storytelling

So, if you'll look down to the post just before this one, you'll see a longish excerpt from Lake in the Clouds. You should go read that first, I'll wait.

Now that you're back, I should say first that these two linked sex scenes were terrifically hard to write. Probably the most difficult few pages ever, because they are so very different from what I usually produce, and because the subject matter is so sensitive. This is the first time I ever wrote about male/male sex (cue the discussion on gender barriers, times two), and I was writing it from the POV of a very unsympathetic female observer. How to make it clear that her feelings are her own, and not mine? That was the challenge: make her observations work on more than one level. The so-called unreliable narrator, but one step removed.

The first question is, did I need to make this so explicit? Did I need the scene at all? And in this case I can say without hesitation that I did need it. I needed it to establish things about the two men, who have up to this point been unsympathetic to the extreme. The scene was meant to turn them into more complex characters, ones capable of love and affection and joy, men who lived day by day in hiding, because the culture they lived in allowed them no other choice. One of them is still a terrible human being and the other one is still ineffectual and self-absorbed, but now they are, if I've done my job right, more.

Because Jemima is the one observing, and we are in her head, we see what she sees. She is a hard young woman -- she has not had an easy life -- but also a very intelligent one with a strong survival instinct. What she sees shocks her, but first and foremost she takes it, as she takes everything that comes her way, as an opportunity to improve her lot in life. The acts that shock and disgust her also intrigue her intellectually and she starts processing this new data in comparison to what she has already heard or been taught. Another young woman might have gone to tell what she had seen, but Jemima depends on herself alone, and she's less interested in the public good or the souls of the men than she is in her own well being.

The chance to put this knew knowledge to use presents itself immediately, in the person of Liam Kirby. For Jemima, whose life has been one disappointment after another, this is like winning the Trifecta. She can not turn away from this opportunity, and so she seduces Liam. In the scene before this one he has suffered a terrible disappointment of his own, and he is especially weak at this moment.

So now the question: is this scene between Liam and Jemima necessary? I can tell you what I hoped to accomplish with it; whether or not I succeeded is a question for readers to answer.

This is the first time I wrote a sex scene between people who don't care for each other, which puts it in direct opposition to the scene between Isaiah Kuick and Ambrose Dye, who do love each other. That was a challenge of the first order, and I tried to approach it by staying clinical. What Liam and Jemima do together has to do with violence, force, pain, retribution, hate, disappointment. There is nothing soft or tender or affectionate here: the verbs are hard, the results are bloody and sticky and unpleasant. The fact that Jemima accepts the pain and even welcomes it says a great deal about her, as Liam's willingness to hurt her says a lot about him.

I find these two related scenes disturbing, still, when I read them, but I hope that they are disturbing in a productive way, one that moves the story along and makes these characters grow. That was my intent, at any rate.

I find it relatively easy to write a sex scene between people who love and respect each other; it's not so hard to put myself in their POVs. It's much harder to live inside Jemima's head here, both when she's observing the men and then when she is with Liam. I do understand her, but I find it hard to tolerate her in my consciousness for any period of time. Telling the truth about Jemima is exhausting, mostly, I have to admit, because she makes me sad.

So there you have it. Do with it what you will.

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I'm posting this excerpt separately from my comments about writing it, for simple ease of navigation. The scene begins at the end of a wedding party where Jemima Southern -- a woman most of my readers love to hate, but one for whom I have a grudging respect -- has been disappointed in her plans to attract her employer's son (Isaiah Kuick), or at least an old childhood companion who is in love with a young woman Jemima hates and fears. His name is Liam Kirby.

Rated R for explicit sexual situations. Go away if you're under eighteen. Shoo.

This excerpt from Lake in the Clouds is copyright Sara Donati. All Rights Reserved.

---

The children disappeared into the kitchen, the men into the study. Jemima stood and watched the dance, took note of people coming and going. Nathaniel Bonner came in and Peter Dubonnet went out. And Isaiah Kuick standing at the door, staring at her plain as day. All night she had been waiting for him to take note and there he was, looking at her like she was a pony with a broken leg, a creature with no good use in this world.

A great weariness came over Jemima, all of her anger washing out of her, draining away like life's blood. She went into the hall and opened the front door. Stood there for a moment feeling the chill of an April night, saw the sky crowded with stars like unblinking eyes. She saw a cloak hanging on a nail and took it, not caring very much who it belonged to, and then she stepped off the porch and walked away toward the barn.

She found an empty stall with a scattering of old hay. With the cloak of boiled wool wrapped around her Jemima fell into an uneasy sleep; dreamed of her dead mother and woke to the sound of whispering. For a moment Jemima was confused enough to imagine herself in the bed she had shared with her brothers, and then the faint smells of milk and leather and animals long gone reminded her where she was, and why.

But she hadn't dreamed the voices.

"All winter," said Isaiah Kuick. "All the long winter."

"Too long." The overseer's voice, but Jemima had never heard it like this, low and soft. "I thought you'd never give me the sign."

She tried to calm the beating of her heart, to still the breath that stirred the hay beneath her cheek. Listening with all her concentration to the sound of mouths touching wetly. She was a child again in the dark, unable to sleep through the noise from the next bed. Every night, as sure as the coming sunrise there would be the rustling of bedclothes and sharp words from her father as he pulled and prodded and climbed on top of her mother. His hoarse grunts and her whimpering, like a small animal in a trap; the creaking of the ropes that held the tick mattress, the whole bedstead rocking, on and on and on.

She could not remember her parents ever kissing; she herself had never kissed another human being, but still Jemima knew very well what she was hearing. She blinked hard, willed her eyes to focus. Turned her head just enough to look into the stall across the way, where under an unshuttered window filled with moonlight she could just make out two shapes, twisting and turning as clothing fell away to the floor. And then the line of a naked back bent forward, the sound of flesh on flesh, a sharp gasp.

"Oh Christ, oh Christ."

"Shhhhh." A whisper, soft and softer. "Shhhh."

Jemima Southern trusted nothing more than her own eyes, and what she saw was men mating like dogs. What she heard was the talk of lovers who knew each other well, tender words of encouragement, sweet Lord yes, and more, and oh please. Isaiah Kuick on hands and knees and Dye bent over him, using his backside like other men used a woman's front. She could make out the white of Kuick's leg, his arm, his head hung low, mouth open and gasping, in pain or pleasure or both. Dye's free hand busy between Kuick's legs, stroking in rhythm with the pumping of his hips. And then he arched his back and put his face up to the starlight and Jemima saw the most unbelievable and strange thing of all: the man she knew as the overseer -- distrustful, cold, mean unto death -- that man was gone. The face Jemima saw in the starlight was alive in a way so overwhelming and personal that she must close her eyes, blinded for a moment by a stunned and wordless joy that was not meant for her to see. When she looked again, the two men were still joined together, gently rocking.

This was no strange dream, but a gift. Unexpected treasure, as solid as gold.

Now they're done, she thought. Now they'll go. She needed time to sort out the thoughts that raced through her head: her father's voice as he read from the bible, fragments of verses she had not understood but had memorized because he required it of her: Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is abomination... leaving the natural use of the woman, burned in their lust one toward another; men with men working that which is unseemly; and the Widow's voice, heathens and papists and eternal damnation and Mr. Gathercole, I do hope you'll read from Leviticus today, we are all in need of a consuming fire.

The widow. Jemima imagined the widow in her chair by the window, always watching, ever keen to uncover transgressions against God and herself. Jemima felt the stab of her embroidery needle, heard that thin voice, so sure of her place in the world, so sure of her son. The way she looked at him, the plans she had for him. Pride cometh before the fall. Jemima mouthed the words silently and imagined the widow's face if she were to walk into this barn and see the overseer using her precious Isaiah like a whore. Lucy Kuick's only son was a sodomite.

The men were talking face to face, kissing now and then. Their voices were lower and Jemima couldn't make out much of what they said to each other, but the tone was clear enough, gentle and loving and almost more of a shock than what come before. Then Dye slid down Isaiah's belly and Jemima watched, not so much disgusted or outraged as she knew she should be, but simply amazed and more than a little curious to see a man put his head between another man's legs to suckle like a baby at a full teat. The pleasure it gave both of them was obvious and a mystery too, and she studied it carefully while another part of her mind raced backwards through the months she had schemed to get Isaiah into her bed.

She understood now that her open door meant nothing to him, would never mean anything to him. But that didn't matter, not any more. Once she had hoped to lie underneath him as many times as it took for him to get a child on her, but tonight he had given her something better. Now he could deny her nothing at all.

Then they were standing again, brushing the hay from each other's clothes, hands lingering here and there. Talking days, and times, and opportunities.

Thursday, said Dye, and Kuick laughed.

As if either of us could wait that long.

It was the first time Jemima had ever heard him really laugh, without any trace of mockery.

When they were gone she lay for a while, making plans. Twenty minutes, perhaps a half an hour she had watched them and in that short time her whole life had changed. So deep was she in this knowledge that the sound of footsteps took her by surprise and she froze, thinking they were coming back to start again. If she had stood up too soon and they had found her here, what then? Dye would simply kill her; she knew that without doubt.

But it was Liam Kirby, and he was alone. She knew him by his size and the gleam of his hair in the light of the stars. He stood without moving for a long minute, his hands at his sides.

He was waiting for Hannah, and that made perfect sense: Jemima must watch Liam take Hannah as the overseer had taken Isaiah Kuick; she must listen to the things he would say to her, love talk, sweet words. This was the price she would have to pay for the advantage she had been given, and it was bitter.

After a long time Jemima began to realize that Hannah was not coming. He was here alone, and hiding. Hannah had refused him, and he had sought out this place to lick his wounds. For a moment Jemima was stunned by the depths of her good fortune, and then she whispered his name.

He started, turned sharply. "What are you doing in here?"

"Waiting for you." Her fingers moved to slip her sleeves off her shoulders, letting her breasts spill out as she moved toward him.

He stepped back, but his eyes were fixed on the white flesh, the dark of her nipples. "No," he said. "No."

She reached out and touched him, ran a finger down the front of his breeches as she had seen Isaiah Kuick do not a half hour ago. He jerked, clasped her hand to stop it, held it still. Sucked in breath between teeth clenched hard.

"But think, Liam." His gaze was fixed on her breasts, and he still held her hand against him. She could feel his flesh stirring, his breath on her skin. "Nobody will ever know."

She freed herself, turned her back to him as she raised her skirts high. "You don't have to look at my face," she said, feeling the chill air on her bare flesh. "You don't have to look at me at all. You can pretend I'm...somebody else."

He was silent as she went down on all fours with her skirts rucked up around her waist, her knees spread to expose her sex, her forehead bedded on her crossed arms. Then she heard him groan and he was behind her, loosening his breeches. When he knelt between her legs she felt him shaking, felt the heat of his damp flesh, the soft and hard of him. But he hesitated and she held her breath, understanding somehow that at this moment the wrong word would ruin everything.

He said, "I cain't marry you if you get with child."

"Why, that's all right," said Jemima, rocking her hips backwards, brushing against him and feeling him jerk. "That don't matter none, Liam. I'm going to marry Isaiah Kuick, anyway."

He cursed and came to her, leaning forward to grasp a breast in one hand while he supported himself with the other, shoving and prodding to part reluctant flesh, pushing hard and harder still while Jemima bit her forearm to keep from crying out. With a curse he let go of her breast to grasp her buttocks, angling her hips up and spreading her flesh with his fingers to ease his way. Now when he thrust, once and then again, she could not hold back her scream; one last thrust and with that he tore her flesh and seated himself deep inside her.

"Damn you," he groaned. "Damn you to hell."

In spite of the pain she smiled to herself. Wiggled and clenched at him with every muscle until he groaned again and gave in to it. She welcomed the invasion and the burn and the pull and push, his strong hands, his roughness, his teeth pressing into the tender flesh of her neck as he worked his hips, thrusting as if he wanted to climb inside of her. Jemima clenched her teeth against the roaring pain and rocked her hips to meet him, heard him grunt in surprise and pleasure and then the trembling overtook him and he emptied himself inside her in hard little jerks.

He was gasping and muttering to himself, damn you damn you damn you. But he was still hard, his flesh trembling wet.

Jemima wiggled and flipped over on her back. She lifted her hips and wound her legs around his waist to pull him back inside her. She would keep him on top of her all night, use her hands and her mouth if she had to, put what she had learned from the sodomites to good use. Make him forget Hannah Bonner and the nameless wife, milk him like a cow, make him spill his seed until he was dry.

After tonight he would never forget her, would never dare ignore her again. When Liam Kirby walked past her he would remember this, remember the way they had been joined in sweat and blood and seed and sin.

One way or another she would marry the widow's only son, but it would be easier if she was with child. She tried to count the days in her head but the heavy heat of Liam rutting inside her got in the way; he pushed her legs apart roughly and then, still not satisfied, he put a hand under her right knee and lifted it, pressed it to her shoulder so that she was splayed open to him. With the next thrust he touched a spot so deep inside her she must cry out again, in pain and surprise and approval. He covered her, pressed her into the hay with his weight, threatened to split her in half, and she gloried in it; put her hands on his buttocks and pressed him home.

If he didn't get a bastard on her this time, she would seek him out again, and how could he refuse? Then Isaiah would claim what Liam had put inside her as his own, or he would pay the consequences.

By the time Jemima made her way home the moon had set and a frost had come down, so that she needed to take the handrail on the bridge or risk falling. She was limping a little, her thighs raw and bruised and sticky, and deep inside a burning itch. Her shoulders and breasts and belly stung where he had marked her with his teeth and the scrape of his beard: she had driven him hard, and he had paid in kind. Every muscle hurt, but for once in her life Jemima Southern was satisfied. She had come to the wedding party to get the best of one of them, Liam Kirby or Isaiah Kuick, and now she had them both. Them, and Hannah Bonner too.

------- end excerpt

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