Anonymous - Blue Velvet

The Victorian Era

BLUE MOON

BLUE MOON BOOKS, INC. NEW YORK

Copyright 1990 by Blue Moon Books, Inc.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission of the publishers.

First Blue Moon Edition 1990 First Printing 1990

ISBN 0-929654-52-8

Manufactured in the United States of America.

Published by Blue Moon Books, Inc.

61 Fourth Avenue

New York, New York 10003

One hears whispering in the houses. The rustle of silk. The dragging folds of a gown. The faces frozen in the midst of delicate embroidery.

This morning in Brompton Road I was accosted by a man. He followed me as I walked, as I looked at the shop windows. I could feel his eyes. The dead leaves swirling over the toes of my boots.

The man wore a long grey coat, a well-made coat of good cloth. Polished shoes, a clean hat, an ordinary face. When I looked at his face I saw that his lips mocked me. I ignored it. I stared at the shop windows. I sensed his eyes upon my body, my coat, my hat. I gazed at some old blue china. A sharp gust blew the leaves at my feet. In the road the horses trotted by. A scattering of motorcars. A grey sky, a smell of burnt wood in the air. Then the man spoke: What a lovely creature you are. And married, no doubt.

I said nothing. I did not look at him. I studied a large vase in the window. He spoke again. His voice a whisper now. I turned. I saw his mocking lips. I shall call a constable," I said.

Are you married?"

Thats no business of yours."

I looked at the window again. The shopkeeper in the window. His watery eyes behind his spectacles. His face surrounded by old blue china. I moved away from the man in the grey coat. I entered the shop.

The old shopkeeper smiled at me. He asked if I had any particular interest. A thin grey smile. His eyes wet. He had stubble upon his chin. I thought I would leave. Then I remembered the man who had accosted me. I told the shopkeeper he might show me something.

We were alone. This old man and I. The shelves, the cases filled with old china. Plates and cups. In a corner an old clock. A gathering of dust upon a lamp shade. The old man shuffled as he walked. Jasper ware or Derby, madam? I have anything you might like."

I roved among the offerings. A dreary case of florid Worcester. The old man babbling. Suddenly behind me. His voice whining. He pressed against my bottom. His whispering. Let me lick you," he said.

A child laughed somewhere. Was it outside the shop? I touched one of the Worcester plates. The old man pressed against me. All right, I said.

I wore no drawers and the doing of it was not difficult. I went to a nearby chair. I lifted my skirts. I raised one leg. I planted my boot on the seat of the chair to expose my sex.

The old man muttered his pleasure as he went to his knees. I looked down at his sparse grey hair. I felt his stubble against my skin. His old mouth. His tongue.

I could see the traffic in the road. The hansoms. The shining metal of a new motorcar. I wondered if the man who had accosted me was still in the road. His mocking lips.

Now the old mans stubble chafed me. He sucked at my source. I moved my hips. I felt his stubble. His thick tongue. Another moment, then he had my spending. My liquor upon his mouth, his chin. He finally rose. His moustache wet. His grey moustache.

I left the shop without buying anything. Not an eggshell cup. I bought nothing. I closed the door behind me. I came into Brompton road. The man who had accosted me was gone.

At lunch Nigel wipes his lips before he sips his wine. The arrangements with Arthur Hawley are complete. Hell be sending a carriage for you in the morning.

The serving maid carries in the platter of fruit. Has she heard? I do not like the prying of servants. The eyes of the maids. And this one is the new one. I ought to turn her out.

I look at Nigel. I would rather not go.

He frowns. We had our talk about that.

Do you want me to go?

He shrugs. I regret the blasted thing now. I dont like to lose.

I think Nigel was a sulky boy. Hidden thoughts in a cold bare room. His parents were fond of punishment.

Nigel has had success as a solicitor. Most efficient, they say; we need men of accomplishment.

I must not think of it. I must think of ordinary things. This house. How deceptive it is. So pretty on the outside. The white painted stucco front. The narrow portico. And darkness in the interior. Darkness in the heart. Who will manage this house? The dining room windows need cleaning again. I will tell Biggs. I will tell someone.

After lunch I leave Nigel to sit in the drawing room. My accumulations. The bits and pieces of my trivialities. The maid hasnt finished her dusting. I like this room to be tidy. Why doesnt Nigel do something? The servants are such fools these days. Such stupid girls.

There are certain injunctions. One always has them. Certain rules that preserve the order in our lives.

The maid Buxton brings the tea. The pink in her cheeks. I watch her hands as she turns the teacup. The broad fingers. Come here, girl.

She comes to me. She stands before me. A film of moisture upon her brow. Yes, madam?

I touch one of her thighs. I run my hand along the back of her thigh to cup her bottom. Through the grey cloth. Her bulging.

She murmurs something. But she does not pull away. She closes her eyes.

Are you asleep, Buxton?

No, madam.

Are you wearing drawers?

No, madam.

Lift your skirts.

She obeys. She has dimpled knees. The black cotton stockings wrinkled at her knees. Then gartered above. Her white thighs. Her bush. She is hairy, this one. A full copse. I know the tangle of it. I make her turn. To show the bulging of her rump. The full white cheeks. My fingers along the deep split. I tickle the split. I tell her not to move. I tell her she must not move when I touch her. She trembles as I squeeze her flesh. My two hands. The globes pressed by my hands. Then parted. I tell her to lean forward. She leans forward as I open the cheeks of her bottom. Below is the bulging. The pouting slit in the nest of hair. And above that the pucker of the pink-brown rose.

I hold her with my hands. The feel of female flesh. The softness. The feel of springy flesh between my fingers.

I make Buxton move her legs. She holds her skirts, slides her legs apart as she continues to lean forward. Now there is room. My hand between her thighs. My fingers in the nest. A trembling of her legs. A soft murmur. The full lips. Thickly pouting now. She has a large clitoris. I have toyed with it before. I feel it with my fingers. The quivering knob between my fingertips.

She cannot survive the rubbing. She groans. Her bottom shakes in front of my eyes. She drizzles upon my fingers.

Is it nice, Buxton?

Please, madam...

Then the spending is finished. I make her turn again. My hand wet. I lift my hand, rub my fingers across her mouth. Clean them, girl. Lick my fingers clean.

She licks. She sucks each finger inside her mouth to clean it of her spending. She avoids my eyes. Then I pull my hand away. When did Mr. Putnam have you last?

A flush in her cheeks. She hesitates. Yesterday, madam.

In your bottom?

Yes, madam.

I send her away. Is the tea cold? I still have the scent of her upon my fingers.

I enjoy the sunlight in my bedroom. I do not like the darkness. The shadows. I want to see.

Shall I be lost without my gowns? The laces? All the cretonne collected in Oxford Street? How silly it is. How easily do our certainties become inconveniences.