The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

by Cheryl Mildenhall

  Swiftly, before Hillary could change her mind, Ilona commanded the girl to sit beside her on the sofa. Her only instruction was: ‘Do whatever comes naturally to you.’

  For a few minutes the girl sat staring mutely at Hillary’s half-naked body, her clear blue eyes taking in every part of her, then she reached out a hand. At first Hillary resisted the girl’s touch but, hating to give Ilona the pleasure of witnessing her discomfort, she gradually allowed the young woman to caress her legs and breasts. Her touch was so light, so similar to Odile’s, that if she half closed her eyes she could imagine it was her friend there beside her and that they were on their own, locked away in private from the rest of the world, heedless of the violent storm that raged elsewhere.

  For a long time all was quiet apart from the intermittent click of the camera. Despite her initial embarrassment, Hillary felt herself rapidly becoming aroused, easing her legs apart slightly in a reflex response to the girl’s caresses. At once, Serge was at the foot of the chaise longue, clicking away at close range. She felt herself blush and moved to close her legs again but the girl stopped her with a gentle hand and a single, quietly whispered word. ‘No.’

  Leaning over the back of the chaise, Ilona reached down to unfasten Hillary’s belt; the only device that now held the two sides of the wrap-over dress together. As she removed it so the dress fell away from Hillary’s body, instantly revealing her total nakedness.

  Conceding defeat in this respect, Hillary eased the dress from under her, handing it to Ilona who draped it carefully over the back of a chair before turning around to consider the younger woman’s position.

  ‘I think it would be attractive if you were to roll over onto your stomach; Darius is most appreciative of a well-shaped bottom.’ Serge spoke carelessly, revealing that it was not the first time he had photographed someone for Darius’s pleasure.

  Ignoring a further urge to call a halt to the proceedings, Hillary complied with his request, enjoying the sensation of the opulent velvet against her naked breasts and stomach. Despite her misgivings, she writhed sensuously on the chaise, almost past caring that Serge was at once behind her taking shot after candid shot. Feeling suddenly wanton she rose to her knees, arching her back so that her body was displayed to its best advantage.

  As soon as she changed position, the girl had moved away allowing Serge unrestricted access to photograph Hillary from all angles. But at his request she returned with a vengeance, stroking her hands along the length of Hillary’s spine, over the curve of her hips and buttocks and down the backs of her thighs. Moving upwards, she repeated her actions in reverse, deliberately allowing the tips of her fingers to stroke Hillary’s exposed sex.

  Instantly, Hillary’s body responded, the tingling of excitement rapidly becoming an insistent throb. The moisture of her own desire glistened around the entrance to her vagina, forming tiny pearl-shaped droplets which quivered tantalisingly like dewdrops on the curly hair covering her swollen labia.

  For several minutes the girl did nothing more than tantalise her until, heedless of the camera or the others in the room, Hillary moaned and writhed against the girl’s touch. Desperately she used her own body to encourage the girl to explore further, to delve her magic fingers deeper into the churning cauldron of her anxious sex.

  There was nothing she wouldn’t do now. Her arousal was so intense that Serge could have jammed the telephoto lens of the camera up inside her for all she cared. Carnality taking over where sensitivity lay discarded, she rolled over onto her back, pulling the girl with her until they lay full length together on the narrow seat, their hands and mouths fully occupied with a fervent need to satisfy their own lust.

  Hastily discarding roll after roll of film to reload his camera as fast as possible, Serge paid little heed to technical correctness. An artist at heart, he immediately realised he had embarked on the most challenging session of his whole career. The final outcome would be a triumph of erotica, the most passionately charged work he had ever produced.

  In a brief second of respite he glanced at Ilona, expecting to receive a grateful smile in return but her expression shocked him to the core. Filled with anger and hatred, she stared at the writhing forms in front of her. She had not intended events to turn out this way. Hillary should have responded to the whole encounter with shocked horror before submitting to the indignity with mute acceptance, not throw herself into it with wild abandon. She had underestimated her rival completely.

  Unable to bear witness to the scene any longer Ilona left the room, leaving a confused Serge to continue with his celluloid capture of the unbridled pair as they approached the climax of their passion.

  When Hillary and the girl, whom she discovered was called Polly, finally returned to the party, they were surprised to find the room deserted apart from a dejected-looking pianist.

  ‘Where do you suppose everyone has got to?’ Hillary asked, looking around in confusion.

  ‘I dunno.’ Polly walked over to a table which had been set up as a bar; she held up a bottle of gin. ‘Want one?’

  Hillary nodded, crossing the room to select a bottle of tonic water to go with it.

  Polly sipped her drink nonchalantly. ‘I expect they’re still recovering from the entertainment.’ She laughed ruefully and grinned. ‘Was that your first time with another girl?’

  ‘No.’ Hillary shook her head and grinned back. ‘The second actually.’ She stared at her drink for a few seconds while the rest of what Polly had said sank in. ‘What entertainment?’

  The words had hardly left her lips when she realised that she didn’t need to hear the girl’s reply – the answer was so obvious she wondered why she hadn’t become aware of it earlier. Not only that, but she was also surprised to find that she felt strangely aroused by the knowledge that Darius and his friends had been watching her and Polly together, although she was intensely angry with Ilona for setting it up.

  Gradually the other guests drifted back into the room. The pianist struck up a lively repertoire of tunes and the whole atmosphere became more festive than it had been all evening. It was as though the tension that had subtly pervaded the party all evening had dissipated. Glancing around, Hillary noticed that Darius hadn’t returned. No doubt he’s congratulating Ilona, she thought glumly to herself.

  At that moment Torran appeared in the doorway, the movement out of the corner of her eye making her glance towards him. Torran, in turn, looked around the room and as soon as he spotted Hillary smiled broadly and began to walk over to her. As he approached, she sensed the much greater buzz of Darius’s arrival and again looked across to the doorway in time to catch his eye. As secretive as Torran was open, his expression as he held her gaze was maddeningly inscrutable as usual.

  With a start she realised the younger man was asking her if she wanted to dance. ‘Oh, yes, thank you.’ She smiled and followed him to the centre of the room. After a few minutes she found the courage to ask the question that had been troubling her ever since his reappearance. ‘What did you think of the evening’s entertainment?’ She couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

  Torran looked at her blankly for a moment. ‘Entertainment?’ Then, obviously realising what she meant, he laughed. ‘I’m afraid Darius refuses to allow me to take part in his party games. I’m not even allowed to have a girl of my own for the evening.’

  Although a little surprised, Hillary laughed with relief at his response. ‘By the way you said that, I take it you simply borrow someone else’s?’

  ‘One or two.’ Torran grinned mischievously. ‘I quite like the look of that little brunette over there. I haven’t had her yet.’

  Fighting the urge to reply, ‘Oh really? I have,’ Hillary glanced at Polly who was dancing with a man who seemed fairly young in comparison with the rest of the guests. Just as the pianist approached the last few bars, Darius walked up to her and Torran and took her by the arm saying, ‘My turn, I think.’ His determined expression prevented either of them from challenging him.


  It was the first time Darius had touched her since their encounter at supper and Hillary felt herself becoming weak with desire all over again. It was a good thing that he was holding her so tightly, she realised, otherwise she might not have had the strength in her legs to support herself. Feeling his fingers burning through the thin material of her dress, Hillary allowed herself to imagine what it would be like to be fucked by him.

  It was strange that she could never think of sex with Darius in terms of sleeping with, or making love with, as she did with other men. Her desire for him was so basic, so earthy, that she could only think in terms of fucking when she thought of the two of them together.

  Wondering whether she had actually spoken aloud, or was still thinking, she said simply, ‘I want you to fuck me, Darius.’ Looking into his eyes, she saw the first glimmer of a smile there, albeit one of triumph.

  Without uttering another word he took her by the hand and led her from the room, guiding her down the same corridor where Ilona had taken her a couple of hours earlier, and then up several flights of stairs until they reached his own suite of rooms at the very top of the house. Without preamble he kicked the door shut behind them and pushed her against the wall, pressing himself up against her and kissing her hard on the lips until she thought her teeth would crack under the pressure.

  Then he released her, leaving her where she stood, breathless and trembling with fear and desire. She didn’t even have the self-possession to examine her bruised, swollen lips while he walked across the room to the window and drew the heavy drapes.

  For a few seconds they remained apart, cloaked in thick darkness, the only sound that of their breathing – his was deep and controlled, while hers was shallow and uneven. Presently the spell was broken by the click of a lamp that bathed the centre of the room in a subtle rosy glow, picking out the red hues of the flowers in the richly patterned carpet.

  Still without saying a word, Hillary stepped away from the wall, missing its support instantly. On shaking legs she crossed to a sofa and sat down heavily.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ Darius’s voice sounded strangely normal.

  ‘I would, yes.’ Hillary looked at her hands which were folded demurely in her lap. After all that had passed between them, she and Darius were still total strangers, she realised.

  He handed her a glass of clear liquid then stood before her, his stance so self-assured and with his crotch only inches from her face. With a dry mouth she felt an overwhelming urge to bury her face in it and inhale the musky scent of his masculinity. Instead she sipped her drink and grimaced slightly, it was practically neat vodka.

  Unmoving, he watched her expression. ‘Is it all right? Would you like some more tonic?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, it’s okay. I’m not really thirsty.’ She looked around her for a table on which to put the glass.

  Darius’s strong fingers reached out and touched her hair, then drifted down her cheek to cup her chin, raising her face so that she was looking into his eyes. ‘Come with me,’ he said.

  She rose obediently and he led her through another couple of rooms until they reached his bedroom. As she expected, Darius’s bed was huge with ornate carved wood at its head and foot and four equally ornate columns supporting an opulent canopy of raw red silk. The mattress was high, needing a couple of wooden steps to climb up to it and the coverlet and sheets were in the same red silk, only this time with a light pattern woven into them.

  The entire piece of furniture looked womb-like and she found it easy to imagine Darius’s pleasure at spending the night cocooned in the rich warmth of a woman’s body. She was just about to make a comment about the bed when they were interrupted by the sharp rap of impatient knuckles on wood. Darius excused himself and left the room, closing the door carefully behind him.

  Hillary strained to hear the muffled voices. The uninvited guest was Ilona, she decided, instantly recognising the force of tone rather than the voice itself. Giving up her efforts to make out their words, she passed the time by looking around the rest of the room and examining the many pictures on the walls, most of which turned out to be highly erotic scenes taken from a variety of cultures, both ethnic and western. She found one to be particularly abhorrent, although despite her revulsion she found herself drawn back to look at it several times.

  It was a simple sketch on plain brown paper roughly nine inches by five, of an old man – so thin his rib-cage and pelvic girdle protruded through tightly stretched skin, his head draped with long thinning locks. The other character was a young woman, very tiny like a child, although her well-rounded breasts and thick bush of pubic hair signified that she was some years past puberty. In complete contrast to his feeble appearance, the old man proudly bore a rigid, virile-looking penis of enviable proportions with which, by the way he held the young woman, he obviously intended to bugger her. The sketch was simply entitled ‘Playtime’.

  Drawn to it for the fourth time, Hillary searched in vain for the name of the artist. As far as she could tell there was no signature. She wondered if Darius had sketched the work himself and made up her mind to ask him on his return. However, when he did re-enter the room he was bearing a large brown envelope and all thoughts of the picture vanished from her head as he tipped the contents onto the bed with a smile of pure satisfaction.

  She stepped forwards and recognised the photographs instantly. They were the ones taken of herself earlier that evening. Even from a distance she could see that the majority of them were very good. Serge obviously knew what he was doing behind a camera. She picked one up and studied it – for the third time in twenty-four hours she failed to recognise herself, her back arched, her head thrown back in wild abandon, her most intimate parts displayed in full glory, surely the girl in the photograph could not be her.

  Darius took the print from her and looked at it with a serious expression. She felt her colour heighten as he peered closer then turned to look her up and down. ‘Did you ever think you would prove to be so photogenic?’ Using his fingertips he traced the curve of her buttocks on the glossy paper, his perspiration leaving a slight trail of moisture that looked for all the world like her own juices. He licked his lower lip and made a soft murmur of appreciation in the back of his throat.

  Hillary felt her real self becoming moist, her nipples tightening under the thin material of her dress. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and simply stared at the photographs on the bed, unable to meet his eye as he sifted through them. There were quite a few of her and Polly, of course, although to her eyes they looked less focussed, as though they had been taken too hastily. Nevertheless, Darius seemed no less appreciative, perhaps what they lacked in technical merit they made up for in content, Hillary thought to herself perceptively.

  From some distant hallway a grandfather clock sounded the half-hour, its loud gong echoing around the vast mansion and reminding Hillary where she was and how late it had become. ‘I should be going.’ She knew her tone was unconvincing.

  Darius gathered up the photographs and began collecting chairs and sofas and moving them to the bedside, then he arranged a chosen selection of the prints upon them, propping the pictures against the arms and backs of the furniture so that they were properly displayed.

  ‘Go, if you wish,’ he said simply. ‘Or stay and enjoy these with me.’ He waved his hand expansively then stepped forwards and clasped her upper arms tightly, his thumbs deliberately grazing the swollen buds of her nipples.

  As though she hadn’t already known before, she knew then she would be unable to resist him. Thoughts of the wonderful, golden Haldane and dark, mischievous Torran with whom Darius may or may not have had a paternal connection crowded her brain but she forced them out. Ever since their first meeting at the station, where he had penetrated her mind, she knew Darius was destined to penetrate her body also. Some aspects of destiny just could not be denied.

  14

  Hillary found it difficult to discern what it was that made
her feel particularly trapped. Was it Darius’s hands still tightly gripping her arms, his deep, penetrating gaze which held her spellbound, or her own turbulent desire for the man who held her captive?

  ‘Are you ready for me, Hillary?’

  She shook her head slightly, not really understanding his question. ‘I don’t know.’

  Pulling her firmly towards him, Darius pinned her lips with his own, prising her shocked jaw wide with the pressure of his own mouth and exploring her with his tongue. Relief combined with pleasure made her suddenly go limp; had his hands not been supporting her she would have dropped to the floor. Was it her imagination or had she honestly never been kissed like this before?

  She yearned to wrap her arms around him, to trace the contours of his strong body beneath the immaculate grey suit, then loosen his shirt from the waistband of his trousers and run her hands over his unclothed back. Still he held her firmly but not painfully so, his leg now forcing its way between hers causing her to stumble slightly from the precarious dais of her high narrow heels.

  Her legs gave way, parting automatically and thereby allowing Darius’s leg to slip between them, his thigh rubbing agonisingly against her uncovered sex. She could feel the firm muscle beneath the silken material that covered his limb, sense the tautly quivering dynamism of this singular part of his body. It seemed each individual part of him had the power to pleasure her and she wondered, with mounting excitement, how powerful he would be when the combined forces of his body were finally unleashed upon hers.

  Writhing against his thigh, she moaned softly and kissed him harder, testifying to her need for him. He released one of her arms then and brought his hand up between their tightly compressed bodies, feeling her breasts as they thrust urgently against the delicate material of her dress. She couldn’t get enough of his touch, couldn’t bear for him not to feel every part of her immediately.