INSTALLMENT 18
Lady Xenia quivered with felt sensations, her skin like a sponge, as through each pore flowed trembles of electricity sparked by the longed-for manflesh. Her intricate latticework of passionmuscles became engorged, piece by piece, and locked together with the perfection of a well-crafted Swiss timepiece.
Like a struggling woman-sailor trying to keep her head afloat in a wildly raging tide, Xenia tried to keep mind and body apart, tried to keep her senses keen and aware, feeling the delights of each new touch from the Captain's hands, now two staves of lustfire. But engulfed by wave upon wave of rolling heat, she find herself sinking into a stupor of languid pleasure. The Captain's careful workings upon her were like so many amusements at a fair, and like a child surrounded by hobbyhorses, dancing monkeys, trained gypsy acrobats, burbling caramel, brittles of all flavors and kinds, demonstrations of archery, fireeating pygmies, dogs dressed up to look like the King of Spain, and a recreation of the battle of Lepanto carried out on a nearby pond, she couldn't control herself. Overcome, she gave way, let her head sink into the formed ripples of the Captain's chest, and felt her mind slip away.
In that moment of complete rapture, memories danced before her like a projections from a mesmerizer's lantern. She was taken back, drifting slowly into the past. As she floated like a phantom down the long hall of her personal history, a procession of lovers past seemed to dance by, shadowy figures at a masquerade. There passed before her eyes Silas Blackwater, whose dark visage and wicked laugh had in no way diminished his skills at ladyplay. Giles Von Sattle, who in the stony tower of his Austrian alpine retreat, had taken her upon a bearskin rug as thick snowfall fell beyond the windows. She saw slip before her Blaise Du Beaumont-Dupre, a seasoned Gallic mountebank whose only true words were muttered to her in Langue D'Oc across a silk pillow in the hour before dawn whilst they both lay, spent. Now passed Parson Millentorque, a man of the cloth who burned with a prophet's flame. Now Lance Corporal Seetonstall, and his commanding officer Lieutenant Dunksweer, and various nameless cockney grenadiers under their command. She saw Nigel Rigginsbone, whose famed skill as a barrister was matched only by his quickwittedness as a bedmate. N'Goki, the tribal headman of the Banditi tribe of the Congo delta. The Prince Regent himself - yes, he too had graced her with his royal touch. Baatanoor, a Mongolian steppeman fired from his drink of fermented mare's milk. Hamish MacDunnstratten, who had wielded the broadsword at Culloden, and before countless willing maidens. Red Bird, brought across the Atlantic to show the Queen the peerless form of the red-man, and who showed that and more to her Ladyship. Giuseppe D'Avriligno, whose hands were made dextrous by his constant card-playing, and whose eyepatch was a source of much debate and accusations of cheating. There passed before her Ignatio Pomerade, Eustis McIsaac, Vigiro Timbly, Eisen Hobsbadden, the nameless blacksmith of Kensington, Seamus Fallon, Ivan Krensky, Nicolo Vladinesko, Ferminteen Adanock, Kristopps Topwater, Bain Topwater, Hirod Topwater, Aldonsteen Blackwood.
But as Lady Xenia floated into the past, there was one moment that pulsed more vividly than any other. She found her mind wandering back to Violeta Tweedsmuir-Wolfington's Academy for girls. To look upon its stone frame, its wrought-iron gates, its featureless halls where young, timid girls paced about nervously and prepared for the cruel society that awaited them, one would think it was no place to find desire awakened. But there, beyond the far ballfield, was the misshapen wooden house of the groundskeeper, and his young, strapping son Marcus, barely 15 and yet ripe with masculinity.
It was there, out in the poorly-roofed bothy, between pitchforks and heaps of peatmoss, pushed up against cracking oak boards, that Lady Xenia had first found the flower of her ladyhood blossoming, first felt the ache of woman, and first found its one effective salve - the arms of a boy, coiled with formations of muscle hewn from his labor. It was there, in a tiny hovel that barely shielded from the moorwinds, that she first learned to stir, and receive.
Like a struggling woman-sailor trying to keep her head afloat in a wildly raging tide, Xenia tried to keep mind and body apart, tried to keep her senses keen and aware, feeling the delights of each new touch from the Captain's hands, now two staves of lustfire. But engulfed by wave upon wave of rolling heat, she find herself sinking into a stupor of languid pleasure. The Captain's careful workings upon her were like so many amusements at a fair, and like a child surrounded by hobbyhorses, dancing monkeys, trained gypsy acrobats, burbling caramel, brittles of all flavors and kinds, demonstrations of archery, fireeating pygmies, dogs dressed up to look like the King of Spain, and a recreation of the battle of Lepanto carried out on a nearby pond, she couldn't control herself. Overcome, she gave way, let her head sink into the formed ripples of the Captain's chest, and felt her mind slip away.
In that moment of complete rapture, memories danced before her like a projections from a mesmerizer's lantern. She was taken back, drifting slowly into the past. As she floated like a phantom down the long hall of her personal history, a procession of lovers past seemed to dance by, shadowy figures at a masquerade. There passed before her eyes Silas Blackwater, whose dark visage and wicked laugh had in no way diminished his skills at ladyplay. Giles Von Sattle, who in the stony tower of his Austrian alpine retreat, had taken her upon a bearskin rug as thick snowfall fell beyond the windows. She saw slip before her Blaise Du Beaumont-Dupre, a seasoned Gallic mountebank whose only true words were muttered to her in Langue D'Oc across a silk pillow in the hour before dawn whilst they both lay, spent. Now passed Parson Millentorque, a man of the cloth who burned with a prophet's flame. Now Lance Corporal Seetonstall, and his commanding officer Lieutenant Dunksweer, and various nameless cockney grenadiers under their command. She saw Nigel Rigginsbone, whose famed skill as a barrister was matched only by his quickwittedness as a bedmate. N'Goki, the tribal headman of the Banditi tribe of the Congo delta. The Prince Regent himself - yes, he too had graced her with his royal touch. Baatanoor, a Mongolian steppeman fired from his drink of fermented mare's milk. Hamish MacDunnstratten, who had wielded the broadsword at Culloden, and before countless willing maidens. Red Bird, brought across the Atlantic to show the Queen the peerless form of the red-man, and who showed that and more to her Ladyship. Giuseppe D'Avriligno, whose hands were made dextrous by his constant card-playing, and whose eyepatch was a source of much debate and accusations of cheating. There passed before her Ignatio Pomerade, Eustis McIsaac, Vigiro Timbly, Eisen Hobsbadden, the nameless blacksmith of Kensington, Seamus Fallon, Ivan Krensky, Nicolo Vladinesko, Ferminteen Adanock, Kristopps Topwater, Bain Topwater, Hirod Topwater, Aldonsteen Blackwood.
But as Lady Xenia floated into the past, there was one moment that pulsed more vividly than any other. She found her mind wandering back to Violeta Tweedsmuir-Wolfington's Academy for girls. To look upon its stone frame, its wrought-iron gates, its featureless halls where young, timid girls paced about nervously and prepared for the cruel society that awaited them, one would think it was no place to find desire awakened. But there, beyond the far ballfield, was the misshapen wooden house of the groundskeeper, and his young, strapping son Marcus, barely 15 and yet ripe with masculinity.
It was there, out in the poorly-roofed bothy, between pitchforks and heaps of peatmoss, pushed up against cracking oak boards, that Lady Xenia had first found the flower of her ladyhood blossoming, first felt the ache of woman, and first found its one effective salve - the arms of a boy, coiled with formations of muscle hewn from his labor. It was there, in a tiny hovel that barely shielded from the moorwinds, that she first learned to stir, and receive.
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