Chapter 5: The true story of Parnish Billue House

We spent that evening naked in the musty barn. We were kept separated from one another for fear we may ‘couple with one another’ and take pleasures of the flesh. We had to sleep with our wrists bound to prevent us from masturbating.

I asked Penelope about why the Professor felt so strongly about this and she admitted that this may be her fault. “I did have a bit of a problem there. I would masturbate any chance I got and when he started tying up my hands, I would fuck wooden table legs, flutes, fingers, just about anything I could work myself onto at night so he began to limit what was in my cell and to bind my foot so that I couldn’t move too far away. Where do we piss in here?”

I wasn’t used to a woman speaking so coarsely around me but Penelope did so all of the time when we were alone. She said she could not help herself from speaking as a common harlot would while at the seminary.

I scoffed.

“Oh my, do we have a proper lady in our midst? Shall I ask if I may take my ablutions or would that be too vulgar for your delicate sensibilities?” she teased me.

“I’ve had to squat and piss and shit in the field in front of Madame Parrish while I pulled her plow because she refused to untie me so I am sorry to disappoint you. I just didn’t think it appropriate to talk that way given our situation,” I explained.

“What will they do? Make us sleep outside? At least then I wouldn’t have mouse shit all over me. I am afraid they are going to bite me! This is worse than the church basement,” she chuckled at the situation we found ourselves in. It made it easier to bear since I myself had been horrified by it and her humor introduced a little levity.

“They could make it far worse I am sure and to answer your question from earlier I’ve been pissing in the corner over there,” I told her with a smile that indicated I too would speak plainly when in her company alone.

She sniffed and said she could tell and said we’d need to spread it out or it would reek even worse soon.

She told me stories about the disciplines at the seminary at night. The way they tried to prevent her from sin and her compulusions. “They would beat me so severely about my cunny, tits and ass that I developed a habit of cursing them all until they shoved a gag in my mouth. I can’t help myself and I understand why they prevent me from blathering. I do think it is right though. If a woman, cannot stop herself that they be gagged. I never fought back,” she admitted.

I nodded in understanding. I didn’t resist my disciplines either even though they were harsh at times – I knew I must endure them for my own salvation and for the good of the others that we survive a harsh winter with whatever we can grow.

As we lay on the hay listening to the hoot of owls and the sound of the night we would talk a little. It helped to make the time pass. “I will admit something,” Penelope said with a wry grin on her face. “There was a point when Abigail passed the strap between my legs and then tightened it that walking with it there actually felt quite pleasurable,” she said.

“Yes, but painful too,” I admitted. I could see her pretty white teeth in the dark as she grinned that I had admitted it as well.

Just as the previous night my son snuck into the barn with bread.

“I have some for both of you,” he whispered and broke apart a modest amount of stale bread for us.

“You are a Saint,” Penelope said as he fed me. She asked him his name and he whispered “Charles Henry Hutchings, a pleasure to make your acquaintance!”

“Charmed, I am sure,” she smiled from across the barn and said she offer to let him kiss her hand but it was otherwise occupied. Charles giggled at that.

“My you are a handsome one aren’t you,” she said when he came over to feed her the bread. She ate it out of his hand and it made me feel very uncomfortable because she was clearly seducing him. He left quietly and kissed me good night.

Once he was gone I warned her that he was my son and she coyly pretended to not understand my warning not to lead him on. “I’ve done nothing of the sort. I am friendly to everyone who is friendly to me,” she said with a southern twang to her voice.

“See that you aren’t TOO friendly to Charles, please” I said and with that I bid her good night.

In the morning, she was already awake and being fed gruel through the funnel when they splashed water on me to wake me up. Apparently, I snore rather loudly as well. The Professor watched as we were prepared with livery with bit, bridle, blinders, and tail. He seemed to like the tail most of all and this time Penelope didn’t squeal as much like a stuck pig when it was rammed up her ass.

My son and Abigail hitched us to the plow and together it was much easier to pull across the front lawn. The professor wished us well and left for the seminary and that day we made a great deal of progress with Abigail and Charles whipping our bottoms. He did seem to favor whipping Penelope over me but I tried to pull hard when he was leading us to spare him the agony of having to whip my buttocks in the first place.

We plowed two rows of land before the sun was at its highest point in the sky – a feat that may have even pleased Madame Parrish were she outside to witness it. Abigail told us we had to make up for the day we lost at the Seminary and that she wanted to get in more land before it started to rain.

I begged for water and although I was barely intelligible as I drooled into the gag she could work out in general when we were asking to stop or for water. I could for the most part completely understand Penelope and she could understand me as well. It was like the language of twins where we heard our gibberish enough that we both understood each other.

The drool hung off Penelope’s chin in a long strand and fell to her large breasts. I watched as the strand worked its way down like a spider’s thread from her chin to her nipple and then to her belly button and below.

Charles implored Abigail to let us have water later in the day and she pulled us over to the creek and they allowed us to take a break with the funnel as they put a dollop of water for us to drink. “You know I would happily drink from the spoon, Abigail?” Penelope offered sweetly when the bit gag was removed so she could drink from the funnel.

“Your happiness is not my concern though,” Abigail poured the water on her former friends head and let it drip down over her before absent mindedly tugging on her nipples hard and pinching down. “Is that milk?” she asked.

Penelope said nothing.

“Were you pregnant?”

Penelope remained silent.

Abigail used the whip to loosen Penelope’s tongue and she said she had a baby out of wedlock but she had not seen it since its birth.

“Who is the father? Was it Jeremiah Miller? You two always were lovers,” Abigail teased her.

“My father didn’t want me to marry him. His family didn’t have enough money,” Penelope said.

“Well, you married Benjamin Barron and you said it wasn’t his, so whose was it?” Abigail asked for the juicy gossip about her friend’s indiscretions. I had wished they would not talk so vulgarly around my son. I was already wondering how we would accomplish our ablutions if he is in the field with us and worried I knew the answer to that question. That was a secret act so intimate and private even his future wife probably would never do it in front of him.

“The baby could have been black or white for all I know, I was a camp follower for a while,” Penelope admitted.

“You? A prostitute? Why? Your family is wealthy? Was it for the Union or the Confederates?” Abigail asked excitedly.

“Does it matter whose camp I followed? My father considered me a disgrace and for a time I found it entertaining to work in a camp. You are old enough to try it – you may not be so rigid if you did,” Penelope suggested.

“You never did such a vulgar act! You are just trying to trick me,” Abigail whipped her former friend but Penelope did not flinch. She obviously considered Penelope who was several years her senior to be rather foolish for giving away her virtue if the story was true but she was skeptical that any woman would have chosen to do that.

“How do you think I wound up in the seminary and subsequently as your beast of burden? Do you think that the great John Jarrell would have allowed his precious daughter to be treated this way if I had not fallen from grace?”

“Falling from grace? What does that mean?” Charles asked.

“It is what has happened to your mother and I and why we are naked and you are not,” Penelope explained as a wintry smile crossed her otherwise beautiful face. She had a slight gap in her teeth that made her look particularly haughty but otherwise she had the refined features of the upper class. Her nose was straight and slightly upturned and her lips were rich and full and when she laughed her entire face lit up the room with her.

Milk ran down Penelope’s extended nipples on to her belly. Abigail let us finish plowing and worked us hard until evening. However, when we were to serve in the main house she only permitted Penelope to wear a skirt that fully exposed her chest like a wet nurse. She brought Penelope to her grandmother and proceeded to milk her tits easily and pump out white cream.

“Child, this is such a small amount that it would not sustain. We’d have better luck trying to buy a goat,” Madame Parrish was bitter about the prospects of starving. She had a massive house and no money to pay for anything.

“Watch,” Abigail kept milking and soon filled a small glass and then another with white fluid from Penelope’s breasts.

“Better some milk then no milk,” Madame Parrish said and from that day forward three times a day I was expected to help express the girl’s milk with rough pulls and tugs of her nipples like a cows udders. Once in the morning after our gruel, once after plowing the field and once right before we were bound and kept in the barn.

We worked seven days a week and periodically the Professor would come and remark on our progress.

He suggested since there was no church that we be bound from ropes in the barn on Sundays by our breasts and arms and then left dangling while we were beaten once a week. Abigail was to tie us obscenely and expose our anus and cunny wide and then hit us with straps.

Charles helped despite my desire to shield him from witnessing my discipline sessions. We spent the entire of Sunday in ‘contemplative’ sessions about the nature of feminine sin and our shortcomings. That is what the Professor said we were to do.

We moaned and suffered for hours strung up and I never gave much thought to the why women were meant to suffer in child birth for the original sin as he suggested.

Charles asked why we were meant to suffer this way when we had not acted insolently or misbehaved recently.

The Professor explained that there was a passage of the bible “Spare the rod and spoil the child,” and that as insolent children of god we needed a constant remainder of our place. The routine of the discipline would instill in us a rigor of control as a preventive measure from such outbursts. “This is meant to keep them in line less they forget their place.

When Charles failed to understand what we had done to deserve such hardship the Professor told him what a slave overseer taught him about training slaves. “He beat all the slaves weekly whether they had been up to mischief or not to give them reason not to even consider it. You may think you are doing your mother and Penelope a kindness by not disciplining them but they need order and leadership just like a real horse. You cannot let the horse choose the path and let go of the rein or she’ll roll you in the cool sand on a hot day or stop to eat from every low hanging branch. The horse doesn’t fear the whip – they were meant for it,” he explained.

It was for the best that Charles see us as beasts of burden because he had such a kind heart that I did not want him to feel guilty for having to discipline me or see me in such a state.

Penelope for all of her stubborn and mischievous ways was still a woman of god and she believed the professor’s justifications for our treatment were valid. She was lewd and vulgar by nature but she felt that the punishments and hardships that were visited upon us were justified by the Bible.

She told me once that she read witches and women of low moral character were marched through the streets of Salem and then kept nude in pillories and subject to humiliations in the public square where they were to be dissuaded from their actions by the scorn of the community and that she wished we could be marched through the square of Clinton the same way.

“Do you think yourself a witch?” I asked.

“If I had been offered the powers of witchcraft then surely I would have fallen to temptation and become the greatest witch of them all. I am fortunate that I was merely offered the temptations of the flesh and I accept that I haven’t the strength to resist. I am grateful for this treatment even though at times I dread it,” she said.

She had several chances to escape when my son left her manacles loose or even to run when he allowed her the freedom to wash or drink in the creek without leather bindings but she never did. She described herself like a cat. “You don’t need to leash a cat. The cat stays where it gets fed,” she smiled. However, I believe she craved the discipline and accepted it was her lot in life.

She was shameless about pleasuring herself when her hands were unbound. She never once appeared red face even when she had to squat in the field. She even laughed at her own loud rumblings from her arse and unlady like sounds of flatulence while she made her ablutions in the field in front of my son.