Blue Tango

Chapter Fourteen

So now we were man and wife. Or not man and wife. We'd had nothing but a few chaste kisses in the midst of a crowd of Fontan relatives. Mostly Fontan. Odette's family was not in abundance. I was a fool, I suppose, a man with a fevered brain. I had married Claire, but I knew more of Claire's mother than I did of Claire. I was dazed by my actions, by what I had done. Did I really want a marriage? What had begun as an entertainment had now resolved itself into something else.

We had a long, dreary journey to Biarritz. My intention was to have a month there before embarking by ship for London. On the train, Claire resisted any possibility to consummate our union. She permitted nothing more than kisses and fumbling caresses. She allowed me to stroke her breasts and thighs. He small breasts made her seem so fragile. I discovered her skin was incredibly smooth and it pleased me. As the countryside rolled by, I passed the idle hours thinking more and more about her body. The idle thinking soon progressed to an obsession. Producing an obsession is always so easy for me.

On occasion Claire had such cleverness in her eyes when I fondled her. Was she a demi-vierge? I couldn't help thinking of Odette. If the mother was passionate, surely the daughter would be also. I wondered about Claire's girlhood; I wondered about other men, admirers who had kissed and fondled her. I sat there wondering as the wheels of the train clicked beneath our feet.

Of course I wanted more from her than just a few caresses. She pleaded for my patience. I must wait. My desire mounted.

And then at other moments I would consider how pleasant it was to suddenly have a wife, to be part of the great horde of men with we. I had changed my identity. Now I was an Englishman with a wife. How ironic it was to be heading south with her. I had met her father in Madrid and ridden north with him. Now I rode south with his daughter.

I did not look forward to Biarritz. I remember that very well now. I was quite happy to be with Claire, to have a honeymoon by the sea. But I knew Biarritz. I hated the shams of the rich. Claire said she wanted Biarritz because her father had always spoken of it when she was a child.

Then finally we arrived. We settled in at one of the larger hotels, in a room with a balcony overlooking the promenade. Claire seemed pleased by the place. She asked me if we would see the King in Biarritz. At dinner that evening she seemed fascinated by the other guests. Certain people in the dining room looked familiar to me, faces I had seen on the Embankment or at Prince's. I hoped I wouldn't meet any of my London acquaintances. I wanted a month alone with Claire. I wanted nothing else.

Then at last the day was done, our first day in Biarritz, and we were alone in our room. I expected now I should have her passion. I was eager for it. I wanted the ultimate possession. I wanted her naked in my arms. I had champagne brought to the room and we toasted our future. She seemed happy, her cheeks flushed. We kissed. I kissed her throat. She murmured something. A plea. A headache. A bout of fatigue after the long journey from Paris. I was dismayed. I kissed her with more fervor. She continued to resist. “Edward, I beg you…”

“I'm your husband.”

“Darling, I know that.”

“Let me undress you.”

“Oh Edward…”

But she allowed it. I played the feverish lover. Thinking of it now, I suppose it might have been a ludicrous scene on the stage of the Adelphia. One watches the actors in some silly little farce and one thinks the doings on the stage impossible in real life. But the doings that evening, in that room in Biarritz, were real enough to make my body tremble.

I finally had her gown removed. I exposed her breasts. I hadn't seen them before. Like two little birds. The points of her nipples are long. I kissed her lips. Then I lowered my face to kiss her nipples. When I raised my face again, I found her expression was one of amusement. “Don't you find them too small?”

“Only enchanting.”

“Enchanting?” She laughed. She glanced down at the front of my trousers. My enchantment was obvious. Her smile faded. What replaced it was not a blush, but a look of triumph.

I moved closer and made her touch it, the bulge of it. Her fingers remained limp, but she did not pull her hand away. Then her fingers moved. Discovering. Squeezing. I undid the buttons and exposed my root. She took it in her hand. She looked down at it, a quiet look, a look of estimation. At that moment I knew I was not the first. She had held other men like this. As if to confirm my suspicion, her fingers began to move. She was dexterous. A light fingering. A proper gripping. She knew how to milk a penis. With less than a dozen strokes she had me spurting. I groaned as I splattered her silk chemise. She seemed fascinated by it. Her eyes never left my tool. Her fingers continued to work with great precision, until finally she pulled her hand away and wiped it carefully against her side.

After that she pleaded fatigue again. She begged me not to force myself upon her. She said she thought she would be ill if I forced myself upon her. She said she wanted nothing except a peaceful sleep. Thinking of it now, I suppose this was the moment that I began to hate her.

We passed the next day in a tour of the port. We had a carriage drive by the gate of the Villa Mouriscot so that Claire could see where the Empress Eugenie entertained her lovers. I wanted the day to end quickly. I wanted Claire and myself to be once again isolated in our room. I did not care about the Empress Eugenie and her amusements. I had my own obsessions.

Obsessions, yes. I was now obsessed with the idea of having Claire. I suppose some other men might have been more level-headed about it. Claire was young; the situation required patience on the part of the husband. The proper attitudes were well known to me. I told myself damn the proper attitudes. I sensed her resistance was due to something other than her youthful modesty. I was right, of course. I now have all the years to prove I was right.

That evening, the first scene threatened to repeat itself. Now I insisted. I undressed her again, this time completely. I held her slender body in my arms. I placed her upon the bed. I extinguished the lamp. I quickly stripped my clothes away. The marriage was consummated in a frenzy of excitement, Claire's legs over my shoulders, my tool pushing forward. She uttered a small cry as I entered her. But after that she remained limp, silent, waiting for the end of it. I withdrew at the crisis and spent copiously upon her belly. She said nothing. Then a low murmur escaped her throat as I touched her sex with my fingers. Yes, she would have that. I rubbed her conch with my hand. She remained immobile, unwilling to yield. She tried to hide her pleasure, but the signs of it were obvious.

Over the course of the next week, we had connection nearly every day. Claire finally admitted to taking pleasure in it. She was never active. On occasion she seemed almost bored. But the pleasure was there. I was experienced enough to know at least that much.

My irritation was constant. I expected the passion of Odette, but Claire seemed to have none of it. She seemed disinterested. She took her pleasure when she had it, but it was obviously not something she craved. Not at all. Or at least I was certain it was so.

She adored Biarritz. She enjoyed the trappings. Occasionally she showed a great envy of other women. She liked to stroll on the promenade with me. She liked to be admired. I recognized that she wanted to be seen as a rich woman. After a few days in Biarritz, she insisted upon a new wardrobe. There was not time to have any gowns made, but nearly everything else was obtainable in the local shops. Boxes and packages were constantly being delivered to our room at the hotel. I sometimes had the feeling that in marrying Claire I had acquired a prize bird. People did look at her. She received all sorts of admiring glances. She had an air of beauty about her.

Concerning my physical passion for her, she seemed to have no apparent involvement with it. Her interests were confined to the new life she would have in London: the house, the servants, the clothes she would wear, the London season. She seemed obsessed with clothes. Then one day in Biarritz she announced she was ashamed of her jewelry. She said all the other women had such beautiful things. She demanded a necklace. She said she hadn't a decent necklace to wear at dinner. I promised I would find something. Her demands were constant: a necklace, new gloves, would I think of finding a small dog somewhere? She said she'd always wanted a small dog. I refused to obtain the dog. I gave her the other things. My life had been completely altered. I tried to resist, but I found it impossible. I bought her a frightfully expensive necklace in Biarritz. She was obviously pleased, obviously eager for it. She showed a bit of warmth as she kissed me. Was there anything I wished in return? Only to have her again. She was amused. She fingered the necklace that now draped her throat. She turned to the bed. She knelt upon the bed and proceeded to uncover her bottom. Gown pulled up and drawers pulled down. Her sex like a furry little fig. My excitement was intense. I was to take her from behind. The first doing of it. My reward for the necklace. “Hurry, Edward, please hurry. I won't have time to dress for dinner.”

The days in Biarritz continued, the strolls in the morning, the heat of the afternoon, the glitter of the evening. Claire loved the evenings best. She had a passion for money. She continually asked about the incomes of the people we saw. Did I think that couple had more than then thousand a year? She wanted to know the price of everything in the expensive shops. Towards people of lesser station she showed complete disdain. For the very rich she had a total awe. I decided it was greed. She wanted everything. I despised it. She had youth and beauty, but already I saw the avarice in her. She would never be content. I had this passion for her. I had come to adore making love to her. But my hatred for her increased. Hatred for Claire and hatred for myself. I had chosen her to be my wife, after all. Or had Fate chosen her for me? I thought often of Odette. I had the memory of Claire's mother in my room at the Fontan house. I thought of my former quiet life in London. When I returned to London with Claire, my life would set off on a new course. I was wary of it. I saw things that made me wary of it.

Finally the honeymoon in Biarritz ended. We boarded a steamer to London. We arrived in a week and we went directly to my house. It was a large house, a property in the family for more than a century. Claire seemed pleased by the size of it. She assumed immediate dominion of the house and I was thankful for it. Now all the tedious concerns would be in someone's else's hands. Of course the servants were quickly abused. Claire played the queen and required constant demonstrations of the obedience of her subjects. She showed a special harshness to the maids. She had them scurrying. She had them always busy. “They can't do anything right. The cook is always drinking. Yes, your cook. I've never known a cook that didn't drink. And the maids look at me too much. I don't like them looking.”

“I hadn't noticed.”

“They're not clean, are they?”

“Not clean?”

“It's laziness, of course. I think English maids are as lazy as those in Paris. They're all such greedy little things. Wretched and greedy. I shall find some decent girls for us. Edward, we do need decent maids in the house, don't we?”

She took obvious pleasure in the house, in her new domain. I hoped her attitudes would change. I told myself she needed to mature. I had a wife. I hoped the years of peace for me would begin. Claire did have intelligence. She had her beauty. I prayed she would find her soul in London.

But before long I understood nothing would change so easily. In London Claire's attitudes became more evident. She proved to be extravagant with money. She cared about nothing except her own pleasures. Soon after arriving in London, she devoted herself to acquiring the most fashionable clothes. Dressmakers were hired, then dismissed after a week. She finally found a woman in West Kensington who promised everything in a fortnight. An enormous sum was spent, hours of fittings, additions and subtractions and restitchings, and then at the end of it Claire was still less than satisfied.

She liked to amuse herself with her jewelry. She would pass hours at her dressing table, examining her jewelry, putting something on, taking it off, examining it again. She adored an evening out, especially the theater. In those years Claire loved the theater. But her interest was not the stage but the audience. What she wanted was the eyes of others upon herself. She wanted the people in the stalls looking up at her with admiration. An evening at the theater meant Claire as a queen in full regalia reigning in a box. The box preferably forward. One can't be seen too well in a rear box.

In the bedroom there was nothing but selfishness. Her only interest was the accomplishment of her own satisfaction. Our connections were severely limited in scope, quite unimaginative, always in her bedroom, always designed to afford her the maximum convenience. She enjoyed having my mouth upon her sex. She liked to lie on her bed completely immobile while I licked and sucked at her sex. She would never return the caress, not in those early years. On occasion she would allow me to have her from behind. This occurred only when she wanted something in return, a present, a promise, something new and invariably expensive. I always agreed. I would pay any price for the pleasure of holding her bottom in my hands as I stroked in and out of her sex. It was as simple as that. What a terrible clarity there is in one's life. When the fog is brushed away. I wanted Claire's marble buttocks turned up under my eyes. She knew it. She knew the power she had over me. She used her sex as a weapon to rule her little world.

Then one day as I walked in the hall outside her bedroom I heard a plaintive cry. The door was slightly ajar. I had a sudden fear that she'd taken ill. I moved quickly into the room. She was half-reclined upon her chaise. She wore one of her Japanese silk dressing gowns, the gown pulled open to show her legs. One of the maids knelt on the floor with her face between Claire's thighs. When Claire saw me, she kicked the maid away in a fury. The girl looked at me with horror and flew out of the room. I was startled, unable to compose myself. I told Claire of my distress. She shrugged, reached to a nearby table and found a cloth to polish her nails. “I don't know why you care. She's only a servant, isn't she? I mean they're not like ordinary people. Of course now you've made a scene and she's to be dismissed. Really, darling, it wasn't necessary to make a scene.”

“I thought you were ill.”

“Well, I'm not ill. In any case, she'll be gone tomorrow. She's a bit too cheeky. I don't like them when they're cheeky. My dressmaker says all the girls from Bristol are cheeky.”

She forced me to agree the matter was of no consequence. I suppose I wanted to see it that way.

Her attitude was that I had discovered her minor amusements with servant girls. She said she'd always done it, always had them lick her when the fancy struck her. Then she turned coquettish. Did I like her Japanese robe? I hadn't known it was new. Things Japanese were so popular that year. The robe parted and her legs were exposed. She smiled as she noticed my eyes. She coaxed me, touched herself, told me how much she wanted me. She soon had me drugged. I refused to do it with her on the chaise. We moved to the bed. I kissed her thighs. I opened her sex with my tongue. She made a sound, the same sound I'd heard when I was out in the hall. A great shudder went through her as I licked her clitoris. Now there was no play at indifference. Now she allowed her pleasure to be displayed. I felt victorious. I sucked at the flower, sucked at the flowing nectar. She called my name as she quivered again.

In the beginning we visited Claire's family in Paris at least twice a year. Claire always boasted to her family about the luxury of her life in London. The envy of the younger sister was always obvious. Hector seemed pleased by his daughter's success. On occasion he attempted to be paternal towards me, but I always refused the gesture. I had married his daughter, not his dreary bourgeois pretentions. Odette seemed at peace. Her concern now was Julie's marriage. She said they must find an Englishman for Julie. Did I find it possible to be of some assistance to them? Surely there were scores of suitable prospects in London. I found it all a bit crazy. I thought they ought to find a husband for a girl in Paris. This passion for the British seemed ridiculous. But I promised to help them. Julie was an attractive, lively girl and I said I thought there should be no difficulty finding her a suitable English husband.

In the Fontan house Claire refused to make love. She always refused. It became a cause of constant irritation, a constant bickering between us when we visited her family in Paris. She refused to yield. She talked of the prying of the maids. She talked of the eyes of her sister, the annoyance of her mother. Odette's annoyance. How stupid it was. But of course I could say nothing about Odette. I was caught in a tangle of absurdities. On one occasion I threatened to leave Paris at once and return to London if Claire did not yield to me in our room in the Fontan house. She responded with a flurry of kisses, a touching of the insistent scoundrel between my legs. Amusement in her eyes as she milked me. I hated her more than ever. I was certain I ought to force her, but now I had no interest in it. Once desire is subdued, the mind returns to practicalities.

And of course there was her mother. We began again, Odette and I. Flirtation and feverish caresses. Oh, the hot excitement of it. In the Fontan house Odette and I always managed something. Brief, surreptitious but always something. Odette was sly, eager for it, never refusing. She delighted in having me spend between her lips. A hurried sucking of my root, my fingers rubbing her clitoris, while the other members of the family waited for us in a restaurant. Had Odette arranged it? I was never certain of anything in the Fontan house. Late one afternoon, we had a single brief poke, the only one in years. Odette knelt upon the bed as she had the first time when I arrived from Madrid. Now the bed was the bed I shared with her daughter, as her daughter's husband. Odette knelt with her skirts raised, her bottom exposed. That full bottom. The mother was so much more seasoned than the daughter.

Completely ripe. Her fig bulged with invitation. And above it the dark little rose winking between the broad white globes. As she had the first time, she insisted I use her bottom; she would not allow an entrance into the other place. She was in a great rush. But I was determined to take my time, determined to enjoy the moment completely. Odette rolled her hips as I went in. She was now past forty, in the fullest bloom a woman can attain. I found her appealing as always. I used my fingers to make her spend first, her rose-hole stretched by my tool. How passionate she was. I had a marvelous time with her. I was certain the maids could hear the noises we made. Odette's wailing. The servants had to know. When I finally spent in her bottom, she uttered a wild cry. She said she was ravished. She kissed my cheek and hurried away. I remember I lay upon the bed and wondered if Claire would ever be as passionate as her mother.

And then came Baden-Baden. An ideal summer; a physician's advice to take the waters. Claire now had more poise with the rich. After a few days we met the Baron von Broda and his wife Helga. Claire was delighted with them. She said they were all she thought the nobility ought to be. She said they were such an interesting couple. She insisted we spend more and more time with the Baron and Baroness. I agreed for Claire's sake, but I found them boring, the Baron pompous, the Baroness much too plump and much too sweet. I thought Helga was a woman of vapid sentimentality. But Claire adored to be seen with them and we were constantly together. Everyone in Baden-Baden seemed to know the von Brodas. I was amused at Claire's enthusiasm. The days were uneventful enough and I told myself one needed some amusement.

Then one day Claire told me of the Baron's attentions. “He calls me a goddess.”

“Is that all?”

“Well, there's more, of course. Aren't you jealous?”

“Darling, I haven't heard any reason to be jealous.”

“He wants to take me somewhere.”

“Take you somewhere?”

“Yes, lie wants to take me somewhere. He wants to be alone with me and I don't see why we shouldn't. You can amuse yourself with Helga. She does like you.”

I disbelieved at first. I could not accept the actuality of it. But Claire insisted she was not joking. She said I ought to show some understanding of things. She said it was nothing but an entertainment, a dalliance with the Baron while I amused myself with the Baroness. She was certain I would find the Baroness quite passionate. She said the von Brodas had already agreed to it. She said she would never forgive me if I refused her.

Of course I was astonished. Then furious. Claire sought to mollify me. She said she wanted it so much. She called it a present. She wanted my agreement. She kissed me. She unbuttoned my trousers and fondled my root. Then suddenly she dropped to her knees and captured my knob between her lips. I was overwhelmed. She had always refused it before. But now she sucked my tool with great skill. At the moment of crisis, she removed her lips and milked me with her fingers. I was helpless. I spent in a great flood. I gushed like a fountain. I had to agree to the scheming with the von Brodas. I was convinced it was madness.

The next day Claire drove off with the Baron to visit a museum in a town twenty kilometers distant. I was left with the Baroness. I told myself I ought to make the best of it. The Baron had my wife; I would have the Baroness. She was not unintelligent. We had tea. I found my eyes drawn again and again to her large bust. She seemed amused by the situation. We talked of Europe, of the various spas, of the origins of various customs. Before long she took me to her room. She kissed me. She said I must wait while she undressed. I waited in the corridor. She finally called me and I went in.

The Baroness was quite methodical. She knew precisely what she wanted. I remember the pink dressing gown she wore. She sat in a chair near the open French window. When I was naked, she held my balls in her hand as she sucked my knob. She asked if I found her age distracting. She had to be past fifty. I answered as gallantly as I could. The fact was at the moment I didn't care. She was the Baron's wife. Her lips looked voluptuous as they spread over the thickness of my organ.

She was clever enough to stop sucking at the right moment. She talked frankly about what she wanted. I was to take her from the rear (she would bend over the chaise), but I was to withdraw before the end and spend between her breasts. Then she opened her silk robe and held her large breasts in her hands to show me the final target.

One recovers the moments, the isolated images. The Baroness naked, bending over the chaise, her milk-white rump, her strong thighs, a breeze from the open window. Then connection, my tool pushing between the plump lips of her sex, the hot gripping of her grotto, the warbling in her throat. She muttered something each time I thrust forward. I thought of Claire and the Baron. Did he find her clever? Did he find my wife clever in the accomplishment? I withdrew according to play, the Baroness turned, settled upon the chaise, called me forward to straddle her bosom. Her eyes shone as I spent between her large breasts. “Finish, it, darling, don't stop. There's more, isn't there? How nice.” I think she was saddened by the Baron's escapades, but of course one never knows the reality of such things.

Later I went down to the steps of the hotel to wait for Claire and the Baron. That evening Claire seemed satisfied. We had dinner alone and nothing of any importance was said. I remember we talked about the wine. I thought Claire looked fatigued and I felt a sudden sympathy for her. For myself I felt only pity and bitterness.