by O. L. Casper
“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.
I round the corner in his room to find Stafford sitting in a wicker chair, pointing at the floor. He is naked except for a leather loin cloth with a golden belt. The posture would be laughable if I wasn’t in such a sullen mood. He is reminiscent of the god Apollo with his toned body and dominant expression. He smiles that indescribable smile, perhaps recognizing the strange humor of the scene. I remove the trench coat, exposing the camisk, and toss it aside. Perhaps due to the cold air of the overly air-conditioned house my skin is in goosebumps and my nipples stand out like bullets. Humoring him, I kneel before him, extending my arms to touch his feet. I wait for a moment, half-thinking I will feel the sting of a whip on my back, but there is no such sting. “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails plays in my head to the tempo of my heartbeat. I am filled with fear and lust, a strange state to be in. Half-disgusted with myself and feeling semi-divine, I raise my head up to see him. His head is tilted back, eyes closed, as though he is channeling some supernatural power. The fear I feel is not of him, but of the woman I try hard to block out of my head. Though the harder I try, the more she is there. I see her stern image in every reflection about the room, her lips barely cracked in a devilishly mocking half-smile, like she is some demon returned from the nethermost hell. The visions become too real and I have to bring myself back to reality, striving to see what actually appears before my eyes and not in the hollowed vision of an overactive imagination.
He looks down at me and points to a small stand covered in a purple cloth next to him. On it is a small, silver chalice next to a silver pitcher on a silver plate with dark grapes. He pours a crimson drink from the pitcher into the chalice and hands it to me. Kneeling before him, I take the cup. It’s filled with wine.
“You are drinking the blood, the grapes are the body. Eat them too and transcend.”
“Whose body and blood?”
“The goddess Isis.”
He said Isis, but the pronunciation was closer to Aset, which is apparently the way the Egyptians pronounced it. I only know it to be Isis that he said because I’m somewhat familiar with the ancient gods and goddesses of Egyptian lore, to include the pronunciation of their names. Partaking of the blood and body of a deity in the form of wine and a bit of foo
d goes back at least as far as recorded history, and was adopted into Christianity from the pagan religions as was the fictitious birth date of December twenty-fifth. It was for the Egyptians, as it is for the Christians, one of the best means of communion. I believe this communion to be more real than symbolic, a joiner of the human spirit to some unimaginable realm of Pure Consciousness that allows us to explore the higher powers as well as to get a greater sense of ourselves. Also communion is believed to be better achieved at certain times of day; midnight, dawn, noon, and dusk. Each connoting a different aspect of spiritual experience.
“What are we meant to achieve by this, master?” I say with a smile and in a low voice.
He returns my smile.
“I am not your master, nor you my slave, but we are both vessels of the Divine Current.”
“So we are to achieve bliss by this?”
“That is the aim. You miss nothing. You’re no stranger to these occult Egyptian practices, I see…”
“I am actually. I’ve only read about them.”
“You seem to remember what you read.”
“More than I’d like, sometimes.”
“From now till midnight we must observe silence, not only of speech but also of mind. And perhaps by some grace we will be able to transmute the life of our consciousness to that of a higher plane.”
I have the distinct feeling that it’s no longer him talking but some alien soul. Perhaps the soul of a god. He has transformed into someone else, speaking in a way that is nothing like his usual self. Almost like a split personality would do. Under normal circumstances, speech like this would be a bit scary, but now it seems to fit the extreme bizarreness of the situation and I am not afraid but get the deep seated sensation of floating, being lifted up to a plane of inner space I have not yet known. I eat a handful of grapes and feel the inner transformation is complete. From lead into gold, my soul has transformed from mortal to immortal. At least that is how it feels. The inner experience is of a light transcendence, like that produced by opiates, but much deeper and fuller. This inner experience lightens and ascends throughout the course of the night. It’s really indescribable and I will leave it at that, and go on to describe the outer physical experiences we share.
I finish the rest of the wine in the pitcher and turn to see Apollo on the floor next to me, his loincloth pushed to one side by his massive, boisterous erection. His is a brusque penis. He parts the top of the V-shaped garb I wear, exposing heaving breasts, still broken out in goosebumps, which increase in size as he runs his fingers between the them. I’m practically shivering with pleasure as I feel my wet vagina lubricating the carpet. He squeezes my breasts and pushes them up before running his hands down my sides, along my hips, and, brushing aside the flap of silk, to my throbbing, wet pussy. He gently massages the labia with a deeply caring touch and finds my erect clitoris. He smears the juice all over my wet lips, in all the creases, drawing more out of the slit and spreading it around the outside as he pleases. I feel like a god is touching me now. The sensation from the fingertips touching just inside my gushing vagina creates divine bodily pleasure, spreading upward in waves. He pulls the labia apart with both hands now as I lower my back onto the floor. He sticks his fingers deep inside, rubbing his finger pads up and down along the ribbed part of the vagina. This is fast becoming the best fuck I’ve ever had and he hasn’t even swum upstream yet.
Ah, there it is. The smooth rounded end of his manhood touches the labia, rubbing up and down it, in the folds, massaging the clitoris. I spread my legs as far as they’ll go, welcoming him. And the youthful god spears me—thrusts right through. I feel my insides pushed by the head of his gargantuan cock. He rocks his hips back and forth—excruciatingly slow. Excruciating because, instant-gratification-seeker that I am, I want him to fuck me hard and fast right now to take us both to the heights, but he’s doing it right. The slow flow sends waves of escalating pleasure through me. This moment is the pinnacle of sexual ecstasy in all my life, the pinnacle of ecstasy of all sorts. It is illumination and it keeps lifting my soul, like the rising tide. It must be a half-hour to forty-five minutes since the roleplay began, though it feels like seconds only. I know about how much time must have passed because of the changes in the light from dusk to night, the room is lit now only by a few candles that strangely seem to burn violet in color. And yet it seems to be lit by something else that I can’t divine. There is an even glow to the room that seems to come from nowhere at all. A gray, silvery light that is as unnatural as the violet hue to the candelight, like the cinematic effect of bleach bypass processing. It is as though we are viewing the room as it would appear in the astral plane, like we are ghosts. With these thoughts begins the onslaught of dreadful thoughts of her. I’m terrified but I can’t stop what I’m doing. I don’t want to because simultaneously I feel ecstatic. It is an adorable-horrible ecstasy that lifts me to another dimension beyond death and life, or so it seems. Perhaps the ritual is working. Perhaps this is the intended result. Through some strange osmosis I feel that my soul is merging with hers, she and I are one, and experiencing the seminal blessing of this deity thrusting into me together. All thoughts of the disgust with and the terror of death vanish in a vastly liberating shift and I simply enjoy, with her, the heightened state of being—the waves produced by this perfected natural act, the spiritual freedom produced possibly in part by the ritual. I increasingly felt the presence of some very powerful, very intelligent entities in the room surrounding us. They appear to my mind like balls of light. I glance up at the Apollo shafting me now and I see not the man-god I saw before but a strange facsimile, a reptilian creature, with snakelike eyes and lizard arms and legs. But what strikes me with tenfold the force of this physical appearance is the sheer intensity of the energy passing through me from it. The reptilian beast is pure psychosexual electricity, a monster of energy that quickens me like the primordial force that allows me to live. If this sounds complicated, that’s because it is. I try to take a realistic view of things to overcome the fear these images produce, but it’s extremely difficult. No curiosity about my sanity in these moments, clearly I’ve lost it. I reason these must be images that are archetypal and exist in the subconscious of all humans, if not in different species. Stafford must have spiked the wine with LSD, or something like it, and that combined with everything else—recent experiences, chaotic emotions, the death of Isabella Gardner—has led to this. That’s the only way I can rationalize the strangeness of this dreamlike experience, and it’s the last time I try. The world appears to me to be floating on a small movie screen somehow beneath and in front of me and the rest of existence is on a different plane of heavenly bliss. I’ve definitely got to get more involved in the studies and practices of these Egyptian rituals in the future. What an insane, exotic experience. I wish everyone in the world could experience this sort of union—communion. There would be no more war, only everlasting peace.
The lizard god has transformed back into a likeness of Apollo. For some odd reason he has not yet spent himself as I see the first rays of the rosy fingered dawn scatter across the walls. Finally he withdraws. I don’t think he’s released the silver fluid at all. I ask him about it.
“I don’t know. I don’t think so though. I don’t see it dribbling out of you.”
I laugh spontaneously and give him a playful shove. I’m still floating and I feel I could just walk out of this room completely naked, past all the porters and maids, and down to the sea, walking across it before dissolving into thin air. I look at Stafford, and, by the look on his face, I’m sure he feels the same. The sense of being fully energized sweeps through and strengthens me. Like Hippolyta, greatest queen of the Amazons, I am the archetype of female power. The feeling of what I think of as true love washes over me. The creative part of my mind accepts these feelings as real while the critical part smirks. Which part am I? All and none.
I put on my trench coat and depart.
Chapter 9
Jacksonville
Sun
August 15, Jacksonville, Florida
Obituary—Isabella Nadia Gardener, 34, died August 12 over the Atlantic, approximately 40 miles east of Miami, Florida. She was on a flight with twelve other passengers en route to Eleuthera Island, Bahamas when the plane crashed at 7:40 p.m. There were no survivors. She leaves behind her mother, Dorothy S. Gardner, and her father, Damian P. Gardner. She was an only child. She also leaves behind a baby girl of seven months, Savannah Augusta Stafford. A graduate of San Francisco State University, class of 2000, she went on to a career in communications before marrying finance billionaire Mark Lucan Stafford in 2009. She divided her time between homes in Florida, the Bahamas, Scotland, France, and Italy. Friends and family describe her as having been a humble, strong silent type, someone who could be relied upon. Of a generous disposition, she gave to hundreds of charities, ranging in areas from medicine to Africa. Her interests included science, technology, botany, backgammon, and literature. Her funeral will be held on August 16 at an undisclosed location near Jacksonville, Fl.
The Daily Telegraph
August 16, London, England
Billionaire Stafford’s wife dies in plane crash—Mark Stafford, 38, lost his wife to a plane crash off the coast of Florida. Isabella Gardner, 34, went down with eleven other passengers over the Atlantic Ocean, approximately 45 miles east of Miami at 7:40 p.m., 12 August. None of those onboard survived the crash, the cause of which is still under investigation by the FAA (Federal Aviation Administration) as well as by the FBI. There has been much speculation on the cause of the crash from an unexpected storm to malfunction of the Lockheed Gulfstream’s onboard navigation system. None of the speculation has been confirmed by any officials.
