Mistress of Night and Dawn

by Vina Jackson

  There was a knock on the door.

  The older women who had been supervising her never knocked.

  ‘Come in . . .’ she cried out.

  Tristan came through the door.

  Aurelia felt a pang of disappointment, although she was intrigued by his presence and this break in the orderly routine she had been following for what felt like ages now.

  ‘Good morning, Aurelia.’

  ‘Hello. I wasn’t expecting you.’

  ‘I know,’ he said, his eyes running lustfully across the liberal amount of skin peering through the open flaps of the kimono she had slipped on after her shower and in which she was lounging in expectation of the women’s visit.

  Realising her parts were on full, impudent display, Aurelia blushed and instinctively pulled on the thin belt of the colourful silk gown and closed it as best as she could, even as the more practical side of her was all too aware that Tristan had already seen her naked, not only on the island at the Ball but, in all likelihood, many times during her training, and might well have been an active participant too. If he had, she had never recognised him in the same way that she always knew Andrei.

  ‘Yes?’ she mumbled.

  ‘Andrei, the Ball’s Protector, should be here instead of me,’ Tristan stated, ‘but he is out of town for another week, so it’s my duty to instruct you in his absence.’

  ‘What about Madame Denoux and . . . ?’ How annoying that the other woman she knew as Mrs Greysuit had never revealed her name.

  ‘Miss Morris.’

  ‘Is that her name?’

  Tristan nodded. ‘That part of your training is now complete,’ he informed Aurelia. ‘They remain in situ, and will answer your command should you wish to consult them.’

  He continued, ‘But there is still a lot you must learn before you become the Mistress of the Ball, and I have been commanded, in the absence of the Protector, to put myself at your disposal to this effect.’

  Why could it not be Andrei? Aurelia wondered. What more pressing duties could he have?

  Instructing her.

  Holding her in his arms.

  Loving her.

  Tristan was not always in a position to answer all of Aurelia’s questions.

  One of the most pressing ones she had concerned her parents. From the elliptic conversations she’d had initially with Andrei and later with Madame Denoux, she had learned that her mother was born to a previous Mistress and had, all along, been destined for the role. At the expense of the Network she had been privately educated in Europe but, when she had returned to the Ball on the death by natural illness of her own mother, the previous Mistress, she had quickly fallen in love with the design engineer who had been recruited from the mundane world just a few months earlier to contribute new sketches and ideas for the following Ball, which was planned to take place near Niagara Falls and would involve much play and improvisation on the theme of water. Aurelia’s mother had not yet initiated her training by the time she passed away, and as the day grew closer, she rebelled against tradition and convinced the engineer to elope with her.

  What could he tell her about her father? Very little. Just a name. No one now remembered him properly.

  Considering the chosen theme of the Ball, it was sadly ironic that the couple’s death shortly after Aurelia’s birth had occurred by drowning. It was as if the gods presiding over the destiny of the Ball were taking a subtle if cruel revenge on those who had let them down.

  There had been previous occasions during the course of history – and the origins of the Ball were lost in the mists of time, although many of its traditions persisted – when it had not had a proper Mistress, a function that ideally passed from mother to daughter through the blood. Whenever this had happened, a Protector had been appointed by the Ball’s Council, and later by the Network.

  ‘In the absence of a Mistress, what is the role of the Protector?’ Aurelia asked, still puzzled by Andrei’s true role.

  ‘He looks after the Ball and . . .’

  Tristan fell short.

  ‘And what?’ Aurelia continued.

  ‘He is tasked to determine the next Mistress.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘He tests new women to see if they carry pleasure in their blood . . .’

  Aurelia’s stomach tightened.

  ‘You mean . . . ?’

  ‘Yes,’ Tristan replied, a hint of cruelty painted across his full lips.

  Aurelia fell silent.

  ‘But there was no real need to test you,’ he continued. ‘Once we had tracked you down, we knew you were your mother’s child and a genuine Mistress-in-Waiting.’

  ‘How does one know? If a woman can be a Mistress, I mean. That is if the line of succession has been somehow interrupted or broken?’ she queried.

  ‘The burning heart,’ Tristan said. ‘On your pubis.’

  ‘But you and so many others also have one,’ Aurelia replied. ‘A mark, at least, if not in the same place.’

  ‘Just the one on the underside of our wrists. It’s not a real one. It has to be tattooed. A real tattoo once we’ve been accepted into the Ball as one of the servants. We have many rituals. Too many if you ask me . . .’

  ‘But mine?’

  ‘Yours is genuine. The Ball flows through your blood and the mark will appear unbidden when . . .’

  Aurelia remembered how Tristan had gone down on her in the antechamber of the forest on the island in the Puget Sound and how she had been unable to stem the inevitable flow of pleasure, the evidence she was joyfully wanton and a creature who was a willing slave to her senses.

  The conversation paused as a crowd of thoughts jostled inside Aurelia’s brain.

  Finally she replied, ‘You said you were born on the same day as me, if I remember.’

  ‘So I discovered after we’d identified you. An omen, no?’

  ‘And you’ve always been with the Ball, also born into it?’

  ‘So to speak. I’ve always suspected Walter was my father. Like you, I never knew my mother.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘You know that once you become Mistress, the Protector will no longer have a role to play.’ Tristan seemed unwilling to elaborate on his own origins.

  ‘Would that not be my decision?’ Aurelia asked.

  ‘Not really,’ Tristan continued. ‘Although by tradition the Mistress can choose a consort . . .’ he added.

  Aurelia reflected, just a hint of pain stabbing her heart on the thought of losing Andrei, that now that she had found him, although the knowledge of having shared him with all the other women he had ‘tested’ also triggered a pang of doubt, even if she knew that he had witnessed her taken by so many others as part of her training. That had never been kept a secret, though. Andrei had known before she had that this would be a part of her role. Why had he never told her about this aspect of his life? Was he still actively engaged in it?

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Travelling.’

  ‘To what purpose?’

  ‘Only he knows.’

  Tristan straightened his back as if he had taken a sudden decision and looked Aurelia in the eyes.

  ‘Choose me,’ he said.

  ‘Choose?’

  ‘Over him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I am younger. We have more in common. I find you beautiful, uncommonly so. The two of us could run the Ball, make it shine again for future generations, assure its heritage. We were born on the same day. Some would call it fate, surely? Think how it makes sense, how it is meant to be.’

  ‘And if I don’t?’

  ‘I will challenge him.’

  ‘How?’

  Tristan explained. Aurelia held her breath. After he had concluded his explanation, she remained silent. It made sense, in a crazy sort of way. By the strange logic of the Ball’s magic, it would be a way to know for sure if her future really did belong with Andrei or if her obsession with him had been simply a crush. She was a different person now. And
she had barely seen Andrei of late. Had he been prevented from visiting her? Or had he chosen not to? She had no way of knowing, but the thought of his abandonment left a bitter taste in her mouth. It was like picking at a wound. She just couldn’t help herself.

  As she then said the words, she instantly regretted opening her mouth, but she was already too far gone. ‘Tell me about the other women Andrei has known . . .’

  ‘I can do better than that,’ Tristan said. ‘I can show you.’

  Aurelia noticed the hint of relish in his voice, but she ignored it. However moral or otherwise his intentions were, he had piqued her curiosity and she couldn’t turn back now. She followed him out of the suite of rooms and to the elevator that serviced the administrative floors throughout the building, for which he held an electronic key fob. A prickling sensation ran up Aurelia’s spine to the nape of her neck as Tristan pressed the button to the basement. It was an area she had previously not been granted access to and, having spent so many months essentially living within the enclosed perimeter of the garden’s glass-walled prism, she felt anxious about the prospect of going underground.

  The soft hiss of the elevator’s doors sliding open when they finally hit the lowest level of the Network’s headquarters made Aurelia jump. Tristan let out a low chuckle.

  ‘You’re not afraid of the dark, are you, Mistress?’ he teased. He used the title as if it were a joke and this irritated Aurelia. She knew that she wasn’t the Mistress yet and she had no right to accuse him of disrespect, but that did not prevent her from smiling to herself as she imagined all the ways in which she could take him down a peg or two if given the opportunity. Perhaps she would agree to make him her consort, but only on the grounds that he agreed to wear her collar. The thought of having Tristan bow at her feet and perhaps even allowing her to take him from behind with the leather harness and ivory phallus that Madame Denoux had demonstrated using PJ as a subject during part of her dominant training made her immediately wet and also conscious of a burning sensation between her shoulder blades as her twin Chinese dragons began to flare into life.

  Would she ever feel the same way with Andrei? She couldn’t imagine it. He had never shown any indication of submissive traits. That part of her had never surfaced of its own accord during their lovemaking. Whether or not she wanted it to do so was another matter and one for which she had no answer. And perhaps there were as many aspects to his psyche that she would be unable to fulfil and for which he might always look to other lovers to provide.

  The only thing that Aurelia was sure of was that she was unsure of everything.

  The corridors that Tristan led her through were pitch-black. Not so much as a crack of natural light had managed to wend its way into the bowels of the Network’s office block and Aurelia could not even make out the outline of his broad shoulders as he walked ahead of her. His hand was cool when he grasped her fingers to prevent her from stumbling. She was now completely disoriented and if he had abandoned her here, Aurelia was not certain that she could have found her way back to the lifts or if, without his key fob, she would even be able to access the upper floors. If they had passed a set of emergency stairs, she hadn’t noticed.

  Of course she knew that Tristan was aware of all this. It was the unspoken play of power between them that lit the spark of attraction that had never been fully ignited, but that lingered between them still like the embers of a fire that with a dose of the right fuel, might explode into a raging inferno at any moment.

  He finally stopped walking, but so suddenly that she took one step too many and came to an abrupt halt against the firm pillow of his back. The warmth of his body and the strength that was barely concealed beneath the thin T-shirt that he wore was like an accelerant to the already flickering flames of desire that Aurelia was struggling to rein in. She didn’t want to let him know the effect that his presence was having upon her and she knew that it would show if she let it. The markings upon her flesh were beginning to itch and, with little more encouragement, the road map of her lust would be seared across every inch of her exposed skin.

  When Tristan switched on the electric light switch, the sight that met Aurelia’s eyes doused her senses in metaphorical cold water immediately.

  They were in a vast room – perhaps half the size of a football pitch – lined with shelves against every flat surface besides the far wall, upon which hung a huge screen. It was like a cinema without any seats. The shelves were covered with neatly stacked and labelled archiving boxes, books and miscellaneous papers that filled every inch of the cavernous space.

  ‘Film?’ Aurelia asked in surprise as Tristan approached the only section of the archives that was free from a liberal coating of dust and pulled down several large black cased reels.

  ‘It’s a dying art,’ he replied. ‘Retro, you know. I think it adds something. Digital just isn’t the same . . .’ He had lost the usual ironic tone that usually edged his words and there was a distinct hint of genuine enthusiasm in his voice.

  Aurelia raised an eyebrow in surprise. She hadn’t taken him for an artist.

  ‘What is all this?’ she asked, examining the frayed yellow bindings on some of the books. They were so old that the titles had been worn away and she was too afraid to pick up a volume with her bare fingers in case it melted into dust.

  ‘Part of the history of the Ball. All the records that have been unearthed over the years.’

  ‘I thought that there weren’t any? Andrei always said that the Ball’s origins had been lost . . .’

  ‘Andrei is no supporter of the archives,’ he said bitterly. ‘He believes that the Ball should keep evolving, modernising, moving along with the current of the present . . . That getting stuck in the burden of past traditions will dilute some of the magic, the intuition of the revellers that keeps the Ball alive.’

  ‘And you don’t agree?’

  ‘Andrei is correct to an extent. So much of our history has been lost, or was never recorded and what we do have is piecemeal.’ Tristan lifted his hand in a wide arc indicating the sheer expanse of the material that filled the shelves. ‘Some of these books only contain one line of reference to the Ball, and we can’t even be certain that those lines describe the Ball at all and not some other hedonistic event.’

  He sighed loudly. ‘It’s been my project since I became Andrei’s second in command to carry on with the task of researching old material, preserving these records and making new ones. I come from a long line of librarians, you know. It’s rumoured that I might even be related to Casanova, who recorded all of his adventures . . . it’s in the blood. He had a son, too, who unearthed much of the information that was thought to be lost.’

  Aurelia choked back her surprise. The line of Casanova. What arrogance. She forgot her amusement as another thought dawned on her, the dots all connecting in her mind.

  ‘You’ve been filming my training.’

  ‘Yes,’ he confessed. ‘Not all of it. But much of it. We wanted to discover how the tattoos appear. When. If there’s any relationship between the way that the Mistress’s marks develop and the tasks that she is given during her training. If that power could be harnessed in some way . . . There are some in the Ball’s hierarchy who believe that a Mistress could be created, tamed, not bred exactly but her responses moulded . . . And you are so beautiful, Aurelia, so beautiful and sometimes so terrible when you are fucking or being fucked. You have no idea. I was never one of your lovers, I regret to say. I was never assigned to you. But I was always caught like a fly in your web, so mesmerised by what I saw through my lens that I couldn’t break my gaze away for even long enough to put my camera down and join you. And you burn so brightly that being in your presence is like being exposed to the fire of the sun. I sometimes feel if I looked at you directly I would be burned to ash. But if you were to name me your consort, Aurelia, then with you I could be like Helios. With your power and my knowledge, we could rule the Ball like nobody ever has before . . .’

  He paused befor
e continuing, ‘But I did not bring you here to talk about the future. I brought you here to show you the past. Watch.’

  The projector roared into life and flickering images appeared on the wall in front of them. Andrei, half nude and the size of a Titan, blown up to fill the big screen. Bent over in front of him was a beautiful young woman with dark hair flicked delicately behind her ears and cropped into a chic bob, highlighting a pair of full red lips and the sort of cheekbones that would make any cat jealous. Her short denim skirt was bunched around her waist and red welts marked the soft tan skin of her thighs where the elastic of her white cotton panties had dug into her flesh having been hurriedly pulled down to provide access to Andrei’s cock, the length of which was ploughing into her with the sort of uneven and haphazard rhythm that Aurelia recognised as born of passion. There was no ritual here, nor any kind of duty. This was fucking at its most basic.

  Aurelia’s eyes landed on the bright-red mark of twin cherries tattooed on the woman’s hip, just above her pubic bone. For a moment her heart stopped. Then she realised the tattoo was a real tattoo, and not a very classy one either, she thought with a hint of bitterness.

  Then her attention was caught by movement in the background. Lights. Streamers. A curtain of multicoloured glass beads flying into the wind from the tent of a fortuneteller. They were at the funfair on Hampstead Heath. It was still light, but the sky was showing some signs of clouding over and the wind appeared to be picking up. She and Siv had probably been on the dodgem cars then, minutes before the rain had started and they had sought shelter on the ghost train. Merely an hour later Andrei had pressed his lips against hers and changed her life for ever and here he was, rutting like an animal, with another woman who he had likely only just met. Testing her, Tristan had said, but it certainly didn’t look like a chore. A distinct look of pleasure was carved over Andrei’s face. Had he known who Aurelia was then, or had he been working his way through every pretty girl at the fair?

  Aurelia swallowed hard, but she could not bring herself to look away. Her eyes were glued to the vision of their bodies slapping against one another, the cupid’s bow of their lips open in cries of ecstasy, the hard angles of his muscled limbs contrasting with the softness of her flesh in a parody of opposites welded together by mutual attraction.