Kiss of Death (Modern Erotic Classics)

by Valentina Cilescu

  Perfect, said a voice inside Delgado’s head. No friends, no ties, no-one will miss him.

  And he was undoubtedly beautiful, too. Fully six feet six, glistening black skin and broad shoulders; rippling muscles and bulging thighs. Delgado had already made up his mind. He would be perfect, just perfect.

  And no-one would ever miss him.

  Mozzini turned to Ibrahim and introduced him: ‘This is Signor Delgado, Ibrahim. He’s been very good to us here at the gym. Signor Delgado has a proposition for you.’

  The Master was growing impatient. The girl was ideal and yet proving difficult to lure. His powers were not yet sufficient to sustain his control of her mind, and without her he knew he could not hope for release from his torment.

  But he was at last beginning to gain ascendancy in the mind of the procurer, Delgado: a man whose licentious nature and spiritual corruption made him particularly vulnerable to the Master’s growing power. That power, although still limited, could take his spirit briefly into the world outside in its search for allies, and already Delgado’s mind had opened to him as a flower opens to the sunshine. It was a promising beginning, for the man’s mind was not entirely petty: he had a certain cunning, a sadistic finesse, and he would prove a useful tool to the Master in his search not only for regeneration, but for the memories of his past.

  For parts of the life which had been his were still unclear to him in his weakness, his mind still clouded and his recollections incomplete. Only slowly, by degrees, was the Master beginning to piece together the whole of the long, dark story of his life. A life which had been interrupted for a few short decades, but which soon – very soon – would begin again and never cease.

  No, not life, but death in life: the bittersweet gift of living death, which – once he had regained his lost powers – the Master would broadcast like a deadly germ until at last he had infected the whole of mankind.

  Delgado was delighted with life. For some reason, he felt more alive than he had ever done before. He awoke each morning with a sparkle in his eye and a renewed sense of purpose. In fact, ever since Winterbourne had opened, he had felt as though a guiding hand was steering him towards ever-greater success. What’s more, his sex-life was better than ever, too, though he had begun to develop the bizarre conviction that he was sharing his sexual experiences with someone else . . . as though that unseen someone were looking over his shoulder all the time, sharing his sensations, feeling them through his body.

  But whatever doubts or unease filtered through into his brain, Delgado had no difficulty in chasing them away with the warm glow of success. Ever since he had managed to persuade not one, but two members of the Royal Family to become regular patrons of Winterbourne, Delgado was convinced that the venture could not fail.

  Such certainty of success demanded a celebration – something really glitzy and lavish. That was a great idea of his, to hold an Egyptian orgy. These days, Delgado was full of great ideas. He wondered idly where they were all coming from.

  The guest-list was even more impressive than usual. The regulars of course – Blomfeld, de Lacy, Cheviot, Spender, van Linden and the rest . . . but what a star-studded cast-list Winterbourne had assembled tonight. Prince James and Edmund, Duke of Mexborough, several multi-millionaire businessmen, numerous MPs and wealthy lawyers, a couple of Arab oil magnates and Andrew Diamond, clean-cut, firm-jawed host of the At Home Tonight programme. Delgado smirked to himself at the entertaining thought that thousands of bored housewives wet their knickers every day over Mr Diamond. He wondered if they’d be so hot for him if they knew how much he liked having beautiful young men shove their fists up his arse.

  The scene had been set most impressively in the Great Hall at Winterbourne. Piers Seaton, celebrated West End theatre designer and undisputed queen of the cross-dressers, had done the job for a very modest fee, in return for an invitation to the fun and the promise of an introduction to Andrew Diamond.

  The Roman trappings had long been cleared away, with the dried blood and the semen and the cunt-juice that had stained them and told the story of a wild night and a rueful morning after; and the hall had been completely redecorated in the style of an Egyptian dynastic palace.

  Pretty boys dressed as eunuchs (but in fact gloriously well-endowed and carefully selected to appeal to Andrew Diamond) guarded the doors and stood at the head and foot of gorgeously painted couches, strewn with embroidered cushions. Their perfect young bodies had been oiled from top to toe with the sweetest and most expensive of Eastern aromatic oils and spices, and their nipples had been pierced to carry golden rings and jewelled chains which hung across their gleaming chests. Bidden to serve without question or complaint, these Eastern delights were forbidden to speak.

  The central pool had been filled to the brim with a fragrant blend of rosewater and genuine asses’ milk (not an easy commodity to come by and not cheap either, but then Delgado wasn’t footing the bill). Six of Winterbourne’s most exotic whores were reclining by the edge, clad only in gauzy diaphanous shifts, and wearing the heavy wigs, gold jewellery and kohl eye-paint which added a touch of authenticity to the scene. Delgado firmly believed in attention to even the tiniest of details.

  Tables laden with exquisite fruits and sweetmeats stood beside each couch, and naked maidens were charged with the task of filling each goblet with wine as soon as it was empty.

  For those who had had too much wine – and those whose sexual abilities did not quite match up to their aspirations – Madame LeCoeur had prepared genuine Egyptian aphrodisiacs, concocted from ancient recipes discovered in the Valley of the Tombs of Kings. The fact that most of these contained substances highly illegal in the West was of no great concern either to her or to Delgado, since the Drug Squad were hardly likely to prosecute their own Commissioner (a regular since that first heady night at Winterbourne) and, even if they did, he’d be sure to be baled out by one of the three (or was it four?) High Court judges who relied on Winterbourne for regular recreation.

  In the centre of the pool a dais had been built, with a narrow footbridge joining it to the side of the pool. On the dais were two wooden thrones, gilded and decorated with painted hieroglyphs. This was to be the setting for the evening’s great set-piece: Ibrahim’s moment of glory. The sort of success he’d never see in a boxing-ring, mused Delgado, strangely elated and spurred on by the voice inside his head which now so often guided him and told him what to do.

  Delgado surveyed the scene and was well satisfied with the preparations. The dark shadows at the corners of the room were filled with darker shadows still: the shadows of fantastical creatures: human from the neck down, but bearing the heads of animals and mythical beasts upon their shoulders. The gods of Egypt were here in force: Thoth, Bes, Anubis, Hathor, Set, Osiris and Amun-Ra, waiting in the wings to take their cue. Delgado had to concede that Seaton’s papier-mâché animal heads were extremely effective.

  The lights dimmed, and the great velvet curtain was drawn across to reveal a figure from a mystic’s dream. The goddess Isis, earth mother in diaphanous white shift, stood for an instant on the threshold, and then began to walk slowly and solemnly into the great hall, flanked by naked youths bearing baskets of rose petals, which they cast on the polished floor before her feet.

  Delgado had dressed his guests as Egyptian noblemen, and had instructed them to join in the ceremonial. As Isis approached, they too began to prepare her way with flowers and incense – cleverly laced with an aphrodisiac perfume devised by Madame LeCoeur. Excitement was beginning to mount.

  So skilfully prepared had she been that none of those watching recognised the Mother Goddess as none other than Joanna Königsberg, so very recently a timorous virgin, sold by her father to feed the base appetites of world-weary connoisseurs and perverts like Harry Blomfeld. Delgado had been astounded at her transformation over the past few weeks.

  From fearful victim to sex-hungry vamp, Joanna had come a long, long way. To Delgado’s amazement and delight, she seemed to have a nat
ural, even instinctive understanding of the ways of lust. She had a wonderful aptitude and appetite for sex and – far from wanting to run away from Winterbourne – she had begged to be allowed to stay and become one of Delgado’s costly whores.

  Not that she had needed to beg. The girl was dynamite. Customers had begun to ask for her by name. She was the natural choice to be the star of this evening’s entertainment.

  With her bright blonde hair hidden under a dark wig and heavy make up adorning her ice-maiden face, Joanna made a perfect Isis. Her pale skin contrasted dramatically with the dark wig, and under the subtle torchlight she seemed to have a ghostly, ethereal pallor. Her pink nipples had already puckered with excitement, and were clearly visible through the flimsy fabric of her robe. A heavy gold pectoral hung about her neck and between her breasts, and a fine golden powder sparkled on her cheeks, eyelids and limbs.

  The air was heavy with sex and Madame LeCoeur’s aphrodisiacs were doing their work well. Gavin de Lacy was stroking his testicles and longing to wank off, only barely managing to save himself because he knew that more and better was to come. Harry Blomfeld had already ejaculated once, into the hand of one of the naked slave-girls, and was working up a second, equally impressive erection: Madame LeCoeur certainly knew her job. Meanwhile, Andrew Diamond was eyeing the naked youths and licking his lips, snake-like and greedy.

  Isis stepped on to the bridge and began to cross the scented water towards the central dais. She reached the larger of the two thrones, and sat down, allowing her slit robe to fall in graceful folds on either side of her knees, revealing an eternity of pale, gold-shimmering thigh and the teasing shadow of a golden pubic bush. She raised her hands and clapped them three times.

  Delgado stepped forward, resplendent in the costume of a wealthy Greek merchant, and spoke:

  ‘Let the King approach his consort.’

  Trumpets and cymbals sounded, and the curtain swished back once again, this time revealing Delgado’s chosen King – the exquisite Ibrahim. He betrayed not a trace of self-consciousness, for Madame LeCoeur’s expertise had been put to good use. Besides, what healthy young man would refuse the offer of being paid to screw a sex-goddess like Joanna Königsberg? Ibrahim strode into the great hall with all the confidence of a true aristocrat, and stood before the assembled throng in all his glory: the King who must be wedded to the Earth Goddess in order to bring fertility to the land of Nile.

  Ibrahim was naked, save for a cloak of golden cloth, embroidered with hieroglyphs and symbols of fertility. His dark, oiled flesh was fragrant with sweet oils and his muscles rippled as he walked. With each step he took, his thigh pushed forward and the cloak parted, revealing the glories within. Fully ten inches of dark, glistening manhood sprang out from a mass of black curls, and two plump and tempting bags of love-juice swung heavily between those vice-like thighs.

  This young stallion brought gasps of astonishment, desire and envy from Winterbourne’s clientele and whores alike. What better symbol of fertility than this superbly endowed young animal?

  And the Master, too, was present and looked on in approval. Delgado had done well. If all went according to plan, tonight would bring a feast of sexual energy which would allow his powers to grow tenfold in the space of but a moment.

  Ibrahim crossed the bridge and stepped on to the dais, kneeling before the Mother Goddess and planting the tenderest and most reverent of kisses on her feet, her ankles, her calves, her thighs . . . and at last burying his face deep in the fragrant golden bush in which nestled her regal cunnyhole.

  The face of the goddess was radiant, transfigured with joyful lust; and she cradled her crown prince’s noble head in her hands, stroking his neck, his forehead, raking her long painted nails lightly across his ebony shoulders.

  And when he raised his head she smiled her approbation and beckoned to her High Priest: one of the ‘eunuchs’, shaven-headed and wearing only a belted loin cloth with a staff of office thrust into the belt. He crossed the bridge towards her, bearing a cushion covered with a black velvet cloth, spangled with magical symbols in gold and silver thread.

  Isis removed the cloth to reveal two crowns: circlets of gold surmounted by golden serpents with ruby eyes and darting tongues. Nodding to the priest, she bowed her head and allowed him to place one of the two crowns on her head. Then she herself picked up the second crown and placed it on Ibrahim’s dark curls, touching him lightly with the priest’s staff on either shoulder.

  ‘Stand, my King. Stand before me, that I may pay you your due homage,’ she commanded him.

  And Ibrahim stood before her, his breathtaking manhood springing forth satyr-like from the folds of his satin cape.

  ‘Remove your robe,’ she commanded him. And he obeyed with an alacrity which betrayed his eagerness to satisfy his own desires, as well as hers. She gave the satin cape to the High Priest, who crossed back over the bridge and joined the assembled throng.

  The priests and priestesses (pretty young whores with shaven heads and skilled in the most lewd and enchanting versions of snake-dancing) set up a slow, hypnotic chant to the beat of a sacred temple drum:

  ‘Isis, Isis, meet our need;

  Suck the King and spill his seed.’

  Gradually the guests began to join in with the chant as Isis inclined her head and pulled Ibrahim’s immense erect prick into the satin cave of her hungry mouth. He gave an involuntary cry as he felt her lips close over him and her tongue darting its tip lewdly around his glans.

  Lord knows, he was a good-looking lad and he’d had his share of sexual adventures since his arrival in England, but this girl was the best little cock-sucker he’d ever had, no doubt about it. And yet she looked so young! Where had she learned the tricks of this delectable trade? Not in a convent school, that was for sure. She had a mouth like a vacuum cleaner: he could feel her drawing his prick out, sucking it so hard that he could feel it growing even longer than its incredible ten inches. And those fingers! She had the devil in them, she must have. With her right hand, she was cradling and gently squeezing his balls, evidently savouring their heaviness and the promise of not one, but several great floods of spunk this auspicious night. They were growing, maturing fruits, ripening in her hand as though it were the baking African sun. He groaned and moved his feet apart to give her more room to play with him, and the onlookers gasped at the size and beauty of his twin fruits.

  With her other hand, she was reaching around behind him, stroking and kneading his taut buttocks, revelling in the way they clenched and unclenched to the rhythm of her caresses.

  And to think he was getting paid for this!

  He could hear her breathing accelerating, becoming hoarse and laboured. She was getting excited, just from sucking his cock. He reached down and felt her titties and realised with a joyous start that she was indeed excited: her nipples were iron hard. He pinched them, cautiously at first, and was rewarded by a muffled groan of pleasure. He pinched harder, and felt her tremble, not the regal goddess but the mortal woman, subdued and subjugated by her own pleasure, by the power of his fingers. And that was in itself supremely erotic. He just knew he wasn’t going to be able to hold out much longer . . . but then again, who cared? He was young and at his physical peak: there was plenty of spunk in his bollocks; plenty for everyone . . .

  And then she retaliated with her own touch of power. Moving her left hand down a little, she began to insinuate her fingers into the crack between his buttocks. He almost blushed with embarrassment. No woman had ever done that to him before. It felt good, and he felt confused: was it OK for a straight guy to like having his backside played with? Oh, but it felt good!

  Her caresses grew more incautious still, as she began to search for the secret pouting mouth of his arse. She found it and he gave a start of shameful pleasure as she began to titillate and torment it with her oh-so-expert fingers. In the frenzy of his excitement, he tweaked her nipples harder than ever, and she took this for a sign that he wanted her to be bolder still. Without th
e slightest compunction, she licked her index finger and wriggled it inside his virgin arse.

  This was just too much for the newly crowned King, and his heavy balls prepared themselves to shoot their load of spunk.

  ‘I’m going to come!’ he gasped, powerless to stop himself.

  And, just as his cock began to twitch and pour forth its abundant tribute, Isis pulled away from him and threw herself back on to her throne, pulling apart the two sides of her flimsy bodice and exposing her pert little breasts:

  ‘Pour forth your seed upon me, my lord!’

  And he obeyed, as readily as could be. Huge, pearly drops of semen fell on to the girl’s face, her shoulders, her breasts, lodged in her navel and on the heavy pectoral she wore round her neck; and settled on her closed eyelids like a sacred kiss.

  When he came to his senses, Ibrahim realised that – incredibly – he was ready to begin all over again. Whatever it was that that Frenchwoman had given him, it had certainly had an impressive effect on his libido. Normally it would have taken even him ten minutes or so to raise another good, strong, erection; but the drug he had taken, and the aromatic ointment he had had rubbed into his penis and testicles, had restored complete potency to him within less than a minute. He looked down at the girl and he wanted her, wanted her now. But carefully, he’d got to play by the rules Delgado had taught him, however stupid they might seem.

  ‘Lie down, my King. Lie down upon the dais.’ It was not so much a command as an urgent entreaty. He looked into the young woman’s face and saw the desperation of her lust, the longing for his body that was every bit as strong as his for hers.

  The priests and priestesses set up a new chant:

  ‘Fertile Isis, meet our need;

  Ride the King, bring forth his seed.’

  And they began once more to cast rose petals on to the platform, rose petals and little silver coins, their offerings for fertility and abundance. Soon, the glossy black body of Ibrahim, King for one night, was almost obscured by rose petals. Only his magnificent phallus rose forth out of the pink and white scented carpet, rearing its head as proudly and nobly as any pharaoh’s. A black serpent, uncoiling and preparing to strike, about to spit forth its deadly venom.