Notebooks of the Young Wife (13 page)

Robed and shod, and blessed with the light of a full moon, I padded down the staircase of the silent house and made my way through to the back. As I expected, the kitchen door was unlocked so I turned the handle carefully, eased it open and shut it quietly after me. A few paces took me onto a short path, dark under trees. Small gusts of wind were rustling the branches with their new foliage, and I was glad to emerge from the shadow into the clear space in front of a low-roofed building. It was bright enough to make out some hoes and a rake through dirty leaded glass, so I passed by the entrance next to it. Then came the curtained window of what could be a dwelling, and beyond it a door that stood invitingly ajar.

Visited by a touch of apprehension, I told myself there was no harm in simply taking a look, and pushed it wider. There was no sound as it swung back and I stood on the threshold waiting for my eyes to grow accustomed to the gloom. After a bit I became aware that to the left another door lay partly open, and I pushed at that one too before I could think better of the whole thing. It clunked against some obstacle, the noise painfully loud in the hush, and I held my breath, but there was no reaction. Now in front of me I saw against the far wall a bed,
the
bed I supposed, and it was empty. The covers were thrown back into an untidy heap that suggested a hasty leaving of it, and I advanced a few steps into the room...
and froze rigid
. It was one of those reactions where the alarm signal reaches the brain ahead of the information that triggered it, and for a fraction of a second there was only the panicked lurch of the heart. Then I knew that in the space behind the door, at my back, there was a figure standing.

‘Thought I’d pay a call.’ My voice rasped in a dry throat as I forced myself to remain still.

‘Heard you coming.’ He was right behind me, his breath on my neck. Then two hands reached round for the waist tie and the bathrobe was off my shoulders on the floor. He fondled my bottom and I thrust back at him, feeling his cock hard against my hip. We moved forward as one body and in the pale light I saw laying on a bedside table the leather paddle I’d used before. Only this time I handed it to him. I felt his eyes probing mine, though the face was in shadow against the lit window and I could read no expression in them. Then he took the instrument and I went forward onto my elbows. We were in his domain and I was going to submit.

He hit hard, with stinging smacks that made me catch my breath. He was thorough too, ranging up and down and from side to side until my whole arse was on fire. This was not punishment though, it was lovemaking, and I burned for him.

When done with the paddle he spread me wide, and scooping juice from my sopping cunt he fingered it into my anus with a firmness that made me gasp. I was ready for, no,
aching
for the act that, however consensual, carries with it a frisson of violation. The boy could be doing it with a boy: there was no need of one of my gender for the purpose of buggery. It could well be the case he would rather do it to one of his own, and perhaps it was desirable to him only to the degree that my female differentia could be passed over in the dim light and the heat of the moment.

But I didn’t care. Not then. For when he pressed the head of his cock into the ring of muscle it yielded, and it was as though from the top of my scalp to the tips of my toes every cell of my body shivered in a dark ecstasy. He fucked with a force that drove my thighs into the wood, and all the while his hands squeezed the flesh he’d paddled hot and sore. When the orgasm broke it came from deep inside, deeper even than the extent of his rough penetration. Once he pulled out I lay panting while the pounding of blood in my ears fell slowly away. When I hauled myself up the boy was nowhere in view, and I felt disinclined to search. A wave of tiredness hit me and I ached front and back. Suddenly I wanted out. At the door I steadied myself and summoned the energy to negotiate the short distance to the big house. Clouds had gathered in a freshening wind and I had to concentrate to follow the line of the path to the safety of the kitchen door. I was in and up the stairs in less time than it takes to tell it, and in seconds flat, in my own bed asleep.

Morning came too soon in the determined beeping of my pocket alarm, and when I heaved myself up to shut it off the pain made me cry out. What the mirror showed was a gaudy band of discoloration across the front that quite eclipsed the decorous hints of bruising left by the paddle at the back. I sat down on the bed, queasily unnerved by the bodily evidence of the night’s little expedition. To put it bluntly – and it seemed time for bluntness – what the fuck was I doing? It was one thing to offer up one’s arse to the rituals of the cane, but rather another to invite a buggering that mashed thighs into rough wood. The former was an exercise in endurance with its own rewards: painful, at best keenly so, yet methodical and controlled. The latter, on the contrary, was given over to the unrestrained violence of passion, and the thought of it made me shiver. I had revelled in such treatment from a lad half my age when I ought to know better. That is, the grown woman who took pride in the exploitation of the male organ for her own purposes,
she
ought to know better. Or could it be that that persona was beginning to slip?

I shook a head that ached from too little sleep and tried to put the unsettling thought aside. Groping about amongst three days’ worth of discarded garments for something to put on I came up with some loose cotton trousers and a clean shirt, in a suitably sober black. Molly’s appointment with the pickled rods was in half an hour, and an alert savouring of the event was going to require a cup or two of good strong coffee. In the kitchen I found a Mrs Beaton willing to oblige me in view of the occasion, and though it was late for breakfast and early for elevenses, she had the machine hissing in short order.

‘None of my business of course, Dr Greene, but would I be right in thinking you have an eye for the girl’s charms? The one, I mean, who is booked to bare all on the block this morning.’ I looked sideways at her, but she seemed engrossed in the progress of the brew dripping into the jug. Flesh of belly and thigh pressed to the raised surface while the birched behind burned and stung: it was a deeply lascivious image. Was Cook expecting me to bare my soul in a declaration of passion for the young maid? I hesitated, and she carried on.

‘I don’t mean to be impertinent, only she’s had an unfortunate do with that groom, and with the changes that are bound to come with the new Master... oh dear. What I’m trying to say is that to have an older, that is, a more
mature
woman, looking out for her might be so much more suitable. And I know that she, um, likes women, if you take my meaning—’

‘Mrs Beaton, I’m afraid you are a little late as a matchmaker.’ I rescued the estimable lady with a chuckle and watched as realisation dawned. ‘But I’m going to risk your disapproval by confessing that she is not the only object of my affections. Even here in this house. You will think ill of me.’

‘If you mean the boy, Dr Greene, I did get the impression he had set his cap at you. But where’s the harm, I always say, in one of each kind? Rounds things out rather well, to my way of thinking.’ And if we add in a black mechanic to the equation...? Out of pure mischief I might just have voiced the thought had not the door swung open. Molly came in and flopped down on a stool, putting an end to our little seminar on the ground rules of sexual relationships.

‘I don’t reckon that’ll do a lot for me,’ she said, tilting her head at the coffee maker, ‘but laced with a drop of your special brandy, Cook, it might be just the ticket.’ Without a word Mrs Beaton reached up to a cupboard over the sink, took down a green glass bottle with a faded label and pulled out the cork. I half-filled a mug from the machine and held it out to receive a generous measure.

‘There you go, my dear. Now sip away at that and enjoy your seat while you can.’ The girl looked up at the clock and made a face; in only ten minutes’ time she would be arrayed facedown in the Great Hall at the Housekeeper’s pleasure. On the way there in the dim corridor I was moved to express my feelings.

‘Think how wickedly sexy that bum is going to look,’ I said into Molly’s ear.

‘You’re a beast, Jane.’ But she wiggled against my hand under the short smock and I took the chance to delve deeper.

‘Don’t exaggerate, sweetie. A few grazes will give me the excuse to get in close with the lotion. Not, I have to confess, that I need much of one.’ When we kissed I got my tongue in but the adorable creature pulled away with a giggle.

‘Come on now, or we’ll be late and the old cow will be reaching for the extra one before she’s done.’

However, there was no need to worry. When we entered the Hall was empty except for the block that stood in front of a fireplace, closed off by an ornate screen the colour of pewter. Sunlight streamed across the polished floor from the east windows, and gave the whole a feel of airy space under the dark wood of the ceiling. The progress of the whipping would be well lit and the arrival of Mrs Jencks set me tingling in anticipation.

I’d already decided against tackling the woman about her part in the removal of the Notebooks; Tamsin could do that better at the weekend. As for Molly’s being unjustly punished for putting me on the scent, it was her will to submit in the uncertain climate attending the arrival of a new head of house. To complain could only make matters worse and, besides, as I made no pretence of disguising – to her or to myself – I was going to revel in the spectacle of the pretty young maid being soundly birched.

So I added nothing to the curt exchange of greetings, and while the black-clad figure examined the three instruments soaking in their tub, busied myself with fastening the girl’s knees to the cushioned step and tucking the clothing well up into her back. Apart from the raised top padded out to a shallow dome, the device was the shape of a cube constructed out of thick oak planks, whose corner joints had been executed with the precision of a fine cabinetmaker. Plainly built to last, it prompted me to think of the succession of naked arses that would have graced its surface over the years. If it dated from as recently as the nineteenth century they had still to be numbered in the hundreds, and unless the thing had fallen out of favour for prolonged periods, one would need to add another zero yet to reach a probable figure. And imagine their variety: from the huge and spreading to the positively scrawny, from the almost eager upthrust moon to the sullen slab of blotched meat. Every stage in between and all combinations of properties of flesh swam before my mind’s eye in a delirious parade.

Though no doubt it was the case that possession of a winsome pair of cheeks made the owner more liable to find herself close-quartered to the heavy wood, in past ages as in the present. Indeed, as on that very day. I came out of my brown study to detect a decided glint in the Housekeeper’s eye as she advanced on Molly’s ripe buttocks with her slim bundle of wet switches firmly in hand. At that moment the boy appeared out of nowhere at my side and without a word we took each an arm and pulled the unresisting figure forward. I gave silent thanks for his timing that had pre-empted the need for any other action. Perhaps he was feeling awkward too, after our intense encounter in the night, perhaps not. Either way, I was able to focus on the matter at hand.

Which was as well, for from the very first cuts the initially compliant maid began to fight us. At each hissing stroke the fine red lines spread and darkened in a manner that made me glad it was not my bottom being so treated. Certainly, Mrs Jencks was working with a fiendish energy, and it seemed an answering devil in Molly had decided that she was not going quietly. So, feet against the base of the block we heaved to keep the protesting figure in place, for all the world as if we belonged to a tug-of-war team, and a hard-pressed one at that. Hard-pressed, but not losing: it was the other side ordained to take a drubbing and I was determined to see it through. So when the second dripping birch lashed into raw, contorting buttocks, we dug in our heels and hung on until the yells died into gasps and the chastiser at last tossed aside the ruined instrument.

I undid the leg fastenings with relief, and the would-be refusenik was hauled to her feet and marched to the antechamber. She was panting and so were we; the boy’s face was flushed with the exertion of the previous few minutes and I felt the shirt sticking to my back with sweat. I put on the crossest face I could muster and wagged a reproving finger.

‘I have never been made to work so hard,
ever
, in the cause of a whipped bottom. When you are over this, girl, I’m going to find a horse and tie you to it so tight the pips will squeak. Then you’ll find out what a good hiding really is.’

‘Jane, please, it stings
so
...’ The victim sniffed and a tear rolled down. Then she made a
moue
that kicked me straight in the groin and I just couldn’t keep up the act. Muttering soothing noises I spread Molly over the table and signalled the boy to bring the bowl of water left ready. Carefully I sponged away the irritant residue of brine and vinegar then hunkered down for an examination. I had to own that they were the sorest-looking bottom cheeks I could recall seeing for a long time. Though lacking the vivid welts a sound caning would have inscribed, their condition was nonetheless a testament to the punitive power of the rod in the right hands. That day’s determined application left flesh raw from a myriad tiny cuts over bruised mounds that seemed to glow with an inner angry throb. It rather put into the shade the results of my own twiggy encounter at the beginning of the week; while Cook had the muscle to do real damage she lacked the vindictiveness that plainly powered the Housekeeper’s arm.