The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

by Cheryl Mildenhall

  As she glanced up from her plate she noticed Ilona staring at her from across the expanse of dining table, her expression inscrutable. With a trembling hand, Hillary tried to transfer a small forkful of mousse to her lips. Darius’s fingers had become more exploratory and the tips were now brushing the outer limits of her labia. Hastily, she ate the mousse then set down her fork and rearranged the edge of the tablecloth so that it covered her lap completely. Now only her expression could reveal that anything extraneous to dining was taking place.

  Using one determined finger, Darius forced a path between her inner thighs, sliding it up and down the length of her pulsating sex. Still she concentrated on her plate, her heart thumping and her breathing shallow, and starting nervously every time someone glanced in her direction. Despite her best intentions she wriggled slightly and parted her thighs a little more.

  Although she couldn’t bear to contemplate the moment when he would surely withdraw his hand, the meal seemed interminable. Under the cover of long lashes, she eyed him surreptitiously. He was still talking animatedly to the man on his left. She picked up her glass and took a huge gulp of wine but, as she moved forwards in her seat, two more of his fingers delved between her legs, thrusting inside the desperate moistness of her vagina. Gasping with surprise, she hastily turned the action into a cough, although she straight away wished she hadn’t. Noticing her discomfort Torran immediately patted her on the back until she assured him that she was okay. Glancing down she saw that Darius’s hand could clearly be seen to be at work between her legs.

  ‘Torran, do you think you could pass me the water jug?’ It was the only thing she could think of on the spur of the moment and as soon as he reached for the jug she covered her lap once more with the tablecloth.

  ‘Thank you.’ She smiled gratefully at him and, much to his surprise, topped up her already full glass so that the water cascaded over the rim.

  Her action immediately prompted a battalion of waiters to surround her, clearing away the mess she had made with the minimum of fuss. Under cover of their massed ministrations, Hillary allowed herself to submit to a powerful orgasm while burying her face in her napkin and faking a second coughing fit. With a satisfied smile, Darius withdrew his hand and solicitously enquired whether she would care for anything else. Blushing madly, Hillary shook her head. ‘No, thank you. Perhaps later?’ she added, a note of devilment creeping into her whispered response.

  To her slight disappointment, the rest of the meal passed without incident, although this did give her ample opportunity to observe the other guests. Apart from Darius and Torran, none of the men there was remotely attractive to her. Most of them looked to be in their forties or older, a couple even fairly elderly she surmised, judging from their liver-spotted skin and shrivelled appearance.

  The women, on the other hand, she found visually fascinating. Most looking as though they were only in their twenties, they all wore a similar air of controlled boredom. In appearance though they were vastly different. Some tall, some short, some reed-thin, others curvaceous to the point of plumpness, each women looked as though she had been designed, or at least chosen, according to a much more precise specification than her hair colour.

  Gradually, people finished eating, cutlery was discarded and the plates were cleared. At a discreet signal from Ilona, all the guests rose from their seats and proceeded to make their way back to the room where they had been enjoying cocktails earlier and which had now been arranged for dancing. Aside from the piano, comfortable leather sofas had been positioned around the edges of the room to make space for the highly polished parquet of the temporary dance floor.

  Hillary accepted a large brandy balloon from a passing waiter and looked around for Torran who, it appeared, had momentarily abandoned her. Unable to see him at all, she crossed to the far side of the room and sat down on one of the sofas, positioning herself opposite the doorway so that she could see everyone who entered. As she sat she could feel her stomach clenching and fluttering. There was no doubt about it, she was waiting for something momentous to happen.

  13

  Hillary looked up as Ilona approached. She felt a distinct surge in the anxious tremors of trepidation that coursed through her body at the sight of the older woman’s strange half-smile. She had to admit she found her disconcerting; even if one disregarded the village gossip, she was still an enigma. A vibrant woman of indeterminate years, her beauty still intact, Ilona was cloaked by an aura of mysterious power. Hillary shivered inwardly as it was obvious from her determined manner that she had not come over to her with the intention of a casual chat.

  The older woman sat down gracefully, lifting the hem of her emerald satin dress slightly as she did so to reveal a pair of slender calves sheathed in silver-grey silk stockings. For a second, Hillary thought, the scene seemed unreal, as though they had stepped back in time. All around them, men and women dressed in evening wear sipped cognac and talked quietly of the weather and the forthcoming harvest, or whose grand society wedding was next on the year’s social calendar. She herself felt slightly removed from reality, as though anything that occurred that evening would not really be happening to her at all.

  With a start she realised Ilona was speaking to her. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch what you said.’

  The woman smiled, although the smile did not quite reach her eyes. I must watch out for her, Hillary thought to herself. She intends to hurt me in some way.

  In the patient tone people usually reserve for children, Ilona spoke again. ‘I said, I have solved your small quandary about Darius’s birthday gift.’

  ‘Oh, really? Well, that’s good.’ Hillary didn’t know what to say. In all honesty, after her initial embarrassment she hadn’t given it a second thought.

  Ilona moved closer and put her mouth to Hillary’s ear. Her breath was warm and doused in brandy like a Christmas pudding. ‘There is a photographer here, a friend of mine as it happens, who would be delighted to take a special portrait of you so that you may present it to Darius as a gift.’

  Her suggestion surprised Hillary. Although she hadn’t known what to expect, she had not anticipated that Ilona would suggest something as innocent as a photograph.

  ‘I see. That’s very kind of him but I wouldn’t want to put him to any trouble. I presume like everyone else he’s here tonight to enjoy himself, not to work.’

  Ilona waved her doubts away with a perfectly manicured hand. ‘Nonsense, he would be happy to do it for me.’ She coughed discreetly. ‘That is – for Darius.’ She rose from her seat extending her hand. ‘Come. If we go now he can take the photograph and process it before midnight.’

  Hillary hesitated. There was something about the situation she didn’t like. For a start she didn’t trust Ilona and there was something in the woman’s expression that sent a shiver down her spine. Was it a challenge, or mockery of her presupposed cowardice? She expects me to refuse, Hillary thought wildly, and if I do she will have beaten me. But for what purpose?

  Using the last of her cognac as an excuse to buy time, Hillary swilled the amber liquid around and around the heavy crystal glass, regarding its movement thoughtfully. Then, making her decision at long last, she rose to her feet, threw back her head and tossed the fiery liquor down her throat, before setting the glass on a side table with a finality that attracted the attention of the others in the room. At the sound Darius looked across at them, raising a questioning eyebrow to which Ilona smiled and gave an imperceptible nod.

  Wondering just how much of a surprise the photograph would turn out to be, Hillary followed in Ilona’s majestic path out of the door and along the corridor to a second room. She noticed straight away that it had been hastily equipped as a photographer’s studio with several spotlights, a dark-coloured backdrop and, of course, a camera on a tripod. All the equipment was arranged around an elegant chaise longue which was deeply buttoned and quilted in a rich burgundy-coloured velvet.

  It seemed to Hillary to be a very tasteful arrangemen
t considering the haste with which it must have been set up. After all, it was supposed to be a spur of the moment idea, whatever would possess someone to go to a party equipped with an entire photographic kit? She turned to Ilona, prepared to ask that very question and to insist on being allowed to return to the party but instead found herself staring into a pair of solemn brown eyes.

  Although they were more suited to a spaniel, the eyes actually belonged to a slightly Bohemian-looking man who appeared to be somewhere in his mid-forties but pathetically trying to look twenty years younger. His hair was long, although slightly thinning on top and he sported a bristly chin that was more than simply unshaven, yet not quite bearded.

  ‘This is Serge, the photographer I mentioned.’ Ilona introduced him with a proprietary air.

  Nodding wordlessly in response, Hillary walked across the room and pretended to examine the camera. Although she didn’t know much about photography, the equipment seemed to be the sort a professional would use. Ignoring Hillary’s actions, Ilona began chatting to Serge about a mutual friend of theirs. For several minutes no one mentioned the photograph until, eventually, Ilona asked Serge in an over-loud voice where he would like to start. Hillary looked around in anticipation of his response.

  ‘I think we’ll have the young lady here, on the chaise of course.’

  He nodded to Hillary, who dutifully sat on the red velvet seat, her back straight, legs demurely crossed at the ankle. Serge took a few steps across the room and patted the corner of the chaise longue where the back and arm met.

  ‘Please sit back here.’ His voice bore a slight trace of a foreign accent, cultivated, Hillary assumed, to please his clientele.

  She smiled and did as he asked, raising her legs so that she reclined full length along the seat, taking care to arrange her dress to cover them.

  From her assumed position of authority behind the camera, Ilona tutted, crossed the room and moved the material of Hillary’s dress so that it exposed her legs up to the thigh; as she did so she caught the faintest glimpse of the younger woman’s silky thatch of pubic hair.

  Serge nodded approvingly and took a couple of shots. A moment later Ilona stepped up to his side and whispered something to him to which she received a nod and smile of accord.

  ‘Can we have the dress opened more and perhaps one leg bent?’ He shook his head as Hillary moved accordingly. ‘No, the other leg.’ He waited until she moved again. ‘That is correct.’ Then he peered at her through the camera and waved his hand agitatedly. ‘No, that’s still not right.’ He ran his fingers through his hair apparently considering her pose. Finally he spoke again, his tone much more decisive. ‘Let go of the dress.’

  Hillary was clutching the material together, knowing that if she released it she would be exposing more than she intended. Wishing that she had worn underwear after all, she shook her head. ‘I can’t, I have nothing on underneath my dress. It would show.’ As she spoke, she felt the slight air of tension in the room increase a hundredfold and the simple truth of the situation, a fact that she had been desperately trying to ignore, finally filtered its way into her slightly alcohol-softened intellect.

  ‘Let go of the dress.’ Serge’s tone was not pleading or demanding, it simply called for her to obey.

  With a small sigh of reluctance, Hillary did as she was asked, allowing the thin material to slip from her fingers. Like a pair of theatre curtains, it parted to reveal the neat triangle of hair.

  Serge took a few more frames. ‘Lovely,’ he said, smiling at Ilona who nodded.

  ‘You are a beautiful girl, Hillary. Darius should be pleased with your gift.’ Ilona sounded sincere and a little wistful. ‘I sometimes wish I could have my youth again.’

  Obviously an admirer, Serge interrupted vehemently. ‘But, Ilona, you are so beautiful now, you have no need of youth to gild the lily.’

  Ilona smiled, obviously pleased by his flattery but not convinced. ‘If I were you, Hillary, I would take pleasure in showing off my body.’

  ‘I do! I mean . . .’ Hillary said, confused. She wanted desperately to jump up and run from the room but she felt trapped by her unwillingness to give Ilona the satisfaction of seeing her cowardice. Making the most of Hillary’s moment of indecision, the older woman swiftly crossed the room to sit beside her and, one by one, began to unfasten the tiny diamante clips that held her dress closed.

  With great delicacy she parted the material further and further, gradually revealing Hillary’s smooth brown belly, then she reached up and eased the thin straps of the dress over Hillary’s shoulders and down her arms until the firm, tanned globes of her breasts were similarly exposed. When this was done Ilona stood up to admire her handiwork.

  ‘This is much better!’ Serge exclaimed from across the room. He freed the camera from its tripod and walked around her, clicking away at random.

  If she hadn’t felt so nervous, Hillary would have chuckled. The whole episode was like a scene from any number of films. Gradually though she felt herself relax and enjoy the experience, her imagination taking her further forward in time, visualising Darius’s reaction when he saw the finished prints.

  Just then she was startled out of her reverie by a knock at the door. As it swung open Hillary moved quickly to cover herself but it was already too late. A young girl, with jet-black hair cut in a short feathery style, had already entered the room. Hillary recognised her instantly as one of the prostitutes whom Torran had pointed out during supper.

  ‘Mr Harwood said you wanted to see me.’ The girl spoke quietly, glancing at Hillary’s half-naked form with a dispassionate expression.

  Hillary tried to return her look with an air of casual aplomb but failed miserably. She couldn’t help wondering why Darius had sent the girl, or how he knew where she and Ilona could be found if the photographs were indeed meant to be a surprise. Considering this turn of events very carefully, she glanced around the rest of the room, her eyes coming to rest on her reflection in the large ornate mirror behind and to the left of the now discarded tripod.

  Yet again she failed to recognise herself. This time it was not simply due to her unaccustomed hairstyle or make-up but because she looked wanton, like a voluptuous Victorian maiden reclining half naked upon the richly upholstered chaise, her taut brown curves straining to escape the meagre confines of her virginal-coloured dress. If only Darius could see me now, she thought.

  ‘My, my, Darius, but you’ve excelled yourself again.’ The slightly balding man reached across the table for the decanter, pouring himself a generous measure before returning his attention to the entertainment. Dressed identically to the other half-dozen men in his company, his slightly rounded form was covered by a well-cut black tuxedo that looked as though it was suffering more than slightly at the seams. Settling back in the comfort of the leather chair, he sipped his drink.

  His praise delighted his host, who took great pleasure in his renown for these intimate gatherings. Every couple of months or so he would invite a close-knit circle of friends and business acquaintances to an evening of wine, women and general debauchery. Needless to say, the events were very popular amongst those on the receiving end of invitations.

  He looked around at the small gathering. Women were excluded from the entertainment part, unless they were involved in it of course and, with the exception of his own female companions, wives and girlfriends were ruthlessly exempt from these special evenings. In their place, Darius always saw to it that an interesting array of professional girls were selected to keep his guests company.

  His contented smile took in every one of his companions. The small number who had managed to resist the temptation to seek individual gratification from their partner for the evening were all appreciative of his attractive new discovery.

  ‘She’s not a local girl, is she, Darius?’

  Darius smiled enigmatically at the speaker; he was not the first person to have prompted him for further details. Others had commented privately to each other that they though
t Ilona was on her guard that evening, having recognised the first genuine rival to her special relationship with Darius. ‘She’ll do her best to humiliate that girl,’ was the observation of more than one guest, not because they were particularly astute but because they knew Ilona of old.

  From her position on the sofa, Hillary watched as the young girl started to undress. Unzipping her tight blue dress, she allowed it to drop to her feet to reveal shapely curves clad in ice-blue satin camiknickers, her long slim legs covered by white lace hold-up stockings.

  In the deeper recesses of her mind, she knew that Ilona had engineered this and that she was being set up for something she wanted no part of. Yet, on a more superficial level, she wondered if her imagination was becoming out of control. Instantly reaching a decision, Hillary sat bolt upright and started to pull one of her straps up her arm towards her shoulder, partially covering her breast again.

  Serge put out a hand to stop her and looked pleadingly at Ilona. ‘She cannot leave now, please!’ He turned to face Hillary again, his expression so sincere that she dropped the strap and stared at him wordlessly.

  She felt helpless, caught up in something that she didn’t understand. Having her photograph taken had not been the terrible experience she had feared, at least not so far, and her insatiable curiosity was still determined to lead her down an unexplored path.

  Recognising her indecision, Ilona moved towards the chaise longue and looked down at Hillary’s half-naked form, her face desperately trying to soften into a smile. ‘Obviously you have a choice, you can leave now. But I urge you to think of Darius, consider the added pleasure a slightly more, shall we say, erotic photograph would give him.’

  To Hillary’s ears her tone was persuasive, although the younger woman knew there wasn’t an ounce of sincerity in it. After a moment’s hesitation she nodded, looked across the room at Serge who stood poised, camera in hand, and then finally at the girl. ‘Okay. Let’s get on with it so I can go back to the party.’