by Q. Zayne
I got my arm around him and squeezed his shoulder. There were no words for such grief. I pressed closer, comforted him with my body as best I could. How did he know Isabella?
“That’s devastating, to lose them both so suddenly.” I pictured him trapped in the car with their broken bodies. Panicked, trying to bring them back. He went through not only loss, but trauma. I sensed more than grief from him, the slick, cold pain of guilt flowed from him in storm waves. “It wasn’t your fault, Marcus. Black ice is deadly.”
He shook his head, beyond speaking. If I was driving a car and loved ones died in an accident, I’d probably never get over it, never stop feeling at fault. Would Marcus ever absolve himself of their deaths?
He swallowed, his Adam’s apple straining under his dark stubble below his beard.
On impulse, I kissed his scar. I couldn’t help it. I wanted to make everything better, even though I didn’t believe I could. Embedded in me like a template, Jane Eyre took on Mr. Rochester. I wasn’t looking for a wounded man, but I found this one. In a deep sense, he found me. Could we make anything of what we were now, together?
I closed my eyes. I didn’t want to hope. But I didn’t want to stop wanting, either.
“Excuse me, Cleo. This isn’t how I would have wanted our time together to end today.” His lips brushed my temple.
“It’s alright, Marcus. It’s real. I’m glad you told me. I’m just sorry I blundered into such a painful loss.”
“I’ll live. I seem to have a knack of it.” He sounded bitter.
I understood why. Surviving is tough. Despite the fractures in my relationship with my mother, I had my share of survivor guilt about her. I didn’t bring it up. It was too early in our knowing each other to risk sounding as though I was comparing tragedies. Every loss is different. It was enough for today to have opened his. I still saw the three of them in the car, even though I didn’t know what his family looked like. Having to re-envision his daughter even younger than I’d supposed added to the horror. Three years old, at the center of his life and heart, and nothing he could do for her. Her life ended in the crushed car. It broke my heart.
I held him, adrift in that timeless room without windows, in the privacy and safety of nothing in the outside world touching us.
We remained in each other’s arms, taking a siesta late into the day.
When I awakened, he was gone.
A note propped next to my clothes read, ‘I treasure the gift of your submission. Your dance goes deep. Soon, M.’
I pressed it between my breasts. I passed that test.
Once I dressed, I found Chuck watching for me from the jungle outside The Mansion of Desire. He walked me back to my suite without comment. As I suspected, discretion was part of his job.
I sneaked a glance at my guide’s preoccupied face. I’d forgotten to tell Marcus about my experience on the altar. Given it’s associations with his deceased wife, maybe I shouldn’t say anything.
In the Garden of Secrets
That evening, the moon illuminated my suite. It was so bright, I felt I belonged outside instead of inside. I couldn’t sleep. Knowing my time on the island was coming to an end made me restless. I wanted to take risks, go as far as I dared here, but not be reckless. I sensed if I didn’t push myself, go for my desires, I’d regret it forever. I wanted to find out everything I could about the island’s secrets, and my secrets, before I had to return to the mundane world that ground me down. I’d always been sensitive, prone to seeing things others don’t know are there. Mom trained me not to show it, not to tell. Chuck was one of the few people who saw it and accepted it in me. It nagged at me that he seemed to mean for me to tell Marcus about the girl I experienced being sacrificed on the altar. The look on Marcus’ face when I asked about his scar lanced through me. I didn’t want to cause him pain. I wanted only to give him pleasure, for as long as we had. I wished it could be a long, long, time. I wanted forever. I wanted my happily ever after at last. My twenty-ninth birthday crept closer by the day and I’d met the most worthy, phenomenal man.
Damn, why couldn’t real life ever be like a fairy tale?
Brushing my hair, I schooled my mind to abandon my obsession. Having a master was a fantasy come true, but it was a fantasy. Knowing more about my mystery man made it clearer than ever that he was unattainable. I could never replace the wife he lost. He was far from over her. But maybe, my heart whispered. With difficulty, I put Marcus and the snarl of what we were to each other out of my mind.
I came here to explore me. Not to fall in love with a mysterious stranger playing a part. I couldn’t dismiss all I felt for him, but I packed it away as well as I could.
I slipped into a long, dark dress and ballet flats that suited the mood of the night. With my wavy hair flowing over my breasts and down my back, I looked like a Rubenesque vampire. I added dark scarlet lips for the fun of it. I didn’t expect to see anyone, but being at a club dedicated to eroticism and fantasy brought out my theatrical side. If the weather wasn’t so sultry I’d want to finish the outfit with a cape.
I smoothed the fluid fabric over my hips, enjoying how it caressed my curves as I moved. The neckline had a deep plunge, showing off my breasts to good advantage, all creamy cleavage. My colony of freckles, which I had increased here despite daily sunscreen, faded in the cold light. In the mirror, my eyes seemed to glow. With my full, dark lips, I looked ready to feed on the living.
I grinned. I wouldn’t mind biting Marcus’ neck. I touched my throat where he bit me. So much for putting him out of my mind.
I unlatched the heavy old door slowly, with a sense of naughtiness that echoed how I felt sneaking out while my parents slept. I wanted to evade Chuck. As much as I liked him, I didn’t want to risk a repeat of the kiss, and I wanted to be alone.
I stepped into the hall and closed the door with great care. Holding still, I listened. The constant presence of someone official made me feel under surveillance. Did Isabella have something to hide? Perhaps all was not as it seemed at Submission Island. The remote location and high security could be a front for something more illicit than BDSM sex.
I tip-toed along the hall, listening for footsteps. Another unsettling fact about Submission Island: I had yet to see another guest. Discretion and privacy were one thing, but how could Isabella be running what she described as a world class resort and have so few guests that they never knew of each other’s existence? It might be deliberate. Carefully orchestrated scheduling and the attentiveness of the guides making sure no one ever crossed each other’s paths. I didn’t think that was the case.
I had the eerie sense I might be the only guest. I shivered, despite the warm, moist air caressing my skin. I tip-toed down the stairs. The sense of naughtiness felt delicious. Perhaps I should confess the next time I saw Marcus.
I didn’t have to be bad to get spanked, but I wondered what it would be like if he wanted to teach me a lesson. Did his connection to the island extend to being protective of it? I wanted to find out.
I let myself out the front door and rushed past the fountain into the cover of the trimmed bushes that surrounded the formal garden. It was my first sight of it at night. I marveled at the gardener’s design, the choice of white flowers at strategic spots. They seemed to glow, floating in the darkness, adding drama to the landscape designed to be best viewed at night. Moon flowers.
Unable to resist the temptation, I strode to the labyrinth. I wouldn’t go in, but I wanted a closer look. Its existence seemed a special triumph here, the trimmed giant hedges that formed the maze a contrast to the surrounding jungle’s disorder. A bit like civilization verses the chaotic influence of desire. Passion could fell kingdoms, lay waste to dynasties, end families and lives.
Shakespeare’s heroines played through my mind, Juliet dying with her Romeo, Ophelia in her watery grave with her blossoms of purity, saucy Kate my feminist professor suggested was never tamed—she played the game, allowing her husband his illusion of utter dominance. It was a
n appealing interpretation. As much as I enjoyed bodice rippers from my mom’s day and the nastier contemporary romances and erotica where the heroine finds the dominating alpha of her heart’s desire, the trend in passive heroines who put up with abusive assholes irritated me. I couldn’t relate to a heroine who gives over everything—if there was much to her life in the first place—to be what the alpha wants.
If the cost of love was to become a compliant—submissive in the bedroom and out of it—woman without a spine, I’d rather do without love. I supposed that was part of the lure of the sadomasochism clubs. I could negotiate with a man, have an entertaining adventure within defined parameters and be done with it. It offered relief without entanglement.
I entered the labyrinth, setting one foot into the shadows. The lure of experiencing it in the moonlight drew me in, one step after another. I’d walk in a little way, not take any turnings. I didn’t want to get lost.
Within a few steps a pale figure confronted me. The god Pan, stepping from a niche in the hedge, his pipes to his mouth, lips pursed. The sculptor’s artistry with the life-size figure extended to the long fur of his haunches. It looked silky. He stood on cloven hooves, like another figure associated with sexuality. That was something to think about, the roots of Satan. It surprised me how Pan could look so cherubic and so seductive. The heavy-lidded eyes and full mouth gave him the look of a sensuous Mediterranean man. Though his physique was smaller and more bestial than the kind of man who drew my heat, I could imagine him feeding me olives, feasting between my thighs, and mounting me with the full power of his brutal haunches.
I shook myself and walked on. No matter where I went, I saw symbolism and stories that extended back to the ancients. It was like a compulsion or a curse. My over-active brain served as a barrier between me and most people. Between that and my abundant body, what hope did I have of love? Love was overrated. Romantic love as we imagined it didn’t exist throughout most of human history. It was a construct, just as capitalism was a construct. I did fine without a man.
Isabella’s gift of this vacation on her island made me think of a broader terrain for myself. There were parts of the world that didn’t worship skeletal beauty as though it were the only kind, where men prized voluptuous women. I didn’t have to remain in San Francisco. There was nothing to keep me there. When I got back, I’d cast my net wider, seek a suitable job, geography no limit. I’d be willing to live more simply, even in a developing country. Sacrifices in lifestyle would be worth it. I needed to live a more meaningful life, even if that meant living alone and reading. A bare bones existence would be rich to me if I didn’t have to spend hours a day mired in stupidity.
I rounded a curve in the maze and drew in my breath. The Minotaur’s tortured face glowed at me, the moonlight’s harsh shadows heightening his tragic, powerful, cursed body.
We were so alike. I supposed that’s why I cleaved to myths. They showed my true nature. I felt less alone, kept company by archetypes that mirrored my psyche.
Circling the minotaur, I felt entranced my his splendid bunched muscles, his anguished face. I ran my hand down his back to his rump. Facing him, I sought his eyes. Such torment to be ostracized. On impulse, I gripped him and rose up on my toes, kissed his face.
Most of my life I knew I wanted a life of the mind. It seemed pretentious when I thought it to myself, but of course I could give no practical answer when anyone asked about my choice of Classics for my studies. Nothing I did made sense to my family, my supposed peers, and certainly not to the morons with whom I had to work. I learned to say little about my true interests. I managed quite well without other people, to an extent.
I didn’t need the criticism and disapproval. Mom supplied years of that about my body, my imagination, my interests. That was enough to last me a lifetime.
Voices made me stop. I stepped back by reflex and the sharp texture of the pruned hedge pricked at my back and ass. Despite being startled, I registered it would be a sexy place to be kissed. I wished Marcus was there, backing me against the sharp bushes, tormenting me with his passionate mouth and his heavy cock pushing against my belly. Damn, I wanted him.
His voice shocked me. He was here. I couldn’t mistake his low, sexy laugh for anyone else. He had an uncommonly deep, masculine voice. I made myself as still as possible. Who was he with? Would they think I was spying? I wasn’t sure why I felt guilty, but I did.
The woman’s laughter surprised me as much as Marcus’ presence did. It was a full, pealing laugh and the voice following it told me it belonged to Isabella. I couldn’t make out her words. I didn’t want to. It surprised me she had such a free laugh in her. She struck me as being on the edge of melancholy. Of course, Marcus could charm joy from a stone.
I had to get out of there. My ankle-length black dress kept part of me out of sight, but my pale face, cleavage and hands shone as bright as the moon flowers.
I walked back the way I came, envisioning myself levitating without a sound. My heart thudded when I confronted a hedge blocking the path, but the path veered around it and let me out. How had that happened? I hadn’t turned. The sense that some intelligence affected things on the island tugged at me, though that made no sense. I had Stephen King to blame for thoughts of shrubbery that could move.
I took cover in the bushes. The stabbing thorns of the bougainvillea didn’t bother me. I welcomed the pain for maintaining alertness. I imagined Marcus might see the tiny stab wounds on my buttocks and be jealous.
The boiling heat rising through my torso like lava must be that, my own green monster coming to life. My exit was just in time.
They emerged from the labyrinth, Isabella slender and regal as a fairy book queen. She wore a scarlet gown and a splendid diamond choker, a throat-hiding accessory for a woman of a certain age.
Marcus held her elbow and she looked up at him, her face glowing. His impressive physique made even the statuesque island owner crane her neck.
He wore an elegant evening suit with a red cravat. He took my breath away.
His low whisper made Isabella laugh again. She slid her arm around his waist.
“My dear, my dear,” she whispered. “You’re the only one who makes me laugh this way.”
“I must make sure to do it more often.” He slid his thumb across her lovely cheekbone, as though wiping away a tear.
His tenderness ripped my heart open.
I burned inside. I wanted to be the one he touched like that, the only one. I backed away. A stick cracked under my shoe.
His fine head rose. He looked like a jaguar scenting the air for prey. He started toward me.
I fled.
Time’s Folds
I shut myself in my room and stood panting from my rush to elude Marcus’ search.
Listening for several minutes assured me I wasn’t followed. What could I have said? ‘I’m a fool, I hoped you might love me?’ I couldn’t stand saying it to myself. I’d never say it to him.
This was a vacation. Crazy things happened on vacations. It was one of the seductions of travel. Being a different self seemed possible. Seductions were acceptable. The only rule was to recognize the pleasures were for the moment. They existed in a passage of time, the way a story existed within a book. It wasn’t anything that extended into ordinary life. This was my chance to experience magic. I could even—. I squared my shoulders. Yes, I dared imagine I could continue enjoying Marcus’ attentions, surrendering myself to his mastery. I’d ignore reality for these halcyon days on Submission Island.
I stalked across the room and stared at myself in the mirror. Time already stamped itself on my face, the lines extending around my eyes and between my brows. I was 28. Past my youth, my use-by date, by the standards of my culture. My cousin Steffani sent me scathing send ups about modeling. She knew her best years were behind her at 26, and she hadn’t made it big enough to succeed with a clothing line, perfumes or the other fall backs of the top beauties. She was, like so many women in our youth-obsessed consumer
culture, expendable. Her scathing humor was seeing her though the tedious and often disheartening process of seeking a second career, with no education or skills. I missed her scorching messages. This was the longest I’d gone in years without being online.
I’d steered Steffani to an online university, in hopes that she might expand her options. No progress there. She still lived the glamorous life, always another party, another shoot. Her life reminded me you could meet all the narrow standards of beauty of our world and still not succeed. Like me, she was achingly lonely. Perhaps one day we’d share an apartment in a country where the dollar went much further. We’d hire a succession of gardeners and masseurs to have good-looking men with good hands on the premises.
I’d have my own moon garden and take consolation in it, watching men without shirts in the tropical sun.
I strode back to the door and latched it.
The prospect of a strapping hunk in Mexico or Costa Rica riding me in my garden under a pregnant moon made me want to make ensure privacy. I yanked off my dress, sling-shotted my bra, pulled off my flats and peeled off my panties. The welcoming bed with its billowing canopy was the stuff of my early fantasies. All it needed was a sheik to ride me into sunrise.
Instead, I got my fingers busy with the thought of the strong gardener crooning to me in Spanish and pounding me in the shade. I didn’t need a wealthy dominant man, just one who’d fuck me hard and go away.
I came hard on my fingers.
The tears came after.
It seemed plausible there could be folds in time, corridors we’d walk down where time slowed. I willed it to be so.
I wanted my last days on Submission Island to extend beyond the temporal world as I knew it. If there was a bridge that would take me into an alternate reality where I got to be with Marcus longer than our appointed hours on these dwindling days, I’d walk that bridge even if it stretched over a chasm of magma.
