We undress. Edward in haste. His white body appears, his cock extended, flushed pink, his balls in a nest of brown hair. He helps me drop my clothes. Then I fall upon the bed and in a moment his lips are at me. My feet. He groans as he kisses my toes. He groans in his anguish. I recline backwards. Then I lift my head again to watch him kiss my belly. A private view of Edward in his passion. His excitement. He strokes my legs. His hand slides between my thighs to find my nest.
How easy it is to yield to it. The stroking. The kissing. The strangeness of it because this is Edward at my copse. Edward's fingers. One has one's obligations. We have our minor courtesies. I did not expect his passion. He has a certain quality in his manner, something admirable. He touches my breasts with his outstretched hand. We have such power over them. The female charm has such enormous power over their will. One would think they should resent it, and perhaps they do. Perhaps tomorrow he will hate me. But now I have his delight. I have him naked upon my bed. My bedroom. The room next to Claire's. His hands clasped around my bottom. His body is half-twisted to the side and I can see just the tip of his root, the pink knob of it. Moist and pink. Oh yes, the anticipation now. He kisses me again. Our lips joined. His fingers in my sex to indicate his intention.
“I must have you.”
“We'll be sorry for this.”
“You mustn't think of Claire.”
“But I do think of Claire. She happens to be my sister and I do think of her.”
“I won't let her come between us.”
He makes me kneel. Desperation in his face now, his cheeks flushed in his desperation. He will not be put off. I kneel upon the bed and in a moment his knees are between my thighs. A soft pillow cushions my head. My breasts droop down as I bend before him. He murmurs as he strokes me with his fingers. Then he pushes at me. His organ pushing at my sex. How potent he is. His rammer pushing in, sliding inside. The broad head in the wet opening. I adore the first stretching during the entrance. He moves in, fills my channel. The first thrust. A sound in his throat. My slit penetrated. I am completely taken. His cock full in. His balls pushing against my clitoris. One has all of a life, a whole life. Some things repeated and diminished in the repetition. But not this. The fundamentals remain undebauched. The other day in the park, a woman shouted as she championed the down-trodden. No more than a dozen steps behind her, a shop window announced the new price of Swiss chocolate. And not far beyond that, the House of Commons debated the latest incident in Morocco. None of it really matters, does it? One hesitates to believe it matters. We are such little creatures. Edward's root is thrusting now, continually sliding. My sex vanquished. His hands upon my hips. He bears forward. He plumbs my depths. I groan now. I groan at the fierce thrusting. Groaning and gasping. The way he grips me round the haunches. Quickly now. Quick and short. Oh yes. Spend, darling. Spend in the heat of it. Spend in the lovely heat of it. What a marvelous stroke he has. Vigor and will. The world turns around with vigor and will. His jetting now. He grunts like a boar. Pummels me. Pushes at me. Squeezes me as he empties himself.
So it is done. I lie here alone. Edward is gone. Claire has returned to the house. Am I happy? My mood is distracted. I'm bored. I touch my breasts. The fullness of my sex. I wonder what people would say. I wonder what people would look at. I think of his eyes when he looked at my nest. I'm tired of everything. Now that the business is done, I'm tired of it. Claire, after all, is his wife. Is she happy? One could take her for being happy. I touch myself. My sex. My clitoris. Oh darling, you can't. But why not? I want to cry. I feel no desire for anything. I hear sounds. I think I hear them talking. I have a feeling of rancor. I want nothing. Shall I have a holiday? All the whisperings are superfluous. All the murmurings. One must do everything. One must always do something quite different. I imagine him again. His mouth at me. His tongue. Edward's tongue. Yes, I did like that. His eyes. Now we know so much more of each other. In one day everything has changed. Was it necessary, darling? Yes, I do think it was. I hope it was. The clouds are gone now. Ellen Terry still stares at the heavens but the clouds are gone now. Is she satisfied? Does Edward understand it? Tomorrow I shall walk in the rain as I think of it. The strangeness of it. Now I have the fear that Claire will discover it. Would Claire understand it? No one would care if she did. She might laugh. She might say how foolish I am. She always says how foolish I am. She says my life has always been foolish. She says I was foolish to marry John. She says I'm unable to control my feelings. And Edward? He reeks with such indomitable egotism. His cods are so pink. One doesn't know a man until one has held his balls in one's hand. Next time I shall wear green silk drawers. Perhaps he wants me because I'm the younger one, the younger woman. Now we have something set down between us. A memory of frenzy. I was once a married woman, a wife. How curious it is to be something else again. How curious it is to once again know the sweetness of secrecy. Oh darling, you're a silly girl. You make so much out of a tawdry little poke in the afternoon. A few minutes of tongue-work in the drawing-room and a few minutes of pushing and pulling in the bedroom. No surprises, were there? Should I spill tears because there were no surprises? I am without the least shame. The way he licked me on the sofa. The feel of his nose against my clitoris. His cheeks. I thought of it from the first moment I kissed him. His face. His hand on my bottom. How extraordinary it is to have things progress so much according to prediction. We play with each other. Two children playing their little game. Two frivolous children. Claire is such a silly chatterbox, I suppose she deserves to be deceived by him. She reigns over him like a queen. I want to sleep. I want to be asleep. I don't want to think of it any more. His root. His mouth. My fingers in the quick. Tomorrow I shall stroll in the park and think of it again. The way he looked at me. The way he had his look at me. His curving over me. How awful it will be if he's not discreet. Don't pretend now. You must go on. I don't like distractions. I don't like the noise, the motor cars in the road. I don't like to be distracted when I do it. I'm fidgeting again. I shall have a look at my diamonds. No, you will not have a look at your diamonds, you will finish it. You poor wretch, you will finish it. Aren't you tempted to finish it? How absurd it is to be doing it here. So soon after. So wet again with the memory of it. His passion. The silence in the drawing-room as he licked me. My happiness. Julie is happy. I'm happy as a duck in a pond. What a happy little darling I am.
Chapter Six
We have an evening at the Cosmo Club. Claire giggling as we enter. Walter Bramsby looks distinguished. An evening jaunt. A powdered flunkey in the vestibule. Then we walk down. Shall we sup on the balcony? Claire would like a table on the main floor. She says the people in the balcony are all from South Kensington. On the main floor we settle at a table and Edward orders champagne. Couples crowding the dance floor. Bare backs and throbbing violins. Barristers, bankers, doctors, here and there a duchess from Belgravia. My bosom is almost bared. I feel the eyes of the men. The eyes of Edward and Walter. The eyes of the others. People in crowds are awful. Edward glances at me. Our secret. He sits opposite me and I can't avoid his eyes. Is he uneasy? I feel nothing. Not a shred of anxiety. Not a speck of guilt. I suppose I ought to feel guilty, but I don't. One can't contrive it when it doesn't exist. I am arrogant in the absence of guilt. I suppose I shall be punished for it. I suppose I shall suffer misery for it. Edward yearns for me. He says so. He says he dislikes the hours without me. The days and evenings. We can rarely touch each other in the evening. And during the day I have Walter's doting. His letters. His carriage is always waiting. He wants to force my love. I don't love him. I will not tell him that I love him. I suppose Claire would tell him something. She despises hesitations. She would commit the gravest sin rather than dawdle in a hesitation. She smiles at me now. She feels very much at ease in places like this. Walter seems to be writhing in discomfort. He's waiting to dance with me. He's jealous each time I laugh at something Edward says. He's too well brought up to push himself at me. I suppose he blushes each time he remembers that lark in his theater box.