Tremble: Erotic Tales of the Mystical and Sinister

“The Italian archaeologist Antonio Bonucci is a close friend of mine. When the Risorgimento began in Italy last year he approached me with the idea of cataloguing and documenting some of the objects, in case that upstart Garibaldi destroyed the collection. I have brought you some of the objects entrusted to me—I have, of course, documentation to accompany each artifact. But before I reveal them, I should warn you that these are not for the eyes of the innocent or the puritan.”

Alistair blushed again, worried that his virginity might suddenly blossom on his skin like some hideous stigmata. His eyes slid sideways to McPhee, who stood stoically by the table, his hand absentmindedly stroking the top of his walking cane.

“If you don’t mind, my lady, an upstanding gentleman of the Presbyterian persuasion such as myself would prefer to step outside to avoid the corrupting nature of such objects,” McPhee murmured, his voice thick with embarrassment.

Lady Whistle nodded, a glint of amusement playing in her eyes. Before the bantam octogenarian left the room he turned to his prodigy. “Now, Mr. Sizzlehorn, promise me that when you look upon these demonic items of worship you will view them with the cold eye of the archaeologist and dismiss all licentious thoughts.”

“I should never have the audacity to approach such antiquities otherwise, Dr. McPhee,” Alistair replied, mustering all the sincerity he could.

After McPhee had left, Lady Whistle stood, a steam of perfume rising with her. She was even more statuesque standing and seemed to be only an inch or so shorter than Alistair who was a good six feet tall. She turned to her manservant. The archaeologist now noticed he was a remarkably handsome lad of no more than fifteen. Grinning mischievously like a dusky Puck who had just stepped from the shadows of a forest glade, the valet stared back brazenly. His gaze revealed a maturity far beyond his years; an observation that disturbed Alistair profoundly.

“Toby, I believe we are ready now,” Lady Whistle said a trifle impatiently.

With tantalizing slowness the valet pulled away the silk kerchiefs one by one, as if conducting a peepshow.

The revealed items were extraordinary. Astonishing in their beauty, they also displayed a complete obscenity, a gleeful celebration of the pornographic.

The centerpiece was a marble statue some three feet in height: the figure of a beautiful youth, his arms raised up as if he had once clasped a water jug, his back arched. Extremely realistic, it was as if the boy had been turned into marble with the wave of some arch wizard’s staff. One’s eye was immediately drawn to the statue’s huge semierect penis. It was impossibly thick, veined, the bulge of the head clearly visible under the foreskin, which was still drawn over the tip. Its very tumescence was a pornographic celebration of existence, of life force itself. The startling contrast between the feminine beauty of the boy and his ultramasculine organ created an erotic counterbalance that further enhanced the exquisite artistry of the stat

ue.

If he followed the ways of the Latin poet Catullus, he could fall in love with such a youth, Alistair found himself thinking.

Lady Whistle’s seductively deep voice broke his reverie. “From the House of the Vettii. The statue would have been part of a fountain—the sex organ is, of course, a water spout.” Her tone was objective, as if she were describing a rare species of butterfly.

The young archaeologist, scarlet to the roots of his hair, had to force himself to look up; as he did, he had the distinct impression that the valet, Toby, was winking at him.

“And these?” Alistair asked, covering his embarrassment with a deep baritone timbre. He pointed to a series of bronzes of comical dwarfs with satyrlike faces, each completely overshadowed by a humungous erect phallus taller than themselves.

“The Romans attributed magical powers to dwarves. These were powerful talismen—both for luck and virility. The phallus itself, as you can see by the carving on these small clay slabs”—she indicated squares of red travertine each with a crude bas-relief of an erect phallus with a Latin inscription—“was considered to bring both happiness and good luck to a household, and a representation was often to be found hanging above the door. Hence the inscription: Hic habitat felicitas. I have no doubt that, with such a plethora of penises available, happiness indeed dwelt therein. But I digress; it is this that I am most interested in.”

She indicated a scroll Alistair hadn’t noticed. She pulled off her gloves to handle it and Alistair immediately observed that her hands belied her age, which he now realized was far closer to fifty. She unrolled the manuscript to reveal an elaborate sketch of what appeared to be an orgiastic rite. The participants were evidently followers of Pan: some of the women were half-goat and many of the men bearded satyrs—all engaged in a variety of sexual congress, from sodomy through to bestiality. Each face was etched with a strange bliss akin to religious ecstasy, as if they were striving for a higher goal than just carnal pleasure.

Struggling with his own tumescence, the courageous archaeologist attempted to adopt the detached professional air he had promised McPhee.

“I assume this is a bacchanalian ritual—the central figure looks like Bacchus or the Greek equivalent, Dionysus, with his beard and goblet. He appears to be the master of ceremonies.”

“Indeed. But the real fascination is the transcription of the text beneath this mural—found on the walls of the Villa of the Mysteries. Its Latin is too complex for my schoolgirl grasp, but I am told it suggests that this particular orgy was undertaken in the quest for eternal youth. A quest that was, so the inscription implies, successful in its outcome.”

Lady Whistle’s gaze, although candid, held a far more salacious implication. The ghost of premonition passed over Alistair, causing him to shiver.

“My lady, you do realize that the mural would have been metaphoric—most likely a device to stimulate the clientele of a brothel or the staid marriage of a rich merchant?”

“Perhaps so, perhaps not. I have evidence that leads me to believe it is a literal explanation. But that does not concern us now—let us return to the matter at hand. I wish to employ you for two purposes: your official role will be as compiler of a catalogue of the collection, for the museum and for posterity. Your second, secret, task is to translate and break the riddle of this Dionysian rite. I will pay you well for the former, but for the latter I will reward you with riches undreamed of.”

With riches undreamed of…her language was strangely old-fashioned, as if English were indeed her second tongue. The story of Faust and his pact with the devil floated up from the recesses of Alistair’s memory.

Beneath the lace shawl he became aware of an ivory cleavage that plunged into tantalizing shadow; lower down, her waist—pressed no doubt into such an impossibly narrow shape by a steely corset—looked as if he could encircle it with one hand. Even farther down he caught a glimpse of her delicate ankles clad in pearly gray kid leather. She would be a seductive patron, of that he had no doubt. But it was the promise of freedom from poverty and the status he would achieve by having his name attached to such a catalogue, not to mention the appeal of breaking the terrible ennui of his current laborious and repetitious duties, that really fascinated him.

It was all too much for the archaeologist, who had supped on nothing but milk toast for two nights; Alistair found himself suddenly weak at the knees. Lady Whistle, noting his faintness, clicked her fingers. Immediately Toby slipped a chair beneath him, into which he collapsed thankfully.

“Take the offer, sir. You won’t regret it…trust me,” the valet whispered conspiratorially.

Smiling sardonically Lady Whistle addressed the hapless archaeologist. “I ask only one condition: that you tell no one, not even your employer, of the second task. You must understand, the mural was copied illegally from the walls of the House of Mysteries itself—you are only the fifth person to see it in recent history. And, as you may appreciate, I have my reputation to consider.”

“And Madam’s reputation is impeccable,” her servant piped up. The gentlewoman stroked her valet’s cheek in a decidedly nonmaternal fashion.

“Thank you, Toby. I am fortunate that Lord Whistle is such an understanding husband.” She turned back to Alistair, her fingers still caressing her valet. “He is so fond of his horses. Why, his jockey hardly ever leaves his side. Isn’t that right, Toby?”