by Paris Dixon
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LECHERY FOR THE DEVIL
by
PARIS DIXON
Amber Quill Press, LLC
http://www.amberquill.com
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Lechery For The Devil
An Amber Quill Press Book
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
Amber Quill Press, LLC
http://www.amberquill.com
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.
Copyright © 2003 by Paris Dixon
ISBN 1-59279-100-X
Cover Art © 2003 Trace Edward Zaber
Rating: NC-17
Layout and Formatting
Provided by: ElementalAlchemy.com
Published in the United States of America
Also by Paris Dixon
Cry Merci
Passion Knows No Boundaries
With Catherine Snodgrass (writing as Caitlyn Willows)
Déjà Vu
Treasure Hunters
White Lies
Dedication
To the naysayers who proclaimed it could not be done—
here’s to each and every one of you!
Lechery For The Devil
* * *
"Please allow me to introduce myself, I’m a man of wealth and taste…"
Cassandra stood beside the stereo, listening to Mick Jagger sing the opening lines to "Sympathy for the Devil." After setting aside the CD case of Beggar’s Banquet, she adjusted the volume control to heart-pumping levels, then hit the "repeat play" button. She had always adored the tune, and on this steamy summer evening in Savannah with loneliness consuming her, it would be the perfect background music for what she planned to do. Fresh from the shower and swathed in the fragrance of rosewater, she stretched out her nude frame on the loveseat, spread her legs, and began touching, pacifying, her most private, most neglected parts.
"…Pleased to meet you. Hope you guessed my name…"
With one hand covering her pubic mound, she slipped one finger, then another, into her aching heat. She slid her other hand over her full breasts, squeezing and toying with her already peaked nipples.
"…But what’s puzzling you is the nature of my game…"
Slowly, her body began to writhe to the music, her fingers dancing to the tribal rhythm, while her mind pictured Robert Maddox, the lover she desperately missed. The apartment seemed so barren and dead without him; she could barely sleep in the king-sized bed they had shared without groaning her utter despair. Though a mere three weeks had passed since the morning Robert had walked out the door, suitcases in hand, if felt more like an eternity.
Oh, Robert, she thought with a desolate groan, tickling her damp nub and caressing her breast, how could you leave me like this? Why aren’t you here to touch me, to sweep me into heights of bliss with your expert tongue, loving hands, and impressive cock, your hard body pressed against mine? Why aren’t you here to satisfy my obsessive needs after feeding my addiction for five wonderful years?
Cassandra normally found it difficult to remember the days when she thought she would never know sexual fulfillment. But now, with Robert painfully gone, those memories flooded her mind.
She had forfeited her virginity within months of arriving at college, and after several disastrous relationships with completely selfish lovers, she had decided to concentrate on her studies instead of sexual needs. But near the end of her senior year, a chance encounter at a fraternity party changed her life. The moment Cassandra’s gaze fell on Robert’s handsome face and athletic physique, she found herself madly in love.
That last semester proved her greatest challenge—keeping her mind on final exams when all she wanted to do was resume her sexual experimentation. Thankfully, Robert had been patient, accepting her verbal "nos" even though her lips and body screamed "yes." His understanding only made her love him more.
Graduation day finally arrived. Robert not only presented her with a beautiful diamond necklace to celebrate the occasion, but he gave Cassandra her first orgasm. Indeed, that first time together, both of them hungry to consummate their passion after months of dating, resulted in multiple orgasms for both. Since that night five years earlier, Robert had engendered her addiction to sex.
Even now, she imagined her fingers digging into Robert’s muscular back as he filled her with his erection, could almost smell the Pierre Cardin he liberally applied to his lean body after each shower. Her mouth salivated at the memories of kissing Robert’s hairy chest and flat belly, at licking his furry testicles and sucking his pulsing penis. As the Rolling Stones blasted into the song’s finale, the tempo reaching frenetic proportions, she could almost hear Robert’s guttural grunts pour from the living room speakers, and imagined him pumping his creamy seed deep into her ravenous womanhood.
Damn it, Robert…why aren’t you here?
Frustrated, Cassandra abandoned the loveseat and flicked off the stereo. The grandfather clock in the corner bonged the hour of nine through the otherwise-silent apartment, while salacious memories raced through her head. With determined strides, she entered the bedroom, shunned the empty bed, and raced to the closet.
She plucked out her newest dress, a slinky black affair that emphasized to perfection the valleys and curves of her body. She stepped into it, forgoing the need for undergarments. After slipping on a pair of black high heels, she stood before the vanity in the adjoining bathroom, brushed her black, waist-length hair, then applied a scant amount of liner to her dark eyes and a touch of color to her lips. The dress’s silky fabric advertised her still-hard nipples and brought a smile to her lips.
Advertising her craving was exactly what she had in mind.
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A half-hour later, she entered The Grotto, a dingy, smoky nightclub on the outskirts of Savannah. The medium-sized establishment, with its black interior, dungeon-like wall sconces, and private, shadowy booths in the back, catered to those who loved hard music, hard liquor, and hard flirtation. These days, especially since Robert had entered her life, Cassandra rarely visited the club. Lately, the clientele had shifted from thirty-something patrons to a younger, barely legal, Goth-like crowd. But tonight she was in the mood for something different, something daring, and what better place to hunt for that different warm body to satisfy her cravings than on the dance floor in front of whichever heavy metal band blasted from the stage?
She sashayed to the bar and allowed her eyes to adjust to her surroundings. When the tattooed bartender—complete with pierced tongue and shaved head—cocked an eyebrow at her, she ordered a vodka tonic.
"Who’s on stage later tonight?" she asked when he set the drink in front of her.
"Some retro band," he responded with a shrug, obviously finding the notion not to his liking.
Apparently the bar’s usual patrons also preferred the metal music of the 21st century, as the room filled only to about half-capacity. But Cassandra didn’t mind. She would have rather listened to retro rock than to the death- or goth-metal cherished by today’s youth. Besides, music was the last thing on her mind this evening.
It didn’t take long before some of the male patrons noticed her. She adjudged each of them from head to toe when they sidled up to her at the bar, offering hackneyed pick-up lines in between ordering drinks. Although a few had pleasant fa
ces, physiques that had the potential to make her insides tingle, none of them motivated her to return their flirtations. Their ages bothered her—most of them looked as if they had entered the nightclub only with the aid of expertly forged driver’s licenses.
Cassandra preferred a man like Robert, a man with rugged good looks, with a bit of age on his face instead of a fresh layer of Clearasil masking youthful blemishes. She sighed. The choices seemed slim, and she practiced patience she did not feel.
It was at that moment, she spotted him. A lofty, lean figure strutted toward the bar from the vicinity of the restrooms and backstage area. Above snakeskin boots, his leather pants hugged muscular calves and thighs. His partially unbuttoned white pullover shirt seemed painted on his sinewy torso. Like her attire, his shirt did nothing to hide his hard nipples. He wore his unruly dark hair on the long side, while equally dark stubble shadowed his chiseled cheeks, upper lip, and firm chin. As he took a seat at the bar opposite her, an air of mystery—even something dangerous—seemed to cloak him.
Immediately, Cassandra felt something stir deep within her, a wantonness so unbridled it surprised even her. She pictured the man’s azure blue eyes looking out from between her spread legs as he pleasured her with his sensuous mouth. Shivers traced her spine as she imagined what that stubble would feel like brushing against her most intimate areas. Her mouth watered as she visualized herself catering to him, just as she’d happily catered to Robert before impaling herself on his hardness.
Intent on moving to the other side of the bar for a chance to make eye contact with this devilishly handsome stranger, Cassandra snatched her drink and stood. She stopped herself from moving, however, when a young woman with black lipstick and ratted hair the color of hay pounced on him. Cassandra cursed under her breath. She didn’t want that pale-faced bitch muscling in on her territory. To her great relief, the man whispered something to the girl, who tossed him a nasty look and slunk away.
With a smile plastered on her face, Cassandra made her move before another young viper could beat her to the chosen prey.
She parked herself on a nearby stool and crossed her shapely legs, making certain his eyes had direct access to her cleavage. Her strategy worked, for she immediately sensed his gaze groping her body, delving into the valley between her breasts. She tossed her hair over her shoulder and presented him with a "shy yet available" smile. One side of his mouth curled into a somewhat lecherous sneer, mitigated by the delectable dimple appearing in his cheek.
Heat poured into her loins. Yes, she thought as she drained her vodka tonic, he was the one for her this evening, the only one who would free her from insufferable loneliness.
She ran the tip of her tongue over the rim of her glass, while her gaze lowered to the silver chain dangling from his neck. The large pendant—an upside-down cross—shimmered in a swirling forest of chest hair. The cross’s bottom point had a bulbous head, reminding her of a penis. She pointed at it with her index finger. "An interesting piece."
Wordlessly, he stood, bringing his crotch into view. Cassandra couldn’t help but notice the sizable bulge behind his zipper and craved to run her fingers over the stretched leather. When he reseated himself on the stool beside her and leaned forward, mischief danced across his face, as if he had read her salacious thoughts. "Care to touch it?"
"May I?"
"Of course, and take your time. When it comes to beautiful women, I like nothing precipitous…"
Choosing for the moment to ignore the double entendre, Cassandra took the inverted cross in her palm. She pretended to study it, but concentrated instead on the way his chest hair tickled the back of her hand. When she looked up, his eyes—hypnotic in their intensity—seemed to probe her soul.
"Like what you see?" he asked.
Unable to tear her gaze from him, she could only nod. When Cassandra released the unusual cross, she purposefully allowed her fingertips to linger for a moment in the carpet of crisp hair.
Another sneer curled his lips. He turned toward the bartender and pointed to Cassandra’s empty glass. "Bring another for the lady and give me the same." He tossed a ten-spot on the bar.
"I’ve not seen you here before," said Cassandra.
"Then you frequent this club often…ah…?"
"You may call me Cassandra. Not as often as I did years ago."
"And why is that?"
"Times change, people mature…"
"Then what brings you here this evening? Feeling the urge to reconnect with the past? To perhaps recapture something from your youth?" He paused as the bartender placed the drinks before them, allowing his eyes to linger on her breasts. "Or is your—urge—more elementary?"
She sipped the fresh vodka tonic, enjoying the way his gaze hardened her nipples. "Oh, the latter, most definitely."
"Splendid. Elementary urges require equally simplistic satiation. Though ‘simplistic’ doesn’t necessary imply ‘swiftness.’"
Cassandra liked the sound of that. She wanted a full night of animalistic lovemaking, not a quick fuck. And she could almost bet this mysterious man would provide exactly what she desired.
"And you?" she asked. "What brings you here this evening?"
"Business." He glanced toward the stage.
"You’re with the band?"
"My business is of a personal nature." He dragged his tongue over his lower lip. "I’ve just arrived in Savannah, you see, and some force drew me into this place tonight. I felt perhaps it might be the perfect location to—well, to conduct my business." He raised his glass and held it out toward her. "Here’s to both of us obtaining what we desire this evening."
Smiling, Cassandra clinked her glass against his. "Amen to that…ah…?"
"The name’s Jagger." He brought the drink to his lips and gulped several mouthfuls.
She watched his Adam’s apple bob and longed to capture it with her mouth. "Jagger? As in Mick Jagger?" Her spine tingled as she recalled her actions earlier that evening. "An unusual name."
"For parents of the sixties? Not too unusual, if you think about it. As the story goes, I was conceived at a rock concert during a performance by The Rolling Stones and my parents couldn’t resist the name. Indeed, my conception was even captured on film, if my mother is to be believed."
Intrigued, Cassandra frowned in query.
"They were attending the infamous concert at Altamont in California. While the Stones performed ‘Sympathy for the Devil,’ something about the song roused them. My mother claimed you could actually glimpse their ‘actions’ if you watched the extreme left side of the screen in the movie Gimme Shelter. But I admit, I have never been able to spot them—doing it." He tossed back his head and chuckled. "I suppose the song should have been named ‘Lechery for the Devil.’"
With her actions earlier that evening so fresh in her mind, Cassandra couldn’t help but agree.
Just then, the band took the stage, launching into a version of "Had Me A Real Good Time" by Rod Stewart and The Faces. Cassandra couldn’t help but hope their choice of song signaled a good omen for her plans that evening.
As classics from the 60s and 70s pounded from the P.A. system, making it impossible to engage in small talk without shrieking, Cassandra indulged in another sour vodka tonic and relished the fact that Jagger did not leave her side. Indeed, he actually moved nearer to her. On several occasions, she looked up at him to find his eyes glued to her breasts and yearned to kiss his moist, sensual lips.
She imagined a whole lot more during the band’s rendition of "The Lemon Song" by Led Zeppelin. When the singer, doing a passable Robert Plant imitation, came to the lyrics, "Squeeze my lemon until the juice runs down my leg," Cassandra itched to place her hand in Jagger’s lap and explore the gigantic bulge he possessed.
His leather-clad leg bounced to the tempo, stroking her bare knee until it nearly drove her crazy with desire. Their gazes locked as the song came to a finale, and once again his eyes seemed to penetrate her innermost thoughts, stripping her bare. So ent
ranced by him, Cassandra barely realized the next song had begun.
"Please allow me to introduce myself, I’m a man of wealth and taste…"
Shocked, she blinked. Jagger did the same. Together, they laughed while Cassandra’s thoughts raced. Yes. This meeting had to be destiny.
He leaned forward, bringing his lips against her earlobe. "I believe this is our cue to dance." His moist breath turned her skin to goose flesh and created a savage throbbing between her thighs.
Without waiting for a reply, he took Cassandra by the hand and escorted her to the crowded dance floor. Immediately, he pulled her into his muscular arms. He rested his cheek against hers; his beard stubble scratched against her face like sexual sandpaper. Her body molded to his. She pressed her hands against the solid wall of his pectorals, and felt his rock-hard penis against her belly, threatening to rip from his pants.
She longed to emancipate the mammoth beast from its leather jail, to encase it in her hands, her mouth, before imprisoning it deep in her ravening womanhood. As the song’s tempo increased, so did her desire. She clawed at Jagger’s backside, ran her hands over his firm, round buttocks, traced his Adam’s apple with her tongue, unconcerned if her lascivious conduct raised eyebrows amongst the patrons. Too engaged in their own various pleasures and the live band, the others didn’t seem to notice.
As the song reached its raging climax, Cassandra flicked her tongue through Jagger’s curly chest hair. She scooped his pendant into her mouth and sucked on its bulbous silver point.
His blue eyes connected with hers, and that dangerous sneer twisted the corner of his mouth. "I need to feel your lips on me…" He stabbed his hardness into her belly. "On every inch of me…"