Masks of the Dark Goddess , livre ebook

Andrews UK - Peyton Fletcher

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66 pages

English

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A lust for power and pleasure propels the evil heroine of the Dark Goddess Trilogy into a tangled maze of murder, robbery and charity work. Can the arts of mesmerism and the lash prevail against a man who should be dead? What exotic secrets lie hidden within her new, young lover's budding sexuality? Sinister scheming and vivid action take the Dark Goddess to the bedrooms, rooftops and catacombs of London on a thrill ride sure to please lovers of gothic, Victorian erotica.

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Erotic literature

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Publié par	Andrews UK
Date de parution	29 mars 2018
Nombre de lectures	1
EAN13	9781785388088
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0150€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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MASKS OF THE DARK GODDESS
Peyton Fletcher

First published in 2017 by
House of Erotica
www.houseoferoticabooks.com
Digital edition converted and distributed by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
© Copyright 2017 Peyton Fletcher
The right of Peyton Fletcher to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any person who does so may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

1. The Ape
“There goes the most spiritual man in London,” said Iris Marmott, nodding toward a figure across the street. I turned and caught a quick glimpse before the Bond Street throng swallowed him up, But something rang a bell. I’d seen those features before , but could not put a name to them and new the matter would niggle at me until I had their owner pegged.
None of this, I mentioned to Iris, in whom I took a purely practical interest concealed beneath a mask of casual, but growing friendship. Iris held secrets - her perpetually-pressed lips screamed as much - and I meant to have them. My current and rather important project demanded as much.
Accordingly, I adopted a disinterested tone to ask, “High ecclesiastic, is he?”
“Hardly. Doesn’t even call himself ‘reverend’ and preaches, if you call it that, in an atrocious ruined church.”
“What does he call himself, then?”
“Harry Beecham,” she replied.
The name meant nothing.
“And what does he preach, then?”
“Less of what and more of how.”
Those words brought to her face the slightly exalted look she gets when particularly moved by a painting or some bit of poetry. It quite transforms a horsey and severe countenance, redeemed only by striking grey eyes set in a habitual gaze of wary alertness.
“He usually begins with a bit of scripture,” she went on at my prompting. “Most often from the New Testament , or the Song of Songs .” I blinked at that - hard to imagine High Anglican Iris knowing, or tolerating The Hebrew Bible’s Song of Songs. But, as I was coming to learn, Iris possessed a remarkable and peculiar mind.
“He brings the scene wonderfully to life by his most gentle voice and close attention to details. Then he wanders away with them and we go with him.
“He once, for instance, began with Christ on the Cross, then floated upward to a cloud directly above, which then drifted away from that most holy of scenes. And it was not at all lonely, as Mr. Wordsworth has it, but content in the company of others like itself. The wind blew them far away, until they dropped their gentle rain on the lovers to be found in the Song of Songs and then drifted on, all unaware of what they had seen and done.
“Listening to such tales, our selves become completely forgotten. We are right there with the cloud and its raindrops. And when he finished, we all return to ourselves, feeling wonderfully refreshed and at peace with the world.”
“That sounds marvellous,” I said, though privately, I entertained darker thoughts. This Mr. Beecham sounded like some sort of mesmerist, possibly benign, but more likely not.
“What happens then?”
“We talk a bit. Most girls seek some sort of meaning in the tale. A few just remark on its beauty.”
“And what does Mr. Beecham have to say?”
“Nothing much. He says meaning is for each to find and the rest for all to nurture within.”
“Wise words,” I replied and turned the conversation to other topics - always careful to avoid the appearance of prying - Iris’ wariness is genuine - she trusts no one.
We parted and I took a hansom home to find husband Matthew and the tiny nun both hard at work - he poring over the documents that had become his lot in life since taking his seat in the House of Lords and she busy at the illustrations that had made her so beloved an author of children’s books that Victoria, herself, had requested a set.
I left them to it and made my way to the rooftop - a splendid place to put my mind to the problem of Mr. Harry Beecham.
That I knew him was a certainty. Equally certain was that he was no friend or social acquaintance. Crooked legs and jutting jaws find no place among flower of English nobility. We do not resemble apes.
That image turned the trick. I knew but one man to whom the term “ape” might rightfully be applied and I recalled exactly where I knew him from. It was not a place I would ever associate with spirituality, let alone Iris Marmott.
I met the man for the first and only time at a masked ball in a chateau just outside Paris. This was about six months after Matthew and I had married. The invitation promised “licence and fantasy” and, knowing my host’s extravagant tastes, I had a very clear idea of what sort of party he had in mind.
Accordingly, I chose to make a grand entrance in a black leather corset, trimmed in red piping, that cupped, but did not cover, my breasts, the nipples of which were stained with red, as were my lips.
Above, I had my hair piled high and shot through with silver threads. My mask was a domino of black lace, with large holes for the eyes, beside whose tear glands, I place a tiny drop of the shade of red known as lake. It makes the eyes stand out from the darkness around them and creates a compelling quality. Below, a choker of onyx added length to my throat.
My skirt was a simple black kid affair, cut close at the waist and widening down to the ankles. It was slit all the way up the centre so that my legs might peep through as I walked and - better yet - both halves could be swept back and fastened there with the flick of a clasp, to frame me in its deep crimson lining.
I finished off with high-heeled black satin slippers and tight, black kid opera gloves.
On one arm, I wore a thin serpentine silver bracelet that coiled from elbow to shoulder - terribly ostentatious in polite society, but perfect for a masquerade.
In the other hand, I held a fine silver chain whose far end encircled Matthew’s throat. Otherwise, I had him fully shaven and oiled and clad only in a little bag for his balls, from whence his cock rose, rigid - and flat, black leather slippers. For his mask, I chose something like an executioner’s hood, cut with large eye-holes and ending just below the nose. All in all, he made the perfect accessory.
I turned heads from the instant I stepped into the ballroom. The ominous nature of my costume provided striking contrast to the vivid hues and playful pastels adopted by most of the other revellers and announced to one and all that I had come to use and not be used.
At once, I found myself in a giddy whirl of antique nobility, exotic beasts and creatures of myth and imagination, spiced here and there with musicians, jugglers, conjurors, fire-eaters and the like, all with their intimate equipment on full display. And often in others’ hands. I, myself, gave and received such casual caresses as I drifted through the rooms, pausing here and there to watch cocks and cunts in congress.
With amorous play all around me and the rich aromas of perfume and lust filling my nostrils, I soon felt that I was happily lost in some erotic fairy land whose every pleasure was mine for the taking.
In this mood, I strolled on until I reached a room where the atmosphere was decidedly different. The first sight that greeted me was of a Nordic giant vigorously applying a flogger to the bare back of a dainty blonde girl whose lips could barely encompass the fat cock of a looming Germanic man. All three bodies glistened in the flickering torchlight that had replaced the chandeliers that graced the rest of the party. Deeper in the gloom, I could almost make out the form of someone strapped to a St. Andrew’s cross and having weights applied to their genitals.
That person’s shrieks blended with the grunts and moans, slaps, cracks and thuds from all around the room. The intoxicating scent of leather and lust swirled through the air and, from far off, came the tinkle of laughter as the rest of the party rollicked on its own merry way. But here, delight took on a darker hue.
I settled into a chair to savour the agony of a man being candled at nipples and cock and was soon besieged by admirers with invitations to play. Most, I dismissed out of hand, for they wished only for some light chastisement while they, or another, brought them to release. Others offered to service me orally, while suffering my whip - better, but still quite mundane. I did, however, accommodate one handsome older woman who invited me to flog her cunt while sitting on her face. As she approached me with the proper respect and presented for my use a vicious little flogger with knotted tails, I thought this a good enough place to begin my evening’s pleasures.
I led her to a low bench and seated myself on her face. She began licking at once and was quite expert at it, but she only grunted at the first lash. I wanted screams and accordingly unleashed a flurry of blows that achieved the desired end and attracted a crowd of onlookers who amused themselves with bets on which of us would come first.
I could have saved them the trouble, for nothing brings me to climax as fast as screams delivered directly into my quim. Their vibrational quality excites me so greatly that I cannot hold back, even if I want.