Poetry & Blood Chapter 2: Hunger By Trixie Adara
The knock on the door eventually woke Laura up. Really, the knock had become more of a banging. Laura opened her eyes and was struck with how sore her body was; the back of her throat, her arm, and her abs all ... ached.
"Holy shit," she croaked. "I've got the flu."
She tried to sit up, but the room spun around her. She gripped the side of her head and fell back into her comfy bed. Yes, the bed was safe.
The banging on the door continued.
"Laura?" squeaked someone from behind the door. "Are you alive?"
"Barely," said Laura. Her voice was strained and cracking.
Laura lurched to the side and grabbed her cell phone. It was almost noon. "Holy shit," she muttered. "The day's almost over."
More banging. "Laura? It's Angelica. Can I come in?"
"Come in," shouted Laura as loud as she could--apparently `as loud as she could' was something like a smoker cough.
The door turned and Angelica came in, her hair was fairly messy. And was she out of breath? "Good morning, sleepyhead." Laura raised one arm and let it flop back to the comforter.
"Not feeling well?" asked Angelica. "We tried to wake you earlier today, but you didn't respond."
"I'm sick," moaned Laura. On the second day. Can you call out sick on the second day of work? Especially after part of the job was to move into the place? Especially after you watched your boss get devoured by two gorgeous men who were also, somehow, your co-workers? Was there a precedent for this?
"I figured," said Angelica. "Do you feel like eating? We can get Jacque to make something special for what you're feeling."
"Does he have morphine? I'd like morphine."
Angelica laughed and moved to the large curtains on each side of Laura's bed. She thrust them open and light flooded the room.
"There," she sighed. "My mother used to say light kept away disease."
"It also keeps away sleep." Laura flung the comforter back over her head.
"You can sleep later. You need food."
"I don't feel like anything."
"That's because you haven't eaten anything. We'll give you something simple to earn back that appetite."
"Are you going to ignore everything I say and do whatever you want?"
"Pretty much."
Laura flipped the comforter off of her head. "Fine," she sighed. "Just not meat, okay?"
"Bacon wrapped sausages, coming up."
"Cute."
Laura rolled over and grabbed her phone while Angelica stepped out. She had two missed calls from her father and seventeen missed calls from Claire, as well as fourteen angry text messages.
Holy shit. Claire. She didn't know Laura was moving out. She must have freaked out when a bunch of strange men started loading Laura's stuff into a van and carting it away. Why didn't she think to message her and explain it? Well, shit.
She called Claire without hesitating. Claire answered on the first ring.
"You got some motherfucking explaining to do," snapped her roommate.
"Calm down."
"Are you hurt? Are you dead? Did someone kidnap you?"
"They did, but the only ransom they want is for you to calm down," said Laura. Claire tended to be a drama queen. Everything was the end of the world or the best in the world. There was nothing in between.
Claire sighed into the phone. "What's going on?" she asked.
"I got the job."
"And you already got another apartment? Without me?"
"Sort of," said Laura, looking around her room. Her stuff was already neatly put away and organized. It probably wasn't just the way she liked it, but it was still kinder than dumping her stuff in the middle of the room. That's precisely what Claire would have done.
"Then what?"
"She wanted me to move in with her."
"Ohmygod, she's a lesbian?"
"I doubt that very much," muttered Laura. She sat up. Her strength was returning to her, but she still felt sore. She felt stiff. The slightest movement hurt, but it also stretched her and eased her discomfort.
"Then what?"
"It's a perk of the job. I get to live in Camille Kontalban's mansion."
"Holy shit."
"I know, right?" Laura smiled to herself. It felt strange to say aloud. It wasn't a dream. It wasn't a fantasy. She really was living in a mansion as a personal copy editor to a successful writer. Sure, a crappy romance writer, but she was doing what she always wished she could do. She was part of something besides filling forms and flipping burgers.
"Holy shit," repeated Claire.
"Yeah, it's pretty great."
"No, it's awful. How am I supposed to pay rent without you?"
"With money?"
"No, Laura. I don't make enough money to pay rent on my own."
"Oh," said Laura. She hadn't considered Claire's finances when she took the job or the room.
Laura looked around the room. What else hadn't she thought about? What kind of writer makes their copy editor live with them? What kind of woman makes her copy editor watch her get off? Laura felt so caught up in the moment, so excited to finally have a job, a real job, why hadn't she thought this weird? This was weird.
"Sorry," muttered Laura. Claire kept going on about finding a new apartment, but Laura's mind was elsewhere. Claire would figure things out. She always did. But Laura, for the first time, was thinking about the new life she had signed up for. She was thinking about Graumann and the strange staff that now surrounded her, but most of all, she was thinking about Camille with her legs spread and her servants eager to please her.
And Marcilla. Who was she? Why did Camille use some unknown poet writing about yawns to get off to? What the hell was this whole freakshow and what it did it have to do with bad poetry? Laura felt a burning desire to get her hands on that book again, as though the book would explain everything going on. Once Laura could understand Marcilla, maybe she would understand Camille.
Or maybe she knew nothing.
"Hello?" asked Claire. "Are you there?"
"Uh, yeah," muttered Laura. "I'm just not feeling well."
"Yeah, you sound like shit."
"Thanks."
"You sick?"
"Nothing gets passed you," said Laura.
"On your second day? How the hell does that work? Can you call out sick if you live where you work? And what if you're not sick? Do you get fired for lying about calling out sick? Jesus, I'd hate that. I'd just die if I couldn't call out sick whenever I was fucking fed up with Horatio and the bar. Speaking of which, he asked me out ... again. I don't belong to him or anything like after one-"
"Claire?" croaked Laura.
"Yeah?"
"It really hurts to talk right now."
"Then just listen."
"It hurts to sit up."
"Then lay down."
"It just hurts," said Laura. "Everything hurts. I'm going to go. Okay? I'll call you when I feel better."
"You're really leaving me out to dry here, Laura."
"I know. I'm sorry. I'll help you find another apartment, I promise. Just not this very moment."
There was a pause. Laura checked to see if Claire had hung up, but the line was still open. "Claire?" asked Laura.
"You're not in trouble?" whispered Claire. "Just say `sweet Caroline' if you're not in trouble."
Laura smiled. Old joke. "Goodbye, sweet Caroline." She hung up.
Laura sat in bed and tried to decide if Camille was some sick murderer or sex trafficker, but she had no idea what a murderer or sex trafficker looked like or acted like. She knew that the simplest explanation was often the most correct one, so she didn't let that train of thought distract her.
The evidence suggested that Camille was a sexual creature. She wrote novels about men with abs on abs for lonely housewives. She had men with abs on abs eat her out while listening to poetry. She was kinky. She was full of life. She was powerful. The simplest explanation was that this was either a power thing or a sex thing. Laura wasn't going to sleep with Camille, even if Camille somehow thought she owned her new copy editor. Besides, Camille hadn't shown any signs in her writing or bedroom that she liked women. And technically, Laura was in Camille's power. The trick was not to let Camille get too much more power over her. Don't become dependent on Camille.
Angelica knocked on the door, and Laura told her to come in. The petite blonde brought in a tray with a silver dome over the plate and a large glass of something green and thick.
Laura pointed to the drink. "Remember, I'm sick. I don't want to become more sick."
"It's a power-smoothie," said Angelica. "Lots of greens, especially spinach, orange juice, and a whole bunch of supplements to help you feel strong."
"I don't think that's necessary."
"Nonsense," said Angelica, putting the tray and drink on the end table next to Laura. "Jacque is a genius, and you're sick. None of us want to catch what you have, so you need to take care of yourself."
"Bosses' orders?" asked Laura.
"Jacque's orders. And you'll find he's much sterner than Miss K."
Angelica lifted the dome off the platter to reveal a plate of scrambled eggs and something green mixed in with it.
"Eggs and spinach. Jacque said to keep it simple, and the spinach will really help to get the blood flowing."
"Does he have any bread?
"Of course he does."
"I want bread," said Laura. She covered the plate with the dome.
"When you're better. Bread has almost nothing in it. You need nutrients."
"I can't eat that," said Laura, pointing to the dome.
"Don't be a child. It's embarrassing. Miss K has called for a doctor to come check you out."
Laura looked away. "I ... uh ... don't have any health insurance."
"The doctor is an old friend. Don't worry about it." Don't let her have power over you. Well, shit. "You told Miss K that I was sick?" asked Laura as she lifted the dome off the plate again.
"I told everyone. They should leave you alone today while you recover. Miss K will send you some work, but she insists that you work at your own pace. She wants you to regain your strength for tonight."
Laura looked at Angelica and narrowed her eyes. "She expects me to show up for a Muse Session tonight?"
"Of course. Every night."
"But I'm sick," said Laura.
"You seem to be doing better."
"I could be contagious," Laura protested.
"We'll take precautions," said Angelica as she headed for the door to the room.
"What if I start to feel worse?"
Angelica stopped and turned. Her pleasant expression was gone. Instead, she wore a mask of disappointment. "This isn't about you," she said. "This is about Miss K. Don't be a child." Angelica didn't wait for Laura to respond; she turned, and left the room.
After that, Laura felt appropriately guilty enough to start eating her food. The eggs were good--better than she expected. She could stomach them just fine. She waited until her plate was clean before attempting the smoothie. Despite being a vegetarian the past few years, she'd never been one for green or power smoothies. Smoothies were a dessert to her, and vegetables were decidedly un-dessertlike.
It wasn't bad. There was a sweetness to it. She wasn't sure if orange juice and spinach were good friends, but she could tolerate hanging out with both of them at the same time. She started with small and careful slips but felt comfortable with it by the time she was halfway through.
It was around that time that Nikki appeared. Laura half expected the redhead to show up with Angelica's bad mood, but Nikki looked pleasant.
"Hey, hun," she said. "Feeling better?"
"A bit," admitted Laura. "Jacque is apparently a genius."
"I swear," said Nikki as she handed Laura a small red portfolio, "Miss K would fire all of us before she'd let go of him, and I don't blame her."
"Plus that tongue of his," said Laura. She smiled at her joke, but Nikki looked confused.
"I think Angelica speaks French as well."
"Right," said Laura, confused. Did Nikki not know? Surely, she must know.
"This is your work. Miss K says to take your time with it. She knows you're not feeling well, but if you acquaint yourself with the story, that would be a start. `Consider it some sick-day reading.' That's what she said."
Laura grabbed the portfolio and opened it up. She looked at the title, raised her eyebrow, and looked back up at Nikki skeptically. "The Magician's Mistress?" she asked.
"It's not what you think," said Nikki. "I hear it's the love story between the Magician and his wife. It's a redemption story."
"Then what, the mistress joins for a wild threesome at the end?"
"Oh, I doubt that," said Nikki disapprovingly. "Miss K doesn't fill her stories with crassness."
"Right," said Laura, absentmindedly flipping through the pages. "Does she let you read her stories?"
"Oh no," said Nikki. "She doesn't let anyone read them before they're done. But ... you know..." Nikki looked at the floor. "You hear things."
"I bet you do," said Laura.
Nikki blushed but smiled. "Anyway, she doesn't expect you to mark it. Just read over it."
"Got it."
"And if you need someone to go over it with... for, uh, professional reasons of course... just let me know."
Laura smiled. "Right. Professional reasons."
Nikki looked up and smiled at Laura. She had a gorgeous smile. It was mischievous but true. "If you need anything," she pointed to the landline phone, "just pick up and dial one. That should get Angelica or myself. Let us know when you want lunch, and we'll have Jacque fix you something."
"Thanks," said Laura.
Nikki bowed slightly and left.
Laura finished her smoothie and sat up. She propped some pillows behind her to try and get comfortable. She really was feeling better. Her muscles felt sore, but it was like she had a long workout the day before rather than having the flu. Laura dug through her purse for her reading glasses, and started working.
The Magician's Mistress was not a magical journey through lust, betrayal, and the redemptive power of love. It may have thought it was. It may have wished it was. But what it really was, was a series of setups for hot sex scenes. The magician's mistress had slightly kinky tastes. She liked bondage and being submissive to the magician. He liked to show her off and be in control.
Laura's eyes kept going over the page, predicting the plot and finding her predictions to be true. It was like popcorn: you ate it without thinking and never got full. Now, Camille's prose wasn't bad. She was a good writer. She had a wonderful way of describing the bare minimum. She left everything to the imagination, but she didn't leave you in the dark on what was happening. She also avoided painful romantic fiction phrases like bulging member' or turgid phallus.' Cocks were cocks for Camille.
But the plot was a nightmare. Everything was telegraphed. It was a soap opera. It was melodramatic. You had believable dialogue, beautiful prose, yet painful plot. Neither the magician, the mistress, nor the wife deserved each other. Nevertheless, something about Camille's words gripped Laura. She didn't stop reading for over an hour. She finally had to put the portfolio down when she got dizzy.
Laura felt Camille was selling herself short. She clearly had the capacity to write something more complicated than smut. It felt like she was playing to her audience's expectations, giving them exactly what they wanted. They wanted a steamy sex scene, so she wrote it. Some part of Laura doubted that Camille was proud of this work.
Laura wanted to call for lunch. She wanted something to ease her building nausea, but she also felt the words calling back to her. It was like the poems last night all over again. There was something so bland, so unremarkable about them. And yet, Laura couldn't get them out of her mind. She wanted to scan over the words again and again. She wanted the story to keep going, just like the poem.
The poem last night. A yawn. A stupid yawn. It was nothing interesting. One woman watched another woman yawn. And yet ...
And yet there was a promise of something more. The Laura in the poem, Laura Karnstein, was something more than just any woman. Her yawn was something more than just any yawn. Marcilla could see it. Clearly, Camille could see it. Why couldn't Laura? What was it about Laura K that was so interesting?
Laura found herself tracing her hands over her neck. Marcilla was hunting Laura K. She said she was going to give chase. Laura didn't expect that. It was a tame poem before that, wasn't it? Laura had to get her hands on the book to read it again. Was Marcilla lusting after Laura K? Was it something more or less sinister?
Laura wondered if anyone ever looked at her like that. Most of her boyfriends said she was cute. They liked her. But hunt her? Obsess over her? Lust after her? No. The boys she dated wanted something to fuck, anything. She wasn't an object of obsession for them. She was some status. She was a way to fight off their loneliness. She was a sophisticated left hand and the whole relationship was emotional masturbation. That's what it was. It was The Magicians' Mistress. It wasn't Laura K and Marcilla.
That's why Camille wanted the poems read. She could taste Marcilla's hunger. She needed to feed off of Marcilla's lust for Laura K. But why not put that in her stories? Why fill page after page with poor imitations? Perhaps she was aspiring to be Marcilla as a writer. She wanted to evoke deep desire with simple words. Or maybe she was aspiring to be like Marcilla in more than words. Maybe that's why she had beautiful men eat her out while she listened to it. Did she imagine she was Marcilla? Or did she imagine she was Laura K?
Laura gasped. She hadn't noticed her hand sneaking under the covers. Her fingers gently swirled over her panties, her mound, applying pressure to her clit. When did she start? Why didn't she want to stop?
Her mind flashed to images of her lounging in a hot room, sweating. She yawns. Her neck stretches long and languid. A bit of peach juice dribbles down her chin, down her neck. She feels the vein quiver. Someone is watching her. Someone is wanting her. To someone, she is the peach. She is the juice. She is dribbling.
Laura felt her legs spasm. Her body clenched and jolted with pleasure. Her eyes spread wide, but she shut them again. She wanted to stay in the salon. She wanted to sweat and feel drops of everything running over her skin. She wanted someone to notice the tiniest details of her body and lick their lips. She wanted to be hunted.
Laura came and relaxed into it, back into the bed. Fatigue struck her again. Sleep. The soreness of her body called her back to sleep, where she hoped--and it was such a silly hope--to dream of Laura and Marcilla.
A knock on the door. This one was gentle, like a tree branch in the wind on the side of a building. Laura opened her eyes. The details of her dream quickly ran from her. She was in bed, a cat of some sort crawled up on her lap. She was naked. She pet the cat. It purred and rubbed against her. Then it bit her breast and fled. But Laura didn't shriek in pain or wake up. She felt the tiny sliver of blood run down her breast, and sighed with relief.
"Come in," she said. Already, her voice felt stronger. Jacque really was a miracle man.
The door opened to reveal Camille. She was in a beautiful navy blue dress. It was form fitting, tightly sculpted to her body. It stopped only inches below her waist. Beside the miles and miles of legs, it was modest. No cleavage or plunging neckline. Her shoulders were covered, but small cut outs along it revealed peeks of skin. Her curly and kinky hair was down, cascading over her shoulders and down her back. She smiled when she saw Laura.
How could Laura not smile back?
With Camille was a strange and short man. He had grey and balding hair. He wore glasses and a three piece brown suit. He only came up to Camille's shoulder in height.
"Good morning," sighed Laura. She reclined back into the pillow, relaxing.
"Are you feeling better?" asked Camille as she came in. The short man followed behind her.
"A little, yes. Food helped."
"Excellent." Camille stepped to the side and gestured to the short man. "This is Dr. Spielsdorf. He's an old friend." Camille smiled, but the doctor looked less comfortable. "He'll be looking after you. You're in excellent care. Isn't she, doctor?"
"Y-y-yes," stuttered the man. He sounded like a cartoon character, impossible to take seriously.
"Then go to work." Camille gestured towards Laura. Laura started to sit up, but Dr. Spielsdorf motioned for her to relax. The doctor pulled away the covers, and Laura panicked, hoping he wouldn't see any evidence of her touching herself.
Thankfully, there wasn't any puddle or stain, but Laura expected there to be one. Also, the good doctor never touched her below the waist. He did a routine exam, listening to her body and asking if this or that hurt.
Camille watched the doctor with intense interest, but when she spoke, it had nothing to do with Laura's heath: "Were you comfortable with the Muse Session last night?"
"Uh ... what?" asked Laura. The doctor had his head almost against her chest.
"The Muse Session. Some girls don't stay very long. They're not comfortable with it."
"I ... uh .... No. I mean ... I was fine. It didn't bother me. My roommate was pretty wild in college. I've seen plenty."
"Ah, yes." Camille smiled. "But now you participate."
"I mean. I read," admitted Laura. She tried not to get explicit with the doctor right next to her. What would he say or think about their literature orgy?
"Which do you think pleasures me more: Grauman's tongue or Marcilla's words?"
Laura looked at Dr. Spielsdorf, but he didn't miss a beat. "Grauman?" suggest Laura.
"I can hire anyone to be Grauman. Not everyone can read Marcilla like you did last night."
"Oh."
Silence fell over them. The doctor stepped away from Laura and rummaged through a bag he had brought with him. Camille's eyes never left Laura's. She wanted to shiver, to show her discomfort, but she didn't want to offend. She didn't want it to end.
"I ... uh ... think I blacked out at some point in the middle or something. After you ... uh ... after you ... ummm ..." Laura glanced back at the doctor.
"Orgasmed, dear. It's just a word. You'll read it plenty in your work for me."
"Seemed like more than a word last night." Laura watched the doctor, but he either couldn't hear, understand, or care about what they were talking about.
Camille smiled. "Yes, it is always something special. But you were not disturbed?"
"It was nothing stranger than some pride parades I've been to."
"Excellent." Camille looked to the doctor for the first time. "Doctor, will she be able to read to me tonight?"
"She may need to be weclined," said the doctor, his voice sounding like his mouth was thick with cotton balls. "But she should be alwight to wead. Nothing mo stwenuous."
"Thank you, doctor. You may leave." Camille stepped aside, showing the doctor the door. The little man scrambled to pack up his things and vanished.
"I look forward to hearing you tonight."
Camille didn't turn to leave. She didn't pause to look out the window or find something else to talk about. She held Laura fixed in her gaze. Her eyes urged Laura to talk. Laura wished she could pull up the covers. The doctor didn't notice, but surely Camille knew. Camille could smell the lust and shame on Laura.
"I was wondering ..." confessed Laura.
"Yes?"
"About the book you had me reading."
"Yes."
Camille slinked towards the bed and sat gracefully on it. Her eyes never left Laura.
"I've never heard of Marcilla."
"She is certainly lesser known. She was a lesbian, as I'm sure you've inferred from the first poem. She was a kind of Sappho of the Elizabethan era, but she wasn't surrounded by open-minded Greeks like Sappho was. She was persecuted and hunted. Most traces of her works were destroyed. That book is a rare treasure of mine."
"Will I be reading her tonight?" asked Laura.
Camille leaned towards Laura. "We will read it every night until you tire of it."
"Uh ... thanks ..." said Laura. She looked away from Camille, looking out the window. She couldn't bear another second of eye contact, another moment of Camille looking at her and looking into her, of devouring her with her eyes. "I look forward to it," whimpered Laura.
Camille patted Laura's lap, like she would a small child, and stood. "Perhaps you should walk the grounds bit. Build up your strength. It's stuffy in here."
Camille didn't wait for a response before leaving. Laura didn't offer one. She did need to get out of bed. She needed a shower and to stand on her own two feet, to stretch her back. When she stood, she felt the room spin. She grabbed the corner of her bed and steadied herself. She needed to focus. She wanted to read more that night.
She had to read more.
Laure felt much better after a shower. She decided to walk to the kitchen instead of call for something to eat. Jacque didn't speak in much more than grunts or broken English with a thick accent, but the desire for soup got across. The soup helped even more than the shower.
After that, she walked the grounds. The sun felt good on her skin. The mansion was always a bit stuffy and dark, but that helped it feel authentic and luxurious. Laura was almost shocked to see the twenty-first century waiting for her outside the front door. Cars. Skyscrapers. Street lights.
Honestly, it all felt a little busy compared to Camille's little nook. It was like Laura had found the adult version of Narnia. Behind those doors was a whole other world with orgies and erotic poetry and smutty writing. It was two hundred or more years ago and Camille was a Baroness or Duchess.
But the outside was loud. And bright. People honked their horns. Everyone was on their phone as they walked: either talking, texting, or listening to something. Everything wanted her attention. Time was faster here, but it wasn't more pleasant for the speed.
Unfortunately, cell phones are a plague, and Laure felt hers heavy in her pocket. Her mistake with Claire made her want to check in with her dad. For all she knew, Claire had called him yesterday claiming Laura had been kidnapped.
"Hello?" her dad's soft voice came through on the other side.
"Hey Dad," said Laura through her smile. Claire was her roommate, but her dad was her best friend. Her mom died in childbirth, and they were all the other had in the world. They both loved reading for hours and hours at a time. He gave her a love of stories and writing. They could sit for days at home, reading next to each other, eating at the same time with a book out, and not say a word. But they always felt close. Her father's silence was familiar to her, like a favorite blanket.
"Hey you," he said back. She could hear his smile.
"Did Claire call you?"
"Why would Claire ... did you two have another fight?"
"No. Nothing like that. It's just, she was freaking out yesterday and I figured she would call you."
"Why was she freaking out?" asked her dad. "Is everything okay?"
"Everything's great." Laura felt it sounded a little forced, but it was true. Everything was great. She was freaking out a little this morning, but she'd been feeling better since Nikki visited and she ate. Camille helped too. And the doctor didn't say anything was wrong with her. Yeah. Great. She felt great.
"I got the job."
"That's great! Oh, sweetie, I'm so proud of you!" Laura brimmed with energy and delight to hear that from her father. For months she was afraid she wouldn't accomplish anything, wouldn't put her degree to use. She would be another failed English major, another useless aspiring writer, another person who wanted to study books and instead, wasted their tuition on semi-professional book clubs.
But she wasn't that now. She was a copy editor. She had a job. She lived on a lush estate. She hadn't failed him. She was doing something with her silly love of books. And maybe Camille would be a good contact to get her foot into the industry. Maybe Camille could look over some of the stories Laura had written or even blurb Laura's first book. Anything was possible now. Everything was moving so fast.
"Wait," said her father, "Claire was freaking out because you got the job?"
"Yes, but no." Laura chewed on her bottom lip.
"Explain."
"Well, the job came with some unexpected perks. One of which, was a new place to stay."
"They gave you your own apartment?!"
"Sort of?" squeaked Laura. She was afraid if he knew the whole truth, than her whole fantasy would crumble down. Her dad would tell her that this wasn't safe. She needed to get out. But Laura didn't want to leave. She could feel the house pulling on her to stay, to make a life there. Even now, she felt the house urging her to go inside, to get out of the bright sun and noisy city.
"Explain."
Laura sighed. "Part of working here is an intense privacy thing. They want me to live on the grounds, in the same estate that Camille does."
"You live with her?"
"Not like that!" squeaked Laura as she blushed. "I live on the opposite wing. The house is unbelievably huge. It's Secret Garden huge."
"And is she a Mr. Craven?"
"Not at all," smiled Laura. "She's something else entirely. I've never met someone like her before."
"But you're safe? You're sure?"
"Safe as houses. Mansions, in fact. Safe as mansions."
"That's strange, asking you to move in," said her father. She could hear him running it through his mind, trying to figure it out.
"She has staff that live there. It's like that. I live on the same floor with the other staff. It keeps me nearby. She prioritizes her privacy and she works weird hours. She didn't start writing last night until almost midnight."
"Wow. So she's one of those needy artists that can only write if everyone around her is wearing yellow?"
Or nothing at all, thought Laura. "Something like that."
"But you're okay?" asked Laura.
"Yes."
"You'd tell me if you weren't?"
"Of course."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
It wasn't technically a lie. Laura was okay. Sure, she was sick, but she was feeling much better. She didn't need to worry her father with the strange details of the muse sessions, and she'd die before she ever talked to her dad about sex. He wouldn't even let her read Mrs. Dalloway in high school (she read it at the library anyway), and that book was scandalously tame. There was a hint of a rumor of a potential sighting of a potential kiss between two women. That's it.
No, she wasn't going to tell her father about the poem orgy.
"Do you need help moving out?" he asked.
"Oh, no. Her servants packed all my stuff and moved it for me."
"Ah, hence the Claire freakout," said her father.
"Hence."
"Did they forget anything? Do you need anything? I can send you some of those veggie straws you love so much. Or I can ..."
Her dad kept talking, but Laura wasn't listening. She saw something move off in the distance, on the grounds. It looked like a person, a girl. She had shoulder length hair. It was platinum blonde, almost white.
"Hey Dad?" asked Laura.
"Yeah."
"Can I call you back tomorrow?"
"Sure."
"K. Bye." Laura didn't wait for her dad to respond. She was already moving, following the girl. Was she a child? She seemed short from a distance. Laura walked around the corner of the house. There was a grove of trees behind the house, and Laura saw the wisp of white hair fade into the trees. Who was that girl? Is she the same maid that ran out of Camille's room the night before? Did that girl have white hair? Laura couldn't remember. And the girl just now, the one that ran off into the trees wasn't dressed as a maid.
Laura wanted to follow, but the sun was going down. It would be time for dinner soon and then the Muse Session. Laura didn't want to miss another chance to read Marcilla. More than that, she didn't want disappoint Camille, who went through so much trouble to make sure Laura was ready for tonight.
Laura went off to eat. She spent the meal gossipping with Nikki. Apparently, Nikki had some stories that Angelica wasn't as uptight as she appeared to be. Yes, Angelica was kind, but she was a stickler for the rules and way things should be. Laura had a flash of Angelica's face as she called her a child earlier that day.
Yes, Angelica could be uptight.
Nikki was excited to go out tonight. She had a blind date with someone Jacque had set her up with. Apparently, her date didn't speak a word of English, but Nikki didn't mind. She didn't plan on doing much talking.
Laura needed Nikki to ramble on. She was getting nervous as the Muse Session approached. The first night, Laura had no idea what she was getting herself into. But now she knew she would see Camille again, naked. She would get to read Marcilla's words. She would hear Camille orgasm and feel it shake the room.
Laura didn't go back to her room after dinner. She couldn't sit still. Instead, she paced the halls of the mansion. She explored, looking for shortcuts and new paths to get around. She also kept her eye out for the girl with white hair. She didn't see her. In fact, she didn't see anyone. It's like the rest of the house lay in wait for the Muse Session or drew themselves towards Camille, caught in her gravity. They made sure everything was perfect for the session, and more importantly, that everything was ready for Camille to write when things were finished.
Laura changed her clothes as the time approached. She wasn't trying to attract Camille's attention. It wasn't about Laura. It was about Marcilla and Laura K. Everything else was an echo, an imitation of their dance. But it felt wrong to come dressed casually. What was going to happen tonight was sacred. It was sexual. It was power.
Miss Lancaster wasn't there to greet her tonight. Nikki was there, making sure things were tidy and ready. Laura looked for Grauman and Jacque, but only Jacque was there. He already had his shirt off, and he was holding the bowl of chocolate-covered strawberries sitting in a larger bowl of ice, keeping them chilled. Laura could hear Angelica talking to Camille in the bathroom.
Instead of a stool, there was a comfortable armchair waiting for Laura. Next to the armchair was a small table. There was the book. Laura wanted to take it, to grab the book and storm out of the room. She wanted to abandon the whole session and sit in her room with Marcilla's words, to imagine herself as Laura K, to be Marcilla's prize, her obsession. She wanted to be alone with Marcilla, not in the presence of Grauman and Jacque.
But she waited. Camille wanted her to read. She would read.
Angelica came out of the bathroom. Laura gasped when she saw her. The short blonde was in black lace panties and a gorgeous bra and nothing else. She seemed completely at ease in almost nothing with Laura, Camille, and Jacque to look at her.
"Camille says you can take a seat," said Angelica to Laura. Then, she got on her knees in front of the bed, right where Grauman had been the night before.
Laura sat in her spot and waited for Camille to come out.
Camille was a vision in a sleek black dress. It looked like she'd come from an upscale cocktail party. Laura expected the robe again or for Camille to be naked. But Camille stood in front of the bed while Jacque unzipped her. She stepped out and turned to Laura.
"Are you feeling well enough for this?"
"Of course," breathed Laura.
Camille's skin caught all the light in the room. It was moonlight or what moonlight aspired to be. It was the white of a fang, and Camille's body cut through the darkness of the night.
"You may begin, but do not skip ahead. I believe "Proper" is next. And go slow. I want Angelica to work with your rhythm."
Laura looked at Angelica on her knees in front of Camille with an eager look on her face.
Oh.
"Read to me, Laura," commanded Camille.
Tingles rushed over Laura's skin. Yes, of course she would read. She opened the old book. She was delicate with the pages, knowing how old it was and how rare it was. She flipped past the "The Yawn" and arrived at "Proper."
Laura looked back up. Camille sat on the bed. Jacque took his position sitting next to her. He had the strawberries ready for her. Camille spread her legs, and Angelica moved in, placing herself above Camille's crotch. Angelica wanted to start, but Camille kept Angelica's mouth at a distance.
"Wait for Marcilla," whispered Camille. She looked up at Laura and nodded.
Laura looked down at the page and began:
Proper
The women drape themselves Over couches, each fanning, Each panting in heat. Stout servants bring chipped ice Rubbed over pudgy forearms Or behind short necks, Up hair, tightly bunned To fight the sweat I don't have.
Nor does Miss Karnstein. Her drowsy eyes amble out the window; The moor gives nothing back. No gossip like the hens about us, Clucking about Michelangelo, And the prospects of Mr. Prufrock. But Miss Karnstein isn't hungry For rumors.
That wasn't right. Marcilla couldn't have known about Prufrock. T.S. Eliot wouldn't write that poem for at least two or three centuries. The sounds of Angelica's licking lifted Laura's eyes off the page. Already, strawberry juice was running down Camille's chin. But tonight, Camille wasn't patient. She kept her hand in Angelica's hair and held Angelica's mouth against her pussy.
The room was filled with soft panting: Camille, Angelica, and Laura. They were all hungry. Hungry for Marcilla as Marcilla was hungry for them.
A maid passes chilled peaches
On delicate saucers with knives. The women gasp with delight, Each taking one dish and knife, But not my Laura, so not I. She takes the tender peach And buries her thick teeth Into the pale flesh.
Juice spills down her chin, But the women do not see. I see the drop I desire, The nectar down her neck, A neck never kissed with The long tongue of sunlight.
The peach. Laura's peach. The one in her dream. It was fuzzy before, but now it was clear. It was cool and running down her chin, over her hands. It was sticky. Everything was sticky. Was Camille watching? Did she know?
Did Marcilla know?
Laura pulled her hand away from her neck. How long was it there? She looked up. Jacque was gone. There was only Angelica and Camille now. Where did Jacque go? Angelica was naked. One hand had slipped into Angelica's pussy. She pumped way while Camille kept Angelica's mouth pinned to her pussy.
Laura wanted to slide a hand to her own pussy. She wanted to join them, but she wanted to know more. She wanted to know what happened to Laura K. Did Marcilla finally get her prize? Laura read on:
I am at once the peach
And the juice and the neck, Devoured and devouring each inch Of Laura Karnstein in the grey Noon light. Private In our impropriety As the drop mingles with her sweat, Drawing deep into her bosom, My eyes trailing and barred.
Already, Camille was moaning. Was she cumming? So soon?
"Fuck," hissed Camille. "Do it, Angelica. Do it. Eat it." Camille growled. Was she dreaming she was the peach? Was she Laura or Marcilla? Who was devouring whom? Laura read on. She wanted more. Camille wanted more. Angelica wanted more. They needed the words. The words running over their bodies. The words calling them deeper into themselves, into their lusts, into the places of wildest abandon.
Camille howled with pleasure as Laura read:
I sigh, the spell broken, And see once more the room return: The clinks of knives on dishes, The soft pale blue of Laura's eyes, On me, knowing, and unashamed.
Laura's eyes were blue too. And as the room sagged back into reality, as the supernatural pulse faded, she ached to feel the spell break over her. But tonight she felt no shame. No embarrassment as Angelica fingered herself to orgasm, sprawled out on the floor. No awkwardness as Camille pinched her nipples. No fear as she watched Camille's chest heave and fall with each needy breath. She was Laura, and Marcilla was watching over them all.
And as the room formerly known as debauchery faded to black, Laura only felt tomorrow's hunger burning inside of her.
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