Sisters in Sin

SISTERS IN SIN

Primula Bond

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

More from Mischief

About Mischief

Copyright

About the Publisher

In my rush to get away from him I’d become totally lost. My brand-new boots pinched horribly as I slipped and scurried across the wet worn flagstones, under green flaking arches, along narrow alleyways, beside stagnant canals, and finally into a little square where I stopped to catch my breath.

I glanced round. The rain had found its way into the square after me, but not the strange man. There was no one to be seen. Ridiculously, I almost wished that I’d stopped being so paranoid and just asked him what he wanted. That’s what happens when you spend too much time on your own. Maybe this trip wasn’t such a good idea after all. Not right. Not healthy. And just then I would have preferred to be with anyone, even a weirdo, rather than, like now, totally alone.

I took out my mobile. A call to Hazel, my mate and business partner who was holding the fort back in London, should sort me out. She was the one who’d told me to fuck off and get out of her face. In the most caring kind of way.

‘How’s it going?’ I could tell Hazel was busy, and distracted. Probably a client was standing by the counter as she talked, waiting to pay. In the background, red buses rumbling by. The pedestrian crossing beeping just outside our shop. ‘Found any good outlets yet?’

‘Some. Most of the glass shops are very quiet this time of year. And their stuff is so – quaint. Not sure our super-contemporary clients want fussy little seashells and conches scattered all over their minimalist interiors.’

‘Well, think outside the box and find something cutting-edge, then. Been out to the workshops on Murano yet?’

‘Give me a chance! I’ve only been here two days!’

‘Two more to go, then. So you’d better get your skates on, girl. And there’s no need to be petulant with me. We’ve got to justify sending you over there on expenses. So. What about your leisure time? Any nice men to take your mind off things? It’s the most romantic city on earth, after all.’

‘Yeah. Rub it in, why don’t you. Especially with Valentine’s Day just around the corner and everyone getting ready for Carnivale with their masks and costumes and all. I must be the only person here without a lover.’ I thumped my backside down on the rim of an old well in the middle of the square. A pigeon came up, tilted its head and pecked experimentally at my toe. ‘And to top it all I’ve got a stalker.’

Hazel cackled. ‘You wish!’

‘Seriously. Everywhere I go, every shop, every corner, he’s there.’ The well was damp, and so now was my bottom. ‘Watching me.’

‘If you say so, doll. What does he look like?’

‘Like a stalker! You know, tall, long dark coat, some kind of brimmed hat, a fedora thing – I haven’t seen his face, but it’s like he’s this shadow, sliding over the walls behind me, following me everywhere.’

‘Sounds like the kinky fantasy of a frustrated old mare to me.’

‘It’s true. He exists!’ I protested, laughing nevertheless. ‘I first saw him passing down the Grand Canal on a vaporetto not long after I got here. Then coming out of Harry’s Bar last night. He was even outside my hotel this morning. But it’s funny you should use the word “kinky” …’

As always she’d hit the nail on the head. Inside the head, even. She knew the way my mind worked, how it basically revolves around sex or the lack of it. We were bosom mates – no, not that kind of bosom. Neither of us are – were – that way inclined. But she just knew me so well after hours, nights, weekends, years of talking long into the night about our life and loves. She knew how splitting up with my latest married man was inevitable. They always went back to their wives. But to top it all I was pushing forty, my faithful stock of fuck buddies had also run out and she certainly wasn’t prepared to lend me her precious Tony.

So, yes, I had fantasised about the scary stalker.

More than that, I’d actually slowed down deliberately coming out of Harry’s Bar last night, wondering if he might turn and follow me back to the Danieli Hotel. I picked my way over the bridge and along the wide promenade that ran from the bar along the outer edge of Piazza San Marco, trying not to get my feet wet in the remaining puddles from the rain and the acqua alta that had flooded over the piazza at high tide. I let my long red cashmere scarf trail behind me like bait as the cold breeze blew off the black lagoon and whipped my hair across my eyes. But when I looked back he wasn’t there.

At the hotel I wandered across the large tiled hallway and into the warm piano bar humming with people, the sweet smell of cocktails and the saccharine melodies being picked out by an ancient pianist. I took the cocktail that the mustachioed barman flourished at me. I’d never travelled on my own before, and on my first night I’d automatically scanned the place for talent as if I was still cruising the bars in London, painted on my best smile, hitched up my tits in my best push-up bra, crossed my legs provocatively, Sharon Stone-style. Realised there was nothing doing. I was being comprehensively ignored. And when I realised that the manager was observing me from the doorway, wondering if I was a hooker, I shrugged at him, jangled my room key ostentatiously and went up to bed.

But something had definitely come over me since then. In the two days I’d been in Venice a kind of charmed fatigue was creeping into my bones along with the damp air of the city. I couldn’t be bothered to toy with what was in front of me, the jostling crowds, proposing couples, even random barmen or winking Italians. I wanted the imaginary, the impossible, something ephemeral that I was sure was waiting just out of sight.

That second night I hung around in the bar for at least another hour. Something about the very fact that I was ignoring them seemed to invite smiles from various guys, all trying to catch my eye over the narrow, tailored shoulders of their haughty dates. But I just sat up high on a bar stool so that the stalker could see me clearly above the potted palms if he came in.

And when he didn’t come in I realised how pathetic I was being. Of course he wasn’t coming in. He probably didn’t exist! But still I ascended the grand curving staircase instead of taking the lift, in case he came gliding in through the front door. Then I kicked shut the door and fell backwards across the big ornate bed, my dress up round my fanny, listening as the traffic, both human and watery, ebbed and flowed in the cold night outside my window.

I couldn’t get him out of my head. I imagined him opening the door without ceremony and without a word, walking soundlessly over to where I’m lying, leaning over me, still wearing that long dark coat, the hat still shadowing his face.

I sit up on my elbows and try to see what he looks like. Various faces flit across my imagination. My ex-boyfriend. My university tutor. Hazel’s Tony. The barman. But all I can see is white skin and a pointed chin, and a mouth set in a grim line. He reaches out a gloved hand and lifts my dress right up, over my waxed snatch, and of course he sees I’m not wearing any knickers. He holds the dress up for a long moment while his other hand moves deliberately and thoroughly over his crotch, rubbing it almost thoughtfully as he stares at my body. Then he lets the dress flutter down again high up over my stomach, leaving my pussy bare.

Now he leans over me and pushes my thighs open. His gloves are of some kind of expensive leather but still they snag slightly on my skin. One long finger strokes towards where the pussy lips swell on either side of the neat line of topiary, but stops short of touching them, which only makes them pulse all the more. He pushes my legs wider still, and still I can’t see his face, but I can see a seam of moisture between his lips and the serrated tips of his white teeth.

My face is on a level with his crotch, and through his open coat I see the bulge in his black trousers, the big outline of his cock, thick and hard and incongruous against the thin, mean body. I stretch my hand out tentatively towards it, wondering if he’ll slap it back, but he is almost like a statue now, holding my legs open, staring down at me, his eyes invisible, his cheeks and chin incredibly white and smooth, no sign of any bristles. I touch that hard outline, and all he does is tip his head very slightly back and swallow. So I start to unzip his trousers, no reaction, get my hand inside his flies, still as stone, I pause again to see if he’ll stop me, then as soon as I touch the smooth surface of his cock I’m horny as hell, never mind what he’s feeling.

At last there’s the faintest crackle in his throat, and that flicks the switch for me. I love a man at my mercy. I grip him harder, but suddenly he lifts his hands from my legs and grabs either side of my head, covering my ears so that all I can hear is the thump of my heart and the rush of my breath and the slight creak of his leather gloves.

He shoves my head into his groin. I expect to smell sweat and the salty hint of spunk but there is only the tang of strong soap. He grinds my face harder against him so that my nose squashes up against his thick curly hair and his jutting cock. As I pull slightly away his penis jumps at my face, banging against my nose. There is nothing but the soapy darkness, the rub of the thick fabric of his trousers and coat, and the almost rigid cock poking me. The stalker’s hands are really tight over my head, smothering my face inside his trousers so I can hardly breathe. I open my mouth to get air, and my tongue slicks across the tip of his cock. It swells bigger and harder in response, and yes now there’s a droplet of moisture there on the tip as I take a tentative lick, smearing it across my chin as his cock slips away from me. I lick again, think of it as my lollipop. It jumps again, he pulls back but only for a second, he jerks urgently at my mouth, losing control, aiming it like a weapon. So his knob slips stickily into my mouth.

My pussy twitches with the thrill, the menace and the sheer excitement of causing an erection in such a cold, stony figure. I can’t relish it properly because I’m sprawled awkwardly on my front now, towards the edge of the high bed. I can’t move because I’m holding on to the stalker’s coat and then his skinny hips to balance, so all I can do is rub myself against the duvet. He thrusts himself hard against me, almost breaking my teeth as he forces his cock further inside my mouth. I think I can hear a muttered curse, but it’s only a whisper. I follow the motion of his body with my mouth, trying hard not to bite him.

I grip the top of his legs and keep the rounded knob of his enormous cock firmly in my mouth. The whole shaft presses against my tongue, rubs against my teeth. I open my jaw wider. He’s huge now. I push the rigid length away from my throat with my tongue. Every move makes him stiffer. I start to suck and I can taste him, clean skin mixed with the sweet salt trickling through the slit. Funny how even an automaton like him won’t be able to control his own spunk. His hands grip harder on my head, but he is moving more now. I can hear a low moan as he thrusts his cock against the roof of my mouth, filling it. My tongue traces the veins on its surface. My mouth moves up and down and I nip the taut flesh. He pushes in hard, pushing it right down my throat, spreading his thighs a little wider and tipping his pelvis to get a better angle, and now there’s another faint scent which seems released from his clothes, a smoky musky aroma that seems to curl up through my nostrils right into my head. It’s pleasant, clean, sensual even, but I can’t place it.

I move to keep a grip on him and my pussy opens against the old-fashioned brocade of the bed cover and it scrapes the tender clit hiding inside and it’s my turn to flinch with pleasure and groan. But that seems to displease him. His hands imprison my cheeks and force my head to rock back and forth some more, my teeth and lips sliding right away from his long cock before he slams my face forwards again. His cock is deep down my throat, but I’m good at this. I’m known for it. And the reason I’m always up for it, enjoy it so much, feeling that shaft of excited male muscle in my mouth, gagging me to choking point, is that I can imagine it doing the same inside me. Soon it will be fucking me.

Somehow I know that’s not going to happen tonight. This man has come to me for his pleasure, not mine, so as I suck harder and faster and move my mouth up and down I move my body in time, rubbing my pussy up, down, on the brocade, rough embroidery scraping on my clit, making it burn, making my pussy twitch and clench furiously, furious I suppose with him, too, but as my stalker starts to buck against me, I feel the little rush of orgasm just on the edge of me, not really far enough inside, and as it blooms out of me I feel the thick gush of his spunk gathering in my mouth, spurting down my tongue, and I swallow it, determined to show him that he’s picked the right girl for a blow job, how the hell did he know, is it my luscious lips, always painted a dark red and fashioned exactly for sucking on something sweet? I swallow it all, the familiar slight reflux in my throat making me nip at him so that he jerks backwards but it’s still spurting out and he stays rammed inside my mouth, my face jammed between his hands, until he’s done.

I let the cock slide out of my mouth, and turn quickly on to my knees like a doggy, offering my backside up to him for another go, and panting eagerly as I smile back at him over my shoulder, running my tongue over my lips in invitation.

But he shakes his head, dipping the hat over his eyes, then pushes me roughly so that I fall forwards on to the bed. He sneers, but he hasn’t said a word. I haven’t noticed him zipping himself up, but he flicks his coat closed and as he swishes away from me again there’s that scent released into the air, catching in my throat. I can only describe it as spiritual. Candles. Incense. A church smell. Then he strides across the carpet and leaves through the still open door.

‘Say what?’ Far away in Long Acre, Hazel sighed.

‘What you said about the fantasy – oh, never mind.’ I could hear the other line ringing in the shop.

‘Whatever. You’ve been watching too many movies, Jen. Now get a grip, buy some Venetian glass at wholesale to keep us from going bust, and get your arse back here.’

I wasn’t ready to let her go, but before I could keep her talking, maybe share the details of that particular fantasy, the phone went dead.

And then I heard it. Above my head. A moan, elongated as if someone was in pain, a sigh, then another moan. Impossible to ignore. The sound was brazen as it insinuated itself out of yet another Gothic window and ricocheted off the high surrounding walls. Sounds here always turn to echos: footsteps, church bells, the flapping of wings, the snap of a bed sheet. Atmospheric and intriguing, especially for a visiting stranger. But this was different. This was the private, human, sweaty whisper of sex. A creaking bed, headboard knocking on the wall. Oh God. Now I could see it. Them. In my mind. Strong male buttocks rearing up and thrusting in between eager, slender, gripping thighs.

I glanced round to see if anyone else was listening or coming out to shut them up, but the doors and windows in the little campo stared blankly back. They looked rusty and dusty, as if they hadn’t been opened for years. Well, it was February, and foggy, and freezing cold. Only one was open, with a red curtain billowing out like a tongue over a box of geraniums.

I was imagining it. I started to stand up, but then a woman’s voice murmured something, and her lover answered, his voice harsh with lust. Individual hairs started to rise on my neck, on the crown of my head, along my arms. The noises were excruciatingly intimate, making me blush, but they were also turning me on.

Now there was a creaking of bed springs and they started to sing slowly, in an unmistakable rhythm. I started to rub my hands up and down my thighs. It was time to go. But I was pinned to the spot by the noises. Also I had no idea where I was, or where I was going. The ragged moans rose, became closer together, stretched into wordless gasping, sounding so close to fear or pain but we all know it’s perfect pleasure, panting in time to the creaking bed. My nipples, already cold, stiffened instinctively, my silk camisole clinging to the hard points. I covered my ears, but moisture seeped into my knickers. How desperate did that make me, getting aroused by someone else’s fucking? After my empty stalker fantasy, this was torture.

But the square was so silent. These were the only sounds. It was like I was in the room with them, seeing them through all the stages of whispering, kissing, touching, arousing each other in their bed right through to the fucking. I knew the man was inside her now, because every few seconds he gave a groan just like a tennis pro serving an ace, and that was what turned me on. The square reverberated with the rhythmic sounds, their animal groaning as the man’s cock thrust again and again into the woman with those glorious two-tone moans. Why did nobody else hear? The bed was banging against the wall and they were almost shouting now, the moans rising to that uninhibited pitch where pleasure meets pain.

I realised I was rocking, too, on my damp seat, cold hands rubbing at myself under my coat, fingers creeping under my skirt to find my crotch, sliding inside my knickers, one finger matching the heady rhythm echoing from the window, running up, running down my crack, making it wet, making me jealous, I could picture the sex-soaked scene through that shuttered window, the rumpled sheets, the bed thumping against the wall, their mouths open, his cock pulling out, big and hard and glistening with her juice, her pussy pink and open and wet, then him slamming her back against the pillows as he thrust inside.

Like a wildlife film when you see lions humping. They were hard at it up there. My fingers rubbed faster across my crotch and then the woman was straining for breath, hissing, ‘Yes, yes.’ I vaguely thought, surely it should be ‘si, si’? Maybe she was riding him, breasts bouncing, hard nipples catching between his teeth, his fingers digging into her haunches to keep her rammed on to his big cock. Everything was rising to a crescendo. A ball of excitement rolled and tightened in my stomach as the creaking of the bed grew more violent. I moaned out loud as my own pussy sucked at my fingers and then I came, quickly and quietly, my knees weak as I shivered there on the stone well, cold and exhausted and even more frustrated than before.

Upstairs the groaning and panting stopped, regained a second momentum with a kind of desperate shriek, then died.

It was as if everyone was holding their breath, daring each other to be the first to move. Why does masturbating make you feel so alone? No one to hold or touch after, that’s why. I got my own breath back and fumbled for my guidebook as if someone was watching me accusingly. Suddenly the door beneath the window opened. I pretended to study my map but glanced over the top of it to see what voluptuous, sated creature was emerging from the house.

But instead of a dishevelled Monica Bellucci lookalike in a fur coat and stilettos, with messed-up tendrils of black hair and scarlet lips, a slim, plain-looking figure with short fair hair in a long grey dress, thick tights and flat black lace-ups hurried out into the wintry light, fastening a billowing cape in a bow at her neck. Then, as she stepped backwards to call something up at the window she pulled a white cap and then a grey veil over her hair and fastened it with kirby grips. That woman in flagrante I’d been eavesdropping on, the afternoon adulteress, or whore, or honeymooning wife was actually – a nun!

I stifled a snort of laughter. Maybe she was in disguise. In fancy dress?

She put her hand up beside her mouth and called again. ‘Carlo! Answer me!’

The man refused to come to the window. Some kind of row going on?

‘For God’s sake!’

Finally a man’s hand pushed through the geraniums in the box and flung some cash down to the ground. Maybe she was a tom, after all?

‘Bastardo! I don’t want money!’ the nun half hissed, half screamed, waving her arms out of the cape. ‘I’m not one of your tourist groupies!’

Her accent was almost perfectly English, the smoker’s sexy rasp totally at odds with the prim exterior.

‘No?’ He shouted down. ‘Well, then you should start acting like a proper girlfriend and stay the night with me for once, instead of sneaking off after I’ve given you one. Oh, just fuck off back to your little prison before they notice you’re missing.’

‘Don’t you dare! You know my situation there! You know I can’t –’

I still couldn’t see her face, but I could see that she was shaking. Her hands, raised in the air as if to try and reach up to him, smacked back down to her sides, the fingers furiously twisting and bunching up the thick material of the cloak.

‘Well, I’m fed up with waiting. Plenty more where you came from.’ He was at the window now. All I could see was a head of dark, curly hair and a navy sweater rolled up over big strong arms. His hands were curled into fists on the edge of the windowsill. A livid red scar ran round one wrist like a bracelet. ‘Use the money to buy yourself a new prayer mat, or a Bible, or a nice fat candle, or whatever you use in there for kicks.’

‘Vaffanculo!’ she screeched, making the pigeon flap up in alarm. ‘Go fuck yourself!’

She turned on her heel, threw the hood over her head, and rushed out through an archway on the far side of the square from where I’d entered. As I levered myself stiffly up from my damp seat, Carlo caught sight of me. His black eyes glittered furiously as if I’d done something wrong. Then he stopped, and looked right at where my coat was unbuttoned, my skirt still hoicked up round my thighs.

‘You’re all tarts!’ At least I think that’s what he said. Maybe it was ‘Your last chance!’ Either way I felt a rush of shame, followed by a rush of fury that he’d made me feel that way. He slammed closed the shutters and suddenly his window became as blind and deaf as all the others in this ethereal city.

I could hear her footsteps tapping away into the distance. Silence and darkness were gathering round me again, along with lanky tendrils of fog. I started to run after her. She was the only human being I’d seen in the last hour, after all. Not counting the stalker, who I reckoned wasn’t human at all. Worse than that, I had no idea where I was and it wasn’t funny any more. At least she’d be able to tell me the way back to my plush hotel on the Riva degli Schiavoni.

‘Scusi! Signorina!’ I called out, careering out from under the archway and on to a narrow, slippery pavement beside a sliver of green canal. There were no railings, and I nearly splashed straight into the water. As I fell back against the wall, heart juddering, I caught sight of a tall dark figure standing on the other side of the canal, framed by another archway. The hat shaded the face. All I could see was the high collar of his coat and the sharp chin turned sideways. In the dusk he was a whole lot spookier than in last night’s fantasy. Downright scary. And he was, like me, intently watching the nun as she lifted one sturdy shoe to climb a little stone bridge.