New England Bride

"Remove your pantalettes and lay back on the bed," he instructed, my horror rising. "And when you have done so, part your thighs so that I may be certain of your virtue."

Had not the clergyman been waiting downstairs, I would have escaped once more to the wharf and fled, posthaste, back to my beloved New England. But there I was, and there I would stay. Shamefaced, I turned my back and lifted the hem of my hoopskirt, sliding my quivering palms over my crisp, white linen until I clasped the thin drawstring that secured my underpinnings. A tug, so minor, and yet so eventful, and I felt them loosen and fall about my ankles.

Hesitantly, I looked in askance, hoping that this act would suffice, but finding to my dismay that it would not. Then, slowly turning, I lowered myself atop the surface of his massive four-poster and spread my quaking legs beneath the volumes of my petticoats.

His eyes, so black and piercing, scanned my features like twin captors awaiting the spoils of war. Then slowly, and brooking no protestations, he raised the layers of my skirts to expose the pale flesh of my body.

Immediately, I felt the cool air of the room assail the prickling skin above my garters, chilling those intimate parts not covered by my hose. There, he paused to admire, his palms resting intimately between my cringing limbs.

My face became pink, then horridly red as humiliation overcame me. Did all prospective brides have to undergo this intimate scrutiny, I wondered? Were all maidenly claims of chastity so suspect?

Then I gasped. His hand, so still at the onset, was now parting the silken bastion of my femininity, exposing my most intimate secrets to the invasion of his probing fingers. What was expected of me now, I wondered, my fear and trepidation rising. What should I…

And then I felt it, a painful twinge that tested the resiliency of my delicate maidenhead, a probe of such sufficient proportions that I feared it would threaten to end my days as an innocent. I squirmed to escape his grasp, a protest forming upon my lips, but found it unnecessary. His inquisition ceased at that point, and was replaced instead by a persistent stroking of his work-roughened fingers against the tiny protrusion now hardening along the upper reaches of my moistened slit. Was this part of the inspection, I wondered, feeling a warm coil of intimate tension forming in the pit of my belly. What demon was this stranger conjuring between my thighs?

His visage now took on a hungry look, his eyes smoldering and eager to consume. Slowly he ran his tongue along his lower lip and leaned closer to that which he was wont to examine. I twined my fingers in my auburn tresses and closed my eyes, horrified at his invasion and the abandonment he had elicited.

My body began to betray me then, an unbidden wetness surging into his palm, accompanied by a shaking and loss of control that left me helpless and conquered. Loud, immodest whimpers fled my lips, and my writhing flesh grew hot beneath his ministrations.

He leaned closer…closer yet until his breath blew warmly within my flowing sex. His lips parted. It was then that I felt his tongue, wet and hungry, doing unspeakable things as he held me fast.

"Tonight," he murmured huskily, "tonight…"

April 17, 1865

"Men will have their way, Caroline," my mother said on my last night in my beloved Boston. "It's their right, and must be tolerated by a good wife."

I sat in silence, staring amazed as she perched herself on the edge of my sleigh bed and disclosed the burdens of womanhood to which I must succumb as my part of the marriage contract. Suddenly my father, that harbinger of paternal joy and tenderness, no longer seemed such an icon of perfection. He had a darker side, I was told, one which involved nightly fumblings and messy penetrations, visceral perversions of which I had been ignorant. My mother had suffered his nightly demands, as a good wife should, in order to secure the privileges of being the "Squire's Wife," to maintain her position in society and to offer the benefits of a gracious upbringing to my sisters and I. She was a saint, and had allowed him to use her body so that her offspring might prosper. I was indeed fortunate.

But now at eighteen years of age, with the bloom of my youth rapidly wilting, spinsterhood was upon me. My older sisters had long since wed, and were subsequently facing the dark days of widowhood, a product of the terrible War Between the States that had claimed so many of our fine young men. For me there was only a life of barren loneliness to fill my dreams, to weave the fabric of my life. And so, it was with joy and anticipation that I had read the notice which had been posted on the meeting house door:

WANTED: A WOMAN OF GOOD VIRTUE and unmarried circumstance to join in Holy Wedlock with Sean Alan Thomas Esq., widower and landholder in good standing, now residing in the settlement of Wellington, New Zealand. All applicants will contact his surrogate, Master John Thomas, on April 17, 1865, 12 noon, at the offices of Chester and Browne, Attorneys at Law.

It was an omen! It had been fully a month since I'd last made my way along that footpath, and suddenly, on April 17th, there I was!

Oh, how envied my war-widowed sisters the joys of motherhood and the pleasure of knowing that at least once in their lives they had been the beloveds of two strong, virile specimens of New England manhood. To them had come legions of suitors, droves of eligible swains from which to choose. But that was before the war. Now, only the elderly and infirmed remained, and even they preferred the ripe bloom of one not so far past her prime. For me there was nothing. I was doomed to forever raise the children of others as "nanny" or "schoolmistress," never to cradle a child in my arms and call it my own.

And then the notice had appeared.

Without thinking, lest my trepidations cause me to fail, I hurried on to Canterbury Street, to the place where I knew Chester and Browne maintained their offices. There my hopes were dashed upon the rocks, for in the square stood a massive gathering of women, old and young, all eager to snatch my prize from my eager arms and leave me singular and alone for the rest of my days.

Quickly I scurried, pausing to look neither left nor right as I made my way into the throng. Then…thump!

"I beg your pardon!" a masculine voice chimed. "But do you always run people down in the street?" I gasped, teetering precariously on one foot as I turned to find a wall -of –a-man standing in amusement by my side.

"What's your hurry, Princess?" he queried with jocularity, his arm encircling my waist to keep me from landing in ignoble disarray among the cobblestones. "Surely, wherever your destination, it can wait a few more seconds."

The nearness of this well-formed male caused my breath to quicken and my pulse to race in a most unmaidenly fashion. The warmth of his body and the piercing blackness of his eyes curled unsettlingly in my nether regions. He was not local, of that I was certain. His accent was not the familiar drawl of a Bostonian, or it would not have fallen so alluringly on my ear. Perhaps he was one of the many foreign sailors that so frequently populated our streets from parts unknown. And here was I, on a public thoroughfare, and in his arms!

Quickly I disengaged myself and pushed him away. "Sir! I beg you to keep your hands to yourself, if you don't mind. What's more, my business this day is none of yours, if you please!" And with that I hastened across the courtyard to join Boston's lovelorn sisterhood on the stoop of Chester and Browne.

The wait seemed interminable, but finally the doors opened and we were each requested to affix our names, ages, and a short narrative describing our circumstances on a piece of fine vellum for the perusal of He who would be our judge and jury. Sadly, I looked about me. My chances were slim, I knew, for the competition in this male-bereft township was overwhelming. All about me milled younger and more beauteous women, women of property and position, of assurance and refinery. How could I fare against such as those?

Silently, I evaluated my assets. I was tiny of stature, a woman of almost child-like proportions in a bevy of statuesque Amazons. My figure was trim, but my bosoms immodest and requiring of restraint. My one crowning glory, a source of private pleasure, was my profuse, auburn hair which lay in burgeoning constraint beneath my demure straw bonnet. If only I could display it before this Master Thomas, perhaps it would elicit his approval. But, that was impossible. To flaunt myself so brazenly would bring shame upon my family. I would be singled out at Sunday meeting as one who required penance in order to insure her place among polite society. My one claim to glory would have to remain my secret, and mine alone.

The meetinghouse steeple chimed twelve, and the doors of Chester and Brown were thrown wide. A smallish man, perhaps around 50 years of age, slightly balding and with a cane in his left hand proceeded into the throng and glanced at the sea of applicants. Left and right he turned as though searching for a particular cow to milk, until finally his eyes fell to the woman on my right.

She was a smallish person, similar to myself in build, but with the beauty of an angel here on earth. Her hair, a fiery red, refused to be confined, and escaped the restriction of her delicate snood to frame a childlike innocence that would make a grown man weep.

It was done then. I was no competition for this winsome waif, or for the majority of this hungry gathering if the truth be known. I had no dowry, no features that set me apart, and I had lost the advantage of youth that a marriage before the war would have given me. At eighteen, all that was left for me now was spinsterhood.

The gentleman on the stoop made his way through the press of bodies at that point, and approached the beauteous child beside me. In sorry defeat, I turned and began to retreat while my dignity was still intact…and then I felt it, a hand closing about my forearm, preventing my lofty departure.

"Are you the one that had the altercation on the street a few moments ago?" he asked, hesitant that he might have been sent for one such as I. "Well, speak up! Are you?" he repeated impatiently.

Oh my! What had I done now? Had I shamed myself before someone important, an alderman perhaps? Would I now be publicly denounced until I had learned to hold my tongue as a woman should?

Silently I nodded, my eyes downcast in hopes of saving the moment through profound contrition. It was not to be, however, for in an instant he had turned and proceeded to steer me through the crowds toward the door, a prisoner to my fate.

Once inside, I was placed in a hard, straight-backed chair before the fire, alone with my fears, my lips pursed in awe at the smooth luxury that surrounded me. "Oh, "I whispered to myself. "If I'm done for, than at least I've had this moment."

"Is that all you're going to say?" rose a voice from behind a Chinese screen. "You had enough to say in the courtyard a few moments ago."

My heart began to pound, my senses whirling. Shaken, I turned to find the "Wall" of my previous acquaintance approaching my seat, a grin of mischief on his features. Who was this then? What had my sharpness gotten me into?

"My name is John Thomas," he offered. "Am I to assume that you are a part of that mad collection of females outside who wish to answer my uncle's advertisement?"

Silently, I nodded, my ashen features offering the words I could not. He paused then, and his eyes began an uncomfortable assessment of what he saw before him. If they had been fingers instead, I reflected, he would have been flogged. But, as it was, I had placed myself on the block, and the right of perusal was his.

"You weren't this quiet outside," he laughed. "Perhaps that bit of paper you're clutching will speak for you then." So saying, he pried the bit of vellum from my fingertips and settled himself into a chair beside me.

"Caroline Parsons, is that your name?" he read. "It says here '18 and unmarried'…how could that be?"

How could he be so insensitive! Didn't he know that the young men of New England lay dead on battlefields to the south, and all that remained for the women of Boston was the barren consolation of grief?

"I-I would have married years ago, had not the war broken out, Sir." I replied, finding my tongue. "As it is, my prime has passed me by, and my courtship period has fallen casualty to the same disastrous circumstance. I am as you see me, eighteen and a spinster."

"And a woman who speaks her mind as well, I see," he laughed. "I like that. New Zealand is no place for wilting pansies. I'm looking for a woman who can hold her own, who can take her place as a wife and mother to a household that doesn't adhere to refined convention. Would that be you?"

My eyes widened. Had I thrown in my lot with a country of heathens? Certainly the lascivious leer that adorned his countenance spoke not well for his fellow countrymen!

"My tongue has been my downfall of a time, Sir. But, rest assured that I know my place and would make a biddable wife should your uncle choose to test me."

"Oh, he'll test you, all right, Miss Parsons. You will be sorely tested indeed before you're through, of that you may be sure. Does that frighten you?"

I paused to weigh my reply, certain that my fate lay in the balance. "There is no life for me here, Sir, at least none that I care to follow. Better to be tested and have hope, than fall to seed through indecision. If your uncle is game, then so am I."

Now it was his turn to pause. Then, taking my hand he turned it palm upward and ran his thumb along its work-roughened surface. "I see that you're a woman not unused to manual labor, Miss Parsons. Your hands speak well of you."

Quickly I snatched my appendage from his grasp and tucked it beneath the edge of my pinafore. "These are not times when refinement is easily preserved, Sir. We must all rise and do our part. I have been no exception."

Satisfied, he settled himself once more into his seat. "You'll work hard in New Zealand as well, Miss. You should know that at the outset. If you choose to accept this contract, you'll be a working wife and expected to tend both the needs of your household…and those of your husband."

At this I flushed. My knowledge of the marriage bed was limited. But surely, the few times in my life when it would be necessary to mate for the sake of offspring would not be unbearable. I had seen dogs and horses coupling of a season, but surely a man would be different. We are not beasts, I reasoned, are we?

"Rest assured, Sir, I will not shirk my duties in any respect. I am willing and capable to fill your uncle's requirements in a wife. Is there anything else that holds you in reserve?"

The pause was ominous now, and I felt my skin prickle in apprehension. At last he spoke, his features constrained and deliberate. "My uncle has charged me to return with a woman of untried virtue," he began. "This, according to his direction, must be verified prior to the closing of the contract."

I was aghast! Had I not written that I was a maiden of virtuous demeanor? Was my word to be suspect? I knew not what this "verification" entailed, but it seemed something of consequence if the expression on John Thomas' face was any indication. "Of course," I lied, "I would not expect it otherwise. Verify it then, and let's be done with it."

I rose from my resting place and reached for a quill on the desk before the fire, intent on affixing my name to yet another testament when my interviewer approached from behind. "You'll have to remove your 'small clothes' if being 'done with it' is truly your intent, young lady," he chuckled. "…for I doubt that a quill would serve my uncle's purpose in this instance."

I gasped, my face mottling in shock. Certainly he was not suggesting that I dispose of my undergarments! What kind of a woman would ever show her limbs to any man? "Surely, you are not suggesting, Sir, that I…" The words stuck in my throat.

Smiling, Master Thomas brought himself up to a formal stance and addressed the issue. "Of course not! It would never have entered my mind," he added weakly. "There is a local woman in the adjoining office who will provide the required certification. I myself will retreat behind the screen and turn discretely away to await her pronouncement. Will that suit you, Miss?"

Still unsure, but realizing that the streets beyond were filled with women who would gladly comply and take my place, I nodded my assent. "That will suit me, Sir. Am I to assume that the contract is mine, then?"

"If you pass, yes," he replied, his eyes smoldering. "Shall I bid the madam enter?"

"Please do, "I replied. "Then we may conclude our business with quill in hand."

Master Thomas stepped briefly into the adjoining room, and returned forthwith with a crone from the local tavern. Was this then the 'local woman' to which he had referred? Her qualification was highly suspect in my estimation. But there she was. Those who waited in the street would have stepped over my bones to be in my position, and so I nodded my approval.

As promised, Master Thomas stepped behind the flimsy filigreed screen that adorned the far wall. I paused until I witnessed that his back was safely toward me, then nodded to the crone to do her job. This, it appeared was to be a curious procedure, for at once the cackling woman led me to the desk by the fire and sat me upon it. Then, pressing me backwards she laid me prone with my feet dangling before the flames.

Anxiously, I glanced toward the screen. Was this abrupt New Zealander true to his word? Had he remained averted as promised? I couldn't be sure. The flickering shadows on the filigree of the screen, and the glare of the fire in my eyes were deceptive. Was that the back of his head, or his leering stare that watched in heavy silence from beyond?

The crone now attacked her task in earnest, and lifting my petticoats began to remove my pantalettes in a manner most disquieting. "Just lay back, Dearie, "she whispered, her tone hushed like that of a lover. "I'll be quick about it, and as gentle as you wish me to be."

As gentle as…? Why would I not want her to be gentle? For that matter, what was there to be gentle about? My underpinnings were soon gathered about my ankles, and the heat of the fire beat warm against my ankles. Was this all there was to it, I wondered? Had I passed the test?

It was then she began to pile the layers of my skirts above my waist, baring my nether regions to the dull glow of the hearth. Immediately, I slapped her hands away. "What are you doing, Woman?" I protested. "Have you taken leave of your senses?"

She stood back then, and fixed her bleary eyes on my shocked expression. "Don't tell me that you don't know what's to be done here, Dearie! If you want to have me testify to your purity, then I have to lay hands on the evidence! Should I stop then?"

Yes, I thought. Stop. Oh please, stop at once. But instead I said, "Get on with it then. Lets have it finished and be done with it." And laying back on the desk I waited for the crone to direct me in the procedure, hoping once more that young Master Thomas had kept to his word.

Immediately, my skirts were again been bundled about my waist, and the woman was spreading my thighs with her course hands. A cough from behind the screen…and I jumped. Was he watching?

"Lay still!" my examiner insisted. "I can't feel a thing with you bobbing about so."

Trembling with shame I lay back once more, and again the foul woman wedged her paws between my legs. Her fingers, so curious, now parted that which none other than my own hand had ever encountered, and then only for the purpose of cleanliness. Closer she leaned, her face all but buried beneath the mound of my skirts.

The warmth of the fire now filled the void between my thighs, and insinuated itself within the very lips of my womanhood. The probe of my inquisitor's fingers became more intimate as the seconds ticked by, prodding and poking uncomfortably at what I could only guess. My breath came in ragged gasps, thundering in my ears…but was it my own? Perhaps it was a mere flight of imagination, but it seemed that the heavy sighs that echoed in my head came not from me, but from behind the Chinese screen.

Cringing, I closed my eyes and wished it to be over, longing to have my small clothes back on once again. "Done, Dearie," whispered the crone, removing her glistening fingers. "I'll make my mark as to your virtue, I will, but I wonder how long you'll stay that way," she laughed, indicating the milky coating on her fingers.

Quickly, I gathered my pantalettes and turned from the screen in order to replace them in their proper position. I had barely tied the cord about my waist, when John Thomas left his exile and joined us before the fire.

"She's passed then?" he asked the crone, a knowing look in his eyes. "I'll have you make your mark here, Madam, and you may leave with my thanks and a coin for your trouble."

The old woman placed an X on the appropriate spot, and then biting the coin, she turned and was gone. "Now it's your turn," he said facing me. "Are you sure you still want this alliance?"

I thought but for an instant, then hastily accepted the quill. My fate lay with heaven now, and I forced my misgivings behind me. I would not be a spinster, a woman barren of child and warmth. I would be the wife of Sean Alan Thomas Esq., a married woman of admirable standing in the village of Wellington, New Zealand. I would have his name, his children and his bed. God help me. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 2

The first few weeks aboard ship were pleasant enough, and I heartily enjoyed both the bustling ports along the eastern coast, and the companionship of my nephew-to-be. At every anchorage, vendors gathered along the wharf, hawking their wares and praising the craftsmanship of my future husband's ship, the "Unicorn."

The wool which had made its way to northern ports from New Zealand and sold for a handsome profit was gone now, and in its stead were treasures from America, coveted goods to appease the markets of Wellington and Auckland. Fine silks and Irish laces, smuggled through Confederate barricades from Europe and delicately crafted silver finery from world-renowned Boston silversmiths made their way onboard. Light Southern cotton and dark Kentucky tobacco, both rare during the War, now filled the holds and molasses by the keg, to be made into Jamaican rum cluttered the decks.

The Unicorn was a beautiful square-rigged ship, if that is the word one uses for ships. Her decks were sleek, and her cabins well appointed. Our passage along the southern seacoast, was without incident. Fair days and starry nights greeted our every move, and crisp breezes sang a song of a wondrous summer to come.

John, for that is what I called him now, was my constant companion aboard ship. In port, he was quick to conduct his business, then return to escort me along the byways of the city to share in its pleasures. Our nights at sea were spent in the privacy of my tiny parlor, chatting and laughing over the happenings of the day, or discovering the stars atop the slowly shifting deck which carried us ever farther from the only home I had ever known.

Finally came the day when we broke free of the American coastline to make our way through the Indies and into open sea, bound for the Straits of Magellan at the extreme tip of South America. The ship now lost its protection from the barrier islands and bobbed mercilessly, rolling on glassy swells until I feared that I would have to spend the rest of the trip below decks attending to my toilet.

John Thomas was my lifeline in this however, perpetually caring for my discomfort and calming my unfounded fears. I don't know if it was then or later, that I discovered that I loved him.

Perhaps it was the realization that no man had ever paid me this degree of attention that first drew me to him, or perhaps it was the curious feeling that grew within me each time he steadied my hand along the rolling deck…but I loved him. I was to be the wife of his uncle, bound by contract in marriage to a man I'd never seen, and in love with another. Fate was indeed an ironic mistress.

My soon-to-be nephew, it would seem, held no such feelings for me. In all ways, his manner was above reproach. One would have thought me a cherished aunt in long standing, were it not for the relative closeness of our ages. It was from his lips that I learned of my future husband, and of the ways of my new homeland.

New Zealand was a young land, a place where a man's metal stood the test, and a woman's fortitude meant the difference between a ripe old age and an early grave. My husband's homestead lay a rough journey of some fifteen miles to the southeast of Wellington, at the confluence of the Wai-kohu and Karori rivers, in an area known as Waiariki. It was a solitary place, populated mainly by the sheepherding families employed on the property and a small Maori village. The few women who had been courageous enough to brave the current native hostilities were few and bound by law, loyalty and necessity to their husbands who worked the flocks. A lonely life at best, and a tragic one of occasion, they were a sturdy breed who faced their lot with solid resiliency.

My husband was a widower of many years, his wife having fallen ill with consumption and been buried with her kin in Wellington. That there had been no offspring from this union was curious, for they had been joined in marriage for almost 10 years. It was for this reason that the elder Thomas, my future husband, wished a wife of child bearing age, that he might gain an heir of his own bloodline before he reached his seniority.

Perhaps it was because of the stereotype of the sturdy American woman, or the desire to be shed of additional in-laws, but he had chosen to take his new bride from America. And so, on the next trading voyage to Boston, he had added a bride to his list of return cargo. I had been bought and paid for as much as the bales of cotton below decks, procured as breeding stock for my husbands lineage.

As the weeks rolled by, the fantasies of my faceless husband began to take on the shape of John Thomas. I chose, in my girlish fashion, to visualize my marriage as one of romantic perfection, instead of legal and hereditary necessity. I had been chosen as the willing consort of a foreign prince, a coveted prize to be cherished and adored for the rest of my days. No whim was too bold, no pleasure to far afield for me, for I was the "Chosen One." For me anything was possible. I had but to voice my desires, and they would be instantly mine. My husband, who exalted me above all else, would see to it.

Our offspring, a hearty throng, would be comprised of handsome boys and angelic girls, dancing carefree among the wildflowers as the world envied us. Life would be perfect, the living manifestation of a dream.

It was not until we had made our tenuous crossing through the Straits that I found my fantasies dashed to the ground. John and had been strolling along the deck, my first outing since braving the rough seas along the Argentine coast. We settled along the prow and John had begun to point out the southern constellations that seemed so foreign to me. He had just drawn my attention to the Southern Cross, when I closed my eyes and made a wish upon a shooting star.

John laughed at my winsome ways, his warm tones washing over me like sweet honey. "What did you wish for?" he asked. "You can tell me. I'm the soul of discretion…I swear!" he chuckled.

He was looking for a game, I thought, a bit of amusement to fill a few moments of tedium, and so I decided to share my fantasies with him. Dramatically, I described my Prince and the wondrous life I had come to dream of, never noting the lull that had overtaken him. Finally, my tale completed, I looked toward him to gauge his response.

My companion was silent at first, as though warring between reason and honesty. Finally, as my apprehension reached uncomfortable proportions he began to speak.

"Caroline, is that what you expect in New Zealand…a fairytale? Do you anticipate a life of romance and flowery perfection? If you are to have any chance of happiness in your marriage, then I think you must face reality head on, and not bury yourself in childish dreams. I thought you knew that."

I had known that my fantasies were fanciful…but childish dreams? Warily I appraised John's stance, his demeanor, and found the shadow of dread creeping over my soul.

"Tell me, John. What is reality then? Are you friend enough to tell all?"

John cleared his throat and heaved a heavy sigh, as though a heavy burden had been placed upon his shoulders. Then turning in the moonlight he curled his finger beneath my chin and captured my gaze.

"My uncle is not a genteel man, the kind of man you would find in the drawing rooms of Boston," he began. "He's a man used to the toil of his own hands, to the rough life of a new land. He is crude offtimes, and demanding in his ways. He'll expect much of you, Caroline." He paused, then clearing his throat once more he continued.

"My uncle has had many women, New Zealanders, tending his needs since his wife passed away, but none of them survived their own discontent. All returned to Wellington in short order. Perhaps this is why he chose a bride from so far away. Leaving would not be an option for you. You'd have to stay."

My fantasies shattered, I stood in shocked silence until my voice once more found me. "And, what of these women, then? If your uncle has had so many, why has he not married, bid them stay and produced offspring to carry on his line? Has he not found them to his liking?"

John laughed at that point, not the merry laugh I had become so used to, but a low, indelicate sound that made my skin crawl. "Oh, he fancied them, alright. My uncle is a lusty man, my girl. He's akin to a beast in the fields when it comes to women. If one had born him a child, I daresay he would have married her and claimed his heir. But, given the numbers of women who have warmed his bed, I have surmised over the years, in fact, that perhaps an heir is not possible."

A double shock assailed my mind, cruel and unexpected blows. Had I traveled to the ends of the earth in order to remain childless after all?

"Then why has your uncle sent for a bride, with no heir in sight? Why has he been so cautious as to secure an untried maiden for his bed, when any willing strumpet would have done as well?" I asked, my eyes filling with tears of remorse.

He sighed and turned his attention briefly away, preferring to avoid my distress. "We all have our fantasies, Caroline. You have yours, and my uncle has his. Perhaps he still dreams that the fault lay with his wife and her successors, and not with himself. At any rate, it is like him to want a bride of proven virtue. He doesn't care to be second in anything, and certainly not in his wife's bed. Your innocence will appeal to him. He'll enjoy…"

There he stopped, and no amount of urging could coax him to continue. I began to cry in earnest then, fat tears rolling down my countenance in twisting contrails along my jaw. My legs began to shake so horribly that I feared they would fail me and I would crumple to the deck.

Seeing my distress, John reached out his hand in comfort, an arm encircling my waist, steadying me in my time of need. "I need to retire to my cabin, John. This has all been a great shock to me! Would you take my arm, for I fear my footing in this unsteady condition."

Together, we made our way toward the narrow stairs that lead downward into the bowels of the ship, and on to my cabin. John led the way here, for my ability to function had been compromised and I wavered dangerously.

Finally, we reached my doorway and he escorted me inside. There I collapsed on the bed and began my wails anew, the hopelessness of the situation overcoming any claim I had ever had to modesty.

"Caroline…I don't know what to say! If I'd had any suspicion that you were so unaware of the conditions of this contract, I would have never… Please, stop crying, Caroline. What's done is done. You'll die of melancholy before we dock at this rate."

I turned then and buried my face in the pillows, my muted sobs rising in forlorn counterpoint to the sound of wind and waves beyond. John was beside himself. His massive palm now gentle and caring as it stoked my hair in consolation.

"I have something that might help in my cabin," he offered hesitantly. "Let me leave, and I'll return with it straightaway."

True to his word, John was once again at my side before the tide of my grief had risen to insurmountable proportions. In his hand he held what appeared to be a flask of blown glass, dark green and half filled with a ruby red liquid of some unknown variety.

"French wine," he offered. "I have a number of cases for my uncle in my cabin. I've taken to liberating a few bottles along the way," he laughed.

Quickly searching the room, John soon found a bone china cup along the side board and began to fill it. "Try this." He offered. "It's said to have miraculous calming properties. Don't worry, there's not enough there to have you hanging from the mizzen in your pantalettes."

I blushed at his reference to my underpinnings, and took the fragile vessel from his hands. Then, pressing my lips to the finely chiseled edge, I took a hearty draught. Unaccustomed as I was to spirits, the first gulp left me breathless and in dire distress. Choking on the tailings of the heady liquid, I soon felt the trail of fire it seared into my innards, and the fiery comfort that begin to settle into the pit of my stomach.

Again I sipped, not so eager this time, and found my second attempt not quite so demanding. Moments ticked by, and a warm lassitude began to overcome me. The fears that had besieged me now began to fade into nothingness, and a new, bolder countenance rose to fill their place. Perhaps if I told John how I felt, I surmised in a foggy state, then all of this would become unnecessary. I would have my fairytale, babies in abundance, and the husband of my dreams. We could settle a homestead in New Zealand and start a life together.

Tentatively, I reached out my hand and lay it atop his thigh in order to draw his attention. Immediately he jumped, as though I had set his breeches on fire!

"Caroline! I wish you wouldn't do that," he blurted out. "Sometimes you're all a man can bear. Don't you know what dangerous waters you're treading upon?"

Dangerous? Was I dangerous then? Surely that was not the case! Again I reached for him, this time drawing him beside me on the edge of the counterpane, his hand in my own.

"John," I began, "…do you have any feeling for me? For, if truth be known, I have developed an attachment for you."

There, I'd said it! Hurrah for the boldness that came with French wine, I thought, the better to speak the truth when only the truth will do.

Nervously, John coughed, and laying a pillow across his lap he looked deeply into my eyes. "Caroline, you don't know what you're saying. It's the wine talking, not you. You're to be wed to my uncle. Nothing can change that. To think otherwise is merely spitting in the wind. This must go no further!"

Stunned, I braced myself for another assault. Then, taking his hand I placed a delicate kiss into his palm. "This has been on my mind for weeks now, John. It must be said before all is lost. Am I so plain that you have no feeling for me at all?"

"Plain!" he replied. "You think yourself plain? Who has filled you with this cruel falsehood? Since the moment I laid eyes on you in the courtyard in Boston, I've thought of nothing but your rare beauty. Has no one ever told you that?"

"Then why…" I began, now pressing my lips against his fingertips. "I don't understand. We could take our vows before the captain this very night, and spend the rest of the voyage as man and wife. Would that not please you?" I asked, my hand now finding its way to his thigh once more.

Silently he sat beside me, clutching that dratted pillow against his lap as though to protect him from the trials of the damned. Instead of quelling my ardor, however, his silence and the swirling languor that had overtaken me now compounded to give vent to boldness that I had never experienced. Brazenly, I leaned forward and placed a kiss upon his generous lips.

"Caroline!" he gasped, his eyes growing as intense as his speech. "You mustn't do such things! A man can only be expected to bear…"

Again I kissed him, and tossing the pillow aside, I attempted to curl myself into his lap. This time John was not as distant, and as I settled myself against the hard, uneven contours of his thighs he began to return my advances with an intensity of his own.

"Oh, Caroline," he whispered huskily, his lips crushing against my own. "You have no idea…" And then he gently reclined me on the counterpane, his fingers parting the hooks of my bodice. My heart beat thunderously in my ears as I felt his lips trail hungrily along the length of my throat, coming to rest on the lacy edge of my chemise. Then, with shaking hands, he raised the hem of my undergarment and drew one dusky nipple into his mouth and began to suck.

I was in heaven! It was as though my very blood were afire! Was this then the mating ritual of man and woman? If so, my mother had been sorely mistaken, for even now I hungered for more, whatever that might be.

Now John Thomas spread me full length atop the coverlet and continued to feed eagerly at my breasts. His right hand, as though summoned by my own silent pleas, then made its way along the length of my hose, scrunching up my petticoats as it made its way toward my vanishing hemline. Once more I felt a curious moisture make its way between my thighs, but this time in copious profusion. Had I lost control of my bladder, I wondered. Was this also part and parcel of French wine?

Finally, my skirts in disarray, I felt his huge hand insinuate itself between my inner thighs to the point where the slit of my pantalettes gaped for the purpose of urination. He paused but for a second, and then I felt his masculine fingers massaging the fine silk of my mound, trailing in the bubbling effluent that escaped my private domain.

Transfixed, I watched as he raised his hand to his mouth and began to taste the creamy sauce that had escaped so humiliatingly from my body. What was he doing? Why…

And then he pressed me roughly against the bed, his huge body covering my own as he positioned himself between my thighs, a hungry look of abandonment overcoming his congenial countenance.

"No man alive could say you 'nay', Caroline," he growled as he tore at the buttons of his britches. "…and I'm very much alive. My uncle…"

And there he paused, as though given sudden access to a vision that was his alone. "My uncle…" he repeated, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "My uncle has sent me to bring you intact to his bedchamber. Would that I could bury myself in your moist flesh, I would be a happy man. But if I have any honor within me, I must withdraw."

Then, with a remorseful stare he removed himself from my person, and grasping his trousers together he hurriedly retreated from my bedchamber, leaving me to collect the remains of my clothing as I would. Silently, my eyes filled with tears of frustration and loss. Humiliation overcame me, and I turned upon my pillow and sobbed inconsolably. There would be no reprieve for me from the fate to which I had consigned myself. My only hope lay in the possibility that John Thomas had underestimated the motives of his uncle. Barring that, I was lost.

For the remainder of our time aboard the Unicorn, my escort limited our companionship to lighter topics, and always above decks. Finally, on July 26th we spotted the beautiful harbor of Wellington and saw that a celebration was at hand. It seemed that Parliament, after much ado, had finally settled itself within the township of Wellington, fact that was eliciting a great deal of local exuberance.

As we dropped anchor in the harbor and lowered the longboats, I was amazed at the lush grandeur of my surroundings. High cliffs heralded the green hills beyond, and a salty breeze filled the air with a crisp, wintry clarity that had been sorely missed on my long stays below decks. The city, which rightly this settlement of 5000 souls must be called, was a place filled with the laughter of revelers and the tinkling voices of children at play. Immediately, my fears became waylaid, and I began to envision myself among them, a happy expatriate on the shores of a new land.

For John, however, this was apparently not the case, for try as I might I was unable make eye contact with him on the brief row to shore. It was as though he was attempting to distance himself from me, if not by physical fact, then by insinuation.

Our approach had been much heralded, It would seem, for as I climbed awkwardly from the dory I found myself surrounded by an eager throng who quickly began loading my trunks aboard a rugged looking cart for the trip southward to Waiariki. I would have preferred, instead, to remain for a night in the city, listening to the merrymakers commune in the streets while I attempted to regain my land legs, but it had apparently been planned otherwise. My husband, it seemed, had expressed concern for my well-being in such an abandoned atmosphere, and had sent his servants to escort me directly to him.

When all had been loaded, John hopped silently aboard the cart, while I was guided to a carriage upon which a gentleman in black sat awaiting my arrival.

"Reverend Collinswood, Miss," he said, offering his hand to aid in my placement. "I'm to officiate at your wedding this evening, if you don't mind."

"So soon?" I blurted out. "But, I've only just arrived, Sir. Surely there is time for me to settle myself and rest a bit before my nuptials!"

"Rest? Settle yourself? Surely, my good woman, you're not suggesting that you live in an unwed state under Mister Thomas' roof until then! Why…it would be unheard of…a scandal! Think of your reputation!"

Shocked, I took my place by his side and the carriage began to make its way along the crowded streets. Soon the revelers fell far behind, and the green hills of the north island closed in about us. It was hard for me to think of July as the middle of winter, but the crisp air testified to the truth of it, and I found myself drawing my woolen mantle about me as we made our way into the countryside. Here and there the bright song of a sea bird cut the silence and I strained to see what sort of creature had thus welcomed me. But, on we went, never stopping to pause until my bladder begged for relief and the evening slowly crept across the land.

The sun was just making a fiery bow in the west as we crested the last hill and made our final approach toward the estate of Sean Thomas Esq. It was a lovely place, built of strong timbers and native stone, sprawling in all directions but very much at ease in its surroundings.

Quickly, we drew abreast of the ornately carved staircase and were immediately met by a small gathering of what I could only surmise were the Maori of whom I had heard so much. These, then, must be servants of the manor, I thought, for they seemed not at all fierce or warlike. In fact, a young woman, barely more than a child, hurried forward to welcome me and assist me in climbing from my stiff and unyielding perch to the ground below.

She was dressed in a squarish bandeau of sorts, a delicately decorated bodice that left her arms bare and topped a long skirt of some sort of woven fiber. Her golden skin was marked with an intricate tattoo about her lips and chin, and her eyes spoke of warmth and intelligence. I, for one, was relieved to see her, for I had been suffering under the apprehension that I would be the only female to reside within these walls. It was with great pleasure that I found this comely child in residence, a friend in the making.

The gathering lost no time in hurrying me into the interior of my new home, and then beyond into the drawing room of my fiancé. It was in that place that I was brought up short.

There, standing before the fire, stood Sean Thomas. He was a large man, strong of body with an unkempt moustache that all but covered his upper lip. His hands were massive, hard and calloused with the proof of his labors, and his unruly thatch of hair made him look for all the world like a wild man fresh from the wilderness. He towered above me by a measure of perhaps a foot or more, causing me to tip my head to reach his eyes. It was there that true dread began to set in, and I felt the urge to turn and run.

Had John described him as crude? In this I feared an underestimation, for the lecherous leer that crossed his features left little to calm my trepidation. Instead, I felt the piercing hunger of his eyes fairly stripping me of my garments and devouring what they found beneath. Shaken, I cringed and held my ground.

"So, you're her?" he questioned bluntly. "Name?"

"C-Caroline," I stammered, "Caroline Parsons, Sir. And you are…"

"Sean Thomas, of course, Woman. Who did you think!" He looked then to John, and nodded his head. "You've done well, John." He leered appreciatively. "She'll make a fine bed warmer on these chilly nights," he laughed. "So, my girl, shall we do the deed?"

I opened my mouth to protest. I needed a moment to refresh myself from the long journey, a reprieve to acclimate my senses for was to come, but he would have none of it. Instead, he clasped my fragile hand in his own and began to drag me to the curved staircase that led to the second floor, and what I assumed were the bedrooms.

"Wait!" I whimpered. "Isn't there a ceremony to be observed…first?" I blushed, praying for more time. "I mean, we must keep up conventions, mustn't we?"

He stopped then and gave me a look that left no illusions as to his estimation of my intelligence. "Of course, you twit! What do you take me for? But I'll not sign my name to a marriage contract unless I've examined the merchandise firsthand, Girl. Chastity on paper and chastity between those legs of yours may be two different things," he laughed, amused at his own turn of phrase. "Come along, Woman, and let's get down to the facts." And with that he fairly dragged me up the stairs and down the carpeted hallway into a massive bedroom that dominated the east wing. There, closing the door behind him, he turned to command me.

"Remove your pantalettes and lay back on the bed," he instructed, my horror rising. "And when you have done so, part your thighs so that I may be assured of your virtue."

Had not the clergyman been waiting downstairs, I would have escaped once more to the wharf and fled back to my beloved New England posthaste. But there I was, and there I would stay. Shamefaced, I turned my back and lifted the hem of my hoopskirt, sliding my quivering palms over my crisp, white linen until I clasped the thin drawstring that secured my underpinnings. A tug, so minor, and yet so eventful, and I felt them loosen and fall about my ankles.

Hesitantly, I looked in askance, hoping that this act would suffice, but finding to my dismay that it would not. Then, slowly turning, I climbed atop the surface of his massive four poster and spread my quaking limbs beneath the volumes of my petticoats.

His eyes, so black and piercing, scanned my features like twin captors awaiting the spoils of war. Then slowly, and brooking no protestations, he raised the layers of my skirts to expose the pale flesh of my body.

Immediately, I felt the chill air of the room assail the bared flesh above my garters, chilling those intimate parts not covered by my hose. There, he paused to admire, his palms resting intimately between my cringing limbs.

My face became pink, then horridly red as humiliation overcame me. Did all prospective brides have to undergo this intimate scrutiny, I wondered? Were all maidenly claims of chastity so suspect? Then I gasped. His hand, so still at the onset, was now parting the silken bastion of my femininity, exposing my most intimate secrets to the invasion of his probing fingers. What was expected of me now, I wondered, my fear and trepidation rising. What should I…

And then I felt it, a painful twinge that tested the resiliency of my delicate flesh, a probe of such sufficient proportions that I feared it would threaten to end my days as an innocent. I squirmed to escape his grasp, a protest forming upon my lips, but found it unnecessary. His inquisition ceased at that point, and was replaced instead by a persistent stroking of his work-roughened fingers against the tiny protrusion now hardening along the upper reaches of my moistened slit. Was this part of the inspection, I wondered, feeling a warm coil of intimate tension forming in the pit of my belly. What demon was this stranger conjuring between my thighs?

His eyes now appeared to burn like the embers of a long-banked fire, smoldering and ready to erupt. Slowly he ran his tongue along his lower lip and leaned closer to that which he was wont to examine. I twined my fingers in my auburn tresses and closed my eyes, horrified at his invasion and the abandonment he had elicited. My body began to betray me then, an unbidden wetness surging into his palm, accompanied by a shaking and loss of control that left me helpless and conquered. Loud, immodest whimpers fled my lips, and my writhing flesh grew hot beneath his ministrations.

He leaned closer…closer yet until his breath blew warmly within my flowing sex. Eagerly, his lips parted. It was then I felt his tongue, wet and hungry, doing unspeakable things as he held me fast.

"Tonight," he murmured huskily, "tonight…

Chapter Three

The flush that had overtaken my cheeks remained throughout the ceremony. What must this gathering be thinking, I wondered? Were they privy to what had transpired upstairs… to my abject humiliation? Did they know what was to come next? If so, then they were far ahead of my dim understanding. Surely my husband would not care to sire a child this very night, mere moments after meeting me! The awkwardly degrading penetrations that my Mother had described could wait until another day, could they not?

Apparently, my fiancé had other plans, however, for as soon as we regained our place in the drawing room, he signaled for the minister to begin the ceremony. I was aghast! Was no one to protest my treatment? Was there no one to champion my plight?

John, it would seem, was not to be the one to intercede, for he had placed himself beside the large front window and gazed out at the night as if he wished it to be over quickly. The minister, likewise, hurried on with his charge, and was soon intoning the scripture that would join me to the burly lecher at my side. The young woman who had greeted me stood in the doorway, her eyes downcast in discomfort. I was alone. There would be no reprieve.

Quickly, the minister completed his ritual, and all were summoned into the dining room to feast on roast mutton, Maori bread and a form of local sweet potato called" kumara." My husband, apparently ravenous, tore a massive hunk of meat from a small haunch and devoured it lustily. Then, downing it with a pint of ale, he motioned for me to hurry with my meal as the night was growing late.

All about me, knowing eyes shifted from my husband to myself, as though envisioning what the night was to bring. My stomach coiled in apprehension and my appetite fled to the four winds. Finally my husband stood, and belching resoundingly, bid all a goodnight and captured my hand for the trip back up the stairs to his bedchamber.

Impatiently, he tugged, overcoming my reluctance with sheer brute force until I once more found myself outside his rooms, timorously awaiting his connubial dictates.

Without hesitation he propelled me through the portal and smiled, his lips curling into a hungry grimace, and locked the door behind him. Then, crossing toward the blazing fireplace, he settled himself into a heavy leather-bound chair.

"You have the face of an angel," he murmured huskily, "and the body of a whore. I intend to use both…come here."

My pulse began to race. What misfortune had I gotten myself into? Was it too late to turn and…

"Come here!" he repeated, his tone testifying to his intent. "You're my wife, and by God you'll obey me!"

My knees began to tremble, my step faltering. How I called up the strength to do as I was bid was nothing short of a miracle. But, suddenly the distance between us closed, and I found myself standing by his side.

His eyes seemed to look straight through me, tearing away at my chemise and bloomers until I felt stripped before him. Then, closing his ham-like fist about my arm, he dragged me between his outstretched thighs and began to paw at the pristine lace of my bodice. "Take it off," he demanded. "Here, in front of the fire. And be quick about it."

My fingers trembled, but I hurriedly found myself releasing the hooks that so confined my bosoms. My husband stared impatiently as I fumbled, the front of his breeches becoming distorted with something I could only cringe to think about. At last I had removed my outer garment, my whalebone corset, and was down to my chemise, that final, brief veil between my unbridled breasts and the leer of my tormentor.

"Hurry up, Woman. Take it off!" he growled, his hand stroking the burden between his thighs. Tearfully, I slipped the thin cotton covering over my head, and dropped it to the floor atop my bodice, then crossed my arms over my nakedness.

He wasted no time, my husband, and reaching out he grasped my elbow and pulled me to him, a prisoner caught between his steely thighs. Then, bending me backwards over his knee he imprisoned my wrists above my head with his left hand while his right had its way.

Painfully he groped, mashing my tender flesh, pulling and pinching my nipples until they stood upright in scarlet distress. A groan of satisfaction passed his lips, as though his prior estimation had now been vindicated, and then his calloused fingers began to slide downward across to my body to bury themselves beneath the band of my traveling skirt.

A yank, and another, and the delicate fabric lay in rags between my feet. Then another, and another yet, until my undergarments followed and finally I lay bare before his eyes.

"No," I whimpered. "Please. I'm an innocent…don't…"

"You're a wife," he interrupted threateningly. "I expect you to act like one. Now close your lips about THIS and I'll hear no more from you."

So saying, pressed me to the floor, positioning me on my knees at his feet. Then rising, he unbuttoned his breeches and released that which had so distressed the front of his clothing. I stared in horror as he exposed himself to me, for I had never seen an unclothed man before in my life! Was this, then, what I was to tolerate for the rest of my married existence?

As though he had read my mind, he laughed. "Get used to it, Woman. You'll be well met before this night is done. Now part those tiny, pink lips and give it a kiss."

As his trousers slipped downward around his ankles, I felt his fingers grasp the carefully pinned remnants of my coiffure. The tendrils of my tresses immediately fell loose about his fist, and he used them to secure my position for his wanton purposes. I tried to struggle…to pull away, but he would have none of it. A smart smack on my left cheek soon led me to believe that only my absolute submission would be tolerated. And so, tightly closing my eyes, I leaned forward to press upon his thick, hairy member the required homage.

It had looked purple and angry, this thing I was to confront so intimately. I looked once more into my husband's eyes, seeking the reprieve I needed so desperately, but found only the hard features of a man of determination. His hand urged me forward, pressing insistently against the back of my head until his turgid flesh nudged the thin membrane of my lips.

My husband groaned in satisfaction and pressed closer, his fingers tightening in my hair. His purple-clad member, now hard and distended to startling proportions, began to dig between my lips, to batter at my teeth like a tinker pounding at the gate.

"Open them up, Woman, and take it inside!" he demanded gruffly. "Suck it like a sweet, for it's to be your nightly candy from this day on."

Tears began to flow in earnest now. How could I? A sweet? My mother had said nothing about this! Had my father loaded this abuse upon her martyred body night after night as well?

Hesitantly, I parted my teeth, and at once found him plunging deep into my mouth. I began to gag, to pull away, but he held me fast, a prisoner restrained by the auburn strands of my own curls. He began to rut at that moment, like a cur impaling a bitch, forcing his swelling member deep into my throat. Bestial sounds emanated from his lips, forming a discordant chorus with my own whimpers. Then a curious thing happened. Tiny droplets of thin, sweet cream began to trickle against my tongue, dribbling down my throat and seeping from the corners of my mouth. Was this, then, a "mating"…his seed? Was I now with child?

Suddenly, he stopped, and tearing his organ from my lips he dragged me to his bed. There, once more he laid me on my back, and forced my hands above my head.

"Don't move," he ordered, removing the last vestiges of his clothing. "…or your pain this night will be two-fold. I can assure you of that!"

If his last comment was intended to show me his compassion, it did not, for his eyes told another tale. Black they were now, ebony and filled with lust. Whatever thoughts were on his mind, mercy was not among them. And so, panting in anticipation he spread my thighs as before and positioned himself between them. "One last taste of this untried morsel," he whispered, "…and then it is no more."

His lips were brutal this time, demanding as they attempted to suck the very life from me. His tongue found a crevice, ever so slight, and curled deep inside my body. My pulse began to race, a thin, unmaidenly line of perspiration forming on my upper lip. I was on fire, with no idea how to quench the flames.

Finally, his first course complete, my husband raised himself upon his knees between my legs and clasped my ankles, one in each steely fist. Then, still in his grasp, he lifted my legs and pressed them upwards until I felt I would become unhinged. My nether lips gaped wide, my moist, pink immodesty exposed to his gaze. I felt a shiver overcome me as he briefly released my left ankle and steadied his member in his right hand. This, he placed at the oozing gate of my maidenhood, the site of my earlier humiliation.

My hands, still raised above my head, now grasped the brass headboard in trembling anticipation. Was this…was this…? And then pain, quick and sharp overcame me, penetrating like a spearhead deep into my body. I screamed, once and again, crying out as I felt his massive intrusion tear the last barrier of my virginity from me. Then, still embedded, he glanced in satisfaction at the pink-tinged froth that coated the root of his manhood.

It was as though the sight had driven him mad. Lunged, he did, now without pause, harder and harder with each thrust of his hips. The tiny orifice that he assailed became battered and torn, and yet he continued. Once more I felt the heat rise within me, a strange coiling in the very pit of my belly. Had he planted his seed, I wondered? Was this fiery turmoil the sign of a child forming already in my womb?

Tighter and tighter it coiled, this sensation within me, until I felt I would scream in frustration if I could not be delivered from it. My husband, a heavy coating of perspiration now glistening upon his hairy flesh, began to tremble, to shake before me as his member swelled to even greater proportions. Then, with a loud groan he shuddered and I felt myself flooded with heat, the molten effluent of his ministrations as it filled my body. A few more lunges, slower now and deliberate, and he slumped atop my flushed and unrequited form.

I lay stunned. Was there no more? Was the fire that had begun to consume me to find no release in this bed? In reticence I remembered the mad pulsating rush that had accompanied his touch before our nuptials. Perhaps that was just an aberration, the wanton response of this whore's body that held me captive. I must control my emotions, I cautioned myself. This nocturnal pastime is a man's pleasure, not a woman's…and certainly not a lady's. Once more my mother's words filled my mind. I must be prepared to give to my husband that which is rightfully his, and without hesitation.

But…what about me?

Chapter Four

The next morning my husband stripped the bloody sheet from our marriage bed and hung it from the open window for all to see that my deflowering was complete and the union had been resoundingly consummated. I was mortified, but my husband proudly waved to his minions, then returned to his bed to levy an encore upon my sore and aching body.

This time, however, possibly in an effort to spare the naked mattress a soaking, he forced me to my knees beside the bed, my naked derriere exposed for purposes. Then, taking his pleasure as a dog is wont to do, he forced his knob into my slit, penetrating deeply with brutally painful lunges until I feared my that newly broken flesh would rupture once more and send me into gales of tears. Finally, after he had taken his fill, he flooded my battered womb with his boiling fluids amid a chorus of guttural epithets and slumped atop my quivering form to regain his strength.

I have no concept of time at this point, but at last he pulled his limp member from my torn and weeping channel and rose to dress for the day. Gratefully, I slumped to the floor, my eyes dully taking in his naked form as he once more donned his clothing and prepared to break his morning fast.

"Get dressed," he ordered, "…and be quick about it. You'll find no freeloading in this house, Girl. If you're to eat, then you'll earn it by God!" So saying, he strode toward the door, then abruptly turned. "And, if I don't see you downstairs straightaway, you'll be eating more than porridge this morn, Woman!" He laughed heartily at his choice of words, then giving his manhood a significant squeeze, he turned and vanished from the room.

Oh, how I wished that I could bring that sheet indoors and hide it forever, but I knew that I dare not. Instead, I stiffly attended to my toilet and opened the first of my trunks to secure a muslin dress and pinafore for the day ahead. Then hastily, dreading the thought of his footsteps on the stairs once more, I gathered my clothing about me, pinned my hair and scurried to the kitchen to begin my daily chores as mistress of the household.

By the time I arrived, my husband had, gratefully, consumed his massive portion of sausages and eggs and had gone to saddle his horse for a tour of his pastures before luncheon. Pania, for that was what the young Maori woman was called, had already cleared away the Master's dishes and had set a portion on the sideboard for my own morning ritual. Wordlessly she stifled her concern as I tenderly settled my abused undercarriage into a heavy, straight-backed chair and tried to make myself comfortable for the meal to come.

"Aitia, she" smiled in sympathy. Then offering a downy cushion to comfort my abused flesh, she once more turned to her chores.

"Aitia?" I replied curiously. "I don't understand. What's 'aitia'?"

Again the young woman turned, this time curling the fingers of her left hand into a circle and thrusting the rigid prongs of her right in and out in a lascivious motion.

I flushed a beet red. So that was "aitia." I feared that the whole of New Zealand would be thinking "aitia" this day, and chuckling at my horrified expense.

Pania laughed at my shocked expression. "Ure," she explained, indicating the stiffened fingers of her right hand. "Nono," she added, holding out the circled digits of her left. Then with both together she cupped her belly and smiled. "Maybe 'hapu" you," she concluded, her message clear. Perhaps I was already with child!

If that proved to be the case, I pondered, it would be a double blessing indeed. Not only would I have the child I so craved, but it would replace the need for my husband to mate with me again for years to come. "Hapu" indeed! I only wished it were so.

The remainder of the day was spent in familiarizing myself with the rituals of my husband's household. There, I began to learn the ways of this beautiful new country, and found that it would not be as alien as I had feared. Pania proved to be invaluable to me in this, explaining in her halting English and graphic gestures that which I strived to learn.

By the time by husband had returned from the fields for his afternoon meal, I was already carving thick slabs of cold cheese and mutton and slicing warm, buttered bread to fill his stomach until evening. Quickly, I served him his meal, then retired to the fireplace to stir the stew I was simmering for the evening.

"Ale, Woman. My glass is empty. I need a refill." He shot in my direction.

Quickly, I reached for his glass, and began to turn toward the keg which sat on its cradle in the corner of the room. I had not gotten a single step, however, before my husband drew me back against him and settled me upon his lap.

"How are ya feelin' this afternoon, Wife?" He asked, his fingers idly tracing the exposed neckline of my chemisette. "Has your puss begun to heal yet?"

Immediately, I flushed a deep red. My "puss" as he called it, was as sore as bushel of bee stings. I would be glad and grateful indeed when he let me go.

"I'm fine, Sir," I lied. "I have my chores to attend to now, if you would allow me to return with your ale."

With that his face became contorted with ire, and I felt his grip tighten about my waist.

"Chores, is it? Are you talking back to me, Woman? I'm the only chore you can't put off! If I want you on my lap, then it's on my lap you'll be until I say differently. Do you understand?"

Eyes widening, I nodded my head. This was no place for a sharp tongue, I surmised. And so I remained until my husband had properly investigated my cleavage and had moved on to more intimate objectives.

His hand now slipped beneath my skirts and began to probe within the slit of my drawers, fingering with gusto that which he had destroyed the night before. Ashamed, I the listened for the sound of approaching footsteps. What if someone were to come upon us now, I wondered. What would be said of this sorry American wench over evening meals this night? What lurid whispers would fill the darkness at my expense?

As though responding to my most dreaded fears, my husband slowly rose and brushed the pewter plates to the floor. Then, landing me resoundingly on my back atop the heavy wooden table, be proceeded to unleash his tool once more.

"Take off those blasted pantalettes," he demanded, "…and don't put them back on until I give you leave!"

Impatiently he watched as I struggled to divest myself of my undergarments, and then began to stroke himself vigorously with his right hand.

"Slide your arse to the end of the table, Woman, and raise your heels atop the table. Be quick about it!"

Hurriedly, I complied, fearful of what might come to pass if I should displease him. I had not long to wait, however, before he pressed my thighs apart, butterfly fashioned, and I felt his gruff facial hair abrading the soft flesh of my tortured "puss'. This time there was no barrier to bar his way, and replacing my nether-lips with his own, he at once thrust his broad tongue full-length into my torn aperture, sucking his dessert with gusto as I lay quivering beneath him.

Immediately, my juices began to flow into his hungry maw, like a cow being milked by its Master. Fitfully, I squirmed, trying to quell the insidious torment that once again filled my belly. Was he correct in his estimations then? Was I indeed a whore?

"Ya want it, don't ya, Woman? Ya want this "ure" of mine sticking right up your puss, don't ya?" He smiled then, not a smile of contentment, but one of perverse delight. "Then beg for it, Bitch. Beg, and maybe I'll give you a little piece to tide you over until bedtime," he chuckled, as he returned to his task.

Over and over he thrust, his tongue drawing forth an irrepressible mewling that shamed me to the core. Fitfully, I tore at my breast, vainly attempting to satisfy my urgency as he took his due between my legs. I wouldn't beg…I couldn't. What would be left of my dignity if I were reduced to such a degraded state?

Finally, a dam burst within me, and a torrent of pleas escaped into the silence of the room.

"Please," I begged. "Oh please, Sir. I must have…I need…"

"Too late," he interrupted. "You had your chance, but it's gone now." Then, spinning me around atop the table, he forced my head backwards over the edge so than my hair brushed the flooring by his boots.

"Open your mouth, Woman," he ordered huskily. "Let's see what other chores you're good for." Then, placing his fingers beneath my chin, he tilted my head back and guided his engorged sex past my lips and began to thrust deeply. A jut of his hips and he was fully immersed, his hairy sack dangling stiflingly against my nostrils. I began to choke, to cry as hot, salty tears ran upwards into my hairline.

"Please…no." I tried to plead, but all that came out was a mishmash of unrecognizable gibberish.

His other hand now grasped my hair, his favorite handle, so that I was forced to remain immovable as he plunged unmercifully down my gullet. His other hand, the one beneath my chin, began to rise and fall with each lunge, a sight which apparently gave my husband great satisfaction.

Finally, as tiny pinpricks of light invaded the darkness behind my eyelids, heralding the end of my reserves, he rammed himself further into my decidedly narrow passageway one last time and began to pump his slippery offal deep into my throat.

Desperate for air, I swallowed convulsively, taking his sluggish offering into my body as I tried in vain to settle the gorge which now threatened to engulf me

"Swallow it Woman," my husband growled. "It's a gift from your Lord and Master, and not to be denied."

So saying, he covered my mouth with his hand until he was sure that I had done as I was directed. Then, securing his fly once more, he strode from the room and mounted his horse for his evening rounds, leaving me disheveled and gasping atop the kitchen table.

Chapter five:

How long I lay there, I can't be sure, but when I finally found the strength to cover my naked thighs and roll myself from the hard surface of the table, I found John Thomas standing in the doorway.

The look on his face told of pity for my sorry condition, and anger at his uncle for his brutal abuse. In his eyes I found the tenderness I had so long desired, a reflection of my own self-worth that I would never see in my husband's gaze.

I turned away from him then, intent on covering my shame with the tasks at hand, but it was too late. Instead, I began to sob most fitfully, hanging my head in humiliation at his forlorn expression. Finally, when he could stand it no longer, he came to me and held me tenderly in his arms, drying my tears with the cuff of his shirt as I wailed against him.

Then, settling himself upon the table where I had once lain, be cradled me like a lost babe, rocking my quivering body back and forth until my tears subsided and I could once again raise my eyes to his.

"You've made a bad bargain, I fear, Caroline," he whispered gently. "Had I know in Boston that he would treat you so cruelly, I would never have acted as his agent. As it is, there is no hope. You're properly wed now, and my uncle has legal recourse to your body and anything else he wishes. My hands are tied."

Somehow, at that moment, just the thought that someone in this hemisphere actually cared, was enough to see me through. Gratefully, I pressed his hand against my breast and looked to him in profound gratitude. He was not mine, but he was not far away…and he cared. I could deal with my wifely burdens no matter what, as long as I knew that someone, somewhere loved me…even if he was not my husband.

And so the remainder of the day passed uneventfully, thoughts of John filling my childish heart with fantasies which allowed me to escape from the realities of my loveless marriage. By the time evening had fallen, and we were all gathered around the dining table once more, I had resolved myself to be the best wife that I could be, and hoped that my husband's horse would soon toss him over a steep precipice. Until then, thoughts of my gentle John would comfort me in my times of need. It would have to be enough.

Solemnly, we settled ourselves around the huge dining table, sitting in silence as Pania began to serve crusty Maori bread and bowls of thick New England chowder which I had prepared for the meal. My husband looked skeptically at the unusual fare, but John smacked his lips over every mouthful, declaring it a concoction fit for the Gods.

"May I get you another bowl, John…or some more ale?" I offered as he downed his last. "I'm so pleased that you liked it. Was it salty enough then? I wasn't sure that the pipis would do, but the clams that I'm used to are far from here," I prattled on, referring to the orangish shellfish which filled their bowls.

My husband listened in controlled silence as he observed my fanciful repartee with his nephew, his eyes taking on a smoky look which I would later learn to avoid at all costs. Pania then brought on the kumara pie and we finished it smartly before Sean signaled it was time for us to retire for the evening.

"I'll be along shortly, Sir," I replied boldly, my newfound bravery more a testament to John's presence than to anything I could have borne alone. "Just let me help Pania clear the table and say good-night, and I'll be there straightaway."

John looked on with foreboding as I so blithely dismissed my husband, his look one of warning. Somehow, in my foolishness, I didn't care a whit however, and remained downstairs chatting with John and Pania until the candlelight beneath my husband's door had been long extinguished and I had reason to believe that he had fallen asleep without me.

Finally, sure that I would be untouched this night, I climbed the stairs and began to disrobe by the light of the fire, taking care not to disturb the darkened portion of the room where I knew my husband slept. Unclothed at last, I reached for my flannel nightgown and prepared to pop it over my head when a voice broke the stillness.

"You'll not be needin' that, Woman," he snarled gruffly, his voice rising not from the bed, but from the leather chair which faced toward the fire. "Did you think I'd allow a woman of mine to set her cap for my nephew? You must be insane! You'll never make that mistake again, I can assure you. Come here!"

"Sir!" I protested. "The thought was the farthest from my mind! I was merely being a gracious hostess. In my country, one does not leave a guest to sit alone at table by abandoning him to his own devices when the meal is concluded. I was unaware that things are so different here!"

Immediately, I regretted the folly of my words, for they seemed to inflame my husband's ire to heights never before reached in my presence.

"Come here, Woman!" he fairly shouted. And grasping my upper arm until I was certain that I would be most horribly bruised, he pinned my naked body between his rock-hard thighs and bend me forwards over his left knee as one would a child who is to be punished.

It was then, and only then that I saw the riding crop clutched in his right hand, and began to whimper. Fitfully I struggled, placing my hands behind me to ward off his blows, but before I could defend myself he brought it down upon my pale, trembling flesh with a savage slice.

Whack!

I cried out at the sudden onslaught, my nether regions bursting into flames. "No…please…not again!" I pleaded, watching the shadow of his arm rise once more.

Whack! The crop landed once again, on the same spot as before, sending shooting pains throughout my body. Thrice more he whipped my livid flesh until I begged with all of my heart for him to cease and allow me to repent my willful ways.

"So, you'd cuckold me with my own nephew!" he roared, reversing his grip on the crop. "I'll teach you not to cast your net for another man! If you want a reaming that badly, well, I'll give you all you can take and then some!"

Suddenly, I felt my wrists being wrenched behind my back, lashed together by what I assumed was the cord to the curtains that enclosed the bed frame. Overcome with panic, I swore an oath to my husband that nothing had transpired between John and I, and that I would be faithful to him until the end of my days, but he would have none of it.

"Close your mouth!" he ordered. "Save your breath, Wife, you're going to need it."

So saying, he wedged the fingers of his left hand between the cheeks of my bottom, and began to position the handle of the crop against my puckered aperture.

"NO!" I cried, my horror rising. "Oh please…Sir! I swear I will never speak to your nephew again…only spare me…spare me I beg of you!"

My entreaties fell on deaf ears, however, for within seconds I felt the first painful stab on the riding crop in my narrower passage, its crudely sewn seams tearing at my flesh as it stretched and tore at my virgin passageway.

I opened my mouth to scream, but found my husband's handkerchief stuffed into my mouth, secured with one of my own hose which he had fetched from the floor. Then, licking his palm, he smacked me smartly on the arse, and applied renewed vigor to his task.

The crop, which was now tightly wedged within me, caused such pain as I had never known to fill my body. In this my husband seemed to take perverse delight, and listened with some degree of pleasure as the twists and thrusts of his implement of torture tore long, muffled wails from my throat.

Finally, he waived the blood-streaked weapon before my nose, and carried me toward the board at the foot of his bed.

"Well, I think you've had enough of the appetizer," he growled huskily, draping me face down over the waist-high railing, "Now, I'll feed you the main course!"

Struggling, I attempted to free myself, my feet kicking uselessly in the air as he divested himself of his nightshirt and tossed it over my head. Then, exposing my puckered and abused aperture once more, he again gave a mighty smack as he thrust his thick, massive weapon full bore into my backside.

I screamed until it seemed I would fairly faint from the strain! How could he treat me thusly? How could any man treat another human being in such a manner! Over and over he reamed me, my blood spattering painfully on the backs of my thighs in livid flecks and daubs until the room began to grow dim and I felt my consciousness begin to ebb. The last thing I remembered was my husband withdrawing, and his heated juices spraying over my naked back…and then nothing.

When I awoke, I found that my husband had placed me on my back, still bound, before the fireplace. A dull throbbing coursed through my veins, and the memory of what had transpired once again filled my mind.

My tormentor, by now, had taken up a position astride my waist, and had apparently been awaiting my return to the world of consciousness.

"I'm to leave in the morning," he began, "…for Wellington to appeal my homestead rights before the new Parliament. I may be gone for some weeks, but I'm going to make certain before I go that any man who wants you will know beforehand that you are my property."

He paused at that time, as if for effect, then raised his pocket blade before my horrified eyes. Frantically, I lashed about, trying desperately to escape this madman I had taken to wed, but my panic only amused him.

"No!" I screamed in long muffled wails, sobbing breathlessly against my gag, but the only purpose it served was to stiffen the other weapon that he held between his legs. Finally, when my terror had reached fever pitch, he lowered the blade to my left breast and began to carve the letters "S T" in shallow slits into my pale flesh.

My entireties before were nothing compared to the screams for mercy that tore from my throat at that point, Fresh blood began to run in tiny rivulets between my bosoms and down my ribcage. This he ran his fingers through, and licked with intense delight. Then, scooping his hand along the hearth, he began to massage the soot into my wounds, creating a tattoo as the Maori are wont to do.

Finally, when hoarseness overcame me and I could scream no more, he once again carried me to his bed and laid me beside him, still bound, until the sun rose in the east. Twice more he took me in the night, each time more brutally than the last, until my body was so sorely tried that I could no longer rise from the bed to attend to my toilet.

When the morning came, he woke and packed his satchel. Then, with a parting kiss, my husband left me broken and bound in his bed. At last, I heard the sound of his horse beneath my window, and then he was gone, the memory of his cruelty casting horrific shadows through my mind.

Chapter Five:

Long hours I lay abed, the festering wound upon my breast growing more mottled and poisonous as the hours passed. My legs seemed carved of stone, lost to my use by now, and the flesh about my bonds had become swollen and cold against my naked body. Chill winds passed through the room, setting my teeth achatter, followed by a smoldering heat that caused me to soak the sheets in perspiration. Time began to turn inside out, and a few moments soon became hours…and then moments again. Flashes of the night before gave rise to tremors, and once more my husband sat astride my chest, mutilating my body with his pocket knife.

Finally, in the dim recesses of my mind I heard a knock, and the sound of footsteps crossing the floor toward the bedstead.

"No…No!" I mumbled incoherently, my hands straining to fending off my would-be attacker. He had returned, I thought, and now he harbored an even more sinister plot for my undoing.

Whimpering, I tried to pull away, to hide myself within the dark seclusion of my sweat-soaked bedclothes…but it was not possible. A voice, so far away, gasped in shock and distress upon finding me. My husband? No. Pania perhaps? Yes…Pania.

Immediately, I felt the ropes fall from my wrists, and a prickly throbbing overcame my leaden fingers. Gentle hands rocked me this way and that, and the warm, fresh scent of clean bedclothes filled the air. My wounds were cleaned and dressed, as well as I can surmise, and soon I felt a cool compress driving the heat from my face.

Time passed without account. Sometimes I woke in darkness, and sometimes in light, but always I saw either Pania or my beloved John sitting in the leather chair by the fire. Then came the day when clarity returned and I was able to partake of porridge and warm Maori bread to fill my aching belly.

I noticed by then time that my menses had returned, a fact that gave me great satisfaction, for the mere thought of bestowing a child upon a sadist such as Sean gave me pause. Perhaps the gods had been wise when they had denied him that privilege all these long years. I took cold comfort in knowing that I would not be the one to bring him to paternity.

It was also during this time that John began to stop by with news of the outside world. Apparently, my husband had sent messengers with word that all was not well, and that he would be further delayed. A great dispute had arisen in Parliament between landowners, the New Zealand Company, and the Maori Iwi over the just ownership of various homesteads. Apparently, the Company had promised certain choice parcels to homesteaders, but without settling accounts with the local Maori leadership beforehand. When the discrepancy was realized, the Company had attempted to secure these properties by questionable means, thus leading to a dispute over legality.

Ultimately, ten percent of the lands in question were awarded to the Iwi, my husband's section among them, but few of the contracts were ever honored…and so the battle wore on.

For my part, I was delighted with anything that kept my tormenter far from me and occupied elsewhere. My wounds had begun to heal by now, though my husband's mark still lay upon me, but my youthful vigor was slow in returning, and so I found myself at rest for the greater part of the day. Here, John and Pania took turns keeping me company, one reading and the other regaling me with stories of Maori tradition and lore, including the tale of "Pania" a fabled mermaid from whom her name had been derived.

It was then that I realized my love for John had not been diminished by my marital woes. Each day I listened for his steps beyond my door, my heart skipping a beat as I watched the doorknob turn once again. His voice was like music to my ears, and the warm brush of his hand against my own filled me with peaceful contentment.

I had been certain that lustful thoughts would never enter my mind again after my disastrous encounter with Sean, but I soon became aware that the disquiet stirrings of passion had not left me, they had just been waiting for the proper lover.

Then, one day as John was reading from a book by Samuel Clemens, my countrymen, he chanced to drop his bookmark among my bedclothes. Immediately we reached for it, both in unison, and our fingers became entwined in the quilted valley between my thighs.

At first I stiffened, passion warring with experience, and then my hand curled about his in tentative invitation. John too quickened at the encounter and I watched as his eyes scanned mine for a sign. Finally, he pressed his lips against my forehead, and continued Mr. Twain's humorous anecdotes. Today was not to be the day…but soon.

And so our erstwhile courtship progressed slowly, stretching out almost three weeks after my husband's departure. I had decided by then, that if I must be married to a brute, then I would have to find my pleasure where I would or lose all hope of a life worth living. And so by the time John arrived that fateful day, I was prepared to state my case, and throw myself on his mercy.

It was a morning when Pania had gone to market in the small Maori village by the river to secure the ingredients for "Rockcakes," a newly acquired favorite of mine. She had been gone perhaps half of an hour, when John knocked on my door with his current reading project in his hands.

"Come," I called, my voice quaking. "Come in…come in. I've been waiting for you!"

Gladly, he entered, and settled himself on the edge of the bed, as was his custom. This time he seemed to fidget, however, as though his hands were governed by another source, and not fully under his control. He smiled, a look of distraction about his eyes, then laid the tome across his lap and began to intone the erotic novel of "Wuthering Heights" , written by a woman named Emily Bronte.

He had just turned the page, when I covered the words with my hand and drew him away from his task.

"John," I began slowly. "I told you long ago that I had developed an attraction for you, do you remember?" I paused, gathering courage for what I was about to say. "My unfortunate circumstances have not changed that. But, I have to know…have your feelings for me altered at all since that night aboard ship, or has my encounter with John left me too soiled to be any longer attractive?"

"Your encounter with…my God, Caroline! Do you think I blame you for that, or would think less of you because of my uncle's cruelty? Instead, how little you must think of me!"

I paused, "Then, what is it, John? Am I alone in my feelings? Am I asking more than you can give?"

Troubled, he turned from me, and in words that barely ruffled the silence he answered, "I did not want to test your vows, Caroline, or to be a party to any unhappiness you might find in your marriage. As you have come to know, my uncle can be a brutal man. I could not place you in harm's way, simply for my own desires."

"Then you do desire me?" I replied, my heart leaping in my breast. I smiled, and drawing my finger over his lower lip I continued. "Your uncle and I will never be man and wife…not in any meaningful way. My marriage vows are a sham, something to bind and choke the hope out of life. I cringe in his presence and dread the trip up the stairs to his bedchamber. It's only the thought of you that keeps me sane, John…only the thought of you that keeps alive a dim flicker of happiness. Would you take that from me?"

Then, setting the book aside, I curled up once more atop his lap, and pressed my lips tentatively against his. "We were here once before, my Love. Will you turn from me once again, or will you give me something to hope for?"

His response now was as soft as a whisper, and as loud as the beating of my heart. Tenderly he cradled me in his arms until our passions quickened and he once more lay me back on the counterpane, but this time in my husband's bed.

"Are you sure, Caroline? Is this what you really want? You must tell me now…I don't know if I have the strength to stop later…"

"Shhhhhh," I whispered, pressing my finger to his lips. "It's what I want, John. It's what I've always wanted. Make love to me…please. I want to know what it feels like for once in my life."

He spoke not a word then, but tenderly raised the hem of my nightgown, slipping it over my head until I lay naked before him. A sigh…the gentle caress of his lips against my warm and willing flesh. So this is love, I thought in amazement. So this is love…

John rose and quickly shed his clothing, his manhood already hard and quivering in anticipation. Then after what seemed an eternity, he lay beside me and sealed our pact with a kiss. In amazement, the tender buds of passion began to bloom once more, and I felt an early dew begin to form between my thighs.

"Oh John," I sighed. "Touch me…please. I need…I need…"

My lover shifted atop my eager form, his knees parting my own, and I felt his hugely engorged member intimately brush the "v" of my inner thighs. I sighed, my limbs closing about his hips as his weight pressed me deep into the down of the mattress. Then, kneading my breasts, he began to draw my nipples into his mouth, one at a time, and suckle until they grew hard and swollen with lust.

I curled my fingers into his hair, my eyes shut to all but my lover and the bright passion that set my veins afire. He looked up once, as if to gauge my reaction, then gently pressed my thighs apart and settled his head between them. I stiffened…would this be a replay of my husband's act upon me? Would his nephew too use my weakness against me?

But no…this was not Sean. This was John, and I had nothing to fear. And so I clasped the headboard and arched my hips, spreading my thighs in butterfly fashion to allow him deeper access.

He was wonderful! The wet curl of his tongue deep within me, the heated friction of his lips against my swollen bud were more pleasure than I could bear. Soft mewlings gave way to loud, wet hunger, and my maidenly reserve flew from me. Once more my body stiffened, building in intensity to a pinnacle of abandonment. Would he stop now, as my husband had, or would he…? And then I slipped over the edge of my tentative precipice, swallowed up in a gushing, screaming vortex of need and ecstasy.

Eagerly, I arched against him, watching as he plied his tongue within me, wetting his face as he labored between my thighs.

"Scream for me, Caroline. I want to hear you scream out as though you were dying with passion." And then he dipped his face once more and began to suckle my swollen bud as his finger probed intimately below.

Again my control fled, and screaming now, I wrapped my legs about my lover's back and held his face tightly in place, writhing like a woman gone mad.

And still he continued! By now, my mind and body were no longer my own. They belonged to John, to do with as he wished. I was a helpless witness to my own sensual abandonment, a voyeuristic bystander who rutted vicariously with each thrust and shudder upon the bed.

Wave after wave of uncontrolled passion once more shattered the silence. Whose voice was that, I wondered? It couldn't be mine…not Caroline…never Caroline. This was a woman for whom there was no limit, no passion too great. This was the voice of a woman who hungered…

Screaming his name once more, I felt John lift my legs and position his throbbing muscle at the wet and gaping maw of my womb…and thrust.

I was beside myself! The hot, slippery length of him filled me over and over, wiping away my husband's memory and replacing it with a joyous expression of passion and wet communion.

"Yes…" I cried, raising my hips to meet him. "Fill me, John. Oh, my Love, I…" And then I felt my body tighten once more, spurred on by his hot seed boiling inside of me. Heavily he plunged, no longer gentle, but lost in his own passion, and I responded in kind. The delicacies of foreplay were lost now, and we both rutted against each other like beasts in the field, giving and taking until there was no will left to move at all.

And so we lay there, sweat soaked and naked while the world once more took on a semblance of sanity. So, this is how it's supposed to be, I thought in amazement. If not for John, I would never have known! Then sated and filled with a pleasant lethargy, I curled up in my Lover's arms and slept. If I'd been a cat, I would have purred. As it was, I could only sigh as he closed his hand over my breast and drifted off to sleep…a dream in the making.

But it was no dream. It was real, and it was all mine. I would not think of the time when my husband would return. I would think of only here and now…and John filling my body over and over in the big bed by the fire. I would deal with my husband when he came back to Waiariki. For the present, there was only John.

Long days drifted by, each moment a thing to be cherished. Often we found ourselves traipsing the verdant hillsides, basket in hand, seeking a place far from prying eyes. The time for my menses came and passed with no sign, and I began to wonder if perhaps I was with child…John's child.

I had taken great pains to be particularly fetching for my lover that day, wearing my "violent green" day gown with Zoauve Jacket and lace chemisette. Delicate white sleeve jockeys adorned my arms, and a "Blessing" pendent, painted upon New Zealand "greenstone" hung between the full line of my bosoms…a gift from my lover.

He seemed not to notice at all, however, for in his eyes I was as nature had intended, pink, ripe and eager to mate. I smiled, already he knew me so well! Did he know that I had also left my underpinnings behind, to expedite our union as we lay among the tall ferns and towering trees on the banks of the Wai-kohu? I smiled to myself. He would be pleasantly surprised indeed.

Hand in hand we strolled the banks, the native brush springing disconcertingly between my naked thighs as I searched for a suitable place to share our cold rock lobster and warm French wine. Finally, we settled beneath a great beech tree and spread our cloth atop the soft underbrush, a secluded haven from the world about us.

Immediately, as had become our custom, we set aside our picnic basket to satisfy our more urgent hungers. Murmuring softly I lay back on the cloth and watched as my lover unbuttoned his shirt and breeches, leaving only the strained fabric of his small clothes behind to try and disguise the prominence that hid beneath.

He knelt beside me then, and with experienced fingers he unhooked my guimpe, exposing my burgeoning nipples beneath my chemisette. Startled, he assessed my lack of clothing, then lifting my skirts he whistled low and long.

"You've forgotten your bloomers and corsettes, my girl…and where are your petticoats! If not for your hose and garters, I would be scandalized beyond telling!" he joked.

I giggled, for the reverse was obvious indeed. My small surprise had stimulated him beyond even my anticipation, for now his linens were fairly bursting at the seams, the bulging fabric straining like a homing pigeon who sees its goal in sight. It was then that I felt the irrepressible urge to taste that which had given me so much pleasure. How would I fare between a man's legs when the inclination was my own, I wondered?

And so, as he readied himself to pleasure me, I stayed his hands and bade him spread his legs before my face, that I might satisfy my curiosity.

At first he seemed confused, uncomprehending as I slipped my hand beneath his drawstring and curled my fingers around his quivering organ.

"Caroline? Whatever's gotten into…" He stopped there, for now his last undergarment slipped down about his ankles and I rose to my knees, my intention shockingly clear.

I examined him then, stroking his manhood in the bright light of day, and found this unobstructed view most appealing. The slit at the tip of his throbbing knob smiled a wet grin as I tentatively extended my tongue, licking the dewdrop that had already formed to greet me.

John groaned, his flesh shuddering, and I knew that I had found my vocation. Again I slid my tongue over his flesh, this time steadying his body by clasping him firmly about the swollen sack that hung between his legs.

John fairly jumped from his skin.

"Caroline!" he croaked. "Oh my stars, Caroline. Do you have any idea what that…ohhhhh!"

Again I approached, experimenting with this sensitive "handhold" that quivered in my palms as I sucked his weeping knob between my lips.

Now I felt his fingers digging into my auburn hair, grabbing and releasing in convulsive torture as I moved between his thighs. It seemed the deeper I took his member, the less coherent he became. Finally, I clasped his sack in a pressured grip and took him far into my throat.

His speech then became reminiscent of a kind of local gibberish to which I was fairly unfamiliar. His meaning was clear, however, for now I tasted his seed within my mouth, spurting in fits and starts across my tongue as I drew him out. He pulled away from me at that point, and capturing my hands between his own, he stayed my ministrations.

"Caro…" he gasped, beyond reason, beyond the remnants of civility "Oh…Caro…" Then flipping me over on my belly, he positioned himself behind me, his eyes a haze of lust and abandonment. "Forgive me…" he growled, then in one swift motion he plunged his knob into my narrower passage and began to thrust rapidly between my buttocks.

At first I stiffened, the pain growing with each motion of his body within me Gasping, he paused for an instant, and it was then that I felt his fingers invade my slit, massaging the swollen nub of my sex. Immediately, my nails dug into the glassy surface along the edge of the cloth, my ardor rising as his persuasive touch worked its magic.

My lover took it slowly at that point, waiting until I had warmed sufficiently to join him. Soon I found myself rocking against him, urging him deeper, harder with each lunge. Finally, his touch became more than I could bear and I screamed my need into the silence about us, gushing in wet accompaniment into his hand.

It was as though he had been waiting only for that moment, for then he began to thrust mightily, filling my backside with his heated flesh, and steaming effluent. Shaking, he finally collapsed atop my quivering form, his member yet within me, but now softening and sated.

"Oh Caroline…I'm so sorry. What you must think of me!" he gasped. "After what my uncle did to you, you must now believe that all men are beasts!"

Slowly, I rolled to my side, placing my hands on his furry chest. "I believe I have never been so uncivilized in my life," I whispered. "What was torture before, was sublime when shared with you. There seems to be a curious connection between pain and pleasure, dear, sweet nephew. I was unaware of it until this moment. You've…opened…a new horizon for me!"

He laughed at my choice of words. "I've created a hedonist!" he smiled. "What will I ever do with you now? I'm a man of circumspection. I'm not used to women who wish to have their way with me!"

Once more I pressed his fingers between my thighs. "Shall I tell you, My Love? Or, do you think you can find your way without direction?"

Again we shared out bodies, this time in less hurried communion. My taste for intercourse by this time had grown immensely under my Lover's tutelage, and I found myself shaken with wet outpourings over and over as the afternoon wore on. Finally, as the sun began to wane, I stuffed my hose into my reticule and we gathered our belongings for the trek back home.

Hand-in-hand we crossed the fields, following the pathway through the thickets of brush until we found ourselves beneath the pouhutakawa trees that adorned the edge of the property. Already I could smell the haunch of venison that Pania had been slow-roasting on a spit for all the long day. The tempting aroma of warm kumara pudding and fresh Maori bread floated through the air. We were ravenous!

Joyously we entered the house, laughing at memories of the day past, when all merriment and hope fled from my heart. There, in the corner before the fire sat Sean, a look of dark malevolence curled across his countenance.

"Well, it's about time you two returned from your romp," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Have you been enjoying my wife, John?"

Immediately, my mouth became dry and my head began to pound. If my last encounter with John had been extreme, then what would come of this foul reunion?

It was John who spoke first. "It isn't what you're thinking, Uncle." he began. "Caroline has been the perfect wife, I can assure you." He lied. "She has conducted herself as a dutiful matron at all times. I must admit that I envy you, Sir. You have made an exemplary match!"

Sean scowled at that, and turning his face towards me he snarled "Is that so, my dear? A dutiful wife, is it? Then why is your hair filled with brambles and your legs bare for all to see? Have you lost your bloomers as well, my Dear, or did you fail to remember to put them on at all?"

Shivering, I opened my mouth to reply, a ready lie upon my lips, but was greeted only by stunned silence.

"Cat got your tongue, Sweetness, or have you just worn it out with other pastimes in my absence? Come here!"

Trembling, I crossed the room to my husband's side and stood awaiting his next pronouncement. I had not long to pause, however, for immediately he wrapped his fist about my upper arm and thrust his hand beneath my skirts, grouping the slickness between my thighs.

"As I thought," he observed menacingly, "…naked, and well oiled to boot. Go up to our bedchamber, Caroline. I'll deal with you later, after I've had a few words with John. I'll be along soon… your loving husband is home now."

Terrified now, I gathered my skirts about me and fled for the stairs leading to the upper rooms, my abject fear almost tangible in my mouth. Quickly, I repaired to my husband's bedchamber, then curled myself in the doorway to listen to what transpired below. What I heard there made my blood run cold.

"So, you've been cuckolding me under my very roof?" my husband growled. "I should have drowned you at birth, like the bastard that you are. Instead, I took you in when my sister passed away…made you my right hand, and this is how you repay me!"

Now, all pretence of innocence past, my lover responded with cautious fabrication. "Uncle, it wasn't Caroline's fault. I sought her out, seduced her. I've wanted her since the first moment I saw her, and was not honorable enough to respect her vows of marriage. She was an unwilling participant, I swear. I forced myself upon her today, and I'm heartily repentant. The blame is mine, Sir…all mine."

"Forced, she was? Is that your story? I could have you jailed for that, you viper. As it is, I want you off of my property immediately. If I ever see your face again, I'll take my rifle and remove you from this life. Is that understood!"

I heard the scuffling of chairs at that point, then the slamming of the heavy oaken door that led to the courtyard. John was gone, and with him my only chance at happiness.

Then the heavy footsteps of my husband resounded on the stairs and I scrambled to a place by the fire to await his verdict. I could not help but notice the riding crop once again in his hand, a memory that caused me to quake before him.

Slowly, he settled into his chair, and lifted his leg in my direction.

"Boots," he commanded, "…and be quick about it!"

My knees trembled, my bones all but refusing to carry me, but in a moment I found myself astride his leg, my vulnerable backside before him as I tugged to remove his footwear. It was then I felt the crop, lifting my skirts from behind, exposing my naked orbs to his gaze.

"Your lover tells me that you were seduced…raped. Is that so, Caroline? Did he force his cock into your arse, or did you part your legs willingly like the slut that you are?" he snarled as he placed his other booted foot behind my quivering cheeks and gave a mighty shove.

I landed in ignoble disarray upon the hard wooden floor, then rose timorously to remove his remaining boot. Once more I straddled his leg, and began to work the crusted leather from his foot. This time, to my relief, it came off swiftly before my husband could lend his support.

"It's good to have you home again," I lied. "Did you fair well at Parliament?" I asked, attempting to divert his attention to other matters.

At this I saw the storm clouds begin to gather behind his eyes, the memory of his last six weeks in Wellington a troubled topic. "We may have to shift," he said, "…to another section along the Upper Hutt. It's a sad day when a man like me has to bow before a gathering of cannibals, but the Iwi persuaded the authorities that they had prior claim. Enough of that. Let's see the "moko" I carved in your breast. Did your lover appreciate the sight of it?"

He drew me close then, and tearing away at my chemisette, he exposed the initials he had carved so many weeks ago. "Ahhh…coming nicely," he admired, his hand punishing my naked flesh. "I'll enjoy finishing the process, my dear." He smiled. "But you'll have to be bound again, I'm afraid. It's much too painful to be borne otherwise. But you won't mind that, will you?"

Again his crop slipped between my thighs, prodding my moist slit with threats of what was to come. "Did he stick you there, Sweetness? Did he shove his nasty cock into you while you screamed? Or was it here?" he growled, rubbing the wet leather over my lips. "Did you suck his cock, my Dear? Did you swallow for him as you do for me?"

With that he grasped the front of my blouse and ripped downward, tearing the hooks from their seating and exposing my heaving body.

"No…" I whimpered. "Please, Sean. Not again. I can't…"

"Can't what, Caroline, kneel before your husband and do his bidding? You can, and you will, Slut."

So saying he sent the buttons of my green skirt flying and stripped me naked between his thighs. Then, tearing the flounce from my discarded hem, he bound my wrists behind my back and forced me to my knees.

He paused but for a second, and, unbuttoning his trousers he whispered menacingly. "Let's see what you've learned in my absence, Wench. Suck well and hard, for it may be the last thing you do."

Tears coursing down my cheeks, I felt his fingers knotting painfully into my hair, pressing me between his thighs as his musky organ pulsed against my lips.

"Whack!" the riding crop slashed across my buttocks, causing me to yelp in pain.

"Whack!," and again I felt its sting.

"Open your mouth, Slut…and be quick about it!" my husband growled. "The whores of Wellington were much more receptive…but I must admit that your reluctance spurs me to greater heights. Forcing you has a distinct appeal, I have to admit."

Again he raised the crop, and I hastily parted my lips and took him into my mouth. This time I did not feel the snap of the crop, but instead felt it forced along the channel between my buttocks.

I continued my endeavors with renewed vigor, hoping that I might detour my husband from this obvious train of thought. I sucked now until my cheeks became hollow with exertion and my jaws tired from their torment. Finally, with a bestial grunt, he tore his spewing sex from me and delivered his load foursquare into my shocked and horrified face. I gasped as the fishy liqueur ran between my eyes and across my lips, drizzling down onto my breasts as I struggled with my bonds.

"Lick it clean," he ordered, shoving his flaccid member against my lips, "…then I want you across my lap."

Quickly, I did as I had been bidden, laving my slippery tongue over his unholy prong until it glistened with saliva and lay depleted against my lips. Then, raising me once again by my hair, he bent me face up across his knees and began to admire the foul slime that decorated my features.

"You wear it well, "he chuckled, rubbing the slippery stuff into my face and breasts. "But since you've rendered me limp at the moment, I'll have to pleasure you in other ways until I've regained my strength."

So saying, he took up his crop and forced my thighs wide apart. Then, wetting the handle with his slime, he began to once more probe the orifice that women have in common with the male sex.

Tensing, I whimpered, my body straining to repel the invader, but my husband persevered. Finally, with a massive thrust, he imbedded his crop firmly into my puckered hole and smiled in satisfaction.

I cried out in pain, not the pleasurable kind that I had shared with John, but a torture that only my husband had ever inflicted upon my being.

Then, laying his hand atop my throat, he forced my head back over his left knee while he twisted his crop in and out a few times to be sure of a proper seating.

"Hold!" he commanded. "And don't move a muscle, or there'll be hell to pay, Woman!"

So saying, he reached for the candle which stood flickering on the end table, and separated it from its candlestick. Then, passing it before my terrified eyes, he held it above my breast and tipped it to the side.

Immediately, a dollop of hot wax poured from the hollow around the wick and fell scalding onto my nipple.

I screamed…oh how I screamed as my flesh crinkled beneath the torment. If I had thought that there was nothing more my husband could do to make me suffer, I was sorely misinformed!

He moved the candle to my other breast at that point, and tipped it once more, sending a cascade of molten wax likewise onto my other nipple. Again I jumped, my pleas filling the bedchamber. But my husband was not done yet!

Then, he pinched the hardened wax from my nipples and began a new trail of drips and splatters down the length of my body as I held my place, praying for him to make an end. This time, he took his left hand and pried open the petals of my slit, exposing the tender nub of my sex, and the orifice below.

In terror I began to writhe upon his lap, pleading for succor, but all I received was a whack upon the imbedded crop, and the painful shudder of its length deep within my nether regions.

Immediately I stilled, afraid to move, my narrow passage throbbing in distress. Then, pausing for effect, he stretched wide my "puss" and began to drizzle long streams of hot wax into my tender passage.

OH! The torment! The scalding offering seared its way down inside of my tortured channel, clotting in hot pools within me until I felt myself grow dizzy with terror and pain and the room began to swim about me. Long minutes passed, my body filling with candle wax, until my tormentor had satisfied himself and placed the candle back in the end table.

Finally, I sighed in relief. The pain was subsiding, and I felt that no more was to come. Once again mistaken, however, for now my husband began to thrust his fingers into the waxy passage, forcing his massive hand inside my crop-narrowed channel until I believed I would be split in half.

My head now hung limply over his lap, and my lips gaped in agony. What more could my husband…"

And then I knew, for curling his fingers into a fist, be began to pump ferociously, pummeling my delicate organs deep inside until I was sure that no child could ever be born from that place.

When my whimpers and pleas subsided, my husband released my bonds and dragged me to the foot of his four-poster. There, he stretched my arms upward to the very tips of the posts and lashed them securely with the curtain cord until I felt my wrists begin to pulse and grow cold. Then, bending, he did the same to my ankles, until I resembled a human "X," set in place for his perusal.

Finally, he was satisfied with my condition, and tearing the crop from my backside he trailed it over my breasts, relishing the whimpers it elicited and my strident pleas for mercy. Was I to be whipped to death now, I wondered? Would he finish me this time?

Suddenly, he brought the whip up sharply between my legs, cutting viciously within my gaping sex and tearing a tortured scream from my lips. Again, he cocked his arm, the muscles in his face contorting with the massive effort he was placing behind his thrust…and once more I cringed.

A knock.

My husband paused, as though in disbelief.

Again it came, this time accompanied by Pania's voice.

"Sir?" she whispered at the lock. "A man, Sir. There is trouble, I think. "Poachers'. They need you, he say."

Immediately, my husband dropped the crop and reached for his jacket, then hastily pulled on his boots. "Damned" he spat vituperatively. "I'll be back! Don't move!" he growled. "I'll finish with you when I return!" So saying, he stormed from the room and vanished into the night.

Now John and Pania both hurried into the chamber, and crossed to undo my bonds.

"No," I warned. "He'll be back, and it will be the worst for all of us if he sees me freed."

Pania only smiled, however, and continued on with her task as John enfolded me in the shelter of his arms. Finally, when I was unbound she brought me a dressing gown and began to massage my swollen wrists and ankles.

"We're in for it now, Pania" I said, shivering. "When the Master comes back, he'll be furious! Why did you do it?"

Slowly, she formed her words, her fluency limited at best. "Master no come back," she began. "…never."

"Never?" I questioned, a glimmer of hope surfacing in my mind. "What's happened, Pania? Where is he going?"

To this, Pania only smiled, then licking her fingers, she gave a shy smile. "All gone soon," she laughed.

Shocked, my eyes widened in surprise. "Why, Pania? Why did you do this for me?"

To this she lowered the "pari" from her youthful bosoms to reveal something I had seen before, but on my own breast instead. There, in brutal adornment lay the initials "ST"

So, I had not been the first, but, if her words were true, I would be the last.

"I go home now," she whispered softly. "My shame is gone." And with that she left me alone with John to ponder our future.

___________________________-

Conclusion:

I find myself once more aboard the Unicorn, this time anticipating the long voyage home. At my side is my husband, John Thomas, and in my belly is his child...perhaps a little premature.

Waiariki is far behind, a tale to be prettied, something to be spun into an adventure for those who would ask. The people of the Iwi now roam its fields and shores, as they should, and my sweet Pania is home at last.

Of Sean there is no word. He did not come home that night, or any night thereafter. No vestige of the owner of Waiariki has been seen since that evening. It was only after a number of months that he was declared deceased, and I was finally given my freedom to marry once more.

It will be the Christmas season when we dock in Boston this time. The crisp air and the tinkling voices of carolers will welcome us home. By then I will delightfully plump with the child I have desired for so long.

John has plans to sell the Unicorn when we arrive, and purchase a farm far out in the New England countryside. By the time our child is born in May, we will be snugly ensconced in a home of our own.

Through John, I have come to know love and tenderness, the bounties that make life worthwhile. This New England bride has come full circle, and here I will remain, but it's in my husband's eyes that I will always find my home.