Darkroom Saga Omnibus 2 Read online

  “They're the best liars, baby. If you had a habit like that you too would be a dangerous con, spinning fibs to cover your arse and safeguard your addiction.”

  Shoot, his British accent is enough to spin my eyeballs. He could read the side effects of rohypnol and make it sound like seduction.

  He laughs, driving the way men do, as if they splatted into the couch to watch football, making driving look like a spectator sport and they're so comfy it could be nap time. I can't drive like that, I have to stay tense and alert or I'm afraid I'll miss something crucial.

  Guys drive like they were all born playas and cars were made to fit like loafers. The driver's seat is fitted to their frames the way a lazy-boy is, fingers barely holding the steering wheel, urging it left and right with little nudges, held as casually as a cigar after dinner instead of commanded as a wheel directing a ton of steel that could kill if it loses traction.

  Hazel eyes look like smokey quartz in this light, but the evidence of amusement in his visage makes me think Jan's paranoia is rubbing off on me. He's scary handsome. I'm not sure if I should be flattered or intimidated, or just do a dude and splat back and go with the flow. Maybe going with the flow is the best way to weather this night. (Although Jan would warn me that only dead fish go with the flow, the rest swim into the current.)

  On that note I take the final slug of my G&T. It's working a charm because it's taking the edge off my anxiety.

  Can't help worrying about Jan though. Is she going to go to rehab? What's the sentence for possession? She won't see the humor in that. Possession is something that terrifies her. She's a recovering Catholic and is terrified of the devil. She refuses to watch a horror movie because it's satan's way of owning your mind and stealing your soul. Being charged with possession will send her into twenty hail Mary's and a week of penance, (usually foregoing coffee and making her the most cranky cow in Texas).

  I've been living here going on three years now, but I'm a native from the psycho region behind the Chastity belt (my nickname for the so called bible belt, because they're all into that chastity snot, saving yourself for marriage nonsense, well at least until you're twelve and we can marry you off to uncle Buck's mormon harem). Jan told me all about my native Utah and I couldn't argue because I know how it's the breeding ground for compounds where even the police won't venture. Even worse is Utah now houses the NSA's biggest spy center. Bluffdale is the heart of Mormon country (has been for one hundred and sixty years), where polygamy thrives like maggot eggs in putrified flesh, but keep riding down Beef Hollow Road (no pun intended) and you'll see the NSA's new building being erected. (Every pun intended.)

  It's said to be so large that it will be five times the size of the US capital. It's going to be the intel headquarters for spying on this great nation and foreign territories. In God we trust. (But watch the government and call them a hypocrite. If they trusted in god they wouldn't need to be so damn paranoid about our activities. Maybe they're just as curious as I am over what's going on behind the walls of half the compounds in Utah). But then for Jan this is proof that they do trust in god, the big scaly one hell bent on our subjugation.

  Big Brother is no longer a reality TV show, it's becoming a living and breathing reality. Why would they need to analyze our personal data unless they were trying to preempt something? (Jan's made me as psychotic as she is.) She says phones have geotagging, cars have GPS, book stores are dying so our purchases occur online (which she hates because of the types of books she buys, they point fingers at her love of conspiracy and N.W.O. paranoia), cash is discouraged and people use their cards for everything, making monitoring us, our preferences, purchases, Googling, and movements, easy work, our every dirty secret now open to scrutiny. Deviate in a way they don't approve and we'll be interrogated under the anti-terrorist act, meaning we can vanish and they don't need to disclose how or why we accidentally fell into a crematorium forge with every bone shattered and broken. Ashes to ashes and dust to dust, in god we trust. (She quotes that when she's being sarcastic.) Jan's been trying to get me to go for gun training, she thinks we need to be armed, preparing for when marshal law is declared against us.

  I keep telling her they have no reason to attack their own tax payers (they need us because slaves need to oil the cogs in the machine – this NSA building costs a whopping $2 billion of our tax dollars), but she just looks at me in pity, citing how the UK are now targeting the weak, Spartan style. Only the strong will survive now, the powers that be are no longer willing to care for the poor or malformed. We're going back to pre-democratic Greece, where the Kurgan's reigned supreme. It's the original Aryan brotherhood agenda.

  (I didn't know who the Kurgan's were until she explained that it's the archeological evidence of how white man arrived 13000 years ago from the Caucasus mountains (white man mountain as we're all still called caucasian), and these white folks settled Sparta, Athens, etc, being known as Kurgans.) But I joked and said that makes us all turkeys (as the mountain is in modern day Turkey – ie ancient Greece), and she skewered me with a scornful glare and said that's why we sacrifice turkeys for thanksgiving. She can twist anything and make you freak out.

  She really needs to write books, or become a hacker or something. I'm terrified she's going to call the cops arresting her Nazi's, accusing them of worshiping Moloch and his Godzilla and silencing her because she knows the guilty secrets of the Illuminati. (And yes, she reads David Icke as if his words are her new creed).

  Looking at my mystery man, I realize I don't even know the dude's name. Cutting the engine at the cusp of a huge circle in front of the stately manor, he gives me that signature smirk, saying softly, “I'm Kenan.”

  Weird.

  “Erm, Candy, uh Candace, or CC, some folks call me CC…” Shut up! You're showing nerves girl, get a grip “… Nice to meet you.”

  “Nice?” he chuckles under his breath, popping his door open and planting one leg out, letting cool night air into the cabin. “I'm not nice darling, you'll learn that soon enough.”

  “You're not nice?” I sputter, at a complete loss for a witty retort.

  “Ayup,” he drawls, copying the accent of a Southerner and doing a fairly decent rendition of it, “Nice guys finish last. That ain't my style ma'am.”

  Getting out and shutting his door, I watch him come around to my side to open my door, hating myself for finding his statement erotic. Why do we love the bad boys? I'm a repeat offender of bad judgement. Stepping out with his help, getting an eyeful of this is a bad idea highlighted by security lights flooding the grande entrance with its marble pillars, I have to admit that I'm in the mood for a large dose of bad judgment. Bad judgment has never looked hotter. Staring at the mouth that tasted like cognac warmed sin, I return his smile, throwing caution to the four winds.

  We only live once.

  The NSA can suck my toes for all I care. Mark me down as lascivious with wicked intent. I doubt they care where I am or who I'm doing what with. Led up the stairs, my Jan induced paranoia kicks into high gear when the butler opens the door, holding out a velvet sack, the kind they use in church to collect the money.

  “Cell phones, keys, empty your pockets please.”

  Kenan doesn't hesitate, throwing wallet, keys, and unique coins into the bag. I stare at the coin he hands the butler. “What's that?” I pry, not believing the glimpse I caught before his thumb covered the face of it.

  Holding one back in his palm from the stash he just deposited in the collection pouch, he shows me a gold coin with a couple having sex imprinted into it. “It's a spinitria. It dates back to 2 A.D.”

  Taking it from him, I'm stunned. It leaves nothing to the imagination. A woman is sexually presenting herself doggie style, the couple entirely naked, she's harnessed with a leash, his phallus is sinking into her, her boobs are hanging like ripe udders, and it's sexy as all hell. Turning the coin over, the number VIII is imprinted onto the back, surrounded with a wreath.

  Er! What do I say to this? This is a
real coin? A gold coin! Holy fuck, what is this place?

  Looking at Kenan, I've got a gazillion questions. Who are you?

  Mischief flits across a stoic visage and he tells me as if there is no shame in this, saying, “Back in Babylon sex was something celebrated. The old biblical code was not staid and restrictive, it liberated the act of creation. Once, we celebrated the act of life and love.”

  My childhood rushes up to cast a cold shadow on my heart, reminding me of the tower of Babylon, the first true civilization where they had hanging gardens, indoor plumbing and proper toilets, where mankind built a building up to the sky and god split us up, making us different colors and speaking different languages because we became too much like our pater. What went down in Babylon is a tale of caution to all who followed, when angels get pissy they divide and conquer. And it worked too.

  Stepping closer, cupping my chin while the butler rifles through my pockets and steals my purse, he presses a warm kiss on my lips, breathing, “And be not conformed to this world: but be ye transformed by the renewing of your mind, that ye may prove what is that good and acceptable and perfect will of God.”

  “You may enter the sanctuary,” interrupts the butler, closing the substantial front door with a thud, saying to me, “The wreath is an ancient symbol of god's protection. Fornication is an act protected by god.”

  A frisson skates down my spine. I'm not sure if it's from Kenan's kiss, or from his words, or from the finality of the door shutting, but it grips my mind in a cold shiver.

  “Shall we?” invites my companion, planting my hand in the crook of his arm, leading me through the huge arch into a long hallway lit by candles and reeking of recent sex.

  Three steps in he leans down, whispering into my ear, “I'm going to do to you what you saw depicted on the spinitria.”

  Staring up at him, convinced that he means it, I can't help but wonder what kind of party I've been invited to. The butler broaches sex as a perfectly acceptable subject to discuss with a new arrival, the coins to gain entry are tokens of carnal liberation, and this room, it's…. oh my gosh, the walls are covered in ancient looking friezes and paintings…. all depicting sexual acts.

  Heaven help me.

  ~ Chapter 3 ~

  My love thrust his hand through the opening,

  and my feelings were stirred for him.

  ~Song of Solomon 5:2

  Candace:

  Walking on checkered tiles bordered with a Greek key mosaic, I'm fascinated by the light at the end of the hallway shining up like a sun pillar at sundown. The corridor is lined with old murals and stark paintings of sexuality like some long lost temple of hedonism. Pausing with me, he gives me a moment to absorb the muted sights in the candlelit passage. It's a gallery of carnal indulgence.

  “What is this place?” I ask, twisting to look up at Kenan.

  “Matthew's lodge. He's our vicar.”

  Arching eyebrows, I struggle words out of a dry throat, “This place belongs to a priest?”

  “Sure does,” he grins, and it's decidedly naughty. How do men do that with such ease? When I do it I just look like I have a bad case of indigestion and am trying to swallow a burp.

  Planting an arm around my shoulders, he pulls me close in a silent act of possession, saying, “These paintings are perfect copies of ones from Pompeii, dating back to 79AD. This is the world our savior grew up in, where sexuality was not an act of sin but a life affirming act of celebration. It is how we were made, male and female, the twain meant to engage, to please, to understand that when a woman submits, to pleasure, freeing inhibitions, she is indeed worshipping her creator.” Sweeping his free hand at the threesome in front of us, to the man enthusiastically licking labia, he drawls appreciation, “In the beginning they were created fully formed, naked, they were free to experiment, to copulate, because when mankind was created on the sixth day they had no rules. This is how god intended we live, just so long as we leave his precious tree alone. Here we celebrate the way we were made without shame, we revere nudity, freedom of our instincts, freedom to celebrate that we were made in his image and when we touch each other we are touching god himself. Here god sees all is good in the world. When we orgasm we are closer to god than prayer can ever be.”

  At a complete loss for words, I mumble, looking back at the object d'art, “Are you religious then?”

  Pulling me into his chest with the simple motion of folding his arm where it rests on my shoulders, he says in a deep baritone, gruff in my ear in an intimate whisper of a secret, “Devout, and I want to know you biblically.”

  I barely have time to assimilate the implication before I'm up against the wall, his tongue dousing inside my mouth with the same intensity he took control with back at Sodom, this time his hand is on my boob, kneading it as if the action could produce a genie to offer three wishes. Jesus!

  Pressing his weight into me, a hard erection bulges against my stomach, giving me a clear idea of the effect of erotic art on a pious psyche. Breaking the pressure, he plunges his hand into his pocket and withdraws a handful of coins, coaxing, “Pick one. Let the dares begin. Whatever you get you have to do, right here in the channel of welcoming.”

  This weird and fast turn of events leaves me off centre and unable to keep up, and instead of being stubborn I end up complying, picking a coin from his hand. It depicts a woman sitting on a man, jerking him off. He laughs indulgently, sitting down on a conveniently placed footstool, undoing his belt buckle all while staring up at me with the dark eyes of challenge.

  Truth or dare eh? Holy fuck this place is hardcore.

  I hardly know you dude!

  “I dare you. You chicken, Candy? You afraid of a hard cock, an act of god?”

  “No!” I object, not wanting to flake out on bravado so soon. At least he's not going for anal sex and fisting. It could be worse. I can do this. Hell, it certainly is an ice breaker.

  Leaning over, I help him free it from the restraints of denim and boxer briefs, the motion making this seem far too intimate too soon, as if we aren't strangers at all, and it's having a sublime effect on my usual caution. This would hardly be approved of by my forebears, it's forbidden in so many ways, and that's what makes this so enticing. It's a fuck the rules of convention act, and I'm all for breaking rules.

  Shoving his jeans to pool at his ankles, he pulls me onto his legs, the hairs on them tickling my thighs because my skirt rides up when I sit on him. He doesn't ask permission, he just folds my hand around his penis and starts the motion with me. Staring at him, then the clammy erection in my hand, I'm a little stunned at how fast this happened.

  Taking liberties he begins unbuttoning my blouse, right here where the butler could interrupt, and I stop stroking his penis to glare at him, “That isn't the agreement.”

  “Yes it is, the woman on the coin is naked. Don't be a prude Candace, don't give god a reason to reject your soul. He made you naked, you were never designed to be ashamed of your body.”

  My buttons are undone in the time it takes him to say his spiel, and I abruptly stand, common sense suddenly surging through my logic, “I don't know, Kenan. I'm not sure–”

  Standing with the swiftness of levitation, he grips my hair to tilt my head all the way back, making me look up his chest to his simmering stare, “Be bold. Dare to embrace your life instead of lies. Choose liberation from oppression. Be yourself. Be who you were created to be. Indulge in the pleasure of your body without letting convention cheat you out of worship. Don't be one of those people Candace. I know you're not, I can see it in your eyes. You knew the second I took hold of you in Sodom that we have chemistry. Why deny it out of some misguided adherence to rules given to sinners? We are not ruled by the ten commandments, we were created free!”

  “You'll say anything to get a chick naked, won't you?”

  He shakes his head, leaning down, and I'm expecting another kiss, but he keeps stooping until his mouth has covered the thin lace of my bra and he's sucking my nipple. Oh g
od! Jeez! My good intentions just fell through my pelvic floor, flooding my insides with quivering heat.

  My skirt is unzipped, his strength and agility a war I'm losing the battle against, and then his hand is inside my panties, stroking, just stroking and fingering, the flick of his tongue making my bra as wet as his explorative finger is becoming inside me. Gasping, now clinging to broad shoulders for support, I can't think straight! Abruptly I'm pulled swiftly back onto his lap when he sits with the both of us, leaning against the wall at his back, a woman's legs open wide behind him in a distressed and worn mural, and I can't help myself when he starts circling my clit, spreading my thighs to adore the pressure.

  Planting fingers inside me, he withdraws them, using them to circle lubrication onto his erection which still tilts between us.

  He wiggles eyebrows, whispering, “I dare you.”

  Swiveling, straddling his legs, I return the seduction, teasing him the way he teased me, the hold on my hips transferring his enjoyment, the grip growing tighter the closer he gets to climax.

  At the last second he clamps both hands on my head and shunts my face toward his penis, ramming the oozing tip of it at my teeth, gasping, “Do it.”

  Opening to voice objection, the second my lips part I have his penis gagging my riot act, hot cum exploding into my mouth, thick and disgusting like puke regurgitating onto a clean tongue. I want to spit, to object, to pull back, but he has me fast, I'm off balance, and his grip is punishing.

  “It's a sin if you don't swallow. You have to do it,” he orders. I can't breathe, I want to retch, my eyes are watering, my heart pounding, when he says softly, “Please. Don't be a sinner. Not now. You're too perfect.”

  It's the hardest thing I've ever had to do. There's no lubrication, it's thick and slimy; my thighs are shaking with distress. The taste is awful now that it's been stewing on my tongue for a minute, but he's not easing the pressure on my head and if I don't want to pass out with contortion and the waning rigidity in my mouth I have to. Tears leak out when I clench my throat, the motion upheaval, my buzz broken with degradation. I swallow with immense difficulty, my solar plexus churning, my gullet spasming, and swallow again with my insides heaving. Releasing me to collapse weakly between his legs onto the cool floor, I keep my head bowed, wiping at my mouth, inhaling hysterically, the tears running without my pride having a say. Footsteps echo up the hard floor, stopping behind me, and I remain bowed, hiding my exposed body from the stranger in my position between Kenan's knees.