The Observations of a Curious Governess Page 8

  My breath caught in surprise as his hands went to my skirts, and slowly began to reveal my sodden, wrinkled stockings, venturing higher to my thighs.

  ‘The ant bites …’ he murmured and lowered his head. His lips met the cool flesh of my thighs like a brand. They were so hot I cried out, yet he continued his kissings, moving higher and higher still. I could feel the cool air on the curling hair of my sex, and heard Mr Reeves’ sharp intake of breath. Suddenly nervous, I looked down the length of my body, to see Mr Reeves gazing at the thick dark hair that curled there.

  Did I displease him? I had a moment to wonder. I needn’t have feared. His eyes were heavy with lust, and with his hands he urged my thighs apart so that he may get a better vantage of that most sinful place. I imagined how my quim must look to him – swollen inner lips partially obscured by dark curls, dew seeping.

  ‘Martha …’ he whispered, and Heavens be praised, he brought his hot mouth to my most secret place.

  My sex must have been chilled from our plunge into the lake, but his mouth was like a furnace and soon had me eagerly spreading my thighs further, goading him, willing him to continue thus. His tongue flickered over that sensitive nub a moment or two, and I felt my womb tighten. ‘Oh!’ I sobbed, and writhed. His hands stilled my motions as he thrust his tongue into the opening of my sex. I think I reached the Elysium Fields of pleasure at that moment. He thrust again, before flickering his tongue over my nub and suckling on those secret lips.

  ‘Oh, my,’ I cried again, thrusting my hips closer. I closed my eyes tightly so that I may experience the sensations more keenly – without the distraction of the flickering leaves and hum of insects. He suckled at my sex again and my body heated in response. I lay there on the cusp of a bright, white pleasure. Again he flickered past that sweet spot and thrust forwards again with his tongue and my body could stand it no longer. I think I gave a high keening shriek and my body convulsed with pleasure that radiated from between my legs and sparked its way to my head.

  A moment later, I became aware of a nudging betwixt my thighs. I opened my eyes to find Jonathan above me, his face a mask of concentration.

  ‘Martha?’ he asked. Was he asking for permission? I wondered.

  ‘Yes,’ I breathed, I wanted him there – to force the gates of my sex apart and find his own ease with me. He had given me a pleasure beyond worldly experience. He was an angel of carnality and I wanted him as sated and as pleased as I now found myself.

  ‘It may hurt,’ he whispered and I felt him nudge the apex of my thighs. ‘Even though you have reached your own pleasure, I cannot be certain my entrance will not cause pain. I…’

  ‘Ant bites cause pain,’ I replied, ‘You could never cause me pain, Jonathan. You have given me so much pleasure, I cannot believe your entrance shall be anything else.’

  How wrong I was.

  He took my admission as consent and with glazed eyes he thrust forward. I felt him hit my maidenhood and with a sharp rip he forced his way through.

  ‘Oh, Lord,’ he groaned and lunged further forth until he must have been consumed by my sex completely. I froze beneath him. My quim hurt – yes, it did – but something else thrummed alongside the pain and surprise.

  He withdrew again, and I was suddenly empty. That emptiness instantly flared a need to filled once more. I relaxed, and awaited his next impalement. Swiftly and smoothly he forced forward again. There was no ripping pain on this thrust. No, though it stung, I found the pain tolerable, and this time vaguely thrilling. Instantly he withdrew again, only to plunge back in.

  It was extraordinary! This was what women yearned for. This was why women shamed themselves with men. It was to feel that heady fullness of a man betwixt their thighs! The tightness, the sensation of being stretched then emptied over and over again. It was as intensely addictive as I assumed it would be. Within a moment I lost myself to the sensation of fullness and emptiness, accompanied, not at all poorly, by the sharp remnant twinges of my maidenhood. I found I could no longer think cogently. I became nothing. My world became that place between my legs. Jonathan verily plundered my quim, plunging forth and withdrawing with a surprising brutality for a man I had always considered so gentle.

  Perhaps brutal is the wrong word, forceful perhaps. Within a moment he battered forth a few more times, harder than those proceeding. His coarse nether hair met my flesh and ground against my sweet spot. The intense confluence of sensation that particular gesture evoked made me cry out his name. My world erupted once more and I ground against him like a mad thing. It was only after the last shimmering stars of my crisis faded I realised that Jonathan lay atop me, his thick manhood locked in my sex and pumping its last.

  ****

  We lay there a time, not moving or otherwise interrupting the pleasant stillness in which we found ourselves. Perhaps it is unsurprising that Mr Reeves was the first to stir; his softening staff slipped from betwixt my legs and he groaned.

  ‘Oh Martha, what a wicked thing I have done to you,’ he moaned.

  I felt a little cross at his self-flagellation. ‘Wicked? But no, Jonathan. How could such a beautiful intercourse between two people be wicked? Such pleasure surely must be Heaven-sent.’

  He looked at me, and then down to his phallus, which rested slightly turgid upon his thigh. It glistened with my virgin’s blood and dew in the dappled light of the glade, one last pearly drop of his seed shimmering on its ruddy head.

  I daresay I’d never seen such a thing so erotic as that; a spent phallus. A phallus spent within me – something I never thought to experience and which yet had come to pass.

  ‘Was it terribly painful?’ he asked, noticing my gaze and tucking his manhood discretely from my view.

  ‘Indeed, no. I should very much like to analyse my thoughts on the matter, but it seemed the pain enhanced my pleasure, if such a thing could be said.’

  He looked at me quite perplexedly.

  ‘Oh, Mr Reeves, what a devil you must think me,’ I said, and smoothed my skirts modestly.

  ‘You have ever been curious, I grant you. Though I had not thought your curiosity would ever take us to this pass.’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’ I agreed. ‘But I must tell you, Jonathan. There is not a man I would have sated my curiosity upon but you. Since your appearance at Stanton, it has plagued my thoughts.’

  He looked at me, with an expression torn. ‘You need not even say it, Martha. I know.’

  There was a moment of awkwardness. His tone turned stiff, and he moved to stand. ‘We have tarried overlong. I must get you back to the house.’ In the dappled light of the glade, I saw his cheeks were burnished crimson.

  ‘Jonathan,’ I whispered. ‘Let us not end upon this awkward note. I wish you may just kiss me, just this last time. I shan’t ask anything more of you again.’ I lied, dear reader, for though I voiced a promise, my heart and my body verily screamed at me to request his assistance in the matter again.

  His face softened and he came down and kissed me lightly upon the lips. He took my arm then, and we walked slowly back towards the house.

  I knew the appalling sight I must present, so sodden and dishevelled. When the footman opened the door to allow me entrance he verily gasped his surprise. It was then, most unfortunately, Lord Stanton strode into past the entrance.

  ‘Good grief, Miss Swan! What has occurred to you?’

  Dear me, I thought to myself. If anyone might recognise the signs of indiscreet behaviour it was His Lordship. I stuttered before answering, looking hopefully at Mr Reeves, who seemed shocked numb to be espied at the moment.

  ‘There was a terrible incident down by the lake,’ I said. ‘Some furious ants, I’m afraid. Mr Reeves took it upon himself to rescue me, and doused me in the lake.’ I looked towards Jonathan, whose face darkened with shame.

  Lord Stanton chuckled. ‘Oh, did he now?’ His eyes were shrewd and dancing.

  I felt it my duty to defend Mr Reeves, the gentle, loving man whom had offered me this servic
e with utmost discretion and affection. ‘Oh, think not poorly of the gentleman, he really did the best thing, for the chill waters eased the bites and sent the ants away.’

  ‘Indeed, Mr Reeves, well done. I daresay you were quite the hero. I hope Miss Swan took it upon herself to thank you?’

  Was he teasing me? Indeed yes, I believe he was!

  ‘Quite,’ Jonathan said stiffly. ‘If you would forgive me, Your Lordship, I should like to return to my cousin’s and change before commencing our final meeting.’

  ‘Certainly, take your time. Matters of commerce are so dull that I am not eager to have the discussion.’

  Mr Reeves gave a curt bow to His Lordship and turned to me. ‘Miss Swan, I shall take my leave of you now.’ His voice had softened as he addressed me.

  ‘Good day, sir,’ I replied with a bob. ‘Thank you.’

  He bowed towards me, and turned to leave, his boots squelching as he did. I watched that tall, broad back disappear down the drive with a mixture of sadness and exhilaration. As I turned back towards the corridor and my rooms, I noticed Lord Stanton watching me most carefully.

  ‘Shall I notify Nanny Parker that you shall be late for lessons this morning, Miss Swan?’ His tone was playful.

  I looked down at my bedraggled gown and ran a hand through my hair. ‘If you would be so kind, Your Lordship.’ I inclined my head.

  ‘Then it shall be done.’ Without further preamble he left.

  I took my time in a private toilette, cleansing my thighs of the last signs of my maiden blood and the sticky seed that had trickled from my sex. Was it grotesque, I wondered, that I felt thrilled rather than disgusted by the evidence of my wickedness? I had little time to reflect, for as soon as I was clean and presentable I went and threw myself into teaching my charges.

  ****

  It is late this evening that I write my day’s recounting. Since this morning’s excitement I have had little time to disseminate and study my feelings on what has occurred, and I hope to do so at length now.

  I realise of course dear reader that these letters, which I had hoped to become something of replication of the works of Mrs Hester Chapone, have devolved into something much more deviant – and yet I do not feel the need to punish myself for this. I have laid with a man – a man I hold in undiminished high regard. My experiences this day with Mr Reeves have opened my eyes, and I believe my mind, to an aspect of the human condition I had not ever previously perceived.

  I suspected, though I did not know, that the comings between a man and woman were something of a raw and primal nature – having witnessed what I have at Stanton, I would be a ninny not to grasp this. Yet I had not perceived the intensity of emotion such acts can ignite. Why, since having Mr Reeves this morning, it has been difficult to return my thought from it. This confession shames me, for I know my charges deserve better than a governess who has her mind firmly fixed between her legs – and yet, unfortunately today that is all they received.

  I expect over the next few days, I shall come to feel remorseful or guilty for acting as I did. My actions were undoubtedly against all the laws of civil society – yet frankly I feel something of a pioneer rather than a harlot or bespoiled maiden.

  I feel perhaps in some ways like Mary Wollstonecraft, the author of A Vindication of the Rights of Women, who was so brutally criticised as a result of the posthumous memoirs which revealed her unconventional life. Perhaps my writings shall be more like hers than the austere and pious Hester Chapone.

  Mayhap this is what I have come to own – an unconventional life? Should I feel guilt for the things I have done (and forgive me, but very much wish to do again)?

  Chapter 6

  Friday 9th July 1813

  Over the past few weeks, there has been a significant arousal of my own inner turmoil, which has left little time for me to write my reflections.

  Not two weeks after his departure, Mr Reeves returned to Stanton. He claimed his reasons were of commerce with Lord Stanton and the tenants. However I was given to suspect, and rather hoped, that his reasons were of a more affectionate nature, a desire to return to me.

  I can only state that I was terribly eager to see him again. Those days in which he resided in London were blighted to me. The colour was stripped from flowers, and the summer air tasted sour without him to share it with. Does it seem ridiculous? Perhaps it does. Yet I could not change how I felt. I had long harboured affection for him, as I’m sure the observant reader shall have noticed, but my innocent adoration had changed into something much more visceral.

  In my naivete, I had thought that experiencing intimate relations with a gentleman may sate the curiosity that had grown in my time at Stanton – and indeed my curiosity has been sated. Alas, with that satiation, a violent need has replaced the curiosity. It seems to me that once awakened, my body now craves to re-enact the pleasures and memories I had shared that day in the woodland glade.

  I should be ashamed. Oft at night, once my charges are abed, and my belly filled with a sumptuous supper, I will lay in the dark, remembering how Mr Reeves’ hands had felt against me, the plunging of his staff into my untried opening. Upon these thoughts my naughty fingers will inevitably seek that place, to touch, tease and titillate until my body shudders with passionate memories. It is only after this I find slumber. Night after night, I repeat this routine, and though I am embarrassed by the intensity and frequency of my self-abuse, I have not attempted to repress it.

  It was a little more than a week after Mr Reeves’ departure that my father sent my copy of Hester Chapone’s Letters to Stanton. My initial pleasure at finding my favourite volume returned to me was quickly discarded as I searched most ardently to find a passage within that should temper my raging desires. Yet the quotes I found seemed scathing and accusatory rather than helpful. This surprised me. I had thought Mrs Chapone a most open-minded and learned woman, but passages such as:

  “There cannot be innocence, in any degree of indulgence to unlawful passion,”

  can only be incorrect. I am coming to see that my mentor, the woman I have long aspired to be like, must be flawed in some facet of her thinking. For my indulgence must be described as an unlawful passion. Yet it was of an innocent nature. I do not feel as though I have committed sin. In engaging in the act of coitus with Mr Reeves, I have improved my knowledge of the world, and experienced something I otherwise would never have been able to. No one was hurt, no one was openly shamed by my act – thus, how could it be wrong? How could it be sinful?

  * * *

  On Mr Reeves’ return, I was walking with my charges in the garden. Part of our morning lesson was on colours and letters of the alphabet, and to enhance the learning, I thought to use the summer flowers of Stanton, for they are truly a spectacle worth of great note. The gardeners do His Lordship proud indeed with the volume and panoply of colour they present to the floral admirer. My teaching methods may be considered by some to be unconventional at best, romanticised at worst, but in my defence Master Alexander has a wild enthusiasm for nature, and appears to learn best when he can touch and physically experience the lesson. Miss Helen is much more reserved, and learns equally well in the library, yet she too tremendously enjoys her lessons out of doors. Being of such tender years, I feel most keenly that it is appropriate to indulge and foster their love of God’s natural creations. Thus it was we were walking by the most southerly of the flowerbeds, hoping to espy a bumblebee. We have been working on our letters, and I have noticed Master Alexander has a propensity to confuse the ‘b’ with a ‘p’ or a ‘d’, so I hoped to reinforce our letters by searching out a bumblebee to reinforce the letter ‘b’ in his mind. We had just knelt to observe a charming display of pink foxgloves when I heard someone approach.

  ‘Miss Swan.’

  I very nearly fell into the flowers, so great was my shock. After a moment to recompose, I turned and rose to greet him. Mr Reeves looked dashing; there could be no other description. He was wearing well-fitted cream breeches and cr
isp white stockings; his coat was a deep forest green, and his waistcoat a soft brown.

  My hand went to my bonnet, and I tucked away an errant curl. ‘Mr Reeves, I am so pleased to see you – but surprised you are back at Stanton so soon.’ My heart swelled with delight.

  His eyes held the children a moment. ‘Good day, Master Alexander, Miss Helen.’ He inclined his head towards them. Helen gave a delightful curtsey, whilst Alexander bowed with the grace of his heritage. With a smile, Mr Reeves returned his attention to me.

  ‘I do apologise for interrupting your charming charges,’ he said, ‘But I thought to make my arrival known to you immediately.’

  I paused, flattered by this courtesy. ‘Why, thank you, Mr Reeves, that is very kind.’

  There was an awkward and interminable pause, where neither of us seemed to know what to say.

  ‘I shall not interrupt your lesson long, but I have a pressing question to ask you.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, ‘But first, may I ask how long you shall stay?’

  ‘A week, maybe more I suppose,’ he said, looking away. ‘I… er… should very much like to take you to meet my cousin, the Vicar, if that sounds amenable to you?’

  Momentarily, I was lost for words. Why should he wish me to meet his cousin the Vicar, whom I had seen (and whose interminably dull sermons I had lamented over) just the other day at Sunday service? Mr Reeves knew well that I would know the man on sight, even if I had no formal introduction to him.

  I mustn’t have been able to mask my surprise at this request, for his own expression faltered. ‘I did not mean to be presumptuous,’ he said, his tone softening. ‘I just thought you may like to become better acquainted with him.’

  ‘You’re too kind, but I should not like to impose,’ I eventually said.

  At this point, Master Alexander made it known that he had tired of our adult conversation, by beginning to wander away. ‘Master Alexander,’ I called.

  ‘You could never impose. Miss Swan, would Sunday after the service suit?’