Chapter 5: Of Father and Mrs. Whitfield

At breakfast, Mrs. Whitfield appeared more rested but brittle, with her emotions swinging from happy and flirtatious to somber and withdrawn. She certainly vexed Father for as he opened toward her, she pushed him away, and when he withdrew, she called him forth.

Father and I spent the morning with Jonah, Sarah, and the others, reviewing the fields and shops. In the afternoon, we worked in The Manor's dining room, going over the books of accounts and bank records. Whitlands was short of cash, but Father offered to advance what was necessary from Ironwood's coffers.

When Ebony asked if she should set the table for dinner, we adjourned to the front porch swings to continue our discussions. When Fancy called us to dinner, we entered the dining room to find Jane Marie and Mrs. Whitfield standing by the table. We held their chairs, telling each how lovely she looked.

Over dinner conversation, Mrs. Whitfield seemed to be more her old self, firm and in control of her emotions, as if the decisions to direct her life were made. I surmised her emotions were again bound tightly, but this time in a prison of her own making. Father's frustration with her coolness toward him was evident.

As dessert was being served, Mrs. Whitfield turned to Father and said, "I have made a decision, Bruce. I will live out my days in the guest house here."

Father's countenance darkened and he threw his napkin onto his plate. "Balderdash," he barked. "Complete and utter balderdash. Do you know what you are, Mary Elizabeth? You are a prisoner who tried and sentenced herself for another's crimes, and..." He slammed his fist on the table and glared at her. "And a goddamned slave to your own warped emotions."

She was clearly stunned as her blank expression and slack jaw testified.

"Yes, that's it. You are a slave. Is that what you want to be?" he demanded.

Mrs. Whitfield nodded her head, although her demeanor had not changed. I speculated she had no conscious idea she signaled him thusly.

"As you wish. If you insist on being a slave, then so it shall be, but you will not be a slave to your own fears and live alone like a hermit. You will be my slave, warming my soul and my bed."

She flinched like she'd been slapped, even to raising her hand to her cheek as if it stung. We all awaited her response. When her color returned to normal, she said coldly, "How dare you speak to me that way."

"I dare because that slave-girl inside you is one I am impatient to own, to have recline on my bed or sit at my feet awaiting my command to bring me pleasure." Father leaned forward and she drew back. "I can see that slave-girl in you, Mary Elizabeth. She will relish me and my requests with a laughing and enthusiastic heart, which will please both her and me immensely."

"You confuse me with your whore," she blustered.

"The next time you call her a whore, I will turn you over my lap and spank you."

"You wouldn't dare," she gasped.

"I would and I will. Be advised your spanking will be applied wherever the words are uttered, no matter who is in attendance. The swats will not land on your derriere as it is now, covered by layers of petticoats protecting your tender flesh and voiding your punishment. They will be administered on your naked bottom without a single layer of material to thwart my objective of correcting your attitude. And, my pretty slave-girl, I will provide the same rectification if other attitudes of yours irk me."

Not a sound was heard except the soft rush of our breath. Jane Marie and I were so still I felt the beating of her heart as we held hands. Mrs. Whitfield was a statue with her mouth agape and her left hand at her breast. Father was leaning forward with his elbows and forearms braced on the table, his jaw set, and his eyes blazing.

"I want you, Mary Elizabeth, and I have for years. I will have you," he vowed.

It seemed a long time before he smiled and sat back, releasing us all from the moment. He sipped his whiskey and watched the woman he courted in his own unique manner while Jane Marie and I studied the two of them.

Mrs. Whitfield suddenly swelled like a toad and her eyes flashed haughtily. "I will not go with you unless we are married," she said imperiously. Jane Marie gasped.

Father ignored her stipulation. "Mary Elizabeth, I want you to learn a new word," he continued.

"What word is that?" she asked and her voice trembled.

"The word is 'fuck.' It means to copulate, but it means more than a mere coupling either for procreation or recreation. It implies a soulful enjoyment, a wildness of spirit, an ecstatic willingness to both give and receive pleasure."

"I know that word, but I will never utter it and I will never do it. It is a foul and filthy word for the likes of your..." She stopped abruptly and her face flushed bright crimson.

"Well done, Mary Elizabeth," Father chuckled. "I knew you were a quick study. Perhaps training my new slave-girl won't take as long as I reckoned."

Mrs. Whitfield stood, whether to run to him or to flee, I wasn't sure, and neither was she. Father shoved back his chair with a rattle and stood facing her.

"You, sir, are no gentleman and I do not accept your offer of marriage," she said indignantly.

"You have the cart before the horse. I have not proposed marriage. I have proposed I fuck you, repeatedly driving the hardness of my cock deep within the wet folds of your own sweet cunt to bring us both inestimable pleasures."

He stroked her lips with his thumb. "And your taking of my cock will not be limited to your cunt, my beautiful slave-girl."

She stepped away and he captured her hair with his strong left hand, twisting his fingers into the braids piled on her head. He pulled her face to his and kissed her commandingly. Mrs. Whitfield rigidly resisted his hand but let his lips have their way with her own.

Yet, when their lips parted, she swung to slap him. He trapped her arm in mid-air, holding it there as their war of eyes continued unabated. He released her arm and her hair.

"A slave-girl does not slap her master, Mary Elizabeth, but if the bitter and unpleasant woman you have made of yourself wishes to slap my face, go ahead. I won't stop you."

Mrs. Whitfield's hands, clenched into fists by her side, did not budge, and her breasts rose and fell more rapidly.

He continued, "You and I are going to the guest house to copulate, at the least. If you demonstrate your own desire to fuck well and often, and your eager and wanton willingness to bring pleasure to us both, I will marry you and install you as Queen of Ironwood. If all you do is copulate, I will not touch you again and you may live out your days here or as the dowager of the Little House."

"I wouldn't marry you for a King's ransom, Bruce MacKenzie," she trilled, so obviously a lie, I nearly laughed.

"We won't marry then. I am sorely disappointed, but it is your choice. Fucking is my choice and I choose to do it now."

He seized her again and kissed her brutally with one hand on her bottom and one hand behind her neck. He kissed her until the heat melted her and she sagged against him. He picked her up in his arms and strode toward the door. I opened it for him and attended him as he almost ran for the guest house. I opened the guest house door and he carried her inside. In the second before he kicked the door shut behind him, he said, "We are not to be disturbed."

My thoughts reeled as I slowly walked toward The Manor. I had not anticipated Father enacting so bold a plan to capture Mrs. Whitfield, but, clearly, she needed and wanted to be taken with force and fire and passion, all of which had been missing from her life. I knew without a doubt she had privately surrendered but not publicly admitted it, for I saw her face as she rode in his arms.

Jane Marie, Ebony, and Fancy were whispering like three schoolgirls as I reentered the dining room. Ebony and Fancy, shamefaced, quietened and stood by respectfully. Jane Marie gave me a quick and ready smile.

"Will you carry me off and make me your slave-girl, Bobby?" she asked happily. "Or warm my bottom with your hand?"

"Make no mistake about it, my love, for I surely will."

She laughed, wrapped her arms around me, and raised her head to be kissed, which I did hungrily.

"You get to carry me off in less than three weeks," she said when our kiss was complete. "I can hardly wait."

"Then why wait?" I teased.

"Cad," she replied coquettishly.

She kissed me lightly and turned on her heel toward the stairs. "Come with me, Fancy," she ordered.

Since I was dispossessed of the guest house, I chose the late Mr. Whitfield's bedroom, located next to Mrs. Whitfield's separate bedroom, on the first floor of The Manor. I was questioning whether to call Ebony to my bed, for she was prone to loud exclamations of enjoyment during our pleasures, but she slipped into the bedroom and locked the door behind her. Rather than coming to my bed as I expected, she stood apart with a playful expression.

"Come to me," I said.

"No," she replied haughtily. "I won't go to a brute like you."

"Then I will turn you over my knee and warm your ass before I thrust my cock deep into your burning cunt," I replied arrogantly.

"You, sir, are no gentleman," she exclaimed. I advanced toward her and she, no longer able to play the role, wiggled and giggled wantonly.

I wrestled her to my bed, drew her arms behind her back, held her crossed wrists, and lifted her dress to her waist. Her lame resistance proved to be false when my finger dipped into her honey pot to discover it flowing with her love juices. When I drew back my strong right hand to deliver the first swat, she tensed and raised her ample bottom to meet me.

"Please, no, Master," she squealed as my hand delivered the first blow.

Her spanking was slowly given as I relished it all - the feel of her body twisting on mine, her groaning and tearfully entreating me to stop, and the heat of passion generated in both of us, as well as her physical heat. I spanked her until her buttocks were red and hot. Then her body moved in tempo to my hand and her voice emitted those sweet words and groans denoting her approaching climax. I increased the speed of my swats.

"Oh, God, yes, Master. Yes," she cried as her reward overtook her with jerks and shudders.

I threw her on her back on the bed and drove my spear into her sopping cunt. Ebony orgasmed again.

"Yes, Master. Fuck me," she said.

"I'll fuck you until you beg me to cease, my hot-cunted slave," I growled in her ear.

"Thank you, Bobby," she whispered happily.

Father, Jane Marie, and I were present for breakfast the next morning, although he appeared to have hardly slept. Mrs. Whitfield was noticeably absent. Father assured Jane Marie that her mother was well, but tired, and wished to rest that day.

Again, he and I divided the day between the fields and the books of accounts. Only Jane Marie and I were in attendance for dinner that night. Ebony informed us that Father and Mrs. Whitfield were supping in the guest house. Our quiet evening alone was enjoyable and a hopeful foretelling of times to come. After dinner, we sat in the porch swing, held hands, and talked until time for bed, which, lamentably, meant we parted until the morning.

The following morning, Father did not appear for breakfast and was absent when Jonah and I broke for the noon meal in the fields.

That evening when I returned to The Manor for dinner, Ebony announced to Jane Marie and me, "Master Robert, Master Bruce said he and Missus Whitfield will be joining you and Miss Janey for dinner, although they may be late." Expecting a delay in dinner, Jane Marie and I adjourned to the front porch to visit. Much time passed and I was ready to eat without our parents when I heard their approach.

Father appeared with Mrs. Whitfield three steps behind him. He held a rope leading to her wrists and wrapped tightly around them to hold them together. When he stopped, she stopped behind him, tensing the rope guiding her.

"Do you mind if a slave-girl eats at the table with us?" Father asked.

Mrs. Whitfield's appearance stunned me. Her long hair, which I'd only seen braided and on her head, lay around her in lascivious disarray. She wore a slave's simple cotton dress, but the way she wore it was completely different than any slave, for they wore it to their ankles and loose to allow movement as they worked. In comparison, Mrs. Whitfield's dress was many sizes too small, falling only to below her knees and fitting tightly over her womanly curves to overtly flaunt them. And she was barefoot.

Yet, her most erotic part was her face, for she radiated unbridled feminine sensuality - a demanding lust worn pridefully and without remorse. Certainly, her expression's wanton display exceeded my own lush Ebony, which is a comment without equal. When I grinned - I hoped it was a grin and not a leer - at her, she didn't defer her eyes modestly, but raised her chin and held my eyes, as if to say she knew she inflamed Father and she could arouse me, or any man, if she desired.

"If you mind her sitting at the table, she can kneel by my side," Father asked, for Jane Marie and I had not answered his prior question.

"She's welcome at our table any time," I replied. "Whether she sits or kneels is your choice."

"Thank you," he replied. He walked toward the door and she let the rope stretch her arms in front of her before she swayed after him.

I was more than pleased when I looked at my intended's face to find a reflection of her own mother's heat and need to be possessed by a man.

"Shall I take you to the dinner table or the bedroom?" I challenged.

"The bedroom," she whispered. She leapt to her feet and her eyes were wide as saucers. "I didn't mean that... no, I mean yes, I did mean it... but..." She stepped back a pace. "We must wait until our wedding. We must." She turned and fled for the house and I followed.

When we entered the dining room, Mrs. Whitfield was in Father's arms as they passionately kissed. When they saw us, they parted. Ebony, grinning broadly, peeked from the kitchen.

"Do you want me to sit at the table or kneel at your feet while your feed me?" Mrs. Whitfield asked Father. He leered and kissed her again before guiding her to her chair and holding it for her.

"May I have a pillow, please, Bruce?" she asked in a subservient and husky voice.

"Is my little slave-girl's bottom sore?" he teased.

"My soreness is not limited to my bottom," she replied coquettishly.

He tilted her head back and kissed her possessively before retrieving a small pillow, which he placed in her chair. She winced when she sat, despite the reinforcement.

Only then did he unbind her wrists. He coiled the rope and handed it to Jane Marie. "Pass that to Robert, please," he said. "I don't need it anymore but he may have a use for it since his bride hasn't yet felt its discipline."

Jane Marie burned brightly, drawing a giggle from her mother and a laugh from my father. She passed the rope to me with an expression that dared me to use it while evidencing her desire to feel it upon her.

Father and Mrs. Whitfield were two cooing lovebirds during dinner. The glow of their happiness shone throughout the room to infect Jane Marie and me and all the staff with a pleasant warmness. Father was puffed and proud of his new woman and his conquest of her. She bore the clear demeanor of a woman in love with, and aroused by, her man.

Over dessert, Mrs. Whitfield said, "I've accepted Bruce's marriage proposal."

Jane Marie and I enthusiastically gave our heartiest congratulations with smiles and handshakes and hugs all around. Clearly, the two were in love now and, from Father's confession to me, had been in love for years.

After Jane Marie and I returned to our chairs, Mrs. Whitfield continued, saying, "If you don't mind, we'll be married by the priest when he comes here to perform your marriage."

"We would be delighted to share the priest with you," I said, and Jane Marie voiced the same conclusion.

"Until then, I'm going to move to Ironwood so we can be together," she confided.

"We'll leave in the morning," Father said. "Should I dispatch James to retrieve Mary Elizabeth's belongings?"

"I'll have Samuel bring them over," I replied. "And I'll have him take Constance Anne with him. I know Elizabeth would like to see her."

"Wonderful idea," Father replied.

We talked of weddings and couples and bright shining futures, of them at Ironwood and Jane Marie and me at Whitlands. I promised to reserve Mrs. Whitfield's bedroom in The Manor for their exclusive use when they stayed with us.

"Ah, a bedroom here in The Manor," Father said. "Stand up, girl."

"Bruce," Mrs. Whitfield said, stifling a giggle, but she quickly rose. He hefted her in his arms and strode down the hall. She looked back at us with an angelic countenance and said, "Good night, children. Sweet dreams."

"We will be that happy," I said.

"Yes," Jane Marie sighed. "We will."

Love for my intended rushed through me like water from a burst weir. I stood, pulled her to her feet, and kissed her passionately, receiving love as heated in return, as our embrace added fuel to both our fires. I contemplated dragging her to my bed at that moment when I heard girlish giggles. Ebony and Fancy watched from the kitchen door.

Jane Marie stood on tip toes to whisper in my ear, "I want you every bit as much, but we must wait." She kissed my cheek and ran toward the stairs and her room. Ebony was openly happy as she watched us, but Fancy's concern flickered in her eyes.