Friday, June 24, 2011

Friday, April 15, 2011

TRIPLE MONKEYS : A Dystopian, Post-Apocalyptic Short Story OUT NOW!

Triple Monkeys, my dystiopian, post-apocalyptic, shit-hits-the-fan short story, which only ever appeared in the Chimeraworld #6 anthology in 2009, is now available!

Oh, and there's no Zombies in this one!

Amazon US

Amazon UK


Only $0.99!

EXCERPT - From Triple Monkeys : A Dystopian, Post-Apocalypse Short Story


The moment I let go of my fear and sent that first 7.62 x 39 round flying, I was emancipated.

No longer would I live in bondage to those fears. No longer would I live with the daily terror at any moment being escorted to one of the interment camps. I would never again feel myself start to piss when I saw armed soldiers rounding up people and throwing them in the back of trucks, like cattle.

At last, that icy knot I had carried around with me in my gut melted away.

With the penetration of that first traitorous skull, I was free.


After the fall of everything we knew, after the infrastructure crumbled, the internet was killed, the cell phone towers shut off, the stores all closed, the electricity stopped flowing, and the water plants stopped pumping, most people were as defenseless and vulnerable as newborns.

Most of those who died were killed were within the first few weeks, in the days when everybody lost their mind.

As many died in the riots than did from the virus. But the Endgame came when everybody lined up for the new super-duper, cure-all anti-viral shot - even those who had always rebelled against getting flu shots or other vaccines stood in line for it.

The hysteria-inducing propaganda campaign about how horrendous a disease this was worked fabulously. People rioted to get shot up. They trampled others to death to get a shot. They pushed people out of the way, punched them and kicked them and threw them aside, people who were their friends and neighbors, family members.

Once the virus reassembled itself with new viruses in the shots, that was when millions more died. Within 48 hours, more than half of those who took the new shot were either dead, maimed or comatose.

And most of the rest lost their ability to think. They lost their own will. They lost their capacity for reason.

Taking away fast food death burgers, big screen TVs, and their two-for-one Cool Whip coupons was enough to make most people riot or lay down and die.

We were all lost.

There were millions dead.

Tens of millions.

And the death toll just kept on rising.

But some of us – just some of us – found the way back to our own humanity.

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

Changed Flesh : Body Modification & Bloodfetish Fiction

And now for something completely different...from the last book I released (see below!)  :oD

This is my short story collection of body modification and bloodfetish fiction erotica. Out now in eBook format!

From the near religious ecstasy of self mutilation to redemption via modification of the flesh to a obsession with merging into one body with a lover, this collection is a mixture of online old favorites, little seen micro press-published stories you won't have read, and never before seen material.

(Approximately 11,500 words.)

Amazon US

Amazon UK


I stroke my last scar and think of him. I remember what his own ruined flesh felt like on mine, the texture of his imperfections rubbing against my body, the taste of him. I remember the sensitivity of new scar tissue, like a fresh branding - burning hot pain as new, tight skin stretched almost to breaking point.

I remember the musk that rose from his skin and inflamed me. And the smell of his hair - like cars and apples - and the permanent line of black motor oil under his fingernails. I close my eyes and I think of those dirty hands as they pawed me, scratched my delicate skin. I can still feel each cut and nick and callus that graced his brutal hands, hands so dirty they made my skin smell like an engine.

But I cannot stay away and each time he sees me he wants more. The deeper I cut, the more plentiful my scars, the greater his desire for me. Each time we meet I am new for him, further reconstructed, my modification advancing to a new level. Ongoing transformation of a woman.

She waited for him, dressed in shadows and blending in with the city night; only the alabaster glow of her skin in the darkness gave her away.

Each moment that passed felt like an eternity.

Patience is a virtue.

She waited.

Anticipatory adrenalin rushed through her; her entire body quivered and her breath quickened in her throat, came out in short bursts like fuck-gasps, visible in the freezing air.

Then she saw him, strutting past the open window, naked and proud. Even from this distance she could see his cock standing to attention.

Her heart lurched in her chest and her gut flipped over twice. She almost whimpered but dug her long black nails into the soft flesh of her palms diverting her concentration from her nervousness and excitement.

She'd been waiting here for hours and her feet and legs were numb, felt almost rooted to the dirty street beneath them. It felt like she had been waiting there forever. And she would have waited that long for him. She would have waited for an eternity. She would have waited until the end of time.

She listened to the sounds of sex that filtered down from the bedroom window, one floor up, across the narrow street. She listened to the words that spilled from his passion-filled mouth and out into the night.

She listened to all the noises of pleasure and pain and the cries of that which lay somewhere between the two. She watched violent silhouettes battle each other, throw themselves against the pallid walls in the candlelight.

She sits alone bathed in the soft glow of candle light, the scent of exotic incense filling her room. Decadent trails of aromatic smoke, curl into the air around her. She closes her eyes, inhales the Eastern-scented air, feeling the excitement, the anticipation building inside her.

She stares at her own flawed perfection and smiles, like a mother's smile at her new born, a labor of love smile, a smile born of pain and suffering and endurance.

Her scars are beautiful, each as unique as a snowflake and just as pure. The raised patterns are often-traveled paths back to the memories which created them.

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

Dreams of Imperial Blood - A Vampire Romance Story

WARNING! - This story is 6,000 words of pure, unapologetic purple prose! It's a straight-up vampire romance story, no horror, no sex - just pure girlie romance.

Dreams of Imperial Blood is a Paranromal Romance short story (approx. 6,000 words) set in the modern day and 17th century Imperial Russia.


All she wanted was to love and be loved. All her heart wanted was the same. But past hurt would not allow her to give herself to anyone.

But her heart cried out for what she would not. That call was answered by a man who reached out to her across centuries and would change her life...for eternity.

Dreams of Imperial Blood - eBook Out Now!

US Amazon

UK Amazon


Monday, March 7, 2011

My Stardust Melody, the Memory of Love's Refrain...

This is the beautiful song the Vampire Vivant is singing to all the swooning girlies and Twilight Boys, in an underground speakeasy in Hollywood. (From my novel Vampire Vintage Book One : Belladonna in Hollywood.)

This is my favorite version by Willie Nelson and it just makes me go all gooey. Not much has that effect on me, lemme tell ya. :oD

Stardust by Willie Nelson

Sunday, March 6, 2011


VAMPIRE VINTAGE : Belladonna in Hollywood is the debut novel by Alex Severin, and the first in a brand new vampire novel series.

Belladonna knew her life was about to get even worse the day she had to throw Rosie off the Hollywood sign.

What she sought was Golden Age glamor, fame, flashbulbs, and the man who played Dracula.

What she got was Hollywood's underbelly – drugs, degenerates, phoneys, and a vampire with one hell of an attitude

Blood, Revenge, Gangsters, Vampires, Bela Lugosi & Guns.

VAMPIRE VINTAGE : Belladonna in Hollywood is Book One of the VAMPIRE VINTAGE NOVEL SERIES by Alex Severin.

Only $2.99!






Lust hung heavily in the air as he smoldered his way through another song. Drums like a heartbeat throbbed behind his voice and distorted guitars screamed like the adoring crowd.

The warehouse was packed, wall-to-wall, the air wet with excited sweat, the crowd exhaling their desire for him into air that smelled like sex.

Belladonna grinned grudgingly and shook her head as she watched him preach to his disciples. Not much had changed in the eighty years that Belladonna had been a vampire.

Vivant still needed an audience.

And that audience was still on its knees, vibrating with lust so fierce you could almost touch it, taste it.

Men and women wanted him, needed him, just like they always had. And some would even die for him.

Looking at the people in the crowd reminded Belladonna that fashion never changed all that much over the years. Most of them looked as if they'd just stepped from the corroding celluloid of a silent movie, black-eyed and pale and at odds with the colorful world around them.

It was pointless trying to hide; Vivant would have known she was here long before she crossed the threshold. No one could successfully sneak up on him.

Belladonna wondered why he had never left Hollywood for any significant period. He'd arrived here from eastern Europe and not left for more than a few weeks at a time in more than a century.

But it was a foolish question. She knew the answer. It was the reason she was standing there at this moment.

Because this is Hollywood.

And there's no place on earth quite like it.

Hollywood is where the widest dreams can come true and heart's desires are crushed. The place where legends are made and souls are lost.

It's where fantasies can become a reality and reality can turn into a nightmare.

Hollywood is love and hate. Euphoria and despair. Good and evil.

And it is a place where there is always hope. Hope that maybe, just maybe, you are the one. Hope that maybe someday it will be you sitting in the back of that long black car sipping ice-cold Cristal from platinum-rimmed flutes, giving head to the top box office star of the year, instead of parking his Limousine.

And Hollywood is where that might just happen. There's always a chance – no matter how small, how miniscule, that it could happen.

Because this is Hollywood.

That's why everybody always comes back.

And why some never leave. Can't leave. Won't leave.

She smiled. Sepia-toned memories invaded her, things she hadn't thought about in years, but she was glad she remembered them.

She was home again. Not that she had been gone for long.

And she was in love again.

With Hollywood.

Friday, February 25, 2011

Gimme, gimme some of that Vampire Money...

"Gimme, gimme some of that vampire money..."  -  My Chemical Romance

Well, yeah. That would be nice.

I just read the latest Tweet from Gerard Way and it simply said "Gimme gimme some of that vampire money."

And I thought, what does that mean? (I've not got the new album yet and only seen a couple of the new videos online, so I didn't realize Vampire Money was one of the tracks on it.) I figured he was going to be in a vampire movie or something.

So I Googled. Found it was a song title and then came across this article -

(Check out the second tower ad, right hand side. Oh, the irony.)

The article made me really sad. I thought, well shit, he's not gonna star in the movie version of Vampire Vintage now, is he? Damnit! (Vivant was actually in-part inspired by Gerard Way's look and his theatrics.)

Joking aside, (yes, I know he won't star in my movie, nor will I probably ever have a movie,) but, the thing that made me sad about the article was this - Gerard Way said he is now totally over the whole vampire/goth thing.


Because of the sparkly one. Because of the overexposure and watering down of the subculture. Because of the cynical packaging and marketing of the goth / vampire as a commodity.

In essence, I can see his point and to a greater degree, I concur with his analysis.


I remember a day, a day before My Chemical Romance were famous, before they were the apple of every purple-haired emo goth's eye. They were nobodies. Virtually unknown. But I loved their music. They inspired me. And now that everybody else loves them and is inspired by them, I still love their music. I am still inspired by them. Because what the music meant to me, what it said to me, what I felt when I listened to it, I felt in my heart and in my soul. And there is nothing on this earth that could possibly tear that out of me. Nothing. And just because they are now one of the top bands in the universe, I have no intention of turning my back on them nor withholding the cash I spend on CD, DVDs etc. I cannot switch off what I feel for their music just because a few million other people like them now too. Those few million people have taste, I say. And I'm a till death kinda girl.

If I could talk to Gerard Way and to anybody and everybody else who are burned out on vampires, just because of misplaced media overexposure, this is what I would say. Some of us loved vampires before they sparkled. Some of us wrote vampire fiction before they went to high school and had strangely-named offspring. Some of us have always written about vampires - even before they were part of every-day tween memes.

And some of us loved vampires and gothy things when it seemed that nobody else did, and, indeed, would laugh at at those of us who did for doing so.

For me, the whole Twilight / paranormal romance / teen / tween slash, slash - whatever - aren't even part of the genre I write in, or the genre that I love. Twilight has never been marketed as a vampire book and is not being made an icon by vampire lovers. It has been adopted by those who read romance books.

But for every icon that's made there's always an iconoclast waiting in the wings. There's always something else will come along to capture the hearts and minds and the Big Thing of today will be fish and chip wrappers tomorrow.

I say keep the faith! Don't turn your back on us - we didn't do it. We were hijacked by High School Musical with fangs and a million canine-toothed Fabios on bad POD covers. I'm waiting for the day I see a picture of Kim Kardashian and Justin Beiber with fangs. That day, I may slit my own throat in despair. (Not really, but you know what I mean.)

None of this is meant with disrespect to The Twilight Saga or the Twilight movies or Stephenie Meyer - I've never read it, seen it, met her. There is a place for Twilight and there is a place for us - for everybody. It just makes me sad that people who loved what we love don't want to be on our 'team' anymore because of those things. And they don't really have anything to do with us.

But no matter what anybody else does, what anybody else writes, anybody else says, no matter how uncool or out of favor they become (they won't,) I will still love vampires. I will still love goth and the gothic. I will still write really cool vampire books. Because that's me.

Never give up.

Never lose hope.

Never let anybody take from you that which you love.

And above all - "Be yourself, don't take anyone's shit and never let them take you alive." (G Way.)

- Alex. < --- Runs with vampires. Stakes boys who sparkle. (I'm just kidding!)

Thursday, February 17, 2011

HEAD SHOTS : Scenes from the Zombie Apocalypse

OUT NOW in Kindle Edition!


DON'T HAVE A KINDLE? NO PROBLEM! You can download FREE Kindle Apps HERE for : Windows PC , iPhone, Mac, Blackberry, iPad, Android & Windows Phone 7.


Meet Vic.

She used to be a cheerleader but her heart was never in it. She'd much rather have spent her time curb-stomping the high school Rah Rah Girls than cheering with them.

The daughter of the local "Vet who never left 'Nam," Vic had to fight tooth and nail for every single popularity point she ever earned.

But it was the skills her not-so-crazy father drummed into Vic her entire life that made her excel at surviving, starting with the day the world ended.

HEAD SHOTS : SCENES FROM THE ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE is a novella-length taster of a future full-length novel, HEAD SHOTS : LOVE SONG FOR THE APOCALYPSE.

Taking a slight departure from the usual continuous narrative, this 10,000 word novella is told in scenes, allowing for a lean, mean, rip-roaring read.

Excerpt from the opening of HEAD SHOTS : Scenes from the Zombie Apocalypse -



She stood in front of a broken window in the abandoned house they'd just looted. She was still. Silent. Others in the room whispered and whimpered, all of them terrified. They all knew what was coming.

Vic didn't even screw up her face when she caught their scent anymore. The stench carried over distance and you could always tell they would be here soon when the breeze smelled like the dead.

She heard shuffling coming from the left of the window. She stiffened, knife raised, ready to strike, muscles taut and glistening with sweat in the evening heat.

There was a gargling noise and the stink intensified. A young man behind her – no more than seventeen – bent double and heaved his guts up on to the floor as the scent of one of the dead fucks assaulted his nostrils. Some people just never got used to the aroma of rotting flesh.

That was what Vic usually called them, dead fucks. Each time she said it, she said it with venom. She said it with hatred. The F sound elongated when she spat it.

And then it was right in front of her. She grabbed at its head with a gloved hand, getting a fistful of maggots as well as hair.

She plunged the buck knife into its eye and wiggled it back and forth, up and down. She remembered her dad telling her they called it scrambling in Vietnam, “cause it leaves the brain looking like scrambled eggs – and 'bout as useful.” Then he would laugh, joyless, hollow laughter. Darkness would descend behind his eyes and color his gaze.

Vic knew that darkness now, she saw it in her own reflection.

She knew how it felt to be haunted, the way he was.

She pulled the blade out; it made a wet sucking noise; rancid vitreous humor dribbled down the loose meat face of the dead thing. The room voiced its disgust but she didn't even flinch.

Almost too easily she sliced through its neck, down to the bone. She hacked and stabbed at it, shattering vertebrae.

Then she punched it, just out of pure anger, needing the sting of pain in her own flesh to know she was hurting it, just to have that feeling of bone connecting with bone. The force of her blow separated the head from the neck and it fell backward, making the thing look like a rotten hoodie top. She laughed at it, but it was mirthless laughter, just like her dad...

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

My Favorite Obsession

When I was a little girl, sometimes I would stay up late and watch scary things I shouldn't be watching on my tiny black and white portable TV.

I'd turn the volume way down low, trying hard not to wake up my mum and dad.

It was on one of those late night TV shows that I first encountered what became an enduring fixation I've had for as long as I can remember.

The Black Dahlia Murder.

I'm completely obsessed with it.

I've read the books, seen the documentaries, bought a CD of the declassified FBI files, even watched movies very loosely inspired by it, like 'Deceiver' starring Tim Roth and Renée Zellweger.



As if it was an inanimate object that did not involve flesh nor bone nor blood.

The Black Dahlia – a mysterious alias, a book, a movie, a rock band, a kick-ass t-shirt, an obsession.


But the it had a victim.

Her name was Elizabeth Short.

She wasn't just a Hollywood lush or a maybe prostitute.

She was a daughter.

She was a sister.

She was loved.

She was just 22 years old when a psychopath cut her in two and left the pieces of her ruined body in a vacant lot near Hollywood.

And a legend was born that day in January 1947, the same day as Beth Short died.

The Black Dahlia Murder has inspired, haunted, obsessed writers and film makers for decades. I am one of them.

In my first novel, Vampire Vintage (which I actually completed recently,) my main character Belladonna Busto is hugely influenced by Elizabeth Short. Immensely. Elizabeth Short (or girls who look like her,) seems to appear in a lot of my writing. I don't do this consciously, but eventually I recognize it during the writing of the piece. She even makes a fleeting appearance in Vampire Vintage. And I just know I have to write a fiction book about her some day. I know I will. She's in my psyche.

There's much myth and speculation that surrounds the life as well as the death of Elizabeth Short, AKA The Black Dahlia, from rumors of BDSM movies to prostitution to hermaphrodism.

But we will never know the full story of her life or her death. But we'll continue to be fascinated by her and her vicious, brutal murder.

We will never know if she was aware of what was happening to her. We will never know if she was conscious when her killer bisected her body. If she was, how long did she endure? We will never know if he sliced through the sides of her mouth and gave her that near ear-to-ear gory grin before he cut her in two.

We will never know any of these things.

But we will always wonder about them. We will always ponder these questions, even if we don't want to acknowledge our own ghoulishness, even to ourselves sometimes.

And we will always be fascinated and repulsed by the spectacular murder of the young woman they called The Black Dahlia.

My personal favorite book on this subject is John Gilmore's SEVERED : The True Story of the Black Dahlia. Gilmore's painstaking research and obsession rises off the page to meet you.

Reading this book for the first time gave me a sense of Elizabeth Short as a person and not just a dark and mysterious alias or a raven haired beauty in a faded photograph. She became real to me instead of just being a horror story on late night TV.

Do you have a Black Dahlia fixation like I do? What fascinates and compels you the most about the case?

I wrote this vignette about my obsession with The Black Dahlia Murder. Enjoy.

- Alex.

A Vignette by Alex Severin.

I am the Black Dahlia. I'm dying now but I know that I will live forever in hearts and minds and storylines.

I can see the future. I can see worldwide fame, my notoriety. I will be the subject of books, books written about the manner in which I am now dying. I can see learned men will talk about me in years to come. There will be motion pictures about me, about my life and about my death.

I always new that I would be famous.

But this is not what I had in mind.

Champagne and limousines.

Red carpets and movies stars.

Screen tests and premieres and stardom.

That's what my life should have been, not this, this dirt and blood and sex and death.


Newspaper sales.

Extra! Extra! Read all about it! Hollywood beauty brutally slain!

Black and white photographs of me looking pretty, looking like the movie starlet I could have been.

Should have been.


That's what they always say about the ones like me.

I am the Black Dahlia and I have no will left to move even if I had the strength.

From where I am right now there is no way back to normal.

I have to die.

I have to die to become legend, to become myth.

I am bound hand and foot in a dirty bathtub. I can feel the cold chrome of the faucet on my wrists and a trickle of rusty water drip, drip, dripping, down my arm.

I can only imagine what he's going to do to me.


Beneath me.

A space between them.


I am the Black Dahlia, the one who will be immortalized in the sensationalist headlines that will follow the discovery of my body. I've read the lurid details of murders before, many times. Nobody ever thinks they will be the victim that others will revel in reading about.

But the gutter press could never, ever capture this horror, the horror that has turned my veins to ice as I realize what he's going to do to me.

And still I cannot move.

I cannot struggle.

I cannot even scream for my throat is full of blood cascading down from my ruined mouth. He sliced it – almost ear to ear and with the keenest blade – and I can only wonder how horrific I look at this moment. I'm glad I will not live to see it. I would be a monster.


Sliver of light glints off the surface.




Oh, God, please let me die now! Please don't let me feel it! Please don't let me feel it!

I wish that I could talk to him, my murderer. Tell him not to do this. Tell him that I don't deserve this.

I wish I could move to let him know that I am still alive and I know what he's going to do and I don't want him to, I don't want to feel it, don't want to be cut in half and still be alive and know what he's doing and feel it, feel it, feel it, feel the blade sawing through my flesh and then reaching my spine, separating my vertebrae, making me a legend.

I am the Black Dahlia and I am dead now.

I am serene.

I no longer suffer the pain of my torture.

I lie here, morning dew settling on my skin, awaiting my discovery, my infamy, and the birth of a million obsessions, a million more stories. I lie here, alabaster and bloodless like a broken sculpture among the grass and weeds.

I am the Black Dahlia and I know you will hear my name.

Vampires! What's Your Type?

Vampires - sensual, erotic, beautiful, enigmatic, romantic...and deadly.

Vampires are the stuff of dreams and fantasies.

Vampires give us the gift of immortality.

Vampires challenge the one inevitability in life - death.

Vampires are synonymous with love, sex, desire, lust, obsession...and blood.

What is it you love about Vampires?

What type of vampire do you love to watch, love to read about?

Have you fallen for the passionate brooding fops, like Lestat, who walk the night in velvet and lace in Anne Rice's 'Vampire Chronicles?'

Or are you a sucker for the ghoulish, vicious vampires of '30 Days of Night?'

Or maybe you like your vampires with a hint of teenage sparkle about them, like the ever-popular Edward Cullen of the 'Twilight Saga.'

What's your type?

- Alex.

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

Excerpt from BLOODY LOVERS - Vampire Erotica Story

Hey, me again!

Just popped in to throw an excerpt up here from one of the stories in my new vampire erotica collection, 'Make the Streets Run Vampire Red.' It's out now in Kindle Edition.

(Remember, if you don't have a Kindle reader, don't worry! There's lots more ways to read Kindle Books. All the info is on each Kindle book's page, on the right side.)

It's just a wee taste, savor the flavor, see if you want to gorge yourself on some more.





Only when she was sure every candle was lit and in place did she turn off the main light in her apartment.

There were dozens of them, all shapes and sizes, but each one made from virginal-white wax and placed in a black glass holder. They covered every flat, stable surface in the room.

A plume of heady-scented incense smoke swirled lazily into the air; the room was filled with the aroma of red and black berries and a hint of frankincense, a top note of exotic musk and spices from far away places. The scent made her think of excited sweat on dark skin.

Krista's stage was set.

The splendor of her nakedness was exaggerated in the shadow cast on the wall by the flickering light of the candles. She admired her own fine form on the mirrored wall opposite.

She gazed at her damaged flesh, an expression of love on her face. She was proud of her scars, and felt they made her utterly unique in the world. And they said so much about her. Her scars told a story - the story of her devotion, of her trust.

Krista ran a finger over the heart-shaped scar on her left breast; she smiled at the difference in texture it had from the skin which immediately surrounded it. She loved the fact that particular scar was so prominent, so raised, that you could easily tell the shape of the scar without looking at it.

This scar was special.

Only one person in the whole world was allowed to drink from her heart.

Krista’s heart belonged to Lord Ruthven.

Each inch of changed flesh on her body held a memory. Each one of them reminded her of a day, of a person, reminded her of an emotion or a phrase, of a song. Some of them reminded her of a particular sensation - either pleasure or pain, or both. But all of them, each and every piece of scar tissue on her body made her feel love, love for the one who gave it to her and love for herself.

Each new scar she acquired made her feel even more beautiful than she did before. The more scar tissue she collected the more confident she became.

Krista admired her own body and ran her fingers over every scar, delicately touched each raised reminder of a steel caress or an ivory stab.

Lord Ruthven watched her. Although he did not love her, he was fascinated by her, and she allowed him to do things to her no other blood doll would ever tolerate.

Most of the donors he’d come into contact with were little more than weekend vampires. They would dress up in pseudo Victoriana, donned over-the-counter costume fangs from a joke shop and paint their faces with clown white.

But Krista was different. Lord Ruthven knew that from the moment he met her and immediately saw the mosaic of scars that adorned her body.

She was beautiful, olive-skinned and raven-haired and the myriad of scars and her opulent clothing made her look like an old pre-Raphaelite painting with a cracked temper coating.

She was the only one he’d ever indulged in blood-play with who actually allowed him to bite.

She loved it.

She revelled in it.

She needed it.

Each time they had a session she would writhe beneath him, grab fistfuls of his hair in her hands and force his bite deeper. She scream at him to bite harder, to suck harder, to fuck her harder.

And when the blades came out, she was so far into the whole thing that she actually scared him.

He had the notion that she would like him to murder her. He was sure she would die with a dripping cunt if he were to slice her flesh into ribbons with a cut-throat razor and bleed her white.

As he watched her, he was suddenly overwhelmed by his own need for blood. Her blood.

His need rose inside him, swelled, grew into a passion that was just the right side of hatred. He launched himself at her across the room, wrapping her long, dark hair around in his fist and jerking her head back violently.

Krista screamed, but it was not a scream of fear or displeasure. It was a scream of excitement, a scream of lust, of need for the kind of pleasure only torn flesh could give them both.

A new scar was about to be born...

- Alex.

Get 'Make the Streets Run Vampire Red' my new Vamprie Erotica Story Collection in Kindle Edition from

Sunday, January 9, 2011


Vampire Erotica Stories by Alex Severin



The debut solo collection from Vampire Erotica writer Alex Severin.

Alex Severin's unique brand of dark, erotic prose will kick you in the ass and grab you by the heart.

Set in the novel world of the VAMPIRE VINTAGE series, this is an introduction to characters your will be seeing a lot more of in the near future.

With a Foreword by Alex Severin, six VAMPIRE VINTAGE stories (three online favorites and three exclusives,) a lengthy novel excerpt, and a SECRET story online you'll find a link for in the book. There's also four bonus stories too.

You can download FREE Kindle Apps HERE for : Windows PC , iPhone, Mac, Blackberry, iPad, Android & Windows Phone 7.

Foreword by Alex Severin
The Birth of Lord Ruthven
Some of Your Gothic Blood
Sucker Club, Soho, LONDON, W1
Fuckin' Hardcore
Secret Online Story : Go to - www.************.com
Drain the Blood
Bloody Lovers
Excerpt - Vampire Vintage Book One : Belladonna in Hollywood
BONUS STORY 1 : The Modification of a Stupid Cunt
BONUS STORY 2 : Charlotte's Attic
BONUS STORY 3 : Little Prick
BONUS STORY 4 : The Blair



A short note at the top of the story page stated that a novel, Bloody Love had been born from this short story and was due for mass market publication very soon.

+CruxShadow666+ began to read.

He was perched on the edge of his seat, his breathing rapid, muscles taut as he read. Soon, the throb between his legs became unbearable, his cock rigid and pressed hard against the hot leather of his trousers. He fumbled frantically to pull them down but his zipper was stuck and the material adhered to the excited sweat on his skin. He huffed and puffed, panted, swearing at his uncooperative pants and vowing to kill them if they did not comply.

From SOME OF YOUR GOTHIC BLOOD He thought his neatly trimmed Van Dyk beard made him look like a hot Satan. Eddie Crowe really and truly thought he was the shit.

But this wasn’t going to be any ordinary night of stringless sex. These three gothic goddesses wanted something more from Eddie Crowe other than raw, animal fucking. They wanted something else from him – The Goth Star – but it wasn’t his body, it wasn’t risky impregnation, infamy and child support.

It wasn’t just his body they were after.

They wanted what was inside him.

Only when she was sure every candle was lit and in place did she turn off the main light in her apartment.

There were dozens of them, all shapes and sizes, but each one made from virginal-white wax and placed in a black glass holder. They covered every flat, stable surface in the room.

A plume of heady-scented incense smoke swirled lazily into the air; the room was filled with the aroma of red and black berries and a hint of frankincense, a top note of exotic spices from far away places. The scent made her think of excited sweat on dark skin.

And now, back home and in her room, radio on and again listening to the sound of his voice, Belladonna could now see his face when she closed her eyes, could see his hypnotic stare. She felt the tide of her blood rise, throbbing inside her like never before, and found the rhythm of her own hips as she sweated in the dark.

He had helped her on the arduous journey to being a woman, made her feel things she had never felt, want things she had not experienced, things she knew nothing of before. And now, she wanted much more of him than just his words. She wanted to feel more than the touch of her own hand and the sound of his voice.

I stare at my dark reflection, at the scars where searing brand marks once were, at the pieces of metal he raped my flesh with – coils of wire, steel plates, metal springs and spikes and studs – tiny pieces of pain scavenged from dead machines.

I cut away these scars now, cut them out with surgical steel that flashes in the half-light. There are more scars now, bigger, deeper, uglier. But they are my scars, scars that I have made. I chose to make these, not him. I have erased his signature from my skin – all except one. I always leave one. I cannot bare to remove every trace.

It took him a whole minute to shoot his load – in and out a couple of dozen times; my tired, bored pussy drier than the Sahara, the pussy he couldn’t get wet if he poured a bucket of water over it.

I fucking loathe him. His flesh connecting with mine in any manner makes my skin crawl, makes my gut tighten.

I hate the cruel straight line he calls a mouth. I have always found it at odds with his elegant speech, the words he uses, his impeccable pronunciation. It just does not seem right that such eloquence should come from that hateful gash in his face.

It was a dark and brooding building; twisted, sparsely leaved vines clawed their way up her facade like painful arthritic fingers. The wild and unruly grounds reached up from the earth as if they were trying to pull the house down into the comfort of her muddy womb.

Her broken windows were like soulless, sightless eyes. But Victoria knew the building was not soulless – she felt that within those rotting walls lived the souls of many.