As lucrative as it is illegal, the CoffinCam network caters to the singular tastes of wealthy degenerates around the world – yet you never know what you will see when you observe the dead in their graves.
When a client reports a disturbance on Camera #7, the crew running the network check into the feed – and see that the body has gone missing.
Without the grave having been dug up.
Which means that something has come up from below.
Determined to cash in on this opportunity of a lifetime, they prepare to investigate–even if it means following the corpses into the dark tunnels beneath their graves themselves.
This 20,000 word novella is a terrifying exploration of desire in all its darkest incarnations, and the horrific depths that it may take you.
About to kiss, Gabrielle shoved him hard instead, catching him by surprise. His eyes flared as his shoulders hit the door, which opened to spill him into her apartment. Cursing he stumbled, tried to get his feet under him, but crashed to the ground and landed hard on his ass instead. Laughing, she followed him in, and gazed down into the well of his suddenly furious stare with a languorous, smoky desire that almost stilled his tongue. Almost. He gathered himself, looked up the vertiginous length of her glorious legs, at the black cocktail dress that served only to insinuate, at her feral, predatory eyes through the fringe of blonde hair so pale it was almost white, and began to curse.
Gabrielle ignored him. Lifted her left foot and set it on a low table, the three inch black heels matte in the subdued lighting. The angle of ankle and knee caused her thigh to rise parallel to the floor, smoothly rounded, hem of her dress riding up so that it barely concealed the beginning swell of her ass. The fierce promontory of her knee, smudged with dirt and blood where she had fallen earlier, which dropped in turn to the gleamingly smooth shin, the taut calf, the striations of muscle along its side.
The man shut his mouth.
Gabrielle leaned back, all her weight on the heel of her right foot, shoulders pushed back, hips forward, chin lowering to her chest, arms hanging down by her side. Her eyes pinned him to the ground, and for the first time he imagined her taking up a knife and carving his flesh, cutting him, opening him. He would protest, but he’s mesmerized by how her black dress reveals the flexion of muscle in her torso, the smooth, almost babyish swell of her stomach at this angle flanked by the powerful obliques, the ridges of her pelvic cradle against the black fabric.
She towered over him, stared down, lascivious smile fading away and leaving a look of hungry, almost absent distraction on her face. Looked through him. Again he opened his mouth to protest, to laugh over the sudden stillness, but then her hand slid over her right hip and down to cup her sex, pulling the material of her dress tight over the front of her body, bringing her small breasts into sharp relief. The tips of her long fingers disappeared beneath her body, so that he stared, mesmerized by the ridges of her knuckles, then flicked his gaze up once more to where her eyes were half closed, the smile returned, her hips moving in slow oscillations as she pressed down on her mons, affording him tantalizing glimpses of where the smooth inner slopes of her thighs met.
Needing to assert himself, to reject this passivity into which he was been thrown, the man pushed himself up to his knees, moved forward, hands reaching out like those of a supplicant to touch that upraised leg, to trace the length of her calf, the swell of muscle, the flutterings of tension that ran down it. Gabrielle closed her eyes, raised her chin, broad lips curved ever into that delirious smile, her knuckles rippling as if she were running a coin over them, fingers rubbing and probing her cunt. This close he could smell her, the allure of her sex, the cigarette smoke and alcohol, the intoxicating hint of her sweat. His hands traced the complexity of her knee, and then moved up her thigh, enjoying the smoothness of her skin, not knowing whether to watch her face or his own hands as he moved them to cup her own.
Gabrielle’s eyes snapped open, and with a subtle shift of posture she leaned forward, taking her foot from the table and driving him back with her knee, completing that arrested step so that she caught him off balance, drove him off the balls of his feet onto his ass once more, striding past him and into the apartment proper, door swinging closed behind her with a click.
He swore, turned to watch as she walked into the open kitchen, pulled open her fridge to lean forward into the frigid light, her hair ghosted to white in its fluorescent glow. He was so hard now it almost hurt, anger and desire warring in his chest, feeling mocked and ignored, played with. He gathered himself, rose. Curled his hands into fists, the unclenched them. Gabrielle drew out a carton of orange juice, and just as he strode around the bar to take hold of her shoulder and spin her around, she did so herself, skewering him with her gaze.
She was taller than him by almost six inches, a towering and impossible six foot something, and those lips, so broad and intoxicating were now cast into a cold frown as she lowered the carton. He stopped, unsure of himself. The look in her eyes was one of sheer enmity, and he imagined once more her taking up a knife.
“Go to the bed,” she said, voice hard. “Wait for me there.”
“What?” He understood the words, but the switch in emotions left him bewildered.
“Are you stupid?” Her voice was harsh, her face contemptuous. “Bed. Or leave. You decide.”
He took a step back, tried to think. Opened his mouth, closed it. Blinked, nearly turned for the door. But her body, he needed to possess it. He imagined her face in the throes of ecstasy, of how he’d turn her to his will once he got his hands on her, imagined her panting, grunting like an animal as he slammed into her from behind, those long legs, her white hair plastered to her brow, how she’d tremble and cry out, mewl in desire. He smacked his palm against the column, the sound loud, and turned on his heel, moved across the loft to where her huge bed was set against the wall, one side pressed against a bank of windows.
The bed was unmade, the white sheets rumpled, a mess of pillows gathered against the headboard. He sat, pulled off his shoes with one hand by the heels, tossed them aside. Paused. Sniffed. The smell of sex was on the sheets, of stale sweat. Almost he stood again, but then growled deep in his chest, a sound he’d never made before, a combination of need and true anger. He began to unbutton his shirt, watched her in the kitchen as she set the carton back and then took up her cell phone and began to scan its screen, face illuminated from beneath by its screen.
He stood. Looked at his shoes, at the bed, at where she stood, ignoring him. A voice in his head told him to leave. That this wouldn’t end well. He should refuse to let her play him. Something snapped and he began to button his shirt once more, fingers shaking. She ignored him. Sat, grabbed his shoes, yanked them on. Still she ignored him. He stood, tried to think of something to say, something cutting, but could only imagine acts of violence, things he’d never done before. So instead he shook his head, and began to stride toward the door.
He opened it, turned to curse her and saw her walking toward the bed, pulling the black dress up over her head, angular elbows like knitting needles as the black slip of cloth was tugged free. No bra, no underwear. The tight play of muscles in the small of her back, the perfect curvature of her rear, her scapula and the bony ridge of her spine at the neck. Legs impossibly long, hair mussed as she reached the bed and lowered herself to crawl over it, the faint flash of her sex, dark to contrast the hair on her head. She lay on her side, head propped up on one hand, knee toward the ceiling, fingers tracing curls and arabesques down past her breasts, her dark nipples, over the play of muscles of her abdomen.
“Get over here,” she said, and that smile was back, the one he had fallen for at the bar, the one that had hooked not just his flesh but his soul, that had drawn him all the way here to the far side of town. Dawn light was starting to come in through the window, pale and thin, and her body seemed to luminesce, shadows growing deeper, drawing out the impossible paradox of her lean angularity and predatory sexuality. He stood, mouth dry, as she lowered her hand to her sex once more, and slowly inserted a finger.
That smile. He groaned, and allowed the door to close.
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