Kiss of Death by Valentina Cilescu
Death and Lust and Vampires!
In the forgotten and bricked-up cellars of Winterbourne Hall, the Master’s spirit feasted . . . At last, his deliverance was at hand. Hidden deep in the English countryside, Winterbourne Hall is the finest whorehouse in the land, where no fantasy is too wild to be acted out, no desire is too outrageous to be satisfied – and in its splendid isolation, secrets stay safe. Andreas Hunt is a cynical tabloid journalist. He lives a louche lifestyle, with any number of willing women at his fingertips – but he doesn’t want most women. Most women bore him. He wants Mara, the luscious-bodied white witch, who has seduced him thoroughly. Where Mara leads, he follows – and she leads him to Winterbourne, where commences a sexual adventure that will soon become a deliciously forbidden nightmare: for at Winterbourne, Andreas will meet the Master, a real life sex vampire . . . Kiss of Death is razor sharp erotica at its edgiest and most thrilling. The first in a captivating series.
*****
Excerpt:
1: Winterbourne
It was happening at last.
The Master was awakening: his immortal soul was rising through seas of consciousness, thoughts unfreezing, clarifying, memories melting the icy prison of enforced forgetfulness.
His spirit hovered, like a formless black shadow of unspeakable evil, above his motionless body, trapped and impotent within the unforgiving crystal; looked down upon the heavy lid of the sarcophagus and was filled with rage, grief and the longing for sweet revenge.
But his powers were still at a low ebb. There was a dim flickering where before there had raged a sulphurous furnace of chaotic energies, the servants of his perverse and terrifying desires.
He was going to need time, imagination, cunning. But he was patient. He could wait. The world would know his power once again, and this time there would be no mistake.
There had been long years of imprisonment, betrayal, defeat. But he was back now. The arrogant fools had thought they could kill him: that in trying to kill his body they could annihilate his spirit. Soon they would know that there are some things in this world that are beyond understanding: some things that never, ever die.
He wondered what had provided the stimulus to his reawakening, what had struck the spark of consciousness into his frozen heart. In his weakened state, he was still blind. He could not even see his own face, fixed in an expression of unbearable agony beneath the heavy stone coffin lid.
He did not even know where he was. His memories were muddled, clouded by pain and long slumber. A dark cellar, somewhere beneath a great stately home. That was all he could recall. A silent and deserted place, walled up and forgotten for – how many years? He could not tell.
But he could feel. And already he sensed the power-source, as yet just a trickle of feeble electricity, but soon, soon he knew, to burst forth into a great surge of life-giving energy.
The sexual energy on which he fed. The power-surge generated out of the chaos of frenzied coupling. Someone, somewhere very close at hand, was preparing an orgy and, although they did not realise it, the Master was to be their honoured guest.
The girl wore nothing but a thin white shift made of the thinnest, most diaphanous cotton lawn. Her body was pale, firm, perfect: the body of a young and beautiful girl. She could not have been more than eighteen years old at most.
‘Beautiful,’ breathed Delgado, reaching out a bronzed hand and running an incautious finger down the girl’s cool, white arm. She shivered slightly, as though she were cold, but she did not flinch. The girl seemed unusually docile, and her eyesale stared almost sightlessly before her. ‘You have drugged her?’
‘Of course,’ replied Madame LeCoeur. ‘A little injection to calm her down, a shot of something to make her more . . . receptive. Our lovely little child will enjoy her initiation, never fear. It was so good of Herr Königsberg to volunteer his daughter’s . . . services . . . for our opening night. Such beauty should not be wasted. Among us, she will learn to be a skilled whore. One day, she will thank her father for what he has done to her tonight . . .’
Delgado surveyed the girl and took in her charms. Tall, slim-waisted and full-hipped, her body was enough to delight any man. The bright blonde triangle of her pubis showed clearly through her thin dress and proved that she was a natural blonde. Her pert breasts were cherry-tipped and hard, bearing witness to the efficacy of Madame LeCoeur’s aphrodisiacs. Her eyes were a brilliant blue: clear and deep as an August sky. He was pleased with her. He turned to Madame LeCoeur: ‘You are quite certain that she is a virgin?’
‘You would like to see, perhaps?’
Delgado nodded. He was not easily moved by feminine beauty. A lifetime spent masterminding white slavery and the brothels of Marrakesh had left his palate jaded, and it took something exceptional to whet his appetite these days. He noted with approval and some surprise that he was salivating, and his hardened penis was bulging appreciatively inside his Savile Row trousers.
‘Lie down on the bed, child.’
Slowly, mechanically, like a sleepwalker, the girl obeyed. Her pale golden hair flowed over the pillow as she lay down on the blue silk bedspread.
‘Pull up your shift.’
*****
Other Modern Erotic Classics available:
The Houdini Girl by Martyn Bedford
Lie to Me by Tamara Faith Berger
The Phallus of Osiris by Valentina Cilescu
Kiss of Death by Valentina Cilescu
The Flesh Constrained by Cleo Cordell
The Flesh Endures by Cleo Cordell
Hogg by Samuel R. Delany
The Tides of Lust by Samuel R. Delany
Sad Sister by Florence Dugas
The Ties That Bind by Vanessa Duriés
Dark Ride by Kent Harrington
3 by Julie Hilden
Neptune & Surf by Marilyn Jaye Lewis
Violent Silence by Paul Mayersberg
Homme Fatale by Paul Mayersberg
The Agency by David Meltzer
Burn by Michael Perkins
Dark Matter by Michael Perkins
Evil Companions by Michael Perkins
Beautiful Losers by Remittance Girl
Meeting the Master by Elissa Wald
