Kiss of Death (Modern Erotic Classics)

by Valentina Cilescu

  He had begun her torment with a savage glee. It felt good to topple icons, to ridicule these empires of poor mortals who called themselves kings and princes.

  He looked out into the freezing night, and laughed to himself for the sheer joy of it. And then he stripped off her shawl and commanded her:

  ‘I wish you to walk, barefoot and naked, across the rose garden to the private chapel.’

  She gazed at him with terror in her eyes:

  ‘But Father Rasputin, the earth freezes, there is a blizzard, I will die. And if someone should see me . . .’

  He silenced her with a look from his fiery eyes. Hypnotised by their blazing depths, Czarina Alexandra believed that she was gazing upon the purifying fire of holiness, and not the beckoning fires of Hell . . .

  She stripped off before him, and he felt his prick leap to instant attention at the mature beauty of her body – her underused body, he thought to himself. Here is a woman who has lived too gently, too tentatively; who has seen far too little of life. I shall take it upon me to complete her education.

  ‘Now go!’ he commanded, opening wide the French doors of the drawing room and pointing towards the private chapel, some fifty yards away in the pitch darkness and driving snow. The wind’s icy blast sent the curtains billowing inwards, and stinging clouds of snowflakes attacked the Czarina’s poor naked body. She fell to her knees, weeping, and implored her tormentor:

  ‘No, please, anything but that . . .’

  ‘You swore a sacred oath. Now go, I command you.’

  And, sobbing her heart out, she stepped tentatively into the snow, which was crisp and powdery beneath her naked feet. It was over a foot deep, and she cried out with agony as the cold attacked her legs and the wind-borne snowflakes whipped her martyred flesh. The Master walked before her, bearing a lantern to light her way; relishing her every sob and laughing inwardly each time she stumbled and fell in the snow.

  When at last she stumbled into the chapel, she was blue with cold and shivering uncontrollably. She fell at his feet and implored him to help her.

  ‘Have no fear: I shall warm your flesh, my Czarina,’ he replied. And he began to whip her with such ferocity that the blood did indeed begin to return to her poor frozen flesh, drawing patterns of scarlet and livid blue-white on her noble skin.

  Wrenching her legs apart, he began to whip her inner thighs and pubis, being careful to strike her just hard enough to cause an agreeable mingling of pleasure and pain.

  ‘Mortification of the flesh!’ he roared. ‘Surrender yourself utterly to the shame, to the humiliation. Surrender all self-pride and rise towards redemption.’

  And then he lay upon her and thrust his beautiful, proud prick into her aristocratic cunt. It slid in like a knife into butter, for the Czarina’s crack was well-oiled. He had calculated well: the slut enjoyed a little rough handling.

  She fucked clumsily at first, as though she had no idea what to do; and the Master guessed that she was more accustomed to lying passively on her back than to giving a man a good time. So he rolled over on to his back, taking her with him, and forced her to take the active role.

  ‘Ride me, harlot,’ he commanded. ‘Ride me as though I were a fine stallion from the Czar’s Imperial stables.’ And he grabbed hold of her waist and pushed her up and down on his prick, showing her how it was done. He took hold of her right hand and made her squeeze his balls, and run her finger forwards through the hot, hairy crack between bollocks and arse. She learned quickly, and her explorations began to give him pleasure.

  Certainly she was a fine woman: mature in the sense of ripe, juicy – and almost virginal in her inexperience and docility. Revelling not only in the pleasure she was giving him, but in the ecstasy of total control, he reached upwards and searched out her clitty. She gasped as his fingers found her love-button, and from the look of amazed delight on her face he guessed that she had no knowledge of her own body. No-one had ever taught her the little games that bring ecstasy.

  He stroked her skilfully, and ensured that, as he shot his own load into her cunt, she climbed up to the sunny summit of her own orgasm, drenching his prick with clear love-juice at the very moment that it inundated her cunt with spunk.

  She slumped forward on to his chest, weeping with ecstasy; and he took advantage of the opportunity to nuzzle into the crook of her neck.

  She scarcely noticed his sharp teeth sinking into her flesh.

  For ten years, Grigori Rasputin held sway. The Czarina Alexandra proved an insatiable lover, an invaluable ally, and her son a useful source of blood and energies upon which the Master could feed. Gradually, discreetly, the circle of the undead began to widen. And he had all the time in the world . . .

  But the Great War came, and with it a decline in fortunes. People grew suspicious of the filthy, wild-eyed priest who had so much control over their Czarina, and who was more famous for his lechery than his piety.

  The end of Grigori Rasputin came one night in 1916, when he unwisely accepted an invitation to a drinking party with some junior army officers. They got him drunk; spiked his drink with deadly poisons – which of course had no effect; stabbed him; shot him and finally drowned him. For some reason, he simply would not die . . .

  And when they were satisfied that he was dead, they cut off his magnificent cock and put it in an ornate box. A gift for the Czar, they laughed, as they threw his mutilated body into the river.

  The Master smiled to himself as he recalled the truth of that dark night. For what history did not recall was that, the next morning, not only Rasputin’s body but his severed cock had disappeared.

  And it and its owner were reunited and merrily on the road to Sicily, there to assume a new identity and join the disciples of an interesting young man known as Aleister Crowley . . .

  The false Czarina writhed about under the lash and cried out for mercy, though her cunt was dripping with juice and she was wriggling her thighs ever wider apart, and thrusting out her buttocks to welcome the bite of the whip.

  The Master, suddenly weary of this game, of this trivial masochist and her unintelligent torturer, was overcome with a wave of uncontrollable rage, which communicated itself to the false Rasputin. With a roar of demonic pleasure, he dropped the whip and placed his hands about Marie-Louise’s throat, despising her because she, like himself, was stupid and unworthy to join the ranks of the undead.

  He squeezed tighter and tighter, and her eyes began to bulge out of her head. When at last the onlookers managed to prise his fingers away from her throat, she fell to the ground half-unconscious and raving, but smiling the secret smile of the masochist for whom the only real pleasure is the apprehension of the approach of death.

  With a final roar of rage and hatred, the Master picked up one of the Louis XIV chairs and flung it through the two-way mirror, showering the voyeurs with broken glass and interrupting the progress of more than one orgasm.

  When at last the Master left the body of the false Rasputin, he was angry and dissatisfied, and bent on revenge. If the girl Mara Fleming did not come to him soon, of her own free will, then he must ensure that she would come by other, more devious means.

  Trapped once again in the bricked-up cellar, chained to the useless body which refused to let his spirit go free, the Master raged in his frustration and plotted a way to recover both his greatness and his Queen.

  12: Berchtesgaden

  She was a big girl: Nordic-looking, tall, with an impressive bust. She was also clad in skin-tight black leather and wore swastikas on what passed for a uniform. It was hardly standard issue. Two circular zips on the front of the clinging bodice indicated the quick and easy way to the alluring playground of her mountainous breasts, whilst another zip ran between her legs, from navel to coccyx, signposting the entrance to her pleasure-palace.

  Not that these facilities were available just for the taking. Ilse was an extremely assertive young woman, who believed in strict corrective measures for those of her clients who offended her. And the
y all invariably did. At this very moment, she was grinding her spiky-heeled boot into the naked upturned backside of a well-known member of the General Synod. He was clearly appreciating her firm stand on matters ecclesiastical.

  ‘Englischer Schweinhund!’ growled Ilse with predictable Teutonic wrath.

  ‘Yes, yes, punish me! I’ve been so wicked . . .’ whined her wriggling prey, thrusting his pimply white arse Heavenwards for the satisfaction of the pain she would graciously inflict upon him.

  She did not disappoint him: tossing back her ash-blonde mane, Ilse flipped the trembling cleric over on to his back as easily as if he were a pancake, and began to walk over the prostrate body of her willing victim, making sure that her not-inconsiderable weight lingered longest on his softest and most sensitive parts. And oh! How he groaned and screamed with the exquisite pain of feeling his flabby testicles being ground beneath the eager heels of this latter-day Valkyrie.

  In fact, it hurt so much that he came, shuddering, all over the spotless polished surface of her spike-heeled jackboots.

  With a mighty roar of rage, the leather-clad torturess took the bullwhip from her belt and swung it down upon her victim’s defenceless belly. The first blow was so excruciating that he felt his prick beginning to stiffen again already . . .

  The atmosphere was heavy, and the air stifling. It smelt of piss and shit and blood and fear. The room was gloomily lit by a single 40-watt bulb, fly-specked and dusty, which hung from a bare flex in the centre of the ceiling. Nazi flags flanked the heavy dungeon door with its tiny grille and iron-studded surface. Beside the banners stood men in SS uniform, armed and jackbooted and ready for anything. The room was bare of all humanity and comfort: in the centre stood a rickety wooden table and two chairs, whilst one wall was lined with an array of fearsome-looking instruments of torture: whips, thumbscrews, manacles . . . And underneath stood a narrow wooden bed with attachments for hands and feet. It was no use asking to be excused: no-one left this room before Ilse had finished with them.

  The Reichskammer was one of the most popular rooms at Winterbourne, combining the very worst in aesthetic taste with the very best in sado-masochism. The Third Reich held a perverse fascination for some of Delgado’s most influential clients – particularly churchmen, MPs and ex-public schoolboys, he mused idly as he stood guard in the corner, immaculately dressed in the full uniform of an SS corporal, circa 1943. He liked to get these little details right: it gave him such job satisfaction to know that his customers were happy.

  The Reichskammer was decked out as an interrogation room, in which ‘victims’ could be stripped, abused, tortured . . . or whatever turned them on. One of Delgado’s most regular clients, a merchant banker called Piers Wellesley, was obsessed with the life and perversions of Adolf Hitler; and every time he visited Winterbourne, he insisted that one of Delgado’s German whores dress up as Eva Braun, serve him herb tea from a silver tray, and then jab his balls with a darning needle.

  Each to his own, thought Delgado – musing pleasurably on the last time that adorable half-caste Perdita had lashed his backside. He could understand the need for the unusual, the corrupt, the unacceptable.

  Indeed, ever since Winterbourne had opened and he had felt the protecting presence in his head, the dark but avuncular hand on his shoulder, his own tastes for the unusual had been sharpened. These days, his appetite for sex of all kinds seemed inexhaustible – even after a night-long marathon of screwing and fellating, even after orgies that lasted days and left him feeling more drained than he could have believed possible, Delgado’s prick would leap defiantly to attention and fill his restless sleep with images of luscious bodies, glistening orifices, and fountaining spunk . . .

  The Master’s spirit slipped silently into Delgado’s body and remained quietly within him, simply watching, waiting, remembering. He looked contemptuously upon the charade and recalled a time, not so very long ago, when he had been a part of the world so crudely parodied within this room: those glorious days when he had last walked the earth; when he had believed that, at long last, he was coming into his kingdom.

  Ilse’s willing victim groaned with pleasure as she strapped him down to the rack and began to turn the handle, stretching muscles and joints and tendons to screaming-point. Then she placed her hand upon her pubis and began to unzip her pleasure-palace . . .

  Early-morning light warmed the stones of the ancient stronghold, and flooded the wooded valley below with a golden wash of sunshine. Eager fingers of sunlight played in the girl’s soft brown hair and sparkled in her eyes as she ran and turned exuberant cartwheels on the terrace of the mountain-top retreat. Her body was lithe and slender, with fine muscle-tone and the golden, glowing skin of a healthy young peasant girl.

  She gave a final backflip and landed adroitly on both feet, panting and laughing. Looking towards her lover, she called out:

  ‘Liebchen, will breakfast be ready soon? I’m so hungry, I could eat an ox!’

  The Führer was displeased. The war in the East was going badly. His indigestion was troubling him. And Eva Braun was a stupid young woman who was beginning to get on his nerves. Only those inexhaustible golden thighs had thus far saved her from the firing-squad.

  The only bright light on the horizon was that Goebbels had come up with something – a surprise, he had said. Something that would help his Führer to smite his enemies into the ground and allow the German jackboot to stamp upon the faces of the whole world. But this had better be good: he was tired of phoneys, and he was not a patient man.

  ‘Komm herein,’ he commanded Eva, who scampered to his side. ‘You will suck me off before breakfast.’

  Hitler felt an instant affinity with this new man, this strange, dark-haired man with eyes that burned with all the ferocity of the nether fires of Hell. This man who wore strangely outdated clothes and affected a long black velvet cape. And what’s more, he knew what attracted him to this bizarre itinerant sorcerer. He could see at a glance that the man was unspeakably evil.

  And that filled him with the indispensable glow of reassurance.

  ‘You are an experienced sorcerer?’

  ‘I refined my art in the Sicilian temple of the great Aleister Crowley,’ replied the Master with an imperceptible smile – omitting to mention that he had in fact taught Crowley all he knew. And that he personally had initiated many of Crowley’s more delectable female followers into the ranks of the undead.

  ‘You have the gift of sight?’

  ‘I have the power to see the future and the past, and to see across great distances and into the minds of your friends and enemies.’

  ‘Then I command you to look into my mind and tell me what you see there.’

  The Master laid his hands upon the Führer’s forehead and thought deeply for a moment.

  ‘I would rather not speak before these other people, lest I cause you embarrassment, mein Führer.’

  Intrigued, Hitler dismissed his henchmen to the corridor outside his study, and when the door had been closed and bolted behind them, he turned his attentions once again to the Master, waiting patiently with hands folded and eyes downcast.

  ‘Now tell me: what thoughts did you read in my mind?’

  ‘I read this: that you crave power and wish me to give you the information that will win this war for you . . .’

  ‘Any fool could tell me that. And the rest . . .?’

  ‘I read also that you have a great and growing sexual desire: that you are thinking of Eva Braun and her taut buttocks, which you find so so delightful to spill your seed upon . . .’

  The Führer’s face was crimson with fury:

  ‘How dare you! How dare you imply such things. I could have you led outside and shot!’

  ‘For telling the truth, mein Führer? So you do not wish for a true seer, but only one who tells you what you wish to hear?’

  ‘Continue,’ replied the Führer, icily.

  ‘And I read this: that you also desire my body. That you would very much like me
to remove my clothes, suck your penis until you achieve erection, then bend over your desk and invite you to commit an act of sodomy with me.’

  Silence.

  ‘I am right, am I not?’ And the Master threw off his cloak and began to unbutton his trousers. His penis was long, stiff and inviting, and the Führer felt a sudden surge of desire. This strange, dark man had been right: he did desire him, did want to feel those sensual lips closing around his jaded member, weary of Eva’s willing but inexpert touch.

  Still in silence, he allowed the Master to unfasten his uniform belt, then his jacket and trousers, growing impatient and hastening the process by wrenching off his tie and throwing it on to the floor.

  Now naked, the Reichsführer shuddered with exquisite pleasure as the Master knelt before him and applied the gentlest degree of pressure to his balls, making them tense and heavy in his hand. Instantly, with an unprecedented eagerness, the Führer’s prick leapt to attention, ready for anything. Seeing this, the Master bowed his head, opened the warm, moist cavern of his mouth and took in the willing member.

  He did not suck at the Führer’s prick for very long, for his expert touch divined the closeness of his orgasm. He took him to the edge, to the very brink, feeling the Führer’s hands stroking his head and the back of his neck almost tenderly, as though in gratitude for this great gift of pleasure.

  The Master now pulled away from the straining prick, and stood up. The Führer looked at him aghast, uncomprehending, until the Master turned his back and bent forward over the broad mahogany desk, pulling apart his buttocks so as to make it plain what he intended.

  Well-greased with saliva, the Führer’s prick slipped easily into the Master’s arse, and he rammed it home with a jubilant cry.

  ‘Quiet, mein Führer – you don’t want them to overhear,’ hissed the Master, reminding Hitler that guards stood only a few yards away from them, waiting in the corridor on the other side of the study door.

  But to keep silence was sheer agony, when all he longed to do was shout and scream and sink his teeth into the Master’s smooth, tanned back; when all he dreamed of was to come in a great crescendo of screaming and spunk.