New Vampire Stories Book – Out NOW!

UPDATE : Saturday, 19th July 2008 -

NO LONGER AVAILABLE

 

Make the Streets Run Vampire Red – the debut collection of Vampire Erotica Stories by Alex Severin. 

Vampires, love, sex, obsession, devotion, insanity, worship, murder…and blood. 

Lots of blood. 

Make the Streets Run Vampire Red will introduce you to the characters from Alex Severin’s forthcoming vampire novel series, ’Vampire Vintage’ and ’Vampire Red’. 

Severin’s prose is as brutal as it is seductive, as visceral as it is erotic – and sometimes both at once. 

Collected here are seven stories, three from around the net, in book form for the first time, and four brand new, exclusive stories. And there’s a lengthy excerpt from ’Vampire Vintage,’ which will be Alex’s debut novel. And as a bonus, four extra stories – two from little-known small press anthologies, and two previously unpublished. 

Get to know these characters – you’ll be seeing more of them in the future.

Click HERE to buy the Paperback or E-book!

 

 

 

From THE BIRTH OF LORD RUTHVEN

A short note at the top of the story page stated that a novel, Bloody Love had been born from this short story and was due for mass market publication very soon.

+CruxShadow666+ began to read.

He was perched on the edge of his seat, his breathing rapid, muscles taut as he read. Soon, the throb between his legs became unbearable, his cock rigid and pressed hard against the hot leather of his trousers. He fumbled frantically to pull them down but his zipper was stuck and the material adhered to the excited sweat on his skin. He huffed and puffed, panted, swearing at his uncooperative pants and vowing to kill them if they did not comply.

From SOME OF YOUR GOTHIC BLOOD

He thought his neatly trimmed Van Dyk beard made him look like a hot Satan.

Eddie Crowe really and truly thought he was the shit.

But this wasn’t going to be any ordinary night of stringless sex.

These three gothic goddesses wanted something more from Eddie Crowe other than raw, animal fucking. They wanted something else from him – The Goth Star – but it wasn’t his body, it wasn’t risky impregnation, infamy and child support. It wasn’t just his body they were after.

They wanted what was inside him.

From SUCKER CLUB, Soho, LONDON W1

He remembered having a human heart in his hands, gazing at it with fascination and squeezing the remaining contents of the organ into his mouth. He remembered the two of them with fangs locked onto each others veins and feverishly drinking in that incomparable elixir of potent vampire blood. No sensation on earth could ever compare to that of one vampire feeding from another. It was beyond bliss. It was beyond ecstasy. It was beyond the rapture of the stigmatic feeling Christ’s pain and suffering.
 

From FUCKIN’ HARDCORE

He was mesmerized by her form, bathed in alternate flashing red and darkness from a buzzing neon sign that read Live Sex! He was entranced by the gentle sway of her ample ass as she sashayed down the alley. He imagined taking a bite out of it as if it were a huge, fleshy peach, and instead of sweet, sticky juices running over his face, there would be the piquant taste of her blood.

From FLAME WAR @ THE BLOOD BANK

From DRAIN THE BLOOD

A panic attack was the last thing she needed.

And there was only one way she knew it could be avoided.

Just one.

She needed a release from the stress and the anguish and the guilt that was eating her up from the inside out. She needed – even if only temporarily – to reduce the level of rising panic in her head and in her guts before it drove her completely insane.

Lily needed to be cleansed, to be rid of all the spilled blood she felt now flowed through her own veins.

She needed to cut.

From BLOODY LOVERS

Only when she was sure every candle was lit and in place did she turn off the main light in her apartment.

There were dozens of them, all shapes and sizes, but each one made from virginal-white wax and placed in a black glass holder. They covered every flat, stable surface in the room.

A plume of heady-scented incense smoke swirled lazily into the air; the room was filled with the aroma of red and black berries and a hint of frankincense, a top note of exotic spices from far away places. The scent made her think of excited sweat on dark skin. 

From VAMPIRE VINTAGE : BOOK ONE – BELLADONNA IN HOLLYWOOD

And now, back home and in her room, radio on and again listening to the sound of his voice, Belladonna could now see his face when she closed her eyes, could see his hypnotic stare. She felt the tide of her blood rise, throbbing inside her like never before, and found the rhythm of her own hips as she sweated in the dark.

He had helped her on the arduous journey to being a woman, made her feel things she had never felt, want things she had not experienced, things she knew nothing of before. And now, she wanted much more of him than just his words. She wanted to feel more than the touch of her own hand and the sound of his voice.

From THE MODIFICATION OF A STUPID CUNT

I stare at my dark reflection, at the scars where searing brand marks once were, at the pieces of metal he raped my flesh with – coils of wire, steel plates, metal springs and spikes and studs – tiny pieces of pain scavenged from dead machines.

I cut away these scars now, cut them out with surgical steel that flashes in the half-light. There are more scars now, bigger, deeper, uglier. But they are my scars, scars that I have

made. I chose to make these, not him. I have erased his signature from my skin – all except one. I always leave one. I cannot bare to remove every trace.

From CHARLOTTE’S ATTIC

Charlotte rose, then lay face down on the floor amongst the thick dust and desiccated carcasses of spiders and flies and the dried out cocoons of insects that were never born.

“Don’t cry, daddy.”

Charlotte whispered through the floorboards into her mother and father’s room below her. She had no fear of waking her mother – she slept soundly and Charlotte would often wish that she would fail to wake up some day. Things would be so much better if it were just her and her father.

She could see him clearly, lying there in his cold bed, weeping for her. The moonlight filtering through the slightly-open curtains made the tears on his cheeks glisten like liquid silver as they slid down his face.

From LITTLE PRICK

It took him a whole minute to shoot his load – in and out a couple of dozen times; my tired, bored pussy drier than the Sahara, the pussy he couldn’t get wet if he poured a bucket of water over it.

I fucking loathe him. His flesh connecting with mine in any manner makes my skin crawl, makes my gut tighten.

I hate the cruel straight line he calls a mouth. I have always found it at odds with his elegant speech, the words he uses, his impeccable pronunciation. It just does not seem right that such eloquence should come from that hateful gash in his face.

From THE BLAIR

It was a dark and brooding building; twisted, sparsely leaved vines clawed their way up her facade like painful arthritic fingers. The wild and unruly grounds reached up from the earth as if they were trying to pull the house down into the comfort of her muddy womb.

Her broken windows were like soulless, sightless eyes. But Victoria knew the building was not soulless – she felt that within those rotting walls lived the souls of many.

 

An excerpt from each story in MAKE THE STREETS RUN VAMPIRE RED by Alex Severin -

DRAIN THE BLOOD

A ‘VAMPIRE RED’ short story by Alex Severin.

(The following short story is based on a scene in my novel, ‘VAMPIRE RED.’)

Lily couldn’t take any more. The knot in her gut would not leave and her stomach felt as if it was digesting itself. She felt sick, she felt guilty. She felt used. She was every psychotic’s excuse for their own psychoses.

She felt tainted, poisonous and poisoned. He insides seemed rancid to her, toxic.

The guilt and the fear and the finger-pointing were taking their toll on Lily. She needed a release from the stress and the anguish and the guilt that was weighing her down, eating her up. She needed to be cleansed, be rid of the spilled blood she felt now flowed through her own veins.

Lily sat on the cold white-tiled floor in the bathroom and rummaged in her vanity case. She found a disposable razor and a nail file to pry open the plastic casing and liberate the instrument of her redemption.

She gazed at the razor blade, looked at it as if it were something mystical, something mysterious, something that held answers to unanswerable questions, and all she needed to do was feed it to gain that knowledge.

She drew the blade slowly across the pad on her index finger and closed her eyes, savouring the pain and the release it gave her. She smiled as her blood welled up like a glistening wet garnet. She watched, entranced, as the blood began to trickle down the length of her finger and into the palm of her hand. She sat there, eyes closed again, bloodied palm outstretched, her face beaming like an ecstatic stigmatic.

Lily raised her hand to her mouth and slowly licked at the red stream. The flavor of piquant metal on her tongue sedated her, began to thaw out the chill in her bones and made her feel a few moments of calm and peace.

But she needed more. Wanted more. A trickle was not enough when what she wanted was a scarlet gush to flush out the dirt. She had to cut deeper, harder. She needed to drain the blood.

She didn’t want to die. She didn’t want to not exist. She just wanted to bleed.

Lily drew the blade down the length of her forearm, deep enough for the wound to piss blood, but not deep enough to bleed her dry.

She felt the pristine chemical rush of endorphins and adrenaline kick in as the blood dripped on to the clinical white tiles and the pain made her shut her eyes tight and take in her breath sharply.

She looked at the pool of her own blood, warm, wet and fluid, in stark contrast to the cold, hard ceramic. She dipped her fingers in the crimson pool and began to write on the floor.

She wrote, in bold letters.

Vampire Red.

A colour.

Make the streets run vampire red, the Ministry of Lily had told their cult members via their website.

“Vampire red,” she said. Her words echoed off the cold, hard walls and came back to her like the whisper of a ghost.

Lily cleaned the bathroom until no trace of blood was visible. She was sure that if it were to be sprayed with Luminol, it would look like an abattoir , but to the naked eye it was once again hospital white.

“Vampire Red,” she whispered again as she closed the door behind her.

© Alex Severin 2004

The © above means that I wrote this story. I own the copyright. If you use this story on a blog or website, you MUST put my name on it. If you do not, this is called COPYRIGHT INFRINGEMENT and PLAGIARISM and is against the law.

FUCKIN’ HARDCORE

A ‘VAMPIRE RED’ short story by Alex Severin (The following short story is based on a scene in my novel, ‘VAMPIRE RED’)

ORLANDO, FL – 1.25am – NOVEMBER 24th
Paul heard the throb of the music coming from inside the Death Row club. It was like a heartbeat, strong, steady, exciting.

He sat alone in the diner across the street, his nose buried in a well-worn book. His copy of Bloody Love by Lily Transyl was already tattered, the spine rubbed and cracked, the cover creased, and some pages dog-eared from folding them over to keep his place.

Certain paragraphs in the book had been marked with luminous yellow highlighter pen. But now, after reading Bloody Love so many times, Paul barely needed to consult the text any more – he could recite page after page without faltering and swore that he knew the entire book by heart. And he was sure that Lily Transyl could read his mind, he was sure that Lily had written Bloody Love just for him. It was the book he had always wanted, the book he would have loved to write and the book that he would treasure forever. And tonight, he would do what he’d always wanted to do, inspired by Lily’s words, sure beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was telling him to carry out his will.

Paul’s body seemed to vibrate with excitement, anticipation tightening each muscle with deliciously painful little knots.

God, please let her be there. Please let her be there. I need this.

He waited patiently.

Each time the music swelled as the front door of the club was opened, Paul would feel a shock of electricity running through him as he searched the throng of bodies for her.

She called herself Belladonna.

He tapped his foot rapidly on the floor, on edge with anticipation, as he read and chewed on his black-lacquered thumb nail. He tutted at himself, worried in case a chip of nail polish was wedged in his teeth. It would absolutely ruin the look of his custom fangs if they were covered in flakes of bitten off nail varnish.

Paul’s heart almost shot into his throat as he saw her curvaceous, killer body strut out into the night air as if she owned it, as if the very street she walked on belonged to her.

Dozens of people outside spoke to her as she passed by. She said nothing, but threw them a smile and carried on her way down the street.

Her skin glowed in the moonlight and the humid night air made her body shimmer with a touch of sweat. Her clothes, black shining rubber, looked fluid. Paul imagined smearing black liquid latex over her body, smoothing his hands over her curves, the swell of her breasts and the tight buds of her nipples.

“Gothic flesh,” he whispered, and licked his lips.

As he stepped out into the night he began to perspire profusely, his clothes wet through in moments. He trembled as adrenaline raced through his system.

Tonight’s the night.

Tonight they will come.

Belladonna took the same route from the club every time. She was always alone. Paul had often wondered why she was always on her own – such a stunning, fuckable chick would surely have her pick of men or women, or both.

He picked up his pace as she reached the dark alley she always took. Paul had the notion that she was inviting an attacker, practically goading him to do his worst.

He was mesmerized by her form, bathed in alternate flashing red and darkness from a buzzing neon sign that read Live Sex! and entranced by the gentle sway of her ample ass as she sashayed down the alley. He imagined taking a bite out of it as if it were a huge, fleshy peach, and instead of sweet, sticky juices running over his face, there would be the piquant taste of her blood.

The degradation of his surrounding aroused him – he knew what went on in this alley, day and night. Blood crushed into his cock and he adjusted himself as his skin-tight leather jeans became uncomfortable.

He inhaled deeply and smelled the scent of piss, old and new, and his eyes rolled as the thick soles of his black boots squelched onto a spent condom. A discarded hypodermic smashed beneath his feet and he wondered if there was death in the blood residue on the needle.

He looked down a dark side street, just off the rancid alley and saw bodies writhing together among piles of festering trash. His lip curled in disgust but all the while his cock grew steadily harder.

Belladonna half-turned her head and slowed her pace – she knew somebody was following her, somebody who was breathing heavily, breath baited in anticipation of something. She rolled her eyes.

Paul was sure she was allowing him to catch up with her after he’d been distracted by the side show in the garbage.

Ever-so-slowly, she turned around.

Paul stumbled backward against the slick alley wall as his knees buckled and all the strength drained out of his body.

Her eyes were wild, the irises black and shining. But there was something behind her eyes, something feral, something ancient, that shone, iridescent like illuminated amber – the glint in a cat’s eyes catching the light.

She grinned at him as she reached out and grabbed him by the throat, effortlessly raised him clear off the ground and slammed him into the wall. As his mouth opened in a vain attempt to scream, she could see his custom fangs glistening with his excited saliva.

As she spoke, he could see the gleaming white tips of two pin-sharp incisors.

“What you gonna do, badass, bite me?”

Paul tried to scream but she was squeezing the air from his throat, crushing his larynx and his vocal cords.

“All you fucking wannabe vampires – you’re giving us a bad rep.”

The vampire stabbed her sharpened black nails into the flesh of his throat, tearing away skin and flesh and fat. She put her mouth to the pissing red wound and drank.

Belladonna rubbed his cock through his leathers as she fed on him, and laughed as he reached out, desperately trying to grab her right tit. His body spasmed then stiffened in the throes of orgasm even though he knew he was dying.

Paul’s moans of pain and pleasure were an eerie gargle that rushed from the gaping hole in his throat.

“Damn, you’re fuckin’ hardcore!”

Belladonna laughed uproariously at him, her face painted with an expression that was close to admiration. She shook her head, grinning as she hooked two fingers into his mouth and under his tongue and yanked down hard.

She let go of him and his shocked body slid down the wall and landed on the piss-stinking alley floor.

As the vampire looked at her latest victim, she felt a fleeting stab of pity for him – an old habit she had not quite lost. He was so young and she wondered, momentarily, what he was like, what he did for a living, if he had a lover who would mourn him.

Then she spat on him. He was meat. Cattle to be herded for her sustenance. He was no more to her than a cheeseburger was to him. Food. Nothing more.

She walked away without a backward glance at the sack of skin-covered bones she left behind. He was all but dead now, drained of blood, no more than a pile of bones and ripped flesh.

The poetic irony of his demise did not escape him as death began to shroud him.

He had spent his whole life longing for his belief, his strongest faith, to be proven beyond any doubt – that vampires – real vampires, immortal vampires – existed.

His plan to draw himself to the attention of a real vampire was that if he drank human blood, slept in a coffin, lived a nocturnal existence, and showed dedication and respect for such a life, that his wish for immortality would be granted by them.

Paul smiled at the cutting irony of his murder, but the sensation didn’t feel right. He reached up a shaking hand and touched his face; his brow knotted as he felt for his chin, only to touch his upper teeth and feel his tongue lying against his opened throat. Belladonna had ripped off his lower jaw and now all that hung from his face were strips of torn skin and ragged flesh. He choked out a gargled laugh, an unnatural sound that made his own skin crawl. The sound was wet sucking and dry blowing as blood and air escaped straight from his lungs and our through the hole in his neck, and out into the night air.

I did it. I did it! I’m gonna be a real vampire now . I’m gonna live forever.

Paul reached out and grabbed hold of his discarded jaw bone. He was certain, that if he held it in place before he died, it would miraculously reattach itself and be good as new when he woke to his new life as an immortal vampire.

The last drop of life ran out from the torn artery in Paul’s neck; he slumped, dead, face down in a pile of human shit. The last thing he heard was the rattle of his jaw bone hitting the ground beside him.

© Alex Severin 2004

The © above means that I wrote this story. I own the copyright. If you use this story on a blog or website, you MUST put my name on it. If you do not, this is called COPYRIGHT INFRINGEMENT and PLAGIARISM and is against the law.