John Thomas & Lady Jane

the bottom of her soul all the time! The hunger for
the daredevil, sensual mate! If only Clifford would break in and shoot him —
what a grand finale it would be! But now, in the morning light, he slept with
the innocence and also the mystery of the full sensual creature and snoring, as
a tiger sleeps, with its ears half pricked. This is Lady Chatterley’s resume of
a night of screwing.
    She leaned against his firm, warm,
living body, and dozed to sleep again, in complete confidence. And till his
rousing waked her, she was aware of nothing. When she did open her eyes, he was
sitting by the bed, looking down at her. She stretched voluptuously. Oh, how
voluptuous it was, to have limbs and a body half sunk in sleep, yet so strong
with life. That was Lady Chatterley’s description of a fuck. Let it be a lesson
to all of us.
    ‘Are you awake?’ she said.
    ‘Yes,’ he said. — ‘That’s why I’m
standing up.’
    ‘Ay! I woke at half-past five as
usual, and I stopped to fuck you. I didn’t want to wake you up. I wanted to do
it privately.’
    ‘Where is my nightie?’ she said,
looking round.
    He pushed his hand into the bed, and
produced the flimsy silk nightdress. It was torn almost in two.
    ‘Never mind!’ she said. ‘I’ve got
others. I can leave it.’
    ‘Ay! Leave it!’ he said. ‘I like the
feel an’ the smell of it. I can put it between my legs for company.’
    He came upstairs with a huge black
tray. She made room on the bed. He poured out tea and set the tea pot on the
floor, then sat on a chair by the bed, his plate with caviar on toast on his
knees.
    ‘One day — soon! — we’ll really have
a time together, quite together! Shall we?’
    ‘It’d suit me!’ he said. ‘If you can
pull it off.’
    She would never dream of pulling it
off. It was perfect where it was.
    ‘Don’t you think one lives for times
like last night.’ He strode off through the brambles to the right, and through
a thick screen of hazel. Then he came back, stung to death by nettles.
    ‘Car’s not there yet!’ he said in an
undertone.
    ‘There she is!’ said Constance. And sure enough there she was.
    ‘She’s backed into th’ lane!’ he
said. ‘I shan’t come out. — Mind the brambles.’
    She followed him through the
undergrowth to the thick hazel screen, into which he had wound his way. She
followed. But he stood still.
    ‘Go on!’ he said. ‘Go! I shan’t come
out o’ the wood.’
    ‘Hilda,’ said Constance.
    ‘Constance!’ said Hilda with a start.
‘Were you waiting?’
    Constance waved her hat at the straggly swearing figure
in the brambles.
    ‘Bye, bye,’ she waved.

Chapter XIII
    ------------
     
     
     
    T HEY WERE IN London by tea-time,
staying in a little hotel in the Haymarket. They booked a door with adjoining
rooms. Their father took them to the theatre. Constance realized that being out
with Hilda and her father, and away from every other connection, there was
something in their physical vibrations. They vibrated, the three of them, so at
times they appeared to be a blur. The lady behind them asked them to keep
still. Seated with her well-groomed father and Hilda she felt that both of them
were bulwarks to her passion for Soames. Yes, bulwarks she thought. Bulwarks!
    Sir Malcolm had a suspicion of his
daughter’s liaison. In fact a doctor examined her and told him: ‘I’m sorry to
say your daughter is suffering from a gamekeeper, and that will be ten
guineas.’
    Constance , in the depths of her sorrow, lamented and
wailed at being far from Soames. In the middle of Oxford Street she started to
wail like a banshee and had to be stifled.
    In Paris, she was happier than in London: she felt nearer to the man. It was not the miles that mattered: it was the psychic
influence. Yes indeed, she was under the psychic influence of Soames. In other
words, she would levitate in the bathroom to the ceiling before having a bath.
    Like Abelard, a thousand years
before, undergoing the final mutilation, because they would not openly stand by
their own phallic body. A great feat of strength was needed to stand by your
own phallic body. She hadn’t got one and would rely on Soames for one.
    They left Paris and drove south. It
was pleasant, motoring slowly along, and stopping often, mostly with
distributor trouble. Sir Malcolm had a prostate problem, he was using it too
much.
    The men in France seemed to like Constance with her real warmth, because her woman’s humanness was not flirtatious,