Domina by LS Hilton – digested read

‘Yermalov must have sewn a Caravaggio drawing into my Louis Vuitton rucksack. Realising every reader was now completely lost and on the verge of giving up, I decided to have sex with someone else’

I tossed the used condom into my Prada handbag. I didn’t want to leave any evidence. I went to the bathroom, where he was washing off his post-coital sweat. I stood above him and held his head under the water. I wanted the last thing he ever saw to be my gaping pussy. I tried to begin a sentence without using I. I couldn’t. I had merely done what I had to. I had started a book about explicit sex, shopping and killing with explicit sex, shopping and killing.

My mind went back two months to when I had been Elizabeth Teerlinc running the Gentileschi art gallery in Venice. My mind then went back a few months before that to when I had been Judith Somebody. I thought back to my previous life. Not because I particularly wanted to, but because I was worried everyone might have forgotten that this was the second in an explicit sex, shopping and killing 50 Shades knock-off trilogy and wouldn’t have a clue what was going on. I thought back to anal sex, group sex, masturbation and the people in the art world who I had unfortunately killed.

It was the opening night of my first exhibition. Kazbich came in and bought everything before telling me that the world-famous Russian oligarch Pavel Yermolov, who had once met Elton John and Bono, wanted me to value his art collection. I said yes and within minutes a private jet flew me to the French Riviera.

“Nice Titians,” I said.

“I was going to say the same thing to you,” Yermolov replied, evenly.

My nipples went rock hard, but I knew I had to keep things professional.

Domina by LS Hilton (Zaffre, £11.99)
Domina by LS Hilton (Zaffre, £11.99) Photograph: PR company handout

“I’m not the right person to value your collection,” I said reluctantly. “The whole lot is worth more than the contents of the Louvre and the Prado combined.”

I went off to Ibiza to watch a whole lot of people taking MDMA and having group sex. A guy called Alvin came on strong to me. I was quite wet, but not enough. So I left.

Back in Venice, I killed Alvin. Don’t ask me why. I haven’t a clue. It just seemed like a good idea at the time. I then went to go and see my old friend Mascha. She, too, was dead. There was only one thing for it. Put on my Eres underwear and find myself a rock-hard cock. I forget whose. Sometimes it doesn’t matter. Good sex can sometimes clear the brain.

I went back to a hotel. Elena, Yermolov’s wife, was waiting for me.

“You’ve got to help me get the Jameson Botticellis.”


“Because else we’re both dead.”

None of it made sense. Yet suddenly it did all make sense. I remembered that when I had killed Moncada in the last book, Yermolov must have sewn a Caravaggio drawing into my Louis Vuitton rucksack. I thought a lot about Caravaggio. I even looked him up on Wikipedia to find out he had been a world famous painter. But not a drawer. So something told me that the Caravaggio I didn’t know I had was a fake.

Realising that every reader was by now completely lost and on the verge of giving up, I decided to have sex with someone else. I was back on track. I realised that Yermolov and Balensky must be in it together. Who was Balensky? Search me. All I knew was that they must be in it together. I then had a massive orgasm and went to Paris.

I wasn’t quite sure what I was doing in Paris, but it was worth going just to see the Eiffel Tower, a famous landmark in the centre of France’s capital city, and to watch a man’s head explode as he was pushed out of a sixth-storey window by Balensky. Or someone quite like him.

There was only one thing for it. I had to go to Belgrade to meet a Serbian war criminal called Raznatovic. The Serb had a massive 18-inch rod of throbbing gristle and I was so wet in his Porsche SUV that I nearly drowned. He fucked me hard for the next 10 pages before arranging a meeting for me with Yermolov and Balensky.

I went to the rendezvous in Milan wearing nothing but the fake Caravaggio.

“It’s fake,” I said.

“I know,” replied Yermolov, shooting Balensky in the back of the head. “But I’m still prepared to pay €20 million for it.” I felt his tongue inside my pussy.

With nothing left to do, I went back to Venice, where I found Alvin’s decomposing body in my wardrobe. For some reason, this reminded me of the time when my mother had murdered my sister. I needed more sex. Lots of it. There was a knock on the door. It was a policeman from the last book whom I had totally forgotten about. He had a gun pointed at me. My lingerie was literally drenched.

To be concluded.

Digested read, digested: Coitus uninterruptus.


John Crace

The GuardianTramp

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