Powered by PayPal
The Crimson Fantasies
If you enjoy reading the urban paranormal genre, brace yourself before you slake your thirst for the unpredictable. Part blood bath and part bubble bath, my Crimson fantasies are filled with humour and horror, suspense and steamy bits. An attic of secrets and a forbidden house, a kidnapping and a pub crawl, not one but two prison escapes, all have one thing in common — a 927-year-old biter named Sir William Simon Hennessy.

The past, present and future now await you...



Sneak Peeks at Random
The following is an excerpt from page 116 of The Crimson Dream:
The sincerity of his words had been received by Miss Birmingham as they had been intended by Sir William. He meant every word he spoke. That inner part of him that remained connected to his human self still had a human brain, and believed every lie he told to achieve what he had set out to do. But his vampire ruthlessness and seduction was truly the devil inside that ruled his nature.

Once Catherine stepped back into her room and moved aside in order that he could come in, he had already entered her in his mind; his hands had already unbuttoned her petticoat; his kisses were already traveling from the small of her back up to the nape of her neck. And her luxurious hair, that most wondrous place where the smells of each woman were held like flowers kept in a sealed box, would cover his face and caress his skin. Indeed, she would writhe on top of him, throwing her hands above his head to support her body. Her pert breasts would fall before him, offering themselves to his mouth like raw, uncut rubies to a skilled jeweller. She would then be helpless. She would take him deep into her, as much as her body would allow, and then disappear into him.

"I do believe chocolate is the work of Satan, would you not agree" asked Sir William mischievously. His cock throbbed. Stepping into her room, he shut the door behind himself. His clothes emanated the vampire aroma and Catherine almost swooned. When he opened the box to reveal the prized sweets of wrapped truffles, he watched her eyes flicker.

"I only wish for you to indulge in this extravagance. The shop owner assured me that he imports only the finest cocoa from abroad. I have already indulged in his offerings and they are nothing short of exquisite."

He saw the small hairs on her neck stand up. The bonnet he had seen earlier in the day was gone. Neither was her hair tightly coiled but rather, her ringlets had fallen out, splaying across her shoulders. Even the cleavage of her dress revealed her breasts like fresh rosebuds blooming and turning toward the kiss of the sun. He consumed her even before he had laid one finger on her body or before his lips had touched the moist texture of hers. To be able to watch her unwrap the chocolate and bring the delicacy to her lips was pure pleasure.

The following is an excerpt from page 3 of The Crimson Time:
Magdalene Crimson melted in sweet ecstasy. The pain hardened her nipples into rubies. Her legs were an eager, open mouth, spread far apart on the fine oak stretching table. She gripped the clamps intensely. The worse the crack of the cane stung, the stronger grew her desire.

Samuel possessed her, changing the pitch and rhythm of her quivering flesh with rapid cracks. When he struck fiercely, the electric impulse of contact made Magdalene feel alive. Each crack felt like a hot wasp sting, reverberating and pulsating for seconds afterward.

Samuel instructed Magdalene in the arts and magic of hard play, exploring new dimensions of pain in their sanctuary, a place where boundaries were pushed in privacy.

The attic's slanted walls of brick and wood exhaled the sweat and flesh of her scent.

Her subtle and unusual aroma of fresh cut grass, her reddened flesh and writhing limbs seduced Samuel wholly. He marveled at the awesome strength of her body. Sir William Simon Hennessy, Magdalene's predecessor, had transformed her into an extraordinary female, the one and true vampire on Earth.

The following is an excerpt from page 94 of The Crimson Man:
Magdalene believed if she had lived during the early years of Picasso she would shamelessly have offered her body to him as a model, a lover, a harlot, to share one kiss, a warm embrace, to copulate into late night until sun shattered the silence of naked morning.

Her train of thought was broken by a prominent man behind her who smelled intoxicating. Her nose deceived her. At first, she believed he smelled of cut grass, distinct and oddly alluring. She turned and locked eyes with his thousand-yard stare. He had at least five inches in height on her.

Instantly, she turned away and moved on to Between the Years covering Picasso's surrealistic period, the Graphic Alcove, the Garden of Delights, Mythologies: From the Centaur to the Minotaur. Magdalene was aroused by the images of the Minotaur over powering and ravaging women.

She saw herself in the images.

Samuel was alone. He hadn't anticipated the huge line-up and wished that he had come later in the day when the crowds would thin out. He was determined to see each pencil sketch as closely as possible. His height afforded him with the ability to gaze over the heads of those around. He watched with amusement as one particular, outstanding woman pushed with intensity and determination, moving her body into the crowd, inching closer, until it seemed that her nose would touch the glass. She was lost and enthralled in a five-minute examination of each sketch. Stepping into her, he smelled an unexpected scent he couldn't place his finger on, a subtle, bitter spice that reminded him of frankincense.

Her hair fell past her shoulders. The warm weather of Montreal had frizzed and curled the ends.
The following is an excerpt from page 224 of The Crimson Crimes:
Samuel Crimson, a most sought-after hybrid vampire, looks down at the empty chair. The four guards stand, one at each corner, with hands resting on gun butts, the leather snaps of their holsters open to allow quick access to their weapons. The female steps in to cut off Samuel's handcuffs then backs away. The fresh bruises on Samuel's face tingle with pain. He feels his swollen lips every time he swallows or speaks, and his eyes hurt every time he blinks. He pulls out the chair with his foot and gingerly sits, the tenderness in his groin and legs acute.

"Is it not illegal to take blood from someone who hasn't officially been arrested? What am I being held for?"

"Please extend one finger and then choose which arm you would like me to use," demands the professional, reaching across the table with a lancet to stick his finger. A length of tubing is laid out on the table, to tie around his upper arm.

"Did you hear my question?" asks Samuel. He thinks he sounds funny speaking with swollen lips. He reaches one hand across the table and his finger is pricked. The smear of blood is rubbed onto a small glass slide, which in turn, is inserted into the meter to test his hemoglobin level. The reading is normal.

"He's good to go," says the professional.

The female guard says, "Good. We don't want the big guy to faint on us, do we?"

This elicits a chuckle from the other guards. The professionals do not react.
The following is an excerpt from page 17 of Vulgar Verse:
No more am I the vision of permanence,

resting on his chest,

poor in spirit,

ill health of flesh.

I lay, and hold onto stolen moments,

fleeting by, this noon of coitus,

we take from other selves,

spent apart.

We lay, quietly,

in a barren room,

no likeness of knowing,

adorning the walls.

We lay, and touch the feeling of instance,

before emotion ends,

then leaves,

through the front door.
The following is an excerpt from page 207 of The Crimson Woman:
The unusual choice of time ideally suits an unencumbered stroll in the enclave as the lazy streets roll up past the darker stage of twilight. And the windows and doors shut and lock and the very few, the few who walk alone are unaware of what fate awaits. Nighttime is the cloak shrouding the frightening dream that twists the day of sun and cloud into a disguised form of incubus, the ancient demon who extracts purity from between sumptuous, plump thighs and suffocating the cries of objection. Nighttime absorbs and swallows the life-giving sustenance. For at night, when all should be safe at home, anything and everything is possible, the least is unimaginable and few know enough to remain indoors.

Yet, he is entirely at ease during daytime and while his preference is for night roaming, in light he is calm and reserved for the unraveling of his eternal being moves in any sphere of time and space. He delights in the irony, knowing that she sleeps during the day in the rented home he had selected so very close to her own - she sleeps next door.

Sir William's steps are characteristically silent and smooth. He moves in Sandy Hill, walking south on Chapel Street, and then onto Stewart before arriving at Augusta and Wilbrod. He begins his surveillance of blood potential.

It has been days since feeding and his hunger is intense but he utilizes a developed defence mechanism for quelling his desire without expending unnecessary effort; his mind produces detailed imagery of plates of solid foods, to satisfy the rabid lust of one-hundred men. He wants to feed before he speaks at length with Magdalene, before he leads her to enlightenment by revealing her ultimate purpose. He estimates there is less than two years remaining in the remarkable period of time that is his life, once the new offspring is thriving, born from the love of his hybrid son and human wife.

The following is an excerpt from page 98 of The Crimson Boy:
"Yet another myth, of which they abound...coffins and wood spikes and garlic cloves and coming out only at night, all nonsense, as though being blessed with immortality could be defiled by sunlight, nor do I have to subject myself to sleeping in the cramped quarters of a coffin. I do not sleep one wink, in truth. I meditate, which is as close to slumber as I come.

Myths perpetuated in pop culture are generally wrong, such as the demonstrative symbol dating back to Roman times when emperors executed Christians, criminals or gladiators... a thumb pointed upright in fact meant death, whereas a thumb pointed downward signified a sword being sheathed into the ground but of course the belief has been incorrectly re-used in film. It gives me a laugh... these enduring myths are far older than me," said Sir William.

"You don't sleep at all?" she asked.

"Never," he replied.

"Ever?" she asked again.

"You don't dream then," she surmised.

"Dreams I miss, I must confess. And what of your dreams?" he inquired.

"My dreams have crazy patters. I can't figure them out at all."

"You lose your shoes or purse quite a lot, do you not?" he asked.

"Yeah, how did you know?"

"Instinct," replied Sir William.
The following is an excerpt from page 30 of Friction:
This man's ardour,

softly nudging behind swaying wild fire,

internally bleeding and burning.

This bird of prey,

pulling at my meat

thorny and red.

My lips coming apart.

Both flesh and wet,

land eroding into rain,

into my age of breeding

coming quickly to me.

This man's prick is the sin I taste,

an epic fissure

this day we make.
The following is an excerpt from page 6 of Mounting the Bedpost:
He lays exuberantly

in my arms.

He nudges and nips

my edges.

He breaks my skin

and confesses,

he cannot keep his hands

off of me.

With hardly a telltale sign

he fell,

where I laid

his body next to mine.

His nipples hardened

and I unraveled,

while in his heart he held me

with a kiss.