Dark Desires - Love That's Out of This World (Xcite Bestselling Collections)

by K D Grace

  So, of course, Jack turns up out of nowhere.

  ‘Hey darlin’,’ he says, squashing me in his arms.

  ‘Wet nails,’ I shake my hands.

  He sits down, trying the puppy dog eyes. He thinks I’m a sucker for the puppy dog eyes but I’m only a sucker when I want to be.

  I put on a movie. A passion-killing movie. Rocky. Only a sicko wants to make out during Rocky. I curl up on the end of the couch with a buffer zone between us.

  As Rocky runs up flights of stairs, Jack encases my foot in his hand, stroking it softly. I know I should stop him but hello, who knocks back a free foot rub?

  I relax, letting him knead my foot-flesh, not purring like a kitten at all. He runs his fingers down the arch of my foot and I pull away. It’s a reflex because of the tickling but he grips my ankle tight.

  ‘Stop it,’ I tell him but with that giggly voice that means, “don’t really”. So he squirts lotion onto my foot. Then he rubs it between my toes and I sink down further into the cushions, feeling all whirly inside.

  His thumb slips into the slit between my big toe and the next toe, while his fingers tickle over the sole of my foot. He works his thumb around the crevice and it sends heavenly ripples through me.

  As his fingers spider down over my arches, I shudder and buck against the couch. Each tickle sparks a pussy twinge. He lifts my foot to his mouth and bites down on my toe, not hard but with just enough pressure.

  Jack is so fucking hot. I don’t think I told you that before but to illustrate how strong and self controlled and committed to the job I am, you need to know. It’s not like I’m knocking back just mundane sex here. He’s got rock star hair that knows exactly how to flop. He has steely arms and an unrelenting arse. He has grey-blue eyes that make my body hum with desire.

  I can feel his cock under my foot. Oh boy, can I feel it. I want to unbutton his jeans and jump onboard, riding him like a tricycle. I want to fuck him until we both need surgery to remain intact.

  After I kick him out, I try to sleep. I put mittens on my hands to stop myself from masturbating and add £50 to Mr Droopy-Drawers bill for mental and physical anguish. Three days until touchdown.

  It’s a slow week and I can’t even distract myself with internet porn. I keep telling myself, “don’t think about sex, don’t think about sex.” As you can imagine, that works a charm.

  I mutter it under my breath on the train when the stranger with the wide shoulders rubs against me. He smells of kink – of leather and handcuffs and slow drawn out sessions of teasing. Like he’d make you frenzied and begging for it then finally enter you with just the tip of his cock while you squirm and call him a bastard.

  I cross my legs and tighten my grip on the handrail, looking out the window and muttering louder until everyone moves away thinking I’m crazed.

  Two days to go and an extra £200 to the bill for miscellaneous damages.

  Finally, a job. I get to the house and the dude’s in the shower. He opens the door in just a towel, body dripping with water and Irish accent dripping with sex.

  It’s a cosmic-fucking-conspiracy, I can go weeks, months even without anything shaggable crossing my path – it’s just me and Mr Buzzy – but as soon as I try to avoid it, it’s raining men and there’s no damn hallelujah.

  I follow him through the house trying to think of unsexy things like global warming and cricket. I tell myself he’s got a small willie and he’s a premature ejaculator. He probably wants to talk about his “feelings” after sex. Not just his feelings, but his feelings about his mother.

  I will not look at how the droplets of water glisten on his thighs, I will not notice his shoulder and that delicious, lickable indent. I definitely won’t look at that round curve of arse pressing against the towel.

  I make him put on some clothes while I snoop around in his roof cavity with my demon-locating torch. Like I thought, it’s possums not demons. I’m not a bloody pest controller but I charge him my call-out fee and skedaddle to safety.

  One day to go and the bill is adding up.

  * * *

  I can’t get away from it. The weather turns hot and it makes me horny. The shops smell of mangoes and that makes me horny. I go for a run and the sweat on my skin makes me horny. My body becomes molten – all fluid and juices.

  In the park, couples feel each other up. A boy has his hand up his girlfriend’s skirt and I see a flash of red knickers. That’s enough to have me juiced up, and thinking of red knickers all day.

  I go to the gym, punching and kicking things for an hour, but that doesn’t help.

  The old man at the grocery shop suddenly doesn’t look so bad. Even the ear hair isn’t that off putting. I fantasise about removing his dentures and riding him while running my fingers through his comb-over.

  Sam, the hellish housemate, decides to make me lunch and even the tin opener becomes loaded with sexual suggestion in his hands. I watch his burly farm-boy arms until he realises I’m drooling. The baked beans on toast take on erotic possibilities. I turn on the TV and they’re advertising hot dogs! Hot dogs squeezing tight into buns, dripping with mustard.

  I scream and run for the shower. Eight hours to go and I wonder if I’ll make it.

  I get to Mr Droopy-Drawers’ house just before they leave for the weekend, enough time to check out the condition of his wife. She’s carrying her bags out to the car and definitely looks un-demon ravaged. She even walks like she hasn’t been laid in months. I go inside.

  Finally the car backs out the driveway leaving me free to raid the fridge. They have caramel-crunch ice cream and chocolate sprinkles. Score. I fix myself a bumper-sized bowl and curl up to watch some cable. I’ve got a few hours before the demon reveals himself and, if I can’t have sex, ice cream is second best.

  I have no idea of the form he’ll take – it’ll be a projection of Mrs Droopy-Drawers’ fantasy. He could be some emo poet boy quivering with angst or he could be a buff sex god – all cock and no brains. He might even be a chick. Hopefully it won’t be too horrific but I don’t trust her taste in men on account of the evidence – she married Mr Droopy Drawers.

  Even bigger score – the wrestling is on. But sweaty men jumping on each other, that just makes things worse. My nipples rub against my bra and I’m painfully aware of the ache between my legs. If I sit up and squirm just right, I can pretend it helps but really it just reminds me that I have a wet, swollen, aching vagina and I haven’t had an orgasm for four long agonising days.

  I turn off the TV and look for something decent to put on the stereo to hide the pounding of my cunt. The Droopy-Drawers have the worst CD collection ever. Fleetwood Mac, Neil Diamond, Bob Dylan, I’d not even wish that on a demon. I find a Best of AC/DC hidden at the back and put that on, cranking it up loud.

  This is the most nondescript townhouse I’ve seen. Tasteful and elegant, but so beige. Upstairs, the bedroom is so lacking in sexual charm, they may as well get twin beds.

  I open Mrs Droopy Drawers’ wardrobe. Man, she’s got the hugest wardrobe I’ve ever seen. I walk in and keep walking until I wonder if I’m going to get to Narnia. I decide to try on some of her clothes. I could fool you into thinking I’m doing that to cleverly disguise myself in order to seduce the demon but the reality is I’m just bored.

  Most of the clothes are as beige as the house but something red and glittery catches my eye. I pull out a ball gown. It’s all swishy and girlie and almost the same colour as my hair. I slip off my jeans and T-shirt and put on the dress. A red strapless dress with baby pink bra straps showing – so wrong. It’s too long and baggy on me and far too tight in the boobs, but what the hell?

  As Highway to Hell comes on the stereo, I jump on the bed playing air guitar and singing. It’s something I like to do when I’m in other people’s houses – jumping on beds, I mean. I’ve never done it in a ball gown before though. I’m building up to my big finale when I hear a noise. I frigging hate being caught unawares.

  I check him out and my jaw
almost hits the ground.

  Two thoughts fight with each other in my brain – the first is Mrs Droopy Drawers is a walking cliché. And my other thought is holy crap, I’m about to do it with a demon who’s a dead ringer for Johnny Depp. This has to be my lucky night.

  When he moves into the light, I see he’s not quite Johnny Depp. Sure he has some Depp-like features but he’s more like someone who gets told all the time that he looks like Johnny Depp.

  We size each other up for a minute. If I look too eager, he’ll know something’s up. These demons get awful skittish when they think you’re going to vanquish them. So I jump off the bed and make for the door, fully expecting him to pursue. He runs for the door at the same time. We collide in the doorway and I make sure I accidentally press my boobs against his arm. I hold his stare long enough for him to question just how accidental the brushing really is.

  I wait for him to make his move. I feel the heat of him against my skin. He runs his finger along my collarbone. I don’t make a move. I try not to react, but a tiny gasp of air escapes me. It’s enough.

  He has sensuous lips and dark, brooding eyes. More like a What’s-Eating-Gilbert-Grape Johnny than a Pirates-of-the-Caribbean Johnny or, thank God, an Edward-ScissorHands Johnny.

  I run my fingers down the tight black T-shirt, finding the buttons of his jeans. ‘Be gentle with me,’ I whisper, because I know it’s not worth trying to be original.

  ‘Not bloody likely,’ he replies and pushes me up against the door frame, ramming his leg between mine and I’m thankful for the layers of red, swishy skirt because I’m so fucking horny that I need a barrier between me and my instinct to use him as a toy for my own pleasure.

  But he bunches the skirt up and pushes my legs apart with his knee. We stare defiance at each other like the cover of some bodice-ripping romance until he slams his lips against mine.

  There’s no trace of sulphur like you sometimes get with demons, just cheap whiskey and cigarettes.

  I’m jammed up against the door frame and he’s kissing me so furious that the tulle of my skirt gets snagged in the door catch. The wooden frame cuts into my back and the heat of his body sears my front. Without removing his lips, he frees me from the ball gown and it falls into a puddle of froth and glitter at my feet.

  He hoists me free of the dress. His fingers dig into my arse cheeks, inching into my crack. Mrs Droopy Drawers had better not be having anal fantasies because I don’t care how much they pay me, it’s front door action only. But he moves his hands down to my thighs, lifting me up and carrying me to the bed.

  He’s on top of me, hot and sweaty and holding me firm. I could take him right now, but I decide to act all girlie and weak, letting him think he’s in control. When they think they’ve got you, they let their guard down - so I moan and gasp while he runs his finger under the lace of my bra. I squirm and giggle as he licks over the lace. Then his teeth tear through a hundred bucks of designer bra lace and he bites and sucks. My moans and gasps become real. I meld into the bed and I melt into the sensation of his tongue. For just an instant, I lose myself and my screams are loud enough to block out the vocals of Bon Scott turned up to eleven on the stereo downstairs.

  I try to think of the money. The beautiful, crisp money.

  His fingers play with the gusset of my panties and it’s only the thought of those extra zeroes in my bank account that give me the fortitude to push them away. Instead he moves his mouth – licking and nibbling a line down to my belly button.

  Without the weight of him on me, I break free and push him back on to the bed. I hold his hands down and straddle him. The push of his cock through the denim of his jeans rubs against my cunt and I want to just sit there, slowly rocking, feeling denim-encased cock against lace-sheathed pussy. But you don’t get the job done looking after yourself.

  He breaks into a slow, easy grin.

  I undo his fly and yank his jeans down. No need for finesse. With free access, I can finish him off in seconds. I grab his hands and climb on top, holding them over his head and making sure my tits swing just inches away from his mouth. His tongue darts out to lick them but I move out of reach, swaying them in front of him. I know I’m tempting him; I can feel his hips writhe and his cock twitch. I hover over him, my pussy not touching him yet close enough so that he can feel its heat. Take that, demon; you’re playing in the big league now.

  Then I make my finishing move. I turn around and he thinks we are going to 69 but I’ve got other plans. I pin his arms down with my legs and hold myself over him. He can smell my arousal, he can see my arousal but he can’t touch it.

  Ha, ha. I’m winning. I always win because I’m the best. The thought of my own superiority makes me hornier. Times like this, I like to picture myself on a winner’s podium with my theme music, The Final Countdown by Europe, playing in the background and the cheers of the crowd deafening me.

  I pause for a moment, letting him feel my breath on his cock. Tease them in the beginning and they blow all the faster. He bucks like a bronco. I flick my tongue out, lightly licking the head of his cock, just a little, just a teeny little taste.

  Softly and slowly, I circle the head with my tongue then run it down the shaft. Victory will be mine.

  I expect him to put up more of a fight. Doesn’t he know I’m going to suck him to his own destruction?

  I grab my fingers tightly around the base of his cock. His hips buck up to meet me and I take him all in my mouth. He’s not nearly as big as Jack. I suck hard, swirling my tongue along his cock. It’s not going to take long now. I think I can feel his every heartbeat. He’s gasping and shuddering and muttering ‘oh fuck, oh fuck.’

  I move my hand and mouth in unison, faster and faster until I know he’s going to explode and, as I feel his final thrusts, I brace myself for his disappearance and for me to tumble face first onto the bed.

  I pull my head away as he shoots his load into the air, then …

  Nothing.

  He’s still lying below me. I freeze. There’s no vanquishing and it tilts my world on its axis, just for a minute.

  I’m angry and confused and so fucking frustrated that I shake. I want his hands on me, I want my own hands on myself. I inch down my knickers. Images flash through my brain – Jack in his cowboy hat, kinky man on the train, towel wrapped buttocks and red knickers and mangoes and sweat. Everything dissolves into a blur. I’m bucking and moaning, charged like an electrical storm. I’m tangled in cotton sheets, focused on my cunt and my clit, hips bucking, seconds away from climax.

  ‘That looks like fun,’ says a deep voice from the doorway.

  I ignore it. Don’t fucking mess with me NOW.

  But my lover jumps from the bed.

  ‘Dude,’ he says in a strangulated voice. ‘She made me.’

  Huh? I halt in mid-stroke.

  My lover scoops up his jeans from the floor and bolts out the door. I’ve never known a demon to bolt before; but then I’ve never known a demon not to vanquish.

  As he crashes down the stairs, I check out the dude leaning on the doorframe. He smells of sulphur and has a devilish gleam in his green eyes. He checks me out too, breaking into a wry grin, all angles and cheekbones. It takes a moment to piece it together, my brain slow and sex-befuddled...

  On The Other Side

  by Peter Baltensperger

  Galen had always dreamed of living in an old house of his own, but he never expected his life to be changed as dramatically as it did when he was finally able to realise his dream. Growing up in an old farmhouse that had been in the family for generations, he always felt comfortable and secure in the ancient surroundings. As soon as he established himself in a career, he found exactly what he wanted: an old, well-maintained farmhouse in excellent condition in beautiful countryside. He felt the old feelings of comfort and security flood over him the moment he stepped into the house.

  He was completely at home as soon as he moved in and spent the evenings decorating and familiarising himself with the
house. After a busy week, he started spending his evenings more leisurely in his living room. It was then that some unexpectedly strange noises began to disrupt the silence of the house. At first, he thought they were just the usual creaking of dried-out wood and ancient plumbing characteristic of old houses, but there were other more disturbing noises as well.

  One evening as he was sitting in his living room reading a book, he heard a persistent knocking against one of the outside walls, a knocking that seemed to come from outside but was also inside the house itself. He looked all around the house, but he couldn’t find anything that could have caused such a noise. At other times, he heard loud thuds, as if large pieces of furniture were falling, but when he went to check, nothing was amiss anywhere.

  And then he began to hear indistinct voices. He couldn’t make out any words, but they were definitely voices, penetrating, it seemed, the same outside wall where the knocking had originated, and echoing faintly through his house. He walked up to the wall with trepidation and pressed his ear against it. The voices grew louder the more carefully he listened, but he still couldn’t hear individual words.

  A few evenings later, the voices were getting louder than they had been before. He went and pressed his ear against the wall again, and the voices were definitely more pronounced, agitated, it seemed to him, but he still couldn’t figure out where they were coming from or what they were saying.

  He was leaning against the wall trying to catch a word or a phrase when suddenly the wall beside him began to move. He froze in terror. All he could do was to stare at the motion and then, to his horror, an arm reached through the wall out into the room. It wasn’t so much an arm as an arm-like protuberance pushing itself through the wall and elongating the wallpaper as if the wall and its covering had become pliable, expandable, alive.