Does dark erotica have to be vulgar?

Does dark erotica have to be vulgar? I think not. The best erotica captures your imagination, leaves you always wanting more but never shows you too much. I run a webzine and a lot of vamperotica crosses my desk. Most of it is pretty standard: the sexy vampire threw her down on the bed, screwed her brains out and drank her blood. Is this supposed to enticing or, better yet, exciting? The answer would have to be a resounding “NO”.

By the same token, not all erotica is purely sexual, particularly when writing vamperotica. With vampires, much of the appeal is in the sharing of blood. What is more sensual than the exchange of the hot, coppery fluid of life? The very essence of a lone human feeding and fortifying a dark and dangerous stranger? The icy cold of a vampire’s life force pouring over parted lips? That, my friends, is sexy. Read the following story, published on my site ( and you be the judge:

The Cello by
Jeanette Thompson

Moonlight streamed through open windows, infusing the room in a silvery glow.
A gentle breeze blew in; sending gauzy curtains billowing in a cloud of white.
Soft brown curls rested gently upon sun-kissed shoulders, the molten silver
light pulling muted copper highlights from the slightly tousled ringlets.

White cotton and French lace lay taut and damp against jasmine scented flesh.
A tawny thigh appeared as the damp cotton slid up and over flesh, rich
cherry-colored wood pressed against the muscular limb. Unadorned fingers
lightly gripped the slender bow and sweet, dulcet sounds were coaxed from
the cello.

Rich baritones and soaring tenors filled the air with a melancholy that saddened
the soul. The melody wound itself throughout the room, down the hallways
and drifted through the open windows into the darkened yard. As if feeling
the underlying sorrow of each note, the sky burst into a startling torrent
of tears, thick gray clouds suddenly obscuring the sterling light, raindrops
provided a gentle timpani to the poignant melody.

In another room a man stood before an opened window, allowing the wind to
blow the rain against his upturned face. Every few moments a hand raised
and fell as he lifted a glass of scotch to his lips. Flashes of lightning
in an otherwise dark room illuminated his shadowy form briefly. His eyes
were closed, ears focused upon the heart wrenching melody of the cello.

Each sustained note felt as if pulled from his very soul. He owned the sadness
of the song, for it was he who caused the musician’s pain. The passion behind
the music energized him and he felt a growing longing to be near the woman
and her instrument.

Tears dripped unheeded down the woman’s cheeks. The song had been the same
every night for the past month. It was her song, given birth from her pain.
The song was the same but each night she added a new dimension, a new shade
of melancholy to each stanza. The broken shards of her heart hung upon each
note before the notes faded away and the shards fell useless to the floor.

She would be leaving him soon, she knew this. Her heart simply could not
withstand further fragmenting at his hands. He was slowly killing her; she
felt it as her sadness was borne into music. He wrenched the song from within
her soul and she knew she had to escape.

Strong arms encircled her waist from behind, slipping between the white cotton
and cherry wood. The broad expanse of a well-muscled chest pressed against
her back. Hot, scotch-scented breath brushed across her ear as his hands
moved and joined hers upon the bow and strings. His fingers became as hers,
taking ownership of each note, pulling it from her as easily as he managed
to pluck her glass heart and drop it carelessly to the floor.

It was impossible to deny the inherent eroticism of that moment. Two bodies
pressed against each other, moving together in perfect harmony. For a brief
moment, she stopped breathing before she melted into him and the two became
one within the music. The storm swelled and crashed, keeping perfect time
with the melody, reaching an emotional climax and then all fell silent.

Only the steady rise and fall of the woman’s breath broke the profound silence
of the room. A silence made all the more noticeable by the sudden loss of
music. Trembling, she leaned back against the unyielding wall of his chest.
Strong fingers moved into her hair, gripping tightly ringlets damp with
perspiration and forcing her head back.

The tip of his tongue darted out; stopping the trail of a salty tear as it
made its way over the slope of her jaw. The path of his tongue continued
along her jawline before dipping in a soft fluttering motion over the bared
expanse of her throat. He inhaled deeply as her heart began to pound; the
scent of her fear and her anticipation grew intoxicating. He savored this
moment, prolonging her agony by allowing his lips to hover just a hairs breadth
away from where her pulse beat furiously within her veins. He waited, with
the patience of death, knowing she would break, knowing she would ask him
for that which she most hated and yet desired more than even her freedom.

“Please,” the whisper came as a soft plea, and yet he did not oblige. “Damian,
please. I,” here she hesitated, unsure as to what to say next, “I need this.”

A slow, triumphant smile crossed his lips. He lifted his head briefly, his
richly forested gaze staring into hers of liquid amber. He held her gaze
as if confirming his ownership of her soul before his head lowered once again.
Her back arched sharply at the brief sensation of pain before melting in
a wave of pure ecstasy. The insistent pull upon her veins was wildly erotic.
So erotic, in fact, neither the terror of feeling her blood slowly leaving
her body, nor the maddening need to run from him could overpower it. She
moaned softly, a woman in the arms of a tender lover, rather than held prisoner
by a cruel domitor.

Damian drank his fill, leaving her weakened and even more mournful than before.
He allowed her to remain pressed back against him as his fingers absently
combed through her hair and brushed lightly over where he had pierced her
only moments before. She wept silently and he relished her tears. His fingers
continued to stroke her throat with deceptive tenderness and then, he spoke,
initiating a conversation that had become rote with another over 30 years

“Who saved you?”

“You did.”

“Who do you owe your life to?”

“To you, Damian.”

“Who do you belong to?”

“You. Only to you.”

So, the conversation went night after endless night. He would leave her sitting
there then, depriving her of his contact. He would leave her crying, trembling
with emotions she would never understand, and knowing she would never be
free of him. His voice the only beacon in the darkness.

“Play for me little one.”

Categorized as erotica

By DarkJ