Literary Love

by Gabrielle Vigot

  He studied the ointment and glanced back at her. “You don’t mean?”

  “Yes, Newland. If you enter the forbidden door, my virginity will remain intact. I will still be pure on our wedding night.” She smiled at him as though she were a mature woman.

  “Do you desire this?”

  “I must admit, though I am ashamed somewhat to do so, that I have found one or two of the local servants’ French magazines. They’re quite a bit different from anything one could purchase at the shops I frequent. And much more … shall we say, instructive?”

  He nodded, beginning to fully understand her intentions. What a delightful surprise this was to him. All along, he had believed she was only an innocent and naïve young woman, but all the while, she was much worldlier than he could ever have imagined.

  “You see,” she said. “There’s so much to learn about life, Newland. I didn’t think it would matter so much if I made a study of … well, relations between men and women.”

  “No, of course not. Women should have their independence, their liberties.” And at hearing himself repeat the words aloud, he began to feel quite excited over May’s newest proposition. It was one matter for him to please her by touching and kissing her intimate femininity, but to make love to her and satisfy his needs without destroying her chastity was quite another matter—an exhilarating matter. This was the last thing he expected her to propose.

  “I may not be so experienced as others…” She looked at him coyly. “As my cousin, Ellen, for instance. For she is …”

  Newland was unseated at hearing May mention Ellen’s name. In his mind, he might have made the comparison, but never would have expected May to desire to emulate Ellen’s worldliness, not yet. “My dear, your cousin is—”

  “I know—a married woman.”

  “It may be more than just the idea of being married. What you are proposing is quite intimate.” He did not want to miss this splendid opportunity, but he also did not want to hurt or disillusion May either. “Perhaps this is much more difficult than you might imagine, with your being so inexperienced, my dear.”

  “Newland,” she said, with a faux frown that appeared to be nothing more than a playful pout. “I am quite prepared, as I do have my nursemaid, who I’ve … well, if I must admit, I’ve consulted with.” She placed her arm on his shoulder, leaned in confidentially, and whispered in his ear. “I have practiced with her, Newland. And I am now ready for you.”

  He slowly nodded his head. “Ah, I see.”

  “Enough talk,” May said. She began to undress. The sight of her youthful and seductive body overwhelmed Newland’s senses. Any more thoughts of the Countess soon vanished.

  “You mustn’t keep me waiting,” May said once she was fully unclothed, standing before him as his very own Aphrodite.

  Newland quickly ripped the clothes from his body, careful to place them upon a shelf to avoid the dirt on the floors. “There,” he said, pointing toward an outdoor recliner. Then he led her to it. He took her into his arms, feeling the naked flesh of her body against his, and then kissed her lips tenderly. He felt his erection growing and beginning to throb against her pelvis. He feared the worst. He feared that after this exploration, she might turn him away. He drew in a long breath, trying to decide what he should do, but she would not allow him any further thought.

  “Enter me now,” she said, her voice hoarse and intense.

  Knowing that this was her idea, he ventured forward without any further discussion. He turned her around so that she faced the recliner. She placed her hands and upper body against the chair for support and wiggled her sweet derrière at him.

  “We can’t be terribly long, dear. Breakfast will be soon.” She glanced over her shoulder, narrowed her eyes, and slowly slid her tongue across her lower lip.

  With that, he pulled her hips toward him. He began to massage her breasts with one of his hands, and with the other, he quickly found his way to her intimate folds, where he found that she was indeed deluged with passion. He slid his hands through her wet, hot passion, and circled her pearl relentlessly until she danced with irresistible desire.

  “Oh, Newland,” she whispered between moans. “I’m, I’m …”

  He kissed her neck, slowly licking his tongue along the length of its delicate lines. “Are you sure, sweetness?” he whispered.

  “Oh, yes, Newland, yes. Please make haste.

  He withdrew and applied the viscous ointment to himself, and then slid a loving hand along her back anatomy doing the same to her. With his other hand, he began massaging her pearl again, and then he tentatively pressed his member between the tight crease of her bottom cheeks. She was exceedingly aroused by his touch, as her body trembled and rippled the further he advanced. And the moment his member touched her back entrance, she shrieked with lubricious pleasure. Encouraged by her cries of desire, he gently, but with some force probed his rampant, pulsing member more intently between her inner fold.

  “Oh, Newland, it feels so …”

  “Shall I stop?”

  “Don’t you dare! If you do, I shall forever be disappointed in you, Newland. This is gorgeous, so delicious.”

  He bumped his pulsating cock to her door, feeling the ointment slide easily over her anatomy. Then with his hand, he immersed the orchid’s cream into the mix, lathering her with a healthy and fragrant wetness.

  “Oh,” she moaned, desperately, desirously. “Now, Newland. Now.”

  Slowly, he pushed, breaking through the barrier.

  She gasped.

  He couldn’t stop, not now. He encircled an arm around her hips and pulled her closer as he slowly pushed inside her forbidden and exotic door of astounding passion, so soft, so tight.

  “Oh,” she said. “Oh, my, I …”

  “Are you all right, my dear?” he said, his words only sounding above a breath.

  “Yes,” she hissed. “Glorious.”

  And upon hearing her words, feeling her desire, he began to thrust in and out of her tight cavern, feeling the ultimate squeeze of a man’s desire. He was transported—no longer in control of his mind or senses. His carnal cravings were in complete control. There was no stopping, no beginning, no end. It just was—my God—blissful unwed carnal knowledge. His darling, May, had taken him into another universe and time. Minutes ago, she was only a girl of whom he was unsure; now she was the woman he very much desired.

  Then to his heightened surprise, she grasped a hand between her legs and clasped his baubles in her hands. She began to massage, rolling his prize between her fingers.

  “May, my dear, May,” he said, gasping. This was more heavenly than any man could ever expect to have.

  He felt his jewels tighten. His member became more erect. He was at the point where he could not return. But he wanted her to finish with him, the ultimate desire of lovers. He circled a finger around her pearl, stroking her, heightening her arousal, until her body finally tightened. He knew that she was cresting, and so he let loose. He let his body take over as nature had so intended. Her heart, his soul, was untamed. He beat harder, faster, more intensely, until at last, in a hard thrust, he once and for all exploded, breaking the bars that imprison a man’s soul. He spilled his seed, while she overflowed, her body thrusting in perfect time as though they were parts of a celestial clock moving in perfect synchronization. As one, they smoldered in a vastness beyond measure.

  “My heavens, May. How you enthrall me.” He withdrew from her cavity, which was still teasing and nipping at his member. He turned her and kissed her. How she excited him. And it was right then that he saw glimpses of his future, a wonderful future.

  “May, my darling,” he said, and then he grasped her hand so that they could sit together a moment before they departed. “If there is nothing between us, isn’t that an argument for marrying quickly, rather than for more delay? You must know how I feel. How I need you so desperately.”

  “I have pleased you, Newland?”

  “Of course, my dearest.”
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  “And you have pleased me,” she said. “My body seems to have been built for such activities.”

  But in another moment, perhaps in her next breath, she seemed to have descended from her womanly eminence to helpless and timorous girlhood; and he understood that her courage and initiative were all for others, and that she had none for herself. That she had allowed their present pleasure for him more so than herself. It was evident that the effort of speaking and lovemaking had been much greater than her studied composure betrayed, and that at his first word of reassurance she had dropped back into the usual, as a too-adventurous child takes refuge in its mother’s arms.

  Archer had no heart to go on pleading with her; he was too much disappointed at the vanishing of the new being who had cast that one deep look at him from her transparent eyes. That she had ascended to a woman only to drop back to a child. May seemed to be aware of his disappointment, but without knowing how to alleviate it; and they stood up and walked silently home.

  Chapter 17

  “Your cousin the Countess called on mother while you were away,” Janey Archer announced to her brother on the evening of his return.

  The young man, who was dining alone with his mother and sister, glanced up in surprise and saw Mrs. Archer’s gaze demurely bent on her plate. Mrs. Archer did not regard her seclusion from the world as a reason for being forgotten by it; and Newland guessed that she was slightly annoyed that he should be surprised by Madame Olenska’s visit.

  “She had on a black velvet polonaise with jet buttons, and a tiny green monkey muff; I never saw her so stylishly dressed,” Janey continued. “She came alone, early on Sunday afternoon; luckily the fire was lit in the drawing-room. She had one of those new card-cases. She said she wanted to know us because you’d been so good to her.”

  Newland laughed. “Madame Olenska always takes that tone about her friends. She’s very happy at being among her own people again.”

  “Yes, so she told us,” said Mrs. Archer. “I must say she seems thankful to be here.”

  “I hope you liked her, mother.”

  Mrs. Archer drew her lips together. “She certainly lays herself out to please, even when she is calling on an old lady.”

  “Mother doesn’t think her simple,” Janey interjected, her eyes screwed upon her brother’s face.

  “It’s just my old-fashioned feeling; dear May is my ideal,” said Mrs. Archer.

  “Ah,” said her son, “they’re not alike.”

  Archer had left St. Augustine charged with many messages for old Mrs. Mingott; and a day or two after his return to town he called on her.

  The old lady received him with unusual warmth; she was grateful to him for persuading the Countess Olenska to give up the idea of a divorce; and when he told her that he had deserted the office without leave, and rushed down to St. Augustine simply because he wanted to see May, she gave an adipose chuckle and patted his knee with her puff-ball hand.

  “Ah, ah—so you kicked over the traces, did you? And I suppose Augusta and Welland pulled long faces, and behaved as if the end of the world had come? But little May—she knew better, I’ll be bound?”

  “I hoped she did; but after all she wouldn’t agree to what I’d gone down to ask for.”

  “Wouldn’t she indeed? And what was that?”

  “I wanted to get her to promise that we should be married in April. What’s the use of our wasting another year?”

  Mrs. Manson Mingott screwed up her little mouth into a grimace of mimic prudery and twinkled at him through malicious lids. “`Ask Mamma,’ I suppose—the usual story. Ah, these Mingotts—all alike! Born in a rut, and you can’t root ‘em out of it. When I built this house you’d have thought I was moving to California! Nobody ever HAD built above Fortieth Street—no, says I, nor above the Battery either, before Christopher Columbus discovered America. No, no; not one of them wants to be different; they’re as scared of it as the small-pox. Ah, my dear Mr. Archer, I thank my stars I’m nothing but a vulgar Spicer; but there’s not one of my own children that takes after me but my little Ellen.” She broke off, still twinkling at him, and asked, with the casual irrelevance of old age: “Now, why in the world didn’t you marry my little Ellen?”

  Archer laughed. “For one thing, she wasn’t there to be married.”

  “No—to be sure; more’s the pity. And now it’s too late; her life is finished.” She spoke with the cold-blooded complacency of the aged throwing earth into the grave of young hopes. The young man’s heart grew chill, and he said hurriedly: “Can’t I persuade you to use your influence with the Wellands, Mrs. Mingott? I wasn’t made for long engagements.”

  Old Catherine beamed on him approvingly. “No; I can see that. You’ve got a quick eye. When you were a little boy I’ve no doubt you liked to be helped first.” She threw back her head with a laugh that made her chins ripple like little waves. “Ah, here’s my Ellen now!” she exclaimed, as the portieres parted behind her.

  Madame Olenska came forward with a smile. Her face looked vivid and happy, and she held out her hand gaily to Archer while she stooped to her grandmother’s kiss.

  “I was just saying to him, my dear: `Now, why didn’t you marry my little Ellen?’”

  Madame Olenska looked at Archer, still smiling. “And what did he answer?”

  “Oh, my darling, I leave you to find that out! He’s been down to Florida to see his sweetheart.”

  “Yes, I know.” She still looked at him. “I went to see your mother, to ask where you’d gone. I sent a note that you never answered, and I was afraid you were ill.”

  He muttered something about leaving unexpectedly, in a great hurry, and having intended to write to her from St. Augustine.

  “And of course once you were there you never thought of me again!” She continued to beam on him with a gaiety that might have been a studied assumption of indifference.

  “If she still needs me, she’s determined not to let me see it,” he thought, stung by her manner. He wanted to thank her for having been to see his mother, but under the ancestress’s malicious eye he felt himself tongue-tied and constrained.

  “Look at him—in such hot haste to get married that he took French leave and rushed down to implore the silly girl on his knees! That’s something like a lover—that’s the way handsome Bob Spicer carried off my poor mother; and then got tired of her before I was weaned—though they only had to wait eight months for me! But there—you’re not a Spicer, young man; luckily for you and for May. It’s only my poor Ellen that has kept any of their wicked blood; the rest of them are all model Mingotts,” cried the old lady scornfully.

  Archer was aware that Madame Olenska, who had seated herself at her grandmother’s side, was still thoughtfully scrutinising him. The gaiety had faded from her eyes, and she said with great gentleness: “Surely, Granny, we can persuade them between us to do as he wishes.”

  Archer rose to go, and as his hand met Madame Olenska’s he felt that she was waiting for him to make some allusion to her unanswered letter.

  “When can I see you?” he asked, as she walked with him to the door of the room.

  “Whenever you like; but it must be soon if you want to see the little house again. I am moving next week.”

  A pang shot through him at the memory of his lamplit hours in the low-studded drawing-room. Few as they had been, they were thick with memories.

  “Tomorrow evening?”

  She nodded. “Tomorrow; yes; but early. I’m going out.”

  The next day was a Sunday, and if she were “going out” on a Sunday evening it could, of course, be only to Mrs. Lemuel Struthers’s. He felt a slight movement of annoyance, not so much at her going there (for he rather liked her going where she pleased in spite of the van der Luydens), but because it was the kind of house at which she was sure to meet Beaufort, where she must have known beforehand that she would meet him—and where she was probably going for that purpose.

  “Very well; tomorrow evening,” he repeated,
inwardly resolved that he would not go early, and that by reaching her door late he would either prevent her from going to Mrs. Struthers’s, or else arrive after she had started—which, all things considered, would no doubt be the simplest solution.

  It was only half-past eight, after all, when he rang the bell under the wisteria; not as late as he had intended by half an hour—but a singular restlessness had driven him to her door. He reflected, however, that Mrs. Struthers’s Sunday evenings were not like a ball, and that her guests, as if to minimise their delinquency, usually went early.

  The one thing he had not counted on, in entering Madame Olenska’s hall, was to find hats and overcoats there. Why had she bidden him to come early if she was having people to dine? On a closer inspection of the garments besides which Nastasia was laying his own, his resentment gave way to curiosity. The overcoats were in fact the very strangest he had ever seen under a polite roof; and it took but a glance to assure himself that neither of them belonged to Julius Beaufort. One was a shaggy yellow ulster of “reachme- down” cut, the other a very old and rusty cloak with a cape—something like what the French called a “Macfarlane.” This garment, which appeared to be made for a person of prodigious size, had evidently seen long and hard wear, and its greenish-black folds gave out a moist sawdusty smell suggestive of prolonged sessions against bar-room walls. On it lay a ragged grey scarf and an odd felt hat of semiclerical shape.

  Archer raised his eyebrows enquiringly at Nastasia, who raised hers in return, and then pressed a finger to her lips to quiet him. She tiptoed to the drawing room doors and peered through the crack between them. Then she turned back to Newland and beckoned him to follow.

  Newland inched forward and looked through the crack, and what he saw astounded him.

  “Bacchanalia,” she said.

  Newland glanced over his shoulder at her. “You mean an orgy!”

  Nastasia started for the door handle, but Newland pushed her hand away. “No,” he whispered, and then dismissed her with a wave. When she disappeared down the hallway and passed through a door, he looked again inside the room. He had not seen the Countess in there, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t present, writhing on the floors or furniture, stark naked like the rest of them.