BEATRICE

by AnonYMous

  She drew Mary up from my embrace. The girl turned and went, leaving the plates. I made to rise when Jenny fell upon me, spreading my legs by forcing hers between them. The hairs of her pubis were springy to mine through her thin cotton dress. It was a new dress. Small mauve flowers on a blue background. I wanted it.

  “There is a wildness in you,” Jenny said. Her tongue licked suddenly into my mouth and then withdrew.

  “Let me kiss your thighs,” I begged. She laughed and rose, pushing herself up on her forearms slowly so that her breasts bobbed their juicy gourds over mine.

  Bereft I lay. Would she seek my tears—kiss the salty droplets? At Christmas Eve I had been carried upstairs with my drawers down. The sea-cry, the wind-cry. Jenny turned to the window and looked down. The darkness now beyond—the mouth of night.

  “The stations are all closed—the people have gone. The ships have sailed,” she said. I began to cry. She turned and shook me roughly. “The reception will begin soon, Beatrice—get dressed. Stand up!”

  Words stuttered in my mouth but knew no seeking beyond. I wanted my nipples to be burnished by her lips. Instead I obeyed quietly as she told me to remove my boots and stockings. In place of the stockings I was to wear tights such as dancers do on the stage. They were flesh-coloured. The burr of my pubic curls showed through. They bulged. A top of the same material was passed over my shoulders. It hugged my waist and hips, fitting so tightly that my nipples protruded into the fine net.

  “Longer boots,” Jenny said. She pointed to the wardrobe. I padded to it. They had been made ready for me, polished. Sleek-fitting, I drew them on. The heels were narrow and spiked. “Brush your hair—make yourself presentable,” Jenny said, “I shall return for you in a minute.”

  I had not then seen the house except for the back stairs and the entrance hall. There was buzzing of voices as I was made to descend with Carolina—she dressed as I. The grooves between our buttock cheeks showed through the mesh. A piano played. It stopped when we entered. People in formal evening dressed gazed at us and then turned away. Gilt mirrors ranged the walls with paintings between them—one by one around the room. Mary and another girl moved among the visitors with champagne. On sideboards there were canapes in numerous colours. They looked as pretty as flowers on their silver trays.

  The piano played again. Mozart, I thought. Men looked at my breasts and buttocks. Their eyes fanned Caroline's curves. The high heels made us walked awkwardly, stiffly. The cheeks of our bottoms rolled.

  To the one blank wall farthest from the doors Jenny led us, a hand on each of our elbows. There were clamps, chains, bands of leather.

  Caroline first. Her legs were splayed, her ankles fastened. Her arms above her head.

  “Hang your head back—let your bottom protrude!” Jenny snapped at her. I wanted to be blindfolded. I knew it was good to be so. Black velvet bands swathed our eyes. In darkness we stood, our shoulders touching warm. The manacles were tight.

  I had seen my uncle. He watched upon our obedience. I heard his voice. There was silence in the room. The last chords of the piano tinkled and were gone. A wink of fishes' tails and gone.

  Caroline first. I heard the intake of her breath as he passed his hands up the backs of her thighs and squeezed her bottom cheeks. “My doves,” he breathed. He placed a broad, warm palm on each of our bottoms. People clapped. The room stirred again, came alive.

  We were left. Knuckles slyly nudged our bottoms from time to time. Were we forbidden? Female fingers touched more delicately. With the protrusion of our bottoms and the splaying of our legs, our slits were at pillage. Mine wettened into the mesh of the tights as slender fingers quested and sought the lips. And found. I tried not to wriggle my hips.

  Champagne was passed between our lips from goblets unseen. I absorbed mine greedily. I could hear Caroline's tongue lapping. There was dancing. I heard the feet. The plaintive cry of an oboe accompanying the piano. If it were a girl playing I would know her by her slimness, her tight small mouth that only an oboe reed would enter. Her face would be oval and pale, her breasts light and springy. She would speak little. Her words would be dried corn, her days spent in quiet rooms. At the high notes I envisaged her on a bed in a white cell. She would not struggle. Her stockings would be white, her thighs slender.

  Laid on her back, she would breathe slowly, quietly, fitfully through her nose. Her dress would be raised. Knees would kneel on the bed between her legs. Her knees would falter, stir and bend. Her bottom would be small and tight. Hands would cup and lift. She would wear white gloves of kid. I had almost forgotten the gloves. They would be decorated with small pearl buttons spaced half an inch apart.

  No words. Her mouth would be dry. A small dry mouth. Her Gunny would be dry. A small dry Gunny. A tongue would moisten it—her fingers would clench. She would close her eyes. Her eyelashes would have the colour of straw.

  Her knees would be held. The knob-glow of a penis three times the girth of her oboe would probe her slit. A small cry. A quavering. In her dryness. Entering, deep-entering it would enter. Lodged. Held full within. The tightness there. In rhythmic movement it would move, the lips expanding around the stem.

  Silently he would work, upheld on forearms bared, gazing down upon the pallor of her face.

  Her buttocks would twitch and tighten. A crow would alight at the window. Pecking at stone it would be gone.

  The penis moving, stiff. A small bubble of sound from her lips, suppressed. The tightening of her buttocks would compress the sealskin walls that gripped him. In his oozing he would groan. Deep in him he would groan. His face would bend. His lips would move over her dry eyelids.

  She would not stir. There were no words to speak for her. In the white cell of her room a rag doll would smile and loll against the wall. Through her nostrils now her breath would hiss. Music scores would dance through her mind. The oboe of flesh would play in her.

  “Pmniff!” Her breath explodes, mouth opens. He ravages her mouth, she struggles, squirms. His loins flash faster. Faint velvet squelch between their loins. Her cuntlips grip like a clam. He clamps her bottom, draws the cheeks apart. Mutinous still, her tongue retreats, unseeking to his seeking.

  The sperm boils. In the itching stem the lava rises. The bed rocks. Music of lust. There is dryness here in the love-lust dry. The curtains falter and wave. Her bottom is lifted, back arched. His pestle pounds.

  She receives. The squirting she receives—the long thin jets. Spatter-tingling of sperm. Their breath hush-rushes. Her arms lie limp. Long-leaping strands of wet. The oozy. Last jet of come. The dribbling. The last tremors. Bellies warm. A weakness, falling. The strong loins of his urging are paper now. Strengthless he lies, then moves from her.

  Her face is pallid. She awaits his going and rises. Her dress is straightened. A vague fussing of hair. Quiet as a wraith she descends.

  “You will have tea now, dear? You have had your lesson?” she is asked. She nods. Her knees tremble. A warm trickling between her thighs. The oboe, yes. The tall ship sailing.

  I emerged from my dreams. We were loosed and turned about, our bonds replaced. My bottom bulbed to the wall. I waited.

  NINE

  THERE was quiet again. The music ceased again. I had not liked it. Its feebleness irritated.

  The Lady Arabella was announced. I turned my head, though I could not see.

  “Let her enter and be brought here,” I heard my uncle say. There was a sound as if of a heavy table moving. Jenny's hands moved about my face. I knew the scent and taste of them. Her fingertip bobbled over my lower lip. The blindfold slipped down an inch beneath my eyes.

  “Look,” Jenny said. I saw the woman enter. Her coiffure was exquisite. A diamond choker, a swan neck. Her curves were elegant beneath a swathing white gown of satin flecked with red. The collar of her gown was raised slightly at the back, as one sees it in portraits of the Elizabethans. She wore a look of coldness and distance. Her lips were full, her nose long and straight. Her eyelids were shadowed in i
mitation of the early Egyptians.

  She made to step back as my uncle reached her. Her fingers were a glitterbed of jewels. Behind her entered a man of military look, impeccable in a black jacket and white trousers, as was the evening fashion then. I judged the years between them. She was the younger.

  “Not here. It is unseemly,” she said.

  Jenny covered my eyes. Did she then uncover Caroline's? I heard not a sound beside me.

  “No,” the woman said in answer to some muttered remark. There was movement past me. I felt it. As the air moves I felt. Hands touched my thighs, caressed. A finger traced the lips of my quim which pressed its outlines through the fine mesh of the tights. It was removed quickly, as if by another. I heard the jangling of bracelets.

  “Not here,” the woman said again. I felt her as if surrounded, jostled. They would not dare to jostle, but they had touched me. Was I an exhibit?

  “B . . . Beatrice. . . .” A croaking whisper from my sister. I ignored her. I heard her squeal. She always squeals. She was being fingered. Her bonds jangled. The girl with the oboe would be tight. The sperm would squirt in her thinly. Would she feel it?

  Jenny favoured me. Once more my blindfold slipped. The chandeliers danced their crystal diamonds. The Lady Arabella was moving forward. As if through water she moved. An older woman moved beside her, a hand cupping her elbow. The older woman wore a purple dress. Her vulgarity was obvious.

  “Arabella, my sweet, you will come to dinner tomorrow night? The Sandhursts are coming.” Her voice cooed.

  “I do not know. Perhaps, yes. I must look in my diary, of course.”

  Arabella's look was constrained, her lips set. Behind her, as I felt, the man who had escorted her in was nudging her bottom. It was of an ample size, though not too large by comparison with her stately curves. Her face turned to her escort as if pleading. He shook his head. I saw the table then. It had indeed been pushed forward. Upon its nearest edge was a large velvet cushion. Her long legs appeared to stiffen as she approached it. Her footsteps dragged. Her shoes were silver as I saw from the occasional peeping of her toes beneath the hem of her gown.

  Jenny covered my eyes again. I had not looked at Caroline. Her veins throbbed in mine. Her lips were my lips. We had been bound together naked. I had sipped her saliva.

  There were murmurings, whispers, protestations, retreats. The doors to the morning room opened and closed, re-opened and closed again.

  “It is private,” I heard my aunt say to others. The room was stiller. I heard a cry as from Arabella.

  “Lift her gown fully,” a voice said, “hold her arms.”

  “Not here. . . .” She seemed unable to say anything else. Not here, not here, not here, not here. A rustling sound. Slight creak of wood. A gasp. Plaintive.

  “Remove her drawers-.”

  “She was unseemly? Is she not betrothed to him?” It was my aunt's voice. To whom she spoke I knew not. I guessed it to be the escort. His voice was dry and thin.

  “Improper,” he replied. The word fell like the closing of a book. “Take them right off. Do not let her kick,” he said.

  “No! not the birch!” A wail from Arabella. The modulations of my aunt's voice and the military gentleman's amused me. They were tonally flat—courteous. Would he have her bound, my aunt asked. It was not necessary, he said, but her wrists should be held.

  I envisaged her bent over the table, the globe of her bottom gleaming. Her garters would be of white satin, flecked with red. The deep of her groove—the inrolling. Her breathing came to me, filtering its small waiting sobs. The dry rustling sound of a birch. I had never yet tasted the twigs. It was said that they should be softened first.

  “Not bound,” my aunt said. Her voice sounded almost regretful. “Hilda—you will hold her wrists tight. Stretch her arms out.”

  “Noooooo!”

  The long, sweet aristocratic cry came as the first swishing came. It sounded not as violently as I thought. I wanted to see. My mind groped, grappled for Jenny. Perhaps she had been sent with others to the morning room. Beside me Caroline uttered a small whimper. Did she fear the birch? She would not receive it. I would protect her. I ran through tunnels calling Father's name. Edward had used his stepmother's first name. She had permitted it. He had lain upon her.

  “Na! Naaaaah!” A further cry. Her sobbing rose like violins. A creaking of table. Beneath her raised gown, her underskirt, her chemise, the velvet cushion would press beneath her belly. There was comfort. I comforted myself with the comfort.

  The sounds went on. The birch swished gently but firmly as it seemed to me. First across one cheek then the other, no doubt. The bouncy hemispheres would redden and squirm. Streaks of heat. Was it like the strap? I did not like the stable. Did I like it?

  “Ask her now,” the man's voice came. There was whispering—a quavering cry. A negation. Refusal. “Three more,” he said, “her drawers were down when I caught them together.”

  My aunt tutted. The small dots of her tutting impinged across the sobs, the swishings. They flew like small birds across the room.

  “Whaaah! No-ooooh! Wha-aaaaah!” Arabella sobbed. I felt her sobs in my throat, globules of anguish swelling. They contracted, slithered down. There was quiet. Her tears would shine upon the polished wood of the table.

  “Ask her again.” The same voice, impassive, quiet. The sobs were unending.

  “Have you before?” my aunt asked. It was her garden voice, clear and enquiring. The lilt of a question mark that could not fail to invite.

  “Twice—but she resists. What does she say?” He asked as if to another.

  “I cannot hear. Arabella, you must speak, my dear, or take the birch again.” It was undoubtedly the voice of the woman holding her wrists. Who held the birch?

  “I c...c... let him!”

  I saw nods. Through my blindfold I saw nods. I envisaged. There was a shuffling. Wrists tighter held. A jerk of hips. The arrogant bottom out-thrust, burning.

  “No! not there! Ah! it is too big! Not there!”

  The floor drummed in my dreams. His penis extended, fleshpole, thickpole, entering. Smack-slap of flesh. The chandeliers glittering with their hundred candles.

  Her sobs died, died with their heaving groans. “N . . . n . . . n . . . n . . .” she stuttered from moment to moment. At every inward thrust the table creaked. Was she still being held? I needed voices, descriptions.

  “Work your bottom, Arabella! Thrust to him!”

  My aunt spoke. Their breathings flooded the room. I cannot. No—yes—oh do not. Do not gulping gasp. A last sob. Silence. “Have her dress,” my aunt said at last. “Hilda—see to her hair, bathe her face, she has been good. Have you not been good, Arabella?” A mumbling. Kissing. “So good,” my aunt said. Bodies moved, moved past us and were gone. The doors to the morning room were re-opened. A flooding of people, a flurry, voices. Enquiries. My aunt would not answer. The deeper voice of my uncle said occasionally, “I do not know.”

  My limbs ached, yet I was proud in my aching that I had not struggled. I was free in my proudness, my pride. We could speak but we had not spoken. Our minds whispered. We were wicked.

  A chink of light. Our blindfolds were removed. Caroline blinked more than I. She had not seen before. People stared at us more strangely now. They were of all ages. Eyes glowed at the bobbing of our breasts.

  “You must go to bed. A servant will bring you supper,” Jenny said.

  I moved carefully, cautiously—wanting to be touched, not wanting to be touched. My hips swayed. I thought of Arabella.

  As we reached the bottom of the stairs she began to descend. We waited. I wanted to be masked. Accompanying her was the older woman in purple. I knew then that it was she who had held her wrists. Their eyes passed across us unseeing.

  “And there will be a garden party—for the church, you know,” the woman in purple said.

  Arabella's eyes were clear, her voice soft and beautifully modulated.

  “Of course—I should
love to come,” she replied. They entered the drawing room together as we went up.

  “Did you see?” Caroline asked me the next morning.

  “There was nothing to see. People were making noises,” I replied. I wanted her to sense that I was more innocent than she.

  “Uncle felt my breasts,” she said.

  She looked pleased.

  TEN

  LIKE the mornings, the bright mornings, the sun-hazed mornings.

  It was so when we sat in the breakfast room that morning, Caroline and I. The chairs had been taken away save for hers and mine.

  “You will breakfast alone in future,” our aunt said. “Eat slowly, chew slowly. Have you bathed?” We nodded. Jenny passed the door and looked in at us. Her face held the expression of a sheet of paper. There was a riding crop in her hand. It smacked a small smacking sound against her thigh.

  The drawing room had looked immaculate as we passed—its doors wide open, announcing innocence. The walls against which we had been bound were covered with mirrors, paintings. Perhaps we had dreamed the night.

  There would be riding, Aunt Maude said. We were not to change. Our summer dresses would suffice. Katherine passed the window, walking on the flagstones at the edge of the lawn. She wore a long white dress that trailed on the ground. The neck was low and frilled. The melons of her breasts showed. Her straw hat was broad-brimmed. There were tiny flowers painted around the band. She carried a white parasol. Her servant walked behind her in a grey uniform.

  When we had eaten Jenny came again to the door and beckoned us. We followed her through the grounds and beyond the fence into the meadow. Frederick stood waiting, holding the reins of two fine chestnut horses. They were gifts to us, Jenny said. The leather of the new saddles was covered in blue velvet.

  We were told to mount. The servant looked away. He studied the elms on the high rise of the ground in the distance.

  “Swing your legs over the saddles. You will ride as men ride. No side-saddle,” Jenny told us. The breeze lifted my skirt, showing my bottom. We wore no drawers. I exposed my bush. Frederick had turned to hold the reins of both horses. The stallions stood like statues. The velvet was soft and warm between my thighs. The lips of my pussy spread upon it.