polarization of momentum, divergence, and singularity. Della’s pieces were showy...pink and blue and orange inspired by van Gogh. They were violently awkward and pretentious. They hurt your eyes, if you stared long enough. They made you queasy.

  Normally, I slept in the guest bedroom...a tiny, single bed next to a treadmill that pressed against my forearm during the course of the night. There were stacks of Nintendo 64 games and trophies and juvenile toys...boxing gloves that would fit a healthy child, Tai Kwando headgear, a wrestling singlet. Who had worn these, I didn’t know. Her brother was elusive, in the way I imagined older brothers would be when aware of another man succeeding them for their sister’s attention. But, he had manners in the way he asked me if I was sleepy, or if I needed an extra pillow. These were concessions, I knew that he did not have to communicate, intimate, allow, but he did and I was grateful. Tonight, however, the door remained slightly ajar, cracked, like a vulnerability. How could a house, where so much difference existed, bitterness, adjunct dislike, corporeal insanity, warrant a half-open door? The mother and father hardly spoke. The brother and sister were, slowly, becoming estranged. But, there was some generosity here, beguiling, tranquil, and managerial and I was not accustomed to it. I had lived in an apartment for the past three years, working towards an undergraduate degree that I had no intention of using. I had finished two months before and had since worked in merchant processing sales for two different private consulting groups, a telephone sales job for a reputable theatre group that offered subscriptions to people twice daily. Now working as a barista, I mopped and swept floors, brewing abstruse drinks and smiling enigmatically, dolefully, lazily. It had been years since I had adhered to litigation: father, the judge; mother, the judge. Scrutiny, jurisprudence, the arbitration: accountability. All the while, I was devouring Della’s youthful illusions, dumb and ephemeral as if I were an old, cynical, half-ladleful man and I was very much aware of this. I was greedy for this earlier life. One that I had, previously, decided obsolete, lamely, juvenile.

  “Why Osoyoos then?”

  “He wasn’t so bad when you knew him.”

  “No, I know. But, why?”

  “Why do you care?”

  “Good question.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I just do, god damn it.”

  “Well, he was a drug-dealer.”

  “What did he deal?”

  “Marijuana.”

  “Who hasn’t done that?”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying you’re in high school. That doesn’t make him a drug dealer. It makes him a kid like everyone else.”

  “You West-Coasters are just so crazy.”

  Della still communicated with her past lovers and their parents, who worked in the Scotiabank towers, bankers now. Once the father had straddled his guitar to the tune of Led Zeppelin’s Stairway to Heaven. It was the artist, the bruised, that she admired. Mournful, wilful, persistent, they encouraged themselves, and others, to a higher pursuit...one that I disagreed with. The father who played the guitar was a benevolent figure, soulful, archaic, gloomy, fading because he did not exist, only in her words.

  “Sorry, she just sent me a text of their laundry room. Here, look.”

  “I saw...Have you been?”

  “You mean their house?” She paused. “Yes, it’s really big. There’s a pool inside of it.”

  There were questions about orgasms, anal, sex quality...why did I ask? The varying size of penises, number of lovers, places of fucking. These inconsequential details, minute, mishandled, that were irrelevant. Yet they were everything, comfort, justification, the reason for venomous fights, leaving and returning, perhaps guilt and love. My history was hidden, clandestine, and I would not share it. There had been woman, yes, but too many and not enough. Sentimentality was a crass thing, I learned from my father.

  “Why is it always about Osoyoos?”

  “His name, I hate it.”


  “No, but seriously.”

  “I just said.”

  “Are things tense right now?” This was Della’s technique. Her subtle psychology of penetrating the moment where she acknowledged feelings, named them, and substantiated their presence, made them real, noteworthy, emotional. We wouldn’t argue, if we eviscerated the source of the malice. If we extracted with our voices then we articulated our fears.

  “He lived here. He was in this bed. This house. Your mother was sweet to him. Your father bought him cigarettes.”

  “First, my mother was never sweet to him. My father bought him cigarettes once. And he never hurt me. Truthfully, I hated him.”

  “Then why’d you let him touch you?”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “You’re right.”

  “Anyway, what do you think of Hamilton so far?”

  “I like it.”

  “Really?”

  “I do.”

  I would not say that I saw these lovers like rancorous ghosts, wherever I turned in Hamilton, in the beige carpet of her room, the anniversary edition Barbie dolls she was given every year for Christmas, the photographs on her walls... Rochester, Boston, New York, Halifax, Toronto - the dresses in her closet, the headphones someone else had given her, the myriad of disjointed perfumes, the blankets, the inscribed pen she had given for my birthday, her minuscule feet, her saggy elbows, her large breasts, her soft, crimson mouth. It was late, and I tired. Do these imprints foresee how they will hurt? Do her words foresee how I will hurt? You have to detach yourself. You have to depart from them: these other humans. If you want to remain intact, sane, compassionate. You have to forget the trite compromises, the everyday refractions; you have to endure knowing that love differs, memories are eternal, ceaseless, defamation and you are one of many.

  “It’s common sense, I know.”

  “What?”

  “Huh?”

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Are you tired?”

  “Are you tired?”