Now his finger is at my rose-hole. He wants something more serious. I protest. “I won't allow it.”
“Why not?”
“You're much too large.”
“That's nonsense.”
“Edward, I don't want it.”
“I have some oil.”
He insists. His root remains inside me as he reaches for the oil upon the night-table. My rose-hole fingered. Oiled. Then his root withdrawn. He's in a frenzy now and I must allow it. Then pushing again. This time at my bottom-hole. The entrance. Pushing, Stretching. His urgency. I'm like a maid before her master. Oh, the pleasure of it. His twitching root in my bottom. Always with John. The sliding. Edward is so firm. A slow stroking. He's quite perfect. One blesses perfection. My body sways. He mutters. He seems dazzled. One must have courage. I remain still. Bent like an animal. I pretend insouciance. Pretend, pretend. This is not Kensington, this is Bloomsbury, darling. In Edward's room. His belly slapping against the flesh of my bottom. His sharp cut nose. He's well-made. Considerable girth. One always feels it more in the back. His cods. My fingers at his cods. How perfect it is. Always moving. This extraordinary delight. And then his cry of pleasure. The final thrusting. The groaning. One takes them in the groaning.
“I had an awful time getting away.”
He looks at me. The second time is more sedate. “But you did.”
“Edward, we can't go on endlessly like this. Claire will see it.”
I stand off from him. He wants me to undress. His passion is always at a boil. I demand some wine. I mount my courage. I rue the day I moved into that house in Kensington. Now I'm here again, once again in this room, once again in a dither of anticipation. He talks again. A rise in his voice. All our lives we shall remember this room. His bearing. I put him off.
“I wasn't fond of what you did last time.”
He stands back. “I don't believe it.”
“It's true.”
“You did enjoy it.”
“Oh Edward.”
His illusions. His triumph. How do I manage his triumph. This false victory they have. He's English, after all. Not French. What an abomination it is to see him triumphant. I will keep my composure.
His vague stare. “You did like it.”
“Is that what you want?”
“Yes, why not?”
I tease him. “It's not dignified.”
“Good Lord.”
I feel genuine affection for him. He's like a helpless boy. His temper on occasion. The memories of him with Claire. I kiss him again and he puts his hand on my bottom.
“You like my bottom too much.”
“Let me see it.”
I touch his mouth. “Will you kiss it?”
The fire in his eyes. He lies on his back on the rug. My dress lifted. Without drawers again. I show myself first. I feel his eyes burning. Then I descend. I descend upon his face.
One deals with a certain solicitude, traditions, mutterings on the Embankment. Nothing compares to certain supreme pleasures. His mouth wet. The feel of his mouth at the shrine. The feel of him breathing under me. How silent he is. No more silly talk of his collections. It's a well-ordered room. I move. I carry out my searching. His tongue. His doings in my bottom. How lively he is. Yes, I'm pleased. Rolling now. He does adore it. Luring him there. It's a wonder he can breathe. His nose in the quick as I settle down. He does like it. Oh yes, he does. I shall have more wine afterward. I shall have more wine.
Part Two: Claire
Chapter Eight
I dally in my room with Dobbin the maid. I lie upon the chaise and Dobbin kneels beside me with her face at my belly. Her tongue flutters between my nether-lips. Her fingers tickle my thighs. The windows are open and I can hear the birds in the garden, the chirping of the birds, an occasional buzz of an insect, the soft slurping of Dobbin at my fountain. There is nothing in this room but tranquility.
And yet I'm restless. Despite the languid mood, I feel agitated. It's always like this, always the agitation. Is it the maid? Dobbin's face is flushed. Her attention is fixed upon my exposed belly, my open thighs, my sex. Would she rather I be on the bed? When I called her to my room, she arrived with a shy smile. She's accustomed to me now. After three years in the house, she knows my ways. A maid ought to know the ways of her mistress. She knows I don't like her to be gloomy. She knows I like her to be playful. She giggles as I close my thighs about her head. She pretends to be smothered. I open my thighs. She breathes again. She kisses my sex again. How eager she is. She nuzzles between my nether-lips. Her tongue continually flutters.
I must make a supreme effort to be at ease. What a pity not to enjoy the work of a girl like this. Such delights. She has an appetite for it. Certain maids come into service and one quickly sees they have no yearning for it. And then at the first bidding they hold back. They weep. Nothing is more disgusting than a weeping maid. One wants only silence from a servant. I don't like it when they weep. Dobbin never weeps. Dobbin is never unpleasant. She has full lips. She pulls at my clitoris with her full lips. I'm so tired. I feel malicious. I want to push her away and at the same time I want the sucking to be more firm. I don't like her maid's cap. I don't like her eyes when she looks at me. I don't like to be looked at when they do it. I wonder what they think. I wonder what they tell each other in their murky little rooms. Of course they talk about us. Myself and Edward and my sister. Whispering in the kitchen ever since the arrival of my sister. The pretty one. I suppose they call her the pretty one. Julie has such lovely hair. Is she comfortable in her room? Oh yes, she is. My sister is most certainly comfortable in her room. She has that photograph of Ellen Terry and behind the photograph is the grate and through the grate she spies upon me. She watches me. She watches everything that happens in this room. She's not watching now because now she's not in the house. But if she were in the house she would watch me again. How amusing it is. Ellen Terry. What a perfect little goose of an actress she is. The grate ought to be covered by someone more substantial. If she doesn't like those roses, she ought to have found something more suitable than Ellen Terry. It's completely ridiculous to have Ellen Terry on that wall. I suppose she thinks it's a humorous touch. I suppose she thinks it's an adventure to spy on me through the grate. Does she smile? I hate it when she smiles. I think her face looks so common when she smiles. One doesn't want a smiling sister. That evening at the Cosmo when she laughed at Walter. Poor Walter is so much alone. Of course Julie wouldn't understand that. She might confess to other things, but not to that. So dense behind that pretty face. Entangled in her secrets. She was never happy as a married woman. She thought I didn't know, but I knew perfectly well she wasn't happy. She can't hide something like that from her own sister. It's not possible. And now what sort of future will she have? John not here. Drowned in the gondola of that lovely balloon. How awful it was when the news came. One never thinks of it. The question never appeared. And then one discovers there's more to life than a jolly good time. What a formidable man he was. Oh dear yes. I do remember him. There are men one doesn't forget. John will not be forgotten. Except perhaps by Julie. I don't think she ever had much affection for him. My sister is the happiest widow I've ever known. She doesn't hide the truth of it. Husband dead in watery grave and her with not much to show for it except a few newspaper clippings. If she has the clippings. Which I doubt. I do know my own sister. One always knows certain things. Pity she isn't watching me now. I might look at the grate and make a face. Shock her into a state of grace as she understands I know about the grate. Of course I know about it. I do live in this house. I live in this house and that's the mouth of one of my maids down there. Dobbin's pretty little full-lipped mouth. Dobbin's lovely kisses. The room is so pleasant when the windows are thrown open. I feel her breath. She knows I don't like to have it rushed. It's hateful when it's rushed. One doesn't want to rush it. One wants a deliberate dalliance. Last Sunday I had her kiss my evening shoes a full five minutes before she ever touched my legs. One wants discretion in a maid.