A First Date With The Devil

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Mary Rose is a successful young lawyer who plays as hard as she works. That is to say, she does in theory. In practice she works ridiculously long hours and playtime rarely seems to happen. The
idea of attending a well-to-do gathering where no-strings sex is freely available appeals to her no end.

Okay, so she's been warned about the masks and amateur dramatics but, in her opinion, a few gimmicks can only add to the experience.

What could possibly go wrong?

A First Date With The Devil


By LimeyLady




Copyright Mark C Woolridge (writing as LimeyLady), 2017

Distributed by Smashwords




All characters and events in this publication,

other than those clearly in the public domain,

are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons,

living or dead, is purely coincidental.






Table of Contents



Chapter One - Getting ready to party

Chapter Two - Going to St John’s Wood

Chapter Three - Nibbles and aperitifs

Chapter Four - Proceedings begin

Chapter Five - Mary Rose really enjoys herself

Chapter Six - Reporting back to Heather

Chapter Seven - Heather’s way of easing her worries

Chapter Eight - A twist in the tail

Author’s Note

Other Books by LimeyLady









The Thames was by no means the biggest river in the world but, as it snaked its way through London, it was majestic, wide and strong. It was also a good way to get rid of things. For countless centuries it had been used as the city’s main drain. How many billions of chamber pots had been emptied into it, how many tens of millions of tons of industrial waste?


One more piece of garbage wouldn’t go amiss.


The unremarkable panel van was nearing its destination. For a while it travelled parallel to the river at a distance of maybe a hundred yards. Then it took a left into what could only be described as an alleyway between boarded-up buildings. Moving slowly the van headed towards the water, its occupants silent.


The alleyway was in an undesirable part of town. A mile or so away real estate was ranked amongst the most expensive in the world. Here there wasn’t a price because nobody wanted to buy.


Under the tyres the road surface changed as smooth tarmac gave way to old cobbles. And they were very old, nothing like the smart ones found in touristy areas. No, these were uneven and out of line. A lot of them had been crushed or crumbled, some were missing altogether.


The driver grimaced as he steered the van through heaps of trash, trying to avoid the larger potholes. The Mayor might claim otherwise, but it was hard to believe that any repairs had been made here since the Luftwaffe paid their last overnight visit, sixty-odd years ago.


‘Your turn,’ he said as he pulled up and killed the lights. As if his accomplice didn’t know whose turn it was.


For perhaps ten minutes they sat there in the van, doing and saying nothing, listening to the tick of the cooling engine. They were parked in the very end of the alley. The broken cobbles continued for ten yards but on an incline, leading down and into the river itself. Once upon a time the locals would have used that incline to launch some shitty little boat. But not nowadays; nowadays nobody ever came here.


The loneliness of the place was why they were there, obviously.


Unromantic as he was, the driver admired the moonlight on the water. This was a wide stretch on a bend. The opposite bank had to be two hundred yards away. Chances of being observed from over there were zero.


And the silence was deafening. Not that a city the size of London could ever be silent at any time of day or night. Even now, after two in the morning, there was a buzz in the air. It was tricky to describe but there nevertheless: the intangible background sound of millions of people rutting, fighting, singing, some of them even sleeping.


Yes, it was intangible but as much there as the sun and the tides.


Talking about tides . . .


Chances of being observed from north of the river were zero too. There was a locked-up timber yard to their right and fuck all to their left, apart from exposed waste land. And even the hardiest of rough-sleepers shunned that waste land. The wind coming off the river was bitter, whatever the time of year.


Nobody in his right mind would pass a thousand sheltered doorways to doss there.


Not with any prospect of surviving the night, anyway.


‘Okay,’ the man behind the wheel finally said, ‘let’s do it.’


While his accomplice quietly opened the back of the van the driver covered the alleyway. CCTV round these parts was non-existent. The only way they could get caught in the act was by the unlikely event of someone coming down the cobbles. And he wasn’t about to let that happen, unlikely or not.


Behind him he could sense his accomplice hefting the garbage onto his shoulder and fireman’s lifting it down to the moonlit Thames.


It was two minutes of a job, no more.


Lack of CCTV, lack of witnesses, a seriously strong undertow . . .


What could possibly go wrong?




Chapter One


(Friday 28th May 2010)



Mary Rose Archer grinned at herself in the mirror. She was aged twenty-nine and still had the face of a mischievous sixteen-year-old. The rest of her wasn’t bad, either. That awful red hair she’d had as a child had become a Titian auburn that most girls would die for. Her eyes were as green as jade and her figure had all the curves of . . .


Well, her figure belonged to a twenty-year-old.


‘So give it back,’ she said aloud, laughing along with her reflection.


As if she would! She worked very hard to keep her body beautiful; very hard indeed. And her efforts paid off. She could favourably compare the results against just about everyone she ever met.


Apart from Hev, of course, and she was a sneaky cheat. Okay, she exercised, but eating and drinking all the wrong things made no difference to her. By rights she should be spotty and fat, but not her. Oh no, she was perfect in every way. It wasn’t fair. Nobody should be allowed to go out and about looking even half as sexy as Hev.


Well, not unless they were as readily available as she was.


Briefly toying with the idea of a hint of eye-shadow Mary Rose passed. Unlike most redheads her skin tanned easily. And she worked as hard on her tan as she did on her body. Winter, spring, summer or fall, makeup was wasted on her.


Besides, she didn’t want to seem like a tart, did she?


Not on the night of her very first orgy.


And wasn’t Hev going to be agog about that when she found out?


Tomorrow, she promised herself. I’ll phone tomorrow and make her jealous as heck.


Mary Rose giggled. She was an up-and-coming lawyer with an office “in the City”, working some quite crazy hours and playing hard in her free time to compensate. Leastways that was the theory. In reality she hadn’t been getting a lot of free time.


Come to that, she hadn’t been getting a lot of sex either. Most of her recent “playing” had been of the solitary variety.


And she was usually too tired even for that.


But not tonight; tonight she was as rested and ready as ever. She’d had an early night last night and, after a relatively stress-free morning, she had taken the afternoon off and treated herself to a massage, manicure, pedicure and sauna.


Indulgent or not, she’d certainly readied herself for the pleasures to come.


A whole night mixing with a crowd of strangers on a no inhibitions, no regrets sort of a basis. Wasn’t that utterly wicked!


Still giggling, she examined herself for nerves. Okay, so she was fluttery inside, but with anticipation, not apprehension. No, make that lots and lots of anticipation. Youthful appearance aside, she was a big girl now; she knew everything that went on behind closed doors. Why shouldn’t she be thrilled at the prospect?


Not that she was being totally reckless. Although she didn’t know who she’d be partying with, she had the venue’s address written on a legal pad in her office.


She had written down Bruno’s name and address, too, on the same page. More to the point, he knew that she’d written it all down. If anyone tried to white slave her he’d be first person arrested.


Taking the precaution didn’t mean she really expected to be abducted, it just meant she didn’t know very much about Bruno, even after “seeing” him for nearly six months. She was unsure what exactly he did, but he was apparently “doing things” in the City.


There again, so was half the population of London. If Reggie Kray was still around, no doubt he would say something along the same lines.


“I’m ducking and diving, mate . . . in the City.”


Mary Rose balanced her lack of knowledge about Bruno with the positives. He was early thirties, very strong and good-looking, like an Italian film star. He was good in bed. He drove a state-of-the-art Ferrari and every maître d’ in town welcomed him with open arms.


What was there not to like!


And who cared about his gold wedding band? She had asked on several occasions, getting the same answer each time. He’d split from his wife three years ago, childless. She’d moved on but the bastard ring had a mind of its own. One of these days he’d drop by Hatton Garden and have the sodding thing sawn off, once and for all.


Mary Rose hoped he meant his ring rather than his finger. She rather liked his fingers.


But hey, she’d asked the appropriate question and got the appropriate response.


A girl could only do so much, no?


For a moment she debated calling Hev before instead of after. Hev had once jumped in a bath with a whole rugby team, so a bit of an orgy wouldn’t particularly shock her. On the contrary, the mention of a bit of an orgy would get her juices flowing.


Maybe they could even snatch a quickie, courtesy of British Telecom.


While she was carefully considering the pros and cons her buzzer went. Bruno had arrived, no doubt double parked outside, wanting her to join him.


Wanting her to go to a party and fuck other guys.


Whatever the rights and wrongs, Mary Rose was cool with the concept. She’d grown to like Bruno and trusted him to a degree, but she had no intention of being stuck with him forever. Limited free time or nay, the last six months hadn’t been exactly experiment-free on her part. Probably hadn’t been on his, either.


So what the heck! Bring it on!!




Chapter Two



How’s the big case going?’ Bruno wondered as he drove them towards St John’s Wood.


Mary Rose smiled. While she would happily gossip about her work colleagues she wouldn’t usually discuss clients or cases. Her big one was, however, high profile. Everyone knew about it and her part in the proceedings had been reported in the media. There was no denying she was involved.


She wanted to be involved, as well. The client, who she still thought of as “Miss X”, starred in a prime-time TV soap opera. Half the adult UK watched her four times a week, falling in and out of love as she met and discarded new blokes, regularly urging her on when she had a catfight outside the local pub and laughing at all her witty put-downs.


Miss X had married a celebrity DJ a few months after she’d made her first soap appearance. That is to say he was a DJ who’d become a major celebrity, not a celebrity who spun a few discs on the side. Their wedding had been a glitzy showbiz spectacular. Tens of thousands of complete strangers had sent them presents, a lot of them ridiculously expensive, and thousands more had turned up at the church.


Following the script, Miss X had almost immediately got pregnant. By a combination of clever editing and her determination, she hadn’t missed appearing in a single episode all the way up to the day she gave birth to twin girls. Then she took a week off.


And then she’d been back, business as usual, slim and sexy, not at all motherly or stretch-marked but with everyone knowing what she’d just been through.


Cue thousands more presents. If she’d needed the money she could have opened a babywear shop big enough to rival Mothercare.


Then, after seven years of idyllic family life, it happened.


“I knew from the very first second,” she told Mary Rose during their opening lawyer/client conference. ‘I had found my soulmate. I actually heard the final piece of the jigsaw of my life click into place. And thank God, she felt exactly the same.”


Yes, she’d fallen for another woman, hook, line and sinker.


The DJ was renowned for erratic behaviour and acted predictably. At first, using his prime-time radio show as a platform, he appealed to her to come back. His life was meaningless without her. He would do anything for things to be as they were. Why oh why had she forsaken him?


That approach lasted two or three days. Then he got nasty. Dropping the appeals he called Miss X a heartless, unfaithful slut. According to him, the new love of her life was a scheming lesbian cow; one that was chasing money and reflected glory.


And didn’t he want the world to know it!


Miss X’s problem was that her real character was totally different the character she played on TV. Off-screen she was a very private person. While the DJ would gladly rant and rave to whole rooms full of reporters, she always declined to comment. Consequently the media was filled with offensive quotes from him and utter silence from her.


Talk about freedom of the press. By sticking to direct quotes the media had a field day with no liability attached. And, by sitting back and taking it, Miss X let them do their worse.


On it went, on until finally, after the umpteenth headline reading “THAT LESBIAN W***E TWO-TIMED ME FOR FIVE YEARS”, she’d had enough. By then even she had to accept it was time to shut the DJ up.


Mary Rose had been delighted when her firm’s senior partner asked her to represent Miss X. As well as it being her big break she had never much liked the DJ. His behaviour was cheesing everyone off, up to and including his employers.


If there’d been an award for Prick of the Year he’d have walked it.


Given free reign Mary Rose would have cheerfully sued the asshole for every last penny, and he had a whole lot of pennies. Sadly, Miss X just wanted him to leave her alone.


“It’s over,” she said. “I never wanted the publicity he lives and breathes for. I only ever did all that red carpet crap because my agent said I had to. I’d have stayed home with the girls if it was up to me.”


If nothing else, Miss X was sincere. For years she and her DJ had played second fiddle only to Posh and Becks. A magazine cover was not complete without a snap of her emerging from a luxury motor, into a storm of flashlights, all teeth and tits . . . and no doubt hating every moment of it.


Bugger the colossal damages, Mary Rose had decided. Just give the girl the simple solution that she wants. She deserves it far more than most.


So an appropriate action was professionally prepared. The DJ quickly responded with an action of his own, revealing his true nature by demanding custody of the twins.


Out of nowhere, just like that.


Additionally, in what Mary Rose considered to be a very poorly written document, he asked the court to place the girls in care if an immediate decision could not be taken. As an alternative he suggested the court may see fit to allow Miss X custody of one twin and him custody of the other.


The fucking bastard didn’t even specify which twin he wanted. Clearly either would do.


Most annoying of all, as reason for his demand, he asserted Miss X and her “friend” were “adversely influencing his daughters’ sexuality”, and deliberately so, at that.


“They’ll be having unnatural sex at an unnaturally early age,” he alleged.


By then the twins were six years old and far too young to be involved in legal arguments. However, although Mary Rose didn’t believe the DJ’s allegations for one second, she did think they were entitled to have opinions.


God forbid, but they might be uncomfortable with their new living arrangements. They may even want out.


Tentatively, she asked if she could speak to them privately, on a one-to-one basis.


Miss X agreed immediately. “It’ll have to be private but both at once,” she’d said. “They’re both bright as buttons but they do everything together.”


The informal interview took place in Miss X’s kitchen, an enormous Magnet affair with black granite worktops and every conceivable appliance; forty grand’s worth at least. Sitting at a corner of a massive oak table, positioned so they were facing each other, armed with three glasses of orange juice, Mary Rose began.


“Do you understand your daddy is upset?”


“Daddy’s upsetting me,” Lizzie replied. “He wants to put us in an orphanage.”


“No it’s even worse,” said Jane, “he wants to split us up.”


The two girls were holding hands and looking wretched. That is to say they were tiny mirror images of their mother. Even on the verge of tears they looked divine. Surprised by a maternal pang, Mary Rose went on.


“Do you know who I am?”


“You’re Mummy’s hero,” said Lizzie.


“You’re going to save us from Daddy,” Jane agreed.


“Do you know that there aren’t any orphanages anymore? Not like in Oliver Twist.”


“Daddy says there are. Daddy says it’s not him who wants to split us up; it’s Mummy’s fault. But we don’t believe him. Do we?”


“No,” Lizzie endorsed. “He fibs to us.”


After half an hour of gentle probing Mary Rose was convinced right was on her side. The twins both understood that “Auntie” was in love with their mummy and didn’t mind. Auntie was nice, even if she did kiss and cuddle a lot with Mummy. And they had no intention of kissing and cuddling anyone themselves, not ever . . . apart from (shy giggles) just maybe Liam out of One Direction.


Summarizing all that in a few words Mary Rose told Bruno there was a prelim hearing on Monday.


‘Will it go your way?’


She laughed. ‘I should say that those girls will only ever be taken away over my dead body. But I don’t need to. I know the judge and I know that idiot DJ has been digging himself into a hole. I intend to ask him one or two leading questions and then let him keep digging. By the time he’s done he’ll be six feet under.’


‘You sound very confident.’


‘I am. And if all else fails I’m going play a recording I made when I was talking to the twins. Do you know what Jane said?’




‘She’s one of his daughters. She’d been very brave but suddenly she was sobbing her little heart out. “Why does Daddy want to hurt us all?” she asked me.’


‘What did you say to that?’


‘I dodged it. But I won’t dodge it on Monday. If I have to I’ll tell the judge that Daddy is a heartless so-and-so who just wants to lash out. But I won’t need to tell her. She’ll know that better than I do. There is no chance of her asking me to tone it down. I’m more likely to have to restrain her.’


‘I’ll be rooting for you,’ Bruno said.


‘Thanks and much appreciated. But not needed. I’m looking forward to kicking that bastard’s ass.’



Chapter Three



Ten minutes later and they were nearly there.


‘I’m amazed how relaxed you are,’ Bruno said. ‘Tonight’s a big step.’


‘I’m banking on you getting me home safely,’ Mary Rose replied. ‘And you know that I left a note on my desk. If I’m not back in the office before eight on Monday, you’ll have Sweeny Todd knocking on your door.’


He glanced at her, smiling as always, one thick black eyebrow arched up in a quizzical way.


He looked good enough to eat, and didn’t he know it.


‘We’re reaching the point of no return,’ he said calmly. ‘If you’re going to back out, now is the time.’


Mary Rose did actually consider, but only for a moment. She’d been Hev’s closest friend and fiercest rival in their years together at The Manor School for Young Ladies. It was fair to say they had brought out the very best in each other and, occasionally, the very worst.


Hev would see tonight as an opportunity, not a challenge.


She would never back out.


Not her; no way, José.


‘I’m up for it,’ said Mary Rose. ‘And I’m horny as hell. Bet I’m more uninhibited than you.’


Bruno chuckled softly and told her to look in the glove compartment. She did and found a black mask that would have looked good on Catwoman.


‘Bloody hell,’ she said, impressed.


‘I told you it’s a . . . Well, it’s a masked occasion. Anything goes and nobody knows.’ Bruno chuckled some more. ‘Mine is in there as well.’


Mary Rose fished out something the Lone Ranger might have worn and compared it with hers.


‘It’s nowhere near as good as mine. Are mine real diamonds?’


‘They are very expensive fakes,’ he replied, ‘so whatever you do, don’t lose them.’


‘It’s really going to happen, isn’t it?’


‘Yes,’ he replied, turning into a leafy road lined with massive Victorian houses. ‘Unless you opt out in the next ten seconds, it really is.’


Mary Rose put on her mask.


‘I don’t want out,’ she said boldly. ‘Let’s go for it.’






Their destination was perhaps the largest property in the long, leafy road. And its number, Mary Rose noted, matched the one written on her pad.


So there was the ballgame. No reason to opt out now, was there?


As Bruno pulled up lights went on in a car parked across from them and a well-dressed man got out via the passenger-side door.


‘Worry not,’ said Bruno, ‘he’s one of mine.’


Already masked, feeling vaguely self-conscious, Mary Rose climbed out of the low, luxury vehicle and watched as the newcomer got in the Ferrari and drove it away. Meanwhile the other car coughed into life and headed off in the opposite direction.


‘We’ll get a cab afterwards,’ Bruno explained. ‘Alcohol is very much on the cards.’


Mary Rose nodded. Bruno might have more money than sense but he wasn’t stupid. Driving around in his red-flag-to-a-bull phallic symbol was always likely to get him pulled. And London traffic cops were as ferocious as any on the planet. Sniff a grape on your breath and they’d lock you up in a jiffy.


After accidentally breaking your arms and losing the key.


That was the way he told it, anyhow. Mary Rose had more time for cops, by and large, but still didn’t fancy getting on the wrong side of them.


Not when she was out to drink, eat and make merry.


‘I won’t ask how late we’ll be,’ she said, ‘or where the cab will be taking us. I’ll let it be a surprise.’


‘It’ll be late enough.’








Number 39 really was large. It could very easily have been a nursing home, or a hotel or some sort of fancy private school. Taking into account its location, Mary Rose guessed it had to be worth well north of two million, even during the never-ending global recession.


As they approached an enormous, studded wooden door it opened and a butler ushered them in.


Lurch, she thought instinctively.


‘The changing rooms are to the left,’ Lurch said, his voice low, almost reverent.


Bruno clearly knew the way. Taking Mary Rose by the arm he led her into a sizeable room that was equipped with lockers and a vast selection of robes, all in black.


‘Don’t worry too much about the fit,’ he said. ‘You won’t be wearing it for long.’


Pre-warned, not at all bashful, Mary Rose kicked off her heels and stepped out of her quite expensive, off-the-shoulder dress. By the time she’d stowed it and her shoes in a vacant locker Bruno was down to his boxers.


‘Remind me,’ she said coquettishly, ‘should I leave my lingerie on or not?’


‘Unfortunately it has to come off,’ he replied. ‘You can leave it on later, when it’s just me and you.’


Mary Rose’s robe was made from some silky material and felt surprisingly soft. It also smelt like it had been very recently laundered. She put it on over her otherwise naked body, fastening it with the neck clasp and a thick cord at the waist.


‘Now I really am horny,’ she confessed, enjoying the press of material against her erect nipples.


Part of Bruno was also erect, but he shook his head when Mary Rose started to advance on him.


‘Not yet,’ he said, ‘and not with me. Not until much later.’


‘Spoilsport,’ she countered, grinning.






There wasn’t anything Addams Family-like about the interior of the house. It was Victorian but not in any way out-dated. In fact it was tastefully decorated and furnished. And the gigantic reception room was buzzing with guests, all of them wearing masks, matching black robes and clutching crystal wine glasses.


‘Bruno,’ a tall, powerful looking man with a shiny bald head gushed. ‘I’m so glad you could come.’


Mary Rose did a double-take. The tall man’s robe was scarlet, making him stand out. There again, everything about the man made him stand out. If ever a guy was born to lead, this was he.


‘This is the delightful Mary Rose,’ Bruno responded. ‘Isn’t she something else?’ Then, with a flourish of a gesture, ‘Mary Rose, this is Apollyon. He’s responsible for the lavish hospitality.’


Mary Rose knew how a guest should behave. She smiled into Apollyon’s eyes and wiggled her tits as he kissed her hand.


‘I’m glad to be here,’ she said, truthfully.


‘And I’m enchanted you feel able to join us,’ he countered. ‘Please, help yourselves to food and drink. I look forward to catching up with you during the course of the evening.’


The man was, Mary Rose decided, watching him askance, not at all badly built. Neither were most of the other masked men circulating around.


Who was that masked man, she asked herself.


And who cared? By her calculations there were perhaps thirty guests, split sixty-forty with men in the preponderance.


Which made it all the more fun for the women, no?


Bruno was busy loading plates with vol au vents, smoked salmon and the likes. He wasn’t sizing up the masked females as far as she could tell.


But why should he? She could do that easily enough for herself.


Grinning inwardly, Mary Rose sipped vino. She was still very relaxed. The luxurious house was full of beautiful, obviously rich people. Yes, even barefoot and dressed in plain robes, the reek of affluence was in the air.


Better yet, they were all there to let their hair down and fuck away from home.


Hard work, but someone had to do it.


And variety was the spice of life, wasn’t it? Invitations to orgies aside, Bruno was becoming a bit of a predictable bore. Seeing each other fucking new partners could only help their relationship.


Or so she told herself, knowing it was really kill or cure.


They stood awhile together, idly chatting, eating from the cold buffet, their glasses perpetually refilled by scantily clad waiters and waitresses. Suddenly, surprisingly woozy, Mary Rose caught herself eying a waitress’s ass and laughed.


Ogling a girl’s ass wasn’t a new experience. Indeed ogling a girl’s ass was one of the first lessons she had learned at The Manor.


Bruno didn’t know that, of course. She wasn’t ashamed of her sexuality but didn’t openly advertise. So far as he was aware she was a man-eater, full stop.


Well, he’d just have to live and learn, wouldn’t he?


Accepting yet another top-up she decided the background music was, to say the least, weird. Maybe it was retro punk . . . meaning performed by one of those bands whose members had been picked solely by appearance and couldn’t actually play their instruments.


The food was good, though. And the wine was flowing in sweet rivers.


‘Thank you, thank you,’ Apollyon suddenly cried, clapping to claim undivided attention. ‘Please follow me into the chapel. Let’s get the serious business over with, so we can enjoy ourselves.’


Thirty lusty throats endorsed his idea as good.


Mary Rose endorsed as enthusiastically as anyone.




Chapter Four



The chapel was attached to the house and accessed by a typically lavish corridor. But there the luxury ended. The chapel was made from cold stone and little else. It had a raised altar without an altar cloth and no pews. In fact the only obvious “seating” consisted of black sheep fleeces that had been strewn here and there about the flagged floor.


The first thing Mary Rose noticed was that the cross behind the altar was broken.


That’s been done on purpose, she thought. Then, wide-eyed: Oh my word, it’s a satanic mass!


Freaking shit, it really is!!


Then she shrugged. Bruno had told her to expect “role play”. And the black robes had been indicative enough, hadn’t they?


I’m not religious, she reminded herself, and so it doesn’t matter . . . leastways not unless they’re going to start sacrificing cockerels or something. That’d be too much.


Apollyon had taken up a position on the dais, beside the altar rather than behind it. Not that he would have had much room behind the altar; most of the space back there was taken up by the large statue of a goat with a gigantic black candle wedged between its horns.


‘Welcome to my consecrated crypt,’ Apollyon said, his voice strong, very much that of a preacher.


Two acolytes were circulating, distributing more black candles as they went. Musing on the use of the word “crypt”, Mary Rose followed her fellow guests and lit her candle from the one wedged onto the goat before depositing it in one of many holders on the walls.


As more and more candles were lit and deposited the recessed overhead lighting gradually dimmed. By the time the last candle was in position the overheads were off altogether.


Isn’t a crypt supposed to be underground?


Mary Rose shrugged again. There were no windows so she couldn't be sure, but the chapel didn’t feel to be underground. And that corridor hadn’t been noticeably downward sloping.


Or had it?


And wasn’t that flickering candlelight something else?


With both his acolytes standing to his left, facing his random scattering of guests, Apollyon mumbled something in Latin. Or rather, he mumbled something that sounded to a budding lawyer like Latin.


As if on cue a woman entered the chapel, walking slowly down the aisle like a bride-to-be. Well, like a bride-to-be apart from being stark naked and carrying a glowing white candle in each hand.


Mary Rose had an eye for girls and this one was a stunner: exceptionally tall and blonde with nice tits. No mask, either. Maybe she wanted to be spoken about.


‘She's the Holy Virgin,' Bruno whispered.


Shameless, the blonde perched on the altar, her legs apart, laughing as thirty pairs of eyes feasted on her.


Reverting to English, Apollyon held up a vial of reddish fluid.


‘Menstrual blood,’ he cried theatrically, pouring the contents into a large golden chalice.


Then, holding up a much smaller vial, he cried, ‘Semen,’ and added it to the brew.


Knowing she should be distinctly uneasy, Mary Rose wondered if her drinks had been spiked.


How on earth could she be watching this without laughing?


How on earth could she be actually enjoying herself?


But she was. She even joined in the murmur of appreciation when Apollyon held the chalice for the Holy Virgin to pee into, her aim less than perfect.


‘Sip the blood of Christ,' Apollyon said to his nearest acolyte, passing him the brimming chalice. The acolyte complied, taking what appeared to be a mighty gulp rather than a sip.


‘And you.’


The second acolyte complied just as willingly.


‘Freshly stolen,' Apollyon went on, flourishing what Mary Rose took to be a piece of sacred bread or “Host”, presumably filched from a nearby church.


With all eyes on him, Apollyon dipped the bread into the chalice, soaking it through before throwing it down and stomping it into the flags.


‘I shit on the body of Christ,' he shouted.


‘Do what thou wilt,' twenty voices replied loudly. 'Shit on the imposter.'


‘You,' Apollyon beckoned the nearest guest. 'Come, be blessed and reap your reward.'


The guest eagerly stepped forward. Dipping his fingers into the chalice, Apollyon sprinkled drops of fluid over him and pointed to the Holy Virgin, who had left the altar and was lying on her back on the bare stone floor. So far as Mary Rose could see, she hadn’t bothered finding a fleece.


Throwing off his robe, brandishing a decent-sized erection, the guest hurried to the virgin, mounting and entering her missionary-style, without as much as a by-your-leave.


‘Fuck the bitch,' a chorus of voices urged. 'Fuck the whore.'


By then the other guests had formed a ragged sort of a queue, the ones at the front tearing off their robes in anticipation, male and female alike.


‘You,' said Apollyon, beckoning another guy forward. 'Be blessed and reap your reward.'


The guy accepted his sprinkling and approached the Holy Virgin. Still happily being fucked by the first guest, she took him in her mouth.


‘Fuck the bitch,' the onlookers cried. 'Fuck the whore.'


Next forward was a woman. She accepted her sprinkling then stood to one side, masturbating as she watched the action.


The person immediately after her was probably her escort. He accepted his sprinkling then, seemingly oblivious to all onlookers, lined himself up behind the man fucking the Holy Virgin.


Mary Rose gasped as the escort’s cock slid up the crack of the other man's ass, missing the target a couple of times before finally sinking in.


Why oh why wasn’t she appalled by such behaviour!


‘Fuck the bitch,' a dozen voices urged.


'Fuck him too, fuck him harder,' a dozen more countered.


Taking his blessing, yet another guy entered the fray. This one strode straight up to the masturbating woman spectator. She dropped to her knees and swallowed him whole.


‘You,’ said Apollyon, pointing out Mary Rose, even though she wasn’t anywhere near the head of the queue, ‘you next.’






Mary Rose didn’t flinch from the sprinkled drops of blood, sperm and pee. In fact she hardly noticed them.


No, she was captivated by Apollyon’s eyes, glowing red in the iffy candlelight.


Okay, so maybe she’d been drugged, but surely she’d also been hypnotized.


But did she care?


‘You get the Holy Virgin next,’ Apollyon said softly, perhaps so only she could hear. ‘You’ll like that, won’t you?’


She nodded. ‘Anything for you,’ she said, mouthing words her brain hadn’t computed.


‘I know,’ he agreed, ‘but first things first.’




Chapter Five



Mary Rose didn’t have a problem with shrugging off her robe and approaching the Holy Virgin. By that stage in proceedings the stunning girl had shrugged off her first wave of lovers and was upright again. Upright, alone and waiting for her.


Hornier than heck, Mary Rose returned her grin. Right then she actually appreciated having a decent-sized audience and hoped that everyone was watching, and not up to independent physical mischief.


In other words she hoped they were going to watch her fuck, not fucking for their own greedy selves.


Still woozy and as uninhibited as ever, she smiled at the blonde, noting her lust-crazed eyes, feeling empathy for her.


No, feeling at one with her.


‘I’ll do anything for you,’ she said, her brain out of gear.


The Holy Virgin offered up her lips.


Mary Rose kissed them.


Only to be shocked when fluid was immediately passed into her mouth.


She knew what it was, naturally. It was semen from the guy the not-so-Holy Virgin had just sucked off.


Whatever; Mary Rose wasn’t in the market for shirking. Not with dozens of people potentially watching her, dozens of sophisticated men and women, waiting to decry any weakness.


Without breaking contact she gulped down the salty fluid and pressed with her tongue, pushing it into the Holy Virgin’s mouth. She responded by pressing down on Mary Rose’s shoulders.


‘Eat,’ she commanded.


Mary Rose obediently sank to her knees. She couldn’t see too well in the dodgy candlelight. Even so, it was clear the Holy Virgin’s thighs were glistening. Part semen, part lady, she presumed. Combining to make a tasty treat for later, after she’d chewed some clit.


‘Ah yes,’ the blonde sighed, articulating all the world’s pleasures in one breath. ‘Eat her right up. Eat up the fucking whore. Lick her. Lick her like there’s no tomorrow.’


Mary Rose didn’t need telling twice; not in circumstances like that. Slowly, very delicately, she ran the tip of her tongue down what had to be the world’s best defined clitoral hood.


The Holy Virgin wailed out appreciation.


Mary Rose slightly shifted position and drifted lower, penetrating vagina, not caring about the blend of juices flooding into her mouth, not letting herself wonder “who” or “how many”.


‘Eat her,’ her willing victim screamed. ‘Eat the fucking whore! Eat her right up!!’


Suddenly Mary Rose’s attentions were no longer unique. Yet another male guest was behind the Holy Virgin. One of the hardest cocks of all time was intruding, roughly evicting Mary Rose’s tongue, taking its place.


‘Fuck the whore,’ the blonde wailed. ‘Oh yes, fuck her. Fuck her good!’


The sounds of sex were all around. Without breaking off to check it was impossible to know for sure, but it seemed like all of the guests were by now rutting. Taking into account the uneven balance, that meant a lot of grateful women were getting a lot of attention.


And, taking into account the Neanderthal grunts and groans, shrieks and moans, everyone present was by now getting what they wanted.


Talking about Neanderthal grunts and groans . . .


Without varying the motion of her tongue on swollen clit, Mary Rose’s hand slid between the blonde’s legs, fastening around the faceless man’s hairy balls. Squeezing them, tugging on them . . .


‘Yes, yes, yes,’ the Holy Virgin squealed, ‘in her! Shoot it in the fucking whore!! Shoot it in her cunt!!!’


The faceless man almost instantly obliged. Mary Rose had fingertip evidence of his earnestness.


‘Fuck yes,’ he moaned, his tone the very epitome of sexual gratification.


Mary Rose was waiting for a fresh gush, ready to lap it up along with the rest of her tasty treat.


But strong hands gripped her, pulling her up and away.


It was Apollyon, his scarlet robe unfastened, his erection prodigious.


Instantly forgetting about everyone else Mary Rose wrapped herself around him, her legs high over his hips, her groin on his rather massive cock which was already intruding, opening her . . . opening her in a debauched but very pleasant way.


‘Ah yes,’ she sighed in her turn.


Inside her, filling her, Apollyon began to move. Mary Rose clung ever tighter, holding him in as deeply as she could.


‘Come on,’ she urged, reading his accelerating motion, knowing what it meant, ‘cum for me.’


He did, almost hair-trigger fast. But he didn’t quit.


Oh no, he carried her away from the altar.


Still woozy, Mary Rose caught glimpses of her surroundings. Unless she was very much mistaken the Holy Virgin was being double-penetrated whilst giving yet another blowjob. The other guests were all in twos, threes and fours, up to similar tricks.


Bruno was nowhere to be seen.


Not that she really tried to locate him.


The movement of Apollyon’s cock inside her was simply delicious. He wasn’t currently fucking her but by merely walking he was doing wonderful things.


Then, without prior warning, someone was behind her.


Make that a male someone.


Held up off the ground as she was, firmly impaled by Apollyon’s throbbing manhood, she was hanging like a lamb to the slaughter. The unseen stranger stroked her ass, fingered it then pressed something all the more meaningful against her.


This was a first but Mary Rose didn’t care. Staring into Apollyon’s swirling red, mesmerizing eyes, she laughed out loud.


‘Oh yes,’ she cried, ‘fuck the whore. Fuck her hard as you can!’




Chapter Six


(Saturday 29th May 2010)



Heather Hunter patiently listened to all of her oldest, bestest school chum’s telephoned account before summarizing.


‘So,’ she began, ‘you wantonly agreed to go to an orgy with three dozen strangers. You didn’t protest when you were given drugged wine. In fact you accepted more and more and guzzled it down. Then you proceeded to shag six different men.’


‘And three different women,’ said Mary Rose, helpfully.


‘But those numbers are vague estimates,’ Heather went on, ‘because you can’t remember everything. Come to that, you might have shagged with twice as many people as you’re admitting.’


‘I’m more hazy than forgetful,’ said Mary Rose. ‘But you know I’d never lie to you. That’s why I’ve only told you about the ones I’m sure of.’


Heather sighed deeply. She was a banker and had just had the week from Hell. That is to say, she’d just had her hundredth consecutive week from Hell. Gordon Brown’s well-publicized heroics back in 2008 hadn’t actually resolved anything. At least not as far as the guys and gals at West Yorkshire Bank had noticed. In their considered opinion he might even have made things worse.


She would have celebrated him now being out of the equation . . . if this new Cameron coalition crew had inspired a little more confidence.


What was that saying? The world’s to hell in a handcart . . .


‘Sorry,’ she said into her phone. ‘I’m just home from work and I’m whacked. I’m probably not my usual self when it comes to comparing sex stories.’


‘You and me both,’ said Mary Rose, patently exaggerating. ‘They’re still trying to work me to death at the office. But that’s only to be expected. It’s like proving your utter, total dedication.’ Then, her voice full of question marks, ‘Did you just say you’ve been into work on a Saturday morning?’


The way she said “Saturday” made working weekends sound blasphemous.


‘No,’ Heather replied, ‘not exactly; I never went home last night. I nipped out for a quick Shama curry then went back to it.’


‘Are you saying you worked all the way through?’


‘Of course I am.’


‘Jeez, that’s well out of order.’


‘It’s the way things are. But never mind me. Tell me more about last night for you.’


‘There isn’t anything else to tell. Not apart from feelings and suspicions.’


‘What do you mean by that?’


‘I’m not exactly sure. I remember my first few partners then . . . Well, I’m not sure if what happened to me didn’t really happen to someone else. As if I had experienced it vicariously, you know? There was a wide range of outrageous activity going on everywhere I looked.’


‘Mare, I don’t believe I’m hearing this.’


‘Get real, Hev. Your track record is second to none.’


‘My track record is buried back in the mists of time. I haven’t had sex in . . .’ Heather hesitated before laughing. ‘Well, not in three days . . . Arguably four.’


‘Get out of here. As if I’d believe that. Three days and you will have been round at that neighbour of yours, borrowing a cup of sex.’


Heather laughed again. Graham’s apartment was next to hers. Between them they occupied the top floor of the Old Tannery in its entirety. As they were both still young and single, sex had been known to take place, and not just by the cupful.


Come to think about it, before the big crunch it had been more like the bucketful.


‘He’s away in Mumbai again,’ she said. ‘I’m beginning to think he’s got a secret family over there, with a wife who looks like Shilpa Shetty.’


‘I bet that would make you envious . . . Of him, I mean.’


‘Yes, as a matter of fact it would.’


‘So if he’s playing away what’s wrong with that gangster of yours, or one of your many girlfriends?’


‘Sean’s hardly ever available and, as for girlfriends, I’ve forgotten what a fanny looks like.’


Cue a sudden, thoughtful silence.


‘Have you forgotten what to do with one?’ Mary Rose resumed in deep, husky tones.


No, her tones were downright seductive.


‘I think I might have a bit of an idea,’ said Heather. ‘But stop distracting me. It’s not your rash and very immoral behaviour that’s worrying me. That only makes me jealous; it’s this black mass nonsense that will keep me awake.’


‘It wasn’t a black mass. It was role playing.’


‘Tell that to the Marines.’


‘Hev, it was theatrics, setting the scene. No more, no less.’


‘What about the semen and menstrual blood?’


‘It could have been milk and raspberry juice for all I know.’


‘What about the pee?’


‘That was real enough,’ Mary Rose conceded. ‘But I don’t know if anyone actually drank it. They might have pretended.’


‘Aren’t you even slightly disturbed about . . . about the sort of folk you’re messing with?’


‘I’ll probably never see any of them again. And I wouldn’t recognize them even if I did. Like I said, we all wore masks.’


‘It’s all too Dennis Wheatley for me,’ said Heather. ‘Are you sure there wasn’t anything else?’


‘Do you mean like sacrificing chickens?’ Mare chuckled. ‘I did wonder at one stage, but no, it never came to pass. And you’ve no room to talk about sacrificing chickens anyway. Not as a farm lass.’


‘What do you mean?’


‘At school you used to brag about how many creatures you’d slaughtered: absolutely zillions of rabbits and chickens . . . and the odd cow, if my memory serves me right.’


‘That’s a fib. I never rendered a cow. There was this guy who’d come in special if that needed doing.’


‘Okay, but there were still zillions of rabbits and chickens.’


Heather scowled at that. Her dad had sold the family farm when she was thirteen, finally beaten by all the taxes and supermarket pressures. Up until then she had indeed been a “farm lass”. Being sent off to a fancy and exclusive all-girls school had been a shock to her system.


Leastways it had been for all of three seconds, after which Mare had knocked on her door.


“You look lots more interesting than the other newbies,” she had said boldly. “Don’t shilly-shally about with them. Stick with me. I know everything there is to know about this place. I’ll show you the ropes.”


Heather had been in love with her ever since. Always would be . . . But never enough to overlook their natural rivalry.


‘I’ve never sacrificed a chicken in my life,’ she said indignantly.


‘Yes you have.’


‘No I haven’t. I’ve moved lots on, but only ever commercially or for Sunday dinner.’


‘You’re playing with semantics.’


‘No I’m not. I only did it when I had to, and I only ever wrung chickens necks. Anything else is cruel. The silly things don’t realize that they’re dead if you do it any other way.’


Mare fell silent again at that.


‘Aren’t you even slightly concerned about the implications?’ Heather went on.


‘What do you mean?’


‘I mean the implications of being passed around like a . . . like a . . .’


‘Like a parcel?’ Mary Rose suggested, recovering enough to giggle. ‘Come on, Hev, get real. It was all about me hunting the next partner, not the other way around.’


‘What was your precious boyfriend doing through all this? Watching you?’


‘I dunno. I rather suspect he was hunting in his own right.’


‘I’d have my doubts if I was you. What do you know about him, anyway?’


‘He works in the City.’


‘Doing what?’


‘How should I know? I presume it’s something financial.’


‘Mare . . .’


‘Listen, Hev. He keeps himself to himself, but so do I. And so do you whenever I ask about your work. All I need to know is that I like to fuck him. That’s as far as we’re ever going to get. No more, no less.’


‘I wish you wouldn’t swear. You don’t catch me using language like that. It’s not what they taught us at The Manor, is it?’


‘You can be extremely vulgar without swearing,’ Mare countered. Then, deep and husky again, ‘What were you doing when I called?’


‘I was napping.’


‘Where were you napping?’


‘I was on my bed.’


‘Are you still there?’




‘Are you naked?’


‘Not really.’


‘Come on, Hev. Are you naked?’


‘I’m in my knickers.’


‘And nothing else?’


‘That’s right. I’m in my knickers and nothing else.’


‘Are your tits still as brown as the rest of you?’




‘What about your fanny? Does that still match your around-the-world tan?’


‘It’s been years since I went around the world.’


‘And it’s been years since you went a day without a sunbed. So does it still match?’


‘Take a guess.’


‘I don’t have to. I can picture it. And I can picture your hand in your panties too. You’re thinking about Bruno and jilling, aren’t you?’


‘No, I’m thinking about you, not that abusive so-and-so.’


‘He’s not abusive. Unlike me; I’m ready to be self-abusive. And I’m more than ready to share a few fantasies. Are you?’


Heather never could resist phone sex with Mare.


‘I wish you were here,’ she breathed. ‘Never mind nine or ten strangers, I’d make you happy.’


‘Tell me how.’


‘Are you naked?’


‘Of course I am.’


‘Are you jilling?’


‘Do you really need to ask?’


‘Okay, so we’re both jilling. But it’s not enough. Do you want to know what I’m going to do to you next time you venture north of Watford?’


‘I bet it’s nothing compared to what I’m going to do to you.’


‘Bet it is.’


‘Okay then, tell me.’


So Heather did . . . in very fine detail.




Chapter Seven



After finally ringing off Heather stayed on her bed a while, her heartbeat and breathing slowly sinking back to normal levels. In an ideal world she’d catch forty winks before her date with Nina but just then there was no chance. She’d not been joking when she had said worrying about black masses would keep her awake.


How could an incredibly intelligent girl like Mare get involved in something like that?


Heather was precisely two days younger than Mary Rose. They’d been together at The Manor for five years and kept in touch ever after, regularly meeting up, holidaying together at least twice a year. They were lovers, soul-mates and best friends. Very few sisters were as close as they were.


And now Mare was into Satanism!!


Growing up on the farm had opened Heather’s eyes from an early age. The things Dad’s “beasts” did to each other had been patiently explained to her. She seemed to have known how cows got with calf and why some hens’ eggs hatched chicks forever. In her opinion God’s mysterious ways didn’t come into the farming equation. Farming was totally natural, with natural events leading to natural outcomes.


Consequently church-going hadn’t played a big part in her life.


That much said she did believe there were forces out there. And, as the odd good harvest vied with lots of bad ones, she’d become prepared to accept those forces could be positive or negative.


Not that she really thought Mare was in the process of stirring up evil spirits. No, she was concerned she was getting involved with fraudsters and charlatans. Maybe she was even getting involved with the odd lunatic or rapist.


Raped, strangled and her bank account emptied! Couldn’t the flipping redhead see what was coming her way?


Heather dearly wanted to head south and punch sense into her.


But what could she do from two hundred miles away in Bingley? Come to that, what could anyone do when Mare had made up her mind? Arguing with her had only ever made her more determined.


Sighing deeply, Heather decided to put her worries on hold and think about the night ahead instead.


Ah yes . . . the night ahead with a long-legged blonde whose boyfriend didn’t understand her.


That didn’t work, though. Good old Mary Rose had given out too much information about her orgy. Try as she might to picture her own lovely lovers, all Heather could see was a seemingly endless parade of masked men and women.


‘Six guys and three gals,’ she said aloud, chuckling. If she’d been there she’d have gone for six three in the other direction. But then she always had classed herself as “well on the lezzie side of bi”.


Unlike Mare; Mare had always classed herself as “well on the nympho side of maniac”.


Heather chuckled some more, distancing herself from her concerns as best she could. Dad still felt guilty about it but “selling out” to a monopoly of a construction company was the best thing he ever did. With one stroke of a pen he’d gone instantly from penniless farmer to the Six Million Dollar Man.


Except he hadn’t walked away with a mere six million dollars, had he?


And now his banker daughter was in the process of buying Hunters Farm back.


Well, she was buying some of it back. A lot of land was already covered in identical matchbox houses but the dreaded recession had stopped the later phases, dead in their tracks. And the farmhouse was still standing. Okay, it had got dilapidated, but it would soon mend. And best of all, thanks to that awful yet wonderful recession, she’d been able to buy her select package for peanuts.


Maybe Gordon wasn’t so bad after all.


Or maybe there was a God.


Heather had always loved the farm. As a child she’d been a proper little tomboy, shooting rabbits for the pot, climbing atop the highest trees and running farther and faster than any of the local boys. But, for her, leaving the place had been a massive leap in the right direction.


Leaving the place had given her an education and experiences she would never had got at Bingley Grammar School, good as it was.


Yes, under the old status quo she’d have done well but wouldn’t have excelled. By leaving the farm she’d had new horizons opening all around her.


Getting a decent chunk of farm back (for next to nothing!) was just an indicator of her success.


Look at that beautiful house, folk would say as they passed. Who owns it, a millionaire?


A local girl made good, someone would reply. She bought back the old family home, made it better than ever.


Not that she was hoping to recreate the past. Dad had expressed admiration for her enterprise but no interest in making a return. And she had become a different person. Who wouldn’t be after spending her adolescence in an all-female environment?


Bugger the available guys in the all-boys school next door. Where had they been in the early hours of the morning, when a girl really needed a friend?






Fresh out of the shower Heather examined her naked self in a full-length mirror, liking what she saw. Tall, over five-ten, with a mane of long, jet-back hair that flowed down her back; a six-pack stomach and arms which were muscled yet shapely . . . and ditto for her legs; that wonderful all-over tan; eyes of a startling green.


Oh those eyes! They could enchant almost anyone without trying, and had done, on many occasions.


Girls mostly, but by no means exclusively . . .


Smiling to herself, knowing what she would find, she strolled back into her bedroom and retrieved her phone. The message from Mary Rose had arrived about quarter of an hour ago. It had an attachment and read: STILL THINKING ABOUT U.


Heather opened the attachment to find a video selfie. It showed Mare’s hand between her parted legs, her fingers stroking down her hood, over her clit and into the mouth of her vagina.


She’d probably looped the recording. If she hadn’t her timing was perfection. Musicians working with metronomes couldn’t have matched it. Again and again, she went, again and again and again.


Not to be outdone, Heather took a selfie of her chest, holding the phone in her right hand and using her left to bring her nipples erect. Most of her body was perfectly proportioned but she had, by anyone’s standards, very large nips. It didn’t take much input to bring them up like thimbles. Two minutes later, well satisfied with the finished result, she sent her own message and attachment.




Mare replied almost immediately: GET A LOAD OF THIS!


Her latest video had a soundtrack. She was using a blue dildo on herself. Heather could hear the loud liquid sounds as it went in and out, each in-stroke accompanied by an appreciative yelp.


Make that a yelp that Heather knew only too well.


Even at a quite vigorous pace Mare could last a long while. Heather got on the bed and quickly, quite expertly, brought herself to a peak. Then, tottering on the brink, not wanting to move one inch forward or back, she hit redial.


‘Hello,’ a husky, gaspy voice replied, ‘Mary Rose Archer speaking.’


‘It’s me and you’re making me cum,’ Heather gasped back at her. ‘Your tongue’s inside me and I can’t hold off any longer.’


And then, exaggerating a little but mostly authentic, she orgasmed as vocally as she could.


Legendary actresses couldn’t have been more convincing. If that had been filmed she’d be on a plane any moment, bound for LA, Grauman’s and concrete handprints.


It was Mare’s turn not to be outdone. Using exceptionally vulgar language, she retold one of her better orgy stories, substituting Heather for a (presumably) Chinese guy with a big willy.


In the story Heather was presumably Chinese too. She was also performing miracles no ordinary guy could ever aspire to.


‘So good,’ Mare repeated endlessly, ‘so, so good.’


Heather egged her on, ignoring her frequent swearwords, cunningly transforming a race to cum into a race not to cum. Needless to say, that was a race neither of them wanted to lose.


After aeons and aeons, by then snarling at each other over the phone, Heather’s language almost but not quite as foul as Mare’s, they called it a draw.


‘On ten,’ Heather groaned.


‘No,’ moaned Mare, ‘we go on three. One . . .’


‘Two . . .’




And that was that; they had lift-off.






Almost exactly four hours later, under cover of darkness, Tony paused in the solicitors’ office. He was expert in getting into and out of places undetected and this latest had been no special challenge.


Not with his skills.


Hovering over the lawyer’s desk Tony produced his mobile, his ears ever alert, all of his other senses on standby.


Nothing moved. Nothing breathed, not even a spider, waiting for its latest fly.


Back in the day Tony had fallen in with a bad lot. Older kids than him, they’d been very much into the smash and grab approach. He’d quickly distanced himself from them. Why go in with alarms blaring and the (admittedly remote) possibility of cops on their way?


Why not go in by stealth?


Why not target small items that wouldn’t be missed for a while?


Why steal videos and CD players when antique jewellery was worth infinitely more?


But antique jewellery was not on the agenda tonight.


No, not here in this highfalutin solicitors’ office.


Not when he’d been hired to photograph just one page of legal pad.




Chapter Eight


(Friday 4th June 2010)



Mary Rose hadn’t seen Bruno since last Saturday, when she’d woken up in bed with him somewhere near Hyde Park. The view out of the window had been exceptionally spectacular.


If only she could remember how they’d got there.


Telling Hev that her memories had been “hazy” had been seriously understating the truth. Perhaps it’d been the regular top-ups of (drugged) vino, but the sexual activities got dimmer in her memory as Friday night had went on. Quite frankly, she didn’t know if she’d taken ten partners or twenty.


Or how many times, ways and means.


All she did know for sure was that she’d enjoyed every second and came awake with Bruno on and in her.


Happy days!


The place overlooking Hyde Park hadn’t been explained. She’d asked, naturally, and Bruno had given her some crap about it being “a mate’s pad”. Then, sweaty and tousle-haired but still oozing sex, he had asked if she was up for “more of the same” next week. Similar orgies happened, he assured her, every Friday without fail.


Being a good little lawyer, Mary Rose had checked her diary. As she’d feared, her firm had scheduled a client meeting for next Friday evening. And it was a three-line whip. The question of attendance was not to be debated.


Bruno accepted the position readily enough, particularly when she told him she guaranteed she would be at the orgy the following week. In fact he had come over all amorous again. And she’d soon accepted when he proposed Friday lunch instead of Friday night.


Now here he was, twelve on the dot, outside in his Ferrari, half a dozen secretaries scrutinizing him out of their office windows.


‘I’ll be back at two,’ she called to her PA (even though the girl already knew she’d been cleared for an extra hour).


Six secretaries audibly drew in breath, wondering exactly how she’d fill the next hundred and twenty minutes.


Wondering a little along the same lines herself, Mary Rose rode down in the lift and joined Bruno on the wide sidewalk, getting there shortly after one of the office block’s security officers.


For once Bruno had parked in a slot rather than on double lines. Grinning broadly, clearly knowing he was over the waiting limit, he reached out and shook the officer’s hand.


Mary Rose was convinced that a £20 note had just been successfully palmed.


So was the security officer. He vanished like a ghost before dawn.


‘Hey,’ Bruno said in greeting, ‘Congrats about Monday, hell of a result.’


Mary Rose beamed at him. The judge had been more on side than she’d hoped in any of her wildest dreams. In fact the bastard DJ had been lucky to escape the death sentence.


Well, he’d escaped it so far. Maybe next time . . .


‘Cheers,’ she said, ‘shall we go celebrate?’


‘How does Carmen’s sound?’


Five years in London and one venue sounded very much like another. “Carmen’s” didn’t ring any bells but, not having planned ahead, Mary Rose smiled and said fine.


Conscious of a multitude of eyes on her, she kissed Bruno’s cheek and got into the red sex machine.


‘That short skirt suits you,’ he said admiringly.


She laughed as she realized how high that skirt had ridden up. And then, playing to the audience, she laughed even louder when Bruno took off like Lewis Hamilton.






Surprise, surprise, the maître d’ at Carmen’s knew Bruno. Gushing, he ushered them inside to one of the prime window tables and, assuring them someone would imminently bring Chablis, left them alone with their menus.


Bruno was, as per always, utterly charming. He made small talk like Casanova made love. Leastways he did in Mary Rose’s ever-fertile imagination.


One hundred and twenty minutes, she thought. Surely we could . . .


Seemingly oblivious to her desires, Bruno chatted on, flitting from subject to subject, easily taking her with him. He was, as she already knew, a born raconteur. Ditching daydreams of having a quick one in the Ferrari, she listened and took all his prompts.


Service was nice and unhurried. Wine flowed and time flew. Then, as they ordered their sweets, she noticed a couple at a nearby table: a large, powerful man with a shiny bald head accompanied by a petite girl with very short brown hair.


She recognized Apollyon instantly. Even without the mask and robe it was unmistakeably him.


Sensing eyes on him, he returned her stare. Then he smiled, recognizing her too. Obviously wearing masks had been a waste of time.


Murmuring an apology to the girl he got up and approached their table. ‘Good afternoon Bruno,’ he said warmly, ‘and Miss Archer. What a small world it is.’


Mary Rose supposed she should feel uncomfortable in the presence of two lovers at once. But she didn’t. She didn’t feel ashamed either; not in any way at all.


‘Leo,’ Bruno replied. ‘What a pleasant surprise. Will you join us?’


‘We’ve only just arrived and I can see you are nearing the end. I just felt the need to say hello.’ Then, turning to Mary Rose: ‘I understand you can’t make it tonight.’


‘I’ll be there next week,’ she assured him. ‘I’ll be there without fail.’


You seem very keen.’


‘I am.’


Apollyon nodded approval. ‘I suspect you will soon be Holy Virgin quality,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘Would you like to play that part?’


Silly question! Dim memory or not, Mary Rose was sure the Holy Virgin had been fucked by everyone present, male and female. The girl had as good as overdosed on sex.


‘I’d be honoured,’ she said as demurely as she could.


‘It is an important role,’ he said, holding her with his eyes. ‘Many women aspire to it. And of course some women prefer alternatives. I’m actually holding an alternative meeting in July, one where the likes of Bruno will not be invited, if you follow my drift.’


‘A night for girls only,’ Mary Rose guessed.


‘Well, I will be there with my two left-hand men,’ Apollyon said, chuckling, ‘but everyone else will be girls only. Am I correct in assuming you might be interested?’


‘Yes, you are.’


‘It’s strictly invitation only. And I’m trying to keep the number down to thirteen.’ He chuckled again, his eyes still magnetic. ‘You would be queue-jumping unless you earned the right. Now then, how could you possibly do that?’


Mary Rose assumed he wanted bribing with sex. Before she could volunteer Bruno stepped in.


‘Aren’t you still looking for a Holy Virgin for the twenty-third?’ he asked. ‘Surely that would do the trick.’


‘The twenty-third is a very special night,’ Apollyon told Mary Rose. ‘If I offer, do you believe you can go through with it?’


‘Yes,’ she said confidently.


‘Then we have a deal. I’ll tell you more next Friday. Enjoy your dessert.’


The waiter had been hanging back discreetly, letting them talk. As Apollyon went back to the girl with brown hair he delivered their strawberries and cream.


‘You are very brave,’ Bruno told her when they were alone again.


‘Nothing to it,’ said Mary Rose. ‘Leastways there won’t be when I’ve practiced peeing into a goblet.’


‘I’d like to be a fly on the wall. At your girls-only orgy, I mean.’


‘What’s this twenty-third business? It’s a Wednesday, isn’t it?’


‘It’s St John’s Eve. That’s a very special night for pagans, supposedly the best night of the year for performing magic. There will be a lot of enthusiastic people wanting to perform with you.’


Mary Rose laughed. ‘Sounds like my kind of a party.’






Bruno's sex machine was capable of 240 MPH, but not in the centre of London on a Friday afternoon. It took maybe twenty minutes to take Mary Rose the mile back to her office.


‘It’s a shame you can’t make it tonight,’ he said, pulling into a slot.


‘What about tomorrow night?'


‘I don’t know of any orgies tomorrow night.’


‘There’s a two person orgy scheduled at my place. By that I mean just you and me.’


He laughed. ‘Go on, then, twist my arm.'


Up on her floor there was a newspaper on the receptionist's desk but no receptionist behind it. Mary Rose checked the time and frowned. She was ten minutes late herself.


Please, she thought, don't say it’s catching!


Out of idle curiosity she picked up the paper. It was the new-fangled London Evening Standard, latest edition. Not up-to-date with the day's latest finance, though, not at that time of day. Idle curiosity quickly satisfied, she was about to drop it back on the desk when a front page photo caught her eye.


So too did the accompanying headline.




Mary Rose's blood ran cold. Even without the lust-crazed eyes, that face was instantly recognizable.


It was last Friday's Holy Virgin.


And she’d been found dead in the Thames.









Author’s Note: A First Date With The Devil consists of the opening chapters of my full-length novel, A Date With The Devil, due to be published in its entirety via Smashwords at the end of January. I hope you feel inspired to read more. The twists and evil-doings have only just begun.





Other books by LimeyLady


Heather’s Busy Week Pt. 01

Heather’s Busy Week Pt. 02

Heather’s Busy Week Pt. 03

Heather’s Busy Week Pt. 04

Heather’s Busy Week Pt. 05

Heather’s Busy Week Pt. 06

Heather’s Busy Week Pt. 07

New Beginnings

New Beginnings Advance

New Beginnings Falter

New Beginnings Revive

New Beginnings Conclude

Dangerous Dealings

No Holds Barred in London

No Holds Barred in Belfast

No Holds Barred in Boston

No Holds Barred in Munich

Two Sides to Every Story

Unconsecrated Ground

Heather Falls in Love Part One

Heather Falls in Love Part Two

Heather Falls in Love Part Three

Sammy Jo Has a Big Night Out

Sammy Jo Has Another Big Night Out

Sammy Jo Tries Team Building

Heather’s Hectic Weekend Part One

Heather’s Hectic Weekend Part Two

Heather’s Hectic Weekend Part Three

Heather’s Hectic Weekend Part Four


Davina Again

Davina Does Christmas

Davina Does Easter

Davina Does Older Women

Davina Does Scotland

Best Served Cold

Bedding the Boss

Daddy’s Girl

Short and Sweet

Re-Bedding the Boss

Angie Baby

Art For Art’s Sake

Another One Bites the Dust

Three Times a Lady

Since You’ve Been Gone

Tonight’s the Night

Fat Bottomed Girls

Ruby Tuesday

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Come On Eileen

Don’t Go Breaking My Heart

Submitted: January 23, 2018

© Copyright 2022 LimeyLady. All rights reserved.

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