Laura

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

When there is stillness there is plentitude. When there is movement passions reign.

So once my aunt conveyed to me.

“There are two delights of the senses, Laura. The one is spiritual, the other is voluptuous. The former is of this world, yet not. The latter is earthy, earthly, fundamental to our beings in this worldly form. Of the voluptuous you may choose between eating, drinking, and libertine play. Be not sparing in the last, for here rivers, oceans, streams, and sparklings of delight. Have no reservations or the rhythm will be broken and the time undone.”

Having yielded myself often by then, I asked how I might so yield myself to all unearthly things.

“In silence where all plentitude obtains. Have no movement and be mindful of your breathing. Our earthly world is made of thoughts, perceptions through the lenses of the eyes that ever ill-obtain reality. Be not surprised at this for it is true. Once you have stilled your mind completely all phenomena are gone.”

“I would be blind then, would I not, dear aunt?”

“No, my love, for in the seeing of no-seeing all is seen, not with fretful, passion-muddied thoughts but as a mirror sees. A deaf man blows a trumpet in an empty desert. When there is no one to hear, where is the sound?”

“It is here,” father said, then blew an imaginary trumpet.

Such japes were played on me, though yet to guide my mind. Surrounded by all things, I pass the memories by. Groping at smoke, I seek to find the flames.

Now the room is still, the room is still, the light returns again and Agnes enters drably clothed in black. Her hair is drawn back tight into a bun. Jade earrings dangle from her lobes. Her eyes are mindful of us both. Charlotte steps back, the sunlight on her face renewed.

“Are you not at your business, girl, errant in wardrobes, chasing dust with brooms?”

“Yes, ma'am.” She scuttles out, we are alone.

“Are you not the mother here?”

A querulousness has seized me. I remark the station of her dress, pawned once or twice perhaps, put on again. Grey her underwear and grey her face.

“Would you be ever mothered, then? All wish to be. A fine time I has of it with Hannah, Jane, ever a smacking of their bottoms, puttings up and puttings down. Are your limbs sleek, your bottom tight, your stockings full up-drawn? Has she brushed you? Brushed you up between your thighs and fluffed you up there nice? Come-show me, girl.”

I part my thighs, push down my drawers, the cotton banding tightly to my knees.

“She hasn't done you, has she? Hannah's done, and all prepared amid her snivellings. Time she was up, about, and on her horse, bare of bottom to the saddle's rim, waiting in woodland rides, the air cool at her cleft. Was it not said so?”

“I do not know.” I brood, look down.

The time is clear undone. Dust dances at my well-shod feet, the little fairies of my childhood days.

“She is prepared, but he will have you first. Bend over well and draw up your chemise. Floating in the bath your bottoms proud indeed, and him at mercy to your succourings! Show up your cleft full now, your drawers well down. He likes your feet entrapped. If he comes first in you, I won't doubt your silence on the matter. Well trained, was you-made to stir your hips, wriggle your bum well and press it in?”

“How vulgar you are! There were never speakings.”

Slapped, I am turned, bent over, and put down. Rustling of drawers that to my ankles pool. The bed drapes now are blue, yet once I knew them cream, black stockings ever worn and garters tight.

“If he has you turn and turn about, it were never of my doing, Laura, never was. I likes to see you proud up for it, though. Your bum fair gleams, is white as snow. Hell snuffle first his knob in, hold it there, as ever was. You know that.”

“Yes.”

“Cream and jelly there'll be for tea, buns and butter, butter at your lips. Dip your back, girl, more-present it full. If wet of knob he comes, he goes in easier. Master- here! She is prepared for you.”

I do not hear him come and yet he comes. I sense his nakedness, his stiffened staff.

“Be out with you, about with you, Agnes, and do not watch!”

She cackles, the door rattles, she is gone. I breathe more softly now, extend my orb and feel his finger titillate my quim.

Gently were you strapped at first?”

“No-ever hard.”

“So it should be, quick to Perdition led, the cork put in and wonders of you made. Hot arse up to his loins, your thighs full held.”

“Yes.”

There is crudeness here. Must I indulge in it? Shimmering with lust, his finger moves, explores my apertures, my ever-readiness. When my aunt held me, but she did not hold me. If she had held me, ah! I quick am slapped.

“Jellied, is it not, but firm! Were you tickled up, made fond of first?”

“No.”

I lie, I lie. Once in the garden in the dreaming sun, my thighs explored, my lips to pillage put, tickling of fingertip against my crotch and moisture on my brow and 'twixt my legs. I jerked and dreamed, sought with a hand both bold and shy the hardening of his cock. When he panted, coming in his trousers, panting, ah…Faintness of lips then weaker on my own, and brushed by leaves I ran and hid myself, trembling of limbs, and watched his wet patch spread, Adonis crumpled on the yielding lawn.

“You lie, you lie.”

He brings the strap to me, once, twice, then hard across my orb until I bleat but leave untold my dreams, close-folded my confessions so he cannot see, nor read a word or line of them.

Nel' mezzo del camin di nostra vita…

It is not yet, it is not yet, dark drawing of the woods about me, paths that lead to empty clearings, broken boughs. “AH-OOOOH!” I gasp within myself and feel the burning of the leather's sting. My hips weave, sway, out-push and yield again, the heat blurs, ravaging my globe, and spreads.

“Bend your knees a trifle, Laura-more! The pose is seemly for a girl on heat. How ridged in waiting do the lips become, as if extending nether mouth to kiss! Brazen yet modest, such becomes you ever. Rotate your bottom more-come to the strap!”

“Neee-ynnnng!”

I let my cry mew out, yet muffle it. Agnes at her knitting downstairs sits. I hear the clicking of her needles fast, grope for the days that long are rolled away and put as painted canvases behind a door.

“On the bed now with you, Laura, legs apart, drawers off, knees bent and hands behind your head, upon your back.”

“It was not so, it was not so!” I cry, am quick put down and mounted fast, his pestle at my mortar probing in.

“Ever was it so, my love, for you would have it so, tickle of hairs and nosing flesh to flesh. Protrude your tongue and let me suck it in. There should be wine upon your lips, more wine.”

I wriggle, gasp, would cry, am Jane berserk. My wrists are gripped, deep in the pillow pressed, his legs like tree trunks strong between my own.

“Your garters are tight, girl, as befits you-bottom hot and sleek. Work slowly now and let it enter in, quiver of being to the stem's explosion.”

“Nooo-hoooo!”

My cry is softer now. He has it in. Two inches, three, within my sealskin slit. Burring of hairs to hairs and bottom cupped, cheeks drawn apart, our tongues and lips hot-lap. Bed jolts, the ceiling swirls, embedded tight. I stammer, cry and sob and cling to him. Blub-blub I babble like a baby now, tighten my cheeks and suck his penis deep.

“That is better, that is better-better, Laura, better, raise your legs and twine them fast about me. Ah! Silk your stockings, spider's weave of wonder, how they grip. Bounce up and down while it slews in and out.”

“Do not come too soon, too soon, oh, do not come! Do you love me, say you love me-love!”

“Never was love but in this deep desiring. Moist of quim you ever were and hot your eyes, your bottom rolling to the finger's touch, suave your thighs and coy but ever parted. Cream at your lips and cream about your bush.”

“Pump faster, pump! Oh, give me all!”

My cry out-wailing hears its own despair. I am become another, not myself. My belly tightens, spurts, my quim explodes. Shower upon shower, my dreams are in my spendings. Soaked his balls and oiled his daring cock. Yet would I jolt with him and jolly jolt, my eyes blind to the day, the world around, the waiting of the others up and down, secret in rooms, their hands clapped to their ears.

He comes. The gasps, the groans, the croaks. Men are ever ugly in their doings, ever so. The scenery rolls back. I lie inert, sucking upon his sperm until he's done; faint twitchings of his cock and then he's spent.

Here is the end of it or the beginning. They come to comfort me who do not know my sins. My legs extend. I, limp as puppet lie, tremblings of belly, wet between my thighs. He, rising, dangling, swinging, looks absurd, tree without roots, a wind in wandering.

A calmness takes me. I will dress, put order in the house, take names of servants, list the wines, beware of pilferings and mumbling words. There shall be order here-I wish it so.

His eyes regard me-hope unshored by hope. I would have him at my bottom were he not now weak, and, rising, laugh and touch his tingling tool.

“Do you put them all at it? Is this the way you would conquer, put down, have under? Is there merit to your case? Do you have philosophies, extend your thoughts? Shall all be smothered, mewing, bleating, to your whims?”

“You were ever the leader.”

Shuffling, he moves to the door, hesitates. The voice of Hannah sounds.

“What is Papa about, Mama?”

“I do not know, my love. Lecturings, positionings, posturings, and playfulness, perhaps. Come, have your medicine, and you, Jane, too.”

“Yes, Mama.”

“Are they not well? They should bathe more often, change their linen, annoint themselves with perfume sticks, make visits to Paris, perhaps, with chaperone? And what of the horses, horses, horses, what?”

My words come sharp to him. Time whirls too quickly, though. I grasp it not and yet make play with it.

“The horse, the horses, yes, we shall go to the fair, see the buntings and the crowds, the gigs, the carriages. Balloons will fly. Do not say that I removed your drawers!”

“Are you fretsome about that? Do you love me still? Will you caress my bottom if I wish?”

“I shall kiss it before them all. You were ever the queen.”

“Such frivolities do not obtain here. I do not show my bottom to the throng. Have the housekeeper fetched. I wish her not impertinent again.”

“I am here, Miss.”

Agnes stands, the door opening, clothed as she was clothed.

“There were voices, Agnes. Did I not hear voices?”

“Ever the voices come and go-some in the rooms and some outside. The passings of the hours makes a mischief of us sometimes, but there is no stopping of it.”

She pauses, glances at his prick. The head is sticky, looks full out of place. As he passes her, she takes it up, limp, lolling in her hand.

“Fair done you, didn't he,” she laughs. “Shall I let him go or do you have more use for it? Sometimes it perks up quick again and sometimes not.”

“What of your sometimes? Are they ever so? Send Charlotte to me-she will see me out. Have horses prepared, a carriage, condiments, wines for the journey, notations of routes and places to be passed.”

“Always you were a stickler for the proprieties, things and exactitudes. Never we know if you are coming or not, Laura.”

“There was music here, unheard. Once there was music here unheard, warmth of summer, smells of butter, cheese, the saddles polished. Harness glittered.”

“It will all come again. They say it will. I shall have a basket put up for you with meats and wines, just as you liked, placed in a carriage nice, kept cool. Shall you to London then? They would ever go to London, but it ain't allowed. The girls, I mean. You know the girls I mean.”

“Yes. I shall be here or there or elsewhere in my goings.”

He is gone. Shuffling of feet along the carpet's spread. The opening of a door. The closing of a door. Agnes departs. I wait her going slow and then descend. The drawing room is darkened all below, the curtains tightly pulled and all in gloom. Hannah and Jane are robed in simple robes, naked beneath, their thighs and titties show. Each wears a rosary that hangs limp, black, between her ardent orbs.

“You will come again, Laura. Won't you come again?”

“How sweet you smell from bathing! You must ever bathe, see to your linen clean, and learn to ride, be upright in the saddle, bottoms at the rim, wine at your lips not sweet nor sharp but redolent of warmth. An invitation, if you wish.”

“Hannah said 'cock'!”

Jane, hand to mouth, looks wondering in my eyes. “Remove your robes. How sweet you look in rosaries, bootees, and stockings tight. Stand still, stand still, and in your waiting wait. Clip not your thighs together. Easy stand, or loll on cushions if you will.”

“What shall become of us, Laura, what become?”

“Be at your strappings silent, dip your back, present your bottom well. Yield to the fervent pulsing of the penis stem, yet let it be no other than you wish, nor master's, lover's, servant's, troubadour's. Be proud to choose and wilful to refuse.”

“I do not mind if Hannah does not mind.” Jane flirts her hand across her pubis, shows it, then retreats and in a corner like a statue stands. Perdita lost and found and no rain falls. “You will have them both undone. I know it yet.” Agnes appears and wrings her hands, the bustlings done, the carriage ready stands.

“Tush and nonsense-feel their cunnies now. Full soft are they and pouting, ready for the cock. Let them imbibe the manly juice that way and on the morrow have their bottoms both put up to it.”

“The horses, Miss-the horses, though!”

“They will come to that. Renewed and virginal will come to that and in their ways of wisdom-yet unfound- will know no evil. Let their bottoms work in rhythm for the nonce and rinse their mouths with wine. Have lavender and myrrh laid at their pillows for the scent of it. Guard that their nostrils and their teeth are clean, their bottoms oiled and ready for the cork. Impress obedience and hide their drawers. Be party to their follities and whims. Have nothing but the best liqueurs. Tickle their cunnies with a feather just to bring them up.”

“Shall Jervis hold them, Miss? 'Twere a fair game of it made with Miss Hannah last time.”

“I do not trust the man, if man he be. He casts no shadow in the sun. Hannah will be good. Will you not be good, Hannah?”

“Shall you not stay, Laura, and I will be good.”

She is flirtatious now and moves her hips as I intend, her nipples ready brown to suck upon, her bush fluffed up, thick, ready for the dew. I hold her arms and kiss her as she stands.

“Be mindful, Hannah, to be good, as all we must. Lick your lips a little, make them shine. Blush not when in your drawers he feels and do not strain your neck away. Extend your leg a little, so, and keep your thighs apart. Pulpy with come your quim will feel, your belly straining more to draw it in, warm flesh to flesh and all the kisses made. Twirl your tongue, be bold, and gasp your gasps. Cling tight 'til all is done and the last drops surrendered.”

“Miss, I will come with you, if you want.” Now Charlotte's voice intrudes.

“No need, my sweet. Hannah will be good. Jane, too. You have no other resting place to journey to as yet.”

My words perhaps are cruel yet I would not be encumbered, made to speak of idle things, frivolities. Solid the ground and empty blue the sky. A kestrel wheels, stoops on a thoughtless bird. So death is done and all seen in the sun. Some small Icarus now its wings has lost. Feather-falling, falling down, here-there-and gone.

If I came this way again, should come by night-the hedges hissing, scorned by stars-the house would be bright again and glow. Conversations would be elegant, the punchbowl filled, the girls more settled in their beings. One would discourse on Hamlet's tale or measure out the lines of Shelley's verse, pray for poor Chatterton, admire da Vinci's lines.

Jane would wear pink stockings-Hannah white. Some ceremonials would attend their new initiations year by year, season by season as their fashions changed, frilled petticoats and ribbons quick undone.

I should seek now elegance, not secrecy. The sofas should be grey and gilded at the edges, a sparkle of the gold against their thighs. Boucher would paint them at their frottings sweet, the ladies clapping as the men prepared to mount, lappings of tongues and solace of warm thighs. Upon their coming each man would withdraw, sprinkling their deep-furred nests with dews of love until all frothed and bubbled in the night.

If I came this way again, should come by night…

Behind me now the letterbox is raised. The voice of Charlotte sings out, clear and hurt yet snagged with spite that I do not now turn.

“Cant come again, Laura.”

“Cant come again.”

“Cant come again!”