by Jay Lawrence
Gazing through the veil was like being enshrouded in cloud, but she preferred its modest seclusion to being stared at by the men. There had been one in particular, a loathsome creature with a pockmarked complexion and a scar beneath his left eye, who had brushed up against her by way of an "accident," as the carriage lurched through a particularly pothole ridden stretch of the turnpike. He had apologized profusely in an oily manner, which reminded Frederica of the consistency of pomade. Her cheeks grew hot, recalling the brief, furtive grasp of his horrible hand on her left breast. It was almost as if his probing fingers had reached beneath the layers of winter clothing, insinuating themselves between the thin chemise and her warm, creamy flesh. Despite her disdain, she imagined those steely fingers continuing to explore and penetrate her, as she sat in the sullen, snoring company of her journey-benumbed companions. Perhaps it was true, after all. Perhaps she really was a harlot, as a true lady would never, ever allow such sordid thoughts to sully her virtue. But the phantom fingers continued to probe and press, causing her nipples to harden and her breasts to swell and tingle as if making milk for a squalling babe. They weren't gentle, either, but pinched and scratched and trailed a livid, lustful path...
The boys had called her a whore, for showing them her bare bottom, but they had demanded it! Angry, helpless tears filled Frederica's eyes. Her cousins, Wade and Thomas. For years, they had stalked her, taunted her like a rabbit in a trap, knowing full well that she could refuse them nothing, her security lying in the hands of their father, Uncle Frederick. She had been named for her father's brother and cursed the link, for he was as cruel as his evil sons. Well, they had taken everything she possessed, but not her pride and spirit. Nor her virginity.
Gathering her shawl about her shoulders, Frederica remembered the events of the summer, the final weeks at Gallowridge House. Oh, they were monsters, Wade and Thomas! Thomas, with his long hair and artistic pretensions, yet, in his own way, he was as vicious as his dominant brother, who already bore a reputation for violence. They had grasped her by the arms, one on each side, and marched her into the old playroom.
"Lie down on the carpet and pretend you are sleeping."
The sneering voice, as cold as the North Sea, and slowly, painfully, she assumed the desired position. The rug smelled of must and camphor.
"On your side. That's it. Now, remove your drawers and raise your skirt."
The frantic, helpless protestations and the blatant threats.
"You are an orphan, Frederica. Without our family's charity, you are destitute. Don't you understand? It's the poorhouse for you, if you don't comply. Or worse..."
Slowly unfastening the tangled ribbons of her long linen drawers and – oh, the shame of it – sliding them down to her ankles, feeling the cool air of the long abandoned playroom upon her slender calves and thighs. Resigned to the horror of her captivity, she had raised her skirt, as they commanded, closing her eyes against their hateful faces. To her surprise, they did not touch her, but lay down beside her, one on either side, so that Thomas faced her front and Wade her back. She could feel their breath upon her hair and face, hot and moist and slightly sweet, for they had been eating cherries from the orchard. Then they shifted themselves, moving south, as it were, and she opened her eyes just a tiny crack, to see them staring, fascinated, at her private parts. Thomas had his angular face almost pressed against her sex. He gazed at the perfect, tawny curled mound as if mesmerized. But what could Wade be doing behind her back? She could not turn her head to look and risk their wrath, but her eyes slid sideways, observing that he, too, lay and stared, but this time at the trembling twin cushions of her bare bottom. Strangely, it was both agony and ecstasy. It seemed that they lay like that for an eternity, quite motionless and silent, and Frederica began to feel a desperate desire for something to happen, anything. Their eyes seemed to bore into her tender flesh and it was almost as if a tiny flame licked tentatively at the sensitive lips of her virginal sex and she flushed with shame, suddenly realizing that she longed to turn over onto her back and part her thighs, exposing all! Yes! It was too dreadful to have to keep her legs together when they desired to see her bottom and her sex, like being bound at the ankles, having one's knees glued together... Quietly, she began to moan:
"Oh please, Master Wade, Master Thomas! I'll show you all, if you'll only let me move..."
"WHAT?"
It was as if the spell had been broken, shattered to a thousand knife-edged fragments. The two brothers scrambled to their feet and Wade had grasped a handful of Frederica's tumbling curls, dragging her to a kneeling position. Cruelly, he stooped to stare into her brimming eyes and she wondered at the dark pit, which seemed to beckon from his blue-rimmed pupils. Coolly, he began to speak, and with each few words, winding a length of hair tighter about his fingers until the terrified young woman believed her hair might be torn from its roots.
"You little slut, Frederica. You want us, don't you, you filthy whore? Both of us, at once! My, my, I see what Papa disclosed about your dear Mama is true! Did you know she made her living on her back?"
"No! "
Frederica's cry was half-strangled by the terrible pain Wade was inflicting upon her, but she would not endure such a sleight upon her beloved mother.
"I think little Miss Harlot needs a severe spanking, Wade, old boy."
Thomas was standing beside his brother, a curious smile playing about his thin, mean mouth.
"Go on – put her across your knees and tan her bare bottom, like you did with that scullery maid."
"Ah yes. Maisie, wasn't it? Foolish little trollop with uppity notions. That's not such a bad idea, my friend..."
Together they dragged the sobbing young woman to her feet and propelled her across the playroom, her crumpled drawers caught about her ankles like a convict's manacles. Wade seated himself upon an upright chair beside the empty fireplace and patted his lap in an elaborate gesture.
"Come now, Missy. We have been a very, very naughty girl, haven't we?"
Frederica hung her head and a large tear trickled down the lovely curve of her cheekbone. It was true! She had comported herself in a disgraceful fashion, never mind what horrors the boys might have committed. Boys will be boys but a young lady must be decorous at all times. Her voice, when it finally issued from the deep well of her misery, was a mere whisper:
"Yes, Master Wade. I've been very naughty."
A look of triumph crossed the hateful cousin's face and Thomas laughed out loud. Frederica could see a large protuberance in the front of his trousers and she fixed her eyes upon the carpet, more ashamed than ever.
"Go on then, Wadey! What are you waiting for? Let's see those buttocks heated 'til Miss Slutty Bottom glows in the dark."
"Over my knees."
Horrified, Frederica looked up at the two young men, a strange, confusing mixture of feelings coursing through her veins. On one hand, she loathed them, despised everything they stood for. Why should she submit to such a punishment? On the other hand – there was a curious little pulse beginning to beat like a second heart, deep between her thighs...
"I said – over my knees."
Wade's voice had darkened with the threat of violence and the trembling young woman hurriedly positioned herself facedown across his lap, painfully aware that her cousin had a very solid erection.
"That's better, isn't it? I know you want to be a good girl, Freda. Unfortunately, good girls aren't born but made. They have to have their wicked little bottoms spanked crimson at every available opportunity."
"Get on with it, Wadey! What if one of the servants hears us?"
Thomas was becoming slightly agitated, yet excited, his fingers wandering towards the bulge in his trousers.
Slowly, with obvious relish, the grinning Wade began to slide the palm of his right hand over Frederica's exposed buttocks and she gasped, a crop of goose bumps ruffling the sweet pink flesh.
"Oh!"
"Oh, do you like that, my dear? Well, try THIS!"
> Suddenly, the young sadist raised his hand to shoulder height, then, bringing it down with a sharp slap that caused the young woman's cheeks to quiver like a blancmange, he began to administer a stringent spanking.
"Oh, oh, oh, oh!"
"Oh, does that sting, miss? Does it hurt to have your bare bottom spanked like a cheap tart that'll suck prick for a sixpence?"
At that insult, Frederica began to kick her legs in indignation and Wade had called for his brother to hold her ankles. However, Thomas had released his rigid member from captivity and was frenetically pumping it as he watched his cousin's bottom squirm and jolt beneath the rhythmic slaps. Close to climax, he gasped:
"Oh God, look at her scarlet ass! I want her to suck me!"
Almost falling on top of the others in his haste and passion, he grasped Frederica's head and thrust his cock into her open mouth, a hot stream of semen hitting the back of her throat. She could not help but swallow his copious seed, gasping and choking as both brothers groaned in primal ecstasy...
Another violent jolt of the carriage roused the young woman from the depths of her reverie. Once again, it was growing dark outside, and it seemed that this journey would never end. Perhaps she was doomed to be entombed within the dismal wood and leather scented box as it rattled its way towards Hades, carrying its cargo of sleeping, ignorant souls. Well, she had already been to hell and back and it held no mystery.
Uncle Frederick had stood before the marble fireplace in the drawing room and Frederica had kept her eyes upon the subtle swirling patterns in the creamy stone, aware of his hateful voice, alternately preaching at then mocking his wretched niece.
"Your mother, of course, was no better. Do you imagine she was a virgin on her wedding night? Hah! It was a blessing in disguise when The Carolina was lost and your feckless parents with it. Bringing disrepute to the family with her powder and her paint and her gaudy clothes...
"...and they found you, tiny Frederica, with that tawdry bauble pinned upon your frock. Well, what is bred in the bone comes out in the flesh. I've watched you flaunt yourself before my sons, tempting them with your harlot's wiles..."
The stagecoach rumbled past a churchyard, two gravediggers carving an ebony pit in the sodden clay. Frederica stroked the precious brooch, which had belonged to her mother, and a distant melody began to play in some dim corner of her mind. Long ago and far away, a time of bright sunshine and the sticky juice of an orange on her little hands. Mama's laughter, like a joyous peal of bells, the lush magnificence of her raven hair. She was an actress, not a whore, and she had come from Spain to make her fortune on the London stage. Maria Luisa. Even the memory of her name could cut a ribbon of tangerine silk through the murky grayness of this dismal world. She had married her greatest admirer, John Roe, an aristocratic man with the flaming red hair of a Celtic warrior. Together with their two-year-old daughter, they were embarking upon a brave new life, having purchased a coffee plantation in the West Indies, when their stricken ship foundered on the Galway coast. Frederica gazed at the brooch and the corners of her generous mouth twitched into a near smile. It was a theatrical piece of jewelry, a large nut of orange-red cornelian in a rococo setting of golden petals, like a stylized sunflower, but it never failed to make her happy.
"You are to be married to Lord Urquhart, Frederica. Consider yourself an exceptionally fortunate young woman. He is an older gentleman, a widower these past twenty years, and childless. Apparently something of a philanthropist, as, upon hearing of my orphaned niece of marriageable age and subsequently viewing your portrait, he immediately offered for your hand. Quite peculiar but he is rumored to be an eccentric. However, I dare say the man is lonely and it may be his last chance to take a young wife who could bear him an heir..."
Frederica's heart had skipped a beat when she heard of her impending marriage, but, as the days passed in a whirlwind of unaccustomed festivity, she warmed to the mysterious, generous Lord Urquhart, daydreaming of a bumbling, indulgent, gentle man, who would allow her to wear bright dresses and gather armfuls of flowers to brighten the stuffy library where, no doubt, he spent his days, perusing the newspapers and smoking his pipe, a sleepy spaniel by his feet. She would be more of a daughter than a wife, rushing in from the heady scented, insect buzzing gardens and throwing her arms about his neck, placing a chaste, fond kiss upon his leathery cheek. He'd smile and sigh and pat her hand, murmuring affectionately. "Dear Frederica!" What a lovely, lovely man, to rescue her from the horrors of Gallowridge House. It was like Christmas. She, who had never worn more than the simplest, plainest dresses, was being measured and fussed over by seamstresses who produced the most elegant gowns. Artful hats were sent from London and perfect gloves and shoes and silken stockings and a myriad of translucent, lace-edged under things which made the young woman's cheeks grow warm. The old man would blush too and wrap a concealing shawl about her nubile form, muttering, "Now, now, my dear, there's no need for that, not at my age!" Yes, she was dispatched upon her journey with a delicious trousseau, an unexpected but delightful dividend. No doubt, Uncle Frederick must maintain "face" in the rarefied chambers of his London club – whatever would they say, the other Lordly ones, if it became known that Miss Frederica Maria Roe arrived at Urquhart Hall with but two dowdy frocks, a faded summer chintz and a moth-scarred winter wool? There would be much pointed rustling of the Times, many looks askance, that John Roe's child should marry as a pauper bride! God bless you, Lord Urquhart...
"Urquhart Hall!"
The harsh, guttural tones of the driver's voice cut through Frederica's reverie like a scythe through tall grass and, suddenly flustered by nerves, she accepted his hand, carefully stepping down into a black and yielding ground which seemed to grasp and hold her ankles fast.
"Mind now, miss, 'tis a sea of mire."
Oh no! It was mud. Thick, sticky, clay-bound mud, creeping over the tops of her dainty ankle boots and tugging at the hem of her gown like a tiresome child. Stifling a sudden urge to burst into tears, Frederica waited for the man to procure her trunk, scanning the darkness for an approaching lantern or some distant window, gay with yellow lamplight, but she could see nothing but the vague outline of two huge and menacing gateposts. The driver swung the heavy box onto the verge and tipped his hat, chill rain dripping from its battered brim.
"Trust someone'll be along t' fetch thee."
"Yes..."
Frederica's voice faded to a frightened whisper and her heart began to beat like a drum as the stagecoach rumbled away into the pitch-black night. What if this were the wrong Urquhart Hall? What if there had been some terrible misunderstanding? But a flickering light was moving towards her from the depths of the Stygian pit between the looming gateposts. There's no going back now. Besides, what could be worse than Gallowridge House? Eagerly, the young woman watched the bobbing firefly, which gradually developed into a tall, cloaked figure swinging a lantern to the steady rhythm of a measured tread. The figure reached the gateposts and raised the light to appraise Frederica, who flinched, bedazzled, catching a brief glimpse of a stone griffin above the shrouded form, which inquired:
"Miss Roe?"
It was a woman! What sort of man could Lord Urquhart be, who'd send a member of the fairer sex to meet the stagecoach on a filthy winter's night? But, wait! Of course! Pre-empting her fear of being abandoned in a foreign place late on a murky November evening, he had sent a kindly, stouthearted maid to light the way and welcome the new mistress to the fold. What a saintly man. Frederica stepped into the glowing pool of light and addressed the servant in confident tones.
"I am Frederica Roe. There is a trunk upon the verge but I fear it must wait for one of Lord Urquhart's footmen."
"Then it shall wait a long time."
The maid's voice was quite deep and rich, yet oddly accented, as if English were not her native language. Silently, she turned and began the return journey towards the hidden house without looking back to ensure that Frederica was in train. A sudden stab of annoyance caused th
e exhausted young woman to lift her skirts and follow as best she could, frequently turning her slender ankles upon deep ruts in what was, presumably, a narrow driveway. Obviously, a somewhat neglected driveway. Why couldn't Lord Urquhart have sent a pony and trap? Was he a miser, existing in a crumbling mansion far from prying eyes with but one uppity servant to meet his frugal needs? Perhaps he saw his young bride as an unpaid maid! She could not bear the swift descent into the Hadean void, unable to see where her poor, mud-caked feet were landing, only that the driveway steadily sloped downhill and the menacing wall of huge trees appeared to be closing in on either side. Still, no welcoming window visible and there was no moon to light their progress. Ahead, the surly servant marched on, certain and relentless. Suddenly, a rock or what might have been the emerging root of a tree caught hold of Frederica's foot and she fell forwards onto her hands and knees, crying out in shock and then, enraged, she staggered to her feet, furious tears beginning to course down her chilled cheeks. Her beautiful hat with the silk roses had disappeared into the pit and there was no time to crawl about on all fours attempting to locate it. Already, the steadily bobbing lantern was vanishing into the night. Maddened, the disheveled young woman continued to pick her way through the rutted, muddy sea, vowing to take Lord Urquhart to task for such a welcome. Did he think she'd arrive in galoshes? Perhaps he was a bucolic sort, all ruddy-faced and hearty, decrying the vain frivolities of city life... Was that a lamp lit window ahead? The driveway appeared to take a sharp turn to the left then, unexpectedly, the great hulk of a vast house rose up before Frederica, a black wall but for one solitary yellow square on the ground floor. The lantern-swinging servant paused within what seemed to be an imposing stone portico, before opening the heavy door just enough to allow a narrow beam of soft lamplight to cast a golden path across the courtyard. All nerves displaced by intense irritation, Frederica marched across the graveled court, taking in the dim silhouette of a large but silent fountain. The path of light illuminated her feet and, looking down, she glimpsed her ruined, muddied boots and the stained and tattered hemline of her gown. Ashputtel! Raising one hand to touch her hatless head, she realized that her heavy hair had come undone and spilled about her shoulders in a tangled mass. Like a wretched sweep's apprentice, fresh from the flue! The servant had disappeared and Frederica entered the house, closing the massive oak door against the wailing wind.