by Monica Belle
‘Don’t move at all.’
He had taken hold of my ankles as he spoke, and lifted my legs, keeping them high and open. I took grip on the far sides of the altar, holding myself in place, my breathing now deep and even for my exposure and in anticipation of what was to come. Again he nodded and his tongue flicked out to moisten his lips. His hands went down, to tug open his zip and pull out his cock, thick and pale in the yellow light, already half stiff. It went straight in my mouth, his hand gripped lightly in my hair as he fed himself in and out, stiffening rapidly to the motion of my lips and tongue.
‘Good girl. That’s nice ... make me hard, Chloe.’
I didn’t need telling, the taste and feel of his cock as it grew in my mouth making me increasingly eager. Now stiff, he began to masturbate into my mouth, an unspeakably rude thing to do to a woman, but when my hand moved to my tummy I got a sharp response.
‘No. Stay still, Chloe.’
I nodded on my mouthful, frustrated but enjoying being under his command. He let go of my hair and began to stroke my breasts, teasing my nipples to erection one by one and kneading gently at my flesh. I began to arch my back for sheer pleasure, but got a finger wagged in my face for my trouble and went back to concentrating on his cock as I struggled to subordinate my pleasure to his. His hand went lower, to cup my pussy, one finger between my lips as he massaged me, something I defy any woman to put up with and not wriggle at least a little. I got my pussy slapped.
‘Stay still!’
He’d stepped back, his cock a rigid bar, sticking out from his open fly above his balls. I kept my mouth open, quite willing to be made to carry on sucking, but he moved back between my legs. My thighs were wide and high, and pussy soaked and ready, completely vulnerable to him and he got into position, pressing his cock to my flesh. He went in and a cry of pleasure spilt from my lips as I filled, followed by a moan as he withdrew again.
‘Fuck me, Julian, please!’
‘Shush.’
I bit my lip, trying to do as I was told, but he’d begun to tease me, using the head of his cock to rub my clit and spread my sex, popping himself inside again and again, until I was shaking my head from side to side in frustrated ecstasy and I could feel the juice running down between my cheeks to wet the warm stone beneath my bottom. When at last he put it right in and began to thrust I was gasping immediately, lost to everything but the pleasure of having him inside me and desperate to come while I was fucked. Again I reached down, only to have my hand slapped.
‘Will you stay still, Chloe!’
My response was a pathetic mewling noise, then a squeak of alarm as he took hold of my wrists, pressing me down onto the altar as he began to fuck me in earnest. I felt utterly helpless, trapped by his strength and weight, and by my own ecstasy, unable to fight as I lay there, nude and penetrated, gasping and sobbing as he pumped into me, faster and faster, only to suddenly stop, his cock jammed to the hilt inside me. He’d come, but he held himself deep, then gave a few more hard pushes, all the while keeping me firmly pinned in place.
Never once had he taken his own pleasure without allowing me mine, and this time was no different. When he finally pulled out he went down on me, something a lot of men won’t do when they’ve come. Not Julian. He licked and kissed and teased, all the while with my thighs held in a powerful grip to stop me moving, taking his time before finally bringing me to ecstasy at the tip of his tongue, and for once my whole being was focused on him as he brought me to a long, shuddering climax.
I lay back, panting gently, my back and bottom now uncomfortable on the hard stone, something I hadn’t been aware of at all a moment before. Julian lifted me, very gently and with exaggerated care, setting me on the floor and giving me a brief cuddle and a kiss before turning back to the altar. There, on the pale stone, was a perfect impression of the turn of my bottom cheeks and the slit between, marked out in my juices and in his. He gave a happy nod.
‘That will make them think.’
We tidied up with great care, making it look as if we’d dismantled the ritual in a hurry but while making a serious attempt to hide what had happened. In practice it was all carefully judged so that anybody making a careful inspection of the altar could work out that a girl had been fucked in a pentagram, while if they chose to search under the eaves of the folly they would find the sheep skulls, the candles and the wax.
I would have been impressed, and not a little frightened, had I stumbled across the folly without knowing the truth, but as it was I felt great. Somebody was going to find it, and it was me who’d been had on the altar, me who’d been the object of adoration for the ritual. The only way it could have been better was if somebody had watched us, and after the events of the afternoon I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to cope if that really happened.
The next problem was making sure the right people found the altar without giving ourselves away. That wasn’t easy, as while the internet made it simple to find people who would jump at the chance of exposing our satanic practices we couldn’t exactly invite them to come to Candle Street Hall. I felt it was best to wait and trust to luck, because a lot of our visitors were interested in the occult and in trying to get at the truth behind phenomena, although so far none of them had managed to figure out what caused the sense of dread in the hall. Julian was more proactive, and keen to impress Vanessa with some concrete results. He was thoughtful as we ate and shared a second bottle, only to suddenly rap the handle of his knife on the table, startling me out of the state of sleepy satisfaction I’d fallen into.
‘What we need is a dog.’
‘We do?’
‘Yes, the biggest, blackest one you can find ... No, on second thoughts that’s exactly what we don’t want. What we really want are paw prints but no dog. Then again ...’
He trailed off, but I wasn’t putting up with him being mysterious, not with me.
‘Explain.’
‘We start the tour in Black Dog Lane, don’t we? So imagine you’d just heard the story of Black Shuck and John Aickman, and as you walked up the lane you saw a trail of enormous paw prints.’
‘I’d think somebody had been out walking their Great Dane.’
‘What if they were really big – as wide as a human foot?’
‘I’d think you’d planted them.’
‘You’re a cynic, Chloe, but you’re probably right. Damn, I thought I was on to something.’
‘No, it’s a good idea, but maybe the prints should be along the path to the folly, on the lawn even – perhaps make it look as if we’d tried to cover them up.’
‘That’s good. Clever girl, but that might be too long after we’d told them the legend of Black Shuck. OK then, not the prints of a dog, but cloven hooves. After all, John Aylsham was trying to summon the Devil, and there are no cows or anything on the estate. Better still, anybody looking closely would see that the tracks were made by something with two legs, not four, but we’d have to make it look good. You were good at art, weren’t you?’
‘Fairly, I suppose. I did it at A-level.’
‘Then you can make me a pair of hoof boots, and in a week or two the Devil really will be stalking Candle Street Hall.’
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