Obsession (9780061887079)

by Vanderbilt, Gloria

  Maja accommodates by hastily making costumes from sketches I have sent, which the atelier is to fit on eight of Maja’s finest goddesses who are to be contestants at the gathering. Actually the costumes are but extravagant petticoats—layers and layers of silvered gauze placed between tissue-thin taffeta in rainbow colors, imported from Milan, made extra full. Talbot likes them so, for as he says full skirts beckon to “heaven underneath.” I shall personally scrutinize attention to the tops of these costumes, fashioned from glittering stars gathered from the galaxy to sprinkle onto pink clouds that I spirit down at sunset and drape around the naked torso of each goddess. But before this the body is prepared by coarse sea salt, bringing skin to glow before application of scented gardenia oil. This is absorbed instantly, leaving the skin receptive to application of my own peach-tinted basecoat, blended with a smidgen of my meadowsweet honey-aphrodisiac, so when applied to torso I can let loose shaking onto the breasts a goodly amount of chocolate sprinkles, which will adhere prettily. After this my collection of huge goose-down powder puffs shall be brought forth and dipped in bowls of glittering silver and gold powders to generously pit-pat over the torso and face to complete the package (so to speak).

  The luncheon will be preceded by entertainment on the terraces overlooking the sea. The day will be perfect—hot but not too hot—cool but not too cool. Peacocks fanning their feathered tails into plumes of iridescent splendor will wander with the guests among the gardens and pavilions. There will be strolling guitar players, champagne, laughter as a team of monkeys frolics among flower beds of hibiscus, petunia, gloxinia, and other speckled, mottled, and dappled flowers too exotic to go into right now, and, for eccentricities more or less amusing, Oscar and Peter singled out and brought forth to acquit themselves somewhat inadequately on the harp before performing their voluptuous extravagant tricks with their saucy copains, heralding a sumptuous buffet is in the offing.

  Talbot’s master chef Jean-Claude has outdone himself coming up with a menu that leaves even guests accustomed to unheard-of luxury goggle-eyed. Black risotto, potted lobster, lamb’s ears with sorrel, hare croquettes, cutlets of wild boar, turbot with champagne, and suckling pig with eels. After guests have stuffed themselves with these delicacies they will further stuff themselves with desserts of fritters of elderflower, pistachio cream, and so on until by now fully satiated Talbot seated opposite me will catch my eye, stand, bow to Priscilla on his right, and extend his arm to her. She appears confused, but rises, and together they lead (leaving me behind, a shepherd to herd the flock) on into the forest to a secret grove of birch trees, where we settle down on cushions spread on the grass among wicker hampers which, when opened, reveal more rich food—candied kumquats in honey-dew syrup, babas drenched in rum, islands of puffy egg-whites floating in yellow custard cream, profiteroles in warm dark chocolate, pink cotton candy in lace cornucopias. There, in a merry mood, couples loll on the cushions in languid sensuality, sipping Château d’Yquem as the pièce de résistance—white peaches embedded in Parma violets—are passed in wicker baskets to the guests by minions dressed in Pilgrim outfits (an amusing touch to make Priscilla and Talbot’s WASPy friends feel at home). Marrons glacés come next, served with liqueurs, but suddenly Talbot breaks the mood. Clapping for silence he points to a rock which glitters in the sun as if embedded with diamonds—an illusion, of course, for it is but isinglass—no matter—

  “It is time for the divertissement! Each to have a turn against the magic rock.”

  Now it is my turn with the energy delight brings, to circulate among the guests as I present each gentleman with an object (no illusion, believe me) while Talbot continues:

  “As you see, my Queen is graciously presenting each with a golden clamp engraved with crest of crown and bee, and with it pots of unguent I brought—quite precious, discovered by chance at a somewhat bizarre ceremony in a monastery in a remote region of the Himalayas; a most curious aphrodisiac. Only a smidgen necessary—results work pronto no matter where applied—the recipient will be itching to receive your cock. But today this pleasure is to be denied. The game is to excite breasts only in any manner you fancy until you deem them aroused enough to receive the golden clamp.

  “Come, sweet Pris, honored guest—you shall be the first contestant.”

  Talbot goes to where the agitated Priscilla languishes on the grass and brushing the aphrodisiac on his lips, leans toward her. As he does, her nipples pop up into fraises des bois so tempting he bends down and kisses one, then the other, far longer than necessary.

  I am about to stop this nonsense, but sensing my interference Talbot gets in a quick lick of the chocolate sprinkles off her breasts, before hastily pulling her up and escorting her to the enchanted rock.

  “Be brave, my Pris.” He stands back, beckoning to me.

  “Come Queen Bee.” He hands me the pot of aphrodisiac, and, clearly more interested in Pris than in me, instructs me I am to do the anointing, adding distractedly, “One only—only the left—the right is to be left untouched.”

  Priscilla shivers, her right breast shrinking as the left one rises to delicious ripeness causing Talbot to comment on it.

  “Both—please Talbot,” Priscilla pleads. “Rowena says it will hurt less if both are clamped…I beg you Master.”

  “Ah yes, but not today, Pris.” Talbot is firm. “Come now, no tears—”

  To alleviate her distress (always at the ready) I pull those goose-down puffs out of pockets in my skirt to fluff across her breasts for surcease but instead they find their way into an ice bucket and out they come—soggy mops of icy water which I impulsively let loose dippy-dabbing them erratically across her breasts as she shivers, trembling—“Oooo, oooo—Oooooo.”

  “That was quite unnecessary,” Talbot says sternly. “Enough—now—we must proceed. As you will discover, the game requires patient teasing to arouse, which I shall demonstrate with Pris until she is ready to receive the golden clamp. And when so—after the first tweak of the screw—I shall use my judgment by moments of respite between tweaks. Do not be deterred by pleas for mercy, which may excite you to lose control—the art is in gradual tightening. How capable she is in participating in this game will reveal the hidden nature of her sensuality. Does she find pleasure? Or distaste? Is she the Maîtresse of your dreams or must you seek elsewhere?”

  With that Talbot takes the golden clamp and deftly clickety-clicks it onto Priscilla’s left breast and as he does this she cries out.

  Rowena and the others wince—soon it will be their turn and they vow not to display emotion as Priscilla has.

  But I am not pleased with Talbot. He is far too hesitant; moved by Priscilla’s tears, instead of tweaking further he kisses her face, mumbling some mumbo-jumbo so low I can’t hear a damn thing. Then he has the effrontery to cup his hand around her other breast, pitty-patting it tenderly.

  “Enough!” I call out, pushing his hand away to give the screw a hefty twist myself. Guests cry out in protest as Priscilla faints. I solicitously fan her with a napkin and douse her face with a good dollop of sticky Strega liqueur as Talbot hastily removes the clamp revealing that under her nipple a small bee has appeared.

  This image imprinted on her flesh somewhat soothes my boiling temper and I look questioningly at Talbot.

  “Doesn’t this signify,” he says, relieved, “that Wife is slave to Mistress? Don’t you all agree?” he asks the crowd, as emboldened by rich food and spirits they applaud and yes—some even whistle uncouthly. “But, all things considered, Wife has acquitted herself well, and is she not worthy to be fucked by me this very night?”

  “Yes! Yes!” I sing out, quite giddy by this turn of events, “and let it be in the bed we share—what better place to show off her icy, icy, cold as ice, frigid heart.”

  However, later I reconsider. This has been a mistake—she will not be fucked by Talbot—in fact she will not be fucked by anyone that night, but sent to bed in a cot in a dark room no bigger than a closet without any porrid
ge or even a bite of supper.

  Next morning, sitting in intimate dishabille over hot chocolate with Rowena we gossip about the events of yesterday.

  “Umm—it was interesting…” Rowena lapses into silence.

  “What—what was interesting?”

  “Pris—did very well considering—”

  “Considering what?”

  “Well, in my opinion, Talbot should have clamped both breasts instead of only one—none of the others who participated were treated so—”

  “I don’t agree at all! He should have twisted the golden clamp far more aggressively.”

  “I don’t know what makes you so mean—you never used to be like this—vengeful.”

  “What victory—my bee imprinted on her flesh. But it will fade. Next time I shall tattoo it myself, personally.”

  “Maja did indeed do a splendid job in choosing her finest goddesses to send from Janus Club—although it was a bit much for some, except for one canny beauty—what was her name? Who with remarkable grace withstood her partner’s ardor with the golden clamp, seeming even to enjoy, without pretense, the delicious pain. She’ll go far, that one. But I still say Talbot should have made it easier for Pris—after all she is Wife.”

  I give Rowena a slap. “It was Talbot’s choice to clamp only one of Priscilla’s breasts.”

  “It was Phoebe—yes, now I remember—Phoebe.”

  “Shut up, you idiot—who cares what her name is!”

  “Calm down, calm down, Bee.”

  “Oh Rowena, I did enjoy myself.”

  BEE WAKES WITH NO MEMORY of these events save for the nagging fury of having a dream she can’t recall. The weeks pass, but the more she attempts to remember the dream, the more it eludes her.

  IN NEW YORK I grow increasingly restless and although our house is furnished and decorated to perfection I start changing it. Carpet suppliers, upholsterers, and painters are summoned, but when it comes down to it, I dismiss them, leaving everything as it was although it no longer pleases me. Instead restlessness fuels extravagance and I go to Fred Leighton’s, where I purchase a Georgian Maltese cross pendant encrusted with rose diamonds. The spiritual comfort it brings suits my mood perfectly, and, spurred by success of my purchase, I hasten on to Cartier where I spot a ring, a hunk of sapphire blue as my eyes—“A star sapphire known as the ‘Star of Destiny,’” the vendeuse confides, “it suits you well, madame,”—and what’s more it fits my middle finger to perfection, but once home, flashing it in front of the mirror, I am dismayed because I can’t find the three crossing rays favoring the triple goddess of fate that shone so brightly when placed on my finger at the jeweler. No matter—it no longer captures my fancy. Nothing distracts me. I long for sleep, for only then do devious plans going round and round in my brain free themselves by fruition into dreams at night, which momentarily assuage my angry heart.

  I must see how she looks. But am I ready? Am I beautiful enough? Thin enough? Gaining as I have a few pounds since this happened, stuffing my face with the damn Teuscher chocolate truffles I can’t seem to get enough of. A few days at the spa at Canyon Ranch will give me courage. Yes—and then my jet will speed me to Santa Barbara, my Rolls-Royce will meet me at the airport, drive me to Montecito—on up to the top of the mountain to Akeru. Hearing a car approaching Bee will run into the courtyard to see who it is—at last I shall come face to face with her.

  As my chauffeur opens the door and Bee sees who is stepping out she turns ashen and faints dead away onto the cobblestones. Rowena, followed by her minions, who have been peering out the window, rush forward and carry her back into the house.

  Following behind I leave them uselessly fluttering around the dolly-mop Bee has become as they attempt to revive her. From the looks of her she’ll be out of it for god knows how long, giving me time to roam through the house unchaperoned. It is as I expected—the house, the rooms—everything—more magnificent than any house Talbot has built for me. There is reason to be jealous. Here—an aura of comfort, cozy opulence, seductive and beguiling, which I was never able to convey in the ambience of the houses Talbot and I lived in. Why is that? But now I must pay heed only to myself. It has been a shock to come face to face with Bee. We are eerily alike. I doubt if friends could tell one from the other. Even Rowena and her minions despite their concern for Bee are stunned, I could tell, by the resemblance.

  Finally, coming upon Bee’s bedroom, I stand looking around, mesmerized…so this is where all that fucking takes place. Looking out through a window I see a spot of white moving far below—an animal of some sort grazing in the valley. It starts moving and as it bounds away I perceive it to be…a unicorn! Good god—this slap gets to me more than anything thus far and I express my rage by messing up her bureau drawers, randomly fishing around, and, although I myself have dresses, linens, and garments exquisite as hers, I can’t stop from lusting over charmeuse nightgowns trimmed with Valenciennes lace, silken thongs, handkerchiefs, brassieres (too large for my tiny breasts), livid to see not only embroidered on them, but embossed on everything, everywhere I look—the bee, the small but costly crown that drives me to madness. It’s even on her goddamned gold toothbrush. Now that I am at last in her bedroom I allow myself to lie down for a rest on the bed where she and Talbot enjoy their fearful pleasures. Lying there considering my next move I have to admit I am hard put to come up with anything even remotely adequate to top the theatricality, the pandemonium my arrival has created. The whole scene has gone perfect to plan, but jealousy is exhausting me and I seethe with emotion imagining Talbot lying exactly where I am now, fucking her and not me. What can I do to quell raging fires?

  It might be effective to dress in one of her gowns and find my way back to the living room where I left her—prostrate, passed out—to flaunt my beauty which is at its peak right now after days at the spa. Yes—that notion gives me energy to open a closet, but it is filled with white caftans too celibate for my mood. In others I recognize dresses of emerald-green, apricot, saffron, cinnamon—in styles and colors Talbot chose for me. There is not a dress in this closet that would not suit me to a tee, but I settle for a magenta chiffon and, taking off my dress, slip it over my head. When I stand to see how it looks in the mirror—I see it is not me but Bee, fully recovered, standing in the doorway. But is it really? We look so alike, might it only be a reflection of myself in a mirror? Ideas like pellets of quicksilver pound my brain into migraine as I try to free one into action, but they only make me crazy.

  Next morning I wake, fully remembering each delicious moment. What a sublime dream! I write it down instantly so as not to forget it. This one must be at hand, to read again and again.

  I CAN’T STAND IT a moment longer. I have to see where Priscilla lives. A foray to New York is put in motion, although somewhat delayed by indecision as to what to wear. Hours are spent trying on one dress after another as Rowena sits silent except for nods of approval—yes, or shakes of head—no. I am hard put to decide, as there is not one dress or suit in my wardrobe not selected by Talbot, each in perfect taste but sexy. Definitely. Rowena finally loses patience, and, sensing I am losing my audience of one, I hastily throw whatever is at hand into my suitcase and off I jet to New York to be met by limousine and chauffeured to Sutton Place.

  I ring the doorbell and am shown into the living room by Phoebe, Priscilla’s housekeeper, startled by her astonishing eyes, opalescent as green grapes, which look me over as she pleasantly tells me, “Mrs. Bingham has been expecting you.” It’s a long wait as I sit on a sofa until finally I hear heels clickety-click down the staircase. Suddenly there she is—in person—the hated Priscilla—who sits herself down on an identical sofa opposite me. It is as if I sit on a sofa looking at myself in a mirror. We are both dressed in identical jackets of chartreuse jersey wool, navy skirts, navy hose, and spiky-heeled shoes. We even have the same-patterned Hermès scarf artfully placed around our necks. Priscilla asks if I would like tea.

  “What I’d really like is to see t
he house.”

  “Of course—come!”

  Priscilla graciously minces up the stairs curving to a long hall. Unable to contain myself I say,

  “The bedroom first if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course—that’s where we’re headed—I knew you’d be interested—”

  She leads me into a room looking out over the East River. The first thing I spot is the chair. It is exactly like one in our private sitting room at Akeru, one that Talbot designed, covered in a cinnamon fabric with a pattern of magenta squares, ample, wide, with rounded padded arms, the upholstery soft as marshmallows. A chair I love to sink into, reading, and often Talbot had tried to distract me, taking the book from me, lifting my skirt, skimming over my mons, continuing until it honey-creamed to his satisfaction, then kneeling down, spreading my legs, and, with great deliberation, circling my clit with his finger, and as it rose I begged for more, knowing in time he would touch it with his tongue—and oh god—what better way of whiling away an afternoon.

  Priscilla sees me looking at the chair and comments, “Talbot designed that chair, the fabric too—I often sit there reading.”

  I went over to the window and looked down at the river as the tugboat Tom Tracy chug-chugged by, projecting myself onto it, imagining I was there and not here.

  “We love this house,” Priscilla said coming over to stand beside me. “Such a contrast from our other homes—the farm in Maryland, the flat in London, the pied-à-terre in Paris, the cottage in Nantucket with its heavenly sea and blue sky.”

  “You know what I’d really like now is not tea but a glass of sherry.”

  “Of course, we’ll have it in the library.” I follow her and once again we sit facing each other as Phoebe, eyes averted, silently brings a cut-glass decanter of sherry and glasses on a silver tray, placing it on the coffee table between us.