Perdita's Education (closed at present)

[Guest]

NOTE: This story remains unfinished. Get aroused at your own peril.

OOC: "Perdita Carmina Wintertale" wrote privately to "Professor Stephen Hardwicke" hoping he would take her on in a directed study. Though uncertain of what she desired it had been impressed upon her by her fellow art students that no freshman girl could truly move ahead in the college without the particular instruction of "Hardwicke" (as the more experienced young women spoke of him, rather titteringling, among themselves).

Below are the beginnings of this correspondence cum special lessons, now to be posted regularly by <perdita> and <higherlevel4u>.

NOTE: This thread is limited to the above Lit.e members but others interested in taking part may make requests of either.

+ + + + +

WRITTEN BY PERDITA IN HER JOURNAL, BUT NOT SENT (see below for actual reply):

Dear Professor,

Thank you very much for your generous offer and prompt response. You cannot know how grateful I am, though I will work at showing you. I am not clear as to what you are asking but my female instinct, however naive, leads me to write the following.

I know I am on the cusp of the beginnings of womanhood, but my body confuses me, even frightens me, and there is no one in my life to explain the mysteries of it. For instance, already when I receive a notice that there is a new message from you my still young breasts begin to swell. Rather, they 'feel' as if they are swelling, as if something were filling them up (something warm). I was thinking, last time you wrote, that you and your attentions, made them feel like twin volcanoes. But, I could not carry the metaphor further as I know my two small mounds will not erupt, however much they may continue to physically grow in size. (They seemed to swell further when I read your signature, that you used the word "yours".)

Related to this is another feeling I get at the oddest of times, including this moment as I write. There seems to be some inner physiological connection between my breasts and the very center point between my legs. It is a mysterious apex to me. In my mind's eye I picture something like an electrical current which begins inside my nipples, right at the very rosy tips of them. (The charge actually makes my nipps hard and stiff, like tiny soldiers saluting. Isn't that a funny image? Perhaps they are saluting you! Ha ha.) The charges then travel down and somewhere deep inside my belly the two currents meet and flow down further straight to what feels like a tiny button between my legs. Could it be a different kind of nipple? Sir, you may laugh at my plain queries but I can only be direct here as I truly want to learn, however humiliating it may be.

Right now too, if I wiggle in my chair a certain way the feeling gets stronger and the charges simply shoot back and forth among those three points. Even if I don't actually wiggle about, something is happening down there, all on its own. Can you explain this to me?

Isn't it amazing? It seems something like the laws of nature to me; that is, I believe in them but I do not understand them. I cannot believe I am the first girl to feel this way but I have no women in my life but for my teachers who are all cold and formal; they spend most of their attention on the boys! My uncle’s lady friend is too old and long-widowed; I don’t think she even has breasts! Ha ha.

Headmaster is the only man who has paid me any attention but he makes me uncomfortable, and I can only perceive him as an officious superior. Once, though, he actually patted my breasts as if they were pillows he was arranging on a sofa. He laughed a bit wickedly and said I was quite a healthy girl, though still had a way to go in my maturity. He hardly knows, Sir.

Dear kind man, I hope I have not said anything to put you off our correspondence. I truly hope you can enlighten me about the time I am going through. If you care to ask me very particular questions perhaps I could better let you know the education I require and ask of you.

Gratefully yours, Perdita

+ + + + +

Hello Professor. I would like to be your student, however inexperienced you might judge me at present. I'm very literate and that's important to me in communications. I am a freshman art student at your college, rather talented I’m told but personally too naïve in the world. I have been sheltered all my life, orphaned at age twelve and raised in boarding schools until now. My life has been content enough but I am stifled by my ignorance. I have a kind and generous, but staid old uncle, for a guardian who puts me up with a widowed acquaintance during the summer months. Otherwise my only relations with him are through writing and a formal Christmas eve and day, much of it spent in church (He is unfortunately still a pre-Vatican II Roman Catholic) I have no special friends in school yet, though in most situations I try to fit in and act as if I’m one of the girls. No one treats me ill but my ‘friendships’ are all on the surface, all politeness and distance.

Dear Sir, if you would kindly tutor me however you think fit, for my academic program, I would show my gratitude however you will it.

I am your hopeful and humble student, if you will, what you will…

Miss Perdita C. Wintertale

+ + + + +

Hello Perdita. It would give me great pleasure for you to be my shy repressed student. I look forward to drawing you out of your shell . . ,

Yours expectantly,
Prof. Stephen Hardwicke

+ + + + +

My Dear Perdita

How remiss of me - I regret to tell you that I am semi-retired from teaching, but only in terms of performing in a public place. However, I now prefer to teach in a more intimate way, via one-to-one sessions such as we are partaking of at the present moment. If perchance you are interested in pursuing this method, I would appreciate it if you could send me another private message, detailing your personal interests and how you think a man of my experience can assist you in your education.

Yours,
Professor Stephen Hardwicke

+ + + + +

Dear Professor Hardwick:

Thank you very much for your offer; I accept. I want very much to be thoroughly exposed to art history so that I might obtain a more substantial reference base for my studies. I believe private tutoring might best ensure this.

Please let me know what steps to take, and again, I am

gratefully yours,

Perdita

 

[higherlevel4u]

My dear Perdita

Thank you kindly for replying to my earlier corresponcence so promptly. I would like to warmly welcome you into the bosom of my Art History Course. The purpose of my teaching is to introduce students to a historical examination of the early development of Western and related non-Western art concentrating on painting, sculpture and architecture.

Also I will endeavour to:

* Introduce the principles of visual communication, provide instruction in visual literacy, examine the function of art, the perception of art in our culture, the historical effect of religion, technology, and other developments on art, and improving image recall--valuable to all professions

* Examine new discoveries and theories

* Provide the foundation for students to continue his/her cultural education with exposure to university, community, state, national, and international events and resources

As you have chosen to register yourself with me for one-to-one sessions, can I ask you to attend an informal meeting with me in Room A501 this evening, where we can introduce ourselves and I can tell you a little more about what I am going to cover and what I expect in return from yourself.
I look forward to our first session this evening. Please don't be nervous, I have been teaching this way for a number of years very successfully, and most of the young ladies I have prepared for later life seem to have taken away many happy memories of our sessions together.

Until tonight

Prof. Stephen Hardwicke

 

[Guest]

Dear Professor Hardwicke:

I was delighted with your concise syllabus and am eager to be taken into the "bosom" of your special course. [In Journal draft: Please allow me to tell you that I believe you caused me to make a Freudian slip; I at first read ‘painting’ as ‘panting’. Ha ha.] I did a mental double-take and then read the full phrase. I do love all the visual arts and have already personal impressions of painting, sculpture and architecture to present to you. It will be exciting to learn their context from you in the realm of art history and the intimacy of your classroom.

Let me tell you that Venice, Italy is my favorite place on Earth and I am already well read on the great masterpieces to be seen there which include the three topics we will cover. I am anxious to hear you speak of Titian, Tintoretto and the Bellinis, among others. I daresay the impending knowledge will enhance my personal dreams and fantasies of La Serenissima. I have an interest too in the way theology can be read among the various styles of religious art.

Thank you too for your gentlemanly welcome and reassurance; I *am* nervous but will put myself thoroughly in your hands [Journal draft: metaphorically speaking of course]. I look forward to my own happy memories in later life, as you put it.

Going by the college time schedule I will be at the door of Room A501 promptly at 7:00 this evening. I hope that allows you time for supper, if not do let me know; I will always accommodate you.

Best, Perdita

 

[higherlevel4u]

First impressions . . .

I arrive at Room A501 early, as is my habit, and lay my books out on the large oak table that sits in front of the bay window. I stand for a moment, hands in pockets, staring out of the picture windows at the quadrangle below. Even at this time of night, there is a tremendous bustle of activity in and around the college. College staff hurrying between lectures, students anxious to be away back to their lodgings, maybe to prepare themselves for a bawdy night in one of the local taverns, it feels good to be part of this microcosm of human activity. A particularly attractive female freshman wanders by below, oblivious to my presence, talking animatedly to her friend, almost dancing as she walks and twirls around her companion, waving her arms, laughing and giggling in almost hysterical enjoyment of maybe . . . life itself.

My thoughts are suddenly interrupted by a soft knock on the door.

"Come!" I command, my professorial voice jumping to the fore, and turn to stand, hands linked behind my back as a very young-looking woman . . . no, woman implies a maturity way beyond this person's perception . . . as a very young-looking girl timidly enters the room.

Putting one of my very best (in my own mind, anyhow) put-you-at-ease and also dazzle-you-with-my-irresistable-charm smiles on my face, I strode across the room towards her.

"Come in, Perdita, come in! May I take your coat? It was a trifle chilly I thought and fortunately managed to get the caretaker to light a fire for our benefit, but I fear the air is now rather too warm for my liking."

She seemed very ill-at-ease, and was unsure of where to place her books, so I took them out of her hands, placed them next to my own on the oak table and then helped her out of her coat, hanging it on the rather ornate coat-stand behind the door. She had not uttered a single word since she arrived, and it was obvious immediately that she was painfully shy and therefore I mentally made a note to attempt no work this evening, but just try to build some sort of rapport between myself and this shy, but yet inexplicably attractive girl. I say inexplicably, as to look at her, most gentlemen would certainly not look twice. She was not tall, but not short either, around 5' 6" I would guess, of a slight build with longish red- brown hair tied up in a rather crude bun behind her head but rather intriguing green eyes. Green of an intensity that I could not for the life of me remember seeing the like of before.

"Please, Perdita, take a seat" I said, indicating one of the leather fireside chairs that the caretaker had thoughtfully place in front of the fire for us. She sat down, knees together, hands clasped in her lap, and staring resolutely anywhere other than at my face. The caretaker had also done as I had asked and brought a tray in with a pot of tea, milk, sugar and a plate of mixed biscuits.

"Now, Perdita, tell me a little about yourself, so I may begin to obtain a clearer picture in my mind of the young lady I shall be spending so much time with over the coming weeks . . ."

 

[Guest]

I could barely contain my anxiety as I thought about my first meeting with the eminent “Hardwicke”. My imagination ran aggressively afoot as I prepared for my first in-person greeting, and a list of suitable questions to suit the occasion. I wondered more what the man might be like—his demeanor, his mettle, and dear God his appearance. I wanted him to be handsome, not extraordinarily so, merely that he have a pleasing masculine image. I was not at all attracted to the commonplace femme-boys on campus, nor did the overtly virile types appeal. Those in between these extremes were mostly dull.

I spent such a time in the divagations of my imagination that as our appointed hour drew near I panicked in the brief time left to prepare my own appearance. I had only an allotment of a quarter-hour before I needed to leave my quarters. I left my unruly hair in its usual unkempt bun, tucking wisps here and there, and left on my personal uniform of a cream Oxford shirt, an old charcoal cashmere cardigan, calf-length pleated black skirt, leggings and my dull sensible shoes, fortunately recently polished. I did manage to dab a red tint on my lips and put on my favorite old Mexican-silver earrings, the moon on one ear, the sun on the other. (Gawd, why can I not achieve a minuscule degree of glamour, or at least finesse?)

I took a deep breath and knocked with diffidence on the looming door. A commandingly masculine voice, muffled behind the dark wood but resonating authority, merely said, “Come”. I noted my damp palm as I turned the heavy doorknob to enter. I felt my breasts swell involuntarily so that I imagined them to hold the weight and form of the knob. I might have laughed at myself but he was walking toward me and I barely looked at him for a half-second. Yet, the man’s full advent struck me dumb. He was tall and lank (Thank God!) but not sparingly slender. His stride was near languorous and he was smiling! His charm was immediately arresting. I felt caught, like a mouse in a trap. (Jayzussfookinchriiissst, as my uncles’ Irish housekeeper might have roared.)

All my attention was directed on his face. It seemed a combination of Celtic and some other European origin, perhaps merely the handsome roughness of a Welshman. His hair was dark and unruly, his eyes a warm brown. The startling portrait was angular with a prominent nearly crooked nose that seemed more classically sculpted than ethnic. He wasn’t too pretty like Olivier’s Orlando or Heathcliff, more like the charming side of a Rickman or Oldman villain. (Ha ha, oh my, you silly, Perdita.) Most savory—his mouth. It was full-lipped and a ruddy rose color, his salient lips stretched charmingly in what looked a sincere and gentlemanly smile of welcome. I could not help but think of my swollen vulva as I kept the lushness of his mouth in my mind’s eye. I wondered what hue my nether lips were turning. (Calm yourself, Perdita lass.)

He spoke further, something about the chill of the room and the fireplace. As he took my books and coat I continued to take in his voice as if it were entering my body through each orifice, permeating every living cell of me. A man’s voice is the most elusively arousing aspect of masculinity to me. I barely recall my father’s voice but it was of the same virile timbre and dynamics, like a Beethoven quartet chord, endlessly fascinating in its measures and motives.

I could not accept a cup of tea for fear of my trembling hands revealing my inner tumult in my fingertips. I had not yet even returned his greeting when he asked me to speak about myself. I bit my lower lip, nodded my head slightly and looked up falteringly at his face for the second time.

“Professor Hardwicke, forgive my rude silence; your warm welcome has taken me aback. This is not . . . umm, the usual classroom experience for me. I will say it right out, I am extremely withdrawn in company, and often diffident in expressing myself. I am unskilled in society outside my meager family and university conditions. Ummm. . . . . Thank you very much for the fire and the offer of tea and biscuits. . . I will wait a bit to sup if you don’t mind. . . . . Sir, I am grateful for your voice, um, I mean. . . your liberal invite to present a picture of my mind, as you put it.

“To be direct, I want to know more of the world and my place in it. (How banal, Pedestrian Perdita.) I thought, perhaps. . . by entering it, the world and its further environs, through art and beauty, . . . the expressions of passion through the ages. . . ummm, that I might be more rewarded personally and in my formal education, my academic and artistic pursuits.”

I could say no more and looked down at the carpet between my feet and his. I noticed his planted firmly while mine were resting on their outside edges; I instantly put them right, then dearly felt the heat of the fire wafting about me, the heat emanating from my skin’s pores and more from the moist point of culmination between my tremulous legs which I had to work at pressing together to feel a modicum of restraint. (Please God, let him speak now.)

 

[higherlevel4u]

"Perdita, look at me, please"

Slowly her head rose and her eyes gradually fluttered up to my face, momentarily locked onto my own, and then away again almost as quickly.

"Perdita, I want our time together to be as fruitful as possible. If I can't see your face, I cannot receive any feedback as to the effect my teaching is having upon you or whether or not you indeed have understood what I have been saying. Do you understand?"

Perdita's head bobbed up and down vigorously and she stammered "Y . . Yes, Professor Hardwicke, I understand."

"Good, and the next thing is you must call me Stephen, I much prefer the use of first names, it helps the bonding process immeasurably between teacher and student, wouldn't you agree?"

"I...If you say so, Prof . . . Stephen" she said, and I caught the briefest glimpse of a smile on her previously expressionless face. It was only there for a fraction of a second, but it was enough to transform her rather ordinary features into something much more radiant, almost like an intense light being switched on and then immediately off again.

I had an idea. This young, terribly shy girl before me needed relaxing before we were going to make any progress. I mean this purely in an educational sense, although I would be lying to myself if I didn't admit that I believe somewhere beneath this shy, slightly staid exterior, there was a beautiful, sensuous young woman waiting to emerge, almost larva-like from the cocoon, and I certainly would like to be around when this beautiful event occurred . . .

Getting up from my chair, I went over to the cabinet in the corner of the room and, opening the doors, pulled out a bottle of Chateau Angelus St Emilion, a favourite of mine, if a trifle expensive. After delicately extracting the cork, I poured two glasses. In the glass this wine is a truly opaque purple colour. It was a 1998 vintage, a dazzling wine with exceptional flavors of blackberry and coffee crème brulèe. I thought I would like Perdita should try it with me, it would form the first part of her education. Walking back to her chair, I said "Glass of wine?" She started to demur, but I brushed her protestations away and pressed the glass into her hand, our fingers touching momentarily. I held them there a fraction of a second longer than I needed to and, shy as she seemed to be, Perdita seemed to sense this, and her eyes again flicked up to meet mine and then away immediately, but I sensed again the door to her soul opening and shutting. However, I believe, the door stayed open a fraction longer this time.

Inwardly I exulted. I knew then that I was commencing to make inroads into this girl's inner self and was immediately buoyed by the revelation. Yes, this was going to be a very rewarding education . . .

 

[Guest]

"Perdita, look at me, please." - Prof. Hardwicke

My body persisted in not betraying me outwardly. I remained composed within the island shelter I have cultivated, all my life, to meet the world around me. O, but within myself his voice caused an immediate consternation of all my senses so that the geography of my borders was transgressed by it, his voice, as if it were a physical body simply stepping inside; however unexpected, this was not an unwanted guest. (Stay calm, Perdita, hold your bounds.) I lifted my head merely the slightest degree required but it seemed an interminably long path; I felt a loss of my sense of time, lost within the time and space of his voice, an unbounded parallel universe. (Lord, what would my Physics lecturer say!)

I believe my eyes actually fluttered in that second moment of meeting his. This time there occurred an attachment, a securing of a connection, however brief. I think for the first time in the few years since the death of my parents someone, another human being, actually “saw” me. It was terrifying, and exciting. I released myself immediately, sighing painfully within but with no reserve.

He spoke further, more authoritatively; telling me of the necessity of looking at him as our sessions proceeded, letting him see my face so that he might judge my responses to his teaching. Dear God, how might I manage it? Not even to lock eyes again but to present my naked face, to place it unceasingly in his view, at his disposal. My mind worked at constructing it, my face, so that it would serve as my first parapet.

O, but my battlements had begun weakening the first instant I saw him. I panicked for a second, thinking I should merely end this; give a simple apology and say I was mistaken, that this personalized teaching was not right for me. Something stronger than fear won out. My body’s machinations spoke, no—sang!—to me. That recondite place hidden between my legs hummed a melody of desire more invigorating than my fear. Simultaneously my breasts swelled again with a heat different than the fire outside. It seemed little flames were rising in the core of each mound and shooting forth into my nipples, prickling them into points that usually only coldness stirred up. In the center of my island self a bonfire began to burn uncontrollably. (Perdita girl, keep the smoke down. Ha!)

I stuttered a bit replying only, “Yes”, that I understood his request. God, I think I bobbed my head in some trite mode of a twinned response. He made me feel like a child in the nursery. Yet I was no child. My body—assured or threatened—was not the sole reality here.

Another sneak attack—he said I should call him by name, Stephen. God Almighty, what does he intend? He spoke about a “bond” being established and I imagined him as Shylock to my Antonio. What might my ‘pound of flesh’ be?

Again I stuttered but forced myself to speak his name. I thought of Wilde’s ‘love that dare not speak its name’, and felt outted in my fear and desire. The fires in my closet self were seeking the world’s fresh air so that a wildness of hothouse bloom might ensue.

“Stephen.”

Merely saying it loosened the parapets more so that I involuntarily smiled for an instant. From within I saw something new of my self and I imagined its beauty for the first time in my life. The vision gave me strength, a new reserve to proceed.

While he rose from his chair and walked to a corner cabinet I took the time to regather my scattered self breathing with concentration and composure. I thought at first he might be getting our books, but they were on the table. I took in the back of him. Had he grown in stature? I could not distinguish between my mind’s eye and my actual vision. He seemed taller, darker, more substantial a male than I first imagined.

He said, “Glass of wine?” but it was not a question; he pressed the glass into my hand and his fingertips touched mine. He may as well have touched one of my near-erupting breasts. Involuntarily again, as if my will were buried beneath my desires, I looked up into his eyes for another splendid moment. He “saw” me again. The new reality delayed my usual reserve and I let him see my nakedness for what might have been a real time.

“Thank you, Sir. . . Stephen. It’s a unique colour, more purple than any wine I’ve ever had. Um, I am not very familiar with wine really; I’ve looked at them more than tasted. The scent seems redolent of fruit, I mean. . . of a fruit other than grapes. Sorry, I should have said bouquet, not scent; I’m not well versed in the language of Bacchus.” (Jaysus, Per, did you just say ‘language of Bacchus’?)

“Yes, cheers, . . . Stephen.”

 

[higherlevel4u]

“Yes, cheers, . . . Stephen.”

My mind was a whirling maelstrom of conflicting thoughts. What was happening to me, the great Professor Hardwicke, tutor in art and life to young ladies? On the one hand I was pleased and honoured to be the one chosen to pass on my experience and knowledge of her chosen subject, to hopefully infuse her with the same all-encompassing fervour for art that pervades every pore of my being, and on the other hand, I was confused, almost dumbfounded, by the sexual attraction that I could sense oozing from the apparently rather unsophisticated girl in front of me.

We made more small talk while we drank our wine, I refilled our glasses, and the wine, together with the heat from the fire, began to have its effect on Perdita. I could see she was becoming uncomfortably warm, and as if she was reading my thoughts, she suddenly placed her glass on the little table next to her armchair, stood up and started to remove her cardigan. This boldness rather surprised me, and I tried not to stare, but couldn't help noticing as her arms went behind her to pull at each cuff, her shirt pulled tight against her chest. She was obviously wearing no bra, and even though her breasts were what one would call on the small side, she possessed large nipples that were clearly defined against the shirt material as it stretched across them. The thought idly flew through my head that this girl was experiencing an attraction almost equal to my own, causing her nipples to become erect in anticipation. As if in sympathy I experienced a familiar stirring sensation from my own (up til now) quiescent cock, an involuntary stiffening that took even myself by surprise.
Perdita sat down again, placed her hands in her lap, and the moment had passed. I stood up and walked slowly across the room towards the window, carefully giving my errant member time to return to his former state.

"Now, where to start, Perdita. Where indeed? I remember from your letter of application that you are in love with the beautiful city of Venice and wish to learn more about it's most famous sons, such as Bellini, Titian and Giorgione. I may add that Venetian art of the 16th Century is indeed one of my most treasured periods during the history of art on earth, therefore I believe it will make a perfect topic with which to commence your education. I hope this meets with your approval?"

"Yes, that would be wonderful, Prof . . . Stephen. Thank you". I looked around and as my eyes alighted on her face, so hers swiftly were averted. It may have been fanciful of me, but did I detect a slight softening of her form, the posture not quite so rigidly erect? Maybe the ambience of the situation was having some effect on her as I had hoped.

"Now, Perdita, the High Renaissance in the 16th Century, and in particular where it was centred around Venice. Who is considered to be the greatest exponent of this movement from the Venetian School?"

"Titian" This was said unequivocally and with no hesitation, and I saw another change come over Perdita. Her head came up and she was looking directly at me when she answered. Ah, I thought, here is something which makes this girl come alive . . .

"Quite right, Perdita, Titian it is. Of course, he was a great and influential artist in his day, but his influence on later artists has been profound. He was supreme in every aspect of painting and literally revolutionised oil painting technique with his free and expressive brushwork. Do you know by what name Titian was christened?"

"Tiziano Veccellio"

"Excellent, Perdita, I am most impressed. You, I think, are going to make this process of education very simple for me. Yes, Tiziano Veccellio was born in Pieve di Cadore in 1487, although his own version of this was 1477. In Venice, he studied firstly with Gentile Bellini and then later with Giovanni Bellini, but only the latter really left any lasting impression on the young Titian."

I noticed Perdita had opened her folder and was studiously making notes as I spoke, although I hadn't requested it, and her whole demeanor had undergone a noticeable (in my mind) transformation from the painfully shy individual that had tip-toed mouse-like into my room only half an hour ago. As I talked I performed my usual sentry-like pacing up and down the room, hands clasped behind my back, and as I passed behind Perdita's chair, the firelight gleamed suddenly in a reflection on one of her earings. I hadn't noticed them before, but now I looked again, I noticed they were ethnic silver, perhaps Mexican, I wasn't sure, but were very, very beautiful.

As I passed her, I just threw away the line "Oh, your earrings . . . they are particularly attractive . . . where did you get them from??

 

[Guest]

Presentation of a Virgin

After my first glass of wine I could not bear the warmth of the fire so decided to take off my scruffy cashmere. As I stood and stretched to pull off a sleeve I felt my shirt rub across my bare breasts. Holy fuck! I had no bra. I was stunned but didn’t show it. (How did that happen, Pitiable Perdita?) I’d changed my shirt and was going to also switch bras but could not now recall merely putting on the fresh Oxford. I’d been hurried, evidently harried (I love old-fashioned poetics), but I’d never gone braless before. Never. What can he think? I was certain he must have noticed but could not pay attention to him. Conscious of my hard buds and the heavy grain of the linen enticing them to indiscretion I calmly sat back down, spine straight with hands folded in my lap.

As Stephen (I am enlivened merely writing his name) walked, with some deliberation, to the window I formed an image of my breasts hoping to will them to settle back, to quell their involuntary arousal. My teats, as Mummy used to call hers, are small compared to popular images but I often find their likeness represented in classical art. I have largish nipples that stand out even when soft so that a profile shows the little ridge where the nipple begins to jut out from the breast. I like their shape in profile, the design simply pleases me aesthetically.

While conjuring a teat’s self-portrait in my mind I suddenly wondered how Stephen might regard my imagined snapshot. Is he a bromidic male who requires large cups, or even teapots of mammary flesh? I looked up at his back again while he stood at the window. No! I was certain his intelligent passion for beauty would find my sculptured orbs endearing, perhaps as titillating as the ubiquitous globes of ordinary men’s fancies. I smiled to myself, letting Perdita and her bantam boobies continue to enjoy the wine, the firelight, and the titan image of a vibrant man staring out a window.

Suddenly we were engaged in the syllabus. He asked me simple questions which I answered to his delight. Titian! We were to begin with ‘my Titian’. I made notes to let him think he was telling me something new but only reveled secretly in the carnality of his voice. My script would reveal no legible thought.

I hoped we could progress soon to more in depth conversation about the master of Venetian Renaissance painting, the master, so far, of my soul. I wanted Stephen Hardwicke’s words to match the luxury of the sounds his virile mouth was making. I wanted to tell him it was the core of me portrayed on the steps in the huge “Presentation of the Virgin” in the Accademia gallery in Venice. But also suddenly, during his normal pacing back and forth while speaking, he passed from behind my chair and commented on my earrings. He asked where I had got them.

“My earrings? I’m glad you like them. They are quite old, handed down from my father’s great-grandmother, an Aztec Indian my great-grandfather met in Mexico. Hers is the only non-English blood in me, but I feel a special alliance with it . . . with her. They’re Mexican silver; I collect pieces, mostly earrings, rings and brooches. I like that these are two different shapes. I turned my head so he could see my other ear.

“See, this one is a sun.”

Too suddenly now he reached to touch my ornamental sun and moon. I lost composure enough to pitch back instantly against my chair.

“Excuse me, sir," I gasped, "Stephen. I’m not used to . . . to. . . . to being touched . . . at all, um . . . in any familiar manner. Please just look closely if you like, I’ll turn more. I’m . . . I . . .

 

[Guest]

The End

Gentle readers:

This tale will not be finished here. I hope to make it a story for submittal to Lit., or just for myself. Poor Perdita, abandoned in her special studies.

Many thanks to HL4U for the inspiration and his *Hardwicke*.

ta, Perdita

 

[RetEng]

Oops