Darker Shade of Rose , livre ebook

A Darker Shade of Rose
Jenny Ainslie-Turner





First published in 2019 by
House of Erotica
www.houseoferoticabooks.com
Digital edition converted and distributed by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
Copyright © 2019 Jenny Ainslie-Turner & A.J Beaumont
The right of Jenny Ainslie-Turner & A.J Beaumont to be identified as the authors of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated 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. Any person who does so may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.



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 panti