An Angel in Stilettos.  (working title) is a novella for KeyPub.net Le Boudoir erotica group.

Warning: Adult content!

Chapter 1:

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Startled, I almost fell from the stool as the door of the dressing room burst open. With the instinct and grace of a bird of prey, I spread my snow-white feathered wings in an arc to retain a precarious balance, and cursed at the smudged eye-shadow.

“How many times must I tell you not to charge in here like some overweight rhinoceros when I am trying to prepare for a show?” The hint of venom in my voice was intentional.

I watched the reflection in the mirror, a portly man in a dark business suit standing in the doorway. His face, already a blotched shade of carnelian turned nearer to the colour of beetroot as he puffed for breath. I had no need to use telepathic senses to know I had annoyed him; Cervilon claims to be my manager, at least, I allow him to think he has that capacity.

“Aren’t you anywhere near ready yet? The revellers are getting restless, having paid for a floor show and so far, no entertainment.”

I again leaned forward on the edge of the stool, gazing with exaggerated intensity at the feline eyes reflected in the mirror while applying the final touches to my makeup. Although it may sound arrogant, there was very little work necessary to improve my milky-cream skinned complexion. A hint of sea-blue shadow to highlight the natural opal-green hue of the pupils, a faint smudge of rouge to emphasise the angle of the cheekbones, and a dark shade of vermilion gloss on my lips portrayed perfection to skin like velum, soft, moist, and pallid as the succulent flesh of ripe cherimoya. “If they have to wait, they will drink more alcohol and so appreciate me even more greatly.” I flashed a self-satisfied smirk at his reflection. “I have only to get dressed now.”

Turning my head, I tilted it to one side to look into his face and widened my eyes in a pleading expression that he would interpret as helpless innocence. “If you have a moment to spare, I wonder if you might help me with my costume.”

Not that there was much of a costume to don, but at times, there are advantages in letting him believe I need him more than he needs me, and being almost able to touch my flesh would tease him to distraction. The penetrating gaze of his eyes changed with insatiable lust, from a smoky-blue to garnet-red and felt like a blast of hot sand on a desert wind sweeping over my near naked body. I fluttered long eyelashes like the wings of a helpless butterfly to emphasise my predicament.

As he adjusted the Velcro straps on the black PVC bodice, I asked, “How many in the party tonight?” The costume hugged the curves of my hips, waist and chest, but barely covered the nipples of my breasts while leaving free the wings growing from the bony extensions below my shoulder blades. I smiled with some amusement as he moistened his lips with a black V-forked tongue before he could answer.

“Around twenty, a private function, a bachelor party.”

“And have they asked for anything special?”

“Only that you make it a night to remember for the bride-groom-to-be.”

“Only the bride-groom?” My laughter held a dark undercurrent of sexual innuendo.

“I know you will not stop at one. Just make sure you do him first.” I could sense the sarcasm in his voice. It was my choice how many men would experience fulfilment of the ultimate sexual pleasure of a succubus. “He is the middle one, the youngest of the three sat at the table directly in front of the stage.”

Slipping one lithe foot into a black stiletto heeled boot that zipped up to mid thigh, still left an expanse of bare creamy flesh to a tight black PVC skirt, which did little more than cover my hips. “Do you think my skin tone might have been better if I had gone for a more tanned look?” My training as a Guardian Angel included proficiency in the ‘chameleon affect’, to change the colour of my skin from almost the wan pallor of death through to dark chocolate brown. This is an ability that makes me the perfect whore, able to become whatever the client wishes.

“No, they definitely asked for white female.”

To the rippling buzz of the zipper on the other boot I added, “They will have no complaints on the ‘female’ part of the request.” I removed two ties holding back the waves of dark brunette hair, shaking my head so that it cascaded like a waterfall around my shoulders. “I am ready.”

I followed Cervilon, walking with exaggerated elegance as he waddled, down a short passageway and onto the raised dais of the Kittie Kavern nightclub, and then waited at the side while he turned down the lighting in the auditorium. Lights shining onto the stage shimmered on his greased hair, slicked back over a balding pate, as he clapped his hands. The raucous chanting from the revellers subsided, raising an aura of expectation as eager faces looked up from the half dozen, occupied tables stacked with many empty, and some partly filled, bottles and glasses. The close proximity of the audience to the dais negated the necessity for a microphone when he introduced me as one of the most erotic dancers it had ever been his pleasure to witness, the fallen angel, Loriel.

On cue as he walked off, a mirror ball suspended over the stage slowly began to rotates, drenching the boards in reflected rainbow splendour from the colour combination disco lights and the air thundered with the pounding beat of Techno dance music. I moved into the flashing lights, my body swaying, hips arms and head moving with the rhythm while I surveyed the faces to establish where the ‘bride-groom-to-be’ was sat. Most of the audience were well into a state of drunken rowdiness, soused with alcohol and should be easy to whip into a frenzy of sexual hysteria.

Glassware and hands hammered on the plastic surface of tables and the room erupted with a growl of anticipation from the small crowd. It was now obvious why they had insisted on a white skinned dancer. Every face that stared at me was dark chocolate to almost ebony black. White teeth flashed while whites of eyes glinted in the shadows. Here was the human obsession with sexual abuse of race and colour. I had experienced the same where a group of white skinned men would request a dark skinned entertainer, almost as if the opposite in colour allowed them to do things to her they would never tolerate on one of their own.

I allowed the music to engulf me, swaying, swirling gyrating my body in time to the electronic pulse while teasing the audience with erotic movements. With every shake of my head, cascades of silky tresses churned like waves around my shoulders and arms. I caressed the bare skin of my thighs with tips of fingers, enjoying the spasms of delight from the seduction of my own hand, and then glided the palms up over the abdominal muscles to cup the breasts thrusting through the black film of plastic cloth.

Turning sideways to the front of the stage, I held the bodice covering my breasts with one hand while releasing the Velcro strap with the other. I turned so that they could watch as the strap parted, and then still holding it in place, shimmied to the front of the dais. With my upper body undulating in opposition to my hips I let the garment slide. As the rhythm pounded, more and more bare flesh became visible until, with one sweeping gesture, I jerked the costume away, throwing it onto the central table. Almost in the same move, I spun around, spreading my feet wide apart to bend forward allowing the palms of my hands to glide down over the black leather of the boots to my ankles. Almost doubled over, the skirt rose up over the curved bulge of my buttocks to show the voyeur watchers the tiny triangle of shiny latex G-string as the only item of underwear I wore. My hands moved up and down over hips and thighs in time to the music before the thumbs caught in the elasticated waistband of the skirt. My hips wiggled to the beat as I helped the garment slide down over the curved cheeks of my ass. Gravity helped the piece of glossy latex ooze over the black shiny leather of the boots into a liquidic mound around the stiletto heels and then glide, like a gleaming, moist-skinned reptile across the polished boards as I kicked it away.

A chair stood alone at the back of the stage, toward which I danced and reached for a plastic bottle of perfumed oil resting on the seat. I dragged the chair into the centre while taking the bottle with the other hand, and then, turning to face the party revellers, knelt on the floor with knees wide apart. I removed the cap from the bottle, and tipped it to allow the oily contents to trickle down over my thorax and between the breasts. Recapping and discarding the bottle, I used both hands to caress the oil into the skin of torso and breasts. The action was as much for my arousal and sexual pleasure as those watching, as I felt the tingle from my nipples, perked, thrusting and hard as the pebbles in a stream.

I closed my eyes, urging the tip of my tongue to moisten my drying lips. The low moan that escaped from my throat was drowned in the growls of anticipation from an avalanche of male hormones. The sound made me think of my voyeuristic audience as wolves. I had an urge to rip the tiny triangles of fabric from between my legs, exposing my sex to their lusting stares, but suppressed the desire-for a while at least.

Moving on my knees to the edge of the stage I beckoned to the young man about to begin his sentence of matrimony, to join me. He almost looked embarrassed as his companions jeered and jostled him onto the steps. Perhaps, due to the amount of alcohol he had consumed, one foot caught in the top stair almost sending him sprawling on top of me. Jumping to my feet, I managed to catch him before any severe damage was done, to me or to him, although I prayed that he was not about to throw up over me. I dreaded the thought of having to clean stinking vomit from my beautiful feathered wings.

Seating him on the chair in the centre of the stage, I lifted one foot and placed it on the edge of the seat between his thighs. I tried to engage eye contact to relax the poor kid as I unzipped the boot, but his mind was a whirling hysteria of testosterone imbued chaos. Just the view of my almost nude body had driven him to the edge of ejaculation, so that I could only assume he had experienced very little sexual practise. I hoped for the sake of his bride, that this state would be rapidly redressed.

After removing the other boot, I stroked the bulge in the front of his pants, feeling the straining organ with my toes. His back arched rigid and the head lolled back while a moan issued from his drooling mouth, until I feared I had pushed him too far.

I turned my back toward him, spreading the wings as if in flight, and then lowered my hips while grinding my butt into his lap. Leaning back my head, I nuzzled the side of his neck with my lips while reaching to clasp his arms that hung at the sides of the seat and lift them to rub the fingers against my breasts. I too closed my eyes as he viciously twisted and squeezed the nipples that stood hard and proud, like bullets about to be loaded into a gun. The pain knotted my abdominal muscles, and a shudder of pleasure coursed through my body.

Unable to look, my hands fumbled with the buckle of his belt before I was able to loose the zip to free the rigid extent of his erection. My senses felt the throb of hot blood pumping through the length, with the tip already moist as his resolve of self control weakened. There was no chance he would come near to satisfying my lust before he was finished.

I stood, turned, and knelt between his feet, and then leaned forward to take the dark chocolate brown shaft into my mouth. Almost immediately, as my tongue caressed the rounded tip, I felt the warm salty juices pumping into my throat. I waited, letting him finish, while the milky fluid dribbled from the corner of my mouth. Bantering jeers erupted from a few of the tables, as the occupants observed his premature climax. Several of the spectators challenged me to swallow, as standing, I turned to face them. I made a point of letting them see me rolling the sap around and over my tongue before I made an exaggerated show of gulping it down. With an index finger, I wiped the drool from the side of my mouth before licking the digit as if I relished the taste. My actions were greeted with loud cheers and stamping of feet.

Swaying in time to the still pounding rhythm of the music, I approached the edge of the stage, and probed the minds of the party-goers for one who could satisfy my pent up frustrations. Two of the older men seemed more promising, their thoughts not exhibiting the intensity and excitement of the younger males.

A slight movement at the back of the room caught my attention. The far wall was better lit than the auditorium from the bar that ran the length, and where the customers could purchase their liquor. A man was leaning against the counter watching me with some intensity. Unlike every other man in the room, his skin was almost as pale as mine. His countenance and behaviour disturbed me for its more curious manner. Perhaps it was the close proximity to me, of the more agitated males, that my probing extra sensory perception was unable to glean the faintest of contact with his mind. We faced each other for several seconds, as if he was throwing me a challenge, before the chanting of my audience returned my attention to the immediate surroundings.

Descending the stairs, I approached the table where the larger and more muscular of the two men sat. Several groping hands touched sensitive parts of my body as I passed between the spectators, sending a ripple of excitement through me. I considered for a moment, the pleasure of letting the whole group pull me onto the table and take their turns at abusing me, but the outcome of a wild orgy where I was not in control decided me against the idea. I remembered a similar episode a few weeks back, which concluded in pandemonium and near riot that the owner of the club, Madame Siren, viewed with acute displeasure.

I reached out, drawing my intended prey to his feet. The expression on his face suggested he could not believe I really wanted him. Turning, I led him by the hand onto the stage, where the young man, my earlier victim, had now vacated the chair to return to his table. I had no intention however, of using the seat. We stood in centre stage, he facing the crowd, while my back was to them. Placing my forearms to his neck, I dragged his head forward against my shoulder. Being taller, he was forced to place his hands on the oiled, bare flesh of my hips to retain his balance.

We danced together for several minutes, my hips and shoulders keeping time with the music while his feet moved in more ungainly fashion until I felt in danger of having my toes trampled. I moved his hands, hooking his fingers into the thin cords of the G-string, and sliding them down so that the item of clothing, lubricated with massage oil, slipped over my hips. It fell to the floor where I kicked it away.

Now, as was usually the case for me, totally nude and standing alone in a room of rampant males made me feel so vulnerable. The sensation is often enough to bring me to an orgasm. To make the feeling even more acute, I retained my hold on one of his hands, sliding it up between my thighs until the fingers caressed the most sensitive part of me. My green eyes locked into his orbs of dark chocolate brown while my hips swayed to the staccato machine mayhem of throbbing music. The feel of his fingertips was soft, clean, smooth and un-calloused, as if he worked in an office. I felt a drool of warm wet anticipation trickle down the inside of my thighs while the nipples of my breasts rose again to rigid attention as they rubbed against the moist cotton fabric of his T-shirt.

I stretched one hand, hooking it into the leather belt that prevented his trousers from falling over the paunch of his stomach, and pulled him toward me until I was grinding my pelvic mound against his groin. The swelling bulge I could feel through the front of the pants confirmed his arousal at my blatant sexuality. Pulling at the clasp of the belt, I felt him suck in the bulging stomach to allow me to unfasten the buckle and then the catch and zip of the garment. Sliding my hands inside, I gasped at the size of the hot hardening organ nuzzling between my fingers. I stroked its full length while into my thoughts came the vision of the centaur I knew before I came into this world; I savoured the delicious memories invoked by the image.

Kneeling in front of him I looked up into his face and keeping subservient eye contact, took him into my mouth, forcing the head of the bone rigid organ into the back of my throat. My tongue caressed and teased the sinews and arteries on the underside as I sucked him deeper. His hands twisted into the waves of hair at the back of my head to prevent me pulling away and he closed his eyes while thrusting forward, deeper until I gagged. He released me as I choked, retched phlegm dribbling from my mouth over the head of his shaft. I spat the juice over the tip before using my hands to lubricate its full length. His groan reminded me not to push him so close to orgasm as I had the younger lad.

I grasped his hand tugging him down to the floor. It took but a moment for me to indicate I wanted him to lie on his back. He obliged. Mindful of my need to put on a show, I turned him so that his head pointed toward the edge of the dais and I could face the excited, ogling spectators. Easing the rigid shaft between the lips of my vagina, I winced then cried out in pain as it too quickly forced the opening to expand. I felt my own hot juices running down his erect length and over my fingers. Once he was inside, I began to move my hips more freely, gyrating in circles, left and right, and up and down, each movement forcing him in more deeply. He responded to my rhythm, his hips and buttocks thrusting upward as I moved down all in time to the pounding electronic beat of the music.

Compelled to turn my face to the side of the stage, I saw Cervilon standing in the shadows. Only his glistening face was visible, showing him sucking at his lower lip, his eyes closed. I guessed he was imagining himself in the position of the ‘stud’ with whom I was locked in sexual ecstasy.

I leaned forward and closed my eyes, while my mouth opened and I emitted a noise like the mewing of a kitten. The sound drove the man into a state of near frenzy. I tried to slow the pace a little to prevent him from finishing too quickly, although I had no worry of him releasing inside me. Pregnancy between an angel, even a fallen angel, and a human was not possible, and neither was the transmission of sexual disease between the two races, even if he, like many I had met on this world, was infected. These advantages proved a succubus to be the perfect prostitute.

I felt the presence of Cervilon inside my head, inside my mind. There were times when the intensity of his imagination overwhelmed my telepathic senses, as though his dreams became reality to me. I realised this to be one such time. I was blindfolded, my wrists lashed together with harsh cord biting into my flesh. In his imaginings, he was raising my arms into a full stretch above my head. Somehow, I was being suspended; I felt the weight, stretching the muscles in my abdomen, the pain searing through my shoulders. My feet were clear of the floor; I was naked and vulnerable to his perversions.

I could also feel the dark skinned man thrusting, pounding inside me, the two experiences merging so that I could not decide which was nearer to the reality. Muscles in my back, arms and shoulders burned with pain as I tried to fight back tears. In attempt to reduce the gravitational forces pulling at me, I flapped my wings as if in flight but their weight seemed only to make matters worse.

I tried to sense Cervilon’s plans, but there was only a chaotic whirl of mental energy from the sexual turmoil of the man beneath me. Unable to foresee the intent of my tormenter, drove me almost to orgasm with excitement. Then, I heard the sound I had been anticipating. A sizzle of quivering leather, a whistling hiss of ruptured air, the intensity of which seemed to swell as the moments passed into a void of eternity. I held my breath, waiting, frozen in an instant of time, the muscles in my stomach clenching in spasms of excitement. The sudden vicious “thwack,” although expected, startled me as I tried to grasp its meaning. With the sudden searing pain of the stinging lash across the sensitive skin of my lower back, I gasped, the sudden breath of inhaled oxygen making me light-headed while my thoughts span dangerously out of control.

I knew it was only in my imagination, and yet I could not hold back a squeal of pain. My entire body convulsed in shuddering paroxysm of terror yet with a craving hunger for Cervilon to strike me again.

“More!” I sobbed. “Harder!”

The cry drove the man beneath me into further furious spasm of lust. He intensified his movements as his hands reached up to clutch at my wings forcing his meat inside me deeper still. The whistling sizzling slap of the whip, higher up this time, drove me beyond insanity. My eyes were shut tight as I screamed at the torture, and a third time the whip cracked. I felt the flesh of my buttocks and upper thigh ripped raw. The pain sent me shuddering, soaring into orgasmic ecstasy. I surrendered to the orgasm pumping juices over the taught white T-shirt of the man beneath me. At the same instant, I felt the hot sensation of his discharge deep inside me. Falling forward onto his chest and neck my wings, like my other muscles, stood rigid and quivering, while the nails of my hands ripped like talons into the flesh on his shoulders. Snarling like a tiger, my teeth tore at the side of his neck although without the incisors of the carnivore, I was unable to draw blood.

I slowly became aware of the rhythmic beat of drums and music mixed with the cheering and clapping of the voyeur spectators. I had lost track of the time as I lay in rapturous stupor on top of my partner. The man beneath me lay still; but at least, I could see he was still breathing.

I stood, freeing myself from the limp embrace of my victim to another raucous cheer, stamping of feet, and clattering glasses. Smiling at the lecherous faces leering at my nude form, I walked across the stage, bending to collect the stiletto heeled, black thigh-length boots, but left the rest of the costume scattered on the floor. As I headed for the stage exit, the fingers of my free hand found the raised angry welts from the whip across the cheeks of my buttocks. “Damn him!” I almost spoke aloud. Cervilon was getting too enthusiastic with the whip. He would need to be punished, but not for a few hours. It would take me that time to recover.


© 2008 Robert A Read. aka Mysteral.
Note: Picture above is representation of the intended cover design only

 
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