BEATRICE

by AnonYMous

  “Why does she cry? We are a benediction,” my aunt said.

  “They are tears of wrath,” Jenny answered. She looked uncertain as if she had collected the wrong words together. She looked to Aunt Maude for refuge. My aunt frowned.

  “The spirit of NO is being driven from her,” she said. She motioned to my cage. The door was unlocked. I was led without as if I were going to communion. The bar received me. “Caress her first—she is the worthy one,” my aunt said.

  With my thighs together I was bent as slowly as a mechanism under test. I grasped the bar. My fingers lay upon the ghosts of Amanda's. Jenny's fingers felt for the pouting of my nest, the lovelips pursed. With her free hand she palmed the warm cheeks of my bottom. The upper crease of my slit into which her fingertip wormed, parted just sufficiently to allow her to love-tease my button. I murmured softly in my mind. Pleasure-travellers voyaged through my nerves. The cheeks of my bottom quivered to the urging in-thrust of Jenny's other forefinger.

  From the other side of the bar my aunt bent and fondled my breasts very gently as if she. were handling hothouse fruit. Her thumbs spoke to my nipples, whispered over them, erected them. Rigid cones on hillocks of snow.

  “It is enough—she holds the pose well,” Aunt Maude said.

  I knew the strap then—knew its bite. Jenny who wielded it permitted me to sway my hips, catching the left cheek as I swayed left—the right as I swayed right. I knew the humming sound in my head—the burgeoning of images, pictures, wickednesses. The heat was tempest to my flesh. I moaned in my undoing.

  Twelve? Did I count twelve? My knees sagged. I needed a mouth beneath my open mouth. Amanda was a wax statue in a cage. I parted my knees. The gesture was not unseen.

  “Come,” Jenny said. There was comprehension in her voice. My moist hand in her cool hand. Wriggling like a schoolgirl I was taken to a divan so narrow that when I lay upon it my legs slipped down on either side.

  “Heels firm on the floor—head back,” my aunt said. The heavy heat of my bottom weighed upon the black leather beneath.

  Jenny moved behind, took my arms and drew them far back above my head. She held me lightly, fearing no rebellion perhaps.

  From her sleeve my aunt drew a long white feather with a curving tip. It passed across my vision. My hips jerked.

  “No, Beatrice,” my aunt intoned. Her words were chiding, soft. The stinging in my bottom from the strap deepened and splurged. “Look at me, Beatrice. Peep your tongue between your lips. Just the tip.”

  My eyes were Aunt Maude's eyes. They knew countries of the past I had not visited. My tongue peeped. Amanda would lie on her bed at home. The veils of her undoing would be raised. The strap would rise and fall. The metal bands would become gold bands. The roseate hue of her bottom would dwell in his mornings, illuminate his evenings.

  “Good . . . so . . . remain . . . do not stir,” my aunt admonished me. The feather tickled and moved between my thighs. I bit my lip. My tongue retreated.

  My aunt was kind. She waited. A bubble of saliva floated from the re-emerging tip of my tongue. It dwelt on my lower lip. I sang in my throat and felt the twirling of the tip—the white heat of it around my button.

  Aunt Maude's eyes dared me to turn from hers. I held. Up, down, the feather teased. It entered me. My buttocks rose, fell, rose again. My eyes were saucers on and on. I writhed—-the ceiling in my vision swimming in its blankness. On and on.

  I broke the rules.

  “Na! Na Aaaaaah!” I choked.

  Starbursts in my belly. My bottom heaved, my heels chattered on the floor. I bucked, absorbing each long inflow of sensations. Starwheels of white heat spun around my clitoris. Out-shooting tendrils of fire swept my body. My tongue protruded. A quivering cry and I slumped, stilled, vacant in frustration. The empty skylights stared at me. A swallow passed across one. Here, now, gone.

  In a moment I crouched in my cage again. Amanda and I stared at one another like strangers who have too many questions to ask.

  TWELVE

  WERE they good today?” my uncle asked that evening.

  We were dressed once more in clinging dresses of the finest wool, our curves displayed. Our boots were thighboots. Stockings. Otherwise we were naked beneath.

  “They played in the garden. It was sweet to see them playing in the garden,” my aunt replied.

  Katherine was dressed in black—a high-necked dress. A pearl choker adorned her neck. Jenny was dressed identically. My aunt was less formal in an ordinary day gown. Amanda was absent. We sat formally.

  “You may talk,” Jenny told us.

  Caroline and I looked at one another. We had nothing to say. It was all in the looking. Her nipples peaked through the wool of her dress as did mine. Our globes were outlined. Katherine rose and played softly at the piano. We waited for dinner.

  Katherine smiled at us. “They do not talk very much,” she said.

  My aunt inclined her head. “No—they are lost in their dreams,” she replied. She clapped her hands. There was a tinkling, footsteps. It was Amanda. She bore a tray sparkling with glasses. A tiny white lace cap perched on the side of her glossed hair. The pale-pink of her breasts showed through a thin white blouse. The black maid's skirt that she wore had been shortened to show her thighs. With the swaying of its hem the metal rings showed, ringing her black stocking tops.

  Walking to my uncle first she bent and offered him a dry sherry. The skirt rose at her bending. Her naked bottom shone pale. No one spoke. When she came to Caroline and me a flush showed on her cheeks. I posted a small smile between her lips. My look was motherly.

  Jiggling her bottom cheeks self-consciously, she left. Our eyes were pasted on the half-moons of her bottom like mementoes of a journey.

  “She will train better here than at home,” Aunt Maude said. There was a nodding.

  “He will give you jewels,” Jenny said and pouted. There was laughter. I contained my own. Caroline's laugh was a small apology of nervousness. My uncle consulted his watch. There was the sound of carriage wheels beyond, a crunching of gravel. The housekeeper flurried to the door. It was Arabella. Her cloak removed in the hallway, she entered in a dull-red dress of silk with elaborate overlays of white lace about the neck. Her diamonds sent messages of light. Without a word she stepped daintily past our chairs like one who is uncertain where to sit. A glass of sherry waited at her elbow.

  “The days are good,” my aunt said and smiled at her, raising her glass. Caroline and I were as invisible. “You have passed the days well?” It was my uncle's voice.

  “There was hunting,” Arabella said. She looked faintly bored, as aristocrats often affect to do. Leaning back in her chair she crossed her legs with an audible swishing of silk. “Three girls—pretty and sprightly. They ran not far. We used the walls of the enclosures and the rose garden beyond. They squealed louder than rabbits upon being caught. We pinioned them and carried them within. There were pleasantries. The gentlemen mounted them in turn. They were common girls—field-girls given to such lusts, I believe. Of no account.”

  Rising, she opened her purse and took out a cigarette from a paper packet. It was not too new a habit then, but few women indulged in it in public. Her hands trembled slightly as she lit it from a candle. The aroma was Turkish.

  “You have not behaved. Have you behaved?” Aunt Maude asked her. “The reports have not been good.”

  The Lady Arabella's face was blurred through smoke. Did Caroline recognise her voice?

  “I did not want,” Arabella began. Then the gong for dinner sounded. We entered the dining room. Frederick and Amanda served us. Our glasses were refilled constantly. They were the finest wines. My uncle conversed with Aunt Maude and Katherine about the house, the grounds, the farm. There would be a new summerhouse, he said. I squeezed Caroline's thigh. She had the grace to blush. My aunt whispered with Arabella who occasionally shook her head.

  “I did not come for this. Will there not be an entertainment?” I heard her ask.

  “Y
ou know why you were sent again. Disobedience ill becomes you,” my aunt told her. Arabella glanced at us for the first time to see if we were listening. Our heads were bowed. We absorbed ourselves in lobster and Chateauneuf du Pape.

  “They were blindfolded before,” Arabella muttered.

  My aunt waved her hand. “It is of no account,” she said, “come, you must permit at least a little display.” Rising, she moved behind Arabella, bent over her and unbuttoned her dress at the front. I saw the purpose of its buttoning there. As the sides slid away her breasts were lifted out in all their splendour. Her nipples were rouged. Katherine slid her chair back and did the same to Caroline and I. Aunt Maude smiled, took her seat once more and brought a goblet of wine to Arabella's lips. Her throat worked as she drank.

  “So you must sit in future when you return—it is more seemly,” my aunt told her.

  Amanda entered. Frederick followed and cleared away our plates. He went out. In Amanda's hand was a silver jug.

  “You have brought the cream?” Katherine asked her. “It is warm?”

  Amanda nodded. There was bemusement in her face. A cloud of unknowing lay upon her features. Her lips were rouged, her eyes shadowed. She looked beautiful, I thought. At the flaring of her skirt as she passed I saw faint pink marks upon her bottom cheeks. The hem fell like a broken promise and then lifted again. She approached Katherine's side.

  “Not here—to the Lady Arabella,” Katherine said impatiently. My aunt's hands disappeared beneath the table at Arabella's side. Arabella's face suffused. Her body seemed to lift a little. There was a loud rustling of silk. Her skirt had been drawn up. Amanda's footsteps were quick, small and elegant as she moved around the long table to Arabella.

  She appeared to be learning quickly—in hope, no doubt, that she would be released. Would she run to the woods and hide? There would be a hunting. She would be trussed and taken home, her skirt wound upwards amid the tight cords.

  “Pour,” my aunt said. She appeared to grip Arabella's hand nearest to her own beneath the tablecloth.

  Arabella gave a start, her chair creaked. Amanda had bent and poured the warm, rich cream between the valley of her breasts, the deep divide. I wanted to rise and see its trickling—the white lava. I dared not.

  “Be still—it will flow down—let it flow,” my aunt told Arabella.

  A balloon of smoke from my uncle's cigar floated over the table. We were virginal in our sitting, Caroline and I. We looked and did not look.

  “Down, girl!” my aunt said to Amanda. Their eyes clashed like rapiers. The jug was empty. Its creaming oozed its last over the lip. Falteringly Amanda placed it on the table. Her knees bent. She disappeared. Beneath the polished table of oak I felt her. Her bottom nudged my toe. Arabella's eyes rolled, she leaned back. A soft gasp. I could feel her legs open, guided no doubt by my aunt's busy hands. The warm cream made a white trail down between her luscious breasts and disappeared beneath the looseness of her dress where Aunt Maude had slipped the tie at her waist.

  “You liked the horses?” It was my uncle's voice. He addressed me.

  “Yes, Uncle.” Caroline said yes uncle in turn. The wine bottles passed. Our glasses were refilled.

  “Let us be quiet for a moment,” my aunt admonished as if we had been chattering constantly.

  I wanted my boot to slide off to feel with my stockinged toes the bulge of Amanda's bottom as she knelt, her face most obviously now between Arabella's thighs. Tasting cream. Cream on her bush, her pouting, her sticky.

  Arabella gave a little jump. Her eyes half closed. “Drink your wine,” my aunt told her. The goblet was raised to her lips anew. Her lips slurped. Beneath my feet there came another slurping. Arabella bubbled and spluttered into her goblet.

  “Mounted but twice indeed since you visited,” my aunt said to her scoldingly. “Are you not bad, my love?”

  Arabella's eyes closed. She moved her lips away pettishly from the goblet. Wine spilled its fall on to her breasts. “P . . . p . . . p . . . p. . . .” Little explosions of sound from her mouth. Her hips worked, breasts jiggling. The slurping noise beneath the table increased.

  “Such ripeness—it is always pretty to see,” Katherine murmured. She emptied the rest of her wine into my uncle's glass. He drank upon it immediately. My aunt glared at her. Katherine smiled. For a moment I thought she would embrace me but instead she got up and passed around behind me to Caroline. Bending over her and drawing her face round, she covered Caroline's mouth with her own and passed her fingertips suavely about the snowy hillocks which stood revealed. I could feel the tingling in my mouth of my sister's nipples. Katherine's tongue delved. I could feel it delve.

  The feet of Arabella's chair were scraping. The chair rocked.

  “You are difficult, too, Caroline, are you not?” Katherine purred. Her mouth was a rose. Would I ever kiss her fully? She desired to make me jealous, I know. The sound of Amanda's lapping tongue was in my ears. Small noises of hysterical sound wisped from Arabella's lips. My aunt held her.

  “Look at me, Caroline—haven't you been difficult?” Katherine coaxed.

  “Yesssssss,” Caroline gritted. “Oh, but it was so big and..”

  “What nonsense she speaks,” my aunt laughed, “you have sucked it—I know you have. Amanda, rise, leave her!”

  A scuffling, Amanda appeared, face hot, lips wet. My uncle beckoned her. Her skirt, caught up, betrayed the wantonness of her bare bottom.

  “Your report was no better. Worse, indeed,” he told her. “Is it not true?”

  “Sir?” Amanda asked thickly. Her eyes were bleared, her expression slightly vacant. I expected him to draw her forward and fondle her bottom. To my surprise he did not. I thought of Father. He lay on the beach, perhaps, his cutlass limp, fallen. Pebbles stirred as people approached and stared down at him. He rested in his waiting.

  A murmuring beside me, a soft moist sound of lips. I hated Caroline. She was shy. She had sucked the liqueur of love—the sperm had inundated her mouth. She had lain on her bed naked, her thighs apart. Her nest had waited for his eggs to nestle against it. I would whip her.

  Arabella lay back against the high back of her chair. Her mouth was open, a look of languishing upon her face. I judged her about twenty-seven. Her hand wore no wedding ring. Her fingernails glistened, perfectly manicured. My aunt's hand worked gently beneath the table, between her thighs. Arabella's eyelashes fluttered.

  My uncle waved his cigar. “Take her upstairs,” he said to Katherine. Led out in docile tread, Caroline did not look back. Footsteps on the stairs. Katherine returned.

  “As to Amanda. . . .” Katherine said. Everyone waited for her to speak except perhaps Arabella who was floating still in a luxury of sensations. “Amanda, stand in the corner there facing us. How wicked you have been!”

  My aunt rang a bell. Frederick entered. He carried a small silver bucket wherein stood a wine bottle packed around with ice. Placing it on the table, he removed the bottle, wiped it with a napkin and left it there. The door closed again behind him. The cork of the bottle was round, black and polished.

  “Lift your skirts—part your legs,” Katherine ordered. My uncle did not turn to look. Amanda's eyes were lanterns. The black flaring of her bush. The curls looked thicker now. The creamy tint of her flat belly.

  “Wicked!” Katherine intoned. She took the bottle and moved to Amanda whose eyes hunted the ceiling. The neck of the bottle lowered and hovered beneath her pubic mound. It hung in a straight line down between her stockinged thighs. “Draw your legs together, Amanda—grip it!”

  A long hush-rushing sound like a sudden movement of water surged from Amanda's throat. Her eyes screwed up. Her long eyelashes trembled. Ice-cold, the bottle was gripped between her trembling thighs. Expressionless, Katherine placed her fingers delicately beneath the base of the bottle and urged it gently up.

  “Noooo—Aaaaah!” Amanda moaned. The black, round shiny cork parted her lovelips and was gripped within it.

  Katheri
ne drew down the tiny skirt.

  “Whooooo!” Amanda jittered. Her skirt hid all but the base of the bottle. Her teeth chattered. Small pearls of white. I want to run my teeth around them.

  “Finish the wine,” my uncle said. He rose—an avuncular host—and filled our glasses. Arabella's head had sunk. Her spirit moved through forests afar. The cream had long been lapped from her slit, her tight-purse, her nutcracker, her penis-pouter. Her bottom cheeks relaxed in their fullness, naked upon her seat.

  I dipped the tip of my tongue in my glass. It swam like a goldfish. I wanted to French-drink again. Was it forbidden? Arabella had opened her eyes and sat up. She seemed more composed. Her head inclined towards Aunt Maude's. Sitting beside me again, Katherine slid her hand on to my thigh and caressed it. I would not look at her. I cast my eyes down upon the tablecloth, the white, the serene.

  “Are we loved?” she asked me. My mind had already begun to catch at the comers of reason. Amanda stood in her aloneness. I did not reply. I wanted to catch the words my aunt was speaking. Of them all, the Lady Arabella intrigued me most. Her coming was totally voluntary, I felt. Her body held an arrogance of desire, unfulfilled until it was drawn forth by persuasion. Were we all the same? To what dark altars were we led? Darkness was strawberries—the sunlight cream.

  “It excites me—I fear it,” Arabella said,

  “The root of desire is fearing. When you were caught with your drawers down, did you not intend to be caught?”

  “I was dragged to my room,” Arabella muttered. Her voice contained a sulkiness of satisfaction.

  “And mounted admirably,” my aunt said dryly, “as you were here, after your bitching. You prefer to be bitched?”

  “Not always, but the strap . . . .”

  “It subdues you, yes, but you must not grow reliant upon it. Marriage will be no cure for you. It will dilute the very qualities that give you such attraction, my dear. I shall recommend that you are blindfolded in future. It will enclose such modesty as you have.”