tagErotic HorrorA Storm by the Sea

A Storm by the Sea


Author's Note: I submitted this story recently under the "Erotic Couplings" category--which was definitely a mistake. When I originally submitted, I felt it might be more of an Erotic Couplings story than a Horror story. But some of the feedback I've been getting clearly shows it should be under Erotic Horror. I do apologize for this mistake. It was definitely on me--not the site. Thanks, as always, for all the feedback!


Craig squinted, hunching forward as he drove along the Coast Road. He'd never liked driving at night—he had a problem with the glare of oncoming headlights, street lamps, the sense of disorientation that came over him as he peered through his windshield and saw only darkness. And tonight, it was even worse than usual. The night was pitch-black, not a hint of moonshine, not a glimpse of the stars. Dark clouds had rolled in just before sunset, covering the sky like a thick, murky veil. "Stormy, high winds, turbulent seas, heavy rain," the forecast had declared. He didn't doubt it. There was an ominous feel to the air, a sense that something malevolent was brewing. But he lived just a couple of miles up the road. Hopefully he'd make it before the rain came. Though familiar with nearly every inch of this stretch of the road, he definitely did not want to be stuck driving in a storm, close to home or not.

He rounded a curve—the Coast Road, hugging the seashore, snaked and twisted like a coiled anaconda. He never liked it—but then, it was a small price to pay for having the opportunity to live where he did. He was lucky, one of the fortunate ones, and he knew it. But he'd earned it, too. He had worked hard for it.

Up ahead, another sharp curve . . . but suddenly, on the shoulder of the road, he saw a flash of movement—a woman, walking backward, jacket-less, her thumb sticking in the air. Odd. This portion of the Coast Road rarely had hitchhikers. Besides, what would anyone be doing out, walking, on a night like this? The wind was picking up, by the second it seemed, and the temperature was hovering just above forty. The woman must have been freezing.

He pulled over, wondering if this was wise. He'd heard stories—everyone had—of deadly run-ins with hitchhikers. But how could he just let her continue walking, sans jacket, in this weather? And really now—what harm could she do? She looked harmless enough as she hopped in.

"Thank you," she said with a shiver. He saw that her hair was long and blonde, a deep, light blonde. It made him think of late summer, of ripe, luxurious warmth, fleeting, soon giving way to autumn's chill. It made him think of goldenrod swaying in a mellow September breeze, of sunflowers nodding languorously on a hot afternoon. But this just filled him with longing. He wouldn't feel such warmth for months. It was the last week of November, and he knew what that meant for coastal New Hampshire. The long New England winter was just around the corner. . . .

"No problem," he said. He squinted, hunched forward, trying to see through the night as he drove. His road, Seacliffe Way, was about a mile ahead, on the left. It climbed a long hill, and he lived up at the top. The views of the sea from his living room, looking through his wall of windows, never failed to leave his visitors breathless. "Where are you headed? I'm afraid I won't be much help. I live just up the road, so I'm not going much further. But I'll be happy to drive you into town if you want. Maybe the bus station?"

She turned to look at him, and her eyes were gray, like the sea when it storms. As it would surely look right now, if it weren't hidden in the darkness. She blinked and smiled, then looked straight ahead. Which was for the best. He could get lost in those eyes. And Jill wouldn't like that—not one bit.

"I'm not really heading anywhere in particular," she said. "I was just out, you know, looking for someone." She looked at him again, the gray in her eyes deep, so deep, as if fathomless, infinite. "I knew you'd find me. I knew you'd come."

"Excuse me?"

She reached for his arm, gave it a squeeze. "Oh, Michael, don't play dumb with me," she said. "You knew I'd be out here tonight, didn't you? Of course you did. Why else would you have been driving by me? Why else would you have stopped?"

"Um, miss, my name's not Michael, it's Craig." Was she drunk? No. He didn't think so. He smelled no liquor on her breath. Drugs, maybe? Maybe, but he doubted it. She didn't seem high at all. Just . . . weird. He rounded another curve, just as a car passed him in the other lane, its headlights temporarily blinding him. Seacliffe Way was coming directly up now, the next left.

"Look," he said, " I live right here, like I said. Shouldn't I take you into town, miss?"

"Stop being so formal, dear," she said. "You know my name's Alicia. Or don't you? Have you forgotten?" She snickered. "She must be quite a woman. Who is she? That you could forget me so easily?"

"Jill," he answered without thinking. Just as he turned onto Seacliffe Way without thinking. What was he doing? He couldn't take this stranger—who didn't appear to be in her right mind—home with him. Could he?

He hit the brake, shifted into Reverse. He never liked driving backward, especially at night. He always worried he'd veer off into a ditch or over a ledge. But he'd manage. He didn't want to pull up to the house and then turn around. That might give her the wrong idea—that he was considering providing her with lodging for the night.

Her hand shot out, grabbing his arm, squeezing. Hard. It actually hurt, even through his jacket-sleeve.

"Stop," she said. "Don't. Take me to your place." He glanced at her in the gloom. She gave him a coy look with those sea-gray eyes of hers, and smiled. "Please?"

He sighed. He shouldn't do this. She was too weird. And there was Jill to think about. Not that he'd do anything with this crazy blonde, but still . . . the idea of having her spend the night, even in a guest room, was . . . unsettling.

Then again . . . what really could go wrong? Who would even know about this? And did he really want to drive her all the way into town, to the bus station, and then get caught in the rain on the return trip home? In the dark? The wind and the storm? Maybe it was better this way . . .

He switched into Drive again. The decision was made.

Glancing at the woman beside him, he saw that her smile had widened. . . .

She was even more beautiful than he'd thought. Now, standing before him in his brightly lit living room . . . she was stunning. Her blonde hair was so light, so fair, nearly a white-blonde. Her face was perfect—flawless, with high cheekbones, a sculpted nose, and full, sensuous lips that threatened to challenge his honorable intentions. She was tall, probably 5'9" or so, and very slim; though the shape of her figure was concealed beneath a loose, long-sleeved shirt and a roomy pair of slacks.

"This is quite the place you have here, Michael," she said, glancing around the spacious room—at the original early American furniture, the great stone fireplace, the panoramic picture windows that looked out at the night, to the dark, frothing sea, churning, restless, the storm drawing nearer. "You've really done well for yourself."

He cleared his throat. "Look, miss . . ."

"Alicia," she interrupted. "Don't pretend like I'm a stranger, Michael."

"But that's just the thing, miss. I mean, Alicia. We are strangers. We never met before."

She drew nearer to him, only inches away now. She looked him in the eye, her lips so close, so close . . . close enough to kiss.

And that's just what she did. With no warning, no words, she moved in, placed her lips on his. It was a brief kiss, not sexual, not lingering. Just a whisper, a moment . . .

When she pulled away, he again was struck by her eyes—so gray. So gray . . .

"Do you remember now, Michael? There's nothing like a kiss to make the past come to life . . ."

He shook his head, but tried to remember. She acted so sure, so certain, that they knew each other. He thought of all his old girlfriends, the handful of one-night stands. Some he couldn't remember. He'd been too loaded. Maybe she had been one of those. But he doubted it. She was so beautiful . . . even drunk, he'd have remembered her. No. He was sure of it. He'd never seen this woman before in his life.

"Oh, Michael . . ." She tsk-tsked him. "I'm hurt. I really am."

"Look . . ." This was going too far. "Listen, my name's Craig, and I . . ."

Again she kissed him. This time more insistently, more passionately. He tried to push her away, but she resisted, and she felt so good, tasted so good. Her lips were so warm and soft . . . and her tongue . . . she didn't unleash it for several seconds, but when she did . . . mmmmm. She was a magician, a sorceress. No one, ever, had kissed him this good.

He ceased all resistance, wrapped his arms around her, pulled her in closer, closer, as their interlocking tongues lashed and parried, danced and played. "Ohhhh," he moaned. He couldn't help it.

She pulled her mouth away, looked up at him. "Take me to your room, Michael. I want you."

He swallowed. What the hell was going on? Just ten minutes ago, he'd been driving along the Coast Road, heading home to beat the storm. He'd spent a nondescript day at work—if any day as the CEO of your own business can be termed nondescript. It was a small company, sure, but a lucrative one. His house, his car, his possessions . . . all of these were tell-tale symbols of his success. And Jill. He'd never thought he would settle down. Never wanted to—until he met her. They met by accident . . . a fender-bender in a grocery-store parking lot. He'd backed into her—there was a blind spot. He didn't see. She gave him a thorough tongue-lashing. He was instantly smitten. She didn't know that he was worth millions. She didn't know he was the boss where he worked. And she didn't care when she found out, either. She told him he was careless, reckless, stupid.

One month later, he told her that he loved her. He gave her a ring. She accepted. They were to be married next summer, on the beach, just a mile away from his house. By the sea, which he had always loved, always felt a kinship with. He didn't want his wedding to be indoors in a stuffy, air-conditioned church. He wanted it to be on the seashore, the breeze in his hair, the salt and tang all around, the sand lodging between his toes. Yes—he'd be barefoot. A barefoot wedding. He'd always thought outside the box. It was how he'd made it in his business . . .

And now . . .now . . .here he was with a strange women, a beautiful, beautiful woman who for some reason thought he knew her, and thought his name was Michael. He guessed she must have mistaken him for someone else—some lover from her past. Perhaps he looked like this guy, this Michael. But it was the coincidence that disturbed him. Why had she acted like she had been expecting him to pick her up? Who was she, really? Why had she been hitchhiking on a night like this, in a tract of million-dollar homes? Where had she come from?

But his concerns were erased with another kiss, as she again worked her charms on him. This time, while they kissed, she reached for his jacket, pulled the sleeves down his arms, until it fell to the floor. Then she began to unbutton his shirt . . .

He pulled away, using all his willpower. "Whoa," he said, putting his hands up. "I'm . . . I'm engaged, you know. I can't do this." He closed his eyes, thought of Jill. Jill, with her short brown hair, nice figure, warm smile. Not beautiful, really. Nowhere close to this woman, not even in her league. But attractive, cute, and a giving and generous lover. A good person. Someone he could easily imagine sharing a lifetime with. He told himself not to throw all of that away for just one night.

Alicia frowned. "Oh, Michael. You know it's impossible. You promised me the same things, once. Don't you remember? You were going to remain faithful only to me. How did that promise go so unfulfilled, Michael? And now, this other woman. Jill, you said? You won't make a good husband to her, and you know it. You'll cheat. You'll have mistresses. You know it's true." She smiled, then, her seawater eyes seeming to dance, to swim, pulling him in. "Starting tonight, dear."

What the hell was she talking about? He had never promised her anything. She wasn't making any sense. Except for the cheating part. He worried about that, too, in honest moments, when he looked in the mirror and dared to ask the hard questions. He'd always played the field. Was he really a one-woman man? At the moment he didn't feel like one. He was tempted. He couldn't lie about that—he wanted this woman.

Still, she was just too weird. This whole thing was too weird. He—

Suddenly, her hands were on his chest, his shirt completely unbuttoned now. She caressed him, her hands going in little, sensual circles, her fingers pinching and playing with his nipples. He gasped. She was good. Very good. He looked at her, at those full, red lips. What would they feel like wrapped around his cock, sucking, licking, bringing him to orgasm?

She smiled at him, as though reading his thoughts, right down to the last detail.

"You know," she said, "maybe we shouldn't go to your room. I want you right here, Michael, by your picture windows, overlooking the night, and the sea. It's so romantic in here."

The next thing he knew, his shirt was on the floor and her fingers were fiddling with the button on his dress pants. She was so fast, so sure in her movements. It seemed all but impossible to tell her no.

Down his legs went the pants, and he kicked out of them, not sure what he was doing but unable to resist. She was too beautiful. The most beautiful woman he had ever seen. And she wanted to pleasure him. Yes, it was wrong. But it was just for one night. One night . . .

She reached for his dark-blue briefs, wrapped her fingers around the waistband, and . . . the phone rang!

He blinked several times, as if waking from a dream. He was saved! This was the reprieve he needed. He went to answer it, but she wouldn't let go of his waistband. He tried to pry her fingers lose, but couldn't. She was much stronger than she looked.

"Take them off, Michael," she said. "Then answer the phone if you must."

"Fuck it," he said, and pushed his underwear down, and then raced for the phone.

"Hello?" he said into the receiver. Then, a delayed realization—he was standing in front of a total stranger, stark naked! He covered his crotch with his free hand. Alicia laughed. He turned around, his back to her now.

"Hi, Craig." Shit! Jill. He thought she was working late tonight . . . didn't expect her to call. "What's up?" He told her nothing, nothing at all! What could be up? "Hey, you okay, babe? You sound, I don't know, kind of . . .frazzled." Who, him? Frazzled? Please! "Anyway, I'll be getting off earlier than I thought tonight," she went on. "Mind if I, you know, stop by your place in a bit?"

Oh shit, oh shit! Just what he needed. He was naked with a drop-dead-gorgeous-but-at-the-same-time-completely-loony woman who wanted to fuck him, and here his fiancée wanted to drop by in a few minutes to fuck him, too! True—in a perverse sort of way, it was a good problem to have. Nevertheless, it was a problem. He needed to squirm his way out of it.

"Uh, listen, sweetie . . ." he began, and that's when he felt his hand being pulled away from his crotch. He turned around, and Alicia was there, kneeling before him. She'd snuck up behind him! He attempted to cover his crotch again, but she forced his hand away. And then her hand found his balls, began to play with them . . .

He let out a sound of whooshing air, kind of like a balloon that's been pricked.

"Craig? You okay?" Jill's voice said through the receiver.

"Oh, I'm . . . fine," he managed to get out. She was giving him a Grade-A handjob now, stroking him, up and down his shaft. He was fully erect now, and it felt good, so good . . . She was so skilled with her hands. He moaned, grabbed onto the back of the antique wooden rocking chair he kept beside the phone. Without even being fully aware of it, he was thrusting now, his hips moving forward and back, forward and back . . .

"It's just . . . you know, the storm," he said with an effort. "I don't know if you should come out this way, Jill. The winds are really picking up."

There was a pause. Had he hurt her feelings? But then she said, "Maybe you're right. I guess it's supposed to be pretty bad, huh?"

"Oh, the worst!" he said. Alicia kissed his cock-tip, then licked it. His knees buckled. God! "It . . . it's probably better to just go straight home, sweetie. I'll manage here by myself tonight." He glanced down at Alicia, who looked up at him, his cock-head in her mouth. She gave him a wink. He thought of the timing of all this. Jill was planning to move in with him after the holidays, in January. If she'd been living with him already, something like this couldn't have happened so easily. Then again, with the beautiful blonde head bobbing up and down on his cock, maybe his current living arrangement wasn't such a bad thing. . . .

"That's what I like about you, Craig," Jill said. "You're so considerate. You'd give up a night of fun just because you're worried about me."

"Well, we'll be sure to have a great weekend," he said. It was getting harder to think straight. The sensations emanating from his nether regions were out of this world. "I'll show you then just how much I missed you tonight."

Jill said a few sweet nothings in return, then mercifully hung up. Alicia pulled her mouth off of his cock, and said, "A very good performance, Michael. You almost sent me to tears. You're such a gentleman—so concerned about your lady. I didn't know such gallantry existed anymore."

She didn't wait for a response. She just went back to sucking him off. For some reason, amid the pleasure, he thought of telling her, again, that his name wasn't Michael. But then—who cared? It's not like he'd ever see this bimbo again. If she wanted to think he was Michael, if she wanted to believe they had a past together—what was it to him?

He reached behind her head, and pulled her in more, making her take all of him in. She didn't gag—not at all. But she pulled away a second later.

"Don't you do that, Michael," she said. The gray in her eyes darkened, like thunderheads. "Don't you ever do that."

"I'm sorry. I . . ."

She stood up, slapped his face, hard. He recoiled, but didn't strike back.

"You don't deserve what I'm about to give you," she said. "You're a lying cheat. You lied to me, and now you're lying to your precious Jill." Here, she fixed her gaze on a picture of Jill. It was one of his favorites—from last summer, at the beach, Jill wearing a bikini that showed off her athletic body.

Alicia shook her head. "You left me for her? You know, I thought you had more taste than that, Michael."

"Now, wait a minute."

She kissed him, her tongue probing, exploring, tantalizing. And all of a sudden, he didn't care about defending Jill. All he knew was that this woman, this damned woman, smelled so good, tasted so good. And he wanted her. God help him, he wanted her more than he'd ever wanted Jill.

She took his hand, led him to the wall of windows that overlooked the sea. The storm was just beginning, now. Rain pattered against the windows, making a sound that, for some reason, made him think of machine guns chattering away, in the distance.

"I've always liked the rain," she said, and she lifted her blouse over her head. He gulped, audibly. Her skin was so fair, matching the light, light blonde of her hair, which draped over her shoulders like a golden waterfall. She was slim, not skinny, but slender, perfect. Her breasts, encased in a skimpy black bra, were smallish, but not too small. B cups, he thought. They looked so beautiful. She looked so beautiful.

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