Gentle Readers: The following chapter puts at least one foot over the somewhat fuzzy line into M territory. I am, however, hesitant to up the overall rating for a host of reasons. That said, the following material contains adult themes. If you are too young, too old, or feel that I haven't allowed John enough privacy while he grapples with these psychological and physiological issues, please turn back now.
Chapter 34
John didn't hear the door open, but the thunder was loud and he was engaged in his reading. He looked up as his candle blew out, and she was at the foot of the bed. She was beautiful, illuminated by lightning in her white nightgown. John could almost imagine it sopping wet, clinging to her, revealing all her intriguing curves and crevices. As he opened his mouth to speak she put her fingers to her lips and shook her head. Silence was better. They didn't need words. As Anna slowly pulled the nightgown over her head, John let his book fall to the floor. Affirming as Shelley was, he could wait.
Anna climbed atop him and slowly ran her hands down his body. Her kisses were so slow, so deep, he ached. In that moment John could almost believe in God. Or at least embrace Shelley's pantheistic vision. John settled his hands on her hips, letting one trail up and down the curve of her spine. She arched her back slightly, and groaned at his light touch. John took the opportunity to let a hand wander to the flat expanse between her breasts. He was right; they were perfectly fitted to his hands. As John began to explore them, she slipped away from him. Like a mermaid. Like a nymph. Like a faery. She hadn't slipped away; she'd slid lower. That naughty girl. Her nimble fingers, her delicate but large mouth were exploring, tickling, teasing lower. John wondered if he had died and through some miracle had attained paradise. He wasn't sure what to do with his hands. As she took him in her mouth, he had a moment of clarity. He would be in no shape to reciprocate later, and he couldn't have that. It wouldn't be right. He pulled her up and turned her so they could taste each other at the same time.
And then…John sat up with a start. She was gone. She wasn't gone; she had never been there. Even knowing this, he reached for her. She should be there, resting, naked, on her side of the bed, under the blanket because the breeze from the open window and the exertion would make her suddenly cold. Shivering. Damp with a sheen of sweat. She would need to press against him to keep warm. John would be hot and uncovered. They wouldn't need to talk, but if they did, a whisper would be too loud. They could kiss, mingling their scents and tastes, share a pillow, as they drifted into a deep and blissful sleep. All things by a law divine with another's being mingle.1
John groaned. The dreams were becoming more frequent, and more and more provocative. His shorts were askew and damp. The sheet was damp and starting to crust. He was so glad he didn't have to share a room. That would be intolerable. He'd leave his window open so the odor would dissipate. He would do at least part of his washing this week so as not to embarrass the laundress. She'd likely encountered worse, but a certain amount of dignity was at stake. This hadn't happened to him with such regularity since he was a boy. He hadn't had to remove a stain in some time; a little practice never hurt.
John got out of bed and limped to the window. Dawn was just appearing on the horizon. It had that bright wet grey look that followed a summer storm. He leaned out the window and took a deep breath. It smelled promising. The dreams were becoming more and more frequent. They had stopped for a while, about this time the previous year, when Anna had ceased to be a faery. In recent weeks the dream Anna had reappeared with all her most fey qualities intact. The true Anna had become more provocative as well. John wondered if it was the knowledge that they both wanted more, that more could be possible. Or that more might never be possible. Anna had mentioned alternatives. John wondered what she had meant by that. Alternatives. She understood they might never be lovers. John would never put Anna at risk in that way. Some societal rules needed to be obeyed, even if it meant thwarting nature. The world was a cruel place, especially for women. But alternatives. What he had just dreamt was an intriguing alternative. He wondered if he could possibly suggest it. Anna would understand. He thought she would understand. He couldn't suggest it. There was no good way to introduce the topic. It was something that had to come of the moment. He sighed and arched his back. It was stiff. The trouble with the moment was one thing tended to lead to another.
John put on his dressing gown and gathered his towel and soap and razor. He had time for a proper bath before everyone else was up. The warm water felt wonderful on his stiff back and leg. The trouble with one thing leading to another was that it was difficult to stop. As he had said to Anna in the spring, he was at risk of not stopping, but there came a point when it was necessary. John found it increasingly difficult to reach find that point when they were secluded, in the small hours of the day, in their temple, open to the sky. Several times since their discussion about Vera things had become so heated John wasn't sure he cared if they stopped, so lost he became. Their explorations of each other had taken a turn. Sometimes it seemed almost desperate, as if with Vera's threat to their happiness they needed to bond as closely as possible. On these warm evenings, John had been pleased to learn that Anna liked to unbutton the front of her dress and let it slide off her shoulders as a means to stay cool. It had been natural to run his hands along the white skin, encouraging the dress to slide further down, exposing her arms. From there it had been only natural for Anna to remove her arms from the sleeves.
John closed his eyes and leaned his head against the back of the tub. He remembered the first time he unhooked the front of her corset. It looked so uncomfortable. She had sighed and closed her eyes and leaned back while he slowly worked it open and off. Once she was unconstrained John ran his hands along her sides, her back, smoothing and loosening. As he trailed his fingers, and then his lips, from her jaw to the hollow at the base of her neck she inhaled deeply, groaned softly. John had held his breath as he slipped his hand between her camisole and her skin. They were both silky and pure white. white. Her breasts were small and firm and wonderfully responsive. She leaned her head on his shoulder so she could kiss him while he explored. John slid a hand up her leg, circling at the back of her knee, unfastening her garters and sliding down her stockings. Usually at about that point Anna would remove his hand and focus all her energies on him, usually by climbing astride his lap. Once he allowed himself to pass her knee, gently up her inner thigh, and as he watched the sensations play across Anna's face he thought he saw something that resembled fear. It had concerned him, but in the same moment he became distracted and refocused.
The water had gone clammy. John raised himself from the tub, dried, and commenced shaving. The glimpse of fear had concerned him. Anna had so successfully distracted him, he hadn't thought at the time to tell her he knew when to stop, that he'd stop whenever or wherever she needed him to. The trouble was stopping was becoming increasingly difficult. John nicked himself. That troubled him. He didn't like the feeling that he might lose control. He needed to maintain control. Of himself. He was happy to let Anna control their activity.
John was the first at breakfast. Anna was the last. She was still pinning her cap when she entered. Her arms over her head, her chest raised. She smiled and called him Mr. Bates in that soft, lilting way. Daisy stopped her with a question. Anna turned to answer. Daisy dropped something. Anna bent to pick it up. Her hand went to the knot of her apron, making sure it was tight. John loved the way the apron drew attention to her narrow waist. He wished the hall were empty. He would sneak up behind her and press himself against her back and put his arms around her waist and feel the curve of her back pressed against him. He wished, for his sake, Anna would stand upright again. This was too much. Mr. Branson was saying something. He knew he was starring.
Somehow John made it through the morning. Anna was very busy as another maid had given notice, preferring to work in a factory. John only saw Anna once, when she had to rush around him on the stairs. She was late to luncheon and left the table quickly in response to Lady Mary's bell.
John was glad Anna was busy. He had an errand in the village on behalf of Lord Grantham. Lord Grantham required a new type of ointment for his piles, which had been especially troublesome of late. While Anna was as discreet as he was, it was the sort of mission he'd rather undertake alone. He hoped the walk would do him some good. He needed to get rid of this energy, this tension. John longed for the days when both of his legs functioned properly. A good brisk run would do him a world of good. Chopping wood could be helpful, but he'd need to be able to stand firmly on both legs. John was very good at lifting heavy objects, or had been, and the way he'd kept up with his arm strength he still should be, but again, he would need both legs firmly on the ground to lift and move without injury. He passed the river. Maybe he could take up rowing. As it was he went by the long path.
The remainder of the day passed in much the same manner. The walk didn't help much. If anything the fresh air and birdsong and mild exertion increased his desire, his lust, his torment. The carefree sounds of the birds, the wind in the trees, the gentle waves in the river reminded John that he was alive. His reading the previous evening had glorified the connectedness of life and nature and the importance of acting as nature dictated. It was not possible for him to act as nature dictated. The fountains mingle with the rivers and the rivers with the oceans. Why not him with Anna? What if he allowed himself to forget the consequences. Plenty of people never felt any repercussions. This was a dangerous path. John prided himself on his ability to control his desires and his actions. It was willpower that kept him from drinking. It would take greater willpower to keep him from succumbing to his desire for Anna.
After he had finished with Lord Grantham for the evening, John walked to what he now thought of as their folly. He wasn't sure if Anna would join him or not. He hoped she would. Their long evenings were not usually planned. They tried to always have a few minutes together every evening, but she respected his need to sometimes be alone as much as he respected hers to sometimes go to bed before two in the morning. Some nights she was waiting for him, others he for her. Some nights when she was particularly exhausted John sent her to bed after a relatively chaste kiss in the courtyard. He had learned that while Anna could function quite well on little sleep, too many late nights in a row tended to make her peevish.
He hoped she wouldn't. John wasn't sure he trusted himself. He loosened his tie. He did trust himself; that was part of the problem. He removed his tie and collar. He trusted himself to behave appropriately. The jacket was next. He trusted himself to do whatever Anna wanted. Then the cufflinks. He trusted himself to get to a certain point, and stop. He rolled up his sleeves. He trusted himself to be frustrated, as that certain point moved as with the increasing intensity of each encounter increased. Were the buttons on his waistcoat getting tight? He hoped not.
The night was humid. It was going to storm again. John felt refreshed as a light breeze passed. He ran a hand through his hair, loosening it. He suspected Anna felt as frustrated and as interested as he did. Sharing it made it worse. If it were just him, he could handle it, but knowing she was just as disappointed when they stopped, knowing she knew they had to stop made it worse. He was disappointing her. A blanket was sitting on the bench in the room in the folly. Anna must have snuck it away from the stack to be sent to the hospital. John smiled. Maybe he should talk to her about this. Maybe it would be better to stop. He couldn't stop. Alternatives. He couldn't possibly suggest that there were other places they might kiss each other. Maybe it would occur to her. John leaned in the door of the little room. He wondered if Anna understood how something that could start so slowly, so gently, could turn so strong and violent. With Vera, it has almost always been an act of violence, an overflow from some sort of altercation, born of power and a need to dominate each other. Nothing about Anna could inspire violence or domination. With Anna, it would be born of love, of equality. And in all likelihood he would never have the chance to know.
A twig snapped, breaking the stillness. John turned towards the sound. Anna was smiling. John felt his face slowly transform to match hers. It almost always happened when she was near; he wondered if anyone had ever noticed. She wasn't wearing her apron and cap. She had loosened her hair, though it was still pinned close to her head. The top buttons of her dress were unfastened, and as she approached she was unbuttoning her sleeves. John found these small movements mesmerizing. The way her elbow bent, the way her wrist turned so she could reach the buttons, the way her nimble fingers gracefully opened the buttons. As much as John treasured the idea of someday uncovering Anna for himself, he was concerned his large thick fingers would never manage the tiny buttons.
John dropped his cane and fell against the column of the temple as Anna wrapped her arms about his neck to kiss him. She was on her toes, he was leaning precariously. He preferred to not kiss her too vigorously from this angle, but she didn't seem interested in moving, so John settled as much of his weight against the column as he could and lifted her against him. They were both grinning when they parted.
"I've wanted to do that all day."
"I know." Anna pulled his hand, leading him into the room.
"You did, did you?" John stumbled and caught himself. He was almost nervous. Her eyes had never had quite this glint before. He was excited. He was intrigued by the possibilities they suggested. "May I ask how you knew?" She was pushing him back, urging him to sit on the low backless bench. She raised an eyebrow and twitched the corner of her mouth. He loved her. He could not do without her. "And did you steal this blanket from the pile destined for the hospital? I'm shocked, you naughty girl." He grinned.
"I thought we needed it as much as the patients. They'll never know." She was lowering herself astride his legs. John had a fleeting thought that this might be dangerous. Anna was smiling. "You've seemed distracted all day." She was pushing his braces off his shoulders. "I thought I could help you to relax." She started unbuttoning his shirt. He put his hands on her hips, his lips to that soft sensitive spot behind her ear. Her hair was wispy there. Anna gasped and pulled away long enough to push his shirt from his shoulders. She ran her hands lightly over the muscles at the top of his arms. John closed his eyes and tilted his head to the left. Her nimble fingers started kneading the back of his neck, working the tight muscles. John felt like he was floating. Blissful. Peaceful. Her hands moved to his shoulders. He groaned. Her deft fingers hit and loosened the knots perfectly. This felt entirely too good. He opened his eyes. Her bosom was at the perfect angle for his mouth.
John loosened his grip on her waist and slid his hands up Anna's torso, stopping just under the swell of her breasts. Anna secured herself against him with her legs, pulling at her skirt so she could settle closer. This could be very dangerous. John unfastened the remainder of the buttons and slid his hands into the opening, running them back and forth over the soft fabric of her underthings. It was Anna's turn to lean her head back and groan. John pushed the hideous dark dress from her shoulders, exposing her milky arms. She gripped his shoulders as he ran his fingers to her the bend in her arm and back. John smiled as when she caught her breath as he began to unhook her corset. He was amazed by how silent the night was. No sounds but theirs. John watched her face closely as he made her breasts change under by his touch under the silky fabric. He didn't need to stop yet. She'd let him know when to stop. He untied the little bow that secured the top of the camisole and opened the buttons. A wide strap slipped off her shoulder as Anna tightened her grip with her hands and legs and leaned into him. She stretched up, arching so his mouth could perfectly find a nipple. This could become very dangerous, but not yet.
John kept an arm securely around her while the other hand was at her breast. They were perfect. Beautiful. Elegant. Excitable. He could do this all night. Anna seemed to agree. She'd gone a little limp in his arms, her eyes half-closed and unfocused. John wondered if he dared shift her skirt. It was really in the way. He moved a hand to where it was bunched and reached under. She wasn't wearing any stockings. Their eyes met as he discovered this. What else wasn't she wearing? He slid up to her inner thigh before she shifted. She was stopping him. She was standing up. He'd gone too far.
"This is in the way." He hadn't gone too far. She pushed the dress over her hips and stepped out of it. "That's better." She was bathed in moonlight. The ugly black dress in a heap on the floor of the temple, Anna in her petticoat and open camisole shining in the darkness. It was much better. She was transformed. John wondered what deity the temple was supposed to honor. Diana perhaps.
John wanted to say something. That she was beautiful. He loved her. He'd give her whatever she wanted. Instead he reached for her. His hand on her cheek, his thumb across her lips. She took his thumb between her lips, her teeth, her tongue flicked the length of it. John felt his eyes roll back. She moved his hand and did the same with each finger in turn. This was perfectly safe. She ran her hands along his bare arms while she used her tongue on his fingers. This was very dangerous. She was pushing him down. She was pulling off his undershirt. His hands found her breasts. She sighed. He smiled. Her mouth found his neck. He was on his back. She was on top of him. She was kissing him. Deeply. Her hands were in his hair. She was kissing a trail from his neck down his chest, down his stomach, to his waist. She was running her hands over his trousers. She raised an eyebrow and twitched a quick smile crossed her lips. Her hands worked fast at the waistband, they worked gently inside. She knew exactly what she was doing. That naughty girl. A breast peaked out of her top. John caressed it as she reached into his trousers, into his shorts, pushing them away from his hips. She was really very strong.
John discovered, as Anna resettled herself astride him, closer, that she wasn't wearing much under her petticoat at all. He heard something like a growl escape one of them, but he wasn't sure whose it was. Part of his mind realized just how dangerous this was. Part of it didn't care. She was almost as close as possible. The way she was rocking against him. All he needed to do was move a little, push a little. All she needed to do was move a little, over a little. There were so many places he wanted to put his hands, his mouth. Her throat. The way her neck was tilted back. The way her arms were wrapped around him. The way she was starting to breathe. The way her legs were splayed against and around his waist. The way her dainty breasts bounced. The smell of her sweat. The night had no other sounds or smells or sights. It was like floating in the darkness. Perfectly alone together. Her hair was starting to fall. John loved the feel of it, but he liked it back, out of the way. He grabbed her tightly, and started to push. Anna made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan. It wasn't real.
And then something clicked. It was real. She wasn't stopping him. This was the true Anna, not some dream faery figure. She wasn't stopping him. He would have to stop. The consequences would be horrible. Not married. No prospects of being so. Ruined. Shamed. Shunned. She deserved better than adultery in an outbuilding. Bastard child. Bastard child that would be adored by its father, but resented by its mother. Bastard child paying for the carelessness of its parents. Bastard child that would drive them apart. John deserved better than adultery in an outbuilding. She wasn't stopping him. He'd have to stop. If they did this they'd do it again. And again. Until something bad happened. It would become about finding places, sneaking, hiding. No conversation. Just cheap debauchery. Her back was arched, her breasts peaking at him from under her camisole. If he leaned forward his mouth could catch them. Self control. And then it happened.
Or rather, it didn't happen. John was humiliated. Anna looked surprised. It was the sort of thing that happened to other men. Anna looked frustrated. Angry. It was the sort of the thing that happened to old men. Disappointed. John didn't know what to say. That was not how he had intended to stop. Anna had slid off and was rearranging her petticoat. Buttoning her top. She was next to him. Her eyes kept darting to him. John knew but he couldn't bear to look at her. He was looking down. It was so small and useless, so flat and lifeless. So shriveled and limp. So unexpected. So useless.
Anna cleared her throat. "That was unexpected."
1 Percy Bysshe Shelley, "Love's Philosophy"