Voracious Vixens, 13 Novels of Sexy Horror and Hot Paranormal Romance Read online

  She took his hand and directed his fingers down along her smooth belly to the soft mound between her legs. Her delicate folds were warm, slick, swollen, flowing over his fingertips like liquid silk. She showed him the key points of female anatomy that must be attended to and duly appreciated.

  Following her lead, he learned all the sensitive erogenous zones of Michelle’s body, each touch eliciting a corresponding musical sound. She opened her psychic link, allowing him to feel all that she felt, to reinforce her instructions with her response to his hands, tongue and teeth.

  “Oui, there ... and here. Oui, oui! Faster, harder, don’t stop!”

  He found the noises of her pleasure fascinating. She was not a quiet lover. Michelle made wonderful French music with her moans, groans, and sighs––and the occasional growl or grunt.

  “Oohh ... Ahhh ... OH! Aiieeee ... Oooff ... aarrggghh ... Shoosh!” Her hands gripped his wrist, humping his fingers without reservation. Her crescendo finished in a screaming orgasm of, “Oooouuiii!”

  After catching her breath, she crawled over the top of him. Unsure what she had planned next, he asked, “Do you want to be on top?”

  Fangs fully extended, she grinned gleaming white and licked her lips. “Bien sûr.”

  Legs wide open, she impaled herself all the way down in one smooth move. Michelle was indeed an old pro. She rode him with the enthusiasm of veteran porn-stars, gliding up and down, popping and grinding her hips to get every last inch of him. Soon her pace and force reached that of hard, pounding, pelvis-crushing slams. She hurt him with her preternatural strength and vigor, but the intensity of their dual climaxes wiped away all discomfort.

  Breathing heavily with a glazed smile on her face, Michelle hauled him over to the side, rolling with him. He ending up on top with her legs locked around him in a professional wrestler’s hold. She bit him for a moment allowing the magic of her venom to engorge his arousal. He grew a full size erection inside of her within seconds. Without speaking a word she instructed him in a series of motions through their psychic bond. She taught him all the different angles and methods of intimacy from this position. She showed him exactly where she wanted it, how fast, how hard, and rewarded him with little squeals and grunts as he hit her spot. Her educational series took them through another mutual mind-numbing orgasm punctuated by episodes of mutual biting. They screwed until he could take no more.

  “Please ... let’s give it a rest ... it hurts,” he admitted sheepishly as he tried to catch his breath after the umpteenth round of sex. She surveyed his cock as it started going limp.

  She rewarded him with another of her glorious smiles. “D’accord, that will do for now. We have all the time in the world for more lessons.”

  * * * *

  In the morning just before sunrise, as they lay tangled together in bed after three hours of blood-sucking-mind-blowing sex, Michelle considered her situation. She knew he was infatuated with her. He couldn’t hide it. But he was very young, and such things are common with inexperienced men. Michelle thought it possible she might eventually develop some sentiment for him. He had a certain boyish charm, so guileless. He was not a deceptive or malicious person. Those two points alone were enough to hold her attention. Such men were a rare find in this culture of artificial personalities. He was genuine, maybe a bit too naive, but still genuine.

  She had found him fresh and clean, uncontaminated by the decadence of the New York scene. Michelle assumed it was only a matter of time before these qualities she admired would dissipate. Life had a way of stripping away luxuries like innocence and naiveté. She would lose this fresh young boy eventually. She intended to fully enjoy him while it lasted. Quite a nice change from the men she normally met in her line of work.

  Emotional attachment was the issue now. She couldn’t really afford to get too close to him. If he started to turn sour and violent, like her former master, she’d be forced to deal with it. She couldn’t allow her feelings to sway her judgment. She had to stay objective about killing him. For the meantime, she was willing to discount her lingering attraction to him as nothing more than the sated after-effects of great sex.

  She wasn’t really willing to examine her feelings in any great depth. It seemed wiser to maintain his fear and respect, keeping strong emotions out of the equation. Sex, for her, was not complicated, especially with Aaron, who unlike the weak humans, could actually keep up with her physically in the bedroom.

  However, emotional commitments were very complicated. She hoped to maintain a balance in the master/slave relationship without becoming too overbearing and avoid emotional involvement with her slave. It would be a challenge, but she was up to the task. Michelle prided herself on her rigid self-control.

  CHAPTER 7

  Police Chief Schueller yelled in Detective Konowicz’s face, “I know this chic didn’t go ballistic on you two for no reason. I know what the fuck you were doin’! Don’t lie to me!”

  Konowicz spluttered, “She was on drugs, crack or meth or somethin’. I’m totally serious, Chief. She was speeded out, a real public safety hazard!”

  “You’re gonna find this girl, and I will learn the truth! If I hear you were hittin’ her up for money you’re gone. I told you last time, if another hooker files a report against you, it’s over. Not even the union will save your ass.”

  “Yes, sir. No problem. I’ll get right on it.” Konowicz shuffled out of the office.

  “I know you will, and you’re gonna bring her back here safe and sound, in one piece, so I can talk to her! Not a mark on her, you hear!” Konowicz didn’t acknowledge. He kept on rolling out the door.

  Schueller shook his head, a temple-pounding headache coming on. He recalled a book he read back in the 80’s called The Peter Principle, about employees having a tendency to rise to the highest level of incompetence. The book described how people hit the ceiling of their careers due to the inability to competently manage their responsibilities. Schueller had become convinced that Dr. Lawrence J. Peter was a prophet. The good doc must have foreseen the life and times of Scott Konowicz when he wrote his book.

  This was the defining characteristic of Konowicz’s life, incompetence. He considered Konowicz a shining example of the golden age of mediocrity celebrated across America today. His exquisite failures reached into every facet of his life, leaving no stone unturned, no accomplishment untainted. His spectacular divorce and lack of children was a shining trophy on the mantle of failure he donned upon his shoulders each day on his way out the door to work (after spiking his coffee with the cheapest bottle of rum available at the corner liquor store).

  Konowicz ate, slept, and drank of ineptitude to such excess that it rivaled his alcohol consumption. When Schueller confronted Konowicz four years ago about his alcoholism, trying to offer the idiot some help, Konowicz replied, “No Alcoholics Anonymous for me, no sir. That shit’s for quitters! The only twelve steps I need are the steps leading from the car to the checkout counter of the liquor store!” The idiot had laughed it off. You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make it drink.

  Schueller watched through the blinds of his office window as Konowicz approached his fat sidekick, Oberman. They couldn’t be more different looking, and yet they were two sides of the same coin. They matched each other nearly point for point. Their lives were like mirror images of one another. They damn near finished each other’s sentences.

  Both detectives shared the same tendency for corruption and bribery. This was the primary reason Schueller had pared them up as partners six years ago. Better to let two bad apples rot together rather than watch them pervert others on the force with their corrupt influence.

  Schueller sighed, rubbed a hand across his face and mumbled to himself, “They’re poster children for labor union reform. If the union can make allowance for their continued employment, it must be fundamentally flawed.”

  Schueller was well aware that both detectives spent their unproductive days skating on the minimum effort required to kee
p their jobs. They played the Rodney Dangerfield role, I get no respect! He also knew they spent their lonely nights shaking down pimps, prostitutes, and drug dealers for a little bonus pay, a few hundred here, a few hundred there. Both having hit the limits of their careers years ago, they took it upon themselves to get ahead the old-fashioned way: threats, blackmail, extortion, and coercion.

  Schueller sincerely hoped he could finagle a signed statement from this mystery blonde and put an end to both their careers. It took a lot of dirt to get rid of an NYPD officer, but those two had been pushing the limits of tolerable police behavior for far too long. The office of internal affairs had a dossier on both of them longer than most criminal rap sheets.

  * * * *

  Detective Konowicz was not a happy man. Every time he spoke, turned his head, tried to eat or drink, his nose spiked pain throughout his skull, causing a series of throbbing waves of misery. His Oxycontin pain pills kicked in with a nice buzz, but the catcalls and teasing from his fellow officers left him with a foul attitude.

  “Hey, Konowicz, is it true you had your ass handed to you by a hundred pound bimbo?”

  “Hey! We should put the bimbo on The Jerry Springer Show with Konowicz and Oberman. After she’s done kicking their asses all over the stage, she can do a number on the stripper pole!” This knee-slapper had them all busting a gut, tears streaming down their faces.

  “I heard she zapped Oberman right in da freakin’ nuts wit’ your piece. You gotta give her points for originality on that one!”

  “I bet the chief had their balls for breakfast over that shit!” The legend of their confrontation with the blonde grew with each retelling.

  “Everybody’s a fuckin’ stand-up comedian,” Konowicz grumbled under his breath to avoid inciting further comment. The incident with the little blonde cunt was the most recent humiliation he’d endured, but it was a symptom of a much larger problem. This event sat atop a heaping list of embarrassing disappointments. The list stretched back over the decades, extending throughout twenty-two years of an unrewarding and meritless police career.

  Life had not been good to Konowicz, but his police work provided a nice outlet for the anger and frustration. Out on the streets, he and Oberman didn’t take any crap from criminals unfortunate enough to land in their path. Especially the prostitutes. Bust a few heads, shake down some whores, collect a few dollars, grab onto some new names and do it all over again. Whether by cash or services rendered, the girls always paid. Konowicz had the unbreakable power of the law behind him. Nobody dared to defy him. Nobody but this bimbo.

  Saddled with a broken nose for all his co-workers to see and appreciate had enraged him to the point of murder. Konowicz planned to get that little bitch one way or another. It wasn’t just business, it had become a personal vendetta. She’d never see the Chief. There would be no signed statements. He wasn’t a fool, and he surely wasn’t going down for some hot piece of tail with a bullshit complaint of extortion.

  Konowicz fantasized long and hard about horribly unspeakable things he might do to her before he killed her. Oh, how she would beg and plead. She’d do anything he wanted. Anything. She’d probably try to pay him off first. That’s how it usually went when things got rough. He might even let her scrape up some money before he finished the job ... drag it out a little longer. Konowicz got down with some serious planning. He put more effort into his plans for revenge than his own career.

  He needed to be certain Oberman would cooperate. Konowicz approached Oberman privately during lunch at the greasy spoon diner they frequented.

  “Hey ... we gonna fuck dis chick up when we find her? We ain’t takin’ no prisoners right?” Konowicz spoke in hushed tones, his plugged sinuses added a nasal whine to his voice.

  “Yeah, no problem. This bitch is gonna wake up dead in a dumpster by the time we’re finished,” Oberman confirmed with a malicious gleam in his eye.

  Konowicz had expected as much. They were both on the same track. Business as usual. “You get the artist’s rendering yet?” Konowicz whined.

  “Yeah, it looks close enough. Where do you wanna start?”

  “I was thinkin’ we could hit up Talco. See if he knows anything about her.”

  “I bet he knows somethin’. We’ll catch him tonight. He owes us one after the last stunt he pulled.”

  “Gotta figure a package that sweet turns a few heads. We’re gonna find her real soon. She must be workin’ with somebody. Chick like that ain’t walkin’ the streets alone.”

  Konowicz nodded. With the network of pimps and prostitutes they had access to it was only a matter of time before they found her.

  * * * *

  Talco stood at the entrance to Chandler’s Bar and Grill waiting for the arrival of Oberman and Konowicz, a.k.a. Los Demonios. Everything involving those two assholes equated to a deal with the devil. He wondered how he’d ever rid himself of their tyrannical influence on his life. He couldn’t imagine anything short of killing them that would free him, and he wasn’t a murderer. A pimp, a bastard, a felon on probation, he fit all these descriptions, but not a killer. Not yet.

  “It’s about fuckin’ time you showed up. Been waitin’ for twenty-five minutes, man! You think I got nothing better to do?” Talco complained in his heavy Puerto Rican accent.

  “Relax, sit down, have a beer. Ain’t you ever heard, patience is a fuckin’ virtue?” Konowicz gestured to a corner booth in the bar. He continued, “You’re too high strung. Look at Oberman here, that’s what happens with too much stress.”

  “Yeah fuck you too. Your ugly mug ain’t winning any beauty contests,” Oberman retorted at Konowicz.

  Talco looked at Oberman’s scratched face and Konowicz’s broken nose. He prayed to the Blessed Virgin he would never allow himself to deteriorate so badly that he resembled either of them. His sleek, fit, twenty-seven year old, golden-tanned Puerto Rican body was in its prime, and he intended to keep it that way for years to come. To Talco, Oberman’s overweight fifty-plus years of bulk with heavy bulldog jowls and beady eyes was the worst condition a man could be in. Konowicz, although trim, was plenty undesirable in his own gaunt, balding way.

  They looked like a wicked version of Laurel and Hardy with Brooklyn accents, heavy drinking problems, and noses for smelling out nasty business. Somehow, their indecent ventures always seemed to find a way from their hands into his lap.

  Los Demonios ordered rounds of beers and burgers. I’ll be paying the tab. Those putos didn’t ask for separate checks.

  “I got somethin’ here for ya. Look at this.” Oberman handed the artist’s rendering of a blonde woman to Talco. “You recognize her?” Talco looked over the drawing for a moment and shook his head.

  “She’s workin’ the streets. She’s been seen in the last week by Palmetto and 60th. Claims to be workin’ alone, but she’s a hot little bitch, and it don’t make sense that she’d be out there on her own.”

  Talco sensed something personal involved in this. He got a really bad feeling. There was more to this girl than they were telling him. He speculated she had something to do with the scratches across Oberman’s face and silently praised any woman brave enough to fight back. The sad part, this chick was already fucked. She just didn’t know it yet. You never go head-to-head with NYPD, a serious mistake.

  Konowicz stared hard at Talco, making certain to impart the severity of his request. “This baby here’s got your name all over it. You find her and we’re square for the last payment you owe. Think you can handle it?”

  Perhaps the girl was involved in something serious, heroin or something. Maybe she needed to be taken in. Maybe it was legit. “I’ll ask around, see what I can find out. I’ll put in the time. I’ll try, but I can’t guarantee anything. And what if I can’t find her? All this for nothing? You still gonna be on my case, man? I gotta life too, a wife and kid!”

  “Hey, you better remember a few things. You gotta do everything you can to protect that sweet little chica at home. You get popped on a pro
bation violation and you’ll be doing twenty-four months. That ain’t so good for the mamasita. Maybe she’s gonna have to work the streets again to pay the bills. You wanna see that? You wanna see her on her back again while you’re locked up?” Konowicz threatened in his nasal voice.

  He knew these weren’t idle threats. With nothing but a phone call to his probation officer from either detective, Talco would be immediately thrown in lockup. Since he was already convicted, and on probation, he had no rights to speak of. And he wasn’t exactly keeping his nose clean, running a prostitution racket on the side. His life had been a living hell from the moment the detectives had pressured one of his girls into revealing the name of her employer. They had owned his ass ever since.

  Talco seriously considered the idea of killing these two disgusting pigs. They could sit here in front of him, calmly drinking beer at his expense, and discuss the ruination of his life. His temper flared, his fists and jaw clenched tight. Generations of hot-blooded Puerto Rican genetics warred against his better judgment. Evita warned him constantly to calm down and think before acting. He had to cool down, that’s what Evita always said, “Cool it pappy, te quiero mucho. No te asustes.”

  It was his hot blood that put him in prison the first time, after he beat some asshole senseless for smacking around Evita when she refused him anal sex. She’d been so appreciative that she’d stood by Talco’s side through every court appointment while he was prosecuted for aggravated assault. In the face-off of an obnoxious fast-talking Puerto Rican vs. a respectable white businessman, the jury’s verdict against Talco was a foregone conclusion.

  The one witness whose testimony could’ve brought to light all the mitigating factors in his defense had remained silent. Talco refused to let Evita take the stand. She’d wanted to defend him, to return the favor, she’d begged Talco to let her testify. But the prosecutor knew the score. He’d threatened to have Evita deported back to Colombia if she testified. Talco had forced her to stay out of it to protect her immigration status. He took the rap. He actually was guilty. He’d beat the living shit out of the fat bastard who’d laid hands on Evita. He was no slouch in a fight.