by Loris James
She observes my confusion as I remain seated, staring at her open-mouthed, the book falls from my hands to the ground.
She smiles playfully and comes closer. I introduce myself, stammering like a tongue-tied, love-struck fool. “Julian Deverell,” I mutter.
And so our acquaintance begins.
Her name is Saskia von Werder.
“German?” I blush like a sixteen year-old boy, not a man of twenty two—
She smiles kindly. “My husband was German.”
“Won’t you sit down?” I manage to say. I just cannot stop staring at her. I am dumbstruck by her graceful movements and the magnetism of her eyes.
She sits down in the arbor on the wooden bench beside me, clearly enjoying my shyness and awkwardness. A delightful expression of conceit hovers about her lips. This beautiful women is used to having men fawn over her. She has probably broken the hearts of countless men. I can see that she understands her power over men and has the confidence and skill to use it.
“Did I scare you last night, Julian? You ran away like a frightened rabbit.”
“I was…” I search for the right words. Words that would not make me look a complete fool. “I was taken aback. I did not expect to come face to face with Venus in the forest.”
Again that mischievous laugh. She raises an eyebrow. “Venus?”
I feel my cheeks burn. “You remind me of the goddess of love. I’m sorry, I’m babbling.”
“As in the photograph in your book?”
I nod awkwardly.
She smiles and touches my hand as if to console me. “What are you reading?”
It is kind of her to change the subject and I picked up the book off the ground and hold it up for her to see: Justine by Marquis de Sade. The cover displays a black and white lithograph of a naked man in a forest, with two frightened, half-clothed women in his power. The women cower away from him, their breasts naked and exposed, their faces twisted with fear.
“Ah,” she sighs. “De Sade – the sadist. Do you view love as torture?”
“Where there is love, there is pain - Oscar Wilde said that.”
“I don’t agree at all,” she says decisively, shaking her head so that her curls flare up like wild flames about her face. “I prefer the serene sensuousness of the Greek ideal of love – love and fulfilment without pain.”
“Do you believe in the permanence of love?”
She shook her head. “As far as I am concerned, there is no permanence in any relationship between a man and a woman. Love is the most changeable condition in our ever-changing, unpredictable and fragile human existence. All endeavors to introduce permanence to love are impossible - despite religious ceremonies, vows, and other legalities that strive to bind us to each other forever.”
“You sound cynical.”
“Cynical? Perhaps, but a realistic nonetheless. And honest. Should I tie myself to one man whom I don’t love anymore, merely because I loved him once? No, I will love whoever pleases me, and give happiness to everyone who loves me – however fleetingly. And then I will move on. Is that heartless of me? If complete honesty in love is heartless then yes, call me callous. I am financially secure and I know that I am beautiful and that men are attracted to me. I travel the world as I please and live for the sake of my pleasure and enjoyment only. My pleasure and enjoyment. I refuse to apologize for that.”
While she speaks her eyes sparkle with a kind of seductive wickedness. I had taken hold of her hand without realizing it, and now hastily let go of it, appalled by my audacity. She, on the other hand, did not seem to notice.
“Your frankness is refreshing,” I say. “Perhaps that is what attracts me to older women: their frankness and confidence and experience of the world.” Judging by her looks, I estimate that Saskia is in her later thirties – quite a number of years old than me. In truth, she is old enough to be my mother. Curiously, the thought excites me. I am beginning to feel aroused in her company.
She is smiling at me. “Are you attracted to me?”
I nod, embarrassed.
She smiles benignly. “It’s been a long time since any man has been attracted to me. My husband was a wonderful man – we were married for several years. Not even his dreadful illness soon after our marriage could get him down. During the last months of his life he often said to me: ‘Well, have you already picked out a lover?’
“Naturally I cringed at the thought, but he was a pragmatic man. ‘Choose an attractive lover,’ he would advise, teasing me, “or preferably several. You are a splendid looking women in the fullness of life, there is no need to deny yourself the comfort of a man’s caresses on my account.’”
“And did you take a lover?” My cheeks flush at my boldness.
She looks down at her beautiful slender hands lying motionless in her lap. “No, I did not take a lover; but it was through him that I have become what I am - a woman who believes in love. Pleasurable love.”
“You are indeed a love goddess,” I say foolishly.
She laughs, seeming pleased with the description. “Which one?”
“Venus, of course.”
She laughs again, softly. “What an incurably romantic boy you are!”
“Hardly a boy,” I counter.
“Hardly more than a boy,” she says with amusement, but not unkindly. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-two.”
“A young man, then, and a beautiful one at that. I am certain that you have women swooning at your feet all the time with those soulful blue eyes and the blond curls.”
I find myself blushing again. “Hardly.”
“No girlfriends at present?” she coaxes.
“None,” I say empathetically. “Girls my own age bore me and besides, I prefer the company of my books. They are far more rewarding.” I realize how pompous that sounds and cringe inwardly.
She laughs. “Handsome and serious then,” she says teasingly.
We sit in silence for a while, then she says in a rather thoughtful tone, “Did you know that beautiful goddesses such as Venus had slaves who worshiped and adored them, and served them unquestioningly?”
“Slaves?”
“Of course,” she says playfully, “an Olympian divinity, such as I am, requires a whole army of slaves. So you better beware of me!”
“Why, are you dangerous?”
She smiles, and then says lightly, teasingly, “Because I may just demand it of you to become my slave.”
“I certainly don’t mind being ruled by a beautiful woman. Especially if she is strong willed and knows her own mind - and I love her. But where would I find such a woman?”
“Oh, that might not be as difficult as you think!” She laughs flirtatiously. “I have a real talent for tyranny - and last night in the forest you seemed startled by me – you almost seemed seriously afraid of me!”
“Quite seriously,” I agree.
“And now?”
“Now, I am more afraid of you than ever!”
We both laugh.
Chapter four
“Men always want to be a woman’s first love - women like to be a man’s last romance.” – Oscar Wilde.
We are together every day, Venus and I. We breakfast on the terrace in the mornings and we dine together in the evenings. We have the whole dining-room to ourselves, with the taciturn Mrs Wilson at our beck and call, scowling each time she delivers our meals at the table as though serving us under duress. We stifle giggles at her haughty back as she leaves the room. Saskia eats off my plate and touches my hand and, sometimes, squeezes my thigh playfully under the table. She is being openly flirtatious with me and I enjoy every moment of it. I cannot wait to see her every morning, and I hate saying good-bye to her in the evenings and going to my room alone.
Sometimes we take a picnic lunch into the garden and spread a blanket next to Venus’s pond and lie on it, talking or reading.
Sometimes we sit in the arbor chatting, or go for long walks across the meadow and in the forest. And ea
ch day I am attracted to her more and each evening I lie in my bed thinking of her in her room upstairs, just above mine. Is she asleep? How does she sleep? Naked? On her stomach? Curled up on her side? Or does she sleep on her back with her fiery red hair ablaze on her pillow?
The thought of her lying naked in her bed upstairs arouses me indescribably. I masturbate several times every night, thinking of her, my naked, perfect, beautiful Venus, goddess of my love.
Chapter Five
“Love withers with predictability; its very essence is surprise and amazement. To make love a prisoner of the mundane is to take its passion and lose it forever.” - Leo Buscaglia
It is raining this evening. The rain beats in grey melancholy fashion on the window-panes, while a fire crackles in the hearth in her room upstairs, giving a warm glow and comfort in the cold wintry night.
We are sitting in her room on the old worn sofa in front of the stone fireplace. She is sitting on the sofa and I am sitting on the floor at her feet, with my back resting against her legs. I feel quite at ease with her, and for a moment lose all my fear of this beautiful woman. Impulsively, I press her hand to my lips and kiss it and she permits it.
I am filled with a curious sensation. Am I in love with her? Infatuated? Intoxicated? I don’t know. At our first meeting I felt no lightning flashes of searing passion, and yet… her extraordinary, almost divine beauty is gradually winding magic silvery snares around my heart, growing stronger every day.
I am beginning to suffer under this burden more and more each day, and she—she merely smiles down at me like the aloof and beautiful goddess that she is.
Chapter Six
“You interest me very much, Julian,” she said to me today. Most men your age have no time for books. You’re very serious and thoughtful and sensitive and I find those qualities delightful in a man.”
This afternoon we went out together for a walk in the meadow after a thunder shower. All about us the earth steamed; mists rose up from the ground like incense and a shattered rainbow hovered in the air. The trees were still shedding drops from the rain, and sparrows were chirping joyfully in the rich foliage. It was a magical afternoon filled with the fresh fragrances of earth and rain, a kind of earthy, warm sensuality that was intoxicating to the senses. I felt reborn, as if I was seeing the world for the first time. In this woman’s company everything seems new and wonderful and exciting.
Am I in love with her? I am beginning to suspect that I am.
We cannot cross the meadow because of the wet grass. A swarm of gnats are dancing everywhere, illuminated by the sun.
I can tell that she is enjoying this magical scene.
All the garden benches along our walk are still wet, so she supports herself on my arm and we rest for a while. Her eyes are half closed and I feel the intoxicating fragrance of her warm breath on my cheek.
Suddenly I dredge up the courage and take her hand, and say, “Could you ever love me?”
Her calm green eyes rest on me for a moment, then look away across the meadow. “You’re far too young for me, Julian,” she says thoughtfully. Then she turns her face and looks at me once more. “And anyway, I would only end up breaking your heart.”
Chapter Seven
This evening I was sitting on the terrace admiring the setting sun, when Saskia’s red head suddenly peered over her the balcony of her room above. “Why don’t you come up?” she called down.
I went upstairs to her room and paused at the top of the stairs on the landing outside her door. For some reason my heart was racing. Finally I knocked very lightly on her door and she opened it and stood on the threshold.
“Come inside,” she invited.
I followed her into her bed sitting-room and sat down on the sofa in front of the fire.
“I ordered tea from the dragon lady,” she said, smiling. She engaged herself in pouring tea from the tray that had been delivered by Mrs Wilson.
I noticed that she was frowning, and there was a subtle expression of hardness about her forehead and the curve of her lips that I had not observed before. Strangely, her cold expression delighted me in some way that I did not quite understand.
Suddenly she laughed and looked up at me, her face warm and cheerful again.
“So-you want me to love you?”
“Yes,” I say softly. “I have fallen in love with you. And I am suffering more than you can imagine.”
“Suffering?” she laughed again.
I felt annihilated by that laugh.
“Dear sweet boy! Why are you suffering? You know that I I’ve grown very fond of you. We’re almost kindred spirits, you and I. We’re both drifting at the moment. We’re both searching for some meaning in our lives.”
She clasped my hand with a kind, friendly smile.
“Saskia, will you marry me?” I blurted suddenly, startled by my own words. I had not thought it in my head, yet here I was saying the words out loud. To a woman much older than I. An obviously wealthy and worldly and beautiful woman. A woman who could not possibly be interested in me.
She looked at me-how did she look at me? I think first of all with surprise, and then with a tinge of irony.
“What has given you so much courage?” she said finally.
“Courage?”
“Yes – the courage to ask me to be your wife.” She looked at me carefully. “Are you serious? Do you really wish to marry me?”
“Yes,” I replied, knowing that it was true with all my heart.
She sat down next to me and took my hand. “Well, Julian, then perhaps this is a matter for serious consideration. I have certainly come to care for you since we’ve been spending so much time together… but I warn you I am a fickle woman by nature, and just for that reason alone I take marriage very seriously. I’m afraid, knowing myself, that I would just end up hurting you.”
“Please be honest with me,” I said.
“Well then honestly, after my husband died I didn’t think I could ever love any man ever again.”
“Not even me?”
She smiled wearily. “What am I to do with you? You’re such a handsome, charming boy.”
“Do whatever you wish,” I replied, “Whatever gives you pleasure. I am yours!”
“How surprising! First you want to make me your wife, and then you offer yourself to me as a toy!”
“I love you,” I said earnestly. “I want to be part of your life – in whatever way you will allow me to be.” The words rang out awkwardly between us.
She smiled with a touch of irony. “Now we are back where we started. You love me and want to marry me, but I don’t want to enter into any marriage because I doubt the permanence of my feelings. Besides, I’m too old for you. You’re only twenty two and I am in my late thirties. If we think about it rationally, I’m actually old enough to be your mother.”
“I don’t care about that. If we love each other that’s all that counts.”
“I have already told you that when it comes to my emotions I am extremely capricious. You will only get hurt, believe me.”
“But what if I am willing to take that risk?”
“It also depends on whether I am willing to take that risk it with you,” she said, scolding me gently. “Yes, it is possible that I will marry again, but I need a strong-willed man who can dominate me, a man who will conquer me and subjugate me by his will, do you understand? When idealistic romantic young men like you fall in love they tend to become weak, pliable – subservient even. No doubt you would want to put yourself in my hands and kneel before me. But the only man whom I could really love permanently - and respect - would be a man to whom I should have to kneel.
“But take heart, Julian, I do like you. I like your seriousness and your sincerity, and I love your beauty. You have the most soulful blue eyes. Have you any idea how handsome you are? You remind me of a young and vulnerable and tragic Greek god.” She smiled gently. “Yes, perhaps I may be persuaded to love you after all.”
“You may be able
to?” My blood rose to my head and my heart began to pound with excitement. Could it ever be that this woman – this goddess – could ever love me? Would such a miracle ever be possible?
She paused a long time before carefully choosing her next words. “Let’s continue to spend our days together while we are here and see how things progress. I will grant you all the rights of a close friend, but not a lover. Do you agree?”
“Not a lover?”
“No. We shall get to know each other without having to deal with sexual issues. Sex so often clouds one’s judgement, don’t you agree? Passion and lust and desire get in the way of emotional clarity. So often, when you think you are in love with somebody, it is really little more than obsessive desire. And when the passion is spent, what remains of the grand love you thought you had? Nothing.” There was an unmistakable bitterness in her tone, as though she had experienced this first hand.
“Men, especially, confuse lust and sex with love,” she continued. “You may think you’re in love with me, Julian, but perhaps you are only in ‘lust’ with me. A young man of your age has a huge physical appetite. No doubt you are sexually attracted to me. This physical attraction can easily be misconstrued as love. That’s why I am sure that abstinence from sex, at least for the present, will give us both clarity and direction. So, do you agree to my proposal?”
“I suppose I’ll have to.”
“You don’t have to anything.”
“Well then, I want to—”
“Very well. Then we will give this ‘relationship’ of ours a try and see where it leads us.”
Chapter Eight
For ten days now I have been with her every hour of every day, except at night. She lets me hold her hand and allows me to embrace her. We go for long walks, holding hands and talking about books we’ve both read and places we have been or still wish to see.
At night I go back to my room alone, get undressed, and lie in the dark thinking of her. It seems to me I can still smell her perfume on my skin. I no longer think of Venus when I masturbate. I now have my very own red-haired goddess of love. I can only imagine how it feels to make love to that beautiful, perfect naked body. The thought of it arouses me and gives me an instant erection. My hand goes to my distended penis and I begin the slow and sensuous strokes which begin the journey to sexual gratification.