their passing animate. Thus Delphine appears to me in this instant. I fret for her, desire, know not what I am at.
“Let us to my uncle first. I would not be surprised by him.”
“Have no fear. He is a little bound to his work, though who makes toil of whom is perhaps in question. Come.”
Delphine stirs not. I peep again. She dreams of butterflies and summer days. I have stirred my thoughts lustfully about her, cream with a spoon. She is riches stored and put aside-a water-ice or yet a bonbon.
Along the corridor where the walls end a door faces us. A handle is turned. We enter upon boards covered with the meanest carpet, whose edges squeak of Time, uncaring feet. The furnishings are meagre and can scarce be called such. A divan to one side and to the other a wooden trestle such as is used for sawing logs. Across its centre hangs a cushion while, beneath, an iron bar runs as though to strut the legs.
My uncle there sits naked on a chair, high backed and wooden, plain of seat. Being gagged, he can do no more than stare at me. His thighs, calves, ankles bound, he cannot move. Protruding from his balls, his stalk waves thick. He has accompaniment of Susan and another-the pale one whom I saw in the marquee. Her stockings, boots are red, distasteful to my eyes. Susan, more virginal, wears a white chemise, silk stockings of a colour near to straw, and boots that buckle tightly to her knees.
His expression is purplish upon my entrance. Holding a feather, the pale one teases it about his balls.
“Close the door.”
Amelia's voice is low, fraught with excitement. Not being servitor, I do not move. She tuts and closes it herself.
“He amuses himself thus occasionally, though you would not think so.” In speaking she nudges me with eyes and elbow. My uncle shakes his head and looks away. I fear for his agitation, though feel none. The scene is as of pasteboard without depth.
“Will one go upon him?”
I have found my voice.
“Susan shall. In a moment. Shall you, Susan-in a moment?”
The girl stares, does not reply, as though she were uncertain of her being. Our glances cross as swallows darting.
“Undress before him, Amelia. Would that not excite him even more? He has a taste for you-has much expressed it since we met.”
“I am the exhibitor, not the exhibited. Or would it excite you?”
“More than Susan upon him. She will not have the movement, though will appease him quick with spongy tightness. You, my pet, will leave his shaft erect, bursting to bubble yet frustrated in its straining.”
Her eyebrows rise. She had not thought me to come so quickly upon the thought of it. Not being dunce, I can see the reason for the play, the teasing of the cock, deflation of his pride. It is an experience-I may one day learn- that other men desire, as do some females, put to feathering or dildo, on and on.
“My cunny will be wet for your tongue if I do.”
“Yes.”
My tone has no promise. Perhaps that is the promise of it. I have challenged, been received. Clicking her fingers, she brings Susan to her side, who buttons fumbles, ties unties, then strips her of her gown, chemise. Her drawers, split back and front, are a la mode, her stockings purple, patterned, drawn up tight.
“Will you watch? Will you fondle me?”
“Go upon him, face to face. I shall tease your bottom with my finger.”
Her buttocks wobbling, she approaches, straddles his thighs and parts the cotton gap where hides her nest. She has not bathed! I scent a muskiness. So am I never-ever with rose water applied.
“Help put her down.”
“There is no need,” she sighs. Her knees are bent. She looks absurd. The tendons in her ankles strain. Her thighs are mottled and displease.
There is more rope. More rope lies lying, close to the trestle where the cushion hangs. Groping, she presses his cock against her lips, sinks silent down, absorbing inch by inch the shaft, her large pale breasts thrust plump against his eyes. Gag-groaning then, he jerks and is full in, her bottom on his naked thighs ground down.
“Caress me! If he comes I shall whip him. He knows better than to come.”
“Yes.”
I move as a cat moves, out of sight of her, behind her bend and gather up the rope. The pale one stares and licks her lips, would speak but my eyes silence her.
“Caress her breasts, Susan. Force your hand between since he cannot mouth them. How beautiful you look, Amelia. Hold still.”
“Put you finger right up-1 beg you.”
“Of course, of course.” I feel her rosette round, the marbled cheeks. She strains in readiness. Blank-eyed, sweet Susan charms with fingertips. She has the bright intelligence of birds. I dip my finger, making Amelia squirm.
“Ooooh! Both of you-together-yes!”
The moment is one of danger, but I have known moments of danger, intensities of excitement, footfalls on the stair, hand questing at a door, silent my puffing as the piston worked, the faint slap smack of flesh to flesh unheard beyond the guardian walls, eager to finish, eager not to end.
She must be beyond retreat before I cast the rope.
“Rest your head to his shoulder, loop your arms about his neck-protrude your bottom more!”
“Yes!”
She pants-is ill advised to pant, obeys, her bottom to my finger lewdly put. Her face is hid. That is the trick of it. Quick then I loop the rope about them both. Her cry-head jerks-but all is now too late.
“Stop it! You dare! What are you at-what at?”
“Amelia, be quiet, my love. Do you not like such games? Tie the ends, Susan. Be strong at your task and I will bind their thighs!”
“No! I will not have it, Laura, no! Leave me not upon him-the beast will come!”
“As he may-as he may, my pet.”
The pale one has not moved but gawking stands. I pass the other length of rope across their thighs, beneath the chair. She is secured as ever tar to feathers, birds to lime.
“You will rob me-I know you will rob me!”
Upon her cry the pale one edges to the door, is smacked, retreats.
“Of what, Amelia, would I rob you? Have you a heritage save of sin? The servant will loose you later, upon midnight, upon my uncle's second coming.”
“I shall cry out, arouse the neighbourhood!”
“You will not. There is too much to be unfolded here, I think. Girls-come. Susan-close the door.”
“Aid me-ee-ee-eeh!”
The door is closed, the pale one frets and stares. “There will be trouble about it-I know there will be trouble about it.”
“Gather up your clothes, child. Go. Have you no wanderings to make, no journeys to complete or end?”
“I wanted to leave. She wouldn't let me leave. I ain't got no money to leave with. My sister at Walworth said she would take me in. You ain't going to whip me as she did?”
“To what end would I whip you?”
I descend, drawing them down, as head girl to pupils. A rumpling, a rustling in a cupboard and the pale one is dressed. I put a sovereign to her hand. It will suffice her journey yet and more. Boards creak, doors thump, and she is gone, vagrant upon the night to some far shelter.
“Let us have wine, Susan.”
“There are others, captive as I. Have you come to betray us to the world?”
Her voice is gentle as I would suspect. The melons of her breasts press through the silk. Perhaps her mother once, upon purchasing it, folded it away, dusted it with lavender. I know the wooden drawers where such things hide, awaiting emergence, smooth to clothe, eager to drink when dirty, scrub of brush and sweet of soap.
“You like white wine or red? I will pour it for you. There is one above-Delphine. I have seen only her. From
