Coming Together: With Pride (9 page)

Paulette moaned, sinking into the mood as though into a pile of swan's-down. "In that case, Mistress, will you use the cuffs?"

"Oh, baby, I didn't bring them. I didn't think we could run the risk of any of our toys being found here. How's this? You have to hold onto the bed frame and if you let go, you'll be punished." Despite her tone of command, Margaret looked concerned. Paulette knew that she was the one person Margaret could afford to trust completely. Margaret didn't want to lose a particle of Paulette's trust in her.

 
"Yes, Ma'am." Paulette gracefully reached up beyond her own head to find the bed frame and curl her fingers around it. "Forgive me for asking you to expose yourself to your enemies. This hopeless girl needs to be put in her place." Paulette wiggled her hips as vigorously as possible in a horizontal position. "I'm such a slut I can't behave properly."

 
Margaret guffawed. "A minute ago, I could hardly lure you away from Emily Davison. You probably do need a reminder of what I want from you. Mmm. You're asking for it." Margaret nuzzled Paulette's pillowy breasts, then licked a wet ring around the nipples before sucking and nibbling them.

Margaret's tongue left a wet trail down Paulette's sensitive, gurgling midriff to her deeply-indented belly button. Margaret ran her hands firmly down Paulette's sides, then tickled her tummy, challenging her to resist the impulse to let go of the bed frame.

Paulette squirmed, laughed, and rose to the challenge. She wondered how long it would take her spouse to find out how wet she was between her legs.

Margaret hovered like a bee circling a flower. She stroked Paulette's plump thighs, held them apart, and dipped an experimental tongue between Paulette's outer lips. Margaret nipped at the tender ivory skin above the curly brown bush which glistened with moisture.

"Mistress."

Margaret grinned. "What do you want, baby? Tell me."

"I want to be fucked."

"By just anyone? Should I bring in one of the maids?"

"I want you to fuck me, Ma'am. My cunt is starving."

"Maybe I should come in somewhere else first." Margaret tickled Paulette's puckered asshole with a long finger. "This opening has been neglected for awhile."

Paulette continued to squirm and Margaret continued to tease until she eased two fingers into the deep, narrow channel of Paulette's sex. Her fingers made a slurping sound that satisfied both women.

With tidal slowness, Margaret pushed in and withdrew, in and out as though she couldn't imagine a reason to speed up. Paulette squeezed, pumped, and wrapped her legs around Margaret's waist.

Margaret disentangled herself, casually stood up, and reached for her purse. She returned to bend over Paulette with something in her hands.

Before Paulette knew what to expect, a small vibrator was pressing against her clit, sending its hum all through her liquid insides. Margaret reinserted her fingers, anchoring Paulette in place to accept the sweet torture.

"Oh!" Paulette immediately clamped her upper lips together to hold in all the wild sounds she wanted to make. She clung to the bed frame like a shipwrecked survivor clinging to a life raft. Her hips jerked as her sex spasmed. "You said no toys!" She was desperately trying to keep her voice low.

"None except this one. It's a conventional household item, don't you think?"

An image of Margaret in a courtroom, functioning as Crown Prosecutor, flashed into Paulette's mind. Margaret had been good at leading the jury down one path, then veering onto another, keeping the defense off-guard. She was a wily strategist on her own turf, and Paulette had learned to love her ways of stalking and capturing an elusive victory.

Paulette dropped her aching arms to wrap them around her spouse, who didn't object. Margaret lowered herself onto Paulette, using her elbows. Then she placed her warm mouth onto Paulette's, resting her lips there for a moment before sliding her tongue into Paulette's mouth.

Margaret pulled back to admire Paulette's flushed face. "You're so beautiful when you come."

"You're so good, honey. Ma'am. Your Eminence."

Margaret laughed and wedged a knee between her wife's thighs as a reminder of what she could do.

They lay together, listening to each other breathe. Reluctantly, they both became aware of other sounds beyond the door of their guest bedroom.

"Marg? Do you need something?"

"No." Margaret cupped one of Paulette's breasts as though to comfort her. "Just this."

"Don't you need my mouth? I want to taste you."

Margaret slid up Paulette's body until she was straddling her neck. Paulette slid down until she was directly beneath Margaret's fragrant cleft. She gently opened it with both hands and aimed her tongue into its wetness.

Margaret was so aroused that her slick folds reacted like a sensitive clam. When Paulette sucked a swollen button of flesh into her mouth, she seemed to set off an undersea earthquake. Margaret's release was intense, but the only sound she made was a series of loudly exhaled breaths.

Paulette liked having a wet face that smelled of the woman she still thought of as her girlfriend. She pressed herself against Margaret, who rolled and shifted and pulled with both arms until Paulette settled her head between Margaret's shoulder and chin.

She has too much pride,
thought Paulette
. She wasn't going to tell me she needed to come, too. That's logical after what she's gone through today. But according to the ancient Greeks, hubris in a mortal leader brings down the wrath of the gods. The ones no one believes in any more
.

Paulette lay still, listening to the sounds of two bodies pressed together and the slight friction of the bedding beneath them. At length, Margaret's breathing grew deeper and more regular.

Paulette couldn't sleep. Robin Digwell's unbound manuscript called to her from an adjoining room, like a magic bottle labeled "Drink Me."

The illustrations were a poignant set of images: a photo of the plain, thin-featured Emily Davison as an undergraduate at Oxford, which did not grant degrees to women. Emily as a governess with her pupils. Emily as a full-time suffragette, carrying the flag of the Women's Social and Political Union in a march, circa 1910. A photo showing the elegant profile of Christabel Pankhurst, an Edwardian beauty in chignon and hat, interrupting a meeting of the Liberal Party to demand votes for women. A newspaper artist's sketch of Christabel flanked by her firm-jawed mother Emmeline, approximately Paulette's current age, and her sister Sylvia, all in a courtroom.

Paulette inched her way out of Margaret's arms and slid out of bed. Her sweat had dried, leaving her skin clammy, so she quietly opened a closet, pulled out her bathrobe and wrapped it around herself.

Paulette enjoyed the softness of the carpet under her feet as she padded into the adjoining room, where the manuscript waited for her in a suitcase.

She settled herself into an armchair, turned on a lamp, and read "November 20, 1912" on the topmost page. She had already read quite a few of Robin Digwell's translations of the language-for-two—a mishmash of Latin, French, Gaelic and contemporary slang—that Emily and Christabel had used for their most private messages.

"
My darling Christabel
," the letter read,
"You know how terribly I long to see you! I pray
that God will keep you safe in Paris until you can come back to me."
Paulette hoped that Emily hadn't been praying to an Old Testament patriarchal God of wrath.

She read on:
"I can not leave now when every one of us is needed for the struggle. Do not worry about Mary. I am sure she has no suspicion about us. She is very concerned about Emmeline's health. Our General continues to refuse food each time she is taken back to prison, and this is more dangerous for a woman of her age than it is for the younger ones.

Paulette skimmed over a few lines describing a rainy English winter until she reached the closing:
"All the love in the world from your shield-bearer, Emily."

Christabel's response followed.
"My Emily,"
it read,
"You must take better care of your
own health. Ill soldiers can not win battles. Please do not do anything without speaking to the rest of the executive. We must act together if we wish to be seen as a united force. Fight on and God will give the victory."

Paulette recognized the slogan of Joan of Arc, a favorite with Emily. Of course, Christabel had planted it in Emily's mind when she was in exile in France, hiding out from English law. The letter was signed,
"Your Christabel."

Paulette's heart ached. Christabel had never been as selfless or as fanatical as Emily. Maybe that was why Christabel, known as "Queen of the Mob," had been drawn to little Emily, humble worker bee. Mistress and maid.

Paulette skimmed over letters from Emily about the fate of sister-members of the WSPU, and shorter letters from Christabel about the support she was gaining in France. At length, Paulette reached Christabel's letter to Emily dated June 1, 1913. It was chillingly direct:

"Dear Emily,

This letter is difficult for me to write. Count Mille-Chevres has asked me to marry him, and I have accepted him. You know how good he is because I have described him to you. I can not ignore such a clear sign from God that I have been called to a position of influence in my adopted country.

I do not think I shall ever see you again. I will always remember you with fondness, although your deception of Mary has been shameful and I could never become resigned to it.

Please be sensible, Emily, and understand that things are working out for the best. Please make amends to Mary. Martyrdom would not suit you or me, soiled souls as we are.

With my best wishes, C.P."

Editor Robin's note explained that this coded letter was found in Emily's purse when she was rushed to the hospital from Epsom racetrack.

Paulette was stunned. So Emily had died of a broken heart. The personal was political, as the feminists of the 1970s were to say. In this case, though, the political seemed to be personal. Who would commit suicide after getting a "Dear Jane" letter? The heroine of a tragedy, that's who, and Emily had studied literature for the sheer love of it, without hope of gaining academic fame.

Paulette wondered briefly whether Robin's translations could be trusted. But as far as she knew, he had no reason to make anything up.

Emily's behavior had been sadly predictable:
Now see what you've done
. She had wanted to be remembered with Christabel for some great act of rebellion against the patriarchal order, but Christabel had deserted her. The loyal Mary had gone with Emily to the Derby, apparently having no idea what Emily was planning to do.

A girlish image of Christabel's younger sister Sylvia flashed into Paulette's mind. Sylvia had been a socialist who helped set up clinics for poor mothers and their babies, the embryo version of Britain's national health care system. If Emily had grown bored with Mary, why hadn't she developed a crush on Sylvia, who was clearly a better choice?

Paulette answered her own question:
Because passion has never been based on logic. Shared
principles are the excuse for a relationship, not the spark that sets hearts afire. Good populist values don't even sway voters. Not without some darker, more visceral hook.