Today I had not done so, for today was not in my anticipations. Julian knows nothing of my journeys to Perdition. I perfume my lower parts but occasionally in his house, and then for my own pleasure only. The flower of petulance between my thighs exuded its own scent- that odor di femina which frequently brings the male nostrils to flare.
“It is enough,” I heard, “is it enough?”
I would not answer. I had been taught quietness. The frail, invisible gags of mustiness, of lavender, of darkling ink, of dust between the curtain gap, had muffled my first sobs that had sounded as but a memory of childhood. With the closing of the cupboard doors, the silent wondering of my dolls within, I had entered into womanhood and known the springy, muscled thrust of maleness-that force that through embedment of the penis drives the sperm. I had buried my head in deeds of surrender, my drawers spotless at my ankles, my heat-sheened bottom working to the thrusts. Never had rebellion cast its cloak around me.
The leather sears again, for I have not spoken. I should cry out perhaps, for he is more unlearned than I thought. Or here perhaps it does not matter. Do they listen at the door? The splatting of the leather spoils my hearing. I whimper, I grit my teeth. I need.
The brass rails gleam. They merge, divide. As do my cheeks.
Turnabout, Laura. Lie upon the swing so, your bottom uppermost.
The grass mown by my eyes, I knew the sting, the swing-sting of the stinging, and the breeze. The wind. My dress blown up. I cried. I knew not then the call. My nipples did not harden as they should. My legs hung close, unopened. The bee-stings of a supple switch brought forth my cries. I had not blossomed to the follies of desire. I was not finished, not done, undone.
My grandmother would not comfort me.
“Laura, you are too old to cry,” she said.
I ran in fine alarm and hid myself and listened to the ticking of the clocks as if from other houses, other worlds. Oh did it then begin, the urgent shimmering of fine thin flames that licked my netherness?
“Let there be no alarms-this is a quiet house,” my aunt said. She drew me from the cupboard where I had slunk. Her hands dusted the undustiness of my dress, the pitter-patter of her fingers at my globe. “There is no harm done,” she tutted. Mama said nothing, her needles dazzling with their clicking. I was kissed and petted, given cakes for tea. My dresses, it was said, should become me better. Catalogues were searched, comparisons made.
Months passed. I attained to my seventeenth. The rims of my stocking grew tighter. My rounded breasts knew no encumbrances, globular. Led by my paternal aunt to a new emporium, I learned the twittering of shopgirls at my charms. In veiled rooms small corsets were adjusted to my waist. Drawn in, they left me breathless. The out-thrust of my bottom perter grew.
It heightens your breasts, Laura — do not adjust the lace. Your nipples will be the more appeased by its tickling.
My aunt was ever thus as to details. The measuring of distance between the ornaments on her shelves and dressing-table was always precise. When combing my hair she would adjust each strand.
Mother was not so. Untidiness became her. I suspected an art in it, so well adjusted was it that it seemed a virtue-a signal for attraction. At tea parties and receptions I was introduced as the principal maiden of the house. The voices of my uncles would boom in concert with the popping of champagne corks as if to commemorate my elevation. Upon my first strapping, when I had known the penis-thrust-though not spoken of but sensed-they would occasionally pause to fondle my netherness. It was forbidden. My aunts were furious. My uncles were sent back to their books, their accounts, their offices of work. Only females were henceforth invited to tea, save for father who stood over all, turning the pages of our minds by his presence. One of my uncles, it was said, took a birch to one of his factory girls. He was apprehended for it, admonished, and fined five shillings. Such things were frowned upon. I learned each indiscretion and avoided them. The sleekness of my form beneath my gowns was hallowed.
My mother it was who urged marriage upon me three years later. She apprehended, perhaps, disasters where I knew only joy. My once urgent cries had long ceased to float their small balloons of sound. I absorbed the pulsing rod, the spurting juice. In such moments of brief deprivation as occurred, my knickers would moisten with their anticipations. I had become too acquiescent in my acquiescence-the swing long stilled, ropes rotting in the rain.
“You converse too often upstairs,” she admonished me. Her needles clicked the faster or she would stare more closely through her spectacles at her embroidery, her majestic bottom stirring vaguely on a brocaded chair.
The brass rails rattle now. I would speak of all-ah, surely now! Ah yes, he comes-a sudden leaping on the bed. One should be slow and use decorum. Save for the quiet keynotes of my sobbing I keep my silence. The waters of fulfilment wail for me, to lave my plenitude, my all-receiving. His vibrant entrance plunges, thrills. I know the snowfall of desire upon the tiger's hot and summered flanks. Push, thrust-do not cry out. The spear engages, sundering my cheeks. Unto his maleness, deep within.
I pant, I blubber softly as was taught. The subtlety is gone. I yield not to authority but to sin. Where streams the starlight on my brow, bulb bouncing on my rivered sheets? I have gone into the jungles of the dark where cry the voices of the wild-have heard my own beseeching against sin and yet have sought it. For this I was admonished, strapped anew. At breakfast my aunts would remark upon my pallor and rouge my cheeks. Once returned to my room, I would rub it off. I preferred my paleness. The emissions of desire are pale, the flesh is pale. By mid-morning my colour would return. I had come victorious through the long, slow loop of night.
Do not ask, Laura. Submit, receive. Work your bottom.
“Work your bottom!” The man repeats the phrase. I obey, I breathe my gaspings. He seems to need my sounds. Be quick, be quick.
“Ah God, ah God!” He now blasphemes. In lust is my undoing. I receive. The pulsing jets as from a hose, fine-spurting-then is quiet.
Are you happy? You must understand more. Read good books, attend to wisdom. Thus my aunts spoke, and Mama. I, virginal between my thighs, would acquiesce and smile. I hid my conscience in the small jars of my mind, upon the shelves where none could ever look.
He falls back, he is spent. The cork uncorks, the penis withers. The door opens and I fall forward, hide. The woman appears.
“She was ever rebellious. You must deal with her later.”
“Yes,” he replies. His voice is heavy with discontentment. Here is perhaps a place of disaffection. I have not been seen before in my quietude. The secrecy is broken, the locks undone. Spyglasses perhaps survey me. Men in heavy boots will come and whisper and make notes.
“Go! All of You!” I shriek.
“Do not speak in that manner, Madam,” she replies, “who are you to speak? Come-she is undeserving.”
“My clothes!”
I call too late. The door is closed, he shuffling like a dog torn from the bitch.
“Millie!”
I call once more. My voice finds a thin ring of authority. I stir, I feel the trickling wet. Will Julian's mother scent my sin? There is no coming of angels. The silence hangs. I need Mama-the admonitions of her dogma.
I rise, wash at the bowl. The thin towel scours my servitude. The door is my shepherd, it will lead me into the beyondness, the benediction of descent. I shall blossom into the world. At night I shall listen to the music of the little band, rub hips with passers-by along the moonlit promenade. I shall eat cockles and sing my songs. The women will regard me with envy.