Chapter 9: Behind The Mirror
The scent of old books and Charlie's sharp perfume still clung to Hector like a guilty secret as he stood outside the converted coach house. April 10th. The date pulsed behind his eyes, written in Charlie’s precise hand. Dolores needs help performing her show. Be prompt. He’d walked past twice, the vibrant sound of flamenco guitar spilling out each time he hesitated. Now, the music stopped. Silence. He knocked, the sound unnaturally loud.
The door swung open. Dolores filled the frame, a whirlwind contained. Her dark hair was swept up, secured with a bright red flower. She wore a traditional flamenco dress – layers of crimson and black ruffles that hissed as she moved. Her eyes, dark and intense, swept over him. "Hector! Punctual! Bueno. Charlie said you would be." Her voice was rich, accented, carrying an energy that felt like a physical push.
She didn't wait for a reply, grabbing his wrist and pulling him inside. The air changed instantly – thick, warm, laden with the smoky sweetness of incense and the faint, salty tang of sweat. The small studio was a kaleidoscope of colour: vibrant tapestries depicting bullfighters and dancers adorned the walls, mismatched velvet cushions were piled in corners, and a single, worn guitar leaned against a stool in the centre. A large, ornate mirror dominated one entire wall, reflecting the cluttered vibrancy back at them. Hector caught his own wide-eyed reflection beside Dolores's fiery presence.
"Your show?" Hector managed, his voice raspy. He cleared his throat. "I'm not sure what I can—"
"Ay, callate!" Dolores silenced him with a wave, her bracelets jangling. "You learn. You follow. Like the toreo follows the bull. But you," she poked his chest, "are the bull today." A gleam lit her eyes. "Paolo! The music!"
A single, raw guitar chord sliced through the air from a hidden speaker, sharp and urgent. Dolores snapped her fingers. "Vamos! Posture! Like this!" She struck a pose, back arched, chin high, one hand on her hip, the other raised, fingers curled. "Strong! Defiant!"
Hector mimicked her awkwardly, feeling foolish. His accountant's body felt stiff, clumsy next to her coiled energy.
"No, no!" She moved behind him, her hands surprisingly strong as they gripped his hips, yanking him backwards against her. The layers of her skirt rustled against his trousers. He felt the heat radiating from her. "Hips forward! Chest out! You are macho, Hector! Not a frightened rabbit!" Her breath was warm against his ear, carrying the scent of strong coffee and cinnamon. "In Spain, we say a real man... he makes love like the bullfight, sí? All control... and explosive climax." Her fingers dug into his hip bones, guiding him into the stance. "Feel the duende! The soul!"
The music intensified, a complex rhythm of foot-taps and strumming. Dolores moved around him like a predator, demonstrating sharp zapateado footwork that echoed like gunshots on the polished wooden floor. "Feel the compás! The rhythm! It is in the blood!" She grabbed his hands, placing them firmly on her own hips. "Hold! Guide! But I lead!"
Her hips rolled beneath his hands, a powerful, deliberate motion against the driving beat. The stiff fabric of her dress couldn't disguise the muscular tension beneath. Hector’s palms grew damp. He was acutely aware of the large mirror, catching fragmented glimpses of their reflection – his tentative grip, her fierce concentration. And then, a flicker of movement behind the mirror. A shadow shifting in what he now realised wasn't just a wall, but a dark alcove. Paolo. Watching. Trembling hands, Charlie had said. Hector’s stomach clenched.
Dolores spun away, the ruffles flaring, then snapped back, pressing her body flush against his. Her eyes locked onto his, fierce and challenging. "You hold back, inglés. Why? Afraid of the horns?" She ground her hips against his growing erection, a deliberate, taunting pressure. "The bull does not hesitate!"
The music reached a fever pitch. Dolores threw her head back, a guttural cry tearing from her throat. "Olé!" In one fluid, powerful motion, she hooked her leg behind his knee and shoved. He stumbled, off-balance. Instead of letting him fall, she drove him downwards, her strength surprising, her eyes blazing. They landed together on the polished floor with a soft thud, Dolores straddling his hips, her skirt billowing around them like spilled wine.
Her hands were at his belt, yanking it open, then his trousers. "Ahora! Now! The faena! The final act!" There was no seduction, only fierce demand. She wrenched his clothes down, freeing him. Her own skirt was pushed up, bunched around her waist. Beneath, simple black cotton briefs were hastily shoved aside. No lace, no ceremony. Just heat and urgency.
She sank down onto him in one swift, claiming motion. "Dios!" she gasped, arching back, a conqueror. Her internal muscles clenched around him, tight and demanding as a fist. Her eyes never left the mirror. "Mírame, Paolo! Look! See a real man!"
Hector gasped, the suddenness, the raw intensity, the knowledge of Paolo's unseen eyes from the dark alcove behind the glass, it all crashed over him. Dolores began to move, riding him with furious, rhythmic thrusts, each one punctuated by a sharp cry that mimicked the staccato guitar. Her hands braced on his chest, fingers digging in. The studio filled with the sounds of their frantic coupling – her sharp breaths and cries, his choked gasps, the wet slap of skin, the frantic guitar, and underneath it all, the faint, rhythmic thump-thump-thump from behind the mirror. Paolo’s trembling hand? His head hitting the glass?
Dolores leaned down, her hair a dark curtain around their faces. "Fight me, toro!" she hissed, her voice raw. "Fight! Or are you just carne? Meat?" She bit his lower lip, sharp and sudden.
The pain, the challenge, the overwhelming sensory overload – the incense, the rhythmic pounding, the voyeuristic pressure – it shattered his control. He surged upwards, a guttural groan tearing from his throat as he thrust up into her with a violence that matched her own. He gripped her hips, fingers bruising the thin fabric of her skirt, driving into her heat again and again, lost in the tempest she’d summoned.
Dolores screamed – a sound of pure, savage triumph – as she tightened impossibly around him, her body convulsing. Hector followed, his climax ripped from him in blinding waves, a release that felt less like pleasure and more like surrender to the storm. He collapsed back onto the cool wood, utterly spent, gasping for air that tasted of incense and exertion.
Dolores stayed upright for a moment, trembling, sweat glistening on her collarbone. Her gaze remained fixed, defiant, on the mirror. The faint thumping sound had stopped. Absolute silence descended, heavy and thick, broken only by their ragged breathing. Then, slowly, deliberately, she lifted herself off him. The black cotton briefs were pulled back into place, the magnificent flamenco skirt dropped, hiding everything once more. She stood, adjusting the flower in her hair, smoothing her ruffles, transforming back into the formidable dancer.
She didn’t look at Hector, sprawled half-naked on her floor. She walked to a small, lacquered box on a shelf beside the mirror. From it, she pulled out a single sheet of paper. The May page of the WI calendar. Prim and proper Elizabeth, from the manor house, posed elegantly in pearls. May 5th was circled in that now-familiar, damning red ink. Below it, written not in Charlie’s neat hand nor Dolores’s flamboyant scrawl, but in a tight, angular script: Elizabeth requires a proper seeing to in her four poster bed.
Dolores dropped it onto his bare stomach. It landed with a soft slap. "Toma. Your next...performance." She spat the word. Without another glance, she walked to the centre of the room, struck a final, proud pose, and held it. Dismissed.
Hector stared at the ceiling, the paper cool on his skin. The incense was cloying now. The mirror reflected only the vibrant chaos of the studio, the dark alcove behind it a void. He fumbled with his trousers, the image of elegant Elizabeth burning in his mind alongside the memory of Paolo’s unseen, trembling hands. Seeing to in her four poster bed. The words echoed, cold and ominous. He pushed himself up, the polished floor unforgivingly hard beneath him. He had to get out. The scent of the library, the bakery, even the roses – they seemed like distant memories from another life. He stumbled to his feet, clutching the May calendar page like a warrant, and fled the vibrant, suffocating studio, leaving Dolores with her cum filled panties for Paolo