Paranormal Erotica: Shadows Turning Red
Sexy stories of intense, explicit erotica. These otherworldly seductions in contemporary and historical settings feature ghosts, old gods, witches, magic and madness, and howls in the night. Lovers of atmospheric paranormal horror, weird science fiction, and dark fantasy will adore the Paranormal Erotica series, tales of the taboo and macabre.
A reoccurring dream. A mysterious stranger. An unearthly desire. Sheridan, an urban spelunker exploring the ruins of Detroit, meets an elusive outsider who saves her from a dark fate. What begins as a curiosity ends with her entering a world of quixotic obsession. Can Sheridan escape the vampire’s master-slave enchantment? Find out in Shadows Turning Red.
Print Length: 30 pages
Type: Standalone Story (For Men & Women)
Price: $2.99
Table of Contents
Paranormal Erotica: Shadows Turning Red (Excerpt)
Through the door or window … he enters the room. I feel him in my soul. I sit on the bed, fully dressed, but he’s naked and does not try to cover himself. He commands I remove my clothes. The stranger’s authority compels me to do so. Next, he straddles my waist and we kiss passionately. The visitor’s lips are soft and moist, sensuous yet dangerous. His head stays level with mine like we’re dancing. His weight presses against me, but there’s also a sense that he’s holding back. His hips gyrate almost languorously, and I feel more and more aroused under him. Strong hands caress my body, gently at first, then harder and faster until my unexpected caller gropes everywhere. My breasts come to life. Nipples harden and become sensitive. His hand slides down the curve of my stomach to cup my sex forcefully. His tongue laps teasingly at mine. Without warning, he lifts me into the air. My eyes fly open and I look up at him as he floats hovering over me. He stares into my eyes before bending down to kiss me again. Our lips become searing hot as his tongue thrusts into my mouth. Again, I look into his eyes, those intense silvery-green infernos. I can’t hold back my adoration for him. His body descends as his face becomes level with my vagina. His outstretched tongue brushes over my exposed clitoris, and he inserts two fingers inside. “Oh… Oh God…” I moan involuntarily, arching my back. He pulls one finger out and replaces it with another. Then three. “You don’t know how much I want you, my stranger,” I breathe into his hair.
It was 1999, in a city that ran from its history—Detroit.
My loved ones called me Sheridan. Like my hometown, I ran from my past. The year prior, I went through a nasty breakup. I lost my home, my job, my friends. Trying to find some new focus that would quench my thirst for self-destruction, I began urban spelunking in one of the most dangerous cities in the world. The practice was illegal and dangerous, but the thrill of stepping into darkness and exploring Detroit’s once vibrant past exhilarated me. Part of me wanted to die, but this diversion gave me a reckless satisfaction.
It had rained for days—a dreary misting interspersed by occasional bouts of heavy downpour. During the misty hours, fog hovered over the city. Smoke spewed from the sewers. Neon zigzags marked the soaked streets. It wasn’t ideal weather for an expedition, but despite my better judgment, I entered the Packard Motor Plant off of East Grand Boulevard about two hours before sundown. One goal with these expeditions was to witness the sunset from a nice vantage point. I needed the diversion.
The Packard Plant was the holy grail of ruins. The world’s largest abandoned factory contained 80 buildings over many acres. 3,500,000-square-feet of urban decay. The Packard Motor Car Company produced over 1.6 million automobiles from the late 1800s until the final one in 1958. But a deserted ruin was all that remained—my ruin.
I approached the property cautiously.
One never knew when a patrolling cop might come around. Breaking and entering was a felony, so I had to use caution. And then the gangbangers… I banished the thought. I entered through a torn away chain-link fence. Half the barrier had fallen to the ground. I sprinted toward the building’s easternmost section, past some grazing pheasants and a forgotten truck. They had stripped most of the valuable parts from the vehicle’s carcass, even the doors. Over the years, artists had graffitied the truck into colorful oblivion. Someone had tagged the chassis, the flattened wheels, and anything left intact Day-Glo greens and blues, making the frame look like phosphorescent lichen, a glowing apparition of rusty metal. Like me, the vehicle had seen hell, but was brighter for it.
I sprinted up a flight of stairs, passing the footprints of absent machinery. Scrappers had come and smashed stuff. They had removed stainless steel, radiators, copper plumbing, and anything with high street value from the premises. I ventured past enormous pillars, cavernous rooms, and large stretches of open space where there had once been colossal windows. Graffiti covered everything—hearts with the names of lovers, one-word expletives, tagger callsigns. Dust and grime covered all.
Somehow, I finagled my way to the rooftop. Vegetation and trees grew through the precarious foundation. I stopped, produced my canteen, and took a quick swig of water. I grabbed for my whiskey flask, sat near the building’s edge, and let my legs dangle over the side as I watched the sunset. I considered leaving right away. A sensible explorer never stayed long after dark. My eyes darted to the falling sun, and I thought, Maybe I’ll live adventurously today. I ate a snack, took one more swig from the flask, and stood. I moved back to the stairwell just as the sun set. I’d better hurry. I should get back to the main road before deep dark.
To Be Continued…
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If you’re interested in a novel with more paranormal elements, please head over to our Longreads page and check out The Erotic Tales of Bucephalus.
