Shadow Girl (12 page)

‘Where were you been-gone? I was starting to be a bit frizzle-brained.'

Sandra is sprawled on the couch, reading a book she picked up on a shelf. A five-step guide on how to master fractious dragons. She is wearing one of Yaouen's shirts but has not bothered covering her legs. She glances at the clock on the wall.

‘It's semi past one.'

Jenny has just waltzed out of the lift carrying a tray and a shopping bag. ‘So sweet of you to worry about me.' I bumped into an acquaintance and we had a friendly chat.'

She dumps the bag on a chair, moves over to the coffee table and puts down the tray. Then whips off the towel covering it, to reveal a mouth-watering platter of charcuterie.

‘Your private catering service,' she says, smiling. ‘Spiced saucisson, prosciutto Parma, sliced baguette, oven-roasted tomatoes, sweet fennel pickles and an olive medley. Last but not least, a bottle of the finest sparkling rosé to cleanse the palate. Did you take a nap, by the way?'

‘I did do. Wooke up a bisected hour ago. And had a drizzlewash upstairs before that. I'm quite refreshed but peck-famished.'

She wraps a slice of prosciutto around an olive and takes a bite. Delicious. Her taste buds have gone into a glorious flutter. She closes her eyes.

Yes, she had a nap. A good sleep in fact, with no dream. She needed it after that shower. But she has no desire to give Jenny details of her time upstairs. For it was not the kind of wet moment she had in mind when she stepped into the cubicle.

She
had
fully intended to have a quick rinse and then hit the pillow for a well-deserved rest. And not trusting herself anywhere near her pussy, she had been careful to lather her shoulders and chest only. But even that, it turned out, was enough to set her off. The spray on her skin felt too bloody wonderful and her soapy hands lingered over her breasts more than they should have, spreading an odd brand of delectation.

Before she was even aware of it, her chest was tingling all over and long rivulets of pleasure had trickled down to her belly button. Her creature pounced on the opportunity and began to beg hard, priming her for more.

Within seconds, she was hopelessly aroused.

Before the first languid sigh had escaped her lips, the covetous devil had taken control of her hand. She could only watch herself unhook the shower head and bring it swiftly to her itch. Could only watch herself fiddle with the tap and increase the pressure, select the right kind of hot and then start playing heavenly games with herself.

She crested in less than a minute, mewling hoarsely, flooded with unspeakable pleasure and dirty flashbacks of being shagged like an animal in the hotel room.

But that only whetted her creature's appetite. So she kept going, narrowing the spray to a jet, fine-tuning its angle and its strength. And toyed alternately with her clit and butthole while her other hand was busy adding fire to the heat from the nozzle. She climaxed half a dozen times, in sharp bursts and alarmingly quick succession, yet realised with a shock she was aching for more.

Enough, she chided herself. This was enough. Her devil was still grovelling hard though, so she curled forward and crossed her legs. To calm her spasms. To lull the flush in her cheeks. To catch a much-needed breath. Then she cut the jet with a reluctant, shaky hand which no longer seemed to belong to her.

This only drove her demon wilder. The horny thing flushed her with a longing so intense that, before she could think of stepping out of the shower, she was desperate again.

She hastily lubricated her hand with liquid soap and slipped a finger in the crack of her butt. Then pushed it in. Teased herself for a bit then eased in a second finger. Pushed and pressed and twisted. And then went all out, yielding to those insane demands. Her other hand flew to her clit and she worked herself from both sides. Sank to the floor, twisting her hips so she could keep going, harder each time, her lips dribbling raw noises. She worked herself into a frenzy.

And when she thought she had groaned and cried and convulsed all she had, all of it till she had nothing left, nothing, her demon begged and pressed for yet more of her mind. And she submitted to its crazy needs. And more clusters of hoarse mewls came spilling out of her because she was a puppet in its voracious grasp.

And she grabbed the showerhead and manoeuvred it into herself. Just a portion at first, then all the way. All the freaking way.

And she started to slow pump.

And that arched nozzle with its tiny rubber pads pushed all her succulent buttons again. Hit all her yummy spots. Her A spot, B spot, G spot, all the way to flipping Z though in random order. She didn't know she had so many. But she honestly didn't mind and abused them all in unholy ways. And flung herself up to more wicked heights. And in no time at all she became an expert at how to twist that diabolical little tube and tilt it and revolve it in fantastic, addictive combinations.

She lost all notion of how long she spent breathless and bucking on the shower floor — on her back, knees wide apart, feet straining against the shower glass, her hair tracing wild spirals on her skin. Gasping. Rasping. Groaning. Using all the ecstatic notes her lusting throat was capable of.

And she pictured herself in that hotel room tied up and helpless. Tortured by her lover. By her faceless master. And she wanted him to take her as he had back there. To slam his cock deep inside her. To bend her to his will. To flush her with his might. Without a care for her feelings, without a smidgen of compassion.

And through the hot daze of her thoughts she saw the nude temptress coming to life, watching, smirking, fingering her while the man entered her. Extruding yet more nectar where she was sure none was left. The nude fondling her, the man thrusting on remorselessly. Both joining in a dark alliance to inflame her to new spikes, to feast on her fire.

And she exploded at the thought, and exploded some more, gagging on her bliss. And between peaks her need drilled into her with such intensity she had to bite her knuckles then suck them blindly through her tears. Like she had been starving for months. And she sobbed in joy and surrender, and then cried more tears as the nozzle went berserk and fucked the rest of her brains out.

And she could sense her creature getting fatter and bolder. Sense it looping tighter volutes around her thighs, her breasts, her neck. Shackling her, clogging her with pleasure.

And when she emerged spluttering from her drunken bliss, she rallied herself at last and, with a giant effort of will that seemed to split her brain, she pulled out the nozzle from her demon's lips. And managed to flip the switch to cold. Turn an icy blast upon herself.

Then her hips bucked strangely and she felt something retreating within her.

And she crawled out of the shower. And she stayed there on the mat on all fours, still dripping with her stark desires. Still reeling with fantasies of submission. Of being taken. Overruled. Tamed and dominated. Forced to her knees to please her lover — both her lovers. To lick
his
balls and blow when told. To clasp lips on
her
scented fruit. To cede these heartless rulers her arse and soul.

Then slowly, like bay waters after a gale, her mind settled. Her breath recovered. And she collapsed there and then into deep slumber.

‘Sandra, are you listening?'

Sandra snaps back from her reverie.

‘Sorry, I tuned out for a momentary.'

‘I can see that.'

Jenny is smiling.

‘Now try that spicy saucisson. You'll never taste better.'

She cuts a bit off one of the slices, then brings the sliver to Sandra's lips.

‘Here. Tell me what you think.'

Sandra opens her mouth obediently.

Twenty minutes and three glasses of rosé later, they are both reclining on the couch with satisfied smiles.

Sandra can almost hear herself purring with contentment. The meal has appeased her stomach and the wine mellowed her thoughts. She is floating in a pleasant haze. And whatever is curled up in her seems at last fast asleep.

She keeps still, listening for a telltale sign. Nothing. Not the slightest rustle. Not the faintest breath. Perfect. With luck, and in time, she may yet recover some of her peace of mind. Look back on all this as a weird dream.

She gazes at Jenny through her new-found poises.

‘I hope you don't high-mind me saying this, but you look-like absolutely resplendiferous.'

‘Thanks. Being here always has that effect on me. Something in the air around here makes me bloom, I'm sure.'

‘The air-bloom even seems to have had an effectiveness on your bra size. I don't memorise you having such grand bosom curves.'

Jenny answers with a cryptic smile.

Even her lips, it seems to Sandra, have blossomed — and her blue eyes got larger and more intense; her cheekbones more defined. And didn't her chin grow smaller? As for the shine in her hair, she had not noticed that before either. She can't remember Jenny ever being such a sleek, striking ravenhead.

‘Sorry, I've had too much to scoff-drink. I don't know what I'm drivel-boshing.'

‘Then it's time for you to stop talking, move over to that bed behind us and enjoy dessert.'

Sandra is intrigued.

‘And what sweet-afters would that be?'

‘A home-made back massage.'

A massage? Sandra hesitates. This sounds indeed very tempting but her mind flits back to what happened in the shower. Perhaps she shouldn't. Perhaps she should play it safe.

She considers a little more.

But this is different, right? No water to drown her defences or awaken awkward desires. And this is her long-time friend Jenny. And she is feeling so relaxed. Perfectly composed. And it's only a back massage. Surely she can trust herself for the next half hour.

‘Come on,' insists Jenny. ‘You've totally deserved it after that bumpy ride through the warp. And since we're stuck here, unable to see the sights, I think some pampering is in order.'

The argument, after all, has great merit and Sandra offers no resistance when she is pulled off the couch and led around the mantelpiece.

‘Off with your shirt,' laughs Jenny as she positions a thick pillow on the middle of the bed. ‘You can keep your shorts on.' She retrieves her shopping bag and pulls a bottle of massage oil from it.

‘I came prepared. Essential extracts, to restore balance to mind and body.'

Sandra looks down at the bed and wonders if a pillow is needed for a back massage. But she is too woolly-headed to argue the point. She unbuttons her shirt and lets it drop to her feet. Then watches Jenny spread a towel on the bed, kick off her shoes and slip out of her pants.

The G-string her friend is wearing underneath barely hides a band of trimmed black fur, and no longer does so once removed with a casual pluck on its hip knot.

This gives Jenny no cause for pause. Calmly, she peels off her top in one fluid move, releasing a pair of splendid breasts that could have been sculpted by the hand of a lewd god. The tiny waistline and curvaceous hips she is flaunting below those, and the perfect legs she is standing on, do nothing to detract from the visual impact. She is quite a sight.

‘My oath!' giggles Sandra. ‘You
are
taking this Swedish chop-job very vital-serious.'

‘Easier for me to work like this,' explains Jenny.

The rationale is lost on Sandra but she says nothing. She is finding it hard to pull her gaze away. Honestly, she cannot remember her friend looking so stunning. Perhaps her perspective has been skewed when they jumped through that worm hole. Everything has been so bizarre lately she is prepared to take quite an elastic view of the plausible.

‘You'll have all the time in the world to admire my figure after the massage,' says Jenny. ‘For now, just lie face down on the bed.'

Sandra gives an embarrassed titter, then spreads herself over the towel, positioning her hips over the pillow, as instructed. It is quite a plump little thing and she realises that her butt is sticking up rather higher than modesty would require. But there is no time for misplaced prudishness for Jenny is already applying lavish amounts of oil to her back.

The hands fly in easy strokes from her waist to her neck, then down to her fingertips, coating her back and arms in complex layers of a rich aroma. Soon, the top half of her is gleaming in the light that filters through the side window.

‘Now for some in-depth work.'

A pair of palms join up on Sandra's spine like a prayer, then spread out in divergent paths to run firm, slow courses to her shoulder and hip. They start again, switching sides.

The transverse ballet feels fabulous and sends waves of wellbeing radiating to the top of her head. Without a doubt, this trumps any dessert on the face of the earth.

‘This is top-heavenly,' moans Sandra into the towel. ‘Where did you learnate to do that?'

‘I have many talents,' says Jenny without missing a beat. ‘Not that they always went unnoticed. Did you know I was once the most wanted girl in town?'

The fingers on Sandra's back are tracing delightful loops at the base of her neck.

‘Ah . . . Please don't pit-stop. You were saying?'

‘I think I should tell you about myself.'

Through the lovely numbness in her mind, Sandra wonders about the change of heart. Didn't Yaouen say something about . . . Oh, who cares anyway? She would love to know more. She would also like to be more clear-headed. She tries to focus in spite of the sublime little digs on either side of her spine.

‘I told you in Sydney there was something special about us. Told you we were fae. You remember that, don't you?'

Sandra can only manage another moan in response. She had no idea Jenny was so skilled with her hands.

‘But in fact, I was not always so. A long time ago, I was the daughter of a powerful king.'

Jenny pauses while her fingers are giving proof of their artistry further up Sandra's neck. Massaging right into the skull.