“If he has you turn and turn about, it were never of my doing, Laura, never was. I likes to see you proud up for it, though. Your bum fair gleams, is white as snow. Hell snuffle first his knob in, hold it there, as ever was. You know that.”
“Yes.”
“Cream and jelly there'll be for tea, buns and butter, butter at your lips. Dip your back, girl, more-present it full. If wet of knob he comes, he goes in easier. Master- here! She is prepared for you.”
I do not hear him come and yet he comes. I sense his nakedness, his stiffened staff.
“Be out with you, about with you, Agnes, and do not watch!”
She cackles, the door rattles, she is gone. I breathe more softly now, extend my orb and feel his finger titillate my quim.
Gently were you strapped at first?”
“No-ever hard.”
“So it should be, quick to Perdition led, the cork put in and wonders of you made. Hot arse up to his loins, your thighs full held.”
“Yes.”
There is crudeness here. Must I indulge in it? Shimmering with lust, his finger moves, explores my apertures, my ever-readiness. When my aunt held me, but she did not hold me. If she had held me, ah! I quick am slapped.
“Jellied, is it not, but firm! Were you tickled up, made fond of first?”
“No.”
I lie, I lie. Once in the garden in the dreaming sun, my thighs explored, my lips to pillage put, tickling of fingertip against my crotch and moisture on my brow and 'twixt my legs. I jerked and dreamed, sought with a hand both bold and shy the hardening of his cock. When he panted, coming in his trousers, panting, ah…Faintness of lips then weaker on my own, and brushed by leaves I ran and hid myself, trembling of limbs, and watched his wet patch spread, Adonis crumpled on the yielding lawn.
“You lie, you lie.”
He brings the strap to me, once, twice, then hard across my orb until I bleat but leave untold my dreams, close-folded my confessions so he cannot see, nor read a word or line of them.
Nel' mezzo del camin di nostra vita…
It is not yet, it is not yet, dark drawing of the woods about me, paths that lead to empty clearings, broken boughs. “AH-OOOOH!” I gasp within myself and feel the burning of the leather's sting. My hips weave, sway, out-push and yield again, the heat blurs, ravaging my globe, and spreads.
“Bend your knees a trifle, Laura-more! The pose is seemly for a girl on heat. How ridged in waiting do the lips become, as if extending nether mouth to kiss! Brazen yet modest, such becomes you ever. Rotate your bottom more-come to the strap!”
“Neee-ynnnng!”
I let my cry mew out, yet muffle it. Agnes at her knitting downstairs sits. I hear the clicking of her needles fast, grope for the days that long are rolled away and put as painted canvases behind a door.
“On the bed now with you, Laura, legs apart, drawers off, knees bent and hands behind your head, upon your back.”
“It was not so, it was not so!” I cry, am quick put down and mounted fast, his pestle at my mortar probing in.
“Ever was it so, my love, for you would have it so, tickle of hairs and nosing flesh to flesh. Protrude your tongue and let me suck it in. There should be wine upon your lips, more wine.”
I wriggle, gasp, would cry, am Jane berserk. My wrists are gripped, deep in the pillow pressed, his legs like tree trunks strong between my own.
“Your garters are tight, girl, as befits you-bottom hot and sleek. Work slowly now and let it enter in, quiver of being to the stem's explosion.”
“Nooo-hoooo!”
My cry is softer now. He has it in. Two inches, three, within my sealskin slit. Burring of hairs to hairs and bottom cupped, cheeks drawn apart, our tongues and lips hot-lap. Bed jolts, the ceiling swirls, embedded tight. I stammer, cry and sob and cling to him. Blub-blub I babble like a baby now, tighten my cheeks and suck his penis deep.
“That is better, that is better-better, Laura, better, raise your legs and twine them fast about me. Ah! Silk your stockings, spider's weave of wonder, how they grip. Bounce up and down while it slews in and out.”
“Do not come too soon, too soon, oh, do not come! Do you love me, say you love me-love!”
“Never was love but in this deep desiring. Moist of quim you ever were and hot your eyes, your bottom rolling to the finger's touch, suave your thighs and coy but ever parted. Cream at your lips and cream about your bush.”
“Pump faster, pump! Oh, give me all!”
My cry out-wailing hears its own despair. I am become another, not myself. My belly tightens, spurts, my quim explodes. Shower upon shower, my dreams are in my spendings. Soaked his balls and oiled his daring cock. Yet would I jolt with him and jolly jolt, my eyes blind to the day, the world around, the waiting of the others up and down, secret in rooms, their hands clapped to their ears.
He comes. The gasps, the groans, the croaks. Men are ever ugly in their doings, ever so. The scenery rolls back. I lie inert, sucking upon his sperm until he's done; faint twitchings of his cock and then he's spent.
Here is the end of it or the beginning. They come to comfort me who do not know my sins. My legs extend. I, limp as puppet lie, tremblings of belly, wet between my thighs. He, rising, dangling, swinging, looks absurd, tree without roots, a wind in wandering.
A calmness takes me. I will dress, put order in the house, take names of servants, list the wines, beware of pilferings and mumbling words. There shall be order here-I wish it so.
His eyes regard me-hope unshored by hope. I would have him at my bottom were he not now weak, and, rising, laugh and touch his tingling tool.
“Do you put them all at it? Is this the way you would conquer, put down, have under? Is there merit to your case? Do you have philosophies, extend your thoughts? Shall all be smothered, mewing, bleating, to your whims?”
“You were ever the leader.”
Shuffling, he moves to the door, hesitates. The voice of Hannah sounds.
“What is Papa about, Mama?”
“I do not know, my love. Lecturings, positionings, posturings, and playfulness, perhaps. Come, have your medicine, and you, Jane, too.”
“Yes, Mama.”
“Are they not well? They should bathe more often, change their linen, annoint themselves with perfume sticks, make visits to Paris, perhaps, with chaperone? And what of the horses, horses, horses, what?”
My words come sharp to him. Time whirls too quickly, though. I grasp it not and yet make play with it.
“The horse, the horses, yes, we shall go to the fair, see the buntings and the crowds, the gigs, the carriages. Balloons will fly. Do not say that I removed your drawers!”
“Are you fretsome about that? Do you love me still? Will you caress my bottom if I wish?”
“I shall kiss it before them all. You were ever the queen.”
“Such frivolities do not obtain here. I do not show my bottom to the throng. Have the housekeeper fetched. I wish her not impertinent again.”
“I am here, Miss.”
Agnes stands, the door opening, clothed as she was clothed.
“There were voices, Agnes. Did I not hear voices?”
“Ever the voices come and go-some in the rooms and some outside. The passings of the hours makes a mischief of us sometimes, but there is no stopping of it.”
She pauses, glances at his prick. The head is sticky, looks full out of place. As he passes her, she takes it up, limp, lolling in her hand.
“Fair done you, didn't he,” she laughs. “Shall I let him go or do you have more use for it? Sometimes it perks up quick again and sometimes not.”
“What of your sometimes? Are they ever so? Send Charlotte to me-she will see me out. Have horses prepared, a carriage, condiments, wines for the journey, notations of routes and places to be passed.”
“Always you were a stickler for the proprieties, things and exactitudes. Never we know if you are coming or not, Laura.”
“There was music here, unheard. Once there was music here unheard, warmth of summer, smells of butter, cheese, the saddles polished. Harness glittered.”