Alice Marlowe

Chapter One-4

“You will not see that girl again,” her father said. “There will be no more shared lessons, no contact whatsoever. I shall speak to her father, who is clearly a libertine, not fit to be a parent.”

He went out, slamming the door. Alice let her tears fall, now her father was gone. But they were tears of frustration and rage as much as self-pity. She felt wretched, her life narrow and constrained, useless, her days passed as an apparently dutiful and devout daughter, while underneath she seethed. She felt she was nearly at breaking point; the thought that she was trapped, that nothing would change, filled her with despair.

The months passed. Without Charlotte to entertain her and provide her with s****l knowledge, Alice was thrown back on her own resources, which were meagre. She had no news of her friend. However, one day, after church, Alice had been approached by a girl. Alice knew that this girl, Honoria, had been friendly with Charlotte. Furtively, Honoria thrust a letter into Alice’s hand and quickly moved away. Alice stuffed it in her pocket for later perusal. Once she was alone she saw to her delight it was from Charlotte. She read it avidly. Charlotte was married, and married life, it seemed, was “bliss”. Her husband, George, the young man who had shown her his c**k, was an ardent lover. “We are at it morning, noon and night, when circumstances permit,” she wrote. “I think he likes me very much. He certainly likes my body. When we are together he tells me I must never be out of his reach. This is so that he may touch me whenever he pleases, and in whatever part. His kisses are divine, but he never stops there. The other day we were alone in the parlour. We were sitting on the settee; George was reading and I was doing some needlework. Suddenly he reaches out and pulls me towards him. Without further ado, he starts to put his hand up my skirt. In no time at all his hand had reached into my drawers, seeking my secret place (though I have to confess that it is not much of a secret to George any more!). Perhaps I should not confess this, for you might think me a mere wanton, but I moved my legs a little apart, to provide him with better access. In a second he managed to get two (or was it three?) fingers into me. I love this almost as much as I love to have his c**k inside me, for he has learned quickly just exactly how I most like to be touched (or “frigged”, as he calls it). I was sighing for pleasure and certain that in a few moments he would bring me off, when suddenly the maid came in, without knocking. She stared at us, then said “Oh!” and turned around, closing the door after her. George and I fell to laughing. Perhaps it is cruel to make fun of her embarrassment, but it really was funny. Now, each time George does something immodest, I cry “Oh!” in an imitation.

In all truth, my darling Alice, you should get yourself a husband as soon as you can. There is no pleasure like that of a man. The feel of his c**k, hot and hard in your hand, or better still in your cunt, is such that nothing can substitute for it. You will think me shameless, a wanton hussy, but I crave c**k, I have to have it, as often as I can get it. George said a very wicked thing the other day, that my longing for c**k is such that perhaps one will not suffice for me. Of course I asked him what he meant by that, and he said, don’t pretend that you have never thought about other c***s. Well, of course I denied it, avowing that it was his c**k, and his only that I lived for. But now he has put the idea in my head, I wonder a little. We shall see.”

Alice was uncertain what exactly Charlotte meant by these words at the end. Was it possible that already, only a few months into marriage, she was thinking of taking a lover? And was George willing to contemplate such a thing? Did such things happen to respectable girls? It was unthinkable, surely. But that Charlotte’s letter excited her greatly there was no doubt. Each time she read it her hand was in her drawers, rubbing her eager little clit.

In one of Walter’s escapades he watches a girl making use of a dildo, as he calls it, evidently a length of wood shaped like a c**k, with which whores were wont to pleasure themselves. Alice thought she might like something of this kind. In the woodshed she had found a long piece of wood, perhaps seven or eight inches. She thought it must be used for planting out seedlings into pots; first you made a hole in the soil with the stick, then you dropped the seedling in. Alice took it back to her room. She washed it carefully and made sure it was smooth, with no splinters. And then she tried it. From what Charlotte had said, it might be very slightly thinner than George’s c**k, but perhaps a little longer. Anyway, it was a good approximation. It was the work of a moment to slide the thing inside her drawers and insert it between the lips of her cunt. Gently she pushed it up inside her. It felt good, and the further up she pushed it the better it felt. Then she began to work it, up and down, in and out, while with her free hand she rubbed her clit the way she liked it. It didn’t take long to produce the desired result. As her orgasm gripped her, she clenched her cunt tightly around the piece of wood. Was this what it was like to be f****d? Surely it must be something like this, and for the time being it would have to do. But it made her long all the more for the real thing.

At church one day Alice had been introduced by her mother to a young curate from a neighbouring parish. He was tall, rather good-looking, with beautiful grey eyes. Alice shook hands and felt herself gripped firmly, as if some kind of message was being sent. The curate’s name was Douglas. He looked at her steadily and began to ask her questions about herself. Alice found it difficult to provide interesting answers, since she had never been anywhere, never really done anything, had had no opportunity to form any tastes in literature or music or art. Yet Douglas continued to speak to her.

The following week on her mother’s invitation, he came to tea. Fortunately Alice’s father was not present, though of course Alice’s mother remained in the room. Once again, Alice found it difficult to say anything interesting about herself.

“Alice has had a strict upbringing,” her mother interjected, as if to excuse her daughter’s lack of conversation. “Her father disapproves of many things.”

“Virtue is a fine thing in a woman,” Douglas said, “though I believe certain things are put on earth for us to enjoy. Do we not praise God when we admire what he has created? Flowers and trees and the song of birds?” It turned out that Douglas was a keen ornithologist.

“You may have a point,” Alice’s mother said wistfully.

Alice was looking at Douglas’s hands. His fingers were long and slender. With a suppressed shudder, Alice imagined them “feeling” her under her skirt, as Charlotte was preparing to allow her dancing partner to do. Alice had never had a boyfriend or anything approaching such a thing. But she could sense that Douglas had an interest in her that went beyond birds and flowers.

He asked if Alice might play for him; a piano stood in the corner of the room.

“I only know hymns and such,” she said apologetically. She felt dull and dreary.

“Do you sing as well?” Douglas asked.

“She has a pretty voice,” Alice’s mother said. “Not a big voice, but melodious.” Alice gave her a glare. She had been about to deny that she ever sang; she feared embarrassment, even humiliation, for surely Douglas had heard better singers than she.

“Excellent,” said Douglas beaming. “Please sing something for me.”

There was no escape. Alice went to the piano and sat on the stool. How she wished she could play a love song. But she opened a book of hymn tunes and turned to one. It began “The day thou gavest, Lord, has ended,” though in truth it was still afternoon. She played it all through, singing each verse as well as she could. Douglas sat enraptured.

He came again for tea, later in the week. Soon he was a regular visitor. Alice soon realised there was no chance of her falling in love; Douglas was too correct, too reserved, to ever fill the role of passionate lover in Alice’s imagination. She had long dreamed of a man who would sweep her off her feet, cover her with passionate kisses, though there had seemed little prospect of such a man ever materializing. But since her father had caned her she had felt a bitter resentment against him. She hated her life more than ever, its narrowness, its lack of entertainment and pleasure. She thought that if she had to listen to another of her father’s dreary sermons in church she would scream. Or run away. But to where? With what? She had no money, knew nothing of the world outside.

Douglas offered her the only possibility of escape. Surely being married to him would be better than her present miserable condition. She would have some freedom, and be able to cultivate interests, even make friends. She missed Charlotte terribly; she realized how desperately lonely she was.

And Douglas was physically presentable. Grand passion might never be her lot, but she was determined not to go through life an old maid. Her body cried out for someone, almost anyone, to touch it. To hold it, to stroke it, to hug and kiss, and to arouse it. She ached for this. Her own hands could give her pleasure, but only of a limited kind. She needed, she knew, not only a stimulus; she needed to give pleasure too. She had started to have fantasies in which, while giving herself the pain she so enjoyed, she had imaginary conversations with men in which they told her of their need to be cruel to her, how much it excited them to hurt her. As she twisted the clips on her n*****s, she heard a man’s voice saying softly, “Give me your pain, offer it to me, little girl,” and she replied “yes, sir.”

Whether Douglas could ever take such a role in real life, she wasn’t sure. But at least as her husband he would surely love and kiss her. And f**k her. She found herself wondering what his c**k was like. She would stroke and kiss it for him, if he liked. She would do anything.

One fine afternoon Douglas arrived at the house and suggested they take a walk. He said a rare bird, a pied flycatcher, had been spotted in a wood at the edge of town. Would Alice like to go and see it? She agreed. Of course her mother was to accompany them, but perhaps on a walk there might be an opportunity for a word or two out of her earshot, Alice hoped. Sure enough, under the guise of taking Alice closer to where the bird was supposed to be, Douglas manoeuvred her out of her mother’s hearing.

“Alice,” he said quietly, “you must know how I feel about you.”

“Tell me,” she said with a slight smile. She wanted to hear words she had never heard before. Charlotte had said that her boy had whispered things in her ear, wicked things apparently. Alice did not necessarily expect wickedness from Douglas; he was a clergyman, after all. But he might say something pleasing to her.

“You are very beautiful,” he said.

She had never heard this before. Could it be true? Charlotte had once told her she was a pretty little thing, but had not elaborated.

“Really?” Alice replied. “In what way?”

Douglas seemed slightly nonplussed at having to give details. “Your face is serene,” he said. “You have an angelic air.”

She wanted him to tell her that her mouth was very kissable, that her nose had an enticing upturn, that her hair was soft and lustrous. She didn’t expect him to say she had nice breasts or a small waist or a cute little bottom. Perhaps he might say such things one day, but only when he had license. She thought that was the sort of thing a man might say to his wife if he saw her naked. A little thrill went through her at the thought of that. You are getting ahead of yourself, girl, she told herself.

She smiled sweetly. “Should you like to kiss me, sir?” she said. She knew it was forward, but she felt she needed to seize the opportunity. She needed to get started. She did not want to pine away wondering what might have been. Douglas seemed shocked. He looked around; Alice’s mother was turned away, looking at some lilies that grew by a pond. Suddenly he leaned forward and pecked her on the cheek. She wanted to throw her arms around him and hold him close. She wanted to kiss his mouth. She wanted all manner of things which at that moment were impossible. But if she played her cards right, who knew how it might end?

Alice tried to look bashful, even though she had asked for a kiss. “Remember your calling, sir,” she said. “We must not do anything improper.”

“I am sorry,” Douglas said. “But I could not help myself. I am much taken with you, Alice.”

She wondered if that was tantamount to a proposal. She decided to take the bull by the horns. “Shall you speak to my father,” she asked.

“Yes,” said Douglas breathlessly. It sounded as if he was speaking on impulse.

“Do it soon,” Alice said, pressing his hand. She wanted to take it and hold it against her bosom, but she saw her mother coming towards them.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” her mother asked.

Douglas looked a little bashful. “It’s been a very productive walk,” he said.

Alice’s mother didn’t know quite what to make of such a reply, but gave her opinion that it was starting to get chilly.

Two days later Douglas came round and was closeted with her father. After half an hour Alice’s father came to her room, where she sat reading a religious tract, since she expected an imminent visit.

“The Reverend Wilson has spoken to me,” her father said. “I have given permission for him to talk to you.”

“Thank you, father,” Alice said politely. She didn’t want to show too much enthusiasm; her father would not approve.

Her father went back downstairs and into his study. After a few minutes Alice followed and went into the drawing room, Douglas was standing by the window. He was alone. He took Alice by the hands. “Dear Alice,” he said. “Your father has given his permission for me to propose. Will you marry me?”

Alice had expected him to go on one knee; wasn’t that how you proposed? But she didn’t mind; she suspected Douglas might look ridiculous in such a pose.

“Yes,” she said. There; it was done. My life is going to change. And any change would have to be for the better, she was sure of it.

Her mother made a lot of fuss and started speaking of new clothes, a trousseau. “There will be no unnecessary expense,” her father decreed. The upshot was that she did get a wedding dress, in white satin, very decorous, with a high neckline. She hoped for a corset to go underneath but instead merely got a new shift, also of satin, and some embroidered white cotton drawers.

It was, she was sure when she looked back, that night on which she accepted him that the nightmares began. But she did not immediately make any connection, except to think that the stress of the proposal and her anticipation of marriage had produced an inordinate excitation of the nervous system. That, at any rate, is what her mother told her, though she did not disclose to her mother the specifics of the nightmares.