Masks of the Dark Goddess

By Peyton Fletcher

A lust for power and pleasure propels the evil heroine of the Dark Goddess Trilogy into a tangled maze of murder, robbery and charity work. Can the arts of mesmerism and the lash prevail against a man who should be dead? What exotic secrets lie hidden within her new, young lover's budding sexuality? Sinister scheming and vivid action take the Dark Goddess to the bedrooms, rooftops and catacombs of London on a thrill ride sure to please lovers of gothic, Victorian erotica.

• Language: English
• Publisher: House of Erotica
• Release date: Mar 29, 2018
• ISBN: 9781785388088

Book preview

coincidental.

1. The Ape

There goes the most spiritual man in London, said Iris Marmott, nodding toward a figure across the street. I turned and caught a quick glimpse before the Bond Street throng swallowed him up, But something rang a bell. I’d seen those features before , but could not put a name to them and new the matter would niggle at me until I had their owner pegged.

None of this, I mentioned to Iris, in whom I took a purely practical interest concealed beneath a mask of casual, but growing friendship. Iris held secrets - her perpetually-pressed lips screamed as much - and I meant to have them. My current and rather important project demanded as much.

Accordingly, I adopted a disinterested tone to ask, High ecclesiastic, is he?

Hardly. Doesn’t even call himself ‘reverend’ and preaches, if you call it that, in an atrocious ruined church.

What does he call himself, then?

Harry Beecham, she replied.

The name meant nothing.

And what does he preach, then?

Less of what and more of how.

Those words brought to her face the slightly exalted look she gets when particularly moved by a painting or some bit of poetry. It quite transforms a horsey and severe countenance, redeemed only by striking grey eyes set in a habitual gaze of wary alertness.

He usually begins with a bit of scripture, she went on at my prompting. "Most often from the New Testament, or the Song of Songs." I blinked at that - hard to imagine High Anglican Iris knowing, or tolerating The Hebrew Bible’s Song of Songs. But, as I was coming to learn, Iris possessed a remarkable and peculiar mind.

"He brings the scene wonderfully to life by his most gentle voice and close attention to details. Then he wanders away with them and we go with him.

"He once, for instance, began with Christ on the Cross, then floated upward to a cloud directly above, which then drifted away from that most holy of scenes. And it was not at all lonely, as Mr. Wordsworth has it, but content in the company of others like itself. The wind blew them far away, until they dropped their gentle rain on the lovers to be found in the Song of Songs and then drifted on, all unaware of what they had seen and done.

Listening to such tales, our selves become completely forgotten. We are right there with the cloud and its raindrops. And when he finished, we all return to ourselves, feeling wonderfully refreshed and at peace with the world.

That sounds marvellous, I said, though privately, I entertained darker thoughts. This Mr. Beecham sounded like some sort of mesmerist, possibly benign, but more likely not.

What happens then?

We talk a bit. Most girls seek some sort of meaning in the tale. A few just remark on its beauty.

And what does Mr. Beecham have to say?

Nothing much. He says meaning is for each to find and the rest for all to nurture within.

Wise words, I replied and turned the conversation to other topics - always careful to avoid the appearance of prying - Iris’ wariness is genuine - she trusts no one.

We parted and I took a hansom home to find husband Matthew and the tiny nun both hard at work - he poring over the documents that had become his lot in life since taking his seat in the House of Lords and she busy at the illustrations that had made her so beloved an author of children’s books that Victoria, herself, had requested a set.

I left them to it and made my way to the rooftop - a splendid place to put my mind to the problem of Mr. Harry Beecham.

That I knew him was a certainty. Equally certain was that he was no friend or social acquaintance. Crooked legs and jutting jaws find no place among flower of English nobility. We do not resemble apes.

That image turned the trick. I knew but one man to whom the term ape might rightfully be applied and I recalled exactly where I knew him from. It was not a place I would ever associate with spirituality, let alone Iris Marmott.

I met the man for the first and only time at a masked ball in a chateau just outside Paris. This was about six months after Matthew and I had married. The invitation promised licence and fantasy and, knowing my host’s extravagant tastes, I had a very clear idea of what sort of party he had in mind.

Accordingly, I chose to make a grand entrance in a black leather corset, trimmed in red piping, that cupped, but did not cover, my breasts, the nipples of which were stained with red, as were my lips.

Above, I had my hair piled high and shot through with silver threads. My mask was a domino of black lace, with large holes for the eyes, beside whose tear glands, I place a tiny drop of the shade of red known as lake. It makes the eyes stand out from the darkness around them and creates a compelling quality. Below, a choker of onyx added length to my throat.

My skirt was a simple black kid affair, cut close at the waist and widening down to the ankles. It was slit all the way up the centre so that my legs might peep through as I walked and - better yet - both halves could be swept back and fastened there with the flick of a clasp, to frame me in its deep crimson lining.

I finished off with high-heeled black satin slippers and tight, black kid opera gloves.

On one arm, I wore a thin serpentine silver bracelet that coiled from elbow to shoulder - terribly ostentatious in polite society, but perfect for a masquerade.

In the other hand, I held a fine silver chain whose far end encircled Matthew’s throat. Otherwise, I had him fully shaven and oiled and clad only in a little bag for his balls, from whence his cock rose, rigid - and flat, black leather slippers. For his mask, I chose something like an executioner’s hood, cut with large eye-holes and ending just below the nose. All in all, he made the perfect accessory.

I turned heads from the instant I stepped into the ballroom. The ominous nature of my costume provided striking contrast to the vivid hues and playful pastels adopted by most of the other revellers and announced to one and all that I had come to use and not be used.

At once, I found myself in a giddy whirl of antique nobility, exotic beasts and creatures of myth and imagination, spiced here and there with musicians, jugglers, conjurors, fire-eaters and the like, all with their intimate equipment on full display. And often in others’ hands. I, myself, gave and received such casual caresses as I drifted through the rooms, pausing here and there to watch cocks and cunts in congress.

With amorous play all around me and the rich aromas of perfume and lust filling my nostrils, I soon felt that I was happily lost in some erotic fairy land whose every pleasure was mine for the taking.

In this mood, I strolled on until I reached a room where the atmosphere was decidedly different. The first sight that greeted me was of a Nordic giant vigorously applying a flogger to the bare back of a dainty blonde girl whose lips could barely encompass the fat cock of a looming Germanic man. All three bodies glistened in the flickering torchlight that had replaced the chandeliers that graced the rest of the party. Deeper in the gloom, I could almost make out the form of someone strapped to a St. Andrew’s cross and having weights applied to their genitals.

That person’s shrieks blended with the grunts and moans, slaps, cracks and thuds from all around the room. The intoxicating scent of leather and lust swirled through the air and, from far off, came the tinkle of laughter as the rest of the party rollicked on its own merry way. But here, delight took on a darker hue.

I settled into a chair to savour the agony of a man being candled at nipples and cock and was soon besieged by admirers with invitations to play. Most, I dismissed out of hand, for they wished only for some light chastisement while they, or another, brought them to release. Others offered to service me orally, while suffering my whip - better, but still quite mundane. I did, however, accommodate one handsome older woman who invited me to flog her cunt while sitting on her face. As she approached me with the proper respect and presented for my use a vicious little flogger with knotted tails, I thought this a good enough place to begin my evening’s pleasures.

I led her to a low bench and seated myself on her face. She began licking at once and was quite expert at it, but she only grunted at the first lash. I wanted screams and accordingly unleashed a flurry of blows that achieved the desired end and attracted a crowd of onlookers who amused themselves with bets on which of us would come first.

I could have saved them the trouble, for nothing brings me to climax as fast as screams delivered directly into my quim. Their vibrational quality excites me so greatly that I cannot hold back, even if I want. So, in short order, I achieved my violent release and gushed into my licker’s face.

I dismounted, shoved her to the floor and dropped the flogger onto her body. Suck on this, I commanded, pressing my heel onto her lips. And finish the job yourself. She engulfed my heel and sucked frantically while the flogger rose and fell with a practiced rhythm.

I lighted a cigarette in my onyx and silver cigarette holder and, in my most disdainful voice, proclaimed, All right. Who else wants a taste? Who else can withstand my lash and make me come while doing so? And, if the lash does not thrill - fear not. I know so many other exciting ways to use you.

You just need a good fucking, came a voice from the back.

And you need to come in your own mouth, I shot back. That got a laugh, redoubled when I added, With a fat candle up your arse.

Amid the chorus of, Me, me me, one man stepped forward to kneel before me and place his lips on the toe of my slipper. I admired his abject humility in the face of the clamoring crowd and wondered how long it would last. The older woman finished her business and crawled off. I left him there still. Finally, I bid him rise.

When he did, I grasped his member and found it stout and hard. You think you can satisfy me with that? I gave it a vicious twist. He gasped and stiffened, but made no move to escape.

I do not know, Madame, and I dare not hope. What a sweet, submissive answer and spoken in quite passable French, too, though I detected a slight English accent underneath.

Follow me. Still grasping his cock, I led him to a dark corner, well away from the onlookers, who clustered near the large fireplace and bigger pieces of equipment. I found a suitable chair and said, Now. Tell me what you hope for and hold nothing back.

I scarce can say. His head down and fully masked in the likeness of an ape, he was barely audible.

You will say to me, or you will quit my presence at once. And remove that silly mask. I have no desire to strain for your words.

Yes, Madame, though, be warned - the face you see but conceals one worse below.

He lowered his mask and, for the first time, I gazed upon the simian ugliness of one I would come to know as Mr. Harry Beecham.

Under an untidy thatch of coarse, black hair he bore a beetling brow beneath which small dark brown eyes took in the world with pugnacious suspicion. Beneath that, a battered, broken nose. His wide, thin-lipped mouth was pressed into a perpetual frown with his jutting jaw adding to the impression of malignancy.

I