Don't Judge Me Ch. 07

The grand dining room was empty when we returned.

On one hand I was disappointed. I wanted to spend more time with those girls. I wanted to try out my "Sight" on them, now that I knew what it was. But on the other hand it might be useful to talk further with Miss Havisham. I had so many questions!

"Let's sit over here," She said, indicating a different spot from where she had just tortured that poor girl into a messy orgasmic frenzy, without making any reference to the earlier event. So we sat on the far side of the enormous dining table, at the corner of the table so that we were at right angles to one another. We would be able talk more easily there than if we were side by side, I figured.

Once seated, Miss Havisham simply sat quietly, her hands in her lap. I didn't know what else to do, so I also just sat in as similar a pose as I could manage. She sat so primly, it was unnatural for me. But then, she surely was wearing a corset, and... I didn't really want to wander into wondering about this elder lady's underwear, so I pulled up on that train of thoughts and looked around this ornately appointed room.

There were no place settings on the vast, shimmering lake of a table. It was completely bare. From where I was sitting I could see the inverted reflection of the opposite wall, and high ceiling, blurrily, in the meticulously maintained lacquer finish. To pass the time I admired the reflection of the detailed cornices and artworks.

Presently, without warning and to my great shock, the room suddenly flooded with men!

They were handsome, impeccably groomed men, all around my age, which I suppose most people would call "young", and they were dressed in period costumes as butlers or waiters. They wore jackets with tails, waistcoats, bow-ties, and starched shirts. They poured into the room without warning, bustling efficiently, the lead man wheeling a trolley laden with plates and glasses and any number of other items, and followed by all the others, each as picture perfect as the last.

Before I had the chance to appreciate just how... gosh, just how darn pretty all these men were, I first had to overcome the suddenness with which all this testosterone had burst into the erstwhile feminine-exclusive zone that I had assumed the manor house to be. I had not seen any males since entering the gate, and while I hadn't thought about it before, I supposed I might have started to assume there would not be any, it was now startling suddenly to have a room full of, let's face it, really attractive men!

Ok, if I'm being honest there were only four of them. But it was a bit of a shock, ok? Don't judge me.

Moreover, up to this point I had hardly paid attention to the tiny little inadequate "dress" that I had been flitting around in. It's hard to explain, but wearing scanty things in the presence of women can be kind of nice, and if not always exactly "wholesome", it's normally harmless and fun, and affirming. The whole energy is sharply changed as soon as men are around. And boy howdy, did it change for me in that moment.

Not that I'm complaining! It's just that I was suddenly very self-conscious. I absentmindedly tugged downwards on my dress at the edges, as if to extend its length a little, even though I was seated and, for now, almost reasonably covered. Tugging at the edges made the middle ride up, showing even more of the tops of my thighs, threatening to expose me indecently, so I tugged forward as well, but that made the sides ride up. I decided to just leave it alone, satisfied that it covered, if only just, everything that needed to be covered.

I glanced at Miss Havisham, I suppose for some cue about what was happening and how I should respond. She was not concealing her amusement at my discomfort. I wondered just how much her "Sight" was allowing her to see inside my sense of exposure and embarrassment. I guessed she was probably getting it just fine.

She sat unmoved by the flurry of activity as these (did I mention how extraordinarily attractive they were?) really sexy guys... Like, really sexy! Sort of boy-next-door-suddenly-grew-up-into-a-movie-star-supermodel sexy... and...

Um, where was I?

Oh, sorry, that went off track. Let me continue.

She sat, as I say, unmoved by the flurry of activity as the men bustled about with expert precision, laying the place settings with a linen mat, silver cutlery, several crystal glasses, intricate china plates of various sizes, in front of us, one from the left, another from the right, darting in and out with perfect choreography. Quickly, the assembled diorama of tableware in front of me, and its precise twin in front of Miss Havisham, was assembled. Immediately the array was complete, I had a sweet-faced, bright-eyed, strong-jawed young man of impeccable professionalism standing at attention, holding a napkin, pausing for my consent to spread it across my lap. At precisely the same moment another, equally magnetic and dreamy fellow paused for Miss Havisham's consent at her side in the same way.

It took me a moment to realize the dance had reached this point, and that a response was in order. Before I could react, Miss Havisham gestured to both men to go ahead, and I needed to spring my hands up beside me to allow him access to the very depth of my lap, barely covered by delicate, lacy material as it was. It was the tiniest thing, but to have a masculine hand sweep across my embarrassingly inadequate modesty-protection of my most private region, and not at my invitation but at Miss Havisham's direction, was a thoroughly delicious breach of my personal space. It was instantly a thrill, and I probably blushed. Admittedly, I was on a hair trigger at that stage, but Miss Havisham had again managed to pick precisely the note that would resonate through me whole self, elevating my awareness of my sensuality to thrilling heights.

Even worse (better), the action of drawing the napkin across my inadequately dressed lap brought my server's neck and shoulder within biting distance as he bent forward to...

Err... did I say "biting distance"? That's my bad. Sorry. It was an intense moment. There was absolutely no biting involved. Promise. He just leaned close, ok? That's what I'm saying. He was close to me. I could smell his leathery cologne, with entwined themes of coumarin and oakmoss, forming an unmistakably masculine fougere aroma that could easily lead a girl far from home if she didn't keep her head about her... What I mean is, I suppose it could. You know? For some girls. I mean, 'allegedly'. Ok? What? He smelled good is all I'm saying. Don't judge me.

Three oysters in the half-shell materialized in front of me, and simultaneously in front of Miss Havisham, delivered by a dispassionate, impossibly attractive server on the left, while on the right an equally dishy boy filled the tallest and skinniest of the several crystal glasses with what I guess must be champagne (although, of course, maybe it was "sparkling wine", because whatever). I didn't really like drinking champagne, but I'd never had it from such a fancy glass, and I had only ever had cheap stuff people buy for the sake of yelling "cheers", taking a performative sip, and then moving on to whatever they actually want to drink.

"Bon appetit", Miss Havisham offered, raising her glass.

"Err, oh. Bon appetit", I attempted, inexpertly, in response, embarrassed at my lack of familiarity with these posh manners. I raised my glass as she had, trying to mirror her every move and not come across too much like a hopeless plebeian.

We sipped. The champagne was really, really nice. Although Miss Havisham had not, I quickly took another sip before replacing the glass, and watched as Miss Havisham selected a weird looking forkish utensil to use on the oysters. I found the same implement among the toolbox that was arrayed on both sides of my plate, and tried as best I could to copy her movements. Thankfully, I did manage to get the slimy, salty thing into my mouth.

Oysters were another thing I had never enjoyed. I had tried them once and I thought they were disgusting. But these! Maybe it was the champagne, or maybe the hint of lemon in the brine, or the freshness of them, or maybe all those things combined, but eating them this time invoked a kind of pleasure that I don't remember experiencing before. It just felt good. I felt... nice, just from eating them. What's the closest thing to this? Maybe real, thick, strong chocolate on a winter day? But it's not really the same. It was so good.

The meal went like this for the first couple of courses, which turned up and were whisked away at precisely the right moment. I was so unfamiliar with all the different types of glasses, cutlery, plates, and even the fancy food itself, that it was all I could do to just copy Miss Havisham's actions and try to not look like an idiot. I didn't attempt conversation. I was concentrating too hard.

My ineptitude and inexperience felt like a whole new kind of nakedness. I was awkwardly trying to fit in, but the more I tried the more I exposed myself as a silly girl. I half enjoyed the shame (ok, more than half), as I apologetically appealed to Miss Havisham for patience while I attempted each new specific skill.

For example, after we finished with the oysters there was soup. It was a flavorful consomme broth, balancing vegetables for flavor with a perfectly poached egg. But at the time it just registered as "soup" to me. As I was enjoying it (and it really was surprisingly nice), Miss Havisham was correcting me, silently, with a raised eyebrow and a demonstration, at almost everything I did. I had no idea there were so many rules about eating soup! I had to sip from the side of the spoon, not blow too conspicuously on it, take from the far side of the bowl, and on and on. Who knew it was so complex? But I was happily enfolded in Miss Havisham's authoritative embrace, eager to obey, wanting to be told, pleasurably warmed by her stern corrections.

Once we had been served the main course, and I began sampling the roast beef, with its buttered vegetables and a rich, heavy gravy, all accompanied by a Bordeaux whose demanding intensity I would normally not be able to tolerate, but which pleasantly lifted and opened out the otherwise heavy gravy texture and flavor, the pace of the meal eased and the opportunity for reflection arose.

The servers had been completely discrete, which was kind of disappointing. I would have enjoyed some flirting or some attention, but they were unimpeachably professional. Dishes and wines appeared and disappeared at precisely the appropriate moment, and without the opportunity to offer a thank you, or interact at all with the waiter as a human being. They were like automatons. Suddenly in the company of all these very cute guys, I was yearning for some conversation, or interaction, or... well, anything!

So I started observing a couple of them as they moved about, or stood completely still awaiting a cue. They were unreadable.

In a dramatic contrast to the girls, and in particular, to Mahogany, whose deepest feelings I could intimately observe, these men were like a brick wall to me, or a blank page. It reminded me of something but I couldn't place it straight away.

"There is a caution I would impress on you, dear, as you start to explore your gift," Miss Havisham suddenly said, bringing me reluctantly back to the immediate moment. I turned my attention to her, really out of courtesy more than anything else, because I would have otherwise daydreamed about the boys some more, but in that moment, as I drew my focus in to Miss Havisham and her remark, it suddenly hit me. I realized what it was about those boys that I was reminded of. It was this! It was Miss Havisham. She, too, was a completely blank page. I could tell absolutely nothing about her inner world, and for the first time I realized that was actually strange to me. Maybe that was part of what had made her such a compelling presence from the moment we met. So used were I to knowing what people were feeling, that it was startling, engaging, mysterious, and magnetic, to meet someone so... blank, so concealed. So mysterious.

"Do you remember the analog we discussed? That of Le Nez? Do you recall I talked about the extensive training required, to hone their ability?" She continued, apparently unaware that I was re-thinking the whole day, wondering how I had not realized earlier that this woman was uniquely beyond my ability to read. Uniquely, that is, before these waiters had surrounded us.

She was waiting for a response. I hadn't been listening. It was like when the teacher calls on you when you're daydreaming and you have to try to replay the last few sentences in your head and actually listen to them this time. I did that, and managed, "Oh, yes. I recall."

She paused, looked straight into my eyes, and for a moment, a fleeting, tiny, instantaneous, impossibly brief moment, between a wall of blankness that I had not noticed until just moments ago, and an identical wall of blankness that crashed back into place immediately afterwards, sandwiched in between the two walls, in an immeasurably small moment of time, I saw it. It was beautiful. I saw Miss Havisham's inner life. It was ornate and delicate, feminine and wise, surrounded by beautiful things, and intricately designed pleasures. It was confident and motherly, subtle and sensual, impeccably modest, but worldly, with an inner feminine power of immeasurable depth and the lurking possibility of some further mystery. Her inner life was... woman. It was all woman. I was stunned to silence. This is who I wanted to be.

"One must cultivate one's ability to protect or reveal one's self as one requires," she continued, such that a casual observer would be unaware of the magnificence and grandeur of the visionary experience she had imparted to me in such a brief instant. "To avoid becoming... vulnerable", still looking directly into my eyes she paused, and I was suddenly assaulted by the most exquisitely naughty sense of naked exposure, at an intensity I had never experienced. It was like when I was up on the bridge over the traffic in this silly little dress, but magnified so many times it was almost unbearable. The erotic swell was immediately dialed up to 11, my pulse was racing, my loins were swelling, I was panting with the hunger and the powerful but undefined need, and I was becoming dazed with a rising generic lustfulness, without any identifiable cause or trigger. Normally it would be associated with some situation, like being exposed in a public place or something, but there was no such cause, just all-consuming effects.

And then it stopped.

I was put off balance, with some elements of my physiology struggling to respond to the rapid shift in stimulation levels. My heart was still pattering, but my eyesight suddenly cleared. The pounding in my ears subsided but I had a light sheen of sweat on my forehead. Had Miss Havisham just... well, what? Had she assaulted me? Had she ravished me? No... She had just made me feel incredibly aroused. it's like she reached inside me and just dialled me up. Is that bad? It didn't feel bad! Except when she stopped, maybe. I couldn't begin to consider the ethical landscape. I enjoyed it, but it did make me understand what she meant by "vulnerable".

The point was taken. Miss Havisham had the power to affect my sensations, not just read them. I needed to learn how to shield myself from both of those things, even if, knowing how to shield myself, let's face it I might choose not to raise that particular shield against Miss Havisham...

I took a large, probably uncouth, gulp of wine, and allowed the dark blackcurrant and cherry flavors to warm and soothe me. "Y-yes," I managed to reply. "I see what you mean. How do I go about that?"

"Thank you, gentlemen. I'll call when we're ready for you," Miss Havisham raised the volume of her voice only a little, and projected it into the room. She needed to give no hand gesture or any other signal to emphasize her instruction. It was understood. To my great disappointment, all the masculinity then sequentially drained from the room as the boys turned immediately and left, unhurried, but swiftly and discretely, robbing me of their tantalizing testosterone. The fourth, on his way past her, deftly deposited a small bell to the side of her place setting. And then he was gone.

The room suddenly felt very empty. just the two of us, with our half-eaten dinner, in this enormous space. No pretty maids, and no hunky waiters. Just the still-mysterious Mary Poppins-type figure and little half-naked me. Oh, and the shopping bag, I noticed, in the far corner of the room near the door, presumably still containing my outfit and the other dresses Miss Havisham had bought.

"When you consider how you've been able to read people in the past, what would you say is the difference between the men and the women?" Miss Havisham had sat back, for the moment ignoring the half-consumed delicious meal, her cutlery resting on the plate at sort of 4 and 8 o'clock positions.

I arranged my cutlery likewise, lowered my hands to my lap, and tried to answer thoughtfully, "Well, I guess it is different. The guys often have simpler feelings, but sometimes it's hard to read them. Girls are almost always easy to read, but their feelings can be a lot more complex and subtle."

For the first time, MIss Havisham looked genuinely surprised. Her eyebrows raised, and she looked intently at me for a moment before returning to a more neutral posture, responding, "Indeed?".

She seemed to be preoccupied in her thoughts, so I didn't interrupt. It didn't seem like she was displeased with my answer. In fact, I sensed she was almost impressed. But it was hard to tell, and of course, I couldn't read her.

"That's... very insightful", she eventually said. "Let's zero in, then, on that bit where you say sometimes it's hard to read the men. When do you notice that?"

I referred back to my thoughts that gave rise to my previous answer, to dig up examples of what I had been referring to, "I suppose it's when they're busy, or preoccupied. Like if they're trying to get something done, they sort of shut down all the feelings and sensations. Or shut them out... maybe? I'm not really sure."

She nodded, puckering her lips in that gesture people make, indicating she approved of the answer, and was considering it.

She reached out and brought the large wine glass to her lips, muttering, "Remarkable", without any explanation, and sipped. Her sip was not, of course, uncouth like mine. It was practically perfect in every way, and as I watched her effortless elegance I again wanted so badly to be like her.

Replacing the glass, apparently having considered whether or not to say her next thought and deciding she would, Miss Havisham said plainly, "These are insights that took me half a lifetime to appreciate, and you have come to them in," she glanced at the stately grandfather clock for a moment, "less than an hour." She was talking ostensibly to me, but almost to herself. She sat back and shook her head slightly, perhaps tutting. I didn't know what to say, so I stayed quiet.

"Hmf," she eventually said, seemingly shaking herself out of some deep thoughts, "Alright, then. So what do you suppose you would need to do to shield your own feelings from Sight?"

I thought about it. I wanted to impress her. I wanted to please her with another 'insightful' response. But I really wasn't sure. Was I supposed to say I should get busy? Get distracted?

"I... I'm not sure, Miss Havisham. I suppose I need to think like a man, but I don't really know how to do that." I could only answer honestly.

She seemed gratified, perhaps because there was, after all, some wisdom she was going to be able to impart. She seemed to like being in that role, and I suppose she was pleased that I needed her tutelage.