‘Tis a mystery! (or three): Haunting Halloween Reads

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header photo via Unsplash!

Creepy(?) Reads for Halloween

I’ve been reading.

Like, reading reading. Books.

It’s a luxury I’ve not been afforded in recent months, so the fact that I’ve had two days off in a row — off off, with no required commitments or other ‘life happens’ demands on my time — has meant I’ve gone digging through my book pile{s} and managed to read two, cover to cover, in the past 48 hours.

And when I finished the most recent one, I thought, “…hmnh.”

Because it was one of those WTF was THAT?! kinds of books that was all kinds of shudder-inducing but a page-turner nonetheless.

Riveting.

Disturbing.

Totally relate-able. Utterly foreign.

Absolutely brilliant in terms of craft. Completely horrifying in terms of content.

A perfect read, in fact, for the Halloween season.

So I’m going to tell you about it (no spoilers), along with a couple others that fit the ‘horrifyingly brilliant’ bill, because {a} I know there are folks out there who are avid readers, and {b} ’tis the season.

And when I’m done, I’d love to know what you are reading. šŸ™‚

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A Quiet Cacophony

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I close the window, shutting out the cheeping shrill of the feather-ruffled coven roosting – ousted from nests in trees now removed – on branches that shake with their avian anger.

The whoosh-slide of glass moves wooden against pane casing, the latch snicks closed.

The furnace whirs low and steady, thrumming with white noise and humming heat.

Softly shushing, he pads in almost-silence toward me.

One step, two, three…

Breath is a steady susurration, exhaling slow between us, quieting the noise inside my mind.

Tuning out the peripheral noise, attuned now to the intimate quiet, I reach out, focused on sound.

The gentle scrape of rounded nails on turgid flesh, the choked-throat strangle of restrained groan, the repeated shh-chh slide of press-stroke grip becomes the backbeat against which tiny mpp-pp-p stacatto kisses write their rhythm across his belly.

Mnghf.

Tension forces choked notes, sung strained and guttural, from his throat.

Heartbeat.
Blood rush.
Skin jump.

Arpeggios in pentatonic pleasure repeat, quickening, dissonant in changing key.

Desire is a down-feathered bird, letting loose a strangled cry as it falls headfirst – as though for the first time – in wind-seeking wingflight from its nest.

The shake of his limbs is a faint echo, his soft-muted stutter of bones a bare thread pianissimo imitation of the rustling leaf-whoosh on the other side of the window pane.

Outside, behind the plate-glass pane, on tree branches that shake with the vibratory displeasure of cawing scream-song, the birds continue their feather-fight cacophonous debate.

Elust #134

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Image courtesy of Violet Fawkes

Welcome to Elust 134-

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #135? Start with the rules, come back October 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

~ This Monthā€™s Top Three Posts ~

How I Became a Woman

Positivity is hard

A Day of Service

All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the ā€œread moreā€¦ā€ tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

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Give Me Your Heart, Make It Real

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. . . or else forget about it . . .

.

His explosion is like a steampot, lid blown clear of the top from heat and pressure unseen but no longer containable, and when the stunned stillness echoes its silence you think, What the hell was that?

What it was – what it is and has been and will continue to be – is a cognizance. And unhappiness. A hidden-but-no-longer-hideable internal shock that has jolted through you both. Something is not right here.

And so you face it.

You face him.

When he’s gone from plum-red rage to gray-faced somber approachability, you say Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?

And he does.

In all its painful, humbling, half-coherent vulnerability, the truth — his truth, pieces of it that you are capable of picking up and puzzling the meaning of — comes out.

It’s scary.

He’s scared, rightly so.

And you… You think, This is my friend.

And you are reminded that love is more than limerence and less than romance and that it’s greater than the sum of what he feels for you and you for him. That it’s a life you built and the safe space you fill between one another in otherwise empty rooms with history and trust and mistakes and triumphs and pain and willingness to try and knowledge of Us. It’s – for you – embracing another challenge without hesitancy (you must, you cannot run from this, you don’t even want to) and – for him – unhesitatingly trusting that you will not abandon him just because __________.

For you, there is no time to harbor anger and no reason to hold on to resentment.

And for him, there is – perhaps, simply – no time.

No reason, no rhyme.

But there is you.

And sometimes – most times, this time, the time we have together – that is enough.

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