Tremble: Erotic Tales of the Mystical and Sinister

“Decidedly feudal,” Stanley announced cheerfully, dismissing the whole rat incident as he helped her carry the dish to the table. He was touched by her culinary efforts; he hadn’t felt so honored in years. At last here was someone who not only had an inherent understanding of his greatness, but was willing to be midwife to it. This is a woman with ambition, he conceded as he watched the succulent meat fall away from the carving knife, a good cook, a great editor, and a meticulous researcher. A woman a man could marry.

He found himself staring at her mouth. It was captivating in crimson, and he wondered what else she might be good at. Good cooks were often good lovers and the pig did look delicious.

Her cleavage bulged up over the velvet; the abundance of her flesh would be a new experience for him. He felt himself stiffening under the table and tried to distract himself by staring at the toasted hair running along the pig’s skin. It was difficult.

The second course went smoothly. Even Dorothy acknowledged that the cherries in the stuffing gave the dish a sophisticated Asian flavor, a subtlety she convinced Stanley was deliberate. More importantly, there was silence from the pantry. Dorothy stopped glancing at the door every three minutes and finally began to relish the triumph of the meal.

They had drunk a bottle of good French wine and all that was left was the dessert. Stanley, conscious of his tightening belt, pushed his chair back from the table and suggested that they pause. He never liked making love on a full belly, and he was determined to give a performance that matched Dorothy’s culinary skills. They moved to the living room to sit in front of the fire.

Dorothy’s head was spinning from the wine and little shivers of excited anticipation kept running up her thighs. She sat herself primly on the couch. Stanley, brandy in hand, settled his long limbs on the floor in front

of the gas fire and contemplated her ankles, which, to his relief, were not that thick.

He began caressing her legs. Dorothy shut her eyes. Stanley’s touch was light and tender. He had the technique of a professional, his strokes achingly delicious. It’s now or never, she thought as the moment stretched and stretched until she was frightened it would snap and evaporate, leaving them with only the possibility of friendship. Ignoring the rising panic that comes with the chance of rejection, Dorothy Owen gathered all the courage of her ancestors and, reaching down, took his face in her hands.

They were in the middle of a lingering kiss when, from the corner of her eye, she saw something dart across the carpet. The trail of flour left no doubt. Luckily Stanley had his eyes shut, for the next thing she saw was the spectacularly white-dusted penis leaping up onto the settee like a flying ghost. With her lips still on Stanley’s mouth, she pushed against him in an attempt to prevent him seeing the maverick organ.

Enraged, the penis hopped onto one of the arms of the couch. It paused, arching toward them with a discernible frown twisting its cleft tip. Then, without warning, it dived under Dorothy’s raised skirt.

Dorothy squirmed and Stanley, taking her discomfort for pleasure, thrust his tongue farther into her mouth. Meanwhile, under her skirt the penis started to probe blindly up between her thighs. Dorothy couldn’t help herself—she jumped.

“Ow!” Stanley grabbed his swollen lip. Dorothy had inadvertently bitten down.

“Sorry, I got carried away.” She tried to sound casual while clamping her legs together in an effort to catch the offending member.

Stanley smiled crookedly. He liked a touch of pain; this woman really did have potential. “Go right ahead, just be careful you don’t draw blood,” he murmured, then moaned dramatically to encourage her further while trying to run his fingers up her legs.

Dorothy pushed his hand away while pulling his face into another kiss. At the same time she was attempting to keep the infuriated organ trapped between her thighs. It was a feat of extraordinary coordination, requiring a certain twist of the pelvis that Stanley mistook for passion.

Finally, with a wriggle, Dorothy managed discreetly to remove the penis while retaining her composure. “I just have to go to the bathroom,” she said, stepping over the puzzled Stanley, carefully hiding the irate penis in her sleeve. Stanley leaned back. There was mystery to this woman, he surmised, and Lord knows he was ripe for a little mystery.

The mysterious woman stood in the bathroom, flour smeared across her very expensive nylon tights. She had plunged the penis into a sinkful of warm water and it lay there now, luxuriating in her distress. Furious, Dorothy had a sudden impulse to flush it down the toilet—but what would the authorities say? They’d probably trace the organ back to her and accuse her of dismembering a man. She was near to tears. There was only one thing left to do. On her way through the kitchen she stopped by the fridge and threw the errant body part into the freezer.

“Are you okay?” Stanley murmured. He was standing in shadow by the kitchen doorway, his hair disheveled, shirt loosened to display his copious chest hair, hips thrust forward, totally aware that he looked irresistible. Dorothy jumped, then covered her fright with a studied languidness.

“Fine, I was just checking if I had any ice cream, you know, to go with the quince tart.” She hoped that he wouldn’t notice the flour marks on her velvet dress.

“I don’t want any dessert. I want you.” The words were meant to sound seductive but they came out in an awkward squeak. In an attempt to conceal his unexpected nervousness, Stanley buried his face in her hair. Immediately a loud rattling started up from the freezer. For one hideous second he wasn’t sure whether the rattling was the sound of his heart or was actually external. Before he had a chance to make up his mind, Dorothy was hustling him upstairs to the bedroom, desperate to get him away from the freezer. She propelled him up the narrow wooden staircase, clasping his buttocks in front of her like an ascending beacon.

Stanley, taking her cue, delightedly assumed that lust had got the better of caution. When they reached the bedroom the two of them tumbled to the floor. Velvet and corduroy entangled in a steam of perfume and cheap cologne. It promised to be a very English coupling.

Suddenly sobered by the very real weight of Dorothy’s flesh, Stanley sat up and began to unzip her dress with disturbingly professional ease. Dorothy felt him encircle her and lift her breasts out of her dress. He pulled slowly at her nipples. She stiffened immediately. It is this, she thought, this feeling of being encompassed, of being embraced, that I have missed so much. It was a sensation that a mere six and a half inches, however adventurous, could never hope to achieve.

Surrendering herself, Dorothy swung around and kissed Stanley, her fingers plucking at his shirt. She ran them through his chest hair and across the groomed abdominal muscles toward his groin. He groaned and arched up, making it easier for her to unzip and release him. Stanley’s penis sprang out in its full grandeur. It was the part of him that he was most proud of; he was a well-endowed individual. Dorothy’s eyes widened in wonder. He was at least eight inches, she estimated. After all, she had recently developed an expertise in these matters. Running her fingers across the soft skin, she brought him to her lips and was amazed at the difference, both in texture and scent.

Somewhere above her Stanley was groaning. The experience was doubly pleasurable for he had never assumed that this rather dowdy archivist would be a good lover, never mind an imaginative one. As he watched her head bob up and down he decided that he would definitely ask her to marry him. He was nearly forty, and, if he was brutally honest with himself, he couldn’t remember any other woman showing this much enthusiasm for at least a year.

He was close to orgasm. Time to give her some pleasure, he surmised, especially if she was to be Mrs. Huntington. He pulled her up to his mouth, then traversed the whole length of her body with his tongue, finishing by sucking her toes—a nifty little trick he’d learned from a Korean au pair girl. He then moved farther up, parting her gently with his fingers. Stanley always felt that cunnilingus was the mark of the evolved male. Besides, it made them remember you, even if it was only one night. It was therefore with immense satisfaction that, somewhere above him, he heard Dorothy scream with pleasure.

Stanley played both her orifices with his fingers; feeling her contract, he was determined to bring her to a second climax. He gave her a moment to catch her breath then hoisted himself over her. She lay there, gazing at him, her eyes great glistening pools of blue-black lust. Resting on one arm, he gathered up one impressive breast and filled his mouth with the erect nipple, nipping her gently, orchestrating his caresses until she was swollen to his touch. Then, when he could feel her moistening, he hauled himself up and rested the tip of his large cock at the very edges of her nether lips. Dorothy thought she might die from pleasure or scream again with delicious anticipation, so badly did she want him. He maneuvered both her legs over his shoulders and, with a cheeky smile, entered her so slowly she could feel every inch of him.

“This is for England,” Stanley said softly.

“And this is for Wales,” Dorothy replied in Welsh, throwing him on his back to ride him like the true witch she suspected she might be.

Meanwhile, downstairs, something burst out of the freezer.

Afterward they both lay sprawled across the bed, thoroughly satiated. Dorothy, every cell in her body released, fell asleep immediately while Stanley lay there lulled by the comforting sound of her soft snore. His body felt astonishingly relaxed. There was something wonderfully wholesome about making love to Dorothy. Maybe it was just the satisfaction of the kill after a long hunt. Maybe it was love. Stanley oscillated between these two meditations as he slid into a dreaming half-sleep.