“If there had been another I would remember.”
“Another, yes-a third, you mean, an index? A-watcher at the feast? Eyes pointing as a finger points? The eye informs the brain, the brain the mind. The mind imparts its message to the tongue, which speaks and blabbers on, forgetful of the paths it scours, the trees torn by the winds of fury.”
“Were you then betrayed? If I have heard you right, you were betrayed?”
Our breaths puff, pant. We are both on the point of coming.
“One who is betrayed knows not her circumstances, for all should be inveigled to the scene, aunts, mothers, nieces, nephews, kin. Even so there are servants. I have had maids whipped for talking, then put them to the pestle of my sin. I have made my gifts, bestowed my knowingness, have known dawn's early frothing of the cock, the laboured workings hot between the sheets. We are as one another, perhaps-perhaps yet not. I shall put a prick to you. You will not resist?”
“I think not. How you sprinkle on my fingers-I on yours! Press your belly to me. How delicious! What shall we be at? Are there many within? Are there no encumbrances?”
“None, my love, but many are the modulations. There are set pieces. It would be unseemly otherwise. I will not have the rabble-touch. The men may toy with you-the women, too-but none may expend their sperm until the principals their own have spilled.”
“There are set pieces.” I echo her words. “It is arranged?”
“Were your own not set pieces? There were no rumplings in the summerhouse, upon the lawn, amid the shrubs, a gaiety of cunt to cock amid the empty bottles, the discarded plates?”
“He did not do it to me that way.”
I would cry now for the lack of it.
“You are no poorer for it, Laura. You have learned proudness, obedience, have spilled yet to his thrusts between your cheeks. Your eyes have glazed with lust.
You worked your bottom to him, did you not? The curtains stared. You knew the dust of night, your aunts upon the stairs, their candles lit.”
“I held him always 'til he came, then on and on until his prick had shrunk. Not a drop escaped me-I was praised for my absorption. Upon descending I would look demure. Mama would compliment me for my colour, my rectitude, the cleanness of my linen. My stockings were ever tight-my bottom a pure gloss of white as made the moon seem yellowing with age. Oh, do not make me speak more, on and on!”
“There is no need. What need is there for that? You will tell me soon enough when a prick is 'twixt your cheeks and my tongue is lapping at your quim. You must permit yourself to be made a spectacle of, on occasion.”
“I do not know.” I bite my lip, retreat. Our drawers drawn up. We are respectable.
“No matter of your knowing. All things shall be as they shall be. Come within, come within, come within.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
An anonymity of faces greets us-put on perhaps to meet my face. Their eyes silk smooth, untarnished by their sins, all here perform their attitudes of ease. The numbers are precise: nine males and seven females. I and my companion (I have named her Constance) make the balance.
I am not the youngest. I count one of no more than sixteen years, her gown low cut, betraying aureoles of brown upon her swelling melons. There are none grizzled here. Age, in a way, is an obscenity, awaiting shawls, warm milk, and dusty dreams. Some here have reached maturity, long in their memories of mouths and thighs, old bedrooms long deserted, flowers that died.
They have no proper names, nor I, so Constance says. I may call myself what I wish. One does not fret about such things.
“Nor is there Time here, Laura. Those who sin tonight will on the morrow dream they knew a vacuum. Dried sperm on stocking tops alone will tell the tale. Shall it not?”
Her last sentence is addressed to a girl yet to attain majority. Her eyes are shy as rabbits in the grass. I seek her hand and stroke her fledgling wrist. Her slimness is a lily's but she bulbs out well. She leans to us, would whisper, is repelled, quick made to speak aloud.
“In the carriage, I…”
“Speak, yes-speak, yes-what? In the carriage what?”
“I kept him stiff.” Her hand goes to her mouth. “Mama exhorted me to do so. I used my glove.”
“Over his prick and rubbed it up and down? A merry game! Such exercise becomes your youth, my dear. Keep your eyes ever open, even when on your back. Stare at your conquerors. I shall leather you first. The guests enjoy the spectacle. Be mindful that you are the receiver, not the stricken. Wiggle your bottom well and keep your legs straight.”
“You are ever at your advice!”
A lady approaches upon Constance's words. Appraising her, she embraces the young lady, arm about her waist. They have a likeness between them.
“My mouth, my love, is ever yours. The words but duplicate. Both are to be put up, are they not-this one, and that?”
Constance is nodding to the even younger girl. Her melons, waist, and bottom are devoured by many eyes. I would wander by a sea-wall, hold her hand, and listen to the evening cries of gulls. I would take her now in closeness, secrecy, behind drawn curtains, silent walls, my pubis burring stickily to hers, thighs glistening with the dew of love.
“Must we stay, Mama? There is no music here. The gentlemen touch my bottom, the ladies would kiss me.” The younger has run forward.
There should be music. Shall there be music? A singing of birds-a lark and a dove.
“You are here to be caressed, palpitated, made pleasant, my love. Have I not endeavoured to teach you both the priorities of pleasure?”
So both are drawn to her, embraced, would wriggle nervously like children drawn from play who to the swing, the hoop, the top would run.
“They are perhaps too young.” The words are mine. Asides are made. I draw apart with Constance.
“They are to be feted, my sweet-not penetrated at first but dallied with. As they will, they may receive the cocks later perhaps. All shall flourish in their willingness. I thought to experiment thus. Are you not minded to enjoy?”
“If they not be taken by force. I will not have them taken by force.”
“What a sentimentalist you are, Laura! Let them be put then only to fingers, tongues. We shall see their mettle then, the moods and passages of their arousals. Carrie is the younger, or I call her so. Her sire will pump his pestle in her yet. Hot-bottomed, she will jiggle to his thrusts, puff-panting in dark tunnels of delight.”
“If she is so aroused, but not otherwise.”
“How you ordain! I like you so! Your eyes attain the proudness I desire.”
“Let her be made petulant, then-the youngest. The older soon will follow suit. Is this to be the spectacle? Then I will tongue her first if such it is. She may be held for a woman but not a man. So would I have it. Are you of agreement with me?”
“Why else are you here, my love?” Her smile is merry. “Let us arrange the affair. Mildred-come!”
The mother approaches again-a fair beauty with no look of wantonness about her. I would learn the manners of such tribes, the effortlessness of their encounters. They have not the rude eyes of some who have looked at me. Their thoughts do not claw upon one's skin. She is perhaps as my grandmother once was, pearls on her bosom looping at her nipples, waist indrawn, her bottom arrogant.
“Let it be so. One should incline to tenderness, romance. You are mindful of such duties?” She addresses me.
“Laura was tamed by guile, persuasion, logic. Dark curtains facing to the night, the far call of an owl. She knows her placings and her plentitudes. Her bottom, offered out in love, has known the shaft's deep penetration-yes?”
I nod, am not displeased by sin nor convenants of lust upon this seeking.