Kiss of Death (Modern Erotic Classics)

by Valentina Cilescu

  Such sexual energy, such amazing power contained within these two dozen lustful bodies . . . The Master exulted within his prison and, using the strength of their own life-energies, cast forth his soul into their midst, clouding their minds with his dark desires. Their eyes became fixed, their faces distorted into grotesque parodies of their normal expressions, lewd masks that expressed only the principal desire within their minds at that moment: the desire and the soul-deep need to fuck.

  Guided by the Master, untutored hands began to describe exquisite magical symbols on breasts and buttocks and bellies and balls: the pentacle and the horned ram; the goat; suns and moons and strange constellations beyond the edges of their imaginings. They began to laugh, no longer the innocent giggling of naughty children but the raw, demonic laughter of the lost, the eternally damned.

  And Delgado threw back his head and laughed with them, the voice of the Master issuing forth from the depths of him like a wind sweeping through the wastes of Hell: cold, chill, exulting in the anticipation of powers soon to be enjoyed.

  Delgado raised his arms above his shoulders, the staff and flail of mystic Isis held aloft and their gilded surfaces gleaming ghostly in the yellowish light. And those who heard the words of the Master could not but obey:

  ‘Fuck, fuck my children!’ he cried. ‘Your Master bids you fuck, that in your bodies you may concentrate all the energies of the earth, the sea and sky, of air and of water, of celestial ether and sulphurous hellfire. “Do what thou wilt” shall be the whole of the law. Therefore fuck, my children: consecrate yourselves to the Master, and in fucking know that you are the chosen ones, who need never again fear death or decay . . .’

  With animal cries of lust, the revellers fell savagely upon each other’s hideously painted bodies and the orgy began.

  Through Delgado’s obedient eyes, the Master surveyed the scene and was well satisfied.

  Gavin de Lacy was at the mercy of not one, but two, handsome young bodies – one female, the other male. The girl was straddling his face and pressing her cunt-lips up against his mouth, forcing him to drink in her copious juices, mingled with the nauseating paint he had daubed liberally upon her pink lotus-blossom. Meanwhile, the slender young man had pulled apart de Lacy’s thighs and was kneeling between them, eagerly sucking his prick whilst tormenting his arsehole with a wand made of springy hazelwood, in preparation for the assault which his own stiff rod was already craving.

  Harry Blomfeld was in paradise. After a lifetime of imposing his own bizarre tastes upon unwilling sexual partners, the tables were at last turning and he was getting a taste of his own medicine. And, to his immense surprise, he was loving every minute of it. Three strapping girls were whipping him with bundles of birch twigs, whilst a fourth was astride him, furiously riding him bareback and squeezing his balls so hard that the intense pain almost made him come straight away.

  Cheviot had thrown Viviane forwards over the back of a chair, and she was supporting herself there on her arms whilst he – ever the moral hard-liner – rammed into her slippery cunt with his ferociously erect penis. And all the while a naked girl with pierced nipples bearing small gold rings was kneeling before Viviane, teasing her breasts with needle-sharp teeth, whilst a buxom Valkyrie flagellated Cheviot’s eager back with a cat-o’-nine-tails.

  ‘Katya, do it to me Katya . . .!’ moaned Viviane, thrusting backwards to take in more of Cheviot’s erection, and wishing Katya had a mouth big enough to accommodate not just her nipples, but a whole breast at a time.

  Meanwhile, the two princes were forcing their near-bursting shafts together into the accommodating mouth of a smooth-skinned negress with pendulous breasts and heavy hips. She was sucking at them greedily, enjoying the sensation of having two pricks together in her mouth, and teasing their balls with skilful fingertips, running them lightly over the princes’ pubic hair, sending delightful shivers through their groins. The princes, too, did not seem indifferent to her ministrations, or to the subtle sensations of two stiff pricks rubbing their sensitive heads against each other within her hot, moist cavern.

  Salome and her twin were fucking lustfully on the cold stone floor, a massive double-ended dildo between them, playing the part of the man they had no need for. A pretty youth was savagely buggering a TV weatherman, who was being sucked off by an even more toothsome female talk-show host. Two actresses were demonstrating their versatility as they coupled with the aid of two massively endowed members of the Bolshoi Ballet, who impaled the women on their pricks and then hoisted them up off the ground. The girls then hooked their legs tightly around the men’s waists and enjoyed a frenzied pas-de-deux which could never have seen its premiere at Sadlers Wells.

  The Master looked around the room and was content. The energy was rushing into his soul, strengthening it for its final ordeal. Tonight he would be free. Tonight he must be free.

  Delgado opened his flies and pulled out his own stiff prick, offering it to two lust-crazed girls who fought viciously for the right to suck him off. The blonde won the day and fixed her hungry mouth around his shaft. It felt utterly amazing, every movement of her lips and tongue giving him as powerful a sensation as ten orgasms; and he grabbed hold of the girl’s hair and forced her to take him deeper, deeper into her throat.

  Delgado spoke once again for the Master:

  ‘Let the white witch enter the temple.’

  Ibrahim appeared at the top of the steps leading to the secret room, naked and magnificently erect. He was leading a small, naked, trembling figure by the hand. A woman, slender but with softly-curving buttocks and swelling breasts. Her dark hair fell in glossy waves to her waist, and her large violet eyes shone with an unnatural brightness as she gazed blankly in front of her, apparently seeing nothing of the Dionysian revels in the cellar below. The ring sparkled on her left hand, and in her right she clutched the crystal-bladed dagger, her knuckles white with concentration or fear.

  She was led down the steps and followed Ibrahim as obediently as a ewe-lamb follows her shepherd to the slaughter. The crystal pendant swung gently to and fro between her breasts as she walked, casting flashes of multi-coloured light across the gloom.

  She paid no heed to the revellers as she passed through them, stepping over intertwined bodies, avoiding the sticky hands as they clutched greedily at her tanned limbs, seeming not to hear the moans of pain and pleasure and desire that rippled through the heaving mass of flesh, a grotesque tableau of sexual depravity and perversion whose participants had passed beyond the reach of human emotion and now lived solely in the world of sensations.

  ‘Approach the altar,’ the Master’s voice commanded her; and as Ibrahim led her towards the sarcophagus, Delgado pulled his prick out of the blonde girl’s mouth, crossed to the coffin and took away the black velvet covering, once more revealing the ghastly sight beneath: the sightless eyes gazing upwards from the helpless body which still chained the Master’s unwilling spirit.

  ‘Lay your left hand upon the crystal, above my penis,’ instructed the Master. ‘And with your right hand, touch the crystal above my heart with the point of the dagger.’

  The voice cut into Mara’s brain, slicing through her willpower and imposing its own will upon her reluctant mind. She knew that the Master was using her superior psychic powers to control her: the very abilities which had given her strength were now being manipulated for the Master’s evil purposes, as easily as a child manipulates a handful of modelling clay.

  She reached out with her own mind, tried desperately to resist him with all the strength of her spirit; but it was like trying to batter down a steel wall with bare fists, and she slumped forward on to the crystal, exhausted and once more subjugated to the Master’s will.

  ‘Now fuck her,’ hissed the voice in Delgado’s head; and, obedient to the last, he pulled apart Mara’s buttocks and slid into her, slipping a hand beneath her so that he could manipulate her clitoris. In spite of herself, Mara began to pant with desire, the pleasure beginning as a small area
of warmth but spreading like a forest fire through her body, taking her over, making her the Master’s willing tool.

  Her left hand moved to touch the area of the crystal above the Master’s penis, and she placed the point of the dagger above the Master’s forehead. Immediately, she felt as though she had been plugged into a massive network of power, a ring-main of sexual electricity. And she realised the part that she was playing, the part played by the revellers, who were still fucking and groaning about her feet on the bare stone floor.

  She was the missing link. The last link in the chain that would bring the Master back into his kingdom. Nothing could stop him now.

  ‘The incantation. Speak the incantation,’ commanded the Master’s voice through Delgado, still pumping away at Mara’s cunt, and rubbing her clitoris with increasing intensity.

  ‘Asta, asta, Astaroth . . .,’ she began, half-sobbing, half-sighing with pleasure, with the absence of will, with the desire only to be the vessel for this so-evil, so-irresistible force. ‘Besra, besra, Behemoth . . .’

  As the last words of the incantation were spoken, Mara felt a sudden presence behind her, and looked up to see a figure standing silhouetted at the top of the cellar steps. A figure which, somewhere deep inside her memory, she recognised. But the pain and pleasure of recognition were swamped by the sudden orgasm which raged through her and threw her forward on to the smooth face of the crystal.

  ‘Mara!’ The voice was heavy with anguish.

  Andreas Hunt.

  Hunt hesitated for a moment at the top of the steps, aghast at what he saw beneath him. The writhing, naked bodies of men and women, covered with sticky redness, fucking and buggering and sucking pricks and beating each other and racing towards orgasm. But he had no time to stand and look. No time to lose.

  Hunt rushed down the steps and towards Mara. Got to save her, take her away from this hellhole.

  The writhing bodies made no attempt to prevent him from passing through. Delgado pulled out from Mara’s cunt and stood aside, not apparently surprised by the sudden intrusion. Hunt reached the girl without hindrance, touched her naked shoulder, put his arm around her and raised her head so that she could see his face.

  ‘Mara . . . come with me, quickly . . .’

  She gazed at him questioningly, not quite recognising, not quite understanding . . . And then she drew away from him, taking his hands from her head and pulling herself slowly to her feet. She looked from him to her hands, and began to stroke the crystal blade of the dagger.

  Then she raised the dagger and pressed its point to her chest, at that point between her ribs, just above her heart . . .

  Hunt remembered the vision he had had of Mara, surrounded by naked fornicating couples, a crystal dagger sticking out of her chest. And with a cry of anguish he raised his hand to stop her.

  ‘Do it,’ hissed the Master’s voice inside Mara’s head. ‘Do it now.’

  And, before Hunt could stop her, Mara seized the silver hilt of the dagger in both hands and, quick as a flash, reversed it, plunging the crystal blade deep into Andreas Hunt’s chest.

  As the blade sank into his heart and the strength ebbed away from him, Andreas looked up at Mara and saw a tear winding a slow, glistening trail down her cheek.

  ‘Mara . . .’ he gasped, but already the darkness was closing over him. Strange, he hadn’t expected death to be like this at all. He had expected it to be peaceful, like going to sleep. But this felt as though some dark presence was pushing his soul out of his body, forcing itself into him, annihilating his identity . . .

  The world grew suddenly very dark.

  And, as he sank silently to the ground, the writhing figures around him became more savage still, lunging for each other’s throats, thirsty for the blood, the blood, the scarlet life-force spurting from a bitten throat . . .

  And in a little while, all was still.

  Mara gazed down at Hunt’s unmoving body, the dagger still protruding from his chest, and as the Master’s presence withdrew from her mind, she realised with horror what she had done.

  She looked down at her hands. They were covered in blood. The blood of her lover, Andreas Hunt. He was dead and she had killed him. Delgado lay slumped nearby, eyes closed, hand clutched to his unfeeling heart. And all about her lay unmoving, bloody corpses, still locked in passion’s final embrace, the death-rictus on their faces.

  With a cry of agony and despair, Mara turned and ran from the cellar. No-one tried to stop her, and she did not stop running until she was far away from Winterbourne Hall.

  The Master got slowly and rather unsteadily to his feet, easing the dagger out from between his ribs and casting it to one side. He would not be needing it any more.

  He liked this new body. It was perfect: young, strong, handsome, virile. Already he could feel the blood pumping into his new prick, stiffening it, making it ready for its first sweet taste of cunt. Andreas Hunt’s misfortune was his gain.

  He turned to Delgado, touching him upon the forehead. At once, his eyes opened and he scrambled to his knees before the one true Master. And all around, bodies were stirring, the dead quickening, rising silently to their feet as though their souls had never slept; gazing at the Master in mute adoration.

  The Master turned his new face towards Delgado, and gave the order:

  ‘Seal the sarcophagus. And then have the cellar bricked up. Securely.’

  Then he turned to his new followers, smiled, and beckoned to them to follow:

  ‘Come, my children. There is much work for us to do.’

  21: Epilogue

  No glimmer of light penetrated the deep cellars of Winterbourne Hall. The sarcophagus lay dark and massive in the airless gloom. It looked for all the world as though it had lain untouched for centuries.

  But within the sarcophagus, trapped within the Master’s deserted body which still lay at the heart of the great crystal, something stirred.

  Locked in its crystal prison, the lost soul of Andreas Hunt screamed for release. But no-one heard. There was no-one to hear.

  The sarcophagus lay silent and unmoving. And the dust began to settle slowly on the polished lid.