Christmas Orgy

December 18, 2019

Surrounded by women smelling of wildflowers. Daughters, mothers, wives in various stages of undress. In this place, like a shark-filled moat, expectation is running high – but disappointment lurks around every corner.

‘Why do you do it?’ a friend once asked me. ‘Sex with total strangers? Why?’

‘I desire more,’ was all I could answer. ‘Perhaps I’m seeking Narnia, trying to find the right closet door?’

Sweet woman all shapes and sizes in this huge, mattress-lined room. They are full of grace and naughty thoughts. Naked males with hard bodies, some with pot bellies, cocks swaying as they move, offer drinks, cocktails to the women they most desire.

Always, to begin, there is this hesitation. The desire to couple with someone who is the wife, husband, lover of another. Passions held taut beneath loose bellies. Everyone wanting more out of today than yesterday, or the day before that.

A woman with a strawberry birthmark on her thigh kisses me. Our tongues become two snakes making love. Gentle fingers stair-stepping in descent to stiff cock. Teasing swollen head and balls, mercilessly. We crumple together on a mattress and she spreads wide for my face; for my greedy tongue. On the next mattress I see the jutting hip bones of some boy thrusting, his partner old enough to be his grandmother. Perhaps older.

I wonder how many of these women fake their orgasms? Many are here because their husbands are here; it’s expected of them. To give themselves to strangers.

Slow, fast, gentle, rough, naked bodies entwine. The mattresses become swamps to roll in. Constant tugging on my cock as I lick between spread legs – I feel myself stretching and fear I may come loose in her terrible grip –

Saturated with desire so many bodies are now barbarously connected around us.

Tantalized by her soft flesh I drive into her, become one with her. Become a rattle of pleasure deep in her throat. She stretches her white neck back and takes a deep breath once, twice, three times, her hands like small animal claws on my back.

A fiery bubble explodes deep inside my head – the rhythm of her breathing in my ears is all I hear, her face brightening from that moment of bliss is all I see. But I know too she is a simple spark about to go out – it is always this way.

Always, this voracious feeding on vulnerability, this cannibalising of naked souls. We are a room full of Vampires. That and nothing more –

The debauchery begins…

October 6, 2019

But by far the most eyepopping event of the evening is now taking place in one of the adjoining bedrooms. As the mirrored door swings open every few minutes, a throng of naked bodies are revealed on the bed, taking part in what is a sexual free-for-all.

At one point a young woman comes out of the room and asks if there are any condoms around the place. ‘I was utterly stunned,’ says a fellow guest. ‘Every time the door opened you couldn’t help but notice what was going on.’

Indeed, most startling of all, one of the most eager participants of these fevered goings on is a woman who is a household name in Britain. She is having sex with a man who is neither husband nor regular partner.

‘She had taken her clothes off and was being quite shameless about it,’ says the stunned onlooker. ‘They were having sex on the bed and all around them were other people engaged in sexual activity.’

When she has taken her pleasure, she comes back into the living room and carries on chatting to other guests as though nothing out of the ordinary has happened.

Natalie Clarke
Kate’s Invitation to an orgy

Two's company

The famous courtesan Clarimonde died recently, as the result of an orgy which lasted eight days and eight nights. It was something infernally magnificent. They revived the abominations of the feasts of Belshazzar and Cleopatra. Great God! what an age this is in which we live! The guests were served by swarthy slaves speaking an unknown tongue, who to my mind had every appearance of veritable demons; the livery of the meanest among them might have served as a gala-costume for an emperor. There have always been current some very strange stories concerning this Clarimonde, and all her lovers have come to a miserable or a violent end. It has been said that she was a ghoul, a female vampire; but I believe that she was Beelzebub in person.

Théophile Gautier
Clarimonde
Trans. Peedeel

Without stick or sword

January 15, 2017

rose-freymuth-frazier-hounded

Diary 15th January

Returned yesterday from a small soirée at Goodrington Sands. It is a dog owners paradise, and most of the population seemed to be engaged in walking their dogs along the beach or promenade.

We arrived there Friday lunchtime and had a boozy lunch followed by a long walk along the beach. The wind was bitterly cold.

S, almost in tears, fears her cat may die soon; it has been very ill, and she has spent a small fortune on vets bills – but, despite every test known to man, the vets are unable to determine exactly what is wrong with the animal. They are perplexed.

S is also concerned her father will not see out this year. Hopefully she is wrong on both counts!

More booze follows.

Twilight then night, with its brood of phantoms that walk the world as sentient things. Muttered “Hullo’s”. Glimpses of the strange, profound and baffling. Circling faces and disembodied voices.

A woman, mid-fifties(?), fleshy and flashy, tells me she has a complete school uniform at home: gym-slip, white socks and big sensible navy-blue knickers. ‘You should come see me in it,’ she says. ‘A weekday’s best for me. I even have a satchel containing crayons and drawing pad.’ She passes me a slip of paper on which is written a phone number and address. ‘I play an adorable little virgin, so innocent – you can corrupt and debauch me in whatever way you desire!’

Time passing. Grotesqueries of light and shadow. The people here are all affluent, bored, over-sexed – almost parodies of themselves. Women with strange secrets in their drowsy eyes. Men, faces flushed with lust, join in the never ending dance.

A woman’s face above me: shadowy eyes, a bright red mouth, and nostrils like dark wells. There are wrinkles at the edges of her mouth and her tongue seems huge inside my mouth. Her cheeks flush scarlet and her eyes glow like little lanterns when her climax engulfs her.

A man’s whispering, Mephistophelian voice at my ear. He offers his wife, a plump forty-something, who spreads her legs to my passionless gaze. He tells me in explicit, vivid detail what he would like to see me do to her.

I comply with each of his shocking instructions.

When she cums it is like a cataclysm.

And then, in another room, another much younger woman. Incredibly vivid. Incredibly flexible. Intense and demanding in each of her movements. The surging of blood to her face, lost in pure physical sensation, and the tingling of nerve endings. The quickening of her breath and spastic motion of hip and thigh…

Finally to bed like an impotent old giant.

Unfortunately, I sleep badly. Doze and wake disoriented in my strange surroundings. Dee snoring gently beside me.

As if to reinforce the surreal experiences of the preceding evening, I watch the breakfast news on BBC. A doctor in an A&E department explains to the camera that he has no beds available. No trolleys left, either. Ambulances are backed up on the A&E ramp outside. The patients cannot be removed from the ambulances, there is nowhere to put them. Consequently, the ambulances are unable to respond to any further calls for assistance.

It’s a mess!

A crises!

Then, amazingly, the Queen of Brobdingnag, Terresa Maybe appears on screen in a different report. The problems, she explains, the NHS is currently experiencing is due in part to GPs not working evenings or weekends!

Luggnagg meets Brobdingnag.

I think I shall relocate to the land of the Houyhnhnms. It’s feckin’ safer.

After breakfast we say our goodbyes to S and her man. Drive then into Brixham. Dee wants to see the place again, a nostalgia trip. She’d last visited in her teens with AN, a girls only camping holiday…very Sapphic, I’m sure (only kidding girls).

Dee tells of the transvestite artist they met there beside the harbour. An older guy. Diabetic, with an ulcerated leg. He invited them both back to his ‘artist’s garret’ to show them his collection of clothes. He asked the girls to try them on, which they did. He sketched away like mad as they shamelessly stripped and dressed in his offered finery. An intimate, almost immemorially pagan scene.

Then he asked AN if he could try on the top she’d been wearing. She agreed, but the top was far too small and his attempts ended in seem-stretching failure.

He explained his leg was ‘killing’ him and had to sit down. AN, very kindly, changed the dressing on his leg for him…

Dee and I sat outside a café in bright sunshine. The weather was totally different from yesterday’s. We’d left Cornwall in snow flurries. And now, sitting looking out across the harbour, I could feel the sun burning my face!

Incredible!

Dee said, ‘What a glorious sunshiny day! We’ve been so lucky.’

Finally, we drove home. I felt very second-hand to be honest. Slightly hungover and jaded. Cooking a meal last night for Dee and L, I was really running on empty. I managed a glass of wine, for myself, followed by a large brandy, but no food. I went to bed at eight-thirty and fell immediately fast asleep.

Uneasy dreams followed. They always do. Gigantic shadows of men and women entwining. Faces glowing scarlet-red with excitement. Ephemeral rooms, scattered with cushions. Laughter, gently mocking. Becoming harsher –

Then waking, thankfully, to this sombre dawn.

A new day begins –

hornedgod

Drunk with an inverted spiritual exaltation and excess of alcohol – wild-eyed and apparently hardly conscious of each other – the hair of the women streaming disordered as they pranced, and the panting breath of the men coming in laboured gasps – they rolled and lurched, spun and gyrated, toppled, fell, picked themselves up again, and leaped with renewed frenzy in one revolting carnival of mad disorder. Then, with a final wailing screech from the violin, the band ceased and the whole party flung themselves panting and exhausted upon the ground, while the huge Goat rattled and clacked its monstrous cloven hoofs together and gave a weird laughing neigh in a mockery of applause…

Dennis Wheatley
The Devil Rides Out

Yeah, I’d agree…

April 10, 2016

clothes aFTER

face

So we had three weeks of picture postcard views, alternated by long lazy afternoons of sunbathing (beside the pool bar). And the atmosphere come sundown was electric – wandering the small boutiques, the swanky bars – the small town centre with its maze of car free streets, sandwiched between traditional whitewashed houses.

Vivid memory one: Dee on a sun lounger, one leg draped from its side, the other bent at the knee and drawn far back. The thin gusset of her bikini bottoms struggling to hide the aggressive thrust of her pudenda (half-dozen men around the pool trying, surreptitiously, to cop a glimpse and simultaneously hide their hard-ons).

Vivid memory two: a beautiful, tall woman of colour, magnificent in a string bikini, her skin tone almost blue-black, her hair short; had Rider Haggard made Ayesha black instead of white, then this Nubian princess would have been her! Her beauty enchanted all who encountered her. Gabriella for one could not take her eyes from the woman. ‘She’s incredible,’ she said. ‘She’s with some French bloke,’ Dee remarked. ‘Painfully hetro. So you’ve no chance.’ ‘We always have dreams,’ Gabby replied.

Vivid memory three: floating in Dee’s arms at midday, the pool area almost deserted, the sky full of sun. Her legs wrapped around my hips. Her fumbling fingers guiding me from my trunks under the gusset of her briefs. Joined together, then, floating. Kisses on her ears and neck. The taste of water and sweat. Drifting aimlessly until Dee’s teeth close on my shoulder and her body shudders against me.

Vivid memory four: early evening in the pool Jacuzzi. Gabriella’s hand inside my shorts beneath the water. A young Italian woman bending forward over her sun lounger above and to my right, her wet lycra costume clinging to the plump curve of her backside; to the tight pouting lips of her sex. The moment becoming frozen unexpectedly in time. And then Gabriella whispering, ‘Oh, naughty boy,’ as I ejaculate.

Then on the second Saturday our trip north to Palazzo d’amore, Facunda’s latest folly. Ah, dear, dear Facunda. Supposedly, she is an Andalusian Gypsy, a witch, bruja, of great power: her Brujería is respected, feared and effective. She is not a woman to cross.

However, she also has a formidable reputation as a dominatrix – this last earned as a young woman in Germany and France, where she gleefully whipped the great and the good, for reassuringly substantial sums of money. It is said that a President and two Prime Ministers of France submitted regularly to her will in years gone by. They suffered terrible humiliation at her hands (allegedly), and in one case the VIP allowed her to feminize him and put him to work in a brothel on certain “special occasions”; here, his face masked, he was used like a cheap street whore by various men before returning to his wife and family and his duties in the Parlement français.

So the house (Palace?) Palazzo d’amore. Four floors beneath a new red tiled roof. Pink and yellow stucco facade. Intricate wrought iron balconies. Built sometime in the late eighteenth century. And approached by a great curving drive, littered today with parked vehicles.

We are greeted by a servant, a doe-eyed signora dressed all in black. She leads us into the house while other servants gather up our luggage. Our accomodation is not in the main house, but in a seperate whitewashed cottage at the rear. We are informed by the signora, Facunda is resting in her rooms but that she will receive the three of us later, before the evening’s festivities begin.

We retire to our rooms for siesta.

The place is a little like a small hotel. In the bathroom on a hook are neat brown bags with a red cross logo and the announcement:

CONTENTITORE
IGIENICO
PER SIGNORA

In my bedroom are windcharms, luxuriant, exotic plants and a Bokhara rug in red and russet medallions on the marble flooring. The windcharms are as still as the day.

We are collected just after eight o’clock. We enter the main house where many guests are already assembling. We climb the great staircase to the first floor.

Facunda’s boudoir is palatial. A huge four poster bed with red velvet hangings dominates the room’s centre. Facunda sits up in the bed.

It is impossible to say how old she is with any certainty. At a guess I’d say she must be in her mid-nineties, but she looks early sixties. She’s incredible She has these big, bold brown eyes. Gypsy eyes. A pouting mouth and high cheekbones. In her right hand she holds a folded linen handkerchief which she uses to dab at her face.

‘It’s so humid, children, isn’t it?’ she says. Smiling at me, she offers her cheek, which I kiss. ‘How are you?’ she asks.

‘Fine.’

‘Truly?’

‘Yes.’

‘And these two beautiful ladies must be Dee and Gabriella.’ The girls step forward each in turn to kiss the offered cheek. ‘You both have a calming influence on him,’ she says. ‘He was so wild, so dangerous when younger. A true rebel. Always with him it was love – crazy, reckless love. His first wife was a monster…’

‘Are you keeping well, darling?’ I ask Facunda, trying to distract her.

‘Yes, I am. I treat my body with respect. The reward is good health.’ Her eyes return slowly to the girls.

‘Tonight, ladies,’ she says, ‘disgusting things happen in my humble Palazzo. Wealthy men and women endulge themselves. Each guest has paid a sizable entrance fee – such a large establishment as this has costs, which this poor old woman must somehow cover. These parties – hedonistic parties I believe they are calling them today, although in my day they were known as sex orgies – are for the exploration of sexual variety; this the perfect venue to let go of inhibitions and fulfil supressed desires. You understand? But of course you do…You are my guests. My friends.’ She dabs at her face with the handkerchief. ‘So humid,’ she mutters. ‘The worse I’ve known it.’

‘Thank you for inviting us, Facunda.’

‘My reasons were selfish,’ she says. ‘I wished to meet these two beauties.’ She gestures with her left hand towards the girls. ‘And to see you again, Peedeel. See how you are getting on. Before I die.’

‘You’ll live forever, darling.’

‘Nothing is forever, my love. So tell me of your life?’

‘Well, we live a life so domestic it’s positively banal,’ I reply.

‘I wonder…’ she says. ‘Come, we will take tea together.’

She tugs at a hanging strip of velvet and moments later the doors open to admit two servants with trays on which are small porcelain cups and saucers, a teapot, milk jug and matching sugar bowl.

‘How is the party?’ she asks one of them.

‘Progressing, madam,’ comes the reply.

I glance round the room, take in the marble flooring and highly-polished antique furniture. This could easily be mistaken, I think, for the bedroom of Louis Quatorze of France. Three ceiling fans whirl silently above our heads.

The servants depart, Facunda raises something like a TV remote. A wall panel opposite the bed slides open exposing a bank of twelve television screens. One after another they light up.

‘CCTV,’ she says. ‘Modern technology…just like magic, yes?’ She laughs. On the upper right hand screen we observe a plump woman dancing. Her tight top is fastened precariously to contain huge bulging breasts.

‘She is a writer,’ Facunda says. ‘French. Top of the bestsellers lists just now. Ready to get down and dirty with as many men as she can tonight.’

Facunda wears blue eye shadow and beaded black mascara. Despite her age she looks very sexy just now. She loves gossip, I remember; loves discussing others sexual tastes, their proclivities and past indiscretions.

On one of the TV screens I watch spray painted Barbie dolls striping in one of the play rooms. Pot bellied men eye them lewdly. On another screen a buxom woman, nude except for a tiny pair of black button down shoes, leads an Arab-looking gentleman by his stiff cock towards one of the many mattresses on the floor.

‘I love watching,’ Facunda confides, quietly. ‘It’s one of my few pleasures now. That and gifting happiness to a few close friends.’ She pats her forehead dry. ‘Ladies I’ve looked deeply into your innermost desires. I know what you most crave. And tonight, your deepest fantasies become reality.’

She tugs the velvet pull again. The door opens to admit a topless negro male, his smile exposing perfect white teeth.

‘Let me introduce Tarek to you, Dee.’ Facunda gestures to Dee. ‘In the Yellow room down the hall he has nine friends, each hugely well endowed and waiting to use you, my dear. They will rape and pillage your little treasures all night long – if you so wish?’

‘Wow.’ Dee looks totally surprised. She glances at Gabriella. ‘Are we okay?’ she asks.

Gabriella shrugs. ‘Whatever,’ she says.

‘Don’t despair sweet Gabriella,’ says Facunda. ‘I have something special for you, too, my dear.’

She pulls the velvet sash once more. The woman who enters takes my breath away. Seriously. Literally. I stand unable to breathe for a few long seconds. She might have been the twin sister of the woman from the hotel. Blue-black skin, small, upthrust breasts, taught belly with a small ruby in the deep belly button. She is nude except for a diamond G-string, and she is smiling broadly at Gabriella.

‘You two are for the blue room,’ says Facunda. ‘It’s very comfortable there, my dear. Discrete. You’ll not be disturbed. Discover love together…’

And then before I know it they are all gone and I’m alone with Facunda. ‘What is it,’ she asks,’ that you truly seek? Have you any idea?’

‘I’ve found it.’

‘Oh, really? This is happiness, is it?’

‘Do you have anything else to drink other than tea, darling?’

She sighs loudly, theatrically. ‘There’s cognac and glasses on the table beside the chaise longue. You may pour me a small one also.’

I hand her a large snifter of Hennessy Reserve, then sit on the edge of her bed. She sips, smiles, nods satisfied. ‘You were always partial to cognac, I remember.’

‘Yes.’

‘Cognac and women.’

‘I s’pose so, yes.’

Facunda raises the TV remote and the screens go blank, with the exception of the screen in the upper right hand corner. She fumbles with buttons and numbers appear on that screen. The scene changes. Dee is suddenly the star attraction.

‘Is this really what makes you happy?’ she asks gently. She turns the volume up so we can hear what is happening.

I watch Dee’s eyes widen abruptly. A Moroccan with powerful shoulders holds her firmly from behind. Her hair falls thick and soft over her shoulders…her body tightens, tenses as cruel hands clutch at her. She struggles against hardness.

‘She’s loving it,’ one of the men says in French.

‘Oh, please, no…’ Dee’s voice pleading.

‘She’s soaking wet, see.’

‘Give it her harder!’

‘Like this?’ thrusting viciously.

‘Oh, my God,’ Dee’s shrill cry.

‘Tomorrow she’ll be ashamed,’ Facunda says softly. ‘She’ll recall the unmentionable acts performed on her, her supposed helplessness. Her visit to these far off lands of sensation. And she’ll feel shame…You know she will.’

I can’t look away from the screen. I see the abdominal muscles of one man moving beneath the skin as he cums inside Dee. She is the centre of attention for this group of men with their arrogantly upstanding cocks.

‘Turn her over…’ one commands. ‘Raise her arse.’

They are all smiling as they move round her, casually fondling their over-sized male genitals, as they wait their turn with her. They pull Dee’s thighs and buttocks painfully wide apart. A hand covers her mouth, stifling her cries…

Huge mirrors on the walls of the room to left and right of the bed reflect their fierce endeavours. Each man in turn is able to watch himself thrusting into her. And I see their tight bellies shinny with sweat and semen.

‘Is this what you want?’ Facunda asks, her tone insistent.

‘No, you know it isn’t.’

‘Then why do you allow it?’

‘We agreed at the outset,’ I explain. ‘Our relationship would be open. These adventures are what she most craves.’

‘And you manipulate the situation to please yourself…to justify your own acquiescence in these atrocities. The girl needs nourishment not punishment. She needs therapy…But instead she has you! And you encourage her in this.’

I get up from the bed and walk to the balcony windows which are open. I look out onto trees and black emptiness. I can still hear the sound of violent rutting from the TV behind me.

‘I don’t want to lose her,’ I say over my shoulder. ‘Not her nor Gabriella. I love them both.’

‘Then help free them both! You are living a nightmare, and it can’t go on!’

I can see myself reflected in the window glass. My fair hair cropped bristly short near the skull, a three day beard streaked grey, although I’m not yet forty.

‘I honestly don’t know what to do,’ I say, then sip cognac. There are tears in my eyes which I don’t want Facunda to see – although I know only too well she sees everything.

‘In that case I pity you, my love,’ she says. ‘For you are truly lost…’

I return to the bed. ‘Perhaps we should respect Dee’s privacy?’

And without another word Facunda turns off the screen. ‘For you, my love,’ she says.’ I’ve arranged something very special tonight. You must go to the red room. That’s on the third floor. The door painted like red flames. Within you will experience…well, what? More than you ever imagined, possibly, in one night, yes? More than your wildest, most erotic dreams.’ She chuckles to herself, as if at some private joke. ‘Go now. Live for the flesh…We will have breakfast together tomorrow, yes?’

‘I’d like that, darling.’

‘Good. Now go to the room where dreams are made real. Let me rest…’

The door panel is indeed hand painted with red and orange flames, a depiction of hellfire perhaps? Dante’s ninth circle? Who can say with someone as complex as Facunda what she had in mind when she commissioned this? I turn the handle and enter without once knocking…

Last Night’s Orgy…

June 21, 2015

party

Only kidding. It was a very good fancy dress party but fell far short of an orgy. I made an incredible de Sade – even if I say so myself! Smacked bottoms to left and right of me – including the Vicar’s wife, Melanie Bryce-Bridge. Lovely bum, that woman has – fits my palm perfectly!

Everyone very merry. Good time all round. Fucked Dee mercilessly in the early hours of this morning. Fell asleep, finally, listening to Leonard Cohen (Greatest Hits) in the headphones and had strange dreams of a sexual kind. Dear Melanie Bryce-Bridge hogtied on the spare bed and begging me to thrust it up her arse!?!

What on earth is it they put in the gin nowadays?

Oh, well, must press on. As its Sunday I thought I might post a couple of religious, spiritually uplifting blog entries. Then I thought, feck that. More smut on its way…!

witches

“At the sabbats of the Vaudois, the presiding devil took aside the neophyte and carried her off to one side of the grove, so that in his own fashion he might make love to her and have carnal knowledge of her; to whom he said maliciously that he would lay her down on the ground supporting herself on her two hands and feet, and that he could not have intercourse with her in any other position; and that was the way the presiding devil enjoyed her, because at the first sensation by the neophyte of the member of the presiding devil, very often it appeared cold and soft, as very frequently the whole body. At first he put it in the natural orifice and ejaculated the spoiled yellowing sperm, collected from nocturnal emissions or elsewhere, then in the anus, and in this manner inordinately abused her…. Upon her return to the sabbat, the neophyte, before the banquet, entered into sexual relations with any other man . . . . Then, the torches, if there are any) being extinguished, each one at the order of the presiding devil takes his partner and has intercourse. Sometimes indeed indescribable outrages are perpetrated in exchanging women, by order of the presiding devil, by passing on a woman to other women and a man to other men, an abuse against the nature of women by both parties and similarly against the nature of men, or by a woman with a man outside the regular orifice and in another orifice. . . . Indeed a man experiences no pleasure with a she-devil, neither a woman with a he-devil; but they only consent to copulate out of fear and obedience …. In the second intercourse, however, the woman neophyte herself is known carnally by some demon, intimately and thoroughly, in the same way it was first done by the presiding demon; but in other succeeding copulations no more by a demon; except when on account of the paucity of men to complete the pairings (which happens whenever the greater part of the group there consist of women rather than men) the demons take over the part of the men in copulation, as it happens sometimes, though only occasionally. When the women are fewer, the complement is filled by she-devils, and this happens very frequently in other unions, in addition to the first two couplings, in the first of which, after admission to the group, in returning to the presiding devil, a man has intercourse with a female devil. . . . Indeed, as sometimes happens, yet only occasionally, a certain man always has copulation with a she-devil, and it is an indication of extreme vileness in him’; and likewise in any woman who has all her unions with a devil rather than with a man.”

An early Latin tract (1460) on the Arras witches written by the Dominican inquisitor Nicholas Jacquier.

Tenebrae

April 19, 2015

girls

So I was fingering this Goth girl in the corner of the room: two fingers deep inside, sticky wetness smeared on her thighs, and her moving against me – like she wanted my whole hand up there. Blue lipstick on her pouting mouth, black eyeliner and gold studs beside her eyes. The smell of cock strong on her breath…But not my cock; someone else’s.

She is hardcore, tattoos on her arms rising to her shoulders. Her eyes a little vague, like the eyes of someone who sees ghosts. She has long flowing black hair and skin the colour of cream cheese; corpse skin, like one of the undead. I tend not to look too much into her eyes. What I see there is disturbing.

The room is packed with people. In the dim roseate light they are little more than silhouettes. They swirl together in this incredible danse macabre. The shadows surrounding them appear to collapse on them, crush them ever closer together. Heavily cosmeticised women and their men greedy for each other, for flesh, some of them already naked. My little Goth whimpers out an orgasm, clutching my right wrist, her slender body shuddering against the wall.

‘Fuck,’ she blurts abruptly through tightly clenched teeth. ‘Fuck!’

She hasn’t told me her name, but I know it’s Amber. Her clothes look a little threadbare – in keeping with the image she’s trying to project. Runs in her fishnet stockings, shoes scuffed. ‘You want me to blow you?’ she asks.

‘I want to fuck you,’ I reply, taking my hand from beneath her skirt. ‘Is there somewhere we can go?’

She pulls a face. ‘They like to watch the action,’ she says. ‘There are mattresses on the floor over there.’ She points across the room. ‘You can have me on them.’

She leads me through the crush of people. The air stinks of marijuana, perfume and sex. Near the rows of mattresses a fat man with a round red face is standing before a kneeling woman. It’s plain to see she’s sucking him off, and he’s enjoying every second of it, making these little thrusting motions with his backside.

‘This one’ll do.’ She slumps down on a mattress, pulling me with her. I kiss her mouth, taste Polish vodka, sperm and stale reefer. She gropes at my crotch. ‘WOW!’ she says. ‘That’s more than ready, init?’

‘You think?’

‘You could do serious damage with that.’ She’s unzipping me, tugging my cock free. ‘Must be me birthday, eh?’

I slip a hand up her black lace top, kneed a small pointy breast. She climbs astride me, guides my cock to her wet sex and impales herself with a wheezing sigh. She grinds slowly against me, eyes half-closed, preoccupied with her own pleasure.

Awareness slowly grows of another girl beside us, this one young too, smiling at me. Her lips and eyelids funeral black. Part of a spider’s web painted or engraved beneath her right eye and a gold ring through her nose. Her eyes are more disturbing than my little Goth’s.

‘Watcha,’ she says.

‘Hi,’ says Amber. ‘How’s you doing?’

The girl pulled a face. ‘Nothing I fancy here.’

‘I’ve got a good ‘un with me.’ She continued grinding against me, moving from the hips, determined. ‘Want to give it a go?’

The newcomer shrugs. ‘If you like…’

Amber climbs off me, my cock swaying free. She grasps it in her fist and guides it into her friend as she lowers herself on me. ‘What’s your name?’ she asks, rocking on me.

‘Friends call me Van. What’s yours?’

‘I’m called Gen,’ she says. Her breath catches in her throat, she snorts and shudders suddenly; inhaling deeply, her head rolls back, eyelids fluttering. She’s coming off very, very quickly tonight…

‘What’s Gen short for,’ I ask, feeling the sharp spasms of her body dying away.

‘Geneviève,’ she answers, as her body settles. ‘Geneviève-Adélaïde Gosselin.’

‘Really? Are you French?’

‘My family was.’ Now she begins to ride me hard, pumping me remorselessly, as if trying to prove a point. Her hands on my chest. She has skinny-knuckles and long fingers, the pointed nails painted black. A gold medallion in the shape of a pentagram swings from her neck in time with her thrusts. ‘He’s got some staying power, this one.’

Amber rolls her eyes. ‘Told you. He can probably go all night long.’ She bends forward and kisses my mouth, her tongue darting. Her friend continues pumping her crotch against me, grinning as she does so. Her skirt is raised round her waist, and I see she still has panties on, but pulled to one side, a wisp of black hair showing where my cock goes in. ‘Can I have him back, now?’

‘I wanna make him cum. I want it all up me.’ Sheen of sweat on her wide forehead. Working me hard; so hard. Her roughness, her vitality is pure pleasure. Amber leans in to her, kisses her black mouth. I feel myself getting harder and harder until…

‘EURIKA!!’ She half-shrieks, feeling me lurch deep inside her.

I feel myself dissolving in spastic motions, each spasm wrenching through me, so that I can only just pant out, ‘Christ…Ohhh Chriiiiist!’ Clinging to her, her skinny body, my hands twin fists in her baggy black blouse. I try to bite off the animal sounds hissing from my half-open mouth.

‘There she blows,’ says Amber, smiling. ‘Happy now, Gen?’

‘Oh, yeah. Like riding a pneumatic drill…’ She laughs, slides off me. She kisses my face, my neck, and I smell her sweat mingled with a faint odor of stale tobacco smoke. ‘D’you recover quickly?’ she asks.

I was still partially erect; probably because of the coke I’d snorted earlier? ‘Is the Pope a Catholic?’ I reply, winking at her.

‘Insatiable fuck,’ says Amber, taking me in hand. She sucks on it like it’s an opium pipe, then deep throats me, almost gagging as she swallows. After a minute or so, I push her head away, roll her on her back and spread her legs wide. ‘I asked for this, I guess,’ she says, her voice soft and low, like a mischievous little girl caught out in some naughtiness. She gives this funny piggy grunt as I thrust into her…

Afterwards the three of us lay together listening to the music and the moans and groans of pleasure from the sea of bodies surrounding us. Kissing the back of Gen’s long neck, feeling her cool skin under my lips, and the tinniest of hairs. Her hair is thick and curly and unruly, falling half-way down her back. ‘I’m bored,’ she says quietly. ‘This place is the pits.’

‘We can go somewhere else,’ I say, but without having any new destination in mind.

‘We could go Bobby’s Place,’ she says.

‘If you want,’ Amber replies.

They lead the way but instead of leaving the building we go up to the roof. The night is dark, no moon, no stars, carrying within it the incessant hum of the city – that ever present exhalation of exhaust fumes, of fastfood, of rotting garbage and Christ alone knows whatever else. From up here I feel like the king of the fucking world. I can see the slow moving traffic, the headlights – which become etched like luminous graffiti on the backs of my eyelids when I close them. Vehicles traveling nose to tail down there, a Chinese dragon flowing twenty-four seven.

A faint breeze ruffles my hair, sends an empty cigarette packet rattling away. One, two, three steps forward…Flying off into nothingness.

Over there the A40 – Paddington Basin, Paddington, Harrow Road, North Acton, Gypsy Corner…Where the traffic finally arrives kicking and screaming at the biggest traffic conundrum in the whole fucking world! The Hanger Lane Gyratory System! Known lovingly to its regulars as “Malfunction Junction”!

‘The view’s good from up here, init?’ Amber says.

‘Yeah,’ Gen agrees. ‘It’s ace. Like being in heaven.’

They lead me back downstairs and out the building. ‘Motor’s over there,’ says Amber. She points at a brand new Rolls Royce Phantom complete with driver.

‘That’s yours?’ I ask in surprise.

‘Yeah, what you think I drive round in a mini?’

‘No, not really.’ I kiss her cheek and she rolls her eyes at me, as if to say, ‘Arsehole.’

The driver wears a blue suit but it is creased, crumpled. He has a young hard face, and his eyes look fashioned from slivers of night caught behind misty grey glass. He is listening to music, heavy rock, that thump, thump, thumps from the car like incessant, muffled hammer blows. He kills the music as we reach the car.

‘Bobby’s Place,’ Amber tells him as we sink into leather upholstery. The car’s interior smells of leather, of tobacco smoke, and the driver’s spicy aftershave.

‘You’ve got it,’ he says, turning the key in the ignition.

We are driving south through a maze of unfamiliar streets. I ask Gen, ‘How old are you, sweetheart?’ She stares at me for awhile and I can only stare back at her motionless features.

‘Old enough,’ she says at last. ‘Anyhow, it’s a bit bloody late asking now, isn’t it?’

‘How old do you think she is?’ Amber asks, her tone turning spiteful.

‘At a guess? I’d say she looks…ummm, don’t know. Fifteen, maybe. Sixteen tops.’ I shake my head, smiling. ‘But she’s almost two hundred years old in reality, isn’t she?’

‘Thanks a bunch. You really know how to big-up a girl’s ego, don’t you?’ Gen scowling at me, lights a cigarette and exhales a cloud of tobacco smoke in my direction. ‘What a cuntish thing to say to anyone.’

‘He’s not too far out, though, is he?’ Amber says.

‘You used to be a dancer,’ I say to Gen. ‘Isn’t that right?’

‘I danced, yeah, in the Ballet de l’Opéra de Paris.’

‘And you died 17th June 1818?’

‘Do I look dead?’

‘No you don’t. But you don’t look right, either. There’s a whiff of musty coffin about you, and your skin looks as if its been rolled in flour.’

‘That’s not a nice thing to say to a lady.’ The girl’s eyes glint coldly. Snake-eyes. A snake ready to strike; to kill without a second’s remorse.

‘What did you say your name was?’ Amber asks.

‘Van…’

‘Van what?

Smiling at her, nodding my head because the light is beginning to dawn for her. ‘Van Helsing,’ I answer. ‘Abraham Van Helsing was my great grandfather.’

‘The Dutch doctor…?’

‘And vampire hunter.’

‘You want to kill us?’

‘How can I kill what’s already dead?’ It’s a simple enough question, but causes them both to fall ominously silent. I reach for Gen’s stick-thin wrist, checking for a pulse, fingers gently pressing the cool skin but feeling nothing. Just stillness. She lets me do it, without complaint. ‘No heartbeat,’ I say.

She exhales a cloud of tobacco smoke into my face. ‘So,’ she says. ‘You going to splash holy water in our faces? Let it burn our flesh? Hear us screaming in fuckin’ agony?’

‘Of course not…’

‘Glad to hear that,’ Amber says. ‘Cause it doesn’t work. Just makes us wet and pissed off.’

‘Don’t you think I know that?’

‘What about a crucifix? You have one for protection?’ Gen asks.

‘I have one.’ I pull it out from inside my shirt. ‘It belonged to my mother, a keepsake that I wear round my neck. For sentiment…not protection.’

Gen took hold of it between thumb and spindly forefinger. ‘That’s very fine,’ she says. ‘Beautiful workmanship.’

‘We knew your great grandfather,’ Amber says. ‘He had the biggest, saddest dark blue eyes I’ve ever seen. One time he fucked me a full six hours. But that was after they’d locked up his wife. She was mad as a shit-house rat by then. Her mind deranged by the death of her little boy, Abraham’s son, their first and only child.’

‘Abraham was a devout Catholic,’ Gen intones softly. ‘He’d not divorce his wife, who was no wife to him anymore. So who are you, really…?’

‘I’m Nicholas Van Helsing.’ I nod at her again, smiling still. ‘There’s a family tradition that says Abraham visited his wife weekly in the madhouse to which she’d been confined. Year in, year out. Forever faithful to his marriage vows. But he was a man of great appetites. While he’d managed to sublimate his intense sexual desires, sinking himself body and soul into his researches for years, there was this one time…One time when his passions overwhelmed him.

It was a sudden, short coupling. He impregnated his poor wife. She was experiencing one of her more lucid periods, was more nearly sane, luckily. And, eventually, she was delivered of my grandfather, Saul, who was immediately removed from his mother and placed in the care of relatives…’

‘I see.’

‘So what is it you want? Revenge? We never hurt Abraham, you know? Never…’ Gen shaking her head, looks genuinely sad. ‘I loved that man in my way. He was special. His great big nose and that splendid cock. When he made me cum, I felt it through to the roots of my fuckin’ teeth.’

‘He left a diary,’ I say. ‘He names you both, confesses what you all got up to. The unnatural sex, the killings. He couldn’t help himself…’

‘Does this diary mention Etienne? He was one of us, and mad with jealousy. Impotent, but full of lust for me; for Geneviève also. He it was eviscerated Abraham…’

‘I don’t want revenge,’ I tell her. ‘What’s done is done.’

‘But you see us as monsters, don’t you?’ says Gen. ‘Creatures who reduce our victims to a heap of ruined, bloody flesh. We hear their screams. They scream in our mouths, in our cunts, as we tear them limb from limb, feast on them and pick clean their jumble of bones.’

‘Often we crack open the bones to get the marrow,’ says Amber quietly. ‘Waste nothing.’

‘Not like the romantic fairy tales of fiction, eh? Vampires don’t leave two tiny, precise holes in your neck. No, they tear your throat out. They ravage, and feed…On flesh and blood! They eviscerate, mutilate. Like all life they are about sex and hunger. Feeding and fucking. That’s all there is.’

I say nothing, just sit and stare at the shadows of her face.

‘Why did you come to us?’ Gen asks.

There in lay a long story. Slowly, carefully I recount my search for them, the trails I followed, the dead-ends, the places visited and the many people living on the edge of everything that I encountered in my travels. ‘You’ve moved about a lot,’ I say.

‘Gen likes to shop. She likes different shops, you know? Fresh stock. So we drift from place to place. It beats the boredom. We have so much fuckin’ time on our hands.’

‘That Irish cunt, Stoker got everything wrong. He filled his book with bullshit and stupid superstition – Abraham couldn’t forgive him. One of the first ever cases of identity theft, that was. Stoker wrote him into those pages of romantic dribble, trapped him there for all time. Eternal life. A travesty, he called it.’ Amber shook her head. ‘All that crap about sunlight…We spent most of last summer like a pair of stranded starfish on beaches round St Tropez…’

‘Yeah, we went pink as lobsters…but we didn’t burn. Nothing like that. We turned nut-brown in the end.’

‘We can do all sorts of cool things. Here…’ Gen reaches out to me. ‘Feel my pulse now,’ she says. I take her wrist, the skin feels warm, and sure enough there’s a pulse throbbing beneath the skin. Unmistakable.

‘That might explain you sweating earlier,’ I say to her. ‘I wondered about that.’

‘We can make things the way we want them to be,’ she says. ‘It’s what we do.’

‘You still haven’t explained what you want from us, Van?’ Amber says.

I tell them about the rumours, the people gone missing, the well attended London orgies Mark James arranges four times a year. ‘I guessed Mr James was just a front man,’ I say. ‘And I heard whispers of your names, names from my Great grandfather’s diary, and knew I was on the right track.’

‘Attendance at those, er, little parties is strictly controlled. Everyone is carefully vetted in advance, and attendance is by invitation only.’ Amber flutters those long dark lashes. ‘How d’you mange it?’

‘Put a little pressure on Mr James.’ I chuckle. ‘He was putty in my hands.’

‘You conned your way in, and had sex with us both. Why?’

‘Curiosity, ladies, that and nothing more.’

Outside I see tall brown buildings wedged together on our righthand. The driver indicates and takes a left onto a small industrial estate…Only there’s only one building, a huge warehouse with a big neon sign out front that reads “BOBBY’S PLACE” in fluorescing red light.

‘We’ve arrived,’ Amber says. She glances round, as if hearing voices or seeing ghosts outside. The driver turns off the engine, climbs out and opens the door for us. Service without a smile. Amber glides off the back seat, and I can’t help wonder if the ghosts she sees are the spirits of her many victims? Gen follows me out of the car.

Amber walks towards the double doors of the warehouse, Bobby’s Place. There are hundreds of cars parked in the area running alongside the building.

‘Quiet for a Saturday,’ Gen says.

‘It’s early yet,’ Amber replies over her shoulder, in a shut-the-fuck-up tone of voice.

Somewhere off in the darkness I hear a dog howling at the sky. A dog that sounds more like a friggin’ wolf. And then I think of beasts inhabiting the night…

Just inside the double doors is a kiosk. A tall woman glances at us entering. She has red hair swept back tight to her skull and tied in a long ponytail which reaches almost to her waist. She’s wearing a bulky sweater and baggy trackie bottoms that make her look even bigger than she is. She looks as if she’s going to speak, then recognizes Amber, nods and steps back. ‘Ladies,’ she says in way of greeting. Then to me, ‘Sir,’ again nodding.

‘Averill,’ say Amber and Gen in unison. I follow the pair inside.

We walk through two sets of doors like an airlock, into a wall of sound and heat, and gyrating bodies. I take in the strobe lighting, the crystal chandeliers overhead; the place is so crowded it’s insane. The dance floor is shoulder to shoulder. It’s like falling into a nightmare of flashing colour and movement.

Amber puts her mouth to my ear and almost shouts, ‘The club has multiple bars and rooms catering to a wide variety of tastes. You should see it when it gets really busy.’

‘You come here a lot?’

‘We own it.’ She gives me a big cat-that-got-the-cream grin, nodding.

I follow them both through the hot press of heaving bodies, and think of purgatory or the ninth circle of hell, or something even worse than those two – if such a place exists…But, of course, it does now: these two Goths have created it, here; hell on earth.

We arrive at a door with a push-button security lock and Gen punches in the number. The door opens and we all pass through into this narrow corridor. In here with the door closed there is perfect silence. Even so my head is throbbing…

Gen and Amber hurry down the corridor which is illuminated by sickly green overhead lights. Their pales faces are stained green, as are their bodies, and my hands when I hold them up in front of my face.

‘In here,’ Amber says to me over her shoulder before following Gen through a doorway to their right. We pass into a huge room, the walls all covered in Chinese hand painted wallpaper, the polished wood flooring under two thick Chinese Art Deco carpets, red, gold and black. The furniture in here is all glass, chrome and soft black leather. ‘Make yourself comfy…’

I slump onto a sofa. ‘D’you live here?’ I ask.

Momentary hesitation. Then Amber nods, ‘Yeah, this is home for us both.’

‘Nice, plenty of room, and a disco just down the hall. You’ve got it all. Money, immortality, good looks…’

‘Not that. Not immortality. Longevity, yeah. But we can be hurt like anyone else. We don’t live forever…’

‘But you’re already dead. How can you be “killed” again?’

‘I don’t know. A stake through the heart, perhaps?’ she said. ‘I’ve never seen it happen, so can’t say how true it is. But fire kills us. I’ve seen that, alright. Saw Etienne burn-up in Dresden during WW Two. Saw the fire storm…Thousands died.’

‘Fire?’

She nodded. ‘Yeah, that’s the way to get us.’

I notice for the first time Gen’s not with us anymore, she’s disappeared from the room. ‘Where’s your friend gone?’ I ask.

Amber smiles, coldly. ‘She’s gone through there. That door. It’s the dining room.’ She moves to the closed door, but she’s so fast I don’t see her move. Just POW and she’s there, hand on doorknob. ‘Want to see?’ she asks.

‘Why not?’ I had to say that, didn’t I. What a dumbo…

She opens the door, hurls it back and I see the naked figure hanging from metal hooks fixed up in the high ceiling. It’s a man. He’s hanging by his wrists. I stand up, go closer, one eye on the man the other on Amber who’s watching me closely. His lips are moving silently. Dried black blood above his right eye.

Gen moves suddenly into view. She’s sleekly naked. Something in her right hand catches the light. Flashes at me. Like a mirror…Or a blade.

The man’s eyes open as Gen reaches between his legs. I see that it is a blade she’s holding. She cuts quickly. Blood splashing like water from a tap on the vinyl flooring. The man’s mouth opens soundlessly, forms a huge round O. Then Gen stuffs a handful of bloody flesh into that gapping mouth, uses her fingers to force it down the back of his throat.

‘She’s about to feed,’ Amber says. ‘Not pretty, is it?’

The man is choking on himself. Blood still cascading out of him. Gen strikes. With her teeth. Down low at the base of his belly. She tears flesh open and more blood gushes.

Not for the first time I think of the holster above my right ankle. The snub-nosed 357 Colt Python resting in it. Would it be any use against them…?

Amber says, ‘What’s the matter? Seen more than you wanted to? Not what you expected…?’ Smiling, dreamy-eyed, advancing towards me. She hesitates as I remove one of the small bottles from my jacket. ‘Holy water? I told you, it don’t work on us. We can bathe in the bloody stuff…’

‘Not water,’ I reply. I splatter the contents down Gen’s back, those narrow shoulders, skinny arms. I flame the cigarette lighter in my other hand. And Gen spins round screaming…

Slamming the door on the burning girl…Her flaming pirouette burned irrevocably into memory. Move quickly away, towards a bookcase.

‘What have you done?’ Amber’s expression is one of disbelief. She is witness to the impossible. To the unthinkable…

Tearing pages from a large antique-looking book. I light them with my Zippo, let them fall. Ideas blazing. Then I have the other bottle of accelerant in my hand, top removed, come and get it…

‘Stop it,’ Amber cries. ‘Don’t you feel anything for me?’

What can I say?

Hardly anything in the circumstances.

The decision made long before this moment.

The fluid catches her face, her eyes. The flames lick through her hair, but she doesn’t scream. Just burns…Burns…Burns up in the conflagration that is, or was their living room.

Outside I walk through the waste ground surrounding “BOBBY’S PLACE” in the moonless dark. I remember the large meadow behind my childhood home. Days there filled with sun and laughter. Wild flowers growing everywhere…poppies which if you sniffed deeply of their scent gave you a splitting headache. Daisies, purple vetch. Buttercups, meadowsweet…And the buzz and whir of myriad insects…I can shut my eyes now, and return there, to that time. Shut my eyes on the pink glow haloing the roof of “BOBBY’S PLACE”…

I continue to walk. Away from the approaching sirens. Away from the rising flames and the distant screams. Walk towards morning on this long, long ago road. To a time before vampires, before fear. Until the first fingers of cold sunlight reach out to caress me…