The Story of X: An Erotic Tale (15 page)

“Harder.”

He sucks on my nipple, my left nipple, as his hand goes down to my panties and tucks
inside. He finds my cunt and my waiting clitoris and he strokes it deftly with his
fingers, three times, no four times, five times, brilliant times, oh so cleverly,
softly and soothingly, teasingly and arousingly. And the buzzing in my head is delirious.
I am yearning for him. I need him. I need to see his muscles and his body, need to
see him barefoot. And so I rip off his shirt until the buttons fly across the room,
until he laughs, and I laugh.

And yet this is serious. As always. The sex between Marc and me is playful—and yet
deadly serious, too, like something nearer to religion, sometimes. The adoration,
and the reverence; with this body, I thee worship.

Leaning close, I lick his hard and sculpted body, the superb and suntanned ripples
of his rib cage, tasting the clean, hard scent of his skin. Then I sink to my knees
and unzip his pants. His erection is firm and thick and long. I put it in my mouth
and I suck.

I suck. I suck on his lovely thickness, and I cup him there, cupping and sucking,
wanting him to come, yet not wanting him to come. The floorboards are hard on my knees
but I like the pain, mixed with pleasure. I feel penitent and good, kneeling naked
on the floor like a novice: sucking him, and looking up at him, as his warm hands
flow through my hair, stroking, then grasping, then almost tugging as I suck him too
well, too sharply. Lifting my head, he says, whispering and soft, “No, X—
I don’t want to come yet
.”

Hoisting me to my feet, he kisses me full on the mouth. I reach my hands around his
waist and return the kisses. Then we fall sideways onto the bed and he half pushes
me away, then thrusts my naked legs apart. I am wet, I am very wet. And I watch. And
I wait.

He is stripping naked now, and the sight is again majestic, heroic. I’m not even sure
he knows it, but he really does look like a warrior, a gracious Zulu brave, the young
Achilles. He is also the essence of a man aroused. Abruptly, he climbs on top of me
and his hand clamps over my mouth as I say his name, as he enters me again, and again.
And again.

Marcus Roscarrick is fucking me. He is fucking me like a king. Like a lord. My lord
came home from the wars today, and pleasured me twice in his top boots.

Our bodies sway together, violently, passionately, like this is a street fight tinged
with love. He thrusts, softly, then harder, then softly, then very hard. And now he
gasps, quietly. And I know he is probably close to coming. I can tell by the rigid
glee of his body, but I am way too selfish for this. I want to come
first
. So I grab his lean, dark hips, and I push him deeper inside me, deeper and harder
between my naked and trembling thighs, my bare skin tingling.

I can feel his size inside me, filling me up. His fingers are in my mouth so I suck
them, tasting salt, and him, and us. He is thrusting harder, repeatedly. And he has
a fierce thumb near my throat as his chest presses down on my breasts and I am half
choked.

Now he pulls out, then thrusts his cock, and waits. For an agonizing second. Then
he rubs his cock on my clitoris and enters me again. This is good, this is very good.
He does it again, with his erection and my clitoris. The blood jumps in my heart.
I am sheened with delicious sweat; I am closing my eyes as the pleasure spirals around
to that place where he fucks me.

“Carissima, carissima
—
”

I cannot speak. I don’t need to speak. I am biting his shoulders. Biting with desire.
And again he pulls his cock from my cunt and then he thrusts it back in, and each
time he does this, he rubs my trembling and pulsing clit, and then he stoops and fills
my mouth with his tongue and wraps me very tight in his arms, caging my slender shoulders,
and this time he thrusts so deep, almost too deep, oh so deep; and then he does it
once more, three sweet and glorious thrusts, and I am gasping as he embraces me. I
am almost breathless, almost crushed, almost fainting, almost laughing, and at last
I shout out in a kind of
agonized
orgasm, an orgasm so vivid and ardent and imperious it is virtually
painful
.

C
HAPTER
S
EVENTEEN

M
ARC
R
OSCARRICK HAS
his own boat. Of course he does. It is a deep, dark Italian blue, and it waits glamorously
at anchor in the harbor of Pozzuoli, about five miles north of Naples.

Pozzuoli is very beautiful. Many of the Neapolitan rich live here, in the jumbled
white houses that crowd around the domed and ocher-tiled church on the rocky promontory.
Tonight is especially sweet and pretty: the moon is an archer’s bow of silver in the
sky, a million stars are hanging from heaven’s black, an invisible Christmas tree,
and families of well-dressed people parade the waterfront, eating gelati and laughing
and gossiping and greeting their friends.

Marc smiles, offers a hand, and I climb, a little unsteadily, onto his motorboat.

“Ready, X?”

“Ready. I guess.”

I sit in the back and Marc takes the wheel. Standing on the pier, Giuseppe unleashes
the ropes and pushes us away from the jetty. The engine coughs and chirrs, and Marc
deftly steers, guiding us between the launches and skiffs, the liners and the fishing
smacks—and then at last Pozzuoli bids us good-bye and we are out on the open Mediterranean,
which, this evening, is as dark and still as an Aztec obsidian mirror.

Calm beneath the silent storm of those glorious stars.

The sweet sea air is a balm. I sit back in my new Armani dress—my velvet color-blocked
rosette Armani cocktail dress, to be precise—and admire my Jimmy Choo heels, before
taking in the view. The sea, the moon, the stars, and Marc Roscarrick. And me.

“It is so still!” Marc says. “So incredibly still. The perfect night for the Mysteries.”
He slows the boat until it is stationary, bobbing on the blue dark swell beneath the
myriad glitter of stars. He murmurs again, “The sea is calm tonight. The tide is full,
the moon lies fair, Upon the straits . . .”

I recognize the poem. I smile and say nothing. The silent wind is warm and sweet.
We are afloat in the Bay of Naples. Just him and me. Just two people, a man and a
woman. Two instruments in a perfect duet. The Bach adagio for double violins.

Marc starts the boat again. I regard him with some reverence. He looks so good tonight:
he is wearing a divine tuxedo, studiously tailored, splendidly correct, black and
white and tall and lean; he looks like a Hollywood matinee idol from a 1940s Oscar
ceremony, a sober and handsome and monochrome foil to the woman he escorts.

I wonder, for a second, who designed the first tuxedo, the first dinner jacket? Did
someone really think—think hard—and come up with that brilliant combination of black
and white? Or maybe it just evolved over time into its present perfection: a Darwinian
selection. Because a man seldom looks fitter than he does in a black-and-white tux.
And Marc in a tuxedo is particularly male, absolutely virile,
molto bello e scapolo
.

Who were those women pictured with him in
il West End di Londra
?

He stares at me, I stare at him.

I say, “I feel like a nun taking the veil. Is that what I am doing, Marc?”

He smiles sadly. But he says nothing, just steers the boat onward, through the whispering
waters. The Mysteries abide. The minutes pass. I am fretful and joyful. Seagulls swoop
down out of the night sky, like ghosts in the dark, happy-sad phantoms, then gone,
flying into darkness. I want to get there now; I want the Mysteries to start.

“How long to Capri?”

Without turning, he says, “Approximately half an hour. I could go a lot faster but
you might get a little wet and ruin that dress.”

“What’s going to happen, Marc?”

“
Piccolina
. Why should I tell you now, if I’ve never told you before? The Mysteries are meant
to be mysterious.”

I sigh, and then I shake my head. Quite firmly. “But I need to know things, if I am
going to continue.”

“Okay . . . what?”

He is steering the boat and talking over his shoulder. I press on.

“You said that once a man is fully initiated, then he cannot have a relationship with
a woman who is not completely initiated.”

“Yes.”

“Why only men? Doesn’t it apply to women?”

He turns. His face is somber.

“The code of honor is stricter for men.”

“Why?”

“It just is. It always has been.”

I gaze back at him.

“And what if I want to
stop,
Marc? What if I decide I have had enough, after the Second Mystery or the Third?”

“Then you stop. Many people do exactly that. They never go on to the Fifth.” He smiles
at me. A little regretfully. “But if you stop, that affects us. As you know, I am
allowed to be with you for this summer, as you go through initiation—but if you stop
before the Fifth . . .”

“We can’t see each other again.”

“Yes.”

The moment darkens. Marc has his back to me again as he guides the boat under the
stars, toward Capri. But I have more questions.

“So why is this Second Mystery so important?”

“This is when you will take your vows. And officially be inducted, for the summer.”

“ ‘Officially’? Who makes these rules, Marc? Who runs it all?”

“That is, I am afraid—”

“A mystery. Yes, yes.” I smile quietly, but my anxieties remain.

I think about what is to come, and I get a tiny shiver of foreboding. Until now I
have been fairly sanguine about the Second Mystery; now I suddenly feel the first
tingle of serious fear, or at least unpleasant apprehension. But then I remember how
much, despite myself, I wholly enjoyed the spanking. Perhaps it will be thrilling?
Something beyond thrilling, something boundary-breaking like the First Mystery? Something
important and profound? I hope so, and yet I am also scared it will be too profound.
And it will change me.

And I don’t want anything to change.

The truth is, I want everything to stay as it is: right here, right now, on a fine
night in mid-June, maybe six weeks after I first saw him, with me and Marc alone on
a boat beneath the shining stars of the Bay of Naples.

Here. Stop it
here
. Freeze frame.
Cut
.

“Nearly there . . .” says Marc, stretching his arm and pointing at the silhouetted
island, at Capri all jagged and sprinkled with houselights.

As we near the port of the island I belatedly realize we are not alone. The closer
approaches to Capri are busy with craft; I can see other boats now, small and pricey
cruisers, bigger yachts, sleek and costly motorboats like ours. All closing in, all
heading for Capri. It is like some wartime evacuation in reverse.

“Your fellow Dionysians,” Marc says, as he drops a gear and slows the boat. “Gathering
for the Second Mystery.”

A minute or two later our boat is moored and lashed, and we are on the jetty, being
met by young men wearing dark, dark suits and earphones, and sunglasses—at nine
P.M
. Tourists sit at the harborside seafood restaurants and gawp in amazement at all
the Mystery-goers in their finery, disembarking from their skiffs and yachts: at the
men in their sharp tuxedos and the women in their fine dresses with high heels and
starry jewelry. They ascend into horse-drawn traps, which are ranked and waiting.

I gaze at my fellow Dionysians, or maybe my fellow novices. There are men and women
of all ages, from twenty to seventy. It is impossible to tell who is already initiated
and who is undergoing initiation. I can hear snatches of several languages—lots of
English, some French and Spanish, Russian, too. Chinese as well. Everyone looks rich,
very, very, very
rich
.

And for the first time in my life
I feel rich,
walking past these openmouthed tourists, climbing into the little horse-drawn carriage
alongside Lord Roscarrick. I actually feel a base and vulgar thrill of ostentation,
of absurd superiority: yes, look at me, and just look at my man.

I despise myself for this, even as I think it, but I just can’t help enjoying the
catwalk moment.

“They must think we are going to some ball,” I say, nodding at the tourists in their
T-shirts. Marc nods but doesn’t answer, making me feel rather stupid.

As the horse trots on, encouraged by the delicate whips of our carriage driver, I
try not to think what
kind
of party I am about to experience. My only choice is to live for the moment. What
will happen will happen. As the horse pulls our carriage up a steep, rocky hill, I
gaze across the bay at glimmering Naples: so beautiful and innocent from this distance.
The feeling is mesmeric; I can hear horses behind me, horses in front, dozens of carriages
transporting everyone to the site of the Second Mystery.

The carriage halts and Marc assists me down, lifting me like a child to the ground,
and now I realize precisely where we are. My ancient history might be shaky, but I
have done enough research to know that we are standing at the northeastern tip of
Capri, where the emperor Tiberius lived in
AD
30, and where he conducted his notorious debauches. The emperor was wont to lie naked
in his swimming pool, where small boys were trained to dive underwater and lick and
nibble at his groin. The emperor adored this aquatic pleasure; he called the boys
his “minnows.”

This shard of history pains me. Will the Second Mystery be some reenactment of horrible
Roman decadence? Something ghastly and perverse? Once more I am weakened by a fear
of what is about to happen. Marc obviously senses it. As we go through a big iron
gate guarded by at least ten men in dark glasses and dark suits, who check Marc’s
credentials, he squeezes my hand.

“
Courage
,” he says, using the French pronunciation. “
Courage, ma chère
.”

“But I don’t understand, Marc—how do they get permission? This is an archaeological
site; it’s like renting the Parthenon.”

We are following the other Mystery-goers down a cicada-rasping path toward a source
of light and music.

“This is Campania, X,” Marc answers. “You can buy the Temples of Paestum if you want.”

“But who pays? Who are those men at the gate? Are they armed?”

He squeezes my hand again.

“Please don’t fret, just let it happen, let it roll over you. That’s how the Mysteries
work; you mustn’t resist. And now . . .” He smiles at me, sincerely, and maybe regretfully.
“Now you have to go and dress. Follow the handmaidens.”

Two Italian women—young and pretty, and dressed simply in white—take me by the hand.
They lead me away from Marc, along an inclined path to a parade of very sophisticated
tents: luxurious yet antique marquees.

In front of the largest tent—the one nearest the mighty cliffs that topple down to
the dark Tyrrhenian Sea—I can see dancing and I can hear people drinking and chattering.
Likewise, I can hear music. These are the fairly normal sounds of a rather swish alfresco
party. But we are going into a different tent. It is purple, braided, and imperial—and
somehow Roman.

Inside there are several other young women, standing by mirrors and side tables. All
of them are being dressed and tended by these Italian girls who wear these simple
white shifts.

My guess is that these other young women, standing anxious and stiff, must be my fellow
initiates. I glance at them: their young and pretty and rather worried faces. They
glance at me, and nod.

We all feel the same.

“Please,” says one of the handmaidens. Her English is faulty. But her gestures are
fluent. “Take off clothes?”

There are no men in this big silk tent, which is softly lit with hanging lanterns,
but I am still seriously shy. I remember Marc’s words, and I remember that if I want
to keep him—even if it is only for this summer—I have to do as I am told. I must steel
myself, and submit. Again.

Taking a deep breath, I nod—and the girls step forward. They evidently want to help
undress me, yet I wave them away; no one is touching my precious new Armani frock.
I remove it myself and fold it with due diligence, and the girls seem to understand—they
let me hang the dress very carefully on a rack. My underwear follows, until I am standing
nude. I simply can’t look at the other initiates; I am too embarrassed to do that—so
I concentrate on what the girls are doing to me.

And they are getting to work on my party costume.

“Per favore, signorina?”

I gaze, intrigued. Because they are dressing me in a way I have never been dressed
before.

First they take some opaque white silk stockings, and slowly roll them onto my legs,
over my knees, up to my thighs. A garter is clasped around each white thigh, to keep
the stocking in place. The garter is beaded with gold, and miniature creamy pearls;
it is beautiful, probably antique. I am given steep little shoes to wear, which fit
perfectly. They have minuscule and baroque silk bows, and very high, blocky heels.
Eighteenth-century shoes. Dandyish and sexy.

I am being dressed like an eighteenth-century kept woman. Like a high-class mistress
of a Sun King.

“Okay,” says the Italian girl. “Please stand.”

Carefully, but quickly, she fixes a corset around my middle. I have never worn anything
like this. It is a rich, deep scarlet, and gorgeously embroidered, but, wow, it hurts
as she stiffly laces up the back tightly, then even tighter. The pressure forces my
breasts up and together: it gives me a deep cleavage. The corset is on the borders
of being bondage gear—but not quite. It is more subtle than that. Painful, but subtle.

“
Signorina,
please sit, we do the hair?”

I rouse from my self-absorption and look around. It seems I am now alone in the tent;
the other initiates have already been dressed and dismissed—to experience their Second
Mystery.

“Sit?”

Obediently I sit on a little gilded chair and watch in a large wooden-framed mirror,
as the girls lift and comb my hair, adorning it with coils, plaits, mother-of-pearl
pins, and small but darling silk bows; curlicues of hair are allowed to descend at
my ears. My ordinary blond hair looks wonderfully gold in this flattering lantern
light.