Kiss of Death (Modern Erotic Classics)

by Valentina Cilescu

  His prick was bursting with desire. His balls were tense and hot and hard. He writhed and moaned, and tried desperately to wrest his arms free from his torturers’ grasp, but the strong, leather-gloved hands held him fast and in his heart of hearts he didn’t want them to let go. Not ever.

  Suddenly the strong hands lifted him up, wriggling and elated, turning him over in mid-air; and he found himself face-down on the futon, breathless, helpless, desperate. And the lashes came stinging down on his backside, making him arch his back, thrust out his buttocks in pain and insatiable desire.

  It was then that he felt it: the cold presence between his buttocks: at first gentle, caressing, pleading; then gradually more insistent, more persuasive.

  ‘No!’ he cried, and tried to wriggle free; but it was no use. His cries were muffled by the mattress and his flabby body was held fast. He was the helpless victim, and there was not a thing he could do about it. There was something wonderfully erotic about such helplessness.

  The dildo insinuated its way further and further into his backside. Without lubrication it was painful, but he welcomed it in, feeling his prick harden still further as the smooth hardness forced a path into the very heart of him. Further in, further still: his mouth was contorted in agony. And then a last cry of pain as, with a final violent shove, the dildo was pushed right into him and disappeared inside. He felt as though he would most certainly explode. And all this time, the lashes were still stinging down on his striated backside.

  Once again picked up, thrown harshly on to his back. He blinked in the sudden candlelight. The masked faces around him looked sinister, blurred, confused. It was as though he was being raped by a many-headed, many-armed monster with a black shiny skin and sharp, raking claws. The dildo inside his arse pained him and aroused him, like a red-hot poker joined to the root of his penis.

  Suddenly, Lim Pei reappeared, completely naked now. Two of the leather-girls began to massage her body with sweet oils, and the scent of bergamot and sex made Cheviot groan as beads of love-juice appeared at the tip of his sex-hungry penis. The leather-girls held him down, legs spread and penis jerkingly erect.

  Slowly and seductively, Lim Pei – Nemesis truly named – came forward and knelt between his thighs. She stretched out her delicate, perfumed hands and began to work sweet oil into his groin, then over his balls, and along his shaft. He knew that in a few moments he would come . . .

  But she stopped. And with one swift movement climbed on to his penis, sliding her well-lubricated cunt like a silk glove over his yearning hardness.

  ‘Nemesis . . .!’ he groaned, as she laid her body down on his, and he felt her warm breath on his cheek.

  He waited for her to move, but she lay still on top of him, her warm, moist cunt throbbing gently on his hardened shaft. Waited, but she did not move a muscle. Why did she not move? He tried to thrust in and out of her, but the leather-girls had him fast and he could not move his pelvis. With a strangled sob of realisation, he saw that it was all part of the torture, all part of his Nemesis. How long would they leave him like this, unsatisfied and frantic with lust? How long would they keep him in this terrible limbo?

  And then the strangest thing happened.

  It was only a feeling at first. Like a scarcely heard whispering in his head. A curious shadow cast over his face, clouding his brain, suspending the moment in time and space. And then it grew to a great, formless blackness that chilled and then inflamed him, swamped him and augmented him.

  It felt as if the Devil himself was taking his hand and leading him through fire, burning away all that was light and good and weak and helpless. And the seed of dark strength grew until it filled the universe, and in terror he realised that he was gazing deep into two fiery eyes, brimful of evil joy. He no longer knew where his own spirit ended and that of this conquering evil began. He had become someone – something – he no longer recognised.

  The strength surged through him like fire through a tinder-dry forest, and with a cry of triumph Cheviot wrenched himself free of the leather-girls holding him down. They struggled to hold him but he brushed them aside like small children, and – as though they understood that what they were dealing with was something far more sinister than a fat, elderly Cabinet minister – they backed away and made no further attempt to restrain him.

  Lim Pei tried to resist him, but it was futile. Within a second, he had flung the tiny woman face-down on the mattress and was wrenching her arse-cheeks apart. He was into her arse like an express train and, with the glorious sensation of the dildo still buried in his own backside, he was able to feel it all: to be the buggerer and his victim, the ravisher and the ravished. And still the fiery eyes burned deep within him and it was as though everything he felt, he felt through another, stronger body, saw through those other eyes.

  The girl squealed in pain: Nemesis meeting her own fatal destiny, paying for all her excesses, all the men she had ever tormented.

  And he looked down at her and in that moment he was the stallion, serving the mare with a huge erect penis that bruised and tore and violated. And with a huge cry of elation and lust, he lunged for the nape of the girl’s neck and buried his teeth in her sweet flesh.

  They came together, in an explosion so vast that they both sank into unconsciousness and did not wake for many hours, overcome by a weakness that was as much of the spirit as of the body.

  * * *

  Cheviot fondled the debutante’s arse and she gave a little low growl of pleasure. The drink had weakened her resolve, just as he had planned. There was no way he was going to let her get away from him. He needed sex, and he was going to get it.

  Ever since he had met Nemesis, his sexual appetites had increased alarmingly. Masturbation – for years his number-one hobby – no longer satisfied him for long. He needed firm young flesh. He needed a place to bury his yearning prick and shoot up his load of thick, frothing sperm. He hadn’t had needs like this since he was a young man. His hungry penis was a daily torment to him. And he was loving every minute of it. Funny, really, but he felt like a new man.

  He had met the girl at the launch party for a glitzy new showbiz autobiography. He had weighed her up at first sight: aristocratic, a little straightlaced, but with a basic sensuality which he was sure that a combination of drink and flattery could easily bring to the surface. Besides, he prided himself that few girls could resist the attentions of such a rich and powerful man as Sir Anthony Cheviot. She’d drop her knickers for him before the night was out, and he licked his lips in glorious anticipation.

  Back at his place, she’d seemed quite tipsy and he’d worried initially that he’d overdone the drink. But no. A few discreet gropes, an ‘accidental’ hand on her breast, and she’d started to get friendly. From then on, it was easy.

  She was giggling now, and still drinking heavily. He didn’t want to overdo it so he gently took the glass from her hand. She protested, but he silenced her with a kiss on the mouth: tentative at first, and then passionate as she began to respond and breathe heavily as he pressed himself against her. The urgency of his desire had been a constant surprise to him in recent weeks. Already he was rampant and wet for the girl, and all he wanted was to bury himself inside her.

  Steady now. Mustn’t frighten the little slut. Got to keep her sweet. Make her feel good. Then get inside those pretty little panties of hers.

  And so he caressed her hair, her shoulders, whispered sweet nothings in her ear and waited for his moment.

  They were standing behind the sofa when the sudden impulse overtook him. She was standing with her back towards him, nestling back into him and breathing quick and hard as he smoothed his hot hands over her flesh: tracing the curves of arm, waist, thigh, and back up to her pert breasts. Bolder now, he began to undo the buttons on her blouse. She seemed to be enjoying it so he slid one hand inside her bra.

  The delicious contact of the cool, sweat-moistened flesh was like a spark igniting the furnace within him. It came upon him as it had done at Win
terbourne: the darkness; the sudden sense of power invading him and empowering him to do anything; filling him with the awesome, infinitely destructive powers of chaos.

  And he flung her forward over the back of the sofa, knocking the breath out of her. As she lay there, arms dangling over the back, he 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 fuck a woman in black stockings and suspenders.

  And, without further ado, he pulled out his well-hardened prick and shoved it deep into her: deep into the tight, slippery little cunt she was shamelessly offering to him, arse thrust backwards, eager to swallow him up.

  And he fucked her like that, hands clenched tight on her naked breasts, tightly enough to bruise and hurt her yet she did not cry out.

  She did not cry out until, with an unearthly scream, Cheviot felt the spunk rising in his balls and lunged hungrily for her pretty white throat.

  The Chief Whip paced up and down in his Westminster office. The police inspector waited patiently for his response. At last he broke the silence.

  ‘You’re sure he did this to the girl?’

  ‘You’ve seen the photographs.’

  ‘It’ll have to be hushed up, of course. You do realise that? Cheviot is a very important man at Westminster. A senior Cabinet minister, maybe even a candidate for the number-one job. We have our own methods of disciplining our black sheep – you have my word that he’ll be dealt with severely. Do I have your undertaking that you’ll keep this thing out of the Sunday papers?’

  The police inspector thought hard for a moment. He was a realist.

  ‘I’ll do my best, sir,’ he sighed.

  3: Andreas Hunt

  Andreas Hunt didn’t make a habit of picking up girls in bars, but he was beginning to wonder if he ought to make an exception in this case. This one was something special.

  He took a long pull at his pint, settled back into his chair and began to watch her. She was stunning: dressed in a skin-tight Lycra off-the-shoulder sheath-dress that clung to her like a lover’s embrace, moulding the curves of breast, hip and thigh so intimately that Hunt felt he already knew her body almost as well as she knew it herself. She had really made him sit up and take notice when she strode into the bar, alone and proud, tall and scarlet-lipped, her black hair falling in silky waves over her bare shoulders.

  But it was her backside which really turned him on, made his cock twitch in his trousers – so suddenly and so uncomfortably that he had to surreptitiously wriggle his hand down into his underpants and arrange it flat against his belly. It was hot; hot and throbbing. It wanted to be inside that girl. Never mind standards of public decency: Hunt felt a terrible urge to throw the girl over a table, pull up her dress, rip off her panties (was she wearing any? He couldn’t see any tell-tale line . . .) and take her like a rutting beast in a primeval forest.

  He put his hand to his brow and wiped away beads of sweat. Funny. He didn’t normally get to feel like this after only two pints and not even a grope. Maybe the beer was off. His prick felt hot and urgent inside his underpants. Over by the bar, the girl shifted position on the bar-stool and her gorgeous buttocks moved so temptingly that Hunt felt a tremendous desire to wank himself off.

  Luckily it was dark in the cellar-bar, and Hunt was sitting alone in an alcove, pretty much hidden from casual glances. The table in front of him ought to safeguard him from prying eyes. Surreptitiously, and pulling the sides of his raincoat over his lap for extra protection, he unzipped his flies, slid in his right hand and pulled out his penis. It felt smooth, hard, magnificent in his sweating palm, and he began to caress it straight away, with long, loving, rhythmic strokes.

  The girl was still sitting with her back to him, drinking alone and exchanging few words with the men who tried to chat her up. So sexy, and yet so uninterested? Not a high-class hooker, then? Or maybe just a very choosy one . . . Hunt began to fantasise about her taking her clients back home, ushering them coolly into some million-pound penthouse flat.

  Taking him back to her penthouse flat. Pouring him a drink. Bending over to pour the drink, knowing the action would thrust back her beautiful bum-cheeks and push them against the taut red stretchy fabric. Knowing the sight would so inflame Hunt that he would be red-faced and panting by the time she handed him the whisky and soda; smiling maliciously when he took a mouthful of the drink and found he could not swallow for the lump in his throat . . .

  And then she would make her excuses and go off into the marble-lined bathroom to get ready for him. And he would be left in an agony of indecision: what should he do whilst she was gone? Ought he to get undressed? Get into the king-size bed? Or maybe give in to the irresistible urge to rub his aching cock? No, no. Save it all for her. Give her all his spunk. Let her feel it flooding out of her tight little cunny-hole.

  Hunt was pumping his shaft rhythmically and hard now, so excited that he knew he could not stop. Still gazing lust-crazed at the girl, he fantasised about screwing her, letting himself go and letting her work her wiles on him. All the tricks of the trade. Teach a dog new tricks. He was fucking her doggy-fashion and she was howling with pleasure like a bitch on heat. And he was biting into the back of her neck as the dog bites the bitch, the stallion bites the mare as he mounts her. He was clutching her luscious arse-cheeks, grabbing great handfuls of her flesh and squeezing, squeezing as he rammed into her cunt.

  He was dizzy, dizzy with excitement and through half-closed eyes he only dimly saw the girl as she slid off the bar-stool and turned to look at him. All he wanted to do was come. All he could think about was the incandescent heat of his throbbing penis. All he desired . . .

  ‘Hello there.’

  He surfaced from the trance, panting and dazed, and the climax that had been so near receded, leaving him frustrated and ashamed. The girl was standing over him, smiling to herself and looking him straight in the eye. Surely she couldn’t see what he was getting up to underneath the table? Surely . . .?

  ‘No need to hide it, darling,’ she breathed. And to Hunt’s amazement she sat down on the padded bench beside him and slipped her hand under the tablecloth. It met his own, still firmly clamped to his hardened shaft. He stared back at her in absolute horror, mingled with the most exquisite pangs of desire. She was truly breathtaking. Sloe-black eyes and glistening, scarlet lips moistened constantly as the tip of her tongue passed across them, lascivious and irresistible. ‘I could show you a good time.’

  She tossed her hair back over her shoulders, and Hunt noticed the crystal-studded choker she was wearing. All those facets of multicoloured light had a mesmerising quality. He felt himself drifting, losing his willpower.

  Hunt tried to pull himself together.

  ‘I don’t pay for it,’ he protested. ‘Never have. But thanks for the offer.’

  ‘No, no. You’ve got it all wrong,’ she breathed. Her voice was as smooth as melted chocolate, dark and aristocratic and sophisticated. ‘I like you. I want you. This one’s on me, darling.’ And she prised his fingers from his shaft and began to masturbate it herself, slowly and skilfully so that she took him once again to the very brink of oblivion.

  ‘One hour, my place,’ she said. And she slipped a small card into Hunt’s jacket pocket. Then she was on her feet again and away, stepping confidently between the tables, attracting all eyes, and finally eclipsed by the crowds of businessmen and their secretaries standing by the door.

  She was gone.

  Hunt let out a great sigh – half of relief, half disappointment. He swiftly put away his penis and did up his flies. The woman had unnerved him, and he didn’t like that. A hardened investigative journalist, working on one of the major tabloids, and still a girl with a juicy arse could reduce him to jelly. He ran a hand nervously through his shock of dark hair.

  He was a handsome man: over six feet tall, muscular, with delicate hands and compelling blue eyes. Had he wanted,
he could have had his pick of women. Lord knows, he interviewed enough of them every day: society whores, page-three girls, actresses, housewives – every story brought its share of shapely women and a fair number of them were ready, wet and willing.

  But Hunt was a bit of a loner. And he was choosy. Exceptionally so. Ordinary women bored him. He’d rather have a good wank than boring sex. When he did take a girl to bed, it was usually a one-night stand. A good fuck and so long, no hard feelings. He was independent. He didn’t want to get involved – at least, not yet. He liked to think he had a cool head, didn’t get carried away.

  So why had this one girl had such a powerful effect on him? How come he couldn’t get her out of his mind? It was some sort of trap, of course. All his journalistic instincts told him not to take the bait. She’d probably got her pimp back at her place, waiting to beat him up and pinch his wallet.

  He took the card out of his pocket and gazed at it for a long time. It wasn’t quite what he expected. He had thought it would be one of those gaudy cards you find in London telephone boxes – garish advertisements for ‘executive massage’ or ‘spanking by angry miss’. But it wasn’t like that at all. It was an ordinary white business card, quite tastefully produced. It read: ‘Anastasia Dubois: society events and exclusive catering service’, and gave a very upmarket address in an exclusive mews development, about half a mile away.

  Not a whore then? Hunt was puzzled. But why the hell should some high-class bimbo like this one set her sights on someone like him? Granted, he wasn’t bad looking; but he was one heck of an acquired taste, and the nearest he’d ever got to Ascot was the time he’d done that feature on bent jockeys.

  She must be some kind of weirdo. But she was dynamite, and the fuse was still burning. No, he wouldn’t go. It was either a trap, or she was some kind of pervert.

  He mustn’t go. But he knew he would anyway.

  Anastasia Dubois lived in one of those exclusive Kensington apartment blocks that real people never live in. Hunt was used to visiting people – indeed harassing them – everywhere from back-to-backs to Buckingham Palace; but he still felt vaguely uneasy as he spoke into the entryphone: