Mrs. Miller had known upon hiring Eugenio that he would be inclined to attempt to woo her. His eyes, hard and at times disapproving upon almost everyone else, always softened upon Mrs. Miller. There was no reason to disbelieve his intentions, as he had been the utmost example of servitude with the Millers since he and Mrs. Miller were teens, and he had saved Daisy numerous times from fever, plucked Randolph from extraordinary hiking precipices, and carried Mrs. Miller for seven miles when she had broken a toe in Schenectady.
He had whispered to her on the way to her house that night that he would carry her a thousand times over if she would only ask, and she had no choice but to believe him. Eugenio told Mrs. Miller, his fleur de lis, often that she was an astonishingly attractive woman, but that he had found a good deal, so to speak, because most other men were asinine and only had eyes for her breasts. Unfortunately for her, her husband was of that sort. Sensitive Eugenio though, saw endless delight in her noble and fiery hair, her face, her round waist; to him they were symbols of her undying womanhood.
Though they both attempted to keep their sensory delights shrouded in secrecy, at times the urge was too great to avoid exhibiting their affection, if only through the closed windows of third-floor Europe. And though Mrs. Miller knew that Eugenio would be ever the discreet gentleman should they agree to part ways from their physical domain over each other, she had no intention of disentangling herself, and as of then his hands were entangling themselves in her outer skirts. She immediately began to giggle from this fervent accrual of silk under his arms. Confused and frustrated as pure, nonlubricious men usually are by the neverending layers of fabric on their wives’ drop-waists at first fumble, Eugenio reddened.
“Oh, my Eugenie!,” taunted Mrs. Miller, “is the task not up to snuff? Shall I hire another courier, perhaps one more accustomed to the territory?” With that, her Eugenie’s hands ripped down her petticoat, found her plump bottom, and gave it two satisfying smacks, sending delicious ripples through her body. “By George, I am the best d — n courier you’ve ever had, the only one you’ve had, and I have no intention of giving up my favorite duty, which is exploring the treats of your tight perineum.”
He allowed his index finger to find her favorite spot. “Well, I guess you had better get to work then, shan’t you, Signor Eugenio of the Good Flesh?” This ‘good spot’ that he had found was right between her quivering snatch and her small, feminine anus. Lately, he had tried to interest her more in the latter, but she would lose interest in seconds. This time, in front of the third-story window looking out into the beginning of the Spanish steps themselves, where men perhaps a hundred years prior had done the same, Eugenio couldn’t believe his luck — she was letting his finger slowly screw its way into her forbidden hole — and she was smiling at this. “Thank you for bringing us the croissants this morning,” said Mrs. Miller, in her matter-of-fact way. Her bland condescension continually angered Mr. Miller, but drew Eugenio even closer. To him it was sublime.
More fingers followed the first, and with a small flask of olive oil he seemed to procure by means of a happy miracle from his tight suit, he roughly shoved in three fingers, before filling her easy glove with his eager cock in the meantime.
Daisy came to the main party after eleven o’clock, after her mother returned to the hotel with Eugenio in tow, but she was not, on such an occasion, a young lady to wait to be spoken to. She rustled forward in radiant loveliness, smiling and chattering, carrying a large bouquet, and attended by Mr. Giovanelli. Everyone stopped talking and turned and looked at her. She came straight to Mrs. Walker. “I’m afraid you thought I never was coming, so I sent mother off to tell you. I wanted to make Mr. Giovanelli practice some things before he came; you know he sings beautifully, and I want you to ask him to sing. This is Mr. Giovanelli; you know I introduced him to you; he’s got the most lovely voice, and he knows the most charming set of songs. I made him go over them this evening on purpose; we had the greatest time at the hotel.”
Of all this Daisy delivered herself with the sweetest, brightest audibleness, looking now at her hostess and now round the room, while she gave a series of little pats, round her shoulders, to the edges of her dress. “Is there anyone I know?” she asked.
“I think every one knows you!” said Mrs. Walker pregnantly, and she gave a very cursory greeting to Mr. Giovanelli. This gentleman bore himself gallantly. He smiled and bowed and showed his white teeth; he curled his mustaches and rolled his eyes and performed all the proper functions of a handsome Italian at an evening party. He sang very prettily half a dozen songs, though Mrs. Walker afterward declared that she had been quite unable to find out who asked him. It was apparently not Daisy who had given him his orders. Daisy sat at a distance from the piano, and though she had publicly, as it were, professed a high admiration for his singing, talked, not inaudibly, while it was going on.
“It’s a pity these rooms are so small; we can’t dance,” she said to Winterbourne, as if she had seen him five minutes before.
“I am not sorry we can’t dance,” Winterbourne answered; “I don’t dance.”
“Of course you don’t dance; you’re too stiff,” said Miss Daisy. “I hope you enjoyed your drive with Mrs. Walker!”
“No. I didn’t enjoy it; I preferred walking with you.”
“We paired off: that was much better,” said Daisy. “But did you ever hear anything so cool as Mrs. Walker’s wanting me to get into her carriage and drop poor Mr. Giovanelli, and under the pretext that it was proper? People have different ideas! It would have been most unkind; he had been talking about that walk for ten days.”
“He should not have talked about it at all,” said Winterbourne; “he would never have proposed to a young lady of this country to walk about the streets with him.”
“About the streets?” cried Daisy with her pretty stare. “Where, then, would he have proposed to her to walk? The Pincio is not the streets, either; and I, thank goodness, am not a young lady of this country. The young ladies of this country have a dreadfully poky time of it, so far as I can learn; I don’t see why I should change my habits for them.”
“I am afraid your habits are those of a flirt,” said Winterbourne gravely.
“Of course they are,” she cried, giving him her little smiling stare again. “I’m a fearful, frightful flirt! Did you ever hear of a nice girl that was not? But I suppose you will tell me now that I am not a nice girl.”
“You’re a very nice girl; but I wish you would flirt with me, and me only,” said Winterbourne.
“Ah! thank you — thank you very much; you are the last man I should think of flirting with. As I have had the pleasure of informing you, you are too stiff.”
“You say that too often,” said Winterbourne.
Daisy gave a delighted laugh. “If I could have the sweet hope of making you angry, I should say it again.”
“Don’t do that; when I am angry I’m stiffer than ever. But if you won’t flirt with me, do cease, at least, to flirt with your friend at the piano; they don’t understand that sort of thing here.”
“I thought they understood nothing else!” exclaimed Daisy.
“Not in young unmarried women.”
“It seems to me much more proper in young unmarried women than in old married ones,” Daisy declared.
“Well,” said Winterbourne, “when you deal with natives you must go by the custom of the place. Flirting is a purely American custom; it doesn’t exist here. So when you show yourself in public with Mr. Giovanelli, and without your mother — ”
“Gracious! poor Mother!” interposed Daisy.
“Though you may be flirting, Mr. Giovanelli is not; he means something else.”
“He isn’t preaching, at any rate,” said Daisy with vivacity. “And if you want very much to know, we are neither of us flirting; we are too good friends for that: we are very intimate friends.”
“Ah!” rejoined Winterbourne, “if you are in love with each other, it is another affair.”<
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She had allowed him up to this point to talk so frankly that he had no expectation of shocking her by this ejaculation; but she immediately got up, blushing visibly, and leaving him to exclaim mentally that little American flirts were the queerest creatures in the world. “Mr. Giovanelli, at least,” she said, giving her interlocutor a single glance, “never says such very disagreeable things to me.”
Winterbourne was bewildered; he stood, staring. Mr. Giovanelli had finished singing. He left the piano and came over to Daisy. “Won’t you come into the other room and have some tea?” he asked, bending before her with his ornamental smile.
Daisy turned to Winterbourne, beginning to smile again. He was still more perplexed, for this inconsequent smile made nothing clear, though it seemed to prove, indeed, that she had a sweetness and softness that reverted instinctively to the pardon of offenses. “It has never occurred to Mr. Winterbourne to offer me any tea,” she said with her little tormenting manner.
“I have offered you advice,” Winterbourne rejoined.
Daisy appeared to have had her fill of the repartee, and her neck pulsed for a millionth of a second as though shocked not only by the cruelty of Winterbourne’s opinions, but through an unforeseen flurry of deep self-consciousness. Winterbourne rested his eyes upon her and dared to look left, making a slight motion to the now deserted antechamber, far past the hallways and bedrooms that might have been occupied. Daisy faltered before she completely regained her composure, which compelled her to sit, still and furious. Winterbourne excused himself on pretense of doing his business, and made a slow pace toward Miss Walker’s bedroom just behind the aforementioned room.
As he strode past Miss Walker’s delicately filigreed bench, he sat, giving his knee a pat and lighting himself a cigarette. That girl vexed him. He had made up his mind to leave the party, when one of the door handles gave, a slight twist. And the petite and splendid shoes of Daisy, solo, appeared to him. She walked up to Winterbourne so quickly that he reddened and turned deeply hot in the dark, the moonlight streaming in to illuminate her small soothing hands, now on his chest.
He had no choice but to be ecstatically clear with this maddening girl. “I would give my life to betroth myself to you in this very second,” Winterbourne blurted, “Je me suis entichée. And yet it means nothing to you, doesn’t it?” He was holding her now, tightly, and she was soft and breathless in his arms. She closed her eyes and he bent his head in, cautious. Their lips met in a kiss so sweet that Winterbourne almost choked. He smiled his mischievous grin and squeezed her waist, under little protest.
She was hot and skittish and he would never forget it. “Please demonstrate,” said Daisy. “Pardon?” offered Winterbourne. Winterbourne had never expected a girl to challenge him thusly after he imagined himself in a good position to win her over for himself. He thought to himself that he would never have it again, and that he might prefer it that way. The way she had him how she wanted was almost criminal. Daisy let her hands creep behind his cutaway coat. Winterbourne froze. “Daisy, please. This is beyond the boundaries of any form of propriety. I cannot let you ruin yourself — your already precipitous place in society here. After all, you see that I am not stiff now, and — ” Her hands slid around his waist and pulled him closer. His hands were on her hips now, firmly, and he was trembling.
“Winterbourne, I want you to prove you can properly ruin me, or I cannot ever be your wife. Show me you can take me and make me yours now. Put your hands on me the way I want you to, and I will betroth myself to you within a week and this small trespass won’t be known. You are acting as if you have never touched a woman before. I know you know about the whores in the dingier parts of Europe.”
At this, Winterbourne scoffed. “I wouldn’t touch a woman I wasn’t madly in love with. And that is the honest truth.” Daisy scoffed. Winterbourne could not help himself now; he was a dog with lust for her. She sneered at him and he sneered back. He abruptly grabbed her small, waspy waist. He lowered her gently onto the chaise and she sat facing him. He knelt down in front of her and looked up. “Well?” said Daisy.
He moved next to her and immediately put his hands under her skirts. He adjusted his posture and his growing prick pressed into his pants with a pulsing urgency. He moved his fingers in a delicate and deliberate way up to her firm, round ass. He thought a perfect peach couldn’t have been better formed. He grabbed her soft buttocks and pulled her down on top of him. She gave him a happy cry. “This is exactly what I want from you, you naughty man! I knew you were naughty, Frederick! Show me more!” cried Daisy, throwing her head back as she lifted her skirt entirely, facing him whilst on his lap. He picked her up, her well-formed legs wrapped tightly around his waist, and walked into the American-style pantry, almost tripping, and locking the door.
On a framed-velvet chair that one of Miss Walker’s unfortunate minions had left behind that morning to fix the lightbulb, Daisy sat. She lifted up her skirts again, very matter-of-factly. Winterbourne knelt in front of her again and slyly reached a single finger under the wet right side of her washed-silk panties as she threw her head back and moaned. His prick wanted to enter her so badly it was aching and making him intensely uncomfortable by pressing itself into the crotch seam of his pants. She pressed her hand onto his and guided his hand to her hot slit.
She was grasping the curls on his head as he grinned up at her, slipping the fingers of his left hand into her and his right hand holding his manhood in a gardener’s tightest grasp. She was now mildly perspiring, a delicate mist on her warm skin. It seemed to invite him in, and her body responded to the way his fingers moved in such a lovely way that he couldn’t help but to pull her waist closer. He peeled her underskirts all the way down onto one of her smooth, firm legs and let his left fingers continue working into her. He’d never felt anything like this type of mad sexual frenzy for any other woman — he would have been ashamed if it didn’t feel so delicious. He was doing it with pure love, of course, but he still felt so aroused — so naughty! — about this illicit encounter with her as if he had been with a whore in India.
His hands were digging into her firm ass again as if to absorb her very essence. He stood up abruptly and lifted her off, as the nymph had somehow managed to drop Winterbourne’s pants to the floor in one fell swoop. She grabbed his shaft in a second quick movement. Winterbourne sat on the chair and beckoned her with a warm smile. She stood in front of him, now naked but for her underskirt gathered about her waist in her petite hands. He took one of these hands and pulled her in until she was facing him and sitting on his lap, straddling him. Cupping her face with one hand, he gently moved so his prick barely entered her aching quim. He then pushed into Daisy so he was inside of her to the wet hilt.
Both Winterbourne and Daisy let their minds give way to the indescribable pleasure they both felt as Daisy shoved his hot prick into her small, overwhelmed sex as far as her anatomy would allow, and rode him rather awkwardly and as roughly as she could manage.
She giggled in delight as she shoved her pretty breasts into his face, as Winterbourne licked them and smiled at his luck. He took over the rhythm and screwed his prick into her as they’d always wanted to from the moment they met. Frantically, dirtily, and as deeply as they could shove into each other. She didn’t think her body could respond with any more pleasure, but soon Daisy’s breaths grew shorter as Winterbourne pushed into her even harder and more quickly, holding her tightly around her waist with both hands. In a matter of seconds, they shared a convulsing, radiating ecstasy more heavy and luscious than either of them had ever dreamed. Winterbourne kissed her slowly and motioned to run his hands through her hair, but she grabbed his wrist. Her heartbreaking smile curled once again upon her lips. Winterbourne spoke first as Daisy rose herself very matter-of-factly, bent over, and put on her inner skirts. “I must have you again, and forever now as my wife. For I suppose I’ve claimed you for myself, as it stands, and I would rather die of the Roman fever than to have it any other way.”
Daisy let her eyes fall, “It was the best time I’ve ever had with a gentleman, and I will take that into account. But a lady such as myself should be able to decide her own betrothal with complete certainty,” she said in a way that Winterbourne thought oddly detached, but warm nevertheless.
“I must say, I thought a lady of your status, or any status rather, would not kiss me so passionately, and take my very heart into her hands, had she not meant to marry me in earnest.”
They sat in glum silence as Daisy picked up her red-ribboned slippers, the color the only thing about her that hinted at her inner sexual desires. “We are both fools, then,” finally replied Daisy, “I mustn’t linger. This party is bad as it is, and you made a fool of me even more so, now.”
Daisy smoothed her hair and dashed out after shutting the light. Winterbourne, confused, hastened after her abrupt departure to catch up with her at the back entrance to the room of the party. “Don’t be angry,” he whispered hoarsely when she had made her way to some dark corner of the party. “Both your vivaciousness and your beauty deserve more care than you running off to another man after our sublime fuck.” Daisy then spotted Giovanelli, laughing with a guest. He smiled back at Daisy, and she turned once more to the dejected Winterbourne.
“I prefer weak tea!” cried Daisy, and she went off with the brilliant Giovanelli. She sat with him in the adjoining room, in the embrasure of the window, for the rest of the evening. There was an interesting performance at the piano, but neither of these young people gave heed to it. When Daisy came to take leave of Mrs. Walker, this lady conscientiously repaired the weakness of which she had been guilty at the moment of the young girl’s arrival. She turned her back straight upon Miss Miller and left her to depart with what grace she might. Winterbourne was standing near the door; he saw it all. Daisy turned very pale and looked at her mother, but Mrs. Miller was humbly unconscious of any violation of the usual social forms. She appeared, indeed, to have felt an incongruous impulse to draw attention to her own striking observance of them. “Good night, Mrs. Walker,” she said; “we’ve had a beautiful evening. You see, if I let Daisy come to parties without me, I don’t want her to go away without me.” Daisy turned away, looking with a pale, grave face at the circle near the door; Winterbourne saw that, for the first moment, she was too much shocked and puzzled even for indignation. He on his side was greatly touched.
Literary Love Page 7