Looking back over your letter, I am surprised at the detail of your childhood memories. Your mind is crisp and clear as ever. I remember that day on the beach, though I do not remember my blood travelling in a spiral. I do remember conversations we’ve had about the appearance of the spiral in nature. As for writing things down to discuss, at the risk of sounding pompous, I have no need, for everything is locked safe in here. (Picture me tapping my forehead with a silly grin.) The description of your dream was fascinating to me. More fascinating are the connections you make between various images. And no, I don’t think you’re paranoid or have a fevered brain. All your visions and concerns were pretty much right on the money in more ways than you could possibly know. But soon you will find out. I’m thinking of sending some of my diary over to you so you can catch up on all that has happened of late in the Sophia Multiverse.
Re: Robert George. The description vaguely rings a bell. Let me know if you are tying the knot any time in the near future. You know I’ll be there.
Your one true love
SOPHIA
Sophia Durant’s Diary (continued)
Evening—returning to my diary after replying to Julie’s email, a new sense of perspective and the feeling of having communicated intimately with a caring, dear friend calms me deeply after what was something of a harrowing day. I haven’t quite decided how I will react to what I saw or how it changes things between Stafford and me, if it does, but I feel a definite need to step back, take a deep breath and get a clear view of the situation. No more Hindu Kush to relax for at least a while, anyway. Life’s crazy enough, I don’t need the dope right now. Thinking of this, I received a text from Anna.
ANNA: Are you in your room? I need to see you now.
SOPHIA: I’m in my room. Is everything okay?
ANNA: Stay there. I’ll be right there.
She must’ve been right outside the door, the knock came a second later. When I opened the door she appeared pale, eyes puffy like she’d been crying.
She had to force the words out: “There…there was a plane crash. Isabella…was on it. There were no survivor—no survivors.” She corrected herself.
I was stunned. I replayed what she had just told me two or three times in my head as we both stood in silence. “There…there was a plane crash…” echoed in my mind. For some reason I wanted to ask her if she really meant Isabella was dead, even though quite clearly she was if there were no survivors. I just couldn’t believe it. Maybe there was some misunderstanding somewhere.
She could see I was shaken and she hugged me, but only briefly, and then she left. I debated whether or not to text Stafford about it, offer my condolences. This was a hard decision to make. In the end I decided it was better to wait. I’m sure he would be bombarded with messages now. And to be among those who communicated with him about it implied a certain intimacy I’m not sure I wanted to share with the man. I really was very curious as to what was going through Stafford’s mind when he found out. I tried to block out sick thoughts of him being relieved at the news.
Simultaneously, I felt extreme guilt and also relief at the thought of her passing. I hoped she had died quickly and painlessly—lights out. But I immediately found my thinking reprehensible when I first thought of Savannah in the context of what had happened. The poor little girl would never know her mother.
Sophia Durant’s Diary
August 12, Eleuthera Island, Bahamas
I went to check on Savannah at about nine o’clock that night. She was in her nursery with one of the assistant nannies attending to her. I told Elise, the assistant, I would take over and cradled little Savannah in my arms. She was drifting off. What a terrible day for this little one, I thought, with tears forming in my eyes for the first time since I’d heard of Isabella’s death. I thought about how hard it would be to grow up without a mother and with such an elusive prick of a father. Images of Isabella, sitting upright in one of those island hoppers, flying through a storm flashed in my mind. I imagined some technical failure—an engine malfunction perhaps—and the plane dipping down into the violent waters below. In slow motion I saw the water enter the cabin, the lights flickering before shutting off completely, the expressions of fear on everyone’s faces as they were met with sudden death. I could smell the fear. That fear lasted mere seconds, perhaps a couple of minutes. The fear caused by lacking the comfort of growing up with a mother lasted a lifetime. I was sobbing so hard, I had to set down the baby.
I started crying profusely and backed into a corner of the nursery, slinking down to the floor. Setting my hands in my hair, I ran them through it and pulled on the ends. I looked at Savannah. She was lying on her side, staring at me through the side of her crib. Those curious blue eyes brought a bittersweet joy and sadness to my heart. The feelings were overwhelming. I had come for selfish reasons, primarily to snoop, but had been overcome by genuine feeling. I didn’t want anyone to see me like this so, after Savannah fell asleep, I turned the lights off and crept back to my room.
What a hell of a day, I thought as I changed into my pajamas. It had been the most exhilarating, terrifying, fascinating, adrenaline-charged, and now saddest day of my life all rolled into one. I suppose I was getting more than I bargained for in my plan to live life all the way up. And what topped off the day was something that had nothing to do with my sphere of influence—Isabella’s death, the crowning spike in a crown of thorns, completely beyond my control. Nothing I could do about that. Out of left field, entirely. As soon as my head hit the pillow, I fell into a deep, dark, dreamless sleep.
Morning—I found a new text on my phone when I awoke. It was from Stafford.
MARK: Please come see me when you have a chance. I’ll be in my room for the next half-hour.
This followed with directions on how to get there. The text was decidedly odd. The message was so matter of fact. Why would he want to see me so soon after what happened? I feared someone—anyone else seeing me on my way to his room. I did not want anyone to have cause for spreading rumors. Regarding his grief, he would have to express that in person, wouldn’t he? And even that would be hard. It would be hard for me to bear and I didn’t want to hear it. Why the hell would he want to see me now? I contemplated texting him a refusal to visit. Was I being over analytical? Going off the deep end? Bat-shit crazy? Everyone reacts to grief differently. Stafford was nothing if not unusual. I decided I was reading too deeply into it. His response was perfectly normal—if there was such a thing as a normal response to the death of a spouse. Clearly I didn’t yet have it as together as I thought I did after conversing with Julie in email the day before. I wondered increasingly why I second-guessed myself so much after all that had happened. I felt out of sorts, like I was losing my grip, almost delirious. As the world began to spin around me, I sat down on my bed to try to calm down.
I stand in silence a moment before knocking. Closing my eyes, I tell myself I will not say anything dramatic. I’ll keep calm. I will not cry. I open my eyes and knock. A few moments later Stafford opens the door. He’s holding a Blackberry in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. To my dismay two porters are packing suitcases in his room. As he walks away, I get a look at the spacious room for the first time. It is elegant, if spare, in décor. Large bay windows give way to an exquisite view, the most exquisite I’ve seen from the villa, of Anse Lazio and the surrounding hills and trees. The room is on the top floor of the villa. This is the highest vantage point in the villa, perhaps apart from what you might see from the roof. I find the beauty and peace of the room in extreme contrast to the grim emotional pallor now enveloping the whole of this mighty Xanadu. The sepulchral feel of the place seems to smile at me in tremendous mocking evil. I realize I’m getting carried away, and quickly return to my senses.
Stafford waves at me, having set down his coffee though still on the phone, as if to usher me back to reality. He is a picture of serenity. But why? Was the torpid appearance of Anna at my door last night simply a dream? The porters leave a
nd I examine the boisterous Anse Lazio as Stafford finishes his call.
“Yes…yes…I understand…well how deeply considerate of you…outstanding, spectacular…I don’t know what else to say. No, my mother passed away in my youth.”
I glance at him, he has his back to me.
“No, really…I understand. I must be going now, Arthur…business will go on…one day, one day…bye, bye.” His voice trails off.
There is a chill at the back of my neck as though a ghost has just entered the room. I hear him set the phone down on a table behind me. Goosebumps break out all over my body. I don’t know why. I snap my head round, look at him. His diaphanous eyes burn into my soul. It feels searing. I haven’t slept enough. This is all in my imagination, I realize. I will say as little as possible, I tell myself—avoid trouble that way.
“Have you heard the news?” he asks after what seems like an eternity.
“About Isabella.”
This was a statement, eyes downcast.
“It’s horrible. There are no words.” So why did you call me here?
I immediately curse myself for such selfish thinking.
“You don’t have to say anything…”
“I have no words,” I say, eyes still downward.
I feel two such contradictory emotions, I didn’t know my brain was capable of accessing two such diametric points simultaneously. I am the definition of dichotomy. The outward expression I bear is the result of one of these feelings, the other feeling is pure joy and I am deeply ashamed of it.
“I have always had a way of looking forward. Of moving on. My parents died in my youth…after some time passed I forced myself—programmed myself to just move forward, to do everything as I always had, as I always dreamed of, without any feeling. I had no feelings left. I just went on, never expecting to feel happiness again.”
This explains a lot, I think. You’re marriage to Isabella for one. I curse myself. Tears swell in my eyes.
He looks at me tenderly. Looking at the floor I can’t see it, but I can feel it. I don’t want to love him, especially not now, but I do. I love him more than ever. The sensation it causes is overwhelming. My heart overflows, spills out on the floor, like it has in so many visions.
His even keel speaking, almost inhuman, continues: “The funeral is in three days in St. Augustine. We’re leaving this afternoon. I can’t bear to be here any longer. Not for a good while.”
He coughs. There is no feeling in his voice.
“I want you to be at the funeral. For Savannah, but for me too.”
I don’t really understand the meaning of these last words. In fact, all of the events of the past few days are just washing over the periphery like some distant, incomprehensible dream. A thunder and lightning storm over a distant desert plain, an annoyance I’m almost not conscious of, a storm in a tea cup. And where am I in all this mess? Lost in a haze, a ghost without a face, a gray blur, the quintessence of stoic. Stafford and I are too alike. But where is he since clearly the rain isn’t touching him?
To discern the answer to my thoughts I look up at him. He’s looking back at me with an expression of curiosity on his face, as if to say—I need to know where we stand. Or is this just another figment of my imagination? His questioning look could be about anything at all.
“You’re not wearing any makeup,” he says.
“No, I’m not.”
“Appropriate.”
“Now you get to see the real me; plain, pale skin, big bug-like eyes, like a reptile.”
“You are more beautiful without makeup. One can’t honestly say that about most women. Your skin is has a nice, somewhat faded tan. The face is porcelain. The eyes are large, hypnotic. The hair is lustrous, so smooth. You have the appearance of one who is very much in control. A woman who knows her own mind.”
“You must forgive me.”
“For what?”
He smiles.
“Blushing.”
He laughs.
There’s a long silence that follows.
“Shall I be going?” I ask.
“Only if you want to.”
“Is there nothing else?”
He pauses to consider.
“What are your duties with Savannah today?”
“I have to go look after her till this evening.”
“If I gave you something to wear this evening with me, would you wear it?”
I find the idea at once seductive and monstrous, considering the circumstances.
“Yes, I would,” flows naturally over my lips.
It sickens me as I say it with so much ease.
“Good. Let me get it.”
Stafford leaves and returns with a box.
“Take it with you. Look at it on your own time.”
As I take the box, he pulls me into him. Kissing my cheek, he gropes my breasts. I pull down my low-cut shirt. No bra, my large breasts loom before him. He kisses down my neck, handling one of my breasts. He grips the other and presses them together. A sense of ecstasy comes over me. I roll my head back and close my eyes. He lowers me slowly to the floor. My eyes still closed, he guides my hands down into his pants where I grip his bulging member. I curl my fingers around the skin at the base of the large penis and glide them upward, over his smoothness. I tickle the tip. He pushes up my skirt. I’m not wearing any underwear and I’m dripping wet. I want his cock inside me badly. I want it moving all around, jostling from side to side, my gyrating hips causing him to make a circular motion inside. I can feel my wetness flowing down my legs as I spread them for him. He fondles my tits, pressing them up against my chest. I remove his pants and grab his balls—smooth like a peach. He leans me back against the wall. Propping up my vagina with a pillow under my backside, which he gets from I know not where. The pillow must be silk, for it is extremely comfortable. I feel the vagina juices flowing in a stream onto the silk fabric. His legs interlock with mine and I feel the tip of his fully erect member teasing me, tickling the outside of my wet lower lips.
Suddenly he stops. I open my eyes. His head is down now. I look down at his throbbing penis. Instinctively I grab it, stroking it lightly. He raises his head, looks into my eyes, and begins making out with me. His soft lips press against mine, our tongues intermingle. He moves his face next to my ear and whispers: “Tonight—we’ll finish this tonight,” before he stands up and puts his pants on. I get to my feet, pull my skirt down, put away my breasts and look at his smile.
“Don’t forget the dress,” he says with that ineffable smile.
Later—before the mirror in my room I tried on what he gave me. It was a Gorean camisk garment. A belted, sideless silk poncho in red to be worn without underwear. The attire of a kajira, a Gorean sex-slave from the novels of John Norman. The Gorean ideal had spawned its own subculture I had once come across on the internet while doing searches on ancient goddesses. If you go to Google images and type in Gorean sex-slave you will see many computer-generated images of female sex-slaves, wearing anything from silk, to nipple clamps, to outfits like Princess Leia wore while in the captivity of Jaba the Hut in Return of the Jedi. If Stafford thought he was making me his kajira he was sadly mistaken, but this was not the impression I got from him. I felt he could take a dominant role with some women, certain types of the lower cast of intellect, but with me he seemed to want to be dominated. Or at least he wanted the balance of mutual respect. I always felt with him I was treated as his equal. He probably makes most people he comes into contact with feel this way, which I’m sure is part of the source of his charm. I would wear the camisk for him, mostly out of sympathy for his grieving. I believed what he intended with me was part of his fucked up way of dealing with it.
I stood before the mirror and pulled the camisk over my otherwise nude body and buckled the belt. The silk garment came down over my shoulders and met in a V-shape below the navel, trailing down in one piece to a point between the knees. I turned around and looked in the mirror over my shoulder. The shape of the back was
exactly the same, the V came together at the top of my rear and draped down to a point between the knees. Of course it was see-through, nothing was hidden, but somehow I found it empowering and incredibly sexy. I put my hair up in a ponytail to see how it would look with the hair off the shoulders. I thought the hair looked better down with this particular outfit—hide some of the face to add mystery as not much of anything else was kept hidden.
I took my trench coat out of the closet and tried it on over the camisk. It worked.
Sophia Durant’s Diary
August 13, Eleuthera Island, Bahamas
Evening—the door to his room is open a crack. The corridor is beset with gray light. The dull gray sky and silent rain reflects the mood that has come over me. I don’t know quite how to shake it, but decide to go in anyway, good mood or no. The heavens are hung with black…the master poet wrote. As these words come into my head on entering the room, so does an image emerge from the depths of my soul: deep underwater, in a dark grave of broken metal and smashed glass, the body of Isabella Gardner rolls in my direction—eyes falling upon me. Suddenly the eyes dissolve, leaving in their place two eye sockets teeming with squirming maggots. Uncontrollably I gasp, cupping my hands to my mouth. Realizing where I am, I try to regain composure. I am in the woman’s room, having visions of her ghost, playing to the demented fantasies of a sick man reeling from her death. I see my soul splintered into a kaleidoscopic image like seeing several reflections of myself in a shattered mirror. I am doing this for him, and for her. I am submitting my soul, just tonight. I will pick up the pieces tomorrow.
Paradise - Part Two (The Erotic Adventures of Sophia Durant) Page 6
