Читать книгу The Visitor: Vampire Erotica - Various, Glenda Jackson - Страница 4

It was a dream, a nightmare, a fairy tale.

‘Rose, wake up.’

She woke with no coherent memory of where she was, aware only that it was raining because she could hear it drumming on the car roof, and that her neck ached from dozing off at an awkward angle. A waft of cooler air carried a fresh dampness to her lungs, dispelling the warm fug of the vehicle interior.

‘Come on.’ It was the woman: that silver bobbed hair, those high and delicate cheekbones belying her age. Rose tried to marshal her memories. Amanda, wasn’t it? She’d called herself Amanda and she’d been the one driving. Now she was standing at the far door and holding it open, oblivious – it seemed – to the weather.

‘Where are we?’ Rose looked around, confused. Through the rain-blurred night she saw white-plastered walls, illuminated windows and the base of a round turret. And a lit archway, within which a dark figure flickered momentarily. Yes, there’d been a man in the back with her, hadn’t there? What was his name? Something French, she thought, though he’d sounded English. An edge of accusation crept into her voice: ‘Is this Paris? You said you’d take me to Paris.’

‘We’re a few kilometres outside Paris.’ Water dripped from Amanda’s pale hair. ‘This is a hotel.’

‘Why’ve we stopped?’ Kyle would be wondering what was keeping her – she couldn’t keep him waiting, could she?

‘For dinner. Aren’t you hungry?’

Oh, of course – Kyle wasn’t expecting her. She hadn’t told him she was coming because she wanted it to be a wonderful surprise. She hadn’t told anyone about her plan to hitch-hike across the English Channel and then all the way to Kyle’s student digs in Paris. But yes, she was hungry. She’d been living on crisps for the last twenty-four hours. Crisps and that horrible ham sandwich on the ferry, while she was hiding in the ladies’ toilet waiting for that lorry driver with the creeping hands to give up on waiting for her.

Still dizzy with sleep, Rose emerged into the rain. Cold drops licked her lips. She’d been dreaming, she remembered. Something about kissing Kyle … only, his lips had been icy.

‘I can’t,’ she said, hunching against the downpour as Amanda came round the back of the car. The white walls of the chateau loomed like a fairy-tale castle and steam rose from the exterior up-lights in miniature mist wreathes. ‘I mean, I haven’t got that sort of money.’

‘Don’t worry about that. We’ve got it covered.’ Amanda took her arm. ‘Come on.’

The night was horrible and Rose obeyed, letting herself be led towards the arched doorway.

Inside, it was a palace: panelled walls, gilt furniture carved with grapes and cherubs, huge vases of flowers, enormous portraits of ugly people in beautiful clothes. The carpet under Rose’s feet was so thick she felt like she was sinking into it. Her jaw dropped. She’d only ever seen this sort of opulence on a school trip to Windsor Castle. She’d never imagined that real people stayed in places like this, and somehow it made her feel less real herself.

The man was there, talking in French to a stout, elegant woman who wore an expression of stiff hauteur. He glanced at them as they drew near, and smiled. For a moment Rose couldn’t help thinking the smile was for her, and her heart bumped. He was really not bad-looking for an older bloke – he must be in his thirties, she guessed – and his smile lit his dark eyes. Then she realised that the pleasure must be intended for Amanda, of course. His girlfriend. Auntie. Whatever.

She blushed.

Reynauld. That was his name. She remembered now. Her mind seemed to be all over the place, like a flock of pigeons scattered by the shadow of something dark overhead.

‘The room at the top of the stairs,’ he murmured to Amanda, with a tilt of his head to indicate the direction. ‘They’ll fetch the bags.’

‘This way, Rose.’

She let herself be shepherded to the foot of a great marble staircase, and it was only a chance glimpse through a pair of double doors that made her pause. The room beyond those doors was clearly a dining area. People in fine clothes sat below glittering chandeliers while waiters hovered.

‘I thought we were going to eat?’

Amanda, one step higher by this point, laughed, the fine skin around her eyes creasing. ‘You can’t sit in those wet clothes, can you? Not in there! Come on – we’ve got the use of a room to freshen up in. And I can lend you one of my dresses. You must be soaked.’

It was true. Rose was sodden all down her back and her shoes squelched even on this luxurious carpet. She’d been walking through the rain in Calais port for some time before those two stopped to offer her a lift. The prospect of being able to dry herself and maybe comb her hair out was very appealing. So much so that she’d climbed two flights of steps before it dawned on her how odd it was that she and Amanda were both wet from the short walk from the car, but, as far as she could recall, Reynauld hadn’t looked even slightly damp.

Maybe he’d taken the only umbrella. Not much of a gentleman, then.

Amanda showed her into a room that took her breath away. Not a room: a suite, she thought, spying a second chamber opening from the first through connecting doors. They must be totally loaded. There were flowers everywhere again, and ugly expensive furniture upholstered in red-and-cream stripes. The cover of the huge bed was crimson and mounded with tasselled cushions and bolsters.

‘Warm yourself up with a nice hot shower,’ Amanda suggested. ‘I’ll wait for my bag.’

There were even flowers in the bathroom: white lilies that gave off a sweet narcotic scent. Huge fluffy towels too, and gilt taps. Rose, alone at last, shook her head and giggled, bemused by everything from the bidet to the matched range of expensive-looking toiletries on the marble sink. Guests didn’t even have to bring their own hairbrushes – there were two laid out already. There wasn’t a lock on the inside of the bathroom door though. Ugh, how French, she thought. But the chance to indulge was too tempting to resist.

Oh, it was so good to shed her damp and frowsty clothes and step into a piping-hot shower. She was especially delighted to discover the many nozzles that sprayed her with water from multiple angles and she spent time playing with them until she got them to hit her just right – on the upper slopes of her breasts and right over her pubic mound. The naughtiness made her giggle, and the teasing insistent pressure made her wish Kyle were there, soaping her up with that expensive body-crème and running his fingers through the suds.

Soon, she promised herself, sighing and shivering with pleasure. I’m nearly there.

It was a bit of a shock to find, when she stepped out, that all her clothes had vanished off the bathroom floor. In their stead, a pale violet-grey slip and a pair of stockings had been draped over the dressing-table chair. Rose frowned. She hadn’t noticed anyone entering the bathroom; she hadn’t heard a thing. It was like a fairy tale, where things appeared by magic.

She wondered whether to march out in her towel and demand her clothes back, but decided to try the new ones on first.

The result was disconcerting. She stood before the mirror and stared at herself, in that slip that barely skimmed her thighs and the hold-ups in their matching hue. Her skin was cream-pale and the tiny gold cross Kyle had given her gleamed upon her breastbone. The lingerie made her look older; not in a bad way, but more sophisticated. Like a model, she thought. The silk clung to her breasts and hips to emphasise her slender figure. She wondered if she ought to have a matching pair of panties with those same embroidered white flowers on, or whether it was just gross to wear someone else’s knickers. Am I supposed to go down to dinner with a bare pussy then?

She was combing out her wet hair when Amanda walked in.

‘There,’ she said, coming up behind Rose in the mirror. ‘That colour suits you better than it does me. I just look so washed out these days.’ Without asking permission, she adjusted the straps at Rose’s shoulders and smoothed the slip over her waist and hips. Rose was both flattered and irritated. She thought she looked better than Amanda too. Of course I do – I’m much younger for a start. And why was the woman resting her hands on her shoulders, like she owned Rose? After that hot shower, Amanda’s fingers felt chilly.

‘You and Reynauld,’ she said, pouting her lips and looking with satisfaction at her reflection. ‘Is he your boyfriend then?’

‘My employer. And yes. We are lovers.’

Ugh. She’s got to be at least forty. What does he see in her? And what a snotty way she has of talking, like she thinks she’s the Queen or something. ‘Aren’t you, like, a bit old for him?’

Amanda didn’t answer for a moment and Rose, looking at her narrowed eyes, had time to wonder if maybe she’d been a bit rude, before the other woman said softly, ‘He’s older than he looks.’

‘Is he French?’ Rose decided not to dwell on her possible faux pas. ‘He looks French.’

‘He’s from Baghdad originally, I believe.’

‘What, he’s an Arab sheikh?’ Rose was tickled and a bit alarmed by the prospect of such exoticism and wealth.

‘Persian, not Arab. And not a sheikh.’

‘What does he do, then?’

Amanda blinked and dropped her gaze. ‘He used to work in the City. We’re … currently relocating.’

Banker, said Rose to herself: Boring. ‘Are we going to eat, then?’

‘Yes. We’re going to eat. Come on through.’

Amanda held the door and Rose preceded her into the bedroom. Half a dozen steps in, the girl realised that Reynauld was there, sitting on the bed with his hands at his sides, waiting for them. Rose stopped dead, shock rippling across her skin. Against the crimson bedspread he looked as dark as a clot of congealed blood. His black shirt was open so she could see his bare chest, and there was a look of patient anticipation on his face.

As Amanda’s hands descended on her shoulders once more, cold and implacable, Rose felt all the air leave her lungs and her brain solidify into a solid useless mass. She couldn’t stop looking at Reynauld’s torso. He had black hair etched across his chest and his flat hard stomach – not at all like Kyle, whose lithe body was smooth like polished wood, or like a girl’s. There was nothing remotely feminine about this man, and Rose found herself appalled.

‘Come here,’ he said. His voice was soft and deep, like the voice of darkness itself. But not cool like Amanda’s: warm with pleasure instead. His black eyes drank her in, as if he were sucking the light from her. Rose felt the hands at her shoulders push her forward. Her heart was rocketing with dread and with realisation: that this was what it had all been about, that this was what they had been planning since they stopped to give her a lift in Calais. And though she felt sick with fear and raw with betrayal, at exactly the same time there was a flush of wet and terrible heat between her legs, as if this was what she had been waiting for too.

‘What do you think?’ asked Amanda.

‘Very nice,’ he answered, and then dashed any thought that his approval might have been aimed at Rose herself by adding, ‘Show me her breasts.’

Deftly Amanda swept the thin straps off Rose’s shoulders and reached round to heft her breasts from the fallen silk. Rose’s nipples swelled to hard puckers of protest under the brush of her chill fingertips, and her thighs squirmed, trying to staunch the moisture welling there.

‘Please,’ she said breathlessly, lifting her hands.

Amanda batted them away and cupped her breasts, pressing into her from behind with her own body. She was surprisingly strong. Rose found herself pushed forward almost into Reynauld’s reach.

‘Small tits,’ said Amanda apologetically.

‘Beautiful,’ answered Reynauld. Lust was like a thick black tide brimming in his eyes and his voice. Rose could feel it sucking at her, and she knew that if he touched her she’d be pulled under and drowned. ‘Rose,’ he murmured, ‘thank you for this.’

In addressing her, it was as if he gave her permission to emerge from her blank white shock and find words. ‘You can’t do this,’ she said, her voice shaky. Then: ‘I’ve got a boyfriend, you know.’

It was the stupidest of excuses and she saw amusement crease the corners of his eyes. ‘Don’t worry,’ he promised. ‘It’ll be our little secret.’ He didn’t bother to hide the mockery as his lip curled and revealed an eye-tooth like a knife-point.

‘Oh, Christ,’ she moaned.

Reynauld lifted a brow as if in mild disapproval of her blasphemy. ‘Take the necklace off.’

At once Amanda released her breasts and delved under her hair at the nape of her neck.

‘That’s Kyle’s!’ said Rose, as the catch resisted at first, then broke in the woman’s hands. The chain slid down between her breasts and struck the carpet.

‘Tell me about Kyle,’ he said, his gaze enveloping hers. ‘Tell me what you like to do with him.’

She couldn’t. As she looked into the black depths of his gaze the warm darkness in him flowed into her, and she couldn’t remember Kyle. Not his face or his voice or anything she thought about him. There was only this man, Reynauld.

‘Do you enjoy making love together?’

‘Yes.’ She knew it was true, though she could recall no loving emotion. Just the lust. There was nothing else when she looked into Reynauld’s eyes except lust – and surrender. She could feel the hot gather of her juices overflowing their cup and slicking her labia.

‘Which position, Rose?’

‘All of them.’

‘Do you like to suck his cock?’

‘Yes.’

‘What about when he eats you?’

‘Yes,’ she answered, though she knew she was only gifting him the cruellest of punchlines.

He beckoned her with a crooked finger, and as she stepped unresisting between his knees he laid his hands upon her waist, caressing the smooth lines there. His fingers were cold too, but there was a perfect certainty in them. ‘Do you like it,’ he murmured, his lips parted hungrily, ‘when Kyle sucks your breasts?’

‘Yes,’ she said, trembling in his grasp. She felt Amanda’s hands close around her wrists and draw them back – the grip was not cruel, but it was unbreakable and she knew what it meant. And with her final admission, as if she no longer had any excuse or defence, his mouth closed upon her right nipple.

Teeth punctured skin. The pain was as sharp and exquisite as orgasm and Rose arched, gasping aloud. She felt his hands slide up round her back. Then the searing pain became a pleasure just as keen, just as jagged, racing through her capillaries and flooding her senses. Her breast felt as if it were swelling beneath his ravenous kiss, red-hot against his cold tongue. He bit her over and over, lightly and almost tenderly, and then he shifted to her other breast and bestowed the same benison, tugging and sucking the swollen point.

Rose sobbed with every tug and every pulse, panting wildly. She looked down at herself. She saw his dark head and his black lashes. She saw his clothes fall away from his shoulders, disintegrating to wisps and then to nothing, as if they were only woven of smoke, so that without the least effort he was suddenly naked. She glimpsed the bright smear of crimson, and then she shut her eyes and took refuge from that sight in the sensations that coursed through her, overwhelming all other instincts – even fear.

‘Now,’ said Reynauld thickly. He shifted and turned her to face outwards, pulling her down into his lap and spreading her legs. She felt his hard chest against her back, the rasp of his legs against her silk-clad thighs, and then the nudge of his erection between them in that soft wet open cleft. With one arm he held her; with the other hand he guided his cock to its target. She thought she was so slick she should have been able to take him easily, but his girth came as a shock and she gasped as it stretched her.

‘My Amanda does not yet have her new teeth,’ he said, his voice wet, working his way into Rose with consummate, implacable care, his fingers dancing on her clit now. ‘So I must bite for her. But you will find her kisses just as sweet as mine.’

Drunk with arousal, Rose could hardly focus on what she saw before her: Amanda in her austere grey dress, her delicate face a mask of hunger; Amanda kneeling before the two of them and nuzzling up to her breasts, sucking and lapping at the runnels of blood. But Rose surely felt it – the same thrill that raced from the puncture wounds like liquid lightning, all the way to her clit and her burning core. Her arousal gathered like a thunderhead as he impaled her to the hilt.

Then Reynauld caught her head and drew it back against his shoulder. She hung between orgasm and terror. She’d seen the movies; she knew he was going to bite out her exposed throat. His cold breath swept her neck and cheek and ear.

‘Give it up to me, Rose. Give it all up. Let my beloved taste your pleasure as you surrender to me – ah, yes.’

Disobedience was never a possibility. Rose broke like a storm, and tears ran down her face as she howled.

But he didn’t bite. To her indescribable relief and disappointment, he did not touch her throat. Instead, as Amanda lifted her face to show a scarlet lip-stain that looked garish against her porcelain pallor, he took Rose’s whole limp weight in his hands and began to slide her up and down on the cock impaling her.

‘Wait,’ said Amanda. ‘I know what you want.’ Taking Rose’s hands, she drew the girl to her feet, right off Reynauld, and turned her to face him again. A push on Rose’s shoulders dropped her to her knees. ‘Suck his cock,’ Amanda ordered.

Reynauld’s expression filled with consternation, almost dismay – which Rose might have found baffling if her attention had not been fixed on other parts. His stiffly erect cock made Kyle’s look like a toy. She would hardly have believed that it had all been inside her, if it hadn’t been for the glistening evidence painted the length of its shaft.

‘Amanda, this isn’t –’ he said, his teeth bared like an attack-dog’s.

‘You want it,’ Amanda answered. She caught Rose’s hair and pushed her head to his cock. ‘Take it in your mouth.’

Overbalancing, Rose grabbed his thighs. Hair ran rough beneath her palms. Oh fuck, he’s so … she cried inside her head. There was hair on his legs, his chest and his belly, as black and glistening as lines drawn in fresh ink. He was all muscle beneath it too, his thighs hard like stone and just as cold. She’d never touched a body like it. It made her feel ignorant and tiny. She opened her lips to the bell of his cock as Amanda forced her head down upon it, and tasted her own pussy on him.

Reynauld made no more protestations.

‘Take it all in,’ Amanda commanded.

Oh, God, there was no way on earth she could get that thing in all the way to the root. She laved him with her tongue, trying to make it more slippery and manageable, but Amanda pushed her right down until he butted the back of her throat. For a long moment she couldn’t draw breath. Then with a tug Amanda brought her back up for air, just before she started to panic.

That was all that was required of her: to make her mouth welcoming. Amanda controlled the speed and rhythm. Reynauld’s hips jerked to urge his cock a little deeper every time. Her jaw began to ache from his girth, but she couldn’t stop. Her breasts burned. She longed for him to bite them again. She hurt with the need for it.

As if he heard her wish, he reached down and pinched her nipples between his fingers and thumbs. Those buds of flesh were still as hot as if they’d been stung by wasps, and his touch was icy. It was torture, and it was what she needed. She felt herself open up, every part of her: cunt and throat all at once. She felt his thigh muscles jump beneath his skin as his length surged right into her throat, and then he let loose a cold flood of semen.

Gasping for breath, she jerked herself free, his come running out of the corners of her mouth. Reynauld stared down at her, his bulk filling her vision. Then he snatched her right up off the floor and threw her on the bed. All teeth and cock, he wrenched her thighs apart and fell upon her pussy. Wrapping his mouth over her pubis, he bit down hard.

Rose screamed. There was no distinction between terror and pain and pleasure in that cry; they were simultaneous and overwhelming. Then they too were overborne by the great supernova of her orgasm. She kept on coming as he fed, glutting himself on her ecstasy. She clutched the coverlet and bucked her hips and kicked against him – with utter lack of effect – until Amanda crawled up on to the bed to face him.

Reynauld lifted his head then, his mouth leaking crimson. Amanda went to him, licking his lips – like a puppy to a big dog, thought Rose through the fog that blurred her mind. At that instant her whole picture of them flipped inside out. He is old, she thought, not with contempt but with a kind of vertigo. He’s so much older than her. And he fed her, letting her suck from his mouth, until the two of them moved into a full kiss whose unselfconscious absorption made Rose ache with jealousy.

In her need she moaned out loud.

Reynauld remembered her then. ‘Drink,’ he told Amanda, drawing her down to the open pussy he had abandoned. Amanda shifted to straddle Rose’s supine torso, head to tail, her knees either side of the younger woman’s shoulders, her wicked three-inch heels slicing the air, her tight skirt and neat ass filling Rose’s field of view. But Rose didn’t care; she had what she wanted – a mouth on her clit once more, sucking.

She didn’t even care when Reynauld tugged that skirt right up – revealing dove-grey stockings, slim thighs and a lack of panties equivalent to her own – even though she’d never confronted another woman’s pussy before. Amanda’s sex was perfectly shaven, its lips plump and glistening. In the welter of her own ecstatic turmoil, Rose forgot to be disgusted. And the sight of Reynauld’s thighs eclipsing the light as he moved up behind his protégée and spread her cunt with his fingers made Rose come again.

There, inches above her face, he put his cock to Amanda’s slit and speared her, ramming home with a determination nearly brutal. Amanda moaned into Rose’s pussy and pushed back on to the shaft impaling her, begging for more.

‘Oh!’ Rose gasped, arching her neck and licking at Reynauld’s swinging balls. He laughed out loud then, a sound so deep and harsh that it sounded like a snarl.

She saw it all. Every slap of his dark and hairy thighs up against Amanda’s pale smooth ones. Every inch of his thick cock as it slid in and out of her split pussy, wet with her juices. Every jiggle of his ball-sac as it bounced back and forth – though soon enough it stopped swinging and tightened up to a hard knot of intent. For Rose the sight was all one with the awful, racking joy of being fed upon.

And when Reynauld came once more, his fingers biting into Amanda’s ass, his thighs a shuddering tattoo that ended in slamming blows and straining stillness, she saw that too. When Reynauld pulled out, she saw his cream spilling from Amanda’s sex in a slow wash. Then Amanda sat back on Rose’s face and the girl saw no more, not until she’d swallowed every mouthful of Reynauld’s seed and Amanda had ground out her own orgasm on Rose’s face.

She thought it would be over, after that. Her body was a trembling slick of exhaustion and pleasure. But she had to wake up when Amanda tugged her back into a sitting position.

‘Come on, Rose. On your feet.’

‘What are we doing?’ she mumbled, unable to focus her eyes.

‘Going down to dinner, like we planned,’ said Reynauld’s deep, warm voice. ‘They should have cleared the dining room of other guests by now. The food here is supposed to be excellent. Amanda still eats solids. And you will need to keep your strength up. You’ve a long night ahead of you.’

‘What?’ She blinked herself properly awake in time to see the shadows crawl out of the corners of the room and from under the furniture and creep up his limbs, arranging themselves into a reasonable facsimile of sombre clothing. Hiding his still rock-hard erection.

‘Did you think we’d finished?’ Amanda smiled as, ignoring all that, she tugged Rose’s silk slip back up into place for her, covering up her breasts though not the jut of her engorged nipples. ‘That was only an appetiser. We’re still very hungry.’

Rose had a sudden intense vision of herself laid out on a hotel table under the horrified, avid eyes of the waiters, as Reynauld and Amanda fucked her and sucked her, turn and turn about, until she died of it. At the thought her pussy tingled, moistening anew.

It would be wonderful.

She didn’t resist when Amanda took her hand and led her to the door like a child, though her legs were so shaky she had to lean on the older woman. Her breasts and pussy were heavy and aching. The touch of Reynauld’s palm on her ass only made her tremble with anticipation. But just before leaving the chamber she stopped abruptly. They were facing one of the big gilt-framed mirrors. She could see herself in it, slender and waiflike and debauched in her stockings and slip, with the bloodstains leaking into the silk over her breasts. She could see Amanda clearly too: improbably neat and pristine after their tussle. But where Reynauld should be behind her there was only a shadowy distortion in the glass.

Oh, God. It’s all real. Everything they say about them.

‘You don’t show up in the mirror,’ she blurted.

She recognised the flash of Amanda’s eyes: a swift, protective anger. She turned, expecting to see a similar rage in Reynauld and already flinching.

But he didn’t look angry. She couldn’t begin to identify his expression, only knowing that in that moment he somehow looked more human than at any point previously.

‘Only light is reflected, Rose,’ he told her, his voice low. ‘Only light.’

* * *

Rose woke alone to breakfast in bed and a taxi waiting downstairs to take her to the Sorbonne. She had no memory of how she came to be in a beautiful Michelin-starred French hotel. Or how she’d lost three days. None whatsoever.

It was just like a fairy tale.

* * *

Author’s note: Amanda and Reynauld appear in Red Grow the Roses, by Janine Ashbless