Carolyn Gregg: La Petite Mort

Red-faced, Bria had nodded and hustled out of the shop. Yet, once she put the costume on again, secured her hair up on top of her head, and added a gold cuff as her only jewelry, the final results were superb. The Greek goddess Bria was ready to descend from Mount Olympus and honor the common mortals below with her presence.

As the moon rose above the horizon, she drove to the outskirts of town, and the secluded stretch of beach where the island's parking lot was located. A man dressed as a knight, complete with chain mail and tabard, merely glanced at her invitation before helping her onto the ferry that would take her over to the event. There were three other people with her on the brief ride. They were all dressed in different outfits-a cowboy, an Egyptian pharaoh, and a super heroine complete with cape. No one spoke, much less attempted to engage in conversation.

Once they docked at the island, another knight escorted them to one of three open carriages, each one driven by two pristine white horses that took them through a small forest, and finally up the main drive to the mansion. As she was helped from the conveyance, Bria handed over the invitation to the Musketeer standing in the doorway.

The place boiled with activity. Kings, satyrs, belly dancers, and princesses in medieval finery-the flowing wall of color and flesh was overwhelming. With every passing minute, Bria realized she didn't know these people. And, in truth, she didn't belong here. The invitation hadn't been meant for her, so her being here could be legitimately argued as fraud.

She turned to see if she could escape back outside and make her way back to the ferry when a fresh wave of costumed revelers came through the door, blocking her exit. Almost panicking, Bria turned to see a huge set of double doors leading to another room. She headed toward them.

Buffet tables and drinks trays piled high with nearly everything edible imaginable filled this room adjacent to the entryway. Music filtered in from the ballroom next door-loud but not overwhelming. Not knowing much about music, Bria couldn't tell whether the live orchestra played a tarantella, or a minuet, or a waltz. Did people actually dance to it? It didn't seem to matter anyway. The costumed guests appeared to be unaware of the entertainment as they meandered from room to room and indulged.

All right. The hosts were taking care of the basic needs. So where was the person taking the fantasy orders?

"May I be of service?"

The sudden, deep voice coming from behind Bria startled her. She hoped the white cotton half mask over her eyes helped to hide a lot of her confusion, and disguised most of her embarrassment when she turned around to see who was talking to her.

The man towered over her. With glossy black hair and the deepest blue eyes she had ever seen on a man, his face alone was enough to stop traffic. He wore no mask, which surprised her. But what concerned her was not his alarming good looks. Nor was it those impossibly wide shoulders, complete with Superman muscles. No. It was the tiny white skirt he wore below the wide, gold belt about his narrow waist. A skirt that was barely long enough to cover his buttocks in the back.

Dear Lord! I hope he's wearing something underneath it, was her first thought, until the little devil sitting on her shoulder firmly rebuked her. Five will get you twenty he's not. Betcha if he gets a hard-on, it would peek right past the hem. What a bitch to discover a man who looked better in a short skirt than most women did.

"We seem to make a couple,” the man continued, either oblivious to her staring, or not caring about the way she was ogling him. In fact, by the time Bria managed to drag her eyes back up to his, he was smiling.

"Uhh… a couple?"

Laughing softly, the man indicated her toga and his similar attire. “I'm Hercules. And you are… who? Athena? Or perhaps Hera, the queen of the gods."

She had to have a personification? Bria opened the rusty gates on her mental files regarding Greek and Roman gods. Vague memories of an old college class came back to her, until a name clicked into place.

"I'm Persephone, spending what time I have here on this earth to attend this masked ball,” she managed to reply without stammering.

"Ah. Persephone. Queen of the underworld. I am honored to make your acquaintance.” The man bowed over her hand before pressing his lips to the back of her wrist. The feel of his mouth on her skin sent a warm flood of desire surging through her, soaking the tiny thong she was wearing and leaving her moist between the thighs. Unconsciously, her eyes darted to the tiny skirt, but nothing stirred.

"My real name…"

"Ah!” Hercules wagged a forefinger at her as his eyes sparkled with amusement. “No real anything. Not tonight. Tonight we are whoever we wish to be, doing whatever we so desire. And what is your desire, my queen?"

Well, hell, Bria. Now's your chance. Go for it!

"I want to die."

The words were out before she was aware she'd said them. Her eyes remained glued to the tall hunk standing so intimately close, toga and skirt nearly merged. She waited for the look of condemnation or shock to cross his face. Strangely, Hercules gave her a small, sad smile.

"May I ask why you wish to die?"

"Because I'm ready. Because there's nothing left for me.” Reaching under her toga, she pulled out the white envelope containing her savings. “This is all I have,” she started to offer him. The man stayed her hand.

"Take back your money, My Queen. We can deal with that later."

Someone passed by. Hercules gave a nod to acknowledge the man's greeting. He also gave a signal to someone behind Bria. She assumed the man was well-known.

"Are you one of the hosts of this ball?” she asked, hoping it would lessen the growing discomfort she was feeling. Although she was on the verge of thinking she had made a mistake in coming here, she was closer to believing she should have kept her mouth shut and just soaked in the ambience of the place. Have some fun, do a little flirting, and maybe have a harmless tryst afterwards.

Oh, yeah, and wake up the next morning to prepare yourself for the coming week. Another opportunity to tackle the world and your asshole boss on Monday.

Hercules slid a tall glass of something cold into her hand. “No,” he said, answering her question. “That honor goes to Madame Diana. I am simply one of her humble servants here to mingle among the guests. And to… see to their every need.” The insinuation slid under her skin, setting fire to her blood vessels like they were tinder. Her eyes dropped to see his long fingers still curled around the glass. As she watched, he released the glass and slid over her hand, lightly caressing the skin between her thumb and forefinger before delicately brushing across her wrist.

Without realizing it, her eyes went from his hand to the slight movement of the white skirt. She stared as the material moved again, this time lifting upward. There was no doubt in her mind what was causing the skirt to move.

Bria fought against the heat washing over her. The room suddenly grew stuffy and too closed in. The door leading out to the foyer was right behind Hercules, but before she could make a move, the man seemed to read her mind.

"You need to drink,” he told her, helping to lift the glass to her lips. “Nectar of the gods. It will help to clear your head."

Indeed, the liquid was cold, sweet, and packed a punch in its aftermath. Gasping, Bria breathed past the alcohol sliding down her throat. “Whoa. Potent."

Hercules chuckled. “Feeling better?"

"Yes. Yes, I am. Thank you."

"Just being a good host. So, tell me, My Queen, regarding your wish to die, did you have any particular way or method in mind to accomplish this feat?"