Anonymous - Laura

“I am not Hannah.”

“You remember, Laura?” Her saliva oils my face and neck and yet is not distasteful. Recumbent as we are, my quim is stroked. I glide my hand to hers and feel its warmth, the exudations of her tremulous.

“I do not know. Perhaps. In the summer there were voices, in the summer. I heard the crack of whips. Mama was not perturbed. Hannah. The name is like the long breath of the dying.”

“Or the living, for she has not aged. When you come upon her you will know.”

Our breaths quicken, our fingers flourish. There are spillings, cries. The bed sags, receiving Thomas at my back. I, sandwiched in between, draw in their warmth. His cock upstanding to my bulb is pressed. His palms caress my tits, my mouth to hers.

“She offers not, yields not, yet yields. It is good. Sarah was such-being taken before Hannah, 'neath her gaze, yet held her pride. At the arching of her back and the seizing of her hair…”

His voice breaks. My neck is twisted. He in turn assails my mouth, roughing her hand away to stroke my pad, the lips soft, petulant beneath.

“Let it be so. You spoil everything, Thomas. We were but reminiscing-were at the beginnings of our avenues. There were larches, Laura. The girls rode beneath them, high in the saddles sitting, their backs straight.”

I hear little, for he is upon me, rod stubbing to my belly, shoulders pressed down, down into the pillow, thighs between my own. She moves, moves from us as a wraith as we wrestle, takes up a stool to brush her hair. I buck. His weight bears down too hard. His penis probe is at my lips, lovelips, the dell amid my curls.

“Hannah was thus. He forced her and spoiled her. He has not the delicacy of it.”

Her laugh becomes a cackle as I fight, though sleek his charger moves in to the game until his balls are nestled to my orb.

“No!”

“I will hold her legs.” Her mood is changed. Swift to the bed she comes and mounts my face. Her naked bottom to my visage pressed. I, splutter-smother, have my knees drawn back. “Be quick about it, Thomas-thread her fast!”

Her pubic hairs assail my mouth. I would not have her thus, twist tendon-straining neck and writhe, her laughter broken rain upon my ears.

“Are we not tempestuous? She was rarely taken thus save by her husband, Thomas-shaft her well. Draw out the stem, plunge in, and in again. He will take her thus upon her return. There will be no help for it. Ah, she has such strength in her legs! Would that they might clasp your waist or mine. How well she was tutored that she still resists a fucking thus. Are you coming-coming soon?”

“Soon, my love. She is as a sponge in the warm depths of the ocean, yet has the tightness of a clam. Draw her knees back higher that you may see my pestle at her mortar. Her cunt is sweet yet as a baby's mouth.”

Her own, sploshed down upon my mouth, I yield. He has a good poker on him yet I would fain have my own warrior's there. My aunt will close my eyes, subdue my squeals. Let him come, Laura, let him come. Work your bottom gently to his thrusts. So would I have her say, speak, whisper, mouth to mine, perspiring softly in some distant night. Not now, not now, the time is not yet come. The salt of her hot cunt breathes on my face, my nose rubbed to her tingling clitoris.

Then it is done, is done, is done-is not the same. He pumping grunts and groans, his sperm expels. I, flooded, sticky, ridden, left inert. The pair rise. I am dispensed with, done. The couples on the seashore laugh.

“You may come down when you wish-when you wish, come down.”

They dress-refurbish bodies in their garments drab.

“Do you not think he has a good cock, Laura, has he not?”

Neutral as far winter snow I rise-upon their going, dress with care. The pulsing between my thighs is intimate, not unpleasant. Perhaps I enjoy the aftermath of such better than the act thereof. I do not turn my mind to such things. I am as the paper upon which I never wrote. Words scurried to the edge, waited on the rim, observed the blankness with unending care. The last of the summer salads will be eaten now. Mother will fret with softened lettuce leaves and smile her vagueness to the world.

“There are clouds now-a gathering of hosts. Did you wish clouds?”

So the woman speaks upon my exit, my descent. The drawings, ready wrapped, come to my hands. Thomas is absent, skulking in his dreams.

“I do not mind. Should there be minding? Do not mind at all.”

I am beyond, upon the threshold, gone. If she could remember my name, if she could remember, she would call perhaps.

I shall read Keats and Shelley and lie passive in my bed.

The lounge of the hotel is pleasant in the light. The walls of pink and gold damask reflect the muted glow of lamps that gleam through patterned glass of matching colours. A Turkish cigarette fumes from between my fingers. This, too, is a pleasantry I have of late adopted. It fills my mouth perhaps with Eastern promise and complements my Turkish eyes. If such I have. Most certainly they are large, inherited not from Mama but from my paternal grandmother's side. She was a rare beauty who would clothe herself sometimes, so my father said, in a sari, the better to please the gentlemen who came to admire her. I shall wear such perhaps, in my futureness, my semblance of becoming.

The folds of a sari are long, I am told. My grandmother would stand naked save for a bewitchingly small guepiere, or waist corset, while her maid performed a wide circle around her on and on, swathing her form neither tightly nor loosely, but to such perfection that the gauzy material of lilac-pink or pale, kingfisher blue-would seem to have been poured and moulded to her mistress. My grandmother's hips, being of a certain lushness in her young and middle years, accommodated the material superbly, so much so that she was persuaded to discard the corset and move naked within her light cocoon.

Once, at a ball-and she being apprised in confidence of what was to occur-a gentlemen while dancing with her so loosed the secret enclosures of her sari that, moving from her of a sudden, he was enabled to draw out the silk-threaded cotton and spin my grandmother all about like a top so that she bumped here and there, there and here, within a surrounding circle of admirers, ever spinning faster until she was denuded utterly and fell upon a rug where she lay prey to hands and mouths until her legs were spread and wanton she submitted to the cocks. Eight it was said she took, each one delighting her the more with pulsing and with throbbing until she was so thoroughly creamed that it was as if she had been lathered with a shaving brush.

Her bottom, it was said, was one of ultimate perfection, for she had the violin curves of slender waist and broadening hips, which gave to her nether cheeks a bulge of promise. Being of sultry nature, she adored to have her naked bottom whipped, to which purpose many fine silken cords were bound together and a rosewood handle attached thereto. After some thirty strokes of this admonitory sweetness she was fair to be mounted even as I was taught to be, receiving the pistons-yearling or mature- to pump and froth within her warm divide.

Her outward behaviour hinted not at licentiousness, but were she to be come upon naked or nearly so in her boudoir, she would surrender to the first tongue that insinuated itself between her lips and to the first fingertip that titillated her rosette. Of occasion she might rebel out of mischievousness in order to be spanked, firm and fleshy as she was to the palm, before being put over.

I had never struggled yet, unless my frettings of this selfsame day are to be counted as such. Perhaps it would add a piquancy to the matter. Being of obedience, I had never dared, had yielded my hips, my chasm, my crevice. Yet on the night of which I have spoken my aunt frotted me deliciously and prepared me for the cock without the strap. Such had been my first occasion thus.