QSFer Sally Bend has a new queer erotic horror short out: Fear, Love and Broken Things.
A battered woman, already pushed to the breaking point, discovers both her self and her sexuality in a seedy motel – where her indoctrinated fear of filth takes a heavy toll on her sanity, but ultimately proves to be the path to freedom . . . and perhaps even love.
“a raw, intense, sensorially-confusing juxtaposition of life and death on one women’s phoenix journey to rebirth and redemption.”
Fear, Love and Broken Things is 10,000 words of erotic horror that explores fear, love, and the redemption of broken things.
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Giveaway
Sally is giving away an eBook copy of her Alpha Bundle twinned-stories – for a chance to win, comment below.
Excerpt
It felt like she’d barely fallen asleep that night when the sound came again. The flickering neon sign outside the window cast a feeble red and blue glow over her bedside table, plunging the rest of the room into an even greater darkness. She lay there, suffering under the same invisible weight as the night before. Afraid to look, but at the same time thankful for the darkness.
If she couldn’t see, then she didn’t have to believe.
She didn’t remember falling back asleep until the noise awakened her again. This time, it was more than just a scratching. It sounded like something scurrying out of the corner of the room. Sweat beaded on her brow. It dripped into her eyes. Caitlin lifted one trembling arm to gently rub the pain away.
Damn, that hurt.
What was that?
Something didn’t feel right. She froze with one arm over her eyes, afraid to look. After years of anxiously anticipating David coming to bed, she didn’t have to see to know when she wasn’t alone.
Something was in the bed with her.
Caitlin started to whimper. She needed to look, but she couldn’t. It might have been one of those monstrous cockroaches David had warned her of, crawling up the sheets, but the weight felt all wrong. If it was a cockroach, then it had to be a small family of them. The thought of hundreds of filthy little legs sent a shudder down her spine that ended in a warm sensation of dampness between her legs.
Her entire body began to shake as she imagined them crawling inside en masse.
Their hard shells sliding against her flesh.
Tiny legs pleasuring her from inside.
Cellophane wings, frantically straining to open, sending her over the edge of orgasm.
Instead of looking at what was really there, she screwed her eyes shut and stuck with the dream. She could almost hear the sound of their hard, brown shells crunching inside her, powerless to resist the contractions of a thunderous orgasm.
Yes, cracking and crunching. So much better than scratching and squeaking.
The subtle pressure finally became too much to bear. Eyes closed, she raised herself up onto one elbow. Her free arm slipped across her body to lay protectively across her breasts. She took a deep breath. Finally, her eyes opened.
Caitlin screamed. She continued to stare, helpless to look away. It might as well have been somebody else pissing the bed for all she could do about the warmth spreading between her legs. She forced herself to move. It was just a spastic twitch of her leg, barely enough to notice, but the little black rat dropped off the bed and out of sight.
Her heart was in her throat. Either she’d gone deaf, or she’d lost her voice. Her mouth was still open wide, violently inhaling and exhaling bursts of stale air, but there was no sound. Inside her head, the screams were deafening . . . but, outside, all was quiet. She could taste blood where she’d bitten her tongue. A bubble of wet, viscous snot quivered on the precipice of her lips. Her eyes were swimming in tears, further obscuring what little of the room she could see.
It was hours later before she could move again. Well after dawn before her mind would accept the fact that the rat wasn’t crawling further up the bed. An eternity of sobbing and trembling before she could finally shake the feeling of its furry body laying upon her leg, its tiny grasping claws dimpling her cold, clammy flesh.
She felt worse than the time she had accidentally broken the knob off David’s gas barbecue. It had taken him three days to notice. The terror of anticipation had been worse than the eventual beating. It had been well over a week before she could sit again, much less lay down, but at least there’d been some kind of closure. She’d broken something of his, he’d discovered it, and she’d been punished.
With the rat, there was no closure. It had been there, it was still there, and it would be there again. All she could do was wait. Watch. Be afraid. She should have gotten up and left but, even if she’d had someplace to go, she couldn’t leave the bed. She couldn’t just step blindly into the darkness of the unknown.
There might be more of them down there.
***
“What the . . .?” Caitlin came back from her afternoon walk to find a used condom draped carelessly over her doorknob. For a moment, she just stood there, staring at the evidence of another couple’s sexual congress. Had David been there – not that he would have ever stepped foot in such a place – he would have lost it. He would have called in lawyers, the police, and the media, insisting they all witness the glorious spectacle he would have planned for the hapless, clueless, blameless front desk clerk.
There would have been a scene.
He loved to create a scene.
And, somehow, it would have all been her fault.
She reached out and lifted the condom from the knob. It was still warm, still soft, the sexual fluids inside squishing between her fingers. She brought it to her nose and took a deep breath, smelling raw, carnal lust. The ideas running through her head were completely inappropriate. In her mind’s eye she saw herself popping the latex bubble into her mouth. She felt her teeth grinding down, chewing through the thin membrane. What would it take to break it? How would it taste?
Suddenly, she had to know. Caitlin flicked out her tongue and licked at the condom.
Instead of tasting another woman’s pussy juices, she tasted the earthier flavors of a more forbidden penetration.
“Damn, you’re one kinky bitch!”
Caitlin jumped back with a yelp, involuntarily tossing the condom over her shoulder and across the parking lot.
The woman next door laughed. “A jumpy one too.”
“I’m sorry.” She felt herself blushing red. “You must think I’m awful.”
“Hell, no, girl! I’ve had men pay fifty bucks to watch me do that, and it came out of their own ass. Tasting some other bitch’s ass? You could make some serious cash!”
She had no idea what to say to that. David would have looked away, snubbing the other woman, pretending she didn’t exist. He could hear the litany of curses insider her head – whore, filthy, degenerate, abhorrent.
Fuck him.
She chose to introduce herself, and the choice felt good. “Hi, I’m Caitlin.” She was ashamed of her hesitation, even as she thrust out her hand.
“Well, I’m Gracie.” The other woman flicked her cigarette out into the parking lot and exhaled a long, lingering cloud of smoke as she shook Caitlin’s hand.
Caitlin had been taught to despise smokers, forced to endure almost daily tirades whenever David caught a whiff of someone else’s tobacco, but she admired the other woman’s confidence. She stank, and her yellowed eye teeth were a distraction, but there was a beauty to her that Caitlin would have been hard-pressed to appreciate with the fear of David’s disapproval hanging over her.
“You know,” she admitted, “my husband would have beaten me senseless for even talking to you. He would have taken me home, rubbed the filthy flesh off my hands for daring to touch you, and then doused them in alcohol just to watch me suffer.” She felt wicked for doing it, but she turned the handshake into a desperate grasp. She brought the hand to her mouth and licked the other woman’s fingers with a giggle that was only slightly mad.
The amused woman stood well over six feet tall, nearly seven with the thigh-high stiletto-heeled boots, and she owned every inch of it. She flaunted her dark, ebony skin like a goddess, contrasting it with the pale, dirty cream of her outfit. Boots, fishnets, miniskirt, and bustier – they all matched. Even her fingernails, chipped and dirty as they were, sported a creamy polish that matched the outfit.
That polish was surprisingly smooth against Caitlin’s tongue, even as the calloused flesh of the woman’s fingertips tasted of sweat and cigarettes. She was reluctant to let go, but she thrilled at how Gracie caressed her cheek when she did.
“Hey, I ain’t never been married, but I been beaten by more than one John. More than one pimp too, for that matter.” Gracie held her hand against Caitlin’s cheek. Caitlin sensed that she was being careful not to press too hard. She could smell the heady scent of sex, barely disguised by her cheap perfume, and she liked it. “You let me cover up them bruises, and we could make ourselves some serious green together.”
Caitlin managed a smile. A genuine smile. It felt good. A part of her was flattered, but she wasn’t ready to put herself at the mercy of another man. “Thanks, Gracie, but no thanks.”
“You sure, bitchy boo? If you thought tasting a strange man’s ass on my condom was a treat . . .”
“Maybe another night?” To her surprise, she found that she meant it.
“A rain check it is.” Gracie darted in and planted a wet, sloppy kiss on her lips. “We’ll try not to keep you up, but if you feel the need to slip a few fingers into that tight, housewife pussy, you make your screams good and loud. Guys’ll dig that, and I’ll make sure you get your cut of the tip.”
She was overcome by the kiss of another woman. She blamed the moment of weakness on being delirious from the lack of sleep, but she knew better. “I . . . I’ll do that.”
Author Bio
Sally Bend is a genderfluid author and reviewer of erotica, romance, and genre fiction who loves dragons, unicorns, ancient treasures, dominant women, and pretty boys.