I cannot unsee it.
There is an ache deep inside me, an ache in my chest that such beauty should exist in the world.
There is another ache, too.
It is a different ache, an animal ache. The rod of flesh at my groin swells and stiffens with it, rising to stand upright beneath the rough canvas of my breeches. The twin sacks that hang under it rise and tighten, too. It is a thing that happens sometimes that I do not speak of. I do not want Miranda to know my flesh is unruly and immodest. I would not tell her any more than I would make water in front of her; but before today, it seemed like a thing with no harm in it, no more shame in it than making water.
Oh, but now it is different, everything is different. It is because I saw Miranda naked that my rod rises, and there is a wanting in me like in dreams where there is a secret pleasure that comes hard and fast, and in the morning there is a mess.
But this is not a dream and there is shame in it.
Setebos laughs at the sky.
It aches, it aches so very badly! It has never ached so before. I crouch on my feet and untie the drawstring of my breeches, then take my swollen rod in my hand. I think if I try to make water, mayhap it will not ache so badly.
(That is a lie, Caliban.)
My rod pulses to the touch, blood beating hard in my veins. The head of it has come all the way out from beneath its hood of skin, and it is hot and swollen and weeping. I feel like weeping, too.
I am ashamed.
Oh, but it feels so good to hold it! And I think, I think … no, I will not think of it, but I do. Miranda’s tender little breasts naked, their pink tips hanging. I think of touching them. My aching rod twitches like a fish in my hand, my hand slides on it, the loose skin slides under my hand, and it feels so good, so very good. I let my hand keep sliding, sliding, up and down, and my sacks rise higher and tighter, and I cannot stop. The pleasure is coming like a stream bursting its banks.
Closing my eyes, I try not to think of Miranda.
I think of Miranda.
“Ungh!”
It is a deep groan, an animal groan, that I give as a gush of milky-white fluid spurts into the air.
And then it is like a storm that has passed. The ache is gone. My sacks feel empty and my rod softens and droops, hiding its head once more.
I sigh.
“If thy bestial nature were in doubt, I should say ’tis now heartily disproved,” says a light, mocking voice.
Ariel.
Hot with shame and anger, I rise and pull my breeches over my privy parts, tying the drawstring. “You! What do you want?”
Sitting cross-legged on a cloud, the spirit ignores my question. “Thou hast committed Onan’s sin and spilled thy seed on the ground,” he observes. “Though I think that the Lord High God would surely rather it found no purchase, and will not smite thee for it.” He smiles his thin, cruel smile. “Shall I guess what has stirred thy passion, monster? Blood is the harbinger that tells the tale. Eve’s curse has come to fruition in the magus’s daughter.”
“A curse!” Now I am alarmed, too. “Master said nothing of a curse. Master said Miranda is healthy and well!”
“And so she is, as well as any lass blossoming into womanhood,” Ariel says, unconcerned. “Eve’s curse is the burden of all womankind; aye, and the burden of mankind, too.” He looks at my face and laughs. “Oh la, poor monster! Wilst thy dullard’s wits not allow thee to compass the truth that thy lustful loins would fain shout to the heavens?” He leans forward. “Surely thou hast seen goats at rut in the mountainside in autumn, and give birth to gamboling kids come spring’s warm breath. Miranda’s womb has become fallow ground. The lass is ripe for breeding.”
Rut.
I do not know this word, and yet I fear I do. What the spirit says is true. I have seen he-goats climb atop she-goats, humping and pumping with their stiff rods; yes, and wild dogs in the empty fishing village at the shore, too. I did not understand their game. Now understanding comes upon me and it is like a dark tide in my blood, an understanding I do not want.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “Do not speak so of Miranda! Master would punish you for it!”
“Oh aye, so he would, my fine fellow servant. The magus wouldst punish me most grievously.” Ariel makes his cloud go away with one wave of his arm, dropping lightly to the earth on his white feet. “Though not, I think, so harshly as he wouldst punish thee did I tell him what I caught thee at this day. Didst think of the lass whilst thou pleasured thyself?”
I bare my teeth at him. “Do not speak of her so!”
He laughs, but there is sorrow in it. “Oh, poor monster! Thou hast a tenderness for her.”
“How should I not?” I say through my teeth. “Miranda is my friend!”