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She’s with one of them now, amusing herself. I am in her room, polishing and tidying things up for her, and I am sick with jealousy. My heart hammers cruelly against my chest, my stomach curdles with rage — she doesn’t care.
My lady doesn’t care! About me. About my feelings.
She lives as she pleases no matter what.
I dust beneath the windowpane, gazing at the craggy shoreline on this warm spring night, hearing the waves rhythmically crash against the rocks. It’s close to the time when she will return and I light the candles before switching off the electric light.
Then I hear her footsteps: light, almost prancing, unmistakably hers. My beautiful, selfish lady.
“Danny!” Rebecca greets as she dances in. Her angelic face is flushed with the joy of a fresh conquest. Her dimpled smile shows off a red, sensuous mouth and a set of gleaming white teeth. Her eyes sparkle with mischief. She stretches out that long slender catlike body of hers.
“Yes, Madam,” I reply. Despite the intensity of my jealousy, I am hers
She sits at her dressing table. “Hair drill, Danny,” she says.
I stand behind her, brushing that silky, black, short hair and adoring the enticing scent of azaleas clinging to her as she gazes into the mirror, admiring her reflection. I liked her to where it long but short is better for riding and sailing, she says. Her throaty voice falls an octave as she imitates her latest man, “Oh Rebecca, you must be the most beautiful woman in all the world.” Then she laughs.
Excitement begins in me, small coals being stoked in the pit of my stomach.
She leans back against the chair. “My boots, Danny,” she says.
I kneel before my lady, worshipful, as I pull her black boots off. Gently, I massage Rebecca’s delicate feet, unusually small for a woman of her height.
“Oh, thank you, Danny,” she croons.
Even if I saw nothing else of her, I could recognize her feet by a green vein which pops up right before the ankle; she has another, similar but more subdued, green vein on the swell of her right breast.
“He thinks I’m in love with him,” she continued, giggling.
I laugh with her.
Barefoot, she falls on the bed, her head toward its intricately carved bedstead and lying on the gold-colored coverlet with the large, cursive R on it. She laughs again, louder this time.
Finally, I can’t help myself and blurt out, “Oh, Rebecca, why do you have to see them?”
She sits up, a frown on her beautiful face. “So you’re jealous, Danny?” she queries.
Yes,” I confess. “Very jealous.”
“Come here,” she orders as she sits on the side of her bed.
I obey and sit beside her. She puts her fingers in my hair, then tightens them around the cords of my hair, now coming loose. “You have no right to be jealous of me!” she says.
“No right at all,” I agree. “But I don’t know why you have to see them. They’re not worthy of you.”
“Of course, they’re not. But it amuses me to see them and I like to see them and I’m going to keep on seeing them. I’m not going to stop for you or anybody else, Danny!”
I sigh. I know that. My lady does just as she pleases.
“You’re jealous of me and you’ve got no right to be and for that you must be punished,” she tells me.
TO LEARN WHAT HAPPENS NEXT, READ “MRS. DANVERS AND REBECCA LATE ONE EVENING” IN “RACHEL HEATH’S LESBIAN EROTICA.”