Literary Love

by Gabrielle Vigot

  There is much that is immortal in this medieval lady. The dragons have gone, and so have the knights, but still she lingers in our midst. She reigned in many an early Victorian castle, and was Queen of much early Victorian song. It is sweet to protect her in the intervals of business, sweet to pay her honour when she has cooked our dinner well. But alas! the creature grows degenerate. In her heart also there are springing up strange desires.

  Strange and beautiful desires that Lucy was only beginning to understand. A growing sensation from deep within had become her triumph. She felt victorious even though she knew nothing of the words Mr. Beebe had described to her.

  She too is enamoured of heavy winds, and vast panoramas, and green expanses of the sea. She has marked the kingdom of this world, how full it is of wealth, and beauty, and war — a radiant crust, built around the central fires, spinning towards the receding heavens. Men, declaring that she inspires them to it, move joyfully over the surface, having the most delightful meetings with other men, happy, not because they are masculine, but because they are alive. Before the show breaks up she would like to drop the august title of the Eternal Woman, and go there as her transitory self.

  Lucy does not stand for the medieval lady, who was rather an ideal to which she was bidden to lift her eyes when feeling serious. Nor has she any system of revolt. Here and there a restriction annoyed her particularly, and she would transgress it, alas, she had. And perhaps she would be sorry that she had done so, though she would live a lifetime again under such oppression for that one kiss and to feel the gentle stroke of George’s finger exploring her in ways she had not thought possible. How he aroused her to the pinnacle of human physicality. He had awakened the woman in her and now she was ready to embrace life’s gifts of passion and pleasure. This afternoon she was peculiarly restive. She would really like to do something of which her well-wishers disapproved. As she might not go on the electric tram, she went to Alinari’s shop.

  There she bought a photograph of Botticelli’s “Birth of Venus.” Venus, being a pity, spoilt the picture, otherwise so charming, and Miss Bartlett had persuaded her to do without it. (A pity in art of course signified the nude.) Giorgione’s “Tempesta,” the “Idolino,” some of the Sistine frescoes and the Apoxyomenos, were added to it. She felt a little calmer then, and bought Fra Angelico’s “Coronation,” Giotto’s “Ascension of St. John,” some Della Robbia babies, and some Guido Reni Madonnas. For her taste was catholic, and she extended uncritical approval to every well-known name.

  But though she spent nearly seven lire, the gates of liberty seemed still unopened. She was conscious of her discontent; it was new to her to be conscious of it, although how could she say what she felt in her heart? That she longed for Dear George. “The world,” she thought, “is certainly full of beautiful things, if only I could come across and behold them.” It was not surprising that Mrs. Honeychurch disapproved of music, declaring that it always left her daughter peevish, unpractical, and touchy.

  “Nothing ever happens to me,” she reflected feeling forlorn, as she entered the Piazza Signoria and looked nonchalantly at its marvels, now fairly familiar to her. The great square was in shadow; the sunshine had come too late to strike it. Neptune was already unsubstantial in the twilight, half god, half ghost, and his fountain plashed dreamily to the men and satyrs who idled together on its marge. The Loggia showed as the triple entrance of a cave, wherein many a deity, shadowy, but immortal, looking forth upon the arrivals and departures of mankind. It was the hour of unreality — the hour, that is, when unfamiliar things are real. An older person at such an hour and in such a place might think that sufficient was happening to him, and rest content. Lucy desired more. She needed more.

  She fixed her eyes wistfully on the tower of the palace, which rose out of the lower darkness like a pillar of roughened gold. It seemed no longer a tower, no longer supported by earth, but some unattainable treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky. Its brightness mesmerized her, still dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home.

  Then something did happen.

  Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt. “Cinque lire,” they had cried, “cinque lire!” They sparred at each other, and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down his unshaven chin.

  That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Had George followed her? Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it.

  George gathered Lucy into his arms and whisked her away to the shadows. To safety. He carried her through the alleyway and entered through the side door of a small keeping room, which he had discovered on his many wanderings. To the side was a small alcove with a settee behind a curtain. Pulling back the cloth, he saw that no one was present. The hotel guests and proprietors had gone outside to witness the commotion taking place in the Loggia.

  With Lucy still in his arms, he claimed the settee, and together they stilled in the quiet of the keep.

  George glanced down at her lovely face, that of an angel, that of a woman he forced himself to stay away from because he hardly knew how to control his manly urges when she was present, although it pained him with deepening remorse to be absent from her.

  With her near and her body pressing against his, George felt the manhood of his loins awaken; though it was only natural and there was little he could do to stop the sensation.

  Not yet roused, Lucy lay still in his arms.

  He willed himself not to act. He told himself not here, not in a strange place. Someone might suddenly appear and discover them.

  He studied her bosom as she breathed calmly and slowly. The dress she wore had a low neckline. Low enough that as she lay, her enticingly full breasts rose above the line of her blouse. She of course would not dress in this manner in England — a lady of her sort would not — but she was not in England now. She was in Italy, where passions of the flesh were not unnaturally repressed. Unable to draw his eyes away from her form, he continued to make a study of her soft and creamy complexion. Though the longer he studied her, the stronger his urge grew.

  How the beast in him longed to kiss and linger among those bosom of hers.

  Without thinking more, he reached a single hand to her blouse and unfastened the top buttons, freeing open her blouse.

  His heart pounded. His breath deepened.

  Without further hesitation, he lowered one of the straps of her undergarment. Then he lowered the other. With his fingers, he gently teased the fabric away from her flesh until her bare bosom appeared to him like the bloom of a flower that he had taken much care to plant. The buds of her breasts were like rose blossoms fully-sprung, delicate pink in hue. Round and engorged and full, though the tips had not yet taken form.

  With his free hand, he gently clasped one of her breasts, feeling the suppleness of her skin. He gently slid his hand through her cleavage and reached for the other breast, wanting to hold both breasts in a single hand, wanting to squeeze the nectar from her fruit.

  He leisurely massaged both breasts, watching the budding tips of her bosom grow and form into firm peaks. With his fingertips, he explored the textures of the hardening buds while feeling his growing manhood throb against her body as she lay cradled in his arms.

  What he wouldn’t give to be inside of her now, knowing her pleasures, bathing in her honey.

  He could restrain himself no more. He positioned her body so that he could lie next to her. Then he grasped a breast and took the full of it into his mouth, tasting the salt of her flesh. He slowly pulled his mouth
forward until the bud of her bosom was held between his lips. He sucked lightly as he circled the tip with his tongue; round and round, and the more his tongue swirled, the more aroused he became.

  Lucy began to purr, eliciting that subtle sound he had come to know all too well. And at hearing the tenderness in her voice, he strained and pressed his manhood against her skirts while he continued to suckle her with more vigor

  Her lips loosened and her mouth fell open to where she released a moan. “Ahh … ” she repeated the sigh as though dancing to the command of his swirling tongue.

  He felt her heart begin to patter as she became ever more aroused. He nipped the bud and then buried his head between her bosom and released a low groan before sweeping to the next. He took the breast into his mouth and tasted her as he began to nurse. With his tongue, he circled the full of her bosom until he began to slowly pull forward to find the tip.

  Her chest rose and fell in rhythm to his suckling.

  To see his prize, he rose above her bosom, gathered both breasts in his hands, and then studied the buds as he lightly stroked the tips with his tongue. Like the vibrating strings of a musical instrument, she sighed to his every pluck and gentle strum.

  “George,” she finally found her voice. “Dear George, you’ve come — ” She moved her hips desirously toward him, unable to utter anything else but a sigh.

  “Yes, I have come, my darling.”

  “Feel me, George. Feel me.”

  Obeying, he reached for her dress and the underskirts. With a quick yank, the dress and skirts were at her waist.

  She sighed. “Oh, George. Do.”

  “Yes, I will,” he said as he quickly slipped a hand inside her undergarment to find her intimate flesh. He slid his fingers through her moistened passion and began to explore almost recklessly as he had now lost his composure.

  His heart beat out of control. His breath had hastened to a vigorous pant. And his manhood throbbed against his trousers, waiting to be released.

  She drew in her breath, eager to feel his touch.

  He rose from her side and lowered himself to the floor to where he could remove the undergarment with care. Her limbs trembled at his touch, at the ripple of her legs being freed.

  “Open to me,” he said, and she immediately parted her legs. And there at last, all of her passion was freed to him. Curls no longer obscured her intimate form. Her delicate orchid was fully exposed, with its petals opening and the stigma now bursting from its sheath. He took a long moment to study her feminine anatomy; tracing in his mind every detail and curve so that her flower would be imprinted in his soul forever.

  “Oh, George. Dear George. I need you.”

  He groaned deeply. “Let me pleasure you first.” As the beast a man could be, he wanted to taste what was his, to explore with his tongue, to savor her honey. Indeed, he wanted to bask in her insatiable passion. Though he would not finish her too soon, he would take his time to control the moment in which he would at last deliver to her his full pleasure. Selfish, but ’twas the way of an impassioned man.

  He grasped her thighs, placing one over his shoulder, letting the other rest against the back of the settee so that she was fully begifted to him. He placed his hands under her bottom, grasping her cheeks with a squeeze, then firmly held her in place.

  He drew in her fragrance at length as he neared her flower, continuing to study her delicate lines. She was chaste, a virgin, and she would be his. His alone.

  With a hot tongue, he started below and licked lightly, paddling his tongue through her neverending well of passion. Lost in pleasure’s delirium, he rolled his tongue round and round. She tasted sweet, like a heavensent cream. Her scent filled his head and before long, he was one with her fragrance as though it were his own.

  “Oh, George,” she sighed as she began moving her hips to his heavenly strokes.

  He squeezed her cheeks as he played, feeling her skin ripple with courses of delicate goose bumps dancing across the fabric of her skin. And the more he played, the more urgently she moved, demanding more and more. Compliantly, he slid his tongue forward rounding her petals and coming to rest upon her now deeply reddened pearl.

  “Ah!” Lucy released a near thunderous, but pleasureful sigh. “Yes. There. Oh yes, my sweet Dear George.”

  He rolled his tongue round and round her bursting pearl. Then he pressed his lips around its delicacy and kissed lightly, ever so lightly rubbing his lips around the full of the pearl.

  She trembled and shuddered; she panted uncontrollably.

  He took the full of her feminine form into his mouth and with his tongue he began consuming her while tickling her pearl.

  “Yes, yes,” she said. It was the only word she uttered as he circled round and round, arousing her passion more and more. With her well overflowing, he was careful to slide his tongue below to drink, and then inevitably, always, he returned to her pearl.

  He stretched his hands to find her waist, feeling her navel, feeling her form. All the while her body rippled and undulated in rhythmic response to his touch.

  It was time to release her, to satisfy her, but he would show her the ultimate pleasure of restraint. He clasped her tightly, taking control so that she could only move at his command. With his tongue, he glided from below, across her petals and to her pearl, where he circled round and round, letting her arch and strain as she begged and waited for the moment of release, and then he quickly drew back to her well, letting the intensity subside, watching her gasp for breath. This he repeated over and over again, bringing her closer to the peak of no return, but not allowing her to go over, showing her the meaning of ineffable pleasure.

  She panted and moaned and begged him to finish her. “More, more,” she pleaded. “Don’t stop!” And all the while, her head rolled and jerked from side to side.

  At last it was time. He squeezed her cheeks hard as he fed from her well, and then he slowly slid his tongue across her petals, playing with them, teasing them, back and forth, lingering. Then he licked between and slowly mounted the pearl. It was full, engorged a scarlet red, and ready for the final waltz. He twirled his tongue slowly round and round, and then danced the tip of his tongue quickly across its upper rises, then back to a fast twirl, round and round, round and round, until —

  “George, George, George — ”

  She was completely undone. He released his grip and let her move as she would, and all the while, he rolled his tongue over her pearl in perfect rhythm to her movements.

  And at last, she screamed, “Ah! I’m, I’m … oh, George.” Her body quaked uncontrollably in his arms and then she finally collapsed.

  She quivered in the throes of her release.

  George rose up and took in the expression painted across her face and neck. The pale of her facial cheeks were flushed crimson red and the buds of her bosom fully inflamed and peaking to heaven. With her eyes still closed and her mouth open, she gasped for breath as pleasure exuded from her every seam.

  He had released her. She was freed.

  Though he was not finished. He raised her thigh and returned to take the icing of her release. Drinking from her well, he basked in her nectar until she began to laugh with delight.

  Then he rose up and smiled into her face.

  “You’re tickling me, George,” she said.

  “Yes, I know.” He reached to touch one of her breasts and began teasing the tip.

  “Oo, George, that … ” she paused to draw in a few short breaths.

  “Yes?”

  “Your touch is,” she sighed, moving her hips to him, “electrifying.”

  “Is it?” he asked, knowing that it was so.

  “Oo, George, how it does, my love.”

  “Good.” He circled the tip of bud lightly, then he pinched, making her squirm. When she moved against him again, he lowered his face and slid a tongue to her well to discover that she was indeed refilled.

  “Ah,” she purred. “I need you … in — ”

  The
front door to the small lodgings opened.

  “Oh, dear,” Lucy said suddenly.

  George lifted from her. Held his head up and listened.

  “Quickly, fasten your blouse,” he said, “or we’re soon discovered.”

  He quickly lowered her skirts and found her undergarment lying on the floor beside him. There was no time for anything other than to slip it into his pocket. Rising, he quickly found a place in a chair next to the settee.

  A man covered in blood entered the room.

  Lucy rose from the couch in horror. Her face suddenly paled, her eyes danced, and before long, she was swaying.

  George rushed to her side and captured her into his arms.

  “She needs air,” he said and they departed through the same door they had entered.

  When Lucy came around for the second time, she thought: “Oh, what have I done?”

  “Oh, what have I done?” she murmured, and opened her eyes.

  George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness only early that day, and lo! she suddenly remembered, one man was stabbed and yet another, her Dear George, held her in his arms.

  They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade now. He must have carried her there from the parlour he’d taken her to. She recalled that the sitting room was located inside of a small hotel down an alleyway. She remembered now, she remembered it all.

  He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated:

  “Oh, what have I done?”

  “You fainted.”

  “I — I am very sorry.”

  She didn’t know what to say. She was overwhelmed with the events that had occurred since coming to the Piazza. It was all so real, yet everything that had happened seemed to unfold as if it were only a dream. First, the nightmarish event happened by the Loggia. Then George, her Dear George like a knight, had saved her. Like Saint George, he’d rescued her from the dragon lurking in the Piazza only to show her what true passion could be. Then that man appeared. He was bloody. She must have fainted again at the sight of him.