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Authors: Erika Mailman
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hands tightened on my waist as he pressed me forward against a tree. My fingers seized on the bark and I bent down, as eager for the rut as a maid half my years. I spread my legs, balancing my feet on the uneven surges of the roots that spread from the tree.
“You signed,” he whispered into my ear. “You signed the book.”
“I never did, my love,” I protested, but I didn’t care if I had or not. All that mattered was feeling this again, the heat of my husband, those familiar hands cupping my breasts. His rhythm, how he rutted and how his heart skipped to its own odd devising.
They were still murmuring around us. I only listened to Hensel’s ardent breathing. My fingers clawed the tree bark, thanking the tree spirit for bracing me.
Upon my foot, I noticed a tiny pressing, side to side. I did not have to look to know that it was the cat, kneading bread there.
I was overcome by his kisses and his hands and his gusts of breath and, surrounding us, the cries of pleasure between the trees, everyone clasping someone in the darkness, everyone slaking themselves, a carnal passion that made the snow heated.
To my left, forehead against the tree, I saw the dark dog shapes return to their upset lamps and sit patiently in the snow. I couldn’t count the incredible number of shadows I saw from the corners of my eyes, embracing and bending. It was like a wind shook all the trees and we were boughs, swaying and tossing with its power.
“Ah, God!” I cried, and then I timed my breath to the grunt from behind and he and I strove together at this act, and I thought of nothing but the hot slide of him in me.
The dogs howled for the wonder of it, and the crows made a mockery of the sky, and I thought my body would burst for all the pleasure it had had. I ran my hand down Hensel’s thigh and wept, but without caring, when I found his leg ended in a hoof.
And then I was alone.
And the snow was untouched but for my own footprints, staggered as they were.
The cat led me home, always a gray shape delicately lifting its paws a few steps ahead of me. The door was locked and so I sank against it, while the beast meowed on the windowsill for Jost to awake.
I woke to the sound of Alke and Matern playing a hand-slapping game. I opened my eyes to see their hands in the air, their faces in concentration. The sound of skin on skin, the slap of the game, was rhythmic and brought me back to the nighttime forest and the layers of hushed voices.
I was in my bed. The straw beneath me was warm enough for me to have lain there for hours. The fire was already built and Jost gone. I ran a hand down my stomach. My nightgown was dry. I wiggled to the edge of the bed, feeling the dizzy tilt of sitting up too quickly from a deep sleep.
As I stood, I lifted my skirts to see if there were marks on my skin.
“Please spare us the sight of those old shanks,” remarked Irmeltrud. “My stomach is already off from the lack of breakfast.”
I dropped my skirts. She was right. I hated to see my legs myself: angular, crossed with knobbed veins. When I was younger, a fine layer of muscle had sat beneath the skin, showing itself with my every move, as plump and firm as sausages.
“Good morning, Großmutter,” the children chorused, timing it with their slaps.
I smiled feebly and hovered over them, nodding at their game in encouragement.
“It stings,” said Alke. “You can hit less hard.”
“If you play with a boy, you should expect stings,” said Matern.
She smiled an older sister’s smile at him. He mirrored her, and there they sat, heads gamboled like quizzical chickens’.
It would seem the night had never happened. I had thought all the ardor of my husband’s kisses would surely have roughened my skin, but looking at my arms and legs, I saw that I was pale and untouched as ever. I went to the pan on the hearthstone and washed my face and hands with its warmed water. My skin smelled as always. It was a dream I’d had, that
“You signed,” he whispered into my ear. “You signed the book.”
“I never did, my love,” I protested, but I didn’t care if I had or not. All that mattered was feeling this again, the heat of my husband, those familiar hands cupping my breasts. His rhythm, how he rutted and how his heart skipped to its own odd devising.
They were still murmuring around us. I only listened to Hensel’s ardent breathing. My fingers clawed the tree bark, thanking the tree spirit for bracing me.
Upon my foot, I noticed a tiny pressing, side to side. I did not have to look to know that it was the cat, kneading bread there.
I was overcome by his kisses and his hands and his gusts of breath and, surrounding us, the cries of pleasure between the trees, everyone clasping someone in the darkness, everyone slaking themselves, a carnal passion that made the snow heated.
To my left, forehead against the tree, I saw the dark dog shapes return to their upset lamps and sit patiently in the snow. I couldn’t count the incredible number of shadows I saw from the corners of my eyes, embracing and bending. It was like a wind shook all the trees and we were boughs, swaying and tossing with its power.
“Ah, God!” I cried, and then I timed my breath to the grunt from behind and he and I strove together at this act, and I thought of nothing but the hot slide of him in me.
The dogs howled for the wonder of it, and the crows made a mockery of the sky, and I thought my body would burst for all the pleasure it had had. I ran my hand down Hensel’s thigh and wept, but without caring, when I found his leg ended in a hoof.
And then I was alone.
And the snow was untouched but for my own footprints, staggered as they were.
The cat led me home, always a gray shape delicately lifting its paws a few steps ahead of me. The door was locked and so I sank against it, while the beast meowed on the windowsill for Jost to awake.
I woke to the sound of Alke and Matern playing a hand-slapping game. I opened my eyes to see their hands in the air, their faces in concentration. The sound of skin on skin, the slap of the game, was rhythmic and brought me back to the nighttime forest and the layers of hushed voices.
I was in my bed. The straw beneath me was warm enough for me to have lain there for hours. The fire was already built and Jost gone. I ran a hand down my stomach. My nightgown was dry. I wiggled to the edge of the bed, feeling the dizzy tilt of sitting up too quickly from a deep sleep.
As I stood, I lifted my skirts to see if there were marks on my skin.
“Please spare us the sight of those old shanks,” remarked Irmeltrud. “My stomach is already off from the lack of breakfast.”
I dropped my skirts. She was right. I hated to see my legs myself: angular, crossed with knobbed veins. When I was younger, a fine layer of muscle had sat beneath the skin, showing itself with my every move, as plump and firm as sausages.
“Good morning, Großmutter,” the children chorused, timing it with their slaps.
I smiled feebly and hovered over them, nodding at their game in encouragement.
“It stings,” said Alke. “You can hit less hard.”
“If you play with a boy, you should expect stings,” said Matern.
She smiled an older sister’s smile at him. He mirrored her, and there they sat, heads gamboled like quizzical chickens’.
It would seem the night had never happened. I had thought all the ardor of my husband’s kisses would surely have roughened my skin, but looking at my arms and legs, I saw that I was pale and untouched as ever. I went to the pan on the hearthstone and washed my face and hands with its warmed water. My skin smelled as always. It was a dream I’d had, that
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