Closet Desire Iii: Twelve Days, the Mystery of Valldemossa

By Stephen van Scoyoc

An erotica series for adult lovers who are curious about what goes on behind closed doors.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 13, 2002
• ISBN: 9781469797755

Stephen van Scoyoc

Stephen Van Scoyoc is an American writer living in England. He served in the Navy and later worked as an investigator and lecturer in investigative techniques. He drew on his personal experience and that of countless contacts in law enforcement, forensic, medical, and psychology fields to write Emily’s Vengeance.

Book preview

TWELVE DAYS

Image265.JPG

I was only vaguely aware of my surroundings—the chirping of birds in the atrium, the distant wash of waves against the shore, the crackling of the fire in the next room…

TWELVE DAYS

The Mystery of Valldemossa

Closet Desire III

Stephen and Susan Van Scoyoc

Writers Club Press

San Jose New York Lincoln Shanghai

Twelve Days The Mystery of Valldemossa

All Rights Reserved © 2002 by Stephen and Susan Van Scoyoc

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

Writers Club Press an imprint of iUniverse, Inc.

For information address: iUniverse, Inc. 5220 S. 16th St., Suite 200 Lincoln, NE 68512 www.iuniverse.com

These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used ficticiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or locales is entirely concidental.

Illustrated by Ray Leaning

ISBN: 0-595-22657-4

ISBN: 978-1-4697-9775-5 (ebook)

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

TWELVE DAYS

TWELVE DAYS

Foreword

Introduction

A Mysterious Invitation

16 October 2000 5.14 AM

24 December 2000

Christmas Morning

26 December 2000

27 December 2000

28 December 2000

29 December 2000

30 December 2000

New Year’s Eve

New Year’s Day 2001

2 January 2001

3 January 2001

4 January 2001

5 January 2001

How It All Ended

Epilogue

About the Author

They say dedications are passé and, at best, optional. Still, I can’t help but think of all the people who helped to make this book, the third in our series, something I can be proud of. I couldn’t begin to count the number of individuals who in their own small ways contributed to the characters that form in my mind as I write. Without even being aware they have shared their beauty, their sensuality, their humour, and even their own secret desires to find them reincarnated at my fingertips upon the page.

This is the first book in which we have specially commissioned the art to accompany the book and in this I really must thank the models who posed for my camera. These women are from all ages and backgrounds and were chosen for just that reason. So I warmly thank Sara whose impish charm and good nature peers out from every photograph and sketch in which she appears. Carol whose elegance graces the cover—as well as previous editions. Rachel whose youth and vigour we managed to tame long enough for a pose. And finally to my partner Susan who gallantly defied nature to bare all in a number of our sketches. I’ll also mention my gratitude to the models who have already posed for Closet Desire IV—Flights of Fantasy as they help keep the passion fuelled. Monica who was such a natural that we ran out of film in an hour and half and Lauren whose fiery head—and hair—will bring legends to life.

Art needs an artist and Ray Leaning generously provided his renowned skills in sorting through hundreds of photographs to choose the best ones and then creating the works of art that you will find in Twelve Days. Ray is also responsible for designing the covers of the series and, I think, reflecting the passion we have for the words written within. Without Ray’s skills our books would be rather incomplete.

Friends who would probably rather not see their names in this book but have nevertheless been very supportive. Friends who seldom mention that they have read the books but from time-to-time will comment on one of the stories. Friends who don’t talk about it at all but insist on a copy and then place them prominently on the shelves in their living rooms. And friends you never knew you had who openly bid on our books at high school reunions. You know who you are and we thank you!

Writers often have adversarial relationships with their agents and publishers but in this I have been incredibly lucky and grateful. Pam Anderson, my agent at iUniverse, has been a source of support and humour and I thank her for all her hard work. Steven Goodrich, a marketing agent at iUniverse, for going far beyond the call of duty and promoting our work to new markets and other publishers.

Finally I thank my partner, Susan, who writes with me and shares my passion for the things we write about. Her support over the years has made the impossible a reality.

—Stephen Van Scoyoc

Closet Desire is such a seductive anthology, you may just have to keep it hidden…so you’ll always know where to find it.

—Venus Book Club

This is lovely, light-hearted erotica—the kind of book you can read on public transport without getting arrested—or it’s the ideal gift if you’re wondering how to introduce a lover to the more fetishistic side of sex. It’s the perfect hint to pep up your sex life.

—Forum Magazine

Sensual, dark, and intense. Each story takes you into a unique world filled with lust, animal attraction and desire. I realized the desires I had within myself. It touched my soul and renewed my faith in love and romance. Closet Desire is in us all!

—Kiko Lee, editor Wasteland.com

Foreword

So what has that Closet Desire couple got up to now? At first glance this book marks a departure from the collections of short stories previously published. This is a novel and yet—it is a collection of brief episodes where sensuality and relationships are explored in a rather exotic—and erotic—way.

What is happening here? The narrator finds himself fulfilling his partners’ desires—possibly not what he had at first intended. He finds he is not the one controlling each sensual encounter. Far from it. The women of Valldemossa are the ones who provide the script for this most exciting of role-plays. And this is where Twelve Days neatly fits in with the series.

The Closet Desire series is aimed at couples. The stories are for adults—not teens in their first flurry of sexual encounters. These are stories to share and enjoy—or to dismiss as not for you—this time anyway! After all, sexuality is ever changing and should always be fun. It is a game we play behind closed doors, whilst no one else is watching.

Twelve Days takes the notion of behind closed doors to a further extreme. The narrator is closeted behind monastery doors, removed from the world and all its distractions—except for the visiting women who come seeking something they cannot find outside the bleak walls of the monastery.

Stephen has written about many different women and yet, has he? Is this rather a story of one woman in all her glorious facets? You decide and then try out some of the fantasy role plays with your partner. Let us know how you get on and perhaps we will include your story in Closet Desire IV—Flights of Fantasy, which will again be an anthology of many writers’ erotic art.

Enjoy Twelve Days and remember to be careful what you wish for!—Susan Van Scoyoc

Introduction

On one hand you want to see your subject well. On the other hand, you want to be caught off guard to retain the spontaneity. If you know your subject too well you stop seeing it.

—Harold Feinstein

At first glance this book might seem like an elaborate series of one night stands—the ultimate male fantasy you might say—but, it’s really more a celebration about the thrilling differences between women—and the differences within a woman. It seems that everywhere we turn we are presented with images of what women are supposed to look like, act like, and be like. I’ve met a few of these ideal women and found the experience shallow and disappointing—even the one time I managed to really end up in bed with one! Lucky me. It’s a terrible disservice to the real women we meet in our everyday lives. Rather than looking at a woman through the image the media has created, we should be seeing the woman who is really there.

Bright Lights, Big City—as a small town boy from Oklahoma the experience of living in London is one big revelation after another for me. Sorry folks, hangin’ out at the rootin’ tootin’ bar ‘n grill hopin’ to get laid isn’t much of a thrill by comparison. The atmosphere in London literally breathes with life and trills with colour. I’ll admit that I’m a hopeless voyeur whose head turns like it’s mounted on a spring at every passing woman. It was on one of these evenings out with my adorable partner that we found ourselves standing in front of a strange looking building. Surrounded by everything that is traditional in this part of London—from the magnificent Dominion Theatre and churches to the eateries and tourist shops lining the road—this place looked decidedly different. For a start it was painted bright purple and the signs were in Spanish. We went in.

Salsa—that’s what it was called—and it had just opened up for the evening. We were directed down the maws of a wide, dark staircase onto a vacant, wooden dance floor deeply marked from the stamping of heels. We ordered Cubanas from the bar and sat down to see what developed. It didn’t take long. Within minutes streams of people, mostly young women, began to flow in, order drinks, and sit down at tables surrounding the dance floor. Although Salsa was in the middle of the tourist district these were definitely not tourists. I was fascinated.

As the room began to fill we moved, Brazilian Coolers in hand, to a table on the other side of the dance floor so we could order our meal and watch. Nobody was coming in to eat. They were all lining up to buy tickets for the dance lessons which were about to begin. Ever the voyeur—as I’ve already said—I was having a good look at the women who were loitering on the dance floor with their partners. My eyes quickly settled with appreciation on a stunning young woman with nearly black hair, smouldering dark eyes, and a body painted in a blue jumper and leather skirt. She had the look that turns heads anywhere she might go. She took her place with the beginners as the music began to beat. My expectations of this woman were dashed when the dancing began because—not to put too fine a point on it—she was about as graceful as a duck in mud. Her high heeled boots might have been perfect for the usual night club, but her body and the music never seemed to make a connection. Lest you think I’m dismissing this woman out of hand I’ll put that notion to rest. She was gorgeous and, in her element, as desirable a woman as any man could hope for. This just wasn’t her element.

My eyes wandered and settled onto another woman in her twenties who I would have never noticed anywhere else. Wearing hip hugger jeans (the seventies back to curse me!), bare skin for a belt, a skimpy, strappy top that just barely covered her small breasts, and simple, flat leather shoes, she was moving in a way that went way past sensual and into the boldly erotic. Her wavy brown hair draped down her back and over her shoulders, swaying with the music as she and her instructor flowed with the Lambada steps. Apparently the preacher back at that Baptist church in Oklahoma was right—dancing is sex standing up! No matter which way the pair moved, barely a breath could have passed between their bodies. This woman who might never tempt the gaze of a passer-by was the sexiest creature on the dance floor.

I did finally notice that she wasn’t the only one moving with sensual allure on the dance floor. There were other women of all ages who breathed an inner sensuality that was overpowering and attractive. The Latin dancing tradition has clearly, more than any I’ve seen, tapped that primal, erotic beast that beats within us all. By the time we had finished our meal and coffee the dance floor was aflame, burning with a Salsa rhythm while the live band spat sparks through the hall. I looked across the table at my lovely partner, noticing the sparkle in her eyes and the way her body swayed slightly to the Latin beat. What a lucky man I am.

The moral, I suppose, is that women can cast many different spells and charms—and one woman can be many. It is the foolish man who casts a preconceived design upon a woman all the while thinking that if she was a bit thinner, her hair a bit longer, her clothes a bit more revealing she would be transformed into the woman of his fantasy. A woman is not a machine to be built to specification. She is a creature who moves in her own way and decides of her own accord who will ravish her and who she will adore.

The women of Valldemossa are not mere sexual ornaments. They are women with desires, passions, and fantasies all their own. They are there to explore themselves, not as fodder for the men imprisoned within the stone fortress. While in Valldemossa they don’t need to primp in business suits, strut in high heeled shoes and dance wear, or wonder if a nasty black teddy will snare a man’s passion. Within the walls of the monastery it is the man who is held captive, exiled behind thick stone walls and ancient wooden doors, waiting for the woman to willingly enter his refuge and cast her spells—or not. It is the man who is the sure thing. The man is no longer the predator. The women are free to indulge their fantasies without the dilemma of families or friends judging them. They can allow themselves the luxury of unfettered erotic passion and, for once, the man must focus on the woman and not her clothes or surroundings to understand her. The only language allowed is the erotic—touch, sight, and scent—not even the breath of a whisper is tolerated.

True, the story is written by a man and from a man’s point of view, but it is a man who learns from the experience that women of all walks, all ages, and all cultures are beautiful creatures capable of sensual extremes. Women may choose to bear and raise children. They may choose to cook and clean rather than fight fires or trade stocks. Or, they may choose to be professionals and pursue careers with the same intensity once dominated by men. But, women are still wild, primal creatures at heart and seek the same adventures and ecstasies we all fantasise about.

Yes, on first glance you may think this is a man’s wildest fantasy fulfilled—twelve nights with a dozen or more luscious women—but you have missed something. Twelve days isn’t really about a dozen or more women in just as many nights. It’s about a dozen nights with one woman—and maybe a couple of friends of her choosing. You see, a woman can be many different women at once. Lovers need never feel the flames of passion wane. What is often condemned as a woman’s capriciousness is, rather, those different spirits demanding your attention. The playful nymph, the helpless damsel, the submissive masochist, the seductress, the self-centred exhibitionist, the voyeur, the voracious predator, the little girl, and the Sapphic charmer, all dance and frolic in the body of that woman sitting across from you, tempting you, daring you to make the first move.

It is often the older woman who will blossom and reconcile with her inner demons and saints—not to coerce them into submission but to set them free. It is she who will bring them out to play—if you let her. The women in Twelve Days are of all ages and stages of life. In some the demons are only a tiny sparkle in their eyes and in others they have become true shape shifters, fully in control of the woman—and the man. I am proud to say that many of the illustrations so lovingly decorating this volume are of my own lovely partner—and the many different women who dwell within her.

The opening quote by Henry Feinstein is about the art of photography and how to capture the spontaneity that reveals life. If you know your subject too well you stop seeing it. One can never know a woman too well, but if you think you know her you will indeed stop seeing her and you will never experience her spontaneity. As I took the photos that Ray Leaning would later use to create these drawings I was still caught off guard by this woman I have known for so long. Her playfulness, her abandon, and her sensuality which she has shared with me for years still surprises me—catches me off-guard. How did a forty-year-old woman feel as she posed for the photographs that would become the drawings in this book? Her answer? Adored. Cherished. Free.

Erotic experiences are not just for the young and superficially beautiful—they are for those sensual lovers who know who they are and what they want. Twelve Days is not a cheap fantasy about casual, anonymous sex—it is a celebration of the many faces of a woman and, in particular, the one I happen to love.

A Mysterious Invitation

Never before have I seen a place so delightful and at the same time so melancholy as this, where the green oak, the carob tree, the pine tree, the poplar and the cypress mingle their varied hues in a dense, leafy tangle of branches, forming deep green chasms, seared by a rushing torrent beneath a sumptuous undergrowth of exquisite beauty. Un Hiver à Majorque by Baroness Aurore de Dudevant

I must be crazy, I thought to myself as I stepped out of the taxi that had brought me to this isolated village. I paid the driver and watched him disappear down the narrow, winding road back to Port de Sóller. The ancient monastery loomed before me, surrounded by rich green foliage with a tower that stretched up toward the heavens. The village was surprisingly quiet with a just a few tourists milling about the shops. A small group was seated on the patio of a café sipping coffee and I decided to join them as I dwelt on last minute reservations about what I was about to do.

Cappuccino, uno, I asked.

The woman nodded and motioned for me to take a seat outside in the sun. I sat down and watched the tourists milling about the entrance to the monastery. I could hear the whoosh of steam behind me as my drink was brewed and moments later it appeared on my table. I handed the woman 500 ptas. She accepted graciously and bustled off, leaving me to continue my musings in peace.

I was stirred by an approaching staccato of footsteps beating in unison. I looked down a side path to see six brown-robed figures jogging eerily into view. As they crested the hill I caught myself suddenly amused by the white trainers they were wearing. Monks in sneakers! Now I had seen everything. I watched in interest as they rounded a corner and disappeared into the shrubs toward the back of the monastery.

I was surprised. The monks had been exiled out of this place in 1836 by a Royal Dispossession Order. The monastery had then been sold off to private interests and remained in private hands for the nearly two centuries since. I knew there was a small museum within, but my reading informed me that it occupied only a few of the twelve chambers within. Each of the chambers contained three rooms in which the monks had lived their lives in silent, contemplative celibacy. What were these monks doing here?

The noisy clatter of a diesel engine shattered the peaceful calm as it ground to a halt and let off a full load