Violet's Fingers Ch. 01 - Sex Stories

Violet's Fingers Ch. 01

... my name over the pieces I have added, while Pim's much larger part is under his mother's name. He wrote in her voice.

Overseeing this story's gestation, I leaned against the window looking out over the town park. I proudly eased this beautiful birth, bringing forth what Suda had kept hidden, a difficult but fitting editorial task for this old friend, soaked in her carnage.

Pim, a flâner, left me behind to go down to the old bookbinders and take a round of the park before meeting Sýla. Yes, after he had turned back to let her dry his tears the silly boy had asked her name and if he might see her again.

My omniscience followed into the world outside the windowpane. Skimming over the oaks, I clipped the slate rooftops, passing teasingly close to the worn stone horns of our pair of horhulʹyi, (gargoyles) before coming to rest against the shutters of our study window.

Below, a bead necklace hung over the edge. Dropped by careless fingers, the night's snow had melted away from its path across the ledge. Its presence weighed heavily; I am sensitive to incongruities. Look closer. What seem shiny black beads warming the snow are actually the telsons of a species of scorpion from beyond the Caucuses. I remember Suda watching the seductress threading the stingers onto the only fibre she had - woven strands of her hair. Twisting a delicate knot in her fingers, she lifted it over her head, pulling her hair through and laying the lure over her pale collarbones. Her blood ran ...

... with venom, her nerves stripped bare. We dolls don't need such intoxicants; our madness is innate.

The fingers and hair belonged to Violet. Suda was obsessed with this woman who spouted fanciful fictions of her past, a chameleon of accents and languages. Violet was Fialka, Fialochka to her lovers. Her real name was unknown.

Inside those shutters, back against the glass, my porcelain legs mirrored the necklace dangling over the ledge outside, my loose joints held not with her dark hair, but rusty wire.

Returning to his pool of lamplight, Pim was still quivering with the touch of Sýla's fingers in his hand. He dipped his mother's scratchy steel nib and crossed out the line at the beginning of the manuscript: 'My mother has few principles', a placeholder from the first line of Onegin: 'My uncle has most honest principles.'

His left hand held a sketch by Sudarynya in her thin ink, a cascade of Cyrillic twisting out of control down a tree trunk. Drawn from below, a foreshortened torso hangs by her arms. Bare to the waist, her shoulder muscles stood out, her armpits sunk deep as she strained to lift herself. Pim imagined the pen in his mother's fingers, the lines quick and loose to show movement, wondering whether his thoughts were mirroring hers when she was making the drawing. He copied the text into the right margin, dipped his pen, considered how to treat the verse, then wrote the translation on the left, leaving the rhymes only partial:

"Vinka dangles from her ...