Laura

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

We are late upon it. It does not matter that we are late upon it. The crowds in their bright merriment are all, guzzlings of beer and summer wines, the conjurations of the conjurors, tumblings of tumblers, and the wistful songs of ballad singers in their midsts. The bookies slap their satchels crying out what they will bet, what they will not. All shall be gone when darkness falls, some into secret hollows of the Downs, minding with care the folding of their few possessions, awaiting salvation, nibbling at crusts and half a loaf put away for the morrow.

In a marquee we are feted with feastings. Upon entry, a footman inspects my uncle's regimental card. It ensures our acceptance. The Duke and Duchess of Manchester entertain in this wise only officers and their ladies. Vats six feet high distil the best champagne; our goblets gob with bubbles served by servants. We are greeted here and there by none I know, my uncle having light acquaintance of them. If I am my uncle's lady I should perhaps sleep with him. His penis ejected furiously in the carriage. Had he not lain upon another in my sight, I might accept him-might, I know not.

After the feasting there is the racing to be seen, though I care not for it. Between races the unseemly climb the rails and loll upon the track, making of themselves pathetic masters of the moment. They are cheered, reciprocate, vulgar in their exhibitions until controlled, commanded, cudgelled by police. Then, too, the jockeys, butterflied in suits of multi-coloured silk, perch as birds upon their stately steeds.

Much thundering of hoofs! The noise astounds. I would be gone from such and take my uncle's sleeve. His glance takes in the contours of. my thighs-my own his trousers where a promise swells. We are for a moment one in sensuality, a suddenness of passion in the day. I would be mounted on a sward, within a clearing circled half by trees. Slave girls in Grecian white would hold our horses. When we were done, and they impassive watching, I would rise unwashed, feel warm sperm trickle in my drawers.

“Do you wish to come again?”

I am become in this moment my own apparition, yet am clothed in body. Bizarre my words and yet controlled in tone.

“There are booths, places for pleasures, entertainments, here.”

“Be not too urgent in your endeavours, uncle. If it is not I, then it will be another. Are there girls to be had here, among the gypsies perhaps, the nondescripts whose blouses veil full breasts, whose mouths are sullen with desire?”

“Would you have one such? Are you more fond of women than of men? How controlled you are! Were you taught thus?”

“Question upon question!”

My laughter is released. An excitement of confession is upon me, yet I catch at hooks and covers of discretion. Perhaps it does not matter, does not matter at all. One is bound to silence by understanding rather than instruction. Among the caravans on the slope we wend. The country Arabs stare, dirty upon wooden steps that lead with brevity to small worlds of the indescribable. The crowds recede behind us. Planted here and there in grass some loiterers stand. I am eased within myself, know not the reason for my jollity, a fragrant juice of love upon my lips. The air is open here and haunted by no ghosts.

Perhaps I never was, have yet to be. The sun has warmed my bottom, glossed and round.

Behind a tent my hand is taken-I am of a sudden turned, breasts to his chest.

“I am your kin, Laura, possess the ceremonial, ancestral rights.”

“What? There are none such! Are there such? What a wanton you would make of me! Am I to have belief in things that cannot be or yet in solitude should be conducted? Dark in the night and whisperings of wind, creakings of shutters and the candles fast extinguished? Such is a poetry of movement, motion, and desire surely not too subtle for imagination.”

“At least then you have imagined!”

“Should I not? I have seen the swelling of breeches at my approach and yet have ever guarded my avenues betwixt my cheeks, between my thighs. Once, being come upon the garden, half asleep as I lay with my skirt raised, I parted my thighs, allowed all to be seen. Feeling languorous, I fondled myself, impressed the batiste of my frilled drawers to my nest, the better that the lips might then be viewed. But then Mama came and I was forced to cease my fretting. Through the fluttering fronds of my eyelashes in the sun I had seen the stiffness of his stalk so clearly outlined that it were as naked.”

“What a pretty cock-teaser you are, then! Is that the truth of it?”

“Shall you play Pontius Pilate with your wicked stand? What is truth? Am I not my own truth? Come, let us to the pillage of one less innocent than I. There is a booth, you say, a place for pleasure, entertainment? Will not the multitudes come, surprise us at some lewd display?”

His lips attempt my own. For this impertinence I move away, unclasped, and saunter here and there, beguiling as I know I can beguile.

“There will be privacies, Laura, insinuations of hands, meetings of mouths.”

“If I permit them, as to my own person. Is there some overlord there, a master, mistress, harridan, or whore?”

“A mistress, yes. One of gentle family who fell upon hard times.”

“Gay girls say the same thing, so I have heard- claiming to be the daughters of penniless clergy or shipwrecked captains. I will know her genuineness or not. Is it far?”

“On the marquee yonder, below the hill. She does not wish to be seen by all.”

“Discretion in an open place? It is to be laughed at! I sense a commonness about her purpose, but even so you may take me there. Have care that no hands are laid upon me that I might despise.”

“It shall be as you wish.”

His tone is starched and ironed. Seemingly I have offended by not falling beneath him on the grass. Fantasies, however, serve me better for the nonce. I have been beneath him, but he knows it not, have felt the slime of comings on his cock, the piston's easing from my sheltered dell, faint spatter of his sperm upon the grass.

Rather would I taste strawberries now, sugared, dipped in cream, my quim licked by a Vicar's pet while he, incurious, sleeps by. Such scenes, I believe, Rowlandson or another drew. There was a sheaf of them, as I discovered, beneath an atlas on my father's shelves. The maids were comely and the men mature. Pricks were displayed, looked thin and spired, some being seen to spout, some not. Some waited while the maidens squatted, pissed, or urinated standing, legs apart. There were soundings of experience to be made, as I apprehended. Was there pleasure to be taken in such viewing?

I laid my hand upon a prayer book as I looked, to guard myself from devils, and yet ever turned the leaves. Fadings of colouring lent a charm to all I viewed. Upon seeing how the men's testicles hung, I stirred my loins. The crests were rubicund. I licked my lips. I had not then sucked upon one such but secretly had wished it.

Upon learning that I had viewed them, for I had turned them all about, my aunt had them put away-or burnt, averring that my father had purchased them in foolish youth. One should not keep for too long images on paper, so she said, for it implied unfulfilment in the eyes of those who looked. There was-sadness in the stillness of the figures, she averred. I, being then emergent, knowing the pulsing penis at my bulb, replied that were the eyes of those depicted able to move-were some magic to enable them to move, even without movement of limbs-then sadness would be not apparent. So I cogitated and was found right in my thinking, for there must ever be movement and a flowing. The power of movement exceeds the power of sound. So is the sea witness also to this truth.

My thoughts become more dry upon approaching the marquee. Above the awnings crude paintings are displayed of women seemingly naked and yet not. They represent participants in the Tableaux Vivants which are evidently here to be seen, my uncle explaining that in such the ladies, so attired in tights of near flesh colour, array themselves in still and classic poses. The law, he says, requires that they do not move-an absurdity, yet thus propriety is maintained.

His arm goes forward, a flap moves, we enter. The ground is boarded. The planks groan and flap. Two girls, near-naked and with dirty feet, sit listless on a bench. Upon our entrance one rises and scuttles round behind a screen. My uncle coughs. Whether it is a signal of content or dissatisfaction I know not.

The girl rises, uncertain, her face too pale for this bright summer day. I would make her lie outside without a parasol.

“She'll come in a minute-the mistress. Was you to see her?”

Her voice is drab and has no taste to it. She will couple with those who will sperm her only in silence, her small mouth working like a doll's. She speaks because a silence hurts her mind and brings uncertainty.

“Yes.”

Her small hurt comes to me. I cover it with a smile as one might cover up a fretting bird that sings in darkness to bring back the sun. Upon my speaking then a lady appears. I would call her such for she has the carriage of one, the neck well held, hair groomed, faint rouge upon her cheeks. Not yet in the middle way of life, her body has a bloom of firmness, slim.

“You are well come. This is your daughter?”

“My niece, Madam. Permit me, Laura, to introduce Amelia.”

“Amelia Symington-Smythe. I have no use for anonymities-have you Her smile is charming-intimates that I might be untried. I am brought here perhaps to some green altar to be sacrificed. “I have a bower within-will you not come?”

Behind the screen an enclosure that itself is full tented, roofed, surrounded and made private. Lamps are necessary. Light glitters through green' glass, through blue, through pink. Two ottomans, and cushions here and there. We are seated. An air of hesitation hovers.

“There were entertainments we had heard.” My uncle coughs again. Some nervousness possesses him.

“You had both heard? Will you take liqueurs? Susan!”

Her smile is gentle but her voice sounds sharp. We, in a tent within a tent, are as intruders to her realm. A girl enters, bears a tray. The hem of a chemise wafts round her hips, shortened for revelation. Her bottom naked gleams, her stockings black. In serving she presents her cleft, the cheeks inrolling on her secrecy. Her tuft, well furred, is clipped triangular. The lips peep a little, pouting, as she walks. I will have her with my tongue before the day folds dark into the trees. Her face pleases, neither common nor patrician.

In the full forest of her hair…

“You may leave, Susan. The gentleman may follow in a moment. Be sure your breath is sweetened and your thighs perfumed. Do you take to her?”

The question seemingly is addressed to my uncle.

“If such be, yes.” He appears to flounder-confuses thoughts with words and words with thoughts.

“Take then your drink and follow her. There is an alcove to the rear where you may pleasure her or she may pleasure you. One never knows upon such matters, does one?”

“Very well. Ah, yes.”

Cast somewhat in confusion, he departs. There is a whiplash to her voice beneath the velvet. I evidently am desired, or shall know about the matter soon enough.

“He has had you? Had you yet?”

In speaking she rises, seats herself beside me on an ottoman, which takes some creaking pleasure from her bottom's bulge.

“Are you ever so direct?” My smile, received, amuses. Her eyebrows arch.

“I will not have girls forced to it-save by myself. Are you for training or for wilful pleasures?”

“Which of those two is Susan, then?”

My question, facing question, makes her laugh. The sound is pleasing, tinkles, silvery.

“She is at the midway of her fate-will serve him well enough though slightly stiff of thighs, will jerk her bottom petulant and sob a little. Had I known more about you as a pair I might have had your tongue flick-tease her first. Men, however, are artful in their ways. He might have entered you without your willing. Such trios ever please the lustful. Has he mounted you?”

“Not he. You may fill my glass again-if you will fill my glass again. You appear to have acquaintance with him and yet not. Do you screen your intent or are you ever open on such matters?”

“We fence with questions, do we not? Lie back a little that I might taste your mouth. How sultry, small, and succulent your lips!”

“Is this your way of training?”

“I would have you, yes. You knew that I would have you from the moment of the meeting of your eyes. Birds fly behind your eyes, flirt with the world, are gone. Here, let me take your glass. Fill your mouth and pass the liquor then within my own. Does that not please?”

“How would you train me? Perhaps I have been trained. Ah! Oh, your finger intrudes! Why do you put it there first?”

“More questions and less knowings, Laura! Draw your skirt up more. Ah, minx, you wear no drawers! You are come upon expectancy. How you wriggle on my finger! Is it nice there, ever nice? What a pity I did not train you first myself.”

“What a pity, yes, but there would have been no allowing of it. You do not have withal the wherewithal, the whatnot.”

“Cock. Say cock!”

“. I will not. Oh, it is naughty. Ooooh, how far up your finger goes!”

“Tight still, are you not, between your cheeks, but well reamed there-I have the feeling of it. So many come to me who have been little probed, known yet the seeking of the knob but wilted from its entry, squalled and squealed.”

“Do you whip them?” My voice is thick. We lounge along the ottoman, the glass discarded, sticky both of lips, and belly bared to belly now.

“Say 'cock' first and I will tell you.”

“Cock.” I giggle, hide my face. I would be perverse with her, play wanton to her needs. Our tongues intrude, upon each other's dance and flick. She seeks my corsage to unbutton, I then hers. Our nipples, displayed to each other's burr, quickly stiffen, jellied points of fire. “Tell me, tell quick, oh, tell me now!”

“Ofttimes they are spurred with whip or strap, are brought to leap, display their cunnies. The proud surrender not easily, and yet they must. I treat not common girls. They for the most part offer their bottoms for a sovereign and their quims for half of that. Better by far to take one who will sob, declare her declarations of despair, be made submissive, brought to lick.”

“The cunny of their mistress first? Oh, how divine! You make my bottom wriggle more-I beg you work your finger more!”

“Desiring of darkness you were first brought to it, I vow. Or at dusk taken, behind curtains drawn. Your legs strained, you sought to retract, could not, and thus urged back a little, felt the prick's full inward plunge, expanding to receive, and sucked him dry. Did you thereafter cry, fall forward faint, the smears of sperm warm on your nether cheeks, need to be shushed, drawn up, your skirt descended?”

“Mama said that I ever looked immaculate in my immaculacy. Ah, but he bubbled, strove and strained, in-forced, enforced his penis to my plum. So I to Perdition came. Think you wrong of me?”

“Were you bold thereafter? Did you offer?”

“No.” Another giggle. I am clutched to her. Subtle our thighs move and our pussies meet. Liquid to liquid urge the silent lips. My clitoris sweet tingles, sharp to hers.

“Speak. You may speak, Laura.”

“Ever modest I moved, Amelia. Do you not remember? Were you not hidden in the shadows of the leaves, questing by moonlight along the roofs rim to peer within my room? The strap was ever-present, broad and thick. I counted of it near five inches width, the leather creased, striated. Offering came not in question. True, there came a time, an evening close upon mid-summer's call, when I removed my drawers, awaited kisses, the cupping of his palm to my nest, heel of hand rubbing to my hairs, my slit at pillage. Oh! I have not even told my own thoughts this!”

“We are upon confession, are we not? Continue.”

“Desire is pale. I felt a pallor at my eyes. Knees flexed, I flicked a finger at my nest. Thus was I come upon, all disarrayed, fell back upon my bed and moaned my cry.”

“Speak, little devil, speak more clearly. You are panting. I can scarce hear you. Did he come armed? Armed for the combat you desired?”

“I know not if I dream it. Do I dream it? He came with penis at full stand, his balls displayed above his trouser's gap. Seizing my hair, he drew me up, hot cock against my belly pressed, for a long moment we stood thus. Aeons passed-I heard the curtains stir, the voices of the workers in the fields. A milk-pail rattled and then all was still. Gently he cupped my cunny, felt it pulse, and swore to its allure. The lips he said would suck along his prick, draw out his sperm in shoots of white desire. I fainted at the words…”

“You lie! I know you now to lie!”

“I wished it so. Does that not make it true? Ever the worlds of true and not-true merge, are drawn within, coagulate and re-emerge, claiming inheritance to Now. Time is a burden on us all.”

“Be quiet, child-make not much of death nor Time lest ere thy day thou reap an evil thing. Have you not read Swinburne in his musings? Finger-teased or twiddled, yes, perhaps, but ever you were turned about, your cheeks put up to him and boldly parted. Ever modest you moved? I have no doubt of it. I had a cousin such, most sensual in bed, yet looked a nun, her mouth pursed primly as a chorister's. It becomes some so to be. Those who are brought to me for training and conversion are quite other. They are pursed of lips both above and below and yet must learn to take the squirtings in their dells, their tight rosettes, their mewing mouths. Came he never in your mouth?”

“But once, obedient, I took it-yes-his penis to my lips. Shadowed, his balls hung down beneath. I marvelled at their majesty and weight. Being kneeling, I took chance to fondle them and heard his groanings far and faint above. Then, my head being pressed most fervently, I drew in more or more drew in-one says such as one will. He quivered in the velvet of my mouth, was taut with veins and urgent to expel. I please you, do I please you now? Is my recital apt, well phrased and orchestrated to your whims?”

“You hide desires beneath your gaiety. He came well in your mouth? He came?”

“Sperm-guzzling were my lips and a fine bubbling made of it. He could have laid me then upon my back- but no. How lewd, how inappropriate, to have my face to his!”

“Hah! A fine curry of emotions you make within yourself. I know not whether you are truly shy or lewd within your shyness, as some are.”

“Those you spur to wicked deeds-whence do they come?”

“From good families all and well accounted for. I will have no other. The first two you encountered here are but servants. As to the marquee, the strains of vulgarity in my display invites. The paintings without are crude-are meant to be. There is a strange allure in such. Emboldened by wine, the gentry come within to see the ladies at their posings. Thereafter, choosing carefully among pairs as I do, one sits to conversations serious. The pale, the pretty, the unchaperoned are brought within and given sweet liqueurs. It is taken first to be a merriment, an innocence. Few have had their drawers down to it ere I tame them. In loose and idle talk the manner of their ways is quick uncovered. To one I might say how pretty it would be to see her pose-to another that I desire to see her petticoat or drawers. I jest, of course, or so appear to do to hide the blushes on their cheeks. Too timid to depart, too awed to speak, they listen to my words, cast glances at their kin, seek rescue but none comes. Implacability here has it pursuits. I have my house and thereto they are brought. Many are prim and quiet; some smile uncertain. To allay maternal hearts it will have been put about that they are taking the waters at Tunbridge Wells or some such. I am not cruel with them, my love. Hitherto they have been brought to kneel for no good purpose other than of prayer. I fondle, coddle, urge and spur them on until the fleshly rod is planted in.”

“Do you tie their legs?”

My eyes sparkle. I appear to have a scent of the game.

“Would you have it so? What devilry is ofttimes in you, Laura! I have my systems-know no failures yet. A girl so mounted might retain resentments. The penis knows no conscience, nor the quim. The latter first is teased and tingled, knows its stimulations. Before they receive the leaping jets of come, they must believe themselves to have surrendered.”

“I did not struggle.”

“You are passive and active, too. Such pleases me. If all came as you, I would be begging now for crusts. What an utterness of boredom! Would that I had you as a monitor!”

“As what?” I sip and smile at her above the glass's rim.

“To monitor the girls in their becomings, assuage their doubts and have them put to it. Of occasion, only, for it pleasures me to do so myself, to hear their clouding cries, observe their eyes.”

“Mine you may not observe. I have my privacies. Be certain of that, despite my confessions.”

“As you will, though at times you will favour my ticklings. I shall bring a pretty feather to your quim and make you writhe. What's o'clock?”

“Near half past four.”

My uncle answers, entering. The question not having been addressed, conveyed nor posted to him yet, he snatches at it even so in effort to inveigle. There is straw upon his trousers. Heavily ignored, he sits and wilts. I receive Amelia's carte de visile, perceive her home to be in Kensington. Such intelligence is already in my uncle's possession, I believe. Having sat, he rises, hopeful speaks.

“We may see you tomorrow, Madam?”

“At eight of the evening, shall we say? Bring her, of course.”

She is gone. Susan, full dressed, appears and leads us out.

Her face is the face of one who has lost her dreams.