Anonymous - Laura

His knees bend further. He is at her full. The knob, red rimmed, appears and glides within.

“Oooh-ah, Miss!”

“Be quiet, Lucy, you are spoiling it. Go at her, sir, empty your balls.”

What a coarseness is here! The air contains it. He grunts anew, his Adam's apple jerks. Unseemly are displays. I turn my eyes yet ever wend them back to where he works, his piston easing deeply in and out. How proud her cheeks, protuberant and sweet! I bend and coil her hair back, kiss her mouth. Her tongue displays an elegance of love. He is coming, I know it by his snuffling; she receives. Her tongue long-licks about my own, is wet. Emerging comes his column, spouting on, is driven deep, there held, and spurts its last.

“You may leave.”

My voice is winter and his eyes are hurt. Limp in its thickness hangs his grenadier.

“Come, sir, she don't want us to stay-was strict upon it.”

“What a strange woman you are! I have never come upon the like of it.”

His eyes would challenge mine. I hold my back to him and brush my hair.

“Be sure that you come to bathe me in the morning, Lucy.”

“Yes, Miss. It were right nice, Miss. Thank you, Miss.”

Knowing not what to say-such people know not what to say-she flirts with empty spaces and departs. He lingers, would have details of me, I suspect, is confounded that we are of the same class. In summer, wearing gaiters, trailing gun, he will speak of politics, philosophy, and art.

“May I visit you-call upon you?”

“You may not.”

I do not turn-regard my image in the mirror, seeking a flushed look that I do not find.

“It would be a pleasure so to do.”

“Goodnight. Your wife waits and your foundlings wait. Begone.”

“I have no children.” Edginess intrudes. Feet move upon the carpet. He departs.

How empty are rooms when all but oneself are gone! I would cry for my remembrances, but know no tears. Some etchings in my mind disturb my stillness. “Bring her, of course. “Amelia's words ring thus. Where does she move now, dress, drink, urinate, and stroll among her maidens, slapping thighs?

I am not a whore.

I am not.

I am not, I am not.

The house lies in a mews as well it might, dark-banded by the night, driven by stars, scutterings of clouds, the rain in winter. Pressed tight by neighbours, it extrudes its light faint gold upon the pavement, promising of warmth.

Dispensing gifts of smiles, Amelia greets me. I am out of place, tread warily among her tables, knickknacks, cushions, couches, gleamings of silver and Sevres pieces.

“You sent your uncle first here? An amusement! We have made play with him, my dear, a little play. He is not favoured among you? Is he favoured among you?”

“With my aunts he has little favour and with me less. What are you at? Am I to grant you favours or you me? I would not be brought nor taken nor put up. Where is he now?”

“Do you like the house? Do you not? Neither sombre nor playful?”

“It disposes well. Have you girls here or am I led on?”

“You may have one-two if you wish. I have some new ones. What enchantments they display, wicked of wobbling mounds and flashing thighs. Their eyes are haunted by the dreams of others, pattings of hands about their bottom-cheeks.”

“Have they been tasted, tried yet?”

“None. One has a mind to it, perhaps but needs the birch. The others are more fey. Their fingers delicate would arrange flowers rather than penis stalks. Come, I will show you. I dispose sufficient bedrooms here to have one in each. None may move without my counselling. There are peepholes to the doors. Such are necessary for observations.”

“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.