Poetry & Blood
Chapter 1: The Initiate
By Trixie Adara
Laura held the advertisement in her shaking hand.
“You have to be kidding me.”
This was the address the secretary had sent her to. It was a massive estate, at least four stories tall and almost as large as a city block. In the middle of downtown Memphis? That didn’t make any freaking sense.
Laura checked the ad again:
WANTED: English major. Experience with editing and copy editing. Female. Experience with romantic fiction, reading or writing. Must be able to read poetry with emphasis, clarity, skill, and accuracy.
She found it on her old college campus on a bulletin board. It was dark purple with a picture of “The Purpose and the Passion,” by Camille K, a successful romance writer. She wrote mostly fluff, stories of overly buff and wealthy men pursuing strong and independent women. It made money, but it wasn’t the Next Great American Novel.
Laura had assumed she’d be working for Camille, though the ad wasn’t clear. What she hadn’t assumed was that Camille K lived in a giant estate in the middle of downtown. It looked like a library or a cathedral. It was oddly Victorian, standing out against the modern and concrete aesthetic around. Not many buildings from that time period were downtown, and even fewer had survived a giant fire from the early 1900’s.
Laura shivered. The building wasn’t just impressive. Impressive was a word you used for skyscrapers and giant arches. This was intimidating. Camille K, her new boss, had somehow managed not only to live here, but to afford living here all while writing dressed-up smut. It was entirely possible Laura was way, way over her head.
Laura approached the door and looked for a doorbell. It didn’t have one. All it had was a giant knocker attached to a lion’s face like a nose ring through the lion’s nostril. It was heavy, dark black iron. The circle itself must have weighed ten pounds. Laura pounded away with it and waited.
Eventually, a tiny blonde woman, she looked to be no more than thirty, with a cute pixie haircut appeared. She wasn’t in a maid’s uniform, though Laura must admit she expected a maid from the 1800’s to appear. The woman was in a simple sleeveless white blouse and a black pencil skirt. There was nothing eye-catching or extraordinary about her, really.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Uh, hi. My name is Laura Delazier. I got hired for the copy editing job?”
Laura had assumed it was a copy editing job. She’d be plundering Camille K’s predictable plots and painful dialogue for typos. But she needed a job. The world wasn’t desperate for English majors unless you wanted to be a teacher. Laura wanted to be a writer, but first she needed to find a story worth telling. She was still looking for it.
Unfortunately, her landlord wouldn’t take that reason for rent. Neither would her grocery store, her student loans, her phone bill, her insurance, nor gas for her car. No one wanted aspirational stories. They wanted money. Camille K had enough money for a mansion, and apparently, enough money to help out lowly English majors only a few months out of school.
“Copy editing job?” asked the woman.
Laura held up the ad. The woman scrunched her nose to try and read the ad, then took it from Laura. As she read, her face relaxed.
“Ooooo, the assistant job.”
“Assistant?”
“Oh, yes. Come right this way Miss Delazier.” The woman disappeared into the estate, and Laura followed. She turned around to make sure the door was closed behind them, then scampered after the short blonde.
As soon as she stepped inside, she wanted to pause and gawk. There was a grand staircase that wound all the way up to the fourth floor, and maybe even the roof. There were three different hallways to choose from. The building was rich with dark wood and pale marble that made Laura feel dirty, clumsy, and poor all at once.
But Laura didn’t have time to investigate closely. The blonde was fast, and Laura had no idea where she was taking her. She lost track of all the turns they take. They seemed to go up a side flight of stairs, and then down another flight of stairs. One floor had a garden in the middle of it, and another floor had a grand dining room.
“Am I getting the tour?” asked Laura.
“Sort of,” said the blonde without turning around. “Miss K is in a meeting. It’s a moving meeting, and I’m to make sure they don’t see you or me. Hence, the roundabout course.
“I’m not going to Miss K?”
“You’ll meet with her shortly. For now, I’m taking you to her primary assistant.”
“She has multiple assistants?”
The blonde stopped abruptly, and Laura almost slammed into her. She turned and gave Laura a look of disappointment and amusement. “Miss K employs a research assistant, a personal assistant, a primary assistant, and now you, an editing assistant. Not to mention: me, two other housekeepers, a personal cook, several lawyers, an accountant, and a personal trainer. Her primary assistant oversees all of us.”
“And she’s the one who —”
“Hired you. Will pay you. And will direct you. You’ll spend most of your time with her.”
The blonde turned back around and led on. They went up to the fourth floor—Laura’s calves were killing her—and came to a glass door. Behind that glass door was a beautiful office that had giant windows overlooking the waterfront of the Mississippi River.
Sitting at the desk, was an elegant Asian woman. She wore a flowing pantsuit that looked like it came off the runway in Paris. The legs flared a little below the knee, but were tight at the thigh. The neckline of the jacket was plunging, but the woman wore a simple white blouse underneath. She had long and straight black hair, going to her lower back. She looked to be only a little older than the blonde, in her mid or late thirties. She stood as she saw them round the corner and opened the door for them.
“Hello,” she said. “You must be Miss Delazier.”
“Please, call me Laura.” Laura extended her hand and shook Miss Lancaster’s.
“I’m Lucy Lancaster, I’m Miss K’s primary assistant. We spoke on the phone.”
“Yes,” said Laura.
Everyone stood awkwardly outside Miss Lancaster’s office. Miss Lancaster and the blonde had some type of conversation with their eyes, and Laura tried to avoid eye-contact entirely.
“Is Miss K still with the —”
“Yes,” said the blonde quickly.
“Good.” Miss Lancaster turned to Laura. “Come on in, Laura. Let me tell you more about the position.” Miss Lancaster turned to enter her office, but Laura turned to the blonde.
“What was your name? I’m sorry, but I never got it.”
The blonde blushed and smiled. “I’m Angelica.”
“Thank you for showing me around, Angelica. I appreciate it.” Laura held out her hand to shake the blonde’s, but Angelic curtsied instead, and walked away. Laura turned and entered Miss Lancaster’s office.
Miss Lancaster was in the wrong job. The woman belonged on Wall Street or in Washington. Her talent, intelligence, and composure were wasted working as the staff manager for a romance writer. Laura respected her immediately, but was too intimidated to like her. She wanted to like her. Laura wanted to like everyone. But Miss Lancaster made her feel stupid and foolish for being an English major. She disapproved of Laura’s tiny writing credentials. She kept saying “we can make that,” and everytime she said it, Laura died a little inside.
Laura’s job was to be feedback and copy editing for Miss K. Apparently, Miss K often gets stuck on story ideas. She needs help finding inspiration. She needs someone to bounce ideas off of. And yes, Laura will need to go over Miss K’s writing at the end of each day, line by line, to check for grammar, spelling, and inconsistencies in the text.
“What about the poetry reading part?” asked Laura.
“Miss K likes to have poetry read to her. It moves and inspires her.”
“Sure,” shrugged Laura. Whatever Miss K wanted, Miss K was going to get.
Miss Lancaster sighed and pushed back her chair. “Now comes the unpleasantness of this meeting.” She opened a drawer a pulled out a one-inch-thick stack of paper. She dropped it onto the table in front of Laura.
“Unpleasantness?” squeaked Laura.
“Unfortunately.”
“What’s this?” asked Laura.
“This is a Non-Disclosure Agreement, or NDA. It is a legal document binding you to privacy, secrecy, and confidentiality while under the employ of Miss Camille Kontalban.”
“Kontalban?”
“Doesn’t roll off the tongue, does it?” said Miss Lancaster with a smile.
“Not quite.”
“Hence, Miss K.”
“Right.”
Miss Lancaster flipped through the pages and explained them as best she could to Laura. Laura couldn’t tell people things that were happening in Miss K’s books. She couldn’t talk about Miss K’s process or methods. She couldn’t reveal Miss K’s creative or inspirational process. She couldn’t reveal Miss K’s lifestyle or homelife. In short, she couldn’t talk about Miss K in anyway to anybody outside Miss K’s employ unless she wanted an avalanche of legal troubles.
“Should I have a lawyer read over this?” asked Laura when Miss Lancaster was finished.
“You can if you want to. It’s pretty straightforward, though.”
“It’s a lot. And it’s … scary.”
“We’re not trying to scare you. We’re trying to protect Miss K.”
Laura sighed. “Where do I sign?”
“That-a-girl.” Miss Lancaster flipped to several spots, and Laura signed at each of them.
“One last thing,” said Miss Lancaster when they were finished. “And unfortunately, this was not in the add.” Laura went cold. “We insist that while you are in Miss K’s employ, since you will be working so intimately with her, that you should live in the manor.”
Laura’s mouth dropped. “In the manor?”
“Yes,” said Miss Lancaster. She chewed on her pen, nervously. “Is that alright?”
“You mean, I have to move out of my crappy apartment to live in a mansion with a greenhouse, a ballroom, a grand staircase, and and and …”
“A swimming pool?” suggest Miss Lancaster.
“This place has a pool?!” squealed Laura.
Miss Lancaster grinned and nodded. “And a gym. And a hot tub. And a spa.”
“Holy shit,” whispered Laura. Then she gasped and covered her mouth. She blushed with embarrassment.
Miss Lancaster laughed. “Holy shit, indeed.” She seemed to relax and sat back down at her desk across from Laura. “I take it you’re not upset by this?”
“Am I allowed to leave when I want?” asked Laura.
“Of course. It’s just easier for everyone if you’re nearby in case Miss K writes in a fevered passion at five in the morning.”
Laura shrugged. “Fair enough.” It certainly beat paying rent. She’d also get to cancel her membership to the gym? What might have been the sketchiest ad for an English major in history, may have turned out to be her luckiest break.
“I’ll have a full write up on the routines for the house: when meals are served, laundry, guests, etc.”
“Great,” said Laura.
Miss Lancaster stood and extended her hand. Laura stood and shook it. “Graumann will show you to your room.” Miss Lancaster pointed behind Laura. There, on the other side of the glass door, was a man in a white button-down shirt, a black tie, and black pants.
“Um …” started Laura.
“Yes?”
“When will I meet Miss K?”
“Ah, yes,” said Miss Lancaster. “Each night, Miss K has what she calls a Muse Session. You will meet her there tonight to start. It will be after dinner.”
“Not until then?”
“No. And let me make this clear,” Miss Lancaster’s smile faded, “you are not to harass or bother Miss K. You should not go near her office, her study, or her quarters. She will ask for you when she wants you. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” said Laura.
“Good,” said Miss Lancaster. “Grauman?” she asked to the man behind Laura. He opened the door for Laura and gestured for her to exit. She followed him.
“What kind of name is Grauman?” asked Laura as they climbed down the stairs to the second floor, the one floor Angelica had made her skip.
“My name,” he said in a thick European accent. German maybe?
“Right, but where is it from?”
“My mother gave it to me.”
Right, thought Laura. Angelica nice. Lancaster scary. Grauman might be crazy or stupid. Got it.
Grauman was surprisingly young for a butler, or whatever the hell he was. He seemed to be in his late twenties, the closest to Laura’s age of anyone she’s seen so far. He had thick hair that was parted to one side and slicked with something. It was a dark brown to match his dark eyes. Laura didn’t ask him anymore questions.
When they arrived at her room, Grauman held out his hand. Laura stared at it.
“Oh, um,” she reached into her pocket. “Am I supposed to give you a tip?”
“No,” snorted Grauman. “Your key.”
“My key?” asked Laura.
“To go and get your things. Yes, your key.”
“Oooo,” said Laura. “The key to my apartment. Right. Sure. Here.” She took the key off the keyring and handed it to him. In turn, he handed her a key.
“This will open your room, your bathroom, and the front door of the house. After midnight, the house has an alarm. You do not get to know the code.”
“Okay, but —”
Grauman turned around and stomped off.
“Guess I’ll figure that out later,” muttered Laura. She turned around to inspect her room.
It was gorgeous. And spacious. Room isn’t the right word. It was a suite. Laura had a small kitchen, a seating area for guests, and large four-poster bed. She’d seen rooms like this in movies or on television, but she never thought she’d get to sleep in one, let alone live in one.
She squealed when she found her bathroom. It was huge. It had two full length mirrors, a shower, and a bathtub large enough for her to lay down, sprawl out, and share.
Not that she’d shared a bath with anyone ever, but she now she could if she wanted to. Well, she wanted to, but if someone else wanted to, now they could.
After completely freaking out about how incredible her amenities were, Laura went to explore the house. No one had told her she couldn’t, but she felt nervous that she might accidentally bump into Miss K or go into some forbidden section of the house.
Luckily, she wasn’t ten feet out of her room before Angelica found her.
“Lost?’ chirped the blonde from behind her.
Laura turned around and smiled. “Unfortunately.”
“It takes time to get used to.”
“I mostly don’t want to accidentally bump into Miss K. Miss Lancaster made it sound like she’d bite my head off.”
Angelica giggled. “Oh, I certainly don’t think she’d do that. Miss Lancaster is overprotective of Miss K. She wants to make sure nothing, and I mean absolutely nothing, interferes with Miss K’s creative process. None of us get paid if Miss K can’t write.”
“Makes sense,” said Laura.
“Anyways, I can explain the house to you like this: fourth quarter is entirely business related. There are offices, like Miss Lancasters’, meeting rooms, etc. Your office will be up there.”
Laura nodded, but inwardly she jumped up and down, screamed, fist pumped, and danced. Her own office? She had her own office and her own apartment and a swimming pool and a gym and a personal chef and …. Her own office?! She needed to get into romance novels ASAP. Apparently the pay is to die for.
“The third floor is for used for a variety of things. I showed you the gardens. That’s also where you can find the gym. There’s also the movie theater. It’s recreational, I guess.”
A movie theater?!
“The first floor is for entertainment. That is where the primary dining rooms, ballrooms, and guest rooms are. If we host as a party, which we don’t do too much anymore, it will stay on the first floor. The second floor is the residence. The east wing is for staff, like us, and the west wing is entirely for Miss K. Her office and suite all occupy that space. Once you come to the double burgundy doors, you’re entering into her space. Stay away from the doors, and Miss K will be left in peace. If she finds you in the garden, you’ll have nothing to fear from her.”
Laura nodded. Double Burgundy Doors are the point of no return. Got it.
“I’ll go through those doors tonight, though, right?”
“Hmmm?” asked Angelica, turning around. “Oh, yes. For the Muse Session. Yes, those will happen in her suite tonight. Yes.”
“Where are we heading now?”
“I want to make sure you meet all the staff.”
Angelica took Laura all around the house (there were so many stairs! Her thighs burned!). She met the personal chef, a man named Jacque. Angelica said he only spoke French. The other housekeeper was a curvy redhead named Nikki. She had an adorable Southern accent. Miss K’s personal assistant was a mousy girl with thick and large glasses named Erika. She wore a thick sweater and scarf even in the depth of a Memphis summer. Those were the only staff that lived in the house. Miss K kept the “non-essential” assistants worked “off site,” normally from their homes.
Laura had dinner with Erika. Nikki waited on them. Erika said nothing, but Nikki talked her ear off. Apparently, she had only been working here a week or two. Miss K felt things were being missed and wanted an additional maid at all times to help out Angelica.
Nikki was sweet. She reminded Laura of her friend, Claire, from college. Both girls were extremely extroverted and had no issues sharing any bit of personal information. Laura learned that Nikki didn’t have a boyfriend, but she went out several times a week to find “a nice gentleman to ride.”
Laura blushed like she used to do with Claire. Where Laura grew up, people didn’t talk that way. They pretended they never had sex at all. Sex was what whores and prostitutes had. Respectable people made love, at best.
But Claire helped Laura mellow out. Claire liked to tell Laura who she had recently hooked up with and gave her explicit details about it. Laura learned that Claire went to clubs to explore her kinks and fetishes. Laura followed Claire two or three times on these expeditions, out of curiosity. The clubs were strange and hot. People were pushy or needy. It was too intense for her. It was no different than going to a wild pride parade. Yes, people were celebrating their sexuality. No, Laura didn’t want to participate. Yes, she could be around them and not freak out.
That was precisely what was on Laura’s mind as she pushed through the Double Burgundy Doors to Miss K’s side of the second floor. Laura noticed immediately that the air was staler here, stuffier, almost thicker. It felt like Angelica and Nikki had not dusted here in years. Which is strange considering the fact that if Laura was a housekeeper, she’d make sure the area around her boss’ room was the cleanest of all.
Nevertheless, Laura wandered through the hallways, looking for Miss K’s suite. Luckily, Miss Lancaster found her and led her to the right door. Laura hesitated before entering. She’d barely heard of Camille Kontalban a day ago. She hadn’t read a single book by the woman, nor would she read her books if they were given to her. But now she’d seen the house and the staff. The woman must be made of money. And ambition. What kind of woman was she?
Miss Lancaster pushed open the door and revealed an empty suite. “She’ll be in her bedroom,” said the tall asian woman as she stepped past Laura.
“Her bedroom?” asked Laura.
“Yes.”
“What are we going to do in her bedroom?” Laura raised an eyebrow at Miss Lancaster. The woman smiled and waved off Laura.
“I’ll admit, this will be the strange part. But she writes in a highly sexualized genre for women who want steamy sex scenes with gorgeous men.”
Laura blushed and looked down at her shoes.
“But you won’t be doing anything sexual,” said Miss Lancaster, raising her voice as she caught how her words sounded. “I promise.”
Laura looked up. “Oh,” she whispered.
“I promise. We’d have mentioned that in the ad or in a contract or something. There may be sexual things going on around you, but you will not be asked to do anything you’re uncomfortable with and nothing sexual.”
“What kind of sexual things?” asked Laura. Were they going to watch porn together?
“Um, that’s hard to explain,” said Miss Lancaster. “It will be easier to show you.”
Miss Lancaster reached for Laura’s hand, but Laura pulled back. “Wait. Before we go in there, tell me what I’ll be doing. Exactly.”
Miss Lancaster sighed and looked at her watch. “You will be asked to read a poem for Miss Lancaster while she is … serviced.”
“Serviced?” asked Laura.
“Yes.”
“And by serviced you mean …” led Laura.
“Yes,” nodded Miss Lancaster. “Exactly what you think I’m hinting at.”
“She wants me to read poetry while this happens?”
“Exactly.”
“That’s why the ad wanted me to be able to read poetry well?”
“Exactly,” sighed Miss Lancaster. She looked at her watch again. “Are you ready? We really can’t be late.”
“Wait,” said Laura, lifting her hand to Miss Lancaster. “I’m trying to figure out how I feel about this.”
Miss Lancaster stepped forward. Laura almost jumped back, but held her own. “Miss Delazier,” she said with iron in her voice. “You will be paid handsomely. You will edit her work, while having little editing experience yourself. You will copy edit her work while having literally no experience doing copy editing. You will give her feedback on a genre you know little of. You will have access to this home and all its amenities. And you get all this, despite your low qualifications, precisely because Miss K likes the way you read poetry. It is for that you were hired. If you won’t do this, we will be forced to dismiss you. Is that clear?”
Laura thought about all the magical perks of this job. This is the catch. Of course, there’s a catch. It was too good to be true. In order to keep the job, she’d have to participate in Miss K’s bizarre inspirational sex acts.
Well, not really participate. It was just reading poetry, right? She’d recorded poems and read them publicly hundreds of times. Sure, it was weird. But it was just reading. What bad could come from reading a poem?
Laura nodded. “That’s clear.”
“You’ll do as your told?” snapped Miss Lancaster.
“I’ll read the poem,” said Laura. “But that’s all I’ll do.”
“Good.” Miss Lancaster gave a sigh of relief. “Thank you.” She smiled at Laura, and Laura smiled back, though she didn’t know why. But Miss Lancaster didn’t linger. She stepped ahead of Laura and opened the door to Miss K’s bedroom.
Inside, candles were lit all around. There was no lamp of any kind. In fact, Laura didn’t think she saw a single electronic thing. No alarm clock. No television. No stereo. No phone charger. Nothing. There weren’t even outlets for electricity to get into the room. There were no windows, but there were two doors to the far corner. One was to a bathroom, where Laura could see shadows moving inside. The other was closed.
In the room were Grauman and Jacque. They both had unbuttoned their shirts considerable and taken off their ties. Laura admired their physique. Before, they looked like simple servants or businessmen. Now, she could see that their muscles were taut. Their shirts were constricting. They were strong and young. Laura could imagine their abs beneath their shirts. She wondered if they ever modelled for the covers of Miss K’s books. She felt herself flush with desire or embarrassment, she wasn’t sure which.
Neither Grauman or Jacque said anything to her. They barely noticed her. It gave Laura the chance to balance herself and adjust to her surroundings. The room was filled with the scent of candle smoke. Things felt surreal and thick. Laura wandered forward and caught herself on a stool near the door. On it, was a book. It was titled Poems by Marcilla. The book had a brown cover. It was old. The pages were thick and yellowing. Laura opened it and flipped through it. It looked as though the words were transcribed by hand in old ink. The script was flowing in beautiful calligraphy. How old was it? Laura felt she was holding a piece of history, but she’d never heard of Marcilla.
Laura looked up when she heard ruffling in the bathroom. A woman Laura had never seen, in similar clothes to Nikki and Angelica, scampered out of the bathroom and past Laura, almost knocking her over. Laura looked behind her to watch the woman go, but there was a sound from the bathroom. Laura turned to see the light come off and a woman who could be none other than Miss K stepped out.
Laura didn’t know what she imagined Miss K would look like. Perhaps she imagined some mousy bookworm that spent all day writing fantasies with men she would never have. Perhaps Miss K was an elderly woman: wiry, twiggy, and fragile. Silvered and ancient. But Laura never expected Miss K to look younger than her. It couldn’t be possible. Miss K had been publishing for ten years or so, but the woman that stepped out of the bathroom looked like she stepped off of a college campus.
Miss K was pale. Paler than pale. Pale women were cream. Miss K was snow. Her skin almost glowed in the dark room. Her hair was dark and curly, falling over her shoulders in waves. She was neither tall nor short. She wore a thin gold robe parted down the middle. Laura’s eyes were drawn to Miss K’s plump breasts and her ghostly nipples beneath. Laura’s eyes went to the floor, following the length of Miss K’s body. Miss K’s bush was absent, and two smooth and bare lips teased and embarrassed Laura.
But despite her impressive body, it was Miss K’s stride that struck Laura. She took small steps, carefully swinging each foot in front of the other before lifting a leg. Her hips swayed from the effort, but her feet moved in a perfect line. One foot swung out in front of another. There was a breath. Then the other foot swung out in front of the first. And decorating Miss K’s feet were a pair of bright blue heels. At the sound of their click on the wooden floor, Grauman and Jacque stood at attention for Miss K. Laura forgot about the missing maid, the ancient book, the hairless pussy, and everything else.
Miss K commanded the room.
“Laura,” she said with a smile. She reached out both hands for Laura to take, as though they were old friends about to embrace. Laura hesitated, but stepped forward and took both of Miss K’s hands in each of hers.
“I’m so happy you could join us here,” said Miss K. Her voice was heavy and thick, as though it were coming from underground, or through a veil. But it was pleasant and inviting. Laura liked her instantly and smiled despite the situation.
“I’m honored to be here, Miss K.”
Miss K laughed and threw her arms wide, releasing Laura’s hands. Her robe billowed and Laura saw more of her naked body, her glowing skin, her rolling flesh.
“Please,” she laughed. “You’ve seen me naked. The least you can do is call me Camille.”
Laura smiled. “Of course, Camille. Thank you for inviting me into your … process.” Laura tried not to sound judgemental with the last word, but she knew Grauman and Jacque weren’t here for moral support.
“It is a strange one,” admitted Camille with a shrug. “But it’s worked so far,” she spread her arms again and gestured to the entire estate, her entire writing career. “After this, my mind will be brimming with stories and words and sensations to put into my characters.” She stepped towards Laura and whispered, “and thus my readers.” She winked, and Laura found herself smiling again.
“But, let’s get to it.” Camille stepped away and clapped her hands. “Laura, darling, all you have to do is sit on that stool and read those poems. The words and the boys will do the rest.” Camille gestured to the poems Laura had found already. “Start at the beginning. There is a bit of a narrative to it all.”
Laura was about to ask about the author and the book, but Camille shrugged out of her robe. Grauman picked it up and carried it into the bathroom. Camille sat on the edge of the bed, turned, and faced Laura. Jacque went around the bed and sat next to Camille, facing away from Laura. He held a silver bowl, and in it was a flash of black and red. He extended his hand, and Laura saw a chocolate-covered strawberry. He lowered it, and Camille bit into it. Rivulets of red juice dribbled down her lips and her neck. Laura blushed and looked away.
Grauman came back from the bathroom without the robe. He stood in front of the bed, between Laura and Camille, and sank to his knees. Laura finally figured out that he was going to eat out Camille while Jacque fed her strawberries.
All while Laura read her poetry.
Grauman lowered himself to Camille’s flawless pussy. He began with long licks. Camille shivered, but she didn’t pay him any more attention than that. Instead, she caught the dripping strawberry juice as it slipped between her breasts. She licked her fingers and motioned for Jacque to feed her another bite.
She went back to college, back to Claire and the orgies and the kink clubs. She’d seen someone eaten out before. It was strange, asking her to participate with poetry, but no stranger than people dressing up like animals to have sex.
All she had to do was focus on the poems, the words.
She could do that. She could do words for days.
She opened the book. There was no table of contents. No publishing or copyright information. The first page began with a poem, like someone’s personal journal. Laura read:
The Yawn
Across the hall gather the women,Each watching their husband,Each daring him to dance withEach strategic tittle of breast.But Miss Laura KarnsteinTurns her head and yawns.Her unadorned neck grows tight,Then sags with parted lips,Her mouth wide with boredom.
Laura looked up at Camille. Her mind ran over the name. Laura? The poem is about a Laura? Coincidence? It must be a coincidence. Laura is a popular enough name. But odder than that was the poem itself. This is what she wanted to read? And a poem about a yawn? Again, Laura wondered at the age of the text. Tittle? That’s an old word. This is what Miss K wanted to listen to while she was serviced by her two strapping employees? Laura watched Grauman as he went deeper into Camille’s pussy. His tongue gave long and deep strokes. Camille’s lips were bright red from strawberries. Her chin, neck, and the top of her breasts were also faintly pink.
Laura shrugged and continued:
But her porcelain skin catches me.The length of her thin neck,The pale skin maskingSo much red life, so muchThrumming potential,But she passes it onAs yet another yawn.I look for Mr. Karnstein,But he is neither in Miss Karnstein’s eyeNor among the men.He must be a yawn,Missing the twitch in herPulsing throat,The brazen sign of desireFor more than this,
Camille moaned. Laura looked up again. Camille’s eyes were open. She was staring at Laura. Jacque offered her another strawberry, but she shook her head. She ran her hand through Grauman’s hair. Camille kept her eyes locked on Laura and moaned again, tilting her head back, but never looking away. Laura blushed and kept reading:
More than traditional dances.She pulls away, and I follow.I see the vein of her neck shiver,And I join it. The first twitchOf game before it runs; she risesTo excuse herself,As though it possible,As though a resting note,A caesura,May bepardonedor ignored.
Laura paused again. A line break like that wasn’t conventional for the time period. That’s a visual element of a poem, saved mostly for the early 1900s. She felt tempted to skim through the book, to find more evidence of who Marcilla was and when this poem was written.
Camille moaned again. Laura felt heat rush to her thighs. She blushed at being turned on and the impossibility of the scenario. Heat spread through her cheeks and down her neck.
Her neck. Laura’s neck.
She sees it clearly, Laura Karnstein bored at a party. Laura Karnstein’s neck stretching and yawning. Her neck taught. Her neck bare. Her neck pulsing. Laura’s hand brushes her neck, self-consciously trying to hide it from Camille’s gaze. She dare not look up, dare not see Camille staring into her, moaning at her. She read the last couplet:
But I rise and follow.She retreats, and I give chase.
Camille lets out a shrill moan. Laura looks up and sees Camille’s back arch, her head flung back, as she humps Grauman’s face. Jacque has abandoned feeding her strawberries, and licks one of Camille’s nipples. Camille spasms and lets out another moan.
Laura finds herself hoping Camille cums and is satiated. She doesn’t want to endure another poem. She wants to take the book away and pour through it. She wants to find out how it was made and who wrote it. Who is Marcilla? Is this autobiographical? Is Laura Karnstein real? Her warm, throbbing neck?
But Camille’s moans roll on. She almost fucks Grauman’s face with her fevered thrusting. Jacque uses a free hand to administer to Camille’s other breast, but she stops him. She pauses, hesitating. She goes rigid, and then sighs.
Laura can’t help but notice Camille’s thighs quivering as Grauman moves away.
Both men go the bathroom. Laura hears the sink turn on, and then both men walk past her and leave the room. Can Laura join them? Does she need permission to go? Will Camille dismiss her? Or will she read more? Will she give chase to Laura Karnstein as Marcilla does?
Camille lays on the bed for a minute. Her chest heaves as she catches her breath. Another finger absentmindedly swirls over her clit. Laura’s thighs are warm, watching such a beautiful woman glow in the dark and openly touch herself without shame. What a power, to be so shameless.
No. Shameless implies she ought to be ashamed. Camille is free of shame, and that stirs Laura again.
Camille sits up and smiles at Laura. “Thank you, Laura. That was a beautiful reading.”
“Really?” asks Laura, flustered from the compliment.
“Yes.” Camille came to sit at the edge of the bed, but one hand never left her smooth mound, keeping soft circles rolling over Camille’s clit. “You have a beautiful voice. It fills the room, like your words roll over my body.”
Laura blushed and hid her face.
“But don’t pause next time. Read it all in one rush of emotion. Poetry is a storm, not a story. Okay?”
Laura nodded, embarrassed at the gentle reprimand.
“May I go?” asked Laura.
“Soon, darling.” Camille fell back into the bed and kept touching herself. Laura looked away, wanting to give Camille privacy, though Camille clearly didn’t need it. She flipped through the pages of the strange tome in her hand. She turned to the next poem, something about a peach. She tried to read, but the light was dimming in the room. Laura looked up to see the candles low, and Camille sitting up, her kimono back on. Her lips were still bright red. They glowed on her pale skin in the fading light.
Then everything went dark.