Kiss of Death (Modern Erotic Classics)

by Valentina Cilescu

  He was not long in coming: nine or ten thrusts, and he felt his balls tense for that delicious moment of expectation before they sent the semen rushing up his over-excited shaft. And, with a muffled cry of ecstasy, he came into the tight, welcoming arse of this uncommon man who had read his desires and would soon be reading his victories in the stars.

  The trouble with being Hitler’s black magician, recalled the Master, was that he would not listen to the predictions he was given, true though they undoubtedly were. He would listen only to what he wanted to hear, which was rarely what he was told. Consequently, the other genuine psychics recruited by Goebbels eventually gave in and joined the charlatans in providing him with the sort of crap he was paying them to produce.

  He began to lose more and more battles, more and more support. The Master realised that he had hitched his wagon to a falling star. This small, inadequate, angry man was in no way worthy to join the ranks of the undead, or to assist him in his own quest for world domination. He made his decision: when the time came, he would allow Adolf Hitler to sink without trace.

  The one link which bound him still to Berchtesgaden was the woman they called Hedwige Lutjens – though she was known to the faithful as the Mother of the World. She worked as an astrologer and witch for Hitler, drawing up predictive charts and casting spells to punish, restore or bind. She was particularly in demand for her aphrodisiacs, which had restored potency to the flagging Führer on more than one occasion.

  Hedwige had a talent which made her indispensable to the Master: her ability to roam the astral plane in search of lost spirits. She also knew the secret of raising those spirits and conversing with them. Could this, at last, be the one who would help him to locate his lost Queen, the companion of his future triumph?

  It was not long before she became the Master’s confidante, then his lover – though she refused to let him initiate her into the realm of the undead, for fear that this would cause her to lose some of her special powers.

  One day, Hedwige came to the Master with great news:

  ‘I believe I have spoken to her on the astral plane.’

  ‘And where is she, where is my Queen Sedet?’

  ‘She could not tell me. She is blinded and bound by sorcery, and can reveal nothing except that the place where she is imprisoned is dark and cold, and she is afraid.’

  The Master clenched his teeth and punched the wall in frustration:

  ‘Can we do nothing to find her?’

  ‘There may be a way, I am not sure. A spirit-raising ceremony. It may be that I can break through the barrier of sorcery by my own magical means. But I will need your co-operation and assistance. Meet me tonight in the caverns beneath Berchtesgaden, and I swear I shall do all that is in my power.’

  Hedwige held her magical ceremonies in the deserted salt-mines which formed a network of eerie caverns beneath Berchtesgaden. By order of the Führer, only she, her close confidants and the Führer himself were permitted to enter this magical place.

  The Master followed Hedwige down hot, narrow corridors of crumbling brownish stone, sparkling dully with rock-salt – a magical place indeed, the purifying properties of the salt offering protection to the magician from the spirits he might raise in perilous ceremonies. The flaming torches they bore cast grotesque shadows on the walls: the shadows of elementals and horned devils. This was a place in which the Master felt thoroughly at home.

  They reached a massive natural cavern with a lofty ceiling and a floor of beaten earth. It contained four concave mirrors and an altar with a white marble top, encircled by a chain of magnetised iron. The sign of the pentagram was engraved and gilded on the white marble surface, and embroidered on a new white lambskin stretched beneath the altar. In the middle of the marble altar stood two chafing-dishes, in which burned alder, laurel, cedar and sandal woods.

  ‘Undress. You must be sky-clad,’ whispered Hedwige; and she stepped out of the long white shift she had flung over her soft, naked flesh. Taking up a ceremonial sword, she placed its tip upon the Master’s excited penis. ‘Feel the power enter you,’ she said: and it was true – he could feel an energy rushing through him, making him desperate to fuck her. He reached out and touched her breasts, stroking, questing.

  ‘No, you must not have me. You must save your powers,’ decreed Hedwige. And she picked up an earthenware pot of salt and handed it to the Master. ‘You must describe the pentacle. None other may do it, or it will not have the power to protect you.’

  Carefully measuring as he went, the Master sprinkled salt in the form of a pentacle, roughly nine feet across.

  Hedwige clapped her hands, and a figure glided towards them out of the shadows.

  ‘Come,’ commanded Hedwige. ‘And offer yourself to the Master, for his delight.’

  The Master gasped as – momentarily – he looked into the face of the girl and believed that she was his Queen, come to him again from beyond the curtain of night which had been thrown up around her. But his heart sank once again as he realised that she bore merely a passing likeness – the same dark hair, almond eyes, full lips. She was naked, and her snow-white body seemed as pure and as vulnerable as a child’s.

  She approached the Master, knelt at his feet and kissed the tip of his penis, reverently and with great ceremonial. Then she waited for further commands.

  Hedwige took up a silver goblet, filled to the brim with a crimson liquid, and handed it to the Master. His nostrils filled with the intoxicating scent, the scent of death and life and energy and eternal youth. It was warm, salty, coppery-smelling. It was fresh blood.

  ‘Draw the sign of the pentagram and the sign of Sedet, priestess of Isis, upon the body of the girl,’ instructed Hedwige. And, revelling in the wonderful richness of the warm liquid, the Master resisted the urge to drink it down and instead dipped in his finger, and used it to inscribe the magical symbols upon the girl’s pure white flesh. The blood trickled down her flesh irresistibly, so irresistibly that he desperately wanted to stick out his tongue and lap it all up.

  ‘What now?’ he demanded.

  ‘Now you must fuck her. You must place your essence inside her body, if she is to be the vessel through which we make contact with your queen. But remember: you must stay within the pentacle at all times, or I cannot answer for your safety. We are dealing with some of the most dangerous forces in the universe – the forces which gave you immortality, and which can – just as easily – deal out death and destruction.’

  Hedwige laid the girl down inside the pentacle, and opened her thighs. The Master knelt between them and tried to insert his penis into her vagina. He was surprised to meet resistance, and looked up at Hedwige questioningly:

  ‘A virgin?’

  ‘Only a virgin will suffice, Master. And this girl has saved herself solely to be of service to your cause. She will be your devoted slave.’

  With a second, harder thrust, he succeeded in penetrating her, and almost came on the spot as she screamed her pain and he looked down and saw rivulets of scarlet virgin blood coursing down her martyred thighs. But he held back and tried to pace himself, so that he could enjoy her to the full. She felt wonderful, as tight round his prick as a clenched hand, yet velvety and smooth.

  All too soon, he shot his load into her and was gratified by the look of surprise on the girl’s face as she experienced her first orgasm with a man’s cock inside her. He longed to bite her lily-white throat, but knew he must not, for fear of ruining the magic ritual.

  ‘Lift her up and place her upon the altar,’ decreed Hedwige. And together, they carried the girl across and laid her upon the gilded white marble top, legs wide apart to reveal the violated treasures within. Droplets of mingled blood and semen trickled out of her crack, falling like a slow, red rain to sully the white lambskin beneath.

  Hedwige extinguished all but one of the candles, and began the incantation. With each word, the darkness seemed to grow vaster, more impenetrable. Straining his eyes in the gloom, the Master realised that he c
ould make out a vague shape, a denser black in the darkness, hovering over the prostrate body of the violated girl. He watched in breathless excitement, as it grew closer and seemed to disappear into the body of the girl, who began to writhe about and moan as if in pain, or struggling with some unseen enemy.

  As they watched, a shape began to emerge from the girl’s body. Only this time it was not a formless darkness. It was the misty shape of a young woman, white-faced and hollow-eyed. She was wrapped in a long white cloth, like a shroud. Her mouth was open in a soundless scream, and she seemed to be holding out her arms and imploring them to help her. There were two tiny red puncture marks on her neck . . .

  ‘Sedet!’ cried out the Master, stretching out his hands towards her.

  ‘Keep within the pentacle!’ Hedwige admonished him. ‘She cannot see you; she is blinded by sorcery. But question her as you will.’

  ‘Sedet, tell me where you are, where I may find you!’

  But the girl shook her head, sadly.

  ‘Tell me, I command you!’

  Sedet opened her mouth and began to speak. Her voice was faraway, faint, full of pain:

  ‘I am cold, I am afraid, it is dark, I am lost . . . O Master, you have abandoned me and I am powerless . . .’

  ‘No! You must tell me where you are being imprisoned!’ he cried, and stepped out of the pentacle.

  ‘Stop!’ screamed Hedwige. But it was too late. With a terrible scream of pain, the apparition disappeared back into the body of the girl, who also began to scream, scream, scream. Her body was racked with convulsions, and she clawed the air with wildly-thrashing arms.

  And then fell silent and very still.

  ‘Dead,’ sighed Hedwige, lifting up the girl’s arm and letting it fall back on to her chest. ‘You have destroyed the spell. We shall have to wait until the next new moon before we dare try again.’

  Five days before the next new moon, Hedwige Lutjens was executed: suspected of being implicated in the von Stauffenberg bomb plot.

  And so the Master’s only link to his lost queen was gone, destroyed, useless. And without her, how was he ever going to ascend in triumph to his throne?

  By the spring of 1945, the Master was on the point of leaving the Reichsführer to stew in his own juice. The Führer was growing cool towards him – stopping his ears to the truth, and making crazy decisions which inevitably ended in ignominious failure . . . which he then blamed on the Master.

  Time to move on.

  Of course, there were temptations to remain. Such as the orgies organised by the arch-libertine Goering, and the succulent girls who attended them, and offered themselves to him as though they had been sweetmeats on a silver platter.

  On just such a night as that fateful evening in April when he had foolishly remained in Berlin instead of taking the opportunity to assume a new identity, forge a new path – perhaps surfacing next time as Eisenhower’s trusted advisor, or Stalin’s right-hand man. Instead, he had fallen victim to his own lusts, tempted to Hitler’s bunker by the promise of delicate young flesh to taste and corrupt. And the prospect of looted art treasures, brought there to protect them and ripe for the picking.

  And after all, why worry? Was he not immortal, invincible? Was he, the Master, not the very same man who, as the great Rasputin, had defied death and dismemberment and lived to fight again?

  There were only four people present at that last evening of delight: the Master, a magnificent bodyguard known universally as The Ram, a high-ranking SS Officer called von Riesen . . . and the girl.

  She was a morsel fit for any emperor’s table; a banquet of rosy pink flesh and golden hair: the perfect Aryan mädchen who had come to the bunker from her Bavarian village to offer herself to her beloved Führer. But alas, the Reichsführer had taken a vow of celibacy until the war was won, and so the poor child looked to be going to waste . . .

  Waste not, want not. She could serve the Fatherland just as ably by fucking the Führer’s henchmen as by fucking the Führer himself. She was pretty but stupid. She soon saw things their way.

  They took her into a storeroom, where they knew they would not be disturbed. The walls were not only strong, but thick: and, above the sound of the approaching Russian guns, who would hear the screams of a tender young girl?

  The girl had clearly suffered: her clothes were threadbare and ragged, and she obviously hadn’t eaten for several days, as she had wolfed down the coarse black bread they had given her. But her eyes were as bright as a bird’s, and her mouth as rosy and full of juice as a ripe plum, ready to be bitten and enjoyed.

  The drugged wine they had given her took rapid effect, and her early reserve soon melted away. She was laughing and joking with them. They put a record on the gramophone, and she danced with each of them in turn, responding with giggles and sensual movements of her hips as they ground their hardening penises against her belly.

  When the Master’s turn came with the girl, he began to undo the buttons of her blouse. At first, she raised a feeble hand to prevent him, but he looked deep into her eyes and she let her hand fall back to rest on his shoulder. Slowly, he peeled the blouse from her shoulders and dropped it on the floor. Her breasts were pert and rosy-tipped under her silk slip. Licking his lips, he ripped the bodice down and bent to nibble savagely at her flesh, tormenting her nipples with such forcity that they began to bleed.

  But she was enjoying the pain, dulled as it was by the spiked drink. She even began to unfasten her own skirt; but her fingers were clumsy, and he finished the job for her, tearing it downwards and leaving her naked, save for French knickers, suspender belt and stockings. The knickers yielded to the sharp point of his pocket-knife, and she stood shivering and giggling before them, nipples puckered with excitement and little brown pubic bush glistening with the first drops of her cunny-juices.

  Von Riesen grabbed the girl by the wrist and wrenched her away from the Master, pulling her to her knees and forcing her arms behind her back. He manacled them together, and, unbuttoning his uniform trousers, he thrust his stiff cock into her mouth, almost choking her.

  Whilst she was on her knees, helpless and sucking frantically at von Riesen’s cock, the Ram began to pay great attention to her backside, thrusting his fingers deep inside and enjoying her moans of growing discomfort as he enlarged the narrow pathway with first one finger, then two, then his whole hand, up to the wrist.

  Von Riesen came into the girl’s mouth and pulled away, leaving her gasping for breath and with trails of semen running out of the corners of her pretty mouth. The Master, meanwhile, had taken up the whip he so loved to use and motioned to the Ram to move back so that he could take proper aim.

  Oh, how she flinched and cried out under the lash, her pink and white skin reddening into stripes and weals as it cut into her tender back and backside. But von Riesen held on tight to her shoulders, toying with her breasts to amuse himself as the little charade played on.

  When she had taken all that she could, von Riesen let her fall forwards and she lay face-down on the dirty floor, broken and humiliated, yet wriggling her hips in a lascivious manner that excited her torturers beyond belief. They flipped her on to her side, and the Master and the Ram lay down with her – one in front of her and one behind, so that they could both enjoy her simultaneously.

  It was plain the girl was no virgin; but surely she had never had two big cocks in her at the same time – one filling her cunt and the other stretching her already-tortured arse to the very limits of endurance. And von Riesen, already excited again by this unusual and diverting spectacle, knelt down, raised up the girl’s head in his hands, and forced her to suck him off yet again.

  They were lost in their game. They paid no heed to the sound of artillery fire, which was still far away and surely no threat – the Russians would not be here for another day at least. Plenty of time to enjoy the girl . . .

  They were so lost in their game that they did not notice the three shadowy figures that slipped unseen along the corridors of t
he Bunker; nor did they notice them standing silhouetted in the doorway of the storeroom, until a voice called out:

  ‘Master! It is all over. We have come for you.’

  With a roar of rage, the Master pulled out of the girl and leapt to his feet, turning his gaze upon the three sinister figures confronting him. Nothing to fear, surely, from three mortal men in raincoats. He looked deep into the first man’s eyes and tried to burn out his brain with the sheer power of his thought. And, to his amazement, the thoughts simply rebounded upon himself.

  A shield. A magical shield. These were no ordinary men. They were sorcerers . . . and sorcerers with powers he had never encountered since those days back in ancient Egypt.

  Too late, the Master thought to flee; but the three sorcerers raised their hands and instantly he was paralysed, helpless, incapable of movement. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw von Riesen and the Ram, lying stone dead at his feet, their hearts stopped dead in their tracks. And the girl, also dead, still locked together with her tormentors.

  The tallest man came forward and smiled at the Master. It was a cold smile of triumph:

  ‘At last we have you. Such a shame to do this to you . . . your powers could have been such an asset to the Allied war effort . . . but even with the occult knowledge we have gathered through our experiments and through spying on you, your powers are too great for us to control, and you, my fine fellow, are much too evil ever to be trusted. Therefore we have sought for many years to destroy you . . .’

  And that was the last he remembered before a cold hand touched his eyes and closed them in unconsciousness.

  When he came to his senses again, it was with a searing pain that tore through him and then . . . nothing. He realised instantly what they had done. Unable to kill him or destroy his body, these amateur magicians had disabled him in the only way that their feeble sorcery could muster.

  They had taken the block of crystal which had given him immortality, and – speaking the ancient incantation – had imprisoned him magically within it. They had taken away from him the power of sight, sound, smell, taste, movement. They had delivered him up from triumphant death-in-life to a living death.