Laura

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The house lies in a mews as well it might, dark-banded by the night, driven by stars, scutterings of clouds, the rain in winter. Pressed tight by neighbours, it extrudes its light faint gold upon the pavement, promising of warmth.

Dispensing gifts of smiles, Amelia greets me. I am out of place, tread warily among her tables, knickknacks, cushions, couches, gleamings of silver and Sevres pieces.

“You sent your uncle first here? An amusement! We have made play with him, my dear, a little play. He is not favoured among you? Is he favoured among you?”

“With my aunts he has little favour and with me less. What are you at? Am I to grant you favours or you me? I would not be brought nor taken nor put up. Where is he now?”

“Do you like the house? Do you not? Neither sombre nor playful?”

“It disposes well. Have you girls here or am I led on?”

“You may have one-two if you wish. I have some new ones. What enchantments they display, wicked of wobbling mounds and flashing thighs. Their eyes are haunted by the dreams of others, pattings of hands about their bottom-cheeks.”

“Have they been tasted, tried yet?”

“None. One has a mind to it, perhaps but needs the birch. The others are more fey. Their fingers delicate would arrange flowers rather than penis stalks. Come, I will show you. I dispose sufficient bedrooms here to have one in each. None may move without my counselling. There are peepholes to the doors. Such are necessary for observations.”

“As to my uncle, what then is he at?”

“A different end to that for which he came. You will see soon enough.”

We are upon a landing. A table extrudes from one corner, a vase with flowers upon it, a gilded mirror above. The air is sensuous-rose dust remembering all its yesterdays, the kisses in the conservatory, and the refusals.

“Delphine first. I have unclothed her. She frets upon her nudity. You may peep within.”

The small hole in the door, brass-rimmed the hole, offers its view. A comely girl, dark haired and rich of curves, lies blatant on a bed, her legs apart. I, so remarking, quietly move aside.

“She is ever thus-would ever feign surprise. This is the one who needs the birch, my love. She has been rumpled, fallen on, discovered thus, yet ever struggles, cries for her Mama, weeps to the roofs.”

“The birch would tame her, do you think? Better that she were taken drunken from a ball, upended on the lawn, and put to it among the darkling shrubs, one upon another until her cunny weeped with sperm, the cocks impulsive spurting ever on.”

“This she might rue.”

“By no means, for thereafter she would be taken limp with tears to her own bed, stripped while she cried, and drawn between the sheets, her tits full swollen globing to his palms.”

“Subtly while she sobbed, her nipples sucked? Go on.”

“In subtlety would his beguiling be, cock throbbing to her thigh, knob brushed to bush. Coaxing his words as slow he urged it in, pinning her shoulders to the virgin sheets.”

“She would cry then more. Would she not cry?”

“In her mouth her openness and in her dell his prick. She would feel the burning of it as no other. I can hear his words now. Can you hear his words now? 'Come, my sweet, let us do it at last, cock to cunt and tongue to tongue. How oiled you are-how soft with others' spendings. Ah yes, part your legs wider'-for she can do no other with his thrusting, easing, urging in. Spurred by desire her bottom then would move, her arms enfold her conqueror at last.”

“Do you think so? Oh, do you think? How I love you, Laura, let us go within, take her between us, mouth to cunny, tongue to bottom lick.”

“It shall come in time. All shall come in time. Am I the mistress here, or you?”

“You will have me at sixes and sevens upon the matter if I am not careful. Do you not find ease and comfort here?”

She expects me to enter upon Delphine. I lean against the door as though to bar her view. On the pier at Brighton there were new machines, bright red and green with slots that gaped for pennies. One inserts a coin and turns a handle slowly, peering through an aperture. Slits are seen through which, upon a drum, pass figures that in their passing animate. Thus Delphine appears to me in this instant. I fret for her, desire, know not what I am at.

“Let us to my uncle first. I would not be surprised by him.”

“Have no fear. He is a little bound to his work, though who makes toil of whom is perhaps in question. Come.”

Delphine stirs not. I peep again. She dreams of butterflies and summer days. I have stirred my thoughts lustfully about her, cream with a spoon. She is riches stored and put aside-a water-ice or yet a bonbon.

Along the corridor where the walls end a door faces us. A handle is turned. We enter upon boards covered with the meanest carpet, whose edges squeak of Time, uncaring feet. The furnishings are meagre and can scarce be called such. A divan to one side and to the other a wooden trestle such as is used for sawing logs. Across its centre hangs a cushion while, beneath, an iron bar runs as though to strut the legs.

My uncle there sits naked on a chair, high backed and wooden, plain of seat. Being gagged, he can do no more than stare at me. His thighs, calves, ankles bound, he cannot move. Protruding from his balls, his stalk waves thick. He has accompaniment of Susan and another-the pale one whom I saw in the marquee. Her stockings, boots are red, distasteful to my eyes. Susan, more virginal, wears a white chemise, silk stockings of a colour near to straw, and boots that buckle tightly to her knees.

His expression is purplish upon my entrance. Holding a feather, the pale one teases it about his balls.

“Close the door.”

Amelia's voice is low, fraught with excitement. Not being servitor, I do not move. She tuts and closes it herself.

“He amuses himself thus occasionally, though you would not think so.” In speaking she nudges me with eyes and elbow. My uncle shakes his head and looks away. I fear for his agitation, though feel none. The scene is as of pasteboard without depth.

“Will one go upon him?”

I have found my voice.

“Susan shall. In a moment. Shall you, Susan-in a moment?”

The girl stares, does not reply, as though she were uncertain of her being. Our glances cross as swallows darting.

“Undress before him, Amelia. Would that not excite him even more? He has a taste for you-has much expressed it since we met.”

“I am the exhibitor, not the exhibited. Or would it excite you?”

“More than Susan upon him. She will not have the movement, though will appease him quick with spongy tightness. You, my pet, will leave his shaft erect, bursting to bubble yet frustrated in its straining.”

Her eyebrows rise. She had not thought me to come so quickly upon the thought of it. Not being dunce, I can see the reason for the play, the teasing of the cock, deflation of his pride. It is an experience-I may one day learn- that other men desire, as do some females, put to feathering or dildo, on and on.

“My cunny will be wet for your tongue if I do.”

“Yes.”

My tone has no promise. Perhaps that is the promise of it. I have challenged, been received. Clicking her fingers, she brings Susan to her side, who buttons fumbles, ties unties, then strips her of her gown, chemise. Her drawers, split back and front, are a la mode, her stockings purple, patterned, drawn up tight.

“Will you watch? Will you fondle me?”

“Go upon him, face to face. I shall tease your bottom with my finger.”

Her buttocks wobbling, she approaches, straddles his thighs and parts the cotton gap where hides her nest. She has not bathed! I scent a muskiness. So am I never-ever with rose water applied.

“Help put her down.”

“There is no need,” she sighs. Her knees are bent. She looks absurd. The tendons in her ankles strain. Her thighs are mottled and displease.

There is more rope. More rope lies lying, close to the trestle where the cushion hangs. Groping, she presses his cock against her lips, sinks silent down, absorbing inch by inch the shaft, her large pale breasts thrust plump against his eyes. Gag-groaning then, he jerks and is full in, her bottom on his naked thighs ground down.

“Caress me! If he comes I shall whip him. He knows better than to come.”

“Yes.”

I move as a cat moves, out of sight of her, behind her bend and gather up the rope. The pale one stares and licks her lips, would speak but my eyes silence her.

“Caress her breasts, Susan. Force your hand between since he cannot mouth them. How beautiful you look, Amelia. Hold still.”

“Put you finger right up-1 beg you.”

“Of course, of course.” I feel her rosette round, the marbled cheeks. She strains in readiness. Blank-eyed, sweet Susan charms with fingertips. She has the bright intelligence of birds. I dip my finger, making Amelia squirm.

“Ooooh! Both of you-together-yes!”

The moment is one of danger, but I have known moments of danger, intensities of excitement, footfalls on the stair, hand questing at a door, silent my puffing as the piston worked, the faint slap smack of flesh to flesh unheard beyond the guardian walls, eager to finish, eager not to end.

She must be beyond retreat before I cast the rope.

“Rest your head to his shoulder, loop your arms about his neck-protrude your bottom more!”

“Yes!”

She pants-is ill advised to pant, obeys, her bottom to my finger lewdly put. Her face is hid. That is the trick of it. Quick then I loop the rope about them both. Her cry-head jerks-but all is now too late.

“Stop it! You dare! What are you at-what at?”

“Amelia, be quiet, my love. Do you not like such games? Tie the ends, Susan. Be strong at your task and I will bind their thighs!”

“No! I will not have it, Laura, no! Leave me not upon him-the beast will come!”

“As he may-as he may, my pet.”

The pale one has not moved but gawking stands. I pass the other length of rope across their thighs, beneath the chair. She is secured as ever tar to feathers, birds to lime.

“You will rob me-I know you will rob me!”

Upon her cry the pale one edges to the door, is smacked, retreats.

“Of what, Amelia, would I rob you? Have you a heritage save of sin? The servant will loose you later, upon midnight, upon my uncle's second coming.”

“I shall cry out, arouse the neighbourhood!”

“You will not. There is too much to be unfolded here, I think. Girls-come. Susan-close the door.”

“Aid me-ee-ee-eeh!”

The door is closed, the pale one frets and stares. “There will be trouble about it-I know there will be trouble about it.”

“Gather up your clothes, child. Go. Have you no wanderings to make, no journeys to complete or end?”

“I wanted to leave. She wouldn't let me leave. I ain't got no money to leave with. My sister at Walworth said she would take me in. You ain't going to whip me as she did?”

“To what end would I whip you?”

I descend, drawing them down, as head girl to pupils. A rumpling, a rustling in a cupboard and the pale one is dressed. I put a sovereign to her hand. It will suffice her journey yet and more. Boards creak, doors thump, and she is gone, vagrant upon the night to some far shelter.

“Let us have wine, Susan.”

“There are others, captive as I. Have you come to betray us to the world?”

Her voice is gentle as I would suspect. The melons of her breasts press through the silk. Perhaps her mother once, upon purchasing it, folded it away, dusted it with lavender. I know the wooden drawers where such things hide, awaiting emergence, smooth to clothe, eager to drink when dirty, scrub of brush and sweet of soap.

“You like white wine or red? I will pour it for you. There is one above-Delphine. I have seen only her. From the first you took my fancy. When you were put to it, were you stubborn, cried? Here-I have poured white for you; it will better suit your tongue. You may tell me your history later perhaps. I would have every word and strain of it, each hour of longing, languor, and despair. Where are you from?”

“Hereford. I am come not long here-was left to her disposal and return.”

“She has made pretty play with you. You are not so hard done by, perhaps. Will your mama greet you, your sisters kiss your cheek, your diaries be scoured for secrets?

“I had none. I swear I had none!”

“Had you not? You have no need to fret. You have come, as all maidens do, to the lusting of the cocks.”

“You will not release her-let her down? If you do not release her, I may go. May I go?”

“Upon Hereford? Such a journey? In the night? The inns will be closed, the steam trains dormant. Those who issue tickets sleep. I shall put you up. Were you never put to it before?”

Her face suffuses and she hides her eyes. The glass trembles like a sparrow in her hand. In sitting with her I encompass her shoulders, take her mouth, wine to wine, small whimpers at my lips.

“I was birched for it, though lightly, yet would not.”

“Lightly? A play about your rosy bottom made? Lower your chemise-let me kiss your nipples.”

“May I go if I do? Oh, your touch!”

“Clasp not your thighs together so quickly. Let them part. What a prettiness is there, what plumpness and what curls! Issue your tongue a little 'twixt your teeth and let it come to mine. Ah, you are ardent with your lips! Do you not like the feel of it? Were you not fingered thus a little 'mid your birchings?”

“Yes. Was forced to part my thighs, display my nest- put to dark cupboards and my drawers drawn down. Amelia would not listen-she would not listen!”

“For what shall one listen, my pet? The pantings of breath, skitterings of shoes upon the boards? How hapless were you! Better to have let him juice you than cry out and raise the house in full alarm. Learn your discretions, wriggle your bottom, hold your thighs wide, let the cock enter and be done with it. In its pulsing your delight shall prove. Sperm-drops upon your nest-what matters to it?”

Wide-eyed, I have her down, her legs at stretch. Her silky belly twitters to my touch.

“Shall I let him? Should I let? Oh, he has a big one!”

“Minx! You have seen it? Did you not twiddle the knob, breathe your desires, fall back upon your bed, your drawers at droop and raising your chemise?”

“No! Yes! He almost put it in. Oh, what a lewdness you make of things between you all! I bit his hand, was birched again and fingered, cried out for Mama. Thunder rolled, for it was such a day, was almost then undone, clawed at the sheet and tried to crawl within. His hand clamped to my mouth, but then he came, raining of storm-sperm to my bottom-cheeks. Oh, at the telling of it I am shamed!”

“What moods you purvey! Have you learned the words from me or were they ever in your mind? There are others here. What of the others here?”

I let her rise. The mood is gone from me. I am neither the player nor the play, but stand without. My aunt will send me notes and explanations, confitures and comfortings. I shall wear white again, shall comprehend the rose-ness of a rose, patter my feet upstairs and down, seek shade beneath the awnings, sun in winter.

“We are coming, Laura, coming. Why came you not before?”

Voices heard. I know the voices heard, one shuffled as within another-two who speak as one.

The door opens. The space beyond is betrayed.

Those who enter are the two in my drawing.