Victorian Diaries

***More Months Later***

Entry VIII Dear Diary,

Even as I set pen to your much abused pages, I almost find myself weeping again for you. For myself. For all that happened, and how much has changed. I look back now on the past three months as a truer loss of innocence than anything else that has ever touched me. Though had any called me innocent before I would have laughed in light mockery. There are few certainties, and there is no safety. You whose leather is scorched and still stinks, your pages brittle and browning at the edges, you know of which I speak. Its why I can say it all to you, who nearly perished as I did.

Bath is no sanctuary. He’s promised me we’ll never go there, that no mention of the events will ever touch his lips nor should they mine. But even such kindly sentiments have not purged the demons, and I think he returned you to me in silence with a prayer that confessions to you will ease what even his gentleness and embrace cannot. The pen is new, the garden is peaceful. It’s a day like any other day, at no particular hour of the clock. Listen then, old friend, and heal me if you can.

He was to leave for a quick trip to London the next morning, a matter of a business telegram having reached his other hotel. As always, I was his last stop before departing and he forestalled any of our usual greetings to hold me tightly. I still bore the marks of his exorcism, and he kissed the rounded tops of my breasts in yet another silent apology. Caressing his cheek, I gave him warm smiles for my heart was lighter, and told him I would spend the next few days discovering the perfect place for a country ride and picnic and have all in readiness when he returned.

The afternoon was perfect, sunny with gathering fluffy clouds that promised rain the next few days. Indeed by midnight it was pouring, and I was relaxing by the fire with a book and a glass of wine when I heard the key in the lock. Surprised but delighted, I dropped my book and set aside the glass with more care to hurry for the entrance to our room to kneel in preparation for my Master’s entrance.

The voices and smells that greeted me with the yawning of the door made my blood run cold, for the drunken trio outside were made up of the man at the Church as well as a younger stamped version and a third I’d never seen before. I started to leap to my feet, yelling, but a fist darted out to grab my hair and pull me backward toward the bed with a second hand over my mouth. Fighting, kicking, trying to scream, I was no match for the three of them as they dragged me away from the door to the bed.

A pillowcase was shoved into my mouth as they started commenting with delight on the slut they’d found. Free and clear, the leader of their little coterie declared, no holds barred. He it was that turned me over and decided I’d be ‘softer’ if I were slapped a few times. His son, I decided it must be a relation through my increasingly blurred vision, just stood and watched with eyes that seemed to glitter. It was the third stranger that discovered the carpet bag full of toys tucked away beside the headboard, and started pulling them out to throw onto the coverlet beside me.

I was crying thoroughly by the time they manacled my hands behind my back, the pillowcase replaced with the leather bulb gag I’ve never hated so much as that moment. Again my hair was pulled, dragging me to my feet to be pushed across the back of the hump backed steamer chest, face down. My legs were kicked apart as I heard the other two encouraging the son (Yes, I know his name, Diary. I’ll not say it. None of them. If I do not give them names, they become less real. Fictional characters.) to take his first whore.

Perhaps I could have laughed at his fumblings, for though clearly excited he was having a deuce of a time finding an angle that worked to penetrate me. A first time indeed, though if I’d been more aware the humiliation of his two ‘helpers’ would have quickly driven any humour from my thoughts. They moved my hips, humping them up and down until he’d found my slit and rammed home mostly dry. Though aware of the invasion, I found my thoughts narrowing onto small details. A splinter digging into the top of my thigh. The cold of the iron lock hitting my knee when he slammed me into it.

The gag was removed from my mouth, and the cock of the third man presented to my lips as my nose was pinched so that I opened my mouth. I nearly gagged then and there… Your pardon, Diary, I must pause to drink tea with bergamot and honey that seems to wash a remembered taste out of my mouth. Still I had spirit to fight, and started to sink my teeth in before he pulled back with a yell. I tasted a hint of blood, and was glad though the fierce satisfaction lasted only as long as it took the father to unwind his thick belt and start using across my back. My face, my shoulders, nothing was reserved, with the horror of the never ending pounding for “Jr.” seemed to find it doubly exciting to have his receptacle covered in welts even as he pushed away.

Even as the son finished and pulled away, the father was upon me to show his boy “the other useful holes”. Dry and hard he pushed into me, and I cried out weakly once more for I was still sore of the night previous for my Master’s pleasure. At least his size was less formidable, one small pathetic comfort as the boy and his friend began to speak low. My heart, already in my toes, sank through the floor when I realized that they didn’t really intend to let me live, discussing my ‘accident’. And to my shock, my Master. They did know him, it seems. I was merely a pawn to be used and broken, a lesson for some previous societal sin that I couldn’t follow.

Pulling out, he jerked that last few ropy strands over my ass before taking belt in hand to start applying it to the areas previously blocked. I jerked and whimpered, lacking the strength to stand again even if the path to the door was open. Oh, Diary, even now I feel the self loathing for my weakness. How I just lay there, the world in a blood red haze of sharp pain on top of dull aching. The boy and his father had decided I was to be honoured with a King’s demise, and with many a joke about the buggering I had just received, put a poker in the fire to heat up.

The man I’d bitten had long since abandoned anything like desire in favour of cruelty. (My penmanship fails, for my hand trembles to remember.) he wanted to see the poker go in and start to burn, he said, and announced his determination to ‘open me up’ with his fist. The two at the fire cheered him on as I felt four fingers start to rudely push in past the aching ring of muscle, lubricated by the spending of the last man. He was happy to hear I could still moan, and took delight in half lifting me just off my toes by his grip as I shrieked over and over. Balling his thumb in, I thought I would die from the agony as the door slammed open.

One sharp rapport, and my agony ceased as the man fell away from me. A second filled the room and left my ears ringing, and I heard another thud followed by a high, thin screaming that I thought for a moment came from me before I realized I had screamed my throat out already and could only half croak, half moan. I do not know what words were exchanged, but feet ran out of the room, a voice gibbering something I could no longer understand. Eyes swollen nearly shut, it was the smell of my Master that I think made me faint dead away in relief.

I awoke in a carriage, flames rising from the hotel behind us, never so aware of each bounce over the cobblestones as he hurried me to a doctor. I lay across his lap, truly wanting to either die or awaken from the nightmare. Only his voice was there, crooning to me as if those whimpering noises came from me and not some hidden, wounded dog under his feet. Surely one was there. The doctor’s visit I recall little of as well, for with the sting of alcohol on the red marks on my back the world became small and dark with a pinprick of light, and I was gone again.

The days are a blur that brought us here, to a country bed and breakfast in Sherwood. He was frequently off to the telegram office, sending messages that he said would deal with the matter for good. In truth, I think I can finally write this now for seeing the anxious, fearful look upon his face. As if he worries that I shall never be myself again. How can I be? he touches me like a spun glass ballerina on a mirror lake, his voice hardly above a whisper. I couldn’t bear to be alone the first few days, and then more where I could not bear company.

But now, sitting here under a blanket, I bring this all to the sunlight. The ones who hurt me most are dead, he says, the son ruined and forced into the Foreign Legion abroad by some old favours or strings pulled in. They had lured him away with false news, we know now, determined to strike at that which, apparently, too many knew he holds dear. He doesn’t apologize, for such apologies would ring hollow when there is no fault in Him, nor comfort in words when such deeds have been done. Only once did he offer to set me free, comfortable for life. That was yesterday, and finally the tears came again as I determined this, at least, I wanted not at all.

I cannot bear for him to offer it again. Nor to see the pain and guilt in his eyes, for that I was hurt to hurt him. Its time, Diary, for me to grow up and accept that wrong was done, and righted, and cannot hurt me any longer save if I let it. And I am very tired of hurting. I touch my face to push the edges of my lips upward, remembering what it felt like to smile. My face is stiff, but I am determined. And if it takes a while to eagerly anticipate joining with my Love, at least I will not shrink from his arms. For that hurts far worse than what was done. And I am strong. He says so, and I will make him proud.

He has delivered you to me, somehow rescued from the wreckage that was my room back at the hotel. You and I will be phoenixes, my dear.

His Once and Future Mistress

Entry XI Dear Diary,

We are our own salvation, some say. And I believe it now, in this time of trial and recovery. The blue of the sky, the beauty of the flowers is no longer a mockery, for I have found a path. A way, at least. And my own dear Master urges me to pursue it, pleased without words to see me taking an interest in living and, just as importantly, Him. And I began it myself, which gives me strength.

Two days ago I put you aside with my tears, and took a walk in the afternoon sun about the grounds of the Inn in which he has set us up for the season. When I returned he was in a state, collar undone and a bit wild eyed with looking for me in fear of the worst. From his trouser cuffs I presumed he had even looked for me down by the stream, perhaps presuming I had wished to do some injury to myself. I touched his cheek, his lips, and told him clearly and firmly that I was hungry, could we go in for supper? Ah, the surprise, the cautious pleasure of his nod, taking my hand in his to kiss.

It was a simple fare, for I’d been eating soup for days and my Master had not ordered anything stronger for himself in some odd misplaced penitence. But I sat up and fed myself, looking at Him now and again with what I considered to be my new eyes. He had not changed. And perhaps I had been hurt, but he had not done it. Still, to be in His arms? To kneel at His feet? Not yet. Not until I could look at him and see only him, until I craved the touch instead of bracing myself to endure it.

I rose after dinner to go over and lock the door, and with its comforting solidity behind me turned to face my anxious Lord and love. He’d half risen, preparing to leave me, and stood then looking a touch confused. How much more confused then when I asked would he kindly take his shirt off! I shook off his questions, and merely repeated my question in a whisper. Perhaps he read something of my need in my eyes, for he nodded and slowly unbuttoned down the front. Sliding it down his shoulders, he folded it over one hand to lay it on the back of the chair. Standing with his arms down by his sides he merely faced me in silence, then held out his arms and turned slowly in place. There was a new scar on his forearm, a burn I had not seen before. A pink weal, and fading. He caught me staring, and simply nodded once more. This from the fire.

Swallowing, I raised my chin a fraction and asked if he would kindly stoke up the fire and then remove his trousers. Another, lesser man might have been excited, hopeful of more than I could yet offer. He knew. He understood me, that this was no game of coy flirtation. Stooping, he moved the logs about with a poker, (and here I looked away, I’m afraid), and added two fresh ones. With the grate closed once more, he wiped his hands on a napkin and unbuckled His belt. This was coiled and set aside before setting hands to the buttons. Slowly he moved, though I could feel the panic rising in my throat. Once only he looked up at me, meeting my eyes before lowering His again in a flash. With still His knickers on he stopped again, once more turning in the fire’s light. And then stood quite still, His eyes on my boots.

How long we stood there I know not. It was a bead of sweat rolling down his neck that broke my paralytic spell, like a blow to my psyche that he, my Lord and most undoubtedly a man, was a little bit afraid of me as well. Was it fear? My breath came a little quicker to think of it. He offered to let me go. He offered to set me free. And yet still he remained, praying that I would want him. I. Me, a nobody, broken and damaged goods. I wanted to cry, but there had been too many tears. I wanted to scream. And so I did neither, taking a deep breath to push away from the door and approach him.

With my finger I pulled away the bit of sweat there on his skin, and licked it. And I swear, Diary, we both shivered a little. With me standing by he slowly bent and pushed down even His underclothes, leaving Him naked with painted fire on his skin. And still he would not look me in the eye. My hand was not entirely steady as I reached out to shape His shoulder, touch his breast and side, and His breath came shallow as well. Then, like a cliff face sliding down to the sea, he knelt there at my feet and offered in a whisper to serve me howsoever I wished.

I was staggered, blindly backing away from Him to end up standing by the hearth with one hand gripping the bricks behind me. And he never moved from that position, His eyes down. Now the tears did start, but they were hot; burning my eyelids and cheeks. Not once did he move when I sobbed, though I could see His hands knot together. And I did not do so more than once or twice before a strange sort of peace came over me. I wiped at my eyes, and he whispered a plea to lick the tears from my fingers. It shocked me a little, and I found myself reaching out offering them before I thought another thing of it. Slowly he crawled, to kneel before me and take my hands to very carefully lick with the tiniest flicks of His tongue.

When I pulled away he did nothing, simply letting His hands fall down to his sides again. He asked, though, if he could unbuckle my shoes for me, and see me set for the evening. Always in a whisper, but for so long now I had not wanted even this much. But tonight it was different. I knew, with a surety I had long been missing, that tonight I was safe. Perhaps I did not wish more yet, but that it would be all right to accept what was offered, for if I said a word I knew he would stop. And so I crossed to sit down on the bed, and hold out one foot, one part of me standing still there in the corner watching in fright. And like the perfect ladies’ maid, if a ladies’ made were to crawl, he actually crossed the carpet to kneel there beside me and very gently undo my shoe to set it aside. And then the other. Resting His hands then on His thighs, he asked if I wished Him to go, or whether he might braid my hair for bed.

Again I argued silently with the shadow of a girl in the corner, watching us, before nodding very slightly. I held very still, nearly rigid through the creaking of the bed and the first ever so tentative touch to the pins in my hair. Slowly the weight of it came down, falling in thin tendrils over my shoulders as he chased down and found each crooked wire to set them aside. With my eyes on the fire, it was easy to imagine that it was another touching me; my maid, or a serving girl. Half lulled, it took an effort of will to make myself see it as Him. I turned, and quickly he lowered His eyes once more. So strange, so unlike my Master and yet… And yet. With only a glimpse of Him the room was full of His presence. Slowly, painstakingly, he brushed out my hair until I was nearly pliant in His hands, though they never touched my neck or shoulders. Braiding my hair, he tied it off to lay it like a sheaf of grain over my shoulder before asking in a low voice if there was anything else I required.

I shook my head no, this peace and comfort too fragile to push too quickly. He didn’t even sigh, but waited a moment in silence before asking if he could sleep across the foot of my bed. At this I turned and stared at him, worried for I know not what. He lifted his eyes then. There was no flare of desire. No heat, no dominance. Only.. what was it that I saw? Need. Resignation. He would have gone without a word had I bid him. And somehow knowing it gave me the strength to nod. And again, no triumph. He merely rose, and waited for me to settle myself before curling up down by the footboard.

He did not move for hours. I know this, for neither did I, as we listened to one another’s breathing in the dark. Finally, carefully, my feet found his chest. And his hand shifted to cover them for warmth. And there, at last, I found sleep. Because I was loved.

His Mistress