Kiss of Death (Modern Erotic Classics)

by Valentina Cilescu

  After a few moments, the receptionist went limp and slid to the ground, and the two other women broke free and burst in through the swing doors into the main bar. They were dark-haired twins, as alike as two peas in a pod, and pretty damn toothsome at that. Their crimson lips were full and glossy, and their slender bodies encased in body-hugging black Lycra mini-dresses which revealed far more than they covered up. Their breasts were small and round, like sweet apples ripe to be bitten into, and their tight little backsides were firm but mobile beneath the skintight fabric. Hunt could not suppress an appreciative shiver as they ran their hands sensuously over their bodies, as though actively seeking to arouse their audience.

  No-one spoke or moved for a long time. All were transfixed by the sight of two identically sexy young women in black mini-dresses and fishnet stockings; identical sisters practising the ancient art of sex right before their tired eyes, suddenly grown brighter, more alert.

  The girls began to dance slowly around the room, lingering at each table to stroke the men and rub their lithe bodies up against them. It was as though the men were hypnotised, unable to move or to speak. None made any move to touch the girls, though some were salivating – great drooling trails of spittle coming out of the corners of their mouths and running down their chins as they stood or sat there, open-mouthed and in an agony of desire.

  Now the girls pulled down the tops of their dresses, revealing those rounded apple-breasts in all their rosy glory. Their nipples were hard as iron, the areolae puckered and glowing pink against the creamy-white flesh of their breasts. As they danced, so their breasts danced too, jauntily bobbing before them with all the lightness and gaiety of youth.

  Hunt stared, unable either to believe or disbelieve what he was seeing. He wanted to take out his camera and grab a few cheap shots of these two bizarre nymphos. He wanted to get out his shorthand pad and interview them – anything to prove his journalistic credentials. But instead all he did was goggle, just like all the other men. And women too: even the few women there were transfixed and clearly aroused, their pupils massively dilated and their breathing coming in fits and starts.

  Hunt suddenly felt the connection between this incident and the other bizarre happenings he had encountered in recent weeks; and he sensed that, whatever else he did, he must resist the force which was being exerted upon him. The force was like a hand on his shoulder, guiding him in the direction it wanted him to go. He found that, by concentrating his thoughts, he could with difficulty detach that hand a little, or at least relax its iron grip.

  Still fighting the compulsion to look at the girls, Hunt tore his gaze away and looked around the room. He realised that not everyone was equally affected: some were transfixed, helpless and clearly incapable of any voluntary gesture or word. But most people seemed, like him, to be only partially affected by what they were seeing. He wondered why.

  The girls danced past, and lingered in front of a couple of middle-aged music critics at the table next to him. The girls beckoned to them and they immediately got to their feet, eyes bulging as grossly as the fronts of their trousers. Hunt, too, was aroused, but he could still think rationally, still distance himself a little from the weird experience he was undergoing. These men were enslaved, the empty puppets of these merciless temptresses. For the first time, Hunt noticed that the girls were wearing small crystal pendants, which dangled tantalisingly between their breasts and caught the light as they swung to and fro. They reminded him of Mara’s crystal necklace, and the crystal-bladed dagger she had once shown him. She had never explained to him where she had got it from. And now she was writing a book about the bloody things. Hunt was growing increasingly suspicious of crystals.

  All at once, the dancing stopped. Everything stopped. The silence was so thick, so oppressive that Hunt believed he might cut through the air with a sharp blade. The world was waiting, waiting.

  The girls began to move slowly backwards towards the swing doors, arms outstretched in silent supplication. And, more slowly still, figures began to rise and walk towards them, followed them towards the door. A man here, a woman there, the two music critics, another man, and another . . .

  The strange, silent procession, of ten or a dozen zombie-like figures, moved towards the waiting girls, who beckoned them on with smiles and welcoming arms. As they reached the doors, they swung open and an incredible, ferocious, unearthly whirlwind swept through the club, knocking over tables and chairs, breaking glasses. And ten of the Groucho Club’s most eminent members simply walked out into the darkening Soho street: rats following the Pied Piper without a thought for the fate that might await them.

  Hunt tried to follow, but it was like walking into the eye of a hurricane. It was all he could do to hold on to the side of the bar, eyes screwed tight with the effort of staying upright.

  When at last the wind died down, they were long gone and the Groucho Club looked like a bomb had hit it. Dishevelled figures lay wide-eyed and pallid amid the wreckage, hardly daring to get to their feet. The ever-unflappable barman was the first to recover his composure, gathering up the fragments of a broken glass and mopping up the pool of gin and tonic on the polished wooden counter:

  ‘Terrible weather we’re having for the time of year, ain’t it, Mr Hunt?’

  Hunt took a long pull of his whisky and picked his way on unsteady feet towards the swing doors. Beyond, in the foyer, lay the unconscious figure of the receptionist, two tiny bite-marks marring the delicate whiteness of her neck.

  Mara awoke in the night, suddenly aware that she was not alone with her lover. It wasn’t the first time. And it wasn’t just the aftermath of a bad dream, either: it was something much more concrete than that. She turned to Hunt and saw that he was still sleeping peacefully. There was no point in disturbing him.

  She got softly out of bed, put on a dressing-gown to warm her fragile nakedness, and tiptoed to the window, parting the curtain slightly to look up at the sky. A big harvest moon, blood-red and low in the sky. Just looking at it made her stomach churn with fear. There was too much blood, too much blood everywhere: blood in her dreams, sudden strange visions of blood on her hands, and now Hunt was investigating these horribly bloody sex-crimes that seemed to defy the laws of reason. Of course – and this was one thing that Hunt seemed incapable of understanding – in her world of the mind and the spirit, reason seldom had any significant part to play.

  And a tiny, scared voice inside her told her that she had more than a little to do with it all. If only she could understand why. Maybe if she tried harder . . . used her skills, asked her spirit guides to point to some answers. Maybe she could get to the bottom of this bizarre and terrible persecution.

  She went into the spare bedroom she used as a study and switched on the small table-lamp. It had a deep red shade and its reassuring rosy glow bathed the room in a comforting warmth. She drew her dressing-gown closer about her shoulders and sat down at the table she used for her Tarot readings. The ouija board was already set up, as she had held a seance the previous afternoon.

  She rested the middle finger of her right hand on the upturned glass and asked her question in a hushed whisper:

  ‘Is there anybody there?’

  Nothing.

  ‘Please answer me. Can you hear me?’

  Nothing, and then the glass moved suddenly, jerkily; spelling out the letters:

  ‘YES.’

  ‘Why are you persecuting me?’

  ‘FUCK.’

  ‘I don’t understand. What do you mean?’

  ‘FUCK . . . FUCK YOU.’

  Trembling, Mara let go of the glass and, to her horror, saw it continue to move without any contact from her – quickly, frenziedly, as though some demonic spirit were inside the upturned glass, desperate to express its unspeakable message:

  ‘WHORE . . . WANT YOU . . .’

  Mara got to her feet and backed away in horror:

  ‘No!’

  ‘YES . . . WHORE . . . HAVE YOU. HAVE YOU SOON. SOON.’
<
br />   ‘Never . . .’

  ‘VERY SOON NOW.’

  She rushed out of the room and sat for a long time in the kitchen, drinking warm milk and trying not to think about the evil presence which was persecuting her. When she got back into bed, she was still shivering. The contact of her cold skin against his warm body awoke Hunt, and he pulled her to him, stroking and kneading her flesh back into comfortable warmth.

  She began to forget her fears as the warmth permeated her limbs, her back, her breasts, her belly, her cunt.

  ‘Want you, want you . . .’ she murmured, running her hands over Hunt’s warm body, kneading and massaging his flesh, revelling in the hardness of muscle and bone, and another hardness, burgeoning and thickening under her eager fingers.

  Hunt threw back the covers and bared her slender body to the night air. She rolled over and lay face-down on the bed, exposing her delicious back and buttocks to his touch. Her skin felt as smooth as marble as he ran his hands over her back, running them down her spine until he reached the inviting crack between her satin buttocks and slid a finger inbetween. She wriggled with pleasure as he insinuated his finger further in and began to tickle the puckered amber rose of her arse-hole.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ she moaned, as Hunt slid his finger further still and moistened it with the juices from her rapidly moistening cunt. When his finger was well-greased with love-juice, he slid it back up her crack and used the moisture to lubricate the doorway to her forbidden temple. He could feel her thrusting out her buttocks to meet his finger, trying to force him to penetrate her.

  But he kept on teasing her, tormenting her, making her want him more and more. And he was enjoying the game, enjoying it more with every second. He felt huge, inspired, heroic, unstoppable. Perhaps he also felt the other presence, the evil presence, enter him – but he was too sexually aroused now to differentiate between his own identity and that of the evil soul which was manipulating him for its own amusement, its own devious ends.

  His prick was ravenous for her: a mighty beast baying for its prey. And Mara was no less frantic for him, her cunt and arse pulsating in unison, opening and closing in a silent supplication.

  At last he gave in to the overwhelming need for her and, sticking a finger deep inside Mara’s arse, he placed the tip of his tool against her tight cunny-hole and gave a mighty thrust.

  Mara cried out as the thick penis sank deep into her with that one mighty lance-thrust, running her through, impaling her, spearing her so she felt as though she would split in two.

  ‘Fuck me, oh fuck me, tear me apart!’ she cried, thrusting out her arse to take more and more of him, revelling in the double invasion of her innermost intimacy.

  He rode her and frigged her with his finger, and she felt the warmth growing, spreading through her, localising around her clitty as the tip of Hunt’s penis met his finger through the wall of her vagina. Hunt felt his own crisis approaching, and hastened his steed with ever-faster thrusts and the pressure of a finger directly on her love-button.

  She came with cries of agonised enjoyment, weeping with the ecstasy of an orgasm with cunt and arse well-stuffed and stretched to bursting. And Hunt shot his load into her with a head-spinning orgasm that racked his body with wave after wave of perfect pleasure.

  Afterwards, they lay locked together for some time, not moving, enjoying the sensation of semen trickling out of Hunt’s penis and over Mara’s trembling thighs and buttocks.

  ‘I’ll just switch the light on,’ breathed Hunt at the end of a long silence. ‘I’m going to get a drink.’ And he climbed out of bed and groped his way to the light switch by the door.

  Mara blinked in the sudden light, then looked up at Hunt and smiled at him. He smiled back and turned to leave the bedroom. As he turned, Mara caught sight of his reflection in the dressing-table mirror.

  It was the reflection of the Master’s evil face.

  The next few days passed quietly, without incident, and Mara began to wonder if she had imagined that night – the ouija board, the evil eyes grinning out at her from the mirror. Yes, maybe she was beginning to imagine things. She even toyed with the idea of going to see the doctor and asking for something to calm her down.

  On Saturday night, they went out for dinner with friends and came back late and rather drank. Not that the drink in any way dampened down their ardour: in fact, Hunt felt randier than he had done for ages, and couldn’t keep his hands off Mara in the taxi on the way back home.

  They staggered, giggling, into the flat and the door clicked shut behind them. Fumbling for the light switch, Hunt knocked a book off the little shelf above the telephone table. It fell at Mara’s feet, and she bent down unsteadily to pick it up.

  It was a copy of Halliwell’s Film Guide, and it lay open at a picture of Lon Chaney in full wolf-man make-up. Mara giggled and showed it to Hunt, who began to fool around, growling and pretending to bay at the moon.

  ‘I used to be a werewolf . . .’ began Mara, breathless with laughter.

  ‘. . . But I’m all right now-oo!’ Hunt grabbed hold of her and, picking her up in his arms, he slung her head-first over his shoulder and carted her off towards the bedroom, pummelling his back with hysterical fists.

  Still in fits of laughter, Hunt threw Mara on to the bed and leapt on top of her, growling and snarling and tugging at her clothes with his teeth. He succeeded in biting off her two top buttons and began to probe around inside her blouse with his tongue.

  ‘You’re tickling!’ exclaimed Mara, wriggling about with helpless mirth.

  ‘Then I’ll bite you instead!’ And Hunt began to nibble the sweet, soft flesh at the foothills of her breasts, tugging at the fabric of her blouse and wrenching it back off her shoulders to bare more of her utterly desirable body.

  ‘It’s a warm night,’ whispered Mara, a sudden thought entering her head. ‘Why don’t we . . . on the balcony?’

  ‘You have the sexiest ideas, you shameless hussy!’

  And Hunt took her by the hand, unlocked the French windows and led her out on to the balcony.

  Hunt had been lucky to get this flat. A wealthy friend had gone overseas for a couple of years and wanted a flat-sitter, so Hunt – who had previously been living in a grotty bedsit in King’s Cross – had really fallen on his feet. The flat overlooked a quiet square, with an attractive park in the middle. The gardens were a little overgrown now, and the square had seen better days; but the trees whispered to each other in the light breeze, and the sulphurous light from the street-lamps suffused the whole scene with a soft and sensual glow.

  They took a futon from the spare bedroom and laid it out on the balcony, added a few cushions and a blanket, and lay down together. The cool rush of air across her skin puckered Mara’s nipples and brought a delicious thrill as it toyed with the tiny blonde hairs on her skin, making her breasts and thighs grow goose-pimpled and hypersensitive to Hunt’s touch.

  Hunt took one of the embroidered sofa-cushions and urged her to lift up her backside so that he could slip it underneath her buttocks. She wondered why – until she caught sight of the object in Hunt’s hand. She hadn’t noticed that he had brought more than cushions to ensure her pleasure.

  He had been into the kitchen and brought back the object which most appealed to his sense of fun: it was long and thick and smooth.

  ‘What are you doing with that candle?’ demanded Mara, subsiding into giggles yet again – and knowing very well what he intended to do with it.

  ‘Open wide!’ commanded Hunt with a wicked smile; and he placed the end of the thick, smooth candle against the entrance to Mara’s cunt. Then he gave it a good hard thrust. Fortunately, Mara’s crack was so well-greased with love-juice that it opened willingly to the advances of this interesting dildo, and she thrilled to the thrusts of this substitute prick within her.

  ‘Fuck me, fuck me!’ she pleaded. And, ever her obedient servant, Hunt began to work the candle in and out of her cunt with long, slow, regular strokes.

  As she writh
ed about under Hunt’s exquisite tortures, Mara caught sight of something moving down below, in the park. At first, she thought is was just a stray dog, or a moving shadow made sinister by her lust-crazed brain. But a second, closer look revealed more shapes. And yet more.

  Mara panted with desire under Hunt’s conscientious frigging, thrusting her pelvis forward to enjoy the fullest possible sensation of being stuffed to the very hilt. She turned her head to look up into his face, and imagined that what she could feel inside her tight-stretched cunt was not a poor substitute but Hunt’s own penis, grown surrealistically cool-fleshed and massive.

  A sound from below caused her to look down through the railings again. Her heart missed a beat as she realised that she was listening to the sounds of a pack of baying dogs. As they moved forwards, into the light from the streetlamps, she realised something else. They weren’t dogs.

  They were wolves.

  A pack of wolves – in London? But this was very nearly the twenty-first century and wolves had been extinct in Britain for hundreds of years! Surely they must be dogs? But even in her lust-crazed state she knew they were not dogs. They looked up at her with their yellow eyes, more sinister than ever in the orange-yellow light, and began to bay again, very quietly but very insistently. And she realised.

  They were looking up at her. They wanted her.

  The pack-leader was larger and more handsome than the rest, with a long, silky grey coat and penetrating eyes. Eyes she felt she had seen somewhere else before. He turned to the dominant female beside him and mounted her. Mara clearly saw his glistening penis enter the female, and heard her cry as he bit into the back of her neck to hold her fast.

  And now all the other wolves were copulating, too: fighting and mounting each other and rutting and baying with the thrill of it all.

  Mara felt the thrill, too. Fascinated by the sight of the pack-leader fucking his female, she imagined herself becoming that female, and the dildo inside her as the male’s penis. She was nothing more than an animal, a wild animal chasing orgasm as it might chase its helpless prey.