Dee sat in a comfortable arm chair trying out different combinations of letters on the keyboard in front of her. Pietre had shown her how to call up the file tapes and had encouraged her to view them on her own, 'To alleviate her boredom in the hours he could not be with her'. Unfortunately, she'd forgotten the code.
A prisoner again, although Pietre preferred the term 'temporarily quarantined guest', she was confined to a private suite of rooms with no visitors save Pietre himself.
She had no freedom and no lovers, yet surprisingly, felt no desperation — no withdrawal. Pietre had circumvented that by offering her something more satisfying than the crude huddlings of sex.
Admiration.
With his courtly manners and genteel wooing, he had uncovered subtle facets of her personality — coquetries and nuances of seduction she'd forgotten in her rush for experience.
Her naked body was often on display, but Pietre appeared intent on appreciating her 'uniqueness', as he called it, looking beyond her genitals to search for who she could be. Who she would be.
But it wasn't only his interest in her character that drew her in. It was everything about him. With his narrow, aristocratic face — pale and fine boned, topped by raven's-wing hair falling from a widow-peak to brush the shoulders of his customary black suit, he carried an air of isolation that stirred her imagination as well as her sympathy.
And yet counterpoised against that romantic image was the realisation that he was the master of his domain, an autocrat accustomed to complete obedience.
Pietre DeMartande was her beau-ideal.
And he was also a puzzle, a riddle to be solved, for each time he called on her she was fascinated anew — as though he were a series of Chinese boxes, one opening to reveal another, each with a different pattern, each more interesting than the last.
On her second day back with Pietre, he'd surprised her with a present. She'd awoken to find a small velvet box on the pillow beside her. Inside had been a key crafted of delicate gold which at first glance had appeared to be a piece of jewellery, but this was not the case.
An enclosed card had led her to a scented camphorwood wardrobe newly installed in her dressing room and after some experimentation, she discovered the key opened one side of it. Feeling like Alice in Wonderland, she'd half expected to find a man inside with an instruction on his penis to 'eat me'.
There had been no man, but Dee had been far from disappointed, for inside the wardrobe she'd found an array of costumes — all in her size — whose collective colourful beauty had been surpassed only by the intricacy of each individual item. Even the arrangement of the clothes had been such that she'd felt sure an artist must have been employed to place each piece.
Here, a peacock-blue satin sleeve encrusted with silver. There, the verdant plush of an emerald velvet cloak trimmed in crisp black lace. Elsewhere and of every hue, diaphanous chiffons, liquid silks, stiff denims and sumptuous furs.
On the shelf below stood the accompanying footwear, reflecting every facet of their costume's colour and style. All in her size. Above, boxes containing jewellery, hats, accessories.
'Dressing-up' clothes for an adult.
A narrow locker down one side of the wardrobe, appeared to require a different key, but she'd not troubled herself with the oversight. Pietre, when questioned on his next visit, had given her an odd, sad smile, explaining that its contents were specific to a purpose and that the time had not yet come for that purpose to be fulfilled.
Dee thought no more of it — Armande's weeks of repressive training had conditioned her to passive acceptance. Instead, she busied herself experimenting with the presents she'd already been given. Pietre saw her as a fringed Go-Go dancer, a Choirboy, a Matador, a Grecian huntress, a Polynesian princess, and a Cossack.
Becoming someone else came so easily, she began to forget who she really was. Or even if it was necessary to remember. More important to Dee was the knowledge that her transformations from tiara'd regent to beer-swilling bar-wench appeared to animate Pietre — to enchant him.
Deliberately then, she put all her sublimated sexual energy into creating each character, giving them their own name and history which she introduced in the appropriate voice. And Pietre would be drawn into the game, interrogating her, testing her imagination and her knowledge of history. He would argue and laugh, coax, tease and command as he helped her embellish each persona until it felt so real to her that she was lost in it — believing her flesh was the flesh of this person who had made Pietre come alive.
Eventually, however, the moment would come when he would bid her farewell — a low bow to the regent, a suggestive remark to the wench, or a salute to the soldier. And then she was alone. The garments came off and she slowly reverted to… the middle. To the real Wendee, if there was still such a person.
It was like her work for Armande, and yet unlike. One thing was exactly the same though. Pietre never touched her.
Luckily, she had not made the mistake of believing Pietre had stepped straight past voyeurism into action as she had done with Billy. Despite their rapport, she could feel the invisible barrier between them — a barrier she was unsure Pietre wanted breached.
Yet she had a sense he was trying to ease his way toward her, like a blind man unsure of what his hands might meet.
Once, when she'd danced close by him, she'd seen his eyes slide shut, his fine nostrils flaring as he'd drawn in her scent, his body quivering slightly, as though the subtle combination of perfume and the warmth of her glowing skin had been frightening in its intensity.
Dee came to wonder at the sensitivity of his body. He treated her as though her skin radiated such intense desire that his fingers would burn at the contact. He touched her clothes — his long fingers perhaps ruffling the sable trim of a low-cut bodice — but the breasts that thrust above were never accidentally brushed, except by his gaze.
It was a subtler intercourse than she had become used to, yet it was sex. Lacking the completion of orgasm, but sex all the same. The sort of sex that lasted for days, fuelled by a glance or a word — the sound of his voice, that husky undertone, and those eyes staring into hers. It didn't matter what he said. All that mattered was her reaction.
In his presence her eyes grew languid and sultry, in tune with the febrile pulsing of her body. Her silks and furs rubbed against tormented nipples and damp, throbbing petals of skin that longed to be opened and stroked. The cool fabrics made her crave his cool fingers and the sensation of weight — of his chest pressing down on her breasts.
Pietre could see this in her eyes, she was sure, yet their meetings remained tantalisingly coy. The sex was all inside her mind. But Dee was patient. The barrier between them was growing thinner as the radiations from her hungry skin dissolved it. Soon, would come a day when the barrier would be a wisp of momentary fear, a breath of hesitation, and then they would be through.
She longed for that day, and yet would not hurry it. And while she waited, she fantasised. She imagined touching him, sneaking into his private suite as he lay naked in his bed watching her files. She would crawl under the covers at the foot of his bed and slither up between his legs as stealthily as a snake, her tongue flicking out to tease the flesh of his inner thighs.
He would stir, his legs moving restlessly as he wondered at these strange sensations. Then he would become still and at that moment she would take his lax penis into her mouth to suck and flick it with that serpent tongue until -
"You have found something that excites you, my dear?"
Dee's head snapped up, her eyes opening in surprise. Pietre was leaning back against the closed door.
"Peter," she said, rather too loudly, then realised her hands were at her throat, fondling the bead necklace Long Shadow had given her. She dropped them into her lap. "I didn't hear you… enter."
She'd been about to say, knock, but somehow that didn't seem polite. It was his castle. He didn't have to knock if he didn't want to. "I was daydreaming," she explained, straightening in the chair, watching him step away from the door and walk towards her, his movements as always, smooth and elegant.
The superbly tailored black suit offered an outline of the body beneath, but Dee seemed unable to stop daydreaming. She pictured him naked, his penis swaying between those lean hips — imagined the length of it growing, stiffening as she stared at it in open appreciation.
"I've brought you a present," he said, stopping beside her.
Did he know what she was thinking?
She dragged her gaze upwards from his crotch. "A present?" she repeated to keep the conversation going. She wasn't sure what would happen if she didn't.
"Yes. A present." He frowned, bemused, then glanced at the blank computer screen. "You were not viewing a file?"
"No. I couldn't…" she swallowed, realising suddenly that he'd stopped very close to her. "I couldn't remember the access code." She'd worked herself up into a state of sexual excitement and now couldn't seem to pull back.
"I'll write it down for you," he promised, delving into his trouser pocket. She heard a faint jangle, then he withdrew something enclosed in a fist which he offered her.
Tentatively, she placed her cupped hands beneath it and he opened his fingers, careful not to touch hers. The thing fell into her hand and he withdrew his. Dee looked down. In her palm lay a jumble of burnished silver interspersed with flashes of molten red. Rubies. Enormous rubies. Finding the ends, she held up the necklace, awed by the size of the stones and the boldness of their setting.
"This must be worth…" She couldn't guess.
Superficially, it appeared to be an antique, like much of the other Spanish pirate booty that adorned her suite, but on closer inspection, the stylisation was too modern and the -
"My God." She tilted it slightly, into a better light. "It's two people. And they're… "
"A man and a woman," he confirmed. "Their hands join at the clasp and their bodies stretch down to meet here." He pointed to the largest ruby in the setting, the ruby that concealed what Dee could see from her side, a perfectly miniaturised penis that, with every movement of their bodies, would penetrate the equally tiny vagina of his gilded mistress.
From the front, the detail of the bodies was entirely obscured by the rubies. It would appear to be merely a beautifully crafted necklace. But to the wearer…
Still holding one clasp in each hand, she moved the 'bodies' experimentally and watched the clockwork in-out, in-out of the tiny penis. "Oh my," she whispered, and felt herself go hot all over. She had to look away, yet didn't know where. "I can't believe you had this rattling around loose in your pocket," she said, talking to cover her sudden, inexplicable embarrassment. She had never imagined Pietre might give her so obvious a signal. "It must be — "
"Priceless," he said and she forced herself to look up into his eyes. They held a feverish glow that made her wonder hopefully if this was the day.
"It belonged to my mother," he said, his eyes straying to her lips. "No other has worn it since her death."
Dee didn't know what to say. No other? Not even Belle? "I'm honoured."
"Let me fit it for you," he said and she returned the necklace to him. But despite being prepared for his initiative, she hiccupping a little gasp as their fingers brushed.
He'd deliberately touched her, and her body was so sensitively attuned to his that it registered as a jolt up her arm. Her wide eyes sought his but he was looking down at the necklace in his trembling hands.
"If you would turn and lift your hair."
He'd uttered the words politely but Dee had heard the strain, the huskiness.
"Of course," she said, her own voice shaky. Swivelling her chair, she faced away from him and obediently lifted her curls. The hairs on her arms prickled expectantly as she awaited his touch.
"The trinket," he said and she felt a brush against the back of Long Shadow's bead necklace. "I will remove it with your permission."
Dee had forgotten all about it, and in the moment it took for an image of her bronzed lover to fill her mind and be pushed aside, she hesitated. A telling pause.
But she recovered quickly. "Yes, please. I grow tired of it," she said, trying to keep her voice light. "I wore it only to remind me of you while I was with your brother."
"Not of the Indian?" Pietre asked as he loosened the leather straps that held it in place. Dee wished she could see his face.
"Not really," she replied truthfully, for she had been trying to forget Long Shadow. "The main reason I kept it was to prove my own sanity."
"You doubted your sanity?"
"I might have," she admitted. "If I were to wake up in a gutter in Cairns without this around my neck I might have wonder if it had all be an alcoholic dream."
"How extraordinary," he said, his voice caressing her nerve endings as the choker slipped away from her throat, slowly, tantalisingly. "You doubt the evidence of your own senses?"
Dee's heart was pounding. She was completely naked before him now.
With the last vestigial covering gone she felt as though her very soul had been stripped bare. She had no banter, no defences. Only truth.
"I had doubted that it was real," she whispered. "With the others."
"With the Indian?"
"Yes." It had been too good to be true.
"But not with me. Not now."
"No. This is…" her voice trailed off as the cool silver settled gently against her upper chest. His fingers brushed the skin at the nape of her neck and she shivered, her mouth dry.
"This is fate, Wendee," he said as he swivelled her back to face him. His eyes, when she looked up into them, were deadly serious. "Doubt everything else if you must, but remember, what occurs between you and I is real."
She lay her palm over the central ruby, feeling the pulse of life in it. Her life. His life. It was real. It was fate. An incredible feeling of 'rightness' came over her and she said, "I knew from the moment I first met you. That first glance. I thought I was drunk, deluded. But I knew it then. I know it now."
"As do I." He closed his eyes briefly, gratefully, she thought. Then he opened them and looked down at her. "We will not be as other lovers, Wendee."
"I know."
He hesitated only a second, then said, "Take my hand."
She reached out to take what he offered, her eyes locked onto his. And as his fingers closed around hers, she felt the very air that surrounded her pressing in, all over her body. The sensation was oppressive, yet wildly exciting, as though all the energy in the world was trying to force its way inside her.
Then just as quickly, the pressure was gone and her skin felt light, vibrant and tingling, distracting her from the heavy throb inside.
"I will join with you as no other has," he said and it was all she could do to nod. Their eyes were communicating in a language Dee hadn't even known existed. "But first we must talk," he said and his hand slipped out of hers, as though sustaining the connection required too much effort. Without the touch she felt half empty. Then he looked away and the energy drain was complete. She was a shell.
"There is much you must hear," he said. "Much to accept, before we can go further."
"Can I touch you?" she asked, wanting to ease the pain of his disclosures with her body — wanting the intoxication of their body connection back.
He shook his head, but not in denial. "I don't know," he said. Then again, "I honestly don't know."
"May I try?"
Pietre looked back at her, took a deep breath and nodded, pushing his thick, dark hair back in what Dee realised was the first nervous gesture she'd ever seen him perform.
"I will…" he looked around. "I will lie on the bed." He nodded at her, a couple of times, then stepped over to the bed and sat on its side.
Dee rose from the chair and followed him there in a daze. She had no idea what would happen.
"Would you like to remove your clothes?" she asked, "or at least your coat?"
He hesitated. "No. Not yet." Then lay stiffly back on her cream satin duvet, like a man about to be executed.
Dee stood over him, feeling the tension come off him in waves. "I don't understand why — "
"Of course you don't," he said and closed his eyes. "That is why I must tell you." He was silent for a moment, composing his thoughts. "I will start at the beginning. I was damaged as a child -
"
"Your body?" Dee cut over him in horror.
His eyes came open and he observed the anguish on her face for a full minute before he said, "My body is whole and functional. It was my mind that was disabled."
Dee felt herself relax. She sat on the edge of the bed, still not touching him, but near. "I'm sorry. Go on," she said.
He nodded. "But first, perhaps I should explain that I expect no pity from you, Wendee. You must be implacable in the face of what you hear or you will not be able to help me."
"I want to help you," she said and her hand reached toward him, his chest, her fingers hovering over it for a second, but the look his eyes held her. Such fearful anticipation. She couldn't do it. The hand returned to her side and after a moment he closed his eyes again.
"I will show no pity," she promised, despite the fact that she might feel it.
"In that case, I will begin," he said. "It is not a long story, but…" here he sighed, a curious sound like air escaping from a long closed bottle. "…it is painful," he went on, "and for that reason I will endeavour to relate it quickly. A child grew up in a Castle, the son of a King and Queen." He paused, then asked, "Do you like fairy tales, Wendee? I know you like fantasy?"
"I love fairy tales," she replied, smiling to encourage him even though his eyes were still closed.
"Even if the wicked witch is very frightening."
"Yes, even then."
"Good." He nodded. "This witch was especially frightening because she was hidden inside a beautiful Queen. The Queen had two sons. Did I mention that?" Without waiting for a reply, went on, "Well there were, and the younger one was particularly fond of his mother, and she of him.
"They would often play together alone and the boy grew to love these special hours together, even though there were times when his mother would talk to herself in a quiet angry voice, a hard voice that said horrible things about the Queen. He did not know then that this was the witch.
"But the King knew and he set out to punish the witch for living inside his Queen. When the young prince was five, the King started to take the Queen down into his dungeon to call out the witch, employing all manner of physical punishments in an attempt to destroy her. But alas, this only seemed to strengthen the witch who appeared more and more often, with cronies who would talk to each other in different voices and grope at the young prince's body even as his mother's voice pleaded with them to stop.
"The witch and her friends encouraged him to continue feeding from her breasts as he grew, and while he did they would do things to his body that he knew were not right. Things that made it sing with pleasure and yet at the same time cringe with revulsion. And always afterwards they would beat him."
Pietre's eyes opened and Dee was shocked to see they were completely empty. It was like looking into the eyes of a dead man. She shuddered.
"No pity," he reminded her.
"I understand."
He closed his eyes again. "The young prince grew into manhood, helpless to save his mother from the clutches of the witch and her cronies. All through those years, day after day they continued their obscenities with his body. Then they would beat him, but even pain at his beloved mother's hand brought him pleasure and the witch would ridicule him for his involuntary reaction.
"After a time the witch stopped touching him directly, and would whip his back and buttocks until he gave her his essence which she fed on like a vampire.
"Finally, in his seventeenth year, when the young prince could take no more, he confessed to his father the King. He pleaded with his father to call for a physician but the King had become so engrossed with his torturing of the witch that he had lost the desire to destroy her. There was more pleasure in his debasement of her, and he had refined the art to include several of his courtiers who would assist their liege in the purging of his Queen.
"As you may imagine, the young prince was horrified to learn this, but in an unforgivable way, he was also excited by it. He could see how his father had separated the witch from the Queen, and that in fact, the punishment afforded the witch was recompense for all the pleasure the witch had denied the King when she'd stolen his wife.
"The young prince wondered then, whether there might be justification for him to punish the witch. He sought out his older brother, whom he knew had also suffered at the witch's hand, and asked his advice. The elder prince told his brother that it was the King who was mad and that they must wrest their mother from him before he destroyed them all."
Here, Pietre fell silent and Dee held her breath. She watched his chest rise and fall as naturally as though he were asleep. There had been no emotion in his voice, no horror, no sadness or anger, and Dee wondered at the forces that had either destroyed it in him or held it at bay.
"What happened to the Queen?" she asked, unable to raise her voice over a whisper.
"She died," he answered softly, "and so did the King and his courtiers. The young prince spared his brother, but banished him from their kingdom."
Dee felt a chill premonition. "The witch?"
"She lived on for a long time," he said. "She lives yet, in my memory."
"But she is dead now?" Dee had to be sure.
"She died with the body. It is done." He looked up at her again through those hollow eyes.
"And now?"
"Now that knowledge will live in you for a time. It will mature into something we can share." With a seemingly enormous effort, he raised himself into a sitting position. "I must leave, but before I do, I would test the fates that sent you to me?"
They looked at each other for a long moment before Dee asked, "How?"
"I will touch you."
She swallowed tightly, her mind full of the horror he had related, all swirling around and not ready to settle into anything she could analyse. She didn't know whether she was revolted by this body that had known such pain, or excited by it.
But she did know she wanted Pietre to touch her, and she wanted to see the look in his eyes as he did. So she lay back on the bed at his side and waited.
Pietre nodded for a few moments, his mind obviously elsewhere. Then closed his eyes — drawing strength she suspected — before opening them again and reaching a hand towards her.
It was a strange movement, painfully slow, as though designed to penetrate the defences of a terrified quarry. A centimetre above her chest, his hand hesitated, then pressed downwards, flat and surprisingly firm against the space between her breasts.
Dee didn't make a sound and her eyes never wavered from his. She had seen his pupils dilate, felt his body stiffen, but they were the only reactions she could discern.
"I will now move the hand," he breathed hollowly, as though the pressure was against his own chest, emptying his lungs.
Dee nodded, felt it slide upwards, the pressure still firm, hesitating again for a moment at her collarbone before gliding onto the smooth skin of her neck.
His fingers were around her throat and still she stared up at him, knowing his fear was greater than her own.
For a split-second longer he held the hand where it was, then he lifted it off and away. His eyes were feverish in a bloodless face.
"What is it you want from me?" she asked. "I'm not your Queen or the witch."
Pietre's chest expanded as he took a breath and she could almost hear the hiss of it filling his lungs, so quiet was the room. Then incredibly, he smiled. "You're everything I'd hoped for, Wendee," he said. "I knew fate would bring you to me one day," and "You will give me my immortality."
"Immortality?"
"You will become blood of my blood."
She blinked, looked deeply into his eyes. They'd never seemed more alien to her than they did at that moment. "How will I do that?" she asked.
Pietre reached out, his hand only hesitating a moment before closing over her belly. "You will lie with me and bear me a child."