These stories are primarily for an audience older than 18. They contain adult themes.
The Emancipation of Elanora Pickle
The new year started with a buzz.
“Have you seen the new bursar?” Mr Thistlethwaite said at morning tea. “Miss Summer. A slip of a thing. Legs to die for. Could be a movie star!” He was talking to Mr Smythe, Master of Mathematics. “In with a chance, eh, Smythe! She’s meant to be a wiz at accounts. Revolutionised the fee system apparently. All up front now! Cash!”
Smythe looked up from his paper. “Up front? How‘d she manage that?”
Thistlethwaite laughed. “Deals directly with the fathers. Insists on it. They melt like pocketed chocolate.”
“’bout time we had something decent to look at.” They stared across at Miss Pickle in her trouser suit and comfortable shoes. “Poor woman,” smirked Smythe. “Wouldn’t know what to do with a skirt!”
Elanora Pickle had taught the thankless daughters of wealthy bankers and industrialists for ten years. History. She was thorough and efficient. Highly predictable.
“Boring as batshit.” Thistlethwaite had said and all agreed. No one ever inquired about Miss Pickle’s weekends or holidays. They imagined her pouring over her papers well into the night. No social life at all.
It was a shock when Miss Summer joined them at lunch. Thistlethwaite and Smythe made room for her at the table. “Shove over Pickle!”
Elanora blushed as her eyes fell upon the curves and smile of the new bursar.
“Thankyou,” Miss Summer said softly, but she had not said it to the men. Instead she held the gaze of Miss Pickle firmly in her own.
Elanora felt her heart race and her cheeks grow hot. “Excuse me,” with hands shaking and tea cup rattling, she got to her feet. “I have some papers to mark.” Miss Summer blushed.
As Elanora left the room she heard Smythe laughing. “Don’t worry about Pickle, Miss Summer, she’s a lost cause.”
The next day Miss Summer was waiting at the table. “Miss Pickle,” she smiled. “Will you join me?”
Elanora froze. Her heart thundered in her chest. “I….” she stammered.
Miss Summer leaned forward in her chair, a curious expression on her face. Slowly her finger pushed forward what Elanora now saw was a steaming cup of tea. “Russian Caravan,” she whispered. Elanora looked up from the tea, confused. Miss Summer’s smile broadened. “For escape.”
Miss Pickle felt her blood rocket through her veins. She looked at Miss Summer: her face exquisite, young and fresh and impossibly beautiful. In that moment she knew if she sat there, beside her, drinking in her perfume and hearing her voice, watching the curve of her mouth and those deep red lips, she would be unable to control herself.
“Thankyou,” managed Miss Pickle. “But I can’t.”
Miss Summer studied her face for a moment. Her lips opened. “Tomorrow, Elanora.” She blew Miss Pickle a kiss. “Tomorrow.”
Sleep avoided Miss Pickle that night. By morning she was tired and pale.
"God Pickle!” frowned Smythe. “You look a fright!”
“Pickle!” announced Thistlethwaite bursting through the door. “You’re for it now! Summer wants to see you!”
Smythe frowned as she took her cup to the sink. “Probably give you a good seeing to. You could at least try to be sociable. Make some sort of effort!” As Elanora left the room she heard Smythe gloating. “That Summer’s hot for me. This morning I asked her if she’d like any help with her books. She told me to come back this afternoon after she returns from the bank. You know there’s not one school fee outstanding. That girl’s worth her weight in gold!”
They didn’t hear the click of the handle as Elanora Pickle closed the door.
No-one noticed an hour later as Miss Pickle grabbed her coat and exited the building. She wouldn’t have classes until the afternoon. Nor did anyone question Miss Summer as she slipped out of her office five minutes after that. She was carrying her hat and a briefcase. Banking she’d written on a sheet of paper on her desk.
At first people had wondered about the two women who had lived for years at number 36. Sisters they’d said and everyone had nodded with relief. Few wondered when they left for the airport in a taxi. One carried a briefcase.
“Paris. First class.” said the one with movie star looks as she played with the fingers of the other. “Miss Pickle, I’ll be giving you a good seeing-to!”
“Miss Summer,” laughed Miss Pickle, kicking off her sensible shoes. “You’re a very naughty girl!”
The new year started with a buzz.
“Have you seen the new bursar?” Mr Thistlethwaite said at morning tea. “Miss Summer. A slip of a thing. Legs to die for. Could be a movie star!” He was talking to Mr Smythe, Master of Mathematics. “In with a chance, eh, Smythe! She’s meant to be a wiz at accounts. Revolutionised the fee system apparently. All up front now! Cash!”
Smythe looked up from his paper. “Up front? How‘d she manage that?”
Thistlethwaite laughed. “Deals directly with the fathers. Insists on it. They melt like pocketed chocolate.”
“’bout time we had something decent to look at.” They stared across at Miss Pickle in her trouser suit and comfortable shoes. “Poor woman,” smirked Smythe. “Wouldn’t know what to do with a skirt!”
Elanora Pickle had taught the thankless daughters of wealthy bankers and industrialists for ten years. History. She was thorough and efficient. Highly predictable.
“Boring as batshit.” Thistlethwaite had said and all agreed. No one ever inquired about Miss Pickle’s weekends or holidays. They imagined her pouring over her papers well into the night. No social life at all.
It was a shock when Miss Summer joined them at lunch. Thistlethwaite and Smythe made room for her at the table. “Shove over Pickle!”
Elanora blushed as her eyes fell upon the curves and smile of the new bursar.
“Thankyou,” Miss Summer said softly, but she had not said it to the men. Instead she held the gaze of Miss Pickle firmly in her own.
Elanora felt her heart race and her cheeks grow hot. “Excuse me,” with hands shaking and tea cup rattling, she got to her feet. “I have some papers to mark.” Miss Summer blushed.
As Elanora left the room she heard Smythe laughing. “Don’t worry about Pickle, Miss Summer, she’s a lost cause.”
The next day Miss Summer was waiting at the table. “Miss Pickle,” she smiled. “Will you join me?”
Elanora froze. Her heart thundered in her chest. “I….” she stammered.
Miss Summer leaned forward in her chair, a curious expression on her face. Slowly her finger pushed forward what Elanora now saw was a steaming cup of tea. “Russian Caravan,” she whispered. Elanora looked up from the tea, confused. Miss Summer’s smile broadened. “For escape.”
Miss Pickle felt her blood rocket through her veins. She looked at Miss Summer: her face exquisite, young and fresh and impossibly beautiful. In that moment she knew if she sat there, beside her, drinking in her perfume and hearing her voice, watching the curve of her mouth and those deep red lips, she would be unable to control herself.
“Thankyou,” managed Miss Pickle. “But I can’t.”
Miss Summer studied her face for a moment. Her lips opened. “Tomorrow, Elanora.” She blew Miss Pickle a kiss. “Tomorrow.”
Sleep avoided Miss Pickle that night. By morning she was tired and pale.
"God Pickle!” frowned Smythe. “You look a fright!”
“Pickle!” announced Thistlethwaite bursting through the door. “You’re for it now! Summer wants to see you!”
Smythe frowned as she took her cup to the sink. “Probably give you a good seeing to. You could at least try to be sociable. Make some sort of effort!” As Elanora left the room she heard Smythe gloating. “That Summer’s hot for me. This morning I asked her if she’d like any help with her books. She told me to come back this afternoon after she returns from the bank. You know there’s not one school fee outstanding. That girl’s worth her weight in gold!”
They didn’t hear the click of the handle as Elanora Pickle closed the door.
No-one noticed an hour later as Miss Pickle grabbed her coat and exited the building. She wouldn’t have classes until the afternoon. Nor did anyone question Miss Summer as she slipped out of her office five minutes after that. She was carrying her hat and a briefcase. Banking she’d written on a sheet of paper on her desk.
At first people had wondered about the two women who had lived for years at number 36. Sisters they’d said and everyone had nodded with relief. Few wondered when they left for the airport in a taxi. One carried a briefcase.
“Paris. First class.” said the one with movie star looks as she played with the fingers of the other. “Miss Pickle, I’ll be giving you a good seeing-to!”
“Miss Summer,” laughed Miss Pickle, kicking off her sensible shoes. “You’re a very naughty girl!”
The Verandah
Light paints the verandah with a warmth I knew as a child. It comforts me, and deceives me, this winter sun. I sit here on the wicker chair we bought together not so long ago and I’m afraid to move.
To move would be to step towards the future, but I cannot. I will sit here today, as I did yesterday, and try to convince myself that you are still alive.
You were my story teller, the keeper of my history. All I am and all I was has stopped with your breathing and I don’t know how to go forward. To go backwards is to see you struggle on the floor, grappling with a death you did not understand.
Long ribbons of sunlight splash now upon the garden, dripping golden heat into the winter-chilled soil. You loved the garden and the roses we planted are stretching against the lattice, sending green and burgundy shoots towards the sky. Can you see them? Do you watch the weeds of pumpkin and tomato breaking through the mulch to compete with the blue-flowered rosemary and purple daisy? Are you shaking your head and wondering when I will weed the bed I put in for you only a few months ago? Do you see me as I sit here, wearing your pyjamas until they are yellowed with grief and time?
The house grows dusty. Your cigarettes and lighter are where you left them. Your bed, your chair, your books, the little notes you wrote daily… all unchanged… as though they are waiting for your voice to animate them. Only you could give them life.
I have not washed your sheets and I asked the hospital for your clothes – that favourite dressing gown they cut from you here, trying to keep you living.
I called to you then. Told you everything would be alright. I placed my mouth on yours to breath my own life into you. My love into you. I felt your saliva mingle with my own. Warm and sweet. Mother’s milk.
I did not taste Death. But I felt it waiting. Close. In the air around your warm body. It had waited in the corners of the room for weeks. Patient and assured. You had seen it and warned me, but I would not speak of it. Though I felt its breath in your fear.
The jessemine will scent the garden with the sweetest air in the Spring. You loved to smell it, taking in long, deep breaths of its orange perfume and saying how lovely it was. Will you smell it, then, when its little buds crack open to this light and radiate into the garden? Will the perfume I have grown to love so much wound my senses like poison because you won’t be with me, here, on the verandah; making every day safe… telling me that you love me, that I am your little girl?
You were protection for me long after I grew tall and old enough to have no excuses. You were my sanction, the blessing on my life. You knew my secrets and accepted every aspect of the choices I have made. Some may never have understood your open-mindedness, your gentle acceptance of the life I chose to lead. But they do not know me as you knew me. They did not know you as I knew you. Their wounds will not have the same shape or depth as the wound of my grief. They will not lose as much blood.
Wisteria survives long after the frame on which it is stretched has rotted into the ground. Its branches are strong and able to support the weight of heavy purple blossoms. It thrives on the pruning of its limbs. In tribute to its frame it follows the line and form which gave it shape. Growing. Enhancing. Building itself into an object of beauty.
Did you think it would be the same for me?
It is strange how all these years of growing have resulted in this frozen child: broken and foetal from the winter of your absence. The elastic years snap me back to my beginnings and leave me helpless and vulnerable. No longer adult in a world stripped of you.
The full weight of the years to come press me to this chair. Crushing, black years. Perfume will be poured into these open wounds every Spring. Sharp orange and thorny rose. Winter’s hands will claw my throat and drag me yearly to this place and the sound of your silence. Night’s dark heart will beat the pulse of every hour your chair remains empty. I will rot with this wood and this cane as pumpkin vines fill the garden and tomatoes choke the daisies. I will dissolve into the patina of light upon the wall.
The papers have collected, unread, on the table. Testimony that the world has kept turning and days have passed. But not for me. I sit here, disconnected from the world, contained in my grief. The sun will go down in a few hours and I will go inside. Tomorrow I will take my place on the verandah... and wait.
siobhan colman 1995
published in 2Flaunt 2009
What you've just read is probably my most personal piece. For a long time after my mother died I couldn't write at all. And then, when i could, this found its way on to the page.
Light paints the verandah with a warmth I knew as a child. It comforts me, and deceives me, this winter sun. I sit here on the wicker chair we bought together not so long ago and I’m afraid to move.
To move would be to step towards the future, but I cannot. I will sit here today, as I did yesterday, and try to convince myself that you are still alive.
You were my story teller, the keeper of my history. All I am and all I was has stopped with your breathing and I don’t know how to go forward. To go backwards is to see you struggle on the floor, grappling with a death you did not understand.
Long ribbons of sunlight splash now upon the garden, dripping golden heat into the winter-chilled soil. You loved the garden and the roses we planted are stretching against the lattice, sending green and burgundy shoots towards the sky. Can you see them? Do you watch the weeds of pumpkin and tomato breaking through the mulch to compete with the blue-flowered rosemary and purple daisy? Are you shaking your head and wondering when I will weed the bed I put in for you only a few months ago? Do you see me as I sit here, wearing your pyjamas until they are yellowed with grief and time?
The house grows dusty. Your cigarettes and lighter are where you left them. Your bed, your chair, your books, the little notes you wrote daily… all unchanged… as though they are waiting for your voice to animate them. Only you could give them life.
I have not washed your sheets and I asked the hospital for your clothes – that favourite dressing gown they cut from you here, trying to keep you living.
I called to you then. Told you everything would be alright. I placed my mouth on yours to breath my own life into you. My love into you. I felt your saliva mingle with my own. Warm and sweet. Mother’s milk.
I did not taste Death. But I felt it waiting. Close. In the air around your warm body. It had waited in the corners of the room for weeks. Patient and assured. You had seen it and warned me, but I would not speak of it. Though I felt its breath in your fear.
The jessemine will scent the garden with the sweetest air in the Spring. You loved to smell it, taking in long, deep breaths of its orange perfume and saying how lovely it was. Will you smell it, then, when its little buds crack open to this light and radiate into the garden? Will the perfume I have grown to love so much wound my senses like poison because you won’t be with me, here, on the verandah; making every day safe… telling me that you love me, that I am your little girl?
You were protection for me long after I grew tall and old enough to have no excuses. You were my sanction, the blessing on my life. You knew my secrets and accepted every aspect of the choices I have made. Some may never have understood your open-mindedness, your gentle acceptance of the life I chose to lead. But they do not know me as you knew me. They did not know you as I knew you. Their wounds will not have the same shape or depth as the wound of my grief. They will not lose as much blood.
Wisteria survives long after the frame on which it is stretched has rotted into the ground. Its branches are strong and able to support the weight of heavy purple blossoms. It thrives on the pruning of its limbs. In tribute to its frame it follows the line and form which gave it shape. Growing. Enhancing. Building itself into an object of beauty.
Did you think it would be the same for me?
It is strange how all these years of growing have resulted in this frozen child: broken and foetal from the winter of your absence. The elastic years snap me back to my beginnings and leave me helpless and vulnerable. No longer adult in a world stripped of you.
The full weight of the years to come press me to this chair. Crushing, black years. Perfume will be poured into these open wounds every Spring. Sharp orange and thorny rose. Winter’s hands will claw my throat and drag me yearly to this place and the sound of your silence. Night’s dark heart will beat the pulse of every hour your chair remains empty. I will rot with this wood and this cane as pumpkin vines fill the garden and tomatoes choke the daisies. I will dissolve into the patina of light upon the wall.
The papers have collected, unread, on the table. Testimony that the world has kept turning and days have passed. But not for me. I sit here, disconnected from the world, contained in my grief. The sun will go down in a few hours and I will go inside. Tomorrow I will take my place on the verandah... and wait.
siobhan colman 1995
published in 2Flaunt 2009
What you've just read is probably my most personal piece. For a long time after my mother died I couldn't write at all. And then, when i could, this found its way on to the page.
Response to the work of Milica Tomic I am Milica Tomic (1998-99) 2006 Biennale of Sydney
This work was commissioned by Blacktown Concil in 2006
1987
You fled from Serbia because there were men in the street who stood waiting for you. They spat at your shaved head and the thought that you did not want them. Your defiance at their machismo became a poison in their bellies and they shouted at you the acid of their intent each evening as you crossed the street to go home.
They did not understand rape, or a woman’s repugnance at being handled like meat on a butchers hook. That’s what women were designed for. But they understood that a lesbian would never coo at their advances, or laugh at jokes that were not funny, or fall into their beds and tell them how virile they were. Such a woman was an abomination and the laws which gave men the power to make wars and hit their wives vindicated their hatred.
And every evening their threats became stronger until they would corner you and push you into walls, taking liberties with your body before someone shouted at them to stop causing trouble. And they would step away and laugh while hot tears welled in your eyes and you fought to stop them falling, wrapping your arms around yourself to squeeze away the feel of their rough hands on your skin and clothing. The bruising on your back from brickwork.
Your parents lived upstairs. They would not talk about where you went or what you did though you tried many times to tell them. But they knew. Belgrade was a crowded city but the street outside your building ran like a village. No secrets were allowed and though indiscretions were tolerated, yours was not. Your parents loved you, but you knew they thought it would be better you were dead than living such a life. And they knew it would be only a matter of time before they buried you. They had heard the shouting in the streets though they closed their blinds to avoid seeing. You had brought it on yourself. They could not defend what they felt was wrong.
You too knew that it was only a matter of time.
You’d heard that in Sydney there was Mardi-Gras and a thriving community where you would be embraced and healed. Where there were cafes and nightclubs where you were welcome and did not have to come and go in secrecy. Where there would be men and women who would smile at your shaved head and suggest colours to enhance the regrowth. Where two men could hold each other’s hands in public without fear of arrest or death. Where you could see two women kiss on national television.
You arrived a refugee at a time when there was no razor wire at Villawood and the knowledge that your heart’s needs were enough to justify your arrival. A time when we were willing to inhale deeply on the air of global responsibility. A time before a moral emphysema.
You didn’t know that even here you were seven times more likely to be assaulted because you loved women, that the streets of Darlinghurst were patinaed with the blood of men caught holding other men’s hands, that girls as young as fourteen had been held prisoner by ministers bent on exercising their demons, that you would never be entitled to the same legal rights as women who love men, never be able to legally marry your beloved, never be able to adopt a child.
And in corners of this great city there are men … waiting.
Siobhan Colman June 2006.
Sweet Treats at the CWA
I blame Ethel Tweedy. She started it.
Not that Ethel realised. Oh no. There she was at the CWA Bake-Off swanning around all high and mighty examining everyone’s dumplings! No. Ethel wouldn’t have had a clue.
I’d been minding my own business. Something I like to do really, when this girl approached. New, fresh-faced, a glint of hunger in her eyes. I knew she’d seen my cup cakes and wanted a taste. And I have to admit, the thought of her tongue on my cherries excited me.
She was carrying something in a box. Holding it in front of her like a bouquet. “I’ve heard you’re the best there is!”
Now I’m used to compliments. It goes with the territory in the highly competitive climate of CWA cookery. And I’m used to winning. Normally I’d have answered with a superior smile and nod, but this young thing had me rattled. Perhaps she’d been sent over by Beryl Queenan in an effort to find out my secret recipe. Beryl had stooped low in the past (even plied me with her best cooking sherry!) but, like my famous chocolate soufflé, I held firm.
“Did Beryl send you?” I managed. The scent of sweet fruit was pulling my attention down to her mysterious container.
“No.” Her voice was like honey. “I’ve come for a taste.” It was only one small step, but suddenly she was close enough to whisper in my ear. “I’ve got something you want. You just don’t know it,” she leaned low over the table and I caught sight of plump ripe peaches. “But you will!”
Now I’m normally quite controlled. I’ve gazed at the most amazing puddings and smelled the aromas of apple and rhubarb, mulberry and mince pies, coconut slices, gem scones and fruit scones, marble-cake and pineapple sponge. And never wanted a sample. Not once.
But this girl had me trembling. I tried to take my eyes off her fruit, so full and juicy that my mouth began to water. What did she have in mind?
“I’m not into tarts.” I found myself saying, but I wasn’t so sure any more.
“Don’t knock what you haven’t tried.” And she reached out and held it, soft, warm and furry against my lips. “Smell it.” Her breath was in my ear and my head reeled. “Now taste!” and she pushed the sweet flesh into my mouth.
I don’t know when it happened. Perhaps it was when my head was buried in her box and I was devouring the delicious flavours to be found there. Or perhaps it was when I brought my head up, all wet, sticky and disoriented from the rich scent of juice.
But somehow she got her hands on my cup cakes.
She devoured them. Every one. And as she wiped the last traces of cream from her lips she leaned in and moaned softly.
“Once you’ve tried it, nothing will ever taste as good!”
I still blame Ethel Tweedy.
It’s her fault I’m into tarts.
siobhan colman 2008
This won the 2008 Mardi Gras Short Story Competition
I blame Ethel Tweedy. She started it.
Not that Ethel realised. Oh no. There she was at the CWA Bake-Off swanning around all high and mighty examining everyone’s dumplings! No. Ethel wouldn’t have had a clue.
I’d been minding my own business. Something I like to do really, when this girl approached. New, fresh-faced, a glint of hunger in her eyes. I knew she’d seen my cup cakes and wanted a taste. And I have to admit, the thought of her tongue on my cherries excited me.
She was carrying something in a box. Holding it in front of her like a bouquet. “I’ve heard you’re the best there is!”
Now I’m used to compliments. It goes with the territory in the highly competitive climate of CWA cookery. And I’m used to winning. Normally I’d have answered with a superior smile and nod, but this young thing had me rattled. Perhaps she’d been sent over by Beryl Queenan in an effort to find out my secret recipe. Beryl had stooped low in the past (even plied me with her best cooking sherry!) but, like my famous chocolate soufflé, I held firm.
“Did Beryl send you?” I managed. The scent of sweet fruit was pulling my attention down to her mysterious container.
“No.” Her voice was like honey. “I’ve come for a taste.” It was only one small step, but suddenly she was close enough to whisper in my ear. “I’ve got something you want. You just don’t know it,” she leaned low over the table and I caught sight of plump ripe peaches. “But you will!”
Now I’m normally quite controlled. I’ve gazed at the most amazing puddings and smelled the aromas of apple and rhubarb, mulberry and mince pies, coconut slices, gem scones and fruit scones, marble-cake and pineapple sponge. And never wanted a sample. Not once.
But this girl had me trembling. I tried to take my eyes off her fruit, so full and juicy that my mouth began to water. What did she have in mind?
“I’m not into tarts.” I found myself saying, but I wasn’t so sure any more.
“Don’t knock what you haven’t tried.” And she reached out and held it, soft, warm and furry against my lips. “Smell it.” Her breath was in my ear and my head reeled. “Now taste!” and she pushed the sweet flesh into my mouth.
I don’t know when it happened. Perhaps it was when my head was buried in her box and I was devouring the delicious flavours to be found there. Or perhaps it was when I brought my head up, all wet, sticky and disoriented from the rich scent of juice.
But somehow she got her hands on my cup cakes.
She devoured them. Every one. And as she wiped the last traces of cream from her lips she leaned in and moaned softly.
“Once you’ve tried it, nothing will ever taste as good!”
I still blame Ethel Tweedy.
It’s her fault I’m into tarts.
siobhan colman 2008
This won the 2008 Mardi Gras Short Story Competition
The Quickening
My mistress calls to me. On moonless nights when the wind howls at my casement and the candles on the mantle dance like devils, she calls.
It was not always so.
Three winters ago she was a living thing. Warm skin, pink in the fire light, lips red and wet from biting them. She would sit and read to me, there, by the hearth and I would catch the swell of her breast through the clean white cotton of her shift.
“What story will it be, Mary?” She would run her fingers along the books on her shelf. Such books! Covered in the finest leather. Full of places I could only dream of. For I had no learning, though I could write my own name. My mistress had taught me that much already. But I could not read, though she promised I would master my letters. “Twill take time, my Mary, but you are quick witted and observant. Study your letters and you will read soon enough.”
I wanted to study hard and please her. “Yes Miss.” but I wanted to study her more than I wished to look upon my letters.
“Shall it be Romance?” she asked. “Or Mystery?”
I did not care, though I liked to hear her read. “Something long, Miss. I do not mind which.” I was laying out her clothes for the morrow.
“Romance, I think.” said she. “Will you brush my hair as I tell it? I do so love how softly you brush.”
“Of course, Miss.”
She was the first mistress I’d ever known to ask me to do things for her. All others bellowed orders without a kind word. My mistress was different from my first day of service. Perhaps it was because she was not much older than me, but I think it was because she was never harsh. Born as sweet as any lamb. She has brought out the sweetness in me. I always thought myself clumsy and awkward, but she said I am gentle and graceful. Perhaps I am mad for I feel she has made me gentle. She has made me what I am in her company. My own better self.
I took joy from the feel of her hair between my fingers. Silk it was. Dark silken threads, finer than any I’d ever known and I’d bend my nose low to breathe in the smell of it. It smelled of chamomile and oranges and shone like molasses in the fire light. And she’d read from her book, leaning her head against my hands as I brushed beyond counting. But in truth I wanted to run my own fingers through her hair. Catch the tresses in my hands and bring my lips to them. Warm her sweet throat with the heat of my breath. How I longed to be her brush and beyond that, I wished myself incarnate in her book, gazed upon and delighted in. For I knew from experience that a lowly maid is no more than a wall, or a table to her mistress.
Though she did not make me feel that way.
One night as I brushed her hair she put her book upon her lap and turned to gaze at me.
“Mary,” she said taking the brush from my hand and catching my fingers in her own.
“Yes Miss.” My face was aflame. I could feel it. And I looked down at our fingers entwined for I swear I felt her tighten her hold. And I felt a charge run through me, catching my breath before settling in my belly.
“Do you have a sweetheart?” she asked, her own gaze shifting from our hands to my face.
I stared at her, her face earnest, expectant. I could not tell her that I did, indeed, have a sweetheart and it was she. For it was not my place to love my mistress, though I did with an ache as sharp as any thorn.
“I do not have time for courting, Miss. My duties are here.”
She stared at me intently, her eyebrow raised. Did she notice that I did not answer her question? “Everyone must have someone to love, Mary.” She put the book down upon the mantle and stood. Her hand still held my own. “And to love them.”
I could not speak for my heart was pounding. I shifted upon my feet to steady myself and quieten my heart. It was then she released her hand from mine and stepped forward. “Mary, you are quite flushed. Are you ill?” Her fingers touched my cheek and I could not help but reach up to catch her fingers and hold them there, cool against my flesh. Oh the velvet of her skin upon my cheek! I closed my eyes to hold that moment, for I felt I must be dreaming. She gazed at me then, her eyes wide, her own face flushed. “Here, let us sit you down.” She said, though her voice was strange. I expected her to step aside and give me her chair but instead she put her arm about my waist and led me to her bed.
“No, Miss. I cannot sit there.” I stared at the white coverlet and the rich embroidery which decorated it. SW was stitched in roses and violets at every corner. SW. Sarah Warren. I knew each flowery initial keenly as I did all things belonging to my mistress. But I had never dared myself to imagine that I would ever be permitted to sit, there, upon her bed.
“I insist on it!” she pushed me gently so that my knees buckled and I found myself sitting on that embroidered garden. Then she stood before me and studied me, smiling. “I’m willing to bet that you have found my question a trial. I did not mean it to be. I just wanted to know more about you.” she touched my hair. “For you are so quiet, Mary.” she dropped her hand to her side. “I’m afraid you are unhappy. And may choose to leave me.”
I blinked at her. “Oh no Miss. I will never leave you!” I said more passionately than I realised. “For you make me happier than I have ever been!”
It was she who blinked now, her cheeks flaming as I watched her. What had I done?
At that moment a coal from the fire shifted and tumbled onto the grate. It hissed and smoked and she turned now toward the sound. I was grateful to it.
“Perhaps it is too warm,” she said. “I shall open a window.” And she crossed to the far end of the room.
“Miss!” I rose from the bed. “You must let me do that!”
“Don’t be silly.” She lifted the curtain and pushed open the casement. “It is no trouble.” A cold gust of wind breathed against the fire and another jagged piece of coal hissed and fell into the ash. “Heavens Mary, tis a restless house tonight!” and she turned from the window to look at me as I stood on the rug beside her bed. “Will you not sit again?”
“No Miss. I am recovered. The cool air has proved a tonic.”
She frowned. “Please sit again Mary. You may have the chair if you prefer.”
I did not move, for I confess I did not know where to put myself. “I have not finished my duties, Miss.”
She did not stir from beside the window, though the wind was cold. “What duties are these?”
I looked across to the fire and the copper pan beside it. Each night I placed hot stones within the pan to rub warmth between her sheets and take the chill from my Mistress’s bed. I found myself blushing. “I have not yet warmed your bed, Miss.”
She blinked at me and smiled. “You would surely have warmed it had you remained in it!” I felt my heart beat like a soldiers drum. “There are no more duties for you tonight Mary.” She said, her voice carrying the smile on her lips. “Except to tell me about yourself.” She stepped toward the fire and dragged a stool from the corner beside the hearth. “Please sit.” I nodded and as I headed for the stool she promptly sat on it and laughed. “No Mary. Tonight you must have the chair.”
Again I found myself unable to move. “I cannot, Miss. It is not fitting.” My cheeks burned. "Please Miss, I would have the stool if I must sit.”
“I seek another perspective, Mary. I would have you do the same.” She motioned to the chair. “Please.”
So I sat upon her fine chair, my hands restless in my lap, my back stiff against the cushion.
“Tell me about yourself, Mary.”
“What would you have me say, Miss?”
She smiled. “I am not asking for more than you have of me.”
I looked at her then. “I do not understand.”
Her eyes were laughing. “Now Mary, you know everything about me. You know I am quite alone in this house except for yourself, Corruthers and Cook. You must know I care not for the opinions of my peers, nor for their company, that my needs are simple. I barely go to town unless it is to go to Meeting or to buy a new dress. And I dare say I’ve not bought a new dress in a while, though I’ve a mind to go tomorrow. ” she said, leaning forward. “And I’ve a mind to take you with me.”
I’d never been out with my mistress. I’d never been beyond the front gate since coming to work in this house. “Miss?”
“We shall both have new dresses, Mary. ‘Tis time.”
“Time, Miss?”
“Time.” She nodded. “Now, I insist that you tell me about yourself. Your family, is it large?”
I thought about Ma and my brother and sisters. “Not so very, Miss. I have four sisters and one brother. We lost John and Susie three year ago.”
“There were eight children?”
I nodded.
She looked at me intently. “How did your brother and sister die?”
I pictured their tiny faces, grey upon their pillows, the exhausted sobs of Ma as she lay her wet cheek upon Susie’s forehead. “’Twas the Fever stole the life from them.”
“Scarlet Fever?” Her voice was gentle, almost a whisper. “Together?” I nodded again. “Oh, your poor mother!” and then, catching the look in my eye. “And yourself! ‘Twas hard to lose them. I can see it. I am so sorry for you Mary!” She took my hand. “How old were you?”
“Nearly fifteen years, Miss. It was just afore I went into service.”
“And your other brother and sisters?”
“Mostly younger than me, Miss. Except for Tom.”
She nodded. “Your father?”
I dropped my gaze to the floor, embarrassed. “He left us, Miss. Found another woman. Tom took up men’s chores early.”
She blushed. “Oh.” Then she smiled and squeezed my hand. “’Tis a good thing you have Tom. I’m sure your mother must be a fine one to have such a son.” And then she stretched her fingers to touch my cheek so I would look up at her. “And daughter.”
My face burned. The place where her fingers touched my cheek was white heat itself.
“Is that why you came into service? To help your mother?”
I nodded. “’Tis easier on her to have less to feed, though I was fretful at leaving her. But in the years since she has been able to manage with Tom’s money and the little I send her.” I thought of Ma sewing by the fire-light after the babies were in their beds. “Though I wish it could be more.”
My Mistress sat then and looked at me, her eyes searching my own so deeply I felt a pulling within myself that I thought must be my soul. I cannot say aught but that I wanted her to look at me, wanted to stay still with her eyes upon me and her face flushed with looking. For she gazed at me like she’d never looked at any book. And the knowledge sent the blood through me though I thought at the same time I may indeed die under her watch. For my heart now hammered in my chest.
“Would you stay with me this night, Mary?” her voice was soft, hesitant.
“Of course Miss. I will keep watch.” The wind was howling through the window and I thought she must be afraid, though my Mistress had never been afraid before. “I will stoke up the fire for you too, Miss. Bring up more coal.”
She shook her head. “I don’t want you to keep yourself awake. Not for me. I said your duties are finished Mary.” She reached out to take my hand. “I want you to stay with me, not as my servant.”
“Not your servant, Miss?”
“No.” and she brought my hand slowly to her lips so that her breath was warm on my fingers. I was trembling. “Tonight you are not my servant.” Her lips brushed ever so lightly across my fingertips. “I am yours.”
I could feel my heart beating so wildly I feared I would faint, but as she brought her soft, pink mouth to my hand I suddenly felt the shame of fingers smelling of coal and the vinegar from cleaning. In horror I drew my hand away. “No Miss!”
She seemed startled for a moment and then her face burned. She dropped her gaze to the floor as though she’d been scolded.
I ached to see her shamed when it was my own shame which ruined her kindness. “My hands, Miss.” I struggled to explain. “I am afraid they are so dirty you would think ill of me.” I held them out to her. “The coal, you see, has made a home in them.” I pointed to my fingernails. “Your hands, Miss. They are so pink and clean. Like an angel’s.” I knew colour had risen in my own cheeks. “I’m sorry Miss.”
She stared at me then reached for my hand. “It is I who should be sorry. I did not mean to make you feel uncomfortable. But Mary, you must know now that I could not think ill of you. There is nothing about you I find distasteful.” Her eyes darkened. “In fact I must confess I am drawn to you. And tonight, Mary, I do not want you to leave me, for I feel, suddenly, as though I have come to understand myself.”
I could only blink at her words but as she took my hand I found my fingers entwining with hers.
“Mary, may I wash your hands so that you’ve no need to fear that I will think anything but of the goodness in you?”
I nodded, though I knew it must be wrong of me to make a servant of my Mistress, I did not want her to let go of my hands. She led me to her wash stand and poured water in the bowl. Gathering the soap she lathered her own hands then wrapped them around mine, sliding her fingers across my palm and drawing circles across the top of my hand, teasing my fingers with her own, soft and soap scented . And all the while she stood beside me, the warmth of her body making my own begin to burn, the sweetness of her breath as she ran her hands along my own, made me swoon with the need to wrap her tightly in my arms and taste her lips. But I could not.
And then her hands stilled and she took her jug and rinsed both our hands. I expected her to reach for her towel but instead she took my hands in hers and brought them to her lips. “Now they are roses.” she whispered. “To match their owner.” She inhaled and rubbed my fingers against her cheek before bringing them back to her lips. And then she did something which set my blood on fire. She kissed my fingers then, opening her mouth, she took them inside.
I gasped. No sooner had my fingers discovered the warmth of her mouth than my own mouth sought the very place where they had been.
I cannot describe the sweetness of her kiss, nor the ache it awoke within my body. For I needed to feel the crush of her lips against mine. I needed to seek and hold her darting tongue, push my own tongue deep inside her mouth. She was not startled by my response. Indeed, she responded in kind until the press of our bodies sent her water jug crashing to the floor.
“Miss!” I pulled away. “The jug!”
She groaned and reached her fingers behind my head to pull my lips to hers. “Leave it.” She whispered as her mouth found mine. Then she drew me into an embrace which left me trembling, for I could feel the swell of her breast against my own.
“Lie with me Mary.” she said, her own body beginning to tremble. “I fear my legs are jelly.” I nodded and let her lead me to the bed. “Here, let me.” she knelt on the floor before me and unfastened my boots.
“No Miss!” I reached to stop her, but she caught my hand.
“Tonight I am your servant.” She smiled and kissed my palm. The touch of her lips to that place made my heart pound. “I am Sarah. No longer your mistress.” And she kissed the tender spot a second time. “Nor will I ever be again!”
Slowly she loosened each lace and drew the boots from my feet, kissing my stockinged toes until I laughed.
“That’s better.” She stood and pushed me gently onto her bed. She was already in her night dress and I felt her breasts upon my blouse as her knees parted my legs. She ran her hand along the wool of my skirt. “This won’t do. May I free you of it?” I nodded and felt her fingers pulling at my buttons. In a moment I wore only my undergarments and blouse. “This too.” She whispered deftly undoing each hook and eye. “I want to touch you Mary. If you’ll let me.”
Again I nodded and my body became a bon fire under her fingers. My own hands sort out her skin until the ribbons on her night gown were loose upon the bed and my fingers held the warm swelling of her breasts, my thumbs dancing upon their darkened tips. Oh how she groaned then and arched her body upon my own! “Mary!” she cried softly. “Oh Mary!” she cried again and pushed herself hard against me until I felt a pulse between my legs.
“May I taste you?” she brought her lips to my ear and whispered. “Here.” She said and placed her fingers down to where the pulsing had begun. I did not need to answer. My body rose to meet her hand and she cooed in my ear as her fingers pressed against the spot. “How rushed your breath is!” She whispered. “How warm and wet you are!”
Her fingers dipped, pushed and moved against me and I cried out from the pleasure of it. Then I sought her mouth with my own and felt her tongue move as her fingers moved and I had to pull my head away for breath.
“My dearest heart!” she moaned then moved so that her breasts lay firm upon my legs and her chin rested on my thigh. “I bet you taste of honey!” And then her mouth was upon me and her tongue became a thousand darting fish.
There came a quickening then, so powerful and new to me that I cried out like a child born fresh into the world. And she held me, trembling as I trembled, her eyes wide and startled as I knew my own must be. And she covered me with kisses, saying my name as though it was a prayer and I told her I loved her, for I knew from that moment I was her sweetheart and she was mine.
Now, when the wind howls at my casement and the candles on the mantle dance like devils, my heart quickens and I wait.
siobhan colman 2009
published in 2Flaunt
My mistress calls to me. On moonless nights when the wind howls at my casement and the candles on the mantle dance like devils, she calls.
It was not always so.
Three winters ago she was a living thing. Warm skin, pink in the fire light, lips red and wet from biting them. She would sit and read to me, there, by the hearth and I would catch the swell of her breast through the clean white cotton of her shift.
“What story will it be, Mary?” She would run her fingers along the books on her shelf. Such books! Covered in the finest leather. Full of places I could only dream of. For I had no learning, though I could write my own name. My mistress had taught me that much already. But I could not read, though she promised I would master my letters. “Twill take time, my Mary, but you are quick witted and observant. Study your letters and you will read soon enough.”
I wanted to study hard and please her. “Yes Miss.” but I wanted to study her more than I wished to look upon my letters.
“Shall it be Romance?” she asked. “Or Mystery?”
I did not care, though I liked to hear her read. “Something long, Miss. I do not mind which.” I was laying out her clothes for the morrow.
“Romance, I think.” said she. “Will you brush my hair as I tell it? I do so love how softly you brush.”
“Of course, Miss.”
She was the first mistress I’d ever known to ask me to do things for her. All others bellowed orders without a kind word. My mistress was different from my first day of service. Perhaps it was because she was not much older than me, but I think it was because she was never harsh. Born as sweet as any lamb. She has brought out the sweetness in me. I always thought myself clumsy and awkward, but she said I am gentle and graceful. Perhaps I am mad for I feel she has made me gentle. She has made me what I am in her company. My own better self.
I took joy from the feel of her hair between my fingers. Silk it was. Dark silken threads, finer than any I’d ever known and I’d bend my nose low to breathe in the smell of it. It smelled of chamomile and oranges and shone like molasses in the fire light. And she’d read from her book, leaning her head against my hands as I brushed beyond counting. But in truth I wanted to run my own fingers through her hair. Catch the tresses in my hands and bring my lips to them. Warm her sweet throat with the heat of my breath. How I longed to be her brush and beyond that, I wished myself incarnate in her book, gazed upon and delighted in. For I knew from experience that a lowly maid is no more than a wall, or a table to her mistress.
Though she did not make me feel that way.
One night as I brushed her hair she put her book upon her lap and turned to gaze at me.
“Mary,” she said taking the brush from my hand and catching my fingers in her own.
“Yes Miss.” My face was aflame. I could feel it. And I looked down at our fingers entwined for I swear I felt her tighten her hold. And I felt a charge run through me, catching my breath before settling in my belly.
“Do you have a sweetheart?” she asked, her own gaze shifting from our hands to my face.
I stared at her, her face earnest, expectant. I could not tell her that I did, indeed, have a sweetheart and it was she. For it was not my place to love my mistress, though I did with an ache as sharp as any thorn.
“I do not have time for courting, Miss. My duties are here.”
She stared at me intently, her eyebrow raised. Did she notice that I did not answer her question? “Everyone must have someone to love, Mary.” She put the book down upon the mantle and stood. Her hand still held my own. “And to love them.”
I could not speak for my heart was pounding. I shifted upon my feet to steady myself and quieten my heart. It was then she released her hand from mine and stepped forward. “Mary, you are quite flushed. Are you ill?” Her fingers touched my cheek and I could not help but reach up to catch her fingers and hold them there, cool against my flesh. Oh the velvet of her skin upon my cheek! I closed my eyes to hold that moment, for I felt I must be dreaming. She gazed at me then, her eyes wide, her own face flushed. “Here, let us sit you down.” She said, though her voice was strange. I expected her to step aside and give me her chair but instead she put her arm about my waist and led me to her bed.
“No, Miss. I cannot sit there.” I stared at the white coverlet and the rich embroidery which decorated it. SW was stitched in roses and violets at every corner. SW. Sarah Warren. I knew each flowery initial keenly as I did all things belonging to my mistress. But I had never dared myself to imagine that I would ever be permitted to sit, there, upon her bed.
“I insist on it!” she pushed me gently so that my knees buckled and I found myself sitting on that embroidered garden. Then she stood before me and studied me, smiling. “I’m willing to bet that you have found my question a trial. I did not mean it to be. I just wanted to know more about you.” she touched my hair. “For you are so quiet, Mary.” she dropped her hand to her side. “I’m afraid you are unhappy. And may choose to leave me.”
I blinked at her. “Oh no Miss. I will never leave you!” I said more passionately than I realised. “For you make me happier than I have ever been!”
It was she who blinked now, her cheeks flaming as I watched her. What had I done?
At that moment a coal from the fire shifted and tumbled onto the grate. It hissed and smoked and she turned now toward the sound. I was grateful to it.
“Perhaps it is too warm,” she said. “I shall open a window.” And she crossed to the far end of the room.
“Miss!” I rose from the bed. “You must let me do that!”
“Don’t be silly.” She lifted the curtain and pushed open the casement. “It is no trouble.” A cold gust of wind breathed against the fire and another jagged piece of coal hissed and fell into the ash. “Heavens Mary, tis a restless house tonight!” and she turned from the window to look at me as I stood on the rug beside her bed. “Will you not sit again?”
“No Miss. I am recovered. The cool air has proved a tonic.”
She frowned. “Please sit again Mary. You may have the chair if you prefer.”
I did not move, for I confess I did not know where to put myself. “I have not finished my duties, Miss.”
She did not stir from beside the window, though the wind was cold. “What duties are these?”
I looked across to the fire and the copper pan beside it. Each night I placed hot stones within the pan to rub warmth between her sheets and take the chill from my Mistress’s bed. I found myself blushing. “I have not yet warmed your bed, Miss.”
She blinked at me and smiled. “You would surely have warmed it had you remained in it!” I felt my heart beat like a soldiers drum. “There are no more duties for you tonight Mary.” She said, her voice carrying the smile on her lips. “Except to tell me about yourself.” She stepped toward the fire and dragged a stool from the corner beside the hearth. “Please sit.” I nodded and as I headed for the stool she promptly sat on it and laughed. “No Mary. Tonight you must have the chair.”
Again I found myself unable to move. “I cannot, Miss. It is not fitting.” My cheeks burned. "Please Miss, I would have the stool if I must sit.”
“I seek another perspective, Mary. I would have you do the same.” She motioned to the chair. “Please.”
So I sat upon her fine chair, my hands restless in my lap, my back stiff against the cushion.
“Tell me about yourself, Mary.”
“What would you have me say, Miss?”
She smiled. “I am not asking for more than you have of me.”
I looked at her then. “I do not understand.”
Her eyes were laughing. “Now Mary, you know everything about me. You know I am quite alone in this house except for yourself, Corruthers and Cook. You must know I care not for the opinions of my peers, nor for their company, that my needs are simple. I barely go to town unless it is to go to Meeting or to buy a new dress. And I dare say I’ve not bought a new dress in a while, though I’ve a mind to go tomorrow. ” she said, leaning forward. “And I’ve a mind to take you with me.”
I’d never been out with my mistress. I’d never been beyond the front gate since coming to work in this house. “Miss?”
“We shall both have new dresses, Mary. ‘Tis time.”
“Time, Miss?”
“Time.” She nodded. “Now, I insist that you tell me about yourself. Your family, is it large?”
I thought about Ma and my brother and sisters. “Not so very, Miss. I have four sisters and one brother. We lost John and Susie three year ago.”
“There were eight children?”
I nodded.
She looked at me intently. “How did your brother and sister die?”
I pictured their tiny faces, grey upon their pillows, the exhausted sobs of Ma as she lay her wet cheek upon Susie’s forehead. “’Twas the Fever stole the life from them.”
“Scarlet Fever?” Her voice was gentle, almost a whisper. “Together?” I nodded again. “Oh, your poor mother!” and then, catching the look in my eye. “And yourself! ‘Twas hard to lose them. I can see it. I am so sorry for you Mary!” She took my hand. “How old were you?”
“Nearly fifteen years, Miss. It was just afore I went into service.”
“And your other brother and sisters?”
“Mostly younger than me, Miss. Except for Tom.”
She nodded. “Your father?”
I dropped my gaze to the floor, embarrassed. “He left us, Miss. Found another woman. Tom took up men’s chores early.”
She blushed. “Oh.” Then she smiled and squeezed my hand. “’Tis a good thing you have Tom. I’m sure your mother must be a fine one to have such a son.” And then she stretched her fingers to touch my cheek so I would look up at her. “And daughter.”
My face burned. The place where her fingers touched my cheek was white heat itself.
“Is that why you came into service? To help your mother?”
I nodded. “’Tis easier on her to have less to feed, though I was fretful at leaving her. But in the years since she has been able to manage with Tom’s money and the little I send her.” I thought of Ma sewing by the fire-light after the babies were in their beds. “Though I wish it could be more.”
My Mistress sat then and looked at me, her eyes searching my own so deeply I felt a pulling within myself that I thought must be my soul. I cannot say aught but that I wanted her to look at me, wanted to stay still with her eyes upon me and her face flushed with looking. For she gazed at me like she’d never looked at any book. And the knowledge sent the blood through me though I thought at the same time I may indeed die under her watch. For my heart now hammered in my chest.
“Would you stay with me this night, Mary?” her voice was soft, hesitant.
“Of course Miss. I will keep watch.” The wind was howling through the window and I thought she must be afraid, though my Mistress had never been afraid before. “I will stoke up the fire for you too, Miss. Bring up more coal.”
She shook her head. “I don’t want you to keep yourself awake. Not for me. I said your duties are finished Mary.” She reached out to take my hand. “I want you to stay with me, not as my servant.”
“Not your servant, Miss?”
“No.” and she brought my hand slowly to her lips so that her breath was warm on my fingers. I was trembling. “Tonight you are not my servant.” Her lips brushed ever so lightly across my fingertips. “I am yours.”
I could feel my heart beating so wildly I feared I would faint, but as she brought her soft, pink mouth to my hand I suddenly felt the shame of fingers smelling of coal and the vinegar from cleaning. In horror I drew my hand away. “No Miss!”
She seemed startled for a moment and then her face burned. She dropped her gaze to the floor as though she’d been scolded.
I ached to see her shamed when it was my own shame which ruined her kindness. “My hands, Miss.” I struggled to explain. “I am afraid they are so dirty you would think ill of me.” I held them out to her. “The coal, you see, has made a home in them.” I pointed to my fingernails. “Your hands, Miss. They are so pink and clean. Like an angel’s.” I knew colour had risen in my own cheeks. “I’m sorry Miss.”
She stared at me then reached for my hand. “It is I who should be sorry. I did not mean to make you feel uncomfortable. But Mary, you must know now that I could not think ill of you. There is nothing about you I find distasteful.” Her eyes darkened. “In fact I must confess I am drawn to you. And tonight, Mary, I do not want you to leave me, for I feel, suddenly, as though I have come to understand myself.”
I could only blink at her words but as she took my hand I found my fingers entwining with hers.
“Mary, may I wash your hands so that you’ve no need to fear that I will think anything but of the goodness in you?”
I nodded, though I knew it must be wrong of me to make a servant of my Mistress, I did not want her to let go of my hands. She led me to her wash stand and poured water in the bowl. Gathering the soap she lathered her own hands then wrapped them around mine, sliding her fingers across my palm and drawing circles across the top of my hand, teasing my fingers with her own, soft and soap scented . And all the while she stood beside me, the warmth of her body making my own begin to burn, the sweetness of her breath as she ran her hands along my own, made me swoon with the need to wrap her tightly in my arms and taste her lips. But I could not.
And then her hands stilled and she took her jug and rinsed both our hands. I expected her to reach for her towel but instead she took my hands in hers and brought them to her lips. “Now they are roses.” she whispered. “To match their owner.” She inhaled and rubbed my fingers against her cheek before bringing them back to her lips. And then she did something which set my blood on fire. She kissed my fingers then, opening her mouth, she took them inside.
I gasped. No sooner had my fingers discovered the warmth of her mouth than my own mouth sought the very place where they had been.
I cannot describe the sweetness of her kiss, nor the ache it awoke within my body. For I needed to feel the crush of her lips against mine. I needed to seek and hold her darting tongue, push my own tongue deep inside her mouth. She was not startled by my response. Indeed, she responded in kind until the press of our bodies sent her water jug crashing to the floor.
“Miss!” I pulled away. “The jug!”
She groaned and reached her fingers behind my head to pull my lips to hers. “Leave it.” She whispered as her mouth found mine. Then she drew me into an embrace which left me trembling, for I could feel the swell of her breast against my own.
“Lie with me Mary.” she said, her own body beginning to tremble. “I fear my legs are jelly.” I nodded and let her lead me to the bed. “Here, let me.” she knelt on the floor before me and unfastened my boots.
“No Miss!” I reached to stop her, but she caught my hand.
“Tonight I am your servant.” She smiled and kissed my palm. The touch of her lips to that place made my heart pound. “I am Sarah. No longer your mistress.” And she kissed the tender spot a second time. “Nor will I ever be again!”
Slowly she loosened each lace and drew the boots from my feet, kissing my stockinged toes until I laughed.
“That’s better.” She stood and pushed me gently onto her bed. She was already in her night dress and I felt her breasts upon my blouse as her knees parted my legs. She ran her hand along the wool of my skirt. “This won’t do. May I free you of it?” I nodded and felt her fingers pulling at my buttons. In a moment I wore only my undergarments and blouse. “This too.” She whispered deftly undoing each hook and eye. “I want to touch you Mary. If you’ll let me.”
Again I nodded and my body became a bon fire under her fingers. My own hands sort out her skin until the ribbons on her night gown were loose upon the bed and my fingers held the warm swelling of her breasts, my thumbs dancing upon their darkened tips. Oh how she groaned then and arched her body upon my own! “Mary!” she cried softly. “Oh Mary!” she cried again and pushed herself hard against me until I felt a pulse between my legs.
“May I taste you?” she brought her lips to my ear and whispered. “Here.” She said and placed her fingers down to where the pulsing had begun. I did not need to answer. My body rose to meet her hand and she cooed in my ear as her fingers pressed against the spot. “How rushed your breath is!” She whispered. “How warm and wet you are!”
Her fingers dipped, pushed and moved against me and I cried out from the pleasure of it. Then I sought her mouth with my own and felt her tongue move as her fingers moved and I had to pull my head away for breath.
“My dearest heart!” she moaned then moved so that her breasts lay firm upon my legs and her chin rested on my thigh. “I bet you taste of honey!” And then her mouth was upon me and her tongue became a thousand darting fish.
There came a quickening then, so powerful and new to me that I cried out like a child born fresh into the world. And she held me, trembling as I trembled, her eyes wide and startled as I knew my own must be. And she covered me with kisses, saying my name as though it was a prayer and I told her I loved her, for I knew from that moment I was her sweetheart and she was mine.
Now, when the wind howls at my casement and the candles on the mantle dance like devils, my heart quickens and I wait.
siobhan colman 2009
published in 2Flaunt