Violet's Fingers Ch. 01 - Sex Stories

Violet's Fingers Ch. 01

Foreword

This, first chapter is narrated by the doll, Klavdiya.

I would be glad, if you read, to hear your comments, this has been long in the writing, but fun.

Fialochka's Fingers is the faithful record of Suda's time in the presence of Violet. The manuscript was completed by the spring of 1884 in the village of Volovyy Mist, in a fine, clear hand by her son, Parnassius. Pim for short, Suda named him after the butterfly, grey with splashes of vivid orange; it reminded her of Violet blowing to revive the lingering coals in the ashes of their fire.

Parnassius was brought up by his mother, alone in a remote hanging valley with little contact from the outside world. A lover of words from the beginning, Suda taught him all she could of French, Russian and Latin. But it was nothing compared to the education his secret friend gave him. She had held Goya's palette for him as he covered the walls of the Quinta del Sordo, shared a bunk with Baudelaire on the ship that Aupick had set him upon for Calcutta, soaking in his twisty tricks of wordplay. At least that's what she said; she would also recite the poems Lensky wrote for Tatiana by the stream in summer.

'You were Miss Larena?' Pim had asked.

'No. Lensky; but the real one. I survived the duel,' she explained, pressing his fingers over the scar on her shoulder to feel the bullet trapped under.

Whoever taught him, imaginary or not, Pim was brilliant. He wrote with a poetic flair, as though he was experiencing ...

... the illicit pleasures of a first love. But he needed my help untangling and elucidating his mother's story, for it was at the same time a nightmare, almost breaking our dear boy by taking him places neither of us could have guessed.

Despite Parnassius having not met a soul other than his mother, he knew she was without comparison. He did explore other boyish interests; Nietzsche's Überfrau and Maistre's réversibilité, his particular obsession was trying to capture in words the way his mother moved. But how much was it tainted by how he felt watching her move? The boy was enthralled by everything she did, from her spins and flying leaps across the stream below their stone hut to the tiny gestures of her hands as she explained how to skin a goat. But behind her delicate lightness, he perceived a physical power and precision that frightened him.

The goats were unconcerned. With Amalthea, Capella Segunda and the others safely in their enclosure, Pim would lean back against his writing rock above their hut. Paper and pen were ready in hand, but he found himself unable to take his eyes off her as she danced effortlessly through the summer sumerki until the first stars appeared. Pim would tilt his head in anticipation of glimpsing through her cracks, the ball of fire he knew was barely contained.

I knew well the depth of shadowy tales laced through our Suda, a tangling together of the parts she played on stage with the masked horrors of her reality. Of this Pim knew nothing, ...