It’s a dull, wet, miserable evening and I feel utterly bored. Not that I’ve any complaints. The flight over from Stansted in my private jet is more than comfortable. I am greeted with champagne as I come aboard, served canapes instead of crisps and chocolates, then poured a glass of chilled sweet white port just as the plane prepares to land: a taste of liquid pleasures to come.
After fast tracking through Passport Control, I take a Metro from Aeroporto where a kind beggar helps me with the confusing ticket system, change at Trinidad, validate, then ride the yellow line D train past Aliados and San Bento over the spectacular Luis 1 bridge as far as Jardim do Morro, the stop for the monastery gardens and the cable car terminal. My hotel is just a short walk away, across the rails.
The moment I enter reception I’m made to feel at home. Once again, I’m welcomed with a tulip of champagne. A frisky young bell boy takes care of my luggage and the immaculately groomed auburn receptionist with the long-slitted mascara eyes makes me feel rather special – which I am.
As soon as I have unpacked, I tie my auburn-red hair back in a ponytail, change into a white split hem mini skort and a shock absorber sports bra, slip on my sports anklets and gym shoes then I venture down twelve flights of steel stairs to the gym. Show my zing card to the reader and step inside. The mini gym looks out onto a wall of craggy rocks, giving me the distinct impression that I am working out in the depths of the steep hills surrounding the brackish river as it winds its way under six bridges, dividing the city centre into busy north and south banks, before broadening into the sea’s mouth.
No one else feels like exercising in the heat of the mid-afternoon so, I draw a fresh towel out of the basket on my way in, drink half a bottle of still water, then I work through my fitness regime. The next hour is spent cycling, cross-training, running, performing press-ups and squat thrusts on the bare floor, lifting heavy dumbbells till my supple, agile body, my staying power, is exhausted.
Must swim in the sea soon, I decide, no matter how cold it is. Must return to where life evolved.
Feeling refreshed and reinvigorated, I take the lift back to the fifteenth floor, shower, shampoo, soap, dry myself off, dab a splash of scent behind my ears, eat one of two free custard tarts and drink the test tube of ruby port in my welcome box. Feeling lonesome, in need of some company, I stretch out lazily on the bed in my loose, diaphanous, ruddy lace chemise, and dial room service.
“Do you have an umbrella I can borrow, por favor?” I ask, attempting the local language.
The perfect receptionist with the unusually green eyeliner at the other end of the line tells me that, “Of course, Ms, you can have an umbrella for as long as you want it. The bell boy will be up with you in minutes. If there is anything else you need of me, anything at all, you only have to ask me.”
I stretch my arms and legs until I have made my shape into a star, “That’s kind of you, obrigado.”
“Maria,” she insists.
“That’s kind of you, obrigado, Maria.”
“You’re welcome. I hope I can help you again, Ms.”
“I hope you can, too.”
I replace the receiver and shut my eyes, imagining my chic mistress naked in my bed, loving her.
I just met a girl called Maria.
The bell boy raps on the door minutes later introducing himself as “a room service”. I slide off the bed, pad across the lush rose carpet, open the door, and grin at him. He looks very different from the immaculately made-up servant I met when I checked in. Gone are the stylish high collar jacket with its golden braid epaulettes, his smartly swept off the face hairstyle, his glossy pink lipstick, his brown eyeliner. To me he’s just a natural boy with tousled hair, clear almond eyes, a perfect complexion, a subtle hint of bumfluff over his upper lip, under his chin. Just a boy. I put his age at fifteen: a little bit young for my selective tastes. His face looks as if it has been stung by a wasp, swollen round the lips and inflamed, not unlike herpes simplex or a rash due to poor oral hygiene.
For once, the frisky bell boy falls silent. He stands there staring at me. Underneath my see-through chemise I’m not wearing any underwear. The kid admires my pert breasts, my hairy pudenda. He is wearing the palest pink button-down cotton shirt complete with a gold shield of the hotel, gold braid epaulettes matching the jacket, a satin blue tie, and he’s sweating profusely in my body heat.
I break the silence looming over us, “Here, kid, your tie’s undone. Let me do it up for you, okay?”
He stands to attention while I tighten his knot and straighten his tie in a fussy, motherly way. He savours my heady scent.
“Obrigado, Ms,” he whispers, blushing hard, handing me the umbrella, nodding graciously for me.
“Don’t mention this to anyone, please.”
“I won’t, Ms, I promise you, I won’t. On my mother’s heart.”
“Every good boy deserves favour, Joâo,” I preach mercurially, handing him a ten euro banknote.
As soon as the boy has left, I shut the door, lie on the bed and dream. This is, after all, how I treat all of my men: taunting them, tempting them, teasing, testing, and tantalising them before I breed.
I take dinner at the hotel, barely wearing my ruched, royal, electric blue, sheer satin evening dress, gold sandals. I hang a couple of silver hoops off my earlobes then climb two more flights of stairs to the restaurant. On arrival at the restaurant desk, I am greeted by a smartly attired female host wearing a black shirt, trousers and gold name badge who promptly offers me a glass of sparkling rosé wine, seating me at a window table overlooking the spectacular Luis 1 bridge, just as the sun is setting on the horizon, making her celebrity guest feel romantic: in the mood for love, to breed.
“Our city is beautiful at night, Ms,” Caique boasts, “Would you like me to take a photo of you on our balcony?”
The girl’s hands are shaking visibly with nerves: the spectacular night background will be blurred.
I agree anyways, “I’d love you to.”
Loving being made to feel important and loved away from home, I think of my devoted mother, how she bred me, how she birthed me, in a water bath I believe, how she brought me up a strong, confident, resilient young woman, determined to make her proud of me.
After I have posed on the balcony, the fresh breeze ruffling my hair, the panoramic view of Porto lit up at night as my stunning background, and had my picture taken, I send the badly blurred image home with a heartfelt message to Berenden.
Mother, I hope you’re well, and enjoying the rain in England. I arrived in Porto this afternoon. The staff are too friendly here. Tonight, I’ll enjoy being pampered by the staff in the restaurant. I only have to smile and I’m showered with free gifts, fizz, port, custard tarts, scent. After dinner, I think I’ll explore the south side of the river, begin my search for a mate. I need to breed soon for you, I know that. Promise, I won’t let you down. This is me on the restaurant balcony tonight in the mood for love. Sorry I’m so blurred. The girl’s hands were shaking when she took it. Must be the effect I have on mere mortals! Love you lots, Neve xoxox
I press SEND then I treat myself to the complimentary amuse bouche, poached langoustine to start followed by tournedos of deer, washed down with a large glass of the local red Douro wine.
After dinner, I return to the room, changing into a black sweatshirt, black jogging bottoms and women’s trail wind jacket: the perfect option for windy nights with a chance of showers. I take the stairs as far as the ninth floor, the express lift to the ground. It is raining, softly, outside. I smile to myself, recalling the amusing episode with the bellboy and the chemise. Grateful for the loan of the hotel’s smart, branded, ash grey umbrella, I put it up.
Then dark as the storm clouds gathered overhead, this inconspicuous tourist merges into the night.
The temperature drops, and the rain starts to fall more steadily. My hair is loose now, the ponytail undone, falling in soft auburn waves around my face. I’ll need to keep it that way for now. It gives me a certain allure, a certain mystique. The night is heavy, the air thick with moisture. I open the ash-grey umbrella the hotel lent me, grateful for the shield against the rain. The smart branding on its fabric is almost ironic, this place is trying to project a perfect image while hiding the secrets that pulse underneath, much like me.
The streets are quiet as I walk, the rain casting a soft mist over the cobblestones. The sound of my shoes against the ground echoes in the night, rhythmic and sure. Porto’s south bank is a blend of shadows and faint lights from distant bars, their patrons too deep in their drinks to notice someone like me. I pass them without a second glance. They are not what I am looking for.
I head down the narrow, winding streets toward the river, where I know the real night begins. There, hidden among the alleyways and behind the old stone buildings, are the places where people go when they want to forget themselves. Places where men, driven by the same desperation, seek something they can’t name, something primal.
And I will find them.
The rain has turned the stones slick underfoot, but I am sure that my movements and path are clear. The sound of the river flowing beneath the bridges fills the air, and the smell of salt and damp stone mingles with the scent of the sea beyond. I feel a pull deep within me, the urge to return to the water, to submerge myself in the cold embrace of the ocean, where life began. That will come later. First, I must complete my search. As I approach a small, unmarked door down a dark alley, I instinctively know I’ve found the right place. The music inside is low, throbbing, with a deep bass that resonates through the walls. The faint glow of dim, red lighting leaks through the cracks in the doorframe. It is the kind of place where no questions are asked, where people come to let go of whatever weighs them down.
I step inside, folding the umbrella and shaking off the rain before moving deeper into the room. The air inside is thick with sweat, and the scent of bodies pressed together, of lives entangled in moments of fleeting intimacy. The bar stretches along one wall, tended by a man whose tired eyes barely register the faces that pass before him. He is used to people coming in and out – searching for something in the dark.
I move through the crowd, my eyes scanning the faces, the bodies. Men are everywhere, some already lost in their drinks, others leaning against the walls, watching. I can feel their eyes on me; some are curious, and some are hungry. But I am not here for them. Not tonight.
I see him in the corner by a table, half-hidden in the shadows. A man who sits alone, his drink untouched before him, his posture tense. He is different from the others, not here to drown himself in alcohol or to escape the world. No, he is waiting for someone. For me. I walk toward him, my movements deliberate, my gaze fixed on him. As I approach, his eyes lift to meet mine, and for a moment, there is recognition, though of what he can’t possibly understand.
‘Mind if I sit?’ I ask, my voice low, barely audible over the music.
He hesitates, his eyes flicking over me, taking in the windbreaker, the casual clothing that still can’t hide the allure beneath. He nods, gesturing to the chair opposite him.
I sit down, leaning forward slightly, just enough to draw him in, to make him feel like this is something intimate, something special. It always starts like this.
‘I’m Neve,’ I say, offering my name like a token, something simple yet potent in its honesty.
He nods, his eyes lingering on my face as if searching for something deeper, something hidden just beneath the surface.
‘Fynn,’ he replies, his voice rough, carrying the weight of untold stories, as though it has been long since he’s spoken to someone like me, someone who listens.
The silence between us stretches thick with unspoken tension. I can feel his need, but it’s not the desperate hunger of a man craving a fleeting connection. No, this is something different. He’s searching for something or someone. His desperation pulses around him, but it’s not just desire. It’s a need for something more. He doesn’t just want me. He needs something I may not be ready to give yet.
‘What brings you here, Fynn?’ I ask, my voice calm, though I can already sense the answer before it comes.
He shrugs, but it’s not the casual gesture he wants it to be. His fingers trace the rim of his glass, a nervous habit betraying the facade.
‘Needed to get away,’ he mutters, but his eyes betray him—there’s more.
I tilt my head, watching him closely, my smile soft yet knowing. ‘From what?’
His gaze flickers, and there is a brief crack in his armour before he looks at me. Those dark, haunted eyes reveal more than words ever could.
‘Everything,’ he whispers, but his tone carries a burden I can’t quite place. This isn’t just about him. It’s about someone else or something else.
My interest piques. This isn’t just another lost soul looking for a fleeting night of passion. There’s a secret buried beneath his words, a hidden truth that might be useful to me. I lean forward slightly, closing the space between us, my hand resting lightly on the table, close enough to his to feel the warmth of his skin, the subtle tremor in his fingers.
‘Maybe you just need someone to help you forget,’ I suggest, my voice low, weaving suggestion and promise together. But I’m not offering him an escape. Not yet.
He hesitates, his gaze holding mine as if searching for an answer. Then, something shifts in his expression, a decision forms behind those dark eyes. But it’s not about wanting me. It’s about needing something else entirely.
‘It’s not just about forgetting,’ he murmurs, his voice quieter now, almost conspiratorial. ‘There are things… I need to know. Things I’ve heard… about places like this, about people like you.’
I sit back, intrigued. This is no ordinary encounter.
‘What have you heard?’ I ask, my tone casual but sharp with curiosity.
He lowers his voice, leaning in slightly. ‘There are places… where things happen. Where people go, and they don’t come back the same. I’ve heard whispers about Berenden.’
I freeze, my pulse quickening. He knows more than he should. This conversation just became far more dangerous.
‘Whispers can be dangerous, Fynn,’ I reply, my voice steady though my mind is already calculating. ‘Sometimes, they’re better left unheard.’
He meets my gaze, unflinching. ‘Sometimes, they’re the only thing that leads to the truth.’
*****
Can’t wait for the Beings to breed, and for the sex to get really hot? Beings:
Ruth and Grace in Beings
