A Victorian Affair

Sara had been at Oxford for six months when Hermann began to seep into her consciousness. His presence crept up on her, like water being absorbed into a sponge. At first it was only glimpses-the furtive exchange of eye contact from across the lecture hall, the accidental brushing of sides walking through a doorway. She would look up on the walk from her college to the library and see his gaze trained on her. Before Sara knew it, he had become a constant presence in her life. Rather than being surprised to find him looking at her, she began anticipating his glances; she would make sure to walk through the right-hand door of the lecture hall so that he could catch a glimpse of her. Each time their gaze met was a miniature burst of pleasure. Sara savored these bursts and began to crave more.

She began noticing details about his persona that she would not have picked up on anyone else. Hermann was a slight-figured man, and his gaze and his gait exuded an air of utter intentionality. Every motion he made with those elongated limbs seemed controlled, but not contrived. She noticed the subtle asymmetries of his appearance-his exaggerated cheekbones, the unruly tuft of blond hair on the right side of his head. And she began to notice odd details about her own appearance, which seemed to transfigure beneath his penetrating gaze. She saw him eyeing the curve of her waist, the gentle up-and-down motion of her breasts above her corset.

They spoke finally in March. Sara was sitting in the concert hall, awaiting the much anticipated performance by Herr Hans Schlesinger of Austria, who would be performing the overture to Tannhäuser on the piano.

"Is this seat taken?" she heard someone ask, and turned around to find Hermann, gazing at her pointedly.

Before his words registered, Sara noticed the tenor of his voice. It was high pitched and steady, with a slight trace of an accident that Sara recognized to be German. Hermann spoke almost imperceptibly more slowly than most people, but the timing of his words was not such that he appeared disproportionately slow. Rather, when he spoke, the world seemed to decelerate to Hermann's measured pace.

"Yes!" she stammered, the words trailing out of her mouth more quickly than usual. "I mean, no, it's not taken-please, sit!"

"I'm Hermann," he said, taking a seat and crossing his legs.

"Sara. Pleased to meet you."

"Pleased to meet you too." There was a pause. "So...Wagner!" he said, taking a stab at making conversation.

"Yes! This pianist is supposed to be very good."

"Do you make a habit of listening to Wagner's music?"

Sara smiled. "Would it be terribly uncultured of me to admit that I have never quite taken to Wagner?"

"I must admit," he countered, "that neither have I. At risk of betraying the fatherland, I confess that I have found much more emotional depth in the music of French composers."

"Of course, you Germans have your gems as well. But in my humble opinion, the last of the great German romantics died with Robert Schumann."

Hermann feigned shock. "Schumann! Now that is a radical opinion! And Brahms doesn't make the cut?"

It was the kind of conversation Sara was accustomed to having at Oxford. An exchange of ideas, a show of intellect. It was a safe conversation, never getting any more personal than one's opinions on art, history, or philosophy. Hermann's feigned shock at her preference of Schumann over Brahms was itself evidence of the absence of any truly weighty matter in the conversation. Schumann was as radical as it got.

After the concert was over, Hermann entreated, "Would you have dinner with me?" Sarah, of course, said yes.

And so began a courtship that lasted for several weeks at quite an appropriate level of propriety. Hermann took Sara out to eat every Friday night at a respectable restaurant in town. They went on walks together by the canals (chaperoned, of course). And after every Tuesday night Classics lecture they attended together, Hermann would walk Sara back to her college. Their conversations meandered copious topics-how correct was Hegel's conviction that time moved in the direction of universal reason? Was the British empire stretching to a breaking point? Was there value in impressionist art?

All the while, the real conversation between Sara and Hermann was taking place inaudibly, through body language. Hermann's eyes consuming Sara's body. His hand extending across the table toward hers, beckoning. Sara's foot, positioned carefully so that it just touched to Hermann's foot under the table. Herman's hand grazing her waist as he walked her home.

One Tuesday in late April, Hermann walked Sara home as usual. But this time, they found that Sara's housemates were out of town. Hermann lingered at the door, and his eyes asked the query that his words could not. Sara answered. "Would you like to come in?"

"Yes, I would. Thank you."

He followed her into the dark apartment, and she turned on a lamp. "Please, sit." Hermann sat on one end of the couch, and Sara sat on the other. Her heart palpitated in skips and jumps, but she felt strangely removed from her body. She was in a room, alone, with a man. She knew this script, and she knew it was one that placed her in a precarious position. She was teetering on an edge, playing with fire, her reputation and precious virginity hanging in the balance. And yet she did not feel endangered, not with Hermann, whom she trusted implicitly.

Hermann continued the conversation they had been having on the walk to Sara's college. "So you see, Hobbes was right. Men are too power hungry to exist in a society without hierarchy."

"I disagree," Sara said. "Sure, there examples in history of power hungry men, but there are also just as many examples of humans cooperating."

"You're telling me that you've never, even once, experienced that insatiable urge for power that Hobbes describes?"

"Oh, are we psychologizing now?" Sara laughed, but she was taken aback. Hermann's question had broken their unspoken agreement to talk of topics unrelated to themselves. It probed into her innermost desires, and she felt a thrill go down her spine at the thought of opening herself up to it.

"I believe we are all experts on the human mind," Hermann continued coyly. "Share your expertise with me."

"Well then, in my expert opinion, I have never experienced such a desire. Have you?"

"All the time."

"Really?"

"I want...I want to own the world around me; I want the bodies of the people around me to be mine." He made this curious statement without betraying either pride or shame. It was matter of fact, a statement about his reality no more or less emotionally laden than his opinion on Hobbes.

"Is that some kind of Freudian fetish?" Sara asked, not accusatorily but with levelled curiosity.

"Perhaps," he laughed.

Sara hesitated. He had laid himself bare for her, revealing his shameful desires, and had invited her to do the same. She accepted his invitation. "I do not relate to your desire, Hermann, but I have experienced what I might call its mirror."

"What is that?"

"A desire to be possessed. To be swept up by somebody, consumed by them." Sara had never articulated this desire before in words, but she had long been cognizant of it. Lying in bed at night, she had often fantasized about being kidnapped by highwaymen. In her imagination, they would take her, undress her, and have their delightfully wicked way with her.

"Have you, now?" Hermann was staring at her with such intensity, it made Sara feel like an insect under a microscope.

"I...yes. I have, sometimes. Sometimes, I almost forget to be self-possessed. But I can't forget myself entirely as a woman, remember. I have my reputation at stake."

"Yes of course."

He paused, then continued. "Would you like to lose yourself, just for an hour, with me?"

"Excuse me?"

"It seems to me that our desires are complimentary, are they not? My desire to possess and yours to be possessed. What if we were to act out those desires, right here and now? Would you like that?"

"You can't be serious."

"I am."

Sara looked into Hermann's eyes, searching for a trace of insincerity, but she found only inquisitiveness. He waited for her answer.

The offer did, in fact, seem to make perfect sense. Mutual desire, mutual pleasure. A significant part of Sara ached to say yes, but she knew she could not. "Like is not the operative word here."

"But you would like to?" he probed.

"I...yes, I'd like to, but you know why I can't let myself."

"Yes, I know. Of course. What if we laid out some ground rules? I would promise not to take your virginity and not to do anything to you that would stay with you after I leave this room."

This was a different matter. Sara was taken aback. To act out a fantasy, consequence free, had never before been an option. Men were dangerous; submitting to their desires had always spelled doom. But did it have to?

Her mind was abuzz with possibility. Would he undress her? Undress himself? Strike her? Just how depraved was this man seated on the opposite end of her couch? Sara longed to find out.

"You would promise not to knock me up?" she entreated warily.

"Cross my heart."

"And if I told you to stop, you would stop?"

"Absolutely."

Sara teetered for a moment on the precipice, gazing down into the depths of depravity into which she could so easily let herself plunge. Don't look down, she thought, and fell head over heels into the cavern, into Herman's steady hands.

"Alright. Yes. I consent."

Hermann smiled. He slid his slender body across the couch and placed his hand on Sara's leg. His touch was steady, precise; she felt the weight of his hand resting on her skirts. "I hoped you would say yes." He began to talk business. "So, no penetration, as least not in the usual way. How about with my hands?"

"Yes," Sara replied, not believing that she was saying the words. "Your hands can go anywhere."

"And how about pain? Can I slap you?"

"Yes," she breathed.

"Do you want me to slap you?"

"Yes"

He looked at her with that penetrating gaze. "Say it."

"Say what?"

"Tell me you want me to slap you."

"I...I want you to slap me," she stammered.

"You're a polite girl, aren't you? Say please."

"Please."

His hand on her leg was unrelenting. She felt its pressure tighten, pinning her to the spot. With his other hand, he undid the ribbon in her hair and took hold of a handful of hair, forcing her head back to look straight up at him. Sara melted within his grasp. She looked into his eyes and gave herself to him.

"If you're a very good girl, maybe you'll earn a few good slaps. Open your mouth."

She did so.

"Close it."

Sara obeyed.

His hand maintaining a firm grasp on her hair, he moved her head down, then up again, then left, then right. I am a marionette, Sarah almost laughed to herself.

Hermann was taking his time, deciding what to do with her. Sara could see his brow furrowed in thought, his lips curved into a mischievous smile. He undid the top two buttons of Sara's dress, revealing the fullness of her bosom, and traced his fingers around the edges of her corset, brushing the tops of her breasts. They both looked down at them and observed their up and down movement. Hermann's hands traced around Sara's collar, then up to her neck and her face, taking in her cheeks, her nose, her lips.

"Open your mouth," he said, and Sarah opened it.

His fingers went inside her mouth and slowly but insistently pressed deeper.

"Relax your tongue," he said, and she did so. His fingers pressed on, making their way deeper into her throat. Sara felt herself about to gag but held back the impulse, steadied beneath his level gaze. "I want to see how long you can hold these here." The fingers had stopped her breath, and Sara began to feel light headed, but she stayed still, looking back at Hermann, showing him how long she could hold the position for him. Tears welled up in her eyes, her entire body tingling. It was only a couple seconds, but each second held an eternity.

Finally, Sara's gag impulse returned and she coughed and jerked her head back. Hermann smiled. "Very good, Sara. Thank you for letting me inside you."

"You're welcome," Sara blushed, almost laughing at the sincere politeness with which he thanked her.

"That was good practice, perhaps, for...other things."

"Yes," she smiled, "Anything."

Although the opportunity had never presented itself (until now) to act on any desires or sexual fantasies, Sara was no stranger to the wide array of possibilities available to two bodies looking to achieve pleasure. She had read those forbidden books in the back of the library and knew the many ways that hands and mouths could bring about pleasure, and she was eager to see if they worked.

"Stand up," he ordered, and Sara did so.

He stood up and paced around her, taking in the details of her figure. "Has anyone ever told you you have excellent posture?"

"It's the corset," she laughed.

"Would you keep up your posture if you weren't wearing the corset?"

"I could try."

"Good girl."

And slowly, carefully, he began undressing her. He undid the buttons on her dress, seeming to savor each undoing, each gradient on the path from dressed to undressed. When the dress had been tossed to the floor, she stood there in her white blouse and crinoline underskirts, goosebumps appearing on her bare arms. Hermann looked at her in this state of half-undress. He removed the crinolines underneath her skirt and undid her blouse. Then he began to unlace her corset, row by row.

Sara felt her body regain its natural shape, realigning as it always did when she was released from the iron grip of the corset. She was suddenly aware of all the imperfections in its shape, the misalignment of fat around her belly, the drooping of her breasts. She had never before been in the presence of a man without the stiff guidance of the corset to smooth out its rough edges.

"I like you better without your corset," Hermann told her, coming around to face her. Sara stood with her hands at her side, her chest bared for him.

"Thank you"

"But don't forget your posture now, Sara," he chided.

She straightened herself up for him.

"Put your hands behind your back." She did so.

He put his arms around her bare waist and kissed her. His lips, warm and precise, pressed into hers, his hands traveled up from her waist to her breasts. How full and bountiful I am right now! Sara thought. How much pleasure I have in my possession to give away, stored within my body behind the corsets and crinolines.

Up until now, Hermann had been wearing a cravat. He removed it now and wrapped it around Sara's neck. "Now, I am going to choke you," he told her, "but only a little bit."

"Choke me?" she breathed, her pulse racing. But she did not draw back from him.

"Yes. If you feel I need to stop, you can tap my arm, but I want to see how much you can take before then. Understood?"

"Yes." Sara held her hands obediently behind her back, her back straightened into the posture he wanted to see.

"Good girl." Hermann had the cravat wrapped around her neck once and was holding one end in each hand. He pulled outwards and the cravat tightened around Sara's neck. She stared back at him, holding her breath. He released the cravat and she breathed again. Satisfied with the experiment, Hermann tightened again, this time holding for longer. Still, Sara maintained eye contact as she felt the oxygen drain from her head. There was nothing but Hermann, no other moment but now. Without her breath, the rhythm of the world had stopped, it was waiting for Hermann to set time in motion again.

Her neck burned, and she wanted Hermann to release his grip, but at the same time she did not want the feeling of his pressure around her neck to stop. It was agony and ecstasy, and Sara decided that she only wanted to breathe again if Hermann would allow it.

At long last, Hermann released the cravat. Sara drew in a gasping breath. "Thank you!" she exclaimed, although she was not sure what she was thanking him for-choking her or releasing her.

"I think you've earned that slap," he grinned. He removed his ring and struck her evenly across the face with the back of his hand. Sara fell to the floor, her face smarting, and Hermann sat down next to her on the rug and put his arms around her.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" he asked.

"Yes, oh so much."

"Did you ever think this was how your Tuesday night would turn out?"

"Not in my wildest dreams!"

"Mine either, but when we talked about power, this seemed too good of an opportunity to pass up."

"Have you done this to women before?"

"Only to other men. It's not easy to find a woman who wants to give herself to me the way you do."

"But it is easy to find men?"

"It's not easy, but you'd be surprised how common of a desire yours is among men. To release control to someone else. And men like to experiment."

"I love releasing control to you. I want for my body what you want for it. I want to breathe when you want me to breathe, move how you want me to move."

"I love that. Now I want you to do something else for me."

"Anything."

"Take off your underwear."

Sara hesitated.

"I promise I won't ravish you; I just want to see what you look like down there."

"Okay"

Sara removed her stockings, then took hold of her white lace bloomers and inched them down her legs. And there she was, sitting on the rug, completely nude, next to Hermann, who was still completely clothed except for his cravat. She felt a thrill run down her spine at the vulnerability of this exposure. She wanted him to see and touch all of her.

Hermann reached for the cravat and wadded it up into a ball.

"Open your mouth again."

When Sara obeyed, he took the balled up cravat and stuffed it in her mouth.

"Hold that there for me, will you?"

Sara nodded in ascension. The piece of cloth muffled her ability to speak.

"Now open your legs for me."

Trembling, Sara parted her legs to allow Hermann a glimpse into the most intimate part of her body. He put his face down close to it and stared at it for a long while. He ran his hands through her pubic hair and pulled apart her labia to get a closer look. He took in the smell, felt its moistness.

"Do you like to touch yourself?"

Sara nodded. She had long since figured out how to give herself pleasure by touching herself, alone in her bedroom at night.

"Show me."

Sara showed him how she had learned to rub her clitoris, up and down the sides, and Hermann watched intently. Normally, Sara would have accompanied this act with some kind of fantasy, but today there were no wicked highwaymen who entered her thoughts. Only Hermann, right here and now. She felt flickers of pleasure course through her body like she always did when she was close to orgasm.

"Now let me do it."

Sara removed her hand. Hermann began making the same motion with his hands that she had made with hers. He was rougher than she had been, but the thrill of releasing the task to him made up for the roughness. The flickers of pleasure emanated from her core throughout her limbs. She moaned.

"Are you going to have an orgasm?"

Sara nodded vigorously.

"Don't have an orgasm until I say you are allowed to. If you are about to have an orgasm, you must ask me first. Maybe I will allow it, maybe I won't. Understood?"

"Uh huh," said Sara, muffled behind the gag.

The pleasure intensified. Something was welling up inside her, her body seized up like a wave gathering water for the crash.

"Don't come yet," he reminded, continuing to rub steadily.

But the urge to relinquish her grasp on herself to the pleasure of orgasm was so powerful, it took all of Sara's willpower to obey. She looked into Hermann's eyes and entreated him wordlessly, Please let me come, please please.