sex, to give himself better sight of it.
Then he stared.
'What are you thinking?' she said.
He fingered her for a moment, then ran his moistened digit down to her arse. 'I'm thinking ...' he said, '... that
I'd rather have this today.'
'Oh would you?'
He pressed his finger in a little way. She squirmed. 'Let me put it here,' he said. 'Just the head.'
'There are no children to be had that way,' she said.
'I don't care,' he replied. 'It's what I want.'
'Well, I don't,' she replied.
He smiled at her. 'Rosa-' he said softly -you could not deny me.'
He slipped his hands beneath her knees and hoisted them up. 'We should give up all hope of children,' he said,
staring at the dark bud between her buttocks. 'They have always come to nothing.' She made no reply. 'Are you
listening, love?' He glanced up at her face. She wore a sorrowful expression.
'No more children?' she said.
He spat in his hand, and slickened his prick. Spat again, more copiously, and slickened her arse.
'No more children,' he said, drawing her closer to him. 'It's a waste of your affections, smothering love on a
thing that hasn't even got the wit to love you back.'
This was the truth of the matter: that though they had together made children numbering in the many dozens, he
had for her sake taken them from her in the moment of their delivery and put them out of their misery, if the
cretins ever knew misery. He would dutifully come back when he'd disassembled them and disposed of the
pieces, always with the same grim news. That though they were fine to look at, their skulls contained only
bloody fluid. Not even a rough sketch of a brain; nothing.
He pushed his prick into her. 'It's better this way,' he said.
She let out a little sob. He couldn't tell whether it was out of sorrow or pleasure, and at that moment didn't really
care. He pressed against the warmth of her muscle, his prick utterly enveloped. Oh, it was good.
'No ... children ... then.. .' Mrs McGee gasped.
'No children.'
'Not ever?'
'Not ever.'
She reached up and took hold of his shirt, pulling him down towards her.
'Kiss,' she said.
'Be careful what you ask for
'Kiss,' she said again, raising her face towards his.
He didn't deny her. He pressed his lips against hers, and let her tongue, which was nimble, dart between his
aching teeth. His mouth was always drier than hers. His parched gums and throat drank deep, and murmuring
his gratitude against her lips, he pressed hard into her, their hold on one another suddenly frantic. Her hands
went to his throat, then to his face, then to his backside, pushing him deeper, while his fingers pulled at her
buttons to gain access to her breasts.
'Who are you?' she said to him.
'Anyone,' he gasped.
'Who?'
'Pieter, Martin, Laurent, Paolo-'
'Laurent. I liked Laurent.'
'He's here.'
'Who else?'
'I forget all the names,' Jacob confessed.
Rosa brought her hands back up to his face, and caught tight hold of it. 'Remember for me,' she said to him.
'There was a carpenter called Bernard-'
'Oh yes. He was very rough with me.'
'And Darlington
-the draper. Very tender.' She laughed. 'Didn't one of them wrap me up in silk?'
'Did he?'
'And poured cream in my lap. You could be him. Whoever he was.'
'We have no cream.'
'And no silk. Think of something else.'
'I could be Jacob,' he said.
'You could, I suppose,' she said, 'but it's not as much fun. Think of someone else.'
'There was Josiah. And Michael. And Stewart. And Roberto-' She moved her body to the rhythm of his litany.
So many men, whose names and professions he'd borrowed to excite her, wrapping himself in their reputations
for an hour or a day; seldom longer. 'I used to like this game,' he said.
'But not any more?'
'If we knew what we were...'
'Hush now.'
... maybe it wouldn't hurt so much.'
'It doesn't matter,' she said. 'Not as long as we're together. As long as you're inside me.'
They were knitted now, so tightly wound around each other, limbs and kisses
Then he stared.
'What are you thinking?' she said.
He fingered her for a moment, then ran his moistened digit down to her arse. 'I'm thinking ...' he said, '... that
I'd rather have this today.'
'Oh would you?'
He pressed his finger in a little way. She squirmed. 'Let me put it here,' he said. 'Just the head.'
'There are no children to be had that way,' she said.
'I don't care,' he replied. 'It's what I want.'
'Well, I don't,' she replied.
He smiled at her. 'Rosa-' he said softly -you could not deny me.'
He slipped his hands beneath her knees and hoisted them up. 'We should give up all hope of children,' he said,
staring at the dark bud between her buttocks. 'They have always come to nothing.' She made no reply. 'Are you
listening, love?' He glanced up at her face. She wore a sorrowful expression.
'No more children?' she said.
He spat in his hand, and slickened his prick. Spat again, more copiously, and slickened her arse.
'No more children,' he said, drawing her closer to him. 'It's a waste of your affections, smothering love on a
thing that hasn't even got the wit to love you back.'
This was the truth of the matter: that though they had together made children numbering in the many dozens, he
had for her sake taken them from her in the moment of their delivery and put them out of their misery, if the
cretins ever knew misery. He would dutifully come back when he'd disassembled them and disposed of the
pieces, always with the same grim news. That though they were fine to look at, their skulls contained only
bloody fluid. Not even a rough sketch of a brain; nothing.
He pushed his prick into her. 'It's better this way,' he said.
She let out a little sob. He couldn't tell whether it was out of sorrow or pleasure, and at that moment didn't really
care. He pressed against the warmth of her muscle, his prick utterly enveloped. Oh, it was good.
'No ... children ... then.. .' Mrs McGee gasped.
'No children.'
'Not ever?'
'Not ever.'
She reached up and took hold of his shirt, pulling him down towards her.
'Kiss,' she said.
'Be careful what you ask for
'Kiss,' she said again, raising her face towards his.
He didn't deny her. He pressed his lips against hers, and let her tongue, which was nimble, dart between his
aching teeth. His mouth was always drier than hers. His parched gums and throat drank deep, and murmuring
his gratitude against her lips, he pressed hard into her, their hold on one another suddenly frantic. Her hands
went to his throat, then to his face, then to his backside, pushing him deeper, while his fingers pulled at her
buttons to gain access to her breasts.
'Who are you?' she said to him.
'Anyone,' he gasped.
'Who?'
'Pieter, Martin, Laurent, Paolo-'
'Laurent. I liked Laurent.'
'He's here.'
'Who else?'
'I forget all the names,' Jacob confessed.
Rosa brought her hands back up to his face, and caught tight hold of it. 'Remember for me,' she said to him.
'There was a carpenter called Bernard-'
'Oh yes. He was very rough with me.'
'And Darlington
-the draper. Very tender.' She laughed. 'Didn't one of them wrap me up in silk?'
'Did he?'
'And poured cream in my lap. You could be him. Whoever he was.'
'We have no cream.'
'And no silk. Think of something else.'
'I could be Jacob,' he said.
'You could, I suppose,' she said, 'but it's not as much fun. Think of someone else.'
'There was Josiah. And Michael. And Stewart. And Roberto-' She moved her body to the rhythm of his litany.
So many men, whose names and professions he'd borrowed to excite her, wrapping himself in their reputations
for an hour or a day; seldom longer. 'I used to like this game,' he said.
'But not any more?'
'If we knew what we were...'
'Hush now.'
... maybe it wouldn't hurt so much.'
'It doesn't matter,' she said. 'Not as long as we're together. As long as you're inside me.'
They were knitted now, so tightly wound around each other, limbs and kisses
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