wandering and nipped me sharply, then trailed her tongue lightly down my body. She took my manhood into her mouth for a moment, then continued stroking me with her hand as she slowly moved her lips to my inner thigh. I shuddered, gasped at a sudden sharp pain as she bit me, then surrendered to the most intense carnal ecstasy I had ever felt. It was pure pleasure; all that I thought of as myself, all thought itself, vanished in wave after wave of bliss.
As the feeling receded I felt thoroughly enervated, almost drained, unable to tell how much time had passed. She rose from me then, licked her lips and smiled as she fetched a basin and ewer that sat nearby. “I wonder that it’s not dripping from the ceiling,” I mumbled as she washed my spilled seed off me. Try as I would, I could not stay awake. I mumbled an apology, which was genially accepted, then gave myself over to sleep.
Before dawn she woke me with a kiss. I reached for her, but she laughed and eluded me, thrusting my clothing into my seeking hands. I sat up and began to dress, feeling oddly giddy and light headed, as if I had been bled. Rózsa, having already donned her gown, awaited me by the door.
Only a few gamblers were still at the tables, their sodden heads upon their arms Frizer among them. Seething with sudden uncontrolled rage and humiliation at the memory of his words to Tom upon our parting, I drew my dagger and stepped towards the drunken man. I did not truly know if I intended to follow my impulse and cut the villain’s throat or to settle for merely frightening him into soiling himself. A light touch on my arm swung me face to face with Rózsa and all thought of vengeance fled. “Do not spill blood in this house,” she said quietly and drew me out the door.
Dusk that evening found me, for once, sitting at home. I had slept heavily until late afternoon, then dressed to go out, but had turned instead to moping about my chamber thinking of Rózsa. I had never before been attracted to any woman, never so much as found even one of them in the least interesting. Why had she such an unaccountable effect upon me?
My friend and fellow playwright, Watson, had once taxed me with being a sodomite for spite, saying that if it were made the common practice and marriage forbidden, then Marlowe would surely wed a woman within a fortnight. Had he after all been correct? Was it more a matter of perversity than perversion? I did not like to think so, but then, Rózsa. Oh, Rózsa.
The winter daylight, limp and dingy as old linen, brightened neither my chamber nor my mood. Twice I sat down to work, but found myself merely thumbing through my pages with growing dissatisfaction. I was thinking I’d not go out at all, but send out for a meal, when there was a light tap on the door. I answered it and saw my pretty boy of two nights before, in doublet and trunkhose of crimson velvet, shirt and hose of white silk, and a falling band of fine Italian lace. He wore riding boots and had his heavy cloak thrown over his arm, his hair braided into the elaborate lovelocks some of the more fashionable courtiers were beginning to wear.
“Come in! What are you doing here and why do you dress so?” I questioned Rózsa, laughing as I pulled her into a room made suddenly bright.
“I came to invite you to dine with us tonight and I dress so because it is both safer and more desirable in this world to be a man, or even a boy, than a woman,” she grinned at me and I felt a tingle in the pit of my stomach. I held her against the door, crushing my body’s length against hers, turning her face up to kiss. She held back for a second, then her body flowed against me, one hand tangling in my hair, the other dropping to stroke my rising desire. I broke off with a gasp and she pushed me firmly away. “Anon, anon! We must go now. Do you put on your boots and bring your cloak. I have brought a horse for you; no, ’tis no great distance,” she forestalled my protest,” but the streets are mired knee-deep from today’s thaw.” Numbly I followed her. What