Revenge of the Dixie Devil (4 page)

We won some and we lost some, but it didn’t seem to matter, I was having a ball, either way. The man pushed so close to me, I could almost feel the blood pumping through his strong, hard body.

‘Choose a colour, ma’am,’ my suitor said. ‘Black or red.’

‘Red,’ I replied, straight away.

His lips curled at the corners, full of mischief. ‘Let us play a game, ma’am,’ he said. ‘You could say it’s a game within a game. If the ball lands on a red, then you can choose to do whatever you want. If the ball lands on black, then we do whatever
I
want. Are you game?’

I put my hand over my mouth to stifle a gasp. It seemed so –
dangerous
. This man – I still dared not ask his name – could choose
anything
. And yet, that was part of the excitement.

‘I’m game,’ I said.

That little round ball seemed to take longer than ever to land on a number. It spun round and round and round. One second I wanted it to land on red, the next on black. And then it stopped.

On a red.

I guess my new friend was disappointed. Those beautiful blue eyes fell to the floor. I reckon he must have had a few things up those sleeves of his!

‘So,’ he said, looking at me straight in the eye. ‘Anything you like.’

I paused for a moment. Caught in two minds, I guess I was. Then I took his hand and led him to the back of the hall, swivelling my hips as much as I could. I walked as far back as it was possible to go, to the area that was out of bounds to the public. There was a corridor and then another corridor, just like in my club. We were all alone, but I guess anybody could have come along.

I pressed my ample bottom against the wooden wall. The man was close to me now; I could feel his warm breath against my neck. His blue eyes stared deep into my own; it felt as though they were undressing me.

‘
Anything
,’ he repeated.

I took a deep breath, for I was not sure that the words would come out.

‘I want you to show me why that lady was moaning like a common little hussy,’ I said.

He raised both his eyebrows to the ceiling; I’m sure it was from shock. I questioned whether I had made a horrible, horrible mistake. The man answered my doubts without uttering a single word. He leant forward and kissed my lips, and I responded by opening my mouth, without even a thought. His tongue slipped inside, playfully brushing against my own. The room spun, just as it had weeks before. I was sure the man would see the burning lust that was in my eyes, so I shut them tight and instead just enjoyed the wonderful sensations that were running through my body.

He pulled my skirt up, high over my plump hips. I wore no stockings – course I didn’t – and so those wonderful, wandering hands of his grazed against my smooth, naked flesh. My mouth was too dry, my throat too tight, to speak, let alone protest innocence. No, the feather-like fingertips caressing my pink skin felt far too magical for that. I wondered whether this stranger could smell my arousal, could sense the smouldering heat that was burning between my legs.

I tore the white shirt from inside his pants and my hands quickly slipped underneath, brushing against his body. He felt hard and strong, from the building work, I guess. I groped his chest, proper greedily, I tell you, and his muscles rippled under my touch. ‘Oh God,’ I moaned, quite against my will. ‘Take my garments off,’ I ordered.

The man did not need to be told twice, so fast were his advances. My white cotton garments were rolled down my thighs, and I kicked them off my feet. I parted my legs wider, like a bad girl, inviting his touches. His fingers were inside me, probing and playing and teasing. My moans were becoming louder, less controlled. I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling, just as the lady had done with her own stranger. A single tear trickled down my cheek. I wondered whether anyone was watching from around the corner, just as I had done. The thought made me all the more excited, I tell you. My body trembled as I reached a wonderful orgasm, more powerful than any I had experienced on my own.

I guess he wanted to take control now, show me who the man was, but he stood not a chance. This was my moment. I looked into his eyes and gave him my best wink. Yes, me; sweet little Virginia from the ranch. I took a handful of his fair hair, pushed him down so that he knelt at my feet, then I directed his face to where I
really
wanted it.

‘Are you going to make me moan like a common little hussy?’ I asked.

His reply was deep and it was muffled, for his tongue was already circling my bud, pushing and thrusting in and out of me, bringing cold shivers down my spine and gasps of approval from my mouth. His arms were outstretched, and his hands pulled and tweaked my hard, pink nipples. ‘I like it hard,’ I moaned, although I never knew I did till now. ‘Harder,’ I ordered, as he pinched the long lobes. Someone was watching now, I could just sense it. I thought about them masturbating, watching me moan like a common little hussy.

And then I screamed so loud that probably the whole gaming hall heard me, I tell you. My whole body, right the way to the tips of my toes, shuddered and shook.

We kissed for some time afterwards, regaining our thinking, catching our breath. It felt so good to have this strong, caring man in my arms. He looked at me, a big smile on his face.

‘Do you fancy finding out what I would have chosen if it had landed on black …?’ he asked.

It’s 3rd August 1962 now, some 30 years later.

‘They ready for you now, Virginia,’ a voice calls into my room.

I am still in Las Vegas, course I am. Only now I am on the new, extravagant Strip. The theatre breaks into rapturous applause as I take to the stage and I start my first song.

I look at the faces in the audience, and long to catch a smile that is intended just for me, from a man I never dared ask his name.

Bed of Glass
by Alexandra Thomas

It was the largest bed I had ever seen, and I had seen a few in stately homes and castles around the country. Henry VIII would have admired it. He would have liked it immensely except that he might have bumped his head getting onto it. A tall man would have to duck below the low canopy.

‘Want to try it?’ suggested the young man, rocking on his heels. He was wearing a tight white T-shirt and even tighter jeans.

It was the last thing I expected him to say. I shook my head. ‘Those days are long over,’ I said reluctantly.

It was a four-poster in a heavy, dark wood. I’m not good at identifying woods, but I guess it might have been mahogany or oak, maybe walnut, with the mattress resting inside a frame that had drawers underneath. At the head of the bed was a bevelled and flower-scrolled mirror with two curved cabinets either side with glass doors that protected a collection of porcelain china ornaments.

‘Who collects the Lladró?’ I asked.

‘My ex.’

It was beautiful. A bed to die for.

‘Is it a seven foot mattress?’ I asked, trying to measure it mentally.

I wanted to stare and stare at the bed, which would have been impolite as I was only there as a prospective buyer for his flat. I was not a salacious entrepreneur.

‘Yeah. It’s American,’ he said. ‘It’s called a super king-size. Americans like big beds.’

Very super. Very king-sized for any size of king. I put my hand on the left post at the end of the bed to steady myself and glanced upward, expecting to see the ceiling of the room. Instead, it was a mass of twinkling light. The low roof of the four-poster was completely lined with mirrors set into the wood, many of them diamond-shaped, some square, some patterned.

It was like gazing into a summer night sky.

I swallowed a gasp. Sex games came unbidden to mind. Yet the sturdy young man in a white T-shirt, jeans, and yellow protective waistcoat didn’t look like a sex games sort of person. He was a plumber. It was obviously an antique bed. There was nothing modern about the ornate carvings on the posts or the mirrors.

‘Amazing bed,’ I managed to get out.

‘Yeah, fabulous. Unique.’

‘Do you know its history?’

‘No idea. Very old. History is not my scene.’

Maybe it was a bed from a brothel with French origins. It had a very French look about it, smelt French, but the mattress was American and the white quilt and laced cushions were definitely late Laura Ashley.

‘How did you get it?’ I asked. I couldn’t stop myself asking. I wanted to know everything about the bed. Surely he knew something about it?

‘I bought it at a sale of old furniture in London. This warehouse was full of the stuff. The place was piled to the roof with furniture. Nobody wanted the bed. It was too big. It had been there, unwanted for years, gathering dust …’

‘Too big for a semi-detached. You couldn’t get it up the stairs.’

‘We had to take it to pieces to get it up in the lift. It was in a dreadful state. Filthy. Held together with cobwebs. Took me a week to clean it up.’

‘It’s pretty old,’ I said. I couldn’t take my eyes off the mirrors. Neither of us mentioned them. Perhaps the young man was embarrassed, yet he seemed totally at ease with me, showing me his bedroom. ‘Late 19th century at least. Maybe from Paris or the South of France.’

I saw a flash of crimson satin, a flounce of lace, a ribbon, in the corner of my eye. My imagination, of course. The bed had lived a life of its own. I was imagining the days, and nights, of untrammelled passion that the bed had seen, the scenes that the mirrors had reflected. All the young and old participants, fat and thin, successful and unsuccessful adventures that had begun and ended here.

I wanted to ask him more, to glean every scrap of information about the bed, to document it without being inquisitive about his private life. It wasn’t what he got up to that interested me. It was the bed itself.

Some of the diamond mirrors were tiny, set in patterns. They would catch the light. I imagined the bed surrounded by flickering candles. The roof of the bed had been carved by a craftsman with delicate taste. It held his long-gone signature.

‘Make me a bed that is seven foot square.’

I heard her voice as clearly as if she was standing in the same room. Her voice was rich and warm and held a ripple of laughter.

‘It is for the Duc d’Armagne,’ she went on. ‘And it has to be special, very special. He’s a big man and he likes plenty of room to move. Drawers beneath to hold the best linen.’

She was as voluptuous as her voice, flesh cushioned in corsets, comely legs hidden under flounces, her creamy breasts encased in red satin. Her long, curling black hair was tied back in ribbons, ribbons that were becoming unfastened as she played with them.

The craftsman trembled. He was married, happily married. His wife trusted him but this courtesan was out of his league. The Duc d’Armagne was a customer of repute. He had great wealth. If he liked a seven-foot bed, he might like many other pieces of furniture which the carpenter could make.

‘He wants something very special, very pleasing,’ she went on, her honeyed voice lowering to a whisper. ‘You know what I mean.’ Her fingers stroked the shape of his face and he blushed and drew away.

‘Perhaps Monsieur le Duc would like mirrors,’ he suggested, hesitating. He could not take his eyes off her. ‘Tiny mirrors, cut like twinkling stars. It would be like looking up at the night sky.’

She pulled up the flounces of her skirt and spread her legs wide. ‘And what would this be like? Like looking up to heaven?’ she laughed.

The craftsman swallowed his dismay. He could not resist. His wife had never spread herself like this. She kept her nightgown wrapped round her ankles. It was always a struggle.

I thought I could still hear her laughter. I could smell her perfume and his sweat as the craftsman buried himself hurriedly in her secret place. Swiftly I looked at the mirrored canopy, but there was nothing to see, only the relentless twinkling.

‘Do you like the flat?’ asked the young man, anxious to go to wherever he was going. Maybe he had to go back to work. ‘Do you want to see any more? I’ll show you the parking space downstairs if you like.’

But I didn’t want to leave the bed. It mesmerised me. It had been alone in this room for years, used, admired perhaps by the young man and his various girlfriends, but unloved. There was no possible reason for me to linger in the bedroom a second longer. I’d seen the fitted wardrobe, the sea view from the window, barely noted the curtains or carpet. I wanted him to leave me alone with the bed so that I could absorb some of its past. If only those posts could talk. If only the mirrors still reflected past scenes.

‘It’s a lovely flat,’ I said. I was being truthful. It was a lovely flat, immaculate, with plenty of room for my piles of breeding books. Maybe it was going to work out after all. The plumber lived in style. Everything was in perfect condition. The en suite bathroom had a pear-shaped bath. Everywhere were signs of good maintenance. The young man was a worker of high standard.

I didn’t want to leave, yet I could think of nothing to prolong my stay. I wanted to look at the bed again but shrank from appearing over-curious. It would be difficult to sleep in that vast bed, if you ever managed to get to sleep. Few of us look pretty asleep. Hair flattened, unwashed mascara smudged, nightdress rumpled. That was me. Heaven forbid any mirror daring to reflect my forlorn image.

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘You’ve been very kind showing me round.’

‘Any time,’ he said. ‘If you want to come back. Give me a call.’

‘I know this sounds odd,’ I said. ‘But your mirrored four-poster is making me feel very strange.’

‘It sometimes has that effect,’ he said.

‘Would you mind if I sat on it?’

‘You’ll have to take off your shoes.’

I took off my shoes, my jeans, my shirt, my bra and my pants. The young man was ahead of me, already lean and naked, his skin as brown as a berry. He spent a lot of time on the beach.

It had been a long time for me. I couldn’t remember how long. Not long for him, probably last week. I thought I would be dry and shrivelled but the flat-owning young man was gifted and ingenious. He found moisture from his mouth and transferred it to me.

His skin had the fragrance of the sea as he entwined his legs round me. My breasts rose to meet him, nipples erect and full of longing. No man had aroused them before. It must be the bed, and as I looked up at the twinkling glass, I saw a flash of crimson and faintly heard a throaty laugh. I felt her fingers guiding his. Perhaps there were three of us in this bed. She was with me, giving me courage, shedding the years.

I couldn’t remember his name, nor he mine. But it didn’t matter. He was exploring me in his mirrored bed and the thrashing limbs reflected in the glassed ceiling were like a thousand diamonds, our skin a cameo of pink and brown and white.

The mirrors were a kaleidoscope of the past. I thought I saw a glimpse of past lovers I had once had. But I had forgotten most of them. It was flashes of red satin that came more often across my eyelids. It was as if she was in the bed with us, enjoying the novelty, injecting me with a vigour I thought I had lost.

There was nothing odd about the disparity of age. The plumber was showing me his perfect bed. I was testing it. (The estate agent had not put this in their brochure.) He was reminding me of my youth. I was reminding him that time passes for all of us but sometimes the juice of life remains.

He was not heavy on me. As light as a feather, yet part of him was hard and determined. He made it good. He was like an ancient knight who had shed his armour on the floor. He was the reincarnation of the Duc d’Armagne. I almost expected to see another flash of red satin, hear a ripple of rich laughter. But she had gone now. There was only me and my washed out grey Marks and Spencer underwear.

We rolled away, sweating and panting. He leant up on one elbow.

‘You don’t have to buy the flat,’ he said.

‘I wish I could buy the bed.’

‘Like a cup of tea?’ he said, easing himself over the wooden side.

I nodded. Champagne was expecting too much.

I wanted to come back again and again but I couldn’t. How could I buy this perfect flat? He would take the bed when he moved. The memory of that bed would haunt me, its weight imprinted forever on the carpet.

That evening I went onto the Internet and searched for antique mirrored four-poster beds and seven-foot-square American mattresses. The mattresses were easy to find. They were on sale everywhere. But the antique bed was harder. There were photographs galore to look at but none of them so ornate or so low canopied. None of them had that touch of history.

Then I found it in a collection of foreign dealers’ catalogues. For a moment I trembled. I recognised every detail, the carved posts, the elaborate cabinets either side of the mirrored head. It described the intricate glass patterns in the canopied roof.

It was a 15th-century German bed made for the noble owner of a castle on the banks of the Rhine. Not a French brothel in sight. That rich female voice must have been an echo of his mistress.

Should I tell the plumber? Would it destroy his vigorous love life if he knew the bed had belonged to a German prince all that long ago? Would it begin to haunt him with its own memories of a chilly stone room high in a turret tower?

I phoned the estate agent the next morning. ‘Absolutely lovely flat,’ I said, injecting my voice with warmth. ‘But I’m so sorry, I won’t be buying it. Cobwebs, you know. Rather too many cobwebs.’