Chapter Five

Forbidden Fruit

 

 

 

July 9, 1886

Last night there was a fearsome storm. Daniel and Louisa huddled against me as we sat by the nursery fire, listening to the howling winds and the deafening peals of thunder. Then a sharp crack came to our ears, like the report from some giant gun, followed by a crash that made the thunder seem paltry.

Morning revealed the damage. One of the old oaks flanking the summer house had been struck and a massive limb had crashed down upon the hexagonal roof. Along one side, the lattice-work walls of the gazebo were splintered and crushed. Two of the support pillars lay shattered. The garden was littered with twigs and shredded bark. Overhead, the sky was a clean, pure blue, the summer sun smiling benignly as if to deny the evidence of nature’s violence.

Unfortunately, both my husband and our gardener were away, the former in Lowell for the week, the latter on leave to see his family in Worcester. Thus it fell to me to manage the repairs. I asked Henry, the butler, to locate a handyman or carpenter. I felt some urgency; I could not allow the children to play in the garden until the broken building was whole again, and the debris swept away.

Within an hour of my asking, I was pleased to hear hammering behind the house. I pulled back the curtain in the breakfast room, unobtrusively checking on our temporary handyman. What I saw made my stomach flutter and my knees grow weak.

He was a young, beautiful Negro, dressed only in a loose pair of denim trousers. Again and again, with graceful, casual force, he swung his hammer. I could see the muscles in his bare shoulders, tensing and slackening with each blow. His chocolate skin gleamed, filmed with perspiration from the already-hot July morning.

Such a vision of male perfection and power! His brows knitted as he focused on his work with single-minded concentration. Would he have the same rapt expression, I wondered, if I were beneath him and he were hammering at my body instead of the reluctant wood?

I had never been with a black man. One hears tales, of course, tales of mythical size and potency. I am a sensible, intelligent woman, even skeptical. Still, one cannot help but wonder. Beneath my skirts, I could feel myself dampening, and I knew this was not the result of the summer heat.

Throughout the morning I continued to spy on him. Each time I gazed at him, my arousal grew, until I thought I might need to close myself in my study and relieve myself of this awful, teasing tension. But I could not. Whenever I tried to slip away, something would interfere. The cook or the housekeeper would seek me out with some question, or the children would come running in, wanting me to look at a drawing or review a composition assignment.

Finally, near noon, I could bear it no longer. I asked the cook to make some lemonade. Then, my heart pounding and my palms wet, I took the glass into the garden to offer it to the black Adonis laboring there.

His back was to me as I approached. He was bent over, studying one of the pillars as if trying to determine how best to mend it. This position stretched the denim of his trousers tight over his haunches. My sex ached as I watched the muscles shift under the taut fabric. I almost reached out my hand to touch him.

He must have heard my breath, a little gasp that I could not suppress, for he turned. His eyes were dark, luminous, and filled with intelligence. They held mine for a long moment, then he looked down as if suddenly remembering his place.

“Excuse me, Ma’am. You startled me.”

“The fault is mine,” I said. “You were so intent on your work; I should have alerted you to my presence.” He dared to look at me again. In the short silence, many messages passed between us.

I could imagine how he saw me. In my flounced peach muslin morning gown, blonde ringlets spilling over my shoulders, I was the embodiment of feminine beauty, refined, delicate, and for him, untouchable. Yet I know he read the desire in my eyes, recognized it but could not quite believe it. As I watched, I detected a stirring in his groin. I saw the rough fabric begin to swell outward, and felt a sense of triumph. He was mine. I was not sure yet how to arrange this, but I knew that it would happen. I quivered with anticipation. It was an effort to keep my voice kind and controlled.

“You must be very warm,” I said. Indeed, sweat dripped from his brow, and his shapely, muscled back gleamed wetly. I drew a deep breath and caught a hint of his man-scent, potent and musky. “I thought that you might enjoy some lemonade.”

I held out the glass, dripping with condensation. “Thank you so much, Ma’am. You are kind,” he said. As he took it from me, his callused fingers brushed briefly against my palm. Just a touch, but oh, how it made me burn!

“Please, come sit and rest a bit,” I invited, leading the way to a stone bench in the welcome shade of the undamaged oak. He seemed reluctant to sit beside me. I compelled him with my gaze. The bulge in his overalls had become more prominent.

“What is your name?” I wanted to put him at his ease. “And where did you acquire such skill in carpentry? It is clear to me that you are not an ordinary day laborer.”

“I am called Jacob,” he said. “I have a small cabinetry shop on Cedar Street. I don’t usually work for folk on this side of the hill, but your man insisted that it was quite urgent.” He twisted his big, blunt-fingered hands together nervously as he spoke, but his voice was confident. He seemed torn, responding to the carnal tension growing between us, yet fearful of reprisals for his familiarity.

Meanwhile, I was externally calm, but my drawers were soaked. Beneath my layered skirts, the wet linen bunched up between my thighs, rubbing against the swollen center of my lust. I shifted my body, trying to relieve some of the pressure. This brought me closer to him.

“Give me the address, Jacob.” I spoke low, almost in a whisper. “I will come to you this evening.”

Perplexed, he ran his fingers through the curly nap that covered his well-shaped skull. “I don’t know, Ma’am…do you really think…do you really want…?”

“Yes,” I murmured, holding his gaze, “that is exactly what I want. You can give it to me, can you not? Will you not?”

Torn by fear, disbelief and exultation, he searched my face. His eyes shone. Finally he looked down at his work-hardened hands. “As you wish, Ma’am. It is number forty-seven Cedar.”

“Thank you, Jacob.” I wanted to touch his face, to reassure him, to let him know how beautiful he was in my eyes. However, someone might have been observing us from the same breakfast room window, so I dared not.

By late afternoon, he had finished the work and gone. The gazebo was restored. I sat on a chaise under its roof, watching the children play tag up and down the garden paths. The sun, slanting through the trees, made dappled patterns in my lap. The weather was still warm, but now and again a soft breeze stirred my curls, promising a mild, sweet night.

In my mind, I replayed my conversation with Jacob. I was appalled at my own audacity. This was not some chance-met gentleman with whom I could have a brief, blazing, anonymous encounter. Jacob was forbidden to me, forbidden by his color and his class. As was I to him. But how I ached when I recalled his supple, powerful body! Under my petticoats, my engorged sex twitched and pulsed. My breasts were swollen and sensitive, straining against my imprisoning corset. I remembered his hands, rough and skillful, and I thought I would die if I did not feel those hands upon me.

The risk was enormous, though. He knew who I was, where I lived. He was a stranger, but also, in some sense, a neighbor. What if he were to tell someone of our rendezvous?

Then I recalled the expression in his eyes, the intoxicating mixture of fear and desire. I could compel him to silence, I was sure. And if after all he did speak out, who would believe him, the word of a Negro carpenter against that of a fine lady like myself?

The afternoon wore on, and the evening seemed equally interminable. I supped with Daniel and Louisa, heard their prayers, and tucked them in. All the while, though, I was distracted, by visions of dark flesh and my own plans.

It was essential that I not be known. Taking Pauline partially into my confidence, I borrowed from her a simple costume of dark gray gabardine, with a matching veiled bonnet. Over this I wore a palisse of summer wool, which reached to my ankles and hid my figure quite effectively. Pauline gathered my hair into a simple chignon. I wore no jewels.

I waited nervously in the kitchen until the clock struck midnight. Then I let myself out the back door into the alleyway, and made my way on foot to Cedar Street.

Only a few blocks it was, fitfully lit by the flaring gas lamps. Yet it was a different world. As I came over the crest of the hill, the houses grew smaller and crowded together more closely. Faintly, I caught traces of new smells, coal smoke, cabbage and manure. I passed one bright-lit dwelling whose doors were flanked by red lanterns. From inside filtered the sounds of piano music, shouting, and bawdy laughter. A little thrill passed through me. A brothel, so close to my own elegant home! I was sorely tempted to look inside.

However, I pressed on to my assignation and soon reached Jacob’s shop. The ground floor was dark, but light flickered in the windows on the third story.

I was shivering, though the night was warm. My whole body vibrated with silent excitement, a taut string whose note was too high for the human ear. I saw no bell, and so, gathering my courage, I raised my veil and rapped gently on the wooden door.

The sound echoed hollowly in the quiet street, then died away. For long minutes, I stood there before the door, full of desire and uncertainty. Then I caught the sound of footsteps on a stair. The door swung open soundlessly, and before me stood my gorgeous Jacob.

He was clad all in white, homespun cotton pants and a shirt open at the neck. His skin gleamed like polished ebony in contrast. His feet were bare. In his eyes, I saw such a confusion of emotions that I almost laughed, surprise, relief, fear, lust, suspicion, simple joy. He had not expected me to fulfill my promise. He was glad that I had. He was terrified of the consequences. He wanted me more than ever. Even as I watched, his manhood stirred inside his loose trousers. My own sex was so swollen and sensitive I could barely walk.

I held out my hand, and smiled in what I hoped was an encouraging manner. After a heartbeat, he grasped it in his own. Lightening surged through my limbs as I felt his strength.

“Jacob,” I said softly. “It is a pleasure to see you again.” I would not release his hand.

“Yes, Ma’am, it is a pleasure,” he said firmly, and continued to hold my gaze.

“Shall we go upstairs? You live on the third floor, do you not?”

He nodded, and stood back to let me mount the stairs before him.

The door on the third floor landing was open. The candlelit room was plain, but neat and scrupulously clean. A braided rug covered the oak floorboards. There was a wooden bedstead, solidly made; a chiffonier and matching chest; a plank table and two straight-backed chairs; a blue porcelain ewer and chamber pot. A few books were arranged on the mantel, above the cold grate.

I entered and removed my palisse, tossing it over a chair. The room pleased me. It was in keeping with my image of Jacob—straight, strong, serious. I knew that I was corrupting him, and I was enjoying every moment.

He closed the door and stood with his back to it, looking as if he thought I was about to flee. There was no chance of that.

“Come here, Jacob,” I said. He obeyed without a word. He stood a head taller than I. His eyes were cast down, whether in fear, embarrassment or respect, I could not tell. I placed my hands on his shoulders, felt his firm, resilient flesh moving against my palms. Touching him at last, as I had craved since I had first caught sight of him. Still he did not speak. I laid one delicate finger on his neck, where I could see the blood pulsing. A shiver passed through him.

“I want you, Jacob. You know what I mean, I am sure.” He nodded, still not meeting my eyes. “You want me as well, do you not?” Before he could answer, I reached one hand down between his legs and cupped his bulging crotch. He moaned softly.

“Yes, Ma’am. I do want you. I have never seen anyone so beautiful. But this is very dangerous.” Finally, he looked at me, and I saw anguished lust in his luminous gaze.

“Trust me, Jacob. I will tell no one of this. Meanwhile…” I gave his balls a little squeeze to emphasize my point, wringing another groan from him. “I am sure that you know what will happen to you, should you divulge our secret.” My voice was soothing, despite the threat in my words. He nodded again, and I saw the fear ebb, and the desire flare.

I settled myself on the bed, my hands in my lap. “Now, my fine dark friend. I would like you to remove your clothes.”

He gave a slow, proud smile, and began to execute my instruction with simple grace. It did not take long. He pulled the shirt over his head, revealing his shapely torso. Next the cotton pants lay around his ankles. I marveled at his gleaming thighs. Finally, with some difficulty, he managed to ease off his linen drawers. The fabric snagged repeatedly on his gigantic erection.

Clothed, he was magnificent. Naked, he was glorious, so perfect that he could be proof of God’s existence. His huge maleness incited all sorts of lewd fantasies, but at the same time, gazing at his powerful, harmonious form, I felt something like awe.

I struggled to remain in control. My breath was already ragged, and my undergarments were soaked with my own fluids. Still, I reminded myself that I was the mistress here. I suppressed a mad urge to fall on my knees and worship him. Removing my hat, I tried to catch my breath.

“Lie down on the bed, Jacob. I believe that you will be more comfortable there.”

“Ma’am…there is something that I need to do, Ma’am.” He looked suddenly embarrassed, his pride in tatters.

“Yes, Jacob. What is it? Tell me.”

He was silent. I added a note of sternness to my voice. “Jacob, tell me.”

“It’s—I—Ma’am, I badly need to piss.”

Something wicked surged in me. “Please go ahead, Jacob. Do not let me disturb you.”

He wanted me to look away, I could tell, but I would not miss this. After a moment, he walked to the chamber pot, moving a bit awkwardly, and stood above it, holding his swollen penis in his hand. For long minutes, nothing happened. His arousal and his embarrassment conspired to rob him of relief, though I could see from his face that he was in some distress.

I waited quietly, saying nothing, only watching. Finally, I heard the splashing of liquid against china, irregular at first, then a steady rush. I moved closer, fascinated.

He stood with his eyes shut, an abundant stream of urine arcing from his half-flaccid penis into the bowl. Steam rose from the chamber pot, along with the pungent odor of his male piss.

He finished at last, and looked at me. I smiled in approval, noting that though his erection had subsided, his organ hung long and inviting against his thigh. I gestured toward the bed. He would be aroused again before too long, if I had my way.

Jacob reclined on the bed while I stood over him, feasting my eyes on his glorious nakedness. This simple scrutiny was enough to start him swelling again. He stretched lasciviously. He knew that he was beautiful. He was beginning to understand.

With one finger, I traced a little circle around his puckered nipple. He sighed in obvious pleasure and closed his eyes. My fingers danced lightly over his torso, exploring the topography of his muscled form. The shallow valley between his breasts. The parallel ridges striping his belly. The forest of wiry curls at the root of his cock.

The closer I came to his penis, the more engorged it became. Finally it was fully erect, magnificent and obscene. His skin there was darker, more like charcoal than chocolate, except for the glans, which was slightly pink. My mouth watered. I leaned forward and touch the tip of my tongue to the tender blind eye. His pelvis jerked involuntarily.

Perhaps the myths are true, perhaps not. All I know is that Jacob had the most impressive organ that I have ever seen, fully ten inches long and too thick to circle with my fingers. I tried to clasp it in my hand. He moaned in appreciation, and if possible, swelled even larger.

In the garden this morning, I had imagined myself naked in his arms, white skin against black. I wanted his strength, wanted him to possess me in a simple, animal act. That image burned in my mind now, fueling the conflagration between my thighs. However, I understand that this could not be. If I were to remove all my clothing, I would never be able to dress again by myself. Even then, far gone in my desire for him, I remembered that I must walk back to my shuttered house through the Beacon Hill streets.

Fortunately, my borrowed gown had front buttons. I removed the gabardine waist and overskirt, untied the underskirt, pulled the plain muslin petticoats down to my ankles and stepped out of them. I was much more comfortable, wearing only corset, chemise, drawers and stockings.

I did this swiftly, with no thought to enticing my companion. When I finished, though, I saw that he was watching, his chin propped up on his hand. His jet eyes shone and a lewd grin graced his full lips.

“Lie down, Jacob,” I said firmly. “I did not give you leave to watch me disrobe.” I expected him to obey immediately. Intoxicated with power, I thought that I had this potent, well-made man to use as I would.

Instead, he reached up unexpectedly and laid hold of my breasts, squeezing them with a force that took my breath away. I gasped in surprise. Through the thin chemise, the roughness of his worker’s hands felt glorious. He sensed that I craved his male force. He was not gentle.

Unable to prevent myself, I climbed on the bed. I straddled his gleaming black body, swinging my leg over his abdomen. His erection bobbed against my buttocks. He met my gaze now, and I saw confidence where there had been hesitation, that and a flicker of something else, something darker. He returned his hands to my aching bosom, rolling the nipples between finger and thumb until I cried out. I parted the fabric of my drawers, conveniently split for the fulfilment of other natural urges, and showed him the blonde tangle that hides my mons. “Do you want to touch me here, Jacob?” I pushed my hips forward brazenly. “Touch me, Jacob. Put your fingers in my wet cunny!”

I was wild to feel those blunt fingers in my sex, but he waited for a long moment, deliberately frustrating me. I sensed that the dynamic was shifting, but I did not care. “Touch me!” I almost screamed. He did, pulling apart my fleece with both hands and plunging his thumbs deep into my folds.

My whole body convulsed in response. The morning of secret spying, the afternoon of fevered fantasy, the evening of impatient waiting, all that tension was released as pleasure washed through me. When the tremors subsided, I could see that he was still watching me in that disquieting, intense way. I felt his cock, tapping against my bottom. My arousal returned tenfold.

I had to have him, have that huge rod inside me. “Hold still,” I whispered to Jacob as I adjusted my position. I grasped his cock, placed the head at the opening to my cunny, and bore down. His hardness bruised the soft tissues around my orifice, but otherwise nothing happened. I grew desperate, grinding myself against him, but to no avail. He was too large to enter.

I was almost weeping with frustration. “Damn you, Jacob,” I growled, angry at the incompatibility of our bodies.

He had been lying quiescent, letting me work, a strange light burning in his eyes. Suddenly, he sprang up, full of fierce energy. He grabbed me around the waist, then, as if I were light as a feather, flipped me over on my belly beside him. Stunned and breathless, I had no time to react. He was behind me, gripping my hips with both hands, pulling my thighs apart. I heard tearing cloth as he ripped my drawers off me. Then, before I could take another breath, he rammed himself deep into my center.

“Is this what you want, Ma’am?” he gasped between thrusts, taunting me. “You want my blackness, my manhood, my jism, inside of you?”

No, I thought, but I heard myself screaming, “Yes, yes!” I was stretched to the limit, torn open, full to bursting with his rigid black flesh. I climaxed again, writhing and thrashing. For two breaths, he was still. I could feel him swelling inside me. He struggled to maintain control. “Do not spend!” I yelled, but at the same time I ground myself against him, glorying in his hugeness.

He pulled away, then thrust more deeply than before. I felt limp, overcome by sensation, a willing vessel. He pounded me, again and again, and through a haze of lust I remembered his intensity, hammering away at my summer house.

It went on forever. I was floating, lost in a sea of pleasure. I felt my flesh shape itself to his organ, welcoming, caressing. He slid easily now, my juices smoothing the way for him. Each thrust, it seemed, probed me more deeply. I had no secrets from this man. I was, purely and simply, his whore.

The calluses on his fingers abraded my skin. I did not care. He quickened his rhythms, and I matched him, feeling a third crisis approaching. Then it happened. He dug his nails into my buttocks, arched his back, and drove himself to my very core. I felt the pulse of his hot seed in my belly, and panicked. A black man’s spend! I was lost! What if he were to get me with child?

Yet that thought, total degradation, the breaking of every taboo, was what pushed me over the edge into climax. As I writhed and twisted, my spasms forcing his fluids out of me, there was some part of me that looked on, amused. Bravo, Beatrice. Is there no limit to your depravity?

As I write this now, with dawn close at hand, I cannot help but wonder.