With or Without You (17 page)

How she knew to draw me forwards, I cannot say. But if she truly were a virgin to this sort of activity with the men of our town, then she must have been taught by an educated female, because her position was not that of a novice.

I plunged inside of her, where she was dripping wet and ready, and she cried out fiercely, so obviously hungry for me, hungry for more. I wouldn’t hurry. It had been a long time since I was with someone so delightful. I made it my business to go slow. She did not want slow. She pushed back on me, trying to take from me what I was not ready to give. I responded with a firm slap to her hindquarters, and this brought the most delicious response yet. She moaned and squeezed down on me, but she did not still her passion. If anything, that mild sting of pain made her more excited than she’d been before.

When I pushed in all the way, she gasped, and when
I let my hand find the great black ropes of her hair, tugging and making her bend her back like a bow, she moaned sweetly. Sweetly but loudly. Loud enough so that others from the adjoining room must have heard her, for when I looked up, I saw that we had won ourselves an audience.

There was the sound of enthusiastic voices and the stamping of feet, so many eyes watching, hoping that we would continue. And we did. There was no choice, no way that we could think of stopping.

But now I did stop. I couldn’t help myself. I was more turned on than I’d been this afternoon, when I’d stroked myself to climax in the privacy of my office, watched only by the eyes of the angels on my resource books. The visions I’d teased myself with seemed remarkably tame in comparison to this ancient erotica. I realised that as I’d been reading, I’d automatically put myself in the girl’s role and cast Anthony in that of the male’s. Isn’t this always the case with X-rated reads? One wants to star in the show.

‘Hungry?’ Anthony asked, bringing me around again to the present time. Our appetisers had magically arrived. Had the plate been there for a long time? I didn’t know. I wasn’t interested in the slightest. Instead, I took another sip of my wine and looked over at my dining partner. He appeared to be fully at ease, watching me intently as he ate.

‘Where are they?’ I asked, unable to contain my queries any longer. The pages shook in my hands as I moved from one to the next, and I shifted my hips against the booth, a longing building inside of me.

‘I’m thinking it’s a house of prostitution. That’s what seems most likely to me.’

‘But what
is
it?’ I murmured, my voice trembling. ‘I mean, what are the papers, themselves?’

‘It’s a diary,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘Don’t you think?
I mean, that’s what I determined when I was working on it.’

I shook my head and shrugged at the same time. I didn’t know what to think.

‘Keep on,’ he said, ‘it gets better and better.’

‘By “better” you mean –’

‘Just keep reading, Eleanor.’

Oh, how I liked the way he said my name. Helplessly, I returned to the story.

The crowd was wild for our lust, and I gave them exactly what they wanted. Taking her. Plunging into her. My girl was like a wild steed, tossing back her gorgeous black hair, nearly whinnying with pleasure as I pushed forwards. Because she had responded so well the first time, I let my hand meet her rear cheeks again, and again, and, each time, she let loose with such a vibrant, powerful moan, that I almost could not stave off my own impending bliss. Her skin, previously so white as to appear nearly translucent, now took on a robust red glow. The colour of wine. The colour of fire. I paused to admire how hot these cheeks were, touching her softly where only moments before my hand had met with a resounding smack.

She did not seem to crave this tender touch. She gazed over her shoulder at me, a wildness to her eyes, and shook her head once. Yes, they said she was a virgin. This I had been told by the mistress of the house. But the look in her eyes was a look no virgin knows to give. This was an experienced maiden, one who wanted from me. Wanted. It was I who was the innocent in this game. She possessed all the power. Those eyes held me captive, told me what to do. Again, my hand met her lovely rump, and, again, she let loose that moaning sound of pleasure.

The crowd taunted me, calling out instructions, words of so-called wisdom that I did not need to hear. They were in a frenzy, as was she. With no more strength left
within my body, I pushed hard into her, sealing our two selves together. One of my hands slipped beneath the lean underside of this goddess in the flesh. I rubbed my fingertips between the split of her lower lips, and she met my pleasure with me, holding tightly to me, draining me of every last drop with the squeezing motions of her inner muscles.

Our audience applauded. They had been well entertained. When I turned to look, I saw the couples pairing off again, clients and customers disappearing into darkened corners, leaving for other rooms, where they might re-enact the scene that they had just witnessed. I could have left, too, gone off to drink or to bed. I could have found myself a new maiden and started afresh. Someone called out to me to try again for a second round, and another voice joined the first.

But then, I needed to move. I could not give them all. Because there were things that she and I needed to do alone. In private.

Although I won the displeasure of those that remained of the crowd, I did not care. I lifted her into my arms and carried her down the hall. I need not have concerned myself too greatly. Within moments others had taken our place at the foreground, wooing the crowd with the wild wantonness of their actions.

I carried my nymph down the hall, to the last room, the one furthest from the festivities. I set her down on the bed, and admired her. She pulled her dress entirely off and, for a moment, I simply stared, lost in the beauty of her, the wonder of her body. I had been inside of her only moments before, but now, I took the time to truly drink in her loveliness. She played shy as I watched her. She ducked her head against her arm and refused to meet my gaze. Coy thing, she need not have tried to play that game. I knew her. As if I’d been her lover for years rather than hours. I knew her.

‘It doesn’t read like a diary,’ I said, stopping when Anthony offered a bite to eat from his own plate. Our
main courses had arrived while I’d been reading. I swallowed, then continued, ‘I mean, not like any I’ve seen from this era.’

‘That’s what I assumed it is. Except that you’re right. I don’t think it’s an average diary, because there appears to be more than one person’s handwriting on the pages.’ He took the papers from me again and then showed me photocopies of the originals, pointing to what he meant. ‘It’s as if multiple people shared the story, adding their own notes or comments as the passages continued. Perhaps the pages were passed from one person to the next, with each one adding his or her own versions, or favourite stories, or sexiest dreams.’

‘And this is how it starts? With the man doing this virgin …’ Fucking her, I thought. Spanking her.

‘That was the first part I could make out. The top of that paper has entirely disintegrated. When I touched it, the edges just crumbled away in my hands. I don’t know if this was the first page, anyway. This could have been part of a much larger body of work. We’ll just never know. And I must admit that I filled in some of the spaces when I couldn’t quite understand the words. I told you that I’m a bit rusty with this.’

He spoke as if he translated pornography on a daily basis. But even though I’m not totally naïve when it comes to this sort of thing, I couldn’t wrap my mind around the subject matter. As I said, I’ve seen porn before – aside from the few erotic books I own, Byron subscribed to
Penthouse
and
Playboy
. And I’ve viewed an assortment of risqué artwork. Every once in awhile a piece turns up that surprises even the most jaded of art historians. People have been writing, drawing and sculpting naked bodies for aeons. We’re all animals at heart, aren’t we? Obsessed with what brings us pleasure. But this was different.

‘What were you expecting?’ he asked. I tried to hide my feelings by taking yet another sip of my chilled white wine. I was surprised to find that I’d drained the glass.

I wasn’t sure how to answer him. I’d assumed the
papers would be part of some story, like
The Iliad
or
The Odyssey
. Or perhaps a play. Or maybe a political history. As the papers had been sealed within a pot, I’d also considered that perhaps they held important information, notes from a spy, maybe. The fact that this was basically porn left me flabbergasted.

‘Really?’ he queried me. ‘What did you think?’

‘I don’t know,’ I told him honestly.

‘Just because it’s about sex doesn’t mean that the work isn’t important. People will still want to read it. Really, they’ll want to do much more than that. I can absolutely see a movie being made about this discovery. Everyone is interested when you throw a little sex into the mix.’

I knew that he was right. There always is more of a buzz when a museum features a sexually themed show. Recently, the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art had displayed photographs taken of porn stars on location. Larry Sultan’s photographic exhibit called ‘The Valley’ featured coloured photographs of actual pornographers taken in the suburban homes of a San Fernando Valley neighbourhood. The show had caused some consternation, and Byron had gotten on his soapbox about what was and wasn’t art. But regardless of his feelings, I knew that the exhibition had been a huge success.

If this manuscript were translated by Anthony and published as an example of some of the first printed erotica, it would definitely be huge. There would be magazine articles and photo shoots – Anthony and I standing side by side. ‘I gave her the first pages to read at dinner,’ he would say. ‘You should have seen the look on her face. She was definitely surprised.’ And then I would laugh and say, ‘Nothing about art surprises me.’ We’d make an excellent team, a perfect media darling couple.

But suddenly I remembered how wet I’d been today, fantasising about Anthony. Had he somehow guessed that from the way I’d handled myself in his office? Had he remembered our holiday kiss, as well? That moment
was so clearly embedded in my own mind. Was there the slightest chance that he fantasised about it, as well. Here was the big fear I found myself circling: Was there a chance that he’d made up this stuff in order to turn me on?

‘Do you want to read the rest now?’ he asked.

I felt my cheeks go from simply bright pink to a dark crimson. If I said yes, would he know that I was envisioning him in the scenario? If I said no, would he think that I was some sort of prude? If he did, he’d be right. I
was
some sort of a prude.

‘I’ll bet Nora would like it.’ He smiled at me.

I looked at him, shocked. ‘You know Nora?’

‘We met at the Christmas party.’

I nodded. It didn’t surprise me that he remembered her. Nora had been unforgettable that night, as usual. She’d gone as a naughty Christmas angel in an outfit that actually sported wings on the back, made of tinsel and lace.

‘And, of course, I know
of
her. You can’t live in LA without seeing Nora spread out on her Pink Fedora billboard over Sunset Boulevard. So, yes, I do know who she is.’

I wondered if there was a deeper meaning to his statement. Had he
been
with her? I didn’t think so. Nora would definitely have told me. At least, I thought she would. To hide from these thoughts, I returned to reading the manuscript, and Anthony entertained himself by staring at me, as if attempting to read the hue of my cheeks. Did my blush have a code, like the hankie code, or the one with Nora’s hats? If so, I hoped Anthony wouldn’t be able to break it.

Bright pink = mildly aroused.

Fuchsia = ready for action.

Scarlet = let’s go to the ladies’ room and get it on.

‘Why don’t you finish reading?’ Anthony continued. ‘Like I said, I only got through the five pages. There’s plenty more to keep me busy.’

I nodded at him, lost once again in the words on the page.

Those flowing black ringlets were gathered off her face with a golden ribbon. I untied the ribbon and she immediately held out her arms in front of her, her wrists together, one atop the other. I understood what she wanted from the longing look in her deep green eyes, and I could not ignore the fantasies I could read there.

She wanted me to tie her up.

How could I resist such a decadent – if silent – request?

‘It’s bondage,’ I whispered. I said the word as softly as I could, even though we were in the very rear of the restaurant, far from any other tables.

‘Oh, good. You’ve gotten to my favourite part,’ Anthony replied matter-of-factly. He put one hand out, gently touching my arm closest to him, and I trembled at his touch. His fingertips traced along the line of veins on the inside of my wrist. I closed my eyes for a moment, and his hand encircled my wrist. Oh, God, I thought. I’m going to burst into flames. He’s going to touch me, and I will ignite.

To hide my emotions, I pulled my hand away and thrust myself back into the pages.

Once her wrists were bound, I found that I could not stop myself. I reached for her flowing garments and shredded them. She watched, her eyes wide, but not in fear. She gazed at me with an expression as cool as the first day of winter. For a moment, I was lost once again in her eyes, but then I pulled free. She would have bound me up with her look alone. She would have taken all of my power away if I had not concentrated on the business in front of me.

I felt her eyes watching as I tied the fabric around
her ankles. I used the next piece of fabric to blindfold her, and now I knew she could not see. But she would see. In the chamber of her mind, she would see everything.

For a moment, I came as close as I possibly could to her without actually touching her. I used my breath on her naked skin, blowing puffs of air over her nude body. She shuddered at the sensation, and I felt as if I could actually see her body asking me for more. There was a visible yearning to her, as if her skin could speak, her hair could talk, her sex could beg. She wanted more.