Slave Wife

by Frances Gaines Bennett

  “Naaa, she’s okay. Besides, I bet the doggy enjoys the abuse.” M.A. reached for Delia’s arm. “Come and dance with me.” Sadness flashed across her square face. “We don’t have many left.”

  Delia hugged her. “You’ll just have to come and visit. The Bay Area’s supposed to be heaven for queers.” The two women pressed against each other, mouths, arms and legs intertwined, dry humping to the metal music.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The women never remembered anything, except how much they wanted him. He could have used them again and again but the blackness wanted fresh meat. And LaVeau had discovered new, unaltered girls gave him a greater inflow of power.

  He looked down on the delicate yet voluptuous naked body below him and marvelled at this standard of American beauty. How could such flawless full breasts above such a tiny waist and narrow, smooth thighs have been created? How could so many examples of fragile femininity exist? And yet they did. Washington was full of them. He shook his head. It was television’s fault. TV added weight and even height, making perfectly constructed Barbie dolls barely larger than seven stone seem the norm.

  His voice raised in a quavering song in a language he’d never learned. The blackness had given it to him fully formed along with so much else. He recognized its similar origins to Creole French – traces of tribal Africa and Native American bastardized by ruling colonists both French and Spanish – but it was only the transfer that allowed his understanding.

  The razor-sharp blade, sparking across the blotched walls in long bright candlelit rainbows, rose with the irregular cadences until it hung gleaming above the provocative prone form like a diminutive sword of Damocles between his skeletal fingers. He felt the warmth of his aunt’s insistent whisper and the blackness’ power pushing him forward. “Kill her,” was their message. “Then all this will be yours.” They showed him – again – and the vision’s power and pleasure far surpassed the fiercest orgasm.

  He’d not been able to kill, despite the temptation. Even when he reminded himself that death might be kinder than what he gave the women. Once he opened them to the blackness it could feed on them. He tried not to wonder if a life of agony, or at best a slavery that only the evil and power-hungry could enjoy, might be worse. Perhaps killing the women was a kindness, he rationalized. There was no doubt the far vaster power he’d gain almost unbearably seduced him.

  Still his arms and the knife lowered slowly, as thick as moving through treacle and as cloyingly sweet. In a dream, he saw one hand detach from the blade and touch the smooth, hairless mound. He heard his aunt’s disgusted voice, “This girl is une putain, a whore. Regard how she shaves herself! Why should you spare her?”

  His head swirled with desire to kill. He touched the blade tip to her labia’s creased pinnacle and brought it away, one crimson drop hanging for a moment suspended from the silver point before it dropped onto her flat belly, then moved it to her throat. The girl stared blindly toward him out of wide fawn’s eyes turned inward in some ecstatic horror. Slowly – reluctantly? – he pressed the blade against the blue vein pulsing in her insubstantial throat. He felt the soft flesh give under his hand as his aunt and the blackness pressed forward, moving over and around him in dense dark energy.

  But before the blade penetrated her thin skin he drew back and, as each time before, penetrated her inner thigh with the blade’s end to an accompaniment of his aunt’s disapproval. As a ruby stream ran to the white cloth, the girl’s life force flowed into him in a rush of power that shot from his hands into his head and downward, at last surging upward into his phallus.

  He watched the girl from a distance, not only through his own eyes. Her lithe body undulated, twisting and turning as if consumed by passion. Yes, consumed. He found the observation a little too disconcerting. His gaze lingered on her breasts’ soft flow across her ribs, rising in rippled ridges under her sheer skin, on the sensual roll and compression of her round hips. They were consuming her and – in compliance he covered her with his long frame – now they would have her totally.

  His aunt guided his penis inside the girl’s wet, constricted orifice and he gasped despite himself. The multiple hands, multiple directives, amplified his experience manifold. Each fractional movement, each tiny involuntary response was clear in his awareness. He felt her vaginal walls press him, massage him. He felt the impact of his bulging head against her cervix’ impenetrable yet yielding resistance. It was a strange contradiction – the simultaneous taking and giving of energy.

  And as he penetrated her, he sucked her life force out of her body and into his. It thrilled him, buoyed him up, filled him full to bursting until he did feel his corporeal shell rupture and he melded with the undifferentiated existence around him, with his aunt’s incredible sensuality and the blackness’ great power.

  Hours later he awoke next to her on his high bed in the cottage’s one room second floor. What had wakened him? He peered into the dark corners but saw nothing. Only pearly moonlight kept them company. He turned over and buried his head in the down pillow but sleep would not return.

  At last, in disquieted frustration he left the girl’s pale, unconscious form and stalked to the window. Small, fluffy clouds floated across the night bright sky, hiding the moon and the hills below in a patch of dark at his approach. He looked upward and, as if on cue, the moon emerged, not yet full but convex – “gibbous”, he remembered the correct term – and golden.

  His gaze dropped to the church steeple then, suddenly, was jerked lower. Standing on the small porch was his luscious carrot-haired wraith in her so-familiar gauzy white dress, her hair and translucent skin shining like burnished crystal in the gilt and silver light. The wraith raised her head and peered up at him. With shock he recognized her substance. He wiped traces of insensibility from his eyes with quivering fingers. Was she real?

  “Mon Coeur, my dearest heart,” his aunt appeared at his side. “She is special. Only for you. Elle est une vierge, a virgin.” Her laugh was throaty, erotic and, he heard it clearly, triumphant. “Consider the power!” She squeezed her voluptuous body between his and the windowsill, pressing her breasts – which loomed naked and real in his awareness despite their illusory mien and hundred year old costume – against his bare chest and gave him a small shove. “Go to her.”

  Evers’ daughter! He hadn’t seen her in several years and suddenly she was waiting for him. And now as exquisite and mature as her great grandmother. How?

  He glanced at his aunt’s azure eyes, burning with hell’s blue flames, far hotter than any red. Obviously it was her doing. An insubstantial whiff of anxiety floated across his senses. To what extent?

  Marie’s wanton blood red lips curled at the corners and his eyes widened with certain knowledge. She’d begun her machinations that morning years ago in Evers’ kitchen – even before? – and had plotted and manipulated ever since with all, he smiled bitterly into her mocking blue pools, the patience of the dead. This was why she’d encouraged the blackness to let him have the girl’s lovely dead ancestor.

  Truly he didn’t want to go. Yet he was drawn to the girl, drawn more powerfully than to her ancestor or, indeed, to any of the others. His aunt held his bloodied robes and he slipped into them.

  His march to the church did not register, only when he stood in front of her. Then he couldn’t resist. He lifted her ethereal body and carried her like a bride across the church’s threshold, all the while aware of her silence and her aquamarine gaze on his face.

  With meticulous care he arranged her delicate limbs on the communion table, electrified by the feel of her downy skin. Through the dress’s worn and ivoried transparency, his narrow fingertips grazed the tender swell of her upper arms, her thighs, her breasts and even her pubis’ gossamer orange curls. She was so beautiful! So enticing! He looked down into trusting sky blue eyes that never left his face and frowned with repugnance. She was so innocent! Could he possibly destroy such perfection?

  Yet the urge to proceed was almost un
bearable. This time he didn’t need his aunt’s visions. The awful power he’d reap from the act saturated his every cell. Here, he knew indisputably, was the path to his desires’ absolute fulfilment. He strode to the altar and removed the old artefact from its concealed niche. Awesome blackness gathered around him in a cloak of power as he lifted the knife above his head and began to chant. Power surged through him like a vibrant current, filling his upraised arms and his rising phallus simultaneously.

  From a height he looked down upon the thing of beauty and he desired it, was almost overcome by yearning for it. Now his aunt’s whispers reverberated in the tumult around him. “She is yours. Only for you. Take her. It is so simple. Tout simple. Then everything will be yours.” He saw clear blue and many coloured fire as the blade plunged toward the wide, unsullied orbs.

  She lay on the communion table in the old church, her clear blue eyes staring into his vibrant brilliants – blue into blue. Somewhere close by was horrible dark fear but she could only focus on the soft languorous pleasure in her body and on her desire.

  The first time she’d seen him he’d had some weird almost magical affect on her. She’d secretly watched him ever since, watched him with the women he brought to the cottage and watched his mystifying activities here.

  All the while, someone she couldn’t see but knew was more beautiful than anyone she’d ever met seemed to stand at her shoulder, whispering encouragement in her ear then showing her how to hide. She touched the cobwebby white fabric draping over her fingers. It was the unseen woman who’d instructed her where to find the dress and when to put it on and come to him.

  Now he soared above her, hard, princely and powerful. The jagged bones of his face flickered in and out of relief in the candlelight. She yearned to reach out and touch him, to touch the penis that stood up tall, entrancing and forbidding between his draping robes, so near her face. She’d never seen a man’s naked penis this close before.

  The majestic column resonated, even sparkled with life – or so it appeared to her euphoric vision. What would it feel like when it touched her as she knew it must? No matter. She was ready for the glorious moment. The woman had assured her it was her destiny.

  His reedy voice rose upward, chanting a language she didn’t understand, and his cloth draped arms raised with it. She saw a shining light. No! It was the glint of steel. A knife!

  Fear gripped her. For only a moment, though. Again, the euphoria descended on her like a blissful shroud, dampening and also glorifying her senses. Even as the blade dropped toward her throat she was unconcerned. Her breast swelled and the diaphanous fabric rubbed her nipples, startling her with never-before experienced sensations of arousal as they became erect. This, this was her wonderful destiny!

  Ward loved driving at night and also in bad weather. He peered out the Rover’s open driver’s window. Tonight was warm and a little too pretty. Small clouds that looked fluffy even in the dark drifted across a sky brightened by lights of many cities, a few scattered stars and the intermittent presence of a tawny moon.

  Nonetheless, he’d decided to take the remnants of winding country roads, disappearing too quickly under burgeoning, monotone estate developments, rather than Indian Head Highway. At least no other cars were on the road this late so he could enjoy his new playtoy.

  His black-shod foot pressed the pedal and the sleek black Range Rover surged into a smooth curve, gripping the rolling arc with a panther’s ease. Luxurious leather interior muffled the roar of the big engine’s acceleration. The strong fingers of Ward’s right hand lovingly caressed the stiff, new, sweet smelling black leather as he flew past the high dimmed lights flanking the entryway to Rosecroft Raceway. Almost immediately manicured grass gave way to thick, dark forest.

  Streetlights appeared in the distance and Ward slowed slightly in anticipation. The next instant something white darted into the road directly in his path. With nowhere else to go he swerved toward the trees and then, with exhilarating relief, he saw it. A dirt track opened between the dense foliage almost in front of him. He jerked to the right and the heavy car bounced onto the rutted pathway.

  Ward straightened the wheel and braked, coming to a bone-jarring but secure stop under the treed canopy. Immediately he studied the rear view mirror. Centred behind the car, right where the track met the paved road, stood a ghostly girl with long flowing hair and a pale dress that rippled eerily in the warm breeze.

  Giving ardent thanks, Ward jumped out of the car and ran toward the girl. “Are you all right?” The girl stared fixedly toward him but said nothing. He slowed, not wanting to frighten her.

  As he drew closer, he made out her odd, tattered, old fashioned dress and her bare feet. “Do you live near here?” Still she didn’t respond. He faced her, maintaining what he hoped was a comfortable distance – though she gave no indication of discomfort, or of any other emotion – and stifled his surprise. Rigorously he kept his expression neutral as he discreetly examined her. She was exquisite.

  Ward slowly, cautiously reached toward her hand. His smile was gentle. “I want to help you. Can you tell me who you are and where you live?” She stared up at him from huge, astonishingly innocent blue eyes.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile. As he moved it to his ear she lurched forward and knocked it to the ground, violently shaking her head from side to side. “All right. I won’t call. Don’t worry.” He retrieved the phone and slipped it into his pocket. Again she lurched forward but now she clung to him, tensed in wretched silence, her face buried in his dark shirtfront.

  He looked down at her lustrous copper hair. “Would you like to come with me?” She nodded up and down, vigorously, against his chest. He lifted her in his arms and carried her to his car.

  LaVeau regained consciousness in an awkward crumpled pile on the church floor. His head felt as if it had blown apart. Slowly, painfully the pieces connected and the awful memory returned.

  He remembered looking down on that wondrous form, remembered the shining blade hurtling toward her insubstantial throat. He remembered the vast power and then – again his head threatened to explode – the breathtaking swell of love that brought the world’s end.

  Slowly, gently, he tried to shake off the throbbing pain. Tears filled his eyes and ran down his hard cheeks. He couldn’t kill her. He loved her. The knowledge had hit him like a cannonball as the knife descended in his hand. Blackness had risen, roared around him, rending mind and body and knocking him flat.

  And her also. His last memory was of the dazzling face, an instant before radiant with tranquillity, crumple into a masque of horror and fear … and of her silent bolt for the door. The image of her graceful, so vulnerable back outlined by candlelight through the thin dress as it vanished from his life would, he was certain, haunt him forever.

  Desperately he turned his head and surveyed the scene. His heart ached unbearably. Now she was gone and somehow he knew she was not coming back. His aunt would see to that. Love was not an acceptable or useable emotion.

  His hands gripped his robe’s front. He wanted to rip the cloth apart, to scream and tear his hair. What had they done with her? What had they done with his Teresa?

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ward stood on the broad veranda and admired the big black machine as it purred out of the trees and onto the landscaped circle fronting his house. Mercedes 500 series. Should he have gotten one of those? he momentarily wondered. But no, he liked his Range Rover.

  The car’s heavy door swung noiselessly open. A slim figure dressed in an elegant charcoal suit pivoted long legs to the gravel and stood with startling grace. His loose curls glowed obsidian in the clear sunlight. As he sauntered toward the house, he lifted a hand in greeting. Ward descended the short staircase to meet him.

  “Reza! Welcome to my home.” Ward restrained his desire to examine the unusually handsome man more closely. He’d save that. He ushered Reza, who peered this way and that with great interest, into the heavily trimmed foyer with its g
rand staircase, bevelled panelling and inverted finials. “Can I offer you some tea or coffee, or perhaps some lemonade?” Among a great deal of other information, Ward had learned that Reza was Muslim and therefore didn’t consume alcohol.

  “Lemonade would be lovely.” Reza accent was virtually unidentifiable – Ward thought he heard both American and British English overlaying traces of more ornate dialects – only exceedingly refined.

  Reza smiled with utmost charm into Ward’s face. “But I do hope you’ll give me a tour of the house.” He looked around appreciatively. “It appears quite remarkable.”

  “Thank you. Certainly I’ll give you a tour, though keep in mind I’ve only begun to renovate.” Ward smiled drolly. “I’m still getting to know the house.” His expression reflected his abashed perfectionism. “I have to think about things for awhile. It’s taken me months to make decisions on three rooms and they were easy.” Ward slid back the high pocket doors to the front parlour, an old-fashioned, somewhat dark room with thick leaded windows, a scroll backed Victorian suite of horsehair sofas and armchairs, overgrown plants and handmade antique lace curtains. He waved an arm into the room. “I’m not touching them. So. Tour first or lemonade?”

  “Well,” now Reza smiled wryly, “my family would no doubt disapprove – they’d think I’m far too westernized – but let’s tour. Then we can sit and have a leisurely talk.”

  “Why don’t we start upstairs. We can walk through the main floor on the way to the rear porch, which has a spectacular view of the Potomac.” Ward started up the massive turned staircase, elegantly curving to the intricate leaded windows of the second floor landing. “Most of the upstairs rooms are empty bedrooms or sitting rooms. But the fireplaces and trim are worth seeing – at least a sampling of them.”