Chapter 8

Laura didn't go back to her room after dinner. She couldn't sit still. Instead, she paced the halls of the mansion. She explored, looking for shortcuts and new paths to get around. She also kept her eye out for the girl with white hair. She didn't see her. In fact, she didn't see anyone. It's like the rest of the house lay in wait for the Muse Session or drew themselves towards Camille, caught in her gravity. They made sure everything was perfect for the session, and more importantly, that everything was ready for Camille to write when things were finished.

Laura changed her clothes as the time approached. She wasn't trying to attract Camille's attention. It wasn't about Laura. It was about Marcilla and Laura K. Everything else was an echo, an imitation of their dance. But it felt wrong to come dressed casually. What was going to happen tonight was sacred. It was sexual. It was power.

Miss Lancaster wasn't there to greet her tonight. Nikki was there, making sure things were tidy and ready. Laura looked for Grauman and Jacque, but only Jacque was there. He already had his shirt off, and he was holding the bowl of chocolate-covered strawberries sitting in a larger bowl of ice, keeping them chilled. Laura could hear Angelica talking to Camille in the bathroom.

Instead of a stool, there was a comfortable armchair waiting for Laura. Next to the armchair was a small table. There was the book. Laura wanted to take it, to grab the book and storm out of the room. She wanted to abandon the whole session and sit in her room with Marcilla's words, to imagine herself as Laura K, to be Marcilla's prize, her obsession. She wanted to be alone with Marcilla, not in the presence of Grauman and Jacque.

But she waited. Camille wanted her to read. She would read.

Angelica came out of the bathroom. Laura gasped when she saw her. The short blonde was in black lace panties and a gorgeous bra and nothing else. She seemed completely at ease in almost nothing with Laura, Camille, and Jacque to look at her.

"Camille says you can take a seat," said Angelica to Laura. Then, she got on her knees in front of the bed, right where Grauman had been the night before.

Laura sat in her spot and waited for Camille to come out.

Camille was a vision in a sleek black dress. It looked like she'd come from an upscale cocktail party. Laura expected the robe again or for Camille to be naked. But Camille stood in front of the bed while Jacque unzipped her. She stepped out and turned to Laura.

"Are you feeling well enough for this?"

"Of course," breathed Laura.

Camille's skin caught all the light in the room. It was moonlight or what moonlight aspired to be. It was the white of a fang, and Camille's body cut through the darkness of the night.

"You may begin, but do not skip ahead. I believe "Proper" is next. And go slow. I want Angelica to work with your rhythm."

Laura looked at Angelica on her knees in front of Camille with an eager look on her face.

Oh.

"Read to me, Laura," commanded Camille.

Tingles rushed over Laura's skin. Yes, of course she would read. She opened the old book. She was delicate with the pages, knowing how old it was and how rare it was. She flipped past the "The Yawn" and arrived at "Proper."

Laura looked back up. Camille sat on the bed. Jacque took his position sitting next to her. He had the strawberries ready for her. Camille spread her legs, and Angelica moved in, placing herself above Camille's crotch. Angelica wanted to start, but Camille kept Angelica's mouth at a distance.

"Wait for Marcilla," whispered Camille. She looked up at Laura and nodded.

Laura looked down at the page and began:

Proper

The women drape themselves Over couches, each fanning, Each panting in heat. Stout servants bring chipped ice Rubbed over pudgy forearms Or behind short necks, Up hair, tightly bunned To fight the sweat I don't have.

Nor does Miss Karnstein. Her drowsy eyes amble out the window; The moor gives nothing back. No gossip like the hens about us, Clucking about Michelangelo, And the prospects of Mr. Prufrock. But Miss Karnstein isn't hungry For rumors.

That wasn't right. Marcilla couldn't have known about Prufrock. T.S. Eliot wouldn't write that poem for at least two or three centuries. The sounds of Angelica's licking lifted Laura's eyes off the page. Already, strawberry juice was running down Camille's chin. But tonight, Camille wasn't patient. She kept her hand in Angelica's hair and held Angelica's mouth against her pussy.

The room was filled with soft panting: Camille, Angelica, and Laura. They were all hungry. Hungry for Marcilla as Marcilla was hungry for them.

A maid passes chilled peaches

On delicate saucers with knives. The women gasp with delight, Each taking one dish and knife, But not my Laura, so not I. She takes the tender peach And buries her thick teeth Into the pale flesh.

Juice spills down her chin, But the women do not see. I see the drop I desire, The nectar down her neck, A neck never kissed with The long tongue of sunlight.

The peach. Laura's peach. The one in her dream. It was fuzzy before, but now it was clear. It was cool and running down her chin, over her hands. It was sticky. Everything was sticky. Was Camille watching? Did she know?

Did Marcilla know?

Laura pulled her hand away from her neck. How long was it there? She looked up. Jacque was gone. There was only Angelica and Camille now. Where did Jacque go? Angelica was naked. One hand had slipped into Angelica's pussy. She pumped way while Camille kept Angelica's mouth pinned to her pussy.

Laura wanted to slide a hand to her own pussy. She wanted to join them, but she wanted to know more. She wanted to know what happened to Laura K. Did Marcilla finally get her prize? Laura read on:

I am at once the peach

And the juice and the neck, Devoured and devouring each inch Of Laura Karnstein in the grey Noon light. Private In our impropriety As the drop mingles with her sweat, Drawing deep into her bosom, My eyes trailing and barred.

Already, Camille was moaning. Was she cumming? So soon?

"Fuck," hissed Camille. "Do it, Angelica. Do it. Eat it." Camille growled. Was she dreaming she was the peach? Was she Laura or Marcilla? Who was devouring whom? Laura read on. She wanted more. Camille wanted more. Angelica wanted more. They needed the words. The words running over their bodies. The words calling them deeper into themselves, into their lusts, into the places of wildest abandon.

Camille howled with pleasure as Laura read:

I sigh, the spell broken, And see once more the room return: The clinks of knives on dishes, The soft pale blue of Laura's eyes, On me, knowing, and unashamed.

Laura's eyes were blue too. And as the room sagged back into reality, as the supernatural pulse faded, she ached to feel the spell break over her. But tonight she felt no shame. No embarrassment as Angelica fingered herself to orgasm, sprawled out on the floor. No awkwardness as Camille pinched her nipples. No fear as she watched Camille's chest heave and fall with each needy breath. She was Laura, and Marcilla was watching over them all.

And as the room formerly known as debauchery faded to black, Laura only felt tomorrow's hunger burning inside of her.

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