Orfeo

by M. J. Lawless

  those flowers which for others wrought

  a garland of the noblest kind.

  Yet those flowers are not my only fruit,

  for I have sown a far more subtle seed,

  seed that within the heart’s warm earth will feed

  when in this song and spell it takes up root.

  Cultivated by kisses kind

  and with my great affection wrought,

  in this garland the words I find

  are those which love to show I sought.”

  The caress of her fingers on her flesh was matched by those of his song about her ears and Ardyce lay upon her bed, her breast heaving as her hands sought liquid pleasures to match his words, cultivating a flower that began to blossom and extend its petals below.

  It was not long until Orfeo’s head appeared at the window once more and, with strong arms, he lifted himself into her room. Although she had expected him this intrusion made her laugh and she could just make out the slight frown on his dark face, picked out in silver by the moonlight.

  “Oh, don’t worry,” she told him smilingly, her voice a little hoarse from her preparatory bliss as she rolled onto her side and extended one long, smooth arm toward him. “I was just thinking that you could use the door, you know.”

  This made him laugh and he moved toward the bed, sitting beside her after placing his guitar by the window once more. He took her hand in his so that she was able to feel the warmth of his palms.

  “I prefer to come to you like a thief in the night,” he said, “for stolen pleasures are the sweetest.”

  She let him pull her toward him gently, the softness of her naked breast pressing into the fabric of his trousers as she tilted her head backwards. His kiss was indeed all the sweeter for being stolen, willingly, from her, and their tongues were hot creatures that explored each other’s mouths as he bent down to her.

  “And all my treasures are yours for the taking,” she purred when they parted. She could still taste his spiced breath on her lips.

  His eyes glittered as he looked down on her and a broad smile formed on his face. “Then I’ll plunder all your riches until the moon flees in shame and the sun is shocked at what he sees.”

  Her own hands were iron as she grabbed hold of his waist, pulling at the cotton of his shirt, fumbling with the band of his jeans. “Then don’t let morning ever come,” she growled, “if it means you leave me. Let’s enjoy every moment of the night.”

  When she woke, her heart did seem to break at the sight of the empty bed beside her, the traces of his body still caught in the luxurious folds of the sheets, the stains of their pleasure a final blossom of the nighttime flowers they had shared. Her limbs ached deliciously, however, exerted beyond any expectation, and when she moved her fingers between her thighs to her sex it tingled and stung, painful yet hungry for more.

  During the day she no longer left Xanadu, and on the first day she refused all visitors, even Baptiste. Her mind was caught up in a most beautiful state of melancholy—not sadness or despair, but simply the desire to fold itself up in the glorious memories of every touch, every kiss, every loving caress of Orfeo. Today the sun was too strong for her, and in the afternoon she pulled the draperies across her window, letting a softer glimmer more like moonlight fall on her body as she moved her hands across herself, reliving each motion of her lover the night before.

  She knew that she was behaving foolishly, like some lovestruck teenager who was experiencing both the bliss of newfound happiness and the gnawing stupidity of being abandoned, but she did not care. She had no desire to explain it to anyone—and the only one who would have understood did not need her to explain.

  Again he came that evening, when the moon was high in the sky, her thief and dark flower of the night. And for the three following days he would steal into her room and take her in the bed. They barely spoke after the first few moments of each assignation, but their grunts, cries and howls were like the noises of wild beasts, so loud in fact that Ardyce’s maids couldn’t hide their sniggers in the morning when they brought her food, nudging each other and exchanging whispers when they thought she wasn’t looking.

  But still she didn’t care, nor did she have any desire to see anyone but Orfeo. She had turned aside Earl’s men brusquely, as well as a few former companions of her previous life who had come to scavenge out tidbits of gossip regarding the disappearance of the auburn beauty. On the final day, however, she felt a little guilty at joining Baptiste in with this crew or reprobates and so this time went to see him in the morning room when he called for her, as he did every day.

  He was dressed impeccably in a light gray suit and waistcoat, the cooler temperature of this room suiting him better than the hot and humid air of the orangery. For her part, Ardyce felt little need for clothing and had pulled a silk kimono negligently across her naked body, a gift from an admirer: the man had long been forgotten, but she still adored the way the fabric felt on her skin and let it hang from her shoulders, a band tied casually around her waist. The effect was to expose as much of her body as it hid from view and Baptiste raised one eyebrow as she sat down across from him.

  “Well, I had been worried you might be wasting away locked up in here, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen you more lovely,” he told her, sipping the lemonade that had been brought to him. “I presume we have the young singer to thank for that.”

  “Oh yes,” she replied, smiling as her eyes clouded over for a moment. The memory of his muscular, taut body on top of her flooded her sensations so that for a few seconds the day became night, Orfeo holding her down as he filled her completely, his gasps in her ear as she bit his shoulders. Unconsciously, she pressed one hand to her sex through the fabric of her gown, easing her luscious anxieties for the briefest instant in a flash of bliss. Returning to the living world, she blushed and said: “I’ve become something of a vampire, I’m afraid. Daytime doesn’t quite... do it for me anymore.”

  Baptiste laughed and shook his head as Ardyce called for one of her maids and asked for a lemonade to match her friend’s. This made him pause. “Not one of your specials?” he asked, teasingly.

  “No.” Ardyce gave a grimace. “That... that doesn’t seem so necessary anymore. I won’t lie—I get all sorts of aches from time to time, but the remedy for most of those won’t come out of a bottle.”

  He frowned momentarily. “Well, be careful. You don’t want to make yourself sick.”

  Looking at him, her smile became warmer at his concern. “I won’t. Don’t worry.”

  “And will I get to see this mysterious singer up close? I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him since that night I passed him your letter.” Baptiste lifted his head and looked out through to the hallway.

  Suddenly feeling self-conscious in her stupidity, Ardyce began to explain. “You won’t,” she told him. “He... he doesn’t stay here.”

  Again her friend couldn’t resist a raised brow and opened his mouth, no doubt to pass some casually cruel quip about other lovers. A warning glance of fire in Ardyce’s green eyes, however, reminded him that such barbs would not be easily forgiven and he held his peace. After a moment’s awkward silence he observed instead: “News of your disappearance has only been matched by that of Orfeo. He hasn’t been seen in Apollo’s for almost a week now—nor anywhere else in the city, for that matter. That’s why I thought he might be here.”

  It was Ardyce’s turn to frown at this. Her nimble fingers played with a single thread of silk that had splayed itself from the kimono and her lips worked silently for a moment. “I... I don’t know where he goes,” she said at last. “I don’t even know where he comes from.”

  Holding his glass in his fingers, Baptiste was thoughtful for a while. “You could be playing a dangerous game here, Ardyce.” He raised one hand as she began to protest. “I’m only speaking out of concern for you. I’m glad to see you this... fulfilled. Really I am. But you don’t know anything about this young man. In any case, there may be other things to
worry about.”

  Ardyce glanced sharply at him. “What do you mean?”

  Baptiste shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I’m not the only one drawing a connection between the isolation of Ardyce Dubois and the sudden disappearance of a young singer. Earl has his loa out looking for your Orfeo.”

  At this, Ardyce hissed and slapped her hand down on the seat. “Why the hell doesn’t that bastard leave me alone?” she snarled. Baptiste was shocked by her transformation: her red hair was glistening and bronzed, her eyes bright with fury. She had never looked so wild, he thought—nor so beautiful.

  She calmed almost immediately, however, waving her hand dismissively when he mentioned Earl’s name again. Instead she passed a pleasant afternoon gossiping with him about the tittle-tattle of the city, the warnings of coming storms in the approaching hurricane season, distant politics although what happened in Washington bored her more than the acquaintances of her father’s who ran New Orleans.

  They had a late lunch together and, when he had left, she ordered the maids to bring her more food. When it was laid before her, however, she realized her hunger was for a stronger meat. Instead she returned once more to her bedroom, pleasuring herself in the half-light of her chamber and waiting for the night to fall.

  Darkness was transforming into the dusk of twilight when Orfeo awoke from his light doze. Ardyce lay next to him, one pale arm thrown across the black chocolate of his muscular chest, her face on the pillow, resting close to his head.

  He drank her in as she slept, adoring every portion of her face in the gray half-light. Her eyelids were closed peacefully, while the natural, soft ruby of her lips was a tinge reflected in the gentler blush of her cheeks, her mouth parted slightly so that he could just make out a glint of pearl.

  Carefully and slowly, he lifted up her arm and placed it alongside her body. The sheet covered her lower half but the pale skin of her shoulder seemed to glow slightly, an unearthly, spectral glow as she slept in exhaustion.

  He was exhausted himself. How long had he dozed? Less than an hour, he was sure. She had been wild—rampant—riding him astride his loins, driving herself down on him while she rained down blows on his chest as orgasm after orgasm surged through her.

  As he slipped out of the bed beside her, part of him longed simply to lie there, to hold her tightly, wake her, fuck her again and again and then fall into a deeper sleep in her arms.

  But no. It wasn’t possible. Being here was dangerous for him. There were plenty who would have wanted his blood just for being in this room. Sadly he shook his head and staggered onto his feet: there would be plenty of time to sleep later, when he was back in the derelict room that passed for home far from the dangerous, intoxicating delights of Xanadu.

  Stretching out his long, powerful arms, he felt paroxysms of mild pleasure, mini-climaxes, shuddering through his body. His cock, as long and as powerful in its own way as his other limbs, ached and his balls felt drained of every drop. How many times had he orgasmed? She was drinking him dry, this auburn-haired fury, this pale-skinned lamia—and yet once he had rested, composing verses for his diabolical muse as he lay in his cot, he knew that he would return. Reason told him of the dangers involved in such a seduction but he was compelled beyond reason. That made him wonder which of them was the seducer.

  Casting about for his clothes which she had literally torn from his body, he looked with wry amusement on the shredded shirt. Oh well, he told himself, easy come, easy go. His real treasure lay asleep in the bed.

  With the tattered remains of his shirt pulled across his shoulders, he started to hunt for his jeans and shoes which had been thrown around the bedroom somewhere beyond his immediate ken.

  “You don’t have to go.” Her voice was soft and quiet.

  Turning, still half naked, he returned to the bed and sat on the soft mattress beside her.

  “I thought you were asleep.”

  “I was. You don’t have to go.”

  He sighed. Inside him an angel and a devil struggled for possession of his soul, one longing to throw all caution to the wind, to mount her and dominate her as she devoured him. The angel, however, offered calmer advice.

  “You know I do. I’ll come back, tonight.”

  The words sounded weak even as he spoke them. She did not reply, but instead pulled herself toward him, her own hands surprisingly strong as she gripped onto his bare thighs.

  “Ardyce,” he began to say, the angel flailing for purchase as the aching, hungry demon below once more responded to her touch.

  Still she didn’t speak, but instead lifted her head so that it hovered above his own rising sex. Her lips were moist and wet as she kissed him and he stirred longingly against her touch, his fingers losing themselves in the softness of her hair.

  Opening her mouth wider, she began to suckle him, taking the tip of him into her and letting her saliva form a slick coating. He groaned as she pushed her head down on him, taking him in deeper now, and his erection began to swell and grow inside her, his fingers convulsing as she began to suck him into the back of her throat.

  She had arched her body like a serpent across his lap, and as her head bobbed up and down he admired the sinuous curve of her back, the muscles between her shoulder blades moving as she feasted on him. The edge of her buttocks was just visible beneath the hem of the sheet, a soft shadow leading into the cleft where so much joy lay. Reaching out with one hand, the other pressing down on her head as she sucked him, he slid his fingers across the soft, cool flesh of her buttocks and found the wetness of her sex. She wanted him—but then she always wanted him.

  When he lifted her up at last, she resisted at first, fighting him so that he would not leave her again. He gripped her narrow wrists in his hands and she struggled fiercely, eyes blazing as she hissed with unfulfilled lust. But now his cock was iron, hard and strong, and when she saw it she knew that he would not—could not—leave now.

  He pushed her onto her front, pulling away the sheet so that her bare legs were exposed as the gray light began to turn golden. She parted them, and he saw her slit, wet and open, a flower for him beneath the round muscle of her buttocks. Lowering his own body on top of her with one hand he gripped her hair, the thick locks coppery red in his black fingers as, with his other hand, he guided his erection down and into her.

  She groaned and gasped as he penetrated her again. It must hurt her, he was sure, just as it ached for him to fuck so many times in one night, but that didn’t matter now. She was going to trap him here with the dawn. So be it. For that she would pay—gladly, willingly, a thousand times over.

  He yanked back her hair, making her back and neck arch up so that he could force his mouth down onto her, greedily kissing her, eating her as his own buttocks began to move with short, sharp, savage thrusts. Her gasps became whimpers and her hands flailed about the bed, grabbing pillows and sheets as convulsions rocked through her hips and thighs.

  Glancing across the room, he saw the two of them locked together in the mirror that was placed above her dressing table. Her own body, so white with rose-tinted hues, was half hidden by his large, powerful body, her legs splayed wide to allow him to enter her more deeply. She was murmuring senselessly now, unable to form any words other than the primeval language of lust as yet another orgasm began to flood her, and as he slammed his buttocks down upon her, the terrible ache in his cock becoming a rippling burst of pleasure, he howled like a wild beast.

  When at last he collapsed on top of her, half-suffocating her, she lifted up one hand and began to stroke him soothingly. With that he could fight no more and, finally, drifted into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  Chapter Five

  When Ardyce entered the drawing room, she found Orfeo talking to one of her maids—the young girl, Beatrice. Ardyce had found out one of her father’s shirts for him. For some reason she had felt compelled to search for it herself, having insisted that the clothing that she had torn was no longer fit for him. In the meantime, rather than wai
ting for her in the bedroom as she had expected, Orfeo had gone wandering through Xanadu and evidently been distracted here.

  He was seated on a chair, one leg nonchalantly resting across the arm. Although he now wore his jeans, from the waist up he was still naked, his dark chest broad and muscular, his arms elegantly powerful while he spoke with exaggerated gesticulations, speaking in Creole which took Ardyce by surprise. It appeared that she had disturbed him during some particularly amusing anecdote as Beatrice was laughing loudly. When she realized that her mistress had entered the room, she raised her hand to her mouth in an effort to stifle her laughter, flashing her dark eyes toward the other woman. For her part, Ardyce had never quite realized how pretty the young woman looked, in a rather coarse way, and her own eyes narrowed bitterly as unexpected emotions welled up inside her.

  “Here,” she said, walking across the room and flinging the white shirt toward Orfeo. “This should fit. You might prefer to cover yourself up.” She turned her attention to the maid. “Beatrice—don’t you have work to do?”

  Blushing, the maid dipped her head with a mumbled “Yes ma’am,” then scuttled away, still tittering as she left the room. Oblivious to Ardyce’s sudden iciness, Orfeo moved his bare foot to the floor and began to shrug the shirt across his thick shoulders, the black muscles shifting as he moved his arms through the sleeve. As he fastened a few of the buttons, his fingers lingered on the fabric, rubbing it between the tips.

  “This is too damn fine for me,” he said with a laugh. “Something left by a former lover?”

  His eyes glittered provocatively as he spoke. “My father’s,” she replied disdainfully. Immediately his smile faltered and he nodded his head in acknowledgement.

  “Thank you,” he said, simply.

  “You and Beatrice appeared to be getting on very well.” Despite herself, she could not stop her voice from becoming a touch colder with him and, catching her tone this time, Orfeo frowned.

  “What is it? She’s a pretty girl—funny too, though I wouldn’t expect anything else in such a house, especially with such a mistress.”