by King, Sadie
They began to kiss like lovers separated for years by hardship and strife, by fate. Star-crossed no more. The marks she left on his arm with her nails would last far longer than the sting of her heel. As they kissed they moved their legs, their midsections, together rhythmically, in the throes of the barest love while still fully clothed.
As he had done before, he began to undress her. He stayed wrapped in black. Her curves moved with his hands, her clothes slid off, water off smooth rocks. Removing her black lace panties, he felt their dampness.
For a few minutes he massaged the rest of her body as he had massaged her feet. He kissed her from time to time in an interlude of lips. She heaved under the soothing viciousness of his grasp. Language was absent, banished, merely the mingling of wordless voice and the will of the flesh.
Voice reappeared, precisely as it had before, soft as the sensation of the softest hairs on the body, tufts of hair that wettened of their own accord.
“Close your eyes.”
A ritual they were falling into, a rite of mystery and brightened skin.
She lay supine, listening without vision, feeling without touch, her hairless back tingling with the infinitesimal pricks of tanned sharkskin. Silk on sandpaper. He moved around her on air.
“Open your eyes.”
There on the table were the instruments of their ritual. The catalysts of a thousand touches. Five small bottles of labeled spices, unground, unopened. Moroccan green anise, toasted Kashmiri saffron, Penang cloves, Ceylon cinnamon, and Kerala green cardamom. Another small bottle of oil of wormwood. A mortar and pestle of ivory. An unopened bar of dark chocolate, the finest in the world, Amedei Porcelana, Venezuelan chocolate refined and sculpted in Tuscany.
And something else that startled Zora. Another piece of Japanese ivory. Meiji-Taisho period like Victor’s door knocker. Equally erotic. A round lighter, about 2 inches in diameter, the top and inner case of silver, the outer case of engraved ivory.
In the ivory, carved in minute detail, a tangle of nude bodies, rotund and smiling, wrapped together in a continuous ring of ripe lust. The piece was called “Fire of the Gods.”
“Oh my.”
Zora could only guess what tricks of diabolical creativity Victor had in mind, in store.
“Treasures for a goddess. The riddle is easy, the ritual complex. The number of times I drizzle you in chocolate. That’s the time in the afternoon of the meeting every week. We’ll get to the day later.”
“Drizzle me . . . in chocolate? Is this going to hurt?”
“Like hell it will. Like hell. But you deserve it, my well-heeled beauty. On to the first mixture.”
He was being facetious about the pain. Bluffing. This was not Fahrenheit 451 we’re talking about here, the temperature at which paper burns. More like Fahrenheit 94. The melting point of tempered chocolate. Below body temperature. Especially Zora’s, given how feverish she was feeling.
He opened the bottle of green anise seed, sprinkled a teaspoon’s worth into the ivory mortar, crushed the seeds into a paste with the pestle. He poured in another teaspoon’s worth of the oil of wormwood.
Fashioning an emulsion of wormwood and anise like the witches of Macbeth would have done.
“Know what this is?”
He lifted up the mortar, showed Zora the concoction. She shook her head. She wasn’t nearly as well versed in hallucinogenic substances as he was.
“This is what gives absinthe, real absinthe, its power. It’ll transport you places you’ve never been before. Places you might not want to go. Heaven. Or hell.”
“Heaven, please.”
“That depends on you, my love. Your fears and desires. The mixture is only a catalyst. Of course I’ll be helping out a bit.”
She knew what he meant. The chances of heaven would be infinitely greater than those of hell. There was no riddle of the erotic Victor would not embrace, no boundary he was unwilling to cross, no stone he’d leave unturned. Her body relaxed. If she was going to have chocolate drizzled on her, molten chocolate, she’d have to try to empty herself of the capacity for pain. Little did she know.
He started with the hollow of her neck. He unwrapped most of the bar, leaving the end wrapped for ease of holding, and held it directly above the hollow. He flicked the lighter with his other hand, shooting out a prodigious flame, a geyser of fire as long as the lighter was round. He held the chocolate to the flame until the darkness started to drip, drip, drip into the hollow of her neck.
It didn’t burn, suffusing her instead with organic warmth, radiating outward from the small crucible of melted liquid. Responding to this warmth, her body arched upward slightly in the middle, causing some of the chocolate to spill around the sides of her neck, onto the couch. Her toes curled. He’d have some cleaning up to do later. So would she.
Not trusting his aim, thinking they’d be the recipient of a chocolate bath, her nipples were erect and trembling. Her eyes were closed.
Once the hollow of her neck was filled partway, he set down the chocolate and lighter. Picked up the mortar. Onto the molten chocolate, kept liquid by the intense heat of her body, she was on fire herself, he poured the anise-and-wormwood emulsion. It needed mixing, so he grasped the pestle and rubbed it into the exotic bath, rubbed it firmly against the skin in the hollow of her neck.
Another massage, with an ivory pestle this time. She squirmed, spilling even more of the liquid around the sides of her neck, around the curve of her breasts, trickling down the moistened pits of her arms, onto the sharkskin.
Fortunately there was enough of the stuff left for them to enjoy. He set the mortar and pestle aside. And reached his tongue down into the bath of chocolate and anise and wormwood. Down until its tip touched the skin of her neck. His tongue covered in the bath, he kissed her open-mouthed, tongue deep, rubbing some of the warm concoction into her mouth, against her tongue, against her teeth, her gums.
This he repeated several times until all of the liquid in the hollow of her neck was gone, and all that remained was the spill around the curves of her body, what had dripped around their mouths and off their chins. She had swallowed what he had kissed into her mouth, painted there with his tongue. Not long after, she began to feel the effects of the thujone in the oil of wormwood.
Victor was familiar enough with the essence of wormwood to have built up a tolerance to its tendrils in the brain. Zora was not, had not. Under the influence of the thujone, Victor’s warning about heaven and hell made a terrific impression on her senses. It warped and fractured the foundation of her perceptions. Heaven and hell become one.
She imagined herself on fire, saw flames dancing all over her body, blue flames, hellish flames, of a temperature unimaginable: yet every nerve in her body sizzled with pleasure. This was the hell of the monks, of every follower of sacred denial, every pilgrim roping his back raw in the desert. The hell of submitting one’s body and soul to temptation.
And now, thanks to the wormwood, Zora saw herself consumed by the fires of perdition—yet felt herself in the upper echelon of heaven, floating free. All she could do was twist and moan in the agony of ecstasy, the ecstasy of agony, even when Victor was not touching her body, so real were the blue flames to her, so vivid was the exhilaration they imparted.
But Victor had other tastes for her to experience, other temptations to convey. He pushed forward with the ritual of the Fire of the Gods.
Along came the cinnamon, ground and mixed with molten chocolate in the space between her breasts, running everywhere, enough of it pooling for him to deliver it from his tongue to hers. He couldn’t avoid the temptation of licking some of it onto her breasts themselves, lathering her nipples and tracing a line with the pestle around the bottom and sides of each breast.
The cardamom followed, melded with chocolate in her navel. This blend was Victor’s personal favorite, he loved the pungent citrusy tones of cardamom married with the earthy bitterness of the chocolate. Zora reciprocated his sense of taste, murmuring something he co
uldn’t understand, a note of chanting gratification, as he kissed it from his mouth to hers.
For the cloves he moved back up her body:
“Stick out your tongue my love.”
The flames that had consumed her were already dying down, the amount of wormwood oil had been concentrated but miniscule. Victor wanted to get to the saffron before her perceptions unwarped. The saffron would warp them back again, not from any hallucinogenic qualities it possessed—from how he intended to use it. A narcotic aphrodisiac without a hint of narcotic in it.
Once he’d drizzled the chocolate on her tongue, sprinkled some ground cloves on her budded salivated skin, he knew he wouldn’t need the pestle this time.
“Mix it for both of us, in your mouth.”
She did, swirling the molten chocolate and cloves around the inside of her mouth, blending them with her saliva and the multitude of other flavors and liquids that had come before. Victor and Zora shared in kisses the complex, tantalizing mixture, their tongues dancing together, throats swallowing the ambrosia passing between their mouths.
He was ready for the grand finale: the Kashmiri saffron. The world’s most expensive spice, truly the plant of the gods. It was no accident that the best of all saffron came from Kashmir, a region in the clouds so sacred, so heavenly, that thousands had fought and died, hellishly, fiendishly, claiming it as their own.
He crushed and ground a teaspoon of the stuff in the mortar, unlocking the potency of its flavor and scent, as if the perfume of the immortals had suddenly become edible, tangible.
At the aroma, Zora opened her eyes in wonder, widened them when she saw what he did next, something even more delicious than the blue flames of the wormwood.
Sensitive readers, readers with a conscience: Close your eyes here, and don’t open them again until the final chapter. Scroll for your life. Lest your imagination be blinded, your soul corrupted for all eternity. No redemption. Fuck redemption.
He held the chocolate bar above her clitoris, the lips of her vagina, and she exclaimed “Victor!” Simply that word, part protest and part excitement. Closed her eyes again. The chocolate began to drip onto her clitoris, cascading in trickles around her labia, until her entire genitalia were covered in melted Amedei Porcelana. By then her clitoris had protruded well beyond its hood, firm as a plum, a chocolate-covered plum, and her vaginal lips had swollen so much that one might think she’d had a nasty allergic reaction to the cocoa.
As warm as the chocolate was, the juices of her vulva were warmer still—were practically gushing out, threatening to overwhelm the sinfulness of the chocolate. Victor sprinkled on the saffron and started rubbing the pestle all around her genitals. From her reaction—tears peeking around her eyes, moans punctuated by sharp cries—he knew the amount of pressure he was applying, and where he was applying it, was perfect.
His tongue had envied the pestle and was glad to have its turn. He was even more thorough with it than he had been with the pestle. And the response from Zora was stronger still, more resonant, turning his living room into a temple of the immortal Echo. His tongue stirred together the chocolate, the saffron, the juices of her body. Finding every contour of her vulva, ravishing it, making every blood vessel and nerve beneath the surface pulsate, sing, with the secret music of the hidden flesh. He lavished special attention upon her clitoris, knew effortlessly its symphony of stimulation, its rhythms and melodies, its ode to the joys of earthly existence. The best vibrator in the world could not have done what he did.
Nor was he in any hurry as the conductor of her body’s ensemble. Largo was his musical command. An eternity passed before he brought to her mouth, to her tongue, the harmony of his wetness and hers, the lushest outpouring of her body, gathered reverently from within, slowly. He repeated the process until all that remained was her vulva’s own moisture, still flowing, salty now with sweat. Her heart strained. From several spots on Victor’s body, blood trickled down onto the couch, congealing to the same color as the chocolate. The unforgiving force of her fingernails. She had once even clenched her teeth around his tongue, and it had yet to stop bleeding. His lips were bright ruby red from being licked with fresh blood.
In a raspy voice, he himself was nearly spent of energy:
“Your body’s letter is the day.”
She opened her eyes, not expecting speech. The final clue of their evening together. A corporeal mystery, unbound. She already knew the time—he had drizzled the chocolate on her body five times, the meetings would be at five o’clock in the evening.
He picked up the pestle one final time, brought it back to her, down. Her eyes readied themselves again in darkness, not knowing what he would do. He knew not to go too far inside, the spot he was searching for was just a short way in.
Adding his method to her wetness, he put the pestle inside her body, rubbing the ivory around in a circular motion. Dr. Gräfenberg himself would have been impressed with the way Victor searched for the spot. A place that could make her entire body tremble, could induce erotic epilepsy, could bring exotic fluids and flavors out of her, reserved only for moments like this. A woman’s ambrosia.
His only concern was that he might lose his crown of hair when he did find the spot—at that moment she was firmly grasping a fistful of hair on his head, pulling enough to make him wince. When the pestle found its prize, Zora was liable to pull with all her might. Make the top of his head as naked as she in front of him.
It didn’t take him long to find out. A couple inches inside her, as the pestle came around the front of her vaginal wall, she screamed. And pulled his head hard. He let his upper body move, flow, with the recoil of her arm, hair intact thank God, still miraculously managing to keep his own hand firmly on the pestle. Started massaging her with it. Something clear streamed from her, out of her, like warm spring water from the earth. Once she’d relieved herself of the catharsis of sound, the pleasure of the pestle could only make her whimper. He massaged, she whimpered.
Finally he pulled out the pestle. She opened her eyes. Shining with love more than desire. She pulled him fully up to her and they kissed gently several times, gingerly.
He said, “Let’s go take a bath together. I’ll wash you off.”
In the bathtub, a Victorian porcelain basin on clawed feet of gilt gold, he cradled her body above his. His chest tickled her back. She saw him naked for the first time as he undressed in front of the tub. This was a time for cleansing, not for consummation, with a bar of golden soap encased in golden sponge. Bronnley soap, from a boutique in London. Enough chocolate and blood had gotten onto her body that the warm bathwater quickly turned ruddy.
On her way out of his house that Wednesday night, bathed, skin clean but soaked and pruned—they’d spent what seemed like an hour in the tub together—he invited her back with a kiss.
“Come again on Friday. I’ll teach you the password. It’s the last thing you’ll need to know.”
CHAPTER NINE
Thursday, Zora had a date with Jack. Or at least she suspected that’s how he conceived it. Knowing him. Jacques Merde. Full of shit. Full of savoir faire too. That was the problem. She doted on his tongue-in-cheek—as long as he kept it there. Victor’s tongue was another story, for another day.
Jack had asked her out after that disastrous class. When Victor had mocked the tragedy of slavery, mocked her, when she’d wanted to turn Victor’s ivory collection into implements of their owner’s lingering torture. Death by ivory. Jack had asked her to go to a Thai place near campus, Currying Flavor. Popular spot among the MSU crowd. She’d agreed. That was before the chocolate. And the spices. And the pestle.
Rage at Victor, pity for Jack. Hardly a good pretext for agreeing to a date with her TA. But that question in class, the one about malice and wickedness, had reduced the poor guy to silence first and stammers second. All he could do was say mens rea about five times in a row, a stream from his mouth of Latin diarrhea. Far from a model TA for the school’s brightest faculty star.
&nbs
p; Rage at Victor, pity for Jack. Had made her soft and sultry as silk for any overtures Jack might throw her way. But now she was much more pre-occupied with getting the password, with how the revelation of the password would unfold, in the air, on the tongue, on her body. She’d still make the best of dinner with Jack, deflect anything intimate radiating from any part of his body. And help herself to some red curry and Thai iced tea in the process.
She was on time. No Jack. Looking around the place. Dragons everywhere, on the walls, the long snaky kind you see in lunar parades. Not the four-legged kind that Lancelot liked to skewer.
Seated, sipping, contemplating. She contemplated picking out one of the fish in the enormous tank separating the kitchen from the dining area, having that curried up red. One of the fish resembled a koi. Her stomach turned, contemplation came to an end. Her parents had raised koi as a hobby. She’d tried to pet them as a child, chasing them around the pond in the backyard, brightly laughing when they splashed water in her face, fish flying away from girlish grasping hands.
She’d stick with duck. She picked but didn’t order. Gaeng peht beht yahng. Roast duck in red curry sauce. She read the blurb on the back of the menu about the owners. A couple. New Texas. Clint and Cindy Miklic, née Shinawatra, immigrants, originally Slovenian and Thai. Both former Founders students, had met and married at Founders, gotten their JD’s and had promptly gone into the restaurant business. Decided it was better to curry flavor as restaurateurs than curry favor as lawyers. Bravo.
Where the fuck is Jack?
She ordered the duck. Another iced tea. If Jack ever arrived they could share her dish, she wouldn’t be able to finish half a duck anyway. Jack came right when the duck did. A spill of apologies. Typical male excuses. Car trouble. Groin trouble. What difference did it make?
Sitting, the first thing he did was cup his hand around hers, palm on palm. She didn’t retract hers. Appreciated its fresh overlying warmth. Affection of fingers and palms. A hand was a hand, appendage creep be damned. She liked Jack. His friendly smirks, his smarts, his love of playing the smartass, evoking the smartness in her. Even in the wake of the Amedei Porcelana, she trusted Jack more than she did Victor. A smirk on her face to rival his, she insisted they’d have to share.