Gothic Heat

by Portia Da Costa

  His rampant penis loomed over her like an alchemist's staff, as rigid as mahogany and just as mysterious and powerful. She wanted to reach for it, but his eyes, almost black with lust, forbade her movement.

  In a swift, vulpine lunge, he bent over her, his face close to her body as his flattened hand settled on her belly and the oil-covered sigil. Slowly, oh so slowly, he began to circle with the heel of his hand and his palm, all the time watching the expression on her face as he pressed and swirled.

  'I see you have tricked us, as ever,' he hissed, momentarily clawing at the stark design of the Thousand Hour Marker, the magical sheet anchor that had kept her from being swept away irrevocably into eternal darkness and thus enabled her return from the banishment he'd effected. His nails gouged at her, as if he wanted to rip it from her skin, but then his hand relaxed and returned to its caressing action.

  The compulsion to writhe like the lowest slut consumed her senses. She could feel the burn of the rug against her bottom as she wriggled in time to his circling hand, her movements only exacerbating the tension in her belly and her sex. Despite the oil, the constant slight tugging and jerking on her clitoris drove her to distraction. She wanted him to reach between her labia and pinch and pull on it. Trying to entice him, she spread her legs even wider, flexing the cords of her thighs in an extreme effort.

  Without warning, he swooped down, replacing his hand with his pale sculpted face and the touch of his reddened lips. He rubbed his cheek against the oil, then his mouth and, parting his lips, he drew his teeth along the Marker beneath her navel. A second later, he nipped hard, biting the lush curve of her belly and inflicting real pain.

  A sensation like the ignition of two precious chemicals fired in the very quick of her sex, making it shimmer and ache on the very edge of orgasm. He bit again and her hands flew to her cleft, but before she could masturbate he slapped away her hands with an angry snarl.

  'No, madam! Not yet! Your pleasure is mine, and mine alone ... after all this time.'

  After reaching for her leg and snatching it by the calf, he doubled up the limb, bringing it against her chest, creating tension. Then, with no further ado, he thrust his fingers into her.

  One. Two. Three. Then his whole hand bar the thumb, stretching her entrance cruelly, yet inducing crude excitement.

  'Whore!' he hissed, beginning to pump his flexed fingers in and out, the action rough, yet with an infernal, magical rhythm that made her head toss and her throat constrict around unearthly feral cries.

  As his thumb flattened her clitoris, her flesh clenched, every bit of it contracting around the intrusion of his fingers, every cell, every molecule pulsating. She shouted and raged as her body roiled with pleasure so intense it was painful. She grabbed at him, her fingers and nails gouging at his alabaster flesh as her free leg kicked and flailed, her heel thumping again and again at the floorboards. His cock was like a rod of hot metal against her, a branding iron that knocked against her as she struggled.

  The orgasm went on and on, yet seemed not to resolve itself. If anything her lust was growing, not waning. As he reared back, wrenching his fingers out of her with a rude sucking sound and flinging her from him, the fire in the pit of her belly raged and rose.

  'Be done with it! Satisfy me, my lord,' she growled at him, catching his eyes with hers, trying to overpower him as she once had, that first time.

  But he was too strong for her. His own eyes were like glittering blue stones, their radiance exquisite and hypnotic. She wanted to move, but suddenly she could not.

  Between her legs, her sex thudded, heavy with renewed frustration, yet her arms were weighted and unable to direct her fingers to her burning clitoris.

  'Never!' he said, so soft and low it was barely audible. On his feet now, he stood over her, nude and magnificent like some classical colossus, his body perfect, his rearing cock hugely red and rampant.

  Tossing his hair out of his eyes, he glowered down upon her and, as his mouth curved in a wicked line, he grasped his penis. He gave it four slow, deep pumps, then bit down on his lip, suppressing a gasp as he climaxed.

  Pearly semen flew and splattered on the sorceress. It tasted bitter on her lips as she groaned and burned for him and, as the room fell away from her, all she could see were his ice-blue eyes.

  Instantly awake, Paula Beckett shot up in bed, as sick and disorientated as if she'd just been on a roller coaster. Licking her lips, she half expected to taste the angry blue-eyed man's semen. But the only moisture on her face was sweat and a few tears she rubbed at angrily.

  There was plenty of moisture between her legs though. A river, goddamnit! She was swimming, oozing, and so hot and frustrated that she could almost imagine her sex sizzling. She'd been rubbing herself in her sleep again but, like the evil thing beneath her skin, she'd been denied. She hadn't come.

  I can't go on like this much longer, she thought. I'll go off my head.

  Swiftly, and without much joy at first, she began to play with herself. Circling her middle finger over her clit, she soon found her rhythm and the familiar rise of pleasure cleared her mind. No mad, vindictive sorceresses, no blue-eyed lovers who hated her. Just herself, and her own body, and the simple love of it.

  She felt almost calm again. Sex was good. Sex could help her.

  She could do it. Do it for herself. Just for herself.

  As her climax bloomed, its sweet white glow blunted her fears and brought a calming boost of strength.

  Gasping on the bed, she lay waiting for the whispers, preparing to fight them. But nothing happened. The intruder in her mind was temporarily banished. No passenger murmuring filth and words of madness. But if she lay here alone in this bed for any length of time, it would all come back again. She touched the curve of her abdomen. It was cold and smooth, but soon enough the peculiar pattern of heat would appear again, the slight raised welts, like nettle stings, that almost felt like letters and numbers. The invisible marker that told her the bitch was in residence. And with it would come the words, inside her head.

  Give in to me ... Give in to me...

  'Fuck you, Isidora, whoever you are!' Paula shouted and snapped on the bedside light. It was only ten fifteen.

  The sex dreams were OK in a bent sort of way but the other stuff, the falling through blackness and visions of boiling in eternal torment, were unbearable. And watching the telly or reading didn't make a scrap of difference. Only company could stave off the night terrors.

  Flinging back the covers, she let out a fruity curse – profane stuff, Isidora-talk that she'd never have used until a month or so ago. Clenching her teeth on the foul language, she reflected on just how much she'd changed in such a short time, and how much she longed to go back to the days before ... before this stupid, unbelievable thing that she didn't really understand had happened to her. The temptation to cry like a baby rose up like an enveloping wave, threatening to capsize her.

  No way! Don't give in to it! she told herself. What the hell good would tears do? They'd just make that bitch laugh.

  Taking deep breaths, Paula prowled around the room. Affirmative action was required, some kind of distraction. She'd bloody well go out. There were pubs and clubs open. Maybe she'd meet someone she knew. Although that probably wasn't a good idea, seeing as how she was supposed to be on sick leave. But there were other venues, ones her work colleagues didn't go to. Maybe she'd look for some real, human, quantifiable trouble. Something external, something explicable, something that would fill her mind and push out her intruder.

  Her jaw set, she strode for the bathroom and set the shower running while she gathered clothes and make-up.

  If she was going out, she needed to be clean and smart – and sexy.

  You need a man, the inner voice said low and cajol-ingly. You need a fuck. A big cock between your legs.

  'Yes, maybe I do, you unholy cow,' she growled at her tormentor, 'but when I get one, it's for me. Just me. So bugger off!'

  2 Smoke and Mirrors

&n
bsp; Three-quarters of an hour later, Paula's eyes were smarting from dry-ice vapour. It was being pumped out onto the Raven's dance floor in some kind of pathetic attempt at spectacle in the shabby suburban club. Unfortunately, all it succeeded in doing was pissing people off and making them bitch and complain and rub their eyes.

  'What the hell am I doing here?' Talking to herself, or anyone inside her, wasn't a problem here. Nobody could hear anything over the cacophony of badly mixed drum and bass that boomed out of the poor-quality speakers. She could have had a full-on slanging match with Isidora and nobody would have been any the wiser.

  The Raven Club was dark, loud and grimy – and reeked of cheap, mismatched perfumes, overpriced beer and a lot of sweat. Paula wrinkled her nose. It wasn't really her scene, but she'd found herself outside, in the queue, before she'd really realised what was going on.

  Since when had she ever been a clubber or a party girl? Had her passenger brought her here or just suggested it? The lines were getting worryingly blurred but she didn't think the bitch had complete control of her. She was getting pretty damn good at persuading though.

  The Raven's saving grace was that it was full of real people as opposed to figments of her imagination or characters that stalked her dreams. Since that frightening event five weeks ago, Paula hadn't been able to rest much at home, day or night. She'd lie awake, wondering what had happened to her during her 'lost hours'. The time between setting off to meet her friends, Belinda and Jonathan, for a reunion holiday full of booze and laughs, and the black moment when she'd woken up in a hotel room, stark naked and with a yawning gap in her memory and no idea where her car was. And even if she did doze or sleep, it was worse. Losing a firm grip on her consciousness allowed the thing under her skin to wake and taunt her.

  Her flat simply wasn't the haven it should have been any more but, unfortunately, this crappy dive didn't seem to be much better. It seemed to suit Isidora to the bone, and Paula could just imagine the bitch's disembodied smile of glee and that pair of brilliant-green eyes drinking it all in, the darkness, the perversity and the thuggish sin.

  As Paula scanned the insalubrious man-made cavern, she wished she'd chosen a different venue. What did it matter if someone shopped her to the management for being out while she was on the sick? There was nothing worse that could happen to her than what had already happened, and she could feel the inner presence laughing and taunting her. Watching through her eyes and making them feel as if they were too big for their sockets. Sliding around inside her, caressing her skin and making it prickle and heat up, both on the surface and beneath. Her breasts suddenly tightened, the areolas crinkling and rising as if fluffed by an unseen lover's hand. Between her legs, her sex rippled, growing moist and plump and sticky again.

  'Here we go again.'

  Sighing, she took a large gulp of industrial-grade Char-donnay from her plastic glass. And nearly choked. The wine was more akin to vinegar than anything that ever came from an Australian vineyard, but its main virtue was an unexpected strength. Maybe if she drank enough of this cheeky blend of acetic acid and paint stripper, she wouldn't care about Isidora. Maybe she could even poison the vicious cow. Or maybe she'd stop feeling guilty and scared and confused and just embrace this inner dark side she'd had forced on her.

  The constant fighting was wearing her down, making her crazy. How could she run from what was inescapable? Seeking professional help had been useless. Her GP had just told her she was tired and given her Valium and the sick note.

  Overboosted bass lines thudded on and on. Banging so hard, they made her feet and the muscles in her thighs tremble. Coloured spots flashed and mini searchlights raked the tiny dance floor and the crowd of shifting, scoping, drunkenly horny bodies that surrounded it. Clubbers lurched and gyrated across the handkerchief of space and the thought of joining them in bass-driven oblivion was suddenly tempting.

  Maybe I can shake her out of me like some kind of fundamentalist repentant.

  But there were no answers among the sweaty and probably drugged-up throng. Dabbing surreptitiously at her mascara, she blinked hard again, blaming the dry ice for her teary eyes as she grappled with self-pity. When the chaos of the club swam back into focus, she saw something she hadn't noticed before. Somebody. A tall figure leaning against the polished steel railing at the other side of the dance floor.

  For a few seconds, one of the wheeling, manic searchlights hovered caressingly upon him, giving Paula a perfect view. Her glass almost slipped from her fingers but she managed to hang onto it, her heart bashing so hard against her chest that she thought it must be visible.

  For a moment, she seemed to see 'Lord André' from her dream. 'How the hell are you here? It's not possible.' Shock and a surprise made her gulp down the rest of her wine, unable to understand how she could be seeing a character from her erotic dreams. In living flesh.

  Inside her, where Isidora dwelt, there was a howl of glee and triumph that made her shake her head, imagining it ringing out over the sound of pumping house anthems. A deep dark satisfaction, or maybe just the anticipation of it, made her sex throb.

  Paula swayed, dropped her empty plastic glass and grabbed onto the rail, the colliding intersection of two worlds making her giddy. A woman beside her looked at her aggressively and mouthed something like 'stupid, drunken cunt'.

  Fired by a sudden rush of intense energy, Paula surged forwards, glaring. The sigil on her belly seared her for a moment, and she had the most extraordinary sense of being bigger than herself, and stronger. Exhilaration gey-sered through her like an orgasm without sex, and she laughed out loud as her erstwhile combatant shrank back with fear in her eyes and an open mouth.

  A heartbeat later, Paula was clutching the rail again, her knuckles white in the gloom.

  Was that you, Isidora? she demanded silently.

  To her surprise, there was no answer. Not even that familiar chuckle of glee.

  Winding her way along the balcony, Paula headed for the exit. This sudden Jekyll and Hyde thing was new and she wasn't sure she was safe to be out. The next drunken slag she faced off against might not be so easily intimidated or might simply have a lot more booze in her.

  But, by the steps, she paused, her eyes drawn downwards. The man by the dance floor was still there, and the sight of him made her catch her breath and wonder. Now he seemed to look entirely different. What she'd seen before must have been an hallucination.

  Raven Club man didn't have the aristocratic glamour of Count André and he didn't even have the long exotic locks. His dark hair was cropped quite short and it made him look earthy and dangerous. He had the aura of a conscious outsider about him, a rebel, and a bit of stud maybe, but in a raw, maverick way. In contrast to the boring but colourful designer-outlet finery around him, he was wearing a battered black leather biker jacket, narrow black jeans and some kind of heavy, buckled work boots.

  A pair of dark, narrowed eyes scanned the room just as hers had, their hooded lids predatory and jaded-looking. His mouth was rather hard and thinned a little, as if the club inspired just the same sense of distaste and disappointment in him that it did in her.

  Yeah, I know, it's a dingy old sump, isn't it? thought Paula. So what the hell are we doing here? We should be elsewhere. Together.

  She watched his hands. They moved quickly and edgily, even though his large body was still and poised. First he tapped his fingertips against the smudged railing in time to the music, and then went through the motions of patting his pockets, reaching into them, digging about. Only to be snatched smartly back out again.

  Ah, hah! A smoker – or an ex-smoker – searching for his ciggies. Having done hard time giving up herself, Paula recognised the tell-tales. Maybe the tall, hard-looking and vaguely bikerish man wasn't quite as calm and self-assured as he looked. The urge to smoke was a natural reflex when ill at ease.

  The large hands appeared again, and suddenly he cracked his knuckles. The sound of it shouldn't have been audible over the cacophony of the mus
ic, but even so it echoed across the room as if they were the only two people in it.

  Hands still clasped, the tall stranger looked straight up at Paula.

  Connection hit her like a thump in the solar plexus. Lines of force zipped between the two of them, and the man down below cocked his head as if listening to their hum.

  A powerful urge to run gripped Paula, but then died again.

  Take him, he's yours, the voice of Isidora purred beneath her skin. And Paula's eyes and limbs obeyed it. After holding the tall man's gaze, she glanced towards the club's emergency exit, and then, not looking back, she began to walk quickly towards the steps to the lower level.

  Rafe Hathaway was fed up of the Raven Club, and fed up with himself because he couldn't stay away from it.

  Why did he keep coming back to this crappy little sinkhole again and again? It smelt, the music was appalling and the clientele worse, and yet it had a kind of obnoxious energy that he found disturbingly reassuring. It was a low, disreputable dive, but then again he was a low, disreputable person, so he fitted right in. And it was distracting, which was something he needed more and more with every day that passed. The way time flew, it was becoming more and more necessary to flirt with danger, to stay on the edge, to do any damn, stupid, immoral or amoral thing to keep the dark thoughts at bay.

  A bitter smile twisted his lips. What use were all his meditation and relaxation and self-hypnosis techniques now when he most needed them himself? Fuck it, he was supposed to be an expert. But it was a case of physician, or whatever, try to cure yourself, man.

  Once a fraud, always a fraud.

  The words were as savage as his nicotine craving. More crap he should have been able to deal with. What would his adoring harem from Inner Light think if they saw him in this repulsive dive, burnt out and fed up and dying for a cigarette? Christ, he was so full of toxins tonight, he was a walking advert for self-abuse!

  For the dozenth time, he reached into his pocket for his cigarettes, and for the dozenth time he dragged his hand back out again. He wished he could claim it was strength of character, but no such luck. The Raven was as subject to the national smoking ban as anywhere else, and there was always some small-minded busybody who'd rat on you just for the sheer pleasure of it.