“Billy Does a Vampire in a Tree” is a short, erotic story about a goth couple who go up a tree to have sex….Then they have sex! Then they get married and live happily ever after. Right there, in the tree. Me Goth Tarzan, You Goth Jane. Aren’t we deathly pale under the forest canopy! Oh look, Cheeta is dressed in black; he’s always the coolest!

It really isn’t your typical erotica! It’s a bit funny, a touch contemplative, and very sexually graphic. About 2600 words. Available for about $0.99 (plus any delivery costs) at several amazon sites, Smashwords, and likely a few other sites.

See side-bar for sales links.

Here, I present a longer sample than some online stores do.

“You sure this is safe?” In mid-sentence, he wonders whether he should have skipped this question in  favour of coming across more manly.

“Trust me!” she says, not  minding at all that she is playing the lead in this, as she had all morning, as she had according to plan. “Trees like it when you get off  on them. It’s like the cycle of life…and birth and all that. When you  do it in the middle of the woods, it’s just more natural.”

“So can’t we just go in a hay  loft or something?”

“When you see a hay loft, let  me know! Just when was it the last time you ran into one, eh?”

“Well I can’t say I’ve often  run into an old-growth redwood, either. Let alone for having sex on.”

“You just hadn’t heard of it.  And this isn’t a redwood, anyway!”

“Whatever!”

“Big trees are great places  for having sex : you got those thick, sturdy trunks, the shade of the  canopy, a cool breeze…”

“All the bugs!”

“Oh, that’s just the gravy!”

“Bug gravy?”

“Sure. Whatever floats your  boat! And I don’t think this is exactly old-growth.”

“Yes, professor!” Having  ignored the arboreal correction, Billy says, “How did shipping get into  this? I thought we were doing forestry! All of a sudden we’ve gone  nautical?”

“We’ll be going nautical when  I piss on you!”

“Uh, I didn’t know that that  was on the menu.” Duly alarmed, Billy says, “You mind me going up first?”

“Hold your water, we’re  almost there,” she says, struggling to fit her boots onto each rung of  the ladder.

“Well, can’t we do it on the  lower branches?”

“It’s better up top. Don’t be  such a pussy!”

“Oh, stop flirting! You’re  turning me on, now.”

The bus had dropped them off,  and then they had to walk along the trail to get to the tree. The sun  was glaring down upon the vinyl-clad duo who looked as natural as the  dark nightclub they had left only a few hours ago.

Her lips, pouted like a  rosebud, stand out from the pallor of her make-up. She is wearing short  shorts—black, of course—and a black, lace top, strategically torn in all  the right places; a cleavage that has somehow escaped the sun; a vinyl  bra pushing up said cleavage; and a wide, sacrilegiously-white belt  separating the two halves, and defining herself away from the conformist  riff-raff. The lace gloves are off, for business. (What colour? No, your first guess was right!) Her hair is dark blue, long, and ponied  into two tails springing from each side of the back of her crown,  defiantly pouring out of dark-grey columns of wrapped cloth in lieu of  horns. Her legs are made to look longer than her six-inch platforms help  them do, by the length of leather and deliciously-Puritan buckles going  up each side. It’s a fuck-you to Mom, Dad, and assorted figures of authority regulating her pussy. She has done away with the obligatory  fishnet stockings, and has chosen instead to bare her thighs to the  decidedly bright sun which was sternly glaring at the reprobates  approaching the last semblances of Nature.

Billy’s a stick! (A club?  Club fiend?) Not an ounce of fat on a frame that can otherwise be  classified as lean, and leanly muscular–like he could do well in  flyweight boxing, but clubbing got in the way. Why hold-in your jism  just to pummel another man to a pulp!

His face rates as an it’ll-do  for her current purposes. He shows potential, but not yet worth the  scrub-down for any longer-term investment.

“The thing with fucking, up  in a tree, is that you’re closer to Nature. You’re right there with  Mother Nature,” she says, in between her panting.

“So it’s a threesome!”

“Better than the best threesomes,” she says casually. “Well, better than,” she wants to  mention a two-guy threesome, but, so as not to spoil the mood for him, or lest he suddenly go male-chauvinist-asshole on her, and perhaps to  turn him on a bit more, “the two girls I had on Thursday.” Not that she  cares, particularly, to turn him on (she takes that for granted; the  confidence of experience.) But because she likes the power, the control, she feels with so little. A few words have so much power! It’s like holding the remote control.

“Uh, just how many have you been involved in?”

“This weekend?”

“Just give me the tally.”

“Oh, darling, I didn’t know  you cared!”

He can’t stop looking at her ass. Those tight little shorts getting stretched each time she climbs  onto a higher branch. He looks for glimpses of a shaved pussy, but can’t  see one. He wonders what Mother Nature looks like in real life. Is she  matronly, or hot? Does she wear a light, summer dress, with no slip  beneath—so, when back-lit, the curves of her silhouette show through,  giving you an erection in broad daylight, and then you have to carry  something in front of your board shorts? Or is she the hot spinster  type, with the tightly-bunched hair, held in place with strict pins—who will toss  away her horn-rimmed glasses before she pushes you against a wall to  practise a little natural selection?

“Right here,” she says as she climbs onto a set of thick branches shooting off the trunk.

“No, let’s go higher!” he  teases.

“What, you brought some  smokes?”

“That wouldn’t be a good  idea.” He imagines banging her, and tries to think up positions suitable  for the small space.

“Yeah.”

“Nice little spot,” he says,  finding a branch to sit on. “Good place for a tree house.”

She ignores this, checking  out his breathing to see how tired he may be. Things seem fine. “Water?”  she says, tilting her bottle at him, but keeping it against her chest.
He moves to her, drinks, then  pulls her close for a deep kiss. Immediately, he reaches for her  tongue, locks it into his mouth, and sucks it in just enough to hear her  protest. Letting go slightly, he reaches for the cleavage that has been  preoccupying his mind the whole morning. Under the vinyl, he grabs her  breast as he continues to suck her tongue in. Squeezing, pulling her  nipple, and massaging over her chest.

She stops kissing, and takes  off her top to undo the bra. The thought of pushing him off the tree  occurs to her, but she decides to stay the course. Checking his crotch  for signs of life, all is well.

Having peeled off his own  T-shirt, he waits no longer, and starts kissing her breasts. Cupping one  with one hand, and kissing the other with his lips. A slight squeeze, a  pinch of the nipple, a bite, a brush of his face, and caressing with fingertips, the palm and the back of his hand.

But enough kissing!