The Mortification of Isabel (4 page)

I made another discovery that night which set my heart racing again. When I was about to leave the master’s sitting room I saw a portfolio of drawings half open on the floor near his chair. I walked carefully across the room to take a closer look praying that the creak of a floorboard would not give me away. When I opened the portfolio I was shocked to see drawings of naked men and women engaged in sexual acts or displaying their most private parts. In some of the drawings, which were skilfully executed, people of both sexes were being whipped or caned some with their bodies restrained in strange contraptions. One picture that made me feel hot and excited showed a handsome young man with an enormous erection.

If these were drawings made by my master before he was blinded they seemed to confirm the impression I had gained that his interests were strange and perverted.

When at last my master released me from my duties, I went to my room rubbing my bottom vigorously for my cheeks continued to throb with pain. But as I crossed the corridor, Margaret materialised as she had done before and I saw she was carrying a small bottle. She bade me lie on my bed face down so she could rub my welts with salve which turned out to be the contents of the vial I had seen. She rubbed me gently and I found the liquid was like balm, lessening the pain to a considerable degree. Margaret took great time and care, her tender ministrations becoming like caresses, so much so that in the end pleasure conquered pain. Eventually she washed her hands in the basin in the corner of my room while I slipped into a state of bliss half way between waking and slumber.

She returned to her task but this time she asked me to part my legs so she could slip her fingers between my thighs. I raised my bottom a little so that she could gain easier entry. This time I had no desire to resist or to protest, partly because I was already greatly relaxed and partly because the sensation was pleasurable from the beginning.

On this occasion I was the one to speak Margaret’s name in a reverential voice accompanied by long sighs.

I amazed myself how wet I became as my pussy responded to the gentle thrusting of her fingers, then heard an echo of my own thoughts.

“Isabel, you’re so juicy.”

“I know. You make me so.”

“This position is a little awkward, dearest darling, but you cannot lie on your back until your bottom has healed.”

“Just don’t stop, Margaret,” I replied quite shamelessly. “I’ve never had feelings like this before. My quim is singing with joy.”

“You have a delicious honey-pot, my lovely girl.”

“I had the chance to finger yours but spurned it, silly goose that I am.”

“There will be plenty of opportunities for you to frig me, beloved, but this is my turn.”

“You make me forget my pain.”

“Pain can be a precursor of pleasure.”

“I had not thought so, Margaret.”

“Is it not more exquisite because you felt such agony before?”

“I have nothing with which I can compare, Margaret, being so inexperienced.”

Margaret lent over me to kiss my bare shoulders and while she went on pleasuring me with the fingers of her right hand, her left hand caressed my bottom. After a time she gave my cheeks the lightest slap.

I was surprised and said, “Surely you do not wish to spank me as well?”

She laughed but gave me more of the same little taps so that my cheeks quivered.

“Do not pretend that it hurts, Bella, you dissembler.”

“I am afraid that it might.”

“Is it not more of a piquant sensation somewhere between pain and pleasure?”

I conceded she was correct in her description of the feeling as I was experiencing it at that moment but I told her I was fearful of being hurt as I had been by our master’s Martinet.

“Perhaps the principle is the same, however.” I was not sure if Margaret was making an assertion or asking a question.

“I am not sure if I follow you but I have no objection to anything you have done to me so far. On the contrary.”

“Can I confess something, darling Isabel?”

“I hope we can share all our thoughts,” I said.

“It was when you were tied up stretched across the master’s bed.”

“What about it?”

“You looked so appealing.”

“I know you like my body, Margaret. Why does it need to be the subject of a confession?”

“I think you misunderstand me. You looked so helpless and vulnerable in your bonds.”

“You liked seeing me tied up?”

“I felt my master was lucky to have you presented to him in that manner. I confess I was envious.”

“You have no need to be. I will be happy to oblige you as long as you do not cane me as hard as the master.”

“You would consent to bondage if it pleased me?”

“I see no harm in our playing little games together,” I said, still enjoying her fingers inside me. I wondered if my state of bliss was causing me to be reckless but I think I would have promised her anything at that moment.

“Oh, my darling,” she said. “It is something I’ve dreamt about since you came to Drydon Hall!”

“Did you like me even then?” I asked, fishing for more compliments.

“You will never know how my heart leapt when you came into the house out of that dreadful storm. Although you had sent that little portrait, I thought you much more beautiful in the flesh. I have adored you since my first sight of you.”

“I have never had such pleasant words from anyone, Margaret. I am sorry I do not re-pay you in the same coinage but I am unused to giving and receiving tokens of affection.”

“Isabel, I would like to show you part of the house you have not yet visited. We will be able to continue our intimacies there.”

“But you will have to withdraw your fingers?”

“Only for a very short time, my angel.”

“Should I get dressed?”

“Go as you are. Just put on your slippers.”

“But what if the servants see me? John, for instance?”

“We will not be observed, I promise.”

Margaret led me to the staircase and we descended further than the first floor to what I assumed would be cellars. We found ourselves facing a heavy metal door and Margaret produced a key from her apron and turned it in the lock. I wondered what on earth she wanted to show me in this strange location.

We lowered our heads to make progress along a passage with a low ceiling and came to a large room that had the appearance of a prison. There were no papers or decoration on the stark stone walls and a complete absence of furnishings and furniture that could have made the place hospitable. The light was provided by burning torches set into the wall and by one or two lamps but it was still a place of shadows and foreboding. My only thought was that Margaret wanted to show me a place of historic interest, a dungeon where prisoners had been shackled in times gone by.

I shivered partly because it was cold and I was still naked and partly at the idea of the human suffering that must have been experienced by those unfortunate enough to be incarcerated here.

As my eyes became more accustomed to the gloom I saw that on one side of the chamber there was a cell with thick bars. At the rear of the iron cage I could see there was a recess cut into the stone which had a plank of wood across it bearing a palliasse. This amazed me since it suggested the place might still be in use. Outside the cell when I looked up I saw there were ropes and chains and apparatus hanging from the ceiling and lowering my eyes again I could make out a cage with metal bars like those used to transport wild animals and there were other items suggestive of medieval torture. I thought of Matilda immediately and for a moment or two I wondered if I had stepped into my master’s narrative…

My father was an explorer and spent long periods away from home. I believe my mother simply assumed I would follow in his footsteps, perhaps literally with regard to exploring some of the same continents, and that it was her task to prepare me for the privations and hardships inherent in the way of life. Consequently I was subjected to Spartan conditions even from being a baby. My mother made me sleep with the nursery window open and with very little covering and when I was a little older she would plunge me into cold baths before drying me vigorously. She took me for long walks in the bracing country air, better described as treks, being adept at reading both compass and map, and it was not uncommon for us to pitch a tent on a windy hillside and walk for a second or third day.

Mother was also a very strict disciplinarian and used the cane on my bare backside if I ever crossed her or showed wayward tendencies.

When I was about eight years of age, mother hired a governess who turned out to be a secret drinker who used me to vent her anger whenever she was inebriated, usually late into the night. I read somewhere that Lord Byron was subjected to physical and sexual abuse in a similar way and at a very young age.

When Mrs. Downs was in drink she would flog me mercilessly and then play with my private parts which she had exposed for the purpose of carrying out the chastisement. Her punishments were arbitrary and appeared to depend on her mood rather than anything about my behaviour. She would send me on ridiculous errands or set me pointless tasks and I learnt nothing from her apart from the vagaries of human nature and that the supposed gentler sex could be as cruel as the male.

Eton
was rife with flagellation at the time I attended and my buttocks were birched on several occasions. When, as an older pupil, it was my turn to administer corporal punishment, I liked to lay it on very hard and gaining a reputation as the Prefect to avoid. The young sprog would be stripped of his breeches and made to touch his toes and I would start my run out on the landing so that when I reached him there was real force behind each stroke.

I would have preferred to birch a girl’s bottom but that presented more of a challenge.

I remember one occasion when a group of us had been drinking in the taverns around
Windsor
and we persuaded a young street girl to come to our rooms with the promise of more alcohol and more money. We managed to smuggle her up to our rooms and got her undressed and tied to my bed. I gave her a thorough birching on her very fleshy rump and then let the others have a turn. How I relished watching her cheeks turn crimson.

When I went up to Oxford and took rooms in the town I used the local prostitutes on occasions but was more likely to travel up to London where there was more choice and brothels offering flagellation were common.

With regular practice I became an aficionado of the art of flagellation. I had known for a considerable time that I liked nothing better than thrashing female bottoms, enjoying it much more than if I fucked the girls. As I matured into a young man this predilection became obsessive and addictive, dominating my fantasies and using up more and more of my time and my money.

In time I built up a reputation in the
Soho
bordellos that caused me satisfaction and pride. Just as when I had been at school, I became known as a cruel and vicious flogger and many of the girls tried to avoid having to bare their arses for me. Those who did often drank a deal of gin or took laudanum or even opium before my visits. Some of the madams tried to put up their prices for “the fiercest flogger in
London
” as they called me.

When I went to the whorehouses I changed into an outfit of black leather with a mask which made me look like an executioner and I took special clothing for the girl. This consisted of an impossibly tight black leather corset which at the back incorporated a single black glove which sheathed both arms. When every strap and buckle had been tightened the whore was effectively held fast in a straightjacket. I also asked for the tart to be gagged for I found their constant screaming very tiresome after a time.

Most of the brothels I frequented had apparatus whereby the girl could be suspended upside down and I favoured this as the best way of presenting her naked arse or strapped to a horse like the one at Mrs. Berkeley’s.

Why did I enjoy this pastime as much as I did? First, I find the female posterior aesthetically very pleasing, the softness of the flesh in that region, the tendency for the cheeks to be dimpled and voluptuous, the symmetry of the two globes, the dark valley between which invites exploration, the delicious proximity of the vulva; all combine to make the derriere the apogee of woman’s beauty; the pinnacle of her allure and yet in the base area. It is fashionable to dwell on the décolletage but I favour the
sit upon
or to be less prissy, the arse. A woman with a fine ripe arse is a woman indeed!

The other reason that I have a great love of flogging young women is that I enjoy having them in my power, preferably bound and gagged. I desire their complete submission. I do not mind if the woman is not submissive by nature because there is often great fun to be had in overcoming a girl’s resistance. But I have also come across women who positively relish the lash.

Rose had both a beautiful backside and a love of punishment

I was a seasoned flogger by the time I met her, a connoisseur.

As I have explained, most whores take the birch or the cane reluctantly and need to deaden the pain by taking one drug or another. Rose was most unusual in that she actually enjoyed being flogged. Whether she was consumed by guilt and felt she deserved punishment or whether she was inured to pain as a child I do not know. She was only eighteen when I found her. She was the only prostitute I had encountered up to that point in my life who actually cried out for the blows to be harder and for the flogging to go on longer. Consequently her skin, especially her arse, was rough and calloused from receiving so much punishment. On the other hand, she had a very pretty face, which is not always so common with whores, and with most, what beauty they have as young girls fades very rapidly.

Rose was a real challenge and I tried to reduce her to tears and appeals for mercy but never succeeded.

I suppose some of the women in medieval times who endured cruel torture in the name of their religion were her kind for it appears some welcomed their mortification with open arms, indeed much of it was self-inflicted, and even embraced their eventual martyrdom.

***

When I left
Oxford
I settled into a pattern of life which was to last years though not many people would see me as a creature of routine. I would spend a year or two on an expedition and then spend a year or two writing about it based on my notes and diaries. The public perception was that I led the most adventurous life and that was true to a degree but it had elements of the mundane and ordinary. I did not always relish the writing phase because it kept me from the kind of writing I preferred, namely writing and drawing erotica. I had some of this secret writing published but always used a nom de plume and no-one made the connection between Francis Delamere and Laurence Povey, at least not to the best of my knowledge.

I suppose the obvious explanation is that writing about flagellation was a substitute for actually indulging my obsession.

At this time, early in my career, I had no way of knowing that fate was going to hand me an opportunity to make my fantasies reality.

I was sailing off the coast of a country fringed with many islands when the wind blew my small craft off course and landed me on one of them. I am not about to disclose precisely where this was because, even now, I wish to protect the islanders and their way of life.

The most surprising feature of the island was it was populated by people with black skins and people with white skins and many of mixed race – I will not use the word Mulatto because that could point to certain geographical locations.
        

I discovered the reason for this was that a ship carrying white passengers had been wrecked in a terrible storm and some of the survivors had come ashore. Over the years some of the white people had produced children together and some had inter-bred with the indigenous population.

I learned more about their history as I spent longer on the island.

Recently there had been a slave’s rebellion and when the chief saw I had two guns, and learnt from me how they were used, he thought I might be the man to restore order. Firearms were unknown on the island, save for a few rusty muskets dating back to the time of the shipwreck, so the weapons represented considerable power. The chief also seemed to think a white man from afar was a person of authority.

As I listened to the chief give me full freedom to introduce any measures I chose to calm the volatile situation I could not believe my good fortune.

The climate on the island was hot and humid and the slaves wore only the briefest covering around their loins, no more than a thin cord round their waists with lengths of grass and reeds attached to cover the sexual parts. This covering, such as it was, simply hung down at the front consequently their bottoms were completely bare.

There were male and female slaves of every skin colour and I was told slavery was used on the island as the punishment for any serious misdemeanours but the real truth was that anyone who offended the chief was placed in bondage. Although he had given me a job to do that greatly appealed to me, I had to acknowledge that he was a despot who would brook no opposition. He clearly expected me to be ruthless in carrying out his orders to frighten the slaves into total submission.

He gave me a beautiful female slave and told me she was called by a name that meant
deep lagoon
in English. I smiled to myself wondering if she would turn out to epitomise our expression that “still waters run deep.”

The sound she made when she pronounced her name sounded a little like Sheena so that was what I called her. I flogged her every night to keep myself supple and in good form with the whip.

I began my task by visiting the ringleaders of the slave revolt in the stockade that served as their prison, carrying a bamboo cane and my drawing materials. They, four males and two females, were all naked and tied to stakes set in the sandy soil under the baking sun and I walked round to examine them. Two of the men were young bucks of fine physique and since there was no-one with me I ran my hands over their firm buttocks and their muscular legs.

Perhaps I should make it clear that although I prefer women I am not averse to sex with young men if they are physically attractive and I am certainly pleased to flog their backsides when opportunities come along.

One of these two men, a light skinned boy, was particularly handsome and unusually well endowed both in the length and circumference of his member and I took his cock in my hand and played with it, drawing back the foreskin and examining the bulbous purple head. I had no measure with me but I judged his cock would be at least eight inches in length. As an anthropologist I was greatly interested in him as a specimen of local manhood and was able to compare his genitals with young men I had seen in other parts of the world. Glancing at the other three men, I saw they all had big cocks, none of them circumcised (it seemed not be practised on the island) and wondered if most of the men here would have this same physical feature.

My handling of the young man’s member had made it stiff and now it looked even more impressive, blue veins bulged along the shaft and his balls swollen and hard. I frigged him a few times so that his cock was so upright it almost rested against his navel then I did a series of drawings of him in his aroused state. When I was satisfied with my sketches, I turned my attention to the other prisoners.

The other young man who attracted my interest was black and his muscular body gleamed with sweat. Examining him closely I saw there were scars all over his body, his back and buttocks particularly, and it was clear his owner must have subjected him to many severe punishments with whip and with cane. Some slaves are constantly trying to run away and I wondered if this was the case with this young man. It would account for the mass of deep scars. The other explanation was the simple one, that his owner, whether male or female, simply enjoyed whipping his well formed body.

I knew by this time that both men and women on the island owned slaves so the possibility that he belonged to a woman was a real possibility.

The other men were not particularly attractive specimens and I passed on to the two female slaves.

The first was a white girl with light hair, her bare breasts firm and her nipples erect, whether in anticipation of my inspection or not I could not tell.

I felt my cock stir in my breeches as I surveyed her. There was a look of defiance in her eyes and I instinctively wanted to meet the implied challenge but simply smiled knowing I would soon have her fine body stretched out for a flogging. She must have known I had that power and yet she dared to defy me. The thought came into my mind that perhaps this girl was the leader of the rebellious band and not one of the men as I would have expected. It was entirely believable given that look in her eyes and her sheer physical presence.