Kiss of Death (Modern Erotic Classics)

by Valentina Cilescu

  ‘It’s me . . . Andreas Hunt . . . from the wine bar.’

  He half expected an awkward silence. Maybe she’d been drunk. Maybe she’d only done it for a bet. Maybe she’d changed her mind. He turned to go, but a smooth voice purred out of the crackling entryphone:

  ‘Mr Hunt, I’m so glad you could come. Come right up. Fifth floor, flat number nine.’

  As he stepped into the lift and the doors closed behind him, Hunt became aware once again of the erection throbbing insistently in his trousers. An hour since he’d seen her and still he was hard. He gave himself a little rub, enjoying the well-lubricated sensation of the glistening tip against the inside of his underpants.

  The lift stopped on the fifth floor and the doors glided open. The corridor was luxuriously carpeted and the whole place made Hunt feel thoroughly cheap and nasty. It was like walking out on to the set of a lavish American mini-series dressed in an old anorak and Wellington boots.

  Flat nine was at the far end of the corridor. He rang the bell and waited for the longest few moments of his life. At last there was the sound of a bolt being drawn back, a safety chain being unhooked, and the door swung open.

  ‘Come in, darling. Everything’s ready for you.’

  She was even more arousing than she had seemed in the half-light of the cellar bar. Her skin was so pale it seemed almost translucent, the blue of her veins clearly visible through the ivory surface. Her great dark eyes burned with an inner light which both excited and disturbed Hunt. Something deep inside him was still preparing him to run away, still convinced that this was some crazy woman.

  But he stepped inside, and allowed her to take his raincoat and sports jacket. The interior of the apartment was just as luxurious as the corridor outside had suggested: Chinese silk carpets and oriental porcelain, Liberty-print sofas, embroidered wall-hangings – all the marks of tasteful affluence.

  ‘Would you like a drink, Mr Hunt?’

  ‘I’ll have a whisky and soda, please. Look, call me Andreas, will you? Under the circumstances I don’t really think we need stand on ceremony, do you?’

  She handed him the drink: ‘Andreas.’ She mouthed the word as though it contained some seed of irresistible, forbidden eroticism; as though his name were some mystic talisman of sex. ‘Andreas the Hunter.’ Her smile broadened. ‘And now you have hunted me down.’

  ‘I’d hardly say that, Anastasia,’ replied the journalist, thoroughly perturbed but not caring for anything as long as he could glut himself on that glorious sweep of backside, those ‘come-here-and-fuck-me’ eyes. ‘Some might say you were the hunter – hunting down poor defenceless men like me! And what do you want with me anyway?’ he added, though he had a fair idea by now.

  ‘Shame on you, Andreas,’ she grinned. ‘You know very well what I want. I want you. I want your cock inside me. I want you to squirt your semen up into me until it overflows out of my cunt.’

  Such direct words from such a sweet mouth, spoken in such cultured tones, really threw Hunt off balance.

  ‘Are you a . . .?’ Words failed him.

  ‘No, I am not a whore. Not a prostitute. Not a streetwalker. Do I look like a streetwalker, Mr Andreas Hunt?’

  ‘Right now, you look like the most beautiful, the most desirable thing in the world,’ he replied. The tension in his groin had reached such heights that it was almost painful. He could feel dampness spreading out from the yearning tip of his too-long-deprived tool. ‘I’m sorry: no, you don’t look like a whore. But what are you? Why have you asked me here? Why me?’

  ‘I told you. I want you. I desire you. You have a magnificent body. Very strong, very supple. A powerful sexual drive. I want you to make love with me many times tonight, Andreas Hunt.’

  Hunt looked into the woman’s eyes and saw that they gleamed with an almost fanatical zeal. Still she was licking her lips in suppressed hunger. This woman needed sex like other people need food or oxygen. And then she stretched out one scarlet-tipped finger and brushed against his groin. It was the gentlest, the faintest, the merest of touches but it inflamed Hunt’s already-smouldering passions and at that moment he knew he would sell his soul to get inside that glorious body.

  Anastasia took him by the hand and led him towards the bedroom door. It was every man’s dream come true. So why did he feel as though she was going to eat him alive?

  Anastasia pulled Hunt towards her and sank softly on to the big bed. She bent his head down to her face and he thought she was going to kiss him, instead she parted her glistening scarlet lips and murmured:

  ‘Fuck me.’

  The words sent Hunt’s cock wild with anticipation, and he began to fumble for the zip on the back of the girl’s dress. Coolly, almost casually, she reached behind her and and pulled down the zip; then slid the dress down over her perfect body.

  Underneath, she was stark naked. No bra, no panties. Not even stockings. She kicked off her shoes and lay naked before him, save for the ornate crystal-studded collar she wore. He reached out to unfasten it, but she turned angry eyes on him and pushed away his hand:

  ‘No!’

  ‘OK, OK,’ he breathed. And he kissed her passionately as she undressed him, feverishly, ravenously, desperate to seek out his throbbing hardness and pull it into the warm, wet heart of her. At last he was naked and she was sucking him into ever-greater hardness, her muscular tongue winding around the tip of his penis like a wicked serpent in Eden. And he was indeed in paradise.

  ‘Take me.’ It was a command, and he obeyed, thrusting into her eagerly and almost as hungrily as she swallowed him up.

  He took her many times that night. At last they fell into a troubled slumber, and it wasn’t until the first glimmers of sunlight came creeping through the curtains that Hunt really had time to take a close look at his companion. She was lying on her side, with her back to him, and her hair swept forward, baring her neck.

  The clasp on the crystal collar had come unfastened, and the collar had slipped down, revealing her white neck beneath. A white neck spoiled only by a single blemish. Hunt had never seen a human bite before, but he knew that was what it was. The scars left by human teeth biting into the back of her neck.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Anastasia looked at him as though he had tried to rape her.

  ‘I told you not to take off the collar.’

  ‘I didn’t. I’ve told you. I woke up and the clasp had come undone. So tell me, how did it happen? Who did that to you?’

  ‘Who? How do you know it’s not an animal bite?’

  ‘It’s not. Those are the marks of human teeth. If you don’t want to tell me, it’s OK. God, but there are some pretty weird people in this world, though . . .’

  The girl looked at him for a moment as if trying to weigh him up, decide if he was trustworthy.

  ‘I ought not to tell you. There’s been . . . pressure . . . on me not to tell anyone.’

  Hunt pricked up his ears. He was glad he hadn’t told her he was a tabloid journalist. He began to wonder if there might be a story in this somewhere.

  ‘He picked me up at a party and got me drunk, I’d never have done it with him otherwise – he’s old and fat and disgusting. He took me back to his place and then he fucked me . . . I was half-unconscious by the time . . . and then he just went mad and started biting my neck. It was terrible – he was like an animal, a wild beast.’

  ‘But who was it?’

  She hesitated, then gave in.

  ‘Sir Anthony Cheviot. The dirty bastard.’

  Hunt’s mind was reeling. ‘Cheviot? Are you serious? You mean the Cabinet minister?’ His journalistic instincts were sounding red alert. This could be the big one. This could get him the news editor’s job.

  The girl was talking again, but he was hardly listening.

  ‘And do you know what the weirdest thing of all is?’ she went on. ‘You’d think a thing like that would put you off sex for good, wouldn’t you?’

  Hunt nodded.

  ‘Well, the f
unny thing is that ever since it happened I can’t get enough of it. It’s terrifying. I’m turning into a raving nympho. I mean, d’you think I make a habit of picking up men in seedy wine bars? These last few weeks, it’s been so bad I’ll do it with anyone, anywhere, anytime.

  ‘Come here and do it to me again.’

  It was a request no gentleman could refuse.

  4: Mara

  Mara Fleming lived life as she wanted to live it, not as anyone else wanted her to. That, basically, was the cause of all her problems. Psychic, pagan and traveller, and beautiful to boot: that was a heady combination. And one which most men thought they really ought to resist. Few managed it. And after knowing Mara Fleming, however briefly, no-one was ever quite the same again.

  Glastonbury had been good for Mara this year. She had given a lot of Tarot readings, done a lot of healings, colour therapy, and she had met up with plenty of like-minded people: musicians, Druids, Greens, travellers like herself. People for whom sex was an expression of life and a celebration of the eternal cycles of birth, death and rebirth.

  Sex meant a lot to Mara Fleming. Through it, she had found that she could get into closer contact with her psychic powers, commune with the soul within herself and raise and expand her consciousness. Sex for Mara meant spiritual growth, and spiritual growth was her only real ambition.

  It was a fine summer morning, and the early sunlight was already caressing the sleeping travellers with warm fingers. Mara threw off the blanket she had wrapped around her to keep her from the night chill, and stretched out her lithe, naked body to the sun’s eager caress. She felt restored, renewed, chosen.

  Mara delighted in her body: in its youthful vigour, its sleek, strong perfection, the naturalness of its urges. She was proud of its demands, its wilfulness. She knew it more intimately than any lover, and because of that she knew exactly how to make love to herself and bring herself to ecstasy every time. If there was no man to share her bed, or take her roughly on the warm-veined earth, no matter. She did not need a man to give her pleasure. Pleasure radiated from her fingertips, like the healing fire that had restored so many of the sick and despairing to health and life.

  With a little murmur of delicious enjoyment, Mara began her complex ritual of self-love. Taking a little bottle of lavender oil from the embroidered bag she always carried, she unscrewed the top and let a few of the cool, viscous drops fall on to her breasts, her belly, her thighs. Then she set to work on her taut young flesh; set to work to bring herself the ultimate in pleasure.

  First of all, she ran her index finger lightly over her flesh, gathering up the drops of fragrant oil and drawing curious little patterns on her sun-bronzed skin. A pentacle, moons and stars and other, less familiar, shapes. The sun had already warmed the oil, and Mara felt as though she were lying on some faraway desert sand, whilst a mysterious dark man in voluminous robes bent over her and prepared her for the rites of love.

  Slowly, luxuriously, she laid the palm of her hand flat upon her belly and began to move it upwards, enjoying the warm sensation and the lingering, envigorating fragrance of lavender floating up off her flawless skin. Her hand travelled still higher, and reached the blessed place where belly becomes breast: a hot, humid crease. She slipped her hand under her right breast. It was firm, yet overflowing and ample. She had beautiful, full breasts that stood out in womanly contrast to her otherwise gamine body, wiry and sleek and spare. The exuberance of her big breasts was a joyous assertion of her womanliness, her vitality, an affirmation of her belief in the universal earth-mother, the giver of life.

  Mara’s breasts were truly breathtaking: each one too big to fit into any man’s hand. Her rounded globes were lightly bronzed, for in the summertime Mara lived as much of her life as possible in a glorious, natural state of nakedness, living whenever she could in remote places, so that she and her companions could walk naked without fear of being discovered.

  She cradled a breast in either hand, loving the sensation of fullness, revelling in the amplitude of the flesh which escaped from her fingers, and refused to be confined within their limited compass. They were hot, moist and fragrant with lavender oil, and the nipples were rapidly hardening into long, brown hazelnuts begging to be cracked between eager teeth. She pinched them hard, and felt a tremendous shiver of pleasure pass through her, momentarily tightening the muscles of her vagina and triggering the flow of love-juices which would soon turn her cunt into a raging torrent.

  Now she was massaging the oil into her breasts with a loving, circular motion that made he breathe hard with deep satisfaction. The veins were standing out, bluish and obscene, and the nipples were straining under this terrible provocation, crying out for someone – anyone – to come and suck at them, bite them, pinch them, give them some release from this ordeal of sexual torment.

  She smiled to herself. The sun climbed higher in the perfect blue of an August sky, and rays of caressing sunlight filtered through her half-closed eyelids. She was bathed in sunlight, caressed, adored by the loving rays. They recognised her as their own, their lover, their mistress; and washed her lovely body in torrents of mellow sunshine. The warmth penetrated her limbs, her breasts; soaked into her skin with the sweet-smelling oil; insinuated itself into every fold and crease, every nook and niche of her smooth-skinned loveliness.

  Her breasts were hard and hypersensitive now. Each time a practised finger slid over a well-oiled nipple, it felt as though there was an electric current linking breasts and loins; and she could feel the juices in her cunt flowing free, cascading in ever-more-dangerous rapids until her pubic hair was dew-sparkled and her thighs running with the dampness of mounting desire. And she sighed deeply: sighed with the enormous pleasure of it all, physical and spiritual fulfilment combining in these solitary rites of love.

  She slid her right hand down her flank, delighting in the smooth, silky sensation of the oil on her warm skin. Her fingers met her pubis and began to tease and torment the luxuriant dark hairs they found there. Warm sunlight caressed her loins and she could resist no longer: her thighs began to move apart, revealing the moist and wonderful world of her cunt, far more fragrant and more sensual than the essential oils she was working into her skin.

  With the fingers of her left hand, she gently parted her cunt lips, gasping with pleasure as the sun’s warmth soaked into these most sensitive, secret parts of her. All at once she was united with all the power of the sun, suffused with its life-giving energies, vibrant with golden light and strength. Her right index finger began its delicate journey down her gleaming wet furrow, and she shivered with pleasure as it glanced across her clitoris, hard and throbbing.

  She began to rub at the little pink pearl, and immediately felt herself floating on a great tide of pleasure. It was a feeling she had had many times before: a sensation of being out of her body, a soul floating free and joyful in a world of pleasurable sensations, a world full of whispering voices where she met and communed with her deepest, uttermost self – her immortal soul.

  Her cunt was dripping juice now. Almost mechanically, instinctively, Mara reached out with her right hand and picked up the dildo which she always carried with her. Carved from green obsidian, it was a massive and breathtaking representation of the erect male organ: cool, hard and worn smooth with use. It had belonged to many generations of psychic women in her family, and had gained a truly ritual significance. The orgasms she experienced with it inside her had a spiritual, all-consuming quality which she could not explain.

  Restraining her eagerness, she forced herself to take it inside her cunt slowly, luxuriating in the delicious sensations as it slid further and further in, millimetre by millimetre. Its coolness contrasted exquisitely with her sun-warmed, lust-hot cunt, and it slipped in and out of her luscious wetness with consummate ease.

  She could feel the thick stone phallus stretching the walls of her cunt, and groaned with delight as it encountered the neck of her womb, filling her up, possessing her yet freeing her soul to fly with the spirits
of fire and air.

  Eagerly now, and urgently, she used the fingers of her left hand to massage her burning clitoris whilst with her right hand she masturbated her cunt with the inanimate phallus which seemed paradoxically to radiate a cold life of its own.

  As she climbed towards orgasm, she felt – just for a split second – as though she were being watched by some invisible, faraway presence. Far away, and yet so powerful that its unspeakable, seductive evil could reach into her soul and almost, but not quite, possess it. She felt as if she should have been afraid, and yet the presence seemed to wish her no harm. It was willing her to orgasm, lending her fingers strength and skill. There really was magic in her touch that day.

  And as she reached the summit of orgasm, it was as though another massive, cold penis was joined to the obsidian prick within her tight-stretched cunt, doubling the intensity of her pleasure as she cried out in her delirium.

  As she came to her senses, and lay panting on the warm earth, wondering at the strange hallucination she had just experienced, Mara reached down to take out the stone dildo.

  It was impossible, but it had happened. The stone shaft was cracked from tip to balls, and as she held it in her hand the phallus split into two halves, its magical power destroyed by some other, infinitely greater, force.

  ‘Morning, Mara.’ A tanned face peered down at her and a roughened hand slid down her backside. A hardness, too. He was awake and ready for anything.

  Mara had grown fond of Gareth. He had a rough Welsh charm and had been a traveller all his life. They had met up two years previously, at the Midsummer Festival at Stonehenge, and had thrown in their lot together. There was nothing jealous or possessive about the relationship. Mara shared her favours not only with Gareth, but with his two mates, Jason and Clem, who travelled in the van with them. They were young and vigorous and exuberant, and Mara enjoyed sex with them. And anyhow, they were all New Age People: being there for each other was what it was all about. Having sex was good for the bonding, the closeness, the spiritual growth.