Paranormal Erotica: The Wayward Pearl
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.
An interviewer. An eccentric artist. A dark desire. A female reporter interviews a sculptor known for abject mannequins and revolutionary views. Things are not what they seem as the artist guards a terrible secret of ancient power and the interviewer has an undisclosed desire of her own, namely backdoor intercourse. What’s the cost of exposing these mysteries? Find out in The Wayward Pearl.
Print Length: 27 pages
Type: Standalone Story (For Men & Women)
Price: $2.99
Table of Contents
Paranormal Erotica: The Wayward Pearl (Excerpt)
I descend the basement studio stairs around at twilight. The artist, Dumont, acknowledges me with a soundless hand gesture as he toils away on his latest creation, another of his grotesque mannequins constructed of found objects and detritus. In silence, I take a seat at the tattered chair near his workbench to not disturb him. He knows about our scheduled interview, but he ignores my presence. The art world and media know his work for its pioneering violence. They obsess over his vision of the uncanny, but I came for a different reason. Yes, he mystifies the public with his surreal creations, but I take his sculptures differently. He is a de-valuer of women and I see through him. I produce pen and notebook from my purse and wait with patience for him to complete his task.
I scan the display area while I wait, taking in his oeuvre. Macabre life-size dolls litter the space. Modeled torsos stand fifty to sixty inches high, some stuffed with flax fiber and bonded with glue, and others covered with fiberglass shells or with distressed plaster layers. Some faces resemble forlorn masks of longing. Others carry an abstract minimalist design. Headless figures with elongated necks stand upon wooden carts like guillotined camelopards. Chrome display mannequins with once dazzling shine stand in graceful postures, but evidence of sledgehammer assault besmirches their immaculate bodies. Colorful mosaic tiles cover a precious few of his creations.
I turn my attention to his workshop. Tables contain boxes filled with glass eyes and long, disheveled wigs with curlicue locks. A disassembled mechanical knee joint rests on the workbench. Detachable limbs sit next to the joint and a couple of beads litter the area. Internal mechanical clockwork parts rest on the bench’s far side. A few wire maquettes sit on top shelves. Broomsticks and dowel rods await use in the northmost corner of the workroom.
Breaking the silence, I say, “Mr. Dumont, your studio fills me with dread.”
A moment passes as I wait for his reply. Nothing. More time passes. Still nothing. An uncomfortable feeling descends upon me. Finally, the artist comments in an absent tenor, “Dumont. People call me Dumont. Most admirers don’t understand my work or the man behind it”
I steal a deep breath before I reply, “Well, let’s get to it. I have little time. Are you ready?”
The artist retreats from his creation as if pulling away from his first love. He lights a cigarette with hesitation and sadness, and offers me one. I decline. The middle-aged sculptor shrugs and returns the pack to his shirt pocket. I assess him. He’s not handsome, but he has a rugged allure some women might find attractive, like a Jackson Pollock or an Ernest Hemingway. It’s in his astute eyes which dismantle all he observes. Plaster of Paris covers his clothes and forehead. The man is messy but ordered.
Dumont takes a puff and exhales. The action makes him appear older than when I entered the room. “Okay,” he says with a twirl of his finger. “Let’s go. First, I have questions for you.”
“Okay.” I grow more uneasy. This is my interrogation, not his.
He steals another puff and asks, “Why do you wear those ridiculous clothes?”
“Excuse me?” I answer, taken aback.
“Your attire is mundane. Is your existence equally boring?” His silver eyes dart to one of his “masterpieces” in the room’s far corner.
This man already offends me to my core. Instead of showing that he affects me, I reply, “No, I like my life.”
“I’m sure you do. Like the prisoner who grows fond of her own cage.”
I have no comeback. Inside, I fume. I didn’t expect this charlatan to give me the third degree. His eyes return to me. Another moment passes. Silence. Our chemistry blazes, but I banish the sensation. He lets me off the hook by saying, “It’s quite all right. I’ve asked many people this same question and received that exact answer. Pay it no mind. It’s my way of judging my adversary. You may ask your questions. Perhaps we can return to mine later.”
“All right. First, when did you start?” I point to his sculptures with my Cross-ballpoint pen as I wait for an answer.
“That’s an expensive pen for a reporter.”
I frown but say nothing. He knows finery.
Dumont continues. “In answer to your query, it started ages ago when I was a drafting tech at an advertising company. On my way to work one day I passed a storefront. Castle’s Department Store, I think. Anyway, a mannequin stood in the window. I stopped. Mystified. The object haunted me.”
“What about it troubled you?”
“I don’t know. The form’s icy beauty went against the paternal authority that took hold in those days.”
“How so?”
“Fascism was taking root back then. People assume fascists are the ones targeting people’s rights, smashing them with a hammer. But I think the opposite. The real fascists are the ones who give flowers and sweet words, who entice you with their morality. They are the ones to worry about. This was prior to the revolution. A lot of fear lingered in the air, a lot of uncertainty. The doll seemed beyond it and also its antithesis. I fell in love with it.”
I scowl. “You fell in love with a hunk of plastic?”
“Not exactly. I fell in love with an abject, indescribable quality inside it. But then a miraculous thing occurred.”
“What?”
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.
