Sinister Touch (erotica anthology) Read online

  Sinister Touch

  V T Turner

  Copyright © V T Turner 2013

  [email protected]

  Also by V T Turner

  My Paid Angel

  Voyeur

  Good, Bad, Girl

  Betrayed

  5 Days a Week

  Forbidden

  The Desperate

  She cupped her hands, breathed hotly into them and then rubbed them together, hoping to restore some heat into the cold appendages. She tightened her coat around her. It was thin, the zipper had bust long ago and the padding had either worn down or fallen out, but the other layers -- the tattered fleece jumper, stained, ripped; the two blouses, thin but intact -- stopped her from freezing.

  It was dark, the night had been drugged with a deep blackness and an unshakeable cold. She rested against the cold wall behind her, straightened out her back against the roughened brick. Up ahead, across the other side of the underpass, a small collection of men huddled around a fire, swapping grunts and sips from a bottle of cider. They were old, decrepit, on their way out, she doubted they had much life left in them, doubted all of them would make it through the winter.

  She had shared smiles with them before heading to her current spot, she hadn’t wanted to linger, didn’t want to remain in their lustful eyes for long; they weren’t her type -- too old, too desperate.

  She didn’t wait long before she was joined by someone else, someone who came stumbling through the gloom, half dragging his left leg behind him, appearing out of the darkness, through the mist, like a plague-ridden movie villain.

  When he smiled at her she saw food stuck in his teeth and his beard. He had probably just eaten, stuffing his face with whatever he could find. She pitied him, but it didn’t go further than that.

  He sat down beside her, shuffling along until she could feel him against her. He looked at her a few times, cursory glances, making sure that what he saw was genuine, that yes, she really was that pretty. Her hair, ruffled and windswept beyond repair, was a glorious strawberry blonde color; her face, marked with a few flecks of dirt and disrepair, was neat, tidy.

  He offered her a puff from his pipe, they always did. She didn’t know if it was crack, heroin or something else, she wasn’t knowledgeable about drugs but the one thing she did know was that she didn’t want any of it. It would probably keep her warm, but at a cost. When she refused he pulled out a small bottle of vodka from his pocket, offered her a nip, smiling his cracked-tooth smile as he did so.

  She didn’t need to say no to that. She drank nearly everyday anyway, she wasn’t as bad as the others she had seen, she certainly didn’t need the booze to survive, but she liked a drop every now and then. It settled her nerves, gave her something to do, and, on a night like this, it helped to warm her up.

  The vodka was harsh, it coursed down her throat and caused her to cough in her hand. She gave him it back, offered a hoarse ‘thank you’ as he screwed the lid back on and dropped it into his pocket.

  She watched him smoking his pipe, wondered if she should offer herself to him. He was too old, too dirty, too skinny. She didn’t mind the addicts, some of them were okay, many were keen to please, but there was a line and he was about to pass out on it.

  He tried it on after he had finished smoking, when the last dregs of toxicity had faded into the night air and a wide and immovable grin stretched across his stubbled, Dickensian face. He moved his hand to her leg, pressed gently and then began to slowly move it upwards. She didn’t have many layers on her bottom half, they just got in the way, instead she wore a pair of tight leggings, the thick material usually sufficed in keeping the cold out. They didn’t keep the sensation of touch away though and she felt his hand ascend her leg, slip down the inside of her thigh and continue upwards.

  She let him at first, wondering if she would mind after all, but when his movements failed to excite even the remotest of interest in her, she brushed him off. The smile didn’t fade, even in the face of rejection. It wouldn’t fade for a few hours yet, until he topped it up with more synthetic joy.

  She left her spot, told him she needed to go somewhere private to use the toilet. She walked until she found a man huddled in a shop doorway. He was young, no more than nineteen or twenty. His clothes newly tattered, he had only recently been forced out onto the streets. He was handsome, black hair down to his shoulders, thick stubble that covered the lower half of his face.

  He gave her a warm and friendly smile when he saw her. She caught him looking at her body, saw the desperation in his eyes; it had probably been weeks or months since he had been with a woman.

  “Do you mind if I sit here?” she asked.

  He couldn’t believe his luck. He quickly shook his head, was still shaking it when she sat down and shuffled next to him.

  He seemed uncomfortable around her, he was a drug user, possibly a heavy drinker, but he hadn’t been on either for too long. She had met people who had been living on the streets for decades, they had a toughness to them, a cynical, clinical view of the world. They took in their surroundings -- the people, the streets, the threats -- in an instant, without looking like they had even glanced at what was around them. This one was nervous, his eyes constant flitting around, suspiciously eyeing up every detail.

  She didn’t need to introduce herself, nor did she care what his name was, or anything else about him. He was handsome, rugged, perfect. She took his hand, he flinched when he felt her fingers on his, but he allowed her to take it, allowed her to guide it.

  She put it on her breast, let him feel the beating of her heart, the contours of her bosom. Then she slipped it up her jumper, allowing him to absorb the heat of her flesh, the excitement of her pert nipples.

  He didn’t turn to look at her, just moved his fingers gently at first, as if scared of offending. He traced a circle around her nipple, following the bumps in her flesh like braille as they stood to attention. She guided him downwards, into her pants, onto her freshly shaven pussy, his fingers running smoothly over the flesh, enjoying he sensation as if for the first time. When he descended further, his cold fingers on her warm, wet sex, she pulled away, returned his hand to him.

  He turned to her disappointed, a hint of apprehension in his eyes, as if expecting her to run away or slap him. She smiled softly, let him know that she would be doing neither, that she was there because of him, that she wanted him inside her. She moved towards him, hugged her body heat into his, locked together in a warm, tight embrace.

  He was nervous that people were watching, kept an eye on the empty street as she set to work, oblivious and uncaring about what went on around her. She tore off his jacket, thrust a hand inside, pinning it to his chest. She could feel his heart beating heavy through the thin layer of muscle underneath his warm flesh, could sense the desperation in the rapidly pumping muscle.

  She kissed him, slipping her tongue into his mouth, stealing his warmth, his taste. She moved her hand down, following a wispy trail of hair down to his stomach, ripping open his jacket and shirt as she drove the strong hand downwards.

  He didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands so she helped, using her free hand to directed his idle fingers onto her breast, ushering him into squeezing it before guiding him underneath her many layers, until his hand clasped her cold, stiff nipple. She peeled away, a sticky strand of saliva still joining their mouths. She gasped, opened her eyes and stared into his with a fiery eagerness and then kissed him again, harder.

  He got into the swing of things and began to take over. He stopped caring about the street, about the nothingness beyond, and turned her over, twisting until he lay on top of her, until she could feel his cock sticking into her stom
ach. She worked through the material, managed to free it before she pulled down her leggings, pried her knickers to one side and then pulled him into her.

  He was quick, desperate, eager. He drove into her with a hungry ferocity, his urgency evident in his powerful, deep thrusts. He finished quickly, but it was still enough for her. She needed that, had been waiting for it all week.

  He flattened himself on top of her, she could feel his entire weight, feel his cock as it pulsed and spat its final globs of spunk inside her. Then he rolled off, breathless.

  She stood up, straightened out her clothes, repositioned her knickers and her pants, indifferent to the way the material now stuck to her pussy.

  “Thank you,” she said with a smile.

  He looked up at her, confused. He opened his mouth to say something but she was already gone, walking into the emptiness, the nothingness that he had been so apprehensive about.

  She walked until the stench of wet, damp and mould left her nose, until the air was no longer polluted with makeshift bonfires, burning in disused bins. She left the world of underpasses, of twilight intoxication; a world where a cough, a splutter and a sickness was never more than a few feet away.

  The soles of her damaged boots slapped the pavements, stained with a blackened film from layers of exhaust pollution, sidestepped a suspect pool of liquid that flowed from a corner wall like a conquering army trying to expand its territory. She cut through a park, its looming trees creating ominous shadows in the glare of moonlight; passed over a small bridge, the stream below trickling putrified water over rocks, broken shopping trolleys and dumped human detritus.

  She walked up a cobbled path, across a quiet street and into an alley that lead into a car park, empty but for a sleek black BMW and a patient driver who waited by the hood.

  The driver smiled when she approached. He didn’t ask her anything, didn’t utter a word, nor did he comment on her appearance, on how, in the short time since he left her, she had managed to get even dirtier. He merely stood back, opened the door for her and greeted her with a smile and a complimentary, “Madam,” which was said with a small nod of his head.

  She climbed into the spacious backseat, immediately kicked off her shoes, ripped off the top few layers of her clothes and changed into a long coat and a pair of high heel shoes left on the backseat. The driver waited outside, he wouldn't be able to see her through the tinted windows, but he turned the other way anyway. When she had finished she knocked on the glass and he climbed behind the steering wheel.

  “Home, madam?” he asked, giving his boss a meek smiling through the rearview mirror.

  She nodded, returned the smile and didn’t say another word as he pulled away and took her home; to her estate in the country, to her husband and her kids, to her chores and her obligations. Back to the menial, the pompous and the pointless of everyday life.

  She sighed, long and satisfying. It didn’t really matter. She had what she wanted, that would keep her content for a few weeks at least, then, when the boredom returned, when the typical became mundane and the usual became meaningless, she would return. She wouldn’t see the nervous young man again, wouldn’t even go to the same part of town, but there were plenty of people waiting to take his place.

  The Pain Game

  Annie stamped her foot down hard, ground her heel. She cursed under her breath, ground her back teeth together, frothed at the mouth.

  Across from her, equally angry, less monstrous, was Peter; her partner of three years. They were in love, or so the story went.

  “Fuck you; you rotten, dirty, stinking pig.” Annie psychically spat at him. She was disgusted, couldn’t help herself. He watched the glob fly through the air and just miss his face by inches.

  “You spat at me?” Peter snapped, disbelief in his high-pitched yell.

  “I’ll do a lot fucking worse than that!” she picked something up, the first thing that came to hand, and threw it at him. This time it connected, the remote control clipped off his forehead. It took him by surprise, knocked him back a few feet and caused him to release a muffled grunt under his breath.

  She stood still, rigid. “Oops,” she whispered under her breath, watching as he ran a hand over his injured forehead. She had gone too far, there was no need to do that, regardless of how annoying, how inconsiderate--

  Her eyes flashed wide when she saw that he was charging at her, an explosion of anger and redemption on his face.

  They collided hard. Flesh against flesh; bone against bone. She felt an elbow in her side, felt his chin brush hard against her cheek, and then she felt his erection pressing against her.

  He kissed her hard, locked his lips tightly onto hers, as if he wanted to suck the life from her. She reciprocated, tore at his clothes, ripping off his sweatshirt, exposing the muscles -- sweaty and tense through their arguing -- and grabbing them, squeezing his flesh until it reddened and bruised under her touch.

  She turned him over, lifted herself up and let him bury his head in her breasts. He ripped her blouse, tore it straight down to expose her breasts, pressed together in a see-through black bra. She unhooked it, let them flop onto his face. He kissed them savagely, bit the nipple, ran his tongue and his teeth around it and then set to work on the other breast, the other nipple.

  She was wet by then, had been building up over the last twenty minutes. She was ready for him, desperate for him. She clawed at his trousers, exposed his pulsing cock through his zipper. She kissed him hard again, pushed her backside into the air and slipped her hand underneath, repositioning her knickers before sliding on top of his cock.

  He went inside in one, shift, lubricated movement. They chorused an agreeable moan of delight. She ginned wryly at him, at his sneering face, at his hands which grabbed at her breasts, her exposed stomach, her flowing red hair. She rode him, feeling his cock inside of her, the tops of his thighs against her buttocks.

  She screamed, louder and louder, reaching her climax. She grabbed her own hair, pulled at it, lifted it high above her head.

  “You fucking bastard!” she yelled.

  “Fuck me!”

  She climaxed, shuddered on top of him. She felt him finish as well, felt his cock thrust as it shot his load inside of her. She groaned, relaxed in a saggy heap on top of him, their sweaty, hot bodies forging a fleshy mound.

  She could still feel his pulsing cock in her, could feel his juice running down her leg, onto her buttocks, onto his thighs. She pulled up, smiled widely at him.

  “I love you.” She told him honestly.

  “I love you too sweetie.”

  ***

  Annie payed with herself in the shower. She could still feel him inside of her, still feel the bruises he had left on her body. Before the last traces of him washed away, she fingered herself up against the shower wall, the hot jets of water splashing onto her breasts, her finger -- moist with both of their juices -- rubbing her clit.

  She was used to masturbation. It had become her ‘thing’. A year into her relationship with Peter, after they had become engaged and moved in together, the sex had dried up, become boring and stale. They both knew it and neither of them even bothered to get each other in the mood anymore. She satisfied herself in the shower everyday, she suspected he knew, the walls were thin and she was loud, but she knew that he liked to masturbate to porn on his laptop.

  It was the porn that had caused their first argument. Tensions were already high, they were both stressed at work, neither had been getting much sleep. She caught him jacking-off to two blonde lesbians and she unleashed her anger on him. They argued, shouted at each other for hours, until they were both breathless, their voices grating in their throats, then, for the first time in six weeks, they had fucked each other’s brains out. It was the best sex they’d ever had. It was rough, it was hard, it was passionate. She came three times, he even licked her pussy for the first time.

  They tried again the next morning, both of them hoping to emulate the night before, but it was passionless,
boring. It was the arguing, the shouting, the tension, that had sparked the passion and they both knew it. It wasn’t long before they were finding the simplest things to argue about so they could repeat the passionate sex. They argued when he came back late from work; when she burnt dinner; when he left his clothes on the floor. They even argued when he made her a cup of tea instead of coffee.

  Last night was the first time they didn’t bother with excuses. They were both more relaxed, work was going okay, they were sleeping better. They had argued a lot over the last couple of weeks so they were both happy in the bedroom department as well. She waited until he got back from work, stood in the doorway when he arrived. They looked at each other, knew what they wanted to happen, waiting for the other person to instigate it.

  She wasn’t sure who had hurled the first insult but it didn’t matter. Last night had been the best yet.

  ***

  She never used to make much sound during sex. When she lost her virginity she didn’t utter more than a stifled moan, in shock more than anything else. A few years after that she barely even did that. It wasn’t until she was in her twenties, until she became more sexually active, did her sex life really take off. She began to enjoy it more, began to get louder and louder.