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Bites of Passion : An Anthology of Vampire Erotica
What does it mean to love a vampire? Does it mean nights of pleasure, tempered with sweet pain? There is no more sensuous figure in dark fantasy than the vampire. Whether a powerful seductress who harnesses the night to her will or a mysterious and handsome demon lover who demands surrender in exchange for passion, BITES OF PASSION presents many incarnations of the ancient myth. Eight top authors explore themes of immortal love, the lust for blood (and other things), and the eternal struggle between light and dark. Sink your teeth into these stories of "the hunger," of need that can only be slaked after sundown, of the rush of blood and the scent of skin. Contributing Authors: Jessi Holhart Eric Del Carlo Ed Fuqua Rakella Valencia F.R.R. Mallory A. N. Cortez A. M. Hartnett Thomas Marcinko
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May 06, 2009
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Excerpt from Bites of Passion by Cecilia Tan
Now this, thought Megan, as she stepped out of the building and onto the pavement, is a dream. The sounds she had heard from within--loud footfalls and voices--didn't change. It seemed as though the brick and glass of the warehouse had not muffled them at all. Megan turned around slowly, looking for the source of the noise, baffled that she could not find it, especially since it seemed virtually right in her ear. It was almost as though she'd heard the sounds from another time and place, all overlapping into her perception of "now." Okay. It's a dream, she realized. She sighed. She would just have to ride it out. Okay. I can do this, she coached herself. In spite of the comfort of knowing that the voices weren't real, she found herself turning at the sound. You motherfucking bitch! It was a fierce, tense whisper. She almost expected to feel the speaker's breath on her ear. I am going to hurt you so bad! You think you're so hot. You think you've got him by the balls. Whatever. I'm not going to sit this one out. You'd better get ready, 'cause here I come. Megan shook the voice out of her head, only for it to be replaced by others. Her bowels clenched. Cramps. Strong sentiments struck her from every angle, lashing out in dozens of different voices. She held her head. Ah, she thought wryly, just what I needed--voices in my head. She waded out into them, trying to stay focused on finding her car. It was an endeavor. The voices were a flurry about her, like a powerful and unruly wind, blowing against her, shifting directions unpredictably. She pressed against it, and stumbled ahead of it, and staggered through suddenly soft eddies. The cramps punctuated her struggle, adding a physical dimension to her pain. One kicked in at the tail end of an extremely violent angry tirade, bringing her to her knees with its unexpected intensity. When she could, she stood, too dazed to even care whether anyone had seen her fall. She directed her attention toward her car. She worked her way down the block in each direction, then started turning corners, crossing streets. The noise and pain continued, sometimes bringing her to a complete standstill. A violent stab doubled her over in pain. She worked her way to a building she could lean against, then put her back to it and slid down. Another stab, and she was groaning and gritting her teeth, rocking in her own embrace for some indeterminate length of time, until she could raise her head. Crouched there, she realized that this night, warm and pink to her eye, felt strangely like a dawn. The voices had faded behind the pain of her cramps, and were an irritating chatter she could almost ignore. She stood. Her car was nowhere in sight. Her bowels pressed threateningly down. She would need a toilet, and soon. Her eye caught an alleyway she had traveled many times before. The entrance to Kenny's place was about a block or so on the right. She would break in if she had to. She'd done it before; at his suggestion, even. She half-ran, limping, with her hand splayed against her bottom rib. She pushed past the gate and banged up against the door before she began to beat on it. My God! Kenny came to the door. "What the fuck?" "Just open the door!" Megan shouted. He did. She slammed past him and barreled down the short, dark hallway, slamming the bathroom door open, then shut it behind her. "Morgan?" was all he got out. She released with a splash more substantial than was comfortable all at once. She groaned, shouted and pushed, abs taut against her fist pressed deep into them. She sat for a moment, aching, and exhausted, laying her torso across her own lap, arms wrapped around her. A timid tap sounded on the door. And hungry. She was hungry. "Morgan?" Kenny asked, carefully using her trick name. She resented the more familiar "Megan" when she was in a mood, or looking for help or money. "Are you all right?" "No," she snapped. Then, gathering her strength, encouraged on by a tasty smell from the other side of the door, she sighed. She stood and flushed the toilet. Against her will, her eyes caught the contents of the bowl, spinning and funneling. Red. Blood and guts! she thought. It made her lightheaded. She leaned her hand against the wall as her knees gave slightly. She shook her head roughly, and steadied herself with a grunt, pulling her pants up and fastening them. "I'm fucking dying!" she exclaimed, thinking as well, I want my dog. It was through a sheer film of will power that she remained standing. She thought she might puke. She thought she should feel like puking. The vision of that long second of swirling matter...nah, she wouldn't go there. But it played non-consensually in a memory loop. It was with profound discomfort that she realized that even haunted by the sight, she felt oh, so very hungry. She groaned, washing her hands and splashing her face. Small sounds of Kenny's weight on the wood outside the bathroom door were punctuated by his incessant whispering. When did that start? she wondered. She didn't remember him ever running a constant muttering monologue of his every thought. Her lip curled. She's so high! Or is she jonesing? Dangerous? She seems so angry! Did someone attack her? Hurt her? Mug her? Oh...oh, no! Not raped! I've never seen her like this before. She's sick! How? Why? It irritated her. "What are you eating?" she asked, distracted by the smell of it. And before he had time to answer: "Shut up, Kenny! Please!" Eat....What? I'm not eating. I wasn't saying a thing! What is her problem? Should I leave her alone? Will she be okay? "Yes, please! Just leave me alone for a few minutes," she answered. "Ah, okay..." She felt she could hear his bewilderment. It sounded like a string of question marks, chiming like organ pipes. "I'm gonna go get some smokes. You want anything?" "Whatever you're eating." I'm not... "Oh, forget it. I'll get it myself!" and the anticipation of relief relaxed her. "No. Nothing for me. Thanks." He left, muttering and musing all the way out the door and around the corner. It wasn't as quiet as she had hoped it would be with him gone. The house, an old row house, could have been built of cards; she could hear the neighbors so clearly. She figured she hadn't noticed how thin the walls were before because she was usually here during the day, when people were out. She blamed the noise for the largest part of her restlessness. That, and her ravenous hunger. And she would fix that in a moment. She dried her hands and headed for the kitchen.