Chapter Sixteen

Reunion

 

 

 

Mouth dry and palms sweaty, Miranda sat waiting behind the linen-draped table. In front of her, the rows of chairs were beginning to fill up, though it would be ten minutes before the panel discussion was scheduled to start. The room hummed with conversations, punctuated by the occasional laugh. It was the last session of the day, and people were already relaxed, looking forward to hitting the pubs with their colleagues and friends and tearing apart the day’s speakers.

The session was going to be packed. The title was largely responsible. Victorian Erotica—Society’s Mirror or Simply Smut? Miranda took a sip from her water glass and scanned the crowd, unsuccessfully, for a glimpse of Mark. She needed some moral support. She wasn’t sure that she could go through with this.

Surreptitiously, she glanced over at the other members of panel. She knew them all by reputation, though she had never met any of them before. Immediately to her left sat Dr. Rufus Summerland, from the University of California at Santa Cruz. He was a balding pixie of a man, with a fringe of ginger hair and matching bushy mustache. He absently folded pages from his memo pad into origami cranes as he waited. Noticing her attention, he flashed her a sheepish smile.

Next to Dr. Summerland, Maurice Woodbury from Oxford scowled as he perused his yellow sheets of handwritten notes. With his neatly clipped gray locks, tweed jacket, and tartan bow tie, he exactly fit Miranda’s naïve image of an Oxford don. His dissatisfied sigh seemed to imply that he would rather be somewhere else. Miranda found him somewhat intimidating.

If Professor Woodbury was scary, however, the panel member to his left was absolutely terrifying. Frau Doctor Marthe von Senfl was as stocky as a rugby player, and had a facial expression to match. Her square chin and Roman nose were framed by a shiny helmet of brown hair chopped exactly level with her earlobes. Her thin lips pressed firmly together, her blunt-fingered hands were folded in front of her, and her ice-blue eyes stared straight ahead. Despite the fact that it was July, she wore a bulky wool suit the color of rust. Frau Doctor von Senfl represented the University of Vienna. She was famous, or perhaps infamous, for her psychoanalytic interpretations of every literary work from Beowulf to The Naked and the Dead.

Miranda was dressed formally, in her midnight blue suit with a beige silk blouse. She had gathered her tresses into a loose twist, trying to look mature and serious. Inside, she felt like a little girl, as nervous as she had ever been in her life. She shifted in her chair and the elastic of her garter bit into her thigh. Her anxiety receded as she recalled Mark’s gift that morning, a gorgeous bra, thong and garter belt set fashioned of champagne satin and lace.

A wolf whistle had greeted her when she came out of the bedroom modeling the lingerie. “Wear it for the panel,” he had insisted. “After all, you are going to be talking about sex!”

“Oh, you! You’re impossible,” she had laughed. “You certainly know how to buy women’s under things, though. Where’d you get that talent? I hope that you’re not going to reveal to me that, in addition to all your other kinks, you like to cross-dress?”

Mark had given her a look that she couldn’t interpret. “Would that bother you?”

“No, silly, of course not.” She had surveyed her reflection approvingly. “We could go shopping together!”

He certainly was full of surprises, she thought, searching for him once again in the crowd. Their adventure in Greek Street had caught Miranda completely off guard. What would he reveal next? She found him at last, leaning against the wall near the back. As if he felt the weight of her gaze, he smiled and blew a kiss. She could read his lips as he mouthed, Break a leg. Miranda felt her tension ease up a little more. She could pull this off. She knew that she could.

The moderator, Martin Jones of King’s College, blew sharply into the podium microphone to get the crowd’s attention. A genial smile graced his somewhat homely face. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to our panel discussion on erotic literature of the Victorian period.” Miranda had corresponded with Jones via email; it was he who had officially invited her to participate in this session, although she knew that her advisor had suggested the idea. “Today we are fortunate to have four experts on this topic.” He introduced each of the panel members in turn. “We will begin by asking each of our distinguished panelists to make a statement. Next we will have rebuttals, and finally, we will open the floor to questions.”

Dr. von Senfl spoke first, in precise, heavily-accented English. “Freud taught that the mind is comprised of three components. The Ego represents personal identity, the rational, self-aware component that we refer to as ‘I’. The Superego internalizes the punitive voice of one’s parents—rules, laws, restrictions, the ‘I should’ that counters the ‘I want’. The Id is the elemental, animal component, driven by instinct, subject only to what the master called ‘the pleasure principle’.

“The reign of Victoria Regina represented the ultimate triumph of the Superego. Behavior and thought were subject to publicly defined and accepted standards, with emphasis on the benefits to Society. Natural man was suppressed in favor of social man. Elaborate codes prescribed appropriate action in every aspect of everyday life. The rules of proper conduct served as a collective conscience for the people of Victorian England, replacing the religious strictures of earlier ages.

“As we have learned from the work of Freud and his followers, however, natural man cannot, ultimately, be suppressed. The sensual, childish Id will find a way to express itself, circumventing the restraints erected by the Superego. The enormous volume of sexually-oriented writing that appeared during the second half of the nineteenth century can be clearly identified as the work of the Id, flaunting its forbidden urges and antisocial behavior in the face of parental authority. You will note that the Victorian sex literature was not hidden or secret. It was published openly, although often anonymously or under a pseudonym.

“What are the hallmarks of the Id? Childishness. Irrationality. Intense emotion. Unbridled sensation. We see all of these characteristics in the sex writing of Victoria’s time. The theme of chastisement, whipping, flogging, birching and all its variants, pervades the corpus. This is the preoccupation of a child with its own punishment. We see bizarre plots involving kidnappings, pirates, harems, even magic potions. Wishful thinking dominates the stories. The young hero has only to notice the pretty, proper girl and she immediately offers herself up to his carnal appetites.”

Dr. von Senfl proceeded in this vein for another ten minutes, citing specific works and highlighting their Id-like qualities. Miranda noticed with interest that most of her examples were drawn from works that Miranda had classified as fiction rather than memoir, using her own set of criteria. Finally, the good doctor concluded her remarks with the sly observation that Freud himself had been a product of Victorian times and that perhaps his professional preoccupation with sexual matters was a rebellious expression of his own societally-repressed Id.

She offered a smug nod as the audience applauded. An image flashed through Miranda’s mind, Dr. von Senfl wielding a cane, strutting back and forth in front of a bound and cowed Sigmund Freud. She smiled at her own imagination and turned her attention to Dr. Woodbury, who spoke next.

The Oxford professor’s thesis was simple, Victorian so-called erotica was nothing but pornography, which had acquired a veneer of literary respectability through the misguided efforts of certain academics whom he would not stoop to name. He implied that those who attempted to study the corpus under the guise of literature were secretly motivated by their own prurient interest. Miranda felt her cheeks grow hot at this suggestion. She sipped her water and tried to remain calm.

Woodbury maintained that the apparent volume of Victorian sexual writing was misleading, an artifact of more durable publishing technology and a growth in literacy. He pointed out that several well-known works of the period such as The Romance of Lust actually dated from nearly a century before, but had achieved popular success in the Victorian era due to improved printing and distribution.

His tirade continued for another fifteen minutes, and included readings from some of the most twisted and perverse tales in the corpus, compared with excerpts from Hustler and Screw magazines. Many in the audience looked uncomfortable. In fact, the readings were chosen with this in mind, Miranda saw. Dr. Woodbury was trying to make his listeners feel guilty and ashamed. She sympathized with Woodbury’s students.

The professor’s sour presentation was greeted with lackluster applause. He did not appear to care. He sat back in his chair, folded his arms across his chest, and looked pleased with himself.

Rufus Summerland’s talk was a welcome relief. The Californian spoke about the social context of Victorian erotica, comparing it to the sexual revolution of the nineteen sixties. He did not explicitly maintain that the sexual writing of the time reflected actual experiences. However, nothing that he said would have ruled out that conclusion. He discussed The Pearl and other periodicals, likening them to underground newspapers that flourished during the Johnson and Nixon eras. Erotica was a slap in the face to the repressive society which dictated that sex was evil and damaging to society.

Rufus did some reading, too, choosing passages where the protagonists were explicitly rebellious, deliberately choosing to act in defiance of authority. Most of his citations did not represent what Miranda considered to be the core works in the corpus. Furthermore, the political element of his argument seemed to overwhelm both the sexual and the literary. Nevertheless, he was an engaging speaker, animated and articulate. The audience was suitably appreciative.

Finally, it was Miranda’s turn. She drank deeply from her water glass and looked toward Mark. He grinned and gave her a thumbs up. She swallowed the lump in her throat, hoping that her voice would not come out in a squeak as it sometimes did when she was nervous.

“Victorian mores were not conducive to fulfilling sexual relationships. If you were a man of the period, you were taught that male desire was inevitable, but unhealthy. Excess sexual indulgence could undermine your constitution, even lead to death. Meanwhile, it was understood that women, or at least proper, sane, socially acceptable women, did not experience sexual feelings. Women were expected to submit to their husbands’ unfortunate attentions for the purposes of procreation and because it was their duty to provide relief. To enjoy these activities would have been viewed as scandalous. Even if a man would have appreciated his wife’s responsiveness, he could hardly ask her to behave like a whore. This would have been a grave insult. Imagine a marriage where both partners are frustrated, yet neither dares to discuss it with the other for fear of giving offense. It is almost tragic.

“Such denial of the sexual self is unnatural and unstable. As Dr. Summerland and Dr. van Senfl both noted, repression inevitably leads to resistance, perhaps even to active rebellion. Some people could not bear to live within the constraints of late nineteenth century sexual morality. Perhaps they were more highly sexed than their neighbors. Perhaps they were simply more skeptical or more immune to society’s disapproval. I believe that these people lived full sexual lives, either in defiance of public standards or in secret. I have evidence that a significant fraction of the Victorian erotic corpus consists of the true accounts written by these people.”

The audience stirred, murmuring among themselves. Miranda noticed Rufus Summerland watching her intently as she continued her exposition.

As clearly and concisely as she could, she elaborated her arguments. She presented the criteria she had abstracted based on Beatrice’s diary and applied them to a variety of well-known works, seeking to demonstrate the differences, which had become so obvious to her, between erotic memoir and fiction. She felt powerful and confident. Members of the audience were nodding in agreement. She was ready for her final argument.

“I’d like to read you something now, which I hope will demonstrate my thesis more forcefully than any of my analyses.” She opened a notebook then paused for dramatic effect, her eyes sweeping over her listeners.

“June 12, 1886. I scarcely know how to begin this account of my adventures and my sins. Indeed, I do not fully understand why I feel compelled to commit these things to writing. Clearly, my purpose is not to review and relive these experiences in the future, for in twenty minutes’ time these sentences will be invisible even to me. Perhaps in the years ahead, I will trail my fingers across the empty parchment, colored like flesh, and the memories will come alive without the words, coaxed from the pages by my touch like flames bursting from cold embers. I have a secret life, another self, and that secret has become a burden that I clutch to myself, and yet would be relieved of…”

She continued reading them the first entry from Beatrice’s journal. The hall was totally silent. She could hear her own breathing, her heart pounding in her ears. Though she had reread Beatrice’s words many times, they struck her now as freshly poignant and intense. Her voice died away with the last sentence, and still, the crowd sat as if frozen. She looked out at them, meeting the eyes of first one, then another. Finally, she spoke, softly but with authority.

“This is why I believe that these works are not pornography and more than political statements. These works reveal the souls of real men and women.” She sat back in her chair, folding her hands over the notebook. Thunderous applause shook the room, punctuated by occasional whistles and shouts. Martin Jones allowed the tumult to continue for a few minutes, then tapped on the microphone, trying to bring order to the crowd.

“Well, well, a most interesting collection of perspectives on our topic, I must say! Thanks to all of you. We will now move to rebuttals within the panel. Who would like to speak first?”

Rufus Summerland’s hand shot into the air before Jones finished his sentence. The moderator acknowledged him with a nod.

“Ms. Cahill, where did you get the remarkable piece that you read us?” He skewered Miranda with a confrontational stare. “I have been researching erotica for fifteen years, and I’m sure that I have never encountered that passage.”

Miranda crossed her fingers under the table and tried to ignore her heart slamming against her chest. “I wrote it,” she said. “I wrote it, applying my analytic criteria, in order to demonstrate how a story that showed all these characteristics would have an undeniable ring of truth.”

The audience erupted again, murmuring and applauding. Jones held up his hand for quiet. Rufus looked at Miranda with an expression that mixed annoyance, envy, and lust. His voice was oily smooth when he spoke again.

“However, in this case, the piece is not authentic.” He licked his lips. Miranda felt, suddenly, that he was mentally undressing her. She pulled herself to her full height and met his gaze squarely.

“No, it’s not.” There was a silent dialog between them, in which she acknowledged his desire and rejected it. “But it could be. Don’t you agree?” He wilted visibly and turned away.

The remainder of the session moved quickly. Neither of the other two panelists wanted to address her arguments, and she did not feel it would be appropriate for her to attack their positions. After all, the collective opinion of the audience was clear. There were no questions from the floor, but after the session formally concluded she was surrounded by people congratulating her, asking her questions, wanting copies of her reading. She smiled a great deal, giddy with relief that the ordeal was over, but tried to remain non-committal.

The crowd had mostly dispersed when she was approached by a slender, fashionably dressed woman with dark-framed glasses and a ready smile. She handed Miranda a card. “Ms. Cahill, I’m Lucinda Scott, editor-in-chief for Satin Press. Are you familiar with us?” Miranda shook her head, still slightly dazed. “We publish literary erotica, primarily realistic novels with contemporary settings. However, we do have a few titles in our catalog from the Victorian era. If you can write more in the vein of the piece you just read us, I can guarantee that we would love to print it.”

“I beg your pardon?” Miranda wasn’t sure that she was hearing correctly.

“Your fiction. I know that you wrote the diary entry to illustrate a point, but it’s terribly good. A novel based on Beatrice and her adventures would be absolutely brilliant. I’m sure that it would sell.”

“But I’m an academic. In fact, I’m still working on my doctorate. If word got out that I’m publishing fiction, and erotic fiction at that, my professional reputation would go up in smoke.”

Lucinda Scott gave her a smile that could only be described as conspiratorial. “No one need know, Miranda. You can use a pseudonym. Or, in a tradition with which I am sure you are familiar, you can publish anonymously.”

Miranda’s mind whirled. She didn’t know what to say.

“Think about it. Give me a call or drop by the office if you get a chance before you leave for the States. Otherwise, just send me email.” Lucinda shook her hand. “It was a pleasure meeting you in any case. You have an unusual talent. I hope to hear from you.”

Miranda sank back into her seat and stared at the empty rows of chairs, overwhelmed by the events of the last half hour. Her success on the panel filled her with warm pride. Finally, people would begin to take her work seriously. Then there was Lucinda Scott. Publish the diary, disguised as fiction? How tempting! Here was a strategy that would preserve Beatrice’s privacy while still sharing her insights and adventures with the world. Of course, the diary was too short for a novel. Perhaps, though, Miranda could write some additional chapters. She was confident that she could emulate the rhythm of Beatrice’s prose, and Mark did say that she had a remarkable erotic imagination.

Mark! Where was he, anyway? When last she had looked, he had been at the back of the room, but everyone was gone now. She was suddenly hollow and aching with longing for her lover.

As if in answer to her questing mind, she felt a touch on the inside of her thigh. Mark? She had the urge to look under the tablecloth, to confirm that it was he, but something held her back. A finger alternated, stroking her nylon-clad thigh, then brushing the bare skin above her stocking. The contrast was exquisite, the results electric. The finger-dance along her thighs continued. Now another hand drifted lightly over her mound, tickling her through the satin. She felt brief regret as her juices thoroughly soaked the expensive wisp of lingerie, before lust overwhelmed all other concerns.

Slumped in her chair, she spread her thighs, shamelessly offering access to her hidden partner. He responded by tracing the outline of her pubis with his fingers, along the edges of the thong where fabric met flesh. Miranda writhed. She wanted him to touch her inside the garment, to rip it off and plunge his digits into her. Still, he played with her, rubbing the slippery fabric against her clit, forcing the damp cloth up between her legs, wedging the thong into the crevice between her cheeks and rocking it back and forth over her anus.

Now she felt moist heat, delicious, melting her. His mouth hovered over her sex and he simply breathed. His hands were quiet, holding her thighs wide. There was only his mouth, his breath, and the images unrolling in her mind. She felt as though he were holding a burning candle to her clit. She saw herself staked spread-eagle on a crag, her privates baked by a tropical sun. She felt herself bathed in molten gold that pouring over her folds, filling her, gilding her. The heat swelled until she erupted against his lips, juices like lava overflowing her cavities. She whimpered as her climax seared her. Hot tongues of pleasure lapped at her satin-sheathed pussy. Flames flickered on her closed eyelids.

Dimly, she felt her garters being unhooked and her soaking panties removed. Strong arms lifted her. She felt starched linen against her buttocks. She was seated on the table. Opening her eyes at last, she found Mark standing between her legs, unzipping his fly.

She wanted to speak, but again, she felt that weird sense of constraint. Mark’s face was serious, intent, with no trace of his normal grin. He loosed his erection and Miranda thought it looked oddly unfamiliar. It stood at a different angle, perhaps, or curved in a different direction, or perhaps it was a bit thicker than she remembered. She was puzzled, but enormously aroused. Mark grabbed her legs and pulled them up onto his shoulders, then without preliminaries, he plunged into her well-lubricated cunt.

Briefly, her mind was besieged by small worries. The table was strewn with water glasses. He was not wearing a condom. The meeting room door was wide-open—at any moment someone could happen by and discover them. Then her mind dissolved in a sea of sensation and she gave herself up completely to her partner’s cock.

He felt glorious. He stretched her beyond belief, burying his rod in her slippery depths, battering her with his hardness. There was a new urgency to his fucking. This was not a game or a scene. There were no masks, no roles. He was not in control. There was no technique here, only pure need. Miranda responded to his naked lust in kind, totally forgetting who and where she was.

She arched her back to meet his thrusts, forcing him deeper. He pressed her thighs back toward her, so that she was bent double, and pounded her from above, his fingernails biting into her calves. Miranda knew nothing, no pain, no fear, only blind and inarticulate pleasure. Together, thrashing and moaning, scattering water glasses and tearing clothing, they climbed the steep ladder to ecstasy. Together, they reached the summit, and felt everything collapse beneath them. They flew.

Later, they lay together on the ruined table, still speechless with a kind of awe. Mark ran his fingers through Miranda’s tangled locks and touched her lips with his own. He was smiling again, but there was something unfamiliar in his expression, something deep, strange, tinged with sadness. She suddenly recalled her cloakroom fuck and understood that this was its counterpoint, equally anonymous and public, but sparked by love. Stranger and lover, thought Miranda, you give me what I need.

 

* * * *

 

Miranda was blindfolded. She could hear street noises outside the cab. “Is this really necessary?” she asked with a laugh. “Given my lack of familiarity with London, I could hardly tell where we were going even if I could see.”

“Humor me,” said Mark. “You know I like surprises.” He brushed her taut nipple with his fingertip, teasing her. She was always erect, it seemed, when he was around. “Actually, I have a surprise even before we arrive. Give me your hand.”

The box weighed no more than a few ounces. The outside felt like finely-tooled leather. She handled it gently, hardly daring to guess what it might contain.

“Open it. Don’t be shy.” She found the catch and the lid sprang open. Gingerly, she poked around inside. Her hand met something hard and sharp, like cut glass, then, smooth metal. She released the breath she’d been holding. It was a ring.

“I figured that it was about time I took you back to Wisconsin.” Mark’s voice was so soft that she could hardly hear it above the traffic. “To meet the folks, and all. That is, if you want to.”

Miranda groped in the darkness until she found him, and circled his neck with her arms. “I do want to, Mark. I want that more than anything.”

He kissed her gently and settled her back on the seat. “Wonderful. Of course, we won’t tell them anything about your new career. There are some secrets we’ll keep to ourselves.”

The cab stopped, but Mark did not remove the scarf covering her eyes. Miranda didn’t mind. Her trust in him was perfect. He helped her out of the taxi, up several steps and through a door that sounded like glass. Then they climbed another flight of stairs. Mark climbed behind her, his hands on her hips, guiding and teasing simultaneously.

She heard a bell, then silence. Suspense quickened her pulse and her breathing. What did Mark have up his sleeve this time? Her sex was wet, again. These days, it seemed that it always was.

Finally, there was the sound of the door hinges. A sweet, vaguely familiar scent reached Miranda’s nostrils. Mark guided her forward and closed the door behind her. Then he untied the scarf.

A woman stood before them, clad in a sheer black negligee. With a joy that amazed her, Miranda recognized the lustrous brown eyes, bowed lips, and tawny nipples. “Marla!” she cried, rushing forward into a welcoming embrace.

“Miranda, I’d like to introduce my cousin Marilyn,” said Mark, laughter brimming in his voice. “I believe that I’ve told you something about her. And she knows all about you.”

“I’m so glad to see you again, Miranda darling,” said Marla, leading her into the bedroom. “I’ve thought about you so often.”

Marla’s clove flavor lingered after her kisses. Miranda felt as though she were in a dream. Mark was undressing her, murmuring endearments. Miranda had shed her transparent garment and was tightening the straps that attached a jet-black phallus to her pubis. Miranda had a stunning vision of her own body mounted between the two of them, pierced fore and aft. Her knees went weak with desire.

Mark caught her as she stumbled and set her down gently on the bed. Marla hovered above her. Mark slipped the ring onto her left hand while sliding his own finger inside her.

”Welcome, my lovely stranger. Welcome home.”