The Story of X: An Erotic Tale

by A. J. Molloy

  This shard of history pains me. Will the Second Mystery be some reenactment of horrible Roman decadence? Something ghastly and perverse? Once more I am weakened by a fear of what is about to happen. Marc obviously senses it. As we go through a big iron gate guarded by at least ten men in dark glasses and dark suits, who check Marc’s credentials, he squeezes my hand.

  “Courage,” he says, using the French pronunciation. “Courage, ma chère.”

  “But I don’t understand, Marc—how do they get permission? This is an archaeological site; it’s like renting the Parthenon.”

  We are following the other Mystery-goers down a cicada-rasping path toward a source of light and music.

  “This is Campania, X,” Marc answers. “You can buy the Temples of Paestum if you want.”

  “But who pays? Who are those men at the gate? Are they armed?”

  He squeezes my hand again.

  “Please don’t fret, just let it happen, let it roll over you. That’s how the Mysteries work; you mustn’t resist. And now . . .” He smiles at me, sincerely, and maybe regretfully. “Now you have to go and dress. Follow the handmaidens.”

  Two Italian women—young and pretty, and dressed simply in white—take me by the hand. They lead me away from Marc, along an inclined path to a parade of very sophisticated tents: luxurious yet antique marquees.

  In front of the largest tent—the one nearest the mighty cliffs that topple down to the dark Tyrrhenian Sea—I can see dancing and I can hear people drinking and chattering. Likewise, I can hear music. These are the fairly normal sounds of a rather swish alfresco party. But we are going into a different tent. It is purple, braided, and imperial—and somehow Roman.

  Inside there are several other young women, standing by mirrors and side tables. All of them are being dressed and tended by these Italian girls who wear these simple white shifts.

  My guess is that these other young women, standing anxious and stiff, must be my fellow initiates. I glance at them: their young and pretty and rather worried faces. They glance at me, and nod.

  We all feel the same.

  “Please,” says one of the handmaidens. Her English is faulty. But her gestures are fluent. “Take off clothes?”

  There are no men in this big silk tent, which is softly lit with hanging lanterns, but I am still seriously shy. I remember Marc’s words, and I remember that if I want to keep him—even if it is only for this summer—I have to do as I am told. I must steel myself, and submit. Again.

  Taking a deep breath, I nod—and the girls step forward. They evidently want to help undress me, yet I wave them away; no one is touching my precious new Armani frock. I remove it myself and fold it with due diligence, and the girls seem to understand—they let me hang the dress very carefully on a rack. My underwear follows, until I am standing nude. I simply can’t look at the other initiates; I am too embarrassed to do that—so I concentrate on what the girls are doing to me.

  And they are getting to work on my party costume.

  “Per favore, signorina?”

  I gaze, intrigued. Because they are dressing me in a way I have never been dressed before.

  First they take some opaque white silk stockings, and slowly roll them onto my legs, over my knees, up to my thighs. A garter is clasped around each white thigh, to keep the stocking in place. The garter is beaded with gold, and miniature creamy pearls; it is beautiful, probably antique. I am given steep little shoes to wear, which fit perfectly. They have minuscule and baroque silk bows, and very high, blocky heels. Eighteenth-century shoes. Dandyish and sexy.

  I am being dressed like an eighteenth-century kept woman. Like a high-class mistress of a Sun King.

  “Okay,” says the Italian girl. “Please stand.”

  Carefully, but quickly, she fixes a corset around my middle. I have never worn anything like this. It is a rich, deep scarlet, and gorgeously embroidered, but, wow, it hurts as she stiffly laces up the back tightly, then even tighter. The pressure forces my breasts up and together: it gives me a deep cleavage. The corset is on the borders of being bondage gear—but not quite. It is more subtle than that. Painful, but subtle.

  “Signorina, please sit, we do the hair?”

  I rouse from my self-absorption and look around. It seems I am now alone in the tent; the other initiates have already been dressed and dismissed—to experience their Second Mystery.

  “Sit?”

  Obediently I sit on a little gilded chair and watch in a large wooden-framed mirror, as the girls lift and comb my hair, adorning it with coils, plaits, mother-of-pearl pins, and small but darling silk bows; curlicues of hair are allowed to descend at my ears. My ordinary blond hair looks wonderfully gold in this flattering lantern light.

  The girls are gifted. When they have finished, I stand and stare in the mirror, admiring myself. I am indeed Marie Antoinette.

  Except for just one thing. I am wearing nothing between my stockinged and gartered thighs, and the gold-threaded hem of my whalebone corset. My carefully waxed pubic hair, my ass, everything sexual—is on display. Everything is framed. The delicate and antique costuming of the rest of me serves to make my utter nudity there all the more emphatic.

  “But what about here?” I say, panicking now. “Where’s my skirt, my dress? Underwear!”

  The handmaidens shrug, smiling but unhelpful.

  “Is done. Now you go to the party?”

  “What?”

  One girl steps back and sweeps her hand.

  “Is very beautiful. You very beautiful. Now finish. Now go.”

  Go?

  No. No way. I cannot do this. Not this. I can feel the breeze on my naked thighs, even on this warm Tyrrhenian evening. My ass is reflected in a dozen mirrors, visible to every gaze. The reflex of shame makes me want to grab at something—anything—to conceal myself.

  I sway with profound embarrassment. The girls are looking at me, arms crossed. So this really is my costume: I really do have to walk out into the middle of the party dressed like this. Or rather, not dressed in anything between my thighs and my navel. So that everyone can see.

  There is nothing to be done about it. I must submit. Girding myself, girding my loins, I walk to the entrance of the tent, where a girl pulls back a swath of canvas and silk, hands me a glass of champagne, and allows me to exit.

  I am in a daze. The world can see my bare ass, my everything. I am following a lantern-lit path to a kind of terrace in front of that bigger tent, where many dozens of properly dressed people are dancing and drinking and talking. I am naked between corset and garter.

  Then the music stops. And everyone turns and looks at me.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  AT FIRST I am so embarrassed, so ashamed, I want to hide in the bushes with the cicadas.

  No one is laughing at me, no one is mocking, or even leering, but everything within me is telling me that this is wrong. But I continue walking into the party-going crowds, between these elegant people holding their slender flutes of champagne, and as I proceed they seem to part, in silent respect.

  Now I see, as the music renews, that there are several other women, mingled among the crowd, dressed just like me: these are my sisters, also being initiated. I recognize one or two faces. These are the women from the tent, and their pudenda are also on display, fabulously framed by historic stockings and lissome silks and complex corsetry, yet displayed nonetheless.

  I have an urgent desire to talk with one of them. What are they feeling? What do they think about all this? My slight and natural shyness restrains me, but then I remember: Hell, X, you are walking around a crowd of elegantly dressed rich people with no clothes there, not where it matters. And you are abashed by the idea of striking up a conversation?

  I notice one girl, slightly apart and alone, standing under a lantern strung from a tamarisk tree. She h
as a glass of golden champagne in her hand. Her head is tilted. She is listening, it seems, to the music, which is a kind of amped-up string quartet, lyrically classical but played with a definite African rhythm. The music makes me want to dance, but I cannot dance dressed like this. Not sober, anyway.

  The girl is very beautiful, with long, dark hair, studded with fine pearls and silver pins. She looks like a large-eyed, taller Jessica—she has the same intelligent and shrewd demeanor.

  “Hello,” I say.

  She turns. Her dark eyes narrow, inquiringly.

  “Bonsoir.”

  “Oh, ah, sorry.” I blush. Why am I blushing now? “Sorry, I did not realize—”

  “No, no. It is okay. I am French, but I speak English.” Her smile is thoughtful.

  I smile in return.

  “Hello.”

  Now she stares down, quite frankly, at my nudity; then she gestures down at her own white thighs, and dark strip of hair.

  “So. What do you think of our . . . historic costumes?”

  I shake my head.

  “I don’t know . . . Are they really historic?”

  “Yes,” says the girl. “They really are historic. They used to wear them at the court of Napoleon. Haven’t you ever heard of a furbelow?”

  I pause, then I laugh, rather anxiously. It’s a clever joke. I think a furbelow is a ruffle or flounce, a frill worn by a pretty girl in the eighteenth or nineteenth century, maybe a particularly lacy collar. But furbelows are definitely the best way of describing the appearance of this girl and me tonight.

  This girl? I realize I haven’t asked her name.

  “I am Alexandra, by the way. Or X.”

  “Hello, X. I’m Françoise.”

  We shake hands. I inquire:

  “If you don’t mind me asking—who is initiating you?”

  Françoise gestures at the crowds of people, drinking and chattering and gossiping; the crowds are definitely getting louder and more boisterous as the champagne flows.

  “Daniel de Kervignac. French like me. But he is a banker in the City, we live in London.”

  “Your boyfriend?”

  “Yes. Though he is forty-two. So maybe not so much a boy. My amant is a better word.”

  “Okay.” I sip champagne. I realize we are making casual small talk. Dressed like the most outrageous whores in history. The contrast is odd. But less odd than it was ten minutes ago.

  “And you?”

  “Marc Roscarrick.”

  Her eyes widen.

  “Lord Roscarrick? The Lord Roscarrick?”

  “Yes.” My mouth gets ahead of me. “Why? You know him? You know of him? Why?”

  She smiles decorously.

  “X? I will call you X? Yes, X, everyone has heard of Marcus Roscarrick. Everyone has heard of the molto bello—”

  “E scapolo Lord Roscarrick,” I add, sighing and shaking my head. “Okay, okay, I get it—I read the websites. I suppose he is a celebrity to most people.” I look in her brown eyes. “It’s just that I’m from California, and European aristocrats are like soccer players to me. We’ve never heard of them. Might as well be moons of Neptune.”

  She smiles.

  “Good for you. Celeb culture is generally trash. Though your Lord Roscarrick is quite certainly a catch—the catch of the season.” She steps a little closer and whispers conspiratorially to me. “What is he really like? Is he, ah, a little . . . dangerous? Like they say? Is he really that exciting?”

  “Sorry?”

  “I mean,” her mouth flutters, “his beautiful wife, the other rumors . . . Ah, forgive me. This is wrong. I am tattling. You are a lucky woman. And besides, we are meant to be mysterious and enigmatic, no? Standing here with the Origin of the World on show.”

  She gazes down below her waist, once again, and adds, “This better be worth it. The Brazilian was immoderately painful.”

  I laugh brightly once again. But my laughter is brittle and mixed with more misgivings. What does she mean about Marc? I want to inquire further but a loud French voice interrupts.

  “Françoise, J’ai cherché pour toi.”

  This, evidently, is her boyfriend. He is regulation Handsome Older Guy, graying at the temples, broad shouldered, emanating a sense of wealth and privilege, and wearing a very top-drawer tailored tux. He is no Marc Roscarrick, though.

  The Frenchman gives me a brief and courtly nod, his eyes only flickering below my waist for a second. He shakes my hand as we are introduced, and then he takes Françoise’s fingers in his own and guides her away. As she goes, she turns, and gives me a warm and expressive glance.

  “Good-bye, X,” she calls over her shoulder. “I am sure we will meet again.”

  I muse on this for a moment. I suppose she is right. If she is enacting the Mysteries through the summer, we probably will meet again. I am glad about this, because I felt that inkling of incipient friendship with Françoise, and I definitely feel I need an ally. I also want to know more of what she knows about Marc. Or do I?

  Draining my glass of champagne, I watch, quite thoughtfully, as Françoise disappears deeper into the crowds.

  Her white ass looks beautiful and sexy as she walks on her stacky eighteenth-century heels, between the dressed and normal partygoers. I had expected to find the sight somewhat comical, but I don’t. Françoise looks imperious; she looks a little glorious; she looks, in fact, like one of those beautiful Arab racehorses, a Thoroughbred being led around the paddock of a racecourse—not for the purposes of leering or jeering, but for the purposes of pure and sincere and wholly serious admiration. The glances she is getting are respectful, maybe even a little awed.

  That’s it. Her nudity, her seminudity, is giving her a kind of power. She is the center of attention, the one carrying it off. I’ve heard it said before: semi-naked men usually look ridiculous, or at least weakened; semi-naked or half-dressed women, by contrast, have an enigmatic but awesome power—especially over men. And in these strange, strange costumes that power is amplified, and magnified, a classical music turned to the hundredth decibel. Deafening. The Origin of the World.

  Goddammit. I take another glass of champagne from a handy silver tray borne by one of the handmaidens, and then I plunge into the crowd myself.

  And it works. I get the same awed respect. Older women gaze at me, briefly, with a mixture of envy and nodding empathy. The men are all bowing, very slightly, like diplomats and courtiers acknowledging a superior: a princess or a passing queen. If they had hats they would be doffing them.

  Yet there is also a decadence here, as I press between the mingled people. A girl lightly touches my hip as she breezes past. It happens again; it is no accident. I sense another hand, a male hand, on my ass—then it is gone. I turn, to see who it was, yet I am not alarmed. Maybe I am somewhat drunk, but the situation is not distressing, it is playful, delicate, and, yes, erotic.

  The fizz of the champagne tingles in my nose. I drink more. People brush past me; I feel more hands on my nudity. I do not mind. It is good; I am enjoying this. And then at last I find Marc, with three other men. He turns and introduces me, but I forget their names because I am a little drunk. The men—English and fair-haired—kiss my hand, and they each look, for a few seconds, at my very obvious, particular, and unusual nakedness. And my shame has gone: I feel a power over them. Look at me. Go on, look at me. I dare you. I am laughing now, and joking with Marc. I feel decadent.

  The music steps up. It is a vividly quick waltz: amplified and underlined by that driving pagan beat. A waltz—thank you, Dionysus—is the only formal dance I know. I look at Marc and he takes my hand in his, guiding me to the wide stone terrace that overlooks the sea, and there we dance, among the other dancers. We dance quickly, my head on his chest, my hand clasped in his.

  And I am glad that everyon
e can see everything; let everyone see it all, let everyone do whatever they want. The night is lovely; the champagne is chilled; the moon is amazed and pleased; the stars are cleaned and polished so bright. And Marc has placed his hand on the small of my back where the tight lacing presses the whalebone into my ribs, forcing my breasts up. I feel perfumed and weightless.

  “You look utterly lovely,” he says.

  “Not ridiculous?”

  “Not ridiculous, carissima. The very opposite of ridiculous. I am very proud.”

  “Why?”

  His hand has strayed below my corset: it is now on my ass, gently squeezing.

  I look at him. And smile demurely. And say nothing. We both pretend that nothing is happening.

  “I have seen other women shy away at this point. The Second Mystery is difficult.”

  His hand squeezes my ass once more. The faint blue stubble of his jawline looks very fine in this sculpting light. His lips are half apart, and smiling; there is a glimpse of sharp white teeth. Squeeze me more, Marc Roscarrick, squeeze me more.

  “What happens to the men?” I ask. “What is the male initiation?”

  He looks me in the eye; our lips are three inches apart. We step across the terrace, dancing, and dancing, and turning, his hand still firmly on my bottom, and he says, “It is different. Much more violent. It can be—frightening . . .”

  “How?”

  “Another time,” he says. “But now—just look at you, like a Dresden doll. And only a little deviant.”

  He steps back, releasing my ass, and he twirls me on one hand. This is barely a waltz now, this is more like dancing as I know it normally. Young and free-form. Just heathen. Pagan. Nearer to sex. Quite African. Dionysian? People in formal clothes dancing informally quite often look stupid, but here it seems normal: dancing with billionaires and principesse, dancing above the ruins of the Villa of Tiberius, dancing above the great marble palace of Iovis, where the aged roman emperor filled his scented garden with naked boys and girls, hidden in niches and alcoves, in honor of the Gods of wildness and debauchery, of Pan and Eros and Bacchus.