Jane Eyre (36 page)

 “Have you brought yourself off, miss?”

 “Sir?”

 “An orgasm. A relief. ‘
La petite mort
,’ as the French say.”

 “I am not entirely sure.” I stammered somewhat. “I think so. I believe so. In fact, I am quite certain of it.”

 “Then I suggest a comparison then, miss. I will not relent this eve unless you have one, and then you will tell me whether you have had the experience previously. Once I began speaking, you began thinking, and your cunny became less wet, by a measure. I want you to enjoy my touch. I will put a little moisture from my mouth on my fingers so there’s a bit more slickness.”

 I need not tell him anything; he knew it without my words.

 He slid his fingers over my vulva with the deftest of touches. He seemed to be everywhere at once! He pulled back the hood of my clitoris and touched the bud. He lingered there, and then he placed a finger gently inside my vagina. One of the pictures I’d witnessed had shown a man inserting a phallus from this position.

 After a few moments, I was slick with moisture of my own.

“Allow your body to move, Jane. Hold nothing back. But consider your hands—do not move them. I remind you, you are to think of yourself as tied to the bench, by my will. Unless you would rather I secure you with my cravat?”

 “No, sir!” Mr Rochester increased the tempo, moving faster across my quim, rubbing—not at all gently now—my clitoris. I cried out.

 “Reach for it,” he counselled. He put one finger in my vagina.

 Involuntarily, I began to move as he’d suggested. I met his gentle thrusts and found myself grinding my quim against his hand. I was shameless. I was wanton!

 “Take it, Jane.”

 My body all but shook.

 “Now!” he commanded.

 He smacked my left globe smartly!

 Tiny bits of light exploded behind my eyelids. “Mr Rochester!” I bucked and thrusted. I drank in huge gulps of air, even as I feared I would never again breathe properly.

 I shoved away from the bench and threw myself into his arms.

 How my master comforted me, telling me he was pleased, holding me, cradling my head. He held me thus for long minutes, until my legs could support me. “Never,” said I. “Never have I experienced that. Something significantly less, yes, but that—? No.”

 “Lovely, miss. Lovely, lovely.”

 Presently I sought to pull back a bit.

 “You released the bench, Miss Eyre.”

 “Sir? Surely you must realise in the throes of an orgasm I could not think about that.”

 “You were disobedient, miss. You will know my displeasure.”

 “That is singularly unfair, Mr Rochester.”

 “Did you know the rules, Miss Eyre?”

 I hesitated, but he waited patiently for the answer. We both knew I was incapable of a lie. “Yes,” I admitted.

 “And did you agree to abide by them?”

 “Not specifically, no.”

 “Miss Eyre, you verbally spar with me? By proceeding without protest, you agreed.”

 “You are right, sir.” I pushed against his chest. “Now that your meaning is clearly understood, I endeavour to do better next time.” 

 “You are not excused from this transgression.”

 “Sir?”

 “You’ve earned a punishment, miss. I deliver retribution quickly while the sin is fresh.”

 In an instant, he was seated, and I was upended across his knees. Air seemed torn from my chest by the speed with which he moved. With his athletic prowess, he effortlessly overpowered me. What I had moments ago pictured was now—impossibly—happening! He pressed one hand against my back. My legs he entrapped with one of his. I felt his clothing on my bare skin, and I was shockingly aware of the state of my partial nudity. There could be no doubt who was mastered, no matter that I said otherwise.

 “Touch your buttock, miss, and I will start your punishment again from one. Do you understand?”

I must not have answered quick enough to suit his needs for he delivered quite a smack to my buttocks! “Yes, sir, I understand, you beast!”

“Say you understand, master.”

Dutifully I repeated, “I understand, master.”

 “You have earned six spanks for being remiss. Do you accept them?”

 I understood so much in that moment. Every word he had spoken was truth. At any time, I was free to refuse to participate—even in my punishment. “I accept my punishment, sir.”

 “Very well. Count each aloud. And tell me what will make them start over.”

 “If I touch—touch my buttocks, sir.”

 “Why will that cause me to begin again?”

 “Because you gave an order that I am to follow. I have earned this spanking because I didn’t follow your earlier order.”

 “I appreciate your intelligence and your directness, Miss Eyre. Are you prepared?”

 I am not sure I ever will be,
thought I. Aloud, I said, “Yes, sir.”

 His first spank from his open hand was hardly felt at all. I was aware, however, how intimate this seemed. “One,” I said. This I could endure easily.

 His second caught the underneath of my buttocks. It was more difficult to accept. “Two.”

 “What a good little miss.”

 I was nearly half way there!

 The third made my buttock clench. “Three.” My teeth were gritted.

 The fourth took all my will not to reach back to rub at the insult. “Four.” I remembered.

 “Open your legs thus exposing your quim.”

 It took a few seconds to comply, so awkward was my position! He rewarded my effort with gentle teases that took my mind from the punishment.

 The fifth—unexpected and through my daze—made me cry out.

 “How many, miss?”

 “Five. Five, sir!”

 “How many more?”

 “One, sir.” I had made it! I had not yet reached back. I had endured. And sweet, sweet days, I was on the verge of another orgasm. I could feel the need gnawing at my insides, demanding a release. I tried to squeeze my thighs together to find relief.

 “You’re close to shattering, Jane?”

 “Indeed, sir! Help me achieve it.”

 “You are indeed a kindred folk. I will give it to you, but not as you suspect. Take a deep breath.”

 I did as instructed.

 Nothing could have prepared me for the searing blaze of pain that he delivered to my quim. I screamed, but I came apart.

 He kept me in position; he had excessive praise for my efforts, and he continued to minister—this time tenderly—to my enflamed quim.

 When I started to move, he helped me to sit up. Again, he unerringly seemed to know what to do to care for me. He held me close. “I want one thing perfectly understood, Miss Eyre. I will always see to your comfort. This spanking was not because you turned to me after your first orgasm, for I intended to gather you close.”

 And he had held me, I realised. He had held me until I was steady, just like he had this time. I nodded. “I understand, sir.”

 “Miss Eyre, you are a great delight.”

 I feared I was becoming further ensnared by his spell.

 He helped me to re-dress, and then he kissed my forehead tenderly. “You are no worse for the evening’s activities?”

 “All the better for them, sir.”

 “Avoid rubbing your bottom, miss. I want you to feel the ache as you go about your activities. Always, I want you thinking of me.”

 How could I do anything else?

“Bless me! There’s Dent and Lynn in the stables! Go in by the shrubbery, through that wicket,” he said.

As I went one way, he went another, but he looked over his shoulder. We shared a moment, he and I, and I heard him in the yard, saying cheerfully, “Mason got the start of you all this morning; he was gone before sunrise, I rose at four to see him off.”

 Chapter Twenty-One

Presentiments are strange things! And so are sympathies and so are signs and the three combined make one mystery to which humanity has not yet found the key. I never laughed at presentiments in my life, because I have had strange ones of my own. Sympathies, I believe, exist—for instance, between far-distant, long-absent, wholly estranged relatives asserting, notwithstanding their alienation, the unity of the source to which each traces his origin—whose workings baffle mortal comprehension. And signs, for aught we know, may be but the sympathies of Nature with man.

When I was a little girl, only six years old, I one night heard Bessie Leaven say to Martha Abbot that she had been dreaming about a little child and that to dream of children was a sure sign of trouble, either to one’s self or one’s kin. The saying might have worn out of my memory, had not a circumstance immediately followed which served indelibly to fix it there. The next day Bessie was sent for home to the deathbed of her little sister.

Of late I had often recalled this saying and this incident; for during the past week scarcely a night had gone over my couch that had not brought with it a dream of an infant, which I sometimes hushed in my arms, sometimes dandled on my knee, sometimes watched playing with daisies on a lawn, or again, dabbling its hands in running water. It was a wailing child this night, and a laughing one the next, now it nestled close to me, and now it ran from me, but whatever mood the apparition evinced, whatever aspect it wore, it failed not for seven successive nights to meet me the moment I entered the land of slumber.

I did not like this iteration of one idea—this strange recurrence of one image, and I grew nervous as bedtime approached and the hour of the vision drew near. It was from companionship with this baby-phantom I had been roused on that moonlight night when I heard the cry and it was on the afternoon of the day following I was summoned downstairs by a message that someone wanted me in Mrs Fairfax’s room. On repairing thither, I found a man waiting for me, having the appearance of a gentleman’s servant, he was dressed in deep mourning, and the hat he held in his hand was surrounded with a crape band.

“I daresay you hardly remember me, Miss,” he said, rising as I entered. “but my name is Leaven, I lived coachman with Mrs Reed when you were at Gateshead, eight or nine years since, and I live there still.”

“Oh, Robert! how do you do? I remember you very well, you used to give me a ride sometimes on Miss Georgiana’s bay pony. And how is Bessie? You are married to Bessie?”

“Yes, Miss, my wife is very hearty, thank you; she brought me another little one about two months since—we have three now—and both mother and child are thriving.”

“And are the family well at the house, Robert?”

“I am sorry I can’t give you better news of them, Miss, they are very badly at present—in great trouble.”

“I hope no one is dead,” I said, glancing at his black dress. He too looked down at the crape round his hat and replied—

“Mr John died yesterday was a week, at his chambers in London.”

“Mr John?”

“Yes.”

“And how does his mother bear it?”

“Why, you see, Miss Eyre, it is not a common mishap, his life has been very wild, these last three years he gave himself up to strange ways, and his death was shocking.”

“I heard from Bessie he was not doing well.”

“Doing well! He could not do worse, he ruined his health and his estate amongst the worst men and the worst women. He got into debt and into jail, his mother helped him out twice, but as soon as he was free he returned to his old companions and habits. His head was not strong, the knaves he lived amongst fooled him beyond anything I ever heard. He came down to Gateshead about three weeks ago and wanted missis to give up all to him. Missis refused, her means have long been much reduced by his extravagance; so he went back again, and the next news was that he was dead. How he died, God knows!—they say he killed himself.”

I was silent, the things were frightful. Robert Leaven resumed, “Missis had been out of health herself for some time, she had got very stout, but was not strong with it and the loss of money and fear of poverty were quite breaking her down. The information about Mr John’s death and the manner of it came too suddenly, it brought on a stroke. She was three days without speaking, but last Tuesday she seemed rather better, she appeared as if she wanted to say something, and kept making signs to my wife and mumbling. It was only yesterday morning, however, that Bessie understood she was pronouncing your name and at last she made out the words, ‘Bring Jane—fetch Jane Eyre, I want to speak to her.’ Bessie is not sure whether she is in her right mind, or means anything by the words, but she told Miss Reed and Miss Georgiana, and advised them to send for you. The young ladies put it off at first, but their mother grew so restless, and said, ‘Jane, Jane,’ so many times, that at last they consented. I left Gateshead yesterday, and if you can get ready, Miss, I should like to take you back with me early tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, Robert, I shall be ready, it seems to me that I ought to go.”

“I think so too, Miss. Bessie said she was sure you would not refuse, but I suppose you will have to ask leave before you can get off?”

“Yes and I will do it now,” and having directed him to the servants’ hall, and recommended him to the care of John’s wife, and the attentions of John himself, I went in search of Mr Rochester.

He was not in any of the lower rooms; he was not in the yard, the stables, or the grounds. I asked Mrs Fairfax if she had seen him;—yes, she believed he was playing billiards with Miss Ingram. To the billiard-room I hastened, the click of balls and the hum of voices resounded thence; Mr Rochester, Miss Ingram, the two Misses Eshton, and their admirers, were all busied in the game. It required some courage to disturb so interesting a party; my errand, however, was one I could not defer, so I approached the master where he stood at Miss Ingram’s side. She turned as I drew near, and looked at me haughtily, her eyes seemed to demand, “What can the creeping creature want now?” and when I said, in a low voice, “Mr Rochester,” she made a movement as if tempted to order me away. I remember her appearance at the moment—it was very graceful and very striking, she wore a morning robe of sky-blue crape; a gauzy azure scarf was twisted in her hair. She had been all animation with the game, and irritated pride did not lower the expression of her haughty lineaments.