Walter is always so embarrassed when I talk of Julie. He does not like to talk of Julie when he's with me. He behaves as though he and Julie are already married. How spoiled he is. A spoiled English boy full grown to a spoiled English gentleman. Does he think me depraved?
“Are you unhappy, Walter?”
“Unhappy?”
“Do you find yourself uncomfortable when I'm here?”
“No, I don't think so.”
“Well, you shouldn't, darling. Julie won't ever know. Not unless you tell her, of course, and I hope you won't do that.”
“Certainly not.”
“Then you have no reason to be unhappy.”
“It's a bit awkward.”
“Unexpected.”
“Yes, unexpected. I never imagined it.”
“And now you can. Now there's much more than imagining, isn't there? If you don't like it, I shan't come here any more.”
“Claire, please…”
“Shall I stop visiting you here?”
“I don't want you to stop.”
“I don't detect much conviction in your tone.”
“You won't stop, will you?”
“You haven't kissed me.”
He comes to me. He sits beside me and presses his lips against mine. A long kiss. I plead for breath. I glance down at the front of his trousers. His ugly checked suit. How brazen I am.
“Claire, darling…”
“Darling, I must see it.”
His fingers fumble with his buttons. Then his knob is exposed. His pink blushing knob. Men are so much like boys when they show it. They want to be cuddled. They want to be fondled. One must make the appropriate sounds of admiration. I hold him in my hand. I stroke him with my fingers.
He groans. “Good Lord, be careful.”
“How lovely.”
He has such excitement in his eyes. He watches my fingers. His eyes watch the stroking. I like to see the passion in a man's eyes. The room is much too warm. This ugly room adorned with seascapes on the walls. I finally withdraw my hand. He groans and goes to his knees. He leans his face against my knees. Then he slides lower down. He kisses my shoes. He pushes at my skirt and kisses my ankles. His lips pressing against the silk of my stockings. Then he pushes at my skirt again. I must hold my skirt at my knees while he kisses my legs.
“Walter, I think you have something naughty in mind. You do, don't you?”
“Yes.”
The heat shows in his face as I open my thighs. He pushes his nose against my drawers. How he sniffs at me. He wants my bijou. I adore it. I adore the lust when they do it. Walter has such a ravenous mouth. I thought I would swoon last time. He lingers. Now he pulls at my drawers. He wants my nest revealed. He wants my furrow exposed. His hands are hasty. Then the silk is down and he's at me again. He burrows. He feasts upon me. I close my thighs against his head. I shudder at the working of his tongue. He mumbles something. My darling, he says. I feel his breath. I feel his nose and tongue. How intoxicating. Like the last time, I'm completely drenched. We have our intimacy now. He knows my drenching.
“Enough, darling, that's really enough. Now please stand up. Yes, that's better. Oh dear, look at him. I must kiss him. Just one little kiss. He's so warm, isn't he? Warm and smooth. Really, darling, you have a nice one. Impressive, I should say.”
Later I undress in his bedroom. Walter stands in his dressing gown and watches me. The walls in his bedroom are covered with watercolors of country houses. I don't know why. In truth I find him strange. Seascapes in the sitting room and country houses in the bedroom. When I'm naked, he kisses me. He kisses my breasts. He kneels to kiss my belly. Then I pull away and I climb onto the bed. He kisses my belly again. He murmurs into my belly. I don't understand any of it. Adultery is such a silly thing. So completely childish.
Finally Walter drops his dressing gown. He shows his pale white body, his tool upright, his balls heavy in their purse. How impatient he is. He climbs over me and I raise my legs. He holds my legs upon his shoulders. His knob pushes at me, pushes in, pushes further. I think of Edward. I think of Julie. My sister and Edward. Edward and my sister. Then I think of Julie and Walter. Will she marry him? He's quite capable. He knows how to thrust. I squirm. I return his pumping. I feel his cods. His face is bloated. He makes noises. A grunt of passion in his throat. His tool sliding in and out of my sheath. Then suddenly he withdraws. He says he wants me on my belly. “Would you, darling?”
I smile at his wet root. One never knows who to smile at, the man or his tool. How surprising he is. His unexpected lewdness. I arrange myself upon my knees, my rump presented, my sex exposed. Yes, I want it. I want to give him more than I give Edward. That's the purpose of it, isn't it? One gives to the lover what one does not give to the husband. Walter clasps me. He fondles me. He squeezes my bottom. Then his tool is in my sex. He groans as he enters. He holds my breasts as he pushes inside. He begins thrusting. I like it. I like the lewdness of it. I wiggle against his pushing. I find his cods with my fingers.
I do like it. Holding Walter's balls in my hand as he does it. Not as much here as Edward. But quite firm. Quite pleasant to hold. Quite nice to think of Edward while I hold another man's balls. And what does Walter think of? A triumph, I suppose, a great triumph. In my own case, a small triumph. And Julie? I'm sure she quivers in her triumph when she has Edward in her arms.
Walter sputters again. Sputtering and grunting. Men are so much like animals. Then he pummels me as he spends. He cries out in his spending. I hold his balls as he spends. I hold his balls as he shudders against my bottom.
I am not the scheming one. It was Julie who was always at it. She always schemed to get her dolls. How clever she was. She always had Mother's approval. She had Mother's approval and Father's love. She was the favorite of all our uncles and aunts. I do remember. I suppose she thinks I don't, but I do remember. I did hate her. I do hate her. The present is merely an extension of the past, isn't it? How we competed for the low stool before the fireplace in the drawing room. I remember the dark bronze andirons. I remember the smell of rain in the house. The old engravings on the walls. The painting of Joan of Arc. I wanted to be a king's daughter. I wanted pretty dresses. Julie always schemed to get the prettiest dress, the prettiest ribbon. We shared a small room. The old servant would stand there wagging her finger at us. In the evening Julie and I knelt beside each other to say our prayers. Two sisters. Our Father Who art in heaven. And forgive us our sins. And hail Mary. The log cracking once again in the fireplace.
She did scheme to get John. In the beginning she never thought much of John. She told me she thought he was a mediocre prospect. She said she thought she could do much better. She wanted someone as substantial as Edward. Someone with a large estate. Of course she never said that what she wanted was someone with as much money as Edward. What she did was point out John's faults. She talked about his faults constantly. In the beginning she said she couldn't imagine being his wife. Then somehow she gradually changed. I chided her for it. I teased her. I told her she ought to be ashamed to be so fickle. I wanted her to marry John. I did not want her to have a husband as substantial as Edward. As dull but not as substantial. Edward in his idleness. But John wasn't idle at all. John liked to do things. He was so grateful to me when I was kind to him. Julie showed nothing but ingratitude. It was John who bore the brunt of things. He talked about his highland ancestors. Julie would mock his pride and say he was hardly English. It was absurd, of course. John's family had lived in London a hundred years. Julie would laugh and say she didn't care one way or the other about John's ancestors. The truth was that she did not care for John. She wanted a husband and she decided it would be convenient to marry John. He smiled at her. He thought she knew nothing about the world outside. He hoped she would change. She had him bewitched the way she had Mother and Father bewitched. And the uncles and aunts.