Blue Tango

Chapter Three

Claire and I have our little secret. I was fourteen during a summer in Normandy at the farm of our grandparents. We spent idle hours in the heat, idle hours listening to the buzzing of the flies, idle hours amusing each other with school gossip and fantasies of foreign places. One day in mid-afternoon, Claire found me reading beneath a large tree. “You must come with me.”

I looked at her flushed face. “But why? Come where?”

She led me to the barn, cautioned me not to make a sound. We carefully climbed the rear ladder to the loft. Each time a board creaked, Claire froze, waited, then moved on again. I followed. The mystery of it held me now. Nothing so entertaining had happened since the day of our arrival. I was thoroughly amused and certain to be amused further. Claire finally led me to an opening in the floor of the loft. She peered over the edge at the barn below. Then she rolled her eyes and beckoned to me. I slid forward. I looked down. There upon a bed of hay some fifteen feet below us lay our mother and father.

I quiver at the memory. I sense the moment again, the smell of the barn, the heavy heat, the silence of the afternoon with every one in the house asleep. Mother and Father were not asleep. They lay upon the hay caught in each other's arms, kissing, whispering and kissing again, while above them Claire and I were afraid to breathe lest we giggle and reveal our presence.

The portent, of course, was of something more than mere kissing. Claire looked at me and smiled. She had knowledge of things. The look said: Now you shall see and thank me for it. I turned my eyes to the ground again, to the rustling and whispering. They were fondling each other now. Was Mother protesting? When they turned a bit, I could see Father's hand beneath her skirts. Then Mother's hand moved to the front of his trousers. She found what she wanted. She kissed him again. I was mesmerized by her hand, the play of her fingers, the squeezing. I could not see Father's hand. Mother's hip moved, squirmed. Father's hand had obviously found its goal.

Then Father mumbled, pulled away. He made Mother turn. At first she protested, pleaded, warned him of the danger. But Father insisted and in a moment she yielded. She turned and knelt upon the bed of hay. He raised her skirts to uncover the wide expanse of her bottom.

Broad and white. I remember the milk-white flesh of Mother's bottom, the two moons split by the crack. Father worked at his trousers to get them down to his knees, and for a moment Mother's hairy purse was completely visible at the joining of her thighs.

Then my eyes were drawn to the greater revelation. Father's magnificence had appeared. His rampant penis. His cock and balls surrounded by a dark forest of hair, the shaft pointing straight out and weaving as though in search of a target. He was quickly upon her, covering her bottom, mounting her from the rear, Mother groaning at the invasion of his organ. Father's hips moved, churned, pumped, and Mother brayed in happy response. Quite happy. I was old enough to know the meaning of that wailing sound.

The doing of it was brief. They were hurried by circumstance, by a fear of discovery. Father made a grunting noise as he emptied his ballocks. In which entrance? The question remains unanswered. At the end of it, they pulled apart from each other, quickly arranged their clothes and left the barn. Claire and I waited a few moments, and then we stole out of the place the way we had come. We hurried to the woods to fill our skirts with berries, to confirm our innocence if our absence had been noted.

The berries were picked, the skirts filled, the family united again at dinner. Grandfather and Grandmother, Father and Mother in complete decorum. Mother, as usual, cautioning her girls to avoid the sun.

And now again. This grate. This barred window into my sister's room. Am I now a prisoner? Edward stands near one of the chairs. He does not look at Claire. He holds a thin unlit cigar in his hand and he seems pensive. Claire is seated at her dressing table. She unpins her hair. She pouts. She shakes her head. “Do you want to, or shall I call Dobbin?”

Edward nods. He slips the cigar into one of the pockets of his waistcoat and he goes to Claire. She stands and he begins to work at the buttons and hooks of her dress.

Claire talks of someone called Cyril. One of Edward's friends? “He's a rogue, you know. He's an awful rogue. I told you that last Christmas, didn't I? I did tell you that.”

“Yes, you did.”

“One mustn't be deceived by people like that. I don't like to be deceived.”

“I don't think he ever means any harm.”

“That's nonsense, isn't it? Five thousand pounds' worth of nonsense.”

She is in her chemise now, her body slender beneath the white silk. Edward kneels to undo the buckles of her shoes. When he has her shoes off, he wants to bring her stockings down. But Claire pulls away and walks to the chaise.

He follows her at once. “Let me.”

One after the other, he pulls the stockings down and off her feet. Claire makes a sound in her throat. She laughs. A bubbling laugh. “You're a nasty little sailor. I want it through my drawers.”

Her thighs moved apart. Edward swoops. His face in her drawers. His mouth against the white silk. She fondles his head. She bends her head as she watches him.

And as I watch them both. My legs are unsteady. I stand upon a chair and my legs are unsteady. Edward at his dinner. The little sailor feeding at my sister's plate. Her thighs rocking. There is only silence now. An occasional murmur from Claire. My legs continually shaking. I watch the hand that strokes his head. Her narrowed eyes.

Then Edward pulls away. He rises. His fingers at his flies. His trousers unbuttoned. Claire is amused, smiling in her amusement. Edward's root appears. The dark pink of his root. Claire touches him, her fingers curling, her pink hand upon his pink root. Her slender fingers. She smiles. A soothing murmur. Yes, darling, yes. How randy you are. Her fingertips tickling. Edward quivers at the tickling of her fingertips. She strokes him, fingers curled, fingers tickling, stroking his root as he quivers before her. His eyes fixed upon it. His flushed face. Her fingers stroking. How swollen he is. The straining of his flesh. She murmurs again, calls him little sailor again.

I shall go mad. She has him panting. I shall go mad as I watch the doing of it. His eyes popping. The little sailor. Claire smiling. Her tickling fingers. I can feel the hot flesh. The heat rises to the grate and warms my face. What a marvelous vision. Edward in his chaos.

There is no ending. She drops her hand. She tells him to undress. Edward blubbers, his fingers working at his buttons. Claire moves to the bed, removes her drawers and then her chemise.

She waits. Edward is done, stripped, his body pale, his root in a frenzy. His balls jiggle as he moves. He climbs upon the bed, settles upon his back beside Claire. She snickers and turns. She straddles his pale body. She moves forward to fix her nest upon his mouth.

One must assume. When a cloud covers the moon, one must assume the moon is still there. Edward's face is covered. My sister's bottom and thighs obliterate his face. Her body rocks, a swaying movement as she presses against his mouth. Her neck is bent as she looks down. Is she murmuring? I think I hear the sound of it. A quiet chanting. Then she reaches behind her to fondle his root and balls, one arm behind her, her neck always bent, her body rocking, rocking. This pink metronome on my sister's bed. This pink arrangement in my sister's room.

Then the rocking stops. Claire shifting backward. Back to his essentials. She squirms over it, holding it, guiding it, then settling upon it as Edward makes a sound of contentment. His cock in her nest. My sister settles down upon her husband. Her bottom rolling. Now she moves again, up and down, up and down, riding Edward, riding in her saddle. Her back straight. The jiggling of her apple breasts. The curve of her rump as it rolls upon his pelvis. Edward's mouth is open. He mutters something but I can't make it out. Claire continues her ride. She smiles as she rides. Her voice cajoles him. The little sailor. His pale skin. The fierce passion shining in his face. His cock in her nest. His cock inside her cove. My sister's body rising and falling as she rides in her saddle. Oh, the sweetness of it. My face flushed in the heat of it. Edward groaning now. Claire's amusement. Claire smiling as he spends.

Claire has an enduring enjoyment of propitious moments. There are four of us at a small dinner party: Claire and Edward, myself and a Mr. Walter Bramsby. We sit enthroned in our misconstructions, our small amusements. Our urgencies. I have the feel of it. I know the outcome. One must trust one's intuition. Walter Bramsby dabbles in the casual sarcasm enjoyed by Claire. Edward laughs. He drinks his wine. “Oh, that's capital.”

“That's lovely.”

“Yes, indeed.”

“We mustn't be harsh now.”

Our clothes are in fashion. I have powdered my shoulders this evening because Claire has insisted upon it. Edward is so charming. He shines at parties like this. His eyes have a shine of perfect comfort.

Walter Bramsby is clean shaven. I don't know if I find his face appealing. I think he might be more impressive with whiskers. His eyes are always upon me. His eyes upon my powdered shoulders. And why not? I think my shoulders are more easily looked at than Claire's. Darling girl, you're being horrid again. Completed horrid at another of Claire's banal dinners.

In the drawing-room, Edward and Walter light their cigars as Claire and I sip our sherry. Walter's eyes are upon me again. My shoulders. My bosom. His admiration is amusing. All women are fond of the eyes of men. We have our recognitions. We have our devices. It is not easy to obey one's will. Claire teases me. She calls attention to my hesitations. What does one see in the eyes? Does he have strong hands? I do like strong hands in a man. Oh yes, he will call. And Claire smiles as she thinks it. I hide my annoyance in my sherry glass. I have the image of them, the fervent couplings upon Claire's bed. I think the sherry is much too sweet. Edward keeps one hand behind his back and looks as pretentious as ever. I remember how he turned pink as Claire handled his root. His pink cheeks. They shut themselves up in that room, shut themselves away from the world.

After Walter Bramsby leaves, Claire coaxes me to say what I think. I detest the amusement in her eyes. She urges me. She smiles. “You must tell, darling.” Her fingers fluttering at me. Edward agrees. “You need someone dependable.” Again I have the images of them in Claire's room. Claire on the chaise with Edward's face at her copse. Do I want a suitor? Do I want Walter Bramsby to call upon me? Then one of the maids is in the room and I refuse to say anything. Edward sends the maid Perkin out. Claire talks of finding another maid, one more girl in the house. She teases Edward, asks if he agrees. Edward's eyes are distant. Claire turns to me and smiles. “You will be pleasant to Walter, won't you, darling?”

The clock strikes twelve and Claire begins again. I must gather myself together. I must make a life. I must avoid the pangs of melancholy. I need distraction. If Walter calls upon me, I should see him. “He has a fine voice when he sings.”

And the grate again. My eyes are burning at the grate. Claire again mounted on his face. Her nightdress gathered at her waist. Edward extended upon her bed in his dressing-room and Claire queening him with her bottom. She faces his feet this time. Her thighs glow in the yellow light of the electric lamp. How she queens him. His mistress. She ought to be wriggling madly. Edward's face buried by my sister's rump. When I first met him, he seemed so cavalier. I remember he was dressed in white, with a white boater and a white suit and immaculate white shoes. I remember the shoes best of all. I thought any man with shoes like that had to be of superior constitution. Then after Claire's betrothal I was in a desperate jealousy. Claire and her friends whispering to each other. Mother's glazed eyes. Mother always insisted we behave with dignity. Dignity in public and dignity in solitude. But of course there wasn't much dignity in that barn at the grange, was there? Her bottom turned up to Father's probing.

Claire is laughing now. “The other way, Teddy.”

She dismounts, climbs off his face and turns. She kneels upon the bed, her night-dress still gathered at her waist, her bottom turned up like a rising moon.

Edward moves behind her, behind the moon, behind the ivory expanse. He hesitates. A mere moment. Then he drops to bury his face against her bottom.

Claire wriggles. A mewling sound. Her bottom against his face in her amusement.

Edward pays his homage. He nuzzles. He presses. I can see his nose between the globes. His mouth has vanished. To which aperture? In her rose-hole? I suppose she demands both. I turn to stone in my envy. The male tongue in the most secret place. How ridiculous we are. We want the probing, be it root or finger or tongue. And the loving admiration.

Obeisance. Only once with John and then I had too much wine to keep him there. But of course he wouldn't stay. Edward, perhaps, but not John.

How she rules him. His devotions. His tongue certainly in the quick of her bottom now. As she wriggles.

Then he's gone. He groans and turns on his back once more. Once again Claire mounts his face. Now she exposes his root, his swollen penis. She strokes him. She kneels over him, half-bent, her eyes fixed upon her doing, her fingers curled as she strokes him. Edward squirms. He touches one of her thighs. An appeal? Her hand continues to fondle him. To milk him. She coos at him, cajoles him. Her slender fingers milking his root. “All right, Teddy.” The hand goes up and down with increased vigor. My sister's hand. Upon her husband's root. The ending foretold, but of course I shall watch it. I think tomorrow I shall walk in one of the parks with a parasol. I shall meet other women like myself. Do they have sisters like Claire? Now suddenly Edward makes a bleating sound and Claire's hand responds with a burst of fervor. Her fingers curled and squeezing. The crisis. He spouts. Again. Again. He calls out as she continues. She laughs. She pulls at his root with her hand. She bends over his face and kisses his lips.