Бруно Травен - Aslan Norval

“A divorce? Get a divorce from you? I wouldn’t even consider it. I am happy with you. I couldn’t wish for anything better. But maybe you do.” He stared at her face. “Maybe you want a divorce since now you have found a young, vigorous boilermaker who knows how to satisfy your curiosity beautifully.”

“Me? I should get a divorce from you, Holved? Not for anything in the world. Not even for the greatest pleasures with all the boilermakers in the world.”

“It sounds great when you say that in such a lovely way. However, you strayed into areas where they offer such knowledge carelessly and if you think you got away so easily, you are wrong. I have a little something to say, don’t you think?

“Okay, then say something.”

“It was an offense, no matter what. Right?”

“If you see it that way, what can I do about it?”

“You have to atone for offenses. And better right now before this is old news and while I am in the mood to restore balance.”

“As you wish, my lord and master. What can I, a weak, helpless woman, do about it?”

He gave her a thorough hiding. When she examined herself in front of the mirror to view the landscape of her behind, she said: “As red as a freshly boiled lobster. You didn’t need to spank me so much. Half would have been plenty.”

“The first half was for the first time and the second half for the second, superfluous time.”

“The second time was not superfluous at all, but rather essential to obtain an accurate result. And I did obtain it. And so that you finally know, jackass, you don’t need to fear any competition, neither from a boilermaker and wrestler nor from a dandified gigolo.”

She snuggled into her bathrobe, searched with her feet for her slippers, put them on and slid them playfully across the thick carpet. As she followed the play of her slippered feet with her eyes, she asked: “Do you know, Holved, what Frenchwomen claim?”

“Frenchwomen claim many things of which I know nothing.”

“I mean in terms of satisfying my curiosity and the results thereof.”

“How would I know that? None of the few Frenchwomen I know have taken me in their confidence,” he said as if he did not care.

“All right, then. I think comparatively Frenchwomen have the greatest experience in this matter. They say maliciously: brains over brawn. Muscular men don’t perform well at all.”

“And do you think Frenchwomen are right?”

“What do you think?”

“I asked you.”

“Don’t get a big head, cruel chastiser of helpless women, lord and master of your wife and livestock! Here is the result of my research trip: Frenchwomen are right. Nice muscles are a feast for the eyes like beautiful paintings, but they are only for viewing and worthless for practical use. You can interpret the rest as you wish. Actually, you should praise me for undertaking such a—let’s say—relatively dangerous research trip. The results have increased my esteem for you significantly, as far as that is even possible.”

He stood by the door with the face of a young boy who does not know how to act or respond in light of praise for something for which he thinks he does not deserve any praise. Eventually he decided to say nothing and to leave her boudoir, closing the door behind him carefully.

Lita came in to help her mistress dress. She was a Mexican girl. Her real name was Adelita, which was too long for Aslan. She was neither tall nor small. She was pretty, with long, thick black hair. Her large, dark brown eyes were always slightly moist, which gave her an expression of great passion. Her shape was soft, well-rounded, and inviting, which she did not know of course, but given her female instinct knew how to express perfectly well.

If you assessed Lita coldheartedly, you would be safe in assuming that at age thirty she would gain more weight than necessary for her well-being. A bonus that was not included in her relatively high salary was that she served Aslan with devotion. She was affectionate and loyal like a dog.

Aslan disappeared in the bathroom to take a three-minute shower.

“Which dress for tonight, señora?” asked Lita when Aslan came out of the bathroom wrapped in a large bath towel.

Aslan did not answer immediately. Apparently, her thoughts were far away from the present moment.

“ Que vestido , señora?” asked Lita again, while holding out Aslan’s undergarments.

“If I myself only knew which dress to wear. I have nothing to wear. Absolutely nothing.”

Lita pursed her lips. “Nada, señora? Absolutamente nada? Really nothing? But there are—let’s see, how many?—there are twenty-six evening dresses on hangers here. Each one more beautiful than the other.”

“I think so. What do I know. You know, Lita, sing me a Mexican song with the word ‘here’ in the lyrics. How do you say ‘here’ in Mexican.”

“ Aquí , señora, aquí .”

“All right then, sing a song with the word ‘ aquí ’ in it for me. And while you sing, close your eyes and run your hand along the whole row of my evening dresses back and forth. And when you get to the word ‘ aquí ’ in the song you take hold of the dress you are touching. That will be the dress I wear tonight whether it pleases people or not.”

“ Todos sus vestidos , señora, all your dresses are glorious and in all of them, you look divine like a goddess who has just descended from heaven.”

“Let’s go, Lita, sing. Close your eyes tightly and give me my dress.”

While Lita went fishing for the dress, singing quietly, Aslan pulled on her stockings. She did so in a truly voluptuous way. She lay on her back and held her leg up high in the air. Then she pulled the sheer stocking down her leg as if she were caressing it. Fitting like gloves, her stockings were held in place by silk garters. Aslan did not like to wear a girdle to attach these veil-like materials.

Finally, Lita had managed to choose a dress for Aslan according to her instructions. It was a glorious silk creation, made in Rome and there was no other like it. For now, Aslan was wearing nothing else but her gossamer stockings. Lita held out an undergarment. Aslan sat upright, slipped on her slippers, and got up, dropping her bath towel onto the floor.

“Oh my God,” exclaimed Lita, throwing Aslan’s undergarment onto the chaise longue in her shock, because she needed that hand to cross herself energetically several times.

“Señora, what in the name of all the saints have you done to your rear end? That looks horrible. Que horror!”

Aslan’s first thought was to wrap the bath towel around herself again and to put on the undergarment beneath it. However, at the same time, she realized that it was too late for that and that she had to come up with an excuse so Lita would not guess what had happened.

“You know, Lita, I sat in boiling-hot water by mistake. I should have been more careful. But you know what happens when you are in a great rush,” Aslan explained, and she thought that was the end of the incident.

Lita picked up the silk undergarment and gave it to Aslan, who began putting it on with casual movements. Lita picked up the towel from the floor and draping it over her arm, she said: “ Curioso , señora, muy curioso . It is really pretty strange that you burned your bottom, sus nalgas , I mean, and not also your feet and calves. How did you manage to do that, señora, if it is not impolite to ask?”

Aslan laughed out loud. “See, Lita, I cannot lie. I will never learn to do so. I always get caught. Of course I did not burn myself.”

“Well, well,” said Lita, grinning intimately at Aslan. “Then it was your old man who spanked you hard. I thought something like that had happened. I was on my way to your boudoir to ask whether I could help you dress. When I got to the door, I heard that someone was getting spanked. Of course, I didn’t know who was spanking whom. Unfortunately, these modern doors don’t have any keyholes anymore. But as my mother always used to say: ‘Silly girl, if you see or hear a spanking somewhere, get out of there as fast as possible, because you might get caught in the middle by mistake.’ And that’s why I got out of there as fast as I could, señora.”