Anonymous - Laura

“That all action should be direct action is beyond denial, Laura. When there are no words to be used, put aside the words that would be used. Mistake not the things for the word nor the word for the thing. Should a young child, young in its unknowing, perceive a rose then it places not a net of words about it, for indeed it may not know the word “rose” and hence, being innocent of such, sees the flower in greater purity than we. Remember this ever, for if you have no understanding of it now, then understanding will come later.”

“I must not then have regard for things, Papa?” I asked.

“It is incumbent upon us, Laura, to have regard for all, yet whether paper, for instance, is printed upon, used for wrapping, adorned with great art and skill by a scribe, or crumpled up and burned, it has no caring for the matter, since in its paperness it remains and then returns to the infinite. Be caring and kind, do not damage unless there be cause for such. When there is cause, let it be done and have no hesitation on the matter.”

I asked my paternal aunt, who ever then grew closer to me, whether she herself had understanding of this.

“You listen wisely, listen well, Laura. Not to have hesitation when the spirit moves forever engenders activity in us, a sparkling of life, performances of good. When our dear mama took to the sari, she took also to the ways of the Hindu texts and read such translations as she could find. She engendered in us then a reverence for all, declaring that manifestations of the body were also those of the spirit. Though I would not declare such interpretations to be exact, yet I took a fondness for them. Upon the coming of mid-spring we would disrobe ourselves and meditate. I was then put to exercises, even as you. Immediately afterwards she would have me meditate again, saying that otherwise I would become inert and somnolent.”

“Am I inert? I wish not to be inert.”

“One who is inert, my pet, would by paradox endeavour to escape the strap, the piston's urging thrust. In your receiving of both, in your receiving, your energy is coiled and strong, is latent, ever-present, not inert. You are the servant of your realm and yet its mistress. When the cock is well planted, do you not enjoy, receive, draw out the strength?”

“Why must I ever be strapped?” I laid my head upon her lap. A scent of musk, of lavender, burring of stocking tops beneath her skirt.

“Would you bend to it without-raise your skirts, lower your drawers.”

“I do not know.” I hid my face. She was of this knowing yet should not be of this knowing.

“The words are clouds, my love, the act a mountain. The clouds must not obscure the peak. The words are apparitions, but the deed is all.”

That same day I plucked a rose and placed it lovingly in water in a vase and gazed upon it long. Many were the words that crowded into my mind about it. I thought, as father said one would, of love, romance, of garden parties and flounced skirts, of bright bouquets and promises of sun. The rose yet stood in its unknowing of such things, yet much as I tried to divest myself of the entrapments of words the less I succeeded.

Father then entered my room and found me unclothed to my chemise and stockings, couched upon one elbow on my bed and said, “You must not lounge so in your contemplations, for you will be conscious of your lounging and your attitude. Sit upright with your legs crossed under you, your back straight and the back of your right hand resting before you on the palm of your left. Let your mind-”

Alas, my mother interrupting at that moment by her footfalls on the stairs, my father withdrew and closed the door on my unshielded bottom. I would fain have had him return and explain more to me, but he did not, nor was I bold enough to place questions to him on the matter for I feared some mental exercises that I might not then attain. So withered the leaves of my longing. Mama was not of his mind nor caring and so could not have answered my questions. Whether my paternal aunt could so have done I do not know. Backward in my probings, yet also kind in my intentions, I wished perhaps not to embarrass her by asking that which she might not know. I was close then upon marriage and other matters were to the fore. More frequently than ever she would caress me all about my bottom-cheeks and sigh. Kissing me, her tongue would protrude, gliding around my own, and she would tickle my rosette and make me wriggle.

“You must return, Laura, return. We shall wear saris as of old and make our devotions.”

I had not known until then that she had worn such a garment, but my grandmother-as she explained-had been amused by having been twirled about and rendered naked from her cocoon and would have it so 'twixt meditations, exercisings, and further meditations, so that my aunt and her sister-who had since died-were equally thus treated and brought naked to the view.

“Were you not rumpled and ridden then? Was it not coarse?” I dared to ask.

“Coarseness is the manifestation of vulgar minds, “she replied. “My room was ever darkened, candles lit. There were no routs upon the carpet of the drawing room. Such, surely, would have been an abomination. Ever was all silent and solemn, majestically performed in utter privacy. Once my bottom had been tapped, full flooded by the sperm of one or other, then did I bathe, re-don my sari, and descend to continue my meditations. My nipples being erect, warm water was sprinkled on them through the silkened cotton and my brow perfumed.”

“May I not do the same?”

“There is no time, my love, no time. I was not married until twenty-five. I had more years than you for such fulfilments. Mama graced the house and saw to all. I went maiden to my marriage bed even as shall you. My rosette, though well nurtured as it had been, was silent in its musings, played not traitor to me, was unsuspected, though frequently well-fingered. My husband, however, took not to the sport, and I in my modesty made no mention of it. When he was killed early in the battles around Delhi, I returned home clad in widow's weeds, presenting myself much as a nun. Attired completely in black, my bottom uttered thus its gleaming promise, lambent in fleshly glory as the moon. Mama saw this, however, as provocation, for I was prone to leaving my bedroom door opened in my unveilings, my skirt well girded up and knickers cast aside. Seeing me thus, she bound my wrists and caused me to be paraded, upstairs and down, with all my clothes upcast. Naught was said but many eyes reproached me. I had offended, you see, against the conventions. The veils of privacy were torn. She desisted, however, from casting up my widow's veil, hence it was said I looked a perfect houri, my bush displayed on gleaming white framed by black stockings and black skirt. Having been so paraded, led about, I then was taken to the stable and there cropped. Mama taking pity on me in my writhings, however, I received the noble cock between my burning cheeks and thus was partly assuaged. Upon dear Mama's passing, I became then a prey to lusts for she was not there to monitor events.”

“I was not monitored, have not been, never been.”

“It was not necessary. By not monitoring, your own dear mama most visibly monitors. Even so, I saw to myself, came fast to my senses, wore veil and stockings for the last time on my bed, restored the benedictions, the convention-all. Yet it was pleasant to be threaded occasionally upon the rug, a winter's fire warm-roaring at my head. You must not disdain such proclivities, on your return, on your return.”

I answered not, as was my wont. I would promise nothing and yet would withhold nothing. The trees do not move when the breeze stirs but let it pass through their branches. Constance was chased by trees. Perhaps now she and the others lay still all about the room, gyrating hips, the penis entertaining. On the morrow Carrie and Helen will go quiet to chapel. Upon dark landings, ever fumbled, fondled, led to bed, legs held akimbo to the throbbing thrusts. Penetrations, rivulets, balls slapping at their bottoms fast. Dark will curve the circles 'neath their eyes. The rugs will receive them, dust at their nostrils, in the conservatory shall they be ridden, blinded by wonder, the becoming of orchids. I shall not be as they in my quietnesses. Even so I might capture one such, toy with her, observe her in her toilings, flushed of face, small velvet O of mouth receiving tongue or bulbous nose of prick. I shall have gilded cages. Their bottoms shall be annointed first with wine, glistening with Eastern promise of delights.