Dragonfly of Venus

by Susan Ferrier MacKay

  Joan held Elizabeth’s hand.

  “When he was a teenager I made him promise never to get a tattoo,” said Joan. “I’m glad he broke the promise.”

  Elizabeth smiled. “We were drunk on love and whisky one night in Inverness. It’s a symbol that we complete…completed each other.”

  “As long as we remember him, he’s still here,” said Joan, “only as the memory of us fades with each passing generation do we finally disappear.”

  “Unless you’re someone who sticks around forever like…Hitler,” said Elizabeth glumly.

  Joan glanced at her in alarm. Elizabeth’s remark hung in the air. It was so incongruous, and took Joan by such surprise, that she burst into laughter.

  “Hitler? Where did that come from?”

  Elizabeth couldn’t explain but it suddenly struck her as being funny as well. Their nonsensical mirth gathered momentum as they took turns in calling out the names of someone immortalized by history. Each new name elicited peals of laughter

  “Princess Diana.”

  “Attila the Hun.”

  “Osama bin Laden.”

  Joan finally cried, “Stop. Stop. My sides are hurting.”

  Elizabeth wiped her eyes. The relief of laughter had sent feel-good chemicals coursing through her body. She suddenly felt everything would be all right. She would get through this. The worst was behind her. She was wrong.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Declan still had no idea how he ended up in this strange world, or who he was. He couldn’t speak the language of the people around him although he got by with hand gestures and a few simple words.

  Up the hill from his stone cottage were other cottages although the families kept to themselves. Declan had seen women hanging out washing behind their houses, and men, both young and old, setting out to fish.

  Two girls, around ten years old, often played outside with a hoop and stick but as soon as they saw him they dissolved into giggles and went running back into their house. On one occasion he’d been passed on the muddy footpath by a tall, lanky youth of eighteen with red hair, and pimples interspersed with freckles. As the scowling youth passed, Declan heard the sound of a throat clearing. A big gob of shiny spittle landed just in front of Declan’s feet. He turned around to glare but the youth kept walking away. “Yeah, fuck you too,” muttered Declan.

  Awash in uncertainty, one thing Declan knew for sure: he had no desire to swim in the sea, plus the idea of it upset Moira to no end. When Callum had indicated that Declan should accompany him on his monthly trip to the mainland for supplies, Moira had a fit. As Declan was about to step into the boat she appeared running down to the beach and flung her arms around him crying, “Johhny. Chan! Chan!"

  Callum rolled his eyes at Declan as if to say ‘the woman’s mad’. Resignedly, he shooed Declan out of the boat and set off alone, his powerful shoulders rowing away.

  Drying her eyes on her apron, Moira fussed over Declan, herding him back up the path towards the stone cottage. The appearance of Freuchie announced that Fionnaugh wasn’t far behind. The dog accompanied her everywhere. Every time Freuchie saw Declan, it barked at him as if he was a stranger.

  “Freuchie. Shhh,” admonished Fionnaugh coming from behind the house with a bucket on her arm. She was also carrying a stool. Her skin was alabaster pale but took on a slight blush of pink when she saw Declan. She exchanged a few words with her mother who nodded in agreement.

  Fionnaugh took Declan’s hand. She pointed to the bucket then made a lowing sound. Declan understood they were going to milk a cow. The beast was tethered in a swale just over the next hill munching away on plentiful grass.

  Fionnaugh set the stool down, placed the bucket under the cow’s swollen udder and indicated for Declan to sit. He did as she said, staring hopelessly at the engorged teats. Fionnaugh made pulling motions with her fingers for Declan to copy. He reached for one of the silky teats and gave it a tug. Nothing happened. The cow mooed in annoyance. Fionnaugh kneeled beside Declan. Taking his fingers in her own, she showed him the deft stroke that resulted in a forceful stream of milk squirting into the bucket. Declan soon mastered the technique and the pail was full. Fionnaugh never left his side. As he worked, she gazed at his profile, his dark hair curling onto his shoulders, and his eyes concentrating as he mastered the technique of milking. Declan was very aware of the physical presence of the pretty girl beside him. She leaned in close, speaking soft words that he instinctively knew had nothing to do with milking.

  Fionnaugh’s breath had the sweetness of new mown hay. She smelled of fresh sea breezes. Her cheek was now so close that if he turned his head slightly, their lips would meet. Declan felt himself getting hard. Fionnaugh clearly wanted him. He turned his head to kiss her but caught a glimpse of two figures striding down the hill. It was Moira and the surly redheaded lad Iain. As soon as Fionnaugh saw them she leaped up as if she’d been bitten. She hoisted her skirt and ran to the couple, pointing at Declan and laughing as if to say “Look. He’s done it.”

  The cow was drained of milk and the bucket was full. Pleased with himself, Declan stood up, aware of his subsiding erection. The youth Iain was aware of it too. Muttering under his breath, he strode towards Declan, aggressively grabbing the full bucket of milk so that some slopped over the sides.

  “Iain” admonished Moira. “Thugad.”

  Moira indicated for Declan and Fionnaugh to follow her and Iain back to the house. After a few steps Fionnaugh turned back to Declan. She twirled a lock of curly hair around her finger and flashed him a flirtatious smile. She was such a pretty, sprite-like creature; he couldn’t help but smile back although he was completely unprepared for what happened next. Fionnaugh pulled down her blouse, flashing a milk white breast for him to see, and gave it a quick squeeze. Declan stopped, amazed at Fionnaugh’s brazenness.

  Laughing, Fionnaugh darted into the house. The sight of a woman’s breast was familiar to Declan. He wished he could feel the same about everything else on this peculiar island.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Elizabeth felt she could never return to a life without sorrow but she could however comfort herself with fantasies that made Declan come alive. She thought about their first night together in Paris. She’d been as nervous as a schoolgirl, ashamed she might be taking advantage of her position as a powerful music executive to seduce this gorgeous talented young singer. Declan had surprised her again and again. He spoke French fluently. He was adept at martial arts. He was a skilled, arousing young lover who swept her away with his passion. She tried to resist her feelings but Declan made it impossible.

  Elizabeth put aside ‘Lady Chatterley’s Lover,’ a novel she’d been re-reading, and turned off her bedside lamp. Funny to think that the book caused a furor when it was published in 1928 because of the sex between Mellors, the gardener, and Lady Jane Chatterley, a married woman. Although it used words like ‘fuck’ and ‘cunt’, Mellors euphemistically used the term ‘John Thomas’ for his penis.

  Elizabeth marveled at the vast change in social attitudes toward sex since then. John Thomas indeed. It made her think of Declan. Declan Thomas. She parted her legs, one hand resting lightly between them. She began to imagine a new fantasy.

  Lady Jane sat in the drawing room of her 18th century castle in her nightgown listening to the lonely tick of the grandfather clock. Her brutish, pot-bellied husband was out hunting. Last night, after several whiskies, he’d forced himself on her. He’d undone his plaquette revealing the padded codpiece that enhanced his smallish organ. Unable to penetrate her, he’d simply rubbed himself up and down against her pubic bone. She’d turned her head, hiding the disgust he aroused. Oh how she wanted to feel something more, something primal, something that would be all-consuming. She picked up the bell and rang for the new manservant to bring her tea. She supposed he’d be another slightly younger version of the retired family servant, a man familiar with bowing and scraping and doing as he was told. She sighed. Was there to be no pleasure in this life
at all?

  The drawing room door opened. A tall slim figure entered backwards, pulling a tea trolley. Lady Jane’s eye was immediately taken with the round swell of firm, young buttocks.

  “Your tea Madam.”

  Lady Jane suppressed a gasp. Did she imagine he did the same? The new manservant stood ramrod straight before her. He should have been staring ahead, not looking at her in frank admiration. His eyes were of the darkest blue she’d ever seen, fringed with black lashes that put her own to shame. His face was a marvel of chiseled beauty. She thought she caught a brief glimpse of his perfect white teeth but in an instant it was gone. Smiling was not allowed

  “Your name?” she inquired doing her best to appear imperious.

  “John Thomas Madam.”

  “John Thomas.” She said his name aloud, savouring the three syllables. “You may pour my tea John Thomas. Milk. No sugar.”

  John Thomas gave a small bow and picked up the teapot. Lady Jane pretended to be looking elsewhere but she could feel his eyes boring into her, taking in the soft swell of her breasts, her milky complexion and the fiery copper of her braided hair.

  “Madam?”

  John Thomas held a filled teacup towards her. She noticed his long, fine fingers with immaculately trimmed nails. As she reached for the tea she felt how foolishly her hand was trembling. John Thomas had the audacity, the nerve, to steady her hand with his own. Sparks, as hot as those flickering in the grate, shot through her. Sharply, she glanced up at him. A line had been crossed. He had touched her in a common way. This was unacceptable. He would have to be punished.

  “I should dismiss you for such familiarity,” she said coldly.

  “You could madam. But you won’t,” said John Thomas.

  “More coal on the fire," instructed Lady Jane. “And remove your jacket. We don’t want the servants’ livery stained with perspiration.”

  John Thomas was gorgeous. A small smile played around the edge of his perfectmouth.

  “It’s already warm in here, yet madam desires more heat?”

  “Do as I say. Don’t be impertinent.”

  He nodded. His hair, black and thick, had been pomaded into submission giving him the appearance of a sleek animal. He hesitated a second before giving her a look filled with meaning, as if he understood her better than she understood herself.

  “As madam wishes.”

  John Thomas began to slowly unbutton his waistcoat. As much as she wanted to, Lady Jane could not tear her eyes away from those broad shoulders and seductive fingers. He slipped off his morning coat and waistcoat, then hung them tidily on a chair beside the fireplace.

  Crouching on his haunches, John Thomas slowly shoveled coal onto the fire sending tiny sparks shooting upwards. The illumination from the fire backlit him so Lady Jane could see the rippling dunes of his muscles through the sheerness of his linen shirt. When he’d finished stoking the fire he turned towards her.

  “Is the heat is sufficient for milady’s pleasure?”

  “Come here, on your knees,” she commanded.

  As he crawled, Lady Jane slowly raised her dress inch by inch. By the time he reached her, her legs, bare from knee to ankle, were completely exposed.

  “You may look, John Thomas. But you cannot touch me with your hands.”

  “Certainly not milady.”

  His handsome face held a look of wry amusement. Slowly he began unbuttoning his fly.

  “Although Madam said nothing about touching myself,” he taunted.

  Inhaling a small gasp, fascinated by the tantalizing unfastening of each button, Lady Jane breathlessly awaited the unveiling. Finally, John Thomas’s erection stood out proud and strong, proof that he wanted her as much as she wanted him. Silhouetted against the red coals of the fire, it was indeed a poker. Grinning in a saucy way, John Thomas held his hands behind his back and bent to kiss each of her delicate ankles. He ran his tongue slowly up to her knee then stopped. Lady Jane, heart pounding, was helpless with anticipation.

  “Does madam wish me to continue?”

  “Yes,” she cried.

  “Then madam might permit the use of my hands.”

  “Yes, oh yes.” She reached out, grabbing his muscled shoulders and pulling him towards her. She kissed him fiercely, the intertwining of tongues driving her to frenzy.

  John Thomas brushed his fingers across her breasts. He played with her nipples, gently pinching them while sliding his tongue slowly down her neck. Lady Jane reached for his erection while John Thomas’s fingers found their way beneath lace pantaloons to her mossy rim. She was as wet as could be.

  “What is it madam requires me to do?” teased John Thomas. Lady Jane was reckless with rapture. She didn’t care if her husband walked in. She cared about only one thing.

  “Fuck me now, John Thomas. And fuck me hard,” she commanded.

  “How much does madam want to be fucked?”

  He was toying with her. Lady Jane almost screamed with desire.

  “Desperately. Please,” she begged.

  “How much does madam need to be fucked?”

  “More than anything. More than I need food and drink to keep me alive.”

  John Thomas’s fingers ripped the crotch of her pantaloons to one side. He plunged his poker into her wet darkness.

  “Oh,” cried Elizabeth, her fingers flying furiously over herself. “Oh. Oh. Declan.” An orgasm surged through her leaving her breathless, panting and alone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Natasha stepped away from the entrance to the Vanier prison and took her first gulp of freedom in three years. Man it tasted good. All she needed to wash it down was a couple of shots of tequila. Her father had offered to pick her up in his limo but she’d turned him down, telling him she preferred her independence. He’d harrumphed and reluctantly agreed. Now she could do whatever she wanted. She checked her iphone but it was dead. The least those prison fucks could have done was charge it for her.

  Natasha worked out a plan in her head. She’d go to her father’s place first, get herself together, find a bar, and get wasted. Tomorrow she’d make arrangements to head to Scotland. What the fuck was the name of that place? Some fucking island in the middle of fucking nowhere. Handa, that was it. She’d go to see where her lover met his watery end. She was certain he’d been thinking of her as he drew his last breath. She was a tragic figure with a story to tell. All she needed was a title for her bestseller. “Declan and I.” Yes, that had a nice ring to it. Or, wait. Should it be "Declan and Me”? She wasn’t sure which one was right. She hadn’t been attentive in school. Oh well, fuck it. Somebody else could figure that out. That’s what editors were for wasn’t it? All she had to do was come up with a lot of steamy details about her and Declan’s sex life. There was no shortage. She was fully prepared to tell all, and then some. Even if she made it up, no one would know. She could get away with anything. After all, the only other person who knew the truth was dead.

  Natasha hummed in the back of the taxi speeding towards her father’s Rosedale mansion. It felt great to be free and have a purpose. She picked up a key that her father left under a fake rock and let herself into the grand hallway. The cleaner must have recently left because the house had a reassuring smell of disinfectant and furniture polish.

  The first thing Natasha did was turn on the computer in her father’s study to check her bank account. Good old pops. There it was, a recent deposit of $50,000 in her account. It was enough for her upcoming trip to Scotland, and a new wardrobe. She certainly deserved new clothes after everything she’d been through, besides, her old ones were at least a year out of date.

  Natasha took a shower and washed her hair, glad to be rid of the institutional smell of prison. Her father wouldn’t be home until at least nine. By that time she’d be downtown, all dressed up with plenty of places to go, all of them serving tequila.

  She selected a pair of four-inch leather stilettos that made her long legs look as if they went all the way to her armpits. She slipp
ed on a tiny, dark denim skirt, tank top, and denim jacket. After straightening her long, black hair, she applied black kohl eyeliner around her almond eyes, and a bright red lipstick to her wide mouth. Twisting in front of a full-length mirror, she decided she looked hot. It was going to be some man’s lucky night. She tucked a couple of condoms, a pair of handcuffs and a butt-plug in her purse. Natasha had been locked up with a bunch of women. Not any more, she thought. Tonight she was on the prowl.

  Natasha chose the upstairs bar at the Drake Hotel for her hunting grounds. Both bars featured bands. She favored musicians for sex. Generally, there were always one or two guys in a band who were good looking and who’d do her bidding.

  The Drake bar was fairly full so Natasha took a seat at a barstool, perching her long legs sideways so they could dangle enticingly. She was fully aware of the many surreptitious glances that came her way from men who were already with dates. The women looked as well, although some looks were less kindly. It didn’t matter to Natasha. As long as people noticed her, that was good enough.

  Natasha ordered two Don Julio tequilas and a beer chaser. After slamming them back, appreciating the warming glow of alcohol, she took stock. A man around thirty years old was appraising her frankly from across the room. He had pale but attractive features. When their eyes met, he tipped his beer bottle in recognition. Natasha was about to signal him over when a young blonde, emerging from the bathroom, also caught the man’s gesture. As soon as she reached his side, it was clear that she was giving him hell.

  The man gave Natasha a slight shrug of apology and turned to deal with his girlfriend. It was then Natasha noticed the man’s earlobes, stretched open with earrings big enough for a hamster to pass through. Ugh, thought Natasha. She imagined the earrings removed, his earlobes flopped against his neck like two big noodles. No, he would never do. Within minutes the couple left. Suckers, thought Natasha. Relationships were a waste of time: All those expectations and promises that would eventually be broken. As far as she was concerned, as soon as you settled for someone, the moss of boredom began to grow, unless you were with Declan Thomas.