Scent of Ginger Ch. 03

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Hannah is caught and punished for exploring her own body.
1.9k words
4.39
51.2k
5

Part 3 of the 10 part series

Updated 10/02/2022
Created 04/12/2012
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Case21
Case21
244 Followers

Chapter 03: Discoveries

I vowed to forget what the Doctor did to me. But the way he treated me made me deeply aware of my body. The more I attempted to discipline myself, the more disobedient I felt. Even in attending to my duties and serving the household that has supported me since childhood, I was sometimes overcome by reverie, my gravest fault, and led into temptation at the very thought of punishment. It is a strange and terrible thing. Should we not be deterred from doing evil by the thought of discipline? Is that not the function of 'correction'? I had thought so, and thought myself full well corrected. I was determined not to undergo his treatments again.

And yet, this very morn, as I knelt on my hands and knees to wax the parquet, I felt myself once more on all fours in the Doctor's office. I recalled with a strange sort of pleasure the cool of air playing on my back, and the resounding sting of his blows against my flesh. Memory sprung fully-formed from memory, until his cool hands seemed to pull once again on my fever-taut flanks, and the hallucinatory scent of spice filled the air. The ginger-root's line of heat burned once again inside me, as vivid as life. So immediate was the sensation that I was compelled to visit the privy to check and clean myself.

Naturally, my intention was to tend to my cleanliness only in the most chaste of ways. I do not even own a mirror, so that I might not be tempted by the sight of my nakedness as I dress. And yet I could not help but feel the softness of my thighs, once divested of linens, and the even softer tissues between them. I could not help but move the cloth slowly and let it linger, especially at first touch when it slid in so smoothly, came away so slick, and I, remembering a certain rich, familiar flavour--

O Saviour, see what a shameful thing I have written now! I begin to fear even this, the expression meant to save me. Because as I write it I experience anew those sensations I describe, and my hips begin to shift, my voice to stir in the back of my throat. They will surely hear your sighs, Hannah! Hush, hush, put the pages away!

I cannot put them away. I read them again and again, late at night. I read:

Am I irreparable? I think I am. I, who have never pined for husband nor lover, who feel only disgust at the thought of motherhood, I, frigid and unnatural creature, must admit that I nonetheless yearn to be treated by this Doctor in the harshest manner. I cannot bear what he does to me, and yet I long for it. I believe he seeks to treat me so as well, in his clinic. When he said that I must repeat the lesson thrice to learn it, was it a threat or a promise? What must I do, to have him fulfill those words? How might I find again the opportunity to raise my troublesome voice high, so high that it is freed from me and becomes the most sublime silence, that of the acceptance of my body's desires?

I try to recall what I did to merit punishment before so that I may repeat my sin and find absolution, but I find only a record of my innocence: false accusations of my conduct with the groom, a bothersome illness that I could not have foreseen and did not intend. Should I consider seducing the groom in fact, or harm myself so that the Doctor will treat me? No: neither option suits my way. I must wait. And as I wait, I must make do by myself.

***

Now, quickly, before he comes for me, I must record what has happened.

It was late at night. All was hushed, save for the whisper of snow settling on itself and the drowsy breath of the women around me. While they slept, I lay awake. Lay, and stirred. As stealthily as possible, I turned onto my back and stretched out on my low, flat pallet. I lay my writing-book open to the scene of my punishments across my breast, hidden in a volume of 'Beeton's Book of Household Management.' I had thought to claim that I was reading it by the light of moon on snow if detected. Meanwhile, under the volume's heavy covers, I unlaced the front of my nightgown.

My fingers were cool against my throat, my breastbone. I intended to slide my hand down the length of my body, directly into the site of my past penetrations. But instead, I found my fingers straying of their own accord to my bosom. I am slim and not full-bosomed as some of the other maids are, but still, when I passed my hand over my heart and cupped my breast I found it full. In the centre of my palm was the hard, insistent nub of my nipple. Pressing it down only caused it to rise. A sudden worry lanced through me. Might not milk spurt out, as with a cow? I twisted it with my fingers to stem the possible flow, but that only sent a queer shivering sensation through my body, that prickling of nerves all drawn to the surface. Fascinated, I slipped my other hand under covers, so that I was gripping both breasts at once, and squeezed. Harder. In response, I felt my hips shift. They moved just the way they did when he put the ginger in me: curving, evading, and yet opening.

Stroking down the length of my body, I tentatively pushed in under my nightshift to my bloomers. I felt momentarily grateful that I was not a great lady with layers of fine linens. Only one more barrier of cloth separated hands from flesh, and I transgressed it with quiet ease.

Inside, I felt for the first time that soft slickness I had not allowed myself direct contact with before. Wracked with terror at the thought of discovery, and with guilt at the knowledge of my sin, I was nonetheless seized with a great curiosity. What is there, in there, between?

Must I describe it? Yes. Something is there, where we are taught to think of nothing. Something too complex to be visualized, something that must be known by feel alone. It is warm and wet as fresh egg yolk, and yet deliciously textured. I felt it avidly, and feeling it also stirred sensations there, action and reaction following so close on each other as to be near indistinguishable. A sweet pressure began to build in my loins, as of something waiting to blossom. I slid my fingers deep into my sex and then drew them up, exploring. At the top of my cleft, between folds of lacy flesh, my fingertips found a small bud. I pressed hard, as I had with my breasts, and pain lanced through those sensitive tissues --yet such a pain that I wanted only for it to continue.

I reached. I delved. Deeper in, and then back up and down again, tracing valleys and peaks of smooth sensation. The Mer de Glace...impenetrable wilderness...the pressure becoming a rushing like the wind across peaks and valleys, singing, speaking...

Speaking, my voice speaking words strange and thick.

Speaking aloud, and high. Crying out my pleasure.

I had not even noticed how the unstable ground of my body shifted: my arms had pushed the book from my breast, and my legs had raised themselves, knees steepled and spread. When Lottie the chambermaid sat up to throw her cushion at me, she saw me silhouetted in the moonlight, and what I was doing was eminently clear.

"Hannah!" she exclaimed. The others stirred and I, fingers wet deep in myself, froze. Like a pheasant under the hunter's gun, I stiffened and then took to flight under the covers in a thrash of limbs that was more revealing than if I had not moved at all.

"What has she done now?" Polly from the kitchens asked sleepily.

"She--she's an onanist. I saw it just now, what she done!"

"That I may be, but I am a virgin yet, unlike many here!" I protested, rising to my knees wrapt in blankets. "I have never touched another, I do not wish another to touch me--"

"Except for the Doctor."

I stopped, flushed with shame.

"Spot on, Lottie. Shall we call the Doctor?" Polly's wide-awake eyes gleamed in the dark like a cat's as she turned them on me. The younger girls huddled on their pallets, listening but not daring to look.

"Yes, shall we call the Doctor? Let's send for him right now." Lottie chorused in whispers. The suggestion shocked me in its disrespect, and without thinking I said, "At this hour! No, you mustn't disturb him."

"But you want him to come for you."

The pair of them were converging on me, crawling across the pallets.

"I want no such thing!" I covered my face to shelter the truth from them.

"Admit it." Lottie seized my hand. She ran a finger over the wetness there.

"Admit it." Polly seized the other hand. Together they pulled my arms apart, revealing my open gown, my body still visibly aroused.

"Admit you want him to punish you, or we'll do it for him!" Lottie said, and at that she pinched my breast. I gasped and tried to pull back, but she held so tight that it only twisted the tender flesh even more. I felt myself flush again, the burning awash from my cheeks through my body, down between my legs. The burning heat of ginger. I crouched and pressed my hips down to snuff it, grinding into the blankets once. Then again. Again.

"Oooh, lookit 'er go!" Polly giggled. "Right you are, Lottie, a nonanist!"

"Please stop!" I cried, kneeling straight up again with effort. "Leave me my dignity!" Lottie only gave a scornful laugh. "Dignity? We're serving girls. We takes what we gets. You pretend to be the Good Miss, the Cold Little Lady. But we hear what you say, and you're worse than the rest of us. 'Hurt me,' you say, and 'Please don't do it, please, do it to me.'"

"I seek redemption!"

"An' you think you'll find it down 'ere?" Polly slapped my bottom twice, hard. Her blows evoked the crop, the iron, I could taste it in my mouth. My legs collapsed, knees spread.

"Oh, don't!" I cried. "Ah! No, no, not now!"

Unstoppably, my thighs clenched around the blankets, my tissues around themselves. I couldn't, I couldn't control myself. Still held in the grip of my enemies, I arched as the suffusing heat burst into full flame, high, brilliant, and dancing within me.

I fought it, I fought so hard. Finally, the force of my limb's spasms was enough to tear them from the hands of the two women so that I fell into my pillow, gasping for breath. I could not even cover myself, so overcome was I by continuing sensation. I had not yet reached the peaks I'd experienced under the Doctor's ministrations, but the simple thought of what my body was capable of feeling was enough to set me shaking again. Still surrounded, however, I could not act. I lay quiet, clenched in the simultaneous shame and elation of my discoveries. I could not see the women's expressions, but I could hear their whispers. Their tone was disturbed, querulous. "What is to be done with her?" "She can't stay with us, not like this." "We don't want her here." "The Doctor." "We must send for the Doctor."

And at that, even through my humiliation, I smiled.

Case21
Case21
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3 Comments
AnonymousAnonymousalmost 3 years ago

Now it’s reached the level where it’s erotic - for me that is, different strokes for different folks (pun intended).

Tess (uk)

AnonymousAnonymousabout 9 years ago
amazed

Whoa..... literature skills..beyond magnificent ..youre a goddess

lusherlusherover 11 years ago
beautifully written

Your tone and language reads authentically Victorian and for that alone I salute you. This is a genuinely exciting series that deserves attention and praise, so please accept mine.

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