Kiss of Death (Modern Erotic Classics)

by Valentina Cilescu

  Isis, already naked to the waist, began to remove the rest of her flimsy garments: the golden belt in the form of a serpent with its tail in its mouth, the ceremonial staff and flail and, finally, the remains of the thin, gauzy white robe which concealed so little and revealed so much.

  Delgado gazed at her and desired her all over again. He recalled that first evening with her, when he had given her the trial of his tongue, and had felt her soft virgin lips sucking at his ripe manhood. And now she stood before him, unattainable once again, a golden icon at a carnival of lust, the glamorous pawn in a chess-game of desire. And he knew only too well that it was this very unattainability which made her so desirable, not only to Delgado but to the punters who had shelled out thousands for the chance to take part in this beautifully choreographed farce. Exquisite and exotic it might be, he mused, but it was none the less still just a story of cunt and cock. And his own cock was already dancing wildly to the tune.

  Isis bent to pick up the flail, and was careful to part her legs just far enough to give the onlookers behind her a really tantalising view of her bum-crack and the golden tuft of her generous pubic bush. Those in front were treated to the spectacle of her firm young breasts, hanging down in front of her as she bent down, their tips as hard as iron but as pink and appetising as sugar-candy.

  She picked up the flail – the implement used by the Egyptians to winnow their grain, and the symbol of the fertility of the Nile lands. She stroked it and ran the long tails across her pale, gold-dusted flesh, working the flail downwards until it passed across her cunt. Then she turned it round so that the long handle pointed upwards, and began to work it up inside her cunt, using the fingers of her left hand to hold her cunt lips apart whilst with the right she manipulated the handle of the flail into her secret crack.

  The handle of the flail was thick – as thick as a woman’s wrist – and it did not enter her easily. But her crack was well-lubricated with love-juices, with the offerings of Ibrahim’s reverential tongue, and with the sweet oils which Madame LeCoeur had used to douche her cunt as a preparation for the rigours of a long night of unremitting copulation. With a sigh of immense satisfaction, she succeeded in pushing the handle into her cunt and groaned as she rammed it home as far as it would go.

  The onlookers grew ever madder with desire for this untouchable, inaccessible, miraculously lewd goddess of sex as she tormented them with her shameless rite of self-love. Ibrahim, her King for a night, lay panting at her feet, prick twitching desperately as he gazed up at her, masturbating with evident enjoyment and scorning those lust-crazed eyes, those yearning hands.

  The handle of the flail moved in and out of her juicy cunt, glistening with drops of love-juice and the thongs of soft leather forming a trembling curtain between her smooth, pale thighs. With her left hand, she felt for her clitoris and began to rub it, at first gently and then harder and faster, bringing gasps of pleasure from between her full, painted lips.

  Isis neared orgasm but did not give in to the overwhelming impulse to bring herself off. Oh no, this orgasm must be savoured, enjoyed and indulged to the full with her King’s beautiful prick inside her. She longed to feel the spasms of his twitching prick as it disgorged its torrent of spunk into her young, yearning cunt as the Nile breaks its banks and floods the fertile land.

  She now turned her attentions to the young King, Ibrahim, who still lay panting and inconsolable on the painted dais. Raising the flail in her right arm, she brought it down upon his torso, scattering the rose petals strewn across his body. A rain of blows followed, the soft leather thongs causing more pleasure than pain, and raising the rose petals in clouds like a pink-and-white snowstorm. Ibrahim twisted and turned under the flail, writhing in ecstasy as Isis brought the flail down skilfully upon his genitals. The delicate lashes irritated and excited the already-bursting flesh, and he wondered desperately if he could possibly hold out much longer. Her touch was so exquisite, her cruelty so welcome. He was her King, her consort, her devoted slave.

  Isis saw that she had brought her King to the very brink of orgasm, and knew that it was time for them to be joined.

  The hypnotic chanting began again:

  ‘Mother Isis, meet our need;

  Ride the King, bring forth his seed.’

  The flail had now served its purpose, and Isis flung it into the crowd of onlookers, who scrabbled desperately on the rush-strewn ground for a touch or sight or scent of the sacred toy. Gavin de Lacy emerged, breathless, from the throng, bearing the trophy aloft in triumph. Lust-crazed, he grabbed the nearest slave-girl and threw her face-down on to the floor, tearing off the thin skirt which was her only covering, and wrenching her legs apart. With a savage cry of victory, he parted his own robes to reveal a vigorous and straining prick, which he rammed into the girl’s slippery cunt, swiftly following with the thrust of the flail-handle up her unsuspecting arse. She howled with pain and pleasure, but all eyes were still fixed on the dais, where Isis and her king were about to consummate their union.

  The mother-goddess knelt astride her consort and gently brushed away the remaining rose petals from his taut black belly. Then, in one swift movement, she slid smoothly on to his upstanding prick, and they roared in unison as they felt the glorious union of their divine loins.

  ‘Let the festival begin!’ cried Delgado as, slowly and reverentially, the goddess Isis began to ride her sacrificial King . . .

  It was like an explosion of lust, an unbridled celebration of life and lust in which no sexual act was too perverse, nothing forbidden; in which every smiling mouth was a safe haven for a hard prick or a dripping cunt; every tongue ready to entwine itself around heavy balls or to feast upon clitoris or tight bum-hole.

  And the old gods and goddesses came forward out of the shadows, forward to join the celebrations.

  ‘Do what thou wilt’ shall be the whole of the law,’ breathed Delgado, the unfamiliar words coming suddenly and inexplicably into his mind, as though bidden by the dark shadow that had come to dwell within him. And a cold hand laid itself upon his shoulder and the voice within him whispered to him again:

  ‘Do what thou wilt . . .’

  And he obeyed, driven with a surge of lust that surprised even him, the old libertine who had seen everything, done everything, had every woman – and man – he had ever desired. He forgot the infirmity of his twisted leg, and threw away his silver-topped cane. Grabbing a slave-girl around the waist, he began to tear away her clothes.

  Under the cool shadows of fans held by four beautiful boys knelt Andrew Diamond, crouching on all fours and howling with bestial pleasure as he was buggered by Anubis the jackal god, their brutal rutting matching the wild rhythms of the temple drums.

  Beside a fountain, filled with blood-red wine, three temple prostitutes with naked painted bodies were licking an aphrodisiac paste of honey and eastern spices from the penises of three well-known City stockbrokers.

  And Harry Blomfeld was enthusiastically whipping a naked girl as she licked out the juicy cunt of a pretty Nubian slave.

  Everywhere was a mass of heaving bodies, sticky with sweat, sweet oils, spices and semen. The flames of lust burned higher, higher still, and the lord of chaos looked on and was well pleased.

  And all the while, the mother goddess was slowly fucking her King, riding his hot hard prick and rising towards the summit of their shared orgasm.

  The Master gathered all his strength and once again entered the body of Delgado: it was a poor, flawed body, unworthy of such a great spirit, yet it welcomed him in as a kindred soul welcomes its long-awaited lord and master.

  Delgado had done well. He was an excellent subject, an excellent servant. Inspired by the Master’s soul-deep whispered commands, he had instructed the designer to produce exactly what the Master had wanted.

  He exulted in this fleeting gift of sight, sound and sense. Impatient to feel warm flesh once again, he forgot the imperfections of Delgado’s body and glorified in the taste and smell of the slave-girl. She wa
s fragrant, young, juicy, appetising; and he fucked her with a joyous rage that shook Delgado’s body and drew heartrending cries from the girl, bent double with his prick threatening to split her poor little cunt in two.

  But all the time his attentions were taken up by the mother goddess on the dais, the false Isis sweating and straining as she rode her sacrificial beast to his innocent, unsuspecting doom. The sight of her awoke memories in him, memories that came flooding back after so many years of darkness and oblivion.

  Memories of a chamber very much like this. A temple in ancient Egypt, long ago . . .

  The torches flickered, casting fantastical shadows on the walls of the inner sanctum. On the altar, the massive block of crystal gleamed and sparkled, a thousand bright blades of light flashing from its many facets.

  The young priestess knelt before the altar, her head bowed in reverence or terror, he could not tell. No matter, very soon she would have no more reason for either. For she was his chosen one, the one who was to become his Queen. The only one worthy to stand beside him throughout all eternity.

  The choice had been easy. Alone among the priestesses of Isis, Sedet had shone out to him like the pure fire in the very heart of the crystal, the great magical crystal which had already bestowed immortality upon him, and which he was about to use to make her immortal, also. Already he had rendered her soul immortal: now all he had to do was to speak the incantation which would preserve her body from all age and decay.

  Soon she would be godlike, as he was.

  He recalled that first sighting of her: full-breasted and softly curving, eyes modestly cast down as she walked in procession with her sister priestesses towards the temple of Isis, there to be welcomed by the High Priest, the Master himself.

  He saw her, and desired her immediately, irresistibly. He had long sought a woman worthy of him in mind, body and soul, and as soon as he saw her he knew he had at last found her.

  ‘I want you, little temple slut.’ He sent the thought rushing through the ether and into her mind, and to his immense joy she looked up at him, suddenly, frightened like a cornered deer, yet fascinated, excited, alive. She had heard that thought, and immediately he heard her own silent reply:

  ‘What is it that you want of me, O Master? I am but a simple priestess . . .’

  ‘I want all of you. I want your body and soul. I want to stick my prick into your tight little cunt and make you scream with pleasure. I want to fuck your arse and your mouth and your big firm tits. I want to fuck you until you beg for mercy, and cry for more. And more still: I want to take you and make you my immortal Queen, little temple whore.’

  ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘You understand me well enough. And the rest, you shall understand later. You will have many centuries in which to learn to understand.’

  ‘How is it that you can speak to me through my mind, without a sound, with only thoughts?’

  ‘How is it that you can understand me when I speak to you in thoughts? Do not question, child. Come to me in the inner sanctum of the temple tonight, at moonrise. I shall be waiting for you.’

  And he had waited for her, and had feared that she might not come. He, the Master, who had solved the great mysteries, who had conquered life and death and become greater than either or both: he had been afraid because he knew that she was the one, and without her his triumph would be incomplete. He waited in the darkness for a long time, with the crystal-bladed dagger and the ring of power, and began to wonder if his wait would be in vain . . .

  But she came to him, trembling for cold and fear, and she fell upon her knees and begged him to have mercy. He showed her none, forcing her to strip naked in the darkness and cold of the temple, and making her kneel before him and suck his cock. Oh, it had felt so good, that timid little tongue on his world-weary prick – fresh and young and vibrant, and so worthy of immortality. And as she squeezed his balls and brought him to orgasm, he had thrown back his head and laughed for the sheer joy of knowing that he would be able to feel like this forever, because he had joined the ranks of the immortals and would never grow old.

  Ruthlessly, he had silenced her terrified protests and forced her to lie down on the altar of Isis, pulling apart her slender, silken thighs and placing his fingers on her clitoris. She had gasped as he began to caress her, awakening desires which she had never dreamed she had. Her cunt became a brooklet, a stream, a mighty river as he pressed upon her hard little button and brought her to a raging, soul-rending orgasm.

  Afterwards, he had held her down on the cold stone altar and forced her to listen to him:

  ‘Child, you are beautiful.’

  ‘You are very gracious, O Master.’

  ‘Do you not fear growing old and ugly?’

  ‘Of course . . . but is that not the lot of every man and woman?’

  ‘It need not be, child. It is not my lot.’

  ‘How can that be?’

  ‘See, child. Mark well what you see and know that it is true.’ And the Master took up the crystal dagger with the silver hilt. It flashed fire as he held it aloft for a moment before plunging it deep into his heart. Sedet screamed and tried to turn her head away, but he held her fast, forcing her to look at him.

  Smiling, he pulled the dagger from his chest, and there was blood on the crystal blade. But within seconds the wound had disappeared, had healed as though it had never been there at all.

  Sedet gasped, and stretched out her hand in disbelief, to touch the place where the mortal would had been.

  ‘You see, my child. Death is but an illusion which man can conquer. I alone have conquered it. None else has the secret of immortality. But I have chosen you to share my glory with me. Tonight, child, you shall become immortal.’

  He raised her up and made her stand before him. She looked up into his eyes, still questioning but full of eagerness now.

  ‘Child, I have chosen you and you shall be my worthy consort, my immortal Queen,’ explained the Master. ‘You shall have powers beyond your wildest dreams: you shall have immense sexual power to enslave all men and feed upon their energies as you copulate with them; these energies will make you stronger, and feed your powers. Once you have gained physical immortality, you shall have the power to travel through time and space, to change your form, to grant life and death, to impart immortality to others.

  ‘Child, with me you shall share power and dominion over all the earth. Nations shall bow down before us. The unworthy shall be enslaved to feed our needs and desires. And our empire of immortals shall endure for all time. Now, come: and I shall grant your flesh immortality.’

  He bade her kneel before the altar, her small white hands laid upon the surface of the crystal, and began the incantation.

  As he spoke the words of power, Sedet began to feel a change coming over her, a weakness as though all her mortal self were being absorbed by the great block of crystal. It felt no longer cold under her hands, but warm and throbbing with a mysterious life that emanated from the heart of fire burning deep within it.

  As he ended the spell, he touched the crystal with the tip of the ceremonial dagger, and Sedet felt a tremendous surge of power rushing back into her body, washing away the woman she had been. But it was a surge not of clear bright light, but of dark energy, dark power that made her scream out with the terror and the realisation. At that second, she saw in her mind’s eye a vision of her former self: warm-blooded, vibrant, fresh and young; and of herself as she would henceforth be: a creature of crystal, as hard-hearted as the stone itself, as dark as a crystal when no light shines upon it, enduring not as a living, breathing thing but as a creature hovering for eternity between the worlds of the living and the dead, driven to feed on the energies and blood of mortals in order to continue its cursed existence.

  ‘No!’ she cried, as the dark force surged through her veins, and the coldness clutched at her heart.

  But it was too late. The transformation could not be stopped now – and already Sedet felt her mind clouding,
adapting, becoming eager now for the life of evil she must henceforth lead.

  The Master spoke again, in a voice full of excitement and desire:

  ‘Come, child, and be joined with me as my immortal Queen.’

  He picked her up, frail and unresisting in his arms, and laid her once again upon the altar of great Isis. And he lay on top of her, sliding his hard penis inside her so that she shuddered with pleasure, and riding her hard like a thoroughbred filly. Gradually she began to move, to meet his thrusts with the upward tilt of her pelvis, to thrust back and grind her pubis against his, accepting his immortal manhood with eagerness.

  Her cunt began to pulsate about his stiff prick, like a tight and greedy mouth, hot and wet and urging him on to ever-greater ecstasy. And as they fucked, their minds were also joined, filled with the vision of the greatness they would share when their empire of lust had spread across the whole wide world. The aphrodisiac of power, glimpsed and savoured, brought them rapidly to the brink of ecstasy and eternity . . .

  At the moment of orgasm, the Master threw himself forward, and she thought for a moment that he would kiss her. But instead he lunged for her throat, sinking wickedly sharp teeth into her golden flesh. She cried out in mingled pain and ecstasy as her cunt-juices flowed and the blood spurted out and began to trickle down her neck.

  And she knew in that moment that she had received not only the touch of immortality, but the kiss of death.

  ‘Now, child, your spirit is immortal,’ whispered the Master. ‘My kiss on your throat has released your mortality with your blood, and your soul cannot be destroyed. Arise, my Queen, my empress, my consort: for soon, very soon, we shall inherit our realm.’

  As the Master used Delgado’s body and that of the slave-girl, he gazed again upon the false Isis and recalled, with a pang of guilt and rage, the events which had followed the triumphal crowning of his immortal Queen.