The Fire in Starlight

by Maria Isabel Pita

  She was going to John's house tonight. She was so excited and nervous at the same time that the two feelings mysteriously cancelled each other out and left her helplessly in the thrall of that vivid and sinister dream. It still felt much more real than her waking life as she cleaned the kitchen and the bathroom, and then dumped the ashes from the fireplace around the roots of the budding Hibiscus bushes. Letting the chickens out of their coop, and tossing generous handfuls of scratch to them, had provided a soothing interlude earlier that morning, during which she thought of nothing at all as she watched them. Their clucking energy was hypnotically soothing, and during the day she kept going out to see them and feed them. When later in the afternoon she checked for eggs, she couldn't believe it when she saw one lying in a hollow in the straw, smooth and perfect, light-brown and still warm to the touch. She grasped it gently in her hand and carried it into the house, filled with awe. It was much bigger than the organic eggs from Whole Foods it was temporarily sharing a carton with. It seemed a dream never having to buy eggs again, but then again everything was a dream living out here, an intensely sensual and demandingly real dream...

  It took her hours to get ready. First she took a long bath, during which she shaved her legs and then her pussy so it was smooth as alabaster to the touch and as soft as flesh could be. She caressed a delicately scented moisturizing lotion all over her body, and blow-dried her hair, something she rarely did. She was still naked as she put on her make-up, taking great pains to make it seem as if she wasn't wearing any at all. Finally she slipped into the black counterpart of the white dress she had worn last night, once again forgoing a bra and panties. Black strap high-heeled sandals and the cross he had admired were all the accessories she needed besides a small black purse. She was driving to his house.

  The hens had already tucked themselves in for the night when she went to lock them up. She had to keep their water bowl filled, and it would be necessary to clean out their coop every week, but she was surprised and pleased by how fun and easy they were to take care of, and by how generously she was rewarded for her minimal efforts, because a delicious egg was one of life's small but priceless pleasures.

  "Good night, sweeties,” she said, her voice high with excitement as she wondered what John's home was like. His wife had been gone for six months, she was confident he had taken complete possession of the place again, at least she hoped so because she wasn't looking forward to seeing traces of another woman. But that wasn't what was making her so nervous...

  She left the porch lights burning as she got in the car and started down the gravel drive. The dusk was soft and deep; it had been another lovely sunny day. His house was on the other side of the field from hers, too far to walk in high-heels, but a quick and easy drive, during which all she saw were grazing horses and plump white sheep. It was surprising how luminous the sky was out here, as if there were still hours left in the day, whereas deep in her little forest night had nearly fallen.

  "Oh, my God! That can't be it!"

  There wasn't another house for miles, this had to be it, but she drove down the long driveway as slowly as possible, giving herself time to believe it. Her lover lived in a white mansion that would have been right at home on a plantation, although thankfully the faux Greek columns were missing. The two sides of the house she could see were surrounded by a screened-in porch with a stunning view of a small lake surrounded by gently undulating land ringed with trees. His rustic welcome basket, his casual uniform of black jeans and boots, his white pick-up-truck, two-by-fours and chicken coops, had not prepared her for this.

  She followed the packed dirt driveway (there was no noisy gravel here) to the front of the house, worried again this might not be the right place because his truck was nowhere in sight. She told herself it was probably parked in back as she got out and stood savoring the cool twilight breeze for a bracing moment. The silence was so absolute she could almost hear her heart beating as she started carefully up the front steps. It was too dark inside the screened in porch on either side of the main entrance to see anything, but she vaguely distinguished tall potted plants and plush, comfortable-looking wicker furniture flanked by tables and every other possible comfort. The double front doors were painted black and were so imposing she almost laughed. Fortunately there was a doorbell; her knuckles wouldn't have been able to rap loudly enough to be heard any farther than a few feet.

  She rang the bell and stood literally holding her breath for a moment before she forced herself to exhale slowly; calmly. She told herself again what she had been trying to convince herself of all day—that she wasn't anymore vulnerable here than she was at home. When he cut off her breath in her own bed it was just as dangerous as doing it anywhere else, there was no reason for her to be nervous about being on his turf ... in his lair...

  * * * *

  "W here's your garden, John? I didn't see it as I was driving up.” “It's out back. You can't see everything from the main road, Sofia."

  "No, I suppose not.” They were sitting in one corner of the endless screened in porch. The cushions covering the white wicker furniture were amazingly comfortable, and she was still reeling from her brief view of the inside of the house. A grand staircase worthy of Scarlet herself ascended to a horseshoe-shaped open hallway overlooking the first floor, large enough to serve as a ballroom, with individual rooms opening off it, including the kitchen he immediately led her into that was nearly as big as her house, and which obviously served as an informal living room and dining room as well.

  "I basically live in here,” he had told her, which she could well believe because the rest of the house echoed like a museum as she walked across the polished wooden floor in her high-heels.

  "You must have a cleaning lady,” she remarked now as they relaxed out on the porch with some Chardonnay; she was drinking hers a little too quickly.

  "Rosy. She comes in twice a week."

  "Does she leave you gourmet meals in the fridge, too?” she asked cattily.

  He smiled. “If she left me anything it would probably be fried pizza, boiled crayfish or Gumbo. I prefer to cook for myself."

  "You do? Wow."

  "You're wondering why on earth I live in such a big house, aren't you?"

  "Well, yes ... but maybe you and your wife planned on having lots of kids?"

  "No."

  His firm, monosyllabic answer discouraged her from pursuing the subject. Night took much longer to fall here than it did on her porch in the forest. She fixed her gaze on a pair of irises rising from a black vase beside her, her vision soothed and enchanted by the way the violet petals deepened as the air darkened, revealing the lovely color's inwardly luminous frequency.

  "Anne wanted this house more than anything,” he spoke suddenly, “and more than anything I wanted to please her. I knew it was too big, but it's what she wanted, and that's all that mattered."

  "It must have cost a fortune."

  "That's the thing, it didn't. The owner needed to sell, and this is East Feliciana Parish. Property taxes are almost non-existent."

  "Well, that's good to know!"

  "I estimate you'll pay around three-hundred dollars a year for your place."

  "Are you kidding?” She was astounded, and relieved. “That's great!"

  "Most of the furniture was hers. That's why some of the rooms look a little empty. She put it all in storage before she went away."

  "Mm."

  "I'll pour us another glass of wine and give you a tour."

  "Okay."

  The rooms opening off the main floor were all different, and each one was cozy in its own way despite the marked absence of furniture, but she especially liked his study. Everything in here had obviously always been his, including all the books filling the floor-to-ceiling shelves, and the old-fashioned mahogany desk set in front of a window. There was also a stone fireplace twice the size of hers, and a black leather couch big enough to sleep on quite comfortably. She didn't notice a narrow wooden door hidden in a corne
r of the room until he walked towards it, slipped a key out of his jeans, and unlocked it.

  "Put your glass down, Sofia."

  She obeyed him instantly, glad of the coaster on the polished table she was standing next to.

  "I'm going to show you one of the reasons Anne and I split up. It wasn't the only reason, but it certainly wasn't the least important. You could say it was a symbol of the vital, irreconcilable differences between us."

  If she was a cat she would have died in that moment she was so curious.

  "After you, my lady.” He held the door open for her.

  She walked past him, then paused on the landing of an almost impassably narrow, low-ceilinged staircase that twisted downwards.

  "Until I bought the house, this merely led to the root cellar. Go on, Sofia, don't be afraid."

  "Should I be?"

  "That all depends."

  She didn't move even though her dream was pulling on her blood, urging her to walk down the steps. “On what?” she asked softly.

  "On what you really want,” he replied just as quietly.

  "What if I'm not sure what I really want, John?"

  "I know what you want, Sofia. Trust me."

  Maybe she was easy, but that was all she needed to hear. She started down the steps, planting her hands on the confining walls because her high-heels made the steep descent treacherous. He hadn't suggested she remove her shoes, he was enjoying her helplessness, and she respected this about him much more than she resented it.

  "How old is this house?” she asked, disturbed by how strangely unnatural her voice sounded in the confines of a stairwell which had clearly not been built for a modern physique.

  "Old enough."

  She didn't need to be told only slaves and servants had used this stairwell, she could feel it, and suddenly she was genuinely frightened. The steps were so worn she could easily break her neck if she wasn't careful. Yet he was right behind her, she was confident he would catch her if she stumbled. The light behind them was as good as useless once she made the first turn, at which point she was grateful to realize there was another dim light burning down in the cellar.

  It didn't feel anything like her dream when she stepped onto the concrete floor; all she experienced was relief that she had made it down in one piece. The dim bulb hanging directly above her served to cast more shadows than light, so that at first she didn't quite understand what she was seeing around her.

  He pressed his body up against hers from behind and caressed her dress up her thighs with both hands.

  "My God!” she breathed. “Is this where the plantation owner punished and tortured his slaves when they misbehaved?"

  "No, Sofia,” he whispered into her hair, “this is where a beautiful woman like you gets disciplined."

  "You mean all those ... all those things aren't antiques?"

  "Hardly. I made them all myself quite recently."

  She remembered his skill with two-by-fours, and experienced a pang of sympathy for his wife. “When you got married, did Anne know what ... what you like?” she dared to ask.

  "I never went so far with her, because she never inspired me to. She thought I was furnishing this space as part of a plan to set up some kinky internet photo site and make even more money than I already had exploiting the web. She even offered to help find me some pretty models, and I let her go on thinking that because I wasn't entirely sure myself why I was building all this stuff. When she realized I wanted her to help me play with my new toys ... well, that's when all the problems we'd been having came to a head."

  "Like a dormant volcano suddenly erupting, I know. I've been there. You can only suppress your real self for so long before all the forces mysteriously working inside you demand an outlet. It's like-"

  "I love you, Sofia."

  "I love you too, John!” It was an immense relief to finally be able to say it.

  "Raise your arms."

  She hesitated an instant before obeying him.

  "Anne knew I liked it rough.” He pulled her dress off over her head. “But it wasn't until I had the time, and this place, that I began to truly explore my proclivities."

  "I see...” The same thing had essentially happened to her, and here they were, together in the heavenly hell of all her darkest fantasies about to be realized.

  He reached around and clutched her breasts, his firm, tanned hands a striking contrast to her soft, pale skin as she looked down at them, biting her lip anxiously. “You have the most incredible nipples I have ever seen, Sofia.” He trapped them between his thumb and forefinger.

  She cried out in pain as he squeezed them. Then he let go of her abruptly and stepped in front of her. He took off his black t-shirt and flung it behind him at her feet as he strode to the center of the room. He turned back to face her wearing only the casually sexy uniform of his tight black jeans and boots. He didn't need to command her to come to him; her body was irresistibly drawn towards his despite the fact that her brain was flashing all kinds of frightened thoughts which her body, mysteriously completely allied with her soul in those moments, bravely ignored.

  "Beautiful,” he said harshly as he watched her approach him, then he gripped her wrists and raised her arms straight up over her head.

  The leather straps he wrapped around her wrists bound dreams with reality. She was forced to stand on tiptoe, her high-heels barely touching the floor, her bones and muscles stretched taut against her vulnerably soft skin. “What are you going to do, John?” she asked in a small voice.

  "I'm going to whip you, Sofia."

  "Oh, no please!” She stared helplessly at his broad shoulders and the long, straight line of his back as he moved away from her again. “I've never been whipped before, John, I don't know if-"

  "I know you haven't, but it's obvious you want to be.” He returned holding the long, snaking instrument she dreaded and inexplicably desired all in the same heartbeat. “For example, how many times have you called me John since you arrived?"

  "But-"

  "That night out in the field when you asked me if you should just call me ‘my lord', I knew you were the one.” He draped the whip over her shoulder so it hung down her back, and then slowly snaked it down between her breasts, letting her get a feel for how thin and firm the finely knotted leather was. “But this evening you've been addressing me as John because you think it's safer. You seem to think you can control what happens to you, that you can choose what I do or don't do to you by what you call me. You're treating me like Pavlov's dog, Sofia, imagining that if you say “John” I'll behave, and that if you say “my lord” you'll be giving me permission to attack you, as if it I needed your permission for anything."

  "No!” she breathed, staring beseechingly into his eyes. “I wasn't thinking that!” Even as she said it, she knew she was only making it worse for herself by lying about it too.

  He thrust the handle of the whip between her legs, pressing it against her vulva so her labial lips gaped open around the firm leather shaft. “Who am I, Sofia?"

  "My lord!” she whispered.

  He stepped back, inhaling the fragrance of her pussy juices coating the handle before he cracked the whip against the floor at her feet.

  The sharp, loud sound it made terrified her, but only for an instant, because all that mattered was the unbelievably thrilling fact that she hadn't told him about her dream last night and yet, as if he could see into her soul, he was making it come true. He was forcing her to live what her deepest self desired. He truly was her lord.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Rhyming Reverie

  On a perfectly temperate day in April,

  the sun gilding showers of yellow leaves,

  holding a feather-light pen indulging in reverie,

  my lover splitting the wood of a dead tree,

  I'm blessed by not feeling pressed to do anything.

  Yet I can't forget trees are killed to make this paper,

  the world's breath increasingly fouled by industr
ies,

  factory towers burning more cancerous cigarettes

  coughing up terrible storms from the womb of the seas.

  I'm just one more selfish consumer who believes

  my soul and the earth are one eternally.

  A drifting leaf hits me gently, silently,

  its dead touch reminding me I passionately need

  the satellite dish and all the pleasures of electricity.

  I'd love to be free of the Grid with solar energy

  but desires are fatally tangled up in affordability.

  The wind picks up, blowing in gusts like my thoughts,

  and a bird sings a sweet, constant note not meant for me...

  It's wondrous we use microscopic organisms to brush our teeth,

  Diatoms millions of years old with glass shells of intricate beauty,

  like absolutely everything...

  Sofia looked up from her notebook. John was setting another log on the dead stump, balancing it with his fingertips before lifting the axe straight up over his head with both hands. He paused there for a split second, honing in on the grain in the wood even as his whole body rose up into the air and he brought the weapon down with deadly force. There was a sharp crack followed by a dull thud as two perfect pieces of firewood fell off the stump onto the grass. He was replenishing her supply for next winter. When he had informed her that this particular tree was dead, it made her realize how much she needed a man like him around to help her manage the land, not to mention a house that would inevitably need repairs now and then. The dead oak was growing perilously close to her roof and hurricane season was coming. It could be dangerous living out in the woods if you didn't know what you were doing, which she certainly didn't. She had a lot to learn, and even then she wouldn't have the physical strength to chainsaw massive trunks, and then to split them up into manageable logs she could burn. She didn't like to wonder what she would do without him; merely imagining a world in which John didn't exist was so terrible and frightening that her stomach started to ache with anxiety as she tried to picture herself alone here, somehow just surviving and getting by instead of sensually relishing every second of her life.