Gemini Heat

by Portia Da Costa

Jake was a strong, fit man who concealed his physical power. Before Delia properly knew how he’d done it, she was on her back and stretched out. He wasn’t on top of her yet, but his thigh was across her belly, holding her down. On his side, beside her, he slid a cradling arm beneath her and held the other one poised and ready. He was choosing his first target, she sensed, and his cock was like a steel prod against her.

  She had a great sense of being his toy again. Of waiting for her buttons to be pushed … And this time, she liked it. Jake seemed to deliberate for a long long time, holding her tight and quivering with need, while he made his choice from her body. How could he do this? she wondered. How could any man as ready as he was be so precise and so surgically cool?

  Would he touch her breast or her belly first? The skin in each place seemed to tighten and sensitise in readiness. Her thigh, perhaps? Her nipples? Her navel? Would he touch her first on her sex? Push his finger straight into her channel?

  In the end it was her face.

  ‘You’re not scared of me, are you?’ he asked, brushing aside a few strands of her hair.

  She was scared. Scared of the game being revealed. Scared of his anger. And yes, scared of just him.

  But those were wimpish fears and she could handle them. What really frightened her was herself. Herself and the way Jake would change her. The way he’d already changed her. In the few days she’d known him she’d done some unthinkable things, and he was bound to push her still further …

  ‘No!’ she lied bravely, summoning the family guts and boldness. Deana’s fighting spirit. Mirroring Jake’s own action, she reached up to touch his face, then shivered as she smelt his scent. The blended male odours of cologne and sweat and semen.

  Suddenly, touching wasn’t enough. She slid her fingers round the back of his neck, then dug them into his thick, straight hair as she pulled down his face for a kiss.

  He met her strongly, but yieldingly too. His lips were firm and cool, and they opened when she pressed in her tongue. She felt empowered and dizzy as if his mouth were filled with a drug.

  His body tilted as they kissed, moving over hers, and his free hand slid down towards her breast. He cupped her quite naturally and easily, his fingers curving inwards around her. With his thumb centred firmly on her nipple, he pressed in, then flicked to and fro. He was gentle but forceful, and for a second she was reminded of Peter. It was the same kind of cautious hunger … But when she opened her eyes and looked into Jake’s dark blue ones – as she’d promised – she knew there was no real comparison.

  Peter was a nice man who genuinely cared for her. Jake was an unprincipled sexual predator. Glorious, but ready to play out any role or ruse in pursuit of what he wanted from a woman. And the worst of it was, even though she understood his self-serving nature, she couldn’t combat it.

  Jake’s slow, light handling of her breast produced a predictable reflex reaction. Her pelvis rose beneath his restraining thigh, and fresh juice ran from her sex. She wanted him to press his thigh in between her legs, but he held his position. Not quite touching her pubis.

  She felt like screaming with frustration. Her vulva was aching for strong hard action. She wanted his cock inside her. Opening her body, forcing it wide, and laying waste to her hot wet vagina. She wanted him to take her and screw her without mercy or pause.

  But he was playing with her again, suppressing his own power to break her.

  I won’t beg, thought Delia grimly, gritting her teeth. I want him. I need him. I’d dying for him. But I won’t whine like a bitch for his cock.

  Her body thought otherwise, though, and as her pelvis rose hungrily against him, he pulled himself up and away.

  ‘Stop teasing me, you bastard! Get on with it!’ she hissed. She was angry, furiously angry – a hot rage that boiled in her sex and ate at her body like acid … She could almost feel it sizzling.

  ‘With pleasure,’ he whispered, eyes bright blue as he manoeuvred his body to comply. Taking his weight on his elbows in the classic manner, he moved himself across her, and his prick bobbed insistently at her thighs. She could feel its blind clubbed head pushing gently, and she drew up her knees to receive him; angling her body so he slipped in like silk between her labia. His glans seemed to skate around her sticky-wet folds for a moment, then lodge fairly and squarely at her entrance.

  Delia bucked up fiercely, trying to work him deeper, but Jake held steady. His cock-tip was only just inside her, nudging at her warm, tight snugness.

  ‘Hold still! Don’t be so impatient … There’s plenty of time.’

  Enraged, she redoubled her efforts, grabbing and mangling at his bottom just as she’d already grabbed at Elf’s. Delaying penetration was hard work for him, and she knew it. His thighs and buttocks were twitching with effort and she considered stroking his anus to force the issue.

  But even as the thought crossed her mind, he started powering downwards and inwards.

  ‘Slowly, slowly, slowly,’ he cooed, still holding her gaze. Millimetre by millimetre he eased his gorged flesh inside her, stretching the natural resilience of her portal and triggering a whole new bundle of nerve-ends which had always been passed by too quickly.

  The sensations made her heart race. She was being held open by the bulk of his penis, her vagina tickled and titillated in a way that was fabulous and for her, unprecedented. Above her face, Jake’s eyes were like navigational beacons; steering her flesh towards the secrets of knowledge.

  As he pushed in a tiny bit further, and his cock-head was trapped by her muscles, Delia spasmed around him – and at the same time felt a cool plume of fear.

  What if this was a test? A measurement of some kind? It had never occurred to her before, it had never mattered, but what if she and Deana weren’t actually the same down there?

  Panic made her hotter than ever, and sweaty. What if she was tighter than Deana? Or looser? And their folds might be differently arranged … She could be coarser, wetter, slicker, more or less clinging. The variables were infinite.

  The moment seemed infinite too. She waited for a query. For angry words and withdrawal. She waited for Jake to say, ‘I know …’

  But there was nothing.

  Instead, he sighed heavily, then put his lips to hers. His tongue plunged into her waiting mouth at the very instant his cock took her sex.

  The sense of possession was so complete it almost denied her of breath. He was in, deep in, and quite still. In stasis. It was as if he were imprinting himself on his territory, matching their codes, marking her forever as his.

  Movement, when it did come, was a shock. Jake’s lunges were long and smooth – and on each out-stroke he held himself above her and looked straight down into her eyes, his cockhead throbbing tensely just inside her.

  He didn’t speak or cry out or even grunt, but his whole body said ‘This is me. What you wanted. Watch my eyes.’

  Delia was gone now, lost in it, only a fragment of her mind still working. She had no conscious thoughts, only prayers that his eyes wouldn’t change. And start asking, ‘Which one are you?’

  But it was hard to remember who he was now. She could only think of him as flesh. Living bulk inside her. A huge male presence in her body. She felt stretched around him, battered by his hardness, her delicate interior fluttering and melting as her perceptions of space-time distorted. She could hear her own orgasm, see her collapsing waves of pleasure as fluttering silvery ghosts. She could taste light, and watch her own scream of ecstasy as it came barrelling towards her and smashed in through the membrane of reality.

  The last thing she registered was warm, hot redness. Then blue in the redness. Jake’s eyes as he thrust into her …

  8

  Samurai Dreams

  It was the first time Deana had ever truly envied her sister, and she didn’t like the feeling.

  Throwing off the single sheet from her naked, perspiring body, she gave up on sleep, slid her legs out of bed and stood up. Whether getting up would make things any better was
debatable, but she’d always preferred action to inaction. She snatched up her thin cotton robe, she shrugged it on and padded her way to the kitchen.

  Deana loved this little flat of theirs, and she’d invested a lot of her flair in it, but suddenly it looked drab and uninteresting. Because of where Delia was. And who she was with … Taking a sip from her glass of fizzy water, Deana switched off the light again. The dark was far easier to brood in.

  It was a better environment for imaging too, although that maybe wasn’t such a good thing to be doing right now. It would be better to keep fantasy to a minimum tonight. To resist dreams. Because they’d probably hurt like hell.

  When she closed her eyes, though, it seemed that the damage was done. The pictures had already arrived …

  You’re mad, she told herself, stroking her thighs through her robe as Jake appeared in her mind. Cool, dark Jake and her sister Delia, nude in an acre-sized bed, screwing like animals and screaming with pleasure …

  Oh well done, Deana, anyone would think you were a masochist!

  She found it difficult to believe how badly she was reacting. In this same position, Delia had shown far more sense. When it was her night ‘off’, she’d found another man to keep her company.

  For half a second, Deana considered turning the game back in on itself. She could sneak upstairs and pass herself off as Delia … It could work if she was sharp, but Peter would be trickier to fool than Jake. He’d been around her and Delia for years and years and might notice the differences. They were almost indiscernible, but they did exist.

  There was one big flaw in this plan however, and in her heart of hearts, Deana was glad of it. Peter knew that it was Delia who was out tonight, because she’d told him herself. Damn!

  She considered her options with little enthusiasm. Maybe I should just get a proper drink and watch TV on the all-night channel? Or I could try sketching, perhaps, or read a good book …

  Hold that thought!

  On the word ‘book’ another vision had formed. A quite different one this time. The dim and decadent interior of the so-called club ‘Seventeen’ … And in it a certain beautiful authoress with a long, fire-red plait and a distinctive taste in clothes.

  Vida Mistry.

  Who wrote books.

  Ignoring her flapping robe and the loss of its flimsy tie, Deana ran through into the living room. She stubbed her toe on the way and swore, then shrugged philosophically. It was that kind of night.

  Down beside the window was an over-filled bookcase which threatened to collapse any second. Snapping on a reading lamp, Deana scanned the shelves with purpose.

  What she was seeking was secreted on the bottom shelf. Hidden there by Delia no doubt, who, up until a few days ago, had always worried about ‘appearances’. The works of Vida Mistry would never win any top literary prizes, but that didn’t make them any less notable. What Deana now pulled from the shelves was some of the most salacious modern erotica available.

  She thumbed quickly through several of the volumes, searching for something that she’d only just realised was plaguing her. A connection. A name. It had been in her mind since the day after the art exhibition, but unsurprisingly her thinking had been muddled.

  Flicking and flicking the pages she smiled when certain ones fell open quite naturally. These books were so sexy. And some bits were sexier than others …

  The Pleasure Palace. Return to the Pleasure Palace. In Love with the Boy. They were all hot ‘reads’, but what she was looking for was not in a novel.

  At the bottom of the heap she found it. Seven Mistry Tales, a collection of short, sensual stories which had appeared in the sex magazine Encounters.

  The cover of the Mistry Tales was crinkled at the edges, as were many of the pages themselves. This particular book had spent quite some time in the bathroom, getting dangerously damp and curly while Deana tried to read it and caress her own body at the same time. Sometimes, it had been simple touches with her fingers, inspired by the blood-stirring prose; at other times, she’d have to run the shower or the bath taps to hide her vibrator’s loud buzz. It was silly really, there was nothing to be ashamed of. And she knew that Delia knew anyway.

  There was no shower now, and she didn’t need it. She didn’t even need the vibrator. She was burning up already, just from envy. Because her sister was getting what she wanted.

  But jealousy was a self-defeating route. The game was the game, and Delia was just taking her turn. Her fairly allotted slice of heaven … Deana knew she would have to make her own amusement, create her own pleasure. And this much-read book could help her. Slowly, with ceremony, she sat down on the sofa, flicked aside the wings of her robe and eased open her thighs. Opening the book too, she closed her eyes and ran her finger down the page of contents.

  When she looked down again, the connection snapped shut. She’d found what she was looking for. And she couldn’t understand why she hadn’t looked sooner.

  The story was called, rather fancifully, The Face of Lord Kazuto.

  Why on earth didn’t it click right away? Deana wondered. It had been obvious at ‘Seventeen’ that Jake and Mistry had once been lovers, and maybe even still were. But it wasn’t until now that Deana realised how significant that relationship had been. Vida had written about her lover in a story – about Kazuto, her Japanese jewel.

  Excited, and with her body softly trembling, Deana turned to the page. She’d read the story plenty of times, but never with eyes that had seen its hero in real life. Its beautiful samurai hero with his long black hair, his strong brown body and his magnificent woman-slaying weapon.

  The Face of Lord Kazuto wasn’t Vida Mistry at her wildest by a long shot, but in its own way it was quietly powerful. It was mannered, lyrical almost, and more gentle in character than she would’ve expected now she knew the characters.

  Now she was ready, Deana paused and wondered if she really wanted to masturbate. Moments ago she’d been desperate for it, her body all primed for her fingers. But now she almost didn’t want to do it. Didn’t need to. The story, the night, and her own imagination would do it all for her, be all the stimulation she needed. Breathing deeply, centring her mind, she began to read …

  It was a humid night, such as many in this season were. Keiko looked down at the face of the sleeping man before her, and she prayed to her gods that he dreamed of her.

  It’s me, Lord Kazuto, Your Keiko-chan. Your wife. Do you remember what we used to share here? Here on your futon … Before you went to war, then came back with your eyes dead from killing?

  With a rustle of embroidered silk, she knelt down beside the low, flat bed, touching the corner of its quilted mattress with her fingertips, because she hardly dare touch the man himself. It pained her deeply that she felt this fear, that things were so changed between them, when months ago they’d been so close it had been almost unseemly.

  His new young wife, she’d been prepared for this bed by maids who were equally new to her. They’d bathed and perfumed her, brushed her long black hair until it gleamed. Then, ignoring her naive cries of protest, they’d opened her virgin thighs and stroked the sensitive portal of her womanhood to prepare her for the touch of her newly wed Lord. At the same time, they’d opened the books her mother had given her, the Shunga pillow-books, and made her look closely at the lewd but exquisite drawings of lovers in heavenly congress. By the time she’d studied each image, her belly had been aching for the things that she’d seen, and her loins were on fire for her Lord.

  Then, in accordance with his wishes, her path of love had been opened for him. Her maids, between them, had deflowered her with a slender ivory rod. One swift stroke of pain, and she’d been ready for him, and she’d asked the kami of fleshly conflict to make her brave. If Lord Kazuto were to be as hard as the harigata, she must learn to bear him with grace.

  How ignorant I was, she thought now. The harigata had been beautifully crafted, and she was grateful to this day for its carved likeness to her husband’s mighty mem
ber. But that was all the ivory rod was. A likeness. A cold, hard thing with no spirit or animation. Lord Kazuto himself, when he’d finally possessed her, had been just as stiff and unyielding as the harigata, but so warm inside her body, and so silken, that her unrestrained cries had beat against the shoji and threatened to alert the whole household to her ecstasy.

  ‘Kazuto-chan,’ she mouthed now, moderating her words out of respect while her womanhood flowed like a river.

  Each night while he’d been away, she’d shed this same lotus dew, remembering the pleasures of their pillowing. She’d woken from demon haunted dreams, her body wet and aching, and been forced to seek out the harigata to calm her longing for her Lord. With its cool hard comfort inside her, she’d let her fingers play amongst her petals as her husband’s had done. Then, when the moment came, she’d soar like a spirit to paradise with his beloved face clear in her mind and his pure noble name on her lips …

  It was wonderful stuff, and it was working, Deana realised. Almost without thinking, she’d been slowly rocking her pelvis, and flexing her hot inner muscles in a subtle, automatic caress. She wasn’t crying, but when she reached between her thighs and touched herself, she found her flesh just as sticky as Keiko’s. Stroking her vulva thoughtfully, she returned her attention to the narrative …

  In the early days of their marriage, whilst replete with the pleasures gained on this very futon, Keiko had had no need of the cold harigata. With gracious courtesy, her Lord had requested her company each night: sometimes wooing her with a slow, almost respectful ritual, at other times taking her brutally. He was just as much a warrior in love as he was on the field of battle. But in the pillow world there was no shame in surrender. At least not for Keiko, as she revelled in the slight sweet pain of his member surging in her channel.

  Sadly, though, this sojourn in heaven had been brief.

  ‘I entrust you with the management of my affairs, Lady Keiko,’ he’d said on that last morning, bowing deeply and respectfully before swinging astride his war-horse. The leave taking was formal, and though Keiko was sad, she bore it with all composure, buoyed up by memories of his true farewell to her, in the scented shadows of the bedchamber.