A Wind Blew Through Me Pt. 04

Hello kind readers! So far, I have resisted writing introductions, but i want to take a second to thank you for the support and positive feedback I've received on both of my series. This story in particular is very personal to me, and it means a lot that it has been received so well. It's sparked a renewed motivation to do the hard work of writing and editing every day, both for my own edification, and to share my work with you all.

I am very excited about this section in particular, and I hope you like it as much as I do. I think the characters really come into their own in this point of the story, and I think this is the best sex scene I have ever written.

So grab a glass of wine, or whatever makes you happy, and please enjoy:

Chapter 11 - The Epicenter of the Violence

With no shower to be found, our options for cleaning up were limited. The best we could find was a package of moist wipes lying under the coffee table. Amy cleaned herself up, finally removing her now ruined thong, and walked back toward her luggage to get dressed. I cleaned myself off as best I could, her sent still faintly clinging to my face, and put my clothes back on.

I extracted the DVD from the player and replaced it in its case, the cover art reminding me of several of the anecdotes Amy relayed to me about the movie. A smile crept over my face as I remembered how happy she was watching the film next to me. As I replaced the case on the shelf and closed the compartment, she slipped in behind me and took a seat on the couch.

I turned around and looked at her, smiling, and took a seat next to her. "It was really sweet to see how much you love that movie." I said softly.

She looked back at me, discomfort and gratitude fighting a silent battle on her face. "I do love that movie. And a lot of other movies. It's the violence, in Pulp Fiction. A collection of people who wield violence as a means to an end. In the Mia and Vincent scene, it's the overarching threat of violence from Marcellus that creates the tension, and creates the situation in which Mia almost comes to an accidental violent end. The men ritualize their violence, attempting to civilize it, but in the end we see it's all a pretense for justifying the indulgence of their more base desires."

She let it sit between us for a while and I thought about her insight, about how it looks behind her eyes.

"Mia is drawn to the epicenter of the violence, both attracted to and threatened by it. She thrives in the space between their pretense and reality, indulging her own desires as recklessly as she feels she can get away with."

She paused again, now looking down at nothing in particular. "It feels so reflective of my life. We are violent creatures, thrashing between our pretense and our reality, all of us just trying desperately to feel a sense of satisfaction, no matter how fleeting. Sex is a violent act to varying degrees, sometimes motivated by passion or the pursuit of pleasure, other times motivated by a lust for dominance or even subjugation. Often it is a fluid mix of different drives. Violence is as seductive as it can be terrifying, having as much potential to inflict harm as to force growth, and as much as we would like to think of ourselves as peaceful animals, we have always craved and reveled in our violence."

I felt like she was right, but her conclusion felt so alien from the typical human narrative that I began to feel the now-familiar sensation of uncomfortable, inevitable change. Her experience differed so wildly from mine, who was I to argue with her notions on the nature of human violence? I felt the violence in my own heart. I wanted her. Some part of me to dominate her, some part of me to feel her dominance. I could feel her slicing into me, altering me. And I craved more.

"Do you think men and women have the same capacity for violence?" I found myself saying to her eventually, the question somehow emerging directly from my subconscious.

For once, she didn't editorialize my question. "Yes. Men might have a stronger inclination toward physical violence, but that just means women become adept at inflicting intangible harm."

It was getting fairly late in the day, and it was difficult to maintain a clear sense of time as we raced toward the sun in the west. I wasn't certain how long I had slept earlier, but for her part, Amy was looking a bit tired. I hadn't had the sense to ask more about where we were going or when we were supposed to get there. Up until this moment, it didn't seem all that important.

"How much longer do you figure the flight will be?" I asked her finally, changing the subject.

"Oh, we've got a ways to go still. It's about 15 hours when it's all said and done, and it's a pretty extreme time change once we get on the ground. We will get there about 12:30 in the morning tomorrow our time, which will be 6:30pm in Christchurch."

"The jet lag is going to be a bitch any way we slice it, but it probably makes the most sense for us to take a bit of a nap here pretty soon. It's mid-morning in Christchurch now, so think of it as a bit of a siesta."

She stood up again and took my hand, pulling me to my feet. I was hungry, but not hungry enough to open that door again. I imagined she felt the same way. I supposed she was right, and it did feel like the right time for a nap. We crawled back into the bed together, this time she crawled onto my shoulder and rested her head on my chest. Before long, I felt her breathing slow as she drifted off to sleep, pulling me close behind her.

-

Chapter 12 - Otahuna

The rest of the flight and the twilight landing in Christchurch were surprisingly uneventful. Our nap, although pleasant, only reinforced my growing sense of surrealism at my surroundings. It was impossible to get my bearings after waking up, because the position of the sun did not seem to have changed.

We watched a few less auspicious films to pass the remaining hours of the flight, cuddling and occasionally chatting, but a bone-deep weariness began to set in towards the end of the flight. Not to mention a nagging hunger.

When the plane finally landed, we breezed past the captain and the steward without farewell, alighting the plane with all the haste we could manage in our weary state. A black car was waiting for us on the runway, which we boarded with enthusiasm.

When our luggage was transferred, the car sped us away at last, heading straight out of town and into the deepening darkness of the New Zealand countryside.

When the car finally pulled onto a tree-lined gravel driveway, the darkness was complete. My body felt out of sync with the world around me, my eyes telling me it had descended into the coolness of night, but my mind racing with the exuberant curiosity of a new morning.

The car veered around a wide driveway, revealing an intricately detailed white Victorian manor looking down at us from atop a small hill. In the dark, it had been sparsely illuminated so that one could make out interesting bits of the façade here and there, but the shadows created the illusion that the structure extended a vast distance in every direction.

Presently, we found ourselves pulling up to what must have been the entrance. A walkway stretched toward the manor, leading my eyes to an ornate door. At last the car came to a gentle halt, our final destination reached. I looked over at Amy, wonder now awash on her face as she looked at the place in front of us. For once, we seemed to have achieved the same level of surprise at an aspect of her trip.

The chauffeur opened the door after a moment and waited for us to alight his vehicle. I was anxious to see more of the structure before us, so I extracted myself from the car rapidly, turning back to see Amy do the same behind me.

Amy stood up and stared over my shoulder at the menagerie of columns, panels, eaves and chimneys which characterized the place before us. When I looked back at the building, a new man had appeared before us on the walkway up to the manor. He was short, not much taller than Amy, and while his face was difficult to make out in the gloom, we could see he wore a dark suit with a pressed white shirt and the same immaculate white gloves as the chauffeur.

"Welcome to the Otahuna Lodge, travelers, we have been anxiously awaiting your arrival." He said, his New Zealand drawl still a bit shocking to my ears. He continued, "Please, allow me to show you in..." He turned toward the lodge and motioned with his hand for us to follow.

We followed him up the stairs toward the door, which now stood open. We passed through a series of wooden columns, onto a porch which appeared to extend around the front of the lodge, and finally into the front door. The man gave a polite wave to the chauffeur as he shut the door behind us then led us toward a desk to the right of the entrance.

The interior was even more to take in than the exterior. Rich wood paneling seemed to cover every surface, including the ceiling, which vaulted above us like a cathedral. Sometimes, the wall panels gave way to a wallpaper which could have been mistaken for tapestry. In front of us stood a magnificent stairway, curving into the building like organic growth and disappearing mysteriously into another section of the structure. The furniture was of the sort you would expect to find in Buckingham Palace.

The desk behind which our guide now sat was carved dark wood, giving the onlooker the impression that it had grown from a seed right out of the hardwood floor.

Amy and I stood there in front of the desk for quite a while, wordlessly taking in the building before us. It must have been a common reaction for newcomers, because the man behind the desk expressed no surprise and made no move to shock us from our admiration.

"It is quite a wonderful place, is it not?" the man said gently, drawing our attention to him at last. Now that his face was clear in the light, I could see he was quite handsome. He sported an expertly-groomed mustache which hid most of his full lips. He had large brown eyes set behind a strong brow, and his chin bore a generous cleft. I looked back at him for several seconds, words not coming to my lips.

Amy, of course, came to her senses first and told him, "Never have I seen anything so beautiful in my life." She sounded perfectly genuine, and in the state of jet-lag induced delirium we began to find ourselves in, it was not a stretch to believe her.

"Ah..." the man now smiled broadly at her, her comment apparently inviting him to appraise her more directly. His eyes passed over her slowly from head to toe, wonder now dancing in his own eyes. He responded softly to her, "...but I do believe I have."

She stared back at him, clearly amused at the impertinence, but that edge of command taking form in her eyes. She stared back at him with a mixture of annoyance and indifference, "I'm afraid you've caught me on a bad day, then. A 16-hour, very eventful flight takes a lot out of a girl."

His smile grew into a wide grin and he quickly responded, "Of course, my lady, forgive me." He paused for a moment, finally looking over at me for the first time. His appraisal of me was not nearly so penetrating, but when he had finished, a faint confusion mottled his smile. "My name is Michael, and I am the concierge here at the Otahuna Lodge. Please allow me to welcome you warmly as our most honored guests."

He took a slight bow from behind the desk and shook both of our hands in turn. He continued, "I presume you are the ravishing lady Amy," he looked pointedly at Amy again and she gave a slight nod. "Excellent to make your acquaintance, my lady."

He turned now to me with a somewhat quizzical look. "And you, sir, I'm afraid I know only who you are not..." he looked meaningfully at me and waited for a response.

I mustered my most important voice and said, with perfect seriousness, "I am Sir Greggory." It was an effort for Amy not to laugh in my face next to me, which was made all the more difficult by the puzzled response I earned from Michael. I continued, somewhat less formally, "...but my friends call me Greg."

Michael took a moment to compose himself before responding, "...Indeed. It is a pleasure to meet you as well, Sir Greggory."

I supposed that meant we weren't friends, and the salutation was considerably less enthusiastic than the one he bestowed upon Amy, not that I was surprised.

Michael turned his attention down to the computer on his desk for a moment. "Now, we have you set up in the Garret Suite for the next two weeks. I do believe we have already installed your luggage in the suite, so if you will allow me to show you the way to your room, I think you will find it a most relaxing reprieve from your long journey..."

He gestured toward the staircase to our left and began to mount the stairs in front of us.

Who moved the luggage? I didn't even see it leave the car. I'd forgotten about it entirely, to be honest. I guess it wasn't surprising that this place had more than one door, and it probably took a small army of help to make this place work.

Michael slipped on his tour guide hat as we slowly climbed the stairs. "The Otahuna Lodge has stood nestled into these foothills for 125 years. It was built by Sir Heaton Rhodes who lived here with his wife Jessie for over 60 years. Beyond the remarkable architecture, you will find on the estate a number of enchanting gardens, sprawling vistas, and even a Vineyard. Within the Lodge, we employ a Michelin-Star Chef, who, by the way, has been extremely bored of late and would be beside herself at the opportunity to ply her craft to the open-minded couple..."

He led us up the stairs and around a series of corners. This place was labyrinthine and seemed to stretch on forever. Eventually, we came to another, more practical, set of stairs leading up to a small landing and a door.

Michael began to mount these stairs as he continued, "The Garret Suite encompasses the loft of the Lodge. I think you will find it quite enchanting. It is not the most generously-appointed suite we have, but there is a certain whimsy about it that is difficult to put a value on..."

With this, he had opened the door and was waiting for us to step inside. He was absolutely right. Before us stood a large bedroom, a king bed nestled against the far wall. The eaves of the roof plunged down around us at odd angles and carved out several cozy alcoves jutting from the sides of the room and opening into windows at their ends. One held a quaint writing desk looking out of a window. Another slightly larger alcove sported an intimate sitting area with 2 comfortable-looking chairs.

Every inch of the walls were covered in smooth, rich wooden panels, not carved like the panels in the lobby, but giving the impression that we had stepped into a sort of Victorian treehouse. Generous lighting had been set into the roof, which cast a warm glow over every surface and melted into the cream-colored carpet beneath our feet.

Our luggage had indeed been installed in the room by unseen hands, Amy's sizeable cohort of bags forming a pile near a small closet to our right, and my single suitcase and backpack standing alone nearby.

Michael remained outside the room holding the door open and enjoying our marvel. After what was probably two minutes of us casting our gazes around the room in wonder, he softly cleared his throat and continued, "Here are the keys..." he handed me two actual metal keys which looked like they probably were 125 years old, "...there is a phone on the desk over there you can use to reach me any time of the day or night. Please, do not hesitate to call with the slightest of whim..."

He took another slight bow, preparing to dismiss himself for the night. "Is there anything we can do for you this evening before you turn in?" He cast his gaze between the two of us slowly.

Amy spoke up immediately. "Yes, Michael, thank you for asking. We are quite famished, to be honest with you. What are our dining options at this hour?"

Thank the gods she had the sense to ask before it got any later. My stomach was twisting itself into knots.

He smiled generously and responded, "Well... as I was saying a moment ago, our Chef is wont to drive us all mad complaining at her boredom. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to set her to work on your behalf. Would you like me to have a meal brought up here to you, or would you prefer to come dine in one of our dining rooms?"

I looked over at Amy, whose eyes were already on me, considering our options. I, for one, felt rather cooked up after that flight and drive and would welcome the opportunity to eat somewhere a little more spacious. She looked rather conflicted. I didn't want to force her to do something she didn't want to, but I knew by now that she would have already spoken up if she had a strong opinion.

"We will come to dine in the dining room." I said, still looking at her. She nodded gently, as if thanking me for taking that one off her plate.

"Excellent." Michael said. He glanced down at his wristwatch and continued, "Please, make yourselves comfortable here and then come back down to the lobby. Give us a half hour to prepare, and we will welcome you to the Otahuna with a spectacular meal."

"Thank you, Michael." Amy said with a kind but dismissive smile. At last, he let the door shut and we heard him bustle back down the stairs outside the room.

Chapter 13 - An Appetizer

We finally found ourselves alone, even if only for a moment. With Michael gone, Amy was back to wondering at our surroundings. I looked at her and said, "This place is... unbelievable."

She looked back at me, nodding her head. "I saw all the pictures but... they really don't do it justice."

I noticed 2 doors set into the wall to our right and walked over to them to continue exploration. The first one led to what I could only describe as a spacious sitting room. The roof sloped away toward the wall and into a set of windows, but the room itself was open. There was a high-backed chair sitting next to a bookshelf set into the wall.

The second door led to an exquisite bathroom, similar in size and shape to the sitting room, but tiled in ceramic and with far fewer windows. A sink and toilet were set along the wall to the left and in the corner was a glass-enclosed shower sporting an oversized showerhead that looked as if it could give one the believable impression of natural rain. In almost the center of the room was a magnificent bathtub swelling up from the floor. It had ample space for 2 people and a myriad of salts, gels and bath bombs organized neatly into a tray to one side.

I found Amy peeking around me before long, and when she saw the bathroom she let out a cute squeal of excitement. She pushed herself through me standing in the door and spun around in joy as she took in the room. Eventually, her eyes came to rest on the shower for a moment. She looked back at me with a big smile and said, "Come take a shower with me."

She didn't wait for a response before turning back, opening the door to the shower, and turning the water on. We both marveled for a moment as it came to life, raining water down into the space like a contained force of nature. She closed the door again, looked back at me, and started taking off her clothes.

She started with her shirt, peeling it over her head and uncovering those statuesque abs of hers. I was now frozen in place and she wore that 'I know what I'm doing' smile of hers.

Next, she peeled off her leggings, slowly this time, shaking her hips subtly as she did it. She just couldn't help herself.

She unclasped her bra and let it slide down her arms to the floor before pushing her now bare breasts together with her hands and arching her back sensually. Finally, she slid her underwear down her legs and kicked them into the corner. Now, fully naked and completely spectacular, she slid into the shower with the grace of a cat and began to clean the travels from her skin.