Anonymous: Blue Tango

Darling, don't be awful. You mustn't be awful. I pull my hand away. Does it make him sad? I slide my hand over the cloth of his trousers. Now the moment of sadness is gone and he quivers. Shock and disbelief. Oh, you poor little boy. My fingers walking in his lap. I would work at his buttons, but I'm afraid poor Walter will faint. I want to feel the weight of his balls. They think it's the root we want, but of course it's the stones that command attention. John's plumpness in my hand. Always impressive without clothes. His nakedness. And Walter's nakedness. I imagine Walter naked. His white skin. Now I find him. My hand upon his part. His member. My fingers closing.

He whispers to me. Frantic whispering. “Julie, darling…”

“Bring it out.”

“Good Lord, that's impossible.”

But he does the impossible. His fingers fumbling at his buttons. In a moment I have his huge thing in my hand. Stiff. Throbbing. More substantial than I expected. Oh yes indeed. Here in a box at the Criterion. Walter Bramsby's cock in my hand. His lengthening. His amorous extension. There is nothing as marvelous as the feel of it under one's fingers. The muscular jerking. How helpless he is. I have an inclination to laugh. I long to see his face clearly in the light. Now the pomposity is gone, the talk of business affairs, the comic sniffing.

He's well-formed. Indeed perfectly formed. The cowl easily down, the knob full and firm. He reminds me very much of John. Quite full in the bulb. Oh yes. Pity I can't have his cods in my hand. Hold them and confront the procreation of the race. Instead my fingers have the wicked serpent. Throbbing beneath my fingers. Walter Bramsby throbbing. How solemn he is. His eyes fixed upon the stage below, the actors, the scene, as I stroke his throbbing with my fingers. His face shows nothing that I can see. He's never been married. He thinks he wants to marry me. Or did think so when we entered the theater. And now that my hand holds his hot root, does he forgive my widowhood? So much force beneath my fingers. One wants to forget the man and adore the instrument.

I rub the stalwart soldier, amused at the eyes that occasionally gaze at us from the boxes across the stalls. They can't imagine that Walter's trousers are unbuttoned and his affair in my hand. This impressive instrument he has. He's pensive now. He thinks I'm a woman without scruples. He does not understand my intention. He quakes in my hand, but he does not understand my intention. He does not understand the talk of my fingers. Mr. Bramsby in a bout of persistent sang-froid. Stiff and hot. I clasp the heat of it. The fierce erectness of him. I would have more light to see the full view of it. What a state. He whispers again. “My darling! You must not.” Well, yes I must. I must continue the operation. My hand filled, stroking, cajoling. His throbbing in my hand. The tip is leaking now and my fingers are bedewed with it. I would inspect it. The weeping. Walter Bramsby in my possession. So large. One can't imagine actually receiving it.

Then a sudden movement. Walter's voice, his desperation. His limb jerking beneath my fingers, throbbing in his desperation. His utmost extent. Another muted groan as he feels his pleasure. The spasm beneath my fingers. Hissing at me. “You drive me mad!” Pity I can't see the tip. With a large one like this. The finish now. My fingers working. He groans again at the final moment. His body jerking in his chair as he spends. His sweet sperm spouting out of his balls. An exquisite flood of it. Jetting out to splatter against the velvet of the balustrade.

Down below on the stage, someone laughs. Walter slumps in his chair. My fingers curl and squeeze, squeeze again, until finally Walter comes to his senses and offers me his handkerchief.

Edward mutters at me when he next finds me alone in the drawing-room. Something about a ball in Eaton Square. An invitation. Claire has no interest, but she would have us go. “A dance will do you good,” Edward says. “I shall take you myself.” It's not clever of him. It's much too dangerous. He sees my reticence. “I hope nothing is wrong.”

I've come to a decision about Edward. I will have him. I shall not be satisfied until the doing of it.

He holds my hand. He kisses me. My lips. His flushed face. He's dreadfully excited. I glance down at the front of his trousers. I regard his excitement. The memory of Walter Bramsby in my hand is still fresh. Do I dare? Do I possess the audacity?

“Is Claire at home?”

“She's gone to Guy's Hospital.”

“Whatever for?”

“I don't know. I think to comfort someone.”

I touch the front of his trousers. “And you remain here to comfort me.”

He closes his eyes. “It's not possible.”

“You kissed me before.”

“Yes, I suppose I did.”

“Then it's possible, isn't it?”

His buttons come undone. His root appears. I coax him a bit and his balls come out. Lovely firm testicles. I examine Edward. I explore my sister's husband. His pride.

Yesterday Claire annoyed me with a relentless chattering about her friends at Croydon. I don't care about her friends at Croydon. Now Edward's penis twitches in my hand. This is not Croydon, this is Kensington. I feel lazy. How lovely it is to have an idle afternoon with Claire's husband. His endowments. He waits for my ministrations. I have the power of knowing it now. The feel of his flesh beneath my fingers. Will the door open? We stand in the bright morning sun, and if one of the maids should enter she will see everything.

Edward shudders. “We ought to go somewhere else.”

“We oughtn't to be doing this at all. You're my sister's husband.”

“I do know that.”

“What do you want?”

“Want?”

“What do you want with me?”

“I don't know.”

What does he think of women? The fairer sex. What logical faculties does he bring to bear upon the difference? Men have thoughts of Empire, but not much thought for the origins of things. His ramrod being. He's quite robust. Without his family's money, he might be somewhere in the territories. In the Foreign Service perhaps. Edward would be an excellent representative of English complacency. He says this is impossible but he stands imprisoned by my hand. How little one knows people. Edward's randy cock. He seems unsteady upon his feet. He ought to be sitting but I want him to stand. I want his mind upon my fingers. One must seek out the important things in people. The odd affinities. All these people I've never spoken to, never known. One must believe in the possibilities. One must have no illusions. One must depend only upon evidence. Good Lord, how warm he is! He mumbles something, but I ignore it. I have no interest in anything except what he exposes to me. His balls in my hand. His thick root. Thicker than Walter but not as long. One catalogues them for an empty moment. That fellow in Bloomsbury shortly after John and I were married. His ranting about our detestable social system and so forth while I brought him off in a brandy glass. Giggling as he spouted in a brandy glass. Walter two days ago and Edward today. Darling, it's too much. All this playing about with masculine tumescence. My sister's husband. His wife is my sister. The way he pleasures her in her bedroom. Her face. What she feels in her face.

“Kiss me, Edward.”

“Come to my room.”

“Now?”

“Yes, now.”

“No, I don't think so. Kiss me here.”

He kisses me as I continue holding his root in my hand. His lips are warm. He touches my bosom. His fingers at the buttons. Yes, why not? I bare my breasts, hold them in my hands. “Kiss them.”

His lips upon my breasts. His lips enclosing a nipple. How delicious. How nice. The sensation is exquisite. I run my fingers around his neck. His hand holds my breast, as he kisses it. The other hand slides around to squeeze my bottom. He pulls at me with his lips as I grip his testicles. He mumbles about his room again. No, I won't have it. My legs are weak but I won't have it. I want him to suck my breasts in Claire's drawing-room. I want an intimate understanding of things. That fellow in the Times prattling about natural causes. What do they understand of natural causes? What does Edward understand? I'm sure he had Claire before they were married. And other French girls. Englishmen adore French girls. They say the French girl knows how to bring the passion out of a man. Out of an Englishman. One brings the passion out of an Englishman with fingers and lips. How harmless he is. He will suck at my breasts forever if I don't stop it. He wants to touch other places but he lacks the will. He wants the favors only lovers are permitted. My sister's husband. His red cheeks. His lips pulling at my nipples. My bonbons.