Anonymous - Laura

“Hold her shoulders, for she may yet struggle.” So croaking he sinks down between her legs, his ceiling-pointing piston fisted now.

“She may not be held. She knows better than to wish to be.”

Puff, pant, and groan. “Ooooh-ah!” Her cry and then he is within. I have seen pictures on a drum the which revolved and through a slit gave semblance of reality. So is it here, though close I bend and watch her tummy ripple, slim legs strain. Her eyes at first hold anguish, then surprise. Full muffled under him, she stirs, twists neck, licks lips, and curves her supple back, her peach full split around his throbbing rod.

“Cup her bottom on your palms, enter full and hold.” I move about them. “Bend your knees a trifle, Helen- work your bottom.”

Such exhortations, trite, are even so exciting. For the moment, for the moment, for the moment. Her cries grit out, her torso writhes, eyelashes flutter on her cheeks. Unmoving, heavy on her, so he lies. Her knees bend not enough-I nudge her feet. With somnolence she draws them back, his balls like ripe plums at her cleft.

“Absorb her tongue, suck upon it, work her a little but not overmuch until she knows the length and girth of it.”

A mischief takes me, I kick off my shoe, caress his buttocks with my stockinged toes and delve beneath to his receptacles. His mouth now smothers hers, she whimpers, jerks. In but a moment they will be in full and lusting flight of it. I would have my aunt, paternal aunt, be taken thus, full-hipped, full-bottomed as she is, my toes between their mouths, there both to lick. I would be conqueror thus, the unconquered risen. I would show my garters. The view perhaps would be alluring.

“Ma-ma, Ma-ma, Ma-ma!” Her voice quick jerks as might a marionette's in speaking. Full at her now, he draws his pestle forth and enters it anew within the spongy cleft, she apple-round upon his palms, tits jogging to his thrusts, her eyes berserk.

She is falling now, falling, falling as the leaf falls to meet the warmth earth, the welcoming grass. She stutters, “P…P…P…,” and squirms her hips. The moment is divine, absurd, or lewd, though not within their minds where devils dwell. All about me are possessed. Carrie lies glazed of eyes. A gentleman is upon her. Constance kneels like one forlorn, her head to Carrie's shoulder, corked by another twixt her bulging cheeks.

I have no place here, am not of the multitude. Let me be more delicate in my ways, obtain again the silence that I knew. They are not virginal here-know not the attitudes. Tonight in my diary I shall write the lives of all, Helen and Carrie to their lusts down-drawn, their knickers ever soiled by pools of sperm. In their uncleanness shall they flourish, petted and patted by Mama, bright on Sundays in their white attire, to chapel led, the hymn books rustling.

When they kneel, when they kneel, for what do they pray? Let me be seen not in their congregations, knees bent, upon the hassocks spread. I would pray for solitude and stars, comforts of night and hallowings of quiet, the pestle to my mortar put and soundless desire.

They will marry, of course. Am I fretful at this? Their training was inexact, comportment lewd. Even so, 1- hypocrite-pleasured myself in my holding of Helen. Some girls perhaps should be put to it thus-young servants no doubt, or field-girls with pretty faces. I have seen such on my father's estate, yet gave no thought to it, he roaming there with stick and gun, rushing of hares and twittering of leaves.

In the grass, in the grass-how pleasant it might have been in the grass, the dew upon my bottom kissing, filterings of sunlight, a fastness of swallows. Would he have breathed to me as I to Helen? I must do down into my thoughts, emerge, comfort myself. Bacon and devilled kidneys for breakfast. Afterwards, afterwards. My aunts like angels quiet would come and go. Mama would speak of butter, milk and churns. How cold a churn were I put over one, yet soon my bottom warm to urgent thrusts, the milk rush-rolling in the silvered cone.

I am come upon the hall, the doorway. No one bars my exit. The carriage waits still.

“You were a long time coming of it, M iss. I was not told to leave nor go nor wander forth.”

“It is best that you did not. There are herds in the darkness, their bodies heavy.”

“They should be milked and taken in, Miss.”

“Have you been so? It matters not. I shall return to my hotel. You remember the place, the far place, where the lights glow?”

“I couldn't be forgetting of it. All the gentry comes and goes there. There is ever a coming and going there. You are of the country, Miss. I smells it on your skin.”

“Soft, is it not? They are lewd people within and would have remarked upon it had I let them, felt me as one feels tapestries or cloth.”

“There's a lot of it goes on, Miss, as for them what can afford it. I heard tell from a gent that was in my conveyance of a party he went to where all the guests took their clothes off and romped about terrible.”

“I disapprove of such. Do you not disapprove of such? Let us go then, let us go. There is badness about, the sins of the multitudes.”

Rushings of summer night and whirling of heavens. I shall retire, take a cottage upon my father's estate. My aunts will visit me there-a twirling of parasols. We shall have readings, converse upon philosophies, dip strawberries in cream and lick our lips unseen. A horse will stand without in waiting upon my journeys.

I shall take the woodland rides and wait his coming, penis still upon the saddle's rim. Delicately we will tread together into a copse, the twigs snapping, upwhirring of wings and clouds of starlings sailing. May I speak? I would tell you at last how long and thick your penis is, how tightly I enclose it. Let our mouths meet. Speak to me of Rabelais, of pages yellowed by the sun, the bindings stiff upon their hinges. Caress my thighs, my quim through cotton drawers. Do my stockings not band tightly? It was said once there were elves, here. Let me lie back, prepare, display myself. The loam is soft. How soft the loam is…

Be quiet Laura, be quiet.

Be quiet.

“Is there a second ballroom here, a place for dancing?”

I address the counter clerk on my return. A happiness is upon me, and air of gaiety, as though the night were young. He has a sombre look, a crouching, hunted by beagles.

“There was one above, Miss. It is closed now these past two years. Guests who could not sleep complained of the noise. There were abandonments. Are you not on the same floor where it used to be?”

“I could not find the door.”

“It is there, Miss. The lock is rusty. You may try it. Will you have someone attend on you? It is not a pleasant place. I would not to that place. There are mirrors and hauntings. Too many, it is said.”

“Of mirrors and hauntings, yes, there are ever so- some pleasant, some unpleasant. I will go. Have wine and sandwiches sent up to my room.”

I pass along the upper corridor the selfsame fellow who took Charlotte there. His glance is open and abrasive to my eyes. He would have me on the instant if I let him.

“Is the door open? The door along? The door to the ballroom? Open? Is it open?”

“It were never closed, Miss. There were revellings once. The floor is thick with dust I hear, the mirrors glazed with memories. I was taught poetry about it once but have forgotten it.”

He stands, would weigh me up and down. A nascent paunch bells out his trouser tops. I would speak of the wallpaper that covered the door, but do not. There is a trick about it, perhaps, some incidence of light or shade. I have long fingernails. I shall tear it. I have no forebearance in such things. Mama would think it impolite. My father taught me ever so to be.