He unfurled his grip from my hair. Long locks fell over my shoulders, making me feel wanton.
“Put your hand between your legs, rub yourself if you must, but show me the moisture gathered on your fingertips.” He kept his eyes on my face rather than looking down. In moments such as these—indeed in all moments—each act, each word, was deliberate.
It took some moments to fulfil his order. Touching myself was still new to me. And touching myself while he watched was decadent; secretly, though I delighted in the act.
My fingers found moisture, but I rubbed myself, nevertheless, just for the joy of it.
“That’s quite enough,” he said. The words were almost ferocious!
“Yes, sir.” Always defiant, as I had given my word that I would be, I rubbed myself again.
“There’s a way to deal with wayward submissives, Janet.”
Before I could draw my next breath, my master had spun me around! The hem spilled from my hands with the haste.
“Hands on yonder branch, if you will, Miss Eyre!”
The branch he indicated was above my head and a bit far away, but Mr Rochester’s tone brooked no refusal. I quivered, but whether it was from fear or anticipation, I knew not.
He half pulled and half dragged me to where he wanted. His touch was masterful and intoxicatingly rough, leaving me breathless.
“Reach now, Jane, or you shall certainly rue the extra penalty for tardiness.”
“Yes, sir.” I grabbed for the branch and curled my fingers around it.
He lifted my dress, exposing my undergarments. I shivered from the evening’s cool air.
“Now to rid you of these garments to properly redden your backside.”
“Sir!” The word was more an entreaty than a plea for leniency. I had goaded my master to this very end.
How he did it, I wasn’t quite sure, but he secured my dress and at once loosened my undergarments so that they tumbled to the earth, acting as a binding for my ankles. Thus I was virtually trussed and tied, half-naked and dreading—nay, anticipating—the first sting against my bare buttocks.
“Ask for it, Jane. Ask for your master’s punishment that you might atone for your behaviour.”
Insisted I, “Indeed I shall not for I’ve done nothing wrong, sir.” Even though it meant my lower body was exposed to his wrath, I was grateful I was faced away from him so that he did not see the devilry playing in my eyes! “I am completely remorseless, sir. Do your worst.”
“Until you break, Miss Eyre, and beg my forgiveness, I shall not relent.”
He skimmed his fingers across my bare skin. Involuntarily I clamped my legs together.
“Right, then.”
Mr Rochester left me. It didn’t occur to me to release my hold on the tree. I waited impatiently, though I did glance over my shoulder. I wished I hadn’t! I saw him pick up a piece of wood—a twig, for surely not big enough to be called a branch.
“You can’t mean to use that on me, sir?”
“Thrice for each time you bother me with a question.”
With a gasp, I said, “You wouldn’t!”
“Indeed I would and I will! Avert your eyes.”
I watched for a few seconds while he stripped off leaves and otherwise smoothed the wood. Why did I find it so difficult to do as I was told? I finally looked forward again. He would return to me in time. Time that would drag interminably.
“Are you still wet for me, Jane?”
Dare I taunt him further? “I fear boredom has remedied that immediate situation, sir.”
“Boredom, is it, Jane?”
“I shall beg your pardon, sir, for the hour grows nigh. I feel certain that is why I just yawned, sir.”
The first stripe from the makeshift whip forced the breath from my lungs.
“Bored now, are you, Miss Eyre?”
The master gave me nary a chance to respond, so quickly and unexpectedly did he follow the stripe with a second. He wrung a gasp from me. The third caused me to cry out and pull away my hands to touch my tender flesh, so injured by the torment.
“I repeat, are you bored, Jane?”
“Sir, no. I am not bored, Mr Rochester.”
“Like angels voices singing from heaven, Jane Eyre agrees with me.”
I vigorously rubbed the welts he’d raised on my skin, as if the motion would soothe away the pain. Even though he’d caused a vicious sting, I could not help myself as I rather forcefully said, “Enjoy it, sir, for it shall not last long.”
He chuckled. I was grateful for the respite from the vicious sting.
“Drop your hands, miss.”
Once I did, he used his own fingers to retrace the path mine had taken. His touch agonised with its slowness. “These welts look lovely.”
“Keenly I felt each one.”
“You were meant to. They were chastisement. Tell me, though, do they ache so ferociously that you are unaffected? If I slide my finger across your clitoris, will my touch find the scald of your womanly heat? Or will I find you dried like an autumn leaf battered by a cruel wind?”
Rather than waiting for an answer, Mr Rochester inserted a digit between my legs. He did find me damp! Said he, with a decided note of triumph, “It is as I thought. My darling Miss Eyre is neither bored, nor unaffected by her master’s attentions. Return your hands to the branch above your head, if you please!”
Immediately I complied. My flanks still felt the scorch from his switch, the scorn of this man’s displeasure was enough to motivate my good behaviour.
“These, my dear, are meant to excite, not punish.”
I took a breath nevertheless. Instead of the whip falling on my behind, he touched me, with the finest of movements, again and again tracing the braised skin. I felt my quim weeping. If I didn’t know how much it pleased him, I fear I would know the despair of embarrassment.
“Hold this in your mouth, will you, Miss Eyre?”
A question, not a direct order! He reached around me and placed the makeshift whip against my lips. At first I thought I might refuse, not so as to inflame him, but because the request shocked me and I didn’t know why he would request such a thing.
The words that had issued forth were not a request. Instead it was a command couched in politeness. I dared not refuse.
He pressed forward. I opened my mouth. The wood felt moist, and what a strange sensation, that of holding my own switch.
The implement thus out of his hands, my master was free to explore my hindquarters, and explore them he did. He brought me to fevered pitch with his manipulations. He squeezed and kneaded and pinched and poked. His touch never lasted more than a moment anywhere, he seemed to be everywhere at once, never giving me even a moment to consider what he was doing afore he moved onto the next wickedness.
For less than the merest of moments he teased my tiniest hole, quitting his touch almost instantly. I saw now the reason for filling my mouth. He saw an expedient way to stifle any protest that might issue forth!
With his strong hands, he cupped my buttocks as if measuring them. “Lovely spheres, miss,” said he. “So perfectly do they fit my palms, so perfectly do they quiver when I spank them. Thus—”
He demonstrated what he meant!
I gasped. Nearly did I lose the branch from my mouth as he repeatedly spanked me. I struggled onto my toes, seeking as much to avoid his blows as I did to keep my balance. One might think that the pain from his hands would be significantly less than from a stout piece of tree, but one would be incorrect. The force was so difficult to endure I had to concentrate on keeping my grip firm above me.
“I have counselled you, Miss Eyre, to cease resistance. You will find your enjoyment much enhanced if you will but allow it.”
I knew he spoke truth. Convincing my schooled mind to overcome my body’s natural protests was entirely a different challenge.
He began again with gentleness. As he had so cleverly advised, I willed myself to relax as he caressed me. He soothed the pain, but left behind a
nother ache entirely. I greedily offered him my buttocks. He laughed with great delight, but he did nothing except stoke the inferno.
Masterfully he began to spank me again. He started slowly, warming my skin all over and ever so slightly increasing the quickness of the strokes along with the power behind each blow. Surely, I thought, the twin globes of my buttocks must glow from the heat!
Very deliberately he hit faster and harder. I began to quietly sob, it wasn’t only from the pain, but from the joy, the tumultuous emotions that beat frantically in my chest.
“There, there, Miss Eyre,” he said.
I had no realisation that he’d ceased the torture until I felt his hand grip my shoulder.
Said he with complete confidence, “Did I not tell you that it would be far easier to endure if you but surrendered to your master’s instruction?”
I felt humbled. Dear heavens above, I wasn’t ready for it to be over—not now, not yet, perhaps never.
Helpless to do otherwise, I nodded.
“You are perfect for me, my Jane.”
He walked in front of me. In the shadows of the moon’s light, I looked at him. I knew I could lose myself it the planes of his face. Though I could never call him handsome, he was my beloved. Though he would send me away from Thornfield and I would be bowed from the devastation, I would endure because of this exquisite bond. Never would I forget tonight, I would tuck away the memories in the deepest recesses of my heart from whence I could take them out and look at them until the end of my days.
“Release the implement,” he instructed.
I opened my mouth and he took out the twig.
“Now I shall use this as I’ve wanted.” He used his forefinger to tip back my head so he could look deeply into my eyes.
“I see you have been crying, Miss Eyre.” With his thumb pad he wiped away a stray tear. “Shall I cease my attentions?”
I shook my head. I could not begin to explain myself. I could hardly fathom the multitudes of my feelings. It was as if I were drowning in a sea of conflicting ideas. I was not given to emotion under any circumstances.
But how keenly was the misery of knowing I must be sent from Thornfield, from him and more, I ached from the realisation that obligation would force him to live the rest of his days without my love. My tears were also from the joy of being with him here, just the two of us and our intimate exploration. I recognised that after tonight I would never again share this kind of experience with another. Almost none of my wretchedness came from the well-placed smacks. Almost all of it was because I knew the freedom he’d previously spoken of.
To his credit, he seemed to comprehend this, indeed he’d tried to prepare me for it, warned me to expect it. He seemed to understand me better than I knew myself. He nodded and did not press for an answer.
Presently, said he, “Tell me what you want.”
He still held me, my chin still captured. He’d permit no physical or mental escape.
“I want a release.”
“How shall I give it to you?”
When he’d spoken to me of submission, he’d explained this negotiation in great depth. Until this moment I had not appreciated the kaleidoscope of the possibilities. In choosing bondage, I was finally freed from my own restraints, from society’s shackles. “Sir, use me as you see fit. Show me, give me it all. Hold nothing back. For if this is the last, I wish to have enough memories to last until the end of my very days. Give me everything, I implore you, sir.” Again, repeated I, “Hold nothing back.”
“It shall be as you desire, miss.”
Mr Rochester resumed striking me, these were not delivered as cruelly as the first three had been for those had been punishment. These strokes were measured and calculated to cause sublime turmoil.
I closed my eyes and gave myself over to his diabolical ministrations.
How my body did jump and thrash each time he hit me.
“Yes,” I said, a plea.
He continued. He caught the underside of both buttocks simultaneously. I scrambled onto my toes. The pain scorching through me felt unendurable, beyond anything imaginable.
“Cease your struggles, miss, and unclench your body,” he said with an uncompromising tone. “Your tension will make it more difficult to experience the pleasure.”
He demanded the impossible! I tried to form the words, but I could not. I felt as if I were in a dream from which I might never awaken. Nothing existed but the manor’s master and my shameless want.
Tirelessly, he continued the beating; he backed off the intense pressure just a bit, but rained down the strokes faster and faster.
If this were a battle of temperament, he won. The breakneck pace was beyond my endurance. I found I could no longer sustain the fight. My breath rushed from me with a shudder. The tension between my shoulders eased.
“You please me greatly, miss. No one has ever behaved as you.”
The words of praise filled me with gratitude.
He fell into a rhythm that hypnotised me. My body moved slightly, with the force of his wrists. I lost track of the passage of time. I was aware only of each present moment, the sounds of my laboured breaths, the hiss of the switch as it rent the air, the smack of wood on skin, the occasional murmurs of encouragement from my master. It was as if Mr Rochester, the switch, the pain, and I were one.
I was only vaguely aware that he increased the fury. As he did, I succumbed to him in a way that I now felt only pleasure.
It took several moments for me to realise everything around me had stilled.
“Welcome back, Miss Eyre.”
I blinked several times and then opened my eyes. It was as if I had been away from my body and had now returned. Mr Rochester stood in front of me; his athletic body was silhouetted by the moon’s glow. How magnificent he appeared, how in command of his surroundings!
“You finally went into the abyss, to that place I’d always hoped to send you. I’ve lain awake at night, fair Jane, thinking of ways I might do just that. You’ve now earned your just rewards.”
In this moment it was hard to imagine there might be anything more. I was delirious, still floating along the English countryside.
“Shall I tell you of my intents, Miss Eyre? Or shall I simply set about the task I have given to myself, that of ensuring your happiness?”
It seems, for the first time in my life, finding my tongue was impossible. But no surprise, if I were to think on it, for with the way I was being scandalised, there was no room inside my head to even ponder my own name.
“Ah, what an unusual occurrence! The indefatigable Miss Eyre has not a single word, a command perhaps, not even an instruction? Nary a slight provocation in sight! Well then, I shall make the determination in your stead. I shall speak aloud, and I shall tell you every thing I am going to do to you.”
I was very much aware of his hand there, against my—I forced myself to think the unthinkable and uncomfortable word—quim.
“Tell me what this is, Miss Eyre.”
He touched me with great deliberation, using his fingertips to play in the dampness he had caused. I knew why I hesitated, however, it was one thing to think the vulgar word, it was another to be forced to speak it before him.
When I did not supply the information instantly, he delivered me a sharp spank. I cried out.
“Tell me what this is, Miss Eyre,” he repeated. “Unless you would like it slapped again?”
Unbelievably the breath-taking pain nearly sent me plunging recklessly into that dizzying desire I desperately sought. Just one more might be enough. Dare I ask for it—?
“Miss Eyre?”
“I think I should like another slap, sir.”
He raised his dark brows. “Should you, indeed? What other delights do you have in store for me this evening?”
“Please, sir. I implore you, grant me this request for only you yourself can know how difficult it was to beg it from you.”
“Jane, Jane. How could I deny you anything?”
With nary another word, he did as I asked.
The pain was shocking.
I screamed. But I realised the sound wasn’t torn from me because of the torture, but from the sudden sensations that seized me from the inside out. His hand striking my quim was exquisite—searing, but it also gave me a completion.
Never had I felt anything like this—a burn that led to being unable to breathe, to think. I was scaresely able to breath, and I knew I was coming undone.
My body weak, I released my grip on the overhead branch and sagged forward. I might have fallen to the hard earth had Mr Rochester not been there.
“Ah, Miss Eyre! Come here.”
He gathered me close to him. He held me against him, my cheek pressed to his chest. He stroked my hair even as he uttered nonsensical words. Even though I could not make out anything he said, I felt soothed.
My heart beat frantically, like a tiny bird. My breaths were terribly rough; eventually I found my evenness again—still, Mr Rochester held me as if I were infinitely precious. And he would send me away in favour of the duty of a lifetime with Miss Ingram?
A waft of wind came sweeping down the laurel-walk, and trembled through the boughs of the chestnut, it wandered away—away—to an indefinite distance—it died. I wrenched myself from his arms. The nightingale’s song was then the only voice of the hour, in listening to it, I again wept.
My solicitous master helped me to restore both my clothing and my modesty. But the moment I had dreaded drew nigh, for this was good-bye.
Mr Rochester took his seat. Quietly he looked at me gently and seriously. He took my wrist and pulled me down next to him. Some time passed before he spoke; he at last said—
“Come to my side, Jane, and let us explain and understand one another.”
“I will never again come to your side. I am torn away now, and cannot return.”
“But, Jane, I summon you as my wife, it is you only I intend to marry.”
I was silent, again I thought he mocked me.
“Come, Jane—come hither.”
“Your bride stands between us.”
He rose, and with a stride reached me.
“My bride is here,” he said, again drawing me to him, “because my equal is here, and my likeness. Jane, will you marry me?”
Jane Eyre Page 34