A collection of 5 erotic vampire-themed stories, including:
Fang Fiend by Lynn Lake:
She's had many a fetish over the course of her sex life, but none so lasting and fearsome as her fetish for fangs. So when she can't get true satisfaction close to home, she goes to even greater lengths to quench her craving, and comes to face to fang with the deadliest of all femme fatales...
Tooth Fairy by Velvet Tripp:
Megan's working on a bookstall at FatalEmbraceCon, a fantasy convention full of people wearing capes and prosthetic fangs. She's doesn't believe in real vampires. But there is one at the convention – the author of the books she's selling. 'Don't matter none to me what you believe' he says. 'Maybe I'm just the Tooth Fairy. With sharp teeth' He's going to feed on her whether she believes in him or not...
Escape into Darkness by Roxanne Rhoads:
Liana is searching for someone to love who will not die and leave her behind. After her own brush with death she became obsessed with vampires and has been searching the world for one that is real. Finally after a long search she finds Devlin who is exactly what she wants and needs. He is more than happy to give Liana everything she desires and much more than she expects...
Mad, Bad and Dangerous to Know by Fulani:
By day, Sasha teaches literacy. By night, she writes poems. When a local publishing house is interested in her work, she goes to meet the publisher in the pub used by the local literati. But he's already drunk, and a tall, dark stranger is there as well who turns out to be mad, bad and dangerous to know...
Fangs for the Holidays by Adrienne Rose:
After spending the day baking holiday goodies Avery drops by her vampire boyfriend Jackson's home so they can spend some quality time together. He is surprisingly enticed by the smell of baked goods on Avery's skin which leads them to a discussion about family holiday gatherings...and a lot of very hot sex.
I slowly, cautiously, descended the creaky staircase, my torch burning a path through the gloom. My legs shook and my hands trembled and my chest tightened with fearful anticipation. And when I finally arrived at the bottom of that rickety descent, I stopped dead and listened.
I heard nothing, other than the sound of my laboured breathing, the blood roaring in my ears. I cast quavery torchlight about the cobwebbed chamber, over the dusty, age-old, out-of-style furniture, the rough-hewn beams and roughed-in cement floor.
And there! There, balanced on a pair of sawhorses in the far corner of that subterranean dwelling place: a coffin!
My nipples stiffened with excitement beneath my embroidered peasant blouse, my pussy wetting with same beneath my ankle-length, red velvet peasant skirt. I breathed deep of the musty air and untied the old country blouse and let it hang open, fingered the twin silver crosses that studded my very erect nipples. Then I pulled a tapered stake from the waistband of my skirt, swallowed hard, and moved forward.
Across that cold floor I trod softly, carrying my big stake, until I was within arm’s reach of the coffin. I shifted the stake to my torch-hand and steeled my nerves and reached out and slowly, carefully, lifted the lid on that bed of the dead.
‘Yikes!’ I shrieked, as the lid unhinged and crashed to the floor. There was a girl, a woman, in the scarlet satin-lined coffin! A woman of surreal beauty. Naked as the break of day.
Yes, this was no PG-rated Hammer flick; this evil lovely was in her all-natural state, downy pussy as exposed as the fur of the bat that hung from the stony rafters of her cave. I played my jumping torch over the sleeping beauty, from glossy, raven-haired tip to bare, blood-red painted toes. My desire mounted, swept through my body like a drenching thunderstorm, as I stared at that glorious girl’s ethereal charms.
Her face was pretty and peaceful and pale; her breasts large, creamy-white mounds pushed up and together by low-folded arms, ultra-pink nipples, seemingly swelling with exposure as I spotlighted them with my torch. I moved the beam lower, my panties now soaked and my body a-tingle, over the slumbering undead’s flat, lily-white stomach, past barbelled bellybutton and down in between her legs. Shiny, night-shaded fur graced her pussy, and I thought I detected a gleam of moisture in the trembling light. Her legs were long and shapely, ankles slender (heart tattoo embossing one, gold chain the other), feet delicately arched and toenails crimson with varnish.
I stood there and admired that coffin-bound creature, my breath and pulse racing. I sinfully seized and squeezed my right breast, sending a thrill arcing through my body. I felt up both of my electrified boobs, gripping and groping, rolling and primping my blood-engorged nipples, the scent of my sex strong enough now to wake the dead.
I moved closer to the coffin and its exquisite occupant, and keeping the torchlight square on the woman’s slumbering face, I reached out a quivering finger and pushed up her lip. Yes! It was fangs I was after, and it was fangs I had found! I spread my sweaty hand and pulled back the beauty’s upper lip on both sides, gleefully ogling two long, gleaming, savagely-pointed fangs.
I’ve had many a fetish over the course of my sex life – everything from lady’s legs and feet, boots and heels, to pierced nipples and labia, hanging earlobes, moustaches and unshaven armpits – but my fang fetish had survived every fad, grown stronger as the others had weakened. Encompassing my love of horror (literature and film), cherry-squirted Goth girls, and thousand watt teeth and biting-for-pleasure, it had driven me to this underground lair and this face-to-fang encounter with the deadliest of all femme fatales.
I full-body shuddered with excitement, then bent my head down and ran my tongue over the sexy vamp’s wickedly erotic teeth. My head spun and my pussy drizzled as I traced the inhuman length of that lady’s fangs, first one, then the other, feeling with my tongue and my soul the full fearsome shape of her animal eye-teeth, the piercing, pointed ends of them.
I slashed my tongue back and forth across her sparkling teeth, from fang to fang, revelling in their hard enamel decadence. I licked and kissed her fangs, worshipped them as dangerous, ivory idols, ’til at long last I let loose her lip and let my hand roam over her drop-dead-gorgeous alabaster body.
I traced the outline of her face with my fluttering fingertips, caressed her bare, buff shoulders, gripped a plump, heavy breast and squeezed it. Her body jerked in the box, as I felt the fullness of her smooth, succulent tits, but her eyes stayed closed. My hand climbed to the peak of one of her breasts and thumbed a rock-rigid nipple, rolled it gently between jumpy fingers.
The vampire moaned softly, drawing back her lip in a sneer of pleasure and revealing her oh-so-sexy fangs. I recklessly thrust my head down and kissed her, frenched her. I ravaged her fang-endowed mouth with my unequally-toothed mouth, wildly tonguing her uppers, her tongue, my body and brain flaming with the awesome eroticism of it all.
Fulani has been writing erotica for around ten years now, much of it dealing with BDSM and fetish, worlds he’s known for longer than he cares to remember. He has published numerous short stories, several novellas, and two novels with, among others, Xcite Books, Pink Flamingo, Renaissance Sizzler, 1001 Nights Press and Sweetmeats Press.
Find him at:
Blog: Fulani's limited attention span
And blogging with his partner Velvet Tripp at: http://deliciouslydeviant.wordpress.com/
Lynn Lake’s fantasies could fill a book – and have (or, at least, parts of many, many books). Her imagination substitutes for a somewhat dreary existence in the middle of nowhere home to a particularly harsh climate. She’s a frustrated crime writer (few markets) and an unfulfilled SF author (no science background). Her erotic experiences, frankly, look better on paper, where she need not discriminate based on couplings, positionings, flogging devices, and/or binding materials. Rich, thick, wet ink spilling out of the golden nib of a finely-crafted fountain pen onto bright, white, textured paper is a form of ecstasy to her, free of STD’s.
She has a cat and an insatiable craving to express herself.
Inspiration comes from everywhere, everything, and everybody she meets or sees or visualizes, but mostly from her mind (very often early in the morning when she first wakes up). She doesn’t wait for the wet muse to tingle her in the appropriate places, however; oftentimes she just sits and stares at a blank piece of paper (Hilroy, lined, in a wire-bound notebook) until an idea strikes her and she pen-strokes it, first into a brief outline, and then into a full story (which usually goes through a, minimum, three-draft process). She’s fairly well-read and quite good at mimicking other styles, which helps in the whole process, as does her natural shyness.