Kiss of Death
Modern Erotic Classics
The Houdini Girl
Martyn Bedford
The Phallus of Osiris
Valentina Cilescu
Kiss of Death
Valentina Cilescu
The Flesh Constrained
Cleo Cordell
The Flesh Endures
Cleo Cordell
Hogg
Samuel R. Delany
The Tides of Lust
Samuel R. Delany
Sad Sister
Florence Dugas
The Ties That Bind
Vanessa Duriès
3
Julie Hilden
Neptune & Surf
Marilyn Jaye Lewis
Violent Silence
Paul Mayersberg
Homme Fatale
Paul Mayersberg
The Agency
David Meltzer
Burn
Michael Perkins
Dark Matter
Michael Perkins
Evil Companions
Michael Perkins
Beautiful Losers
Remittance Girl
House of Lust
Michael Hemmingson
Meeting the Master
Elissa Wald
Kiss of Death
Valentina Cilescu
Modern Erotic Classics
Series Editor: Maxim Jakubowski
Constable & Robinson Ltd
55–56 Russell Square
London WC1B 4HP
www.constablerobinson.com
First published in the UK by Headline, 1992
This ebook edition published by Robinson,
an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd, 2012
Copyright © Valentina Cilescu, 1992
Series Editor: Maxim Jakubowski
The right of Valentina Cilescu to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in
Publication Data is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978-1-47210-557-8 (ebook)
KISS OF DEATH
The impulse overtook him suddenly. She had her back to him, nestling into him and breathing quick and hard as he smoothed hot hands over her flesh: tracing the curves of arm, waist, thigh, and up to pert breasts. Bolder now, he began to undo the buttons on her blouse and slid one hand inside.
The delicious contact of the cool flesh was like a spark igniting the furnace within him. It came upon him as it had never done before: the sudden sense of power invading him and empowering him to do anything.
He flung her forward, took hold of her blouse and skirt and just ripped them off – tore at the fabric until it gave way. Then the bra, the flimsy lace panties. The seamed stockings and high-heeled shoes he spared: he loved to have a woman in black stockings and suspenders . . .
1: Winterbourne
It was happening at last.
The Master was awakening: his immortal soul was rising through seas of consciousness, thoughts unfreezing, clarifying, memories melting the icy prison of enforced forgetfulness.
His spirit hovered, like a formless black shadow of unspeakable evil, above his motionless body, trapped and impotent within the unforgiving crystal; looked down upon the heavy lid of the sarcophagus and was filled with rage, grief and the longing for sweet revenge.
But his powers were still at a low ebb. There was a dim flickering where before there had raged a sulphurous furnace of chaotic energies, the servants of his perverse and terrifying desires.
He was going to need time, imagination, cunning. But he was patient. He could wait. The world would know his power once again, and this time there would be no mistake.
There had been long years of imprisonment, betrayal, defeat. But he was back now. The arrogant fools had thought they could kill him: that in trying to kill his body they could annihilate his spirit. Soon they would know that there are some things in this world that are beyond understanding: some things that never, ever die.
He wondered what had provided the stimulus to his reawakening, what had struck the spark of consciousness into his frozen heart. In his weakened state, he was still blind. He could not even see his own face, fixed in an expression of unbearable agony beneath the heavy stone coffin-lid. He did not even know where he was. His memories were muddled, clouded by pain and long slumber. A dark cellar, somewhere beneath a great stately home. That was all he could recall. A silent and deserted place, walled up and forgotten for – how many years? He could not tell.
But he could feel. And already he sensed the power-source, as yet just a trickle of feeble electricity, but soon, soon he knew, to burst forth into a great surge of life-giving energy.
The sexual energy on which he fed. The power-surge generated out of the chaos of frenzied coupling. Someone, somewhere very close at hand, was preparing an orgy and, although they did not realise it, the Master was to be their honoured guest.
The girl wore nothing but a thin white shift made of the thinnest, most diaphanous cotton lawn. Her body was pale, firm, perfect: the body of a young and beautiful girl. She could not have been more than eighteen years old at most.
‘Beautiful,’ breathed Delgado, reaching out a bronzed hand and running an incautious finger down the girl’s cool, white arm. She shivered slightly, as though she were cold, but she did not flinch. The girl seemed unusually docile, and her eyes stared almost sightlessly before her. ‘You have drugged her?’
‘Of course,’ replied Madame LeCoeur. ‘A little injection to calm her down, a shot of something to make her more . . . receptive. Our lovely little child will enjoy her initiation, never fear. It was so good of Herr Königsberg to volunteer his daughter’s . . . services . . . for our opening night. Such beauty should not be wasted. Among us, she will learn to be a skilled whore. One day, she will thank her father for what he has done to her tonight . . .’
Delgado surveyed the girl and took in her charms. Tall, slim-waisted and full-hipped, her body was enough to delight any man. The bright blonde triangle of her pubis showed clearly through her thin dress and proved that she was a natural blonde. Her pert breasts were cherry-tipped and hard, bearing witness to the efficacy of Madame LeCoeur’s aphrodisiacs. Her eyes were a brilliant blue: clear and deep as an August sky. He was pleased with her. He turned to Madame LeCoeur:
‘You are quite certain that she is a virgin?’
‘You would like to see, perhaps?’
Delgado nodded. He was not easily moved by feminine beauty. A lifetime spent masterminding white slavery and the brothels of Marrakesh had left his palate jaded, and it took something exceptional to whet his appetite these days. He noted with approval and some surprise that he was salivating, and his hardened penis was bulging appreciatively inside his Savile Row trousers.
‘Lie down on the bed, child.’
Slowly, mechanically, like a sleepwalker, the girl obeyed. Her pale golden hair flowed over the pillow as she lay down on the blue silk bedspread.
‘Pull up you
r shift.’
She did so, wriggling to free the flimsy material from underneath her ivory-pale buttocks. Madame LeCoeur stepped forward and took hold of the girl’s knees, pulling them apart to expose the treasures within. The girl offered no resistance: in fact, Delgado thought he heard her breathing quicken.
The girl’s cunt was appetising and rosy-pink as Madame LeCoeur parted her nether lips and revealed the gleaming pearl of her clitoris. Delgado felt a surge of unstoppable desire, and it was all that he could do to prevent himself taking the child there and then on the bed – but of course he couldn’t. He couldn’t rob Winterbourne Hall of this costly virginity – and on its opening night at that. There would be some very important and exclusive guests at the Hall tonight: guests who would pay dearly for the pleasure of deflowering and debasing such a delectable virgin. Each maison de passage must offer its own specialities, and this fresh young girl was Winterbourne’s very own spécialité de la maison.
‘You wish to check her for yourself?’
Delgado did not need asking twice. He burrowed an exploratory finger into the young girl’s tight cunt, finding to his surprise that it was both hot and wet. She did not even wince as his finger came up against the leathery hymen. The child was excited, her young woman’s body crying out for the first thrust of a hard, insistent prick.
Instinctively, without thinking what he was doing, Delgado began to move his finger in and out of the girl’s fast-moistening cunt. Her lips parted and she began to moan quietly.
‘Be careful, Delgado,’ warned Madame LeCoeur.
‘Don’t worry, I won’t damage the merchandise,’ he replied with grim humour. ‘Just a little induction course for our new trainee . . .’
The girl was writhing about now, and her cunt was glistening with moisture. Smiling at the power he was exerting over her, Delgado climbed on to the bed and knelt between her thighs. Still frigging her, he stretched out his other hand and thrust it up underneath the shift until he made contact with her hard-tipped breast. She groaned with pleasure as he pinched a nipple between his knowing fingers.
Delgado could resist her no longer. Even if he could not fuck her, he knew he must come inside her. Those pretty lips: sweet and gentle and innocent, and ripe for defilement . . .
He unbuttoned his flies and exposed his prick. It was fine and hard, throbbing with unrestrained delight. He turned around on the bed so that he was lying over her, his head between her thighs and his prick poised over her mouth. Greedily, just as he had hoped, she took it between her lips, and in turn he began to lick her clitoris.
Madame LeCoeur’s aphrodisiac had worked its spell on the girl. Totally inexperienced and yet so, so knowing, she gave him such pleasure that he felt his head swim, his senses reel. And he could feel her own pleasure mounting as her clitoris swelled and throbbed beneath his tongue. Then she moved her hands up towards his balls and began to caress them gently, firmly, almost lovingly.
It was the strangest sensation: at that moment, Delgado felt as though he were no longer in control of his own body, as though some other, much more powerful presence had entered him and was sharing and magnifying his sensations, spurring him on, making him lick the girl faster, more and more obscenely.
He was floating, spinning, reeling, falling: a wheel within a wheel, a cloud within a cloud. There was a voice within him – he could not make out the words, but it was calling to him, urging him on, amplifying his desire, taking hold of his very soul. For a second, he thought he glimpsed a face: a strange, dark face containing all the evil of the world and yet so handsome, so seductive, so irresistible that he felt drawn into the flame-red, furnace-hot eyes. And then the fleeting vision was gone, and only the sensations remained: the aching desire in his loins, the velvet caress of the girl’s moist tongue, the feel of her fingers on his balls, the scent of her untried womanhood in his nostrils. He felt as though he were losing his mind.
It was all too much for him. He exploded into her mouth and she swallowed his semen like a practised whore, eagerly, as though she relished the newness of its taste in her virgin mouth. Seconds later, Delgado felt the girl’s own orgasm tearing through her, setting up great waves of pleasure that racked her whole body and left her exhausted and panting on the bed beneath him.
‘She is ready,’ decreed Delgado, buttoning his flies. ‘Have her prepared for tonight.’
Far below, in the forgotten and bricked-up cellars of Winterbourne Hall, the Master’s spirit feasted on this gift of raw sexual energy, and slowly began to understand. Tonight he would grow in strength, and one day, very soon, he would be free.
At last, his deliverance was at hand.
Winterbourne Hall was playing host to guests for the first time in almost half a century. And they were very important guests. Guests who relished Winterbourne’s isolation, deep in the English countryside, because it gave them the secrecy they demanded. Guests who could not afford to be seen frequenting this type of establishment.
In the dark days of World War II, Winterbourne Hall had been commandeered by the authorities and used for billeting officers and training agents for SOE. When the time came for it to be returned to civilian control, there was no-one left to hand it back to. The last Earl had died, his son had been killed at Dunkirk, and the family fortunes had taken a tumble. In any case, there were some funny stories about odd goings-on at the Hall in the latter days of the war, and the place had earned itself a dark and mysterious reputation.
No-one wanted to know about Winterbourne Hall. Better to retreat to a nice compact villa in the South of France, and leave Winterbourne to rot, conveniently forgotten by the world.
No-one seemed interested in buying a huge ancestral pile requiring millions of pounds of investment. A few property developers considered acquiring it for the land, but nothing came of it. Like Sleeping Beauty’s castle, Winterbourne Hall stood lonely and forgotten, hemmed in by the encroaching greenery of neglected hedgerows and untended gardens, for over forty years.
Until Delgado found it and realised its true potential.
He had been holidaying in England one hot August, and stumbled quite by chance upon the old house. Still gracious after all those years, it nestled in forlorn gentility among ancient woodland and was virtually inacessible. Even the locals had almost forgotten its existence. It was perfect for a high-class house of entertainment for a really exclusive clientele. Delgado began discreet negotiations (‘We’re turning it into an institute for sociological research’), and within a few weeks his organisation had gained possession of yet another house.
Months of renovation work and millions of pounds of money from shadowy international sources had completed the transformation of Winterbourne Hall, from decaying ruin to palace of pleasure.
There were dozens of bedrooms, each one decorated according to a theme: Ancient Rome, Dynastic Egypt, the French Revolution, Nursery Rhymes, and even Outer Space. There was something for even the most discerning of tastes. And the Great Hall had been completely refurbished to accommodate wonderful all-night ‘parties’ which everyone knew would really be orgies on the grand Classical scale.
Choosing the girls had been the most difficult and the most skilful task, and this had been the joint responsibility of Delgado and his assistant, Madame LeCoeur, who had come to him from another of the organisation’s houses, in a select district of Paris. Madame LeCoeur was herself an accomplished whore: a voluptuous woman of forty-five who had lost none of her allure and whose great delight it was to cater for the most perverted of tastes. She could awaken the most jaded of palates and titillate men who had been impotent for years. Delgado himself could vouch for her talents. ‘A fellatrice of distinction,’ was how he described her after a night spent sampling her unique charms. He trusted her judgement implicitly in matters sexual.
The girls they had picked were all remarkable whores: dedicated and ready for anything. Best of all, they loved their work. Each was a beauty, and each a specialist in her own way. There was rosy-cheeked
Madelon, the French whore, who looked more like an angel but had all the works of Satan in her luscious arse. Rosie, the Philippino who had spent ten years in the girlie-bars of Manila and could enslave a man with one sinuous movement of her tawny thigh. Consuela, the devout Spaniard whose novel way of taking confessions had intoxicated penitents from Cadiz to Cairo and beyond. Birgitte, the towering Danish farmgirl with bright blonde plaits and breasts as massive and as comforting as feather pillows.
In all, there were forty girls, all at the peak of their perfection and as gifted as fine musicians, skilled in playing perfect concertos on the bodies of tired and jaded clients. Perfect, as indeed they must be to cater for their exclusive clientele. And drawn from dozens of different countries.
It really was a United Nations of sex, mused Delgado, lighting an expensive Cuban cigar and admiring himself in the full-length mirror in his bedroom. He looked good. Tall, swarthy-skinned, hair still dark and slicked back; only the walking-stick he carried a reminder of the backstreet brawl in Algiers, twenty years ago, which had left him with a knife-wound a hair’s breadth from his heart, and a badly broken leg. Now only the slight limp remained to take his mind back to those days of poverty and dangerous living in the North African slave towns.
He glanced at his watch. Almost eight o’clock. The guests would be arriving shortly. He took up his silver-handled cane and went downstairs to the Great Hall.
He had been saving himself for this moment for a very, very long time.
The Hall looked magnificent, softly yet clearly lit by dozens of massive candelabra and huge wrought-iron chandeliers blazing with hundreds of candles. For a moment, Delgado looked into the flickering shadows and thought he glimpsed the silent revels of gathering ghosts: the forgotten souls of earlier inhabitants, awakened from their slumbers and brought here by the memory of what it was to be young, alive; to fuck.
The decorations followed a Classical Roman theme, with a wonderful erotic mosaic floor which had been especially commissioned. Many of the paintings around the walls were copies of obscene murals found at Pompeii: pictures of naked men and women coupling with frenzied passion, enjoying every obscenity. In the very centre of the hall was a sunken bath, big enough for twenty or thirty revellers and filled with a constant supply of rose-scented warm water. Low benches were arranged around the pool, and in the darker recesses of the hall were soft couches and cushions.
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