"He sees her most erotic dreams, shares her most carnal desires, and for a price Dorantes will make them all come true."
A recurring dream takes her to a vast ocean where she swims naked in its inky black waters. Yet this time there is a presence that watches, follows, and becomes an intimate partner. The sex is vivid and violent and when Detective Regina Page wakes to a mysterious phone call - a man who identifies himself only as Dorantes - he reveals every detail of her erotic dream. But he also says he is a witness to a series of unsolved murders, the victims devoid of blood, on the waterfront, a case she can't seem to solve. She agrees to meet him and the nightmare begins.
Dorantes is more than a witness - he is a gifted Grimoire - and he aches for her alone. He distorts her senses, blinds her with mystical sensual words, and hurls them both into the visionary worlds of debauchery and lust. His motives for these lurid revelations are shrouded in mystery until she learns of a horrifying truth one that takes her to the brink of madness.
And only Dorantes can ease the fires of what must become their eternal tryst.
General Release Date: 19th January 2009
The ocean loomed black and serene. In her dream, she stretched out each arm, falling into the bathing ecstasy, knowing the waters would be neither warm nor cold. As she sprawled her legs, the weight of the water caressed her unashamed nakedness. In this place there was no need for modesty, no guilt, no condemnation. Only pleasure. With each stroke, she swam deeper into the secluded bay, farther from the safety of the sand-covered shore. And the faster she swam the more intense were the mounting sensations of bliss. She had been swimming alone here in this mystical place for what seemed like centuries.
This time, however, she was not alone. This time she had a feeling that something uncoiled beneath the inky surface, something that had been dormant for far too long, something that slithered towards her, roused by her scent.
She wasn’t frightened. Instead, she found the presence irresistibly enticing. It too, must have come here to reap pleasures offered. Or perhaps it was alone, like her, and wanted company. She floated, her legs spread, and wordlessly called for it to join her. No ripple touched the water. She sighed to the melancholy of solitude and turned her attention back to her pursuit of pleasure.
Without effort, she pulled her body from the dark softness of the water onto a great glistening stalagmite, one of many that dotted this prehistoric pool. She climbed, her wet flesh scraping over the jagged edges. Higher, she crawled, the top elusive, distorted, and shrouded in mist. It narrowed as she finally reached the crest, and she lightly kissed the smooth protrusion, an act wrapped solely in veneration, gratitude. She ran her tongue over the bulbous tip while strumming its solid girth with her fingers. Her mind ran rampant with a searing need to be gratified.
Gravity was the gift for her poignant adulation. Her weight doubled as she drew her legs higher, crouching, so that the smooth, rounded end rubbed her sex, a teasing foreplay, before she sank down, one luxurious inch after another, swallowing the thick girth of stone. A rush of invasion filled her womb—internal muscle tightened into a moist laden kiss. She gyrated—short, deliberate, hard—and from the dizzying height she watched the pale orange glow of a setting sun. Night, with all its delicious comforts, approached.
But on this night the ocean stirred. The presence had discovered her, witnessed her privacy, and moaned, the breath bubbling through a crack in the water’s black surface.
She had no thoughts of impending danger. The pleasure between her legs was too consuming to be wary of another. The rock beneath her shuddered, a scratching sound drew louder. The stone that penetrated her swelled, cementing her in position. Locked in the squatting stance, the hardness solidified inside, she had become a frozen sacrifice to whatever ascended the stone. A silent scream constricted her vocal cords. Yet pleasure intensified.
“Dream of love. Dream of me.”
The stone changed, becoming a thick malleable organ, a lover with hands, a mouth, and a tongue. She clutched her breasts, squeezing each with gnarled fingers, tipping her chin to the dimming sky to cry out the verses of ancient worship, those of physical liberty, those that had been passed down for generations, of the brave who had dared to utter their mystical stanzas. One nipple was bathed in a wash of salvia. She fed the creature, nursed it, squeezing her breast fully into its parched lips.
“Open the gates. Fulfil my need.”
Her gyrations grew frantic. She pounded into the living stone as the suckling tore into the flesh around her nipple. Existence blurred. Sharp claws shredded the skin down her back.
“Yes,” she shrieked without conscience for the immensity of their union that had crumbled the ocean floor, dissolved the granite foundation, and hurtled them both into nothingness. Fluid rushed into her womb and eddied again as she cried for feral release. Heat dribbled from her scratched breast as the creature, unsatisfied still, gnawed flesh and sucked blood while violently jolting its engorged erection farther, deeper, slick with excretion. She held its muscled shoulders, permitting its carnal desires to take from her whatever it craved, while it could. And as darkness thickened, as the ferocious protrusion entered her womb, she dipped her mouth into the tense sinewy muscle of his throat, breaking it against her lip.
“So mote it be.”
The sun imploded into a spray of brightly coloured sparks, dotting the black waves. She screamed.
And woke.
You have an energy, the Clairvoyant told me. "People are attracted to you because of it." She paused. "Both living and dead."
This revelation was shared with me not so long ago. Looking back on forty some years I could see how this simple statement could explain much. Strangers who feel comfortable telling me their problems, children who smile and take my hand, even stray animals- unapproachable- yet they respond to the sound of my voice. But most of all it has been that sense that I am never alone. A voice when no one is there, footsteps following me, my name called out in an empty house, a weight sitting on my bed in the dead of night…
"You are an old soul," she smiled. "It comes through in your creativity."
I write because my mind has always been a tumultuous rush of noise- voices- continually chattering. One by one these ?people' have come forward to tell me ?their' stories. I listen and I type. I wonder sometimes just how thin the line is between reality and madness. Yet I believe in what is unseen. I believe that shadows move. Each voice has a story, and I am pleased that they have faith in me to tell those stories.
I believe in them because they believe in me.
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