by Vina Jackson
It was already midnight by the time I went to bed in the unfamiliar room that was now going to be mine, in a small recessed building behind the club in the darker reaches of Bourbon Street towards Esplanade Avenue. My new home. A splendid bouquet of flowers awaited me with words of greeting from both Aurelia and Giselle Denoux.
I felt a sense of trepidation, as if this was the first night of the rest of my life. Would it be a life of nights?
Sleep came easily after the extensive travel of the previous days. The heady, characteristic smells of the French Quarter, dragging along with them the scent of flowers, spices and herbs, the echo of faraway music and the lush, rotting vegetation of the nearby Mississippi and neighbouring bayous, streamed around the edges of my consciousness.
Inevitably, the dreams came. An unstoppable procession of images, feelings, a swirl of vivid emotions I was unable to control.
I swam in the sea of dreams.
Like celluloid film racing through a projector. Fast forward in mechanical disarray.
The vines of the island crucifying my extended limbs with agonising tenderness, stretching me, opening me, penetrating me until the pleasure threshold became unbearable and I blacked out.
And then found myself in the desert, embedded within a labyrinth of pale bodies, fucked and fucking, joyous and desperate, lustily reaching for a fire which retreated with every step I clumsily advanced.
I saw myself in the centre of the winged blond boys, being taken from the front and behind, their hard cocks filling me one after the other after the other until each of them was spent and the next forced to take over, to pleasure me, to try to feed the insatiable.
Faces.
All the faces of my past life. Dominik. Simon. Victor. Lauralynn. Viggo. Giselle. Luba. Antony. Alissa. Aurelia. And so many more who flashed by like a stampede of light years.
They all ran across my screen and suddenly were gone, leaving a blank space. A deep feeling of serenity.
In my sleep, I relaxed. Settled back. At peace.
Imagined the Balls to come.
A muddy river, crowded by wildlife on either side, a heavy sun bearing down on my shoulders. The titan-like presence of the jungle, images of lithe dancers and acrobats flying across its immensity like insects made of light and divine music lullabying their soaring movements. The Ball and its invisible tentacles, its magical powers spreading across the land, the river, the immensity of the landscape, orchestrating the rise and rise of an empire of lust.
And I was at its dead centre, guiding, conducting, leading, my body the vessel for its coronation, its apotheosis.
Peace.
New visions.
A vast plain of ice, spreading in all directions like an incandescent stain, human ants in various states of undress tiptoeing across the white architecture of the landscape, connected by delicate chains, streamers, wandering across rainbow-coloured carpets. And every face looked up towards me, with a profound smile of understanding. Acknowledging me. Welcoming me.
I woke up. I was wet with sweat, the bed covers crumpled under and around my naked body.
A New Orleans morning awaited outside. Heavy tropical rain falling noisily. A warm and welcome storm to blow the lingering smells and cobwebs away. I rose from my bed and walked nude down the stairs, opened the door to the garden that separated the small house where I lived from the larger building hosting the club. The garden was full of flowers. Colours washed by the hard slap of water.
I walked into the rain.
The Ball awaited me.
Asking me if I was ready to join the dance.
‘Yes, I will,’ I said. ‘Gladly.’
* see the previous volume in the series, Mistress of Night and Dawn.
About the Author
Vina Jackson is the pseudonym for two established writers working together. One is a successful author; the other a published writer who is also a financial professional in London.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 by Vina Jackson
Cover design by Simon & Schuster UK Art Department
The right of Vina Jackson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
978-1-4976-8404-1
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