Amorous Goods: Seen in Sepia

She woke with a pain in her hip and her head spinning. She was sitting on the floor, her back against a table leg and her confusion complete. She wasn't sure what had just happened: she'd had a sense of being inside something whilst simultaneously being outside, of lights and washed-out colours. She'd shot backwards, slamming her side into the floor and she had to fight down her bile. She breathed in deeply, trying to slow the world down.

Slowly, she got to her feet and examined the machine. There was a brass plate on a bracer connecting the front legs, and on it was embossed Push Penny Mutoscope, American Mutoscope and Biograph Co. Minchon & Jeeves, Trenton, NJ. It rang a bell, and nursing her hip she retrieved Uncle Lewis's ledger. Yes, part-way down the second page was an entry for a Mutoscope. She hadn't known what one was, and, well, now she did. She stared at it. It was one Uncle Lewis's special items and she had been curious about it all, so now she had the chance to understand. But it had bitten her once...

Vikki prepared herself, trying to locate a mental stubbornness and planting her feet so that she could rock back out of the way if it was too much again. Taking a deep breath, she peered through the slot and turned the handle.

She was dancing. She was naked. Or almost, as she covered herself with two feather fans. The light was yellowed, like the sepia in old photos, and she knew the steps without thinking, moving the fans to reveal her stockinged leg, the seamed silk held in place with a garter. It took a second, and a second more, and she was enjoying it, feeling her body, her bare nipples, a breath of air between her legs as she moved the feathers again, allowing whoever was behind the light the merest flash of her nudity.

She looked out beyond the lights and felt the shape of 'here', the internal dimensions of a sphere, and somewhere in the darkness there were small glass windows, and men looking in, turning handles. Show them what they want. She turned and let a glimpse of her bare arse entice them, and now she could hear a vague clacking below the music, music that was old but rhythmic. Was it slow Jazz? Or something else? No matter, she danced.

She was part of it now, her senses telling her that she was wearing 1920s heels and a flapper headband with a trimmed peacock feather. She cast away one of the feather fans, allowing the men to see more of her as she spun and swayed, running her fingertips over her warm flesh and feeling the tingling sensation spread down to her pussy, knowing 'they' were drooling over her, wanting her but unable to have her, except for a moment in their minds. She dropped the other fan and exposed herself, teasing them with her body, turning away from them and bending forward, running her hands over her buttocks and spreading herself...

The viewing slot went dark and Vikki straightened up, breathing heavily and finding that she was sweating. That was powerful, and she trembled as she propped herself on a table edge, her legs weak as a kitten. She was turned on, darkly. It was the most intense thing she had ever experienced, and she felt an urge burning in her pussy. She stripped, hurriedly, and with feverish fingers grabbed another penny and rammed it in the slot, turning the handle and dancing again, naked without and within. She teased herself as she danced, almost touching, almost pleasuring herself, allowing herself to feel the increasing intensity but not breaking the seal.

When it went dark again she was more composed, though there was perspiration on her brow. She was shaking gently, aroused and elemental. Could she really flaunt herself naked? Had she that power? She swallowed and walked to the window, standing and exposing herself. But of course, there were no passers-by, there never were along here. She caressed and hugged herself for a minute and then turned away, tempted to take another turn on the Mutoscope. But no, that was a pleasure to save for later. As for now, she had a lot of thinking to do.

Which began with Amorous Goods. There was a reason for that name, then, clearly. Now, more than ever, she needed to talk to someone. She was on a journey without a map, and she was lost. She reached for her phone and made the only call she realistically could.

"I've been expecting you to call," said Mr Brown, his tone pleasingly deep.

"Why?"

"Because you've had something you don't understand dumped on you, and you don't know anyone else who can help. When did you start to understand just what your uncle was selling?"

"I think today, if I'm right. He was selling weird sex stuff, yes?"

"The formal term is esoteric erotica, but yes, weird sex stuff about covers it," said Mr Brown, and Vikki could hear the smile in his voice, "so where should we start?"

"How about with your first name. I can't keep calling you Mr Brown," said Vikki, toying a little with her wine glass at their table in the corner of the quiet pub. He had driven to the city, citing the fact that it would be far more convivial to go over everything in person, and who was she to contradict him?

"It's Dylan. And while we're at it, Brown is fake, for business. My real name is McKenzie."

"Dylan. That's, unusual," said Vikki, happy to not just dive into business.

"My mother's American."

"Mine too! Or, she was. It's why I'm k-k-i not c-k-y, and it's not short for Victoria."

"Something in common beyond esoteric erotica, then," smiled Dylan McKenzie, and that would take some getting used to, "but talking of which, I guess you have a million questions?"

"Maybe if you start by telling me what you do," said Vikki after a moment's pause as she ordered her thoughts.

Dylan nodded, approving the opening, "I act as a broker. People come to me with requests for items and I contact the small handful of dealers in this very specialist sector, and I set up the deal and keep the buyers anonymous."

"Why the anonymity?"

"Do you tell everyone if you go to the dirty shop?"

"Ok, point taken."

"Get you another?" asked Dylan and Vikki glanced at her glass in surprise -- she'd drained it in ten minutes flat. Slow down girl, she told herself, as she nodded to him.

"So where," Vikki said when he returned with her refill, "did my uncle get his stock?"

"I never asked," said Dylan, "and I would have expected him to laugh in my face if I had. If he'd told me his sources, his contacts, I would have cut him out."

"So, you're the enemy," Vikki smiled, "and I'm going to be the vulnerable heiress, manipulated into surrendering my inheritance."

Dylan laughed, nicely, "once you're in my clutches, you're doomed!" And there was something to the idea of being in his clutches...

"Look," he went on, serious now, "it was a two-way thing. Your uncle, and the other dealers, are deep into finding this stuff out there. It takes, I'm presuming, a lot of time and research. Do they have, on top of that, the time to market themselves? Or the inclination? That's where I come in. Symbiotic, if you like."

"And how did you get into it?"

"The same way as you," he smiled, his arms spread wide in the explanation of everything, "but I'm guessing your uncle didn't leave much in the way of breadcrumbs behind him."

"There are some notes, but they're largely meaningless. And I have to get this all sorted in about three weeks. There are a bunch of developers coming in with a wrecking ball to smash the place apart, ready or not."

"Can I ask, what's the scale of the problem? How much esoteric stock do you need to move?"

"I have about thirty items."

"Well, alright," said Dylan, "sort them, store them, throw the rest in a skip."

"But I don't know if there's anything else there that's worth something."

"General antiques? Not my area of expertise, I'm afraid, but I guess, if it looks ok save it. Maybe rent a lock-up or something and if you like, I'll help you move it all. Then you'll have some more time to go through stuff properly."

"You'd help?"

"What am I doing now?" said Dylan, "and yes, it's in my interest as well. But my mother brought me up to help damsels in distress and she'd give me a thick ear if I didn't help you. The first thing, though, is to go through the special stuff. I can tout that around to my contacts and maybe get some quick sales for you."

"And split the profits?" said Vikki, suddenly suspicious -- or perhaps it was the wine talking.

"No," said Dylan, and his apparent honesty was disarming, "I get my slice from the clients."

Vikki could only hover, thirty minutes later and back at her flat, as Dylan bent his head over the duplicate ledger she'd created from her uncle's, making his own notes. Her list only had the outstanding items on it, one of which was going to require a diplomatic conversation with Margot, but that could come later. So, she fussed, and offered him coffee which he turned down, and paced around while he did his best to ignore her, before she settled on looking out of the living room window at the rain splashing down on the dark street while she fidgeted.

"Done," he said finally, his glasses dangling between forefinger and thumb, "I reckon there's five or six items I can shift in a month or so. There are a couple of other things that are a bit more specialist and there might not even be a buyer out there, maybe for years. And then there's the other stuff which, I'm afraid, I've not heard of before."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning, I don't know what it is or does. You said your uncle made notes?"

"Not very extensive ones."

"Ok, well I'd be very interested in examining these other items and seeing if we could find their purpose. But for now, I've got some calls to make," and here he stood and gathered his things, 'I'll get back to you in a couple of days."

"One more question," said Vikki, stopping him as he headed for the door, "do you think, I mean... hmm.... Ok, stupid question but, is this stuff actually magic? Or do people just convince themselves that it is?"

"You mean, like powdered rhino horn?"

"Yeah."

"That," said Dylan, as he opened the door, "is the sixty-four thousand dollar question." And with that he was gone.

Vikki waited for a brief moment and then dashed to the window, picking up Uncle Lewis's blue-glass sunglasses on the way. She hid behind the curtain looking down on the street, and after a moment Dylan appeared. She half-expected him to glance back at her window but he didn't -- maybe the rain was too hard for subtle romantic gestures -- and as he strode to his car she tentatively lifted the sunglasses and peered through them.

It was a buzz, such a powerful sensation. She could almost feel him behind her, running his fingers up the back of her thighs, breathing in her ear, his body toned but not over-muscled. His vision of her was flattering, her breasts a touch bigger than reality, her waist a little slimmer, her skin more perfect. And down between his legs his cock was thrilling. He was above average but not amazingly so, a slight curve making him particularly interesting, and she reached back to grasp that shaft...

The vision disappeared as he drove around the corner, Vikki lowering the sunglasses and breathing heavily. It was true that Uncle Lewis had made pretty rubbish notes for an outsider to interpret, but he had been unambiguous about the sunglasses: look at a person through them and they will show you their sexual desire. As she had suspected and, frankly, hoped, at least part of Dylan's sexual desire was her. She would ensure his desire would be realised, she was certain of that, but for now she looked at the sunglasses with respect. There was great power there, and it would be easy to misuse it. She put the sunglasses gingerly down on the table and went to run her head under the shower.

Outside and unseen, a shadowy figure in a green 4x4 noted down the time.

***

Margot's house was, Vikki considered, the quintessential British semi-detached. Every detail, from the red-brown roof tiles and perfectly-pointed chimney pot, down past the yellow ochre paint job on the first floor and exposed brick below, the white painted window frames, the porch, and the front garden in gravel with herbaceous borders, could have stood sterling service in any number of aspirational sitcoms. Of course, the gradual annexation of the porch by the twin's tricycles and their colourful buckets and spades tended to obscure the pure middle-management-ness of Margot's home, but for all that it was the epitome of middle-class success.

Which made the vision of vamp that opened the door to Vikki a shock to the system. She was used to her friend being someone the less charitable might describe as 'dumpy', but in front of her now was an earthy, voluptuous fertility goddess with a look of pure satisfaction on every line of her face. She'd even had her hair done. It clicked, and Uncle Lewis's note instantly made sense: Bastet Figurine, hieroglyphs, make a woman a cat, make a man a lion. Yes, Margot seemed to be purring.

"Darling," she said, "come in. I never called you, did I?"

It didn't seem to Vikki that Margot's omission bothered her in the slightest, which was immediately unusual -- Margot would usually be mortified at something as unthinkable as failing to call when promised. Vikki could make a pretty educated guess as to why Margot had been otherwise occupied, and indeed, as Vikki followed her through to the kitchen she could see that her friend positively slinked. She made Vikki a coffee with the air of someone elsewhere, and sat down opposite her and only then realised that she needed to perhaps say something.

"I need to have a quick word with Peter," said Vikki, saving Margot the bother of distracted small talk.

"Erm, he's upstairs in the home office," said Margot, "he's missed a couple of deadlines this week."

"Thanks. Err, a quick question. How do you like that cat statue I let you have?"

Margot smiled at the mention of it. "It has pride of place on my window sill. You know how cats like to look out of the window, like TV for them. So, I thought she could look at the birds in the garden."

"Your bedroom window?"

"Uh-huh."

Vikki nodded to herself. Uncle Lewis had paid two grand for that statue and she'd given it away just like that. She instantly dismissed the thought of asking for it back -- she'd given it in good faith, and from the looks of it Margot was having the time of her life in the bedroom. Vikki made a mental note to put a little money aside for a gift for the new baby when it inevitably arrived.

Dull, dependable Peter was staring at the computer screen, evidently wishing he was doing something else, and when he turned to say hello, yes, damn it, there was clearly a difference with him, too. For a start, he wasn't wearing his usual white shirt and boring tie combo, instead opting for black shirt, no tie. No doubt this simple sartorial decision would raise serious eyebrows in the accounts department at the bank, perhaps a sign that he was dangerously out in the wilds. But secondly, and far more illustrative of the change Vikki expected, was the clear and obvious twinkle in his eye. This man had certainly discovered his inner lion. Well, go Bastet! There's a goddess who knows her stuff.

"I need your expertise, sweetie," said Vikki, not wanting to waste his time. He smiled and waited for her to continue, "if I get paid a lot of cash for something, is the bank going to be suspicious when I deposit it?"

"Maybe. Probably. Depends how much."

"Fifteen thousand pounds. And maybe more to come."

"Ok, we'd definitely have to report that. Anything over ten grand going into your account is going to be noted," he said before continuing with a grin, "I hope you haven't been doing something you shouldn't..."

"No," smiled Vikki in response to his implication, "no drug dealing or running a house of ill-repute. It's this antique business I got from my uncle. Turns out there are a few good bits in amongst the crap."

"Split the amounts and deposit them separately," he shrugged, "or simply show the bank the receipts. That should satisfy the money laundering people."

"Ah, yes," Vikki grimaced, "no receipts. My clients are 'cash down, no paperwork' kind of people."

"Well, maybe they've got something to hide," said Peter, thinking out loud and Vikki could only agree, but for reasons he couldn't imagine. He went on, "if you haven't done anything wrong but you want to avoid questions you could always buy some gold coins, hang on to them for a day or two, and then sell them and get a receipt. There won't be any questions asked about that, and you might even make a few quid if the gold price goes up."

"Is that legal?"

"Yes. Ethical? Maybe not."

"Thank you," said Vikki, feeling a level of relief, and then she changed the subject, "Margot seems in a good mood."

Peter smiled distantly at this, looking down at his desk in a way that made Vikki slip off the edge she'd been leaning on. She couldn't help wondering what other surfaces might have recently hosted Margot and Peter's passion; perhaps it might be better not to touch anything at all...

Vikki would have loved to have stayed, though, giggling inwardly as she watched her friends going about their lives under the influence of Bastet. But duty called, and she had to hurry back to the station to catch the evening train to Norwich. She left with a promise to catch up soon, though when Margot said she'd call Vikki doubted her for the first time since she'd known her. Never mind, let her have her fun -- perhaps it would wear off after a while.

It was nearly midnight by the time her train arrived and the station was closing down, with station staff ushering a couple of drunks out into the first frost of the autumn. Vikki decided to walk, feeling more confident in her surroundings, and more relieved following Peter's financial advice. She was sorely tempted to go via the shop and take another whirl on the Mutoscope, her mind having turned to it as the train ate up the final miles of track, but she had a skip coming the next morning, and heavy work to do to start throwing out the trash. So, her head in the clouds, she walked to her rented apartment, unaware of the green 4x4 that dogged her footsteps.

***

Vikki was happy and it showed. She'd hardly been living a bad life before, but now there was a new purpose, maybe a man for the first time in a while, maybe even the man, and there was a secret fulfilment. She hummed and sang as she sorted through the shop, from front to back, keeping and throwing and looking out for the special things. Even in tatty old jeans and a checked shirt she exuded something, and had there been much traffic, she would have probably stopped it.

The man who delivered the skip had noted her mood, as had the woman who opened the bookmakers towards lunchtime, and her smile seemed infectious. She lifted the spirits of those around her, the delivery man cheering up his next client with risqué jokes and the woman at the bookmakers consoling the punters so sweetly that they were soon slapping down new bets as if there was no tomorrow.

By mid-afternoon there was a respectable pile of tat filling up the skip -- broken clocks, a rotary telephone which wouldn't dial, Uncle Lewis's inexplicable collection of unmatched crockery (Vikki had searched for the makers, just in case, and none of it was worth even pennies), the list went on. Equally, the back room had filled up, too, the items carried through there quite reverently. She had finally found the bone flute, just a plain looking set of pan pipes in reality, and an oath ring, whatever that did. They were joined by the jade snake and other things, too, and Vikki also set aside things that weren't on the list, but were in good condition and in her mind at least warranted a second look.

She was lugging another armful of junk out to the skip when a green 4x4 drew up on the opposite side of the road. Visitors to the street were unusual enough that it was worth stopping to look, and in this case the attention was more than justified as a quite simply stunning blonde of around thirty, tall, elegant and natural emerged from the parked car, her hair tumbling in tresses. She was perfection in tailored black strides and a leather jacket, the understated gold jewellery speaking to an impeccable taste, and as she walked across the road it was clear she had business with Vikki, who slid from 'a little bit on top of the world' to 'inferior to this vision.'