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Night Angels Ch. 1

By: moonfire



The first time I saw her she was naked,  her pale, lithe body floating above the stage in an upmarket gentleman's club downtown.  She seemed to me to be a creature in a vision:  a dream of innocence and desire.  She was one of those women whose bodies are so beautiful that they seem unreal - slender, graceful and voluptuous, with long dark hair like a black waterfall down her back, a round, firm arse, long legs and full white breasts with pink nipples -  absolutely pure and totally sinful at  the same time.  I gazed at her across the room as she floated out over the dark stage and felt my mouth go dry with desire.  She danced with awkward grace, stepping over the drinks tumblers arranged on the edge of the stage with downcast eyes,  shy and bold at the same time. 

Even as she moved off the stage and gyrated among the tables, brushing up against customers, letting a lingering hand slide across a man's  shoulders, she danced dreamily, with an inward expression,  as if she was lost in secret thoughts, or as if she was alone in this smoke-hazed room.  Then our eyes met, and it was like the bite of whiskey in my mouth, cool and fiery, sweet and dangerous.  She saw my desire, and met it with that small, secret smile, holding my gaze for  a second, two seconds, three.  She paused for a moment in front of me, her delectable bottom perched on the edge of my table, her long legs crossed at the ankle, and pretended she was going to remove my glasses.   Then at the last moment, instead, her hand went to my drink,  and I saw her dip one slender  finger in the glass.  Leaning back in front of me with an impish grin, she touched her breasts with a wet finger, and threw her shoulder back, as if inviting me to lick the sweet, biting liquid off her nipples. Then she was gone, flirting and teasing the next table.

I bought her a drink afterwards, and she had stood next to me, cool and reserved,   a sweet girl, not that good at making conversation. I considered asking her for a date, but decided against it - it was against club rules anyway, and I knew she would refuse. She said I should call her Claudia.  She had a boyfriend, she told me, who did not know that she was dancing, who would "have kittens" if he found out. She had a part time job as a secretary, which paid far too little.  Her dad had died when she was a little girl.  She liked reading and cycling and dancing.  She'd dreamed of being a ballet dancer when she was young; she adored Isadora Duncan and had danced for a while with a contemporary dance troupe in town.   But she did not have the discipline to have a career in dance.   She danced again, later that evening. I looked longingly at her soft, slender body and her young, firm breasts and envied her boyfriend.

I decided that becoming obsessed with an  twenty-two year old girl would do me no good (my god! I was twice her age!)  and decided to avoid going to the club for a while. But she came to populate my dreams and fantasies, and late at night, as I lay in my lonely bed, I would summon up her vision and imagine her lying beneath me, her strong legs locked around me. And that's where I thought it would end.

Then I saw her the second time.  In her clothes. In my office.  Waiting for a job interview.  

I saw her first.  She was sitting in the waiting room and I was on the other side of the receptionist's  glazed window.  And there she was, nervously fingering her briefcase,  dressed in a neat black pants suit, still unearthly beautiful. Her hair was different - it was cropped short,  and she was wearing small wire-rimmed specs - she looked quite the secretary - but it was undeniably her.  My heart thumped in my chest. I heard it. GaTHUMP.  I felt my knees go liquid.  

And then time started again.  No-one here knew I knew that girl.  No-one knew that she danced naked in gentlemen's clubs (or that I sometimes visited them).  Thank God I had seen her in time, and no-one had witnessed my gawping double-take.  And, I realised, I could backtrack & return to my office until she had gone for her interview - for who knows, perhaps she would be unnerved as well and that could spoil her chances.

Her interview!  These applicants  were queueing up to be interviewed for the position of Charles Gaunt's personal assistant.  Charles was my enemy in the office, and my enemy's PA is my enemy.  Or so it has seemed to me in my limited experience of in-office infighting... Charles was  the head of the legal department in our company, and an overbearing and tyrannical man.  He fancied himself as a learned man,  an august  and educated legal theorist. I thought he was  a bombastic fool.  For that reason, he hated me.  OK, he might also  have seen me looking hungrily at his long-boned teenage daughter.  But even she hated him.  I would not wish Charles on this sweet young girl,  but then, neither could I warn her away.  She should take her chances with the rest.

But at least I was forewarned when the next day there was a knock. Steve our office administrator entered with the beautiful Claudia in tow.  Except that it seemed that she was not called Claudia at all. 

"John,  this is our new colleague Lucy Temple"  Steve said. "Lucy, John Gray.  He's an old hand here. Knows all about the company. You'll enjoy working with him." 

Lucy smiled at me as blandly and shook my hand briskly as would do any PA proud.   She'd obviously seen my face in one of the office photographs in the staff room and had time, like me, to put on a show of indifference.  Her long slender  hand felt cold in mine, and I wished her welcome in our organisations with as bland a smile as I could muster.  She was flustered, she was flustered - she hid it well, but  for an instant our eyes locked and I saw her discomfort.   I pretended not to notice, and  talked reassuringly about the friendly atmosphere in our little corner of the capitalist world. As if!   I wondered how it would play.  "Lucy" plainly did not want her other career to be known in these corridors. Neither did I want my pastimes known.  Knowledge was dangerous in these parts. If she knew how the wind blew, and how earnestly Charles wanted my departure, would she be willing to risk her reputation in order to ruin mine?  Things had suddenly become more complicated.  Steve started telling me that "Lucy" (I still thought of her as Claudia - I should watch that) had been working for Maya Technologies, our competitor.  I interrupted him,  saying that as far as I was concerned a colleague was a colleague, that I would not hold anyone's  previous employment against them or use that knowledge to my advantage.  Steve seemed a little non-plussed, but a wordless glanced passed between the new girl and me.  Our secrets were safe with each other. And without knowing it, I had started down the road that would change my life utterly - that would lead me to the doors of the Republic of  Desire and beyond.  But that was much later 

* * *

For the first few months Lucy and I worked as if we were nothing but colleagues and professionals.  She would pass through my office and drop off a file or a memo calmly and efficiently, and I would take it from her hand as if had never happened that our eyes had locked in a dim and smoky room, my heart pounding with desire; as if she had never perched on a table in front of me, without a stitch of clothing on her body, and ran her hands over her flat tummy, inches from my face.  No-one really got to know the new girl - she was good at keeping in the background - but she was well liked, and had that easy brisk collegiality and lack of malice which is the bedrock of a calm office. There were rumours that she was gay, and indeed there was a picture of a sloe-eyed Asian girl on her desk, a young woman dressed in a figure-hugging halter-top,  her head thrown backward, laughing elatedly, a picture of joy. One winter morning, later than usual for work, I had seen her being dropped off by that girl, and it was true, they had parted with a brief, affectionate kiss.  The other men at the office found this hard to believe,  since she did not conform to their stereotype of aggressive, boot-wearing dykehood.  I did not know what to think.  Lucy dressed plainly enough,  and only if you really looked at her and considered her (which I did, I have to admit),  did you realise that she had a beautiful young body.  For a while it was a sweet torment for me to be around her, and I guessed it was uncomfortable for her as well.  But I stuck to my promise and never allowed myself to let our previous encounter affect the way I acted towards her.  I treated her like a team player, same as I did all the other younger people in our company - even that pompous asshole Charles Gaunt.    And after three or four months, I had to struggle really to believe that that other vision - Lucy as Claudia - had really happened.

Then two  things happened.  The first was that Lucy and I were, for the first time, alone together, in the enforced proximity of the office elevator.  Soft Information Co is a “today” company, but our building is an old one, and the elevator, I always used to say, is even older - a small, stuffy, creaking little chamber that takes ages to move between floors.  I was coming up from Archives with an armful of files, and suddenly, as the door closed on us, I realised that we were alone in there  together.  We stood opposite each other in the cramped  dimly lit  little space, each of us suddenly uncomfortable and acutely self-conscious.  For a while we studiously kept our eyes on the little creeping dial.  Then I could bear it no longer - you know how those things go - and surreptitiously looked over at her, just at the moment that she did the same.  For a moment our eyes met across our respective armfuls of files.   She dropped her glance again.  I suddenly realised that this was ridiculous.  I cleared my throat. 

"Lucy,"  I said. She met my eyes again. "I just want to say..." ( well what did I want to say?)   "... that -  it's a pleasure having you in the office. I found it strange to be around you at first, but  you... you're a fantastic worker.  We're lucky to have you.  And that I hope you're settling in.  Are you alright, with...  Charles?"  The fact that Charles was an awful boss to work for was an open secret in our organization - the man went through PA's like they were Kleenex, and three months was about par for the course.

She did not drop her eyes this time,  and simply smiled.  "I can manage him."  

That was all we said, and the rest of the elevator ride continued in silence.  But the awkwardness between us had been dispelled.  Both of us knew that in the office we had a secret, but we did not have to pretend to each other that we had not shared an intense sexual charge.  And what was wrong with that?  As we left the elevator she paused.   "Thanks John,"  she said.  "You're a nice man..."

The second was a conversation in the tearoom.  A brothel downtown had been bust again,  and  Charles Gaunt had been pontificating about morals and the fabric of society.  An argument developed between him and Sarah Watson in sales - one of those dreadful debates that kill conversation and that have no meaningful resolution.  Charles was arguing that these "immoral women" knew what they were doing and deserved to be punished, and Sarah held that they were exploited sex-objects, victims of a patriarchal society.

"What if both of you are wrong?" I asked, more out of desperation and boredom than anything else.

"What do you mean?" asked Charles.

"I don't think they are either wicked women or hapless victims."  I suddenly became conscious that I now had everyone's attention, including that of Lucy's,  who was sitting with her back to me,  pretending to be lost in a newspaper, but  actually, I realised,  suddenly intensely listening.  "I think the problem lies with your moralising position."

"What on earth do you mean," Charles exploded with his best court-room debating style.

"Simple, your honour", I answered, unable to resist the dig, "I am saying that the problem lies with our culture's  inability to deal with sexuality except by denaturing and taming it, or by regarding it with shame.  In other cultures women like these were temple prostitutes, priestesses of desire and sex.  They were respected for what they were - representatives of an elemental force."	

"So what about you, John?  Are you telling me you go off to the, the 'Temple' of a Friday evening, to worship the priestesses of  the night?"  This was Charles's style, to turn every argument into ad hominem innuendo. I suddenly realised how much I disliked him.

"Why of course, old chap.  Aren't you coming with me?" I countered and the conversation dissolved into laughter.  Lucy still crouched rapt over her newspaper, not looking at me.

That Friday late afternoon, there was a note pasted on an interoffice envelope  in my pigeonhole.  "HJ's. 22h00. Claudia".  

I stood in the reception area with my briefcase in one hand and felt the room spin around me.  Evelyn, one of the older receptionists, asked me whether I was alright,  and I hastily excused myself.  Back in my office I looked at the note again, but I had not been dreaming  HJ's  was Happy Joe's, a strip club and bar not far from the place where I had first encountered this angelic woman. It was slightly more hardcore;  some of the girls there were hookers, and the no-dating and no-touching rules were not strictly enforced at all. And it seemed that she was inviting me there...

It was strange being back there, strange and disorienting.   I sat at a small table near the wall, altogether distracted.  Some of the women dancing were very pretty indeed, and they liked to come on strong, settling themselves in men' laps gyrating their bodies, teasing and tantalising -  hoping to get them to part with a wad of money and take them upstairs.  But I could not surrender myself to the sensations and visions.   I looked around distractedly. Had she not come?

Then I saw her, in a low-cut, blue sequinned dress, sitting by the bar,  laughing and giggling with one of the girls.  I felt that familiar thumping in my chest again.  She looked stunning. I had forgotten how beautiful she was, how her height worked for her, how beautiful the lines of her shoulders and neck...   then she saw me.  She excused herself and glided over,  attracting some stares as she went,  smiling that inward, secret smile...    

"Hi there, sir, buying me a drink?" She eased herself into the chair next to mine and met my eyes with a cool, liquid, languorous stare.

"Sure thing," I said. "Call me Charles. What would you like?"

"A whisky sour. Call me Claudia.  Pleased to meet you... Charles! " she laughed out loud at that.   I ordered the drink and it arrived, quickly for once.  We touched glasses and she said thanks.

"My pleasure.  Have we met somewhere before?"  

This got a dark, appraising glance.  "The only other Charles I know", she said, " is the one I work for, and he's a fatuous dickhead."  What pleasure it gave me to hear this. "I am sure you're a much nicer guy..."

 "I am sure we met," I insisted.  "It must be some months ago.  I saw you dancing?"

"You remember that, do you?"

"How could I forget? You were the most beautiful woman in the place!  Come to think of it, you are the most beautiful woman here, too..."

"You're such a sweetie."  she said, leaned over and pecked me on my forehead. "I am sure you say that to everyone..."

"Well..." I answered, momentarily discombobulated by the experience of her cleavage, inches from my eyes, "I mean it."

She smiled at me again, that impish, complicit smile.  "Charles,  is it" she said archly. "Will you enjoy seeing me dance again?"

"Yes, I would," I said fervently.  

She paused for a moment, sipping her whisky sour.  Suddenly she looked serious.  "Just remember that I am a shy girl."

"I know.  And..." 

She looked at me enquiringly.

"... well, nothing, "  I said uncomfortably. "I'm a shy guy."  That got me another sweet smile, and another kiss.   And then she had to go.

What can I say about her dancing?  If she captivated me before, she totally entranced me this time.   She appeared on stage in a long black evening gown that hugged her hips and accentuated her full breasts; clothed, she was already infinitely more seductive than half of the completely naked women in that club.  She drew out her number - she had a taste for those long-drawn out, torch-carrying ballads - and dallied long among the tables.  It was hard for me to watch her sit down in the lap of some crude, fat, cigar-smoking middle-aged management type (I am middle-aged and a manager but I keep trim - and crude I am not), clad in slinky black panties and brassiere while  he grabbed clumsily at her breasts. She suffered the pawing patiently, almost compassionately, and then drifted off to the next table.  

I watched in an agony of fascination.  By the time she appeared close to me both the bra and the panties had been left behind.   She floated dreamily by, with hardly a glance in my direction, as if I was just another customer in the club, one man among many.   I remember the music, it was Sade,  "No ordinary love", and she seemed again to be off in another world,  hearing only the contained, aching guitar and the dreamy,  hot-cool voice. She raked a slender hand through the hair of the man at the table beside me and then suddenly, gracefully, carefully, sat down on my lap.  I was deliciously aware of the warmth and firmness of her bottom, and acutely conscious of the fact that she must be able to feel my erection.  I wanted to grab and hold her, like many of the other men had done, but I kept my hands at my sides, determined to live up to my role as gentleman... but she reached down and took my hands, inviting me to touch and stroke her.  I was intensely aroused and suddenly determined to tease her just as she was teasing me.  I let my fingers caress her spine, her back and her ribs,  touch her little tummy, and travel back to her shoulders. She arched her body like a cat being stroked. I could tell she was enjoying it, and I kept on, at last  letting my fingers lightly skim her breasts.  She sighed and leaned all the way into me, throwing her head back. I felt the softness of her neck and throat against my ear. I could smell a whiff of her fresh sweat and the shampoo she used.  For a moment I let my hands linger against her breasts - I was sure I could feel her arousal - and then, mischievously, let my  hands travel downwards...   As my fingers grazed the top of her  pubic tuft she gave a kind of groan and extracted herself from my embrace.   She tousled my hair and  smiled at me - no longer quite so self-possessed, I thought, and was off, on her way back to the stage, picking up her scattered clothing to the sounds of applause.

Later she appeared again, calm and collected, again wearing her  inward smile and her detached grace.   I  bought her a second whiskey sour and she sat with me a while while she sipped at it, and we indulged again in our strange and playful small talk.  I asked her about the place where she worked, and she responded with some wicked remarks about the moron she had to PA for.  No mention of the kind, fatherly John.  She told me she had ditched the boyfriend and was not interested in any man for now. Then, with an eye on my ring, she asked me, "what about you, Charles? You married? Your wife know you're here?"

"No. I'm not married anymore, I mean."

"A divorced man with a wedding ring?"

"No... it's complicated.  She - she passed away.  I never remarried.  And I  - well, I've never felt the urge to take the ring off."  There was an uncomfortable silence, a for a while, and I stared into the middle distance, seeing but not taking in the sight of Star, a  dusky beauty with frizzy hair, easing herself out of her bra to raucous encouragement from a group of men in company-logo'd shirts.   For the first time in many months, I experienced again the feeling of desolation and loneliness I thought I had left behind. That feeling had become my companion in  the long years of months of  dealing with Ruth's descent into schizophrenia and her eventual death - accidental or suicidal was never officially established - by drowning.   Somewhere in that long journey some part of me had given up on female love and relationship,  and only a small part of it lived on in my quiet habit of appreciating late night dancing girls.  Now that desolation flooded back into me,  cold  and sour like dead wet ashes. I became aware that Lucy/Claudia was looking at me appraisingly, even (I realised with pain) sympathetically.  Was this what I had become, and aging man, lost in his whiskey, living out dreams in the back of a club?  Suddenly the need for physical company, for sweet bodily connection, flooded over me. 


Night Angels Ch. 1



"Look, John - I got to go.  I will see you later."  She left my table with a quick squeeze of my hand, and drifted off, suddenly the seductive and self-possessed stripper again. I gazed at her departing form, lost in thought for some time before I realised. She had used my real name.

* * *

The next Monday at the office Lucy was her usual calm, brisk and efficient self.  I was not.  Images of her beautiful body overwhelmed me whenever I was close to her, and her brilliant smile and her dark eyes  were enough to leave me tongue tied like a schoolboy.  The pretence of distance,  which I had earlier felt to be so necessary, seemed like unbearable torture.  I wanted to talk to her, and yet I did not know what to say. I kept to my office, and the rest of the office staff, familiar with my dark and abstracted moods from earlier times, kept a respectful distance.  At 4 PM she came into my office for a reason, and plunked a mug of tea down on my desk. 

"Thought you might want some, and I was making," she said.  "You been in here all day!"

"Thanks," I said, disconcerted by her presence, by the beauty that even the lumpy jersey she wore could not conceal, by her obvious concern.

"You got to take care of yourself, OK?"  And she left as quickly as she came, leaving behind a faint cloud of perfume.

For some weeks after that life passed uneventfully - at the surface at least.   Lucy was friendly but kept her distance, and I tried to keep my mind focussed on the work before me.  Thankfully there was plenty of that -  our company was tendering for a big job,  one of those huge jobs that you just know will change the company's history if you got it.  We were trying for the big league and it was make or break.  It stretched us to the limit - and that suited me fine.  I could lose myself in the technical details  and forget my feelings for hours at a time.  

Lucy and I had to work together quite a lot, and after a week or two, I had a hard time remembering that this quiet girl who fired off emails and churned out reports with such efficiency - God, what would I give for a PA like her - was the girl whose warm skin and heavy breasts had filled my hands so enticingly at Happy Joe's.  For the first time, the job of preparing a tender with Charles Gaunt's department was not complete torture.  I had a colleague who could be relied on, and who could go the extra mile.  And yet, from time to time, as I walked into the legal  department on yet another late night,  to receive  yet another stack of  staggeringly detailed and competent docs (the first time Charles's department had actually done its job for years), I  found myself wondering about this baffling young woman.  What was up with her?  In vain did I look at her for a spark of recognition, a hint of shared knowledge.  She treated me with the same friendliness she treated everyone else.  Was she simply a tease?   Had I alienated her for some reason?   What about the rumours that she was a lesbian?  With these thoughts I haunted myself as a trudged back to my empty flat downtown.

So the weeks passed, and it was early spring by the time that the news arrived:  we had won the contract.  For a day or two the office basked in the glory.  Charles tried to take the credit, but everyone knew that our success had been in spite of him:  we'd succeeded only because we had twice ignored his addle-brained advice, and that had been possible only because  of Lucy's assistance in penetrating the dark veil of obfuscation and secrecy that had enveloped the legal department.  Charles was angry, with the special bitter fury of a man who knows he's snookered.  He could not fire Lucy, because without her he could not get on top of the details of a deal he barely understood, and he was terrified of keeping her.  And now, as was traditional in our office, he had to take us out to celebrate.

It was a perfect night for celebration: soft and balmy, with the sea glistening in the full moon.  Lilting jazz from the Cape Verde islands played on the bar's sound system, and all my senses felt alive. I had hesitated about coming, but in the end another night of isolation in front of my TV  had seemed too depressing.  I had a sense that things were about to change. I could not live this isolated life any longer.  Tonight I had to make things happen. Either I would alienate  Lucy  forever or I would take her home.  I allowed myself to feel the cool night air and taste the salt on the breeze.  The café Riviera was the centre of the world, I felt, and I was at the pivot, ready, for the first time in years, to take risks, and to love the sweetness of  life.  

And when Lucy showed up - God, looking stunning again even in her drab jeans and denim jacket - I could look her full in the eye, and publicly toast her, thanking her for her lovely spirit and the pleasure of working with her.   She smiled brilliantly at the applause and then,  to my surprise, gave me a brief, tight hug and a peck on the cheek. All my cool vanished at the smell of her perfume.   I felt an erection stirring in my pants (fuck, I was getting a hard-on even at the touch of this girl) and hoped nobody would notice.  

She seemed oblivious of the effect she was having on me, and kept her arm linked through mine while she accepted a drink from someone - a whiskey sour, I noticed - and chattered animatedly with Vanessa, our HR manager.  I was overwhelmed with conflicting feelings - desire on the one hand, and embarrassment and fear on the other - but somehow I was able to keep up my end (as it were) of the conversation, responding in kind to their jokes and gossip. My erection was now a complete reality, and I had to keep my jacket clumsily folded over my lap.  Her arm was soft within mine, and her hip nestled against mine, friendly and warm.  

Then she excused herself - she had to go to the bathroom, she said - and she let go.  For an instant, as she brushed passed me, her thigh was firmly pressed against my groin, and I found myself looking into her unfathomable, cool, deep dark eyes.   This was a woman, I realised, who could make me feel I was alone with her even on a crowded patio.  And then she was on her way, as if nothing had happened. 

"Beautiful girl, eh?" Vanessa commented a few minutes later.

"Eh?

"Claudia.  She's beautiful."

I stared at her dumbstruck.  Had she just called her colleague Claudia?

"I wonder what's up with her", Vanessa continued. "I can't make her out.  So sweet. But separate. Keeps her private life private."  She noticed my silence. "Don't look so amazed, John.   I've met Claudia, too.  And her girlfriend.  Liu Mi, she's called.  Such a lovely couple.  Makes me quite envious, sometimes." I continued my imitation of a man struck by lightning.  Was Vanessa gay, too?   She talked on, oblivious. "But it's not something that comes to everyone.  Finding the one for you..."  She sighed. "You know about that, don't you.   You stuck by your wife even through the most difficult times.  I admire that."

"Th - thank you."

"Sweet man" she said, and for the second time in a night I got a peck on the cheek and a friendly touch from one of what seemed to a growing number of gay female colleagues.  But there must be some kind of pheromone for platonic touches, because this time my loins did not stir.   We stood for a while nursing our drinks and continuing with our gossip.  

And then I noticed two things.

Lucy was gone.   And there was a slip of paper in my pocket. A note of some kind. She  had slipped in there while she had stood next to me.

I excused myself and made way to the toilet.  My mouth was dry again.  The place was empty.  I looked at myself in the mirror.  A tall, hawk-nosed man with greying temples looked out at me. His face was sad, and there was something grim about his eyes.  Something was going to happen to this man, or he was going to make something happen.  What was it?  Where would he be in two, in three  hours'  time?

I opened the message.  It was a red slip of printed paper.  One the one side it had a simple design of what looked like a flame or a fire, and below it, printed in small, elegant letters, the words  Republic of Desire. There was also an address - in an upmarket part of town, I noticed, not far from my own apartment -  and what appeared to be some numbers. On the back of the slip was written, in Lucy's handwriting

Midnight.
I need you. 
C. 

I looked at my watch.  It was ten PM.

To be continued…



Night Angels Ch. 2



Chapter 2: The Republic of Desire

The Republic of Desire was located behind a small, nondescript door hidden in a side-street not fifty yards from my favourite coffee shop. It was so obscure and unobtrusive that I missed it the first time, and I had to backtrack before I found it. I pushed it open and found myself in a little alleyway – hardly more than a crack between two buildings – with an uneven pavement and rough walls. Ten yards or so along, set in the wall on the right, was a heavy iron security gate. It was immovable. I stood around uncertainly, looking for the doorbell. There was none. Though I did not see any cameras, I had a distinct sense of being observed. After a moment there was a dim buzzing, and the gate clicked softly. Now it swung open easily, if ponderously. Inside, I was standing at the top of a short flight of stairs. The stairs were dark, but there was a faint glow emanating from another door down below. I thought I could just barely hear the muffled drone of music. I hesitated a moment, and took the next step down the road that would utterly change my life. 

Below I was in a small, dimly lit space. It was simply but carefully furnished. The floor was wooden and highly polished. Two couches stood at right angles to each other. There were some artefacts on the wall: what looked like a Congolese cloth sewn with minute cowry shells- expensive, I thought, if it was genuine - and some Dogon woodwork. Sparse, simple good taste. A lounge? A waiting room? Except that at one end of the room, behind in a glass-fronted booth, sat a stunningly beautiful and statuesque woman. Waiting room receptionists could be as beautiful, but none of them, I was sure, came to work in a complex leather halter which cupped and all but exposed the breasts. Behind her in the shadows stood another, completely bare-breasted girl, whose long - nailed left hand was draped over the leather clad woman's bare right shoulder

"Membership number," the first woman said in a cool melodious voice.

"I - er - am not a member. Can I join?" I stuttered, feeling foolish.

"Sorry, sweetie," she smiled, friendly and regretful, "Membership is by recommendation only. And if you're not a member, entrance is by invitation only. Except if - do you have a comp in your hand?" She had spotted the by now rather crumpled bit of red paper.

I handed it to her - indeed, it seemed to be a kind of ticket, I now realised. She looked at it, noticing, I saw, the writing on the back. 

"You can come in, love. This is your raffle ticket. Keep it with you. I will collect it from you later." She handed the paper back to me, and now I noticed the number 459 printed twice on the end, separated by a line of perforations. "But because you are not a member you have to pay a small entrance fee." She mentioned a figure which could certainly not be described as "small" and which was way beyond the cover charge of most ordinary clubs. I hauled out my wallet and began counting out bills. "Thank you. This here is Selma. She will now take you downstairs. Enjoy yourself, love." Selma disappeared into the back, and within a moment, with a buzzing sound, the door next to the booth opened. She was waiting inside, and stood aside to let me in, shutting the door behind me. It was almost completely dark, the darkness lit only by occasional candle flames.

"This way," said her voice in the gloom. I followed the half-naked girl down a flight of steep stairs. The muffled music grew more distinct. We stopped outside a large heavy door that seemed to be thickly padded. She turned to face me. She was not a young girl, I realised. Though her trim figure had given me the impression she was barely out of her teens, she must have been about twenty-eight or thirty.

"Before you enter, one thing," said Selma. "This is the Republic of Desire. Will you be true to yours?"

"Mine?" I asked stupidly.

"Your desire! Do you have desire?" she asked me fiercely. I stared at her blankly, not quite certain how to respond. "I mean this," she said, and reached forward to grab my half-tumescent member through the fabric of my pants. "Do you have desire!?" Her body was suddenly pressed up close against me, her hand massaging my cock, her mouth against mine. Her tongue was warm and insistent in my mouth. The skin of the small of her back was soft under my hand. My erection stiffened. "There!. Desire! Do you feel it? Will you be true to it?" She stared into my eyes for a long moment. I was overwhelmed with the urge to take her then and there. But she was already standing back, and she was not who I was there for.

"That's why I am here" I heard myself say. There was a roaring in my ears, and my heart was pounding like a trip hammer. She nodded approvingly. And opened the door.

* * *

I found myself in a large, warm, dimly lit cave of a room, with a bar at one end next to a jutting stage surrounded by low tables. I peered around trying to get my bearings. The place seemed full of people - men and women. A good few of them seemed to be dressed in the same uniform as the woman upstairs, a complex leather harness. Some had their bodies covered; others wore it in such a way that their buttocks and genitals were bare, and their breasts supported but not covered. A few wore even less. A naked blonde woman with a leather collar around her neck was gyrating in what seemed to be a cage at the one end of the stage, and the petite young girl behind the bar seemed to be even without the leather collar. At a table near the bar, a stern-faced man sat on a bar stool with a girl's arm around him, her top covered but, as far as I could see, no clothes below the waist. He seemed to be idly fondling her labia. Her eyes were blissfully closed. This was clearly unlike any other place I had been at before.

Established in a seat near the bar, I made myself more comfortable and surveyed the place. I got a drink from the bar girl, who on closer inspection seemed to have a ring or stud through her clitoris, and wondered where Lucy was. She was nowhere to be seen.

On stage, the girl in the cage was no longer alone. She'd been joined by another one - I swear it was Star from Happy Joe's - with long brown limbs and long curly hair, who let her out of the cage. She danced around Star, slowly peeling off the black girl's clothes. They moved slowly, languorously, like seaweed swaying underwater. The music was deep, smooth, thunderous: a rolling, inevitable bass line weaving through long, cool, polished, shimmering keyboards. It sounded like something by Massive Attack, but deeper, rougher, darker. For some reason, I thought Star looked a bit nervous, even shy - which was most unlike her. I had watched her many times before, and she'd never seen unsure of herself before. Not, admittedly, that I had seen her being undressed by a tall blonde woman who was, I now saw, kissing her passionately on the lips. I forgot my drink as I watched the kisses being returned. The music deepened, swelled, became more urgent. Star sank gracefully down on one of the elegant black wooden chairs that was perched near the edge of the stage, and the blonde woman slowly knelt down before her. She started kissing Star's breasts. Star sighed and very slowly let her head drop backwards, exposing her long, slender neck and letting her frizzy curls cascade down behind her back. Soon the woman was lapping between her thighs, and Star's breathing was beginning to deepen. 

"Enjoying the show?" Somebody was leaning against me, shouting into my ear. It was the leather-haltered girl from upstairs, an upturned hat in her hand, surveying me with amusement.

"It - it's unusual." I said.

She leaned into me again. I could feel the heat of her breath in my ear. "All the girls with leather collars belong to the club. They – we - are available, for a small fee. But only to members."

"Oh - I 'm really here to meet a friend," I said.

"Tonight we're raffling out some girls. Our three new ones. A special benefit promotion. You've got a ticket. You wanna play? Your friend who gave it to you is one of them."

This was news. "I guess I do," I said. I handed her the ticket and she tore it in half, handing one half back to me. 

" You keep that. I will put this one in the hat. Remember your number!" she said. Did I see her palm the red ticket instead of dropping it in? I was not sure. "If you win, give your ticket to the bar lady here. You're not a member, so you'll only be winning a private dance, but if you manage to become a member, maybe you will play again next time?" She smiled and I nodded mutely. 

On the stage, Star and the blonde woman had abandoned the chair. Star was lying flat on her back on the edge of the stage, her head, shoulders and arms hanging down over the edge. Her eyes were closed with pleasure. The cage girl's head was buried between her thighs. They writhed together languorously, abandoned to each other's bodies. 

The music reached a crescendo. The pounding bass drum resonated through my body and all other noise was swallowed by the drone and throb of the guitars. My senses were overwhelmed. Everyone in the room was transfixed, utterly absorbed in the sight of the arched body of the beautiful young woman as she approached climax. At last she shuddered in orgasm. In the same moment the music crashed to a halt. A ringing silence followed, broken only by a series of passionate gasps, suddenly clearly audible. Her screams of pleasure seemed to continue for a long time, and then slowly subsided. At last, her frame relaxed. She curled up into a foetal position. The other girl tenderly took her in her arms and held her. She stroked Star's back. They seemed to be smiling at each other. The music and conversation started again. I returned to awareness of my surroundings. Lucy was still nowhere to be seen.

"You OK, sweetie?" It was the bar girl, her bare, pale skin eerily lit from below by the glow of the bar's under-counter lights. "You look like you lost someone. You're new here?"

I explained that I was here for the raffle, and that I was indeed new.

"We're so glad to have you!" she smiled prettily, "You finished your drink. Let me fix you something on the house. Another beer?"

"I think I need something stronger. A double whiskey, maybe."

"Comin' right up. People explained how this place worked?"

"No, not really. Except that only members are allowed… to er, enjoy the staff girls. So as a non-member, I suppose I can only – "

"You can only watch, that's right. Though you seem to enjoy that, right?" She briskly and precisely poured off two measures of amber liquid. "I saw you looking at Star 'n Cosima. Ice?"

"No, thanks. Just neat, with… with a small jug of plain still water on the side. I did not realise I was that obvious."

"Hmm. You know what you like," she said, leaving me to wonder whether she was referring to my taste in whiskey or to my reaction to what had just happened on stage. "Many guys and girls just like to watch. But if you want more than that, you have to be a member. Or you can join as staff. Many girls do that. You don't get as much freedom, but you do get good money." She put the tumbler of whiskey down in front of me. "You look confused. OK. Let me explain." She quickly scanned the bar to see if anyone else was needing attention. "There are three kinds of people in the Republic of Desire. Members, pleasure staff, and outsiders. Members can do what they like with each other, as long as it's with consent. You can set up a fantasy, whatever you want, and the resources of the club are at your disposal. Hang on." She quickly busied herself with a drinks order brought by a waitress – it was the sleek-haired girl I had seen earlier – and returned to me a moment later. "If a member wants to, how did you put it, 'enjoy' a staff girl or boy, or have them as extras in a fantasy, they have to pay. Not a huge amount, since they are already paying membership fees. The money really goes to that person. And they have to want it too. That's what is different here. Both sides have to get their kicks. The difference is that… the power is with the member. It is their fantasy. They initiate, they propose, they want. They desire. It's like Star and Cosima. Cosima's been wanting to do Star for a long time, poor girl. But it was Star's choice to ask her, or not." She smiled and busied herself with wiping down the counter, her small, pretty breasts quivering distractingly in the blue and orange light. "You with me so far? 

"I think I am. But what about non-members? "

"No privileges. Off limits. Members can't fuck'em, they can't fuck staff. Watching only."

"Uh, and how do you become a member?"

She stopped wiping and gave me a smile. "That's the million dollar question. And the answer is, by recommendation only."

"And how do you get a recommendation?" 

"One person recommends. And that's the boss lady. And only one person considers the recommendations, and that's the boss lady. Judge, jury and do-mi-natrix. "

"And who's the boss lady?"

"Her. Right behind you. On the stage there."

I looked up. The lights were dimming and the music was fading. Onto the stage stepped a tall, slim, imperious looking woman. She was clad in slinky black from top to toe. She moved easily, sensuously, confidently. It was Selma.

"Good evening my friends. I am glad to see you are all enjoying yourselves." She seemed to have some sort of head-mounted microphone, since her voice was coming over the club PA. "I won't interrupt your pleasure for too long. I have a brief announcement to make, and a simple function to perform. " A hush fell over the half-darkened room. A male voice somewhere shouted "new girls!" Selma smiled. "Yes, that's right. It is indeed my pleasure to introduce you to three new… sweeties… three darling girls who have signed year-long contracts with our club. Please put your hands together for Jade, Aster, and Claudia!"

There was scattered applause and the music started up again – just the patter of percussion - and three slender forms appeared out of the darkness beyond the cage. All three of them were identically clad, in long simple shifts of some white material. They looked virginal, almost sacrificial, as though they were going to have their throats slit before some strange God right here in the middle of a twenty-first century city. Though they moved with slow, hip-swaying sensuousness their eyes were lowered and their faces still. The first was a petite Asian woman, her hair in a brief, 1920s' style cloche. The second was a comely, sensuous, brown skinned woman with a long mane of gold and russet ringlets. But for the hair, she looked like she could be Ethiopian or Somali – she had the desert beauty of an Iman or a Waris Dirie. The third, not the tallest of the three, but the most beautiful, came last. It was Lucy. She came to a standstill in front of Selma, her eyes still lowered. Her face seemed calm, impassive, serene, as if she were indeed the high priestess of some virgin cult. But I could see her nipples pressing clearly against the plain fabric of her dress, and her breathing was deeper and slightly faster than normal.

"My dears. Look at me." The three girls lifted their eyes and looked up at Selma standing poised and tall before them. "Welcome. Are you willing and ready to join us here as staff?"

The three girls nodded, once. The music faded away to silence.

"Do you know that this means that you will be available for the sexual use of members of this club? " 

Again they nodded. I saw the Somali-looking woman swallowing. 

Selma turned to the audience. "Be aware of one thing. These girls are not hookers. They are not there to be used and discarded just for your enjoyment. They, too, have a right to pleasure. In fact, it is because they want to be pleasured that they have joined us in this way. Isn't that right, my treasures?" 

The girls nodded mute assent. 

"For just this reason, my girls, you also have the right to refuse any person or any request." Selma was moving around the stage now, and paused next to the Asian girl, running her hand gently through the girl's hair and along her bare neck and shoulder. The Asian girl submitted mutely to her touch. "Though you would not have joined us had it not been your intention to… put yourself in the way of others' advances. And if you had not wanted to give up a certain amount of control."

Selma's right hand stayed delicately poised on the girl's right shoulder, and she moved around so she was standing behind and slightly to the left of her. With the other hand she gently and sensuously caressed the girl, letting her fingers briefly touch the girl's buttock, her flank, her breast, and then her wrist, the inside of her elbow, her upper arm. The girl had lowered her eyes again. She took a long shuddering breath and stood absolutely still. Now her nipples too were pressing hard against the fabric of her dress. It was utterly quiet. Selma's voice had dropped almost to a whisper.

"So are you ready, my dear?"

The Asian girl nodded again. 

With the gentlest flick of her fingers, Selma slid the straps of the shift from the girl's shoulders. It fell gently as gossamer to the floor. The naked girl stood mute under the flare of the stage lights, her pale skin glowing bright and defenceless against the dark stage background. A tattoo of some kind – a thorned rose – curled around her navel, the stem trailing across her loins, pointing towards the lips of her sex. I took a sip of whiskey. It burned like fire in my mouth. I realised that my heart was pounding and my hands were trembling. I realised truly how I had kept myself numb, year in and year out, trying not to want anything, trying not to feel anything, trying to pretend that I could live without desire. Now I it felt to me as if I had been living half awake, in a bland, safe world defined by work and apathy. I was aware of wanting this girl, wanting to know what her mouth would taste like, what her sex would taste like, wanting to feel her pliant, youthful body against mine.

"Look up my dear. Look up proudly. See how they admire you. See how they want you!" Selma was still speaking in a low, gentle voice. Slowly Jade raised her face and stared out at the silent crowd sitting half invisible in the darkness below the stage. I realised she was blushing. But she kept her head high, and squared her delicate shoulders. She had such spirit! I thought to start applauding, and soon I was joined by everyone in the club. The girl stood stark naked, listening to the applause rise and die away in the dark around her. 

Selma turned around. "Aster? Claudia?" she murmured, and the other two girls, with a twitch of their shoulders and a shake of their slender frames, allowed their dresses to fall to the ground as well. For a long moment, nothing happened, and the audience gazed at them – the small, fine boned Oriental girl, the sensuous Saharan woman, and the tall, slender black-haired girl in the middle. Again I marvelled at Lucy/Claudia's pause, and the way she could stand naked in the centre of a crowded room as if there was no-one around her and she was alone with her thoughts. Selma walked around them, letting her hands trail down the spine of one, graze the breasts of another. Then she paused at the edge of the stage. 

"In a moment now, Holly will appear – Holly, you can come to the stage my dear. She will be bringing the collars each of these girls have to wear whenever they are in the club until they leave – or until they become members themselves. Thank you my dear." Holly was the leather-collared girl from upstairs. She was giving Selma the hat in which she had put the tickets (what had she done with my ticket??) "And then, in celebration of their joining, one of these beautiful girls will be made available to each of the three lucky men or woman who has the ticket number corresponding to the one we draw." Holly was gently putting a narrow, black leather band round the throat of each of the naked girls. These bands were not all the same, I saw. Holly's, for instance, was set with three small white stones – perhaps pearls. Other girls had one, or two, and some had more. The collars given to the new girls were completely plain.




Night Angels Ch. 2



Selma appeared lost in thought for a moment while Holly busied herself with her task. She gazed meditatively at her audience. At last she turned to the girls. 

"So this is how we welcome you. This is how we decide who will first pleasure you and be pleasured in return. This is how we introduce you to the state of being available. This is how you first experience the lessening of control, which is the same thing as the opening of possibilities. Holly, the hat."

I took another sip, and then realised that I was mouthing an empty glass. I tried to collect my whirling thoughts. Claudia had plainly invited me here for this strange game, but why? Was this simply another strange tease? Did she want me to fuck her – did she want to fuck me? And if so, could she be unaware of the membership rules? Or was this some strange way of cheating the process, so that she could give me an eyes-only dance rather than be touched by another member? Was I the safe option? After all this, a private dance would feel like worse than nothing to me, like a vision of water for a man thirsty in a desert. I had had enough of watching Lucy from afar. But the thought of another one of these people in the darkness around me taking my place –taking her – was even more unbearable. I noticed the bar girl watching me inquisitively and nodded mutely at my glass.

Holly stirred her hand around in the upturned hat and withdrew a small red slip. The silent hush had settled over the crowd again. The three girls stood silently, eyes downcast again. I looked at Claudia, trying to gauge her state of mind. Selma took it from her "Thank you my dear. We begin with the third choice… which goes to number 417!" There was a commotion at a table to my right, which seemed to belong to a small group of very fashionably dressed girls and boys. "Another one, Holly, please… yes, the second choice goes to number 495." For a moment my heart skipped a beat, but then I recognised that this was not my number. "And first choice… yes, first choice, thank you Holly, goes to - ah! what a coincidence – number 459!" There was scattered applause, the lights on the stage started to dim, and the three girls filed out stage left. The background music started again, and with it the buzz of ordinary conversation.

I dug the slip out of my pocket. Number 459. I caught the bar-girl's attention and wordlessly handed it to her. 

"Thank you. You just wait here," she said, and I settled down to nurse my whiskey. 

Presently Holly appeared at my elbow, and asked me to accompany her. She took me past the stage, and through a mirrored and room where a couple of girls were hurriedly in the process of changing. They took no notice of us. Another door and a short corridor led us into what seemed to be an office of some kind. It was sumptuously furnished with dark hardwood furniture and plush carpets. A fire burned in a grate, and next to it, still in her black garb, stood Selma. In the middle of the carpet were the three women – no longer naked. They were now wearing the same leather harness as Holly. The straps were fastened in such a way is to bind their breasts and cover their nipples and genitals. They seemed to be waiting for me, and looked up expectantly as I came in. Two other people were already there – one of the flash young things that had sat at the table next to me, and an elderly and very grave looking Asian man. Claudia's expression was unreadable, and she gave no sign of having recognised me.

"Thank you Holly. Welcome, sir." Selma's tone was calm, unhurried, confident. "Your rooms are being prepared. Meanwhile, before you choose your girls, a few words." She turned to me and the club members. "These girls are now yours to enjoy in whatever way you please, for the next five hours. You are free to do whatever you like, bar hurt or scar them in any way, as long as they freely and voluntarily consent. I will not put up with coercion or bullying. So if a girl says no, take it as a no." She put her arm through Aster's. " Secondly, these girls are your partners in pleasure. I expect them to receive exactly as much enjoyment from your contact as you yourselves. You know what I think of boorish, selfish or inconsiderate behaviour. Except for those qualifications you can do what you like. Fuck like bunny rabbits, tie each other up, visit bookshops. It's for you to decide." 

She released Aster, and walked over to me. "Except for you, sir. I am very pleased to have you here as a visitor, and I am happy that you have won first-choice tonight. But unfortunately you must remember that you are barred from any kind of sexual contact with these girls. You can choose the one you like, and you can ask her to do anything – dance for you, display herself, frig herself silly. But you are not allowed to touch her. And the same goes for you, my darlings. You are allowed to touch him through his clothes. But no other contact of any kind. No hand jobs, no blow jobs, nothing. And his hands are to stay off you. If this rule is broken, this man goes out, and will be permanently barred. And you will have a penalty to pay as well. Have you understood? "

The girls and I humbly and contritely assented, as if we were naughty kids called in front of a kind but stern headmistress. 

"That's settled then." Selma smiled. She turned to me. "Sir, time to make your choice."

Six pairs of eyes fixed expectantly on me. I cleared my throat – I felt a bit self conscious – and said, "I choose Lu – Claudia." 

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I am."

"Come on. Take your time. Look carefully. Claudia is beautiful, but so are the others. Go on. Touch them. Go on, as long as they are clothed it's fine. Feel them. Apply your mind. Who do you like most?"

My erection felt hard and warm in my pants, but I felt strangely calm, thinking that my mind was hardly the bit of me that was involved here. The girls kept up their tantalising reserve. In front of me stood Aster. She was almost as tall as me, and her eyes were almost on a level with mine. I let my hands run along her neck, her shoulders, her breasts and belly, her sides. Her flesh was firm and warm. Her eyes were green, deep green. She was looking demurely down at the floor as if this was the most normal thing in the world. Her mouth was full and luscious. I was aware of her breathing, the smell of her skin, the way she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. I imagined her mouth against mine, her legs wrapped around my hips. I tore myself away and considered Jade. She, too, submitted willingly and silently to my touch. An exquisitely small, delicate beauty. A china girl.

Last I turned to Lucy. I let my hands run briefly through her soft, cropped hair; down her beautiful neck, across her slender sides and hips. She looked me full in the eyes with that mysterious, dark, secret gaze of hers. She gave no clue that she knew me. She was simply Claudia, a luscious and beautiful stripper girl, leather clad in a secret basement, and I an anonymous man, looking at her with admiration and longing. Who was this girl, and what were her feelings about me? I did not know. I did know, however, what it was about her that set her apart from the other girls. She was the one who saw my desire. She saw my longing, and she accepted it. I turned to Selma.

"This is the one. This is the one I want." My voice was rough and ungainly.

"I like a man who knows his mind. Claudia, are you happy to go with this man?" 

Claudia gave me another brief, impenetrable glance, and said shortly, "Yes."

"Good. You go, my girl, and get ready. Rika, you take this man to the first room."

Rika turned out to be a slender, waif-like creature in a figure-hugging black dress who had been perching unseen on a desk in the background. She moved with quick, deft grace and appeared utterly bored by the proceedings. She led me back through the door I had come through, and through a confusing series of intersecting rooms and corridors. At length she stopped next to an open door. "You wait in there" she said, and left.

* * *

"In there" was what looked like a small, dimly lit and elegantly furnished bedroom. More of the rich cloths and expensive artefacts I had seen upstairs: a Persian carpet, an apparently original Klimt painting, a gigantic mirror on the wall. A mirrored ceiling! An easy chair. A bed. A wash-stand. Hi fi and video equipment (TV, VCR and tripod-mounted camera). And what looked like a massage table or a piece of gym equipment in one corner. Fully equipped.

I sat down in the arm chair, then stood up again. 

I stood in the middle of the carpet, paced up and down. 

I sat on the bed. 

The one thing this room did not have was a heap of magazines, I thought. That you could read while you waited for the doctor to come.

Suddenly I jumped up. The door rattled, and Lucy entered. She was breathtaking. The leather harness had vanished (except for that collar), and she was dressed in a long, silver, shimmering, form-fitting pale gown that left her arms bare. She looked like a princess. I felt that dry-mouthed feeling again. Once again my heartbeat was shaking my chest. It was hard to breathe.

"Shall I dance?"

Now it was my turn to nod mutely. She touched a panel on the music system. I recognised Sade, "No ordinary love" again, and the part of my brain that still produced thoughts said, "is this our tune now?" But Lucy said nothing. She drifted over to me, silent as smoke on the air.

She had offered to dance, but this was not dancing. Not for one moment were our bodies separated. I stood silent and still, while she leaned against me, ground her body against mine, writhed, stroked and held me. She moved around me like a slinky, six-foot cat, rubbing and pressing her body against me with unrestrained urgency. She pressed her face into the hollow of my throat and nuzzled there. Her fingers tousled my hair, scratched my chest, ran across my face, grasped my buttocks. All I was conscious of was the delicious pressing of her body against mine, and my overpowering desire to touch her in turn, to hold her, to taste her skin… Her breathing was ragged. And when her eyes were not closed, her gaze was locked on mine. Her eyes were hot, smoky, passionate. 

Without a word, she shoved me backwards. I almost tripped and fell, and then sat down heavily on the chair. She bent over and grabbed me by the shirt collar. She leaned forward, showing me she had no brassiere under her low-cut dress, almost allowing her breasts to spill out. Then she sat down in my lap and recommenced her insistent grinding. This was not simply a lap dance, I realised. This was fucking in clothes. She was deliberately and precisely riding my erection. If she did not stop soon, I was going to come. And so be it, I thought. If coming inside my clothes was all I was going to get from this girl tonight, I would make my peace with that. 

I realised she was saying something. "What?" I murmured.

Her voice was tiny, nothing more than a whisper. "Touch me. Touch, touch, touch me!"

I let my hands wander across her flat tummy, over her chest. My fingers found the slinky, silky, shoulder straps. I slid them down her arms. She leaned forward – impatient, urgent, and let the dress fall down. Then she leaned back again, again imploring me in a whisper. At Happy Joe's I had wanted to tantalise, to tease her. Now I just wanted to taste, feel, hold. I felt the softness, the heaviness, the warmth and fullness of her breasts. I felt the pucker of her nipples. I felt the rapid beating of her heart. Somewhere I was dimly aware that this girl who I wanted, wanted me too. Incredibly, magically, I had found her, I wanted her, and she was not dancing just outside my reach. She was in my arms, in my hands. Time had stopped, and nothing existed in the world except us.

I watched her rise, the top of her dress still bundled entrancingly on her hips. She was behind me, crouching behind the chair. Her arms were around my neck, her mouth at my ear. I felt her breath, then a hot, salacious tongue. This girl had me down, she knew just how to transport me into another world. Her left hand was at my crotch, sliding up and down, teasing me, drawing me further and further… with the other I felt her frantically tug at my shirt buttons, undoing them one by one. Then my shirt was off, and her hands were tickling and caressing my bare skin, raking across my chest. The room was spinning around me.

I became aware that she had stopped. 

I opened my eyes. 

She was standing in front of me, entirely naked. Her hair was tousled and her face was flushed. She loved this, I realised. She wanted my hungry, longing admiring gaze. She loved the depth with which I wanted her. She felt beautiful when she saw me looking at her. 

Then her arms were around me, and she was kissing my neck and shoulders, biting my nipples, sucking on them, in a transport of love and desire. I felt her tugging at my belt and unfastening my pants. Within a moment my cock sprang free, and I felt her hands stroking and tickling its sensitive surface. It felt as if I was in a dream. I tried reached out to her, tried to say something, but she put a finger to my lips. "Hush, my darling," I heard her whisper. And she bent down her lovely head to open her mouth and engulf my cock. 

For a timeless while I let the liquid sensation engulf me as she alternately half swallowed my member and licked up and down the length of its shaft. I had forgotten what this intimacy felt like, the sheer luxury of another person's solicitous touch… I had forgotten what it was to make love for the sake of making love, to be driven by nothing but regard for my own and another woman's pleasure…

I roused from my torpor. Somehow – perhaps it was Selma's warning, perhaps it was the habit of years of putting a watch on all my actions – I had remained almost entirely passive during all this time. But I did not want to go on simply allowing this girl to overwhelm me with her passion, delicious as it was. I reached out and gathered her up in my arms, drew her face up to mine. The chair was large, comfortably allowing her to straddle my lap. I felt the wetness of her sex settle on my crotch. I could sense her slit was still far from wide open, but she slithered herself up and down on the shaft of my cock, her soft lips sucking at it and her pubic hairs tickling its head. 

And I kept finding new places to kiss. The top of her head. The heavy, full lower curves of her breasts. Her engorged nipples. The softness above her nipples. The warm skin between her breasts. The little hollow at the base of her throat. (Her head was thrown back, and my fingers were curled in her hair) The slender column of her neck. (My hands ran down her warm, bare back). The scented little nook behind her earlobes, where her throat and jaw line met. (I felt the soft down there tickle my lips). The tender whorl of her ears. (They were cool, and felt indescribably delicate). Her eyes like little warm pools against my lips. And her mouth.

I think that was really where everything changed. If everything else had happened in the same way – if we fucked on the carpet in the tiny little room – and we had not kissed, it would still have been possible in some way to go on as before. I would have gone to the office the next week and we might still have been able to pass one another as if nothing had happened. That strange split between our night time life and our daily work would have continued. It would have been possible to believe that all this had only been something that happened between the stripper Claudia, a staff girl at a little known, expensive but probably illegal nightclub, and an anonymous, lonely man, who put his desire back in his pocket and went back to his safe, constrained existence. But it did not work out that way.

For a second she resisted. The body is wise, and knows about boundaries our minds are only half aware of. Then she opened her mouth and returned my kiss. Her mouth was like a juicy peach. Kissing her was like a long drink of water. In the years since then, we have coupled hundreds, perhaps thousands of times – with one another, and with other people – but I can still remember the exact sensation of her lips and her tongue in my mouth that night. We devoured each other. Everything slowed down. Lucy stopped her insistent grinding. Our bodies had found a new way of speaking. The kissing became gentler and gentler, until it was the merest touch: my lips grazing hers, her teeth nibbling my mouth, a lick of tongue tips. 

And then we stopped. I opened my eyes. We looked at each other. I saw how soft her face was, how calm, the half smile on her lips. The game had ended. There was no more pretending. We could be free. And we had all the time in the world.

Time for me to kneel in front of her and let her open her legs for me. Time to be engulfed in the hot smell of her sweat and her excitement. Time to taste the outside of her sex, and to lick the juices that oozed there. Time for me to tease and play with her, to suck at her outer and inner lips, to slide my tongue into the outer passages of her sweet pussy. Time for me to hear her breathing deepen, to hear her start to gasp. Time for her to mount me in turn, and for us to be as lazy and easy as we liked as she slowly, slowly eased herself onto me. Time for me to slip gently, bit by bit , into the hot, wet, tight, slick curve of her delicious cunt…

We did not come together. That was only to happen much later, when we had got the measure of our passion and knew each other's bodies. That night, Lucy came almost immediately, arching her back and uttering stifled cries of pleasure. And it was a while before it was my turn, gasping and crying as I felt my sperm flood deep inside her, while she leaned over me, holding my head and staring into my eyes. 

Warmth and release flooded my body. I floated away on a dark river. For a long while I did not know where I ended and where Lucy began. We were two entangled shapes in a line drawing, sensuous curves and flesh tones blending and interweaving. Her sweat cooled on my body. Her juice dried on my legs. Her breath was in my ear.

* * *

I became aware of feeling cold. The floor was hard beneath my back. We stirred, mumbled, and I slipped out of her. We sat up, and she smiled shyly at me. I ran my fingers through her hair. She touched my shoulder. We looked around.

Selma was sitting on the bed.

In another time I would have started guiltily. We would have scrabbled for our clothes and covered our bodies. But all that seemed strange and irrelevant now. Damned or not, I did not care. I returned her gaze and waited.

She got to her feet, impassive. "Get dressed, my dears. In my office."

Wordlessly we put on our clothes and followed her. I was dimly aware of faces and voices, of the traffic of the club continuing around us, but I hardly registered anything. Selma's office seemed strange. Nothing had changed. The fire burned in the grate. Rika was curled naked on the carpet in front of it, apparently sleeping, her thumb in her mouth. How long ago had it been since I had stood here, playing along in their bizarre game?

Selma perched on the edge of her large, ornate desk, dispassionately regarding Lucy and me. We looked rather bedraggled, I realised. My clothes were rumpled, and my hair in a mess. Lucy's dress was badly creased. We waited.

Selma turned to me.

"Your name? "

"John, John Gray", I said. What was it to her?

She smiled and moved towards me, extended her hand. "Mr Gray, I am pleased to meet you. And pleased to be able to congratulate you. Welcome to our club. You are our one hundred and fifth member." She shook my hand. Her grasp was firm, strong, dry. 

I was too baffled to speak.

"I must say, this does not happen often. Many members have spent years as outsiders, hoping to be invited in, wondering what it will take to make the grade. Some never do. People who watch and watch, wondering when they will be asked to join the party. Some offer money, some plead to be allowed to join. And on your first night here, you showed me what I wanted to see. You knew whom you wanted. You would not be deterred. You acted on your passion… And you too, my dear girl. At your audition, I realised you were something special." She tousled Lucy's hair, motherly and proud. "You got what you wanted. I thought that something was up with that last raffle ticket. And I was right! You subverted my little auction on your first night here, my clever little slut!" She said the word as if it was a term of endearment. "Right under my nose. You took a huge risk. In fact I more than half suspect you've planned this for a long time. Was that the reason you joined this club? To get this man? "




Night Angels Ch. 2



"Yes. I 'm sorry. If you want me to leave…"

"No, my dear, that would be too easy. You took a risk, and you've got a contract. I think I will hold you to your risk. When your contract is up, you will have the option of becoming a member. Until then, I expect to see you here at the arranged times. I think I want to enjoy seeing you two play. And…"- she looked pensive – "maybe that's what you two need." 

She returned to her place on the desk and looked the two of us over with what I can only describe as a professional gaze. Seconds passed by and she seemed lost in thought. Her searching eyes met mine. 

"John. I do not know you. You seem… sad to me. I've seen thousand men like you. There is some loneliness, am I right? There is some bleakness. You've retreated into your castle, and you don't know how to get out…" She spoke meditatively, searchingly. "Tonight you've come far. But in the real world out there – there is still some distance to be gone. My judgement is that you need to be here. For a while. To learn how to play. With your sweetheart here. And with others." 

She turned to Lucy. "Claudia? Is that how you still want to be called? My sweet girl. You remind me so much of myself. You're a mystery, aren't you, my girl. Even to yourself. You see, this is the big difference, "she said kindly, "between you and my friend John. This man has been around. He's been through some hard times already. He knows what he wants. And he knows himself. He sees through his own… stratagems. Whereas you… you're all stratagem. You must be careful. Claudia could end up outwitting Claudia. Lucy could end up… tricking Lucy. " She looked sad. "My judgement – goodness, I am full of judgements tonight – is that you're very lucky to have chosen John. Be kind to him. Enjoy him. It will do you both good."

Silence fell again, broken only by the crackling of the fire, and what seemed to be a light snoring from Rika.

Selma looked up. "Well my dears, I am afraid my time with you is up. I can't tell you how pleased I am with how things turned out, but I am a busy girl and the night - the night is still a young kitten." She briskly planted a motherly kiss on each of our cheeks. "I think you two had better get home. I have ordered you a taxi. Good night. "

* * *

Outside, clouds were covering the night sky. I checked my watch. It was two AM. Lucy and I were silent as we exited by the humble little wooden door I had entered barely three hours before. The taxi was waiting.

"It's all right, I will walk home" I said. 

Lucy kissed me on the cheek, chastely, and touched my face. 

"See you Monday," she said and disappeared into the waiting car. It drove away slowly into the darkness. I could see her cropped head outlined against the city lights.

I turned towards home. And walked through the streets in the soft spring rain.

To be continued...



Night Angels Ch. 3



Staff meetings were never my strong point. Staff meetings on Monday mornings drove me to distraction. A staff meeting on a Monday morning, watching the woman I fucked on Friday night pretend to ignore me while she flashed her thighs at me under the boardroom table was a special form of torture. 

It was going to be a long week.

I was not in very good nick to begin with. I had spent the weekend in a state of complete distraction. Images of my night at the Republic of Desire loomed up in front of me: the leather-harnessed girls, the ritual auction, Lucy’s passion, Selma’s cryptic remarks… and Lucy’s husky, suddenly vulnerable voice bidding me Till Monday in the street. 

I could not concentrate on anything. Ages ago, one of my first girlfriends had told me that when a couple had sex, pheromones were exchanged between them, keying them in to one another’s chemistry, binding them to one another. It was the chemical basis for falling in love, she said, and it accounted for that disorienting, disarming stage after a first sexual encounter when your mind is constantly filled with images and memories of the other person. It sounded a bit simplistic to me. But chemical or not, Lucy had managed to get past my defences. 

Nothing could hold my attention. My weekend rituals – shopping and cleaning on Saturday morning, a slow breakfast, a walk and music on Sunday – were in pieces. Mr Thelonious (that’s my cat, an aging, portly and very dignified chocolate brown Burmese) had been entirely displeased. Instead of sitting on the couch listening to music or watching old movies like I was supposed to, I had wandered aimlessly around the apartment, adjusting objects here and there, pacing the carpet, stopping suddenly to gaze out at the river, picking up the telephone and putting it down. I had even forgotten to brush him – an unpardonable offence. That same girlfriend had always said that cats don’t have owners, they have staff. Mr Thelonious was a case in point, and he was deeply disappointed in me. He had sat sulkily on the windowsill that Monday morning, barely suffering his ears to be tickled and evidently feeling that I was lucky he was not implementing major retrenchments.

Some of my feelings were of elation, and revelling in the fact that this strange and bewitching woman apparently wanted me. Some were of embarrassment and self consciousness – here I was, a man just into my forties, carrying on like a seventeen-year old in love with a pretty girl in her twenties. And some was confusion and fear. What was going to happen now? It was not as if this affair, or whatever it was, could fit into life at work. Things between Legal and Research were pretty strained already. I could only imagine the incendiary effect on office politics of dalliance between the middle-aged and rather controversial Director of Research and Charles Gaunt’s newest PA. Incendiary! Dalliance! Those were just the words Charles would use. I could already hear him sounding forth.

And then there was the matter of the other woman. Office rumours to the contrary, I could now conclusively say Lucy was not lesbian. But she could still be bisexual – and what was her relationship to the pretty Asian girl whose picture sat on her desk, and who dropped her off with a kiss outside the office every weekday morning? Liu Mi, I recalled her name had been. Were they an item? And if they were, what was I? Just a game? An experiment? A betrayal?

To make matters worse, the intensity of pressure at work seemed about to redouble. The Soft Information Co had managed to get its hooks into one of the biggest and most important contracts in its existence, and we were going to have to pull out all the stops to bring it off. Monday morning was really a council of war. The whole office was excited, and more than a bit uptight. Everyone had ants in their pants. I hid it well, but I was the worst off. Before the meeting, Lucy was nowhere to be seen. I had not been able to concentrate on my preparations. Every time someone walked past the copy room I had spun around expectantly. What was it going to be? The cold shoulder? More of the elaborate pretence of nonchalance? Or what?

The meeting had just started when the answer became clear. It was - Or What. 

Lucy made her entrance five minutes late. People had just settled in, mugs of coffee positioned, piles of papers shuffled. Dear old Charles was in mid-pontification when she walked in. Everyone stopped listening. I have not seen many women make all the heads in a room, male and female, swivel simultaneously, but she did it.

She looked stunning.

Now , she was not dressed particularly seductively. As sexy-smart office wear goes, this was nothing out of the ordinary. Just an elegantly cut - even slightly severe – charcoal mini-dress and jacket assembly, ending just a tad above the knee. I have seen many young secretaries and temps show more flesh and not raise an eyebrow.

But you see, they had not been Lucy. And that made all the difference.

For one thing, no-one (except me, that is) had seen Lucy in anything but the plainest of clothes. Not that she dressed boringly. She’d just had very quiet taste. No dresses. Black chinos and brown knitted sweater, nicely finished, clearly expensive, but definitely not eye-catching - that was her office style. Blend-into-the-background stuff. 

This was surge-into-the-foreground stuff. This was hey-baby-look-at-me stuff. 

And we did.

For, and this was the second thing, the secret was out. She was a stunner. She was a beauty. Not a babe - babes don’t come industrial strength. She was the real thing. She had the supermodel cool. The glamour. She was gorgeous. She was dangerous. She was a goddess. She was a witch. And she knew it. 

Under the circs, I was one of the few who managed not to stare. Charles, who is never a good noticer at the best of times, continued talking for a sentence or two more before he ran out of gas. All the other directors goggled. The only ones besides me who did not appear nonplussed was Vanessa (who noticeably brightened), Peter, the big boss, who is never ruffled by anything and Andrew Sexton, our rather geekish head of Strategy and co-founder of the company, who only seemed pleased because the meeting could now finally start. 

Lucy pretended not to notice and swept smoothly up to her place next to Charles, who was still gawking. For a second it crossed my mind that he had not recognised her. The same idea appeared to strike Lucy, for she smiled cheerily and extended her hand. “Pleased to meet you - Lucy Temple,” she said. In the resulting gust of laughter she sat down and opened the waiting notebook computer. Charles’ nose was noticeably out of joint but for once he was silent. 

“Hi Lucy. Welcome. You look nice this morning.” This was Andrew. 

“Sorry I’m late. Thank you.” She said briskly, starting to distribute neatly bound files from her smart little black briefcase. She paused and looked up, seeming to notice everyone’s admiring stares. “Well, this is the big time, isn’t it? No more kid stuff… We’re playing for real stakes now,” she said, looking directly in my eyes. 

Indeed we were. It was the end of an era. No more safety for John Gray, I thought, feeling strangely calm and elated. All was on the hazard. The company, my career, and with my carefully won sense of stability. I had known for some time that the next few months at Soft Info was crucial. It was the test of my reputation and my position in the company. And now Lucy was in the works. A wild card if ever there was one. Who knew what would happen? I should have been scared, but what I felt at that moment was mostly a strange relief. 

The staff meeting was one of those exhausting, nerve wracking battles where everything is happening at more than one level at the same time. On the surface, the appearance of consensus. Lots of talk of win-win, synergy, all that guff. Underneath, hostility, rage, positioning, sabotage. And the chief saboteur was Charles. His agenda was completely opposite to mine. What he wanted from this deal was safety. A relationship with a blue chip company. A long relationship. Respectability. Stock options. What I wanted – and I knew Andrew wanted it too – was edge. We are not a safe company. We deal in information. Market research of a very specialised kind, in very specialised niches. Not spying at all, though I do keep my ear on the ground. What had made us special was our independence. We had a reputation for giving controversial advice, making counterintuitive judgements, emphasising apparently irrelevant developments – and then turning out to be infuriatingly right. And Charles was often one of those who were infuriated. He hated controversy. He saw it has his mission to prevent us from being sued for defamation. He was terrified we would piss off someone important. When we started quietly advising people not to trust the integrity of a major global consultancy and auditing firm (no names needed, you know the one), Charles permanently went shade greyer – and when we turned out to be right, a shade more purple as well. He made it his business to object to everything I did, and squirted inky clouds of warnings and advisories around each of my projects. This meeting was no exception. 

Lucy sat serene like a sphinx, tapping away at her notebook computer, her distracting long legs elegantly crossed at the ankle. Charles nattered away interminably, apparently unaware that the brief his assistant had handed out seemed to contradict several of his key points. I caught her eye. No response. Then her left hand crept under the table and she hiked that skirt up just one more centimetre. I tried not to focus on her creamy thighs. Pale, barely protected by the black fabric of her dress. I remembered the warmth of them against my ears, the sense of toned, living muscle beneath the skin, the delicate trembling of the tendons of her inner thighs, her beautiful, silky-hot cunt. I felt my loins stirring uncomfortably, and realised that there was no way I could adjust myself without everybody noticing. Except possibly Charles. 

Oh fuck. I desperately looked at the paper in front of me, tried to focus my mind on something else. Lucy’s notes. Nearly and precisely listing the real issues, the strategic issues, not those her boss was raising. She was my ally. She was my girl. Her breasts had been soft against my skin. And she liked to have them licked and tickled. Kissing her pussy was like eating a mango, you got juice all down your chin. Stop that!

I tried to focus on what Charles was saying. Long-term relationship. Win-win. Security. Brands. Lexus-and-Olive-Tree nonsense. None of that mattered. What mattered in this deal was what happened with the information. Who controlled it. Who shared what. Who produced it. Who made the judgements. And how it could lead to more information. For information is like quicksilver. Elusive, liquid, reflective. And just like a little drop of mercury would absorb other smaller drops, information attracted information. It had its own gravity and life. What this deal allowed us was to get really close to huge masses of really complex information, and make it mix and tangle with ours. I saw it in my minds eye, like a galaxy forming out of cosmic dust. Dead, cold, inert facts, colliding with one another, forming a bigger and bigger mass that slowly warmed up, until the little glimmers of light appeared…

My mobile phone silently vibrated against my leg. Charles was still in full throat. I fished it out of my pocket. I had a text message. Anything to distract my attention. 

It was some kind of spam, it seemed. Sent from an anonymous mail server somewhere, complete with those irritating little pictograms they seem to think we want to send each other these days. I looked at it anyway. It did not make sense. Do you want your… and then couple of small icons – a picture of a smiley sun, a drop of water, a bunch of grapes. Whatever did that mean? 

The only association that came to my mind was that of a local take-away fast health food chain. They had had that exact logo – the sun, the drop and the grapes. Delicious, healthy, take-away food. They had tanked. No market. People wanted their fast food unhealthy. What had they been called? Juicy Lucy. That had been their slogan. Do you want your … I switched off my phone. 

My Juicy Lucy was studiously taking notes, her face a picture of innocence. The hemline crept a centimetre higher. I looked away in confusion. Straight at Vanessa, who was watching me with sparkling eyes. She seemed to be loving the show. Oh God.

It was unbearable. I do not know how I got through that meeting. I think what saved me was Charles’s sheer irritatingness and stupidity. I had to start thinking about how to deal with his objections, and slowly, point by point, bit by bit, managed to beat back the tides of mediocrity. At last, with lunch in sight, the battle seemed to be won. We would go ahead with the deal. We would not appoint more staff – we wanted to stay small, and the client could take on the extra clerks and data capturers. We’d do the analysis, we’d put in the distribution software, and we would insist on the right to publish our own independent views of our client’s position in the marketplace. No buddy buddy stuff. The edge. If they wanted anything different, they could have gone to one of our competitors, and they hadn’t. The final negotiations would be on Thursday and Friday, the signing would happen on Monday. The key team – myself, Andrew, Charles (and his suddenly stunning PA) would have to fly up north to our client’s head office to clinch the deal. Consensus was reached. Charles was quiet. School was out.

Somehow I managed to get out of the boardroom, my briefcase carefully positioned in front of my crotch. My raging erection seemed to be refusing to go away. To the loo. I was not going to jerk off in the staff toilets – I had my principles - but perhaps relieving the pressure on my bladder might help.

I stood for a while longer than I really needed in the bathroom. I wanted to rest my forehead against the cool tiles. My erection was still there. I tried to stay with my breath, like my meditation teacher had advised me to. It is like that game you play when you are a kid – try NOT thinking about pink tigers. About the smell of sweat on her skin. About the taste of her tongue. About … but slowly I managed it. Zipped myself up. Washed my hands. Just keep focussed. Stay centred. One thing at a time.

She came in while I was drying my hands. I saw her in the mirror. Striding in like one of the big cats, a smooth, white skinned, black-clothed panther with hot black eyes. I wheeled to face her. Wanted to say something. But tongue was already in my mouth. Her left hand behind my neck. Her body pressed up close against mine. This was insane, I thought, I should push her away and get out. Instead, I returned her kiss, pressed her hard against me. I could feel the taut muscles of the small of her back, the heat of her skin through the fabric of her shirt. Her soft breasts against my chest. I slid my other hand under her skirt. The door rattled. Someone was coming. 

I froze in a panic. Lucy vanished, swiftly and silently, into one of the cubicles. Closed the door. I desperately tried to collect myself.

“You all right, old chap?” It was Andrew. He came bustling in, laden with files, dumped them by the basins, and went over for a piss. Andrew came on like a terminal nerd - and he was one, a bit – but he was sharp as nails and his vague bespectacled eyes did not miss a thing. 

“I am fine,” I said. “I may be a bit worn out but I’ll be OK.” How much had he seen?

“Tell me, John,” said Andrew from his place at the pissoir, “What are your thoughts about Lucy?”

“Sorry?” 

“Lucy. That nice-looking girl. I’ve had my eye on her for a while.” This was even more confusing. Andrew was happily married, and his idea of locker room talk was discussing the latest trends in intellectual property. (Andrew was fervently opposed to the idea of intellectual property, and watched the big pharmaceuticals with the venom of Paisley watching the Pope).

“Can’t say the same here. What do you mean? “

“She doesn’t fit in Legal. Can see it a mile away. Wasted on Charles. Good having her there – mole, you know - but it’s bound to come to a head somewhere. I’ve been having a chat with Peter.” Peter and Andrew had been friends for years, and they were forever having chats. They probably called each other at three AM, before going to sleep after a quickie with the wife. If Peter and Andrew agreed with each other, the matter was decided. “He agrees with me. I was wondering whether you’d like to have her.”

I was wordless. Behind Andrew, through the gap below the door, I could see Lucy’s slim ankles. One disappeared – she seemed to be getting ready to stand on the toilet lid to avoid detection – and then the other. Sure as hell I wanted to have her. But not in the sense Andrew meant. And I was not sure whether working with her would be a possibility. Too much of a good thing.

“Peter does not think you working with her is a possibility. Too much of a good thing, you see,” Andrew went on blithely. “Your, er, minds work in the same way. You click. Which is great. But strategically, you see, strategically…” - Strategically was almost a sacred word with Andrew - “strategically it would be better if you two could work together from different places. And I think her head is right for it. Strategy, you know. I need an extra brain, you know, in my section. It would make your position stronger. And mine. And we need to hold on to her you know. She’s a girl in a million. And I know you like her. Been seeing it for a while. You take care now John. “ He gathered up his files. “This is the big game. Real stakes, like she said. I really hope all goes all right for you.” He fixed me with a penetrating, enigmatic stare. “Come with me to lunch. I want to discuss these negotiations.” And I had the distinct sensation he was escorting me out, making sure he did not leave me behind in the toilets…
 * * *

And so it went. Lucy had always loved teasing, and now she became more and more outrageous with every day. On Tuesday, after yet another meeting, I lingered for a second, leaning against a boardroom table and taking a call. Lucy came in and started stroking me through my pants, pouting at me like a Thirties starlet while I struggled to sound composed and tried to figure out how to end my call without upsetting my caller. One of the receptionists almost walked in on us, and once again I had to hide my crotch – it seemed to be the John Gray pose these days: briefcase or file holder ineptly clutched to the front of my pants. In my haste the files slid out of their container and papers spilled out all over the show. Lucy and the receptionist knelt down in front of me and gathered up the papers, Lucy with her legs provocatively splayed, grinning to herself like cat that got the cream.

On Wednesday I was in my office, in a meeting with Angus, one of the more staid middle managers, talking through the issues that would come up next week. A messenger came in with a big interoffice envelope. Still listening to Angus, I opened it and felt around inside it. Cloth. Thin, satiny cloth. Damp. Warm damp. I had almost hauled it out before I realised what it was. I almost dropped the envelope like it was hot, and hurriedly shoved it out of sight next to my computer. I had completely lost track what Angus was talking about. He did not seem to have noticed anything. How could he not? It was evident: the unmistakable scent of pussy juice. To my fevered mind it seemed to fill the whole office, dense and heady like jasmine flowers. 

What would come next? If it was like this on an ordinary day at the office, what would it be like on the plane, and when we were all cooped up in our hotel?




Night Angels Ch. 3



* * * Thursday morning we arrived at the airport together. I’d packed my things, dropped Mr Thelonious off at the boarding cattery, and arrived at the airport gate in a bit of a rush. There she was, in her normal clothes again – beige pants, dark cashmere sweater, camel hair coat, notebook computer in shoulder bag, smart Samsonite suitcase. No hot come-on, no tease. Just her normal, warm, friendly self. Lucy the dependable colleague. No clue for any outsider that there was anything between us. 

And precious few clues for me, too. For a few minutes I thought she was going cold on me. But then there would be these tiny, almost undetectable signals. Her ankle, barely touching mine under the table as we waited in a coffee shop. Her coat, brushing my jacket for a moment in the departure lounge. The fleeting touch of her hand as we boarded the plane. Just faint enough to make me wonder whether I was imagining it, just there enough for me to feel it as a pulse of warmth between us. 

It was unbearable. Was she withdrawing? Or was she just being careful? Was she friendly? Or was I just dreaming it? I had certainly not dreamed that kiss in the loo. But why this will o’ the whisp attitude? Was she playing with me? What was I doing here? It struck me that aside from our tantalising encounters and our professional exchanges, we’d never talked. What did I know about her? Who’d dropped her at the airport? What had I got myself into?

Fortunately I had plenty to occupy my mind. Once we in our client’s mammoth steely-blue post-modern skyscraper, things were a whirl of activity. We had to keep our wits about us. We were hobbits in the ogre’s castle, and the ogre wanted to do business. The hobbits needed to look sharp. And we did. Between me, Andrew, Peter and Lucy, were a dream team. We were smart and slick, we knew our facts, we knew our bottom line, and we covered for each other. It was good. But it was hard. And it kept on and on. Meetings with the IT folks, meetings with the legal department, meetings with the non-executive board members. Morning meeting, late morning meeting, power tea, power lunch, power dinner. 

We did it, though. We were in top form. Somewhere during the course of the day, I heard a little voice in my head, saying it. John, you’re in top form. But somewhere beyond it, further still, there was another voice, bleaker and quieter, saying, - she hasn’t looked at me once for the last five minutes, she is sitting three seats away from me, she’s not smiling at me, her smile is a bit wan and reserved….was that her hand touching mine as she passed me the file?

We had supper at some utterly boring haute cuisine restaurant that had made its name in the 1970s and lost the plot since. I had run out of small talk for the suits, and I was utterly exhausted. I stared at my dinner – a consommé of something in a coulisse of something else – and thought, Mr Thelonious, please forgive me. I am catching the red-eye home and we’ll go to bed together… 

But the day was not over yet. Our party was supposed to be whisked off to some waterfront spot for yet further confabulation (was there such a thing as power nightcaps?). I was not up for it and begged to be dropped off at our hotel on the way. In the taxi, Lucy and I were silent. I still was unable to gauge her mood. Was she just tired? Was she having second thoughts? I looked at her carefully and I could not fool myself. Her eyes were downcast, her mood oddly reserved – if I had not known her better, I would have said she’d been overcome with shyness. And yet, her calf was just perceptibly grazing my leg, and as I left the taxi her fingers touched mine. What was going on? If she was withdrawing from me, why these touches? And if she was still interested, what was it with the sudden hesitancy? What had happened to the brash girl of earlier in the week? What had happened to the tall, dark temptress?

I realised that without thinking about it I had assumed we would spend the night together. The Friday evening I would go back home, while Lucy and Charles would stay on for further meetings (power weekends!) and the signing on Monday. After that, Charles was going off to some lawyer’s conference or other and Lucy was expected to accompany him. Tonight was my last chance. I would only see her in ten days’ time. And now this certainty seemed to be disappearing. 

I went into hiding in my room. I wanted to sink into oblivion. I wanted to stop caring. I wanted to find an old Kurosawa movie and forget that I had feelings. I did find one – it was The Seven Samurai – but it all seemed to be about me. The young swordsman, inept with his feelings, not knowing how to get the girl, too clumsy to know how to react to her desire. Except that in the movie, he gets her in the end. I wasn’t the young swordsman, I wasn’t even the ultra cool steel-eyed archer, at best I was the grizzled old campaigner, too old for love, tired of chopping off heads, missing his cat, alone in a hotel room in a foreign city late at night.

Noises outside. My colleagues returning. Voices in the corridor. I tensed up. The room next doors to mine had been assigned to Andrew - Lucy’s room was upstairs – but if he was back, so should she. I tortured myself, telling me she was going to show up any moment, she was dropping her things, changing into something sexy, and then there would be a scratching at my door… I heard a toilet flush next door, the TV flick on and off, and then silence. Andrew getting his beauty sleep. Then nothing. 

Half an hour passed.

It was after twelve. Exactly a week ago I had been at the club… I remembered my mood of heady resolve. My image in the mirror, looking back out at me, saying here goes nothing. 

What was going on? You been around a bit, Mr Old Campaigner. Can you tell the young swordsman what to do?

I sat back in my armchair and summoned up before me the image of Lucy as she appeared to me throughout today. Not reserved, not cut-off. Those small sidelong glances, the tiny touches – those had been real. 

What was it then? Could it be shyness? The idea seemed ridiculous. Lucy, the person who had overwhelmed me with her boldness? I was the shy one, the reserved older man swept away in her torrent of confident passion!

And yet, and yet… I tried to imagine her as she was right now. She was sitting in her hotel room, maybe sitting in the bed. Not soundly asleep. Not forgetting me. Waiting. Waiting for a knock on the door.

I remembered what Selma had said. “Claudia might end up outwitting Claudia. Lucy could end up tricking Lucy.” Lucy had enjoyed playing games. The careful charade of the first few months. The teasing. Breaking the rules in the club, where she was still Claudia and I was just some nameless man who would disappear before morning. Even this week: no more kid stuff, she had said on Monday, but she had still tried to turn it into a game. 

But now it was past midnight. The ball was over. The princess, pretty as she was, was feeling like an ordinary girl again. And she was suddenly unsure of herself. Would I still like her when she was out of her party gear? When the fancy dress was stowed away?

What do we do when the games stop, Lucy?

Let me show you.

I was out of my door, night-gown wrapped around me, before I was even conscious of having made a decision. The hotel corridor stretched away in both directions, with that bland, timeless, placeless, artificial feel that you get in hotel corridors everywhere. Maybe they have consultants for that, I thought. People who specialise in making sure that every major hotel chain has its own unique distinctive feel of limbo, so that no matter where you were – Paris, New York, Seattle, Rio – you would actually feel you were somewhere else, somewhere more familiar, a parallel universe, that of your hotel chain of choice. 

In this particular one – Universe Hyatt – the lifts in the elevator had walls in plush velvet and quiet, tasteful, smoked silver mirrors. The numbers on the touch pad gleamed amber and the door’s tone as it opened and closed was very soft and muted. 

Bing.

The door opened again, and there, waiting mutely in a hotel-badged bath-gown, was my princess, in the corridor in her bedroom slippers. She just stood there with her eyes downcast, looking shy and confused and more than a little vulnerable. 

For a long instant we just stood gazing at each other. 

Once in a while, you suddenly have a chance to see anew someone you thought you knew well – to see them afresh, not through the lens built up from expectations and past knowledge.

I saw a tall, slender, beautiful girl, someone who had just come into the full power of her womanliness. 

Full power? Maybe not. 

She was beautiful all right, and womanly. But the old campaigner saw something else. 

Some girls are pretty for a season. For a while they are cute little teens, and then they turn into stunning beauties. For a year or two or five of ten, they are graceful, beautiful, bewitching. And then something – stress, children, husbands, jobs – steals it away again. It has nothing to do with weight or wrinkles. It is something else. A quality of spirit, that disappears. 

And in some women, that early beauty is just the early signs of what is to come. They are beautiful at eighteen – but the princess can not be compared to the queen. Forget everything you have been told about skin tone and hair colour. That is not what matters. Ask the old campaigner. What matters is sureness and confidence in lovemaking, confidence and strength in society - and a different beauty. A beauty that lives in a depth and clarity and warmth in the eyes, a grace and poise of figure and motion. A womanly power. You may have seen it in the movies. Katherine Hepburn had it. Susan Sarandon has it. Angela Basset is getting it. A man who has such a woman at his side is lucky.

And I looked at the young Lucy who was looking all bedraggled and lost, and saw the woman she would become, and wondered to myself – who will that be? 

I suddenly wanted to be the man who would be around when her hair too was starting to be tinged with grey. She would still be tall and slender, with a long straight back. There would be beautiful laughter lines around her eyes. Most men hunting for someone to bed would look right past her – never knowing what they were missing. A lioness, a tigress, a graceful and sensual woman. A queen.

The elevator binged again and started closing. We both moved forward at the same time and ended up embracing clumsily in the hallway, the door gently chiming as it butted at my back. I pulled her back inside and we went to my room. I led her by the hand, and she followed quietly, almost passively. Once inside, she allowed herself to be held, allowed me to kiss her on her forehead, her eyes, and then, chastely, on her mouth. I held her for a moment, and then released her. She gazed at me wordlessly. My temptress, this beautiful young woman who thought nothing of dancing naked in front of strangers, who volunteered to allow herself to be raffled off at a strange, probably illegal nightclub, who had brazenly entered the men’s room at the office and all but invited me to enjoy her body there, seemed all of a sudden a little bashful, hesitant.

I tugged open her bathrobe and let it fall to the ground. Underneath she wore a slight little slip of a nightdress – pink, with pink with buttons halfway down the front that parted easily at my touch. This too, I tugged off her shapely body. She stood in front of me naked, vulnerable.

I took her hand again and led her to the bed, where we sat down side by side. 

She did not look up at me, but sat with her hands folded demurely in her lap. I put my arm around her, and she rested her head on my shoulder. 

We sat wordlessly for a while, looking at her slippers. They were pink, and fluffy and very old. Ages ago they had been designed to resemble bunny rabbits. But now three of the ears and one of the eyes had come off. I imagined her getting them from her dad at age fourteen or fifteen. 

I knelt down on the floor and gently eased them off. Her feet were slender and delicately arched. She wriggled her perfect toes in my hand. 

“Well, Cinderella,” I said, “care for a drink?” 

Her eyes met mine shyly and she nodded. I went to the bar fridge. She drew her legs up and sat on the bed, her knees against her breasts and her hands across her ankles. She looked unbearably beautiful and unprotected. I suddenly felt awkward and strange, being a clothed man in the presence of a naked young woman and slipped out of my own night clothes. 

I made it double whiskeys all round. We sipped them cross-legged on the floor, our knees touching. We did not speak. Speech was unnecessary. 

After a while, she smiled, dipped her finger into my whiskey, and painted her nipples with the liquid as she had done when we had first met. And it was sweet to be able to lean over and kiss it away, and then to kiss her mouth in earnest, leisurely and slowly. It was sweet to enjoy her body when there as no-one around but us and the silence of the sleeping hotel. 

My cock, sleeping on my thigh, stirred and woke.

She curled up and laid her cheek on my thigh, dreamily touching it, touching my balls, watching my loins awaken. She played experimentally with my foreskin. Softly she took me still half-erect in her mouth and gently sucked until I was stiff and hard, pleasure flowing from her mouth into me.

Then we kissed again. I tasted the whiskey in her mouth as well as the acrid taste of my own arousal.

My hand found its way between her thighs. There was already a hint of moisture between the lips of her sex, a slickness around the sweet little button of her clit. I stroked and tickled her lips and watched her face become a soft mask of pleasure.

We played like that for a while, my fingers at her slit and hers at my cock till both of us were slick with juice. 

Then she lay back on the bed, her hips on the edge of the mattress and her feet on the floor, her thighs splayed wide to receive the pleasure of my touch. Her shyness was rapidly ebbing away. She was dissolving, relaxing, losing herself in bliss. Her engorged pussy lips opened like the petals of a flower as I gently tongued and sucked them, taking them into my mouth, running my tongue up and down. I gently teased her clit with the bottom of my tongue, and then plunged it deep into the slightly bitter-tasting outer passages of her cunt. She was making soft, throaty, noises of enjoyment. And for me it was pure pleasure as well, sending this beautiful, bold and gentle girl skilfully and surely down the river of pleasure. Nudging the raft ever deeper into the stream…

Her thighs were clenching and trembling slightly. She was tugging at my hair, pulling my face away. She wanted my cock now, wanted it inside her. 

The bed was low off the ground. I quickly put the firm flat pillow from the seat of the armchair on the ground between her feet and knelt down. Just as I had thought: like this, my hips were level with hers, just at the right level for me to enter her. But slowly. 

I let the shaft of my cock slide along the outside of her slit, and then butt softly at the little soft space between her lips. No reason to hurry now, no need to force things. She groaned with pleasure and spread her lips wide, grabbing me and easing me into her. I closed my eyes and echoed her groan. No matter how many times I have made love, I am always overwhelmed by that moment of first entry, by the warmth and softness that envelop me when I first slip slowly into that hot, tight, slippery passage. The sense of direct connection. For a long while it was enough simply for her to hold me there, and to watch her as she writhed with pleasure, running her hands across her own body, squeezing her own breasts and touching herself between her legs.

Then we were moving as one, in the groove, in the rhythm, joined at last in a road our bodies knew together. Her eyes never left my face. We let the river sweep us along, felt its gathering force around us. 

Then, quite suddenly, she came, closing her eyes and crying out aloud. I was off my knees, I was on top of her, her thighs locked around my hips. I thrust strongly deep inside her, letting her orgasm deepen and break. She came for a long time, gasping and moaning, holding me to her with her strong, slender arms, sucking at my mouth, my tongue, my lips. At last the storm passed. I held her quietly for a while then, letting the tremors subside, knowing she would be unbearably tender for a few minutes. 

Then we shifted farther onto the bed, so that I could support my weight on my knees and elbows now, and she let me begin moving again, looking dreamily into my eyes, circling my the base of my cock with her hand, egging me on and on till it was my turn. I came explosively, with a piercing sweetness penetrating my entire body, surrendering entirely to the sensation of my cock emptying itself deep inside her body. She held me again, hand in my hair, crooning softly, pressing my face against my neck as my body shuddered and shuddered

Minutes passed. Slowly we returned to the dimly lit hotel room and the sound of rain outside. I gently moved off and out of her and looked around. Our whiskey glasses were still sitting where we had left them by her slippers on the floor by the foot of the bed. Miraculously we had not kicked them over. I made a warm nest with of the bedcovers and pillows and we watched the rain pearl on the windows for a while, arms around each other, sipping the warming, fragrant liquid. 

There were so many pleasures I had forgotten. The pleasure of timelessness. The gentle play that comes after lovemaking, the investigation and discovery of the other’s body. The downiness of the skin below the earlobe. A small mole on the flank beside the breast. Sweat cooling in tousled hair. Lips and mouth tasting of a whole mix of heady liquids. For so many years I had cut myself off, so scared of being burned again that I had not realised I had stopped myself from feeling anything Now I felt scared again. But I could not go back.

“What is it, love? You look so sad…” Lucy asked me gently.

I had no answer that I could put in words, and just held her tightly for a long while. Sweetness of life. It had returned to me. I did not know what would happen to us, but in that moment it was enough just to lie together in the pool of warmth we had created. Lucy looked long into my face and then kissed me on the forehead. She switched off the light and we drifted off to sleep.

Somewhere in the middle of the night we made love again. Or rather, she made love to me. I emerged from deep sleep to find her straddling me, my cock already hard and deep inside her. Her arms were tightly around my neck and her cheek was pressed against mine. I floated in and out of sleep, conscious of nothing but an enveloping warmth and softness and the increasing power and urgency of our movements. It was almost an animal lovemaking, deep and instinctive and empty of thought. I don’t know how long it went on. We came together, that time, crying out and holding on to each other. And then we slid back into sleep. 

In the morning, she was gone. The whiskey glasses were neatly lined up on the coffee table. Her slippers were there too. And there was a note. It said, 

“Stay here tonight. Love L” 

To be continued...



Night Angels Ch. 4



The moment she walked into the restaurant, I knew it was her. 

I should have known who it would be, anyway.  And, I must confess, I’d  been pretty certain.  But seeing her made things different.

I looked at the slender figure poised in the doorway, silhouetted against the rain-wet street outside, and I thought to myself:  dearest God.  This is where it all gets real.  

* * *

I had been back in town for a couple of days when she called me.  It had been a strange time.

I spent most of it resting. Or recovering.   Call it what you will.  Our big deal had been negotiated, the contract drawn up, and Peter had decreed that our team, having gone many extra miles for Soft Info, were to take a week or so of well-deserved leave to spend some quality time with the loved ones. We’d all come home.  All of us except Lucy and Charles, of course, who were off to some dreadful conference or other. 

So all of a sudden I had time on my hands. Time to be alone.  Time to be with myself.  The days, which had for so long been crammed with frantic activity and rising tension, were suddenly empty and spacious.  

I slept late, had a lazy breakfast, watered the plants.  And I sat on the couch for hours, watching veils of rain blow past in the air above the river.  I gazed at the pearly, luminous, shimmering skin of the river, so restless and so peaceful. I heard no sound except the rattling of water on the roof,  my own breath and Mr Thelonious’s deep throaty purr.  I did not even switch on the hi-fi or the TV. I just let the rain fall and let my thoughts float by.

How long since I had done this?  I had for so long been a man of quiet, reflective habits. Or so I believed.  Now I saw how for year after year I had filled up my days carefully, till every centimetre and second was carefully occupied.  Not only with work, of course.  But with hobbies, with activities, with music, with books and old films.  Anything to keep the silence from coming in.  Anything to avoid hearing my own thoughts.  Anything, as long as I did not have to remember. 

Now, the thoughts and memories washed over me.  I remembered Ruth. The beautiful Ruth, as she was before the darkness took her and she became a haunted, emaciated, paranoid wreck, tormenting herself and everyone around her. 

I remembered the rain falling just like this ten years ago, on the day they fished her body out of the river.  I remembered the mixture of shock and relief when I heard the news.  

Friends had been concerned about me initially, then relieved to find that I was taking it fairly well.  He’s taking it fairly well, they said, as the tall, handsome, soft-spoken man seemed to settle into life on his own.  He’d always been withdrawn, so they did not even notice when he became more so.  He kept himself separate from everyone around him, buried himself in his work, permitted himself to love no-one, and did not allow himself to be loved at all by anyone - except his cat.  He’d had a few girlfriends, to be sure, but they had drifted away. After a while, he stopped having girlfriends and took to using the service of an expensive escort agency.  Those girls did not even have to drift away. They were gone when you closed the door.  After a while, it was a relief to have the door click shut behind them. I stopped the habit.  Only the cat remained.

The car purred, entirely content, as I idly fondled his ears.  Mr Thelonious liked peace.  He had no cravings.   They had been cut out of him when he was a small rambunctious Tom.   With a snip of the vet’s scissors, he’d left all restlessness behind.  

And for years, I had tried to do the same. But my desire could not be cut away, and hard has I had tried, it could not be numbed.  I had almost succeeded.  But now a tall young woman with piercing grey eyes and a sudden, impish smile had smashed all my carefully constructed defences to bits.  A quiet,  reserved, dark-haired girl with long legs and full, soft breasts.  A shy girl who had overwhelmed me with her fierce, uncompromising passion.  Suddenly I wanted someone again. I wanted her.  My ivory castle was in ruins.

I sat among the wreckage, stroking my cat, considering the strange new planet on which I had awoken, while the rain fell endlessly outside.

I realised that I did not really know what was going to happen next.  Clear as Lucy’s passion for me was, she was still a strange and uncontainable creature.  Couple-hood seemed only a faint possibility. Domestic bliss? Dream on.

And yet, I could not feel anxious or fearful.  I desired her utterly.  But even if she moved on, even if we never made love again, it was worth it.   She had given me back something I had not even known I’d lost.  She’d given me back myself, and the sweetness of life.

It was startling, overpowering, to be back in the sensuous world again. Late Sunday afternoon, when a lull came in the rain, I stepped outside to get some household necessities – coffee beans,  some vegetables and garlic,  litter for Mr Thelonious.  I wandered dreamily down the block to the deli, lost in sensation.  The clean, rain-swept freshness of the air, the wet street sparkling in the sun.  Children playing. 

And women.  

I saw the women.   And I desired them all.    

A young mother bustled by me pushing a pram, wholly absorbed in the life within. She wore no make-up. She had long, hastily tied, pitch black hair, an aristocratic, aquiline nose, delicate high cheekbones, and full, dark lips. I imagined her to have Arabs in her ancestors, perhaps from Morocco or even Portugal or Spain.  I imagined her making love in her marital bed, arms and legs passionately wrapped around her man, fertile and beautiful in the fullness of her womanhood, crying out as she came.  

I saw a petite black woman, energetic and vivacious. She had   chiselled, ebony features and sparkling, clear brown eyes under a fierce, spiky explosion of hair. She almost cannoned into me as I entered the deli.  “Watch it, pops,” she said solicitously before she flew off  into the distance.  She moved with the swift, terse grace  of a dancer.   In the produce sector, I saw a young girl with green eyes,  a tousled mane of red hair and pale pale skin. She was barely coming into her womanhood,  trying – and failing  - to hide the sudden voluptuousness of her body in a long, shapeless black Goth dress. She used her chaotic red ringlets to half cover her face.  She met and avoided and then again met my gaze, painfully aware of my eyes,  acutely self-conscious and touchingly beautiful.   I saw the girl weighing my garlic and tomatoes, barely out of her teens herself, plain faced and red-nosed from a cold, but with friendly, humorous eyes. I saw her confident, friendly, warm sensuality, the affection she would give her boyfriends, how uninhibited she would be in bed.

I saw a woman in her forties, tall and rangy, with expensive clothes and the fine, aristocratic features of a ramp model. Her face was no longer free of wrinkles, and her eyes were intelligent,  kind and warm -  the eyes of a woman who had seen both joy and sadness.  She moved slowly and thoughtfully, carefully choosing a bottle of red wine.  She’d bought cat litter, too, I noticed.  I wondered whether she too lived alone with her cat, or whether she had someone with whom she would sit naked in bed with that night, drinking that red wine after making love.  

She noticed me watching her. She was unruffled, and acknowledged my gaze.  She liked the look of me.  She lived alone, and she liked the look of me. She smiled, a, sweet, slow, sidelong smile. 

My phone rang.  I wondered who it would be.  I should have switched it off while I was on leave.  Could it be Lucy? I answered. 

“Is that John Gray? “  It was a woman’s voice, aggressive and demanding.  

“Speaking. “  Who could this be?

There was a silence. I pictured the woman at the other end – edgy, angry by the sound of it – suddenly hesitating and filled with doubt.  The line went dead.

I shrugged and continued my shopping. I considered switching off the phone, tuning out whoever this was.  She would either not call again, or she would leave a message, and then I would have the option of calling back or not.  But who was this?  And why was she calling?  While I was wondering what to do, it rang again.

“John Gray here.  Who is this?”

“You know who this is.  Don’t you know ?  You should know!”  Was it anger? Perhaps not.  It was a tense and edgy voice, with the merest trace of a foreign accent. A voice that trembled ever so slightly in spite of the speaker’s efforts to sound in control.

“No, I certainly don’t,” I said, though a hard knot of certainly I did not even want to acknowledge to myself had suddenly formed in the pit of my stomach.  There was a pause. I tried again. “Look, can I help you?  Who is this? Why are you calling me?”

There was another uncomfortable pause.  For a moment I thought she was going to switch off on me again.  Then there was a rather breathy sigh.  

“Look,” said my unknown caller, “this is stupid.  We’ve got to meet.  I was just going to shit on you but it won’t work.  I have to see you. “ 

“Well, – “ I began, but she cut me off.

“Tomorrow, lunchtime.  One o’clock. At Zanzibar’s.  You know Zanzibar’s?” 

“And how will I know who I am meeting? “ I said, with a tinge of irony.

“I will be right at the back.  The table in the corner.  You will know who I am,” she said decisively, and rang off.  I stood staring at my phone for a long while, wondering, until I came to myself.  

The woman with the wine had moved on.  And I, it appeared, had a lunch date.

* * *

I did know Zanzibar.  And I knew the table in the corner.  

It was a perfect table. 

It was a William Gibson table. No, it was a John le Carré table.  It was the table the old spymaster George Smiley would have chosen to meet one of his East German double agents, had they ever chosen to conduct their dark business  in our part of the world. Almost hidden from sight, in the far corner of an inexpensive and noisy but surprisingly good downtown eatery, it was the ideal table from which to “make your meet” -  to study them as they sidled among the other guests and tried to pick you out of the shadows.  

Whoever my mystery woman was, she was a subtle one, subtle.

And so was I a subtle one.  For there are two tables in that corner.  And I wanted to be the one who  made my meet.  

So I saw to it that I was half an hour early. Just another quiet, bespectacled man,  a little craggy in the face, greying at the temples, quietly reading his book over a glass of Sauvignon blanc.  “Mr Standfast”, le Carré would have called him.  

I was only just in time. Fifteen minutes later, she appeared.  A slender oriental girl.  Delicate features, long, lustrous black hair.  Simply and elegantly dressed in soft black trousers and a cream polo neck sweater.  

It was her. The woman in the picture. Liu Mi. The other woman. Lucy’s lover. 

Mr Standfast sipped his wine, invoked his absent God, and held on to his heart.

I saw my competitor. I looked carefully:  I am what they call a good noticer.  And  I saw many things.  

I saw a beautiful young woman, fine-boned and delicate.  I saw her vulnerability. And I saw something else. 

Call it grace, call it dignity, or even humility.  Many years ago, I had seen an old Aikido master demonstrate his moves, swifter and more agile than many of the young men studying under him. I  had always remembered his calm, poised unhurried grace. Even when he moved too fast for the eye to see,  a sense of deep stillness rippled out from him.   Now, as I watched this slight, quiet girl graciously and politely thanking the waitron at the door, and saw her clear, still eyes as she scanned the restaurant, I remembered that old man.  No-one else noticed her, but she was the centre of the room.  I had always been fascinated by  something like this inwardness in Lucy – the way she could move through a crowded, busy space as if she was alone with her thoughts.  Now I saw her teacher. 

I saw her pause for a moment to gather herself together. She looked bleak.  She had the air of someone who’d taken into herself some huge and heavy piece of news and who was containing it inside her, feeling the grief but determined not to run away.  Someone who knew she had to do something almost impossible, something that nevertheless had to be done.

The thought came to me that I knew what that thing was.  

She was coming to give Lucy away.

I returned my attention to my book, wanting to give her time to sit down at the reserved table next to mine before risking another glance. But she saw me.  I am sure she’d never clapped eyes on me before.  Perhaps she had a description to go on.  But I am convinced that she would have spotted me anyway.  Those dark eyes did not miss much - she, too, was a noticer.  

She drew out the chair next to mine and took her place. The usual introductions seemed superfluous. For a few moments, we simply sat in silence.  I put my book away and looked at this composed, determined girl, who seemed so fragile and so strong.  

She looked very different from the picture on Lucy’s desk.   The joyous laughter was not there, though I could see that joyfulness was more natural to her than the sombreness that filled her now.  And she was much more beautiful than I had expected.   She was clearly part Oriental – Japanese or Korean, I guessed – but something in her facial structure and her rich honey skin seemed to speak of  Latino or Filipino parentage. Her hair was long and glossy and as black as night.  Everything about her was delicate, finely drawn.  Her hands were graceful and slender, but they also looked strong, and the nails were cut short.  Working hands. She had obviously been crying, but she’d cleaned up her face, and her eyes were clear and very dark.  She looked back at me, letting the silence be silence, taking stock of her rival. It seemed to be up to me to speak.

“So, we meet.”, I said at last.  

She nodded ruefully.  Another pause.

“You’re… different from what I  had thought,” she stated.  I looked my question. “I’d expected some pretty boy, some handsome hunk.  But you’re…   you’re older.”  

Again, the silence.  She seemed to be gathering up for a speech.

“Look, I am sorry. I feel so stupid, calling you out here.  At first I just wanted – I don’t know what I wanted.  To swear at you.  To get a look at you, I guess. To confront you.  All this morning I have been thinking about what I was going to say to you. I don’t know, reciting angry speeches in my head.  But that’s just stupid…” her voice quavered a little, and she took a breath.  I waited patiently for her to continue. “So, I don’t know.  I guess what I am realising is, I don’t own her.  She’s not mine.  If she’s no longer interested in me, there’s nothing I can do about it.” She dropped her eyes, continuing doggedly. “I don’t know, maybe she will be happier with you.  So maybe that’s just…   that’s just what should happen,” she finished miserably.

I took a sip of wine and signalled to the waitron that we were ready to receive menus.

“Do you think that’s what will happen?  That she will leave you? Leave you for me?” I asked as gently as I could.

She did not answer, but just sat with downcast eyes. 

“Has she spoken about leaving you?” 

She shook her head, mutely.

“You know, I don’t know what is going to happen either.  You say she’s not yours to own.  Maybe not. Though clearly you’ve…  belonged together in some way.  But I don’t really know where I stand at all.  Do you know what I am saying?”  I was speaking as gently as I could, trying to speak the truth to this young woman – speak it, even though I was not quite sure what it was.  I tried again. “Maybe she – she does not belong to anyone. Certainly not to me.  Maybe she’s not – not the belonging kind.  I don’t think she is.”

That got a nod.  We both knew the woman we were talking about.  Impossible to pin down, always surprising: elusive one day, passionate the next. Lucy with her stratagems. 

The menu arrived. I chose their salad with goat’s cheese and sweet peppers. She chose salmon and pasta. My usual favourite.

I considered my situation.  My heart went out to this tiny, determined woman.  Perhaps it was because my situation was so similar to hers.  Perhaps it was because it wasn’t  - I was not overwhelmed with the certainty that I was losing a loved one, only with fear that I might be rejected by someone I desired.

“Look, “ I said again, even more carefully than before, “For what it’s worth, er, I guess I’m sorry.  I’m not sorry that, that I’ve met Lucy,” – it was strange, actually speaking out her name – “but I am really sorry that this has, er, has caused you pain.”

Well, that called forth the floods.  Her face crumpled, she bowed her head, covered her face with her slender hands and sat quietly while her shoulders shook and shook and shook.  My heart melted. Now I really did feel awful.   I sat  awkwardly while the storm subsided.  At last she seemed to quiet down and I offered her my handkerchief .  You can count on us middle-aged gentlemen for some things.  

“Thag you,” she said, taking the handkerchief and blowing her nose – a loud, rather unladylike blast – “you’re such a nice man.  I can really see why she’s gone, gone for you…” 

Our food arrived.  For a few minutes we allowed ourselves just to eat.    Perhaps our honesty, and her tears, had created a sense of trust between us.  There was no need for pretence, or for sparring. In one sense, we were rivals in love, but in another sense we were equally at sea.  Castaways in the same storm.  

“So…” I tried again after a while, “If she’s not speaking of leaving you, then why… why are you so sure that – “ 

She considered my question for a moment, looking at me levelly with her now rather reddened eyes.  Then she sighed.  “Oh, you know. Just the usual signs.  I  can’t fool myself any more.  She’s just, just lost interest. She’s still friendly and loving, you know, but I don’t …   It’s not there any more.  It,  you know. The fascination. The, the juice. The heat,“ she had another mouthful of salmon. “And, really, it’s not you.  This has been coming for more than a year now.  She has been drifting away. Losing interest. Looking bored, distracted.  She felt I was… clingy.   I tried to make space for her.  She wanted to do this dancing thing, dancing for men naked in clubs, and I let her.  I just asked her to promise me she would not fall in love with some nightclub woman… “ She laughed ruefully. “And what can I say? She kept her promise!”

I listened respectfully. This was a story I knew all too well.  Affection fading, the loved one slipping away…  

“And you have no idea why this,  this change is happening? Why she is no longer…  so, er, interested?”

“I wish I knew. I just don’t understand it. “ She faced me, eyes flashing. “I mean, what is it that you’ve got that I haven’t got? “

I kept my face straight and my eyes on my plate, thinking there was one obvious answer.

“Oh, don’t be  boring.  I don’t mean, like, a penis!”  She pronounced the word  delicately and fastidiously, and loudly enough for the couple at the next table to raise their eyebrows.  I stared them down.  This  was the twenty-first century, and at this table  this pretty young woman and I were discussing penises. As one does. Did they have a problem with that?

“We’ve done that.  She and I have both had boyfriends.  I had lots, when I was at school.” Her expression seemed to indicate that it was not a pleasant memory.  “And I am OK with it.  It was Lucy, Lucy who first made me look at a girl, at a woman.  It was she who, who went for me, you know.  And she was happy with me. For three years.  We were so happy!”  She looked sad for a moment and I thought she was going to cry again.  But she continued speaking.  “I don’t know.  I don’t have her desire anymore.  She does not desire me.   And I’ve tried so hard!  I know there’s nothing wrong with how I look.  And she used to love being in bed with me, she used to say she knew no-one who could fu – could make love like  me, you know. “  I listened silently, rather overwhelmed by this flood of  frankness.  




Night Angels Ch. 4



She took another neat bite of salmon, and continued more quietly. “I’ve been so nice to her.  I really am the one who takes care of her, you know.  And I have been faithful.  I have said no to some people.  Even when there have been times that I have, you know, wanted to, to do it.  And I feel like such a fool.  I am trying to keep together a relationship that does not exist anymore!”

There was a small silence while I digested all this.  I was not sure how to handle this situation. What could I say to this girl, my competitor, who seemed so open and passionate, who was so honest about her vulnerability? 

“You know,” I ventured, dabbing at my lips with a napkin, “maybe that’s the problem.”

She looked puzzled.

“Maybe your problem is that, I don’t know, you’re being too nice.  You’re trying too hard.”  I had her attention now, and thought carefully before continuing. “I don’t know you, er – Lu Mi? “ (“Liu Mi”,  she corrected me)  “Liu Mi…  and you don’t know me. But I have been around a few years longer.  So take it from an old campaigner, who maybe has in some ways been where you have been.   You can’t make someone desire you.  And the harder you try, the more they are going to feel crowded… “ Who was I talking about?  Lucy?  Ruth? Myself? “So, instead of asking how you can get her back, you should ask another question.” I paused meaningfully.

“So, what is the question?”

“What do  you  desire? “ 

“Well, I want her.”  she said sadly.

“I know that.  But you don’t want to… humiliate yourself any more.  So, in this situation. Now, today.  With Lucy…  acting like she does not want you anymore, even though there’s no reason why she should have changed… what do you want?  What do you want right now?  What would you do if you weren’t trying to hang on to this relationship?  What or whom would you want for you?”

She considered  her plate.  Was I making sense?  But she seemed to be honestly considering the question.  She looked up at me, intrigued.

“What would I want, if I could take something, have something, for me, right now?”

“Bingo.  That’s the question.”

She paused long and thoughtfully.  I could see her turning the it over in her mind, considering new thoughts.  And then something settled. Something clicked.  She took another small bite of salmon, and unless I was mistaken there was the slightest hint of a tiny, secret, smile on her lips.

“You’ve thought of something, haven’t you.”

She was not answering, but I could see that I was right.

“And you’re not telling, right? “ I asked. 

She gave me a long,  completely inscrutable stare.  No, sir.  She was keeping her secrets. But something had definitely happened in there.

Suddenly decisive, she put down her knife and fork.   She stood up, and put out her hand. It was firm and warm.  All her bedraggled sadness was gone.  She once more had that sense of clarity and  calm I had glimpsed when she first appeared.  She thought for a moment, and then delivered a little speech:

“This was a good thing to do.  I was right to see you.  And you are right.  You are, you are a good man.  And a wise man.   You’ve helped me see something I had not thought of.  I have received… guidance. Thank you.  Thank you.  I will settle my part of the bill. Good bye.”

She leaned forward, and I received a chaste, daughterly peck on the cheek.  And then she was gone.

I finished my lunch in silence, ignoring the stares from the table next door. I realised I felt humbled.

* * *

As I said, I am an intuitive man:  I have a sense of how things will move.  Or perhaps I fool myself, and only tell myself I could see the pattern afterward.  

But, thinking back now, it does seem to me that I was not altogether surprised when late the next evening, just as I was retiring to bed, the doorbell rang. I paused in the hallway,  whiskey glass in one hand, book in the other and listened to the echoes die away. Mystery comes knocking.  “We’ve got company, Mr Thelonious,” I informed my cat, who was waiting impatiently at the foot of my bed. “Who on earth could be calling at this time of night? “

But of course I knew. 

The bell rang again.  I picked up the security phone.

“Visitor for Mr Gray”,  said a female voice.  It was her.  I buzzed her in.

A minute or too later, there was a tapping at the door.  My heart pounded. I realised I had wanted to see her, to speak with her all day. And here she was, on my doorstep, at midnight…

For a few moments after I let her in, neither one of us spoke or moved. I gazed at this lovely woman who had suddenly appeared in my apartment like a creature from a dream.  She was even more beautiful than I remembered her from the restaurant.  Her body was buried in the warm, soft overcoat she’d donned against the cold.  She had put on a trifle more lipstick, I  think. What I saw was her eyes, her deep, dark, jet-black eyes: eyes that looked into mine bravely, challengingly.  

She was beautiful, utterly desirable.  But what did she desire?  I was pretty sure it was not me.  Not in the way Lucy had wanted me. It was not lust I saw in her eyes.  What was it?  

I saw…  determination. And yearning.  And fear…  

She’d come into the lion’s den, to claim her share of what she wanted.  The warmth and love of body on body.  The risk of touch: to be held again - to be held, or pushed away.

I reached out and touched her shoulder, then her cheek. Still no words.  I took her hands – they were cold from the night air -  and led her wordlessly deeper into the warmth of my home. In the lounge we paused.  I picked up the glass of whiskey I had set down on the sideboard and offered it to her. Warmth for the body and courage for the heart. She took a careful sip, her eyes never leaving mine, and then passed the glass to me.  I raised my glass to her and drank.  

And then we began.

It was like carefully, carefully unwrapping the most delicate and precious of gifts.

All I could hear was her breathing, deep and slow, as I one by one unpicked the buttons of her coat. I slid it gently off her shoulders. Underneath it, her throat and arms were bare. She was wearing a simple, night-black satin slip with simple lines that clung to her body, accentuating the flatness of her tummy, the firmness of her ass, the softness and ripeness of her breasts.  

Still in silence, I let my fingers dance over the slender shoulder straps and the warm hollow of her throat. My hand passed down over her collarbone -  I barely, barely touched her skin – between her breasts, down to where the pearly black material hid her navel.  I leaned over slowly, and let my lips graze her neck.  She closed her eyes and sighed, letting her head fall back…

I felt for the tiny zip I knew must be nestled between her shoulder blades.  When my fingers touched her back, a shiver ran through her body.  The muscles of her shoulders were as hard as iron, stiff with tension. I found the little metal tongue and pulled. The garment parted underneath my hands. Her hair was a soft, warm rich cascade. It caressed the back of my hand. I let it run through my hands, feeling its weight and softness.  She stood back, waiting, inviting me.  Her lips were open.

I eased the straps off her shoulders and let go. For a moment, as it slid down, she crossed her arms, shielding her breasts from my gaze.  I just let her take her time.  And then she let her arms fall again, allowing the garment to slip completely away. I could see an artery pulsing powerfully in her throat. Her heart was pounding. 

She could not look at me any more.

My heart was beating hard as well, and in my loins I felt the stirring of desire.  She was so perfect, this lovely, half naked young woman who now stood like a vision in my living room with her long, shining hair hiding her face and half veiling her pretty young breasts.  And she was so awkward! Her body was rigid, her shapely shoulders were on the verge of trembling.

I stooped down and with one smooth gesture scooped her up, my right arm cradling her back and my left curled underneath her knees. She was as light as a child. She let herself be carried unresisting to my bed. She lay stretched out on the soft, warm cover, her arms again crossed across her front. I sat down next to her and rummaged in the bedside table drawer.

“Roll over,” I told her. “On your tummy.”  Aha! It was still there.  I felt heavy, cool glass beneath my fingers.   An old but still half-full bottle of scented massage oil. I let a spoonful of the fragrant liquid pool in my hands, warming it for a moment. “Close your eyes.  Just close you eyes, my dear, and relax.”

For many long minutes I did not let her stir. I just let her lie there and let her skin absorb the scented oil.  I worked her body long and hard, until I felt the knots leave the tight cords of muscle underneath her  skin. Mr Thelonious watched approvingly from the foot of the bed, slitting his eyes in vicarious pleasure.  Gradually her neck became more supple, her breathing deeper and more even.  I ran my thumbs and the heels of my hands up and down along her spine and along the grooves  of her  shoulder blades, and she groaned with pleasure and release.  She sighed softly as I kneaded the muscles of her arms, gently stretched them out to their full length, and caressed and  tugged each of her fingers.  She raised up her hips enough to allow me to pull off her panties,  and then relaxed again as I dug the base joint of my thumbs deep into the muscles of her buttocks, finding the pressure points that would unlock the tension.  Down her warm, muscled, soft strong thighs I went, down to the soles of her beautiful feet: not one of her toes was spared. 

Calmness stole into her body.  She was breathing evenly. She was almost asleep, in a trance of forgetful pleasure.

I put the bottle down for the last time and took off my bathrobe. Naked I lay down beside her.  She was still far away, lost in her dream.  I touched her hair. She looked up at me. We touched lips.  She turned over.  She touched my shoulder, my chest.  She stretched out her body for my eyes, wordlessly asking me to gaze at her beauty, to love her sweet body, to hold her in the darkness while the rain fell outside.  

And yes, I wanted to.  I drank in the sight of her  – her soft sensuous mouth, the curve of her neck, her ripe breasts, her flat tummy,  the ruff of fur above her sex – and felt the sweet hardness pulse into my cock.  I took one of her breasts into my mouth.  It was so infinitely, wonderfully soft.  I tongued her nipple, and felt how it  grew tight and firm. 

Gently, we let our bodies learn to know each other, finding out what we liked, what we wanted.  

She wanted to be held. She wanted to be kissed.  She wanted her lips, her eyes, her ears to be kissed and nibbled.  She liked the roughness of my chin against her nipples – but just a little, not too much.  She wanted my hands to slide up between her thighs and tease, just gently tease, the outer lips of her pussy.  I scratched and tickled them with my nails. They were dry at first, but with time they  became softer, warmer, wetter, till they were slippery and hot. I squeezed her lips together, rubbing one against the other in their own juices.  I slid my fingers ever so slightly in between them and she squirmed with pleasure.  I felt for her little clit, almost completely hidden in the folds of her skin, and she gave a quick gasp – ooh, that was almost too intense.  I probed again and tried, and I found how to do it in a way that she liked, cradling it in the folds of skin, pressing down from above.  Ah, that was it.  She threw her head back, her eyes tightly closed, biting her lips,  concentrating on the tiny spark of pleasure guttering into life deep in her cunt. She reached down and dug her hands between her thighs, sliding a quick finger into her pussy,  fanning the spark into a flame.

I wanted her to suck my cock.  She bent down her head to do it, but I saw that her heart was not in it. I was not sure she’d ever done it before.  I guided her hand, showed her how to stroke me up and down.  She touched me gingerly at first, and then suddenly far too roughly.  I let out an “oof!” and caught her hand by the wrist.  She apologised. She clearly  did not have much experience of penises, I thought.  Rough boys at school, perhaps.  Or dildos: hard purple plastic vibrating things.  I released her hand and showed her how to tease me, the firm touch and the gentle.   This was not a piece of bakelite; it was part of me.  She stroked me for a while, then smiled. She rolled over and got herself some more of the massage lotion, and gestured to me to lie back.  She leaned over me, her face dreamy and soft in the half light. The warm, soft forest of her hair tickled my chest and throat.  She let me take her breast into my mouth again.   Then she tickled and stroked the soft skin of my balls, and  squeezed my shaft in her fist, running her hand up from base to tip, a noose of pleasure.  Warm fire ran up my legs, ran from the base of my spine, ran up and down my cock, ever hotter and more intense…

Then it was her turn again, and I kissed and sucked the flower of her cunt, drawing the juices out,  playing with her petals, inviting them to swell and thicken and release their perfume.  She moaned and opened her legs wide, pushing her sex insistently into my face.  My mouth, my chin, my nose was buried in her, and her fingers kneaded urgently at the flesh around her clit. Her heels were digging into the muscles of my back. Her fragrance drenched my awareness.  I wanted more and more of her.  I thrust my tongue in as far as I could and felt the answering tremors thrill through her body.   

I wanted to finger-fuck her then,  but she drew me up then,  fastened her knees around  my hips, and reached down to guide me into her.  She was breathing hard.  Her eyes were shining.  She kissed me hungrily.  I was in an agony of desire – all my deepest urges told me to drive my cock as deeply into her as it would go, but I did not know whether she would be ready.   For a moment I hesitated, but she pulled me on insistently. 

And then it was happening.  The tip, and then the head of my cock was nuzzling into her. It was sliding through her juices. I found the beginning of that tight, hot curved channel. And then I was inside.  Our bodies fit together sweet and tight: tongue and groove and cock and cunt. Her arms were very strong around my back, her thighs locked hard around me.  She did not speak, but her eyes and face and body spoke in a language without words, a language of yearning and longing and desire, saying love me, hold me, fuck me,  be with me…

And slowly we started the dance, the long, slow-burning dance.  I carefully supported myself on knees and elbows, not wanting to crush her, but her body was lithe and strong and her passion was fierce and inescapable. She knew exactly what she wanted, and she wanted all of it.  What she wanted was to taste and relish every tiny inch, every millimetre of that sweet, sweet road, every thrust of my cock, every squeeze of her pelvic muscles. Every one. 

She was the mistress of small movements. Of slow, slow thrusts, and even slower releases. We would go as slow as we could go before slow became still, and then we would speed up again.  We floated in that warm, golden current, letting it pull us into the faster stream, and then the faster stream still, till we were on the verge of that place where drawing back would be impossible and we would be swept away, swept over the lip of the pulsing hot waterfall that thundered just there, just there… and then her eyes would open wide, staring a warning at me,  stop now! 

And we would freeze and the torrent would ebb, and we would just drift in that golden pool of lazy lust, with rain falling somewhere, and a cat watching us with slitted, approving eyes… 

Then she would fix me with her dark, calm gaze – not sombre now, not fearful, just revelling in the bliss of skin on hot skin.  She would give her sweet, secret, sexy smile, and lift her head, and ask for a kiss. We’d let our lips and tongues tangle. And then she would close her eyes, and tilt back her head, and push herself hard onto me.  Giving me the timing, and feeling for my timing in return: the hard, slow, deep, solid thrust and the lingering, sweet, tenderly teasing withdrawal, and then again a slower, deeper thrust…  And round we would go again.

And then, after an eternity of slow pleasure, of building and falling, of rising and breaking, we were  there.  Her eyes were open again, but not to saystop;  it was to say, come, now, honey, go there with me, come with me, let’s do it now honey, let’s go there now darling, let’s feel it now, let me feel it now, do it now,  come my sweet, come, come, come.  She threw her head back and cried out loud and surrendered all control.  And I too was  beyond control, calling the flood  down on us with long, hard, sweet, solid thrusts, hearing her gasp and scream and shout, feeling the current powerful, deep and inexorable, taking us at last,  together at last,   over the lip of the fall, together, to be pounded, together , to atoms, together, in the deep, hot, slick pit of delight. 

I was pierced with sweetness and with the taste of her mouth.  I fell through her body, in the timeless night.  She held me and held me as the darkness came. I heard her cries, and I heard a voice answering her, and it was mine. 

For long we lay together on the golden beach,  our limbs tangled, our eyes closed.

And then it was quiet.   I felt cold.  She moved beneath me, her eyes closed, and made a soft, inarticulate sound.  I looked around.  My bedroom reassembled itself around me. The rain was still falling.  The light was on.  The cat had jumped off the edge of the bed, and was regarding us from the safer distance of the windowsill.  “You kids got quite wild there for a while”, he said wordlessly, and  nonchalantly licked his paw.

I moved out of her and leaned over her, my weight on my elbow.  Her eyes opened.  Her face was still.  She smiled.  She reached out to me, touched my face.  Her lips moved. Her voice was soft, wondering, barely audible. She said, “you.”  She ran her hand down my side.  She touched my penis, now shrinking, spent, asleep.   She’d been so nervous of it just a while before.    She said, gently, “pipi…” and then she touched my mouth again. We kissed, a little shy, back in the world again.  She looked around.  For a moment I thought she was going to start getting her things together, go back to her flat, mission accomplished.  But she was only looking for the light-switch.

She slept all night with her head on my shoulder, her left arm flung over my chest.   I  lay awake for a long time, listening to her breathe.  Once she spoke in her sleep, spoke in the voice of a child.   It was a language I did not understand.  But I could hear it was a question, a request.  You mustn’t go away now, will you stay with me?  I grumbled reassuringly deep in my throat,  and she sighed and settled back into deeper sleep.  I lay in the dark for a long time, watching the moon ride through the clouds.  I wondered what tomorrow would bring…


To be continued…