Gothic Heat

by Portia Da Costa

  'Mmmm, that's so nice,' murmured the woman on the massage table in front of him. Shifting her thighs against the white towel beneath her, she rubbed them against each other in a blatant attempt to excite him. Normally, this would have made him smile, and his penis leap automatically. But today, like the sandalwood, it just depressed him.

  What the hell's wrong with me? he thought, gritting his teeth.

  He dug his thumbs into the woman's meaty buttocks. Harder than he should, and than was necessary. But instead of protesting, she purred and pressed her crotch suggestively against the table.

  'You're a naughty boy, Rafe. You know I like it hard, don't you?'

  Her name was Mrs Butcher and she was one of Rafe's 'specials', the women for whom he sometimes provided extra services. Ones that weren't listed on the pages of Inner Light's brochure amongst the usual raft of aromatherapy, massage, Reiki and hypnotherapy. Services that were off the record, under the counter, strictly hush-hush.

  It had been so easy to start slipping a bit of sex on the side to these needy female clients. When he'd done it once, he hadn't felt so bad about the next time. Or the next. Or the next. And it'd been the same with the gifts. Given his past history, he'd felt horribly uncomfortable at first, but before long he'd become used to generous financial tips and gifts of clothing and expensive toiletries.

  You're a whore, Rafe. A male whore.

  When he thought about it, it bothered him. So he mostly tried not to. After all, he'd put his talents to worse purposes in years gone by – until the consequences had caught up with him. Mostly he was able to rationalise that, in his case, a bit of supernumerary sex was always a good thing. It was life. And making the most of it. While he could.

  But today the prospect of climbing aboard Mrs Butcher on the massage table made him shudder. And it was himself, not her, that he felt distaste with. When she reached out unexpectedly and cupped his cock through his yoga pants, he flinched like a reverend mother instead of pushing himself into her grasp, as he usually did.

  'What's wrong?'

  Barbara Butcher rolled over, gifting him with the sight of a pair of breasts that weren't bad at all for a fifty-plus grandmother. She was a handsome woman and, under normal circumstances, sex with her was delightful. And slightly kinky. She had a sense of humour too, and she was kind and fun. He'd started to toy with the idea of taking things further. Barbara Butcher had been left nicely off by her late husband, and he could think of a lot worse people to spend the rest of his days with.

  Not that there might be many, a bitter voice reminded him. He was almost forty, and his father had been gone by forty-two.

  Shaking off dark thoughts, he focused again on his client. He could see fear of rejection in her eyes, and his heart lurched in sympathy. But he didn't think even his acting skills would allow him to fake it this time and he wasn't in the mood for touching either.

  Something had changed last night and he didn't know why. He'd had knee tremblers around the back of the Raven before too, but today he couldn't remember anything about them.

  Not the build-up, not the orgasm, and certainly not the women. They'd all disappeared, supplanted by a vivid, full-sensory recollection of the mysterious and wary Cinderella figure he'd so fleetingly fucked last night.

  'I'm sorry, Barbara.' He smiled reassuringly and took her gently by the shoulders, rolling her back to the facedown position. 'I didn't sleep well last night. Insomnia.' Which was the truth, he realised. 'I don't feel that great today. You don't mind, do you?'

  Barbara's answer was forestalled by the bell chiming in Reception. Rafe frowned and lifted his hands clear of her shoulders, not wanting to transfer his tension and negativity to her. Bloody Lynn, the new receptionist, was taking one of her marathon lunch breaks again.

  'Sorry again,' he muttered. 'I'd better check on that.' Wiping his hands on a towel, he strolled to the small CCTV out on the landing, where he could check on Reception and ring down to speak to whoever was there.

  The tiny black and white image made his heart thud.

  Dear God, you came!

  Last night, after their coupling, he'd asked Paula to come back to his place to spend the night. It was the first time in a long while he'd done that, but he'd really wanted to hold her. When she'd refused, it'd twisted his gut in a sense of disappointment that had been out of all proportion. He'd only just resisted the embarrassing urge to beg. It had seemed that she wanted no more to do with him and, even when he'd pressed his business card on her and asked her to ring him sometime, he'd confidently expected it to be in the trash somewhere by now.

  But here she was.

  Displayed by the small screen, a shockingly different Paula stood in the airy sunlit reception area, twisting and flipping that very card between her fingers. Gone were the leather micro skirt, the skimpy top and the sexy heels. Today's Paula was fully covered, uptight and every button fastened. Her skirt was long and flowing, a pretty thing made of yards of unrevealing fabric. Her lightweight cardigan was closed right up to her throat. The silky dark hair that he'd let down last night was caught back in a prim ponytail. He'd never seen a woman more wary and ill at ease, and he had the most peculiar flash of insight. The most powerful in ages.

  Why are you so scared of yourself, love? he wondered, stabbing at the intercom button.

  'Hi, Paula! Can you wait just a little while. I'm with a client at the moment but I'll be down as soon as I can. Our receptionist should be back soon. I don't know where the fuck she is!'

  He watched her look around, her eyes darting and then settling on the 'press to speak' unit on the desk.

  'Rafe? Is that you?' Her voice sounded as tinny as his probably did.

  'Yes, it's me. I'll be down in a little bit. Please don't go!'

  You sad fuck! Don't grovel! he told himself, watching her twizzle the card around, folding it in a kind of nervous origami. Dear God, he was holding his breath. And not only that, his cock had suddenly heaved itself to a full, lively stand with painful speed. He could still feel the brush of those fingers against his flesh as the two of them had grappled with her stretchy knickers in the dark.

  'No, it's all right. This was a bad idea.' Frowning, her eyes flashed around the room again, crushing his card in her hand and dropping it on the counter, then running her free hand up and down her wool-clad upper arm. 'Look ... leave it. Forget it. I'm going. Sorry...'

  'No!'

  The sound of his own voice horrified him. It rang with all the neediness he'd only just managed to quash last night. A quality she'd be able to hear, crappy speakers or otherwise.

  'No, please don't go. Stay!'

  There was a long pause, during which Paula's mouth moved as if she were talking to herself. She was twisting at the top button of her cardigan now, pulling it so hard it was in danger of coming off.

  'OK. I'll wait. But don't rush with your client. I'll read a magazine.' Abruptly cutting off the speaker, she strode to one of the low chairs, threw herself down in it and picked up an old copy of Spirit and Destiny.

  Ridiculously shaken, Rafe turned away from the tiny monitor and headed back to the treatment room, where Barbara had slid off the table and was shrugging into one of the centre's fluffy white towelling robes.

  'Don't worry, kiddo. You can make it up to me another time.' Her eyes dropped to his groin and she gave him a heavily mascara-laden wink. 'I guess she's the cause of your sleepless nights, isn't she, eh? Better get downstairs, lad, and sort out that little problem.'

  Rafe stared down at his own body, rampant where before it'd been indifferent, his erect cock clearly defined beneath his thin jersey yoga trousers.

  'I'm sorry, Barbara,' he said quietly and, when she continued to smile at him in a way that was more maternal than frisky, he shrugged.

  'No problem, love. Catch you later. Enjoy your friend.' She winked again, just as she was leaving in the direction of the changing rooms. 'Because it certainly looks like she's going to enjoy you.'

  I'm not so sure
of that, thought Rafe.

  His nerves pinging with a strange foreboding, he pulled on a loose shirt to hide his condition and walked swiftly to the stairs.

  * * *

  What am I doing here, thought Paula, slapping her foot against the polished wood floor in a nervous, compulsive movement. This is mad. He can't help me. Nobody can help me.

  The energy was building in her again and it had to have an outlet. Tapping her feet. Tugging and mangling at her cardigan buttons. Suddenly the one she'd been worrying broke free and skittered away across the floor and under one of the other beige leather-covered couches.

  'Fuck!'

  Something stirred in Paula's gut and in the back of her mind. Isidora, come to life as if roused by the word she was so fond of. That's what you want, she seemed to say, isn't it? You want to fuck him. He's coming now ... And here you are, dressed like a frigid spinster librarian.

  Blood surged in Paula's veins, frothing with hormones. She wasn't sure whether it was Isidora driving her or just her own memory of last night, and an experience of sex that was both raw and strangely exquisite. Whatever it was, her fingers flickered at speed over the buttons of her cardigan, revealing her breasts, so barely concealed by a light cotton camisole. Her nipples were hard, dark and plummy, roused instantaneously by the prospect of seeing her sleazy alley lover again.

  Faint footsteps padded down the corridor behind a door marked 'Treatments This Way' and, as an unseen hand manipulated the lock, she tugged out the covered band that secured her hair, then fluffed at it haphazardly.

  It probably just looked untidy, not tousled-sexy, but who cared as the door was swinging open.

  And suddenly Rafe was standing there, watching her. He frowned slightly, his head cocked on one side.

  Paula pursed her lips. What to say? What had she been expecting of him in the warm light of day? More jeans and leather? A retread of last night's dangerous erotic bad-boy image?

  Certainly not this look, that surprised her almost as much as her appearance clearly surprised him.

  Today's Rafe was Mr New Age, all peace and light and hippy-man in his loose white trousers and a white linen shirt, only partially buttoned. His large feet were bare and a pungent smell of sandalwood wafted into the room as he stepped forwards.

  'Hello again, Paula.' He smiled, then momentarily snagged his lip with his white upper teeth. 'I didn't expect to see you again. I hoped, obviously, but somehow I didn't think you'd actually turn up.'

  Paula's heart thumped as she stepped forwards too. What was the protocol when meeting a one-night stand? He'd almost been right. When she'd set out this morning, she hadn't had the slightest intention of seeking him out.

  What do I do? she thought, taking another step. Kiss him? Hug him? Just look at him like a dork? The only compensation was that Rafe seemed as unsure as she did.

  Or maybe they should shake hands?

  'Hello, Rafe.' Her voice was small as she reached out.

  Rafe's smile blossomed, lighting up his whole rather stern face. With a shrug, he wiped his hand on the side of his trousers, then held it out and, when their fingers touched, she felt the very faintest kiss of slippery oil upon his skin.

  Caught unawares, she swayed so hard that she thought she might fall backwards through some invisible barrier and into the dream of Isidora and Count André.

  Instantly Rafe's arms shot around her, as strong in the light as they had been in the dark. Just as quickly, Paula righted herself and shrugged free of him, not knowing how she could possibly explain about the oil and the dream. And yet if he were to help her she'd have to, sometime soon.

  'Sorry about that. I've been giving a massage.' For a moment, his tongue – which was teasingly pink – slipped out and flicked against his lip. He hesitated and, if she hadn't known better, she would almost have thought he was bashful. 'Do you want one? I've got a free slot.'

  Delicious heat pumped through her veins at the thought of his hands on her. Last night, he'd proved that his fingers were nothing short of magical and at least the match of Isidora's blue-eyed dream lover. Her body was already screaming for more of what she'd had in the alley. Her breasts ached. Lust roiled low in her belly, surging like the heart of a volcano. The invisible tattoo prickled and dark urges propelled her towards saying, 'Yes, yes, yes ...'

  And yet.

  It was imperative she not give into every single wayward surge of lust, either hers or Isidora's. She was not the bitch's puppet and, if she could actually resist sex sometimes, it might give her a fingernail grip on control.

  'Why not?' she heard herself say, to the sound of inner gleeful laughter.

  He'd always had smooth lines with women. He'd always been able to sweet talk and find exactly the right note, the right approach, to get his quarry into bed.

  So why was he suddenly as tongue-tied as a spotty teenager faced with his first sight of a real naked woman?

  Rafe watched from across the treatment room, shrugging off his shirt, then fidgeting with his towels and his vials of oils while Paula pulled off her very few clothes without hesitation or modesty.

  Again, he sensed raw sexual determination in her. It glinted in her eyes as she looked at him. She had very lovely eyes. They were large and liquid and a soft shade of hazel, and yet, when she slanted a glance at him, there was a breathtaking flash of green now.

  Underneath her long skirt, she wore a pair of strangely serviceable black cotton knickers. They were cut full and made from opaque, thick-looking material, and the very incongruousness of them being worn by a woman so keen to strip off put him in mind of the support pants of last night. He waited for her to slip her thumbs into the waistband and peel them off but, even though she plucked at the elastic, she left the garment on, her lips pursing tightly.

  Watching Paula climb gracefully onto the massage table, Rafe tried to centre himself and gain control over his body and his senses. He smiled at her, and then turned away to drip a little soothing lavender oil into his massage base, while at the same time attempting to tune into the messages of her emotions.

  What was her mood? How did she feel about him?

  She seemed a conundrum of conflicting urges and auras. It was a long time since Rafe had tried to use his empathy in anything more than the most general and unfocused way. It was one thing trying to get a sense of the women he worked on here, so he could please them, and quite another to go deep and almost try to read their thoughts. Unsavoury memories of the trouble it'd got him into in the past still left a bitter taste.

  But Paula was one woman he had to decipher.

  She was chaos. Lust, fear, hope, a genuine honest attraction – and yet roiling under the surface there was something darker and so unexpected he almost recoiled. There was something so powerful in her that his hands shook and lavender oil skittered over the surface of the counter. Tamping down instantly, he cleaned up the spill, feeling the bump, bump of his heart and a sense of panic that threatened to ruin his composure.

  Controlling his breathing, he quashed the urge to run from the room and find a still quiet place to meditate and regain his equilibrium. Everything about him wanted to believe Paula was just a sexy, attractive but reasonably ordinary girl who didn't mean harm to anyone. In fact, if he'd never discovered his ESP or whatever it was, he'd be smirking to himself, anticipating a delicious time ahead for them. But he did have this strange, fickle ability sometimes, and now it was clanging like a klaxon and flashing red warning signs of danger.

  With a less than sure hand, he capped the bottle and shook it thoroughly to mix the oils. When he turned back towards the table, he found Paula lying face up, her legs akimbo and her hands cupping her breasts.

  'I suppose you must get lots of sex here on this couch.' Her voice was husky and seductive as she looked at him from beneath her lashes, her fingers flexing. She should have looked ridiculous, like a living burlesque, cheap and crude. But she entranced him. He couldn't speak. His cock was iron.

  'It's a very sexy enviro
nment. Very conducive to acts of wickedness.' Her green eyes glittered as she slowly licked her lips. 'To getting it on...'

  Rafe gripped the oil bottle tightly, fighting for breath. He experienced a disorientating sense of double vision that made him giddy and, for a second, he seemed to see two women on the couch. It was like a drug trip, as if someone had loaded his massage oil with peyote and he'd absorbed it through his skin. Paula's dark hair looked silkier, longer and lusher; and her eyes were slanted and imperious, assessing him as if he were sexual meat for her delectation. Her body was simply sublime, full of breast and sumptuous of hip. Her serviceable black knickers were gone, discarded on the floor to reveal the perfect, fragrant triangle of her bush. She held out her hand to him like a queen, and he walked towards her.

  'Mmmm...' Taking the bottle of oil from him, she pulled the stopper and sniffed deeply, smiling to herself. Then, in a sudden violent gesture, she hurled the thing across the room, laughing as the oil arced from it, flying like a pale-yellow ribbon. 'A pretty scent –' she adjusted herself on the table, slithering around until she was perched on the edge '-but artificial, my Rafe, too artificial.' Parting her legs, she offered him something that was both natural and beyond nature instead.

  Rafe gasped, dragging in both oxygen and the odour of Paula's genitals. The room was filled with lavender, but it seemed to come from a distance and through a filter. Only the essence of woman had real truth and real meaning.

  Staggering slightly, he fell to his knees and pressed his face between her thighs, aware of a great well of tightly focused heat, emanating not from her sex but the white curve of her belly. He tried to lift his head and search for a visible mark or glow, and for a moment he imagined he saw a slight raised pattern on her skin. But before he could get a closer look she pressed down hard on the top of his head, forcing him to pleasure her.

  She was hot, fragrant and intoxicatingly delicious. A million impressions crowded his senses, both ordinary and unusual. The taste of Paula was like power itself, infinitely greater than his own puny gifts. Supping at her earthy juices, his mind seemed to expand and a rainbow of colours exploded in his head.