by AnonYMous
Was she an aunt? There were aunts in the garden once when I was young. They moved among the flowers and the shrubs. Sometimes Father and Mother would kiss them. We ate delicacies from silver platters. The servants were quiet, moving like wraiths. Tea was drunk from translucent cups. It was said that my uncle's first wife had left and died. I believe not that she died, but that she left I knew. Long later I heard of it. Her name was Lucy. She was but eighteen. My uncle then was a racier man. He sought a sexual abandonment to which Lucy could not lend herself. She was beautiful but shy. In the end my uncle grew impatient. He had wished to see her in the throes of lust. She had refused. One night, becoming impatient, he had called the butler. Lucy, naked, had been held down over the edge of the bed. First my uncle and then the butler had entered their penises in her bottom and buggered her. The butler was a lewd, crude man. Such things were not unknown. My uncle, it appeared, had been in raptures over the scene. He having buggered Lucy first, she was more docile and receptive to the second breaching of her bottom. Nevertheless, she departed soon after. For Australia, they said. Her death being announced, but never proved, my uncle remarried.
Aunt Maude sat now on the bed. I felt her weightness. She rolled me onto my hip, my back to her. Her hand caressed my cheek and brushed my hair back where the strands were loose.
“Has she been good?” she asked.
Jenny stood as if she had been waiting to be asked. “She has been good,” she said. I was pleased. They were going to release me. We would have our picnic. Jenny and I would hide in the shrubbery and Caroline would have to find us.
“It will take time,” my aunt said. Her complexion was as smooth as mine. Once when I was very young she was younger. She bent over me so that our mouths almost touched. Jenny stood still. I knew that Jenny was being good standing still.
“She was smacked,” Jenny said. I wanted to cry. I hated her. I glared at her and she smiled. My aunt continued to stroke my face and hair. Then she passed her long-tapered fingers down my neck and back. I shivered. I jerked towards her. Her eyes were kind.
“Twenty-five. She looks younger—she could be younger. Beatrice always had a fine bottom, did you not, Beatrice?”
My eyes said no-yes. Her fingertips floated my globe, my split peach, my pumpkin glory pale. The tip of her forefinger sought the groove. My lips quivered. Jenny did not look away. All hands should be hidden from people. My mother told me that. Hands can be wicked. My wrists were bound.
My aunt's finger tasted the inrolling of my bottom cheeks and wormed between them.
No—even my husband did not do that. Edward never did that. His stepmother was jealous of me. He bought her flowers. I remembered his cock. It was thin and long.
I made a noise—soft, small noise. The fingertip had touched my rose, my anus, my little bottom mouth that makes an O. My aunt smiled. She had turned my chin towards her. I bubbled little bubbling sounds. I jerked my bottom. My lips pursed in a long, soundless oooooh. The fingertip oozed in me and it moved. Back and forth, an inch of it, it moved.
My aunt took my nose pinched between her thumb and finger. I was like a fish. I had to part my lips to breathe. Rouge-scented, her mouth came to my mouth. Her tongue extended, licked within. I squirmed. Between my bottom cheeks her finger sank. In deeper sank. I was impaled. My breath hush-rushed. Her tongue worked. It worked its long wet work around my tongue. Her finger moved in-out, gently, like a train uncertain at a tunnel. Menace of dark and tightness.
Her finger felt burny, itchy, strange. Then it came out. Her tongue came out. I tasted her rouge on my mouth with my rouge. I wanted to tell Jenny that but I hated her. My aunt gave my bottom a pat and stood up. She smoothed her skirt down.
“She should bathe,” my aunt said. “Take her, Jenny.”
Jenny made me get up. Into the hallway I was led, along to the bathroom. As in those days it was huge—a fireplace within. The walls were draped with dark blue velvet all around. The bath was of white porcelain. Unshackled, my attire was removed. The water had already been brought in and emptied by the servants into the bath. It was lukewarm and pleasant.
“You know I love you,” Jenny said.
I sat down. The water lapped me with its tongues. I liked that. Jenny sponged me and poured scented water over me from a pitcher.
“Do you remember we learned wicked words at boarding school?” she asked. I wanted to ask things, but I did not. I nodded. Her eyes were bright and merry. Christmas tree decorations. “What is cunt?” she asked.
“Con,” I said. I did not want her to think I did not know. I like the French word but not the English word. The English word is ugly. Its edges are sharp.
“And prick?” She held my head round so that I could look into her eyes. Her breasts were splashed with water. I wanted to nibble her nipples.
“Pine.” I knew I was right. I would never then say prick. Why are all wicked words sharp in English? Someone sharpened them. Anglo-Saxons with dirty beards and guttural voices sharpened them. My bottom squashed its cheeks into the water, plump. Is it too big?
“And sperm?” She would not stop. Jenny was often tike that before, not ever stopping. She would tickle me in bed when we were younger and make me say things. In my imaginings I would say better things, naughtier things, but I never told her. Did she know? Was this punishment?
“Foutre,” I said. I knew she liked the word best. I liked the word best. It was like a ripe plum being chewed and then pieces coming out briefly on the lips before being swallowed. The word was thick bubbles around my tongue. Creamy bubbles.
“Have you not been whipped yet?”
It was Jenny asking me. At first I did not know that it was. I thought the voice came from the ceiling. I did not answer. I was mute. Her fingers moved over the outjutting of my breasts. My nipples had risen under the sponge. Jenny licked inside my ear. I giggled. It wasn't fair.
“I knew you hadn't been,” she said, “get up.”
My feet slipped. She smacked me. “Now stand still,” she said, just as Father and Uncle said. She sponged my legs and made me open them. The sponge was squelchy and warm under my pussy. Did Jenny ever touch me there before? No, yes. In bed once, I think. That was summers ago. The ice cream has all been eaten since then, the plates put away.
“Move your hips. Rub them against the sponge, Beatrice. Did you often come over Edward's prick?”
“I hate you,” I said. There were tears in my eyes. She knew that I would not tell her. She became impatient with me.
“Oh, get out,” she said. She pulled me roughly from the ' bath and towelled me. She was brisk and quick as Mother used to be when I was young. Younger young. Then she powdered me. Clouds of powdering me. The powder made me sneeze.
She led me back into my room. The house was silent. Had they all run away?
“I want champagne,” I said. I do not know why I said it. Bubbles. Foutre. Jenny laughed.
“There should be rouge on your nipples,” she said. She had left the door open. From along the passageway came sounds, cries, whimpers.
“Please?” I asked. I felt as if I were speaking in a foreign language and that I only knew the beginnings of sentences. Then I recovered myself. “I heard Caroline,” I said.
Jenny put a white linen nightdress over my head. It flowed to my feet. The hem was wide. “You shall see,” she replied. She took my hand and led me along the corridor. The door to Caroline's room was half open.
Caroline was lying naked on her bed, face down. Her wrists and ankles were bound as mine had been. Aunt Maude was swishing a long slender cane lightly across her tight, pink cheeks. Caroline's face was flushed. At every contact of the cane she jerked her hips and whimpered.
“You will both sleep now,” Jenny said. She pushed me back into my room and closed the door. I heard the lock click. The tasselled curtains parted to my hands. I pressed my forehead to the cool glass and stared down into darkness. The baker's van had gone—the maid—the cat. Had the loaf been eaten?
; My bed was soft and comfortable, the sheets scented with lavender. The oil lamps made shadows on the ceiling. I could not stir myself to extinguish them. A servant would come in the morning and attend to them.
Through the green-blue sea I floated. The dark shadow of a huge ship loomed above me. I reached and touched the planks and felt the barnacles. There was seaweed in my hair. Father came floating towards me. My skirts billowed up to my hips in the deep, still waters.
No one could see.
SIX
THE sun was warm when I awoke. The curtains had been drawn back—the lamps removed. Evidently I had slept heavily. Jenny roused me, smiling from the doorway where she stood. The gong below sounded for breakfast.
“You are late,” she said. She wore a long black skirt, the waist drawn in tight. Her blouse was white, the buttons of pearl. Beneath the silk of her blouse, her breasts loomed pinkly. A perking of nipples. They indented the material. Like a child late for school I was hustled into the bathroom and out again.
“I have no dress to wear,” I said. Jenny smacked my hand.
“You are late,” she repeated. The smell of sizzling bacon came to us. I was hungry. My mouth watered. The wardrobe doors were opened quickly. A thin wool dress of light brown colour, rust colour, was handed to me. “Nothing beneath except your stockings,” Jenny said. She palmed my bottom and my breasts as I raised my nightdress. The sensation was pleasant. The dress cascaded over my shoulders and was worked tightly down over my curves. It was as if I were naked. I was preferred in boots today, Jenny said—black lace-up ones that came to my knees. The heels were high. I feared to fall down the stairs. I told her.
“Nonsense,” Jenny said. “Brush your hair quickly. Show me your teeth. Are they clean now?”
I was taken down. Approaching the dining room we walked more slowly. My legs felt longer in the boots, the high heels. My aunt and uncle and Caroline were already seated. Silver tureens stood on the massive sideboard. Caroline looked up at me quickly and then attended to her bacon. We ate in silence as if some doom were pending. Neither my aunt nor uncle spoke, even to one another. It was a penance perhaps. I ate voraciously but delicately. The bloom of health was upon me. The kidneys and mushrooms were delicious. The maids who served were young and pretty. I liked them. They avoided my eyes. They had learned their learning.
With every movement of Jenny's body her breasts moved their nipples beneath her blouse. Beneath the tablecloth my uncle's hand stole onto her thigh. She wore garters that ridged themselves slightly through her skirt. He caressed them. His palm soothed from one leg to the other. Jenny parted her legs beneath her skirt and smiled. I wanted to suck the tip of her tongue.
At a nod from my uncle we were dismissed. Caroline and I rose together and wandered into the drawing room. We were lost in our foundness. We held hands. Our fingers whispered together. In a moment, from a side entrance, my uncle appeared in the garden. A carriage had arrived, it seemed, but the visitors came not to the front of the house. They skirted the side and appeared where my uncle stood.
The woman whom he greeted was in her early thirties. I had a vagueness of seeing her before. Her flowered hat was large, of pale straw with a wide brim. She wore white kid gloves to her elbows. Were they my gloves? I had left mine in the sea at night. The fishes had nibbled at them. She was beautiful, elegant. Her dress was of white and blue, the collar frilled. Pearls glinted around the neck. Beside her came a servant neatly dressed in black with velour lapels to his jacket. He had an air of insolent subservience.
“She is beautiful,” I said to Caroline, “do you know who she is?”
Jenny's voice sounded behind us. “What are you doing?” she asked in a sharp tone. A tone that scratched.
“I was asking,” I answered.
Caroline moved. Her palm was moist in mine. “I know her. She is Katherine Hayton—-an actress. We have seen her at the Adelphi,” she said. Her eyes were saucers as she received Jenny's stare.
“You were not told to hold hands,” Jenny said. She jerked her head at me and said, “Come. Beatrice, come.”
Forlorn, I relinquished Caroline's hand. Our own house was yet an ocean away. In the bedrooms women with bronzed skins and supple hips were lying. They would wear my clothes and steal my jewellery.
Jenny led me down the hall. To my astonishment we entered the linen room. It smelled of starch and nothing. “You must learn—you must both learn, Beatrice. Do you not know?” Jenny asked me.
I blinked. I did not know who I was. Father had lied perhaps. He had not gone to Madras. He was with the women in the rooms. They would French-drink. Their lips would taste of curry. 'there would be musk between their thighs. I said yes to Jenny. My voice said yes. My hands were at my sides.
“Kneel before me, Beatrice.”
I did. My head was bowed, my hands clasped together. I prayed for goodness. Edward's mother used to undress with her door half open. We could see her as we went past. Her bottom was big. I told Edward that she should close the door. He smiled. His eyes were small and neat. Like his pine when it was not stiff.
“Kiss my thighs,” Jenny said. She raised her skirt, gathering up the folds. I was blind. A milkiness, a perfume. Her drawers were split both back and front. It was the fashion then. Women could attend to their natural functions without removing them. In my mother's early days women had never worn drawers.
The curls of her slit, her loveslot, honeypot, were framed by the white linen. My palms sought the backs of her thighs. Her knees bent slightly. I could feel her smile. My tongue licked out, sweeping around the taut tight tops of her black/stockings. Her skin—white like my white. She tasted of musk and perfume and the scents of flowers. My lips splurged against her thighs.
“Ah, you lick! Like a little doggy you lick,” Jenny laughed. After a moment or two she pushed me away with her knees. “It is too soon,” she said. I wanted to cry but she would not let me. I was brought to my feet even as the door opened and Jenny rearranged her dress. My aunt led Caroline in and frowned a little at Jenny, as I thought. The window of the linen room was set high up at the other end from us. The light was morning soft. Caroline wore, as I did, a woollen dress of fine skein.
“You will see to them, Jenny,” my aunt said. From our distance I heard my uncle and Katherine enter the house. There was a tinkling of glasses, laughter. The door closed, leaving the three of us alone.
“Remove your dresses,” Jenny said. My hands went to the buttons of mine, but Caroline hesitated. Jenny smacked her and she squealed. “Quickly!” Jenny snapped. We stood naked except for our stockings and boots.
Jenny drew us together, face to face, thighs to thighs. From a drawer she took cords and bound us tightly together—ankles, thighs, waists. We could not move. Our cheeks pressed close. Placing her hands beneath Caroline's bottom she urged us slowly into a comer. I stood with my back to the meeting of the walls. Caroline's breach flowed over my breath.
“Your bodies merge well together,” Jenny said, “are your breasts touching fully? Move your breasts. Your nipples must touch.”
Yes, I said, yes Jenny. Our nipples were like bell-pushes together. Mine grew and tingled. Caroline's grew. Her toes curled over mine.
“Please, don't,” Caroline whispered. I knew that she wasn't speaking to me but in her mind speaking. I moved my lips against her ear. Jenny had gone.
“You like it,” I said. I wanted to make her happy. I coaxed her. She had had the cane. Was it nice? “Do you like it?” I asked. I made my voice sound as if we were going on a holiday. If she liked it we would be happy.
“I don't know,” Caroline said. Her voice was smudged. Our bellies were silky together. I could feel her slit warm, pulsing. It was nice standing still. I moved my mouth very slowly from her ear to her cheek. I felt her quiver. Had she sucked his cock? I would not ask yet. I would ask later. The tip of my tongue traced the fullness of her lower lip, the Cupid curve. Caroline moved her face away. Her cheeks homed. Our nipples were thorns, entangled.
/>
“Do not!” she choked.
“Jenny will come,” I said. Caroline moved her mouth back to mine. The bulbous fullness of her breasts against mine excited me. Our mouths were soft in their seeking. I sought her tongue with my tongue. It retreated, curling in its cave curling. Sipping at her lips I brought it to emerge. The thrill made us quiver. Our nipples moved, implored. My belly pressed in tighter to hers. The door swung open of a sudden. It was Jenny. She scolded us and said we had been kissing. Working her hand between us she felt our lovemouths, secretive between our thighs. They were moist. Her hand retracted. Her fingers sought our bottoms.
“You must practise—you love one another. Caroline—put your tongue in her mouth.”
We swayed. Caroline's tongue was small, urgent, pointed in its bickering. Hidden by our lips our tongues licked. It was a secret. I wanted.
“Open your mouths—let me see your tongues,” Jenny commanded. We obeyed.
“Half an hour,” Jenny said. She moved to the door and we were alone again. Birds sprinkled their songs among the leaves outside. I was happy. The richness of our bodies flesh to flesh was sweet. Caroline's eyelashes fluttered and tickled against mine. I could feel her belly rippling.
Our tongues like warm snakes worked together. Our thighs trembled. The ridged tops of our stockings rubbed.
Perhaps the door would remain closed forever.
Our minds whispered together like people in caves.
SEVEN
WE would go to meadows, my aunt said. She saw my look of incomprehension. We had been released exactly upon the half hour. Dressed again we sat in the garden and drank champagne and lemonade. It was a reward, Jenny said, because we had not cried or protested when she untied us and made us dress again.
“Meadows—it is a country house your uncle has bought,” Aunt Maude explained.
“We may go indoors first?” I asked. I was referring to our own house. My aunt nodded as if surprised at the question.
“Do not tarry—we leave at noon,” she told us.