Pierre Tour - Up in Heaven

“Now that elated me, and I set forth to Cracow on my indicated time. I had dinner the evening of my arrival at a large restaurant and found myself seated with a youngish woman, not bad to look at. She was kind of plump and voluptuous, a blond version of the Baroness, with fine eyes of an indeterminate color, but a definitely welcoming expression.

“I had heard her addressed as Miss by the head-waiter of the very fashionable restaurant, and a few moments later some man came to exchange polite conversation with her en route to his own table. I gathered from their conversation that she was a painter. The very first words out of her mouth indicated a voice of refinement, seriousness, and sensuality. Then I set out, seeing she was alone, to monopolize her attention rather scandalously, introducing myself to her as an American businessman, stating that I knew I was transgressing the morals of the country, but as a stranger was desirous of improving my poor Polish as well as paying tribute to one of the lovelier products of the country. She smiled rather engagingly at this and said I spoke Polish well enough, when it came to that, to exchange views and make myself clear. I asked if I could see her home in a cab. She thanked me for the offer but said it was a lovely evening and asked me to walk instead. Walking along, it was soon that we were holding hands. I gave her some tender squeezes on her forearm. We chatted, very close to each other as we walked. She showed, Marcia, a charming willingness to play her part. She had a delicacy and I didn't throw myself at my lady's head; I felt the code and ceremony of love play bulked high in her imagination. We sat down on a park bench, staying for an hour. It was a circular retreat among the darkened foliage of trees set gleaming by an occasional street lamp and the illusion was perfect. She seemed to be in a romantic element, her very own. We talked about love, but impersonally-though from time to time I kissed her eloquent and very full-ripe cherry-red mouth. We arranged a meeting for the morning at ten. When we met again, I told her I must send a telegram either confirming an engagement or excusing myself from meeting it, and I asked her if I remained in Cracow she would grant me the favor of coming to see me the next afternoon and staying with me for a long time. She asked me where, and I said, 'In the one place I can play host. Where I stay. I should like, if I may, to offer you a little festivity in my room.'

“She professed to find something shocking, saying, 'What? You ask me to do something to make up for this broken engagement, and come to your rooms for a purpose that would save you making the trip?' I told her gaily, 'You are causing me to be unfaithful.' At long last, with many a teasing remark as to my fidelity not being worth much, she agreed, saying, 'I'd better be quite frank, you are in great danger of being terribly disappointed; I've agreed to be your companion, don't count on anything more.' I told her I'd accept the risk.

“Well, to summarize, I don't regret the afternoon in Cracow. There is a curious memory left from it, a hint of the anachronistic, Marcia. I had already given my Madeline some kisses and she'd returned them with a yielding warmth. I had held her in my arms, even begun to undress her, but at that point she had become pathetic-for nothing positive showed in her reaction-indeed, she was very restraining, but touching; or let me say, laboring under an obvious distress. 'Please-I can't — I have promised someone.'

“'A man?' I asked.

“'Yes, he's far away, he'll be away for much longer too,' she added.

“She was sitting half undressed on my knees. My hands caressed her breasts and sides very lingeringly and gently, not forcing her in the least. She covered my neck with kisses, which seemed as voluptuous and tender as could be wished, interrupting them only to speak, rather breathlessly and in a sad tone of voice, of a genuine distress of which I could not doubt.

“'Really, I can't-I've promised.' I had a feeling that here was where action meant more than words-and my hand slipped to her belly, and then thighs-up her petticoat. She wore a bra and petticoat now, besides her panties of a very sheer fine silk. I felt her growing amorously restive on my lap. We did exchange more long and sweet kisses on the lips, and she kept on saying in a tone almost like a mother's gentle reproach, 'Besides all, this sort of thing is bad, the diabolic side of life and love.' She struck me as being a woman, perfectly sophisticated, yet torn between desire to yield fervently to my embraces and terror inspired by a complex scruple.

“For as she agreed, Marcia, almost without my having to ask her twice, and as something quite natural in the circumstances, to remove the obstacle of which I was complaining-her panties- I left her petticoat to preserve this sweet pathos of hers. She said she was really terribly sorry, it was a pity we men attached such importance to the things. Love was from heaven, but this other thing was the mouth of Hell. I had felt I was conversing with a pure heroine, trembling on the brink of her first adultery. Yet gradually, by dint of kisses and strokings, I led her to the bed, drew up her petticoat and mounted her. Everything went as it should, save that now and then, Madeline-who did not allow me to remove her bra, singularly enough-could not hold back a slight moan, as eloquent as before, of maternal reproach.

“'Oh, darling, this is being terribly vicious. It's awful, really it is.'

“After we finished our first essay, we had port and cakes. I lent her a dressing gown so she wouldn't have to resume her clothes too soon. I tried once more to lead her toward the bed, but she resisted and said, 'I can't-really-it is impossible-please.'

“Her tone was so sincere of regret, I realized how easy it would have been for me to overcome any physical resistance she might have proposed. But I felt it would be an extreme spiritual shock were I to attempt it, and so we parted amicably.

“Now, Marcia, my magic carpet hastens to Budapest. The day after my arrival, I saw several reporters in the lobby of the hotel. The manager had given my name as an American business traveler and they wished to interview me. One, a young woman, wanted to interview me on behalf of an illustrated magazine. I gave out the usual nonsense and asked her if I might see the text before it was printed. She spoke French as did I. She asked me if I knew Hungarian and I had to say no, perhaps she would be kind enough to translate it. Honestly, I trusted. She smiled, sighed, and said she would bring me a rough draft at five. I bade her come to my room and I added, smiling, 'I trust being alone with a strange man won't make you nervous.' She gave me a full-throated laugh.

“She arrived very punctually the next day. I sat her down at the little table I used as desk for my correspondence. She translated the text for me, laughing a lot at her mistakes in French and said it did not sound as silly in Hungarian. I was standing next to her as she made notes of my numerous corrections. Sometimes I leaned over her shoulder to watch her work. I did kiss her on the neck. She twitched as if I had tickled her, then laughed and threw me a sidelong glance. She uttered a friendly little sibilant noise which I took to mean, 'Let's get through with the work first.' When we finished, she folded her notes, put them in her bag, and without moving from her chair turned to me with a little questioning laugh. It was a shade nervous, but I assumed this to be part of the game.”

“What a connoisseur you had become! Oh, and I didn't even know you then.”

“Yes, I regret it too, dearest. She was rather pretty, brown haired, very fresh looking, extremely gay. She was about twenty-five with a fine robust, though not unfeminine figure, beautiful hard round breasts, and lush hips and thighs.