Blue Tango

Part Two: Claire
Chapter Eight

I dally in my room with Dobbin the maid. I lie upon the chaise and Dobbin kneels beside me with her face at my belly. Her tongue flutters between my nether-lips. Her fingers tickle my thighs. The windows are open and I can hear the birds in the garden, the chirping of the birds, an occasional buzz of an insect, the soft slurping of Dobbin at my fountain. There is nothing in this room but tranquility.

And yet I'm restless. Despite the languid mood, I feel agitated. It's always like this, always the agitation. Is it the maid? Dobbin's face is flushed. Her attention is fixed upon my exposed belly, my open thighs, my sex. Would she rather I be on the bed? When I called her to my room, she arrived with a shy smile. She's accustomed to me now. After three years in the house, she knows my ways. A maid ought to know the ways of her mistress. She knows I don't like her to be gloomy. She knows I like her to be playful. She giggles as I close my thighs about her head. She pretends to be smothered. I open my thighs. She breathes again. She kisses my sex again. How eager she is. She nuzzles between my nether-lips. Her tongue continually flutters.

I must make a supreme effort to be at ease. What a pity not to enjoy the work of a girl like this. Such delights. She has an appetite for it. Certain maids come into service and one quickly sees they have no yearning for it. And then at the first bidding they hold back. They weep. Nothing is more disgusting than a weeping maid. One wants only silence from a servant. I don't like it when they weep. Dobbin never weeps. Dobbin is never unpleasant. She has full lips. She pulls at my clitoris with her full lips. I'm so tired. I feel malicious. I want to push her away and at the same time I want the sucking to be more firm. I don't like her maid's cap. I don't like her eyes when she looks at me. I don't like to be looked at when they do it. I wonder what they think. I wonder what they tell each other in their murky little rooms. Of course they talk about us. Myself and Edward and my sister. Whispering in the kitchen ever since the arrival of my sister. The pretty one. I suppose they call her the pretty one. Julie has such lovely hair. Is she comfortable in her room? Oh yes, she is. My sister is most certainly comfortable in her room. She has that photograph of Ellen Terry and behind the photograph is the grate and through the grate she spies upon me. She watches me. She watches everything that happens in this room. She's not watching now because now she's not in the house. But if she were in the house she would watch me again. How amusing it is. Ellen Terry. What a perfect little goose of an actress she is. The grate ought to be covered by someone more substantial. If she doesn't like those roses, she ought to have found something more suitable than Ellen Terry. It's completely ridiculous to have Ellen Terry on that wall. I suppose she thinks it's a humorous touch. I suppose she thinks it's an adventure to spy on me through the grate. Does she smile? I hate it when she smiles. I think her face looks so common when she smiles. One doesn't want a smiling sister. That evening at the Cosmo when she laughed at Walter. Poor Walter is so much alone. Of course Julie wouldn't understand that. She might confess to other things, but not to that. So dense behind that pretty face. Entangled in her secrets. She was never happy as a married woman. She thought I didn't know, but I knew perfectly well she wasn't happy. She can't hide something like that from her own sister. It's not possible. And now what sort of future will she have? John not here. Drowned in the gondola of that lovely balloon. How awful it was when the news came. One never thinks of it. The question never appeared. And then one discovers there's more to life than a jolly good time. What a formidable man he was. Oh dear yes. I do remember him. There are men one doesn't forget. John will not be forgotten. Except perhaps by Julie. I don't think she ever had much affection for him. My sister is the happiest widow I've ever known. She doesn't hide the truth of it. Husband dead in watery grave and her with not much to show for it except a few newspaper clippings. If she has the clippings. Which I doubt. I do know my own sister. One always knows certain things. Pity she isn't watching me now. I might look at the grate and make a face. Shock her into a state of grace as she understands I know about the grate. Of course I know about it. I do live in this house. I live in this house and that's the mouth of one of my maids down there. Dobbin's pretty little full-lipped mouth. Dobbin's lovely kisses. The room is so pleasant when the windows are thrown open. I feel her breath. She knows I don't like to have it rushed. It's hateful when it's rushed. One doesn't want to rush it. One wants a deliberate dalliance. Last Sunday I had her kiss my evening shoes a full five minutes before she ever touched my legs. One wants discretion in a maid.

Edward, of course, says that Dobbin is too dull. He likes them a bit more plump. More flesh in the breast and buttock. Like Julie, I suppose. The two of them. The double perfidy. She imagines my ignorance. She imagines I know nothing of it. How silly she is. I know everything. That flat he has in Bedford Way. They take pleasure in their deception. My sister and my husband. She's always lived without guilt. She has no thought of any loyalty to anyone but herself. She's a scheming wretch. One sees girls like her in the music halls. Commonplace tarts with jiggling bosoms. I shudder when I think of my past life. Julie always in the shadows. Father's imbecility. The way he doted on her. Their secret doings. I have a thousand memories of his hand fondling her bottom. She does have lovely breasts. Like those tropical melons we had in Naples. Nipples jutting so obscenely. I'm sure Edward adores them. I'm sure he's dreamt about breasts like that during all the years of our marriage. His fantasies of harem women. What a marvelous thing it would be to see them together. His mouth sucking at her bovine teats. Does she ever think of me when he does it? Or John? Or is everything forgotten. All the forgetting one does in the heat of it. Edward is so insistent with his women. I should like to see her brought to tears, but of course it won't happen. One must accept the realities of one's life. I shall be amused by my knowledge of it. They way they danced at the Cosmo. It doesn't matter. I won't have her thinking me unhappy. She must understand perfectly the way things are. I shall avoid any embarrassing situations. I detest embarrassing situations. Edward can be so boastful at times. My life seems to Consist of maneuvering between one sticky moment and another. All the secrets. What a misfortune it is to know all the secrets.

Now I push at Dobbin's head. She looks up at me, her face flushed, her mouth wet. “Madam?”

“Tell me about her. Tell me about my sister.”

“Your sister, Madam?”

“Yes, my sister, you ninny. What do you do with her?”

The girl's eyes are worried. She makes a sound in her throat. “Please, madam…”

I insist. I insist she tell me everything. Do you suck her breasts?”

The maid wipes her mouth with her skirt. Her eyes are glazed. She nods. “Sometimes she wants that.”

“And what else?”

“Mostly it's down there.” Her eyes upon my sex. My belly is still uncovered, my nether-lips unfurled.

“Does she like it? Do you make her spend?”

The girl blushes. Her full lips show the merest beginning of a smile. “She always does.”

Edward favors Perkin. We sit in the drawing room, Edward and I, and when the maid is called she seems uneasy.

“Edward, have you been unkind to her?”

“Certainly not.”

“I won't have you unkind to them. We can't keep them if you don't use some common sense.”

“Claire, darling, it's a maid.”

“Yes, I know it's a maid. I can see she's a maid. Anyone can see that, for heaven's sake.”

“I mean it's only maid.”

“I don't want the bother of replacing them each year.”

“Quite so.”

He folds his hands upon his knee. Julie is out. The maid's eyes are uncertain. She thinks: What this time? Oh, I do understand them. Their girlish brains filled with nothing but silly fancies.

Edward beckons to the girl with his hands. His hands waving at her to come forward. She moves with hesitation. A glance at my chair. Yes, I shall remain in audience.

“Perkin?”

“Yes, madam?”

“I don't want you to look at me.”

“Yes, madam.”

She has a generous bottom, this one. I suppose that's why he finds her appealing. She stands before him. He says nothing. He motions with his fingers and she begins lifting her skirt. Her legs appear, her black cotton stockings, the white skin of her thighs. She has pretty legs. She blushes as she reveals her cotton drawers. Her eyes are lowered. Are there tears in her eyes? Edward fumbles with her drawers, his hand in the folds, his cheeks pink. The drawers come down, sliding down to the girl's ankles. She shows a full nest, dark, a thick bush at the joining of her thighs. Holding her skirt at her waist, she steps out of her drawers and remains still again. I see her in profile. Her full bottom thrusting out in its roundness. Edward makes her turn. Now she has her back to him. He touches her bottom. Just his fingertips. He uses both hands to feather the undersides of the two globes. Her rounds. His fingers move away to stroke her hips, then return again to the creasing between her globes and thighs. Now he pulls. He parts the two hemispheres. His eyes hot. I do know the look. His eyes hot as he examines her rear portal. His focus. He always takes them there. The maids are worth nothing to him but for that. And of course by now the girls know it. There is never any doubt that when Edward call it means a rose-hole corked. Do they giggle when they talk of it? He drops his hands now. He murmurs. He tells her to strip. Her fingers fumble with the strings. In a few moments she stands before him wearing nothing but her stockings and a white maid's cap that barely covers her chignon. Her charms revealed. She's a mere servant, after all. One sees it in the strong legs, the broad hips, the nipples like thick udders waiting for the infant. A country girl. What a stupid thing she is. She ought to have stayed in the north country. What a stupid girl to come to the city for this.

Edward unbuttons his trousers. He brings his tool out. His pink cock. The head blushing. The girl drops to her knees and takes his root in her hand. I've seen it all before. Every detail, all he gestures. The movements following one another in a slow procession. First her fingers, her fingertips dancing along his length. Then her lips at the tip. Her mouth opens. She engulfs his knob. His eyes upon her face. His face flushed as he watches her. She sucks with abandon. She makes no attempt to hide her gluttony. Her broad rump sways as she sucks him. When I was young I thought the maids were beaten into submission. They are not beaten. They are cajoled. Then after they are cajoled, they are willing. One can see the willingness in the way she fills her mouth with his flesh. How fascinating it is. The girl's mouth stretched by my husband's tool. I've had it in my body. I've had it probing in all the expected places. Now he fills the girl's mouth, stretches her lips, her mouth moving as she stuffs herself. She sucks and licks. Her tongue works. How practical the tongue is. Her young mouth. I do like to watch it. I like the simplicity of it. The swollen flesh stretching her lips. Of course Julie takes him this way. She has such a rapacious mouth. My sister. She bites him with her teeth. I suppose Edward adores Julie's mouth. She has a pretty mouth. Curling lips. A mouth to promote expectations of pleasure. Look how Edward perspires now. His forehead gleaming. Is it that warm in the room? Or has he lost his equanimity to a servant girl? What an annoyance. In the girl's mouth. Her eyes are closed. Sometimes one sees hatred in the eyes. A glint. Ephemeral. It quickly passes to be replaced by a placid look. I don't like to abuse the servants. We haven't come to that. It's not at all necessary, is it? What does it matter if there's an occasional rebellion in the kitchen? What a marvelous rump she has. Big in the bottom. She's anxious for it now. She hopes it's not too late. I shall sip my tea and watch it. I shall drink my tea and watch my husband and a servant girl.

Now Edward pushes her away. The girl's mouth is wet. Her face is flushed. He tells her to stand at the armchair and show her bottom. Her plump flesh jiggling as she moves. The clock chimes the hour. Tranquility in the drawing room. Edward and I in our drawing room. Perkin is the center of attention. The maid wearing only her black cotton stockings. Edward tells her to bend. She bends. Her arms forward to hold the armchair. She moves her legs apart as she bends further. Her pouch is visible, the hairy nest, the fat lips of her young sex.

Edward rises and goes to her. His root protrudes out of his trousers. He puts his hands on her bottom. He fondles her. He glances at me and smiles. His contented smile. Then he looks at the girl's rump again. He looks at her rose-hole. He has such a passion for it. He strokes it with a finger. He pushes his finger inside and the girl moans as he pulls the finger out again. A moan of expectation, isn't it? A tube of ointment appears from one of Edward's pockets. There is no sound except the ticking of the clock as he anoints the girl's aperture. When the task is finished, Edward replaces the tube in his pocket and removes his coat. He stands in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves. He unbuttons the lower buttons of his waistcoat and unhooks his braces. His trousers fall, then his drawers. His apparatus dangles. Cock and balls in a thicket of hair. He handles his balls as if to test their fullness. Then his hand returns to the girl's bottom. His finger pushes in again. He stretches the ring. Perkin groans as he works the finger inside. The girl shudders.

“Edward, don't hurt her.”

He turns his eyes to me. I hear the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece. The curtains move. A smell of spring coming in through the open window. Edward smiles at me. “She's perfect. Not small. I don't like it when they're too small.”

His finger is withdrawn. He turns his hand to use his thumb. First the ball of his thumb on the girl's rose-hole. Then his thumb pushing inside. Perkin moans again. Now Edward's other fingers are free to touch her sex. To push inside. He fills her two apertures with his fingers. A wailing sound comes out of the girl's throat. He likes them spending. She sways her hips, her white globes moving from side to side. Her thighs are plump above the tops of her stockings. Edward's fingers continue moving. He lingers. How he lingers.

At last his fingers come out and he points his tool at the ring. He pushes in. Perkin moans. He pushes further. Steady in the pushing. His eyes upon it. His root sliding inside her fundament. The girl groans continually. Her legs tremble. Edward lifts his eyes. He waits. Except for the movement of his hands on her rump, one would say he had an air of detachment. His brow is wrinkled. I wonder about his thoughts. How futile it is to wonder about his thoughts. It's quite another thing to have them told at dinner. He has such a clever ability to evade inconvenient questions. His face will assume a look of complete gravity. Then a moment later his features will change and his look will be boisterous. During our honeymoon, his transformations were unpredictable. My mother promised me I would be happy. She said Edward would make a fine husband.

Now he grips the maid's bottom as he starts to move. He pumps at her bottom, a slow and even pumping. Unhurried. The girl wriggles. I can see the joining. Edward's tool is quite big. The girl has a splendid bottom. Her rose-hole is enormously stretched. He moves easily. There is no forcing. She warbles. Her legs are shaking. I raise my gown to my thighs. I find my sex with my hand. My fur. My fingers in my furry place. I stroke myself. I stroke my clitoris as I watch them. I like the watching of it. The sliding tool. The grasping ring. How perfect it is. The girl's bottom is marvelous. Edward now shows the pleasure in his face. His eyes are bright. He watches the sliding. My sex is weeping. My fingers work in the wet. Perkin's face is hidden, but I suppose she wears a sweet smile.

Are we in a state of decay? When I was a girl I wanted my life confined to a garden of white roses. I had no thoughts of ambitious undertakings. I did not like the crowds in the exhibition halls in Paris. The only men I knew were old. All the others were unknown. I had all the comforts and I wanted them to endure. One always wants the comforts.

Does Edward have his comforts? His hands move over the girl's rump as he continues pumping in her bottom. I can see the swing of his balls. My fingers are in a fury as I watch them. My husband and this girl. My marriage. He makes a sound. He presses against her as he spends. I watch the shuddering. The cleaving. Edward and the maid.

In the evening I am alone with Edward in my bedroom. No, not alone. The eyes are there. Julie's eyes at the grate. Does Edward know? His face is so placid. He does not know about the grate. And Julie is not aware that I know she watches us. An entanglement of deceptions.

“Edward, what do you think of her?”

He looks at me. “Think of whom?”

“My sister, darling. What do you think of my sister?”

“I don't know what you mean.'

“You haven't really known her before. Now that she lives with us, what do you think of her?”

“She's pleasant enough.”

“Do you find her beautiful? I've always thought Julie was extremely pretty.”

“She's quite good-looking.”

“Yes, of course.”

“It's in the family.”

“You don't mean that.”

“Yes I do.”

“Do you think she ought to marry Walter Bramsby?”

“I don't know. If she wants to, I suppose she ought to.”

“Edward, you're always so vague. Do you want to undress me? You may as well do it now.”

I stand before the mirror as Edward undresses me. His fingers are nimble. His hands work at my clothes. My gown falls, then my chemise and drawers. Edward smiles as he looks at my breasts and belly. He bends to retrieve my clothes, to help me step out of them. His fingers trail over my legs, along my stockings. He fondles my calves and then my thighs. I am sure Julie is watching us. I shall not look at the grate. I shall not allow her to have any suspicion of my knowing.

Edward remains upon his knees. He presses his face against my legs. He mumbles. I suppose I ought to be angry about the grate. Her watching. I think of the past. One hates to shed tears about the past. It seems so useless. I think of those last days in Paris before I left for England. The last day. The last one. Julie tearful in my arms. What does she think about when she holds Edward in her arms? Is she jealous of the servants? One never knows the truth of things. Edward has such a saintly look when he kneels at my feet. My husband is an image of devotion. I can see desire in his face, in his eyes. I suppose some might say it is Satan in his eyes. My mother. Mother never understood the essence of things. How shameless Edward was in the very beginning.

I cover my breasts. My two small birds. I wonder what he thinks of me when he's with her. One always wonders. Now he fondles my legs. He looks at my belly, my sex. He likes me naked. I see the liking in his eyes. What a pity that Julie's eyes are hidden. I should like to see her eyes. I turn. I present my bottom to Edward. We drank champagne this evening and I suppose he's a bit drunk. He always kneels when he's had too much to drink. I don't mind it. I like the kneeling. His face now. He kisses my bottom. He kisses in the crevice while my sister watches. He kisses me under the nasty eyes of my sister.

Then his kissing stops. I turn. Edward rises and removes his dressing gown. He stands naked before me. His cheeks are pink. His eyes are shining. He murmurs as I fondle him. I hold the weight of his balls in my hand. I squeeze his tool. He likes the fondling. I can see in his face that he likes the fondling. We stand in profile to the grate. Let Julie see. Does she fondle him like this? Does she pull at his tool with her fingers? I must not show any anger. I must not deny their silly aspirations. They amuse themselves with deception. Julie has her triumph. Edward has his lust. I have only my apathy. His cock in my hand is so thick and hot. How he burns in his lust. I hold his throbbing tool. My finger stroking him. I am his wife. I have the torment. Is Julie the virtuous one? Oh, please spare me the madness of it. She ought to marry Walter Bramsby. She ought to regain her place in society. Edward trembles now. I'm fond of teasing him. One must never misjudge one's husband. His knob is so impatient. His balls seem to grow in my hand. Can Julie see him growing? Can she see all of the room? Edward looks pale in the yellow light. Can she see everything?

On the bed now. My thighs are open. Edward's eyes are upon my belly. I raise my knees and he comes to me. His face slides to my source. His mouth covers my sex. I wriggle beneath his tongue. I want her to watch it. I want her to see his tongue. I open my nether-lips with my fingers. How ridiculous he is with his tongue wagging at me. He mumbles. Then silence as he sucks. His lips pull at my flesh. This is the only thing of importance. His mouth upon me beneath the lamp. To have my sister watch it. His nose pushing at me. He talks of his friends at his club and I always wonder what they do with their women. Mrs. Grantham and Mrs. Dovedale. Mrs. Pallant and Mrs. Ashbury. Their clothes are always in fashion. The way they boast of the accomplishments of their husbands. All the boasting that's been done in this house. All the stupid dinner parties. I'm so innocent. In the midst of vulgar people I have no defense. I want to see her face. I want to see my sister's face as she watches us. What a joke it is. What a bitter tawdry joke it is. My knowledge of it. My knowledge of her watching.

I push Edward away. He roles onto his back like a wax mummy. I mount him. I take his tool inside my sex. I ride him. Riding a St. George. His eyes are glazed. I pray she can see it. I want her to see the joining. I want her to watch my riding. He holds my haunches with his hands. Is she surprised at my vigor? What a delight it is to ride like this. I see the happiness in Edward's eyes. Does he adore me? We have unpleasant moments. We have our good times and bad times. We have our evasions. We have our convictions. We have a refuge in each other. After all the tedium, one at least has a refuge.

Now I pull away, drop his tool out of my sex and turn to have his face. I settle down. Wriggling as I find his nose in the crevice. Wriggling again to get his mouth at my fountain. Pushing down. His tongue inside. The shifting a bit to get his tongue in the other place. The pleasure of it. He does adore it. I suppose he does it with her. I suppose she knows the madness of his tongue in her rose. Yes, he does the same. He groans now in the pleasure. I squirm upon his face. I hold his tool as he spends. His effusion bursting. The way he spurts. I quiver as I touch the scattered pearls. This one is for Julie. I touch it with my forefinger. This one belongs to my darling sister.