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plank-topped table held a messy stack of illustrated tabloids, somehow still
delivered despite the Stink. In the dimness he could make out fat Engine-
printed headlines bemoaning the poor state of the Prime Minister's health. Old
Byron was always feigning sickness, some gammy foot or rheumy lung or raddled
liver.
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Hetty entered the parlor with her glowing lamp, and faded roses bloomed in the
dusty wallpaper. Mallory dropped a gold sovereign on the table-top. He hated
trouble in these matters, and always paid in advance. She noted the ring of
the coin, smiling. Then she kicked off her street-muddied dolly-boots, and
walked, swaying, to a doorway, which she flung open. A grey cat ran out,
mewing, and she fussed at it, petting it and calling it Toby. She let it out
to the stairs. Mallory watched her do this, and stood flat-footed in unhappy
patience.
"Well, then, come on with you," she said, tossing her plaited brown head.
The bedroom was small enough, and shabby, with a pressed-oak two-poster and a
tall, tarnished cheval-glass that looked as if it had once cost some money.
Hetty set the lamp on the badly delaminated veneer of a bedside commode and
began to pick at the buttons of her blouse, pulling her arms from the sleeves
and tossing the garment aside as if clothing were more trouble to her than she
cared for. Stepping deftly out of her skirt, she began to remove her corset
and a stiff crinkled petticoat.
"You wear no crinoline," Mallory noted hoarsely.
"Don't like 'em." She popped the waistband of the petticoat and laid it aside.
She deftly picked the wire hooks of the corset and eased its laces open, then
wriggled it over her hips and stood there, breathing in relief, in her lace
chemise.
Mallory got out of his jacket and shoes. His member strained at his
fly-buttons. He was anxious to get it out of his trousers, but didn't care to
parade his erect prick by lamplight.
Hetty jumped into the bed in her chemise, the worn springs complaining loudly.
Mallory sat on the edge of the bed, which smelled powerfully of cheap
orange-water and Hetty's sweat, and got his trousers and unmentionables off,
leaving himself in his shirt.
Leaning off the bed, he unbuttoned one compartment of his money-belt and
removed a French-
letter. "I'll do it in armor, dear," he muttered. "Is that all right?"
Hetty sat up brightly on her elbow. "Let me see it, then." Mallory showed her
the rolled membrane of sheep-gut. "It isn't one of those queer ones," she
noted, with apparent relief. "Do as you like, dearie." Mallory carefully
peeled the device over the taut skin of his prick. This was better. Mallory
thought, happier for this act of foresight. It felt more as if he knew what he
was doing here, and that he would be safe after all, and get his money's worth
as well. He climbed under the dingy sheet.
Hetty wrapped her strong arms around his neck and kissed him fiercely with her
great crooked mouth, as if she meant to glue it to him. Mallory, startled,
felt her tongue writhing about on his teeth like a slick warm eel. The strange
sensation powerfully stimulated his virility. He struggled atop her, her solid
flesh feeling marvelous through the obscenely thin veil of the chemise, and
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fought with the garment till he had it up about her waist. Hetty made
enthusiastic groaning noises as Mallory groped about in the damp fleece
between her legs. Finally, seeming impatient, Hetty reached down without
ceremony and jammed his prick into her cunt.
She stopped sucking his mouth as they began to rut. Soon they were breathing
like steam-
gurneys, the bed creaking and jouncing beneath them like a badly tuned
panmelodium. "Oh, Ned, darling!" she yelped suddenly, setting eight sharp
fingernails into his back. "What a fine big one it is! I'm going to spend!"
And she writhed under him in near-convulsion. Jolted by the strangeness of a
woman speaking English in the midst of sexual congress, he spent abruptly, as
if the seed were wrenched unwilling from his flesh by the hard lewd plunging
of her loins.
After a quiet, panting moment, Hetty kissed his bearded cheek with the
half-shy lash-
fluttering look of a woman conquered by desire. "That was fine indeed, Ned.
You really do know how to do it. Now let's have something to eat, shall we?
I'm bloody starving."
"Good," Mallory said, rolling off the sweaty cradle of her hips. He felt
grateful to her, as he always did to any woman who had favored him, and a bit
ashamed of himself, and of her as well.
But very hungry, too. He had not eaten in many hours.
"We can get a nice petit-souper downstairs from the Hart. Mrs. Cairns can
fetch it up for us.
She's my landlady what lives next door."
"Fine," Mallory said. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]