by Jewel Geffen
“Alright then. The caterer. Who else is there? Can we get someone else? Are there other caterers in Adirondack Hallow? I can't have my guests going hungry, now can I?”
“There are a couple other places,” she says, a bit hesitantly, “not so upscale as Pertwig's. A town this size doesn't really have the footprint to support more than one, but we might be able to find something. I got menus, if you'd like to see.” She holds out a few folded sheets of paper.
I tuck them under my arm. “What would I do without you, Melody?”
She grins tightly. “We could also get food brought in from somewhere further away, but it won't be cheap.”
“Money is no option, Melody, you know that... Still, no need to throw it away, I suppose. Thank you, I'll look these over and let you know as soon as possible.”
“Of course sir,” she nods, “It, ah... it is tomorrow, sir.”
“I'm aware of that, Melody. As soon as possible, you have my word on it.”
“Of course, sir. Uh... there is one other thing...” she stops now, falling behind me, still clutching the clipboard against her chest.
I stop in my tracks and look back. Something about that tone... Melody doesn't usually sound like that, so hesitant. Whatever she's about to tell me, it can't be good. “What is it?”
“There's, um, someone waiting for you.”
“Waiting for me? Who? Where?”
“I, uh, I don't know exactly. She said she was here for the party.”
I sigh. “Of course, someone's always got to show up early. The invitations explicitly state that nobody is supposed to come here until tomorrow night. Where is she?”
“That's uh... that's what's, well... She's in the East Wing.”
I feel a flash of annoyance. “My private apartments? How in the world did she get in there? Who let her in? You know my instructions on that matter, Melody-”
“Nobody let her in, sir,” she protests, “she let herself in.”
“Let herself in?” Nobody has the key to those rooms, except... I did give Victoria a key while she was staying here. It seems strange that she'd come back here so soon, though. I left her at her cabin not three hours ago. I only made a brief stop in town to get a bottle of wine at the store before coming back. How could she have gotten here so soon? And why?
“She said that they were her rooms, sir, then she just went right in. We could hardly believe it, honestly, but... Well, she had a key and seemed quite insistent, and nobody wanted to chase her in there and drag her out.”
“Quite right. Thank you, Melody. I'll handle it from here, I think.”
She nods, crossing her arms over her chest and backing away. “Of course, sir. Let me know if you need anything.”
“I certainly will,” I say, but I've already dismissed her from my mind, and all the party planning along with her. My attention is focused entirely upon the door at the end of the hall which leads to my apartments. My hand is in my pocket, fingering the slender golden key which will unlock the door.
This isn't like Victoria. At least, I don't think it is. I haven't known her long, but I think I know her well enough to wager she wouldn't do a thing like this. But then... people always could surprise you.
I slide the little key into the lock and turn it until it clicks. There's a strange sense of forbidding building up inside me. That's ridiculous, of course. What could there possibly be to be nervous about? And yet the feeling persists.
I step into the quiet hallway and walk down the long passage, looking at the doors as I go past.
It's a strange feeling, having more than one house, and stranger still when those houses are kept for you by others. It gives you a sense of never quite being comfortable where you are, as if you don't have an actual home but only a lavish hotel turned completely over to your own personal use. Not a bad feeling, but strange.
There are times now when I yearn for the close comforts of a true home, a place I could call my own that was truly mine – not just monetarily, but physically. It didn't matter whose name was on the deed, this place would never truly be mine. Even more so, given how much of herself my wife Angela put into the design of the place...
These few private rooms, however, have been guarded jealously. I've kept them for my own, even barring the house staff except on rare occasions. It makes this intrusion all the more disquieting. I'm afraid that I'm going to have to have a word with Victoria when I see her.
Still, there's no real harm in it. And, after our experience on the bluff, I'm more than inclined to be gracious towards her. Who knows? She may very well have come here this afternoon interested in a repeat performance.
The light is on in the studio, about halfway down the long hall.
Ah, Victoria. It must be. Over the past several days that she's been my guest here, most of our time was spent in this room. The ostensible reason for her visit was so that I could paint her portrait, but in truth we spent most of our time engaged in something not unlike a sensual fencing match. Thrust and parry, dodge and faint...
I came out the victor in that particular match, not that she's likely to regret losing. Her reward for conceding was, by the look on her face, quite satisfactory indeed. Thinking back on it brings a little grin to my lips. More than that, I start to feel myself getting firm, my cock rousing at the memory of our encounters here.
I push open the door, thinking that I'm quite ready for a repeat performance.
I stop, stock still, my heart skipping a beat. There's a woman here, a slender blonde woman with blue eyes and large breasts, her shapely body on display in her clinging evening-wear. She is impeccably put together, clothes, makeup, hair and nails, everything. She has the icy radiance of a supermodel – that distant and vaguely inhuman remove.
She turns to look at me, and there's a wide smile on her bright red lips. There is, however, no humor or warmth whatsoever in that smile, at least not to my eye.
“Antoine, darling, lovely to see you.” Her voice is cool and imperious. She strokes one finger along the top of the canvas upon which Victoria's painting was made. Victoria's image, so alike to the woman standing beside it, and yet so unlike. Where Victoria is sensuously bowed and submitting, this woman seems unbreakable and regal. Victoria, her mouth own and breasts on display. This woman, clad in a glittering gown and a cool expression of affected disinterest.
“And you as well,” I say, my voice a touch cold. I feel like a bolt of frozen lightning has sliced into my heart. It's all I can do not to stagger off my feet clutching my chest and panting. I lean against the door-frame, adopting a mask of indifference.
“It looks like you've been having some fun in my bed, ” she says.
“It's not your bed anymore. It hasn't been for a long time.”
Of all the things I expected to see in this room, this was the last. And the least welcome.
“And who is this?” the woman asks, grinning at the painting. “Another of your many conquests?”
“Something like that.”
She clicks her tongue. “My my... but you do have a type, don't you? Don't tell me that you're still hung up on me, Antoine dear?”
“Not at all, Angela, not at all.”
I reach back and I shut the studio door behind me, trapping myself in the little art and bondage studio with the woman I once called my wife.
Chapter Four
“Oh my, how intimidating,” Angela says, quite sarcastically. “Are you trying to scare me, Antoine?”
“Not at all. I simply don't want us to be interrupted. Seems like anybody can get into my private rooms these days.” I try my best to play it smooth, but I can feel my heart thumping inside.
“Ah,” she says, grinning wickedly. “You know...” she reaches down into the deep cleavage between her luscious pale breasts, put fully on display by her low-cut evening gown, and she withdraws a little golden key tied on a slender silk ribbon, “you really should have changed the locks.”
“A mistake I'll be rectifying shortly.”
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She taps the key against her lower lip. The delicate gold presses on the plump red swell of her bee-sting mouth. “I can't help but wonder if you, perhaps subconsciously... didn't want to change the locks. Because you knew I still had this, and you wanted me to come back. That's it, isn't it darling? Oh, the hopeless romanticism of it all! You've been waiting for this day all these years, haven't you?”
I shake my head, and try not to think on what she's said too closely. Her words ring just a little truer than I'm prepared to admit just now. “I've had other things on my mind, I assure you.”
Angela laughs. “Like what, this little tidbit, here?” She flicks the gauzy wisps of her dress at the canvas. The image is uncannily like that of a ghost reaching out translucent fingers to paw at the image of the living. “Is she your latest lover, Antoine? A hapless maiden taken to your bed to staunch the flow of that unhealed wound I gave you?” she puts hand dramatically against her brow.
“Hardly. A chance acquaintance, nothing more.”
She turns to look at the portrait, eyebrows inclined skeptically. “Oh? A mere acquaintance? Do you tie up all your acquaintances like this, Antoine, or only the blondes?”
“Well now, that would be telling, wouldn't it?”
She snorts. “Oh, don't play the gentleman. I've heard all about that room of yours, filled up with all those pretty pictures. Where is it, anyway? You really must show it to me sometime; I'm desperately keen to see if they all meet this lofty standard.”
How is it that everything she says manages to cut so deeply? I should be better than this. I've made a fortune as a negotiator and sharp businessman, out-witting and out-talking people with twice my experience. Anything to get the deal. And yet I feel now as if I've been knocked back on the ropes, punch-drunk and dazed, reeling from each successive jab. She seems to have an innate grasp of my weak points.
Though of course she always had, she just chose to hold back, then. For what? For... love? She seems hardly capable of that now.
I turn away from her, trying to hide how shaken I am by making a pretense of straightening and inspecting the bondage equipment on display. Leather and chain and gleaming chrome, a vast collection of buckles and straps and whips and restraints, added one by one to my collection over the years. Each of them carries a memory, and speaks it to me as I touch it.
Many of those memories involve Angela.
I remember her down on all fours at my feet, a ball-gag in her mouth and her hands tied behind her back, her head thrown back in defiance as I switched her upraised backside, turning the pale cheeks pink, and then red. The spark of defiance never faded from her fierce blue eyes.
I remember her tied down to the bed, a vibrator strapped to her, humming softly against her clit for what felt like hours as she came over and over and over again, screaming at the force of her orgasms and gushing clear fluid in a torrent over the bed-sheets.
I remember her with a collar around her neck and a leash held tight in my hand, her mouth on my cock as she gazed up at me, worshiping my penis with every fiber of her being until I blessed her with a thick spurt of cum across her upraised face.
All those memories are clear, crystalline in my mind. I can recall them down to the last detail. The sights, the sounds, the smells... everything. And yet they feel also faded, sepia-toned and otherly. It is as if, despite what my memory might tell me, this man and this woman standing here in this room could not possibly have shared those moments, that for them to do so would be as ridiculous as defying the very laws of the physics.
“You've been keeping tabs on me, then? I have to admit, I never looked into what you were getting up to.” I say, after far too long a pause for the rejoinder to have any sting.
“Oh, the news of your exploits has traveled far and wide. Of course I've heard the sordid rumors of what Antoine Moreau gets up to in his dark mansion.”
“Why are you here, Angela?”
She grins. “Why... for your little party, of course.”
“You weren't invited.”
“On the contrary, darling,” she reaches into her bodice and withdraws a little piece of stiff cream-colored card printed with delicate and ornate golden lettering. I recognize it at once, and of course she must know that I do, but she insists on reading it out loud all the same. “To the estimable Mrs. Faber, you are cordially invited to an evening of sensual delights and exotic pleasures at the home of Antoine Moreau. It would be my great personal pleasure if you were to attend in the company of your husband and your lover. Prepare your senses for a feast of scintillating delight and amazement.”
She lowers the card and cocks an eyebrow at me. “My my... very fancy, Antoine.”
“I can't help but notice that your name isn't Faber, of course.”
She laughs. “Oh, Antoine, don't be naive! People don't use their real names for these things. At least hardly any of them do. Only the true deviants such as yourself have made it such a consuming passion as to reveal their true selves. The rest of us operate under guises.”
“A mistake then. You needn't attend. I'll reimburse you for your travel expenses, of course.”
“And miss out on,” she glances at the card, “an evening of sensual delights? Oh no, not at all. I've been invited, so I'll come.”
“How did you get that invitation?”
“It was sent to me, Antoine, how else? I've been traveling in these circles just as long as you have. I've got contacts. Someone recommended Mrs. Faber as a possible guest, the invitation was mailed, and here I am. Besides... I have other business with you.”
“What possible business could we have, Angela?”
“Ah...” she draws out the sound, grinning crookedly and walking towards me, hips swaying gently as she sashays across the studio towards me. “Now then, let me think, what business could there possibly be for a long separated married couple to conduct?”
She comes to me, so close that I can smell the enchanting odor of her perfume – like cinnamon and jasmine and absinthe – and she presses her little hands against my chest.
Now that she's standing against me like this it strikes me all over again how small she is, how slight and delicate. I'm more than a foot taller than she is, and tower over her. And yet her cool blue eyes meet mine with the easy confidence of someone in complete control of her situation, as if she has me wrapped around her little finger and knows it. I want to do something to prove her wrong, but can't bring myself to take action, can't make myself move. I just stand there stiffly, my heart pounding in my chest as her hands slip inside my shirt, her warm fingers brushing over the bare skin of my chest.
“You know...” she says, barely more than a whisper, “I have thought about you... often...” She moves in close, pulling my shirt slightly aside to reveal the dark circle of my nipple. “About the... dirty little things you used to do to me...” She leans in and her tongue darts out to give my nipple a teasing little lick.
I can feel myself getting rock hard. I don't say anything, afraid that to speak will reveal things I'm not willing to admit to. “What are you doing, Angela?” My voice breaks just a little as I strain to keep it steady and even and don't entirely succeed.
She grins up at me, her hands sliding down to hold my hips. “Just... reminiscing,” she says, “remembering old times. Don't you want to?”
“I prefer to put the past behind me,” I say.
Her smile widens, and her hand slips around to give my bottom a little squeeze.
“I think not,” I say, and reach back to grab her wrist – not especially gently – in my larger hand. I pull her firmly away from me, and move her so that we're standing an arm's length apart. “Angela,” I say, “what do you want?”
She rolls her eyes dramatically. “Oh, you were never any fun, Antoine. Always such a stick in the mud. No matter how much of a Lothario you might fancy yourself, you're really just old fashioned.”
“Get to the point, Angela. Unless you just came here to insult me.”
She
sighs, and crossed her arms under her breasts, pushing them up right under my nose practically. “I want a divorce, Antoine. Don't worry, I'm not interested in any protracted legal struggles. I'll abide by the terms of the prenuptial. Quick and painless, an easy separation.”
“A divorce. After all this time?” Now that I see her again I can hardly believe I ever thought it possible, but there was a part of me that always expected her to come back. Someday, when she'd tired of him, I thought she might return to me, that things might somehow go back to how they had once been.
I now see that that's never been anything other than a fantasy.
“Victor and I want to get married,” she says, turning away with a sniff.
I can feel the heckles on the back of my neck bristling. “He's not here, is he?”
“Not at the moment, no...” she turns back and flashes a wicked smile in my direction. “But he'll be coming tomorrow.”
I can feel my eyes narrow into slits. “You wouldn't dare bring him here.”
“Wouldn't I?” she laughs, then waves the card in my direction again. “Anyway, he's invited too, isn't that what the cards says? I can bring my husband and my lover. That means the two of you, doesn't it? You and he?” Her smile gets a little wider.
I can feel my hands squeezing into fists at my sides, but I don't say anything. If I allow myself to speak now, I think, I might not be able to hold back.
Chapter Five
I lean against the balcony, looking out across the lake. Starlight glitters on the rippling black surface of the water. The distant pines along the shore move gently in the breeze like a great velvet curtain. The moon is round and pale overhead, a bright hole in the emptiness of the night.
The room behind me is dark, still and silent. The rest of the house is in a clamor of activity, of course, all the staff rushing back and forth in expectation. It's not the usual people, for the most part. I have a specialist group that provides service for events like this. They're all in a frenzy as they go about their last minute preparations.
