an air of detachment. His brow is wrinkled. I wonder about his thoughts. How futile it is to wonder about his thoughts. It's quite another thing to have them told at dinner. He has such a clever ability to evade inconvenient questions. His face will assume a look of complete gravity. Then a moment later his features will change and his look will be boisterous. During our honeymoon, his transformations were unpredictable. My mother promised me I would be happy. She said Edward would make a fine husband.
Now he grips the maid's bottom as he starts to move. He pumps at her bottom, a slow and even pumping. Unhurried. The girl wriggles. I can see the joining. Edward's tool is quite big. The girl has a splendid bottom. Her rose-hole is enormously stretched. He moves easily. There is no forcing. She warbles. Her legs are shaking. I raise my gown to my thighs. I find my sex with my hand. My fur. My fingers in my furry place. I stroke myself. I stroke my clitoris as I watch them. I like the watching of it. The sliding tool. The grasping ring. How perfect it is. The girl's bottom is marvelous. Edward now shows the pleasure in his face. His eyes are bright. He watches the sliding. My sex is weeping. My fingers work in the wet. Perkin's face is hidden, but I suppose she wears a sweet smile.
Are we in a state of decay? When I was a girl I wanted my life confined to a garden of white roses. I had no thoughts of ambitious undertakings. I did not like the crowds in the exhibition halls in Paris. The only men I knew were old. All the others were unknown. I had all the comforts and I wanted them to endure. One always wants the comforts.
Does Edward have his comforts? His hands move over the girl's rump as he continues pumping in her bottom. I can see the swing of his balls. My fingers are in a fury as I watch them. My husband and this girl. My marriage. He makes a sound. He presses against her as he spends. I watch the shuddering. The cleaving. Edward and the maid.
In the evening I am alone with Edward in my bedroom. No, not alone. The eyes are there. Julie's eyes at the grate. Does Edward know? His face is so placid. He does not know about the grate. And Julie is not aware that I know she watches us. An entanglement of deceptions.
“Edward, what do you think of her?”
He looks at me. “Think of whom?”
“My sister, darling. What do you think of my sister?”
“I don't know what you mean.'
“You haven't really known her before. Now that she lives with us, what do you think of her?”
“She's pleasant enough.”
“Do you find her beautiful? I've always thought Julie was extremely pretty.”
“She's quite good-looking.”
“Yes, of course.”
“It's in the family.”
“You don't mean that.”
“Yes I do.”
“Do you think she ought to marry Walter Bramsby?”
“I don't know. If she wants to, I suppose she ought to.”
“Edward, you're always so vague. Do you want to undress me? You may as well do it now.”
I stand before the mirror as Edward undresses me. His fingers are nimble. His hands work at my clothes. My gown falls, then my chemise and drawers. Edward smiles as he looks at my breasts and belly. He bends to retrieve my clothes, to help me step out of them. His fingers trail over my legs, along my stockings. He fondles my calves and then my thighs. I am sure Julie is watching us. I shall not look at the grate. I shall not allow her to have any suspicion of my knowing.
Edward remains upon his knees. He presses his face against my legs. He mumbles. I suppose I ought to be angry about the grate. Her watching. I think of the past. One hates to shed tears about the past. It seems so useless. I think of those last days in Paris before I left for England. The last day. The last one. Julie tearful in my arms. What does she think about when she holds Edward in her arms? Is she jealous of the servants? One never knows the truth of things. Edward has such a saintly look when he kneels at my feet. My husband is an image of devotion. I can see desire in his face, in his eyes. I suppose some might say it is Satan in his eyes. My mother. Mother never understood the essence of things. How shameless Edward was in the very beginning.
I cover my breasts. My two small birds. I wonder what he thinks of me when he's with her. One always wonders. Now he fondles my legs. He looks at my belly, my sex. He likes me naked. I see the liking in his eyes. What a pity that Julie's eyes are hidden. I should like to see her eyes. I turn. I present my bottom to Edward. We drank champagne this evening and I suppose he's a bit drunk. He always kneels when he's had too much to drink. I don't mind it. I like the kneeling. His face now. He kisses my bottom. He kisses in the crevice while my sister watches. He kisses me under the nasty eyes of my sister.
Then his kissing stops. I turn. Edward rises and removes his dressing gown. He stands naked before me. His cheeks are pink. His eyes are shining. He murmurs as I fondle him. I hold the weight of his balls in my hand. I squeeze his tool. He likes the fondling. I can see in his face that he likes the fondling. We stand in profile to the grate. Let Julie see. Does she fondle him like this? Does she pull at his tool with her fingers? I must not show any anger. I must not deny their silly aspirations. They amuse themselves with deception. Julie has her triumph. Edward has his lust. I have only my apathy. His cock in my hand is so thick and hot. How he burns in his lust. I hold his throbbing tool. My finger stroking him. I am his wife. I have the torment. Is Julie the virtuous one? Oh, please spare me the madness of it. She ought to marry Walter Bramsby. She ought to regain her place in society. Edward trembles now. I'm fond of teasing him. One must never misjudge one's husband. His knob is so impatient. His balls seem to grow in my hand. Can Julie see him growing? Can she see all of the room? Edward looks pale in the yellow light. Can she see everything?
On the bed now. My thighs are open. Edward's eyes are upon my belly. I raise my knees and he comes to me. His face slides to my source. His mouth covers my sex. I wriggle beneath his tongue. I want her to watch it. I want her to see his tongue. I open my nether-lips with my fingers. How ridiculous he is with his tongue wagging at me. He mumbles. Then silence as he sucks. His lips pull at my flesh. This is the only thing of importance. His mouth upon me beneath the lamp. To have my sister watch it. His nose pushing at me. He talks of his friends at his club and I always wonder what they do with their women. Mrs. Grantham and Mrs. Dovedale. Mrs. Pallant and Mrs. Ashbury. Their clothes are always in fashion. The way they boast of the accomplishments of their husbands. All the boasting that's been done in this house. All the stupid dinner parties. I'm so innocent. In the midst of vulgar people I have no defense. I want to see her face. I want to see my sister's face as she watches us. What a joke it is. What a bitter tawdry joke it is. My knowledge of it. My knowledge of her watching.
I push Edward away. He roles onto his back like a wax mummy. I mount him. I take his tool inside my sex. I ride him. Riding a St. George. His eyes are glazed. I pray she can see it. I want her to see the joining. I want her to watch my riding. He holds my haunches with his hands. Is she surprised at my vigor? What a delight it is to ride like this. I see the happiness in Edward's eyes. Does he adore me? We have unpleasant moments. We have our good times and bad times. We have our evasions. We have our convictions. We have a refuge in each other. After all the tedium, one at least has a refuge.
Now I pull away, drop his tool out of my sex and turn to have his face. I settle down. Wriggling as I find his nose in the crevice. Wriggling again to get his mouth at my fountain. Pushing down. His tongue inside. The shifting a bit to get his tongue in the other place. The pleasure of it. He does adore it. I suppose he does it with her. I suppose she knows the madness of his tongue in her rose. Yes, he does the same. He groans now in the pleasure. I squirm upon his face. I hold his tool as he spends. His effusion bursting. The way he spurts. I quiver as I touch the scattered pearls. This one is for Julie. I touch it with my forefinger. This one belongs to my darling sister.
Chapter Nine
Walter Bramsby finds me in a confection shop in Oxford Street. He insists we go somewhere for tea. He has a plate of Italian cakes brought to the table for me. He proclaims me to be the loveliest woman in the room. “And
