Haute Benign, Vampires in England (hardcore, incest, etc.) Options

[PurpleDaze112]

Can someone please judge this work of mine? No one really has ever given me criticism of my stories. Give me the harshest judgment you can! Here it is:


On the other side of the street there was a bakery. Topher and Hawthorne’s Bakery. The place overflowed with the very freshest pastries and sweets, all sold in singular portions and at very low prices. Topher Allen was thin man with blonde hair, cut short and parted on the side. Blue eyed in a childish, unsophisticated way. Ophelia Hawthorne was a tall woman, an ex-sculptor or something along those lines. Her body bore the still vivacious signs of a woman who had never known childbirth, limbs still taut and firm. From across the town the word was that the two of them were lovers, though their relationship was never quite clear. A thin veiled aura of queerness always surrounded Topher and Hawthorne’s Bakery, from the day the man and woman came into town out of air and began selling baked goods better than any the residents had ever known. That was the only undisputed fact to the pair, the goodness of their pastry. Cupcakes would be large, delicately flavored things and the baklava would hold the flakey integrity of its Greek originator. All of the people enjoyed the presence of the bakery, and shortly learned not to question the source of their beloved bakers. The bakery always managed to garner a following among the dark-haired youth of the town, even before their reputation had grown. Those youths were the type the people warned their young daughters and sons to stay away form. Wild haired, hungry eyed, slender hipped youths. From the first these youths, and the adult versions of them, would be in Topher and Hawthorne’s, enjoying the new wares. Perhaps this was where the aura of curiosity had grown. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. But all of this was forgotten when the honest, clean people of the town took up the place as their own. Now and then this was remembered when a pale skinned raven haired child would be seen purchasing an item during an hour the little boy or girl should clearly be in school. Then it could be remembered that the bakers were never, could never, be standard members of the community.

While I'm at it, here's another one, called Bread Basket of the East, about a rockstar in the 60s. It's an idealized version of the life of Jimi Hendrix, but changed from male to female.

That night Zuri lay on her mattress next to the window. It was a cool night. The moon shone through her window over her body, illuminating the soft black curls that lay on her pillow. At night her mother would get after her to braid her hair, but it was so pretty at times she couldn’t bear to put it up. 1960 raged in June. From outside a few of the teenagers were cranking up their record players, and the sounds of the roaring music of the summer could be heard. The sound of rock and soul and a new sound called psychedelic swirled together under the sky. And a few doors down, Emile Francis was playing his guitar, pumped up with electricity in its amps, emitting a heavy, horny sound that she could feel under her night shirt in a vibrant sexual way. And all he needed was a bass.