Sirens of DemiMonde (HalfWorld Trilogy Book 1)
Page 44
“I’ve never raped before, never killed anyone I’ve fucked. And I want to fuck you, Helen,” he says as he straightens up and takes hold of my shoulders, shaking them and staring down at me with fury. “I want to fuck you and make love to you and show you everything. But you’re not going to let me.
“And watching you trembling before me now as if I were Satan himself makes me realize that I’m too damn rich and powerful to be patient with you any longer. So I’m asking you now to choose, Helen. Should I fuck you or kill you? Do you have a preference?”
“Kill me,” I say meeting his glare head-on.
“Maybe I will,” he whispers in my ear as his hands go around my throat.
I can feel his fingers pulse as they flex around my throat and am surprised by his fluid strength. I feel his anger and frustration in every pulse of his fingers. I gasp as he squeezes tighter as I meet his eyes so he can see how much I hate him! His eyes narrow as he studies my gaze then he suddenly softens his choke hold around my neck.
“Maybe I would, except, see, I think there’s the distinct possibility you’d enjoy being killed by me and I’m in no mood to oblige. I’d rather sting you back right now! So maybe I’ll choose to fuck you instead.
“Maybe I’ll just turn you over my couch and hold on to your ass while I mount you from behind. I‘d like that, Helen, holding onto your beautiful little ass as you wiggle and sigh for me. Except, I don’t think you would sigh for me, my love, and that would bother me more than you could possibly imagine.”
His voice trails off and I lean back against the wall and cry out, startled when he falls down on his knees in front of me. He wraps his arms around my waist and buries his face in my abdomen, and I am stunned by the sudden tenderness in his touch.
“I want you to find pleasure in these hands, Helen, pleasure in this soldier’s body,” he whispers, staring up into my eyes. He pauses and inhales deeply, hungrily then stands impatiently as he holds his head in his hands. “But you keep casting and taunting and weaving, and I am going insane!
“And I can’t shake this feeling that you intentionally provoke me. I’m starting to believe you want me to kill you, and that scares the hell out of me! Why is that, Helen? What are you afraid to face? What scares you even more than I do?” he asks as he grabs my hands when I try to cover my ears. “You have to trust me, baby or none of this magic will work!”
“No!”
“Do I have to force you to open your heart to me? Do I have to make you my prisoner until you yield? Tell me!” he demands and pounds the wall beside me.
He is quiet for a minute then reaches down and touches my cheek, and if there is a sting I am numb to it, but I tremble from his touch, anyway. He listens as I say something, afraid anything I say will be all wrong.
“I don’t want you to kill me, Rawly. Truly! I want to make it out of this alive. Cross my heart and hope to die. Yikes! I didn’t mean die, not technically -- look, I know you’re here for a reason, just like the others--”
“Others?”
“But, see, I haven’t been able to figure out why yet, and you’re right—I am afraid of you. I’m afraid to be around you and especially afraid of being alone with you. So could you save us both a bunch of time and grief and just go ahead and tell me your deepest, darkest, most disgusting sin-- with as little of the sordid details as humanly possible?” I give in and ask as his eyes narrow to study me curiously.
“I mean, I don’t even know if you’re pure evil or just a little evil, or you could just be possessed, or simply insane, like me. Although, I’m kind of leaning towards the latter, but either way, I’m begging you to stop touching me and slow down because you’re freaking me out!”
“I can’t slow down. We’re running out of time.”
“Aw, come on! How could you possibly know that?”
“It’s this feeling in the pit of my gut. It tells me all types of curious things; things like—”
“No, don’t tell me!” I say, covering my ears and humming as he tells me something I refuse to hear. “And, another thing,” I shout over him, “I can’t help it if I provoke you. You provoke me, too!”
We are both silent as we listen for something the other hasn’t said. Rawly finally nods his head after a minute of unspoken conversation, yet he nods as if satisfied with whatever it was I didn’t say. He pushes off the wall and steps safely back away from me.
“Last and final warning,” he says as I carefully edge away from him. “And here’s a major addendum, so listen up: Until we’ve had about a million high-hard ones, you apparently shouldn’t bend over half naked in front of me again. I’m afraid I’ll harm you if you do, and I don’t want to, baby, I really don’t want to.”
HUBRIS
I listen to a phone ringing from somewhere while the ping and buzz of another message and fax come in tandem from Rawly’s galley and office “Your mother is still trying to reach you,” I say as he savors another slow bite of his mushroom omelet.
“Some date,” I sigh. “I had to cook.” He still says nothing just as he’s been doing for the better part of an hour. “Does your mother realize I’m just some little Southern barmaid?”
“Barmaid,” he laughs, then grows silent again. Almost in afterthought, he looks at me. “She knows all about you, Helen. She knows all about us.”
“Us?” I laugh and shoot him a look of disgust he seems not to notice.
“She knows I’m going to have you, one way or another,” he says and shrugs.
“God as my witness, you are not, Commander Hawkings, or whoever you really are,” I sigh then give a morbid laugh. I play with the asparagus, pushing it around my elegant plate with my elegant fork, hand-forged for a large hand. “So tell me about this… mother/person/thingy you appear to have… What exactly does she think about us?”
“She thinks I’m far too bold with you and I have to be gentle or else I’ll scare you away. Hence, all her earnest attempts at reaching me,” he says flashing his devilish grin, motioning behind him and laughing as the phone begins to ring again. “Her not so subtle reminder for me to be gentle. She knows me well.” He laughs again.
“You, gentle?” I laugh back.
“She’s right you know and that’s fine by me, being slow and gentle with you, Helen, because, frankly my dear, I don’t get off on frightening women. I’m gullible enough to believe my duty is--”
“You, gullible?”
“--to protect and serve. I know my fate is grounded in this.”
“And what about your father figure; what does he think about you obsessing over a- nobody-pauper, or do you do this often?”
He laughs and shakes his head, “Once again, your naiveté blindsides you. I don’t think you’re grasping the privileges vast wealth affords.”
“What does that mean, exactly?”
“It means Father just wants me to find the woman who is brilliant enough to bring me home and desirable enough to keep me there.”
“You’d quit the SEALs?” I scoff.
“In case you haven’t noticed, not too much is going on; the dollar and the American dream is thriving and our security is the envy of the world. I love my brothers and my country, but they don’t need me,” he shrugs. “It’s been a good run, a means to an end even, but to be perfectly honest I’m getting bored with it. I can better serve my country elsewhere.”
“Uh huh, so it’s time you move on and try your hand at something new?”
“It’s just the next step, a passage.”
“And you need a particular type of woman by your side.”
“I don’t need window dressing, Helen.”
He leans back luxuriously in the cushions, stretching out his long legs and raising his arms over his head to stretch. He follows my line of vision to the small present sitting between us on the table. Its iridescent bow flickers in the candlelight as the wind blows it softly about, sparkling with mischief.
“You might want to open this now. It’s magnificent.”
“Trinket?” he laughs tapping the box. “This cost a king’s ransom.” He leans forward on his elbows to taunts me. “You’re curious, I can tell. I know your face so well. Believe me when I say I plan on studying your every expression each moment when we finally—”
“Can I go home now?!”
He stands and holds his hand down to me. “Come here, Helen, I want to show you something… fascinating.”
“Oh Lord,” I groan and lay my face in my hands. “Haven’t you ever heard of over-kill?”
His music has changed again and this time the mood is powerful, undulating with drums and flutes and chants. I listen to the melody cautiously and stand but refuse to take his hand, so Rawly takes the back of my elbow and leads us back inside over to one of his magnificent painting.
It is a breathtaking painting of a beautiful woman with very long platinum hair held back by a crown of pearls and gold. She is draped in jewels and wearing a red Grecian gown that shimmers on the breeze behind her. She is staring straight ahead, right at you, as she stands regally on a large balcony of a great palace. Directly behind her and all down below her there is a magnificent city burning.
As I study the painting, he is standing so close behind me that I can feel his breath cascading over the top of my head as he chuckles. “This is Botticelli’s Helen of Troy. Although much of Helena has been removed from the artistic elements of the Trojan War and been replaced with war stories, Botticelli cleverly shows her vast influence. He captures her beauty and vanity best, I think. Look in her eyes. There’s something haunting about her eyes, something’s missing, something gone as if she has no hope left. Her lover is dead and undoubtedly the crude and boring King Menelaus will arrive any moment to cart her back to dull Sparta. I love Botticelli’s sensuous touch. Don’t you?”
“I never knew Botticelli painted Helen of Troy.”
“Most people don’t,” he replies. “Now, look over here at this one,” he says propelling me gently forward.
We are standing in front of the exotic cabinet system housing his erotic art collection. As he moves us inside the perimeter the light above one brightens and the other lights in the room dim. He carefully stops us before a tall, gray obelisk; a phallic totem with a giant man holding a small woman in different positions carved in many places over every inch of it.
“This is Marduk, the Babylonian supreme being,” he tells me softly as he takes my hand and makes me stroke the shaft of the totem. “And see this mortal woman? She’s Lalill, a village maiden of such renowned beauty and cunning that Marduk fell hopelessly in love with her. He wanted her desperately and she wouldn’t have anything to do with him. See?” he whispers, taking my left hand and moving my fingers over the etchings of her face on the shaft. “Marduk would not be dissuaded by her refusals and sent blight and scourge to her village until the elders eventually caved and offered her up as a sacrifice. They were scared and didn’t know how to fight their god. Notice the winged emissaries flying her up to meet her destiny.”
“It’s just myth,” I say as he pulls me back and the object fades. The next one is a large iron cauldron, ancient and cracked with a huge deity at war on the exterior surrounded by a sea of warriors. Once again, the light brightens as we move into it and the air feels thick and warm, and I am woozy and run a hand across my brow, feeling lightheaded.
“This is 5th century Germanic. This is Odin at war. He’s the Norse supreme being, father of Thor,” he says as he lays my hand over the shimmering cool surface of the blue clay. “Isn’t he striking? Notice his size. Notice his face, remember the long sweep of his neck, the curl of his hair. Now,” he whispers, “look inside the interior of the bowl.” As I bend to look, I gasp when the entire interior of the cauldron glows bright iridescent blue highlighting the carved interior.
“This is Odin engaged in his other favorite pursuit. This is a vessel where Odin’s sexual liaisons with mortal women were recorded. There are many familiar faces he had repeatedly recorded, generation after generation, which suggests he must have been remotely monogamous over time on many different occasions. Oh, he raped and plundered during battle but he didn’t rape his chosen few. He instead would cast a spell over his love that caused her to lose all her inhibitions. Odin’s chant is exquisite and seductive. Shall I teach it to you?”
“No,” I whisper looking at my feet. “Please don’t.”
“Now, study this painting,” he says, once again propelling me towards his collection.
It’s a painting of a beautiful nun with dark eyes on her knees. She is arched back holding her heart with one hand and touching her brow with the other as she gazes in rapture at a mighty angel warrior above her.
“St. Teresa of the Ecstasy. 16th century. This saint is very intriguing. She’s rumored to have been visited by an angel on numerous occasions. In her own words she described ‘The angel held a large spear in his hands that appeared to have a tip of fire that he plunged into me again and again. The pain was so severe I uttered moans of ecstasy, and the sweetness caused by this intense pain is so extreme one cannot wish it to cease.” He lowers his face beside mine. “Many scholars believe she is describing copulating with an angel and she’s describing the ecstasy of their passionate love making.”
“Or a monk in disguise,” I insist.
“Erotic stuff, indeed,” he says, leading me over to the next statue. “This is Greek, Phoebus Apollo. Your very own nickname for me, remember?” He makes my hand touch the face of the smiling young god. “We all know he was the sun god who spread pestilence like arrows to any who challenged his authority, but it’s his interest in the arts during his classical period which fascinates me most.
“He was devoted to many pleasures; literature, music, science, math, and curiously enough, apparently only a certain type of women whom he was known to fill with ethereal song for his own amusement, then take her however it pleased him. He wasn’t above raping his damsel either, time and again. He even killed his love on more than one occasion and would spend the next millennia regretting it.” He leans down to whisper in my ear. “Apollo was said to have filled these women with certain powers that made them more godlike, purer.”
“Rawly,” I whisper, “please let me go home now. Please!”
“Now, study this painting for a moment. Tell me what you see.”
I show my reluctance as he pushes me over in front of the renaissance painting. I relent and study it curiously, in particular the signature.
“Is this a da Vinci?”
“Indeed, it is. Tell me what you see.”
“Is that a girl? Except her red hair is cut too short for the time period, and she’s in a suit of amour. Well, and a skirt. She looks very young, maybe sixteen or so… The sword she’s holding has a cross for the handle. And she’s on her knees, looking heavenward, but she’s not praying.”
“What’s she doing?”
“I…I think she’s waiting for a command.” Down below the painting is a plaque with the inscription Maid of Heaven.
“Joan of Arc,” Rawly says before I get the words out. “She was just a peasant girl gifted with remarkable oratory skills, a girl who led her country in battle to save France, and her country men repaid her by letting England burn her at the stake. It’s a pity how history often kicks the shit out of women with balls. You see, Helen, men have long been cowards, afraid of change, afraid of the unknown, so they choose to silence what they cannot control.”
I am silent as Rawly carefully leads us over to the next artifact. As it lights up before us, he moves my hand to feel the face of yet another god with a grotesquely large penis. This blue jade deity has yellow eyes with wings on his back and six sets of arms holding arrows, snakes and a thunderbolt.
“This is Indra, the Aryan god. He is a giant among giants. Some believe he is a living, breathing Nephlim, others say all those semi-divine giants were killed off in Noah’s great flood, yet
rumors insist they remain.
“Indra is a very complicated god, appealing mainly to warriors. Yet, just as he is good and protective, he also has a dark side given to drunken rowdiness and debauchery. He had very ancient beliefs about how to conquer and control women. He stalked virgins. Apparently, he loved tearing into virginal flesh.”
I cry out as Rawly makes me run my hand over the deity’s huge penis. It feels strangely warm to my touch and I try to pull my hand back but Rawly forces me to grip the burning shaft by covering my hand with his own. The music swells and I can feel myself sweat and grow weak-kneed as he moves a strand of hair away from my eyes, then takes my flushed face in his hands, staring down at me oddly. I want to tell him to stop touching me. I try but can’t make the words form in my mouth.
“You said you wanted to know my deepest darkest secrets, Helen. Well, here’s one. You see, I’ve always had a fascination for the hubris of the gods. This collection pays homage to their pairing, or, many historians would argue, actual documentation of the gods mating with mortals.”
“Ew!”
“Are any lights coming on yet?” he mocks as I jerk my hand free and spin around to confront him.
“Tell me what you’re really after!”
Rawly doesn’t answer, just spins me back around and moves us down to the next painting, one I recognize. He leans his chin on the top of my head as he begins to whisper the particulars about its antiquity.
“This is 1st century A.D., one of the oldest Gnostic paintings of the Virgin Mary in existence. Apparently, God liked her well enough to make her the mother of his only son. How it was actually achieved is the stuff of legend. Oh, she was beautiful and a virgin of course, but what quality made her standout from all other women on earth, what gift did she possess to catch the eye of Jehovah?”