He held Jacqueline as tightly as he could, and kissed her. The tip of his tongue was sliced off, and his face was criss-crossed with gaping cuts.
“We’re together,” he panted, with blood bubbling out of his mouth. “We’re together!”
He squeezed her breasts with both hands and three of his fingers were cut down to the bone. His left index finger flapped loosely on a thread of skin, and nothing else. But he kept on pushing his hips against her, even though his penis was in tatters, and his scrotum was sliced open so that his bloodied testicles hung out on tubes.
“We’re together…we’re together. I don’t mind where I live, so long as I have you.”
At last he had lost so much blood that he had to stop pushing, and lie on top of her, panting. He was beginning to feel cold, but he didn’t mind, because he had Jacqueline. He tried to shift himself a little, to make himself more comfortable, but Jacqueline crackled underneath him, as if she were made of nothing but broken glass.
The afternoon seemed to pass like a dream, or a poem. The sun reached the floor and sparkled on the fragments of bloodied mirror. Jack could see his own reflection in a piece of Jacqueline’s cheek, and he thought to himself, now I know what she means about the last boat whistling in the last harbor.
Eventually it began to grow dark, and the bedroom filled with shadows.
“For often thro’ the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot.
Or when the moon was overhead
Came two young lovers lately wed;
‘I am half-sick of shadows,’ said
The Lady of Shalott.”
Punipuni knocked on Jack’s door at midnight. He made three paces through the room; then stopped.
“Oh, Mr German-cellar,” he said. He pressed his hand over his mouth to stop himself from sobbing out loud, although nobody would have heard him. “Oh, Mr German-cellar.”
* * *
He wrapped Jack’s body in the multi-colored durry from the bed, and carried him down to the street. He stowed him into the trunk of his ageing brown Kamikaze, and drove him to the Embarcadero. The night was very clear, and the stars were so bright that it was difficult to tell which was city and which was sky.
He found a leaky abandoned rowboat beside one of the piers. He lifted Jack into it, and laid him on his back, so that his bloodied face was looking up at Cassiopeia. Then he untied the rope, and gave the rowboat a push, so that it slowly circled away. The reflected lights of Camelot glittered all around it, red and yellow and green.
Punipuni stood and watched it with his hands in his pockets. “Men should never go looking for darkness, Mr German-cellar. You can only find darkness in a closed cupboard.”
* * *
During the night, as the tide ebbed, the rowboat drifted out toward the ocean, under the Golden Gate bridge.
As the tide began to turn, another rowboat appeared from the opposite direction, and in this rowboat lay a naked woman in sunglasses, lying on a bed of dried brown chrysanthemums. The two rowboats knocked against each other with a hollow sound, like coffins; and then they drifted away, their prows locked together as if there were only one rowboat, reflected in a mirror.
Courbet and DeSade Share Secrets in Hell
Kenzie Mathews
The tip of the riding crop came down sharply on my clit as I hung there, sending a tsunami wave of pain straight to my spine. I choked back on something rising from my stomach. Damn me for fighting a bitch with a riding crop and a gun. I just hadn’t expected anyone to be home. Eddie was usually so good with his tips. Based on the setup I currently found myself in, Eddie’s tips were obviously for sale. I allowed myself a momentary daydream of strangling the little douche-bag with his own queertastic scarf.
“You are Kiera Storm.” It was a statement not a question. She circled, predatory, a very tall olive-skinned woman with long midnight blue-black hair. I guessed maybe Italian based on her accent. I spun before her, rope bound to a ring in the ceiling, my toes just finding the cold cement floor. We were in the sound-proof basement of a sublime home in one of the quietest most elegant neighborhoods in the city. I had come bearing tools and expecting a treasure trove of jewels…but damn my pirating sneak thief ways…it was a trap and now I hung, caught like a fox with a dead chicken in her mouth.
I answered truthfully, or as close to the truth as I’m ever likely to come, “When it’s necessary.”
“Who are you now then?”
I laughed and the blood in my mouth dribbled down my chin. “Whoever you want me to be, most kind lady.”
She cocked her head sideways as if listening to devils on her shoulder. “Kiera was the start of it, but I’ve heard of Jayne Quist, Maya Hamilton, Tara Newcomb, Ana Don Elise….”
And then there was Penny Lopez, Della Rodgers, Chelsea Gill, Sonja Wilcost... All my aliases. All my selves. Altogether, we were a busy busy girl with dirty dirty hands in many many pies, most of them criminal and strangely enough…artistic.
“Well,” she said, “My ex stole something from me. I want the one of you who’s willing to kill to get them back. Someone capable of digging her way through Hell and back.”
The riding crop tapped my chest bone, between my breasts. It slid to a nipple, circling, tapping the nipple bar. I sucked in my breath, unwilling to show her fear but afraid all the same. And, as always, wet with anticipation. There may be many of us in one body, but we all share the same hungry cunt. It was all the same to us if she snapped the nipple, pulled the nipple bar free, tapped the clit with the crop, or even did nothing at all but tease. We were wetter than the slippery slide at a water park.
“Now,” she said, “Which one of you do I need to talk to?”
I didn’t want to involve Kiera because she’d been through so much during the years. She could play assassin but her conscience oftentimes kept us up at night. I let another step in, one who killed as easily as a cat torturing mice. One of us who was more than capable of digging her way to and from Hell. One who’d actually enjoy the potential risk, inner spiritual darkness, and promise of pain and sexual humiliation such an adventure could entail. Maya came forward to take over the body.
This time when I faced the Princess, it was with cool contempt and cutting reserve. In a clipped British accent, I said, “Talk to me.”
* * *
It was an easy enough job. Princess Riding Crop wanted a secret painting by Courbet. It had to be a joke. If there was an unknown secret Courbet left in the world…then, secret societies control World Government, alien life-forms exist in the galaxy, and I can be completely and truly united within one identity. I’m trying to say, if there was a hidden Courbet, even Courbet didn’t know about it, much less remember painting it.
There was another item she was interested in, a source of great power if I could get it: a little black book of sex magick, created by Medieval Satanic monks. It included late generation notations from such infamous notables such as the Grand Marshal of the Inquisition, the Marquis DeSade, Aleister Crowley, Anton LaVey and many others whose names I quickly forgot. Illustrations included those by Durer, Gericault, Blake, Goya, and Beardsley.
Hmmmm. Who’d figure Princess Riding Crop was into Sex Magick? No, say it isn’t so! According to the Princess, the book contained her secret ingredients for eternal life and damnation, power and sex appeal or whatever super sexy scary bitches want out of the world. I suspected that it was simply a collection of personal sex positions.
“All this for some damned painting?”
Princess Riding Crop backhanded me and sent me spinning. I spat blood out of my numb mouth, chuckling. It was a good strike. There were fat bruising rings in it. She cut me down and I fell to the cement, my legs apparently useless. I struggled to find my footing but it was going to take a while. Like the prisoner of war that I was, I held my bound hands up before me. For a moment, her calculating dark eyes considering me and my position, it seemed like she was not goi
ng to unbind me. Then, she slashed out with a very small curving knife she kept in her leather wrist sheath. I hissed when the blood slowly re-entered my hands and feet. I looked up at her, waiting her pleasure and the return of feeling in my limbs.
“Not that it matters,” Princess Whipping Fury said, tears raging in her slanted green eyes, “But, he painted it of us and I want it back.”
I regarded her coolly. “That would be impossible. Any true painting by Courbet is centuries old.”
“Yes,” Princess nodded stiffly. “The book works.”
She pointed then at my new Party clothes, before taking her leave: a black leather harness – thick rings lining the center front and back, a short black leather blade-leaf skirt, long black gloves ringed on two sides, and large buckled engineer boots. Oh, goody, I was to be a gladiator. The harness was perfectly restrictive and lifted my breasts. The leather skirt barely covered my ass and cunt and just the thought of that vulnerability made me wet. The boots made me feel ten feet tall and seriously dangerous, not submissive at all, truth be told. I pulled on the gloves and found that the rings lined the top and bottom of my forearms. They rang softly with every movement. Last, I put on my slave collar.
In the rusting mirror against one padded wall, my reflection was that of an Amazon warrior, an enslaved assassin, a hungry incubus. I grinned at her. She was so much to work with; she would have so far to fall. I could hardly wait. The sudden gasp behind me proved my theory correct. The Princess wore a short flimsy white robe that clung to her. Her nipples pinked behind the cloth, and parts of her fleshed the thin white with rose and gold. A thin gold rope snaked the cloth to her, running from her gold dusted throat to one taut golden thigh.
I husked out, “Is there a ritual of some sort before the games begin?”
She nodded, not moving, her eyes never leaving mine. Softly, “There’s a kiss.”
I approached her and knelt down. I lifted her robe gently, so easily, she gasped and trembled, the gold dusted hands shaking at her hips as she resisted touching me. I murmured against her thickening nether lips, nuzzling her, my mouth dry and aching to drink fully, “Let’s be convincing then.”
Just as I suspected, she tasted of bittersweet rosehips and coppery icy wine.
I tipped the cup of her to drink her center. I couldn’t get enough.
* * *
Once the blindfold was removed and the car driven away, I found myself in front of an elegant upper-Eastside mansion. Bright and shiny as a crown, the house sat in a landscape so crisply green and confidently rich that, for a moment, I thought I was hallucinating. I half-expected unicorns to dance with dragons on the carefully landscaped lawn. Instead, there were people in various costume dress lounging about the yard and a large collection of what looked like expensive carnival rides…no, they were adult toys for the slaves to ride and be ridden on. A few brightly-colored tents had been set up as well for the more private games. The air smelled of cloves, cinnamon, and caramel.
I wanted to look for the little man behind the curtain but instead, I said, “How funny…it doesn’t look like a centuries-old Satanist protects a Hellwise Pathway here.”
The Princess stared at me for a moment before pulling me closer, “We blend in.” She hooked a short chain leash on my dog collar. “Now, darling, blend in, now.”
Ah, yes, the rest of the circus fast approached and as obedient slave, I walked behind my Mistress, my hands clasped together as if in leather-bound prayer, my head proud but eyes coyly kept downward. A few patrons of the garden party reached out to stroke me, fingernails grazing my erect nipples, fingers glancing on my arms, stroking gently, lightly at my bare ass beneath the skirt. I didn’t linger in mild flirtation but neither did I flinch away. It felt so good to be appreciated. The Princess moved us steadily, calm but briskly through the growing mass, finding us a way towards the mansion.
A strangled moan caught my attention and I peeked on a man in a spinning wheel, his mouth now sporting a bright orange ball-gag. A man entered his ass from behind and there a line formed. A woman in a slick yellow and black neon mini-dress spun the wheel and sent the slave into ecstasy.
Suddenly catching the fresh warm smell of hay, I turned, forgetting to be coy and modest and stared straight on at couples in pony play in a pen. One horsey ate the apple his mistress offered. Another pony practiced her steps for her master’s short crop.
Just past the stables, naked slaves formed themselves into a long table and chairs for a feast. Like animals, their masters and mistresses ate fruits and meats and drank wine from the moaning, writhing table. They rolled onto the table and fucked and sucked at the slaves’ open mouths, asses, and cunts. One mistress fucked her crawling moaning chair with her hand until the chair collapsed into the grass, her upraised ass and cunt hungrily and wetly sucking at her mistress’s hand. Cum ran glistening down the chair’s thighs and I licked my suddenly dry lips. What a wonderful carnival! Something for everyone! I did so want to linger despite the job at hand…perhaps…
My Princess jerked the leash to bring me to attention. We stood at the edge of a blindingly white staircase. At the top of the stairs, the blood-red mansion doors opened like a mouth screaming. My heart stopped in my chest the minute the door man stepped out. The sounds of the sex carnival fell away to the thundering of blood in my ears. Beside me, the Princess led us up the stairs, unwavering, unafraid. I fought to breathe and center. I did not embarrass us by holding back. I kept my lip up because I am Maya and I will not stop until I get what we came for.
I followed my Mistress into the mouth of Hell because even though he gave the appearance of flesh and blood, there was nothing remotely human about the doorman. Every bare inch of his skin was tattooed. All attractive areas had been pierced. Silver rings and bar-bells laced his body from nipple to face. His arms and chest carried ritual scarification symbols. His eyes were blacker than night and when he smiled, all his teeth had been sharpened into points. Human or not, he raced my blood. I wanted most desperately to count the ridges of bar-bells and rings on his penis and balls with my tongue. I wanted to fill that savage mix of warm flesh and cold metal against my bare skin, to swell the hollow of my center with him.
Once before him, he bade us enter the foyer but he barred us from entering the house proper. From an open mouth wherein two small snake-like tongues played, he growled at my Mistress, “She doesnah look well-played.”
“She’s kept for other games. She is well-heeled, however, go on, taste her.”
The doorman grunted and motioned his fingers for me to turn around. I turned halfway before he stopped me, pulling my arms back. He folded my arms behind me so that my hands clasped my forearms, holding them tight for the wrapping with one hammy fist. From the movement, I guessed he was stringing a line through the many hoops of my gloves, binding my arms together from elbow to wrist. Hmmm…this could prove a slight inconvenience if I were to go about searching for a painting and a magickal sex book…
Once bound, the doorman pushed me towards the opposite wall. He bent me forward slightly until my forehead rested on the wall and kicked my legs apart. Then, he felt my damp cunt, lingering at the mouth of me slightly, tangling his fingers in my wet curls, lightly tracing the edges of my lips. His hand plunged in and I gasped as his hand seemed to swell, to fill me entirely. I rocked against his hand despite myself. He pulled out and I cried out at the loss of him. He breathed in the scent of me deeply and just as quickly, he probed my ass with his thumb as the rest of his hand cupped and stroked my wet sex, riding me with unconscious rhythm. I leaned fully into his hand, my body begging for more from him, more than this teasing. He pulled free of me before I could cum. He smelled his thumb before pulling me away from the wall.
Then, spinning me, he kissed me and I fell truly. Both of those little snake-like tongues twisted, tickled, tasted of me. I could imagine them at play in my cunt, tickling, twisting, tasting me into a long satisfying orgasm. Nipples hard, the longing in my cunt screaming for release
, I leaned into the doorman, pressing against him in the hopes of convincing him to fuck me here and now, long and hard until I screamed and wept of it. He chuckled in my mouth and shoved me backwards. I throbbed, unfulfilled, cold now where my body had touched his. The doorman passed me back to my Mistress and I swayed, dizzy, nearly unconscious. Chuckling still, the doorman opened the final entrance to the house. With a firm hand at my back, my Mistress gently led me into the house. The door shut behind us and I realized that it must have been sound-proofed.
Inside the mansion, the heart of Mardi Gras throbbed. If the grounds were a Sexual Carnival, the mansion was a Sexual Masquerade. Slaves swept through the mass carrying trays of food and bearing wine while wearing nothing but wrappings of colored ribbons and black harlequin masks. The 1ughal1d1 wore everything else.
There were women in gold and white French Revolution dresses with exposed breasts and cunts, thin red lines drawn across their necks. Men in 17th Century costume boasted huge dildo codpieces or had come commando with cock rings keeping their erections tall and stiff. I saw a few pierced and tattooed Pirates of both sexes and one that looked to be of both sexes. There were naked angels in flimsy see-through blue robes leading crawling slave-devil-dogs on leashes. There were even naughty nurses wheeling around patients with oxygen tanks and other medical devices. These bound in their wheelchairs with leather straps displayed pierced nipples and dicks, some wearing dental gags to keep their mouths open and willing, others tonguing orange or black ball gags. Gothic Masters and Mistresses in black, brown, and red leather traded secrets with Fairy Wiccan Queens and Kings in white lace. At their feet, slaves bearing vibrators in their asses jerked and held, hoping for the consent to cum. While other slaves sat patiently, prettily at the sides of their Masters like well-trained dogs, their arms as bound behind them as mine were.
Of Devils & Deviants: An Anthology of Erotic Horror Page 4
