A Darker Shade of Rose

By Jenny Ainslie-Turner

A sexually charged book about auto-erotic asphyxiation. A woman driven by her dark, twisted desires... A crushing tale of revenge when an obsession takes over.

• Language: English
• Publisher: House of Erotica
• Release date: May 15, 2019
• ISBN: 9781789820980

Book preview

Chapter One

Suzanna stumbled through her front door without really being aware of unlocking it, or even opening it. The entire journey back from the hotel took place in an out-of-body kind of blur. She could remember where she had gone, how she had travelled, but it was as if there was a gauze curtain between her and the events, reducing them to little more than an indistinct haze.

The entire way home, her mind had played with her like a cat playing with a mouse. Only a few steps out of the hotel, it had convinced her she could still feel the old bastard’s tongue between the lips of her pussy, probing into her, wriggling like some obscene parasite trying to invade her. A few steps more, and she was hallucinating the feel of his breath hot and moist against her thighs and groin.

She had felt her legs sticking together as she had walked, his spittle turning into a sticky goo, but again, she was not sure, even then, how much of that had been in her mind and how much in reality. Sitting behind the wheel of her car, it had even felt as if it was still his face, not the car seat, beneath her. The seatbelt around her waist had not been a safety restraint, but his hands, holding tight to her as he ate out her pussy. Suzanna had re-lived every lick, every thrust of his tongue, every time he had closed his mouth on one of her lips, or over her clit, every time he had tongue-fucked her.

The tricks her mind had played on her had almost been fatal. She had nearly driven straight off the road nearly three times as, distracted by her shame-induced hallucinations, she had let go of the wheel with one hand and pawed at herself, trying to wipe the spit away with her panties or her skirt. In all honesty, Suzanna did not know how she had managed the drive back to her home.

Now, she slammed the door behind her, as if trying to shut out the memories and, just for a moment, she leant with her back against the solid wood. It was comforting. And, for a few beats of her heart, she felt better. She slumped, to slide down the door until she was sitting on the floor, her back still to it. But the movement shifted her panties, and suddenly she felt them, wet with Les’ spit, pressing tightly to her, pulled up by her slide down the door so they bunched into a thin rope, pressing between the lips of her pussy and, just like that, it was as if his tongue was in her again.

Suzanna felt her stomach clench, her guts rebel at the thought. Somehow, the taste of vomit filling her mouth, she scrambled, half on her feet, half on hands and knees, from the front door to the bathroom, and get her head over the toilet before she threw up. She rested both forearms on the seat of the toilet, her hair hanging either side of her like a curtain as she emptied her stomach of, what felt like, everything she had ever eaten in her life. The vile taste of acid and bile overpowered her as she closed her eyes, hot tears of shame pouring down her face as she retched again, feeling as though she was emptying her life into the porcelain bowl.

Finally, when there was nothing left in her, and she felt as physically hollow as she felt emotionally empty, Suzanna rocked herself back, so she was kneeling before the toilet. Her thoughts seemed to bounce around inside the empty space of her head, ricocheting off the inside of her skull. Memories of what she had done, thoughts, images, all flashing past in a blur.

She forced herself to her feet and, as she rose, Suzanna glimpsed herself in the mirror. Her hair was lank from sweat, her face stained with vomit and tears. Sweat plastered her clothes to her chest and back, and her skirt clung, moist at the front from soaked in saliva. Her thighs glistened with drying spit and suddenly, Suzanna could not bear to look at herself.

With a scream, she spun away from the mirror, and tore at her clothes. She felt more than dirty, somehow unclean. She tore her shirt off; the buttons popping and flying everywhere. Her bra snapped in her hurry to get it off and she tore the clasp of her skirt as she forced it down her legs. She clawed at her wet panties, pushing them down, kicking them off her feet. She felt a sudden burning, irresistible desire for something to cleanse her, to purify her.

Suzanna practically threw herself across the bathroom and into the shower, grabbing the taps and turning them on full. Water so hot it was almost scalding cascaded down over her and she stood there, facing the showerhead, her head bowed, her hands braced on the walls, sobbing to herself as the hot water washed over her. She grabbed the curled-up exfoliator and scrubbed at herself, pouring shower gel over her body directly, even as she rubbed at it. She scrubbed hard, in a sudden, blazing frenzy; less scrubbing than scouring. She rubbed at herself with the coarse material so hard that it hurt. She lathered and rinsed her thighs and crotch again, and again, and again, rubbing until her skin was almost raw. She leaned over to the sink reaching for the disinfectant she kept there and sobbed as she scrubbed herself with it, her breath coming in huge, wracking gasps and, eventually, she once again sank to the floor, squatting in the shower, her arms wrapped around her legs as the water continued to pour over her, eventually going from scalding to hot, to warm, too tepid, and finally to cold.

At last, Suzanna pulled herself out of the shower, forcing herself to stand. She still did not look at the mirror. She did not want to face herself. She staggered out of the bathroom, ignoring her scattered clothes. She trod on the wig she had worn, lying just outside the bathroom door. She did not remember taking it off. Somehow, she stood by her bed. And then she collapsed, emotionally and physically exhausted, falling onto the soft covers, even though she was soaking wet, she did not care. She could not care. Her last feeling was one of relief it was over as a dreamless sleep took her.

When she opened her eyes, Suzanna had no concept of time. She had no way of knowing if she had been asleep for seconds, minutes, or hours. She sat up slowly. Her stomach ached from the vomiting, and she was still damp. The bedclothes beneath her were soaked and for a moment, she could not remember why. She sat up and blinked, and, slowly; the memories came back to her. The hotel room, Les and the drive home. Once in her bathroom her cheeks heated with shame and humiliation as she made herself get up. Her empty stomach ached for food, but she had almost no appetite.

Suzanna stepped into the bathroom, and turned, for a moment, into a statue, transfixed by what she saw. Her clothes, ripped and ruined, tossed about like trash. The shower was still running, the water ice cold. She winced at the smell from the toilet she realised she had not flushed it after her attack of vomiting. The pine tang of the disinfectant reminded her of the dirt she had felt engrained in her body. Moving like a robot, as if in a dream, she turned off the shower and gathered up the clothes. Holding them, bundled in her arms, she went to the wash basket... and paused.

She stood over the basket for a long, long time, holding the soiled, ruined clothes in her arms and then, deliberately, she left the bathroom, and went to the rubbish bin. One by one, she dropped them into it. The soiled knickers. The torn bra. The ripped skirt. The button-less shirt. Still moving like a puppet, she returned to the bathroom, and then she saw it: The envelope. It lay on the floor underneath where her shirt had been. It was fat and bulging with money. It was the reason she had done what she had done.

Suzanna picked it up cautiously, as if it was a hand-grenade, rather than a huge wad of cash. She held it, and at once, her hands felt dirty again, as if the money itself carried the shame of the last night like disease. Suzanna held it at arm’s length, standing over the toilet. The envelope dangled above the bowl and, for a moment, the mad, crazy idea flashed through her mind just to drop it, to flush it away with the rest of the vomit, away with every reminder of her shame.

And then, she thought about the other envelope. The demonic envelope, containing the demand for payment that had forced her into the Faustian bargain with Les. If she dropped the money, then she would have sold her soul for nothing. Even Judas had had his thirty pieces of silver... Suzanna turned and carefully laid the envelope beside the sink, and then turned back to flush the toilet, and wished that her memories could disappear in a rush of water just as easily as the contents of the bowl did.

She kept her mind blank as she washed her hands and then dried herself. Pulling a light robe around herself, she took the envelope of money, went back to the bedroom, and tucked it under her panties in the bedside cabinet. She was not sure why she put it there, but something told her to, and she listened, besides, it seemed appropriate somehow.

By now, her need for food was so intense it felt as if her stomach was cramping. Even though she did not, truthfully, have any appetite, she went into the kitchen to fix herself two pieces of dry toast. Honestly, she doubted she could force anything else down. Nibbling at a corner, she sat down in front of the television, hoping for something to distract her.

She was shocked to see that it was time for the lunchtime news. She could not remember what time she had gotten home the night before, but she could not believe that it had been that late. Which meant she must have slept for the entire morning. She forced the toast down, only half listening. The newsreader was saying something about divisions in the government, about the economy slipping back into recession, about someone found guilty of a murder committed twenty years ago because of new techniques in analysing DNA evidence. It all slipped over Suzanna like water. First the national news, then the weather, and then the local news: Some petition to evict a group of travellers from land next to school playing fields had amassed ten thousand signatures, two men had nearly died trying to rescue a dog stranded by incoming tides... It all washed over her.

And then... Suzanna’s head jerked around, her attention caught by something she had half-heard. ...body of an elderly man, in his seventies... the newsreader was saying. ...found in the morning by a maid cleaning the rooms... Suzanna’s eyes widened to the size of dinner plates as she saw the suited reporter, standing directly in front of the hotel where she had been last night! The plate, with its cargo of half-eaten toast, tumbled suddenly from her nerveless fingers as the television report received all her attention:

Police have identified the body as that of Leslie Adams, seventy-three, the newsreader was saying. Suzanna’s heart skipped a beat at the name. They have informed next of kin, and the police are appealing to anyone who may have seen Mr. Adams that night...

Next to the reporter’s head, a photo appeared, and, if her heart had skipped a beat before, now it seemed to freeze in her chest. Les’ face stared at her from the screen. The same face that had, just hours ago, been pressed into her pussy...

A noise somewhere between a moan and a whimper escaped her half-open mouth as she stared, transfixed, at that face, until the moment that the picture changed, and another story began. But Suzanna did not see the next story about a crossing for wildlife, all she saw was Les’ face. And all she remembered was the way the old bastard had bucked and convulsed beneath her, before lying perfectly still, immobile, lifeless, as she had fled.

She stared, unseeing, at the television, as the news became the weather, and then the weather gave way to other programming. She stared, and stared, always seeing the same old face, feeling the bucking, the jerking, over and over until, startling her out of her reverie, the phone rang.

It took several rings to galvanise her into action. Fear of who it could call her had her nerves jangling in time with the ringing of the telephone. She took a moment to realise that, if they suspected her of Les’ death, it was unlikely that the police would contact her by phone.

In her befuddled mind Suzanna did not at first register who it was that was speaking to her. It trapped the voice of the reporter on the television in her head, blocking out the words of the caller trying to penetrate her brain. Only when she heard him shouting: Annie, Annie? down the phone, did he get through to her.

Gary... she all but screamed his name. This time his voice held no fear for her, only anger he should still try to get back into her life. After everything she had just gone through, after the horror and fear she was feeling over Les, what was he to her? She neither had the time or the patience for the man. What do you want? She spat the words out at him.

I was just wondering how you were. The mail...

She was seething at the man all her fears and hatred came spilling out of her. Oh yes, the mail? I take it this means you knew what one of my letters was about. Ringing to gloat, are we?

Gary stammered out his reply. He had never heard Suzanna react this way before. I thought...

Yes Gary. Suzanna cut him short. That’s always been your trouble, thinking for other people. Controlling, that’s what I call it! Well, sorry to disappoint you but I’ve sorted it out, all by my little pathetic, useless self! I would prefer it if you stopped bothering me and let me get on with my life, without you in it! You made your choices, now leave me to make mine. Goodbye! Without giving him the chance to reply, she slammed the phone down hard, like a full stop to her relationship with him.

Collapsing back down into her armchair, Suzanna sobbed uncontrollably. Tucking her legs up into the seat, almost folding herself into a foetal position, she cried herself to sleep.

Some hours later, Suzanna woke; her body still confined in the armchair. Her sleep had been deep and dreamless. After a few minutes stretching out her aching limbs, she was finally fully awake. Her mind not cleared from the previous night’s events. The smell of stale vomit assaulted her nostrils, her stomach still ached from the endless retching. She tried not to think too much about her encounter with the ill-fated Les and what had happened. Was it a dream? The report of his death seemed unreal somehow. Maybe the picture had merely resembled him? Yes, that was it, just a misunderstanding of what she had seen and heard. She figured that she was most likely still traumatised by what she had allowed herself to do.

Suzanna looked at her watch, which told her she was twenty minutes late for the early evening news, but still had plenty of time to catch the later evening report, if only just to put her mind at rest. She did not know what was real and what was dream anymore. Maybe she was still asleep in bed and all this was a nightmare she was trapped in. Awake or not, she had to get rid of the stench that was making her stomach churn again. She spent the next couple of hours cleaning and disinfecting the flat, before taking yet another shower, hoping that the hot jets and steam would at last clear her brain. There was just enough time for some food before she nervously sat down to study the news reports.

Her stomach filled and slightly calmer, she prepared herself for the worst, not even knowing just what that might be. Finally, the report she had been waiting for aired, slapping her right in the face, showing her, once and for all, what was a reality, and how harsh a reality it was. This time there was a full report on the man’s death. Leslie Adams, it seemed, had suffered a fatal heart attack in the Manor Hotel. Police were looking for another person who they thought might have been present at his death, but they could not release further information.

Relief washed over her in a sudden flood, bringing with it tears of gratitude: she had caused the man’s death, indirectly but she had not been the ultimate reason for his passing. Unfortunately, relief was quickly replaced by a deep pang of fear that settled deep into the pit of her stomach. A fear of what she had left behind: what evidence could there be of another person? Why were the police looking for someone else, and why did they think someone else had been there? Had she left something, clothing, or perhaps jewellery? She did not think she was missing anything. During her cleaning, she had noticed nothing being absent. Out of the blue, a quick flash of what they had been doing, at the moment of his death brought it all crashing in on her. Could they trace her this way? Through DNA or something? She was sure she must have left DNA all over his face, but whether they could use that to track her, she had not a clue. Maybe she had been seen coming or going? She could not remember if anyone had been on reception when she left the hotel in such a hurry, but then again, she had given a false name and been wearing a wig. No one could have recognised her. No one in that area would have known of her, anyway.

Suzanna figured she would just have to play a waiting game. If only she had the money to go away for a while. Money! The thought hit her like a bolt from the blue. Oh my God, where did I put it? Momentarily, she was gripped by panic, and then its whereabouts just popped into her head: bedside cabinet drawer! Flopping down like a sack of potatoes on the side of the bed, she shook her head and decided she would ask no one for money ever again!

With that resolution ringing soundly in her mind, she decided that there was nothing more she could do that night. Suzanna pulled back the bedclothes on her newly made bed and climbed beneath the cool crisp sheets giving herself up to protection of sleep, at least for a little while.

How she ended up in this nightmare of her own making, started out simply, as a means to an end, nothing sinister at all. Perhaps she had taken on far more than her mind could cope with. The world she had entered was not anything like she had experienced before and had no idea it would lead to anything like this, it had been sheer desperation that had brought down this twisted path of darkness and destruction. A one-way road that, for Suzanne would be no escape.

Chapter Two

The phone rang shrilly in the silence of her flat. For the sixth, or was it seventh, time that evening, she picked it up, slipping into the persona she had only recently gained. Hello, you’re through to Rose, she purred seductively, allowing her sultry tones to travel down the mouthpiece, across the ether of the network, and into the caller’s ear, provoking a rush of sensations into his brain, and then coursing down to his groin.

So, this is your first time, babe? This she knew because he came through as a first-time caller.

On the far end of the line, the caller made a soft, hesitant sound before answering; Umm, yes, it is. My... My name’s ‘er Rick.

Rose smiled at the telephone, she knew it wasn’t, they rarely gave their real names, and why would they. She gave him a low, intimate chuckle. Yes, I thought so. Don’t be nervous, I’ll be gentle. An air of confidence flooded her attitude as Rick enquired:

How old are you, you sound young?

I’m thirty-eight, she informed him, and you? From his voice, she could tell that she hadn’t convinced him as he ventured:

Really? I’m thirty-two but you sound younger.

Taking it as his preference, Rose offered, I can be younger, if you prefer?

No, no. That’s okay, she heard him swallow loudly, as if gathering himself, and then, he plunged in:

Do you mind if I ask what you look like?"

That’s what I’m usually asked, Rose purred. I’m five-foot-four, dress size sixteen. I’ve got long, naturally wavy, blonde hair, and blue eyes. Nice, good size tits and a trimmed pussy. I’ve got a short skirt on and a low-cut top. Black lacy panties and matching bra. She had only really lied about her clothes, which, to be honest was far less provocative than she had told him. But he could not see her, and the image of a girl in her lingerie was far more arousing than the truth, she knew. Just as he did not need to know about the slight signs of world-weariness that marked her pretty face.

You sound nice, Rick replied, sounding excited, before offering: Do you want to know what I look like?

Yes. Indeed, I would, Rose replied, deliberately matching the interest in his voice with her own. Her caller cleared his throat, and revealed,

I’m six-two, quite large build, I do weights. I’ve got short-cropped hair, brown, and I’ve also got blue eyes. And, I’ve got seven-inch knob.

Even though she had heard it all before, Rose made sure she sounded impressed as she drawled:

Mm, nice. I like my men big, all over, she gave a low, sexy chuckle designed to tickle Rick’s libido, and asked. So, is there anything in particular you’d like to talk about? Anything that makes you really, she dropped her voice even lower, really horny? As there’s just us two, we can talk about anything. Look at it as though it’s your chance to go really wild.

Well, Rick ventured, I’d like a girl to ride me. You know, straddle. I like the thought of a small young girl bouncing up and down on my lap with my knob buried inside her tight young pussy.

Rose smiled, knowingly, and suggested:

"Let’s say I’m eighteen. We can imagine anything, can’t we? Now, where are you right this minute?

Sitting on my sofa, in shorts and a tee-shirt. His voice sounded breathy already.

Well, imagine I’m stood in between your legs, right now. Close your eyes. I’m so close you can almost smell my sweet perfume. I’m pulling my top up over my head revealing my beautiful breasts, the nipples erect, dark and inviting. They bounce free of the tight garment. I unzip my skirt and now I’m slowly, slowly, pushing it down.

Aaahhh, mmmm, yes, Rick sighed, squirming as Rose’s words conjured the image in his mind.

I can see that. Mmmm.

Now I’m stood in just my little black lacy panties, she breathed throatily. I take hold of your hand and place it between my legs so you can feel how wet my panties are. I slip your fingers inside my wanton slit so you can feel my hot juicy lips as I let you explore inside me. Feel me thrusting against your fingers?

Rick groaned out loud: Oohhh, yeah, baby. Fuck those fingers, he grunted. You dirty bitch!

Rose moaned out her pleasure at his groaning in her ear. Ooh, yes. Go on, see how many you can push in. Let me fuck them. Ohh, yeah, that’s it, all four. Aaahh. Fuck, you’ve got me so wet and horny, desperate for that big cock. Pull my panties down, big man. I’m gonna climb onto that big stiff cock of yours. I want it buried deep inside me. I’m stood over you now, my legs each side of you. I will squat down on you and rub my wet juicy cunt all over your face. Ooh yes. That’s it, lick it, taste it. Ooooohh, I’m riding your face now, you dirty fucker.

Breathing heavy as he tossed himself harder, Rick moaned, Fuck! I wanna put my finger up your tight little arse.

Gasping at the thought of his probing finger, Rose squealed: Oh fuck, yes. Thrust it up my arsehole, you dirty bastard! Ooh, yeah. Aaahh I can feel you fingering my tight arsehole. Now, I‘m sliding down your chest with my big heavy tits bouncing on your face. Suck those nipples, you fucker. Suck ‘em hard, she squealed again, and moaned, I’m sitting down hard on that fucking big cock of yours. Oooooo, fuck that’s so big, she panted. I wanna ride it all night, babe. Yes, yes, aaahhhh oh yeah, oh yeah!

That’s it you little dirty bitch, Rick growled. Ride that fucking big dick hard. Oooooohh, fuck! That’s it! I’m cuming, you dirty slut. Cumming right up that tight little cunt of yours. Here it is, babe all for you. Aarrgh, arrghhh. Aaaahhhhhh! Panting hard down the phone he gasped. Fuck me, girl. You’re good!"

Why thank you kind Sir, Rose chuckled over the phone. Do ‘cum’ again. For a moment, she was almost embarrassed at the pun, but then again, she never could help herself!

Oh, God, babe. I will, Rick assured her. You were great, and that voice of yours. Phew! It might have been my first time, but it won’t be my last. Do you ever meet up with your callers?

Not as yet, she teased, but I never say never. She did not plan to meet any of them, but then again, she thought as she hung up, there were a lot of things in her life she had never planned to do. Besides, no harm in keeping the guys hoping.

For starters she had never planned to talk about sex for a living. But, as with everything in life, I could blame circumstance for all kinds of changes, for all sort of people, and for many reasons. Nowadays, you had to go where the money was.

Having one failed marriage and a long-term relationship that ended recently, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. A taste that, as yet, she could not