Inside the hidden corridors of the house, you shuffle uncertainly around for a few moments, trying to get your bearings. It's not total darkness, there's some light coming from small intermittent bulbs fastened to the ceiling and walls. You try not to think about any spiders lurking in the webs dusting the corners.
You see the repaired wall where Brahms broke through the mirror and remember where you are. At the next brick chimney breast, you swing right up a small set of stone steps. The door to his lair lies open.
Inside it's lit with string lights and amber lamps; creating a soft dim glow. It's as you remember that time you took a mad rush through here; the small kitchen area, bathroom, cluttered living space. Stuffed animals peer down at you from the walls and units. A battered old fox with moth eaten ears; birds and small mammals. A large tawny owl with eyes so liquid and bright you think for one mad moment it's actually alive.
Tentatively, you walk to the middle of the room and glance around. There's no sign of Brahms.
His cot bed is neatly made. No sign of your erstwhile girl doll. There's a shelf of books filled with leatherbound classics. Children's books. Poetry. Some titles you recognise as more contemporary, George Orwell, John Grisham, Dan Brown. You smile when you see the paperback spines of a whole set of the Game of Thrones series.
Gazing in wonderment at a whole wall of taxidermy implements and notions, you don't see the child until you're almost upon it. Its eyes gleam at you in the dim light, and for a split second your heart lurches. It's not a child. It's the doll.
"Brahmsie..." you breathe.
He's sitting on a work bench, legs splayed, hands in his lap. The porcelain face is cracked into a mosaic of damage but beautifully mended. You peer closer, remembering the pristine beauty of that bisque face. Now, it's marred and scarred, the features altered; somehow looking more adult than before.
He's dressed in his black trousers, shirt and tie under a dark sweater. You reach out, almost affectionately, to stroke the soft real hair then track down to the cracked face. The urge to pick him up once more and hold him close is almost overpowering. But you're afraid you may break him again. You stand awhile, smiling down at the doll. If not for this simple toy, this surrogate child the Heelshire's nurtured by proxy, you doubt you'd ever have formed a bond with the real Brahms. This doll was the medium through which Brahms was able to communicate himself to you. And now it feels precious to you both.
You move this way and that through the room, touching a small Millefiori paperweight here, a thread worn teddy bear there. This place feels so intimate it's almost unbearable. The first time you came here you were an intruder. Now, you've been invited.
He catches you unawares, and so unexpectedly, you jump. There, in the darkened corner by the fireplace. An immobile, statuesque shadow. Brahms.
As you catch sight of him, he moves forwards. There's a feline grace to him; a furtiveness that reminds you of a cat about to take a bird. There's always that uncertainty with Brahms...the not quite knowing what he'll do, how he'll behave, or what he's thinking. You freeze, unable to do much else but stare helplessly as he approaches.
The doll mask seems now so much a part of him, it barely bothers you. You have the insane thought that if you removed it, he'd be exactly the same underneath. You smile shyly up at him.
He does that thing where he stands close to you, both arms by his side, his head thrust forwards and down as though he's trying to inhale your essence through the crown of your head. You remain motionless, eyes closed, longing for him to touch you. Slowly, he circles your body in his arms and pulls you to him. This is the physically closest you've ever been, and it feels like home. You press the palms of both hands against his back, feeling his heat through the thin tee shirt, then rest the side of your face against his chest.
For an interminable time, you both stand there, locked together. You wonder what he's thinking. What he'll do. You don't quite know what to do yourself. Your fingers find his bare flesh, warm and firm, at the top edge of the tee. The desire to pull the garment up and over his head is overpowering. But Brahms has to do this his way. If any way at all.
The dull thump you hear is his heartbeat, the rhythm neither fast nor slow. You breathe in his scent, unique to him. You wish you could stay this way forever.
You're aware of the ridge of the hard, cold mask against the top of your head. His rib cage expands and contracts with each breath, each inhalation above you quiet and measured. Now, you raise your head, break the contact. You see those eyes staring down at you, and his voice, when it comes, is almost a whisper.
"I want to kiss you, Y/N."
He pulls away, holding you at arms length. Outside the house, somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbles. At his request, you nod dumbly, unable to look anywhere but at him. You never realised how strong his magnetism is, for it holds you, now, totally in its thrall. Your hands hold his elbows, you don't want to let him go. But he disengages, retreats to a corner of the room. He's holding something in his hands. You stare at the soft strip of cloth, understanding.
"We can turn off the lights," you tell him. "It will be totally dark in here." But he shakes his head.
More thunder. This time closer. Perspiration sheens your skin. You're wearing a thin scarlet singlet with no bra beneath, and a long wrap around skirt. The humidity that's been building all day remains unrelieved now that evening's here. Above the house, storm clouds condense.
"I won't hurt you, Y/N. It's just a kiss."
Brahms comes closer, then behind you. He touches the mask to the hollow of your neck, just above the clavicle, his breath hissing behind it so close to your ear that your eyes close involuntarily, nipples tightening.
You allow him to tie the blindfold, so gently, around your eyes. Deprived of vision, your other senses surge to compensate. You can hear him moving around. His body heat is gone, so you know he's moved off. Vulnerable and lost, you reach out with both hands, not daring to step forwards or back. A thunderclap rents the air, and you almost cringe.
His voice sounds different. Clearer, deeper, more distinct. You realise he's removed the mask.
Fingers touch yours, strong and long, curling around your hands. They slide up your arms, questing to the shoulder where they linger at your throat. You tilt your head back to accommodate him, lengthening your neck, exposing your vulnerability to him; your trust. There's a whisper of his breath on your jawbone, the caress of a curl as it brushes your cheekbone. His face is close to yours now, inches away.
Where's your mouth? you want to beg him. Give me your mouth...
He's pressing closer, the prickle of beard grazes your lips, and you open your mouth and gasp, inclining your head towards it. But you can't find him. He's playing with you. Tormenting you. The storm seems overhead now, the aftermath of each thunderclap vibrating through the house. Brahms seems unperturbed. You don't even notice. All you can feel is him.
Over your right ear now, the heat of his skin is palpable. Your breathing is becoming laboured. Now, down to your cheek, where he lingers. Oh, God, I can feel his eyelashes, your mind clamours. And the brush of them as he closes his eyes is the most erotic sensation you've ever felt. You're just about to gasp, "Brahms..." when his mouth on yours smothers his name.
You breath in so sharply, you actually suck some of the air from his lungs. You taste the warm slightly Peppermint taste of him as his lips brush yours. You push your face closer to his, in the same way he'd done with you an age ago when you told him the mask hurt your mouth.
Brahms is exploring you. Touching you with small kisses that send the nerve endings on your lips into sensory overload. Because of the blindfold, you can't anticipate where he'll land or when, and this gives him total control over you.
Each breath you inhale is rasping now, as though you've run a marathon. Your heart pounds. The thunder crashing above makes your ears ring. With a moan you let your head loll back. He's kissing your throat, the soft pecking of his lips as they travel round to the opposite ear feels like something God devised. And all the while, your imagination rages like a tortured thing wondering what he looks like.
You feel his hands stroke your shoulders, gently pulling the thin straps of your red singlet down so that they drape over the top of your arms. It's not enough to expose your breasts but the action is so loaded you feel your face suffuse with blood.
Through all this; this prolonged and magical kiss, you want to reach out and touch him. But you don't because that might break the spell and destroy what he's weaving around you. You wish it could go on forever. Oh, you wish...
There's a pause as he breaks the connection. You wait. Expectant. Your pulse banging at wrist and jugular. In this moment, you belong to him. You've always belonged to him, and he to you. Lightning crackles, filling the sky with ozone. You hear the windows of the Heelshire mansion rattle in the storm's wrath. Has he gone? Is he finished?
You reach up to remove the blindfold, but his hands stop you, gripping each wrist. He pulls you close; so close you feel the play of muscles on his belly. He holds you cruciform, so that you can't touch him, or feel for his face. This time his mouth takes yours with no hesitation. There's no child inside anymore. This is Brahms the man. The storm reaches a crescendo above you.
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