This is a very belated fourth part and conclusion to my “Date with The Devil” series. For anyone who missed (or has totally forgotten) the first three parts, here is a brief résumé.
Mary Rose is twenty-nine with the face of a mischievous schoolgirl, jade green eyes, auburn hair and a body to die for. Although her high-flying career as a lawyer allows her very little free time, she has been dating Ferrari-driving Bruno for six months in an on-and-off sort of a way. Then he invites her to an all-in orgy in St John’s Wood.
Enjoying random sex with both male and female attendees, Mary Rose doesn’t take the black robes and masks seriously. Surely those ceremonial satanic rites had to be tongue-in-cheek. Surely nobody could believe in hocus pocus like that!
Her old schoolmate, Heather, now a rapidly up-and-coming banker off in the sticks of West Yorkshire, isn’t so convinced. The world’s wildest girl doesn’t particularly credit God and the Devil but she knows there is evil out there; a lot of evil. And she strongly suspects that Mare has fallen in with a bad crowd, to say the least.
Needless to report, Heather’s suspicions are well-founded. When Mary Rose thinks she recognizes a body found in the Thames as the orgy’s Holy Virgin (a girl who gladly had sex with everyone present) Bruno persuades her otherwise. ‘That wasn’t Julia whatever her name is,’ he insisted, ‘that was Sally; she’ll be there again next time, just you wait and see.’ But he’s lying. And he’s concerned. Working in cahoots with Leo, the host of the regular Sabbats, he decides to get rid, once and for all.
Unaware she is in mortal danger Mary Rose agrees to “play” Holy Virgin herself on the second Friday of the month. Excited by the prospect, she never considers the possibility of being white slaved into a very short and unpleasant life of continual abuse and addiction.
Make that a very, very short life.
Luckily for her, Heather is riding to the rescue, accompanied by Nina, a beautiful blonde girlfriend who works with her at the same remote northern bank.
But, alas, they get to Mare’s central London office too late. By the time they arrive the so-beautiful bird has already flown the nest.
(Friday 11th June 2010)
Nina grabbed Heather’s arm before she could do anything outrageous . . . like breaking the annoying receptionist’s neck. And it was a wise move; Hev was tougher than tough. One purposeful strike from her would cause untold damage on a smirking minion.
‘Go easy,’ Nina warned, ‘never mind the fact she deserves it.’
Heather was gritting her teeth. Bitter frustration flooded through her. Maybe her plans to save Mare from herself had been flimsy to start with but, to have them blown out of the water altogether, and at the very first hurdle . . .
‘Excuse me,’ a new voice cut in. ‘Can I help?’
The woman was perhaps forty, very well-maintained and presented. If her words were directed at the bitch receptionist, her smile was directed at the two disgruntled visitors.
Perhaps she’s used to this sort of a scene at the welcome desk, thought Heather. It must happen all the time with that utter cow doing the meeting and greeting.
‘We’re just going,’ Nina said diplomatically.
‘No we are not,’ Heather countered. ‘I’m here to see Mary Rose and I’m not going until I’ve seen her.’
The exceptionally well-maintained woman looked at her a little closer.
‘It’s Heather, isn’t it? Heather Hunter.’
Cogs clicked into place inside Heather’s head. She had never met the woman before but had spoken to her on countless occasions. She should have recognized that warm telephone tone anywhere. This lovely lady was Mare’s PA. She was . . .
‘Alison,’ she said. ‘We meet at last.’
Suddenly the bitch receptionist was sucking lemons.
Suddenly balance was restored.
‘Let’s go to my office,’ said Alison. ‘Coffee and croissants are in order. No?’
Alison was carrying a large jug of water. Gesturing Heather and Nina into plush chairs, she topped up her percolator and flicked the switch.
‘Sorry about Martina,’ she said, perching on the desktop, not putting a barrier between herself and her visitors. ‘She thinks she’s an Alsatian. Or maybe even a Rottweiler.’
‘Can’t get the staff,’ Nina said sympathetically.
‘We can at WYB,’ Heather countered. ‘Martina would be toast in a matter of seconds . . . in the highly unlikely event of her getting through an interview in the first place.’
Alison shrugged. ‘She has personal problems and we cut her too much slack. I’ll have a word with her later. It won’t happen again.’
Something about Alison struck a chord with Heather. She believed the woman. She was to be trusted. Better still, she didn’t seem to give a toss about diaries, appointments and petty regulations.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’ll do my best not to kick her in the head. And I’ll keep my fists to myself.’
Alison laughed. ‘Mare always did say you were feisty.’
‘So illegal bahis she does occasionally mention me?’
‘She mentions you all the time, Heather.’ Alison smiled wider than ever, but left it at that.
Heather wondered just how close Mary Rose and Alison were. PAs were like superior secretaries, weren’t they? They were expected to know simply everything about their boss and invariably fell in love . . . or at least good old healthy lust. Not always requited, true; take Nina and Vic for example.
There again, Vic was no ordinary, predictable woman.
And enough of the mental dithering; she was here on a mission.
‘I may be feisty,’ she said, ‘but above all I’m loyal. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I want to save Mare from herself.’
Alison frowned at that. ‘Mary Rose is the strongest, cleverest woman I have ever met. I cannot believe she’d ever get into a position where she’d need saving.’
‘She may be a strong, clever woman, but isn’t she also the most pig-headed?’
The pause was infinitesimal. ‘Well,’ Alison eventually admitted, ‘she has her moments.’
Nina held up a hand, like a fifteen-year-old in a classroom.
‘Was Martina telling the truth when she said Mary Rose isn’t here?’
‘Yes. Of course she was. Mary Rose’s boyfriend picked her up at half past one. I noticed the gaggle of girls at the window, waving them off.’
‘Was it Bruno?’ asked Heather.
‘Yes,’ said Alison. ‘It was the Italian film star lookalike, in his rather noticeable red Ferrari.’
‘Do you know where they were going?’
‘I haven’t the faintest. I know she had a big night planned, but she kept the details to herself.’
‘Bugger,’ said Heather. ‘Don’t you have any clue at all?’
‘Believe it or not, Mary Rose is a very private person.’
The coffee percolator clicked, announcing its cargo was ready to be sampled. Alison ignored it, deep in contemplation.
‘What makes you think that Mary Rose is in trouble?’ she asked finally.
Heather answered with care. ‘From the little she’s told me, she’s mixing with a dodgy crowd.’
‘Does that include Bruno?’
‘Yes, it most certainly does.’
Alison nodded. ‘I met him once and his charm did nothing for me. I can easily imagine him moving in fast company. But Mary Rose is . . . well, you know how highly I regard her. She’s a grown, intelligent woman who is capable of looking after her own private affairs. There must be more to it.’
Lots more, thought Heather, masses more.
More beyond most folk’s wildest imagination.
‘I’ve known Mare since we were thirteen,’ she said out loud. She’s two days older than me and we did six years together at school. That’s six years together virtually every waking hour. The other girls used to call us the Terrible Twins because we’d both start talking at the same time, saying the same thing. I am not saying we’re telepathic or anything, but I’ve always known when she’s in trouble. And she is in big trouble right now. That’s why I jumped on a train this morning.’
‘Sounds like me and my sister,’ said Alison. ‘Except she’s always in trouble, so telepathy is not really necessary in her case.’ She glanced at the coffee and came to a decision.
‘Come on,’ she said, ‘let’s see what we can find in Ms Archer’s office.’
At that moment Mary Rose was with Bruno in yet another fancy restaurant. But, although it was a new one for her, her host was only too obviously well-known.
Charming as he was to the car valets and waitresses Bruno was, however, preoccupied. By his usual standards he was almost abrupt. He didn’t even both to discreetly palm tips.
Fuck him, though. Mare amused herself by ignoring his half-hearted macho ramblings, basking in her memories instead.
Paying for sex wasn’t exactly something she broadcast. She hadn’t even told Heather yet, but mostly in a tactical way. Given the right following wind, Hev would one day announce that she’d done it, and Mare would for once be able to shoot her down in flames.
‘Been there, got the T-shirt,’ she’d say. ‘I’ve been doing it for ages. What took you so long?’
In reality she’d been doing it for four or so years. And in all honestly it had been a guy who persuaded her to give it a try.
Well, almost . . .
Back then, even more of the new kid on the legal block, Mare really had been working long hours. It’d been a prove-your-worth thing, with wimps being discarded and left by the wayside. Work, sleep and work . . . that’d been the way it was. John Grisham couldn’t have explained it better. Sex had become a distant memory. Even self-abuse had become rare.
Fourteen-hour working days seemed to have that effect on a girl. She’d lost count of all the times she had put a tentative, inquisitive hand on her pussy . . . then immediately fallen asleep.
Throughout those distant, dark days, a stranger in the big, global city of London, Mare had found and retained just one lover. Mike had been demanding in bed, undemanding illegal bahis siteleri out of it and therefore perfect to fill in the few gaps in her otherwise empty social diary.
Then one night he hired a whore.
Put as bluntly as that, Mare winced at the recollection. In practice she’d been all for it. By then she’d gone far too long without touching and tasting a woman; whatever Mike’s motivation, the very idea of having a three worked for her.
Yum, yum, why not?
That liaison had gone smoothly, at least to start with. All masculine dominance for two or maybe three cums, Mike had abruptly wimped out, which was fine and dandy in Mare’s opinion. Their hired girl had been hired all night and so . . .
Well, the only problem she could find was that she didn’t have the girl’s contact details. If she had she would have booked a one-to-one the very next day.
Mike didn’t last so long beyond that first three-way; he did pay for another . . . as Mare’s birthday treat and with a different girl . . . but by then she’d been going online herself. By then she had had several one-to-one chargeable experiences.
In the cold light of day Mare marvelled at her behaviour but, in the solitude of her bed, she plotted and schemed. Half a dozen rather prominent societies at her university had served to make lesbian sex so very freely available; make that very, very freely available. Working stupid hours a day and six/seven days a week did not. For all its bright lights a girl had to make an effort to connect in London.
So a girl without any free time at all had to have issues. No?
Paying girls for sex was, to say the least, discordant. But it was also sexy as fuck. Making initial online contact, going “eavesdropper-free” . . . the kick was tremendous.
Because money wasn’t much of an obstacle and because she liked the most sexually attractive babes on line, Mare had got in the habit of using the higher priced sites. Maybe she was kidding herself, but to her a higher price reduced the risk of nutters or junkies.
Or wicked pimps who’d tag along for the ride and anything they could steal along the way.
Over four years Mare had screwed with perhaps twenty or thirty paid ladies. Last night’s, Divine, had been by far the best.
And Divine really had liked chilled Sauvignon. They’d finished one already-opened bottle then downed another before retiring to bed.
Meaning they had retired back to bed, the paid element of proceedings already history.
What had Divine said? She didn’t work Tuesdays and Thursdays? Joshing, Mare had pointed out that it was a Thursday and she certainly appeared to be working. Laughing, Divine had said that she’d got a call from a “supremely hot redhead babe who was desperately in need of a fuck” and, her day off or not, the “chance to oblige was too much to resist”.
Then they had spent another three hours (totally free of charge!) trying to find a hundred and one new positions to sixty-nine in.
Or was it sixty-nine new positions to a hundred-and-one in?
‘. . . and you’ll get to see Sally,’ said Bruno, finally breaking into Mare’s chain of thought.
She did a double-take, at first not seeing his suave good-looks, seeing him more like a snake in the grass.
‘Your predecessor as Holy Virgin,’ he said softly, almost whispering. ‘The one that you reckoned was that poor, drowned heiress.’
‘I don’t reckon that anymore,’ Mare said truthfully. ‘But it’ll be good to see Sally again. If I remember it correctly, she has rather nice tits.’
Bruno laughed. He still seemed preoccupied but his laugh was as alluring as always.
‘You’ll be feeling a lot of tits tonight,’ he said, softer than ever. ‘You will be feeling every single inch of everything everyone has.’
Mare shrugged. ‘I guess I knew that before I agreed.’
‘Are you sure you’re up for it? A sudden illness could . . . you know . . .’
‘Do you want me to back out? Me, your protégé, a girl who has already proved she’s up for it?’
He nodded almost grimly. ‘I’d lose face but ask me if I’m bothered.’
‘Are you bothered about seeing me getting fucked by a queue?’
‘Well, are you? I enjoyed seeing you fuck other women. And they’re all up for you. I bet you’ve fucked every last one ten times at least.’
‘So, no going back then?’
‘What was it that Churchill said? “Play the game for more than you can afford to lose; only then will you learn the game”.’
‘I prefer Il Duce. “Democracy is beautiful in theory; in practice it is a fallacy.”
‘I seem to recall Winston kicked Benito’s ass.’
‘That was the Americans.’
Mare snorted. ‘Better late than never, I suppose. Not that I’m knocking them. It would have just taken us a bit longer if they’d stuck to their isolationist policies.’
‘You bloody British,’ said Bruno, grinning, more like his old self.
‘What are we like?’ Mare agreed. ‘But stuff us Brits, have we time for a quick éclair?’
‘You’ve heard about the chef’s canlı bahis siteleri reputation? I thought you’d not been here before.’
‘I haven’t . . . But reputations are reputations, aren’t they? I’ll have straight dark chocolate and cream.’
Mary Rose’s office was set up much like Nina’s and Victoria’s; the PA’s den was an antechamber with two doors . . . one opening into a general corridor and the other into the boss’s lair.
Nina’s was, Heather noted, better appointed. She didn’t have all the rich wood panels on her walls but she did have windows. Nice though it was, Alison had no view at all. Nina had Myrtle Park to look at in all its Yorkshire glory.
Score one for up in the sticks, she decided . . . forcefully.
‘I’m not sure what we’re looking for,’ Alison warned. ‘In fact I doubt we’ll find anything at all. But you’ve got me worried. Is worry catching?’
‘It certainly is,’ said Nina. ‘Hev’s had me worried for nearly five hours now. It’s getting worse by every second, too.’
Heather’s attention was caught by the framed photograph on Mare’s desk. Positioned where most top legal eagles would display snaps of wifey and kids was a holiday shot. It was her and Mare, taken last year in Ibiza, by one of those street snappers who refuse to take no for an answer.
Relatively decently dressed as they were, there was not one question of a doubt they were a couple. Mare had one hand on Hev’s bum and was gurning wide-eyed for the camera. Heather had a hand on Mare’s very trim ass and was smiling demurely . . . she hoped.
‘She’s had it there ever since,’ said Alison. ‘And I booked the holiday for the two of you, so I know.’
Heather gulped down the lump in her throat. ‘So you are the one who found the only hotel room with a double-bed in all of Ibiza Town,’ she said bravely.
‘Took me ages,’ Alison replied, her confident, smooth voice suddenly shaky. ‘But Mary Rose insisted, so there you go.’ Her laugh was shakier still. ‘If she claimed she found it herself she was fibbing.’
Heather opened some of Mare’s drawers, finding stationery and sod all else. More astutely, Nina soon found a pile of files in an in-tray.
‘Miss X,’ she exclaimed. ‘Oh my God, Hev, Mare’s my hero! She’s representing Miss X!!’
Heather scowled. The actress’s case didn’t matter anymore. Serious though it was, it seemed trivial in comparison.
‘Doesn’t she keep anything personal here?’ she asked, despising her petulant tone.
‘Not that I know of,’ Alison said apologetically.
‘What’s this?’ Nina countered flourishing a legal pad. ‘It’s got names and addresses.’
‘Bruno Johnson,’ she went on, ‘he doesn’t sound like an Italian film star.’
‘Think about Victoria Hanson,’ said Heather.
Alison was clearly confused.
‘Nina’s boss looks like a young Gina Lollobrigida,’ Heather explained, ‘except ten times as sexy.’
‘Let me introduce you some time. Trust me; she is.’
‘The address is in Highgate,’ Nina continued, oblivious to the side chat.
‘Makes sense,’ said Alison. ‘Bruno seems to have more than one address, but Highgate has been the one mentioned most.’
‘The other one’s called “Leo”,’ Nina persisted. ‘His address is in St John’s Wood.’
Alison’s shrug was non-committal. ‘Sorry, it means nothing to me.’
‘Are you sure about that?’ Heather demanded.
‘He’s not a client.’
‘I’m sure as sure can be.’ Alison hesitated. ‘Look, I’m bound by confidentiality, but I can give you Mary Rose’s home address if you want . . . Off the record, of course.’
‘Know it already,’ said Heather, sparing her a quick grin. ‘Been there, got the T-shirt. But thank you for the offer. Come on Nina, places to go, people to smack on the nose . . .’
Out in the street Nina tried to be cautious but she was evidently wasting her time. When Heather got the bit between her teeth she was an unstoppable force. In fact she was even more unstoppable as an avenging angel than she was as a sex-crazed nympho.
And that was saying plenty.
Nina’s admiration peaked dangerously high. Forget all the rest of Hev’s good points; in this mood she was simply majestic.
And she hadn’t even hit anyone yet.
Lots of girls walked the walk and talked the talk but Hev was the real deal. Nina had seen the trophies to prove it . . . most of them in martial arts, many won against male opponents. Even now, scared out of her wits, there was only one side she wanted to be on.
Heather’s was always the winning side.
And she knew it.
‘Come on, girlfriend,’ Hev said authoritatively. ‘Let’s get us some wheels.’
Bruno was still in a withdrawn sort of a mood as he drove Mary Rose to Leo’s place. He did, however, respond to her questions.
‘Honesty Mare, I haven’t a clue what preparation he has in store for you. He made it sound sweet and innocent, didn’t he? Maybe he wants you to sit alone in a room and chant “Om” for seven hours.’
‘Maybe he just wants to fuck me.’
Bruno chuckled. ‘Would that be a problem?’
‘No, not considering what lies ahead of me tonight. I guess I’m going to get fucked by thirty or more. A bit of afternoon delight can’t make a lot of difference, can it?’