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[5/21/03 1:50:43 AM]
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'I take it this wasn't a formal party?' I pour the wine.
'Sort of fancy-dress; I went as a loose woman but I got tight.' She holds her
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hand up in front of her mouth as she laughs. She curtsies when she takes her
glass.
'Well, you look stunning, Abberlaine,' I tell her soberly (another curtsy).
She sighs and runs a hand through her hair, then turns, walking away with
measured steps, tapping an old tall cupboard of some dark, heavily varnished
wood, running her long gloved fingers over it; she drinks her wine. I watch
her as she moves round the covered and uncovered furniture of the room,
pulling open doors, looking in drawers, lifting the corners of sheets, rubbing
her hand over dusty glass-fronts and stroking the lines of inlays, all the
time humming and taking small sips from her glass. I feel forgotten for a
moment, but not insulted.
'I hope you don't mind me coming here," she says, blowing dust off a standard
lamp's shade.
'Of course not. It's nice to see you.'
She turns; that smile again. Then she looks, frowning, at the grey sea and
rainclouds beyond the long windows, and puts her hands to her bare upper arms,
still holding her glass. She sips from it; it is a curious, oddly touching
action; a small, snuggling, almost childish gesture, quite unconsciously
beguiling.
'I'm cold.' She turns to look at me, and there is something almost mournful
about her grey eyes. 'Can you close the shutters? It looks so cold out there.
I'll put the fire on, shall I?'
'Of course.' I put my glass down and go to the shutters, slow-slamming the
tall wooden boards over the dark day; Abberlaine persuades an old, hissing gas
fire to light, then squats down on her haunches in front of it, gloved hands
held out to it. I sit on a sheet-shrouded chair nearby. She watches the
flames. The fire hisses.
After a while, she seems to wake from some daydream, and says, still looking
at the fire, 'Did you sleep all right?'
'Yes I did, thank you; very comfortable.' She has left her glass lying on the
tile fire surround; she lifts it, drinks. Her stockings have a criss-cross
design, small Xs within larger Xs; a stretched lettering of sheer material,
moulded to her legs in curved patterns of stress; pulling here, lightened by
the shown flesh beneath; relaxing there, where the stockings go dark, the
compressing grammar of those Xs and Xs densed over the girl's pale skin.
'Good,' she says, quietly. She nods slowly, still fire-fascinated, the red
dress reflecting the yellow-orange flames like a ruby mirror. 'Good,' she
repeats.
The warmth of the fire heats her skin; the smell of her perfume builds slowly
in the air between us. She breathes in deeply, holds it, then sighs out, still
staring at the hissing fire.
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I drain my glass, pick up the bottle; I go over to the girl and sit beside her
to fill her glass and mine. Her perfume is sweet and strong. She comes down
from her haunches to sit on the floor, legs to one side, one arm behind her,
supporting her. She watches me fill the glasses. I put the bottle down,
watching her face;
her lipstick is slightly smudged in one corner. She sees me looking. One
eyebrow arches slowly. I say, 'Your lipstick ...'
It is the handkerchief which she had monogrammed I take from my pocket. She
leans forward to let me wipe the offending red mark. I feel the breath from
her nose on my fingers as I touch her lips through the fabric.
'There.'
'I'm afraid,' she says, 'I left some on quite a few collars.' Her voice is
quiet and low, almost a murmur.
'Oh,' I say, mockingly disapproving, shaking my head, 'I wouldn't go kissing
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collars.'
She shakes her head. 'No?'
'No.' I come closer to her, to gently touch her full glass with mine.
'What, then?' Her voice does not go quieter; it takes on another resonance
instead; conspiratorial, knowing, even ironic. This is invitation enough; I
haven't exactly thrown myself at her.
I kiss her, just lightly, watching her eyes (and she kisses back, lightly, and
watches mine). She tastes faintly of wine and something savoury; also a hint
of cigar smoke. I press forward a little and put my free hand to her waist,
feeling her warmth through the smooth red satin; the fire hisses busily behind
me, warming my back. I move my mouth slowly over hers, tasting her lips,
brushing her teeth; her tongue comes out to meet mine. She moves, straining
away to one side for a moment so that I think she is drawing away (her brows
crease), but she is just reaching for a place to put her glass down; then she
holds me by the shoulders, eyes closing. Her breath comes a little quicker
against my cheek and I kiss her more deeply, abandoning my own glass on a
chair-arm.
Her hair is fine and smells of that musky perfume, her waist feels even more
slim than it looks, her breasts move within the red dress, held but not
confined by something she wears beneath the satin. Her stockings are smooth to
the touch, her thighs warm; she hugs me, grips me, then pushes away, puts her
hands to either side of my head and looks at me, her bright gaze going from
eye to eye. Her nipples form little red mounds under the satin. Her mouth is
wet, smeared red. She gives a little shuddering laugh, swallows, still
breathing hard. 'I didn't think you would be so... passionate, John,'she says,
through-her breath.
'I didn't think you would be so easily fooled.'
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A little later: 'Here. Here. Not the bed, it'll be too cold: here.'
'Is there anything you have to do first?'
'What? Oh, no, no. Just ... oh come on, take that damn jacket off, Orr ...
Shall I leave this stuff on?'
'Well, why not?'
Abberlaine Arrol's body is encased in blackness, strapped and ribbed with
obsidian silks. Her stockings attach to a sort of front-laced silk corset;
another pattern of Xs form a cantilevered stripe from pubis to just below
where a separate brassiere of sheer silk, transparent as her stockings, cups
her neat, firm breasts; she shows me where it unfastens in front; her
cami-knickers - black gauze over the deeper black curls - stay on, loose
enough. We sit together, kissing slowly, not moving yet, after I first enter
her; she sits there upon me, stockinged legs round my rump, long-gloved arms
beneath mine, gripping my shoulders. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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