by Krissy Kneen
‘Ah, my little angel, Michael and I have to go out for a while. I’ll be back home with your mother before dinner. We’ll be gone for a couple of hours at least. Are you happy to forage for yourself until then?’
‘Of course I am.’
Her father bent once more and lifted her face and kissed her gently on the cheek and she smiled.
‘I’ll see you soon, darling. Mind the house.’
Holly watched as her father rested his hand on Michael’s waist, steering him towards the door. Another strangely intimate gesture. Michael glanced back once, peering over his shoulder as he was ushered out of the door.
‘Enjoy the book,’ he said. Holly felt herself blush. She waited till she heard her father’s car start up, the familiar engine whine as he reversed it too fast down the driveway, swung the beast around and sped off up the road. She stood quickly and trotted up the stairs to her bedroom.
She had touched herself before, a little. Never for very long. Whenever she saw the bright blue of her juices glowing on her fingers she would stop and breathe deeply, waiting for the glow to disappear.
Holly stretched out on the bed. The door was closed and locked. Holly made sure of this even though her parents were not yet home. She was alone and would remain so. She touched the pillow, but was suddenly too shy to move it into position. How would she look, she wondered, with her hips raised, her legs slightly parted like the girl in the book? She raised her head and stared into the mirror that she had positioned at the foot of the bed. She saw her own feet, the soles clean from her bath and slightly wrinkled from soaking too long in water. They looked like the feet of a new baby. She wiggled them. Above them were her nipples. In this position they seemed to be resting just above her big toes. She moved her feet and the nipples disappeared behind them. She was not here to see her nipples. She saw them every morning in the fogged mirror in the bathroom. Today she would see the parts of herself that were still a mystery.
She raised herself up in front of the mirror. The pillows were arranged as Salter had described, a mountain of them piled one on top of the other, white, unblemished. Perhaps the oils from her skin would ruin them when she settled her stomach on top of the unseemly pile. They smelled of her face cream already. They smelled of her hair, the faint sweetness of shampoo, the mushroomy smell of sleep. In this position she could see the globes of her rump as fruit, perfectly pale and round. The surface of the skin was unbroken, but when she parted her legs there was a little glimpse of the core. One vagina, of course, not two. Her dreams were still with her, making her lift her arse, pull the thighs a little wider apart. There was hair there, dark curls of it, and in the little thicket a fissure, the size and shape of a peach pit. It almost looked edible. She strained her neck to look. Her head was pointing downward, the blood rushing to her eyes making her a bit dizzy. She reached back to touch it, this seed, this core, and found, of course, that it was nothing but an illusion. Not a seed at all, but the space where a seed might go, an almond of space, warm but not yet damp, not yet lit up with the glow of her desire.
She traced the lips, full circle. If she were a man she would be able to step up to the foot of the bed and press her cock against it. She would need to aim it with her hands, but surely it would just slip in, as cocks do in A Sport and a Pastime. Now there was some life. Now a little glisten. She dipped her finger into the almond hole and found the moisture, light blue and shimmering like diamonds, she moved her finger to draw a circle around the lips, painting them with the glow as one might paint gloss on a mouth. Above the lips was the cleft, and in this cleft—she glanced at the locked door—another seed, a tiny seed like the pip of an apple, something so small and yet a repetition of that larger space. A little tight shut hole. She touched this too with her finger. Still damp, still shimmering with the brightness of her desire. She bounced her slippery finger against the tightest resistance.
Holly rolled off the mountain of pillows and watched the shy curl of her body, the breasts protected by the prick of elbows, no nipples visible for the greedy gaze of the mirror. Heat spreads like a fire. Resolutions burn like cloth.
She pressed her fist against her heart and felt its quick beating. She shifted closer to the edge of the bed. Sat there, her toes rubbing on carpet. She spread her lips for the mirror and the reflected glare made her blink. It was bright as a motorcycle on high-beam. Shaking, tentative, she let the tip of her finger dip into the blaze. She could feel the stretch of her hymen blocking her path. She moved her finger up and rubbed the distended nub of her clitoris. A rush of pleasure and the light of her cunt flared out like a laser, so bright she could barely look at it. She rubbed the spot, she could feel the heat of it building. She squinted. A bubble was forming at the outer lips of her vulva. A glowing bubble quivered there, broke free and floated towards the mirror.
Holly snapped her legs shut. She watched the bubble shimmer and pulse with light. It alighted like an insect on the reflection of her closed knees right at the place where her clitoris would be. It trembled there for a moment before bursting, splattering a thick mucus on the mirrored surface.
Downstairs the sound of a door. The sound of voices. Her parents were home. Holly pulled the sheet up over her and a mummy fresh from a sarcophagus stared back at her in the mirror with large, startled eyes. And down there where her cunt had been, a slippery drip of ectoplasm glowed faintly before the light faded to nothing.
Holly scrambled out of bed, shrouded in her bed sheet. She used the edge of it to wipe frantically at the accusing moisture. Her hands were trembling. Even the graphic sex in the Salter book hadn’t prepared her for an actual bubble of desire. She wiped her damp eyes on the back of her hand and smelled on it a faint tang of electrical flame. She buried her tears in the sheet instead.
Perhaps Mandy had been wrong. There was something terrible about fantasy, there was a dark and sinister power locked up in her imagination. Reading the Salter had cracked open the seal on a Pandora’s box. If one second of touching could release a bubble from her body, what would be unleashed if she brought herself to the ultimate release? She didn’t even want to contemplate orgasm. She couldn’t imagine what would happen.
‘Holly?’
‘Mum?’ Her voice was trembling.
‘Dinner in twenty minutes?’
‘Thanks Mum.’
Holly curled the sheet around her and scampered across the corridor to the bathroom. In the shower she scrubbed till the electrical burning smell was gone. Her hands smelling of roses, her thighs scrubbed with rosemary and parsley seed. She dressed quickly and looked at herself in front of her sparkling mirror. Could they tell? Would they know? When she smiled she looked like any young girl, wholesome, clean, fresh-faced. She glanced at the stockinged legs on the cover of her book. Quickly turned it face down.
Tomorrow at book club, she would tell Mandy that this really wasn’t for her. She would go back to her state of purity. She looked at the bookmark, tantalisingly close to the end. Of course she would finish the story first. Nothing wrong with that. Two more chapters and she would be done with it.
‘Holly? Dinner.’
‘Coming, Mum.’
Philosophy in the Boudoir
by MARQUIS DE SADE
The green door was guarded by a tall woman with her hair tied bac
k in a severe bun and breasts as pert and prominent as a young boy’s erotic drawing. When Holly negotiated the last of the stairs and knocked, the woman stood firm and sized her up. Holly held up the book, but it seemed that a book alone would not be enough to gain entry.
‘Mandy knows I’m a member.’
The woman shrugged. She was wearing tight black jeans and a soft turtleneck jumper, so textural that Holly had to resist an urge to reach out and touch. She was elongated, a great stretch of thighs and arms like the limbs of an insect. Praying mantis, thought Holly, and it really did seem like this woman would be capable of snapping the head off a mate.
‘Who is vouching for you?’
Holly narrowed her eyes. ‘What is this? A cult?’
She laughed but her eyes remained untouched.
‘Who invited you?’
‘Rodney Timms.’
The woman’s stern mouth widened into a surprisingly generous smile, more braces than teeth.
‘See?’ she said, stepping aside and holding out her hand to usher Holly in. ‘All it takes is a name. Mine is Naomi.’
There was just enough room for Holly to squeeze past and into the shop. She felt the heat off Naomi, the soft caress of her shoulder, the furred knit of the garment as silky as a cat. She smelled her perfume, strong and masculine; perhaps it was aftershave. Holly was suddenly aware of the broad shoulders, the startling height. For a moment she wondered if this were a man masquerading as a woman, but one glance at her delicate jaw gave the lie to that.
‘Holly,’ she introduced herself, when she had sidled past.
‘Lovely to meet you, Holly.’
Inside, the room was in near-darkness. There were tea light candles in coffee cups scattered around a low table and a series of softly mismatched lounge chairs languishing emptily. Holly worried about the naked flames so close to so many books. She resisted the urge to lean in and blow them all out, but that would have plunged the place into darkness.
There were people lingering in small groups beside the bookshelves. They glanced up at her, startled. She was again reminded that she was an interloper, a girl who sat more easily with the perfect beauties she knew from childhood than the odd bookish women and men of Sex Club.
Rodney blushed when he saw her. He smiled, then looked quickly away, down at his feet. She was his guest and everyone would assess him for it; he was clearly punching above his weight.
Holly moved to stand beside him. He held out his hand and she shook it.
‘Glad you could make it.’ His voice sounded thin and a little nervous. Holly held up her copy of A Sport and a Pastime and shrugged. She wanted to tell him that this would be her first and last meeting, but she felt strangely guilty, aware that her leaving book club would be a slap in the face to the boy who had invited her. Before she could speak a shadow fell over them.
‘Daniel, Holly.’
Daniel was even skinnier than Rodney. His features were thinner, his eyes narrowed to suspicious slits.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Daniel said, although it was clear he wasn’t.
Rodney stepped a little closer to Holly, perhaps a small sign of solidarity. Holly touched him lightly on the arm and enjoyed the flush of colour that rushed into his cheeks.
‘Holly’s in my English Lit subject,’ he said to Daniel, who shrugged and turned vaguely away.
Holly leaned in. ‘I’m a little nervous,’ she whispered. ‘Feels like we’re at a Masons’ meeting.’
‘Have I shown you the special handshake?’ Rodney asked and grinned.
A bright light spilled over the little gathering and Holly turned to see a door open behind the counter. Mandy, unmistakably silhouetted in the doorway, might have been a gangster stepping straight out of the 1920s with her fedora pulled down low, her waistcoat nipped in tight. Holly half expected her to be carrying a machinegun. The door slapped closed behind her and the room was thrown back into its mediaeval glow. Mandy propped her fedora up on the counter and settled gracefully into a large-backed leather lounge chair. The others began to gather around the table. Holly wondered if they had established seating, or if she could sit wherever she liked.
Rodney rested his hand gently in the small of her back and guided her into the group. They sat together on the aging couch, which tipped them awkwardly towards each other. Holly noticed him shuffling away and smiled. It would be rare for someone like Rodney to be associated so closely with someone like her. She felt flattered by his awkwardness.
‘A Sport and a Pastime.’
Mandy pulled the book from the inside pocket of her jacket and slapped it down onto the coffee table as if it were a trump card. Several of the club members fished their own books out of their handbags or pockets. Rodney didn’t move and Holly wondered if it were her presence that was keeping him so still. She took her own copy of the book dutifully from her bag and rested it on her knee. There was a piece of paper torn from her notebook and thrust inside the cover. When she looked down at her lap she saw the words ‘themes’ and ‘voyeuristic narrator’ scrawled on the paper. She eased her fingers across to cover her notes, hoping that Rodney hadn’t seen them first. She was too studious. She had treated the book like an assignment. This was exactly the kind of thing that lowered her in her own friends’ opinions.
‘So.’ Mandy inclined her head to one side. ‘I hope we have all had another month of literary-fuelled mayhem.’
A few people sniggered; beside her, Rodney nodded sagely.
‘I would like you to extend a warm welcome to our new member, Holly.’
Holly waved nervously and a few people waved back. Mandy shuffled to the very edge of her padded seat.
‘Now, Salter. In this book, every moment is infused with sensuality: the place, the people, the solitary moments and, of course, the not so solitary moments.’
There was a murmur of laughter. ‘I know which scenes inspired me when reading this book, but I wonder if you all found the same sections arousing. So. Who wants to start us off, so to speak?’
Naomi the doorbitch shifted in her chair. She smiled and Holly saw a glint at the edge of her teeth, braces catching the light from the candles. It seemed as if she was about to speak but Rodney stood suddenly and moved to the front of the table. Holly felt the smallest rush of pride. It was strange. It was as if he somehow belonged to her, as if he were her younger brother or even her child. When he tripped over Naomi’s long, outstretched legs, she apologised and righted him with a lingering stroke of his arm. He blushed. Holly felt a pulse. What was it? Jealousy? Pride?
There was a faint bright flash at the lower rim of her vision as if a camera perched in her lap had suddenly snapped off a photograph. She looked down at her knees, but of course there was no camera. There had not been a flash, it was just a reflected glint of candlelight colliding with her silver ring, pooling in the lap of her dress. She smoothed the fabric down cautiously. Holly remembered the luminous bubble of last night. She was, perhaps, a tiny bit aroused. She took a deep calming breath.
In a moment the boy had regained his poise. He moved towards Mandy and sat on the table in front of her. He crossed his legs, self-conscious, then uncrossed them. He spun around and lifted his kne
es up onto the table and the book that was balanced there beside him tumbled to the ground. There was an awkward dance as he leaned over to pick it up, and Holly was afraid for a moment that he might fall.
‘You have had a Salter-related experience?’
Holly looked at Mandy’s mouth as she spoke. The full lips, the succulence, the warmth of the damp tongue, the glimpse of teeth. She saw the flash again, the sudden flare of light, but again her lap was dark and empty by the time she looked down into it. It was only her fear she was glimpsing from the corner of her eye.
‘Go on then,’ said Mandy. ‘Tell us about it.’
Rodney cleared his throat.
Rodney’s Story
She pauses in the hallway. She stops. I glance over my shoulder. She has seen someone, perhaps someone standing in the other room. Behind me a party is in its last sordid throes. A death rattle of celebration, someone’s shoes cast adrift on a wine-stained carpet, pâté on the furniture, the final gurgle of wine in the bottom of a cheap cask. I am a little drunk but not so drunk that I might think this woman is looking at me. She has been incendiary. She started with laughter, short and bright as fireworks; this at the beginning of the evening. It was impossible not to notice her. She arrived with a young biology student who seemed uninterested in her. He flopped into a couch with a bottle of vodka cradled in his lap and proceeded to drink it doggedly. But now the biology student is asleep. His position has barely changed, the bottle still propped up in his lap, his cup resting on the arm of the couch, his head tipped back and his lips slightly parted. I am not sure if they were together or just happened to come up in the same lift. There is no one behind me: she is looking at me.
She hesitates, as if about to make some momentous decision. She will approach me, or she will leave. I am suddenly aware that the next few minutes will change the course of my evening. I have drunk just enough to make something of it. I step towards her.
