Erotic Horror for Horny Housewives

By Edward Lee, Mary SanGiovanni, Lucy Taylor and 7 more

From the mind of Edward Lee comes a brand new neighborhood anthology. EROTIC HORROR FOR HORNY HOUSEWIVES is a cul-de-sac of some of the best female horror writers within the sadistic suburbs. With two introductions from both the MOTHERS OF MAYHEM: Marian Echevarria and Christina Pfeiffer… the anthology includes all new stories from:

Mary SanGiovanni
Lucy Taylor
Monica J. O'Rourke
CV Hunt
Christine Morgan
Jackie Mitchell
Bridgett Nelson
Candace Nola
Karolina "Mangusta" Kaczkowska
and Edward Lee

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Evil Cookie Publishing
• Release date: Feb 28, 2025
• ISBN: 9798230305293

Edward Lee

Edward Lee is a leading legal expert on NFTs and intellectual property. He is a professor of law and codirector of Illinois Institute of Technology Chicago-Kent College of Law’s Center for Design, Law, and Technology, the first U.S. institution devoted to research of creativity, technology, design, and the law. His website, nouNFT.com, analyzes the latest developments in NFTs. He founded The Free Internet Project, a nonprofit whose mission is to protect Internet freedoms. He is a former contributor to the Huffington Post, and his work has been featured in outlets such as the Washington Post and Billboard. He worked on public-interest litigation as an attorney for Stanford Law School’s Center for Internet and Society. An accomplished photographer, he has shown his works in group exhibitions and art fairs in New York City, Chicago, Miami, Amsterdam, and Dubai. He lives in Chicago, Illinois.

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INTRODUCTIONS

It is the best of neighborhoods; it is the worst of neighborhoods. Welcome to suburbia—where the lawns are manicured, the minivans are plentiful, and behind every neatly pressed curtain of domestic bliss is a chaotic mess of lust, gore, and... tentacles? Forget the age of innocence. This is the age of depravity. Forget quaint bake sales and polite book clubs; behind the sweet smiles and PTA badges of these Horny Housewives are women who know how to handle a power drill for reasons that would never make it onto Pinterest. The stories in this anthology are a rollicking ride through the hilarious and horrifying double lives of suburban sirens. Their desires aren't just confined to whispered fantasies; they manifest in ways that are both outrageous and bloody. It’s like Desperate Housewives meets Texas Chainsaw Massacre, with a dash of Fifty Shades of Grey and La Blue Girl thrown in for good measure. These stories are a testament to the wild, untamed impulses that lie beneath the surface of even the most buttoned-up exteriors. They're a reminder that the quiet suburbs can be a breeding ground for truly delightful depravity. Get ready to clutch those pearls and take a ride through suburbia as you've never seen it before. Welcome to the world of Horny Housewives, where the women are more than just keepers of the home—they're the spicy, sexy, and slightly psychotic, heroines of their own stories. Enter if you dare but, remember, in these neighborhoods nothing is ever as it seems and the most innocent of smiles can conceal the most outrageous of intentions. So, go ahead and take a walk through this development. But as I am also, myself, a mother and domestic queen, I must remind you: Wear your sunscreen. Stay hydrated. Look both ways before crossing the street. And if you’re still out there when streetlights come on, do NOT speak to anyone. Especially if they look like the nice lady from next door. Okay! Love you! Have a great time!

Marian Echevarria

Co-host Mothers of Mayhem: An Extreme Horror Podcast

2012, SIU—Carbondale, IL.

(Whatever you're picturing, make it with more hippies.)

A thirty-year-old University student has BRAIN CHEESE BUFFET in her hands. She has less gray hair, is much MUCH thinner, and has yet to be crushed by the stress of being a parent (a wife, yes, as her first marriage was a complete disaster.) She's bright eyed and remains undefeated by a book. But after being told only the creme de la creme of readers could get through this short story collection without vomiting. She thought, pfft. How bad could it be. Until...

Now this thirty-year-old was also no stranger to erotica. Devouring AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A FLEA, MY SECRET LIFE, TROPIC OF CANCER (Your Sylvester! Yes, he knows how to build a fire, but I know how to inflame a cunt.), JUSTINE, and many more, debauchery and scandalous literature was not shocking. Until...

The Dritiphilist

Let's fast forward to 2021, and this now gray haired, fat Mom of two gut goblins, and wife to an Airman, traveled from San Antonio, TX to Seattle, WA and discovered Splatterpunk and Extreme Horror. Perusing the Books of Horror Facebook group, she stumbles upon a name. One that has haunted her for a decade. The only man who has ever beaten her... literaturely.

That porn loving, gut goblin having woman, was me.

The author?

Edward—The Dreamcrusher—Lee.

As I stared at the cover of The Bighead, I could only think, well, well, well we meet again. Sex AND splatter? How can this be? Then I read HEADER 3 that he co-wrote with Ryan Harding and had to put THAT book down. But, I wasn't beaten this time. No no. I pushed through the hock party. And you know what? It is in the book of possible kinks now.

But still... The Dritiphilist.

Then Marian Echevarria and I started the Mothers of Mayhem: An Extreme Horror podcast. We interviewed authors we never dreamed of interviewing: Chandler Morrison (twice), Sean Hawker and Matt Clarke, John Wayne Comunale, Ryan Harding, and then... the Extreme Horror gods smiled upon us. We interviewed The Dreamcrusher. I was able to say cock hock and talk about the finer points of a header with the legend himself.

This long-winded nonsensical beginning is to explain how my love of cliterature, if I may, and my love of the only author to ever make me not finish a book because it was too disgusting culminated in the insanity of writing an introduction for him. I know three things: Ed Lee, erotica, and being a housewife.

Housewives get a lot of gobbledygook thrown at them. We keep the house running, kids on track with medicine, school, and extra-curriculars, cook, clean, pay bills, and so much more. (I'm not saying men do not do these things, I'm just sticking to the story collection theme, calm down.) We, more times than not, forget ourselves along the way. No more bright eyes 24/7 like 30-year-old Christina, but sleep-deprived, Effexor-rugged, three-loads’-worth-of-laundry-to-be-folded Mom.

In spite of all of that, deep down, most of us are freaks. The need for new and exciting still tickles our fancy. We daydream of hot men (for some of you, women) and the steamy aftermath of the sexual fantasies that we read in books, see on Tiktok or the movies. (I mean, masked men, for fuck’s sake. Am I right?)

Ten years later, Lee has put together this anthology of smut for us, the bored Housewives with a saucy streak. The ones often forgotten but always around. So here's to me, a 42-year-old housewife who daydreams of men in gas masks, hunting me down in the woods and to you if you are a freaky housewife, too. May these stories add a bit of fuel to the fire inside of you.

Your favorite Alaskan housewife.

Christina Pfeiffer

Co-host Mothers of Mayhem: An Extreme Horror Podcast

PREFACE

Edward Lee

Some time ago, I was at a convention, (in Vegas, it was a KillerCon in 2014 or 15) and a friend of mine, Wendy Brewer, pointed out a gothy-looking woman who stood amid an upsurge of patrons in the bar. Wendy said, See that woman there? and I replied, Yes, I do, for this attractive woman was hard to miss. She looked absolutely vampiric. Wendy continued, She makes five-hundred dollars a month writing vampire-porn stories on Kindle...

Kindle. Hmm. This was when the whole Kindle thing was exploding. I was not a fan of the idea; in fact, I was one who scoffed loudly at such a design. Kindle? You mean e-books? Pish-posh! People want physical books to read, not words on a screen! Indeed, I was stalwart in my conviction that Kindle would fail, and that goes to show you just how inept I was. Without Kindle today, I would be but a sad, piss-poor old man.

Anyway, I spoke briefly to said Vampire Woman and she was indeed publishing vampire-porn stories on Kindle and her sales rankings looked impressive. Did she really make five-hundred bucks a month? I don’t know. Of course, most authors lie about how much they make, so who knows. At any rate, this bit of vocal intercourse (as Poe or M.R. James would say) provided me the incitation to look deeper into the phenomena. Wendy claimed that there was a great body of readers out there who comprised sort of a horny housewife readership. This sounded intriguing, and it made sense. Reading serves as an escape from everyday life, and everyday life is often boring. We’re told that the frequency of sex between married couples decelerates rapidly after the first year or two. But even so, remnants of the immortal human sex drive will likely linger, and porn literature seems a pretty hip and effective way to assuage such.

And nothing could be more inconspicuous than reading on a Kindle: no physical book to leave around, no lewd and lascivious covers to be eyeballed by persons you’d just as soon not know what kind of groin-trash you’re reading.

It seemed a perfect system to accommodate this very interesting horny housewife sub-market.

From there, my investigations deported me deeper into the nuts and bolts this mysterious readership. My research informed me, just by the plethora of new titles, that this readership did indeed exist in a bigtime way. One title kept popping up, one that could not be denied. It was called Bigfoot’s Big Dick.

This is not invention on my part, I assure you. There’s a book out there called BIGFOOT’S BIG DICK. So, what did I do?

I bought a Kindle (which took me a week to learn to use), and Bigfoot’s Big Dick became the very first selection in my Kindle Library. The title exists!

Or does it?

I’ve just performed a cursory search on Google for that title and nothing came up! I’m not seeing hide nor pubic hair of it. The writer of this little marvel is called J.L. Sage and the copyright is 2014. I recall a good many titles listed on Amazon by this author but now the author’s Amazon bio lists only two, and Bigfoot’s Big Dick is not among them.

The mystery continues...

I read most of the piece immediately and found it to be competently written and loaded with off-the-wall sex. On the first page a female protagonist seems to be reading a story about a gorilla-lover. Okay. Overall I’d give the book a B-plus. It was ballsy and unique. It’s not a novel or even a novella, as I recall. It’s a short story. About sex with a Bigfoot. Sounds ridiculous? Yes! But in this day and age, why not? And now a quick search on Amazon reveals a virtual Conga Line of other sex-with-Bigfoot titles by a crowd of authors. Check the titles if you think I’m lying. There’s Bigfoot’s Bride, Broken in by the Bigfoot, Broodmaiden for Bigfoot, and many more. There are also a slew of dinosaur-sex books. (I’m shaking my head too.) Boned by the T-Rex I’m serious! Taken by the T-Rex, and–are you ready?–Abraham Lincoln Wants Me to Date a T-Rex. Women fantasize about that? Well, I guess they do ‘cos the stories are out there, being sold as we speak. And so does much else: paranormal-sex, sci-fi alien-sex, Life-on-the-Prairie-sex, period-piece-sex, cave-woman-sex, and just about anything else you can conceive of. Diversity in aesthetics! Pushing the sexual envelope! Dirty fiction written by women for women.

All this, whether you like it or not, provides an undeniable confirmation that there is indeed a considerable fan-base of bored women who probably aren’t getting all the sex they want at home, so they seek out the next best–I guess–thing: sex fantasies in whatever topic a resourceful author can think of...

Hence, this anthology. Way back when, whilst talking to the gothy vampire woman, it occurred to me that there might be a great market for an anthology of dirty horror stories for bored housewives. It took my procrastinating ass TEN YEARS to put it together, but here it is now! My goal was to assemble the very best female horror writers, most of whom I know personally, and let them strut their stuff, write a dirty horror story that will inflame the loins of the readership, light the fuse of that aching libido, and stir up that honey bucket!

It’s my belief that this project does exactly that, and I’m grateful to all the contributors for turning out wonderfully crafted pieces that all fit the bill. And I’m grateful to you, the honorable reader, for buying this. If you like it, please tell your friends!

And please pardon this grossly overwritten foreword or preface (Fuck! I can’t remember the difference anymore!) Tonight, to celebrate its critical impetus, I will reread Bigfoot’s Big Dick, and I’ll even read all of it this time!

Sincerely,

Edward Lee

PINK NOISE

C.V. Hunt

I pulled my pillow tighter around my head, trying my best to block out Steve’s snoring. My arms ached from pressing the pillow over my ears for so long. I kept willing myself to fall asleep. The slight prickle in the cartilage of my ears signaled an oncoming hot flash.

You’ve got to be kidding me, I thought.

The flush first made my ears hot before running through my head and torso. I sighed, let go of the pillow, and flung the blankets off and over onto Steve, hoping the thick comforter would smother him and stop his incessant snoring. No luck.

I had originally started sleeping with a fan because of Steve’s snoring, but after menopause hit it was used for the night sweats and hot flashes. The fan didn’t do anything for my insomnia.

The breeze swept across my sweaty body and I lay there, waiting for the hot flash to pass, waiting for the moment I became cold and scrambled in the darkness to find the covers I’d tried to smother Steve with.

Fuck it, I thought, I have to pee anyway.

I pulled my sweat-damp tank top up and wiped the sweat from my face before rolling out of bed and heading toward the bathroom, careful to make sure I didn’t run into anything and wake Steve. His bedside clock read 3:03 AM. His alarm would be sounding in less than two hours and I probably hadn’t slept more than an hour or two. Someone needed to warn other women that once menopause hit they’d never get another night of rest.

The bathroom’s night light was bright enough that I never turned on the overhead light when I had to use the restroom at night. The brightness of turning on the overhead light would only wake me up more and I’d eventually give up trying to sleep and sit in the living room in the dark, watching television. After urinating, I raided the medicine cabinet, looking for something, anything, that would help me sleep through Steve’s snoring, which seemed to be getting louder while I was in the bathroom. I grabbed the box of Benadryl, popped out two pink tablets, and downed them with a handful of cool water from the faucet. I knew they’d definitely help me sleep but they’d also make it impossible to get up when Steve’s alarm went off. But I figured once Steve was out the door I’d take a nap on the sofa until noon. As a homemaker, and with all the kids grown and out of the house, I didn’t have much of a schedule, or at least one I had to strictly adhere to. I didn’t have anywhere to go until after lunch anyway.

Our bathroom door always stuck. I tried opening it quietly but it still made the loud pop of paint sticking to paint when it opened. Steve snorted and I heard the familiar sounds of him rolling over, finally silencing the horrid cacophony. I never bothered being one of those wives who shoved or pushed or woke up their husbands and asked them to roll over in the night. I’d tried a couple of times once the fan stopped covering the noise but I was met with resistance and a grumpy husband who wouldn’t let me live down the fact I’d woken him up from his beauty rest when he was scheduled to start a cross-country drive the next day.

I shuffled into the bedroom and climbed back in bed, trying not to jostle the mattress too much. I tossed and turned another twenty minutes or so before the Benadryl graciously lulled me to sleep.

I somehow found myself in the apartment I’d rented in my twenties. I wasn’t sure how I’d gotten there. Nothing was out of place, but something seemed off and I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. I walked into the bedroom and found someone lying in my bed.

Trent, my landlord, lay there, naked. He had an erection and was slowly stroking his penis. I’d always found Trent attractive but thought it was unprofessional to flirt with him or have any type of relationship with him other than being a tenant. I was speechless and my pussy became wet as I watched him.

Take off your clothes, he said.

He didn’t need to tell me twice. I stripped and climbed onto the bed.

Trent continued to slowly masturbate and stare at me so I took it upon myself to make the first move. I swung a leg over his body and straddled him. He stopped stroking his penis and reached for the headboard. His dick lay on his lower belly, pointing to his navel. I slid my wet sex up and down the length of his penis several times. He moaned and my arousal grew.

I grabbed his dick and slowly guided it inside of me. I felt like I might come any second. Trent grabbed my ass cheeks and guided me up and down his penis. I was so horny and wanted to orgasm so badly. I ran my fingers over my clit while he fucked me, or I fucked him, but masturbating myself didn’t seem to be working.

Trent rolled over, taking me with him, and now he was on top of me, pumping full speed. I was so wet and horny and wanted to come so badly but rubbing my clit didn’t seem to be getting me anywhere. I grabbed Trent’s ass to slow his thrusts and began pushing my mons pubis against him and humped him. This was how I’d had my first orgasm, humping against my high school boyfriend, but it didn’t seem to be working either. I was growing frustrated and all I could think about—

The alarm jarred me awake; the dream evaporated. Fuck... Soaked in sweat, I threw the covers off immediately. Steve groaned and fumbled with the alarm before shutting it off. I scooted across the bed and tried to snuggle with him. I was aroused from the dream and wanted nothing more than to come.

You’re wet, he grumbled.

There was a time when you liked me wet, I said. There was a time when my pussy would be dripping wet, I thought, but that was before menopause.

I ran my hand across his chest and down his stomach. He caught my hand, pushed it away, sat up, and turned on the bedside lamp. I shielded my eyes against the brightness.

Gotta get on the road soon, he said. He stretched—his joints cracking loudly—slipped out of bed and headed straight to the bathroom.

His lack of interest in sex was irritating. I wanted to stay in bed and masturbate but I needed to get up and see him off. I wasn’t naïve. I knew he was picking up lot lizards here and there. That’s why it never really bothered me that he wasn’t interested in me sexually anymore. My libido wasn’t what it used to be and I had to strike while the iron was hot. I was only irritated because by the time he was gone I wouldn’t be horny anymore. Another lost opportunity. Another reason for the doctor’s appointment this afternoon.

I sighed, got out of bed, and pulled on my robe. I shuffled toward the kitchen, flipping on lights as I went. I went through the daily routine on autopilot: coffee, breakfast, etc. Steve and I sat at the dining room table and ate in silence. After he was done eating he grabbed his road bag full of everything he’d need for a week, pecked me on the cheek, and walked out the door with a halfhearted, I love you. I was still doing the breakfast dishes when the semi rumbled off down the road.

When I was done with the dishes I stretched out on the sofa and let the residual Benadryl lull me back to sleep. Maybe I’d wake up from another wet dream and play with myself before the doctor’s appointment.

A rap at the door pulled me from a dreamless sleep.

Juuuudyyyy. Knock knock knock.

Oh god, I groaned and forced myself to sit up. I made sure my robe was tied appropriately enough to be seen and went to the front door.

Knock knock knock.

I gritted my teeth and opened the door. Amy, our closest neighbor out here in the middle of nowhere, stood on my doorstep, looking alert and ready for the day. She always wore loose-fitting tunic shirts, leggings, and sandals as long as there wasn’t any snow on the ground, which we were far from in the middle of summer. Her gray hair was piled into a bun on the top of her head. Amy was a free spirit and loved to talk about natural remedies, healing stones, and chakras. Her belief in mind over matter was as annoying as someone trying to foist their religion on me, but she was a good person and didn’t mean any harm, so I always took it in stride.

Good morning, I said.

Morning? Amy laughed. Hell, it’s almost afternoon.

What?! I panicked, searching my robe for my cell phone. My pockets were empty. I had a bad habit of leaving my phone on my nightstand. What time is it?

Amy looked at the watch on her wrist. Noon. Why?

I sighed in relief. I have a doctor’s appointment later. You made it sound like I’d slept half the day away.

I moved from the doorway and let Amy make her way to Steve’s recliner. It wasn’t until she sat that I noticed she’d brought a shoulder bag with her, which she immediately began to rifle through after flopping down in the recliner.

Here it is. She withdrew an organza gift bag.

She pulled the thin ribbon ties to open the bag and withdrew a black piece of fabric. At first I thought she was trying to give me some sort of lingerie, but once she pulled the object onto her head I realized it was a bulky sleep mask. I’d never used a sleep mask before. They seemed like props people used in movies or television shows, or something a rich person would use. A sleep mask seemed impractical, like it would slip off your head when you were tossing and turning at night.

I took a seat on the sofa closest to Amy. She handed the mask to me.

Thanks, I said.

"You mentioned you were having trouble sleeping with the change and all."

She said the change as if