She would not stir. There were no words to speak for her. In the white cell of her room a rag doll would smile and loll against the wall. Through her nostrils now her breath would hiss. Music scores would dance through her mind. The oboe of flesh would play in her.
"Pmniff!" Her breath explodes, mouth opens. He ravages her mouth, she struggles, squirms. His loins flash faster. Faint velvet squelch between their loins. Her cuntlips grip like a clam. He clamps her bottom, draws the cheeks apart. Mutinous still, her tongue retreats, unseeking to his seeking.
The sperm boils. In the itching stem the lava rises. The bed rocks. Music of lust. There is dryness here in the love-lust dry. The curtains falter and wave. Her bottom is lifted, back arched. His pestle pounds.
She receives. The squirting she receives-the long thin jets. Spatter-tingling of sperm. Their breath hush- rushes. Her arms lie limp. Long-leaping strands of wet. The oozy. Last jet of come. The dribbling. The last tremors. Bellies warm. A weakness, falling. The strong loins of his urging are paper now. Strengthless he lies, then moves from her.
Her face is pallid. She awaits his going and rises. Her dress is straightened. A vague fussing of hair. Quiet as a wraith she descends.
"You will have tea now, dear? You have had your lesson?" she is asked. She nods. Her knees tremble. A warm trickling between her thighs. The oboe, yes. The tall ship sailing.
I emerged from my dreams. We were loosed and turned about, our bonds replaced. My bottom bulbed to the wall. I waited.
NINE
There was quiet again. The music ceased again. I had not liked it. Its feebleness irritated.
The Lady Arabella was announced. I turned my head, though I could not see.
"Let her enter and be brought here," 1 heard my uncle say. There was a sound as if of a heavy table moving. Jenny's hands moved about my face. I knew the scent and taste of them. Her fingertip bobbled over my lower lip. The blindfold slipped down an inch beneath my eyes.
"Look," Jenny said. I saw the woman enter. Her coiffure was exquisite. A diamond choker, a swan neck. Her curves were elegant beneath a swathing white gown of satin flecked with red. The collar of her gown was raised slightly at the back, as one sees it in portraits of the Elizabethans. She wore a look of coldness and distance. Her lips were full, her nose long and straight. Her eyelids were shadowed in imitation of the early Egyptians.
She made to step back as my uncle reached her. Her fingers were a glitterbed of jewels. Behind her entered a man of military look, impeccable in a black jacket and white trousers, as was the evening fashion then. I judged the years between them. She was the younger.
"Not here. It is unseemly," she said.
Jenny covered my eyes. Did she then uncover Caroline's? I heard not a sound beside me.
"No," the woman said in answer to some muttered remark. There was movement past me. I felt it. As the air moves I felt. Hands touched my thighs, caressed. A finger traced the lips of my quim which pressed its outlines through the fine mesh of the tights. It was removed quickly, as if by another. I heard the jangling of bracelets.
"Not here," the woman said again. I felt her as if surrounded, jostled. They would not dare to jostle, but they had touched me. Was I an exhibit?
"B… Beatrice…" A croaking whisper from my sister. 1 ignored her. I heard her squeal. She always squeals. She was being fingered. Her bonds jangled. The girl with the oboe would be tight. The sperm would squirt in her thinly. Would she feel it?
Jenny favoured me. Once more my blindfold slipped. The chandeliers danced their crystal diamonds. The Lady Arabella was moving forward. As if through water she moved. An older woman moved beside her, a hand cupping her elbow. The older woman wore a purple dress. Her vulgarity was obvious.
"Arabella, my sweet, you will come to dinner tomorrow night? The Sandhursts are coming." Her voice cooed.
"I do not know. Perhaps, yes. I must look in my diary, of course."
Arabella's look was constrained, her lips set. Behind her, as I felt, the man who had escorted her in was nudging her bottom. It was of an ample size, though not too large by comparison with her stately curves. Her face turned to her escort as if pleading. He shook his head. I saw the table then. It had indeed been pushed forward. Upon its nearest edge was a large velvet cushion. Her long legs appeared to stiffen as she approached it. Her footsteps dragged. Her shoes were silver as I saw from the occasional peeping of her toes beneath the hem of her gown.
Jenny covered my eyes again. I had not looked at Caroline. Her veins throbbed in mine. Her lips were my lips. We had been bound together naked. I had sipped her saliva.
There were murmurings, whispers, protestations, retreats. The doors to the morning room opened and closed, re-opened and closed again.
"It is private," I heard my aunt say to others. The room was stiller. I heard a cry as from Arabella.
"Lift her gown fully," a voice said, "hold her arms."
"Not here…" She seemed unable to say anything else. Not here, not here, not here, not here. A rustling sound. Slight creak of wood. A gasp. Plaintive.
"Remove her drawers-."
"She was unseemly? Is she not betrothed to him?" It was my aunt's voice. To whom she spoke I knew not. I guessed it to be the escort. His voice was dry and thin.
"Improper," he replied. The word fell like the closing of a book. "Take them right off. Do not let her kick," he said.
"No! not the birch!" A wail from Arabella. The modulations of my aunt's voice and the military gentleman's amused me. They were tonally flat-courteous. Would he have her bound, my aunt asked. It was not necessary, he said, but her wrists should be held.
I envisaged her bent over the table, the globe of her bottom gleaming. Her garters would be of white satin, flecked with red. The deep of her groove-the inrolling. Her breathing came to me, filtering its small waiting sobs. The dry rustling sound of a birch. I had never yet tasted the twigs. It was said that they should be softened first.
"Not bound," my aunt said. Her voice sounded almost regretful. "Hilda-you will hold her wrists tight. Stretch her arms out."
"Noooooo.!"
The long, sweet aristocratic cry came as the first swishing came. It sounded not as violently as I thought. I wanted to see. My mind groped, grappled for Jenny. Perhaps she had been sent with others to the morning room. Beside me Caroline uttered a small whimper. Did she fear the birch? She would not receive it. I would protect her. I ran through tunnels calling Father's name. Edward had used his stepmother's first name. She had permitted it. He had lain upon her.
"Na! Naaaaah!" A further cry. Her sobbing rose like violins. A creaking of table. Beneath her raised gown, her underskirt, her chemise, the velvet cushion would press beneath her belly. There was comfort. I comforted myself with the comfort.
The sounds went on. The birch swished gently but firmly as it seemed to me. First across one cheek then the other, no doubt. The bouncy hemispheres would redden and squirm. Streaks of heat. Was it like the strap? I did not like the stable. Did I like it?
"Ask her now," the man's voice came. There was whisperinga quavering cry. A negation. Refusal. "Three more," he said, "her drawers were down when I caught them together."
My aunt tutted. The small dots of her tutting impinged across the sobs, the swishings. They flew like small birds across the room.
"Whaaah! No-ooooh! Wha-aaaaah!" Arabella sobbed. I felt her sobs in my throat, globules of anguish swelling. They contracted, slithered down. There was quiet. Her tears would shine upon the polished wood of the table.
"Ask her again." The same voice, impassive, quiet. The sobs were unending.
"Have you before?" my aunt asked. It was her garden voice, clear and enquiring. The lilt of a question mark that could not fail to invite.