When she was dismissed, she wept openly, which St John commented on favourably as a sign of true repentance. My heart went out to my beloved cousin. I knew only too well that a heavy caning on the palms is more difficult to bear than the equivalent on the buttocks. A woman’s hinds are well padded to absorb the blows, their sting being much concentrated in the surface and, furthermore, nature has so arranged our sensibilities, that we females can often mitigate our pain by translating it into more erotic sensations, when the seat of punishment is so close to our wombs.
Our soft hands on the contrary, are little padded, though full of nerve, and we are bruised easily, and reminded of it for days, when we inevitably, had to use our hands for the work of the house, from which, naturally, we are not excused. At Lowood I had known many a Great Girl, who had endured her buttocks beaten to the blood without a sound or a tear, reduced to a snivelling wretch by a dozen cuts of the cane shared between her two small hands.
Diana stood to one side, and Mary stepped forward to make her peace. She recited the formula of submission and confessed to a number of minor transgressions, mainly of omission rather than commission, but St John held her guilty too of a tendency to primp and powder, and take altogether too much pride in her dress. She was condemned to go barefoot the next three days, to wear no more than the penitents gown she had on this evening, and to be denied water or soap for washing, nor brush and comb for her hair.
“It will help your soul to health to be as nature intended without those arts of Eve that you use to prop up your pride, and flaunt before men.”
This was a particularly sore trial for the poor girl, for she had planned to go on a visit the next day, to visit her friend, Elizabeth Warton, whose brother had shown a lively interest in Mary’s charms. It was out of the question that she should appear before him in the condition to which St John had condemned her, I suspected indeed that he had had this in mind when devising her penance, and she would have to postpone her ‘fishing trip’ until a more auspicious occasion.
For her admitted faults she was awarded two cuts to each hand. She was not made of such stern stuff as Diana and, although she did not have to endure as many cuts, she cried openly after the first, and had to struggle to keep her hands out for the remaining strokes, sobbing and tearful at the end, her face wet and sticky, her chest heaving, and ‘six of the best’ yet to come. As she retired to the side of the room to await St John’s parting gift, I realised with a shock that it was my turn to step forward and receive my dues.
The others were used to submitting to St John’s discipline, and the manner of his treatment of them, by word and deed, but it was new to me. Not that I lacked any experience of submitting to a man’s will or accepting his punishments, such came easily to my nature, but St John had not treated me so before, neither had I witnessed my dear cousins undergoing their purgatory at his hands. Putting as brave a face on it as I might, I confessed to a number of small domestic faults, no more nor more culpable than the others. St John looked at me in sorrow and magisterial severity.
“I feel both sorrow and surprise that you do not feel guilt that you have not cast yourself as wholeheartedly as myself, into this preparation for my mission,” he declared. “I had believed that God would call you to this great work, and your failure to respond in appropriate fashion can only mean you are rejecting that call.”
Indeed, I had felt no such call, though St John had pressed me a number of times to declare it, but I had started to read the books he presented me with, to learn at least one of the languages of the Orient, and something of its peoples and their customs that it would be our sacred duty to change to those more worthy of Christians. It was not an awareness of God’s calling that drove me, but St John’s will, and my inability to do otherwise than submit when one stronger than I called on me to do so.
“Since your bosom is hardened against the Lord, it shall be my task to loosen it, your penance to endure it being whipped.”
I blanched at the sentence but, when he bade me lower my gown to my waist, and put my hands behind my neck, thrusting out my breasts before me, I obeyed with no hesitation, though my belly quaked and my knees trembled. The only mercy he extended me was to lay aside the rather brutal cane he had used on the delicate hands of my dear sisters in misfortune, and take up another, thinner, length. With this he commenced to cut my breasts. First the whippy length was brought down from on high to whistle into their soft top curves, sending a searing flash of pain through my whole upper body as it bit a narrow red groove in the white flesh, a groove that rapidly darkened and grew to a plum coloured cord, raised above the surface, throbbing atrociously as I awaited his next.
This time it came up from below to seize on the under sides, where the slight bulge below met the skin covering my ribs. Again it hurt atrociously, but I kept my hands behind my neck, though I writhed helplessly for a moment as the pain surged through me. The third stroke was aimed at my left breast only, or rather its turgid nipple, full of blood and quite erect from the emotions I was feeling. He caught the teat right at its base, almost cutting it from my pap.
I screamed at the dreadful assault, for the pain was intense, and of a strangely penetrating quality, as if it somehow ran directly from there into my belly, causing me to double up for an instant, before I forced myself to come upright again, although I knew it would be only to receive an even worse cut on my right nipple. When it came I screamed again. Once more my upper body twisted and shook but I gained control at last, and stood ready for whatever might befall, moaning at the throbbing ache in my poor dugs, their bruised and distorted tips, blackened by the vicious blows they had sustained.
“You have not felt this in your breast before, I believe,” St John remarked. “But now you know its power, consider whether you have a vocation in the East. Tonight you did but taste it. Deny your calling again, and you shall eat your fill.”
With that he laid aside the lighter rod, and took up the heaviest in his armoury, quite as deadly as that my Master used on me, or any at Lowood. I felt faint at the thought of it bruising my tender bosom, but he waved me aside. The rod was for other parts than breasts and teats.
Diana was first, as usual. Without needing to be instructed, she hoisted her skirts to her waist, revealing herself quite bare beneath, as were we all, the russet curls massed in her fork, white globes swelling behind. She leant forward, setting her fingers on her toes and letting go of the gown, which stayed resting on her hips above the roundness of her buttocks, these curving seductively into her thighs. The latter, being somewhat parted, revealed the full pouch of her sex beyond, the large lips I knew so well, dark and full, their surface stippled with tiny bumps like gooseflesh, though I did not think she was cold.
St John removed his jacket, the better to manage this heavy rod, so ripe for a woman’s well-fleshed buttocks, and came to stand a little behind her. He drew back his arm, then unleashed a whistler that sang as it flew, catching her low down, not in the succual crease itself, but only a little above it where the flesh was almost as tender. Diana’s body shook under the force of the blow, the weight of the rod, the power of his wrist, that had driven the last ounce of energy into the stroke, and she gasped.
It was a truly compelling cut, and my belly quaked, my nether cheeks clenched in anticipation, as I watched the track left, when the rod fell away after burrowing deep, fill with blood and thicken until a finger thick welt stood out above the white surface. St John repeated the stroke, a half inch lower, nearly in the crease now, an equal welt springing up alongside the first.
Poor Diana’s buttocks cringed in on one another, the cheeks seeming to take on a life of their own. St John growled at her to cease clenching, or get extra and she groaned as she tried to relax the cheeks. This was caning indeed, and I would taste it in my turn, nothing was more certain.
St John marched on, his strokes as steady as the tramp of armies and, when he had done, his victim no doubt felt as if a mounted horde had ridden over her, printi
ng her defenceless nates with their iron hooves. I do not think they would have bruised her more than those half dozen measured cuts. He dismissed her, to wait to one side until it was time for her final humiliation, and it was Mary’s turn.
She approached him looking white and frightened. I doubted not that I already looked the same. Again without instruction, she bared her buttocks and bent fully before him, her feet spaced apart to steady her, though the posture revealed her private purse through the gap at the top of her thighs. Where Diana had taken her strokes in silence, Mary screamed after only two, but she never lost her position, squirm though she might. When she was sent to join her sister her face was scarlet and tear streaked, and she walked with the curious stiff gait, that I had often seen after ‘duty’ canings, and had shown myself often enough, the bruises in ones buttocks, and especially the tops of ones thighs, stiffening rapidly and causing a twinge of pain with every movement, so that one instinctively tried to swivel ones haunches from the waist to advance ones feet, rather than swinging from the hip and thereby reawakening the ache in ones welts.
Now I must essay that brutal rod, and St John’s muscular attack, for myself. Learning from those who had endured before me, I lifted my skirts, the cool air making me all too conscious of my bareness and vulnerability, and reached my fingers to the floor. St John muttered his benediction, then struck. It was like fire, and quite as bad as any I had taken. I grunted indelicately with the first hurt, then hissed as I felt the welt rising on my buttock and the pain flowing into the riven flesh.
Again he struck, the laceration equally abominable, and I squirmed with the effort to contain the agony. Each stroke seemed harder than its fellow, until I feared for my ability to stay down and let the rod cut into me behind, but somehow I found the strength, though I was as tear-stained as either of the others when I finally rose, my chest heaving with sobs as I limped, stiff-legged, to stand with Diana and Mary.
They had each quite deliberately set their hands to the backs of their necks, as soon as they were allowed to rise, and still kept them there so, although I ached to set them to my screaming bottom and knead the ridged fatty mass to assuage the continuing hurt, for it was still rising a minute after the last stroke had fallen, I followed their lead, which seemed the custom of the house.
I had thought the proceedings done, but I was wrong. From a drawer St John produced a small carved box, which he laid on the table.
“Since it is well said, ‘frailty, thy name is woman’, it would be as well if you were to remove from yourselves the temptation to mitigate your sufferings, and nullify their efficacy by self indulgence tonight. Each will wear a pair of restraints until after breakfast tomorrow.”
I did not understand at first, but soon all was clear. Both girls had looked unhappy at his decision but advanced to the table and opened the box to reveal metal clips like small sugar tongs, though more strongly made, the bowls edged with small sharp teeth. Diana took out a pair, and raised her skirt again. With one hand she grasped the fat lips of her outer labia, pulling them out firmly, then set one clamp to grip them near their base. When the clamps had closed on the flesh, one could squeeze them further, increasing their grip, and springing the two halves until a catch caught, holding them tight clamped until the catch was released. When she had set the clamp at the base of her slit, she pulled out the lips at the top, above where that sweet button I loved to caress lay hidden, and set a second clamp there also. Now she was sealed quite, and could not touch herself, nor ask another for relief with finger or tongue. The pain was obviously severe, for she bit her lip, her mouth awry, and she walked back to her place with her legs parted like a goose.
Mary took her place, repeating the operation, but with much groaning and flinching, being made of less stoic matter than her sister. After her I stepped to the table, and found a third pair left in the box. I was to discover later that these had belonged to their mother. She had still attended the monthly ‘courts’, under their father’s jurisdiction then, when they had first come to womanhood, and joined the Sunday ritual, new clips had been obtained for the neophytes to compliment their mother’s. Now the originals devolved to me, and I accepted them with pride, and anguish, for I was very conscious that they had let me have these relics of their departed mother as a gesture of welcome, but they hurt terribly, even when the first bite had been numbed by time there was this underlying gnawing ache in ones most tender part.
I knew enough, too, to anticipate it would be agony when they were released in the morning. When I went back to my place my walk could only be described as a waddle, and St John spoke sharply to me, to maintain my posture and dignity.
After breakfast the following morning, we all three repaired to Diana’s room, to rid ourselves of the troublesome grips. We went eagerly enough, but our enthusiasm was tempered by the knowledge that we would have to subject ourselves to one last torment before we could be free. Each of us groaned and squealed as we released the catches and drew the clamps from out of our flesh, indeed poor Mary screamed enough to draw a word of reprimand from St John, who still sat at table with his book. When I came to release my own I found the teeth had dug so far into my flesh I had to pull them from the fat lip, each clip drawing from me a hissing whine as I fought to maintain some control and avoid the scream that bubbled in my throat, so intense was the pain as the blood returned to the starved tissue.
These ‘courts’ became a fixed feature of our life together, sometimes no more than a crisp caning for each of us, sometimes as severe as that first session, with a variety of ingenious punishments designed to fit the crime, at least in St John’s estimation, his word being law since he was the only man of the house.
But do not think this clouded our days at the Moors house. We were all grown women, accustomed, each in her own way, to accepting discipline and correction and, although we might become a trifle solemn on these Sundays and, at breakfast on the Monday, we were often far from the trio of chattering birds we resembled on other days, it was appropriate to the nature of the day, and the rest of the month was of almost unbroken happiness, especially for me, who had found loving sisters at last.
Some Girls Talking: Mary
We each had our duties, caring for the house and its head and, in my own case, helping him with his studies and studying in my turn, to be prepared for the mission to the Eastern heathen, but we girls were able to spend much precious time together, especially at night, when we would often forsake our own beds to gather together in one, talking and exchanging caresses deep into the night.
I told them much about my own history, concealing nothing save the true nature of my feelings for Mr Rochester, there being no reason to hold anything else back now my secret was out. I described my joys and sufferings at Lowood, and they replied with tales of their experiences as governesses in wealthy families in Bath. Each for her own reasons was happy to get away from her duties to these demanding employers.
Mary, always the weakest, had found much difficulty, from time to time, in restraining her charges’ high spirits. She had been responsible for the education of two sisters, and two female cousins who had been taken into the household, which was large and wealthy, including several sons, a little older than the girls, who were either under the care of a tutor or gone to University or the Army.
Her most recent trial, which had led to a very sore denouement, for her at least, had been occasioned by a chance remark of one of these young men. He had been discoursing on the noble art of boxing and, in particular, remarking on the new rules governing the sport, that had been promulgated by the Marquis of Queensbury, and almost universally adopted, banishing the old bare knuckle fights to clandestine meetings in fields, with look-outs to spot any ultra-zealous magistrate and his constables. Keen to impress his sisters and cousins with his hardy manliness, he had given it as his opinion that the new rules made it a sport only fit for girls.
The young females, like Paul’s Athenians ever seeking something new, seized upon the
idea, and nothing would suit them but to arrange a match between themselves as soon as maybe. All four hoydens having volunteered, lots had to be cast to settle who should fight whom, the winners to compete in a final. Thus far all was simple, and all other rules had been set out for them by the sporting Marquis, and they turned their attention to that most important and crucial of all the questions raised. What to wear?
Discrete enquiries of the young man elicited that, under the new rules, the boxers were clothed just as before; that is they were bare to the waist, below which they wore loose knee britches and stockings, with the lightest shoes they could afford, since this made their movements the more nimble. Unused to britches and, in any case, unwilling to sacrifice their femininity, the girls decided that the correct dress would be to wear long drawers, ribboned at the knee, with silk stockings and satin pumps, and so they appeared, their hair tied back with black ribbons, their chests bare in the accepted style, swelling breasts pouting, pink nipples standing proud.
It is probably not necessary to state that all this activity was arranged with the utmost discretion, since it was highly unlikely that the parents of these wild young women would have been anything other than horrified and incensed had they known of it in advance, forbidding it outright. They did however take Mary into their confidence, having considerable power over their easily led governess, and appointing her referee for the matches. She accepted reluctantly, and because she was, as usual, unable to stand out against their combined will.
On the evening appointed the contestants and the referee assembled in secret in a large upstairs room in a quiet wing of the great house, where they could be confident that no-one would be likely to surprise them. There was no official audience, but one of the cousins, infatuated with one of the sons of the house, had let her tongue run too loosely as she lay in his arms, relaxed from love-making, and there was a trio of watchers hidden behind the curtains that screened the deep window alcoves.
Jane and Her Master Page 15
