Kiss of Death (Modern Erotic Classics)

by Valentina Cilescu

  ‘Want me?’ Gareth took hold of Mara’s hand and drew it back to rest on the hardened shaft of his penis. He was proud of his penis. He had every right to be. It was thick, long, beautifully shaped, and years on the road had taught him how to satisfy a woman with it.

  ‘Want you.’ Mara snuggled backwards under the blanket, so that her backside nestled against Gareth’s hollowed stomach. His erect shaft twitched as it pressed against her curving buttocks. She took hold of it firmly and began to masturbate it slowly and lovingly.

  ‘Don’t tease!’ groaned Gareth, in an agony of pleasure.

  ‘I want to make sure you really want me.’ She gripped Gareth’s prick a little harder and made the strokes longer, more deliberate.

  ‘Much more of that and I’ll cream myself!’

  ‘You’re so impatient!’ But she gave in, pulling apart her own buttocks to let him inside her nicely moistened cunt.

  ‘No, not your cunt. I want to fuck you in your arse,’ breathed Gareth into her ear. ‘You will let me, won’t you?’ She needed no second bidding. Mara gave a little shiver of pleasure as he slid a fìnger into her cunt and used some of the abundant juices to grease her tight little arsehole, weakening its feeble resistance by sliding that same fingertip in and out of the sphincter a few times to drive her mad with desire.

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Now! Go on! Stick it in me! Bugger me, Gareth; bugger me now!’

  He placed the head of his impressive tool into the amber furrow between her tanned buttocks and rammed it in hard. It slid in first time, right up to the hilt, and they groaned together with the pleasure of it. Gareth slipped his hand round underneath her and searched out the rosebud of her clitoris. She gasped at the heavenly sensation as he rubbed at her, and slid her own hand backwards to cradle Gareth’s balls, which were already tensed and hardening.

  Gareth rode her hard, pulling her towards him so that his prick stabbed into her right up to the balls; and she cried out with mingled pain and pleasure as her clitoris swelled beneath his insistent fingers.

  ‘I’m coming, I’m coming!’ she gasped.

  ‘Wait for me!’

  And they came together: Gareth’s burning spunk searing her violated arsehole and frothing out on to her buttocks and thighs.

  They lay there together for a long time, hearts racing and heads spinning. Then, half-asleep and still dazed with pleasure, Mara felt Gareth moving away and one . . . no, two . . . people sliding under the blanket with her.

  Jason and Clem were twenty-four-years-old twins and, like all good twins, they liked to do everything together. They settled down under the blanket, on either side of Mara, and rolled her on to her back. Then they began a strangely symmetrical exploration which left her wondering if she was hallucinating. An identical blond youth on either side; identical smooth hands gliding over her flesh; identical sensations on both sides of her body.

  Jason was on her right, Clem on her left. As the older twin, Jason always took the lead – but his brother was never far behind. As Jason’s eager fingers slid to her right breast, Clem’s promptly followed suit, and Mara sighed deliciously as she surrendered to the hypnotic, circular motion of playful fingers dancing in ever-decreasing circles around her rapidly stiffening nipples.

  Now they were bending their heads to suck at her breasts like babies, hungry for the comfort of her firm young flesh. Electric charges of pleasure went rippling through her at each rhythmic movement of lips, tongues and teeth upon hardening, rubbery flesh. She lay helpless, unable to move even if she had wanted to. Her golden breasts held her in thrall, as securely as if they had been iron chains. She was locked in a world of pleasure from which there could be no untimely escape, only patience and eventual release.

  Mara stretched out her hands and began to stroke the firm, athletic bodies lying on their sides beside her. Their identical beauty added to her delirium: which was Jason, which was Clem, and where and who was she? She was floating in a dreamworld of desire, and the two strong bodies beside her felt like the solid walls of some pleasure-barque, drifting on an ocean of passion and carrying her away, effortlessly, towards the shores of ecstasy.

  Muscular arms and strong shoulders; broad chests dusted with a light down of blond hair; flat, hard bellies and thighs as solid as marble columns, but so warm, so pulsating with life . . . And what were these two other columns, hard and hot and throbbing to their own crazy rhythm? She let her fingers glide over them, so lightly that they were scarcely touching the smooth, dry flesh, and yet she could still feel the incredible heat radiating from those beautiful twin pricks and burning deep into the palms of her eager hands.

  The boys were sucking harder at her breasts now, nibbling lightly and teasingly at her engorged flesh, so skilfully that she felt as if she might even come – like this, surrounded by golden flesh and with her two grown-up babies at her breasts.

  With a sigh of contentment, Mara began to stroke their balls, lovingly and simultaneously. The identical twin sacs were pursed and puckered, pubic hairs erect on gooseflesh that quivered and oozed beneath her fingers, almost as though it could hardly bear the exquisite agony of her caress and was seeking to escape before the pleasure and pain became too great for it.

  The victory was hers. After only a few moments of gentle caresses, the boys’ balls began to harden under her touch, marshalling their spunk ready for the heart-stopping moment when they would send it surging up twin shafts and into some warm nook of her love-hungry body.

  As she began to pump their hardened shafts, she felt their hands move downwards from her breasts and glide down towards her enticing groin. Instinctively, she drew up her knees and opened wide her thighs, yearning for the sweet sensation of a finger on her clitty. But which finger? Whose finger would it be? The hands moved ever nearer and began to torment her raven curls, already bedewed with her love-juices, welling up from the fountainhead of her ready sex. But neither made any attempt to enter her, though her thighs strained apart and her cunt-lips gaped, begging to swallow up some long, hot token of thrusting manhood.

  The pricks in her hand had grown even stiffer in homage to her reverent caress, and she used the drops of clear liquid glistening at their tip to lubricate each shaft and work it more easily up and down. She could hear Clem and Jason breathing hard, urgently; knew that they were holding back so as to prolong the enjoyment; knew, too, that with a deft flick of the wrist she could bring them both to orgasm on her golden belly. But that wasn’t what she wanted. She wanted this red meat inside her, screwing her, fucking her, stuffing her fit to burst.

  ‘Fuck me . . .’ she breathed, desperately, longingly.

  ‘Patience, patience,’ whispered Jason.

  ‘All in good time,’ added Clem.

  And they began to stroke her thighs, slowly and tantalisingly, just skirting the outer lips of her juicy cunt, and from time to time brushing against the thick black curls that fringed it. Each fleeting contact was like an electric shock, swelling her clitoris still further so that it felt as if it might burst if anyone so much as breathed on it. With their free hands, the lads began once more to torment her nipples, tweaking and rolling them between finger and thumb so that she cried out an writhed in an agony of pleasure. She pumped away frantically at the twin shafts, and she knew that they, too, must soon take her or explode.

  At last they moved theirs fingers inwards, to the heart of her sex, playing and carefully circling her clitoris so as not to bring her off too soon. Mara sighed and tried to engulf their fingers in her hot wet cunt.

  They had other plans for her.

  Pulling their hardness out of her grasp, Jason and Clem lifted her astounded body in strong arms and flipped her over on to her front, half-kneeling so that her backside jutted up obscenely into the air. Clem propped two pillows behind his back and settled himself down underneath and in front of her, so that he was able to pull her head down towards his groin and force his hard prick inside her willing mouth. She began to suck at it greedily, running t
he tip of her tongue around the purple head and savouring the saltiness of the lubricating fluid.

  Jason, meanwhile, was now kneeling behind her, pulling apart her thighs so that she was kneeling doggy-fashion on the bed, and admiring the beautiful and obscene view she was presenting to him. A still-wet trail of semen was trickling out of her pretty little arsehole, and her buttocks were spattered with the pearly droplets. Jason ran his finger through the stickiness and began to spread it over her arse-cheeks, rubbing it in like an expensive body-cream, massaging and kneading with strong fingers.

  Then he moved back to her little brown arsehole. Pulling apart her buttocks, he ran his fingertip over the sopping-wet amber rose, drawing sighs of pleasure from Mara as he tickled the sensitive perineum. Then he began a more intimate game, wetting his index finger well and then gliding it into her arse – first only a little way in, then right inside, up to the knuckle.

  Inside her arse, it was like a tropical rainforest: hot and steamy and wet. Well-greased with semen, the elastic walls yielded willingly to his insistent caress. In and out, in and out, he buggered her with his skilful finger, and all the while she kept on sucking at his twin brother’s cock, arousing and delaying him with her clever lips and tongue.

  He let his finger roam in a circular motion, stretching the walls of the girl’s arse and enjoying her shivers and sighs at each new, forbidden sensation.

  But his own prick was leaping impatiently, rearing its head and ready for the fray. It longed to be inside her. With his free hand, Jason reached round underneath Mara and felt for her clitoris, foraging through her thick undergrowth, parting the lips of her cunt and feeling inside. There it was: her hard button, harder and bigger than he had ever felt it before, and throbbing with the intensity of her insatiable desire. With a grunt of extreme pleasure, Jason thrust his hardness into her yearning vagina, feeling its walls contract around him and imprison him in a web of irresistible sensations. Slowly, and still stimulating her clitoris and arse, he began to fuck her.

  There was a vision inside her head. At first, just lights in a dark sky, dancing shapes in a formless void. Faraway voices that whispered to her and urged her on, unseen hands that caressed her everywhere, every way, bringing her to the brink of orgasm and refusing to let her step out into the sunlight of ecstasy.

  And then she saw him. A dark man in a dark cloak, his head turned away from her. She shivered as she saw him unbutton his trousers and take out a long, gleaming-white prick so terrifying that she felt it must be the talisman of some ancient evil. And he began to masturbate – to masturbate over the face of the dead woman who lay at his feet, arms crossed across her breast and a withered lily in her waxen fingers.

  And as he came, and his semen fell in huge, white droplets upon the dead woman’s face, Mara saw her breast rise and fall in a first breath of renewed life, Then the eyes fluttered open, and the woman turned her sightless gaze on Mara.

  She found herself looking into her own, long-dead eyes.

  Her orgasm was as unexpected as it was cataclysmic, shaking her with sobs of agonising pleasure as she felt her mouth and cunt fill up with a great flood-tide of semen.

  They lay together, semi-conscious, for a long time, hardly breathing, hardly moving. And the picture in her head stayed for a long, long time: the picture of a dead girl brought obscenely to life. A dead girl who was Mara Fleming.

  The following morning saw Mara on the road by six a.m. Gareth, Jason and Clem were still sleeping, oblivious that she had gone. They wouldn’t have understood.

  And then again, what was there to understand? A vision, a feeling – for that was all it was – a feeling of being pursued relentlessly by something evil and growing stronger by the minute.

  She knew she had to get away. Try to escape, before it was too late. Where to? What did it matter? She had a terrible sense of foreboding. A sense that, wherever she should go, the presence would not be far behind.

  The Master was elated. Trapped and yet every second more powerful, more able to transcend the confines of his prison. His spirit had reached out blindly into the blackness of the night, the wild vastness of the storm, and had, by some incredible stroke of luck, encountered another spirit almost as remarkable as his own.

  The spirit of a woman. He had not had the strength he needed to see her face, but he had seen into her mind, her soul. A woman with the power. A woman who might have the key not only to his freedom, but to that of the one he had thought lost eternally.

  He must find her. He must know her. He must possess her.

  5: Flight

  Andreas Hunt locked his car door and turned to face the sea. It glared back at him, grey-green, foam-flecked and irritable. A sudden gust of wind slapped him across the face and caught him off balance. He held on tight to his trilby and pulled the collar of his raincoat up around his chin. He liked his trilby and his raincoat. They made him feel like a proper investigative journalist – not a hack struggling for that first big break which would take him into the big league.

  Maybe Whitby would give it to him.

  It was a draughty place, even in the late summer sunshine. He stood shivering on the cliffs and looked down on the sort of seaside town ignored like the plague by fax salesmen and multi-national burger chains. At least it had that in its favour.

  Life here was out of step with the modern world, and proud of it. Below him, a drab and rusty dredger was chugging out of the estuary with yet another load of silt. To the right of him, and a little way down the hill, a pair of enormous bleached jawbones were arranged as a sort of triumphal arch, suggesting that Whitby folk had little time for saving the whale. Gangs of frozen pensioners in Pacamacs were scuttling over the swing bridge like worried ants. Makes you wonder what Dracula ever saw in the place, mused Hunt. I mean, that guy had style.

  Over on the other bank of the Esk, a heart-attack-inducing flight of stairs wound a tortuous path up the side of the cliff towards a black and glowering ruin. It might be a castle. No, a church maybe. No, too big. Oh, who cares anyway? thought Hunt, and picked up his suitcase. A stiff drink, that’s what he needed. And a thermal vest.

  The hotel wasn’t a disappointment. Then again, he hadn’t expected much. It had an organic look to it somehow, like something regurgitated by a seasick cormorant; and it clung to the cliffs with all the horror-stricken tenacity of a stranded Boy Scout, watching the tide come in. But at least the hotel bar was open. He ordered two double whiskies and flopped down into a squeaky leather armchair in the corner by the window.

  ‘Staying long, sir?’ The barman set his drinks down on the sticky tabletop and gave the ash tray a cursory wipe with a damp rag.

  ‘Couple of days, maybe more. Depends how things go.’

  ‘Business trip, is it, then?’

  The barman wasn’t as daft as his pebble glasses might suggest. And these local characters were always good for a bit of gossip. Hunt decided to pump him for information.

  ‘Sort of. I’m a journalist. I’m doing an article on provincial MPs and their constituencies, and I was rather hoping I could get an interview with Sir Anthony Cheviot.’

  ‘Aye, well, you’ve come at the right time. Hardly ever here, he is. Spends all his time down in London with his la-di-dah Tory mates. Lucky if we see him twice a year, not that I’m complaining. If it wasn’t for all the rich farmers round here, he’d never have got in last time. Anyhow, you’re in luck. Just so happens he’s opening some Tory party fete on Sunday. Can’t think why you’d want to bother with him, though.’

  ‘So he’s not a popular MP? Not what you’d call a man of the people?’

  The barman laughed and pushed his glasses back up his nose.

  ‘The only people he cares about are the ones who can get him a peerage. And his poor wife – don’t know how she puts up with him.’

  Hunt pricked up his ears.

  ‘Not all sweetness and light at home, then?’

  The barman looked suddenly evasive.

  ‘Well, I don�
�t know as how I’d want to talk about that sort of thing. I mean, you’re a journalist and I’ve heard all about slander, you know. Mebbe I’ve already said too much. A man’s private life’s his own, as I reckon.’

  ‘Look, off the record. Just out of interest. It won’t go any further, I promise,’ Hunt assured him, fingers crossed behind his back to free himself from the promise, just in case.

  ‘Off the record? No names?’

  ‘I always protect my sources.’

  ‘OK. Well, it’s common knowledge anyway. Cheviot’s a pervert. Everyone round here knows that, but they keep it hushed up, you know. Likes being tied up and whipped, that sort of thing. Kinky bondage stuff. He’s got a mistress up here, so they say, but I don’t know if it’s true. Someone he’s known for years. She’s discreet, so it suits him to keep her on.’

  ‘You’ve no idea who this woman is, then?’

  ‘No, but . . .’

  ‘Go on. It’s OK.’

  ‘Look, I haven’t said this, but I’ve heard a few rumours about her. He’s been seen visiting Ship Street, down by the docks, late at night. A red-haired woman.’

  ‘Oh, come on. This is a small town by anyone’s standards. And you’re telling me you don’t know this woman’s name?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. I’ve said too much already. Now then, can I get you something to eat with that whisky?’

  Hunt ordered a ploughman’s lunch and sat back in his chair, gazing out of the window at the surly sea below. It wasn’t much to go on, but he wasn’t going to let this one slip away from him.

  He could feel it in his bones. This was going to be the big one: the one he’d been waiting for all his life.

  Somewhere outside, a seabird called mournfully across the bleached blue sky. It sounded for all the world like the last, despairing cry of a soul cast forever into the wastes of Hell.