Halloween erotica: Predator

Image by the brilliant Stuart F Taylor

Despite spending most of my life grumpy about the idea of dressing up or having to open my front door to strangers, I’ve started to really look forward to Halloween each year. Mostly because I get to have a bit of fun and write a silly, scary, weird bit of Halloween erotica. It’s a nice challenge to try and take a traditional monster and stick them in a sexual context, and also I’m a bit of a goth so I just like getting to do stuff that involves horror. Last year it was a siren, the year before a zombie, who followed a succubus. This year, I thought I’d have a crack at vampire.

The following story contains things you might find disturbing: stalking, slutshaming, blood, and death. If that isn’t your cup of tea, check out some less creepy erotic fiction here. But if you enjoy that sort of thing, read below or click ‘listen now’ above to hear it read as audio porn.  


She likes ‘alpha’ men. Those tall, wolfish guys who walk with a languid confidence. The men who don’t hide their stares when she walks past them on the platform – whose heads swing slowly to follow the twitch of her arse as she taps, high-heeled, towards the sixth carriage from the front of the train.

Looking like she owns the place looking like she wants them all. She’s asking for trouble that one that fucking bitch.

Alpha men. The kind her mother warned her about. The ones who think they’re dangerous.

Her mother gave her acres of warnings. Don’t wear that. Don’t go there. Don’t talk to the boys – you’ll only encourage them. Don’t drink. Don’t smoke. No lipstick.

For some reason lipstick was the thing. She could get away with a smudge of eyeliner, or a quick sweep with the mascara brush at the very tips of her lashes but lipstick? A slick of even the lightest coral pink would have her mother’s eyes flashing, and earn her more shrieked warnings: “Are you asking for trouble, young lady?” Always trouble.

She’d sit in her flat-soled, sensible shoes at the kitchen table, bare lips pursed in distaste, and issue pronouncements about how her daughter had failed.

“You’re trouble, young lady.”

“You’ll get yourself in trouble.”

“Everywhere you go, you always bring trouble along with you.”

She wears lipstick tonight: bright red like a siren. It makes her feel powerful, acting as a warning to any guy who’d try to prove her mother right. I’ll get what I want and you can’t hurt me, I’m trouble.

Does she feel as confident as she looks? No. But tonight’s her night of freedom and she cannot bear to waste it: she’s on the hunt for alpha men. The kind her mother told her to avoid at all costs. She’s got a plan. Trouble, looking for more of it.

Sixth carriage down the train, then: easier to change when she gets to her stop. Emptier than the others, which gives her time to consider this evening’s route. Where she’ll go to hunt and be hunted. Reeling men in and painting them with lipstick the colour of danger. A man three seats down and twenty years older stares at her thighs and licks dried spittle from the corner of his mouth.

She rolls her eyes, to show she’s not afraid. Rummages in her bag to avoid making eye contact.

He can see the red of her lips when he closes his eyes and oh God oh fuck it makes him hard.

The train screeches to a halt and she steps out, heels delivering a neat double-tap to the platform. A satisfying sound, made better by knowing it’s taboo. Her mother wouldn’t ever let her wear heels this tall and slender. None at all, in fact, just thick-soled flats – all the better to run from dangerous men.

Today she’s not running away, but toward. Toward those long-limbed, arrogant, easy-to-fuck guys who for so long have been off limits. What her mother never told her – never knew – was that these men are just as frightened as we are. Scratch the surface of a rock-hard stomach and a thick-veined forearm and you’ll find insecurity and fear by the bucketload. Fear of rejection, fear of not living up to expectations, fear of impotence, fear of women, fear of death. She’s never met a single one who isn’t afraid at all: beneath the surface they are all vulnerable. Alone. Frightened.

That’s why she can’t take her mother’s warnings seriously. They won’t hurt her, these men: they’re too keen for her approval. More frightened of her than she is of them.

She doesn’t even notice him won’t even turn her head as he follows her off the train. The arrogance of it how fucking dare she.

Her first stop is a hotel bar. Easy places to catch them, so this is something like a warm-up act. Practice. She selects a likely-looking man at a table near the bar, with his tie askew and Kindle propped against an empty bottle. He’s not reading, just pretending: his eyes follow her as she approaches the bar, and when she turns to smile he smiles right back.


It takes half a Jack and Coke before he suggests a move upstairs, but she’d had him at that first red-lipped smile. The rush of power is more potent than drink, and although she’s nervous as the lift carries them up to his room, that power heats her veins and reminds her she’s got nothing to fear. Her mother’s warnings won’t come true: she’s in control.

In his hotel room, the bed is already a mess. She imagines him lolling naked on it when he got out of the shower after work. Cursing the adult-blocked wifi and conjuring images in his head as he beat away at his lazily twitching prick.

It’s twitching now, too. She can grip it in her hand through his trousers, feel the strength of his pulse. Not the only thing that’s strong: he shoves his tongue hungrily into her mouth, and shoves her firmly against the wall. Runs his hands briefly over her body before diving towards the damp crotch of her knickers with greedy, eager fingers. Rough. Too rough. He’s already forgotten her name.

She locks eyes with him as she takes him into her mouth – all the better to watch him react as she paints his cock with red lipstick. He pushes her head down to the base of his dick – too far, she thinks. Far too far. She chokes and gags and trembles. Scratches. Bites. His hands, gripping her hair tightly, spasm once, twice, three times. He shudders and grunts and she tastes him: pouring thick and hot down the back of her throat.

She licks her lips.

Later, having blown him a goodbye kiss and reapplied her blood-red lipstick, she click-clacks out of the hotel lobby and on to the next location. No more hotels: too easy. Her next stop is a bar. The thump of the music that echoes blood pounding through veins. She likes that sound. It is life and excitement and danger and everything that feels forbidden. She hitches her skirt shorter and click-clicks towards the neon lights.

He knows what she’s been doing in there doesn’t he? She’s been riding him why him? Can smell the hot copper salt tang he left inside her fucking slut.

The louder bars should intimidate her, with their confident gaggles of dancers and groping couples and people who seem to know the DJ. But she can hide in the darkness of it, watching for the next alpha man.

She spots him coming out of the toilet – zipping up his flies like he almost forgot, and scanning the dancefloor for fresh meat. She steps in front of him. Looks him in the eye. Places a single, slender hand on his chest. This is the moment when her heart should beat faster. This is when she should start to feel fear: dressed in tight clothes and red lipstick and looking every inch like ‘trouble.’ She should worry about this man, and remember he could turn at any minute.

He looks at her with confusion at first – she spots a flash of whatever he fears behind the liquid grey of his eyes. But as he scans down her body, he starts to grin. Asks what she’s drinking and whether she’s come far, and what’s her name and does she have any mandy? She shakes her head and reminds herself to keep her drink out of reach.

Soaking wet now waiting for her out here in the rain why won’t she hurry up get out here come to him he’s waiting.

When they fuck, later, in the toilet cubicle, he grips her thighs so tightly she worries she might bruise. Wrapping her legs around his torso, and clenching herself round his cock, she can’t help but conjure images of tearing flesh – he’s thick and huge and ripping into her. Her insides feel tenderised. The cold tile zings against her back as he smashes her against it with every vicious thrust.

It feels good. Like freedom. Like trouble.

She squeezes him tightly with her thighs, her arms, her cunt, and surprises herself by coming before he does. Eventually his muffled grunts turn to almost-moans, and she rides his final spasms until she’s thoroughly milked him dry.

It takes three minutes until the toilets are clear, and she can slip from the cubicle unnoticed. Blowing him a kiss, like she did with the guy before, not forgetting to thoroughly wash her hands.

Knife pierces the end of his thumb and he bites his lip. Good teeth good sharp teeth he made them himself. He’ll make her his but knife or teeth that’s the question knife or teeth.

There’s one more stop on her tour tonight, but she doesn’t need to hunt this one down. She’s been thinking of him since the moment she stepped out of the door. He doesn’t know it yet, but he’s the reason she wore lipstick and heels.

Knife or teeth.

The reason she let the first two men spray spunk liberally on the places where he’d smell it: face, neck, thighs. She feels it sticking wetly to her knickers, dragging against the skin of her crotch as she tip-taps back to the station.

The taps are vital: the sound will draw him. The lipstick – red like a siren – will call to him too. Her short skirt and tight top and flimsy jacket do everything her mother warned they would: advertising sluttiness, willingness, eagerness. But above all what matters is the spunk.

He can smell it. Through the fast food and perfume and vomit and sweat, he can smell it.

Fucking slut smells like cum but I’ll make her clean make her mine. Wash her in her own blood.

Back on the tube, she stands. Holding on to the pole above, swaying gently.

He sits nearby, watching but never truly seeing her. Glittering teeth. Dried spit in the corner of his mouth. Eyes scanning the floor. Shoulders hunched and foot twitching. Rusting flick knife gripped tightly in a moist pocket.

I bet her knickers are still wet with it bet she’ll scream when I reach for that throat bet it’ll be worth it now oh now I’m so close.

When it’s time to change trains, she places herself in the perfect spot for carriage six. Checks her lipstick in a compact mirror, and flicks her eyes to check he’s still following. Too quick for him to notice her glance, because his blood is up now.

Vanity vanity vanity I’ll smear your fucking lipstick for you just a few more minutes and I’ll do it.

He’s got her in his sights – eyes on the prize. Looking but not seeing. Stalking, but not knowing.

Bitch fucking bitch I love you don’t you know that.

The train pulls in and four people get off. Carriage six is empty, so she steps aboard, whisking herself away from him as he stumbles on after her. She feels his greedy hand brushing her wrist just as she flicks it out of reach. Dirty fingernails scrabbling at her flesh, and hissed whispers through those teeth – sharpened to jagged points.

“Excuse me miss please excuse me excuse me.”

She ignores him. Clicks her heels down the length of the carriage, slowly choosing her seat. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. Drawing him deeper inside, further towards her. Not turning until she hears the beep and swish of the closing doors.

“Hey you! I was talking to you! I’ve found you I’ve got you fucking look at me.”

She turns to look at him, and her face splits into a grin.

For a moment he’s confused: where’s her fear? Why isn’t she afraid? He brandishes his tiny knife, bares the precious teeth he filed himself: a graveyard of rotting points barely long enough to pierce the skin. It is only when he thrusts the knife forward, hoping to show her how dangerous he can be, that he realises her eyes have turned black.

And he is in serious trouble.

Swiftly, she reaches out with both her hands – grasping his cock in steel fingers and squeezing tightly, all the better to feel the thud of his pulse and the thickness of his blood. Her other hand crushes his throat – tendons creak like styrofoam ready to crack and there’s panic in his eyes now. His teeth click uselessly together as he tries to hiss warnings and curses, flailing at her like a spider scrabbling to escape a glass. Raining futile blows down onto her. Dropping his knife so it clatters across the carriage floor.

She marvels at this so-called alpha brought so very low. This wannabe predator, whose teeth and knife and bravado has shattered leaving nothing more than weak limbs and piteous screeches. Utterly worthless, save for his pulse, which still thuds pleasingly through the flesh of his aching cock.

His body spasms once as she sinks white fangs into his neck. Then twice, three times, as she drains him.


In the grey light of the next morning, they find him in carriage six. Draped in a corner: pale and lifeless and alone. There’s a dirty flick knife covered in his prints lying beneath the seats opposite, but when police check the CCTV they see nothing but a lonely man getting onto an empty carriage, then screaming into thin air.

That he was drained of blood is – and will remain – a mystery. Like the guy they found slumped in a cubicle in the toilets of a bar in Soho.

And the man in hotel room 405, whose wifi bill went unpaid when the maids found him dead the next morning.

And the others dumped in alleyways or behind communal bins. The two in Epping Forest.

The one whose empty body washed up on the shore of the Thames.

The one who sits, even now, at an empty kitchen table. She doesn’t move. Hasn’t moved for years. Her face stares blankly into the darkness, and beneath her modest, sensible clothes, her body rots. Her feet, near-skeletal now, are clad in thick-soled flats, which proved next to useless when it came time for her to run.

Her lips, stretched taut and dry across the contours of her skull, have shrieked their last warning. Carelessly – almost sarcastically – someone’s slicked them with bright red lipstick.


Thanks to @Brainmage for leaping in at the last minute to provide me with a creepy stalking voice, this story is also available as audio porn: click ‘listen now’ above or head to the audio porn page to hear more sexy stories read aloud. Most of them don’t involve murder, I promise. 


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