Notebooks of the Young Wife (19 page)

I surfaced as if from a deep well to the sound of a door closing. In the light from the high window I saw orange juice had been put for me on the small bedside table. Along with it lay the two rescued volumes and the aptness of the price I’d paid made them seem even more of a prize. Forgoing for the time being an inspection of the well thrashed behind in question, I rolled carefully onto my stomach and pulled the books over. Inside the cover of the first were a few folded sheets of A4, and on the last one of them I found what I hoped to see:
Uxor studiosa scripsit
. This was another instalment of the transcriptions Miss Faversham had produced. I swallowed a mouthful from the glass and with a keen sense of anticipation began to read.

Today what I write begins its Life as a Cautionary Tale, in which our Progress in Matters Venereal is halted by an Episode of Castigation. However, my Abigail and I turn the Occasion to our own Purpose despite the Will of those who are set up as our Elders & Betters. To be plain, it is the Master I allude to, in full Knowledge that the critical Implication may be judg’d to come ill from a Dutiful Wife. Yet, I beg the Indulgence of my Readers until the Event is lay’d out in which he redeems himself, is granted Pardon and becomes the Means of furthering our Duty.

We were, I admit, a little childish early in the Morning, though not without Reason, and saving the Bad Temper of his Lordship I should not have been provoked into the Act. Once embark’d on a Game of Ball with the Gardener’s Children we become, it is true, a little boisterous, failing to appreciate that the Lord Of All He Surveys is after sitting up late with Comrades in Drink and we are disporting ourselves directly below the Bedchamber where he lies groaning in Remorse. However, my State of Ignorance is soon to be dispell’d as a Window flies up on its Sash and we are treated all to a red-fac’d Bellowing.

The Youngsters scamper away in Dismay at the Racket, while I stand my Ground, irk’d by such rude Remonstrance. To put out my Tongue would demonstrate the Tenour of my Feelings but the Gesture seems insufficient. Thus I pull at the Tye of the Pantaloons donn’d for our Romp, and before Nabby can stop me I have them down to the Knee. It is some hours since the Darkness has pass’d and with it the time to admire the Splendours of the Moon; so in its stead I bend full over to show him another that has never belong’d with her pale Sister in the Heavens. Forthwith the Features at the open Window take on a Hue so crimson that for a Moment I fear that Apoplexy might strike the affronted Party down in his Prime.

‘Do not move,’ he roars, and vanishes from view. I turn to joke with my Maid that the Orbs I have uncover’d would become chill’d were I to obey the Order to the Letter, but she offers the Opinion that they will be suffering shortly from the converse Complaint. Given the Master’s Tastes I have to own the Truth of this and begin to lament my hasty Response. However, I am spared the Indulgence of Regret by the Arrival of two Footmen carrying between them a Bench and a Coil of Rope. At the Sight of them I reach to resume my lower Garment but my Husband, hard on their Heels, forbids me with an unmistakable Signal. It is to be as Nabby has divin’d, and before the empurpled glare of the Lordly Visage I lie meekly along the wooden Seat, my face to it as directed. I am to get a Whipping and to protest is like to double its Severity rather than avert the Operation.

Yet, to be plain, I do not place myself in Readiness with any great Anxiety. Knowing Sir Montague’s Predilections, I petitioned to sample the Birch Rod before consenting to a Marriage Contract that was sure to bring me into many close Encounters with its Twigs. At my Insistence he did not stint his Efforts, striking until the white Skin was bath’d in a ruby Dew and the Walls rang with my Squealing. It was a Shock indeed, especially to one whose Childhood lacked even one Occasion of a parental Hand raised in Anger, though to my Surprise, the Sum Total of its Effect was to induce in me an immoderate Degree of Warmth. I refer not only to the Rise in Temperature of the whipt Parts, but of the Heat induced in Parts adjacent. (With such Coyness the Reader must for now rest content: the Nature of such Fires and how a Maiden may slake them – with or without the Blessing of Society – is a Subject to which my Pen will return).

Thus it is that when my Wrists are pulled forward to be bound with a Cord and another used to encircle my Legs, I yield without Demur to what seems a superfluous Element of Staging. How mistaken is that Judgment becomes apparent when the second Man returns from the Trees with a Pair of stout Hazel Wands, by which Time I am bound fast to the Plank. It is with a Degree of helpless Horrour that I see the burly Fellows, duly weapon’d, take up their positions to left and right of my tether’d Nakedness. Scant Minutes past flaunted with Impudence, I now sense the bare Cheeks to quiver in Anticipation of the Lashing they are about to receive. At this point Nabby returns bearing a wicker Chair in which my Master installs himself at a prime viewing Place. His Colour has abated and he rubs his Hands in the undisguis’d Expectation of a Show.

‘Strike in Alternation, good Fellows,’ he enjoins them heartily, ‘for with diligent Work we shall soon witness Contrition.’ Sir Montague’s Words turn me once more into the Rebel whose Fear is ousted by Indignation: a State that enjoys, I am ashamed to report, but a short Life once the Strokes begin to fall.

Dear Reader, if it has never been your Lot to suffer a Switching of the uncloath’d Buttocks, how am I to explain the Wickedness of the Smart that is so caus’d? In Truth I cannot, therefore I must run the Risk you will think me a Creature of no Mettle when I tell that before a dozen Cuts are landed I have cried Mercy. His Lordship, though, is minded to teach a Lesson and his Audience literally Captive, so her Pleas are no more than wasted Breath. In the end there is a lamentable and copious Flow of Tears at which the hard Heart is soften’d and the Footmen bidden to abandon their Whipping.

When the Knots are released, I struggle up off the Bench. The Sight of the discarded Rods, quite shredded by their Work, makes me fear to inspect the state of my poor Flay’d Bum that burns as though punctur’d by a Host of red-hot Needles. Now the Master is all Sympathy, as if my State is the Result of an Accident rather than his Orders, but my Resentment melts away at his Approaches. He draws me to him with soothing Noises and Nabby joins him in the Assessment of my Wounds. I am content to allow the Examination, aware that I am myself becoming a shade ‘hot’ (the Reader will be prim’d to take my Meaning) while my Maid is busy opening the Lordly Breeches at my back.

Then she lets out an ‘Oh’, I turn to see what has occasion’d it and gasp myself. Not at the Member that rears up at me – that is no unwelcome Sight – but at the Blemish that bulges from its Side. We have before us plain the Origin of the Day’s Ill-Temper: no Act of Insertion will be endurable until the Wen has given up its festering Contents. Nabby and I exchange a Look that says it will be a good Thing to release the Pressure of the other accumulation in the Area, so I bend to allow the Organ to rub its end into the Crack of my Arse. Sir Montague is much taken with my Move and in mere Seconds I am sensible of his Spending, which stings the raw Cheeks as he crows in Delight.

Then he calls to the Footmen who look up as if startled from a complete Immersion in collecting their Tools. They chastised with admirable Devotion, he declares, and now the Mistress’s Bottom requires Attention that he himself cannot supply. No Rods need be cut, he adds, for the Servants should find each a Prime Specimen about their own Persons. I grasp his Meaning and plant a Kiss on the sticky End that begins to droop, then he directs that while the Men are to Avail themselves in Turn of the rear Entrance, and given the Circumstance of his Incapacity, my Abigail is charg’d to take Care of the front Lips with her own. It is most welcome News and I decide that my Master is wholly forgiven for his Mood.

The first of the Men deploys his Rod with a Vigour that takes away my Breath, and I am so fettled by his Ramming that I put the Head of the Master’s afflicted Part into my Mouth where it is at once hard again. Now there is a veritable Truncheon that lunges deep in the Arse, while Nabby nuzzles the Cunt as might a hungry Horse its Bag; between the pair of them I am in Transports and a wild Idea takes Charge of me. To weigh such a Notion is by that very Act to cast it from the Mind, therefore I leave no Space in which Reason can do its Work. Two quick Movements suffice: one to bring the Shaft side-on to my open Teeth and the other to close them with Force upon the Root of the Pustule.

My Pen, I fear, is less than equal to the Description of the Events that follow. With a Sound betwixt a Screech and a Roar paining my Ears, I spew the foul Matter to the floor before the Stomach’s Contents will be expelled in like Manner, a Tactic that has the Merit of a bare Success. At the nether Openings the Ending is near while the Shock and sudden Relief has made Sir Montague stand like a Pole. I close over the Gush of his renew’d Spending, greedy for the Mask of its Taste, as the Cock ramm’d into the Passage behind sluices out the very Bowel with its pumping Flow.

Thus it is finish’d and with a bare fourteen Nights to pass before the Spectacle we have achieved, more by Accident than Design, an excellent Rehearsal of some of its Features. So pleased are we with Ourselves that my Abigail and I retire to Savour the intimate Pleasures of a bath between Mistress and Maid. No sooner, however, than it is done, I am summoned by my Husband who is renew’d in his Manhood and impatient to reacquaint it with my delicious Hinder Parts. I give the exact Phrase inscrib’d in his Note, that further requires Nabby to assist in the Matter, and it causes us not a little Merriment as we make our Way refresh’d to the Master Bedroom.

Uxor studiosa scripsit
on this 1st Day of August 1728

The next several days, in fact the better part of a week, passed in a whirl of sex. Fucking, I should say. Neither buggery nor masturbation, nor yet the games mouths can play but plain and unadorned penetration of the vagina by the erect penis. In the first twenty-four hours of meeting him I had seen for myself the boy’s powers of recovery to be beyond those often ascribed to late-teenaged males by their lust-stricken elders. In the first instance, to have his bottom warmed or see another’s suitably chastised brought him to a condition where ejaculation required only a few deft movements of an obliging hand. What singled him out from the imagined pack was that if the conditions pertained, the result followed without apparent need for recuperation. Every hour on the hour, if one had a mind for it.

I exaggerate a touch, and I was not on his case with a stopwatch while engaged with the relevant body parts. It must also be admitted that since the organ in question was inside me at the crucial moments I was not in a position to assess if its customary spurtings became, over time, reduced to mere drops. No matter: what I did know and shall not easily forget was the frequency with which I found myself bent forward and spread to allow entry to the stiff meat.

We were delivered a few miles out of the town to a cottage on the coast belonging to the Order, nominally to give a space for me to mend and for quiet perusal of the prize of the Notebooks. The garden was large and enclosed, sloping right to the sea, and over the four days I must have sampled the greater part of it on hands and knees, bum in the air, though I did put
uxor juvenis
aside while the actual deed was done. In retrospect, I can hardly have been as grudging as this makes it sound for I had been, unusually, ready to abandon trousers for a borrowed skirt. Lacking knickers beneath, it could be flipped up on demand to permit me the untrammelled impression of a bitch in heat. I blush to think of it.

However, I was in good literary company. Between times, I was able to feast on the lubricious prose of the young wife as day followed feverish day in the run up to the spectacle. Her Master, it seemed, had been quite rejuvenated by the lancing of the boil, and was demanding frequent servicing by both Mistress and Maid as his imagination worked on the details of the tableau soon to be staged. Thus their nightly antics took on the aspect of rehearsals as the active men of the household were called upon, singly and severally, to test the feasibility of entering the chosen orifice from positions that had popped into Sir Montague’s overheated mind. More often than not, while penetration could be achieved once ejaculation began the strained cock would spring from its hole and spew its load messily onto the floor. Quite the thing for a porn shoot maybe, but less so for a display being planned with military precision. Back to the drawing board.

Then with the event just three days off, a working centrepiece was achieved.
Uxor
tells it as only she can.

I have expended Words before to describe the Bench, but shall endeavour to do so again. It is a curious Thing, near square in its Proportions and low slung. The narrow Slats that make its top, of the same Oak as its stout Frame, follow a shallow Curve that might invite the uninform’d Observer to rest his Person thereon. But Readers of my foregoing Scripts would not be so deceiv’d: far from making available a Seat, it provides for a person’s Seat to be presented for Castigation. Once it is buckl’d down, no Efforts by the protesting Body will discharge the arrayed Cheeks of the Posterior from their painful Encounter with the chosen Instrument of Correction.

This night I am the one with her Belly press’d into the wooden Ridges by the thick Belt that has been made tight across the Back. It is scarcely a Position of Comfort, though my Attention has been diverted by the sheath’d Member that has found its Way between the nether Lips from behind. Not a difficult Entrance, I must own, since the Portal is quite slick with my Anticipation, and once it is accomplish’d the Master leans over me with his own Beast proud before my Face.

Its Moment, however, is not yet come, so I content myself with a Taste of the wet End. Then he delivers a Volley of Smacks to my Rump that has me squealing. There is, I will confide, a Degree of Duty to these Cries, for the stinging Spanks cause me to bounce agreeably on the Shaft that spears my Vitals. On the Day itself I shall, of course, be most soundly whipp’d, a Fate spared me this Day for fear of the Marks that might remain. The Thought of such Treatment gives me no little Anxiety, though I dare to suppose I shall rise to the Occasion, in the Company of the Men’s Members before the Sight of my Squirmings.

Meanwhile, my Husband has at last desisted from his Exercise and declared the burning Bum it has produc’d to be ready for Invasion. It is where we have before come unstuck, in a Sense all too literal, so I hold my Breath as the Man behind me leans back while another straddles his Thighs. This time we are bless’d with the Choice of a long-shanked Fellow, for his Organ slides into the greas’d Arse-Hole to its very Hilt without Mishap. I have learn’d how to facilitate Access to that Place polite Society does not speak of, but this Entrant must vie with the Occupant of the neighbouring Opening for the inner Space. Reader, these are well-endow’d Men whose splendid Erections are planted side-by-side in the trim Form of a young Woman. Thus it is that I am stuff’d as full as any festive Goose readied for the Spit, with a Bottom as hot as if the Roasting was already started. My Abigail, who has been watching with Interest, now intervenes by taking hold of my Hips and moving them up and down.

‘Take Charge, Mistress,’ she counsels, ‘and you shall have these Boys properly seated.’ I follow her Advice, lifting to pull the Organs out a Touch and lowering to push them back. The Sensation causes me to laugh, for all at once I am pleasuring myself with the formidable Insertions. Sir Montague is beaming at the evident Success of his Arrangement, and his Smile grows wider yet when Nabby kneels to take his Organ into her Mouth. At the Performance the task will, in the Nature of the Occasion, fall to me but it is consider’d Ill-Luck thus to complete the Tableau in Advance. So it is that I am allow’d but to press my Lips to the Shaft while the Maid’s are at work on the bulbous Head. It swells and leaks in Response to her Efforts and my own tell me that the Fellows are in a similar State.

Three Cocks are to be cajol’d into firing as one (the Master has laid Stress on this Stipulation) and under the Burden of it I am as preoccupied as the Director of Animals that performs in a travelling Circus. However, the Moment arrives of a Pulsing before my Eyes, and a double Kick inside overtaken by a Clutching of the Vitals that stops my Breath. Dear Reader, I am stunn’d as by a Poleaxe and drench’d in a Delirium as rapturous as though the Celestial Gates themselves had open’d to admit me.

Reading this writing left me with mixed feelings: my Joanna, aka
uxor studiosa
, lodged as she was in the early eighteenth century, was more adventurous than I who should have had the advantage of all the later twentieth-century years of sexual liberation. Fortunately, these maudlin reflections were cut short by the arrival of the car that brought us to the cottage, and within the hour we were jolting along the rough track towards the old city. Madame Mariselle was waiting to explain that a message had come from a Miss Bingley at Ardingley End: without specifying why, it indicated that our early return would be appreciated. Something was clearly up if the unflappable Tamsin had been moved to get in touch.

‘So I have taken the liberty of booking seats on the morning train. You will be fit to travel?’ The grey eyes were looking at the snug-hipped trousers I’d risked for the first time since our encounter and I nodded, trying not to flush. Then they swivelled to the boy but he was staring down, pointedly failing to meet the enquiring gaze. I knew the Director of the Rigorists was itching to have him bent over as I had been, but I knew also that I must not push him into such a thing.

It was already mid-afternoon, and for the rest of the day the boy and I went our separate ways. I rather luxuriated in the personal space after our close-closeted spell by the sea, and following a pleasantly solitary supper decided to wander. The guest quarters were set apart from the main body of the one-time monastery where the residents went about their daily business, and beside the grim underground chapel I’d seen little of any of it. So I pulled on a pair of trainers that would allow quiet movement over stone floors, and a black zip-up jacket. I had no torch so would have to depend on there being lighting, at least in the areas I was likely to reach.

Two flights down I headed off in a new direction, passing a series of doors to reach a T-junction with blank stone walls heading to left and right. Then there was a noise, and something about it made me duck into the last recess. Footsteps drew closer and amongst the rustling of clothing there was a snuffling that made me prick up my ears. Surely it was – and yes – there came a distinct sob to confirm the suspicion that I’d heard the sound of suppressed weeping. I pulled back, holding my breath, as the cloaked procession swayed by, the unhappy member, female I was sure, tightly flanked by the remainder. In itself it was a sight more curious than alarming, but that was not all. Bringing up the rear was a taller figure in a black gown that distinguished itself from the grey of the rest, and over its shoulder dangled the long tails of a cat. And as he passed under the light I saw that the knotted leather strips of it were stained dark with something still wet.

Heart beating, I waited for what seemed an age, though no doubt it was mere moments that passed before a door closed and there was silence. There could, of course, be other explanations than the one that leaped out at me, but when I heard indications of the party’s return I was off. My alcove would hide nothing from a group passing the opposite way so my best chance was to get ahead and find, if I could, some means of avoiding them altogether. In retrospect, it was hardly likely that one whose presence had become sanctioned by Madame herself would be seen as an interloper ripe for summary justice. At the time, however, the thought of that evil-looking whip striking my bare body was quite enough to drown out whatever small voice of reason might have been trying to speak.

Round the next corner was a straight corridor, brightly lit: could I reach the end of it before the approaching inmates came into view? About halfway along was an opening, and hearing a voice suddenly clear behind me I panicked and lunged at the catch of the inset door. It opened and I pushed it quickly closed, my back pressed to the cold stone to the side. The sounds were of an altercation that grew heated as the parties approached; for a horrid moment they seemed to stop right outside while the pulse thudded in my temples. It was only when the voices moved on and died away in the distance that I realised what I’d done. The door had latched shut and I was on the wrong side of a lock without a key. And apart from a barely discernable strip of light between the wood and the floor, I was standing in darkness.

By the time it took to call myself ten kinds of bloody fool my eyes should have started to become accustomed to the dark. But there was little to show for it. It was true that the glow under the door was slightly less faint, but it cast no illumination on the space around me. If I was going to find a way out I would have to do it blind, and the wall behind me was the obvious place to start. With one arm outstretched I inched away from the door, moving my hand forward by degrees until I reckoned I’d moved about a yard’s distance. The stone surface was still there, unbroken, but the next tentative step found only empty space. Instant vertigo made my head reel and I leaned heavily on my support until it passed. I tried again, poking a leg out and down, and found a solid footing a few inches below. Exploring with the other foot established that there was a straight edge from left to right. Very good. If my luck was in I had just descended the first step of a flight of stairs and it should be a relatively straightforward matter to take the next and the one after that. Then, at the bottom of the whole thing there ought to be another door. Whether it would be one I could actually open, well, that was another matter. But first things first...

It went according to plan, except for one bad moment when the fourth step failed to appear and my nose came up against a wall right in front of me. While not a spiral stair, the thing was turning down to the left, and once the penny dropped I was able to take the next bend in my stride. After a straight run there was an end, but instead of the wall that was my guide my hand found a length of banister rail that terminated in a wooden knob. And then nothing. Afraid to let go I searched the surrounding area at arm’s length with the same result: nothing. The floor was a little rough but basically flat, and it seemed I’d been delivered into the middle of an empty space.

Then I noticed the air. On the way down it was slightly musty, as if the way I’d come was little used; but as I stood uncertainly at the bottom it was tinged with something else. Suddenly I had it: cheese. That utterly French smell of ripe brie or camembert with just a touch of rottenness. It was faint but distinct, and had me hoping against hope. Cheese would be in a kitchen or at least in a larder near to a kitchen; the question was how to find my way to it through the impenetrable dark. Or was it? At first I thought my eyes were playing tricks, nerve endings firing off small volleys in the absence of the usual stimulation. But no, there
was
something. Right in front of me there was a line, a fine line that seemed to dance in front of my eyes. I reached out, emboldened and took a step, then another and realised what I was looking at. It was a crack of light under a door, much like the one I’d left behind, but it was a long way off.