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A chill formed deep in her spine whenever Ophelia traversed the long hall in Elsinore to meet her lord dressed in his black raiments. She could never tell if the chill born out of sympathy from his mourning and the sadness that so apparently weighed on his mind, or from some misplacement of guilt. Misplaced, of course, for he swore his love for her was pure as her snow white breasts, and he spoke of Pyramus and Thisbe, Apollo and Daphne, and many others whose stories he had read in Wittenberg. Ophelia herself relied on him for their details, for she had never read those sorts of books, or any but her volumes of devotion and prayer, as her father would never suffer her to read a bawdy rhyme, excepting as negative examples during his lectures on moral instruction.
But the last time she had visited he touched her more freely, holding her harms against his own, his face so close she could see the tears trapped in his eyes, and his whispered in a voice gone hoarse with weeping, “My mother tells me she intends to remarry. I cannot...so soon.” She had yet to tell him any of the details, such as when this marriage was to take place, or if a suitor had even been yet selected, so Ophelia thought this concern premature, but she hid these thoughts from the prince, and told him all his opinions were valid—it was too soon, a scandal would look ill for the Danish court, and so on. And though he normally kissed her goodbye in the courtly fashion, that day he kept her longer, and ran his hand down the back of her gown all the while. But a man so sensitive to scandal and order could only have honor on his mind. For herself, she felt her thoughts must be less pure.
When she reached his closet, the door was already ajar, and when she pushed it open in excitement, the hinges squealed. Hamlet was nearby and took her hand from the doorknob, a finger at his lips. When the door was firmly shut he explained, “Privacy, milady, privacy.”
She stood near the entrance, all stiff and embarrassed. “Of course my lord.” Her hand was still warm from where he touched it, and she feared that any move might betray herself, but he insisted then that they sit down on his couch.
She had worn her best gown--evergreen with a mink collar and pendant sleeves over her tight rose kirtle that made her sit mightily straight. Not that he ever noticed her clothes. Though he dressed princely himself, his mind was too full of other matter to waste words on trivialities. Sometimes when she visited he would tell stories of Wittenberg of what her learned and his friends there, sanguine stories, and at others he would talk of his father and even when these stories were light there was an overtone of melancholy in his voice. Often he only looked at her askance, which made it harder for her to admire his features openly. His large, expressive eyes, that changed from hazel to ebony in the flickering of the candle light, seemed to only ever take her in piece by piece—her hand, her chest, the corner of her ear.
Today he was quiet, even more pensive than his regular self. He did not look at her, but sat close and took her hand in his lap. He unlatched the buttons on her kirtle sleeve and ran his fingers over the goosebumps of her wrist.
“Did you receive my letter,” he said after some length.
“Indeed my lord, 'I have not art to reckon my groans, but that I love thee best.'”
“My groans, lady. Know you not I am a man?” Her father had told her of men and all they desire, but she had thought a prince, one so close to God, could be above such appetites of the flesh. Part of her wanted to rise and leave when she heard him suddenly speak thus, but that was only the lady that she wished she was. His hands were already on her, and her will was soft and weakened by his touch.
“All of Elsinore is mad for flesh, first my mother, my uncle...What chance can I have to avoid such corruption?”
“I know not my lord.” She wished she could say a phrase more clever, something like “God will grant us the fortitude we ask for,” but it felt untrue to her. Even speaking the Lord's name in her internal state felt like the crime of blasphemy.
The prince suddenly leapt to his feet. “But why am I speaking thus to a young maid? I forget myself. Surely these words mean nothing to you.”
“I'm a mortal woman, my lord, as vulnerable to sin as that first who lived.” She hesitated at first to speak, but this felt more true, more honest, than any speech she had shared with him prior.
“Indeed,” he said, not without suspicion. He was used to the meek face she wore as a mask, and she knew not if his love for her could bear her true self. His eyes met hers and he looked at her hard.
Often when they met, they sat through periods of silence. Hamlet was brooding, she shy. But none was as an intolerable as this—her feeling his stare penetrating the deeper parts of her nature. She could have turned away, but that would be assuming a modesty she felt false. She met his stare with her looks. Her face hid nothing.
“You accept my frankness, my lord? Lovers have no secrets, do we not?” She reached for her unbuttoned sleeve, but he suddenly caught her hands in his.
“But of course, milady. That we are flesh shouldn't weaken our love.” He lifted her to her feet, running his hand up her open kirtle sleeve all the way to her elbow. “If our love is honorable, as mine is to you, we should have no shame in the truth.”
Ophelia soul had been gazed into, light shone on all its dark corners, and it was accepted. “No shame,” she repeated, and he squeezed her tight.
“Has this mattered weighed on you, Ophelia?” he asked, and she admitted that yes, it had.
He explained, “when we kiss, when we embrace, when I touch your hand, these are all ways of showing our affection. That we may desire more demonstrates our affection is too great for such common expressions. My love for you consumes me. If it is thus with me, I can scarce imagine the effects of such unbalanced humors upon your fragile vessel."
"I cannot describe, my lord. Some nights I lay awake feeling I am afire. 'Tis all I could do to pray for strength." Her words ran from her now. Her secrets were no longer hers but also his. He held her tight against his chest and undid the top two buttons on the back of her gown, then ran his fingers across the skin above her chemise. His chill hands shocked her.
"Perhaps I ought to leave?" she said with a start.
"Don't go," he murmured into her ear. She felt him working at the buttons of her gown and also the stirrings of his body against hers. She searched for his lips and found them eager, wet and warm.
He pulled away suddenly but not without gentleness. "My shirt is choking me. Loosen my neck." She found the drawstring tucked under his doublet, but her fingers shook so the knot remained fixed. He untied it himself, knocking his hat onto the floor in the process. If he noticed, he made no sign but reached to slide her gown from her shoulders.
She felt afraid, afraid of him, afraid of what he was doing, what he was revealing, but illogically he seemed the only person capable of subduing her fears, and she clung to him while he unlaced her kirtle and began unbuttoning his own doublet.
"Lie on the couch," he told her as he unlaced his hose, and she obeyed though her legs were butter and she stumbled over herself. He joined her, in his undergarments, and lifted her one leg, then the other, to unlatch her garters and slip off her stockings, kissing her knees and calves all the while. She was cold in just her chemise, but he saw her shiver and wrapped his arms around her. He held her this way for some minutes, and during this time her heartbeat was so loud it drowned out any thoughts. His breaths, rapid and shallow, rose against her, and his smell, a man's smell, wafted through his thin undershirt and overpowered her senses.
By the time he whispered, “Are you still cold,” she had forgotten even what cold had ever felt like.
He began kissing her again, more gentle this time, almost more patient, first her lips than her head, her neck, and his hands fell on her breast, kneading them softly as a newborn kitten. Then she noticed his flesh protruding from his braise. She had seen cocks before on the old swineherds pissing in the road, but his was so clean, so pink, it was almost a different organ.
He began to lift the hem of her chemise, but she got the idea and pulled it over her head while he removed his shirt and braise. Blond hair grew only in the middle of his chest, in one coiffed clump, and sweat beaded around his neck. He spread her legs and laid down between them, and though they but kissed again, with skin on skin it was an entirely new sensation. Nothing lay between them, neither secrets nor physical barriers. She could feel every hair of his tingling her body, and the twitching of ever muscle during those moments when he muffled his moans.
At last, he took his cock in his hand and stroked it against her outer folds, applying little pressure at first, then rocking on his hips, pushing the head against her opening, but holding back from entering her. She watched his movements with pleasure, then all her muscles relaxed at once, and she lifter her body to envelop his cock, which caused him to let out a sudden cry.
He moved faster now, and she felt a whole range of sensations, some good, some strange and tight, but he no longer looked for her reaction and focused instead on the wall behind her, as if he was lost to her though he was inside her most secret parts. His quick breaths turned to open pants, and he grunted from the bottom of his throat.
He lifted his torso up and rammed her body against his, as if she were a tool, but this change in position served her pleasure well, as if the heat from their friction spread throughout her thighs. Taking a page from his book, she leaned her head back and focused on the waves of pleasure that rippled through her own body that caused her to sigh uncontrollably.
His gasps brought her mind back to him just before she could feel his liquid filling her. He collapsed on top of her, his muscular body so heavy that she felt crushed. She coughed. Liquid ran down her thighs. She did not know whether it was proper for her to move or no.
When he lifted himself from her, he only looked at her, as was his way, out of the corner of his eye. “Oh Ophelia,” he said. “How could you tempt me thus?”
And he turned to dress.