“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!”