Kiss of Death (Modern Erotic Classics)

by Valentina Cilescu

  ‘Then may I start the bidding?’ Delgado continued. ‘What am I bid for this luscious fruit, this fresh rosebud? Who will start me off at two thousand?’

  ‘Two,’ came the prompt reply.

  ‘Two thousand five hundred.’

  ‘Three thousand.’

  The bids came thick and fast. These were men for whom money was no object, and who would stop at nothing in their quest for new frissons of pleasure. Delgado knew that the atmosphere of the auction itself was exciting them: men who thrived on competition and got a hard-on whenever they ruined a decent man or starved out a widow and her family.

  ‘Eight thousand.’

  ‘Eight thousand five hundred.’

  There were only two bidders left now: de Lacy and a fat old man called Harry Blomfeld – ironically, a business associate of Joanna’s father. Delgado knew he had lusted after the girl for years, had even offered her father cash to fuck her. Obviously not enough cash. But Blomfeld was a wealthy man – far wealthier than de Lacy – and it looked as if he was finally willing to pay whatever it took to get his kicks. The outcome was a foregone conclusion.

  ‘Ten thousand.’

  De Lacy shook his head, regretfully.

  ‘I guess I’ll just have to have her later,’ he concluded.

  ‘Can I have her somewhere private? I’ve paid good money for the slut: I’d like to enjoy her a little, play with her maybe . . .’

  Delgado shook his head. He knew that Blomfeld was a noted pervert with a reputed taste for sadism. He might not stop at ‘playing’ with his prey. They didn’t want any scandals at Winterbourne, not on the first night. ‘The rule is that you must take her here, in front of all the guests. Of course, if you’re unwilling, I’m sure Mr de Lacy . . .’

  But the victor was already taking off his toga, to reveal a flabby, sixty-year-old body and a surprisingly lively-looking prick: long and hard and glistening at its tip with the long anticipation of this moment.

  Blomfeld stared glassy-eyed at the girl and licked his lips. He really was a repellent man. He reminded Delgado of some disgusting flesh-eating reptile: a Komodo dragon, perhaps, or a carrion-feeding dinosaur. He leant over the girl and began kneading her breasts, tweaking the nipples so roughly that Delgado could not believe she was not feeling pain. And yet the girl was smiling strangely in her drug-induced trance, and began to writhe about under her tormentor’s touch.

  Somewhere close at hand, a dark shadow was drawing ever nearer, now with a purposeful intent.

  As his hand slid gradually downwards, Blomfeld felt the strangest sensation taking him over. It was as though he was no longer within himself, or that he was sharing his inner identity with another, and much stronger, personality.

  The sense of power took his breath away. Always a little, insignificant man, he had compensated with ever-greater cruelties and perversions of the weak and defenceless. But never, never in all his life had he felt such power. It soaked into him like a dark mist, filling every crevice of his being with an unspeakable evil. He welcomed it in, like oxygen to a suffocating man. It was everything he had ever wanted to be: evil, dark, strong, cruel, merciless.

  The Master’s spirit entered Blomfeld’s body and laughed to see his soul so feeble. He brushed it aside like a tiny fly, and rejoiced in this temporary gift of sight and sensation. Blomfeld’s body was flabby, old, inadequate and decaying: ordinarily it would have disgusted him. He would have scorned it. But in his weakness and need the Master seized it gratefully, drank at the fountain of life and rejoiced at what he saw before him.

  The girl was beautiful, perfect, innocent, untouched. Her frail purity excited him so much that he could control himself no longer. He used the body he had ‘borrowed’ to slake his terrible, terrible thirst.

  The other guests looked on in surprise as they saw the sudden transformation in Blomfeld, the glint of pure evil in his eyes, the ferocity of his assault upon the girl. He wrenched her legs wide apart, and – without the least preliminaries – thrust his thick, hard penis into her tiny virgin cunt. She cried out, but there was an inexplicable ecstasy in her cry of pain. He thrust into her a second time, and broke through her hymen, sending a deluge of bright red blood coursing down her thighs.

  With a cry of triumph and monstrous delight, the Master wielded Blomfeld’s body once again and the old man found himself biting into the girl’s neck, drawing forth another trickle of blood. He lapped at it greedily, continuing to paw at the girl’s defiled body and thrust frantically in and out of her.

  His cry of ecstasy was also the Master’s cry of victory. As his semen mingled with the girl’s blood, a massive orgasm tore through Blomfeld and through the girl, and the power of that orgasm flowed abundantly into the Master’s enfeebled soul, bringing for just a moment the revelation of what his powers had once been, and what they would soon be once again.

  When at last the waves of pleasure and life-giving energy ebbed away, and the Master’s soul lost possession of the body it had taken over, it remained stronger – almost imperceptibly stronger – than it had been before. Now he knew that Winterbourne Hall would be the scene of his resurrection. No-one who stepped within its walls would be safe from his ever-growing power.

  ‘What’s wrong with them?’ demanded Madame LeCoeur, panic-stricken.

  Blomfeld and the girl lay in a tangled heap on the bed, a slow trickle of blood still flowing from neck and cunt. Delgado hauled Blomfeld’s inert body off the girl and saw that they were both smiling. It was a strange, chilling smile – self-contained and surprisingly macabre. They were unconscious but breathing normally. To all intents and purposes, sound asleep.

  ‘Take them upstairs and put them in the Rose Room,’ ordered Delgado. ‘They’ll soon come round. Now: let the revels begin!’

  Winterbourne Hall lay still and silent as dawn’s grey light touched the tops of the trees. In the Great Hall, bodies lay entwined and sleeping in the aftermath of a night of sexual excess.

  In the Rose Room, Joanna slept on, the effects of the drugs still strong in her body and consciousness of her defilement mercifully yet hours away. And when she awoke, there would be an inexplicable tiredness: a weariness of the soul which could not be attributed to physical causes. A long-lasting weariness which no doctor would be able to fathom . . .

  And when Blomfeld awoke, it was with the sense of having been changed, possessed, altered so radically that he would never be the same. It was as though there was another, darker presence with him, a presence which would never leave him.

  He had the strangest sensation that he would never be alone again. And a sudden dark shadow of fear clutched at his coward’s heart.

  2: Cheviot

  Sir Anthony Cheviot could not believe his good fortune. An invitation to Winterbourne and a lunch-date with a beautiful young debutante, all in the same week.

  It was many years since Lady Cheviot had given him any sex. A lot longer than that since she had given him any good sex. A succession of anonymous call-girls had seemed the safest solution in his delicate position. One had to be so careful. Kiss-and-tell memoirs in the News of the World didn’t do you any good at all when you were supposed to be a right-wing, God-fearing MP with a strong line on sex, violence and immorality.

  And then he heard rumours about Winterbourne. A discreet haven for distinguished men with needs to satisfy and reputations to protect. Perfect. But how to go about getting an invitation? Luckily enough, in one of his visits to a ‘private party’ in Sussex, he had met a man called Delgado. Delgado had understood perfectly. It was almost as if Delgado could read his mind.

  Within a fortnight, he had found himself at the gates to Winterbourne Hall, as excited as a schoolboy out on a first illicit assignation.

  It was hard to choose a girl. There were so many to choose from. He liked Madelon, the plump-buttocked French whore – but buggery wasn’t his style. He wanted a girl with lips like a vacuum cleaner, who would suck him dry and then coax him into hardness again and let him scr
ew her till she begged for mercy. On the advice of Delgado, he chose Lim Pei, a breath of the mysterious Orient with fire in her jewel-dark eyes. Lim Pei, otherwise known as Nemesis.

  He had paid his money and the girl was his. She led him up the carved sixteenth-century staircase, and down a long carpeted corridor. He marvelled at the names on the doors as he passed: ‘Dark Angel’, ‘Winged Hope’, ‘Juno’, ‘Eden’, ‘Paradise Found’, ‘Serpent of Nile’.

  At last they stopped outside her room. There it was – the plaque on the door read: ‘Nemesis’. For a moment, he felt just a twinge of unease. The word was not a particularly erotic one. It wasn’t even one he was comfortable with. Let’s face it, he’d done enough iffy things in his life to wonder if one day he might really get his just deserts . . . But no. It was just a word. Just the sort of thing an advertising agency might come up with to add a little frisson to their latest marketing campaign.

  ‘Try Nemesis today: and really get what’s coming to you . . .’

  He laughed, licked his lips and followed the girl into the room. It was very dark, and he blinked as his eyes accustomed themselves to the dim candleglow. Half-blinded, he felt Lim Pei’s tiny, butterfly hands fluttering over his body, awakening his desires, teasing him and – when he reached out to catch her and pull her to him – flying away just out of reach. He could hear her breathing, soft and urgent. And something else. He could have sworn there were other shapes, moving, gliding in the shadows.

  But no. He was mistaken. He’d paid for one girl, and one girl was what he’d got. He was going to enjoy her. He wondered if Delgado had recommended her for a reason. It seemed unlikely. For if the mysterious dark-haired brothel-keeper had done his research properly he would have known that Sir Anthony liked to be dominated. He liked to be overwhelmed. He liked to be submerged and punished and left begging for mercy. Begging for more.

  No, Delgado had got it wrong. This so-called Nemesis was so frail she couldn’t harm a fly. Couldn’t defend herself against a midget, let alone his not-insubstantial bulk.

  ‘Come here, my lovely,’ he breathed, still straining his eyes to make out shapes in the half-darkness.

  She came towards him and smiled. His cock reared in his pants, thrusting its head painfully against the inside of his zip. He readjusted himself and felt the dampness already soaking through his trousers. She was luscious.

  Her lips glistened in the flickering candle-light, and she ran her tongue over them hungrily. She had taken off her long robe and was wearing nothing but a sort of jewelled bikini: all blues and brilliant greens and gold, with suggestive tassels where he knew her nipples were hiding.

  He wanted to bite those nipples. Sink his teeth into them until she cried out in pain.

  Heart thumping, he reached out and took hold of her right shoulder-strap. She made no attempt to move away, and with a gasp of triumph Cheviot tore at it roughly. It gave way and the cup fell away, exposing her right breast. He fell upon her, licking and biting. He was surprised to feel her stand her ground. She winced slightly as the tips of his teeth dug into her flesh, but still she withstood his assault. He felt slightly disappointed: he hadn’t planned on spending the night with a submissive little geisha. He might even ask Delgado for his money back.

  But then he felt her hands searching for him, finding the bulge in his trousers and rubbing at it with obvious pleasure and considerable skill. He could not suppress a low moan of satisfaction as her fingers ran lightly over his testicles and fastened on his shaft, gripping it purposefully. Then she unzipped him, and that was heaven. The unbelievable coolness of those tiny fingers on his immense hardness, holding him just hard enough to drive him wild, just lightly enough to stop him coming all over her hand.

  He thrust his penis against her, ground it against her belly suggestively. Maddened with lust, he tore at the other bra strap and in seconds she was naked to the waist: two perfect globes, soon glistening with his saliva; firm-fleshed and erect.

  The panties. He must get her panties off her. Got to get into her juicy cunt. Got to fuck her, fuck her, fuck her. His brain was reeling. Had that Frenchwoman slipped something into his drink? He felt so randy he knew he couldn’t control himself much longer. He lunged for her panties but, to his amazement, the girl drew away from him with a wicked smile.

  ‘What . . .?’

  Something was moving towards him out of the shadows. Not something. Some things. There were shapes in the margins of the room, and now they were moving in on him. He began to sweat, panic, turn around and look for the door. No good. They were all around him. There must have been . . . eight of them at least.

  Closer and closer . . . and hands reached out from behind him and began to run all over his body. Hands, hands – how many hands? Four? Six? More? It felt as though he was floating in an ocean of hands, fluttering fingers taking the place of the treacherous currents. He tried to turn around, but the shadowy figures were in front of him, too.

  Now he could see them. Women. Tall women clad in black leather. Black leather and studs. Leather-girls with cruel whips. They were all smiling; smiles without warmth; smiles full of malice and desire. They were going to punish him. He didn’t know whether to cry out with fear or desire.

  Strong hands. Hands that picked him up and carried him, struggling, towards the futon bed at the far end of the room, haloed in candles. There was a heady scent of incense that made his head spin even more. His prick felt as though it were on fire.

  Hands. Hands that tore at his clothing and wrenched it from his body. The Jermyn Street handmade shirt and the Savile Row suit, torn from him without a thought of how much they had cost. Hands that squeezed his hardness lasciviously through his underpants, then tugged roughly at them. He was naked and struggling.

  He found his voice: ‘Let me go!’

  But only mocking laughter greeted him. Strong hands held on to his wrists. And all the time he was gazing up at Lim Pei, who had straddled his face and was masturbating herself obscenely and unashamedly only inches above him. He longed for her tight cunt on his prick, but all he could feel were hands, hands gripping his ankles, forcing his thighs apart, splaying his helpless body across the bed, kneading his flesh so eagerly, so violently that he winced with pain.

  He gazed up at Lim Pei, marvelling at the olive skin of her inner thighs, the hot and steaming furrow that ran between them, the halo of dark bristles guarding the entrance to her love-palace. The desire to fuck her overwhelmed him, and still the cruel hands refused to wank him off, refused to release him from this torment. His poor tormented prick twitched and ached to burst inside some hot, wet slit, or to explode on to the surface of some knowing tongue.

  Lim Pei knew how to make a man suffer. First, she ran the edge of her hand though her hot crack. It sank into the flesh like a hot knife into butter, and when she took away her hand it was wet and fragrant. She wiped it on Cheviot’s face, and he groaned at the sweet muskiness of her powerful smell.

  Then she moved both hands down her pubis and began to toy with her belly, her genitals, teasing not only Cheviot but herself, running fingertips gently and deliciously over the hypersensitive flesh of her inner thighs. The flickering candlelight gave a dreamlike quality to the sight of this lovely woman playing with herself, pleasuring herself and her audience in the semi-darkness of a bordello where nothing was forbidden, everything permissible and indeed encouraged.

  Her playful hands moved upwards towards her cunt, and Sir Anthony heard her give a little sigh of pleasure as their very fingertips reached her pubic bristles and began to twist them around, tugging at them, clearly enjoying this sensation of mingled pleasure and pain. Then, delicately, as though parting the petals of a fragile lotus-blossom, Lim Pei pulled apart her cunt lips and displayed the glories within to her transfixed victim.

  Glistening, running with rivulets of shining love-juice, Lim Pei’s dark-fringed cunt swayed inches above Cheviot’s face and mesmerised him, like the golden pendulum of some diabolical hypnotist. Swaying,
glistening, fragrant and heady like summer wine and bee-harvested lavender honey. Instinctively he stuck out his tongue, and with a laugh of glee Lim Pei lowered herself on to his face. He felt his tongue go straight to its target, and as he licked at the girl he could taste her juicy abundance as it flowed freely down his face.

  Groaning, she came and the fragrant corolla of her cunt opened and closed on his enchanted tongue. His brain reeled, he felt himself floating, submerged in the blue-green light of submarine grottoes, drowning, drowning.

  When she climbed off him, he was only dimly aware of what was happening to him. Until the hands began to torment him again, tormenting him in earnest, pinching and stroking, kneading and scratching with their long, merciless fingernails. The pain was excruciating: a nail raked up his inner thigh and he could feel a warm trickle – of blood? or was it sweat? – coursing down the flesh.

  He gazed up at the women: tall leather-girls in spiked boots. Masked and identical, like the multiple images cast in some horrific kaleidoscope. Strong bodies moulded in black leather catsuits, slashed open at the crotch and with holes through which their identical breasts protruded. Breasts whose brown, stiffened nipples were cruelly pierced and ornamented with silver chains, forming a weird, fantastic bridge between right breast and left. Breasts that glistened palely in the half-light.

  They raised their whips and – before he could cry out in fear – began to lash him, at first gently but then with greater insistence, infinite and Mephistophelian skill. The thongs were of the softest, most flexible, leather, and the torture was exquisite; exactly calculated to arouse a stinging pain which turned swiftly to an agonisingly, deliciously pernicious warmth in his loins. Their whips studiously avoided his penis and testicles, yet with every measured stroke he held his breath in terror, expecting to feel the bite of the lash on those tender parts.