by Vina Jackson
A firm hand inexorably crept up from between my legs to my cunt. My lips were slick with moisture and the pressure upon them steadily grew, and then moved away to cup and pull apart my buttocks. I felt a firm pressure, like two or three fingers, against my anus. The sensation moved back again to my pussy. Forward and back, forward and back it swept, as if I were being invaded by the shaft of a large, hard cock that never actually breached my entrance, but instead kept sweeping the full length of my cunt and perineum, until I was ready to cry out, to beg for something to fill me and fuck me hard.
My hips moved like a metronome, the rhythm steadily increasing and increasing and the pressure rubbing against my clit faster and faster until suddenly I came in a burst of shuddering, my whole body pulsing in shock waves that seemed to emanate not from my cunt but my solar plexus, each stronger than the last until I reached a crescendo and straining against my bounds felt as if I would tear apart. Finally the waves retreated from their peak and like the ebbing of a tide I felt my desire gradually retract, the visions in my mind faded away and my tense limbs softened and stopped twitching.
The vines released their hold from my wrists and ankles but continued to support my weight. Either their texture had somehow softened or I had grown used to it as I now felt as though I were being borne along on a cloud. I flexed my muscles, mentally bringing my focus back to the present, trying to decipher whether I had been dreaming or had actually stumbled into an orgy but I was still in such a state of hypnotic, giddy relaxation I could not bring myself to try to move, or even to think or wonder where I was or where my friends were or what had happened. I drifted away into sleep.
I woke, still naked, on the sand. My clothes lay a short distance away from me, neatly folded up in a pile alongside my flimsy sandals. My head was resting on a clean, soft towel that I did not remember placing beneath me as a pillow or even having seen on the boat. I heard splashes, and sat up. Viggo and Lauralynn were a few feet away, swimming in the water.
‘Come on, sleepyhead!’ Lauralynn yelled. ‘It’s almost time to go. One last swim.’
I wiped my hand across my brow and struggled to recollect where I had been the previous night or how I had returned from the jungle to the beach, or what time or day it now was. The water beckoned. In daylight, it was as sharp and crystalline green as an emerald. I stood up, brushed some of the sand from my backside and then walked down to the sea and dived in.
‘Ah!’ I cried out, as the first wave hit me. It was an expression somewhere between shock and pleasure.
Lauralynn’s body was invisible, as she dived repeatedly under the waves like a dolphin. I turned to Viggo, who was floating, spread-eagled on his back with his mountain of dark shaggy hair spread out like the dial of a clock around his face. He looked like a rock version of Poseidon, only skinnier.
‘The water …’ I said to him. ‘It’s like spearmint.’
‘Tastes delicious too,’ he replied. ‘Open your mouth.’
I did as he suggested. It wasn’t a strong taste, but a sweet, minty note and total absence of salt was clearly noticeable. My tongue tingled.
‘What is this place, Viggo?’ I asked him. ‘Was I drunk last night?’
‘Not last night,’ he replied, drawing his knees up to his chest and flipping over in the water so that he was now facing me. ‘We’ve been here three days.’
Lauralynn burst up to the surface between us, showering us both in green spray.
‘It’s like trying to explain music, Summer. Or sex. There’s no telling how some things work. You just have to enjoy them. And don’t think about it too much.’
She was right, as bizarre as it all was. I nodded, wordlessly, and flopped over onto my back to float and watch the handful of seabirds that glided over the water and up into the sky.
Shortly thereafter, Tony and the boat arrived to collect us, and we returned to the mainland and a couple more weeks of relaxation in Rio, before heading back to the entirely different magic of London. On the endless flight home, Lauralynn repeatedly refused to answer any of my questions about the island and the bizarre events that had occurred there, or whether or not I had in fact dreamed it all.
Nonetheless, the break had blown my blues away, and I felt as if I was ready to start life again, anew.
5
Summer in the City
By the time I arrived back in London – Lauralynn and Viggo had arranged a stop-off in Los Angeles on the journey back for talks with his local-based record label about his new projects – it was summer.
Unlike places like Paris, and many others, which emptied at this turn of the season and transformed into impersonal ghost towns mostly populated by tourists and dull out of town visitors, it was a time of year when the city was truly effervescent, bubbling with activity and energy as if new blood had been pumped into it. On top of that, after the break or possibly due to the unexplainable events that had occurred on the island, I felt reborn, as if I had shed my former self and had become a brand new me and a fresh arrival in the big city. I picked up a listings magazine and was dazzled by the scores of unusual exhibitions which I felt compelled to see films I had read about beckoning to be watched, a multitude of plays and restaurants that had opened with menus strange and fantastic and combinations of ingredients and tastes that just begged to be savoured if the critics were to be believed. My sojourn on the island, it appeared, had distinctly awakened my other more prosaic appetites.
There was something in the air and it was dazzling. Rio de Janeiro and the island, despite their intoxicating atmosphere and hedonistic activities had turned into a haven of peace where my senses had been caressed, teased in subtle ways, the smooth tendrils of pleasure soothing my soul; but this was another life altogether, an explosion of possibilities that flattered the brain and not just the senses and it made me feel more alive than I had been for ages. London thrummed with excitement, it seemed to me. And I wanted to partake with greed and glee.
I took the tube from Hampstead to Borough, to breakfast at Borough Market before taking a stroll along the Thames Path, all the way to the South Bank. Unusually for me, I had woken early and I arrived at the market before the crowds had begun to gather. Red and white aproned vendors of cheese, meats and other various delicacies from the regions and abroad were still setting up their stalls. A handful of genuine, non-touristic shoppers, equipped with recycled canvas bags to carry their purchases home, were sorting through mountains of produce with steady hands and sharp eyes seeking only the juiciest, ripest fruits and vegetables with the best flavour.
Monmouth Coffee, the best in the area in my coffee-addicted opinion, would be open in 30 minutes or so, and not long after that the queue at the door would be so long it would reach up to the corner of the street and halfway to the next. I sat on one of the benches and waited. First my caffeine fix, and then I would seek food.
Shopping for sustenance at Borough Market was something of a ritual for me. For someone of my temperament, a slave to her appetites, the sheer number of choices on offer, each delectable in their own right and purveyed with such savage bias on the part of the sellers, was overwhelming. Would I start with a large punnet of fresh, new season strawberries, and walk through the other stands taking bite after succulent bite of the red fruits? Or go straight in for a hot option, a homemade beef or turkey burger, dripping with onion relish and hot sauce, or pulled pork with apple chutney stuffed into a warm, lightly-toasted bap? At the other end of the stalls I knew there would be grilled halloumi or boxes of exotic salads covered with a squeeze of lime, large wheels of cheese that I could sample on bite-sized pieces of baguettes, bowls of olive oil and spices to dip it all into, wooden bowls filled with handmade chocolates and Turkish Delight in flavours both ordinary and unimaginable and case upon case of sweet pastries, pies, tarts, cakes, meringues the size of cob loaves and custard squares double the width and breadth of my hand.
My mouth watered
. Each one of my imaginary taste tests seemed more vivid than usual. I could almost feel the strawberries bursting in my mouth and the juice running down my chin. I felt as though I had accidentally wandered into Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory and imbibed one of the food pills that turned the unsuspecting Veruca Salt into a blueberry.
‘Opening soon?’ I mouthed through the window to the barista who was wiping down the counter inside. He pointed to the sign on the door that I had somehow missed that indicated I had yet another 30 minutes to wait. I turned back, my eyes roving the nearby cafés and stalls for another option. Across the other side of the road, I saw a sign advertising Turkish coffee and two men serving someone at the counter.
Nearby, a woman was standing, waiting. There was something about her that marked her out, besides the heavy inked images that decorated her arms and calves, belying her otherwise conservative appearance. She didn’t blend in with the rest of the morning shoppers or stall holders. Perhaps it was the fact that she lacked any sign of impatience and was not busily surfing the internet on a smart phone as most people did these days when not engaged in conversation or another activity. She seemed apart from the populace, somehow. I studied her more closely. There was something else. Something about her seemed familiar, as if I had seen her before, but couldn’t place where.
Her dress had cap sleeves, a round neckline that covered her chest almost to her throat and was a pale lemon yellow. It flowed over her body like silk rather than cotton. Turquoise blue sandals encased her feet, tied with thin blue ribbons that wrapped around her ankles and her calves, just an inch or so below the hem of her dress. A thin green belt accentuated what there was of her waist. She was slender but had a long, lean straight figure, not an hourglass shape. A large floppy sun hat obscured her eyes and nose, but I could see that she had a wide mouth, and her lips were reddened with glossy rouge. Beneath her hat, ribbons of hair so blonde that it was almost white flowed over her shoulders and arms. The mixture of colours on anyone else might have seemed gaudy, but she carried each shade well so that her overall look maintained a sense of subtlety whilst still being irregular.
The man at the counter finished his transaction and walked across to her, holding two tiny polystyrene cups that were likely filled with espresso shots. She was transfixed, either by the sights and sounds of the market, or lost in her own thoughts, and did not respond to his presence until he touched his hand to her elbow. It was a lingering touch, a caress rather than a poke or prod to get her attention. Immediately her mouth turned upwards into a broad smile, as if just being near him brought her happiness. The coffees escaped her attention entirely until he placed one of the cups into her hand. She took hold of it, and brushed her fingertips over his jaw and lips, then kissed him briefly on the mouth. They both laughed as her large hat got in the way of their kiss, and when she pushed the brim back I saw the rest of her face. She was deathly pale, and did not seem to be wearing any make-up besides the red lipstick, which she was now wiping off her man’s lips. I could not make out the colour of her eyes from this distance, but guessed they must be blue or grey. She seemed liked that sort. An ice-queen type. Beautiful in a sparse, elegant sort of way. I could not guess at her age. On the one hand she was free of the usual signs of age, but on the other, her fashion sense was not youthful, and a sense of maturity lingered over her. The tattoos seemed so much of a natural part of her they were barely noticeable once I registered their existence, despite their number and juxtaposition with her mannerisms.
I turned my attention to him. He was tall, by virtue of the fact that he was taller than her. Probably over six foot, I guessed. His hair was auburn. Perhaps red, but I couldn’t quite tell in the light. Despite the heat that would likely come later in the day, he wore a white collared shirt rather than a T-shirt, and a pair of light brown chinos. His chest was broad, and he moved like someone who was fit, but not overly muscle-bound. His ankles were bare and he wore tan loafers on his feet. They fitted together easily as a couple. There was no need for words between them, for forced small talk or for one or the other to break away to check a phone or look at something. They simply stood, side by side, each basking in the physical presence of the other. When one moved, even just a turn of the foot or shifting weight from one leg to another then the other shifted with them, as if one was a wave and the other was the tide and they were each inevitably pulled by the direction of the other.
A knot rose in my throat. Dominik and I had been like that, I knew it. It would not have surprised me to learn that we breathed in time with each other, such was the fit of our bodies. Of course, since I had been alone following his death, I noticed other couples. Mostly, they didn’t bother or upset me, because few couples seemed publicly happy together. Really happy. I had seen people sitting across from each other in restaurants for hours without exchanging a word. Others bickered, or seemed to just tolerate one another as their eyes roamed, checking out other men and women around them. Or they were engrossed by the pressures applied by young children, with little attention left over for anyone besides the toddlers who clung to their hands or pulled at their trouser legs. They might have been different, alone. But besides the hot lust of young, new couples or weekend lovers I rarely saw the easy affection displayed in the way that only two people who know each other in absolute detailed intimacy can display.
I noticed that neither of them carried any sort of bag or purse. They didn’t look like shoppers or tourists. More like they were killing time, waiting for someone.
Then, to my surprise, the woman beckoned to me.
I looked around, thinking that she must have spotted a friend standing near me, but there was no one else on the street. She beckoned again. It was unmistakable.
I stood and walked over.
She removed her hat with one hand, and quickly ran the other through her hair before extending it to me. I was right, her eyes were blue. I shook her hand. Her skin was cool, and her hand was very light and slender but her grasp was firm and business-like.
‘You’re Summer,’ she said. It was not a question, but an announcement. ‘I’m Aurelia,’ she added. ‘Aurelia Carter.’
‘Andrei,’ interjected the auburn-haired man. His hands were large and smooth, and much warmer than hers. Of the two of them, Aurelia was the dominant one, I thought. Perhaps not in the way that they expressed their sexuality. Not like Lauralynn and Viggo. Nor like an employer and employee. Their relationship had layers that I could not yet identify.
‘Please sit down,’ said Aurelia, pointing to one of the green plastic picnic tables that sat outside the coffee stand. It was no more a request than her greeting had been a question, and I did as she instructed. ‘You don’t remember us,’ she added.
‘Sorry,’ I apologised, shaking my head. ‘You do seem familiar, but I can’t recall. Have we met before?’ They must be acquaintances of someone I knew, I figured. Maybe old friends of Dominik’s, or perhaps she was a musician. I became so lost in the music when I played that I regularly forgot to pay any attention at all to other members of the orchestra. I immediately glanced at her hands, although contrary to popular opinion, long, thin fingers were rarely a sign of anything. Hers were slim and delicate, but strong, I knew that from her handshake. She wore no rings. I turned to Andrei. He was staring at me with interest, in a manner that suggested that he was seeking something more than what I presented on the surface, but he was evidently waiting for Aurelia to speak.
‘You recently visited a place where we sometimes hold events or use as a retreat. And where some of our performers go to … to rest, or to train and plan new routines. It is a very special place …’
‘The island?’ I asked. I leaned forward in my seat, eager to hear more about the mysterious activities that had occurred there. I hadn’t seen much of Lauralynn and Viggo since my return as they had been busy working on Viggo’s latest project, and when I had seen them, Lauralynn had been terribly vague. In the end I had pas
sed it off as a dream, or maybe the results of a poisonous plant or a drug that had been dropped in my can of beer. Whatever had happened, the results certainly hadn’t been harmful. Quite the contrary. I had still not lost that acute sense of peace and calm that I had experienced there and yet my days felt so much brighter. I still missed Dominik, of course, and experienced grief, but I had shaken the cloud of depression that had hung over me since he’d gone.
‘Yes, the island. We were there too.’ She held up her hand in response to the expression on my face, as if to reassure me that it wasn’t a problem that my recollection of my time there was so shaky. ‘It is difficult, even for those who have been in our employ for a long time to be certain of what is real and what is not, so please, don’t be concerned. It is a place with its own kind of magic, but I promise, you were safe there. We have been watching you for some time.’
‘Watching me?’ A flash of alarm must have crossed my face and Andrei laughed. He was leaning back in his chair now, relaxed, and smiling, twisting his now empty espresso cup back and forth between his middle and index fingers. Whatever he had been looking for, he had apparently found it, or given up altogether. He turned back to the counter and motioned for another round of coffees, and within minutes, a cup was placed into my hands. I took a sip. It was wonderfully thick and strong.
‘Because of the nature of the work that we do,’ Aurelia explained, ‘all of our performers must be very talented, and versatile in other ways.’
‘The best in the world,’ Andrei interrupted, nodding as he did so to emphasise his point.