Lola Montez and the Poisoned Nom de Plume Read Online Free PDF Page B

world is right and the impulse is great in both; when, thrilling with lust, when prick and quim are joined, both come to a hot eclipse at almost exactly the same moment! It’s not a commonplace circumstance, perhaps—and one at a time is equally gorgeous—but when it does happen, it feels like true bliss.
    Repose then became a pleasure, and we drew apart, resting. Reaching down, I laughed and told him, “Oh, how wet you’ve made me. It’s all over the sheet.” Holding his slippery member, I took his fingers and guided them again between my legs. “You’re a fine one to talk,” he smiled. “You’re like a paste-pot.” I laughed, and, hands still upon each other, we dozed off.
    Liszt woke first, and this time it was more like a mazurka, fast and randy and very fun, full of punch-drunk, lusty chatter: “Let me feel…” “Oh, I’m coming!—my God!” “I can’t wait, I must—!” By then, of course, we’d begun to relax with each other, having passed the first test by providing pleasurable sensations without too much imperativeness, and now freeing our voices to utter nonsense and libidinous cries.
    Finally we fell apart again, sweating and sated.
    “Tell me about that cartoon,” he said with a lazy yawn, stretching his long torso out upon the mattress.
    “Mm, very well,” I answered, pleased to be asked—pleased to be with someone who wanted to converse. I’d been constrained for so long. “The whole thing was quite a to-do.”
    “So I gather.”
    “It was last August. I’d just arrived in Berlin, to find the city in a frenzy. Czar Nicholas I of Russia had arrived. Tens of thousands of visitors were all trying to catch a glimpse of the great and powerful ruler. Fine, I thought. Why not me, too?”
    He propped his left heel into the big toe and second toe of his right foot; the narrow feet rose above the mattress, one on top of the other. “Paint me the picture…”
    One of my favourite things: telling a story! I sat up in bed, naked, legs tucked under me and resting on my heels, ready to enchant him. “It was the day of the Grand Parade,” I began. “I’d hired a first-rate saddle horse, and purchased a stylishly-cut amazon outfit in deep red velvet to ride him in.” (Remembering how proud I’d felt, and how much I’d adored the accompanying riding chapeau I’d also purchased: like a small hatbox, with black veiling attached to the back of it, which flew along behind me like a second tail as we galloped). “I rode to the Friedrichfelde to see what all the fuss was about. There were absolutely thousands of people and horses and military men, you see—and perhaps it’s true that I went too close, but it wasn’t intentional. My horse, I think, shied suddenly at the sound of gunshots—another military salute or something—and somehow I found myself inside the circle reserved for important personages. Very close to the czar himself, in fact, with his little pointy beard and mean, squinty eyes.”
    Franz gave a snort at this—“Were you, now?”—then reached out languidly to caress my waist.
    “An officer galloped over and yanked at my horse’s bridle to pull me away, cutting the animal’s mouth. I simply reacted—he’d startled me, and hurt the horse—so I lashed out with my riding whip: shissht!” I slashed with my arm through the air above Franz’s head, to show him the manoeuver.
    He flinched, then began to chuckle, a deep sort of rumble as if he was employing the bass pedal on his piano. “And then?”
    “Well, immediately, the gash on the man’s cheek started to bleed quite profusely—though he did let go of my rein. So I rode away and forgot about it. But apparently the fellow was outraged. First, that I was a woman on her own—which seems to be a crime in itself, for some men.”
    “Indeed.”
    I was getting riled again, just thinking about it. “Second, since I wasn’t a servant or other subordinate, he couldn’t punish me or take away my wages. Third, I