Skin Crawl: Darkly Erotic Horror Stories

By Alex Severin

'Skin Crawl' is a short story collection of deviant, dark erotic horror by Alex Severin.

With online favorites that launched Severin into the horror underground a decade ago, little seen micro-press anthology orphans, and an exclusive, never before published short.

'Skin Crawl' runs the gamut from a priest with an unHoly obsession with his Virgin Mary statue, a romantic pair of necrophiliacs, a beastly old magician with very strange eyes to a proud, but unusual surrogate mother, this is raw, uncompromising erotic horror at its darkest.

Table of Contents -

Blessed is the Fruit of Thy Womb
In the Flesh
Premature
Romancing the Dead
The Blair
Fuckhead
The Surrogate
The Man with the Absinthe Eyes
Coyote Bang
Ripened Fruit

Excerpts from 'Skin Crawl' -

From 'Ripened Fruit'...
His coarse fingers probed the wet silk of her cunt; her face contorted with equal amounts of disgust and pleasure.

The matted beard of her lover scraped against the peach of her cheek as she forced down her rising gorge, her nostrils under assault from the stench of the rancid morsels of days-old food that nested there. A wave of nausea washed over her but the fluttering of her eyelids and the gasp in her throat could not deny the skill of his hand.

She pulled him close to her and felt his hot sermon in her ear, his divine wisdom seeping into her, feeding her, soothing her like a warm injection.

From 'The Blair'...
He crept away from the quiet cottage, parents gently snoring in their bedroom, then belted down the road at full speed; his pulse throbbed in his ears with excitement.

He reached the house in a few minutes and stood at the bottom of the drive, staring at the darkened windows.

There were shapes moving in those windows, whispers penetrating the night air and filtering over to him as he stood there.

He couldn't decipher what they were saying but he didn't like it. The whispers made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

The whispers were about grown up things, things he didn't know about, but knew enough that he shouldn't be listening to them.

He wanted to leave but he couldn't move, couldn't prise himself from the spot, couldn't even scream when he realized there was a man standing in the shadows under a tree, just a few feet away from him. He'd been there the whole time, watching him while he watched the shadows in the window and listened to the whispers in the dark.

The man lunged forward and grabbed him by the arm, forced a palm over his mouth.

“You shouldn't be here, boy. This is no place for you. This is a bad place, a bad place for everybody.”

From 'The Man with the Absinthe Eyes'..

“Be still. You are not yet ready to move. You must allow yourself become familiar with your new condition.”

He looked at the man, eyes squinting

“My new condition?” he croaked, his throat dry, vocal cords violin-tight and coated with panic.

The man was vaguely familiar; he had seen that hideous, yet compelling face before, and that insane gaze. Black and white photographs with sinister captions came to mind. He had visions of devout worshipers at his feet and Latin phrases echoing off stone walls in the torch-lit gloom of a castle.

The name escaped him, but he knew he had seen him before.

“Sleep,” the man said to him, “Rest. Soon you will begin your new life as The Font.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alex Severin
• Release date: Apr 17, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458158468

Alex Severin

Alex Severin was born in the Scottish Highlands, but was transplanted to the Wild, Wild West of the USA in 2005. She writes short stories, novels, screenplays, and loves to write about things that both repel and fascinate. She's tried her hand at custom written erotica - and quite successfully too (never had a complaint,) but decided she needed a career change after the clown porn story. Don't ask. 'Vampire Vintage Book One : Belladonna in Hollywood' is Alex's debut novel and the first installment of the 'Vampire Vintage Series.'

Book preview

Skin Crawl

Darkly Erotic Horror Stories

by Alex Severin

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2000 - 2011, Alex Severin - All Rights Reserved

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Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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Cover Design : Alex Severin

Cover Image : Girls Tattoo by PatriotPro @ SXC.hu

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TABLE OF CONTENTS :

Blessed is the Fruit of Thy Womb

In the Flesh

Premature

Romancing the Dead

The Blair

Fuckhead

The Surrogate

The Man with the Absinthe Eyes

Coyote Bang

Ripened Fruit

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All characters depicted in this book are 18 years of age or older.

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BLESSED IS THE FRUIT OF THY WOMB

He caressed the smooth coldness of her face and gazed into eyes that could not see his adoration, kissed still, ever-silent lips.

From the moment she had been delivered to him he loved her. Her tranquil expression of sadness-accepted cleaved his heart and made it bleed love and devotion like the tear-stained plaster face of a weeping Madonna.

He wouldn’t let them place her in the specially prepared recess high up on the church wall; she was already too far from his reach but to be beyond his touch would be unbearable.

Behind locked doors, long after the mass had ceased to echo off the walls, he would read verses from the bible to her; he was certain that a light shone from her eyes in appreciation.

Sometimes he would feel her stare upon him, feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, but when he would look over at her as he always did, her eyes would have that same demure, down-cast gaze of infinite contemplation.

He was certain that there was life within the painted plaster Virgin Mother who shared his world. During hymns he could hear a voice he knew did not belong to a singer in his choir or a member of his congregation. The voice was preternatural, too pure and dripping with ancient sorrows to be human.

The beautiful voice told him that she was the mother of the murdered Christ, she was the Virgin who immaculately conceived the Savior of humanity. She told him that inside the still statue beat the heart of a woman who needed to be loved by him, loved in the flesh as a woman and not as a religious icon or a goddess or a saint.

She delivered her revelation during Christmas Eve mass; he stopped abruptly, mid-sentence, and turned to her. Ripples of whispers like waves washed over the amassed worshipers.

His flock had gossiped about him for a long time now; they wondered just what is is he does behind those closed and bolted doors, doors which had never been locked before, not until he came here.

Locked doors meant secrets, secrets that needed to be kept. Secrets that everybody wanted to know.

There was speculation that he procured the services of the fallen-women – as the gossipy old bags in the congregation called them - or the homeless of the towm that he would help out from time to time, feed them, clothe them.

Lots of young nubile girls spend time in that there church, y’know, Rose, an old curmudgeon said as she shifted her fat arse on the over-burdened pew. Being a young, catwalk-handsome priest could be a difficult job sometimes.

Father Maggio regained his composure and continued his reading, then dutifully fed the body and the blood to the devout who wished to take communion.

Two stragglers looked at each other with an ungodly glint in their eyes as they heard the key turn in the lock of the church door as it was hastily shut behind them.

Their step slowed, heads turning back toward the church, ears pricked up, searching for salacious sounds to fill their need.

They craved to know what the priest's dirty little secret was – they were certain he had one. The whole town couldn't be wrong about him, surely. Knowing it would make them feel better about their own lifetimes of minor sins never confessed and not yet repented.

The charge of excitement ran through them like a live current; they felt like teenagers on a dare to break into the local morgue on Halloween to prove their bravery to their peers.

They tiptoed back up the path toward the church and slipped silently around the side. They ducked down low, peeking over the edge of the window ledge and into the church. Even these well-seasoned sinners gasped at what they bore witness to.

Their priest had his arms around his beloved statue; a cold-alabaster embrace, unreciprocated, empty.

But to him it was not empty. To the hopelessly in love cleric she was of the flesh, and hot blood coursed through veins that did not exist within her semi-hollow body. Her hard, icy cheeks were warm and blossomed with the heat of passion, passion for him, and him alone.

He kissed his lover, a deep, passionate kiss, filled with love and devotion and longing. He wanted her like he had never wanted anything before.

Even his life-long desire to be a priest paled in comparison to the way he wanted and needed her. No other woman could feel like this in his arms. No other woman was good enough for him, for after all, he was God.

She was his bride; she had always belonged to him. They had given Christ to the world and now they had been reunited after his search, a search that seemed to have gone on forever. He always knew though, that one day he would find her again.

He realized he was God at a very early age; he knew for certain after Our Lady had granted him a visitation, appeared to him and showed him the long lost memories that were entombed in his mind.

She made him watch again the Crucifixion of their son, feeling the pain as the nails drove mercilessly though his palms, the scratch of his sharp crown of thorns, the searing-hot wetness that covered him as his side was opened up by the Spear of Destiny.

He felt a crushing grief at that moment, a sense of loss so profound that his heart seemed to stop for several beats.

And then he knew who he was.

No mere mortal could have felt the weight of grief so ancient. No one except God could have felt this - the loss of His son, the son He conceived with the Immaculate Mother, the one and only birth on earth that was