Jane Eyre (47 page)

 “What did I tell you to do, Miss Eyre?”

 Through my tears and tangled hair, I managed, “To—to keep my hands behind my back, sir!”

 “Indeed, naughty miss. Part your thighs this instant.”

 I did and Mr Rochester stroked my quim. I gasped. My cunny was damp from his roughness.

 “I wonder if your misbehaviour is intentional?”

 My denial was as swift as it was untrue, “No, sir!” The spanking hurt; my breasts ached, I wanted more.

 He pulled back the hood of my clitoris and pressed against the hardened bud. Shamelessly I thrashed about! I felt the crest begin to claw at me. Mr Rochester—how clever he was!  Surely he knew it, too, for he ceased his ministrations.

 I kicked my legs in frustration.

 “You’ve much to learn, miss. Comport yourself with grace, if you please.”

 As was my hope, he blistered my behind again.

 With soothing sounds, he rubbed the sore spots. He did not allow me release. I began to rue my decisions. The force of his hand on my bare skin had served to heighten my desire.

 By the time he set me from him, my insides were a knot of need.

 Mr Rochester had much to learn as well. If he thought he could force me to behave when a spanking was the punishment!

 “Kneel for me—my sweet submissive Jane—in the position I prefer, your thighs as far apart as you can manage. When I instruct you to kneel thus, I wish you to have your eyes downcast, your hands on your thighs with the palms facing upwards.”

In contrast to the sharpness of his tone, his touch was solicitous as he helped me into position. He knew what his attentions had done to me. I feared I no longer even knew my own name.

 Obediently, I moved myself into position. My motions seemed rather awkward, my master seemed not to notice; rather, he seemed enchanted.

 “Lovely, indeed,” approved he. “Now, I shall give you instructions, and I wish you to follow them implicitly!”

 “Yes, sir,” I said without looking up. A moment ago, he had compelled me to look at him; that had been difficult enough. But now I wanted to cast my eyes on him to read his intentions, but his instructions had been clear. When I knelt in front of him, I had to look downwards. No matter his objective, I seemed to naturally want to do something else.

Despite the heat of my body, a chill chased through me. How this man excited me.

 “I shall leave the room momentarily to fetch a few items. You are to remain precisely as you are, no matter how long I am gone. You are not to touch your needy quim. Await my pleasure, Jane. Your reward will be worth the temporary denial. Have I said anything that is unclear?”

 Without looking up, I responded, “No, sir.”

 He spoke not another word. I was aware of the sounds of him throwing back the bolt, opening the door and then closing it again.

 With his absence, I noticed the raging storm. How appropriate that the weather matched the turmoil inside me.

 He assuredly knew the difficulty I would have remaining like this. Lightning sizzled; the candles flickered; my body began to chill; the wooden floors caused my knees to ache. I remained in position, yielding to his will.

 The very act of compliance heightened my need. How would he ever notice if I disobeyed him by rubbing myself and taking just a small amount of satisfaction?

 I glanced at the door, my first act of defiance.

 I moved my hand towards my womanhood, my second act of defiance.

 I thrust my hips forward a few times, reaching for satisfaction—

 The doorknob seemed to turn; was it my imagination, I wondered.

 My pulse reaching a crescendo to match the rain, I returned my hands to my thighs and quickly glanced back at the floor. I schooled my breaths. I could follow my master’s command for the duration of his absence. I was certain of it. I was Jane Eyre, the highly disciplined governess.

 I waited; nothing happened.

 At times I scolded little Adèle for allowing her imagination to take flight. How easily mine did the same, seeing things that had not happened.

 Suddenly the door burst inward. I gasped but stayed in position. I trembled from fear and anticipation.

 Above the ferocious wind, I heard the bolt slide into place. But Mr Rochester—if it was indeed he—did not speak.

 My senses were attuned. I did not hear a footfall. Then suddenly, a hand was in my hair, and my head was pulled back. I cried out.

 “Did you touch yourself, Miss Eyre?”

 My breath rushed out in a shudder. I met his eyes.

 “I asked you a question!”

 “Sir!” How fierce he looked! It was as if he could see the truth without me voicing it.

 He released my hair and walked in front of me.

 I resumed his preferred position.

 He crouched in front of me. I could see nothing of him.

 “Offer me your hands, Miss Eyre. Both of them.”

Fear like I had never known seemed to freeze me. “My—my hands, sir?”

 “Do not try my patience.”

 My first reaction—as always—was defiance. He had taught me that would not be tolerated. Grateful to be looking at the floor, I raised my hands.

 He sucked the fingertips of his left hand, then he released my hand. Was he deliberately drawing out the torture?

 I swallowed deeply.

 He accepted my right hand and likewise sucked the fingertips.

 For moments which seemed to pass on leaden wings, he remained silent.

“As I thought,” said he eventually, his voice deep, dark and threatening. “I can taste your juices. Disobedient to the end.”

 “Sir! Your attentions have so overwhelmed—”

 “Enough!”

 I fell into mutinous silence. I was unrepentant.

 “I intended—upon my return—to pleasure you until you screamed out my name. Now, miss, you shall be denied. It is not a beating that you will receive, it is something far, far worse.”

 He knew I would rather submit to a thrashing than whatever else he had in mind for me!

 “Remain as you are. I have brought little clamps for your teats. I suggest that you take a deep breath before I place each.”

 Mr Rochester took my left breast. I expected a hard grip, but he ensnared me with much gentleness. He caressed me; he coaxed my nipple to a nub. I felt my body sway with surrender. Even though I had relieved my pressure while he was gone, the feelings began to build again.

 “Ah, beautiful.” His bass rumbled quietly and approvingly. It was as if he had forgiven my transgression. The mercurial nature he was endowed with! Constantly he kept me guessing. My future would not be dull!

 He pinched me, lightly at first, then harder and harder, moment by moment. I wanted to cry out from the rapture.

 He leant down and drew the tip into his mouth. Then he let me go and released a clamp onto the elongated tip. I cried out but not from pleasure.

 He repeated the process on the other side, starting with the barest of touches. The contrast between that and the searing sensation on my other nipple made me sway.

 “Deep breath, miss!”

 I followed his advice. I squeezed my eyes shut and gritted my teeth as I waited for the immediate rush of pain to recede.

 “So beautiful,” said he.

 He remained there, standing above me silently while I struggled through the emotional upheaval.

 “That is not meant as punishment, my bride in waiting.”

 “Indeed that is what it feels like, sir.”

 “Give it a moment.”

 I waited. And I discovered he was correct. As the seconds ticked by, I felt my quim begin to moisten again. “Sir—?”

 “Put your hands behind your back.”

 He secured my wrists with a thin strip of leather. I tested the restraint and found I could not disentangle my hands.

 “I will ensure you don’t steal pleasure that is my due. You shall come from my touch, Miss Eyre, not your own.”

 My master shocked me by lying on the floor and then by moving so that his head was beneath my kneeling form.

 “Balance may be difficult for you, but fear not, insatiable wench. I shall guide your movements.”

 “I fear I am completely puzzled, sir.”

 “Lower your person.”

 “Sir?”

 “You shall ride my face, miss.”

 He asked the impossible! Though he had introduced me to many delights, this was beyond. “I cannot, master.”

 “Indeed you will.”

 My muscles seemed paralysed until he seized a tender bit of flesh on the inside of my thigh. I jerked and gasped. He seized the advantage, reaching up to grab my hips. He pulled me down and my quim was on his face!

 With my arms immobilised, I could not balance myself. Even though I was on top of him, he had complete control. I was aware of the direness of my predicament. My nipples were viciously clamped, my hands were tied, and my master lovingly debased me.

 I spread my legs farther apart in order to stabilise.

 “That’s it, Jane. Do not fight me.”

 He gave me no peace. He licked me and sucked me. When the tension became unbearable, he would change his tactics and prevent my release. Helpless, I began to rhythmically move. I moaned. “Please, sir,” said I, “I need—”

 “Nay.”

 With me given over to his will, he moved, he placed one hand on my abdomen to prevent forward movement while he eased a finger into my tightest hole.

 I tried to mute my reaction so he didn’t know how close I was to coming apart. Confound him, he knew!

 “And that is how a recalcitrant submissive may effectively be punished.”

 How right he was! My legs quivered.

“Kneel up!” He pushed me up and away from him—I had no power of my own to move without assistance. He kept his hands on me until I was steady—or as steady as I could be.

 No matter how overbearing Mr Rochester was, he was always solicitous. He handled me with great care. His pain was carefully calculated to bring me only satisfaction. How could I ever settle for another?

 
He stood and then used his hands to bring me to my feet.

 He placed his hands on my shoulders and drew me towards him. He kissed me, and I was shocked to taste myself on his mouth! No wonder he had been able to tell that I had brought myself pleasure.

 The movements heightened the pressure on my nipples. I knew I should go mad from the thrumming need.

 Hoping he would relent in his determination to prevent my completion, I hastened into the position he had taught me.

 He nodded, silently noting my actions. “I shall untie you, miss. Then you will crawl to the bed.”

 Did this man lie awake at night to devise ways to surprise me? “Crawl?”

 “Miss Eyre, surely by now you realise I do not repeat myself.”

 “How fearsome you sound!”

 “Are you frightened?”

 “Should I be?” countered I.

 “A bit of fear keeps the opposite sex rather more docile.”

 “Then clearly I fear not.”

 “Jane, Jane, whatever shall I do with you?”

 “May I make a suggestion, sir?”

 The lightning flashed again. I saw—despite his efforts to hide it—that my master smiled.

 He untied my hands. He took my wrists and rubbed them. “Thank you sir, for your tenderness.”

 “Seeing after you suits me, Miss Eyre.”

 I received but a moment respite before he reminded me, “To the bed, if you will.”

 “The clamps, sir?”

 “The look lovely, miss. They can remain in place a bit longer.”

 He did not offer his assistance as I lowered myself to the floor.

 This was terribly uncomfortable for me. The clamps swayed with each motion. I was still aware of him watching my nude form.

 “I may never allow you to walk again,” he said, his normally well-modulated bass thick with emotion. “Lie on your back.”

 My nipples ached, making me aware of my femininity.

 “Arms above your head,” he instructed.

 “Am I to be bound again, sir?”

 “A reminder, miss, to keep your hands where I instruct them to be. My will shall supersede your own.”

 “I wish to have my arms around you, sir.”

 “I should like that myself, Janet. Your lesson is more important than what I want.”

 “My lesson has been learned, I avow.”

 “That decision is mine.”

 Ferociously I scowled.

 He left me for a bit when he returned, I saw in his hand the massive phallus. Protested I, “You can’t mean—”

 “I can, and I do, Miss Eyre.”

 Before I knew what he was about, my master had placed the phallus where I could see it. Then he secured my legs. I was bound at his mercy.

 My excitement had diminished slightly, and he ascertained that with a gentle touch to my quim.

 He nodded and leaned in to lick my cunny. Reaching up, he squeezed my breasts. I arched my back, once again filled with need. Mr Rochester put his tongue inside me. Never had a woman been more tortured than I! “Cease, by all that is holy, cease!”

 “How many more times will you touch yourself when forbidden to do so?”

 “Never!”

 He laughed. I had never heard anything more false and diabolical. My master was not done with me!

 He oiled the phallus. As if enchanted, I could not look away. He stroked the length, up and down, up and down. “I wish to see you do that to your member, sir.”

 “You will, in a moment.”

 He knelt next to me and pressed the tip of the phallus to my entry. I gasped, and he began the assault on my senses. I felt stretched past anything bearable!

 “Don’t fight. I shall triumph, my darling Jane. You are bound, and I am much bigger and stronger. What, you have no argument?”

 I did not.

 He went in slightly then back out. He repeated the movement again and again, forcing the rigid pole a little farther with each stroke. His other hand seemed to be everywhere at once. He toyed with my clitoris, he jangled the clamps, he squeezed each breast in turn. I tossed my head to and fro, and my body responded to him as if I had known him a dozen lifetimes.

 Relentlessly he moved the wooden pole in and out of me. I moved with his thrusts. “Sir!”

 “How perfect your responses are.”

 “May I now release, sir?”

 “Denied.”