The women advised that if you wanted to get through it, then you needed to be the proactive party—a dyed-in-the-wool seductress—and apply all available leverage to prevent anything unpleasant from happening in the first place.
Firene knew that these women weren’t lying about this issue. This wasn’t the sort of trick that parents played with their children, like telling them sweets were poisonous to you. Firene had seen them—boys and girls getting close on the spring prayer festival or the autumn thanksgiving festival, only for the girls to emerge the next morning with their hands on their stomachs as they walked. But Firene felt no pain, just a pleasant numbness left over from past ecstasies.
Young women cried and bled so often during their first time in the bedroom not just due to their hymen breaking, but because their partners had charged ahead without sufficient preparation and engaged in too much violent friction during the act. If a man were to force himself inside a woman while she was stiff with nerves and still dry, then although he could get off on the act alone, the woman would feel nothing but terrible pain. In other words, if she was relaxed and eased into the act, then the pain would be trivial and she would take less time to find the pleasure in it.
Firene had accepted the pain that awaited her and flung herself into Erich’s arms, but they were unexpectedly gentle. She couldn’t even remember exactly what he’d done. Her mind had been swept up in a current; she could only begin to impose sense on it in retrospect, and all she could remember were the sweet nothings he whispered in her ear and the sensation of his fingers and lips on her body. She had been embarrassed when he had put his head between her legs—where even she had felt reservations about touching herself before—but he had replied that he was doing this to make sure he didn’t hurt her. What came next practically made her nerves melt and her cerebellum fuse.
If she regretted anything, it was the fact that she had reached ecstasy and yet he seemed completely devoid of exhaustion. Even after he’d climaxed three times, he still seemed full of pep, in spite of how she’d always overheard the women of the canton complaining that their men would lose interest the moment they were satisfied and roll over to sleep, leaving them in the cold.
Her night had been so wonderful that it almost made every threatening piece of advice seem like a lie thanks to his care. The bed had creaked, splintered, and been soiled—she felt terrible about whoever’s house this was and inwardly reminded herself to send a new bed over—but while she rested in it, he had smartened it up, and had even wiped her body clean. He must have stepped outside for a moment and cleaned himself off at the well; she noticed that when he came back in through the door, only the pleasant smell of sweat wafted from him. It was a sweet, gentle scent, just like when he had taken her in his arms. He laughed, saying it was probably the smell from his pipe, but she knew the sweet fragrance that came every time he moved his head was his own.
Ahh, what a fantasy in the flesh. What a wonderful night.
Firene wondered how many women had ever had such a blissful first time. There had been no splendid banquet, she hadn’t worn a silk gown, and she had received no mammoth bouquet, but she was happy nonetheless. After all, every last scrap of fear that had haunted her was wiped away. She was sure he would fight for her and protect her with this love.
Perhaps this was why she could lie in the afterglow with no pain. It was an instinctual ease. As long as she was in his arms, she would not be hurt—she knew that. It wasn’t just kindness, but also the reliable feeling of a strong body made to protect. It was difficult for her to put her feelings into words. But Firene knew that people called this feeling love.
When she first met Erich, all she thought was that his epithet fit his name well. The second time he visited, her father had lit a fire under her, and she realized that if she were to not know love, then at least she would like to be with someone distinguished. The third time, now that he’d dispelled her fear, she had no doubts.
There was something that she regretted. Now that she had awoken to this love, she wanted to feel this pleasant embarrassment, this warm exhaustion, and see his face—she knew he wasn’t sleeping—but the fatigue had gripped her soul and wouldn’t let go. She wished to keep her eyes open longer, but the Night Goddess blessed her with sleep in spite of her prayers.
When she awoke after this regretful sleep, she found herself lying in her own bed. Her nightwear had no creases, despite how she’d worn them outside, and they even seemed to have a pleasant fragrance, as if they’d been washed. Her body bore no traces of her indulgent night, and seemed as if she’d just stepped out of the bath. She almost thought that it was all a dream.
But there was one piece of evidence that her night of passion wasn’t a dream. By her pillow was a flower. Not a real flower, but one crafted of paper. She wasn’t sure exactly how it had been made, but the paper had been folded to create a lily that would never wilt. Even its stem had been lovingly re-created.
Firene took it in her hands and smelled him. She made the mental note to ask her maid to prepare a vase for this flower. Later, she would take up the broom and sweep up as much dust as would settle to thank the maid who had helped her sneak out the night before. It was a small price to pay to keep this wonderful gift safe.
It truly was a wonderful present. After all, heroes in the stories conquered great and terrible summits in search of a flower that never wilted to win the affection of their princess. What better thing could there be to pledge one’s undying feelings with.
The young woman gently cradled the flower, so as not to harm it, and put her secondary arms over her stomach, praying that he’d left her another, more valuable gift.
✦ ✦ ✦
