Captain Bainbridge's Improprieties

"Yes, I will. I would like that very much."

Captain Bainbridge helped Mary to climb down the drainpipe to the first floor terrace. She looked around furtively for signs of anyone who might have seen them, but the garden was deserted. She and the captain slipped through shadows in the warm summer evening, and she saw that he was leading her toward the boathouse by the lake. He opened the door for her and led her inside. By the moonlight that flooded in through the skylight, Mary took in her surroundings. The rowboats were hung on one wall; on the other, messy cabinets full of oars, ropes, and men's bathing outfits. The boathouse also seemed to be a depository for old furniture. A rickety old table with three legs leaned against the wall, an old upright piano stood in the corner, and two dusty chairs and a sofa were set up in the middle of the room. Captain Bainbridge sat down on the sofa and motioned for Mary to sit next to him.

Mary sat. The captain took her head in both his hands and kissed her, deeply and thoroughly, on the lips. "Improper enough for you?" He asked, still holding her head in his hands. The strength that he had shown off when he helped Mary over the fence, that she had felt emanating from his hand on the day she played the piano for him, was channeled through his hands now with more purpose than ever. They held Mary's head in place, his fingers curling around her long hair, steadying her.

"Yes," she said. "Do it again."

He kissed her again, and this time she felt an unmistakable possessive energy emanate from him. His hands tightened around a fistful of her hair. His lips curled over hers, and he bit her lower lip. He did not pull or bite hard enough to hurt Mary, but it was hard enough to impress upon her the immediacy of his power. Mary's pulse raced. The exhilarating realization of her own body's vulnerability coursed through her, and she felt herself flush with arousal.

"So this is your impropriety," she observed steadily. "I saw it in you the moment I laid eyes on you."

He loosened his grip on her hair, intrigued. "Saw what?"

"Your vice is lust, that much is clear. But not simply a lust for flesh, no-you lust after power. I see it in everything you do."

He looked taken aback. "Am I that obvious?"

Mary smiled, pleased that her observation had been correct. "I feel it in you, in your hands," she told him.

He smiled sheepishly. "I like...I like to be master of my own world. I like to make things mine."

Mary studied him. After a week of focusing all of her intuitive energy onto reading this man through his facades, she suddenly found herself in the position of not having to do so. Here he was, telling her with sincerity and openness what she had suspected all along.

"Would you..." she hesitated, then continued shakily, "would you like to make me yours tonight?"

"Is that what you want?"

She looked at him quizzically. They both knew that he did not need her permission to make her his own-not here in the dangerous isolation of the abandoned boathouse, not when his strength outmatched hers and her choice to steal away with him counteracted any self-defense of her virtue. He had her completely in his power already. He must know that. It showed a great deal of empathy, Mary thought, that even in this time and this place, when he had drawn her into a circumstance of such vulnerability, he had possessed the sensitivity to ask her what she wanted-to presume that her desires might be as visible and expressible as his own. Mary was quite taken aback.

"Yes," she told him finally. "I would like that. Only...I am frightened," she admitted.

Captain Bainbridge's expression softened. "You are thinking that I want to take your virginity." Mary nodded. "I am not so concerned about the physical act," he informed her. Mary listened to his words, intrigued and relieved. "What I really want is...is to feel like I have you in my power. If you give me that pleasure. If you...indulge me in that fantasy, I would be a happy man indeed."

Mary considered this proposition. She took note of the sensations in her body: her quivering hands, her racing pulse, the arousal playing across her core. She took note of Captain Bainbridge's expression of calm, sincere mastery, so steady, so individual to its core. Yes, she wanted to submit to his designs. She wanted to yield for him and let him feel that power he so desired to feel. In this moment, she wanted nothing more.

"Do it," she told him. "Do anything you want."

"Thank you," Captain Bainbridge said sincerely. He renewed his grasp on her hair with one hand while the other hand fastened itself around her neck. Mary felt it grip her throat. The captain's grasp limited her breath, making her face tingle. She drew in a labored breath, but the captain stopped it with a rough kiss. She felt his tongue force its way into her mouth, as if the captain were trying to consume her with this kiss, to taste all of her. Almost unintentionally, she let out a muffled moan of assent.

Captain Bainbridge made Mary stand by jerking her up by the hair. Then he stripped her, callously and unceremoniously, throwing her dress and undergarments to the side with impatient abandon. Mary let out a squeal of frightened exhilaration. The captain's hands traveled over her body greedily, as if he wanted to feel every part of Mary at once. He pinched and squeezed up and down her slim waist, her breasts, her thighs, her rear end. Mary felt as if she were melting into Captain Bainbridge, drawn into the immediacy of his dominance by every movement of his hands along her exposed body. She was surprised to find that she did not feel embarrassed by her nakedness. Much the opposite: she felt elated by it. All of the mandates of propriety were stripped away, all the responsibility of comportment dissolved, and there was nothing for it but to give herself totally to the experience.

"Stay there." Captain Bainbridge went to the far wall and fetched a short length of rope, which he proceeded to loop around itself and over Mary's head so that it hugged her neck and tightened as he pulled on it. Mary settled into the restriction of her new confinement. She felt the rope hug her neck with a subtle but persistent pressure. "How do you feel?" He asked.

"Helpless," she told him, looking him straight in the eye.

"I see lust is not only reserved for the maculine sex," he teased.

"We both have our improprieties, do we not?" She responded, her lips curving into a smile.

Holding fast to the rope around her neck, Captain Bainbridge slapped Mary's breast with his open hand. Mary flinched and drew in breath sharply, feeling the sharp pain awaken the nerves on her skin, then dissipate. The captain slapped her again, harder, on the other breast, making her cry out involuntarily. He was looking at her intensely, as if trying to gauge her reaction. "You like it," he observed.

"Yes," she breathed. In answer, he delivered another stinging blow to her breast. She gasped, and this time, before the pain had time to dissipate, he delivered two more sharp blows to the same spot. Her breast felt hot and vulnerable. As the captain struck it again with his hand, she whimpered in pain. Another slap to her left breast, then three more to her right. Captain Bainbridge seemed to be choosing her pain carefully, keeping it on the edge of tolerance. Each gasp, moan, and whimper she emitted seemed to excite him further and elicit a further dose of pain. It was an exhilarating game. Held captive by the rope around her neck, Mary submitted totally, dwelling in each burst of pain, observing the way it played over her body.

Finally, the captain relented. "Now, a different game," he told her, without further explanation. He led her to the piano in the corner and brought one of the chairs to it. He looked at her expectantly, motioning for her to sit down.

Mary laughed. "Back to the piano again, are we?"

"I thought you could use some practice," he smiled wryly. "And some...motivation."

Mary sat down in front of the instrument. There were a few pieces of sheet music on the piano already: at the front a sonatina by Clementi, which Captain Bainbridge opened for her. In the moonlight, she could just make out the notes. "I want you to play this piece," he told her calmly. "If you play a wrong note, I will hit you with this riding crop." He produced a short crop with a leather tip and ran it along the contours of her naked body, over her shoulders, her torso, and her thighs. It was a simple device, but an effective one. Mary felt her skin come alive at each spot where the crop touched, invigorated by the specter of pain that it insinuated. "We shall see how good of a pianist we can make you, Miss Mary," Captain Bainbridge said.

Mary took a deep breath and put her hands to the piano. Before she could even begin to play the first note, she felt a light, sharp pain on her hand where the captain had slapped it. "Straighten your posture," he chided. She did so. Another slap to the back of her hand. "Relax your shoulders and lower your elbows." Mary obeyed this command as well. "Now you may begin playing." Mary set her fingers on the piano keys again and began, slowly, to play the first measures of the sonatina. She felt Captain Bainbridge's riding crop rest on her thighs, ready to strike at any moment. Its presence quickened her pulse and sharpened her focus on the notes in front of her. For several measures of the piece, the immediacy of its threat kept her slippery fingers in check. All too soon, though, her focus began to slip.

Crack! She felt the riding crop come down sharply on her left thigh, leaving a neat indexation of pain on the spot where it had landed. She gasped in pain and stopped playing. "That is a b flat, not a b natural," Captain Bainbridge reprimanded her. "Play the measure again." Obediently, Mary brought her hands back to the keys and began again at the beginning of the measure. The stinging in her thigh reminded her to play the b flat this time. She continued shakily through the piece. Crack! She had played another b natural. She winced in pain and began again at the beginning of the measure, continuing through the piece. Crack! The crop's impact rent through her thigh a third time. What had she done this time? She felt the captain grab a fistful of hair and twist it, drawing her head upward to look at him. "What key is this piece in?" He asked impatiently.

Mary could not remember. She tried to look at the sheet music again, but she could not move her head to look. At the sign of her hesitation, Captain Bainbridge struck her thigh again with the riding crop. She cried out in pain. "I do not remember!" She looked at him pleadingly.

He forced her head toward the sheet music so that it was inches away from it. "Tell me now. What is it?" Mary's eyes scanned the page desperately, and she saw three flats in the key signature. What did three flats mean? She racked her brains.

"A flat major?"

The riding crop came down mercilessly one, twice, three times on the sensitive flesh of her upper back. "Aaah!" She cried out. He struck her twice more. "E flat!" She remembered finally. "It is E flat! E flat major!"

Captain Bainbridge relented his grasp on her hair. "Next time you play a piece," he said in a cold tone. "I expect you to know the key signature before you begin to play."

Mary hung her head, subdued. "Yes, sir."

"Play the whole piece again, from the beginning. And no more mistakes with the key signature."

Once more, she put her hands to the keys. Once more, she played the notes under the invigorating threat of the crop in Captain Bainbridge's hands, feeling it hover over her skin, impressing upon her its ever-present danger. She played each flat correctly and deliberately. She took such care to play the correct flats, in fact, that she overcompensated and played too many of them. In the fourth line of the music, her finger landed on a d flat that should have been a d natural. She realized her mistake a second too late.

Captain Bainbridge struck her hard on her upper back with the crop, then again and again on the legs. She cried out and tried to wriggle away, but he held her tightly by the hair. "What did I say..." Smack! "...about mistakes with the key signature?" Through the haze of the immediate agony, Mary could ascertain the evident glee he took in her mistakes, in each excuse to punish her. His rod came down on her now with a joyful sadistic fervor, cleaving into her, making her skin come alive with pain.

She gasped. "I did not notice, or, that is, I neglected to-"

The captain interrupted her, "Clearly you require something by which to remember my instructions." Holding onto her hair, he made her stand, then threw her face down on the ground. He rested his foot on the small of her back, holding her in place, and belabored her rear end with the crop. Once, twice, three times, four-Mary lost count. She writhed and gasped and cried out, beyond words, beyond thoughts. Only the immediacy of the present moment bore any import on her now. There was no past, no future, only Captain Bainbridge's crop and its agonizing, gratifying pain. She felt stripped, raw, penetrated. She shook with exertion. Captain Bainbridge was investing himself wholly in the punishment-she could tell by his grunts of exertion. Lying under him, Mary submitted, so deeply and sincerely that she thought she might melt into the ground at his feet.

At last, the captain relented. Mary lay on the ground, breathing heavily. Presently, Captain Bainbridge reached down and helped her to sit. As he did so, she felt a tenderness emanating from his hands that she had not experienced before. She did not say anything, and neither did he, but he seemed to know instinctively what she needed from him. He ran a hand through her hair. He placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. Slowly, the world came back into focus before Mary's eyes. She looked the captain up and down, observing the smile that brightened his hardened features. He held her in his arms and gave her time to come back to herself. After several moments, he said, calmly but firmly, "We will return to the Clementi now."

"Very well," Mary assented meekly. She got shakily to her feet and sat back down by the piano, feeling the soreness in her rear end as she adjusted herself in the seat. She felt warm, serene. She sensed the guiding presence of Captain Bainbridge's hand on her shoulder. Under his steady grasp, she straightened her posture, relaxed her arms, placed her fingers on the keys, and began to play. This time, there was no hesitation in her playing. There was no guessing which notes were flat and which were natural. The notes came to her with sparkling clarity, and Mary's fingers obeyed her. It was as if the captain's crop had broken some invisible barrier between her and the notes; it had eroded her carelessness, her slippages, and left only Mary and the notes before her.

Mary played the entire first movement of the sonatina without error.

Captain Bainbridge seemed genuinely impressed. "Very accurately played, Miss Mary. I commend you."

"Thank you."

"I would like for you to play it again. Play it with more emotion this time." Mary saw that he had set down the crop. He began to run his hands over the expanse of her body, at times clutching her tightly, at others retreating. She felt his nails dig into her skin, leaving their imprint in trails across her body. It was a rousing sensation, enlivening her skin and making her tingle all over. Mary moaned in arousal. His lips found her neck and kissed it. Then they traveled down her arms, her shoulders, her breasts, consecrating each body part.

Mary set her hands on the piano keys and played the piece again. Again, she played each of the notes accurately in time. This time, however, she channeled the sensations she experienced in her body into the music. The music of Captain Bainbridge's touch, with its rhythm of pressure and retreat, found its voice in the cadences of the piece. With each forte, she channeled his power; with each piano, she channeled his tenderness. She followed the slow building of the piece toward its musical climax. As she neared the piece's end, the tension built and the force of the notes increased; at the same time, she felt the tension in the captain's hands increase, their fervor accelerating in time with the energy of the music. They scratched and pulled and squeezed. The musical notes mounted and clashed. Finally, the gratifying chords of the finale cut through the room with heavenly clarity, and Captain Bainbridge's hands stopped their movement and held fast to Mary.

The ghost of the piece echoed in the silence of the room. Mary and Captain Bainbridge breathed together, both caught off guard by the event that had transpired between them and the piano. The captain clutched Mary's body as if to keep the moment from escaping them. "Thank you," he said to her. "Thank you."

***

The next day, Captain Bainbridge asked for Mary's hand in marriage. He did it without ceremony, without sermon or soliloquy, armed only with the mutual understanding of the events that had transpired between them the night before. Nevertheless, the event induced agitation to the point of pandemonium in Mary's household. Her sisters were catatonic with excitement. Kate ran conspicuously up and down the stairs to tell the news to Emily and George in her loud, youthful voice. Mary caught servants whispering down the halls and even overheard her father and mother gossiping about the news later that evening.

Mary, for her part, did not say anything immediately. She simply looked at the captain with placid perceptiveness, recalling everything she had learned about him in the week since she had met him. She had seen more of Captain Bainbridge's character than she had observed in any man before. She had observed its hardness, the roughness of its edges. She had been on the receiving end of his insatiable lust for power. She had also received his empathy, his tenderness, and his honesty. What important features of his character there were to know, Mary felt certain that she knew them already.

And so it was with a full mind and a full heart that she answered his query. "Yes," she said. "Yes, I will, yes."