Gothic Blue

by Portia Da Costa

  When his tongue touched her sex, she almost fainted.

  It was just the very lightest contact at first. His tongue-tip was furled, extended, probing like a dart into her sacred inner sanctum. Moving like a hovering, nectar drinking bird, it circled the snug mouth of her vagina, then seemed to flatten and lap at her welling fluids. The feeling was so sublime and so longed for, she began to come.

  As the pulsations lashed her vulva, she felt André grip her tightly and his tongue point again and dive inside her. Squirming, she reached beneath herself and rubbed her clitoris.

  ‘Yes!’ encouraged André, his cultured voice muffled against her bottom.

  Belinda rubbed harder, her whole body in manic, jerking motion as the sensations spiralled up to a new intensity. She could hear herself sobbing, shouting, grunting; her sex seemed to be a mile wide, a vast landscape of pure, lewd pleasure; every inch of it beating like a misplaced heart.

  The next moment, she felt André withdraw his tongue from her vagina then slither it backwards until it rested against her anus.

  Oh no! screamed a scared little voice inside her; then suddenly the same voice was howling out anew in perfect ecstasy. Furled again, and as stiff and determined as before, his tongue breached the puckered aperture between her buttocks.

  ‘Oh no! Oh no! Oh no!’ she crooned, appalled by the power of what she was experiencing. This was an unthinkable taboo. It couldn’t be happening. She couldn’t be feeling such pleasure because he was doing that to her. She couldn’t be coming even harder than she had before …

  After a while, Belinda seemed to wake up from a dream of sobbing and disorientation. She was aware of what had just happened, but her mind was trying to stop her from believing it. No man had ever done such a thing to her before, and the strength of her own responses confused and confounded her. Shame and horror vied with delicious wonder. She didn’t know what to think, but she couldn’t deny what she had felt. The pinnacle of pleasure from the basest kiss of all.

  As her shoulders heaved and her teardrops fell down into the garden below, she sensed André rise behind her. What he had just done should by rights have abased him, and yet it dawned on Belinda that precisely the opposite had happened. If anything, her awe of him had increased. He was remarkable. Uninhibited beyond belief. A sexual prize she was unworthy of and had not earned.

  ‘Do not weep,’ he whispered, leaning over her. ‘There is no shame in enjoying the feuille de rose.’ His arms slid around her and lifted her from the stone, and when she was standing, he gently turned her to face him, using the very tips of his fingers to erase her tears. ‘And it pleased me to kiss you there. Your cul is enchanting. I cannot imagine a man who could resist its tender beauty and its tightness.’

  Belinda buried her face in the lapel of his dinner jacket, very aware of her own vulnerability. Her pretty chemise had slid down over her back but her buttocks were still naked. She could feel herself blushing again, thinking of André’s cool aristocratic face pressed tight between the cheeks of her bottom.

  ‘Hush … hush …’ A long, graceful hand settled on the back of her head, ruffling and smoothing her short hair. Belinda felt a great calm flow over her, a feeling of being exactly in the right place in the world. What André had done had been wonderful. How could she possibly have perceived it as wrong?

  ‘That’s a pretty name for it,’ she said at last, looking up into his lambent blue eyes.

  ‘Feuille de rose?’

  ‘Yes. Trust the French.’ She suddenly found herself laughing.

  André chuckled too. ‘Yes, as a nation they have an aptitude for the bon mot,’ he observed, smiling at her. ‘But the description is valid. Have you never taken a glass and studied yourself?’ His eyes twinkled. ‘The entrance is soft and a dark, dark pink, and it is ruffled like the petals of a rosebud.’

  ‘I-I’ve never looked,’ she said nervously. Would he think her less of a woman if she wasn’t fully familiar with her own sexual anatomy? She had taken her body for granted until now; perhaps not revelled in it as much as she should have.

  ‘Never?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Then why not begin tonight?’ He eyed her intently, his expression indicating an order rather than a question.

  ‘I –’ Belinda began, then she fell silent as André slid his fingers beneath the hem of her thin chemise and whisked it up over her head.

  ‘But how can I look at myself here?’ she protested when it too fluttered down on to the flags of the terrace. She fought the urge to cover herself, especially her nipples, which were as hard and dark as plum stones.

  ‘You cannot,’ he replied, reaching gently for her breasts and cupping them, ‘but I can.’ He bent down, kissed each delicately pointed crest, then met her eyes again. ‘And I have been promising myself this privilege all night.’ He reached out and enfolded her in his arms, crushing her near-naked form to his fully-clothed body.

  If Belinda had felt vulnerable before, she felt doubly so now. She was standing on an open terrace, at night, virtually nude. Her flimsy suspender belt, her stockings and her ballet shoes were no protection, especially from the mysterious, audacious man who held her. Any second now, he might bend her over the parapet and perform whatever outrage he so desired on her unprotected body. It might be more than his tongue that entered her this time – and yet, snuggling closer, she longed for the deepest of debasement.

  For a while he just kissed her and held her, his mouth quite circumspect as it roved across her face, exploring briefly but always returning to her lips. Occasionally, he would mutter a scrap of a sentence against her skin, something unintelligible in his own language that nevertheless made her quiver.

  Presently, his mouth settled firmly on hers again, his tongue pressing for entrance then possessing her completely the instant her lips yielded. At the same time, his hands began to range across her body, visiting her breasts, her thighs and her buttocks. In sliding circles, he rubbed and aroused her and his fingers delved repeatedly into the grove between her legs, touching her sex and the sensitive ‘rosebud’ of her bottom. Aflame anew, she couldn’t stop herself from moaning, uttering her muffled entreaties around his tongue.

  ‘You want me,’ he said, releasing her mouth and looking down at her. It was a statement of fact, not a question.

  Belinda tried to look away, but he cupped her jaw in his fingers and prevented her.

  ‘You want me … I know that,’ he said again, with a strange expression on his face that puzzled her. She watched him bite his lip in perplexion, then heard him sigh.

  Sensing the sudden return of his melancholy, Belinda moved her body against his invitingly. She found it difficult to say the words, but actions were easy enough. She shimmied sinuously, rocking her belly against the bulge of his erection.

  ‘Would that things were different …’ he said quietly, his eyes on her face, their brilliant blue suddenly darkened to indigo. He was aroused, she could tell. There was no denying the truth of his hard, swollen cock against her. But the very fact of it seemed to cause him sorrow instead of joy.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Belinda, thoroughly puzzled by the contradictions. She suddenly realised that she had perhaps never wanted a man this much ever in her life, and she couldn’t bear the idea of being thwarted now. A second ago, she had been sure he desired her.

  ‘I will tell you,’ he said, placing a cool hand on either side of her face and making her look at him. ‘But first we will share pleasure as best we can.’ Releasing her, he stepped back a pace, then reached for her hand. ‘Come. We will go to your bedroom. We can be more comfortable there.’ He gave her a small, almost nervous smile, and began to lead her across the terrace towards the house.

  ‘But my clothes –’ She looked back towards the pools of pale silk that were the dress and the lingerie. ‘And I left my bag and my flower in the dining room.’ Why was she protesting? The things were André’s so what did it matter?

  ‘You do not need clothes,’ he sa
id, urging her forward, his playfulness returned. ‘Come, I want you to walk naked through my house. I want to see your breasts and your bottom sway as you move. Indulge an old man, Belinda. Please be kind.’

  More confused than ever, she obeyed him, very conscious of the bounce of her breasts with each step and the way her bottom rolled voluptuously from side to side. And what on earth had he meant by ‘indulge an old man’? He had been flirting with her as he had said it, yet the words themselves had seemed to carry an odd significance.

  He wasn’t old, not by any means. Not really. Yet as she thought about it, Belinda wondered exactly how old her intriguing host was. It was hard to put a precise age on him. His features were peculiarly ageless; neither old nor young. He could have been anywhere between his early twenties to his late thirties, and his streaky hair made him even more of an enigma.

  ‘Why are you frowning?’ André asked suddenly as he stepped aside to let her pass into the main hall. ‘Please do not spoil a masterpiece with such a worried look.’

  Wondering what he was referring to, Belinda spun around and saw herself and André reflected in a long mirror which she hadn’t noticed before.

  The contrast between them was stunning: André was a dramatic and ominous figure in his sombre black clothing, while she was a pale, gleaming vision of delicate curves. The minimal scrap of lace around her hips and her gossamer fine stockings only appeared to increase her nakedness rather than cover it, and the glossy amber of her pubic curls was a brilliant splash. Once again, she felt an overpowering urge to try and cover herself, but before thought could become deed, André grasped her arms.

  ‘Do not hide, Belinda,’ he whispered, drawing her arms back and making her straighten her shoulders. Her breasts lifted proudly as if displayed. ‘Your bare body is sublime. A treasure. You should exhibit it as often as you are able.’ Starting to blush again, Belinda looked away, but André released her and made her turn her head. ‘Look … Look into the glass,’ he murmured. ‘See your own beauty.’ His hand passed across her breasts, then down over her belly to rest briefly against her pubis, the dark sleeve of his coat making her skin look white and pearly. There seemed no trace left of her holiday tan. ‘Would you like to watch while I caress you?’ His voice was low, like velvet in her ear, and the expression on his face was almost predatory. ‘Would you like to see your own face when you are in the throes of ecstasy? See it grow savage as you reach the peak of pleasure?’ His mouth was against her neck; she could feel his teeth. ‘Would you, Belinda, would you?’

  ‘No! I can’t! I don’t want to!’ She jerked away from him, aware that she was lying but also frightened. Her body was moistening at the thought – the image of her naked hips bucking, her face twisting. Her thighs spread wide while a strong hand worked ruthlessly between them. ‘Please, no,’ she whispered, turning in towards him then almost collapsing against the dark-clad column of his body.

  He held her again, soothingly. ‘Do not worry,’ he said into her hair, ‘there is no compulsion. You need only do what you want to do, Belinda. I would never force you to do anything against your will.’

  Belinda snuggled against him, breathing in great lungfuls of his heady rose cologne. Within her, she could already feel her fears transforming into desires. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him she had changed her mind and that she would be glad to fulfil his wishes, when he patted her back and then released her from his arms.

  ‘Come along, to your room. We can relax there and feel comfortable.’

  Belinda nodded and gave him a small shy smile, wondering how it was that she could suddenly change from a self-possessed and rather bossy young woman into a creature so pliant and submissive. It was less than a day since she had first set eyes on André von Kastel, and already she was obeying his every word.

  The strangest thing, she thought, as they ascended the staircase together, arm in arm, her breast brushing the fine cloth of his dinner jacket, was how easily it had happened. André was a puzzle to her, and mysterious sexually, as well as on every other level. Yet despite this, she somehow felt strangely safe with him. She sensed he was keeping secrets from her – probably a good many of them – but she also knew, without knowing how, that he wouldn’t harm her. At least not intentionally.

  Turning to him, she smiled again, and as they reached the top of the stairs, he returned her smile and nodded infinitesimally.

  Belinda shrugged her shoulders. How long would it take her to remember that while André could hide his secrets effortlessly, hers were an open book to him?

  When they reached her door, he opened it, then stepped back, executing a slight bow to let her pass.

  The room was filled with candles and their flickering casting a moving veil of light. Some were in elaborate candelabra, wrought out of iron and bronze and more precious metals; while other, thinner candles stood in a variety of small, individual holders of porcelain, crystal and brass, scattered on every flat surface to be seen. The result of all this was eerie but also welcoming, and Belinda gasped, feeling sheer delight at the magical effect.

  ‘How lovely!’ she cried.

  ‘My servants know their duties well,’ said André from behind her, a note of satisfaction in his voice.

  Belinda moved forward into the room, looking around at the array of dancing lights, then down at her own body where the radiance played on it. It was something of a cliché that candlelight flattered the human body, but this was the first time she had seen the phenomenon for herself. The shimmering glow seemed to lend a soft peachy radiance to her skin, as well sleekening her curves and creating a subtle mystic shading. Without thinking, she ran her hands down her flanks and watched the shadows of her fingers leap and race. From behind her she heard a male sigh of appreciation.

  When she turned around, she found André staring at her fixedly, his eyes filled with both excitement and what appeared for all the world to be exquisite nostalgia. Seeing her body by candlelight obviously brought back a memory of some kind, a recollection that was both erotic and deeply poignant. His face shining, he held out his arms, then fiercely embraced her.

  What is it? she wanted to ask as they were kissing. Who does this remind you of? The questions faded as André’s kiss bewitched her senses.

  Belinda had never been a great one for kissing on its own, but with André the simple act brought a ravishing pleasure. His mouth was soft, yet active and strong; as cold as ice-cream, and figuratively, just as sweet. She found herself swaying again, almost swooning; quite lost in the experience. And it was André, with a sigh of regret, who at last drew back.

  ‘Do you need a moment to yourself?’ he asked, nodding towards the bathroom.

  Belinda felt confused for a second, then realised what he was asking, and was thankful.

  ‘Yes. Just a minute,’ she said, breaking from his arms. ‘I won’t be long.’ Conscious of his scrutiny, she walked as smoothly and gracefully as she could into the adjoining room.

  What am I letting myself in for? she thought, doing what she had to as quickly as possible. He scares me, and yet I let him do exactly what he wants with me.

  Why is that? she asked her reflection in the mirror, studying the wild eyes and passion-flushed face she saw before her. She was in unknown territory, the realm of the imagination. After having read so many tales of the supernatural – and half-believing them at the time – she was now in the presence of a real ‘phenomenon’, a man who could very well not be human. And yet she trusted him.

  So, what do you think he is? she mused as she sprayed on a little scent, then ran her fingers through her hair to smooth it. He says he isn’t a vampire, but he is something. No normal man can do what he does and feel how he feels.

  Standing with her hand on the door handle, she had a last irrational urge to pull back, to lock the bathroom door, and shout for André to go away. But then she remembered his kisses, and his touch, and she could no longer wait a single minute to be near him. She flung open the door and strode back into th
e bedroom, her heart pounding madly.

  André was waiting in bed for her, his clothes flung everywhere on the floor. His smile was almost shy as she approached him, and he held up the blood-red coverlet to reveal the crisp, lace-trimmed linens that lay beneath it. She caught a fleeting glimpse of his long bare flank as she slid in beside him.

  ‘Belinda … The beautiful one,’ he murmured, as they lay facing one another, propped up on a mound of pillows. He reached out to touch her cheek, but otherwise kept his distance, as if reluctant to press his unclothed body against hers. His face bore an expression of disbelief, an almost boyish befuddlement at the simple fact that they were together, sharing a bed.

  ‘Why are you staring at me like that?’ she asked, feeling the hairs on the back of her neck rise. André looked stunned, yet extraordinarily focused. ‘You said I reminded you of someone. Is that what it is? Do I look like a woman you once made love to? Someone you’ve slept with already?’

  ‘I never made love to her,’ he said quietly, his mouth twisted in a quirky sorrowful little smile. ‘At least, not the way I would have liked to.’

  ‘What happened?’ asked Belinda, moving closer, then clasping his arm so he couldn’t retreat. As her thigh touched his, she felt the coolness of his skin, but suppressed her flinch of shock. It seemed that his entire body had the same unnaturally low temperature that his lips and his hands did.

  ‘Did … did she die?’ She felt compelled to ask, even though she suspected his answer would cause him pain.

  André looked away, and for a long time he didn’t speak. His cold body felt so still against her that he might just as well have been carved out of stone. ‘Not exactly,’ he said eventually, ‘although sometimes I wonder if it might have been better if she had died. And that I had died also.’