Kiss of Death (Modern Erotic Classics)

by Valentina Cilescu

  Or, thought Mara to herself, hardly daring to consider the possibility: did she surrender herself to the dark power of the crystal dagger, and find that immortality which her Svengali had promised her?

  Of course, that was impossible. Then again, it was impossible that Mara should, that very day, have discovered a dagger. A silver dagger with a crystal blade. Either someone was playing a very elaborate practical joke on her, or something very strange was going on. In her heart of hearts, she knew it was no joke.

  At that moment, the door opened and in walked a tall man in a raincoat and trilby. Even if she hadn’t recognised his face, she would have known him instantly by the jaunty angle of his hat, his slightly dishevelled yet quietly stylish appearance. It was the man from the fortune-telling booth: the man with whom she had shared that frightening, yet exhilarating, sexual experience. She knew he had felt it too.

  Did she want to meet him again? She had been dreaming of it for the last week, and yet she wanted to run away and hide, afraid of what might happen, the potential dangers of such dramatic chemistry, such a psychic bond. And there was also the worry which followed her everywhere, which occupied her mind at every moment: was this a spontaneous chemistry, or was it simply yet another manifestation of the force which was toying with her, enjoying making her its prey?

  In any event, she had little choice in the matter. A few moments in which to observe him, unseen, from behind a bookcase, and then he walked around the corner of the shelves and saw her.

  He stopped in his tracks, mouth slightly open, all the breath knocked out of his body. So you feel it too, thought Mara, her knuckles white with tension as she clutched the pencil she had been using to make notes.

  There was a long and uncomfortable silence, and then he stepped forward and took off his hat:

  ‘Hello again,’ he said, with a strained smile. His voice sounded trembly and hoarse, despite the bravado. ‘My name’s Andreas Hunt and you’re not moving an inch until you tell me what yours is. I’ve spent an entire sodding week trying to track you down.’

  ‘Mara . . . Mara Fleming.’ She couldn’t find any other words. Only the terror held her fast – the terror that it was beginning again.

  Hunt took off his coat, tossed his hat on to the desk, pulled up a chair opposite Mara’s and sat down.

  ‘Doing some research?’

  ‘Just a little work on the Abbey,’ Mara replied, perfectly truthfully but economically. She liked him, but couldn’t yet be sure that she could trust him. ‘I have a special interest in it from a . . . psychic . . . point of view.’

  ‘You’re a psychic then? And I thought you were just a fake gypsy fortune-teller.’

  ‘Please, Mr Hunt, don’t make fun of things you don’t understand.’ Mara was angry, and stood up to leave.

  ‘No, don’t go. Look, I’m sorry – my big mouth again and all that. Tell me about it. I’m all ears. In fact . . . well, to be honest, I’ve had some pretty wacko experiences myself these last few days. You wouldn’t believe the half of it. I can hardly believe it myself.’

  His hand was on her shoulder, pressing her back down into her seat; but she prised his fingers away and turned on him:

  ‘I suppose you think “psychic” and “wacko” mean the same thing – well, do you? Look here, Mr . . . Hunt, or whatever your name is, it’s bad enough having the gift without having it ridiculed by know-it-alls like you.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s my job to be sceptical.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m a journalist. You know – one of those no-good scumbags who can’t even write. We journos suffer from clichés too.’

  She smiled a tired smile. ‘I’m sorry.’ She looked up into his face and liked what she saw. Nor had she been unmoved by what she had seen of Hunt as her gaze travelled downwards: nice broad shoulders, slim waist and hips, promising bulge at the crotch – a bulge that seemed to be growing larger, if she wasn’t much mistaken . . . Maybe it was happening again, but there wasn’t anything paranormal about it: he had a nice body, almost certainly a good-sized prick; she had softly curving hips and breathtaking tits. Hardly surprising they had the hots for each other.

  He reached across the table and touched her shoulder again. This time she didn’t flinch or draw away. In fact, she smiled and took hold of his hand, kissing it lightly and placing it carefully on her left breast. He needed no prompting, and began to stroke the firm flesh, unrestrained beneath her tight T-shirt. It felt good, very good. The rosebud of her nipple was firming, hardening, growing, blossoming, and he could feel a delicious warmth spreading through his groin as his prick swelled to the electric charge of sexual energy sparking its way through his fingertips to her welcoming flesh.

  He looked into her violet eyes and saw that the pupils were hugely dilated, betraying her mounting desire. She was smiling: the secretive half-smile of a martyred saint approaching the moment of ecstasy – loving every moment of his carefully measured caresses. Not too fast, nor too slow. Not too violent, but not too gentle either, or she would not derive the full benefit from his touch. Hunt was no libertine, but the extremes of desire gave his fingers the gift of second sight, made him an expert in the art of stirring the deep, dark waters of Mara’s sexuality, troubling them into vast breakers of turbulent passion. Her lips parted, and she began to pant, very quietly, very discreetly . . . they mustn’t make a sound, for at any moment the elderly spinster librarian might overhear and open the door, putting an end to this long-cherished fantasy.

  Gently, Mara removed Hunt’s hands from her breasts. Seeing his look of worried surprise, she silenced his fears with a smile and whispered words of promise and comfort:

  ‘Relax . . .’

  ‘What . . .?’

  ‘Relax . . . just sit back and let me . . .’

  Hunt obeyed, nonplussed but at the peak of excitement. Mara slid down in her seat, and for a moment he wondered if she was going to slide under the table – but no. She slumped in her chair and all of a sudden Hunt felt a subtle presence, a gentle but insistent touch on the lower part of his leg. Footsie. The girl was playing footsie with him.

  He reached down and stroked her ankle, pulling off her shoe and caressing the naked flesh beneath. Strange how erotic it could be to touch a naked foot, to draw a fingernail gently across the sole and feel the toes flex and squirm delightedly at the touch. Strange how good it felt to feel the blood pulsing beneath the cool flesh, and to feel the lithe and sensual strength of muscle and sinew.

  He let go of Mara’s foot, and let it roam wherever it would. It explored his calves, climbed playfully up towards his knees and insinuated itself between. Almost instinctively he clenched them together, afraid in a childish, subconscious way of what might happen next, but the continued caressing broke down his resistance and, little by little, he let himself relax and his knees began to part.

  Once it had breached the defences, there was no stopping Mara’s adventurous little foot. It nuzzled between Hunt’s knees and began to forge a path further into the warm furrow between his thighs. Hunt gave a low growl of pleasure and opened wide to let her in. Mara slid still lower in her seat, and thrust her foot further, deeper, into uncharted territory.

  He gasped as her toes burrowed into his crotch, teasing the crease between thigh and pelvis, between thigh and testicles. His balls tensed anxiously as she skirted their extreme sensitivity with cautious caresses; but he sighed with relief and gratitude as he realised that she was not going to hurt him, but bring him to the very brink of ecstasy.

  Her toes seemed every bit as sensitive as fingers: better, even. They were like the butterfly-soft fingers of a child, yet with the strength and confidence of tempered steel. They danced in a circular motion about his loins, teasing him and calling him to play their own delectable game of catch-as-catch-can. Oh, how he longed to catch them and force them to linger endlessly on the burgeoning flower-stalk of his penis, straining to meet them and yield up its essence as joyfully as the blossom yields
its pollen to the questing bee.

  He could hear her breathing quickening as she began to rub harder at his hardness, every bit as excited by what she was doing as he was himself.

  ‘Harder . . . please, harder. A little higher . . .,’ he heard himself beg, and was stunned to realise the extent of the control she had over him. For a brief instant he was paralysed with terror: what was this leading to? What if they were discovered? Maybe they should stop this, right here and now, before they went too far . . .

  But could he have stopped himself, even if he’d wanted to?

  Mara was enjoying herself immensely, but was tiring of playing with her prey across the frustrating partition of trousers and underpants. There must surely be some way to make the contact more intimate . . . With the subtlest of movements, her toes climbed a couple of inches up his flies, tracing the line of the zipper, and found the little tag protruding at the top.

  With the utmost concentration, she pressed on it with her toe and succeeded in pushing it down about an inch. Another try, and it yielded another half-inch. A third go, and the fly was open wide enough for her to wriggle first her big toe, and then all the rest of her toes, inside.

  The first barrier was down. Now only the underpants were between her and her conquest, her goal. He was wearing silk boxer shorts, and she amused herself toying with his wonderful rigidity through the slinky fabric, enjoying the sensation of thin silk sliding over hard, swollen flesh. The silk grew damper and damper as his love-juices began to gather at the tip of his prick and soaked into the flimsy fabric.

  The vent in his boxer shorts was already gaping with the pressure exerted on it by Hunt’s massively erect penis, and it was easy for Mara to slide her toes inside and liberate her prey from its lair. Oh, how beautiful it was in its smoothness, its perfection; how exciting it was to feel its heat, its vibrancy against her own flesh. How could she ever have known how sensitive toes could be?

  Hunt gave a groan of pleasure as his penis sprang forward out of his trousers and was caught and devoured by Mara’s eager foot. It seemed to be everywhere at once: under his balls, stroking the underside of his shaft, tickling his glans ... it felt like heaven.

  But he knew that this was only the threshold of heaven, not heaven itself. There was more, much more, to come – and he wanted it. He simply had to have it.

  He caught hold of Mara’s foot and, despite her wrigglings and protestations, held it fast. Slowly and inexorably, he began to pull it forward, forcing her to slide further and further down in her chair.

  ‘What are you doing?’ breathed Mara. ‘I’m going to fall on the floor!’

  ‘Aren’t you just!’

  And he pulled a little harder, and sure enough Mara did slide on to the floor, in a giggling heap of silent laughter and raging lust. Pulling his trousers down around his knees, Hunt slid down under the table with her, and silenced her helpless giggles with a kiss. One hand held her down, whilst the other began to explore underneath her skirt, wriggling an exploratory finger inside her knickers, round the side of the gusset. She was wet, soaking wet, and he could feel her cunt pulsating slightly, as though it could already anticipate the orgasm he was about to bestow upon it.

  Sliding his finger out of the sopping hole, he moved it up a little and sought out the throbbing pearl of Mara’s clitoris. He had never felt such a huge clitoris: it really was like a little penis, fully three-quarters of an inch long, and throbbing with a life all of its own. He pinched it lightly and Mara gave a little cry, half-pain, half-ecstasy.

  No time for preliminaries, not now. He had to have her, and he knew she felt the same way. She was writhing about underneath him, and the hard tips of her pillow-soft breasts were grinding irresistibly into his chest. But how could they – here, now, when they might be discovered at any moment? Oh God, what were they going to do? If his prick didn’t find a soft, wet place to bury its head, it was going to explode . . .

  ‘I want you, I want you . . .,’ she moaned. ‘Take me, please take me now . . .’

  ‘But . . . here? How dare we . . .?’

  Her only reply was to reach out and grab hold of his penis, tormenting it with her soft, strong hands so skilfully that he knew he could take no more. With a stifled sob of irresistible desire, he pulled aside the gusset of her knickers – no time to take them off, too far gone, got to have her right now – and thrust his member deep into her.

  And that really did feel like heaven. Only better. His hardness slid into her like polished steel into a velvet scabbard, and he felt her grow wetter still as her womanhood welcomed him in, yearning and exultant.

  The fear of discovery stifled their cries of passion, but the hoarse cadence of their breathing rose to a crescendo as their loins beat time and they swam together in the warm sea of pleasure, borne up together on the wild, surf-crested wave of a perfect orgasm.

  Afterwards, they lay together for a few moments, breathing slowly quietening. Then they hurriedly rearranged their clothes and sat back on their chairs to get their breath back.

  Not a moment too soon. For at that instant, the door opened, and in walked the librarian – fortunately, an unobservant woman.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you,’ she said. ‘I just wanted to see if you’d finished.’

  ‘Thank you,’ replied Hunt, with his most ingratiating smile. ‘I think I can safely say we’ve just brought our research to a very satisfactory conclusion. We’ll be out in a minute.’

  When the door had closed behind her, they collapsed into another fit of giggles, letting out all the relief they felt, not only at their narrow escape, but at the release of tension after so many days spent worrying about what was happening to them.

  It was only after she had gone that they noticed the book lying on the floor under the table. It definitely hadn’t been there before.

  ‘Perhaps she dropped it,’ suggested Hunt, unconvincingly.

  ‘Don’t be a prat,’ Mara chided him. ‘You know she didn’t.’

  She picked it up. It was a very old book, bound in vellum, with a Latin title on the spine.

  ‘Chronicles of . . . the Master,’ she translated, in a shaky voice, trying not to betray her sudden fear.

  Hunt took it from her trembling hand and opened it. Whatever he was expecting to happen, it wasn’t what actually did happen next. The book was no more than a sham, an empty shell – the centre portion hollowed out to form a little storage space. As he opened the book, something fell out and rolled across the table.

  It was a ring. A broad silver band set with a single crystal, and bearing a strange inscription.

  Mara picked it up, and the colour drained from her face.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Hunt.

  But Mara said nothing. Already Hunt had her marked down as some kind of New Age nutcase. How could she tell him what had been happening to her? How could she explain to him that the inscription on the ring was identical to the one on the crystal dagger she had found at the Abbey?

  It was a full moon, and the sky was so clear that each star glittered like a cut gem in the blackness.

  Below, bathed in the cool white light, Andreas Hunt and Mara Fleming lay naked and entwined on the still-warm sand.

  ‘I want you,’ said Hunt, stroking her flank and making her shiver with delight.

  ‘I want you too.’

  ‘I have to go back to London tomorrow morning. Say you’ll come with me.’

  Mara was silent.

  ‘You know you want to.’

  Which was true. Never before had she experienced orgasms of such intensity. Already she was addicted to this tall, dark man with the quiet voice and the eager prick. But the shadows of persecution were still around her – a little further away, but who could say when her tormentor would strike again? And she recalled the time at the fortune-telling booth, when they had shared their lust and their fear.

  Who could tell if the evil force which pursued her might not also strike at Andreas Hunt? Who could tell if it might not e
ven strike at her through him?

  She looked across at him and saw that he had drifted off into a peaceful slumber. Carefully, silently, she disentangled herself from his arms and got to her feet. Gathering together her clothes, and not daring to risk a backward glance, she tiptoed softly away across the sand.

  10: Serpent of Nile

  The gym was crowded, and it was some time before Mozzini noticed Delgado standing in the doorway. He left the lad beating hell out of the punchbag and strolled over, towel slung across his shoulders. He was a big man with a lived-in face that had seen plenty of action inside and outside the ring, and he towered over Delgado. But Delgado was welcome here, for well-built lads were often in demand at Winterbourne, and more than one aspiring boxer had acquired the money to turn professional through ‘services rendered’. No questions were ever asked.

  ‘Evening, Signor Delgado.’ He smiled affably and extended a bear’s paw of a hand. ‘And what can we do for you tonight?’

  ‘I’m looking for a young man.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘Ah, but this time I’m looking for someone a little . . . special. Mid-twenties, I’d say. A nicely built young black fellow. Broad shoulders, slim hips, tall . . .’

  ‘. . . And a nice big dick, eh, Signor Delgado?’

  ‘You read my thoughts every time, Guiseppe. Have you anyone in mind?’

  ‘Si, si, Signor Delgado. Come with me and I’ll show you round.’

  Business was good, and the gym was packed with the beautiful, muscular, sweating bodies of young men training, sparring, honing their bodies to the peak of perfection. Delgado was spoilt for choice. Why, he even began to wish he were gay . . .

  ‘Ibrahim, take a break and come here a moment, would you?’

  A tall, glistening, black figure vaulted effortlessly out of the practice ring, and stood questioningly in front of Delgado.

  ‘Signor Delgado, this is Ibrahim. He’s very keen to make it in boxing. Came here last year as a refugee from Ethiopia. Filled out nicely since then, he has.’