Sat, May 19 2012
Sleep was the best tonic for Rebecca's unease. She felt more like herself when she woke the next day, and the events of the last week seemed further away. Sarah was dressed before she was and woke her briefly with a kiss. Later she returned and told her "The Admiral will be leaving soon. Get up". Sarah helped her dress and by noon they were standing on the dock, waving goodbye to the HMS Reliance, Admiral Mildmay's own ship. Jules and Passepartout had spent most of the day working on the Aurora, but they left the engine to see the red haired ladies off. Phileas, in surprisingly high spirits, emerged from his room, managing to look fashionable in a sling that Passepartout had made for him. Even King Otto and Queen Amalia made an appearance. The red haired ladies kissed them on each check, while the Admiral and his daughter shook hands with everyone, except for Jules, whom she kissed in imitation of the French fashion. It was quite a festival.
Finally the Aurora was ready late afternoon. The weather was favorable, so they decided to leave right away. Waller gave them a fond farewell, and a packet of mail to take to London. For a time the crew kept themselves distracted with the few chores associated with take off. Passepartout had previously worked out a course, so Jules watched over the engine. They had driven the airship hard on their last trip, and even after the work he and Passepartout had done, Jules wasn't sure that she'd run well. That was his excuse, anyway.
Things came to a head after dinner. Conversation had been strained, but polite. They barely noticed the lovely fish that Passepartout had prepared. Sarah had marked that he was avoiding her, but she hadn't found a chance to confront him about it. The other thing that caught Sarah's attention was how everyone waited hand and foot on Fogg. Even Rebecca was solicitous. This annoyed Sarah, who really hoped that Rebecca would at least call him a pig. Rebecca seemed very thoughtful, but if she had drawn any conclusions, she hadn't told Sarah. Sarah had a sense that she was missing something. She sat at the table with a book, watching. Passepartout brought him some tea made from the yellow flowers. He'd stowed a basket of them in the kitchen, but spread them out in a tray after Sarah advised him that dried flowers would work better than rotted flowers (which would certainly happened if they were stored in a basket).
"It's not bad," Fogg had commented after his first sip. "It reminds me a little of chamomile. What is it?"
"Hypericum - St. John's Wort. It take the edge off the dark night of the soul," Sarah had replied, briefly looking up from her book.
"Dark night?" he asked, cup paused in the air.
"You know - St. John of the Cross?" She quoted to him:
"Upon a darkened night The flame of love was burning in my breast And by a lantern bright I fled my house while all in quiet rest Shrouded by the night And by the secret stair I quickly fled The veil concealed my eyes While all within lay quiet as the dead. O, night thou was my guide! O, night more loving than the rising sun! O, night that joined the Lover to the beloved one! Transforming each of them into the other. "
"Are you saying that I'm lovesick?" Fogg asked. His expression was somewhere between surprise and pained grimace.
"Not unless you're longing for God. St. John was talking about the despair and loss of vision that come before the soul surrenders into God." Sarah turned back to the book again.
"Well, that's about as clear as mud." He returned to sipping his tea. Rebecca opened her mouth to explain, then closed it again, deciding that Phileas did not want to hear a lecture on the soul's longing for union with the Divine. It seemed to Sarah that Rebecca had tried several times today to say something to her cousin, but lost her nerve each time. Sarah still hoped to hear the word "pig" pass Rebecca's lips, but that seemed less likely as time passed. Perhaps Rebecca was considering her cousin in the clutches of The Red Vixen.
Jules came into the salon for the third time in the last half hour. "Can I get you anything, Fogg?" To Sarah he stood out as the most eager of the crew to please. He might have been triangulating between Fogg and Passepartout, who was still hiding in the kitchen.
"I'd love a drink," Fogg replied to Verne, "but the doctor" (and here he squinted an annoyed glance at Sarah) "has restricted me".
"Well, if you need anything else, please let me know." There was something about the way he said "anything" that sounded odd to Sarah. The annoyed look Rebecca shot Verne over the top of her book seemed odd too, almost as though she resented Verne's intrusion. Verne came back three more times, checking their course, checking on Fogg and just checking. Finally Passepartout emerged from the kitchen and began lighting the lamps. It was still bright enough outside, but the cabin, with its small portholes, tended to get dark first. Now all activity in the salon swirled around Fogg. Passepartout was lit the lamp behind him "for light for reading", Rebecca leaned in, maybe to finally try her speech, and Verne was taking the empty cup and saucer. As if in slow motion, Sarah watched as Verne's hands lingered over Fogg's while he grasped for the cup. In a flash Sarah comprehended what they had in common.
"Has Fogg slept with everyone here?" Sarah blurted out. Jules, Jean and Rebecca turned to her in open-mouthed shock as she realized that she had spoken aloud. Too late, she slapped a hand over her mouth.
Shaking with rage, Phileas stood. "That will do," he said, then stormed up the stairs to his quarters.
Rebecca gave Sarah a "now you've done it" look, stopped Jules with a touch on his arm and said "Leave this to me" before following Phileas up the stairs. Passepartout fled to the kitchen, sniffling.
Sarah lay her head on the table and protested, "I'm sorry! It just slipped out."
"What were you thinking?" Jules shouted at her. "You just can't say...and you know he's been hurt...you're really horrible, you know," he finished.
She stood to face him. "So it's true?" She probably shouldn't have walked towards him. In this mood he may have struck her. Instead, he sank into a chair, pressed his hands over his eyes and nodded. She bent down and laying her hands on his knees, tried to look into his face. "I'm sorry. I didn't know. I just guessed." He didn't look at her. She heard a strangled sob coming from the kitchen. "Wait here. Let the cousins work out their problems. I'll be back."
He flinched away from her and turned the chair to look out a porthole. "Don't bother," he muttered.
When Sarah entered the kitchen, Passepartout was holding onto the table, trembling with the exertion of stifling his tears. She pressed her cheek against his shoulder and embraced him from behind, closing her hands over his heart. "Jean?" she asked and waited. At first he stiffened, but then relaxed against her with a long sigh. "Why are you crying?" she asked.
"What does it mean? That he takes everyone to bed? Am I only the latest, to be discarded when the next..." He didn't finish.
Sarah waited, but he didn't add anything. "You can't really believe that." She tightened her embrace. "He was very upset over the possibility of losing you when we spoke in Marseille."
He twisted in her arms to face her. "In Marseille...did he hurt you?"
She was entranced for a moment by his dark eyes and his face, so close to hers. It took her a second to answer, then she recalled Fogg's hand on her throat. "Hurt? Yes..but mostly my pride, I think." She leaned forward and kissed Passepartout, giving in to temptation once again.
He responded with a soft moan and gripped her shoulders, but eventually he pushed her away. "Jules could..." He inclined his head in the direction of the salon.
"I suppose he could." She kissed him once more, then nuzzled his cheek. "What have you told him?" she whispered in his ear.
"So soft," he murmured, pressing his lips against her throat.
"Jean," she insisted "What did you tell him?"
"Nothing. Why?" She pulled away from him and looked in his eyes, but his guilty conscience wouldn't let him hold her gaze.
"Liar," she said with a smile. "In a minute we're going to talk to him, hmm? And I would like to be informed with the fact, beforehand this time."
"Must we be talking?" he pled.
"Do you really think that we can spend the rest of the trip pretending that nothing has happened?" There was a shout from upstairs, then silence. They both looked up at the ceiling. "Or that nothing is going on?" He shook his head. "So tell me."
"He is knowing everything, but also..."
"Everything?" she interrupted.
"But also, we are being lovers now too." He looked in her eyes, then looked towards the salon.
"What? You mean you...and Verne?" She searched his face.
"And..." he looked towards the ceiling.
"The three of you?" He nodded. "How?"
"Well...I was dreaming...on the train" He kissed the side of her face. "And he figured it out. Jules was asking me what it was like..."
The hair on the back of Sarah's neck stood up. She already knew the rest of this conversation. She heard herself say, "So naturally you had to show him". Now she understood why Rebecca had laughed at her. He waited in agonizing uncertainty, just as she had, while she already knew the answer to his question, just as Rebecca had. Rebecca hadn't given her a spoken answer yet, but the odd noises coming from Fogg's quarters spoke for themselves. If Fogg was in the clutches of The Red Vixen, surely the Vixen wouldn't object to Fogg's valet being in the clutches of The Brown Minx. Of course Verne might object... "We need to talk this over with Jules." She loosened his hands from her shoulders and headed for the salon. "Coming?" she asked over her shoulder.
Rebecca followed Phileas without a particular plan, even though she rehearsed a dozen different speeches since yesterday. Nothing seemed appropriate, but she was used to thinking on her feet. She heard Phileas' door slam, but it was still unlocked when she reached it. He stood staring out a porthole, one hand on his hip, the other clenched into a fist. "Passepartout," he began when he heard the door open. Rebecca quickly closed and locked it. She put the key on the stand by the door.
"No Phileas. It's me." She could feel her heart in her throat.
He wheeled around in shock. "Rebecca?" He would have expected her to spit angry accusations at him, but the look in her eyes told him that was not her intention. "You should leave. Now. Before things get unpleasant."
She shook her head. "I have no intention of leaving you, or letting you leave me, ever again." Well, that was a little more melodramatic than she intended, but it would do for now.
"Get out." He wanted her pity even less than her accusations.
"No. You're going to listen." She took two steps towards him, but he brushed passed her and headed for the door. When he tried the handle, it was locked.
"Where is the key?" he hissed.
Rebecca didn't answer but sat on the bed instead. She kept her face carefully blank. "Come sit by me."
He turned on her and shouted, "The KEY! Now!"
She didn't flinch. "No." She watched him run a hand through his hair and recognized the look in his eye as he turned. She knew exactly what he was thinking - run. "Are you really so desperate to be away from me?" she quietly asked.
Striking him would not have had as great an effect. Sinking to his knees, he lay his head in her lap and grasped her hands. "Is that what you think?" he whispered with closed eyes.
"Why not? You've done it before," she said without recrimination, just stating facts. "You wanted everything on your own terms, and when you couldn't have your way, you left." She was surprised that her voice held steady.
"It was a little more complicated than that," Phileas replied defensively.
"Not really." Rebecca laid a hand on top of his head. "You had choices, and you chose to flee."
He dared to meet her eyes. "Was it really like that for you?" She nodded once. "I thought I was doing what you wanted..."
"What I wanted? How on earth did you reach that conclusion?" She gripped his hand tighter.
"I just felt that I tied you down; that I was underfoot; that I..."
"That you distracted me?" He nodded. "Is that why you've been so rude to Sarah? You think she's been distracting?"
"She told you that I said..." He looked down.
"You should let me decide what distractions I might entertain." She lifted his chin. "After all, some distractions can be very entertaining." She smiled down at him, and he couldn't help but return her smile. Gradually, her smile faded into a more sober expression. "Phileas, I'm still in love with you. Please don't leave, and please don't ask me to go either."
He pulled away from her and sat back on his haunches. "You can't mean that."
She followed him onto the floor, knelt in front of him and took his hands again. "I wouldn't have said it if I didn't mean it."
Incredulous, he touched her face. "I don't deserve you."
She reciprocated his touch. "Then let it be an act of grace." To prove her sincerity, she pressed her lips to his. He didn't require any further explanations.
Jules refused to look at that woman. It was now obvious to him that she was utterly heartless and completely unnatural. Yes, unnatural. First that she would lure Rebecca (who, in the right circumstances might have been his Rebecca) into the perversions of Sappho, then seduce dear, kind-hearted Passepartout and finally to admit in front of the whole world that she'd been in Fogg's bed...why unnatural wasn't strong enough to describe her! And now she sends Passepartout to talk for her...
"Please, Jules. You're over reacting" Passepartout stood behind his shoulder. He had to stand behind, since every time he tried to face Jules, Jules rotated the chair away from him.
"You might ask our friend what it is that particularly upsets him." Sarah slouched on the settee, watching her feet. "Is it that the truth is out, or that he's only one of many?" She stood and began to pace. "I'll take responsibility for my faux pas, but I don't understand why you've decided to take it personally."
"Because he's my friend," Jules growled.
"Or is it because I've exposed your friend's vices?" she asked, stopping in front of him.
"Putain!" he screamed as he exploded out of the chair, fists clenched.
Sarah found herself trapped between the two men when Passepartout launched himself at Jules. "No Jean!" she cried. "Don't hurt him - you'd never forgive yourself." She struggled with them for a few seconds, just long enough for them to come to their senses. The moment Jules relaxed, she released her grip on his shirt and he collapsed back into the chair.
He put his head into his hands and cried "Oh God, Passepartout. He must have left me for Rebecca." Sarah gave Passepartout a reassuring "I'm okay" nod and stood aside. The older man awkwardly embraced the younger, but when it became clear that the chair could not hold them both, they slid onto the floor. Passepartout pulled Verne into his lap and stroked his hair while he wept.
While Passepartout comforted his friend, Sarah looked for her violin. She couldn't go upstairs and face that scene, and by staying on the first deck she felt as if she was intruding on the other lovers. Oh boy, she hadn't seen that one coming. She risked a glance at them as she removed her instrument from its case. Passepartout gently rocked his friend and murmured something like "hush". She tried to think of something to match her new melancholy, and it occurred to her that there was a piece of music about a fallen woman that they all probably knew. Jules might even appreciate the jest she was playing on the insult he paid her. She began with the prelude to the third act, appropriately full of foreboding and melodrama. As Jules' sniffles died away, she moved back to the first act. "You'll have to sing for me," she warned them. "I sound like a wounded animal."
"What?" Jules lifted his head. "Everyone can sing." He pulled himself together with as much dignity as he could and let Passepartout help him to his feet.
"I warned you," she replied. Violetetta's friends might have been happy to see her, but the way Sarah sang it made it sound as if they were sacrificing animals to demonstrate their affection. Jules howled, this time with laughter. "I did warn you," she said. "This is a deadly threat: If you don't sing, I will continue to sing."
Jules held up his hands "No! Have mercy." He cleared his throat and gestured for her to start again. He had a surprisingly fine tenor voice, Sarah thought, and he did know all the words. When it came time for the women's part, he nudged Passepartout, who filled in with an amusing falsetto.
When they got to the drinking song, and the opera suggested a toast, Sarah stopped. "I really could use a drink. What about you?" Passepartout didn't wait for Jules' response. In moments he had glasses and a bottle of brown liquid. Sarah toasted, "Love stinks" and the men ruefully nodded. It was an unexpectedly good Scotch, but Sarah only noticed after she'd tossed it back. She returned to the violin. They sang about drinking "Libiamo..." while Sarah scrubbed a vigorous beat against the strings. Each time drink was mentioned, she held up her glass and Passepartout would dribble a few drops into all their glasses. It took longer to get through the piece, but they felt much better by the end of it. Sarah moved right into the next aria, where the tenor declares his undying love for the soprano. She played it to farcical effect, with exaggerated melodrama, and Passepartout contributed to the comedy with his falsetto. They continued this mocking tribute to their heartbreak until the soprano's dying breath, but which time they had also finished another bottle of Scotch. Of course, the following day they would speak softly and draw the curtains, but that night they salved their tender feelings with drink and laughter.
The layers of clothing they needed to remove enforced the intentionality of their actions. For Phileas, it had been easy enough to throw Sarah onto her back in the straw, and tell himself later it was just impulse. She seemed to prefer a minimal amount of clothing and a pair of drawers hadn't been much of a barrier to him. Rebecca, however, had attended the farewell ceremonies in her most fashionable costume. He attended to each button and hook with a flourish, while she carefully unfastened his clothing. Even Rebecca's more ordinary clothing had been designed (by her) for a speedy change, so that Phileas didn't lag too far behind. Finally they could touch warm flesh to warm flesh. She eased back into the bed and held her hand out to him. For a moment he could only stare wide eyed, drinking air in gulps before he climbed in beside her. It was only appropriate to hear music when he bent to kiss her...some words about love and the heartbeat of the universe. She was still Rebecca, still breathtakingly beautiful, but subtly changed since the last time they were together like this. She seemed bolder, and more demanding, as if she knew what she wanted, and she wasn't afraid to claim it anymore. She wasn't shy about touching him, either, though she was contrite when her nails raked against his wound.
She gently pushed him onto his back and insisted on examining the slash for herself. She whispered "My poor darling," and gently brushed her lips above the line of stitches. As she extended her light kisses over his collarbone and up his neck, she threw a leg over his hip. At the moment her lips reached his mouth, she ground her pelvis against him, and impaled herself on his erection. As she pushed herself up on her arms, she sat back until bone touched bone, then smiled down at him through lidded eyes. God, she was magnificent. Her hair fell forward around her face and her breasts swayed in rhythm with her gentle rocking. The vision of her wantonly pleasing herself on his body, combined with the warmth and friction of her cunt engulfing him. She was gentle, but insistent and it seemed to take an eternity for release to bubble out of him. He could feel it starting in his toes and prickling up the backs of his legs. She drew it out of him slowly and all he could do was groan incoherently. For a few more minutes she strained against him until she shivered in pleasure and she expelled her breath in a huff. While her breath quieted, she pressed her mouth against the center of his chest and let his cock slip out as she raised her ass in the air, then she lay beside him with a satisfied sigh.
"Thank you," he said into her hair.
"Shhh. Be quiet now," she replied into his side.
"Really, that was..." he started, but she laid her hand on his mouth to silence him.
"You're as bad as Sarah," she complained.
Oh. He knew there was something he'd forgotten. "About Sarah..."
"Later," she growled, and pressed her hand harder against his lips. He nodded his agreement, but her regular breathing told him that she'd already drifted off to sleep. All right, they'd talk about it later.
Epilogue
Jules squinted at the piece of paper in his hand. The invitation had been for noon, but it was only after he'd gotten good and drunk that he felt he could face those women again. Now it was close to four in the afternoon, as it had taken him hours to screw up his courage. It had been nearly a month since he'd seen his English friends. A month since their trip to the Black Sea, a month since he realized that he had lost Fogg again, even though Fogg had assured him that Jule's place in his heart was still secure. Jules, after waiting for his appearance for three days, had not believed him. Phileas had come to him early in the morning on the third day, in his dressing gown and rubbing his wrist. They were already over France, and would make Paris by noon. "Ah. Verne," he'd said when he saw him. There wasn't anyone else in the salon at the time, so he got right to the point. "I wanted to assure you that..."
The cold look Jules turned on him stopped his speech. "I don't need your pity. I don't want your hand outs, not even of your own heart." Jules knew he sounded petulant, but he couldn't help it. He was tired of being the Foggs' charity case.
"I wasn't offering you my pity, or a hand out. I was only trying to say that there's no reason we couldn't continue as before, if it pleases you." He fixed a stare on Jules and waited for his response.
"And share him with his other lovers?" Jules had thought. "Hope that he has a moment to spare now and then?" He wanted something more than that, but what exactly, he couldn't say. Finally he answered, "I'll think about it."
Phileas had relaxed and smiled at him, "I wouldn't expect anything else", then left him alone with his thoughts. When they parted later, he formally shook his hand. Jules couldn't explain to himself why he was particularly angry with Fogg, but not Passepartout, or even angry with Sarah, rather than Rebecca. Sarah had even accepted his apology on the afternoon after their drunken opera. They had landed for some supplies in Rome, without a sign of Sarah, who they'd left the previous night to sleep in the salon, or the cousins. After they lifted off again, he'd found Sarah on the top deck, sitting in the sun and wearing those strange glasses.
"Oh!" she said, embarrassed. "You've caught me."
He had peered at her. "Caught you? At what?"
"After last night I had to see it again." She noticed his puzzled expression and added, "The opera".
"You can watch it with those glasses?" This had really captured his interest.
"Would you like to see?" she asked, his vigorous nodding removing any doubt. She fished out a different set of glasses from a brown case lying beside her.
While she changed the headset, Jules began his apology. "I'm really sorry for what I said last night..."
She cut him off. "Apology accepted." He looked down in shame, and she added, "Our situations aren't so different, you know".
"How so?"
"I'm also wondering if my sweetheart's been stolen away." She gave him a wry smile and slipped the glasses on his face. These were solid silver, unlike the ones she had worn, but very light. "This is a standard display set. If you had a neural implant, you could have maximum clarity and sound, but I think that you'll find this sufficient." He gasped as rooftops and streets swam into view. He could hear a church bell. "The production is from before I was born, but I'm told that it's one of the best." He felt as if he were traveling up a street, then inside a darkened house. Music began, and he gasped again.
He reached blindly for her, and said "Thank you".
He felt her grip on his hand, then was surprised to feel her lips on his mouth. "You're welcome," she replied, then was gone. If he hadn't been fascinated by the image of the pale courtesan leaning disconsolately on her furniture, he might have had the presence of mind to respond.
Jules didn't have any obstacles when it came to seeing Rebecca and Sarah again, except for the ones in his own heart. The hotel concierge had examined his invitation and allowed him to pass. All Jules had to do now was knock on the door. He lifted his hand, but froze when he heard drunken singing in English.
"Roxanne...You don't have to wear that dress tonight. Walk the streets for money. You don't care if it's wrong or if it's right...Roxanne...You don't have to put on the red dress..." He could hear a violin, and Rebecca's laughter. He swallowed hard, and knocked.
There was a scuffling noise, then Rebecca opened the door. She was wearing a dressing gown, and had a white substance on the end of her nose. "Jules! We thought you weren't coming." She grabbed his hand and pulled him in. He scanned the room and took in the table with the remains of lunch, the wine bucket and bottle. Then he spied the gown that Rebecca had worn on their journey to Richelieu's Paris - the red dress - hanging on the wardrobe door.
"Indeed," added Sarah as she came from behind the table to greet him. Her dressing gown reminded him of a Japanese kimono, especially the way she had tied the sash. "We were beginning to think that you weren't in Paris after all." She reached over and wiped the end of Rebecca's nose, then licked the spot off the tip of her finger. "Come sit down. Take off your coat. It's awfully warm." They pressed him into a chair, after Rebecca tugged his coat off of his shoulders. He was too drunk to object
"We have strawberries and whipped cream," Rebecca whispered in his ear, "Though I'm afraid that we've eaten all the meat". The women sat with him at the small table with their feet - their bare feet he realized, touching his. They smiled and waited for his response.
"Well," he started, "I wasn't sure that I should come, but I have some news". He paused. "I'm getting married."
"Really?" Sarah's face lit up, while Rebecca's mouth opened into a perfect 'o'.
"Who?" asked Rebecca after she regained her composure.
"A rich widow in Amiens?" asked Sarah.
"Yes," admitted Jules, "A rich...Hey! You knew!" He glared at Sarah.
Sarah smiled. "I only guessed. The Jules Verne I learned about was already married with a child and a mistress by 1862." She raised an eyebrow at Rebecca as she said 'mistress'.
"But why now?" asked Rebecca. "Who is this rich widow?"
Jules reached for a strawberry and replied, "Well, she's not so much rich. I met her last month at a wedding in Amiens." He gestured with the strawberry. "Her brother thinks that he can get me set up with a brokerage, maybe in Paris."
"Do you love her?" Rebecca pressed.
"It's time I settled down. I've passed my exams, and my father is pressuring me to return to Nantes and go into business with him. I can't play forever in the theater."
"But do you love her?" Rebecca asked again.
"She's very pretty, she adores me, and I'm tired of being alone." He looked down, ashamed to admit his loneliness.
"There are worse reasons for getting married, though many better ones, too." Sarah laid a hand on top of one of his. "You could wait, make your fortune with the brother..."
"I don't want to wait. I'm tired of waiting. Sometimes I feel as if all I do is wait." The alcohol in his blood made it easy to give in to self-pity. "You don't know what it's like. You have someone." The women exchanged a confused look. It wasn't as if Society sanctioned their friendship. "Besides, I didn't come here to discuss the worthiness of my suit. I came to ask for your advice."
Sarah picked up another strawberry, dipped it into the whipped cream and offered it to him. "How can we help?"
He took the strawberry and a breath. This was harder than he expected. The women leaned forward, questioningly and waited. "Well, she's a widow...she has more...experience...than I do, and I'm afraid that I'll..." He was so mortified that he had to shut his eyes against their faces to finish. "I'm afraid that I'll disappoint her...in bed, so I was hoping that maybe, you could give me some advice...about how to...make love to a woman." He risked opening one eye to gauge their reaction. Sarah held a hand over her eyes, quietly laughing. Rebecca stared at him with a bemused smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
Sarah stood and reached for the wine bottle. "I need a drink. Several strong ones would be good." She began to pace as she sipped at her glass.
He pled with Rebecca, "Please. I thought about going to a brothel, but I lost my nerve, and the things to make a wife happy they don't teach you there..."
Rebecca giggled. She couldn't look at him, especially when he made eyes like a lonely puppy. She looked to Sarah. "Mixie? What do you think?"
Sarah swallowed another gulp of wine. "Well Vixie, I think it's just too much to ask, especially since..."
Jules was confused for a moment, then realized that the women had pet names for each other. How very English...
Rebecca stood up and moved behind Jules. She grasped his shoulders, while continuing to address her friend. "You might as well tell him, Sarah."
"Tell me what?" Jules was intrigued.
Sarah stopped, looked up to Rebecca, then lower to meet his eyes. "Monsieur Verne." She took a breath, let it out. "My mother believed that you should use literature to teach language, and not just exercises in a lesson book." Rebecca encouraged her to continue with a nod. "What she used to teach me French...was your books." She straightened, and said with great formality. "Monsieur, I have been your devoted follower since age six. Asking me to provide you with advice on...carnal matters is...well it's like asking me to talk dirty to Mother Goose."
Jules was stunned. She'd said literature...she'd said books...she made it sound as if she regarded him as a great man...
Rebecca leaned forward and pressed her face beside his while looking at Sarah. "Think of it this way: You get a crack at one of the 'giants of literature' before he's famous." Sarah's eyes snapped back to Rebecca's face, and she smiled as she considered her words.
Jules stared up at the ceiling, gasping for breath. That was amazing, though he supposed that the end result wasn't too much different from what he'd experienced with men. He remembered Passepartout drawing circles in the air in front of his chest. Yes, the breasts. That was an important difference. He compared the memory of the drunken fucking he and Passepartout had indulged on the trip back. They'd left Sarah snoring in the salon. He and Passepartout had left a pile of clothes beside the narrow bed in the lab. Passepartout could not climb into bed without Jules' help, and just lay on his back giggling when he finally hit the mattress. Jules had found a bottle of oil and dribbled it over his friend's groin. He meant to dribble, but his hand wasn't steady and he soaked them both. This made Passepartout laugh harder. Jules climbed on top and put his mouth over Passepartout's to silence him, but the oil made everything very slippery and they slid against each other. The friction was maddening. Somehow Passepartout had lifted a leg so that Jules was thrusting lower until he finally slipped into his anus. He begged Jules "Harder!" and Jules was willing. That orgasm had been very satisfying, but somehow not quite the same as having Rebecca writhing under him.
The breasts...He tried to recall where they had begun, the better to inscribe it on his memory. Sarah had been persuaded to join them at the table. "Sex isn't just body parts," she said. She tapped her head. "The most important things happen between the ears, not between the legs."
Rebecca had laughed and Sarah replied "What? It's a very old saying." Sarah stuck her tongue out and continued. "For women there's a lot of risk involved, too. Pregnancy, disease, loss of social standing, and simple pain."
"Pain?" asked Jules. It never occurred to him that sex could hurt. Well, maybe taking it in the ass wasn't always painless for a man, but surely female anatomy had been designed to fit?
"Sometimes it can hurt a lot, especially when a woman is not prepared. If you don't want your wife to associate you with pain, you must make sure that she is prepared."
"How do I do that?" He wanted details, and right away.
"You start at the beginning. Let her know that she will be safe with you, that you'll protect her."
"Protect?" This was more complicated that Jules had expected. It wasn't as if the League of Darkness...but then again, maybe they would.
"It's an ancient instinct. It's not worth lying with a man if he's not going to help protect the children he gives you." Jules continued to look skeptical.
"When do we get to the love making?" he asked. He had a hard time understanding what this had to do with The Act.
"Here's an old joke: How do you impress a woman?" Jules shrugged. Sarah answered, "Bring her presents, shower her with affection, write her poetry and perform courageous deeds. How do you impress a man?" Jules shook his head. "Bring alcohol and show up naked." Both Rebecca and Jules burst out laughing. Sarah waited a few moments. "Once you've started to expect pleasure from your mate, you don't need as much reassurance. Later on a simple smile can be enough to bring arousal." She leaned back, slowly looked him up and down and smiled. He felt suddenly warmer, and understood her point. She sat upright again. "Now. A quick way to assure her of all these things: feed her."
"You mean take her to dinner?" He was hoping that she would be cooking for him.
"No, I mean feed her." Sarah pushed the bowl of strawberries towards him. "I want you to feed Rebecca." She placed the bowl of cream nearby. "She likes whipped cream too, by the way." Rebecca looked at him, expectantly.
"You can't be serious," Jules said.
"Less talking and more feeding if you please," Rebecca told him. She pointed at her mouth. He shook his head as if to say, "I can't believe I'm doing this", dipped the strawberry in the cream and held it out for Rebecca.
"No," Sarah corrected, "Put it in her mouth". Rebecca opened her mouth, and he slipped the berry in. Her lips closed over his fingers as she sucked at the juice. His eyes widened in sudden comprehension and he feed her another, only more slowly. "Wouldn't you like a little wine too, Rebecca?" Sarah asked, and Rebecca nodded, her gaze never leaving Jules' face. He held the glass up for her to drink, and tilted back against her lips. He was mesmerized watching her swallow.
"I didn't know that food could be so sensual," he admitted.
"Now you do." He looked up to notice that Sarah had sunk her teeth into her thumb. She was aroused watching them.
"I think that Sarah would like a strawberry too," Rebecca whispered to him. He nodded and leaned across the table to offer her a cream covered berry. Sarah leaned in to meet him and he placed the strawberry between her lips. He got a spot of cream on her lip, but he brought up his hand to wipe it away, she kissed his knuckles. He sat back and grinned at her.
"Lesson two," Sarah continued. "Eye contact." She held his gaze for a long moment, then quickly looked away and smiled. She looked back, and his heart skipped a beat. "The Courtship Gaze is completely instinctive in humans. Every race, every nationality practices it. It has three parts: the first contact look, the breakaway and the look back." She looked at the floor, then back at him. He felt that tightness in his chest again. "Now you try it," she said, gesturing towards Rebecca. It was easy for him to look at her face, harder to break away. When he looked back, she smiled and shyly looked down. It worked!
"Lesson three - harmony." Sarah arranged her body to perfectly mimic Jules'. "When couples are in the mating dance, their movements become synchronized." Jules nodded and touched the side of his head, and so did Sarah. "Watch her. Echo her movements." Jules turned his head towards Rebecca. She smiled and folded her hands on the table, so did he. She shifted in her chair, so did he. They laughed at the same moment, too. "Gaze into her eyes, follow her movements, feed her the wedding supper and she'll be eager for the wedding guests to leave." Jules nodded, but his eyes didn't leave Rebecca's. Rebecca nodded. She was already eager for him, but probably not for the same reasons his future bride might be.
"Now when you finally get her alone, you have to get her undressed."
"Obviously." This was the part to which he was looking forward.
"Perhaps I shouldn't tell you this..." Sarah leaned forward conspiratorially "but Prince Albert helped Queen Victoria with her stockings after their wedding night."
"Sarah!" Rebecca complained. "I don't think..."
"It's in her diary," Sarah told her.
"That might be history for you, but she's my godmother!" Rebecca barely suppressed a shudder.
"My point is that even Queens like to be helped with their clothes." Sarah wrinkled her nose at Rebecca, who rolled her eyes in response. "Really Rebecca, their romance is as famous and Napoleon and Josephine." Rebecca turned her attention back to Jules and pointedly ignored Sarah. "Start with the shoes and stockings," advised Sarah. Jules pulled out his chair and reached for Rebecca's shoes, but she was already barefoot. She tugged her dressing gown up a fraction to reveal a bare ankle. He knelt, brought her foot up and kissed the top, near the ankle. "And sometimes you don't have to tell them anything," Sarah said, mostly to herself.
He stood, took her in his arms and brushed the hair back from her face. He gazed into her eyes for a moment, and when she nodded, he kissed her. When he wrapped his arms around her, he could feel her stiff undergarments. He stepped back just enough to unknot her sash, then let the dressing gown slip off her shoulders. She was wearing a chemise with a corset laced over it. "Now would be a good time to praise her beauty," Sarah prompted in a whisper. Jules was so entranced by her long neck and the curve of her shoulders that he had forgotten to speak.
"You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen," Jules huskily whispered.
"Be specific," Sarah advised.
"Your neck is so slender," he said as he stroked it with his fingertips. "Your skin is softer than velvet...your hair is a smooth as satin." He stopped and smelled her hair. Her scent was intoxicating. "Your eyes...sparkle like the sea." He kissed her again, gripping her shoulders. She melted against him. He brushed his hand against her corset. "This is going to have to come off."
She nodded and said "Yesssss." She wanted to feel his hands on her.
He stepped around behind and she pulled her hair forward over one shoulder. He had seen her in a corset before and he had a vague idea of what he needed to do. With a little patience, he unknotted and unlaced it. Rebecca sighed with relief. He started to pull at her chemise, and Sarah cleared her throat. "You need to remove a few clothes yourself. It's hardly fair to her..." He motioned for Rebecca to take a seat. He stood in front of her, pulled off his tie, and unbuttoned his waistcoat and shirt. He kicked off his shoes and peeled off his socks, standing on one foot at a time. Rebecca giggled as she watched him hop. He pulled down his trousers and stood grinning in his drawers, which tented over his erection.
Rebecca chewed on her pinky and admired him. "You know, I think that Sarah is the one wearing too many clothes now." She smiled wickedly.
Sarah got out of the chair and went to stand in front of the bed. "After you, Vixie." Rebecca moved to stand beside her. They both smiled at Jules. "On the count of three?" asked Sarah.
"One."
"Two."
"Three." They let the last shred of their clothing drop. Sarah hadn't been wearing anything at all under her silk robe. They sat back on the bed and gestured for him to join them. He launched himself at the bed and landed between the two women with a whoop of joy. He first turned his attention to Rebecca, but as he kissed her he could feel Sarah tugging at his drawers. "You forgot something," she whispered in his ear. He lifted his hips just long enough to let her slide them off. He started to climb on top of Rebecca, but froze when he felt a pinch.
"Ow! What? Why?" Jules was confused. Surely now...
"Do you want your wife to hope you come to bed early every night?" Sarah demanded.
"Well, naturally." Jules didn't understand the slow down. He was ready, and Rebecca seemed willing.
"For all you know, she could be a shy and modest woman who would be mortified to have the light on. In that case, you will need to arouse her by touch." Sarah pulled him onto his side and snuggled up against his back, then threaded her arm under his and directed his hand. Her breasts against his back were a surprising distraction. "There are several places on a woman's body that are sensitive to sexual arousal." She placed his fingers on Rebecca's neck. "Here, from the ear to the shoulder, then down the back of the arm. The palms are sensitive, too." Her breath tickled his ear. She pulled her hand back to rest on his hip. "The joints are sensitive as well. The inside of the elbow, the back of the knee..." He nodded at her inventory. "Down the spine and around the waist..." She raked her fingernails down his spine and he shivered in pleasure. She leaned against him again and continued to whisper her lecture. "Of course the breasts and nipples are especially sensitive in nearly all women, though only about a third of men feel anything." Oh, perhaps that explained the reaction he got when he touched Passepartout's little nubs. She had grasped his hand again and placed it on Rebecca's breast. "Feel her pulse? Rub your thumb over her nipple." He did and Rebecca moaned and squirmed against him.
"Please," she begged. "I can't hold out much longer."
"Try to pretend that you're a modest Catholic wife for a few minutes, dear." Rebecca snickered at the suggestion. "She says she's ready, but you'd better check to make sure," Sarah said.
"How?" Jules wondered. He could see the flush across her face, hear her breathing and feel her heart beating. What more could there be?
Sarah threaded her fingers between his and pulled his hand down to Rebecca's groin. "Rebecca, do us a favor and spread your legs for us?" Incredibly, she nodded and complied. "We're not going to make this a gynecological exam, but you should be aware of what's going on down here. Look..." She wrapped her hand around his index finger as she would a pencil and brushed the lips of her labia. Rebecca squirmed. "Two sets of lips, inner and outer. Be careful not to pull the hair when you penetrate. Feel the fluid?" He grunted. His own desire was so sharp now he didn't think that he could speak at all. "Make sure that there's plenty."
Suddenly finding his voice he asked, "What do I do if she's not wet enough?" He remembered the warning they had given him earlier about lack of preparation and pain.
Sarah held her hand up where he could see it and crooked a couple of fingers. "See the approximate curvature and the placement of the thumb? Slide your fingers in and feel around inside."
Jules swallowed. The mysteries of womankind were being revealed to him and he felt a sudden sense of awe. Rebecca groaned and arched her back as his fingers slipped inside her vagina. She squeezed her eyes shut as the rest of her face contorted in desire. "You'll have to ask the woman at this point...about her preferences. Feel along the roof? Tell us when he hits the..."
"Oh God! There!" Rebecca gasped.
"Now use your thumb to gently probe for a bump of flesh.."
"I found it. What is it?" He prodded at it and felt Rebecca jump.
"It's called the clitoris. In a male it would develop into a penis. Believe me, it's every bit as sensitive."
"Really?" Jules was fascinated. He prodded it again and felt a flow of fluid. "She seems even wetter."
"If somebody doesn't fuck me soon, I shall go mad," Rebecca declared.
Sarah giggled, but continued to whisper instructions. "Now use your penis to separate the lips and spread the fluid around."
Jules grasped his cock and rubbed it between Rebecca's lips before positioning his knees between her legs. At last he penetrated her depths. It was different than being inside a man. There seemed to be some kind of supporting structure, like rings. The stimulation as he passed through them was startling. He held himself up on his arms so that he could see her face and watch her breasts move in time with his strokes, but Rebecca pulled him down onto her after a few minutes. She seemed to enjoy feeling his weight. He was delighted to feel her breasts against his chest and didn't object. When Rebecca demanded "Harder!", he didn't object to following that request, either. He pumped as vigorously as he could until Rebecca groaned in his ear "I'm going to come". He thought he could feel a spasm close over his shaft, and a sudden surge of warmth. He let it carry him to his own orgasm, and only realized after it passed that she had been raking his back with her nails. He kissed her, then let his spent organ slip out before lying on his back between them.
"Hey!" he said as he contemplated the ceiling, "I'm not a virgin anymore." The women laughed.
He smiled as he recalled the details. It had worked out better than he could have imagined, though he had been imagining it for a long time. He wondered if he'd learned enough to keep a woman happy. He probably could use some more practice, and he hadn't tried his technique on that other woman yet...two women...in bed with him. He could feel himself growing hard again and smiled even wider. This could be a very long night.
Finis
Credit:
Misc vocab:
Historical Notes:
Misc. Notes:
Here's a little background. Some time ago, Mara Greengrass complained that no one had written any f/f slash as yet, as we did have a few female villains to spare at this point, so it was in the realm of possibility. She signed off on one of her posts as a "short, brown haired Jewish bisexual anthropologist", and I teased her that such a person would make an excellent match for Rebecca. This idea festered for a while until Sarah Greenberger-Garcia erupted. I wanted to throw in some nanotech to mess up the LoD, so I set it slightly in the future, then realized that a person at a certain age at a certain future year should be born in 1991 (June 10, 1991 by my astrological manipulation). I looked to the children I know now, and realized that a Millennial Generation person was going to be extraordinary, regardless of what anthropology degrees I threw on her. I live in the Washington, DC area, which is filled with ambitious people with great aspirations for their children. These kids listened to Mozart in utereo, took Suzuki violin lessons beginning at age 3, and take gymnastics and karate. Their lives are highly structured. Did I mention that they grew up on Barney? They're thrifty, clean and reverent to their elders. In general, they do not have the angst that has infected Gen X. They will be the next Great Generation, and I hope they can pull our fat out of the fire when It-All-Goes-to Hell-in-a-Handbasket. (Of course, I could be wrong.) Being Fortune's Children makes them optimistic (can you tell that I did some research?). A good article for background information is "The New Ruling Class" by David Brooks published in April 2001 of Atlantic Monthly. Miss Sarah, age 19, is on the cover, if you ever wondered what she looks like. (Carlos Garcia looks like Antonio Banderas in a Park Ranger uniform.) [Okay - that was a shameless plug for "The Spanish Inquisition", which may never get written, so just put that last image out of your mind.]
Along the way, many elements from SAJV fandom got mixed in. Please accept it as homage if you recognize your particular pairing PF/PPT, PF/JV or PF/RF [why *does PF get to sleep with everyone?]. Sometimes a fellow fan will directly ask for "More PPT" or mention how they would like to see the boyz in the cast in pirate gear (which produced a very silly and completely smutty orgy). You may even see your AutoSignature quoted. There is something for everyone of any sexual preference here - gay, lesbian, bisexual, hetero. The main purpose of the story has been to titillate other fans (we *know* we'll never see our gang do anything like this on TV). The result has been an overeducated 'Mary Sue' (a fan fiction term you may easily research online) who, with very little persuasion, will lift her skirt for nearly anyone. (I'm sure that happily married, completely monogamous Mara Greengrass has much better taste than that.) If you're having fun reading it and maybe your heart races a little, my job has been done.
A special thanks to my Beta readers, who have been used most wickedly.
Part XIV | Part XV