Notebooks of the Young Wife

by Tara Black

  ‘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.

  I edged forward carefully, scuffing the stone flags uneven under my feet
. As long as I had a line of sight to the target I should be all right. Before very long there was a change of atmosphere and I brushed against something to the side. And then I realised I could see. Very dimly, almost more by intuition than vision, there were walls to the left and right. I was back in a passage and it was leading directly to where I wanted to go. The door opened with the turn of a knob and at the end of a short corridor was another with a high glass panel. I caught the sound of voices beyond it: a quick interchange I couldn’t make out, and a giggle. There was nothing threatening, in fact it sounded more like play, and it was followed by a sharp noise and a laughing yelp. A repeat left me pretty sure of what was going on so I moved up to the small window and cautiously raised my head to it.

  I was looking down from the head of a short set of steps into a kitchen area with a large stove to the left and sinks to the right. In front of me was a counter, and splayed across it was the garçon I had briefly met, trousers down round his thighs. On the bare bum the red splodges amply confirmed what I’d guessed and I watched, a little dazed, as the boy – my boy – lifted a wooden spatula and cracked it down again. The spanks soon fell into a rhythm with the shrill little gasps belied by the way the lad pushed out his backside for the next. As if to remove all doubt of the nature of the game between the two, the ‘punisher’ crooked an arm round the throat of the ‘victim’, pulled him upright and put a hand to the erection that sprang into view. Then it was back over the top, and when the boy’s trousers came down too it was plain what was coming. I almost gasped out loud with the stab of arousal that hit me as he parted the red cheeks and pushed his hard cock at the hole between them. That cock – the one that had subjected me to a sweet orgy of penetration – was in the process of spearing what I assumed to be its default target.

  I felt no jealousy, rather a strange kind of relief. But most of all I shook with an intense voyeuristic lust that had the fingers stuffed into my cunt awash. On our first meeting the boy jerked off unashamedly beside me while we watched a behind being made tender; now I was wanking at the sight of his cock spearing one. While a detached corner of my mind registered the thought that there was something poetic about it all, the climax broke over me in concert with the raised voices crying out below.

  All Change

  That night I was out for the count. The boy must have come back at some point for his bed had been slept in, but when I woke in the morning he was nowhere to be seen. I’d just decided to begin collecting things together for our journey when Annabelle came in carrying a breakfast tray. She put it down and glanced over at the rumpled sheets, then turned to me a little anxiously.

  ‘He has le rendez-vous, tu sais? Avec Madame. She comes to me in the evening with le rotin. Er...’ She looked to me for help and I began to see where this was heading.

  ‘Rattan is what we call it, if you mean a cane.’

  ‘Oui. It is special to her, like the black one. I must make it en trempe, toute la nuit. Comme une marinade, mais dans le vinaigre.’

  ‘She wanted it soaked in vinegar?’

  ‘C’est ça. She says it will be un chauffe-derrière pour le garçon. The boy’s request. Your boy.’ If my French was not leading me astray, the key phrase translated as ‘bottom-warmer’. It was no doubt Madame Mariselle’s idea of a little joke, for a supple length of wet rattan was likely to be up in the same league as the vicious black rod. And yet it seemed the boy had, quite literally, asked for it.

  I was still digesting the implications of this when the door opened. We gawped as the subject of our conversation entered, closed it carefully behind him and came forward. His movements were visibly stiff and he was very pale, but appeared quite in control of himself.

  ‘Knew she wanted to. So I thought why not. Kind of parting gift.’ At this we rather fell on him, I’m afraid, one each side to lower the trousers as gently as we could manage. Not only was there no objection to our blatant curiosity, the boy’s face was acquiring a distinct smirk. As the beaten buttocks came into view, Annabelle sucked in her breath.

  ‘Dieu qu’il était sévère – Madame was not easy with him.’ I wasn’t going to disagree. By repute, hard judicial canings produce the effects before us, as indeed did my own, though I was not then in the position or condition to give the damage detached scrutiny. There were only six marks that had been executed in unrelenting parallels, but what marks they were! Coloured somewhere between purple and black and the thickness of a forefinger, they stood out in hoops that ran from flank to flank: vivid testimony to the rule of aiming each stroke six inches below the target. But more shocking still – to one who was acquainted with the body in question – was the crimsoned swelling of the whole hindquarters from waist to the upper half of the thighs.

  The pain at infliction had been certainly formidable, and when we straightened up I looked at the boy with a new respect. While I too had suffered Madame’s rigours, I’d been trained up for the part; he was just a lad, an ingénue in these matters. Now, however, in the space of our rapt study, there appeared a sizeable erection and Annabelle grinned at it.

  ‘Jane, I would love to assist you. Mais après l’épreuve should come the time for two, n’est-ce pas?’

  When she’d gone I bent him over and worked a small bead of lubricating jelly into the tight hole. Then I found a slim dildo in the goody-bag that always travels with me, and eased it in to the hilt. He grunted and stood up. I wagged a firm finger under his nose.

  ‘Boy, when those bruises have quite gone, I am going to give you the spanking of your life, for being so foolhardy as to offer yourself to that woman. Right?’

  ‘Yes, Miss.’ The colour returned to the face under the shock of hair, but I thought I saw something deeper in the eyes than before. I took hold of the stiff penis and drew him on top of me on the bed, sliding down until I could reach the hot welts with my fingers and close my mouth on the erection. Rash though he may have been, he had earned his pleasure and I was going to devote myself to it.

  Our trip back was essentially uneventful. Thanks to the smoothness of the TGV the boy was able not only to sit, if gingerly at first, but to fall asleep in the corner seat. Changing stations in Paris went without a hitch, though it was not made easier by the awkwardly long package we had acquired. Not content with the leaving present of a beating, Madame decided at the last minute that the boy should take with him as a memento the instrument itself.

  Back across the Channel, the rail travel was rather more of a trial to one with a tender behind, and by the time the train pulled into the stop for Ardingley End it was late. Although I’d left a message on her mobile, there was no sign of Tamsin’s Porsche at the station, so I was reduced to pleading with a part-time cab driver to take us the last few miles. As the vehicle at last drew up at the imposing entrance, Mrs Jencks came running out.

  ‘Dr Greene, quickly please! She’s in the library...’ She waved an agitated arm at the lit mullioned windows to the right and I shoved my wallet in the boy’s hand for the fare and took off. The outer reading space was empty, but a cry came from the interior room where the collection had been housed. I hurried through the half-open door and stopped in my tracks. My PA was on her feet with miniskirt up round her waist, clutching her bum. Between her fingers I could see the flesh glowing red, and standing over her, holding the polished dark wood of a hefty paddle in both hands, was a tall man with a thatch of white hair. He had to be the new Master of the House and it looked as though he’d started as he meant to go on.

  ‘Jesus fuck.’

  ‘Language, young lady. And I am not finished with you yet.’ The Texan vowels, gently chiding, carried the weight of authority. I took a breath and stuck my oar in. For all it achieved I needn’t have bothered.

  ‘Excuse me, I am Tamsin’s employer. If you have a quarrel with her perhaps you should take it up with me.’

  ‘Jane, it’s all right. Really. Let’s just get this over with. Two more, sir, I bel
ieve you were saying.’ He nodded without so much as a glance in my direction and Tamsin went back across the desk with an odd little sigh. Wielded with energy, each impact of the weapon spread and lifted the buttock cheeks most impressively. When he was done she hauled the skirt down and rubbed through it, breathing hard. Then the patriarch turned to me for the first time.

  ‘And now, ma’am, you are...?’

  ‘Jane Barrett-Greene, of the British Library.’

  ‘The Librarian. Am I to understand that you are the one responsible for this?’ He indicated the shelves around us that stood mostly empty.

  ‘Er, I arranged for the removal of the collection, yes.’

  ‘Very well.’ He looked down at the paddle and slapped it on his palm, then fixed me with clear blue eyes. ‘You will join me for breakfast at eight-thirty sharp. I will hear then your proposal for rectifying the situation.’

  ‘I’ll consider the invitation, if you’d be good enough to tell me whom I’m addressing.’ I was fuming but no doubt managed to sound merely petulant. He simply drew himself up and turned to go.

  ‘“Sir” will suffice for the present.’ And that was it, unless I was going to lose it badly enough to shout at the departing back. I’m glad to say I didn’t, and then Mrs Jencks hurried in.

  ‘You will go, won’t you Dr Greene? I couldn’t help overhearing. It’s been a nerve-wracking time since he came but he is set on the place and would keep on all the staff. There is only the one difficulty of the books. It seems Sir Montague’s reputation was such that the new Master – well, so he’ll be if only he stays – anticipated a collection to match his own, er, special tastes. We’re depending on you to explain and talk him round.’

  ‘Hmm. Is that what Tamsin was trying to do?’