Laura

CHAPTER TEN

The staircase being so narrow, the walls have bumped my elbows. The paper is grey, mottled with age, snagged here and there as if the walls sought air.

I am risen-come upon a room that leads upon another and that in turn upon another, or perhaps they are mirror images of the first, for each contains a bed identical, washstand and mirror, the surprise of a dressing table upon which loll phials of perfume, pots of rouge, of kohl, of musk.

“Fortune awaits you here. We are of one mind. Thomas-close the door-let her be settled. Where are the other drawings, where?”

Found, they are spread upon the bed, which, large enough, accommodates us all. The girls, I see, are the same.

“They are known to you.” Her voice a purr, perhaps yet hopeful and yet still discreet.

“No, they are not known.”

“They were known, but you have forgotten. They are sisters, were sisters once at least. Perhaps now they are no longer so. They were long in their training-each peak depicted. The younger was taken first, and then the elder who was brought to watch. There were difficulties, of course. You see here…”

The first is turned. The delineation of the lines is ever fine, no cloudiness of aspect mars the scene. I catch my breath, not having seen the like. The elder hangs suspended, chains to wrists, being seated and yet not for there is no support beneath her in the stable, as I judge the place to be. Her feet, gripped by iron floorhooks, are held apart. Perhaps at some time she was able to stand but slowly sagged until the chains strained down. Before her and between her thighs a man of bullish aspect holds her nose, his truncheon penis urged between her lips. Behind her with a birch a woman stands.

“How churlish!”

My legs being over the side of the bed, I rise to my feet. A sense of dismay is upon them.

“Is it not an entertainment? Come, you have not seen the rest.”

“I do not wish to.” My feet would move and yet will not.

“One must not be of one philosophy. There are pleasurings and displeasurings, even as you have said. Hannah was not so cruelly treated as you might surmise. No more than you have been. In her summers she ran through meadows, touched the clouds. There were laughings, gaieties, voices in the shrubbery. Iced lemonade was poured. The ladies spoke of Titian and Botticelli. See you not how later she waited for his coming?”

Her nod is to my drawing, which still I hold. I perceive a little truth in the matter-have been too fretful.

“Come-you were ever in part shy. It is a good thing. Thomas, pour the wine.”

“Yes, my dear.” He ambles off the bed. I am reseated, my hand taken, soothed, caressed, the fine veins felt and traced. Glug-glug of wine, our glasses filled. It is the white kind which I prefer. “Some are prettier.” His voice lulls.

Downcast, my eyes fall on a second drawing turning. The sisters, standing, clutch together. Their eyes and lips are wide, but there is a merriment about them. I note the straining tendons on their necks as each receives a strap across her derriere. Booted and stockinged, they are yet naked, hands to hands, cheek to cheek, titties pressed.

“Was there ever aught to fear but salvation?” The woman speaks and draws me close. Her lips are velvet to my own.

“Perdition.”

I force the word between my lips as if ejecting a small cork that pops in turn between her own.

“Ah, we are come upon the truth of it,” she laughs, “Was it thus?”

Our mouths part stickily. Another drawing is revealed. The room is as my own, yet different, yet the same. Her drawers, my drawers, lie puddled to her boots. Each fine crease of her upraised skirt is burned into the paper even as her eyes, regarding me with wonder. Or perhaps the curtains stirred, for thus the light falls soft upon her face. She is the younger, thighs full-fleshed, calves slender, bottom orbing out. The strap has burned its last, is fallen, coiled. His penis is presented, stark and veined.

“Drink your wine. You will do better to view the others later.”

“Yes.”

Obedience observed, I work my throat, a glittering cascade upon my tongue.

“Did it not intoxicate? At the first urging, burning thrusting in? Turn about. Your wine is finished. There will be more later. Little cakes perhaps. Lie upon your belly that I may raise your skirt. We are come to this now, are we not? Were you ever perceived, put upon, observed before?”

“I will not say, I will not say!”

The bedclothes hide my face. I am positioned, feel my pulchritude unveiled, skirt slithered up, my drawers untied, chemise upfolded.

“The strap, Thomas! How exciting to see her at last! Between what marbled surfaces he worked!”

“No!”

My little cry forlorn. I am become recalcitrant, move fretfully, and held.

“You fool-he has a good cock for it. As good as you had at first, I swear. Hold still! Would you have struggled thus before? Answer, girl!”

I shake my head, wild in my shaking. My drawers are peeled, drawn down and made inert. My legs are spread.

“What were you told, now? What told? What?”

Her voice is soothing, her hand upon my hair. Her other, less incautious, on my back.

“The silence.” I have no other words.

“Was in the words unspoken, yes. Hold still now-bulb it out!”

The strap stings broad across my naked cheeks. So long, so long I have not felt its sting, the first insurgent licking tongue of fire that snakes between to tease my rose.

“Theeee-ooooh!”-the second strike has come. I sob, I blubber, twist my hips-am shamed to hear my cry thus sounding out, yet suffer no remonstrance save the strap which, coursing left to right and right to left, brings me to churn my bottom to its flail.

Brown voices at my ears, a tang of wine that moves around my gums.

“Her feet are still-the best of signs. She has not moved them half an inch. Come, lift your bottom to him, Miss-protrude!”

“Aaaah-oooh!”-yet now it sings but in my head. The sheen of heat is laid, my buttocks writhe. I count yet count not, bite my fingers not. Be not unseemly, Laura, in your pose. A scent of sperm is hazed upon the bed as once was hazed upon my own.

When the wrigglings ceased and we were done, when the wrigglings ceased, did it after turn to dust?

“I shall not hold her, Thomas, there is no need to hold her. If I needed to hold her she would not have come.”

“Prepare yourself, my dear. Lie back. Hold still, girl, hold still.”

Each word of his is splatted with the strap. I yield, moan, twist and buck, am lifted, slithered forward on the bed, and held in doglike pose between her thighs, her skirts drawn back. Her thighs are smooth as velvet, stockings taut, the lewdness of her crotch displayed, bereft of drawers.

“Now hold her in, my petal, slit to slit.”.

So sounds his voice. Our furs meet, merge and rub.

“Your tongue, my dear.” Her voice, too, softly furred. Her legs wind round my waist and hold me tight.

Thus did my aunt kiss me once, on the penultimate eve of my departure to be wed. Bearing a candle, she entered unto the darkness of my room, thin-veiled in silk and silent as a moth. Discarding then her robe and naked to her brazen bosoms, breasts of summer's fullness, belly smooth, she lay upon me, drawing up my shift. Be quiet, Laura, be quiet. Ever were the words thus. Open your legs now, let us rub. Hot tongue to my hot tongue, her lips to mine. Faint slither-squelch of slit to slit-I came, my bottom cupped, caressed, the cheeks held wide. He will come soon, my love, come soon. Let me prepare you. Ah, how dark the night, how dark! Rub, Laura, rub — come, darling, to my come. How oily you become, how slithery! Work, moan, and sob, my pet, he soon will come — cock to your bottom's heat. Ah, love, once more, oh yes, you come again! Now turn about and raise your gleaming orb. Wait in your darkling darkness, wait.

Would that she had stayed perhaps, but she stayed not. Drawing down the bedclothes to their full extent, she left me thus, mare-bottom-up, awaiting then his coming, armed for me, the shaft superior, full length and thick. And soundless in the night we threshed, but now…

My cheeks striated with the leather burn.

“Your tongue-come, be not shy-how soft your lips.” The gobble of her mouth to mine. Thrice more he straps and then my peach is clasped. By now in her mouth's darkness am I lost. Whispers of darkling dreams and curtains stirring. A low grunt and his crest seeks out the rim. Her arms enfold, my shoulders are as chained, heat-throbbing from the strap my bottom yields its ring of yielding to his urging-in, the veined shaft plugging now my plentitude until his balls hang plumlike to my quim.

Now is the moment of our merging moans, wet-lapping of my tongue to hers, my orb rotating to his penis surge, the stem near slipping out then plunging in to carve with arrogance its path of lust. Bounce-slap of flesh to flesh, his balls slow smack, my riding master takes his saddle well, my tight-fleshed channel sucking on his cock.

Am I the victim? Is the victory mine?

“Draw forth the sperm-clench, tighten, suck. Receive and you shall be replenished while the shaft itself falls limp.”

So my aunt instructed me. I understood perhaps, but never so well as upon this moment.

Thomas empties his balls. We are at full gallop. I receive the spurts, long spurts, the splashings and the dyings. Upon his withdrawal I am open for another.

“Is he done with-done with, done?” She feels the febrile movements, draws me down while yet his prick the ring slips and escapes. His weakling dribbling drips upon my thighs. I, gathered up, am cuddled in her arms. “Undress. Let me have you now. Do you want me to? I thought you at first to be a servant, having stolen your mistress's clothes. Part your lips again-let me slip my tongue in. You must be fucked before you leave. It is best thus. Are you in training still?”

“I believe not.”

“You may keep the drawings. You know you may keep the drawings. They were destined for you. Did you not have sisters who were ridden in the sight of you?”

“No. My aunt once-in the night. No.”

My dress, chemise are peeled. In turn she presents herself naked to her stockings. Her curves have a waxy firmness, her belly flat. A fine tuft sprouts between her thighs.

“The country girls are ever best. They may be ridden in the meadows and the secret haunts of gardens. Of occasion it is best to have watchers. You know better then your freedom. The males, then, are more easily aroused. Thomas-the wine. We have a guest to please. Stretch your legs and open them wider, my pet, while I lick your nipples. How prettily they bud, implore!”

Thomas undresses like a man who has a destiny to reach. His form is trunklike-penis lolling limp. I observe with curiosity his balls. Licking delicately at my nipples, she of the unknown name follows my eyes over the rims of my tits. The air falls flat and pale upon my eyes. I do not mind the watching. We are, in a sense, gemutlich. My bush purrs to her finger's touch. The wine poured, Thomas seats himself beside us. I observe him from the nipples to the thighs. The rest is anonymity.

“She is much like the girls, Thomas, is she not? When were you begun?”

I am sat up. We are sat up. My burnished nipples tingle and obtrude. My hair thrown back, I feel simplicity.

“Eighteen, or thereabouts.

Her laugh is brittle, yet we kiss. “A late coming you had of it, Laura. It was felt that you might flourish earlier.”

“There is patience. Is there not patience? Do you know my name-my name-my name?”

“Tish and tush, such questions! Drink your wine-lie back. Shall you be late in your returning? Where do you go?”

“It does not matter.” I will answer naught for naught. Pressed back, I laugh, survey the pair. His penis thickens in anticipation. “You know my name and yet not my becoming.”

“A boldness of response becomes you, if that is your becoming. You must learn more so to do. See how his cock now stirs with lust. Will you not invite it?”

Thomas stands beside the bed. His prick indeed thickens, growing as a plant might grow, yet visible in movement. I answer not, avert my face to hers.

“I am not Hannah.”

“You remember, Laura?” Her saliva oils my face and neck and yet is not distasteful. Recumbent as we are, my quim is stroked. I glide my hand to hers and feel its warmth, the exudations of her tremulous.

“I do not know. Perhaps. In the summer there were voices, in the summer. I heard the crack of whips. Mama was not perturbed. Hannah. The name is like the long breath of the dying.”

“Or the living, for she has not aged. When you come upon her you will know.”

Our breaths quicken, our fingers flourish. There are spillings, cries. The bed sags, receiving Thomas at my back. I, sandwiched in between, draw in their warmth. His cock upstanding to my bulb is pressed. His palms caress my tits, my mouth to hers.

“She offers not, yields not, yet yields. It is good. Sarah was such-being taken before Hannah, 'neath her gaze, yet held her pride. At the arching of her back and the seizing of her hair…”

His voice breaks. My neck is twisted. He in turn assails my mouth, roughing her hand away to stroke my pad, the lips soft, petulant beneath.

“Let it be so. You spoil everything, Thomas. We were but reminiscing-were at the beginnings of our avenues. There were larches, Laura. The girls rode beneath them, high in the saddles sitting, their backs straight.”

I hear little, for he is upon me, rod stubbing to my belly, shoulders pressed down, down into the pillow, thighs between my own. She moves, moves from us as a wraith as we wrestle, takes up a stool to brush her hair. I buck. His weight bears down too hard. His penis probe is at my lips, lovelips, the dell amid my curls.

“Hannah was thus. He forced her and spoiled her. He has not the delicacy of it.”

Her laugh becomes a cackle as I fight, though sleek his charger moves in to the game until his balls are nestled to my orb.

“No!”

“I will hold her legs.” Her mood is changed. Swift to the bed she comes and mounts my face. Her naked bottom to my visage pressed. I, splutter-smother, have my knees drawn back. “Be quick about it, Thomas-thread her fast!”

Her pubic hairs assail my mouth. I would not have her thus, twist tendon-straining neck and writhe, her laughter broken rain upon my ears.

“Are we not tempestuous? She was rarely taken thus save by her husband, Thomas-shaft her well. Draw out the stem, plunge in, and in again. He will take her thus upon her return. There will be no help for it. Ah, she has such strength in her legs! Would that they might clasp your waist or mine. How well she was tutored that she still resists a fucking thus. Are you coming-coming soon?”

“Soon, my love. She is as a sponge in the warm depths of the ocean, yet has the tightness of a clam. Draw her knees back higher that you may see my pestle at her mortar. Her cunt is sweet yet as a baby's mouth.”

Her own, sploshed down upon my mouth, I yield. He has a good poker on him yet I would fain have my own warrior's there. My aunt will close my eyes, subdue my squeals. Let him come, Laura, let him come. Work your bottom gently to his thrusts. So would I have her say, speak, whisper, mouth to mine, perspiring softly in some distant night. Not now, not now, the time is not yet come. The salt of her hot cunt breathes on my face, my nose rubbed to her tingling clitoris.

Then it is done, is done, is done-is not the same. He pumping grunts and groans, his sperm expels. I, flooded, sticky, ridden, left inert. The pair rise. I am dispensed with, done. The couples on the seashore laugh.

“You may come down when you wish-when you wish, come down.”

They dress-refurbish bodies in their garments drab.

“Do you not think he has a good cock, Laura, has he not?”

Neutral as far winter snow I rise-upon their going, dress with care. The pulsing between my thighs is intimate, not unpleasant. Perhaps I enjoy the aftermath of such better than the act thereof. I do not turn my mind to such things. I am as the paper upon which I never wrote. Words scurried to the edge, waited on the rim, observed the blankness with unending care. The last of the summer salads will be eaten now. Mother will fret with softened lettuce leaves and smile her vagueness to the world.

“There are clouds now-a gathering of hosts. Did you wish clouds?”

So the woman speaks upon my exit, my descent. The drawings, ready wrapped, come to my hands. Thomas is absent, skulking in his dreams.

“I do not mind. Should there be minding? Do not mind at all.”

I am beyond, upon the threshold, gone. If she could remember my name, if she could remember, she would call perhaps.

I shall read Keats and Shelley and lie passive in my bed.