He mumbled, “Exquisite.”
“Kiss me.”
“He kissed my lips. He pressed against me. I allowed my belly to rub against the front of his trousers. His excitement was apparent. A conquest. How easy it is when the moment is ripe.
When our lips parted, he touched the front of my gown. He found a nipple and pinched it through the silk. He found the other nipple and did the same. “Superb.”
“You're my sister's husband.”
“Yes.”
A simple statement of fact. He seemed so capable. I was envious of Julie. I remembered the two of them frolicking in the wood in Surrey. I imagined him sailing in his balloon. How amusing it was to have him touch my nipples. My long points. Nature has awarded me a certain recompense for the lack of rondeur.
After that evening, John and I shared our little secret. In London again, I kept him at bay. He pressed for a rendezvous. One day when we were alone, he insisted it was impossible to wait. “You can't put me off any longer. I don't believe you want to. We must meet somewhere.”
I teased him. “I thought you were a patient man.”
“But a man at his limit.”
At his limit, indeed. I imagined his limit. I pictured the length and breadth of it. I hadn't seen much of it in Surrey. One wants the knowledge, the touching, the weight of a man's balls upon one's fingers.
I agreed to a rendezvous. We met one afternoon in a teashop. We drove in a carriage in St. James's Park. He kissed me. “I think of you constantly.”
I laughed. “Immoral thoughts.”
“Quite immoral.”
“We mustn't drive too long. I'm expected at home in a quarter hour.”
“But I thought…”
“Today?”
“Lord, yes!”
“John, it's not possible.”
“You put me in a frenzy.”
How quaint he was. I kissed his cheek. I touched him. I touched the bulging of it. I had to see. He groaned as I undid his buttons. Too many buttons. His tool came out long and thick in my hand. Formidable. Then his balls. His hairy cods bulged out of the opening in his trousers. He gasped as I tickled his balls. The carriage was closed. No one on the walk could see us. The driver was oblivious.
John shuddered. “It's unreasonable.”
“Unreasonable?”
“We ought to be in a room somewhere.”
“Not this? Don't you like to be stroked? Yes, you do like it. Certainly His Eminence likes it. Look how strong he is.”
Impressively strong. What a lovely thick tool. He groaned as I stroked him. I had such fun with it. The heat of it. His throbbing in my hand as I pulled the cowl back and forth over his knob. Then a firmer grip as I lengthened the stroking. He was sensible enough to offer his handkerchief. Then a moment later he made a noise in his throat. A yielding cry as he spouted. A cry of complete submission.
We met again briefly a week later, once again in a carriage. He said it was imperative that I go with him to a room he had. I refused. “Don't you love Julie?”
“I love Julie as much as you love Edward.”
“Then it's obvious we can't go on with this.”
“Claire, I'm desperate.”
“I should think you'd have more sense. A man who sails in balloons ought to have more sense.”
I finally agreed to the accomplishment of it. I agreed to meet him again in a private flat. Three days later we were alone in Belgrave Mews. He kissed me. He pressed his hands against my bottom.
“Don't be impetuous,” I said.
“I must have you.”
“I want something to drink.”
He brought champagne. I dawdled. I teased him. I made him wait. I thought of that lovely tool so eager for it. My sister's husband. How strange to be alone with Julie's husband in a flat in Belgrave Mews.
At last I undressed for him. His eyes were feverish as he watched me. He wanted so much to have me. I stripped down to my stockings. “Well, there.”
“Exquisite.”
“You always say that.”
“It's the word that defines you.”
How gallant he was. I could not deny my own excitement. I could feel the tingling, the signs of expectation. “A gentleman oughtn't to remain dressed while a lady is undressed.”
His clothes flew away in an instant. He came to me. He pressed against me and kissed my lips. He fondled my bottom. I held his balls in my hand. His tool throbbed against my belly. How impressive he was. I fondled him. I teased him. My conquest of him was complete. In a few moments he had me upon a chaise, his mouth pressed upon my sex. He burrowed. How ardent he was in his burrowing. His mouth sucking at my juices. Then he mounted me. My legs raised. His muscular body so demanding. So methodical in his lovemaking. One remembers the force of it, the frenzied insistence, the sliding tool. He moved quickly to the finish, thrusting at me, his chest heaving. I felt the wetness as he spurted. The very next day he sailed in his balloon and that was the last anyone saw of him. I don't think he shared Julie's bed in the interim. In fact, I'm quite certain of it.
Part Three: Edward
Chapter Thirteen
Biarritz this season. In Biarritz I confront the essentials, the beach, the seagulls, the balmy air. And the memories. Oh yes, the memories. Oh dear yes. So close to Spain and the beginning of things. How extraordinary it is now, how extraordinary to come full circle. Madrid in its grace, the yellow dust of Madrid, that moment of majestic portent in a dusty railroad car. I had just sat down, just seated myself in a compartment on the train from Madrid to Paris. Suddenly the door burst open and a perspiring fellow with drooping eyes struggled forward with two large travelling-bags. I was the only one in the compartment, the only occupant. He apologized to me in broken Spanish. He closed the compartment door and began arranging himself on the bench across from where I sat. A moment later the train lurched and moved slowly out of the station. I'd expected to travel alone to Paris, but how it seemed I would have a companion.
Before long the gentleman introduced himself. He was French and his name was Fontan. Hector Fontan, he said. He seemed delighted to learn I was English and he immediately informed me he was an Anglophile. “I love the English,” he said. He talked without stopping, his face occasionally twisting into a grimace peculiar to the French. I learned he was a moderately successful manufacturer of four-in-hands, now returning to his home in Paris from a business trip in Spain and Portugal. I judged him to be about forty-five years of age and suffering from an excess of nervous energy. He seemed incapable of remaining still for a moment. He either talked at great length about one thing or another or he fidgeted quietly in his seat as he prepared his next comment. I was dismayed. I was certain I would have no peace until I reached Paris. Not a moment of peace in the presence of M. Fontan.
No other passengers came to occupy the compartment. Fontan pressed his conversation upon me. I listened politely as he talked about his life. Eventually Fontan spoke of his family in Paris, his wife and two daughters. “My purpose, Mr. Ransom. My family is my purpose.”
I was a thirty-five year old bachelor and all talk of family responsibilities thoroughly bored me. “Ah yes.”
“Life is a struggle, isn't it? We men carry the burden of life on our shoulders.”
“I suppose we do.”
“The women depend upon us. The little darlings. One carries them and one needs them, eh?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“I have three. A wife and two daughters. A heavy responsibility, I tell you. What do you think? Is it so easy to manage it? I assure you it isn't. Most certainly not easy. The women must be clothed, the wife must be provided for, the girls must be married. A man finds himself surrounded by obligations. Let me tell you in confidence that as much as I adore my family and home, these trips abroad have become necessary to my well-being. Do you find that surprising?”
“I think it's quite understandable.”
He smiled. “But now it's time to be at home again, eh? I'm anxious for it. Anxious to see my wife and girls again. Especially the girls. Two beauties. And of course the wife. I always miss her too. I'm one of those men fortunate enough to have married a good woman. A loyal woman. Excellent in all respects.” He waved a hand at me. “And I'm certain the girls will be the same with their husbands.