It’s usually pretty hard to content note Halloween erotica. It’s fun to give myself the challenge of writing something dark and horror-focused at this time of year, and I like ’em gruesome. If you’re also into macabre sex stories you might enjoy the following, but if you don’t want to read about people fucking reanimated corpses, you should probably give it a miss. 

I wake up screaming. No idea why, but I wake up screaming. Just absolute, cold-blooded, throat-ripping screams. Christ. Fuck. I can’t understand it. It takes him a couple of minutes to calm me. Stroking me with gentle hands and crooning ‘ssssh’ into my ear.

I try to sit up. Can’t.

Try to move my hands. Can’t.

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As someone who has never fully exited her goth phase, I’m a big fan of Halloween erotica. You’ll find a tonne of spooky and supernatural guest content here on the site if you know where to look. From beasts that chase you semi-naked through the forest to demons that fuck you in hell. Creatures with tentacles, powerfully sexy ghosts, and even a lost ghost ship… Yeah. I fucking love this stuff. So this year when I did a shoutout for Halloween erotica, I was delighted when Ash (check out Ash’s website here and follow on Mastodon here!) got in touch with a kickass, atmospheric and beautifully horny twist on graveyard sex. Enjoy!

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Note: references to grief, death and eating. Also, this is honestly not my best. Better Halloween erotica is available on the blog tag.

I feed off your dreams. You knew that, right? But did you know that each dream tastes different? The happy ones are bland and shining. Joy tastes like ashes in my mouth – the bad dreams are where it’s at. The giant spiders chasing you through Covent Garden. Infinite, unwakeable scenes of drowning. Delicious.

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Note that this horror erotica contains blood, violence and brief/abstract references to suicidal ideation. Written by the fabulous Scorpio Appetites, it originally appeared on his website and it’s brought to life as audio porn for Halloween by the wonderful Luke. 

The cash machine was a monument to the departed amid a battleground of empty bottles and polystyrene boxes. Gemma groaned as she stood in a kebab, and managed to get her card in on the fifth or sixth try. She punched in her PIN through muscle memory alone. The lurid display informed her she had £3.47 left in her account. Not even enough for a burger, let alone a taxi.

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There, I said it. And I apologise in advance, because usually I like to lean in to Halloween a little at this time of year – write a story in which I try to scare you. Something about zombies or werewolves or vampires or sirens luring unsuspecting humans into bringing them fresh prey. But this year, my plans for a story about sex-hungry ghosts or demonic possession went awry. Something malevolent took up residence in my brain, its claws embedded firmly in the part that deals with writing, refused to let me conjure one of those stories. So instead you get this: a pretty standard blog post about why the scent of period blood makes me really horny.

CN: this post contains blood, violence and some elements of non-consent. No men were harmed in the writing of it.

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