Laura

CHAPTER TWELVE

An anonymity of faces greets us-put on perhaps to meet my face. Their eyes silk smooth, untarnished by their sins, all here perform their attitudes of ease. The numbers are precise: nine males and seven females. I and my companion (I have named her Constance) make the balance.

I am not the youngest. I count one of no more than sixteen years, her gown low cut, betraying aureoles of brown upon her swelling melons. There are none grizzled here. Age, in a way, is an obscenity, awaiting shawls, warm milk, and dusty dreams. Some here have reached maturity, long in their memories of mouths and thighs, old bedrooms long deserted, flowers that died.

They have no proper names, nor I, so Constance says. I may call myself what I wish. One does not fret about such things.

“Nor is there Time here, Laura. Those who sin tonight will on the morrow dream they knew a vacuum. Dried sperm on stocking tops alone will tell the tale. Shall it not?”

Her last sentence is addressed to a girl yet to attain majority. Her eyes are shy as rabbits in the grass. I seek her hand and stroke her fledgling wrist. Her slimness is a lily's but she bulbs out well. She leans to us, would whisper, is repelled, quick made to speak aloud.

“In the carriage, I…”

“Speak, yes-speak, yes-what? In the carriage what?”

“I kept him stiff.” Her hand goes to her mouth. “Mama exhorted me to do so. I used my glove.”

“Over his prick and rubbed it up and down? A merry game! Such exercise becomes your youth, my dear. Keep your eyes ever open, even when on your back. Stare at your conquerors. I shall leather you first. The guests enjoy the spectacle. Be mindful that you are the receiver, not the stricken. Wiggle your bottom well and keep your legs straight.”

“You are ever at your advice!”

A lady approaches upon Constance's words. Appraising her, she embraces the young lady, arm about her waist. They have a likeness between them.

“My mouth, my love, is ever yours. The words but duplicate. Both are to be put up, are they not-this one, and that?”

Constance is nodding to the even younger girl. Her melons, waist, and bottom are devoured by many eyes. I would wander by a sea-wall, hold her hand, and listen to the evening cries of gulls. I would take her now in closeness, secrecy, behind drawn curtains, silent walls, my pubis burring stickily to hers, thighs glistening with the dew of love.

“Must we stay, Mama? There is no music here. The gentlemen touch my bottom, the ladies would kiss me.” The younger has run forward.

There should be music. Shall there be music? A singing of birds-a lark and a dove.

“You are here to be caressed, palpitated, made pleasant, my love. Have I not endeavoured to teach you both the priorities of pleasure?”

So both are drawn to her, embraced, would wriggle nervously like children drawn from play who to the swing, the hoop, the top would run.

“They are perhaps too young.” The words are mine. Asides are made. I draw apart with Constance.

“They are to be feted, my sweet-not penetrated at first but dallied with. As they will, they may receive the cocks later perhaps. All shall flourish in their willingness. I thought to experiment thus. Are you not minded to enjoy?”

“If they not be taken by force. I will not have them taken by force.”

“What a sentimentalist you are, Laura! Let them be put then only to fingers, tongues. We shall see their mettle then, the moods and passages of their arousals. Carrie is the younger, or I call her so. Her sire will pump his pestle in her yet. Hot-bottomed, she will jiggle to his thrusts, puff-panting in dark tunnels of delight.”

“If she is so aroused, but not otherwise.”

“How you ordain! I like you so! Your eyes attain the proudness I desire.”

“Let her be made petulant, then-the youngest. The older soon will follow suit. Is this to be the spectacle? Then I will tongue her first if such it is. She may be held for a woman but not a man. So would I have it. Are you of agreement with me?”

“Why else are you here, my love?” Her smile is merry. “Let us arrange the affair. Mildred-come!”

The mother approaches again-a fair beauty with no look of wantonness about her. I would learn the manners of such tribes, the effortlessness of their encounters. They have not the rude eyes of some who have looked at me. Their thoughts do not claw upon one's skin. She is perhaps as my grandmother once was, pearls on her bosom looping at her nipples, waist indrawn, her bottom arrogant.

“Let it be so. One should incline to tenderness, romance. You are mindful of such duties?” She addresses me.

“Laura was tamed by guile, persuasion, logic. Dark curtains facing to the night, the far call of an owl. She knows her placings and her plentitudes. Her bottom, offered out in love, has known the shaft's deep penetration-yes?”

I nod, am not displeased by sin nor convenants of lust upon this seeking.

“Lay Carrie then upon the couch. Prepare the audience. Have all be quiet. Let there be no seekings of fingers upon me, for I shall spurn all. Constance will assist.” My tone is firm.

“Come, sweet. The lady is to amuse you. Is she not pretty?”

“Oh, Mama!”

Carrie would fain struggle, but is borne to an ottoman. The others take their seats; all is prepared. Wrists held, the young one looks around in wild surmise. No giggles break the silence as I move, a wraith among them and then kneel to her.

“Draw her skirt up first. Let Constance attend her mouth.”

“Mama! No!”

“What a silliness! Are you not soft as a dove, plump as a pigeon's breast?” So I coo and hold her legs apart. Mama, replaced by Constance, takes to wine. There is a passing of canapes. A gentle air attends. At the piano someone plays a minuet. Some gurgles and sweet Carrie is undone, her drawers brought down, her melons brought to view. A man rises. From the corner of my eye I see his cock revealed. Impatience takes its due. The others so prepare and seat themselves to have Priapus nursed by willing hands.

Carrie kicks. Her squeals resound. In parting her thighs I have uncovered her nestling quim while Constance at her nipples pecks. My arm intrudes to hold her legs apart. I lick, lick in my licking lick and find her spot, sweet taste of acridity and youth. “Blub, blub!” she chokes as inward my tongue flicks, her bottom blatant on my cupping palms.

“Wooo! Wooooo!” Her choking cries now change. Her bottom twists, I seek the chubby cleft and ease my thumb against her orifice, her rubbery, her ring. Nose nuzzled at her nest, my tongue flicks fast, her knees now hinged upon my shoulders' thrust. Her oiliness exudes. I sense her lips to those of Constance now and raise my head. The two are sweetly paired. My lips, sheened with the spendings that I drew, invite the tasting of my tongue. Her legs lie limp and from my shoulders glide. Her bottom bumps, exhorts my tongue again. I plunge anew and bring her to a peak. All is well done, so quickly done, that I would be as she, dazed by the tremulous as once I was. Let it be seen. I, who was never seen but listened only to the needles' minuet, the chairback creaking, and the waiting of my aunts, would have it so.

I know not why. Was there once a mirror at my bed and so arranged to see the pestle put, the parting of my seared cheeks to his knob?

I rise, for Constance has her at her will. Sweet prey to her, Carrie absorbs her tongue, her jellied bubbles wobbling to her palms. I turn. The ladies are divested of their clothes. All pellmell thrown, their drawers, chemises, gowns are mingled, cocks upstand. Mama in her voluptuousness is embraced between two males, one young and one mature. She rubs between them as betwixt two masts. Assailed by hands, the young girl in chemise would run to me. I let her come.

“I do not want to, do not want to, no!”

“Very well, you shall not. Have no fear of the occasion, my sweet. Helen-shall I call you that? Turn your back to me. Place your bottom upon my palms. Bend your knees a little, so. There-you may watch.”

“I do not-”

“Yes! Or I shall bring the first male to you whose cock is more arrogant than most. He eyes you now. Let him but see. Raise the front of your chemise a little-display your bush!”

“I…I thought you to save me! Oh, save me!”

“Shush! You are well stanced now. My eyes fend him off. Is it not the selfsame cock you played with in the carriage?”

“Yes.”

“Did he come in your glove?”

“M…M…Mama would not let him. Oh! He is coming closer! Oh, your finger!”

“Work a little upon it. Keep your legs apart, it will do you no harm. Hold your back to me. Regard his penis, how it quivers, strains, is taut. Remark the veins, the bulbing of the knob. Did you not enjoy caressing it?”

“I do not know! Ooooh! Oh, do not make me stand so! He approaches! Oh!”

“Part your legs more.” I am implacable, ringmistress to the pair. “Has he not caressed you-bubbies, thighs-his hand within your drawers upon occasion?”

“Yeth.” She lisps in her excitement, bottom-squirms, rosette upon my thumb, forefinger at her quim. Do I betray? His balls hang heavy for the joust. His stem is thick and sturdy, richly stiff. Her eyes roll and her head hangs back to rest upon my shoulder. Gritting teeth, she mews as both my fingers urge now in and hold her thus, knees quivering and bent, lewd in her stance.

“Shall you have him? Say you will have him. It is for the best. He will come upon you in the night else, will he not?”

“Yeth. Oh, Mama is naughty-look!”

“So be encouraged, my sweet. She nightly takes the selfsame prick that waits your moans, plays furrow to his plough and draws him in. His spendings cream her quim night on, night on, while quiet you lie abed and listen to the singing of the walls. Extend your palm. Let his balls be cupped upon it. Come-he will strap you otherwise and put you to it.”

“Oh-woh!” Her voice quavers, dies. My free hand takes her hair, her face upheld, fresh oval to his visage hungry, stern.

“Put her upon the floor. If she will go upon the floor, put her upon the floor.”

His voice commands, rings out, then hesitates. Carrie and Constance are at a soixante-neuf. Cocks pump and bottoms heave around we three.

“Shall you go down? Go down, go down. Helen, be not perverse. You are come to this. Upon the floor receive his foaming shaft. Hold your legs wide open, ever straight. Be proud, my love, be proud, go down, go down.”

Do I betray myself in my beseechings, urgings ever pushing on? She has acceded perhaps before. I would not doubt the matter. Her pad, well furred with curls, slips, slithers on my hand. My fingers draw without. Persuaded to her knees she gives a wailing cry and slumps, her arms, legs, awkwardly awry.

“Hold her shoulders, for she may yet struggle.” So croaking he sinks down between her legs, his ceiling-pointing piston fisted now.

“She may not be held. She knows better than to wish to be.”

Puff, pant, and groan. “Ooooh-ah!” Her cry and then he is within. I have seen pictures on a drum the which revolved and through a slit gave semblance of reality. So is it here, though close I bend and watch her tummy ripple, slim legs strain. Her eyes at first hold anguish, then surprise. Full muffled under him, she stirs, twists neck, licks lips, and curves her supple back, her peach full split around his throbbing rod.

“Cup her bottom on your palms, enter full and hold.” I move about them. “Bend your knees a trifle, Helen- work your bottom.”

Such exhortations, trite, are even so exciting. For the moment, for the moment, for the moment. Her cries grit out, her torso writhes, eyelashes flutter on her cheeks. Unmoving, heavy on her, so he lies. Her knees bend not enough-I nudge her feet. With somnolence she draws them back, his balls like ripe plums at her cleft.

“Absorb her tongue, suck upon it, work her a little but not overmuch until she knows the length and girth of it.”

A mischief takes me, I kick off my shoe, caress his buttocks with my stockinged toes and delve beneath to his receptacles. His mouth now smothers hers, she whimpers, jerks. In but a moment they will be in full and lusting flight of it. I would have my aunt, paternal aunt, be taken thus, full-hipped, full-bottomed as she is, my toes between their mouths, there both to lick. I would be conqueror thus, the unconquered risen. I would show my garters. The view perhaps would be alluring.

“Ma-ma, Ma-ma, Ma-ma!” Her voice quick jerks as might a marionette's in speaking. Full at her now, he draws his pestle forth and enters it anew within the spongy cleft, she apple-round upon his palms, tits jogging to his thrusts, her eyes berserk.

She is falling now, falling, falling as the leaf falls to meet the warmth earth, the welcoming grass. She stutters, “P…P…P…,” and squirms her hips. The moment is divine, absurd, or lewd, though not within their minds where devils dwell. All about me are possessed. Carrie lies glazed of eyes. A gentleman is upon her. Constance kneels like one forlorn, her head to Carrie's shoulder, corked by another twixt her bulging cheeks.

I have no place here, am not of the multitude. Let me be more delicate in my ways, obtain again the silence that I knew. They are not virginal here-know not the attitudes. Tonight in my diary I shall write the lives of all, Helen and Carrie to their lusts down-drawn, their knickers ever soiled by pools of sperm. In their uncleanness shall they flourish, petted and patted by Mama, bright on Sundays in their white attire, to chapel led, the hymn books rustling.

When they kneel, when they kneel, for what do they pray? Let me be seen not in their congregations, knees bent, upon the hassocks spread. I would pray for solitude and stars, comforts of night and hallowings of quiet, the pestle to my mortar put and soundless desire.

They will marry, of course. Am I fretful at this? Their training was inexact, comportment lewd. Even so, 1- hypocrite-pleasured myself in my holding of Helen. Some girls perhaps should be put to it thus-young servants no doubt, or field-girls with pretty faces. I have seen such on my father's estate, yet gave no thought to it, he roaming there with stick and gun, rushing of hares and twittering of leaves.

In the grass, in the grass-how pleasant it might have been in the grass, the dew upon my bottom kissing, filterings of sunlight, a fastness of swallows. Would he have breathed to me as I to Helen? I must do down into my thoughts, emerge, comfort myself. Bacon and devilled kidneys for breakfast. Afterwards, afterwards. My aunts like angels quiet would come and go. Mama would speak of butter, milk and churns. How cold a churn were I put over one, yet soon my bottom warm to urgent thrusts, the milk rush-rolling in the silvered cone.

I am come upon the hall, the doorway. No one bars my exit. The carriage waits still.

“You were a long time coming of it, M iss. I was not told to leave nor go nor wander forth.”

“It is best that you did not. There are herds in the darkness, their bodies heavy.”

“They should be milked and taken in, Miss.”

“Have you been so? It matters not. I shall return to my hotel. You remember the place, the far place, where the lights glow?”

“I couldn't be forgetting of it. All the gentry comes and goes there. There is ever a coming and going there. You are of the country, Miss. I smells it on your skin.”

“Soft, is it not? They are lewd people within and would have remarked upon it had I let them, felt me as one feels tapestries or cloth.”

“There's a lot of it goes on, Miss, as for them what can afford it. I heard tell from a gent that was in my conveyance of a party he went to where all the guests took their clothes off and romped about terrible.”

“I disapprove of such. Do you not disapprove of such? Let us go then, let us go. There is badness about, the sins of the multitudes.”

Rushings of summer night and whirling of heavens. I shall retire, take a cottage upon my father's estate. My aunts will visit me there-a twirling of parasols. We shall have readings, converse upon philosophies, dip strawberries in cream and lick our lips unseen. A horse will stand without in waiting upon my journeys.

I shall take the woodland rides and wait his coming, penis still upon the saddle's rim. Delicately we will tread together into a copse, the twigs snapping, upwhirring of wings and clouds of starlings sailing. May I speak? I would tell you at last how long and thick your penis is, how tightly I enclose it. Let our mouths meet. Speak to me of Rabelais, of pages yellowed by the sun, the bindings stiff upon their hinges. Caress my thighs, my quim through cotton drawers. Do my stockings not band tightly? It was said once there were elves, here. Let me lie back, prepare, display myself. The loam is soft. How soft the loam is…

Be quiet Laura, be quiet.

Be quiet.