Anonymous - Blue Tango

“It's naughty of you.”

He smiles. “I can't bear another day without you.”

It's quite new to me. This eruption of fervor when the danger is so clear. I thought he'd be more discreet. I thought he was someone else. I tell him he's behaving like a silly schoolboy. “You know what I mean.”

He looks pitiful. His eyes are so pitiful when they look at me. I smile to make him happy again. Flirtation to make him happy again. A long glance at the front of his trousers that sets him muttering. The real point is the pleasure of it. I knew the danger in the very beginning. Shall I wear drawers to our rendezvous. One makes an attempt at sincere decorum. Nearby on the wall is a photograph of a man in uniform.

“Who's that?”

“My father,” Edward says. 'My father in the Crimea.”

He has something in Bedford Way, a bed-sitting room furnished in the dullest brown. How amusing to be at a trysting place. But of course it's more sensible than the house. He already has the fever in his eyes. He imagines me naked in his arms. Has he had other women here? “I've brought champagne,” he says.

Poor Edward is so predictable. All these schoolboys who grow up to be predictable in their pleasures. The male heirs. He's a male heir.

“I don't know why.”

“What?”

“I don't know why you've brought champagne.”

“To celebrate, of course.”

Am I menacing? I suppose not a soul knows about this place. Edward's room in Bloomsbury. Now he pours the wine and talks again. Some silly friend who wants to sit in Parliament. Edward is too young to have this room. He's too young at forty. A room like this belongs to a man of sixty, a man with full whiskers and a penchant for small girls in pink. Then Edward talks of going abroad again. To Italy. He talks of Florence with such distinction.

“Do stop.'

“Stop?”

“Do stop talking.”

I tell him I shall be busy all day tomorrow. And the day after that. Perhaps for another week. He holds his glass aloft. “Then we must have today.”

“Are you an agnostic?”

“Julie, please…”

I'm sure it's more than I deserve. I don't deserve Claire's husband. “We're expected at home.”

“You promised…”

I should adore it. I want to be civil to him. I suffer from total boredom, but I want to be civil. We sip our champagne. There will be so much to remember. A lifetime of remembrances.

He smiles again. “Darling, don't be so mysterious.”

“Is she pretty?”

“Is who pretty?”

“The woman who was here last. I think that's a stocking half under the bed.”

He curses the maid as he kicks at the stocking. Then he's upon me. He forces me upon the bed. I laugh as he pushes me down. His lips press against mine. My laughing as he kisses me. His tickling touches. His hand pushes beneath my dress. He touches my thighs. His fingers tickling along the insides of my thighs. Pulling at my garters. Then his lips are away and his head moves down. His head beneath my dress. The fortress besieged. Now the dress pushed up. His face between my thighs. I groan as I yield. Yes, that. I always want that. The hot kiss in my secret place. A sound of discovery now as he finds I have no drawers. How naughty I am. All the way in a cab from the house. Claire wanted me to have the carriage, but I insisted I wouldn't. How hungry he is. He delights in it. He's completely starved for it. I don't know why. She has him do it often enough. The tickling of his tongue. The way he forages in my nest. Oh yes, there. Sucking at my clitoris. I shall spend if he keeps on with that. He does know how. One must trust a lover to know how. He murmurs against my thighs. So much for the fidelity of marriage. He's had other women here. On this bed. His mouth feeding at others. Jealous, darling? Festivities in full swing now. Claire's Edward sucking at my copse with such devotion. I try to look. Nothing but a glimpse of his tongue. Pity I can't see all of it. Pity his face must be hidden. The hairs tickling his nose. Oh, get on with it. I feel I could swoon. Lying here under him, under his mouth, his lips. How charming he is when he twitches his mouth. One always thinks of the connection. His eagerness. He's better than a maid. His tongue flitting. He must find me copious. I can tell by the noise that I must be copious.

Then he wants me undressed. He pulls at my clothes.

“Don't be rude.”

“Darling, please…”

“I'll do it myself. And you too.”

We face each other across the bed as our clothes fall away. His fingers fumble. I ought to have a maid. Soon I stand in my chemise and Edward shows his appendages. His cock and balls. His penis rampant. He please with me to regain the bed. He wants me kneeling. He wants my rump in his hands. He fondles me. His mumbled admiration. I like the hot words. I like exposing things. How shocking it is to be exposed to his eyes. His penis is so stiff. He's a pompous man with a stiff pego. Generously endowed. Exquisite coloring. I want to see it, but he remains behind me with his hands on my bottom. These antics. I would like to be in a room full of gilt chairs. Bending to be examined by a collection of ambassadors. I hide nothing. Let them see the full measure of it.

Edward's fingers now. His knob pushing in. The stretching. He fills me. A slow thrusting. Thank God the bed doesn't creak. How appalling it would be if the bed creaked. I want to please him. I want to please that agitated limb he has. I find his balls. I hold his cods as I look at the room. At the dressing table. Perhaps there's another stocking beneath the dressing table. I will make him tell me. I shall make him tell everything.

Now his finger is at my rose-hole. He wants something more serious. I protest. “I won't allow it.”

“Why not?”

“You're much too large.”

“That's nonsense.”

“Edward, I don't want it.”

“I have some oil.”

He insists. His root remains inside me as he reaches for the oil upon the night-table. My rose-hole fingered. Oiled. Then his root withdrawn. He's in a frenzy now and I must allow it. Then pushing again. This time at my bottom-hole. The entrance. Pushing, Stretching. His urgency. I'm like a maid before her master. Oh, the pleasure of it. His twitching root in my bottom. Always with John. The sliding. Edward is so firm. A slow stroking. He's quite perfect. One blesses perfection. My body sways. He mutters. He seems dazzled. One must have courage. I remain still. Bent like an animal. I pretend insouciance. Pretend, pretend. This is not Kensington, this is Bloomsbury, darling. In Edward's room. His belly slapping against the flesh of my bottom. His sharp cut nose. He's well-made. Considerable girth. One always feels it more in the back. His cods. My fingers at his cods. How perfect it is. Always moving. This extraordinary delight. And then his cry of pleasure. The final thrusting. The groaning. One takes them in the groaning.

“I had an awful time getting away.”

He looks at me. The second time is more sedate. “But you did.”

“Edward, we can't go on endlessly like this. Claire will see it.”

I stand off from him. He wants me to undress. His passion is always at a boil. I demand some wine. I mount my courage. I rue the day I moved into that house in Kensington. Now I'm here again, once again in this room, once again in a dither of anticipation. He talks again. A rise in his voice. All our lives we shall remember this room. His bearing. I put him off.

“I wasn't fond of what you did last time.”

He stands back. “I don't believe it.”

“It's true.”

“You did enjoy it.”

“Oh Edward.”

His illusions. His triumph. How do I manage his triumph. This false victory they have. He's English, after all. Not French. What an abomination it is to see him triumphant. I will keep my composure.