Turned on by being scared?

Okay, I have to apologise to start with. This post should have happened two days ago. Two days ago, however, I was still recovering from an operation and a little bit doped up on pain-killers (actually, a little bit more than a little bit *grin*) Suffice to say, I’ve only just got my head clear enough to even try to post something, so if this makes very little sense, blame my doctor.

I’m attempting an experiment. Two and a half decades ago, I declared to my Engligh teacher I wanted to be the next Stephen King…”but with sex.” Yes, even back then, I knew sex was a vital part of any good tale. Just as important as being scared silly. You see, I like being scared silly. Not torture-porn scared silly (I’m afraid movies like Saw just don’t do it for me), but scared silly by the unknown and the possible. Stephen King is a master at terrifying his readers. Who didn’t read It and be petrified for life by clowns, drains and spiders? One of the things that King does so well is put the fear in the minds of his readers without anything overtly horrifying happening on the page. There’s a scene in Pet Semetary where the protagonist/hero is walking through the bush at night, heading towards the newly discovered and extremely mysterious cemetry dedicated to pets. The protagonist stops, listening to the sounds of the night. Nothing happens in this scene, but for me it is truly menacing and scary. Why? Because what my mind tells me may happen is very very scary. And that thrill, for want of a better word, that moment where my heartbeat races, the hair on my nape tingles and my mouth dries, where I wish to God I was anywhere else BUT reading this book is soooo damn exciting, so damn stimulating it’s…well, to put it bluntly…it’s arousing. (And if you haven’t worked it out by now, I AM the disturbingly weird one of the International Heat ladies *grin*).

So, what of my experiment? I’m going to write an erotic horror book. A tale that petrifies at the same time it arouses. A tale of molten lust and pleasure threaded through a tale of horrific menace. At least, I’m hoping I will. What I may finish with is an unmitigated mess, but I’ll have fun trying.

I’ve come close to doing this once already. My Ellora’s Cave releae, Timeless Wrath has been described by JERR as a, “double-edged sword, because while the sex was outstanding, the plot was frighteningly scary”. I didn’t set out to write a scary book then. This time I am. This time, I’m hoping to scare the beejeezez out of any one brave enough to read my tale (tentatively titled Endless Lust). Here’s the beginning. It’s totally unedited so there’s probably typos and mistakes a plenty, but this is how it begins…

The stench of sex and sweat threaded through the subtle scent of linseed oil and acrylic paint hanging on the air in the room. An unnerving aroma that slipped into the body like fine mist, snaking into the pit of one’s belly to stir deeply suppressed fantasies.

Xander Dupont didn’t want to suppress those fantasies any more. Not since Cate walked out on him. Now he wanted to live them. No, not just live them, submerge himself into them. Let them possess him. Own him.

He glared at the large canvas mounted before him on his old easel, its virginal-white primed surface mocking the dark desires smoldering in his core.

Cate may have denied him those fantasies before, but on canvas, where she had no control of his imagination, she would submit to his every whim.

Snatching up a number 5 sable brush from the cluttered table beside him, he drew in a deep, slow breath, letting the intoxicating air seep into his being. His prick stiffened, his balls rising up in response to the heady combination of sex and paint. Ten days since Cate had ended their relationship and he could still smell her. Could still smell the last time he fucked her on the day bed in the far corner of his studio.

His cock grew thicker and, with a snarl rumbling up from his gut, he plunged his brush into the glistening pool of crimson paint squeezed onto his palette.

He would fuck her again. If not with his flesh, than with his art. She had always been his muse. Now, she would be his subject. His movement. Van Gogh had his yellow period, XXXXX had his XXXXXX. He, Xander Dupont, would have his Cate Sinclair period.

Sweat trickled down his bare skin in a teasing caress he let his mind believe was Cate’s tongue. Over his chest, his stomach, down to his groin, his ass. He sucked in another breath, tasting her on the air and assaulted the canvas. Wild brushstrokes born from burning need and furious frustration.

Tube after tube of paint oozed onto his palette. Stoke after stroke gave birth to the woman of his denied fantasies – her sublime form curved in beautiful submission, her wrists bound, her legs spread, her sex waiting for him to…

Xander staggered back from the canvas, heart smashing against his breastbone, cock so hard even the air sliding over it made him want to cry with agonized want. Panting, he studied the painting before him.

“She is beautiful.”

The low voice beside him made him jump and he spun around, adrenaline flooding through his veins.

A man stood beside him. Tall and broad and darker than midnight, with eyes the color of melted steel and hair the color of blood.

Xander stared at him, every molecule in his body cowering in petrified fry. “Who the fuck are you? How’d you get in—”

The man waved his hand in a slow arc before Xander’s face and the words died on his lips. “I am Asmodeus, Xander Dupont, and I can give you what you want.” His incandescent yellow eyes flared brighter and he smile, revealing teeth whiter than bone and sharper than daggers. “For a price.”

Xander felt his balls shrivel. Even as something dark and twisted and hopeful unfurled in the pit of his belly. “Wh…what do I want?”

Asmodeus smile widened and he slid his gaze to the painting. “Her,” he said. He returned his burning stare to Xander. “Are you willing to do anything to have her?”

The dark hope in Xander’s gut threaded deeper into his core. Filled his cock with blood and his mind with infinite possibilities. He took a step closer to the canvas, pressed his fingers to the creamy wet surface that was Cate’s thigh. Stroked her painted flesh with his fingertips. “Yes,” he answered, staring at the bound woman of his fantasies captured before him. “I am.”

As I said, I may fail miserably, but in the name of science, I’m going to give it a go. I’m going to attempt to be scary. Really, really scary.

Whose up for it?