Trudy sighed. “Seeking for you in the darkness has already been eternity. Perhaps one will cancel the other out for me…”
“Perhaps it will,” Constantina agreed.
Part Two
Where The Boy finds The Gingerbread House and Everyone lives Happily Ever After. Or maybe not…
♦♦♦♦
Halford — Handsome Hal — Maloney knew very little of what had gone before when he rang the bell at Constantina’s penthouse and was ushered inside by the attractive Latina maid. At twenty-nine he was already an up-and-coming archaeologist, and had spent the last three years incommunicado on a dig deep in the Amazon rain forests, far away from the joint evils of cell phones and the internet. He had arrived home to find his sister missing, his father remarried, and a stepmother eighteen months his junior installed in the family home.
“But where has Trudy gone, Dad?” he had demanded of his father, a normally comfortable man who could suddenly no longer look his own son in the eye. “I’ve been to her apartment but it’s empty and the mail’s piled up outside her door, she hasn’t been there for months.”
His father shook his head. “I’ve no idea where she is, Hal, I haven’t spoken to her in ages. We had…uh…words, and there’s been bad blood on both sides.”
Handsome Hal was well known amongst the female population of the Lower East Side as a heartbreaker, so he knew when he was being fed a line.
“And would that bimbo inside have had anything to do with your ‘words’, Father?”
“I can assure you that she did not. Any differences between your sister and myself were entirely of her own making, believe me.”
“I don’t know what you’re not telling me, Dad,” Hal had said, not angrily but with weary finality. “But I will find out.”
“But you might not like what you discover,” his father had said quietly to his departing back.
♦♦♦♦
The Latina maid brought him coffee and a plate of sweetmeats, small indescribable delicacies wrapped in French pastry that melted in his mouth in orgasmic bursts of sheer lascivious pleasure.
“You like?” she said, smiling, seeing the look of sheer bliss on his face as the tiny pastries exploded on his palate.
Hal nodded. “I like,” he said. “Did you make these?”
The maid smiled enigmatically. “Si, I have learned the meaning of life, Señor,” she said, bringing her face so close to his that he could smell her perfume and feel the heat of her skin. “Would you like to know what it is?”
Normally suave and confident with the opposite sex, he suddenly found himself a tongue-tied teenager in the presence of this dusky beauty, and, unable to tear his eyes off her slender frame and luxuriant black hair, he merely nodded, words being beyond his capability at present.
“Butter,” she whispered in his ear. “It is the key that unlocks the mysteries of the universe. But come now, Señor. Madame is waiting to receive you, but perhaps you want to straighten your clothing first?”
He looked down at himself and saw to his horror that he was hugely erect, his errant cock making a visible bulge in the front of his pants. His face flaming, he struggled to his feet, tugging desperately at his clothing to try and make the protuberance less obvious.
“Ah, Maria tends to have that effect on people, Mr. Maloney,” said a voice, and he looked up to see the most beautiful woman he had ever beheld coming towards him. She was tall and dusky, long black hair like ravens’ wings, a dark and delicious Christina Hendricks, maybe about the same age as himself but as potent as a comic book enchantress with flashing green eyes, ruby lips and pearly-white skin.
“You’ve come about your sister, of course,” she said, taking his hand and tapping into his blood stream, feeling his racing pulse and burning skin. “She said that you would. I am Constantina Cavarlini, I bid you welcome.”
“Like Dracula,” he said, sheepishly, then immediately felt like a geek.
The woman laughed, not altogether pleasantly. “You know, I say that to everyone who comes here, but you’re the first one who’s ever picked up on it. Very well done.”
Hal shook himself, still painfully erect. “Where is my sister?” he managed to ask, aware that the maid was behind him, blocking any possible escape route.
Constantina laughed. “Oh, she’s safe. She’s at my house in England, waiting for me. She knew you would be here, and she didn’t want to see what I would do to you.”
“And what are you going to do to me?” he asked, his face on fire, his cock like iron.
“Why, suck you dry, of course,” she said, reaching out for him. “Resistance is futile.”
“I’m not resisting,” he managed to breathe, ripping open his pants.
“Then invite me to dine,” said the monster.
♦♦♦♦
She knelt before him like a courtesan and took his swollen cock in her mouth with relish, sucking on him like a drowning woman grasping at an oxygen pipe underwater, easing his foreskin back and exposing his big purple-red head, licking up every salty drop of clear pre-cum before she took his engorged shaft deep into her mouth and imbibed.
And it was beyond his wildest imaginings, like pushing himself into a hot velvet tunnel that moulded itself into the shape of his cock and sent excruciating sensations flying along every nerve-ending in his body. “I’m going to cum,” he gasped, after what must have only been twenty seconds of her hungry ministrations, and Constantina made a little groaning noise and ripped open the front of her dress, releasing her huge lily-white breasts, the big erect nipples like swollen black cherries.
“Oh my God, your beautiful tits…” he groaned. “I’m going to…cum, I’m going to…oh shit…I’m cumming!”
And she seemed to laugh as she let his cock slide from her mouth as he pumped gallon after gallon of his thick and creamy semen all over her, the glutinous liquid overflowing onto her neck, more on her face, still more dribbling all over her magnificent breasts.
“More,” he breathed, tearing at his own clothes and denuding himself in front of her. “I need more.”
“Of course you do,” she purred, slipping out of her dress and rubbing his cum into her skin like lotion. “There’s lots and lots of lovely cream in that big delicious cock of yours and I’m going to get it all out. Don’t worry, you won’t go down, that prick of yours is going to stay all big and stiff the way I like it until I’ve wrung the very last drop out of you. Come along, lie down on the couch so that I can suck you again. You won’t cum quite so fast this time, so enjoy it while you can.”
“But I want to taste your pussy,” he breathed, like a lost man chasing the opium dragon, falling back into the settee’s velvet-cushioned softness like a sleeper tumbling backwards into darkness, the feel of the expensive fabrics luxuriant on his tingling skin, his cock sticking up like a pulsing monolith.
“My pussy is too potent for your mouth,” she replied, taking his hand and letting his curious fingers explore her slippery-wet crack instead, hot and aromatic, all its animal pheromones crying out to him to hunker down and bury his tongue deep in its sopping wetness. “Experience me with your finger tips and then lie back like a good boy so that I can feed on you again.”
Like a good boy, he thought with a wry laugh, falling back into the softness of the couch and letting her hungry mouth have its way with his pleading cock. That’s funny, that is. She looks a good five years younger than me at the very least…
Epilogue
♦♦♦♦
As expected, the disappearance of the wealthy widow, Constantina Cavarlini, was a fairly major story and it completely eclipsed the account of the vanishing of her biographer, Gertrude Maloney and her archaeologist brother, sending that particular piece of news skittering all the way back to page thirty-seven, to be lost in no-man’s land between the end of the women’s page and the beginning of the sports section.<
br />
And then, of course, some nutjob went and kidnapped some starlet’s puppy dog and held it to ransom, and within twenty-four hours no-one was talking about anything else, so even the society pages missed the fact that a wealthy teenage heiress, accompanied only by her young maid, had opened up an old mansion house in London, England, where she was about to hold her first ball to introduce herself to Mayfair society; and, with her new American friend, she was sure to live happily ever after.
Once again...
Beauty and Her Beast
♦♦♦♦
Story Five
He sits alone in his circle of thorns,
Salt tears crystallised into barbs like a necklace of shattered glass,
She, meanwhile, virgin white, walks barefoot through the midnight wood,
And, childlike, squats to pee,
Unsullied cunt split open like a sun-kissed fig,
Pink and red petals of a tropical flower
In Grandma’s secret bower.
And in the snow-bound lane a dark maroon car falters,
Hesitates
And stops,
A weary travelling salesman picking a flower that inadvertently
Sacrifices the one he had most desired for himself.
While in the chateau, Mister Cocteau,
Takes notes as Beauty plaits the fur on the Beast’s matted pelt
And contemplates what lies beneath,
A strange warmth flooding where she had only felt coldness before,
At the feast
With the Beast,
With those teeth,
and, so much worse,
That great big prick
beneath.
My, what a great big cock you have, Mr. Wolf.
All the better to fuck you with, my dear.
But Mister Beast’s promise proves to be a hollow bond,
Merely a wham, bam, thank you, ma’am affair,
And, having barely robbed her of her flower in repayment for a stolen rose,
He grunts and turns over in his foetid bed,
Leaving her high and dry with an intolerable itch,
A hunger that’s insatiable, unquenchable,
So lying in the flowery bower with her sister wives they compare notes,
Inquisitive fingers in slits and lady bits,
Plaiting the sleek fur of their own beasts,
While the lone wolf howls
An old refrain from his thicket of thorns.
Bluebeard’s Tower
♦♦♦♦
Story Six
It was a cold grey winter night, our office’s rambling old brownstone fog-enshrouded from the stealthily-flowing Hudson, the whole city hushed and echoing to sounds of baleful fog horns in the December dusk. And I lay, my new party skirt unceremoniously rucked up around my waist, being fucked by the bearded Ivan Meyrowitz, who stood lit in painterly tones, his big hairy body plunging into me like a swampland hog.
I was twenty-six but looked sixteen, something that had given many a thrill to the countless men who had thought that they were robbing me of my innocence, though that had been taken long since by my maid, Beulah, who, still to this day, crept into my bed at night and nuzzled at me till we would turn, slit to slit, our slow languorous tongues evoking the forgotten scents of magnolia and the southern heat, Beulah’s obsidian skin glistening in the moonlight as I feasted hungrily on her short thick minge.
And, of course, she wasn’t really called Beulah. I just called her that to goad her. Peel me a grape, Beulah. Peel it yourself, you stuck-up white bitch. You sassing me, girl? Suck my dick, bitch. Then a scramble on the floor or on the bed, clothing rent asunder, fingers and tongues quickly finding hot and wet orifices and falling to touching and licking. “Why, bless me, you are sure rough on your clothes,” my mama would say, shaking her head. “She sure is, ma’am,” Beulah would nod sagely in agreement, touching her cunt when she knew only I could see.
She didn’t like it when I craved cock, of course, and would turn her back to me when I came home and slid between the sheets, my lips and cunt salty with semen, my pale peaches and cream complexion red with beard-burn and yearning for the soft touch of her thick ebony lips, her loving words of comfort.
And tonight I had landed the prize marlin of prickland, the biggest enchilada of the ol’ pork sword, Ivan Meyrowitz — senior partner of the firm of architects I worked for here in the Big Apple — much feared, much desired, a tall megalith of a man, dark and bearded like a potent Cossack, pulling me into a darkened studio while the Christmas party raged downstairs.
“I’ve wanted to fuck you ever since you got here,” he whispered urgently in my ear.
A good tactic to bed me, I thought. I always responded to need in men, even though I knew it would evaporate as soon as cock had touched cunt and the wetness deposited. “Aren’t you supposed to say, don’t you know I love you, you little goose?” I asked facetiously, already fumbling for buttons on the front of his silk shirt.
Meyrowitz always dressed simply but sexily. Plain blue jeans. White silk shirts. Jackets from the deepest velvet corduroy in rain-soaked moss greens, hued from dyes made from the crushed shells of exotic tropical beetles. And his scent… Intoxicating. Spicy musks and amaretto-soaked tobacco. You knew that he had entered a room by the way all the women looked up and sniffed the air.
And tonight he wanted me, his legendary cock had risen up in my honour and I had been summoned to his royal bedchamber to pay my homage, to grant him his droit du seigneur. And I was not fooled. I knew that I was merely his plaything d’jour. And yet I hungered for his cock.
He pushed me down roughly onto the cold wood of a drawing board, ripping a blueprint for some wondrous creation. Even as a schoolgirl I had worshipped at his alter, my bedroom walls covered not in lily-faced immature pop idols, but photographs of his palaces and towers; and later with blueprints and cutaway drawings from architectural magazines. I reached hungrily for his kiss but he withheld it, his mouth shut behind the thick blue-black beard, his eyes unreadable.
Enraged I ripped the buttons from his shirt and bared his chest, his body like an animal’s, like something that only a silver bullet could kill. He moaned through tight lips and hiked up my skirt, pulling my skimpy panties to my knees.
I tugged at his belt and tore open his jeans, dragging soft denim and silk boxers down together, gasping at the animal scent of his cock as it sprang up to greet me, the huge circumcised head glistening and naked like a sweet damson.
He stepped out of his clothes and pushed into me, without any need to guide the monster with his huge hand. So sure of himself was he that he slid inside me like a heat-seeking missile, pushing up into my sticky wet opening with ease.
“Not like this, not here,” I gasped, already so close to orgasm, the thick veiny shaft of his cock brushing my clit as he penetrated me, roughly, like being licked by a coarse animal tongue.
“Then where?” he asked, still rutting.
“Take me to your tower,” I begged, adding in a small voice, “it’s all right. You can hurt me…”
♦♦♦♦
He dressed himself quickly and wrapped me, still almost naked, in his great coat, coarse wool the colour of thunderstorms on the outside, garnet-red silk lining within. Carried me to his big black car which drove us through the night, while he caressed and teased my aching clit.
“Where are we?” I asked, delirious.
“In the clouds,” he replied, a silent elevator whooshing us up to unknown heights. He punched in a secret code, shielding the numbers with a huge hand, but I memorised them anyway. I was awash with lust — not stupidity.
“Now, do what you most desire,” I invited, pulling my dress up over my head, my sex all inflamed and exposed, my tiny bra doing nothing to conceal the painfully erect nipples on my little breasts.
Bluebeard was naked again, already, his body a rampant grizz
ly bear with a huge devil’s cock, easily the biggest and thickest I had ever seen. And I had seen many.
“If you shaved that cunt you’d look like a child,” he whispered, his eyes betraying unspeakable thoughts.
“That’s why I keep my fur, to remind dirty little boys that I’m a grown woman with a grown woman’s needs,” I replied provocatively, unfastening my bra and petting the down of my newly naked pussy.
He growled, or maybe he just howled, and gripped me by the shoulders, twirling me round and bending me over an intricately carved table, pushing my face to the cold mahogany and parting my legs, exposing my wet slit with its layers of labia, and my tight little pink asshole.
“Fuck me. Fuck me now, and cum inside me,” I pleaded. And he did, pushing experimentally at my small orifice then sliding down to my cunt and plunging in, fucking me hard and long, his huge hands bruising my thighs as he rode me like a rogue mare, a rampant Mister Rochester on his big black steed fucking the hairy Yorkshire cunt of the sedate Jane Eyre, cumming like a horse or a stud bull, the thick hot liquid oozing out of my pussy and soaking the wood of his sacrificial table.
I pulled myself out from under him and turned, going down on his cock, hungrily sucking up all his cum and my own juices, pushing my fingers into his hairy ass crack, cradling his huge bestial balls, swallowing everything as he came again and again, a human sperm machine feeding my vampiric mouth.
“Fee, Fi, Fo, Fum,” he moaned. “I smell the cunt of a Southern Belle.”
“Fee, Fi, Fo, Fum, lick my clit and make me cum,” I replied, opening my legs for him, desperate for the feel of his rough hound-dog’s tongue over the ready slick of my needy pussy.
♦♦♦♦
In the Forests of the Night Page 7