Read Online Wild Decembers by Edna O’Brien - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Edna O’Brien
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especially not with gorgeous specimens like themselves.
“I’ll come some Sunday when I have time.”
“You’ll come now . . . We can’t let you go without a bit of supper,” Rita said, ignoring his excuses and telling the world at large that men who live alone are right fools, don’t even know how to fend for themselves.
“Friends . . . Friends,” he said, raising his arms in some sort of appeal.
“We’ll unchain the dog,” Rita said, pointing to a gaunt mongrel at the opposite end of the yard, whining with hunger.
“Is he vicious?”
“He’d eat you,” she said, and laughed, and linked him across to the house.
Low-lit candles in little clumps and a blazing fire were what met him. As he looked around they pointed to some heirlooms, jugs and vases along the dresser, a sausagey cushion of velvet to keep the draught out, and then with coquetry Rita pulled a cloth away to show him the apple pie, made with her own humble hand.
“Well?” Reena said, her eyes on him, dancing, shining, two shades of yellow in the iris, like a cat’s.
“Oh, very nice,” he said, and watched her take a knitting needle, warm it in the fire, and then dunk it into the wine. She whirled it a few times, took it out, the red liquid dripping off it, and held it to his nostrils.
“It mulls it,” she said, winking.
Soon they had him sitting down, drinking, talking of store cattle, the risks, the way the prices changed in the marts from one week to another so that a person never knew, and milking itself going out of fashion.
“I love milking . . . It’s my therapy,” Rita said.
“It’s your therapy,” he said. He knew he should get out.
“I’m all itch, Reet.”
“Why don’t you change, love . . . It’s the fecking hay. It gets into the pores.”
In the candlelight amid bursts of laughter he saw garments being pulled off and pelted across the kitchen, a jumper, a vest, a flowered cotton skirt, which she had to peel down, nothing left but a garment that was knickers and slip. She walked across and stood before him, her breasts in the candle flame pink, pink shelled, yet with the sturdiness of gourds when she held them.
“Can you open the wee buttons?”
“What’s this . . . the Black Arts?” he said, half-blasé.
“Are you afraid of us?” Rita said in his ear.
“Ah, no, he’s shy . . . I love a shy man,” Reena said, taking his hand in hers to undo the eight tiny mother-of-pearl buttons from the navel down.
Naked now, she begins to dance, her hair, then her head, then her torso working themselves into a frenzy, the various organza bows dropping of their own accord and the kitchen now like some den of malarkey and wantonness. Jumping onto his chair to reach for the melodeon that was above the mantelpiece, Rita has one foot on the seat of the chair and the other locked into his groin. She paused. Then his hand of its own accord went under the skirt to where she was stark naked.
“Is this an invite?” he said, the hand just resting there, feeling the cool of the flesh in contrast with the warm bush, his blood starting to pump.
“Was that nice?” she said as she took down the melodeon and sat on a wooden barrel, her legs wide apart, and began to play a rousing medley. Reena danced with abandon, using her hair as if it was some fetish, and splaying open her fingers to show vivid hennaed crevices. Almost twice she fell, then staggered, regained her balance, and eventually she threw herself upon him, her arms coming around his neck, her legs girdling his middle as she kissed him repeatedly with a repertoire of lewd and coaxing words.
He felt the other one undoing his laces, then his shoes being taken off and his socks as he dug his buttocks into the back of the chair to stop her from removing his trousers.
“What’s all this?” he said.
“Two for the price of one,” Rita said, and began to fumble, saying where in hell’s name was that codpiece, and finding it, she measured it in
“I’ll come some Sunday when I have time.”
“You’ll come now . . . We can’t let you go without a bit of supper,” Rita said, ignoring his excuses and telling the world at large that men who live alone are right fools, don’t even know how to fend for themselves.
“Friends . . . Friends,” he said, raising his arms in some sort of appeal.
“We’ll unchain the dog,” Rita said, pointing to a gaunt mongrel at the opposite end of the yard, whining with hunger.
“Is he vicious?”
“He’d eat you,” she said, and laughed, and linked him across to the house.
Low-lit candles in little clumps and a blazing fire were what met him. As he looked around they pointed to some heirlooms, jugs and vases along the dresser, a sausagey cushion of velvet to keep the draught out, and then with coquetry Rita pulled a cloth away to show him the apple pie, made with her own humble hand.
“Well?” Reena said, her eyes on him, dancing, shining, two shades of yellow in the iris, like a cat’s.
“Oh, very nice,” he said, and watched her take a knitting needle, warm it in the fire, and then dunk it into the wine. She whirled it a few times, took it out, the red liquid dripping off it, and held it to his nostrils.
“It mulls it,” she said, winking.
Soon they had him sitting down, drinking, talking of store cattle, the risks, the way the prices changed in the marts from one week to another so that a person never knew, and milking itself going out of fashion.
“I love milking . . . It’s my therapy,” Rita said.
“It’s your therapy,” he said. He knew he should get out.
“I’m all itch, Reet.”
“Why don’t you change, love . . . It’s the fecking hay. It gets into the pores.”
In the candlelight amid bursts of laughter he saw garments being pulled off and pelted across the kitchen, a jumper, a vest, a flowered cotton skirt, which she had to peel down, nothing left but a garment that was knickers and slip. She walked across and stood before him, her breasts in the candle flame pink, pink shelled, yet with the sturdiness of gourds when she held them.
“Can you open the wee buttons?”
“What’s this . . . the Black Arts?” he said, half-blasé.
“Are you afraid of us?” Rita said in his ear.
“Ah, no, he’s shy . . . I love a shy man,” Reena said, taking his hand in hers to undo the eight tiny mother-of-pearl buttons from the navel down.
Naked now, she begins to dance, her hair, then her head, then her torso working themselves into a frenzy, the various organza bows dropping of their own accord and the kitchen now like some den of malarkey and wantonness. Jumping onto his chair to reach for the melodeon that was above the mantelpiece, Rita has one foot on the seat of the chair and the other locked into his groin. She paused. Then his hand of its own accord went under the skirt to where she was stark naked.
“Is this an invite?” he said, the hand just resting there, feeling the cool of the flesh in contrast with the warm bush, his blood starting to pump.
“Was that nice?” she said as she took down the melodeon and sat on a wooden barrel, her legs wide apart, and began to play a rousing medley. Reena danced with abandon, using her hair as if it was some fetish, and splaying open her fingers to show vivid hennaed crevices. Almost twice she fell, then staggered, regained her balance, and eventually she threw herself upon him, her arms coming around his neck, her legs girdling his middle as she kissed him repeatedly with a repertoire of lewd and coaxing words.
He felt the other one undoing his laces, then his shoes being taken off and his socks as he dug his buttocks into the back of the chair to stop her from removing his trousers.
“What’s all this?” he said.
“Two for the price of one,” Rita said, and began to fumble, saying where in hell’s name was that codpiece, and finding it, she measured it in
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