tagBDSMNew England Bride

New England Bride

byKatherine English 2©

"Remove your pantalettes and lay back on the bed," he instructed, my horror rising. "And when you have done so, part your thighs so that I may be certain of your virtue."

Had not the clergyman been waiting downstairs, I would have escaped once more to the wharf and fled, posthaste, back to my beloved New England. But there I was, and there I would stay. Shamefaced, I turned my back and lifted the hem of my hoopskirt, sliding my quivering palms over my crisp, white linen until I clasped the thin drawstring that secured my underpinnings. A tug, so minor, and yet so eventful, and I felt them loosen and fall about my ankles.

Hesitantly, I looked in askance, hoping that this act would suffice, but finding to my dismay that it would not. Then, slowly turning, I lowered myself atop the surface of his massive four-poster and spread my quaking legs beneath the volumes of my petticoats.

His eyes, so black and piercing, scanned my features like twin captors awaiting the spoils of war. Then slowly, and brooking no protestations, he raised the layers of my skirts to expose the pale flesh of my body.

Immediately, I felt the cool air of the room assail the prickling skin above my garters, chilling those intimate parts not covered by my hose. There, he paused to admire, his palms resting intimately between my cringing limbs.

My face became pink, then horridly red as humiliation overcame me. Did all prospective brides have to undergo this intimate scrutiny, I wondered? Were all maidenly claims of chastity so suspect?

Then I gasped. His hand, so still at the onset, was now parting the silken bastion of my femininity, exposing my most intimate secrets to the invasion of his probing fingers. What was expected of me now, I wondered, my fear and trepidation rising. What should I…

And then I felt it, a painful twinge that tested the resiliency of my delicate maidenhead, a probe of such sufficient proportions that I feared it would threaten to end my days as an innocent. I squirmed to escape his grasp, a protest forming upon my lips, but found it unnecessary. His inquisition ceased at that point, and was replaced instead by a persistent stroking of his work-roughened fingers against the tiny protrusion now hardening along the upper reaches of my moistened slit. Was this part of the inspection, I wondered, feeling a warm coil of intimate tension forming in the pit of my belly. What demon was this stranger conjuring between my thighs?

His visage now took on a hungry look, his eyes smoldering and eager to consume. Slowly he ran his tongue along his lower lip and leaned closer to that which he was wont to examine. I twined my fingers in my auburn tresses and closed my eyes, horrified at his invasion and the abandonment he had elicited.

My body began to betray me then, an unbidden wetness surging into his palm, accompanied by a shaking and loss of control that left me helpless and conquered. Loud, immodest whimpers fled my lips, and my writhing flesh grew hot beneath his ministrations.

He leaned closer…closer yet until his breath blew warmly within my flowing sex. His lips parted. It was then that I felt his tongue, wet and hungry, doing unspeakable things as he held me fast.

"Tonight," he murmured huskily, "tonight…"

April 17, 1865

"Men will have their way, Caroline," my mother said on my last night in my beloved Boston. "It's their right, and must be tolerated by a good wife."

I sat in silence, staring amazed as she perched herself on the edge of my sleigh bed and disclosed the burdens of womanhood to which I must succumb as my part of the marriage contract. Suddenly my father, that harbinger of paternal joy and tenderness, no longer seemed such an icon of perfection. He had a darker side, I was told, one which involved nightly fumblings and messy penetrations, visceral perversions of which I had been ignorant. My mother had suffered his nightly demands, as a good wife should, in order to secure the privileges of being the "Squire's Wife," to maintain her position in society and to offer the benefits of a gracious upbringing to my sisters and I. She was a saint, and had allowed him to use her body so that her offspring might prosper. I was indeed fortunate.

But now at eighteen years of age, with the bloom of my youth rapidly wilting, spinsterhood was upon me. My older sisters had long since wed, and were subsequently facing the dark days of widowhood, a product of the terrible War Between the States that had claimed so many of our fine young men. For me there was only a life of barren loneliness to fill my dreams, to weave the fabric of my life. And so, it was with joy and anticipation that I had read the notice which had been posted on the meeting house door:

WANTED: A WOMAN OF GOOD VIRTUE and unmarried circumstance to join in Holy Wedlock with Sean Alan Thomas Esq., widower and landholder in good standing, now residing in the settlement of Wellington, New Zealand. All applicants will contact his surrogate, Master John Thomas, on April 17, 1865, 12 noon, at the offices of Chester and Browne, Attorneys at Law.

It was an omen! It had been fully a month since I'd last made my way along that footpath, and suddenly, on April 17th, there I was!

Oh, how envied my war-widowed sisters the joys of motherhood and the pleasure of knowing that at least once in their lives they had been the beloveds of two strong, virile specimens of New England manhood. To them had come legions of suitors, droves of eligible swains from which to choose. But that was before the war. Now, only the elderly and infirmed remained, and even they preferred the ripe bloom of one not so far past her prime. For me there was nothing. I was doomed to forever raise the children of others as "nanny" or "schoolmistress," never to cradle a child in my arms and call it my own.

And then the notice had appeared.

Without thinking, lest my trepidations cause me to fail, I hurried on to Canterbury Street, to the place where I knew Chester and Browne maintained their offices. There my hopes were dashed upon the rocks, for in the square stood a massive gathering of women, old and young, all eager to snatch my prize from my eager arms and leave me singular and alone for the rest of my days.

Quickly I scurried, pausing to look neither left nor right as I made my way into the throng. Then…thump!

"I beg your pardon!" a masculine voice chimed. "But do you always run people down in the street?" I gasped, teetering precariously on one foot as I turned to find a wall -of –a-man standing in amusement by my side.

"What's your hurry, Princess?" he queried with jocularity, his arm encircling my waist to keep me from landing in ignoble disarray among the cobblestones. "Surely, wherever your destination, it can wait a few more seconds."

The nearness of this well-formed male caused my breath to quicken and my pulse to race in a most unmaidenly fashion. The warmth of his body and the piercing blackness of his eyes curled unsettlingly in my nether regions. He was not local, of that I was certain. His accent was not the familiar drawl of a Bostonian, or it would not have fallen so alluringly on my ear. Perhaps he was one of the many foreign sailors that so frequently populated our streets from parts unknown. And here was I, on a public thoroughfare, and in his arms!

Quickly I disengaged myself and pushed him away. "Sir! I beg you to keep your hands to yourself, if you don't mind. What's more, my business this day is none of yours, if you please!" And with that I hastened across the courtyard to join Boston's lovelorn sisterhood on the stoop of Chester and Browne.

The wait seemed interminable, but finally the doors opened and we were each requested to affix our names, ages, and a short narrative describing our circumstances on a piece of fine vellum for the perusal of He who would be our judge and jury. Sadly, I looked about me. My chances were slim, I knew, for the competition in this male-bereft township was overwhelming. All about me milled younger and more beauteous women, women of property and position, of assurance and refinery. How could I fare against such as those?

Silently, I evaluated my assets. I was tiny of stature, a woman of almost child-like proportions in a bevy of statuesque Amazons. My figure was trim, but my bosoms immodest and requiring of restraint. My one crowning glory, a source of private pleasure, was my profuse, auburn hair which lay in burgeoning constraint beneath my demure straw bonnet. If only I could display it before this Master Thomas, perhaps it would elicit his approval. But, that was impossible. To flaunt myself so brazenly would bring shame upon my family. I would be singled out at Sunday meeting as one who required penance in order to insure her place among polite society. My one claim to glory would have to remain my secret, and mine alone.

The meetinghouse steeple chimed twelve, and the doors of Chester and Brown were thrown wide. A smallish man, perhaps around 50 years of age, slightly balding and with a cane in his left hand proceeded into the throng and glanced at the sea of applicants. Left and right he turned as though searching for a particular cow to milk, until finally his eyes fell to the woman on my right.

She was a smallish person, similar to myself in build, but with the beauty of an angel here on earth. Her hair, a fiery red, refused to be confined, and escaped the restriction of her delicate snood to frame a childlike innocence that would make a grown man weep.

It was done then. I was no competition for this winsome waif, or for the majority of this hungry gathering if the truth be known. I had no dowry, no features that set me apart, and I had lost the advantage of youth that a marriage before the war would have given me. At eighteen, all that was left for me now was spinsterhood.

The gentleman on the stoop made his way through the press of bodies at that point, and approached the beauteous child beside me. In sorry defeat, I turned and began to retreat while my dignity was still intact…and then I felt it, a hand closing about my forearm, preventing my lofty departure.

"Are you the one that had the altercation on the street a few moments ago?" he asked, hesitant that he might have been sent for one such as I. "Well, speak up! Are you?" he repeated impatiently.

Oh my! What had I done now? Had I shamed myself before someone important, an alderman perhaps? Would I now be publicly denounced until I had learned to hold my tongue as a woman should?

Silently I nodded, my eyes downcast in hopes of saving the moment through profound contrition. It was not to be, however, for in an instant he had turned and proceeded to steer me through the crowds toward the door, a prisoner to my fate.

Once inside, I was placed in a hard, straight-backed chair before the fire, alone with my fears, my lips pursed in awe at the smooth luxury that surrounded me. "Oh, "I whispered to myself. "If I'm done for, than at least I've had this moment."

"Is that all you're going to say?" rose a voice from behind a Chinese screen. "You had enough to say in the courtyard a few moments ago."

My heart began to pound, my senses whirling. Shaken, I turned to find the "Wall" of my previous acquaintance approaching my seat, a grin of mischief on his features. Who was this then? What had my sharpness gotten me into?

"My name is John Thomas," he offered. "Am I to assume that you are a part of that mad collection of females outside who wish to answer my uncle's advertisement?"

Silently, I nodded, my ashen features offering the words I could not. He paused then, and his eyes began an uncomfortable assessment of what he saw before him. If they had been fingers instead, I reflected, he would have been flogged. But, as it was, I had placed myself on the block, and the right of perusal was his.

"You weren't this quiet outside," he laughed. "Perhaps that bit of paper you're clutching will speak for you then." So saying, he pried the bit of vellum from my fingertips and settled himself into a chair beside me.

"Caroline Parsons, is that your name?" he read. "It says here '18 and unmarried'…how could that be?"

How could he be so insensitive! Didn't he know that the young men of New England lay dead on battlefields to the south, and all that remained for the women of Boston was the barren consolation of grief?

"I-I would have married years ago, had not the war broken out, Sir." I replied, finding my tongue. "As it is, my prime has passed me by, and my courtship period has fallen casualty to the same disastrous circumstance. I am as you see me, eighteen and a spinster."

"And a woman who speaks her mind as well, I see," he laughed. "I like that. New Zealand is no place for wilting pansies. I'm looking for a woman who can hold her own, who can take her place as a wife and mother to a household that doesn't adhere to refined convention. Would that be you?"

My eyes widened. Had I thrown in my lot with a country of heathens? Certainly the lascivious leer that adorned his countenance spoke not well for his fellow countrymen!

"My tongue has been my downfall of a time, Sir. But, rest assured that I know my place and would make a biddable wife should your uncle choose to test me."

"Oh, he'll test you, all right, Miss Parsons. You will be sorely tested indeed before you're through, of that you may be sure. Does that frighten you?"

I paused to weigh my reply, certain that my fate lay in the balance. "There is no life for me here, Sir, at least none that I care to follow. Better to be tested and have hope, than fall to seed through indecision. If your uncle is game, then so am I."


Now it was his turn to pause. Then, taking my hand he turned it palm upward and ran his thumb along its work-roughened surface. "I see that you're a woman not unused to manual labor, Miss Parsons. Your hands speak well of you."

Quickly I snatched my appendage from his grasp and tucked it beneath the edge of my pinafore. "These are not times when refinement is easily preserved, Sir. We must all rise and do our part. I have been no exception."

Satisfied, he settled himself once more into his seat. "You'll work hard in New Zealand as well, Miss. You should know that at the outset. If you choose to accept this contract, you'll be a working wife and expected to tend both the needs of your household…and those of your husband."

At this I flushed. My knowledge of the marriage bed was limited. But surely, the few times in my life when it would be necessary to mate for the sake of offspring would not be unbearable. I had seen dogs and horses coupling of a season, but surely a man would be different. We are not beasts, I reasoned, are we?

"Rest assured, Sir, I will not shirk my duties in any respect. I am willing and capable to fill your uncle's requirements in a wife. Is there anything else that holds you in reserve?"

The pause was ominous now, and I felt my skin prickle in apprehension. At last he spoke, his features constrained and deliberate. "My uncle has charged me to return with a woman of untried virtue," he began. "This, according to his direction, must be verified prior to the closing of the contract."

I was aghast! Had I not written that I was a maiden of virtuous demeanor? Was my word to be suspect? I knew not what this "verification" entailed, but it seemed something of consequence if the expression on John Thomas' face was any indication. "Of course," I lied, "I would not expect it otherwise. Verify it then, and let's be done with it."

I rose from my resting place and reached for a quill on the desk before the fire, intent on affixing my name to yet another testament when my interviewer approached from behind. "You'll have to remove your 'small clothes' if being 'done with it' is truly your intent, young lady," he chuckled. "…for I doubt that a quill would serve my uncle's purpose in this instance."

I gasped, my face mottling in shock. Certainly he was not suggesting that I dispose of my undergarments! What kind of a woman would ever show her limbs to any man? "Surely, you are not suggesting, Sir, that I…" The words stuck in my throat.

Smiling, Master Thomas brought himself up to a formal stance and addressed the issue. "Of course not! It would never have entered my mind," he added weakly. "There is a local woman in the adjoining office who will provide the required certification. I myself will retreat behind the screen and turn discretely away to await her pronouncement. Will that suit you, Miss?"

Still unsure, but realizing that the streets beyond were filled with women who would gladly comply and take my place, I nodded my assent. "That will suit me, Sir. Am I to assume that the contract is mine, then?"

"If you pass, yes," he replied, his eyes smoldering. "Shall I bid the madam enter?"

"Please do, "I replied. "Then we may conclude our business with quill in hand."

Master Thomas stepped briefly into the adjoining room, and returned forthwith with a crone from the local tavern. Was this then the 'local woman' to which he had referred? Her qualification was highly suspect in my estimation. But there she was. Those who waited in the street would have stepped over my bones to be in my position, and so I nodded my approval.

As promised, Master Thomas stepped behind the flimsy filigreed screen that adorned the far wall. I paused until I witnessed that his back was safely toward me, then nodded to the crone to do her job. This, it appeared was to be a curious procedure, for at once the cackling woman led me to the desk by the fire and sat me upon it. Then, pressing me backwards she laid me prone with my feet dangling before the flames.

Anxiously, I glanced toward the screen. Was this abrupt New Zealander true to his word? Had he remained averted as promised? I couldn't be sure. The flickering shadows on the filigree of the screen, and the glare of the fire in my eyes were deceptive. Was that the back of his head, or his leering stare that watched in heavy silence from beyond?

The crone now attacked her task in earnest, and lifting my petticoats began to remove my pantalettes in a manner most disquieting. "Just lay back, Dearie, "she whispered, her tone hushed like that of a lover. "I'll be quick about it, and as gentle as you wish me to be."

As gentle as…? Why would I not want her to be gentle? For that matter, what was there to be gentle about? My underpinnings were soon gathered about my ankles, and the heat of the fire beat warm against my ankles. Was this all there was to it, I wondered? Had I passed the test?

It was then she began to pile the layers of my skirts above my waist, baring my nether regions to the dull glow of the hearth. Immediately, I slapped her hands away. "What are you doing, Woman?" I protested. "Have you taken leave of your senses?"

She stood back then, and fixed her bleary eyes on my shocked expression. "Don't tell me that you don't know what's to be done here, Dearie! If you want to have me testify to your purity, then I have to lay hands on the evidence! Should I stop then?"

Yes, I thought. Stop. Oh please, stop at once. But instead I said, "Get on with it then. Lets have it finished and be done with it." And laying back on the desk I waited for the crone to direct me in the procedure, hoping once more that young Master Thomas had kept to his word.

Immediately, my skirts were again been bundled about my waist, and the woman was spreading my thighs with her course hands. A cough from behind the screen…and I jumped. Was he watching?

"Lay still!" my examiner insisted. "I can't feel a thing with you bobbing about so."

Trembling with shame I lay back once more, and again the foul woman wedged her paws between my legs. Her fingers, so curious, now parted that which none other than my own hand had ever encountered, and then only for the purpose of cleanliness. Closer she leaned, her face all but buried beneath the mound of my skirts.

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byKatherine English 2© 0 comments/ 104574 views/ 31 favorites

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