Touring Persephone
by Cervo © 2006

Penrose Carrington sat looking at his smooth skin and square jaw in the tall mirror that was far across the room. Surrounded by a heavy golden frame it reported back an image that amazed and delighted him. He could see his own strawberry blonde hair, his pale blue eyes, and the slight cant of his mouth. This last feature always made him seem as if he were softly smiling.

Naturally athletic, he wore his new clothes with the easy grace of a beautiful person in excellently tailored fabric. He reached into his pocket for a cigarette and then seeing the gesture in the mirror, thought better of the risk. Others might smoke here at leisure. He would retain the perfection that had brought him here by not lighting a fag. This was the Century Club, the Olmsted bastion of 45th Street where power came in the form of men whose stride was so great that it made no sound on the Persian carpets. Here they sailed like bold galleons on a sea of grey and blue pinstripe. Penrose looked more suited to a country club and he would be visiting one directly after lunch with Roland Dalrymple, his father-in-law to be, the man to whose tailor Penrose had been sent.

In the Century Club voices never rose above a murmur, and yet if these men made some small gesture toward Wall Street, it could shake the pavement. The spring of 1929 was ending. Some said the year had got off to a shaky start. Others were confident of their grip as the summer approached. Penrose was here looking at them as they, now and then, looked at him. His mouth was dry and even though he had just finished lunch with cocktails, he wanted a drink badly.

Roland Dalrymple walked toward him across the sea of Persian carpets while chatting quietly with a friend who had stopped by their table during lunch. When they drew near, Penrose stood. He waited a couple of beats and then flashed his most winning, if slightly impatient, smile. Roland paused and turned to him saying, "Yes?" with something between mild curiosity and disapproval in his voice.

"I’m very sorry, Mr. Dalrymple—" at which the other man ever so slightly bridled and smiled softly. "I beg your pardon, Roland. I am still getting used to calling you that, Sir. I have to catch a train to New Haven. I have a meeting there and then I’m clearing out my digs at Yale."

"Young Carrington has just finished at Yale, Harvey," said Roland to his companion whose name had never been passed along. Penrose looked at him and smiled. The older man seemed suddenly fascinated by him though perhaps he was just a trifle drunk.

"Yes, well, just starting out, eh? What a long and open road is before you, Young Man," he said with avuncular satisfaction. But before the road could be described, Penrose demurred again and escaped down the wide dun-colored marble sweeping curve of stairs to pick up his hat and depart. Lacking the funds for a tip, he left the attendant one of his most winning smiles which was almost enough to compensate. She was the only woman he had ever seen in the place, and had very pretty eyes above her even prettier figure.

As he whipped out the main door, he saw a champagne bottle rise from the hood of a yellow Packard Phaeton parked at the curb with one wheel on the sidewalk. The bottle landed in the back seat. The car was an endless creamy yellow vista of polished steel. It was adorned with burgundy detail and what seemed a ton of chromium on its long low slung body. Two angels sat upon the hood. The first was the winged figure that Packard had provided. It stretched forth its arms straining with deco diligence to race toward a glistening future.

The other angel was a girl named Persephone Dalrymple, his fiancé. She lay against the windscreen on her side looking crosstown toward the Hudson. Her short yellow dress set off her finely-toned, small, perky body. Persy Dalrymple had silvery blonde hair and great violet eyes made larger by her tiny, slightly upturned nose. Her mouth had full lips that were just slightly open to reveal the permanent start of her smile. Her outfit was given gravity by her bone tap shoes and cream pattern stockings. A long string of pearls gave the ensemble élan as they snaked down and around her breast. The cleavage of her dress was cut quite low so that the plump curve of both of them was visible. There the pearls rested in the warmth between her high, perfectly matched, small breasts.

Finding her this way, unexpectedly, made his heart pound like a hammer. He started toward the car but then she spoke as though she had not yet seen he was there. She said to no one in particular,

"My Daddy guards his baby girl when she lies down to rest,
And just because I love him so, I always do my best.
God care for me and Daddy too when I sleep in my bed,
For Daddy and the Lord above protect my sleepy head."

Then she slowly turned her large eyes to him and looked at him through her long dark lashes, "Daddy kept you in there forever, Penny."

"I didn’t know you were going to be here."

"Neither did I, but we ran out of champagne."

"We?" he asked seeing no one else in the car.

"I and the Packard. We have a very strong relationship," she said slipping off the hood onto the high fender and then deftly sliding down it to land on her feet. The car’s suspension dipped ever so slightly like a great palfrey helping a princess to dismount. She walked to him and threw her arms around his neck. Raising her lips to his, she hesitantly pressed them against his until at last he could resist no more and pulled her to him.

"And now you, of course, which makes three. We three. You, me, and the Packard, all by our lonesome on 45th Street. You better stop kissing me or Daddy might see. You don’t want him to punish us, do you?"

Penrose tried not to flinch or glance back up at the windows of the club, but the effort gave him away. Persy backed away from him looking up and shading her eyes with exaggerated effort.

"Nope, I don’t think he’s watching. Not now anyway. Aren’t you glad to see me?" she asked switching gears. She was fond of such sudden changes of direction.

In truth he was not that glad to see her. He had things to do. He owed his bookie some money, and he needed to get his stuff out of his room at Yale before they chucked it in the trash. On the other hand, the nearness of her was completely irresistible. He was drawn to her in a way he could never deny.

He could neither think nor speak around her when he wanted her this way, and moments before the heat of her skin had been searing the palms of his hands from under her wisp of a dress. Even in the torrential roar of Manhattan, his senses focused on the smell of her perfume, her skin, and the scent of her hair as he remembered it just now against his cheek.

He had to seem in control of all this in case Roland was watching, but also because the more his adoration for Persy grew, the less control he had over their relationship. He had tried to restore balance. He got drunk a couple of times with his buddies just to dull his senses. Then he drove all the way to Cambridge to seduce a sour matronly girl from Radcliffe he met at a tea. None of it brought him back to the earth. He never quite knew who or where Persy was, and so each moment with her was a sudden and often terrifying discovery. He had developed the habit of following her lead like her puppy.

It would not do to be her spaniel at her heel even though he would not have minded that at all. He had to assert herself with her and become her master. He longed to make a good impression on Roland as a man who was up to being his relation.

"I have to catch a train, Persephone," he said patiently.

"Oh poo," she said, " You do not."

"I have to go to New Haven."

"Well maybe you have to go there, but you don’t need to catch a train. You have a nice big Packard with the top down and only one empty bottle in the backseat, see? And a sweet little buttercup. That would be me."

Penrose looked at her. In any other girl, all this cuteness would be revolting, but in her it was a commentary on the person she pretended to be. It was her cover. Between them it was a joke at which they both could giggle behind their hands when she behaved this way. It was a secret pact between them that bound him to her as one of the few that were allowed to see beyond it.

She tossed her clutch into the car and trotted around to the driver’s side. Then she got in and patted the front seat next to her. "Come," she said. "Why resist?"

Something told him he should.

"Don’t want to be seen letting a girl drive you? I know you are a big boy. Isn’t that enough for you at least for now?" she asked. She patted the seat again. He looked at her tiny slender fingers that were the petals of her lovely hand. He got in. The leather seat was a miracle of comfort after dodging the piercing gaze of her father during lunch. He leaned back, shoved his boater over his eyes, and pointed his finger forward toward the West Side.

"That way," he said with authority. "Better move," he said. "We’ll get a ticket."

"Hah," she said and paused to slick down a spit curl next to her eye.

Clearly she did not think a ticket possible but she hammered the accelerator anyway after popping the clutch into gear. The long, heavy roadster squealed in front of a taxi and cut off a truck as she slammed across Sixth Avenue just behind the green light. The Packard snarled, roared, and shoved its way across the island in fits and starts. Penrose was able to hide it but he was a little rattled.

"I’m pretty good, hunh?" she said stopping at Twelfth Avenue. Horns screeched and balled behind her as she adjusted the hem of her short dress for discretion.

"Yes", he said thinking about the smooth surface of her thighs.

An hour later they had fought their way out of the City and were on the Saw Mill River Parkway heading north toward Westchester. It was hardly a direct route to New Haven, but directness was not interesting to Persy Dalrymple. She turned off the parkway into a little town where there was a road house. Inside, she bribed the bartender for two martinis made with something that might remind someone of gin, if it had been made in anything other than a bathtub.

Penrose looked nervous again. "You don’t think ladies should drink gin, do you, Penny? I suppose you think I ought to have a chauffeur, don’t you? Well, I am a modern girl, and I don’t fancy being someone’s lap dog, do you?"

Her eyebrows rose and she gave him a look of challenging enquiry. "Lap dog?" he said. "I don’t think so, Persy, but I do mean to take care of you, you know."

"And will you buy me Packards, Penny?"

He looked out the window at the car and having no idea what such a wonder would cost these days, he said, "We’ll see."

"Yes, we shall. Daddy had the peddles lengthened just for me so I could reach them. It’s a big car you know, the Packard." Then without missing a beat or stopping to inhale she said, "Do you know I only got one really bad spanking when I was a little girl, Penny. It was because I brought home a dog."

"A dog?"

"Yes, he was a mutt. My father said we could not have him around the pure breds. He was angry with me, but he shot the dog. Then he spanked me as hard as he could for making the dog suffer. I couldn’t sit for three days without wincing. Come on, let’s go," she said and danced out of the bar having tossed off her drink.

One could pull off to the side of the parkway to enjoy the trees or look at a pond. Not much later, Persy pulled the car into a siding and they walked across a mowed field in the twilight to a stand of young elm trees. She pushed him back against the rough bark and then leaned against him letting the full pressure of her breasts and hips mould to his. He started to kiss her.

She said, "Shut up" rather roughly. Then she undid his tie and tied it around his eyes.

Unprovoked, she repeated, "Shut up, I said," and then she pressed her hand against his chest shoving him hard against the tree. "Shut up," she whispered and in a second, she had whisked off his belt. Then taking his wrist, she gently brought it around to the back of the tree. She rested his palm against the smooth downward slope of her belly as she reached around to get the other hand. He could feel a small cushion of pubic hair beneath the fabric of her dress. Was she wearing panties? He had seen no lines in the drape of her dress. Then she yanked the belt hard around his wrists and pulled it tight enough to hurt. She wrapped the end around his wrists again and buckled it.

He began to speak but she came around to face him and said, "Shut up," in a very quiet voice. She slapped him firmly across one cheek, paused a moment and then slapped the other. That done, she placed her hand against his cock to feel it growing until—almost as an experiment—she squeezed his balls abruptly. He winced and yelled.

"You boys are so big, so hard, but so fragile too." She squeezed again harder and he squealed softly with surprise at the pain.

"That hurts," he said in a very low voice. "That really hurts," he said, but this time in a smaller voice.

"Well, yes, I suppose it does. I mean that was the idea," she said and pressed her fingernail under his balls and upward into his crotch. At first he stiffened in her other hand, but then the pain began and made him writhe a bit.

She kissed his ear and whispered, "Oh, Penny, I just don’t know if you are up to this. Be a big boy now for Persy."

But he could no longer speak to answer.

"We’ll see," she said. Then she undid his trousers and let them drop to the grass. She opened his shirt and took a nail file from her bag. With this she made ragged tears in his undershirt until she could reach his nipples which she pinched a little fiercely. Then she took hold of his shorts and yanked them to his knees.

He opened his mouth to complain but she was ready. She took her lace handkerchief from between her breasts and grabbed his nose. At last he had to breathe and opened his teeth at which point she shoved the perfumed cloth inside.

"There now you are such a sweet child and without one naughty word of complaint." She took hold of his cock and began to roughly slide her hand along its length. She knelt in the grass and kissed the slit at the tip which made it jump like a fish. She slipped her fingers between his legs and worked them upward until she found the spot in back of his balls again.

Using her sharp fingernails she eased her fingers back toward his anus where they had to be allowed to go or they would cut him. Once there, she slipped her finger inside to the first knuckle and watched his cock bounce and drip in the purple twilight. Sinking her finger tip deeper and deeper, she took his cock in her mouth and began a slow dance of gathering momentum. She fucked his ass as she sucked his cock each in a counter motion that drove him back and forth against the coarse tree bark marking his back and ass.

She tasted the clear fluid that his cock released and then felt his body gathering to explode. She sucked and bit him to urge and slow his coming. She sucked and bit some more. Five times she brought him to the edge and bit him to prevent him going over the edge. Then at last in an iron grip, she jerked his length until he roared into the night and came in bursting streams over the grass before him.

"Well how was that, Sugarplum?" she asked as she plucked the handkerchief from between his lips.

He made a groan and then a grunt. He could not speak.

"Mmmmmhmmmm," she said," I think it was just fine, don’t you? So pretty—such a pretty, pretty, pretty boy."

Finally his breath calmed, "You can’t. You can’t do this to me," he said.

"Oh now, are we feeling a little used? I can’t, you say? Can’t? No, not unless you let me just the way you did just now. But you can see that I most certainly can do that…and more. Be a man, Penrose, and admit it. You like it. You love it really."

"I’m not a dog, Persy. I can’t be tied and made to be your pet."

"No? I suppose not." She backed away from him to look him over now more carefully.

"You know the dog, Penny? He was not just a pet. He wanted to be near me. He would have endured anything for that, and he did."

Minutes later she was gone. The rumble of the great Packard pulled out onto the Parkway and the low saloon slipped into the darkness for points unknown and undeclared. The sun set. He was alone.

_______
© 2006 Cervo.  All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Bio: Cervo lives in an aged brownstone in a curiously eclectic part Brooklyn with his dogs, an otterhound and a puli as well as his cat, his friends and his tenants. He gardens whenever he has a spare moment in his backyard. Around him live the chic of New York in the hottest neighborhood in the City which is also inhabited by gangs, derelicts, real estate developers, whores, and sundry creatures surviving in a nearby pestilential canal. Inspiration to him is like flirting. It often starts as a disturbing brush with the sensual.

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