Jane Eyre

by Charlotte Bronte

His tone was very dire. I sensed he was talking about things I had not yet thought on.

  “Corporal punishment, Jane.”

  I swallowed. “Is that unusual, sir?”

  “Perhaps men beat their wives, Jane, but that is not what I am speaking of.”

  “More riddles, sir? Please make yourself plain or excuse me to bed.”

  “So that you can explore your quim in peace?”

  He spoke the words with utter calm. For a moment I feared my heart might burst. I wrung my hands together. I had never heard that word spoken aloud, and certainly not from someone as genteel as he. “Sir!”

  “It was your confession, Jane. Have the courage to speak of what you mentioned! Are you going to play with your quim once you are huddled securely beneath your blankets? Confess!”

  “Yes! Yes.”

  “Use the word, let me hear your tongue form the syllables, be bold, be brazen. Tell me crudely what you are going to do.”

  “I am going to play with my quim, sir!” I all but sobbed at the last.

  “There, there. Do you have any idea what you have done to me?”

  I looked into his eyes.

  “Do you see my manhood pressing against the fabric which contains it?”

  Compelled, I stole a glance. He took my hand and pressed it there. I felt his masculine response.

  “The idea of you sliding your fingers between your legs while I lay so near thrills me, Jane. You saw my book. Many a night, I have laid in my bed, stroking myself and indulging in thoughts of what I’d like to do to you!” He released my hand. “Dare you find out?”

  “Sir?”

  “I’m not an easy master, Jane. Moody, demanding. My tastes may be offensive to one as delicate as you.”

  Scoffed I, “Dear sir, only you find me delicate. I assure you I am not.”

  “Then lift your dress.”

  I had spent many a night thinking of being with Mr Rochester, but in my dreams, we were already in bed, we were already past this part that I was finding terribly awkward.

  “Lift your dress,” repeated he. “I will help with your undergarments, but if you’ve a desire to explore with another, this is your opportunity. I will force you into nothing—that is not my way. You must always show me your willingness else I shall send you back to your room and encourage you to throw the bolt. What I offer you is the most glorious of all freedoms, the opportunity to always be at choice, to accept my instructions or deny completely—thus you are the one with the upper hand.

  “If you opt to stay, Miss Eyre, heed my warning, my desires are unusual.”

  “You have said that before. I do not know what it means.”

  “Some may name them perversions.”

  By nature I was curious. I wanted to hear more.

  “But there are many people who believe otherwise, that pleasure and pain are closely entwined and that sexual pleasure can be greatly enhanced by the deliberate use of pain intentionally inflicted at precise locations with perfect timing.”

  My ears seemed to be ringing. This was impossible! Finding a book, touching myself, even discovering a phallus, none of that added up to what he spoke of now!

  “I have a credo, Miss Eyre. I have never and will never force a woman to endure what she simply cannot. For any time pain trumps pleasure, the pain must immediately cease. I instruct any woman I am with to let me know if this happens. For those unafraid, untold heights of passion are possible.”

  “You would not demand that of me?”

  “Certainly not. Even if you did wish to partake, I would stop if you changed your mind. Come, Miss Eyre, I will see you safely inside.”

  I remained where I was. Stubbornly? Perhaps. But it was more my curious nature and my love for this man. Would that I drink from the cup he offered! I had scant chances to be with him. If I refused this, when would I have another opportunity? “I am quite frightened, Mr Rochester.”

  “Justly so. Come then; we shall never speak on this again.”

  Unaccountably there was dampness between my legs. I told him so.

  Said he in response, “That does not mean you need to act upon it.”

  “You wish me to lift my dress?”

  “Only if you ache to increase your education.”

  “If I wish to marry—”

  “I thought you hated the institution.”

  “I do.”

  “Never fear. No one will ever know. I shall leave you undefiled.”

  I took up my hem.

  “Turn from me and part your legs.”

  I did so.

  “If you choose, lift your skirt high enough to expose your bloomers.”

  I wondered if I could possibly die from mortification? My fingers trembled, but I did what he suggested.

  “I shall touch you now, Jane.”

  He reached into the slit in my bloomers. That he allowed me to keep on my underwear preserved a modicum of modesty. I should not have been concerned. His touch was so very gentle and fleeting, over before it began.

  “No one but you has touched this quim?”

  “No, sir.” I wished I could see his reaction.

  “There’s another word for it that I like, Jane. Cunny. One day I shall spank you there, simply because I want to.”

  I locked my knees in place.

  “Not until you are ready, Miss Eyre, that I promise you.”

  He touched me again, this time he lingered a full second.

  “Again?” he asked. “Or have you had enough? Do you wish to return to the solitary confinement of your room?”

  “Please, touch me again,” I said.

  “What a good miss you are. I like exploring you.”

  I felt at least two fingers on my private area. His touch was a gentle brush.

  “More?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He made long sweeps with those long, lean fingers. My own touch was unlike his. Mine was more hesitant, his was sure. As he caressed me, I began to relax. If this was a perversion, I, too, should assume that label.

  “I am going to loosen the string at your waist.”

  “Do it! Instead of talking about it, get on with it, sir!”

  “Not much of a submissive woman, are you miss?” His words lacked heat.

  “I am a curious one, not a submissive one.”

  He released the tie, and my bloomers fell. I felt terribly exposed, but Mr Rochester made me instantly unashamed.

  “You have a lovely bottom, Miss Eyre.”

  I didn’t know quite what to say. My manners deserted me.

  He gave me a smack, more of a tap, honestly, on the outside of my right thigh. “What is the proper response when someone offers a compliment, Miss Eyre?”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Very good, miss.” He caressed the spot where he’d offered the reprimand. “Please use the bench for balance and open your legs as wide as you can.”

  I did, “Very nice,” said he. “I require you to keep your grip there, firm. Do not let go, under threat of reprisal. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you wish to continue?”

  This moment, thought I, but I did not say that to him; perhaps some sort of sense of preservation had finally taken hold.

  “In future, I may physically tie you in place.”

  “Tie me, sir?”

  “You will be tied for my pleasure many times in future.”

  Protested I, “That was not in the book, sir.”

  “There’s an advanced volume in my library, little thief. When it disappears, I will know where to look. It contains all sorts of things that will shock you, but hopefully tantalise you. Things such as women being over a man’s knee to receive a spanking.”

  My buttocks clenched involuntarily as I imagined myself as the hapless victim and Mr Rochester as the punisher.

  “Shall we continue? This is your vulva, Miss Eyre. I shall also, as you know, call it a cunny or quim and so shall you.” He outlined the area. “Your clitoris,
a tiny bud hidden by a delicate hood. Your vagina—”

  I gasped when he pressed a finger there, entering me just slightly.

  He drew backwards. “Your bum-hole or anus, depending on my mood.”

  “Which can be mercurial, sir.”

  He pinched my bottom. I gave a gasp but said nothing. I had probably deserved that! As he had earlier, he soothed the tiny hurt.

  “Have you brought yourself off, miss?”

  “Sir?”

  “An orgasm. A relief. ‘La petite mort,’ as the French say.”

  “I am not entirely sure.” I stammered somewhat. “I think so. I believe so. In fact, I am quite certain of it.”

  “Then I suggest a comparison then, miss. I will not relent this eve unless you have one, and then you will tell me whether you have had the experience previously. Once I began speaking, you began thinking, and your cunny became less wet, by a measure. I want you to enjoy my touch. I will put a little moisture from my mouth on my fingers so there’s a bit more slickness.”

  I need not tell him anything; he knew it without my words.

  He slid his fingers over my vulva with the deftest of touches. He seemed to be everywhere at once! He pulled back the hood of my clitoris and touched the bud. He lingered there, and then he placed a finger gently inside my vagina. One of the pictures I’d witnessed had shown a man inserting a phallus from this position.

  After a few moments, I was slick with moisture of my own.

  “Allow your body to move, Jane. Hold nothing back. But consider your hands—do not move them. I remind you, you are to think of yourself as tied to the bench, by my will. Unless you would rather I secure you with my cravat?”

  “No, sir!” Mr Rochester increased the tempo, moving faster across my quim, rubbing—not at all gently now—my clitoris. I cried out.

  “Reach for it,” he counselled. He put one finger in my vagina.

  Involuntarily, I began to move as he’d suggested. I met his gentle thrusts and found myself grinding my quim against his hand. I was shameless. I was wanton!

  “Take it, Jane.”

  My body all but shook.

  “Now!” he commanded.

  He smacked my left globe smartly!

  Tiny bits of light exploded behind my eyelids. “Mr Rochester!” I bucked and thrusted. I drank in huge gulps of air, even as I feared I would never again breathe properly.

  I shoved away from the bench and threw myself into his arms.

  How my master comforted me, telling me he was pleased, holding me, cradling my head. He held me thus for long minutes, until my legs could support me. “Never,” said I. “Never have I experienced that. Something significantly less, yes, but that—? No.”

  “Lovely, miss. Lovely, lovely.”

  Presently I sought to pull back a bit.

  “You released the bench, Miss Eyre.”

  “Sir? Surely you must realise in the throes of an orgasm I could not think about that.”

  “You were disobedient, miss. You will know my displeasure.”

  “That is singularly unfair, Mr Rochester.”

  “Did you know the rules, Miss Eyre?”

  I hesitated, but he waited patiently for the answer. We both knew I was incapable of a lie. “Yes,” I admitted.

  “And did you agree to abide by them?”

  “Not specifically, no.”

  “Miss Eyre, you verbally spar with me? By proceeding without protest, you agreed.”

  “You are right, sir.” I pushed against his chest. “Now that your meaning is clearly understood, I endeavour to do better next time.”

  “You are not excused from this transgression.”

  “Sir?”

  “You’ve earned a punishment, miss. I deliver retribution quickly while the sin is fresh.”

  In an instant, he was seated, and I was upended across his knees. Air seemed torn from my chest by the speed with which he moved. With his athletic prowess, he effortlessly overpowered me. What I had moments ago pictured was now—impossibly—happening! He pressed one hand against my back. My legs he entrapped with one of his. I felt his clothing on my bare skin, and I was shockingly aware of the state of my partial nudity. There could be no doubt who was mastered, no matter that I said otherwise.

  “Touch your buttock, miss, and I will start your punishment again from one. Do you understand?”

  I must not have answered quick enough to suit his needs for he delivered quite a smack to my buttocks! “Yes, sir, I understand, you beast!”

  “Say you understand, master.”

  Dutifully I repeated, “I understand, master.”

  “You have earned six spanks for being remiss. Do you accept them?”

  I understood so much in that moment. Every word he had spoken was truth. At any time, I was free to refuse to participate—even in my punishment. “I accept my punishment, sir.”

  “Very well. Count each aloud. And tell me what will make them start over.”

  “If I touch—touch my buttocks, sir.”

  “Why will that cause me to begin again?”

  “Because you gave an order that I am to follow. I have earned this spanking because I didn’t follow your earlier order.”

  “I appreciate your intelligence and your directness, Miss Eyre. Are you prepared?”

  I am not sure I ever will be, thought I. Aloud, I said, “Yes, sir.”

  His first spank from his open hand was hardly felt at all. I was aware, however, how intimate this seemed. “One,” I said. This I could endure easily.

  His second caught the underneath of my buttocks. It was more difficult to accept. “Two.”

  “What a good little miss.”

  I was nearly half way there!

  The third made my buttock clench. “Three.” My teeth were gritted.

  The fourth took all my will not to reach back to rub at the insult. “Four.” I remembered.

  “Open your legs thus exposing your quim.”

  It took a few seconds to comply, so awkward was my position! He rewarded my effort with gentle teases that took my mind from the punishment.

  The fifth—unexpected and through my daze—made me cry out.

  “How many, miss?”

  “Five. Five, sir!”

  “How many more?”

  “One, sir.” I had made it! I had not yet reached back. I had endured. And sweet, sweet days, I was on the verge of another orgasm. I could feel the need gnawing at my insides, demanding a release. I tried to squeeze my thighs together to find relief.

  “You’re close to shattering, Jane?”

  “Indeed, sir! Help me achieve it.”

  “You are indeed a kindred folk. I will give it to you, but not as you suspect. Take a deep breath.”

  I did as instructed.

  Nothing could have prepared me for the searing blaze of pain that he delivered to my quim. I screamed, but I came apart.

  He kept me in position; he had excessive praise for my efforts, and he continued to minister—this time tenderly—to my enflamed quim.

  When I started to move, he helped me to sit up. Again, he unerringly seemed to know what to do to care for me. He held me close. “I want one thing perfectly understood, Miss Eyre. I will always see to your comfort. This spanking was not because you turned to me after your first orgasm, for I intended to gather you close.”

  And he had held me, I realised. He had held me until I was steady, just like he had this time. I nodded. “I understand, sir.”

  “Miss Eyre, you are a great delight.”

  I feared I was becoming further ensnared by his spell.

  He helped me to re-dress, and then he kissed my forehead tenderly. “You are no worse for the evening’s activities?”

  “All the better for them, sir.”

  “Avoid rubbing your bottom, miss. I want you to feel the ache as you go about your activities. Always, I want you thinking of me.”

  How could I do anything else?

  “Bless me! There’s Dent and
Lynn in the stables! Go in by the shrubbery, through that wicket,” he said.

  As I went one way, he went another, but he looked over his shoulder. We shared a moment, he and I, and I heard him in the yard, saying cheerfully, “Mason got the start of you all this morning; he was gone before sunrise, I rose at four to see him off.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Presentiments are strange things! And so are sympathies and so are signs and the three combined make one mystery to which humanity has not yet found the key. I never laughed at presentiments in my life, because I have had strange ones of my own. Sympathies, I believe, exist—for instance, between far-distant, long-absent, wholly estranged relatives asserting, notwithstanding their alienation, the unity of the source to which each traces his origin—whose workings baffle mortal comprehension. And signs, for aught we know, may be but the sympathies of Nature with man.

  When I was a little girl, only six years old, I one night heard Bessie Leaven say to Martha Abbot that she had been dreaming about a little child and that to dream of children was a sure sign of trouble, either to one’s self or one’s kin. The saying might have worn out of my memory, had not a circumstance immediately followed which served indelibly to fix it there. The next day Bessie was sent for home to the deathbed of her little sister.

  Of late I had often recalled this saying and this incident; for during the past week scarcely a night had gone over my couch that had not brought with it a dream of an infant, which I sometimes hushed in my arms, sometimes dandled on my knee, sometimes watched playing with daisies on a lawn, or again, dabbling its hands in running water. It was a wailing child this night, and a laughing one the next, now it nestled close to me, and now it ran from me, but whatever mood the apparition evinced, whatever aspect it wore, it failed not for seven successive nights to meet me the moment I entered the land of slumber.

  I did not like this iteration of one idea—this strange recurrence of one image, and I grew nervous as bedtime approached and the hour of the vision drew near. It was from companionship with this baby-phantom I had been roused on that moonlight night when I heard the cry and it was on the afternoon of the day following I was summoned downstairs by a message that someone wanted me in Mrs Fairfax’s room. On repairing thither, I found a man waiting for me, having the appearance of a gentleman’s servant, he was dressed in deep mourning, and the hat he held in his hand was surrounded with a crape band.