Part 3. Into the Woods
Over breakfast, Whistler asked Maud "I heard some strange noises coming from your room last night. Did you have a nightmare or something?"
"Oh yes, Rex. It was awful. It seemed that, whenever I closed my eyes, I felt as if someone was repeatedly stabbing me. I couldn't settle until after one o'clock. And I feel so weary, it's as if I've been in a fight with Joe Louis."
She got up to help herself to some kedgeree, and Fleming joined her at the serving table, as Gilbert started talking to Whistler.
"To tell the truth, Ian, I can barely walk this morning. Both holes feel well-used and rather tender, so I doubt they'll be in use again for a day or two. But it was a glorious night, wasn't it?" The wicked smile on her face made him start to get hard again. This woman knew more about sex than anyone he knew, and it seemed she was always trying to learn more.
After breakfast, the weather was dull and threatened rain. Whistler took Ellen to the Music Room to help him with his decoration work. Maud and Anrep were busy discussing Boris's proposed mosaics for the National Gallery. Hill had set up his easel by the French windows and was busy with what Fleming felt was an uninspiring composition, while Gilbert snoozed in a chair. So Fleming headed to the library and settled down with the newspapers. It was depressing: the Germans and Italians were still bombing cities in Spain; the Dutch seemed to be supporting fascism, insulting Jewish refugees from Naziism and imprisoning a writer for offending Hitler; there were anti-Jewish riots in Poland; Mussolini was committing atrocities in Abyssinia, whose annexation Britain had - shamefully, Fleming felt - formally recognised earlier in the year. Even the cricket was depressing, with Bradman seemingly invincible. After an hour or two, he got up and went for a walk around the walled garden. The threatened rain finally appeared, so he headed back indoors for a scotch, a cigarette, and to jot down a few ideas he'd had about how to make Hitler's life more difficult.
At dinner, Maud had rearranged the seating so that Whistler was next to her, with Fleming seated next to young Ellen. While she talked a lot, the girl seemed to have little real conversation, but Fleming recognised all of the gestures. She played with a strand of her elegantly bobbed hair constantly, and bit her lip. Whenever she had the opportunity, she would touch his hand on the table, on some pretext or other. On the terrace after dinner, she stood closer to him than was strictly necessary and pretended to feel cold. He removed his jacket and hung it around her shoulders.
Whistler and Maud came by, and Rex struck up a conversation with Ellen about the stars, which he started to name for her. Maud asked Ian to light her cigarette, and as he leaned close, she whispered 'Why not?'
"Maud, what about you?" he replied softly.
"Out of bounds tonight, dear boy. Both entrances need rest and a lot of ointment. Boris is less than pleased, I can assure you. I may have to lend him a hand, as they say. But you, my boy, have opportunity and, I believe motive. All you need is the means, which I'm sure you can dream up."
"Maud, I really don't think you should be suggesting this."
"Nonsense my boy. She's as keen as mustard, and you're the condiment that will warm her up nicely."
And Maud was right. When Ellen announced that she would turn in for the night, Fleming offered to accompany her as far as her room to retrieve his jacket, and then turn in himself. At her door, he bent to kiss her goodnight, but instead of receiving his kiss on her cheek, she met him with her lips, throwing her arms around him so that his jacket fell off her slender shoulders onto the floor. The kiss was a little clumsy, but what it lacked in finesse, it made up for in passion.
When they finally broke, she apologised for dropping his jacket. He smiled and told her it was no trouble, but as he bent to pick it up she casually lifted the hem of her skirt up her thigh as far as her stocking top, before letting it fall back. Then she opened the door to her room, went in - but left the door open. Glancing along the hall to ensure he was not observed, he followed, closing the door softly behind him.
Despite her coquettish come-on, Ellen was very much the naïve young girl. She was clearly excited at the prospect of having some sort of physical relationship with the handsome ex-journalist. However, her inexperience was obvious. Fleming was gentle with her, carefully removing her dress and slip, and admiring her in her rather exotic - and for a girl like that, sophisticated - lingerie. She had a brassiere and matching knickers in black silk, and a lacy garter belt holding up her black silk stockings, apparently all acquired in Paris while her mama wasn't looking.
Fleming told her to help undress him, down to his underpants, and then he removed her brassiere and knickers. Initially, she shyly covered herself with her hands, but he moved these away, kissed her and caressed her skin gently with his fingers and lips, which made her tremble. His hand cupped gently over her soft, blonde bush, and an exploratory finger insinuated into the slit beneath showed that she was excited by the prospect of further penetration.
When he suggested they get onto the bed, to his surprise, young Ellen lay back, stretched her arms over her head and spread her long, stockinged legs wide, making an inverted Y, as if she expected him to fuck her without further ceremony. The sight was arousing, and Fleming was tempted to give her what she was expecting. Instead, he lay down beside her and started some preparatory caresses. As he swept his hands up the black silk of her stockings, he encountered the pale silk of her well-toned, dancer's thigh, and he found it smooth and entrancing.
As he explored the pink ellipse of her neat, moist vulva, she gasped and sighed. When he probed deeper, gauging her tightness, seeking a hymen to break, he found none.
"So Ellen, it seems you're not a virgin after all."
"Oh no. It was - a boy in Paris, in April. We did it twice. It was nice - at least the second time. But - but I was afraid he'd - he'd made me pregnant. Luckily, he didn't."
"No one since then?"
"No. I've - I've wanted to, but - but there wasn't the right man. Does that make me a - a slut?" She almost choked on the word.
"No, my dear, it doesn't. And don't worry - I won't make you pregnant."
