Mara Fleming had never seen herself as a seaside sideshow. But now here she was, giving psychic readings in a seafront booth usually rented out to ‘Gypsy Rosa: Romany Princess’, and feeling like a complete fraud.
A fraud, not because she was telling lies to the gullible, but precisely because she wasn’t. These day-trippers expected ten pounds’ worth of homespun advice from a woman who was no more a Romany Princess than Kylie Minogue; an amateur psychologist whose readings depended less on her psychic powers than on her well-honed ability to listen to her customers’ problems and give them the answers they wanted to hear.
And what was Mara giving them? Something they couldn’t cope with. True powers; true readings; true visions. She couldn’t lie. The power within her wouldn’t lie. The Tarot told the truth, however much she wanted to distort it and make it less painful. When she looked into the crystal, she saw the bad as well as the good, and honesty did not sit well with tact.
Maybe she wasn’t cut out for this game. But since she’d left Gareth and the twins, she’d begun to find her own way, seek her own path. And here, with hundreds of miles between her and the bad experiences of a few weeks ago, she was beginning to feel free of the awful pursuing terror that had dogged her footsteps and peopled her dreams with nameless chimeras.
Here, she was at last beginning to feel safe.
The customer paid and left, and Mara sat back in her chair and surveyed the scene. On the beach, children were playing French cricket and throwing handfuls of wet sand at each other. Chilly parents cowered behind windbreaks and dreamed of the Costa Brava. Mara smiled to herself and looked up. A tall, dark man in a brown trilby and a trenchcoat was wandering along the promenade, eating an ice-cream cornet. He looked totally out of place and uncomfortable in this end-of-the-road seaside town, and Mara watched him with interest.
He was good-looking in an unusual kind of way: tall, slim, with deep-set blue eyes and black hair. His face was striking and unforgettable: high cheekbones, a strong jawline and a long, aquiline nose gave him the profile of an argumentative eagle. Mara felt strangely drawn to him, and in a sudden flash of insight felt she could see into his soul, read his thoughts, understand his motivations. A sudden flash of insight, and it was gone, and she was left wondering how and why this man could get so far inside her head.
And he hadn’t even noticed her yet.
He kept on walking towards her, still gazing out to sea, not really looking where he was going. Then he bumped into a woman walking in the opposite direction, and in the confusion he turned his head towards Mara and their eyes met.
In that moment she wanted him and knew he wanted her. She could feel the electricity of the kisses they had never enjoyed, and probably never would; was shocked to find that she could feel his hand on her breasts, his hard penis in her crack, his kiss on her throat.
It was the most erotic, the most uncommon sensation: and yet it did not feel dangerous or threatening. It was as though their bodies had been made for each other, their sex-organs custom-built to fit together seamlessly: engines of irresistible, matchless pleasure. So aroused was she in that split second of desire that she could almost believe she could bring herself to a climax, simply by concentrating on the sensations which she could feel, so very real, so overwhelmingly strong.
He looked away; and the spell was broken. Mara sank back into her chair, breathing heavily, and ran the back of her hand over her forehead. It was damp and clammy with sweat. The man was looking at her again now, though less intensely, and had begun to walk towards her again. Had he felt anything of what she had felt?
Hunt approached the garishly painted booth and read the name over the door: ‘Gypsy Rosa: Romany Princess’. Funny, the girl inside didn’t look like a gypsy; nor did she have that tired, shabby look of your average seaside fortune-teller. She was fresh, vibrant, absolutely stunning.
The girl was quite tall, very slender, very dark. Her eyes were huge and a striking shade of violet. Hunt had never seen eyes like that before. The girl wore no make-up: she didn’t need any. Those enormous violet eyes dominated and lit up her face like precious stones set in ivory. Her hair was long and thick, hanging down her back in a glossy plait tied with a green velvet bow. She was dressed like a hippy: fringed skirt, sandals, peasant blouse swelling with the promise of two perfect breasts which seemed surprisingly large and mobile for such a slender girl.
No doubt about it. She was a bit of all right. Wouldn’t kick her out of bed. Maybe he’d chat her up. He flashed her his most dazzling smile.
‘Morning.’
‘Hello.’ She seemed a little nervous, almost afraid of him. Maybe he was coming on too strong? ‘Would you like a reading?’
‘Well, I don’t know. I’m not really into all this . . . stuff.’ It was an understatement. Hunt had written countless stories debunking this kind of mumbo-jumbo. On the other hand, she was a real looker, and those breasts . . . ‘What do you do and how much does it cost?’ Oh damn, he thought. It sounds like I’m trying to pick up a prostitute.
She didn’t seem to have noticed the clumsiness. ‘I do Tarot readings, palm readings, phrenology, crystal gazing . . .’
‘How much for a Tarot reading?’
‘Ten pounds.’
He gave a sharp intake of breath. ‘Bit pricey isn’t it?’
‘You won’t find cheaper anywhere. Not from a genuine seer.’
‘A what?’
‘A seer. One who has the gift of sight.’
Hunt thought about taking the piss, then decided against it. If he was going to pull, ten pounds and a bit of mumbo-jumbo was a small price to pay for Heaven on earth and a good squeeze of those knockers.
‘OK, then.’ He handed over his money and stepped into the booth. Mara indicated a rickety camping chair and he sat down, conscious of the lack of space which forced him to crumple up his long legs and made him feel like an adult on an infants’ school chair. He took off his hat and balanced it sheepishly on his knee.
She looked at him long and hard, and it made him feel uncomfortable. For a second he almost believed she really could see into him. If so, she could be in no doubt that he fancied her like crazy. He was grateful for the trilby, hiding his burgeoning erection as he gazed back at her, dry-mouthed and sweaty-palmed.
Mara picked up the pack and began to deal out the cards, face-down, on the green baize surface of the table in front of her. She wondered if he could see her hand trembling as she fought to control it. Now that he was there, in front of her, the feeling was overwhelming. She was almost drowning in the weight of the thoughts she could feel spilling out of him, lapping around her and washing over her like wild ocean waves. She fought the feeling, but it pressed on, insistently, and in that split second she closed her eyes and gave way to the weight of his will, the force of his fantasy . . .
It was a dark room, but warm – almost oppressively so. She was standing there, in the pitch blackness, unable to see anything, but knowing that somewhere close in the darkness a presence was watching, waiting. She felt fear and yet arousal. It was coming to get her, coming to take her and possess her. Her cunt felt damp and her nipples hardened as she waited for it to come and find her. She realised that she was naked, and she tried to cover herself with her hands.
But suddenly there were other hands: curious, insistent hands intent on exploring her every delight, her sinuous expectant flesh. And instead of trying to escape, she opened herself to the hands, strained to offer herself to their obscene caresses, their frank indecency.
Lips now, brushing the tips of her breasts. A moist and lascivious tongue running over her flesh and adding its own contribution to her willing wetness. Teeth nibbling gently at her buttocks, the tops of her thighs, tinging pleasure with the piquancy of pain.
The unseen figure surprised her from behind. Strong hands threw her forward, so that she found herself bent almost double over the back of a chair, rump thrust out and breasts dangling down. Fingers explored her most intimate places, not
ungently but sparing her no embarrassment, no modesty. Her buttocks were prised apart firmly and a practised fingertip ran straight home to the target: diving into her slippery cunt as lithe as an eel, wriggling deliriously now in and now out of her, making her gasp with pleasure.
Now the finger was exploring farther afield, using the abundance of juices to lubricate the whole of her intimate crack, from pubis to arse; and the wetness was dripping out of her, glistening on her slender tanned thighs. As he pressed close to her, she could feel the rhythmic beat of his erect penis as it slapped against her backside, eager for the fray. She was eager for it, too, and tried to reach behind her and pull him into her. But he resisted, deflecting her fingers and making her hold on to the chair-back to support her lust-weakened body.
Her unseen lover, shadowy and silent, hot-bodied and sweet-breathed, was becoming bolder still. His fingers moved away from her cunt and slipped slowly, deliriously backwards until they were circling her tight brown arsehole.
‘Yes, yes . . .’ she moaned, straining to thrust herself still further backwards and meet his incautious caress.
But the fingers teased her still, refusing her the offices she so craved, refusing to batter open the gates and enter the temple of delectable, unholy rites. They circled the amber rose and it strove to open, to flower in response to this careful gardener’s secret skill. But the coquettish fingertips slid away again, diving once more into the hot sweet depths of Mara’s cunt, making her cry out with the pain of frustration and desire.
At last the fingers returned, suddenly and bolder than before. Mara’s arsehole was so eager for the caress that there was no need to force it. The fingertip rested for only a moment on the sensitive membrane before it was swallowed up, engulfed in that most secret of nooks.
Mara groaned and began to writhe about as the finger slid gradually further into her, wriggling about so as to titillate the fragile walls of her rectum, stretching the narrow tunnel, dilating it; then pressing up against the wall of her vagina. She longed to feel fullness in all her orifices, to be stuffed full to bursting, to be nothing but an engine of pleasure, filled with desire and fulfilment.
He had steadfastly ignored her clitoris, and it was throbbing painfully, resentfully. Mara tried to touch it herself but he prevented her. All at once, she felt his hot prick nuzzling into the brown furrow between her buttocks, and in a single, fluid movement, still keeping his finger in her arsehole, he filled up her juicy, yearning cunt with another, longer, much thicker finger of flesh which forced the path and made her groan with the exquisite pain of it.
The cock was unexpected, miraculous, magical. It was much broader, much thicker, much more massive than anything she had ever had inside her before: It felt as if she were being screwed by several big cocks at once. It felt as if half a dozen men – no, more – had come together to desire her and possess her; and, being unable to decide which should have her first, had come to an entirely civilised arrangement: they would all have her at the same time. Her cunt was stretched beyond the limits of endurance by this massive, multiple cock; and the feeling that she would at any moment burst open, be rent in two, only added to the ecstasy of this unbelievable fuck.
Now he was removing his finger from her arsehole. She moaned in protest but her dissatisfaction soon turned to pleasure as his hand moved forward to cup her left breast in his hand, skilfully pinching her nipple between finger and thumb. It felt like an electric shock, running right down her body from nipple to cunt; and Mara could feel the juices overflowing her tight-stretched vagina, lubricating her unseen lover’s thick shaft and dripping down in glistening beads on to his thick pubic hair. His hot, sweaty balls were bouncing off her arse-cheeks, taut and full of spunk. All for her.
And then he took pity on her and slid his right hand round underneath her, foraging in the dark curly triangle of her pubic bush until he found the secret door and passed through it, into the humid, fragrant world of her crack. She howled with pleasure as his well-lubricated finger slid further down until at last it made contact with the hard, erect bud of her throbbing clitoris.
A few more thrusts; a few more strokes of his fingertip upon her clitoris, and she would come . . .
A sudden voice brought Mara back to her senses.
‘Are you all right?’
She shook her head to clear it: she was still dazed, still clouded by the vision of oncoming ecstasy which had so cruelly deluded her. Looking up, she saw Hunt gazing at her and something in his eyes frightened and excited her. It was the reflection of her own lust, the realisation that they had shared that vision – that he had been her unseen lover and she his willing plaything.
And the feeling of incredible sexual arousal was still with her, trembling her hand and her voice as she set out the cards. Could he feel it too? He was clutching his hat so hard that his knuckles were white, and staring at her with an intensity which she found hard to bear.
She turned up the first card.
‘The Hanged Man.’
Hunt winced.
‘It’s OK. It doesn’t mean what it looks like. The Hanged Man just means there are going to be changes in your life.’
‘What kind of changes?’
‘It’s difficult to say. Something that alters the quality of your life. Are you . . . searching for something in your life at the moment?’
‘Could be.’
The feeling was still there, intense, insistent. She closed her eyes but that only made it worse. Then, she was there in that room again, being screwed in the dark by a shadowy man – the man who was sitting in front of her, seemingly innocent but she knew he could feel it too. Her clitoris was throbbing in time to her racing pulse, the tom-tom beat of an insolent desire that made her head spin, made her nipples hard and tensed the fragile flesh on her ample breasts. She could actually feel his fingers pinching her nipples, feel his massive, hardened shaft and the way the walls of her vagina were sucking away at it eagerly, insatiably.
The excitement was mounting in her; racing, climbing, striving ever higher – and in spite of herself she began to breathe heavily, haltingly, and her left hand moved involuntarily under the table to touch her clitoris, ease her aching need.
She dealt the next card.
What she did not know was that Hunt was also living the fantasy, enslaved and enchanted by the dark vision in which he toiled silently inside the glorious wet cunt of this dark girl he had never met, never even touched. His penis felt massive, granite-hard, smooth as silk. And more than that. It felt like someone else’s penis. Though he was feeling the pleasure, he had the curious sensation that he was feeling it through someone else, or that someone – or something – else’s consciousness was feeling the sensations through him.
As though something else was using his body for its own pleasure.
But he was locked away in a world of unbelievable sensual pleasure: a world in which only he and the girl existed, united by this strange consciousness which was playing with them as though they were pawns in a bizarre chess game.
He could feel a lake of sperm, heavy and turbulent, collecting in his tensed and aching balls. And, very slowly and surreptitiously, and all the time still looking deep into the girl’s deep blue eyes, he reached for the zip of his trousers and pulled it down.
The contact of hand on shaft sent electric shivers through his body, and – although he had meant only to touch himself passively and go no further – he could not resist the overwhelming urge to pump his shaft. His hand was shielded from view by the table, and his hardened prick hidden by the trilby on his lap, but nevertheless he felt delicious pangs of danger as he began, very slowly and carefully, to masturbate himself.
He knew he could not hold out for long. His prick was already oozing lubricating fluid and slid easily and delightfully between his practised fingers. Indeed, he had never before derived such pleasure from the simple act of masturbation. Was it the fact that the situation was spiced up with danger? Was it the knowledge that the girl was
returning his gaze and was also beginning to breathe more quickly, tellingly? Or was it the fact that it felt for all the world as if another, silken-soft hand was manipulating his willing tool?
Mara’s trembling hand turned over the card and, mechanically, they both glanced down at it. It transfixed them and they could not tear their eyes away from it.
‘The Broken Tower,’ she gasped. And could say no more.
The card depicted a tall, slender tower: no longer broken but phallic and thrusting, strong and suggestive. And, as they looked, the strangest thing happened. The tower changed shape and form – at first subtly, then blatantly – until at last it had become a penis: a long, thick, hard penis thrusting up out of a dark pubic thicket. A penis throbbing with its own life. A penis jerking up and down as though thrusting into an unseen cunt.
And as they watched, it seemed that this magical penis was thrusting into their own hearts and minds, forcing its obscene majesty into them, uniting them in defiance of their will, shooting its torrent of unearthly semen into them and fertilising them with an evil seed – a seed of fear and forbidden pleasure. And somewhere above them, below them, deep within the darkest parts of them, a cold black voice was laughing, laughing; and fiery red eyes were burning into their souls, remorseless and uncompromising.
And they came together, not daring to cry out but gazing fixedly into each other’s eyes, completely unable to look away – locked into an embrace so powerful, so indissoluble that it needed no touch, no kiss. They came together in floods of cunt-juice and semen; trembling silently as they sighed out the last waves of their passion, and slumped, free at last, in their chairs.
When he came to his senses and looked up, Hunt realised that: she was gone. He stood up unsteadily and gazed after her, but she was too far away by now. He just caught a momentary glimpse of her glossy black hair and she was gone; engulfed in the crowds of holidaymakers.
All that was left to remind him of their bizarre coupling was the damp, dark stain spreading over the front of his trousers. That, and the tarot cards strewn in terrified chaos across the table in front of him. One caught his eye: The High Priestess. He wondered vaguely if it meant anything, pocketed it and prepared to leave.
Kiss of Death (Modern Erotic Classics) Page 7