The Thin Line #madness #obsession #passion

By Lisabet Sarai

I have some acquaintance with madness.

In my late teens, I spent three months in a state psychiatric hospital, struggling with anorexia. Though I’d starved myself down to eighty five pounds while still perceiving myself as fat, I didn’t think I was crazy—which just goes to show how truly delusional I was—but my fellow patients sometimes acted that way. I became accustomed to people mumbling to themselves, shrieking in terror at invisible threats, or sitting for hours in one place, rocking back and forth. A few years after I was released, when I saw George Romero’s original “Night of the Living Dead”, I had nightmares for weeks. His mindless, shuffling zombies reminded me too much of my Thorazine-numbed fellow inmates.

Still, I’m in some sense attracted to insanity. In my early years, I devoured tales by Edgar Allen Poe and H.P. Lovecraft, two authors known for skirting the edge of madness. One of the books that influenced me most as a teen was Lilith by J.R. Salamanca, the story of a fascinating, creative young woman with acute schizophrenia who gradually draws an innocent hospital attendant into her world of glittering, terrible hallucinations. I fell in love with Lilith right along with Vincent. I couldn’t help myself. Indeed, madness and brilliance are closely linked in both fact and fiction. From Vincent Van Gogh to Sylvia Plath, we can all name crazy geniuses who produced great works of art despite—or perhaps due to—their disordered, tortured minds.

Madness is particularly relevant in erotica. There’s often a thin line between erotic obsession and insanity. Intensely focused desire can distort everything else in a character’s world, eclipsing rationality and silencing conscience. I’ve written a number of stories that explored the difficult distinction between normal lust and insane passion. Unfortunately, such tales rarely end happily. Also, they tend to make readers distinctly uncomfortable.

Consider, for instance, “Renfield’s Lament”, in my paranormal collection Fourth World:

Do I seem mad to you? If so, they are responsible. They've driven me mad with their beauty and indifference.

They don't even bother to hunt anymore. They spend their days in their king-sized coffin, alabaster limbs entwined in a frozen tableau of passion. They devote their nights to surfing the Internet, listening to Bach or Dvořák, or lounging on their deck, the endless grid of the city sparkling below them.

Except, of course, for the nights when they feed.

Occasionally, on rainy days when there's no risk, I muster the courage to lift the polished rosewood lid of their communal casket and peek inside. I'm always startled by the scent that rises from their inert forms, orange blossoms and sun-warmed stone, no hint of dankness or decay. Their exquisite pallor complements the perfection of their naked bodies. They seem like statues modeled from translucent, milky glass.

He slumbers with one palm cupping her pert breast, the other arm wrapped around her waist. Her honey-brown hair fans over his chest, fine as spider silk. She curls her fist around his cock, which is rampant even as they sleep. The bold gesture contrasts with her innocent features. She has the smooth cheeks, pointed chin and plump lips of a teenage cheerleader.

My fingers twitch. The urge to trace the shape of that sweet, ripe mouth is almost irresistible. More times than I can count, I've seen those lips distorted by a fiendish grin and those girlish cheeks smeared with gore. It doesn't matter. She will always be my angel, my inspiration, my heart's desire, my doom. My beloved mistress.

My master is equally magnificent in his own way, with a dancer's subtly muscled arms and legs and a head of glorious ebony curls like some pale gypsy. He has a bookish look, with a high forehead rising above bushy black brows and a sensitive mouth that cries out for kisses.

I've never dared to lean close and take advantage of his immobility, much as I ache to feel the chill of his flesh against my own. If I gave way to temptation, would he know? I'm not certain that their death-like daytime sleep stills their minds the way it freezes their bodies. I doubt he'd punish me, if he discovered my transgression. He knows I'd welcome the mark of his bullwhip or the icy invasion of his knife. No, more likely he'd mock me, or simply ignore me, refusing to acknowledge my existence. I couldn't bear that.

The sight of them, locked together in eternal stasis, holds me captive. Blood pours into my cock, blood I know they'd savor if they'd only take it, until I'm hard as the concrete walls of the basement room where they sleep. My pulse pounds in my temples as my futile erection strains my trousers. I am their creature, their slave, stunned into helpless worship by their unearthly beauty.

I know they need me. That should satisfy me—the knowledge that without me they'd might fry or starve or succumb to some overly zealous reader of horror fiction. Month after month, year after year, I guard them and I procure them their victims. It's my privilege to serve them. That should be enough. But I want more from them, God help me, more than I can ever hope they'll give.

Renfield’s desire is so powerful that he offers himself to a sadist’s blade in order to trick his master and mistress into drinking his blood. Set against his awful need, death means nothing.

My recent story “Underground”, in the recently published ERWA anthology Unearthly Delights, has a somewhat similar theme.

So maybe it’s not totally sane. I’ve always been fascinated by madness.

As for safe, where’s the thrill in safety?

You can’t, however, deny that it’s consensual.

Ducking into a blank alley, one of thousands in this city, I make my way to the metal door near the end. The keypad gives off a faint green luminescence. I tap in the combination and the door swings open; my pulse is already climbing. My boot heels ring hollow as I descend the industrial steel steps, and the thump of the bass rises to meet me. Excitement wells up, flooding my cunt, even before I’ve buzzed the final door and been admitted to this most particular and perverse playground.

The techno soundtrack punches me in the solar plexus. My heart stutters like I've been shocked by a defibrillator. Delicious weakness sweeps over me, a premonition of what’s to come.

A few black clad figures shuffle to the hypnotic beat, clinging to one another as though drowning. Beyond the dance floor, naked bodies are draped over couches, shackled to walls or splayed wide on the bare concrete floor. Familiar scents reach me—pussy, cum and blood.

Some of those who frequent Underground are actual vampires, or so I’ve heard. I believe it. Others just like to play with knives.

Then there's me.

My heroine Elena is intelligent, well-educated, self-aware—and consumed with a craving for a perilous but intoxicating erotic experience no responsible or rational human will give her.

My nameless protagonist in “Fire” (in Rule 34: Weird and Wonderful Fetish Erotica) becomes an arsonist to satisfy his fire fetish, and almost ends up committing murder. He doesn’t think he’s crazy. After all, he plans his fiery escapades down to the smallest detail.

I’ve written a few characters who were literally insane. In Necessary Madness, my hero Kyle has uncontrolled prescient visions which have driven him into psychosis. Meanwhile, my unpublished lesbian story “Countertransference” features an exquisite teen-aged schizophrenic who tantalizes her therapist with her grace and creativity. There are echoes of Lilith in this tale, but the truly crazy character is Doctor Gardner, so obsessed with her patient Alisha that she risks everything to consummate her lust.

At one point, I planned to write a novel called Asylum, set in a psychiatric institution. I’ve dropped that idea for now, partly because I realized how similar my notions were to Lilith. The theme, however, continues to fascinate me—the fuzzy edge between sanity and insanity. What’s real? What’s a delusion? What is more important, passion or safety? Ecstasy or order?

I do think I’m pretty sane these days, but when I write some of these stories, I start to wonder. What am I missing?

Gratitude of the Damned (#mm #gratitude #pnr)

By Lisabet Sarai

He’s grateful for the constant pain. Anger and hate keep him going much of the time, but when those emotions ebb, the pain remains, reminding him of his new life’s purpose.

Months, the doctors had told him. Maybe longer. They couldn’t predict the recovery trajectory from massive third degree burns like the ones he’d suffered.

The man who was formerly Stefan Aries doesn’t take the drugs they give him. He doesn’t try to dull the hurt or hurry the healing. The unremitting agony keeps him alive. It fuels his visions of vengeance.

By all rights, he should be dead. He was lucky that muscular firefighter had found him, lucky that despite being blinded and nearly mad, his power had surged when the young man touched him—a new power born of his baptism in the fire, the ability to suck the vital essence from another being through mere physical contact. Leaving the husk of his savior behind, newly energized, he’d managed to crawl away from the blazing remains of his mansion and hide in his neighbor’s garage.

When he considers his situation, he realizes he has much to be thankful for. His Swiss bank accounts, for instance, utilized cryptographic identity validation rather than biometric indicators. With no fingerprints left, a reconstructed face, and a false eye, it would have been difficult for him to access his funds if biometrics were involved. Fortunately, he had the foresight to choose the the most advanced verification technologies available.

Then there was Jezebel. He grins, though that increases the pain, remembering her joy and horror when he’d shown up at her door six weeks after the fire. A scarred and oozing monster swathed in bandages, he still had his seductive voice, plus the telepathic talent he’d stolen from the cop’s sister. That was more than enough to make her believe her Dom had returned.

Having a thoroughly loyal and devoted slave was a tremendous advantage. She’d managed all the arrangements for his trip to Thailand, the private aircraft and the multiple operations, plus all the documents and details required to legally confirm that computer genius Stefan Aries had perished in the terrible fire. She’d even attended the memorial service his parents had organized for him. She shot a video so he could watch them later, mourning their all-too-ordinary son. The eulogies all rang false. He knew what they really thought. Poor Stefan, who was born into a psychically gifted family but possessed no paranormal abilities at all.

Hah. If only they knew. He flexes his stiffened fingers and feels the power stir. The thoughts of the other customers at this exclusive riverfront café are a muted whir until he focuses on one particular individual, an impeccably-groomed young man nursing a Perrier at the next table. The guy’s thinking about going over to Boy’s Town this evening, to pick up a bit of male entertainment. His consciousness buzzes with anticipatory arousal. That sort of lust is contagious.

The recovering mage considers introducing himself. He suspects it will take little effort to change the tourist’s plans. He hasn’t fucked, or fed, for more than a week. But he’s strong now. Though he’d enjoy the young man’s ass and his essence, he doesn’t need it. No, right now he needs to focus on the next steps of his plan.

Jez was a bright, capable woman. With her help, he’d meticulously constructed a new identity. Sven Alstrom had a Swedish mother and a South African father. He grew up in Argentina, amassing a small fortune in South America through various endeavors. Now, at the age of thirty five, he has decided to retire to a farm in western Massachusetts and make artisanal cheese.

While he’d endured the surgeon’s knife and long, bloody aftermath, Jezebel had created the false history he needed. She’d seeded the Internet with false biographical details, manipulated and published fake photographs, forged passports and diplomas. At this point Sven is as real as Stefan had ever been.

He’d rewarded her as she deserved. After teasing her, punishing her, reveling in her pain for years, he finally fucked her as she’d begged him to do since the very first. Knowing his preferences better than anyone, she understood what it meant when he drove his cock into her rear hole.

She’d thanked him with her last breath.

****

This is a possible start of a sequel to my M/M paranormal erotic romance novel NecessaryMadness. As you can probably guess, Stefan/Sven is the villain. I'm playing with the idea of making the villain also be the hero in this sequel. 

What do you think?

Check out the trailer for Necessary Madness here:

https://youtu.be/4fVZjWpvJEo

Flow My Tears

By Lisabet Sarai

I cry easily. In fact, it’s embarrassing how often I dissolve into teariness. Almost any strong emotion is enough to set me off.

Of course I cry from grief or sadness. The loss of a loved one or a pet—one of the all too frequent natural, or unnatural, disasters that wreaks havoc among the innocent—even a sad movie can make me cry. I remember being hit with fits of weeping for weeks after the 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami (which killed over 200,000 people). And I was holding back sobs at the end of The Wind Rises, Hayao Miyazaki’s exquisite animation about war, flight and love.

But anger also evokes my tears. I don’t yell or get violent when I’m really mad; I cry. An incident a few years ago comes to mind. There was a used bookstore I frequented, which would give you credit toward new purchases in exchange for books you’d read and returned to them. I had saved up about thirty bucks in credits and was gleefully looking forward to a buying spree. However, when I arrived at the shop, I discovered that the bookstore had been sold to new owners. The new management refused to honor my credit slips. I was furious. I argued with them for a while, to no avail. Finally I headed home, tears streaming down my cheeks as I walked along the sidewalk plotting how I’d trash them on social media. (I didn’t.) (However, I refuse to set foot in that bookstore ever again.)

Frustration is probably the most common reason I cry. When I can’t get some piece of software to work, or when my students continue to fail exams despite my devoting huge amounts of time to them, or when some recipe I spend hours preparing turns out to be inedible, I may well weep. In fact, I sometimes throw tantrums, much to my long-suffering husband’s distress. Stress from over-commitment and looming deadlines will also trigger a crying jag.

I really should act more mature. After all, I’m old enough to be a grandmother. On the other hand, I’d rather be the sort of person who expresses emotions freely than one who holds everything in. At least my crying fits these days, especially the less appropriate ones, tend to be short. For one thing, they really take it out of me physically. Ten minutes screaming, crying and railing against my fate will leave me exhausted and hoarse, with burning eyes and a runny nose.

As I sat down to write this post, I realized that unlike me, my characters rarely cry. That’s not for lack of tragedy or angst, either. Stella Xanathakeos in Exposure nearly dies in an arson attack that totally destroys the house she inherited from her father, her only asset. She responds not with tears but with emotional numbness that even love can’t dispel. Kyle McLaughlin in Necessary Madness is destitute, homeless and plagued with horrifying, prophetic visions of disasters. He tries to commit suicide, but he never sheds a tear. In Mastering Maya, the heroine is raped and betrayed by her master. To cope, she trains herself to be a Dominant, so detached and precise she earns the nickname “The Ice Queen”.

In fact, I can only think of one published scene in which a character succumbs to tears, in my erotic romance The Ingredients of Bliss. And Emily has a good excuse. Her lovers have been kidnapped by a brutal Hong Kong gang. The captors are threatening to kill the two men unless Emily can recover a load of narcotics stolen from the syndicate by another gangster—dope that has already been passed on to a buyer.

Emily’s not the sort of woman to sink into despair for very long, though.

It was barely two. Toni had promised to come fetch me at four-thirty. After the feverish activity of the last thirty-six hours, I wasn’t sure what to do in the interim.

I glanced around. At this hour, I was the café’s sole customer. One waiter hung out behind the bar, peering at his mobile and ignoring me.

All at once, I felt utterly alone.

Roger had called the Tastes of France team back to the States. No one knew how long it would be before Etienne and Harry were freed, and meanwhile, we didn’t want one of the crew to let the secret slip. If the police decided to take another look at the case, the Triad might respond by cutting their losses—and their prisoners’ throats.

We broadcast the official story that Etienne was in isolation due to complications from influenza. Apparently, the studio had been deluged with get well cards and messages of sympathy.

I’d stayed in France ‘out of concern for my colleague’, a tale that only confirmed the popular assumption that Etienne and I were a couple. Meanwhile, Harry was such a low key presence—at least outside the bedroom—that nobody even seemed to realize he’d disappeared.

Nobody but me, that is. I hadn’t had time think much about my Master since we’d spoken two days ago. Now it hit me, like a speeding train with failed brakes—sharp fear and terrible need. My beloved, rumpled, horny, bossy Harry! There was some possibility I’d never see him again. That he, or I, might not get out of this alive.

My stomach lurched and a sour taste filtered up into my throat. This wasn’t a game of Go. One false step and his life could be forfeit. I liked to imagine I was clever, some sort of woman of international intrigue, bargaining with the Iron Hammer as if I had the upper hand. But what did I have, really? Nothing. No drugs. No weapons. Nothing to offer in trade for Harry’s life. Nothing I could use to protect him.

Hysteria built in my chest. Tears blurred my vision. I had to get out of here. I tossed a twenty onto the table and ran for the elevator before the storm burst.

Back in my room, the floodgates opened. I sobbed and wailed, face down on the bed, until the pillow was soaked with tears. A fit of hiccups seized me. My moan became a silly yelp with each rhythmic clench of my diaphragm.

‘Get hold of yourself, girl.’ I could almost hear my grandmother, scolding me. ‘Crying won’t help.’

Closing my swollen eyes, I breathed deeply, trying to will the spasms away, along with my despair. I needed a clear mind for what was to come. Fear would only muddle my thoughts and corrupt my judgment. Gradually my panic ebbed. I released it, grateful for my Dragon training.

That’s it. The whole crying scene lasts four short paragraphs. It’s a bit weird.

Maybe my characters are changing, though. The Ingredients of Bliss is a rather recent novel. In my current WIP, The Gazillionaire and the Virgin, both main characters succumb to tears, albeit briefly. In this case, the stimulus is lost or thwarted love—a standard in romance. They may well cry again before the book is finished.

Which reminds me—to meet the publication deadline, I have to finish the manuscript in the next two weeks. With at least 15K to go, that feels impossible. I’ve got to get to work on it, right now. But I hate working under stress.

I think I feel a tantrum coming on...

Conjuring Demons

By Lisabet Sarai

First came the flames. Then, the screams. Each cry was distinct to Kyle’s ears—the men’s hoarse yells, the women’s shrieks, the inarticulate wails from the infants. He couldn’t see them, not yet. Sooty smoke billowed up, hiding the plummeting bodies, making his eyes sting. Orange tongues of fire pierced the black cloud. The cries grew louder as the heat intensified.

He took a big swig of cheap vodka. The bottle was already half empty. His head spun and he knew he couldn’t stand, but the awful screams still rang in his mind.

Please, he thought. No more. I can’t take any more. Let me pass out soon. He drank again, his gut churning as the raw liquid splashed into his empty stomach.

He tried to focus on the present—the rough stone pressing against his back, the chill wind biting through his ragged jacket, the faint smell of urine that filled the passageway under the highway. Useless. The sensations of the real world seemed thin and frail, powerless to overcome the horrible scenes in his head.

Every time, it got worse. It took more alcohol to remove him to that state of blissful oblivion. I’m adapting, just like any drunk. Before long, I’ll need a whole bottle to drown out the visions. Eventually, it will kill me. The thought was a relief.

The spells came more frequently these days, and not just during his waking hours. Nightmares stalked him, full of bloody flesh and torn limbs, searing fire or icy floods. He’d claw his way back to consciousness, howling like an animal, trying to escape. He’d been kicked out of every shelter in the city. He upset the other residents too much.

He could always go back to the hospital. Thorazine didn’t completely smother the visions, but it deadened the emotional impact. He could sit for hours, watching disasters play themselves out on the screen of his mind, and not care.

It worked for a while, but then he always ended up signing himself out again. As painful as consciousness was, it was better than the half-life of being drugged. At least, that was what he told himself, on the good days when his curse was in remission. The staff looked relieved when he left. Even the professionals had trouble dealing with his ‘hallucinations’.

“Hey, gimme a drink, will ya?” A voice cut through the screams echoing in his head. The grizzled man lying next to him on the sidewalk smelt like long-unwashed socks. “Come on, please? Us bums got to stick together.”

Kyle handed him the bottle. His hand shook. “Sure, help yourself.”

The old timer took a deep swallow, then grinned at him. “Thanks, kid.”

The flames flared up, hiding the man’s pock-marked face and gap-toothed smile. A woman’s cry rang out, full of terror. “No, please, no more…” Kyle muttered, closing his eyes. The hungry fire continued to dance behind his eyelids, mocking his attempt at escape. He groped for the bottle. 

 

Aside from the ravening monster I felt inside me when I was anorexic, which I’ve talked about in another post, I’m pretty fortunate. I don’t seem to have any personal demons, at least nothing beyond the normal fears that come with being human. That’s not necessarily true of my characters, though, as illustrated by the excerpt above from my M/M erotic romance Necessary Madness.

In Kyle’s case, his “demon” is an uncontrolled ability to see the future. His raw visions show him only disasters, terrible happenings he cannot prevent. The effects of his paranormal talent are scarcely distinguishable from schizophrenia. He has become a miserable outcast, cynical and suspicious. Even love, the solution to all dilemmas in romance, can hardly save him.

Sometimes my demons are actual supernatural beings. And they can be overwhelmingly seductive. Here, for instance, is a snippet from my story “Fourth World”, recently published in the collection of the same title.

I turn to see Jeremy’s hand wandering up her silk-clad thigh. I’m surprised by his daring. Back at school he was always the shy one in our crowd. I was the one who took the initiative.

His eyes are closed, his lips parted. His trousers rise up from his groin in an imposing peak. Mai cups his bulk and squeezes. Jeremy groans. His hand slips under her skirt.

Jealousy sizzles through me. A red mist clouds my vision. “Never mind,” says Mai, her hand on my thigh, her lips fastening on mine.

Her kiss claims me. I try to take control, to thrust my tongue between her ripe lips, but she playfully forces me back, then plunders my mouth with her own. She tastes sweet but strange, the fruity remnants of her wine not quite hiding a metallic element. My cock surges, painful and eager, trapped in my tight briefs.

Blinded by the fall of her hair around my face, I grope for her breast. Her flesh is firm and elastic under my fingers. Her nipple juts through flimsy barrier of her dress. I circle it with my thumb and she moans into my mouth. I pinch the delightful nub and she bites my lip, hard enough to draw blood. I want to protest, to push her away, but she’s far stronger than I expect. Her kiss becomes more heated, more desperate. My pierced lip throbs. Something’s not right, I think, but then her hand settles on my cock and all thought vanishes.

Her fingers skitter across the distorted fabric of my trousers, testing my hardness. She settles her palm over my swollen bulk, squeezing in time with her sucking kisses. I feel the tightening heaviness that tells me I’m going to come. I take a deep breath, trying to gain some control. Her scent floods my nostrils. The need for release overwhelms me. The first spurt of come pulses halfway up my shaft, but then she removes her hand. The urge subsides, becomes just bearable. Her lips graze my earlobe. “Not yet, darling. Save that for me.”

****

Yes, as you might have guessed, Mai is a vampire—but as Harry and Jeremy discover, she’s the type who likes to play with her food.

The most intriguing demons, though, are the ones inextricably embedded in my characters’ natures. In “Fire”, my protagonist has a fire fetish which compels him to commit arson.

These days, I can't even strike a match without getting hard.

It was better than I could have imagined. Pure joy. After years of borrowing other people's fires, I had my own. There were no sirens, no spectators, no official types keeping an awkward eye on me. Just me and the night and the dancing, piercing flames. I lay down in the scrubby grass with my fly wide open and watched greedily as the blaze devoured the feast I had laid before it.

By the time the building had become a charred pile of debris, I was gorged and sated. I called in sick that morning.

After that, second-hand conflagrations couldn't satisfy me. I have to have my own. I try to space them out, keep at least six to eight weeks between them. It's tough, but I don't want anyone to get suspicious.

The first few weeks after a session, I have plenty of memories to keep me going. I can close my eyes and recall every detail, the intricate shapes of the flames, the taste of smoke in my lungs, the searing, intimate caress of the heat on my privates.

I remember the sequence in which the barn or the shed or the deserted fishing cabin collapsed. Sometimes the whole structure explodes, or caves in on itself. Other times, one wall will totter and fall gently, leaving the others standing as though buoyed up by the hot gases, until at last they simply melt away, crumbling to glowing ash. It is always fascinating, thrilling, enough to push me over the edge.

Sometimes, I imagine that I'm inside, during those final moments when the fire declares victory. I lie on the my back, feeling the sparks rain down on my naked flesh, struggling to breathe as the fire sucks up all the oxygen. I know that it sounds a bit twisted, but I come the hardest when I think about the fire consuming me, taking me into itself.

Anyway, after a while, the memories aren't enough. I start to dream of fire. I wake up soaked with sweat, with a hard-on that I can work for hours without finding any real relief. I begin to get irritable, less polite, less persuasive. My work begins to suffer.

That's when I know it's time. It takes me a few days to prepare, and then finally, I have what I need.

****

This tale, which appeared in my first short story collection, is now out of print. I should probably republish it.

Sexual desire can be a personal demon, perhaps the hardest of all to fight. Here’s a bit from my tentacle erotica tale, “Fleshpot”, originally published in Coming Together: Arm in Arm in Arm.

Cass was right. It's a disease. She was right to cut the ties, when she found me in the garden shed with sweet Susan the baby sitter, in flagrante. I offer no excuse.

It doesn't feel like a disease, though, when I'm in the throes, my senses drenched in the seashore scent of my latest conquest. It feels like I'm on the edge of a revelation, like this is the fuck I've been seeking all my life, the one that will make everything clear, new, beautiful and real. When I burrow into that mysterious place between her thighs, I'm not just looking for pleasure. I'm seeking some kind of truth, or at least that's how it seems, like this is the time that I'll break through that barrier. I catch tantalizing glimpses of brilliance, just out of reach, shining like the grail in some celibate knight's vision. That's me, on a quest for the ultimate knowledge. Except of course, I'm not celibate.

When the papers came from her lawyer, my transgressions sucked dry by legal language ("extramarital liaisons"), my kids stolen by some judge's whim, I took off. My business— electronics OEM—can always provide an excuse for a trip to Asia. My meetings in Bangkok consumed a day and a half. Since then I've been here in this sleazy coastal resort town two hours from the capital.

I've done it all, in the past two weeks, tried everything. The lithe Thai beauties who twine like snakes around the poles in all the bars and clubs along the walking street. The buxom, pushy Russian girls, with their milky complexions and succulent nipples, ripe to the point of bursting, eager to empty both my cock and my wallet. The lady boys, as slender and graceful as their sisters, even more feminine, in fact, the prick erupting from their hairless, perfumed loins as much a shock to them as to me. I've sampled the exotica on sale here, the dwarfs and the cripples, the grossly obese young woman who nearly smothered me in her lush, unutterably soft flesh. I've been whipped and returned the favor. So far I've managed to resist the fifteen year old boys, but just last night a youth of terrifying beauty who claimed to be nineteen drained me in the men's room of one of the a-go-go places. An acrid mixture of urine and camphor stung my nostrils as I pumped my cum into his agile mouth. And in that transcendent instant, as always, I felt myself on the verge of understanding.

At the moment, I'm taking a break from throbbing music and naked skin of the indoor clubs. I perch on a bar stool at the edge of the pavement, watching the parade of tourists and touts ambling by.

I'm tired. The twins I fucked earlier, in a red-lit, window-less room above one of the bars, exhausted me with their convincing enthusiasm for my body. Nee and Nu were indistinguishable, two toffee-skinned tarts who claimed to be eighteen but might have been anywhere from fourteen to thirty. One sat on my face, the other on my cock. Nee (or was it Nu?) made short work of my hard-on. I exploded into the condom with just a few minutes of massage by her muscular pussy. Nu, though (or maybe Nee?), humored me, letting me lick her bare twat and breathe her low-tide scent for as long as I wanted—until I hardened again, earning laughter and admiration from my two playmates.

"La Luxure dans l'art roman" by Bougnat87 -

Own work. Licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0 via Commons

Maybe the medieval Christians were right. Lust is a demon, one that can consume you body and soul. In the case of my nameless protagonist in “Fleshpot”, he pays off his demon with his life—but willingly.

When does desire become demonic? A fruitful question indeed, for those of us who write erotica.

Valley of Stories

By Lisabet Sarai

Near the center of Massachusetts, the huge, butterfly-shaped Quabbin Reservoir practically divides the state in two. Constructed in the nineteen thirties to satisfy the thirst of the Boston metropolitan area, Quabbin figuratively divided the state as well, pitting the rural inhabitants of the Swift River Valley against the city dwellers in the state capitol. Four towns--Dana, Enfield, Greenwich and Prescott--were drowned by Quabbin's advancing waters. The houses of their inhabitants were dismantled and relocated on higher ground. Bodies were exhumed from their graves and reburied elsewhere. Forests were leveled in order to reduce the amount of degrading biological material that would pollute the reservoir. The land that had belonged to Dana and its unfortunate fellows was allocated to neighboring towns. Communities which had prospered in the valley since the seventeen hundreds ceased to exist.

Needless to say, the Swift River Valley is haunted. Even if you don't know the history, you can't escape the sense of mystery as you drive the winding length of Route 202, which hugs the west end of the reservoir. The evergreens that were planted to protect the watershed have grown tall now, shadowing the road. The woods around the man-made lake are home to bears, bald eagles, wildcats and perhaps stranger, more secret beings. On the eastern shore, overgrown dirt lanes meander through the village of Petersham, sending tentative fingers toward the still water.

Ghosts of the dispossessed inhabitants from the flooded towns still seem to hover in the area. They're joined by older creatures from the earlier times when the Algonkian natives fished in the Swift River, grew their corn along the banks, and worshiped the spirits of the forest.

My M/M erotic romance Necessary Madness is partially set in the Quabbin Valley. As I've commented previously on this blog, I almost always have a specific location in mind when I sit down to write a story. Necessary Madness is a M/M paranormal novel that revolves around various psychic powers--precognition, telepathy and the like. I used to live near Quabbin, and had friends in Petersham. It seemed like a natural place for the home of a consulting witch who helps individuals with psi talents to understand and control their abilities.

Here’s a scene from the book, in which one of the heroes ventures out into the ominous Quabbin Valley dusk, where he encounters a fascinating and dangerous stranger.

*****

The afternoon was clear but cold. There’d be frost tonight. Kyle could tell by sniffing the air. He swung out the driveway and turned left, heading back up Quail Hollow Lane towards the village centre.

He strode along the gravel road, snug in his warm clothing, humming a Christmas song. His breath hung in white clouds in front of his face. He reached Main Street—Route 32—and considered turning around. The shadows were getting longer by the minute, though a few rays of sunlight still slanted through gaps in the trees. Moving felt so good, though—his lessons with Elspeth involved long hours of virtual immobility. He kept going, driven by restless energy, past the Congregational and the Baptist churches, the shuttered country store and the white-shingled houses clustered around the village green.

His eyes adapted to the dimness as dusk approached. He didn’t realise how late it had become until he heard the bell in one of the churches behind him chime five.

Damn! Elspeth will have my hide. Kyle wheeled around and began to retrace his steps at a faster pace.

The two-lane road was lonely and mostly empty. A pickup truck clattered by, laden with metal scrap, then vanished into the gloom. It was much colder now that the sun had disappeared completely. Kyle hurried along, his shoulders hunched and his hands in his pockets.

An engine roared behind him. A low-slung sports car raced up and screeched to a halt on the opposite side of the road. “Want a ride?” called the driver out the window. “It’s a cold night.”

“I’m not going far,” Kyle answered. The voice was young, urban, cultured. Not one of the local farmers. “Just down the road, maybe a mile.”

“Me, too. Why don’t you get in? It’s not a good idea to be out here on the highway after dark.”

Kyle crossed and pulled open the passenger door of the sleek vehicle. “Are you sure it’s no trouble?”

“No trouble at all. Just tell me where you want me to let you off.”

“Thanks.” Kyle settled into the bucket seat. “Cool car.” He caressed the leather dashboard.

“It is, isn’t it?” the driver laughed. “My latest toy.” The dim light made it difficult for Kyle to make out the man’s features. He seemed to be no more than a few years older than Kyle, with a slender build and fair hair. “I’m Stefan, by the way.”

He offered his right hand to Kyle, steering with his left. The man’s skin was warm and dry. He wore some sort of cologne, a slightly bitter scent that reminded Kyle of fresh mown grass. “Kyle. Pleased to meet you.”

The car sped along the pavement, hugging the curves. “Likewise. You’re not local, are you?”

“No,” Kyle laughed. “I’m—um—visiting someone. She lives on Quail Hollow Lane.”

“Elspeth Holmes?”

“Yes, that’s right. Do you know her?”

“I’m headed to her house right now. She’s an old friend of my family.”

“What a coincidence,” Kyle commented. “Hey, here’s her street!” Stefan swerved onto the narrow lane just in time.

“I haven’t seen her in a while.” The rough surface forced Stefan to slow down. Kyle breathed a sigh of relief.

“She didn’t say anything about expecting guests.”

“I wanted to surprise her.” Kyle could feel Stefan smiling at him in the darkness. He felt suddenly, uncomfortably warm. “And how do you know her?”

“Friend of a friend. She’s helping me with some—research. About the town, its history, that sort of thing.” Stefan made Kyle a bit wary. In any case, Kyle knew that he shouldn’t reveal anything about Elspeth’s business as a psychic consultant. If Stefan really was what he claimed, he might already know—but Kyle wasn’t about to tell him.

Stefan chuckled. “Elspeth is a font of wisdom. Her family has been in Petersham for generations—since colonial times, or so I’ve heard. So you’re a student?”

“Um—yeah, right. Elspeth’s quite amazing. She’s helping a lot with my project. She’s a fabulous cook, too.” Stefan turned into Elspeth’s driveway and cut the motor. Kyle relaxed slightly. “I’m sure she’ll want you to stay for dinner.”

“That would be great. I’m looking forward to seeing her. And that will give you and me a chance to get acquainted.”

Something about Stefan’s voice bothered Kyle. He just couldn’t get his mind around it, though. Whenever he tried to focus, he felt vaguely confused. Maybe it was the after-effects of his last session with Elspeth.

Elspeth waited on the porch, coat-less, a frown twisting her normally placid features. “Kyle! Where have you been? I was worried…”

“I’m fine, just fine. I walked a bit farther than I’d planned, that’s all. But then this gentleman came by and gave me a ride…”

Stefan stepped out of the shadows. “Hello, Elspeth. It’s been a long time.”

“Sam!” Elspeth’s face remained serene, but Kyle heard shock in her voice.

“I’m called Stefan now. Stefan Aries.”

I'm not the only individual to feel that the Swift River Valley is full of supernatural stories. The movie version of Stephen King's Dreamcatcher features the reservoir as a prominent plot element. The cult horror author H.P. Lovecraft explicitly set his now-classic tale "The Color Out of Space" in the valley before its flooding. A variety of other authors and singers have been touched by the mystery that seems to permeate the place.

Years ago, during a serious summer drought, my husband and I went hiking in the woods around Quabbin. The level of the reservoir was at a historic low. As we followed our way down the hill from the Prescott Peninsula, we found ourselves on what had clearly been a road. Tumbled stone walls marked its boundaries. The tracks worn by cart wheels were still visible. In a normal summer, the road would have been submerged, but now it wound for a quarter of a mile, down to the reservoir's edge. Then it disappeared into the gray water.

We stopped to contemplate this fragment of history, revealed by the vagaries of climate. The air had the sultry weight of a New England August. The silence was complete--no birds, no cicadas, not a breath of wind. We both felt their presence--the souls of the folk who had last used this road almost a century ago.

I wasn't writing then, at least not for publication. Even so, I knew there were stories here to be told. Now that I've ventured into the valley with Necessary Madness, I expect that I'll be returning to explore more of these tales. I hope that the inhabitants won't mind sharing them.