Anonymous - Laura

So my aunt told me, and my astonishment at such intelligence was great, for I had until then held males to the arbiters of all.

“Why should that be so?” my aunt replied, “for the female-although of necessity strapped and put to pleasure in her younger years-will in time show herself fit and willing and is thereafter no less than the male in stature. Master or mistress-what does it matter?”

It occurs to me now that I had at least proven mistress of the occasion when, severing from my husband, I had commanded the moment, made brazen my intent, and so packeted and parcelled up the very air within the house that each was contained within its several compartments. Such thoughts are random, however, and bring me not to the point that I may wish to reach, which is bereft of designation, label, or description, flows not like water nor holds still as wood or stone, yet contains all, as the air contains the birds and space the stars. When I am still, there is movement; when I am moving, stillness is apprehended, understood, made present in my being.

My uncle, upon my appearance below, gives every visual sign of one who has despaired of waiting, would proffer fretfulness like washing breeze-blown on a line did I not sweep past him, making clear my presence on the hotel steps.

A conveyance of some grandeur awaits-a family type of carriage with ample room for six. There is, he opines, more comfort in such than one of shorter underbelly upon a journey of such measure. There are motives therein, I suspect, but I am not of a mood to question them. The maid's gentle, questing touch has stirred my loins. I signal my approval by wriggling my bottom as I enter and face forward to the horses. Clerks, tardy upon their business, halt and stare. My bonnet of blue velvet is approved, the angles of my nose, lips, chin are seen, may yet be dreamed upon by those who scribble later at their toil. They will thrust at their wives tonight, remembering my face. Their mouths will be open and wild dreams will rage. I shall have none of it, may yet see my performance with the maid, who came as a pleasant comma to the morn. Yet there will be a dryness about it, I believe. Rather would I sit in my white dress that I wore for my Confirmation, my ankles seen and approved, a cushion at my back against the bole of a tree, a book unread upon my knees, my garters tight, the gusset of my drawers moulding my sensuality unseen, purring its silent pleasure of desire.

When it was tickled first, a cock at my bottom…

“Shall there be company at the races, uncle?”

“There will be friends, no doubt-distant friends and new. None close. Would you have some close?”

“I have no feeling for matter. Is there not a dullness in racing? Have the horses not already won?”

“Were that to be so, my pet, and I knowing of their names, I would be a millionaire.”

He is obtuse upon such matters. I am among foreigners, must learn new tongues, parse my sentences as they and conjugate the ordinary.

“My drawers are too tight. Pray turn your back that I may remove them.”

“My dear, yes. They must not incommode you. May I see your knees first?”

“Are we within the house or without the house? Is there to be lewdness? Is this your manner of conducting things? My calves are slender, my thighs swell. Turn your back. Mama would have none of it; Papa would forbid you his Clubs and put your name about. The card tables would no longer receive you. Are you not a member of the Athenaeum? You should act ever as a gentlemen. Turn your back.”

He is crestfallen, though his crest rises-I observe- with the rustling of my gown. I am come upon a newness to myself. The high windows of the carriage permit no observation from beyond save if we pass a horse bus. I shall be covered by then, my legs pristine and shielded from all gaze. I descend my drawers slowly, raising my bottom from the seat. There is pleasure in doing so. The act of furtiveness becomes the moment. In this moment they are puddled in my hands, drawn off my ankles, and my gown restored. His eyes, drawn back to mine by soft command, gaze in humility.

“Of what fine cotton they are made!”

“There is not a stain upon them. Hold them if you wish.”

“I would kiss them, Laura.”

“That, too, is permitted.”

His nostrils quiver. He inhales. His face bears an unease of puffiness.

“A delicate scent, my dear. How delicate!”

“It is beyond description. Place them over your crotch. I do not wish to see your uprising. Mama would admonish me severely for such.”

“Your Papa would bring his strap to you?” His look has fervency. My drawers are tentpoled by his rampant stand.

“I know naught of a strap. Why think you of a strap? There is perversity in such thoughts that ill becomes you. Girls are birched, I believe, for I have heard of their wailings. Their hips weave, their bottoms beg for succour, there are cries for assistance, are there not?”

I have matched his lewdness with remonstrance. He knows of what and whom I speak-the factory wench who, not so poor of spirit, brought him to the Justice of the Peace. I pray for her spirit that it shall never weaken, yet hypocrite now in my own wild intent do bid him loose his trousers.

“Let me not see it for I do not wish to see it again. How you heaved upon her at the hotel! I have sealed letters on the matter at my bank, held in trust, in secret vaults, that you might not betray me. Keep it covered with my drawers and rub yourself within them.”

“What a torture you put me to!”

“Is it not divine? Look into my eyes while you do it. Speak-you may speak. There is no record kept upon the matter. We are over the Thames, shall soon enough be upon the pastures, among the meadows, the quietudes of poverty and want, rising of smoke from simple chimney stacks. Let your own belch, for I would see the cotton bubble.”

“I would speak of your thighs, your breasts adorable, your bottom. Have you not been approached-by stealth, perhaps? Has It not been put to you? Were there no corkings, uncorkings there-magic of bulbing to the manly stem?”

He has not the albums of my thoughts, no leaves to turn, no likenesses of shadowed minds to gaze upon. Only the mirrors of my eyes reflect his dreams, the tattered banners of his purposes. His jaw sags. He having thus spoken, his jaw sags. There is about his face a desperation of purpose, ugliness. Better that I had in my past, in my beginnings, been turned about, put over, than having done it face to face.

“Go on. You may think of it. Some chance encounter in the summerhouse, perhaps? Go faster in your thinkings. Well might you then have seen me clear unveiled, flower-. dust of morning on my riven cheeks. Do you come much-expel powerfully? Would you be upon me, if you could, back arched, receiving your wickedness? A maid might watch while polishing the silver, performing mundane duties as her plight demands. Mama might enter and say prayers. Kneeling behind us, would she not see all? My aunt would draw the curtains against the sun.”

“Hah! What thoughts you have! How unbearable that I cannot see your garters.”

“In the dusk, in the middling ways of Time, when I was sprinkled…Ah, you are coming, I perceive. What a fine strong bubbling there is of it!”

“Kiss me, pray!”

“I will not! How dare you entertain such thoughts!”

His face softens. The veins pulse less, the pale of cock-flesh sheathed within my drawers. How much more easily women flow in their unceasings! Their limbs are more lithe, expressions more angelic. Their eyes do not snag my eyes like thorns as men's eyes snag. I have uncovered my aunt's breasts-known her plentitude, rasping of nipples rubbery to mine, the entertaining warmth of thighs to thighs, bush brushed to bush and moisture found.