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 with
Each strategic tittle of breast.
But Miss Laura Karnstein
Turns 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 masking
So much red life, so much
Thrumming potential,
But she passes it on
As yet another yawn.
I look for Mr. Karnstein,
But he is neither in Miss Karnstein's eye
Nor among the men.
He must be a yawn,
Missing the twitch in her
Pulsing throat,
The brazen sign of desire
For 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 twitch
Of game before it runs; she rises
To excuse herself,
As though it possible,
As though a resting note,
A caesura,
May be
pardoned
or 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 saw 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 let out a shrill moan. Laura looked up and sees Camille's back arch, her head flung back, as she humped Grauman's face. Jacque abandoned feeding her strawberries, and licked one of Camille's nipples. Camille spasmed and let out another moan.
Laura found herself hoping Camille would cum and be satiated. She didn't want to endure another poem. She wanted to take the book away and pour through it. She wanted to find out how it was made and who wrote it. Who was Marcilla? Was this autobiographical? Was Laura Karnstein real? Her warm, throbbing neck?
But Camille's moans rolled on. She almost fucked Grauman's face with her fevered thrusting. Jacque used a free hand to administer to Camille's other breast, but she stopped him. She paused, hesitating. She went rigid, and then sighed.
Laura couldn't help but notice Camille's thighs quiver as Grauman moved away.
Both men went the bathroom. Laura heard the sink turn on, and then both men walked past her and left the room. Could Laura join them? Did she need permission to go? Would Camille dismiss her? Or would she read more? Would she give chase to Laura Karnstein as Marcilla did?
Camille lay on the bed for a minute. Her chest heaved as she caught her breath. Another finger absentmindedly swirled over her clit. Laura's thighs were warm from 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 was free of shame, and that stirred Laura again.
Camille sat up and smiled at Laura. "Thank you, Laura. That was a beautiful reading."
"Really?" asked 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 robe back on. Her lips were still bright red. They glowed on her pale skin in the fading light.
Then everything went dark.
***