Destroying Angel

DESTROYING ANGEL

by

SAM HASTINGS

Destroying Angel published by

Chimera Books Ltd

www.chimerabooks.co.uk

Digital edition converted and published by

Andrews UK Limited 2010

www.andrewsuk.com

New Authors Welcome

Copyright © Sam Hastings

First printed in 1998. Reprinted in 2004

The right of Sam Hastings to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Chimera - a creation of the imagination, a wild fantasy

This novel is fiction – in real life practice safe sex

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

Berner put one of his hands on the back of Susan’s head and twisted a handful of hair into his fist. His cock was rock-solid in her mouth, a hard rod of flesh on which he was pulling her face slowly up and down, controlling her as he fucked her mouth. He pulled clear, then put the tip of his cock against her lips. She pursed them obligingly, letting him penetrate her mouth and slide it in until it was squashed to the very back of her throat and she started to gag.

‘That’s good,’ he sighed, once more starting the same action.

Susan MacQuillan squeezed the sponge over Paulette’s chest, washing away the lather of bubble bath foam and leaving her flatmate’s big dark breasts completely visible. Each breast was a full handful of glossy flesh the colour of dark chocolate, firm and tipped with yet darker nipples. Susan felt tempted to touch, perhaps stroking a nipple to test Paulette’s reaction, but hesitated, unsure if such an action would count as service.

‘Service’ was the two women’s agreement to take turns in acting as each other’s maid between six and nine each evening. The idea was to provide the luxury of being waited on without having to incur the expense. It had been working well for several weeks, Susan’s only difficulty being the strong sexual need that the intimate contact with Paulette always provoked.

‘So why so tired?’ Susan asked, partially to keep her mind off her friend’s glorious breasts and partially out of genuine curiosity.

Paulette, a freelance journalist who covered London’s social scene, normally took her work in her stride. Today had been different. It should have been Paulette’s turn to be maid, but she had arrived back at the flat an hour later than usual, clearly flustered and begging Susan to swap days. Susan, whose work as a private investigator left her with gaps between periods of frantic activity, had taken sympathy on her flatmate and agreed. She also preferred to serve Paulette than the other way around, taking what she recognised as a distinctly masochistic pleasure in pretending to be the black girl’s servant.

Susan had run the bath and poured a glass of wine while Paulette undressed, only letting her curiosity get the better of her when her passion for Paulette threatened to do so instead.

‘Would you do me a favour?’ Paulette asked.

‘Sure,’ Susan replied, surprised at the response to her question and wondering if the favour might just possibly include soaping Paulette’s chest for her.

‘I think I’ve got a really good story,’ Paulette continued, ‘maybe even more than that, but I need some information from the police.’

‘I’ll try,’ Susan said doubtfully. ‘I can’t promise anything though, it’s been over two years since I resigned.’

‘You’ve still got contacts,’ Paulette answered.

‘Some,’ Susan admitted, ‘but I didn’t get on that well with my colleagues; that’s part of the reason I left. Anyway, what’s the story?’

‘It’s complicated,’ Paulette began, lying back in the bath until only her head and the swell of her breasts were clear of the water and bubbles. ‘Massage my neck, could you? Yes, that’s nice… a bit harder… perfect…’

‘Carry on,’ Susan urged as her hands worked on the muscles of Paulette’s neck beneath the water.

‘There was this guy called Alan Sowerby, a freelance like me but pretty well established,’ Paulette continued. ‘He used to specialise in food, wine, restaurants; that sort of thing. I met him a couple of times but we didn’t get on; he was really pompous. Use your nails a bit… Yes, thanks Susan, that’s so nice.’

Susan changed the rhythm of her fingers, sliding her nails gently across the skin of Paulette’s shoulders, then repeating the action more firmly. Paulette sighed, leaning forward so that Susan could get at more of her back. Susan continued to stroke, trying to ignore the warm wet feeling between her legs.

‘So,’ Paulette continued, ‘I was quite surprised when I went into the Pipe of Port for lunch and the owner asked if I could give Sowerby’s briefcase back to him. It seems the guy remembered us talking and thought I was a friend of Sowerby’s. I said I would because I’d been invited to a brandy tasting in the afternoon, and Sowerby was sure to be there.

‘Of course I couldn’t resist having a look inside, so I went and sat in Hyde Park and had a good rummage. Naughty, I know, but I’ve always been too nosy for my own good. Anyway, most of it was just long-winded notes for his work, but there was one bit that caught my attention. He’d tasted some wines at a restaurant and had decided that they weren’t what they said on the label. Apparently, they were so poor in comparison with what they were supposed to be, he was certain they were fakes. That’s lovely thanks, I feel much more relaxed. Could you get me another glass?’

Susan went to fill Paulette’s glass, her mind hardly on her friend’s story, but instead wondering if she could lay some hint to Paulette that she would be more than willing to have sex with her. It would have to be something subtle, and something that she could pull back from if Paulette didn’t respond. As she watched the pale liquid splash into the glass, it occurred to Susan that by playfully extending her role as maid, she might just get what she wanted.

As Susan came back into the bathroom, Paulette turned onto her front, propping herself up on one arm. Her bottom showed above the suds, a chubby brown peach just begging for kisses. Susan knelt down by the bath and passed her friend the glass, hoping that her position gave the signals it was intended to.

‘So,’ Paulette resumed her story, ‘when I got to the tasting, Sowerby wasn’t there. But I did recognise a friend of his and asked if he was coming. The friend looked really shocked and told me that Sowerby had died of food poisoning only a couple of weeks ago!’

‘Oh no!’ Susan put in.

‘I felt really embarrassed,’ Paulette continued, ‘and I felt I’d look really bad carrying his briefcase around when I’d hardly known him, so I didn’t give it to him…’ Paulette stopped talking, instead toying nervously with the stem of her glass. ‘This is going to sound really bad,’ she said after a while. ‘You’ll probably think I’m a real bitch.’

‘No,’ Susan assured her, ‘tell me.’

‘It’s just…’ Paulette began, ‘well… you see, it’s like this. If I was the one who discovered a really big wine scandal, then my reputation would be made, and Sowerby had been on to something that he obviously thought was major… Anyway, that’s why I didn’t hand over the briefcase. Am I a bitch?’

‘Not really,’ Susan said, more intent on soothing Paulette than worrying about the ethics of her behaviour. ‘After all, I’m sure Sowerby would want the scandal to come out.’

‘I suppose so,’ Paulette admitted, ‘but I still feel bad.’

‘So how can I help?’ Susan asked, keen to get off an area of conversation that threatened to subdue the normally bubbly Paulette.

‘Well, Sowerby didn’t know that much,’ Paulette replied, once more enthusiastic, ‘or if he did, he didn’t write it down. You’re a detective, so I thought you might help me. I mean, I spent the whole of this afternoon running around trying to find out more and got nowhere. You’ve been in CID; you’d know what to do.’

‘Perhaps,’ Susan admitted, ‘but what did you want from the police?’

‘To find out if there was anything suspicious about Sowerby’s death.’

‘Surely you don’t think he was murdered?’

‘Maybe,’ Paulette replied, sounding slightly defensive. ‘After all, if he exposed a big fraud, a lot of people would lose out.’

‘True,’ Susan admitted, ‘but you said he died of food poisoning.’

‘That’s the thing,’ Paulette continued. ‘It was liver failure from some poisonous toadstool called “Destroying Angel”.’

‘Poor guy, but these things happen,’ Susan remarked.

‘Not to Alan Sowerby,’ Paulette replied. ‘The one long conversation I did have with him was mainly him telling me how much he knew about food; especially fungi. He was going on about ceps and truffles and loads of other things I’d never heard of. No, he’d have known better.’

‘Maybe,’ Susan answered sceptically.

‘Won’t you do it then?’ Paulette asked, sounding disappointed.

‘For you, of course I will,’ Susan answered. ‘But don’t expect too much, okay?’

‘Thanks; I won’t.’

‘Now, what would you like your maid to do, Miss Richards?’ Susan asked, keen not to let the moment slip away.

Small and not strictly necessary services and courtesies had already become part of the game: polishing shoes, addressing each other formally, and other little touches. Susan wondered if it could be taken a step further.

‘Oh, let me see,’ Paulette replied in an exaggeratedly haughty tone. ‘Well, first of all, you can towel me down, and then serve me some more wine. Then dinner, I think.’

‘Yes, Miss Richards,’ Susan answered, her pulse racing at the thought of drying Paulette. She turned to take a warm towel from the radiator, holding it open as Paulette stood up in the bath. Looking surreptitiously at the black girl’s body, Susan wondered if she could hold her pretence much longer. Paulette was tiny, shorter even than Susan herself, whose height had almost barred her from the police force. She was also exceptionally pretty in an impish, mischievous way, and her lack of height only served to exaggerate the size of her breasts and the fullness of the hips which flared out below a trim waist and a firm round tummy. A dense tangle of black hair hid her sex, an area of her body which Susan found her eyes drawn irresistibly towards.

As Paulette turned to climb out of the bath she showed her chubby bottom for just an instant, then had backed into the towel which Susan was holding out, taking the edges and wrapping it around her. Susan began to press sections of the towel against Paulette’s body, trembling with every touch of the firm flesh. She could sense a faint, musky scent, intensely feminine and mingled with a trace of some exotic perfume. Taking the towel from Paulette’s hands, Susan began to rub it against her friend’s back, then her waist, rising, drying the smooth flesh over her ribcage. Susan shut her eyes as she took a full breast in each hand, feeling their weight through the towel. Finally the wonderful, plump breasts that she had been fantasising over for weeks were in her hands, full, heavier than her own, the big, black nipples half-stiff under her fingers.

Susan lingered as long as she dared and then carried on to dry Paulette’s upper chest and neck. If the black girl had noticed the extra attention that had been paid to her boobs, she gave no sign of it, instead putting her hands on her head so that Susan could dry under her arms. What Susan wanted to do was drop the towel and take Paulette’s breasts in her hands again, kissing the nape of her neck and soothing her while she stroked her nipples to full hardness.

It was more than she dared, even though she was trembling with lust and could hardly believe that Paulette was unaware of the state she was in. She moved lower, trying to remove the temptation of Paulette’s breasts, only to find herself faced with the prospect of towelling an equally alluring bottom. It was irresistible and, a moment later, she had folded Paulette’s bottom in the towel. Paulette responded by sticking it out a little, which was just too much for Susan. Sinking to her knees, she let the towel drop and planted a gentle, but deliberate, kiss on her friend’s bottom.

That was it. She’d done it. She’d made an obviously sexual move which Paulette couldn’t possibly miss nor misinterpret. Susan found herself blushing, her heart in her mouth as she waited for her friend’s response; good or bad. None came, surprising Susan but tempting her to kiss the smooth skin again.

‘Do maids normally kiss their mistresses there?’ Paulette asked, all mock innocence.

‘If they’re told to,’ Susan answered, her throat suddenly dry with expectation. Paulette wasn’t shocked, or cross, or embarrassed, but she did seem keen to continue the game. ‘Was I bad?’

Susan kissed Paulette’s bottom again, this time lower and more slowly, pressing her face against the resilient flesh. She wanted Paulette to tell her she was bad and to be made to take her jeans and pants down for a spanking across the beautiful black girl’s lap.

‘Was I?’ she repeated when Paulette didn’t answer.

‘Yes,’ Paulette eventually said, ‘but not as bad as me for teasing you.’

‘Teasing me?’ Susan queried, realising at once that every casual exposure of Paulette’s body, every cheeky remark and every apparently accidental sexy pose for the last few weeks had been deliberate. ‘Why didn’t you say you wanted me?’

‘I wasn’t sure you’d want to,’ Paulette answered, ‘and I wanted you to make the first move. I’m sorry—’ Paulette broke off, sighing as Susan’s tongue traced a slow line up the cleft of her bottom, then spoke again, more hesitantly.

‘You could make me sorry by putting the bath-brush across my behind…’ she said, trailing off.

Susan stopped licking, realising there was a small problem. She had guessed that Paulette enjoyed the idea of spanking from earlier conversations, but had always hoped it would be herself who got her bottom smacked if anything ever happened. During a brief spell of duty in the Carapine Islands, Susan had been regularly spanked, not only by her boyfriend but also by his sister, which had given her a taste for it. George and Maria Lyle had been big, powerfully built Caribbeans who had found it not only exciting but highly amusing to spank Susan, an attitude which Susan had found gave her an exquisite thrill of erotic humiliation.

Getting Paulette to carry on where Maria Lyle had left off had been on Susan’s mind ever since they had moved into the flat together. For all Paulette’s small size, she had a vivacious, almost aggressive slant to her personality that greatly appealed to Susan. Unfortunately, now that she finally had what she wanted in her grasp, it turned out that what Paulette wanted was the same as her rather than its compliment.

‘I was rather hoping you’d do that to me,’ she admitted, ‘please?’

‘Susan!’ Paulette responded, sounding more than a little frustrated.