Chapter 5

Drusilla was wondering which level of purgatory she was in. She was hearing that her younger sister was being told to learn how to pleasure herself. As an older woman, who thought she knew much more, she had heard of the possibility of certain types of women enjoying themselves without their husbands. She believed that these were probably prostitutes; though of course she was wrong there; most prostitutes did it solely for the money, a few wives found they enjoyed it, some mistresses definitely did. But now she was hearing that this man was insisting on a woman being able to enjoy sex – on her own! What if she couldn’t? Surely for all well-bred ladies this was impossible? Sex was a duty, not a pleasure. She had been brought up to believe that sex was something ladies did as a martyr.

“Perhaps father will write with the money soon.” she said hopefully.

Madeline heard and said, just to get a small revenge on her: “I think Mister Degas will have had your virginity and your backside before you are allowed to leave. He will probably want to watch you and your sister playing with each other too.” She walked on, conscious that the stuck-up bitch (which she thought in her head) was definitely not comfortable with the idea.

“Drusilla? I wonder if you feel left out?” Solomon was saying. “Are you listening?”

“Hmm? Yes, yes. What is it?” she said brusquely

“Careful my dear, remember your position. I was saying that I was sure you feel left out with your sister taking priority. I have to confess I am busy tonight, and I need a rest anyway. But tomorrow we shall repair to the bedroom in the afternoon. Perhaps you would be good enough to ensure you are washed and smelling sweetly – the bath slave will help – in all the intimate places of course. Arrange for some honeyed dates to be in the room, it is a pleasure to dip them into a lady before eating.”

“Dip them?”

“In your cunt, you will want to make sure it is lubricated liberally, talk to the other two. Spend some time understanding how to make yourself wet between the legs.”

“You want me to wet myself?”

He kissed her. “Well, yes, but not immediately, first I want to taste your juices, then I want to break your cherry. No? Your maidenly hymen, assuming it needs breaking.”

“Of course it does! I mean it doesn’t need breaking, it would happily remain intact. But it is intact now.” She was defending her honour by insisting he would break her, that she was unused to a man. Later she was surprised at how she now said things that a lady would barely even think in private in a darkened room. Perhaps he had that effect on people.

“Good, then you will taste of juice and salty blood. Then I will spend and you will taste of juice and blood and my spend. You will share the feast, of course. It would be rude not to share my good fortune.”

“I shall not be learning to lubricate myself. It is disgusting.”

“As you please. The actions, my actions, will be the same. The honeyed dates will leave sticky honey inside you instead of extract your juice; but as you wish. It will mean my entrance will be harder, but as you wish. Oh ... get Caroline to explain the thing with her fingers and her arse; you will appreciate it, I assure you.”

He smiled and left her confused. She approached Madeline and asked for some help – it pained her to do so; she was sure that she was a sophisticated young woman but now she was all at sea. “Well, my dear, I shall try and help. Stroking yourself, yes, between your legs, but elsewhere too – your breasts and bottom and even arms and leg; it will make you feel strange. You will like it, if you let yourself.”

“But he mentioned ... well, he said something ... well he mentioned fingers and the back passage.” She was convinced that she had been daring saying even that.

“Yes? Ah, he intends to poke your rectum my darling; and he is allowing you to try and relax that hole a little.” Drusilla was looking horrified again. “I know, I know. But it will be even worse if you do not. He will push his cock in anyway and lever your anus open wide, like having a crowbar lever you open. If it is wide already, it will be more acceptable. Less painful, I mean.”

Convinced that this could not be right, she went to find Caroline, who was lying on her bed gently stroking her nearly hairless quim. “Oh! Caroline! What are you at?”

“I told you. I am doing what Mister Degas said I must. He said I must learn to enjoy this; and you know? I am beginning to feel the goodness in it. Now go and let me concentrate.”

“Only tell me this – did that man tell you to open your rear end with your own fingers?”

“Yes, and lucky it was I did. He still hurt rather, but not as bad as ‘that time’.”

‘That time’ was something they rarely spoke of, but both understood. Cook had prepared a cheese pie with many eggs and cabbage. An odd concoction which they were sure after was deliberately to pain them. Father had been away and their step mother with him so they had enjoyed lording it over the staff until then. After the dinner, they both had indigestion of the worst kind. The cabbage made them release much wind, the pie filled them up and made them wish to empty themselves, but the eggs and cheese prevented it. For two days they could not vacate their bowels and at the end it was only by a supreme effort of will, brought on by the knowledge that father and stepmother were returning the following day, they relieved the problem. If their parents would hear of their embarrassment and would insist on treatments that were both unpleasant and unladylike – to whit, a washout with warm water to the back end. They had had that before; now, a few years older, they were both determined to avoid it. Particularly since their father helped in the treatment. So they strained, squeezed and pushed until they forced the large, thick, turd out. Having Degas inside was not as bad apparently.

She walked back to Madeline. “I have to learn by tomorrow night, will you help?”

Madeline was tempted to refuse, to think of this cow being rammed from behind, but she didn’t; she suspected that she might be mistreated in return. They were in this nightmare together and had to make the best of it.

Solomon Degas was out until very late. He had succeeded in some good deals, lost one to his friend Smythe, and narrowly avoided losing Caroline to a Frenchman in a bet that he should have easily won, but in practice only just slid past the post first. He suspected his drink was spiked, but no matter, it was a salutary lesson. Instead, on a frivolous bet, Count Guilleme Ancho-vie (Degas suspected this wasn’t his real name) had lost his fourteen year old sister to Degas. Guilleme had been so desperate to gain possession of the white skinned lovely he knew was residing in Degas’ house, that he had made a bet of his sister against Caroline. He had been devious and put a little potion in Solomon’s drink, but it had not taken full effect when the game began. If it had taken full effect it would have been disastrous for Caroline (and Degas’ good name for keeping his word). As it was, he was staggering back to his own house, supported by a confused and frightened girl who spoke no Arabic, little English and did not understand the slurred words from Ancho-Vie or Degas; only that she had been bartered away.

Degas woke the next morning, naked in his bed with a naked girl beside him. He looked at her and slowly the events of the previous night returned. But he was naked! So was she. She was sleeping. He slipped out of bed, had a piss, and went out of the bedroom. In the dining room, three English ladies in harem pants greeted him and offered him fruits. “And would your guest like some? I could take them in?” Madeline said