Imajica - Clive Barker

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tried to divide the darkness and catch some glimpse of her response, but his sight was a poor explorer and returned from the unknown without news. Only a flicker from the television, reflected in the gloss of his eye and thrown up against the blank darkness, lent him the illusion of a lustre passing through her body, opaline. He started to sit up, seeking her face, but she was already moving down the bed, and moments later he felt her lips on his stomach, and then upon the head of his cock, which she took into her mouth by degrees, her tongue playing on it as she went, until he thought he would lose control. He warned her with a murmur, was released and a breath later swallowed again.

      The absence of sight lent potency to her touch. He felt every motion of tongue and tooth in play upon him, his prick particularized by her appetite, becoming vast in his mind’s eye until it was his body’s size: a veiny torso and a blind head lying on the bed of his belly wet from end to end, straining and shuddering, while she, the darkness, swallowed him utterly. He was only sensation now, and she its supplier, his body enslaved by bliss, unable to remember its making or conceive of its undoing. God, but she knew how he liked to be pleasured, taking care not to stale his nerves with repetition, but cajoling his juice into cells already brimming, until he was ready to come in blood, and be murdered by her work, willingly.

      Another skitter of light behind his eye broke the hold of sensation, and he was once again entire - his prick its modest length - and she not darkness but a body through which waves of iridescence seemed to pass. Only seemed, he knew. This was his sight-starved eyes’ invention. Yet it came again, a sinuous light sleeking her, then going out. Invention or not it made him want her more completely, and he put his arms beneath her shoulders, lifting her up and off him. She rolled over to his side, and he reached across to undress her. Now that she was lying against white sheets her form was visible, albeit vaguely. She moved beneath his hand, raising her body to his touch.

      ‘… Inside you …’ he said, rummaging through the damp folds of her clothes.

      Her presence beside him had stilled; her breathing lost its irregularity. He bared her breasts; put his tongue to them as his hands went down to the belt of her skirt, to find that she’d changed for the trip, and was wearing jeans. Her hands were on the belt, almost as if to deny him. But he wouldn’t be delayed or denied. He pulled the jeans down around her hips, feeling skin so smooth beneath his hands it was almost fluid; her whole body a slow curve, like a wave about to break over him.

      For the first time since she’d appeared she said his name, tentatively, as though in this darkness she’d suddenly doubted he was real.

      ‘I’m here,’ he replied. ‘Always.’

      ‘This is what you want?’ she said.

      ‘Of course it is. Of course,’ he replied, and put his hand on her sex.

      This time the iridescence, when it came, was almost bright, and fixed in his head the magic of her crotch, his fingers sliding over and between her labia. As the light went, leaving its afterglow on his blind eyes, he was vaguely distracted by a ringing sound, far off at first but closer with every repetition. The telephone, damn it! He did his best to ignore it, failed, and reached out to the bedside table where it sat, throwing the receiver off its cradle and returning to her in one graceless motion. The body beneath him was once again perfectly still. He climbed on top of her and slid inside. It was like being sheathed in silk. She put her hands up around his neck, her fingers strong, and raised her head a little way off the bed to meet his kisses. Though their mouths were clamped together he could hear her saying his name -‘… Gentle? Gentle…? - with the same questioning tone she’d had before. He didn’t let memory divert him from his present pleasure, but found his rhythm; long, slow strokes. He remembered her as a woman who liked him to take his time. At the height of their affair they’d made love from dusk to dawn on several occasions; toying and teasing, stopping to bathe so they’d have the bliss of working up a second sweat. But this was an encounter that had none of the froth of those liaisons. Her fingers were digging hard at his back, pulling him on to her with each thrust. And still he heard her voice, dimmed by the veils of his self-consumption:

      ‘Gentle? Are you there?’

      ‘I’m here,’ he murmured.

      A fresh tide of light was rising through them both, the erotic becoming a visionary toil as he watched it sweep over their skin, its brightness intensifying with every thrust.

      Again she asked him: ‘Are you there?’

      How could she doubt it? He was never more present than in this act; never more comprehending of himself than when buried in the other sex.

      ‘I’m here,’ he said.

      Yet she asked again, and this time, though his mind was stewed in bliss, the tiny voice of reason murmured that it wasn’t his lady who was asking the question at all, but the woman on the telephone. He’d thrown the receiver off the hook, but she was haranguing the empty line, demanding he reply. Now he listened. There was no mistaking the voice: it was Jude. And if Jude was on the line, who the fuck was he fucking?

      Whoever it was, she knew the deception was over. She dug deeper into the flesh of his lower back and buttocks, raising her hips to press him deeper into her still, her sex tightening around his cock as though to prevent him from leaving her unspent. But he was sufficiently master of himself to resist, and pulled out of her, his heart thumping like some crazy locked up in the cell of his chest.

      ‘Who the hell are you? he yelled.

      Her hands were still upon him. Their heat and their demand, which had so aroused him moments before, unnerved him now. He threw her off, and started to reach towards the lamp on the bedside table. She took hold of his erection as he did so, and slid her palm along the shaft. Her touch was so persuasive he almost succumbed to the idea of entering her again, taking her anonymity as carte blanche and indulging in the darkness every last desire he could dredge up. She was putting her mouth where her hand had been, sucking him into her. He regained in two heart-beats the hardness he’d lost.

      Then the whine of the empty line reached his ears. Jude had given up trying to make contact. Perhaps she’d heard his panting, and the promises he’d been making in the dark. The thought brought new rage. He took hold of the woman’s head and pulled her from his lap. What could have possessed him to want somebody he couldn’t even see? And what kind of whore offered herself that way? Diseased? Deformed? Psychotic? He had to see. However repulsive, he had to see!

      He reached for the lamp a second time, feeling the bed shake as the harridan prepared to make her escape. Fumbling for the switch, he brought the lamp off its perch. It didn’t smash, but its beams were cast up at the ceiling, throwing a gauzy light down on the room below. Suddenly fearful she’d attack him, he turned without picking the lamp up, only to find that the woman had already claimed her clothes from the snarl of sheets and was retreating to the bedroom door. His eyes had been feeding on darkness and projections for too long, and now, presented with solid reality, they were befuddled. Half concealed by shadow the woman was a mire of shifting forms - face blurred, body smeared, pulses of iridescence, slow now, passing from toes to head. The only fixable element in this flux was her eyes, which stared back at him mercilessly. He wiped his hand from brow to chin in the hope of sloughing the illusion off, and in these seconds she opened the door to make her escape. He leapt from the bed, still determined to get past his confusions to the grim truth he’d coupled with, but she was already halfway through the door, and the only way he could stop her was to seize hold of her arm.

      Whatever power had deranged his senses, its bluff was called when he made contact with her. The roiling forms of her face resolved themselves like pieces of a multi-faceted jigsaw, turning and turning as they found their place, concealing countless other configurations - rare, wretched, bestial, dazzling - behind the shell of a congruous reality. He knew the features, now that they’d come to rest. Here were the ringlets, framing a face of exquisite symmetry. Here were the scars that healed with such unnatural speed. Here were the lips that hours before had described their owner as nothing and nobody. It was a lie! This nothing had two functions at least: assassin and whore. This nobody had a name.

      

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