NOTE: This is the final chapter of The Gentlemen's Club.
*
ROBERT'S RETURN
Robert Higgins had a very deliberate way of doing things and required his home be kept in similar fashion; any object out of place, no matter how small, was cause for severe recrimination. On this, the day of his return, Sarah had gone to lengths to ensure that everything was just so.
She ran her eyes thoroughly about the single-room dwelling one final time, searching for anything that was in even the smallest way removed from its rightful place. She brushed away non-existent dust, arranged for the hundredth time her husband's bed stand, and ensured yet again that his bed coverings were perfectly laid.
The sound of harness, followed by a single horse bray, signaled to her that the time had come. Robert was home! She ran to the door, smoothing her pearl-colored dress while fluffing her petticoats, and running her fingers along her brilliant red hairline one last time to tuck any stray strands behind her ears.
The door opened and in stepped her husband, Robert Higgins. Sarah, as was the custom, stood waiting just inside the doorway. Having entered, Robert would drop his saddlebag and inspect everything, leaving no drawer unopened and no cupboard door shut.
Some fifteen minutes later Robert finished his inspection and, finding nothing wanting, turned his attention to Sarah.
"Sarah," he said, raising his arms for an embrace.
"Robert," she replied, stepping forward.
He patted her twice on the upper back before pulling away; it was awkward, the kind of forced embrace one man might give his brother's wife (if such an embrace were given at all), a perfunctory show of emotion Robert felt his wife needed far more than he himself.
"You've been well?" he asked.
"Yes," she answered slowly, averting her gaze. She really didn't want to talk much about her goings on during his absence; rather, she was far more interested in what he had done and what the future might hold. This was just as well, as Robert Higgins was not a man terribly interested in what his wife had to say.
"Very good, then. I must say, I'm very pleased with how things have gone the last two weeks. It certainly appears that my hard work has paid off!"
"Yes, it does."
"Well then, shall we eat?"
Sarah's heart raced at the thought. Would they actually be going out, to celebrate—
"I should very much like some biscuits and gravy. The paltry offerings available while traveling are hardly fit for a criminal! I'll be reviewing my papers," he said, brushing Sarah off with the back of his hand, literally shooing her away. "Tell me when it's done."
"Yes, of course," she answered, bowing her head slightly and going to the small kitchen, frowning. Biscuits alone would take over an hour to prepare…
*
"Ah, delicious, very good indeed."
Sarah never prepared such a meal for herself, it taking so dreadfully long; she appreciated that her husband enjoyed it, of course, even if he never once said thank you.
He was a man slow to appreciate, and slower still to compliment.
While they spoke off and on during the meal (Robert mostly talking, Sarah mostly listening), one thought kept nagging at the back of Sarah's mind:
Robert never really says anything to ME.
He spoke at length of the hardships of traveling, of the dickering with various clients, of the seeming impossibility of attaining a quality meal in most back wood locales (though he had tried, evidently, as he never ran out of feeding troughs to disparage). He spared no criticism of his firm's handling of various affairs, everything from how cheap they were to their deployment of a 'special negotiator' to the especially unruly and uncooperative sellers. It seemed that some men were so attached to their property that they were simply unwilling to sell, no matter the price; after a visit by the 'special negotiator,' they seemed to find religion and often settled for a price lower than the highest number Robert himself had offered. It was very confusing, that, impossible to fathom how a man would sell later for a price lower than he was initially offered.
"Their loss, of course. Ah, the hour grows late," he said, gazing at his pocket watch expectantly. He turned to Sarah: "After you've cleaned up a bit, perhaps we should retire for the evening?"
The dishes would take another hour, plus cleaning herself afterwards ('after you've cleaned up a bit' being the operative phrase) would take at least half an hour more. She was in for a late night.
Perhaps, under the covers, she could chase with her husband that which she had been capturing alone the last few nights. This idea brought a curious little smile, a twisting of her lips at the corner that would have piqued the interest of any normal, red-blooded man.
Robert seemed more intent on reviewing his papers…
*
Sarah was exhausted. She'd spent all day cleaning, arranging, and preparing for her husband's arrival. Once he had arrived, she had actually worked harder, preparing his meal, cleaning up afterwards, putting away his personal effects, and washing herself in preparation for bed. She almost felt she'd rather just go to sleep even though it now meant, after her husband's return, moving to her own much smaller cot situated at the foot of her husband's bed.
Clean, she crawled up into his bed, wearing only a shift—the thinnest, smallest one she owned. It was not at all like the nightgowns she usually wore to bed, thick and cumbersome garments that she wrestled up and bunched uncomfortably about her waist whilst performing her wifely duties. This smaller, thinner garment permitted a view of her body, something she had never before offered to her husband.
This was but the first of a great many things she intended to do for him that she had never done before.
Lying beneath the covers, Sarah nearly shivered with anticipation. For several nights now she had (shamefully, but not so much that it prevented her) masturbated before going to sleep. The very first night she hadn't even made it to bed but instead used the tip of her finger and, with just the slightest touch, had a miniscule orgasm while kneeling against her bed frame, visions of Master Collins and his approval filling her mind. The second night she had slid between the sheets and covered herself completely; beneath the covers, pitch black, she had thought of Mr. Winthrop's tongue, dancing around so delicately, and achieved a much more robust release, one she was sure had lasted at least two or three seconds. The next day—the last before her husband returned—all she could think about was the coming night, the sure knowledge that she, Sarah, would be experiencing a certain self-induced pleasure, wriggling purposely beneath the sheets.
That night she thought, not of Master Collins, or of Mr. Winthrop, but her
own passion
as she manipulated herself, a concentration focused on her finger and the feeling that if she just barely brushed the side and rubbed
down
, in a very particular way, she might reveal the most outrageous feelings she had ever known. She did, it was, and she most certainly
had
.
Of course, this self manipulation did not come without consequence. Thinking back, she could never remember being specifically
told
that it was wrong to touch herself, she had just
known
. And yet, was it wrong to give herself such pleasure? Surely she provided this for her husband! If it was not wrong for him, why should it be so for her?
Wasn't she allowed to enjoy the physical act?
Even alone?
She felt that, certainly, she was! And she had decided that she WOULD!
Still, in her prayers (which she no longer delivered kneeling beside the bed) she failed to mention these personal, ah,
indiscretions
, feeling that eventually the time would come. It didn't matter that He knew all—she preferred very much not to think of Him looking down upon her as she furtively moved her fingers around underneath the covers.
*
A shuffling about indicated that her husband was coming to bed. Sarah was very nervous; for the first time, she was actually looking forward to performing her wifely duties. She hoped that he would be pleased with her choice of garments. She felt the bed shift as he sat on the edge and watched his back as he blew out the candle.
The room was very dark. He lifted the edge of the covers and slid beneath, lying precisely beside her lengthwise, the same as always. She knew what came next—he would slink around and down, placing himself between her thighs. That was the point, the parting of her legs that usually saw her disconnect and concentrate instead on many other things than that which her husband was preparing to do.
Tonight she accommodated him, spreading her knees and parting her thighs. Instead of closing her eyes or looking away she searched for him. Even though it was dark, her eyes were becoming accustomed enough so that she could see a dark shape hovering, a slight twinkle of starlight reflected from his eyes. He paused a moment, weight on his knees, with a hand on either side of her waist supporting his upper body.
It had never occurred to her to even question what he did as a husband, she having had no reference point for comparison. Now, twisted though her experience was, she knew that men touched women (sometimes cruelly), caressing, stroking, twisting and, occasionally, squeezing almost uncomfortably in all the places that women were round and soft and full. She had spent so many years hiding her body, even from her husband, that she failed to notice his failure to notice, an observation she was wholly unable to comprehend.
She heard him muttering under his breath, words she couldn't understand, and felt him shuffling around.
He's lowering his drawers
, she realized. As always she merely laid there, arms at her sides, waiting for him to do what he would—only this time with the tiniest flicker of desire deep within her breast.
Seconds later the bed began shaking, rocking quickly back and forth. Sarah herself remained untouched.
He's… he's touching… himself
, she realized with shock.
He's touching himself!
She reached back in her mind, searching those dark moments she had tried so desperately to ignore, trying to remember a time when he… no, it couldn't be! A dawning realization struck home:
