On the Far Side of Darkness

by R. C. Graham

  There is a small table with a damask tablecloth on it. Fine cutlery and china are set for us and two candles flicker in a holder in the centre.

  Diane lets go of my arm and she walks to the rail at the edge of our dining area. No, she trips lightly. Her body speaks of the wonder filling her. She places her hands on the railing and draws a deep breath, standing very straight as she does. Releasing it, she relaxes and all the tension that had filled her leaves.

  I step up behind her wrapping an arm over her shoulder and across her chest. “Do you like it, cheri?”

  In answer she turns to me. Her hands take my face and she pulls it to her. My love kisses me hard and deep.

  I do the same. Drawing her close we show each other how much we care.

  Diane pulls back, her eyes glittering at me in the way I remember so well. “Thank you, Georges.” She turns her head to look at the view. “This is a wonderful welcome back present.”

  “De rien, cheri.”

  Her eyes return to mine and sharpen. I recognize that look. Her very quick mind is getting to work.

  “When the man at the front desk called you ‘patron’ he wasn’t just referring to you as a customer, was he?”

  “No,” I reply.

  “You own this place, Georges?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “You’re wealthier than I thought, aren’t you?”

  “Very much so.”

  She puzzles for a second. “Why didn’t you mention it? Were you afraid I would turn into a gold digger if I knew?”

  “I didn’t mention because I don’t give a damn about my wealth. It’s handy to have but it doesn’t define me.”

  Diane smiles. “That’s what I thought. You don’t care at all about what’s outside, just what’s inside.”

  I smile back. “Not entirely true. I also care about what happens because of what’s inside.” That’s a deeper statement than she knows.

  She laughs. “That’s right. You and Sartre are good buddies.”

  We frequented the same cafes for a while. That hardly makes us ‘buddies’, is the thought that goes through my mind. But I smile at Diane. Although she doesn’t know what I am, she knows who I am. that is much more important.

  A quiet cough breaks in on us. We break apart and turn to face the source of it. The small dark haired lady is the sommeliére here.

  “I beg your pardon, Monsieur Belleveau, but here’s the wine you requested.”

  “Merci, Marie.”

  I take Diane’s hand and walk her to the table. After I pull out a chair for her, she seats herself in it and I place myself across from her.

  Diane picks up her wine glass and raises it. The sommeliére steps up to pour a finger’s worth of red liquid into it. My lovely woman goes through the ritual, sniffing, then sipping. “Oh God,” she gasps.

  I’m pleased. I remember wine, good wine, even after all these years. That my love appreciates it warms me.

  “Perfect,” she tells the woman with the bottle.

  Marie smiles. “Monsieur Belleveau knows his wine. You do as well, I can tell. We’re glad to meet you. He’s been so unhappy since he returned from America. We wondered why and felt so helpless.” She blushes then. “Excuse me, Monsieur. I shouldn’t comment. It’s not my business.”

  I smile to relieve her discomfort. “It’s nothing. I’m glad you care.” That’s quite true. Caring, both giving and receiving, keeps the monster at bay.

  “Thank you, Georges,” the wine steward tells me. “You’re more than the owner to the people here.” She fills Diane’s glass. “The first course will be here shortly.”

  Finished her wok for the moment Marie leaves. Diane and I are alone together for the first time in far too long. I’m, once more, amazed at how content I feel in my lovely woman’s company.

  “I see you’re not eating with me, again,” my lovely lady observes.

  “You know I need special meals,” I tell her, “so I ate earlier.”

  Her eyes take on that penetrating look. “That’s one of the things we have to discuss, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. But…”

  “…not tonight,” she smiles.

  So instead I talk about my latest book. It will be both history and social commentary. I’m drawing on my memories of Versailles under Louis XVI and comparing it to modern power structures. How full they are of courtiers, and how the silly games that take place where courtiers abound are distracting them from their responsibilities.

  Diane counters with her own observations, attacking my points. “There’s always courtiers, Georges. But we’re not as bad as Versailles.”

  “Not yet, but getting there.” I expand some more.

  Of course she deals with my details. As we debate a smile grows on my face. I’ve so missed her brilliant mind. She challenges me as few do. No wonder I love her.

  Diane’s dinner is as good as I had hoped. Carl is an excellent chef. To him, food is to be eaten, not admired. All his ingredients come from small farms that grow or raise their food the old fashioned way. So none is tainted with chemicals. Diane often has to stop talking as she feeds herself. The sybaritic joy of her provender demands that she enjoy it, not waste time in speech.

  Finally, she’s done. She pushes her dessert cup away and sighs. “Thank you, Georges. I didn’t know food could taste so good.”

  “I’m pleased, cheri. You deserve only the best I can offer.”

  And it might be one of the last times you get to eat food is the observation I keep inside.

  “So, what now?” she asks of me.

  “I take you back to your hotel. You can get a long sleep and tomorrow night I take you on a tour.”

  “Always at night. We do have to discuss that, don’t we?”

  “Yes. Now, let us go.”

  The maitre d’ appears. The man’s timing is always impeccable. “This way, Monsieur, Mademoiselle.” He leads us back down to the entrance and bids us a good night.

  “Thank you, Phillipe,” I tell him. “You and your staff always do such an excellent job.”

  “Merci,” Diane goes on after me. Her Southern U.S. accent gives the word such a delightful lilt. “I’ve never had a better meal.”

  Phillipe smiles, a touch of pride showing. “Merci beaucoup. I’ll let everyone know. Bon nuit. We hope you come again soon.” He closes the door and we descend to the street.

  “Will you be able to get a cab at this time of night?” Diane asks.

  “No need. It’s a short walk.” I take her arm in mine, turn her in the direction we need to go.

  One of the last people I expected to see is three doors away, walking towards us.

  Domino is the only name I know for him. He’s one of my kind. I know he is a great deal older than me, and that’s about all I know. I’ve asked around but no one can tell me anything about him. Except he makes us all nervous.

  He shows up at the oddest times and seems to know everything that goes on in this city. All apparently without any of the usual sources of information and power we build. He has no bought servants, enchanted thralls, contacts in the human world or anything of that sort. Yet he knows.

  He’s picked a perfect disguise, the only facade I’ve ever seen him present to the world, that of a street mime. It’s astoundingly simple, a few streaks of make up and his white skin becomes normal. The odd shape of his face seems to fit. The clothes he wears, black pants with suspenders and striped shirt, make him harmless and eccentric. The battered top hat with the flower makes him safe to be around. I’ve never seen him break character.

  The sight of him causes the same reaction it always does. I smile, for he is amusing. I shiver inside for I don’t know what the disguise conceals. Not really.

  Diane clutches my arm a little tighter. I hear a tiny gasp from her.

  Domino continues in our direction. His right hand moves as if a walking stick is in it, his steps are a saunter. His eyes rove pretending to be watching people as he goes. He tips his hat to them. The imag
e of a gentleman out for an afternoon walk is complete. I almost cringe, thinking I feel my skin burn under the fatal caress of the sun.

  We stand still watching him. It doesn’t occur to either of us to move.

  He stops two steps away and his eyes come to rest on us. His expression is startled for a moment and then he smiles. He doffs his hat and gives me a courtly bow.

  “Bonsoir, Domino. Comment-allez vous?”

  After replacing his hat he shrugs in that manner described as Gallic. His head rocks from side to side showing things are as they always are, good and bad.

  His eyes turn to Diane. They go wide and his mouth forms a surprised ‘O’, followed by a smile. He steps forward to take her free hand and gives it a kiss. I turn to watch her. She smiles, shyly of all things, pulls her hand from his and takes my arm with it. She snuggles against me.

  Domino turns his face to mine, bounces his eyebrows and gives me a crafty grin. He spreads his arms wide as if to hug us both and a moment later places both hands over his heart. His eyes look into the distance and a wistful smile forms on his painted mouth.

  With a sudden movement, his face returns to us and grows serious. His right hand comes up, the index finger pointing skyward. Then it goes to his forehead, shading his eyes. His head moves back and forth, watching.

  That grave moment passes. His light hearted look returns and he tips his hat to us in farewell.

  “Au revoir, Domino. Nice to see you again.”

  He nods, gives an impish wink to Diane and saunters on his way. He continues his ‘afternoon stroll’ until he disappears around a street corner. We watch the whole time.

  “That…was strange,” remarks Diane.

  “It always is when Domino is involved,” I tell her.

  She turns her head to me. “I’m not surprised you know him. A friend?”

  “I’m not sure what Domino is to me.”

  “Did you understand what he was saying? I get the feeling he was telling us something.”

  I’ve figured some of it out. “He likes you. ‘You sly dog’ was the message to me. ‘All the world loves lovers’ was next. That last mime, no, I don’t know what he meant.” I suspect I should though. In fact, A shiver of unease tells me it’s important, but there’s still no meaning for me.

  We turn back the way we were headed. Our half hour walk is in silence. We just hold each other, bask in the comfort of the other’s presence.

  I escort her into the Henri IV. The girl at the front desk nods acknowledgment of our presence. Diane and I walk up the stairs to the room on the second floor. I sense her grow tense. She trembles a little. Her odor changes slightly, a hint of arousal permeates the smell of soap and perfume she exudes.

  As we walk down the hall we encounter the porter. He’s a swarthy man, thin, his movements quick, rodent like. He nods as well, but it’s obvious the action is just perfunctory. I don’t like him on sight.

  The two of us go past him to Diane’s door. She pulls out her key, sets it in the lock and opens the portal to her room. “Would you like to come in?” she asks me. Nervousness flits across her mouth for a moment.

  It fades when I reply, “Of course.” It’s two and a half hours until dawn. I have a little time to spare, and we’ve been apart for far too long.

  The instant I close the door she has me wrapped in her arms. Diane kisses me with a desperate demand. “Love me, Georges,” she gasps. “I can’t wait any more.”

  For a moment I start to use my power, feed emotion to her, make her want. But ritual isn’t necessary. The way she clutches at me, kisses me, shows that she has more than enough passion.

  I reach up, grip one of her breasts, squeeze it gently while teasing the nipple with my thumb. My tongue runs into her mouth and I toy with her.

  My love moans in my mouth. Her body trembles under my palm. She squeezes me so hard in her grasp that if I were human, she’d crack ribs.

  The same emotion fills me. Only my nature keeps me from showing the physical signs of my lust for the lovely woman I’m playing with.

  My hands go to the hem of her sweater. Grabbing at it, I pull it up and over her head. That so nicely shaped torso, slim and fair skinned comes into my view. Her breasts are covered in a jade silk bra. She’s so beautiful. A sweet pixie of a woman.

  I move my lips over her left shoulder, working my mouth, laving my tongue. I can taste the sweet sweat seeping from her pores, the heat rising from her body.

  Diane leans her head to the right exposing herself. Her hands stroke, up my flanks, down my chest, cup my manhood.

  It can’t respond but I do. The feel of her teasing makes me hiss with pleasure.

  Her hands reach behind her back, unhook her undergarment. She works it free of her body and her lovely breasts are exposed to me. They’re not large, but firm and nicely shaped. The aureola and already stiff nipples are a coral pink that complements her alabaster skin. “Use your mouth, Georges, please.” She takes them in her hands and offers herself to me.

  I don’t turn down her request, couldn’t in a million years. Kneeling a little, my tongue sweeps over the sensitive surfaces she’s presented. I wash across their tops, down one side. When I push her hands aside, I play underneath, back up then between. My palms press them against my face, my thumbs roll her nipples.

  Diane’s hands slap against my head as she pulls me tight. She pants and moans. Her pelvis bounces against my chest as she pumps it, the reflexes of love driving her. “Suck them,” she pleads, “God! I love when you suck on them.”

  Again, I do as she asks. I draw in her left nipple, swirl my tongue over it.

  My lover pulls at my hair, pressing herself tightly to me. Diane lets loose a warbling keen at the sensation filling her.

  I take the nipple in my canines, bite gently. As always, a strong hint of the ecstasy feeding causes explodes into my beautiful woman.

  A burbling hiss of pleasure gushes from her. Under my palms, her flesh goes slick as her passion is stoked to furnace levels. I can feel the fluttering shivers that seize her body.

  “Georges,” Diane gasps, “finish me. I have to come. Please, I’ve waited for so long. No more. Please!”

  “D’accord,” I tell her. As I release her breast, I look into her eyes. The sea green irises are swirling with lust, with desperation, and with love. That expression raises a warm smile on my face. It’s been a long time since I was loved as well.

  I kneel on the floor, reach to the laces of her sneakers and undo them. At the same instant, she undoes the button on her jeans. I hold her shoes as she steps from them, draw her socks from her feet. Pulling her pants and panties down, I free her from all her clothes.

  I look at her vulva with passionate joy. The pubic hair is trimmed close and a copper red rather than the auburn of her head. Her lips are engorged and glistening with her want. The soporific aroma of her arousal stuffs my nose. That odor fills me with an enormous pleasure. To be wanted so badly, with such honest need, is a rarity in my existence and I revel in it.

  “Legs on my shoulders, cher,” is my instruction to her. She stands on one foot and drapes her other limb over my shoulder. I grab her firm cheeks to support her. Diane shifts her weight then lifts her other leg into place. I pull her close and bury my mouth in her aroused womanhood.

  “God,” she gurgles as I do, “So good, so nice. Get me off, please.”

  My tongue washes over her lips, sopping up the rich taste of her desire.

  Diane hisses, grabs my hair. “Yes!” she exclaims. “That’s it. Don’t stop. Please!”

  I grab one of her labia with my lips, tug at it gently.

  Her thighs clamp on my head, a rush of fluid gushes from her, signaling how intense her joy is. A breathless little shriek bursts from her lungs.

  My mouth moves up and the flat of my tongue covers the little nub at the top of her slit. I lap at her then swirl my tip around it.

  “Shit,” my woman gasps, “so good, so good. You always, know, where to, touch me.”
Her body squirms, the madness that grips her forcing her to move in random motions.

  One of my hands releases the buttock it holds, runs along her perineum. Arriving at her labia I pet them, scissor them between my fingers. They become soaked with the fluids dribbling from my love.

  Diane squeals at my touch, her body shakes. “Inside,” she huffs, “please.”

  I stiffen two fingers and push them into her, running deep. In spite of the tight clamping of her channel I enter easily for my darling Diane is very wet. I start to pump, a languorous rhythm that makes her twitch, as if I’m pulling a string connected to all her muscles.

  She grits out words as I thrust into her. “Georges. Good. So, good. Love, you. Don’t, stop.” Her hips begin to match the pace of my fingers. She clasps them very tight.

  So I speed up, work a little harder. My tongue presses more firmly against her clit, pushing against it with vigor.

  Diane grabs my head, pulls at my hair. “Yes!” she cries. “That’s it!” All her muscles tighten, showing how close she is.

  My fingers find that so sensitive spot inside her. I push against it, rub it hard.

  And Diane falls.

  She draws in a breath, and lets it out with a bellow. She humps and jerks, her orgasm seizing complete control of her. Warm honey flows from her to dampen my hand. Her cry ends, a jerking moan replaces it, a sound rich with heat.

  Diane relaxes, her climax pulls back. Just a little. But I continue working, teasing. My tongue reduces its pressure to a feather touch. I know she’ll be too sensitive to handle a firm contact. All this hits her still high lust. It swells up and explodes in her once more.

  Again, she pulls me tight. Again, her wetness dribbles down my fingers. Again, she jerks and moans, twitches and hisses. She releases the pent up energy she’s carried so long.

  My sweet love softens. But her womanhood still clutches at me, demanding my touch. The shoulders of my shirt are growing damp with the sweat my play forces from her pores.