The Garden of Earthly Delights
As the sun shines in a crisp blue sky and birds chirp merrily, a
refreshing cool wind tickles a newly opened world, teasing and jollying it
along to grow up big and strong. Flush with colour, everything is new again.
Fresh and young, demanding the attention of the senses, an entire world lives
briefly but ecstatically for sunshine, with no recollection of the past cruel
winter. Flowers blossom, each with their own little tricks to vie for the
industry of the bee, open and inviting in dewy anticipation and alluring scent.
And in their eager exchange is created the sweet stickiness of honey, to the
benefit of both flower and bee.
Spring is indeed sprung.
It is hard to avoid a good mood on such a fine spring day; especially
hard when there are surprise gifts! In thinking of it, my hand wanders to my
hair, where the two lovely long hairpins, like deadly fine chopsticks, now hold
my locks in place under my straw hat. It was a nice touch that one was carved
at its top with the sweet face of a vixen, and the other with her bushy curled
tail. It gives the delightful illusion that her wooden form nestles warmly and
securely within my bun. As The Professor watches my absent-minded movement, I
notice a little curl to his lips. Yes, he should well be pleased. For such a
stern gentleman, he picks his gifts with insightful tenderness and care.
With warming thoughts to match the warming weather, I lean in a little
towards him as I hold his arm, letting my breath tickle his cheek and ear as I
comment on how the lovely day has brought so many people out to the University
town’s botanic gardens. It is a change for us to take our walk here; he
normally comes up to London, where our walks are often part of a larger social
circle of planned “accidental” meetings. This suddenly feels so much more
intimate, despite still being in public. Our past meetings at the University
have been sordidly brief, with one purpose in mind. I had hoped having more
time today might give me a better opportunity to locate the information that I
sought equally with the pleasure to be found in his rooms. This could be my
opportunity to deliver some vital intelligence to the Government, providing I
could locate The Professor’s journals they so desperately sought. So, imagine
my double frustration that he wanted to meet outside, here, away from his
rooms!
We pass through an old iron gate and along neat rows of bursting
floral colour. He lets my arm drop and stoops to pluck an unopened rose bud,
placing it in the lapel of his jacket. Laughing at its crookedness, I move to
face him and with lithe fingers manage to straighten it for him. I am a little
startled to find his arms reaching around my waist – we are after all in public
– and I am a married woman. Well, lately married in name only, because for the
sake of my assignment, I have been allowing The Professor to “court” me; and
caught me he has indeed. But I still cannot help my British upbringing, and
feeling the impropriety of his actions, I diplomatically manoeuvre myself
sideways out of his grasp.
I then see exactly what he was up to, as he surprises me with a
fragrant red rose, plucked from behind my very back while I was otherwise
occupied with his jacket. I smile. It is an exquisite blood red, and its rich
velvety texture is soft and alluring. Taking it from him, I breathe its heady
scent deeply, almost kissing the bloom. Its overlapping petals, in perfect
symmetry, open to reveal a dense heart – a promise of further suppressed
pleasure. Looking up, I catch his appraising eye. He is always hard to read
behind that well-fixed mask, although the way his eyes gleam suggest I should
not abandon all hope for the type of pleasurable afternoon I had come to expect
with him.
A surge of spring fancy courses through my veins and I hold his gaze
with my shining eyes. Slowly, and I hope seductively, I twirl the rose in my
fingers, letting it softly brush my slightly parted lips, which I moisten with
the tip of my tongue before giving him my best Vixen smile, thanking him for
yet another gift. With the customary slight curl of his lips that is as close
to a smile as he will give, he proffers an elbow, which I take to resume our
leisurely walk around the grounds, continuing to twirl the red rose before me
as we stroll.
We follow the path out of the formal rose gardens and walk towards the
lake, twinkling in the sunlight with the intensity of an SOS sent from a
flashing mirror. I sometimes think I am beyond saving, so enthralled am I by
the task the Government has given me to get to know this man. I have read his
file, but find it hard to reconcile the cruelty and disdain described there
with the tender, albeit wickedly playful, man I have got to know. Between my
musings and our discussion over matters philosophical, literary, and
delightfully trivial, I pay little heed to our destination until he stops, and
looking around I see we are alone under the dappled light of a grove of newly
green trees. I can still hear the children playing with their toy boats on the
lake, their mothers calling out warnings to them not to fall. Not too far away,
hurrying cars drone as they pass along the nearby motorway, the modern bee of
society today.
I am about to comment on this when, sliding his arm around my waist,
he pulls me roughly against him, the heat of his lips a scorching brand that
marks my own as he steals a quick kiss, right there in public, with no more
than the leaves to defend us from scrutiny. He releases me just as quickly. The
shock is evident on my face at being ambushed this way, yet his audacity
thrills me. Despite tingling from the heat of his touch, I know this game, and
I do not want him to know how he makes me burn for him. “Really, Sir!” I
struggle to feign annoyance and hide the flush of excitement from such boldness.
I am rewarded with the slightest of frowns from him, and cannot help but
relent, smiling coyly over the rose.
I know I am still thinking about that burning touch – does this come
across in my gaze? Apparently, for he steps towards me, and teasingly I step
back. He advances another step, and I retreat. We continue to dance our tango
until my back comes up against one of the large tree trunks, startling me.
While I am distracted he makes his checkmate move. I am trapped by a hand on
each side of the trunk from me, while he leans in knocking my hat slightly, as
his head stoops under its wide brim to gently kiss my ear and nibble down my
neck. His touch is so light, I am not sure if I imagine it, if maybe I only
feel the kiss of a gentle breeze. “We mustn’t – not here,” is all I can feebly
muster, despite the pleasure I feel from the thrill of this little chase and
the willing way my body presses forward into him.
His hands move to my waist as he gently pushes me back against the
trunk with his body, and his lips press softly onto mine. He teasingly caresses
up and down my sides, a feather touch against the outside edge of my breasts,
there and gone like a dim dream half-forgotten upon waking. Trapping him softly
within my arms, my lips part to seek more of him. I can feel myself flushing
with the pleasure of his touch and taste, thoroughly lost to the sensation of
him in this moment. Suddenly, the leaves rustle violently on the next tree.
Startled, but both reacting with the same lightning reflexes, he quickly steps
away, breaking the kiss, turning, and bending to tie his shoelace, as I
casually lean waiting against the tree and play with my hat and hair, readjusting
both with a studied decorum that belies the racing beat of my heart. A quick
glance reveals a child chasing a ball to its stop close by. I smile at him, all
puffing and jolly faced. He retrieves it with an innocent wave to us both as he
runs back out of the grove again.
The blood still courses through my veins and finally looking at my
accomplice, I can’t help but giggle, excited at nearly getting caught, even if
only by a child. He has a way of making danger such an aphrodisiac. Stepping to
my side, he discretely takes my hand - hidden slightly in the folds of my
skirt. Tilting his head to one side, he whispers into my ear “Now, Vixen, where
were we?” As if in answer, the sound of children playing and adults
remonstrating echoes around the trees, fading in and out unpredictably with the
wind. Frowning, I scan the grove and notice a dense patch of large bushes at
the far end. “Come.” It is my most authoritative Mummy voice. I stride towards
them, not letting go his hand.
He follows close behind as I push my way through the barrier of the
first bush’s dense branches. It is as I suspected: there is a small gap. We are
much better hidden here from small – and large – prying eyes and less exposed
than under the trees. I stop suddenly and turn, both of us grabbing at each
other to regain our balance as he bumps into me in the confined space. While
not a planned embrace, having managed to nearly assume such a position, neither
of us is about to relinquish it. He raises his eyebrows querying my next move. Smiling,
I respond by lightly tracing a path across his cheek and mine with the rose,
scenting us both with its soft caress. As he takes my chin and lifts it,
looking into my eyes, he places a delicate kiss on the tip of my nose and
observes, “You seem touched by wickedness today, Madame.”
With a grin, I reply, “Oh, dear Sir: I believe you’ve hardly touched me
at all!” I interrupt his chuckle with a hungry kiss. I feel the twitch of his
lips in a rare smile, only briefly, before they utterly consume me, like I am a
condemned man’s last meal. Our bodies mould into each other, arms entwined,
hands caressing. It is a kiss that tells a story: filled with passion and
persistence, discovery and daring. I do not seek any clues to its denouement,
hoping I have a multi-volume tome of weighty and erudite substance that will
take an eternity to complete. His arms tighten about my waist as his hands span
across my back, gradually applying pressure so that he can squeeze me slowly
but surely against his sturdy chest. My hands slip under his jacket, snaking
between our bodies as I feel the contours of his chest against the thin
disguise of his shirt. Greedily, I outline his pectoral muscles and slide my
hands down his stomach. In response, he slides one hand down the length of my
back to cup my bottom, pressing my hips into his and slightly squeezing as you
would to test a ripe peach. There is now a serious risk of burning down the
library, and as the kiss reaches an incendiary climax we finally break apart,
panting, letting the gentle cooling breeze flow around us.
I start to peel off his jacket – to his protests that he doesn’t mind
the heat. Fixing him with a “surely you can read my mind” look, I simply state
that I will not ruin my skirt by lying directly on the moss beneath us. I doubt
I will soon forget the amusing look of surprise on his face. What did he
expect, that I would exit such a kiss ready to stroll pleasantly around the
garden again? I have been delighted to feel quite clearly against my abdomen
that he is himself in no fit state to appear publicly!
Spreading the jacket on the hidden mossy patch under the bushes, I sit
on it, and tug him down to kneel between my thighs. There are glimpses of blue
sky through the branch tops and the scent is cool and fresh with just a hint of
rose from the bloom now forgotten beside me. My heart is racing. I hope we are
secluded enough; should we get caught, explaining exactly why I needed bail to
my son Sherlock would prove somewhat awkward. As he kneels before me I dare to
imagine him in worship; not of me – although that would be nice – but of the
awakening that spring brings, of the relationship that has blossomed, unfolding
petals full of good words and viciously suggestive conversations, at long last
reaping what they sow. I tug him by his shirt towards me and stretch my neck to
its full length to taste his lips again.
As he deepens the kiss, his hands squeeze my shoulders. I reach down
to his trousers, teasingly unzipping the fly as slowly as possible. Is it my
imagination, or does anticipation increase the pressure of his hold on me? His
lips still burn. I slide my hand inside, always flattered and thrilled at what
awaits. With blessed release his strong hands relent as he slides them down the
length of my arms and then my legs to hastily ruffle my skirt up around my
hips, soon finding naked thigh between stocking top and suspender belt.
Grasping this little bit of exposed flesh more firmly he pulls my hips towards
him, the repositioning breaking off our kiss. My heart leaps at what we are
about to do. Our eyes lock and with only momentary suspense and exposure, he
easily pushes aside the poor excuse of a barrier that midnight blue lace
presents, and as I lie back, I draw him down; the weight of him on me
delectable, with pressure from within and without. I love that he has no
compunction in sparing me his full weight. I dare to muse how unlike my husband
this is, who always treated me like some frail and delicate notion of woman.
This is raw, natural, thrilling, forceful, lusty. Powerful. I am both under his
spell and not in the least bit diminished by it.
My chin reaches for blue sky, head tipped back, my hat coming off in
the process, and I arch my back in response to the sensation of him, pressing
my stomach into his. Our bodies being still fully clothed, there is no other
flesh in contact, save that which is most ardent, and it concentrates my
awareness of him, providing a focus from which even the chirping birds cannot
detract. I succumb to his rhythm, adding my own sostenuto to his sforzando.
His fingers dig into my flesh as he curls one of my legs further around him,
shifting himself slightly higher to deeper effect. I let out a low moan, barely
audible, but still quickly stifled by his hand across my mouth. “Shhhh!” He
stops, becoming completely still, and I am suddenly bereft of my musical
interlude.
And then I hear it too. Voices. Not far off, but rapidly coming
closer. It sounds like university students; they are in heated debate about
whether this shortcut would really take them out of the gardens without needing
to climb a fence. My eyes widen as I look into the Professor’s – dark fiery
pools in the dappled light, and I fleetingly wonder at the better option: to
burn or drown in them, before the scuffle of nearby shoes brings me back to our
dilemma. Should we announce our presence and try to bluff our way out, or hold
still and hope we pass unnoticed? Silently seeking an answer from his face, I
realise too late the meaning of his pre-emptive smirk and am taken completely
unawares by the sudden, single, deep piercing pleasure that he chooses for a
response – his anticipation of my vocal response well planned by the
simultaneous firmer clamping of his hand across my mouth.
I am not sure which of us is more surprised, though, at my instinctive
reaction instead to bite down. I am sure I have left a perfect set of teeth
marks above and below his little finger’s knuckle. His eyes flash, and I wonder
if I have crossed the line and made him angry. It must hurt, and I can see it
takes all his control to not cry out as he bites his lower lip to hold in his
own pain. The voices are right by us now, and this time I am prepared for the
thrill of his dare, for I know one passionate bite will not deter him. And as
he purses his lips in anticipation of further pain, I respond with my own
surprise – gripping him tightly at the height of the thrust in a softer bite,
where there is no danger of teeth; enclosing myself around him like a Venus fly
trap on sensing its meaty prey. And the effect causes him to take in a sharp
breath as his eyes close with the concentration of unexpected pleasure where he
had anticipated pain.
The students
stop – merely centimetres from the bushes. “What was that?” asks one.
“Ooh, there
aren’t snakes in here are there?” asks the second.
“Nah, just
birds prob’ly – you know what it’s like in spring” comments another. Someone
laughs.
“I knew this
shortcut was a bad idea!”
And so their argument resumes as they walk on, and ours, with this
heightened thrill – all closeted in the verdant growth and floral blooms that
surround us – seems likely to reach its resolution long before theirs.
Alone again, we can resume our spring rite. However, he does not
remove his hand from my mouth and there is some subtle change in him, brought
about maybe as the adrenaline courses and quickens in his veins, or sparked
perhaps by annoyance at my usurping him at his own game. Twice. In contrast to
such tenderness under the tree, this now becomes wild, rough and forceful, as
he holds me down with added strength pinning me to the ground, unable to move.
If we are seen, it would appear he was forcing himself upon me, except for the
telltale way my arms cling to his shoulders. But I am not a passive victim in
this sudden onset of violence. I do not merely watch him behind my
ever-tightening gag, as he pumps out what I suspect is his punishment, judging
by the fine red line of his pursed lips, and the light in his eyes that seems
to spark more than gleam.
I refuse to take it lying down – figuratively speaking of course – and
I try to buck, and continue to bite harder. He could, of course, relent in his
force and remove the impetus for my violent retorts; that would in turn release
me from my corporeal gag and spare his hand its physical torment. By the taste,
I am sure I have broken the skin. But he is not like that. And I suddenly
realise that it has been this very darkness all along, this inexplicable depth
and complexity, which attracts me to him. To my surprise, I find the violence
exciting. I am thrilled by the fear of his force, and my own complicit
wickedness in eliciting such punishment. And it should feel more of a
punishment for me, without the usual romantic distractions: no kissing, no
caresses, no tender whispers, just the strength of his urgency as it batters
and pummels, wild with the possibility of being discovered yet.
His other hand has not let go of my thigh, manipulating the angle of
my hips, sinking his fingers so much harder now into the soft flesh, pulling me
down forcefully to counter each of his fast upward thrusts. Our whole bodies
reverberate with his force. The glimpsing thought we might recklessly injure
each other just adds to the wicked thrill. I want to succumb to violent
release, but do not want such inscrutable madness to end. It seems some dark
primordial urge has taken control, taken over, seeking only the same purpose as
the birds and bees around us. Breaking the spell, his hands suddenly release
me, and pushing against the soft moss, he levers himself up, head thrown back
as he pushes impossibly deeper to the accompaniment of his soft groan. My
senses are so alive as I hear him, smell him, feel him, watch him in his
pleasure. I want to taste him so badly – lips red and parted, as I imagine my
tongue thrust deep and long into his mouth, every part of me quivering in
anticipation.
But, no! I suddenly realise what my true punishment is, as he
withdraws and rolls to my side panting. I lie back stunned, my body still
craving to take him into me, hot, thick, and moist – to kiss him with the
blazing passion of spring and experience the shuddering violence of life itself.
I know he is doing it on purpose, as he has always taken such delight in
eliciting my own. There has always been passion between us, and sometimes an
intensity that runs into Machiavellian depths, but it was always accompanied,
ironically, with care. I hear the finality of his fly zip up, and with a soft
sigh that admits to the acceptance of my punishment, I sit up and rearrange my
clothes, wincing a little as I brush past my bruised thigh. He has been
wickedly playful in the past, but this is a first glimpse of cruelty. I search
my mind to discover the possible strategic advantage behind such a decision
now, but its purpose is lost on me.
Unsure how to proceed, I steal a quick glance at him. He lies in our
little hollow, eyes closed to the glimpses of blue sky through green leaves,
looking every bit as serene as the fluffy white clouds that drift by. He has a
smug upturn to his lips, like there is a joke only he gets. I notice his
clasped hands, his fingers softly rubbing across the back of one hand. Oh, did
I truly injure his hand? I must have gasped with my realisation, as his eyes
flicker open, and he catches the direction of my gaze. He is clearly amused by
something; such a twinkle as I have never seen in his eyes before! He jumps up
and holds out his hand to me. I notice the red rose for the first time again.
It had somehow got trapped beneath us, squashed out of shape, its petals
scattered, like angry red scars across a verdant soft bed. I feel forlorn
seeing it abandoned so – a sign of my own plight.
Taking his hand to stand, I don’t release it immediately, instead
holding it closer to examine in mine. Sure enough, I see the small, square
indentations from my teeth still on the palm and the red bruises over the
knuckle. Gently massaging the marked skin between my hands, lightly kissing it,
I apologise for the damage I have wrought. He chuckles, and comments that he
minds neither the Vixen’s bite nor bark. I could indeed bark at him now,
feeling the juxtaposition of my frustration against his sudden jauntiness. What
is the meaning of it? His eyes still twinkle, and looking at his hand, then at
me, he suggests the remedy we both seek is back in his rooms. I am surprised,
as it is still rather early, but delighted at the prospect and a little curious
as to his intentions. His smiling response is as enigmatic as always: “I have
in mind, Madame, an activity that requires all of your allure, the remaining
light of day, and a door that locks.”
Well, that sounds more promising.
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