by Vina Jackson
When he came it was like a thunderbolt, as if every molecule of life force in his body had joined into one point that travelled from his scalp and into his chest and down through his body and into his groin and out through the head of the ivory bull and into this woman, the Mistress, who cried out as his energy visibly filled her and for one brief moment they were joined as if they were one being. Not man and woman, not lovers, but two bodies melded together through the sheer power of his release and her acceptance of it.
Then it was over. Thomas collapsed, spent, into the arms of the Bull’s attendants and his eyes closed as he was lifted and carried away.
When he woke he was back again beneath the shady trees of Jackson Square and still wearing the travel-worn clothes that he had discarded on the riverboat.
His chest itched. He unbuttoned his shirt and peered down to check if he had been burned or injured. And there it was. An image of a bull tattooed in red ink over his heart.
He leaped to his feet and ran to the river, but the boat was gone, and he would never find it again.
8
Story of A
The next time Aurelia awoke, the heady scents of the forest and the Ball had faded and a weak light was struggling to breach the thin barrier of a set of net curtains. Shielding a window. Behind which a confused cocktail of muted sounds jingle-jangled as her hearing struggled to focus again and gain a foothold.
She opened her bleary eyes.
She was in a room.
In a bed.
A man’s arm was stretched across her back. Warm. Firm.
Aurelia turned her head.
And recognised the tousled dark-brown curls of Andrei’s head, his face buried inside lush pillows, his shallow breath a lullaby, regular, distant and reassuring.
Her initial realisation was not the fact that she had somehow been transported back from the island and the Ball where the last time she remembered she had melted away in thrall to the measured hunger of Andrei’s fiery thrusts and lovemaking, but that for the very first time she was waking up in a bed in the arms of a man. And not just any man, but one she desired so strongly her heart could burst right here and now, as a surging wave of emotion raced like a torrent across her mind and body. This new feeling was just too overwhelming to process.
She held her breath, had a mad urge to pinch herself, to check whether this was still a fever dream and a byproduct of the night or actual reality.
But the rational part of her heart was screaming out that this was indeed no illusion. She was in a bed with Andrei. In Seattle probably, not that it mattered anyway. She was greeting a new morning with a man in her bed, something she had vaguely imagined for years but never thought would happen in this manner. A man she barely knew, but she was also aware this was no accident, no sexual whim, no meaningless fling. It felt as if it had to be, the inevitable destination for all the meandering roads she had been travelling along.
Aurelia watched Andrei sleep, taking care not to move and lessen the gentle pressure of his outstretched arms across her back, the connection of skin against skin, the subtle currents of warmth navigating between their bodies. It also dawned on her that she was naked and, for a fleeting instant, she wondered whether the initial flaming heart was now visible again, even though there were no sensations rising from that direction, unlike in the throes of yesterday night’s embraces when its fire had roared with terrible strength. But had it been yesterday? Had only a single night gone by? She then remembered the image that Tristan had somehow conjured up on the underside of her wrist and turned her arms slightly to see if it was still present, while wary of disturbing Andrei’s sleep. Yes, it was still there. Pale, like a shadow across the tightness of her skin. Curiosity then got the better of her and she shifted ever so slightly and delicately took hold of Andrei’s extended arm and peered under his own left wrist, only to witness an identical image.
Andrei groaned.
Against all logic, Aurelia shuddered. She didn’t want him to wake. Yet. She wished so badly right now to make the moment last, to record every single impression, every fleeting feeling and store it away in a memory cage of her fabrication.
The pleasant, musky odour rising from between the crisp white sheets of what appeared to be a hotel room with its geometrical and orderly lines and decor, the way the heat emanating from both their bare bodies coupled, the sound of two sets of heartbeats ticking the morning away.
She inched her way closer to him, hungry for his heat, the thrill of further contact. Their hips touched and a swell of emotions swept over Aurelia, and a million memories exploded of the way he had touched her in the forest, the feel of the grass under her arse, the taste of his tongue and the lilting ballad of his voice whispering in her ear as he entered her and more and more and more until it became too much to even evoke without her mind pitching into the bliss of madness.
And the images and emotions of their coming together at the Ball and their initial encounters, so briefly at the funfair and later the chapel in Bristol, all collided in the deepest pit of her heart and the fire within began to rise, like a river bursting its levees, flooding her veins with renewed desire and now she mentally prayed for him to awaken and make love to her again.
She rolled over and pressed her buttocks against him. In his sleep Andrei reacted, adjusted his position and spooned her, the soft velvet length of his cock lodging itself between the crack of her arse, fitting with comfortable precision. Aurelia squirmed with pleasure.
And as she did so, she felt him gradually harden, responding to her movement, slowly widening the welcoming valley of her buttocks.
She could feel her wetness already spilling from her.
Andrei moaned, his arm moved and a hand settled against her breast, cupping her, fingers lazily circling her nipple.
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Oh, Aurelia,’ his voice emerging from clouds of sleep, unsteady, hoarse.
He shuffled, his now-hard cock rubbing provocatively against her skin and he adjusted its downward stance, his knee nudging her thighs open and squeezed himself inside her. Aurelia’s heart seized; although she had been ready for him, the sheer bulk of him and the way he stretched her anew was a shock. Had he ever been so large before? He fitted inside her with the forced precision of a jigsaw piece entwining itself with another.
Noises outside the window faded alongside the rest of the whole wide world. Andrei was in her. He was fucking her. She was being fucked. And all was well. There would be another time for questions. She pulled her mental anchor up and drifted with the rhythm of his movements as he embedded himself deeper and deeper within her, spread, open, split, impaled but joyful.
Effortlessly riding the waves of lust as if it had been something she had been practising all her life, Aurelia aligned her rhythm with Andrei’s. She began to float in space and time, her mind blanking anything that didn’t contribute to the uninterrupted flow of sensations flooding her body, every single nerve ending on her surface and inside her processing the fiery current surging in all directions with explosive, impossible speed, savouring it as synapses opened and closed in rapid succession, stretching each moment to eternity. She greeted each stab of untold pleasure with her whole soul.
Her flesh was alive like never before, dissected from within and nothing else mattered. Would ever matter.
The calm authority of Andrei’s hands moving to her shoulders and taking a firm grip shook her from her reverie. He pulled her up until she was on all fours, her back arched under the metronomic impact of his thrusts, every assault causing her to exhale as if she was out of breath.
His right hand reached her long hair and gripped it fiercely, a tangled knot forming in the hollow of his palm, pulling at her firmly but gently, like a conductor taking charge and adjusting the soar of a melody, every infinitesimal movement orchestrating a further wave of pleasure.
How could it be so good? Aurelia wondered. Did everyone feel the same? She pictured herself suspended between life and death,
in a cloud of stasis, immortal, impervious, reduced to mere atoms of undiluted pleasure.
She felt like screaming, moaning, unable to contain the silence battering the tightness of her lungs, in an attempt to express herself however unintelligibly. But the sounds just wouldn’t rise to the surface.
She closed her eyes, allowing the fire raging inside her and the scolding heat spreading outward from Andrei’s body to consume her, blindly inviting oblivion.
‘Welcome home, Aurelia.’ As if cushioned by a wall of air, Andrei’s voice reached her, a reassuring breeze rolling against the shores of her consciousness.
The room was on the top floor of a towering hotel on 2nd Avenue overlooking Waterfront Park and once she drew the curtains, the window afforded a glorious view of the bay and its distant spread of islands beyond the ferry terminals.
Aurelia was taken back as she stepped out of the shower later that morning, waving the steam away to glimpse a sight of her nudity in the mirror, to note the third image on her body. In the midst of all the wonderful madness, she had briefly forgotten its recent appearance.
It was crazy, she knew. And she could not come up with any logical explanation, not that her imagination was lacking in talent or sense of wonder. But neither did it worry her any longer.
Barely bothering to dry herself, she pushed the bathroom door open with her toes and emerged back into the bedroom still naked. Andrei was lounging in the bed amongst the tangle of bed sheets, his arms behind his head, his curls a crown of untidy luxuriance, the angle of his jaw square and masculine and unshaven.
He looked up as she approached.
‘You are fucking beautiful,’ he remarked, his eyes lingering tenderly over her body.
And Aurelia realised for the first time, with a shiver of apprehension, that Andrei did not have the trace of an accent. He wasn’t American, but then neither did he sound English, or betray any form of regional accent. His voice and spoken words were disconcertingly neutral, and she was unable to place him, pin him down to any specific locale.
She stood there, legs slightly apart, gazing at him, questions swirling through her head, oblivious to her nudity. Anyway, he had seen so much of her already, hadn’t he?
‘Where are you from, Andrei?’ she asked.
‘The Ball,’ he said simply. ‘Where I was born is unimportant. Ever since I was a child, I’ve travelled with the Ball.’
‘Where?’
‘Everywhere. Once a year it ends up somewhere different. It happens. Then it moves on.’
Aurelia paused, gathering her thoughts.
‘Tristan, the man who brought me to the Ball,’ she finally said, also remembering Lauralynn’s possible involvement, ‘he told me I was meant to attend the Ball. Insinuated that my presence was somehow preordained. And some parts of it seemed so strange . . . unreal, as if it were a dream. What is it, exactly?’
Andrei ignored her question. With a wave of his hand, he beckoned her back to bed.
‘You’ll catch cold standing there. Come.’
He raised the sheet, to make space for her.
‘Won’t you tell me?’ she pleaded as she slid back under the covers. Having spent all night and morning enjoying blissful ignorance, it seemed important now. As if her whole life somehow hinged on this mysterious annual event.
‘It’s a long story,’ he said.
‘I’m not in a hurry,’ Aurelia replied. It occurred to her that she wasn’t sure what day it was, and that she now had a whole list of things she ought to do. Drop Edyta and her godparents a line, and write a reply to Irving, Irving & Irving. She mentally totted up and decided that only a few days could have passed. They felt like a lifetime. A little longer wouldn’t hurt.
Andrei threaded his arm beneath her shoulder and pulled her against him. As she settled by his side, the heady smell of sex that still clung to his body wrapped itself around the soapy fragrance that now shielded her own skin.
‘You are the Ball, Aurelia. You are the Mistress of the Ball, you always have been.’
She blinked, uncomprehending.
‘No one really knows when the Ball began,’ he said. ‘Its origins are buried deep in time, but there has always been a Mistress, a woman whose destiny it is to overlook the Ball. There have been many Mistresses along the centuries, many fondly remembered . . .’ His eyes lost focus and his voice took on a dream-like quality, as if he was reciting a story that he had told many times over, or perhaps had heard many times over in his own association with the Ball. Then he stopped, as if returning to the present and aware that his next words might not be welcomed by Aurelia.
‘What do you know of your parents, Aurelia?’
Her throat turned parched dry in an instant. It was the one question she had not been expecting.
‘Very little,’ she replied. ‘I was still a baby when they died. I was told it was an accident. I was raised by my godparents. My father was an engineer but I’ve never known what my mother did.’
Did she now truly wish to learn more? Aurelia was unsure. She had stopped asking questions about her real parents out of respect for John and Laura, who she considered her family now.
‘She was a dancer,’ Andrei said.
‘A dancer?’ The whole concept felt unsettling to Aurelia, more so because of everything she had witnessed so far at the Ball.
‘She was one of ours, belonged with the Ball . . . But I never knew her. I was still young then, and had been sent away to a school in Europe to complete my education.’
‘What sort of dancer?’ Aurelia asked.
‘Not just a dancer. She was to be the next Mistress of the Ball. It was what she was born into.’
Aurelia’s mind went blank. She felt unable to fully comprehend the revelation.
Andrei continued. ‘She met your father at the Ball. He was a talented engineer and had been engaged to design some of the Ball’s attractions in preparation for future events. They fell in love and she became pregnant. In the outside world it’s a commonplace story, but for the Ball it proved a major disruption. He was an outsider and when he discovered the implications of your mother’s destiny as Mistress, he couldn’t find it in himself to accept it. He convinced her to elope, to flee. Which is what they did. The Ball officials tried to get her back but . . . it was too late. Ever since then the Ball has – how can I put it? – been orphaned too, without a reigning Mistress. It’s something that had never happened. We were unprepared. A Protector was named to care for the Ball in the interim period until we could celebrate a new Mistress. This was my uncle, but he was already quite ill and I succeeded him shortly after.’
‘I was always told they died in an accident,’ Aurelia said, concern etched deep in her face, a cloud of suspicion shrouding her senses at the possibility the Ball might have been involved in her becoming an orphan.
‘It was. We had nothing to do with it, I assure you,’ Andrei said, as if he had guessed what was going through her mind. ‘We were devastated when the news reached us. But then we learned through our investigations that they’d had a child before the tragedy. A girl. You. And thus you became our new Mistress-in-Waiting . . .’
‘Why? Why couldn’t you just appoint a new Mistress? Why did it have to be me?’
‘It’s in your blood, Aurelia.’ He sighed. ‘You can’t escape your destiny. No one can.’
‘I don’t understand.’
He was silent. Waiting for the cogs in her mind to continue turning and make sense of it all.
‘I’m not sure what this all means, Andrei.’
‘The Ball is more important than all of us,’ he pointed out. ‘We are sworn to honour its traditions and, try as we may, we cannot escape its lure.’ He sighed.
‘So my arriving here was no accident? Lauralynn? Tristan? The chapel in Bristol?’ Aurelia’s mind was frantically racing in every direction, weighing up all the implications of Andrei’s confession. ‘The funfair in Hampstead . . . You were behind it all . . .’
‘Yes,’ Andrei a
dmitted. ‘It took us years to locate you. The Network, the organisation that assists us in coordinating each Ball and supplies many of our performers, had been investigating your whereabouts for years. Eventually they uncovered your adoption papers and informed us we might find you in England. I was sent to check whether you were truly who we thought you might be. We’d been scouring funfairs, circuses, celebratory events and such for ages, as we felt it was the best way to find you, that you’d be instinctively attracted to them . . .’
‘It wasn’t even my idea to go in the first place. It was my friend Siv’s. Who’s now with the Ball,’ Aurelia told him with a pang of wistfulness.
‘A wonderful coincidence.’ Andrei smiled kindly. ‘In fact, when I first set eyes on the two of you that evening I initially thought Siv was the possible Mistress-in-Waiting. The way she walked, dressed, laughed . . .’
Aurelia pondered. Distractedly passing her fingers through her hair as she often did without realising it, she caught a brief glimpse of the red heart on her wrist again.
‘So you’ve been stalking me?’
‘It was never intended that way. Truly.’
‘And in Bristol, what happened, was it something you were ordered to do, out of duty to your Ball?’ she asked, fearing the answer.
‘No,’ Andrei replied. ‘It happened. The more I saw you, the more I wanted you. And then when I was near you – at the funfair – something happened. It was like electricity. I know you felt it too. I never planned for any of this. It was never deliberate. I wanted to be your first. As if a voice inside me said it had to be that way. It had nothing to do with the Ball, I swear. You were – you are – so damn beautiful and it felt as if everything was drawing us together, that I couldn’t fight circumstances even I wanted to. There have seldom been Ball Protectors before these times; it’s a function which is ill-defined. I’ve been improvising as I go along. I never planned to fall in love with you . . .’
