by Vlad Kahany
She unclasped her legs and moved the heels of both shoes to the edge of the desk, propping herself, opening her legs wider, pressing closer to him as if wanting him to reach her core one more time. For some time, they stayed locked like this, arms wrapped around each other, both panting, he—inhaling her scent, she—stroking his hair, until their hearts slowed down.
She looked up at him and held his gaze for some time.
“This is madness,” she whispered.
“Isn’t it,” he whispered back and kissed her temple. “I missed you,” he said, trying to pull off a smug smile to hide his real emotions. Still, she saw through it, for his eyes weren’t smiling. Instead, there was desperation in them, but it excited her for it was the first time that his eyes told her that he didn’t just want her, but needed her, that something other than lust rushed him up the stairs like a madman.
She smiled back, timidly but genuinely.
“Don’t leave me like this again,” she said softly without taking her eyes off his. “Please.” And for the first time, he knew that it wasn’t just about the agreement. She wanted him, too, just like he wanted her. What a fool he was, thinking that she thought herself a victim.
He kissed her again, softly this time.
“You are driving me mad,” he said quietly and kissed her again.
The shouts of the servants through the open window brought them back to reality. Lord Ashbee picked her up gently off the desk and stood her on the floor.
The ripped and crumbled page of the Austen’s book made a grumpy noise.
“Serves it right,” Lord Ashbee said with a sneer, glancing at it. “You, on the other hand”—he looked May up and down, the stockings and the shoes left on her naked body, and ran his fingers along her bare front—“look great like this.”
He chuckled, and she blushed.
Ah! How he missed that blush!
—————
It was when he turned around that she saw the brown oozing stain on the back of his shirt and frowned.
“What is this?” She pressed her hand to his back.
He flinched and jerked, turned around, and smiled softly.
“It’s nothing, May.”
“Show me,” she demanded and didn’t take her eyes off him until he took his shirt off and turned around.
She stared in shock at the fresh purple-blue stripe that flashed across his back on top of the intricate ornament of the old scars. The mark stared back at her like an evil grin, the darker deep-red wound of it slashing through the center and glistening with the fresh blood. Her fingers went towards it and traced the edges of the wound.
“Why?” she asked softly, her eyes—the reflection of his pain.
He didn’t answer, and she went around to face him.
“What is it this time?” she asked again.
“Nothing, sweetheart.” He smiled a sad smile, and she cupped his face and kissed him softly. “I needed a distraction,” he said in a low voice, and she looked into his eyes.
“From your own philosophy?” Her lips twitched in a meek smile as her eyes studied his face, then slid down to his shoulders, and she started kissing them softly, touching his skin gently as if his whole body was a wound. Her fingers grazed his torso, going down to the buttons of his pants, and her lips worked their way down to his waist as his fingers stroked her hair.
He watched her intensely, feeling the swollen desire inside, and when she pulled down his trousers, his member was already in its full strength again. She helped him to step out of the trousers but stayed down on her knees, her hands caressing his legs as her eyes moved up and down, studying his body.
Her eyes went up and met his, strangely bright, and held the gaze for a second. And he knew that she wanted to please him more than ever before as if she was the only one who could cure his pain. Her one hand went up and stroked his member, her fingers so gentle as if she touched a precious object. He exhaled quietly, aroused by her erotic strokes as she did it again, this time starting from the bulge under his shaft, and his hips instinctively moved forward. She kept caressing his member, noticing his heavy breathing, then leaned closer and kissed the tip of it.
Softly.
Like a butterfly.
“May!” he whispered.
She did it again, kissed the rim of the crown, then her lips started moving gently along his length. He blinked slowly and exhaled, wanted to close his eyes from the intense pleasure but was hypnotized as she kept caressing and kissing him. Her lips came back up to the tip, and she wrapped them around it, and he exhaled in relief.
Ah! Finally!
She let go of it, then did it again using her tongue now.
“May,” he whispered, and she got cheered up by his heavy breathing. She wanted to please him. She hadn’t done it before in this way, but now her movements were guided by the feelings that expressed themselves in the soft touches of her fingers and the careful movements of her lips and tongue.
Her mouth engulfed his manhood, taking him in deep, then let it out. She felt his hands hold her head gently, as if guiding her in her movements, and he nudged himself deep into her mouth again, then out, and she kept going, her hands as active as her lips. There was no right or wrong, she understood, and kept moving her mouth back and forth, swallowing his member and releasing it again, trying to use her tongue as he had done it to her. His sighs became louder, more strained when suddenly he pulled himself out, dropped to his knees, grabbed her by the waist and pulled towards him in one powerful grasp. Her legs swung around his hips, clasping tightly as he sank back onto his heels, wrapped his arms around her and kissed her.
Her sex started rubbing its nectar on his swollen erection, pressing harder, until her core found its tip, and she sank onto it as they moaned in unison. He pushed into her, his every thrust echoing with her moans into his mouth, their chests pressed tight together, their tongues dancing to the intense rhythm of their passion. His hand slipped to grab her buttocks, holding them in place, and his hips increased the rhythm. The two of them were moving in sync, swaying, as if picked up by waves, his hips rocking her, his hands holding her tight and not letting go, and hers—wrapped around him as if afraid to lose him. She moaned again, not from climax but from some overpowering hunger for him, the lust that burnt her womb, the fire that she couldn’t put out. She pushed on him harder, feeling the pain from him being too deep, but felt immense pleasure. He started pounding into her violently until his face moved to her neck, he pushed into her one last time with a loud groan, and she felt his body tense up in orgasm.
They breathed heavily, like two animals after a struggle, until their heartbeats slowed down.
“Ray,” she whispered, stroking his hair.
“May,” he whispered back, grasping her tightly, drinking in her scent.
Oh, May, he thought. It wasn’t sane—these feelings, the intensity with which he wanted her, the tenderness that he felt for the woman in his arms.
They were ripping him apart.
They excited him.
They blinded him.
They…
They hurt!
He was supposed to bathe in the bliss of sexual pleasure. Instead, his emotions pained him. If he died right here, with her in his arms, there would be no better end. The thought shocked him.
And as if on cue, his inner voice, the whisper of reason, his, Ashbee’s reason, came alive like a serpent.
Oh, Ashbee.
What have you done?
He smirked.
What are you going to do?
That was the question, indeed.
The two disentangled slowly, and May stood up in front of him, reaching her hands down for his. But he didn’t take them, didn’t get up. He stayed kneeled before her, naked, drew her closer and kissed her legs and knees, and stayed quiet like this for some time.
May felt overwhelmed, for she wanted to kneel in front of him, too, and tell him of her feelings, embrace him, run her fingers along his face, through his hair,
look into his eyes and tell him they had a chance.
But she didn’t.
Instead, she kept staring down at his head, his forehead pressed to her knees, waiting for him to speak up. Her heart clenched in a fist and swelled from emotions.
Lord Ashbee was silent, trying to choose the words. He was scared. He wanted to grab May and take her away from this place that she didn’t belong to. From the people that found the meaning of life in lust and fulfilling the desires of the body. All those stupid people, just like him, who thought a human could live like an animal and suffice with basic needs!
Ashbee, Ashbee, the voice hissed.
He wanted to take her away from all this darkness to a place where she could find the light and the match for her virtuous self. But that would mean to betray himself, his true nature, everything that he believed and taught others. It would mean to let her go and never again touch her with his corrupt hands, and that—that—he could not do, for he, Lord Ashbee, was a selfish man. He felt scared to want to be with her so much and scared to lose her to something or someone he didn’t know of. For the first time in a while, Lord Ashbee didn’t have the control of the future, nor did he know what to do about it, and it tore him apart. That, and the feelings for this one person that was changing the way he was.
Ah, choices, choices…
He inhaled deeply and summoned all his strength. Then smiled, opened his eyes, and got up from the floor. The devil in him whispered consolations, told him to dismiss the sensual thoughts that crowded his head.
He stood in front of May with the usual smile that concealed his torments.
“What are we going to do, May? Huh?”
She looked into his eyes and didn’t reply. Instead, she raised her hands and ran her fingertips along his shoulders and down his bare body, tracing the outline of his torso. He felt goosebumps and cursed in his head. Her eyes were still locked on his, and he felt weaker than a street dog in a rainstorm. Her eyes were melting his soul, reaching to the darkest corners, the weakest spots, and he couldn’t stand looking at her knowing that she saw in him something that he was not, the good that he could not become or would not.
He cupped her face with one hand, and with another pulled her closer to him, softly kissing her jawline, her neck, inhaling her scent, weaving his fingers into her hair.
“I’ve become very fond of you, May,” he whispered, planting slow, gentle kisses on her neck and shoulders.
Coward!
He couldn’t tell her all that he felt, not even a fraction of it, couldn’t betray his “truly great masculinity.” Instead, he wanted to get rid of these emotions that were eating him from the inside.
“We can take this further,” he said, his lips on her cheek, her temple, as his cold, determined eyes stared out the window.
“Further?” she echoed, her soft fingers caressing his back.
There was one way to get rid of them—to betray May, turn her into one of the others, and let her fall into the mayhem of pleasures. But he couldn’t do that looking in her eyes, so he kept his focus on the window as he said quietly, “We should try something new.”
“New?” May she repeated, still not understanding, though her caresses slowed down.
His hand smoothed her hair as if he was calming a child.
“Maybe we should get one of the ladies of the House to join us in one of these adventures.”
Adventures…
Her hands stopped mid-way.
“It is a different kind of intimacy of having another woman’s hands on you,” he said, now smiling cunningly though there was no trace of a smile in his eyes. “You might find it quite enchanting.”
May pulled away abruptly, and her eyes flew up to his, searching them in panic.
“Another woman?” She frowned, searching his face for an explanation, still not understanding what he was saying to her.
“Yes, sweetheart,”—he gently moved a strand of hair from her face—“another woman in your bed—you might enjoy it greatly. Eliza is very skilled. We will all have twice as much fun together.”
Eliza!
May stared at him in shock, stung by his words, and a nasty sickness was starting in her stomach.
“Tell me you didn’t mean it, Ray!”
Her eyes were begging him for the right answer, and there was so much pain and humility that he couldn’t bear look in them any longer.
“Come here.” He pulled her into his arms again, pressed her body against his. “It’s just an idea, sweetheart. No need to be scared.” He caressed her hair. “Only when you are ready,” he added and felt a pang of regret in his heart.
What a coward, he told himself.
But it was too late. He didn’t know that those would be the words he would regret for the longest time after that evening.
May was quiet. She didn’t respond when, getting dressed, he told her about his business meeting later that evening. Instead, she threw on the chemise and stood quietly by the window. She looked even more mesmerizing in her sudden quiet sadness.
He came over to her, wrapped his arms around her waist, and kissed her on the forehead.
“I will be back later tonight,” he said, managing a smile and marveling at his weakness.
She looked like an injured animal, and his heart was stung with pain. It overflowed with so many emotions, that he thought it would explode. He pulled away, raked his hands through his hair, wanted to say the three words that were trying to break out of him for some time now, but they cowered back inside.
“I will see you soon?” he said instead, and before closing the door behind him shot one last look at May. There he was again, in and out, as she stood by the window, locked in her cage, waiting for something out there that he didn’t know of.
—————
He stormed out of the House, turned onto the noisy Piccadilly, his eyes on the road in front of him but his thoughts far away. He walked through the busy London without noticing much, past the screams of the mad beggars, the inquiring glances of the women, the top hats, the skirts, the low cleavages, the shabby uniforms of the factory workers.
A gang of children, howling and screeching, swooshed by, brushing against his suit. Usually, he would stop and watch them, wondering what was going on. But not now.
A sudden shout and racket pulled him out of his trance as he saw the fast-approaching horse carriage going straight at him. He veered away without as much as flinching, despite the angry yelling of the driver.
He pushed his way through the crowd that circled another street performer without paying attention to what or who.
The street vendors yelled in his face trying to sell something, but he didn’t notice.
Didn’t flinch at the usual stench of Arlington Street or the obnoxious dinging of Pal Mal.
He was dozens of streets away from the Belle House, but his mind was still there, the image of May by the window painfully embedded in his mind. He desperately wanted to go back, be with her, tell her he was a fool for saying those things, wanted to make love to her again.
Love!
He was starting to hate the word, the heavy feeling in his heart, the inability to function, to think clearly, or do anything about the situation. The words he had said before he left—they were a mistake. Another woman! He couldn’t imagine another person’s hands on May. Couldn’t bear to see it! Then what made him say it? He will go back tonight! He will ask her to leave with him! They could go away for some time. Or for a long time. He could hide her, protect her—whatever she wanted! Anything! He knew that he wanted to take her away from the place she didn’t belong to and the madness of this city.
—————
May stood by the window, now dressed, replaying the last conversation with Lord Ashbee.
Was she blind? Was she so naive? What did she do wrong? Or maybe she was right all along from the very beginning, and her love romanticized the reality?
She knew her feelings for Lord Ashbee were real. Not just an infatu
ation, not a small attraction. They were what her mother, when she was alive, warned her about.
“This is the reason,” she said, “why they arrange marriages, instead of marrying for love. Because love can ruin people, households, countries, empires.”
May’s love was painful.
No! It wasn’t love that was painful, but the betrayal, the want for others, the desire to sell her to someone else. Love was beautiful. May couldn’t imagine that she would find pleasure and immense satisfaction in the intimacy with a man. And not just any man, but the one like Lord Ashbee. But her love was based on the admiration, the respect, the appreciation of his wit, knowledge, skills, independence of the man that half of the London society hated, another half envied. May got to know the side of him that no other woman did, she thought, and underneath that pretend ruthlessness, sarcasm, and denial of the sensual nature of a man, there was that very sensuality that she saw in his touch, his words, his eyes. And that was where her love echoed and resonated.
Vulnerability!
That’s what men were afraid of most. That’s what they tried to hide behind all the lust and mindless sex. The more powerful the man—the more he was afraid to seem vulnerable or admit a woman’s power over him. As if she was a competitor. A woman wasn’t! She could become a partner. But men liked to pride themselves on being strong on their own. Fools! They didn’t understand that finding true love and accepting it could make them so much stronger!
