Git on!”
“It is thought perhaps that they might copulate. How quite revoking, seeing their attire and dirtiness!”
I turn, regarding she who speaks. It would appear that I am addressed-perhaps undressed within her vision. Of some thirty years perhaps, she is attired for riding, yet I see no horse. Beyond her stands a manservant of equal years-one who in his rigid posture holds a paleness of waiting.
“To copulate is to die for a moment.”
My reply pleases her evidently. Our eyes hook and unhook, twitch to twitch, yet without movement.
“You came this way again. I thought you might again. Shall we go to the house? I have my carriage at the gates, though it is at walking distance, as you recall, if you prefer.”
“The carriage.”
I prefer a suddenness. Her figure has a sleekness that attracts. The lush dark of her hair seeks my fingers. I shall remove my gloves and let my hands roam in the forest-of her mystery, turning the waves to seek the skin beneath. Her eyes are the eyes of Charlotte, yet tinted other-perhaps as Jenny's. I forget. I shall not venture her name for I have forgotten it, too, or never knew it. They are not the eyes of my aunts.
We go unspeaking, seeking certainty. If I turn here, perhaps-or there, perhaps-I shall come upon the promenade again, the Royal Pavilion, a fluttering of Millies, a sadness of deserted rooms. Distance is ever a trick, an illusion. All places are enclosed within all places, all Time within Time. The rose unfolds and closes. Perhaps it contains the universe and we who stand without are held also within.
Her carriage is no longer blue, though I know not how I know, but now bright yellow, rimmed with black.
“It is my canary touch.”
Her eyes follow my eyes, her words anticipate my speak Within, the seats of velvet plush are red. The manservant mounts postillion and we move. There is scarce a swaying. The springs are new. At a fair, brisk trot we draw up at a mansion. Stables adjoin, set back for secrecy. A neighing of horses sounds our entrance-a whinnying, a clinking, then is done. She speaks again.
“I shall have bells fixed to the wheels. What a pleasant tinkling it would make. Would it not?”
I reply yes and furl my parasol as we enter.
“Your room is ever as it was. Do you remember your room, Laura?”
“Questions have wings, are burned,” I laugh-am kissed upon my lips within the hall.
“I remember, too.” Her voice has sadness. The manservant, having entered in our wake, is turned to. “Are you ever here-my servant-yes?”
“Sutcliffe, Miss. Yes.”
“Laura, he forgets so much. Why do we all forget? Come, I have a thirst upon me and sense one in you, too. All shall be well now that you have returned. There were once no birds in the garden, you know. No blackbird sang.”
She moves to the velvet drapes and gazes out beyond. The garden is untended, all unkempt, a rusting of scythes, a groaning of rollers, handles limp. Back offered to my breasts she stands while the manservant with a plop removes a cork.
“Do you yield to him?”
I ask the question so softly that he cannot hear, yet of a sudden she turns about, her visage proud as morning in its rising.
“He whips me. Do you not whip me, Sutcliffe? It is forbidden, you know. I am held if I resist. Will you not aid me, Laura?”
“As once I did before? Did I before?” Tendrils of recollections wisp like smoke, are gone.
“Do you remember, Laura, the books we read, here in this room when we were young?” Her voice takes on a merriness.
“We used to sit on the floor. Mama was angry to ever find us kissing. You may go, Sutcliffe. We have no need of you.”
“Of course, Miss. I know my unwantedness.”
“He is strong only when I am bared and held. Do you like my attire? I wear it even when I am not riding-of occasion. Of occasion, I do not. Kiss me. Do you not wish to? Wait- unbutton my gown. You ever sought to first-first feeling, fondling. Are they not large still, and so firm?”
A divan has received us. I know its scents, its squeaks, the chestnut-blossom haze of yielded sperm, her writhings, twistings, legs thrown all about. This was why, I believe, she was held-so that she might be made to lie still during the doing of it. Thick-pointed now, her nipples to my lips, smooth bulge of breasts.
“Don't struggle-don't.” I seek but cannot find her name. The envelopes of memory have slipped.
“I don't with you, I don't, you know I don't.”
Her face lies sideways, eyes of wonder, tipping of tongue twixt lips, her skirts upraised. Long ever were her legs as I recall, thighs swelling to her crotch no drawers conceal.
“Ah, the sweet fur of you, deep fur of you!” I lick, work at her coral with my licking lick. Hips writhe, her legs upraised, drawn back, her belly silky to my hissing breath.
“A little further in-oh, dearest, yes. Snake in your tongue and twirl it all about. Reach up your hands that my hands yours enclasp.”
How awkward is the pose, yet I obey, my blindness to the moisture of her cleft, my tongue a busyness about her spot. I, snuffling in my seeking, kneeling, bowed, then feel her legs enfold my shoulders tight. Her fingers to my fingers deep entwine.
“I have her, Miss-I have her-hold her tight!”
Sutcliffe! He is upon me from the rear, my skirts upmounded, drawers down-ripped, his entrance silent as the movement of a tongue.
“What a bottom she has, Miss. Full round and smooth as ever was.”
“Afterwards, Sutcliffe, afterwards! Full in her, man, and take your toll. Well has her rose been opened up, I know. Dark curtains and the dust's drifting.”
I would cry perhaps, but I have never cried. My arms full stretched from shoulders forward, face buried in her muff, she has me well. As Sutcliffe does, his hands clamped to my hips, the bulbous nosing of his manhood in my cleft. She cannot see who only sees his face, the grimace of his features in his cleaving.
“Ah, she's tight still-tight-that's what she is.”
“Sutcliffe, be quiet-be quiet-you have been told. Work her slowly or you'll know the whip. Ill have her feast on it, as well she ever did. Did you not, Laura? Be truthful now, in this moment. Come, dearest, forward more-raise your head, come upon me, knees at my hips. Thrust your bottom to him! How much do you have of him as yet? Three inches, four?”
I will not speak, will not. Mouth wet, I lift my shoulders, shuffle knees, gaze blind into her face. The mirror of my seeing's broken, cracked, or crazed. I whimper, wriggle; in-deep in-his blatant tool is urged until the root full taken, corks me now, and my sheened bottom to his belly's pressed.
“HAAAAR!”-the long shudders of my breath. He moves, shunts, pistons, works.
“My little darling, there-was it not ever so?” I answer not to her, I moan, receive. His fleshy rod the pleasure of me takes, her legs about my waist entwined. I, ringed in every sense, am worked, her voice a cloud about my ears. Dark in the secrets of his pounding then, he comes-too soon, too soon, the rich juice spurting, weakening to his groans. I, too, have spilled upon her fingers' toil, lie limp in his withdrawing, closely held.
“Go, Sutcliffe, go. You do not watch, nor wait!” Her voice imperious, and he is gone, I unregarding of his form or face, his dangling root, his emptied balls. My rose seeps, my bottom glows. She strokes my hair. I am a child upon her breast.
“So it was, was it not, ever for you, Laura? You are free in your speaking here. There is no one to listen here. Should I have strapped you first? It always came before, did it not?”
“Place your words carefully that I may step across them.”
I have risen in my speaking from her arms and all is in my seeing. Her hair is mussed, awry upon her forehead, bleared with moisture. I restore my drawers, my rumple-ruffled skirts.
“Such poise!” She makes to laugh, to mock. My look stills her.