Gothic Blue

by Portia Da Costa

  ‘Tell me about them,’ said André, tucking her hand beneath his arm and leading her to the door. ‘Entertain me while we stroll on the terrace. I always enjoy a walk after dinner.’ He patted her hand, his fingers cool but corporeal.

  ‘It’s too stupid. I couldn’t tell you, really,’ she insisted, as he led her along yet another corridor she hadn’t been along before, that seemed to lead right through the centre of the priory.

  ‘Try me,’ he urged, as they reached an iron-studded door that surely only a man the size of Oren could master. ‘I have heard many a tall tale in my time … And told my fair share too.’ He grinned and released her arm. Then he opened the huge door without effort.

  The terrace that lay beyond was broad, stone flagged, and lit by a string of what appeared to be oil-burning lanterns. The sky was dark now, a rich shade of indigo, and the brightest of the stars were breaking through. A three-quarter moon rode above them like a sail. Belinda breathed in and smelt the perfume of many flowers, a rich fragrance that seemed to blend with André’s cologne.

  ‘This is so lovely,’ she murmured, then hurried forward towards the elaborately-carved stone parapet so she could look out over the gardens beyond.

  Why didn’t I see this earlier today? she wondered, discovering that in the distance and to her left was the folly. She had approached the priory in broad daylight this morning and seen no evidence whatsoever of this long terrace. The whole house seemed to be remaking itself by the hour.

  As she leaned over the parapet, she sensed rather than heard André join her. ‘You were going to tell me what you had been thinking about,’ he said, sliding his arm around her waist as if it were a perfectly natural thing to do with a near stranger, and as if they were about to take up where they had left off in the library. She felt his mouth brush the hot skin of her neck.

  ‘I …’ Feeling almost faint, she swayed against him. His lips were still against her throat, and filled with her insane notions of earlier, she expected him to attack at any second.

  ‘Why do you fear me, Belinda?’ he whispered, feathering a soft kiss against the line of her jaw. ‘I am not what you think I am, believe me. I am just a man who is entranced by your beauty.’

  He knows! thought Belinda as André turned her expertly and put his arms around her body to embrace her. He knows I thought he was a vampire. That I still think he might be one.

  Cradling her head, André pressed his mouth to hers, probing for entrance with his tongue as she yielded. Belinda tried to keep her mouth closed and her brain sent the message to her lips, but with half a sigh and half a groan, she felt them open, admitting him to explore and taste her moistness.

  The kiss went on for a long, long time, and as she enjoyed it, Belinda seemed to see a stream of inner pictures. Erotic images of herself and the man who held her.

  First, she saw the way she must have appeared this afternoon: half-naked and sprawled across André’s lap, moaning and crooning while he stroked her. Then, a second later, she seemed to be kneeling before him, on this very terrace, taking his strong, erect penis into her mouth. She could almost feel his fingers clasping her head as he thrust savagely, seeking the back of her throat, and she could almost taste the salt-sharp tang of come. The vision of fellatio melted then and changed to a picture of her leaning over a bed somewhere, possibly the red and gold one in her room, while André caressed her naked buttocks. He was teasing her, playing with her; dipping his fingers into her slit from behind, then drawing them up and back to fondle her pouting anus. To her horror the tiny portal seemed to welcome him, relaxing lewdly as a single digit entered.

  The fantasy images were so real and so vivid that her body couldn’t help but react to them. She groaned around André’s intruding tongue and rubbed herself involuntarily against him. In response, his long, graceful hands sank immediately to her bottom, moulding her cheeks through the glistening dress, and pressing her to him.

  Whatever his nature or strangeness, he was possessed of a living man’s erection, and Belinda felt it bore into her belly. There were several layers of fabric between them, yet it was one of the most exciting sensations she had ever felt. He was like rock against her – like steel, like diamond – and despite the masking barriers, she seemed to feel his shape.

  Massaging him with her body and feeling his fingers caress her buttocks in return, she began to see another set of pictures. But this time they were all of André only, in his tower room, fondling his penis until he came. She saw again, in every detail, the way he had arched with pleasure and squirmed like a wild man against the sheets. She almost seemed to hear his incoherent outcries, his mutterings and exclamations in his own language. She saw him rising towards his climax, his body growing more and more tense as he strained to reach it, but at the instant he seemed to get there, the image faded. As she gasped in disappointment, he broke the kiss.

  Panting for air, Belinda slumped against André’s straight body, feeling grateful for his strength in her own weakness. She almost felt as if she had just had an orgasm herself, the rush had been so huge. She had certainly never been kissed like that before, and to her dismay, she felt a sudden urge to weep.

  Confused, Belinda snuggled closer than ever, and as she buried her face in the hollow of André’s shoulder, his hand came up and stroked her hair to soothe her. She heard him whisper something, his voice sounding vaguely Germanic but nevertheless flowing, and she realised he was speaking in his mother tongue to calm her.

  ‘What are you doing to me?’ she pleaded, drawing a little way away so she could look at him.

  André looked at her steadily, his face appearing chiselled in the uneven radiance from the oil lamps and his eyes glowing with a fire both light and dark.

  ‘I do not want to hurt you,’ he said at length, using his thumb to brush away her tears. ‘Only to arouse you, and enlighten you –’ he paused, a hint of a plea forming in the brilliance of his gaze ‘– so you can help me.’

  Belinda sniffed and he produced an immaculate white cotton handkerchief from his pocket and put it into her hand. Dabbing her eyes, she tried to think straight and ponder the significance of the words ‘help me’.

  It was the second time he had intimated that he needed her in some way, but Belinda couldn’t begin to see why. She crumpled his snowy handkerchief, then frowned and tried to straighten it, knowing that there was no way she could put off asking the question.

  ‘What are you, André? And why on earth would you need me for anything?’

  He looked away towards the distant woods, as if seeking the right way to approach a difficult answer in their depths.

  ‘I am just a man, Belinda,’ he said eventually, still staring out across the gardens and the park, ‘but I need you because –’ He paused, then turned fully away from her to face in the direction he was looking. His hands settled on the parapet, his fingers first splayed then gripping the stone tightly. ‘You are beautiful. Desirable. Exquisite. I need your pleasure in order to be strong.’

  It was Belinda’s turn to seek an answer in the beautiful darkness. What did he mean by ‘your pleasure in order to be strong’?

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she said in a small voice, studying the shadows. ‘You say you need my pleasure. Does that mean you are a –’ She couldn’t say the word. It sounded ridiculous. Such things only existed in books and on celluloid.

  ‘A vampire?’ he asked, moving close behind her, his mouth brushing her neck just like the blackest Nosferatu’s.

  ‘Yes.’ She was trembling again and gripping the parapet just as André had. She could feel his breath ruffling the fronds of hair at the nape of her neck, and the beating of his heart where his chest lay against her back. Both of these seemed to deny her mad suspicions.

  ‘No, I am not a vampire,’ he said, pressing a brief kiss to the lobe of her ear, ‘although I can well imagine what it must be like to be one.’

  Belinda could not speak. Her shudders doubled and re-doubled. He was skirting the issue. T
here was something wrong with him. Something different. She felt herself about to fall, to crumple face down over the parapet, but André’s arms were around her again, holding her tightly against his body. His strangely cool body and his so very human erection.

  He was still as hard as ever as he pressed himself against her, massaging his stiffness into the crease between her buttocks. ‘Oh, Belle,’ he whispered, ‘I need you so much.’ His hands moved away from her waist where he had held her, one sliding up to cup her breast, the other going downwards.

  The fear Belinda felt seemed to have aphrodisiac qualities. She was still terrified but her body began to rouse. Her nipples stiffened, peaking beneath the fragile fabric of her dress and her chemise, and between her legs the silken moisture welled. When André pressed his palm against her pubis, she jerked and whimpered.

  ‘I c-can’t,’ she sobbed, not knowing why she was trying to resist. What was the point in defending a barrier he had already breached? Hadn’t he ‘fed’ this afternoon, when he had touched and stroked her; hadn’t he been nourished by the orgasm she had then experienced?

  ‘But you can,’ he told her, his hands moving guilefully to squeeze and massage. ‘It is so easy. I would never hurt you.’

  Belinda went limp in his grasp, her body seeming to melt as the sensations quickly mounted. Her breasts were aching now, swelling inside the silk of her bodice, and her vulva was a pool of simmering heat.

  ‘Oh André! André!’ Moulded against him, she no longer cared who or what he was. He was simply caressing hands and a male body, superbly strong and fragrant.

  Suddenly there were too many layers of clothing between them. Still held, she struggled in his grip, trying to reach the fastenings of the priceless period dress.

  ‘Hush,’ he murmured. ‘Let me. It will be easier.’ He took his hands from her body in an instant and set to work, deftly undoing the tiny buttons at the back of her dress.

  Without André’s hands on her, Belinda felt feverish, and she moaned for the return of his fabulous touch.

  ‘Patience,’ he said into her ear as the dress fluttered down on to the stone flags beneath them, forming a pale, fluid pool around her ankles. Too impatient even to step out of it, Belinda pressed her thinly-clad body back against him and circled her hips to work her buttocks against his penis.

  ‘Touch me,’ she begged, tugging at the cobweb-like chemise and knickers. ‘I want you to touch me. Please. Like you did before … I want to feel your fingers between my legs.’

  Somewhere far back in her mind, Belinda was appalled. She was pleading and grovelling like some helpless nymphomaniac, calling out for a virtual stranger to lay his hands upon her sex. It wasn’t like her, but it didn’t seem to matter. She was another person here, transformed by André, her magician, into a thing of pleasure, pledged only to serve his whim. As his fingers slithered beneath the chemise, she grunted, ‘Yes!’

  Hunting among the layers of delicate silk, André soon had his hand inside her knickers, and with unerring efficiency, he worked it down to find her quim. One finger wiggled its way through the sodden curls of her pubic forest, and when it found her, Belinda crowed with lust and triumph.

  ‘Oh God! Oh God!’ Her cries rang out loudly in the mystical blue-black night, her bottom jerking as André flicked her clitoris. She was a breath away from orgasm, a heartbeat from coming gloriously and freely, but he kept her hovering, his touch wicked and as light as swan’s down.

  ‘Oh please,’ she begged again, kicking her legs, heedless that she might tear the priceless gown around her feet. ‘Oh please, André, please, I need to come. I can’t wait. I’ll go mad if I don’t!’

  One arm held her tight around her waist while the other slid loosely to her side. ‘Don’t worry, my beautiful Belinda,’ he purred into her ear. ‘You will have your release. But it will be all the sweeter for a little wait. A little craving.’

  Belinda kicked again, sending the peach-orange dress flying across the flags. ‘You beast! You bastard! You really are a monster!’ she howled, squirming and squirreling against him. Her sex was on fire and so engorged it seemed to hurt. She hissed ‘I hate you’ as he draped her forward against the parapet.

  ‘Be still,’ he ordered her, his voice soft yet seeming to resonate with command. She felt his hand lie flat against the small of her back, and though he held her lightly, she seemed to lose the will to move.

  Belinda quivered finely as she lay prone across the parapet, toweringly furious yet more aroused than she could measure. She bit her lip as André stood behind her, and she sensed him studying her bottom. After a short pause, she felt him plucking gently at her knickers, then easing the fine, slippery fabric slowly downward.

  When her drawers were around her ankles, he lifted the pretty embroidered chemise up to just beneath her shoulders and with a few deft tucks and twists, he secured it there. When that was done, she heard him step back to admire the view.

  ‘Oh God,’ Belinda moaned again, as she imagined the shocking vista before his eyes.

  Her bottom and her thighs were completely on show, while her suspenders and her stockings enhanced their bareness. She could feel the fragrant night air flowing playfully across her vulva, its cool caress a blessed balm to her burning heat.

  ‘What are you going to do to me?’ she asked defiantly, fighting hard to keep the quaver from her voice. ‘Beat me or something? Smack my bottom … I’m sure that’s just what you decadent aristocrats live for – a chance to humiliate the lower orders.’

  ‘How wrong you are,’ said André, his voice soft and far closer than she had realised. ‘I only want to give you pleasure.’ She could swear she felt his breath upon her back. ‘Although if to be beaten is your pleasure, I would be far more than delighted to oblige you.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ she cried, yet at the same time she imagined his hand crashing down upon her buttocks. The idea should have been horrendous; revolting. But suddenly, against her will, she seemed to want it. She felt her sex-flesh pulse and flutter at the thought of André smacking her bottom, and her hips began to weave of their own accord. She pursed her lips to prevent her voicing her wayward urges.

  ‘I know … I know …’ His voice was soothing and she felt the brush of his dinner jacket against her thighs. ‘Perhaps I should beat you?’ He seemed to reflect for a moment. ‘But not just yet. Tonight we will enjoy a simpler pleasure.’

  He does know, she thought, feeling herself sink to a delicious nadir of shame. He understands what I want before I do. He anticipates the way I think and what I feel. How will I ever keep a secret while he’s near?

  Chapter Eight

  Indigo Secrets

  ‘RELAX … RELAX …’ MURMURED André, his long hair tickling her back as he sank to his knees at her side. ‘There is no need to keep secrets from me. I have no wish to harm you.’

  Belinda stiffened involuntarily. The more André confirmed his strangeness, the more her fear of him increased. And as the fear grew, so did her arousal.

  He must be able to see how much I want him, she thought, unable to prevent her thighs from shaking. She could feel his breath on her now, his cool breath, like a breeze that teased her naked bottom. His face was just inches from her vulva. She imagined him flaring his nostrils and drawing her scent; her strong female odour. She could smell it herself, so André must be drowning in it. She pictured him studying the engorged folds of her sex then putting out his tongue, pointed and mobile, to taste and lick her. The idea made her cringe with shame, and yet, with all her might, she craved it. And in acknowledging that need, she knew that he too knew what she wanted.

  But still he kept his distance. Inches seemed like feet or yards. His breath and his masculine aura seemed to tantalise and caress her, but his fingers and his tongue remained aloof.

  ‘Well, do something if you’re going to!’ she cried, unable to bear the waiting any longer. She felt like an exhibit in a gallery or some infernal experiment in responsiveness. Was he waiting to se
e how wet she would get without the benefit of contact? Was he waiting for her to crack and reach to touch herself? Or perhaps to have an orgasm, just from need?

  ‘Patience,’ he whispered, laying his fingers on her flank. ‘You are so beautiful. Let me admire you a moment, before I pleasure you.’

  Belinda let out a low, frustrated cry. Her swollen sex was calling to him, begging for him. She kicked her legs and felt her knickers at first constrain her then slide off over her shiny satin ballet pumps, one foot after the other. Kicking them away, she edged closer to the parapet, trying to press her pubis against the stone and get relief.

  The hand on her thigh moved inward, fingers splaying, thumb beginning a rhythmic stroke. It moved back and forth, less than an inch from her anus, sliding over the sensitive skin with ineffable lightness. As she groaned, his left hand mirrored his right, and then both his thumbs were working in concert, stroking the area around her rosy entrance with the greatest care.

  Belinda pushed back towards him, feeling both her sex and her rear portal pout rudely. Her body seemed to speak of its own accord. Choose! it demanded of him. Take me! Take whatever you want … it’s yours … take everything!

  The thumbs edged closer together, right into the channel, their soft pads brushing the forbidden opening. Liquid gathered in her vulva, pooling as it never had before, then became too much to be contained and overflowed. She could feel her sexual juice trickling down her inner thigh and landing in a sticky puddle on the stone. Shame made her whole body flush, but it made no difference. The fluid only ran faster than ever, oozing out of her like honey from a jar.

  ‘Oh please! Oh please!’ she begged again, unable to bear being touched yet not touched, being viewed but not allowed to come, being so wet and needy she was running like a river. ‘Oh please,’ she grunted, shoving her whole body towards him and tilting up her hips.

  His answer was to dig into the flesh of her bottom with his thumbs, exert a measured, devilish pressure, then slide them outwards again, parting her lobes like a ripe peach. Her sense of being exposed increased exponentially as the entrances to her body were stretched wide, but she urged him on by pressing backwards and stretching them wider –