A Date with The Devil Pt. 02

'I suppose.'

'Stands to reason,' Bruno repeated.

'Leo's what you call Apollyon, isn't it?'

'Leo's his real name. Apollyon means "The Angel of the Bottomless Pit"; or else "The Destroyer". It fits his image rather well, wouldn't you say?'

Mary Rose wasn't convinced. It fit only too well with the sort of image Hev went on about. Meaning an image she could do without.

'So you know this Sally, do you?' she said.

'She's some sort of insurance broker in Canary Wharf, and high up in Canary Wharf at that. She does very well for herself, but she ain't an heiress. There's just a passing resemblance at most. Okay?'

It wasn't okay but Mary Rose knew a dead end when she saw one.

'Okay,' she said, reaching for his cock.

*****

Naked under the white robe, Lindsey struggled with her composure. Standing beside Leo's fearsome butler she felt small and very vulnerable. She also felt to be on the verge of something big. That made all the difference. Whatever hypnosis she'd been under before had worn off. She was strong, intrepid and in charge.

Yes, and much more relevantly, any moment now, she we going to be right in there, in the mix.

Seven of us, she thought. Me, Leonard and five others, all as intimate as intimate can be.

All I need is to confirm one identity.

Or better still, two, or three . . .

To her mind this small, tightknit gathering had to include one or two major players. Friday nights were for seekers of pleasure; this was for real.

Okay, maybe "for real" wasn't much different to merely "for pleasure", but Leonard was hardly likely to invite the dregs to an exclusive assembly, was he?

Herself aside, tonight's other attendees were guaranteed cream.

She hoped.

Already writing the story in her head, Lindsey discounted the peril of her personal situation. She was a grown adult who'd had countless adult associations. Getting fucked to get her scoop wasn't the end of the world, was it? In fact, slanting the tale right, getting fucked would make her even more of a hero.

Lindsey was good at slanting tales. And this one was going to be a lulu.

'Come,' a voice intoned from beyond the chapel's door.

The butler opened it.

And Lindsey indomitably strode inside.

*****

Two hundred miles north, in darkest Yorkshire, Heather was delighted by the return of her neighbour, Graham. As a hairy-assed engineer from, Keighley, Graham shouldn't really be living in a penthouse next door to her, not according to general opinion. In her opinion he was more than welcome.

In her opinion she couldn't have picked a finer person to live beside.

Well, except maybe Ellen DeGeneres.

Heather and Graham had first got together thanks to Charlie Brown, his cat.

His freaking cat!

Normally it wasn't wise to get Heather going about the relevance of cats. Taking very much after her dad, she was of the belief that dogs were essential and cats could look after themselves, preferably in the most remote corner of the most remote barn. A cat could only be relied on to look out for itself, kill things and produce kittens on an only-too regular basis.

Dogs were eternally loyal to farmers; cats were feral; simple as.

Preconceptions apart, Heather had readily agreed to look after Graham's moggy while he was away. In truth she'd agreed almost as readily as she'd let him drag her into bed.

Or had she dragged him into bed?

Whatever the sequence of events, an alliance had been made. And for long enough, that alliance had been maintained. Both of them resolutely single, being friends with benefits was . . . well, it was a very big benefit.

Eventually they'd arrived at an arrangement. A "cup of sex" they'd called it. Put simply, if home alone and in need of sex, they were both free to call in next door. And, assuming "next door" was also home alone, the visited upon person was obliged to say yes.

It was an arrangement Heather had used and abused. They'd based it on the old-fangled borrowing of cups of sugar from neighbours. So far as sex was concerned, if they ever did try reckoning up, she'd probably owe him the contents of a dozen Tate & Lyle warehouses.

As a banker she didn't worry too much about that sort of a debt. Graham wasn't quite savvy enough to charge exorbitant interest rates . . . and if he did at some stage wise up, so what? Repaying him in full would take years but it would be fun, wouldn't it?

However, as good old Geoff Chaucer once said, all good things must come to an end. For some daft reason that had made sense at the time, Heather had pushed Graham into the arms of her half-Italian girlfriend, Victoria. And they'd clicked in a very big way. Nowadays Graham and Victoria had become inseparable and she was left twiddling her thumbs.

Or, rather, twiddling herself with her thumbs.

On the positive side, love birds or not, Graham and Vic hadn't cut Heather altogether adrift.

And Graham was fresh back from India. East to west was best so far as jet lag was concerned, wasn't it? He wouldn't be tired, would he? He'd be full of beans, unable to sleep.

Grinning, she went into her kitchen and reached for a cup.

Then, grinning ever more broadly, she switched it for a supersized mug.

Full of beans sounded good to her.

Chapter Twelve

Lindsey overcame any nerves by slipping into her professional persona. In fact, as she strode into the chapel she became super-alert, noting differences between tonight and Friday, squirrelling them away for future reference, filing them as "background".

There was a slight downslope. She wasn't exactly going underground but was descending. From the look of Leonard's house she guessed the chapel had been built into a hillside. Without windows it was hard to be sure, but that was her impression.

Tonight the overhead lights were already out. What flickering light there was came from black candles scattered around in wall-brackets. They were already in place and already lit.

There were no fleeces on the stone flags.

All told there were only seven people present, not thirty or more.

There was no background music, tuneless or not.

Determined to keep her composure, Lindsey eyed the other six attendees: five in black robes, one in a commanding dark red. No masks tonight but five black cowls were up, effectively concealing five of the identities.

The sixth attendee gave her hope. The red-robed figure hadn't bothered pulling up his a cowl and was unmistakably bald-headed Leonard . . . or, more properly in such a setting, Apollyon.

'Divest yourself,' he cried, 'reveal your beauty.'

Lindsey obediently shrugged off her startlingly white robe, letting it fall from her.

'Tonight you are our altar,' Apollyon went on. 'Tonight we will worship on you.'

The official stone altar was covered with two black fleeces. Naked as the day she was born, Lindsey sat on it, sideways on with her legs apart, trying to mirror the way the Holy Virgin had posed.

'Lengthways,' Apollyon corrected, 'on your back.'

Still almost painfully obedient, Lindsey obliged. She really, dearly wanted to see faces. And she could scent imminent success. Surely those robes had to come off.

Surely she had to see.

At a moment like that Lindsey didn't give a fig for morals or reputation. What did convention matter? She had fucked many times before; a few more quick ones wouldn't make a lot of difference, would they?

'Sisters,' Apollyon intoned, 'anoint your new altar. Initiate it, make it fit to serve.'

Sisters, Lindsey thought.

Panic flapped within as she turned her head in time to see five black robes being cast aside.

And in time to see five naked women advancing on her.

Maybe morals and reputation did have a value after all. In thirty-three years she'd never even kissed a female, had never remotely considered having same-sex sex. But, right now . . .

Naked, legs parted on an altar . . .

No, naked and playing the part of an altar . . .

In at the deep end or what!

As per always it was the scoop that got her through. Given the forewarning she could have persuaded herself to do anything to get the scoop, could have found a mind-set to let her succumb to whatever it was might happen. Now, given no forewarning at all, she simply switched off.

I need those IDs, she told herself. They need to be exposed.

Hence she dropped all resistance and became receptive.

It was as easy as falling off a log, totally inexcusable or not.

Having one girl touch her up would probably have been too much. Bizarrely, having five touching her up at once wasn't bad. Doing her best to ignore ten roving hands, she focused on the faces hovering over and around her, memorizing them, ticking off lots of possibilities and storing dozens of separate distinguishing features.

Boldest of all was a tall black woman. She had long, straight hair and a heart-shaped beauty spot high on her right cheek.

Then there was the blonde. Seeing her unmasked dispelled that one percent of reservation. She was without doubt the infamous Question Time MP.

The other three were less easily recognized: a sleek Oriental beauty oozing self-confidence; a willowy brunette with gorgeous tits; and another blonde, one who she couldn't immediately place but seemed as if she should be familiar.

Next time I'll bring a snapper, she decided. He can wait outside with a long lens. We can go for facial recognition of them all, courtesy of that tame cop of mine, can't we?

Being mauled by ten hands at once wasn't, she acknowledged, such a revolting experience as she might have expected. Nobody was touching her intimately . . . not in a sexual way, anyhow. No, her legs and arms were being stroked in affection, not lust. So too were the curves of her hips. And one set of fingers was burrowing through the short brown hair on her head, massaging her scalp. That felt nice.

Then things changed . . . but only for the better.

Breathing heavily, the blonde MP climbed onto the altar, slowly and deliberately straddling Lindsey. Then she lowered herself. Simultaneously, someone clasped hold of Lindsey's small but shapely tits, squeezing them upwards, offering them as a target.

Suddenly the blonde's slit was running along Lindsey's nipples, teasing them, tormenting them. Not a girl with particularly sensitive nips, not normally, Lindsey yelped.

How fucking hot was that!

Out of control, she convulsed and gushed. So too did the blonde, very wetly and all over Lindsey.

'More, more, more,' she gasped.

The blonde responded by shuffling up a little, leaving Lindsey's throbbing, juice soaked nipples and re-lowering herself onto her face.

Innocent as she was of girl-on-girl practices, Lindsey well knew how good it was to be tongued down there. And tonguing the blonde was no ordeal. Especially not now, now the other four were becoming more forward.

Talk about a sensual overload!

There was one very hungry mouth busy between Lindsey's legs, alternating between her clit and the mouth of her vagina with indecent haste.

There were hungry mouths busy of her tits, two of them, alternating between fierce sucking and lusty attempts to swallow whole globes of flesh.

The fourth and final mouth was kissing her legs, right and then left, up and then down, covering every square inch of her from ankle to thigh.

Was girl-on-girl always like this!

Unprompted, the blonde gushed once more. Lindsey tried to devour the flow but had no chance. More hot juice flooded her, this time drenching her chin and neck, tricking away along the natural channels made by her collarbone.

Spluttering, she didn't protest as the blonde moved off her and away.

So too did the tit swallowers and pussy licker . . . only to be replaced by the tall black woman, wearing a large strap-on.

'Oh yes,' Lindsey gasped, all professional detachment long gone. 'Fuck me yes, yes please.'

Powerfully, masterfully, the black woman obliged.

And oh my, wasn't she good!

*****

Back up north . . . two hundred miles up north to be precise . . . Heather was allowing Graham a short timeout. And, because she was female and only females knew how to properly communicate, he was being filled in about Mary Rose's latest "thing".

'Satanism,' he scoffed, 'I could believe in her and witchcraft, but really . . .'

'Mare is so not a witch!'

'Yes she is. You accuse her of it all the time.'

Heather smacked his arm, not hard but not too soft. 'We were all witches at The Manor,' she scolded. 'Welsh witches we called ourselves, even though we were in England and mostly English. But Mare's got herself involved in something else altogether. I'm worried about her.'

'Getting her rocks off with loads of strangers isn't anything to worry about,' Graham replied. 'I bet she enjoys every last second. And I bet they're queuing up to enjoy the experience with her. I'd be waiting in line; that's for sure.'

'Watch your mouth,' Heather warned. 'Much more talk like that and I'll report you to Victoria.'

Graham laughed. He had no idea why Hev had got him together with her Gina Lollobrigida lookalike girlfriend. No, make that the impossibly beautiful daughter of a stunning, Gina Lollobrigida lookalike mother.

No idea and no complaints, either.

Hev being Hev, the deal hadn't been straightforward. Her having simultaneous access to Vic's lezzie neighbour (the one with the scary eyes) had been part and parcel . . . meaning lots of access for Hev, naturally.

What was she like!

And who could have guessed how all the shenanigans would turn out?

Who could have guessed that he'd fall in love with Vic?

Briefly, for no more than a fleeting moment, Graham regretted having sex with Heather yet again. But the realist in him knew that giving in to her was inevitable. More to the point, the realist in him wouldn't allow guilt for "betraying" Vic. Vic knew exactly what they both wanted.

Vic wouldn't be jealous at all.

Therein lay the problem. They'd never had a three but screwed in alternating twos most nights of the week.

Love didn't come into it.

Not for Heather and Vic, anyway. So far as he was concerned . . .

Well, confusion ruled.

'That's long enough,' Hev declared, brazenly calling time with her one of her usual, irresistibly throaty chuckles. 'You're nearly as up for it as I am.'

That was true, but still he hedged.

'I'm worried by what you said about Mare.'

'Don't tell me. I know you've always wanted to shag her. You're concerned some Satanist will slit her throat before you get it in there.'

'For a private school girl your language is sadly lacking.' Graham grinned in spite of himself.

'And for a Keighley lad I'm amazed you've never had her. She's game, you know. For you it wouldn't even take a brandy and Babycham. Half a Carling and she'd be yours.'

'Believe it or not, I like her as a person.'

'Yeah, sure you do; you and my ass.'

'Your ass is lovely. And so's hers.'

'You say the sweetest things.' Chuckling again, Hev leant in close. Graham expected a kiss but it did not happen.

'Why does nobody understand how worried I am?' she asked out of nowhere. 'Why do I feel out on a limb?'

'I understand. I just told you I was worried too, didn't I?'

'Yeah, you did. But why should I believe you?'

'Because you obviously care about the girl you see as a twin sister. And if you care, so do I.'

'Spot on.' Hev nodded. 'Nobody's going to hurt Mare, not ever. Not over my dead body.'

Chapter Thirteen

Being fucked by the black woman was easily the highlight of Lindsey's life to date. Mere men hadn't ever done anything like it for her.

How exceptionally skilled was she!

Why oh why had she never considered going girl-on-girl before!!

Why when a girl like this knew how best to please!!

The beautiful black woman was infinitely tireless as well as infinitely skilful. On she went, on and on.

Of course it helped with the other four caressing Lindsey here, there and simply everywhere, but she hadn't experienced anything that came within light years of this.

Mmmm, yes, yes please, please, please.

At first, overwhelmingly excited as she was, she found a moment to admire her orgasm control. Then, at maybe ten or so minutes in, she lost all semblance of anything.

Once Lindsey started to cum she couldn't stop. That wasn't altogether unknown for her but, if it was some sort of a "sex problem", it'd never been as acute as this. She wasn't even sure if she was living through one endless cum or thousands strung out, one after another.

Or maybe even tens of thousands strung out, one after another.

Seemingly centuries later . . . yet still far too soon . . . her marvellous, wonderful and incredible lover withdrew. The sense of loss was devastating.

Well, it would have been if Lindsey wasn't still floating along the calmest, coolest river in Heaven.

Oh yes, all rivers should be exactly like this.

No, all of a girl's life should be exactly like this.

Slowly, as if coming from a distant galaxy, she became aware of Apollyon's voice. He was intoning in rich, self-important tones. A pope couldn't have sounded more important . . . or more in the know.

Everything about Lindsey remained ecstatic. Okay, her five female lovers were taking a well-deserved breather, but her nerve-endings were still swooping and soaring.

Then she heard the noise.

At first her (sadly detached) brain couldn't compute precisely what she was hearing. It was something quite everyday but out of context in a crypt.

It was bleating.

It was a lamb bleating.

Puzzled, still flat on her back on the altar, she cast around. Four of her female lovers were standing around her, at all points on a compass; two holding her legs, two holding her wrists.

She was splayed out like a travesty of a cross.

But her female lovers were gentle. They weren't savagely gripping her; they were mildly holding her in place.

Her fifth female lover, the brunette with the amazing tits, was three or four yards away, and cradling a lamb.

Lindsey had seen lambs before, naturally, but rarely in the centre of London. Not outside of butcher's shops, anyway. Out of the city they tended to spring about, full of the joys of . . . well, spring.

This one didn't seem full of the joys of anything. This one seemed petrified.

And so suddenly was Lindsey.

The exceptionally beautiful black woman had hold of Lindsey's left wrist. Leaning in, she addressed her in a whisper.

'Chill, sister, nothing's worth dying for, is it? Play along, yeah?'

Lindsey didn't know if that was a threat but took it as friendly advice. Saying not one word, she stayed on her back and kept watching and listening.

Apollyon was incanting some nonsense. He'd been softly incanting in Latin throughout all the girly fun, she now realized. Except now it wasn't soft Latin nonsense, it was barked English, with the words all spoken in reverse.

Oh crap, it was the Lord's Prayer!

'Amen,' he bellowed, 'ever and ever for glory the and power the and kingdom . . .'

The lamb bleated louder. Only young, it was clearly not stupid. It was close to panic, knowing evil was in the air.

The blonde MP had hold of Lindsey's right wrist. She took her turn to lean in and offer advice.

'That knife is fecking sharp. Lay back and think of England.'

Hating herself, Lindsey complied.

Closing her eyes, only too aware of the hands gripping her extremities, pulling her limbs apart, making her vulnerable . . . making her an altar . . . she tried to switch off again.

This time she was less than successful. This time, through her tightly closed eyelids, she could picture Miss Big Tits approaching her, bearing her bleating burden.

And it was impossible not to feel the short, springy fleece of that trembling, panic-stricken burden as it was ceremoniously deposited on her chest.