A Date with The Devil Pt. 02

'Heaven in art who Father our,' Apollyon yelled triumphantly.

The lamb bleated louder than ever.

Lindsey heard the slash of a blade.

The lamb stopped bleating.

Hot warmth flooded Lindsey's upper body. The rich, coppery smell of blood filled her lungs.

'Lord of this World I beseech you,' said Apollyon, less emotional now, more in control. 'See our very humble offering and send us a sign. Send us an emissary.'

The other five women's intake of air was only too audible.

Something had happened . . . something immense.

Finally daring to look, Lindsey blinked. Crazily, after that self-imposed darkness, the candle-lit crypt seemed relatively bright.

Except then again, it didn't.

Ignoring her blood-soaked chest, Lindsey followed the gaze of her lovers. They were all, to a woman, staring behind the altar, open mouthed.

'Oh thank you our Lord,' Apollyon fawned. 'Thank you for sending our unworthy souls such a . . .'

Lindsey blinked again. There wasn't a lot of room behind the altar. Most of it was taken up by a large statue of a goat with a burning black candle planted between its horns. But now there was something else there as well.

The candlelight in the chapel was, at best, dodgy. Just then it was next-to non-existent. Even so, she could see a figure in front of the statue.

If her hands had been free she'd have rubbed her eyes. Candlelight wasn't something she would ever have associated with mirages. Didn't mirages occur in dry, hot conditions, mostly due to sunshine and optics?

The figure was fuzzily there, though. And, although the goat statue had to be six feet high, the figure dwarfed it.

In all honesty the figure was a terrifying presence.

Her first instinct was to look away. Squinting instead, she did her best to take it in.

Seven feet tall at least, undoubtedly male, colour indeterminate . . . and built like Muhammad Ali in his prime. No, built even more impressively than Muhammad Ali in his prime.

That fuzzy, wavering light was impossible. Lindsey gazed at the newcomer, wondering where he had sprung from, suddenly suspecting he'd been summonsed.

Suddenly suspecting Apollyon wasn't full of BS after all.

Then she got a load of the newcomer's groin and nearly died.

He was as big as her forearm!

In fact he was bigger than her forearm.

Fifteen inches and thicker than her wrist, not to mention that clenched fist on the business end.

'Come,' Apollyon implored, 'come honour us with your presence.'

Lindsey made to resist but the black woman was in her ear again.

'Take it,' she urged. 'Be alive tomorrow and take it. No, take it and be sure to be alive tomorrow.'

The other women still had hold of her limbs. Lindsey wriggled but found no leeway at all. Dimly, she was aware of Big Tits removing the lamb's carcass. Her black friend gripped her just as tightly as her three fellow custodians.

She was trapped, powerless to resist.

And the newcomer was already at the end of the altar, between her splayed legs.

Looking at him in the face was useless. He was featureless. He was nobody, neither black nor white nor anywhere obvious in-between.

No, his darkness had nothing to do with the colour of his skin. His darkness was internal. Mortal black and white folk would have instinctively shunned him . . . instinctively and very, very correctly.

This creature was evil.

This creature wasn't a man of any description.

Except for that giant manlike organ of his . . .

Lindsey wailed as the creature first mounted the stone altar, and then slowly mounted her body as the supreme altar.

His face was still featureless but she could see two short, tusk-like horns that protruded from his tight, curly hair.

His skin was reddish, too. Not naturally reddish, not like an honest Native American, but infernally so, like an inhabitant of Hell.

That fist-sized dickhead of his was pressing against her.

A numbed, dazed part of Lindsey tried for reassurance. The hateful so-and-so was wasting his time. No way could anything as big as that possibly penetrate her.

Except he wasn't wasting his time, was he? Without seemingly trying he pressed onto her, into her, and her traitorous flesh parted.

Stretching and stretching, wider and wider, on the very verge of tearing yet somehow surviving.

'Fuck me, no,' she gasped.

'Fuck me yes,' a female voice countered, laughing giddily.

Lindsey had no idea who had spoken. She didn't much care, either. Her female allies didn't seem so reliable anymore.

Not that they ever had been reliable.

By now her unreal lover was three or four inches inside her.

He felt icily cold.

And he felt icily good, too.

Squealing, unable to help herself, Lindsey jerked forward her groin, impaling herself.

Her lover laughed, withdrew and then thrust in hard.

Lindsey yelled as he sank in eight, maybe ten inches. She was afraid of him but had to admit the feel of him was mind-blowing.

'Fuck me, fuck me,' she pleaded.

And he did. The harder she thrust back, the harder he thrust in. Ungodly and unnatural as it was, it was still a fantastic experience.

'Harder, harder, harder,' she begged.

Right then her only complaint was that he was too long. The black woman's strap-on had been perfect in every respect. It had enabled their groins to smack together. This guy wasn't so obliging. She quite desperately wanted to feel his balls slapping her wet ass but, sadly, they never came near.

'Fuck me, fuck me,' she implored.

Vaguely she remembered halls at uni. A game she'd played in halls at uni. One she had played alone late at night, involving cola-flavoured ice-pops . . .

Ancient memories vanished as the massive cock's rhythm changed. Supernatural or not, this boy was nearing his end. The signs were unmistakable.

'Come on,' she groaned, 'in me, in me, in me.'

Without much hesitation he complied. Seven times, each separated by a withdrawal and inward push, each more powerful than the last.

Distinct this time, she came with each of his actions . . . harder and harder.

Her senses leaving her every time she went harder.

By his fifth blast she was light-headed and raving, increasingly afraid when she dimly realized he still wasn't done.

Her reaction to his sixth blast unhinged her brain. Her last coherent thought was that it wouldn't take much more to kill her.

And his seventh blast pushed her into the void.

Chapter Fourteen

Bruno drifted out of one dream into another; that is to say he came awake to find Mary Rose sucking him off.

There were worse ways to wake up.

There were also less familiar ways.

Until last night Bruno had actually liked the auburn-haired girl, in spite of her many irrational appetites. As far as he was concerned, she was both as fit as fuck and dynamite in bed, the sort of combination that tended to make him overlook any number of unreasonable demands.

And what demands she made. Porn queens would be whimpering and blushing after half an hour with her. Any big superstud would soon wilt and beg for mercy.

It seemed to be incredible but she swore she was the quiet one. Lying through her perfect bright white teeth, she reckoned she had a friend who was "two or three times as randy, at least".

Note to self: Do not ever visit West Yorkshire.

Addendum: Find out where Bingley is on a map and keep away.

Deep down, basically because he was a man, Bruno took Mary Rose as a challenge. He had always enjoyed fucking her and probably always would. But, if she had a mate who was three-times as dirty as she was . . .

Well what sort of a world was it? Nobody should be nearly as horny as Mary Rose. Anything beyond her was . . .

Was . . .

Back in the real world he let the auburn-haired diva finish him and greedily swallow, as she invariably did. Then, knowing what she wanted, he threw her on her back and fucked her for at least an hour.

Then, perhaps two seconds after his climax, she pushed him onto his back and rode him for twice as long.

Or maybe she rode him forever.

Virtually lifeless, he thanked her for having him. Then, after showering and breakfasting together on tea and toast, he excused himself.

'Until Friday night,' he said.

Unruffled, fresh as a daisy, Mary Rose grinned at him: 'Friday won't be just me and you, will it? Don't you have a better offer before then?'

'I've got a busy week,' he replied smoothly, 'but how about lunch on Wednesday?'

Annoyingly, Mary Rose checked her personal organizer before accepting.

'It'll give the secretaries something to jill over,' she said. 'The sight of your shiny red Ferrari, I mean.'

*****

One big plus of Mary Rose's apartment block was the parking. Even though she didn't have a motor she had an allocated slot in an area that was fenced off and subject to twenty-four hour supervision.

Yeah, supervision!

Privately, Bruno knew he could lift any vehicle out of a "secure compound" just like that. But he didn't do such things anymore. The risks were minimal but disproportionate. Nowadays, if he wanted to lift wheels, he would contract out.

It was simple as.

The twenty-four hour supervision consisted of an ex-squaddie who had to weight eighteen stones. So far as Bruno could tell he lived in his small wooden cabin and very rarely emerged. Leastways he kept out of the way when Bruno was about. A handshake and a palmed tenner had seen to that.

Sighing to himself, Bruno opened his vehicle and sank into his soft leather seat. Strangely lax, feeling a distinct lack of energy, he opened his mobile and studied a saved attachment.

On the face of it the image amounted to nothing: a picture of one page of a legal note pad.

It was the writing on the pad that mattered.

The top line read "Bruno Johnson", and was followed by an address in Highgate.

Below it, headed by a question mark, was an address in St Johns Wood.

Two addresses provided last week, to overcome any reluctance on Mary Rose's part, one meaningful the other not.

Reluctance, he thought with a laugh. As if she's ever been reluctant about anything!

Oddly, the address Mary Rose had visited more than once mattered not in the slightest. Or perhaps it wasn't so odd. The Highgate pad was real enough, with "Bruno Johnson" as the registered tenant . . .

But Bruno Johnson didn't really exist. He could disappear overnight, not so much in a puff of smoke as in a cloud of unpaid credit card bills. There one minute, gone the next, untraceably replaced by a certain Bruno Green, now living south of the river, but just as comfortably off.

Clever-but-dumb Mary Rose didn't seem to realize the sort of life he led or how dangerous he could be.

And, very unwisely, clever-but-dumb Mary Rose wanted to ask questions.

Scowling, Bruno dialled out.

'That solicitors' office,' he said when Tony answered. 'You need to go back on Friday night. This time I want you to bring me the legal pad. Bring me anything else that looks incriminating too, yeah?'

'Consider it done,' said Tony.

Still scowling, Bruno dialled again.

'Well hello,' a richly educated, faintly accented voice replied on the second ring.

'Leo,' Bruno snapped. 'We need to talk.'

*****

Mary Rose waited five minutes until she was sure Bruno was gone before calling.

No answer.

Unsurprised, she tried Jo's work mobile.

No answer.

It was third time lucky. Although no one in their right mind should be working on a Sunday, she finally got a pick-up on the police station landline. But not via a receptionist: the guy who answered sounded grizzled and snarly . . . a seasoned desk sergeant if ever there was one.

'Yeah,' he grated.

Mary Rose suspected that desk sergeants ran the UK police service, much like guys with three stripes ran all the world's most successful armies. Consequently she showed him respect.

'Thank you sir,' she gushed, 'can I please speak to DI Walker?'

She expected to be quizzed but seconds later the phone was buzzing again.

Jo answered on the second ring.

'DI Walker.'

'Hey Sexy Legs,' said Mary Rose. 'How's your bum for spots?'

'There are no spots on my bum,' Jo replied warmly, 'as you well know. And it's been ages. To what do I owe the honour?'

Encouraged by the abruptly dropped professional front, Mary Rose decided to mix her business with a little pleasure. 'I desperately need sex with you,' she purred, 'and I also desperately need a favour. It's up to you if sex or the favour comes first.'

'I always like to cum first,' Jo laughed, 'as you well know. What's this favour?'

'I need to be face-to-face to tell you that. When do you finish?'

'An hour ago,' Jo laughed some more. 'And before you ask, I'm due to be barbequing this afternoon. If you really have to see me, it'll have to be quick.'

'Okay, see you at my place, then?'

'Not a chance. I know what you're like. Try again.'

Prepared for that eventuality, Mary Rose suggested a pub called the Blind Beggar. After a pause Jo said all right, one thirty and she'd be there.

Chapter Fifteen

The pub was local to Jo's police station but getting there involved a ride on the tube for Mary Rose. To pass the time as she travelled, she recalled their very first meeting.

It had been in court, of all places.

Well, they'd actually, physically met in a wine bar, a few hundred yards from the court.

That had been maybe three years ago. Mary Rose had recently qualified, found employment and had been taking a fortnight's holiday. Still being a student at heart, she'd been using her break to observe real-life proceedings from the public gallery. DI Josephine Walker had been chief investigating officer in a brutal murder.

And she'd been absolutely awesome.

Tall with short blonde hair in an urchin cut, DI Walker had ruled that courtroom. Never mind the judge, she had been in charge. And, as key to the prosecution, she'd had plenty of opportunity to state her case.

What an amazingly strong, powerful woman she was.

Even concentrating on the legal arguments, Mary Rose had to admire the lady. Okay, she had a ring on the wrong finger, but all the same her presence was awesome. And looks aside, never hesitating or flinching, her testimony had been perfection from the word go.

No, everything about her had been perfection from the word go.

Three days in to the trial, solemnly warned by the judge (yet again) not to discuss the proceedings in any way, everyone present had been allowed ninety minutes to grab some lunch. By then thoroughly sick and tired of eating sandwiches out of triangular boxes, Mary Rise had done an Elvis and left the building. And, walking down the street, hunting a café or pub, she had seen a slinky, sexy ass on the pavement a short way ahead of her.

It had been Jo's slinky, sexy ass, entering a wine bar, not twenty yards away. The impulse to follow had been irresistible and the rest had been history.

Awkward at first, obviously mistaking Mary Rose as a stalker or (far worse!) a reporter, Jo had thawed and agreed to her offer of a drink. And they'd quickly become friends. One "accidental" lunchtime tryst had turned into a regular, daily occurrence.

Well, for the duration of the trial, it had.

Initially Mary Rose had thought that Jo had an idyllic lifestyle. Still in her early-thirties, she seemed to have it all: a sumptuous house in one of the better parts of town; an adorable hubby who was deeply in love with her; and a young, wonderful son.

But, as their conversations progressed, she thought again. Jo's hubby was making a mint in the world of "Advertising" and rarely had a minute to spare for day-to-day home life. Her wonderful son was now five but still acting as if he was in the "terrible twos". If it wasn't for their live-in nanny they would be up the creek without a paddle.

To begin with Mary Rose had withheld information about herself, saying she was still new to the world of "Law" and had no time for relationships. And, although she wasn't specific, she made it sound as if "relationships" equated to "men".

She hadn't been ashamed of her sexuality but some girls were unreasonably afraid of bisexuals. And she liked Jo. No way did she want to scare her off.

Then, on a lunchtime when two drinks developed into three, Jo dropped her bombshell. Home life was not as idyllic as she'd painted it to be, she announced, unprompted. In fact she suspected their live-in might be taking a bit of "care" of Hubby from time to time, whenever she wasn't run off her feet looking after the five-year-old.

'Thing is,' she added, 'I can't seem to make myself angry about it. Our working patterns aren't exactly conducive to a full and hearty sex life. And Nanny's a precocious little baggage. I can't say I'd blame him if he is letting her help herself.'

Mary Rose took that as opportunity to make a few confessions. Her own sex life was as good as non-existent, she said. She was working stupidly long hours and the only people she ever met were clients who were, for obvious reasons, out of bounds.

Jo had suggested that she must get approaches from guys all the time.

Guys were okay, Mary Rose admitted, but she could never imagine settling down with one. And if she was being completely honest, the real reason why she didn't do relationships was because her long-time girlfriend wouldn't let her.

Not that her long-time girlfriend was against casual sex. If she put her mind to it Hev could probably write volume after volume of true sex stories, all of which would make Jackie Collins green with envy.

Jo's response was encouraging. She'd had a special girlfriend once, she said. Happy days or what!

Heartened, Mary Rose took the plunge. 'I'm usually too tired for guys,' she said, staring into Jo's eyes, 'but I bet that I could go on all night, given the right girl. Assuming I ever get to meet one, that is.'

'You could always try the pubs and clubs,' Jo replied smartly. 'There are plenty that cater for that sort of thing.'

'Going out on the pull's too much like hard work after a twelve-hour day.' Marie Rose had sighed. 'I'd rather meet someone and just click.'

'Could anything so simple possibly happen?'

'I dunno, but I keep on praying.'

After the afternoon session in court they'd met up again. And, after several more drinks, Jo had called home to say she was "working late" and not to "wait up".

Avoiding an out-and-out relationship, they'd been occasional lovers ever since.

Chapter Sixteen

Back in the present, leaving Whitechapel station, Mary Rose swiftly found the pub. It was a good, old-fashioned London boozer with an attractive red-brick front. It was attractive enough inside, too, in her opinion. Hesitating over the selection of beers, she eventually went for a Doom Bar.

Then she perched on a barstool and waited.

Jo was five minutes late. As she approached Mary Rose went to kiss her mouth but she moved at the last second, turning a hot hello into an air kiss. Slightly miffed, Mary Rose bought her a dry white and herself another pint. Wincing at the mere handful of change she got from a ten, she then followed her to a table, admiring her outfit. Jo always dressed like a well-to-do businesswoman, showing off those legs. Today was no exception.

Today, as per always, she looked good enough to eat.

Sunday lunchtime rush over, the pub wasn't particularly busy. Even so Jo picked a position away from prying ears.

'The cop's position,' she said, sitting in a corner so she had her back to two walls. Then: 'No, don't sit opposite me, sit beside me.'

Mary Rose complied and, under the table, Jo's hand immediately landed on her knee.

'I'm known in here,' she said softly. 'Certain standards apply.'

Either proving or disproving her words, her hand skated up Mary Rose's thigh, not stopping until it had nestled in the angle between her leg and groin.