Gemini Heat (18 page)

It was a better environment for imaging too, although that maybe wasn't such a good thing to be doing right now. It would be better to keep fantasy to a minimum tonight. To resist dreams. Because they'd probably hurt like hell.

When she closed her eyes, though, it seemed that the damage was done. The pictures had already arrived . . .

You're mad, she told herself, stroking her thighs through her robe as Jake appeared in her mind. Cool, dark Jake and her sister Delia, nude in an acre-sized bed, screwing like animals and screaming with pleasure . . .

Oh well done, Deana, anyone would think you were a masochist!

She found it difficult to believe how badly she was reacting. In this same position, Delia had shown far more sense. When it was her night 'off', she'd found another man to keep her company.

For half a second, Deana considered turning the game back in on itself. She could sneak upstairs and pass herself off as Delia ... It could work if she was sharp, but Peter would be trickier to fool than Jake. He'd been around her and Delia for years and years and might notice the differences. They were almost indiscernible, but they
did
exist.

There was one big flaw in this plan however, and in her heart of hearts, Deana was glad of it. Peter
knew
that it was Delia who was out tonight, because she'd told him herself. Damn!

She considered her options with little enthusiasm. Maybe I should just get a proper drink and watch TV on the all-night channel? Or I could try sketching, perhaps, or read a good book . . .

Hold that thought!

On the word 'book' another vision had formed. A quite different one this time. The dim and decadent interior of the so-called club 'Seventeen' . . . And in it a certain beautiful authoress with a long, fire-red plait and a distinctive taste in clothes.

Vida Mistry.

Who wrote books.

Ignoring her flapping robe and the loss of its flimsy tie, Deana ran through into the living room. She stubbed her toe on the way and swore, then shrugged philosophically. It was that kind of night.

Down beside the window was an over-filled bookcase which threatened to collapse any second. Snapping on a reading lamp, Deana scanned the shelves with purpose.

What she was seeking was secreted on the bottom shelf. Hidden there by Delia no doubt, who, up until a few days ago, had always worried about 'appearances'. The works of Vida Mistry would never win any top literary prizes, but that didn't make them any less notable. What Deana now pulled from the shelves was some of the most salacious modern erotica available.

She thumbed quickly through several of the volumes, searching for something that she'd only just realised was plaguing her. A connection. A name. It had been in her mind since the day after the art exhibition, but unsurprisingly her thinking had been muddled.

Flicking and flicking the pages she smiled when certain ones fell open quite naturally. These books were so sexy. And some bits were sexier than others . . .

The Pleasure Palace. Return to the Pleasure Palace. In Love with the Boy.
They were all hot 'reads', but what she was looking for was not in a novel.

At the bottom of the heap she found it.
Seven Mistry Tales,
a collection of short, sensual stories which had appeared in the sex magazine
Encounters.

The cover of the
Mistry Tales
was crinkled at the edges, as were many of the pages themselves. This particular book had spent quite some time in the bathroom, getting dangerously damp and curly while Deana tried to read it and caress her own body at the same time. Sometimes, it had been simple touches with her fingers, inspired by the blood-stirring prose; at other times, she'd have to run the shower or the bath taps to hide her vibrator's loud buzz. It was silly really, there was nothing to be ashamed of. And she knew that Delia knew anyway.

There was no shower now, and she didn't need it. She didn't even need the vibrator. She was burning up already, just from envy. Because her sister was getting what
she
wanted.

But jealousy was a self-defeating route. The game was the game, and Delia was just taking her turn. Her fairly allotted slice of heaven . . . Deana knew she would have to make her own amusement, create her own pleasure. And this much-read book could help her. Slowly, with ceremony, she sat down on the sofa, flicked aside the wings of her robe and eased open her thighs. Opening the book too, she closed her eyes and ran her finger down the page of contents.

When she looked down again, the connection snapped shut. She'd found what she was looking for. And she couldn't understand why she hadn't looked sooner.

The story was called, rather fancifully,
The Face of Lord Kazuto.

Why on earth didn't it click right away? Deana wondered. It had been obvious at 'Seventeen' that Jake and Mistry had once been lovers, and maybe even still were. But it wasn't until now that Deana realised how significant that relationship had been. Vida had written about her lover in a story - about Kazuto, her Japanese jewel.

Excited, and with her body softly trembling, Deana turned to the page. She'd read the story plenty of times, but never with eyes that had seen its hero in real life. Its beautiful samurai hero with his long black hair, his strong brown body and his magnificent woman-slaying weapon.

The Face of Lord Kazuto
wasn't Vida Mistry at her wildest by a long shot, but in its own way it was quietly powerful. It was mannered, lyrical almost, and more gentle in character than she would've expected now she
knew
the characters.

Now she was ready, Deana paused and wondered if she really wanted to masturbate. Moments ago she'd been desperate for it, her body all primed for her fingers. But now she almost didn't want to do it. Didn't need to. The story, the night, and her own imagination would do it all for her, be all the stimulation she needed.

Breathing deeply, centring her mind, she began to read . . .

It was a humid night, such as many in this season were. Keiko looked down at the face of the sleeping man before her, and she prayed to her gods that he dreamed of her.

It's me, Lord Kazuto, Your Keiko-chan. Your wife. Do you remember what we used to share here? Here on your futon . . . Before you went to war, then came back with your eyes dead from killing?

With a rustle of embroidered silk, she knelt down beside the low, flat bed, touching the corner of its quilted mattress with her fingertips, because she hardly dare touch the man himself. It pained her deeply that she felt this fear, that things were so changed between them, when months ago they'd been so close it had been almost unseemly.

His new young wife, she'd been prepared for this bed by maids who were equally new to her. They'd bathed and perfumed her, brushed her long black hair until it gleamed. Then, ignoring her naive cries of protest, they'd opened her virgin thighs and stroked the sensitive portal of her womanhood to prepare her for the touch of her newly-wed Lord. At the same time, they'd opened the books her mother had given her, the Shunga pillow-books, and made her look closely at the lewd but exquisite drawings of lovers in heavenly congress. By the time she'd studied each image, her belly had been aching for the things that she'd seen, and her loins were on fire for her Lord.

Then, in accordance with his wishes, her path of love had been opened for him. Her maids, between them, had deflowered her with a slender ivory rod. One swift stroke of pain, and she'd been ready for him, and she'd asked the kami of fleshly conflict to make her brave. If Lord Kazuto were to be as hard as the harigata, she must learn to bear him with grace.

How ignorant I was, she thought now. The harigata had been beautifully crafted, and she was grateful to this day for its carved likeness to her husband's mighty member. But that was all the ivory rod was. A likeness. A cold, hard thing with no spirit or animation. Lord Kazuto himself, when he'd finally possessed her, had been just as stiff and unyielding as the harigata, but so warm inside her body, and so silken, that her unrestrained cries had beat against the shoji and threatened to alert the whole household to her ecstasy.

'Kazuto-chan,' she mouthed now, moderating her words out of respect while her womanhood flowed like a river.

Each night while he'd been away, she'd shed this same lotus dew, remembering the pleasures of their pillowing. She'd woken from demon haunted dreams, her body wet and aching, and been forced to seek out the harigata to calm her longing for her Lord. With its cool hard comfort inside her, she'd let her fingers play amongst her petals as her husband's had done. Then, when the moment came, she'd soar like a spirit to paradise with his beloved face clear in her mind and his pure noble name on her lips . . .

It was wonderful stuff, and it was working, Deana realised. Almost without thinking, she'd been slowly rocking her pelvis, and flexing her hot inner muscles in a subtle, automatic caress. She wasn't crying, but when she reached between her thighs and touched herself, she found her flesh just as sticky as Keiko's. Stroking her vulva thoughtfully, she returned her attention to the narrative . . .

In the early days of their marriage, whilst replete with the pleasures gained on this very futon, Keiko had had no need of the cold harigata. With gracious courtesy, her Lord had requested her company each night: sometimes wooing her with a slow, almost respectful ritual, at other times taking her brutally. He was just as much a warrior in love as he was on the field of battle. But in the pillow world there was no shame in surrender. At least not for Keiko, as she revelled in the slight sweet pain of his member surging in her channel.

Sadly, though, this sojourn in heaven had been brief.

'I entrust you with the management of my affairs, Lady Keiko,' he'd said on that last morning, bowing deeply and respectfully before swinging astride his war-horse. The leave taking was formal, and though Keiko was sad, she bore it with all composure, buoyed up by memories of his true farewell to her, in the scented shadows of the bedchamber.

The months of conflict had been long and dour, but to honour him as he'd honoured her, their reunion before the household had been as controlled and calm as their parting before his troops. But what troubled Keiko now, and hurt her so deeply it was hard to conceal, was that their private dealings were consistently as distant as their public ones.

Unlike many ladies of the Shogun's court, Keiko had been fortunate enough to receive her husband back from the war in one piece. At least his physical wounds were slight. She sensed however, to her sorrow, that his psyche had suffered far more than his body - and that the horrors of conflict, no matter how noble and justified the cause, had damaged him profoundly as a man.

He no longer summoned her to his chamber at night, even though sometimes she still caught the black fire burning in his eyes.

Not a word was exchanged between them on the matter, but some sad, internal wisdom told Keiko that her husband had a great fear of impotence. And that his pride, and his horror at the thought of losing face, meant there was no way to put such fears to the test.

Would they ever be lovers again?

Stop it, Keiko! she told herself sternly, looking down at his dear sleeping countenance. You are as much a samurai as he is, and as such, defeat does not exist! Her pale features set in determined lines, she turned to the small lacquered chest she'd brought with her.

'Kazuto,' she mimed again, wanting to touch him but knowing the moment was not yet at hand. She knew that he'd been taking a sleeping potion prescribed by his physician, but by now its effects should be lessening.

She wondered for a moment if he were pretending to sleep. Was he assuming a mask of oblivion to save them both from embarrassment? Lord Kazuto the fearless, the Shogun's right hand, he was the last one to admit to a failing.

At the thought of masks, she smiled and brushed her fingers across the black box, then returned her attention to the deeply sleeping man. It would be a shame to cover up such beauty.

It had been Kazuto-chan's face that had first enslaved her. His features were so fine, so pure, and so exquisite that they could have been a woman's. It was true that he had a perfectly barbered moustache and beard, and a striking scar from an earlier battle. But even so, his face was as symmetrical and harmonious as the most delicate of woodcuts. Without his hairy, masculine attributes, Lord Kazuto would have been as beautiful as the most sought-after courtesan. This beauty, combined with his wit and intelligence, his strong athletic body, and his many skills and achievements, were what made Keiko love and adore him. Chief amongst these talents, she'd loved his awesome performance at the pillow, and it was this gift she sought to restore . . .

But the man before her was the proudest of warriors and a master strategist; she'd have to use the wiliest of subterfuge to preserve his samurai honour.

In this heavy humid heat, Lord Kazuto slept with no quilt or coverlet, his long muscular body clad only in a thin cotton yukata. And his troubled thrashings, beset no doubt by dreams as bad as Keiko's, had left even this only barely fastened. It was a simple matter to slide her slim fingers under its edge and render his sprawled body all but naked . . .

This picture was easy for a visualist like Deana. She'd not yet seen Jake naked, but she could more than imagine him so . . .