Page 54 of The Two Wills

It was then I understood: She loved the Poet exactly as I did. And while it made me melancholy that my passion for him was not unique, it also made me consider her as something other than my enemy. There was an alliance in our misery, which dulled the edges of my loathing.

“Did he really tell you I was exceptional?” I repeated.

“He is always blathering on about how spectacular you are. ‘Willy Hughes is so talented, Willy Hughes is so breathtaking, Willy Hughes has the gentlest heart under all that roughness.’ It’s so tiresome sometimes. He has called you his greatest muse.”

“He has?” I could feel my face blush.

“He did. It’s not hard to see why. That alabaster complexion, rosy cheeks, those eyes like blue flames, that pink mouth …” She touched my lips. “I envy you those lips.”

I reciprocated her close inspection. Despite all the cruel things I had said, I could see why the Poet had lusted after her, and why many men might; her flawless skin glowing golden brown with the fires of her faraway land; her incredibly plump lips, which, even unrouged, appeared as if she had been sucking on raspberries; her full bosom that heaved like the ocean whenever she breathed. Despite her slight accent, she spoke as if she had been proper bred or had gained enough wisdom to appear as such. She smelled exquisite and expensive.

When she saw I was noticing all her bits and pieces, she leaned in further as if she wanted me to kiss her. It perplexed me, but I wondered what it would feel like—to know what the Poet experienced when he tasted her lips. And then another thought—If I kiss her, am I not also kissing him?

Whether it was she or I who actualized that first kiss I do not know, but soon we were tearing at the strings of our respective dresses, pulling at each other’s black hair. It was not the first woman’s hand I had felt on my person, but it was the first time a woman reached under a skirt to tug at my willy. Not wanting to be selfish, I took her breast to my mouth, causing her to shiver and make much noise. We returned to kissing; I could not cease from peeping at our twinned images in the glass. There was something in our mutual self-adoration that made the whole charade most enjoyable. I was making love to the woman who had stolen my love’s eyes, and she was making love to the boy who had inspired her lover’s heart—yet we appeared as if we were the same person, pieced together to please the Poet.

Worried that I might spill my seed before I could achieve true consummation, I pulled her hand from my privates. “I want to be inside you! The way you were with Will that night on the beach.”

“Lie on the floor,” she commanded, and I obeyed, lifting my skirts so my staff pointed toward her ceiling.

She pulled off her undergarments, hiked up her dress, straddled me, and slid my cock inside her. At first, I was surprised by the sensation. So different from a man’s arse, where one must use kitchen fat to break through the tight entrance. Her maiden’s pocket felt warm and syrupy and yet firmly gripped my full length. She began to ride me as she had done with the Poet.

To maintain my turgid involvement, I imagined myself as him and imagined her as myself. This excited me much, and I began thrusting back mightily. Her nails stabbed into my arms. “Slowly, Hughes!” she demanded, and I allowed her to guide the movement with her hips.

She then changed positions so that she was on her knees, with her green skirts lifted to expose her ample buttocks. She guided me back inside and then pulled my one hand around to her nipple and the other to her bud, telling me to flick it gently with my thumb and finger. It was a moment of great learning.

“Now you may thrust,” she commanded, “but do it more like you are pounding wheat and less like churning butter.”

I did as I was told, as the Poet would have, playing with her bosom, tickling and thrusting, allowing my cock to slide in and out, pausing to let the tip tickle her bud for a bit. It did feel lovely—at least as a novelty. “My pleasure is close, Madam,” I whispered loudly. “May I let loose?”

But then, as if possessed, she shouted “No!” and pushed me from her, kneeing me in my aching and erect manhood, which had already begun to spit.

“Ow!” I cried. “Why’d you do that?”

She appeared most guilty, but her eyes were cast toward the door. “Oh dear,” she said with a faint, nervous titter before shrugging. “Two Wills, what’s a girl to do?”

Looking where she looked, I saw the Poet himself standing at the room’s edge, staring at us with the most horrible expression of pain upon his face. Next to him stood Richard Burbage, crushing a gleeful smile.

“How now! What make of you this, Will?” Burbage cried. “A riot of Roses losing their petals, and yet only one prick.”

“I … I don’t understand,” was all the Poet could say.

At a total loss, I stammered, “I’m … I was … testing out a wig and outfit for the character of Rosalind in your new play, and Rose—her namesake—was helping me …”

“I can see she was helping you,” the Poet said numbly, his voice devoid of any joy.

“Get dressed,” Burbage demanded. “Both of you! A pox on you both for insulting this poor man! Shame!”

I pushed Rose from my lap and began lacing myself back up. “It wasn’t my fault. It was her idea.”

“This youth lies,” Rose said, also adjusting her clothing to a more modest covering. “To imply I’d ever be the forward actor in this romp. I’m insulted.” She addressed the Poet. “This young ruffian entered my room in this outlandish costume and practically ravaged me. He might look angelic but he and that pet sea monster betwixt his legs are most aggressive. I feel faint!” She acted as if she were dizzy.

“Ravaged you?” the Poet asked with disbelief. “His ‘pet sea monster’?” His look of confusion suddenly crumpled into laughter.

“Oh, that’s rich!” Burbage joined the Poet in his hysterics, grabbing him by his shoulder as if the humorous situation had rendered him unable to stand. “I better tell the rest of the company to lock up their wives to protect them from Willy Hughes’s sea monster.” This laid the way for more laughter.

“I doubt his staff managed any turgidity past custard,” the Poet said, nudging Burbage who snorted himself into another round of laughter. I then could see true hurt and rage begin to seep into the Poet’s eyes as he aimed them at Rose. “He’s never even been with a woman, he’s told me. Especially not with one such as you—a woman who claims all the lovers for herself on Saint Valentine’s Day. If anyone seduced anyone, I blame you, Madam.”

Rose’s face, which only seconds before, was twisted in feigned kindness, suddenly fell to an expression of pure, wounded ice. “So, you’re not angry at him for fucking me?” she asked bitterly. “It’s all just peaches and plums for you?”