Indigo, or, the Swordswoman's Tale

4. Cydonian Politics--Clarissa is Found--Keeping a Journal--
   A Picnic with St. Jane--The Boatman is Found--Something is
   Resolved--

Should I write, then, of what happened, on the road from the
Wandike to Lymond? How, in my carriage, I watched as Eliza
seduced her sister Lucy? Or shall I write of what has just
occurred, of where I discovered Clarissa had spent her morning,
and of what happened thereafter?

How strange, that I should suddenly find myself with so much to
say now that my days might well be numbered on the fingers of two
hands. I spend so many hours scratching away with pen on
parchment when, for all I know, deVere is marching here, today,
his black hound's banner snapping in the wind over the blue and
gold of the Queen's musketeers'. King's, probably, by now. I've
had no news from Cydonia, but I do not doubt deVere will have sat
poor Humphrey on the throne--his only choice, really. Shame. I
was rather fond of Humphrey--now His Majesty, Humphrey the First.

News, and gossip; and how many times has my life been spared, my
fortune bettered, by paying close attention to the occasional
word overheard in passing, by chance? And news of this momentous
occasion could be mine for the asking. Were I to send Orphe to
the Ladysmith, I'd have a detailed accounting of Humphrey's
coronation at Whitfriar's by sundown--what he wore, how he spoke,
who carried the train, where deVere stood, and how my Lords
Oxbridge, and Hungerford, and Stepney reacted. I'd know even what
meats were laid forth on the table afterwards, how sick Humphrey
became after his toast, which of the Gauntists' daughters would
be handed him to wed--within the week, I imagine, to demonstrate
for all the bargain is sealed, the rift mended. With a little
more digging--an envoy, to Cydonia; another perhaps to Saint
Martin's Inch, to confer with the factors there--I would know of
Stile's response, and Estrave's; I would know how gold was being
spent, and where; whether men were moving north, or east; where
muskets, and cannon; where horse; where sail. And I would know
when best to make my escape, and how to begin my mischief.

Instead--instead I sit in my harem pants and I drink strong
whiskey and I smoke and I write, and I make most glorious and
most depraved love, for is there any other kind? It was a poet,
an Estravite, who said, "Anyone who has not awakened in a strange
bed beside a face he will never see again, who has not left a
brothel at dawn wanting to throw himself into the river out of
sheer, physical disgust at existence itself, has missed out on
something." Well, here we are. And oh, my Eliza, and oh my Lucy;
and me--I am not missing out on anything, anything at all.

Late this morning, when I set down my pen after writing of
Molly's death, and of my rape (there is no other word) of Eliza,
I went searching for Clarissa. I knew where to find her, though I
did not want to, so after I pretended to search the kitchen, and
the scullery, I pretended to be surprised to find myself mounting
the back stairs, and stealthily creeping down the east wing, to
the apartment I'd set aside for my girls.

The curtains on the large bed were drawn, as were the curtains on
the window itself; sunlight filled the room, and I could see them
all. Clarissa lay on her back, her head by the foot of the bed,
her legs still in their white knee stockings spilling over the
side. Lucy knelt over the girl's shoulders, her pale white back
to me, and her golden hair spilled down as she threw back her
head, and lifted one hand to her bare pale breasts, her other
steadying herself on a bedpost; and even from where I stood I
could hear the wet and hungry sounds Clarissa made as she kissed
Lucy's sex, and see the pleasure thrilling through Lucy as she
did so--kisses I didn't know Clarissa could give at all, let
alone so well. And standing on the other side of the bed from me,
Eliza, in the high-necked black dress Mrs. Woolf had cut down for
her, her arms at her sides, a wistful little smile touching her
lips, as motionless as I myself was.

It all seemed to hang there for one golden, languid moment, like
the endless trill in a coloratura's aria, or one of Fiennes's
light-filled paintings--one hidden away in a corner of his
studio, I should hope. I could tell by her breathing, and the way
she tossed her head, forward, then back, the golden hair spilling
from her bare, pale shoulders, that Lucy was climbing that hill,
with the help of Clarissa's mouth, and hands. I could see one of
Lucy's feet, in her dusty black stocking, laid by Clarissa's hip.
One of Clarissa's shoes hung half off her dangling foot; the
other had fallen who knew where. Lucy leaned forward then, a
little, catching herself on the edge of the bed, and I could see
where the red ribbon tying off her stocking pinched her thigh,
and I saw Clarissa's hand, her fingers gleaming liquidly in the
hot noontide light, as it ran along that thigh, along the skin of
it, up, up along her hip, her flank, to meet and tangle with
Lucy's hand at her breast, and I imagined them tweaking one pink
nipple. "Hanh," said Lucy, "hanh!" and she lowered her mouth to
Clarissa's hand and kissed it, and let it fall, slowly, back down
the skin of her flank, hip, thigh, to cup one bare, pale buttock
and pull her in close and tight. Lucy leaned still further
forward, beckoning to her sister, and Eliza took one hesitant
step. "Oh, Lady," groaned Lucy, as she reached out to brace
herself against Eliza's shoulder, and she tilted her head, and
Eliza lifted hers, lips parting, and as their mouths met Eliza's
eyes caught mine across the room and she shrieked.

It could have been comical; perhaps it would have been, were we
different people, or if it had happened some days, or weeks,
later, or earlier, than it did. Eliza stepped back suddenly,
hands clapped to her mouth, as Lucy lost her grip on her sister's
shoulder and began to overbalance, windmilling one bare arm, her
hair whipping around as she tried to catch herself on the edge of
the bed and turn to see what her sister was staring at and she
was groaning, too, in a wordless mixture of surprise and a little
rage, and a sudden sharp disappointment as the mounting wave of
orgasm inside broke off and left her dangling, balanced on one
knee, one hand, one black-stockinged leg kicked out for balance,
the long slim lines of black wool and red ribbon and white thigh
and buttock full of the sudden accidental grace of a fencer
overextended, reaching for balance, straining for the mark. She
might have held herself, too, had it not been for Clarissa, who,
startled by Eliza's shriek, was struggling herself, trying to sit
up, and she banged her head against Lucy's thigh and kicked her
own feet for leverage (sending that shoe flying across the room,
to hit the rug  before me) and over Lucy toppled, with enough
time to cry out before she hit the floor, thump! on the other
side of the bed.

We all stayed there for another endless moment, frozen, no one
sure of what to do or say: Clarissa, blinking owlishly at me, her
face expressionless, her mousy hair in disarray, strands of it
flying from her head in all directions, the neck of her dress
opened and shoved down, over her shoulders, pinning her upper
arms, her breast board loosened and twisted so that one breast
plumped out over it, her nipple red and full, a flush tingeing
the skin below her throat, her lips and chin wet; Eliza, staring,
her green eyes wide to either side of her long pale hands, still
clapped over her mouth and nose, as if to keep something in, some
words or a cry, perhaps; and Lucy, lying on the other side of the
bed, unseen, a thump and a rustle as she rolled over, maybe, or
got to her knees, perhaps. And the frozen moment stretched, and
lengthened, a second bearing more weight than any second should,
as none of us moved, and none of us said anything, all waiting
for something, anything else to happen.

"Ow," said Lucy.

Clarissa, her eyes downcast, pulled herself off the bed and to
her feet, as Eliza helped her sister up. I bent down to pick up
Clarissa's shoe as she shuffled up to me, pulling her dress back
up on her shoulders, twisting her breast board around and back
into place. She took the shoe from me with a little curtsey, and
was about to leave, and it was precisely because we couldn't say
anything about it, we couldn't acknowledge what had happened--
Clarissa hadn't even tried to wipe Lucy's dew and her own spittle
from her mouth, she ignored it, all of it, hoping this moment
would go away like some bad dream-- It was precisely because I
couldn't, shouldn't have said anything at all that I smiled and
said, "Clarissa. Wait a moment."

And she stopped, trembling.

I reached into a pocket and pulled out a handkerchief and reached
over and wiped her mouth with it. She blushed quite red and her
mouth soured and she would not meet my eyes. "There's some
mending on my bed. Take it to Mrs. Woolf when you clean."

And I waited, and made her say it: "Yes'm." Another little
curtsey.

"Clarissa," I said, as she turned to leave. I lifted the
handkerchief to my nose, and favored her with a smile.

"Yes'm?"

"Do something about your hair."

And she left, in as much of a rush as she could without seeming
to flee.

"Was that necessary?" asked Eliza.

"No," I admitted.

And now I have two pages of parchment covered with speculations
and ruminations, on politics, and  the succession, and I smoked
two cigarettes as I wrote them, and spent some time staring out
at the trees tossing in the rain-wet wind. It was late afternoon,
a storm was passing away somewhere to the south, and I could
smell autumn in the air. And then I have seven more pages,
covered in a hurried scrawl, writing of mouths, and thighs, and,
and  my girls- - Oh, Lady. And my third cigarette is half-smoked,
and it was only now, when I paused, to try and think of how to
write in words what I saw, how to capture that on paper, without
paints, and a skill I'll never have-- It was only now that I
looked up to realize the sun has set, night has fallen, and
Clarissa must at some point have come in to light the candles.

I think it's obvious what's important to me.

How... exhilarating it is to write of these things, words I have
never thought to write down before. How oddly thrilling, to call
up in my mind the scene, the girls on the bed, the sounds, the
smells, the way they moved, and then to try and carve it out of
ink and parchment on the page, in words, to rig a scaffolding of
syllables about it, to try and encode the music of it the way
troubadours wrote down their songs long ago, so that now an old
beggar can sing with the voice of a man centuries dead. Much is
left out: the earthy smell of Lucy when she is aroused, at once
musky and sharp, like fresh-ground cumin; the look on her face as
she comes, a grimace of pain and pleasure and effort, as if she
is lifting a great weight, so unstudied, almost like an animal;
so different than her sister, whose eyes close, who looks almost
as if she is about to weep softly before her eyebrows rise and
her mouth purses and her breath comes in short, flat heaves,
crying "Who? Who?" under her breath; I think of her, with her
schoolmates in the open dormitories of one of My Lady's schools,
a schoolchum snuggled close, hands busy under nightgowns, or
hidden under blankets, mouths licking at cunnies as legs twist
around heads, trying to come without anyone hearing, a chorus of
quiet whos; and I wonder if she would be more free with herself,
more like her sister, if she had come to it as her sister did,
with no fear. I have left out the colors of Lucy's skin, and
Eliza's, the white gold of it, so pale when laid next to the
olive tint of my own; the way Lucy flushes in the oddest of
places, behind her knees, a precise spot the size of a coin in
the sweetly curved notch of her clavicle; the way her hair stands
out wild and free from her head, stray tendrils tumbling into her
face when least expected, to be blown away with fetching
exasperation, a thick child's mane, overgrown, untamed by bands
and ties and kerchiefs, as Eliza's was. Nor did I mention
Clarissa's strong legs, which I had never seen before, in their
white knee stockings, her dress up about her hips, or the curve
of her hand as she tenderly cupped Lucy's buttock, or the
jealousy that flashed through me when I saw her fingers caress
Lucy in so familiar a manner, or the sudden images of how this
had come to pass that flickered in my brain, that were but
temporary phantoms until I scratch them here: A calculated
seduction, perhaps? Lucy under the bedclothes, pulled up to her
chin as she flirts, feigning some difficulty or other, or makes
some difficult request of the serving girl, only to fling aside
the bedclothes and laugh as the girl stands agog at her
brazenness, her beauty? Ha. No. Writing a thing down does not
make it any more possible, or true. An accident, then: Clarissa
walks in on some innocent chore or other to see Eliza kneeling
before her sister, kissing her between her thighs, her tongue
licking just below the tiny thatch of golden down, as Lucy, naked
but for black stockings tied with red ribbons above the knee,
tangles her fingers in her sister's golden hair, pulling loose
the black ribbon that ties up Eliza's curls. And Clarissa gasps,
perhaps; they run to her, to comfort her, it is too much, her
head swims as the sisters lift her skirts, hands playing along
her thighs now as lips brush lips, and kisses flicker from one to
another to a third, like sighs... And I left out the intent which
formed, with a leer, in the back of my brain, to call Clarissa to
me tonight, after the girls have gone to their bed, and to see
what, exactly, she knows, and how she learned it.

All left out of my account, when I first wrote it down, and
though I now have alluded to some of it, I have still barely
scratched the surface--and this is but one encounter; not even
that, but one interrupted moment of pleasure, a brief stop,
perhaps, on the journey the three of them would have made this
afternoon had I not walked in when I did. And yet so many images,
so much to see and smell and hear and taste and touch, and so
many thoughts, fancies, frenzied half-formed wishes; so many
tensions, so many possibilities. So many different kisses; so
many different ways to come. Too many, certainly, to hope to
catch but a fraction of them in paper and ink.

And yet. I have been keeping a journal now for many years, since
my days in the Musketeers. And before today, had you asked me, I
would have told you my life was in those pages. Where I went,
what I did, how I spent my money, what I thought about my day,
the weather, the news. Let me copy out how I described the events
of five days ago, the seventh of Fructidor:


Rd 17 m, axle trble, stop 2 hrs to fix. Did not make Ladysmith,
encamped o.o.d. Ate stores: v, cur. (dry), brd. Good
clrt--Windham's. Used last of St.J. No csh outlay. Expect Lymond
late p.m.


Which says much for the state of my accounts, and my diet, and I
appreciate the note reminding me of the distributors of the
claret; it was a quite good claret. But there is only one oblique
note regarding what was perhaps the most important occurrence of
that day.

We did not speak as we rode along that morning. Eliza did not
look at me, but spent her time gazing out the little window
beside her. Her sister sat close to her, holding her hand, and
dozed, her head resting on her sister's shoulder, bouncing with
the jolts of the carriage. For my part, I spent the morning
smoking, taking care to blow the smoke out the window next to me,
and I amused myself by gazing upon my girls. I believe it was
then I noticed how Lucy's face was rounder than her sister's; how
much wilder her hair was; how Eliza's legs were longer, slimmer,
her breasts subtly smaller in proportion than Lucy's, and resting
higher on her chest. Eliza sat with her stockinged legs pressed
tightly together, her ankles crossed; and she would from time to
time pull at her chemise, tugging it down over her thighs, though
it could not hope to cover the bare skin between the hem and the
top of her stockings, unrolled as high as they could go, a full
two inches over her knee. I said we did not speak; I was wrong.
Eliza asked me for a wrap, or a rug. I smiled, and politely
declined, pointing out that the day was quite warm. She did not
press the point.

Orphe informed me before noon that we would need to adjust the
front axle; as he felt confident of his ability to perform the
repairs himself, we made a picnic of it, stopping in a farmer's
fallow field. As I stepped out to unpack the picnic things, and
some food, Lucy awoke, yawning. The top two buttons of her
chemise had once more come undone, and it fell open as she
stretched prettily. Eliza scolded her quietly. As I walked around
to the back of the carriage, she was buttoning her sister's
chemise, and Lucy was looking down at her and smiling.

It still amazes me that I travel now with plate, and china, and
glassware--even if I will not stand for the footmen considered
necessary for their proper deployment. Nonetheless, there they
are, nestled in red velvet in a wooden trunk strapped to the back
of the carriage; dusty, perhaps, but unbroken. I fetched some
rugs from beneath Monsieur Orphe's seat, spread them on the
ground, and laid out the cold venison and the bread, as Orphe
bought some butter from the farmer's wife--or so I remember,
which makes my note regarding "no cash outlay" rather mysterious.
I must have forgotten.

I fetched the bottle of claret, and four of the glasses, and,
after pouring off a glass for myself, walked one over to Monsieur
Orphe, who had stripped off his weskit and opened his shirt, and
stood contemplating the wheels a moment.

"They'll want to get out," he said, taking the glass with a sharp
nod of thanks.

"Give me a moment," I said.

I paused before opening the carriage door, kneeling and pulling
from my boot a small leather sack I hadn't opened in at least six
months--since deVere's winter party; I'd put a pinch in the
hollow between my thumb and the back of my hand, like snuff, and
let Anne Mobrey, Curwen's youngest, lick it up, as the Queen
watched. After that night, there was but a pinch left--St. Jane's
wort, as they call it; dried and crushed and imported from Stile,
and more expensive than saffron--but its pungent scent tickled my
nostrils even so. I dusted the two empty glasses with what was
left and poured in the claret, swirling it with my finger to make
certain it was well-mixed. I tried not to sneeze. It is slow to
take effect through the mouth, but alarmingly quick through the
nose; I already felt a warmth lighting my belly, a pleasant
languorous weight settling in my arms and legs--though how much
was the drug's effect, and how much my knowledge and anticipation
of it, I could not say.

I threw open the carriage door to see Lucy, bent over before me,
adjusting one stocking, tugging it back over her knee. "Excuse
us!" cried Eliza.

"If you would allow me," I said. Setting the glasses down on the
floorboard, I reached up to tug Lucy's garter ribbon tight and
tie it off. Lucy smiled as I did so, but covered her lips with
her hand, looking to her sister with wide eyes. "You girls will
want to leave the carriage. Monsieur Orphe must do some work on
it, and if you remain, you will be quite jostled."

"This is most improper," said Eliza. "I seem to remember you
promising we would be given clothing."

"In good time," I said. "We are off the road, and away from
anyone who might see us, if that is your concern."

"One of them," she said, but I was already offering my hand to
Lucy, who took it, and I helped her down, out of the carriage.
She ran out into the grass, her hair blowing wild in the wind. I
turned to Eliza, who stood, smoothing the front of her chemise
over her thighs, and her hand trembled as I took it. I did not
let it go when she stepped down, but pulled her closer to me.

"My--lady," she said, confused a moment as to the proper form of
address.

"Indigo will do," I said. I reached down and picked up the
glasses with my free hand. "Here," I said. "Some claret, for you
and your sister."

"Ah," she said.

"See," I said. "I am not all bad."

Lunch proved a lively enough affair, despite its perhaps rocky
start. The claret was a hit with the girls; Eliza pronounced it
good enough for her Headmistress's table, which was funnier then
that it is now, on parchment. And if Eliza took great pains to
wrap her legs in one of the rugs, sitting carefully and demurely,
mindful of the straps of her chemise as she leaned forward to
select a slice of bread, or to pluck up a currant, one at a time,
well, Lucy was free enough for both of them, sitting close to her
sister, refusing to cover her legs with a rug; "It's too hot,"
she pouted, seemingly unconscious of her state of undress. Her
top button had once again come undone; when she knelt, sitting
back on her heels, she did not notice her chemise had ridden up
over her hips until her sister irritably tugged it down for her,
snapping, "Do behave yourself." But a flush was hot in Eliza's
cheeks as she did so, and an embarrassed smile licked at her
lips; and when she turned away to pluck another currant, Lucy,
with a sidelong look at me, leaned over to poke her sister in the
ribs. Her chemise rode up again. When Eliza slapped at her
finger, irritably, she sat back, giggling, and her thighs were as
bare as they had been before, from the tops of her unrolled
stockings to the sweet curve of her buttocks, nestled against her
black-stockinged heels. Her hair blew in her eyes, and she blew
it out again, rolling her eyes.

Toward the end of our picnic, Lucy was already rubbing the skin
above her stockings; she shifted her weight so that she could
wriggle a finger under the wool, where the knot in the garter
ribbon, above and behind her knee, rubbed her skin. Eliza had
loosened the rug, stretching her legs out, and she did not seem
to mind her sister's restless improprieties--but she did seem to
be sitting uncomfortably, adjusting her weight every few minutes;
I imagined the heat building, in the darkness, in both of them,
and I bided my time. Monsieur Orphe came over to us wiping his
hands on his shirt, which he had removed, and I noted (with some
annoyance) the frank fascination with which the girls stared at
the sweat gleaming along his wiry shoulders, his thin, hard
chest.

"We will not make it to the Ladysmith," he said.

"That's fine," I told him. "There's that nice spot beside
Bookin's Water, only an hour or so away. The falls. Let's camp
there for the night and make Lymond tomorrow."

He nodded, and all was in readiness.

I packed up the picnic things, as the sisters helped each other
back into the carriage, as Orphe harnessed the horses. Eliza sat
primly, not looking at me when I climbed into the carriage, but
outside. Lucy sat close to her, leaning against her, her head
resting on her Eliza's shoulder, her legs curled up beside her on
the bench. I knelt before them.

"The seat can be adjusted," I said. I reached under the bench,
brushing Eliza's calf as I did so; she jerked from my touch. I
flipped the lever and pulled forward, and the bench reclined a
little. "There," I said. "There are some cushions," I offered.

"Thank you," said Eliza. Lucy, sighing, snuggled more closely to
her sister. I reached out to stroke Lucy's cheek, and she smiled;
I stroked her lips with my thumb, and she kissed it, quickly,
looking at me with her dusky blue eyes. Patience, I reminded
myself. It is a virtue. I stretched out on my bench and settled
down to bide my time, half-closing my eyes, folding my arms. The
carriage lurched into motion.

Little things. Lucy, ever more irritated by her stockings,
shifting her legs, finally untying the garters and rolling them
down over her knees, rubbing at her skin. Eliza, reaching across
to hold her hand a moment, stopping her. The third or fourth time
this happened, Eliza did not take her hand away. And their
fingers linked and interlaced, and Lucy pressed their joined
hands against her thighs.

"I'm hot," she said.

"Shh," said Eliza.

Lucy pressed her nose against Eliza's shoulder. Eliza turned her
head, pressed her lips against her sister's forehead. "Settle,"
she said. "Take a nap. Rest."

Lucy mumbled something, almost a whine. "I'm restless," she said.

"Shh," said Eliza.

Lucy unlaced her fingers, though Eliza's hand remained in her
sister's lap. Lucy reached up and toyed with the buttons of
Eliza's chemise. Eliza pushed the hand away, and it ended up in
her lap. Lucy pouted.

"Don't," said Eliza.

"I'm itching," Lucy said. "I'm hot."

"Shh," said Eliza. "Don't."

I kept my eyes half-closed, still feigning sleep. Still biding my
time.

"What did she mean," asked Lucy, in a whisper. "When she said
'honey.' "

"Don't ask," said Eliza.

"But," said Lucy, stirring a little, moving her hand higher along
her sister's thigh.

"Stop," said Eliza.

"You're hot," said Lucy.

"Don't," said Eliza, sharply, knocking Lucy's hand from her lap,
pulling her shoulder away from her sister. Lucy lay back,
pouting.

"You mustn't talk of such things," said Eliza. "You mustn't do
such things. They're indecent."

"But I'm so warm." Lucy pulled her knees up to her chest, and I
saw her buttocks, her cunny, pink and open just a little,
glistening in a pert pout. She tucked her chemise between her
thighs, pulled it out, tucked it back again.

"Do sit still," said Eliza.

"I saw what you did this morning," said Lucy, wickedly. I, for my
part, kept very still. Eliza said nothing.

"I said, I saw what you did this morning."

"I heard what you said."

"Was that what she was talking about?"

"Hush."

"Is that what you're supposed to show me?"

"You're not to speak of such things."

"Father let me--"

Eliza slapped Lucy, hard. Alarmed, Lucy sat silent, tears welling
up in her eyes. Eliza stared at her, breathing heavily, a little
wild-eyed. I managed not to leap up. Wait, I told myself. Bide
your time. Let it unfold.

"I'm sorry. But you must never speak of such things. They aren't
to happen. Do you understand?"

Lucy nodded, a tear trickling down by her nose. Eliza shifted
closer to her, reaching out to pull Lucy to herself. She stroked
Lucy's cheek, lifting her sister's face so that she could look
into her eyes. "I'm sorry. There's too much to try to explain.
You must trust me. Do you understand?"

And Lucy nodded, sniffing. Eliza leaned forward and kissed her
forehead.

I knew how they were feeling, then. St. Jane had settled into
their bellies, and reached out its seductive warmth through their
veins; their fingertips tingled, the air smelt sharper, they felt
flushes running along the skin of their thighs, the small of
their backs, their necks, cheeks, throats. Sweat slicked the skin
behind their knees, and trickled down their wool stockings. Their
nipples engorged, rubbing almost painfully against their linen
garments. And their cunnies enflamed, raging, weeping almost
between their thighs.

So it was not a surprise to me, then--though it surprised them
both, indeed--that when Eliza pulled back from kissing her
sister, Lucy sighed, and Eliza froze for a moment, her lips
parted slightly, and Lucy looked up and suddenly pressed her
mouth to her sister's, in a quick kiss that was over almost
before it began.

"Lucy," said Eliza.

"Please," said Lucy. "You've told me."

"Lucy, we can't."

"Please. I wanted to. I want to. I liked it."

"Lucy. It's wrong."

"You've told me. You've done it. I saw you, this morning."

"Not with you. I can't. It's wrong."

"Why!"

Slowly, Eliza leaned down and kissed her sister, a longer kiss,
soft, tender. Lucy clenched her hands into little fists.

"Because," said Eliza. "You are my sister, and it would be
wrong."

She stroked Lucy's cheek, and Lucy looked down, and then reached
out and brushed Eliza's bare thigh. Eliza said nothing, but kept
stroking Lucy's cheek. Slowly, deliberately, Lucy slipped her
hand along Eliza's skin, under her chemise, lifting it, until she
held Eliza's hip. And then back down again, and across to the
other thigh, both pressed tightly together.

"Please," said Lucy.

Eliza shifted her weight a little. Lucy brushed her hand up
again, lifting the chemise, her fingertips brushing Eliza's
belly, and I could see the pale golden thatch of Eliza's sex. And
then down again. Eliza said nothing. Lucy brushed her sister's
thighs again.

"We've never," said Lucy.

"It's wrong," said Eliza.

Lucy frowned at her, pouting, her eyes flashing at her sister.
"I," she said, "don't care."

And she lunged forward to kiss her sister, gripping Eliza's
shoulders as they toppled backwards, to one side, and Eliza did
nothing, didn't push her away. Lucy crouched over her, straddling
her, her sex hovering over Eliza's thighs, and her tangled hair
fell over like a curtain as she lifted her mouth from her
sister's. "Kiss me," she said.

"Lucy," said Eliza.

"Kiss me."

And Eliza did. She licked Lucy's lips, and Lucy opened her mouth,
and their tongues played as their mouths crushed together. Lucy
whimpered as Eliza shifted her legs, bringing them up, so that
Lucy could rub her cunny against them. Eliza threw her arms
around her sister, and pulled her down into a fierce embrace, as
their kiss went on and on. Unnoticed, I sat up, opened my eyes,
let their embrace stoke the fires building inside me.

A rough jostle of the carriage broke their embrace, sent Lucy
rolling back against the cushions, gasping with sudden laughter,
and as she sat up she tugged her chemise up and struggled out of
it.

"Lucy!" said Eliza.

Lucy threw it behind her, stroking her skin, her small breasts.
"Ohh," she said, "it feels so good..."

"Lucy," said Eliza, propping herself up on her elbows.

"You must take yours off. You must! I want to feel you against
me. Your skin."

"We must stop this."

"No!" Lucy said, and she yanked at the throat of her sister's
chemise, ripping a button free with her sudden vehemence. Eliza
tried to pull back, but Lucy fumbled with the buttons, opening
them all, pressing kisses to her sister's chest and throat. The
straps fell from Eliza's shoulders, slipping down, baring her
breasts, falling to her elbows, her waist.

"Lucy," said Eliza. "Please..."

Lucy licked at her ear.

"My titties," breathed Eliza. "Kiss them..."

And Lucy licked and kissed her way down from her ear to her
sister's breast, kissing one, licking the skin along its slope,
stroking the curve of it with one hand, reaching out with her
tongue to take the nipple into her mouth, savoring it. Eliza
shivered, then gasped, as Lucy squeezed her nipple between her
lips.

"Oh, Lady," said Eliza. "Ow," she said.

"I'm sorry," said Lucy, breathlessly, but whatever hurt she'd
done had already been forgotten, as Eliza pushed her sister away,
briefly, wrestling her arms free from the straps of her chemise,
letting it settle about her waist as grabbed her sister and
pressed her close for another kiss, their arms pulling tight as
if each was the only other thing in the world, their breasts
pressing together, their stockinged knees and thighs bumping
together as they tried to press closer, closer.

"Oh," said Lucy, between kisses. "Oh."

Somehow, I missed it, the moment Eliza's hand slipped between her
sister's legs, the moment her finger slipped inside her sister.
Lucy placed a hand against Eliza's shoulder, bracing herself,
pulling back a little, arching her back, and she gasped, and I
saw it then, Lucy's golden curls cupped in Eliza's palm as it
undulated there, between her thighs.

"Oh," said Lucy. "Oh."

"Shh," said Eliza.

And they kissed again. And again.

I set aside my pen a moment, after writing that, walked to my
window, looked out at the night, clear now, cloudless, the stars
bright, the last few fireflies of summer busy at the bottom of
the field. I feel I owe you some explanation, perhaps, for why I
did what I did--whether you, oh reader, are my Queen, or a
Brother in Codlatan. Why I took such delight in the corruption of
these girls, drugging them, tricking them into each other's arms.
For I almost quivered with it, watching them, watching Lucy taste
her first kiss at her sister's lips, watching Eliza driven to it
against her better judgment, caressing her sister, stroking her,
lifting her to her first orgasm, and when it came, when she came,
when Lucy cried out in excitement, her eyes wide open, when Eliza
groaned, and hung her head, closing her eyes, her hand stilled
between Lucy's thighs--I nearly came myself, just from the sight
of it. I should have something to say, about why. I don't.

I stood then, trembling, undoing my weskit, opening my shirt. The
sisters clung together, gasping. "Oh," said Lucy, "oh, I've
never."

"Lucy," said Eliza. "Please."

"What," said Lucy.

"With your hand. No, there."

I knelt on the bench behind Lucy, pressing myself against her, my
nipples, heavy with blood, brushing the skin of her back, and the
touch thrilled her. "Oh," she moaned, leaning back against me,
into my arms, "oh."

"Lucy," said Eliza, her voice weighted with desire thwarted, need
frustrated.

I kissed Lucy's neck, and she turned her head to look at me, and
I kissed her mouth, savoring the taste of her, delighting in the
enthusiasm of her little tongue as it licked at my lips, my
teeth, my own tongue. "Now, now," I murmured, shifting myself so
that my trousered groin pressed against the small of her back,
and her lips brushed my cheek as I felt for her hand, and she
tried to kiss me again. "You've had yours," I said. "It's your
sister's turn."

"Oh," said Eliza, seeing me for the first time, through the red
film St. Jane leaves over one's eyes. "Oh, Lady."

My hand on Lucy's, I guided her between her sister's legs, and
felt the heat of Eliza's sex there. "Gently," I said. "Stroke the
lips. Like her mouth. Like your fingers were kissing her mouth."

"You're so hot," said Lucy, her voice filled with wonder. "So
soft." She leaned forward and kissed her sister, gently, on the
lips. Eliza's eyes were closed, and she did not move, but
trembled slightly.

"Now," I said. "Gently." I cupped my hand under Lucy's, fitting
my fingers to her, curling them up in mine. "Follow my finger." I
extended my index finger, slightly curled, and felt her smaller
finger crook against it. "Gently." Probing forward, unseen,
between Eliza's spread thighs, I felt along the slick, wet lips
of her sex. Eliza shuddered. "Please," she said.

"Like this," I said.

And pushing gently, we entered her, our two fingers sliding
together, slowly, between the tight, hot walls of her cunny. Lucy
gasped, to feel herself inside her sister. Eliza pressed her lips
together, holding back a cry. And I smiled. "Hold still," I said.
"We don't want to hurt her. I'm going to take my hand away--"

"No," said Eliza. She opened her eyes, and looked at me. "No."

"All right."

Lucy followed me as I rocked my hand back and forth, and our
fingers moved slowly in and out of Eliza. She leaned forward,
pressing a kiss to Lucy's mouth, then mine. Our tongues touched,
and she breathed sharply.

"Careful," I said. "Feel with your thumb." I found Lucy's thumb,
pressed against her sister's thigh, guided it along the lips of
Eliza's sex. "There's a stiff little boatman down there, standing
at attention."

"A boatman?" said Lucy, smiling. "Why is it called that?"

"I'll show you, later, perhaps," I said. "Do you feel him? Right
there." Eliza's was small, but quite hard, swollen, perched atop
her lips. Eliza started.

"So full," she moaned.

"I feel it!" cried Lucy, in delight.

"Stroke it," I said. "Gently. Be careful. Watch what it does to
your sister."

Eliza's dew was running over my hand, and Lucy's hand, joined
together. Lucy's finger pushed back and forth as her thumb
stroked, inexpertly, perhaps, and I pressed my hand up to push
our fingers against the top of Eliza's cunny. And Lucy watched,
eyes wide, as Eliza squeezed her eyes shut, breathing quickly,
"Who," she cried, "who, who, who..." And with a tremendous
shudder, the warmth of St. Jane shaking through her, she came,
came hard against our fingers, falling back against the cushions,
her hips jerking, as Lucy fell against her, kissing her belly,
her breasts, her throat.

"Oh," said Eliza. "Oh, Lucy. Don't."

"Lucy," I said. She looked up at me, and I beckoned her to me,
and she fell into my arms as Eliza sat up, still panting, still
trembling.

"Oh," said Lucy, "that was wonderful!" And we kissed, and kissed
again, as her little fingers stroked my breasts. "I want to do
that to you!"

I laughed. "In time," I said. "In time."

"We've stopped," said Eliza. And it was true. Sometime in our
bucking about, the carriage had stopped. "Where," she said, and
she swallowed, and sat up straighter, "where are we?"

"Somewhere safe. A few hours away yet from my house, where we
will be staying." I held out my hand to her. After a moment, she
took it. I pulled her to me, and held my girls close, stroking
their hair, as Lucy's hand played with the buttons of my
trousers, and Eliza rested her head against my shoulder. "We are
together, now," I said. "Do you understand?"

"Can we do that again?" said Lucy.

"Of course," I said. "We can do it every day, if you like." She
had worked open two of the buttons, and her little hand darted
inside, her fingers feeling for my sex. "Gently," I said.
"Carefully." I sighed, and kissed the top of Eliza's head.
"Eliza? Do you understand?" I felt the heat of what little St.
Jane I had imbibed--or the ghost of St. Jane--ignite as Lucy's
fingers fluttered between my lips.

"Yes," said Eliza, quietly, her breath stirring my nipple. "We're
yours."

"And I," I said, as Lucy kissed my throat, "am yours. But most
importantly, you have each other. Look at me, Eliza." She lifted
her head, slowly. I stroked her chin, her throat, her breast. "Do
you love your sister?"

She nodded.

"Do you?"

"Yes," she said, in a whisper.

"Would you want someone to come between you?" I asked.

"No," she said.

"I love you, 'Liza," said Lucy.

"And I will make sure that never happens. You are safe, with me,"
I said.

"Are we," she said, but Lucy had suddenly pulled her hand from my
trousers and flung her arms about her sister, pressing kisses
against her, and slowly, Eliza hugged her sister close, and
returned her kisses.

I stood, undoing my trousers, sitting on the opposite bench to
yank off my boots as the sisters, arms about each other, legs
entwining, kissed and kissed, fingers tangled in each others'
hair. Boots off, I stood up again to pull off my trousers.
"Girls," I said. Lucy looked up, as Eliza kissed her cheek, her
throat. "Pull off your stockings. We're going bathing."

And I threw open the carriage door.

Monsieur Orphe had parked the carriage in a small, steeply- sided
bowl, with trees pressed close all about. The horses had been led
away, to the field above, no doubt. Bookin's Water fell over the
lip of the bowl in a small but lively waterfall, filling the
bottom of the bowl with a deep, cool pool of water, hidden away
from the road, a quarter of a mile distant. Lucy cheered, and
began undoing the ribbon holding her stockings up, and Eliza sat
up, and after a moment, struggled to lift her chemise up and over
her head. Naked, we three stepped out of the carriage, looked at
each other, breathed in the soft, warm twilight air; then with a
whoop Lucy leaped into the pool, followed by me, followed by
Eliza.

Lucy and I splashed into the deep water, floating above the rocky
bottom, and she swam up to me, kissing me, then swam over to her
sister, crouching by the shore, and kissed her. As she pulled
Eliza deeper into the pool, I splashed out, went back to the
carriage, and found my small bag of soaps, little cakes scented
with orange peel.

"Here," I said, throwing them cakes. They broke their embrace,
and, delighting in the smell, began to lather up the soap. "Wash
each other's backs," I said. "It's more fun, with two."

And Lucy began to scrub her sister's back, and Eliza's hands fell
still, as Lucy's traveled over her back, her buttocks, her
thighs, around to her belly, up to her breasts. Lucy pressed
close to her sister, and Eliza turned her head, and they shared a
long, deep kiss, as I sat in the shallows, soap forgotten, and
watched. Their blond hair, darkened by water, pressed against
their skulls, their necks, the curves of their bare backs, still
gleamed in the late light. Their pale skin shone over the dark,
cool water.

Their kiss broke off, slowly, lingering. Lucy whispered something
in her sister's ear, and Eliza nodded. Lucy pushed away from her
sister and began to swim towards me, and Eliza slowly followed.

"It's your turn," said Lucy.

"Is it," I said.

"Your hair," she said, pointing to my sex. "It's white."

"Yes," I said.

"Is it because you're old?"

"No," I said. I smiled.

She reached out, brushed my thatch with her fingers. "Why is it
called a boatman?" she asked.

"I'll show you. Kneel down." She did. I spread the lips of my sex
for her. Behind me, Eliza waded up, and began to soap my back.
She pressed her lips, cold with the chilly water, against my
shoulder. "Look," I said to Lucy. "Come close. It won't bite."

She giggled, and pressed her fingers against my thigh.

"Do you see how it comes together, like the prow of a boat?"

She nodded.

"Closer," I said. "Look closer. Hold the lips open with your
fingers."

She pressed closer, her fingers fumbling with my sex, baring it
to the evening air, her breath against it, sharp, sending thrills
through my legs, my belly. Eliza's hands cupped my buttocks,
kneading them, her fingers slick with soap against my skin, as
her nipples, her breasts pressed against my back, and she kissed
my neck.

"Do you see him?" I asked Lucy. "The little red man, standing
there in the prow of the boat?"

She nodded.

"Lick him," I said. "Taste him. Kiss him."

She did, and I closed my eyes.

Lucy didn't need to be told; I braced myself as her fingers
spread me, and as she sipped at my honey, tasting it for the
first time, she licked down, then up again, from cunny to
boatman, her chin pressing into me as she kissed me again and
again. Eliza's fingers slipped between my buttocks, slick with
soap, and I felt her fingertip suddenly pressing against the
button of my arse. I gasped. Lucy feasted on me, grunting with
her effort in digging as deeply into me as she could, and Eliza
splashed cold water against me, washing away the soap, and I
groaned. And then Eliza knelt behind me, and I felt the warmth of
her breath against the chilled flesh of my buttocks, and though I
would never have expected her to have known of it, she spread
them, and her tongue licked out to find my arse, and then her
finger, pressing inside, slipping in as far as the first joint as
her lips pressed kisses against my buttocks, my thighs. Oh, Lady,
Lucy before me, and Eliza behind, their mouths busy, fingers
slipping in and out of me, and I could not hold back any longer.
I threw my head back, crying out, coming again and again.

And when we retired to the carriage, wrapped in rugs to stay
warm, we fell asleep in each other's arms, and I was awakened
early in the morning by Lucy's soft cries, as Eliza licked and
ate her up from sleep.

So much more than my notes about how far I went, and where I
camped; what was eaten from stores; where I found a good claret,
and a reminder to find some new St. Jane's wort. Not that I think
I will have need of it, any longer.

Too many kisses to set down on paper, perhaps; so much of my life
has been filled with moments like these, and women like my girls
(though none, really, were so beautiful). But I must try. Where
else is there to be a record of it? Not in my abbreviated notes,
in my journals. Not written anywhere at all. Not even spoken of,
expect late at night, on pillows. My Queen and I, lying together,
would laugh quietly over how young Anne of Curwen cried out when
the dusting of St. Jane, pressed against the lips of her cunny,
filled her belly with liquid fire, and of how my tongue, and the
Queen's, had quenched that fire with more pleasurable kisses than
she had ever known. Nothing else. Nowhere else.

How better then, to spend my last days, than in recording this
shadow life? Calling up the ghosts of old loves, pleasant times,
setting them down, building a scaffolding of words to try and
hold their memory fast to something when I'm gone. --Even if it
is just the smoke that will rise when this parchment is burned.
(Unless I've written so well, called up the beauties of my girls,
and my Molly, before your eye so that you spare this page, hiding
it away in the rumored library of banned books, buried deep
beneath the cathedral in Cydonia. Have I? --But I will never
know. So much the better.)

There are, of course, other divertissements. I must exercise my
fingers, cramped from holding the pen so long. Shall I throw off
my pyjamas, slip naked between my cool sheets, ring for Clarissa,
and surprise her by flinging off the bedclothes at an opportune
moment?

Perhaps.

Tomorrow, then, I shall begin to write.

--n.

http://www.asstr.org/~nickurfe/
http://www.ruthiesclub.com/
nickurfe@yahoo.com

This story may be freely circulated by anyone, anytime, anywhere.