Teena Thyme

by Pope, Jennifer Jane

  What was I doing? Nothing much had changed, when all was said and done. Yes, I could free myself of the hobble, and yes, maybe I could find a new and unripped pair of drawers, and there might even be a dress or two to be found somewhere on this floor, but then what? For a start, these damned fingers weren't going to get me fastened into any dress, probably not even if they were free of the finger-stitched haberdashery.

  Then there was the corset and the small matter of a pair of shoes that would have tried Pavlova on a good day. Then, knowing the way these things have a habit of turning out, there was every likelihood that Meg would choose to become ubiquitous again, just at the moment I attempted to make good my escape and then everything would be down the drain once and for all.

  No, Teena. Think again.

  I removed the key and used it to relock the first cuff back around my ankle and then sat back, turning the shiny little sliver of metal over and over in my hands, all manner of silly ideas crowding into my head and fighting for room. I thought of soap - that's what they did in all the spy films, wasn't it; made impressions of keys in bars of soap?

  Only I didn't happen to have a bar of soap handy, did I? Which, as it happens, probably didn't make any difference at all, because I also seemed to be short of two other requisites for carrying out that plan, to wit: one blank or piece of metal from which to cut a duplicate key and one tool kit appropriate to cutting and filing said metal blank. I opened my mouth to curse and then stopped. After all, I thought, looking down again, I did have the key itself and there was no immediate reason for returning it from whence I had found it, was there?

  Judging by Hacklebury's state when he had first staggered into the room, he'd been having a single-handed bash at supporting the local vintners and he hadn't got himself in that state in a hurry. Ergo, he had been bashing the bottles for some little while during the day and had probably been non-compos to some extent for quite a while prior to our sweet little tryst.

  The hankie looked well used, so the key could have fallen out of his pocket at almost any time, couldn't it? All I had to do was make sure it was somewhere I could retrieve it from and somewhere that would also, if a search was made, not point the finger of suspicion at sweet, innocent little Angelina. And that was simple.

  Creeping back across towards the bed I managed to kneel down again, reach under the material that formed a sort of valence and place the key carefully against the leg at the foot of the bed on that side. Straightening up again, I used my foot to kick his shoes and breeches a bit closer to my chosen hiding place, so that if the key was discovered it would seem more likely that it had fallen from his pocket in his moment of impatient lust.

  I shuffled back across to the window once more, smiling to myself at my little victory. Okay, it was only a very little victory and the key would still only be stage one in any escape plan, but if it stayed where I'd hidden it and I could buy enough time, at least I'd maybe get the opportunity to find ways around the shoes, corset and manic maid side of things. She who thinks and hides away, lives to sneak out another day.

  Or something like that.

  10.

  'I shall never forget you, my sweet mistress.'

  'Nor I you, Indira, my darling.' I looked into the doe-like brown eyes and felt tears beginning to well up in my own. I reached out and hugged the Indian girl to me, shuddering as her warm breasts pressed against and enveloped my own, the fingers of my right hand spreading down her spine and out to cup her left buttock. I heard her sigh through her sobs and my heart ached.

  'You must write to me, Indira,' I whispered. 'Write to me with news of your new life and to let me know that you are settled and well. You will always be in my thoughts, my one true love.' She said nothing, but quickly slid down to her knees and her face pressed against my sex, her devilish sweet little tongue probing my slit.

  Instantly, as ever, I felt myself catch fire and my fingers entwined in her thick mane, pulling her head closer still as my crotch thrust forward with its customary involuntary greed.

  'We will find a way, Indira,' I gasped. 'Whatever it may take, we shall find a way and this will be but a small and insignificant episode when we look back on it one day from the sanctuary of a future time.'

  Damn the dreams! I jerked my eyes open and sat upright in the chair as if I'd been shot, turning my head guiltily, certain that I must have betrayed something of the vivid memory while I slept, but Hacklebury snored still and the room was empty, save for the two of us. I blinked several times, shook myself mentally and struggled to my feet once more.

  So, Angelina and the beautiful Indira had been well at it, and what was more it seemed to have been more than a passing girlie experimental phase. The deep intensity of feeling remained with me yet and there were emotions tumbling over in my mind that I didn't want to try to analyse. I took a deep breath and moved closer to the bed.

  He'd known, the bastard, I thought. He'd found out about the two girls' relationship and he'd either used it as an additional lever, or else he'd done something to really get through to Angelina. I didn't know what it was, of course, but just looking at him and sensing those little memory caches that remained so annoyingly just out of reach, I knew beyond doubt that Indira wasn't now enjoying a pension and a pleasant little cottage and neither was she heading back to her native land clutching a nice payoff.

  However, I was given little time to ponder upon poor Indira's likely fate, for at that moment Hacklebury began to stir and a few seconds later he rolled over and opened his eyes. Bloodshot or not, there was no mistaking that look and, with a barely concealed sigh, I shuffled my way back to join him on the bed, forcing myself to look as though I was looking forward to what I knew was coming next.

  'Good evening, my husband,' I greeted him sweetly. 'I trust you've slept well?' I was rewarded with an expression of total incomprehension, but his confusion did not last long enough.

  'Getting a taste for it now, are we?' he grunted. 'About time you had a man's cock in there, rather than a black girl's tongue. At least we now see that you did only confine your frolicking to your own sex.' He jabbed a finger in the direction of my legs and, looking down, I saw for the first time the dried smudges of blood on the insides of the tops of both my thighs, evidence of Angelina's virginity that she had not been around to witness losing.

  'I... I cannot speak of such things,' I hesitated. 'And I beg of you to leave the past where it best belongs.' He looked up at me amused by this, and held out a hand.

  'Press your little cunny here, you little whore of Lessees.' He turned his hand palm upwards and extended the first two fingers, pressed closely together. It was an unmistakable gesture and an invitation for me to demonstrate how willing I was to abase myself before him. I knelt upright, shuffled forward across the bed and raised myself, seizing his wrist in both my hands in order to steady it. All the while I fixed him with an unwavering stare and forced myself to not so much as blink as I carefully impaled myself upon the upraised digits.

  Slowly I released my grip on him and raised my arms, placing my hands behind my neck and thrusting my lower abdomen even closer towards him. I saw, from the momentary flickering of his eyes, that the pose and the movement pleased him and for several very long seconds we remained like that, as if frozen in time, the atmosphere in the room suddenly much heavier about us.

  'Very good,' he whispered at last. 'But then I dare say you'd prefer smaller, browner fingers to tweak your nubbin, eh?' I bit back the reply that first threatened to spill from my lips and instead just smiled again.

  'Not if yours are as dexterous for the task,' I replied softly. 'Why don't we put them to the test, my husband.'

  'And why don't you beg me?' His fingers remained motionless, as if turned to stone and, but for their warmth I might well have thought them nothing but dead meat.

  'Yes,' I breathed, 'why don't I beg? Why don't I beg you to frig your wife's hungry little cunny?' I could see my unexpected show of resolve, coupled with what I hoped was a convin
cing demonstration of rising passion, had taken him by surprise, but then it was hardly to be wondered at. One minute a delicate shrinking violet of a prissy Victorian maiden, the next a wanton little slut, demonstrating all the finesse of a practised whore.

  Not that I would have dreamed of behaving in such a manner in my own time, you understand, but not everything on my bookshelves came under the heading of history text books. I'd read a much thumbed copy of Fanny Hill at the age of sixteen, and there were always other odd little publications going around the fifth and sixth form rooms at school, so all this had so far only been theory to me - well, most of it, anyway.

  I looked down at Hacklebury and again found myself wishing he wasn't such a twenty-four carat arsehole and brute, otherwise this could have been most enjoyable. On the other hand, I had already proved once that it was possible to block out his character failings and just make the most of his physical attributes, and I decided now was maybe the time to really shock him.

  'Frig me, you bastard!' I hissed, and immediately felt as if my heart had stopped beating. Why the hell had I said it? No halfway self-respecting Victorian woman, let alone wife, would dare say such a thing in the bedchamber, surely? However, instead of the feared explosion, Hacklebury merely sniggered and withdrew his fingers from me. I tried not to blush when I saw how they glistened with my juices.

  'Why don't you frig yourself?' he suggested mildly, and raised the two digits to his lips, where he sucked on them with deliberate care. Well, it wasn't as if I never had before, just that I'd never let a man watch while I did it, but this was neither the time nor place to suddenly go all coy. I extended my right arm to him, flexing my bound-together fingers, an obvious invitation for him to remove the hampering glove, but he simply shook his head.

  'Use a little invention,' he sneered, 'or use the entire hand. It is only a small hand, when all is said and done.' Bastard, I thought. But I kept my mouth firmly under control. Slowly I let my arm fall back and a moment or so later I felt the soft fabric of the glove beginning to absorb my wetness and grow both damp and warm. At the same time my clitoris began to swell, always the willing partner when it came to a little digital stimulation. I closed my eyes, trying to forget I wasn't alone and began my usual ritual.

  And then a curious thing happened.

  Rather than his presence acting as a dampener on my body's reactions, I suddenly found myself actually becoming excited by it and opened my eyes again, to find Hacklebury studying me with an intensity of expression that now must have mirrored my own. Within seconds I could feel everything beginning to well up, muscles tensing, nerve-ends tightening, blood beginning to send an echoing thunder into my temples.

  Encased within the rigorous confines of satin and whalebone, my breasts began to rise and fall in an ever-increasing rhythm and my breath hissed in and out of my flared nostrils. A few moments later and I came, thrusting out my free hand in order to prevent myself pitching forward and making little gurgling noises in the back of my throat. Through the mist that had now descended I saw Hacklebury's expression change to one of complete satisfaction, but I was by now too wrapped up in myself to care whether he thought he had claimed a victory over me.

  'A very interesting performance.' Meg stood in the doorway smirking wickedly at me, and I looked up at her in confusion and then furtively glanced around the rest of the room. Had she been able to watch me with Hacklebury and if so, from where? The only possible vantage point seemed to be the large ornate mirror on the wall, but a two-way mirror in eighteen thirty-nine? My history was good, but not that good.

  Hacklebury had finally left me, but only after I employed my delicate gloved fingers to first relieve him of his wakening pressures. It wasn't something I'd enjoyed doing, but then again it was a trick I learned around the time I first found myself attracting boys and not yet ready to lose my virginity. One of my girlfriends at school had explained to me beyond the obvious basics and I, in turn, became quite adept at removing the fuels of threat in double-quick time. Talk about putty in my hands!

  'So, I suppose you now think you're back in the master's favour?' Meg said, stepping further inside the room. I saw she was carrying a tray, upon which stood a half filled wine decanter and a crystal wine goblet that already contained a full measure of the same liquid. Ha, I thought, that's your nose out of joint madam, isn't it? Not quite hearts and flowers, but Greg had obviously decided I'd earned a change from my previous bread and water diet.

  'I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about, Meg,' I replied evenly. 'I may be wrong, but I was under the impression that what went on in a bedroom between husband and wife was their business and their business only. Even when they're perhaps not quite legally married,' I added, as an afterthought.

  'There's very little goes on in this house that I don't get to hear about,' she replied darkly, advancing towards me. The hatred in her eyes was totally unambiguous and I was convinced that she would have dearly loved to hit me with the tray, but she placed it carefully on the small side table and straightened up with practised dignity.

  'I could say I hope it chokes you,' she hissed, before turning on her heel and stalking out again. I watched her go, wondering what she might look like out of that drab uniform. Give her a gown like the one I'd been wearing and she'd make a passable duchess, I thought. She certainly had all the airs and graces to go with it. As the door slammed behind her I reached out for the glass, took it and sat back against the mounded pillows.

  'Cheers,' I said, raising it to my lips and gulped down a rather unladylike swallow, almost without tasting it, though the aftertaste told even my amateur palate that it was good stuff. I sniffed at the bouquet, savouring the roundness and faint fruity tang and then sipped this time, smacking my lips appreciatively in a way that would have earned instant disapproval around any halfway decent dinner table, either then or now.

  'Bung ho!' I whispered, and drained the rest of the glass before reaching for the decanter for a top-up.

  11.

  Of course, the wine had been drugged.

  Only the first glassful, I later learned, but that was enough and the two and a bit glasses with which I washed it down just gilded the lily a bit, so that at first I just assumed the wine was a bit stronger than I'd originally thought. However, as my limbs became heavy and not just wobbly and I was forced to screw up my eyes in order to prevent the furniture from doing special effects, it finally dawned on me that I'd been had.

  By voicing her hate in the way she had, Meg had double bluffed me, the devious bitch, assuring that I'd put paid to that first glass at least, if only to get one over on her, as I thought.

  'Bitch,' I whispered, slumping back helplessly and waiting for unconsciousness to claim me, but to my surprise I remained awake - maybe not wide awake in the strictest sense, for sounds, such as there were, had become muffled and I felt dreamy and detached, but awake enough to realise that something not very nice would soon be happening to me. I lay there imagining all kinds of horrors, but nothing I could have imagined then came anywhere near the eventual reality.

  They waited maybe half an hour, maybe an hour, I couldn't be sure, apart from the fact that it felt like an eternity and when they came it was Meg and her freckled sidekick, Polly, who was carrying a bundle of something dark over one arm and a pair of strange boots in the other hand.

  'Put that lot down and get her boots off,' Meg ordered. 'You can leave the gloves, though. They'll help keep her hands under even stricter control. Hurry up now, girl; it'll be morning before we know it.'

  Morning? I gazed across to the window and realised it was indeed now dark outside, though I couldn't remember the last of the daylight and, though I had a vague recollection of the sun getting a bit low in the sky, I couldn't remember whether that had been before or after my little sessions with Hacklebury. Everything now seemed a completely jumbled haze, but I did know that the two maids weren't here now for my well-being.

  The smell of leather was quite overpowering when Polly
finally brought her bundle over to where I lay. Blinking, I tried to focus on it and was able to make out what looked like some kind of wetsuit outline, except it wasn't a wetsuit and it wasn't made of rubber and the ends of each of the limbs seemed to terminate in pod-like shapes. The whole thing was a darkish brown in colour and, as Meg began drawing it over my limp feet, I realised it was made out of some kind of thin hide. Later, I found out it was doeskin, which meant it was soft to the touch, but still immensely strong.

  If the thing hadn't been actually made-to-measure for Angelina's body, then someone had made a damned lucky stab at the size, for it was cut and stitched in such a way that the variously laced sections ensured that the supple leather fitted to my corseted body from tiptoe to neck like it was my own skin. Open-mouthed, I could do no more than lay there as it was inched up me, laces tightened, gradually reducing my figure to an anonymous mannequin.

  My body, however, was not the end of it, for as the front was pulled up over my breasts and my arms guided into the sleeves, I saw the shapeless bag attachment now hanging down from beneath my chin and didn't need telling its purpose. Sure enough, no sooner were my upper limbs laced snugly, my already useless gloved fingers now trapped inside an even more limiting mitt section on either side, than I was hefted forward and, while Polly supported me, Meg began tightening the laces at the back and threading them on up until she had drawn the skin about my torso up as far as the base of my neck.

  Now the sack-like attachment was brought into the equation and just the way I'd feared it would be. It was pulled up and over my head and down the back of my neck, tightened to fit closely to my skull by means of yet more laces and then the collar part of the main suit was in turn laced tightly over it, a thicker leather collar buckled around my neck over the two and a small lock clicked into place to prevent any chance of removal, not that my now even more useless hands were ever going to effect that.