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Silk Curtain Ch. 01

By: Elayne



The sun overhead painted the near dusk sky in brilliant shades of fire and gold. It would be nightfall in an hour but the sand of the beach was still warm from the sun's kiss. The horizon was beautiful as a painting, perfect for the people laying on the beach absorbing the last fingers of sunlight.

The tall woman at the edge of the beach definitely appreciated the perfect image. She walk along the still warm sand, the water lapping around her toes and ankles, hands visored over her blue eyes as she squinted off at the sunset.

John sighed contently, watching the woman from his beach towel. Perfect legs, great ass, and a nice rack, he thought to himself contently as he enjoyed the image of the woman the way the she enjoyed the image of the sun. Her named was Constance and they'd been married for two wonderful years.

They'd met at Harvard during one of those lazy Boston autumns. He'd been starting his Masters degree in economics. She had just finished a degree in fine arts and was enrolling in the teacher's college. John still remembered how shy she'd looked in a pale blue turtle neck, those incredible legs demurely crossed as she sat in the corner quietly during a September Mixer his fraternity had thrown. Her friends had dragged her out; They were all living in the over in one of the all girls dormitories, and a Catholic one at that. John had definitely been less than enthusiastic when his frat brothers told him that. She hadn't thought much of frat boys, but she was a good friend and came along reluctantly. And she had been promptly ditched by her two girlfriends, abandoned alone of a scuffed leather couch.

John had gone over to try to talk to her a bit. She had an expression a bit to serious for his liking, hardly a fun party girl that he hoped to meet for a good time at the mixer. And she had promptly begun to babble on about her ambition to teach high school students art and culture.

He thought her naive and a touch parochial. And he couldn't get her out of her head. He'd never fallen for a girl as hard as he had fallen for Constance and they'd been married in the fall of the next year. His parents were wild about her, a pretty wholesome young Democrat with good morals and great manners. Her parents were equally pleased with him, a Boston aristocrat with a touch of old money and sensible shoes.

With their respective studies keeping them at Harvard, they hadn't had a chance for a real honeymoon. Instead, they invested in a comfortable loft near the campus to celebrate their nuptials and resolved to take their honeymoon when they'd both finished their degrees. John certainly hadn't been disappointed. Constance was the most beautiful woman he'd ever slept with, and if she was a touch to shy and reserved to be truly called an great lover, she'd certainly been willing enough and hadn't left him with any complaints about frequency.

She'd wanted something cultured; Europe, France or Italy maybe. He'd wanted exotic; A nice beach in South America or the Caribbean. They'd compromised with Izimir, Turkey. John firmly believed that Izimir was what travel agents had in mind when they coined the phrase 'tourist trap'. Izimir had history, old ruins and wonderful mosques and museums for tourists with sight seeing on their mind. It also had fabulous beaches and an exotic bazaar with plenty of local flavour for someone with a taste for adventure. As John lay on the beach, watching his wife bath her supple body in the dying sun, he could honestly say he'd never been happier.

Constance turned from the water of the beach and began walking back to their shared blankets. She wore a conservative one piece bathing suit that none the less hugged her svelte body and showed off her figured. She'd wrapped a sweater around her waist, covering her hips and rump from prying gazes. In John's opinion it was silly, given the heat, but Constance could be very proper.

Constance gracefully slid down on the blanket beside him, resting her head on his shoulder as she did. At 5'11", she was actually an inch taller than he was, but his athletic build made him look taller next to her trim shape. Her skin smelled slightly of the ocean waters as she leaned in to kiss his neck lightly and John could feel the softness of her lips and the faint pressure of her even white teeth.

John quickly glanced around the beach to make sure they were alone and that no prying life guard was too close by. As soon as he assured himself they had some privacy, his hands went to the sweater around Constance's slim waist, unwrapping it and laying her down on the blanket, rolling over on top off her.

Normally, Constance was the furthest thing in the world from an exhibitionist, but here on their belated honeymoon she had apparently relaxed some of her inhibitions, because she did nothing more than murmur softly as John reached down the crotch of her one piece bathing suit, pushing it aside to reveal the dark blonde curls and soft pink skin of his wife's most intimate treasure.

Constance even reached over to his own bathing suit, pushing it down slightly to free his already erect member. Normally, Constance took a while of foreplay to warm up, but this time she was in just as amorous a mood as he was and she bent her knees slightly, a small raise of her hips and shy smile indicating with her graceful body language that she was ready.

John certainly wasn't about to refuse. He pressed his tip against her entrance and penetrated her in a slow, even stroke. Constance's fingers went to the nape of his neck, brushing his skin in a way that sent a shiver down his back. She arched her back slightly and pressed her lips to his ears, moaning softly.

That was Constance's greatest feature in their loveplay. John had been with a number of women and Constance was far from the most adventurous of them, or even the best in bed. But none of them could hold a candle to her vocally. Her voice was soft and sweet, clear from years in a choir but a touch husky with desire. Constance hated talking dirty, but in his opinion her variety of very feminine gasps, kittenish purrs and low cries of pleasure as they made love were far better than words. John had teasingly called her the queen of aural sex.

Constance was certainly in good form today as she lightly nipped the lobe of his ear with her teeth, her fingers rubbing his back lovingly and moaning again in her velvety voice that drove John absolutely wild. He began to pick up the pace, thrusting into her with smoother, harder strokes. Her pale blue eyes gazed lovingly into his as she stroked his back, her own body finding his rhythm quickly. The scrape of her bathing suit against his skin was a touch irritating, but her breasts underneath were soft and round as they bounced in time with his pumping. Her long legs curled around his and he could feel her foot rubbing the back of his knee, encouraging him onward.

"Shall we head back to the resort?" she murmured to him, her blue eyes warm and a touch mischevious. As she spoke she lifted her toned arms to her water slicked hair, pulling it back in a pony tail. Constance always wore her hair in a pony tail or up in an elaborate knot. The only times she ever let her platinum locks down was during sex with him and this afternoon swimming in the ocean. John secretly thought she looked better with it loose, but it went against her sense of neatness to have her hair anything less than restrained.

"Sure," he replied with a grin.

John stooped to pick up their blankets, tossing them over his shoulder, then slipped his arm around Constance's waist. His motion made her sweater slip an inch, showing the small scar on her side where she had her appendix removed. Constance frowned slightly as she shifted her sweater back into place. She hated showing her scar, even though it was only a thin white line, barely visible in the dusk.

The couple walked back to the resort, arm in arm. John tossed their blankets and duffel bag to the bellhop, who nodded and scurried off with them, even as Constance tugged his arm, steering him out onto the covered patio of the resort's restaurant and bar.

A waitress wandered over as the couple took their seats at a table near the bar. "Beer," John ordered brusquely, "Budweiser."

Constance smiled at the waitress then murmured, "I'd like a martini please." Constance was always polite.

"Aah, ef et esn't my yoong American friends," a French accented voice called from the bar.

The voice belonged to a gregarious Frenchman named Alex, a dark haired man who radiated that sleek European style. He said his job was an importer and world traveller when he met them and never missed an opportunity to come over to greet his 'young American friends'.

"Bonjour Alex. Comment ca va?" Constance replied with a small smile. She spoke fluent French, a legacy from her teenage years in a Catholic boarding school.

"Bonjour, mon petit chou. Ca va bien, merci. Vous paraissez beau, mon chere." Alex replied with his self indulgent smile.

John frowned then said "Hey Alex, good to see you," in a low, even voice.

Constance smiled and nudged him lightly in the ribs. When John had first met Alex at the bar, he'd seemed gregarious and friendly. But when he'd introduced the Frenchman to Constance, he'd noticed how the other man's eyes had gone immediately to Constance's pert breasts and travelled down her flat belly with appreciation. John didn't think of himself as a jealous man and he even got a certain charge of other men looking at his wife with envy, but he didn't want the other man talking to Constance in a language that John didn't understand. It made him want to wipe the smug look off the Frenchman's face, though John would have never admitted it.

"And et iz very good to be seen, my friend!" Alex said exuberantly as the waitress returned with their drinks.

Constance gave a small exhalation, almost a sigh. Her fingers went to the stick in her martini, tugging off one of the olives and she began to roll the olive between her thumb and forefinger, an unconcious gesture she tended to make when she was slightly uncomfortable. It was a rare flaw in Constance, but she disliked 'tense' situations and tended to either fiddle with something or bake, pretending that nothing was going on until the situation resolved itself. John forced his face to smoothness. He wouldn't be caught glaring at Alex just because the other man had wandering eyes and a punchable face. 

For once, mercifully, Alex didn't linger. "I see dat yoo two are bizy and I must head up to my room as well. Perhaps we can meet for lunch tomorrow."

Constance sipped her martini as John rose, right after Alex left. "I"m going to the washroom, babe. Order that lamb dish we liked so much for me would you?"

"Sure thing," Constance replied with a crooked smile that she reserved for him. He loved that smile, the rare hint of playfulness she showed. 

John went to the bathroom, finding one of the stalls. Afterwards, he washed his hands and came back out of the door. "Pardon me sir," a soft, young voice interrupted.

"Yeah?" John said, turning to the bellhop of the resort.

"A man has arrived, he says he has a rug for you. I cannot take it to your rooms until you sign for it please," the dark skinned bellhop said with a nervous air in his light Turkish accent.

"Oh, right," John nodded, "Lead on."

An Arabic man with a massive grey beard waited in the lobby with a heavy rug roll. It was a fellow from the bazaar. John and Constance had been there in the afternoon, shopping for a souvenir. They had decided on a real Persian rug, straight from Turkey. 

"Your rug, sir," the porter said with a small polite bow.

The man went through some fuss, thanking John for his business profusely, and then rolling the rug down to make sure it was the right pattern. John frowned as he looked at the beige rug. "Wait, we ordered the crimson one."

"Crimson? Oh, the red! A thousand apologies sir!" the porter cried, hurrying out to his truck to put the beige rug back and fetch the proper one. John checked it to make sure it was right, then signed the receipt for it, tipping the porter and the aggreived looking bellhop as he began to heft the rug up stairs.

John sighed and headed back to the patio.

As he returned to their table, he saw Constance with her head resting lightly on her arms. "Con," he called softly, resting his hand on her back, but she didn't stir.

She must have tired herself out swimming, John thought fondly, sitting down to his dish of lamb and vegetables. Constance had barely touched hers, though she had finished her martini. I'll just let her sleep a bit, John decided, picking up his scotch and drinking.

It was the clink of glasses and smell of wood that woke him. John blinked groggily. His throat felt scratchy and his head hurt ferociously. Hang over, he thought to himself, looking around. Where am I?

It was the patio. He had moved from the table to the bar.

"Is sir awake?" the waitress said from behind the bar, washing glasses with the clinking sound that had woken him.

"Yah.." John blinked groggily. Had he passed out? John had drunk his fair share as a frat boy, even passed out once or twice, but never so that he couldn't remember what happened. "How much did I have?"

"Sir had many scotch on the rockses," the waitress replied unhelpfully, continuing to wash.

"Where's Connie?" John asked, looking around. He never called her Connie when she was around. She hated that name, prefering her full name.

"Miss Constance went to bed many hours ago," the waitress said, warming up noteably at the mention of Miss Constance.

"What time is it?" John looked down at his watch.

"Close to closing," the waitress said. John saw that it was 2 am. He'd been out for close to eight hours.

John got off the barstool and staggered up to his room. Definitely a hang over he thought groggily, clumsily fumbling with his keys to get into his room.

"Con?" he called as he stepped into their dark hotel suite. "Constance?" He kept his voice soft, in case she was asleep.

He slipped off his shoes and in to their bed room. Constance wasn't in bed. 

Constance wasn't anywhere in his room. She didn't return the next morning either.

By lunch, John was frantic. Inquiries with the resort staff indicated that she had staggered out of the patio at around ten and hadn't been seen since. But Constance was no where to be found on the resort.

The next day, the Izimir police were called in. They had no more luck finding his missing wife then the hotel staff. John frantically called the American embassy and they immediately dispatched a diplomatic car to collect him.

For two weeks, the American consul had his people search Turkey, with no results. John became increasingly frantic, until the ambassador had practically forced him into a plane, sending him back to the States.

His family and hers were both astonished and upset and terrified. John's father put pressure on his cousin who worked in the State department. Constance's father, who had served in the army for ten years, looked up an old buddy who had graduated to the FBI to get daily updates. Both families had pooled their resources to offer a $50,000 reward for information leading to Constance being found. Hundreds of leads were reported. All proved to be dead ends.

Six months later, Constance had not been found. There were no traces, no leads. It was as if she had simply vanished into thin air.

After a year, the Izimir police stated their was nothing more they could without a break in the case. Constance was simply not in Izimir. The family upped the reward to $100,000, which renewed some interest in the case, but nothing concrete was turned up.

At a year and a half, the American consulate in Turkey stopped returning John's daily calls. The reward was increased to $150,000.

At two years, Constance's father's friend in the FBI told him that he believed that if Constance was alive, she would have been found by now and that the resources to continue an international search on that scale simply could no longer be maintained.

At two and a half years, it seemed like the entire world had forgotten about Constance. Everyone except for John.

Silk Curtain Ch. 02



Just over three years had passed since John had last seen his wife that fateful day in Izimir. Local police, the American embassy, even the FBI had all failed to find the pretty American teacher who had vanished into thin air on that warm summer night in Turkey.

As the years past, people had simply forgotten. Constance had vanished from the front pages. She had gone from being a beautiful, vibrant woman to being a cold case in a file in a basement of some office. 

John was a wreck. He hadn't gone to bed sober in months, but this last month had been brutal when Constance's life insurance company had contacted him to ask if he wished to begin the process of declaring his wife legally dead so he could move on.

John didn't want to move on. He wanted his wife back. He had gone through life in a stupor, his vision always hazed over by the memory of his wife.

That September, three months and two years after Constance had vanished, John had decided to visit the Harvard Museum of Natural History to celebrate what would have been Constance's 26th birthday. They had met at Harvard and their first date had been at the museum. Constance had wanted to see the Glass Flower Exhibit.

John wandered the museum, staggering slightly. A few Harvard students pointed at him and whispered, but he was beyond caring. He stopped abruptly at one of the exhibits of Neanderthal man and woman. I'm never going to see Constance again, he thought to himself and suddenly uncontrollable tears welled up in his eyes.

Without Constance I might as well not even go on living, John thought despairingly. Oh God, if you're out there, please give me a sign. Better yet, give Constance back to me, or at least make her alive and well.

John stared at the Neanderthal mannequins, sniffling and wiping his eyes. After a few moments, no sign seemed forthcoming.

"Fuck this," John muttered bitterly. "I'm going to get drunk. Happy birthday, Connie."

John began to stride out of the museum, eager to crawl back into a bottle. 

"John? John, ez dat yoo?" a voice called from another exhibit.

John barely noticed and continued walking.

"Eh, dat ez yoo! Hold on, John!" the voice called; a few footsteps later a hand grabbed his arm. John dispiritedly allowed himself to be halted.

"Eh, don't yoo remember me? Et ez Alex, we met, on vacation, in Turkey! How are yoo?!" the annoyingly gregarious voice went on, penetrating the fog around John's brain. And sure enough, there he was, the sleek Frenchman that John had disliked so much for his leering gaze.

"W... what are you doing here?" John stuttered, surprised and off balance.

"Eh, I am 'ere in Boston to talk to a man aboot imports to France. But while I am not working dere ez still time to see diz great museum, yes?" Alex said expansively, holding his arms wide as if he could embrace the entire museum. "But come! 'Ow are yoo, John? Yoo do not look so good, no? Yoo need very much a hair cut, my American friend?" Alex chattered as he ushered John towards the exit.

John grumbled something, half in response, still dazed at the surreal moment.

The two men walked across the campus. If John was silent except for a grunt or two, Alex seemed determined to carry both ends of the conversation with a day-by-day recap of his life since they had seen each other in Izimir. 

"And 'ow is yoor beautiful wife, my friend?" Alex chattered on and John halted, staring at him dazed at this needling reminder of his missing wife.

"I swear, I saw 'er some time ago, but of course I did not," Alex rambled.

"What?" John interrupted the Frenchman sharply, seizing the other man's arm in a fierce grip.

"Eh? Nothing, et ez nothing," Alex said, squirming his arm a bit.

"Tell me what you meant!" John insisted, eyeing the man murderously.

"Et ez just I saw someone who looked very much like your pretty wife and I was reminded of yoo too. 'Ey, let me go!"

John let Alex pull his arm free. "Where did you see her?"

"Tripoli, in Libya. As I said, et ez nothing I did not see her only saw someone who looked like 'er and was reminded, eh?"

"Where in Tripoli?" John continued fiercely, eyes burning with new found intensity.

"Et ez..." the Frenchman stumbled.

"Where?" John snapped, dangerously.

"A...a place called the Silk Curtain. Et ez a... tavern," Alex replied.

"The Silk Curtain," John growled, feeling more alive than he had in months... maybe even years.

John didn't even bother to say goodbye to Alex, turning off and sprinting home. He had to call his father, Constance's parents, the whole world! 

But John found his family less then receptive. His father told him bluntly, "It's just another false lead like we got from the reward offer." Constance's father was much more interested and quickly called his friend in the FBI, who called John back personally to explain that there was nothing that could be done. "We don't even have diplomatic relations with Libya, for God's sake, son!" the man had told him.

John knew then that if no one else was going to do anything, he'd have to do it himself. He immediately went to the airport. Within 12 hours he was on a flight to Tunis, from where he could catch a bus into Libya.

The bus ride from Tunisia to Tripoli was hellish. It was one thing to have heard about the Northern Sahara. It was quite another to experience it. The sun was so hot that the metal sides and leather seats of the bus heated to the point where John could not bear to touch either. There was no air conditioning and on he went through half a dozen bottles of water on the trip. The water was almost as warm as bathwater but it was the sweetest thing John had ever tasted after a few hours rumbling through the sands.

Tripoli loomed over the coastline. From the bus ride in, John could see a few towering skyscrapers that dominated the horizon of the city, but that was where the resemblance to Boston ended. As they drove closer, a massive sea wall, a remnant of the medieval days clung to the harbor and buildings of adobe and sand coloured brick mixed in with modern concrete and asphalt. Every other building had a picture of Qadhefi, the Libyan President, and soldiers ambled the streets, bored looking men who chatted mostly with each other, but who nonetheless had guns at their sides. John was devoutly glad he had nothing on his clothes or duffel bag to mark him as an American.

A few inquiries around Tripoli turned up a cab driver with a basic understanding of English, but that man claimed to know nothing before driving off. A quick stop at the central bus terminal didn't reveal the location of the Silk Curtain and the telephone books were in Arabic.

After half a day of wandering the streets, it became painfully obvious to John that he was not going to find the Silk Curtain without a guide. He went into the Bazaar, wandering amongst the stands with a camera hanging from around his neck, clearly a tourist. After thirty minutes a boy approached him. "Mister, you are tourist? I am guide, show you all of Tripoli for 5 American dollars."

John smiled. "I'm trying to find a club called the Silk Curtain. If you can take me there, I'll give you 10 dollars."

The boy laughed impishly, revealing a mouth with several broken teeth. "You big man if you want to go to Silk Curtain. Big man can pay more than ten dollars!"

John felt a rush in his spirit. The urchin at least seemed to know what John was looking for. "Take me there and I'll give you 50."

The boy seemed to consider it, and then nodded. "Follow me Mister, follow me."

The olive skinned boy led John through the twisted and winding streets of Tripoli, from the modern downtown to the adobe slums that had stood for centuries and further still. John began to fear that the boy was leading him to a mugging or worse.

After a good hour of walking, John saw looming up ahead an arching dome. As they drew near, it became clear that the dome was the center of a massive, graceful building. "There it is, Mister. The Silk Curtain." 

John stared in awe. He had expected the Silk Curtain to be a club of some sort, or a bar. It was a palace, delicate and beautiful yet imposing and proud. Men patrolled walls and each one had a rifle in his arms.

John approached nervously. A shaven headed man in a business suit stood by the door, but even he carried a rifle. "Invitation, please?" the man said in accented English.

"I'm looking for the Silk Curtain," John said nervously, looking past the man.

The man shrugged his heavy shoulders, the late afternoon sun practically reflecting on his smooth scalp. "This is Silk Curtain. Silk Curtain is members only. May I see invitation?"

"I don't exactly have one, but perhaps..." John began, reaching for his wallet.

The shaven headed man stiffened, swinging his rifle up and pointing it at John coldly. "It is not money. It is invitation. If no invitation, no Silk Curtain. Members only."

John took his hands out of his pocket, raising them and taking a few steps back, wide eyed and staring at the leveled rifle. "I don't want trouble..."

"Then you go. Go now!" the thug said sharply, sliding off the safety of the rifle. John suspected that in this city, the man could gun him down in broad daylight and not be prosecuted.

"Come, Mister. Come now," his guide said anxiously, tugging at the back of John's shirt. Obviously, he too thought the situation was dangerous.

John let himself be tugged away by the guide.

As they walked down the street, the guide said in a low, tense voice. "You very foolish, Mister. I told you, Silk Curtain is for Big Men. To go there, very bad, if not a big man. The guards, they are not afraid to shoot little men, because the big men say them too."

John mulled it over. "Alex had said he had gotten inside," he murmured to himself, trying to think how he could get past the guards.

"Maybe he had invitation or was guest of man who did," John's guide chimed, sounding once more like a boy.

John snapped his fingers. "Take me to someone, a big man, but not someone so big that he wouldn't talk to me."

The boy arched his eyebrows and seemed about to refuse, but then suddenly grinned. "I know just the man, Mister. But for $50 dollars!"

John paid it without hesitating.

John didn't think much of the big man's accommodations. It was a large tent on the outskirts of the city, in the middle of a shanty town of hovels and tents with hard eyed men and women glaring at the passersby.

The guide had told him that town was Bedouin, a nation within the nations of the Middle East. Desert nomads who never became civilized and clung to the old ways of herding and traveling the desert, often on camelback. Seeing the shantytown, John could believe.

A quick conversation in Arabic between the guide and two men outside led to the tent flap being opened and John received a brisk nod to enter. The inside of the tent was dark and had that peculiar odor of sweat and human skin, like a cave of a man.

The big man was sitting cross legged on a pillow, watching John enter with dark, hard eyes under an Arab headdress.

"Salaam, wala, aleikum Sheikh of the Bedouin," John said in halting Arabic that his guide had drilled him on during their walk over to the shantytown.

"Actually, old boy, I'm Jewish," the robed man said in a crisp, English accent, then motioned for him to sit.

"I thought the Bedouins were Arab nomads," John said in some surprise as he took a seat on a pillow opposite the fellow.

"For the most part, they are. Money, however, has no religion." The man grinned briefly. "And the opportunities life with the Bedouin provides are... innumerable. My name is Gabriel."

"I'm John," John replied politely. "And I..."

"Want to get into the Silk Curtain, your boy said." Gabriel leaned forward intently, staring at John with black eyes. "But he did not say why and that is most curious."

John hesitated, trying to think fast and come up with a reasonable explanation on the fly. "I've heard rumors about the place and wanted to see it myself. I'm a writer, you see."

Gabriel snorted, leaning back, resting a hand on his belt, near the curved knife that every Bedouin seemed to wear. "And you no doubt believe that this is the Paris of the roaring 20s? You are sadly mistaken, sir, and I'll thank you not to take me for a fool."

John was taken aback, but Gabriel wasn't finished. "My curiosity is the only reason I have not seen fit to have you shot, but my love of the truth is much stronger than my desire to indulge my curiosity. Now, the truth, old boy."

John had felt his heart rate increase in a unique mix of anger and fear. He was not used to being threatened and didn't like the experience at all. But he needed this nomad. "A woman I once knew, who vanished, I heard from someone who knew her, that he saw her here," John said haltingly, trying to give enough information to convince the other man without giving too much away.

Gabriel seemed a bit amused, definitely less annoyed... and perhaps a bit interested? He leaned back, hand inching away from his knife hilt. "Women of all sorts can be found in the Curtain. But I don't believe I'll help you with this."

"Why not?" John demanded, frustrated at being so close and denied.

"You seem like a man intent on causing trouble, friend," the robed nomad said, studying John's face intently. "And I'd rather the men you trouble not trouble me in return, you understand?"

"You don't understand," John blurted out in a rush. "This is the woman I love... and I'll pay you... 1000 dollars, American, to get me in, one night."

Gabriel didn't react immediately. The man would have made a masterful poker player. Nothing touched his face, or his eyes. He simply sat silently, as if he had turned off everything but his mind to contemplate John's offer.

Finally, slowly, Gabriel smiled, a sharp gash of a smile that revealed more than a few teeth. "Perhaps I'm a romantic at heart, but I cannot say no to your love. Nor your money. I shall take you to the Silk Curtain, this very night."

A few hours later, at around ten, the two men clambered into the back of a beaten-up old Cadillac driven by a veiled Bedouin. Gabriel said something to the driver in Arabic and the man nodded once before pulling the car out.

"What is the Silk Curtain, if you don't mind me asking?" John said, full of nervous energy that only grew more intense the closer they got.

"It's a ... night club, strip club, brothel, and more." Gabriel said comfortably, leaning back.

John stared at the man. "What do you mean? And what does and more mean?"

Gabriel shrugged easily. "In Libya, money is stronger than laws, my friend, and the Sahara is all but impossible to patrol. Tripoli is a natural meeting point for gun runners, drug runners, rebels and whatnot."

John thought that over for a minute, and then said slowly, "You mean, the Silk Curtain...?"

"Is a place where men can go for utter privacy to do whatever business they need to do," Gabriel continued smoothly, "and be entertained while they wait."

John nodded slowly. That made some sense at least. "What business is it you do, if you don't mind?"

"I do mind," Gabriel said sharply. "You'll forgive me, but I don't trust you so much as to discuss my affairs with you."

The rest of the trip the men made in silence. John stewed, muddling it through in his mind. Drug runners, gun runners? Terrorists, as well, probably. He briefly wondered what kind of mess he was stepping into.

The car pulled up to the front of the Silk Curtain and Gabriel opened his door, stepping out. John leapt out of his side of the car, coming around to follow tight on Gabriel's heels.

It was a different man at the door this hour, a curly haired man with a neatly trimmed beard. The suit and rifle were the same though. Gabriel just nodded and the doorman nodded in reply as the nomad breezed past him, John in tow.

They walked to the front of the Palace, where a massive, ornate double door waited them. Two guards swung the door open as they approached and Gabriel lead John inside the Silk Curtain.

The Silk Curtain was vastly different from any American club John had ever been to. There was DJ, nor immediately obvious music, though John could hear the beat of a tambourine. There was no bar in sight.

The center of the courtyard was dominated by a massive fountain, large enough that the term pool might have been more appropriate. Dozens of women sat on the granite edge of the bowl of the fountain, women of every different colour and shape. All of them were beautiful and most only half dressed, in swimwear, or lingerie, or topless. The left and right walls of the courtyard were dominated by large, dark alcoves, all veiled off for privacy. John peered at one veil, till Gabriel seized his forearm sharply. John got the immediate message that being seen prying was a very bad idea.

Gabriel walked around the fountain, not even glancing at the beauties who eyed them as they passed. Several of the women were playing in the fountain, splashing each other and giggling wildly like seductive nymphs.

John was lead away from the fountain and into the next room. This room was more conventional to John's mind. Two large stages centered the room, each with a pair of tall golden poles. Lining the walls were small alcoves, each consisting of a semi-circular couch and a low table. But here, the numbers were more visible and most of the alcoves were claimed by three or four men in conversation.

An olive skinned, dark haired woman in a low cut black dress came forward, opening her mouth to say something to them, but Gabriel interrupted her with a few quick words in Arabic and then stalked past her, heading to one of the couches. John trailed after him.

Gabriel flopped down on the couch, stretching his arms out expansively. John sat down, hands in his lap as he stared around. "What did you say to the girl?"

Gabriel raised his eyebrow as if confused, then shrugged. "Oh, the greeter? I told her we wanted to be served in English. I didn't bother to ask for a specific girl."

John opened his mouth to inquire further, but at that moment, a woman approached their table. She had midnight black hair that framed a very pretty oval of a face and fell along her shoulders and down her back. Her skin was fair, almost pale. She wore a tight black corset that emphasized her round breasts and narrow waist. Her rump was shapely in black lace panties and lacy stockings barely concealed her long, shapely legs. Her high heels made her long tall, thought John thought she might have only been 5'6 without the four inch spikes.

She smiled at them wickedly, lips a soft red, sweet as blood. "Good evening, Masters. I'm Chase. How can I serve you this evening?"

"Scotch on the rocks," Gabriel ordered calmly.

"Ah, I'll just have a Budweiser," John said a bit more nervously.

The woman nodded, turning to go, and Gabriel called after her, "Oh, and extend my compliments to table fifteen."

Chase nodded over her shoulder and continued off. John couldn't help but notice the gorgeous sway of her hips, the way her round rump rolled with her steps. He hadn't been with a woman since Constance disappeared, and he felt an immediate if guilty ache for Chase.

On the stage, a flame haired beauty with creamy skin and freckles that screamed 'Irish' danced, accompanied only by the beat of a tambourine held by an olive skinned Middle Eastern woman beside the stage. The dancer combined a mix of belly dancing with strip tease, rolling her hips as she slowly slid down her panties and kicked them off, then leaping up the golden pole, spinning around it, agile as a Minx.

John couldn't help but watch enraptured for a few moments, interrupted only as Chase returned, setting a tall, cold Budweiser before him and a glass of amber liquid in front of Gabriel, who nodded to her brusquely. "The gentlemen at table fifteen return your compliments, Master, and invite you to join them," Chase said in her low, throaty tone before turning and padding off again.




Silk Curtain Ch. 02



John paused for a moment, hand around his beer. "We didn't pay her," he said.

Gabriel snorted. "Of course not," he said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

John raised his eyebrows, inquiring and Gabriel smirked as if he was forced to answer the questions of a child. "I'm a member. Food, drink, the girls, they're included in the membership fees."

John gaped for a moment. "You mean, you can get anything you want...?"

Gabriel shrugged as he sipped his scotch. "Most anything. They don't always have western food and some of the girls aren't available for sex."

John nodded slowly. "But some are?"

Gabriel nodded in reply. "Obviously. Even the ones that are restricted from sex should be available to serve drinks or give you a few lap dances if you want, though. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a quick spot of business to attend to."

With that, Gabriel rose, scotch in hand, and strolled over to table fifteen to join three Spanish looking men in jeans and t-shirts. The men immediately leaned forward to begin speaking to the nomad and not one seemed to pay the slightest bit of attention to the girls on stage.

John, however, let himself enjoy the show. The Irish girl was replaced by a buxom blonde in a cowboy hat and chaps, which made him feel a brief surge of patriotic resentment. After her, a Oriental girl went up and the Middle Eastern woman by the stage switched from the tambourine to some odd stringed instrument.

Chase returned, bringing John another beer, then murmured, "Can I do anything else for you, Master?"

"I was just curious about getting a lap dance or maybe a table dance..." John ventured, thinking of the buxom cowgirl briefly.

"Yes, Master," Chase replied immediately, her hands slipping to the laces of her corset. "Would you like me, or have you selected another girl?"

John blinked in surprise. "You're available too?" he said a bit lamely.

Chase gave him a smoky smile. "Of course, Master. All the girls are. You can select me, any of the girls at the fountain, whomever you wish, as long as they aren't serving another."

John couldn't help but feel a surge of arousal. A brief flash of blue from the stage tugged at the corner of his eye for a moment, but his mind was a bit distracted as he thought back to the mass of girls at the fountain and wandering through the stage area. "Give me a few minutes to decide..." he began and then trailed off, voice dying in his throat.

Chase simply shrugged and wandered off, but John didn't notice her go. His eyes were fixed on the stage.

On stage was a woman in a blue sundress that clung to her supple, slender body. She was as tall in her bare feet as Chase was in her heels, maybe even taller, and her legs were incredible. Long, slender. Perfectly toned, slim-thighed, smooth-calfed, they put to shame any of the other dancers. Her waist was narrow as a wasp's but, despite her willowy figure, she had round breasts that would have defied her body type if the soft sway and bob they made under the loose top of the sun dress didn't cry out that they were real. Her face was one of the prettiest in the club, prettier than the Irish girl or the cowgirl, maybe even prettier than Chase. The woman in the blue dress had full lips with a small, secretive smile, a pert nose, and big blue eyes, light as the sky and so bright that they were noticeable even from across a poorly lit room.

It was Constance.

Or at least, the very image of her.

There were differences. Most immediately, Constance had always worn her hair no longer than her shoulder blades and pulled back in a tight pony tail. This mirror image had let her own platinum blonde locks grow into wild dreadlocks that spilled all the way down to her buttocks.

Constance had always been shy and reserved. This girl had a small, secretive smile, reminiscent of the ones Constance had given to him. But as the beat started, she began to roll her hips with a wildly sexual intensity, strutting down the stage as she slowly rolled the hem of her summer dress up to reveal the curves of her thighs.

The strap of the platinum haired dancer's sundress slipped down from her shoulder, and the dancer raised her fingertips to her mouth, bright blue eyes wide in mock surprised, as if to say "How did that happen?" Yet, immediately after her soft red lips curved in a delightfully mischievous smile as she toyed with the lowered strap, fiddling fingers begging the question, pull it up or slip it off?

And the buzz of the crowd was definite: off. The dancer slowly slid the other strap down her rounded shoulder, then rolled the dress down, to reveal round, full breasts, soft and pink-nippled despite lightly bronzed skin. She pushed the dress down past firm, fit abs and down off her slim hips, letting it flutter to the floor, pooling around her ankles, then stepping out of it with a proud strut.

She wore no panties. Her sex was shaven utterly bare and the pink folds were visible as she strutted about.

John stared, mouth hanging open in wonder. So like Constance... yet Constance had never gone a day without underwear, not like this defiantly bare free spirit. Constance had been naturally slim, the gift of superb genetics. Constance had hated shaving her pussy and only trimmed it at his badgering insistence. Constance had been fair skinned, this girl was tanned like she spent a good portion of her leisure on the beach, and the lack of lines said she went bare outside her work as well. This girl had a slenderness that was athletic, a flat belly that showed the outlines of a strong abdomen, slender thighs that were very firm if soft-looking. As she spun to rest her hands on the golden rail, John saw her rump was equally firm, so tight and taut that it barely bounced with her steps as she padded around the pole.

The dancer leapt, pulling the pole into her navel, curling around it and spinning wildly, dreadlocks fanning out in a platinum shower and John saw a flash of dark ink across the back as she did. She spun down the pole, laying out limply around the base of it, slowly arching her back with an inviting roll of that perfect, fit, slim body, breasts rising and falling with a sweet bounce. She rolled over onto her back, then swept her jumbled hair forward up her left shoulder, baring her smooth back.

That was when John saw it. Blazoned boldly across her shoulder blades, dominating the top of her back. Broad wings curled around the blades of her shoulders, a segmented body followed the line of her spine, two curled antenna traveled up to just beneath the nape of her neck. A butterfly, inked in blue and green, proud across her back.

The girl grinned wickedly back over her shoulder, nibbling her fingernail flirtatiously. She rolled over onto her back, and kicked her legs out wide, to either side. John, at the side of the room couldn't see, but he could see the appreciation on the guests in front of the stage, see the lascivious smile on the dancer's face. She lifted her hips invitingly, bouncing her rump on the stage, teasing, showing all the guests her flexibility, her nimbleness. She slowly sat up, sitting, but legs still spread into a perfect horizontal split. She held the position for a moment, as if to show her ligaments had been toned and strengthened to the point where this was no longer a strain for her. Then she began to slowly grind her hips back and forth.

The audience, John had noticed, had virtually ignored the previous girls. The men were here to conduct business and the dancers and waitress were as irrelevant as the paint on the walls. This girl was different. Men looked up from their drinks and discussions to watch the playful, nimble beauty with her incredibly lithe, flexible body.

And she reveled in their attention.

The butterfly on her back seemed to float as she kipped up her feet with a smooth uncoiling, graceful and swift. Her hands twined the pole and she leaped, going vertical along it's length, toes pointed to the roof like a ballerina's, body along the top half to the pole, dreadlocks pooling down almost to the ground. She held the position for a moment, then, with an arch of her leg, caught the pole in the bend of her knee and spun around it like a top, wild and fey. She shimmied down the pole, rose, walking a circle around it, paused. She rubbed her breasts against it, then took it between her thighs and thrust herself against it, arching her back till she was a bridge. 

Someone in the audience whistled in appreciation.

The dancer smiled with sweet, playful innocence and tossed her head as she straightened. She threw her slender arms up and sprang, backwards, over onto her hands, then flipped up to her feet, throwing her arms up again, back arched in a curve, proud breasts swaying. Gymnast and acrobat as well as dancer and contortionist. With a grin, she turned and strutted slowly off the stage.

John realized his mouth was dry. His watch told him she had been up on stage for nearly 13 minutes. His mind said she had only been on there a few seconds, too brief. He wanted more. John drained his beer and looked around. Sometime during the girl's dance, Gabriel had returned to the table, scotch in hand. John hadn't noticed.

Gabriel grinned at him, a wolf's grin. "You were distracted, old boy," the nomad said.

John couldn't help but nod.

Chase came by the table, with a beer and a scotch. John took the beer with a nod of thanks. "So, Master, did you pick a girl yet?" Chase said with an arch smile. Obviously, his breathless, slack jawed staring hadn't gone unnoticed. 

John could only nod.

"I'll send Butterfly by the table then," Chase said playfully, not even bothering to draw out asking him what girl he wanted to see, then turned and walked off to the back room.

John stared at that door till he felt his eyes might pop. And a few minutes later, when she walked out in her thin blue summer dress, he thought they might.

She padded towards them, steps smooth and hips swaying. "Hello, Masters," she said in a soft voice; in his heart, John knew it was Constance. He knew that voice to his bones. He heard it every night in his dreams.

The girl bent forward over the table slightly, and murmured to Gabriel. "The gentlemen of table eight extend their compliments, Mastah, and invite you to share a drink with them."

Gabriel nodded, leaned forward to look over across the room, then nodded again, rising and leaving to go investigate.

And as soon as he left, she slid into his seat, across the couch from John, only the low table separating them. She crossed her long legs, running a hand along a slick thigh to rest on her knee and smiled at him playfully.

"So, Masta, did you enjoy my little dance?" she said innocently, then grinned.

John started. Constance had a slight, classy Boston drawl. This girl was pure Southern Belle, with Mississippi on her tongue. It was endearing, but it wasn't Constance. Constance couldn't do impressions or accents to save her life and she had rolled her eyes at southern belles.

"Very, very much," John said truthfully. "What's your name?"

"Why, it's Buttafly, Masta," the girl replied with her endearing, playful grin.

John was stunned. It was Constance. And it wasn't. It was as if she didn't recognize him, as if she had never seen him before in her life. And so much about her was different, for a moment he was sure it wasn't her at all, that it all had been a beautiful dream born of loneliness and longing.

"W...where are you from?" he said, trying to cover his confusion.

"Louisiana," she replied. Damn, he'd guessed the accent wrong. "I'm from New Orleans, Mastah."

"So how'd you end up here?" he asked, a bit harshly.

If she noticed his upset, she gave no sign of it. "Well, Mastah, the pay's mighty fine. A girl can work two, three years here an' make more than she could in 10 years dancin' stateside."

"How long have you been here?" John asked, probingly.

"'Bout a year an' a half now, Mastah," she replied sweetly. 

"How'd you get the job?" he continued to press.

"I was dancin' out at the Gold Club back home, when a talent scout approached me and offered me a contrac' out here as a feature ent'taina," she said with that southern lilt laced across her words.

"How old are you? How long is your contract for?" he prodded, hoping for some sign of a reaction.

"I'm 23 now, Mastah, an' I'm on a 10 year personal."

John couldn't believe it. Everything about her was so physically similar to Constance, but her words, her personality, her background, were completely different. John felt frustrated and more than a bit upset. Her answers were smooth, natural. There was no sign of deceit as she looked him straight in the eye, her sky blue eyes ingenuous.

It was clear she was utterly convinced and her conviction shook his. Maybe this WASN'T his Constance, just a sweet, painful resemblance that played on his nerves. He was grasping at straws and he latched on to the last thing she said.

"A 10 year personal?"

"Tha's righ' Mastah. It means ma contract is with a fella, instead of the Silk Curtain itself," she said with a warm smile.

"Oh," John said a bit dumbly, not fully understanding. He was at a wall.

But she continued into his pause smoothly. "So, what would y'all like tonight Mastah? Ma contrac' sahys no penahtrat'on, but I bet I cahn still make ya smile," she said with an puckish smile of her own.

"No sex or penetration?" John said, still feeling like he was in a fog.

Butterfly smiled, then slipped out of her seat, coming around the table and slipping in beside him. "How ahbou' we do this, Mastah," she murmured to him, her voice low as she whispered in his ear.

She slowly sidled up, into his lap, resting her round firm derriere on his thighs. She twisted slightly, her feet brushing the floor. The way she sat, she felt light as a feather across his legs, comfortable, warm, soft. Perfect. Even the way she held her head, her face close to his cheek so they could talk smoothly, but off to the side, so she didn't block his view of the stage. She took his hands, guiding them to the slender inner curves of her waist. "How ahbou', I tell Chahse to take a breahk fo' a while, an' I serve aht yo' tahble for a bit, Mastah?" she continued in a silky, playful voice.

John felt his heart pounding in his chest so hard he thought she would be able to feel it.

She read his speechlessness as hesitation and continued in a low purr in his ear. "We can have a drink togetha, maybe, and I can give you a little bit of a lap dance."

John nodded. His hands were practically shaking. "That sounds... amazing."

"Mmmm." Butterfly didn't replied, just gave a soft humm/purr that he definitely felt through his shirt as she leaned back, resting her head on his shoulder.

John whispered suddenly, "Take off your dress."

Butterfly paused a moment, a brief half hesitation and John blushed slightly. "Umm, would you mind taking off your dress for a moment."

Butterfly shrugged slightly, her shoulders rubbing against his chest and she grinned wickedly. "Not a' all, Mastah," she murmured, swiftly rolling up the hem of her dress and pulling it up off her head, dropping it on the couch beside them.

Butterfly showed utterly no shyness or inhibition in peeling off her dress in front of a stranger. And why should she? Her body was as perfect up close as it appeared on stage, a one in a million blend of fitness, diet, and genetics. 

John barely noticed. His eyes went immediately to her slender side. And there it was. A faint white line, so thin he could scarcely see it in the dim light, but one he remembered well. "You had your appendix out," he murmured.

Butterfly grinned and shrugged. "Well, bettah out than in, Mastah," she joked lightly, apparently no more bothered by her scar than her nudity. Constance would have blushed and stuttered. She hated her scar.

The platinum blonde haired dancer began to grind her hips against his, her round rump rubbing his groin till he felt he might explode. But she read him well, pausing at exactly the right moments, teasing him, building him up, slowly cooling him off. She rubbed her back against her chest, tossed her head, spilled her dreadlocks down his arm. He felt the tight knobby curls with his fingers, then rubbed his hand up the bumps of her spine to the tattoo of her namesake in vivid blue and green across her shoulder blades. He ran his fingers across the bright ink. "How long have you had that?"

Butterfly smiled. "Since I was sixteen, Mastah. All my friends used ta call me Butterfly, so when I had saved up some little bit a' money, I lied about my age an' got thaht ink put on."

John nodded, then frowned slightly, looking at the bright, vivid ink. Something seemed... odd. A little tinkle in his head.

But not in hers. She gave another soft moaning purr, grinding him once more, rubbing her hands down his thighs. "Wanna see one of my favohrite positions?" she asked innocently.

John nodded wordlessly. 

Slowly, she rolled her hips back till her sex was positioned right over the bulge in his jeans, her thighs wide and legs alongside his. Then she bend forward, sliding her hands down on the table, her back a smooth arch that showed her delicate, slim line and bright tattoo, hair spun out across the table. "I think this one can be alot a' fun, Mastah," she said impishly.

"Oh God yes," John murmured. Constance had never done much but missionary. He would have loved to have gotten her into this position.

At that moment, Chase returned. "Can I get you pair something to drink?" she whispered in passing.

"Another beer and a martini please," John ordered instantly, without thinking. Butterfly didn't bother to correct him. Instead she slipped off his lap, turning to face him. She pressed her fingernails into his knees and he could feel her sharp tips rake across his skin in a way that made him shiver as she ran her fingers up his thighs. She pressed her face almost against his hard swell, tossing her head, then slowly climbed on top of him, straddling him. She wrapped her arms around him, hugging him tightly and giggling softly next to his ear, then she drew his face in between her soft breasts, bobbing her shoulders to rub her breasts in his face. John gasped, inhaling the scent of her light feminine sweat, her perfume, her skin, till he felt faint and weak in the knees.

She danced for him for the better part of two hours, rubbing, grinding, touching, teasing, murmuring softly in his ear, sometimes in flirtation, sometimes joking. The entire time, John's mind swayed like a pendulum. Was she Constance or Butterfly? He didn't know.

She was perfect. That he did know. She was a master of playing his desires, toying with him, flirting, just playful enough to be sexy, never going across the line into sluttiness, utterly uninhibited, but never in a raunchy way. If all women were like this, John thought, there would be no war. He cupped her breasts, squeezed them. They were full and round, but natural. He squeezed her rump, which was firm. He ran his hands up and down her flanks, along her thighs, across her back. He rubbed her shoulders and she returned the favor. 

And suddenly the moment snapped with a pale hand on Butterfly's back. Chase leaned in and murmured, "You're needed in the back for your set with Vixen."

Butterfly sighed, slipping off John's lap and picking up her martini. She had barely touched it over the last two hours, but now she plucked an olive off the stick, rolling it between her fingers. "Well, I guess I best go get ready," she said with another sigh.

Chase had already wandered off.

Butterfly stood, picking up her dress. "I hahve ta do another set, with a partnah this time. It's very sexual, I hope ya like it."

With that, she turned and padded off, hips swaying.

John sighed and sat back. He was still hard as a rock. He had been so for so long that it was becoming painful, especially in his jeans which had seemed loose when he put them on, but where now far too tight.




Silk Curtain Ch. 02



No sooner than Butterfly had left, Gabriel returned, sitting once more. John tried to play cool. "Finished your business?" he joked.

"Are you finished with yours?" the Middle Eastern man returned with a grin. "I've been done for an hour, but I didn't want to come back and interrupt you when you were having so much fun. Was that your true love?"

John halted. "I...I don't know. Physically, she's perfect and she seems...exactly like my Constance. But she's not the same girl..."

Gabriel shrugged, apparently writing the question off as a bad investment. John couldn't blame him. He himself didn't know how he felt.

He finished his beer, feeling his erection dying down. Suddenly, the arabic woman near the stage cried out something in Arabic; a few people looked up and one or two even pounded on their tables, Gabriel amongst them.

"What did she say?" John asked curiously.

Gabriel replied with a small smirk. "She said the main show will now begin, featuring Vixen and Butterfly. I think there are maybe ten people here tonight who understood that," he continued with some disgust.

John too had noticed that the club didn't include very many actual Arabic patrons, but didn't think to inquire. His mind was on the upcoming show.

A few moments later, a tall blonde woman walked out of the backdoor and onto the stage. She was tall as Butterfly, as Constance. But she was more buxom, with a fuller ass and breasts that were not even arguably real, but so perfectly shaped for their size that John couldn't complain. She wore a red velvet corset that slimmed her and emphasized her full chest and round rump and thigh-high red leather boots that shone in the dimmed lights. She wore no panties, leaving her sex and rump bare, nor bra, leaving her breasts nude as well. Her hair was sandy blonde, sleek and straight and her face had a cast that was decidedly... well, vixenish.

Vixen stalked to the end of the stage, surveyed the audience then smirked before turning and stalking back to the stage door.

She reached in, seized something and pulled. Butterfly stepped out. John gasped. She was utterly nude save for her neck. Around her slender neck she wore a thick steel collar with a ring at the throat. Vixen had her forefinger through that ring and used it to control the slimmer woman. With a small tug, she put Butterfly on her knees, thighs wide spread to show her most intimate details. From the top of her boot, Vixen pulled a long, leather leash and snapped the end neatly on the D shaped ring of Butterfly's collar.

With that, Butterfly sunk down, slowly sliding her hands along the ground. Collared and leashed, she began to slink forward, or perhaps was walked forward by Vixen, who strutted beside her every step. Butterfly moved like a feline, sliding so low that her breasts brushed the stage, long legs curling as she crawled out, eyes intense, almost feral.

At the end of stage, Vixen halted the slender dancer with a tug of her leash. Another tug at the top of the other thigh high boot produced a long, slender riding crop.

With a sharp tug of the leash, Vixen pulled Butterfly into a kneel, back straight and proud, a pose Butterfly held for all of a second before giving a decidedly wild thrash of her body and flinging herself on her side. With a press of the crop, Vixen forced Butterfly to arch her back, showing off her round breasts and just as quickly Butterfly crossed her arms across them, bending at her waist and curling away, protecting herself. The red booted dominatrix pressed the tip of the crop to Butterfly's navel, slowly tracing it up her abdomen, flinging her arms off her breasts, straightening her, then tickling the crop up from Butterfly's underarm up to her wrist. No sooner than she halted than Butterfly collapse in a low heap, breasts pressed against her slender knees.

They teased the audience for long minutes. With each tug of the leash, Vixen forced Butterfly to expose more of herself. And with each release, Butterfly defiantly squirmed away. With each press of the crop, Butterfly was herded into a new, more vulnerable posture, but as soon as it was absent she writhed like a wild animal.

The audience moaned with delight at the act. John couldn't help but feel a flutter of thrill with every motion. It was odd. He felt a lustful ache whenever Vixen forced Butterfly to make a provocative dance step, but a fiery sense of pride and exhilaration whenever she escaped.

And just that suddenly, Vixen gave a sharp yank on the leash, pulling Butterfly out onto her hands and knees, her round rump lifting as she was tugged forward. Vixen immediately stepped over the other girl, straddling her over the small of her back. John waited for Butterfly's escape, but before she could squirm away, Vixen brought the crop down across Butterfly's perfect, firm ass with a whistle and a smack of leather on flesh that made the entire audience jump. Butterfly surged forward away from the blow, mouth opening in a wild, silent cry, eyes closing tightly. She moved to rebalance herself on her hands and knees, but Vixen moved in time, bringing the crop down on the other woman's rump again, forcing another wild surging buck out of poor Butterfly. With a small cry, Butterfly flung herself backwards, defiantly lifting her rear into the air, as if daring the crop to land again. But it was a dare she shouldn't have made, for Vixen brought it down with a soft swoosh that send Butterfly flat on her belly on the ground.

With a proud strut, Vixen moved around from behind Butterfly to the front of her, extending her foot with a proud thrust of her hip, pointing with her crop. And submissively, Butterfly crawled forward, a gorgeous, nimble pink tongue rolling out of her mouth as she began to kiss and lick Vixen's boot. There was a slow pause and then Butterfly's mouth began to slide up the side of Vixen's boot, kissing and licking. Resting one hand on Butterfly's head for balance, Vixen kicked her other leg up, wrapping the knee around the dance pole to steady herself, her neatly trimmed sex exposed. Surging upwards, Butterfly pressed her mouth against Vixen's waiting nether lips. A slight turn of Vixen's hips allowed the audience to see Butterfly's agile tongue exploring, flitting over, even penetrating briefly. The contact was obviously real and Vixen smiled in unfeigned pleasure.

After a few moments, Vixen uncoiled her leg and tugged Butterfly's leash, putting her back down on all fours. Vixen straddled the leashed girl once more, pressing down on her head to force Butterfly's breasts and face to the floor. Then she reached behind herself with the crop, spreading Butterfly's thighs with it, resting the tip lightly against the dancer's sex. Slowly, Vixen began to rub the crop in circles, and almost immediately after, Butterfly picked up the rhythm with her hips, moving her rump up and down, as if making love to the long leather lash.

Vixen stepped off, running the crop down the length of Butterfly's bare spine to the nape of her neck; then, as before, gave a small tug of the leash to pull her upwards. But this time, the newly 'tamed' Butterfly didn't squirm away or resist. This time, she pulled herself up, thighs still parted, giving her back an arch to make her breasts jut out even more pronouncedly, arms twined over her head. Vixen slowly worked Butterfly through ever position she had been in before, but this time Butterfly flung herself into each one with enthusiasm and her supple, graceful body easily slipped into forms that conveyed a range of sensuality that John had never before seen in a woman. It was also painfully obvious that the long legged dancer wasn't at all afraid of the crop. She willing writhed and squirmed, letting Vixen explore her body with it, tease her with. The red velvet dominatrix gave Butterfly's breasts a few light taps with the tip of the crop, not quite hard enough to be spanks, then stroked it up the girl's neck and brushed it across her full soft lips playfully. Butterfly moaned and kissed the crop passionately to a small swell of applause, then Vixen gave a tug of the leash, putting Butterfly down on all fours once more, her cheek pressed to Vixen's boot and her heart-shaped hind end lifted in the air. Vixen swept the crop from the nape of the dancer's neck down her spine and into the valley between her buttocks, tickling her lightly below. Butterfly gave a small squeal and toss, the closest she'd come to any sort of sign of lack of enjoyment during this section of the performance. John could not help but stare. Throughout it all, Butterfly's expression was wanton, her eyes adoringly staring up at Vixen. Her intensity was so sincere that John decided it either wasn't an act at all or else Butterfly was the most gifted actress he had ever seen in his life. 

Vixen was apparently impressed by the amorous dancing girl as well. With a sudden jerk she tossed the crop aside, grabbed the ring of Butterfly's collar and heaved the girl to her feet. Butterfly balanced on the balls of her feet gracefully as Vixen flung her arms around the other girl, kissing her passionately, long and hot. Butterfly's hands went to the Vixen's sides as the dominatrix kissed her mouth hard, running red painted finger nails up and down the dancer's spine, scraping lightly across that blue and green tattoo on her shoulders. John had no idea if this was part of the show or simply an amorous explosion by the two women. Certainly, they were paying no attention to the audience, making it clear that they were focused on each other.

Vixen dipped the slimmer girl backwards, slowly laying her out on the stage and pressing down on top of her, still maintaining their passionate kiss. John could see their tongues swirling in brief gasps for air. The dominant dancer began to work her way down Butterfly's pliant body, kissing her chin and jaw, a thin trail of saliva still connecting the pair at the mouth as Vixen shook Butterfly's collar lightly. The gesture was affectionate, even playful and then Vixen swooped lower, kissing and nibbling Butterfly's collarbone and heading down to suckle at her round bosoms eagerly. Constance would have never allowed that. Even the few times John had teased her about the possibility, she had been uncomfortable and silent. Constance was the straightest arrow he had ever known.

Butterfly on the other hand was reveling in the love play with the voluptuous dancer. Butterfly set her hands on Vixen's breasts, squeezing and needing them lovingly till her nipples hardened, then sliding around to massage Vixen's shoulders. Vixen grinned broadly as she used her stiffened nipples to rub against Butterfly's in a somewhat awkward yet highly visually pleasing embrace, then plunged down to begin to kiss the supine dancer's navel and toned abdomen.

Vixen's hand felt on the crop once more and she picked it up with a grin, one that Butterfly returned eagerly. Vixen used the crop to tickle and tease Butterfly's nipples, then ran it down her stomach as she traced kisses down further. A sudden raising of Butterfly's thighs hide Vixen's face from view, but the sudden long, low moan from Butterfly left no doubt in any one's mind where Vixen has buried her tongue.

Butterfly's toes curled as Vixen buried her face into the lithe dancer's sex. The platinum haired beauty moaned in delight, gasping and arching her back gracefully, lifting her hips to Vixen's exploring tongue. Butterfly's hands cupped her full breasts, stroking her own nipples for effect. After a long moment of loving lapping, Vixen came up for air, lunging up to pin Butterfly down on the stage with a hard kiss. With a pleased smile, Butterfly embraced her lover, pulling her down for a deeper, more passionate lip lock even as she slid her incredibly shapely legs around Vixen in a sensual embrace, her feet pressing down on Vixen's curvy behind encouragingly. Vixen slowly began to rock back and forth, mounting the other woman, making love to her, alternately stroking Butterfly's flanks and tickling her slender curves with the crop.

Butterfly stared up at the other woman amorously, then bucked and moaned loudly. Her fingers slid down Vixen's back, rubbing her fingertips in soft circles and pressing her lips close to Vixen's ear to give a soft, feminine purr and then lightly licking the sandy blonde's earlobe. John felt a jolt go down his spine. He knew then, without a shadow of a doubt. He was watching Constance make love. That was his missing wife's sweet voice purring in Vixen's ear. Those were Constance's low, breathy cries of pleasure. That was Constance's enthusiastic wriggle of delight as Vixen had her way with the platinum haired beauty's body.

Finally, Butterfly convulsed and her voice trembled in delight. John knew that Constance made that exact same noise and gesture during orgasm. The two women fell apart in a sweat-slicked jumble and Butterfly quickly threw her arms around Vixen, hugging her close and kissing her deeply, the first kiss Butterfly had initiated during the show. As soon as their lips parted, Butterfly's lips went to Vixen's ear and she murmured something, inaudible from the distance, but John knew she had whispered "I love you." That was exactly what Constance did after their lovemaking.

Vixen smiled fiercely at her lover then slowly got to her feet, reaching down to take Butterfly's hands and pull her up as well. Vixen blew a kiss to the audience, wrapping her arm around Butterfly's slim waist, and the pair turned and walked back off the stage. John saw that Butterfly's knees were slightly wobbly, the way Constance had always been after intense sex. The audience noticed too, and seemed amused by the jelly legged dancer. That made John furious, more furious than seeing his wife writhing under another woman.

John suddenly picked up his beer, pounded it back and slammed the bottle on the table, hard enough to make the wood shiver. His blood was boiling, confusion replaced by anger. That was Constance; it had to be. No woman could be so similar in shape, form, and body language and not be the same woman. It was impossible.

After a few moments, Vixen emerged from the back room. She still wore her thigh-high boots, but she had added a pair of crimson silk panties and had switched from her breast baring corset to a lacey black corset that went up to just beneath her collarbone, giving her some covering. And right on her heels padded Butterfly/Constance, still nude save for the collar and leash. The pair of entertainers started on the other side of the room, walking around the tables. Vixen paused her and there, chatting with the patrons. Butterfly heeled after her, mostly silently. At one point, Vixen laughed in response to something said by a Spanish looking man at a table just across from John's own, then the red booted woman reached over to cup and fondle Butterfly's breast playfully, giving it a lascivious squeeze. Butterfly grinned too, tossing her head in response. A few tables later, Vixen reached across to give Butterfly a swat on the behind, chivvying the slim dancer into the lead and Butterfly giggled in response.

Finally, the pair worked their way over to the table that John and Gabriel shared. "Hello," Vixen said in an exuberant tone. "Did you enjoy our little show?"

Butterfly remained a shy step behind the Vixen, who in her red leather boots was taller than Butterfly was on her bare feet. Butterfly's pose was almost demure, with her hip slightly cocked and left knee bent a touch, but she kept her wrists crossed behind her back, baring her round breasts to great advantage.

"I believe I can say we enjoyed your show very much," Gabriel replied for them both. The man had a decidely cruel smirk, John noticed. "And we were enjoying Butterfly's company early as well. Perhaps you could join us for a drink?"

Vixen shrugged lazily. "Why not?" she murmured, slipping into a seat on the couch across from John beside Gabriel. Without any noticeable gesture, Butterfly immediately knelt next to Vixen, her slender thighs closed and round rump resting on her heels, smoothing her platinum dreadlocks down her back as she did.

This close, John noticed Vixen was older than he initially thought. There was a spot or two on her right arm, a few lines at the corner of her mouth and eyes. Her body was still incredible, from a life of working out and some artful plastic surgery, but John would have guessed her as a well preserved woman in her mid forties. She leaned forward and snapped her fingers, and, as if summoned by magic, Chase appeared. "Red wine for me," Vixen ordered.

John studied Butterfly, looking for some sign of recognition, some trace of the woman he knew her to be. Butterfly only had eyes for Vixen, staring at the older woman like an adoring pet.

"Does it bother you, being leashed like that?" John said abruptly, hoping to provoke some reaction out of Butterfly. Constance had certainly been a strident advocate of women's rights.

"Nat a' all, Mastah," Butterfly replied immediately, with a radiant smile, shifting her stance slightly as she knelt next to Vixen.

Vixen smiled as well, reaching down and tousling Butterfly's dreadlocks.

"Why not?" John continued to press. 

"I ahdore collah and leash play Mastah," Butterfly continued. "I think it's jus' one of the sexies' thangs in whole wide world."

Gabriel chuckled. "Well, I guess everyone has to have a hobby," he commented.

Butterfly gave him a mock pout. "It is sexy! Knowin' someone wants ya, so much they wanna own ya, is sexy. Bein' objectified can be fun sometimes."

John could never picture Constance saying or even thinking something like that. He would have thought she'd have gone ballistic on any woman who made a comment like that in jest. And Butterfly certainly didn't seem to be joking. She seemed to mean every word she was saying.

Vixen smiled wickedly as she sipped her wine, nodding in agreement with Butterfly but not commenting.

Gabriel gave one of his slow, careless shrugs. "Well, I'm sure my friend here wouldn't mind taking you off to an alcove and objectifying you," he said.

John reacted with a glare, angry that another man would be so forward with his Constance.

Vixen glared as well, but for another reason. "I'm sorry, sir, but Butterfly and I are not available for sex tonight," she said in a notably cool voice.

Gabriel turned his dark gaze on her and gave her a wolfish smile. John got the feeling that he wasn't a man used to being refused. "And whose idea is that?"

Vixen smiled in reply, still cold. Apparently she wasn't about to be cowed. "Our owner."

John felt his eyebrows rising and his blood temperature increasing. Butterfly had said something about a contract, a man, but...?

"And who would that be?" Gabriel said with some menace in his voice. "Perhaps I might have a word with him about a purchase."

And Vixen smiled, sweetly, serenely. "Gerhardt, sir."

Gabriel frowned, leaning back in his couch. John was confused.

Vixen finished her wine and stood, tugging Butterfly up to her feet. "Well, if you'll excuse us, please."

Vixen turned and stalked away to the back. Butterfly favored them with a parting smile, warm and sweet, then was tugged away by the leash still at her throat, heeling to Vixen as they entered the backroom together.

Gabriel downed his scotch and turned to John. "We're done here," he said, cold and hard as a desert night.

John nodded in disappointment and the two men rose, walking out to a waiting car.

As soon as they were away, John asked. "Who's Gerhardt?"

Gabriel frowned, seeming upset. "Gerhardt? Well, he's a slave trader."

"A slave trader?" John said. He was surprised that he didn't feel more shocked, but after this night of shocks he was beginning to feel numb. It was like he was in a different world entirely and nothing more could take him by surprise.