MOOD ELEVATOR

A short story by

David Benton & W.D. Gagliani

Published by David Benton and W.D. Gagliani

Copyright © 2011 David Benton and W.D. Gagliani

First E-Book Edition April 2011

License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the author.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Contact:

Tarkus Press

PO Box 214

Oak Creek, WI 53154

http://www.williamdgagliani.com

http://www.wdgagliani.com

        Also by W.D. Gagliani:

Savage Nights

Wolf’s Trap

Wolf’s Gambit

Wolf’s Bluff

Wolf’s Deal (2011 novella)

Wolf’s Edge (2011)

Shadowplays (Fiction Collection)

Mysteries & Mayhem (Fiction Collection, with David Benton)

MOOD ELEVATOR

The brownstone’s exterior was classic, if a bit tarnished, but from the moment Susan and her husband entered the lobby, she didn’t mind at all. Each of the five floors had been split into two apartments sometime in the past forty years, but it didn’t matter because even so now they would have more Manhattan space than any three of their friends combined. The rent was steep, of course, but now that Artie booked regular gigs both with his band and as a solo act in Village coffeehouses, and her own salary had recently risen to a more comfortable level, they would make it.

Susan sighed as they waited in front of the elevator for the building manager to show them around. He was late, which didn’t inspire much confidence in his managerial skills.

She pondered their situation. Sure, she wasn’t burning up the advertising business ladder or anything like that, but her boss at the agency had taken a liking to her, spotting her talent and nurturing her past several peers. Well, true, Susan had taken to wearing tight sweaters and short skirts, often made of supple black leather, but that was her style and she was finally able to afford it. And if she tended to leave a few of the top buttons undone on her blouses, that was because the office was always boiling hot, wasn’t it? The lacy black bras she sometimes wore under those light blouses were just as much an advantage with clients as they were with Harrison Stims, her boss, whose ad agency had developed a reputation for quick and innovative work. Susan was part of that reputation, and she was proud to have her hard work rewarded with more money and a better office, right next to Harrison’s. Thanks to her advancement, this apartment wasn’t out of their reach any more.

She took Artie’s hand in hers and squeezed it, raising her eyebrows and hoping to turn his perpetual frown into something like a smile.

“You should be happy,” she whispered. His rough hand in hers didn’t respond to the pressure. “This is a great place.”

“We can’t afford it,” he said. “We’re going to have to stop eating out. And we don’t cook.”

“I’ll take cooking lessons.”

“Sure. Right.”

“We’ll manage. My star’s rising at Stims, so it’ll get even better.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“You’ll get more gigs.”

Artie frowned. They both knew he could gig more if he was willing to join a cover band. He wasn’t.

Susan shook her head. He just didn’t get it.

There was no going back to their old studio walkup, where you could sit on the pot and make yourself coffee at the same time. Where the heat was more clanging sounds from the registers than actual hot air. Where their friends had to visit in stages because there was only room for a small couch and an armchair (thanks to Artie’s pile of equipment, which took up half their living room).

Susan sighed.

Artie made a huffing sound and started tapping his toe.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, you must be the Blanchards, you’re gonna love the apartment, let me get my keys.”

Susan turned toward the rapid voice, imagining a geeky stringbean type with a frayed sweater and maybe a weak attempt at a mustache. She was shocked at what she saw when her eyes focused.

“Sorry about that, and my motor mouth,” he said, extending his right hand and smiling. “I’m Mark Anthony, manager and sometime plumber.”

With his left hand he pushed the elevator call button slowly, almost sensually.    

Susan gulped and smiled, dumbstruck.

“I’m Art and this is my wife Susan,” Artie said. The annoyance was still evident in his tone, but he held out his hand.

She let her eyes rove over Mark’s fine features as they stood, awkwardly waiting.

Mark Anthony. Yeah, right!

It was either a stage name, or his parents had one hell of a sense of humor. But he did look vaguely like she imagined a Roman centurion might – powerful, healthy of body, and possessed of the most limpid dark eyes she’d seen in a long time. Dark hair cropped close to his scalp and yet seeming to flow, lion-like, over his shoulders. His nose had that Roman look, almost too prominent but then not quite, dominating his face but calling attention instead to the full, cherubic lips below. His smile was brilliant and natural, his eyes lighting with sparkles as he shook their hands, Artie’s first, then hers, lingering a fraction of a second longer after caressing her skin with his.

Or was she just imagining that?

Either way, Susan hated letting his hand slip away.

The doors suddenly slid open with a slight creak, the car having arrived noiselessly.

The buttons were rounded in the old-fashioned way, three-dimensionally, set in two short parallel rows of three (five floors and the basement, Mark explained). She pushed the top right button and stared at herself in the mirror set just above the panel, noticing that her face was flushed from the heat. At least they wouldn’t freeze in this building! Her blouse was opened almost down to her breasts, but her light leather blazer kept her look business-like. She smiled at her reflection and let her finger linger on the floor button, feeling it yield beneath her pressure. Her breathing quickened.

Mounted on the wall of the car perpendicular to the controls was a hinged contraption that appeared to be able to swing down. It was perhaps fourteen inches in length, metallic like a lever, but encased in opaque rubber.

Susan felt vaguely unsettled as she examined the lever surreptitiously. When she looked up, she realized that both Artie and Mark were looking at her as if she’d spoken. Or if she’d flashed her boobs, like she had once during Mardi Gras in the pre-flood French Quarter.

A droplet of sweat down the center of her back tickled until it was absorbed by her blouse.

She stared at herself in the mirror. Her lips seemed fuller when she pursed them. Colorful patches dotted her high cheekbones. Her eyes flashed. Behind her, reflected in the mirror, the delectable Mark Anthony was talking to Artie, his hands gesturing.

Susan suddenly wanted one of those hands on her breast. She wanted his fingers to pluck her nipple as if it were a grape on the vine. She raised her hand and caressed the buttons on the board. They were nipples, and she felt them harden under her touch. She placed her other hand on the mysterious lever, encircling it with her slim fingers, feeling it throb as if blood flowed in its veins. It swelled, and she moved her fingers over it teasingly until she thought it would burst. Or she would burst.

“How are the neighbors?” Artie asked.

Susan dropped her hands quickly, guiltily, and turned around to face the two men. Her fingers retained the feel of aroused skin, and she felt wetness between her legs that wasn’t sweat.

But she was sweating. Another cool trickle seemed to sizzle down her warm back. She shook her head, hoping to clear it.

“Not bad,” Mark said. “Mostly young professionals. A couple weird artists. Me.” To Susan he said, “I see you’ve noticed the remains of a bygone age. The elevator operator’s seat was screwed to that bracket. It would swing down from the wall so the old guy could sit on it.”

“Oh,” was all she could muster. Was he leering at her?

Instead of feeling upset, she felt … tingly.

The elevator opened and when she touched the rubber-encased doors they were like the soft skin of a vagina.

What the hell’s the matter with me? she thought, her breath hitched in her throat. What am I thinking?

“Fifth floor: beach wear, lingerie, and vacant apartments,” Mark said. He smiled innocently as the three of them slipped out of the elevator.

The hall seemed cool and dark compared to the intense swelter of the elevator. Susan suddenly felt self-conscious, almost embarrassed. She reached down and buttoned the top of her blouse.

Down the hall, a young woman emerged from her apartment. She wore a well-tailored business suit that showed off the gentle curves of her slender body. She carried a briefcase in one hand and her keys in the other, and smiled at Mark as she passed them on her way to the elevator.

To Susan the smile seemed too friendly and she felt an unexpected jab of jealousy surge through her.

“This way,” Mark said, motioning in the direction from which the woman had come. Artie and Susan followed.

Susan looked over her shoulder at the young woman by the elevator. She seemed to be watching them from the corner of her eye as she stepped through the doors. Or, more precisely, she’d been watching their ruggedly handsome guide.

And Susan was envious, envious of her figure, of her features, of her hairstyle, but mostly she was envious of her apparent relationship with Mark Anthony.

They reached the apartment door just as Susan heard the elevator doors slide closed.

Susan took a deep breath and sighed. She was a happily married woman! And, although she could not deny that Mark was stunningly good looking, she knew she loved Artie despite his sometimes cold demeanor.

Get a grip! she commanded herself.

In the hall, a portrait caught Susan’s attention. An old oil painting hung in a gilded frame on the wall.

“Is that Aurora DiLuisas?” she asked.

“Yes it is.” Mark stepped back to admire the picture, a wide smile on his face. “She was known as ‘The Greek Marilyn.’ She’s our official matriarch. This was actually her building at one time. She died in the early Seventies, still fairly young. Sexy thing in her prime, wasn’t she?”

“Who is this Aurora-whoever?” Artie asked.

“The actress!” Susan declared, latching onto Artie’s arm. She had an urgent need to touch him, to reassure herself that things were all right between them. Or just to touch him. She stared at the portrait of a lovely woman, lush red lips parted in near-ecstasy, dark eyes flashing below deep red hair piled in a single side-braid. “You know, on AMC. She’s a late-night, B-movie queen now, but might have made it as big as Melina Mercouri, if she hadn’t died.”

“They say she still hangs around, haunting this place,” Mark said, mock fear in his voice. “But I’ve been here for three years now and I’ve never seen any ghosts. It’s a great story to tell your friends, though.”

Artie grunted.

Mark winked at Susan and slowly slid the key into the hole. He turned the ornate door knob, opening the place wide for inspection.

Susan gasped. It was better than she had hoped. The floors were all bare hardwood, except for the art-deco mosaic tiles in the bathroom. She walked through it quickly. The rooms were huge, with high vaulted ceilings and richly-embellished plaster crown moldings. A fresh coat of white paint made everything sparkle. The building still used radiant heat and there were radiators in the bedroom, the kitchen, and the enormous living room. And she instantly fell in love with the old cast-iron claw-footed bathtub. She envisioned herself in the tub, naked in a mass of bubbles, Mark – Artie, she corrected, Artie – Artie standing beside her, thrusting his erect member into her mouth. She shivered, and… the vision faded. She’d never had that urge before. She shook her head.

When she looked out the windows she knew there was no doubt they would take the apartment, despite Artie’s reservations, because the tall double-hungs overlooked the avenue just above the canopy of maple trees lining the street. And after seeing that, there was no returning to the view of the neighboring building’s back side she’d had to endure the last five years.

“We’ll take it,” she blurted.

“The lease is on the counter. I just need you to sign it and I’ll need the first and last month’s rent.”

Susan signed and Artie did the same, begrudgingly. It was plain to see that he was unhappy about being railroaded into renting the place. His face was stoic as he handed Mark the check. But Susan knew just how to relax him.

“All right, well here are your keys,” Mark said, setting them on the kitchen counter. “Would you like me to show you out?”

“No, we’re going to stay for a little while,” Susan responded, giving her husband a devilish smile.

“Okay!”

Was that a leer again?

She led Mark to the door, said good-bye, and turned to face Artie.

“Damn it, Sue!” Artie glared at her.

“Come on, honey. This place is beautiful. It’s just what we always wanted.”

“It’s what you’ve always wanted. At least we could have discussed it before signing the lease.”

Susan closed in on him, pulling him by the front of his pants to the kitchen. “Please, Artie I don’t want you in a bad mood the first time we make love in our new home.”

She hiked her skirt up a little, teasing, then pulled it up past her hips and hopped onto the kitchen counter, spreading her legs wide. “Like?”

His face turned red. Damn it! He wasn’t quite as sexually liberated as she was, and she knew it. What had come over her? She jumped off the counter and went to him. “Artie, I’m sorry.”

She hugged him through his discomfort and they stood like that for a few minutes. She could feel the squelching between her thighs when they headed for the door. Artie still hadn’t said much, and she wondered what he thought of her right now. What did Mark think of her?

She hoped she’d see Mark, but the hall was empty. She pressed the call button and again it was a nipple under her fingers. She shivered. Almost as if it were her own nipple.

The doors slid open coquettishly, teasing her with their molded rubber labial folds. When she entered, pulling Artie along, the heat struck her again and she felt the flush creep onto her face. The Lobby button yielded to her touch like a young virgin, and she almost giggled helplessly at the thought. The doors winked at her as they closed, and she winked back.

She spotted the Hold button and before she knew it she’d caressed it and the elevator stopped between floors.

“What are you doing-” Artie began, but she’d pushed him backward into the side and now saw herself in the mirror behind his shocked face. “Susan?”

She knelt down in front of Artie, massaging the crotch of his khaki pants and feeling him stir.

Finally!

Slowly she undid his button and zipper and pulled the cloth down around his thighs. He was straining in his shorts, and now his breath came rapidly above her. She freed and took him gently into her cool mouth and engulfed him, slowly bobbing her head while he grew harder. When Artie reached the point at which she could no longer comfortably fit him in her mouth, she concentrated on his head with lips and tongue, stroking his shaft with her right hand, her left hand gently caressing his scrotum. She pulled away and let him slip out of her mouth with a wet smack.

Susan’s clitoris tingled and she started to moisten again. She stood and nearly ripped her black lace panties off with one hand while massaging Artie’s member with the other.

“Fuck me,” she whispered, her eyes half-closed, lids heavy with ecstasy. She saw herself in the mirror and wondered when she’d dyed her hair red. But she hadn’t, had she? It had to be a trick of the light.

Even Artie couldn’t ignore this force of nature. When she reached up and balanced her left arm on his shoulder and straddled him with one leg up, he slid himself upward and inside her wetness. He thrust slowly and deeply, keeping time with their labored breaths. Susan gasped. He had never seemed so huge. She thought he would scrape the bottom of her ribcage with his erection. She leaned on him, allowing him to surge even higher.

The elevator wall beneath her hands seemed to tremble at their passion, and when her left hand slid downward it naturally found the lever (the old seat bracket, Mark had explained, Mark Mark Mark) and her fingers encircled its bulbous head and she groaned as it came to life under her touch and began thrusting out at her in rhythm with Artie’s own.           

Susan almost let go of the handle, but it felt so real, so alive, and so urgent in her hand, that instead she massaged it as if it were a second lover.

Artie’s thrusts gained urgency and seemed to reach up into her chest, making her nipples crackle with electricity even as he approached his climax, taking her with him while she masturbated the metallic hard-on in her hand, until Artie finally exploded, sending jets of his seed deep into her. The phallic lever spurted hot come into her palm and she groaned and came as she’d never been able to before. She felt Artie’s semen sliding along his shriveling member and down her thighs in cooling rivulets.

When she opened her eyes and stared at herself, her hair was its normal color again, and her hand still gripped the lowered seat bracket, but it was dry and not fleshy at all. What the hell made her think otherwise? She shook her head, dazed, then unstraddled him. They cleaned up as best they could. Artie wouldn’t look at her as he jabbed the Hold button and they began to descend. Her body still tingled where Artie’d plunged into her. And the elevator seemed to tingle at her touch as she slowly returned the seat bracket to its upward position, wondering at what she’d felt – how real it had seemed.

Just then the doors opened. Mark stood outside, his wide grin turning into another leer as he saw her hand leave the bracket. Susan knew their disheveled clothing was a giveaway, that and their sweat-stained faces. She took Artie’s hand and pulled him docilely out of the elevator, spotting her torn black lace panties in the corner, but too late.

“We’ll see you soon!” she babbled as they burst out into the lobby and headed for the street door.

“Nice to meet you!” Mark called out after them as the door closed. Susan thought she glimpsed him bending over to grasp her panties. She laughed until tears came. And, for once, even Artie seemed to think what had happened was one for the books.

* *

Two weeks later their furniture arrived, and after rearranging the couch and armchair seemingly a hundred times, they went shopping for new furniture. As they left, they ran into Mark and said hello. Both of them burst out laughing as soon as they were away from the building. Artie hadn’t talked much about “the incident” in the elevator, but Susan couldn’t get it out of her mind.

Days, while working, Susan thought about Mark’s lips, wanting to crush hers against them. At night, while Artie gigged, Susan fantasized about Mark sliding in and out of her. When she made love to Artie, vigorous, aggressive lovemaking unlike what she’d once preferred, it was Mark she thought of. For his part, Artie had begun to talk less, withdrawing into his music and sleeping later into the day after late-night gigs. He let Susan use his body like a love toy, but his emotions seemed to drift further and further away from his flesh and its needs. She wondered if he could sense her feelings for Mark?

And then, a month after moving in, Susan discovered a fresh need.

She’d been riding the elevator to the basement laundry facilities all afternoon, finding herself becoming more and more aroused. Her lingerie retrieved in a basket, her thoughts turned to the lost black lace panties. She was sure Mark had them. He seemed to smile at her too widely every time he passed her in the hall. And did she catch him winking at her whenever she entered or left the elevator?

Mark rode the elevator a lot, and Susan had started to ride it as much as she could. Even though she had promised herself to use the stairs for exercise, whenever she walked past the elevator to the stairs, she was drawn to the button and found herself calling for the car. She felt a strange tingle every time she touched the buttons inside or out of the car, and today the temptation to ride was too strong once again.

She caressed the button, watched the rubber labia opening to swallow her body, and then once inside turned to see herself in the mirror. Her hair always looked red in the smoky mirror, and she always seemed flush with desire. This time, her mind had already presented her with the solution to her needs. She pinched the Hold button between her fingers like a nipple, then wrapped her hand around the phallic lever and swung it down so it pointed at her like an erection out of a Giger catalogue. Excitement flowed down her inner thighs as she turned and raised her leather skirt, baring her buttocks. She’d taken to skipping panties on wash days, or any days she might bump into Mark. But now her need was greater than she had expected, and she bent over and backed herself toward the rubber-encased phallus, feeling it meet her lower lips at exactly the right height. And angle. She skewered herself on its fist-sized head and felt herself slide over its length as if it had been created for her.

Perhaps it was, a voice spoke within her, but she dismissed it as her own sense of humor.

Her first orgasm rocked her within seconds, and she rode it and felt the second and third building even as the first crested. She let the elevator fuck her until the sweat poured down her cheeks and pooled on the carpeting below, watching herself the whole time in the mirror. Seeing someone else smiling in the reflection, and not caring.

* *

Rumors spread that the elevator wasn’t working, but Susan knew it was her trysts that kept it out of service. Mark winked at her every time he saw her, as if he knew. Artie grew colder and more distant every day. And nights he’d once stayed home he now found gigs to fill.

Susan felt herself splitting apart – one side wanted to repair her relationship with Artie, while the other wanted to do lewd things in the elevator, with or without Mark. Like most people locked in self-conflict, Susan wished she could do both. While it tore her apart, she found herself irresistibly drawn to the elevator. And once there, she surrendered to her desires in ways she could barely admit to herself were unlike her. Yet, she felt so good, she couldn’t stop.

They had moved in weeks ago, but she had only recently noticed the machine whirring sounds coming from behind the wall in their spare bedroom. This was the farthest wall from their front door, and she’d heard it late one night when she’d been working at her desk as post-gig Artie snored the sleep of the half-drunk in their bed.

The whirring wasn’t continuous. It started and stopped irregularly, and soon Susan realized that it sounded like the elevator being called and traveling like a phallus up and down in its enclosure. Just thinking about it made her wet.

The intensity of her excitement easily overwhelmed any guilt she might have acknowledged.

She opened the closet and leaned in, hearing the motor turning nearby.

So near!

She found a seam in the drywall and used her sharp letter-opener to pry off a large triangular portion of painted drywall, which split and tore, becoming paper and chalk in her hand.

Flickering light shimmered in the darkness beyond.

Susan felt a deep shiver work its way down her back. For some reason, she felt hot wetness begin to gather between her thighs.

Without hesitation, Susan reached into the hole and tore out another chunk of drywall.

She had to get into that space, whatever it was!

Ducking, she crawled through the hole and found herself in some sort of shrine. The shimmering light came from dozens – no, it had to be hundreds – of lit candles of all shapes and sizes. Melted wax had crusted along the length of most, but she could clearly see that many of the tapers had been phallic in nature. Flickering dildo-shaped candles covered every flat surface, their flames dancing in the rush of air caused by her entrance. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she realized that the extensive shrine had been carved out of the elevator mechanical room, which apparently butted up against the rear of their apartment.

Everywhere hung or leaned paintings and photographs of the lusty Aurora, some clearly taken from old movie magazines. They were ringed by ranks of shimmering candles by the light of which she saw numerous vases, too, Greek urns and pottery that might have been imitations, but which she somehow knew were quite ancient. She approached one and gingerly picked it up, her fingers tracing the erotic design of women bent over and being penetrated from behind by well-endowed males. The next vase showed a ring of figures entwined in an orgy of genitalia and mouths. A set of ornate platters portrayed various sexual positions between various combinations of genders. One included a pair of hounds. She picked up a cracked pitcher and found that the handle she grasped was an enormous phallus complete with scrotum.

She turned, and on another surface stood a collection of wooden dildos, from three inches long to about fifteen. She touched the tip of the largest and a spark jabbed her fingertip.        

Voices seemed to whisper in her head. She felt the urge to reach under her skirt and swallow the gnarled phallus with her moist flesh. Her fingers encircled the sleek wood.

In the center of this phallic collection sat a bowl, Sapphist in design. A bit of black cloth resting in the bottom of it tugged at Susan’s attention. She reached in and pulled out a pair of black lace panties, her panties.

She whirled when she heard a loud click. A column of light dispelled the gloom and broke her trance.

“Who – who’s there?” Her voice cracked. Then she gasped. She could see Mark’s profile in the doorway.

“Relax, Susan,” he said, a smile in his voice. “You’re the One. You’re the Chosen.”

“Wh-what?” Susan felt an equal mixture of fear and lust, both fueled by the grotesque shrine to Aurora DiLuisas and its ancient erotic artifacts.

Mark came slowly closer, his hands reaching out to her.

“Aurora herself selected you from the many we have seen come and go,” he said, his voice soft and musical. “And come,” he added. “You’ve noticed that your urges have been on the rise, yes?”

Susan thought she heard Mark’s New York accent peel away like dead skin flaking off a snake.

“Aurora left us while in the elevator and has been using it as a temporary domicile, until a more suitable vessel could be found. You are that vessel, Susan.”

A part of Susan wanted to run back through the hole in the wall and rouse Artie to help her. But an unnaturally strong desire, ten-fold any longing she had ever experienced before, held her fast.

Suddenly Mark dropped his pants in one fluid motion and stood near, his erection pointing straight at her and his lips – of which she’d dreamed so long – now only inches from hers. Her mouth slowly came to touch his, and down below her hand guided his scalding-hot penis toward her flesh. She felt his glans tease her outer labia and start to penetrate and her thighs turned to butter and melted into him.

“Aurora has waited a long time, a very long time,” he said, speaking directly into her mouth as his tongue reached out to hers. “I have tested so many, and found them wanting.” He nuzzled her neck and drove himself another inch into her. The position would not have worked, but Susan’s suspicions had been correct and Mark’s erect penis was enormous, for she could feel that he still had length to give her. Now his mouth was on her nipples, driving her wild even as another inch of him slid into her folds.

“Oh, Mark,” she whispered.

“Aurora, I have brought you the One.” His teeth nipped a nipple, then he withdrew from her and turned her around. He flicked the skirt up and slowly parted her buttocks, his fingers spreading her apart and, with the longest dildo from the collection, preparing her to receive his burning flesh. The wooden phallus was cold and yet radiated heat, and it seemed to melt her insides.

Then Mark withdrew the ancient artifact and entered her. Susan gasped with pleasure and pain, almost fainting, her eyes glazing. And when he drove further into her, she wondered for a moment how she could possibly take his entire length. But then he pulled her head back toward him and doubled her pleasure with the longest dildo from the collection, simultaneously thrusting it into her vagina. Her orgasms began to roll in waves and she barely heard him. Her vision failed and the room became a blur.

“Aurora, I have brought you a Vessel worthy of your lust and of your ambition, and I give her to you as a gift of gratitude for the immortality you will grant me.”

Susan heard, but her ears were muffled by the roaring of her blood, singing through her veins like floodwater through a canyon. She felt as if Mark’s erection was splitting her open from top to bottom, alternating his thrusts with those of the dildo in her vagina. And suddenly she felt another presence – another presence inside her. How could this be possible?

How?

Susan heard a voice. “You will need the final offering, Marcus! You must have an offering to complete the transfer…”

Susan gasped. It was her own voice, but she hadn’t spoken the words.

Just then, she heard a crashing, tearing, and pounding coming from the hole she had torn in the drywall.

“What the fuck is going on here?”

Artie! Artie had found her and was coming to rescue her.

Susan opened her mouth, but emitted no sound other than a lustful purring that she knew – knew beyond any doubt – must have been Aurora’s.

“Welcome, Artie,” said Mark from behind her. And suddenly he withdrew from her and she saw him leap like a panther over her and toward Artie, whose eyes could not have yet adjusted to the light. In Mark’s hand, a curved dagger glimmered in the dancing candlelight.

Oh no! Artie!

The broad slash slit Artie’s throat and almost severed his head, sending a great curtain of blood gushing over her bare flesh. He crumpled into a heap. While Artie’s feet still twitched, Mark went to work with the dagger and one of the erotically designed dishes. Susan could barely make out the butcher-shop sounds that came next. She was receding: The sound of blood rushing in her ears had become a din of white noise, and her glazed vision had tunneled and was now fading into darkness.

“You must move quickly, Marcus!” Aurora’s whisper was a hiss.

“The blood sacrifice is done, my Aurora,” said Marcus.

When he turned, he saw Susan rising to her feet.

But now her hair was flaming red in the candlelight, and her eyes were no longer glazed.

Aurora had returned, and now her mood needed an elevator. “Come to me, Marcus,” she purred, and he brought his blood-splattered flesh to her, letting her sink to her knees before him.

There was nothing left of Susan but the vessel. But that was the last thing on Marcus’s mind.

*  *  *

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Outside of his writing, David Benton has worn many hats, finding employment as a warehouse worker, landscaper, printing press operator, cheese maker, brick layer, and janitor (long nights, impossible odds…). He is also a musician. Current projects include a collaborative novel with Bram Stoker Award winning author John Everson and

W.D. Gagliani, a mid-grade novel series and a young adult novel series (both with W.D. Gagliani, written under the pen name A.G. Kent) as well as playing bass guitar on tour with the heavy metal novelty act Beatallica.

W.D. Gagliani is the author of the novels Savage Nights, Wolf’s Trap, Wolf’s Gambit, Wolf’s Bluff, and Wolf’s Edge. Wolf’s Trap was a finalist for the Bram Stoker Award in 2004. He has published fiction and nonfiction in numerous anthologies and publications such as Masters of Unreality (Germany), Malpractice: An Anthology of Bedside Terror, Dark Passions: Hot Blood 13, and Dead Lines (all with co-writer David Benton), plus Robert Bloch’s Psychos, Wicked Karnival Halloween Horror, The Black Spiral: Twisted Tales of Terror, More Monsters From Memphis, The Midnighters Club, The Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, BookPage, Chizine, Cemetery Dance, HorrorWorld, Hellnotes, Science Fiction Chronicle, The Scream Factory, and others. He is  a member of the Horror Writers Association (HWA), the International Thriller Writers (ITW), and the Authors Guild. Raised in Genova, Italy, as well as Kenosha, Wisconsin, W. D. Gagliani now lives and writes in Milwaukee.

Find W.D. online:

www.williamdgagliani.com

www.wdgagliani.com

Twitter: @WDGagliani

Facebook: www.facebook.com/wdgagliani

MySpace: www.myspace.com/wdgagliani

Read our Musings at the

Mysteries & Mayhem blog:

http://moodelevator.wordpress.com/

Coming soon:

SING ZOMBIE ELECTRIC

A novel by

David Benton

John Everson

W.D. Gagliani

A NOTE TO OUR READERS

If you liked this collection and would like to see more work from us,

please consider posting reviews online, blogging, and helping to spread

the word through social media.

The authors thank you!

*

Copyright Information

“Mood Elevator” Ó 2007 by David Benton and W.D. Gagliani

Originally published in DARK PASSIONS: HOT BLOOD XIII, edited by Jeff Gelb and Michael Garrett (Kensington)

And also in MYSTERIES & MAYHEM, published in ebook format by Tarkus Press