The figure with the long black hair, sitting in a chair before the mirror, dressed in a laced black corset, a basque and a short skirt, could not be Lisette. She was even wearing stockings and suspenders, for Christ’s sake, that he could see glittering in the light over her crossed legs: in her seventies, and wearing stockings and suspenders, heels too. There was no way this woman was much over thirty. She was gazing at him through the mirror, but he couldn’t look directly at her reflection, trying to tell himself that it was all a joke; he had been tricked. Then he looked into her eyes, and his defences melted. He’d have known that look anywhere: it was her, there was no mistaking it.
‘Lisette?’ His voice was faint.
She turned then, and stood. ‘Hello, Steven.’
Everything about her was exactly the same: her figure, her clothes, her hair. She even wore the same coquettish expression as he had above his desk: his favourite photograph of her. For a second he thought he might be dreaming, then he realised what had happened. It was her daughter – granddaughter, even. It was the only reasonable explanation.
‘Are you –’ he began tentatively ‘– Lisette’s daughter?’
She laughed, and took a step towards him. He, in turn, stepped back. ‘It’s me, Steven.’
‘It can’t be.’ His voice faltered, then he continued, bolder. ‘But you’ve done a damn fine job of it. I thought I was the leading authority on your mother – or is it your grandmother?’ He eyed her quizzically, but she just returned his gaze, an amused expression on her face. ‘But I suppose you had better access than me. Still, why haven’t you shown yourself until now? You could make a fortune out there, looking like that. You’re her spitting image.’ A sudden rush of ideas occurred to him. ‘I could be your agent.’ And lover, he thought, mentally undressing her.
She smiled at him, and Steve recognised the expression of amused disdain adults use when humouring children; then she turned and sat back down in the chair in front of her dressing table, picked up a hairbrush and began to brush her hair.
‘My glory days are over, Steven. Would you mind –?’ She beckoned to him with the hairbrush, her eyes on his through the mirror, and it took him a second to work out what she wanted.
He stepped up behind her and took the hairbrush from her hand then began to run it through her locks, marvelling at her hair’s glossy smoothness. She seemed flawless; no hairs came out when he pulled the hairbrush away. There was a tightness in his chest.
‘You’re so … beautiful,’ he whispered.
She smiled, and half-turned in her seat to look up at him. ‘That’s what Irving and John used to say.’ She turned back, to let him carry on.
All the nervous tension Steve had felt in anticipation of this meeting suddenly welled up at this reference to his heroes, and he stiffened in annoyance. So she was going to carry on with this charade, was she? Steve stopped brushing her hair and patted it down, his sudden flare of anger translating into an equally sudden resolve. If she was going to use him as part of her cute game, he could do the same. He’d come too far to leave empty handed.
‘Irving and John, eh, Lisette? Why don’t you model for me the way you did for them?’
She turned her head and startled him with a knowing wink. ‘You don’t waste any time, do you? But I love to model, you must know that by now. What did you say on the phone? You’re my biggest fan?’ She laughed again, and for some reason the sound made Steve shiver. ‘So how do you want me?’
More baffled than ever by the rapid change in tone, and not a little flustered by her easy acquiescence, Steve ran the possibilities through his mind. If this was a setup, a joke with him as the fall guy, he’d make damn sure he got as much as he could out of the situation: she had winked at him, after all, with something undeniably lascivious in her expression. If it wasn’t a set-up, and Lisette’s daughter had taken on her mother’s mantle, it was a situation that could make both of them rich, with new photosets, magazine appearances, guest spots at fetish parties … Steve’s confidence grew as he realised that, whatever happened, he was sure to leave here a happy man.
He backed away, retrieved his camera from his shoulder bag and asked her to turn her chair around. She did so and instantly struck a pose, crossing her legs, squeezing her shoulders together to enhance her cleavage as she swung to one side and pouted over one shoulder at him.
‘Good, very good,’ he murmured.
The banks of wall lights meant he could see everything; even as he froze each moment, he knew these pictures would turn out beautifully. She threw herself into pose after pose, effortlessly repeating sequences he knew by heart but always giving them an extra twist, something new not only for the camera but for him too, he was sure, flashing glimpses of the inviting shadows between her thighs, the satin of her knickers occasionally catching the light, or licking her lips suggestively as she ran her fingers along her thighs or over her basque.
‘Lisette –’ he began, his voice hoarse as he dropped the camera and tried surreptitiously to adjust his crotch, increasingly excited by her poses.
She giggled, and he doubted the movement had escaped her. ‘I know what you’re going to ask me, Steven. You boys always come to this around now.’
What boys? ‘What’s that?’
‘You want to tie me up, don’t you?’
Steve, taken by surprise, coughed non-committally.
‘It’s OK,’ she said, grinning. ‘It wouldn’t be a proper photo shoot without some bondage, would it? There’s some rope over there.’ She waved to a battered-looking leather trunk under one of the racks of clothes.
Steve walked over, slightly uncomfortably, and bent down to open the trunk. He wasn’t quite able to suppress a gasp of shock as he opened it. There were coils of rope there, as she’d said, of varying lengths and thicknesses; but there were other things too, whips and masks, clamps and knives, and tangles of straps at whose use he couldn’t even guess, and beneath them all the grotesquely modelled veins of a number of oversized rubber cocks.
After gingerly removing a bundle of white ropes, he closed the trunk lid and advanced towards Lisette, his heart racing and his mouth dry. She by contrast looked relaxed, amused by his evident shock, and he felt another wave of discomfort that she – on the verge of being tied up, no less – managed to maintain the upper hand.
‘See anything you like?’ she asked in a teasing tone.
‘We could try some of it out later,’ he replied, bravado masking his uncertainty.
She laughed, and drew her wrists together behind the chair. ‘I’m ready when you are.’
He looped a length of rope tightly around her wrists by way of reply, then passed the two ends through the back of the chair. Lisette shifted to one side, smiling curiously at him, as he pulled the ropes up between her legs and bunched her skirt tightly around her thighs.
‘Aaah,’ she called out in a discomfort Steven was tempted to ignore until her next request. ‘Pull the skirt up, I don’t want it tight there.’
Steven paused and gazed into her eyes. The mocking tone had gone now, he was pleased to see, replaced by a heavy-lidded excitement. He nodded, and pulled at the back of the skirt so that it rode up, exposing first the tops of her stockings and the soft white skin of her thighs, then her black satin knickers, a darker patch of dampness showing towards the middle. Taking her at her word, he pulled on the ropes until they bit into the knickers, squeezing the pouch of her sex then, as she squirmed and gasped, slipping into the crease, pulling the satin fabric with them and exposing lines of tight black curls to either side.
Spurred by the exposure, he worked quickly, drawing the ropes up over her torso and criss-crossing them across her chest so that her breasts, their curve already enhanced by the basque, were bunched between the shiny white lines. He completed the cross around the back of her neck, then stepped back to survey the job. He’d expected outrage, or some kind of struggle, from her, and she did tug on the ropes, lifting her head and hands back, but only, it seemed, t
o tighten the ropes cutting into her crotch.
‘Now that you’ve got me all tied up, what are you going to do to me?’ she asked.
Steve stared at her again, scarcely able to believe her response to his actions, and still half-convinced that cameras were following his every move. Fuck it, if he was being filmed, he’d give them a show to remember.
‘I’m going to make you suck my cock,’ he said hoarsely.
Surely the game was up now; surely this girl would ask him to stop, and whoever was in on this with her would emerge from the shadows, hands raised to ward him off.
But nobody came. There was just him and her, and as he gazed into her eyes she licked her lips in provocative response to his suggestion. He needed no further encouragement, and advanced until the crotch of his jeans was level with her face. Far from struggling or begging to be freed, the girl was scissoring her legs back and forth, working the tight rope into the crease of her panties, as she gazed at the bulge between Steve’s legs. The unmistakable aroma of female arousal wafted up to him.
Bunching up her luxuriant hair in one hand, he unzipped himself with the other, letting his cock spring out into her face. ‘All right, you’ve asked for this, whoever you are.’ But the menace in his tone was undone by the sight of her craning her head forwards, evidently desperate for the taste of his cock in her mouth.
Holding her in place with the hand in her hair, he smeared the angry purple bulb of his cockhead over her face, smudging her lipstick and leaving thin trails of spittle from where she’d already managed to lick the shaft. As she enveloped the head with her thick lips, making little squeals of excitement that tightened his balls, her eyes gazing up into his, he was struck by the sudden conviction that this was Lisette, the object of his obsession, sprung as though fully formed from the darkest recesses of his mind. His rational mind told him it was impossible, but as his cock sank into the warm mouth and she began to suck, hollowing her cheeks and running her tongue over the shaft, the rest of him knew this was no fake.
Giving a strangled cry, he wrenched at her basque, tearing the joins and letting the soft white flesh of her breasts spill out, the pink nipples already hard. As he shoved her head up and down on his cock with one hand, he tugged and clawed at her nipples with the other, leaving angry red marks that died slowly on the tender skin, then leant forwards to bite into the giving mounds, all control gone now, as she purred then gasped at his sudden frenzy of passion.
Her legs were moving faster now, pressed tightly together as she squirmed on the seat, pulling the rope deep into her crease. He locked eyes with her as he thrust his cock into her mouth, slowing now to allow her to play her tongue over his engorged glans, slide it over the shaft then hollow her cheeks and shake her head back and forth, clearly relishing the taste.
He pulled away and pushed his balls towards her, and she gave a little mew of excitement before licking enthusiastically at the tight sac. Encouraged by his deep groan as he rubbed the shaft over her cheeks, she sucked at his balls, trying to fit as much of them as possible into her mouth, tonguing them hard and fast, until her legs locked, her body shook, a tremor that seemed to begin in her feet and rise like a wave all the way to her head, and she gazed deep into Steve’s eyes, her mouth momentarily free and gasping as she rocked against her bonds.
The sight tipped Steve over the edge, and he clenched the fingers of one hand hard around her hair while moving the other to caress her neck as she still shuddered from her orgasm, the realisation of his fantasy complete as he stuffed his cock all the way into her mouth, her lips flared around its base, feeling her throat contract under his fingers as she gagged and milked the spunk from his heavy balls, his back arching as he emptied his life into her.
Drained, he released her and stumbled back. Unsteady on his feet, he giggled as an ankle gave under him, barely able to keep his balance. The room went dark and still. As he crumpled to his knees, his vision slowly fading, the figure on the chair before him raised her arms impossibly high behind her head, the grotesque movement matched by a horrible creaking, then lowered them forwards and on to her lap, a sly smile on her spunk-smeared lips.
‘My biggest fan, Steve? That’s what the others said too. Don’t worry, you’ll have time to work it out among yourselves. All the time in the world.’
The deep, throaty laugh that followed was the last thing Steve heard before the darkness swallowed him up.
The sun had gone down by the time Steve awoke. He didn’t know where he was at first, only that his head was splitting. His first thought was that he must have missed the last bus back to Bristol; then he wondered where Lisette was; and then he realised he wasn’t in her room. Not the room he’d been in previously, anyway. A waning moon shining through a cracked cobwebbed window was enough to show him that. No, he seemed to be sitting in some kind of storeroom now, and as his eyes adjusted to the gloom he could see what looked like chairs, facing him and extending in rows to either side.
‘Lisette?’ he called out, but the sound was a mere croak. Water, he thought blindly. I must have water. He willed his body to stand, and tottered up, impossibly weak, but his legs gave way beneath him, and as his momentum carried him forwards he reached out in front of him, his mouth open in a silent scream.
As his hands fell on the dry thing in the chair opposite, he heard it make a sound, the dry moan of autumn leaves rustling in the wind, and this time as he flinched back his legs held, enough for him to stumble back into the shaft of moonlight and look at the stringy cobwebs hanging from his hands from where he’d fallen, and the dessicated wrinkled parchment that had been his skin wrapped over the brittle dry bone that had been his arm.
Love on the Dark Side Page 25