Edward nods. He slips the cigar into one of the pockets of his waistcoat and he goes to Claire. She stands and he begins to work at the buttons and hooks of her dress.
Claire talks of someone called Cyril. One of Edward's friends? “He's a rogue, you know. He's an awful rogue. I told you that last Christmas, didn't I? I did tell you that.”
“Yes, you did.”
“One mustn't be deceived by people like that. I don't like to be deceived.”
“I don't think he ever means any harm.”
“That's nonsense, isn't it? Five thousand pounds' worth of nonsense.”
She is in her chemise now, her body slender beneath the white silk. Edward kneels to undo the buckles of her shoes. When he has her shoes off, he wants to bring her stockings down. But Claire pulls away and walks to the chaise.
He follows her at once. “Let me.”
One after the other, he pulls the stockings down and off her feet. Claire makes a sound in her throat. She laughs. A bubbling laugh. “You're a nasty little sailor. I want it through my drawers.”
Her thighs moved apart. Edward swoops. His face in her drawers. His mouth against the white silk. She fondles his head. She bends her head as she watches him.
And as I watch them both. My legs are unsteady. I stand upon a chair and my legs are unsteady. Edward at his dinner. The little sailor feeding at my sister's plate. Her thighs rocking. There is only silence now. An occasional murmur from Claire. My legs continually shaking. I watch the hand that strokes his head. Her narrowed eyes.
Then Edward pulls away. He rises. His fingers at his flies. His trousers unbuttoned. Claire is amused, smiling in her amusement. Edward's root appears. The dark pink of his root. Claire touches him, her fingers curling, her pink hand upon his pink root. Her slender fingers. She smiles. A soothing murmur. Yes, darling, yes. How randy you are. Her fingertips tickling. Edward quivers at the tickling of her fingertips. She strokes him, fingers curled, fingers tickling, stroking his root as he quivers before her. His eyes fixed upon it. His flushed face. Her fingers stroking. How swollen he is. The straining of his flesh. She murmurs again, calls him little sailor again.
I shall go mad. She has him panting. I shall go mad as I watch the doing of it. His eyes popping. The little sailor. Claire smiling. Her tickling fingers. I can feel the hot flesh. The heat rises to the grate and warms my face. What a marvelous vision. Edward in his chaos.
There is no ending. She drops her hand. She tells him to undress. Edward blubbers, his fingers working at his buttons. Claire moves to the bed, removes her drawers and then her chemise.
She waits. Edward is done, stripped, his body pale, his root in a frenzy. His balls jiggle as he moves. He climbs upon the bed, settles upon his back beside Claire. She snickers and turns. She straddles his pale body. She moves forward to fix her nest upon his mouth.
One must assume. When a cloud covers the moon, one must assume the moon is still there. Edward's face is covered. My sister's bottom and thighs obliterate his face. Her body rocks, a swaying movement as she presses against his mouth. Her neck is bent as she looks down. Is she murmuring? I think I hear the sound of it. A quiet chanting. Then she reaches behind her to fondle his root and balls, one arm behind her, her neck always bent, her body rocking, rocking. This pink metronome on my sister's bed. This pink arrangement in my sister's room.
Then the rocking stops. Claire shifting backward. Back to his essentials. She squirms over it, holding it, guiding it, then settling upon it as Edward makes a sound of contentment. His cock in her nest. My sister settles down upon her husband. Her bottom rolling. Now she moves again, up and down, up and down, riding Edward, riding in her saddle. Her back straight. The jiggling of her apple breasts. The curve of her rump as it rolls upon his pelvis. Edward's mouth is open. He mutters something but I can't make it out. Claire continues her ride. She smiles as she rides. Her voice cajoles him. The little sailor. His pale skin. The fierce passion shining in his face. His cock in her nest. His cock inside her cove. My sister's body rising and falling as she rides in her saddle. Oh, the sweetness of it. My face flushed in the heat of it. Edward groaning now. Claire's amusement. Claire smiling as he spends.
Claire has an enduring enjoyment of propitious moments. There are four of us at a small dinner party: Claire and Edward, myself and a Mr. Walter Bramsby. We sit enthroned in our misconstructions, our small amusements. Our urgencies. I have the feel of it. I know the outcome. One must trust one's intuition. Walter Bramsby dabbles in the casual sarcasm enjoyed by Claire. Edward laughs. He drinks his wine. “Oh, that's capital.”
“That's lovely.”
“Yes, indeed.”
“We mustn't be harsh now.”
Our clothes are in fashion. I have powdered my shoulders this evening because Claire has insisted upon it. Edward is so charming. He shines at parties like this. His eyes have a shine of perfect comfort.
Walter Bramsby is clean shaven. I don't know if I find his face appealing. I think he might be more impressive with whiskers. His eyes are always upon me. His eyes upon my powdered shoulders. And why not? I think my shoulders are more easily looked at than Claire's. Darling girl, you're being horrid again. Completed horrid at another of Claire's banal dinners.
In the drawing-room, Edward and Walter light their cigars as Claire and I sip our sherry. Walter's eyes are upon me again. My shoulders. My bosom. His admiration is amusing. All women are fond of the eyes of men. We have our recognitions. We have our devices. It is not easy to obey one's will. Claire teases me. She calls attention to my hesitations. What does one see in the eyes? Does he have strong hands? I do like strong hands in a man. Oh yes, he will call. And Claire smiles as she thinks it. I hide my annoyance in my sherry glass. I have the image of them, the fervent couplings upon Claire's bed. I think the sherry is much too sweet. Edward keeps one hand behind his back and looks as pretentious as ever. I remember how he turned pink as Claire handled his root. His pink cheeks. They shut themselves up in that room, shut themselves away from the world.
After Walter Bramsby leaves, Claire coaxes me to say what I think. I detest the amusement in her eyes. She urges me. She smiles. “You must tell, darling.” Her fingers fluttering at me. Edward agrees. “You need someone dependable.” Again I have the images of them in Claire's room. Claire on the chaise with Edward's face at her copse. Do I want a suitor? Do I want Walter Bramsby to call upon me? Then one of the maids is in the room and I refuse to say anything. Edward sends the maid Perkin out. Claire talks of finding another maid, one more girl in the house. She teases Edward, asks if he agrees. Edward's eyes are distant. Claire turns to me and smiles. “You will be pleasant to Walter, won't you, darling?”
The clock strikes twelve and Claire begins again. I must gather myself together. I must make a life. I must avoid the pangs of melancholy. I need distraction. If Walter calls upon me, I should see him. “He has a fine voice when he sings.”
And the grate again. My eyes are burning at the grate. Claire again mounted on his face. Her nightdress gathered at her waist. Edward extended upon her bed in his dressing-room and Claire queening him with her bottom. She faces his feet this time. Her thighs glow in the yellow light of the electric lamp. How she queens him. His mistress. She ought to be wriggling madly. Edward's face buried by my sister's rump. When I first met him, he seemed so cavalier. I remember he was dressed in white, with a white boater and a white suit and immaculate white shoes. I remember the shoes best of all. I thought any man with shoes like that had to be of superior constitution. Then after Claire's betrothal I was in a desperate jealousy. Claire and her friends whispering to each other. Mother's glazed eyes. Mother always insisted we behave with dignity. Dignity in public and dignity in solitude. But of course there wasn't much dignity in that barn at the grange, was there? Her bottom turned up to Father's probing.