Private Passions

by Felicia Greene

  ‘Well…’ All Atuk could think of, with extremely unhelpful clarity, were the kisses one gave to other parts of the body. He forced the thoughts away with a tremendous effort of will, before answering a little more curtly than normal. ‘Contented kisses. Sweet kisses. Even punishing kisses, I suppose.’

  ‘Punishing kisses?’ Violet’s nose wrinkled slightly as she found. ‘Forgive me, but I don’t see how a kiss can be punishing. It’s hardly a painful process.’

  ‘It’s not. If anything, it’s... it’s a sort of passionate reply to a statement made in jest. At least, that’s how it should be.’ Atuk shrugged. ‘And you'd have to say something suitably punishing. It’s not exactly something that can be forced. I understand if you find it difficult to think of something punishing to say about -’

  ‘Your Catullus translation was atrocious. Almost childish. I cannot believe you had the arrogance to hand it in as finished work.’ Violet smiled. ‘Is that punishing enough?’

  ‘I... What? My translation was sound.’ Atuk fought a sudden burst of irritation. ‘Yes, that was punishing. A little too wounding, perhaps.’

  ‘Come now.’ Violet bit her lip, just a little, and Atuk melted. ‘You are meant to punish me, aren’t you?’

  Yes. Atuk's body spoke for him, pushing past every last particle of reticence. Wrapping one arm around her, pulling her breathlessly close, he gave her the most punishing kiss he could.

  Normal. Expected. What on earth had he been thinking? It wasn’t normal at all to feel this; the avalanche of crude, raw passion as he took possession of her, ruthlessly drawing all the pleasure he could from her trembling lips. He hadn't expected a hundredth of this feeling, a tenth of this want, this need to give himself to every single part of her.

  When she withdrew, he had to stop himself from clutching at her. He balled his hands into fists, hoping against hope that she didn’t look down.

  ‘Goodness.’ Violet sounded much less sure of herself; Atuk felt a strange stab of triumph. ‘That... that's quite something, as kisses go.’

  ‘Yes.’ Atuk wondered what on earth would count as a dashing reply. ‘They normally are.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Violet paused. ‘Is a woman capable of giving a punishing kiss?’

  Atuk, up until that precise moment, had been sure that a woman couldn’t. Looking into Violet’s eyes, however, his body undergoing a quiet revolution, he found himself responding in a way he hadn’t expected.

  ‘I’m not sure. Perhaps it’s never been done.’ He swallowed, trying to control the rapid patter of his heart. ‘We... we would be exploring a new frontier.’

  ‘A new frontier? I see.’ Violet nodded weakly, biting her lip. ‘Well. A new frontier is of undeniable interest to any serious scholar.’

  ‘Yes.’ Atuk looked down, the soft, yielding fullness of Violet’s bitten lip arousing something in him that he almost felt incapable of managing. ‘Undeniable.’

  ‘But you must say something suitably punishing.’ Violet looked at him warily. ‘Try not to be too wounding.’

  At this point, Atuk could no more imagine wounding her than he could imagine cutting off his own head. He stared at her, wordless, trying to think of something to say that wasn’t embarrassingly passionate.

  When an idea finally came, he almost sighed with relief. ‘Hercules likes me much more than you.’

  ‘He does not.’ Violet frowned. ‘That, sir, is slander.’

  ‘No, it’s not. He adores me.’ Atuk smiled. ‘Why, if I asked him to be my pet, man-to-man, he would pack his little tortoise trunk and trundle over to my lodgings before you can say—’

  He stopped, his sentence ending in a quick, heartfelt sigh as Violet kissed him. Forceful, passionate, full of the clumsy eagerness that was much, much more arousing than skill when used by the perfect person—yes, this was punishment. Punishment for all the months he’d spent not kissing her—punishment for every moment of closeness, of intimacy, that hadn’t ended with him weak-kneed and quivering with lust—

  ‘Don’t.’ He couldn’t help saying the word as Violet pulled away. She looked at him quizzically, her lips swollen and rosy. ‘The... the punishing kiss leads, almost imperceptibly, into another kiss. It’s very easy to miss the transition.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ She was as breathless as he was, Atuk noted with pride. ‘Which kiss is that?’

  The, 'I don’t want to stop kissing you, you maddening creature’, kiss. Atuk tried to think of a more scholarly name, failing utterly. ‘So far, I’ve never given it an official name. It’s never really needed one.’

  ‘Such a lazy scholar.’ Violet’s timid smile was almost more erotic than her kiss. Almost. ‘We... we should practice it, and give it a name of our own. For research purposes—although I’m well aware of how much you loathe research.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ In that precise moment, Atuk would have happily spent a thousand years in the archives if it meant kissing Violet. ‘Perhaps I can become more research-minded. But I might need convincing.’

  ‘It’s hardly my job to convince you, frater.’ Violet’s slyly sarcastic tone mixed inextricably with his arousal, making his heart beat faster. ‘Honestly. You always make me do all the work.’

  In the next moment, her arms were flung around his neck. Atuk staggered backward as she kissed him again, her passion evident, her skin erupting into shivers as he wrapped his arms around her. This time it was impossible to resist kissing the corners of her mouth, the line of her neck, even as she gasped in surprise.

  ‘I—What are you doing?’

  ‘Researching the correct name for this kiss.’ Atuk spoke hoarsely, his teeth grazing her neck as he held her tighter. ‘I believe it could be termed a hungry kiss.’

  ‘I see.’ Violet’s breathless tone only made him want to bite harder. ‘Well then. Carry on.’

  Hiding his smile, bending his head, Atuk returned to her neck. Yes, this was definitely a hungry kiss—every lick and bite only made him hungrier. Hungry for her body underneath her clothes, hungry for more of those soft, half-embarrassed moans he could hear trapped in her throat, hungry for her hands tangled in his hair... oh, yes. He was famished.

  Famished for Violet. Famished for Excellent Friend, True Chum Violet. The realization shocked him back to reality, stilling his lips on her neck. He was hard against her, ready to push her against the wall and do things he'd only ever done in the pleasure clubs... things he had never, not once, allowed himself to think about doing with Violet Belgrave.

  This was a misstep. A grave mistake. What a pity, then, that it was the most pleasurable mistake he had ever made.

  Bringing his head up, forcing himself to move away, he held her away from him. Violet’s near-silent whimper of frustration almost changed his mind, but he stood firm. ‘Yes. That—that would be a hungry kiss. Definitely the correct name.’

  ‘I agree.’ Violet’s cheeks were flushed, her hair falling loose once again. ‘I assume you’ve named it so because it... well, because it leaves you hungry. For more kisses, I mean.’

  ‘... Yes.’ Atuk swallowed, acutely aware of how rigidly hard he had become. ‘That would be it.’

  ‘And... and the kisses that would follow…’ Violet briefly looked down, needing to find the correct words. ‘They would require more detailed instruction, wouldn’t they? Instruction that would perhaps be difficult, during the first lesson.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Atuk realised his body was speaking for him, drowning out the logical objections of his mind. ‘You show a—a remarkable intuitive ability. I think much more could be explored here, and now. Theoretically.’

  ‘... Yes.’ Violet looked back up at him, biting her lip. ‘I... I think you may be right. Theoretically.’

  They looked at one another for a long moment. Atuk realised he was still holding her; his hands were gripping her shoulders, aching to pull her closer. They would fall straight back into the hungry kiss, he knew that for a fact; picking up at the precise point where they had left off, tantalizing ne
w pleasures beckoning them both...

  But this was Violet, and he was perilously close to ruining their friendship.

  With a sigh he couldn't quite conceal, he let her go. Clearing his throat, ignoring the brief flash of what looked like disappointment in Violet’s eyes, he moved back to his chair. He sat, quickly arranging his coat over the embarrassing evidence of his arousal, taking a sip of lukewarm tea.

  ‘Yes. Theoretically. What an... what an interesting beginning. But one cannot spend all one’s time on personal research, and there’s work to be done today. As I’m sure you know.’

  ‘Yes. Perhaps—perhaps it’s best that you leave.’ Violet opened the door, timidly clearing her throat. ‘It doesn’t do to over-exert oneself, after all.’

  ‘Yes. Quite.’ Atuk struggled to control his breathing, wondering how on earth he could best conceal his state of arousal. ‘But before I leave, could you pass me the Heathledge companion to Plato? I’ll be needing it this evening.’

  ‘I… yes. Of course.’ Violet picked up the heavy book, handing it wordlessly to him as Atuk hurriedly held it over the bulge in his trousers. She watched with a slightly confused expression as he stood, moving stiffly to the door, holding the Heathledge in front of him like a shield.

  ‘Well.’ Atuk coughed. ‘A strong beginning. Good foundations laid, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Quite.’ Violet nodded stiffly. ‘More will be accomplished at our next meeting, no doubt.’

  Atuk nodded back, trying to avoid thinking about their next meeting. He had to avoid the thought if he wanted to remain sane. ‘… Yes. Well then. Goodbye, frater.’

  ‘Until next time, frater.’ Violet’s crooked smile was almost his undoing. ‘Goodbye.’

  The tinny whistling of the kettle brought Violet back to her senses. Closing the door, her pace as sluggish as a statue, she absent-mindedly poured out a cup of scalding hot tea.

  Sitting with an abrupt thump, noting how her heart galloped in her chest, she deliberately took a sip hot enough to burn her tongue. Perhaps the pain would be enough to bring her back to her senses... but no.

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake.’ She scolded herself gently, watching Hercules bite dutifully into a carrot. ‘Get a grip, woman.’

  The physical results of the experiment were certainly unexpected. She couldn't remember the last time she had felt so exquisitely alive; the last time every part of her had sung like this, in a single, rapt note. Every part—even the parts of her she tried very hard to never give any thought to.

  Her body was singing. Hot and trembling and singing; the back of her neck, the hardening tips of her breasts. The meeting of her thighs, tensing as she pressed her knees together, the feeling so intense that she almost gasped.

  Should she note each symptom down with clinical detachment, as all the best scholars did? She reached for her notebook reflexively, finding a stub of pencil to scribble with. First experiment: A curious feeling of heat and cold at one's extremities, thrilling along the nerves...

  No. What if the cleaning woman found this—or, God forbid, a fellow student? The thought of such a nightmare occurring brought Violet out in shivers. She scribbled over her words in a panic, before crumpling the page into a ball and throwing it into the fire.

  Perhaps she could use a code. The usual cipher that had worked for so many midnight escapades at her finishing school, before she'd been thrown out. She picked up her pencil again, ready to form the familiar glyphs, and stopped.

  The only other person in Oxford who knew this particular code was Atuk. They had used it for any number of foolish notes asking for books, or commenting on the foibles of particular professors—by now, he knew it as well as she did. He could pick up this book at any time, leaf casually through the pages, and find... this.

  Her secret feelings. Her most private, pleasurable weaknesses. The way he’d made her feel, written in uncompromising black and white. Violet put a single line through the glyph she’d managed to form, letting the point of the pencil trail to the end of the page.

  No. She didn't want Atuk reading this—not after his foolish, patronising assumption that this experiment would change her in some profound way. He was unbearable enough over the normal course of a day... if he ever found out that he’d been correct, even partially, Violet couldn’t imagine the chest-thumping.

  Had he been changed, as she had? The look in his eye, the way he’d held her oh-so-tightly, as if desperate to keep her close... and that unexpected, exciting hardness she’d felt against her thighs, rigid, potent. Her physical sensations could be hidden more effectively than his—but still, he had seemed altered. As if they had twisted something, or broken something, with new feelings spilling over them both like water...

  ‘Stop.’ She’d never heard herself sound so frightened before, alone in the safety and comfort of her room. ‘You are a scholar, Violet. Treat this as a scholarly exercise.’

  But she didn’t feel in the least bit scholarly. She felt... wild, if such a word was even applicable. Wild, and dreamy, and daring—and rather inclined to draw a bath, with the door very firmly locked, and a bottle of port nearby.

  Touch. The least scholarly thing in the world, and the only thing she really wanted. A light, gentle, skilled touch, on all the parts of her that sang... a touch that she could, perhaps, tentatively attempt with her own clumsy fingers in the absence of an expert.

  Yes, a bath, and some port, and the lightest of touches. She could exorcise this strange explosion at the very heart of her; extinguish the new sun burning at her core. With a night of good sleep to follow, no doubt she would be more than ready for... for...

  ‘The next experiment.’ She muttered it to herself, her head in her hands. ‘Oh, Hercules. Is there any room in your shell?’

  At the same time, in his own quarters, Atuk was taking a slightly more practical approach to the events of the afternoon—to whit, draining a bottle of the cheapest possible wine as if he wished to drown himself. He lay on his bed in nothing but his shirt, eyeing his rigid member with a look of pure fury.

  ‘Not with her.’ He spoke sharply. ‘Anything else, you can have. Dancing girls in Paris... that drawing mistress you had that summer by Lake Geneva... an entire acrobatic troupe. But I am not, under any circumstances, thinking of her.’

  His anatomy remained stubbornly hard, resisting every thought he threw at it. Atuk let out a growl of annoyance, briefly running his hands through his hair as he considered his options. Going outside in this condition was impossible, as was attempting to distract himself with cards, novels, food, drink...

  Alcohol poisoning was an idea. A terminal, but attractive idea. If the alternative was giving into temptation, slipping his hand under his shirt and completely ruining whatever tattered strands of good fellowship lay between him and Violet, well, bring on the alcohol.

  Your translation of Catullus was atrocious. Why, of all the sweet nothings women had whispered to him over the years, was that the one stiffening and swelling his cock to near-unbearable alertness? Violet's voice murmured through his mind, its tone of familiar amusement astonishingly erotic. Your knowledgeable sources... they don't know how in need you are of a firm hand...

  ‘Oh, hell.’ He gripped his cock, sighing with relief. Once won’t hurt.’

  Once really couldn’t hurt. If anything, once could clear the air - could leave him sunny and carefree, ready for the intellectual rigours of a new day. Why, it could even clarify his feelings, ridding himself of all the unnatural desire currently flooding his system... he could stop thinking about that lock of hair tumbling free, and the feel of her neck against his fingertips, and the quiet intimacy of her voice as she whispered...

  ‘Oh, Violet.’ His climax came suddenly, tearing through him like lightning; he gripped the bedsheets in his clenched fists as pleasure swept through his body. Violet’s lips on his, Violet’s warm skin, Violet shameless and hungry and kneeling astride him—yes. Oh, Violet.

  Atuk sighed with base, physical content
ment. He lay on his bed, breathing hard, waiting for his body to return to normal... and frowned as his cock remained stubbornly, rebelliously hard. His mind was still full of Violet; the new Violet, or the Violet she’d always been, and he’d never noticed.

  ‘Alright.’ He moved his hand downward again. ‘Perhaps the second time will be the charm.’

  He slept badly that night, plagued by dreams as arousing as they were unsettling. Upon waking very late, and after several splashes of icy water from the basin, Atuk decided that the final hour of the morning should be spent in solitary pilgrimage.

  He normally spent weekend mornings with Violet. There was always a new exhibition to attend, or a garden to tour—always standing a respectable distance apart, of course, but trading as many comments and jokes as they could think of. Sometimes Thomasina would come, or another mutual friend, but more often than not it would be only Violet and himself.

  Today, it would just be him. Atuk buttoned his boots, scowling, wishing he could stop thinking about those previous excursions. As wonderful as those mornings had seemed at the time, they were now coloured with a longing for what could have been.

  He could have leaned close to Violet as she spoke, breathing in the scent of her skin. He could have taken her hand if the path were wet, or sheltered her from unexpected rain. If there were no crowds, or they found themselves in a quiet corner, he could have kissed her.

  ‘You dolt. You bloody idiot.’ He paused on the threshold of his lodgings, his fingers digging into the wood of the door-frame. ‘It’s an experiment. An education. Nothing more.’

  Half an hour’s brisk walk later, what he’d done with Violet still felt neither experimental nor educational. It felt completely unclassifiable—and Atuk needed to classify, to clarify and neaten and put into order, almost as much as he needed to breathe. With a weary shake of his head, the scent of wet blossoms pulsing in the air, he headed into the Ashmolean museum with the haunted air of someone fleeing a ghost.

  The Ashmolean, at least, was neutral ground. He’d always managed to avoid bringing Violet to the cluttered, odd-smelling museum; she had asked several times, but there had always been something more exciting to guide her towards. Atuk knew that his aversion to anyone seeing the place with him was foolish at best, completely moonstruck at worst—but he did have his reasons. One reason in particular; a reason that stood in a glass case, crammed in with a dozen other unrelated objects, somewhere near the back of the room named ‘Heathen Religious Practices’.